The Passenger (Surviving the Dead) by James Cook, Joshua Guess Page B
Authors: James Cook, Joshua Guess
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through the air around him, splinters of broken teeth and shards of rent flesh.
Five hundred years ago, that man could have been a Viking, a berserker unafraid as he faced an opposing force. The image of him as a barbarian from some fantasy series was only slightly marred by the jeans he wore, the polo shirt. They seemed like unimportant details, the camouflage used to hide in a modern age long since departed.
They say tragedy shows you who you really are. If I was a coward, and in fairness I have to say I was, then the husband was a hero. Laying into the swarm with nothing but rage and a length of metal to buy his family time—is there anything more deserving of the word?
The moment passed, and the swarm began to surge forward. At the same time, the car behind the man came to life, although with very little noise. If not for my body’s unnaturally altered hearing, I would never have picked it up. I was confused for a moment, wondering why the engine didn’t belt out the usual guttural roar, and then it dawned on me: electric car. Nearby, in the dim light, I caught the outline of a hodge-podge solar array on a crudely slapped together scaffolding. I realized I was looking at a carefully crafted and well-orchestrated escape plan.
The giant, crowbar-wielding warrior must have sensed the change in the swarm, then, because he went from reckless abandon one second to retreat in the next. The car was already moving as he turned from the dead in front of him and sprinted toward it, leaping onto the roof with enough force that I could hear his belly slap the metal. A few ghouls snatched at his feet, but the man's tree trunk legs shot like pistons into the faces of his enemies.
And then they were gone, taillights dwindling into the night.
The swarm followed them, of course. The corpses around me might not have been totally without guile, but they were far from smart. Distance didn't matter to them. Speed didn't enter into the equation. My own body was feeling such crippli ng waves of hunger I had a hard time remembering that eating people was a bad idea.
There was only the need, and the ability to move. That ceaseless drive forward.
The destruction left behind by the husband was impressive. A full dozen bodies lay on the ground, a few of them still twitching as their not-quite-destroyed brains attempted to operate their bodies like a child behind the wheel of a car. It was somehow sad, even having seen them attack an innocent person only a few minutes before.
The sun rose as we carried on.
EIGHT
Ethan may have had a nose for trouble, but it was Hicks who had the sharpest eyes. Walking out on point, the stringy young man held up a fist, signaling everyone to stop. He turned and motioned Ethan forward.
“What have you got?” he asked when he reached him.
“Sign,” Hicks whispered, pointing. His finger indicated a tree trunk and small cluster of leafy, sickly-looking plants. Ethan didn’t see anything wrong, the plants just looked like plants, but Hicks sounded convinced. “Somebody done been through here. Maybe a day or two ago, if that.”
“How can you tell?”
Hicks motioned him closer to the tree and pointed at a section of bark about chest high. “You see that there light spot? Looks like a little scrape. Like somebody braced a hand on it steppin’ over that poison ivy.”
“That’s what this shit is?”
“Yep. Don’t go wipin’ ya’ ass with it. Look here.” He squatted down and pointed at a few stalks near the edge of the cluster. “These is broke. Like somebody stepped on ‘em. And there’s tracks goin’ off thataway. They’s faint, but I can see ‘em. Regular tracks though, don’t look like infected. Too even.”
Ethan looked, bu t saw only a featureless carpet of dead leaves stretching off into the gloom.
“You want me to follow ‘em, boss?”
Ethan pondered it for a moment, thinking that Hicks had just spoken more in the last thirty seconds than in the last six months, and
Five hundred years ago, that man could have been a Viking, a berserker unafraid as he faced an opposing force. The image of him as a barbarian from some fantasy series was only slightly marred by the jeans he wore, the polo shirt. They seemed like unimportant details, the camouflage used to hide in a modern age long since departed.
They say tragedy shows you who you really are. If I was a coward, and in fairness I have to say I was, then the husband was a hero. Laying into the swarm with nothing but rage and a length of metal to buy his family time—is there anything more deserving of the word?
The moment passed, and the swarm began to surge forward. At the same time, the car behind the man came to life, although with very little noise. If not for my body’s unnaturally altered hearing, I would never have picked it up. I was confused for a moment, wondering why the engine didn’t belt out the usual guttural roar, and then it dawned on me: electric car. Nearby, in the dim light, I caught the outline of a hodge-podge solar array on a crudely slapped together scaffolding. I realized I was looking at a carefully crafted and well-orchestrated escape plan.
The giant, crowbar-wielding warrior must have sensed the change in the swarm, then, because he went from reckless abandon one second to retreat in the next. The car was already moving as he turned from the dead in front of him and sprinted toward it, leaping onto the roof with enough force that I could hear his belly slap the metal. A few ghouls snatched at his feet, but the man's tree trunk legs shot like pistons into the faces of his enemies.
And then they were gone, taillights dwindling into the night.
The swarm followed them, of course. The corpses around me might not have been totally without guile, but they were far from smart. Distance didn't matter to them. Speed didn't enter into the equation. My own body was feeling such crippli ng waves of hunger I had a hard time remembering that eating people was a bad idea.
There was only the need, and the ability to move. That ceaseless drive forward.
The destruction left behind by the husband was impressive. A full dozen bodies lay on the ground, a few of them still twitching as their not-quite-destroyed brains attempted to operate their bodies like a child behind the wheel of a car. It was somehow sad, even having seen them attack an innocent person only a few minutes before.
The sun rose as we carried on.
EIGHT
Ethan may have had a nose for trouble, but it was Hicks who had the sharpest eyes. Walking out on point, the stringy young man held up a fist, signaling everyone to stop. He turned and motioned Ethan forward.
“What have you got?” he asked when he reached him.
“Sign,” Hicks whispered, pointing. His finger indicated a tree trunk and small cluster of leafy, sickly-looking plants. Ethan didn’t see anything wrong, the plants just looked like plants, but Hicks sounded convinced. “Somebody done been through here. Maybe a day or two ago, if that.”
“How can you tell?”
Hicks motioned him closer to the tree and pointed at a section of bark about chest high. “You see that there light spot? Looks like a little scrape. Like somebody braced a hand on it steppin’ over that poison ivy.”
“That’s what this shit is?”
“Yep. Don’t go wipin’ ya’ ass with it. Look here.” He squatted down and pointed at a few stalks near the edge of the cluster. “These is broke. Like somebody stepped on ‘em. And there’s tracks goin’ off thataway. They’s faint, but I can see ‘em. Regular tracks though, don’t look like infected. Too even.”
Ethan looked, bu t saw only a featureless carpet of dead leaves stretching off into the gloom.
“You want me to follow ‘em, boss?”
Ethan pondered it for a moment, thinking that Hicks had just spoken more in the last thirty seconds than in the last six months, and
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