Scavengers

by Nate Southard

  Chris turned from the rushing throng and sprinted for the truck. He made two steps before a dead man grabbed hold of his ankle and brought him crashing to the ground. Air gusted from his lungs as he slammed into the lawn. His body went limp. He tried to crawl away but most of his strength had left with his air.

  He fought to twist onto his back, bringing the tire iron around in an attempt to crush the dead man’s skull. The maneuver only gave the killbilly the leverage it needed to bring itself face to face with him. He screamed as the thing pinned his arms back.

  ————————————

  Morris started forward. The zombie dragged itself up Stevenson’s body, straining to reach the tender areas it could bite with ease. If he reached them in time he could boot the fucking thing’s head clean off its shoulders. Stevenson had wandered halfway across the front yard though, and the zombies were closing fast.

  He picked up speed, but he doubted he’d make it. The damn thing was still at least fifteen feet away, and his burly frame wasn’t nearly fast enough.

  The crack of a rifle shot cut through the chorus of snarls and screeches. The zombie’s head blew open like a water balloon. Morris turned his head in the split second before blood and brains splashed his face. Stevenson screamed and then let loose with a stream of imaginative curses. He kicked the headless corpse off of Stevenson and then grabbed hold of the man’s wrist with his good arm and yanked him to his feet.

  “In the truck! Move it!”

  He didn’t bother making sure Stevenson got moving, didn’t even look over his shoulder to see how close the zombies had come. He could hear them within inches of his back, could smell their rot plowing up his nose. Something might have snatched at it with rotten fingers, but he didn’t bother to verify it. He just ran as fast as he could and hoped he could drag himself behind the wheel before something tore out his throat with blackened teeth.

  He grabbed hold of the steering wheel and hauled himself up. A terrible thought flashed through his head, and he saw the wheel snapping off the steering column from his weight, dropping him to the driveway and stranding them all. The image played through his thoughts so vividly he could see nothing else until the moment a pair of tattered hands closed around his ankle.

  He screamed as the cold grip dragged him away from the truck. His hand remained closed around the steering wheel. He reached out to grab hold of the truck’s frame, and agony blazed through his wounded shoulder, wrenching a louder cry from his lungs.

  He turned and kicked at the monster attacking his leg. It had been a teenage boy before dying, a wiry little thing that probably couldn’t strike fear in the heart of a first grader. Now, however, it was a terribly strong bastard that yanked at him and tried desperately to bite through the leather of his filthy work boot. He tried to kick free, but the damn thing had him in an unbelievable grip, cold fingers around his leg like irons.

  A pair of hands wrapped around his wounded shoulder and pulled. Stevenson. The asshole was in the rear of the truck’s cab, and Morris had never been so happy to see his face. The pain that surged through him felt like a wildfire that just kept growing and growing, and his scream became a roar. Stars flared in front of his eyes, and he wanted to let go of everything, just go limp and hope the pain stopped. His terror-a white hot current of fear-kept him holding on and fighting for his life. He pulled along with Stevenson, kept kicking at the cannibal on his leg. Gunfire popped off like firecrackers, and he hoped Blake hadn’t been swarmed in the pickup’s bed.

  He felt Eric’s hands grab hold of him, as well. They pulled, and he decided he’d had just about enough of the hungry fuck on his leg. He curled in both legs, bringing the thing dangerously close to his torso, and then he kicked out as hard as he could. The zombie rasped a starved protest, but its fingers slipped free as it tumbled to the pavement. Footsteps pounded toward them, and he knew the rest of the throng was close.

  “Come on!” Eric screamed as he dragged him forward.

  “I’m trying, goddammit.” Jerking his legs into the cab, he sat up as quickly as possible. He grabbed the door, but a new corpse had taken the teenager’s place, holding it open and reaching to tear open his face. He threw an elbow and rocked back its chin, but the thing kept coming.

  “Head back,” Eric said in a surprisingly calm voice. The cook leaned across him, reaching out with the pistol and jamming it against the cannibal’s forehead. The gun rang out, and the dead man raced his own spoiled brains to the ground.

  Morris slammed his door shut and dropped the Ford into drive. He heard fists beat against the pickup’s side panels, and he wanted to punch the gas with all the weight in his right foot. Another rifle crack from the bed reminded him of Blake, though. The last thing he needed was to send the guy tumbling out of the pickup and into a throng of dead folks.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” If a word existed to fit the situation better, he couldn’t think of it. He put pressure on the gas pedal, and the truck rolled forward. Something squeaked past his door, but he didn’t turn to inspect the noise. He eased his foot down and watched the speedometer climb. Continued gunfire told him Blake hadn’t fallen. He glanced at the rearview and saw the man drop into a seated position and set the hunting rifle aside, snatch up the shotgun. More than twenty zombies chased the truck, but they were falling behind with every step.

  Better than nothing.

  FIFTEEN

  Blake held the rifle in numb fingers. His breath came in frightened gasps, rushing past dry lips. They’d almost had him. Hell, if Morris had hit the gas a second later they would have taken him. He’d have at least a few bites missing from his body, and that was a few too many.

  He shuddered, listening to the cries of the hungry dead around him. They couldn’t reach him at this speed. His eyes drooped shut, and he felt the aching of his tired body. They’d only been at this for a few hours, and he already felt exhausted. And the hard part was still on its way. He didn’t know if he could last. Only a pair of zombies had made it into the truck’s bed back in the driveway, but they’d nearly finished the job. He could feel the places where their nails had raked at his arms and torso. If not for his jacket, they might have torn him up good.

  He stretched out his legs, and his feet pushed against Jeremy’s body. Opening his eyes, he stared at the bundled corpse, at the red stain that marked one end of the sheet. He didn’t need to convince himself that Jeremy had taken the easy way out, but he couldn’t help wondering if he’d do the same if he hadn’t made a promise to Holly.

  Right. He had made a promise, and he intended to keep it. If he had to drag himself on broken legs, he’d make it back to her.

  “I’ll come back,” he whispered, and then he grabbed the hunting rifle and began reloading it. He’d need every weapon available to him.

  ————————————

  Morris settled into a consistent speed and closed his eyes for a second. He could still feel the cold fingers around his ankle, the soft, spoiled brains beneath the heel of his boot. The stench of both filled the cab, and only his lingering adrenaline kept him from holding his breath.

  He shook his head and opened his eyes, focusing on the road. At least a dozen zombies ran at the truck from all sides, nowhere near as many as they’d faced on Front Street, but enough to tell him more were on the way. He accelerated slightly as one came screaming for the truck. It bounced off the grill before the tires obliterated it.

  A dead woman shrieked as she ran naked down the center of the road. Her gray, sagging breasts swung with each step, and her face curled in an expression of rabid fury. She also disappeared under the truck, but Morris got a good look at her clouded eyes before she went down. Even through their milky whiteness he could see the hunger.

  He kept the pickup going steady, saw the charred remains of the middle school approach on the right. Most likely, things would really go to shit right around the time they reached that black skeleton.

  He glanced at Eric. The cook reloaded his pis
tol, then grabbed hold of one knee and pulled it to his chest, stretching. Eric repeated the movement with his other leg.

  Morris checked the rearview mirror again and saw Blake reloading the hunting rifle. Stevenson still held the tire iron in one fist, knuckles white. His jaw had set in a grim line of determination.

  He almost smiled. Here they were, on the outskirts of hell moving inward, trying to fight the rot because that’s what people do. He didn’t know if they were brave or stupid, and in the end he didn’t think it mattered. The effort made the difference, even more so than the result. Four people in a pickup truck against an army. Humanity against ruin.

  Lord Almighty, he thought. How poetic.

  ————————————

  “How you want to do this?” Morris asked.

  Eric opened his eyes. He let go of his knee and tried to stretch out his legs. Not quite enough room, but it helped. He just hoped he wouldn’t cramp as soon as he started running. The last thing he needed was to seize up and roll onto the concrete like a giant appetizer.

  “Aw, hell. Just get me as close to the front door as you can. Not really a whole lot to plan after that. Give me time to get the loading door open, and then get back to the store when I call.”

  “You sure we can just pull in?”

  “I worked there during high school. It’s just a regular garage door, not a bay. Long as there’s not something already there, we’re golden.”

  “Golden. Right.”

  “Just get me close.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “I hate it. Think it’s probably the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

  “But you’re going to try it anyway?” Chris asked.

  “Yeah. We didn’t have any other ideas.”

  “Right. Jesus Christ, we’re all gonna die.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Sure thing, chief.”

  “Shut up,” Morris said. Even when he spoke softly, his voice growled. The guy could have made a great leg-breaker in another life. Hell, he was scary enough in this one.

  “Sure, whatever.” Chris grumbled something under his breath and leaned back in his seat. He’d finally let go of the tire iron. It sat on the seat beside him, smearing blood all over the upholstery.

  “We can think of something else,” Morris said.

  “Like what?”

  “Plow through them,” Chris said.

  “What?”

  “We’re practically in a battering ram. Just crush them all until it’s safe.”

  “No way. We get a body stuck in a wheel or damage the engine, and we’re done.”

  Morris sat quietly. A shadow passed over his face. Muffled snarls filled the air, reminding them the time for planning had passed.

  “I don’t have any ideas,” he said.

  “That’s what I thought. Just get me into the parking lot. I’ll handle the rest from there.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “Think on your feet. I won’t give a damn anymore.”

  It sounded so simple when you said it like that, but it excluded all the things that could ruin the plan, like locked doors or renovations that might have taken place in the past fifteen years. Just one thing he hadn’t thought of would leave him more screwed than the average porn star. He tried to run a few scenarios though his head and quickly decided it was useless. If something went wrong, he’d find an answer on the fly or die giving it his best shot.

  And that sounded easy, too. Hell, sounded like a walk in the park.

  Morris pulled the truck alongside the middle school. He saw the throng of zombies thicken as they approached the next section of town. They broke into a collective sprint as the pickup entered their view.

  Yeah, a walk in the park.

  ————————————

  The angry snarls grew louder, and Blake ground his teeth together. That time again, not a fucking second’s worth of rest before he had to worry about keeping himself alive. He considered the shotgun and hunting rifle, wondering which to use first. The decision brought everything into focus. This was the world now, the choices it left him. Everything else was just survival.

  He chose the hunting rifle, slung the shotgun over his shoulder. He hooked his foot around the strap of his backpack. It wasn’t going to slide away from him this time. If he needed more ammo it would be right there for the taking. As much as he hated to admit it, he didn’t have Chris to save his ass this time.

  He rose to a crouch and raised the rifle, sighted down its barrel. Maybe Morris could keep them going fast enough to keep him safe, but he didn’t plan to take any chances.

  The truck turned right and accelerated. An approaching horde of zombies appeared from an intersecting street. He wanted to fire, but he kept the pressure off his trigger finger. No point in wasting a bullet.

  The truck took a left, and the motion threw him off balance. He caught himself on the cab just before he tumbled to the bed’s floor.

  “Don’t forget I’m back here!”

  He glanced at Jeremy’s body one last time as the truck picked up speed once again.

  “Hope they don’t forget either of us.”

  Jeremy didn’t respond, so he turned his attention to those who hadn’t stayed dead.

  ————————————

  Morris gestured down the street. “Six blocks or so should take us right to the parking lot.”

  “I’m aware,” Eric said. “Just get us through this mess, okay?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  A trio of cars had twisted together and burned about half a block down the street, their charred remains blocking off most of the roadway. Morris could make out another wreck a few blocks past it, but he didn’t have time to worry about that one just yet. The dead ran toward the street from all sides, obscuring his view. He didn’t know if the sound of the Ford’s engine attracted them or if maybe the dead could smell them like a fresh meal coming off a hot stove. In the end, he didn’t care. He had to cut through them without getting killed, and that’s what he planned to do.

  “Hold on.”

  The engine rumbled as he stomped on the gas.

  ————————————

  Blake fired off two shots and realized the shotgun was the better choice. The rifle packed a lot of power, but it was primarily a long distance weapon. He needed something that worked in close quarters, and the kidney-buster did just that.

  He switched out the weapons and hunkered down, pressing his back against the cab. As the truck accelerated, he decided to make himself small and only concentrate on what came right at him. The last thing he needed was to play hero and get himself thrown out of the bed. He felt a slight worry that he couldn’t see where Morris was headed, but it didn’t prompt him to raise his head and take a look.

  Staying small really felt like a solid plan, but it went right out the window once the dead folks noticed him in the truck’s exposed bed. Rotting cannibals screeched their hunger at him and charged with renewed vigor. They didn’t swipe at the truck or bother trying to pry the doors open anymore. Instead, they came for him, and he could see in their eyes everything they would do once they reached him.

  A male who had lost his clothes somewhere caught the pickup and grabbed hold of the side. Blake could see the bones of its fingers through tattered skin. Breath like spoiled meat rasped past blackened lips. It grabbed hold with its other hand and stared at him with something like hungry triumph, its milky eyes on fire. Blake swung the shotgun toward those eyes and pulled the trigger. The zombie’s skull exploded like somebody had hidden a grenade inside.

  He let out a relieved breath. Waste of a shotgun shell when he could have bashed in the thing’s face, but there was something to be said for satisfaction. His ears rang with terror and the echo of his shot. He couldn’t hear the angry sounds the zombies made as they chased him. Everything became a visual, nothing more.

  The truck swerved to one
side, and he had to grab hold with one hand to keep from tumbling across the bed. In the next instant the pickup jumped a curb and jolted beneath him. His legs slipped, and suddenly he was on his ass. For some reason his instincts made him grab the shotgun with both hands and dig in with his heels, shoving his back against the cab again. The action saved him.

  As the truck charged past a snarled and burnt wreck, a female leaped off the blackened metal skeleton. It shrieked as it dropped toward him, hands hooked into rotten claws. He turned the shotgun on her and pulled the trigger. The blast struck her full in the chest, and she burst in midair, raining down on him. Blake bit back a gag and prepared for the next attack.

  ————————————

  “Getting thick,” Eric said.

  Morris didn’t respond. He didn’t see the need. A fool could see Eric wasn’t lying. The dead continued to run in from every side, eager to get a hold of the first fresh morsel to come their way in some time. The street already looked like some twisted take on rush hour, and it wasn’t getting any better. Five more blocks to the grocery store, and he hoped the growing pack of zombies wouldn’t slow them to a stop before they reached it.

  “Any ideas?” Eric asked.

  He shook his head. A mail box bounced off the truck’s cattle catcher. He swerved back into the street and gave the rearview a quick look to make sure he hadn’t lost Blake. The guy slid around the bed like his ass had been greased, but he was still there. A second look showed him Blake shoving himself back toward the cab, pausing only long enough to blow the head off a dead man that swiped at him with shredded arms.

  And Blake was just another reason he couldn’t let the dead killers slow him down. The man had barely survived an unnecessary stop when he’d had two others in the back with him. Alone, Blake might last a couple of shots before the zombies ripped him apart.