Mark sat in the backseat, to his left Manuel, a medic, the man in the passenger seat was a mechanic, the driver another shooter, like himself. The blue SUV they all sat in screamed down the road, attracting more of the dead to them, but he didn’t care. Mark’s sister was the pilot of that helo. And he had made a promise to protect her. The ones he had promised were now long gone, but the promise still stands.
The snow was heavy on the ground, the last two weeks it’d been relentless. This only made Mark worry more, clutching the rails of his rifle and letting the metal bite into his flesh made sensitive from the cold. It eased the rising panic of thinking of his youngest sister, and only surviving family member, alone and running through hordes of the dead. The silence inside the vehicle was near deafening, all four of the men inside deep in concentration with the task at hand.
The drive would be easy. The roads had long since been cleared and the abandoned vehicles looted and moved aside. It made runs into towns for supplies and transport of approved survivors easier. Mark’s mind, however, was on what could have went wrong with the chopper. As far as he’d known the thing was in pristine condition, maintained and kept with careful scrutiny. He didn’t even want to entertain the idea that she had been shot down. But then that would bring the questions: by who? Why?
The answers he, himself, concocted made him uneasy so he checked his gear as the vehicle took a hard right. His pistol and rifle were silenced, the tac vest he had on was filled to the brim with ammo, and two knives completed the ensemble. Mark didn’t mind being a shooter, hell, he was built for it. Around six feet tall and near two hundred pounds of solid muscle, short cropped brown hair, with a square jaw. The other three in the car were varying builds, but it was more than obvious that Manuel was the shortest and scrawniest of the four. For some odd reason that comforted Mark.
The car took a sharp right turn. And what was the gentle hum of the street beneath the wheels was now the cacophony of dirt and sticks and the like being kicked into the wells and under chassis of the vehicle. Their journey was near an end. The four men looked to the field where the pillar of smoke climbed high into the sky, visible flames licking at the base of it. Jake, the driver began to assess the distance and started barking their orders, “Okay. Ten seconds, no more, no less. If the chopper don’t fly anymore let it burn. Find the pilots. If they’ve turned do what has to be done. If they’re alive we’ll find them.” He shot a look back at Mark, letting him know that one way or another his sister would be accounted for.
The flaming wreckage went from a small picture to just as large as life and the numbers were there, too. The dead were thick and gathered around the downed aircraft, hoping to find a meal made of living human. With some quick maneuvering the driver swung around and cleared a side of the helo for them to inspect, the bodies thunking loudly against the side of their car. Ten seconds to establish what happened. Mark let that thought take over as he let the floodgates of adrenaline fly open.
All four doors were kicked open, four sets of boots hit the ground, four minds started a grim task. The first shout was the mechanic, declaring the chopper useless, the second was announcing there was nothing but a bloody skeleton left of the other pilot, the third said that it was not June, his sister. Mark listened very carefully as he picked off ghouls that got too close to the car and the team. Their ten seconds was up. As they all made for the car Mark noticed a trail of shot zombies leading away from the crash. “She went that way!” The driver acknowledged it as they all climbed back in.
Hope blossomed like a fire with fuel thrown on it as Mark put one leg into the backseat, shifting his weight inside. Then it hit him. A set of rotted teeth came from beneath the car and sunk deep into his leg, right above his ankle. He screamed and tore free his limb, leaving behind some flesh. His door slammed closed and he looked up to find three faces staring at him. Before one of them could reach for their pistol he pleaded with them, “Let me find my sister, first! You can deal with me then. The bite is on my leg. I have at least two hours.” The other shooter began to slowly draw his pistol and Mark tried again. “Please. I have to know.”
Hands began to bang and claw at the windows and doors and the driver finally said, “Fine.” The vehicle was shifted into gear and they began to plow through the gathering horde, following the prominent trail of the dead. Mark watched intently, looking for signs, trying to think how his sister would think. Even as he did, though, he could feel his hope die more and more with every painful pulse of the fresh bite. The SUV danced over holes and small hills, making it more and more excruciating for Mark. In his head he pleaded, ‘Please be alive, sis. Please.’
Almost two miles from the site of the downed copter they found a single room shed in the middle of a corn field, the vegetables around trampled flat by the dead. More than twenty of the ghouls lay on the floor around the shack, showcasing his sister’s ability to shoot. Quietly he removed all his ammunition, his weapons, his tac vest, and had only his pistol in hand. Mark cleared his mind, felt the gun in his palm, felt the last glimmer of hope shining bright that his sister was alive. He placed his hand on the handle, “One shot means she’s alive. Two means go home.” The three nodded in silence, ignoring the dead that were currently stalking towards them as Mark left the car.
Three men watched the dark shack, eyes wide and waiting. Even the constant moans of the dead seemed quieter than a whisper. The first shot rang out, lighting the entire shack, beaming through the spaces between the boards that comprised it. It felt like an hour for the three men, watching, waiting, hoping. Another shot rang out and the shed lit again for a brilliant instant before darkness reclaimed it.
