Zombie Fallout 22 by Mark Tufo

Author:Mark Tufo [Tufo, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mark Tufo

8

MIKE JOURNAL ENTRY 7

There are times, not often and not in the ways you would want it to, when the Universe intervenes and you can only sit back and let it do its thing. We were graced with one of those times. The escaped woman was running back toward us. Only one thing could make a person turn and run toward a deadly threat and that was a more deadly threat. Not sure if that makes sense, you can only die once, I suppose it had more to do with the way you would die. Instant bullet to the brain or torn asunder.

“Zombi!” she shouted.

I thought about quipping how I was starting to get the hang of the language; I had to remind myself there was a time and a place, and this was neither. She was hauling ass.

Stenzel was up ahead, I called out to her, “Stop her! Cut the bonds! If you can, ask her how many!”

“Docenas!” Stenzel called back. All I heard was dos, and I wasn’t overly concerned with two.

It was Jimenez who spoke. “Dozens.” That was a horse of a different color at a color-blind convention; I have no idea how that analogy works, but if it meant we were screwed, then it fit.

“Move! Everyone move, back toward the group!” I shouted. We’d gone through a fair share of our munitions fighting the Brazilian army, there was no chance I wanted to make a stand here and run short. Didn’t smell or hear anything pursuing, but I wasn’t stopping to check either. It was unlikely it was shufflers, but one could hope. By the time I got back to the column they were thankfully up and moving, Kirby had sprinted ahead to warn them. He was sitting catching his breath when I got there.

“Good work,” I told him. He gave me a thumbs-up. We were heading toward the main highway, the one that led all the way to Alaska. From where we were it was just north of a mile. And we maybe had that lead on the zombies. We were moving as fast as we could, but our best was never going to outpace speeders or any of the other mutant varieties. It would be easier to fight them on the roadway, fewer hidden angles of approach, but that also meant we couldn’t hide. Choose your battles, as the old adage goes, or in this case, choose your battlefield.

I was traveling near the end of the bunched-up column, wanting to be near the action once it inevitably began. I breathed a sigh of relief when news came down the line that some of us had already exited the woods and were on the highway. That was great, no doubt about it, but where were the zombies? It was unlikely they’d let a meal go that easily. Was it possible they hadn’t seen our escapee? But she’d been screaming bloody murder. Something was going on. Maybe our prisoner had realized she couldn’t survive out in the woods with her hands tied behind her back and made the whole thing up.

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