Now as voracious as the zombified scouts that had killed him, Bob lifted what remained of his left arm in a desperate attempt to grab me. His exposed jaws slowly opened and closed, his teeth clacking rhythmically. It reminded me of Azazel whenever she tried to slow-bite Clare’s arms, legs, and butt—only Bob’s efforts were far less cute.
Though he’d lost both of his hands and much of his legs to the little bastards, he still managed to roll over and drag himself toward me. With every inch, he continued to snap his jaws in a constant staccato. A gruesome and disturbing scene.
As I retreated toward the office doorway, I aimed the Glock at the former ranger’s skull. But before I pulled the trigger, I realized a loud-ass gunshot could make my escape less probable. Lowering the gun, I shifted my gaze around the station—in search of a quieter method of finishing Bob off. My eyes settled on the solid base of the water cooler, which had toppled over a few feet from where I stood.
“Sorry, Bob,” I muttered, picking up the heavy dispenser and positioning it over his balding head.
Then, with as much force as I could muster, I brought the full weight of the cooler down onto his skull. Yes, it made a resounding thud upon impact, though not as noticeable as a gunshot. Yes, it was the grossest sight I’d ever witnessed, though doubtlessly not the last. And yes, I started dry-heaving when Bob’s brain matter squirted onto my shoes. But seeing his still frame quickly snapped me out of it.
I pivoted Bob’s waist just enough to unhook the keys, then stepped carefully over his body. With extreme caution, I peered through the giant hole that Casey had created during the daring rescue with his precious battle wagon—a vehicle that I trusted could no longer make the long journey to northern Michigan. After a few seconds, I emerged into the moonlight.
At the bottom of the low hill that elevated the station, I paused to scan the clearing. A handful of teenage zombies lingered, dispersed several yards apart from one another. Luckily, none of them had spotted me yet, so I quickly made for the ranger’s SUV.
In a classic horror-movie mishap that usually elicited a snarky comment from me or Clare, I fumbled with the keys and dropped them on the ground before finding the right one.
“Shit.”
Afraid the nearby zombies had heard my muttered curse, I unlocked the driver’s-side door, climbed behind the wheel, and sealed myself inside.
Unfortunately, three of the roving zombies had noticed me and lumbered in my direction. Since I’d observed plenty of speedy creatures over the previous few days, I assumed these ones were simply as lazy and shiftless as they’d been prior to the spread of a world-ending infection. Typical of the current generation, they didn’t believe in laboring for their food.
I put my foot on the brake pedal, inserted the ignition key, and turned it forward. But nothing happened. Ignoring the moaning zombies closing in on me, I turned the key a few more times.
Same result. A dead engine—and an extremely fucked Joseph Daniels.
“Come on,” I shouted, shaking the steering wheel in frustration. “Can this shit get any more cliché?”
Chapter
15
“Well, I wouldn’t argue that it wasn’t a no-holds-barred, adrenaline-fueled thrill ride. But there is no way you can perpetrate that amount of carnage and mayhem and not incur a considerable amount of paperwork.” – Nicholas Angel, Hot Fuzz (2007)
As the surrounding zombies edged closer, I realized why the SUV wouldn’t start. In the idiotic ranger’s haste to push us inside the station, he’d inadvertently left his headlights on. Normally, they’d have gone off by now, but he must’ve switched them to manual when he’d parked near our campsite.
“Fucking brilliant.”
I couldn’t possibly lug all the guns back to camp on my own—or frankly outrun the curious zombies encircling me. In the past few minutes, the total number of undead had risen from four to nine, which included the lazy teenagers plus two adults and three kids that had wandered out of the darkened woods and into the moonlit clearing. Any one of them could ensure a gruesome end, and naturally, all were headed in my direction.
Quickly, I hopped out of the car. The awkward adolescents and sluggish teenagers were still fifty yards away, but the two adults would soon pose a problem. My only option? To grab as many guns as I could reasonably carry and leave the rest behind.
Before popping the trunk, I scanned the area once more. My roving gaze settled on the ranger’s golf cart. Without hesitation, I darted toward it, spotted a key resting in the ignition slot, and promptly turned it. Unlike the SUV, the cart seemed to have a full charge.
To be fair, I wouldn’t classify the open-air two-seater as a standard golf cart. Rather, it was a hybrid between a golf cart and a rugged ATV—complete with seatbelts, headlights, windshield wipers, a padded roll cage, large all-terrain tires, and a spacious cargo bed at the rear—ideal for hauling a shitload of unwieldy weapons. Unfortunately, electric batteries powered this one, not gasoline, so it wouldn’t exactly be the fastest ride.
Oh, well, better than having to walk through a sea of the undead.
I slid onto the seat, cranked the wheel, and made a beeline toward the SUV. After parking alongside the rear end, I unlocked the ranger’s trunk and grabbed an armful of guns, but before I could deposit my initial load, the first zombie finally reached me. While the kids and teenagers had yet to cover the distance between us, the two adults had certainly picked up speed. Fortunately, I spotted them in my peripheral vision.
I whirled around just in time to duck beneath the swiping arm of a tall, clean-shaven, uniformed man in his early thirties. As I retreated a couple of steps, I noticed a gaping wound in place of his left shoulder.
Luckily, one of
