by Ray Wallace
I guess someone was prepared for the end of the world.
You lean around the back corner of the house and peer between the bars of the fence.
The metal barricade encloses the entire back yard. As for the yard itself, it's been recently mowed, the back half of it containing a flourishing vegetable garden. Maybe fifteen feet away, a middle-aged man in a tank top and shorts stands at a grill, tending to what has to be some of the juiciest looking steaks you've ever laid eyes on. Three other adults sit at a nearby picnic table, drinking from red plastic cups, talking and laughing. Two young children - a boy and a girl - wearing bathing suits splash and play in a wading pool near the far side of the yard. A half-grown German Shepherd runs and jumps around the perimeter of the pool, barking erratically. All of it strikes you as rather surreal, an image from a forgotten time.
This close, you find the aroma of the steaks nearly overwhelming.
These look like good people. There can't be any harm in introducing myself.
But you never get the chance because something strikes you in the back of the head hard enough to make the whole world go black.
When you come to...
You can hardly move. Ignoring the throbbing pain that fills your head, you figure out why. Your legs are bound at the ankles, your wrists behind your back. A piece of cloth has been stuffed into your mouth, preventing you from speaking.
"I done good, Pa, didn't I?"
"You sure did, son."
It takes a moment for your eyes to focus on the two figures standing over you. One of them is the guy you saw manning the grill; the other a teenage boy wearing a pair of jeans with no shirt on, grinning from ear to ear. Looking around, you discover you're on the floor of a small room - a spare bedroom maybe. Light streams in through a nearby window. Trying to move, you hear a crinkling sound and realize there's a wide sheet of plastic spread out beneath you. To say all of this gives you a bad feeling would be the understatement of the century.
Without another word between them, the man and the boy leave the room. A little while later, the man comes back carrying a pair of knives, one in each hand. Long, very sharp looking knives.
"You know how hard it is to find fresh meat these days?" he asks as he kneels down next to you. "I cooked the last of the steaks a little while ago. And then you come along. Can't say I was expecting that considering the zombies have even learned to stay away."
After that, he doesn't say much as he goes to work with those knives of his.
And you thought these were good people.
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With the ten speed sitting right there, you have to at least try to make it functional. And so you approach the front door of the house only to discover it's locked. The door looks pretty sturdy, too. If you attempt to kick it in, your foot might break before it does. Plus, all the noise might attract some unwelcome visitors.
Looking around, your gaze settles on a small potted plant sitting on the sill of a nearby window.
I suppose it's worth a look.
You walk over and lift the plant, find a shiny silver key hidden underneath.
Yeah, definitely worth a look.
Using the key, you unlock the door and enter the house.
The air inside is hot and stuffy. Motes of dust dance in the light streaming through the windows. You let your gaze travel around the living room, take in the sight of the entertainment center, the couch and the coffee table, the two comfy looking chairs. And the two dead people sitting on the couch, leaning against one another, eyes open, staring at nothing. Yeah, these days the world is full of dead people, a reality you wonder if you'll ever get used to.
Go to the garage, look for the tire pump then get out of here.
You move through the living room and into the kitchen where you find a closed door which, when opened, leads to the garage. It's darker in here than the rest of the house but there's enough light to see by. Next to the door, a five tiered metal shelf laden with all manner of tools and cleaning supplies stands against the wall. After setting the shotgun on the floor, you search the top shelf then work your way down. And just as you become convinced you're wasting your time here, you find the tire pump in a cardboard box on the bottom shelf.
Bingo!
Grabbing the shotgun, you head back into the main section of the house. As you walk through the kitchen, the two corpses from the couch - a man and a woman - come lumbering toward you out of the gloom.
Letting go of the tire pump, you raise the shotgun just as one of the zombies swings its arm, catching the tip of the gun barrel with its fingers, loosening your grip on the weapon and sending it crashing to the floor. You drop to a knee and reach for the gun, all the while trying to make sense of what exactly is going on here. Had the zombies been in a sort of hibernating state, waiting for someone to come along and wake them?
As you grab the shotgun, one of the undead creatures crashes down on top of you. The impact sends you sprawling backwards, causing you to hit your head against one of the cabinets under the sink, hard enough to knock you unconsciousness. At some point, you come to long enough to realize what the zombies have been up to during your little siesta. And it isn't pretty. So when the darkness claims you once again, it's really for the best.
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It's now or never.
Grabbing the shotgun, you reach for the door handle, open the door and throw yourself from the vehicle just as it backs away from the trees. You land hard on the gravel, jarring one of your elbows and sending a bright flare of pain lancing along the length of your arm. Somehow, you manage to hold onto the gun as you roll away from the cab which just misses running over your legs. You get to your feet and move toward the trees, coughing and eyes watering as you emerge from the dust cloud raised by the car's wheels.
Beyond the trees, you discover a field of deep grass where you take off running toward a small building sitting next to a road at the far side. Along the way, you watch as Reginald's car races alongside the tracks toward the road and the railroad crossing there. The modified truck continues chasing after the cab while a man leans out the passenger side window, firing a handgun.
He's not gonna make it, you tell yourself as the cab bounces onto the road near the second crossing, slows down and turns amid a screaming of tires, trying to pass through the gates - these ones raised - before the truck gets there. But he does make it, the cab clearing the tracks just as the truck goes by, blaring its horn. Looks like bailing on Reginald may not have been one of your brightest ideas, after all.
What's done is done.
The important thing now is to steer clear of Mavis and those lunatics in the truck.
The thick grass does what it can to impede your progress. Eventually, however, you reach the far side of the field and the parking lot behind the building. You tell yourself you need to get inside, hope that Mavis and company don't come in after you. And if they do, well, you just might have to use the shotgun to convince them you're not worth the trouble.
As you approach the building, you hear the distant crack! of a gun being fired followed by an explosion of pain just above your right shoulder blade. You fall to the ground, the impact causing even further agony to your shoulder. The world around you goes gray and fuzzy before slipping into full, impenetrable blackness.
You come to lying on your back, blue summer sky stretching away in all directions above you, small puffs of cloud drifting by like icebergs on a calm, endless sea. A woman steps into your field of vision. The skin of her face looks tanned and wrinkled like a piece of cheap leather. A gold cross hangs from a chain outside the sleeveless flannel shirt she wears. She smiles down at you, revealing a missing tooth. Your gaze travels to the handgun in the holster at her side before settling on the rifle in her hands. You try to sit up but the woman's booted foot comes down on your shoulder, reigniting the pain there. As you watch, she shifts the rifle to one hand then pulls the pistol free with the other.
"I knew
Reginald wasn't alone," she says. "Not sure why he lied about it. Probably because the two of you were up to no good."
"No. It wasn't like that at all."
Your fingers brush against the warm metal of the shotgun lying on the ground next to you.
"No? Maybe not." A shrug. "Either way, you were trying to get past without paying the toll. And you know what that means..."
"The toll? No, acttually I - "
Mavis aims the handgun and pulls the trigger.
Now there's someone who knows how to end a conversation.
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You decide to stay in the vehicle. It's a testament to the stress you're under that you even considered getting out to begin with.
What the hell was I thinking?
Apparently, you weren't, at least not clearly. Now that the moment of indecision has passed, it seems pretty obvious you're much better off staying right where you are.
"Hold on," says Reginald, his voice issuing from the speakers. Although what, exactly, he wants you to hold on to, you're not sure.
The car reverses, stops and leaps forward, running parallel to the railroad tracks once again. Through the rear window you see the dust cloud kicked up by the cab trailing away behind you. The pickup truck races along the tracks, pulling up next to Reginald's car. A man wearing a backward baseball cap leans out the passenger side window with a big, silver pistol in his hand. The gun jumps and the window in front of your face cracks in a small, web-like pattern. You flinch, aware you would have taken a bullet if the protective glass hadn't been in the way.
The pickup drops back a little as Reginald gives the engine more gas. The car bounces across the rough terrain accompanied by the sound of gravel rattling against the underside of the vehicle. Just ahead, you see another street with another railroad crossing, gates up and pointing toward the sky.
"Brace yourself," says Reginald.
Moments before the tires hit the pavement, he lets off the gas and stomps the brakes while whipping the steering wheel. You slide across the seat and slam against the door to your right as the rear of the car swings around, tires screaming all the while. The pickup truck speeds toward you, seemingly intent on ramming Reginald's car and inflicting whatever damage it can. The cab manages to clear the tracks just in time, however, and the truck goes racing by behind you with a blaring of its horn.
"That was a close call," says Reginald with a chuckle. "Don't worry, though. It should be smooth sailing from here on out."
He turns up the music and after a couple of minutes you feel the adrenaline rush brought on by the chase wearing off, your heart rate returning to normal. And as the miles roll by you do start to relax once again, trusting Reginald will get you where you need to go. After the way he handled Mavis and her friends, you figure he might be up for just about anything.
Time passes and you find it remarkable how smoothly the ride goes, how few obstacles Reginald has to deal with, how expertly he deals with them. Obviously, he's driven these roads many times before, knows the most passable routes as demonstrated by the way he turns down one side street after the next without hesitation. It would appear that getting in this cab was one of the best decisions you've made since leaving your house.
The miles roll by and, eventually, you make it to Tampa.
Through the cab's window, you watch the stadium go by in the mid-afternoon sunshine, find it difficult to imagine tens of thousands of people packing into the place to watch their beloved football team.
Are there even tens of thousands of people alive across the entire country at this point?
You'd like to think so but, of course, you have no way of knowing.
"A few more minutes and we'll be there," says Reginald, turning down the music so you can hear him more clearly.
The statement momentarily confuses you but then you recall the deal that was struck at the onset of this cab ride - the little job he wants you to do for him, the package he wants you to deliver. Now that you're here, now that it's time to fulfill your end of the bargain, you're starting to feel more than a little nervous regarding the whole situation.
Something definitely shady about it.
Which means things could get dangerous.
The shotgun rests across your lap and you give it a pat with your hand, trying to find reassurance in its destructive power.
The stadium disappears from view as Reginald follows a series of side roads, most of them lined with three and four story buildings. The zombie presence becomes more pronounced, the cab making short work of any that happen to get in its way. Finally, as the car approaches yet another intersection, it slows down and parks near the corner.
"We're here," says Reginald.
He gets out of the car and you do the same, scanning the area for any signs of trouble. From a block away, several zombies wander in your direction, moving slowly and posing no immediate threat.
Reginald circles around and opens the trunk of the car, reaches inside and pulls out a square box about six inches long on each side wrapped in brown paper. Closing the trunk, he hands you the box which has a little more weight to it than you were expecting.
All you have to do is walk over there." He points through the intersection. "Second building on the left. Take the stairs up to the top floor. Knock on the door marked four-oh-one. Ask for Elliot. Then give him the package. Tell him it's from Reginald."
"After that?" you ask.
"You leave." He smiles. "Simple."
"Yeah. Simple."
"I'm going to drive around the block, lose some of these corpses. By the time you're done, I'll be back here. And then we'll head on over to the spaceport."
You look at the box in your hands.
"Are we good?" he asks.
You nod your head. "We're good."
"All right then. See you in a few."
With that, he gets in the car and drives off.
You follow his directions, stopping outside the second building on the left as instructed, shotgun in one hand, mystery package in the other.
From somewhere in the distance, you hear the screaming of a berserker. The thought of trying to get to the spaceport without Reginald's help holds little appeal. But as you stand there looking at the building before you, neither does the thought of going upstairs to that fourth floor apartment.
CLICK HERE if you tell yourself, "Forget this," convinced something bad will happen if you do what Reginald has asked of you.
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You ride. And, no doubt, it's unlike any ride you've ever taken before. The miles pass in an effortless, steady succession. You take it slow, never getting much above twenty-five miles per hour. No sense rushing things, doing something reckless, not up here with no guardrails, this high above the ground. You've got plenty of time to reach your destination. Might as well make sure you get there in one piece.
Squinting your eyes against the rush of morning air, you take in the world unfolding below and all around you. As the sun makes its way higher into the sky, you can see further and with greater detail in all directions. Which means, of course, you see more of the undead. They wander the land beneath you, alone and in groups of varying sizes, some of them tilting their heads to watch as you go riding past. You smile, secure in the knowledge that you're safe up here, that you can travel without fear of some chance zombie encounter.
Buildings push up close to the track on occasion. At other times you see nothing but wide expanses of mostly empty land. Minor roads and highways pass by underneath as do streams, manmade canals, and a pair of rivers where you imagine people liked to fish once upon a time - and maybe still do, scattered survivors cut off from one another by distance and danger along its length.
After forty-five minutes or so of riding, the Tampa skyline looms up over the horizon. And a short while later, you find yourself approaching the station where the maglev track comes to an end.
Stopping the bike maybe
half a mile out, you kill the engine, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention. Because, if what Johnny told you turns out to be true - and you have no reason not to take him at his word - you'll probably find plenty of unwanted attention before long.
You climb off the bike and rummage through the saddlebags, stick the extra box of ammo in your pocket. Grabbing a bottled water, you crack it open and take a long pull from it. The thought of eating some cold pasta crosses your mind but you decide against it. The quick breakfast you had earlier, along with the nervous feeling settling into your stomach, has left you with a limited appetite. You leave the flashlight in the bag, seeing no good reason to bring it with you.
"Well, I guess that's it then."
With that, you pull the gun from the back of your pants and walk the rest of the way to the train station. It takes you about ten minutes to get there. A U-shaped building awaits you, enclosing the end of the track where the train would have loaded and unloaded its passengers. The train itself is absent.
Must be stranded at one of the other stations.
Plexiglass walls allow you to see inside the building: Arrivals to your left and Departures to your right. You see movement inside the former, the latter appearing to be zombie free at the moment. Of course, support beams, rows of airport-style plastic chairs along with several wide counters - where tickets would have been purchased or reservations confirmed - offer plenty of hiding places. Even though you can detect no immediate threat, you still have a bad feeling about going in there. But it's not like you have any plans of turning around and heading back the way you came.
And so, using one of the automatic doors now stuck in the open position, you enter the Departures section of the building.
Thirty or so feet beyond the general seating area stands a long wall with a counter in front of it. Archways to either side of the counter offer passage to another room. To your right, next to an elevator, a spiral staircase ascends to the building's second story. Seeing no reason to go up there, you cautiously make your way to one of the archways, all the while expecting to see a zombie come stumbling through. But it doesn't happen. Several dried and withered corpses litter the floor amid wide smears of blood, black with age. Besides the soft sound of your shoes on the linoleum, the buzzing of flies is all you hear as you reach the archway and peer through.
