Short answer: They couldn’t. The best we could all hope for was to avoid obvious traps, keep our loved ones safe, and get as far from population centers as possible.
Exactly what I’m fucking trying to do!
Jill shrieked, shoved away one of the ferocious biters, and then gazed up at me, her face racked with pain. With a grim smile, she nodded once and then crumpled to the ground—fittingly right atop the grave of some long-dead person.
The poor woman had obviously had enough—enough of the anguish, the fight, everything—and as the will to live vacated her, there was nothing left to stop the zombified scouts. They piled atop her slender frame, feverishly grappling and clawing their way to what remained of her flesh. Even as she maintained a firm grip on the can.
Apparently, zombies weren’t picky. They’d even devour those who were infected but not fully turned.
I sensed a pang in my chest. I could no longer see her, the woman who, for nearly twenty years, had essentially been my nemesis. The same woman, however, who had given birth to my soulmate and hopefully just saved all of our lives.
As with Samir and Dibya, I owed Jill so much, and yet, I’d never have the chance to return the favor. I just hoped her suffering had ended—and that her sacrifice wasn’t pointless.
Only one way to find out.
I shifted into drive and stepped on the gas. For a brief, terrifying moment, the tires spun, the engine strained, and it seemed as if we’d remain stuck in the damn cemetery forever.
But then, an unexpected thing happened. The zombies not focused on my doomed mother-in-law decided they’d waited long enough for their tasty meals-on-wheels. On all sides, they shoved and rocked us more violently than before. My stomach clenched, my chest tightened, and my head throbbed with concern.
Instead of tilting to the left or right, though, the van lurched forward, and the patched-up tire rotated free of the tombstone. Soon, we were steamrolling over a pack of unfortunate zombie children, veering toward the bridge, and trying to ignore the awful crunching sounds around and below us. The busted tire, still too flattened and unwieldy for comfort, managed to keep us moving—hopefully long enough to get us to safety.
“So long, Jill,” I muttered to myself. “And thank you.”
Chapter
18
“That ain’t a bridge. That’s goddamned pre-Columbian art!” – Jack Colton, Romancing the Stone (1984)
Despite her prickly personality, my recently deceased mother-in-law had had enough brains to recognize her imminent demise and enough compassion and fortitude to do whatever it had taken to spare Clare’s life and the lives of everyone else in the van.
I’d always be grateful for what she’d done… but naturally, we weren’t in the clear yet. Not by a long shot.
While Clare cried over her mother’s death—every sob and sniffle breaking my heart—and George attempted to comfort her with soothing words, I struggled to maintain control over our compromised vehicle. Not an easy feat, to say the least.
The going was almost slower than my analog speedometer could register. Not only did I have to wind my way between and around the weathered headstones that had toppled onto the road over the past hundred years, but the sheer volume of zombies surrounding us also kept the rig at a steady three miles per hour.
More undead kids and adults had joined the fray, replacing those I’d managed to mow down with my front end. Mangled bodies pressed against every inch of the van’s exterior, forming several asymmetric rings around us. Most of the creatures apparently weren’t opposed to trudging sideways and backwards as we ineffectually rolled forward.
Some of the little creeps banged on the windows, some pounded against the walls and rear doors, others hurled themselves atop the hood, and still others managed to climb onto the roof. The cacophony of thuds and moans encircling our metal-and-glass cage made it seem as if we were trapped inside a gigantic amplifier.
“Make it stop,” Clare suddenly cried from the sofa, her shaky voice startling me.
I jerked my head around, my chest tightening with sympathy. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m trying to get us—”
“Joe,” Casey called. “There’s the bridge.”
As George attempted to calm my poor wife, I traced her son’s pointing forefinger to what looked like the most decrepit, piece-of-shit wooden bridge outside of an old Indiana Jones flick.
From the top of the moonlit hill behind us, I hadn’t been able to discern its rotting features—or its age.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I yelled. “Come on!”
The only solid aspect of the so-called bridge was its sign. Breaux Bridge, it read, an apparent tribute to the Cajun town in southern Louisiana. Cross at your own risk.
Yeah, no shit.
Well, at least we had one advantage: The damn thing was barely wide enough for the van, much less the zombies on either side of us.
Still, it was that exact attribute which had alarmed the young man in the passenger seat.
“Uh, Joe,” he said, turning toward me, “I kinda get the feeling this is a pedestrian bridge. Not meant for vehicles. Especially big ones like yours.”
“Don’t have much choice but to keep moving forward.”
Suicidal as that might seem.
Before he or his mom could raise any other objections, I began inching my way onto the ancient structure, the wooden slats creaking and groaning from the strain. As predicted, the narrow width of the bridge gave us a slight advantage. The parallel railings—if you could even call them that—helpfully shaved off the zombies on both sides of the rig, causing a few to roll down the embankment and forcing the rest to pile up behind us.
Of course, our ever-growing horde of groupies would only add to the heavy procession traversing the rickety span—and ultimately threaten to kill us all. I couldn’t do much about the zombies behind us, but I could certainly thin the herd in
