“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” she remarked.
“Having second thoughts?” It wasn’t like Sharon to question Peterson’s judgment.
Sharon’s mind was somewhere else. Peterson saw a distant look in her eyes. “I’ll do things your way, Commander, under one condition.”
It wasn’t like Sharon to make ultimatums either. “Go ahead,” Peterson stated.
“Promise me, if I get bitten, you will kill me.”
Peterson just stared at her. There was sadness in his eyes and there was something more. Deep affection. Sharon looked back at him, and they locked eyes for a long moment, communicating without words.
Sharon broke eye contact. It was hard for her. She had strong feelings for Peterson, and it lingered between them. She had suppressed her love for him too long. Sharon had tried to fight her feelings and, most of all, wanted to forget their past together. At one time, Peterson was her life. She dreamed of the day they would marry, have children, and retire from their godforsaken jobs. But that was a long time ago.
Now they were fighting together again, and alone, like the old days. But it wasn’t the old days. It was the end of the world. Yet she still felt it, that unbreakable bond. Her love for him.
“You hurt me, Jacob.”
“I was wrong, Sharon. I am sorry. I still love you, and I always have. I know it means nothing now, but once we get aboveground I don’t want to have any unspoken words.”
Sharon turned her face away from him. She didn’t want Peterson to see her cry.
Peterson didn’t know what else to say, but he knew what he felt. They still loved each other, and at this time, nothing could be more dangerous. He had to remain professional, focused like a laser, to be a leader and a killer, not a lover.
Peterson spoke into his two-way radio. It crackled. “Listen up, everybody. We reached daylight. Come on up, slowly and quietly.”
CHAPTER 7
It didn’t take long for the group to arrive. Armstrong was leading the way, the others just behind him.
“Is everybody with us?” Peterson demanded of Armstrong.
“This is a bad idea,” Armstrong hissed.
Peterson repeated, “Is everybody with us?”
Armstrong pushed himself up against Peterson and Sharon. They were all cramped in the alcove underneath the grate. Armstrong looked up. Daylight landed on his face. His eyes, used to the dark, squinted. “Everybody is behind me,” Armstrong finally responded.
Peterson turned to Sharon. “I’m going up first. If all is clear, I will signal you. Then follow me up.”
“And what if all is not clear?” Sharon asked.
Peterson just smiled. “Let’s pray to God it is.”
Peterson pressed up on the grate and slid it to the side. He could only hope that when he stuck his head up it would not be bitten off, but he didn’t hesitate. Peterson knew that speed and surprise were the only advantages they had against the zombies. He emerged into bright daylight, encircled by a blockade of abandoned cars. Peterson was boxed in by the cars, and as a result, could not see any zombies. But guttural drones of what sounded like a hundred of them pulsated through the air. They were all around. However, if he couldn’t see the zombies, Peterson knew, they couldn’t see him. The cars were shielding him.
Damn lucky.
The sun struck Peterson’s eyes, and the wind cooled the sweat on his face. It felt good. He would rather die a soldier’s death. Not trapped like an animal, rotting away in that basement, but out in the open, rifle in hand, fighting. He didn’t realize until just then how much he dreaded being down in that basement. He inhaled deeply, only to be choked by the odor of dead flesh, which hung like a heavy blanket everywhere.
Peterson signaled to Sharon. One by one, each of the team members, along with the volunteers, followed Peterson’s moves and pulled themselves out of the passageway, slow and silent. They all emerged from the darkness and into daylight, taking cover behind the blockage of cars.
Derek looked at Peterson, as if for reassurance. Peterson returned a cool nod. The wind carried the undercurrent of the zombies’ moans. There was an army of undead waiting for them. If zombies could comprehend, they would realize that the very thing they wanted most—warm, human flesh—was coming their way.
*
Peterson squatted, holding his assault rifle. A bead of sweat rolled into his eye. It stung. He took account of the situation, every last detail. Kneeling beside him were Sharon, Johnny-Boy, Cash, Armstrong, and Dr. Washington. The five civilians who came along for the ride were gripping their weapons with white knuckles, nervous.
“Stay down, I am going to take a look,” ordered Peterson. He lifted himself cautiously and looked through the windows of the cars. He saw masses of zombies spread throughout the entire parking lot, moaning, clumsy, looking for their next meal. Peterson scanned for the eighteen-wheeler, Jack’s truck, but he didn’t spot it.
Peterson grabbed Jack by the shirt collar. “Where the hell is it?”
“I could have sworn I parked it on this side of the lot.” Jack eye were dilated from fear.
Peterson was incredulous. “What are you saying?”
“I must have made a mistake.” Jack said as he pointed somewhere into the distance. “I think my truck must be on the other side of the hospital.”
“You think so?” Peterson’s teeth were clenched.
“I’m sorry.” It was all Jack could say.
“We have to go back to the basement, we can’t get around so many of them. We’ll be torn to pieces,” Jack said, starting to turn back toward the passageway.
Peterson grabbed his arm. “You’re truck is on the other side of the lot?” Peterson again.
“What if he’s wrong?” Armstrong said, keeping his voice low.
Peterson shot Armstrong a venomous look. “It’s an eighteen-wheel truck. It can’t hide.”
Peterson could smell the body odor of the others. Fear clung to everyone like plastic wrap. It was a bad situation. Jack’s senses were not clear, and he was already demonstrating that taking the civilians along may have been a terrible mistake.
Peterson could only pray that the other civilians wouldn’t respond in the same way.
“There’s no turning back now,” Peterson announced to them all. “We’re going to the other side of the lot. We will find this damn truck, and then we’re going to get the hell out of here. On my mark we go, and that means everybody. Ready?”
“It is suicide.” Jack’s voice trembled.
“On my mark,” Peterson ordered. “Three, two, one … Go!”
Peterson knew his team would follow him, that was a given, but he didn’t know how the volunteers would react. They may freeze, change their minds, or run in the wrong directions. He could no longer be concerned with this now. He wouldn’t compromise the mission this time.
Peterson took his familiar position, in front, and led his team. He ran, zigzagging and twisting around the mess of wrecked and abandoned cars, aiming for opened ground. He didn’t take but a few strides before a hoard of zombies turned and faced him.
“Holy shit,” shouted Jack, with terror in his eyes. He involuntarily paused, paralyzed by the sheer quantity of zombies.
Peterson kept on running, trying to flank the zombies, to run around them. He was low on ammunition, and he was mindful of this. He did not want to use any ammunition if he didn’t need to. He wanted to avoid killing for as long as he could, before having to waste a precious bullet. There wasn’t much room to flank, and Peterson found himself almost running directly at the zombies, and his team, of course, was right behind him.
We’re going to cut it close.
A decomposed female zombie, whose hair was burnt off, appeared suddenly. The bottom of her jaw was missing, and strings of facial muscle hung out of her mouth. She was running ahead of the other zombies, and had come upon Peterson fast. He fired the first shot and his bullet found its mark, hitting the zombie through its right eye.
“Open fire!” Johnny-Boy screamed.
Gunshots rang out. The civilians fired wildly into the closing crowd of infected, but their bullets were missing their marks—the zombies’ heads. The shower of civilian bullets rained down upon the horde, hitting them, but not stopping them. The volunteers were brave, but not trained. They looked awkward while running, wasting their ammunition.
Peterson shifted into a full-out sprint, and his team kept up beside him. They made him feel more confident. They were razor sharp, and disciplined through years of combat. Peterson knew, no matter what, they would follow his orders.
Peterson found himself running along the side of the hospital. He arrived at the end of the building and turned the corner, coming to a quick halt. He was pinched between an ice cream truck and a school bus, feeling like he was in an alleyway. There were a group of zombies at the end of the alley, blocking his way.
From Peterson’s blind side, a zombie attacked. With barely enough time to react, he raised the butt of his rifle and cracked the zombie in the head, crushing its cranium. The undead were now very close, and there were many of them. Peterson raised his rifle.
In unison, Peterson, Armstrong, Cash, and Sharon stepped forward and opened fire. Bones, flesh, and blood glance off in all directions as the zombies were shredded by bullets. With deadly accuracy, the team was cutting them to pieces.
Despite this, the flow of zombies didn’t end, and they quickly closed the distance until, suddenly, they were in hand-to-hand fighting distance. Peterson stood face to face with the ice cream truck driver, his white uniform stained with blood and a helping of guts.
He grabbed the zombie by the throat, stuck his pistol in its mouth, and pulled the trigger. Blood and brain burst through the back of the ice cream driver’s head.
There was a horrible shriek. Peterson turned just in time to see a zombie sink its teeth into Jack’s arm and tear out a chunk of his flesh. Jack’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. Peterson took careful aim and fired, hitting the zombie square between its eyes. Peterson gritted his teeth. It wasn’t easy driving an eighteen-wheel rig, and Peterson didn’t want an amateur behind the wheel. He needed Jack, and now he’d been bitten.
Peterson heard another yell, but this one was different. It was a war cry. Cash appeared and charged forward, knife in hand. He attacked the group of zombies head on, thrusting his knife into their heads, one after the other. They clawed at him, but Cash seemed to be invincible. His eyes were wild, and he grinned as blood splashed his face.
A zombie, once a nurse, her face now shredded down to the bone, grabbed Cash from the side. He turned and gave her a swift karate kicked to the chest, knocking her back. He then swung his elbow and knocked her teeth out of her mouth.
Peterson felt clawing at his arm. He was shocked. Somehow, a zombie had slipped past the others, taking Peterson by surprise. The zombie was upon him with its mouth open, its yellow teeth exposed. Sharon swiftly appeared and thrust the butt of her assault rifle into the zombie’s head, cracking it. It fell to the ground, and before it could get up, Sharon stomped on its head again and again, until finally, the heel of her boot went through its face and destroyed its brain.
Peterson and Sharon exchanged a quick look. Peterson was grateful. She saved his ass, but there was no time to talk.
“Move out,” Peterson shouted.
The team resumed forward motion, shooting, punching, stabbing, kicking. Finally, they breached their way through the group of zombies and, ahead, a beautiful sight.
In the distance was what could only be Jack’s truck. It sat at the far end of the parking lot, shining in the sun. It had a fire-red cabin and looked like something built for ruling the road.
“Your truck?” Peterson screamed at Jack.
Gripping his bite wound, Jack responded weakly, “Yes.”
Peterson grabbed Jack by the back of his shirt and pulled him close. “Are you going to make it?”
Jack nodded once, in too much pain to move any more. His eyes watered. “These things can’t keep me down,” Jack responded with unexpected bravery.
Peterson took Jack’s arm and quickly wrapped his wound with a bandanna. “This will stop the bleeding and you’ll be okay,” Peterson stated, trying to sound sympathetic. He needed Jack as clear-minded as possible; they had a job in front of them.
“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” Jack asked.
“Not now you’re not,” Peterson ordered. “Stay tough.”
They moved as fast as they could across the parking lot, striving for the truck. Zombies were circling them, homing in like circling sharks, but they were on the outskirts. It was a race against time.
Peterson ran, supporting Jack, who was leaning heavily on him. Peterson looked over his shoulder and saw Bronson struggling, huffing and puffing, out of breath, looking like a school boy falling behind all them. He was cut from a familiar cloth, all talk with nothing to back it up. It would be a wonder if he had enough stamina to even make it to the truck.
Peterson didn’t slow down, however. The civilians were on their own, live or die, and Peterson wouldn’t slow for any of them, not for a second. Right in front of him the truck was waiting, reflecting the sun, standing like an island of salvation. His lungs were burning as he dragged Jack. Finally, Peterson finally reached the truck.
Peterson screamed, “Give me a firing line!”
The team obeyed orders, and as they reached the truck, surrounded it and created a perimeter.
“Can you drive, Jack?” Peterson shouted.
“I can try,” Jack responded in a weak voice.
Peterson yanked Jack’s shirt collar. “Don’t try. Do it.”
Jack opened the truck’s door and climbed inside.
The civilians made it to the truck as well, but they didn’t know what to do. Like chickens without heads, they were scrambling about, occasionally shooting at the infected, which were closing in quickly.
“Armstrong,” Peterson bellowed, “I want you in the passenger seat. I don’t want Jack alone in there.”
“He’s fine alone,” Armstrong shouted back. “We need guns outside.”
Peterson’s face turned red with anger. He was sick of being questioned by Armstrong. “That’s an order.”
“I disagree,” Armstrong challenged.
“Do it, or you will not be coming along for the ride,” Peterson said with an eerie calm. He meant it.
Armstrong knew Peterson well enough to know he wasn’t kidding. They locked eyes for a long moment. Then Armstrong did as ordered, jumping into the cabin of the truck.
Sharon ran up next to Peterson as she eyed the incoming zombies, hundreds of them, closing in. The groans of the infected were growing louder and Sharon had to yell to be heard. “We’ve got about three minutes before they reach us,” she said. “If that.”
“Get everybody on the flatbed,” Peterson ordered.
Peterson went to the driver’s side door and opened it. He saw Jack sitting there, fumbling with keys.
Peterson barked, “You have to start this thing now.”
“Where are they?” Jack said to himself.
“Hurry the fuck up,” Armstrong yelled, sitting in the front.
“I thought I had them,” Jack said.
Peterson’s heart got stuck in his stomach as he watched Jack fumbled with his keychain, looking over and over at the same keys. Blood was pooling from Jack’s wound, soaking the tourniquet. Peterson looked over his shoulder and saw the army of zombies closing in. There wasn’t much time.
“Get this thing started,” Peterson said. “We’re running out of time.”
“I can’t find the keys,” Jack yelled, now searching his pants pockets.
Peterson looked to Armstrong. “Can you hotwire this thing?”
“Yes, but it will take way too long.” Armstrong answered.
Gunfire rang out. The soldiers began to lay down fire in all directions. Peterson glanced away from Jack to check the distance of the zombies. T
hey were just about on top of them. Some of the infected were falling to the ground, as the team continued to fire.
Peterson’s voice rose a decibel. “We got about thirty seconds now, Jack.”
Jack pulled his hand out of his pants pocket, and a ring of keys slipped out, fell down, and bounced outside of the truck onto the asphalt. Peterson reached down and snatched them up, and just as he did, he felt hands on his back and a dreadful groan in his ear.
He looked up and was face to face with a zombie. It was rotting and filled with maggots. Peterson head-butted the thing, which broke its nose. Then he delivered a karate kick to the zombie’s chest and knocked it off its feet.
Peterson tossed the keys at Jack. Jack caught them with his good arm.
“These better be it,” Armstrong said.
Jack was trembling, fumbling with the new set of keys. Finally, he put one in the ignition and turned it. The engine sputtered.
Jack pumped the gas and hit the ignition again. A rattle.
“Come on!” Jack yelled at the truck. “Come on!”
Armstrong shouted, “Start the fucking engine!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Jack screamed at Armstrong. He turned the ignition again. The engine refused to start.
Peterson smelled piss and swung around. There was another zombie. He landed a round-house kick on the side of the zombie’s face, knocking it onto the ground.
There were three zombies just behind it. Peterson swung his rifle off his shoulder, squinted down the sight, and fired three shots, popping each zombie square in head. They fell, revealing behind them hundreds more zombies, closing in like a tidal wave.
“Jesus.” Jack rested his forehead on the steering wheel. “If you exist, start this fucking TRUCK!” he turned the ignition again.
The truck roared to life.
“Yes!” Jack shouted.
“Thank you, Jesus,” Armstrong hollered.
Jack revved the engine again and again, louder and louder.
“Look out, Commander!” Sharon’s voice yelled from somewhere.
A zombie lunged at him. He didn’t have time to react. The momentum of the zombie knocked Peterson onto his back. It was on top of him, clawing, attempting to bite a chunk out of his face. Peterson was exposed and without defense. The army of zombies was now upon them.
Dead and Back (The Zombie Crisis--Book 2) Page 5
