As if to prove my point, the occupants smeared their filthy hands across the windows, which were already covered in blood and zombie goo. Roused by our bright lights and rumbling engines, the zombified hippies evidently sensed our approach, as their moans loudened and the flailing intensified.
Despite the obvious danger they posed to us, I couldn’t help but notice how ominous our looming, weapon-wielding shadows seemed, cast against the giant peace symbol emblazoned on the driver’s side of the Bus.
George chuckled. “Suddenly, I feel like ‘the Man,’ showing up to kick the hippies off the muddy field… shutting down the concert for good.”
Neither of us had been alive in August 1969, when the infamous Woodstock Rock Festival had occurred near Bethel, New York, but still, I appreciated the reference.
“You damn kids,” I quipped, “get off my lawn.”
She laughed once more, but before I could join her, a zombified palm smacked one of the windows facing us—hard enough to crack the glass.
I frowned. “Guess they didn’t think it was all that funny.”
From our vantage point, I could tell the driver’s-side door was locked, so George and I quietly circled the vehicle to the passenger side. Not quietly enough, though, as the ravenous occupants immediately shifted their focus to our new location.
Many of the undead creatures I’d encountered so far seemed a lot smarter (or at least more aware) than those depicted in much of the zombie lore I’d previously read, heard, or viewed. They didn’t merely smell brains, or fresh meat in general; they also relied on sight, sound, and a keen sense of movement.
As I lingered by the side doors, readying myself to open one, George leaned toward me.
“I think there’s only two of them in there,” she whispered.
I gazed at the dirty windows. “I don’t know… looks like too much blood and goo for just a couple of ’em. But I hope you’re right.” I shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”
“So, how do you want to handle this?”
“Tell you what,” I replied, holding out my badass battle axe, “how ’bout you take this?”
Without hesitation, George laid her tire iron on the road and gamely accepted my weapon. “OK, now what?”
“Now, I’ll open the door, but only partially… enough so one of those fuckers can stick its head out…”
“And then I brain it,” she concluded, hacking the air with my axe.
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
She grinned. “Sounds like a plan.”
I took another gander at our surroundings, just to make sure no unwanted visitors had arrived, and then I grabbed the door handle with both hands. “On three. One… two… three!”
Figuring the Bus had a few years on her, I assumed the door wouldn’t open smoothly, but as I tugged the handle, it damn near flew out of my hand. And naturally, the zombies inside were ready to bolt.
Almost immediately, what had once been a slim-yet-muscular eighty-year-old man tried to launch his undead body through the gap. Hastily, I adjusted the opening—which turned out to be much easier said than done.
For an old wrinkled fucker, he was pretty damn strong—or perhaps the foulness running through his zombie veins had made him so. Either way, he didn’t intend to go meekly to his final doom. As I attempted to lessen the gap, he strived to widen it—so it took all my dwindling strength to repel his impressive force and shove the door against his neck, pinning his head in place.
Once again, George didn’t hesitate. She swung the axe downward and whacked the zombie’s balding noggin with a sickening thunk, splitting his skull.
Hard to believe I’ll ever get used to that sound. Pretty fucked up if I do.
The dead zombie slumped downward, and George yanked the axe from his disgusting head. As she did so, she peered inside the Bus.
“You’re right. That’s an awful lot of blood for only two zombies.”
Before I had a chance to respond, the second creature—also a male octogenarian—propelled himself forward. Clearly, all the activity had thrown him into a frenzy, as he appeared to have every intention of finishing what his unfortunate pal had started.
Rather inconveniently, he had a much thinner frame than his compatriot—which he’d twisted in such a way that his head and torso had squeezed outside the vehicle before my fellow zombie-killer noticed the danger.
“George, look out!” I shouted, a bit louder than prudence would advise.
“What the…” She stumbled backward as a gnarly hand reached out to grab her.
Despite my efforts with the stupid door, the old dude managed to brace himself on his dead hippie friend and, with an incredible burst of energy, leapfrog out of the van. He landed in an awkward crouch on the bridge but immediately started to rise.
Evidently caught off guard, George retreated too far and ended up slipping on the road’s steep shoulder. Inevitably, she lost her balance and tumbled down the embankment, but luckily, she caught herself before sliding into the creek. The blunder might’ve bruised her ego, but otherwise, she seemed unharmed.
Unfortunately, though, that left only one target for the zombie.
That’s right… yours truly.
And of course, George still clung to my axe, leaving me empty-handed.
As the zombie righted himself and headed in my direction, I reached for my pistol. I could hear Clare and Casey hollering from their respective vehicles, but I didn’t have time to ease their minds. As much as I might’ve longed to, I couldn’t flee to the van either. Not with George in such a tight spot.
Despite the imminent peril, I didn’t want to shoot the creature. For all I knew, the damn forest was jam-packed with the undead. A gunshot could lure them toward us, like ringing Sadie’s dinner bell for fresh human meat.
Suddenly,
