In Harm's Way (18 page)

He sped ahead and crossed the median at a spot where the barrier cables had been snapped. It looked like the smoking hulk had once been a helicopter of some sort. A soot-covered red and white cross and some partially obscured lettering was evident on the side facing him. Other markings on the crumpled tail indicated it had been U.S. military. A deep channel scarred the red earth, starting at the broken cable and ending where the thing came to rest.
Hard to walk away from a crash landing like that,
he thought, as he wheeled the truck across the median and drove back up onto the deserted side of the Interstate.

***

William had momentarily snapped out of his stupor. Whether it was from the shotgun blast or the brain-soaked loot in his lap could be debated later.

“Welcome back among the living,” Ted quipped.

Wilson racked a new round in the shotgun and exited the car. Crinkling his nose at the smell coming from the dead corpse, he cautiously made his way around the front of the car. The extent of the damage was clear. Both of the Subaru’s headlights were destroyed, the grill had caved in and, adding insult to injury, the left front tire was completely flat.
Somehow
the creature’s severed leg had become lodged in the wheel well, probably causing the blowout.

“Ted, help me get this stiff off of your car,” Wilson implored, while he tugged on its remaining leg. “Fucker’s heavy, and this big ass backpack isn’t helping any.”

Ted
exited
the car shaking small shards of glass from his hair and beard. “With America falling apart
and
dead people walking around, where did this
imbecile
think he was going to spend all of this money?” he wondered aloud.

“Who did he rob? That’s what’s bugging me,” Wilson said, grunting from the exertion of trying to move the dead weight all by himself.

Ted grabbed ahold of the corpse’s gun belt and tugged. With their combined efforts they managed to extricate the walker from the car. Both men stood back and watched the headless corpse slide down the hood and impact the ground with a jarring wet slap.

“Well look at
this
. Stealing from your
employer
were you?” Ted mocked the dead Wells Fargo guard as he fingered the security badge he had found in its pocket.

This perked Wilson up. “Does he have a pistol? Because I’m afraid that shotgun of yours is way out of my league.”

Ted gave the body a thorough shakedown. “
Dumbass
... the headless wonder here somehow lost his piece. There’s an empty holster and a couple of full clips--little good that’s gonna do you. Why don’t you look around for the gun?”

“What are the odds...” Wilson stopped mid-sentence. A vehicle was approaching from the direction of the ruined aircraft.

The low growl of the engine was enough to lure Sasha out of the car with her three bags in tow.

Wilson handed the shotgun and remaining shells off to Ted and ordered Sasha to stay quiet and keep out of sight. Then he went back to the car to get his bat. When he returned he was more than a little dismayed at what he saw. Instead of heeding his instructions Sasha was busy consolidating her clothes from the brain-splattered bag into the others. “Forget about that stuff and stay down,” he said, his voice conveying his frustration. Wilson had no idea if the person or people in the vehicle were friendly so he acted on the assumption that they were bad guys.

“This is
all
I have left in the world,” she whimpered.

“
Drop the bags and get over here!
” The engine sounds drew nearer, prompting Wilson to climb up on the back bumper of the Subaru wagon and sneak a covert peek. Apparently situational awareness wasn’t the group’s strong suit. There had to be at least fifteen zombies that none of them had been aware of approaching from the same direction as the noisy vehicle and there appeared to be no way to avoid them.

“
We’ve got walkers!
” Wilson shouted. “And there’s a big truck heading this way.” He didn’t know if his message was received over the moaning flesh eaters.

Two of the zombies were closing in on the passenger side of the stricken car. Ted stood guard over William, who was still riding a fine line between semi-coherent and passed out. Since the car was going nowhere, Ted chose to make this his last stand. He felt a cold ball forming in the pit of his stomach as soon as the undead pair saw him and started moaning. The female walker was getting dangerously close and had to be dealt with first. Ted noticed she had suffered a host of defensive wounds; scratches and purple bite marks peppered her hands and arms. The zombie’s swollen black tongue lolled about in her mouth. Ted fought off the overwhelming urge to puke when he realized the black flies darting in and out of her yawning mouth were ravenously feeding on the succulent morsel. He leveled the shotgun at Slug Tongue but forced himself to wait and allow the creature to lurch and stagger closer. “Come to Papa,” Ted said, trying to keep the thing focused solely on him.

Boom!

The deadly spray of lead buckshot struck the creature from point blank range, transforming the top of her head into a corona of vaporized bone and brains. The zombie was picked up and dropped flat on its back five feet away. Surprisingly, the black tongue stuck out fully intact, flies and all. Ted wasn’t overly superstitious; still, the thought that he was being taunted from the afterlife did cross his mind.

Totally ignoring the mayhem, its eyes never wavering from the meat, the second zombie continued advancing as if on autopilot. He looked to have been about seven or eight when his first life ended. The undead boy’s tank top was spattered with crimson. (Where was Dexter when you needed him?) If Ted hadn’t known any better he would have just assumed the little guy had had a Cherry snow cone mishap, tousled his blonde hair, and sent him on his way. Instead, he racked the slide praying that the gun wasn’t out of shells.

Boom!

The swarm of buckshot hit the child zombie with a glancing blow, spinning all seventy pounds of him around and into the front fender of the Subaru. The kid’s left arm, which took the brunt of the blast, hung uselessly at his side like a wet sleeve. 

Someone upstairs must have answered the foxhole prayer line,
Ted thought. He really didn’t believe in prayer because he was agnostic at best, and found that science and evolution made more sense to him. Besides, organized religion hadn’t been very tolerant of folks like him and William.

Ted was reciting another prayer to the false God of shotgun ammo when Wilson entered the picture, swinging his Louisville Slugger like a steroid juiced clean-up batter. On his first cut the bat’s sweet spot met the young walker’s temple, doing little damage, but still knocking him to the ground. Three more rapid downward chops stilled the monster leaving viscous gray matter sprayed across two lanes of I-25.

Ted was about to thank his bat-wielding friend when the sound of gunfire took precedence. He snapped his head towards the loud booming. A jacked up 4x4 was stopped in the middle of I-25 no more than fifty yards to the south. The sunglass-clad driver fired a dozen rounds at the walkers, quickly reloaded, and resumed the offensive. Although Ted had no idea where the man with the handgun had come from, the simple fact that he was wielding the pistol with deadly precision against the zombies rendered it a moot point. An old Arabic proverb popped into his psychologist brain,
the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
He just hoped it held some truth to it. Ted used the momentary diversion to load the last two shells into the shotgun. “Come on kids, let’s go,” he shouted to the siblings as he knelt down next to the passenger door and hefted William’s limp body over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry
.
Good thing I prefer my men small,
Ted thought as he maneuvered around the fallen walkers and trudged towards the waiting truck.

Wilson had Sasha by the arm and was half dragging her along as he followed in Ted’s footsteps. Except for the clothes on his back, all he had was his prized autographed Louisville Slugger clutched in his blood-covered hand and the picture of their mom in his shirt pocket. During a brief lull in the shooting Wilson heard the man’s voice calling for them to get inside the truck.

Boom!

Ted had aimed at the zombie’s head, but considering that he was loping along and carrying someone he was happy that he hit the walker at all. The point blank blast produced a cavity the size of a cantaloupe through its chest, sending it flying. Ted held the smoking gun in one hand and had William’s legs wrapped up with his other arm. Chambering another round one handed just wasn’t going to happen. Sure, Schwarzenegger did it in Terminator 2 but Ted had already come to the conclusion that he was
not
Arnold. As he reached deep inside for the strength to reach the idling pickup without getting bit, the see-through walker struggled to its knees and swiped at him as he brushed by.

Wilson stepped to the plate and prodded the zombie with the barrel of his bat, knocking the off-balance flesh eater onto its back. He locked eyes with the soulless thing before finishing it off. “Stay down you bastard,” he repeated after each vicious swing. Then Wilson started to cry. He didn’t like who he was becoming but he couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

“Come on Wilson,” Sasha implored. She was literally tiptoeing her way through a maze of dead bodies and gore, keeping her precious bags above the mess and out of harm’s way.

Unfortunately the honking horn brought Wilson back to reality. He looked down at what he had done to the former human, and it made his stomach turn.

Looking up at the immense truck, Ted wished he had a trampoline or maybe a pair of stilts--anything to make the task of getting his partner into the lofty crew cab a little less daunting. After a few moments divided between watching his back and manhandling William’s buck-thirty into the truck, he looked for a hand hold and entered the crew cab as well. “Like they say, timing is everything. We were about to be overwhelmed out there... we owe you big time,” Ted said between labored breaths.

I couldn’t have said it better,
the Traveler thought. “Is that thing out of ammo?” he asked, alluding to the shotgun in Ted’s lap.

“No. There are at least two shells left,” Ted responded.

“Then get your
ass
out there and help those two,” the Traveler stated emphatically.

Somewhat taken aback, Ted jumped out of the truck and reentered the fray.

Walkers streamed in droves across the grassy median from the opposite side of the freeway, enticed by the raised voices and gunfire.

Sasha sprinted past Ted to the safety of the truck while Wilson backed away, swinging his bat at the zombies.

“Let’s go kid!” Ted bellowed as he squeezed off a shot at the closest walker, stopping it in its tracks. He backpedaled next to Wilson and emptied the shotgun into the advancing crowd.

Sasha was in the front seat by the time Ted and Wilson reached the truck. Both men leapt in simultaneously: Ted in back and Wilson up front beside his sister.

The driver’s pistol continued to buck, sending spent shell casings bouncing around the interior of the truck. He kept firing until the magazine was empty and the slide locked open. “Is everyone in your group accounted for?” the Traveler asked. He knew there weren’t any others, he was just playing dumb.

“Yes... it’s just the four of us. My name’s Wilson and Sasha here’s my sister.”

Introductions were voiced from the backseat. “I’m Ted and his name is William.”

The Traveler reversed the truck a good distance from the carnage before he slowed and turned around. “Hey Taliban... what’s wrong with your
friend
... did he get bit? Did any of you get bit?” he asked suspiciously as he inserted a fresh magazine in the .45 and chambered a round.

Ted let the beard comment slide and answered for everyone. “I gave my
partner
one too many Vicodin. He’s not infected...  he’s just comfortable
,” he lied.
“As for the rest of us... sure we’re splattered with blood and guts, but none of us have been bitten.”

“Good enough for me. My name’s Francis, but nearly everyone calls me Pug.” He flashed a mouthful of crooked teeth in Sasha’s direction. Trying to be discreet, Sasha looked out of the corner of her eye at the man’s nearly vertical profile, marveling at how fitting the nickname was. Either the man had once been a pugilist--a very poor one at that--or someone had been
really creative
and nicknamed him after the breed of dog he most resembled.

“Where are you guys headed?” Pug asked.

“We
were
trying to make it to Colorado Springs
before
nightfall,” Ted replied.

“Cutting it pretty close don’t you think? If you all got caught out in the dark... it woulda been bad news for you. I’ve seen whole families dead in their car: men, women, and babies. You get yourself surrounded by enough of those things and you’re effed. They will wait you out... ‘til you die from exposure or go plain crazy and think you can run right through them. Either way you’re effed,” Pug said, laying it on thick.

“Where were you going?” Sasha asked.

“Thought you’d never ask,
sweetie
,” he said, patting her on the top of her left thigh. “I heard that Colorado Springs is about the safest place to be in these United States. I guess it was fate that our paths crossed,” Pug said, playing up his role in the rescue.