guard for an instant before rolling under the wheels. The beast bucked and bounced over the bodies as if they were logs. More zombies came into view, oozing from the sun-bright, yet sepulchre houses, and a chill descended over him.
That was the horror of the things. They simply kept on coming. Not stopping, no matter how bad a shit-kicking they got. It was impossible to throw the fear of God into them. The things had no fear whatsoever. Gus remembered the expression from way back. No fear . Nothing. Just a form with teeth and a driving hunger.
His foot hit the gas, and the beast shot across the street. The van swung to the right and narrowly missed a fire hydrant. The near impact reminded him of the almost collision a month ago, and he swore at the red stump of metal. Little fuckers were as ubiquitous as ATMs. The front right tire crashed up and over the flower beds of an overgrown lawn, then roared across driveways until Gus edged it back onto pavement. The right corner of the beast clipped two zombies and sent them flying into a knot of the creatures, bowling the works over like moldy tenpins. Still more filled the road, arms wide as if attempting to corral their dinner.
Gus gave the beast another shot of gas and drove through them.
The van whumped and jumped at each body going under it. Arms and heads careened off the grill guard. One head exploded on contact like a rotten melon, its fragments plastering the windshield. An arm struck the tempered glass almost hard enough to split it. The zombies battered the ribs of the beast as it passed. Gus held on tight to the wheel as he didn’t have time to buckle his seat belt. Heads pick-packed off the van’s metal face and dropped out of sight. More gore dappled the glass, and he had to crane his neck to see where he was driving. He slammed over another wave of dead, jumping in his seat with the multiple impacts as the knot of bodies went under the beast. He felt the wheels spin for a brief, colon-blowing second before finding traction and plunging onward.
More undead blocked the way.
Drawn to the noise , Gus thought, and turned left. The van flew up a driveway and toward a high fence. He stretched his neck to see if he could see anything beyond the barrier and made his decision a second before the van smashed through it. Wood fragments flew as if in a tempest, and the beast crashed into another backyard. The right front tire crushed a plastic fire truck big enough for a toddler. Gus steered the van beside the house, down the driveway, and onto another road. He turned left, thinking he knew how to get out of the area. Ahead, he saw a thick stream of zombies lurching down the street he had just escaped from. He swerved to the right, and the beast ran over only a handful of gimps as it broke through, smacking into one after the other fast enough that the noise sounded like gunfire. The van burst through the last zombie, snap-pirouetting it until it fell and was gone.
Gus drove on, the beast roaring in elated victory as he accelerated. When he reached the city limits, he slowed a bit, holding a hand up in front of his face to check. The thing shook as if he were being cattle-prodded anally. He gripped the wheel and didn’t let go until he reached the poorly camouflaged gate of the road leading home.
When he parked the van in the garage, much of the fright had left his system, or so he thought. He didn’t bother with unpacking the scant supplies. Going inside his home and locking the door behind him, he went into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Captain Morgan, and held it up to the light. The foppish officer on the label smiled at him, coaxing him to do what Gus needed no coaxing for. He took three burning swallows of the rum before taking a breath. The rum bungee-jumped down his throat and poisoned his belly. He bared teeth at the impact, but he didn’t put the bottle down and kept those first shots inside.
He moved out the back door and onto the deck, taking violent
That was the horror of the things. They simply kept on coming. Not stopping, no matter how bad a shit-kicking they got. It was impossible to throw the fear of God into them. The things had no fear whatsoever. Gus remembered the expression from way back. No fear . Nothing. Just a form with teeth and a driving hunger.
His foot hit the gas, and the beast shot across the street. The van swung to the right and narrowly missed a fire hydrant. The near impact reminded him of the almost collision a month ago, and he swore at the red stump of metal. Little fuckers were as ubiquitous as ATMs. The front right tire crashed up and over the flower beds of an overgrown lawn, then roared across driveways until Gus edged it back onto pavement. The right corner of the beast clipped two zombies and sent them flying into a knot of the creatures, bowling the works over like moldy tenpins. Still more filled the road, arms wide as if attempting to corral their dinner.
Gus gave the beast another shot of gas and drove through them.
The van whumped and jumped at each body going under it. Arms and heads careened off the grill guard. One head exploded on contact like a rotten melon, its fragments plastering the windshield. An arm struck the tempered glass almost hard enough to split it. The zombies battered the ribs of the beast as it passed. Gus held on tight to the wheel as he didn’t have time to buckle his seat belt. Heads pick-packed off the van’s metal face and dropped out of sight. More gore dappled the glass, and he had to crane his neck to see where he was driving. He slammed over another wave of dead, jumping in his seat with the multiple impacts as the knot of bodies went under the beast. He felt the wheels spin for a brief, colon-blowing second before finding traction and plunging onward.
More undead blocked the way.
Drawn to the noise , Gus thought, and turned left. The van flew up a driveway and toward a high fence. He stretched his neck to see if he could see anything beyond the barrier and made his decision a second before the van smashed through it. Wood fragments flew as if in a tempest, and the beast crashed into another backyard. The right front tire crushed a plastic fire truck big enough for a toddler. Gus steered the van beside the house, down the driveway, and onto another road. He turned left, thinking he knew how to get out of the area. Ahead, he saw a thick stream of zombies lurching down the street he had just escaped from. He swerved to the right, and the beast ran over only a handful of gimps as it broke through, smacking into one after the other fast enough that the noise sounded like gunfire. The van burst through the last zombie, snap-pirouetting it until it fell and was gone.
Gus drove on, the beast roaring in elated victory as he accelerated. When he reached the city limits, he slowed a bit, holding a hand up in front of his face to check. The thing shook as if he were being cattle-prodded anally. He gripped the wheel and didn’t let go until he reached the poorly camouflaged gate of the road leading home.
When he parked the van in the garage, much of the fright had left his system, or so he thought. He didn’t bother with unpacking the scant supplies. Going inside his home and locking the door behind him, he went into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Captain Morgan, and held it up to the light. The foppish officer on the label smiled at him, coaxing him to do what Gus needed no coaxing for. He took three burning swallows of the rum before taking a breath. The rum bungee-jumped down his throat and poisoned his belly. He bared teeth at the impact, but he didn’t put the bottle down and kept those first shots inside.
He moved out the back door and onto the deck, taking violent
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