Murphy’s survival instinct took control over his paternal instinct. He knew he could never outrun the deaders by climbing over the barricade. Gunning his Harley, Murphy swung it into a U-turn and headed for the entrance ramp a few yards away. A deader in a road worker’s vest moved directly into his path. Murphy steered around it, using his right leg to kick the thing out of his way. Another deader, this one in a bus driver’s uniform, dived at him. Murphy accelerated, avoiding being tackled, although its leg bumped into his rear fender. For a moment, the Harley wobbled. Murphy knew if the motorcycle toppled, he would be dead. Regaining his balance at the last moment, he sped up and continued down the ramp, pulling onto Market Street and heading toward downtown Portsmouth.
Hundreds of the deaders chased after him.
Most of the horde jumped onto the barricade and pursued Dan.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Fyler exited the liquor store. “Trying to call every deader in the area?”
Dorrie pointed behind him. “They’re already here.”
The mass of deaders had entered the parking lot and were closing in. He ran for the RAV-4, screaming over his shoulder to Jimmy and Martha Lee.
“Get to the fucking car.”
Dorrie stood by the driver’s door, the front of her pants soaked. “Hurry!”
Fyler shoved Dorrie into the back seat. She tripped, hitting her head against the opposite door. Fyler could not care less. He slammed the door behind her, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the ignition.
Jimmy exited the liquor store, pushing along one of the shopping carts filled with cases of beer. Martha Lee walked several paces behind, lugging the bags of snacks. When Jimmy saw his friend getting ready to leave, he became furious.
“What the fuck? You leaving us you—”
Seven deaders tackled him at the same moment, knocking over the shopping cart and dragging Jimmy to the ground. One each grabbed an arm or leg, biting off huge chunks of flesh, while two others tore open his abdomen, dragging out his intestines and shoving them into their mouths. Jimmy thrashed about, crying loud enough to almost drown out the moans of the living dead. The screams switched from pain to insanity when the last deader dropped to its knees beside Jimmy’s head, bent over, and tore off his face with its teeth. Other deaders piled onto the frenzy, desperate to get their share of the meal.
At first, the deaders did not notice Martha Lee until she started screeching while watching her boyfriend being ripped apart. Those not already ravaging Jimmy charged toward her. The last Fyler saw of Martha Lee, she ran back into the liquor store with a pack of deaders close behind.
The remainder rushed the RAV-4.
Fyler slammed the driver’s door moments before the first deader reached him. Its hands smeared the window with blood. Fyler shifted into drive and floored the gas pedal as the swarm reached him. One jumped onto the rear bumper and clasped the roof rack, hanging on as Fyler darted across the parking lot. The exits were blocked by the horde. Instead, he drove along the front of the liquor store, dashing through the empty parking lot with the deaders chasing him. At the end of the lot, Fyler bounced the RAV-4 over the curb, throwing lose the deader, which crashed head-first onto the concrete and smashed open its head. He continued down the incline, bounced onto Route 1, and turned left for the bridge.
The swarm followed a hundred feet behind.
“Christ,” whined Clapton. “It feels like it’s getting colder up here.”
“That’s because it is, Claptrap. The temps are supposed to drop below freezing by morning.”
“Are you serious?”
Downey nodded.
“That’s all we need.”
“On the bright side, if we get a lot of snow, it’ll slow down the deaders and make it easier for us to stop their advance.”
“I never thought of that.”
“That’s why I have the stripes, soldier.”
Downey lifted the infrared binoculars to his eyes, scanning the area one more time. He thought he spotted something at the end of town and a mile away at the roundabout interchange, although he could tell for certain in the shimmering generated by the streetlamps at the circle. He switched to his regular pair and focused in.
“Fuck.”
A horde of the living dead rushed through the roundabout. No, that would be an understatement. A wall of deaders numbering in the hundreds stampeded through the roundabout and along Route 1 toward his position. At first, he did not understand what drove them until he spotted a bright red SUV a hundred feet ahead of the pack and rapidly pulling away.
Foster, the third member of the squad, stepped up beside Downey. “Should I have the operator lower the bridge so they can get across?”
Downey made quick calculations on whether he could safely get the survivors across when his headphones blared.
“Sarge, this is Simmons. Something’s going on over here and it doesn’t look good.”
Downey swung the binoculars to his right. Two motorcycles raced along I-95 toward the bridge with a second mass of stampeding deaders on their tail.
“Sarge,” called out Specialist Foster from inside the bridge control booth. “Should I have the operator lower the bridge?”
“Tell him to sit tight.” Downey keyed his microphone. “Simmons, if you can’t stop those things from crossing into Maine, you have authority to blow the bridge. I repeat, you have authority to blow the bridge. Don’t wait for orders from me.”
“Roger that.” Simmons’ voice had a nervous edge to it.
“Wilcox, do you copy?”
“I copy, sarge.”
“We’re under attack. Raise the bridge.”
Alissa paced the deck, not knowing what to do or what to say. Waiting like this was maddening. Her mind wandered, especially to what would happen in the morning when the sun came up and they were sitting here in the open.
A siren cut through the silence of the night, startling Alissa. “What’s that?”
“That means they’re about to raise the bridge.” Steve started the engine of the cabin cruiser.
“Hurry up.” Dorrie stared out the rear window of the RAV-4 as she banged her hand against the back of the driver’s seat. “They’re gaining on us.”
“No shit, bitch,” Fyler responded from behind the steering wheel. Despite his better judgment, he glanced in the rearview mirror. All he could see were those motherfuckers chasing them, though far enough behind they would never catch him. In a few minutes he’d be across the bridge and on his way to the northern coast where he—
“Fuck!”
Fyler slammed on the brakes. The RAV-4 skidded sideways, stopping at the intersection by the access road leading past the U.S.S. Albacore Museum.
Dorrie slid across the back seat and slammed into the right rear door. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“The goddamn bridge is up. We can’t get across.”
Fyler decided to swing left onto Market Street when Dorrie screamed, flung open the back door, and broke into a run toward the bridge. The approaching horde of deaders slammed into the driver’s side of the SUV, their combined weight shoving it sideways several feet. Several dozen chased after Dorrie. Most chose to swarm the easier meal trapped inside. Fyler pressed the accelerator, expecting to break free from the mass of living dead. His tires burned rubber, but the RAV-4 moved only a few feet, held in place by the increasing number of deaders covering the vehicle. Several discovered the open door in back and crawled in, dead hands clawing over the seat, fingers scraping and scratching against his face and neck. Fyler released the steering wheel and punched the deaders attempting to climb in front with him. One bit his hand, tearing a chunk out of his knuckles. Fyler never realized he had been infected, continuing his useless defense against the onslaught. The battle ended when a female deader in a white sweater and tan skirt crawled over the back of the passenger seat, dropped into the front, and attacked, digging its teeth into Fyler’s stomach. He stopped punching the others to rip it away from its f
eeding, allowing them to get him. Fyler cried out as the deaders inside the SUV tore him apart.
Dorrie saw none of that. She ran toward the bridge as if her life depended on it, which it did, yelling and waving her arms to attract the attention of those on the Sarah Milford Long Bridge.
The whir of engines and the scraping of metal echoed along the river as the center span of Memorial Bridge began to rise.
“Get ready folks.” Steve pushed the throttles and steered Ocean Escape away from the Kittery Yacht Club into the center of the river. “It’s show time.”
Alissa shifted the Mossberg 590 Tactical nine-round shotgun to her left hand. She reached behind her with the right, removed the Glock 23 from between her pants and the small of her back, and held it by her side. Her fingers clenched and unclenched around the grip.
The cabin cruiser approached the structure considerably faster than the center span could rise. Alissa backed away, as if the few feet would matter, stopping only when she bumped into the last bench of the dining area.
Nathan saw it as well. “Ah, Steve. Do you think you ought to slow down?”
“Trust me.” Steve set his attention on the rising span. “I got this.”
Seconds dragged as the cabin cruiser drew closer to the bridge. Eventually, the roof blocked her view of the span. Alissa took a deep breath. Every muscle stiffened as she braced for a collision, expecting a sudden jolt or the grinding of metal as the span tore into the cabin cruiser. Instead, the bridge supports passed by to port and starboard.
Alissa exhaled. “Son of a bitch, we did it.”
Steve lifted his right hand above his head and gave her a thumbs up. “I told you we—”
Semi-automatic fire ripped into the cabin cruiser, punching through the roof and ricocheting off the rear deck.
Murphy sped down Market Street. He checked the rearview mirror. The deaders were half a mile to his rear and falling behind. With luck, he might make it out of this. He only hoped Dan survived. The kid was tough, smart, and could take care of himself. They would meet up later in Portland.
Once in downtown Portsmouth, Murphy veered left onto Bow Street. The twin towers of Memorial Bridge stood a quarter of a mile away. Only a few minutes to safety.
His hopes were dashed when he heard the blaring siren. Murphy accelerated. When he reached the end of Bow Street, he swung left. The bridge stood a few hundred feet away and had not started to open. Increasing speed, he bolted onto the approach ramp.
A burst of semi-automatic fire chewed up the road twenty feet in front of him. Murphy applied the brakes too rapidly, flipping over the motorcycle and landing on his back.
Wilcox heard the engines before he or his men spotted it.
Corporal Taylor moved closer. “Sounds like a car’s approaching.”
“It’s a motorcycle,” corrected Wilcox. “The rider is probably trying to get across to Maine.”
“He’s out of luck.” Taylor chuckled.
Wilcox cast him a withering stare. “He’s only trying to stay alive like the rest of us.”
“Sorry.”
The motorcycle exited Bow Street and headed toward the bridge.
“You and Riviera flag him down and check him for bites before letting him across.”
Taylor snapped his fingers to get Private Riviera’s attention. “You heard the sergeant. Move out.”
Wilcox shook his head as the two men headed out to halt the motorcycle.
“Wilcox, do you copy?”
He keyed the microphone on his headset. “I copy, sarge.”
“We’re under attack. Raise the bridge.”
“Roger that.” Wilcox ran over to the bridge control booth, waving his arms.
The operator opened the door and stepped out. “What’s—”
“Raise the bridge. We have deaders on the way.”
“Fuck.” The operator ducked back inside.
A moment later, the warning siren blared and the stop gates lowered across the north and south lanes, their yellow lights flashing. Wilcox started to call back Taylor and Riviera. The motorcycle accelerated, attempting to reach the bridge before the span rose. Riviera raised his M4A1 Carbine, aimed at the driver, then at the last moment lowered the barrel and fired six rounds into the road in front of the motorcycle. The driver stopped short, flipping himself and his bike.
The span beneath Wilcox’ feet jolted and moved, trapping his men south of the river. He would find a way to get them out later. Raising his binoculars, he scanned the roads leading out of Portsmouth, searching for the approaching deaders Simmons had warned him about. Nothing. Hopefully a false—
An M4A1 Carbine went off behind him. Wilcox spun around. Private Neustadt leaned over the guardrail on the left side of the bridge, firing at a cabin cruiser that had passed beneath the span. A dozen rounds slammed into its roof and rear deck.
“What are you doing?”
Neustadt lowered his weapon. “Trying to stop them. They could be infected.”
“Stand down. You’ll never do it that way.” Wilcox keyed his microphone. “Sarge, you have a rogue boat heading your way trying to run the checkpoints.”
“Sarge, you have a rogue boat heading your way trying to run the checkpoints.”
Downey stepped over to the right guardrail and spotted the cabin cruiser heading toward them. He checked on the young woman who had jumped out of the SUV. She still ran toward them with the deaders slowly gaining.
Downey spun around to the bridge control booth. “Foster.”
“Yes, sarge?”
“Tell the operator to lower the bridge.”
Alissa spun around so she faced the stern. Raising the Glock, she fired five rounds toward the rising span of Memorial Bridge. The bullets struck the metal structure above the gunman, pinging as they ricocheted off the steel. The gunman crouched to avoid being hit.
Nathan rushed up behind Alissa and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Good. You opted to make him take cover rather than kill him.”
“Of course.” Alissa refused to admit she had been shooting at the gunman but her aim was horrible.
“I’ll guard our rear. Go check on Steve. I think he’s wounded.”
Alissa headed forward. Steve clutched his hand against his stomach, hunched over a few inches in pain. Blood stained his shirt. Without being in an ER, the chances of Steve surviving a gut wound were slim.
“Where were you hit?” she asked, placing the shotgun and Glock on the dining table.
“Here.” Steve held out his hand. Blood poured from a hole in the palm. The top half of his middle and ring fingers were missing. “A stray round struck my hand when I gave a thumbs up. Screw my luck.”
Alissa examined the wound. The bullet entered through the middle of his hand and exited through the palm, tearing off the ends of his two fingers and shattering the phalange bones. Blood poured from the wound but did not spurt, meaning the bullet had not struck an artery.
“Am I gonna bleed out?” Steve asked.
“It’s going to hurt like hell, but you’ll be fine. Be right back.”
Steve held his hand by his side. Blood dripped from the remaining fingers, forming a pool by the control console. Alissa used her knife to cut off the sleeve to her sweater and wrapped it around his hand twice, tying the two ends together on the top of his hand and pulling the knot tight to cut off the blood flow.
“We need to get you below and fix that up.”
“Later. If we get the chance.”
“What do you mean ‘if’?” Alissa followed Steve’s gaze farther down the river.
The center span of the Sarah Milford Long Bridge had begun to descend, threatening to block them.
Dorrie saw the bridge lowering to rescue her. She had not prayed in years, or been to church for twice that long, but still thanked God for helping. Now she asked for one more favor, hopefully not pushing her luck. She prayed those things chasing her would not catch up.
She had already made it to the port
ion of the bridge over the water. Only a few hundred feet to go.
Downey switched his gaze between the approaching cabin cruiser and the young woman running toward them. The first one would not pose a problem. The bridge would be lowered by the time it reached them, trapping it in the bay.
The woman was another issue. Her pace had already slackened off from exertion, allowing the deaders to gain on her. His squad would not be able to fire on the living dead without catching her in the crossfire. He made a quick mental calculation. Even if she reached them, which seemed unlikely, there would not be enough time to stop the flow of deaders and raise the span before they overwhelmed his squad. Damn.
“Foster!”
The soldier leaned out of the bridge control booth. “What?”
“Tell the operator to stop lowering the span.”
“Are you sure?”
“Do it.”
“Nooo!”
A mixture of emotions raced through Dorrie’s mind when the center span stopped moving. Anger. Terror. And resignation. Dorrie gave up and stopped running.
Two seconds later, the horde of deaders swarmed over her. Three tackled her, knocking her face-first onto the cement. Another dozen or so piled on top, nearly twenty sets of hands clawing at her flesh and tearing at her chest. Dorrie had gone numb, not even feeling it when one of the living dead pulled open the flesh and muscles around her abdomen. Dozens of hands plunged inside, clutching whatever organ they could and dragging it from her body, kneeling in a circle as they consumed her alive.
Knowing they would never have a chance to feed from this human, the rest of the horde charged toward those standing on the raised span of the bridge.
“Did the bridge stop?” Alissa asked.
“Someone’s watching out for us.” Steering with his left hand, Steve used the lower palm of his right to push the throttles to full, wincing in pain as he did. The cabin cruiser closed the distance with the bridge. They would pass within fifteen feet of the support piling.
Nurse Alissa vs. the Zombies (Book 2): Escape Page 3