by Doug Ward
*****
"Everybody up!" Dean was screaming as he flicked the lights on and off repeatedly. "On your feet! Something's happening!"
My heart was pounding as I raced into the office. The computer screen was displaying the camera orientated to the front of the parking lot. The scene was chaos.
A group of bikers had rumbled down the road. The large group of zombies we had drawn to this area, along with others who had heard the loud bikes, met the motorcycle riders in front of our building. The undead blocked the way so well that they forced the motorcycle gang to stop and were even now engaged in battle. Shots ripped through the air as the two groups clashed. Some of the bikers fired guns, while others preferred handheld weapons.
Many of the gang dismounted and fought on foot, brandishing everything from axes to crowbars. One guy had a Samurai sword and must have been a trained martial artist. He met his enemy like a tornado. His spinning kicks and flashing blade cut a path through the gathering undead. His dynamic moves proved useless in the end. The zombies just walked right into his vicious attacks and overwhelmed him.
A black leather-clad bear of a man fought hand to hand. Huge muscles bulged under his bare, hair covered-arms. He punched one tattered-looking zombie right in the mouth.
"What an idiot!" I stated after observing the jaw-breaking haymaker.
"What?" asked Skud.
"That tough guy just punched a zombie in the mouth," I commented. "Nice way to get infected!"
"They do that in movies all the time."
"Movies have writers," I said. "If they want you to live, they just make it so. They don't have to follow any path of logic. They just skip whatever reality they want."
"But it looks cool," the youth intoned.
"Just don't ever do that. The next thing you know, you'll be infected."
The other bikers held their own, dispatching the slower moving undead, but the sounds of the struggle brought more zombies to join the fray. Shuffling corpses came from all directions. Arms reaching and mouths agape, they surged forward toward the diminishing group.
At some point, the bikers realized they couldn't win this fight. They returned to their bikes and began to leave. Abandoning their dead and wounded, the remaining motorcycle riders tore off in the direction they had come, killing a last few zombies on the way.
"This is our chance!" I exclaimed, stepping over to the duffel bags. We stuffed the little we had gathered into three bags now, each of us bearing one of Dean's shotguns, my revolver holstered at my side. We returned to the computer to see how it looked outside. The undead were moving off, drawn by the bikers. We were long forgotten.
After a few minutes of waiting, we cracked the door and peeked outside. The viewable area seemed clear. The only dead outside were sprawled on the ground.
"Let's go!" shouted Dean, slinging his bag over his shoulder, a long barrel poking out the top.
"Do you have the keys?" I asked, checking.
He produced them with a flourish and a wolfish grin. Timmy and I shouldered our burdens and picked up weapons with our free hand. After a last glance at the computer screen, I followed the youth to the Kingdom Hall's front door.
Dean unlatched one side and kicked the door open and, bringing his shotgun to bear, he tracked one direction, then the other. After determining the area was clear, we made our way toward the car. At no time did my neighbor lower the weapon. Fast-stepping with the gun to his shoulder, he acquired target after target, making sure our progress was safe.
Tim and I copied his technique. I was learning a lot from watching how Dean handled himself in dangerous situations. He never took any situation for granted, always staying on the alert, on the balls of his feet, anticipating trouble.
When we made it to the car, my neighbor glanced in the rear seat area and opened the door. While he fumbled with the ignition, Tim and I covered the area, the youth holding his handgun at arm's length while I used my shotgun. I wondered how many of the surrounding homes held frightened people, hiding from the horror all about them. How many people clung to desperate hope as their meager supplies dwindled to nothing.
"Hurry up!" I urged, feeling exposed standing on the asphalt with corpses lying all around.
"I'm trying," he replied, clearly agitated. "This idiot has keys to everything he's ever owned on this key ring. I can't find the right one."
"You better hurry!" I said, my voice raising a few octaves. "We have company!"
The fact was punctuated by a shot from our young friend's gun. There were a few dead emerging in the distance. Although they were still far away, their condition could be determined by the way they lurched about.
"Hold your fire!" I yelled to Tim. "They're still too far away."
My pulse was hammering as the dead continued their relentless march toward our unprotected place. Dean continued, keys jingling as he sorted through the ring, searching for the correct one.
"It's not here," he spat all at once while exiting the car. "We gotta go back!"
The zombies were getting a little close when we turned and raced back toward the door. As we neared the entrance, Tim swerved to the side, a little off course.
Just as I was about to see if something was wrong, he said, "There's another car!"
Dean and I changed our course to see what he was talking about. It was a blue Nissan Altima sitting beside the Kingdom Hall, parked on the side that the cameras had not been able to show.
As we sprinted toward the vehicle, Dean said between breaths, "I think this is it! I thought I saw a Nissan keyless fob. His pace slowed as he sorted through the keys while holding his shotgun and running.
The car’s lights flashed and we could hear the driver's side door unlock. The lights flashed and the locks sounded even louder as he pushed the button again, unlocking the rest of the doors.
"We're home free!" exclaimed Timmy as our hopes soared.
I chanced a look over my shoulder and saw that we had gained some distance on our pursuers. Just as relief flooded my being, I watched helplessly as our dreams shattered. It seemed to happen in slow motion. Dean stumbled as the bag of weapons slid from his shoulder, causing the keys to slip from that hand. I could see them flash in the sunlight as they cartwheeled through the air, arching toward the car. Then they slid underneath, out of view.
"No!" Dean cried, drawing the word out long in despair. He dove after them, sliding with his momentum as stray cinders ground under his body. Head hitting against the car with a soft thud, my friend immediately started scrambling for the lost keys just out of reach. We still had a few minutes before the walking dead would be on us, so I spun to guard our rear.
"Hurry up, Dean!" I urged once again as the dead bikers began to rise from the ground, swelling the ranks of the zombies surrounding us. "The dead bikers are coming back to life!"
"Screw this!" shouted Tim giving up his position and turning to the car. He flung the rear door wide and started inside. The grasping hands and snapping jaws of the two children inside met him halfway. The youth screamed as he pushed back at his attackers, dodging their mouths as each sought the flesh of his arms. Tim's forward motion reversed as the undead children surged against him.
I watched the motorcycle gang continue to rise. It was surreal. They seemed disoriented at first but soon began scanning the area for food. Almost immediately, they were hungry. I shot the few closer ones, and then heard the struggle beside me.
Swinging around, I was just in time to see the two small zombie children spill to the ground on top of Tim. One started to get to its feet, straddling Tim. It looked up at me and the creature's mouth opened wide, making a horrible squealing sound as it raised its hands toward me. The blast from my shotgun literally vaporized its head in a mist of red. The torso dropped next to the struggling duo.
I reached down and grabbed the other undead child by the collar
. The beast immediately whipped its head about, faster than I had imagined it could. It snarled at me through white, gleaming teeth. The only thing keeping the diminutive zombie from biting my exposed arm was Tim, who was both pushing the beast at arm's length and pulling it from me.
I yanked the creature free and sent it sprawling several feet away. As it rose and started toward us, I brought the butt end of the gun down across its gray face, knocking it to the ground. Tim finished it off with a well-placed shot to the head.
"Got 'em!" Dean roared triumphantly from beneath the vehicle. He'd used his gun to pull the elusive keys within reach.
My friend recovered his firearm. Tim and I turned our attention to the newly reanimated motorcycle gang members, who were closing in fast. Tim shot two of the closer ones, dropping one with the first shot and using three more rounds on the second.
My shotgun blasted a hole in another of the walking dead, but it failed to kill the nightmare. As it continued toward us, I pulled the trigger and nothing happened. Dean, back on his feet, blew a good-sized chunk out of the zombie's head and it fell, face first, to the pavement.
"Get in the car!" my neighbor ordered, opening the driver's side door and pitching the bag across to the passenger side. He then hopped in, himself. Tim and I both dove for the back seat, rapidly regretting our decision. The bench-style seat was nearly covered with dried gore. It stank horribly and was immediately magnified as I slammed the door closed, locking out fresh air as soon as it shut.
Tim vomited on himself while holding his arms off the seat. The smell and a sympathetic response nearly made me empty my stomach, as well. I could hear the car's engine come to life as the first of the undead made contact with the vehicle. Rotting hands pawed at the broken windows, leaving smears and smudges of unknown substances, distorting our view.
Dean started forward at a slow pace, nudging our attackers out of our way. Most of them came at our sides, which must have seemed closer to their intended meals.
"Run them down!" Tim encouraged in a somewhat subdued voice, his color drained from his recent vomiting episode. His eyes were red and watery. "Speed up and splatter them!"
I could see my neighbor's eyes briefly glance back in the rearview mirror. "No, the car wouldn't survive that. We'd probably be good if we were driving a Hummer, but this is a family sedan. We could break down and then we'd be trapped. There would be no escape."
"This sucks!" the youth said in frustration.
"This is smart," I argued. "We need to get out of here and we're committed to this car. If it dies, we all die."
The youth sighed his disapproval. We watched the dead as we drove around the larger clusters. Dean tried his best to avoid contacting any of the slow-moving creatures, but when it was unavoidable, he would graze them gently on the side or nudge them out of our way. We methodically made our way on to the street and soon broke free. Undead followed even as we drove far away.
"Is everybody ok?" I asked, pressing the button to open the window. Clean fresh air flooded into the stench-filled cabin.
"Fine," replied Dean, shooting a hasty look in the mirror again.
"I'm good," said Tim, looking better as his own window lowered.
"Did any of those dead scratch or bite you?" I asked Tim, not knowing how to inject any tact in voicing the question. It was something we had to know. We needed to ascertain any danger posed from one of us becoming infected. Dean's girlfriend destroyed our car and had nearly taken our lives, all because we had tried to save her. I would never voice these thoughts to the man who had saved me from my car, but we had to keep our feelings and emotions in check. The world was now a cold, calculating place, a land where the struggle for survival depended on your personal vigilance.
"I don't think so," he said, raising his arms and showing the exposed flesh. He'd removed the hoodie he had thrown up on and was now in a plain black t-shirt and jeans. "Do you see anything?" he asked, a scared look on his face.
I looked him over the best that I could in the limited space. "You look good. I don't see anything," I said as a look of relief washed away what was one of concern a moment ago. "Just a little road rash from where those children pushed you on the ground. Nothing to be concerned about."
"There were two of them!" he replied in his defense. "They caught me totally off guard."
"I'm sure they did," I agreed sarcastically.
"And I'll bet they were bitten by radioactive spiders, too. That probably gave them super strength," Dean joked, as he deftly avoided an undead crossing guard who was trying to intercept us on the road, stop sign still in hand, her vest coated with liquid long turned brown. No one commented at the comedy of the situation.
"They just caught me unprepared, that's all!"
"Wait a minute," I said, drawing the silliness to a halt. "How did they turn if they were in the car alone? I mean, does anyone who dies come back as one of them. Are we all infected?"
The mood in the car changed. The only sound was the car tires crunching over small debris that Dean couldn't avoid. We drove in silence for a few blocks, each looking out the window at this brave new world and feeling a little more vulnerable. At any moment, any one of us might die and would become a zombie with no chance of a natural death. No one wanted to become one of those creatures. No one wanted to roam this burned-out world seeking flesh to consume.
We passed fewer houses, now more spread out as we left the suburbs and traveled out into more open country. We still saw the occasional zombies, mostly traveling in small groups as if some type of herd mentality was present, ingrained in the undead unconscious mind. They were in the oddest places, in fields, wooded areas, and yards alike. I couldn't help but think that this was no virus. It was something more. But I wasn't sure. I wish I could have examined the undead children and discerned their cause of death. Had they reanimated without being bitten? I needed to experiment and find some form of evidence to confirm my hypothesis.
Mostly, we saw the devastation left in the wake of the walking dead; cars run off the road and lanes blocked by vehicles, wrecked and abandoned. It was funny. People had sat in the right lane and died there instead of crossing over to the opposite lane and going against the traffic. It was part of our instilled sense of thinking, right and wrong; always stay in the right lane. Dean now spent a good deal of time driving down the wrong lane.
We only passed two other moving vehicles. One was a truck with a bunch of hairy baseball cap-wearing men in the back. They wore camouflage and held serious-looking firearms. They cheered as we drove past, pumping their weapons in the air to punctuate their fervor. The other was a car. It was seriously overloaded. A roof rack was stacked with all forms of luggage. It towered awkwardly above the sedan, pitching dangerously to the side as they passed by on a bend in the road. They looked like a family and they were traveling the direction we had come from. I hope they weren't about to run into the undead we left back there.
As we neared the small town of Grove City, where my wife commuted for work, I felt my anxiety grow again. I looked at my cell phone, but there had been no messages since our last series of texts. There were no bars showing on my phone. The country's infrastructure might be failing.
"You have to tell me where to turn," Dean said, breaking the silence.
"It's up ahead about two more miles," I answered. "How's our gas?"
"Not good," he said, glancing at the display. "We have less than a quarter tank."
The small stores and homes that fringed the town were dark. I wondered if the power had gone out in the area.
The local grocery store's doors were yawning open. One was nearly off its hinges. The store might have been looted. As if to punctuate the thought, a woman ran out with what looked like a pillowcase in her arms. Whatever the sack was it looked stuffed with food. Odd-shaped bulges pushed o
ut at strange angles and a few rectangular boxes poked out of the top.
She was walking at a hurried pace, obviously trying to get back to safety as fast as possible without looking out-of-place. She glanced over at us, turning her package away as if to say, this is mine. Hands off. After a long moment, she looked forward again and veered down an alley, right into the arms of two undead who were just emerging onto the sidewalk.
The bag she'd been trying to protect dropped to the ground, dry goods spilling out the top. She tried to flee, but it was too late. A zombie woman who looked like she had suffered a bad burn had a hold of her arm, while another woman pulled back on her hair.
"Stop!" Tim cried out, unlocking his door and preparing to exit the vehicle.
I reached across the seat, putting a hand on his arm to restrain him. "No," I soothed. He looked back, harried. "She is already gone."
As we both turned back to the horror, the woman was on the pavement. Blood arched in spurts as the one holding her hair bit deeply into her neck. Her eyes met mine and she reached out a hand, fingers open, pleading for help.
I closed my eyes, not wanting to see anymore. I had witnessed too much.
Our young companion struck the back of the front seat with a tightly clenched fist and muttered to himself, "We could've helped her!"
"It was too late. We would have died," our driver replied in a serious voice while pointing in the other direction.
Five more walking dead shuffled into view, each one more horrifying than the next. One was a construction worker who had a long flap of skin dangling from his jaw to his gore-covered orange-vested chest. Missing one arm, his other jerked in time with his lurching movements.
Another was an old woman with a large, distended belly. Her once pretty dress was now soaked in dark blood. Whether the bloody stain was hers or her victim’s, we had no way of knowing.
A few blocks away, I said, "Make a right."
Chapter 16
Henry
