by Chris Lowry
"Gone Z," Brian echoed.
"Yeah, we've got enough to worry about. Let's just make it across."
They nodded.
I led us out onto the bridge. I love how in movies they make it look so simple to walk on cars. In life, it's harder than it looks. First the footing is treacherous and slippery. Whatever new paint they use makes roofs and hoods slick. Plus they're weak structures to begin with. Put all of your weight on a hood and the fiberglass can crack or the metal can crumple. It's not quiet, and when you are trying to sneak across without attracting too much attention, car hopping isn't the preferred choice.
It didn't help that Deb and Scott gave victory shouts when they scored supplies. I was glad they hit full backpacks of food, but cringed and let everyone pass me by as I watched the road behind us.
We were two hundred yards in, almost halfway when we saw the first Z.
It reached out of a cracked back window and lunged at the little girl. She screamed and flailed, lost her balance and crashed down between two cars. The stake woman yelled.
Brian bounced back and jabbed it with his pike, separating it's head from body. The woman scooped the girl up, but she couldn't walk. She twisted her ankle when she fell and couldn't put weight on it.
Everyone bunched up around her and I got a really nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach.
The victory yells, capped off with the screams of terror had attracted too much attention. Z's popped out of the woods around the road behind us and began their lumbering in our direction. A couple of more showed up on the far side of the bridge and we were going to have to take care of them when we got closer to the end. But it was the beginning of a nightmare. Z's blocking the road back and making their way toward us. Z's blocking the path forward. If many more showed up we'd be trapped on the bridge and I knew the St. John's was gator central where it spilled into Lake Monroe. If we had to go over the side I didn't relish the chances of all of us making it to shore.
Plus the noise of our passage had stirred up other Z's in the cars.
I could see their shadowed forms moving behind dust covered glass, or windshields cracked in spiderweb patterns.
"She can't walk," the woman told us.
I bent down in front of her.
"Piggy back."
She hopped up without question and I scooped my arms under her knees.
"We need to go faster."
Brian looked where my eyes were staring at the far end of the bridge. I had a couple of shots left in the pistol, but his pike was quieter and wouldn't draw more Z's in our direction.
He led the group along the tops of cars again, moving double time for the end of the bridge.
CHAPTER TWENTY
We made it across the bridge. The last hundred yards was tough. The little girl looked small but up and down across the hoods and roofs of the car hauling ninety pounds was exhausting. My legs began to tremble after just ten cars, my arms began shaking at twelve.
I could hear her breathing in sync with mine as she watched over my shoulder, but she didn't make a sound, even when I stumbled. I made it to the last sedan and stood for a second on the hood to catch my breath.
"I'm going to put you down," I told her.
She nodded against my neck.
I settled her onto the roof of the car and glanced back. Z's were bouncing off the roadblocks on the other side of the bridge.
Brian took care of the four on this side set to welcome us with swift pokes from the business end of his pike.
We could hear more moaning from the woods so it wasn't safe to hang around for too long.
Scott dusted off a window to a crew cab truck jacked up on large tires..
"There's keys in this one."
I scanned the empty side of the roadway and wondered why the driver just left the truck. He probably got out to help someone, or something and never came back. I bet that happened to a lot of people. They got caught out of their homes, out of their cars and never made it back.
Which helped me line up our priorities.
First get someplace safe. We could scavenge for food in homes along the way, the ones we found empty. We needed something for the girls leg, maybe something for the pain. A lot of houses might have that too. And we needed to move inland, move toward the Freeway so I could get north.
I knew it would be as crowded as this highway, and could think of at least four spots where it might be impassible, but there were roads that ran parallel to the Freeway, the old highways we might be able to use. I might be able to use. I couldn't start thinking of us as a we.
They might want me to lead but I didn't plan on doing it for long. I had a goal and an objective and it superseded all of this.
Once I found out about my children, then maybe we could talk. Until then it was just keeping everyone alive.
With food and shelter.
The truck could go until we couldn't.
"Start it up," I suggested.
Scott propped open the front door and then the back just to make sure nothing was hiding in there to pop up and grab him. Smart man.
The cab was empty except for a couple of bags of clothes and canned food. Score one for the home team.
He cranked the engine. It whirred a couple of times before sputtering to a start and he shot a grin at Brian and me.
I lifted up the little girl and put her in the back seat before climbing into the truck bed. Brian hopped up beside me along with Peg and Deb while the rest filled up the cab.
"Go slow," I told Scott. "Stick to the side of the road and the small stuff you can go over. Let's see how far we can take it."
I slapped the hood a couple of times and he took off.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
We made it to the 41 which carried us thirty miles further away from the camp. The going was slow for the most part, but steady and a drive through the countryside that once took an hour only took up over half a day. But it was faster than we could walk.
I made a note to keep that hopscotch mentality in mind when we moved on. Jumping from car to car could eat up the miles, even if we had to walk a little between automobiles we could use.
We spent most of the ride on the side of the road scooting along in the grass. Through town we rode in parking lots, over curbs and around stalled cars pushed to one side of the parking lot that was the highway. We were faster than any Z's we saw and none came close enough to bother us.
I almost called for a stop at a gun shop, but the busted windows and torn off doors told me I'd probably have a fruitless search there. The same went for the grocery and convenience stores we passed. This part of town had been looted as people passed through or maybe some of the residents were holed up in their homes for a long haul.
That was part of my original plan when my neighbors busted in on me.
It gave me another idea to check the houses in Mt. Dora where I planned on us bunking for the night.
Ten miles from there changed my plans.
Not abruptly but enough that we would save the trip in until tomorrow.
It was another bridge leading across a creek, not much of a span, but blocked all the same with a car crash instead of a jam. The entire end of the bridge was a mass of twisted metal and blackened frames that made impasse in the truck impossible.
We were going to have to hoof it. But the girl couldn't and I didn't think I could carry her the rest of the way.
Scott pulled off the road and parked in the shade before killing the engine.
"We were almost out of gas anyway," he said as he climbed out of the cab.
"Then we're lucky," said Brian and pointed.
A small hill led away from us with a winding red clay road leading away from the creek. At the top of a hill was a giant greenhouse with a small ranch style home next to it.
If there were people hiding there, we could ask to sleep in the greenhouse and camp. If the house was empty we could make it home for the night, rest and hide.
It was a good spot.
"I'll go with you," said Scott.
Brian lifted his pike and stood sentry over the truck bed as the others piled in with him. He didn't have to say he would stand guard, he just did it.
Scott followed me up to the house.
I put both hands against the window and peeked inside. The room was empty.
"Should we knock?" he said softly.
I motioned him over to the door to do so and he rapped hard three times. Nothing stirred. He did it again.
Still nothing.
I went around to the back of the house with him following. The backyard was empty, the fence open. We moved to the door and tried the knob. It twisted in my hand and swung outward, releasing the smell of rotten dead bodies.
Scott leaned over and puked.
I backed up and fought down bile.
There had been someone in there, but their corpse was on the floor by the door, what was left of their brains scattered on the wall. A pistol lay in a doughy hand.
"Get the others," I gagged to Scott. "We're in the greenhouse."
He nodded and jogged away, still reeling from the smell. I could hear him gagging and spitting around the corner of the house.
I pulled my shirt over my nose, a poor substitute for masking the stench and stepped over the body by the door. Another one slumped against the wall inside. Murder suicide or maybe just two folks who agreed to go out at the same time.
I kept one hand over my nose as I searched the cabinets with the other. I piled what I thought we could use on a table, pots, pans and food items, and then searched the rest of the house.
Brian knocked softly on the front door and was prepared when I opened it up. He had a shirt tied around his face.
"Kitchen," I choked out.
He nodded and went to grab the stuff off the table.
We hauled blankets and bedding into the greenhouse, but there wasn't much else we could use besides the meager supplies in the kitchen. Maybe that's why they ended it. Food was running low, and the world had gone to hell. Better to go out on your own terms than starve to death or fight the Z.
Some folks are built like that.
I wished I was. I've often thought about giving up, even before the Z outbreak happened. Life seemed to like knocking me down over and over again in a never ending series of sufferings. Once upon a time I took great pain in the story it allowed me to tell about myself, but at some point even I was fed up. Divorced and unable to see my kids. Watching them being raised by another man. Then it happened again. Jobs lost. Savings gone. Just an assembly line of unlucky circumstances brought about by decisions that didn't seem bad at the time. Just poor choices.
And me just getting up each time. Muttering to myself a mantra. Fall down seven, get up eight. As if that would be enough. As if the success was in rising up only to have life take a swipe at you again.
Sure I thought about doing what that couple did. An easy way out.
But I guess I'm kind of stubborn. Maybe too prideful.
It may go before a fall, but it damn sure keeps you getting up again. And again.
I felt like that Chumbawamba song from the 90's, always getting back up again.
Brian built a fire from wood he gathered around the greenhouse. It wasn't a roaring blaze but we heated the pork and beans, green beans and spam from one of the pilfered backpacks and ate it with saltines from the house kitchen.
There was enough food for everyone to get full, which lifted the moods as the sky grew dark.
The little girl's name was Hannah and she was thirteen, the same age as my son. Her aunt was Harriet, the witch tied to the pole, with her partner Melissa the tallest of the women. The quartet was rounded out by Anna, a petite woman with a brown pixie haircut and buried in a sweatshirt that almost touched her knees. They were all quiet, subdued. I wondered if the trauma of the almost barbeque style execution was what made them so, but looking at the black circle of iris in each of their eyes made me think it was more pharmaceutical problem.
Maybe the reverend had drugged them.
No matter, they'd share their story when they were ready. Campfires were made for the telling of tales, but I wasn't about to share mine so I couldn't expect anyone else to either.
Brian didn't care.
I don't know if he made stuff up, or if it was just in his nature but he kept a running dialogue going with Peg as he prepared the fire, prepared the food and tended to the others.
I checked on Hannah's ankle, which was sprained but not broken and wrapped it tight. She tested it out on the bandage, and could hold her weight on the foot. Walking would get tough after a while and we still had ten miles to make up, but it was good enough for the night.
Brian tossed me a couple of pillows to prop it up on her pallet.
"Thank you," she said in a little girl's voice and nestled between Harriet and Melissa.
We tucked into the feast and the rest of the night passed without incident.
One of the things I've always liked about zombie movies is how the protagonist gets to pick and use a really cool weapon. I never understood why they always picked a close quarter weapon, like a bat or a sword or a machete. Trust me, you don't want to get that close to one of The Walking Dead.
They stink, like a rotting corpse, because that's what they are. If you have ever smelled a dead animal on the side of the road on a July day then you know exactly what I'm talking about.
The smell is almost physical, it gets in your nose and throat and makes you gag. Now imagine that smell covering you in a fine mist of blood and bone and spray as you bash in the head of a zombie.
No thank you.
I prefer a weapon like a gun, but the bullets and the sound of the bullets being fired draw more zombies your way.
So the next best thing is a spear.
Brian and I made six spears out of sections of fence pole. They were metal shafts nine feet long and hollow so they weren't too heavy.
We took machetes that we found in the greenhouse, shoved the handle of the machete into the open end of the pole and wrapped it with thin wire to secure it in place.
Then we wrapped it again with duct tape. It looked like a medieval Pike, so that's what we called them.
A nine foot pipe with a stabbing and cutting edge on one end and a metal cap on the other. The metal cap was good for bashing and pushing the zombies away if they got within nine feet of you, or inside the arc of the pike.
The only downside to having a weapon like this was it would require a little bit of training to become proficient.
After all the only people who were any good at using medieval weapons were Renaissance Fair participants and unfortunately none of the survivors in our group were into live-action role-playing.
It took all of a couple of hours to build them, and everyone seemed to feel better with a weapon. Except for Hannah. She couldn't balance herself with the pole and her ankle.
Brian came to the rescue again. He turned over a wheelbarrow and lashed her pike and mine to the handles, making a form of a rickshaw. Harriet piled all of the pillows into the body of the contraption and Hannah settled comfortably in the makeshift nest.
"I'll trade off with you," Scott said and started walking down the clay road.
"Me too," Brian smiled and fell in with him.
Which left me to play horsey with the twelve year old and pull her along behind me. I had to watch out for the machete blades which jutted out in front of me like twin prongs on a Viking ship but we were able to move along at a good clip.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
It's always the same thing. Food. Shelter. Keep moving. We fight off the Z, worry about the Marauders, and now the military and most of the time they are the same thing. We worry about other people, because in the aftermath no one is nice anymore. Not even me.
Not that I ever was, but the Z plague has allowed most of us to release the savage inside.
Scot
t joked that music soothed the savage beast and he liked to sing.
At first it bothered us. Not the actual singing because his voice was good, like a whiskey soaked growl that rumbled along in tune. And he knew the lyrics to every song he sang which was more than I could say. I pissed my kids off a lot by misquoting lyrics so much it became a running joke to see who could mess them up the most.
Not Scott though. He growled and grumbled his way through a litany of songs sounding like Bob Seger with a southern drawl.
We didn't let him sing loud because it would attract the Z.
But after the umpteenth time telling him to shut it, I called Brian to one side and let him know the music was keeping the others calm.
That was Scott's contribution. He reminded them of what we were before.
We found a sedan large enough for all of us, a giant classic Cadillac that fit four across the back seat and three in the front. Hannah curled up in her mother's lap, and Anna half sat on mine, borrowing one leg as it were so Brian and I could ride shotgun on the passenger side and both act as lookouts.
Scott drove again singing softly as we bounced along the side of the asphalt, occasionally yanking on the wheel as the back wheels hit a slick spot and slid out from under us in an effort to yank us down an embankment.
We were on the lookout for another house to hide in, and ideally a couple of homes to raid and build back our supplies.
Julie spied it first and tugged on her husband's arm to direct him up the short driveway. It was a small collection of homes built into a cul de sac as if the land owner just decided one day to run a road back into his land and build a series of homes up one side and down the other. The last two were still in stages of construction, but the eight others all had curtains and decorations in the yard, signs of habitation.
Scott drifted the Caddy up the road and glanced over his shoulder at me as if to ask which one.
“All the way,” I answered. Better to be set back off the road so we could see anything that came at us.