Gut Check at the Choke & Puke

by David Rogers

  “You done been bit by them bastards.” Hank hollered back.

  “I fucking know!” the driver shouted. “I’m bleeding like a half slaughtered hog here. Help me!”

  “Go away. We don’t want no more trouble.”

  “Motherfucker . . . Hank open the Goddamned door!”

  “You set one foot in here and I’m gonna put you down.”

  “Open the door.”

  “No.”

  “Goddamnit!”

  Hank raised the shotgun, holding it tucked in tight against his shoulder. “Go get in your truck and get on out of here.”

  “While you can still drive.” Vera muttered.

  Lauren saw a dangerous look in the driver’s eyes as he glared through the glass at Hank. A truck stop girl didn’t survive long if she didn’t learn to catch the signs that foretold danger. And the driver outside was angry, and about to do something. She started sliding back down the aisle, away from the counter and Hank.

  She had just taken her second step back out of the way when the gunfire started again.

  Chapter Three – Close the Back Door

  Lauren screamed and threw herself to the floor for the second time that night as the pistol went off three times in rapid succession, the sound of the shots surrounded by the tinkling crack and collapse of broken glass. Both armed men were yelling, but all Lauren heard were the gunshots. The shotgun went off. A man grunted in pain, then the pistol was firing again. She stole a peak underneath her curled, shielding arms.

  Things were exploding on and around the counter. Cigarettes and energy drinks were spilled out around the registers, and falling or dripping to the floor. Scattered tobacco mingled with the syrupy green and red caffeinated liquids. One of the registers was sparking near the top, through a long, cracked hole a bullet had blasted through its plastic shell. She saw Hank’s shotgun emerge from beneath the counter, held up over his head in both hands, and the second barrel went off. As soon as it fired, it disappeared beneath the counter again.

  “Goddamnit Hank, I’m not trying to rob you.” the driver yelled. “I’m just trying to survive.”

  “Same here asshole.” Hank hollered back.

  Lauren scrabbled down the aisle on knees and hips and elbows, trying to keep from rising. She could feel the grit and grime on the floor rubbing across her bare skin, and some of the cracks between the floor tiles were snagging the flimsy fabric of her blouse. She kept crawling, away from the front of the store, toward the coolers of drinks lining the back wall.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” Vera screamed.

  “Then stop fucking shooting at me!”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You fucking did.”

  “You shot at us when you blew out the windows.”

  Lauren reached the coolers and slid around the end of the aisle to the left. She was familiar with the layout of this franchise and remembered the restrooms and pay showers were in that direction. All of which had industrially utilitarian metal doors that locked.

  “I’m not gonna die out here in the parking lot!”

  “Better you than us.” Vera screeched.

  “Goddam—” Hank began, but a fusillade of pistol shots cut him off. Barely audible beneath their booming cracks she could hear more damage being inflicted on the front counter. And a painful shriek from Vera seemed to indicate something – bullet or debris – had hit her. The shotgun went off again, and she heard the pistol stop firing.

  Not pausing to find out if that meant the gunfight was over, Lauren took the corner into the bathrooms. She managed to kick something off the shelf in the aisle behind her as she scrabbled on the floor, something glass that hit hard enough to break. She didn’t stop until she was a good ten feet down the corridor. Then, out of direct line of sight of the shooting out front, she raised herself to a cautious crouch and looked around.

  Four bathrooms lined the corridor directly ahead, paired on opposite sides. Past them, four more doors were marked for showers. Two other doors stood guard on the far end of the corridor, both labeled ‘Employees Only’. Lauren felt her breath catch in her chest as she saw the door at the end of the corridor. The one on the wall at the end, the one with the panic bar across it at waist height and a large red lettered sign that read ‘Warning, alarm will sound if door is opened. This area under video surveillance. Emergency Exit Only.’

  She pushed herself off the floor, stumbled in her haste, then got her balance and staggered for the exit. There was still shooting happening out front, and Vera was still screeching in pain. Whatever was going on up there, she wanted to avoid it if possible. Her weight came down on the door as both hands found the panic bar, depressing it and releasing the latch. The promised alarm went off, loud enough to drown out Vera but not the continued exchange of gunfire. Lauren took one step outside then froze in shock.

  Less than three feet away was a middle aged man dressed like a suburban dad, not a truck driver. Blood had ruined his clothing, blood and whatever had ripped and torn the polo shirt and khakis. There was something wrong with one of his legs, but he was on his feet and looking at her. She saw a blank look on his face, but a gleam of hunger lurking in his eyes. Lauren stifled her urge to scream and instead darted around the edge of the open door. She didn’t want to be this close to anyone who looked like that anymore than she wanted to be anywhere near the guns.

  She felt the man’s fingers scrape against her back, cold and clammy through the thin fabric of her blouse. He got enough of a grip to jerk her up short, and she turned, arm coming around and up in a practiced instinct reaction. The bag of drinks slipped down from the crook of her elbow into her hand, accelerating as she swung. The fluid filled plastic bottles inside were heavy enough that she felt the bag starting to stretch alarmingly in that moment, but it held long enough for the six-pack to slam into her attacker’s head like a medieval mace.

  There was a muffled crunch as something in the man’s skull broke, and a fizzing gush of soda as at least one of the bottles split, under the impact. The fingers on her clothing went slack, and she almost tripped over her heels as she backpedaled out of reach. Lauren dropped the bag of drinks she’d forgotten she was even carrying and almost fell again as she caught her heel against the concrete. She swore and looked down at her footing as she tipped her weight up on her toes to keep the spiked heels from causing her to break an ankle.

  She burst into a jog while she swiveled her head around to look at the scene outside. More of the . . . whatever they were . . . had left the bus and made it around the back of the store building. More were on the street that bordered the lot. She didn’t see anything helpful anywhere – no police, no firemen, no rescuers. Nothing but attackers and trucks.

  Her eyes widened, and she turned her jog into a sprint. Trucks! Maybe Todd was still here. She darted up the side of the store, flinching reflexively as she went past the windows. She heard the shotgun going off again, but Lauren didn’t stop to look at what was going on in there. Her only goal was to get around the far end of the store building so she could see . . .

  She almost stumbled and fell as she slackened her stride. Todd’s truck was right where it had been parked, but the door was open. Well, not open – exactly – but ajar. A trio of figures were about fifteen feet from that not-completely-closed door, and blood was pooling around them in a spreading, ragged circle. Two of the . . .things . . . knelt over Todd. He was still moving, but feebly and without any real strength. One of his attackers had him firmly by the arm, while the other lay sprawled across his legs.

  They were eating him, Lauren realized distantly. Already a goodly portion of his shoulder and upper arm were missing, and his abdomen had been laid open wide enough for his insides to spill out. There were ropey red strings of intestine poking out of the jagged rent in his flesh, already in the process of being enthusiastically consumed by the woman who was no longer a woman.

  Lauren almost threw up, right there. Her gorge rose in her, and she had to squeeze her throat muscles
and swallow quickly to avoid throwing up. The concentration needed for that meant she had to slow her sprint, which caused a surge of momentary panic. She looked behind her quickly, as much to get her eyes off the horrific scene ahead as to make sure she wasn’t being stalked by something else that was hungry.

  She was clear for the moment. The man she was running from was only just now at the corner of the store building she’d exited from, and moving in a shuffling, shambling stagger with his hurt leg dragging almost uselessly beneath him. She had most of a minute before he could reach her. She glanced around, then, reluctantly, looked at Todd again. She had some mace in her purse, chemical mace, but even if she was able to drive his attackers off . . . he was still dead. There was a lot of blood gushing from his wounds In fact, the gaping holes were barely gushing by now. More like desultory dribbles.

  He was dead. She made herself accept that, though she was starting to feel like she was falling without any sign of bottom in sight. Things were sooooooo not making sense. Trade some tricks for a ride and a place to sleep, nod off, wake up, and the world has decided to stop making any fucking sense. It wasn’t fair. She needed to figure something out.

  Then a glint of metal in Todd’s hand caught her eye, and she saw the edge of his key ring. It was on the concrete beneath his hand, but it drew her attention magnetically. Keys! The keys for his truck! They were right there. All she had to do was walk over, lean down, and take them.

  Lauren looked around again, then back at the keys. The two people . . . well eating was the only word that fit, the two eating Todd – they looked busy. With their meal. She shook her head sharply, then started edging closer. She needed those keys. Todd’s attackers paid her no attention as she sidled toward them on the tips of her toes so her heels didn’t click on the concrete. Lauren made herself watch them, even though what they were doing was completely gross.

  Pieces of Todd were being bitten off and chewed. Swallowed. The two things seemed completely oblivious to the mess being created as what was left of Todd’s blood, what hadn’t already bled out, oozed from the wounds created by their teeth. They knelt in the puddle soaking into his and their clothes and calmly, methodically, continued eating.

  There was none of the gusto humans might have exhibited over a meal. They also lacked anything she might be able to call animal intent towards the Todd-food they were eating. They simply kept eating, almost robotically. Like it was an imperative they lacked the will or desire to deny. Without ire or appeal, but just something to do.

  Lauren realized the lack of emotion was turning her stomach almost as much as the extreme level of gore. She was definitely about to throw up, but she needed to hold it together at least a little longer. Five feet. The keys were less than five feet away now. Two more tiny steps, still watching the creatures that were no longer human, and she was in the blood. Her shoes were close toed, but they were decorative more than protective. In seconds the lukewarm fluid was seeping in. She could feel it starting to squish beneath her toes.

  Holding her breath, Lauren leaned down and took the last necessary step. She was within arm’s reach of the keys, but also in arm’s reach of the diners. She made herself wait, hovering, as the woman finished chewing and swallowing before pushing her face back into Todd’s innards for another messy bite.

  At that moment, Lauren snatched for the keys. She got hold of them and hooked her index finger through the ring before skipping backwards like she’d been shoved. The two eaters paid her no mind. She felt her heart hammering away in her chest, felt her breath heaving in and out, and felt her stomach finally winning the battle.

  As she doubled over, the first spurt of ejecta pouring past her lips to splatter on the concrete, she just barely heard the scrape of feet behind her. Still vomiting, Lauren looked and saw the man who’d greeted her upon leaving the store was very close. She staggered away from him and the things on the ground busy with what was left of Todd, utterly uncaring of whether or not she managed to throw up on the ground or herself in her urgent need to both keep vomiting and get away from the danger.

  Her stomach finished emptying after about a dozen steps, and it took her another five to get her throat and insides to stop contracting spastically. She’d gotten a lot on her legs, some more on the front of her blouse, even some in her hair, but she paid none of it any mind. The keys were still clenched in her hand, and the truck was right there. Lauren checked behind her to see the man was still pursuing. Her lead was back to almost ten feet.

  She ran to the passenger side of the truck and stopped, looking at the key hole before starting to paw through the keys in her hand. Two that looked likely wouldn’t fit in the lock, but the third slid in. She checked her pursuer, then pulled the key out and ran back to where the trailer began. Then she made herself wait. The man staggered after her, and when he was two ‘steps’ from being close enough to reach for her, she ducked under the trailer and crossed to the far side, then darted for the driver’s door.

  It took her too long to get the door unlocked, but she managed, then opened it and climbed up into the cab. After collapsing into the driver’s seat, she pulled the door closed after her and slapped at the locks. There was an odd sound that confused her until she realized it was her own breath wheezing in and out, panicked and strained.

  “Get a grip.” Lauren muttered. She found the ignition key and stuck it in before twisting to the first stop. Lights on the dashboard lit, and the various parts of the diesel engine that needed to be primed or warmed or whatever began their cycles. She couldn’t explain it, and barely understood it, but she knew it was a thing. The truck had to do whatever it need to do with the key in and turned on before the engine would start. While it was happening, she found the adjustment controls for the seat and started bringing it forward. She was smaller than Todd, and her legs could barely reach the foot pedals with the seat back.

  When she could reach the clutch, she depressed it, checked the gear shift to make sure it was out of gear, then turned the key. The diesel cranked for about a second, then caught and rumbled to life. She goosed the accelerator a few times to make the engine blatt throatily, then scanned the dashboard. Where was the damn brake release, the damn release, it’s here somewhere . . . there. Her hand smacked down on it desperately.

  Lauren took a few seconds to examine the little graphic that labeled the shifter’s gears, then clutched and pushed up into first. She held her breath a little as she gave the engine gas and slowly released the clutch. It had been years since she’d driven her dad’s tractor, but he’d always been fond of saying driving stick was just like riding a bike. Once you knew it, the skill stuck.

  Sure enough, she felt the truck begin to move. She got the clutch completely released without stalling the engine, then pressed harder on the accelerator. The engine’s rumble turned into a roar, and the big vehicle bumped forward. She could feel the weight of the trailer dragging on the truck, but the heavy duty diesel was up to the task.

  She spun the steering wheel right and started to come around to head for the nearest exit, reminding herself to stay aware of the trailer’s length. Her eyes darted nervously to the mirrors, but she had pulled far enough out of the parking spot – and the lot was empty enough – that she was in no danger of clipping one of the other trucks.

  The sickly-sweet smell of the vomit clinging to her clothes and skin was making her feel nauseated again, but she made herself focus on her driving. She found the switches for the lights and swiped them all on – headlights, running lights, vanity spots, all of it. She cast one swift, lingering look out the driver’s window at the bus wreckage next to the pumps as she rolled past at a safe distance.

  Figures were visible staggering toward the store. She saw broken glass on the concrete next to the store where the driver had shot his way inside. Whatever was going on inside, she couldn’t see and didn’t really care. She just needed to get away from here. Where was a step two question. Step one was to fucking leave.

  Lauren turned o
ut on the six lane road without stopping, not even bothering to wonder where all the traffic for a Friday night was. Less than a quarter mile ahead was the on-ramp for I-75. She decided south sounded good, and got ready to make the turn.

  # # #

  If you enjoyed this short, you might find Apocalypse Atlanta entertaining. Free samples are available, so why not give it a try?

  Also by David Rogers

  Apocalypse Atlanta – We’ve all seen it on the news every year. A hurricane, a tornado, a tsunami, a flood. A BAD thing happens, and all hell breaks loose.

  Some people are caught in the chaos, others are victims, some run, others wait for help, most sit at home watching for everything to be fixed for them, and a few dive in to do whatever they can.

  The thing about a zombie apocalypse is whether or not you’re in that initial wave of people who get hungry and start snacking. And where you are as few turn to many. As we all know, when it’s zombies, soon many turns to most. And it’s over when most become all.

  Apocalypse Atlanta follows three people as the zombies start eating and bring the world down around them a bite at a time.

  One is a retired Marine. The second is a widowed single mother. And the third is a biker.

  Are there right or wrong answers when zombies are involved? Do things like morality and decency matter? Is it better to be alive to feel guilty, or dead an honorable? Who decides who’s right or wrong when a single mistake can make you dinner for a ravenous horde of the undead?

  The story that started it all, the preceding book to Apocalypse Aftermath.

  http://www.amazon.com/Apocalypse-Atlanta/dp/B00D538D6M/

  Apocalypse Aftermath – the follow-up to Apocalypse Atlanta, continuing the stories of Peter, Jessica, and Darryl.

  When an apocalypse starts, there's always running and screaming. Sooner or later, most of that starts to fade; if only because most of the runners and screamers are dead. Once the end of the world gets going in earnest, the sprint becomes a marathon. You can’t run all the time, can you?