Wade kept moving.
The city had changed in the span of minutes. Not in the way a storm gathered gradually on the horizon and gave you time to prepare. This was faster. One moment it was traffic and honking and cursing… the next it was terror.
He stayed on the frontage road, cutting north and east as needed, keeping the highway close enough to track but far enough that he didn’t get trapped.
Multiple sirens screamed from somewhere deeper in the city. A constant, jagged layer of noise – car horns blaring, engines revving, people shouting, glass breaking, the dull crunch of metal from another vehicle accident. It all blended into a cacophony that sat over the city like a blanket of smoke.
He ducked briefly into the recessed entryway of a small donut shop. Through the wide glass windows he saw darkness inside. The lights were off. The floor looked empty. No movement.
Good enough.
Wade quickly pulled off his go-bag, unzipped it and reached deep near the bottom until his hand felt the hard, plastic handle of the pistol case. In a swift motion, he pulled the case free, flipped it open and grabbed his Glock-19 compact 9mm pistol. He reached into another pouch and pulled out two loaded magazines. One went into the pistol with a firm click. The other disappeared into the pocket of his lightweight jacket.
He racked the slide, chambering a round, then shoved the gun case back into the bag and pulled the zipper shut.
Now armed, Wade stepped back onto the sidewalk and resumed moving at a hard walk. His jog was gone, burned out by the pounding in his knees and the deepening ache in his lower back. Every few steps, he glanced behind him. He checked storefront windows, scanned parked cars, and crossed alleys and intersections. He still didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he knew enough to keep his head on a swivel.
He passed a strip of half-empty businesses at the edge of a commercial block. A laundromat, a tax office, a vape shop. A nail salon with its front glass door shattered inward. At the far end of the strip sat a small tire and auto shop with its roll-up bay doors open.
Wade approached cautiously and noted the weathered sign over the front door: J&M Tire Shop.
Three service bays. One tow truck parked in the far stall. Two customer vehicles up on jacks. A tiny, empty office with a desk and stacks of paperwork and a small lobby with five folding chairs and two vending machines. No people.
The shop sat close to a road that would eventually lead him toward the foothills. If he could get a vehicle with clearance, something powerful enough to handle side roads or push through debris if the main route was blocked, he might still have a chance to reach the cabin. To reach Chelsey.
Then he heard it.
A scream. Close.
Wade turned sharply.
Across the street, a woman was running hard toward him. Two men were chasing her.
Not men.
Not anymore.
Even at a glance, Wade could see something about them was wrong. Their movements were uneven. Almost like they didn’t have complete control of their bodies.
The woman locked eyes with Wade and ran towards him.
“Help me!” she screamed.
Wade moved a few steps toward her and raised the Glock in a two-handed stance. But the infected were too close behind her. No clear shot.
“Duck.” He shouted.
She kept running. Terror in her eyes.
At forty feet, the thing caught her from behind and dragged her to the ground – biting her neck as she fell face-first into the pavement.
He’d seen men torn apart by shrapnel. Seen bodies opened by bullets and bombs. But there was something worse about this. These things weren’t angry.
They were hungry.
Wade opened fire, striking it in the head. The infected collapsed immediately.
The second one barely hesitated. Drawn by the sound of gunfire, it sprang over the fallen pair and ran directly at Wade with shocking speed.
Wade opened fire twice more. The first round tore across its cheek. The second punched through its face. The thing skidded across the asphalt.
Wade jogged toward the woman, pistol up.
One look was all he needed.
The wound to her neck was catastrophic. She was still breathing, but bright red blood was spurting from the wound. She looked at him and tried to speak.
“I’m sorry,” Wade said quietly, a sadness written in his eyes.
A snarl came from his left.
He turned and saw another one coming from between two parked cars. It was wearing a blood-stained dress shirt and its face and beard were caked with dried blood. Wade fired a shot at the infected and missed. The second round struck its forehead, just above its eye, dropping it mid-stride.
The gunfire echoed off the storefronts and seemed to hang in the air.
Too loud.
Wade backed toward the garage, eyes moving, pulse hammering. He reached the roll-up doors and quickly recognized that they were manually controlled. He grabbed the chain and began lowering the first door. The steel door omitted a dreadfully loud metallic rumble as it rolled down.
Halfway down, he heard footsteps slapping across the asphalt.
He glanced out just in time to see two more infected rounding the side of the building about 50 feet away.
One had been a mechanic, dressed in oil-stained coveralls. The other was a younger woman dressed in yoga pants and a hoodie. Both were running towards Wade.
He let go of the chain and brought up the Glock, firing at the closer of the two infected first. The shot hit the mechanic in his chest and barely slowed it. Wade fired again, this time hitting the neck. The mechanic stumbled but kept coming.
Head.
Wade corrected his aim and fired a third round through the head of the infected. It dropped immediately onto the concrete, landing just inside the garage.
The other infected was only a step behind. She came in fast, sprinting in broken jerky bursts. Wade fired and hit her in the shoulder. She was on him before he could fire again.
He stuck his hand into her throat just as she slammed into him. The impact drove him backwards into a tool cart, knocking it over. Wrenches and sockets clattered onto the floor.
Despite being driven backwards and into the tool cart, Wade’s left hand remained tight on the infected’s throat. Even at arm’s length, he could smell the rot on its breath as it gnashed its teeth open and closed.
He raised the Glock to her forehead and squeezed the trigger, dropping it on the floor of the garage.
The slide on the Glock locked to the rear. Wade quietly cursed California laws prohibiting high-capacity magazines as he reloaded. He put the empty mag into his pocket and quickly resumed lowering the first roll-up door. He found the locking bar and jammed it into place with shaking hands.
One down.
He crossed the garage to the second roll-up door and began lowering the door. Thankfully, this door was much quieter than the first. It rolled into place and Wade secured it with the locking bar. He took a deep breath and moved to the last door.
The third roll-up door took more effort. The track was bent and the door fought him halfway down, shuddering and catching in the frame. Wade realized he was going to need both hands to work the chain. Reluctantly, he tucked his Glock into the back of his waistband and grabbed the chain with both hands. Then he glanced outside and froze.
Even with the sun setting, he could see that the woman’s body was gone.
For a moment, his brain refused to accept what he was seeing. The pavement where she had bled out in front of him was empty except for the dark, wet pool she had left behind.
Wade released the chain, grabbed his pistol and took one careful step out toward the opening.
Movement flashed to his immediate right.
She was already there.
The woman who had just bled out on the pavement in front of the shop had somehow gotten up and drifted along the wall, just outside of his line of sight.
Up close, the wound in her throat yawned open like a second mouth, blood still oozing out. Her face was grey, eyes cloudy and vacant, but her body moved with terrible purpose.
Wade had a split second to react.
He brought his right arm up just as she hit him.
The impact was hard enough to knock him flat. The Glock flew from his right hand and clattered away across the concrete.
The infected landed on top of him with all her weight and snapped her jaws down on his raised forearm. Only the momentum of the fall and Wade yanking backward at the last instant kept her teeth from locking down.
He rolled hard to one side and punched her in the head as he went, more instinct than technique. She rolled with him, one hand clenched onto his shirt sleeve with a powerful grasp.
Jesus. It was strong!
Wade rose to one knee and tried to rip free, but her grip held. Her mouth opened again, blood and saliva stringing from her teeth. He glanced wildly across the concrete and saw a heavy duty wrench lying within reach near the tire machine.
He lunged for it, grabbed it, and swung.
The first blow hit the side of her head with a meaty crack.
She reeled but stayed on him.
He hit her again, harder.
The third strike caved her skull and she collapsed all at once, her grip finally releasing his shirt as she slumped to the floor.
Wade stayed on one knee, gasping, waiting to see if she would move again. She didn’t.
He checked his forearm and, though it was a little tender where the infected’s teeth came down, it hadn’t broken the skin. He was lucky to have pulled his arm away at the last moment.
For several long seconds he heard nothing but his own breathing.
He pushed himself up, retrieved the Glock, and looked down at the infected woman one last time.
“Not possible.” He muttered as he returned to the third door and finished securing it into place.
Yet it was.
And now he knew.
Bites killed you.
The dead don’t stay dead.
And it took a headshot to kill them.
That knowledge settled into him like ice.