Not
wanting to go down this path, Tom asked, “Where are you from…do you need to get
back there?”
She
wiped her nose with the back of her hand and shook her head. “Chicago…flew out
a few days ago to do some photo contract work. I can’t even imagine what the
city is like now. No, I won’t be going back. I need to…”
Before
she could finish her sentence, Hank interrupted her. “I don’t mean to bust this
up, but we’re about to have company.”
All
of them turned to the monitor Hank was focusing on. The view was of the front
plaza, near where they left Rachael’s rental car. Three guys were running
between the cement planters, occasionally turning to fire shots behind them.
Immediately in their wake were dozens of the demented, frantically trying to
reach their prey. In the distance, a gathering of the undead could be seen, drawn
to the sound of gunfire, but too slow to keep up.
For
a time they were taking turns providing cover fire, while the others would run
ahead, however as they neared the broken out entrance, survival instinct took
over. Two of them dashed through the opening, leaving a man in a white
basketball jersey, baseball cap on backwards, outside. He was about thirty
feet from the entrance, firing rapidly at the oncoming horde. Several
dropped in front of him, holes punched through their chests.
Tom
watched as he ran out of bullets, and then turned to make his getaway.
Stumbling a bit, he went down on the cement, tried to rise, but without any
cover fire the demented were on him in a heartbeat. They swarmed over him,
taking him to the ground in a pile of thrashing arms.
Rachael
gasped, covering her mouth and turned from the monitor, unable to watch.
Tom
and Hank continued to stare at the monitor.
“My
god…look behind them.” Tom said, pointing to the top of the monitor where the
street was filled with the undead, in a slow motion pursuit. “We better
leave. Right now.”
“What
about the two guys?” Hank asked.
Tom
looked back at the monitor, which showed a stream of demented entering through
the broken entryway. “They’re on their own.”
Stepping
out into the service corridor, gunfire could be heard in the direction of the
lobby. “Sounds like they’re making a stand…like Custer.” Hank said.
Before
re-grouping in the security room, they had parked the Unimog in front of one of
the rolling doors that lead to the loading ramps on the backside of the
convention center. Tom slowed as they approached it.
Rachael
turned back, worry on her face. “What?"
Tom
thought about Kelly and Sam, how bad he needed to get to them, and that is why
he surprised even himself when he said, “I can’t…I have to try to help them.”
He started walking backwards, away from the Unimog, toward the exhibit that
lead to the lobby. “If you see demented, leave.” With that he turned, raising
the M4, and ran for the front lobby.
“We’ll
be ready for you!” Hank shouted after him.
The
gunfire was getting louder as Tom made his way through the dark exhibit room.
Nearing the bright light that lead to the lobby, he raised the M4 to his
shoulder, looking through the quick acquisition scope mounted on the top rail.
He hesitated near the entryway to let his eyes adjust to the brightness. There
were several quick shouts, followed by a barrage of gunfire, and then silence.
Stepping
into the lobby, Tom saw the busted out entryway, currently unused. Through the
glass windows, he could see the mass of undead working their way through the
plaza, nearly to the building. Several demented were just disappearing out of
view down a set of stairs to his right. He quickly followed them, knowing this
would have to be quick or the undead would block his retreat.
The
stairs dropped down to a long atrium with exhibit entrances on one side and windows
facing the street on the other. A long line of demented raced across the
carpet. The furthest demented turned through one of the entryways,
likely following the two guys.
Sighting
on the nearest demented's head, knowing he needed head shots to put them down
for good, Tom pulled the trigger. Taking steady breaths he continued to pull
the trigger, dropping one after another.
With
each pull of the trigger, he kept a mental count of the number of rounds he had sent
downrange. This is something he had always done, both to keep track of ammo,
and to steady his shots for even pacing. Fear and panic had a tendency to
cause people to fire faster and faster or even hold the trigger down.
Screams
of rage filled the atrium as the demented heard the shots, turned and saw new
prey. In a mad rush, they sprinted toward Tom. There were clearly more than he
could shoot.
Working
to keep his rising panic under control, he continued to pull the trigger, while
keeping count.
27...28...29...
reaching 29, he fluidly dropped the
magazine, grabbed a fresh one from his vest pouch, and slammed it into the
receiver. When he got the rifle back up to his shoulder, several of the
demented were right at the bottom of the short set of stairs. He continued his
onslaught, pulling the trigger for a five count, and then turned to make his
retreat.
Undead
were just beginning to pour through the open entryway, spilling into the
lobby. The masses were shoving up against the glass, pushed forward from
behind. Bloody faces pressed up to the glass, smearing it in red as they
chomped at it. Those inside the lobby saw Tom and turned his way. Arms
reaching, they let out guttural moans. The first couple had ghastly wounds,
blood and fluids oozing out on the floor below them.
Tom
raised his rifle and squeezed off several quick shots. Dropping the first few,
he turned and sprinted into the darkness of the exhibit. “I’m coming!
I’m coming!” He yelled down the exhibit room, hoping Hank or Rachael would
hear.
There
was a sudden rumbling from ahead as one of them started the Unimog. Racing
back into the light, he could see them ahead. The driver side door was already
open and Hank was pulling the chain, opening the large roll door.
Hank
saw him coming. “You drive, I got this.”
As
Tom was climbing into the driver seat, he could hear the pounding of feet on the
concrete. The demented chasing him had not slowed a bit through the darkness,
maybe even gained on him.
Hank
finished opening the door, turned and climbed up the passenger side. Before he
got all the way inside, Tom hit the gas. Unimogs are a lot of things, but fast
is not one of them, and they all quickly learned this. Looking in his mirror,
Tom saw several demented running up on them, screaming in rage. They began
pounding on the sides of the camper.
As
the Unimog accelerated away, they were having a difficult time keeping up. One
final demented grasped one of the tie down handles mounted to the side frame.
Like a strange dream, he wore a fast food worker’s uniform, red and yellow visor
still on his head. Hanging on with one hand, his feet dragged across the
cement, until he lost his grip, dropping right underneath the large rear tire.
The bump was barely noticeable with the rock climbing suspension.
The
remaining demented still sprinted after them as they dropped down the cement
ramp and turned onto the back street.
Looking
in his mirror, and then back at Tom, Hank said, “Made that exciting didn’t you?”
“Didn’t
go quite like I envisioned. Think I bought them some time, but I can’t imagine
how they will ever get out of there.” Pointing a thumb to the back he asked,
“Rachael in there?”
“Yeah.”
“Before
we go too far we’re going to have to fuel up.”
Hank
simply nodded.
In
the city, stopping for gas was out of the question. Their initial goal was to
grab gas and then head straight out of the city as quickly as possible. This
changed within the first two blocks of driving. The level of chaos and
destruction was more than any of them ever expected. Wrecked cars filled the
streets, sometimes blocking their route completely. Bodies littered the
pavement and sidewalks, brains damaged beyond re-animation. The undead and
demented wandered the streets, in search of their next victim. If the trio
ever got out of this damned city it would be because they kept moving -
stopping was certain death.
Hank
sat staring through a set of binoculars, yelling out potential road blocks as
they came up.
Tom
watched immediately ahead, avoiding any obstacles that would stall their
progress. At times, he used the massive steel bumper to nudge wreckage out of
the way, so they could continue forward. They were having better luck with the
smaller back streets because the volume of wrecked cars was minimal.
Crossing
Sandy Boulevard, Hank asked, “Are we getting anywhere?”
“We’re
almost up to the river. I think from there we will have a better path, maybe
use Marine Drive.”
The
streets were becoming wider and less populated as they neared the airport and
the river. This was more of an industrial area, with streets that were made to
accommodate large trucks and delivery vehicles. Working around a tipped over
semi-truck, Tom happened to glance to his right and there it was, in large
yellow block letters, “Leatherman,” with the little multi-tool symbol next to
it.
What are the odds
? In
all of their meanderings, they had driven right up next to the Leatherman
headquarters. Tom did not know if he should see it as a good sign from a
higher power or a slap in the face. He jokingly thought about going in to see
if anyone was available to hear his review of the overall greatness of his
Leatherman. Never having read all the included tools for his Leatherman, he was
not sure, but guessed he could inform them that "demented skull
crusher" needed tacked on.
“Heads
up!” Hank hollered.
Snapping
back to reality, Tom swerved just before running over a dark haired woman in a
flowery sundress. She was walking right down the middle of the road. Tom
slammed on the breaks, skidding to a stop. Looking in his mirror, he could see
she was slowly walking toward them.
Before
he could say anything, Hank leapt out of the Unimog to help her.
Grabbing
his M4, Tom jumped out of the vehicle. “Hank! Wait!”
Looking
up, her red rimmed eyes locked on Tom. As he raised the rifle, her lips curled
back into a snarl, and her body tensed to begin her charge.
She
must have seen Hank coming around the back side of the Unimog, her head whipped
to the side and she raced out of Tom’s view. Screams of rage could be heard
over Hank’s startled yell. As Tom came around the back corner, rifle ready,
the camper door swung open. Hank laid on his back, the woman on top, ripping at
his face. He had his arms up in front of him, trying desperately to fend
off her attacks. Using the butt of his rifle, Tom pounded her in the back of
the head. A few last spasms with her arms, then she went still.
Hank
shoved her off to the side. “Wow…my bad…I was not ready for that.” With a
confused look on his face, he said, “She didn’t race after the truck like the
other demented we’ve seen. Thought she was…normal.”
Rachael
leaned down next to him, putting her hand on his shoulder, she said, “She
scratched you all up, let’s get you inside and I’ll clean those up.”
Worried, Tom
looked down at Hank, and then stepped over to the woman,
placed the muzzle of his rifle on her forehead and pulled the trigger. In the
near silence, the loud shot echoed between buildings. “We
better roll.”
Before
anyone had time to respond, a cacophony of screams and growls could be heard
from all around them.
Looking
up, Tom could see several demented less than a block away, sprinting toward
them. Turning to Rachael, he said, “Quick, both of you get in the back.”
Raising his rifle, he fired off several shots in quick succession, dropping both
demented. Keeping his rifle tight to his shoulder, he moved back toward the front
of the truck.
He
could see several undead trudging their way toward them,
too far away and too slow to be of any worry. To his left there were several
people pounding on the large window facing the street. Unmoving, it was
difficult to say if they were demented or undead. Unworried about them, he
decided to save ammo, and instead spun around next to the driver side door to
check behind them. Several demented and a horde of undead could be seen, but they
were more than a block away. “You guys inside?”
“Go…Go…They’re
coming from the building!” Rachael yelled.
Not needing any farther
prodding, he quickly climbed into the driver seat, setting his M4 beside him.
Several thumps echoed through the cab as demented pounded into the side of the
Unimog. A pair of bloody hands poked into his view at the base of passenger
window, reaching for their unseen enemy.
Driving
away from the attackers, Tom realized he no longer had his spotter to adjust to
the forward wreckage. Traffic had decreased since leaving the heart of the
city, and he hoped that he would be able to just watch a little farther down the
road.
Once
they hit Marine Drive things went much better, making good time along the
river. He saw several boats loaded up with people. It gave him hope to see
that they were normal, living people. Seemed like a good strategy, figuring
neither the undead nor the demented could swim. If they could wait long enough,
maybe things would calm down. Of course it could be a long wait, depending on
how long the undead kept functioning.
It
was well into the afternoon before they finally reached the edge of the city,
much later than any of them expected. Running dangerously low on fuel, Tom
decided they would have to stop at the first gas station they could find. He would have much preferred to get well clear of the
city, but far too much fuel was spent traversing the chaotic streets.
Reaching
the I-84 freeway, Tom saw a gas station just across the road that would have to
do. It was a large, fancy station, with a long line of pumps sitting nearly
empty. There was a small hatchback at the far end, and a pickup in the middle,
with its driver side door wide open. He did not see any people, living or
dead, in the parking lot. As he was pulling into the lot, he thought he saw
movement from within the attached convenience store.
Going to have to keep
an eye on the store
, he thought to himself.
Easing
to a stop next to one of the pumps, he shut off the engine, and listened through
his open window. Keying the intercom that Rachael discovered in the camper, he
whispered to those in the back, “Hold for a bit.” Over the creak of a sign
swaying in the breeze, he could hear sporadic gunfire in the distance. Good,
there were others surviving and hopefully dishing out some hurt. Other than
the boaters, he had not seen any survivors along the way, so they must be few
and far between, or really hunkered down.
Not
wanting any surprises while he filled up, he continued to sit, checking his
mirrors and watching the store, trying to peer through the glare on the
windows. Maybe the movement he saw was just his imagination or a shifting
reflection. After one final glance in his empty mirrors, he gave the all clear
over the intercom. Grabbing his M4, he climbed out of the Unimog.
Taking
his eyes off the storefront, he looked over to see Hank coming around the back.
Rachael had gotten his face and arms all cleaned up, only small pink slashes
remained.
Hank
slung a large rifle over his shoulder and started climbing the external ladder
leading to the Unimog’s roof. “I’ll cover your slow ass.”
“I’m
going inside to fire up the pump.” Tom replied.
He
watched Rachael walking away, the bookstore lady’s shotgun in her hands. At
the convention center, she said she felt comfortable with it, so they had found
her more ammo. Tom knew when they got a chance he would need to train her on more
effective weapons, but for now it would have to do.
Tom
walked across the hot pavement, rifle at the ready, keeping his eyes trained on
the glass door. Once to the door, he pressed his face to the glass, using his
hands to block the glare, and get a better look at the inside. Several long
aisles filled with snacks, magazines, and trinkets stretched across the store
to the beverage refrigerators at the end. Nobody was in sight. Near the back,
he could see some items spilled out across the floor, knocked from their
shelves.
Figuring
there should be at least three people around here somewhere, he was very
careful in easing the door open. Hatchback, Pickup, and Attendant had to be somewhere;
Tom just hoped to find them before they found him.
Stepping
inside the store, Tom checked his corners and moved swiftly adjacent to the
aisles, keeping his rifle up, scanning for targets. The final aisle had items
spilled to the floor and a small pool of blood, but nobody in sight. He spun
around and cleared behind the checkout counter, again nothing.
He
was sure there would be restrooms and maybe an office down the back hallway,
but figured there was no reason to push his luck. Stepping next to the till he
turned on the pump, and then headed for the door. Nearly there, he heard
something and froze.
Listening
intently he heard it again. It sounded like a shuffling noise, maybe something
sliding across the floor in the back.
Trying
to decide what to do, after a beat he let out a sigh, knowing he could not just
walk away. He had to know if it was someone needing help. Spinning around, he
raised the M4, and began walking down the back hall, listening for the noise.
The hall was smeared with blood, both on the floor and along the base of the
walls.
Standing
still in the center of the hall, he heard it again, coming from the women’s
restroom.
Opening
the door to the men’s restroom, he quickly swept through it to make sure it was
clear, finding no one he felt better about moving on to the women's room. He
also felt better knowing the general layout of the room, figuring it would be
similar to the women’s.
Easing
open the door, he found the lights were already on. There on the floor, directly
in front of him lay the source of the noise, and likely the blood. The two of
them were connected by white nylon rope. One was a middle aged man wearing
jeans and a dirty t-shirt, with a large chunk of his face missing. The other
was a younger woman in shorts and a tank top…undead. She had a softball sized
hole in her back that looked to be the exit wound that killed her. One end of
the rope was wrapped around the older man several times, and the other was
tangled around the ankles of the woman. Using only her arms, she was
attempting to drag her human anchor across the restroom floor.
Tom
stood staring, trying to figure out how they could have even got into this
predicament, his morbid curiosity not letting him just finish the woman for
good.
She
looked up at him, her hollow eyes locking on his. Letting out a gurgled moan,
she reached for him with one hand. Under different circumstances it would have
been a gesture of needing help, but he knew better. She wanted him, maybe even
needed him, to satisfy some instinctive urge.
To
keep from drawing unwanted attention to the gas station, he simply backed out
of the bathroom. Tom figured these two were likely Pickup and Hatchback,
leaving only service station guy unaccounted for. Still unable to piece it all
together, he felt that Attendant was probably the source of the wounds and the
rope, but why and where were still questions.
Grabbing
a marker from the pen holder next to the register, he went back to the restroom
and wrote “One Undead Inside!” on the door. Betting Hank and Rachael were
getting worried about him, he headed for the entrance.
He
nearly ran face first into Rachael as he hurried out the glass door. “Holy
crap! You scared me.”
Relief
was evident on her face. “I was getting worried.”
Jogging
toward the Unimog, Tom replied, “Sorry…all clear. I got the pump on. Help Hank
keep an eye out while I fill up.”
Tom
was nearly mesmerized staring at the numbers ticking up as the fuel pumped into
the tank. He absent-mindedly wondered why he was watching the price continue
to climb when there was no attendant to pay. Then his mind strayed to more
relevant questions, like
how long will the undead live, how long will fuel
last
, and then
how are Kelly and Sam
. Dread weighing on his stomach,
he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked it, still no service.
“Heads
up…I’ve got a couple trucks rolling this way.” Hank said, sitting on top of
the Unimog with a pair of binoculars held up to his eyes. “Two trucks…several
people in each one.”
“Living?”
Tom asked
“Yeah…I
would say they are all living. Couple in the cab of each one and a few sitting
in the beds.” Never taking the binoculars away from his eyes, “They’re working
their way through the cars like we did. Be here within the next minute or two,
if they stop at all.”
“Rachael,
climb in the camper. I don’t want them getting bad ideas.
Hank, you wanna make for the propane enclosure back there. Cover me in case
this goes south.” Tom pointed to a large propane tank with a chain link fence
surrounding it.
Hank
climbed down and made for the propane tank.
While
the fuel was still pumping, Tom walked to the back of the truck to watch the
vehicles approach. As they neared the station, he could see a pair in the cab,
and three people in the back of the lead truck, and two in the back of the
second. Keeping his M4 slung over his shoulder, he watched as they came to a stop near the
other pumps. Nobody moved as the pair inside the cab of the closest truck sat
talking to each other, with occasional hand gestures.