by Joss Ware
The truck was rocking harder. It was going to go over any time now, and there didn’t seem to be anything—
“Remy. You have that bottle of alcohol? Grab it. And the alcohol pads in the first aid kit. And the empty whiskey bottle.” Damn. He knew he should have saved some of the Jameson’s. “And whatever books and paper you can find.”
She gave a little cry as the truck tipped again, sending her to the floor, hard, but she leapt up and dashed back into the darkness, taking Dantès with her. Marck emerged from beneath the steering well just as the glass on the driver’s side window shattered. A thick zombie hand, gray and putrid with rotting flesh, reached in blindly, just missing Ian’s arm.
“Hurry!” Wyatt shouted, smashing at the hands of zombies as they tried to pull themselves up, using the empty window ledge. He still waved the torch, but it wasn’t burning very well at all.
Remy was back, shoving the small bottle of alcohol into his hands. He’d grabbed a piece of something soft from the floor and now he shoved it into the bottle, leaving a little tail hanging out. One small fucking bomb, and maybe a second one if he got lucky. A few burning books. That was the most he could hope for.
The truck rocked again, and he realized the zombies were now pushing from both sides—which was actually a blessing. They weren’t coordinating, they were fighting against each other. Good. If they could just hold them off till dawn, when the zombies would leave . . .
He lit the tail dangling from the small bottle and waited for the cloth to burn down as low as he could . . . He didn’t want to wait too long, but—
“Duck!” he shouted, and flipped it out the window just as it exploded. Glass shattered against the metal of the truck door and a few shards even flew inside. Fuck. That was too damn close.
The small bottle bomb had frightened the zombies enough that they backed away, but the reprieve didn’t last long.
“Got any other ideas?” Still holding the smoldering denim torch, Wyatt called to Marck, who was doing pretty much the same thing he was on the opposite side of the cab: keeping the door closed and using whatever was at hand to fight them away.
“I’m thinking!” Marck shouted back, beating at a zombie head with something he’d found on the bottom of the truck. “Isn’t there any other way out of this thing?”
“No,” Wyatt responded over the roar. “No back door. No rear entrance.” He crumpled up the page of a book Remy tossed on the seat behind him, then lit the ball. When it flared into flames, he tossed it out the window, then followed with a second one out Marck’s window. The burning missiles had effective but short-lived effects on the zombies: they caused them to spread out, and one or two might catch his clothes on fire, but once they staggered away, screaming gutturally, the others swarmed back to the truck.
He threw the last book—damn, it was the Jack Reacher thriller he’d just salvaged—and then something was thrust into his hand. A metal pan. Excellent. Still holding the makeshift torch, he swung out the window and caught one of the monsters in the head with the pan. The skull crunched and he fell away, only to be replaced by another one, trying to claw his way in.
“Remy,” he shouted over the loud cries of the zombies, “open as many alcohol pads as you can and stuff ’em inside the whiskey bottle. And get me a soft piece of cloth.”
One more. They had one more bomb, maybe, and then he was fresh out of ideas.
In the midst of the chaotically rocking truck and the increasingly frenzied cries of the zombies, someone yanked on Wyatt’s arm. He spun from the window to see Remy doubled over, hand at her waist.
A faint orange glow burned through and behind her cupped hands, illuminating her shirt.
Christ. Not again.
He dropped the waning torch on the seat. The cab jolted hard and he crashed into her as he stumbled to her side, but by the time he got there, amazingly, she had the crystal in her hands. He didn’t waste time commenting how she’d removed it or congratulating her for having done so; he simply took it when she shoved it at him. The stone was hot, no doubt about it, and glowing like a fire, but he held onto it. He couldn’t take the time to look at it closely, but he saw that it was no longer enclosed in its cocoon of metal wiring. She must have taken his advice.
Remy looked up at him, her eyes wide and a little crazy, and said, “Let’s show it to them. Maybe it’ll stop them.”
Wyatt shook his head. “No, it’s what they’ve come for. It’ll just make ’em crazier.” He handed her back the stone. The glow had eased slightly, but it was still hot.
“But didn’t Theo and Selena say the crystals embedded in their brains are orange? Maybe there’s a connection,” she argued as Marck shouted from the front, “I can’t hold them off! Do you have another bomb?”
“Here,” Remy said, swooping down to the floor, rising, then jamming the whiskey bottle into Wyatt’s gut. “I put in as many alcohol pads as I could. But if it doesn’t work . . . what are we going to do?”
Their eyes met and for a moment everything around him stopped. Wyatt’s chest felt tight. He caught himself just before he reached for her, his hand falling back to his side.
I won’t let anything happen to you. He thought the words, told her with his eyes. Then he turned away, his heart pounding furiously, his insides in turmoil. What were they going to do?
He hustled to the front, snatching up the torch, which had gone out. Only a few sparks were left clinging to the denim, and the truck was rocking violently again.
“How long till dawn?” he shouted to Marck, trying to light the damn bomb as he was being jolted from side to side. “Remy, I need fire!”
“Too long,” Marck shouted back. “Two hours.”
Remy was there, her arm jerking sharply. Then a flare illuminated the darkness and he snatched it from her as the cab rose up on two side wheels, sending everything falling. Remy grabbed him as they tumbled to one side and he lost his grip on the bottle and the small light as they all crashed to the ground.
The truck hung there, suspended, for a long, long time, but once he recovered from the surprise, Marck moved fast, and Wyatt right with him. They bolted up, climbing over to the uppermost side of the truck, and the propulsion of their weight and movement brought it slamming back to the ground, still upright. The force jarred everyone, and Dantès was freaking out in the back, whining and barking and scrabbling at the floor.
“That was fucking close,” Marck said.
“I’ve got to show it to them,” Remy said, grabbing at Wyatt’s arm as he scrabbled for the whiskey bottle.
“Where’s that damn bomb?” Ian shouted from the front.
“No fucking way,” Wyatt snarled at her. “Don’t show it to them. We don’t know what it’ll do.” He found the bottle and grabbed it triumphantly, saying, “Where’s the light?”
She had it for him seconds later, her drawn, frightened face illuminated by the golden light. Grabbing her arm, he yanked her close to his face. “Don’t show it to them. Don’t show it to anyone. It’s all we’ve got, Remy.” He took the light and turned away.
He didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t promise her anything.
He just had to find a way out of here.
Wyatt lit the bomb, looking out at the swarm of zombies. Even if this bastard worked—which would be a miracle—it wouldn’t do anything more than the others. Hold ’em off for a minute and then they’d be back.
At the right time, he flipped the bomb just out the window and it exploded as it fell into the soup of zombies. Glass shattered and a brief surge of flames roared. The zombies cried out, their ruuuuuthhhhhhs rumbling into high surprised groans, and staggered back.
“That’s it,” he told Marck. “That’s all we got. They’re gonna push us over. What’s the plan? Think we can fight our way through them when they do?”
“Gonna have to,” Ian said, his face as grim as Wyatt felt.
The reprieve from the bomb ended, and the zombies recovered sooner than he hoped. And he was flat out of
ideas.
Remy brushed past, bumping against him as she pushed her way into the front of the truck. He caught sight of a soft glow just before she reached the window, but it was too late.
She was already showing them the crystal. Holding it firmly, the illumination dancing over her face like a candle flame, she lifted it well out of reach of the suddenly undulating, desperate crowd of zombies. Her face was a study in concentration and hope, along with despair.
“What the hell,” Marck whispered, staring at her. “Where did you—”
“Remy, no!” Wyatt went to drag her away from the window, but the zombies had already seen the gem, held high above them. Stunned, he released her.
The crystal the monsters sought was alive, glowing orange. And when they saw it burning above them, the zombies had gone silent.
Chapter 8
Remy held the crystal aloft, relief and apprehension rushing through her. The night was silent, the zombies were still. Wyatt stood behind her, tension and fury and wonder emanating from him. And Ian . . . he must be feeling the same.
Then, as if by some silent signal, it all changed.
The zombies surged back into motion, crying and shoving each other in renewed desperation. They were more frenzied than before, if that was possible, and now she could see the fury and need in their orange eyes. The truck rocked again, more violently now, for all of the monsters had crowded to the side where the crystal was.
“Son of a bitch,” Wyatt said from between his teeth, his voice in her ear as he pulled her away from the window. He fairly shoved her into the rear of the truck.
Remy’s short-lived relief evaporated and now she could do nothing but stare down at the glowing crystal. She held it by one of its metal pieces, which kept it from burning her fingers too badly.
“I’ll just give it to them,” she said, suddenly very tired. “They can have it, Wyatt. It’s not worth our lives, whatever it is.”
“No,” he said, looming over her in the darkness. It was just the two of them back there; Ian was effectively blocked into the front by Wyatt’s solid figure. Remy could see him trying to fight off the grasping hands behind Wyatt. “We’ll find a way. You can’t give it up. Not now.” He took her shoulders. “Ian didn’t know?” He could hardly believe it.
She shook her head. “No.”
The truck shuddered violently and rose again. It crashed to the ground moments later, but the message was clear.
“But it’s not worth dying for.” Remy tried to push past him, but he grabbed her arm. “We don’t even know what it is.”
“It’s definitely something. They know it. Look at them!”
“If I throw it at them, maybe they’ll chase it and we can escape,” she said, pushing against his solid chest as the truck lurched again.
“Getting a little rough up here!” Ian shouted. “What the hell are you doing?”
“How far do you think you could throw it?” Remy asked, looking up at Wyatt.
“Not far en— Wait.” He stilled, and she could see his mind working. “If we had a decoy . . .”
She caught on immediately. “Yes! But how? We could light a stick and throw that . . . ?”
“No, that wouldn’t work,” he said impatiently. “But maybe this would.” He shoved past her as the truck tipped again, and fumbled in the precious plastic box.
“What are those?” she asked, looking at the slender greenish sticks he brought out.
But he ignored her, speaking rapidly. “We need something plastic or glass. Clear, and find my orange shir— No, wait. Find that small medicine bottle in the first aid kit. The golden glass one. Yes, that’ll be perfect. Then we won’t need my—just empty it out, pour out whatever’s in it. Quick, Remy.”
Wyatt moved to the front of the truck. “Going to try something,” he said to Ian as Remy scrabbled around, trying to find the bottle that met his description. “You know how to make a slingshot?”
There was a loud screeching noise as one of the mirrors was torn off the truck.
“The fucking door’s gonna be next,” said Ian, tearing a piece of cloth off his shirt. “I can do a sling. Don’t have any rubber.”
It took her forever, but at last Remy found the small glass bottle. Its label said merthiolate and it had some bright red liquid in it. She dumped it out into a wad of blankets, smelling the pungent scent of the medicine.
The zombies surged and Remy felt the door rattling as they pulled on it, then shoved at the truck. It was like being on a boat at rough sea, rocking and dipping constantly.
Wyatt had taken the slender green things and snapped one in half. “Damn,” he muttered. He took a second one and broke it too.
“What are you trying to do?” Remy asked.
“These are glow-stick flares,” he said shortly. “They’re supposed to glow when you break them. They’re not working. They must’ve gotten wet or are too old.”
There were only three more left.
“Got your sling,” Ian said. “What’s the plan?”
“There may not be any plan,” Wyatt snapped, picking up a third flare. He looked at it, closed his eyes as he jolted from another lunge at the truck, and then broke it. This time there was a faint greenish light, but it went out immediately.
Remy’s palms were damp and she was aware of the heavy, hot crystal in her pocket. She’d wrapped it in thick cloth to keep it from burning her, but she feared she was going to have to bring it back out again. She wasn’t about to sacrifice their lives for the sake of a stone. It just wasn’t worth it.
Another stick snapped, and this time the glow stayed. Yesss. Satisfaction and determination shone in Wyatt’s face as he held out his hand. “Give me the bottle.”
She handed it to him and he did something she couldn’t see, taking part of the flare and shoving it inside the bottle. “Whoa,” she whispered when she saw the effect.
Inside the bottle, the flare burned with a reddish-orange glow. It could . . . maybe . . . pass for the crystal. If anyone was dumb enough to be fooled, the zombies were.
“Remy, are you ready?” Wyatt asked. “Marck, the sling. I have to get on the roof. Otherwise it won’t go far enough.”
“You can’t do that,” she said, grabbing his arm. “They’ll knock you off.”
“Stand on the seat,” Ian suggested. “Put your head and shoulders out the window. We’ll leverage you.”
Wyatt gave a short nod. Then he turned to Remy. “Pull out the crystal,” he said. “You have to show it to them again. They sense it somehow—”
He was cut off as the truck was lifted high again. Remy held her breath, her heart in her throat as Wyatt and Ian lunged to the side to weight it back down.
“I understand,” she said when the truck stopped rocking. “Ready?”
She pulled out the crystal and Wyatt climbed out the window. She and Ian each grabbed a leg and she pressed the hot crystal into Wyatt’s palm. He wasn’t expecting her to give it to him, but he took it, holding it high. As the zombies fell silent again, he replaced it with the glowing bottle in his hand and showed the fake crystal only briefly as he slipped the real crystal back into her hand. The zombies were getting restless again, and from below, she watched as he fitted the bottle into the cloth sling Ian had made.
Holding onto one muscular thigh—and trying not to think about the fact that she was—Remy felt Wyatt’s body move as he swung it around once, twice, and then the snap as he whipped it, sending it flying.
The orange glowing object arced through the air, over the watching heads of the zombies, and deep into the woods.
The monsters screamed and stumbled over each other as they turned to lumber after it.
Remy didn’t have more than a moment of relief before she was being manhandled from the truck and onto the ground. “Run,” Wyatt breathed in her ear. “Northeast. Take Dantès.”
She hesitated, but he gave her a fierce look and a little shove. “Go! I’m right behind you, but I’m going to try and hold them off a
little longer.”
Dantès was there, butting her with his nose urgently. He, at least, was ready.
“But—”
“Go, Remy. You’ve got to take that crystal to Envy. We can’t let the Strangers get it. Whatever you do, get to Envy.”
Remy gave Wyatt one last look as Ian jumped out of the truck. At least there were two of them.
Then she turned and ran.
Dantès kept pace with her, bounding over cropped-up pieces of concrete and dodging bushes and rusted out mailboxes. The moans from the zombies faded as she ran as fast and as hard as she could, going uphill whenever there was a choice to do so.
But even as she ran, Remy wondered how Wyatt would find her again. And Ian.
She paused once, out of breath, the stitch in her side making further movement unbearable. Leaning against an old signpost, gasping for air, she listened for the sounds of her companions crashing through the wilderness behind her. But the only noise she heard besides her own breathing was Dantès, who was panting next to her, and the low hoot of an owl.
Bending, she patted her dog, looking and feeling around as well as she could for the blood seeping from his wounds. Nothing; just the heaving of his rib cage from the first run he’d had in two days. She smiled in spite of the moment. Dantès was never happier than when he was running or chasing something.
Remy knew she should start moving again, but she waited for a little longer, straining to listen for Wyatt or Ian. As she did, she looked around for possible shelter. Through the trees and skeletons of buildings, she could see the faint lightening of the sky in the east. Dawn wasn’t far off, and the zombies would seek shelter before the sun came up.
She was standing in a wooded area threaded with ivy and other vines. Low growing bushes dotted the space and a long, one-story structure stood nearby, across an expanse of what might have been a concrete parking lot. There was little glass in its windows on which the moonlight shone. Not a good place to hide from zombies, but as it was nearing dawn, she might be able to stay here for a while. Give Dantès a chance to rest too.