Saving Jebediah; Another True Story from the Zombie Apocalypse

by Doug Ward

next course of action. My first thought was to let Stan rest. I quickly dismissed that idea because if he didn't get some immediate help… Well, I've seen enough movies to get a pretty good idea of what he would become next. Just as I was about to suggest going to the hospital, about an hour drive, my eyes fell on the picture on the now useless TV. The frame held the last picture of my uncle, Jebediah Talbot. My good old Talbot sense of honor kicked in and I knew I had to alert him to the possible danger of the zombie apocalypse.

  "Stan," I broke the silence. "We need to get you to a doctor. The hospital is about an hour away. What do ya say about a little road trip?"

  He just nodded and I figured, while I had him in the mood, "Let's stop and get my uncle. He's on the way." Stan made no indication either way, so I took that as an assent and went to the window to see what it looked like outside. My first thought was that all was quiet. That's when I spied Audrey, who ran the local restaurant. It's actually the front room of a house. I told you there were less than sixty people in this town.

  Audrey seemed to be walking a little too zombieish for my liking and, remembering the dead camper on the porch, I decided the back door would be the best escape route. Besides, my truck was at the side of the house, so, either way would be just as close as the other.

  I grabbed my Browning 12 gauge from my gun rack and pulled a few fistful’s of shells for it and the Glock, out of my china cupboard drawer. Stuffing them in my hoodie's pocket, I rejoined Stan in the kitchen and prepared for our exit.

  The back of the house looked clear; no visible undead. So, quietly, I lead Stan to the truck and got him in with no trouble. Stan was becoming unresponsive, possibly going into shock. I was going to have trouble keeping an eye on him and driving, so while I helped buckle him in, I pulled the belt really tight. As I was crossing to my side, I heard a distant gunshot from the direction we were about to go.

  The truck, my pride and joy, fired up on the first try. It was a black Ford F-150 I had almost literally stolen from a dealer in Clarion. The truck was made for Canada. Its speedometer and mileage indicator were in metric, so they couldn't get rid of it. That meant I got it for a song.

  As we drove through town, which consists of about three blocks, I saw Audrey had caught sight of Erin, one of my former classmates, and was putting on a good chase. Now, Audrey was no spring chicken; but, living the hard life out here, we are typically in better shape than most city joggers. Erin was holding her own, but it seemed she'd eventually lose the race. So I gunned the engine and, asking her forgiveness under my breath, I ran Audrey down. A terrible thump recorded her head bouncing off the hood of my F-150 and she slid under the truck as we drove on past. I didn't want to look back, but human nature took over, I could see her crumpled form in the middle of the road.

  Drops of Audrey's blood flowed toward me in red streams across my truck's hood as I raced ahead and paralleled Erin, who continued running. Her eyes were glued straight ahead. I tried honking the horn to get her attention, but she kept running. Finally, I pushed the button to lower the passenger window and, leaning forward, I shouted, "Erin, it's ok. Stop running and we will take you in the truck."

  For a moment, she seemed to slow. I could see her eyes darting toward the truck in order to catch a quick glance. Then, she slowly turned her head and her eyes locked on Stan, sitting on the passenger side. Shock registered on her face and a whine sounded between gasping breaths. She quickly changed direction and ran straight into the outstretched arms of Mr. Grady. They fell in a tangle of arms and legs but I could tell, in the side view mirror that his teeth had found their mark by the spray of blood from what looked like her neck region. He probably hit an artery.

  I tore my eyes from the horrifying scene and glanced at Stan. He turned to meet my eyes and I watched a thin string of drool pull free from his lap.

  "How are you feeling, Stan?" I asked. He just turned to back to his original position, looking out the passenger seat window.

  A chill ran down my back as I pondered how long I'd have before Stan would possibly turn. What was I going to do if he turned in the truck?

  We were out of town in seconds. I don't need to remind you it's a small town. The road changed, just as fast, to the usual, dirt road as we sped off towards my uncle's cabin. Dust made a thick cloud behind us, covering the rear window with the powder.

  About a half mile up the road, I had to swerve to avoid several bodies lying in various places on the road, my tires skidding on the unpaved surface as our forward motion came to an end. The trailing cloud enveloped my truck as it overtook us with its momentum. Losing its density, it still made a thin veil, through which I could barely make out the blockade.

  Ahead was a steel, one-lane bridge. Sitting in the middle of the bridge and facing away from us was a big, primer gray-colored Chevy truck. I was all too familiar with the owner of this vehicle. Three big guys in various pieces of camouflage and flannel were sitting in the back with menacing-looking rifles. I took my foot off the brake and slowly moved forward until the biggest guy stood up and aimed his gun at us. The other two mimicked his movement, raising their own weapons.

  I hastily brought us to a stop again and dropped the truck into park. Through the thinning haze of dust, I could see the larger man leap down from the rear of the Chevy. With the gun once again held directly at me, he called out, "That you, Max Talbot?"

  I knew it was Bo Jones by his size and his perpetually almost-ready-to-paint, truck. To say we weren't friends was an understatement. I had broken up with his little sister and he had personally taken it upon himself to make my every moment as miserable as possible. When I returned from the military, Bo kept a cool distance from me; never threatening me, but never welcoming, either.

  I rolled down the window and responded, "Yeah. now get that piece of crap Chevy off the bridge before I use a real truck ta push it outta the way!"

  Bo continued his careful, walking-while-aiming gait toward us. He closed the distance with slow, measured steps. The cloud of road dust had nearly dispersed but had settled on the windshield, partially obscuring the view, both in and out.

  "Put your hands out the window and open the door!" Bo demanded, 16 gauge shotgun still leveled at me.

  "Now how am I supposed to do that?" I replied sarcastically.

  "Use the outside handle, dummy," he responded coolly. He was now close enough to speak in a normal voice.

  Opening the handle proved harder than you'd think. When the door unlatched, I pitched forward, off balance. As I fell forward, I was greeted with a gun barrel sliding past my face and a loud roar as the 16 gauge fired. I shifted my weight, rolling to my left as I continued my fall. The deafening gunshot sound was replaced with a loud ringing in my ear as I fell face first onto the ground. Everything went black.