ZombiePalooza - Anthology

#TeamInsidesAndEntrails Pt. I - @Holly_Gonzalez's "Raze the Dead"

Raze the Dead

By Holly_Gonzalez

Time was supposed to heal all wounds. Even wounds of the soul.

Bullshit.

Six months out of Afghanistan, and Tom's knuckles still whitened around the handlebars as he approached the blockade. Ahead, four cop sedans and a handful of officers obstructed the road.

Tom's throat clenched. Heart racing, he slowed his motorcycle and approached the squad.

A memory arose. God, no. Not now. I just have to get to town.

A tall officer waved, beckoning him closer.

It had happened like this. Six months ago. Reversed, but just like this. Nate...fucking shit.

He'd glimpsed Hell on a sweltering afternoon, not far outside of Kabul. His unit was stationed at a routine checkpoint. A truck with a cracked windshield had rolled up, carrying several nondescript Afghan citizens.

His best buddy, PFC Nate Turnbull, had shaken hands with some children in the back. Lowered his guard for a moment. Always friendly with the locals.

One simple handshake marked the end. A scrawny teenage boy had reached into his tunic, shouted praise to Allah, and pulled a switch. The world burned. Nate was obliterated, along with the truck, the boy, and all the passengers. Tom had leaped behind a transport and somehow survived. Ears ringing, skin charred, soul crushed.

Those scars remained, the pain still fresh. The Gila Crossing police officers before him were like that checkpoint in Afghanistan, demanding identification as Tom himself had once done.

Fuck this.

Tom slammed his brakes, swerved his bike around, and gunned the engine. He fled down the road in the opposite direction.

The police hurried to their vehicles and pursued. Sirens wailed in the glare of flashing lights. Tom accelerated. His cycle was built for speed. He'd souped it up himself. The Arizona desert blurred around him. Dry, dusty land, blue sky with no clouds. The sirens sounded hollow and distant.

Where am I going? What the hell am I doing? His thoughts clashed with instinct. Only a mile to Serenity Ranch, his home away from home. Supposed to be a place for healing. He was leading the cops right to the doorstep, but he had nowhere else to go.

Tom cut a hard right off the road and tore through the ranch's steel entry gate. The law still trailed him. He braked in the driveway, The bike's tires scattered a long cloud of dust.

The cops pulled in, skidding over gravel. All six officers poured out of their vehicles with firearms drawn.

"On the ground. Now!"

Tom got off the motorcycle. He put his hands behind his head and lay down on his stomach.

The front door of the house swung open, and a gray-haired woman in a Southwest-patterned sun dress sprinted down the steps.

"What's going on?" Wynnona Yates ran to Tom. Her eyes were glued to the cops and their guns.

"Sorry," Tom said, his cheek pressed to the ground. "I fucked up again."

Wynn mumbled something to herself, then shouted to the cops, "You can put those guns away, Deputy Maxson. Tom isn't a criminal." Wynn was well-known in town. Even the police respected her.