Z Children (Book 2): The Surge (17 page)

Before
we’d left Jesse, I’d gotten two hundred and fifty more rounds of ammo for the
M-16s. I exchanged them for the handguns we had scavenged from the delivery
truck. He’d protested, said he didn’t need them and the ammo was further
payment for helping the baby, but we were nearly at capacity with what we could
carry on foot should the truck fail. Besides, being in that safe room—it was
going to be easier for him to use a handgun at close quarters if someone broke
in.

I’d
kept the long colt ammo and the cowboy gun for some reason. It wasn’t the most
practical weapon, but it made me feel more comfortable for some reason having
it stored at the bottom of my pack.

The
back of the UPS truck was full of gear and the faintest smell of gasoline
filtered through the microscopic space that still existed between the
overtightened caps and the mouth of the jerry can spouts. They were full of
high test, full of the promise that we could make it ‘X’ amount of miles without
having to forage for gas. Stopping in Tyler was the best decision I’d made
since this whole end of the world shit had started.

Looking
down at the speedometer and gas needle, I ran through some quick mental
calculations. Without too many stops and assuming both of the women were up to
driving a shift or two, we could be to Atlanta in three, maybe four days. On my
own, I could probably make the three, but speed had to bow down to safety. And,
in my experience, women had to pee more often than men. I’d been known to hold
it for a day at a time while stuck in a hole waiting on orders.

The
fastest way to Atlanta was Highway 20, but by the time we were approaching
Shreveport, I knew 20 was going to be out of the question. It seemed to be the
main evacuation route for everyone in the area. But going where? Where had all
of these people been trying to get to?  I didn’t have a clue, and from the look
of the abandoned cars, neither did the occupants. The roads were
bumper-to-bumper, congestion worse than the District at four o’clock on a
Friday afternoon. Then there was the Z’s. In the tight spaces between
smashed-up cars, Z kids were congregated. They seemed to be…in conversation?
Mouths opening and closing, arms gesticulating. The sound of the truck
approaching froze everything for an instant in time that felt like forever.

As I
watched fascinated, the Z kids turned in unison from one another to stare at
us. I didn’t become unsettled easily, but this caused every inch of my skin to
crawl, like a million ants were taking a stroll on my body.

The
adults were ambling; glassy, opaque eyes focused on nothing.

Lying
in wait.

To my
surprise, the Z kids did not immediately approach. Yet, like they were
receiving some telepathic direction, the adults ceased being lifeless and
directionless. They stopped and also turned.

And
time stood still again.

Dust
motes floating about in the air ahead of the windshield hung, catching
shimmering light and becoming an oddly beautiful counterpoint to the ugliness
that was the undead.

I’d
already reduced our speed to twenty miles per hour, but I still felt like I was
flying as I weaved through the clutter of vehicles and monsters. Slow and
steady, slow and steady. I slowed even more, now
really
crawling along.
Don’t
make the Z’s think you’re a threat.
So far, they didn’t seem to go into
savage mode in response to a slow-moving vehicle. But how long would that last?
Had we just been lucky so far?

The
bypass connecting Highway 20 with 49 was right at the airport, and this was
where the inanimate obstacles were the worst. But it was also, for some reason,
where the Z’s were the lightest. Glancing at the rearview camera system, I
could see that the adults and kid Z’s were still staring at us, following our
every move with their film-coated gazes. They weren’t advancing, though. I mentally
crossed my fingers and said a prayer. Which I didn’t often do.

I
continued to inch my way onto the exchange. At the very top, a blue sedan and a
white minivan were crunched together end-to-end, stretched across the exit
point. Slowing to a full stop after swerving round a downed motorbike, I
sighed. Someone was going to have to get out—more than one person—and we were
going to have to clear the way.

Like
she’d read my thoughts, Bonnie piped up from the rear cargo. “JW, you’re not
thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?” her voice nervous, the vocal
realization of the uncomfortable feeling roiling in the pit of my stomach.

“Can’t
get by, kid. I don’t want to risk damaging the truck by ramming. Got to move
it.” Ranger growled low and unhappily. “I know, Ranger. Don’t got a choice,
though.”

“You
can’t go out there. Those Z’s aren’t that far behind us.” Virginia’s hand came
to rest on my shoulder. Out of the corner of my right eye, I saw Chris stiffen
in the passenger seat.

“Don’t
fuss over something that’s inevitable, woman. It’s a waste of time.” Sighing, I
lifted one of the two M-16s—the one with the shoulder strap—that were sitting
between the two front bucket seats. I let it rest against my thighs for a
moment, my eyes wandering back to the video system that showed what hell was
behind us. Still no movement from the monster horde behind us.

Just
get out, clear the area, get back in. Be quiet, alert
. My fingers subconsciously
thrummed against the stock of the weapon in my lap. The uneasy feeling that had
started when we’d gotten on 20 was intensifying. No choice though.

“You
can’t do it alone.” Virginia was standing now—well, standing as well as she
could, “I’m going with you.”

“No,
you’re not,” Chris spoke quickly and angrily. “No way in hell.”

Virginia
bristled at that. “Chris, I make my own choices. We aren’t married. In fact,
we’ve just gotten back together. You need to chill it with the controlling,
possessive, jealous act.”

“No
one’s going with me,” I cut in just to stop the argument before it got in full
swing. I probably did need the help, it would make things go quicker, but it
wasn’t worth listening to two women bicker.

“You
can’t go alo—” Bonnie this time, braving the brief silence that had followed my
words once the two adult women had shut up.

“Watch
me, kid.” Pulling the interior handle and shoving the door outward, I swung my
legs down, gun in hand.

I
didn’t close the door behind me in case I needed to make a quick retreat.
Turning, I looked at the gathering of Z’s in the not-too-far distance. They
were still facing our direction, still transfixed. That was fucking creepier
than if they were running full-tilt toward me. The unease was building within
me, forcing its way up my throat like an unstoppable tsunami.

“Be
careful,” Virginia’s voice was barely above a whisper, as if me opening the
door had somehow ruined the dome of silence the truck provided. As if before,
raised voices could not have penetrated the fiberglass, steel frame, and thin
windows.

Clear
the way. Get back in the van. Easy-peasy.
It didn’t feel that way, though,
not with the imminent threat of a gaggle of flesh-eaters staring me down like I
was the buffet that wasn’t opening for another ten minutes.

That
had to be the only explanation.

Why
they weren’t racing towards me now. There was a countdown clock somewhere. And
once the small hand and large hand were aligned on the twelve, the buffet would
be opened for business and I’d be in the first damn serving tray.

Shit.
Stop thinking so damn much and move it, soldier.

I was
standing in front of the two cars that were blocking the way. The minivan had
four car seats in the back. Four. Not a kid in sight, though.

Realizing
the sedan was my best bet; I moved to the rear of it and sidled between
concrete retaining wall and bumper. There was about five or six inches of room.
On the other side of the car, I found the driver’s side unlocked, the keys
still in the ignition. Dead. It must have been left running when the occupants
abandoned it.

I
slung the M-16 onto my back, reached into the vehicle, shifted it into neutral,
and then lowered the emergency brake. Six inches of room wasn’t much. Rotating
the steering wheel, I locked my knees and leaned into the driver’s door frame.
It only moved a fraction. The minivan was too close. The miniscule movement did
angle the car slightly. That was a small triumph. Rotating the steering wheel
in the opposite direction, I gripped the car frame between the front and rear
door, planted my feet firmly again, and pushed the blue sedan backwards. Six
inches plus the fraction I’d moved it forward.

This
was going too slow, too fucking slow.

In my
subconscious, I heard the sound of a door opening, but not closing. Without
looking up, I knew who was going to be standing on the other side of the car.
“Chris, only one of us needs to be out here and in danger.”

“Virginia
wouldn’t shut up and Bonnie’s shaking she’s so scared for you. So this time,
you be a big boy and let the little girl help.”

I
wanted to punch her. Well, not really. I’d never hit a woman. Although, there
was this one woman in New York…I’d been on leave, wanted to take in a show, all
of a sudden, I’m getting hit on by this tall broad in a cheetah-print dress.
She wouldn’t take no for an answer. I held my cool, until the bitch grabbed my
hand and put it against her private parts. When I’d found out she wasn’t a
woman by birth? Well, my compunctions were erased and she gave up after a sock
in the jaw.

“Fine.
Get over here and sit in the driver’s seat. You steer, I’ll push.”

Chris’s
face stiffened at the order, but she obeyed. Surprisingly.

“Counterclockwise.”
I began to push the car as she quickly rotated the steering wheel. A soft
impact told me that we’d made contact with the minivan again. “Clockwise.” This
time, I waited until she had the steering wheel fully turned before pushing
backwards.

This
went on for nearly five minutes, although it felt like much longer. “Counterclockwise.”
I began pushing as I spoke, but realized immediately that Chris wasn’t moving.
Her eyes were locked on the rearview. The position we had the vehicle in now,
the mirror would be pointing past the driver’s side of the delivery truck. She would
be seeing back down the ramp. She would be staring in the direction of the
horde that, up until now, hadn’t been moving.

I
didn’t have to look to know what was happening.

They
were coming.

Finally
coming.

The
buffet was open and the decaying patrons were starving.

Grabbing
Chris by the shirt collar, I yanked brutally and she rocketed out of the sedan.
I let go and started racing through the gap we’d created between sedan and van.
Chris didn’t follow.

“Fuck,
woman! Move it!”

I knew
she wasn’t going to respond. I’d seen this response to oncoming danger before.
People
who can’t handle either freeze or run
. Two steps backward and I grabbed her
shirt again. Pulling her along without care for making her comfortable, I
breeched the several yard gap to the passenger’s side of the truck.

“Pull
her in!” I yelled at Virginia as I picked Chris up by the waist and literally
threw her toward the other doctor. Virginia didn’t hesitate. She grabbed
Chris’s upper body and pulled her the rest of the way in, and then she leaned
over Chris and yanked the door closed.

I was
already running around the hood of the vehicle to launch myself into the
driver’s seat. The adrenaline was making me acutely aware of how badly I was
feeling. That wasn’t right. Adrenaline should push away the pain, not bring it
into the foreground of the senses.

The
snarls and snapping—the general surround-sound of death approaching—felt like
it was on top of us as I slammed the driver’s door closed. The rifle was still
on my back, jammed uncomfortably against the seat and causing me to lean closer
to the steering wheel than was comfortable.

“Shit!”
Bonnie yelled from the back of the cargo van as something slammed into the rear
doors.

She
jolted toward Virginia, who had just shouted ‘don’t curse!’ at Bonnie and was
crouched between the two front seats. Ranger was growling at the double back
doors, half-crouched against the floorboards, his hindquarters raised. The fur
that still remained on his scarred body was standing at attention. He was scared.

Which
meant this was bad.

Bonnie
squealed again as the truck rocked with such force that I could feel the
driver’s side wheels lifting from the ground. My gaze jerked to the side
mirror. What seemed like every Z that had been meandering along the highway was
pushing against the truck. Just one more good shove. Just one. And we’d be
toppled with no hope of escape.

The
truck was running still. I slammed it into drive and stomped on the gas pedal.
The delivery vehicle bolted forward as the horde made their second attempt at
pushing us over. This was a better effort than the first. Still moving forward,
the delivery truck lifted so far that, for a moment, we seemed suspended,
floating along on two wheels.

“Everyone
to my side!” I choked out, my voice hoarse.

Bonnie
moved quickly, shoving behind my seat and gripping the headrest. One of her
fingers brushed against the side of my head. We had to get out of this. I
couldn’t let her die.

Virginia,
pulling Chris with her, moved as far as she could without ending up in my lap.
Ranger was scrambling to get upright—he’d been knocked against the passenger’s
side shelving with the last zombie-induced sideways jolt.

Come
down, come down
,
I urged the vehicle to fall back on all fours. We
were about to slam in between the sedan and van. The opening was only several
feet wide. But they were no longer crunched together. We could push through
that. We could. But we could also topple over if the truck was still on two
wheels.
Come down!
I mentally shouted and shoved my body weight against
the door. I felt it then, the fall and the impact and the slight bounce as the
wheels once again found traction. We slammed into the vehicles and the momentum
shoved the two empty vehicles against each corresponding partition wall. Home free.