by Ray Wallace
And that's when you hear it - an awful, inhuman, screaming sound over the steady muttering of the motorcycle's engine.
Berserkers.
You stop long enough to remove the gun from the duffel bag before letting the bike roll slowly forward once again. Then you see them, first one and then the other two, the tops of their heads coming into view as they rush toward the guardrail from the other side.
The ground rises up to the level of the road here. Good to know.
You decide that once you've dispatched the berserkers - if you dispatch the berserkers - it will be time to leave the interstate altogether. There's just way too much excitement around these parts for your liking.
Still about ten feet or so from the emergency lane, you stop the bike, lift the gun and take aim through the opening between the cars in front of you. Your finger tightens on the trigger as the first berserker reaches the guardrail. Before you can take the shot, however, fingers that feel as though they're made from sticks grab you from behind, dig into your shoulders and pull. The move surprises you, throwing you off balance. The gun goes off as you fall backward, the shot fired ineffectually toward the sky. You hit the ground hard after the bike rolls out from underneath you, the back of your head smacking the pavement.
Stars explode before your eyes. Then...
Darkness.
Coming to, you find yourself lying on your back, the surface beneath you much more comfortable than that of the interstate. The light here - wherever "here" is, exactly - is different too, no longer the unfiltered brightness of the afternoon sky as though darkened by -
Tinted windows.
You realize you're in a vehicle of some sort. A moving vehicle. A woman you've never seen before leans into your field of vision, gazing down at you.
"Hello, my name is Jillian," she says, a serious expression on her face. "You took quite a nasty hit to the head. You've also lost some blood. Luckily, not enough to be life threatening. So just try to relax. We're going to take good care of you."
And then, once more, the world goes dark as you slip into unconsciousness.
The next time you awake, you feel a hand on your shoulder, gently shaking you. Opening your eyes, you find yourself on a bed in a small room. A battery powered lamp sits on a table next to the bed, casting a dim light.
"Hello there. How are you feeling?"
Tilting your head to look at the person speaking causes you to moan in pain.
Listen to me. I sound like one of them now.
You remember the interstate, the feeling of falling...
The zombies had me. I should have died there. For some reason, though, I'm still alive. Looks like somebody saved me.
"Do you remember your name?"
The person speaks in a low, comforting tone of voice, one that makes you want to answer its questions. And so you tell it your name.
"Do you know what day it is?"
You think for a moment before answering.
"That's right. Good."
You're eyes focus on the face of the woman seated next to you. It's the same woman who told you about the injury you suffered and the blood loss. She looks to be in her late forties, maybe early fifties. Her dark, wavy hair hangs down around her face. When she smiles, you see the laugh lines next to her mouth.
Jillian.
She raises one of her hands, asks you how many fingers she's holding up.
"Three."
"Good. Good."
She falls silent for a few moments before continuing:
"We had to give you a transfusion. One of those... things... was gnawing on your arm when you were found. Fortunately, it didn't have many teeth left or you would have been in a lot worse shape. It did, however, manage to open one of your arteries. We stitched you up, shot you full of antibiotics." Hurriedly, she adds: "Not because we thought you might... you know... turn or anything. As I'm sure you're aware, that's not how it works. Or how it used to work, I should say. And if it did, it's not like a dose of antibiotics would do much good anyway."
For a moment, you flash back to the early days of the Outbreak, recalling the way any and every effort to control it had failed. Like flames through dry grass, it had spread, claiming victims at an alarming rate, turning anyone who contracted the airborne disease into a carrier intent on spreading it further. That is, until they died only to be resurrected as one of the undead. After that, instead of infecting those not yet victimized by the plague, these "zombies" would track them down and feast upon their flesh. Eventually, the pandemic had burned itself out leaving nothing behind but a small population of survivors and a vastly larger number of the living dead.
"Still, there's no telling what sorts of infections they carry around with them," says Jillian with a shrug. "Better safe than sorry."
You look down, take in the sight of the adhesive bandage covering a wide section of your forearm.
"As far as the head injury is concerned... It looks like you've suffered a mild concussion."
She gives your shoulder a squeeze and gets to her feet.
"I know you're tired so I'm going to let you get some rest. But I'll be waking you in a few hours, making sure there aren't any unforeseen complications."
"Thank you, Jillian," you tell her.
She smiles then reaches over and turns off the lamp.
A few minutes later, you're asleep.
CLICK HERE
On the way there, you manage to avoid the grasping fingers of a zombie suddenly appearing from around the corner of a van. Pulling up alongside the guardrail, you climb off the bike and kill the engine, take in the sight of the ground descending toward a two lane road running parallel to the interstate maybe a hundred yards away. You lift the bike and set it as gently as possible on the grass beyond the guardrail. When you've finished with this, you climb over the guardrail, turn and look back toward the interstate, see several zombies heading your way with that drunken, ambling gait of theirs. Then you mount the bike, start it and take off toward the other road, expecting to find it a bit more navigable than the one you're leaving behind.
And it turns out that it is.
You can't help but grin as you fly over the blacktop, the trees and the houses along either side of the street going by in a blur, the hot summer air cooled as it rushes by you.
If only it could be like this all the way to the spaceport.
For a little while, it's easy to imagine all is right with the world. Well, as right as it can be considering the circumstances.
But then...
You pass a side street where a black van pulls out behind you. It picks up speed with a squealing of tires audible over the bike's engine. With a glance over your shoulder, you ascertain the van is, in fact, chasing you. For what possible reason, you can only guess. But you find it easy to imagine whoever's inside the vehicle intends to do you harm.
Directly ahead, a crowd of zombies appears, extending from one side of the street to the other. There's no way you can steer your way through it at this speed. And with the van on your tail, slowing down seems like a bad idea.
An intersection approaches. You take the opportunity to swerve onto the sidewalk bordering the right hand side of the road. With a burst of speed, the van pulls up next to you, its side door sliding open. You see a man kneeling there, arms extended in front of him, both hands holding a pistol aimed in your direction. When you hear the crack! of a gunshot, you fully expect to feel the pain of the bullet entering your body but the shot goes wide.
Before the gunman can fire again, the van plows into the crowd of zombies. It's a gruesome sight. Bodies explode. Some of them flip through the air, tumbling up and over the roof of the van. Others get dragged beneath the vehicle, the wheels pulverizing them. None of these collisions noticeably slow the van but the shooter loses his balance, has to put a hand down on the floor to keep from falling over.
Another intersection approaches. You let off the gas and apply the brakes, make a sharp turn to the right before opening up the
throttle again. Tires squeal as the driver of the van orchestrates a similar maneuver. Before long, the other vehicle pulls up next to you once again.
Blam!
For a second time, you escape being shot. But the bike's front tire suffers a sudden loss of air pressure causing the handlebars to shake back and forth in your hands. It isn't long before you lose control of the motorcycle completely.
You go down hard, landing awkwardly on the sidewalk's unforgiving surface. Something snaps inside your arm and your head bounces off the concrete causing a galaxy of stars to explode before your eyes.
A door slams shut.
Footsteps.
"So these fifty points will put us in the lead, right?" someone says - a man.
Points? you can't help but wonder despite the pain of your injuries. What the hell does that mean?
"Sure will," says a different guy. "Unless Sean and Gina had another kill since the last time we saw them."
Two men walk up and stand to either side of you. One of them holds a camcorder, pointed down at you, the red indicator light on the front letting you know you're being filmed. The other one carries a handgun, also aimed at you.
"Finish it," says the guy with the camera. "Time to earn our points and get out of here."
"Sounds good to me," says the other guy.
Then he pulls the trigger.
CLICK HERE to start over.
"Sounds good to me," you tell Nolan. "Lead the way."
He smiles. "Well, okay then."
After getting in his car, he turns it around and slowly drives into the rising column of smoke. As soon as he disappears, you put the truck in gear and head in the exact opposite direction.
"Where are you going?" asks Lindsay.
"Anywhere he's not," you tell her. "I don't trust him."
"Why not? I liked him." You detect a hint of anger in her voice.
"He seemed like a jerk to me," Garrett chimes in.
Lindsay tells him to be quiet. They argue back and forth while you try to figure out which way you should go now. You hang a left - southbound - at the first intersection you approach. A mile later you hang another left onto a four lane road, glad to be moving in the right direction again.
No need to cross bridges consumed with smoke if we don't have to.
Except for the abandoned vehicles and wandering zombies you have to maneuver past, the driving goes easy for a while. Eventually, Lindsay and Garrett stop fighting and sit there in sullen silence. Which is fine with you. Driving through the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse presents enough of a challenge without any unnecessary distractions.
Slowly but surely, the miles roll by. You check the odometer and realize you've neared the halfway point in your journey.
"I have to go to the bathroom," says Lindsay, breaking the silence.
Not liking the idea of pulling over with the drive going so well, you ask her if she can hold it.
"How much longer?"
You do a quick calculation in your head. Before you can answer, however, Garrett says from the back seat: "Actually, I kinda have to go too."
With a sigh, you look for a good place to stop. It's been five minutes, at least, since you've seen any zombies. If you have to let your passengers out of the vehicle, you figure this would be as good a time as any to do it.
Slowing down, you park in the grass next to the road, leave the truck running as you open the door and get out, gun in hand. While Lindsay and Garrett climb out, you scan the area for any signs of potential trouble. Just ahead, maybe twenty feet from the road, a long row of trees marks the beginning of what looks to be a fairly deep section of woods. Before you can say anything, Garrett takes off and disappears behind some bushes.
"I really wish he wouldn't run off like that," you say.
"He'll be fine," says Lindsay. Then she heads for the woods, angling away from where Garrett entered. "I'll try to make this quick."
Thirty seconds pass. A minute. You don't like this. Not one bit. You're about to call out and ask if everything's okay when Lindsay steps into view.
"That's better," she says with a smile.
She walks over and stands next to you.
"What the heck's taking him so long?" she wonders aloud. Then, in a more forceful tone: "Come on, Garrett. Time to go."
Just then the boy emerges from between two of the bushes. Only he's not alone. A man walks behind him, holding him by the shoulder with one hand, pointing a gun at the side of his head with the other. The man has a thick beard, black with spots of gray in it, his hair long and scraggly. He stands about a foot taller than his captive.
"Please, don't hurt him!" says Lindsay.
You raise the gun you're holding and take aim at the man.
He and Garrett stop walking. The guy looks directly at you and shakes his head.
"I'd really hate for you to do anything stupid," he says. "So just go ahead and toss the gun over here and we'll have us a nice little talk, see if we can't figure out a way for all of us to be friends."
CLICK HERE if you don't see how you have any choice in the matter and decide to do as the guy suggests.
CLICK HERE if, instead, you tell yourself getting rid of the gun would be about the worst thing you could do right now.
"Sounds like a plan," you tell him.
"Okay, then, follow me," says Nolan before walking to his car and getting in. He backs up, turns around then heads onto the bridge. It isn't long before his car disappears into the ever rising column of black smoke.
"Well, here goes nothing," you say, following his lead.
Darkness descends as smoke envelops the truck. Drifting forward, you think about the fire responsible for the smoke, wonder how it ignited in the first place, if it was set intentionally.
For what purpose?
It could be some sort of trap, you realize. Who knows what might be waiting for you at the other side of the bridge?
For a panicked second, you consider putting the car in reverse, going back the way you came and looking for an alternative route to Tampa. Your hand strays to the gearshift...
But then the smoke clears.
Just ahead, you see Nolan's car waiting in the left hand lane, the only vehicle in sight. No signs of a trap or any sort of an ambush.
Nothing like freaking yourself out for no reason.
It's really not surprising, though, given the circumstances.
You pull up next to the other vehicle and lower your window. The passenger side window of Nolan's car is already down. As you watch, he leans over to speak to you.
"Like I said, piece of cake. Now stay behind me and I'll get you through the mess up ahead."
With that, he pulls over in front of you and drives away. Seeing as how he got you safely across the bridge, you decide you might as well stick with him a little bit longer.
Within half a mile, the road widens to four lanes and gradually curves to the north. You pass a large, gray structure behind a tall fence topped with strands of barbed wire. "State Correctional Facility," a sign out front informs you. A number of slow moving figures can be seen wandering around near the building. After that, you pass several other factory-sized buildings and sprawling warehouses, once - not so long ago - centers of human industry and activity, now nothing more than reminders of a bygone era.
Nolan continues to lead the way. So far, you have to admit, he seems good to his word. The miles roll by with very little zombie interference.
But then you see something in the rearview mirror you don't like one bit. A black van has pulled onto the road behind you, tailing you. It looks like the trap you were worried about may have been sprung after all.
"We've got company," you say.
Lindsay turns her head to look through the truck's rear window.
"What do you think they want?" she asks.
"Nothing good, I'm sure," you tell her.
"What makes you think that?"
"Just call it a feeling."
As the van gets closer, y
ou consider your decidedly limited options.
Gotta do something...
When the next street sign approaches, you slam the brakes and whip the steering wheel. Then, amid a squealing of tires, you hit the gas and take off along the side road. A glance at the rearview mirror shows you the maneuver worked - the van missed the turn-off. You have a strange feeling you haven't lost Nolan and friends - as you've come to think of them - that easily.
The way ahead leads through an industrial park. For the most part, warehouses with wide bay doors stand to either side of the road. Maybe you can find somewhere to hide around here, wait for your pursuers to grow tired of the chase. But first...
You turn and drive through the opening in a tall fence then tear across the gravel lot beyond, pull up between a pair of tractor trailers sitting in front of one of the warehouses. Parking the truck, you tell Garrett to see if he can find a way into one of the semi cabs. Sensing the urgency of the situation, he does as he's told. To your relief, the first door he tries swings open.
"Okay, I want you and Garret to hide out in there," you tell Lindsay. "I'm going to lead whoever's chasing us away from here. When I'm sure I've lost them for good, I'll come back and pick you up."
"Why can't we go with you?" she asks.
You place a hand on her shoulder.
"Look, Lindsay, there's no time for discussion. You're just going to have to trust me on this." To forestall any further argument, you say the one thing you know will get through to her: "Think about the baby."
She sighs before reluctantly nodding her head in agreement.
"If I'm not back in an hour..." You leave the rest unsaid.
"Just make sure you come back," she tells you before getting out and closing the door.
As soon as you see Lindsay and Garrett safe inside the other vehicle, you drive across the lot and back to the road. Not even a minute later, the black van reappears in your rearview mirror and continues the chase. You race toward the four way stop at the end of the road, the van following close behind.