On the right of the convoy was Fishlake Forest and Thorton briefly thought about camping there for the night, figuring the trees would serve as a decent natural barrier, but that would require him to actually discomfort himself, which Thorton thoroughly believed beneath his dignity. The fact that his dignity had taken a serious blow just moments before was already forgotten.
Travel went fairly swiftly and Thorton and his men started to get the notion that they would be able to take the highways most of the way across the country, saving a lot of time and trouble. The simple truth that the convoy had been on the road for a week and had not experienced any serious threats should have been a warning, but such was the arrogance of the group that they believed themselves to be possessing better luck than most.
The joy ride came to an end after they crossed into Colorado on I-70 and came near Grand Junction. The gridlock became much worse and Thorton could see many cars that showed signs of violence. Two accidents had snarled the majority of the cars and the steep embankment showed signs of cars that had tried to get off the highway and go around the mess. Several were rolled over and upside down at the bottom. More than a few cars had active zombies in them, clawing at the windows and struggling in their seatbelts. Whole families had been turned and it was weird to see a family of four twisting in their seats, acting for all the world like they had decided to take a zombie holiday, wound up in traffic and now needed to use the bathroom.
Thorton radioed back to the second truck. “Send two men up to see if we can get around this.” He was not happy, but he was practical. The road curved around a hill and Thorton wanted to see if the logjam was just here or if it extended beyond.
The two men moved forward and with a nervous glance back at the safety of the trucks, weaved their way into traffic. The cars were close together, with barely enough room to walk through. The panic had caused the motorists to drive four abreast on a three-lane road, using up most of the available room. The soldiers walked quickly past the occupied cars, fingernails claw at windows while dead faces pressed themselves against the glass, snapping at the food just out of reach.
As the men kept moving, they noticed that some of the vehicle’s occupants were dead, but not zombies. They were usually lying together, huddled into little balls. Bloody handprints covered the windows and it was not difficult to figure out that these families had been trapped in their vehicles, not able to get out and slowly dehydrated while the dead moaned and clawed at the windows. What sort of desperate last hours that must have been, slowly dying while ghouls leered and slavered for flesh just inches away? What kind of feeling of failure did parents feel when they helplessly watched their children die, crying for relief?
The men kept moving and they reached a point where the attacks on the occupants had become much more vicious, cars with broken glass and blood splattered everywhere. Body parts that had been ripped off were scattered about, a large number of them fingers and hands. Many cars had been abandoned as people ran from the attacks, further jamming the traffic. Here hands grasped the air as the men approached and hungry eyes followed their every move.
Looking for an alternative route, the men looked to the side of the road, but one glance over the side rail tossed that notion. The land dropped quickly and at the bottom of the hill was a crowd of around fifty zombies. They were simply milling about, drawn to the scent of death from the road, but when they saw the men looking down at them, they groaned their hunger and tried to scramble up the hill, but it was too steep.
One of the men realized that the zombies stuck in the cars couldn’t reach very far. Jumping up onto a hood, the soldier scrambled over the car, avoiding the rotting hands that grabbed at him as he passed. The other soldier realized he was being left behind and recognizing the value of the idea, quickly jumped up on another vehicle and proceeded to move forward.
Back in the first truck, Major Thorton was waiting impatiently, but smiled as he saw the men climb up on top of the vehicles. Gonna have to promote that little smarty, Thorton thought to himself. He adjusted his belt, which held his favorite firearm, a Smith amp; Wesson Model 629 in. 44 magnum. It was a custom job in its previous life and had a three inch barrel, ported to help recoil. Thorton had relieved it from its previous owner, who had used the large handgun to turn his head into a bowl.
The men reached the corner and disappeared for a moment, reappearing again as they made their way back. They seemed to be moving faster than they had been heading out and Thorton was curious until he saw the large horde of zombies working their way through the cars in pursuit of the soldiers. It said something about the discipline Thorton utilized, as these men had not stayed and fought, but used their heads and ran from a fight they couldn’t win, saving their butts and their ammo.
The men made it back to the vehicles just in time for the major to order a turnaround of the vehicles. They drove quickly away from the advancing horde, but Thorton didn’t want to backtrack any further than he had to. So when the road leveled out, he ordered the trucks to head off the highway and off road it in the direction he wanted to go. He was unaware of the second horde that was at the bottom of the hill waiting for him as he moved his men closer to the slaughter.
The men who scouted and knew what they were getting into, screamed at Captain Tamikara to radio to Thorton, that they were headed to disaster. Tamikara relayed the information but received, “Thanks. Keep moving,” as a reply. Tamikara was sure Thorton was going to get them killed, but he had no choice but to follow. If he broke off and went his own way, he would be killed by Thorton if he lived and ever caught up to him again. The Captain shook his head and wondered for the millionth time why he ever hooked up with this lunatic.
For his part, Thorton finally saw the danger and realized he had made a bit of a mistake. But as he looked at the horde, he realized they were hanging around the hill and were away from the flatter part of the land. “Gun it.” Ken said to his driver and relayed the same message to the trucks behind. They bounced precariously over unseen obstacles, but managed to get past the majority of the horde before the zombies had the wit to turn and start after. Two of them were directly in front of the truck and were mowed down where they stood. The struck zombies smashed to pieces and gooey bits of ghoul stuck to the windshield. The driver never slowed and slewed the truck around a large group, sideswiping several of them and sending them flying in the opposite direction. The rest of the horde, which had begun chasing the trucks, groaned their frustration as the fresh meat quickly drove away.
Thorton smiled, noting the danger in the mirror. It was a close call to be sure, but as long as the vehicles kept moving and didn’t hit any obstacles and get stopped, they would pull through. The last vehicle, not keeping as close as they should have, wound up slamming into several zombies and running over several more. They bounced over the bodies and nearly lost control, but the driver kept his head and swerved around the growing horde. As they pulled away, several zombies spun along the ground and struggled to get up with broken legs and arms. Some didn’t get up at all.
Driving away from the zombies, Thorton’s driver had his hands full finding a route suitable for a truck that wouldn’t damage the undercarriage. After a particularly nasty bump, the Major growled, “We need to find a road.”
The driver nodded and pulled to a stop in a small open area. The highway could be seen to the north and Grand Junction just beyond. The driver pulled out a map and quickly scanned where he was and where they wanted to be. “Sir, we can get on Route 50 and take that around Denver, where we should see less of what we just went through,” he said.
Thorton glanced at the map. “How soon?” he asked.
The driver looked at the map, checked his bearings and said, pointing East. “Five miles that way.”
“Go.” Thorton knew the horde behind them would be catching up if they stayed much longer and they had no idea what they were going to meet in the country. If Grand Junction was infested and it was likely as hell that Denver was, then there was probably hundreds, if not thousands, of zombies roaming the countryside in search of something to chew on.
The convoy moved slowly through the country, passing small ranches and homes, each one abandoned and desolate. Thorton idly considered spending the night in one of the homes, but they were too close to the towns for comfort and he knew the sound of the engines would draw out many more zombies than were currently here. Sound carried far in the open country and he could already see stirrings on the horizon and near the dark draws. It was past noon and they were going to have to find a defendable place to spend the night.
In a short time, they came across a road, which after a brief check of the map took them north to an intersection. At the intersection, the driver stopped for a second, then turned right. His faith was rewarded by a bullet-marked sign labeled Route 50. Thorton looked over at his driver and said, “Well done.” The driver beamed.
The radio crackled to life. “Sir?”
