by Tufo, Mark
“Shit,” was all I could manage as I looked up at the massive impediment.
“Little help!” This drifted up from our right.
We quickly moved to the side of the roadway. Kirby was pinned up against the guardrail, snow up to his chest.
“Careful, careful!” he shouted. “I can feel the guardrail behind me moving. I think it’s getting ready to tumble over.”
Tommy and BT were digging at the snow that bound him while Winters and I used our slings as a makeshift rope to keep him tethered to us. We were able to get it under his arms and around his back. I was unsure of the wisdom of this as I wrapped the other end of the sling around my arm. If he went, it was much more likely we’d all go with him than prevent his fall. I was leaning back, as was Winters. A shift in the snow broke through the rail and sent a section off the edge. I dug in, even as my feet began to slide. A look of sheer panic erupted over Kirby’s features. Tommy was in overdrive, digging through the snow like a Greyhound hopped up on Red Bull might run a race. BT grabbed each of Kirby’s outstretched arms and yelled, his head thrown back as he put everything he had into pulling the private free. I was worried he was going to fall on his ass with the bloody top half of the kid after tearing him in two. The four of us did end up on our collective asses, luckily, with Kirby still intact. Tommy helped us all up.
“Appreciate that,” Kirby said, taking an extra step away from the drop-off. The wind was howling. We’d again averted a disaster, but we were far from safe. The storm was officially in a white-out status.
“Good to have you back,” I told him. “Alright, everyone grab hold of the sling and let’s head back to our ride.” The going was slow. The euphoria of surviving three near misses was wearing off, as wariness and cold began to leech any feelings of camaraderie or relief away. I sometimes found myself pulling on the strap, urging the others forward, while at other times, I felt myself being pulled along. The misery of the trek was taking its toll, and without the ability to talk or hardly see the others, it became a mental exercise to stay alert and plod on. My head was down in a vain effort to keep the stinging snow from slashing at my frozen face. From time to time, I forced it up to try to see where we were going. Head up or down, it made no difference.
I stumbled and fell as Tommy, on my right, tumbled and pulled me with him. I landed on his shoulder; it was the smell that awoke every alarm within me. Either he’d shit himself, or there was a zombie. Tommy forced me up and off; he was fighting with an invisible enemy. Invisible to me, anyway. I could barely make out Tommy’s hand as it had pushed on me.
“Talbot!” It was BT’s voice—he was reaching down, his hand fumbling to grab hold of me.
“Zombie!” I yelled back.
“Where?”
It would do no good to answer him. Even if I could see it, which I couldn’t, he wouldn’t be able to either.
I had my rifle in my hands; might as well have been an egg whisker for all I could use it. Shooting like this would have just been irresponsible. I let go of it, knowing more than likely it was gone forever. That was fine; I was going to take the price of it out of some armorer’s ass anyway. I reached down and pulled my knife free from its sheath. Oh, I knew the folly of my next action, just didn’t know what else to do as I thrust my hands down and toward where Tommy was. One misplacement and I was going to get bitten, another, I was going to slash Tommy. This was a lot like sticking a hand in the midst of a dogfight; you do what you can. If you got bit, that was on you.
My hand slid up on some pestilent skin; I could feel the layers of grease, dirt, feces, blood, and all manner of other disgusting substances scrunch up and over the top of my gloved hand as I clamped down. I was fairly certain I’d grabbed hold of its upper arm. I yanked it toward me. A ghostly face, full of gnashing teeth, appeared out of the white and threatened to rip through the cartilage of my nose as I leaned back.
“Holy fuck!” was all I managed as I brought my knife up in an effort to thwart the attack. It took a snap at the blade as I cut across. I sliced its whole upper lip off, exposing its teeth in a never-ending evil grin. Its head retreated back into the snowy abyss. I stabbed where it had been; there was a slight resistance before its body fell away.
“Thank you,” Tommy said, coming out of the gloom.
“We good?!” BT yelled not more than a few inches from my face.
“Yeah, let’s go. We need to move quicker, though.” How we were going to accomplish that, I wasn’t so sure.
The snow was coming down as close to horizontal as was possible. Walking against the gale force winds was exhausting. This should have been as big a detriment to the enemy as it was to us, but I severely doubted that assumption. I knew they had trackers, but how could this storm not be beyond their capabilities? The two slings together couldn’t have been more than ten feet in length, and yet I could not see Winters or Kirby on the far end. The black cloth seemed to be magically suspended in space. I was pushed forward as a zombie collided into my back. It fell, and I clipped its jaw with the back of my boot. I did not turn to kill it; to let go of the lifeline would have spelled death as I forever wandered the whiteness. Forever, in this case, wouldn’t be overly long, but the picture has been painted.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something quickly pass by Tommy on my right. I nudged him; his eyes grew wide as he noticed it as well. So they did have limitations. They knew the direction we’d gone in, but after that, they were just hoping to bite into a haystack and come up with an apple. Another question that was going to need answering was: how had any zombies made it past the blockade? The damage had looked impassable.
“Get your knives out!” I was trying to be quiet, but I needed to be heard through the whipping wind. “BT, let Winters and Kirby know! Zombies are all around us!”
I’m not entirely sure which one of us was steering the ship as we all had one hand on the sling, one on our knives, and our heads on swivels looking for threats. BT spun quickly, the blade of his knife slicing no more than three inches from the front of my face. There was enough force behind it that he broke through the forehead of the zombie approaching. He’d sunk it in so far, and with enough force that as he tried to remove the blade he lifted the zombie’s body. Finally, the top of the skull gave way and the body fell noiselessly to the ground.
“That was gross,” I said much too softly to be heard, even by myself. The sling pulled taut from Winters’ side. BT turned away and towards whatever threat had presented itself on that side. The desire, the need, to help was nearly more than I could handle. After a moment, a grim-faced BT turned back toward me. I wanted to ask him if everything was all right, but the set of his mouth told me it might be for the best if I stayed silent. Our going was slower now, walking forward while defending the rear was the norm as we found ourselves under frequent assaults. I, well, I imagine all of us, had our senses on high alert. By the time a zombie came into view, there wasn’t time to think about what you wanted to do, only enough time to react to the threat in the most extreme way possible. I was yanked backward. I had mistakenly thought a zombie had grabbed my pack—well, that was sort of true, but it’s weird to grab something with your mouth. The straps were digging into my underarms, and I was finding it hard to move around in an attempt to shake loose. As of yet, neither man to my side was aware of my plight. Not sure if they had turned, they would have been able to see what was going on right next to them.
I was tossing elbows backward, trying to dislodge the human-sized, blood-sucking, flesh-eating tick from me. On one of my thrusts, I had let go of the strap and the zombie had taken that opportune moment to pull harder. I fell straight back on top of him. I didn’t know which way to roll, paranoid that the wrong decision would put the back of my head directly into its mouth. I struggled like a turned-over turtle as I was high-centered on my pack. I could hear the heavy canvas material being torn through; my head was whipping side to side in near concussion-inducing speeds. Great, I thought, attacked by a zombie high on m
eth. I yanked the strap on my left shoulder. Once the snap buckle gave, it afforded me the room I needed to pull my arm free. I was wrenched violently down on my head, thankfully hitting the much-cushioned roadway. My mouth and nose filled with snow as I took in a great draft of air. I had one arm free; that meant nothing to the zombie as it started dragging me backward, still attempting to liquefy my brains by extreme oscillation.
I shot my arm back. I bit back on the pain as the point of my elbow collided with the zombie’s skull. There was a satisfying crunch as I crushed the cartilage in its nose, but it did little to repel the attack. I spun, pulling my right arm free, finally yielding my pack to it. I got to my feet quickly. It was then I brought the heel of my boot down, using the blood ring from my earlier strike on its face as my target. The first hit was a bullseye, as were the next five. The zombie’s head was reduced to not much more than pulp, looked like someone had dropped a giant cherry snowcone. I was breathing hard as I turned back to carry on; the storm had completely swallowed up those I’d been traveling with. I was painfully aware of just how isolated I was.
“Shit.” I was scared. I was alone, but I wasn’t. I stood still for a moment, getting my bearings, not even really sure in which direction I needed to go. Occasionally, a wraith-like form would pass on either side. I didn’t know whether to attack and take them out of the equation or use them as guides. If anybody knew where they were going, somehow it was the zombies. Trying to keep the snow and ice out of my face while also keeping an eye on where I was going was no easy task. The one effen moment I tucked my chin down in an effort to protect myself, I stepped on the back heel of a zombie who immediately spun to see what was going on. Its bare feet were a bloody mess of shredded skin; it was leaving frozen bits of itself with every stride. Had I not been as near to panic as I was, I could have followed the skin-crumb trail to find my way home.
Its hand shot out and swiped past my face then grabbed the front of my uniform and was pulling me close. I was so out of sorts I’d yet to think about using my knife, instead attempting to wrest myself free from its grip. I pulled it closer; again, I was very much in danger of falling over onto my back—this time with the zombie to my front, and a much more advantageous position for it. I sent my right leg far back, sliding instead of slipping. The movement prevented me from falling, but now I was halfway to doing a full split, and this was something I’d never done nor wished I could do. My muscles were overextended, and I could not get enough balance to pull them back as the zombie pressed his attack. Righting myself was out of the question. The zombie dipped down and bit at the hand that was trying to keep him at bay. I felt its teeth bite into my glove and hit the fingernail of the pointer finger on my left hand. The pain was immediate as it clamped down. I yanked back like it was a glowing stove burner and I had tested it with my hand. No matter how fast you moved, there was going to be damage. My only hope was it had not broken skin. Its head whipped back and forth as it tore into the glove I had yielded.
I came up with my right hand—the blade sliced easily into the side of his face, completely ripping through his cheek. He lost a couple of teeth as he bit down on the knife; I cut more than a third of his tongue off as I pulled free. These should have been things that thwarted the zombie’s attack, seemed like it could not have cared less. I was sliding backward, the snow piling up behind my back foot doing little to slow me. The zombie was either going to push me over the edge or into another of its brethren. Even if it was neither of those two stellar options, it was pushing me further from finding my traveling companions. The thick, brackish blood I’d come to expect from zombies was pouring forth from its mouth, and every once in a while it would shake vigorously, sending droplets spraying, some hitting my face in warm globules. I yelled out. I had one more shot before my groin ripped in two and I was found next spring, frozen solid in the fetal position, both hands covering the wounded area.
I forced my knife up and under its throat, puncturing what remained of its tongue and lodging firmly into its palette. A gruesome strike, but not deep enough to kill it. I was now holding on to what could be considered a bucking bronco. On the plus side, it had the strength and footing to pull me back up, which I was thankful for. Though I wasn’t going to tell him that—he was the ass that put me in this precarious position to begin with. He was twisting about, trying to pull me closer while I was trying to yank the knife free. Neither of us were getting what we wanted, and with each lost second, it became more dangerous for me. The zombie got close again, but could not seal the deal as his mouth would not close. Score one for the good guys. And then my clingy new friend did something wholly unexpected and completely altruistic (though I doubt he saw it that way; it’s all perspective). He was biting so hard he forced my blade up higher, must have finally scraped the bottom of his brain. He stood rigid for a moment and then toppled like a logged tree. Funny thing was, my knife slid free as easily as if I’d shoved it into a roll of toilet paper. I could have gone with the hot butter analogy, but how many times does one want to hear that?
The snow eased up some; I could now see about ten feet around me. Not enough to make much of a difference in finding BT and the rest. It would give me a second or two advance warning about an enemy, although it would also give them more of an opportunity to spot me. Why do you always have to take the bad with the good? Just this one time, I wouldn’t mind stacking a few good things together by themselves. Like when we used to go to the grocery store; I was perfectly fine with grabbing a box of Devil Dogs, maybe some peanut butter Cap’n Crunch, an apple pie…didn’t ever feel the need to top that off with Brussels sprouts. See? It can be done. My first step back the way I had come was nearly my undoing. I didn’t realize just how close to the edge of the highway I’d been. My left foot fell away just as I was planting my right. I immediately crumpled to the ground and took a moment to get my heart back under control. I couldn’t see how far I might have fallen, and for that small favor, I was thankful. I then moved over as far to the right as I could without scaling the mountainside.
I plodded on, mistakenly believing that the slight yielding of the storm would lead to its end. In reality, it was only taking a deep breath to belt out its aria. Visibility was once again back to zero, and with it, the temperature took a plunge. My exposed hand and face were stinging, which was good for now, as they’d yet to suffer frostbite, but that was right around the corner. Against my better judgment, I placed my gloveless hand in a pocket. The millisecond delay it would take to remove and defend myself was a risk I had to take if I wanted to keep all my fingers intact. I tacitly avoided examining my bitten finger any more than I needed to. There was blood; the question now was, had I been infected from the bite or had I merely suffered a crushing injury that had forced blood out from under my fingernail? Maybe I should have looked. If it was indeed from a bite, I could stop this insane bid to get back home and end all of this with a single, self-inflicted knife thrust to the temple. BT was already suffering from nightmares he would never overcome; I’d be damned if I added to it by showing up a zombie and leaving the task to him to put me down. If the roles were reversed, I couldn’t do it.
The wind was howling. Each step was a tentative one since I didn’t even know what side the ascent was on. This was one of the storms people could die in when they went from their house to the detached garage and lost their way. I was on a ribbon of roadway, and I thought I was heading in the right direction, but I couldn’t be certain of that. The snow that had originally fallen on to me had thawed, coating me in a layer of freezing moisture. All the snow after that had begun to cling. I was a living, frocked Christmas tree—well, more like a walking snowman. The accumulated weight of the snow sticking to me was wearing me down. I hate to admit this, but hopelessness was seeping into me more than the cold, though the race was going to be a photo finish.
Something bumped into my arm; knocked a fair amount of the snowy insulation free. Whatever it was didn’t stop to see how I was doing. Just like an abom
inable snowman to rudely walk into you and keep on going. It was like they grew up in New York. I was so bloody tired; my hand throbbed in pain. I knew how close to fucked I was when a glowing sensation of warmth spread through my extremities. That is the body’s way of letting one die somewhat peacefully as one freezes to death.
“Not yet,” I managed to say between the chatterings of my teeth and my footfalls, which now weren’t so much steps as they were shuffles. I gave a sardonic smile at the thought that I was practicing for what I was to become. “Not yet.” I said it a thousand times, maybe more. With each word, I moved forward. When I didn’t think I had anything left to give, when merely thinking the words was exhausting, I sat down heavily, the snow deep enough that I fell completely through to my waist. I wasn’t the slightest bit concerned I was going to freeze off some of my more favored parts. I couldn’t even be bothered to think about it. What I was thinking about was how soft the snow would be when I laid my head upon it. Sure, there was this small part of me, deep in my primal essence, that was screaming for survival, that if I stopped to rest, I would never get up. I threw a rotten egg at it to shut it up.
Whether I did it consciously or my body decided on its own—don’t know, don’t care—I was falling over. Maybe the end was coming and I was welcoming it. Just as my right ear struck snow, I heard a flat, muffled sound some distance off. Sounded like someone using a nail gun on plywood backed by insulation; for a moment I wondered why in the hell someone was building a house out here. Just as my nose plowed under, I heard another three quick thumps in succession. Then it dawned on me; they were building a shelter to get out of this hellacious storm.
Shelter. The thought circled around in the rapidly slowing synapses of my brain. It was looking for a foothold, a home to call its own, yet all the doors kept slamming in its face. My entire head was now under the snow. The peace I felt and the ensuing quiet from the whipping wind were so comforting. Except for that nagging word, shelter…still trying to take root in hostile soil, and the biting cold upon my eyelids, all was pretty good in my diminishing world. There was one final thump before the blissful silence. But that word…it finally slid down and into a groove of my brain, and, much like Luke’s missile in the trench of the Death Star, it finally slammed into a vulnerable synapse and gave it meaning. I sat up straight, a spring-weary Jack-in-the-box giving one final pop for old time’s sake.
