by Ray Wallace
"Once a week we have a social gathering for the adults," Jillian informs you. She directs you to a folding table with a punch bowl, plastic cups, and several bottles of alcohol sitting on top of it. Next to the table, you find a cooler filled with bottled water, decide to grab one of those.
You pass the time wandering in a sort of dreamlike state among the people there, exchanging pleasantries and, when prompted, recounting the events that brought you to the apartment building, including your close call with the zombies at the interstate.
At some point, Jillian jumps into the conversation:
"Johnny's patrol had been out tracking some berserkers. They had no idea they'd be involved in a rescue mission. When they called it in on the CB, I got over there as soon as I could." She smiles at you. "I'm just glad it all worked out."
"Yeah, me too," you tell her.
A little while later, you're informed that a total of sixty-two survivors currently reside within the building.
"Not much, but it's something," Jillian says. "And sixty-three of us would be even better."
Eventually, you end up following Johnny toward a corner of the roof that's a little less crowded. He takes a long pull from the cup in his hand before speaking:
"Look, if you really want to leave I can get you a car. We have a number of them in good, running condition." He pauses to sip at his drink. "Although, I do know a quicker, easier way to Tampa. But it will have to wait until the morning. Just too dangerous at night. Besides, I figure you can use the rest." He shrugs. "Whatever you want to do, let me know. I'll help you make it happen."
CLICK HERE if you decide you need to leave as soon as possible in order to make it to the spaceport on time.
CLICK HERE if you tell yourself you can wait until morning and give Jonny's "quicker, easier way" a try.
CLICK HERE if, instead, you decide to stick around for a while and see how things go at the apartment building.
"Okay, just don't hurt the boy," you say before tossing the gun. It lands on the grass about five feet in front of Garrett and the man holding him.
And that's when a scream erupts from the woods directly behind them.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Garrett pulls free from the man's grasp and runs to where his sister waits near the truck. Without thinking, you rush the guy, collide with him just as he looks your way again. The two of you go down in a heap, the man on top of you. Another scream accompanies the rustling sound of something emerging from the bushes. Looking toward the truck, you see Lindsay and her brother standing there, wide-eyed.
"Go!" you shout. When they make no move to leave you tell them they have to go now. "For the baby's sake!"
That gets through to them. They pile into the truck which, thankfully, you left running. A moment later, it takes off down the road.
Cursing, the man raises his arm and smacks you in the side of the head with the gun he's managed to hold onto. Pain erupts and stars explode before your eyes then morph into the darkness of deep space. Unconsciousness threatens to pull you under... But at the last moment, the darkness recedes revealing bright blue sky above and the man looming over you, yelling at you, "Damn it! Let me go!"
It seems you've managed to wrap your fingers in his shirt, to hold onto it even as the world threatened to slip away from you. He raises the gun to hit you again just as the berserker slams into him. You release your grip on his shirt as he rolls off of you. And now it's the man's turn to scream as he and the berserker grapple with one another, the emaciated zombie possessed with a frightening vitality. The creature bites and claws at the man, opening nasty cuts along his arms and a deep wound across the side of his neck.
Climbing to one knee, you wait and ride out a feeling of wooziness, the ground tilting back and forth beneath you. When the feeling passes, you stand up and watch as more zombies emerge from the woods. Three, no four of them. Luckily, they're of the slower moving variety. Even feeling less than a hundred percent, you figure you'll have no problem outdistancing them.
As you move toward the road, the crack! of a gunshot makes you look to where the man and the berserker have been doing battle - a battle that seems to have ended now that the berserker lies on the ground with half of its head missing. And now you realize you've taken off without retrieving your own gun.
Don't worry about it now. Just keep moving.
The guy climbs to his feet, turns toward the group of approaching zombies and opens fire.
I really need to get away from here.
You run. Actually, it's more of a jog, the best you can manage without tangling your feet and falling to the pavement. You head in the same direction Lindsay and Garrett followed just a short while ago. Ahead, about half a mile away, the road curves to the right and out of view behind the line of trees.
Maybe they'll be waiting for me, you tell yourself as you trudge onward, hoping to see the truck come into view.
"Hey!"
Looking back, you see the guy in the flannel shirt standing in the road a hundred or so feet behind you, holding his neck with one hand, aiming the gun at you with the other.
Blam!
Agony explodes in your right calf muscle. You go down, hard, skinning your hands on the blacktop. Sitting up, you clutch at your leg and watch as your assailant turns and runs the other way. Which should be good news except for the fact that more zombies continue to emerge from the woods. Then one of them starts to scream.
And just when I thought things couldn't get any better.
Despite the pain, you manage get to your feet, to limp along, to try to put some distance between yourself and the monsters now pursuing you. But it's a hopeless endeavor, really, especially with the berserker thrown into the mix.
You tell yourself that at least Lindsay and Garrett were able to get away. Small comfort, sure, but better than nothing.
CLICK HERE to start over.
You keep the gun trained on the man, waiting for the opportunity to take a shot, wondering if there's any way you can hit him without harming Garrett.
"I'm not kidding around here," the guy tells you. "I want you to drop the gun. And I want you to do it now."
Lindsay speaks up: "I think you should do what he says." You can hear the fear in her voice.
She's right, of course. You're in no position to do much of anything here. But you know the situation is poised to go from bad to a whole lot worse the moment you relinquish possession of the gun.
"Okay, enough playing around," says the guy. "I'm gonna count to three. And then I'm gonna pull this trigger."
Still, you don't lower the gun.
"One..."
"Please," says Lindsay.
"Two..."
A scream erupts from the woods behind Garrett and his captor. As the man turns his head toward the source of the noise, Garrett wrenches himself free of the hand on his shoulder and ducks out of the way.
And that's when you pull the trigger.
Blam!
The guy cries out, spinning from the impact of the shot which takes him square in the shoulder. His own gun flies from his hand as he falls to his knees, facing the woods just as the berserker emerges from the bushes, a crazed look in its one good eye.
"Let's go!" you shout and circle around the truck as Garrett and Lindsay pile in through the passenger side, slamming the door closed just as the berserker screams again. With the engine still running, you put the transmission in drive then jam your foot down on the accelerator, leaving the injured man and his newfound zombie companion behind.
"You all right back there?" you ask, giving Garrett a glance in the rearview mirror.
"Yeah," he says, playing it cool, like having a gun put to his head is nothing new. "I'm fine."
The journey passes fairly uneventfully after that. You have to guide the truck onto the shoulder of the road a few times in order to bypass obstructions along the way including a four car pileup and a group of wandering dead people. At one point, a guy with a back pack waves at you, tries t
o get you to stop but you keep going, having had your fill of random encounters for one day.
Eventually, you find yourself following State Road 60 just outside of Ybor City, one of the many Tampa suburbs. Since you've never followed this exact route before, you're unsure of the best route over to the spaceport from here.
"We need a map," you announce as you slow the truck and pull into the parking lot of a gas station. Two of the spaces have cars parked in them. You back into the empty spot between them, put the truck in park and, once again, leave it running. Then you grab the gun and say, "I'll be right back," before hopping out and heading for the store's front entrance.
Signs advertising the state lottery along with several different brands of beer make it difficult to see in through the windows. The bad lighting inside doesn't help either. Approaching the door, you tell yourself you've got nothing to worry about.
No zombies outside should mean no zombies inside.
With that, you grab the handle, open the door and step inside.
A bell jangles loud enough to wake the dead if there happen to be any dead bodies in the place.
Any that aren't already awake, that is.
You stand there, just inside the entrance, feeling your heart pound in your chest, waiting to hear the telltale sounds - footsteps or moaning or, even worse, a scream - alerting you to the presence of the undead. After a half minute or so of nothing but silence, you figure it's safe enough to venture further into the place and make your way to the checkout counter.
Should've brought the damn flashlight.
Sure, you can see well enough to get around but the store is filled with plenty of dark spaces where danger could be lurking.
"Just find a map and get out," you say under your breath.
You don't find what you're looking for anywhere along the front of the counter so you peer behind it hoping to see -
Yes!
Next to a rack of adult magazines, a small metal stand on a shelf holds three different maps. You move past the cash register and enter the area behind the counter, grab a map with the word "TAMPA" printed in bold lettering across the front. After that, you turn and hurry away from the counter, make it back to the store's entranceway without incident, more than ready to get out of this place. But just as you reach for the door, you hear a voice from behind you say:
"Stop right where you are or I swear I'll blow your head off."
CLICK HERE if, after seeing that gun held to Garrett's head earlier, you decide there's no way you're going to put yourself in a similar situation.
CLICK HERE if, instead, you stay where you are, ready to face this new threat.
As time passes - slowly, oh, so slowly - you start to wonder if the zombies will ever leave.
Getting to your feet as quietly as you can, you move toward the window, wincing when a floorboard creaks along the way. Once there, you press your face up close to the opening, enjoy the feel of the cooler air as it blows across your sweat dampened skin. And there you sit once again, your back against the wall, listening to the muted growls and moans from below.
You don't even realize you've dozed off until your eyes snap open and you look around, confused, trying to figure out where you are and what you're doing in these strange surroundings. Then you remember: The tank... The guy with the shotgun...
The attic.
Standing up, you move toward the trapdoor as tiny rivulets of sweat trickle down your body underneath your clothes.
It's like a sauna up here.
When you reach the door, you kneel down and press your ear to the floor, spend the next minute or so just listening.
Silence.
No moaning. No growling. None of the noises that would inform you the zombies are still down there.
Screw it. I can't stay up here all day.
You open the trapdoor, wincing as the ladder extends with what sounds to you like a terrible racket.
No turning back now.
You place your feet on the ladder and descend to the hallway where nothing but the continuing silence greets you. From there you move toward the living room. And that's where you see what's left of the man who chased you here: mostly bones and tattered clothes and a wide, dark stain on the carpet. The shotgun lies discarded on the floor next to the couch. You grab it along with the shells - five in all - scattered nearby. After using two of them to reload the gun, you place the other three in your front pocket. Then you turn and stare through the sliding glass doors, now shattered, out toward the algae covered pool beyond, all the while considering what your next move should be.
Finding something to drink would be nice.
You head for the kitchen, steeling yourself against what you might find in there.
Some light enters the room through a single window over the sink, the blinds half drawn over it. Directly before you, two bodies surrounded by clouds of flies sit slumped in their chairs at a circular table, heads leaned back far enough for them to stare at the ceiling - if they were alive, of course. One of the corpses clutches a handgun in a literal death grip, the tip of the barrel dangling inches above the floor's linoleum tiling.
Murder-suicide? you have to wonder because that's certainly what it looks like.
Averting your gaze from the grisly scene, you approach the refrigerator, grab the handle and pull, take a step back and try not to gag as the stench of spoiled food washes over you. While holding your breath, you search the fridge, find a gallon jug half-filled with water, the cap still in place. Grabbing it, you hurry from the room and make your way out to the pool. Not a zombie in sight.
After quenching your thirst, you circle around to the front of the house, shotgun in one hand and jug of water in the other, all the while wondering how many hours of daylight you have left. When you reach the opening in the hedges leading from the front yard to the sidewalk, you crouch down and lean out far enough to scan the street in both directions.
The coast is clear.
Breathing a sigh of relief, you head west, following the sidewalk. Judging by the sun's position in the sky, you figure it's now well past noon which means you spent a few hours hiding in that attic.
Lucky I didn't die of dehydration.
You drink some more water while checking out a couple of cars, hoping one of them will have the keys inside. Neither of them does, though.
Then you see it.
On the porch of the house across the street, a ten speed bike stands leaning against the wall next to a couple of wicker chairs. With the area still zombie free - the pack that invaded the house you were in must have wandered off in search of prey elsewhere - you dash across the road and head for the bike. Close up, you see it has a water bottle in a holder attached to the frame.
Perfect.
You can't help but get excited when you think about how much ground the bike will help you cover. Of course, at some point you'll still need to find a working automobile. For now, though, the bike is certainly better than nothing.
But there's one little problem.
Both of the tires have gone flat.
Cursing, you have to wonder why you thought things would get any easier at this point of the journey.
Just relax. They had to have kept a tire pump around here somewhere.
Yeah, but where?
In the garage, more than likely.
Which means going into the house, an idea you immediately dislike since you have no way of knowing what might be waiting for you in there.
CLICK HERE if you decide looking for the air pump is too much of a risk.
CLICK HERE if, on the other hand, you really like the idea of having a pair of wheels underneath you.
"Thanks but no thanks," you say.
A shrug from the driver. "Suit yourself."
You feel a moment's regret as the car takes off down the road. A ride would be nice, no doubt about it. But after the incident with the boy earlier and then the guy with the shotgun, you seem to feel a noticeable lack of trust in your fellow human
beings at the present time. Go figure.
So you walk, telling yourself you've found one functional vehicle already today and are bound to find another one. But after checking a dozen or so cars along this stretch of road, you start to have your doubts. That momentary regret you felt earlier at not accepting the ride returns. You push it aside, though. Spilled milk and all that.
After about half an hour, you pass a stretch of woods that pushes up near the side of the road. Walking near the trees, you find relief in the shade they provide from the sun's rising and relentless heat. You'll need to find something to drink soon, something to help protect you from the sun, too - maybe some sun screen and a hat - if you're forced to continue much further on foot.
The sound of a dog barking interrupts your thoughts. Stopping in your tracks, you try to figure out where it's coming from, aware that a feral animal could pose a problem.
From somewhere in those woods.
Hard to tell exactly how far away the animal might be, though.
The next time it barks, it sounds much closer. Different, too. Deeper, as if made by a different animal.
Could there be a pack of them somewhere nearby?
The very idea forces your feet to move again, faster than before. You don't get more than five steps, however, when something comes tearing out of the trees, low to the ground, teeth bared and growling. Instinctively, you back away toward the road, raise the shotgun and take aim. But then your foot slips off the curb, throwing you off balance and down to the hard, unforgiving surface of the pavement. During all of this, you drop the gun while suffering a few scrapes and bruises. These minor injuries are the least of your concerns at the moment because the dog, a skinny, hungry looking thing, continues to charge like a mad beast from some late night horror movie. And as you watch, several of its friends emerge from the trees, barking and growling as they, too, come after you.
