Not many more. Maybe ten.
“You hear that, Myron?” Stanton asked as he reached for a body.
“What?”
“That clicking sound?”
Myron lifted his head. “Sounds more like a clack.”
“Whatever it sounds like, what is it?” He grabbed the arms of a woman and pulled her toward the pile.
“Maybe something electronic? A clock?”
“Who knows? Something isn’t right. Has a weird feel about it, you know?”
“I kind of do. Let’s get that truck and get out.” Myron pulled down his scarf and smiled. ‘Hey! It started.”
Beret honked the horn three times.
Stanton laughed. Surely if there were survivors, they’d hear that horn. He brought the woman’s body to the pile, and because she was light, he hoisted her up some. As he brought her down, a hand reached from the pile and clasped onto his wrist.
“Shit!” With a twist of his body, he swung forth his rifle and before he could pull his hand completely away, teeth seared into his hand. He felt the bones crush and the warm sensation of blood. He didn’t scream in pain, instead calling out for Myron, and shot into the pile.
At that second all the bodies started to move.
Stanton didn’t stand a chance. He felt the bite into his thigh, another to his forearm. He was grabbed so quickly, his reactions were limited. He fired his weapon, calling out for Myron. He couldn’t see him and didn’t know what Myron was doing.
Too many hands were on him, pulling him, grabbing. The horrendous pain hit his stomach and Stanton knew he was done when he looked down and saw a hand reaching into his gut.
“Myron!”
Myron heard Stanton cry out, but he couldn’t see him anymore. One second he heard the shot, looked over at the call of his name, and within five seconds, before Myron could make it to him, Stanton was encompassed.
Nearly every single body that lay on the street began to get up.
Beret swung the baseball ball, but it didn’t do much good. Other than in a video game, Myron had never fired a gun. He didn’t have a clue how many shots he had.
Instead of wasting the shots, he used the pistol as a blunt weapon, and joined Beret in pulling and hitting the Ragers away from Stanton. Their only saving grace was the Ragers didn’t attack them, they did, however strike defensively. Myron felt nails dig into his skin every time he pulled a Rager away.
Finally, he pulled and clubbed enough of them to see Stanton. He was still alive. The Ragers were feasting on him, pulling at his insides, finding new places not eaten.
Stanton didn’t cry for help. Eyes connecting to Myron, blood spewed from his mouth when he coughed and then said, “Don’t… don’t let me turn. Shoot me. Shoot. Me.”
Myron stood there, hand extended, holding the pistol. It was already cocked and ready to shoot. His hand shook and Myron wanted to scream. At that point he knew he didn’t have a choice. Stanton did not deserve that death and certainly didn’t deserve to turn.
Whispering, “Forgive me,” Myron aimed with a trembling hand and fired. The shot hit Stanton on the left cheekbone, killing him instantly.
A collision of emotions slammed into his gut and rumbled through his body. Myron was engaged in an inner struggle, crying out in utter turmoil. Sadness, pain, anger. He fired at the Ragers until he had nothing left to deliver.
Amidst it all and the horde of Ragers, Myron dropped to his knees.
“Let’s go,” Beret said. “Let’s make a run for it. Now.”
Myron couldn’t move, he folded right there, trying to comprehend what he had done. Even though it was what needed to be done, he couldn’t process it.
“Now!” Beret shouted.
It wasn’t Beret that motivated Myron to lift his head. It was the sound of a child’s scream, crying out for help. She was close and upon hearing that, Myron reached into the bloody mess and grabbed Stanton’s rifle.
What had gone wrong? They were moving nicely down the main road and then suddenly the streets were lined with the bodies of the infected.
Grace couldn’t see much in front of them, only what she could make out from the window. She pulled Candice close to her.
The car bounced as they slowly rode over the bodies.
“There’s a side street up ahead. I’ll pull down there,” Eugene said.
“Do that. Jesus. How did they all die?” Max asked.
“I don’t know,” Eugene answered. “Maybe it’s over.”
He had spoken too soon.
“Oh, shit.” Max grabbed the dashboard. “They’re all getting up!”
Eugene gunned it and the car jerked. An infected jumped up at the car, and Eugene jerked to the left. Bodies of the infected thumped and banged into the car as Eugene hit them, but he lost control and the car slammed hard into another car parked on the road.
The front airbags immediately ejected. The steering wheel bag into Eugene with such force it knocked him out cold.
The Ragers surged forward.
“Get her out of here!” Max yelled.
Grace looked out the back window, there were no infected there, that was her best bet. “Grab on to me and hold tight,” Grace told Candice, and reached for the door handle. An infected lunged for the car and she kicked out the door as hard as she could.
The infected flew back and Grace, mentally keeping it together and focused, swung her daughter to her hip and ran in the opposite direction away from the car.
Candice was heavy, but she clung tight, and while it slowed Grace down, it was safer for her daughter than running on her own.
Grace spotted the salvation of a corner tavern. The glass on the front door was busted and getting cut by the glass or not, getting inside was her goal.
Get inside, hide, run up the stairs. Something.
She made it there, believing with every bit of her heart she was safe, until three infected came from around the corner.
In trying to get to Candice, they grabbed onto Grace and Candice screamed long and loud. She had to keep any part of Candice from being exposed. From them touching her. Grace pulled Candice from her hip at the door. “Run in!”
She prayed there were no infected inside when Candice ran through the hole in the glass, screaming the entire time. Grace bodily blocked the doorframe, holding out her arms as a barricade. She tried to see Candice but she couldn’t. Finally, her strength gave out and Grace fell through the door.
To her advantage, the ones who managed to get inside tripped over the doorframe, and Grace grabbed the first chair she could, hitting them. It wasn’t enough.
“Mommy!”
“Hide, Candice, hide!” Grace’s stomach twisted and turned and she feared that the infected had her child.
In one last attempt at victory, Grace swung out a chair, nailing an infected and breaking free.
Crying, Candice stood behind the bar in front of a door.
“It’s locked!” Candice cried and then screamed.
Grace peered over her shoulder and saw the crowd coming. She tucked Candice as best as she could between herself and the door and begged that if it were the end, it would come quick.
It was the end.
She felt the hand grab onto her back, the nails digging against her shoulder blade and then she heard gunshots. They were rapid, not single, a couple dozen. The weight of the infected that was attacking her fell into Grace and she heard the thump as he hit the floor.
“Are you okay?” a male voice asked. She didn’t recognize it.
Grace turned around to see a shorter man holding a baseball bat, standing right behind her, he obviously had bludgeoned the infected that attacked her. Across the room, a burly younger man held a rifle.
“Thank you,” Grace said breathlessly. “Thank you so much.”