Dead Fall

by Joseph Xand

  Beechum looked ahead again to see the police van cascading halfway off the shoulder, throwing up dirt and sand, as it barrelled around a car partially blocking both lanes. Meyers clipped the car anyway, and the collision nearly caused the police van to tip. Somehow she managed to maintain control and press on.

  "Fucking bitch," Beechum said under his breath.

  The Humvee skirted around the car with ease. Beechum knew the five-ton wouldn't even try to go around it. It would just smash through it. He pulled himself out the window again, the Colt 45 in front of him, as Phillips brought them ever closer.

  * * * * *

  Bullets bounced off the police van again. Behind her, through the grated window, Meyers could hear Travers sobbing. She wasn't sure what she was doing.

  "We shouldn't have run away."

  "Shut up, Travers."

  "It was your idea to run."

  "Travers, shut up, please!"

  Meyers looked around the cab as she drove, not really knowing what she was looking for. She looked at the passenger seat again, where she'd found Murphy's jacket. At first, she didn't notice anything. She looked back at the road. Back at the rearview mirror. Beechum was leaning out of the window again. Then back to the passenger seat.

  There was a belt there. It must have been under the jacket. Something about the belt. One end of it disappeared between the seat and the passenger-side door.

  Keeping her left foot on the gas and her left hand on the wheel, she slid across the bench seat and reached for the belt. She grasped it and gave it a tug. It slipped towards her a little, the other end heavy, before hanging on something. She'd expected that. Hoped for it, even.

  She tugged on the belt quickly until she saw the butt of Murphy's 9MM sidearm peek over the top of the seat, still in its holster.

  Heart pounding, she slid across the seat even further, stretching the limits of her left foot and hand. She gave the belt another quick tug, hard and upwards this time, and the other side of the belt, gun and all, popped out and onto the seat.

  She slid back into the driver's seat, then reeled the gun towards her with the belt.

  "It was your idea to run," Travers said again.

  Keeping her eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel, Meyers felt for the holster. She unsnapped the gun and slid it out, laying it beside her.

  "It's not fair, Meyers. It was your idea. But they'll punish me, too."

  "Nobody's getting punished, Travers, okay? I'm not gonna let anyone hurt us anymore."

  Meyers remembered Murphy telling her how he hated pistols. That he was such a bad shot with them that he'd only get himself killed trying to use one. She'd never once seen him wear it.

  The gun bounced against her thigh. She eased back into her seat again, her burned back lighting up with pain.

  "You'll tell them, won't you?"

  "Tell them what, Travers?"

  "That it was your idea. You'll tell them? You have to tell them!"

  They were fast approaching an underpass. Another road intersected the access road, disappearing beneath the freeway.

  "No one's gonna hurt you, Travers. I—"

  "But you have to tell them!"

  "Yes, okay!" Meyers turned and glared through the small, metal window. "I'll tell them that it was my idea, Travers. Okay?"

  Even through the scant light that penetrated the window, Meyers could see fresh tears well up in Travers's eyes. He was shaking his head.

  "It's not gonna matter," he said.

  Meyers knew he was probably right.

  She looked back at the road to see a little girl crossing the intersection and dragging a toy puppy on a leash behind her.

  Meyers yanked the wheel to the left.

  At the same moment, the back right tire exploded.

  * * * * *

  At first, when one of his shots finally connected with the back tire, Beechum assumed that's what caused Meyers to lose control. But when the police van swerved left, he saw the girl. Meyers had turned the van quickly to avoid hitting her.

  Too quickly.

  Spinning towards the shade of the underpass, the van flipped on its side as if an invisible rug had been suddenly pulled from underneath it. It slid across the gravel, then slammed into the concrete rise on the other side of the underpass, which tossed the van over, crumpling the roof of the cab and flattening it almost completely on the passenger side.

  The van skidded up the incline several feet before gravity took hold and pulled it back. It came to rest angled partially up the rise, all four tires still spinning.

  The Humvee glided to a stop. Phillips and Beechum stared at the mangled mass of metal. Black smoke billowed from the front, probably oil sizzling from the overheated motor. One of the back doors had fallen open.

  The only sound was the little girl, long dead, dragging her plastic puppy across the asphalt. It was apparently tied to her wrist, and most of the toy had been worn away. It bounced behind her as she moved to the passenger-side door of the wreck.

  "Shit," Phillips said.

  "Yeah," Beechum concurred.

  Both men climbed out of the Humvee as the engine of the five-ton roared closer.

  * * * * *

  It took a moment for Meyers to understand what had happened. Looking around her, nothing made any sense. She was aware of pain, but couldn't identify any one spot where the pain was centralized. It could have been several places. It could have been everywhere.

  She also knew she was covered in blood, scrapes, and cuts. Wearing an army jacket (which didn't appear to be hers) with no undershirt, the blood felt like a skin-thin piece of clothing.

  Then she remembered. The escape attempt. The crash. The little girl.

  Meyers was suddenly aware of a scratching sound. She looked around for the source and realized she was lying on the roof of the overturned police van. Scanning her surroundings, she saw the girl near her feet. She was on her stomach and reaching into the crushed passenger-side roof, scratching her wretched nails for traction in hopes of pulling herself towards Meyers.

  Meyers tried to scramble backward, but pain bolted through her body. She remembered her burned back, but there was more to it than that.

  She reached underneath her and found she was lying on Murphy's pistol. She pulled it to her chest and tried to sit up but was unsuccessful. Travers began to moan in the back of the police van, but she was in no position to check on him.

  Past the girl, Meyers could see a pair of legs approaching, and from the casual gait knew it was Phillips. The dead girl, unaware of him, also wasn't privy to the rifle muzzle placed against the back of her head. A single gunshot sounded, and the undead girl was undead no more.

  Meyers pointed the 9MM towards Phillips's boots, which straddled the girl's back, expecting him to bend over and show his face.

  But then someone was trying to open the drivers-side door behind her. She tried to spin around to face the door but was again betrayed by a sudden burst of pain in virtually every extremity. As the door was forced open, the top of the door scraped heavily across the concrete.

  Meyers managed to roll partially onto one side and shakily raised the pistol.

  It took three hard shoves using all his weight, but Beechum finally opened the door enough to crouch down and lean inside.

  Then he immediately fell back onto his haunches, surprised to see the gun pointed at his face. He was scrambling backward when Meyers pulled the trigger.

  There was a dry click.

  "No!" Meyers said. She turned the gun to look at it, then pointed it again and pulled the trigger several more times in vain.

  Beechum, recovered from the shock, angrily reached in and snagged the gun from her hand. He released the clip and let in fall into his left hand. He showed it to Meyers. It was empty.

  Beechum shook his head. "You know, I don't know how many times I've told Murphy to keep his gun loaded. That man never listens."

  Slapping the clip back in, he stuffed the gun into the front of his pan
ts, then grabbed Meyers's arm and pulled her out aggressively. She screamed from the pain as her singed flesh dragged across broken glass. He didn't stop dragging her until he'd pulled her to the back of the van, a trail of blood following them.

  There he was met by Phillips, with Schuler and Murphy, recently arrived in the five-ton, following close behind. Beechum dropped Meyers's arm, letting it flop painfully against the street, and motioned towards the back of the van and the one open door.

  "Get him out of there!" he ordered.

  As soon as Phillips pulled open the other door, Travers's pained moans turned into frightened screams.

  Meyers looked up at Beechum. "Beechum, I—"

  "Shut up."

  Phillips, Schuler, and Murphy disappeared into the darkness of the van. As soon as they did, the screams became babbling pleas, which again became screams as they pulled him into the shade of the underpass.

  One of Travers's legs dragged limply behind him, distorted at obscure angles and broken in several places.

  "Lean him up," Beechum said, stepping out of the way.

  They sat him down, leaned against the van's closed door. Beechum saw handcuffs sticking out of Murphy's back pocket and held out his hands. "Cuffs."

  Murphy quickly plopped them into his palm.

  "You wanna run from me, Meyers?" Beechum shouted towards Meyers.

  He grabbed one of Travers's arms and pulled it up. Travers attempted to resist, which earned him a knee to the face. His head bounced hard off the steel door, blood pouring from his broken nose. Beechum slapped a cuff onto a wrist and raised Travers's arm again.

  "Don't do this, Beechum, please," Meyers pleaded, managing to roll onto her stomach.

  "You wanna try to shoot me? Huh?" Beechum wrapped the other cuff around a still bar welded parallel to the door's hinges. "I could have killed you in Kentucky, you ungrateful bitch."

  He walked back to Meyers and kicked her in the side. The air retreated from her lungs. Beechum pulled the 9MM from the front of his pants and tossed it to Murphy who, not ready for it, nearly dropped his M-16 trying to catch it. He managed to trap it against his stomach.

  "Load your fucking gun, Murphy. I'm not gonna tell you again."

  Murphy nodded.

  Reaching to his side he pulled the Colt 45 out of its holster and leveled it at Travers's head. Travers shrank back, turning his head away and sobbing.

  "Beechum, don't," Meyers responded, "I did this, okay? It was my idea. Travers tried to talk me out of it."

  "It was," Travers said, nodding. Blood and snot oozed down his chin. "Shhh-she did it! She ruh-ran. I-I duh-didn't want to!"

  Beechum ignored him and turned to Meyers. "I already know it was your idea, Meyers. You think this faggot pussy would have the stones to try me?"

  "I'm sorry. I messed up. I won't do it again, I swear."

  "Oh, you're fucking right about that, Meyers. You won't do it again."

  Beechum looked past the five-ton and could see the M-548 speeding towards them in the distance. Coming up the cross street, a bevy of five zombies lumbered towards them, likely drawn in by the sound of the crash. They were still a little ways away.

  "Don't kill him, Beechum. Please," Meyers said.

  Beechum reholstered his weapon. "I'm not gonna kill him, Meyers. Don't you worry your pretty little head."

  He pointed a finger towards Meyers and looked at Schuler. "You and Murphy tie her up tight and toss her in the back of the five-ton. And don't be nice about it."

  "Whuh-where will I go?" Travers asked. He watched as Schuler and Murphy dropped Meyers's arms over their shoulders. Meyers shook her head through the pain.

  "Well, Travers, because of Meyers's little stunt, the police van is fucked, and not we just don't have the room. I'm afraid we're gonna have to leave you here to get acquainted with the locals." Beechum nodded in the direction of the oncoming horde of the dead and smiled.

  Travers saw them and started crying. "No, no, no! Please! Don't leave me here!"

  Meyers bucked against Schuler and Murphy, trying to break free of them, but they held her fast. "You can't do that, Beechum. It's my fault the van is smashed. If you're going to leave someone behind, leave me."

  "Leave you?" Beechum chided. "But look at him, Meyers. His leg is wrecked. You think we want to play doctor to some faggot?"

  "Besides, you suck a much better dick than he does," Phillips tossed in, laughing.

  "But that's not fair!" Travers yelled. He attempted to stand but collapsed painfully when he tried to put weight on his broken leg. He screamed and fell back on his butt. "My leg is broken because of her!" he told Beechum, pointing an accusing finger at Meyers. "It's not fair!"

  "You're right, Travers. It's not fair," Beechum told him. "But it is what it is."

  Schuler tossed Meyers into the cab of the five-ton and he and Murphy went to work cuffing her hands and feet and gagging her mouth with duct tape. She was bleeding from her forehead, a small gash about two inches above her left eye. Schuler considered it, then covered it with duct tape as well.

  Then they pulled her out and half carried her to the back of the truck. She fought uselessly against.

  Travers pleaded the whole time they worked on Meyers, but his pleas were drowned out by the approaching M-548. Schuler and Murphy returned just as it pulled up to Beechum.

  "The deuce-and-a-half?" Beechum asked.

  "Fucked." Fuller was leaning out of the window looking down at them. "Engine block took some lead."

  "Shit." They all turned to look at Murphy. "That might have been me. I was shooting at some sprints from the back of the five-ton. The deuce was in my background."

  Beechum shook his head. "Goddammit, Murphy."

  "What do you want us to do?" Fuller asked. "Circle back and see what we can't live without? Look for another truck?"

  Travers had not stopped begging. Beechum was getting annoyed.

  Phillips noticed. He walked over and kicked Travers in the gut. Travers doubled over, the air gone out of him.

  Beechum turned back to Fuller. "No. You go on ahead. Find us a route. We'll be right behind you. The deuce was mostly medical supplies, and none of us are doctors."

  Fuller nodded and pulled away.

  After piercing Murphy with one more admonishing glare, Beechum waved two fingers over his head, signaling for them to load up.

  "It's not fair," Travers whimpered to himself as Beechum and Phillips walked past him and towards the Humvee. Travers looked towards the zombies coming towards him. They'd halved the distance. "It's not fair," he said again. He repeated the phrase over and over. The convoy pulled out to Travers's one-man chorus.

  From the back of the five-ton and even above the roar of the engine, Meyers could hear it.

  "It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair…"

  And many miles down the road, long after Meyers knew Travers's words would have been replaced by screams as the dead ripped into him, she could hear it still.

  Chapter 10

  F INDING ENOUGH FOOD to eat was quickly becoming an issue. When they were able to stay close to home, there were enough households to raid and their food supply was steady. But eventually, Lizzy and Brandon had to leave the Lebanon, Pennsylvania area when legions of the dead began to flood out of Philadelphia.

  Using the cover of night, the brother and sister headed east along Interstate 76, sometimes scavenging bikes to make better time, but usually just walking. They preferred to travel stealthily, using the treelines rather than walking along the open road.

  At first, they had no real direction other than the least-threatening route away from Philly. But as they moved further east and the thick forests thinned and gave away to farmland, Lizzy thought about the last time the Glasgow clan vacationed this deep into southeast Pennsylvania. She remembered the Amish communities they'd encountered on the way to see a re-enactment of the Battle of Gettysburg (their father going through a phase in which he fancied himself an amateur Civil War buff).


  Brandon, a pre-schooler at the time, had no recollection of the trip, but Lizzy remembered plenty. They spent two days exploring the Amish, their bakeries, their shops, taking tours where actual Amish led them through farmhouses devoid of televisions or stereos or even the uniformly-textured, off-white walls Lizzy expected to see in the typical family home.

  The entire Amish community itself seemed to be a re-enactment of colonial-era lifestyles. Lizzy half-expected to find a hidden parking lot full of cars that the Amish impersonators returned to after clocking out at the end of the day.

  She remembered sitting in the back seat of the Sedan with her brother as her father drove at a snail's pace, stuck behind a horse-drawn buggy carrying hay or chickens or nondescript wooden crates. A quaint little anecdote at first, the slow travel eventually devolved into her father cursing and honking aggressively before accelerating around them, tires kicking up gravel the second the lack of on-coming traffic allowed.

  She had a lot of fun during that trip to Gettysburg—stopping in Lititz to visit a bakery where the pretzel was supposedly invented, touring the Hershey's manufacturing plant (Brandon actually had a spotty recollection of some of that), holding onto Brandon as they rode a Falabella miniature horse—but it was the lush fields of crops being harvested largely by hand and tossed into carts pulled by horses and the towering and dome-covered grain and corn silos rising in the distance that had most fascinated her.

  A world where the world-at-large had never encroached, and was even shunned.

  So it was, when prairies encased by white, wooden fences stretching deep into the far horizon began to appear, that Lizzy reasoned with her brother the possible benefits of finding a group of Amish survivors—God-fearing people built to live in a world without electricity, processed foods, and other modern conveniences.

  They continued east, then turned south, surrendering the Interstate once they'd gotten as close as they dared to the more populated Harrisburg. Without the forest to hide them, they blended into the untended and unharvested wheat and corn fields, using the silos (what their father had called corn cribs, Lizzy remembered) as beacons to guide them to the heart of the Amish farms.