Red Runs the River by Tony Urban

Author:Tony Urban [Urban, Tony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Packanack Publishing
Published: 2018-03-24T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mead's feet felt like two sausages squeezed into heavy, leather casings. His steel-toed work boots weren’t meant for walking twenty miles a day and he was half-afraid his little piggies would be destroyed by the time they got back to Brimley.

After the mess at the bridge, Wim rode Gypsy and Aben continued riding the younger, unnamed mare. Mead utilized Pablo's bicycle until he got a flat tire a few days later. Ever since, he'd been walking. And he grew more pissed off with each passing mile.

Almost as bad as the throbbing pain was the fact that their already plodding pace had been further slowed. The other men needed to keep the horses at a slow trot so Mead didn't fall too far behind. The fact that he was bringing up the rear and constantly smelling horse farts and avoiding piles of steaming horse shit didn't do a thing to better his sour mood.

So, when he heard rustling in a thicket of brush off the side of the road, he was more than willing to take a detour into the weeds and kill whatever was making the racket. It would do him well to take his frustrations out on something.

He stuck his middle and index fingers in his mouth and let loose a shrill whistle to get the attention of the men who were ten yards ahead. They looked back to see what the ado was about.

Mead pointed to the scraggly brush that lined the road. "Something in there."

"Need some help?" Wim asked.

Mead shrugged his shoulders. He imagined he could handle it on his own, but he'd seen plenty of overconfident men and women die the last few years. "Up to you."

The men turned their horses in the road and trotted back to him, but Mead wasn't willing to wait. He looked down at Price who varied between walking beside him and the horses. He quite liked the dog, even if he thought Prince was just about the worst name ever, and he didn't want to put him at risk.

"Stay, Prince."

Prince flopped down on his hindquarters, his tail thudding back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Mead grabbed one of his conduit spears and held it at the ready as he pushed through the weeds. They were hard and dry and clawed at his clothing like skeletal fingers and so dense he couldn't see anything but the thicket scraping past the mask of his helmet.

He didn't like going in blind. He knew he should wait for the others. He often told himself that anyone who got killed by zombies more than a year into the apocalypse died from stupidity, not zombies, and he knew what he was doing at the moment was stupid.

But he pushed on, confident that his protective gear, and the fact that he didn't have a single square inch of exposed flesh, would protect him even if something awful laid ahead.

Three strides in and the brush thinned out. He could see a small clearing ahead and a muddy pond in the midst of it.

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