Abyss (Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Book 12) by Chesser Shawn

Author:Chesser, Shawn [Chesser, Shawn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Morbid Press
Published: 2017-05-12T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 38

Across Main Street from Back In The Saddle, behind the body shop, Taryn and Wilson were hiding the twice-dead corpses behind a stack of balding radials that would never make it to the tire recycler or end up on a rope tied to an oak in somebody’s front yard. Finished with the grim task, Taryn wiped her hands on her fatigues and set her sights on the dirty white pickup. She tried the handle and found it locked. Without pause, she put the butt of her carbine through the passenger-side wing window.

A few feet away Wilson was clambering up onto the side of the black wrecker. He was scaling the boom out back when Taryn called over to inform him that finding the keys to the truck wouldn’t be necessary to move it.

“Best news all day,” said Wilson as he stepped from the truck’s rear bumper and planted his feet on the oil-stained diamond plate decking. Didn’t want to go into that dark-ass building, anyway , is what he was thinking as he negotiated a tangle of chains and cables to get to the towing boom. Fighting gravity and his own questionable sense of balance, he inched up the boom on all fours, hand-over-hand, monkey-like, until he was within arms-reach of the cinderblock wall. Knees knocking, he rose and teetered there like a high wire act.

“You got this,” said Taryn.

Grimacing, Wilson pitched forward and arrested his fall by slapping both palms against the wall. Then, by stretching to full extension, he managed to get four fingers of one hand hooked over the top edge of the roof’s narrow parapet.

Stomach muscles burning, he looked down at Taryn. “Gonna catch me if I fall?”

She nodded.

“I’m not so sure about this Spider Man wall-crawling shit,” he conceded, going for the parapet with his other hand. Now gripping the parapet tenuously with both hands, he found himself in a position he imagined would look like a poorly executed pushup from the ground.

Inches from his face was a window inset with a single pane of wire-reinforced safety glass. In the split-second glance, he saw what looked to be the office and customer receiving area of the shop. Nothing to see here . Only your typical office accoutrements: threadbare furniture, a pair of desktop computers, dented metal filing cabinets, and a lone desk with an open phonebook-size catalog, its parchment-thin pages showing line drawings of parts necessary to save foreign and domestic iron from the car crusher.

Sensing hesitation, Taryn said, “Just do it, Wilson.”

He shot back, “This isn’t a Nike commercial,” and launched vertically off the boom. Success! He got enough elevation to hook his left arm over the edge. M4 banging against his tailbone, he dug deep and found the strength to pull his weight up to where he was able to get the other arm hooked over the parapet. The rest was easy. Feet scrabbling against the wall, he pushed up with his arms, twisted his torso, then crashed to the roof, ending up on his back and staring at the clouds scudding across the gray winter sky.

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