“There must be hundreds of them,” Renny whispers.
“How the hell do they expect us to get through?” Ted asks.
“Maybe they don’t,” I say. “Fuck.”
“There must be a way around,” Julian says.
“And if there isn’t?” I ask.
“Yes, let’s get this far and then give up without even trying!”
“Shut up!” Renny says. “Both of you.”
She stops the car about two miles from the barricade, close enough to hear the roaring of the crowd. We stare at the milling flood of slavering undead blocking our path. I reach into my pocket and take out the Post-it note.
See you soon in Liberty Village!
When I was six my mom insisted I learn how to swim. I was never very good at it and that stayed with me for the rest of my life. But she wanted me to try, to know how to do it, just in case. I remember paddling like hell across the pool, gasping, swallowing mouthfuls of chlorinated water as I did my best to mimic a breaststroke. She was there at the end of the pool, bending over and clapping at the surface of the water, cheering me. “You’re so close!” she’d say, and every time my head popped above water I’d hear it: “You’re close!”
At that age nothing was better than the feeling of making it across that pool, of pressing my fingertips against the opposite wall and seeing my mom look down at me, proud as can be. Would she be proud of me now? Will she be proud?
So close.
There are wet spots on the Post-it, little droplets clouding the ink.
“Goddamn it.”
I look up from the Post-it, feeling the pressure of someone watching my face. Julian is staring at me through the crack between the seat and the door. Something passes between us, something transfers. He lets the seat belt go and it zips back into place, swinging a little as it settles against the bracket. I know what he’s thinking and my hand shoots out to grab him but the passenger side door opens.
Ding-ding-ding … The car is reminding us to please shut the passenger door.
“Julian, no!”
“What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Ted shouts.
“I guess that’s our cue,” Renny says, jamming on the gas.
“No! Are you fucking insane? We can’t let him do that!” I scream, scrambling up into the passenger seat.
“He’s made his choice,” Renny says. “There’s a ramp up there, look. He’s letting us get through. You want to waste his big sacrifice?”
“Fuck you. How dare you—”
“I mean it. Don’t waste this chance.”
So close.
“Allison! Allison, get back in the fucking car!”
Her voice is getting softer and softer because I’m running. I can ignore my ankle, I can ignore the pain. I’m not letting this happen. There are clouds in the distance, dark clouds split at the edges with glowing cracks of light. It’s threatening rain, rain after days of nothing but dry weather.
The bastard is remarkably fast for having a bum leg. I’m out of breath when I catch up. He’s been running for the crowd of zombies, veering off to the left, probably in anticipation of leading them that way to let the car get through. When he sees me following he throws up his hand and stumbles to a stop.
“You’re not very good at this whole ‘plan’ thing, are you?” he asks.
“Oh fuck you, Seabiscuit. What the hell was that? You can’t martyr yourself. I won’t let you.”
“Do you want to see your mom again or not?” he shouts. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the crowd of undead has noticed us and a few peel off, shuffling in our direction. The stench is overpowering.
“This isn’t about my mom. This is about your fucking ego. Don’t make this about my mom, okay? Get back in the car with me, we can figure this out.”
“Yeah, let’s have a powwow and maybe wait for a helicopter or Jesus Christ to drop out of the sky and carry us across on the backs of angels. This will work, Allison, so get out of my way.”
He shoves me and I shove right back.
“I hate you so fucking much. I should have left you in that Walmart. I should have let you rot and die.”
“Allison,” he says, lowering his voice. “Allison, come on.… You don’t mean that.”
I take the ax and aim for the nearest Groaner, taking off his head with two overhand swings. There are more coming, and more behind them.
Renny can’t seem to make up her mind, driving out of reach of the undead and then circling back around to hover close to us. She’s still screaming but I can’t hear her over the horrible noise of so many undead.
“You want to die, don’t you?” I scream. I feel the first raindrops hit my nose.
“No, I don’t. I promise.”
“Fine, you want to be a hero? We can arrange that. Let’s go. You and me, let’s just run headfirst into the crowd and see what happens, see how long we last. Then we’ll be remembered, right? And all the bad shit we’ve done will just disappear. And maybe Ted and Renny will make it, maybe not. Worth a shot though, right?”
“Come here, I didn’t—Calm down, okay? It was stupid of me. Calm down!”
I keep going, veering left into the crowd. They’re slow. I know they’re slow and they won’t catch me if I can keep up a good, steady pace. Renny seems to make up her mind, idling over on the right side of the interstate. It’s working. Bit by bit the crowd notices fresh meat in arm’s reach and the horde starts to thin out on the right side of the road. Julian hovers behind me, ducking when one of the undead gets too close and I have to defend us. There are so many, so many clawing, cloying hands that want me, want my flesh, my blood …
“This is it, right? This is what you want? A grand heroic gesture? You idiot!”
“Allison, this really isn’t the time—Fuck! On your left, your left!”
They’re desperate, starving, and way faster than I expected. As a group they have a building inertia they never seem to have on their own. We’re forced to jog, then sprint, then jog again when we get too tired. The cabbage fields on either side of the road are withered and black, the unharvested vegetables lying in rows, black, like a field full of rotten brains. The gravel on the shoulder of the road crunches beneath our shoes, Julian limp-running as fast as he can and me screaming at him to keep up, to stay behind me, to stay out of their reach. The rain is falling hard now, spattering across our noses as we head deeper into the crowd. There’s no turning back now. The way forward is impossible, but the way back is guaranteed suicide.
I have no idea what we’ll do when we actually reach the barrier, but there’s no time to think, only time to swing, chop, swing …
“This is the last fucking time I fucking save your stupid ass.”
Part of me—the deliriously reckless part—knows he’s right. We might have waited, deliberated, found a way through, but there’s a kind of deranged elegance to this plan. It’s certainly the ballsiest approach and the simplest if we can actually make it through alive … I can just hear Collin now, berating me with those serious eyes, shaking his head at me for being so thoughtless, so hasty, so rash. I don’t care. Ted and Renny will probably make it, but us … I have no expectation now, just determination, focus, the fierce, controlled swinging of my ax. It’s a Zen state, a state full of so much panic and adrenaline that your mind simply empties out, leaving only the goal: maim, decapitate, maim, get through, carve a path.
The odds, it would seem, are against us.
Crawling up the opposite side of the road is the sedan, a little blip of color on the worm-gray horizon. It’s tipped heavily to the right as they drive as far on the shoulder as they can, the car leaning dangerously as they almost fall down into the ditch. I keep thinking of all the times we risked our lives for that stupid car, just to get gas, just to siphon enough to go another damn mile.
Reckless, what we do for our friends.
The barricade is getting closer and I can feel the sickening, oppressive heat of so many decomposing bodies pressed
in together. A sharp, shriveled hand grabs on to Julian’s sling. I don’t think, not even for a second. I reach around and unsnap the neck strap. The sling flaps free, Julian yanking his arm out of it as we pick up the pace. I can hear his breathing, the little grunts that make it in between breaths, the indications that every step hurts, every foot kills.
“We’re almost there!” I shout. “We’re going to make it!”
“Allison, I can’t, my leg…” he says between breaths. I take hold of his good arm and drag him along. The fallen bridge is near now, tall and looming like a great Trojan bulwark, all darkness and flame, the asphalt showing long, jagged cracks. On the left there’s a steep embankment rising up toward the top edge of the bridge. It looks too steep for the clumsy feet of undead and almost too steep for the living, but I can see there are footholds here and there, pieces of metal and concrete lodged into the embankment. It’s almost a sheer wall of earth going straight up over our heads, as if the gentle incline of a hill imploded from the dislodged bridge.
“We can climb up,” I shout. “We’re close!”
The embankment is slick with mud now, the rain sending the topsoil down to pool around our feet, long rivulets trailing down from up above. The fires along the toppled bridge have gone out from the rain, the smoky smell of pitch filling the air around us, nearly overpowering the reek of the undead.
“You first! I’ll stay!” I shout, the rain pelting my forehead, dripping into my eyes. I’m not looking forward to scaling this mud wall, but it’s the only way up and over.
“No!”
“Just go! I’ve got the ax!”
I help Julian onto the first foothold, a piece of concrete lodged two feet above the ground. It’s hard for him to climb, his broken arm hanging uselessly at his side. He has to pull himself up to the next chunk of cement with one arm. I stay on the ground, flicking the rain and hair out of my eyes, watching the undead close in around us, just a scant few inches of space that I’ve made from swinging and swinging.
“Allison, you have to climb!”
He’s right. If I don’t start now there’ll be no getting up to the bridge. Now that the fires are out we might be able to get across and meet Renny and Ted. But I think maybe I’ve waited too long—as soon as I turn my back they’ll close the gap.
“Come on! Now!”
If I turn, if I show them my back even for a moment …
“Give me the ax!” he shouts, his fingers dangling above my head.
“I can’t!”
“Hand it to me! Now! Come on.”
I flatten myself against the sliding wall of mud and push the ax handle up toward him. He takes it from me and it feels like losing a limb. My feet find the first foothold and I heave myself up, keeping close to the embankment, trying to keep my arms and legs from flailing. It doesn’t help much. I can feel the hands scrabbling against my shoes, my ankles. Above me, Julian is holding on to one piece of broken cement, his injured arm hacking away with the ax, the blade flashing past my shoulder. I can see it hurts him, I can see him grunting through his teeth, pushing through the discomfort and the pain to watch my back.
“Fuck!”
The mud is shifting, moving the cement pieces. The footholds are giving out beneath me, sinking down and down, into the scratching hands of the undead waiting below. I struggle to dig my feet into the embankment, to do something, anything to keep from falling, but the cement foothold drops away completely, tumbling down onto the broken skulls of the zombies clawing at my feet. The mud is pushing at me from above, sliding beneath my elbows and knees and taking me with it.
There’s one piece of rebar dangling above my head where Julian’s foot is resting. If I grab it then we might both go down, but there’s no other choice, I’m slipping, losing my grip …
“Grab on!” he shouts.
“It’s too high! Fuck! I’m slipping!”
“Grab it!”
The rain pounds into my eyes, brown droplets of mud falling off Julian’s shoes onto my face. I can barely see but I can’t afford to let go of the sliding concrete to wipe my eyes. Julian is showing me his hand, clenching and opening his fingers in my face.
“Up!” he screams. “Up!”
In the back of my head, pounding like a deranged child on a xylophone, is an old stentorian thump, a pounding like a heartbeat commanding me to reach up. Before I know it, before I can stop it, the Mary Poppins song is drilling into my head, crashing around as if someone had taken the lyrics, pulled them apart, studded them with nails and leather and then put the song back together.
Let’s go fly a kite
Up to the highest height
It repeats, mercilessly, the rhythm of it getting faster, crazier, until I’m sure my heart will explode with the din of it. Julian is flailing, shouting, I can’t hear him, just the song, unhinged and tripping through my brain like a dizzy giant …
Screaming, aching, I reach for the bar and pull, shrieking through my teeth as I wrap my fingers around the bar and hoist myself, refusing to let go, refusing to allow the metal to slip out of my grip. This is it. Last chance. It’s up or down, alive or dead and that’s when I feel the hard bony hand wrapping around my right ankle …
I’m nearly there, the pain, the exhaustion forgotten for the moment as I put every last ounce of strength into raising myself up high enough to reach the next foothold. I feel pressure on my shoulder and look up to see Julian’s hand grabbing my shirt, pulling me, his other hand holding onto the ax, digging it into the side of the embankment for purchase like a climber’s pick. The zombie’s hand detaches at the wrist and I kick the fingers free. There’s a second where I’m almost dangling in the air, free, floating, and I watch the faces below, the empty, staring eyes and open mouths. So very many eyes …
The rebar holds us both, but I can feel it beginning to give way beneath our weight. Julian flattens himself against the embankment and I climb up, using his back and shoulder to get up and over, onto solid ground. I can see his chest heaving against the wall of mud, his eyelids fluttering with pain. I can’t imagine what his broken arm must feel like, his mangled leg.
“Give me your hand, I’ll get you up,” I say, holding out my hand. “Give me your hand!”
He’s fading. That last push to get me up cost him too much. His head rests against the embankment, his body limp, spent. I wave my hand in front of his face. He’s big and heavy but it will just take one effort, one monumental outpouring of strength and that, I know, is something I can do, something that’s waiting inside of me.
“Come on! Give me your hand!” I scream. He looks up, his eyes blinking rapidly to get the water out of his eyes. He’s ready to give up, I can see it. “Give me your fucking hand, Julian!”
Then his hand is in mine, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. I grab his wrist with both hands and lean back, squeezing my shoulder blades until they’re touching. But nothing happens. I pull again and again but he’s stuck fast. When I look over the edge I see it, the same zombie that had grabbed my leg has now grabbed Julian. Then there’s another zombie grabbing him, pulling. There are too many and all of them fighting against me, three and then four and then five hands wrapping around his legs. He’s shouting at me to pull harder and I try, I really do, but the rebar is slipping and both of us are going down.
“Allison,” he says and then his slick hand is gone, pulled free. He smiles and opens his mouth to say more but he’s already falling, sinking backward like a diver, arms wide, dropping into a churning pool. I scramble to get his hand but it’s out of reach and I can no longer distinguish his sandy hair and living flesh from the sea of arms and bodies. I watch, helpless, as the undead take him under.
My ax sticks into the embankment where Julian left it. I yank it free, standing. I go. I have to.
There’s the rain and the thunder, and the sound of death screaming at my feet, insisting that I yield too. Then there’s my breathing, deep and relieved and an echo of Julian’s laughter, a sound so unexpected, so
welcome, that I can’t help but laugh too. For a moment it’s as if he’s there, collapsing next to me on his back, his hand on his chest as he laughs and laughs …
But he’s not there, he’s gone and I’m alone, cold and drenched. The sky is cobalt above me, the clouds spinning across the sky, racing toward some unknowable destination.
I walk along the top of the embankment to the bridge, looking down at the ghouls and their ravenous mouths and gaze at what might have been my fate. There’s deep scoring in the ground and what looks like blast marks. I scamper up onto the edge of the bridge where the concrete is three or four feet thick. I walk to the middle, looking back the way I came. There are so many of them. Poor souls. Poor, restless souls …
The rain is freezing, so much more noticeable now that we’re still, quiet. The way down is a sheer drop, and at the bottom of that drop lies a messy date with the horde of undead and somewhere—truly, peacefully dead I hope—is a friend. The ghouls groan and wheeze, stretched out in a seemingly endless carpet of black and gray. There’s a trail of pitch across the bridge where the fires raged but now there’s only a suggestion of those flames, the smell of char and smoke, the ghost of fire.
I can see the sedan on the other side of the bridge idling, waiting for me. I don’t want to go, not yet, but now that the fires are out there will be nothing to keep the undead from getting up the ramp and over to the other side. The horn honks. They’re waiting.
A sudden madness grips me and I lean forward over the bridge searching, searching for a sign of my friend. I half expect to see Julian climbing up the sheer face of the bridge, laughing and swearing, but I don’t. Of course I don’t.
“I could be there with you,” I say, standing up again.
Renny is laying on the horn, calling to me. But before I go, I turn back to the edge of the bridge and hold out the ax. I let it drop, tumbling edge over blade, into the seething crowd below.
“Thanks,” I say. “Now I have to go. Our friends are waiting.”
Allison Hewitt Is Trapped Page 29
