100 Days in Deadland (part 1 of the Deadland Saga)

Malice (Chapter 24)

MALICE: The Eighth Circle of Hell

Chapter XXIV

We bolted out the back door. Tack fired the first shots, clearing the patio. Clutch took the lead from there. I gripped my rifle as I sprinted behind him, with Tack at my side. It was still dark, but the coming dawn shed enough light to reveal outlines of zeds waiting in the shadows.

We ran in the opposite direction than we’d come. We ran through backyards, turning at fences and dodging zeds, shooting open escape routes. Once we broke from the herd near the house, Clutch set the pace at a quick jog, faster than any zed but slow enough that we could keep this pace for some time, if we had to.

And we had to. My clothes were soaked and my muscles burned by the time the sun reached into the sky. It was already easily eighty degrees and it was still morning. Body armor held the heat against my skin.

We could outrun any zed easily enough. But more just kept showing up. Around every corner, out of every alley. As soon as we got away from one herd, we’d find ourselves smack dab in the middle of another, and we’d have to zig and zag around houses and cars.

Tack ran out of ammo first. I was out eight rounds later. When Clutch’s rifle clicked empty, I think we all sucked in a collective breath. With nothing but pistols and knives, we kept running. The sun baked my head under the helmet, and I had to drop my rifle and backpack to keep up with the guys’ longer strides. My lungs couldn’t suck enough air by the time the zeds’ numbers dwindled and we reached an industrial park. Clutch slowed to a stop, bent over with his hands braced on his legs, and panted. I fell back against a wall, sucking air. Tack walked slowly, his hands on his hips, while he caught his breath.

Tack huffed, pointed to the north, his finger shaky. “There’s an old bridge that leads out of town just beyond these buildings.”

Clutch reported our status to Tyler, and then faced us. “They got the trucks back to Camp Fox okay.”

“Thank God,” I panted out.

Clutch did a slow three-sixty. Sweat dripped from his brow. “We have to keep moving. Too much open space. We’re easy targets out here.”

As though on cue, two zeds stumbled around the corner. The first, a farmer in jeans and cowboy boots, lumbered forward. At its side came a heavily tattooed biker zed with an intricate dragon climbing its sunbaked arm.

Two shots and the zeds fell. I turned to find Tack with his pistol still leveled where the zeds had been standing a second earlier.

Clutch sucked in another breath. “Let’s move out. It won’t take long for these guys’ pals to catch up.”

It took all my strength to push off from the wall and propel myself forward. Every boot step pounded the pavement. Every building seemed a mile long. We wheezed air. I stumbled over a curb.

At the end of an old warehouse, a bridge waited, its iron trusses reaching upward like welcoming arms. Several cars were smashed on it, preventing any vehicles from crossing.

Bodies rotted on the ground, but surprisingly, there were no zeds walking around.

I came to a stop at the same time Clutch and Tack must’ve seen it. A truck was parked not far from the bridge. The machine gun mounted on back was pointed right at us.

The Dogs were waiting for us.