A silent hush fell within the walls of Avalon as the driver of the bus, an older man with a long white ponytail, threw a “thumbs up” toward us. Known to me only as Mr. Gate, I’d never had a proper conversation with the man. Although I’d certainly seen that same familiar thumb thrown up toward me countless times before. The thing about his thumb was that it was the only finger he had left on that hand. The rest had been torn off in some sort of accident. It was as if he enjoyed the look on our faces as he flashed the damn thing at us. Maybe an old man’s sick sense of humor. Maybe he was just using what he had available to him. Either way, it still turned my stomach.
The bus started up, the engine roaring a hair louder than any of us was comfortable with, as he slid it into gear and pulled forward, exposing the outside of the compound. With my white knuckles gripping the wheel, I hesitantly lifted my foot off the brake and pulled forward through the narrow exit. Even above the sound of the siren, I could hear my own heartbeat as our companions pulled out behind us and Mr. Gate quickly reversed the bus, covering our only real entrance back into Avalon.
We were officially cut off.
With my eyes drawn toward the horde of the dead, who were clawing the bark off the tree that the siren was screaming from, I stepped on the accelerator, pulling through the long waving grass in the field ahead. Even over the rumble of our engine, I could hear the crackling of the brittle blades of grass, dry from the lack of rain over the past weeks, as they were crushed by the tires below. I found myself trying to see through the green brush, watching for any creatures still lurking within its perfect camouflage.
A broken-down, blown-to-hell car rested lifelessly at the edge of the field. Lifting my eyes from the grass, I honed in on it as we approached. Less than a month earlier, we were forced to fill it full of bullet holes when a small band of, let’s just say “unfriendly people” decided to mount an attack on Avalon when we wouldn’t let them into our gates. It was increasingly difficult to know who was friend and who was foe out there.
We’d reached the point where, for the safety of everybody inside, we always had to assume we were coming across the latter.
The idea of humans fighting humans was bizarre to me. There weren’t enough of us left to be killing each other. The real enemy didn’t have a heartbeat. Luckily, I’d been able to hold onto the vision that Jarvis had set out for us. Preserve life, avoid conflict when possible. I’m not saying I’ve never shot toward someone. I’m just saying that the only thing I’ve ever killed at that point was a shit load of zombies… and a bird that ran into my windshield while driving to work one day a few years earlier.
A small group of intruders was easy to fight off, but we were always concerned about the time when someone picked a fight with us that we knew we wouldn’t be able to win. Kyle had led the defense preparation, and we had a whole slew of what he called “countermeasures” set up to protect our little world. The creatures collected in the Dead Shed outside the wall were just the tip of the iceberg.
With the grass from the field starting to get shorter, we were just yards away from the tree line, split in two by a narrow road that we used to come and go. Passing by the broken-down car, I heard Jarvis let out a small sigh of relief. Completely entranced by the siren, not one creature clawing at the tree out there had so much as glanced our way.
His celebration was a bit premature.
A sudden but loud crack boomed from behind us. Twisting our heads back toward the cement walls, just in time to hear another go off, I heard Kyle yell, “Muzzle flash from the guard tower!”
Spinning my head around, I manically shifted my focus from mirror to mirror while trying to push the Hummer to outpace whatever the hell God was firing at.
“It’s the pickup… there’s two of them crawling up into the bed of the pickup!” I heard Rodgers call out.
Another boom and a crack as I turned to see paint chipping off the rear of the truck, the shot just narrowly missing Mr. Mullet, who was on his feet kicking at one of the creatures. The Z grabbing at Mr. Mullet’s leg wore once-white baseball pants, which were now covered in enough gore to match his red baseball jersey.
Unable to do a damn thing as the creature opened its mouth, preparing to come down hard on Mr. Mullet’s leg, I jumped in my seat as a blackish-pink mist shot out around the monster’s head, blowing a brain dripping hole the size of an orange through its face. An instant later, the delayed sound of the sniper rifle cracked in the wind.
Hell of a home run, I thought.
Mr. Mullet swiveled over toward the right-hand side of the truck where the second creature was pulling itself into the bed of the pickup. He had a small pistol drawn and was unloading it in the direction of the Z. Blood splatter exploded out of the creature’s torso, but between the bouncing truck and the panic in Mr. Mullet’s eyes, not one shot caught the damn thing in the head.
Kyle grunted as he twisted his broad shoulders around in the Hummer, trying to figure out how to pull himself out the window. As he looked down at the handle to his door, I could tell what he was getting ready to do.
Mr. Mullet had steadied himself on the turret, which was basically useless in close quarter combat, and defiantly faced off against the creature and its piercing red eyes.
“Holy shit!” I cried out, stopping Kyle from pulling the door handle. Turning back, he followed my stupefied gaze just as one of the Three Amigos emerged from the right-hand passenger window, held tightly by one of his brothers from inside the cab.
With his blade already drawn, I hardly saw the movement as he thrust it forward, severing one hand from the creature’s grotesque arms straight off. Blackish-red blood spit out of the stump, splashing across and around Mr. Mullet’s worn blue jeans into the bed of the truck. Then, with the grace of a surgeon, the Amigo waved his instrument of death upward toward the falling body of the creature, driving the blade deep into its skull. Kyle turned back to the front window as the creature dropped from the side of the truck like a lifeless anchor, rolling to its final resting spot hidden within the broken grass below.
Mr. Mullet dropped to his knees, splashing up some of the gore covering the truck bed, before pulling his hands to his forehead, while the Amigos returned to their seats in the comfort of the truck… all the while never so much as tapping the brakes. Looking in the rearview mirror, I watched as Mr. Mullet pulled his trucker cap off, with his mullet gracefully flowing in the wind, and waved it toward God.
Nothing ever went as planned outside the gate, and sadly, this wouldn’t be the last time we’d have to face off against an enemy out there.
Moments later, the Hummer’s CB radio zipped to life with a rapid-fire string of the most intense Spanish words I can honestly say I’ve ever heard spoken. Kyle picked up the radio, looking around the cab to each of us. He let out a huff, knowing we were useless when it came to the language. Pulling the mic to his face, he said, “Yes, si. Just follow us. Si.”
Whatever they’d said, that response seemed to quiet them down.
In another twenty feet, I felt the tires below smooth out as we passed from the field to the overgrown, paved road. Letting out my own deep sigh of relief, I immediately saw that the path was devoid of any Zs. Plowing forward, the blood slowly returned to my knuckles as I loosened my grip on the steering wheel.
Glancing to the dashboard, my eyes fell on the digital clock built into the navigation unit. Gritting my teeth, I knew it wouldn’t be long before that phlegm-filled cough crept into Tyler’s young lungs, and I wouldn’t be there to make it better.
Pushing the pedal to the floor mat, listening to the Hummer’s engine roar to life, I couldn’t help but think ahead to our destination. Rodgers had better be right about it. He’d better be sure that what we needed was there.