Riding The Apocalypse by Frank Ignagni III Page A

loud, dancing back and forth to keep them from all pressing at one point of the fence.
    I could hear him through the helmet intercom, and I smiled for a couple of reasons. Partially because it was such a droll joke (Ducati makes a model called Monster), and also because this was Max’s way of putting us at ease. Even though we were stationed out of his sight, Max knew we were listening.
    Max kept his distance from the fence, but emoted enough dialogue and noise to keep the monsters’ attention. I looked away from Max, back to the angry mob and saw a little boy who was getting trampled at the base of the fence. I felt sorry for him until I realized how absurd it was to feel sorry for a monster who feels no pain and is trying to eat my friend.
    Hard to wrap your head around the concept behind these fuckers, it really is. I still felt terrible about it though. Child monsters make my heart hurt.
    I quietly opened the glass door in front of the office and flinched when I heard the alarm chime.
    Beep-Beep-Beep!
    I froze in my tracks.
    Not one monster seemed to notice. They were too engrossed in Max’s stand-up humor to acknowledge the faint noise to their right. I opened the door until it locked in the open position and waited for my cue from Max.
    Behind me, Buell waited on his motorcycle in launch position. I could not see his face through his tinted visor, but he seemed as serious as I have ever seen him.
    Or at least I think he did.
    Paramount to this plan were Buell’s riding skills. My role was getting the damn gate unlocked so Buell could get out and draw their attention away from the gate, thus allowing me to follow. The twelve foot long cyclone fence gate in front of my garage can swing open to the street, or back to my garage. So I am the swing man, if you don’t mind me stealing another sports metaphor.
    I watched through my fogged-up face shield for Max’s go-ahead. Once he gained the swarm’s undivided attention, he would give the signal. From what I gathered it was getting close to go-time. Only Max could see them all from his position, but it looked clear to me. I felt a tremor in my stomach when I realized it was going to be my turn to execute any moment. For the tenth time, I looked down at my set of keys to make sure I was holding the right one. Sweat dripped down my face from my matted hair under my helmet. I ignored the sting of salt in my eyes, and focused on Max. He was standing atop an oil drum getting an eagle’s eye view of the street.
    “Good thinking, fucker, climbing up there! You are pretty short to begin with!”
    Buell never misses a chance.
    “Go-Go-Go!” yelled Max into my right ear bud.
    I bolted toward the front gate, pushing the KLR as fast and quietly as possible, keys in hand. I ran rolling heel to toe, like I had many times in my youth. I had perfected the skill trying to avoid my parents’ notice after stealing rations for late night snacks.
    Max was violently banging his weapon of choice, a tire iron, on the steel drum at his feet in front of the monsters, hoping to mask the noise I made. I had reached the gate but it was difficult to get the key in the lock because of the thickness of my leather gloves.
    Did I have to put the gloves on beforehand?
    Just then a low-flying military jet roared past me overhead, presumably coming from Moffett Field, a nearby Air Force base.
    I was turning the key in the lock as I looked to my right and saw her. The aircraft had temporarily pulled her attention away from Max, and her eyes met mine after she dropped her head down from the sky.
    “Are you fucking kidding me, of all times to buzz my tower?” I grumbled.
    She emitted a bone-chilling rasp as I hurriedly unwrapped the chain. I had opened the lock just as the girl spotted me, and the race was on. She immediately started lurching in my direction. Her black eyes pierced my visor and looked into my soul.
    My soul was panicked.
    “C’mon, Rem,” I grumbled to myself.
    “Make it fucking