Vinnie collapsed to the ground as Lenny shot him through the back of the head.
The leader butt-stroked Lenny. “You fucking mook! You got blood and brains all over me!” he yelled at Lenny’s prone body.
Lenny’s face was swelling rapidly; broken blood vessels began to turn purple and blue. Lenny turned his gun on the leader. “You ever do that shit again, Sam, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
“I hope you give me more warning than you did Vinnie,” Sam laughed as he reached a hand down to help Lenny up.
“I was really hoping they were going to shoot each other,” Brian whispered to Paul. Paul nodded in agreement.
“If nothing else, it looks like they forgot about us,” Paul answered.
Sam bent down and picked up the gun Vinnie would no longer be using. They walked past the hidden trio, more interested in what potentially lay behind, than to the sides.
“They’re heading towards our truck,” Brian said.
“Should I shoot them?” Mrs. Deneaux asked.
“No,” Brian said, “you won’t be fast enough with that bolt action and I can’t even hold my rifle.” He left unsaid Paul’s marksmanship skills or lack thereof.
“We’re screwed if they take our truck,” Paul said.
“Yeah, we’re also screwed if they shoot us,” Brian said.
“Maybe Mike is already back at the truck,” Paul said hopefully.
Brian was in the midst of standing when Mrs. Deneaux’s claw-like hand gripped his bad shoulder. He nearly swooned from the pain. But it had the desired effect as he fell hard to the ground. Brian was about to let loose a litany of choice swear words as a small tribe of seven speeders ran by.
“Fucking Grand Central Station,” Paul cursed, making sure the zombies were well past.
They could all hear the roar of an engine start up ahead.
“Well that settles that,” Brian said. “We need to get another ride.”
“This is all jacked now!” Paul said with some alarm. He was beginning to break down, Brian had seen it numerous times in combat. Some people just don’t deal well with accumulating stress.
“I sure could use a cigarette,” Mrs. Deneaux said.
“How is Mike going to find us?” Paul asked, his voice rising over the sound of the oncoming truck.
Shots began to ring out, a large thud was immediately followed by the screeching of tires and the sound of a large heavy object hitting an immoveable tree.
“Should we check on it?” Paul looked to Brian.
“Busted truck, seven zombies, two armed hostiles, don’t see the up side, Paul.”
“We can’t stay here,” Mrs. Deneaux said wisely. “That noise is going to bring more of one or the other or both. And as much as I enjoy both of your company, while we lay here in the grass, I would rather be sitting in a car with a warm cigarette in my hand.”
“I can’t believe they just took our ride,” Paul said angrily.
“I bet that’s not the worst thing they’ve done today,” Brian said, getting up gingerly, his shoulder aching. He could feel a flush coming on his cheeks and knew that he was going to need antibiotics soon to fight off any infection the bullet may have allowed to enter in to his body. The closest bottle was in the truck that now sounded like Sarajevo, and not the good Olympics one, but rather the war torn one of a few years later. He thought to possibly wait for the outcome of the battle and then finish off the survivors, no matter of what variety and grab what he needed. But more speeders ran by as the three refugees melted deeper in to the woods.
For an hour, they followed the road, but always remained hidden in the brush. The way was slow going, but the chance of being seen was minimal.
Brian finally brought them to a halt as exhaustion began to set in.
Brian was making a decent showing of going slowly to allow time for Mrs. Deneaux to keep up, but the evidence of Brian’s infection was on his face. His complexion had paled considerably and sweat dripped from his features, though the weather or the exertion didn’t merit it.
“You look worse than I feel,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she sat on a small stump.
“Holy shit,” Paul said, finally taking notice of his walking partner. “Let me see your wound.”
“I’m fine,” Brian said, swaying slightly in a non-existent breeze.
Paul cautiously pulled Brian’s shirt up; deep red lines radiated out from the entry wound in Brian’s stomach. “We need to get you some meds,” Paul said.
“How could he be sick so fast?” Mrs. Deneaux asked.
“What do you mean? He got shot,” Paul said with some heat.
“I understand that. But he shouldn’t already be showing these signs of infection. It takes at least one or two days to get those symptoms. Something else is going on here.”
Paul stepped back, Brian’s shirt fell back in place. Brian felt like decisions were being made regarding him, but fever was beginning to cloud his judgment and all he wanted to do right now was lie down.
“Sergeant Wamsley reporting for duty,” Brian said as he went to the ground, mostly under his own power. Paul placed his head on a small patch of moss.
“He’s burning up. We need to get him some help,” Paul said.
“I think it’s too late,” Mrs. Deneaux said coolly, finally getting to light her smoke up.
“What are you saying?”
“You can’t really be that dense, can you? I really would have thought Michael would have a better screening method for his friends.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that and you’ll explain to me what I’m apparently missing.”
“He’s dying, and fast, from the looks of it,” she said, taking a large drag off her cigarette.
“We just need to get him some pills and he’ll be fine.”
“Nothing short of a medical team and a blood transfusion are going to save him now, but I’ll allow you your fantasy.”
“You’ll allow me? How fucking considerate!” Paul shouted.
“I’m wondering if he’s turning into a zombie,” Mrs. Deneaux pondered, completely ignoring Paul’s outburst.
Paul couldn’t help himself, but he moved from his protective stance next to Brian to one in which he had a better angle to see if any change had taken place.
“I see that you think that too,” Deneaux laughed.
“I didn’t, until you said it. We need to go get him something to help,” Paul said, fear fighting bile to be the first to root itself firmly in his throat.
“We? I think not. I’ll only slow you down and someone should stay here to keep watch over him,” Deneaux said, pointing to the prone figure of Brian with her cigarette holding finger.
Paul doubted her sincerity on the whole “keeping watch” part, but she was slower than a three-legged tortoise racing in molasses when it came to walking through the woods. “I’m not even sure where we are,” Paul said with some rising alarm. The thought of going out on his own was not sitting well. Paul looked all around, the trees suddenly looking very constricting.
“You can wait a few more hours until he dies. Then we can leave here together, dearie,” Deneaux said, completely catching Paul’s anxiety attack.
Paul trudged out of the woods and onto the roadway, trying his best to gauge their location. It would do no good to get what he needed only to find out he didn’t know his way back.
Paul heard Mrs. Deneaux cycle a round into her rifle. He fully expected to hear the shot ring out as she “took care” of Brian’s illness.
“Twit,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she watched Paul’s conscience at work. “He’s as dead as this one,” she said as she casually kept the rifle pointed at Brian’s head.
She wasn’t overly concerned with her future survival. She was a survivor, always had been and she saw no
