feet, soon followed by the distant
moans. Joe turned toward the truck and ran. He could see the dark line in the
distance that he knew was the row of trees where his truck was hidden, and he
focused on it. From the right, Joe heard a scream; he turned in time to see a
man’s rage-filled face emerge from the dark. No time to plant his feet, he
pivoted while still running forward and smacked the man with a backhanded
tennis stroke, catching him in the throat. The man continued to scream as its
body went limp and crashed to the ground. Joe leapt away from its outstretched
limbs.
More came; he used
his canvas-wrapped arm to push a creature away before spinning on his heels and
crashing the mace onto the top of its skull. Not stopping, he continued moving
ahead until he was at the trees. He ran through them, twisting around foliage
as he heard the things behind crash through low-hanging branches and limbs. The
sound of the hunt increased as those in the market learnt of the new prey. Finally,
he saw the glint of moonlight off the fender of his truck. He made a last-ditch
dash, running with everything he had left. Misjudging the distance as his
vision clouded from the surge of adrenalin and darkness, he nearly collided
with the truck. He grasped the handle and pulled the door open before diving
across the bench seat. He quickly twisted and closed the door shut behind him,
his palm slapping the lock, securing it.
He heard the mob
crash into the truck, pulling back when they made contact, quickly surrounding
it. Joe’s 1979 K15 Sierra was far from standard. Dan made fun of him, told him
he should grab a new one from a lot in the city, or even one of the military
vehicles at the roadblocks on the highway. Joe laughed it off and said he
enjoyed the throaty sounds of the big V8, but really, he liked the way the old
truck looked and the heavy steel it was made of.
The exterior was
wrapped in tensioned barbed wire he’d carefully removed from a farmer’s fence. So
much epoxy and imbedded chicken wire coated the rear window, it was nearly
impossible to see through. The original side windows and windshield were cut
out and replaced with Plexiglas that Joe had painstakingly cut from a bank’s
sliding front door. He bolted the shatterproof and nearly unbreakable acrylic
to the truck’s body then used even more epoxy to secure rebar and strands of
barbed wire over it before he finished it with heavy coats of mirrored window
tint.
The Sierra pickup
was nowhere near an armored car, but it had saved his ass from the psychos more
than once. Joe reached under the bench seat and removed a red canvas bag. He
pulled out a foil package of hard candies and a bottle of water. He drank
thirstily while listening to the mob outside pound away at the sides of the
truck. They screamed as they leapt into the bed, feeling the planted shards of
broken glass and roofing nails pierce their feet. Joe grinned knowingly; he had
an argument with Dan about the glass. Joe said the things were reacting to pain.
Dan didn’t believe him and called the booby traps a waste of time.
In the early days,
the things would run through plate glass and raging fire to get at a survivor,
ignoring harm to their own bodies. In the months that followed, they began to
regain tactile sense; although not yet to the degree a human would—or even that
of a wild dog—more like a… well, Joe didn’t know what to make of them. Regardless,
they were changing and that worried Joe the most. Like the female; did she
really bump into Joe by chance, or did the others push her ahead and use her as
a probe in the shadows to find him?
The truck began to
shake violently as the mass surrounding it intensified. Joe exhaled loudly and
stuffed a piece of the hard candy into his mouth; he crushed it with his teeth
then chased it with another long gulp of water. He sat up in the driver’s seat.
The moon cast thriving shadows all around the vehicle’s hood. Through the heavy
tinted glass, it
moans. Joe turned toward the truck and ran. He could see the dark line in the
distance that he knew was the row of trees where his truck was hidden, and he
focused on it. From the right, Joe heard a scream; he turned in time to see a
man’s rage-filled face emerge from the dark. No time to plant his feet, he
pivoted while still running forward and smacked the man with a backhanded
tennis stroke, catching him in the throat. The man continued to scream as its
body went limp and crashed to the ground. Joe leapt away from its outstretched
limbs.
More came; he used
his canvas-wrapped arm to push a creature away before spinning on his heels and
crashing the mace onto the top of its skull. Not stopping, he continued moving
ahead until he was at the trees. He ran through them, twisting around foliage
as he heard the things behind crash through low-hanging branches and limbs. The
sound of the hunt increased as those in the market learnt of the new prey. Finally,
he saw the glint of moonlight off the fender of his truck. He made a last-ditch
dash, running with everything he had left. Misjudging the distance as his
vision clouded from the surge of adrenalin and darkness, he nearly collided
with the truck. He grasped the handle and pulled the door open before diving
across the bench seat. He quickly twisted and closed the door shut behind him,
his palm slapping the lock, securing it.
He heard the mob
crash into the truck, pulling back when they made contact, quickly surrounding
it. Joe’s 1979 K15 Sierra was far from standard. Dan made fun of him, told him
he should grab a new one from a lot in the city, or even one of the military
vehicles at the roadblocks on the highway. Joe laughed it off and said he
enjoyed the throaty sounds of the big V8, but really, he liked the way the old
truck looked and the heavy steel it was made of.
The exterior was
wrapped in tensioned barbed wire he’d carefully removed from a farmer’s fence. So
much epoxy and imbedded chicken wire coated the rear window, it was nearly
impossible to see through. The original side windows and windshield were cut
out and replaced with Plexiglas that Joe had painstakingly cut from a bank’s
sliding front door. He bolted the shatterproof and nearly unbreakable acrylic
to the truck’s body then used even more epoxy to secure rebar and strands of
barbed wire over it before he finished it with heavy coats of mirrored window
tint.
The Sierra pickup
was nowhere near an armored car, but it had saved his ass from the psychos more
than once. Joe reached under the bench seat and removed a red canvas bag. He
pulled out a foil package of hard candies and a bottle of water. He drank
thirstily while listening to the mob outside pound away at the sides of the
truck. They screamed as they leapt into the bed, feeling the planted shards of
broken glass and roofing nails pierce their feet. Joe grinned knowingly; he had
an argument with Dan about the glass. Joe said the things were reacting to pain.
Dan didn’t believe him and called the booby traps a waste of time.
In the early days,
the things would run through plate glass and raging fire to get at a survivor,
ignoring harm to their own bodies. In the months that followed, they began to
regain tactile sense; although not yet to the degree a human would—or even that
of a wild dog—more like a… well, Joe didn’t know what to make of them. Regardless,
they were changing and that worried Joe the most. Like the female; did she
really bump into Joe by chance, or did the others push her ahead and use her as
a probe in the shadows to find him?
The truck began to
shake violently as the mass surrounding it intensified. Joe exhaled loudly and
stuffed a piece of the hard candy into his mouth; he crushed it with his teeth
then chased it with another long gulp of water. He sat up in the driver’s seat.
The moon cast thriving shadows all around the vehicle’s hood. Through the heavy
tinted glass, it
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