by Ray Wallace
A few feet away, a recognizable shape covered by a plastic tarp stands between the track's metal rails. Johnny approaches it, pulls the tarp away to reveal the motorcycle hidden underneath: a blue and chrome street bike with saddlebags on the back. Not too big. Looks like something you can handle.
"Now all you have to do is ride this beast over to Tampa," Johnny tells you. "These days, I can't think of a better way to get there."
"How did you manage to bring it up here?"
"Rode it back from the train station during one of our Tampa runs. Thought it might come in handy some day." He reaches out and pats the seat. "And now it looks like it will."
He climbs on and kick starts it, bringing the engine to life with a low roar. Then he stands and moves away from the bike.
"I came out and filled up the tank a few days back, made sure it still started," he informs you over the grumbling of the engine.
"I can't thank you enough," you say.
He shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. "Don't mention it."
With that, you transfer the duffel's contents to the saddlebags, stick the handgun down the back of your pants before mounting the bike. You shake hands with Johnny then lift the kick stand, give the engine some gas and roll away into the new day that, one way or another, you have a feeling will be your last on planet Earth.
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You stay. It's been so long since you've been around this many people, since you've felt this good about being alive, that you find it impossible to leave. Over the next hour or so, you find yourself in deep and meaningful conversation with a number of different people including...
Clarence: A retired school teacher who thought he'd spend his "golden years" relaxing, building model airplanes - a passion of his - and visiting his grandkids. But then the news reports started coming in. Zombies. Dead people getting up and walking around, feasting on the flesh of the living. The result of some sort of military experiment, according to the rumors circulating at the time. He never did get to see his grandkids again. Although, recently, he'd managed to build a few model airplanes.
Sandy: She'd been going to college, majoring in astrophysics with a minor in philosophy. "I bring a telescope up here a couple nights a week. No light from the city screwing with visibility anymore. I guess that's one of the good things that came out of all this." She leans her head back and gestures toward the sky. "You could have never seen so many stars around here before the Outbreak."
And Terrence: A fire fighter and ex-marine who did two tours in the Middle East. "I just wish I could have been with my fellow soldiers when the Outbreak happened. It would have been nice taking down as many of the undead freaks as possible."
Eventually, Jillian places a hand on your arm.
"I think you've had enough excitement for one evening."
You're forced to agree with her.
Johnny accompanies you downstairs, back to the apartment and the bedroom where you rested earlier. Within moments of lying down, you plunge into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Tine passes. The days fall into a sort of rhythm, a monotony and a predictability that you come to enjoy. It's nice to know that routines can be established in a world overrun by chaos. Routines that matter. Clothes need washed and meals need prepared and children need looking after. It's easy to imagine growing old here, maybe even starting a family. Every day, you tell yourself staying here was the right decision. Would your life have been better if you'd been able to make it off planet? Who knows? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, you're happy for the life you do have.
One day, nearly two years after your decision to stay at the building, you find yourself on the roof with Johnny, the two of you scanning the surroundings with binoculars. You've seen hardly any zombie activity for months until...
"Well, what do we have here?"
You stand next to him, aim your binoculars in the same direction. And that's when you see them.
Zombies.
Lots and lots of zombies. Hundreds of them. Thousands? They crowd into the streets a few miles out, all of them heading your way.
Within the hour, they reach the building, press up against its outer walls like a single, massive, living organism. You can only guess at the impetus behind this behavior. It's as though they've developed some sort of hive mentality. Whatever the case, it doesn't take long for you to realize the building's inhabitants are in serious trouble.
The boards covering the windows along the first floor manage to hold for a while. Inevitably, though, they break beneath the sheer mass of bodies pressing up against them. Other zombies climb on the backs and shoulders of their comrades-in-death, forcing their way in through the less secure openings along the second story.
You and your fellow survivors manage to hold the invasion at bay for a while. But, as the siege continues, you're forced to retreat all the way to the rooftop where you fight valiantly right up until the very end.
Maybe I should have gone to the spaceport after all, you tell yourself moments before a trio of berserkers takes you down.
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Without taking the time to consider the folly of your actions, you drop to the ground, roll forward and throw your body against the door. Just then, the person behind you shoots, the sound of it like a cannon in the enclosed space. Glass explodes, shards of it raining down as you scurry through the now empty frame of the door and onto the sidewalk in front of the store. Staying low to the ground, you move toward the truck as another shot rings out, the shooter somehow missing you again.
"Get down!" you shout as you near the truck, seeing Lindsay staring at you through the window. Circling around to the driver side door, you open it and get in, throw the transmission in gear and tear across the parking lot amid a screaming of tires. Driving away from the gas station, you hear the crack! of another gunshot. Then you round a corner onto a side street, putting a group of buildings between you and your attacker.
"Oh, my God," says Lindsay. "Are you all right?"
Glancing down, you see the blood covering your arms, dripping off your elbows, feel the sting of the cuts across the palms of your hands while you grip the wheel. You also realize you no longer carry the map, that you must have dropped it during the course of your escape.
Cursing, you let off the gas, slow the truck to a more reasonable rate of speed despite the adrenaline rush telling you to go, go, go! No point in risking an accident now after so recently eluding danger.
You examine one arm and then the other, determine that while there's a good deal of blood the cuts are, in fact, fairly shallow and not of the life-threatening variety. Still, you should get them cleaned and bandaged as soon as possible.
"Pull over," says Lindsay. "I've got a towel and a first aid kit in my bag." Meaning the duffel bag she tossed in the bed of the truck when you first met.
"In a minute," you say, wanting to put a little more distance between you and whoever was taking those shots at you back there.
You come to an intersection, read the sign for the cross street: 7th Ave. A few years ago, in decidedly better days, you made the drive out here with some friends, spent the evening walking along Ybor's famous nightclub district. To your left stands the Columbia restaurant. You turn in that direction, drive down a few blocks before pulling over to the side of the road and putting the truck in park. The gas gauge reads a quarter of a tank which should be plenty to get you to your destination from here.
Before you can tell her to wait, Lindsay throws open the door on her side of the vehicle and hops out. As you follow suit, you notice the handgun on the floor where you dropped it by your feet, unaware you had even done so.
Well, at least I managed to hold onto something during all the excitement.
Grabbing the gun, you wince a little in discomfort before taking a couple of steps into the street, looking in both directions along the rows of two and three story buildings to either side, not liking the way they seem to pen you in.
"We need to make
this quick," you say.
"Um, I think you should see this," Garrett says.
You walk over to where he stands near the truck's tailgate. And you find yourself cursing once again.
The rear, passenger side tire is nearly flat. Standing there, amid the surrounding silence, you can hear the low hiss of escaping air.
Lindsay approaches you, towel in one hand, bottle of peroxide in the other.
"First things first," she says.
Garrett asks you where the jack and the spare tire are located. In response to the look you give him, he says, "What? You don't think I can change a flat?"
The thought had crossed your mind, considering he's not even old enough to drive. Of course, a moment later you realize how ridiculous you're being. The kid has undoubtedly developed any number of survival skills he would have never needed before the Outbreak.
So you tell him where to find the jack and the spare while Lindsay tends to your injuries. The peroxide stings but it's a pain you'll take any day over that of a gunshot wound. Before bandaging you up, she grabs a bottled water and rinses out your cuts as well as she can. By the time she puts the bandages in place, Garrett has the tire off the truck.
"A few more minutes and we'll be ready to roll."
You offer to help but he assures you he can handle it. So you walk down to the end of the block, driven by an urge to do a little investigating, to make sure no unpleasant surprises might be hiding somewhere nearby. At the end of the block, you press yourself close to the wall of the building there and, as quietly and carefully as possible, peek around the corner.
All clear.
Sighing in relief, you cross the street to check the other side. As you do, a figure emerges from the entrance of a bar in between you and the truck. It stops on the sidewalk and turns its head on a painfully thin neck, looking to where Garrett continues working on the tire. Then it throws its head back and screams.
Several more figures stumble out of the same establishment, dressed in the tattered remnants of the clothes they once wore for a night on the town.
"Hey, over here!" you shout, waving your hands over your head.
And just like that, the berserker runs toward you, its slower moving companions turning to follow.
You need to take the berserker out first and hope there aren't any more of them anywhere nearby. After that, you can make your way past the other zombies and back to the truck. Hopefully, Garret will have the tire replaced by then.
Not wanting to waste ammunition, you duck around the corner of the building, a plan having formed in your head to shoot the berserker from point-blank range the moment it steps into view. In all the excitement, however, you never did check for potential hazards on this side of the street. As soon as you step past the corner, skeletal hands grab you. Then long, yellow teeth bury themselves in your neck. By the time you dispatch the attacking creature, the berserker arrives on the scene. You open fire but it would seem that blood loss has affected your aim. Screaming, the berserker closes in. And then it finishes the job the other zombie started.
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You stop right where you are.
"Hands up where I can see them," says the voice.
You do as you're told, let the person giving the orders see the gun in one hand and the map in the other.
"I don't want any trouble," you say.
"Guess you should have thought about that before you came in here and stole from me." Footsteps approach and stop right behind you. "Now turn around, nice and slow."
Again, you comply and find yourself face to face with a little old lady pointing a rifle at you, the weapon looking as though it may send her flying backward through the air if she decides to pull the trigger. An amusing image, sure, but one you certainly wouldn't want to see become a reality. Not that you'd live to see it.
"So, what makes you think you can just traipse on in here and take whatever you want without paying for it?"
"I'm sorry," you tell her. "I didn't know anyone was here."
You look past her toward a doorway at the back of the store.
Does she live back there?
As your gaze returns to the gun, you can see the barrel wavering back and forth a bit and you have to wonder how long she'll have the strength to keep it pointed at you like this.
"Nothing I hate more than a damned thief," says the woman, her eyes going wide with anger.
Not even zombies? you think about asking her then decide against it.
"Look, if I had any money I'd gladly - "
"Now there's an idea! How about you go ahead and pay for what you got in your hand there and I'll think about not puttin' a hole in your head."
It's an idea you like too except for one little problem:
You don't have any money on you. And why would you? After the Outbreak and the collapse of civilization, money no longer served any purpose. It became completely useless, not even worth the paper it was printed on. Which meant there was no reason to bring any with you on this little expedition of yours. You don't see why Lindsay or Garrett would have any money on them either. Looks like you'll have to check, though. Who knows, maybe they -
Hold on a second.
"How much do I owe you anyway?"
The woman gives you a nod like she's glad to hear you talking sense.
"Two dollars. Plus tax."
"Okay. I'll just have to go out to my truck and - "
"Not without me you won't." She motions with the gun. "Lead the way."
And so you leave the store, not liking the idea of that rifle aimed at your back. When you get to the truck, you open the driver side door and duck your head inside.
"Now don't pull any funny business," the woman tells you.
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"What's going on?" asks Lindsay as you give her the map and the handgun.
"Nothing to worry about," you tell her. "Nothing I can't handle."
You open the ashtray and look at all the change stashed inside of it. After removing the proper amount, you offer the money to the old lady.
She motions with the gun toward the car parked next to the truck.
"Set it on the hood. Then go on and get the heck out of here. And do us both a favor and don't come back."
You do as instructed. "Pleasure doing business with you."
The woman says nothing as you get in the truck, close the door and drive away.
"What was that all about?" Lindsay wants to know.
You just shake your head and ask her to read the map. "Try to find the best route over to the spaceport."
"Take a right on Nebraska," she tells you a few moments later. "Follow it north to Hillsborough Avenue where you'll make a left."
The journey north passes rather uneventfully. But things get a little trickier as you make your way down Hillsborough - not surprising as it's one of the main thoroughfares through this part of the city. On several occasions, pileups and traffic jams that will never be cleared away force you over to the sidewalk. Eventually, though, you see the signs pointing the way to the spaceport.
It won't be long now.
Your anticipation builds with every passing mile.
"Almost there," says Lindsay, her voice filled with excitement.
The turnoff that will take you along the final leg of your journey comes into view. There's only one little problem...
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With a last look at the bike, you turn and walk away. Making your way to the street, you hear a distant scream, possibly that of the berserker you hid from while in the attic. Of course, there could always be more than one of the deranged zombies in the area, a possibility that causes you to quicken your step as you follow the sidewalk in a westerly direction once again.
Water jug in one hand and shotgun in the other, you trudge onward, one step at a time, toward your destination.
At this rate, I'll never get there.
Not to mention the fact that you can feel your energy fading fast. H
ow long has it been since you've eaten anything?
Too long.
You know you'll have to find some food soon if you want to keep pushing onward, especially through this heat. A bottle of sun screen would be nice too. And a hat. Because, at the moment, the sun is definitely not doing you any favors.
The food comes first though.
With every block you cover through this suburban neighborhood, the pit inside your stomach only seems to deepen.
At least I haven't run into any zombies.
More houses stand empty and forlorn to either side of the road. Everywhere you look, you see overgrown yards along with cars that haven't been driven in months and will never be driven again. The hallmarks of a dead and deserted world.
You drink some of the water in an attempt to ward of your growing hunger. The thought grows within your mind that you may have to enter one of these houses to search for something to eat.
And that's when a strange and wholly unexpected scent catches your attention. Strange because it is so unexpected. Once you become accustomed to it, you find that, actually, it isn't so strange after all.
The scent is that of cooking meat.
Somebody's having a barbecue.
Aware of the risk involved but unable to help yourself, you follow your nose, stopping halfway down the block before an unremarkable looking house.
This is the place.
You hear voices and laughter from behind the house.
Sounds like somebody's having a party.
Setting the jug of water on the sidewalk, you grip the shotgun in both hands then push your way through the overgrown yard, proceed ever more cautiously as the voices and the laughter grow louder. Approaching the rear of the house, you see a fence enclosing the back yard. It's made of thick, metal bars placed about six inches apart and stands a good eight feet in height, crossbars every two feet ensuring that no one - or practically nothing - can get past.
Doubtful even an entire horde of zombies could break through that.
And as far as you know, the undead have never been known for their climbing skills.
