The Living Dead 2 (The Living Dead, #2)(46)
As they retreated alongside the line of traffic, they passed the bizarre spectacle of what appeared to be people making out in some of the cars: mismatched couples locked in furious sexual combat…though the men were clearly not the aggressors. In fact the women seemed to be sucking the very life from their reluctant male prey. Like spiders, the American thought wildly. Black widow spiders.
A man’s flailing leg kicked through a windshield, spraying them with glass as they hurried by. A car pulled out of line and drove down the steep embankment, plowing into the ditch at the bottom. Truck horns brayed, and they could hear small children screaming. Over it all was a shrill, rising din—the hyena laughter of the insane.
Now the young man was tiring. Almost there…almost there. They had crested the hill, and he could see the bus—Tres Estrellas de Oro—but all around them things were getting sketchier by the second. People were bursting from cars and fleeing in all directions with blue-faced monstrosities hot on their heels. Any second one of those things would notice them and it would all be over. The number of scary maniacs was doubling as the victims revived and joined their ranks—very soon there wouldn’t be anyone sane left. From the direction of the gas station, they could hear a demonic host approaching. It was hopeless.
But nothing noticed them—or perhaps they were beneath notice, this shambling, silent pair, so ploddingly steadfast amid the general panic—because suddenly they were there, miraculously at the bus, on the bus, clambering up the steps and slamming the door behind them.
It was empty.
“?Lupe! ?Lupita!” the driver called, searching frantically, but the bus was completely deserted. It was also a ransacked mess, the aisle littered with women’s shoes and spilled luggage, as well as teeth and tufts of ripped hair. And blood—blood everywhere—flung in drabs and spatters and hectic smears, as by the hand of a mad impressionist. It was just as well that the two men couldn’t see much of this in the dark. The only sound was a high-pitched whine coming from the radio.
Bad things had happened here, as everywhere else, but for now the bus was empty; it was dark; it was safe. It was life. For a brief moment, the terror outside was muffled and remote. The two exhausted men fell into seats, crying and gasping for breath. “Se viene abajo…se viene abajo,” the driver sobbed.
“What the f*ck is this, man?” the younger man babbled. “What the f*ck is going on out there? What’s happening to everyone?”
“La ley ya no está en vigor…”
“It must be some kind of chemical weapon! A gas attack or some kind of mind control thing…but then why don’t we have it? It doesn’t make any sense!”
“Sea lo que sea, no lo puedo creer.”
They continued like this for a few minutes, purging the raw adrenaline from their systems. Catching his breath a bit, the driver reached into the overhead rack and turned off the radio. He then pulled down two plastic bottles of milky liquid. Handing one to the American, he said, “Pulque,” and took a deep drink.
“Don’t you understand? I’m f*cking losing it, man! I’m losing it!”
“A otro perro con ese hueso.”
“I don’t understand a word you’re saying! I don’t understand anything! No entiendo—you get it?”
Shaking his head, the younger man swigged from the bottle and nearly choked at the soapy, medicinal taste—he had been expecting lemonade. But the alcohol in it helped his shakes and he forced down another gulp.
Reaching a decision of some kind, the driver sighed and got up. “Me he hartado de esto,” he said gravely.
Alarmed, the American caught his arm. “No, what are you doing? Sit down, man, they’ll see us.”
The driver patted his shoulder, saying gently, “Hombre de muchos oficios, pobre seguro.” He walked forward and climbed behind the wheel, belting himself in. Then he smoothed his hair back and started the engine.
“Dude, what do you think you’re doing? We can’t go anywhere—we’re blocked in, bumper to bumper! We should just wait here for help to come!”
“No siempre es fácil salir de un apuro.”
“I don’t speak Spanish!”
“Seet down and shut up.”
At the sound of the diesel, things started happening again. The naked, blurred creatures outside suddenly froze into sharp focus, gaping mouths and black eyes all trained on the bus. There were hundreds of them now: men, women, and children. They came fast. Bodies slammed against the sides, leaping for handholds, while others swarmed the door and front windshield. Hard objects starred the glass, quickly knocking out holes through which blue arms lunged like snakes. The young man couldn’t stand to look, but worse than the sight was the sound of them: “?No hay cuidaaado!” they screamed. “?No hay cuidaaado!”
The bus lurched forward, smashing a dozen creatures against the rear of a trailer truck and shaking off the rest like fleas. The impact destroyed what was left of the windshield, but succeeded at ramming the truck a few feet ahead so that it rear-ended another vehicle. Then the driver shifted gears, jumping the bus into reverse and slamming into the traffic immediately behind, plowing a wide space in which to maneuver. At once the American realized what he was trying to do: a U-turn! It made a certain amount of sense because the northbound lane of traffic was clear, but the narrow highway didn’t look nearly wide enough to swing this huge bus around—certainly not before those maniacs out there got inside. With the windshield gone the bus was open to all comers. But surely the driver himself must know better than anyone what was or wasn’t possible; he was a professional. Flinching at each crash, the American hung on tight and surrendered to hope.