“See you in a few,” he said confidently.
“Cut that shit, Will. Don't get confident or cocky, just be fucking careful,” she sternly warned, shaking her finger at him.
He winked at her once more and slid back out into the gray, misty day. It took him a good five minutes to work his way around the lumberyard to the stacks he needed to be on. He had unintentionally drawn a bit of attention to himself in his dash across the open west side of the yard and the ensuing scramble to the top of the stacks. The undead were shaking the chain-link fence below and clawed at the air between them and Will. It unnerved him more than anything. He knew the undead couldn't get to him and that his plan ultimately involved him trying to get all of their attention, but the sight of them hungrily watching him caused his whole body to tense.
He crawled around on top of the tightly bound stack of pressure-treated four-by-fours, trying to find a way to get some free without unbinding the whole stack and risking a collapse. After about five minutes of struggling over the side of the bundle, he managed to knock a few boards inwards. He scurried to the opposite side of the stack and started the painstakingly slow process of working the boards out. By the time he freed one length of wood, he had completely exhausted his arms, and the weight of it coming free of the bundle nearly sent him over the edge. If his grip had been any tighter he would've gone over along with it. As it happened, the board merely slipped from his grip and tumbled momentarily in free fall. It came to rest, clattering noisily on the macadam below.
“Shit!” he cursed, more at the wasted effort than at the noise.
Eventually he managed to successfully work two lengths out of the bundle and set them spanning the gap across to the rooftop. Once they were in place he smiled, satisfied that his plan was coming together.
*
Inside the booth they heard the clatter of the falling plank. Not knowing what it meant, they started gathering themselves, preparing to make the run for the north-east corner of the yard. Once they got to the fence, they would climb out of the lumberyard. All that would be left at that point would be to run across the massive parking lot of the Safeway and pile into the Yukon. Tim was worried that with the debilitating pain in his back, he wouldn't be able to help get Christine over the fence again. He knew that he would try with all his might, but feared nonetheless.
A very pregnant Christine stood on her own volition for the first time in a day, albeit leaning heavily on the small desk inside the booth. The desk held relics from another world: an electric coffee pot, a corded phone, a basket of tape measures and carpenter pencils sat beside a stack of dogeared yellow carbon copies of orders. Jen alternated her gaze, looking anxiously between the girl moaning painfully in labor and Tim, who was clenching his jaw against whatever pain was ailing him. Fuck, I hope they are up to this, she thought as she wiped the condensation from the window for the twentieth time since Will left, peering out to look for some indication that they should start moving.
The gloomy haze of the late morning sat on Laura's heart like a weight. Dreary days like this had always affected her. Before everything fell apart she would have spent a day like this curled up under a blanket with a cup of tea either watching Lifetime movies or reading a novel. Instead, she was cold and tired, trapped in a lumberyard that was surrounded by the undead. She clutched her daughter tightly to her chest, wishing for the millionth time since the world fell apart that it was all just a bad dream. She spent most of her days avoiding the dark thoughts that nagged at her, and was getting better at it in general. The gloomy weather though, the gloom sapped her resolve and had her dwelling on the inevitability of death in this world. In their present predicament, she thought darkly about its imminence and just how fragile their chances of making it out of there alive were, at how much of a role luck played in their immediate future. The clatter of heavy slamming on metal startled her out of her reverie and she spun to the others, waiting to follow Jen and Tim's lead.
“That's it then, let's get moving towards the fence. Stay quiet, stay low,” Jen called to them before pushing the door outward and slipping out into the gray.
*
Mark's knees connected with his chest as he landed heavily on the packed dirt. The impact blew the wind out of his lungs for the second time in just a few minutes. He quickly did a mental inventory of the pain in his hip, shoulder, chest, knee and his head. He concentrated briefly on one ache at a time until he was sure it was nothing major before moving onto the next. Amber grabbed him forcefully and dragged him back into the darkness, startling a quiet squeal out of him.
“Who is that?” a voice demanded from behind.
The voice sounded so clearly, Mark thought that the person was right behind him. He got his legs moving at Amber's insistent tug, forcing them into a limping run.
“If you don't stop now we will open fire!” a different voice shouted.
Mark's spine turned into jelly at that, his legs got rubbery and weak and he would've fallen but for Amber's insistent tugs propelling him forwards. Some more heated conversation sounded from behind as he and Amber moved further into the darkness. The voices were so clear it felt like they were making no progress in fleeing. A shiver shot down Mark's spine at the sound of a voice that Mark knew all too well.
“Mark,” Grayson barked, his voice was overly loud. “You need to think about this for a minute here, Mark. Come on back. It's not too late for us to talk about this.”
Amber's pull grew more insistent as Mark's strength wavered. His heartbeat and breathing echoed in his ears, nearly deafening him, but not before he heard Grayson's last call.
“You're either one of us, Mark, or you're one of them. Your choice. If you are going to be one of them, be warned, we will come looking for you. You and your little lady.”
Mark's head swam with regrets and fear. Did I fuck it all up? We were safe and now I've fucked us, haven't I? He didn't even notice he was urinating until frigid air sucked the warmth from the liquid running down his thigh.
After nearly an hour of a blind, chaotic scramble through the sparse forest, they fell into a slow but steady rhythm. The only sounds they could hear above the sound of their own hearts beating, was their hoarse, ragged breaths blowing and sucking and the occasional crunch from underfoot as they tromped through some lingering snow patches that the sun's warmth hadn't yet touched. They were finally forced to stop when Amber tripped and fell. She was too exhausted to even try and break her fall. She fell like a bowling pin, landing heavily on her face.
Mark could hear the wind blast from Amber's lungs, followed a moment later by a gasp as she regained her breath and started moaning quietly. He dropped to his knees and helped roll her onto her back. Her nose was pouring blood. He quickly unzipped his coat in order to rip a piece of his shirt off in order to help stop the bleeding. It was in the brief quiet of that moment after the zipper slid free and before the shirt started ripping, between his labored breaths and Amber's moans that he heard the clear sound of footsteps closing in on them. Every bit of Mark's being rippled with panic. Adrenaline coursed through him, and without realizing what he was doing, he picked up Amber's moaning, barely conscious body and settled her into a fireman's carry. Then he was off again, moving as fast as his exhausted body would allow.
As the last minutes of lingering darkness trudged on, his mad scramble slowed into a more manageable pace. The sounds coming from the forest around them began to seep into his consciousness. He tried to convince himself that it might just be his imagination running wild, that the sounds were just mental echoes of the noises he was making in his haste. Sounds of boughs bending, creaking and snapping were accompanied by the hint of shuffling feet and the occasional crunch of snow. It took some time, as his heart settled into its rhythm and his breathing steadied, but the distinct sounds of multiple sets of feet moving about the dark forest sounded from around him. It was during a lull in the winds that tore through the forest that the sounds of the tell-tale moans of the undead drifted to his
ears. Mark's heart sank into his stomach, his hopes that the noises were figments of his fear-wrought imagination were dashed. He tapped into whatever reserves he had left to keep pushing one foot in front of the other.
Gradually, the sky started lightening to the east, indicating to Mark that he was running northwards. In his exhausted stupor he paid no mind, nor care, to his course. The chase wasn't over yet, and he refused to give up even though his legs were starting to turn to jelly. Woozy from the weight of the unconscious body across his shoulders and the exertion of the past thirty minutes, Mark started staggering and stumbling. The sounds of tires skittering across loose stone barely registered in his consciousness as at least one vehicle skidded to a halt nearby.
Only when the sounds of raised voices yelling excitedly were accompanied by the sounds of nearby gunshots did Mark react. Startled by the sounds, he dove instinctively to the side where he tumbled down a steep embankment that his exhausted mind wasn't even aware of. The two careened painfully down the loose shale slope. Amber's limp body jumbled up painfully in the mix of his own flailing limbs. The cascade of bodies and loose shale ended sharply for Mark when his back slammed heavily into the bole of a tree. Amber came sliding to rest, laying asprawl, about a dozen feet behind and to the right of him. For a moment he worried that Amber might be infected. What little of her face he could see was pale, the rest was covered in black and crimson congealed, crusty blood. He groaned involuntarily at the pain in his back as his eyes searched her chest for the subtle movement that would indicate she was still breathing. After staring for what seemed like an eternity, he was finally certain that he saw her chest gently rise and fall again.
Comforted for the moment that she was still alive, he turned his attention to the situation at hand and focused on taking a mental inventory. The shooting above was thunderous and drowned out all other sound, including most of his thoughts. He had a hard time concentrating enough to make sure everything in his own body was still functioning. Even through the stinging pain of cuts, abrasions, and other aches over the rest of his body, he could feel the insistent spiking throb of pain from his left hand. Looking at the back of his hand, he was fairly certain that three fingers were broken. Better fingers than legs, he thought as he crawled about, bringing himself slowly to his feet. Blood from a gash on his forehead crept down into his left eye, momentarily blinding him. Staunching the flow with the arm of his jacket, he moved to Amber's side, just as she started coughing. Her eyes started fluttering and fixed on his after a moment of blearily looking about.
“You okay?” he asked softly as he brushed a lock of hair from her face.
“What happened?” she asked, her voice tired and sluggish.
“Never mind about that. Can you move? I need you to stand and try to walk. I can't carry you anymore.”
“Is that sound, is it guns?” she asked sharply, sitting up too fast and nearly swooning.
“Amber!” he hissed back in response. “Get on your feet and follow me.”
She shook the gauze from her head for a moment then slowly got to her feet. She used his shoulder to brace herself at first, but grew stronger as the minutes slipped past. The gunfire started to peter off overhead, and for the first time since the vehicles arrived, Mark considered what their presence meant. He hoped desperately that it was strangers, and it was just a chance encounter. His hopes were wiped away when an all too familiar voice sounded from above.
“Mark. Game's over,” Grayson's voice called coldly. “Come on out, Mark. Don't make me come find you.”
*
Laura hooked an elbow under Christine's armpit and helped to get the girl up and moving. Tim moved to her opposite side but did little to support her other than to be present. Every movement he made seemed to cause a jolt of pain in his lower back and butt. Sophie followed behind Jen like a puppy, quietly remaining a few paces behind and doing her best to stick to the shadows. The little girl was maturing before her age. The passing of her family and the rigors of surviving in this world demanded that. Very little remained of the cheerful little girl they had known just six months previous. She was nearly humorless now, grim even, and worked hard to emulate the adults. She was just old enough, in light of the tragic demise of her family, to understand the stakes involved, but too young and small to be able to properly defend herself. The only time she showed a shadow of her former self was when she and Luna were at play.
As Tim watched the young girl moving stealthily along in Jen's shadow, he could see that if she were given the chance to survive and grow for a couple more years she would be more than capable out here. He hoped that he would be able to honor his vow to Bjorn and provide her with that opportunity. He took up the rear of the procession, trailing just behind Laura and Chris. They were moving as swiftly as Christine's pained form would allow. The racket being raised by Will on the roof to the south ceased as suddenly as it had begun, leaving them to question whether or not it was actually the signal they had discussed. It was too late now, they were already moving to the appointed spot. Beyond the stacks of wood that lined most of the fencing they watched as the shambling forms of the undead drifted along towards the source of the din.
They moved slowly and as stealthily as possible, giving the undead ample time to clear the area. Once they arrived at the northeast corner of the yard, they were forced into a crouch behind a stack of prefabricated wooden fence panels. They watched through the cracks and gaps, waiting as the tail end of the moaning throng of undead moved past, filing one after another. They all covered their noses from the stench of being within feet of the rotting undead. They were in a variety of states of decay, condition as well as attire. Some of the undead were missing limbs, others were burned, some crawled past, dragging limp legs behind. Jen, more accustomed to being out among the undead, simply stared past the undead at the course they would have to take through the lot beyond the fence. Her eyes locked on the mangled front of their Yukon, sitting just a couple hundred yards in the distance.
The rest of the group, unsettled by the proximity and aroma, turned their attention elsewhere. Only Tim paid the undead full attention as they filtered by. The knot of fear for his family tightened as the undead, milky-eyed cadavers shuffled past. The minutes crept by slowly as the horde petered out. The mass of the undead moved from their path, leaving only a handful of undead behind. Those that were further away or least mobile crawled, staggered or shuffled along after the crowd.
*
Will was riding high on the pending success of his plan. He dropped the lengths of wood one at a time, holding tightly to the end at his feet to ensure the lengths didn't shake free once they hit. The wood slammed heavily and noisily to the metal rooftop across the chasm. Once the third length was in place, he rushed to cross the gap, his feet barely touching the wood that spanned it. At the center of the gap, the twelve foot lengths grew a bit springy and he slowed, suddenly nervous about his height and footing. The giddiness disappeared when he noticed that the boards were only a few inches onto the rooftop. His pace slowed to nervous caution for the last few shuffling steps across.
When he finally stood at the far end of his bridge, he looked about for a way to create the racket needed to draw away the undead. He had hoped to find a broken length of wood in the lumberyard to bring with him, but came across nothing shorter than an eight foot length. He cautiously stepped onto the aluminum roof, hesitant about whether it would support his weight. It dented in, puckering slightly, but didn't give at all. Delicately, he planted more and more of his weight on that foot until he felt comfortable walking on it. The misting drizzle made the rooftop slick, but the slight pitch eased any concerns he might have had. He glanced around briefly, hoping that for some odd reason there might be something atop the roof to use, to no avail. Finally, with no other option at hand, he bent, taking a firm grip on one of the four-by-fours with both hands and braced himself as he tugged.
The far end of the board slid free of the lumber pile it rested on. Will used th
e edge of the roof as a lever as it swung downwards, easing the weight to a stop as his end rose to chest level. He tucked the end of the wood under his armpit and walked slowly to the ridge of the roof, dragging the board along behind him. From this vantage, he could see an elevated highway to the south as it crossed over a wide span of railroad tracks below and disappeared off into the distance. A few blocks to the west he could see open country again. Everywhere else he looked loomed a two-story, sprawling urban nightmare. One and two-story houses cluttered up the narrow blocks, sitting nearly on top of one another. At the corners of the blocks of houses stood the two-story storefront buildings that housed apartments above, usually bodegas, liquor stores or laundromats. It reminded him a bit of a smaller version of Green Bay, though he assumed most college cities were a similar hodgepodge of rental properties, laundromats, cafes and bars.
Seeing the open country so close, he decided that when he met back up with the rest of the group he would try and steer their course over that overpass and out of the city. He had enough of cities for one lifetime. The thought entered his mind just as he stepped over the ridge vent. He set his foot down on the far side and it slipped forwards, dropping him heavily and awkwardly onto the slick rooftop. He let go of the four-by-four trying to catch himself and it slammed into the thin gauge aluminum, rattling noisily as it bounced its course down the slope of the structure, ending in a series of woody pings and bounces off the pavement of the parking lot in front of the building. It came to rest somewhere below, shattering a pane of glass as it did so.
His focus was pinned intently on the board, as if it were his only concern. He was worried how he would make the noise necessary without it. His front foot slid out as he planted it and his rear knee, his bad knee, buckled, dragging painfully over the ridge. His trailing leg, the one he had been nursing back to health all winter, cocked outwards at an impossible angle and collapsed underneath him. He started the slide towards the far edge. He rolled, slapping his hands against the roof, desperately trying to slow and stop himself. His speed continued to increase as he slid toward the far edge of the roof. He flew off the end of the story-and-a-half structure, his flailing arms grasping fruitlessly at a rain gutter that hung from the soffit as he fell past it.
Harvest of Ruin (Book 3): A Spring of Sorrow Page 21
