Scavengers

by Nate Southard

  “Hey, Morris,” Stevenson said right in his ear. “Maybe you should stop looking behind us and just worry about moving forward. Ellis didn’t have to get in the fucking back, y’know?”

  He breathed deep and swallowed the urge to jerk an elbow into the bridge of Stevenson’s nose. The smug prick was really beginning to work his last nerve. He settled for grumbling, “I’m not losing anybody else.”

  “Whatever, chief.”

  And that’s how simple it was for the guy. Their entire situation boiled down to Whatever, chief. He almost envied Stevenson. He imagined life would be much easier if you could cruise through it without giving a shit about anyone or anything.

  “See if you can punch through,” Eric said. “Try to give me a head start, okay?”

  “I’m trying. They’re all ahead of me. No idea how many more are up there.”

  “Well, I’m not gonna get far if I open up my door on a mob of the damn things.”

  The truck jounced as a dead woman the size of a refrigerator rolled under the front wheels.

  “Think I don’t know that? This was your plan. You planned on getting cold feet, you should have said it before now.”

  “Aw, hell!” Not the best response, but Morris figured Eric didn’t have much else in him. The way the man pounded both fists on the dash only reinforced the idea.

  Stevenson laughed. It bounced around the cab like a challenge.

  Morris wondered how well he could drive while choking the living shit out of the bastard. Then he had to swerve around a cluster of three zombies whose organs had somehow tangled into a grotesque knot. He’d have to worry about Stevenson later.

  “Three blocks,” Stevenson said in a mocking tone. “Ready, Eric? Gonna show those killbillies how big that dick is?”

  “Shut up, Chris.”

  “Think you can outrun all of ’em? Think you’ll even reach the store? Maybe you’ll reach the front door, and it’ll be locked. Maybe they’ll shove you up against the glass while they start working on ya.”

  Eric spun in his seat, his face twisted with anger and terror. Stevenson held up both hands like he was the most innocent guy on earth.

  “Ho there, guy. Just kidding! Didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Go to hell,” Eric said. “I mean it, Chris. Just go straight to hell.”

  “Little touchy?”

  “I don’t see you trying to pull this off. Don’t you dare talk to me about touchy until you’ve tried it.”

  “You ain’t tried it either. You remember that.”

  Morris glanced at his white knuckles, then back to the road. He drove around another wreck and hoped he didn’t slow down too much. His shoulder hammered fresh nails of pain into him.

  Two more blasts rang out from the bed, and he checked to make sure Blake wasn’t getting torn to ribbons. The guy swung his shotgun back and forth, trying to keep the zombies at bay. Under the circumstances, it was good enough.

  “Both of you shut up,” he said. “You two make me crash, and I’ll kill you before they get a chance to drag us out of this damn truck.”

  Both men fell silent, turned their eyes toward the road.

  Morris grumbled deep in his throat. He felt ridiculous, like a father telling his kids to settle down before he turned the car around. And the worst of it was that Eric hadn’t done anything wrong. The man was scared, and he could appreciate that. He wouldn’t want to make the same run. He needed to concentrate though, and Eric was helping to screw that up.

  Slapping a lid on his thoughts, Morris concentrated on the street in front of him. He ignored the pain in his shoulder, the sweat that slicked his hands. Nothing mattered but the road and the wheel.

  Two more blocks. He prayed they’d make it.

  ————————————

  Eric thought he might pass out. Terror sapped his breath, made his mind whirl in impossible circles. He wanted another drink, was pretty sure he needed one. Any buzz that had charged him had disappeared like cockroaches when the lights flare to life. Now he just felt scared and sick, and he was pretty sure he only had about two minutes to live.

  He wanted to scream, but he’d grown too frightened to open his mouth. A cry might sap what fleeting courage remained in his racing heart, anyway.

  They rolled through another intersection. One block left, and the zombies were still thick in the street, more coming in from all sides. Maybe the grocery’s parking lot would be clear, but he suspected that was a fool’s hope. Even if the zombies didn’t meet them at the store, they’d sure as hell follow.

  He looked down at his hands and watched them shake. A deep breath failed to steady his nerves.

  Half a block, now. He wondered if he’d be able to open his door or if Morris would have to shove him out. He wondered if it mattered.

  Probably not.

  ————————————

  Chris watched a bead of sweat trickle its way down Eric’s temple and fought to suppress another round of laughter. No way did he plan to shoot pity in Eric’s direction. Guy had put himself in this position; he deserved everything he got. Getting pissed just because he’d been called on it was a dick move of the highest order.

  And then there was Morris, yelling at them both like he was in charge. Fuck him. Big redneck piece of shit already had a hole in his shoulder. Bastard should quit while he was ahead. He doubted that would happen, though. From what he’d seen, Morris wasn’t the most intelligent of giants. He’d probably yell and boss folks around even as somebody bashed in his damn idiot head.

  On the bright side, neither one of the two jackasses in the front seat bothered him as much as Ellis. He wouldn’t shed any tears if they reached the grocery and found a bloody smear where Blake had been. Would really make things easier on him, though he’d hate not seeing the prick’s face at the moment he realized he was gonna die.

  Then again, he’d already saved Blake’s life twice now. Maybe he should just keep that goodwill rolling, see where he ended up. It didn’t hurt to keep some favors in your back pocket nowadays. You never knew when you might need to cash in one or two of them, even if it was a favor from a redneck.

  He peered past Morris’s shoulder and saw the gang of killbillies thin out the slightest bit. A second later the big guy pulled the wheel to the right and he noticed the grocery store. It wasn’t a huge place or anything, but not tiny either. Maybe Eric hadn’t been an idiot. Small town like this, the folks couldn’t have possibly looted everything by now. Of course, that didn’t matter for jack or shit if they couldn’t get inside. And they couldn’t pull that little magic trick if Eric didn’t get inside first.

  And Eric was shaking in the front seat like he had a vibrator stuck up his ass.

  Perfect.

  Compared to the street, the parking lot was nearly empty. Maybe two dozen killbillies wandered around. They came running once they saw the pickup, but Morris took out six of them with the truck. A pair of blasts rang out from the bed, and two more dead fucks disintegrated.

  Morris decelerated.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” Eric said. The panic in his voice sounded like static.

  He slapped the man across the back of the skull. “Fucking snap out of it! You got a job to do, man.”

  Eric nodded. The skinny guy reached for his door handle as the truck slowed even more.

  ————————————

  Blake wondered why Eric hadn’t started his run yet. The pickup had slowed to a crawl, and the zombies were running in like his cousins on food stamp day. He looked into the cab and saw the former cook rocking back and forth, shaking his head from side to side. The guy was panicking.

  His mind raced. Should he make the run? No, that was crazy. He didn’t have the slightest idea where he needed to go or what he needed to do. Sure, he could run into the store, but he’d wind up searching the aisles until a pack of zombies took him to the ground. Only Eric knew the store’s layout, and Morris was the guy’s back up. Dammit, everybody s
hould have learned the layout!

  He watched the dead come running. The things would be on the truck in a matter of moments, and then they might as well forget Tandy’s and everything inside it. They’d be the food.

  He needed to buy Eric some time.

  “Motherfuck me!” he cried as he fired another blast into the approaching throng. He hated the idea that appeared in his brain, but he didn’t have time to sit down and strategize. Instead, he spun around and slammed a hand down on the cab.

  “Fucking run!” he yelled, and then he leaped out of the bed.

  ————————————

  “Holy Mother of Shit!” Chris cried from the back seat.

  Eric spun to see what on earth was happening, and he caught a glimpse of Blake flying out of the bed. The man hit the concrete and rolled.

  “He’s crazy!” Chris said.

  “He’s buying time,” Morris said. “Eric, move your ass.”

  “Right.” He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. His entire body felt numb, but he knew he didn’t have a choice. Now or never. Death or glory.

  Fucking move!

  He threw open the door and jumped out.

  ————————————

  Morris hit the gas with everything he had. Tires screeched over pavement, and then the truck took off like a panicked horse. He checked the sideview mirrors as the truck bounced out of Tandy’s parking lot. He saw Eric bolting toward the store and Blake leaping to his feet and sprinting in the opposite direction. The pack of zombies split down the middle as they chased the two men.

  “Jesus,” Chris whispered. “They’re both fucking idiots.”

  “Don’t I just know it,” Morris said under his breath as he continued down the road.

  SIXTEEN

  Blake cracked the shotgun’s stock across a dead man’s face and didn’t wait long enough to see him spin to the ground. He ran, his legs pumping. The world had gone terribly quiet around him. He heard his own breath, the sound of his feet against pavement, and the rasping, hungry cries of the dead just over his shoulder. It all sounded muffled though, hidden behind the throbbing of his pulse in his ears.

  Holly would be so angry with him for doing something stupid like this. It went against his promise. He hoped he’d live long enough for her to forgive him.

  He saw a two-story house on the other side of the road. It might be his best shot, but maybe it was too soon. If he ran straight to it the zombies would know where he’d gone, no doubt about it. He needed to lose at least some of them first.

  Right. Because that was the easy part.

  Fingers raked at the back of his jacket, slipping over the denim. He felt thankful for the garment, knew it had been a good idea. He spent an instant wondering how long it would take the cannibals to get through it if they dropped him, but then he saw more zombies coming in from the side, looking to head him off before he reached the street. They chased the thoughts away, brought his instincts back into play.

  A female came at him low. He juked to the right and spun around her. She continued on her way, and he dug in with both legs again, charging across the parking lot. He pumped the shotgun back and forth with each step and jabbed it at the next figure he saw come too close. Wood crunched bone, the vibrations rattling up his arms to his shoulders, but he didn’t slow. He couldn’t do that until he had some idea of how to escape with his life.

  A row of houses stood alongside the two-story he’d seen, their windows shattered and doors hanging from broken hinges. Chain link or wooden privacy fences closed in most of the backyards. They gave him an idea, not much of one, but something that might thin out the pack of dead people charging after him.

  His lungs burned as he hit the street at a sprint. His pulse hammered in his ears. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d run so fast. If not for the terror that fueled him, he’d probably drop. If he had time to think about it, he’d probably decide it wasn’t fair. The zombies didn’t get tired. Far as he knew, they never felt anything but hunger.

  More fingers raked at his back. Something hissed and then crashed to the pavement at his feet. He didn’t look to see what it was. He just kept running.

  Eyeing the homes across the street, he decided on a course of action.

  ————————————

  If Eric could find any bright side to his situation, it was that somebody had chocked open the grocery’s doors. It made a certain amount of sense. With the end of the world coming, people would haul ass to hoard food. Of course, that raised all kinds of questions about how much food might be left in the store or what might have wandered in to populate the aisles, but he didn’t have time to consider them. The zombies behind him chased away any questions before they had a chance to grab hold.

  He raced through the door and gave the row of checkouts a glance. A few remained clear, but abandoned shopping carts choked most of them. He found a cluster of blocked lanes and ran for it. The course took him a few steps away from his final destination, but it might help. He jumped onto the counter, ran two steps, and leaped to the other side, touched down on the tile at a dead run.

  Eric charged toward the first aisle he saw and didn’t look back, not even as he heard the metallic crashing of bodies slamming into overturned grocery carts.

  Hell, Blake was probably dead by now. Poor guy needed a miracle just to get him out of the parking lot.

  He scanned the shelves with his eyes as he bolted past. All but empty, every last one of them. He spotted a few boxes, a pair of cans. A single broken jar and a few dried up pickles lay on a metal shelf like a murder victim. He prayed nobody had touched the stockroom. What would they do if the back was empty?

  Glass crunched beneath his feet. It snapped him out of his thoughts, and he stumbled. He came down hard on his left foot, and his weight swung forward, almost sending him slamming into the tile. He managed to right himself before he went sprawling, but the motion slowed him down. The dry hissing nearby told him the zombies had noticed and closed the gap. And he needed every inch of lead he could manage.

  He heard shoes and bare feet squeak over the tile, heard bodies careen off shelves and end displays. How much space remained between him and the zombies? Ten feet? Six? Was that anywhere near enough?

  He saw the empty dairy display on the back wall. If he could just keep running for about fifteen more seconds, he’d find out if his stupid plan had been a good one or not.

  He crouched low as he reached the end of the aisle and turned right. He dug in with both feet and pushed off the floor, milking his run for every ounce of speed. Maybe it was a runner’s high, or maybe it was just good old fashioned terror, but he felt like somebody had plugged him into a wall socket.

  He saw the double doors that led to the stockroom and hoped they weren’t locked, prayed there weren’t more zombies waiting for him back there. Five aisles separated him from the door, so he’d find out soon enough.

  He crossed the first, the second. Every step brought him closer to the finish line. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye as he crossed the third aisle and poured on an extra burst of speed as a zombie bolted for him. Its bony fingers swiped at his hair as it charged past and crashed into the dairy display. Plastic shelves shattered, the cracking noise blending with the hungry cries and angry footfalls of dead men. He kept running, fighting to ignore everything but the double doors ahead of him.

  He reached with both arms, palms out. His teeth clacked together with each step, and his breath burst from tired lungs. With only a few feet left he suddenly felt sure the doors were locked. He’d slam against the hardwood and be crushed by the surging wall of rotting flesh behind him.

  A scream bubbled out of his throat, and all he could think was I’m so stupid, I’m so stupid, I’m so stupid!

  When his hands hit the doors and they banged open, he laughed. He almost dropped to his knees and thanked God. Instead he ran through the doorway and slammed both doors shut behind him, thankful for
his former employer’s inexplicable insistence that free-swinging doors were less convenient and annoying as hell. This instant made every time he’d had to wrestle a stack of pallets through the doors worth it.

  He threw his shoulder against the wood and grabbed the metal bolt he remembered from his stockboy days so many years before. Grunting, he jerked the metal into place. A split second later, something like a wrecking ball hit the door and rattled it in its frame. He winced, sure the door would break, but the wood held strong.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you so much.” He coughed and wiped his mouth, then reached out and threw the lock at the doors’ base. The steel rod disappeared into the concrete floor. Then, he reached up and threw a similar lock at the top.

  Exhausted, he slumped against the rattling doors for a moment. A wave of cold swept over him. His muscles softened, the strength washing out of them. He dropped to his knees and bent forward, and suddenly his breath was nothing but a series of wheezing spasms. Pain stitched his side in tight knots. He leaned back and let it work itself out, giving himself over to relief and realization in the same terrible moment.

  He breathed deep as he backed away from the doors. A pair of round Plexiglas portholes revealed his pursuers. One had its bloated face pressed to the window, leaving smears the color of dishwater behind as it slid around, fighting for a better view. More pressed forward behind it, their hands slapping, clawing. Ignoring them, Eric instead focused on the door.

  “You stay shut, okay? We understand each other? I hope so.”