Sometimes We Ran (Book 3): Rescue by Stephen Drivick Page A

hoist myself into the seat, the Pine Grove van roared to life and drove away, tires spinning on the slick asphalt of the supermarket lot. I sighed a little in relief. It was close but we were both going to get home safe.
    Then, a crusty gray hand took hold of my neck.
    I was thrown to the ground with great force. I managed to roll, and wound up in a half-crouching, half-sitting position on the ground. Drawing my gun, I raised my head to face whatever had taken me away from the van.
    Blood and gore covered his tattered clothing. He walked with a slight limp, and his hands had bones showing. Long hair hung over his evil eyes. He closed in, cutting off any escape routes. I froze in place thinking he couldn't see me. He emitted a low growl as he walked, moving his head from side to side trying to focus on me. The skin from the lower half of his face was removed, leaving only skull and rotting muscle. His black teeth were set in a permanent leering grin. Claire tapped frantically on the glass to point out another problem.
    He had two dead friends with him.
    They came from the parking lot trudging through the piles of dead cars. These Red-Eyes were in a little better shape, but Bone Face was the leader. He would feed first. The Red-Eyes often formed  groups of collective intelligence to help them hunt their prey.
    They had me trapped. Raising my gun, I fired in the direction of Bone Face as he advanced. One slug hit him square in the chest, the other tore through his neck. The ripped-up Red-Eye fell to the ground and began to crawl. His two companions picked up the pace, and charged toward me. I stood, and leveled my weapon at their heads. The battle was about to begin, and I hoped I could smoke both of them before I became zombie food in some God-forsaken parking lot.
    And then a strange noise rose in the frosty air.
    It sounded like a pissed off chainsaw. The high-pitched sound came from behind us in the busted-up supermarket building. Even the Red-Eyes raised their heads to take a listen. They retreated a little as the sound got closer. The sound was distracting them. They forgot about me, and looked for the source of the strange sound.
    Claire threw open the door, and I hurried inside. As I settled into the driver's seat, a green blur flashed past the van and into the parking lot. It went flying down to the edge of the lot, and circled around to head back to our location.
    “It's a motorcycle,” I said in disbelief.
    The noisy two-wheeler rolled up to the front of our van and stopped. The rider was a middle-aged man with a leather jacket, jeans and black boots. He had long gray hair, and a mustache to match. It was one of those big bushy types that made him look like he was from the Old West, or fresh off a Civil War battlefield.
    “Who's this guy?” Claire said.
    I couldn't place the face. “No idea. I don't recognize him.”
    The Red-Eyes were also shocked by his appearance. They regrouped to attack this new interloper, and crouched into attack mode. The strange man calmly pulled a sawed-off shotgun from a makeshift holster on the motorcycle and pulled the trigger.
    Nothing happened. Two more pulls of the trigger did not produce any dead zombies. The Red-Eyes moved in to feed on the interloper.
    The man on the motorcycle put his gun away, and twisted the throttle. The tiny engine on the bike wailed in protest. He kicked the small dirt bike into gear, and drove straight at the zombies  At the last minute, he turned and began to do donuts around the confused dead.
    They made a few halfhearted grabs at the little green bike, but retreated away from us and into the junked cars of the lot. Our new friend stopped in front of the van, threw me a quick salute, then gunned the bike and accelerated away to continue the zombie chase. The high-pitched wail of the engine faded away.
    Claire and I looked at each other. “What the hell was that?”' Claire said.
    I cranked Monique to life. The welcome throb of the powerful diesel