The battle over, he leaned against the wall above his handiwork, panting heavily. Megan let the hand holding the gun drop to her lap and took a deep breath herself. The other stiff, the one George had pulled off of her, lay nearby, its neck bent awkwardly where it had been brutally snapped.
A moment later, George loomed over Megan, his arm extended. He no longer looked frightened, as he had when he was wielding the rifle. His jaw was set, and she could see the determined look in his eyes.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Megan nodded and took his hand. George pulled her up like she weighed nothing. She looked into the van and saw Jason in the doorway, staring out at them. The rifle George had discarded was in his hands, and his eyes held a tinge of fear.
Megan gave him a wink, and Jason responded with a nervous smile. She stuffed the revolver into her pants and moved toward the garage door. George stood watch, tensed for more action, peering through the shattered doorway leading into the house.
She pressed her ear to the wood and listened. There was a great deal of moaning, but none from nearby as far as she could tell. Jeff was still keeping the infected at bay. Megan leaned down to pull the heavy door up by its handle, certain that sooner or later one of his crazy stunts was going to end up getting him killed.
“If he isn’t dead already,” she mumbled under her breath.
Jeff spotted the van after it pulled out of the garage. Megan spun the wheel in a one-eighty so it faced the road and caught sight of him as he waved her forward. The infected were all over the yard, most falling all over one another in an effort to close on him as he pranced around and taunted them. He had taken the occasional potshot with the rifle, but the yard was a wide expanse and had given him plenty of room to maneuver and avoid the threatening embrace of the infected.
Megan drove in his direction, knocking aside a few stiff bodies attracted by the growling engine. As she drew closer, Jeff waved again, relief painted on his face.
The van skidded to a halt on the grass, and the sliding door opened. Jeff ran for it, and George’s beefy arm shot out, grabbed hold of his shirt and yanked him in. Megan floored it, and they shot down the gravel drive, spraying rocks and dust behind them.
Jeff let out a cheer and pumped his fist as George glared at him. “Woo hoo! We made it!”
“You’re fucking nuts! Do you know that?” George said, shaking his head.
Jeff let out a wild, breathless laugh. His face was red with exhaustion, but he felt invigorated.
“Yep, but I’m still alive,” he said as he slapped George on the back. “We’re all still alive!”
George just gave him another sour look, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
Megan pulled them out onto the road, and her eyes widened when she saw how many ghouls were stomping through the cornfields, moving toward the house. Jeff slid into the passenger seat beside her, the grin still on his face. When he looked up and saw the crowd of stiffened bodies, his smile faltered.
“This is never going to end, is it?” she asked quietly.
Jeff stared at a boy in a pair of overalls hobbling toward the van, his stiff legs betraying him as the vehicle passed. He tumbled to the ground and raised his arm again, still reaching for them.
Jeff had no answer for Megan. His smile faded as he let his head touch the window. He didn’t say a word, just watched the endless rows of corn fly by.
Chapter 23
Megan drove slowly, staring out at the flat expanse ahead. The debate over where to go had been short, and she had been in the minority. Manchester was the logical place for them to look for other survivors and a car for George. Even after having lived through Milfield and Gallatin, Jeff was the biggest proponent of checking out the town.
She glanced off into the distance, seeing the occasional stiff body moving in their direction but none close to the road. Many of the buildings and houses looked normal. It took a discerning eye to see the occasional broken window, door hanging ajar, or splash of blood on a sidewalk that broke up the monotony.
As they rolled on, there were no abrupt changes to the landscape, but it was clear they were getting close to Manchester. The houses, previously spread out, were starting to bunch up again. The telephone poles, always a constant alongside the road, were becoming more prolific.
A speed limit sign told them they needed to slow down to forty-five. It was an indication that they were getting close to the town. Beyond the sign were several abandoned vehicles that had been tossed around like matchbox cars. None was in good shape, and many were turned on their sides or flipped entirely.
Up ahead, the road curved out of sight. Before that, it narrowed slightly where a train bridge ran across it. A bright yellow sign hung on the overpass indicating the maximum height at which a vehicle could safely pass underneath. The cheery note stood out against a drab brown backdrop of rusted metal. Megan stared at the opening apprehensively as they moved closer.
No vehicles blocked their passage, but there was a pickup truck that had slammed into the guard rail. The back of the Tundra still peeked out of the ditch on the right side of the road.
“Here we go. Manchester straight ahead,” Jeff announced.
George was behind Megan, and she could almost feel his breath on her neck as he gawked at the damaged vehicles. She heard a grunt of frustration when he saw that none were in driving condition.
As they emerged from beneath the bridge, nothing in the scenery changed. The van glided around a curve in the road that moved them southeast. Four sets of eyes scanning the immediate area for signs of activity saw none. There was no indication of military presence: no barricades, no razor wire, and no corpses.
The road continued to serpentine, now to the north as they moved closer to Manchester. To the left, they saw a plain, squared-off cinderblock building that looked like a bomb had gone off in it. A gaping hole on its front allowed them to see that the inside looked as bad as the exterior. There was a ragged stump of a lamppost in the parking lot. The metal shaft had snapped in several places and was spread across the roadway. The cement base was still intact, and the metal shards sprouting out of it vomited corroded wires. Only the free-standing awning over four gas pumps and a darkened outline of the letters M-A-R-T on the side of the structure gave any hint as to what purpose the building had once served.
A road cut north before the gas station. A sign, badly damaged, pointed travelers down the path, but it was hard to tell what the name of the road was. The sign was bent sideways and caked with layers of clay or mud. As Megan looked closer, her stomach roiled. Some of the filth on the sign was ropy and viscous.
“That’s Route 123.”
Megan glanced over at Jeff, glad for the distraction of his voice as he pointed at the road in question.
“It splits to the north here but merges with the main drag ahead of us. We’ll have to go a bit farther into town and then maybe we can turn south.”
That had been the plan. They would find a car for George, wish him luck, and then find some road that wasn’t too clogged, which would hopefully lead them farther from more clots of infected population.
Megan slowed the van and scanned the gas station. Nothing stirred, and they continued to roll along. Beyond it, the roadway looked almost normal, like it would in any sleepy Midwestern town. She gave the building another glance as they passed and noticed more signs facing away from them on the left side of the road. Passing by, she glanced back at them. One welcomed drivers to Harris Township while another informed them they were entering Warren and leaving Clinton County. The other two narrow green signs gave distance markers for towns that were north on Route 123.
George tightened his grip on the back of Megan’s chair as he stared at the last two signs. The words on them were: Morris 10 and Liston 19.