And the Blood Ran Black

by Nathan E. Harvey

  Unlike their Jeep in Puerto Rico, this truck was high enough to keep the zombies from being launched up and over the windshield. Instead, the larger truck motored effortlessly through and over the bodies with little resistance or damage. John knocked onto the back, sliding window and pushed the large dog into the truck before struggling to maneuver his broad shoulders through the narrow opening and into the back seat. He spread out half on the wide bench seat and half on the carpeted floor while he caught his breath. After the dog had stopped licking his face for a moment, John noticed the hopeful and confused face of Hillary next to him.

  “What about Daddy?” She said simply.

  John fumbled over his words, trying to reason logically with the little girl that her Dad wasn’t going to be able to come with them any longer. After talking in circles for a bit, and abruptly redirecting sentences just before saying things that shouldn’t be said to a little girl in such a situation, John silently put his arm around Hillary’s shoulder. He pulled her in close to his side and said nothing until Moto came to his rescue from the driver’s seat.

  “Your Dad isn’t sick anymore… he’s not in any pain now,” Moto said. “He asked us to tell you that he can’t come with us, but that he loves you more than anything and that he wanted us to take care of you from now on.”

  “He’s dead, huh?” Hillary said while wiping the back of her hand at her running nose, no longer crying.

  John and Moto paused for a moment, unsure what to say.

  “I’m sorry sweetie. Yes, he’s dead,” Brooke answered. “He was a very brave man, and we’re all going to miss him very much.”

  Hillary nodded to herself and stared out her window as they drove.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  After some discussion about the best place where the group could find sanctuary, Brooke offered that they return to the city and to her sister’s apartment. John felt that it was closer to the high population of the city than he would have preferred but agreed to the plan as a temporary solution. As they drove on toward the apartment, John took inventory of what items had fortunately not been unloaded from the truck. Though they now only had one handgun for the group, there was still a moderate stash of food, booze, and other items left in the truck’s cab. John counted what remained in his last pistol magazine and was thankful to see that he had also left an extra round loaded in the chamber. John stowed the small pistol inside his jacket pocket and began to rummage through the rest of their remaining stash until he heard a loud gasp escape from Brooke in the front passenger seat. He looked up to see that, on the side of the road up ahead, the Jeep that had fled just moments before them was now lying on its side, engulfed in flames. Half a dozen zombies picked at a body that had flown through the windshield and lay in a pristine lawn twenty feet from the wreck.

  The entire drive was more of the same. The same route that John and Brooke had traveled only hours before was now a maze of bodies, vehicles, and zombies. There were several occasions when Moto was forced to drive up over the curb to avoid pile ups. He would drive just slowly enough to be able to avoid any debris that could puncture a tire, and just fast enough to keep out of reach of the countless undead who pursued. On the highway, the roads had become almost useless. The group agreed to work their way back to the less congested residential roads but still had to travel down the highway’s grassy median until another navigable exit presented itself.

  “Get out of here,” John called from the back seat after hearing mud slinging up into the wheel wells.

  “This truck can handle a little mud, can’t it?” Moto snapped.

  “Get out!” John yelled. “I just saw a sign for the French Broad River. We have to get back up on the road.”

  Moto took the advice without need for further explanation and cut the wheels toward the now steep embankment. Mud had already caked itself into the tires’ tread, and the wheels spun on top of the slick, dewy grass. Moto immediately punched the gas and caused the wheels to dig deeper and deeper into the soft earth.

  “You’ve got to rock it,” John advised.

  “Shut up, it’s fine. We’ve got 4X4,” Moto said and turned a knob on the dash.

  The truck gained some traction in the front tires but still only slid along the side of the steep hill, gaining no elevation.

  “They’re coming,” Hillary said softly from the back seat.

  Previously unseen zombies began their approach from both sides of the highway above and descended toward the truck’s bright lights and roaring engine. Moto realized that they had come upon a horde that had likely been the cause of the impasse on the bridge. He stopped his efforts paralleling the highway, and focused on making it back up to the asphalt. The tires quickly trenched down into the soft mud, and the truck lost momentum.

  “Open the back window,” John said.

  Ignoring his usual need to understand, Moto swallowed his pride and opened the electric sliding window. John twisted his shoulders through and climbed back into the bed of the truck. A loud bang rang out when John dropped the tailgate open and began to jump up and down on its back edge significantly bouncing the truck. At the same time, Moto began to rock the truck up and down the slope at a slight angle by driving forward until he lost traction, and then quickly shifting into reverse and riding the momentum back through his rutted tracks and up the other side of the median.

  Moto repeated this method, successfully gaining ground with each approach as the hundreds of nearby zombies were almost upon them. Seeing how near the zombies had already gotten, Moto cut the wheel up the hill to get out of his deepening tracks and gunned the engine in an effort to break loose. When the mud-caked tires again lost traction, Moto threw the shifter into reverse and sped backwards down the hill. At the dead on angle, though, the truck wasn’t able to clear the steep hill to its rear. Though John was hanging onto the rails, when the tailgate dug into the dirt he was thrown forcefully back onto the grass and the truck slammed to an abrupt halt. Without hesitating, Moto turned the wheels back toward the descending creek bed and drove over the top of several nearby zombies. John heard the sound of Hillary’s crying and the truck’s engine creep away to be overtaken by the moans of innumerable zombies directly behind him. John ignored the pain of his hard fall and forced himself back to his feet. Not knowing what else to do, he sprinted as quickly as he could through the deep, loose mud toward the retreating taillights.

  Relief flooded over him when he saw the truck’s reverse lights illuminate, and the truck began to speed back toward him. The feeling was short lived, though, when the truck’s lights revealed the numerous zombies between himself and the rapidly approaching truck. One idea stuck out in John’s mind, and with no time to consider if there was a better one available, John took action. He timed his run so that he would reach the zombies who were already at the bottom of the median’s ravine at the same time as the speeding truck. He began to question his plan about the time he reached them, but he forced his legs into action though his brain screamed for him not to. John leapt up into the air, and tucked his knees against his chest like a child trying for a record cannon ball. He then rotated his body so that his back would be the area to absorb the impact with the zombies and the truck when they inevitably collided.

  The sound of his collision froze John for a moment--sure that he had broken his back or a rib at the very least. After a brief while, still holding his knees to his chest, John was shocked at the realization that he felt almost no pain. Hearing that the truck was still speeding backwards, John released his legs and reached for the opened back window. Before he had stood, though, a large zombie below him gathered its bearings and grasped at John. The thing tugged at his shirt collar while John fought to get an arm or leg between the two of them so that he could pry it away from him. Before he had made any progress, several loud thuds sounded from where the tailgate had previously been. Two more zombies were flung up into the truck bed, and John began kicking ferociously at the newcomers while fighting in vain to fend of
f the powerful zombie that ground its teeth only inches from his face.

  He glanced up at his escape window to see Hillary there, dangling his pistol between her thumb and index finger. In a flash, John released the zombie with one hand and thrust himself toward the gun with arm extended. The muscular zombie began overpowering his one arm as John grabbed the gun and tried to position it correctly in his hand. The zombie’s warm, wretched breath assaulted John’s senses as it moaned and pulled him in closer. Unable to buy any more time or find the butt of his pistol, John pressed the gun up under the thing’s chin to delay its bite for the extra second that he needed to find the trigger. Finally, grasping it with his pinky, John rotated the gun in what he thought to be the right direction, and made a fist. The blinding muzzle flash and deafening report answered John’s prayers, and the thing fell lifelessly beside him. The truck’s momentum slowed rapidly, and without correcting his hold on the gun, John grabbed at the opened window with his free hand and fired four rounds into the beasts at his feet with the other. John didn’t wait to confirm that the bullets had hit their target, but leapt back in through the opened window as soon as his legs were let free.

  “Holy shit, you made it!” Moto exclaimed. “I can’t believe that actually worked!”

  “Really? That was how you envisioned it playing out in your head?” John said in an exacerbated tone. “What were you thinking, driving off without me like that?”

  No one said anything for a moment while Moto navigated his way back onto the road and down to the previous exit. When they had reached the smaller, quiet streets Brooke reached into the back seat and patted John on the knee.

  “I’m just glad you’re ok, man,” Moto said. “I didn’t realize we’d lost you. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.”

  “Well, you were pretty close to finding out,” John sighed.

  “Did I do good?” Hillary asked, looking up hopefully at John with her large expectant eyes.

  “I’d say so,” John smiled to her. “I think I owe you my life.”

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  The deeper they drove into the city, the more destruction they found. On multiple occasions, Moto was forced to return down the path he’d already driven and search for a different route. They were still driving aimlessly around on the small, two lane roads when the sun began to crest over the eastern horizon. The light of the sun came as a blessing, but only at first. Though it illuminated the ever growing number of undead before the truck had to come within several feet of them, it also meant that more survivors were willing to risk some time outside of their shelters. At first, it served as a source of comfort to see other people still endeavoring to persevere. After witnessing the reasons some of the other survivors had ventured out, though, the change was anything but comforting. Bodies that had previously remained ambiguously unrecognizable in the dark cover of night could now be seen as obvious victims of crimes committed by those that were still among the living. Between houses, they could sometimes catch glimpses of grotesque groups of men chasing after frantic, fleeing women. Brooke was upset by how quickly she herself became callous to the sights. She was disappointed at how little time it took for humanity to devolve once no one was appointed to police them. At least, it appeared that there was no one left to police them.

  After being forced into a detour through the slums, the crime became a common sight. They knew they needed to get off of the streets and find a place to take shelter, but they couldn’t bring themselves to stay in an area where every other house had been broken into and gunshots echoed with telling regularity. Moto drove cautiously between the sea of abandoned vehicles until one of the more organized groups of misfits finally got the best of them.

  After crossing through one natural-looking gap between several trees and cars, two men with high-powered rifles stepped out from their hiding spots at the next bottleneck. Moto threw the shifter into reverse, and looked back to see that a truck had already appeared from behind to block them in the narrow gap.

  “Now I wouldn’t try that if I’s you!” One fat, bearded man yelled. “Y’all go ahead and step on outta that truck.”

  Having lost most of their guns at the Jensen house, the group had no choice but to comply. Brooke held Hillary close to her chest, though Hillary didn’t seem to understand the gravity of their circumstance. Two of the armed men tied the dog to the truck’s trailer hitch and began digging through the truck’s cab while another two men shoved them all up against a nearby house’s wall.

  “Listen, you can take everything you want,” Moto started.

  “Well thanks for the permission there, kid,” the skinnier, dumb-looking man laughed. “Since you say so, I think we’re gonna go ahead and take everything, including that mutt and these fine bitches you’ve been draggin’ around witcha.”

  A handful of zombies that had been tailing the truck wandered up from behind the abandoned cars. The skinny man spotted them, and chastised the fatter after he unnecessarily fired his gun at them.

  “Just go poke ‘em with somethin’,” the skinny man instructed. “Enough with all the damn racket; and you’re blowing through more rounds than we’n steal.”

  “Listen, you don’t have to do this,” Moto said after the fat one had walked off toward the zombies.

  The skinny man showed his blackened, decaying teeth with his widest, repulsive grin and turned to look over his shoulder at the men who were busy emptying the truck. “You hear that, boys? We don’t have to do this!”

  The other men chuckled at that, and the skinny man turned back, no longer grinning, to see that he was staring into the barrel of John’s last remaining gun. He opened his mouth to speak, and John fired--blasting apart the back of the man’s skull. Though they weren’t close, John quickly fired off two more rounds at the men next to the truck. He struck one in the chest before both ducked for cover behind the truck’s engine. Brooke dragged Hillary and lunged for cover around the corner of the house while Moto and John stood behind a large tree as the uninjured men opened fire.

  “Help me, idiot,” the shot man pleaded from behind the front of the truck.

  “Shut up, he’s still shooting at us,” the other man growled as he fired blindly over the hood.

  The fat man finished disposing of the zombies, and began firing rounds into the tree trunk which concealed John and Moto.

  “Do something,” the injured man pleaded again. “I don’t wanna die.”

  A single gunshot echoed from behind the truck, and the man’s screaming fell silent. John fired blindly around the side of the tree toward the fat man as he returned, attempting to flank the two brothers.

  “If my count is right, I believe you’re empty,” the fat man said as he closed in on the Chow brothers, waving for his one remaining friend to come out from behind the truck. “All you dipshits are dead,” he taunted as he drew closer, ignoring the dog’s rabid barking.

  John peeked out from the edge of the tree and fired a round into the large man’s chest before he could even begin to react.

  “One in the chamber, dipshit,” John called out.

  Though John was truly without ammunition now, the last remaining carjacker ducked back behind cover. Moto and John stayed hidden and whispered about what they could do to take out the last of the men. John contemplated running after the rifle beside the nearest man’s body, but the distance was still too great. The cowering man finally worked up enough courage to step out from hiding and began to cautiously approach the brothers, calling out threats to them in his thick New Orleans accent.

  “First, I’m gonna gut shot each of y’all so I can leave ya here to bleed out until the zombies come to munch on ya. In fact, while you’re laying here bleedin’ out, I’m gonna take your girls, put ‘em in the back of your truck and we’ll all watch together while the zombies pick at your guts like a bitch sampling her Valentine’s Day candy. I wonder who’ll squeal louder, you two or the biatches.”

  A shotgun blast made everyone flinc
h--followed by a deep, intimidating voice calling out while the threatening man squawked in pain on the ground.

  “Let us hear you scream, ya low-brow, slack-jawed, sumbitch.”

  An imposing, muscular black man in a police uniform revealed himself and walked over with shotgun in hand. He calmly approached the bloody man and watched as he writhed in pain on the ground. The officer stepped heavily on the man’s hand which had been reaching for his gun and raised his own large shotgun with one arm, pointing it squarely at the man’s head. The policeman watched as blood pooled around the desperate man. The victim continued to hurl his threats until he began to cough up blood--mercifully drawing his last breath. The cop stooped to pick up the man’s rifle and stood to see Brooke and Hillary step out from cover, shortly followed by John and Moto.

  “You all ok?” he asked.

  “Thanks to you,” Brooke answered.

  “Sorry it took me so long. Friends call me Sprite.”

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  “So you’re telling me that a guy your size, what, 6’6” and with the last name Sansom pinned to his chest got nicknamed Sprite?” Moto asked. “Your co-workers really dropped the ball on that one.”

  “They didn’t really give me the nickname; my mom gave it to me forever ago,” Sprite said.

  “What’s the story there?” Moto asked.

  “Well, I guess it was actually the nurse. I was a premie. I think I came out at just over four pounds or somethin’; at least that’s what they tell me.”

  “No way,” Moto interrupted.

  “Oh yeah, I’m serious. My mom was convinced that I was gonna die, and they were just racking up the bills. I was in the hospital for at least three weeks, and my mom never named me.”