Scavengers

by Nate Southard

  Blake tried to scream, but he couldn’t draw breath. He scrambled forward blindly, hoping he was still heading toward the truck and praying the others wouldn’t leave him behind.

  He heard a growl from behind him that was almost a delighted squeal. Jesus, they were right on top of him now. He clawed at the gravel with his fingers and fought for breath. His feet kicked at the ground and pushed him along. Stones scraped at his chest and stomach, his T-shirt providing almost no protection.

  He heard the pickup roar to life. In the next instant cold, withered hands closed around his ankle, and he found the air to scream. He lurched backward across the ground. His shirt bunched up around his chin, and the gravel cut his flesh.

  The world stopped around him, went silent.

  Holly.

  The word echoed through his mind, and he knew it would be the last thing to cross his mind before dying. He started to say goodbye, but then a rifle cracked from somewhere above and the hands let go. He heard a body collapse to the ground in the moment before a second shot split the sky. The world sped up again, and he leaped to his feet, ducking his head in case somebody was still shooting.

  “Move your fucking ass!” Chris screamed.

  Blake did his best to obey. He spared a single glance under his arm and saw two zombies sprawled along the ground, their brains fanned out behind them. He started to look for the pistol, but then the remaining cannibals tore out of the forest and charged toward him. There was no time.

  He raised his head and saw he was feet from the pickup. He grabbed the top of the tailgate and jumped, pushing himself over and into the bed. He hung suspended for a split second and then crashed down hard. His shoulder crunched against steel, and he managed another scream. The pain was instant and intense. He pulled his legs in close, making sure they were inside the truck.

  “Go!” Chris yelled. The man slapped the cab for emphasis.

  The truck’s tires spun, gravel spraying over the approaching zombies, and then caught. The vehicle fishtailed the slightest bit before straightening out and charging onto the road. The engine growled, and Blake felt the foul-smelling wind sweep past his face. They were safe.

  He rolled onto his back and winced as he felt his shoulder. It ached like a son of a bitch, and his touch sent hot stabs of agony all the way to his spine. He hated how close their little encounter had been, hated how narrowly he’d escaped death.

  And they’d only faced four this time out. Three thousand of the bastards still waited just a mile or two up the road.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  “Nice moves,” Chris said. “Picture of fucking grace.”

  He ignored the bastard. A single thought filled his brain and shut out everything else. It echoed like a nightmare.

  We don’t stand a chance.

  FIVE

  Blake checked his weapons. With the Glock gone, he found himself with only a revolver and a pump-handle shotgun. Between the two, he needed to reload after every fourteen shots. Not the best odds, and the numbers worried at him. When things went bad, he’d probably have better luck just worrying about the shotgun. The pump-handle loaded easier than the revolver, the shells much easier to grasp.

  He hoped he’d last long enough to reload the shotgun. The throbbing pain in his shoulder and the stinging cuts on his chest and stomach gave him plenty of doubts.

  Chris sat across from him, double-checking his hunting rifle and maybe thinking the same thing. Inspecting the scowl on the man’s face, Blake wondered if he was worried or pissed off. He didn’t know Chris well enough to tell, and he didn’t care to get chummy with the guy. If he’d learned anything about Chris, it was that he was a first-class asshole. The bastard would probably blow each one of them away if he thought it would save his own ass.

  Blake reminded himself to keep a close eye on Stevenson. He wanted to believe the guy wouldn’t do anything crazy, but he just couldn’t be sure. Things could get real messy if Chris got any wild ideas.

  Jeremy had taken his position against the back of the cab again. The boy didn’t hug himself anymore, but now he stared at the pistol in his hand like it was some lost relic he didn’t understand. Who had decided to give this kid an automatic?

  “Jeremy, you know how that thing works, right?”

  The kid stared at the weapon a second longer before blinking and looking up. “Huh? Oh, yeah.”

  “I’m serious. I know you got a lesson before we left, but it’s cool if you want a refresher. Seriously, if you need help or something, say it. Better now than in a minute.”

  “I’m fine! I’ve shot a gun before!” The wounded note of insult in Jeremy’s voice told Blake all he needed to know.

  “So you know the safety’s on, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you take it off? Almost showtime, anyway.”

  Jeremy returned his eyes to the weapon. He turned it over in his hands a few times, considering. Finally, his shoulders slumped. When he looked up again, his eyes shined with tears.

  “I don’t even remember what the safety is.”

  Blake nodded. He didn’t scowl or make any face that wasn’t supportive as he held out his hand. “Here, I’ll show you.” He accepted the weapon from Jeremy and showed him the safety, thumbed it off and back on. The boy nodded, his face serious and concentrating. If nothing else, at least he’d given Jeremy something new to think about.

  “You remember how to switch out the magazine?”

  Jeremy stared at him like he was teaching advanced calculus. His breathing quickened. Blake spotted the approaching panic and placed a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder.

  “Hey, calm down. We’ll get it, okay? Just breathe slow and pay attention.”

  Jeremy nodded, and his breathing improved. Blake watched him for a moment and felt a sadness sweep into his mind. He hadn’t consciously thought about breathing in a long while.

  ————————————

  Another rasping breath, air moving past his father’s lips with a sound like sandpaper over pine, and Blake counted again. He squeezed Holly’s hand, and she shuddered. His mind told him to look at her, to give her some kind of smile, but instead he could only sit there and stare at his father while he counted.

  Eleven. Twelve.

  The desiccated form of his dad drew in another breath, shoulders jerking upward, their bones stabbing at the room. His blanket had slipped down again. Blake had fixed it a dozen times already, but the violent motion of his father’s ragged breathing always made it fall.

  He hoped the man didn’t feel any pain. He’d given him the last dose of morphine two hours before, and now the empty bottle with its dropper wasn’t going to do anybody the slightest bit of good. A week ago, he could have called the hospice nurse and had the prescription refilled. She’d run a full bottle over an hour later. The phones didn’t work anymore though, and the nurse sure as hell wasn’t going to stop by anytime soon.

  A rifle shot cracked somewhere far away, followed by two more in rapid succession. The sound interrupted his count. He wondered if the shooter had hit his target or if the dead person attacking him had won in the end.

  “You okay?” Holly asked.

  He nodded. It wasn’t the worst lie he’d ever told.

  His father took another breath. The spittle that had collected on his lips fluttered. Blake stood and picked up the washrag he’d sat next to the hospital bed. The bed filled most of his father’s living room. He wiped the man’s lips clear and then returned the rag to its spot next to the set of dentures he’d removed the previous day. He sat down as the frail man drew another breath.

  Jesus, how long could this go on? A part of him wished he didn’t have to learn. He wanted to leave, to remember his father the way he’d been back in February, before he’d ever heard the words oncology or chemotherapy or lung cancer used in relation to the man. His dad had been jovial back then, a free spirit and a horny bastard who was quick with a joke and easy with a smile. His father had all
of his hair back then, didn’t sit in a chair with a slack jaw and half-shut eyes, trying to keep his cigarette steady so he didn’t burn himself.

  Eighteen. Nineteen.

  And his father breathed again, that rasping sound filling the quiet living room.

  Holly rested her head on his shoulder, and he could have kissed her for hours just as a way of thanking her. She didn’t need to be at his side right now. She had parents of her own who hadn’t wasted away into things like twigs. Somewhere beyond Millwood, the world was ending, but Holly was here instead of locked up tight with her own parents.

  “You don’t need to do this alone,” she’d told him. If he’d had any doubts he was in love, she’d destroyed them with that simple declaration. That had been two days ago, maybe an hour after his father had last opened his eyes.

  He’d checked his father’s pulse that night. It was steady at eighty-the hospice nurse told him the end would be near when it rose over one hundred.

  An hour ago, his father’s pulse had reached ninety-seven. It shouldn’t be long now.

  Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.

  Breath.

  ————————————

  “Okay, here.” He made sure Jeremy could see what he was doing. “You eject the mag like this. Slap the new one in hard, and then rack the slide back like this. That puts one in the chamber. Remember?”

  “Think so.”

  “Good. Y’know, you don’t have an unlimited amount of bullets or anything, so maybe hang back unless something gets close enough to make the shot perfect. We’re probably going to need every round we can spare.”

  “Right.” Jeremy nodded slowly, absorbing it all. The desire to do a good job moved like a shadow through his eyes.

  “And don’t fucking hit either of us,” Chris said.

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m not joking, you little shit. You so much as scuff my jacket, and I’ll toss you over the side to those things.”

  Blake saw Jeremy’s face blanch a new shade of white, and it set off something inside him. He lunged across the pickup’s bed and grabbed Chris’s collar in both hands, pulling him in close.

  “You asshole! Lay the fuck off him!”

  “Screw you, Ellis,” Chris said through a snarl. “Maybe you’re happy to play wet-nurse to the little bastard, but he’s just gonna get us killed before some corpse takes a bite out of him!”

  Blake cocked back a fist. Something inside him screamed Do it! Something else clapped its hands and asked what the hell had taken him so long.

  “Hey!”

  Eric’s voice cut through the road noise and shocked him out of his anger. He looked away from Chris and saw the cook leaning out the passenger side window, scowling.

  “Cut that shit out! We’re here!”

  Blake looked past Eric’s angry face and saw a metal sign approaching on the right. The sight of it sent a nervous jolt through his entire body.

  RUNDBERG

  “The Home of Peace and Quiet”

  Population 3042

  He eased the tension out of his fingers and let go of Chris. The bastard shoved him away and shrugged his asshole leather jacket back into place.

  “Don’t worry yourself there, peaches,” Chris said. “We’ll continue this little discussion later.” The prick grabbed up his hunting rifle and stood behind the cab, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the roof.

  Blake heard him mutter, “Shithead.”

  Yeah, he thought. We’ll finish something later. As he snatched up his shotgun, however, he wondered if he’d get the opportunity.

  You better, Holly’s voice told him. You promised you’d come back to me.

  “Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll do my best.”

  The truck slowed and turned to the right, the trailer rattled behind them as if in protest, and then they entered the town of Rundberg, Indiana.

  SIX

  Blake stared in shock at what remained of Rundberg. Like most everybody else in Millwood, he hadn’t seen any destruction up close and in person. He remembered grainy, frenzied footage on the news channels, garbled radio broadcasts full of panicked voices. He’d heard a few stories from those who’d escaped more populated areas and made their way to Millwood, but nothing had prepared him for what he saw on Front Street as they entered Rundberg. Maybe a show about Beirut he’d watched years before, but that was only an approximation.

  Most of the homes along the right hand side of the road were now little more than blackened shells or skeletons. Almost all of the trees had died, though a few showed a splash of green leaves amid the branches that were mostly charcoal. Across the street stood a collection of houses that looked a few hundred years older than their actual age. Window frames had lost their glass and roofs had caved in. Just past Catalpa Street, somebody had driven a Ford Bronco through the front of a one-story. The driver’s door hung open, but the window had shattered, and Blake made out the reddish-brown streaks of dried blood on what remained of the glass. More cars had been abandoned up and down the road. A broken skeleton, the skull shattered and the flesh long picked clean, lay splayed across the front of a Toyota that had wrapped around a tree. Blake thought the victim had probably flown face-first through the windshield and into the thick trunk. Probably lucky in the long run.

  “Where the fuck are they?” Chris asked.

  “Quiet.”

  Chris turned around and raised his voice. “They can hear the fucking truck, Blake. My voice isn’t gonna make things worse. Shit, who knows if they’re even going to show?”

  He gave Chris the finger, received one in return. He turned away and scanned the area again. As much as he hated to admit it, the guy did have a point. Where had all the dead gone? He didn’t guess they would have moved on in search of food. Some of them might have done just that, but they’d never be lucky enough for the rest to follow suit. Besides, the stink of rot and death was stronger here. It clung to the town like a fog.

  He wondered why Morris was taking it so slow instead of gunning it for the grocery store. Looking past the cab, he found the answer. A snarl of twisted, black metal lay in the middle of the street. Another wreck. Morris piloted around it. Blake looked down into the wreckage and found no bodies. They’d either been dragged free or crawled out on their own after the fact.

  “Jesus.”

  A wheezing cry split the air. Blake jumped before moving to comfort Jeremy, sure the kid had lost what little of his nerve remained. When he reached out, however, he found Jeremy’s mouth shut. The boy looked scared, his eyes darting in all directions, but he remained silent.

  Oh, shit, he thought. Here they come.

  ————————————

  “Got one,” Eric said, excitement sparking his voice like electricity through ancient wiring.

  “I see it,” Morris answered. He didn’t need to follow Eric’s pointing finger. He’d seen the thing the second it left the half-collapsed home and darted for the street, arms swinging like overcooked pasta. Its gray, sagging flesh soaked up the sunlight and made it something sickly. It charged onto the pavement and came right at them. He met its pale, hungry eyes and zeroed in, taking aim. He caught a hint of movement somewhere behind the thing, but he shut it out.

  This is it. No turning back now.

  The street was clear between the truck and the zombie, the distance closing fast. Morris took a deep breath and held it. Hate rose in him like fire. This monstrosity was everything he despised, and he would destroy it.

  He stomped on the gas, and the truck roared.

  “What are you doing?” Eric asked.

  He didn’t answer. He felt his jaw tighten, but he wasn’t aware of clenching it. His fingers choked the wheel, and his lips pulled back from his teeth. Somewhere far away, he heard Stevenson yell, “Oh shit!” If he’d checked the rearview, he would have seen the man duck below the cab and cover his head with both arms.

  He felt the engine rumble with angry life, saw the runnin
g corpse rocket toward them, and then zombie and truck collided.

  Visibility disappeared as the dead man burst like a tick, a soupy mix of black fluids splattering the windshield. The creature’s head bounced off the glass and went flying. A rope of intestine followed, twisting over the filthy glass like a dead snake. The smell intensified, and Eric moaned into his hand.

  Morris hit the brakes as the thing’s legs powdered beneath the truck’s tires. The pickup slid to a stop in the middle of Front Street. He realized he was holding his breath, so he let out his air and took in more. He felt a little better, kind of satisfied.

  He turned to look at Eric, found him staring in disgust at the filth-covered windshield.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Can we go, please?”

  “Sure.”

  He pulled the wiper lever and gave the windshield some fluid. The wipers pushed the muck into streaks and finally cleaned it away, leaving him plenty of visibility.

  He didn’t like what he saw.

  ————————————

  “Oh shit! Duck!” Chris said as he followed his own advice.

  Blake felt the quick crunch of the truck hitting a body, and in the next instant a stinking black rain splattered him and the others. His muscles drew up involuntarily as the sticky wetness and accompanying stench hit him. A head sailed over them and bounced twice off the flatbed before tumbling into the street. A moment later, a trail of intestine slid over the cab and fell on Stevenson’s shoulders. The man screamed as his arms jerked, trying to shake off the blackened entrails. Jeremy cowered, afraid the thing might touch him.