“I could have lived somewhere like this,” Audrey said. “I never wanted to move to the city. Neither did Watts. We rented a house for two years. We were both happy in that house.”
I stopped in front of one of the squat brick buildings. Fine and Folsom’s Undertaking, indicated by a small square sign hung high on a rusted pole. “Let me see the map,” she said, staring up at the building. “Look,” she traced the map with her finger. “This is where we are, the funeral home. It’s right next to Alfie’s Outdoors and the jail.”
Three buildings away, the road came to an intersection. The jail was situated on the corner.
“What do we do?” Audrey sounded excited again, hopeful.
“We need a boat from Alfie’s Outdoors. Then, we need to figure out how to get the boat in the water without being spotted.”
I stared at the cracking paint on the funeral home doors. I rubbed the Winchester’s stock. My cold palms felt like sandpaper against the smooth handle. “If there’s a good window upstairs, I might be able to pick them off.”
I DON’T BELIEVE IN LUCK. But if I did, I’d say mine ran out right then.
There came a Hellstorm of bullets into the cab. It sounded like hail. It burned the plastic and carpets. I dove on Audrey, pinning her under the bench seat, our bodies wedged in the floorboard. They shot my right shoulder, right hip, and right knee.
I also don’t believe in God. But if I did, I’d say those heathens descended into Marshall only by His grace. The emergency sirens shrieked and the bullets stopped. I was panting. Lapping the air. The gunfire picked up again and we ducked. But the bullets landed far away. Audrey shivered under me.
The red dots. The red dots were people. People move. I never considered that the guards might move from their posts.
How could I have been so reckless?
“Jack, you’re bleeding.”
“Yes. A lot. Are you okay?”
“I think—I don’t know.”
“You’d know. It hurts like hell.”
“I think I’m okay.”
“Good. Good. Audrey?”
“Jack!” She smacked my cheek. “Jack, you need to wake up.”
“Audrey. Have I told you?”
“Told me what, Jack?”
“I think you’d know.”
“I know you’re in pain.”
“Not that. Something else. Have I told you?”
“Jack!” She slapped me again. “Jack, we need to get out of this truck.”
“I want to stay with you.”
“I’m not staying. We can go further.”
“No. I think we’re both dead.”
When the world ends, the strong will fight off death but they will lose. When the world ends, nothing will change.
“We’re not dead, Jack. I have to tell you this. I’ve had this bite for a long time. Watts didn’t even know about it.”
“Of course. How long?”
“Weeks.”
I laughed but I didn’t mean it. It hurt to laugh. “I kissed you.”
“I didn’t even think about it.”
“I’m not upset. Don’t leave.”
“What?”
“Please.”
The truck swayed like it was under a heavy wind. Then, it rocked. It creaked and jarred and Audrey stared over my head. “Jack! They’re here.”
I looked up. Their bony hands groped the door panels, pieces of broken glass tore their gray skin. I couldn’t raise the pistol. Audrey took it from me and fired through the window.
“I have to get up,” Audrey tried to push me off of her. I moved far enough to the side for her to get up. She screamed and fought her way out from under me.
Audrey crawled into the driver’s seat and started the truck. It chugged roughly as she took off in the parking lot. Skulls bounced off the truck and rattled under the tires. She slammed on the brakes and backed up to the loading ramp at Alfie’s Outdoors. She armed herself with the Remington and a Glock, stuffed her pants full of ammunition.
“A boat,” she said. “We still need a boat?”
“I think it’s our only choice.”
“Listen.” The cab was silent. “I’ll get a boat. I’ll put it in right there.” She pointed to the train tracks across the parking lot. She would drag the boat across the lot, scurry down the bank, and guide the boat to our rendezvous. “I’ll meet you under the second bridge,” she pointed downriver. One bridge crossed the river, and the second went out to an island. “There are some shoals on the water just under the bridge. I’ll pick you up there.”
“No. I’ll meet you right there,” I pointed at the train tracks.
“You can’t sit here. I don’t know how long it will take. They’ll tear you out of this truck.”
I shut my good eye. She fired out the windshield, out her window. “You’re right. I’ll meet you over there.”
“Jack!” She swatted me with the dead flashlight. “You need to stay awake. You need to get up. Swallow this,” she shoved the lip of a bottle in my mouth and I gulped. The morphine warmed my mouth and throat.
When your body is full of bullets and your leg has been bear-trapped and you’re blind in one eye and you face certain death, you swallow some morphine and give fuck all about the world.
I picked up the Winchester, wiped its stock clean of blood and broken glass.
Click. Slide. Click.
Audrey climbed out the rear window, I watched as she quickly jimmied open Alfie’s service door and slipped inside, leaving the door ajar.
I couldn’t see for the cracked windshield. I sank in the seat, braced my feet against the glass, and pushed—I felt the bullets as the muscles flexed around them. The broken sheet of glass flopped onto the hood and I propped the Winchester on the dash.
The undead filled Back Street, they oozed out of windows and doorways. The gunfire was nearly drowned out by the sirens.
The truck lurched forward and I accidentally fired the Winchester. It rattled the dash and scattered the broken glass to the floor. I could hardly steer the truck and load the rifle with the same hand. I had the wrong foot working the brake and gas. I drove onto the sidewalk, clipping newsstands and a large wood planter.
I turned onto Main Street and drove into the flood of white hot light. The Emergency Plan. Main Street was awash in blood, bodies, the detritus of slaughter. Only a few stragglers remained under awnings and alleyways, protected by darkness. One crawled up the sidewalk, barely inching along, his lower body shorn from his torso. Three feet of intestines dragged behind.
I scanned the roofline and street for guards, but they were gone. Rifles barked—the guards were somewhere. They were distracted by the shamblers.
School buses. When the Rapture comes, we’ll ride to Hell in school buses.
As I turned onto Bridge Avenue, the road was blocked with six buses parked three-deep, nose to tail. Dirt and sand was piled up to the windows. A levee for the roaming dead. I parked the truck against a dirt mound and opened the door. Bitterly, I decided to leave everything except the Winchester.
I hiked around the fronts of the buses, across the tracks, and when I got to the bridge railing I felt the hot dread rush to my face. The heathens had funneled onto the bridge. Thousands of them packed from bus to hillside. Grunting and hissing and scratching at the yellow buses.
Was I doing or enduring?
I shook the thought from my head.
I was surviving.
I scrambled down the embankment to the soggy rocks and sandy mud and mossy pylons. There were three men trapped in the concrete cave, scratching their way up the slope. They’d be there forever. My leg jarred as I slid down the frozen rocks. I landed half in the water, my leg quickly numb from the rushing cold. But the pain didn’t go away. It rose up my throat and I heaved on the rocks. The sharp, wrenching pain crept up my spine and engulfed my chest. I couldn’t breathe.