Both three-quarter-ton pickup trucks seemed comparatively new and, happily, free of occupants. With any luck, each had a full tank of unleaded gasoline.
Heading toward the one on the grass, I noted the statue impeding it was a memorial to the eleven Hazlehurst citizens who’d perished in a horrendous tornado in January 1969. The historic plaque affixed to it also mentioned the widespread damage the F4 funnel had wreaked throughout the town.
Since the community of Hazlehurst had seen fit to erect such a simple obelisk commemorating that particular tragedy, I could only imagine the one appropriate enough to mark the present disaster—if there were even enough residents left to memorialize, well, anything.
“So,” Casey whispered, “how should we do this?”
I hadn’t been able to pull close enough to either truck to transfer the fuel directly into my van. The tubing simply couldn’t cover the distance. Instead, Casey and I would have to take turns filling the jerry can and emptying it into the van’s gas tank as well as the converted black-water one, which were each concealed by a lockable panel on the driver’s side of my van.
After explaining the plan to him, I connected each hose to a different end of my pump, then handed one to Casey—as well as my keys and the empty gas can. Once he had checked the undercarriage for any more undead stowaways, he unlocked the two panels, unscrewed the special caps I’d installed on the gas tank and black-water container, and slipped the tube inside the jerry can.
Meanwhile, I released the fuel door on the crashed pickup, slipped my own tube inside the gas tank, started cranking, and immediately struck gold.
“Awesome! It’s full.” I almost added how terrific it felt to encounter some good luck for a change, but I decided not to jinx myself.
Casey grinned, then while George kept watch, her son and I took turns siphoning the gas from the pickup and transferring the fuel to my gas tank and former sewage receptacle.
“Joe,” Casey asked at one point, “where do you think everyone went?”
We each scanned the area around us, searching for any sign of life… or even some walking dead.
“I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”
He nodded. The video-game glaze I’d often seen in his eyes had faded away—as if he’d finally transitioned into adulthood, with all the grown-up dread that accompanied it.
The siphoning process took longer than I’d hoped, but half a dozen exhausting trips later, Casey and I had successfully drained both trucks. Probably nabbed about thirty gallons all told.
Not a bad haul.
I was grateful not only for the fuel but also for the relative ease of the process. Exhausting, yes, but fortunately without incident.
In typical fashion, however, I’d just had my moment of gratitude when the gas stations finally exploded in quick succession, startling me and my companions and sending debris all over that part of town. Though far enough away to avoid taking damage, I still figured we’d overstayed our welcome.
“OK, guys,” I said, shaking out the tubing, “that’s our cue.”
The rear doors of the step van opened, and Clare leaned outside. “Time to go!”
George backed toward the open doors, her weapon at the ready. Casey and I hastily gathered all the equipment, but while heading back to the vehicle, we heard a whimper, followed by a sneeze.
Casey turned, looking past me. “I don’t think zombies whimper like that. Or sneeze.”
Nodding in agreement, I pivoted toward the truck behind me. “Thought I made sure it was empty.”
But Casey had locked his gaze on the dumpster beyond the truck. “The sounds came from in there.”
An internal alarm—or just the knowledge gleaned from years of watching horror movies—warned me not to investigate.
Nothing good can come from this stupidity.
Fairly certain, however, that zombies didn’t utter such sounds—I ignored my intuition and set down my siphoning equipment, then unholstered my Glock and circled the truck. Casey told his mom to stay near the van, then raised his pistol and followed me to the far end of the dumpster.
“There’s a body,” Casey said, aiming his weapon toward the ground, between the rear wheels of the pickup and the caved-in portion of the crushed dumpster.
A decaying zombie, with half its guts leaking onto the pavement and no head in sight, lay in a puddle of its own filth.
“Well, that’s lovely,” I quipped. “Wonder what happened to the head?”
“Not sure I want to know.”
Another sneeze sounded, as if taunting us. Casey was right—the noises had definitely come from inside the dumpster.
Keeping a wary eye on our surroundings, we carefully approached the smelly trash receptacle.
“Hello?” I asked, my tone apprehensive.
When no sound emerged, not even another whimper or sneeze, I tried again.
“Hello? Anyone in there?”
Suddenly, a shrill, girlish scream erupted from inside the dumpster.
“What was that?” George cried from the other side of the pickup.
“Just stay with Clare,” I hollered back.
Then, before I could stop him, Casey gripped the closest lid and tried to lift it. But the damn thing wouldn’t budge. The pickup had pinned the dumpster to the brick wall of the drugstore and crumpled its metal side against the lids.
“That’s not gonna work,” I said. “The crash crimped it shut.”
As I glanced toward the pickup, hoping to find a helpful tool in the backseat, I heard movement inside the dumpster, like someone scuttling backwards, followed by more shrieks.
“Get me outta here!”
Muffled and tinny, the voice unmistakably belonged to a teenage girl.
“Hang on!” I shouted back, opening the back door of the pickup and searching for something, anything, that would enable me to pry open one of the lids.
“Hurry! Please!”
“Why don’t we just push the truck away?” Casey suggested.
“That won’t help… but this will!” I emerged from the backseat, triumphantly gripping a crowbar.
I wedged the business end of the
