900 Miles (Book 2): 900 Minutes by S. Johnathan Davis

Hummer to outpace whatever the hell God was firing at.
    “ I t’ s the picku p… ther e’ s two of them crawling up into the bed of the pickup !” I heard Rodgers call out.
    Another boom and a crack as I turned to see paint chipping off the rear of the truck, the shot just narrowly missing Mr. Mullet, who was on his feet kicking at one of the creatures. The Z grabbing at Mr. Mulle t’ s leg wore once-white baseball pants, which were now covered in enough gore to match his red baseball jersey.
    Unable to do a damn thing as the creature opened its mouth, preparing to come down hard on Mr. Mulle t’ s leg, I jumped in my seat as a blackish-pink mist shot out around the monste r’ s head, blowing a brain dripping hole the size of an orange through its face. An instant later, the delayed sound of the sniper rifle cracked in the wind.
    Hell of a home run, I thought.
    Mr. Mullet swiveled over toward the right-hand side of the truck where the second creature was pulling itself into the bed of the pickup. He had a small pistol drawn and was unloading it in the direction of the Z. Blood splatter exploded out of the creatur e’ s torso, but between the bouncing truck and the panic in Mr. Mulle t’ s eyes, not one shot caught the damn thing in the head.
    Kyle grunted as he twisted his broad shoulders around in the Hummer, trying to figure out how to pull himself out the window. As he looked down at the handle to his door, I could tell what he was getting ready to do.
    Mr. Mullet had steadied himself on the turret, which was basically useless in close quarter combat, and defiantly faced off against the creature and its piercing red eyes.
    “ Holy shit !” I cried out, stopping Kyle from pulling the door handle. Turning back, he followed my stupefied gaze just as one of the Three Amigos emerged from the right-hand passenger window, held tightly by one of his brothers from inside the cab.
    With his blade already drawn, I hardly saw the movement as he thrust it forward, severing one hand from the creatur e’ s grotesque arms straight off. Blackish-red blood spit out of the stump, splashing across and around Mr. Mulle t’ s worn blue jeans into the bed of the truck. Then, with the grace of a surgeon, the Amigo waved his instrument of death upward toward the falling body of the creature, driving the blade deep into its skull. Kyle turned back to the front window as the creature dropped from the side of the truck like a lifeless anchor, rolling to its final resting spot hidden within the broken grass below.
    Mr. Mullet dropped to his knees, splashing up some of the gore covering the truck bed, before pulling his hands to his forehead, while the Amigos returned to their seats in the comfort of the truc k… all the while never so much as tapping the brakes. Looking in the rearview mirror, I watched as Mr. Mullet pulled his trucker cap off, with his mullet gracefully flowing in the wind, and waved it toward God.
    Nothing ever went as planned outside the gate, and sadly, this would n’ t be the last time w e’ d have to face off against an enemy out there.
    Moments later, the Humme r’ s CB radio zipped to life with a rapid-fire string of the most intense Spanish words I can honestly say I’ ve ever heard spoken.  Kyle picked up the radio, looking around the cab to each of us. He let out a huff, knowing we were useless when it came to the language. Pulling the mic to his face, he said ,“ Yes, si . Just follow us. Si . ”
    Whatever the y’ d said, that response seemed to quiet them down.
    In another twenty feet, I felt the tires below smooth out as we passed from the field to the overgrown, paved road. Letting out my own deep sigh of relief, I immediately saw that the path was devoid of any Zs. Plowing forward, the blood slowly returned to my knuckles as I loosened my grip on the steering wheel.
    Glancing to the dashboard, my eyes fell on the digital clock built into the navigation unit. Gritting my teeth, I knew it would n’