The driver, a thirty something man, looked like he spent a lot of time at the gym. A little girl, no older than seven or eight, separated him from a disheveled woman who looked to be in her late sixties. “I know what you mean,” the man said. “I started out alone, and met up with these folks along the way. We’ve come across some pretty bad shit out there.”
The little girl gasped at his use of profanity, and I smiled thinking she would probably have a heart attack after spending an hour with me.
“My name is Adam,” the man said, “and this is Gabby and Margie.”
They waved a hello to us. A smile beamed from little Gabby’s face and I thought how odd and out of place the expression was given the circumstances.
“The Talbot’s are bringing up the rear.” He hooked his thumb toward the bed of the truck where a couple in their forties sat gripping the sides for support.
“I’m Jake Rossi, and this is my wife Emma. Where you folks headed?”
A hand latched onto the tailgate of the truck and the head of one of the undead peered over and attempted to claw its way into the bed. Mr. Talbot picked up a bloody baseball bat and swung it at the head. A wet crunch sounded and the body fell out of view. “Hey, Adam, we should probably get this show on the road. The natives are getting restless back here.”
Adam looked around for more threats; a massive group of zombies was about a hundred feet away from the cars. “We’ve been trying to get to the gunshots for the last hour. I know we’re getting closer, but these streets are a bitch to navigate.”
“Tell me about it,” I replied in exasperation. “Got room for two more back there? This hunk of junk is running on fumes.”
“Hop in.” Adam glanced in the rearview mirror. “Better make quick work of it though. It’s time to leave this party.”
The zombies were closing ranks on our little caravan and pretty soon they would block us in.
We grabbed our gear, and ran around the cars to the truck. I peered into the cab and addressed Gabby. “Hey, sweetie, I’ve got someone special with me, and I could really use your help. Do you think you’re up for it?” She looked perplexed until I passed the tote bag holding Daphne through the window, and she peered in at her. Shaking her head, she took the dog out of the bag and gave her a squeeze.
“Her name is Daphne,” I said.
Gabby let loose a squeal of delight and giggled as Daphne licked her face. I hopped into the bed of the truck with Jake, content that Daphne would be safe while providing some well-needed pleasure for the little girl.
Jake pounded the top of the cab and Adam got moving. The ride was bumpy, and I got jostled as we hit debris left from the storm and bounced over still-writhing bodies. My ass would be bruised tomorrow for sure, assuming there was a tomorrow.
The storm had puttered out after its grand finale tornado. Everything was still. The sky was a dull gray, and the only wind in my hair was from being in the bed of the moving truck. I’d heard the term calm before the storm before, and wondered if the same was usually true for after the storm. The evidence of its reckoning sullying the landscape was the only indication it had ever been here.
We drove closer to the fray and the gunshots grew louder. The sound of men yelling reached us, and we rounded the corner to see a war zone. Bodies were piled in the street, unmoving, and surrounded by a group of at least fifty of America’s finest men, all clad in gray and tan-patterned fatigues and toting some major firepower. Behind them, buildings burned. The men on foot were followed by a line of trucks decorated in camouflage. Some of the trucks were Humvees while others looked to be transport vehicles. Green tarps covered the backs of the latter trucks. A pair of survivors ran from a house as they passed and were ushered into one of the tarp trucks. Ten men walked behind the convoy, picking off stragglers missed in the initial wave.
The group of us cheered at the scene and an immense sense of relief washed over me. Tears of joy stained my cheeks as I punched my fist in the air in true John Bender fashion. What can I say, The Breakfast Club is only the best movie ever made.
The convoy caught up to us and halted their progression. A burly man with half an unlit cigar between his teeth approached the pickup, gun slung over his shoulder. He stepped to the front and greeted our group.
“Welcome to the front lines, civvies. First Lieutenant Dan Gripes, United States Army and last bastion of defense at your service.” He gave us a stone-faced nod, and I stifled an awkward laugh as visions of Forrest Gump played out in my mind. His eyes darted between us and the surrounding area while he spoke. Haunted eyes that looked as if they’d seen things—horrible things, they couldn’t unsee—looked back at me. His fatigues were a mixture of faded green and red, reminding me of a morbid Christmas movie. On closer inspection I realized the uniform was covered in blood and gore.
Jake, slipping back into army mode, stood up on the truck bed and gave the commanding officer a stiff salute. “Corporal Jake Rossi, sir.”
Chapter 11
…And into the Fire
“At ease, soldier.” Lieutenant Dan turned back to the convoy. “Echo team. Move out.” Addressing Adam, he instructed us to pull in behind the transport and follow the convoy back to base.
The occupants in the back of the truck were alive with speculation as we followed the convoy. The ten men bringing up the rear on foot extended their circle of defense to include our truck. We coasted east along Veterans Parkway at a whopping four miles an hour as the soldiers laid down cover fire and exterminated any threats to cross our path. The whomp-whomp sound of helicopter blades getting closer alerted us to a small medevac chopper as it flew overhead.
I could hear the crackle of a nearby soldier’s radio, but couldn’t make out the words. Whatever came through that radio caused the soldier to go stiff, pivot, and turn to the front of the convoy. I looked, but I couldn’t see over the truck in front of us. The sound of renewed gunfire made me jump, and I held onto Jake.
The line of vehicles stopped moving and the shots came more frequently, reminding me of a Fourth of July’s grand finale. The soldiers defending the rear ran forward and out of view, leaving us undefended against the slow and converging mass. The screams of men trickled back to us, and I stood panicked in the bed of the truck. Unsure of what to do, I ran through possible scenarios in my head. Were we safer here, in the unmoving meat train laid out like a buffet? Or were we better off making a run for it?
The vibration of another explosion rocked the truck on its suspension. I threw my palms over my ears and opened my mouth to equalize the pressure, only to be thrown flat on my back as the concussion reverberated through my bones. A rushing cloud of black soot blew through the group and left us caked in dust. The others were looking around, too, speaking and gesticulating wildly, but I couldn’t understand what was being said. I could see the whites of their eyes as I looked from one member of my group to another. The truck began to move again. As we limped along at a snail’s pace, our rear defenders began to rejoin us. Once ten, their numbers had dwindled to six.
The truck’s suspension began to bounce again as it ran over bodies, and the site of the explosion came into view. Unrecognizable body parts lay in front of a three-story apartment building engulfed in flames. The pungent scent of rancid meat being barbecued caused my stomach to turn.
As flames licked up the building, a third floor window exploded outward and revealed the upper body of a screaming woman, silhouetted by flames that inched toward her. She screamed for help, but no one moved in her direction. There was no use in trying. The only way in was a burning fire pit. She looked down at us, devastation plain on her face. She had been so close to rescue, and now watched as her only chance at salvation passed her by.