Chapter
14
“Uh, yeah, okay, that’s about the most awful thing I’ve ever seen.” – Stanley Goodspeed, The Rock (1996)
Eventually, the gurgling, slurping, moaning, and thunking tapered off. Although I knew the horrendous “feast” had only lasted a short time, it seemed a helluva lot longer.
But while I longed to escape the confines of the sturdy (if not zombie-proof) carton, grab our weapons, and haul my tired ass back to the campsite, I first had to ensure the coast was clear.
Beyond my own shallow breaths, I discerned light footfalls shuffling away from the poor ranger, plus some distant groaning outside. I wasn’t yet safe, though; I could still hear the unmistakable sounds of zombies inside the station. In fact, I detected several pairs of footsteps near me in the rear office. One of the creatures even crept past my hiding spot, perhaps seeking out the source of my tempting fresh-meat scent. Naturally, I hoped the smell of Bob’s splattered remains would overpower my own body odor, but as I might’ve mentioned before, luck was rarely on my side.
As the closest zombie loitered inches away from me, grunting in confusion, I quietly aimed the ranger’s Glock upward—just in case. Holding my breath, I suddenly felt a drop of liquid hit my forehead. Probably fresh blood dripping from the zombie’s maw, through the gaps in the box flaps above me.
Despite all the horrific events I’d observed and experienced during the past few days, that was the scariest moment of my entire life. I sensed the unnerving proximity of a soulless monster who wouldn’t hesitate to eviscerate me on sight. The drop of tainted blood rolled down my temple, threatening to touch my right eye. If that happened, I would soon go the route of my disintegrating mother-in-law.
Hell no! I’m not dying like that.
But I didn’t dare wipe my face. Not yet. I couldn’t risk making any movement or sound—however small—that would ensure an excruciating death-by-zombie-brat. Besides, with my luck, I’d end up shifting too much and inadvertently rock the box onto its side, simultaneously alerting the curious zombie and trapping myself within what had begun to feel like a human-sized, TV-dinner tray.
While crouching inside the exceedingly tight spot—my knees, calves, and thighs throbbing with renewed pain—I continued holding my breath, willed myself not to pass out from loss of oxygen, and prayed the zombified scout would soon lose interest.
I knew it would suck to be eaten alive by a bunch of zombies, even pint-sized ones. But all I could do was wait. And wait some more. Even though my lungs ached for air, and my hazy brain was threatening to tap out.
A moment later, the zombie shuffled away. Perhaps he or she was too full of fatty ranger meat to crave Joe-in-the-Box. Or maybe my body odor was less enticing than I’d imagined.
Whatever the case, I gratefully exhaled and started breathing quietly again. A few minutes later, all sounds had drifted away, and I decided the time had come to flee.
If George had successfully lured the undead scouts and chaperones away from the station, my companions wouldn’t have much time to pack up and escape the accursed forest. I certainly didn’t want them to get swamped on my account, but I didn’t fancy being left behind either.
Slowly, I rose on quivering legs and pushed through the box flaps, my pilfered weapon at the ready. Gazing around the dimly lit room, I didn’t notice any lingering zombies—inside or outside the station. Hopefully, they had all followed the battle wagon, as planned—just not too closely for comfort.
Between the moonlight and the knocked-over lanterns, I could see much of the half-finished station, the interior of which resembled the aftermath of an F1 tornado. A large, ragged opening marred the front wall. Broken chairs, busted paneling, glass shards, and other debris littered the floor. Even the water cooler hadn’t survived the undead invasion. Perhaps Ranger Bob had knocked it over during his futile flailing and thrashing, causing the five-gallon jug of water to spill across the floorboards and splash over the bloody, shredded corpse that no longer resembled our clueless captor.
The juvenile zombies had done a number on the man. They’d ripped into his throat, chest, and stomach with gusto. They’d gnawed his legs and arms down to the bone. And they’d apparently taken his nose and ears as souvenirs.
As gross as he looked, I couldn’t simply leap over him and scurry through the gaping front wall. If I still planned to retrieve our guns and return to the campsite intact (which I absolutely did), I had to swipe the keys to his SUV—and trust the ravenous scouts hadn’t accidentally swallowed them.
Cuz, unfortunately, I hadn’t yet learned how to hot-wire a car.
But it’s definitely next on the fucking to-do list.
Ranger Bob Roberts—or what remained of him—lay on his back in a large pool of blood, guts, and black zombie goo. As much as I wanted his keys, I had no desire to kneel in that mess and taint yet another pair of jeans. Choosing instead to sacrifice the soles of my shoes, I cautiously approached the motionless body. Recalling that Bob had attached his keyring to his belt, I leaned over his disgusting midsection and sighed with relief when I spotted a glint amid the mess. But as I reached out to unclip the keys from what remained of Bob’s uniform, a bloody stump smacked against my shoulder.
Instinctively, I jumped backward. “Holy shit!” Startled by my own voice in the preternatural silence, I nervously glanced around to ensure no other zombies were present to hear me.
Satisfied that Bob and I were the only two organisms left in the station, I gazed down at the reanimated corpse before my feet. With all the blood and goo staining the ranger’s head, I hadn’t realized his brain was still intact.
Of course, it
