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They’ve calmed Eric down and moved him from the front passenger seat to the back so Gilfoy can load the rest of the group into the truck faster. Eric watches them file in. They’re still in shock, unable to believe their good fortune at being rescued. Unable to believe they’re somehow still alive. A man. A woman. Another woman. Two wide-eyed teenagers, hand-in-hand. After finding a spot to stand in, they remain in a tight embrace, sobbing into each other’s shoulders. The survivors keep coming. He loses count after eleven, when the numbers get too fuzzy.
But then they finally stop coming and it’s time to leave.
Gilfoy pokes his head into the opening between the cab and the cargo hold and does his own count. Eric locks eyes with him for a moment, and he thinks he sees concern in them. And possibly a flash of anger. Of course he has every right to be mad. Eric had committed them both to the rescue, but had then utterly collapsed into a useless, hallucinating mess. He’d been nothing more than an obstacle.
But they’re all safe now, all save the one woman and her unborn child.
Should’ve been that prick, Fortini. First one in the truck. First one to save himself.
“Everyone better sit down,” Gilfoy tells them. “It’s going to get bumpy.”
He slides the door between the compartments shut. The back quickly becomes a stifling oven of darkness, heat, and a swampy miasma of two-day-old body odor, stress, and bad breath.
One by one, the rescued settle down along the sides of the cargo hold, relief and exhaustion from the long sleepless night showing on their faces. Several lower their heads into their arms. When every available inch along the walls is occupied, the remaining sit down right in the middle of the truck bed. Three of them huddle together for physical and emotional support. Eric can’t tell if they’re family or acquaintances. They might’ve been strangers before this whole ordeal.
Nobody asks where they’re being taken. They’re all just glad to be leaving this deathtrap behind.
The truck rocks and shifts as Gilfoy slowly maneuvers it out of the warehouse. The chassis tilts each time they run over another body. Not even the engine noise can mask the crunch of shattering bones. There’s a final bump as they exit the warehouse. Morning sunlight, as meager as it is, comes in through the tiny window in the rollup back door. It’s a welcoming sight. The dead continue to slap the sides of the truck, but they quickly fall away as Gilfoy accelerates down the road.
Not a word is spoken.
Eric lets himself drift, not that he has much choice. His body is too damaged and his mind is too exhausted and fevered to stay alert. He feels as if he weighs a million pounds. He feels like he’s sinking straight down into the bare wooden floor of the truck bed. And yet there’s this incredible lightness inside of him, too, like if he wanted to, he could just get up right now and fly away. He considers this, even though he knows he has no strength.
He recognizes it’s a symptom of the exhaustion and his infected arm doing that, making him feel that way. That and the pain medication Gilfoy had forced him to take. It separates the physical part of him from the mental part until the two halves seem completely disconnected from one another.
He lowers his head into his arms and shuts his eyes. He lets the gentle rocking of the truck carry him away.
* * *
He doesn’t know how long he’s been out, a few minutes maybe, although it seems a lot longer. The nap has done him wonders, rejuvenating him. He remembers someone talking about a flat tire and the truck stopping for a while until it could be fixed.
Then they were moving again.
He lifts his head and peers into the gloom inside the cargo compartment, recognizing the people they’ve saved. Some are still quietly sobbing, remembering the trauma they personally suffered or witnessed, recalling the family and friends they’d lost in the sudden, terrifying outbreak. Some appear to be sleeping, their heads lolling on the shoulders of their neighbors or bobbing over their own chests. Most of them, however, are just sitting there in shock, their eyes wide and white and staring off at nothing, although definitely not seeing nothing. The roar of the engine is overly loud. The air’s unbelievably hot and stuffy.
Eric turns to one side, where he senses someone close by. Then to the other.
“How much farther,” he wants to ask, but sis throat’s parched, his lips cracked and bleeding. The words come out of his throat sounding like an empty breeze.
The truck slows. He can hear the gears grind, then shift. They go over some kind of bump — a curb, maybe, or a speed bump, the front tires, left then right, then the back — tilting the chassis and jostling them all. He pushes himself up, lurching with the movement, astonished that his arm doesn’t hurt anymore.
It’s the pain meds.
Damn powerful stuff.
Now on his feet, standing, and he can feel some of their eyes on him, wary, curious, waiting to see what he’s up to. Is he going somewhere? He doesn’t even know himself. He hadn’t given it any thought, hadn’t even intended to stand, but now that he’s up, he figures he’ll go and check in on Gilfoy, see what his plan is.
Except his feet seem to have a mind of their own. He suppresses a chuckle, amused at his own lack of coordination. It’s like being drunk.
The truck accelerates suddenly, throwing him off balance. He falls into the huddled group in the middle. They cry out in surprise and anger, blasting him for his clumsiness and ordering him to sit back down before someone gets hurt. He tries to apologize, but once again his mouth isn’t able to form or even express the words.
Sorry. Sorry, he keeps repeating in his mind, as he crawls over to an empty spot right up against the back door. I didn’t mean to fall on you. Is everyone okay?
He turns around again, rather than sitting. The young girl from the teenage couple is staring at him, leaning toward her boyfriend, as if she thinks he might say something snotty to her. Kids these days, he thinks. They’re expected to grow up so fast, to become the very adults they distrust. It’s a terrible thing, this transitional state. Her boyfriend is glaring at him, too. Eric leans over to apologize and the truck shifts as they go around a corner. He falls against her. He pushes away, apologizing again. She’s screaming now, clutching her cheek. There’s a cut on it. She’s bleeding. Did I do that? I must’ve head-butted her. He peers closer and realizes half her face is missing.
How did I do that? What the hell?
And suddenly everyone’s screaming. The sound pierces his skull. He can’t stand it. It’s driving him half insane. He watches his hands reach out for her. He sees himself pull her to him, even as her boyfriend tries to pull her away. Her face blurs. There’s blood everywhere now, on his hands, in his eyes.
What the hell is happening? he screams. The only thing that comes out of his mouth is a low moan.
The boyfriend lets go of her. He gestures frantically. His hand is bleeding, too.
Wait, what happened? Stop it!
Somehow, he’s standing again. There’s a blur of movement, and he’s facing a different direction. Someone else is clutching at their own neck. Blood’s spurting out.
Where? Where is it? Where’s it coming from?
He stumbles, grabs for another man who’s also stood up, clutches—
peter fortini, he remembers suddenly
—him and won’t let go.
What the hell is going on here?
He doesn’t know, but he suspects: Someone’s infected. They’re inside the truck with us!
Fortini shoves him away, right into someone else. They shove him back. Eric bounces like a pinball in one of Mister Casey’s machines. He spins in place. He wants to panic. Everyone else is. But he knows it won’t do anyone any good. He needs to stay calm. He thinks he’ll look around for the infected person, but his body doesn’t seem to want to comply, not his head. Not his hands. Not his own legs.
He screams, but it’s all inside his own mind. Nevertheless, his mouth opens, but all that comes out is a whistle of air. He lunges at the boyfriend and tears a piece off from his arm. He starts to chew.
Stop it! he screams, horrified at what he’s doing. Oh god, please. No!
He remembers the woman outside the loading dock, the fat one. She must’ve gotten me! I’m dead!
The flesh falls from his lips. It’s infected and tastes bad. He looks elsewhere. Yes, there. That one. She’s looking lovely.
Ah, that’s much better.
He chews and screams and bites and screams and swallows.
