Blake hopped in behind him, keys dangling in his hands.
"You know how to drive one of these things?" heasked Blake as he slammed the driver's side door shut. Blake hadn't heard him,so Lou pulled the notepad from his pocket and wrote his question down. He heldit in front of Blake as he adjusted himself in his seat.
Blake read the note and then turned to him and smiled."No, but I can figure it out. What choice do we have?"
Lou nodded his head, and then sat back in the passengerseat, trying to ignore the burning in his shoulder. He watched as Blake triedto start up the engine of the truck, turning the key, doing things with hisfeet, and throwing the stick shift around like a mad man. If Blake couldn'tfigure out how to drive the damn truck, they were going to be in a world ofhurt. The dead were there now, their hands reaching into the open window of thedriver's side, grasping and pawing for anything living and fleshy. Lou leanedover Blake, startling him, as he pushed down the little knob to lock the door.
"Thanks," Blake said.
"Not a problem."
Then the engine sputtered to life. Black smoke drifteddown from the chrome smokestacks, as the engine first rattled and then foundits sweet spot, idling in a diesel din that could be heard by every dead thingwithin two blocks.
"Here goes nothing," Blake said. The gearsgrinded and the engine revved, followed by an uninspiring lurch forward and thestalling of the engine. For a second, the hands of the dead disappeared, andthen they were back, trying to figure out a way to get into the cab of thetruck.
"Shit."
Blake held up a finger, as if to say, "Gimme a sec."Then he reached down below the dashboard and popped a lever to release thetruck's emergency break with a hiss of air.
"Now we're cooking." Blake started up the truckagain, and it roared to life. This time, they managed to keep moving, plowingthrough the dead, forcing them to the side or running over them outright. Asrotten bodies clanged off the metal sides of the truck, Lou hoped that theyweren't too late.
Chapter 8: Swan Dives
Amanda craned her head to the side to see around Rudy'sbulk and to avoid the sight of his dirty underwear every time his pants beganto fall down. She desperately hoped that they would find a clothing store soon.Her own clothing was stiff with sweat, oozing an odor that was equal parts fearand exertion, an unpleasant combo to say the least. If they ever did find aclothing store, she planned to throw her current clothes in the garbage... andmaybe light them on fire as a precaution.
Rudy hiked up his pants again. He needed a belt. Sheadded it to the mental list she kept of things to do: find something that canhelp Rudy hold his pants up. Also on the list were the items "stayalive" and "find food."
She looked behind her at the bodies on the floor, just acouple of stray lost souls turned into monsters. It was a typical day in thepost-apocalypse, a high of eighty-five degrees, nothing but sunshine andrampant death. She held her nightstick in her hand, wishing that she hadn'tlost her sword when they had escaped the movie theater. But the sword hadn'tbeen all that great to begin with. It tended to bounce off bone, requiring moreprecision than she could consistently provide. The nightstick would have to do.
She refocused, trying to bring herself back to themoment. She used a breathing technique that they had taught to her in highschool. She focused on her breathing, bringing the world into view around her.In through the nose, deep unending inhalation. When her lungs were full, shelet the air out through her mouth. The world became sharper, her mind more alert.As she continued breathing, her nerves settled, and the stray thoughts of herconscious mind settled to the ground like dead leaves falling from a tree. Whenthey were all gone, she was in the stairwell, the smell of the dead bloomingoff of their prone bodies.
She felt the stairs through her shoes, beat-up sneakersthat were neither sexy nor all that practical. They offered little protection,but that wasn't important now. Breathing was important. She slid her hand alongthe railing of the stairs, feeling the burn of her thighs and calves as theyascended upwards, moving with the silence that comes from fear.
Her heartbeat slowed in her ears, and she heard therustle of fabric as they moved upwards and the heavy breathing of the peoplearound her. What were they? Friends? Family? They felt like neither, andsuddenly a feeling of loneliness swept over her. Her breathing exercise andcalmness fluttered away from her like a startled butterfly, and there she wasagain, her heart-rate rising, the blood pulsing in her ears, and the thoughtsof her impending doom dancing in her head.
She was alone. No one here cared about her. Everyone thatcared about her was probably dead. For the thousandth time since the worldended, she cursed herself for moving so far from home to go to college. But shehad wanted to escape the dullness of her hometown, a small and forgettable berg.Her hometown was like a Venus flytrap, closing its tendrils around the humansthat lived there, slowly digesting them until they were bitter old people whoknew nothing of the real world. Her parents were two such people. They hadgiven birth to her at an advanced age. By the time she could talk, her fatherwas in his sixties and her mother was pushing forty-five.
They loved her, but the connection never seemed to bethere. They knew nothing of the world she grew up in. The internet was amystery to them. They were content to sit on their porch every evening after along day of working on the farm. Amanda knew that they secretly hoped she wouldcome back to them when college was over, but her first taste of city life hadbeen so freeing, so new. Once she had been in Portland for a week, she knewthat she was
