by Lund, Dave
The road was barely visible in the pre-dawn light, but it was enough for Cliff to drive. He started the timer on his watch and accelerated; he had a schedule to keep.
Colorado City, AZ
The two of them sat in silence, the occasional fart breaking up the monotony of driving across the desert in a truck with no working radio, not that any radio stations would be playing music now anyways. Chivo rolled down his window, the cold air whipping through the cab, a loose wrapper flipping out of the window onto the highway.
“That’s littering.”
“We’re not even in your state, so try to write me the ticket.”
Bexar smirked, enjoying his turn in the passenger’s seat for once. According to the map, they were approaching the town of Hurricane, but they could only catch glimpses of it from the rolling roadway. Highway 59 looped up and around, following a pass through the hills before dropping into the town and Highway 9.
“The sign said fourteen thousand people and I think every damned one of them died, came back and is here to greet us.”
“Playing it cool, mano, but I’m wanting to clear this death hole quick; there’s no way we can fight this many, we don’t have the ammo for it.”
“Or the time.”
Chivo nodded.
The truck rocked hard side to side as Chivo steered around the staggering dead milling about in the street. Holding his speed as high as he dared, shambling dead bouncing off the quarter-panels, they broke out of the first town and into the next. They were near the Interstate and hopefully it would be clear, hopefully they could use it to speed away from the massing horde. Swinging the truck left and right, from shoulder to shoulder, Chivo fought to keep the truck on the road without running down a walking corpse. With each passing second it seemed as if the number of dead doubled, then doubled again, a riot of gore marching against their very existence. If the truck was damaged, if they lost a tire, if anything happened they might not be able to escape the flood of bodies coming out of the desert and from the surrounding neighborhoods; chasing them, swarming, and surrounded they would die.
Cars and trucks, heavy tractor-trailers and anything else in their path had been pushed off the road before they arrived, over the guardrails and down to the desert floor. The road would be clear if the thousands of dead would vanish, the journey easy if the path opened. The overpass ahead of them was Interstate 15; they’d take that then head south before they could turn west, where they’d nearly be to Groom Lake. Chivo turned the steering wheel hard to the left, bodies thumping against the side glass, the mirrors ripping free from the doors, dark smears of blood across the glass. The flies above the horde blocking the sun, the windshield wipers worked to keep the blood streaked across the glass from blocking their view ahead.
Bexar took his seatbelt off, heart racing and ready to jump, ready to fight. He press-checked his rifle—loaded, ready—and tapped each one of his remaining magazines. Focused intently, he scanned the area, looking for shelter, looking for a break, looking for their escape. The town behind them, nothing but the Interstate, mountains and the rolling desert could be seen through the gore-smeared windows. Chivo turned to drive the wrong way up the exit from the Interstate, trying to get to the high ground, trying to get to the hope the Interstate represented, if it even existed. He missed the ramp, tires sliding as they fell off the pavement and into the gravel roadbed; he pushed the accelerator pedal, further, further, nearly to the floor. The big V8 roared in protest, back tires spinning, caught in the gravel.
“Get off the gas; shift to neutral then shift back and then fucking gun it!” Bexar pushed the button for four-wheel high.
Chivo shifted to neutral, the transfer case shifting into gear with a hard thunk that was felt more than heard over the clawing moans of the dead.
“GO, GO, GO, GO!”
Frowning with the hard intensity of a man fighting losing odds having bet his life, Chivo pulled the selector to drive and slammed his foot to the floor. Dirt, gravel, and dust shot into the air from all four tires, spinning for purchase. The truck launched up the embankment, jumping over the edge of the exit ramp, the guard rails missing from the forced march of the army of death. The truck bounced hard as the tires found the pavement again, Chivo struggling to control their vehicle as it rocketed through the flat median and onto the southbound lanes of I-15.
The road ahead was clear. Behind them a dark cloud of flies flowed like smoke just off the ground and towards I-15. Chivo took a deep breath and started laughing. Bexar gasped, not realizing that he’d been holding his breath, and slumped into the bench seat, putting his seatbelt back on.
From the neighborhoods on their left, one-story homes along the Interstate emptied their dead to join Death’s army’s call, flooding along the desert floor towards the pavement. Chivo kept the speed of the truck high, the off-road tires humming on the clear pavement, sunlight glowing dark red against the rotten blood drying on the windows.
“Holy shit, do you think there’s any paint left on the truck?”
“Fuck mano, I’m just glad the windows didn’t break.”
Each passing second, each breath, every click of every minute that elapsed was that much more distance between them and the following horde. Neither knew how long or how far the undead would follow; they hadn’t seen them follow for more than short distances, but every time they could they turned or moved or went a different direction at a point where the dead couldn’t see them and couldn’t hear them.
The Interstate descended towards another town, the signs missing along the road, but the atlas identified the town as St. George. Bexar glanced at the speedometer and noted that the needle showed fifty-five miles per hour, which seemed like a reasonable speed to him, even if he secretly wished they would go faster and get to Groom Lake sooner. Slowly approaching the town, they saw the road became more cluttered with vehicles. Outside of town the dead had pushed the road clear, but getting closer to the center of town the dead hadn’t.
Chivo once again forced pushed the truck from shoulder to shoulder, driving around the abandoned vehicles, their speed slowing from fifty-five to fifty, then forty as he struggled to keep his momentum with each swooping pass of another abandoned vehicle.
Typical strip-center big box stores lined the left side of the Interstate, all the recognizable names accounted for, interspersed with gas stations, restaurants, and other suburban clutter. In the median stood the safety wires, protecting oncoming traffic from a head-on collision, but now it limited Chivo from using both sides of the road. He picked up speed, a dark cloud of flies growing in their view, over another horde of dead perhaps, or the one they’d just escaped was much larger than they thought. The hurricane’s eye, a moment’s reprieve before storms raged around them once again; whichever it might be, it didn’t matter. The dead pulsed towards the road from the shopping centers and from the road ahead.
“Shit mano, we’ve got problems.”
The air around them turned dark from the swarm of flies. In an instant the dead were so thick if they slowed the mass of bodies might stop the truck completely. If they stopped they could be crushed in the truck, just like how the dead crushed the bridge in New Mexico. Chivo pushed the truck hard, the only option to charge straight ahead. Bexar braced himself against the dash and focused on remembering to breathe; he tried desperately to keep his heart rate down. Chivo drove into the median, the roadway reflectors clicking against the bumper as they sped by, the wire barrier blurring to his left as they drove. Seeing a gap in the crowd and swinging right to miss a shambling body, Chivo pushed the truck left and into what little median they had to pass a burned-out SUV, only to see a semi-truck lying on its side across the median, the wire barricade ripped from the foundations, the trailer blocking their path. Chivo ripped the steering wheel to the right, the truck bouncing back onto the pavement and around a moving trailer only to hit nose first into a churning knot of the dead.
A half-dozen bodies crashed against the bumper and the grill, s
ome of them bouncing over the hood and slamming into the windshield, glass shattering inwards, showering Bexar and Chivo with small fragments, the safety glaze barely holding the bodies out of the cab. Others were ripped under the truck by the tires churning, all four spinning under power; the corpses were ripped apart, splintered ribs tearing the sidewall out of a front tire and then a rear. The truck lurched hard to the passenger side, both tires disintegrating from the damage, both axles spinning under the torque of the heavy V8 engine. Large chunks of rubber, pieces of the tires, were thrown into the air. The truck shot across the right lane to the shoulder and crashed through the top of the concrete barrier, the high suspension giving the front bumper barely enough room to clear.
The truck now in the air, a body came loose from the windshield, bounced off the hood and fell with them. The fuel cans, tools, supplies, spare parts, everything in the back of the truck floated out of the bed in the same ballistic trajectory as the truck, in painfully slow motion to the occupants. Bexar watched the ballet of destruction in awe and anger at his impending fate.
The nose of the truck hit first, slamming into the gravel of the ramp median nearly thirty feet below the top of the bridge. The gravel exploded outward from the impact, all moving so slowly, so perfectly in time with each small piece of rock.
Harrison Junction, Utah
Cliff saw the massive herd on the small highway below. The Interstate ahead was clear of any obstacles as far as the next ridge which blocked his view in the distance, so he continued his speed run. The route so far had basically been clear, easy sailing southbound, although he feared that he would find the back of one of the large groups of undead on the Interstate. The back of one wouldn’t be as bad as charging headlong into the front of one.
The mass of dead to his left stretched on as far as he could see. Cliff shook his head. This was the moment he knew that racing to San Diego was the right decision. There was no way that all of the dead could be exterminated without the Chinese’s new technology. There just weren’t enough survivors, not enough ammo in all of the country. Not without massive bombing campaigns or destroying the entire country, a fire-borne suicide from nuclear detonations. Even if it killed every single reanimate the fallout and nuclear winter to follow could be the end of it all.
The Interstate pitched forward, and he raced towards St. George out of the mountains from the north, the roadway descending along the Interstate towards the town. As he approached the edge of the urban sprawl an explosion echoed in the distance. Ahead of him on the Interstate a fireball rolled upwards, engulfed in thick black smoke.
“Well shit,” Cliff couldn’t help but to utter out loud.
The roadway became more dense with the abandoned vehicles, Cliff slowing to ease past each carefully. He needed to be fast, but he needed to be careful; the dead were thick between each of the vehicles. As he approached the dark plume of smoke, it billowed and churned, the fire raging hard beneath it. Nearing, he saw limbs and torsos of reanimates torn and scattered across the roadway, and a semi-truck blocking the inside lane. He drove cautiously around each, worrying about puncturing a tire. The dead poured from the shopping centers to the south, along the roadway under the bridge, passing under the bridge, under Cliff in his truck, and towards the burning shell of another vehicle. The swarming herd pushed against his truck, a thick cloud of flies a dark fog blocking his view. The broken concrete, dark marks and burning truck made it obvious to Cliff that someone had launched their vehicle off the bridge and the remnants of the dead probably had something to do with it. Shaking his head slightly, Cliff kept driving, taking one last glance down the on ramp towards the burning truck, curious what the dead would do about the massive flames.
The dead gathered too close to the truck’s bonfire, bumping one another into the gas-fed fire, each of them catching ablaze and turning to walk off into the crowd, spreading the flames to more walking dead. Cliff was surprised to see that there were at least three dozen that were on fire, bouncing into more, shambling up the ramp towards the Interstate towards his truck. Their flesh, rotted fat, and tissue melted into the pavement with each step; with every passing moment they burned to their destruction. Cliff cursed, pushing the accelerator down; the truck shuddered, and the engine stumbled for a moment before catching and propelling him forward. Cliff made a mental note that I-15 might not be the best return route if the herd kept along their current path; also that fire would work to kill the dead, although slowly.
He looked left and saw even more dead shambling out of the suburban sprawl, reaching the Interstate and funneling to each side against the hillside. The fence on the right kept most of the dead at bay, but all of them were headed towards the Interstate and all of them were headed the same direction he was. Cliff drove around another semi, this one jackknifed across the pavement, and slammed on the brakes.
Ahead of him in the distance, barely visible through the flies and bodies, was Bexar. He looked dead, lifeless and limp. Chivo held a pistol in his right hand dangling at his side, his left grasping the recovery handle on the back of Bexar’s tactical gear. He dragged Bexar along the dirt in the median. Staggering with each step, as a new corpse approached Chivo would jerk the pistol up and fire a single shot, blood and skull exploding out the back of the corpse’s head.
One by one, Chivo made every shot, never stopping, never faltering, and dragging Bexar with him. The slide locked back on the pistol; an empty chamber, Chivo thumbed the release, the empty magazine clattering to the pavement, never stopping, one foot falling in front of the other, barely keeping his balance as he pulled Bexar behind him. He jammed the pistol into his waistband, then another magazine from the carrier into the magazine well. Chivo grabbed the pistol, thumbed the slide release, his pistol loaded and back in battery just in time for the next shot. Cliff drove as fast as he could, Chivo taking shot after shot, each round finding another skull and each step one more that he lived, one more step that he protected his brother, one more chance to make it.
The engine shuddered again; a sharp knock rattled from under the hood, and oil sprayed across the windshield. Barely able to see Chivo through the glass, Cliff pushed the pedal to the floor, trying to gain enough momentum and enough speed to get to Chivo before the truck failed. He knew the truck’s mission was over and it would give out soon.
Once the engine locked up, it would hold the transmission and wheels in place; the truck had to keep rolling or he wouldn’t make it to Chivo. Swarmed, he needed Chivo and Chivo needed him. There was no emotion in Cliff’s eyes, only determination and anger raging behind the veil of calm. He jammed the selector into neutral, the oil spraying across the smoking engine, flames beginning to bounce across the bottom of the dash. This was the end of the truck, the speed run was over, but the mission would continue. First he had to help Chivo; he couldn’t let his former trainee die like this. Bexar looked dead and probably was.
For all the grief that he’d given Chivo and Bexar in Colorado it was only to one end, the mission. Nothing else mattered to Cliff; friendships and compassion were something that he did not have or would ever have. No comradery, no brothers in arms, only the mission and that dedication. Still, Chivo was an operator, one he’d personally trained, one of his rookies.
The truck blasted through a group of dead shambling towards the two men in the median. Cliff leaped out of the truck while it was still rolling and looked at Chivo. His face slack, eyes blank, his face showed no recognition. Blood soaked his shirt and covered his face, blood-matted hair stuck up from his head, and blood streamed out of his nose. Steam rose from his body, the exertion burning in protest against the cold air. Trickles of crimson froth fell from the corners of his mouth. Step by staggering step, Chivo shot another corpse as it closed in for the kill, took another step, another shot.
Cliff’s truck caught in the median ahead of them, the wire barrier trapping it, the oil fire spreading from the engine to the rest of the truck. Cliff stood and fired his M4, facing Chivo as he shot, the
rounds snapped in the air as they passed by Chivo’s bloody face. Firing quickly, he created a buffer, a cushion that gave Chivo some safety as they made their way. Off to each side of the Interstate were homes and shopping centers, more urban sprawl, more approaching dead offering no shelter to the battered warriors.
“Drop Bexar and move it, Chivo!”
Chivo gave no response, showed no recognition that he heard Cliff or had even seen him.
Cliff turned his attention to the way ahead, firing rapidly, changing magazines as he went, walking slowly, and trying to match Chivo’s slowing pace. The dead swarmed; the veil of flies overhead turned the sky gray, vibrating with the buzzing, covering the feeding moans of the dead. Cliff fired and fired again, quickly changing out an M4 magazine for another thirty rounds, then another before the bolt on his rifle locked back on an empty chamber, his hand finding nothing in the magazine pouches on his carrier. He turned as his hand ripped the pistol from the holster on his thigh to see Chivo face down in the median, blood pooling around him, Bexar sprawled in the dirt behind him, not moving, dirt-caked blood covering his body.
Cliff stepped towards them, his feet kicking the empty magazines from his rifle as he fired while walking, rolling his feet gently across the pavement, the front sight of the pistol floating steadily through the air, muzzle driving from rotting face to rotting face, not waiting to see if the shot found its home, confident that it did. Cliff moved to the next and the next. The first pistol magazine was chased by a second and then by the third and final magazine. Slide locked back on an empty chamber, Cliff swung the pistol, hitting the dead in the face as he moved. Wave after wave of death came at him, body after body, with no end in sight. Cliff stood over Bexar’s body, ripping pistol magazines from his carrier, feeding his pistol first before using up what was left, then transitioning back to his M4, the pistol dropped in the dirt in the transition, smoke billowing out of the barrel.
