“Come on, Lenny. I cut myself. Get that gun outta my face!” Vinnie yelled.
“What are you two hollering about?” the leader said, turning to face the other two men.
“Vinnie says he’s cut,” Lenny said.
The leader turned his gun on Vinnie. “You know the deal, Vinnie. Let’s see it.”
“It barely got me,” Vinnie cried, “it’s more like a nip.”
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.