Chapter Fourteen

 

 

 

 

 

I almost wanted to tether myself to something, the wind and rain was making it so difficult to keep my balance. Punch watched me from the truck, but what I was doing was a one-man job and he couldn’t really help. Still, I thought my plan was a good one.

I fed the winch cable out and worked the crowbar’s U-shaped end underneath the jammed VW wheel and axle. When I got it the way I wanted it, the long end of the crowbar stuck into the air, angled toward the Volkswagen.

I then slid the winch hook down over the crowbar and held it about ten inches from the base. I motioned to Punch to reel in the winch cable very slowly.

The motor kicked in and the slack in the cable began to wind into the winch. I held up my hand in a stop signal, and he did. I gave him a signal with my fist that I thought meant to give the motor a quick bump.

Punch got it the first time. He bumped the motor of the winch, and the cable tensed, keeping the hook where I had placed it, the tension between the truck and the crowbar perfect to hold the hook where I had raised it.

I fought the wind and rain back to the Toyota and worked my way to the driver’s side.

“Okay, brother,” I said when he opened the window. “It’s ready. I don’t want you to use the winch power. You gotta back this sucker up fast. Just a foot or two should do.”

“You think it’ll flip that fucker off the bridge?”

“That’s the plan,” I said. “Got it jammed under there perfectly. As long as the crowbar pulls straight back that rim’s gotta lift up and over.”

Punch looked at me. “You wanna give it a go?”

“Nah,” I said. “If this doesn’t work, I want to be able to blame someone else.”

“I guess if passin’ the blame is good enough for the POTUS, it’s good enough for you,” he said. “Okay. You wanna get inside? Don’t stand out there, man. If that cable snaps off there it could smack you.”

“Good call,” I said. I went around to the other door and slid in. I was making a real mess of the upholstery. I was immediately glad it wasn’t Gem’s car.

“Ready?” he said.

“Cross your fuckin’ fingers, Punch.”

“We got this,” said Punch. He put his foot on the brake and put the Land Cruiser in reverse. He looked me. “Let me see ‘em.”

I held up my crossed fingers, smiling.

“Good,” he said. He hit the gas without removing his foot from the brake pedal, and the Toyota shot backwards.

The cable held. The hook jerked the crowbar backward, and as the fulcrum created by my positioning of the steel rod engaged, the VW’s wheel lifted up nearly three inches.

It was enough.

Just as the cable slid over the top of the crowbar shaft, the old Beetle flipped over the edge of the suspended train track bed and plunged fifteen feet to the fast-flowing water below.

We both watched as it bobbed away, reappearing three times before filling with water and sinking from view.

The tracks ahead were now clear.

I held up my hand and Punch gave me a nice high five. “Well, somethin’ worked out, my friend,” I said.

“We might just be a good team,” said Punch.

“Well, we’re all we got for now,” I said. “I’ll get out and feed that winch cable back in. Might get caught on the tracks.”

“Good,” Punch said.

I got out and was relieved to see the crowbar hadn’t gone over with the car. I retrieved that, then lifted the hook and signaled Punch to reel it back in.

I walked it toward the truck and watched as it rolled up to the pilot, where I hooked it.

Then I heard something over the roar of the storm’s wind and rain.

Punch began honking the horn, long and loud and nonstop. I looked around me, trying to see what the hell he was doing.

Then I saw it. A house.

Punch honked. I stared, petrified.

Then I ran. I don’t even remember worrying about the narrow path I had available to me to get back in the truck – I just got my ass in and slammed my hand on the dashboard and screamed “Go! Go!”

Punch hit the gas hard and the Toyota jammed forward, jumping over the cross-ties now, probably rolling on the precariously high and narrow train bridge at fifteen miles per hour.

The two-story house, projecting upward from the water no less than twenty feet high, was coming toward us, twisting and turning in the churning current, only marginally breaking up as it bobbed in the raging floodwaters, making a beeline toward our bridge.

It would have to sink five more feet before we even stood a chance of it not smashing into the bridge itself, and it would have to completely disintegrate to avoid taking out at least two of the bridge supports.

The end of the bridge was now about 400 feet ahead.

The house was perhaps twice that distance from the bridge.

“Jesus, Punch, faster, man! Faster!”

He looked at the house, and back at the end of the bridge. “We ain’t gonna make it there before that fucker hits, Flex!” he shouted, and pressed the Land Cruiser’s accelerator firmly.

There was no sense in being cautious. If that house hit the bridge before we were clear of it, we were done for.

I hadn’t buckled in and I was bouncing all over the cab, scrambling for handholds to keep from racking my head on the AK47 mounted to the ceiling of the cab. The house was now within about seventy feet of the bridge. We still had what appeared to be a hundred feet or more to travel, only we weren’t going as fast as the house seemed to be.

“It’s gonna hit, Punch!” I shouted. “Go, man! Fuck it! Give it all you got!”

His sudden acceleration threw me back in my seat as the roar outside grew louder and I felt the truck jar hard to the left. I swore, looking at the twenty feet ahead of us that remained, that I could now see the tracks no longer straight ahead of us, but now angling diagonally in the direction of the current.

The bridge was going to fall. The Toyota bounced over the tracks, eating up the remaining yards to the fixed, concrete side barriers, now ten feet away.

I looked back, but saw nothing because of the solid rear window. Now the tracks upon which we drove angled sharply and we were suddenly driving uphill. Only two yards to go.

As our front wheels hit the solid track bed, Punch smashed his foot on the gas pedal again and shot us up and over the edge, where bridge turned into terra firma again.

Once back on the fixed tracks, Punch drove like a bat out of hell to the end and slammed on the brakes.

I had to do it. I threw my door open and looked back.

On the other side of the vehicle, Punch did the same. As we watched, the narrow train bridge, now collapsed in the middle, slowly dissolved into the churning water immediately disappearing below. The house had broken up into a million pieces that now covered the entire surface of the Catawba River.

But we’d made it. As far as I knew it was our last major obstacle between me and my family.

Other than Buckfield.

It reminded me of another promise I’d made, and I intended to fulfill it. Cara was exposed to me, and I had been exposed to the little girl who had brought the Diphtheria. That meant any children with Cara were at risk, too.

I decided we’d stop on the way. It was just south of Buckfield and if I didn’t give them what I’d promised, more people might die.

 

*****

 

We reached the gas station within a half hour after our ordeal on the bridge. In twenty minutes, we’d gotten the purple GTO started and both vehicles ready to roll homeward, all our gas cans back in the truck.

The Pontiac’s battery didn’t have enough juice to fire the starter, so we had to use the jumper cables hanging on the wall. I took them with us just in case the battery didn’t charge or I had issues with the Land Cruiser.

Punch followed me out of the yard. He had a handheld radio, and we agreed to communicate with one another on channel three.

“You read, Punch?” I asked.

“Roger,” he said. “Heading through Buckfield?”

“Unless you know another way around,” I said.

“I don’t.”

“Buckfield it is, then,” I said. “Maybe the hurricane will distract ‘em enough so we can slide on through.”

“It’s doubtful,” he said. “Make sure your roof-mounted AK has a full mag. One way or the other, we’ll get the meds to your folks.”

I knew that. Never doubted it. That’s not how my mind works.

 

*****

 

“Gem, wake up,” the voice said.

I heard the words, but did my best to ignore them. I didn’t even know how I’d gone to sleep, but there I was, reluctantly waking up. Rachel stood in front of me with Lola beside her.

“The doctor needs to talk to you,” whispered Lola.

I sat up, shaking away the cobwebs. “What’s wrong? Where’s Flexy?” I got on my feet.

“Not back yet,” said Rachel.

“No, not him,” I clarified. “My son.”

“He’s with the doctor,” said Lola. Behind the front curtain. It’s what he wants to talk to you about.”

I jumped to my feet and ran to the front of the lab where Doc Scofield had drawn the curtain across to separate the cockpit from the main cabin. He was sitting, holding Flexy in his arms, and he had a small oxygen bottle with a mask attached directly to it. It was currently over Flexy’s mouth and nose.

“Jim, what’s wrong? Is he okay?” A million thoughts ran through my head, but none of them meant anything. My own thoughts were a blur and included Flex, my son and that little girl who had been so sick the day before.

Jim looked up his eyes dead serious. “The Diphtheria, Gem,” he said. “The little guy’s having a bit of trouble breathing. It’s one of the symptoms.”

“And where does this symptom stop?” I asked. “Can it get better?”

Doc Scofield shook his head. “Without the antitoxin it only advances from here, Gem. Come here for a sec,” he said, withdrawing a small, LED flashlight from his shirt pocket. “He’s been yawning once every few minutes. It’s been a while, and I think he’s tired, but I need to keep oxygen flowing into him. I don’t really want to let him sleep right now.”

Flexy opened his mouth in a big yawn, and the doctor said, “Okay, come down here and look.”

I knelt down and he shone the light in Flexy’s open mouth. In the back of his throat was a scaly, dry area that looked like lizard skin. Fibrous and thick-looking. I knew from the girl who had brought the disease to us, Gina, that this was a symptom.

“He’s having more trouble breathing with every minute that passes,” said Scofield. “His airway’s not closed off yet, and I don’t think it will be soon, but if something doesn’t happen within the next eight hours or so, I’m afraid we may have to give this little guy a tracheotomy to keep oxygen movin’ to his brain.”

“Jesus Christ, Jim!” I shouted. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Gem, I –”

I broke down into sobs, my sudden burst of anger now flooded with sorrow. The feeling that washed over me was completely foreign. It was the worst fear I’ve ever felt before, times a million. My baby boy was in danger of suffocating, and I was relying on my husband, who had left over a day ago for a destination that should’ve been a six-hour round trip at most, even in the storm.

“I’m sorry, Gem,” said Scofield, rubbing a soothing hand on my back.

I took his hand and squeezed it. “No, I’m sorry, but I’m freaking out right now. I’m thinking how I can get us into the goddamned Crown Vic and get to where Flex is with that antitoxin.”

“Your son needs to stay here,” said Scofield. “Dry and safe with the available oxygen and other … things.”

“Like a fucking scalpel to cut open his throat?” I asked.

Scofield hesitated, then nodded. “We’re a long way from that, Gem,” he said. “Flex has a lot to deal with out there. Downed trees, stalled cars, flooding. I’m sure he’s doing the best he can. I expect he’s well on his way back, Gem. Probably any time now.”

The good doctor was filling me full of bullshit and I knew it. I couldn’t begrudge him that, though. It was because he cared about me.

Lola came over. “Anything I can do?”

“I’d take you with me to find Flex if I thought Hemp would let me go.”

“Gem,” said Lola, “Flex has got to be on his way back now. Going out there doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s what he said,” I said, nodding toward Scofield.

“The storm seems as though it’s losing intensity,” said Hemp, walking up. “Either the eye is approaching or it missed us completely and we’re feeling the backside of it now.”

“How’s he doing?” asked Rachel, approaching us.

Doc Scofield gave Flexy over to me and I tucked him into my arm, holding the small oxygen container. After two breaths on his own, I put it over his nose and mouth and let him breathe deeply two or three times. “Let’s just say he’s been better,” I said. “I’m so fucking worried with Flex out there and now this.”

“Jesus,” said Charlie, her eyes squeezed closed. “Wow.”

“They’re coming faster,” said Jim Scofield. “Time to check you again.” He moved between her legs as he pulled another pair of gloves on, then lifted the sheet covering her.

“Well, congratulate yourself, young lady,” he said, snapping off his gloves and dropping them into a stainless wastebasket. “You’re at seven centimeters. That’s very good. With your contractions seven minutes apart, we need to get you up and moving now to hurry this along.”

“Good,” said Charlie. “I’ve been dying to stretch my legs.”

Hemp kissed her on the cheek. “Well, then. Let’s get you up.” He leaned forward and she put her arms around his neck. He helped her remove her legs from the braces and swing them to the floor.

“You good?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” said Charlie. She walked immediately over to where the music selection was, the Sex Pistols CD having long since played itself out. After flipping through for a bit, she settled on Aerosmith’s Toys In The Attic CD. Seconds later, strains of the title track filled the room and anyone who slept was awake.

That included Nelson, who came to life holding an air guitar, ala Joe Perry. “Right on, dude,” he said. “I dig old Aerosmith!”

“Wasn’t my first choice,” said Charlie.

“Did you have the baby dude?” asked Nelson, looking around the lab, as though the baby may have been tucked inside a drawer.

“Look at my stomach, Nel,” said Charlie. “I’m –”

She stopped talking and put her hand on her stomach as she leaned on the stainless steel counter. She squeezed her eyes closed, fighting the contraction.

“Ah,” Nelson said. “Still preggers. Sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am,” she said.

Rachel had plopped down beside Nelson. She was so small that when she drew her knees up to her chest, she looked absolutely tiny. She glared at Nelson and smacked his arm. “She’s stressing,” she said.

Hemp rushed toward Charlie, but she held up her hand. “I’m fine, babe. Just another contraction. I promise not to fall.”

“You were kind of lucky to have the zombie apocalypse come in advance of your kid,” said Dave. “Toughened you up but good.”

“Hard getting used to those red eyes, though,” said Nelson.

Rachel smacked his arm again.

“One more time and you’re gonna meet Subdudo,” he said.

She hit him again, smiling. He smiled back. Love might be ridiculous, but fear sucked and I had enough of that to go around.

“You sure you’re alright?” asked Hemp again.

Charlie nodded, and the contraction passed. She took a deep breath, then another. “Whew,” she said, looking flushed. “I gotta see this.”

She walked into the bathroom and switched on the light. I heard her say, “Wow.” She stuck her head back out and she was looking straight at me. “These are some red eyes.”

“Indeed,” I said.

“Have I said anything yet that freaked anyone out?”

Hemp looked at her. “No, Charlie. Why? Did you … hear something? Feel some Impulse?”

“No … well, maybe.”

“Mothers and Hungerers,” said Isis. “Near.”

Bug went to her and knelt down. She had been clopping from one end of the lab to the other in her little shoes that looked unsuitable for walking, as most baby shoes were.

I had an idea, remembering something she did earlier. I went back to the cockpit passenger chair, which had been rotated around to face the main cabin, and sat, Flexy in my arms. He had fallen asleep, but I was still able to use the oxygen on him.

“Isis,” I said. “Come here, please?”

Isis laughed and ran, utilizing the gait of a little toddler her age, tilting forward and back until you were certain she’d fall – only she never did.

She got to me and immediately tried to crawl into the chair opposite me. She found she could not, and turned, her lower lip quivering, and her face extremely sad.

It was a revelation to me. With all the abilities she had; all the telepathic powers and those of speech, too, she was still just a baby who cried when she was upset and frustrated.

“Hold on, I gotcha,” said Lola, running up behind her and lifting her into the seat. Her frown immediately turned upside down and she smiled and clapped her hands.

Then she looked at me and said, “Yes, Gem?”

I’d almost forgotten what I called her for, but remembered a second later. I looked down at Flexy and back at her. She still smiled.

“Isis,” I said, hesitating. I was afraid to ask her what I wanted to ask, because I feared her honesty. She would not lie to ease my mind. It wasn’t in her.

“You want to know if I still hear Flex,” she said.

“You are one scary little girl,” I said, before I realized I’d said it. “Oh, my God, Isis. I’m sorry. You’re not. You’re sweet.”

“I understand,” she said. “I am different than you. But we are alike in some ways.”

“Flex,” I said. “Do you still … feel him?”

“He is well,” said Isis. “He is alone now.”

“I thought you said he was with a man named Punch.”

“He is no longer,” she said. “Punch is inside purple.”

I looked at her. “Inside purple? Where is Flex?”

“The same, only alone.”

“Is he alive?”

“He is,” said the little girl, trying to spin around in the chair but too small to manage more than a couple of inches in each direction.

“Where is he, Isis? We need him now.”

“The storm passes,” she said.

“Do you even know what that is?” I asked, shaking my head.

“All storms pass, Gemina,” she said. “Only the wind is left.” She said this as though distracted with the chair still, but I believed her – whatever she meant.

“Will he … make it back to me?”

“I don’t know, silly!” she said. “I see now, not next.” Then she turned again to her father. “Daddy! Meat?”

I felt a tear roll down my cheek and I wasn’t sure why. Was it because she put my mind at ease that Flex was still alive? Or was it because I wasn’t sure if she couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me my husband’s fate?

Trina and Taylor sat against the Plexiglas wall of the lab cage and shared iPod headphones. I’d pre-approved all the music on it and made sure it had the bubblegum artists that the younger kids loved; Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift and Rhianna. I fully intended to scrub that shit from Trina’s little brain by the time she was twelve. Maybe sooner.

I could tell by the way Bunsen kept pacing back and forth that she needed to go outside. She got Slider worked up, and they both paced back and forth, stopping by the door every once in a while.

Nelson got to his feet and said, “Okay, if you’re not delivering this baby, dudette, then I’m taking those dogs outside for a pee and a poop.”

“In good time,” said Charlie, plopping back into her special chair again. “Now would be a good time.”

“A watched pot,” said Hemp.

“Need backup?” asked Dave. “I’ll go with you. I think it’s time for a sweep anyway.”

“Me, too,” said Lola. “I need to get some knife practice.”

“Fuck it,” I said. “Serena, would you mind taking care of Flexy for a bit?”

Serena grunted to her feet. She had been sitting for hours and I could see her muscles were stiff. “God, the accommodations, while life-saving, suck,” she said.

“It wasn’t built for comfort, I’m afraid,” said Hemp. “Functionality was its purpose.”

“Got a leash?” asked Nelson.

“She’s not going anywhere,” I said. “Lead the way.”

Nelson opened the door and Bunsen ran by him, tossing him aside like a lanky, rag doll. He yelled “Hey!” and followed her.

Two seconds later, before we had the chance to follow, he was scrambling back up the steps. “Bunsen!” he shouted. “Bunsen, get in here now!”

To yell was so unlike Nelson. I ran to the door and looked out.

Red-eyes stood in a line around the mobile lab. They were an arm’s length apart, almost perfectly spaced. To a number, they stared at the lab. None turned their heads to watch us.

A low vibration began emitting from them.

“Bunsen!” I yelled, and she came running. She bounded up the two retractable steps and was back inside. She was not wet.

The rain had stopped, but another storm had gathered.

 

*****

 

 

About five miles outside of Buckfield I pulled the Toyota over. So far the electrical system, while far from perfect, wasn’t disabling the vehicle. In fact, a couple of the electronics had kicked back in.

Unfortunately, one was the goddamned digital speedometer and I didn’t happen to give a shit how fast I was going. Not too many speeding tickets being handed out these days, and speed traps were all but ancient history. Punch pulled up beside me and hand-cranked his window down, a smile on his face.

“I can’t even tell you how much I enjoy rolling a window down again,” said Punch. “Oh, yeah. Give me a smoke so I can flick my ashes out the wind wing.”

“You must be thinkin’ that I pulled over for a reason, right?” I threw him a smoke.

He reached down to the dash and looked back up at me. “Anyway, sorry. Just excited. Thanks for stopping to get it.”

“We needed to get the gas cans and top the tank anyway,” I said. “My pleasure. Now we need a plan to get through Buckfield. I doubt they’ll just be hunkering down.”

“On the bright side, they don’t necessarily know we’re comin’ back this way,” said Punch. “Nobody left alive to tell ‘em.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But we need a good plan if you want to get this big, purple beauty past ‘em.” I reached out the window and patted his car.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly camo, right?” he said.

“Nope. You’re military. Any ideas?”

“Nothing conventional,” he said. “But that cow catcher of yours has sparked a couple of ideas. It’s strong, bolted right to the frame. I was checkin’ it out at the garage.”

“How many did you say there were in Buckfield?” I asked.

“We killed some,” he said. “When they were chasin’ us. After we took out the two at the barricade, maybe seven or eight left – maybe more, if anyone else joined them.”

“What would they do,” I asked, “when they found their guys? You know ‘em. How would they respond?”

“They like retaliation, which is why they came after us.”

“So no chance they’d just pack it in and lick their wounds?”

Punch shook his head. “Not likely. We’re gonna be comin’ across where we ran ‘em off the road in about a mile. We can see how many bodies there are.”

“Wouldn’t they just come and get them?” I asked.

“You don’t know these guys,” said Punch. “Plus, they’d likely turn into fuckin’ zombies before they found them.”

“Good point,” I said.

“Anyway, as long as Erik Krauss is still alive, he’ll be on high alert for a day or two, come hell or high water. He’s never let an attack go unanswered.”

“We met Cara and her people a few miles before we got to you,” I said. “Seem like good folks. Scared of Buckfield.”

“I made myself useful by hunting and pulling guard duty,” said Punch. “Nobody ever came by but you, but Krauss insisted on the barricades. I can tell you he was looking for women.” Punch shook his head. “Anyway, they’re scared of Krauss,” he said. “And I can tell you he wouldn’t have put himself at risk by being in the group that came after us. He wasn’t there, I can guarantee it.”

I looked up at the sky. The wind was still blowing good, but nowhere near hurricane force. The rain was just big drops but widely spaced. “Looks like the storm’s slidin’ by,” I said. “I’d almost prefer a full-blown hurricane for driving through there.”

“Look,” he said. “Fuck what I said. I know the layout of the town. We can just get to within a mile and pull the cars off the road and cover them or something. Then we hike in and take ‘em out. Covert, nobody except them gets hurt.”

I shook my head. “Too much time. I got a bad feelin’ and I need to get home. What was your other idea?”

“You got a third-row seat in this thing?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Removable?”

“Retractable and removable,” I said.

Punch nodded. “Okay. It’s a start. Got rope in that thing?”

“Does Flex Sheridan have a ten inch cock?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” said Punch.

“Well, just assume I do, because we got rope.”

“Well,” said Punch, smiling, “I hope you have more than ten inches of it, because we’re gonna need it.”

 

*****

 

It took us about a half an hour to figure it out. It wasn’t so much the plan, but how to execute it. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great, either. Basically, we were turning the Land Cruiser into a makeshift tank, minus any of the proper armor.

We had pulled all the shit out of the truck, removed the rear seat, then put everything but the rope back inside. Punch and I carried the seat around to the front of the SUV and opened it. We placed it over the windshield with the seatback leaning over the cab.

Now just the narrow gap between the back and the seat provided the driver a clear view of the street. When we were satisfied in its positioning, we roped it in place.

Punch yanked on it hard. It stayed put. “Okay,” he said. “Now for the floor mats. You got duct tape?”

I’m sure the look I threw him was sarcastic, because he looked at me and shook his head, saying, “Forget it, man. I’ll just look.”

I laughed. “Yeah, in the right side compartment in back. You won’t even have to take anything out. What are the floor mats and duct tape for?”

“We tape them over the side windows. Back window’s already blacked out. When you drive this thing through, you’re gonna duck down as low as you can. If they shoot, they’re gonna be aiming for your head. It’s what I’d do.”

“Sure you don’t wanna drive?” I asked. “I recall you telling me once that you were pretty good, remember? On the bridge?”

“I have to drive the purple people eater, brother.”

“I’m shittin’ you, Punch.”

When we were done, we both stood back to examine our handiwork. We’d taped the floor mats on the inside of the glass to keep the remaining storm winds – that did have some significant gusts – from blowing them off before we even got to whatever blockade they’d set up.

The Land Cruiser looked ridiculous and foolhardy, and like something you’d find on any street in Tijuana, Mexico. Only it’d be blowing black-blue smoke out the tailpipe.

“Ready?” asked Punch.

“No, but I need to get home, and I need this payload with me.”

“Then we go,” said Punch.

 

*****

 

Punch positioned the GTO right behind me. While he didn’t want to fuck up his new ride, he was willing to use his horsepower to help me forward if the barriers were fortified. He hung his super shotgun out the window and he had the passenger side window down.

For my part, I was ready at a moment’s notice to drop the Land Cruiser into low gear, 4-wheel drive for extra torque if necessary.

We drove. A mile later, we saw the crashed cars from our trip out, but there was only one body with them. I didn’t know whether the others had reanimated or if the guy named Krauss had disposed of them.

There were a few zombies around. Single stragglers. Hemp had figured out that if no distinct scent drew them, they just tended to wander along. If blood and flesh was near, they’d naturally congregate.

Punch and I were on our last wafers. We weren’t food for the moment and I hadn’t seen a red-eye the whole way back.

I hoped there wasn’t another reason for that, but I didn’t dwell on it, either.

I got on my radio. “So, best approach. Wait until we see the whites of their eyes and punch it?”

“Sounds like a plan, Flex,” he said. “But fuck waitin’ to see their eyes. Just wait until you see a gun. Then you get on that AK. Extra mags, buddy. On the seat?”

“On the seat. You right behind me?” I couldn’t see shit from the damned floor mats over my windows.

“Yep,” he said. “Duck down. Can you see okay?”

I sank as low in the seat as I could. “It’s like Hemphill Chatsworth himself designed it,” I said.

“You stalling again?”

“You’re getting to know me,” I said. “Okay, let’s go.” I hit the gas and we drove. I kept my eyes peeled, and I had one hand on the AK’s firing handle. The GPS button was no longer necessary. The GPS satellites weren’t functioning any longer. I didn’t know why, only that we couldn’t get a signal any more. The GPS screen was just a gun sight for now.

Then I remembered. Hemp had set the rear camera up to operate when the car wasn’t in reverse. I hit that button and saw the purple GTO behind me.

I was within a quarter of a mile now, and I could see the barriers were back up. I couldn’t tell if there were more than before or if they were heavier duty, but either way I was going through them.

Four men appeared behind the barriers and I saw guns in their hands.

I reached up and gave the AK-47 a sight adjustment, aiming downward, and gave it a quick pull. Just so they knew that I wasn’t someone’s fuckin’ grandpa.

Then I hit the gas. I brought it up to thirty, then forty. I was approaching the barrier and saw that they were the same ones the guys had set up before. Through a gap, I saw traffic cone orange, but taller.

They had supported the back with those huge water drums. Fucking stupid, and fucking perfect. I was never worried about the barriers.

I was now doing fifty miles per hour and their guns began to blaze. Sitting low in the seat, I saw the GTO no less than a foot off my rear bumper, keeping pace. I heard the shotgun from behind me, and a moment later, the guns from in front of me could be heard, only more of them.

Explosions rang out one after the other. I reached up and yanked the AK’s rope and sprayed from left to right. Then I let go, quick-ejected the magazine and slammed another in. I was now fifty yards from the barricade.

All four heads dropped when I fired, but now they reappeared. In my peripheral vision I saw the GTO swing off to the left and heard the explosion of his shotgun. How he held that sucker and fired straight ahead, I had no idea, but I hadn’t been in Afghanistan, so it wasn’t my field of expertise.

The guy on the far left had a sudden headless problem. I saw the blood fly away and he dropped from view.

I was reloaded and ready, and I was now just feet from the barrier. The men leapt out of the way as I barreled through, smashing into the thin plywood and tin, impacting the orange barrels, the water blasting into the air and being whipped into heavy drops and mist by the still high winds.

Glass showered my face as the windshield exploded in front of me, a round clearly making its way past our makeshift armor. I felt rather than saw the round tear through the seat just to the right side of my head, which would have penetrated my shoulder had I not been practically reclining in my seat. My face stung from the glass fragments, but I floored the accelerator and pressed forward.

I glanced at the rear camera and saw the purple GTO still on my tail, giving me inspiration. If these assholes hadn’t already done so, they’d likely take all of their frustrations out on Cara and her clan, and that wasn’t something I could live with.

I grabbed the radio from the seat beside me and pressed the button. “Punch, in five seconds, drop off my tail and spin your car around!”

He came right back. “I don’t see any of ‘em, Flex!”

“No, but they’re there,” I said. “I’ll slide around to the right and you slide to the left. When we stop, open up with Tony’s gun.”

My side passenger window blew out then, followed by my driver’s side window. I reached up and blindly spun the AK-47 around, emptying the magazine. The floor mat had a single bullet hole in its center, and as I shot a glance to my left, I saw where it had exited on my side.

I was perhaps fifty yards past where the barrier had been set up when I saw the GTO drop back. I immediately slammed on my brakes and cranked the wheel hard right, fishtailing the rear of the SUV in a clockwise direction.

I could no longer see the GTO, but the side of my car was now facing them, even though I could see nothing. I stayed low and reached up to eject the AK’s mag and slam another one in. I had the magazine almost locked when I heard shots and felt a stinging pain in my left arm. I felt the warm blood immediately.

It had missed the bone, but the pain was intense. I completed the installation of the AK’s magazine and turned it, sitting way down, only my right arm reaching up to pull the rope trigger, my eyes on the GPS screen gun sight.

A man emerged from my left and I swung the gun around. Before I could pull the trigger, I heard the boom of Punch’s shotgun and while it was in black and white, I saw the man’s chest explode as he flew backward off his feet.

More rounds peppered my truck, and I prayed they wouldn’t penetrate the thin sheeting of its exterior and blow through my chest, neck or head.

I fanned the AK again and gave the trigger quick pulls until I saw the GTO in my screen. There was Punch’s sawed-off shotgun barrel, out the window firing one shell after another.

I didn’t know how many bad guys were left, but any remaining were probably more intent on taking out the driver of the more dangerous-looking vehicle – and that would definitely be me and the AK-47-equipped Land Cruiser.

“Flex, go!” shouted Punch. I didn’t wait. I floored it and spun the wheel left, straightening back out on the road. I saw Punch behind me and breathed a sigh of relief.

Up ahead about a quarter of a mile, I saw something that didn’t make sense. Another roadblock. But this one was crowded with people. The barrier itself appeared to run from several feet off the left side of the road to an equal distance off the right side. I recognized the dull, white lane dividers, typically used during construction. They were made of the heavy plastic and usually filled with sand or water. I didn’t know which it was in this case, but with all the people in front of it, I sure as hell wasn’t going to try to blow through it.

I grabbed the radio. “Punch, get ready to stop. Another barrier.”

“Can you run it?” he asked.

“Not this time,” I said. “Oh, by the way. I’m shot.”

I stopped the truck and spun the roof-mounted gun around to get a view of all sides. No men with guns came into my sights.

I grabbed the Bushnells out of the glove box, wincing at the pain in my left arm as I leaned over. I opened the door and jumped out, my Daewoo K-7 in my hands, but giving me more trouble now that my left arm was trashed. I found I could hardly support the heavy barrel.

Punch ran up to me, holding his side, blood leaking from an apparent wound. “You ain’t alone, brother,” he said. “I caught one, too.”

“Jesus, Punch,” I said. “Serious?”

He shook his head and lifted his shirt. The entry wound was on his left side. He had torn off a piece of his shirt and stuffed it in the hole. He turned and I saw the exit wound. Only slightly larger, but fairly clean. He held out another piece of cloth.

“I couldn’t manage this one in the car, man. You mind?”

I snatched the cloth from him and said, “Grit your teeth.”

He did, and I quickly stuffed the cloth into the hole, leaving a strip hanging out like a human Molotov cocktail.

He nodded and lowered his shirt. “Thanks. You got it in the arm? You okay?”

“Better than you,” I said. I pointed. “Got company.”

I held the binoculars up and panned the crowd from side to side. Not humans. Fuckin’ walkers. Like thirty of them.

“Zombies,” I said. “They’re not the real problem. It’s the barriers.”

“Got a plan?” he asked.

“Yeah. Get back in your car and let’s go up there. We’ve got a trick that Krauss doesn’t know about.”

At the mention of his name, we heard a gunshot behind us. We turned to see four men running toward us. They were still a good distance away.

“Go!” I shouted, and Punch ran, holding his side. I hopped back inside the SUV and threw it in gear. I wasn’t cutting the motor since the electrical problem. Couldn’t chance it.

I punched it and the GTO fell in beside me this time. We ate up the quarter mile and instinctively pulled the vehicles sideways, giving ourselves plenty of room to crank them back onto the roadway without backing up.

The zombies came toward us, interested at the movement. I checked my watch. We had about two hours of WAT-5 left. I grabbed the radio again.

“Come on, Punch. Get out.”

“But … man, they’re everywhere.”

“Not a problem for us,” I said. “Just watch for females and take any you see out just to be sure. If the others start coming at you, really look for females, only the red-eyed variety. You know the drill.”

He was out and beside my truck. We’d left our pursuers a bit back, but now two of the men had mounted motorcycles and the other one was running toward us.

“Quick, Punch! Into the middle!”

We pushed our way into the center of the crowd of rotters, the smell assaulting me instantly. I had gotten used to wearing long sleeves, even in warm weather, to avoid the long, black fingernails a lot of the rotters had – because while fingernails don’t keep on growing after you die, the fingers shrivel beneath them, making it appear they do. Short story, they can scratch you good. Many of their nails had been pulled or rotted off, but it only takes one out of ten to scratch you.

We looked back and saw the men on the motorcycles had stopped and now had binoculars to their eyes. They propped their bikes, their feet on the ground. I guessed they were waiting for us to become a meal to their blockaded horde of abnormals.

Punch’s mouth was fixed in a grimace as he fought the pain from his bullet wound. He eyed the creatures on all sides of him, but when they bumped him, they kept milling around.

He doubled over and lost his lunch. I walked over to him, pushing through the horrid-looking crowd.

“So this is what Woodstock must have been like, you think?” I said.

He looked up at me, then glanced at our pursuers, who weren’t that anymore. Now they were gawkers. I could see all their mouths open, and none took any pot shots at us.

“Yeah,” said Punch. “I’d have probably been puking there, too. I take it you’ve got another plan?”

“Come with me.” We pushed our way slowly to the barriers and I reached down to pull on one of them. It didn’t move much, but felt as though it shifted. I gave it a strong pull, and it slid toward me. Then I threw my hip against it like a hockey player checking a winger at center ice.

It moved a foot. The fucking things were empty. This was enough to stop the rotters, and create the illusion of an impassable barrier, but that was it. I looked at Punch.

“Let’s blow through this, then,” I said.

Suddenly an engine revved in the distance, and from the tall brush on the side of the road, a massive, sand-colored vehicle burst into view, its enormous front knobby tires bouncing onto the pavement and heading straight into the crowd of biters.

“Run!” shouted Punch, and I did. He was military, so he likely knew the capabilities of such a vehicle, whereas I didn’t know shit from Shine-Ola aside from what I’d learned about automatic weapons.

The huge truck plowed over three or four zombies and pushed the others into the crowd. Before long, a pile of writhing, undead men, women and children were stuffed under the front of the vehicle, their bodies being torn apart by the truck as they twisted and scraped along the asphalt.

We were still separated from the killing machine by twenty or so zombies who had not yet been flattened.

“No doubt that’s Krauss,” said Punch, his breath coming in short puffs. “It’s a transport vehicle, not combat, Flex. With the three guys back there and the ones we’ve taken out, there’s no way he’s got anyone else in there.”

So if he couldn’t fire at us, Krauss was using the truck to crush us. We stayed low, hiding behind all the upright rotters. “So what now?” I asked.

“He can’t turn too sharp!” said Punch. “Duck and run back toward him! If I can get underneath it I know where it’s vulnerable!”

“Underneath it?” I asked, but followed him anyway. There were still rotters between us and the three men, who were closer, but not within accurate range with their weapons. We pushed back toward the vehicle, which had now plowed over at least fifteen more walkers, but had clearly lost track of us.

“Can you do it?” I asked. “Punch, you’ve got a bullet wound, man!”

He didn’t listen. He held his sawed-off and drew up alongside the heavy vehicle. The wheelbase was significant and now that Krauss was driving it through the pile of bodies, it was moving pretty slowly.

Like a thirteen-year-old girl gauging a skip rope held by two of her friends before leaping in for a round of Red Rover, he dove between the mammoth tires and rolled onto his back among the smashed zombie bodies.

I couldn’t watch the rest because now the other three men were all firing at me.

I dropped to the ground and rolled, tattered feet hitting me in the head, along with feet sheathed in ragged, deteriorating tennis shoes and boots. I pushed myself into position on my stomach, raised my weapon and started unloading back toward the men.

I heard three shotgun blasts in rapid succession, and the truck exploded as it rolled over the last cluster of zombies it had crushed beneath its wheels.

The huge truck, now billowing smoke and flame, continued its trek forward, but stopped when it knocked down three more rotters who ended up as human wheel chocks. The engine sputtered as the fire consumed it.

I scrambled back to my feet, slung my weapon over my good shoulder and grabbed a rotter by each arm, keeping him between me and the other four men as I walked him sideways back toward the area behind the burning vehicle.

There was Punch, lying on his back, staring up at me.

The dead zombies with destroyed faces and features lay all around and beneath him. One or two were in the last throes of gnashing before the deadlight went completely out of their eyes. As individuals they were disgusting; lying in piles with their dead brothers and sisters, they were a downright horrifying sight.

“Do yourself a favor and don’t turn your head,” I said, holding out a hand to him. The head of the zombie whose arm I clutched onto exploded, splashing my face with his putrid death-blood. The round whistled just about five inches over my head.

I pushed the collapsing body away and dropped down, simultaneously locating and grabbing the pant leg of another zombie that I pulled toward me, forcing him between us and our attackers.

“You okay, man? Good fuckin’ job on that truck!”

“I’m fine,” he said. “And yeah, I knew the right spot where the fuel tank is exposed. The fire from the barrel ignited it more than the shell. Give me a hand. My stomach muscles are screaming.”

“Gunshots’ll do that shit,” I said. I gave him a hand and pulled him up. Once he was in a sitting position, he was able to get to his feet.

A hatch on top of the truck that had tried to run us down opened, and a man scrambled out. The gunfire started again from our north and Punch and I crouched behind any zombie we could find and circled around the backside of the vehicle.

Rather, I did that. Punch walked brazenly toward the man who had fallen to the asphalt. He had thrown his weapon to the ground to free his hands while he exited the vehicle from the top, but before he was able to get to it, Punch reached him and kicked him in the face – hard.

I skirted to the left and started firing on the other men. At least one of my rounds connected; a true, red mist of blood sprayed into the air behind his head and he went down, flipping backward off his motorcycle.

The man without a motorcycle ran into the forest that bordered the roadway, and the other guy fired up his bike and rode fast in the opposite direction.

“Clear, Punch!” I shouted.

Punch drew his leg back and kicked the man in the face again. Then he moved forward planted his boot a third time.

“Krauss, you piece of shit,” he said. “There won’t be an inspirational speech this time.”

“You fucked us, you prick,” the man gurgled through his blood-filled mouth. His hair was spiked gray, and he stared up at Punch with steel blue eyes, filled with hatred.

“Well, here’s your final fucking,” said Punch. He put the shotgun in the man’s mouth and fired.

The blood hit the pavement like a well-aimed paintball splattering its intended target. Afterward, Punch turned toward me. His eyes revealed no regret or sadness.

The rotters, apparently feeling the vibration from the explosion, turned toward Krauss’s body. They instantly crowded around and fell upon the man’s corpse, ripping into him with the intensity of wild animals. Is seconds the bullet wound to his head became an access panel to his brain, and the rest had his abdomen opened in mere seconds, pulling out intestines and other innards, stuffing their horrid mouths with the entrails. I turned away. I’d seen far too much of it already.

We stepped back. Punch watched the feeding frenzy for a moment, then looked at me. “Sorry, Flex. No redemption for a son-of-a-bitch like that.”

“No need to apologize,” I said. “People who use a catastrophe like this to gain power can’t change. Now get back in that purple beast. I need to get home.”

“Roger that,” he said. We glanced once more up the street, but the other men apparently weren’t very inspired now that their leader was zombie food.

We got back in our vehicles and cranked them around. There was still room on one side of the disabled, burning military transport, but the pile of bodies in front of it made that path impassable. I used the cow catcher to strategically nudge the piles of bodies to either side until we could work our way to the barrier.

The blockade was easily pushed aside. When we got back to the bridge, we stopped and waited for Cara’s group to find us. I wanted to give her the antitoxin before heading back home.

I didn’t want to come back to Buckfield – or anywhere near it.

 

*****