Another Zombie Apocalypse Tale: Part 12

Three Weeks and Two Days Since the Apocalypse

The vehicles continued to burn in the parking lot of the hospital. I could see them, even from a block away. The smoke rose in a dark plume, and the glow of orange flames licked the edges of the ash blackened vehicles. 

The convoluted twist and turns that Elsie led us down took hours, and the sky was turning from robin eggs blue to dusty gray with a hint of orange in the few clouds where the sun was setting. 

Sometimes she’d lead us a different direction than the arrows pointed, and other times she had no choice but to follow the arrows because of dead loitering in the path. I began to feel stupid, and relieved. The arrows didn’t lead us to a trap, and I got worked up over nothing. 

Not out of the woods yet. This was a phrase my dad liked to say while watching sports, whether it was track and field, soccer, or motorcycle racing. If there was any distance left or time remaining on the clock, there was always a chance of something happening to change the outcome of the game.  

We were resting in a shadow of a boarded up single story building. Myra begun to cry softly, and Beckett needed a respite from carrying her. Elsie checked on the girl’s leg and gave her some pills, and we all drank some water and ate a snack. 

“Not long now,” Elsie said as she wiped the tears from Myra’s face, then pressed the back of her hand to the girl’s forehead. “Just a few more miles.” 

When the swordswoman looked at me, I shrugged and said, “Not out of the woods yet.” Channeling my dad’s calm and collected tone, even though I was on the edge of my seat, waiting for the fumble, waiting for the crash. 

She didn’t reply, and I ended up saying, “I don’t want to be right.”

“I know,” she said. “A little paranoia goes a long way.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that—if that was a good or a bad thing—but I nodded as if I agreed. There was no use arguing, and since nothing bad happened (regarding the arrows) I had nothing to back an argument. 

“We should get moving,” said Beckett. He adjusted his backpack and spoke softly to Myra, telling her he was going to pick her up. When he lifted her, she let out a sharp cry, her whole body tensed and it took a moment for her to relax into his arms.

As we started to walk, she let out hissing sobs with each step Beckett took. She tried to smother her own cries by pressing her face against his chest but any movement seemed to cause her greater pain. I gritted my teeth, glancing around, knowing that despite her cries not being blaringly loud, it could be enough to draw attention of anyone and anything within a mile of us. 

“Did you give her something for the pain?” Beckett kept walking, not bothering to try smoothing out his stride.

“You know I did,” said Elsie, her voice tight but not quite snappy. “When we set her leg, and just before we left right now. You know it takes around fifteen to thirty minutes for that stuff to kick in.”

“Maybe we should wait?” Beckett didn’t sound like he wanted to follow his own suggestion. 

“We might as well keep moving,” I said. “At this point, if anything is out there, it knows we’re here.” Probably knew we were here before Myra started crying. In horror movies, the monsters are always several steps ahead. 

We kept moving. Elsie made sure the way was clear, keeping several paces ahead of us. I watched our backs, glancing over my shoulder every ten seconds or so. Every fiber in my being told me we were being watched. I scanned the shadows, the windows of buildings, the recesses between vehicles and light poles and other objects.

At the first sign of movement, I ducked behind a trashcan next to a bus stop. The area reeked of stale cigarettes and shit, but I stayed there. I whistled quietly at Beckett, he was the closest one to hear me. Two low whistles, almost like the coo of a pigeon.

He almost didn’t turn but when he did, it took him a second to find me. He frowned but moved toward the shelter of a tree trunk. He let out a series of his own whistles, alerting Elsie. 

I peeked around the corner, careful to keep my head low to the ground despite the filth that covered it. The movement had come from the direction of the hospital, a shadow moving along the edge of the buildings. 

“What is it,” asked Beckett. 

I shook my head and held up a hand to silence him. It felt weird and wrong almost, like I was being disrespectful. Oh, the irony, because I had been verbally abusing this guy since day one of knowing him. I would laugh if it wasn’t for the figure stalking across the street, keeping their body low in a crouch as they moved from car to car. 

They were not headed in our direction, but they were not not headed in our direction. Elsie appeared at my side. I pointed to the smashed sedan that the person was currently hiding behind. This person’s feet could be seen as they waited. 

From my peripheral I caught more movement. Another crouched figure hurried behind a semi truck. Elsie caught this, too. She took hold of my shoulder and drew me back with her toward Beckett. He stood against a tree, holding a whimpering Myra. 

“We need to go,” said Elsie, urging me forward with her hand on my shoulder. She seemed to rethink this urgency for a moment as she stopped next to Beckett. She removed the shotgun from the sling on his back and held the gun out to me. 

I recoiled and frowned. “What? I don’t know how to use that.”

“Don’t point it at something you don’t want to shoot and you’ll be fine.” She thrust the weapon at me, forcing it into my hands. It was heavy and I wanted to drop it.

“I don’t think you understand,” I said. I could feel my eyes growing wider with uncertain panic. “I have never touched a gun in real life before.”

“Think of this as pass or fail.” Annoyance creeped into her tone as she glanced behind us and produced a small handgun from a holster tucked into the back of her pants. She had Beckett and I lead the way as she took up the rear. 

“Pass or fail,” I muttered under my breath. The sarcasm failed me as my throat tightened and my palms began to sweat. 

I knew enough to know what the trigger and the barrel of a gun was, but I had no idea about the mechanics. I knew they were loud. I knew there was recoil—something the redneck kids at school would talk about from time to time—but I had no idea what any of this felt like to the person shooting the gun. In this case, it would be me shooting the gun. 

Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to because the gun was freaking heavy. Holding it steady was going to be a problem. Though I doubted I’d be able to hold it steady even if it didn’t feel like it weighed as much as a pair of thirty-pound dumbbells.

As we came to a crossroads, a group of dead mingling beyond a makeshift barrier of concrete and curls of barbed wire blocked the way. We were forced to turn left, not in the opposite direction we needed to go, but a roundabout way that would take us longer.

Upon rounding the bend, I noticed a white arrow pointing in the direction we were headed. Unease drew sweat from me like a sponge being squeezed, and the tremor in my hands increased. 

I wanted to break off in front of Beckett and lead him a different way, but each alternate route had a group of dead waiting. Listless and unaware of our existence, but lamenting their hunger with moans.

Beckett let out a string of curses, stopping short. Myra whimpered, but remained almost as quiet as a mouse. The pain meds likely kicking in. Ahead of us stood humans. Real, live humans. Twenty to thirty of them. They held weapons, some of them makeshift—hockey sticks with metal pieces strapped on the end, sharpened sticks—and some were guns, swords, and large knives. 

The man at the front of the group wore a long, flowy, leather trench coat. “I’m glad you finally made it,” he said, and he grinned at us with perfect white teeth.