by Anthony Puyo
Norman returned the salute in a frustrated manner.
Doc does the salute too, giving Norman a tap on his shoulders afterwards. And as sorrowful and bitter as it is, the crew of three, that at one time was seven, parted peacefully.
The morning has finally arrived for Norman. He didn’t sleep much, but it didn’t matter, he’s ready to go. There had been an armored truck parked outside the bank ever since he’d been there. Great luck for Norman, the armored guard who had the keys lied next to the vehicle, dead.
Norman has been loading the vehicle since around 5 a.m. But now it’s passed six, and he’s done. It’s perfect he figures, since the infected had to sleep too, it should be a little easier to maneuver. His biggest problem is the streets, it has quite a bit of stranded vehicles. It will be a tricky ride, but the truck should have the power to move around or push other smaller vehicles if need be.
Norman locks up the back of the truck. He gets in the driver seat, adjusting it and the mirrors. He places his automatic rifle on the passenger side.
Here goes nothing.
He starts the loud diesel engine, gazing at the fuel gage, “Perfect!” he says to himself, seeing he has almost a full tank. He tries to let the rumbling engine warm, but that plan up ends. He looks in his mirrors, noticing half a block away there’s trouble. It appears the loud engine has caused an awakening.
Norman counts eight infected—they’re running fast; hurdling car hoods, squeezing through tight spaces between cars. The ones that fall, get up unfazed and keep forging.
Okay . . . I see you.
Norman puts the armored truck on drive. He turns the vehicle and heads towards them.
“How’s this, bastards. You want some of me?” He sees them through the windshield coming quickly, their faces filled with rage. Norman isn’t about to back down—getting angry back.
“Come on! You want some, Huh, fuckers!”
He accelerates towards the infected. He not only had to get through them, but the cars that are blocking the street also. It’s all in his way of the street he needs to go on.
Norman laughs like a maniac as he runs over the first three. Then pounds the canvas top ecstatically when he smashes into a car with one of the infected in between. The impact splatters blood on the windshield. Norman puts the wipers on, clearing the window. He ignores the messy streaks of blood, singing the hard rock portion of Bohemian Rhapsody.
Another infected jumps onto the hood, blocking his view of the road. Another gets on his door stepper, banging on the window. Norman didn’t mind him, he knows the glass is made bulletproof and thick. The one on the windshield is becoming a nuisance. Norman moves around his seat, trying to get a visual around the infected.
The banging and things being thrown at the vehicle doesn’t panic Norman. He just keeps on trucking and pushing cars out of his way.
A large brick comes into view, hitting the windshield and making Norman flinch, but that’s all it does. It didn’t cause no more than chip of the window. Finally, the infected that’s holding on hood falls off. He pops like a grape under the 55,000-pound truck.
The old warrior is about a block away from getting out of downtown. He seems to have gotten through the heaviest part of abandoned vehicles. The path ahead is light with traffic, but the street he needs to turn on, Stanislaus, is blocked off by a fuel-tanker semi.
As Norman gets to it, he slows, he didn’t anticipate this situation. He couldn’t just plow through the fire hazard of a wall. He stops the slow moving truck and begins to back up. He can see an alley fifteen feet back through his driver-door mirror.
A new path! Nothing’s going to stop me today.
Norman stares in his mirror while he backs up, almost completely ignoring the Crazies that are around and on his truck. The crazy that is on his door’s stepper, snarls at him, banging his head on his window. Noticing Norman using the mirror, the infected begins to push the mirror back and forth, finally punching it. It’s now cracked useless.
“Fuck you, you bastard.” Norman spits at the window, showing his displeasure.
He looks in his other reflector, seeing about twenty infected coming from behind. He completes his back up.
The crazies carry pipes, bricks, knives, and anything else that will kill. The moment begins to get a little tenser for Norman, he starts to perspire. The slow moving machine and the blocked street, have allowed for more infected to group.
Norman maneuvers towards the alley. He grins as he drives close to the light post that stands right besides its entrance. The infected that is on his door, gets knocked off by it, and his legs crush under the dual-wheels.
How about that, stowaway. Walk it off. Heh Heh.
An infected gets on the hood. He climbs up to the roof, then makes his way to the back.
“Here,” yells an infected to the one on top. This one’s on the back of the truck’s bumper-step, holding on the door with one hand. His other hand grips a firefighter axe-hammer. The crazy on the roof grabs the hammer and turns back towards the front.
The ride is bumpy from the potholes in the alley. Norman accelerate through, purposely scraping into the sides of the alley’s walls, trying to get the crazies to fall off. The infected on top holds tight on his belly—crawling to the front. As he gets there, he stands wobbly—he takes a swing at the windshield. Seeing the hammer surprises Norman. The hit was too weak to do any real damage, but it did make a small crack.
Staring down the alley, Norman could see a diesel-truck trailer parked to one side. This was going to make it difficult to get through the slim opening. He brushes up against the clear side. The hammer appears again, making the crack larger. It’s hindering Normans view. Again it hits, this time making a wide crack.
“Fuck!” Norman punched the gas, the truck squeezes in, sparks fly from both sides. “Come on you sonofabitch!”
He narrowly makes it through.
A sigh of relief from the veteran.
With no warning, a van out of a side garage from the alley; backs into Norman’s passenger door. Norman’s spontaneous, freaked out reaction has him turn into the van. The crash is loud, scary, glass and metal mangle. Norman uses the trucks brute strength, hoping to plow through, but the counterbalance of the crash has gotten him wedged in between the walls sideways. His vehicle is rendered un-drivable.
Norman pounds the steering wheel in frustration. Not sure how much time he has, he reaches for his gun. He looks over his shoulder and catches a glimpse of the money in the back. He can’t just leave it, he worked too hard to gather it.
He makes his way to the back from an inside door. He takes a second to look out the small grated window on side wall of the truck. It faces the side of the alley he came from. He can see the crazies coming, some running. They aren't too far away. Norman takes his chances. He grabs three full bags of money; the size of backpacks. They’re heavy. Realizing he can’t carry that many, he drops one and takes two along with his gun.
Norman gets back to front, and makes his way out the passenger door—it’s a clear path.
The footsteps are many. The shoutings are loud.
Norman, twenty feet down the alley, running with money leaking out of his bags, stops. The old soldier’s heart races from low stamina and age.
All this running wasn’t part of the plan.
Sweat drips from his head, and his hairy chest shines drenched in it. Norman kneels down, putting some of the fallen money back in the bags. He sees the many infected running toward him. Some fall, getting trampled by the others.
Norman stops packing money and aims his M-16. He mows them down. Many drop, their flesh squirting blood with every piercing bullet that enters them. But they are numerous . . . and they keep coming.
Norman stands, this time only carrying one bag of money. He gnashes his teeth, upset that he couldn’t bring the other one. He runs again, but the noise he had caused in the alley, with his gun, had its repercussions. Crazies come from his right and left. He zips straight towards
an empty field that’s fenced.
He made it!
He gets to the fence, but he can’t climb with his hands full.
Damn!
There’s a choice to be made. Norman has to act fast. He hesitates, then drops the gun. The Veteran carries the heavy bag of money. He climbs slowly—struggling to get up with one arm. His foot slips, then his hand.
He can hear their feet, stomping, as they get closer.
“Almost there,” Norman grumbles.
He gets to the top, but feels a tug on his boot. He looks down. An infected has a hold of it. Norman can’t gather the strength he needs to pull himself away from the grasp.
Others get there and grab his ankle—pulling.
“You fuckers!”
Norman struggles. Running out of options, he has to make another painful choice.
He finally drops the last bag of money. It kills him to see it shower down all over them.
Regrettably—his decision comes a tad too late. If only Norman would have valued his life sooner.
The tugs are too much for him. Norman finally falls into the enemy’s grasp, screaming and yelling till he is buried with tearing hands all around, and he is no more.
14
A Night to Remember
The moon helps give some light to the darkness, but it did nothing for the cold. Thunder sounds and lightning scorches the skies, and soon after, the rain comes falling hard and making visibility muddy.
Craig limps north in an alley. I should’ve got a raincoat instead of this vest.
To his estimations, Melissa and Ryan are a mile or two south of where he is. All he has to do, is find the sign she talked about to pinpoint them.
It’s going to be a tough road, in regards to the unknown that lies ahead. Unfortunately, he only has his six-shooter with three bullets in it to defend himself with. Not that it mattered much. Craig’s not much of a fighter or killer anyway. He already froze twice when faced with danger. His best option is to dodge hostility altogether. If he can.
The man, with tight-curls, crouches most of the time as he moves through the alley. The rain is pouring hard enough that he doesn’t have to be too quiet, but Craig practices it anyway, not wanting the slightest awareness drawn.
Creeping through the first block of alley, he sees shadows, hears grunts. He faints inside as this occurs, but he presses on. He comes up to the end of the alley. There’s not another across from it. He will be forced to go down a city street from here. It’s not what he wants. To be in the open is scary to him, but there’s no other choice.
Craig waits at the alley’s edge, shivering, peering down the street both ways. At a four-way light, he sees a white van stop in the middle of the street and exchanges gunfire with a black car. Craig is surprised to see infected that were hidden in almost plain sight, run towards the havoc. It is an opportunity for himself to flee, and he does. He hobbles to the closest street, opposite the trouble.
The downtown street he’s on mirrors the others. Full of brick stores that led to second-story living spaces, abandoned cars, dead bodies, broken in shops/stores, all drenched in the pounding rain.
Craig gets up the street—something alerts him; he slows his pace. He sees a shadow about thirty feet away. It’s a person crouching down over another. Craig can’t quite make out what is going on. To him, it comes across as if someone has died and the person of interest is mourning.
Craig Bainy opts not to take any chances. He walks next to a building, hiding behind it’s shadow and inches his way closer. He Hopes to pass with no conflict. At twenty feet away, he realizes it’s a woman. Her back is turned to him, and she’s kneeling. She’s thin, wearing a white nightgown. Her long hair glistens in the rain and moonlight as she bobs down, time and time again.
Being that it’s a woman, Craig’s fear eases up.
Poor lady. She must have lost her husband or child—maybe her sibling. He thinks this while he strolls over.
I’ll offer her some help. She can’t be in the open—It’s not safe.
A few feet behind her, hoping to not startle the woman, he speaks softly, “Hey lady, are you okay?”
The woman turns her neck so fast she looked to break it. Craig’s worrisome face turns instantly to horror. The woman’s mouth is covered and dripping with blood. She gives a wide, sinister smile, showing her teeth while she stands. Her eyes are as black as the night sky, and they shimmer in the moonlight. Whoever is on the floor wasn’t being sobbed over, but rather eaten. Craig has never witnessed this amongst the crazies. This encounter is a shock to him.
The infected are no different than the non in these ways: they need sleep, water, and food. It has been four days, and their minds work different. They also burn a lot of energy, which means, they need more fuel replacement. Since their minds obsess over killing their counterparts most of the time, it leaves them vulnerable to starvation. So rather than spending the energy to go looking for reasonable food, they chose to eat anything—including other people if need be.
Craig slowly backpedals, pulling out his powerful revolver. His hand is shaky.
She’s not going to let you escape. You’re going to have to kill her.
He points the hand cannon at the evil before him.
“You're not going to kill a lady are you? She says—a kitchen knife in hand.
She steps forward. Craig backs. The knife glistens.
“Let me show you how good you can feel.” The woman recites, licking the blood around her lips. “Mmmm,” she moans, “Yummy.”
You know what’s coming. Put her down . . . Now!
She lifts the knife, smiles wickedly and lunges fiercely.
This time, Craig did what he hadn’t been able to do since the Kesburg’s place—kill. He put a single shot in the mad-woman’s face, blowing all her right cheek and part of her forehead off. Her body swings around then falls, splashing in the light puddles of the wet road next to body she was eating.
Craig drops to his knees. A moment later he hurls. “That was disgusting,” he says in a whisper. “God forgive me.”
The next block over, Charlie and the afroed black man, Doc, are searching for Craig. They both hear the loud single shot from the revolver.
Charlie gazes over in that direction. “That sounds like his 357.” He begins to run towards that direction with Doc following closely.
The rain lets up to a drizzle—then stops. The clouds become larger, blocking the moon, giving way to darkness. Extreme weather changes are quickly becoming the norm. But for now, darkness with no rain is a blessing.
Craig, nervously hobbles away from where he is. The gun was loud and probably alerted infected of his presence. He stays close to the walls of the stores he passes, ducking behind anything that will cover him. He has no clue Charlie and Doc are on his trail. And they have no idea how close they are. It all came on a hunch from Charlie. The man is savvy that way.
“Shh, look over there,” Charlie stops Doc. They get low, with Charlie pointing in a plaza overlooking moving shadows and voices that are headed across their path. Doc pulls on Charlie’s shoulder with a whisper to get back into darks themselves.
It’s a group of six men that have three women shackled in ropes. The women captives weep lowly as they are intimidated into marching.
From where Doc and Charlie are, they notice the group is armed. Charlie hand signals Doc to go to the other side of the street, setting an ambush in case they have to do battle.
They take their positions and wait. Doc kneels behind the hood of a car, on looking the men. His rifle is aimed, ready to shoot. The group comes into the cross hairs of his infrared scope. Seeing in the dark gives him a clear advantage. Not that he needed one. Doc’s a very accurate shot. He spent two years in sniper training for the berets. He was equally if not more dangerous with his knife. To date, he has 54 kills with his blade, and that number will be climbing.
Dockery James was the kind of soldier who took orders and carried out business. I say was, because
he’s been out of the service eight years now. But when he was there, he was very reliable. Smooth in his approach. A deep thinker who kept his thoughts to himself. He wasn’t the leader type, but he didn’t have to be. His use was in taking directives: fixing problems that others made. He wasn’t a slouch that got pushed around by any means. He followed all his orders with no arguments, because he saw the outcomes well in advance from his choices. That’s what made him unique—sought after in those days.
“If we had more like you,” was a phrase commonly used by superiors when describing Doc.
He saw himself different. What others saw wasn’t half of who he was. He was a philosopher who wielded an AK. A world changer. A man on a mission that went underneath, never noticed, but was there. And he didn’t care for the fame. Doc was a soldier on an undertaking from a higher power . . . but only he knew it.
Now in the present, Doc isn’t much different. Most of those characteristics and philosophies, he still carries with him. The scenery may have changed, but Doc is still Doc. And that’s a good thing. Sometimes the world needs a man like him.
The group of men are crossing the road with their slaves in the darkness. Footsteps, whispering, sniveling from the young ladies, and the sound of loose water drops hitting different surfaces are heard as they go by.
“Shut your fucken mouths!” one of the men yells, in a low tone to the girls. Charlie has a clear shot if he wants it. He calculates, but it isn’t easy to decide to intervene. It’s possible to cause more harm than good. Not to mention, what is he going to do with the women if he successfully rescues them. He didn’t have food or water, a place to stay. He can’t guarantee survival if they follow him. All these thoughts flow through Charlie’s mind, but Doc on the other hand, kept his eyes on both the slavers and Charlie, waiting for a signal.
Suddenly! A sound in the sky makes everyone glance up. It’s a deafening whistle coming from a jet. Its engine shut down, and it’s falling uncontrollably, streaking across the dark, heavy clouds, leaving a smoke trail behind. As it drops in altitude, the engine catches fire. A few seconds later, the pilot ejects, and the plane vigorously explodes. The flaming debris rains down from the sky, landing several blocks away and causing a thunderous romp that makes everyone in the vicinity flinch down.