by Shane Woods
Looking again in the mirrors, a wave of relief washing over me as the attackers began to break away, one at a time, giving up their pursuit for some more captive prey. The second truck still right on my tail, and only the occasional shudder from my own as I clipped more vehicles not completely in their lane. Here and there other, smaller vehicles would try to muscle their way through the traffic in our wake, only to be stopped by debris and bodies, blocked in by others, or, in one case, to slide slowly and with no sign of grace down the slick grass towards the tree line. Before much longer, the first exit showed itself, and the pursuing trucker took it, tailed by two other vehicles. I wished them luck as I drove on following my own plans of making it home.
Another twenty minutes and the signs for Route 8 started showing themselves. No longer caring about the career I’ve sacrificed so much for, I took the exit, and continued towards my house. Route 8 was worse than I-80. Where vehicles had mostly come to a peaceful stop on 80, casually awaiting their fates, Route 8 was a wreck. Literally, a wreck. Vehicles still smoldering, twice the number of dead visible, and signs of last stands everywhere. Akron was a dangerous enough city, but most of these fuckers couldn’t shoot. Bodies lay in the evening sun, surrounded by empty casings and discarded small arms. I’d have given anything to scavenge what I could, but they were there, too. At least a hundred visible, and surely many more hidden as they feasted.
I continued on, never slowing more than a little bit for obstructions on the shoulder. A few miles later, the truck began to reek of the sickly-sweet smell of hot coolant after colliding with a small pickup truck. Steam rising up from under the cracked and partially desecrated fiberglass hood, and the fan kicking on to work overtime at keeping the pig cooled down.
I figured now would be a good time to find easier venues of travel. Following the exit for Cuyahoga Falls, I maneuvered my mini road-train onto the main street, and immediately dropped down onto Second Street, heading southbound, the sounds of tree branches and low hanging power lines snapping as I turned down side street after side street, none of which were designed for such a tall rig to be traversing.
The side streets were mostly free of traffic and people. Runners here and there, as well as the odd one or two vehicle accidents, all of which were quickly picked over by the monstrosities, the only signs people having been there before were the puddles of blood and remains looking like something that had been through an industrial blender. How had the neighborhoods I’ve spent the last ten years frequenting transformed into something straight out of a horror flick so quickly? No signs of ‘normal’ people out and about, tending to their daily lives. No cute girls out for an evening jog in small shorts and tank tops. No retirees taking in the mild temperatures, walking yippy nippy purse dogs. No kids playing basketball while dads trimmed hedges or mowed lawns. None of it. Just accidents, fires, and destruction gone widespread in the matter of, what, a day? Two? It just didn’t make sense.
Maneuvering through the odd wreck or signs of struggle, and keeping a wary eye out for the monsters, I zigged and zagged through the side streets without stopping or slowing. Every turn making my trailers sway and rock, creaking in protest.
Finally, down to one of the larger roads, Falls Avenue, there was some traffic backed up. An apparent crash sealing the fate of the people stuck in the intersection waiting for help and road clearing crews that would never arrive. Looking around, taking stock of my options, and pounding the steering wheel, I decided I had to drop into low gear and muscle the truck through, hoping against hope that it didn’t take its final breath there, and leave me stranded and naked so close to my home. Being physically impossible to reverse a set of double trailers, forward was my only option anyway. Not a whole lot of choice there.
Deciding the left side was the least crowded, I angled the truck towards the curb, then, up and over with my driver’s side. Tree branches scraping and snapping along the roof of my trailers on one side, the creak and screech of steel on steel on the other. Then, a loud bang, similar to a shotgun going off. In fact, that was my first thought, was that I’d been shot at. Nope. A trailer tire had given up the ghost, exhaling its 100+ PSI of air pressure in one resounding burst.
And then the shriek. Followed by several more. As I angled my lumbering beast through the most sparsely populated part of the intersection, pushing a couple of cars and a small pickup truck as I went, several running forms began charging in from all directions, like sharks sensing the blood in the water. Freak after freak began running headlong into the sides of the tractor and both trailers, oblivious to what they were really after, but knowing there was a pile of meat sitting somewhere close by. Several others began making their way over the cars surrounding the intersection, some unfortunate enough to be dragged under by the truck and the cars it was knocking about like a bulldozer does rocks in a quarry. A couple even ended up sandwiched between the cars as they were moved, the sickening crunch and pop of limbs and bodies audible even over the ensuing racket of their chase, and my escape attempts.
Bursting forth from the entanglement, splitting the last two vehicles to each side like a giant mechanical Moses, I throttled down, making another dreadfully slow progressive climb through the numbers on the speedometer. Now over twenty-five miles per hour, the exploded tire began adding in its own two cents, throwing long black alligator shreds of rubber all over the street as the runners pursued, only to be gradually outpaced by my remaining twenty-one tires. Another two much less packed intersections, and I began to allow my speed to scrub off as I started formulating a plan. One turn and seven blocks from my home, and hopefully, safety and family. I grab the phone, turn it on, and it shuts right back off before the ‘Shittiest cell phone provider on the face of the planet’ title screen completes. Okay, so that’s not really their name, but they both start with an ‘S’, so we’ll take it. At any rate, the option of calling once more to home and cooperating on a plan is no longer present.
Well, I had few good options. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t rightfully pull up next to my house in a bright orange semi, making all the noise in the world, and let the brakes whoosh and walk right through the door. ‘Honey! I’m home! Some really weird shit going on out there but man I’m hungry, is that pizza?’ Yeah, probably not an option at this point. But…
Large noisy vehicle. Neighborhood full of angry hungry fuckers that are attracted to every mouse fart and insect flight? I’ve got it!
I worked the truck to a street about two blocks south of my house. Turning onto the road, I cut the turn tight intentionally. Half smiling, half grimacing as my second trailer ran itself along the side of a telephone pole. The bending and twisting metal meeting the unyielding wood and letting out a sound reminiscent of the world’s longest nails being raked across the world’s nastiest black board.
Pulling free of the pole, the noise persisted. No, never mind, those were shrieks. Fucking worked like a charm! I pull my damaged, smoking, straining rig about halfway down the block, well within earshot of my house, and pull the knob for the trailer brakes. More cringe-worthy noise flooded the neighborhood as the pneumatic brake chambers let out their last long hiss of air. Then, ignoring the usual need to lower my landing gear (those little support legs for the trailer, for you non-truckers), I flipped the switch to uncouple the lead trailer from the tractor, slammed the truck into third gear, and flew out from under the trailer. The trailer, and its twenty-five thousand pounds of cargo weight, dropped clear of the back of the tractor and slammed to the ground, turning its own landing gear to bits of tin foil, and making an earth-shattering BANG in the evening quiet. As the tractor advanced away from the cacophony, the last I heard of the mess was my air and electric lines breaking free, impacting the back of the cab, and shrieks and calls from all over the neighborhood.
Smiling at my grand distraction, I followed the straight street a few short blocks back out to the main road through the neighborhood. The tractor, much lighter and very much nimbler with its 34-ton weight loss, sho
t up the stretch of North Howard to its next turn a couple blocks north of my own street. Once making the turn, I killed the engine and let the truck coast the next few blocks until it lost momentum. Leaving it parked in gear, instead of making more noise by applying the tractor brake, I began to gather what was important. I moved fast, though I was sure my distraction left nobody but my tire noise on the road to whisper my location to the world. Clipping my gun holster to my belt, spare mags, my last two cigars, and stuffing my bills of lading into my cloth lunch bag, I checked my surroundings and left the truck, making my way quickly to a house on the street that I knew had been vacant for years.
Once on the porch of the house, I retrieved my trusty folding knife from its pocket clip, worked the front window until I could get the lock to pop, and entered, drawing my pistol on the way in. Closing the window behind me, I began to slice the pie around every corner, clearing the first floor of the empty structure, and then made my way up to the second floor, doing much the same. Confident that I was alone, I’d relaxed for the first time since this whole ordeal began.
I moved to the front windows to look out and view my truck. Through the dust covered pane of glass, I could make out a good half dozen of the creatures all around the truck. Watching as one walked a few feet away from where I’d just exited, she threw her head back, and I could hear the sharp intake of breath as she inhaled sharply through what was left of her nose, and then darted back to the open driver’s door of the truck. Was she…scenting me? Trying to find a trail? Another loud snorting sniff, and then a series of short, sharp coughs, and all present made their way to be near where she was. I couldn’t be sure, but if I was being tracked, I’d have to guess the pungent interior of the truck, saturated with the ass and sweat of every trucker in the company might have just saved my bacon. Hey, I’m not saying truckers are dirty, but a vehicle with over 1.5 million miles of us in and out of it will have a certain… aroma about it.
Moving back toward the rear bedrooms of the house, I could see no movement on this side. I decided that waiting until it started to get dark was my best option, and that’s just what I did. Although, right as I pressed my back to the wall, ready for my posterior to make friends with the dusty wood floor, I heard a series of shrieks from my friends out front. Gripping the S&W tightly in one hand, my small blade in the other, I crept quietly and quickly back to the front window, only to be met with relief that they were in fact running away from my hiding spot. That relief quickly dissipated as they disappeared around the side of a house across the street, and some obviously human screams echoed throughout the rows of houses.
Deciding rest was not going to come, and dark was within an hour away, I waited. Watching out the windows like an old spinster worried about what’s become of the world, I saw the most reassuring thing I’d seen all day. Nothing. No crazed fucks running around, no people running from them, nothing at all. It was more tranquil, somehow, than a late Sunday evening.
Gradually, darkness began to blanket the Earth, and, gradually, I began to get up the nerve to make my move. Once the street lights came on, I moved down to the first floor and eased my way out of the rear entrance of the house, slipping as quickly and quietly through the tall grass of the forgotten back yard, into the yard of the house behind it, and up to the side. Sweeping my gaze up and down the street, and across the visages of the houses lining the sidewalks, I saw nothing. The only apparent sign that something was not right with the world was two bodies lain in the street, directly behind a half-rusted Oldsmobile with giant chrome wheels. You know, the kind that some people think are cool, so they slap them on a car worth a fraction of the price of the wheels, and wonder why the rest of the world cringes? Yeah, those. One body lay completely still, the other weakly moving its head, though the twin trails of blood trickling from its eyes told me right off that it wasn’t someone I should talk to.
I snatched a small rock off the ground and threw it down the street, and, waiting several seconds to make sure nobody would come to investigate, I darted across to the other side, making sure to stay to the shadows between the pools of light from the street lamps. Once across and sliding almost noiselessly down the side of the next house, my own dwelling came immediately into view. The same basic two-floor home with an attic and small garage that you can find in any inner-city housing row across the country. Nothing special, but it was mine, and being on a double lot, we had one of a very few actual back yards worth mowing in the neighborhood. That’s special. Well, unless you don’t like having a yard to mow, then I don’t know what to tell you.
As far as mowing was concerned, the lot abutting to the back of my yard hadn’t seen a mower in many months. Funny, how that works, the city will come by if yours has gone for a couple of weeks and post a notice to mow or be fined for your lack of attentiveness, yet once they knock a house down, it sees their blades maybe twice a summer. Less often than that, usually.
I took advantage of this and sprang from my hiding spot, crossing one small empty lot, and dropping into the waist high grass in the one behind mine. Moving low and slow, I carefully made my way to the back of the lot, painfully aware the sounds of each blade of grass as it parted to make way for my large frame. Sneaking comes easily to some people. The heavier and taller you are, those talents become much easier to obtain. At six-one, I wasn’t overly tall, and not overly heavy, fairly well-built two hundred and twenty pounds, but just enough to let me know I was no stealth ninja that could drop out of a rafter in the ceiling and assassinate someone.
Making my not entirely stealthy way through the tall grass, I reached the back of the lot. There it was. My house, hopefully with my wife and daughters still safe and sound, and maybe even a neighbor inside helping keep them safe.
Looking at the house from my vantage point, I could see the attached garage, a first and a second-floor back window, and the attic window. How am I to signal them now, or let them know I’m here without catching a bullet? My wife could shoot, and I wasn’t going to tempt fate by rushing right up to the house, so I retrieved my lighter from my pocket. Striking the flint with the wheel, I signal three short, three long, three short-SOS. Waiting a few moments, I try it again. Nothing. Maybe nobody’s looking, I think, as I scan the ground around me and come up with a few stones. Flinging the first two at the lower windows, nothing happens, so I throw a couple more at the side of the house and the attic window. There it is. I saw movement in the attic, so I tried the lighter again. And again. Finally, three single flashes of sparks in the attic window.
Relief found me instantly, feeling like a previously unnoticed weight had slid off my shoulders. Scanning my surroundings, and determining the coast to be clear, I low-ran across my back yard, behind my pickup truck in the driveway, and stood below the attic. The window opened, swinging inward on its hinges, and the beautiful mess of dirty-blonde hair that is my wife poked itself outside.
“Oh, thank God, you’re here!” she called in an excited whisper.
“Yeah,” I replied, also whispering loudly,” traffic and shit. Are you bugged in up there?”
“Me, the girls, and Henry,” she replied.
“That’s awesome!” I replied, nearly breaking the quiet in my excitement. “Is the downstairs open?”
“No, Henry- “she began, but I cut her off.
“Later. I need a way in. Tell Henry to grab my extension ladder. I’m coming in through the bedroom here.”
“Okay hold on, it might be a minute,” came the reply.
Without another word, she disappeared from the window, and I moved back behind my truck to keep out of sight. Several minutes passed, and I could hear footsteps, and the sound of my aluminum ladder jostling in the garage next to me.
A few moments later, the bedroom window, then the outer storm window slid open, and my old rickety ladder made its way out, then down, followed by Henry’s smiling chocolate brown face.
“And a good evening to you, my brother!” he called quietly, in his perpetually cheerful, but
bass-drum deep voice, “you gotta have God himself on your side to be out in all this!”
“Good to see you, I’m coming up, man,” I replied, and started making my way up the ladder, cringing with every creak and pop of the aluminum as I worked my way up. Henry’s face vanished as I ascended.
I clambered through the window, and into my bedroom over the nightstand. Checking the closet, and not surprised to see not one gun or scrap of ammunition in sight, I left the room and went straight up the narrow stairway to the attic, only to nearly run headlong into the three smiling forms of my wife and girls.
“Oh my God, I’m so happy you’re all alright!” I exclaimed, hugging both girls and then my wife.
Moving further up into the attic together, I looked around and noticed somebody was missing.
“Where’s Henry?” I asked.
“He went back downstairs to re-block the door between the garage and the kitchen,” explained my wife. “He had to remove everything to get your ladder.”
“Nice. Is the whole downstairs blocked up?”
“Yeah,” she said, hesitating, “but you kind of don’t have walls in your garage anymore. He used all the plywood to cover the windows and doors.”
“That’s fine, it went to a good use.”
Then a loud and shrill “DA-DA!” nearly echoed throughout the small attic as Gwen made her way back to me and latched onto my leg. Melissa immediately made her way over to her much younger sister, trying to shush her, but I scooped the toddler up, tussling her sloppy blonde hair and planting a kiss right on her cheek.
“She’s cool, dude,” I told Melissa, “just excited. Has she been good? Quiet?”
“Mostly good, but not very quiet,” replied Melissa, her dark hair and eyes very weary already, giving her age beyond her twelve years.
“What about you?” I asked.