Authors: James Cook
It was almost the death of me.
While I sat there with my eyes closed, an undead with its throat torn out staggered out of the woods and saw me sitting on the roof of my truck. I heard a rustling in the brush beside me and looked up just as the ghoul made it to the side of the truck and reached for me. Before I could react, it had an iron grip on the bottom half of my pants leg and gave a tremendous heave, pulling me from the roof down into the truck bed. The back of my head struck the roof as I fell, and spots exploded in my vision. I landed painfully on the boxes and tools piled beneath me. The infected opened its mouth wide and continued pulling on my leg, trying to bring my ankle within biting range.
The strength of the thing was incredible. The only reason it hadn’t taken a bite out of me yet was because its left arm was severed at the elbow. It pulled my ass three feet with a single tug using only one arm. Normally, I would have been impressed, but at the time, I was so terrified that all I could do was let out a high-pitched girlish scream and flail around as the undead dragged me over my gear. I reached out with my arms, scrambling for purchase as the ghoul pulled my leg closer to its snapping jaws. My right hand closed on the handle of my crowbar as I thrashed and fought to get away from the horror in front of me.
The undead creature leaned forward and tried to bite down on my foot. I lunged upward with my other leg and turned so that the sole of my boot was the only thing in front of its mouth. The fucking bastard got my boot heel between its teeth and tore at it like a pit bull on a piece of rawhide. I kicked and pulled backward with my leg, but I couldn’t get free of the creature’s powerful grip. Adrenaline lent me a burst of desperately needed strength as I sat up and swung the crowbar at the thing’s head. The blow landed solidly, but not hard enough to kill the ghoul tearing at my boot.
I hit it a couple more times and it finally released my boot from its jaws. Whether the blows from the crowbar distracted it, or it was trying to find something else to chew on, I’m not really sure. It still had my pants leg clutched in its one remaining hand. I turned the crowbar in my grip and put the hooked end under the ghoul’s thumb. I gave it a hard tug and the creature’s thumb pried loose from my jeans, giving me enough slack to finally pull myself free of its grip. It immediately reached out for me again, but I managed to avoid it by leaping backward and out of the truck bed. I turned halfway over as I fell and landed heavily on my side, grunting and cursing loudly when I hit.
As I struggled to my feet, the ghoul came around the back of the truck and reached out to grab me. I turned and ran around the front of the truck, scrambled over the back of the H2 I nearly ran into, and sprinted a few yards up the road to give myself enough time to assume a balanced fighting stance. Once I had some breathing distance, I hefted the crowbar like a baseball bat and circled around to the undead’s left side as it stumbled forward. When it was just out of arm’s reach, I stepped in and swung the crowbar with all my strength, aiming for its temple. The hook end of the heavy tool penetrated the ghoul’s skull just behind the temple, and lodged several inches into its brain. It nearly pulled the crowbar from my grasp as it collapsed onto the pavement. I wrenched the bar free and bashed it several more times, screaming and cursing at the foul creature as I reduced its head to a pulped red mash.
After a minute or two of gruesome work, I stepped backward and leaned down with my hands on my knees, breathing hard. The wind shifted, bringing the scent of hundreds of dead bodies toward me, and I could no longer hold back my revulsion. I dropped the crowbar and heaved everything I had eaten that morning onto the highway. I went down to my knees and retched so hard I thought my ribs were going to break. After a few minutes of misery, the dry heaves subsided enough for me to pick up the crowbar and get back to my feet. I could hear rustling, crunching, and snapping as the undead in the woods along the highway wandered toward me. They must have heard the commotion from my fight with the rotten son of a bitch I had just killed.
I threw the crowbar into the back of the truck and hopped into the cab. I got the truck turned around and took off back the way I came. I drove two miles, far enough to get out of sight of the undead, and stopped in the middle of the road to plan my next move. Going north on 16, obviously, was not an option. The highway was the fastest route to get where I wanted to go, but there was no way to get around the pileup at the bridge. If I headed back the way I came, I would have to find my way through the horde at the intersection again. I was lucky to make it through the first time, I didn’t think it was a good idea to tempt fate with a second try. For a few tense moments, I racked my brain trying to come up with ideas. I checked my mirrors to make sure there weren’t any undead sneaking up on me, and saw nothing. That didn’t necessarily mean there weren’t any nearby. The foliage beside the highway was thick, and the road wound around sharp curves and traversed numerous hills. Sight distance was severely limited.
That gave me an idea.
If the undead I encountered earlier in the day had lost sight of me and couldn’t hear me, then based on what I had observed to that point, and read in Gabe’s manual, the infected should have lost interest by now and gone back to wandering aimlessly. Or whatever the hell it is they do when they’re not munching on people. I vaguely remembered passing some small side roads and farm trails on my way to the bridge. If the undead weren’t actively looking for me, I should be able to shoot down one of the smaller access roads and try to find another way to get on highway 16 north of the bridge. I put the truck back in gear and crept forward at less than twenty miles an hour so as not to miss any avenues of escape.
After driving about a mile and a half, I reached a gravel covered farm road that branched northward from the highway. I turned on to it and slowed the truck to a crawl to minimize noise and avoid kicking up too much dust. The narrow trail wound through several hundred yards of dense foliage before emerging into a clearing. The land on either side of the road opened up into huge soybean fields that spanned hundreds of acres in every direction. The plants stood thick and green in their long, orderly rows. A few months ago, they would have represented hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of crop. Now they were little more than a snack for the multitudes of deer that populated the area. I saw several Whitetail does and their young feasting on the ripe green pods, their long graceful necks raising their heads up as they watched me drive by. I hoped they kept their furry little heads on a swivel. It wouldn’t go well for them if one of the infected caught them off guard. I had nearly just learned that lesson the hard way.
As I followed the dirt road, I resolved to myself never to let my guard down like that again. Those rotten things could be anywhere. Danger could quite literally be lurking around every corner. If I expected to survive, I would have to be more vigilant. The three months I spent at my isolated home, far removed from the worst of the horror wrought upon the rest of the country, had made me too careless.
After a few miles, I crested a low hill and spotted a large two-story house atop a hill in the distance. A few minutes later, I reached it and slowed to a halt in the gravel driveway. I left the truck running, and the transmission in drive for a few minutes, as I looked around for any sign of movement. Not seeing any, I studied the house more closely. It was a beautiful, stately home with a broad front porch, and a balcony that spanned the entire length of the second floor. The balcony formed a roof for the porch supported by long, fluted white columns. The place looked like something out of a civil war movie. A large, four-car detached garage stood off to one side of the house, and hundreds of tall, magnificent oak trees surrounded the overgrown yard. The house had obviously been there for a long time, and most likely belonged to whoever had planted all the soybean fields.
To my left, I saw a large wooden structure that looked like a barn with the front and back walls removed. Two large green combines were parked beneath it, as well as what appeared to be different types of equipment that could be attached to them. Judging by the tall grass growing around them, they hadn’t been moved in a long time. If they had, the tractors would have crushed the grass leaving a visible trail to mark their path.
Not seeing any obvious danger, I shut off the truck and climbed out of the cab. I left the keys in the ignition just in case I needed to make a quick escape. I opened a plastic trunk that I had stowed most of my weapons in, and took out the Kel-Tec and one of the H&K assault rifles. I also took out my load bearing harness and several extra magazines for the guns. I strapped on the harness and holstered the pistol. I put the extra ammo in pockets across the front of my waist for easy access, and slung the rifle’s tactical sling over my shoulder. As an afterthought, I also took out my small sword and strapped it to my back on its makeshift harness. I positioned it for a left-handed draw, and then did a quick inventory of my ammo.
Including the magazines already loaded into the guns, I had four spare mags for each firearm. That gave me a hundred and fifty for the rifle, and a hundred fifty for the pistol. I checked both weapons to make sure the safety was off, and that they had a round in the chamber. Even with all the hardware, I was still apprehensive about approaching the farmhouse. If someone was in there, they would almost certainly have noticed my presence by now. Although I couldn’t see anything through the windows, they could just as easily be standing behind the door with a gun leveled at the entrance. Gabriel once told me that the cone shaped angle of fire presented by a doorway is called the Fatal Funnel in military and law enforcement circles. I did not relish the thought of catching a slug to the chest while breaking in.
I walked through knee-high grass to the steps and up onto the front porch. I held my rifle low, but kept my right hand on the handle in case I needed to bring it up quickly. I hesitated for a moment in front of the door, then raised my hand and knocked three times. Nothing happened. I knocked again, louder this time, and called out.
“Anybody home? Hello?”
My voice rang out loudly in the still, quiet air. It broke the silence so harshly that I actually startled myself. I listened for a few moments and still didn’t hear anything from the other side of the door. I reached forward and tried the handle. It was unlocked, and I opened it slowly, peering inside as I did so.
“Hello? Is anyone in here? I’m coming inside, okay? If you have a weapon, please don’t shoot. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Tentatively, I stepped into the house. Closing the door behind me, I stood in the foyer for a few moments as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. I would have to remember to bring a flashlight next time. I took a few steps forward and winced as the hardwood floor groaned and creaked beneath my work boots. I went through a wide doorway into a sitting room filled with old, well-worn furniture. I called out again, but no one answered. I made my way through the lower floors of the house checking all the rooms I came to. In addition to the sitting room, there was a den with a flat screen TV and a DVD player, a large home office with cherry stained bookshelves and a massive oak desk, a bathroom, a wide, airy kitchen with windows that overlooked the back yard, and a large walk-in pantry. I debated raiding the kitchen, and decided I should check the rest of the house before taking anything. I walked up the staircase and made sure that my footsteps were loud and deliberate. If anyone was upstairs, I wanted them to know that I wasn’t trying to sneak around, just in case all the shouting and knocking hadn’t gotten the job done.
The upstairs consisted of four bedrooms, and what must have been a children’s playroom. The playroom had a television and a video game console, as well as several toy boxes on low shelves. I found no evidence in any of the rooms that anyone had been there recently. A thin coating of dust covered everything in the house, and the closets and drawers in the bedrooms were missing most of the clothing in them. I went back downstairs to check the kitchen, and found that most of the shelves in the cupboard and pantry were empty. A few stray cans of food littered the ground, and a bag of flour lay burst open on the floor. I went down a narrow hallway from the kitchen that led to the back yard. The back door opened outward, and was hanging half open. Whoever lived here must have left in a hurry.
I walked out the back door and over to the detached garage. There was a door on the far side of the building, and I tried the handle. Locked.
That figures.
I thought.
Leave your house wide open, but lock your damn garage.
A man had definitely lived here. Only men are capable of that kind of obsessive protectiveness for cars and tools.
I figured that whoever this place belonged to must have left a long time ago, so I went back to the truck and got my crowbar. I used it to break open the door to the garage. Inside, I found an old red work truck, a Ford Crown Victoria, and a Yamaha Rhino. One of the spaces was empty, save for tire marks and a few oil stains. A large workbench and numerous shelves lined the near wall, as well as a massive toolbox and an empty gun cabinet. The gun cabinet’s glass door was open, and the drawer for storing ammo in the bottom was missing. I didn’t see it laying around anywhere, so I guessed that whoever took it must have used it as a box to carry the ammo to the missing vehicle.