We ran into the trees, out of sight of the bloodbath ratcheting up by the picket line. The old man helped our new handicap run. The man, sporting a jury rigged gas mask, was pretty shook up from his fall. He kept stumbling and forcing Dave to slow to keep both standing.
After the blinding light of the blockade, plunging into the neighborhood was like going from sunny Jamaica into the dank throat of the Devil himself. Everywhere around us moans swirled and circled, as if every fence and overgrown hedge hid a dozen goners rising from their slumber to see what was so foolish to wake them.
Scared the living shit out of me. Still shaking, even as I write this. Crap like this won’t let me go to sleep, no matter how exhausted I am.
Dave and I agreed to head to a house to wait out the inevitable stream of goners that would head toward the blockade. If the soldiers kept up their rock show, we could let Dead Ed walk right past us, giving us smooth sailing back to the lumber yard. The most terrifying half hour of my life crawled past, thick with the rotten stench of dead bodies, filled with the ungodly soundtrack of dozens of moaning undead, their throats covered in a thick slime of coagulated blood and putrid bile. Vice handed my bat at every stumbling shadow passing the curtains-- just a little flimsy fabric and thin pane of glass separating me from chipped fingernails and open throats.
Even after the bulk had passed us, every twisting tree and shaking branch held the hint of a crawler just waiting to sink it’s broken teeth into my ankles. God damn. My ankles twinge at the very thought.
Dave pulled a flask and took a swig, bearing the whole ordeal with an admirable combination of iron nerves and fire water. Our gas masked addition kept going in and out of consciousness. Useless as he is, I pity him for the dreams he must've had then. He kept on groping against invisible enemies, and I had to cover his mouth several times as the idiot tried to cry out, screaming that there was live flesh in our little hidey hole, ripe for the mangling. He fought weakly against it, and I'm sure my arms clamping round his mouth added to his semi-conscious panic. What could I do? Wasn't about to let that idiot get me killed. I clamped harder.
Eventually, Dave gave the all clear. What undead had been in the neighborhood were occupied by the fuss the jarheads were causing, so we threaded our way back with no problems. The only real hindrance was Mr. Gas Mask, still disoriented by the stunt he’d pulled. The old man kept whispering comforting words to him, pulling him along.
We made it back to the lumber yard entrance, no problem. That’s when our new lead weight nearly got us killed.
No comments:
Post a Comment