Frankly, I didn’t think she would’ve cared either way. She was too busy mourning the loss of her mother.
So, facing the grimy windshield again, I readied myself for yet another ill-advised stunt. The speed and pressure of our vehicle was bound to weaken the rickety-ass bridge even more, but anything was better than creeping across, certain we weren’t going to survive our latest challenge.
“Everyone, hold on,” I yelled, then hit the gas and hoped for the best.
To say we made it by the skin of our teeth would be a massive understatement.
By the time we neared the other side, the van sliding and vibrating in a bone-quaking manner, I could feel stability slipping from my grasp. From the wrenching sounds and heart-stopping reverberations beneath and behind us, I knew the bridge was literally collapsing under our tires. The boards cracked and split. The water splashed from the weight of wooden slats and undead children. And the din of groans and hisses morphed into a cacophony of grunts and shrieks.
Guess even zombies don’t feel much like drowning.
Just as I prepared myself to join them in the watery grave below, the front tires hit the opposite bank, spun through the gravel, and labored to maintain traction. Unfortunately, the entire bridge—slats, railings, and rivets alike—crumbled under the enormous strain, and before I could get all four of my tires on solid ground again, the back end of the rig dipped dangerously below the bank.
At the last moment of our journey across the hundred-foot span, we’d ended up at such a severe angle that I assumed the vehicle would soon tip backward and tumble into the Homochitto River.
Before I could lose all hope, however, and call it quits forever, a fucking miracle occurred. First, the two zombies still clinging to the roof slipped off the back, lessening our overall weight, and then, with a squealing of tires and a grinding of gears, my trusty girl—yes, I considered all vehicles female—managed to propel us forward and off the disintegrating bridge. Gravel flew as I sped down the road, refusing to hit the brakes until we’d reached something resembling safety.
Glancing in my side-view mirrors, I watched as what remained of the Breaux Bridge plummeted into the river, taking a ton of undead scouts with it.
Finally free of our carnivorous pursuers—at least for the moment—my cohorts and I exhaled a collective sigh of relief. But naturally, I couldn’t stop yet. I needed to put some distance between us and the zombies, just in case it took me longer than anticipated to change the compromised tire. The Fix-a-Flat sealant had saved our asses in the cemetery and given us enough time to flee the undead, but I knew it wouldn’t hold forever. As indicated by the sensor warning on the dash, the punctured tire was still a problem, and now that the undead cacophony was behind us, I detected an unnerving clunking sound in the general direction of the tire.
I had no idea what the pounding, grappling zombies had done to my baby, but I figured it couldn’t be good.
Chapter
19
“If I werenʼt about to shit in my pants right now, Iʼd be fuckinʼ fascinated.” – Jack MacReady, Slither (2006)
Worried about both the low tire pressure as well as the metallic clunking sound coming from the front driver’s-side area, I slowed my speed and stopped about three miles from the collapsed bridge. Any farther and I feared a blowout would propel us into a pine tree.
We were far enough away that I didn’t think any remaining zombie kids could easily spot us. Of course, for all I knew, none of the horde had drowned, as I’d hoped. Besides the fact that I had no inkling of the river’s depth, which might be less than a few feet, I also surmised that, as undead creatures, the zombified scouts and troop leaders likely didn’t require oxygen to survive.
So, perhaps instead of drifting toward the juncture of the Homochitto and Mississippi Rivers, they’d simply piled atop a shallow riverbed and inadvertently created a writhing ramp tall enough for some of their undead cohorts to scramble safely toward the far bank.
Even still, I hadn’t yet seen evidence to suggest zombies could outrun a vehicle at thirty miles per hour. So, unless one of them was the undead equivalent of an Olympic sprinter, I figured they could no longer see, hear, or smell us—meaning they’d probably lose interest in the chase and seek out less-elusive quarry.
I didn’t want to bet my life on that assumption, though, especially when other undead creatures—maybe a few more eighty-year-old hippies, for example—might be wandering in the nearby woods. I only intended to be outside long enough to change the punctured tire—and while it was close to two a.m., I figured my headlights and the ever-present moonlight would enable me to see well enough to tackle the job myself. No need for the glaring, zombie-luring floodlights.
“Casey, you mind helping me with the tire? Two of us could do it quicker.”
“Sure, Joe. Happy to help.”
I nodded toward the Desert Eagle still clutched in his hand. “Bring your gun.”
He grinned. “Absolutely.”
After removing my gloves, pocketing the keys, and grabbing the tire iron, I turned back to George and Clare. “You two can just stay inside and keep a watch on the road. See anything, let us know.”
Clare didn’t respond—or even glance my way—but George nodded.
“You got it, Joe.” Her brow furrowed. “But be careful. Both of you.”
Casey rose from his seat. “Will do, Mom.”
With my tire iron at the ready, I peered into the cool, eerily silent night, paused to make sure the coast was clear, and then hopped to the ground. Once Casey had done the same, I secured the door, and the two of us headed to the rear of the van, where I’d stowed the two spares beneath the undercarriage.
I only hoped I’d
