by Morris, Jacy
The others made their way down, Mort helping Joan to the ground. Katie was the last one, and she jumped down. No sooner had she gotten to her feet than the first of the dead appeared atop the guard post. Mort threw Tammy over his shoulder with a grunt, and as a group, they moved west, the direction they had been going from the very beginning of the apocalypse, towards the beach, towards the ocean.
Mort tried not to think about the fact that they had a long way to go. He tried not to think about the fact that to the north was a field of stalled cars and dead that they could never hope to escape. He tried not to think about the washout and the cliff to the south. He tried not to think about the impassable ridge to the east. His only thought was for the river to the east, their only chance of escaping. He swore at himself in his head for not finding a boat. A boat could have gotten them across the river, no problem. Instead, they were going to have to cross the ice on foot. Images of the dead being swept away in black water filled his head.
Rifle shots roared in the forest, and once they stepped away from the compound, they sank into snow up to their thighs. The going was slow as Liz and Theresa broke a trail through the drifts for Mort and Joan.
The dead behind them had no such issue. They boiled over the side of the guard post, oblivious to the fall. They fell in the snow and rose to their feet, walking easily through the path that the survivors had just made.
Mort could see that they would never make it. Katie fired into the mass of the dead behind them steadily, dropping them one by one. But she only had so much ammo. To their left and right, the dead honed in on them, their progress somewhat slowed by the snowdrifts. Ahead of them, more of the dead slogged towards them, and Theresa and Liz tried to clear the way. They weren't very good shots, better than Mort certainly, but they missed more often than they hit.
Still, they pushed on, though the realization dawned in their head that they were all certainly screwed. The baby on Dez's back began to cry and wail, sending up the dinner bell for all the dead within earshot, though the boom of the rifles was probably doing an even better job of that.
If they could get to the country road to the east, then things would be easier. They could run along its length for a bit and create some distance. As it was, he kept getting tangled in underbrush buried by snow. His body steamed with sweat, but he knew it was a false warmth. They were on a timer here. Even if they managed to escape, which was looking less and less likely, they were going to find that the cold would be their biggest enemy. One thing at a time, Mort thought to himself. One thing at a time.
He cracked one of the dead across the jaw with his hammer, and it flew backward in the snow, never to get up again. Tammy groaned from the sudden movement. "It's gonna be alright," he said to her reassuringly.
"I'm out!" Katie said.
Mort reassessed his reassurances. "We gotta move!" Mort shouted, though he couldn't see how they could possibly escape. To his left, Joan labored, her face a rictus of pain.
"Where did they all come from?" Liz asked as she thumbed another cartridge into her rifle.
No one answered. Mort heard the thwack of something hard against a skull, and he turned around to see Katie finishing the swing of her rifle. She had dropped one of the dead with the butt of her gun, but she was retreating, moving closer to him and Joan.
"We're out of time!" Mort yelled. "We need to circle up, fight until we can move again."
Mort didn't know if Liz, Theresa, or Dez heard him. He set Tammy on the ground. She groaned, her head lolling to the side, as he set her in the snow. He saw bloodstains on her shirt and knew that Tammy's stitches had popped. Then he stood next to Katie, his hammer bobbing up and down as he loosened up his killing arm. Joan stood to his right, and the crunch of the snow told him that Theresa, Liz, and Dez hadn't abandoned them.
"Oh, we're gonna die!" Liz whined.
Mort didn't have anything positive to say to that. As the first of the dead approached, its arm outstretched, he swung his hammer as hard as he needed to. It was going to be a long fight if he had anything to do about it. Liz and Theresa swung their empty rifles at the dead. Joan wielded a spear weakly as she straddled the useless form of Tammy on the ground. Dez jabbed with another spear. And, with their backs to each other, they fought the wave of the dead that broke over them. They had never even made it to the road.
Chapter 21: Blood on the Ice
Allen rushed through the snow, dodging between the dead, his breath pluming before him. Epps ran to his right. Behind them, Tejada and the others came on, following their tracks.
The rifle shots had stopped now, but they still headed in the direction they had come from. There had been a lot of rifle shots. That meant a battle. That meant that there were people in trouble. Of course, they were all in trouble now, but it would be better to be in trouble together than alone.
He reached a small clearing and noted the trailers pulled into a circle. A trail of the dead led away from the makeshift compound in the woods, and for a brief second, he thought that they were too late.
Then he heard a faint sound in the distance, in the direction that the dead trudged.
"C'mon, Epps. Let's see what we got."
He paralleled the line of the dead, following their path while not actually having to go through them. Allen noted all the bodies lying in the snow. Whoever was making all that racket was certainly doing a good job of killing off Annies.
He tried not to think about Masterson as he ran. He tried not to think about the way he had fought and killed the Annies, even while his body was turning against him. When the Annies had all been dealt with, he hadn't said anything. He had just knelt in the snow, placed his handgun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. No whining. No goodbye. Just get the job done. Classic Masterson.
Allen broke free from his thoughts as he spotted a clump of Annies through the trees. This was the source of the sound. He heard the growls and groans of the dead. He heard bodies hitting the snow. But most of all, he heard the sounds of the living, swearing, releasing wild war cries into the air. He heard their grunts as they tried to survive, and he knew they wouldn't last for long, whoever was at the center of that mob. But maybe they could save a couple of them.
"Let's light 'em up," Epps said.
"You got it."
Allen took aim, striking at the edges of the mob. He couldn't take shots at the center mass, because the bullets would rip right through the Annies and into the survivors in the middle.
"Clear the edges, and then we'll go in with hatchets," Allen said.
"Sounds like a plan," Epps shot back after he squeezed the trigger of his rifle, one of the Annies falling dead.
Some of the dead turned at the sound of gunshots and headed in their direction, but most of the Annies stood their ground, content with trying to get the meal closest to them.
Allen feathered the trigger of his rifle, dropping all the Annies he had a clear shot at.
When he could see the survivors through the mass of the dead, he put up his rifle and pulled his hatchet free. "Let's save some people," Allen said.
Epps nodded, and they rushed across the forest floor, dodging in between trees and tripping and stumbling occasionally on roots hidden underneath the snow. They ran around the dead that had broken away from the main mob. Time was important here. Allen had some experience with fighting off the dead by hand. He knew how fast the human body tired out. Even now, the survivors at the center of the mob would be flagging, and then it would be all over from there.
He hit the mob at full speed, raising his hatchet above his head and bringing it down on the back of an Annie's skull. The noise was loud, and the Annie dropped. Some members of the undead mob turned towards him, and he backed up, trying to be as aware of his surroundings as possible. He didn't want any of the dead that he had passed to come sneaking up behind him.
Allen swung his hatchet again, aiming for the next Annie approaching him, its dead eyes and grasping skeletal hands inches from his face. The head ca
me off completely. He knew how rare that was. As the head tumbled to the ground, he was already preparing another swing.
He chopped and worked, sweating and swearing along with the survivors surrounded by the mob. He hoped they could hear him. He hoped they knew it was not hopeless. He hoped the presence of himself and Epps gave them the courage to continue.
Allen spun around as one of the Annies approached from behind. He shoved the creature, its long gray hair blowing in the gusting wind as it cut across Allen's face. The Annie fell backward, and Allen fell on it, chopping its face in half. With one foot planted on what used to be its forehead, he pulled the hatchet free and spun to bury the blade in the side of another sneaky Annie that had thought to make a meal out of him when his back was turned.
The shockwave traveled up his arm, and then he was lost, screaming and shouting as he turned primal, turned into something less than a man, a being of pure instinct. He swung and pushed and shoved, screaming the whole way.
Then he found himself standing there in the snow up to his hips panting. It was but a brief respite. More of the dead filtered towards them from the compound, and the forest was dotted with Annies headed in their general direction.
"We gotta move," Allen said. He checked quickly to see that Epps was alright. He was bent over, his arm hanging at his side. Allen's own arm felt like rubber.
"I know you," a voice said from the group of exhausted survivors.
He turned to look at the woman. He never forgot a pretty face. "Holy shit," he said. The words just tumbled out of his mouth. That was what happened when you saw someone you had never expected to see again. "From the bridge," he said.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"We don't have time for this," the black man hissed as he bent down and draped a woman's body over his shoulder. He couldn't remember the man's name, but he recognized him as well.
"We gotta make it to the river, or we're dead!" he said.
Allen nodded. It was true. Though Tejada was fast on their trail, if they sat around waiting for him, they would never escape. They were too exhausted. Allen felt like he could just fall on the ground and go to sleep, and he was in pretty good shape compared to the motley lot of survivors before him.
"We'll lead the way," Allen said, indicating both himself and Epps. Epps nodded, and they ran ahead of the group, running close together, their hatchets dangling in their hands. His legs were fresher than his arm, and they managed to plow through the snow, the survivors following in their wake behind them. For a second, he felt like a sled dog bounding through the snow. Then he caved in the head of an Annie that only came up to his knee, and the feeling disappeared.
He gasped for air, and the snow felt like it was thicker against his legs. "How you doin'?" he asked Epps.
"Feel like my legs are made of Jell-o over here."
"Where are we headed?" Allen asked over his shoulder.
Behind him, the familiar man gasped, "There's a river. It's the only way out of this valley. Just keep heading west."
Allen did just that, stumbling and pushing forward. His legs burned. Each step forward involved pushing the snow out of the way with his legs, and each step made the burn increase. He was at the limit. He didn't know how long he could go on like this, and then they tumbled out of the woods onto a flatter surface. They stood on a road he surmised as he peered right and left.
"It's just ahead," the man's voice said from behind him.
"Let's get there," Epps said. "I'm exhausted."
Allen didn't even have the energy to speak. He looked over his shoulder to see if everyone had made it. The Annies were close, right on their trail. He swallowed his fear, though it threatened to stick in his throat and choke the air out of him.
They scrambled down a gully on the other side of the road, though it was more falling than scrambling. He felt hands under his arms as someone behind him lifted him to his feet. The crying of a baby hit his ears. There's a baby! The thought hit him like a sledgehammer. He didn't know if it was a primordial reaction or his own love of children, but he somehow found the energy to get to his feet. A fucking baby! Incredible!
They pushed forward for another twenty yards. The way was clear; all of the dead were behind them. Ahead, he saw the black ice of the river. On the other side, there was nothing but a snow-covered hill dotted with pine trees. They would be safe over there, at least from the dead, though the cold still gnawed at him.
He stood to the side and unslung his rifle, ejecting the magazine and putting in a new one. "Everyone get across," Allen said. "Epps, you and me are gonna hold the fort."
Epps let his hatchet fall from his hand.
"I don't trust that ice," a woman said.
"One at a time, lightest first," Allen advised. They didn't wait to debate it. There was no time for that. The dead were coming.
A pregnant woman with cold dark eyes hit the ice first. She slipped and stumbled across its surface. The woman he recognized, the pretty one, hobbled across next, catching herself as the butt of her wooden spear slipped on the ice.
They weren't moving fast enough. Not nearly. Allen took aim with his rifle and dropped the nearest Annie. A brief cloud of red hung in the air, and then it sank into the snow. "I got everything to the right of that body. You got everything to the left," Epps said.
"Good deal," Allen replied.
Behind them, the last two pregnant women started across. The Annies came at them in a semi-circle, constricting like a noose. Gunsmoke filled the air, and the sounds of Epps' unmuffled rifle echoed throughout the valley. Still, the dead came.
"Alright, I'm goin' across," the older, familiar man said as he hoisted the unconscious body of a skinny woman onto his shoulder.
"Give us a yell when you've made it," Epps said.
Allen continued to fire methodically, dropping the dead as quick as he could. He made every shot count. He ejected an empty magazine on the ground and slammed home a half-spent magazine. It was his last one. After that, his silenced M4 would be nothing more than a high-end paperweight. There were too many of the dead, certainly more than he had bullets for. He took aim at the head of an Asian man with a broken nose and missing fingers, and then he missed.
He missed because behind him, he heard the cracking of ice, followed by a scream. He spun around quickly to see the black man plunge into the cold, black water of the river.
"Come on, Epps," he yelled, and then, without thinking, he was on the ice, slipping and sliding towards the hole in the surface. As he approached its edge, he dove to his belly to distribute his weight. He saw a hand gripping the edge of the ice. He grasped at the hand, pulling as hard as he could while still trying to keep his weight spread out on the ice.
"I got you!" he yelled.
"Mort!" a woman yelled from the other side of the river. Allen struggled and strained, but his gloves were too thick to get a good purchase on the man's wet hand. There was no sign of the woman he had been carrying. From the other side of the hole, Epps lay down and tried to pull the man from the water as well. Allen pulled his hand to his mouth and bit the finger of his glove, pulling it off. He plunged his naked hand into the river and clenched his teeth in pain. The water was so cold.
"Come on, man. I got you." He grabbed the back of the man's jacket, an old Vietnam war surplus jacket, like the kind De Niro wore in Taxi Driver. He tugged on the material, rolling on his side to gain some leverage, and slowly the man's head appeared from the hole. His eyes were wide, and his lips trembled as he gasped for breath. He couldn't imagine the cold the man felt. The man's arms snaked over the side of the jagged hole, spilling and splashing cold water in every direction.
Then Allen heard the crack. The ice was giving way.
"Behind you!" someone shouted from the far shore of the river.
Allen looked behind him and saw the Annies coming. The lead one, a mangled and twisted thing with broken arms and a mouthful of broken teeth, slipped as soon as it hit the ice. It fell, and at any other
time, Allen would have laughed. But he saw more cracks form in the ice, spiderwebbing away from the impact of the Annie's body. He turned back to the task at hand, pulling the man from the river. The man was far enough out of the water that he could pull on the man's belt. Allen strained with all his might, still trying to keep low to keep the ice from breaking underneath them. He pulled and pulled, though he could no longer feel his hand. He felt something down by his feet, and when he looked, he realized that the lead Annie had made its way to him, crawling across the ice.
"Oh lord," he said. He rolled over on his back and kicked at the Annie's face. From behind it, he could see two more sliding their way across the ice. He yelled at the man he had pulled from the river. "You gotta move, man. I know you're cold as fuck, but if you don't get yourself off this ice, we're all gonna die."
Something Allen said must have reached the man because he began to crawl across the ice. Epps crawled behind him, pushing the man by his boot soles until they were a little further from the hole. Then the soaked man got to his knees and crawled like a baby for a few feet. The whole time, Allen kicked and wrestled with the Annie, who was halfway up his legs.
He was cold now. He was tired and exhausted, and all he could do was keep the Annie from biting him. He had no chance of killing it. His rifle was pinned underneath his back. The hatchet at his waist was too unwieldy to use from a prone position. He heard more cracking—that faintly musical sound as crystals break apart, and he knew he was going in the river. He pushed the Annie upwards, away from him, even while he felt more pawing at his boots… another Annie.
Not like this, he thought. Not like this.
Blood splattered his face, and he was only faintly aware of the sound of a gunshot echoing through the valley. With the last of his strength, he pushed the Annie into the hole in the ice. He watched its destroyed face press against the ice below him, and then it was whisked away by the current. Allen kicked at the Annies by his feet and began crawling across the ice. His left hand was so cold it felt like it was on fire.