“Lost.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“No…that’s what Amissus means.” He walked over, the bag now tilted up as he poured its contents into his eager mouth. “Have you found any green tea? I’m thirsty.”
“No green tea, there’s some water in this car though. Amissus means lost?”
“Latin.”
“You know Latin?”
“Nope.” He grabbed the water bottle and headed back to his stash.
“Thanks for the clarification.”
He raised his bottle up in response.
What I assumed was the expiration sticker read 14.14.13, I scratched my head again. Even if this was some sort of British thing where they put the year first (talk about strange), this date still made no sense. Any way you looked at it, there was either most likely fourteen months or thirteen; still more than the normal twelve I was used to. I could feel the deep pulses of a killer headache beginning to radiate out from the center of my taxed mind. No matter how hard I looked, the placard was not going to yield anymore knowledge except that I was ‘screwed’ and ‘lost’. I wanted to tell the gods they could kiss my ass, but apparently they already had, and hard.
I debated looking in the glove box, but I was fairly certain the registration would have a street address of Ha Ha Lane or something equally as inane, and we needed to get away from the howler’s hunting grounds. John was like a machine when it came to eating. I figured at some point he would have to yield to the limits of his stomach, but just when I figured he was getting to the breaking point, the soft sweet smell of seductive smoke would drift lazily around us. His supply of medicinal marijuana seemed to rival his Phrito hoard.
It took approximately somewhere in the neighborhood of triple digit cars ransacked before sweet Mother Mercy yielded her prize. Although ‘prize’ is grossly exaggerated. There was a box of 22s—close to fifty. Great little round, but without something to shoot them out of, they were virtually useless. I tore everything out of the car, hoping that whoever had been in here had just so happened to leave behind the projectile launcher.
“Holy sweet mother of all that is sanctimonious!” I shouted as my hand came in contact with the cold steel of gun metal. I was in an awkward position, leaning over the back seat of the car, my hand thrust out as far as it could go under the driver’s seat when I felt it. When I pulled my hand back with ‘prize’ in hand, I moaned.
“It’s a fucking Derringer.” I sighed.
“Can you eat them?” John asked, coming over quickly. He slouched back to lightening his load when he realized it was a gun.
But to call a Derringer a gun was the same as calling a Yugo a luxury car. The gun was all of three inches long, the barrel maybe half that. It had two chambers where I could put one round each and, unless a howler walked up and literally let me press this thing against its head, it was useless.
Who the fuck brings a Derringer to an apocalypse?
I’m not kidding when I say you’d be better off with John’s slingshot. Don’t get me wrong, I took it and, after loading it, I stuffed it in my pocket. Worst-case scenario, it would be my early checking-out implement. I was not going to be eaten, at least not alive. I felt somewhat better with my find. Then it dawned on me, now that I wasn’t quite so fixated on locating ammo. Where were all the people from the cars? They had left in a hurry, but not in an outright panic. The supplies left over looked mostly to be what was too heavy or unimportant. I’d been in enough situations that I could tell the subtle difference. When you and your family’s lives were in danger, nothing else mattered, not even fire engine red Jeeps.
We passed cars in various stages of disarray. The pull was strong to check each of them, but the odds seemed less than worthwhile of finding anything of note, and that big, giant, uncaring survival clock was ticking in the back of my head. The howlers seemed a creature of the night, I had a couple of points to validate my argument. The first being that we hadn’t heard or seen one in the day and second they headed for parts unknown at the first hint of daylight. We needed to take more advantage of the howler free hours.
We came across a turned over RV which reminded me of Little Turtle, my fallen community. It produced an unwelcome pang in my heart. It looked like a decent place to set up shop for the night, and I just may have if not for the relative proximity to our Phrito truck. Short of being on the other side of the planet, or in an underground bunker, I just wasn’t going to feel safe. There had to be something better, didn’t there? Plus…the smell, yeah that was no bargain. Picture an unwashed zombie. I don’t know how much more I need to say about it really. My eyes watered just getting near it. I wondered for a moment if anything was in it besides bodies, and then we moved on.
Jack Walker — Great Balls of Fire
Luckily, it’s fairly easy to maneuver around the cars. That’s good, or maybe not. If there was a jam that couldn’t be walked through, or in my case now, jogged through, then perhaps the horde couldn’t get through. That wouldn’t take care of the cross-country team hot on my heels, as I’ve seen them leap cars, but it would take care of the others. I can’t keep the pace up all day and night, so I’ll have to figure out something in the interim. The thing I have to do now is to remove the immediate threat closing in.
Turning, I brace myself along the top of a pickup hood, looking back down the road. The runners have marginally closed the distance. My pace has created a little space between them and those following, which is the best that I can hope for at this point. I’m feeling a touch on the winded side with having to carry the supplies I picked up, along with the rest of my gear. It’s not only time to rest, but time to lessen the amount of creatures attempting to run me down.
I bring my crosshair onto the nearest one, who is running through a small avenue between the cars. I’ll have to make head shots, which makes everything inherently more difficult. I thought the world I was in was fucked up, but I like this one even less, aside from the fact that I don’t know what happened to my kids…or Lynn. Yeah, that alarm clock can go off anytime now, thanks. I won’t even hit the snooze button.
Allowing for bullet drop, I raise the center of the crosshair to a few inches above the creature’s head. I won’t bore you with the mil-dot details. Luckily, it’s running directly at me which makes it a bit easier. I put pressure on the trigger and feel a light kick as a round speeds on its way toward its intended meeting. I send a second chasing after it. The first round strikes just off center on the forehead, causing its skull to rock back from the collision. Its head stops while the feet continue, and the zombie crashes to the ground like a player sliding into second. The second round zips over the top of the falling body and slams into the windshield of a pickup behind.
I shift my aim to another lane of cars, centering on another leaping figure heading slightly from my left to right. Leading it slightly, another kick to my shoulder lets me know another round is streaking outward. With a spray of black liquid, the bullet smashes into the side of its head near the temple. I observe it fall behind a vehicle, hopefully meeting its death.
Two down, eighteen to go, I think, rising off the hood and continuing my merry jaunt down the road.
Stopping at another vehicle, I lean across the trunk. They’ve closed the distance more than expected; I’m going to have to be quicker about this whole thing. Adrenaline is masking some of my tiredness, but that won’t last forever. Screams from the runners echo off the wall of trees to either side. Settling my elbows on the grit and grime covering the car, I take quick aim at one of the runners. Dark, viscous liquid forms a mist about its face as my bullet again strikes home. It too vanishes from view behind one of the cars.