Big Mack felt hopeless. He was dying slowly from a gunshot, the undead were swarming all around him, and he didn’t think he could make it down to the docks before bleeding out. He sat down, right there on the sidewalk, leaning back against the wall of the theater. More than one ghoul went walking by him before one finally took notice, an old woman missing half her right hand and all of her nose. She turned her rotted face towards Big Mack and veered from her course, stepping up onto the sidewalk and moaning eagerly as she reached out for him. Big Mack went to raise his gun but changed his mind. The woman was a foot away when her chest blew outwards, spraying Big Mack with shards of yellowing spine and chunks of decaying lungs. The woman stumbled forward and fell on top of Big Mack. Her jaws snapping shut an inch from his neck. He pushed her away and she rolled onto her back, looking up at the biker. Someone stepped in front of Big Mack and blew the old woman’s head apart with a shotgun.
The man with the shotgun turned and Big Mack recognized him as the man who had questioned Bobby just outside the gate the first night they had come to Covington. Big Mack tried to remember his name but couldn’t. He couldn’t even remember how long he had been in this walled off city. A week or two? A month or two? Hell it felt like it could have been years. The man crouched down.
“Bit?”
“No, shot.”
“By who?”
“My friend,” Big Mack said.
“Not much of a friend,” the man said. “Get up. We have to get to the boats. Someone can fix you up once we’re on one.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to,” the man said, shifting to crouch next to Big Mack and slide under one of his arms. He stood, practically lifting the large biker up by himself. Big Mack worked to get his legs under him and then he could help bear some of his own weight. The wound in his stomach was screaming, and Big Mack felt as if the thing had been ripped even wider.
“Come on. One foot in front of the other. You shoot,” the man commanded and then they started off, limping slowly down the main street, the ocean glittering under the sun in front of them, the scene between them and the boats was one of madness. Here and there a zombie would approach them head on, and Big Mack would lift his gun, his hand and arm shaking violently behind it. He had become an expert marksman since the dead came back to life, hitting them in the head with one shot more often than not, but now, fighting the pain, walking slowly forward, Big Mack found himself needing more and more shots.
“Leave me,” Big Mack said to the man beside him, but the man shook his head.
“No, we can both make it. We have to.”
And so they continued on, plodding and painfully. Big Mack kept his head down, lifting it only when the man beside him warned him of an incoming zombie, and each time he was shocked to see how little they had moved forward, the ocean seemed as far away as it always had.
The man said nothing when a zombie grabbed him from behind and yanked him away from Big Mack. He was simply there one minute and gone the next. Big Mack fell forward, the handgun scattering from his grasp, sliding a few feet away along the pavement. He rolled over onto his back just in time to see the zombie biting into the man’s neck.
Big Mack’s mouth fell open when he realized the undead ghoul was Bard. Bard pulled his head back and tore the man’s flesh, stringing a line of skin and tendon and gristle in the air between his clenched teeth and the man. Blood sprayed up and hit Bard in the face, running down over his lips and off of his chin, falling onto his dirty shirt below. The man dropped his shotgun and clutched at his wound, his skin already turning ghostly white. He stumbled away and Bard started after him when Big Mack spoke.
“Bard?”
The zombie stopped, wheeling back to face Big Mack, teetering slightly on his feet. The he stepped forward, and followed that with another step. Big Mack came to his senses and backpedaled on his hands and feet, his stomach raw and painful. Big Mack reached blindly behind him, sweeping his hand back and forth in search of his gun. Finally he had it, pulling it towards by the butt, lifting it and aiming as Bard bore down on him.
“Bard, I’m sorry,” Big Mack said, sighting in his friend’s forehead. But he couldn’t pull the trigger. Big Mack sat there unable to shoot his undead friend, instead just watching as the man came nearer and nearer. Finally Big Mack had to do something, if he sat there any more Bard would be on top of him, so Big Mack swung the gun downwards and pulled the trigger. Bard’s right kneecap exploded, sending the zombie twirling down to the ground. Big Mack struggled to stand, even as Bard began pulling himself forward, dragging his now useless leg behind him, leaving a dark reddish brown trail behind him.
Big Mack limped towards the docks, making his way through a scene of terror. He put down any undead he had to, but let others go by if they didn’t seem to pose a threat, his ammunition was greatly depleted. When he could, Big Mack stole a glance up ahead to the ocean, his heart falling each time, it seemed the ships were leaving in droves and the rate of desertion was steadily
