100-Days-in-Deadland(101)

At the halfway point, two I-beams intersected and I was able to lean on one to catch my breath, though the humid air did nothing to help my breathing. Afraid if I stopped too long, I’d never get across, and so I continued. Minute by minute, putting one hand before the other, I made it to the three-quarters point, then only ten feet left. Eight, six, four.

By the time I reached the end, I had nothing left. I literally dropped off the bridge and collapsed onto the ground next to Tack. I rolled onto my back and grasped long grass with both hands.

Clutch dropped next to me, and we all lay there for several moments. When Tack moved, I stayed put, watching him Army crawl up the hill and scout the scene. This side wasn’t quite as steep and—thankfully—zed-free. He backed himself down to us.

“SITREP?” Clutch asked.

“I see only two Dogs,” Tack replied in a hoarse whisper. “One driver and one gunner. The driver looks like he’s taking a lunch break. The gunner is busy watching the herd behind us. I think they’ve got him spooked. I count three zeds at the tree line. A few more dead on the ground.”

Which explained the random gunshots.

“Can we get close enough to take them out without being seen?” Clutch asked.

“Maybe,” Tack replied. “It looks like the gunner is still watching the other side of the bridge for us.”

Clutch nodded and pulled out his pistol. “We head for the tree line. That way, if we’re seen, we can still find cover. Cash, you take the driver. I’ll take the gunny. Tack, make sure we’re covered.” He didn’t wait for a response.

“There’s no telling how many zeds are in those trees,” Tack warned.

I shot him a quick glance, grabbed my pistol and crawled up the hill, and stopped next to Clutch while he scanned the area. The truck sat less than a hundred yards off. Easy shot with a rifle any day of the week, except I no longer had my rifle. The driver’s side window was open, and he was taking a bite out of an MRE. The gunner in the back of the truck was leaning on the cab, still intently watching the bridge.

Clutch took off at a run toward the trees, and I dragged myself behind him. No shots fired from the truck. Clutch slid behind a wide tree, and I slammed into him, unable to stop my forward momentum. He caught me before I knocked us both down. Tack grabbed the tree next to us. A shadow moved several feet away, and Clutch took off, weaving around trees for the truck. A skinny zed emerged from a tree to our right, and Tack shoved a blade through its head.

When we reached the trees closest to the truck, we were no more than ten feet away from the zeds making their way to the truck.

“Ready?” Clutch asked.

“Ready,” I whispered.

He motioned. “Now.”

We ran out and started firing. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the gunner spin the .30 cal toward us. Machine gun fire drowned out the pops of our pistols. My first shot planted harmlessly into the truck door, but as I closed the distance, my aim improved. The driver snapped back, and red splattered the passenger window. The .30 cal died soon after, leaving behind silence.

“Clear,” I said.

“Clear,” Clutch echoed before turning around. “How many zeds now?”

“Five,” Tack replied, coming up from behind.

I sighed, and Clutch rubbed my shoulder. “Just a bit longer,” he murmured.

The five zeds had broken from their way to the truck and reached out toward us. That zeds always seemed to prefer their prey living over the freshly deceased had never made any sense to me. I would’ve thought they’d go for the easy meal, but it seemed like they were predators at heart.

Tack took down the nearest zed. I fired a single shot at the zed on the left, and Clutch fired several shots to take out the cluster of three. No one bothered to make sure they were down for good. Seemed like we all had the same idea: get away from Chow Town as quickly as possible.

Tack jumped in the back of the four-by-four and threw the dead gunner off. I opened the door and found the driver still sputtering blood. Air hissed through the hole in his cheek. He wasn’t moving, just in the final death throes. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him out the truck, let him collapse onto the ground at Clutch’s feet.

Clutch rifled through the man’s pockets. Movement caught the corner of my eye, and I noticed another zed emerging from the tree line. “There are more headed our way,” I said.

Clutch climbed behind the wheel, and pressed his headset. “Bravo is Oscar Mike in a Dog truck. Repeat, Bravo is Oscar Mike. ETA is one hour, over and out.”