“You’re an idiot.” Big
Mike said. Squinting up the hill, he added, “Looks like some are stopping. Cook
off another shot.”
Another boom, and it was
clear that quite a few had caught sight of the meat wagons on the road and were
redirecting their efforts. Many had already topped the hill and many more were
continuing their upward climb, but Trips’ efforts had drawn a huge portion of
them.
Big Mike looked up at the
mass of demented headed their way and said, “I think it’s time to move. Let’s
circle around…I bet Blue Creek is free of wrecks.”
Trips pulled the rifle
back in, popped out the mag and began topping it off. “Jimmy and I drove it a
few days back, wasn’t nuttin. Should still be clear.”
Stomping on the gas, their
truck tires squealed on the pavement, and a dark cloud of smoke billowed out of
their exhaust pipe. The remaining two vehicles accelerated through the cloud,
trying to keep up.
Ripping around the corner,
Tom saw Hank pulling up his rifle, directly in front of him were Rachael and
the kid, backing away from several undead. Hank fired his rifle, hitting the
first one in the neck, tearing away a huge chunk of flesh. The slow moving
corpse’s head flopped to the side, his ear resting on his shoulder, but despite
the near decapitation it continued its slow procession forward. Quickly
chambering another round, Hank fired again, dropping the stubborn thing with a
well-placed shot to the face.
Continuing to sprint
toward them, Tom yelled, “Run! There coming!”
Both Rachael and the kid
turned toward him, looks of panic on their
faces. It was clear they were torn whether they should continue to back away
from the slow moving immediate threat or heed his command and run toward
them. Their eyes were wide open, mouths gaping,
legs unmoving, they were like deer caught in headlights.
Rather than try to talk
sense into them Tom continued to sprint directly at them, knowing they would
figure it out. Hank was well aware of the threat that was sure to come and had
already started to run directly toward the undead. He slung his rifle, drawing
his sidearm. Racing past Rachael
and the kid, he slowed before the first zombie and raised his pistol, firing
directly into the staggering girl’s face. She collapsed to the ground.
The shot seemed to pull
Rachael and the kid out of their stupor. Both of them simultaneously spun
around, following after Hank in a rush.
Pop. Pop.
Two more toppled to the
ground.
Tom could hear a cascade
of moans echoing out from between the packed in homes. Looking to the sides, he
saw undead stumbling their way between the houses, drawn to the noise. Up
until now he had not noticed the smell, but with each deep breath
he sucked in the rotting stench of the dead. The
development seemed like a logical reprieve from the fast moving demented that
chased them, but maybe it was a death trap, filled with the undead. In small
numbers their slow movements made them easy targets, but if this subdivision
was filled with them it would be a different story.
Dotting the street were
car wrecks and piles of debris that likely blew in, accumulating over time.
Tom could see one of the undead inside the nearest car, its face up against the
window as it pounded on the glass, unable to figure out how to get out. Its
movements were slow, seeming to take every bit of energy the hideous thing
had. If this was any evidence, Tom was sure that many of the houses likely
still had lingering residents, waiting for a meal to walk in the door.
Rather than waste ammo
and time, Tom continued to sprint toward the others, knowing the slow movers to
the sides would never catch up to him. Using his pistol, Hank had cleared the
street immediately in front. Rachael and the kid were just catching up to
him. The three of them began to slow and turn back toward Tom to see if he
followed. Their eyes opened wide with shock, seeing what followed him. They
knew of the insurmountable numbers that were following them, but to see them so
close nearly brought them to their knees.
Rachael let out a scream.
“Keep moving.” Tom
shouted as he sprinted up to them. “Go, just run.” Needing no further
encouragement, they all turned and ran with everything they had.
The air was filled with
the sounds of feet hitting pavement and the horrible growls and shrieks of the
demented. The trailing horde was so loud they could not hear their own
footsteps or heavy breathing. Undead were staggering out from behind cars and
between houses, steadily squeezing them into a narrowing funnel. Occasionally
Hank or Tom had to slow, raise their weapon, and fire a shot to clear their
path, allowing the trailing horde to gain some
ground.
Daring to glance back,
Tom saw the most terrifying sight he could imagine. The street, sidewalks, and
lawns were packed with the demented, one surging mass of flailing arms and
bared teeth. There were so many and they were so frantic that individual
bodies were indistinguishable from one another. They were a tidal wave that
had risen from the sea of hell, looking for bodies to add to their surging
mass. And they were close.
The four of them
continued to race down the street, looking for something, anything that might
give them a chance. After having run up the steep hillside, down the other
side, and now through block after block of subdivision, each of them was
nearing their breaking point. The adrenaline had long since worn off, replaced
by fatigue and pain.
It was Rachael that said
something first, “I can’t keep going.” Her breathing was labored, a monumental
effort just to get the words out.
Tom looked at the rest of
the group and found Hank was in similar shape. His long stride had shortened
and he was beginning to slow, sweat pouring from his forehead. Next to him ran
the kid. He was clearly in the best running shape of all of them. With a
steady stride and rhythmic breathing it looked as if he could maintain this
pace for longer than the others, but not forever.
Not in the best shape of
his life, but no slacker either, Tom was definitely feeling the effects of
everything they had been through, and he knew this could not go on much longer.
The lactic acid in his muscles stung throughout his legs. The demented
continued to gain on them.
There was one thing Tom had discovered through all
of his training with clients – it was the mind that first told the average
person that they were fatigued and needed to stop. If a person was able to
overcome these mental barriers their body would continue to perform for quite
some time beyond what seemed possible.
Knowing they had to
continue on, he said, “Just a little farther. Don’t give up now.” He had no
idea how to get them out of this, but hope
often provided fuel.
It was a couple blocks
later that Tom hit on a possible way out and
it was a flashback to their escape from Portland that triggered it. He
remembered back to the boats out on the Columbia River filled with survivors,
and the shore dotted with demented, none testing the cold waters. Hoping they
truly had an aversion to water, he said, “Not much farther, I have an idea.”
Nobody said anything in response.
Continuing to sprint
through the subdivision, Tom took them on a winding path that lead through
several blocks of destruction and deserted streets. He was just familiar
enough with the area to know which direction the main arterial ran and what lay
along it. If he didn't find it soon they were finished.
“I can’t…I can’t go any
more.” Rachael said as she began to slow. She had hit the wall and as anyone
that tried sustaining a sprint knew, it was a wall, not some sand or mud that
slowed you, but a solid, progress halting wall.
“Rachael!” Tom shouted
with anger. “You have to or I’m stopping with you.” He could see she was
trying, tears streaming down her face with exhaustion. “We will both die, you
have to push through.” A quick glance back revealed the demented were less
than a half block back, nearly on top of them, their angered faces clearly
visible.
Rachael’s face tightened
into a grimace and she screamed out. Not a girlie scream, but a caveman like
grunt of power. She had dug deeper. Tom knew she could. Everyone had it in
them, but only a few were ever put in a situation to require it and even fewer
were mentally able to make the reach.
Rounding the next corner,
Tom saw what he had been searching for. When the subdivision was first built
they had created a giant manmade lake, a marketing ploy to attract potential
homeowners. Its steep banks dropped into the water and continued to a depth of
about twelve feet and maintained that depth across its
nearly two football field width. As long as the demented had no desire
to enter the dark water, it would take them quite some time to circle
its nearly mile long shoreline, and that was if they were smart enough to
realize going around was an option. As a backup, Tom hoped that if they were
unafraid of the water, that they had at least lost the mental capacity to be
able to swim.
All four of them hopped
over the small barrier that separated the roadway from the walking path that
circled the lake, and jumped off the bank into the water. Under different circumstances
the cool water would have felt refreshing, but this never crossed any of their
minds as they bobbed back to the surface, kicking hard to keep afloat. Their
weapons and gear weighed on them, trying to pull them under the surface.
Tom coughed and sputtered
as he shifted the sling on his M4 over his head to keep it from slipping off.
“Drop your gear if you have to.” Flipping over onto his back, he tried to relax
and take long powerful strokes with his arms and legs.
Looking back, he watched
as the wave of demented came flowing over the barrier and skidding to a halt at
the water’s bank. The surge was too great and as more demented came rushing
forward those in the front were toppled into the lake. Tom’s heart raced
watching the bodies tumble into the same water he was in. Trying not to panic,
he continued to focus on swimming away from the edge.
Arms and legs thrashed
and flailed in the water as more demented continued to pour over the steep bank
and down into the water. Those that remained on land looked out at their prey,
barking and growling in rage. Watching the water’s edge, Tom saw several heads
pop back above the surface, surrounded by arms, legs, and splashing water. His
heart sank, dreading the thought of those things swimming after them. Continuing to watch, he saw the same heads begin
to drop below the surface, disappearing under the thrashing waves.
As the last few
struggling bodies sank below the water, only a line of angered demented
remained. Other than slight ripples along the shoreline, there was no sign of
those that had entered the lake. “We’re clear guys, we just gotta make the
shore. Everyone okay?” Tom said.
Rachael and the kid gave
affirmatives, and then Hank said, “Can you pass me the shampoo?” Despite
everything they had been through, each of them began to chuckle.
They were all glad the
lake was no wider than it was, because fatigue was wearing heavily on each of
them as they neared the far shore. Over the sound of splashing water several
engines could be heard. It was clear from the increase in volume that they
were headed their way.
“Welcoming wagon?” Hank
said.
Tom tried craning his
neck around while continuing to swim. “Not gonna be good.” He could just make
out several vehicles coming down the road, sunlight glaring off their
windshields. With only twenty feet remaining, Tom said, “Push for the shore
guys.”
The entire group began
taking hard, focused strokes. Tom continued to look back toward
the shore as he swam. His heart sank as the
vehicles neared and he recognized the lead truck as the one from the other side
of the hill. This was going to be bad company and if they were stuck out in
the lake when these guys arrived, things were going to get tough real fast.
Continuing to watch, it quickly became clear that the vehicles were
going to arrive before they could reach land. With his heavy wet clothes and
equipment there was no way he was going to be able to unsling his M4 in
defense. “We’re not going to make it, stay cool.” Tom said.
With a squeal of rubber
on pavement, the little convoy came skidding to a halt across from them. Doors
flew open and bodies came pouring out, yelling and pointing a variety of
weapons at the four of them. They had swam within ten feet of the shore, but
it was not quite enough, their feet just beginning to feel the muddy bottom.
“Gotcha! Hands up and
come out real slow.” Big Mike said while pointing a huge revolver directly at
Tom. “Trips, help your brother out of there.” He said, never taking his eyes
off Tom.
A smaller, wiry guy slung
a hunting rifle over his shoulder and moved down the bank, straight in from the
kid. “What the hell Mikey, caught by these muffins?”
“They’re legit.” Mikey
said.
Three more guys joined
Big Mike at the top of the bank, holding their weapons at their sides. Dressed
in a piecemeal mixture of camouflage, they looked like street thugs that just
robbed an Army surplus store. Each of them held their weapons loosely by their
sides, looking either unworried or unprepared, Tom wasn’t sure.
Slogging their way out of
the lake, Hank, Rachael, and Tom all raised their hands up above their heads,
water streaming off their soaked clothes. Mikey reached out, allowing his
brother to pull him up out of the muck. Fatigue showed on all of their faces.
Keeping their hands above their heads, the three of them climbed the bank directly
in front of Big Mike.
As they reached the top,
he spit next to Tom’s feet, looked him in the eyes and grinned. “Zip tie’em
boys.”
Stinging bile rose in
Tom’s throat. He knew once they were bound it would be very difficult to stop
these dirt bags from doing whatever they wanted. His M4 was slung over his
shoulder. Impossible to reach anywhere near fast enough. Feeling the weight
of his pistol on his hip, he began slowly lowering his hands.
Cocking the hammer on his
revolver, Big Mike said, “Tsssk, tsssk, I don’t think so.”
If there was ever a
chance to take them by surprise, it was long gone now. Mikey joined them and
said, “Where's Maggie Dad?”
“In the truck…help bind
‘em first.” Big Mike said while nodding toward Tom.
Watching the kid grab a
set of zip ties from one of the other men, Tom
hoped that his mercy would be remembered, but the kid did not hesitate to help
bind their arms behind their backs. Even Rachael’s arms were bound behind her
back. Tom’s face burned with heat as he watched the men staring at Rachael’s
body, like she was some kind of golden trophy. Her wet shirt and cold skin
left little to the imagination. Despite the cold, beads of sweat began to
form on Tom’s brow as he watched one of the men step toward her, licking his lips as he reached out
for one of her breasts.