'Til Death Do Us Part zf-6 Page 14

  “Why?”

  “BT isn’t going to make it.”

  “What do you think we should do? Join him?”

  “I know you won’t, but I’m going to help him.”

  “Your funeral,” she said as she stopped just long enough for him to get off. She sped away without looking back.

  “Bitch,” he said quietly.

  Deneaux flipped him the bird.

  “No way, there’s no way she heard me.” He turned to get in position to cover BT’s approach.

  The zombies were sprinting to catch up, but the gang was motorized. “It’s almost going to be a tie,” Gary said, not really knowing which group he should start to sight in on. It seemed that the zombies were having the same problem. BT was who they had been focused on; but the bigger, louder (more food) group was coming into their killing grounds. The majority of the zombies peeled off their pursuit of BT and headed to the new dinner buffet.

  Q-Ball was so fixated on exacting his revenge he was blind to the new threat, but not all of his gang were. A fair number slowed and either turned around or waited on the periphery. Q-Ball was close enough to BT that he pulled his sidearm out of his holster and rested it on his handle bars. Gary had opted for the zombies to BT’s left because his avenue of escape was being threatened. What the biker’s did wouldn’t matter if BT couldn’t make it to Gary to begin with.

  BT had the luck of the angels on his side when Q-Ball’s shot whined off the top of BT’s handlebars. BT presented a much larger target, and as such, should have been the one to catch the round. As it was, BT almost crashed as his front wheel shook violently—his great strength the only thing keeping the bike upright. Gary turned his attention to Q-Ball when he heard the round.

  Gary’s gut wrenched as he sighted in on a human being, but Q-Ball had gained more ground on his friend and the odds that he would miss again had been greatly reduced.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…” he said as he pulled the trigger.

  A geyser of blood erupted from Q-Ball’s throat. The bike fell and slid along the ground, it slammed into at least five zombies, destroying their bodies as it went. However, there were plenty more where they came from as they descended on the dying biker. Gary imagined he could hear the gurgled screams for help as the zombies tore him apart. BT had surged ahead of the lead zombies who now turned their attention back to the gang that suddenly found themselves leaderless and cut off from retreat.

  Gunfire blazed as BT pulled up to Gary. “Where’s Deneaux?”

  “She took off,” Gary replied.

  “Thank you, Gary.”

  “It was you or him,” Gary said, looking a little worse for the wear.

  “I’d have to say you chose wisely, come on, man, hop on.”

  Gary looked at what remained of the motorcycle seat and was not convinced that an anemic spider monkey would be able to fit. Still, he hopped on, half his ass hanging over the rear fender. The gang would not last long and the zombies were always hungry. Always fucking hungry, he thought dourly.

  They had traveled a couple of miles at the most when they could no longer hear gunfire.

  “Do you think it’s over?” Gary asked. He didn’t have to yell, the traffic was so thick the bike was barely moving.

  “Doesn’t matter, whichever side won will still be coming for us,” BT said, dodging an engine block that looked like it had been ejected from its former location by a rocket launcher.

  “What the hell happened here?” Gary asked, looking around.

  “Not sure, but I bet it has something to do with that.” BT took his hand off the handle bars for a moment to point before quickly putting it back.

  “Checkpoint ahead, be prepared to stop and have your vehicle searched,” Gary read the sign. “Well, leave it to the military to really foul things up.”

  “I don’t think your brother could have said it any more eloquently.”

  “There it is,” Gary said, pointing past BT’s face; although how BT could have possibly missed the hastily erected gates replete with razor wire, gun turrets, and the standard deuce-and-a-half military trucks was anybody’s guess.

  “So the US military in all its infinite wisdom backs up traffic for days and the zombies swoop in thinking this is the world’s largest food court,” BT said.

  “And then they start firing on everything, living and dead, trying to contain the virus,” Gary finished. “These people start firing at the zombies and the military…bad news.”

  BT merely nodded. “Almost out of here.” The closer they got to the front, the worse the devastation. Large divots of earth where mortars, grenades and rockets had hit were removed. Finding a viable way around was becoming its own hazard.

  “I’m getting off,” Gary told BT.

  “You can walk faster than I’m going anyway.”

  “Not that I’m not appreciative, BT, but I’d rather find another ride.”

  “Fuck it.” BT got off the bike. He shut it off and put the kick stand down. “I’ll leave it here just in case, but there has to be something up closer than we can take.”

  “I hope so,” Gary said. He wasn’t holding out hope, though; it looked like the cars here had been used for target practice. Large caliber machinegun rounds were ripped through most of them. People, plastic, wood, and steel were shredded along with the occasional zombie. “It doesn’t really look like they cared what they were shooting at,” Gary said as he did the Holy Trinity on his chest. BT remained silent, the anger inside of him threatening to boil over.

  A large horn blat stopped them both in their tracks, followed immediately by a cackle and the roar of a diesel engine turning over. BT and Gary broke into a trot to see what Mrs. Deneaux was up to now. She beeped the horn a few more times for good measure.

  “Fuck, woman, the whole world is going to know where we’re at!” BT yelled as they got to within hailing distance.

  “Too late, fuckwad!” she screamed as she leaned her head out the window and pointed behind the duo. Scores of speeders were streaming towards Gary and BT.

  “I guess the bikers lost,” Gary said as he broke into a sprint, followed immediately by BT who quickly outpaced him.

  “Your brother was right,” BT said over his shoulder. “You are slow.”

  “Funny, don’t make me shoot you,” Gary huffed.

  A puff of black smoke belched from the deuce’s exhaust stack.

  “Is she leaving?” Gary cried, trying to find another gear he did not possess. Barring any unfortunate mishap he felt safe in the assumption that he could make it ahead of the lead zombies, but anything past where the truck was now and he was food.

  “Fucking bitch,” BT said as he surged forward, finding that gear that Gary found so elusive.

  Gary had not felt so alone since a junior high dance when his girlfriend Maureen O’Connell had started to dance with his then best friend Pat McDonough. He had not talked to either one since. “Weird thought,” Gary mumbled as he plodded on, gaining on the truck but losing ground with the zombies.

  The truck, which was facing the traffic jam, was now backing up; Deneaux cut the wheel to the right, then started to swing the truck around. She had it facing away as she backed up to its earlier spot.

  BT had caught up and jumped onto the runner on the driver’s side. “Move your skinny ass over!” he yelled.

  “I hope you can drive one of these better than the motorcycle,” she quipped as she placed the truck in park and did as she was told.

  “Getting in the back!” Gary yelled as he hoisted himself up and in. He pulled the small tailgate closed and quickly placed the left side locking pin in place. He was not thrilled with his choice of riding spots as the zombies were close enough to shake hands with. “GO, GO, GO!” he screamed.

  Gary scrambled back down the narrow truck bed. He got his rifle ready and shot the first zombie as it came up and into the truck. The truck lurched into gear and stalled. Deneaux was cackling wildly, zombies were slamming full tilt int
o the truck; a few were trying to get in through the back.

  “Oh please get this truck moving,” Gary entreated as he began to fire at a multitude of targets. The truck rumbled back to life; more gunfire erupted as Deneaux was shooting at zombies that were coming up on to the sides of the truck.

  “Any day,” she said calmly to BT, referring to him getting the truck in gear.

  Gary had pushed back as far as he could, his back resting against the cool metal of the front of the transport. At least three zombies were having varying degrees of success trying to get in as BT hesitantly got the behemoth truck rolling. It was a good two hundred yards of traveling time before they began to outpace the fast zombies. A baker’s dozen of them had latched on to the truck and were making their way as best they could to their targets.

  Somehow, a zombie had climbed on top of the truck and Gary could see it trying to rip through the heavy canvas, but he had more immediate problems. The first zombie that had come in was still alive; the bullet had traveled alongside its head and not quite killed it. Two others were dead, and one was holding on to the tailgate for dear unlife. Gary was completely out of ammo.

  He frantically felt around his pockets looking for any spare ordinance, remembering that he had left it in Deneaux’s saddle bags. A tear above him brought his attention that way as he saw a finger poke through a small hole.

  “Time is running out,” Gary said as he stood, stooping to stay out of reach. He moved to the rear of the truck, taking careful stock of the dazed and hopefully dying zombie. The zombie on the tailgate snarled and snapped its teeth as Gary approached. Its feet were bouncing along wildly on the asphalt as it clung to the tailgate. Gary couldn’t help but smile when he thought the zombie looked suspiciously like Michael Flatley. The moment passed quickly as he brought the butt of his weapon down heavily on the fingers of the zombie.

  Nothing, not so much as a whimper, as Gary used crushing force to dislodge the zombie’s hands. The zombie was still trying to pull itself into the truck. Gary repeatedly smashed the hands until there was nothing more than shredded skin holding the zombie to the truck; inertia and gravity did the rest as the fingers separated away from the body. The zombie tumbled down the roadway, once it came to a full stop it immediately got up and started running again towards the truck.

  “You have got to be kidding me?” Gary asked, just then he heard the telltale sound of canvas tearing followed immediately by a heavy thud as the zombie fell through the hole it had made. “This is insane!” Gary yelled as he rushed over to the zombie and began to drive the butt of his rifle into its skull before it had a chance to regain its legs.

  The zombie thrashed wildly back and forth as Gary caved in its head. The pile of bone-infused meat on the floor by his feet did not resemble anything even remotely human, but the twitching wedding band laden left hand would be something that haunted him.

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” Gary said as he dropped his rifle and lurched to the rear of the truck reluctant to add his bile to the ever expanding pool of human-like matter already there.

  He was hanging his head over the lip of the tailgate trying to pull in as much fresh air as was possible, which was not easy considering he was directly in the flow pattern of the truck’s exhaust. That was still better than the zombies. The truck was moving and the shooting had subsided, Gary felt they must be out of immediate danger right until he felt something bite down on his ankle. Denim and leather the only things that separated him from certain death, Gary jumped up and scooted down to the front of the truck on the bench seat used for troop transportation using the butt of his rifle as a make-shift paddle, he didn’t stop until his rifle butt plunged into the mashed head of the zombie that had dropped from the ceiling. For reasons he still can’t fathom, he pulled his gun up and towards his face so that he could see what was stuck there. He vomited as the gray-black gelatinous ooze dripped from the stock and onto his lap.

  The zombie that had been dazed and laying on the floor was now making its way to an oblivious Gary. At some point the truck had stopped and BT had come around the back.

  “Gary, you alright?” BT was yelling as he did so.

  Gary’s retching was the only response.

  The zombie’s hand had gripped the bottom of Gary’s boot and was pulling itself closer. Gary was cognizant of the approaching danger but was unable to respond.

  “Fuck, man!” BT said as he grabbed the back of the zombie’s legs and was now pulling the zombie and Gary towards him.

  Deneaux shot the zombie in the head point blank as BT pulled it free from the truck. Gary was staring at the whole exchange not really registering anything.

  “He looks bit,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she leveled the gun on Gary.

  “He’s not fucking bitten. Put the damn gun down,” BT told her. “Right, Gary?” BT asked.

  Gary slightly shifted his gaze so he could look at BT.

  “Come on, man,” BT motioned. “You can sit up front with us.”

  “He’s covered in vomit and brain, he stinks to high Heaven.”

  BT looked crossly at Mrs. Deneaux.

  “Fine,” she said, “but I’m smoking more.”

  “I wouldn’t think that was even possible,” BT answered. He extended his hand for Gary who slowly took it. “You alright?” BT asked again.

  Gary got down off the truck; he walked a few feet away to the grassy median and deposited a little more stomach sauce. He vigorously wiped as much stain of humanity off himself as he could with the overgrown weeds, and when he felt somewhat decent, he climbed up into the cab without uttering so much as a word.

  “I guess he’s ready to go,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she got in behind him.

  BT looked once behind the truck and noticed the zombies were far behind but that they were still following.

  A few more miles passed underneath their tires.

  “I miss you. Mike,” BT said almost silently as they passed out of North Carolina and into Virginia.

  “Me too,” Gary said even quieter. The first words he had uttered in an hour.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mike Journal Entry 6

  I honestly thought John was full of shit, right until we pulled up to the gates of the municipal airport. He made me take a right towards one of the smaller hangars; once we stopped, he grabbed the keys out of the ignition and walked over to the hangar where he opened up a door to the corrugated steel building.

  It was darker inside, but the windows high up in the building let in sufficient light. There it was, a helicopter that wasn’t much bigger than some of the ones I’d seen hobby enthusiasts remote pilot. John went over to it and began to lock the props in place—they had been folded in for storage.

  “I’ll be honest, John, this seemed like a much better idea when we were underground.” I was having serious reservations. Here was a guy that said he couldn’t get his shit together enough to drive a van, but could apparently pilot a toy helicopter.

  “It’s perfectly safe,” John told me as he almost took off the top of his head with the blade, by walking into it. “Help me wheel it out.”

  Me helping ended up, me doing, as he went over to the large hangar door and began to pull it open. It was surprisingly easy to move, but I don’t know why I would be expecting anything else from a helicopter made from spare Erector Set parts. I pushed it some twenty feet away from the building thinking that was plenty of clearance, then I went another fifty.

  “You see the checklist?” John asked me.

  I shook my head.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he told me as he climbed in.

  “Trip, I beg to differ. They have those checklists for a reason, like for checking the fuel level or ice on the wings or shit, man, like a bunch of other stuff.” I was stalling, because all of a sudden, the tunnel looked welcoming. Well not really…but at this point it was like splitting very fine hairs.

  “No time to go through the list anyway,” John said as he powered the copter on. “Migh
t want to duck and get in.” The blades began to whir to life. He tapped lightly on his instrument panel. “Hey do you know what that one checks?” he asked.

  “I have no fucking idea, Trip, except it looks like it’s in the red.” I had been in the middle of getting in and was now in the middle of getting out.

  “I wouldn’t,” John said to me, never looking past his instruments.

  “Huh?” I asked. I should have known better.

  He pointed back and to the right of our present location, zombies were flooding in our direction.

  “Oh shit!” I said as I saw the swarm. “How long until we’re airborne?”

  “I don’t know, man, I’ve never seen the reason to time it. Sure could go for a little Mary Jane.”

  “Task at hand first, buddy, task at hand,” I said to him, trying to gauge how much time we had before we were engaged with the zombies. “More than half a minute?” I asked, trying to press him for information he didn’t have.

  “Time is just something the man made to keep us all in line,” he said as he pressed more buttons on his console.

  “Trip, I understand your frustration with the mythical man.”

  “Oh, he isn’t mythical.”

  “Okay, sorry, but we may need to ditch the copter.”

  “Almost there,” he said.

  “The zombies or being in the air?”

  He didn’t elaborate. I started to get back out.

  “Where you going?” John asked.

  I had sarcasm all lined up, but I knew John wouldn’t catch it and I didn’t have time for an explanation.

  “Zombies, Trip, I have to slow them down.”

  “Whoa,” he said as he looked back. “Where’d they come from?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was the one that had pointed them out to me.

  “You should make them into mannequins.”

  “What?” I asked looking at the approaching horde and the blades that were lazily spinning, more from the breeze it appeared than any mechanical function.

  “Like at the motel.”

  Why in the hell was I having John the Tripper tell me how to get out of situations? This was like having a dog (not Henry) help me with algebra. (Who am I kidding? The dog could probably do it better.)