by Ray Wallace
I'm not there yet.
And, by the looks of things, the remainder of your journey is not going to get any easier. Since crossing the river, the zombie population has been steadily increasing. Not that this comes as much of a surprise. Johnny did warn you, after all. You were the one who chose not to listen. But as the saying goes: nothing worth doing is ever easy.
Or something along those lines.
And this current undertaking of yours has to be one of the most worthwhile things you've ever attempted.
Just keep pushing forward. One step at a time. Don't get distracted by thinking too far ahead.
You stick to the deeper darkness of the shadows near the buildings, have to stop and hide in the entranceway of one of them as a particularly large cluster of the living dead goes wandering by. The tension and the excitement cause a rush of adrenaline to flow throughout your body. You fight it back, try to remain calm and not do anything stupid.
Deep breaths. In through the nose. Exhale...
Rounding the corner of a low building, you stumble into a pair of approaching zombies, rail thin due to a lack of sustenance. They're slow to react to your sudden appearance in their midst giving you enough time to use the shotgun as a blunt weapon, to shove and bludgeon them before disengaging from the fray and continuing onward.
That was close. Gotta be more careful.
And you are careful, covering one grueling mile after the next, the spotlights and their promise of deliverance growing ever closer, ever brighter. The zombies, though... There seem to be more of them all the time, their shambling forms emerging from side roads and alleyways, sometimes appearing as if out of nowhere, concealed by darkness only to be revealed by the moon's dim but pervasive light. Eventually, you reach a point where, if you wish to continue forward, you'll need to unleash the shotgun's destructive power. There's just no way for you to make your way past the crowd in front of you unscathed.
So you let the shotgun do what it was designed to do.
Boom!
The blast tears its way through several of the cadaverous figures before you.
Boom!
More of the zombies go down, their limbs torn off, a few of them cut completely in half.
Rushing into the gap, you reload the shotgun with the last two cartridges, hoping you'll not have to use them anytime soon. And for a couple of blocks, the way opens up a bit offering you enough room to maneuver past the walking, moaning corpses, many of them watching as you go by.
You come to a stop at an intersection with two story buildings standing on each of the corners, dark traffic lights hanging overhead. The road before you lies thick with zombies, a limping, stumbling mass of them forming an impassable barrier between you and the spotlights weaving their pattern no more than half a mile away. Looking left then right, you see more of the same where the undead have collected in formidable numbers in both directions along the crossroad. And you already know what awaits you if you try to turn back.
Keep going. Use the last of your ammo. And hope for the best.
As far as plans go, it's not a good one. Unfortunately, it would seem to be the only one you've got. Making matters worse, from somewhere in the crowd before you a berserker cries out. Then, to your left, another one takes up the cry. To your right, another one. And, finally, a fourth one from somewhere behind you. Somewhere close.
Raising the shotgun, you place the stock against your shoulder.
Here goes nothing.
You take a step forward...
An explosion from directly ahead lights up the darkness.
You stop dead in your tracks, trying to make sense of the bright flash, the rising cloud of smoke and the percussive roar. There's another explosion followed by the steady rat-a-tat of a high caliber machine gun. You run for the streetlamp standing on the corner, press your shoulder against the base of it, hope it provides enough coverage to keep you from getting shot or taken out by any flying debris.
Peeking out from around your protective cover, you watch as the zombies are cut down, silhouetted by the headlights of a slowly approaching vehicle, maybe fifty feet away now.
Who the heck is that?!
The question has only just formed in your mind when a hand grabs you by the arm, thin, bony fingers digging into the flesh there. With a shout, you spin around and use the shotgun to push the zombie - sections of its bald scalp peeled away to reveal the skull underneath - away from you. It stumbles back into the group behind it, many of the creatures baring teeth in anticipation of the meal they plan to make of you.
Not if I can help it.
You aim the shotgun.
Boom!
Half a dozen of them go down. But there are plenty more to take their place. One of them suddenly rushes toward you, opens its mouth and screams...
Boom!
No more berserker, just like that.
And no more ammo, either.
Ping!
A bullet ricochets off the lamppost, whizzes by the side of your face close enough for you to feel the breeze of its passing. With a curse, you press yourself against the metal pillar once again, more frightened by the idea of getting shot than eaten at the moment. A feeling that changes, though, as the seconds tick by and more of the undead creatures approach from behind you, stepping on the bodies of their fallen comrades in their eagerness to get at you.
The machine gun falls silent. In its place, you hear the revving of the vehicle's motor as it pulls up to the intersection.
"You, behind the streetlamp," says a man's voice, amplified by a bullhorn. "If you don't want to be eaten, you should probably get over here."
With only a few feet separating you from the grasping hands of the nearest zombies, you break cover and run for the vehicle, a military jeep with roll bars instead of a roof and one of the biggest guns you've ever seen mounted in the back. The jeep stops on top of the mismatched pieces of several corpses, waiting for you to reach it. Once there, you toss the shotgun in back next to the guy in military fatigues manning the mounted weapon, climb in and sit on the floor.
The driver, a woman with short, brown hair, also in fatigues, turns to look at you.
"All situated?"
You nod your head. "Yeah, I'm good."
The third soldier in the vehicle, a man standing in front of the passenger seat, bullhorn in hand, sits down and says, "Before we go..."
He uses a sidearm motion to throw something about the size of a baseball out the open passenger side window. "And in three... two... one..."
The driver puts the jeep in reverse and backs down the street just as the explosion rips through the zombies gathering on the corner where you stood only a little while ago.
"Oh, yeah!" says the soldier standing next to you. He laughs. "Now that's what I'm talking about."
For the next few minutes, the jeep makes its way toward the spaceport, stopping on occasion so that a few more grenades can be tossed and the machine gun can cut more zombies to shreds.
"It's the last time we'll ever get to do this," says the woman by way of explanation.
They're out joy riding, you realize with no small amount of amazement. You're not sure what to make of this. On the one hand, you feel that, as soldiers, they should be taking their duty a little more seriously. On the other... If they weren't out screwing around, they wouldn't have been there to save your life. And, besides, you have no idea what they've been through, what they've had to do, the things they've seen. Are you really in any position to judge them?
No, you suppose you're not.
The jeep makes its way along Hillsborough Ave. - a six lane highway that cuts through much of Tampa - before turning down a side road leading back to where the four dancing spotlights beckon you onward. The machine gun makes quick work of the zombies blocking the way and before long, you and your traveling companions pull up before a gate that slides open, granting access to the sprawling spaceport grounds beyond.
Less than a minute later, the driver, Sergeant Greene -
you exchanged introductions on the way here - parks the jeep in a lot next to a long, low building. A short distance away, you can make out a larger building with a curved roof.
"That's where they keep the spaceplane," the sergeant tells you, confirming your suspicions.
Inside the nearer of the two buildings, you pass through a room that resembles an airport terminal with a counter and rows of plastic chairs.
"You have electricity here."
"Generators," you're informed.
Then you're led down a hallway to an office where you meet another woman, this one wearing a blue jumpsuit. She introduces herself as Lieutenant Anderson.
"Glad you could make it. I always like to see a new face."
"If it wasn't for Sergeant Greene and her fellow soldiers, I doubt we would have ever met."
"Just doing our jobs," says the sergeant.
The lieutenant smiles. "Well, you'll be glad to know there are still seats available on the shuttle. And we've got plenty of food if you're hungry."
After you eat, the sergeant finds you a change of clothes. Then she brings you to a room filled with cots where a number of early arrivals have already gathered.
You spend the evening exchanging stories with your fellow survivors, enjoying the simple pleasure of having someone to sit with and talk to again. They all have equally harrowing tales of encounters with both the living and the undead. There's also plenty of discussion regarding the lives awaiting you once this desolate world has been left behind.
"All I know is I can't wait to leave," says a middle-aged man named Larry, a sentiment echoed by everyone present.
Around midnight, the lights go out and you lie down, wondering if you'll be able to fall asleep.
Tomorrow, my new life begins.
The day's excitement catches up with you and before long you feel yourself pulled down into a deep and dreamless slumber.
In the morning, you have breakfast and a shower and then the time arrives when you and your fellow passengers are brought out to the waiting shuttle. It sits at the end of a long runway, a staircase leading up to a doorway near the front of the plane. The spaceplane is big, as in 747 big, with its massive, gravity defying engines comprising more than half of its bulk.
Inside, the entire passenger section occupies about the same amount of room as the first class area of most commercial airliners. You take a seat near the back, next to the window, anticipating the view it will soon offer. People settle in around you, talking in low tones, a hushed excitement filling the cabin. After about ten minutes, a steward closes the door then walks down the aisle, making sure everyone is properly belted into their seats.
The pilot's voice comes over the intercom, announcing that the plane is ready to depart and that everyone should prepare themselves for a brief period of discomfort during the ascent when g-forces reach their peak.
"But after that, it will be smooth sailing..."
That gets an appreciative, nervous laugh from a number of the passengers.
Less than a minute later, the plane starts to move.
A couple of minutes after that, it really starts to move.
Then it's up, up and away into the brilliant blue of the morning sky and the infinite black that lies beyond. And as the Earth falls away beneath you, the g-forces release their hold on your body and weightlessness settles in.
"Next stop, Olympus I," says the pilot over the intercom.
A cheer erupts from your fellow travelers and you find yourself cheering right along with them.
Congratulations!
You escaped from Zombie Planet.
You have found the One Way Out.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ray Wallace lives in the Tampa Bay area and is the author of The Nameless, The Hell Season, and the short story collection Letting the Demons Out. His One Way Out novels include Escape from Zombie City and Escape from Zombie Island. He also writes book reviews for chizine.com. You can find more of his work online at amazon.com/author/raywallace.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Zach McCain is an internationally published artist, primarily known for his illustration and cover artwork in the horror and science fiction genres. His work ranges from book and magazine illustration to graphic design, album art, and RPG games. He resides in Texas near the Gulf Coast. Published work can be viewed at his website: zachmccain.com.
Table of Contents
Title page
Also by Ray Wallace
Copyright info
Author's note
Scene 01 - with illustration
Scene 02
Scene 03 - with illustration
Scene 04
Scene 05
Scene 06
Scene 07
Scene 08 - with illustration
Scene 09 - with illustration
Scene 10
Scene 11 - with illustration
Scene 12
Scene 13
Scene 14
Scene 15
Scene 16
Scene 17
Scene 18
Scene 19
Scene 20
Scene 21
Scene 22 - with illustration
Scene 23
Scene 24 - with illustration
Scene 25
Scene 26 - with illustration
Scene 27
Scene 28
Scene 29
Scene 30
Scene 31
Scene 32 - with illustration
Scene 33
Scene 34
Scene 35 - with illustration
Scene 36
Scene 37
Scene 38
Scene 39 - with illustration
Scene 40
Scene 41
Scene 42
Scene 43
Scene 44
Scene 45
Scene 46
Scene 47 - with illustration
About the author
About the artist
