by Jeff Olah
His father, the horrific details too fresh to fully comprehend, was also gone. He could only watch as the man who taught him to ride a bicycle was murdered just feet from where he stood. Ethan had already failed the two men he admired more than anyone. He wasn’t about to also fail the only family he had left in this world.
With his hands on his legs, Ethan pushed to stand as a second shot rang out from beyond the trees. He didn’t flinch, although this one seemed to strike the tree even closer to his head than the first, if that were even possible. It was also followed by a voice… her voice.
Unmistakable. It was the woman from the university. She’d introduced herself as Josie, although her name no longer mattered, only on what side she’d chosen to stand.
“Okay,” she said, “I guess you wanna do this the hard way.”
Involuntarily holding his breath, Ethan closed his eyes. He clamped them down tight and just listened. For what he wasn’t exactly sure, although with the flood of illumination weaving its way through the trees, he may as well have been fighting blind. Josie’s strategy was simple, yet undeniably effective.
Other than the gentle crackling of the upper branches under the growing weight of the new snow, not much else existed. He focused his attention toward the street and could hear the crunch of Josie’s boots as they ground the larger than average flakes into the sidewalk. After four quick steps, she stopped and he imagined her turning back to her men. Her voice came through much louder now. She was nearly shouting.
“You stay here with me. Shoot them when they step out, and they will step out.”
She paused as if collecting her thoughts. “And you… get up there to that SUV and kill everyone inside. We’ve got a plane to catch.”
Almost immediately, another more distant set of footfalls quickly scampered off into the distance as Josie appeared to chuckle.
Twisting toward Griffin, his friend was slowly shaking his head, however Ethan could see he had the same thought. They needed to do something, anything, and they needed to do it now. He wasn’t going to allow another one of his friends to meet the same fate as his best friend and his father, and he especially wasn’t going to allow Josie, or anyone else for that matter, anywhere near his mother.
Beginning to step out from behind the pine, Ethan was greeted with a third gunshot and reflexively grabbed for his head.
He’d tried to make sense of the two previous shots and rationalized what was taking place fifty yards away. Frank didn’t figure that the woman had actually shot his friends as she was still shouting from the sidewalk, and although he couldn’t make out her exact words, she appeared to be negotiating. At least that’s what he’d hoped.
Before firing the shot, Frank had already concluded that he could not kill the man charging toward him. He’d seen many things over the last several hours—including a man gunned down in cold blood—however, he was determined to hold on to what little humanity remained in this world. Once he crossed that line, he knew there would be no going back to the man he was, the man who valued life, and most importantly, the man who he promised his dying wife he would always remain.
Unable to target the man who’d begun running toward him and his friends, Frank’s vision crystalized. He wasn’t ready kill, no matter the price. Although there was something he could do to help his friends. Instead of doing the unthinkable, he’d use what little advantage he had to even the playing field. Slowly nodding, he knew what needed to happen.
Back through the scope, he was now able to make out the three individuals and the source of the blinding light. Although the shot wasn’t ideal, he placed his right index finger atop the trigger and eyed the edge of the first headlight. It was now or never.
Exhaling slowly, he pulled back once. The round momentarily disappeared into the darkness and a fraction of a second later, he watched as the front of the dark vehicle exploded in a hailstorm of fragmented glass and twisted metal.
Still focused through the scope, he swallowed hard as the man running toward him quickly passed through his field of vision. And as Frank lined up his second shot, Josie had turned her attention away from the trees and began shouting. This time her voice could be heard for miles.
“I WANT THEM DEAD, ALL OF THEM!”
With the next round already chambered, he adjusted for distance, sighted the second headlight and fingered the trigger once again. As the projectile ripped through the falling snow and found its target, Frank held his breath.
Pulling away from the scope, he watched as a second, nearly identical explosion rocked the mid-sized SUV. Breathing a sigh of relief, the immediate area again fell into darkness. He’d done what he intended to do and now only prayed that it would be enough.
100
Pulling alongside the Gulfstream G280, Dalton peered out the driver’s window toward the area they’d just driven away from. At least three dozen walking corpses had begun to change course and were now stumbling in their direction, one awkwardly stilted step at a time. He was more than pleased that it played out the way it had, and that they were able to draw the horde away from the jet, but it wasn’t nearly enough. They’d given themselves an extra sixty seconds; unfortunately, the work they still needed to complete would take much longer.
Nervously clutching the weapon sitting in his lap, Dalton turned back and rubbed his hand over his face. “Mr. Goodwin sir, how do you want to do this?”
“Mr. Osborne is going to get us refueled.” He paused, pointing over Dalton’s shoulder. “And you and I are going to manage that crowd.”
Dalton looked back over the darkened tarmac once again, furrowing his brow. “I’m not so sure I’m really the man for—”
“Get over it, Dalton; this new world we live in isn’t going anywhere. You’re going to have to fight at some point. Why not start now?”
“I’m just not too good with one of these things. I’ve maybe shot a gun twice in my entire life.”
Goodwin cocked his head and reached for the door handle. As he pulled up, the unnatural grin from minutes before began to once again form at the corners of his mouth. “You’ll be fine… just aim for the head and keep moving.”
Watching as Goodwin stepped out on the opposite side of the truck, Dalton hesitated. He wasn’t ready for this. Not now and maybe not ever. He hated violence nearly as much as he despised the two-and-a-half-pound weapon he held in his right hand. He’d also lied to Goodwin; he hadn’t ever fired one.
“One… Two… Three…” Dalton checked the window one last time, squinted into the darkness, and opened his door. “Here goes nothin’.”
Slamming the door and quickly raising the pistol, his hands shook as he scanned the private airfield. Glancing right, left, and then to the rear, he was somewhat relived to see that the majority of the crowd was concentrated at the south end of the tarmac. The only problem now was that those out in front had already covered half the distance and would overtake the jet in less than sixty seconds.
Dalton quickly ran through the many scenarios in his head and couldn’t come up with one that ended with him back in the sky without having to do the unthinkable. Goodwin was right—they would have to fight, and as much as it terrified him, there really wasn’t another choice.
Slowly turning back, he stepped aside as Walter ran from the stairs of the G280 to the compartment at the side of the truck. He watched as the co-pilot pulled free the large diameter feed hose and started back the way he’d come.
Dalton again backed toward the truck as the world around him began to slowly close in. His vision narrowed and the familiar white noise filling his ears forecasted yet another episode. Next the nausea would set in, he’d lose the feeling in his hands, feet, and knees, then his body would go limp. If he didn’t get his respirations under control in the next few seconds, he was sure to lose consciousness.
Neurally-mediated syncope. This is what the general practitioner called it, although as he later learned, it was little more than a fainting spell brought on by severe anxiety
. To date, he’d awoken four separate times, weak, light-headed, and unaware of his surroundings. With each of the past four events, he experienced little to no lasting effects, but this would be different. If he were to slip from consciousness tonight, he wouldn’t live to see another sunrise.
“Dalton!” Goodwin shouted from the stairs to the jet. “Get your ass over here!”
Fighting the urge to run, Dalton moved back to the driver’s door, took a deep breath in through his nose, and closed his eyes. He blocked out Goodwin’s voice and focused only on the outcome, on what he needed to do to survive. He was no good to them flat on his back, and would be a liability if he were injured.
Taking in a second breath, the buzzing in his ears began to subside as another voice came from the opposite direction. It was Walter. He was holding the end of the fuel hose where it connected to the G280. He spoke quickly, and without a hint of desperation. It was as if he was sitting in a booth ordering lunch.
“Mr. Goodwin, we have a problem. A very big problem.”
The nausea had begun to subside and the buzzing in his ears was now just a minor annoyance. Dalton pulled a third deep breath in through his nose, expanding his chest, and turned his eyes back toward Goodwin.
Perched at the foot of the stairs to the G280, Goodwin shouldered the shotgun and swept the barrel from left to right. His eyes narrowed and the muscles of his upper arms tensed. He took a step toward the approaching crowd even as the co-pilot called out for a second time.
“Sir, this is not going to work. We’re going to have to find another—”
Without turning to face the man requesting his attention, Goodwin cut him short with an outstretched arm and a wave of his hand.
The light-headedness now almost completely faded and his legs once again solid beneath him, Dalton checked the advancing crowd and calculated that they had maybe another fifteen to twenty seconds before they were overrun. Stepping to the left and now even with Goodwin, he tilted his head to the right and motioned to the rear.
“Mr. Goodwin sir, I think that Walter needs—”
Goodwin took another step forward, the pounding of his heavy footsteps pulled Dalton from the moment. What was he doing? It didn’t make any sense—in just a few seconds he’d essentially be committing suicide. The man who brought the world to its knees was about to be overrun by his own creation… and he didn’t appear to care.
As time slowed to a crawl, Goodwin swept his shotgun across the crowd, finally looked over his shoulder, and began to speak. But before the first syllable crested his lips, Walter Osborne shouted him down.
“MR. GOODWIN, WE HAVE A PROBLEM!”
Attempting to steady his breathing and remain in the moment, Dalton stepped around the front bumper of the fueling truck. He moved quickly to the passenger side and watched as Walter dropped the hose, pointing back toward the cylindrical tank of the massive truck.
Unfazed, Goodwin again stepped toward the crowd, closing the gap to less than twenty feet and sighted his first target. A forty-something groundskeeper from the neighboring country club stumbled out from the horde and extended his arms.
The muzzle flash from the pump-action shotgun lit up the night only a fraction of a second before the back of the groundskeeper’s head exploded into a fine pink mist. Goodwin began to nod as he took another half step forward and fired a second, third, forth, and finally a fifth shot, each spaced less than a second apart.
Beginning to slide back toward the passenger door, Dalton flinched with each new explosion, and tried to make himself as small as possible. He watched as the bodies dropped in quick succession, but it wasn’t enough. He’d have to get involved. He’d have to do more than just watch. He’d actually have to use the weapon hanging from his right hand; otherwise, the man who’d kept him alive for the last seven days was as good as dead… and so was he.
Having reloaded, Goodwin twisted right as another quick moving Feeder stumbled out away from the pack. He dropped the shotgun four inches and took his sixth shot, almost cutting in half a nearly faceless man dressed in a blood-soaked three-piece suit. The close range shot impacted the still flailing corpse along its left hip, throwing it off balance and into Goodwin. And as the world went silent, both bodies crashed to the cold wet tarmac with an audible thud.
Now watching the horrific scene play out from less than ten feet away, Dalton felt his stomach drop and a tingling sensation creeping up both of his hands. He wasn’t prepared; this wasn’t him. He didn’t have faith that he’d ever be ready, but it didn’t matter. It was now or never.
Slowly rising up from behind the truck, he watched as Walter stepped away from the stairs of the G280, now carrying an intimidating looking rifle. He thought he remembered Goodwin calling it an AR-15, but he wasn’t sure, and it really didn’t matter at this point. He needed to worry more about the pistol he gripped and whether or not he’d be able to do what was necessary.
Rounding the front of the truck, Dalton stepped aside as Walter shouldered his weapon and pointed it at the remainder of the horde. The tall dark-skinned co-pilot began firing even as the thrashing corpse pulled itself awkwardly up onto Goodwin. He only half turned back toward Dalton and yelled between the rapid explosions.
“Shoot that thing… In the head… Then drag it off… But only in the head.”
Dalton hesitantly moved away from the truck. He raised his weapon just as Goodwin was able to free his own hands and wrap them around the throat of the attacking beast. Three hurried steps forward and Dalton moved the pistol in line with the businessman’s already deteriorated head, noticing that Goodwin was again grinning.
Focusing solely on the stringy black cluster of hair just above the businessman’s right ear, Dalton spoke only to himself. “You have to do this. You will not fail. You are strong. You will live another day.”
Finding the trigger with his right index finger, Dalton closed his eyes and pulled back. A flood of illumination that was evident even through his clamped eyelids preceded the jolt of electricity that shot up both arms, causing him to drop the weapon and open his eyes.
The stench of death washed over him first, as the destroyed body of the bloodied beast lay diagonal across Goodwin. Its torso lay bent at a ninety-degree angle to its lower body, and what remained in its stomach cavity oozed out from under the blood-soaked dress shirt that had since become untucked.
The rapid gunfire over his left shoulder had stopped, and as Dalton reached for Goodwin’s hand, the co-pilot tossed aside a spent 30 round magazine, inserted another, and continued to fire into the massive horde.
Leaning in, Dalton’s first and only reaction was to reach for Goodwin’s hand. He ignored the ear-wrenching cracks that came in quick succession, like large hail stones crashing upon a tin roof. He also averted his eyes from the weapon he’d dropped, mostly because he feared what might happen if he picked it up again.
Pushing away from the lifeless corpse, Goodwin declined Dalton’s offering and instead quickly moved to his feet and again shouldered the shotgun. Through narrowed eyes, he shot the younger man an intense look, shook his head, and rejoined the fight.
The horde had thinned considerably, however as Walter turned to acknowledge Goodwin’s presence, Dalton had disappeared. The original crowd coming in from the far end of the runway had split, and it now appeared that a group of more than two dozen had chosen a more direct route. They’d come from the back end of the fuel truck, and had pulled Dalton to the ground before either Goodwin or Walter had a chance to react.
Dalton choked as he fought to take a breath. He could feel himself being dragged backward and attempted to dig his fingernails into the wet tarmac with no luck. Unable to gain any traction with his hands, he dug in his heels and flexed his hamstrings, yet again unsuccessful as the first visions of his imminent demise raced through his mind.
He’d be torn apart by the ravenous crowd. He’d seen it happen hundreds of times over the last several days and although he never imagined it would happen to him,
here he was. Flat on his back, kicking and punching at the monsters who now fought one another to be the first to taste his warm flesh.
As the gunfire continued only feet away and he lost sight of the two men battling the second group, Dalton wondered if they had yet noticed he was no longer there. If they had realized he was about to die. If they would really even care.
Tucking his chin into his chest, he continued to be pulled backward as he peered down the remainder of his body. A petite teenaged girl with long red hair clung to his right leg. She growled as he made eye contact, revealing a set of jagged and bloodied teeth, her lips dried over and cracked. Attempting to pull his leg back, she forced her face down onto his ankle and drew back a mouth full of charcoal grey wool.
With her second attempt, Dalton kicked down, striking the tiny beast along the right side of her face. She howled as her grip failed and pushed up onto all fours, clawing at the air. Again starting toward him, she was quickly overtaken by two additional Feeders as they toppled over her and landed on opposite sides of Dalton.
Furiously kicking at the ground below, Dalton was again pulled by the back of his shirt, this time as his momentum forced his head to the ground, the world beyond went quiet. Was he losing himself yet again? Was this his body’s way of protecting him from the intense horror that he was about to face, or was he simply dying? He hadn’t yet felt any pain, although he’d also heard that in some cases, all sensory input fades away shortly before death pulls you from this world.
His mind continued to race as he again attempted to control his breathing. In… Out… In… Out. Slowly returning to the present, Dalton opened his eyes. He’d reflexively clamped them down after kicking free of the teen girl and his new perspective was a colossal contradiction to only seconds ago.
He remained on his back, and although the two Feeders at his side were still in pursuit, he failed to realize that the force pulling him backward wasn’t what he pictured through his closed lids.
