LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series (71 page)

“Val, I need to talk to you,” Lexi says after a moment, her face twisting in a strange sort of pained grimace. I’m not sure what’s going on with her, but we don’t have time for this. We need to get moving.

“Can it wait?” I ask her. She looks at me with a distraught face and I know that she really wants to talk to me, but now is not the time. We need to use this small window of opportunity that we’ve been given. If we don’t utilize this time, they’re going to be all over us before we can pick up speed. “I swear we’ll talk about it the moment we get clear of this town, but right now, I need you to keep it together. You guys got this?”

“We got this,” Noah says with a determined look in his eyes.

“Keep her safe, Noah,” I tell him sternly. “If she doesn’t make it, you don’t make it.”

I make my way to the back of the truck where I’m prepared to make my final stand with Greg. I climb in and wait as I listen to him coming around the side of the truck over the rumble of the engine. As he climbs into the box with me, I can’t help but feel scared that we’re not going to make it out of this town without a few bumps and bruises and that’s putting things lightly. I’m scared that the man I love is going to end up dead. I’m scared that my sister is going to end up dead. I’m even scared that her annoying boyfriend is going to end up dead because of this horrible place. Standing alone and frightened, I close my eyes and feel the warm, sure embrace that Greg offers me. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me and I wouldn’t be here without him. I lean my head against his shoulder and feel the truck start to roll toward Tifton.

They’re waiting for us. It’s disorienting being in the back of the truck as we head into town. I’ve never been to here, but what I see of it makes me never want to see it again. Upon entering the town, we’re greeted by all of the street signs, streetlights, and traffic lights piled with charred debris and bodies bound to the poles, burned alive long ago and left as a symbol for whatever horrible truth that they’re trying to convey to the people that live under their rule. I look at the bodies, chained to the posts, blackened by the fires of their hatred and left there for us to ponder. This is a place run by terror, governed by fear, and filled with those imprisoned with violence. Almost immediately, the fanatics begin to appear.

All of them are dressed in white. They come out in packs and groups staring at us as we drive by. The women are all easy to spot. Their heads have been shaven and their chests have been wrapped to make them as unappealing or least distracting to the men as possible. It has the look of something out of a dystopian movie and that’s when I realize that this is exactly what we’re living in. We’re living in a world that is worse than I could have ever imagined if people like this exist. It’s not just that they exist, but that there are others following them, others who are loyal to this system. Their basic human rights are being thrown out the window in favor of what some religious fanatics take as the truth and need for this time in their lives. I look at them and pity them.

Cars line the road, charred to uselessness and there are mountains of blackened books incinerated for who knows what reasons. Why would they do things like this? Why would they murder and burn the past like it’s what caused all of this to happen? Are they really that broken, that twisted that they would believe this? I look over at Greg who is gripping his shotgun nervously. There are dozens of people wandering out of houses and businesses with weapons in their hands. They’re bearing clubs and knives, looking at our truck suspiciously. I know that it’s only a matter of time before they stop looking at us and decide to act. I grip my father’s gift to me and wonder how many people I’m going to have to kill.

If those things back at the Coast Guard base count, I’ve killed several people, but something inside of me refuses to accept them as living human beings. I think of them more like feral animals that had to be put down. These people, however, they’re different. These are thinking individuals, even if they are brainwashed and absolutely insane. I’m not sure if I have that in me. I’m not sure if I can kill people who I know are completely there, it’s just wrong. But as I look at Greg, I know that there’s something worth fighting for. I know that I love him and that if they kill him, there will be nothing left for me in this world. I will have Lexi, but that won’t be the same. Greg is my love. Greg is the fire that keeps me warm. So I grip my Sig, hearing the blast of some kind of horn, and look back at the people who are starting to chase after us. If they try anything to hurt the people I love, I’m going to kill them.

Something smacks into the side of the truck and then a hole appears in the tarp covering and I realize that someone has a gun and is shooting at us.

Much to my astonishment a white truck pulls out of an alley and I see a man standing behind a very large caliber machine gun. I think back to the white truck on the bridge with the large machine gun. Maybe these people are national. It is certainly the same people. I raise my gun and immediately start firing at the windshield, hoping that I can kill the driver before the truck gets close. As for Greg, he doesn’t waste time either. Resting his forearm on the side rack of the bed, he takes aim through his scope before squeezing off a round. The gunner hurls backwards into the others standing in the bed of the pickup and I watch them stagger beneath his weight, before casting him aside to tumble on the concrete like a ragdoll. The truck accelerates and brings them closer to us as another fanatic tries to get ahold of the gun. I keep firing at the windshield, hoping that I’m putting bullets through everyone that is behind the fracturing white web of broken glass, but no results tells me my aim isn’t true. Taking a deep breath I look down my barrel as I exhale. When all my breath is expelled I squeeze gently and feel the kick of my trusty Sig. The fanatic’s truck keeps accelerating and starts to swerve and shake. I hit the bastards, but whoever is behind the wheel has gone kamikaze.

I’m thrown from my feet as the grill of our pursuer slams into the tailgate of the five ton and the hitch hooks something in the engine and begins to drag the truck behind us. Greg keeps his footing and starts firing at the fanatic who has gotten ahold of the heavy caliber machine gun. I drop my Sig as I hit the bed of the truck and listen as the fanatics start clambering over the top of the white Silverado. Greg fires another round, taking off the top of the closest nut job’s head. The man flips backwards and slams onto the hood of the truck before being flung off onto the road. A crimson smear remains everywhere the man touched. I grimace at the sight as I get back to my knees, but the next two fanatics are too fast for Greg and immediately start to grapple with him.

Looking back, I see them slam Greg into the canvas side of the truck and I’m afraid that all of them are going to go flying out. Groping blindly for my pistol, by the time I find it, it’s too late. Behind us, on the white pickup, a fanatic has appeared on the hood and is kicking out the ruined windshield, all the while his eyes are on me. I watch as their windshield buckles and falls out across the hood of the truck that is still being dragged along with us. Watching as the inside of their cab is revealed, I see that the man behind the wheel isn’t exactly dead, but he’s certainly seen better days. This has to end, and soon, before we lose another member of our small group.

My fingers finally find it. I feel the brush of the handle against the tips of my fingers and I stretch out and clamp down on the Sig. Rushing to my knees, I point the gun at the fanatic with a black cross painted over his face, still on the hood of the white truck. He looks at me and for a moment he realizes that he’s a dead man. He realizes that I’m going to put a bullet through his head and that it’s all over. In that moment, I can see that he’s genuinely thinking that this is a bad idea, that this isn’t what he signed up for in life. But truthfully, none of us signed up for this. I’m not the kind, caring person that I was before the world started to wither away. I wanted to help save the lives of animals and I wanted pet owners to feel the joy of having their beloved furry friends with them forever. But when animals started dying of starvation, I watched my passion and love in the workplace die as well. There was no future for me in this wasteland, not how I was. I just wanted to help the helpless. I just wanted to make the world a better place. Was that too much to ask for?

I barely feel the recoil.

The man’s head smacks into the hood of the Silverado and sends a spatter of scarlet blood all across the tainted hood and shattered windshield, now beneath him. I feel nothing. I don’t feel sad or as if there’s some precious part of my soul that I’ve just lost. If anything, I feel a sort of weightless certainty that I had to do it. But there is still the driver to deal with.

Looking down my short barrel, I squeeze the trigger again and again, watching as I put a bullet through his shoulder, graze his face, taking off his right ear, and finally land a fatal shot through his left lung. The man isn’t long for this world, but I can see, even from here, his co-pilot is dead set on getting revenge.

Greg has killed his share of men now and it doesn’t seem to bother him. Looking over at him, I see that he’s more than preoccupied at the moment. I have a clear shot at one of the men that is wrapping his fingers around Greg’s throat, and I squeeze the trigger. I’m more than willing to end his life.

Nothing happens. Shit.

I look at the pistol and know that my father would be angry with me if I stopped at that. Just because I don’t have bullets doesn’t mean I’m useless. I grip the handle and swing my arm at the nearest guy’s head. I feel the butt of the handle slam into the side of the man’s head, grinding his ear against his skull and the man screams in agonizing pain, flinging Greg and the other fanatic toward the tailgate. I scream as all three of them topple over the edge of the truck and onto the hood of the white Silverado. Greg slams down on them and I watch in horror as the combined weight of all three of them slamming onto the hood is enough to finally dislodge the grill from the hitch. Greg’s hand clamps down onto the tailgate and I scream in horror as the Silverado rips free and Greg vanishes from my sight, just his hands holding desperately onto the tailgate.

I watch in horror as the two fanatics cling to Greg’s legs. Rushing to him, I grab his shotgun and look over the tailgate at the two men dragging behind Greg, trying to pull him off the truck as the skin and flesh is torn from their bodies against the harsh, dirty road. Greg’s face is a twisted grimace of pain and determination as his boots clatter along the road with two grown men pulling him in half. I lift the shotgun, but I can’t get a good shot. The truck bounces too much. I don’t trust that I won’t blow off one of his feet if I squeeze the trigger.

“Hang on,” I shout at him.

I have to get Noah to stop the truck so I can save him. I spin around to shout for Noah to stop, but before I can, I feel the truck slam into something hard and instantly we’re turning, spinning out of control as I’m flung from my feet, violently. Slamming into the bed of the truck again, amidst all of our supplies, I smack my head against a five gallon tank of gasoline as light erupts before my eyes. I groan, trying to recover quickly, but the pain is pulsing through my head. All has gone black for an instant and all I can think about is Greg. He’s out there and I have to help him. I feel like the whole world begins spinning and the vibration from the truck’s engine is making me nauseous. I don’t hold back, vomiting as I crawl across the bed. We’ve stopped moving. I’m certain of it.

This is too much. How are we going to get out of here? There are too many of the crazy fanatics and if they come at us with another truck, I don’t think we have the ammunition to hold them off. I wipe my mouth and pray that Greg is alright. I have no idea what we hit, but I fear it might have knocked him loose. He might be dead in the middle of the road for all I know. Pushing myself to move faster, I locate Henry’s hunting rifle and ripping the mag free, make sure that there’s still ammunition in it. The magazine is full and there’s an extra round chambered. Eleven shots. Planting the stock into the bed of the truck, I push myself up and try to make the world stop whirling around in circles.

That’s when I hear the moaning.

It’s a too familiar sound and when it reaches my ears, my blood runs cold. The first gunshot from the cab makes me flinch, jarring me back to reality and I turn to look over my shoulder but there’s no time to go back that way. Lexi and Noah will have to hold their own for a few minutes. Behind us is the shattered remains of a crudely built barricade, through which we’ve plowed a giant hole, beside which the white Silverado is wrapped around a telephone pole with the driver and co-pilot hanging half out of the cab, motionless. Around us, the sounds of dozens, maybe hundreds of zombies grow nearer by the second. The fanatics had caged them in, or out rather, with the wall made from pallets and doors.

Knowing I have no time, I race to the rear of the truck and look down. The two fanatics that were clinging to Greg start to scream as Greg rolls over, revealing that he’s pretty beat up, but he’s definitely still alive. Rapidly stretching shadows in the dawn light hint at the approach of the lumbering, snarling Zombies. I have to act. They’re not killing the man I love.

“I have to go get Greg,” I shout over my shoulder at the cab of the truck.

“Hurry,” Lexi shouts back. More gunshots punctuate the haste needed. I don’t need to be reminded twice.

Lunging over the tailgate, my feet hit the ground with stunning force and I feel the tingling rushing up my leg like a thousand super-fast caterpillars. Without hesitating, I look over my shoulder to the truck, seeing how much time we have. A minute, maybe less, before we are overwhelmed. Lifting Henry’s hunting rifle, I take the first shot at the nearest one. Watching its head vanish into a cloud of scarlet mist, the others around it pounce, ripping apart the remains of their fellow, lumbering savage.

With the time I’ve bought, I rush to Greg. The side of his face is bloody and torn up by smacking the road when we broke through the barricade, but he’ll be fine. He’ll probably have a scar, but he doesn’t appear to have any major injuries. I reach down and help him up, slinging his arm over my shoulders and stabilizing him.

“You came back for me,” he says with a dazed tone.

“Can’t leave my man,” I say to him.

I help him limp toward the truck, unable to use the hunting rifle until I get him there, and with his new injuries adding to the previous, he’s in no condition to walk. We move as quickly as we can, but the Zombies are closing in and they’re not letting us get away easily. Shoving Greg towards the truck, I raise the rifle just in time to put a bullet through the chest of what was once a woman. She screams in agony, dropping to her knees and is then quickly dragged down by the others, being torn apart before she’s even dead. Behind me, the two fanatics who tried to take Greg from me are getting what they deserve. Already, the fiendish undead are tearing at their flesh as they scream out in bloodcurdling cries of anguish. The sound doesn’t even faze me. I’ve heard death cries too many times over the last three days. Their screams are blended with all the other noise and I don’t feel an ounce of sympathy for them. I only wish that they will buy us the time we need.
Keep screaming, assholes
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