Rise and Walk

by Gregory Solis

  TWENTY-SIX

  The silver Dodge climbed up the mountain road. All-terrain tires held fast to the earth while the truck’s suspension compressed and flexed to absorb the uneven surface. Lance knew that he was driving too fast. Fear and disbelief had settled in his heart where once sat a macabre amusement. People were dying. He wasn’t dying, and that is all that ever mattered to Lance. He was content to watch the situation unfold and witness psychotic people attack each other. Then, somewhere in the back of his self absorbed mind, his inner sociopath gave way to the voice of reason. As the situation worsened at the campground, he became very afraid. A fear, the likes of which, the spoiled young man had never known in his privileged life.

  The trail road was wide and crossed with deep sun baked ruts. Lance and Zeke had their seatbelts strapped firm, but Josh, sitting in the middle had no such restraints. Josh was growing feverish. The rocking of the dirt road jostled him to and fro, making the man feel deathly ill.

  “Roll down the window man,” Josh pleaded as he rag-dolled around in the cab. He was getting hotter, his fever boiling.

  Lance thought the camp must be miles behind them by now. He slowed the vehicle and cranked down his window. Zeke rolled his window down quickly and spit out a huge wad of tobacco and spit. He was so overcome with fear. Fear of the people at the camp, but more so a fear of Lance yelling at him, if he rolled the window down without permission. He had been suffering with the wad of tobacco in his mouth for the better part of twenty minutes. The bumpy ride had forced some of the grim fluid down his throat which he swallowed without complaint. There was a greenish tinge on his face as he poked his head out of the moving vehicle to clear the remnants from his gums. Zeke thought he was going to vomit.

  Going slower now, the truck had ceased its violent rocking. Josh was tired. He leaned back and decided to get some shut eye. His arm throbbed gently in time with each breath. He thought to himself that he would rest for a little bit; just a little bit. Lance’s fear returned. What if what made the people crazy was in the air? His paranoia wondered.

  “That’s enough air, roll ‘em back up,” he ordered.

  It seemed like they had been walking for hours. Andy Walters still held on to the girl’s hand. Her bare feet were dirty from walking on the asphalt. He wished that he could offer her his shoes but they wouldn’t have come close to fitting her. She was small, maybe sixteen and only dressed in a pink one piece bathing suit. He worried about her exposure to the elements and would have liked to give her his shirt. His modesty prevented him from offering. They didn’t see anyone else make it out of the campground. The girl ran for a solid ten minutes once they cleared the gate. Andy had to reassure her that they were far enough away to convince her to slow down. He needed to rest after their escape. Now they walked.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  She looked up at him speechless. He could see her ear was crusted over with dried blood. He leaned down pulling her to a stop. She tried to keep walking but didn’t want to let go of his hand.

  “Let me see your ear.”

  She pulled her head away with a flinch. He put his hand on her shoulder to hold her in place.

  “I won’t touch it, I just want to see.”

  Turning her body Andy saw that the top of her ear was missing. A crescent shaped curve of tattered skin gave hint to teeth marks. The surface of the wound had dried and the ear underneath towards her cheek looked bruised. The girl had a dazed look in her eyes. He took his hand from her shoulder and felt her forehead; she flinched again but submitted. She was running a fever.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  Down the shady mountain road came an ambulance. Andy turned to look and saw the red lights flash a greeting. The girl saw the vehicle approach and grew faint with relief.

  “We’re gonna be okay,” he smiled. Andy stood and waved the ambulance down.

  “I wonder if anyone made it out of there okay,” Zeke said. Lance didn’t care. He was glad that Wanda left before the problems began but only in as much that his car was safely out of the camp. He loved that car more than he cared for Wanda. Then he remembered the blood on her towel at camp. No, he thought, that was just a coincidence. She started her period and split because she was dripping all over her favorite big bottomed bathing suit. He was sure that must be what happened. Whatever was the case, he was out of harm’s way now. When he got back to town he would tell everyone how he had only been able to save Josh and Zeke. He would frame the facts to show how heroic he was; saving Josh from the little demon and waiting for Zeke to jump in the truck. His men would go along with his version of events; they always did.

  “How long we been on the road?” asked Zeke.

  “Hour or so, I don’t know,” Lance answered annoyed.

  Josh slumped lifelessly against Zeke.

  The road ahead narrowed around a curve. Lance accelerated around the corner as Josh stirred. He lifted his head, opening his eyes with a slight flutter.

  “How ya feeling partner?” asked Zeke to the waking Josh.

  Josh turned his head mechanically towards Zeke, his jaw slack and open. Roaring with hunger, Josh grasped at Zeke who withdrew screaming. Startled and panicked, Lance turned his body towards his passengers. His flight response forced Lance to step down hard on the gas, plunging the truck over the edge of the dirt road.

  Falling and bouncing down the overgrown dried grass hill, Lance absent mindedly tried to hit his brakes. The vehicle only made intermittent contact with the ground as it fell. The anti-lock brakes wouldn’t allow the wheels to come to a complete stop. Lance was lucky, for if the wheels did lock up, the inertia of the large truck would have caused it to tumble end over end. The shotgun bounced about the cab, its butt end knocking Lance on the right cheekbone. Zeke’s screams were constant and pitiful.

  The ground began to level underneath the truck. It came to a rapid stop, slamming the front left wheel into a small gully, shattering one of the shock-absorbers. The airbags deployed saving Lance from crushing his chest against the steering wheel. Lance was in a panic. As the airbags deflated he could still hear growls and pleas for mercy. He felt around and popped open his seatbelt. Jumping from the leaning truck, he saw the stock of his shotgun on the seat. He reached in fast, snatching up the weapon to the sounds of guttural roars. Lance switched off the safety and fired the shotgun directly into the cab, pumped it and fired again, and again. Three rounds of triple aught buckshot devastated any matter within the vehicle. Windows, leather seats, clothing and human tissue were shredded and blended together in a frenzy of careless fear. The blasts echoed against the limestone walls of the mountain, diminished, then silenced.

  Lance turned, closed his door and slid down with his back against his truck to sit on the ground. He held his shotgun close and checked to see if it had a live round chambered.

  Lance wondered if he had just committed murder. He almost felt sorry for Zeke, but Josh had started it. If he hadn’t gotten sick and started acting crazy, everything would have been fine. No, Lance was sure he had acted in self-defense. He nodded his head and breathed deeply with his resolve.

  “What now?” he said aloud. Looking to his right he saw the broken shock absorber hanging from its truss. Knowing that he would have to walk from now on, he stood. Lance’s father had taught him to be a survivor; to go through anything and anyone to succeed. Lance was going to do just that, no matter the cost.

  He walked around the other side of the truck and opened the door. A tangled mass that was once Zeke fell halfway out. The top of his seatbelt was sheared off by the shotgun blasts with the bottom portion remaining in place. Gravity took hold and the belt slowly unraveled allowing Zeke’s nettled corpse to slip to the ground. Lance stepped back, tracking the body’s fall with the end of his weapon. He needed to retrieve the rest of his shotgun shells despite his fear. Once he was sure that Zeke wasn’t going to get up, he looked in the cab. Half of Josh’s face was missing. There was still some cheekbone, the ed
ge of the right ear and part of the right eye, but everything else was shredded. Lance relaxed and spent a moment studying what he was seeing. He looked down to Josh’s arm. The bandanna had torn free revealing congealed dark green foam surrounding the wound. Lance looked back at the slumped, bloody mess that was Zeke. There was no greenish tint to any of his bright red blood. A connection formed in Lance’s inarticulate mind. Josh was sick but Zeke was okay. You had to be bitten to become sick.

  “Hmm, that’s weird,” he mumbled. Reaching down to the passenger’s floorboard he retrieved the box of twelve-gauge shells. He opened the lid and saw that it contained six more shells. Closing the door, he walked away from the grim scene to the back of his truck. Opening the tailgate he looked in to see if there was anything he might be able to use. His ice chest and other equipment had been left back at the camp. Sitting on the tailgate he proceeded to load three more rounds into his shotgun. He ejected the top round to make sure once again that a live shell was in the chamber ready to go. Loading the ejected round back in the bottom of the weapon, the thought finally occurred to Lance that he had just killed Zeke. He turned his head to see Zeke’s torn body piled upon the earth in an impossible contortion. Lance’s expression wasn’t one of sorrow or remorse but rather a look of concern for himself. He worried for a moment what might happen if the police took a close look at his truck. If he had fired only once he could pretend it was an accident. Any flatfoot could tell that there was more than one round fired. Looking out over the dried grass of the hill he resolved that he would deal with that possibility later. He would claim self defense and that he was in mortal fear for his life. That part was true at least.

  A high whine from the dirt road broke the silence. It was an approaching motorcycle. No, he thought as the sound increased, more than one. The sound jerked and rumbled on the road above his location. He was too low to see the surface of the road or who was on the bikes. Lance dropped to his feet off the uneven tailgate and ran towards the road. The grade was steep and the road further away than he thought. Halfway up the rise he noticed the pitch of the motors shift down. They had passed him. As the sound diminished he finally made his way onto the road. He grunted in anger at his timing. A minute faster and he could have talked some poor sap into giving him a ride. He decided that if anyone else came along on the road, he would be there to greet them. They would give him a ride back, one way or another. He did have a shotgun after all.

  Disappointed but determined to get back to his town, Lance began walking up the road with his shotgun safety off.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jack Mason had lived an adventurous life. He had seen and done some pretty strange things in his thirty years. He considered himself lucky to be alive in some regards. He had witnessed a couple of knife fights, participated in brawls, had guns in his face, been arrested, been hit by cars and even spent some time in his youth experimenting with drugs. All the weird things that had ever happened to him in his past were nothing compared to this day. As he steered the Kawasaki up the mountain, careful to avoid the many rivulets in the earth, he considered what he had seen. There was no way to explain how a person could die and get back up. It just doesn’t happen, he thought. He recalled how sick it felt to kick the teen in the chest with his full force. In Kempo class as a kid he was able to break three, one inch pine boards with his bare foot. Combined with the weight of his reinforced boot, he was sure he had shattered the kid’s chest, yet he kept on coming. He didn’t want to hurt the boy but Mason saw no alternative. He wanted to pull the bike over and talk to the others. He wanted confirmation that what he had just seen had indeed happened. They had been proceeding at a good pace for what felt like an hour, they must be far enough away by now.

  Nikki held on for dear life. Her arms were clamped around Tony with her face buried in his back. She had her head turned towards the mountainside to avoid looking out over the vast valley below. She wasn’t afraid of heights but the rough road and previous terrors had left her squeamish. Tony’s helmet was too large for her. It was padded and blocked some of the noise of the motorcycle but slid about on her head. Behind the closed tinted visor, it almost felt roomy. As the tree strewn limestone rolled by, in the confines of her helmet, she wept. Tears flowed down her cheeks within the protective chamber. She squeezed Tony to steady herself on the bike, but also for reassurance that she wasn’t alone. She didn’t want to think about the things that she had seen. She wanted to get home and see her parents. She didn’t always get along with her folks, yet couldn’t help but miss them now. Her tears ran faster at the thought. A bump in the road sent her body flying upward. She held fast to Tony and stayed on the seat. It was very strange to her that she was holding on so tightly to a man she didn’t know. She remembered how he made sure to stay in front of her when the sick people were around. Nikki was too afraid at the time to realize it, but she might not be alive if not for the actions of these men. They were good people. With the distance between her and the camp growing, she started to feel just a little bit safe.

  Veronica wanted answers. She read biology and medical textbooks in her spare time for relaxation. Never in any of her studies had she ever come across any reference to any sort of condition that could be behind the events she had just witnessed. As she jostled about on the back of Jack’s motorcycle, her body used its natural sense of balance, gained through years of ballet as a child, to steady her self. She did so without mental effort giving her much needed time to sort her thoughts. There was no explanation for what she had seen. Chemicals, nerve agents, or even drugs could make a normal person insane to the point of violence. PCP could release almost superhuman strength along with unexplainable behavior. Yet there was no compound that could allow the human body to withstand a bullet to the chest and survive. She considered the teen’s severed head. Leftover charges in the nervous system could cause twitching and random movement. She knew in her heart that there was nothing random about the eyes. The head’s eyes did indeed track her movement. They followed her with a purpose. How in the physical world was it possible? she questioned.

  Veronica had seen to the woman; observed the fever progress faster than she knew was possible. The woman didn’t die from blood loss, she was sure of that. Veronica thought it might be possible that the woman expired from shock or some other internal problem that wouldn’t be evident from a quick examination; a bad heart perhaps. The number of questions was overwhelming and no good explanations came to her mind. She wasn’t yet a doctor and shouldn’t expect herself to have all the answers. Uncertainties and impossibilities stood in the way of her understanding, frightening Veronica deeply.

  Tony fought with the handlebars to keep the motorcycle under control. Jack had always been the better rider and now Tony was attempting to keep up. He felt Nikki’s arms, like a vice, holding onto his midsection. He wished he was in better shape. The girl was close and even though he flexed his stomach muscles while riding, there was the soft cushion of beer fat between her arms and his abdominals. He would have felt worse about his conditioning were it not for the dire circumstances that they were running from. The motorcycles had helped the party escape the campground but Tony still feared the possibility of running into more lunatics. This was unfamiliar country and he had no idea exactly where they were headed. They had no choice but to take the mountain road out of danger. Tony hoped that the worst was over. The thought that there may be more wild freaks running around was disconcerting. He took a mental inventory of his weapons. He had five rounds in his pistol and one extra magazine with six bullets. He wished that he had brought a box of fifty or even his old twenty-two caliber rifle. Wishing can’t help now, he thought, eleven rounds, a knife and a paint gun was all he had. He wished he had been more prepared for trouble, but who could have foreseen this day? Tony promised himself that once he got home he would buy a new gun and a case of bullets. Some sit ups might be a good idea too, he thought as Nikki’s arms squeezed him even tighter.

  The road had been a constant
back and forth from steep grade to small area of level ground than back to an upwards climb for what seemed like over an hour. Emerging at the top of a hill, Jack saw that the road ahead was flat for some distance. He could tell from the surrounding geography that they were not at the top of the range yet but they had come to a stretch of level ground. Climbing hills, even without a passenger, is difficult work. Balancing, shifting gears, and avoiding rutted terrain, requires a whole body effort. Slowing up, he sat down into his seat and relaxed as much as he could while maintaining a steady pace.

  They entered a small valley with tress extending much needed shade from both sides of the road. The sun flecked bright patches through the canopy making the ride seem almost peaceful. Jack spied a structure in the distance. Pulling in his clutch he nudged his foot shifter into second but held the lever, allowing him to coast. Tony glided forward to Jack’s right and matched his speed. They both saw the small structure in an open clearing. It appeared to be a prefab kit shack. It was sturdy but had seen better days. Tony motioned with a nod in the shack’s direction. Almost on cue, both men killed their engines and coasted in front of the shack. Holding his bike up with his left leg, Tony put his hand to his gun. For a nervous moment, they just stared at the door of the old shack. The frightened part of Tony’s mind, the part that made him sleep with the light on until he was eight years old, expected a tattered monster to emerge flailing madly out the door. The large padlock on the outside securing the entrance gave him reassurance that no one was within.