by Ray Wallace
Quite a while, you figure. They've managed this long, haven't they?
Obviously, their metabolisms are much different than when they were alive. That would explain why they move so slowly.
What about the berserkers?
Maybe they've implemented a more reptilian metabolism. You know that snakes can go months at a time without feeding at all and still move quickly when the need arises. In lieu of a better, more scientific explanation it will have to do.
Not that it really matters.
The zombies are what they are. Killing machines. If they catch you they will eat you. And, when it comes down to it, that's all you really need to know about them.
Sometime around noon, your forward progress comes to a halt.
Will you look at that?
Before you, a tank sits sideways across the road. You let the SUV idle as you take in the sight of the light brown, metal body, the seven metal wheels underneath it with the segmented track wrapped around them. On top of the body rests another, smaller section - the turret, you believe it's called - with a cannon sticking off the front of it. An even smaller section sits on top of that, the front of it turned in your direction, the arm of a machine gun pointing directly at you. Waist-high cement barricades have been placed across the road to either side of the tank. An emaciated body dressed in military fatigues lies draped over one of these low walls while another one lies face down in the street next to the tank.
It looks like you're going to have to turn around and find another route. As you grab the gearshift and put the SUV in reverse, a hard rapping sound startles you. Through the driver side window, you find yourself staring into the business end of a double barreled shotgun.
"Open the window!" says the man holding the gun. He appears to be in his late thirties or early forties, dark hair pushed back behind his ears, three days worth of beard covering his face. A pair of sunglasses obscures any view of his eyes, prevents you from trying to read his intentions there. You have to assume if he's willing to point a gun at you then he's probably willing to use it.
Duck down and hit the gas, you tell yourself. No telling what this guy's got in mind.
You hesitate, though, knowing it's a crazy idea. But the alternative, doing what the guy tells you, doesn't seem any less crazy.
The end of the gun barrel taps against the glass again.
"Open the window," the guy says a second time. "Now."
CLICK HERE if you decide the only real option here is to do as you're told and open the window.
CLICK HERE if, instead, you think you're better off trying to catch the guy off guard.
Keep going, you tell yourself. What are the odds of that vehicle starting? And if it doesn't you'll be at that thing's mercy.
And so you keep jogging, pushing yourself onward.
Unfortunately, the lack of cardio training is really starting to catch up with you. It's not like you could go out and jog around the neighborhood during a zombie apocalypse. Besides, there was that whole basic survival thing to be concerned about. But right about now, you're wishing you'd scavenged a stationary bike at some point because that berserker on your tail doesn't seem ready to give up the chase anytime soon.
Up ahead, the intersection and the zombies milling around there draw closer with every step you take. It seems you've gotten their attention. They turn and walk toward you, doing their slow but steady best to meet you as soon as possible. A cramp cuts its way up your left side. In desperation, you try to think of a way out of this mess.
I need to find something I can use to take the berserker out. And I need to do it soon.
A body, long decayed, lies near the side of the road clutching something in its left hand, something made of metal about a foot-and-a-half long.
Tire iron!
Slowing down, you approach the body, crouch next to it and retrieve the makeshift weapon while trying to catch your breath. Then you stand and do an about-face just as the berserker lets loose with one of its awful screams. When it gets close enough, you swing the tire iron, connecting with the side of the creature's face, nearly tearing its lower jaw away, leaving it hanging by a thin strand of flesh and muscle. The next swing catches the berserker on the left wrist, snapping bones and rendering the appendage useless. The creature continues to move closer, though, close enough to grab you by the shoulder with its functioning hand, wrapping its fingers in your shirt. It pushes its face up close to yours, screeching all the while, the stench emanating from its ruined mouth enough to make you gag. In a desperate move, you wrap both hands around the tire iron and thrust upward, using it like a spear to punch through the roof of the zombie's mouth and out the top of its head.
The screeching stops.
For a moment, the creature stands there, staring at you with a wide-eyed look of surprise on its face. You release your grip on the tire iron and watch as the previously animated corpse topples to the ground.
You stand there for a second or two, taking in this victory.
A berserker. I just killed a freakin' berserker.
Good thing for the tire iron. You have a feeling things may have gone a bit differently without it. Knowing it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to hold onto the weapon, you crouch down once again, reaching toward the berserker and the piece of metal jutting out of its head.
Pain explodes in your back, just above your left shoulder blade, like you've been stabbed there - or something has bitten into you. A moaning sound catches your attention, the deep throaty growl of a zombie. Correction, make that several zombies.
Pulling the tire iron free of the berserker's head, you stand up just as an arm wraps itself around your neck followed by the sickening pain of a second bite, this time in the meaty spot between neck and shoulder. Hands grab you by the arms and the weight of something climbing onto your back causes you to lose your balance and fall to the pavement. Things only get worse after that. The last thing you see is the berserker's corpse lying only a few feet away, the look of surprise frozen on its face, an expression probably not all that different from the one on yours.
CLICK HERE to start over.
You ride over to the convenience store, pull up next to the pumps where a jeep and a late model Corvette await your inspection. As much as you might like to cruise around in the Vette, you realize the jeep would be a whole lot more practical.
Never know when I may have to do some off-roading.
You lean the bike against one of the pumps, pull the handgun from the duffel bag and cast a glance toward the pair of zombies now wandering your way. They're near the other side of the lot which gives you plenty of time to check the jeep, see if someone happened to leave the keys behind. Upon opening the driver's side door, you hear the buzzing of flies from inside, see a dark smear of blood across the driver's seat. And no keys.
Closing the door, you move toward the Vette. Along the way, though, something catches your eye over near the corner of the store.
And what do we have here?
A motorcycle, lying on its side.
It would be a lot more maneuverable than a car, that's for sure.
You walk away from the gas pumps and across the parking lot. The zombies have now gotten between you and the store and so, having little choice in the matter, you take them out, one shot each to the head from point-blank range. When you reach the motorcycle, you see that it's a Honda XR100, fairly small and lightweight, requiring little effort to lift into a standing position.
After climbing onto the bike, you try to kick start it. The engine sputters before stalling out. You try again with similar results. But on the third try, it grumbles to life. You rev the engine while checking the fuel gauge, happy to see it reading almost full. Somewhere along the way, you'll more than likely have to stop and refuel. But that shouldn't be a problem.
It's not like there won't be plenty of cars to siphon gas from along the way.
You'll just need to find a length of hose to use
That shouldn't prove too difficu
lt either.
The last time you rode a motorcycle, you were a teenager. You don't think you'll have too much trouble getting the hang of it, though. As the saying goes: it's just like riding a bike. And in this case, it really is albeit one with a motor attached to it.
Working the clutch, you cruise over to where you left the bicycle, managing not to kill yourself along the way. After placing the gun in the duffel bag once again, you transfer it from one set of handlebars to the other. Then, as several more zombies step into view from behind the store, you head across the parking lot and take the exit onto the northbound road, follow it away from the intersection toward the interstate you know lies less than a few miles from here. Riding the Honda, you should be able to make your way past the long lines of stalled cars you imagine waiting for you there.
A few minutes later, the interstate comes into view. Not long after that, you're guiding the bike up the on ramp. Reaching the top, you see that most of the vehicles here sit either off to the side along the emergency lane or in the median between the eastbound and westbound sections of road. And that means plenty of open pavement in between. So you settle in and enjoy the feel of the wind on your face as the miles go rolling by.
Eventually, you approach the tail end of the traffic jam you knew you'd run into somewhere along the way. A river of cars stretches into the distance for as far as the eye can see. Stopping the bike, you sit there for a minute, picturing the scene as it unfolded, imagining the fear and frustration of the people in those cars, stuck there with nowhere to go. Then the panic would have set in as the hordes of zombies, drawn by the promise of so much living flesh, began to arrive. Before long, they would have turned this stretch of interstate into an abattoir.
You shake your head, trying to dislodge the images from your mind. Giving the bike some gas, you let it carry you slowly past the cars crowding the lanes to either side of you.
Evidence of the massacre that took place here surrounds you. Here: a car with a massive dent in the driver's door, dried blood smeared across the inside of the windshield. There: the skeletal remains of a body hanging out the window of a black van, head down and hands reaching toward the street below. And there: another skeletal figure lying on the hood of a car, the flesh of its face torn and withered away, the skull underneath grinning as you go by. A few dogs and several birds can be seen feasting on the dead, the latter taking to the air while the former scurry across the road at the sound of your approach.
You try to avert your gaze from the bodies but it's difficult to do; there are just so many of them. You'd like to move past all of this as quickly as possible but the vehicles caught in mid lane change along with the open car doors, and, yes, the bodies in the road slow your progress considerably. The eastbound lanes appear to be similarly cluttered offering no reason to abandon the path you've been following.
Not much later, you come to the realization that you'll need to leave the interstate if this congestion doesn't clear up sometime soon. And it's right about then that an odd little detail of your surroundings catches your attention: some of the bodies you pass appear to be better preserved than others. And the birds you've seen, the carrion eaters, seem to be making a point of leaving these healthier looking corpses alone.
Curious, you pull up next to where the body of a woman lies in the bed of a pickup truck, eyes closed, hands crossed over her stomach.
I've got a bad feeling about this.
A feeling that gets a whole lot worse when the dead woman opens her eyes.
She sits up and turns her head to stare directly at you. Then she reaches for you, fingers curled into claws, a low moaning sound emanating from deep within her throat. As the dead woman opens her mouth and lunges, you give the bike some gas, leave her grasping at empty air. You don't get far, however, before the sight of bodies rising from the pavement, of doors swinging open and arms reaching out of open windows forces you to stop and weigh your options, to try and figure out just what, exactly, is going on here.
Have the zombies been pretending to be dead, as in really dead, in the hopes of luring an unsuspecting victim - in other words, you - into their midst? Or had they fallen into a state of hibernation only to be roused by the sound of the motorcycle's engine? Whatever the case may be, you have to find a way out of here and fast. If not, they'll have you surrounded in no time.
As you watch, a number of zombies wander into the opening between the cars ahead of you, effectively blocking the way forward. So it's either turn around and go back the way you came or head for the median and cut across to the other side of the interstate, hope the zombies over there haven't figured out you're here yet. Or you could make your way to the emergency lane, see what lies on the other side of the guardrail. This section of roadway seems to be elevated from the surrounding terrain but an embankment might lead down to lower ground beyond.
Whatever your decision, you'd better make it quickly. The zombies are closing in. And they look ready for a feast.
CLICK HERE if you head back the way you came.
CLICK HERE if you decide to cut across the median instead.
CLICK HERE if you head for the emergency lane because, well, this is an emergency.
The whole damn world is an automobile graveyard.
Odds are you'll find something suitable to drive further down the road, somewhere completely free of zombies where you won't have to use the gun at all. Because you never know when you might run into a large horde of the vile creatures. And that's when you'll be glad you hadn't wasted a single piece of ammunition.
You continue to pedal at a leisurely pace, stopping to check an occasional abandoned car, steering clear of the random wandering zombie that crosses your path. None of them are berserkers, which is a good thing. The longer you can avoid another confrontation with one of their ilk the better.
To your left you see a wide field stretching away from the road over toward the raised structure of the interstate a mile or so in the distance. Up ahead and to the right, a used car lot with a number of vehicles on display comes into view. Drawing nearer, you can make out a message spray painted on the wall next to the front door of a garish yellow building:
"We'll finance anyone!"
Near the entrance to the lot, a particular car catches your eye: a vintage Mustang convertible with a cherry red paint job, gleaming in the sunlight despite the fact no one's been around to wax it in quite a while now. The thought of finding the keys somewhere inside the building has you standing up and pedaling a little harder.
And then, without warning, you hear something go whistling by overhead just before the front of the yellow building explodes.
You stop as the heat from the explosion washes over you. Chunks of cement and shards of glass fly in all directions, forcing you to duck as a projectile buzzes past your ear.
"Oh, yeah, that's right!" you hear someone shouting when the world finally goes quiet again.
The voice draws your attention away from the conflagration over toward the field. Out there, a good hundred yards away, next to a tall tree laden with bright green leaves, you see a man dressed in Army fatigues holding what would appear to be a megaphone in front of his face.
"Nice shot, huh?" he asks, his voice amplified and slightly distorted.
For the time being, you do nothing but stand there while trying to get your head around this strange and completely unexpected turn of events.
"I've gotten pretty good with this thing," he says next. "And I'd like to see how well I do with a moving target. Or you can just sit there if you want. Either way..."
As you watch, the guy sets the megaphone on the ground. Then he kneels down next to what looks like a black tube about three feet tall jutting upward, out of the earth. He places his hand over the top of the tube before pulling it away. There's that whistling sound again and as you put your feet on the pedals and roll forward, one of the cars next to the demolished building explodes amid a cacophony of ruptured metal and shattered glass.
The n
ext half a minute or so goes by with the surreal slowness of a waking nightmare. All around you, mortars drop from the sky in rapid succession, opening the ground in eruptions of heat and flames and flying pieces of asphalt. And all you can do is put your head down and pedal for all you're worth.
Amid the bombardment, an explosion rips open the street directly in front of you.
The next thing you know, you find yourself lying in a smoldering ditch, legs tangled in the frame of the bike. It feels like you've broken one of your ankles and probably a couple of ribs, possibly suffered a little head trauma for good measure. A nearly overwhelming urge to close your eyes and go to sleep washes over you but you fight it off as you hear the sound of approaching footsteps. When they stop you look up and see the guy in the fatigues standing at the edge of the small crater you've fallen into.
"Told you I was getting good with that thing," he says. "Amazing what you can get your hands on these days. No shortage of cool stuff just there for the taking."
The guy looks to be in his mid-forties, a little overweight and in need of a shave.
"Found a bunch of these, too," he says and unclips what looks like a piece of green, metal fruit from his belt. "These suckers are loads of fun."
With that, he turns and walks away. A couple seconds later, the grenade lands in the crater next to your feet. You've only just started to reach for it when it detonates.
CLICK HERE to start over.
"You're right, it's too risky," you say before putting the SUV in reverse. "There's plenty of time to get to the spaceport. No point in putting ourselves in unnecessary danger. We'll find another way there."
You back up a good twenty feet or so then cut across the other lane, come to a stop when the rear tires touch the grass at the side of the road. Sudden movement draws your attention to the bridge once again. As you watch, a primer gray muscle car emerges from the smoke, heading directly toward you, its tires squealing as the driver stomps on the brakes. The car manages to stop just outside the driver side door next to you, no more than three feet away. You make eye contact with the young man behind the wheel of the other vehicle, staring through the windshield at you, a startled looking expression on his face.
