Read Online Sometimes We Ran (Book 2): Community by Stephen Drivick - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Drivick
Tags: Zombies
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I heard a few shots go off. They were not effective. I heard a male voice from the front. “Dammit! Can’t get a shot!”
“Go outside and shoot,” the female voice said.
“I’m not going out there. The place is swarming,” the male voice answered.
While the two people in the front of the van argued strategy, I began to lose the battle to the zombies. There was just too many of them, and they were too strong. They began to slowly drag Mitch to his doom, and Claire and I along with him.
Then, the inevitable happened. Mitch was nearly out the door when an unseen zombie outside sank its teeth into his arm. Mitch let out a blood-curdling scream and went limp. The gang of zombies at the door began to drag him out quicker, as I lost my grip. Mitch looked at me with panicked eyes, but he knew it was done. Another Red-Eye forced its way into the van and bit him on the neck. The bite caught his jugular and blood exploded all over me. I caught it mostly on the face and chest. The copper taste of blood tingled on my tongue. With that, Mitch was dragged, screaming from the door. At least half a dozen Red-Eyes converged on Mitch and began to feed. I slammed the door shut on the deadly scene, and collapsed to the floor of the orange van.
“Let’s go!” Claire yelled. The female driver floored the gas, ran a few zombies over, and pulled away from the gravel path.
I sat up, feeling weak and wasted. My hands, face, and chest were covered with blood. Mitch’s blood. I felt dizzy.
Claire steadied me, and we sat down on the floor. I tried to wipe the blood off. “Claire, I’m covered in blood.” I was very close to passing out. The world began to go a little dark.
Claire produced a handkerchief from her pocket and started to wipe off the blood from the battle at the door. “It’s okay, Tiger. I got it.” She put her arm around me and tried to clean me up.
All the while, the two people in the front seats argued about what happened. The female driver slammed her fists on the steering wheel, and said, “Dammit! Goddammit! We lost Mitch!” Her histrionics caused the van to weave from one side of the road to another.
“Take it easy,” her male companion said. “We did our best.” He glanced at the two of us in the back seat. “I hope they’re worth it.”
The female driver glared at us from behind the wheel. “They better be. They got Mitch killed.”
We drove up the country road, and then turned onto a main route. Claire did the best job she could in cleaning up the blood, but my shirt and jacket were still stained. During our trip, the sun finally came up and began to brighten the sky. Claire and I got our first look at our rescuers. The driver was a tall redhead with glasses. Her long hair was fastened into a ponytail. The male was a young man with a scruffy beard, who didn’t look more than twenty-five years old.
The trip was quiet with little conversation. Neither the redheaded female or her male teammate riding shotgun talked to us at all. Claire and I were quiet, as well. Several times during the trip, we thought maybe they were going to dump us on the side of the road and drive off. Thankfully, the ride continued.
Our rescuers stuck to the back roads. After a few turns, we arrived at our destination. A tan stucco wall appeared at the left. A sign with the words “Cannon Fields” in large, gold, flowing script was attached to the stucco wall near a tall iron gate. A large sheet of plywood was nearby, spray-painted with a bright orange skull. Spray-painted skulls were usually bad news. They were painted by rescue crews when all they found in the houses they searched were zombies.
Someone opened the gate and slid it back. The redhead swung the wheel skillfully, and brought the van inside. She stopped at a little guardhouse. An African-American man approached the van as the redhead rolled down the window. He leaned on the windowsill and leaned into the van. A rifle with a scope was slung on his back.
“Go outside and shoot,” the female voice said.
“I’m not going out there. The place is swarming,” the male voice answered.
While the two people in the front of the van argued strategy, I began to lose the battle to the zombies. There was just too many of them, and they were too strong. They began to slowly drag Mitch to his doom, and Claire and I along with him.
Then, the inevitable happened. Mitch was nearly out the door when an unseen zombie outside sank its teeth into his arm. Mitch let out a blood-curdling scream and went limp. The gang of zombies at the door began to drag him out quicker, as I lost my grip. Mitch looked at me with panicked eyes, but he knew it was done. Another Red-Eye forced its way into the van and bit him on the neck. The bite caught his jugular and blood exploded all over me. I caught it mostly on the face and chest. The copper taste of blood tingled on my tongue. With that, Mitch was dragged, screaming from the door. At least half a dozen Red-Eyes converged on Mitch and began to feed. I slammed the door shut on the deadly scene, and collapsed to the floor of the orange van.
“Let’s go!” Claire yelled. The female driver floored the gas, ran a few zombies over, and pulled away from the gravel path.
I sat up, feeling weak and wasted. My hands, face, and chest were covered with blood. Mitch’s blood. I felt dizzy.
Claire steadied me, and we sat down on the floor. I tried to wipe the blood off. “Claire, I’m covered in blood.” I was very close to passing out. The world began to go a little dark.
Claire produced a handkerchief from her pocket and started to wipe off the blood from the battle at the door. “It’s okay, Tiger. I got it.” She put her arm around me and tried to clean me up.
All the while, the two people in the front seats argued about what happened. The female driver slammed her fists on the steering wheel, and said, “Dammit! Goddammit! We lost Mitch!” Her histrionics caused the van to weave from one side of the road to another.
“Take it easy,” her male companion said. “We did our best.” He glanced at the two of us in the back seat. “I hope they’re worth it.”
The female driver glared at us from behind the wheel. “They better be. They got Mitch killed.”
We drove up the country road, and then turned onto a main route. Claire did the best job she could in cleaning up the blood, but my shirt and jacket were still stained. During our trip, the sun finally came up and began to brighten the sky. Claire and I got our first look at our rescuers. The driver was a tall redhead with glasses. Her long hair was fastened into a ponytail. The male was a young man with a scruffy beard, who didn’t look more than twenty-five years old.
The trip was quiet with little conversation. Neither the redheaded female or her male teammate riding shotgun talked to us at all. Claire and I were quiet, as well. Several times during the trip, we thought maybe they were going to dump us on the side of the road and drive off. Thankfully, the ride continued.
Our rescuers stuck to the back roads. After a few turns, we arrived at our destination. A tan stucco wall appeared at the left. A sign with the words “Cannon Fields” in large, gold, flowing script was attached to the stucco wall near a tall iron gate. A large sheet of plywood was nearby, spray-painted with a bright orange skull. Spray-painted skulls were usually bad news. They were painted by rescue crews when all they found in the houses they searched were zombies.
Someone opened the gate and slid it back. The redhead swung the wheel skillfully, and brought the van inside. She stopped at a little guardhouse. An African-American man approached the van as the redhead rolled down the window. He leaned on the windowsill and leaned into the van. A rifle with a scope was slung on his back.
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