Not on my watch.
He concentrated on the young woman running ahead. Victoria's figure was, uh, very distracting. She'd been wearing her new jogging shoes, long jeans with fancy stitching on the back pockets, and a black tank top. Everything was soaked with dirty water from their swim in the Mississippi, and her blue and pink shoes and lower pantlegs were covered in dust and mud, making it appear like her legs came right out of the soil. Nonetheless, her shape gave him something to take his mind off his burning lungs and tired legs.
He also daydreamed about their hours together in her dorm room. It was the only instance in the last twenty days that they'd been alone and safe at the same time, so they took advantage of the opportunity. It was not as romantic as it sounded, however, because they both more or less passed out from exhaustion.
Somewhere during the run, the crops changed from the Irish-green plants to small stalks of corn. The overall landscape remained the same, however. Flat fields for miles and miles, with narrow rows of trees that seemed to mark boundaries far out there.
He was lost in thought when she abruptly stopped, and he almost smacked into her attractive pockets.
“Sorry,” he said as he pushed off her backside.
“No you're not,” she replied with a tired giggle.
They were just a few feet from the mile-long gravel road as it met the tree-lined yard nearest the house. A rocky driveway circled the structure, but he had trouble seeing what was back there due to some large shrubs.
They both needed a few minutes to cool down from the run and he used every foot of the front lawn to catch his breath. He made himself stop looking at Victoria and concentrate on the porch of the old farmstead as they approached. The wrap around sitting area was covered by an overhanging roof, as if the house kept its arms wrapped around it for protection.
“Do you hear music,” he asked as straining to hear. Between the racket of the zombies and his own heavy breathing, it was hard to tell.
“You're nuts, Liam. I only hear them.” She pointed backward.
“Yeah, I guess.”
The two-story farmhouse looked about a hundred years old, though it and the grounds had been well-maintained. When he was close to the house he finally saw around the shrubbery. A couple of large green tractors sat on a gravel lot between the house and a modern-looking outbuilding with a couple large white garage doors. A few ancient oak trees dotted the yard and provided shade for the home. The house, trees, and outbuilding came across sort of like an island surrounded by miles and miles of flat fields.
He looked behind and realized Victoria called it right.
“We're here with no time to spare,” he said. “I'm glad I listened to you.”
“Aw, shucks. I wish I had my phone with me. I'd love to get a recording of you saying that.” She smiled and had a flirty twinkle in her eyes.
He was flush from running so long in the hot sun, but he felt his cheeks burn hot with emotion. She successfully kept him moving in the right direction and had taken his mind off Mom and Dad at the same time. He wanted to lay down and mourn their loss, but that had to wait. Victoria's joke reminded him how much he counted on her to lift his spirits in these terrible times. She did that when he found out his dad died the first time, and she'd do it now, for his mom.
He considered professing his love for all that she brought into his life, but the pressure of the moment kept him from doing so.
“I guess I'm glad my phone was toasted, too,” he said with a sarcastic laugh, “or you'd have some real leverage over me.”
“Oh, I don't need that. Trust me,” she said matter-of-factly before turning to him and giving a playful wink.
His heart was smitten by her suggestive words, but he didn't have time to press the issue. They ran up the steps and halted at the front door, followed a second later by a whirling stream of dust.
A small sign next to the door said they'd arrived at, “Winter's Sage Clinic, Roger Wilder, M.D.”
“We're in luck,” Victoria said. “They'll take care of us at a clinic.”
He was more focused on what was behind them. The cloud had already blotted out the bridge and most of the field they'd just crossed. Whatever was going to happen next would start with a knock.
He let Victoria have the honors.
3
“Go away!” A female voice called from the other side of the portal.
“We need help,” Victoria yelled. “The zombies are coming.”
“They're already here,” he mumbled under his breath.
Victoria gave him a knowing look.
“Please,” she shouted.
Now the distinct sound of zombies yelling, moaning, and groaning arrived on the wind. They sounded far away, but it fast became constant. Up until that moment he hoped and prayed whatever was causing that cloud was anything but zombies. Now there was no denying it.
“Tell her she'll need help. We have a gun,” he said quietly.
She used his words, but the reply wasn't what they expected.
“We? I can let you in, but you can't bring in any guns.”
“Oh, hell no--”
“Liam. What are we supposed to do? Run?”
“Maybe we could hide in that building.” The tan outbuilding was about half the size of the house, and he imagined it might be a little stronger than the wooden structure. At least there were no windows.
They discussed their options privately for a minute before the voice called to them again. “That's our offer. We don't want guns.” She emphasized the word we, like it was special.
Yells came from behind and they kept getting closer.
Victoria held out her hands, palms up, in the sign of “I don't know what to say.”
In reply, he held up one finger and sprinted down the length of the porch, hopped off the end, and went around the corner. While trying to avoid the windows on that side of the house he stashed the gun in a leafy green bush. To throw the occupants off his trail, he continued to run down the side of the house and go around back. He didn't study the outbuilding or the parking area for the tractors and his only delay was when he tripped over the edge of a gigantic blue tarp lying over a small mound.
“Liam, don't be that guy,” he said under his breath as he got back to his feet.
He ran for the far side of the house and continued into the front. When he got back to the front porch, he came up behind Victoria because she was still looking the other way.
“Hey,” he shouted.
She jumped, startled, and turned around. “Oh my Gosh!”
“Sorry,” he replied. “I had to take care of something.” He took Victoria in his arms and whispered in her ear. “We only had three rounds left, anyway. I hid the gun in a bush on the side of the house with the tractors.”
They separated.
“We agree. No guns!” Victoria shouted, as the noise behind them had continued to grow. Individual groans had morphed into one long engine-like hum.
No response.
“We said no guns! We got rid of it.”
Still nothing.
“What did I say wrong?” she asked him.
Liam shrugged. They stood there for a few seconds and he heard music again. He was about to make a comment about it when she yelled.
“I said we have-” she began in a loud voice, but the door opened and surprised them both. A gun-barrel poked out.
“-no guns.” Her voice trailed off.
“We're unarmed,” Liam added. “Seriously.”
The door swung open, inviting them in.
A young teen boy in a black cowboy hat kept a small shotgun trained on Liam as he made room for Victoria to follow. In moments, the door was shut, the noise outside had been reduced, and they could breathe with relief they weren't left outside for dead.
Victoria raised her hands, so he did the same.
“We're not a threat. We're the good guys,” he offered.
“I'll be the judge of that,” said a woman across the room. She, too, was armed with
a shotgun though hers was much larger and looked comparatively more threatening than the boy's, even from so far away.
“My son will show you a seat,” she said stiffly. Her shotgun directed them to a fancy loveseat in the middle of the room. It was part of an expensive-looking and very clean sectional sofa-set. It directed the focus of the living area to a monster-sized flat-panel television hung from the far wall. It wasn't what he expected of the old house.
The woman was older, in her fifties he guessed, and dressed a lot like he imagined country folk: brown cowboy boots up to the knees of her blue jeans, frilly denim shirt, and work gloves. She had jet black hair cut super short and her face was round and kindly, but she had dead blue eyes which he recognized in survivors who had spent too much time around zombies.
“What are you doing here? You recruitin'? Lookin' for some help? We're shut down until this storm blows over.” She appeared to be talking directly to him.
“Help, yes,” Liam replied. “I'm, uh. I mean we aren't from around here. We got separated from our friends and my great-grandma in Cairo.” He threw in his grandma because it might make them seem less frightening. The woman was obviously protecting her son.
Their captor stood by a rocking chair while the young boy hovered somewhere behind them.
“Ma'am, they're almost here,” the boy called in a timid voice.
“I know. Not much to be done about it.” Then she looked at Liam. “You aren't here for any other reason? You know what we do here?”
He did a quick scan of the interior of the home to see if he could answer her question. It looked like any number of houses owned by family and friends. Though the exterior was ancient, the furniture, art, and the appliances he could see in the kitchen all reminded him of home. There was nothing out of the ordinary.
He tried to relax as he spoke. “I'm just here to protect Victoria and me from that horde.” She squeezed his hand, making him turn to her. A quick smile and a glance at her crucifix, and he felt much better. He'd discovered that silver cross pendant helped to calm him when he got nervous around people. It worked when he'd first met her, and he'd been doing it ever since.
The woman seemed relieved at his reply, which he took as a good sign. She nodded and smiled to the boy behind him. That also seemed encouraging.
“Glad you aren't with the recruiters. Them folk do some good work against them zombies, but they ain't getting my Russ.”
She pointed to Liam still on the couch. “Will you help my son at the front door? And you stay right there, m'kay?” she added as she turned to Victoria.
Victoria let go of his hand and he got up to walk back to the door.
“I hid my gun,” he admitted to the woman. “I think there's still time for me to grab it, so we can help protect you.” They were clearly going to put him to work on the most dangerous point of the house, but if that was the price of admission he was willing to pay it. He had a chance to help these people and protect his girlfriend.
The cloud loomed large out the front windows, but it wasn't quite on top of them. He figured he could run to that bush and be back well before the dust reached him.
Liam winced when something hard smacked the small of his back.
“Hey!” he yelped.
“Sorry, kid,” the woman cooed softly behind him, “I can't take any chances with your kind. Just keep walking, or I shoot.”
The boy ahead of him opened the door and the woman's shotgun shoved him right out onto the front porch. Only after he was outside-and facing the arriving horde-did he think to yell to Victoria.
The door slammed as he yelled for her.
“Liam!” He heard her call his name, but it was hard to hear over the impending storm.
Zombies emerged from the leading part of the cloud and they were close.
4
Panic flooded into his bowels and he almost did the cartoon version of hopping one foot to the other with indecision. Zombies were near, and Victoria continued to shout from inside, but he had no illusions he had a chance against two shotguns.
“Run!” he said loudly to himself.
Since he'd already taken one lap around the house, he sprinted in the direction of the bush where he'd stashed his gun, but at the end of the porch he paused. Unlike most prior engagements with large masses of the infected, this one had no runners out in front. The line was uneven, certainly, but it was as if an entire stadium of attendees agreed to walk as fast as they could over the field and toward the house. He could only guess where the line ended, but they were spread across most of the large fields to the east of the house-toward the river.
He plumbed his experience with them as he hovered on the edge of the porch. If they were only walking, he could probably outrun the whole lot of them. But he'd have to leave Victoria behind. After so much effort to find her over the past few days, and soaking in an hour of her positive energy, he knew he couldn't let her go even for a little while.
He scanned the property. The tractors figured prominently, but he had no idea how to get one started. There was more farm equipment and maybe a storage tank in the trees on the far side of the outbuilding, but that didn't look like anything useful to him, either. Only the outbuilding itself seemed to offer an alternative to the main farmhouse, but he'd take a big risk running in that direction if there was no way in.
“Yeah, these folks seem like they'd leave the doors unlocked,” he said in jest.
There was no time for mistakes, so he decided to stay close to Victoria.
He jumped off the porch and looked for a way into a basement or side window, but that would open the way for zombies to follow him. He needed something higher, so he looked to the roof because he remembered seeing two window boxes sticking up from the shingles.
The lowest point of the roof was right above the edge of the porch and he thought he might be able to reach it. He only needed something small to stand on.
His palms became greasy with sweat as the zombie noises intensified. His heartbeat was thumping as fast as it did when he was running, even while he stood there doing nothing.
“Focus!” he said to himself.
There was a small decorative barrel on the porch which the owners had used as a planter and it appeared to be the height he needed. He got back on the porch and snuck by the front windows to avoid detection, then dragged the planter over the wooden planks for about twenty feet. With a firm push, it tipped over and fell off the edge to the gravel below. A quick hop down and he was able to right it.
A howl of anger pierced the generalized din. They were nearly there.
“I hope none of you can climb.”
In moments he stood on the barrel and extended his arms.
He was about a foot below the edge.
“Please God, help me fly.” He echoed a prayer Grandma Marty had used in a previous tight scrape. He ran through that hailstorm of bullets in the Arch lobby and survived, but that seemed easy compared to the threat coming down on him at that moment.
He hopped a bit to test his plan. His balance on top of the barrel was precarious and his half-jump made the barrel wobble. It remained upright as he came back down, but now he was freaking out about his chances. One look at the front lawn said his window of survival was rapidly closing.
The zombies didn't run, but he was sure they saw him. Dozens headed right for him with their arms held out in the, “me want blood,” pose.
“One more time. This is for the final play of the Super Bowl.” He turned to his announcer voice. “It's fourth and long. Liam Peters has the ball. He needs a touchdown ... ” His voice trailed off as he looked up at the edge of the roof, visualizing what he needed to do.
Jump. Hold. Pull.
He squatted down and felt the barrel shift underneath him.
Why didn't I make sure it was stable?
So many variables. So little time.
He sprang with everything he had. The barrel held until the last instant, but then it moved and tipped.
It
happened like a silent film in his head. He watched as his two hands reached upward and passed the chipped paint on the side of the roof's support. When they were positioned properly he attempted to grab the rough edge of the shingles. There was a very narrow channel along the edge-probably to prevent water from dumping on anyone walking onto the porch.
In his film, his fingers gripped that edging with a vise grip.
But the production wasn't totally silent. The dry wooden barrel made a crunch sound as it fell sideways on the rocks.
“Get up there!” he shouted to himself.
He pulled for a moment until he felt something touch his pant leg.
“Aww shit!” slipped out as he pulled his legs as high as he could.
An image popped in his head. Something he couldn't have shut out if he tried. A recent episode from his high school. An event he really didn't need to think about, involving his gym teacher recording stats for each student as part of a national fitness evaluation. There were many variables they chronicled including distance running, long jumping, and for whatever reason they wanted to know how long students could “plank.” But all that was secondary to his least favorite category on the chart: pull-ups.
He pretended to think about how many he could do back then, but it was only a stall for time. As a runner, most of his efforts focused on putting miles on his feet. The running categories he aced. But the pull ups? He couldn't do a single damned one of them.
5
“You can do it, boyfriend,” he said, mimicking Victoria's inspiring voice.
The shingles of the roof burned under his fingertips. Ignoring that was easy with the threat below. He used his feet to cheat on this all-important test of his physical strength. His dexterity allowed him to push up with the soles of his shoes on the corner pillar of the porch while pulling with his hands and arms. Together, he was able to shimmy himself part-way onto the roof. His bare arms were flush with the asphalt surface and it really burned!
“Yee-ow!”
He was either going to burn to death or get eaten. He used the pain on his arms to convince his muscles to get him over the edge by doing his one semi-legal pull-up. Liam shut his eyes and pulled with everything he had. Below him, there was almost certainly a zombie holding out his arms.
Zombie Escape: More Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse, Book 1 Page 2