Scavengers

by Nate Southard

  Blake could only watch. He felt the truck stop, but he couldn’t turn away from Chris and the spastic dance the man did as he tried to get rid of his new accessory. The horrible absurdity entranced him, and he didn’t even wipe at the terrible mess that flecked his skin.

  Chris wheezed as he grabbed the fleshy rope in both hands and sent it sailing over the side. The man stared at his hands as the truck sat in the middle of the filthy street.

  “Chris?” Blake asked. “You okay?”

  The man laughed. It started as chuckles and then became full guffaws as the pickup got rolling again. He searched for madness in the man’s eyes but didn’t find any. This was something else.

  “Holy shit!” Chris said. “Now, that’s a fucking party, boys!”

  Blake looked away, wiped the muck from his skin, careful to keep it away from his eyes and mouth. He’d need to find water soon. Maybe there was some in the cab.

  “I’m gonna be sick,” Jeremy said. The undulating sound of his voice backed up the claim.

  “Just hang it over the side, little buddy,” Chris said. “We’re having some fun…”

  Blake turned at the sound on Chris’s dying voice. He saw the man stare out at the street and ruined homes, his eyes going wide and the color draining from his face.

  “Oh, Jesus Hell,” Chris said.

  He followed the man’s gaze and saw them. Zombies charged out of every home, out of the scattered woods behind houses. Dozens ran from Catalpa and sprinted down Front Street, predators realizing somebody had put the soup on. Their rotted forms jumbled in his vision, becoming a wall of gray, green, and horrible brown.

  With numb fingers, he scooped up the shotgun. He scrambled for the trigger and almost pulled it without aiming. Somebody had dropped ice into his gut, and it sent cold spikes of terror into his brain. He tried to steady his hands, but they fought him for control. Every stinking breath made him shake harder.

  “Oh, shit,” Blake said.

  The truck wasn’t accelerating fast enough. The zombies came from all sides and closed quickly. He gave the road ahead a panicked glance and saw more undead charging from up the street. Jesus, had all three thousand of the bastards decided to hit them right now?

  He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to catch Chris jamming the butt of his rifle into his shoulder. Beyond him, Jeremy curled into a ball and screamed. He wanted to do the same thing, but something told him he couldn’t, not yet.

  “C’mon, Ellis,” Stevenson said as he sighted down the barrel. “Don’t you dare leave me alone here.”

  The rifle cracked, and the ice in his gut shattered.

  The approaching wall of rot separated into individual targets. Blake jacked the shotgun once and planted it in his shoulder. He swung the weapon to the right, where the zombies had closed to within twenty feet of the truck and were stampeding toward the side, and pulled the trigger. The twelve-gauge bucked hard in his hands, and a head that showed more skull than flesh disintegrated along with the thing’s neck and chest. The monsters on either side of the destroyed zombie flew backwards and crashed into the throng. More bodies surged forward to take their place, angry waves at high tide. A few climbed onto the trailer, only to tumble off when they tried to stand.

  The truck accelerated, and Blake shifted onto one knee, centering his weight. He pulled the trigger, and another zombie blew apart. Beside him, Chris snapped off a few more shots before pausing to change out a magazine.

  He saw a sagging body tumble past and fall apart as it struck the concrete. He guessed it had tried to grab onto the side of the pickup. The rest of the dead whipped past, running but unable to keep up.

  Holy shit, he thought. We might actually make it through this.

  Then the truck slowed down and one of the zombies leaped into the bed.

  SEVEN

  Morris looked past the stampede of living dead and saw the end of Front Street. The concrete and steel of the fire station loomed directly ahead, only McCormick Avenue offering escape. Five more seconds, and the pickup would cross the two-lane street and become a permanent part of the station. He realized he’d never make the turn unless he slowed down.

  He pumped the brake, and the Dodge dropped from forty-five to twenty. The zombies closed in on them. He felt a hot surge of panic as he saw a snarling face appear on the other side of the window. Thunder boomed from the bed, and the monster’s head exploded in a red and gray mist. Something banged on the top of the cab, urgent and angry.

  “Fuck,” he muttered and hit the brake again. The vehicle slowed to fifteen miles an hour, and the thunder from the rear came more frequently, drowning out the rumble of the engine and the frenzied sounds of the snarling dead. He felt the urge to check the rearview and make sure the others were okay. Instead, he jerked the wheel left, pointing the truck’s nose toward Tandy’s. The zombies parted, and an overturned van appeared in the middle of the street.

  He heard Eric cry out and caught the man grabbing hold of the dash. He stomped on the brake and spun the wheel to the right. The pickup’s rear swung wide. He bit down hard on nothing and hoped for the best, but he knew he’d been too slow. They were going to hit the wreck.

  ————————————

  Blake thought he had three shells left when the rasping woman with arms draped in tattered flesh jumped into the bed, but he couldn’t be sure. He fired, and the female’s midsection vanished. Her top half flew backward while her legs flopped onto the bed’s floor, splattering blood. The lukewarm fluid splashed his face before he could turn his head.

  Stinking hands grabbed at him as the truck continued to slow. He fired another blast, and the hands fell away for a moment. He heard Chris bang a fist on the cab and yell, “C’mon, Morris! It’s the one on the fucking right!” but the big man didn’t appear to pay much mind.

  Something slammed against the side of the cab. He looked and saw one of the zombies slapping at the driver’s side door with broken hands. He fired at the thing’s temple and put it down.

  The truck began to turn left onto McCormick. Blake looked for his backpack and the shells it held, found them at his feet. He reached inside, and the pickup began to skid. The back end went wide, and the pack slid away, slamming against the tailgate just as another zombie clambered over the side.

  He heard Jeremy scream. Jerking his head to the side, he expected to find the kid under attack. Instead, Jeremy had curled into a tighter ball and looked to just be screaming for the hell of it. He decided the boy was safe. Besides, he needed the shells before he could worry about anything else.

  Chris’s rifle split the air again, and the bullet punched through their latest stowaway’s hand. The thing looked at its own hand, flexing the appendage, and Blake ducked low and slammed into the thing with his shoulder, sending it over the side and crashing to the pavement. He continued his trajectory, reaching for the backpack, when suddenly the side of the Dodge slammed into something.

  The impact sent him careening to the side. His head bounced off steel, and he crumpled to the bed’s floor. Stars bloomed, flooding his vision, and his muscles refused to obey his commands. The world pitched back and forth beneath him, and he couldn’t find the right way up or down. He felt a desperate need for sleep, for darkness. Where was he, anyway? It didn’t feel like his bed, not that it mattered. He could sleep anywhere.

  Suddenly, a loud noise boomed into his brain and tore him from sleep. He shook his head and realized he’d heard a gunshot. The world thundered back in, and he remembered everything. He opened his eyes just as fingers raked at his jacket and tangled in his hair. A scream tore free of him as another gunshot ripped through the air and jerked at his senses. Some of the hands left him, but the ones in his hair held on, pulling with incredible strength.

  He couldn’t see his attacker, but he knew they were trying to drag him out of the truck. His back arched, and he felt hot, stale breath on his throat. The thing’s stench was unbearable, a fog that squeezed him. He raised
his hands to defend himself and was shocked to find he still had a grip on the shotgun. Ramming the weapon upward, he felt it catch beneath a decomposing chin. He roared as he shoved at the thing, but its strength stunned him as it continued to inch toward his soft throat. Other hands grabbed at his clothes, and he heard his jacket tear. The stinking breath grew closer.

  ————————————

  Morris punched the gas, and the engine roared for a second before it sputtered and died.

  “Fuck!”

  “What happened?” Eric asked. The man had drawn a .38 special and blasted a zombie that tried to reach in at him. He now tried to roll up his window, arm cranking with panic.

  “I flooded the damn thing!”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Do I fucking look like I’m joking?” He turned the key and received nothing for his troubles.

  “Aw, hell. We can’t sit here and wait for it to settle down!”

  “I know!” He beat on the steering wheel with his fists, knowing it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. Grabbing hold of the key but refusing to turn it, he counted.

  One. Two.

  A man with a few tatters of flesh where its jaw should be scraped its hands down Eric’s window. Gunfire filled the air.

  Three. Four.

  Eric kicked open his door, shoving away the zombie. Another tried to grab him, and he shot it in the face.

  Five.

  Jeremy screamed, his terrified voice pealing through the air like a siren.

  Morris almost turned the key again. He grabbed his right hand with his left and stilled himself. Keep counting.

  Six.

  A dead woman scrambled onto the truck’s hood and brought both fists down on the windshield. She screeched, and bile sprayed past her lips to spatter across the glass.

  Seven.

  Somebody else started yelling in the bed. Blake? Eric was trying to wrestle his door shut. One of the dead things had grabbed hold of its edge.

  Eight.

  The female crashed her fists against the windshield again. The glass starred and crumpled inward. Morris watched her with steel eyes, and she hissed at him.

  Nine.

  A final shot from the bed, and then silence save the hissing screeches of zombies. Eric fired another shot and slammed the door, screamed as four severed fingers dropped onto his shoulder and then tumbled into his lap.

  Ten.

  Still nothing from the bed. It didn’t matter. They’d all die if he didn’t get them moving. He twisted the key in the ignition and pumped the gas once. The engine sputtered and then caught, coughed to life.

  “Yes!”

  He looked through the crumpling windshield and saw the female winding up for another blow. He jerked the wheel to the right and mashed the accelerator. The pickup bolted forward, and the dead woman tumbled off the hood. The truck jounced as it chewed zombies beneath its wheels. Morris shifted into low gear and kept rolling. He wouldn’t let these decomposing fucks slow him down again.

  Then they stopped again. Something was dragging at the back of the truck. Metal groaned, and panic slashed at him as he realized the wreckage had hooked their trailer somehow.

  “Fuck!”

  “Just floor it,” Eric said. “It’ll tear loose.”

  “We need that trailer!”

  “And Millwood needs us alive so we can bring something back!”

  Morris nodded and gave the truck more gas. The groaning grew louder, almost drowning out the sound of dead limbs pounding at the truck. He rocked in his seat, trying to help, and then the trailer tore free with a sound like a snapping high-tension line.

  The truck tore away from the wreck. Morris sighed both in relief and frustration.

  “How are they doing back there?” he asked Eric.

  The thin man twisted in his seat and looked through the rear window.

  “Oh, shit.”

  ————————————

  Blake saw black teeth lunge toward his face, and he pushed with everything he had, shoving the shotgun into the thing’s throat. The jaws clacked shut inches from the bridge of his nose. He heard the thing hiss, and then he realized he couldn’t hear the truck. Had they stopped?

  The thing snapped again, and then the back of its skull exploded. Blake shoved the zombie away before its brains could shower down on him. He rolled toward the center of the bed and looked up to find Stevenson, hunting rifle smoking in his hands. Chris smiled down at him, the expression full of smug attitude. He wanted to tell the prick to fuck off, but he doubted they could hear each other after all the gunfire.

  To his right he saw the crumpled top of an overturned van, and he knew why they’d stopped so suddenly. He listened for the truck’s engine and realized it had gone dead. He thought about the backpack and decided he didn’t have time. The dead were right on top of them, swarming the pickup like ants. He cracked the shotgun’s butt into a corpse’s chin, sending it back over the top, and then grabbed hold of the gun’s barrel and swung it like he was trying to knock one into the upper deck at Riverfront Stadium in Cincinnati. Stock crashed against skulls, and bodies sailed back to the concrete. He waited for Chris to fire off some more shots, but a glance over his shoulder told him Stevenson was stuck in the melee as well. The man kicked a zombie in the chin and snapped its neck back at an impossible angle, crushed another’s face with his rifle.

  ————————————

  Chris wanted to feel scared or heroic. He’d settle for a good dose of absolute terror. Instead, he felt nothing but a stewing anger. These fucking killbillies and rednecks. They surrounded him, and everywhere he looked he only saw another target.

  He wondered what Ellis must be thinking. Hopefully, the prick had seen his grin. He wanted the guy to know he’d saved his ass. It was the one little thing that made him feel better.

  He swung the rifle’s barrel to the right and fired another shot. He didn’t wait to see if he’d hit his mark. Something else had already come closer, made itself a bigger threat.

  He caught a glimpse of the kid. Jeremy wasn’t doing a damn thing but freaking out, and the boy’s inaction pissed him off that much more. He refused to die trying to pick up the kid’s slack.

  A rage-filled squawk dragged his attention away from the Motts boy. He brought the .22 around and cracked off his next round. Something gray and stooped tumbled away from the truck.

  “Fucking things,” he muttered.

  His anger boiled.

  ————————————

  Jeremy squeezed his eyes shut and refused to open them. His mind screamed, but it couldn’t drown out the sounds that circled him like angry crows.

  He wanted to go home. He wanted his mom, wanted her to hug him and cry all over his face. He wanted to turn back the clock and run away with her and wander in the woods and wait in the dark where nothing would ever find them. He wanted to disappear, to just vanish or shrink away into nothing. Anything would be better than what was happening all around him.

  He couldn’t stop crying, but he didn’t care. He was going to die, and it was the most horrible feeling in the world. It was so hopeless, impossible to resist, and there wasn’t a soul with even the slightest interest in saving him.

  Or was there?

  ————————————

  “Blake!”

  He heard his name but couldn’t tell who was screaming. Too many things demanded his attention, and every single one of them was trying to swarm the bed of the truck and have him for lunch. He turned back to the throng of dead and cocked back the shotgun to take another swing.

  Something grabbed the back of his jacket and dragged him down.

  The pickup limped back to life in the same instant he landed on Jeremy Motts. The boy pulled at him, holding him tight.

  “Don’t let them get me, Blake! Don’t!”

  “Get off!”

  “Don’t let them kill me!”

  The boy’s arms wrapped aro
und his throat and cut off his air. He clawed at them, but they refused to budge. Terror had given Jeremy the strength of a bull, a grip like iron. Blake considered elbowing his way out of the kid’s grasp, but then a zombie climbed into the bed and lunged for him. The bloated thing reached for him with arms marked by lesions and tears. Black fingernails like claws snatched at the air.

  Blake brought his knees to his chest and then pistoned with both legs. His feet caught the horrible thing in the chest. He heard its ribs snap and winced as he felt something burst beneath his boots. The zombie flew backward and rolled across the concrete.

  The truck accelerated beneath him, but he needed to break free of Jeremy’s grip if he wanted to survive the next few moments. He heard Chris fire another shot and realized he wasn’t available to help. Meanwhile, Jeremy had wrapped both legs around Blake’s waist and continued to scream right into his ear, deafening him with his pleas for help.

  He twisted in the boy’s grip, trying to get some leverage. Something to his left hissed, but another blast from Chris’s rifle silenced it. The rifle clattered to the bed, and Chris grabbed Jeremy by the shoulders.

  “No! Noooo!” The kid sounded sure Chris meant to toss him to the zombies.

  “Let the fuck go of him, you little bastard! You’re choking him!”

  Their cries mixed into a chorus, and then Jeremy’s arms were gone and Blake could breathe. He sucked in a deep breath of stinking air and choked it back out again. Pushing himself back to his hands and knees, he looked at the surrounding streets and groaned.

  The dead, hissing and spitting as their arms flailed, dashed in from every side. With the truck moving fast now, the zombies weren’t much of a worry, but they’d have to slow down to turn again before they reached the grocery, and the engine had already cut out once. Moving quickly, Blake grabbed his backpack and shotgun. With tingling fingers he pushed shells into the weapon.