The cries of her humans had nearly died out. A few trucks could be heard pulling away and zombies were spread out everywhere, hunting for food, including the ones that had stopped for a moment, checking out Eliza, to see if she would be coming on the menu.
“We should leave here, Eliza, in case he has any other surprises in store for us.”
Eliza made sure this time to keep under cover and concealment behind the remaining trucks as she herded her zombies back in. And on that highway was where she would leave them, two thousand zombies, through the coming winters and summers. Those zombies would sway forever, as leaves fell, as rain poured, as sun soaked them, tied to Eliza’s last order to stand still.
“You’re just going to leave them here?” Eliza’s first-in-command asked, as he swung the command truck around.
“I fear that a couple of the zombies looked at her with a less than flattering stare,” Tomas told the man.
The man wouldn’t miss them. It was tough to feel sorry for the creatures that tore his wife apart in front of his very eyes as she fell from the ladder they were climbing to get up their apartment’s fire escape. He had thought about just letting go and joining her, but he wasn’t brave enough for that. Not brave enough to die and not brave enough to live. Eliza had come across him a week later, still huddled in the far corner of his apartment, covered in his own filth, too scared to even cross his own living room to get some water.
She had promised him a chance to strike back at those responsible for his wife’s death. Dean had never been a God-fearing man, but he knew the devil when he came across it, and the only thing missing on Eliza were the horns. It wasn’t that he believed her words, it was what he knew she would do to him if he didn’t join her. A coward is led. He felt this was his punishment for not dying with his wife. He had seen and done more acts of brutality, cruelty and evil in the last six months than any person should ever be exposed to, and all in the name of Eliza. He knew his wife was looking down on him, frowning, and that he would never see her again. There was no place in heaven for the likes of him, not anymore. Maybe at one time, he had the whole meek thing going for him, now he was certain he was damned. If he had not thought that, he would have killed himself months ago, but he was afraid of meeting whatever it was that had spawned Eliza. So, afraid of this eventual meeting, he had begged first Eliza and then Tomas to bite him. Eliza had laughed cruelly at him when his request came.
“You would give up your soul so willingly?” she asked, flashing her lengthened canines.
“More than anything, mistress,” he had groveled before her.
“You disgust me,” Eliza told him. “The only way I would bite your pathetic neck would be to drain you dry. To watch you shrivel like an exposed worm in the mid-July sun.”
“Please mistress! Have I not served you well?”
“Do not think I am fooled; you serve for preservation, not loyalty.”
Dean withdrew; was he that easy to read?
“I can see by your reaction that I know your heart,” she said. “Do you not wish to once again see this wife you were wailing about when I found you?”
Dean sniffed, wiping his nose clean, nodding his head vigorously.
“But you know now that there is no place for you in your God’s heaven, don’t you?”
Dean nodded again.
“You think I’m cruel?” Eliza said through thin lips. “How about your master that banishes his children from his garden because they merely thirsted for knowledge! Or floods an entire world because of acts from a few that he finds depraved. Or allows the undead to walk among his creations, devouring them because they went too far with the knowledge they had obtained? That sounds cruel to me!” she yelled. “How about letting a man’s wife be allowed into his heaven, but deny the husband entry!” she said as she picked Dean up by a finger placed under his jaw.
The pain was excruciating as his entire body’s weight was suspended by his jaw. Eliza’s finger had broken through skin and was threatening to come up underneath his tongue. He yearned for death at that moment, to be free from the pain she was inflicting on him. He cared not what happened to his eternal soul as she paraded him around like that for a few moments more. When she finally pulled her finger away, he crashed to the ground, staying there many moments longer, until Eliza beckoned him like nothing had happened at all.
“How far, mistress?” Dean asked as he drove away from the scene of carnage.
“Until I snap your neck or tell you to stop,” Eliza said, staring straight through the windshield.
And from the mood she was in, Dean fully expected the neck snapping to be the outcome.
***
Paul, Brian and Mrs. Deneaux worked themselves off the bridge long before Eliza had made her departure and were making as good a progress as they could. Brian was slowed considerably by his injury, but it wasn’t like Mrs. Deneaux was blazing any trails.
“Get in the woods,” Paul urged, “I hear someone coming.”
“Is it Mike?” Brian asked, hoping that was the case.
“Possible,” Paul stated as he ushered the small group along. “But there were also a bunch of people running for their lives from that raid.”
Mrs. Deneaux had just entered into the underbrush as three heavily armed men rounded a corner on the road up ahead. One of the men was holding his side like he had the mother of all stitches from running.
“Hold up,” one of the men said. “I thought I saw something.” He was pointing to where Paul and the others were now hiding.
All three had assault rifles. This will be a small scuffle, Paul thought as he tried to get his rifle ready with as minimal movement as possible.
“Whassa matter, Vinnie?” one man asked the cohort who was holding his side.
“I cut myself getting down off the truck,” Vinnie said.
The man who asked the question brought his rifle up to Vinnie’s head. “Lemme see the cut, Vin,” he asked.
“Come on, Lenny. I cut myself. Get that gun outta my face!” Vinnie yelled.
“What are you two hollering about?” the leader said, turning to face the other two men.
“Vinnie says he’s cut,” Lenny said.
The leader turned his gun on Vinnie. “You know the deal, Vinnie. Let’s see it.”
“It barely got me,” Vinnie cried, “it’s more like a nip.”
Vinnie collapsed to the ground as Lenny shot him through the back of the head.
The leader butt-stroked Lenny. “You fucking mook! You got blood and brains all over me!” he yelled at Lenny’s prone body.
Lenny’s face was swelling rapidly; broken blood vessels began to turn purple and blue. Lenny turned his gun on the leader. “You ever do that shit again, Sam, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
“I hope you give me more warning than you did Vinnie,” Sam laughed as he reached a hand down to help Lenny up.
“I was really hoping they were going to shoot each other,” Brian whispered to Paul. Paul nodded in agreement.
“If nothing else, it looks like they forgot about us,” Paul answered.
Sam bent down and picked up the gun Vinnie would no longer be using. They walked past the hidden trio, more interested in what potentially lay behind, than to the sides.
“They’re heading towards our truck,” Brian said.
“Should I shoot them?” Mrs. Deneaux asked.
“No,” Brian said, “you won’t be fast enough with that bolt action and I can’t even hold my rifle.” He left unsaid Paul’s marksmanship skills or lack thereof.
“We’re screwed if they take our truck,” Paul said.
“Yeah, we’re also screwed if they shoot us,” Brian said.
“Maybe Mike is already back at the truck,” Paul said hopefully.
Brian was in the midst of standing when Mrs. Deneaux’s claw-like hand gripped his bad shoulder. He nearly swooned from the pain. But it had the desired effect as he fell hard to the ground. Brian was about to let loose a litany of
choice swear words as a small tribe of seven speeders ran by.
“Fucking Grand Central Station,” Paul cursed, making sure the zombies were well past.
They could all hear the roar of an engine start up ahead.
“Well that settles that,” Brian said. “We need to get another ride.”
“This is all jacked now!” Paul said with some alarm. He was beginning to break down, Brian had seen it numerous times in combat. Some people just don’t deal well with accumulating stress.
“I sure could use a cigarette,” Mrs. Deneaux said.
“How is Mike going to find us?” Paul asked, his voice rising over the sound of the oncoming truck.
Shots began to ring out, a large thud was immediately followed by the screeching of tires and the sound of a large heavy object hitting an immoveable tree.
“Should we check on it?” Paul looked to Brian.
“Busted truck, seven zombies, two armed hostiles, don’t see the up side, Paul.”
“We can’t stay here,” Mrs. Deneaux said wisely. “That noise is going to bring more of one or the other or both. And as much as I enjoy both of your company, while we lay here in the grass, I would rather be sitting in a car with a warm cigarette in my hand.”
“I can’t believe they just took our ride,” Paul said angrily.
“I bet that’s not the worst thing they’ve done today,” Brian said, getting up gingerly, his shoulder aching. He could feel a flush coming on his cheeks and knew that he was going to need antibiotics soon to fight off any infection the bullet may have allowed to enter in to his body. The closest bottle was in the truck that now sounded like Sarajevo, and not the good Olympics one, but rather the war torn one of a few years later. He thought to possibly wait for the outcome of the battle and then finish off the survivors, no matter of what variety and grab what he needed. But more speeders ran by as the three refugees melted deeper in to the woods.
For an hour, they followed the road, but always remained hidden in the brush. The way was slow going, but the chance of being seen was minimal.
Brian finally brought them to a halt as exhaustion began to set in.
Brian was making a decent showing of going slowly to allow time for Mrs. Deneaux to keep up, but the evidence of Brian’s infection was on his face. His complexion had paled considerably and sweat dripped from his features, though the weather or the exertion didn’t merit it.
“You look worse than I feel,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she sat on a small stump.
“Holy shit,” Paul said, finally taking notice of his walking partner. “Let me see your wound.”
“I’m fine,” Brian said, swaying slightly in a non-existent breeze.
Paul cautiously pulled Brian’s shirt up; deep red lines radiated out from the entry wound in Brian’s stomach. “We need to get you some meds,” Paul said.
“How could he be sick so fast?” Mrs. Deneaux asked.
“What do you mean? He got shot,” Paul said with some heat.
“I understand that. But he shouldn’t already be showing these signs of infection. It takes at least one or two days to get those symptoms. Something else is going on here.”
Paul stepped back, Brian’s shirt fell back in place. Brian felt like decisions were being made regarding him, but fever was beginning to cloud his judgment and all he wanted to do right now was lie down.
“Sergeant Wamsley reporting for duty,” Brian said as he went to the ground, mostly under his own power. Paul placed his head on a small patch of moss.
“He’s burning up. We need to get him some help,” Paul said.
“I think it’s too late,” Mrs. Deneaux said coolly, finally getting to light her smoke up.
“What are you saying?”
“You can’t really be that dense, can you? I really would have thought Michael would have a better screening method for his friends.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that and you’ll explain to me what I’m apparently missing.”
“He’s dying, and fast, from the looks of it,” she said, taking a large drag off her cigarette.
“We just need to get him some pills and he’ll be fine.”
“Nothing short of a medical team and a blood transfusion are going to save him now, but I’ll allow you your fantasy.”
“You’ll allow me? How fucking considerate!” Paul shouted.
“I’m wondering if he’s turning into a zombie,” Mrs. Deneaux pondered, completely ignoring Paul’s outburst.
Paul couldn’t help himself, but he moved from his protective stance next to Brian to one in which he had a better angle to see if any change had taken place.
“I see that you think that too,” Deneaux laughed.
“I didn’t, until you said it. We need to go get him something to help,” Paul said, fear fighting bile to be the first to root itself firmly in his throat.
“We? I think not. I’ll only slow you down and someone should stay here to keep watch over him,” Deneaux said, pointing to the prone figure of Brian with her cigarette holding finger.
Paul doubted her sincerity on the whole “keeping watch” part, but she was slower than a three-legged tortoise racing in molasses when it came to walking through the woods. “I’m not even sure where we are,” Paul said with some rising alarm. The thought of going out on his own was not sitting well. Paul looked all around, the trees suddenly looking very constricting.
“You can wait a few more hours until he dies. Then we can leave here together, dearie,” Deneaux said, completely catching Paul’s anxiety attack.
Paul trudged out of the woods and onto the roadway, trying his best to gauge their location. It would do no good to get what he needed only to find out he didn’t know his way back.
Paul heard Mrs. Deneaux cycle a round into her rifle. He fully expected to hear the shot ring out as she “took care” of Brian’s illness. And would that be so bad? he thought. Mrs. D was probably right, he was already a dead man. “And now I’m risking my life for him,” Paul muttered, stopping his forward progress. “He’d do the same for me. I think,” he said, going again.
“Twit,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she watched Paul’s conscience at work. “He’s as dead as this one,” she said as she casually kept the rifle pointed at Brian’s head.
She wasn’t overly concerned with her future survival. She was a survivor, always had been and she saw no reason why that would change now. She would give Paul two or three hours at the most to get what he needed and get back. If he wasn’t here, she was going to seek out a more hospitable location to spend the night and the next morning she would resume her search for Michael. Nothing ensured her continued existence more than staying with the penultimate survivor.
The only flaw she saw in Michael was his commitment to others, although that would work in her favor this time because he would not leave until he had the rest of his raiding party with him.
Brian stirred restlessly in his fever-soaked dreams, Mrs. Deneaux pushed his shirt up to watch the ever advancing infection as it branched to his heart. Once it got there, nothing could save him, except a priest and that would only be his eternal soul.
Paul felt completely exposed as he walked down the road. He looked longingly to the brush-covered street sides, but time was of the utmost importance. He hesitated. Who would know if I turned around now? I could tell Deneaux I didn’t find anything. She’d suspect and I’d know, he thought, chastising himself.
Paul had started walking again when he got a creeping sensation at the back of his neck. It was that same feeling he got so long ago at the gas station when that man had begun to approach him, when this whole thing had originally started. He had ignored that feeling then and almost fell into the same trap. “I’m going to be pissed if I turn around and there’s nothing there, I’m just scaring myself,” he said aloud much like people who enter a dark basement whistle so as to abate their fear.
At first, what he saw just didn’t register. Luckily, his lower reasoning abilities of survival
kicked in. Two speeders, a large male and an even larger female, were bearing down on him. Paul involuntarily cried out as he began his own sprint. Cognitive thought slowly came back as Paul tried to do some basic calculations in his head. Had to have at least a couple of hundred yards head start on them, should I turn around and look? No I’ll lose time. He could swear on more than one occasion, he could feel fingernails narrowly miss his neck and he would put on another short burst of speed.
He had gone less than a quarter mile and knew his time of running was rapidly coming to a close. “Can’t…keep…this…up!” He huffed. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder, hoping the zombies had stopped their pursuit. No such luck, the lead zombie dressed in tattered camouflage gear was, at the most, twenty feet away.
I’m screwed, Paul thought. Okay, okay. His mind going into overdrive. What would Talbot do? Even in the dire situation, he smiled a little at the comparison to the popular What Would Jesus Do? slogan. Paul held his rifle up to his face, not sure what he was looking for or if he’d even be able to tell as the firearm swayed violently back and forth in his field of vision. I think I see red. Does that mean the safety is on or off? How many bullets do I have? What are the odds I could hit him with the rifle over my shoulder, about as good as you stopping and aiming. He swore he heard Mike say that last part.
Paul planted his left leg to turn and make a shot, the force of his forward momentum causing his ankle to roll. He fell and spun hard from the pain. Camo man had not broken stride as Paul rolled over two complete times. Tears had already welled up in Paul’s eyes as the Camo man lunged for him. Paul pulled the trigger of his rifle. He couldn’t have placed the shot any better if he had put the rifle on a gun stand and fired it off. The bullet struck Camo man squarely in the forehead. The zombie’s forward progress halted immediately as brackish, gray-green matter leaked out the entry hole, and the smell of sulfur-laden, stagnant water assailed his nostrils. Paul’s triumph was short-lived as the Amazonian woman who had been struggling to keep up was now gaining by leaps and bounds on the prostrate Paul.