by Shana Festa
We spent the next hour silently searching nearby cars for keys. Neither of us talking. Despite not wanting to think about the morning’s events, my thoughts kept wandering. I knew she was just a dog. But she was my dog, and the thought of losing her, in addition to everything else, was something my already-fragile psyche just couldn’t cope with. I wasn’t even going to let myself think about what could have happened to Jake or I’d lose it.
We were beginning to get discouraged when we found a car with the keys dangling from the ignition. As we dropped our bags into the backseat, Jake handed me the hammer. He must have picked it up back at the fence. Its cold steel served as a tainted memory of his callous actions. A colorful tote bag lay on the floor in front of the passenger seat. I emptied its contents into the backseat and placed Daphne inside, clutching the bag to my chest to keep her close.
I rummaged through my backpack and handed Jake a bottle of water. Looking around the car, I pulled the clean ashtray from the console and filled it with water from my bottle and held it in front of Daphne. All three of us drank our fill as we drove our new car away from our safe house.
* * *
After a few miles of maneuvering through roads congested with abandoned vehicles and wandering dead, Jake stopped the car in the middle of the few stretches of empty asphalt. "What are you doing?"
"We have less than a quarter tank of gas and no destination in mind." He punched the steering wheel and flopped back in his seat. "This situation is fucked."
The sound of an explosion in the distance pulled us from our wallowing. Somewhere across town a mass of dark plumes filled the sky. The explosion was followed by a barrage of smaller sounds: gunshots. Someone, no scratch that, a lot of someones, were shooting. My surprise was mirrored in Jake’s face.
"People alive and fighting back," I said. "We need to get to them."
Jake looked down at the gas gauge. "I don't think we'll have enough gas to get us there. We’re running on fumes."
"Then get us as close as this POS will take us, and we'll figure something else out when the time comes." I pointed a finger in the direction of our salvation. "Let's roll! Destiny awaits!"
Whomever had come up with the roadways in our small town deserved a good bitch-slap. Along the Southwest coast of Florida, Cape Coral had too many waterways. Streets intersecting canals dead-ended and picked up on the other side of the water. This annoyance caused us to turn back and change routes time and time again and used more of our precious fuel. We turned down what we hoped to be a through way, and a green pickup truck sped toward us.
I began jumping in my seat and pointing at the truck. Like somehow if I didn't call attention to the oncoming vehicle, Jake would miss it. We slowed as the truck approached and stopped alongside its driver’s side window.
"Man," Jake greeted the driver, "you have no idea how good it is to see another person out here. Haven't seen another living soul since this thing started."
The driver, a thirty something man, looked like he spent a lot of time at the gym. A little girl, no older than seven or eight, separated him from a disheveled woman who looked to be in her late sixties. "I know what you mean," the man said. "I started out alone, and met up with these folks along the way. We've come across some pretty bad shit out there."
The little girl gasped at his use of profanity, and I smiled thinking she would probably have a heart attack after spending an hour with me.
"My name is Adam," the man said, "and this is Gabby and Margie."
They waved a hello to us. A smile beamed from little Gabby's face and I thought how odd and out of place the expression was given the circumstances.
"The Talbot's are bringing up the rear." He hooked his thumb toward the bed of the truck where a couple in their forties sat gripping the sides for support.
"I'm Jake Rossi, and this is my wife Emma. Where you folks headed?"
A hand latched onto the tailgate of the truck and the head of one of the undead peered over and attempted to claw its way into the bed. Mr. Talbot picked up a bloody baseball bat and swung it at the head. A wet crunch sounded and the body fell out of view. "Hey, Adam, we should probably get this show on the road. The natives are getting restless back here."
Adam looked around for more threats; a massive group of zombies was about a hundred feet away from the cars. "We've been trying to get to the gunshots for the last hour. I know we're getting closer, but these streets are a bitch to navigate."
"Tell me about it," I replied in exasperation. "Got room for two more back there? This hunk of junk is running on fumes."
"Hop in." Adam glanced in the rearview mirror. "Better make quick work of it though. It's time to leave this party."
The zombies were closing ranks on our little caravan and pretty soon they would block us in.
We grabbed our gear, and ran around the cars to the truck. I peered into the cab and addressed Gabby. "Hey, sweetie, I've got someone special with me, and I could really use your help. Do you think you're up for it?" She looked perplexed until I passed the tote bag holding Daphne through the window, and she peered in at her. Shaking her head, she took the dog out of the bag and gave her a squeeze.
"Her name is Daphne," I said.
Gabby let loose a squeal of delight and giggled as Daphne licked her face. I hopped into the bed of the truck with Jake, content that Daphne would be safe while providing some well-needed pleasure for the little girl.
Jake pounded the top of the cab and Adam got moving. The ride was bumpy, and I got jostled as we hit debris left from the storm and bounced over still-writhing bodies. My ass would be bruised tomorrow for sure, assuming there was a tomorrow.
The storm had puttered out after its grand finale tornado. Everything was still. The sky was a dull gray, and the only wind in my hair was from being in the bed of the moving truck. I’d heard the term calm before the storm before, and wondered if the same was usually true for after the storm. The evidence of its reckoning sullying the landscape was the only indication it had ever been here.
We drove closer to the fray and the gunshots grew louder. The sound of men yelling reached us, and we rounded the corner to see a war zone. Bodies were piled in the street, unmoving, and surrounded by a group of at least fifty of America's finest men, all clad in gray and tan-patterned fatigues and toting some major firepower. Behind them, buildings burned. The men on foot were followed by a line of trucks decorated in camouflage. Some of the trucks were Humvees while others looked to be transport vehicles. Green tarps covered the backs of the latter trucks. A pair of survivors ran from a house as they passed and were ushered into one of the tarp trucks. Ten men walked behind the convoy, picking off stragglers missed in the initial wave.
The group of us cheered at the scene and an immense sense of relief washed over me. Tears of joy stained my cheeks as I punched my fist in the air in true John Bender fashion. What can I say, The Breakfast Club is only the best movie ever made.
The convoy caught up to us and halted their progression. A burly man with half an unlit cigar between his teeth approached the pickup, gun slung over his shoulder. He stepped to the front and greeted our group.
"Welcome to the front lines, civvies. First Lieutenant Dan Gripes, United States Army and last bastion of defense at your service." He gave us a stone-faced nod, and I stifled an awkward laugh as visions of Forrest Gump played out in my mind. His eyes darted between us and the surrounding area while he spoke. Haunted eyes that looked as if they’d seen things—horrible things, they couldn’t unsee—looked back at me. His fatigues were a mixture of faded green and red, reminding me of a morbid Christmas movie. On closer inspection I realized the uniform was covered in blood and gore.
Jake, slipping back into army mode, stood up on the truck bed and gave the commanding officer a stiff salute. "Corporal Jake Rossi, sir."
* * *
Chapter 11
...And into the Fire
"At ease, soldier." Lieutenant Dan turned back to the convoy. "Echo team. Mov
e out." Addressing Adam, he instructed us to pull in behind the transport and follow the convoy back to base.
The occupants in the back of the truck were alive with speculation as we followed the convoy. The ten men bringing up the rear on foot extended their circle of defense to include our truck. We coasted east along Veterans Parkway at a whopping four miles an hour as the soldiers laid down cover fire and exterminated any threats to cross our path. The whomp-whomp sound of helicopter blades getting closer alerted us to a small medevac chopper as it flew overhead.
I could hear the crackle of a nearby soldier’s radio, but couldn’t make out the words. Whatever came through that radio caused the soldier to go stiff, pivot, and turn to the front of the convoy. I looked, but I couldn’t see over the truck in front of us. The sound of renewed gunfire made me jump, and I held onto Jake.
The line of vehicles stopped moving and the shots came more frequently, reminding me of a Fourth of July’s grand finale. The soldiers defending the rear ran forward and out of view, leaving us undefended against the slow and converging mass. The screams of men trickled back to us, and I stood panicked in the bed of the truck. Unsure of what to do, I ran through possible scenarios in my head. Were we safer here, in the unmoving meat train laid out like a buffet? Or were we better off making a run for it?
The vibration of another explosion rocked the truck on its suspension. I threw my palms over my ears and opened my mouth to equalize the pressure, only to be thrown flat on my back as the concussion reverberated through my bones. A rushing cloud of black soot blew through the group and left us caked in dust. The others were looking around, too, speaking and gesticulating wildly, but I couldn’t understand what was being said. I could see the whites of their eyes as I looked from one member of my group to another. The truck began to move again. As we limped along at a snail’s pace, our rear defenders began to rejoin us. Once ten, their numbers had dwindled to six.
The truck’s suspension began to bounce again as it ran over bodies, and the site of the explosion came into view. Unrecognizable body parts lay in front of a three-story apartment building engulfed in flames. The pungent scent of rancid meat being barbecued caused my stomach to turn.
As flames licked up the building, a third floor window exploded outward and revealed the upper body of a screaming woman, silhouetted by flames that inched toward her. She screamed for help, but no one moved in her direction. There was no use in trying. The only way in was a burning fire pit. She looked down at us, devastation plain on her face. She had been so close to rescue, and now watched as her only chance at salvation passed her by.
Taking one last look at the flames behind her, she turned back to the window and climbed to the sill. I couldn’t look away as she stepped off the ledge and plummeted to her death. She landed head first on the street next to me. Her head caved in from impact. The convoy kept going, and I stared at the woman until she was no longer in view. The only thing I could think of was at least this woman chose her own death. She hadn’t been torn apart by monsters and become one of them, one less demon for us to fight.
I was disappointed to find only eight more survivors joined us as we drove slowly through town, including the two we saw upon reaching the convoy, and a very pregnant woman and a man who I assumed to be her husband.
The team dispatched hundreds of undead that came for us. Where was everyone? Were they all dead, well, undead? Or had they escaped to a safer location? Cape Coral was home to nearly 150 thousand residents. A chill crept up my spine as I considered that Cape Coral might now be home to an army of 150 thousand undead.
We finally arrived at the base. Though calling it a base was a stretch. The parking lot of the local Target was blocked in by parked cars that were packed in so tight most of the side mirrors had been sheared off. The cars were positioned bumper to bumper in each row in a surprisingly well thought out pattern. The bumpers of the first row were lined up with the middle of the car in the second row. A crude chain link gate had been constructed to allow the convoy access to the lot and building inside the makeshift fortress. The helicopter sat perched on the roof.
The gate opened as we neared, revealing the parking lot. Another twenty soldiers with guns greeted our group with cheers and pats on the back for their returning comrades. Sporadic gunfire assaulted my ears as the defenders behind the barricade picked off the approaching undead before they reached the wall of cars.
Jake helped me down from the truck bed as the cab doors opened. Adam came around the back and gave Jake a jovial slap on the back. "Well, mate, looks like we’ve found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow." Jake beamed a smile at him and looked around. Gabby scrambled out of the truck with the help of Margie. The bag in her hands jostled as Daphne fought to poke her head out. As soon as she saw me, the bag began to shake as she excitedly wagged her tail.
I went over to the transport truck where a few of the soldiers were helping survivors jump down. Mrs. Talbot followed and we relieved the men and told them to go rest. They’d just walked the entire way back to the store and were no doubt exhausted. Hell, I had been sitting on my ass, and I was exhausted.
One by one the survivors came forward and accepted our aid. Each looked more disheveled and shell-shocked than the last. I reached up for the next bedraggled traveler as I watched Jake and Adam talking out of the corner of my eye. A scream interrupted my eavesdropping and the girl I was helping from the truck fell on me crying and babbling something I couldn’t understand. We toppled to the asphalt and I attempted to break free from the refugee who had pounced on top of me. Fear, and not understanding what was happening, had me struggling to break free, while the girl only held on tighter and cried louder.
A group of soldiers encircled us and I heard the ominous clicking sound of multiple rounds being chambered. I looked up in panic to find Jake fighting his way through the crowd that had quickly converged on us. It only took a few seconds to realize this girl wasn’t a threat. I stroked her unwashed, greasy hair, and patted her back like a baby. She reeked of body odor, but since I probably did too, I didn’t have a right to complain about the offending smell. The girl’s hysteria dissolved into hushed sobs as I comforted her. She raised her head and her eyes met mine. I took in a sharp breath and hesitantly began brushing the strands of dirty hair out of her face.
"Meg?" I whispered the name, convinced if I said it too loud, she would disappear. She nodded in affirmation and I wrapped my arms around her and cried tears of joy. "Oh, Meg. I didn’t think we would see you again. Jake," I called, my constricted throat causing the word to get swallowed. Meg looked up to find Jake, perplexed, looking down at us. When he realized the girl in my arms was his little sister, he dropped down and engulfed both of us in an embrace. We stayed like that for minutes, not talking, and just held each other, weeping at the blessed reunion.
The crown began to dissipate when they realized there was no danger. When we separated and stood, I saw several onlookers overwhelmed with emotion by our good fortune. My heart went out to them as they silently wept for the reunions they might never experience.
Jake lifted Meg up in a bear hug and twirled her around. The joy he radiated was contagious and the three of us laughed. Reality flooded back into him and he put her down and turned in a circle. My heart sank as I realized what he was looking for. He looked at Meg, a questioning expression on his face, and Meg’s features scrunched up as she shook her head slowly. Jake stared into the empty transport, still half expecting to see his parents step out. When he looked back at us, I could see how much the loss of his parents had broken him. He held his head high and embraced his sister again, this time without joy, but grief.
We knew Meg had been home visiting for the weekend. She had turned twenty-one that week and wanted to live it up with her hometown friends. After graduating with a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology, she moved to Orlando to continue on for her Master’s Degree at UCF. As we walked toward Target with the rest of the refugees, she told us what had become of th
eir parents, Anne and Alfie.
* * *
The morning the world went to hell, Jake’s dad was outside securing the house for the coming storm. Meg and her mother had been in the kitchen cooking. Hurricanes and power outages were old hat to them, and they had the system down to a science. Anne would make sure all the perishables in the fridge were eaten first, cut up some fruit salad, pull the deli meat to the front of the fridge, etc. Then she would cook up the staple of the storm: eggs and potatoes. Potatoes sautéed until tender and eggs poured over them were cooked until the dish formed an omelet-like consistency. We usually waited out big storms at their house, but fear of what we saw on the news forced us to remain home. We would pass the time without electricity with board games and poker. Jake’s family was the close, typically matriarchal Italian family you would expect. While his dad, Alfie, thought he ruled the roost, everyone knew it was really Jake’s mom who wore the pants. Of course, no one told Alfie. We didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
Meg recalled the fateful day with eyes glazed over, drawn back to the events that haunted her. Their neighbor, Joe, had exhibited the first signs of infection on their quiet street. Alfie was boarding up the kitchen window, making funny faces to Meg and her mother, when Joe stumbled into their line of sight and lunged at him. The movement plunged them forward into the window and the girls had a front row seat to the gruesome scene.
Joe leaned into the crevice of Alfie’s neck much like a sensual kiss, and bit down. As he pulled away, muscles and cartilage tore free, leaving a gaping wound that painted the window with arterial spray. Alfie, still pinned to the window, made futile attempts to pull free as the last of his life spurted out of the wound and his mouth opened and shut like a fish on land gaping for water. He slid down and out of their view just as Joe leaned in to take another bite.
