about 100 yards away.
“Spooky! You fuck!” he heard Tag yell out behind them.
But he didn’t care. His life was on the line, and he had more important things to take care of.
Spooky ran into the old, abandoned hangar, sweating, already out of breath from the exertion. He’d barely walked in the door when he pulled back his shirt, and looked down.
It was much worse than he’d thought. The wound had actually grown bigger, was now the size of his fist, and was turning green and brown at the edges. It smelled like crap, and he recoiled at his own smell: rotting flesh.
He swallowed hard. He had seen too many wounds in combat, and he always knew when one turned for the worse. And this was worse than anything he’d ever seen.
With shaking hands, Spooky opened a CPR kit he’d grabbed from the chopper, took out a big needle, and injected himself hard and deep, right around the edge of the infection, with a boatload of penicillin. He then took out a wet clothe, sponged away the pus, then took out a dry bandage, and taped it up. He popped a fist of Advil, chugging it back with a his canteen.
He slowly stood up straight, and breathed. Maybe, just maybe, this would do the trick. Perhaps Dr. Washington didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, and he could beat the infection.
*
Peterson checked his watch again, for the tenth time. Eight minutes had already passed, and as he turned and looked again, he saw Tag standing there, still fueling up. Peterson was pissed. Tag had taken too long to find a working pump, and as far as he was concerned, they were already behind schedule. He’d wanted to be up in the air in two minutes flat.
Why was it that no one else ever seemed to get things done in the right way, but him?
Peterson scanned the horizon again, looking at all his teammates. They all seemed to be in good position, and there were still no zombies on the horizon. So what the hell was he so worried about? He should be relieved. They’d found a station. They found gas. And even if they couldn’t fix the leak, they would still probably have enough gas to make a good run for Plum island.
So why couldn’t he relax?
As Peterson scanned the group again, he suddenly noticed something. Of course. Something always had to go wrong.
Spooky was missing. He couldn’t follow a simple order, and he had the simplest of all of them. Stay with the bird, check the leak, and watch Tag’s back. Now Tag was standing there, fueling up, his back to the bird, and exposed in every direction.
Peterson broke into a trot, heading back to the chopper—and just as he did, two zombies suddenly appeared from behind the rear of the chopper, heading right for Tag. Tag didn’t see them coming. One of the infected looked like a mechanic. It’s right eye was gone, as was it left arm. Just behind it was a fat woman, dressed in a polka dot dress.
It would do Peterson no good to scream; Tag would never hear him over the chopper. Peterson couldn’t fire, either, as he might hit the chopper. Tag was sitting bait.
Peterson broke into a sprint, running for all he was worth, right for Tag.
Come on Tag , he willed, look this way .
Tag was focused on the gas pump, though, as a good pilot should be.
“Tag!” Peterson shouted, uselessly.
As Peterson watched, the infected mechanic grabbed Tag’s arm, dug his fingers into it, and leaned his head in for a bite.
Luckily, Tag was an expert martial artists. He responded quickly, elbowing the zombie in the face, and dodging out of the way just in time.
But the gas line came flying out of Tag’s hand, out of the chopper, and was now spraying gas all over the zombie, all over the bird—all over everything.
Peterson’s heart dropped. A bad situation had just gotten much, much worse.
Peterson still had a good 50 yards to go. He ran for all he was worth, but, as if watching a bad nightmare unfold before him, he knew he just couldn’t get there quick enough.
Tag had been thrown off balance,
“Spooky! You fuck!” he heard Tag yell out behind them.
But he didn’t care. His life was on the line, and he had more important things to take care of.
Spooky ran into the old, abandoned hangar, sweating, already out of breath from the exertion. He’d barely walked in the door when he pulled back his shirt, and looked down.
It was much worse than he’d thought. The wound had actually grown bigger, was now the size of his fist, and was turning green and brown at the edges. It smelled like crap, and he recoiled at his own smell: rotting flesh.
He swallowed hard. He had seen too many wounds in combat, and he always knew when one turned for the worse. And this was worse than anything he’d ever seen.
With shaking hands, Spooky opened a CPR kit he’d grabbed from the chopper, took out a big needle, and injected himself hard and deep, right around the edge of the infection, with a boatload of penicillin. He then took out a wet clothe, sponged away the pus, then took out a dry bandage, and taped it up. He popped a fist of Advil, chugging it back with a his canteen.
He slowly stood up straight, and breathed. Maybe, just maybe, this would do the trick. Perhaps Dr. Washington didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, and he could beat the infection.
*
Peterson checked his watch again, for the tenth time. Eight minutes had already passed, and as he turned and looked again, he saw Tag standing there, still fueling up. Peterson was pissed. Tag had taken too long to find a working pump, and as far as he was concerned, they were already behind schedule. He’d wanted to be up in the air in two minutes flat.
Why was it that no one else ever seemed to get things done in the right way, but him?
Peterson scanned the horizon again, looking at all his teammates. They all seemed to be in good position, and there were still no zombies on the horizon. So what the hell was he so worried about? He should be relieved. They’d found a station. They found gas. And even if they couldn’t fix the leak, they would still probably have enough gas to make a good run for Plum island.
So why couldn’t he relax?
As Peterson scanned the group again, he suddenly noticed something. Of course. Something always had to go wrong.
Spooky was missing. He couldn’t follow a simple order, and he had the simplest of all of them. Stay with the bird, check the leak, and watch Tag’s back. Now Tag was standing there, fueling up, his back to the bird, and exposed in every direction.
Peterson broke into a trot, heading back to the chopper—and just as he did, two zombies suddenly appeared from behind the rear of the chopper, heading right for Tag. Tag didn’t see them coming. One of the infected looked like a mechanic. It’s right eye was gone, as was it left arm. Just behind it was a fat woman, dressed in a polka dot dress.
It would do Peterson no good to scream; Tag would never hear him over the chopper. Peterson couldn’t fire, either, as he might hit the chopper. Tag was sitting bait.
Peterson broke into a sprint, running for all he was worth, right for Tag.
Come on Tag , he willed, look this way .
Tag was focused on the gas pump, though, as a good pilot should be.
“Tag!” Peterson shouted, uselessly.
As Peterson watched, the infected mechanic grabbed Tag’s arm, dug his fingers into it, and leaned his head in for a bite.
Luckily, Tag was an expert martial artists. He responded quickly, elbowing the zombie in the face, and dodging out of the way just in time.
But the gas line came flying out of Tag’s hand, out of the chopper, and was now spraying gas all over the zombie, all over the bird—all over everything.
Peterson’s heart dropped. A bad situation had just gotten much, much worse.
Peterson still had a good 50 yards to go. He ran for all he was worth, but, as if watching a bad nightmare unfold before him, he knew he just couldn’t get there quick enough.
Tag had been thrown off balance,
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