by Evans, Mike
“I’ll do my best to get you guys out of there. You just need to be patient, okay? I’m doing the best I can, but if I didn’t let people know about this, then you’d have even more of those things in the streets coming for you. I guarantee you do not want to have any of the living coming after you once they’ve been bitten.”
“You're seriously going to give me worse news, Jude? I mean, the dead are up and walking around. What, exactly, could be worse after all of what's happened in the last day?”
“Well, if they bite you, or if you drink rainwater—any contaminated water—you become one of the dead. Now, I don’t really understand what's going on with it, but sometimes people change in minutes and sometimes it takes a little while. The important thing is that they're not like the dead that come back out of their graves. These bitten people are fucking wicked, and they will do every single thing they can to make you a meal. They run, they don’t walk. They can move fast, and when they do you watch out, because they seem to be even hungrier than the others. They're just as tough to put down as the others, too.”
When Jude stopped speaking, he heard a slur of cursing. He looked to Chuck, who was pointing to his wrist, where a watch would normally have been.
Jude nodded, and Maria screamed into the phone, scaring Jude as well as Patrick. “What in the hell is going on! Would you please, please give me some sort of good news? Tell me something that doesn’t make me want to just blow both of our brains out and put us out of our misery. The last thing I want is to have to watch Patrick go through that—or even worse, I change and he doesn’t. Can you imagine if he was an orphan through all of this until you get back…if you get back?”
“I’m going to get back, but—”
The whoomp, whoomp of a helicopter sounded, and both Jude and Chuck knew it was coming toward them. Jude threw the phone, pulling Chuck, who was already moving, behind him. The window along the side of the building shattered and glass shot everywhere. They ducked on the opposite side of a table, pulling it down to shield themselves from the thousands of shards coming their way.
Chuck screamed. Jude quickly assessed himself and his friend, looking Chuck over and seeing no injuries. “What the fuck is wrong with you, brother? I don’t see anything wrong. What happened, did they get your ass again? Did you take a shard when we went over?”
Chuck brought out his left hand, shaking wildly and filled with long pieces of jagged glass sticking out of his flesh.
Jude reached out to touch it, for a moment unable to understand what had caused the damage as he watched the blood flowing from his best friend's hand. He sprinted to the window, stopping short so as not to fall out of it. He saw the helicopter jerking back and forth in the air, plummeting toward the ground. The pilot, he assumed, tried to make a last-minute effort to keep from crashing, but the helicopter collided with the ground, sending a large black ball of smoke into the sky. Jude sank to his knees, thinking of the three companions they had lost.
Chuck yelled from behind him, shocked as well. “What is it, Jude?”
"The helicopter I told them to go in—they must have tried leaving without us. They're all dead, I…I don’t understand what's happening! Damn it, everyone we meet fucking dies!”
Chuck approached, trying not to look at his hand. He stared down at the wreckage, thinking of Leslie, shaking his head. “I can’t believe this shit. We need to just get on the road and stay there until we make it home.”
Jude patted him on the shoulder, having forgotten momentarily about the shards of glass lodged into Chuck's hand. He looked at the wounds, then took Chuck to another table in the conference room and set him down so he could examine the hand. “I don’t know if this thing needs stitches or not.”
“Not like it matters, Jude. I mean, who’s going to put them in? Whatever you can do with two good hands is gonna be better than what I can with just one. Get going, though, we still need to figure out how in the hell to make our way back out of here now.”
Jude went a kitchenette area at the back of the room, grabbing every bottle of water he could. He drank two himself, as quickly as he could, and set the rest and a stack of fresh towels down in front of Chuck.
When he saw the water, Chuck realized how insanely thirsty he was, as well, and began drinking heavily.
Jude emptied one of the bottles across Chuck's hand, clearing away the blood. There were really only four embedded shards; the rest of the glass had cut the skin, but not stuck into it deeply. Jude pulled the first sliver out, rinsing blood off with his other hand, and Chuck said, “Good Lord, brother, take it easy. You realize that glass is in my hand, right?”
Jude nodded and said, “Okay, on the count of three, two...”
Jude ripped the second shard from its place, holding down Chuck's wrist with one arm, and then pulled the last two straight up, quickly. The cuts left behind were not good, but were not as horrible as they could have been. Jude used a knife to cut the towel in half and wrapped it firmly around Chuck's hand. He looked at the thick bandage and ran around it a second time with duct tape from the office supply.
Chuck held up Jude’s handiwork, examining his hand. “You realize how redneck this looks? I mean seriously, man, is this supposed to make me feel better? I can barely use my hand.”
“You still have the ability to grip your saw with your right hand; it just won't be super-tight. You just do your best not to lose it, because you aren’t going to be much better trying to swing anything.”
“You're filling me with confidence, Jude. You really know how to make a guy feel better.”
“I guess I'd rather help you figure out how to survive instead of lying to you about things you aren’t going to be able to do, man. Try picking your stuff up and take a couple practice swings. Who knows what it's going to look like on the other side of this?”
Chapter 5
The group, minus Chuck and Jude, made their way up the steps, slowing for nothing. The dead were relentless and seemed never to tire. Charlie was in the rear, and he knew they would catch up eventually. He started the chainsaw, turning around, sitting on the steps, and revving the small saw. When the first zombie came within cutting distance, he brought the blade down on its head, slicing down until he met its neck. It started to waver back and forth and, just as it was ready to fall, he kicked it hard, sending it back into the dead below. When it lost its balance, it sent the others falling backwards as well, and they rolled down the steep flight of steps that only those lucky enough to go up in the chopper would normally use.
Charlie spun around, catching up to the others, who had not waited for him. He could barely hear anything after revving up the saw in the small space. When his ears finally stopped ringing, he wished they hadn’t.
Helen was screaming at the top of her lungs, losing her wits as she tried to deal with a situation she couldn't wrap her mind around.
Charlie took the steps three at a time, looking behind him, knowing that the dead would only temporarily be slowed down. Lifting the corpse out of the way, passing it backwards like a zombie crowd-surfing, until it was out of the way and discarded.
Charlie and his companions ran out onto the building’s roof, looking around wildly, slamming the door. It had a push handle even the dead could use, and nothing to keep the door closed with.
Joann said, “We need to keep this shut until he gets that chopper ready to go.”
Jon screamed as he ran for it. “Don't worry, just give me, like, five minutes to let it warm up. We should be good to go.”
Leslie and Joann both took deep breaths as they pulled back the cords of their saws. Each of them knew that five minutes of the dead coming at you felt like a lifetime. Once they had the saws going, the pounding at the other side of the door began to thud, thud, thud. Charlie put all of his weight—which wasn't much—against the door.
With each passing second, the dead were getting more impatient about being stuck. The hits were getting harder, more forceful.
They watched anx
iously as Jon climbed into the helicopter. Helen, not wanting to be left behind, climbed in as well, taking the copilot’s seat.
Leslie said, “Well, thank the Lord almighty that we have Helen with us, or I don’t know how we would ever stop those things.”
Charlie, still holding the door, screamed, “Hands, hands!”
When the ladies turned around, they saw that the dead had forced their hands through the doorway and were fighting to get further out with every second. Joann tried to think what to do—somehow she had forgotten the vibrating thing in her hands was a chainsaw. She pushed Leslie back a foot and brought the saw up high and then back down. She sliced through arms, hands, fingers, making a salad of flesh. When she was done, the door clicked shut again, but only momentarily.
“Well, that is possibly the worst thing I have ever seen in my life. Nice job!” Charlie said.
He was breathing heavily, and they looked to see the chopper being powered up. Each of them were saying a small prayer that they would be able to escape and leave all of this death behind. When the thuds began again, bloody stumps protruded from the cracks. Charlie did his best, but this time the blood on the ground made the gravel covering the roof slick, and he slipped, falling down. By the time the two women rushed to the door, it had flung open. The dead poured out of the black doorway. The three ran to the back of the door, doing their best to hide out of sight. When the dead made their way out, they went straight for the helicopter. The noise from its engines was too much for them it ignore.
*****
Jon helped Helen get into the helicopter from his seat and wasted no time getting himself in. He started flipping switches and going over the preflight checklist like he had never done before. Helen said, “Hey there, sugar, we're going to be okay, right? I mean, you will get us out of here lickety-split, right?”
Jon was in auto mode and doing his absolute best to ignore the woman. She slapped him on the shoulder, making sure he knew that she wasn’t one to be ignored. He said, “Yeah, yeah, we'll be fine; I just need to let it warm up. We should be okay, as long as they can secure the door for us. I don’t know what the hell they're going to do about the other two left downstairs. If that stairwell is full of the dead, then they aren’t going to be able to make it to the roof, short of a miracle.”
“Well, you aren’t going to wait for them, are you?”
Jon looked over, smiling. “Lady, if the ones on the roof don’t have their asses on this thing the absolute second that it’s ready to take off, then I'll leave them on the roof, too. I don’t have any intention of turning into one of those—those—I don’t know what they are, but I don’t want to fucking be one of them.”
“Amen.”
Jon turned the key and hit the button for the engines. The helicopter was almost deafening with the doors open. Helen screamed above the noise, “Is it supposed to be this loud?”
Jon waved his hand back and forth, handing her a headset. She put the mic down so she could speak and said, “Hey, is it always like this?”
Jon, unable to resist, said, “No, this is the first time I've ever had to try and take off with a group of dead people trying to eat me.”
She was nodding when she looked over at the door, just in time to see Joann's chainsaw cutting through a mass of hands and arms. She screamed, “Jon, Jon, are we ready to leave? I mean, can you lift us off, please?”
Jon was doing his best to focus on the cockpit, and not on the horrible situation outside. When he looked up, he saw the door fly open and a horde of the dead rush out onto the roof. Jon screamed, aborting the rest of the prep time, and pulled back, lifting the small helicopter into the air. When he took it up, a wave of joy rushed through his body.
Helen screamed at the top of her lungs, “We're gonna live—we made it! Oh, you are my new favorite fucking person ever!”
Jon smiled uneasily, still trying to keep control of the craft. A gust of wind came out of nowhere, catching it and taking it down. He saw the dead, some running, some walking slowly. The difference, he assumed from what Joann had said, between the turned dead and the dead risen. He took the chopper away from the building, unaware of the five dead which had jumped onto the landing skids on either side of the helicopter. Their weight began to drag them down, the five of them holding on with everything they had and swinging wildly, pulling the craft off course. Jon dropped in elevation quickly, not expecting or accounting for the weight. He looked down, finally realizing the dead were clinging to his chopper. He was looking the wrong way and focused on the wrong thing. The dead on top of the roof poured over the ledge, falling directly into the blades. The first to hit were instantly chopped into thousands of pieces, painting the windshield and the side of the Channel Seven building a crimson red.
The chopper shook violently, unable to maintain its altitude with the dead pummeling it from above. Jon tried to steer the helicopter away from the building, but was unsuccessful. He could see nothing, and the only indication they were too close was when they collided with the building, shattering floor after floor of windows.
Helen, not having any idea what was going to happen, had to ask the obvious. “What—what are we going to do? What are you going to do?”
Jon, who was not ready for death, started laughing hysterically. “What am I going to do? What are we going to do? We are going to fucking die, Helen! We are going to crash onto the ground, the cockpit is probably going to crunch up like a beer can, and then we're probably going to catch on fire. Oh, and one of those son of a bitching zombies is probably going to eat us. I can’t imagine they’ll pass on a hot meal.”
Helen looked over, in awe and speechless. “Was that supposed to make me feel any better at all?”
“No, no it wasn’t. If you believe in the man up there, you gots about five seconds to say something to him.”
As she was about to speak, the helicopter spun out of control. When it was close to the ground, Jon took it into a light pole. The rear rotor crashed into it, snapping off. The helicopter blades hit next, sending them spinning wildly into the streets. Jon took his hand off the yoke, at this point, because it would do no good any longer. He hit the button to kill all engines, and they fell hard the last twenty feet to the ground. The helicopter landed on its side, not smashing as badly as he thought it would.
When the smoke cleared, Helen said, “Oh, my God almighty, are we alive? Did we make it?”
Jon laughed. He looked up, seeing there was very little smoke. “Yeah, yeah, I think we did! Holy shit, I think we did. I can’t believe it, I can’t fucking believe it!”
Helen said, “Oh, thank the Lord! Get me out of this damn thing, hun.”
Jon was about to say something, but stopped when the smoke cleared; his new view was that of hell coming at him as quickly as the dead could fall. He fumbled at his seat belt, but it did no good—they were coming too fast. He looked up into the sky, seeing the dead leaping off of the roof to follow the downed helicopter. The first five landed on the back end, which was now in flames. They did not scream; they simply sat there growling, frustrated that they could not stand, unable to with the injuries they had incurred. The next ones flew into the cockpit, almost knocking Jon out when they collided. The only thing slowing them down was their legs shattering as they hit the outside of the cockpit.
Jon reached for the fire extinguisher, ripping it from its place. The first that came at him was rewarded with the end of the extinguisher. Jon brought it down once, twice, and then a third time, snapping its jaw. The dead came at Jon, trying to bite, but its broken mandible made that impossible. The moment of victory was fleeting and the thuds continued; each one was a new body hitting the helicopter. Helen screamed and finally got her seatbelt off. When she did, she fell to the bottom of the askew helicopter.
Helen kicked at the window to the cockpit, with little reward. Jon was busy smashing each new face with his makeshift weapon. Helen climbed clumsily into the back of the helicopter, not realizing the door had ripped off and the
re was nothing stopping the falling dead from making their way freely into it. She looked up just as she tumbled into the back, seeing one of the dead plunging straight toward her, mouth bloody and jaws extended.
She tried to move, but it collided with her headfirst, knocking her down and out for the count. By the time Helen woke up a moment later, she had to blink to get her contacts back in place. Once she did, Helen wanted to rip the contacts from her eyes—the visions she saw made her stomach turn, a front row seat to her own horror show. Her attacker, still conscious, was busy ripping into her abdomen. It was eating greedily and quickly, leaving nothing to repair.
Helen screamed for Jon, who had plenty going on in the front. He awkwardly turned around in his seat, seeing the carnage taking place in the back. He wanted to speak, but knew there wasn’t anything that could be said. The dead were dominating the situation, and there was little he could do for himself or her.
She batted at the man who had his face ear-deep in her stomach, ripping up violently, intestines dangling from his mouth and blood dripping down, turning her white blouse a blackened shade of red. When things started to grow fuzzy, she laid her head back, staring up at the dead raining down until more made it into the rear of the helicopter. Her last vision was of the dead tearing her face from her skull, chewing it rapidly above her.
Jon, not wanting today to be his end, hit the release to his seatbelt. Seeing Helen in the back of the chopper was more disturbing than anything he’d seen in war. He tried to hold on to the seat so he would not fall, but failed miserably. The extinguisher he’d been using was now covered with blood, and the energy Jon had used to fight them off had left his arms feeling numb and tired.
As the seat slipped out of his grasp, he, like Helen, dropped down into the back of the helicopter. Jon lost his extinguisher, and the dead that were still falling covered his door, blocking the light, sending him into almost complete darkness. The breaks in the windshield let in the only rays of light coming through the blood-soaked glass.