“OK, everyone, just fight as hard—”
I didn’t have a chance to finish the sentence. The explosion halted my breath and strangled my larynx.
Luckily, though, it wasn’t the door that had burst asunder. With headlights blazing and the engine revving, the battle wagon had crashed through the front wall, immediately to the right of the blocked entrance. Tires and brakes squealed as Casey stopped just short of his mother.
“Casey!” she yelled, her face aglow with elation and relief.
The kid was smart, savvy enough to have traced the ranger’s tracks to the station, assessed the dire situation, and aimed for one of the weakest parts of the structure. Likely figuring we had barricaded the front door, he’d instead targeted one of the adjacent windows, gunned the vehicle up the short hill, and hoped for the best.
Glass, wood, and wiring spread out across the once-spotless floorboards of the newly constructed station. Steam spewed from beneath the wagon’s hood, no doubt suffering from the impact. Undead children and chaperones lay beneath the chassis, including the unfortunate fat kid. Some were too smashed to move, while others still squirmed futilely.
Beaming proudly at us, Casey opened the driver’s-side door, climbed out of the compromised vehicle, and allowed his mother to envelop him in a bear hug.
Clare and I were both delighted to see him. In fact, the touching scene might’ve kept us mesmerized had Jill not brought us all back to reality with a deafening shot from the ranger’s gun. While the rest of us were distracted, she’d hit one of the little beasts who’d brazenly scrambled over the station wagon and leapt into the room. Even in her fading state, she’d managed to nail the boy in the head.
Bob, startled enough by the crash to drop his baton yet again, grabbed one of the folding chairs stacked against the wall and hesitantly moved toward another breach, where three zombified scouts had tumbled through a side window. He swung the chair wildly at their heads, clocking two of them but not enough to do much damage. While a full chair seemed like a better weapon than the chair legs Clare, George, and I wielded, Bob wouldn’t have been able to swing the damn thing hard enough or fast enough to incapacitate multiple zombies.
Without our guns, we were screwed.
“Everyone in the wagon,” I yelled.
An unnecessary command, as it turned out. My entire party was already way ahead of me. I pivoted just in time to spy Jill scrambling into the backseat. George had positioned herself behind the wheel, and Casey sat beside her. Clare tugged my sleeve, trying to drag me toward the car.
“No, you all go without me.” I shoved her into the backseat, beside her mother, and slammed the door shut. Then, despite Clare’s protests, I fixed my gaze on George. “Try to lead them from the building. I’ll meet you at the campsite.”
“No,” Clare cried, reaching toward the door handle—but finding it rather difficult with Jill squeezing her arms and torso from behind. “Baby,” my wife screeched, tears streaming down her face, “what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m gonna get our guns. Now, go!”
Through the partially open passenger-side window, Casey handed me the ranger’s Glock. Jill must’ve given it to him before foiling Clare’s escape.
“Good luck, Joe,” he whispered.
I nodded. “Keep the girls safe.”
“Will do,” he promised as he rolled up the window.
Before Clare could wrench herself free of her mother’s iron grip, George shifted gears, floored the gas pedal, and successfully reversed through the ragged opening. I kept my eyes on Clare’s anguished face, until a shriek behind me ripped my attention away.
Whirling around, I spotted Ranger Bob lying on the ground. Using the flimsy wooden chair, he desperately tried to shield himself from the half-dozen scouts that had surrounded him. But he’d already lost the battle. Beneath his torn shirt, I could see a sizable wound on his forearm.
His screams amplified as the pint-sized zombies ripped large chunks of flesh from his thighs, arms, and torso. Spurts of blood splattered against the closest wall, but there was nothing I could do. Dude was definitely a goner.
In the clearing, tires squealed as George halted, shifted gears, and tore down the road. Now that my companions were safe—at least temporarily—I needed to make my move. So, with the zombies inside focused on the flailing ranger and the zombies outside trained on the fleeing battle wagon, I slunk into the rear office, climbed into the empty water-cooler box, and pulled the flaps over my head.
Since none of the scouts or their chaperones had yet breached the rear windows, I trusted that none of them had noticed my disappearing act. At least, I hoped as much—and thanked the universe that, in spite of my fatigue, sore muscles, and lack of flexibility, I’d refrained from knocking the box over in my speedy effort to hide.
As I hunkered down inside the darkened space, steadying my breath, and praying to no one in particular that none of the hungry undead would sniff me out, I was compelled to listen to some of the worst sounds I’d yet heard since the zombie apocalypse hit the Big Easy. For two solid minutes—or what actually seemed like two excruciating hours—Bob screamed in anguish and terror as the zombified scouts tore him apart. Eventually, the wails dissolved into garbles as the wounds multiplied and the ranger’s mouth filled with blood.
Despite my long-compromised hearing, I couldn’t block out the frenzied backdrop of thuds, moans, crashes, and ungodly slurping, not to mention the horrendous sounds of Ranger Bob Roberts meeting his horrific (if inevitable) end.
Some things you just can’t unhear.
I only hoped the hungry scouts had devoured enough of his brain to keep him from rising again.
In the meantime, I remained hidden in that ridiculous cardboard box, trying to make no noise, no movement, and praying
