opened out. When it didn’t move she started
banging on it with her fists, face pushed to the glass and lips peeled back in
a snarl.
I looked over
her and saw the converging crowd was now less than forty yards from the truck
and closing ground fast. Grabbing the atlas I juggled the bags back into a
stable position and ran directly at the door. I’m a big guy and the female infected
looked like she had been a high school or college aged girl and soaking wet
couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds. I hit the door in full stride,
blasting through it and sending her tumbling back and away from the point of
impact, my new road atlas flying out of my hand and skidding across the parking
lot.
Seeing me
coming, Rachel leaned across the seat and popped open the passenger door. I
ran, skidding to the side of the truck and dumped my looted goods into the
cab. I heard the snarl and slap of feet behind me and reached for my pistol,
but my hand was tangled in the plastic shopping bags. Leaping back, a bag full
of canned goods came with me swinging from my right wrist, the tough plastic
refusing to break free.
The infected was
right there, running at me, leaping, eyes wide, lips skinned back from bloody
teeth, a snarling scream coming up from her throat. Not even thinking, just
reacting, I stepped to the side and swung the heavy bag of cans. I swung
hard. The bag hit her squarely in the face and exploded open, cans of chili
and soup flying in every direction.
The impact
stopped the infected in mid leap and she crashed to the ground, immediately
jumping back to her feet and turning to attack. Hand free of the weight of the
bag I pulled my pistol and shot her in the forehead, stepping over her body as
it was falling. I had to get the nozzle out of the truck’s tank and the cap
back on so we didn’t lose precious fuel as we drove away.
A male infected
met me by the pump and I dispatched him with another well placed shot, yanked
the nozzle out of the tank and let it drop to the ground as I fumbled the
truck’s fuel cap back on. I had glanced at the pump’s readout and was
surprised that the truck had held almost 15 gallons in the partially empty
tank. Quick and dirty math told me I probably had two 50 gallon tanks. I was
betting the truck would get around fifteen miles per gallon so we should be
good for close to 1,500 miles before we ran out of fuel. That wouldn’t get us
to Arizona, but it was sure as hell a good start.
Rachel had
scooted over and closed and locked the passenger door and I was starting to
step up into the cab when my left leg was yanked out from under me. I hit the
ground hard, breath whistling out of my lungs and lay there, momentarily
paralyzed as my body refused to respond. A crawling infected, he must have
been under the VW and worked his way back, gripped my right foot and started
pulling himself up my legs, teeth snapping the whole time.
His head had
just reached my feet and he bit down on my right foot, the shoe saving me for
the moment, when my body started responding again. I took a deep breath,
yanked the pistol out of my pants, took careful aim at my attacker’s head and
pulled the trigger. Nothing. Either a misfire or the weapon had failed to
lock open when it ran out of ammunition.
I started
kicking the infected in the forehead with the heel of my left foot and manually
cycled the automatic pistol’s slide, but it locked open, empty. A snarl above
me heralded the arrival of another infected, ready to fall on me and have a feast.
I kept kicking, trying to scoot away from them both, but the damn thing had a
hold on my foot like a Terrier on a rat. It wasn’t letting go.
Looking up I
prepared to fend off the latest dinner guest, hoping I would be able to crack
his skull using the empty weapon like a club, when a shadow leapt over me from
the cab of the truck. Rachel landed on both feet, astride my upper body and
swung the tire iron with
banging on it with her fists, face pushed to the glass and lips peeled back in
a snarl.
I looked over
her and saw the converging crowd was now less than forty yards from the truck
and closing ground fast. Grabbing the atlas I juggled the bags back into a
stable position and ran directly at the door. I’m a big guy and the female infected
looked like she had been a high school or college aged girl and soaking wet
couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds. I hit the door in full stride,
blasting through it and sending her tumbling back and away from the point of
impact, my new road atlas flying out of my hand and skidding across the parking
lot.
Seeing me
coming, Rachel leaned across the seat and popped open the passenger door. I
ran, skidding to the side of the truck and dumped my looted goods into the
cab. I heard the snarl and slap of feet behind me and reached for my pistol,
but my hand was tangled in the plastic shopping bags. Leaping back, a bag full
of canned goods came with me swinging from my right wrist, the tough plastic
refusing to break free.
The infected was
right there, running at me, leaping, eyes wide, lips skinned back from bloody
teeth, a snarling scream coming up from her throat. Not even thinking, just
reacting, I stepped to the side and swung the heavy bag of cans. I swung
hard. The bag hit her squarely in the face and exploded open, cans of chili
and soup flying in every direction.
The impact
stopped the infected in mid leap and she crashed to the ground, immediately
jumping back to her feet and turning to attack. Hand free of the weight of the
bag I pulled my pistol and shot her in the forehead, stepping over her body as
it was falling. I had to get the nozzle out of the truck’s tank and the cap
back on so we didn’t lose precious fuel as we drove away.
A male infected
met me by the pump and I dispatched him with another well placed shot, yanked
the nozzle out of the tank and let it drop to the ground as I fumbled the
truck’s fuel cap back on. I had glanced at the pump’s readout and was
surprised that the truck had held almost 15 gallons in the partially empty
tank. Quick and dirty math told me I probably had two 50 gallon tanks. I was
betting the truck would get around fifteen miles per gallon so we should be
good for close to 1,500 miles before we ran out of fuel. That wouldn’t get us
to Arizona, but it was sure as hell a good start.
Rachel had
scooted over and closed and locked the passenger door and I was starting to
step up into the cab when my left leg was yanked out from under me. I hit the
ground hard, breath whistling out of my lungs and lay there, momentarily
paralyzed as my body refused to respond. A crawling infected, he must have
been under the VW and worked his way back, gripped my right foot and started
pulling himself up my legs, teeth snapping the whole time.
His head had
just reached my feet and he bit down on my right foot, the shoe saving me for
the moment, when my body started responding again. I took a deep breath,
yanked the pistol out of my pants, took careful aim at my attacker’s head and
pulled the trigger. Nothing. Either a misfire or the weapon had failed to
lock open when it ran out of ammunition.
I started
kicking the infected in the forehead with the heel of my left foot and manually
cycled the automatic pistol’s slide, but it locked open, empty. A snarl above
me heralded the arrival of another infected, ready to fall on me and have a feast.
I kept kicking, trying to scoot away from them both, but the damn thing had a
hold on my foot like a Terrier on a rat. It wasn’t letting go.
Looking up I
prepared to fend off the latest dinner guest, hoping I would be able to crack
his skull using the empty weapon like a club, when a shadow leapt over me from
the cab of the truck. Rachel landed on both feet, astride my upper body and
swung the tire iron with
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