Survive (9 page)

John motioned to Roger. “Cover me.” He jumped out of the truck, his MP5 held at shoulder level, pointed in front of him. He walked to the door and listened. As he reached for the first two by four nailed to the door, he stopped. He walked quickly back to the truck, to the passenger side, where his father stood behind the truck door.

“What’s wrong with this picture?” John asked Harold.

Harold looked at the house for a few moments before it dawned on him. “The boards are nailed on from the outside!”

“Yeah, someone wanted to keep something inside.” Just then they heard movement inside the house. From a gap in the boards, they could see motion behind one of the windows. A small hand appeared on the glass. The hand moved, but a bloody hand print remained on the glass.

Roger and Roy jumped out of the truck and fanned out to either side. John walked back towards the shop entrance and began prying the boards off the entrance one at a time.

“John, you better come see this,” Roy called out from around the corner of the house.

John and Harold both jogged over to Roy. On the ground in front of him lay Dan Bender. A bottle of whiskey lay on the ground, open and empty. A photo album lay open in front of him, pictures of his wife, Moira and daughter Emily, on pages covered in blood. Dan’s right hand was gripped tightly around a .357 magnum revolver, and the splatter of blood and brain matter all over the side of the house told the rest of the story.

Harold bent down and pulled one of Dan’s sleeves up showing John a blood soaked bandage.

“Must have been bit by one of his kin,” Harold said. He pried the gun from Dan’s cold, dead hand. “He did the right thing.” He put the pistol in his waist band and stood up. “Let’s get this over with.”

They walked back to the shop and finished removing the boards. John opened the door with Roger right behind him. The inside was dark, but John quickly found the light switch and flipped it on. Bright overhead lights revealed racks of rifles and display cases with pistols and accessories. John and Roger spread out in the little shop, heading for the back. The door in the back was not barricaded at all, and the men had the same thought.

Roger walked up to the door and trained his rifle on it. He nodded to John, indicating he would watch it.

John began selecting rifles, AR 15s, AK 47s, an Israeli Galil, a couple of scoped bolt action .308s, two FN FALs, and several shotguns. He carried them out by the armful and laid them carefully in the back of the truck. Then he grabbed a couple of Uzi’s, both semi automatic, and several pistols. He threw them all into a tote bag he found behind the counter. Next, he grabbed as many empty magazines as he could find and threw them into another tote bag. After he carried the bags out to the truck, he motioned for Roy to come in and help him with the ammunition. They grabbed every box of ammo they could find, which turned out to be several thousand rounds of ammunition of every caliber.

As they finished loading everything into the crowded truck, John ran back in and picked up a couple of bows and an armful of arrows.

“No sense wasting ammo on deer,” John said to Roger as they both walked out together. They closed the shop door and jumped up into the back of the truck. As the truck was pulling out of the driveway, the shop door opened and a little girl, her bloody hands reaching for them, ran out of the house moaning.

Morgan stepped on the gas as John raised his MP5 and put two bullets into the little Zed who used to be called Emily.

* * *

Morgan drove the group with its weapon-laden pickup truck through West Brattleboro to Interstate 91. Stalled or abandoned cars littered the road. They began to see Zeds walking singly or in small groups, going from house to house, car to car, looking for anything to satisfy their hunger. Their moans grew louder and louder. As the truck passed them they would notice the truck and follow it. Soon they had a rather large group shambling, stumbling, and in some cases, running after them. Morgan went as fast as he could through the littered streets, but at times he had to go up on lawns or swerve between cars to get past them, and therefore could not go fast enough for the Zeds to give up.

“This ain’t gonna be easy to get a tractor trailer through, man,” Roger said to John, yelling over the wind and moans of the undead.

“I know. I have an idea about that too.”

The pickup wound its way over the highway, which was considerably less crowded with empty cars than the town roads were. One exit later, Morgan pulled the truck off the highway towards a big warehouse complex at the northern edge of town. A tall chain link fence surrounded the complex, and the big rolling gates were closed. A small guard shack stood empty next to the gate. They approached the gate and stopped, scanning the area.

In the distance, back the way they’d come, a few running Zeds could be seen heading for them. Beyond that, a larger crowd of undead shambled more slowly in their direction.

“I think the fresher ones are the ones running,” Roger said to John.

“I think you’re right. Maybe rigor mortis slows them down or something,” John said. “Let’s get this gate open and get inside before they get here.”

Roy climbed up onto the hood of the truck and began scaling the fence. He climbed over the top and let himself down the other side. He entered the guard shack. A few moments later, the gate rolled to the side, and Morgan drove the pickup through. As soon as it reached the other side, Roy closed the gate.

As Roy climbed back up into the truck, the first of the running Zeds reached the gate. It clawed ineffectually at the gate, moaning in frustration. Bloody jaws bit the metal of the gate, but did not get through. More Zeds began to arrive, and soon a small crowd of them bit and clawed at the gate and surrounding fence.

“Let’s get this over with. I don’t want any of them figuring out how to climb while we’re in here.” John said, pounding on the roof of the pickup.

Morgan drove the pickup right up to the loading dock. A trailer stood in the bay next to them, doors open, with a Volvo tractor attached to it.

“Looks like this one had just arrived, or was just getting ready to leave. Keys are still in it!” Roger yelled, opening the driver’s side door of the big Volvo.

The group, with the exception of Morgan, who stood guard outside, entered the warehouse. As they walked over to the open truck, a Zed in a blue coverall ran from the back of the empty trailer right at them, moaning so loudly it sounded like a roar. John raised his MP5 and shot three times. The creature stumbled to the ground, but lurched back to its feet. Harold raised his rifle and put a bullet right between its eyes. Roy screamed.

“Goddamn it!” Roy yelled as the Zed flopped to the floor. “I pissed myself!”

Roger laughed as Roy walked past him, one shoe squishing wetly with each step.

The trailer lay empty, a forklift parked right in front of the bay. The group walked through the warehouse, looking for other undead. Two more Zeds wearing coveralls were found in the back, along with the remains of several other workers. Both Zeds were put down with several shots each. The men stood looking at the remains.

“How come those guys aren’t zombies too?” Roy asked, pointing to the other bodies.

“Zeds...we’re calling them Zeds, little Pee Pee.” Roger said to Roy.

“Look at the bodies. They all have head wounds. Bites through the skulls. Looks like they can’t turn if the brain gets messed up first.” John pointed out. “Alright, place looks clear. Let’s get what we came for and get out of here.”

They went back to the truck and got the forklift running. The next hour was spent selecting what food items they wanted and pointing them out to Harold who was following them around in the fork lift. They selected pallets of oatmeal, rice, canned vegetables, canned meat, pasta, cooking oil, and other things. Harold picked up each pallet and loaded them into the trailer. As he was loading a pallet of pickles and olives into the truck, Morgan came running in.

“The fence is buckling!” He shouted. “We need to move.”

Though the truck was only three quarters full, they decided to go. As Roger pulled the truck out, John ran in to the loading dock office. He grabbed several walkie talkies and a charging stand from the office and ran out to the truck. The fence was just toppling to the ground as John joined the others at the trucks. Zeds began pouring through the breach, running straight for the group.

John threw a walkie talkie to Roger.

“Roy, go with Roger. Follow us to exit four!” John yelled, squeezing into the cab of the pickup truck with Harold and Morgan. “Gun it! Go right through them!” he yelled.

Morgan pointed the pickup right at the oncoming Zeds. He slammed into the first of the creatures, causing it to burst like a meat filled balloon. Roger followed them, more slowly but just as powerfully. They smashed through the crowd of Zeds, running them down like wheat before a scythe. Blood covered the pickup truck from front to back. The big tractor trailer behind mopped up any stragglers. John watched the back of the pickup truck, his MP5 trained out the sliding rear window, but nothing made it that far. Stacks of rifles bounced around in back, crates and boxes of ammunition spilling all over the bed floor.

Finally they were through the throng of undead, making their way toward the highway. The few Zeds still mobile tried to follow them but were quickly left behind as the trucks turned onto the Interstate.

The walkie talkie in John’s shirt pocket crackled to life. “Where we headed?” Roger’s voice, though crackly, rang out in the little truck cab.

“State garage off exit 4.”

The radio was silent for several minutes. Finally, Roger came back on the radio. “Hot damn, John! Now you’re thinking!”

* * *

Forty minutes later, John sat in the cab of a big orange dump truck with the words “Highway Department” stenciled on the door, a huge V-shaped snow plow attached to the front. It had taken them almost a half hour to attach the snow plow, but they’d finally managed it. John drove the big dump truck with Morgan and Harold following him in the pickup truck. Roger brought up the rear of the little caravan driving the Volvo tractor trailer.

They cruised along Interstate 91 at nearly 50 miles an hour. They left the Interstate at exit 2 and drove through West Brattleboro, John using the snow plow as a battering ram, pushing stalled or crashed cars out of the way, slowing only as much as necessary. Roger kept him updated about any Zeds following them, but they maintained a high enough speed that any Zeds were left behind.

When they were less than half a mile from the pass through the ledges, John thought he heard gunfire. The big dump truck was so loud, however, that he couldn’t be sure. As he rounded the bend and the pass came in to sight, he slammed on the brakes. The tires squealed as the lumbering dump truck slowed, then stopped. Morgan and Roger both brought their vehicles to screeching halts as well.

Up ahead, John saw about a dozen Zeds all clamoring at a metal shipping container sitting across the road, plus half a dozen more headless on the ground. Standing on top of the container, two women fired guns down into the crowd. A Zed dropped, its head split wide open. John recognized Sara as one of the women but couldn’t yet tell who the other was. Sara began waving frantically to John.

John couldn’t see any way for them to get the trucks through without first killing the Zeds, so he pulled the dump truck closer to the barrier. He grabbed his MP5 and climbed out onto the side of the truck, through the driver’s side window, and up onto the roof. From his safe vantage point, he moved the selector on the MP5 to single fire and began shooting at the Zeds. Between his careful shooting, Sara’s point blank fire, and the other woman’s more random shooting, the crowd of undead began to thin.

“Is that Alison’s friend?” Harold asked, coming up to the side of the dump truck. He fired his 30-30, and another Zed fell.

“Her girlfriend, Dad. Marta. And yeah, that’s her,” John yelled down to his father. “Get up here.”

Harold slung his rifle over his shoulder and began to climb up the side of the truck. John reached his left hand down without looking, his right hand keeping his submachine gun trained on the four Zeds remaining at the barricade.

“Aaah!” Harold yelled out. John looked down, just as a female Zed in a dirty, ragged sundress ripped a bloody chunk of flesh from Harold’s left leg with her teeth. John brought his MP5 around and shot the woman in the face. He pulled the trigger again and again, the woman’s head becoming a bloody pulp before she finally fell. Harold hung there, screaming in agony. Roy ran up and stared in shock at Harold.

“Help Sara. Kill those fucking monsters!” John yelled, pulling his father up onto the roof. He pressed his hand over his father’s wound as he laid him down on the roof of the truck.

Between Roy, Sara, and Marta, the four remaining Zeds quickly fell. Sara and Marta disappeared down a ladder on the other side of the barricade.

John kept pressure on the wound, but blood spurted out between his hands faster than he could hold it in.

“Dammit, son. I didn’t see her. She must have been a straggler in the woods.” Harold said, clenching his teeth against the pain.

“It’s okay, Dad. It’s just a flesh wound. I’ve got first aid supplies back at the cabin.”

Harold pulled John’s hand away from his leg, letting the blood flow freely across the roof of the dump truck.