Courtney believed that no one, including the soldiers, knew exactly where they were going to begin with. Maybe they thought they were safe as long as they kept moving, but all she knew was that it was deafening in the back of the deuce-and-a-half. Kids were crying, moms were crying. Most everyone was screaming for answers and receiving none at all.
Courtney stayed mostly quiet. It was at this point she began to wonder when and if she would see her parents again. The “if” part—actually realizing this “zombie” problem could really be really, really bad—end of the world type of bad, and actually realizing there may never be a “when”—was most of the reason for her silence. And then there was another lingering thought; a thought that had her hating herself and questioning her own situation: In the rush, her father had used wheat bread to make the sandwiches. She hated wheat bread. She knew he knew she hated wheat bread. So, she postulated, he wasn’t in any real danger, not if she was mad at him for using wheat bread—she still needed to explain to him one more time how wheat bread made her gag.
She kept the bottles of water her father had stuffed into her backpack, but gave away the rest. The oranges and sandwiches shut up some of the kids at least for a little while and gave their moms—and Courtney—a bit of a break. It made her feel like there was at least a little something she could accomplish while being held hostage by the military. It made the situation seem less bad.
Two women sitting across from her—whom she recognized as her lesbian neighbors four houses down—were spreading a rumor that they were all being taken to the LaCosta Community Building. Apparently the National Guard had seized it for use as a rescue station. Sheriff’s stations and hospitals were getting too crowded and dangerous, so citizens in the area were being urged to make their way to the community building. It was under armed guard, the women said, and there were doctors there that could administer aid to anyone who had been bitten by a zombie. They saw it on CNN, they further stated, shortly before the White House attack. Rescue stations were popping up all over the country.
What got Courtney, however, was the casual way people were throwing the word “zombie” around. It was real. It was happening.
Zombies.
—What the hell?
Someone else, a girl Courtney recognized from her fifth period Botany class, made a point that if the Marines—and the entire United States for that matter—couldn’t protect the White House, the most blatant, symbolic icon of their country, then how could they possibly protect a few people tucked away in some community building along the north Florida coast?
This statement quickly shut up the two women who had been talking about the rescue station, completely obliterating their upbeat attitude. This also turned out to be a mistake, because her gay neighbors’ positive outlook had been the only thing preventing everyone in the deuce-and-a-half from resorting to tearful panic.
Had Courtney been able to relive this time of her life, she would like to have been the one to restore order—the one to explain how everyone was going to be all right—explain to them that if the enemy is already dead, then how tough could they possibly be? Looking back, Courtney wanted to be the one to help, because when this all really happened she was no different than the rest: Trembling and feeling completely pathetic and helpless.
The convoy wasn’t stopping. If they were really going to take them to one of the self-described “rescue stations,” then they would have already arrived there.
After ripping the velcro and lifting up the camouflaged canvas on the side of the deuce-and-a-half, she could catch a glimpse of the outside. She was able to recognize, just barely, that they had crossed over to
Courtney knew that if the National Guard could just come to her door and drag her away from her father, then it was highly likely they were dragging everyone else out of their homes as well.
It was her first taste of martial law.
She figured that the Army thought it wiser to remove people from their homes so they could be safer, but in reality, well-boarded windows and doors were ten times safer than the “rescue” the uniformed men claimed they could provide. It didn’t matter where a mob of zombies decided to ambush someone, but being stuck with a company of soldiers meant being forced to sit back and watch while scared little kids in uniform waved their guns around.
Courtney had hoped that her father was wrong; that his pessimistic view of soldiers had been just that—pessimism. Unfortunately, in the days following her father’s speech she witnessed more testosterone-driven power trips than acts of heroism from her would-be saviors. She wanted to be back home. She was willing to bet that her father was turning their house into a virtual fortress at that very moment—taking apart the tables and removing all the interior doors from their hinges and nailing them over the windows. It seemed like something he would do—something strong, something smart.
Then, causing more panic, one of the women with Courtney thought it was wise to mention that anyone bitten by a zombie was bound to die and become one of them. It was the bite, she said, and not death by any other cause. If you were bitten, you became one of them. There was no cure, she said. You would die, you would come back, you would bite others, and the cycle would repeat unto infinity.
For weeks and even months later Courtney would try to convince herself this wasn’t true. If it was, then it meant her parents were really dead. Her mom had been bitten and Courtney knew her father wouldn’t leave her all alone. They still seemed to love each other, at least as far as Courtney could tell, and they would be together until the end. Her mother would have died and came back and attacked her father.
And the cycle would repeat unto infinity.
This all really didn’t sink in for Courtney just yet. She had no sooner begun to remember how sick her mother was when the deuce-and-a-half she was riding in started to slow down. All that could be heard was the sound of the vehicles in the convoy burning their diesel.
She lifted the canvas and peeked outside once more. The sun was barely looming over the horizon. She could see the interstate directly below but didn’t recognize which one; She had never been this far into
Looking beyond, all the way to the front, Courtney was able to see what had stopped the massive line of trucks, halftracks, and humvees: a gaping chasm where a bridge should have been. It was enough to stop any army—provided, of course, that that army was alive.
The convoy remained halted there for what seemed to be at least several minutes, but nobody was doing anything. She kept hoping she would see a bridgelayer drive by.
But then, off to the right, something else got her attention. There were several people—six or seven, at first—coming over the hill, stumbling over the guardrail and crossing the interstate, headed for the convoy. A few moments passed and by the time Courtney realized what was happening, that these were not survivors seeking refuge, the soldier driving the truck shouted, “DEAD ONES!”
First came the sound of screaming from within the deuce-and-a-half, then came the sound of automatic machine gun fire. She saw hundreds more—just like the others—come stumbling over the guardrail. Bullets were hitting them, she saw, but they kept coming. Even though they were only silhouettes to her, she could see some of them being ripped to shreds by the mounted gun on the halftrack up ahead. At least thirty seconds of nonstop shooting passed, but the line kept advancing and soon they were only several yards from the convoy. Whenever one of the shadowed figures finally fell another was there to take its place, and there were still hundreds more of them coming over the guardrail—literally thousands in all. Before Courtney brought her head back inside the truck, one of the figures in the vanguard stepped into the headlights of the truck behind her and she saw its face.
It was a man, but the nose was missing and an eyeball was out of its socket and dangling against its cheek like a paddleball. It was limping from a bullet that had destroyed its left kneecap. But it kept coming, it’s mouth open, teeth shining and saliva drooling all over its chin.
It looked hungry.
Then the hysteria truly began.
The women and children with her were all screaming, some already splitting the velcro and pouring out of the truck through the ripped canvas. Courtney, all alone with no friends or relatives, found herself knocked down and nearly trampled underfoot. Then, when she was able to look up again, she saw that those with her were not jumping from the truck—they were being pulled.
There was screaming and the sound of gnashing teeth.
Surges of automatic gunfire were few and far between now, being replaced with the quieter pop-pop-pop sound of handguns. Though she knew very little about the military and even less about war, she did know that handguns were called sidearms and they were used as a last resort when all the bigger weapons had failed.
She brought herself to her feet, instinctively gripping the straps of her backpack as she cowered shoulder-to-shoulder with the six or so women and girls that were still in the truck. They stayed towards the center, away from the sides. Dead arms were ripping through the canvas and grasping at the air inside.
Something she remembers more than anything else was that there were no children left inside the truck with her. There had been at least twenty of them earlier, but now they were all outside, and young, pre-pubescent screams were the last reminder that they had even existed.
Looking back on it, Courtney wasn’t sure how she herself survived this part. She and all the others had allowed the children to be taken. They hadn’t even tried to protect them. They were too busy protecting themselves. By rights they should have met their own end alongside them. But there was no justice. She knew that anyone who was alive five years later was alive because others had died, more than likely distracting the undead just long enough for the rest to escape. In the months that would pass, however, things would change and she would learn enough to help others while she helped herself.
But back then, during the slaughter of the convoy, she knew her actions were utterly shameful.
There were hundreds of dead arms probing through the canvas of the deuce-and-a-half and one of the cold hands finally caught a prize—the woman next to Courtney. It grasped at her skirt and pulled her just enough for other hands to latch on. They yanked her through the canvas, kicking and screaming, and then she was seen no more.
No one had tried to help her.
Courtney wasn’t sure if she could have been helped, but she wished she had at least tried. She had seen the woman’s face, gripped in terror, begging with incoherent screams for the others not to be cowards—to help her.
But no one so much as extended a hand.
Then there was a jolt—a sudden impact that reeled Courtney and the others, sending them off balance. The entire truck—two and a half tons of it plus passenger weight—had been sent careening down the interstate. They felt several bumps, probably caused by hundreds of bodies being rolled over and crushed beneath the tires. When she and the others brought themselves to their feet again, this belief was further reinforced by the fact that there were no more dead arms reaching through the canvas. A single blindingly-bright light was now shining at them through the back.
Together but alone they opened the tail flap. The truck behind them, another deuce-and-a-half, had rammed theirs and now the two deuce-and-a-halfs had become one big hunk of metal junk. As Courtney peered over the headlight that illuminated the entire transport area, she saw the driver of the other truck, a military man, be pulled out through his open door and into the arms of several hungry walking corpses.
She doesn’t remember now what happened to the others that were with her, but she knows they didn’t make it. She only remembers climbing onto the steaming engine of the truck behind her and then up and over the windshield and then onto the flimsy canvas on the roof.
Maintaining her balance on her hands and knees, she saw the scene in its entirety: Thousands upon thousands of dead people, some split into smaller groups as they feasted on someone who had been alive, the others still in mobs as they tried to get a meal of their own—all brightened by the headlights and searchlights of the scattered trucks in the convoy.
It was luck—and nothing more—that the truck carrying her had been sent out of the encircled area with a push from the truck behind it and into the guardrail on the side of the interstate.
It was dark on the other side of the shoulder, but she didn’t see anything moving. She could see what might be a small creek down the hill, followed by a lot of trees, but nothing was moving—nothing that would get her.
She jumped. This leap of faith was far from graceful. Somehow she had turned sideways but—again, out of luck and nothing more—her backpack full of clothes had softened the fall. However, there was an immediate pain in her ankle as it came down on a sharp rock jutting out of the ground.
She lay there for a second and in that time wondered if this was where a mob of hungry hands would circle around her and tear her apart like she deserved—if this was going to be the end of her.
She heard moaning to her right. Investigating with a simple turn of her head, she saw a soldier lying about ten feet away clutching his knee. His camouflage uniform was covered in blood and the pain in his face was evident.
She heard moaning to her left. Turning her head the other way she saw another girl there, roughly her own age, crying into her palms. She didn’t seem physically hurt in any way, but she didn’t get up and move. She just cried.
And then there was a set of camouflaged arms that hooked Courtney beneath her armpits and lifted her to her feet. The attached voice said, “Let’s get out of here.”
Though she knew her ankle might be broken, she still couldn’t summon sound from her voicebox. She just stood there, looking into the soldier’s face, trembling.
The soldier picked her up into his arms. He carried her down the hill at a full running stride, crossed the creek, and then went up and over the opposite hill, away from the slaughter.
He ran for what seemed like the longest time.
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