by Ray Wallace
Getting to your feet, you turn and run for all you're worth toward an abandoned car across the road. While climbing onto the hood, you feel teeth settle into your left calf then let go as you make your way up to the roof of the car. There you stand, favoring your injured leg a little, as the dogs circle the car, barking and growling all the while. More of them appear from the woods to join those already surrounding you.
Not good.
One of the larger dogs tries to leap onto the hood, doesn't quite make it. Others follow its lead, desperately trying to get at you.
Definitely not good.
All along you've been worried about ending up as zombie food and now this.
Just another day in paradise.
Lifting your gaze from the spectacle below, you notice a tree standing about fifteen feet away. It's a big sucker, big enough that one of its branches reaches nearly all the way to where you stand. If you can get into the tree, you'd be safe from any immediate threat the dogs represent.
After a while, maybe they'll give up and go away.
There's only one little problem: The section of branch that looks sturdy enough to hold your weight extends from the trunk to about four or five feet away from the car. Which means you'll have to jump and make a grab for it with a leg that's less than a hundred percent right now.
No point in really thinking too much about it. If you're gonna do it then do it.
The car roof has enough room for you to take two steps and leap.
Okay then. In three... two... one!
You launch yourself through the air...
And you make it! The branch sways up and down as you clutch it with both hands.
Now I just need to swing my legs up and...
Just then, one of the dogs jumps and latches onto the hem of your pants leg with its teeth. And just like that, you lose your grip on the branch and fall to the ground. From there, things only get worse. A lot worse.
So much for that whole idea about them being man's best friend.
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"If you could get me over to Tampa," you say, "that would be wonderful."
"Tampa, huh? Now that's a bit of a haul. And things seem to be a bit... messier... over there. But if you're willing to pay the fare then I'm willing to take you there."
He laughs at his little rhyme.
"I don't have any money," you tell him.
"No, I didn't figure you did. And why would you? These days, stuff's useless anyway."
"So what sort of fare are we talking about here?"
"Well..." He lets the word hang there for a few seconds before continuing. "I was thinking maybe we could work out a trade. I do this for you, take you over to Tampa all safe and sound, and when we get there you do a little something for me in return."
"A little something?"
Another laugh. No doubt, this Reginald's one happy guy.
"All I need is for you to make a delivery for me. There's a certain someone who's been expecting a certain something from me for a little while now. It's been long enough where I don't think he's going to be real happy to see me. This particular person won't have any beef with you, though, so all I need is for you to hand the package to him. When we get to Tampa, I'll drop you off near his place. It will be real simple, I promise. And if there's one thing that anyone who ever knew me would say, it's that Reginald Brooks's word is his bond."
You don't like it but you do need a ride and, besides, you have the shotgun with you now. If things look too shady once you get to Tampa it shouldn't prove too difficult to back out of your end of the deal.
"Sounds fair enough," you say.
"Well, then hop in back," Reginald tells you, his smile widening a little.
Before you get in you look the car over, see that it's got enough dust on it for you to write "Wash Me" across its hood if you wanted to. Beneath the grime, however, it's pretty obvious this is no ordinary cab. Yes, it has a yellow paint job and a light on the roof but the body looks sleeker and lower to the ground than any taxi you've ever seen before. Not to mention the tinted windows. Definitely not standard taxi cab issue. And from the low grumbling of the engine, you've got a feeling this cab can do things a regular old city cab could never do. All fine by you if it means getting to the spaceport on time.
Once you've climbed inside, Reginald says, "Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride." His voice reaches you via the car's stereo system, momentarily silencing the music which starts back up when he's done speaking.
Must have a microphone up there somewhere.
But why the elaborate setup? You figure it's because of the solid barrier of plexiglass - at least you assume it's plexiglass - separating the front and back seats.
Reginald gives the car some gas and pulls away from the side of the road. And just like that, the journey to Tampa continues.
The cab eats up the road while Reginald bobs his head to the music, weaving around abandoned cars and the occasional zombie with practiced ease.
At this rate, we'll be rolling into Tampa in no time.
And then it will be "bye-bye Earth" as you leave for a new and much more rewarding life off-planet. For the first time since driving away from the house this morning, you do as Reginald suggested and start to relax a little bit. Although, the feeling goes away when the cab slows down and the music goes quiet.
"What is it?" you ask, hoping the cab's intercom system works both ways.
"We've got company," says Reginald, letting you know that it does.
Through the plexiglass barrier and the windshield beyond, you see a train crossing dead ahead. The gates have been lowered with a large pickup truck - maybe an F series Ford - parked sideways in between them. As you get closer, you can see the truck's been modified, its suspension raised with different wheels put on it, train wheels that will allow it to ride along the tracks.
"Lie down on the floor back there," Reginald tells you. "Try to stay out of sight. If they think I'm alone then I'll be the only one they can hassle."
"They? Who are they?"
He laughs. "Just some local rednecks who think they control the railroad now."
You place the shotgun on the floor then lie down on top of it in the cramped space.
"Now stay quiet and I'll get us through here just as quick as I can."
Moments later, the car stops and you hear the whirring of a window lowering.
"Well, well, if it ain't my good friend, Mr. Reginald Brooks." The woman's voice carries a thick southern accent and the gravelly tone of a longtime smoker.
"Mavis," says Reginald. "How's things?"
"Why, things are just peachy," says Mavis. "Thanks for asking. No passengers today?"
"Had one earlier. Since then, not much action."
"If only the zombies had somewhere they needed to go, huh? You'd be the busiest guy around." She barks a laugh.
"Ain't that the truth."
"You know something, Reginald? I've always admired this here taxi cab of yours. It's one fine piece of engineering, if I do say so myself."
"I appreciate that, Mavis. I put a lot of time into - oh, damn!"
The car lurches forward and swerves off the road. You hear the unmistakable sound of gunshots, three of them in rapid succession: Blam! Blam! Blam! Pushing yourself up from the floor, you look at the rear window, see two sections where the glass - bullet proof, apparently - has cracked in small, star-like patterns.
"What's going on?" you ask.
"Nothing I can't handle," says Reginald. He sounds just as cool and as calm as can be. The cab races alongside the railroad tracks, gravel crunching beneath the tires and pounding up against the wheel wells. The sound of it makes you think of Mavis's voice and you ask him what the hell went on back there.
"She pulled a gun on me so I decided it was a good time to get out of there. And now that you're all caught up on current events, would you mind being quiet for a little while and letting me drive?"
You watch as the modified pickup truck
cruises along the tracks, chasing after Reginald's cab which slams down into a ditch and spins to the right. Through the windshield, you see a stand of trees approaching. Reginald slams on the brakes forcing you to bring your hands up and brace yourself against the plexiglass barrier. The car stops a few feet from the nearest of the trees in a cloud of dust.
Already, you've had enough of this wild ride. With the cab momentarily parked, you might be able to open the door and get out before Reginald takes off again. But would you be any safer out there than in here?
Maybe.
If you could make it past those trees and keep running, you just might be able to get away from all this craziness.
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You thank Jillian for everything, especially for saving your life, then tell her you really do need to go.
She gives you a hug and wishes you luck.
Johnny accompanies you downstairs carrying one of the portable lamps from the party.
Back at the apartment, you find your duffel bag in the living room, the gun and the rest of your belongings tucked away inside. After forcing down a can of cold soup, you leave the apartment and head down the hallway toward the elevator once again.
"How you holding up?" asks Johnny during the brief ride to the bottom floor.
You shrug. "Well enough."
When the door opens, Johnny produces a handgun he's had tucked down the back of his pants, leads the way across the lobby toward the emergency exit. Moving past the stairwell, he stops before another door, this one leading out behind the building.
"Anyone's allowed to use any of the cars parked out here," he says while unlocking a pair of deadbolts, one of them well out of the reach of children near the top of the door. "Keys are in the glove compartments. So take your pick."
As he pauses to look through a small square of reinforced glass set into the door, you retrieve the gun from your duffel bag. Then the door swings open and Johnny moves out of the way.
"Again, thanks for everything," you say before stepping outside and walking toward the parking lot directly before you. Back when the building was filled with tenants, you figure the lot could have held somewhere around a hundred cars. Now it holds maybe two dozen. You head for the nearest of them, a silver Honda Civic, looking around in the moonlight to make certain the area is free of any wandering figures. After reaching the car without incident, you get in and toss the gun and the duffel bag onto the passenger seat. Inside the glove compartment, you find a key ring with a single key on it.
While you were eating your soup in the apartment, Johnny told you to head north until you reached 90th Street. "You'll see a KFC on the corner." It doesn't take you long to get there. You turn left, westbound, hoping this road provides a faster, safer route to your destination than the interstate did.
On a whim, you reach for the CD player and press play hoping to hear some music, anything to help keep you alert. Nothing. For lack of any alternatives, you turn on the radio and scan the empty stations until...
"...no one to blame but ourselves. We were warned. Is it God's fault that we chose to ignore these warnings? Is it God's fault that we chose to walk the path of wickedness? Of course not. The fault is entirely our own and now we must learn to live with the consequences of our actions..."
You wonder if Mr. Fire and Brimstone ever sleeps. At least it's something to listen to, something to keep your mind active. The guy goes on and on about the End Times and the inherent wickedness of man as you drive onward through the night.
There are no lights anywhere, nothing but darkness surrounding you in all directions. You find it easy to imagine the buildings you pass are haunted by the people who used to work there, ghosts condemned to wander the halls for eternity - or until entropy finally tears the buildings down.
On occasion, zombies appear in the Civic's headlights. Most of them stay to the sidewalks along the sides of the road; a few wander into the street itself forcing you to steer around them. You wonder - and not for the first time - how much longer they can survive now that most of the humans are gone. With such a limited food supply, how do they manage to keep going... and going... and going...
Like Energizer zombies.
You'd like to think that whatever strange metabolism they possess will one day run out of steam.
"...and Lazarus rose up from the dead. So you see, my loyal listeners, what we have recently witnessed is not without precedence. Anything is possible through God. Anything at all. He offered us his love, unconditional and eternal. We refused. And now he has offered us his wrath..."
A figure darts into the street.
Instinctively, you slam your foot down on the brake pedal and whip the wheel to avoid a collision. The car skids off the shoulder of the road then slams down into a drainage ditch half filled with water, coming to an immediate and jarring halt. The seatbelt protects you from any real injury but you're definitely shaken up, can only sit there for a few moments trying to make sense of what happened. The engine has died. The radio's gone silent. No lights work anywhere inside the vehicle. Through the windshield you see steam rising up from under the hood.
Wonderful.
You try to restart the car without any luck.
After disengaging the seatbelt, you reach for the handgun which has fallen to the passenger side floor. From the duffel bag you remove an extra box of cartridges. Outside the car, you see a crowd of zombies approaching the edge of the drainage ditch.
Time to move.
Opening the door, you step into lukewarm, knee high water. The zombies move closer, the nearest of them less than ten feet away now. As you slosh your way through the water, you hear the very last sound in the world you want to hear right about now: a terrible, inhuman screaming.
Berserker.
It emerges from the pack of zombies, rushes down into the ditch directly toward you. Raising the gun, you fire repeatedly at the advancing figure, hoping for a lucky headshot in the darkness. But it doesn't happen. The berserker collides with you, knocking you off balance. You fall into the water, the maniacal zombie on top of you, thrashing about. The gun and the extra ammo fall from your hands and disappear into the muck at the bottom of the ditch. You struggle to keep your head above water while trying to fight off the mad creature. The reserves of strength you've been running on since leaving the apartment building fade rather quickly. By the time the other, much slower zombies descend into the ditch and close in around you, the fight is all but over.
And then, shortly thereafter, it ends for good.
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As promised, Johnny wakes you up just before daybreak. You feel like you could sleep for a week, have to force yourself up and out of bed. After getting dressed, you head out to the kitchen where some canned goods wait for you in one of the cabinets. By flashlight, you eat your breakfast and listen as Johnny tells you his plan. It sounds more than a little crazy.
Let's hope it's crazy enough to work.
You find your duffel bag in the living room. Grabbing it, you follow Johnny out of the apartment and down the hallway toward the elevators. It's a quick trip to the first floor lobby where you meet another young man named Brian. The three of you enter the emergency stairwell, Johnny leading the way to a second door, this one with a pair of deadbolts which Johnny disengages. He takes a long look through a small square of reinforced glass set into the door before easing it open and stepping through. As you follow him, Brian says, "Be careful out there," then closes and locks the door behind you.
About two dozen cars occupy a parking lot intended for closer to a hundred out here behind the building. Johnny approaches the nearest of them, a silver Honda Civic, opens the driver's side door and hops in. You toss the duffel bag onto the back seat before getting in. Moments later, Johnny starts the car and drives away from the building.
H
e heads north a few miles as the sky slowly brightens and the zombies wandering the streets become increasingly visible. None of them pose any real problem and before long you've reached your destination.
Slowing the car, Johnny parks at the side of the road. He turns to you with a smile and says, "You're gonna love this," before exiting the vehicle. After grabbing the duffel bag, you join him near the structure looming above you.
The bridge for the bullet train sits twenty feet in the air, held aloft by pairs of thick support beams angled like inverted V's. Before the Outbreak, it would have offered one of the fastest ways to travel between the Florida coasts. Now it's just one more grand invention that's lost its reason for being in a world overrun by the living dead. Although, according to Johnny, it still has its uses.
"Over here."
He walks into the knee-high grass near one of the support beams, crouches down and lifts an aluminum ladder into view. Once extended, it looks more than long enough to reach the platform. Johnny maneuvers the ladder into place then uses it to climb toward the platform.
Looking around, you see a few zombies in the vicinity, none of them close enough to cause any immediate concern. And so you calmly watch as Johnny completes his ascent. Then it's your turn to climb.
With the duffel bag's strap over your shoulder, you make your way up the ladder. Before long, the two of you stand next to one another, staring off toward the western horizon where the track disappears from view.
When active, the bullet train delivered passengers to their destinations at over two hundred miles per hour. You were able to ride it on more than a few occasions, each time marveling at how quickly the scenery zipped by outside. Standing here, you're able to appreciate the sheer scale of the structure that held the train aloft.