Read Online Zompoc Survivor: Exodus by Ben S Reeder - Free Book Online
Authors: Ben S Reeder
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of it before I stuck the mag back. The other reason I preferred the back of the truck to riding in the cab was the better vantage point. I could look around in a full circle, and I had an unobstructed field of fire.
“Okay, it’s your ass. Where to next?” she asked as she started the engine.
“Brentwood Street. It’s just the other side of Glenstone,” I said while I pulled the M9 out of its holster. The mag dropped into my hand, and I pressed the round I’d stripped from the other magazine into this one to bring the magazine’s count back up to fifteen, with number sixteen in the chamber.
“That goes right past Battlefield Mall. That’s kind of the opposite of avoiding crowds isn’t it?” Porsche asked as she backed up.
“Yeah, we’re going to have to thread the needle there. St John’s is a little ways north of there, too. Of course, the cemetery is just on the other side of the road, so that’s convenient.”
“Let’s hope we don’t need that.” She pulled out onto the road and wove her way back toward Sunset, heading the wrong way down the split causeway. Shapes began to emerge from the darkness as the fire drew infected to it like moths. We stayed on the road until it rejoined itself, then followed our own treadmarks back into the grass. When we reached the spillway under Campbell, Porsche barely slowed down. A couple of infected jumped over the railing at us, but hit the cement with grisly crunching sounds as the driver’s side mirror snapped off in a shower of sparks. When we burst out the other side, we left a few infected picking themselves up from a cement faceplant on the other side as well. Only one got to its feet. The other three limped along on legs that bent in a couple of extra places. The mostly whole one could run though. Porsche got us back on the Greenways trail, and Flash the Infected Sprinter came up with us. I could hear the slap of his feet against the concrete over the hum of the truck, and a rhythmic grunting. We were pulling away, but not fast enough. The minute we slowed down, he’d be on us. I needed to slow him down or kill him.
I brought the M-4 up and tried to sight in on him with the scope. Between the bouncing of the truck and the way his head bobbed around, there was no way I was going to get a clean kill without wasting a ton of ammo. Orange light from the streetlamps filtered through the trees, and I could make out that Flash was wearing a white lab coat over a suit coat, slacks and loafers. In the dark, it was hard to tell much more than that. The truck angled left, and I lost sight of him for a moment. I risked a moment I didn’t really have to look over my shoulder at the path in front of us. We had under two hundred feet of straight-away left, and I was guessing only half that in lead time on Flash. When I looked back, he had rounded the curve and was headed our way. Why are some of them so goddamn fast? I wondered. Most of the ones we’d seen were slow, like you’d expect from the walking dead. It was why they were called the “walking dead” after all, right? But a few were crazy fast. Like the ones from the hospitals. A half formed theory started to spin in my head.
“Slow down!” I yelled over my shoulder as I flipped the M-4 to burst mode. The truck’s engine dropped a pitch, and Flash started getting a lot closer a lot faster. Suddenly calm, I brought the rifle up to my cheek again and tried to place the red dot on Flash’s chest. When he was close enough that I was pretty sure I’d hit, I pulled the trigger. The rifle bucked against my shoulder and muzzle flare blotted out everything in front of the scope for less than a second. When I brought the barrel back down, Flash was tumbling along the trail about a hundred feet behind us. He slid to a stop, and I reached back with my right hand to slap against the glass. Mentally I counted off three rounds.
“Stop!” I called. The truck slowed and stopped. Behind the infected doctor I’d just
“Okay, it’s your ass. Where to next?” she asked as she started the engine.
“Brentwood Street. It’s just the other side of Glenstone,” I said while I pulled the M9 out of its holster. The mag dropped into my hand, and I pressed the round I’d stripped from the other magazine into this one to bring the magazine’s count back up to fifteen, with number sixteen in the chamber.
“That goes right past Battlefield Mall. That’s kind of the opposite of avoiding crowds isn’t it?” Porsche asked as she backed up.
“Yeah, we’re going to have to thread the needle there. St John’s is a little ways north of there, too. Of course, the cemetery is just on the other side of the road, so that’s convenient.”
“Let’s hope we don’t need that.” She pulled out onto the road and wove her way back toward Sunset, heading the wrong way down the split causeway. Shapes began to emerge from the darkness as the fire drew infected to it like moths. We stayed on the road until it rejoined itself, then followed our own treadmarks back into the grass. When we reached the spillway under Campbell, Porsche barely slowed down. A couple of infected jumped over the railing at us, but hit the cement with grisly crunching sounds as the driver’s side mirror snapped off in a shower of sparks. When we burst out the other side, we left a few infected picking themselves up from a cement faceplant on the other side as well. Only one got to its feet. The other three limped along on legs that bent in a couple of extra places. The mostly whole one could run though. Porsche got us back on the Greenways trail, and Flash the Infected Sprinter came up with us. I could hear the slap of his feet against the concrete over the hum of the truck, and a rhythmic grunting. We were pulling away, but not fast enough. The minute we slowed down, he’d be on us. I needed to slow him down or kill him.
I brought the M-4 up and tried to sight in on him with the scope. Between the bouncing of the truck and the way his head bobbed around, there was no way I was going to get a clean kill without wasting a ton of ammo. Orange light from the streetlamps filtered through the trees, and I could make out that Flash was wearing a white lab coat over a suit coat, slacks and loafers. In the dark, it was hard to tell much more than that. The truck angled left, and I lost sight of him for a moment. I risked a moment I didn’t really have to look over my shoulder at the path in front of us. We had under two hundred feet of straight-away left, and I was guessing only half that in lead time on Flash. When I looked back, he had rounded the curve and was headed our way. Why are some of them so goddamn fast? I wondered. Most of the ones we’d seen were slow, like you’d expect from the walking dead. It was why they were called the “walking dead” after all, right? But a few were crazy fast. Like the ones from the hospitals. A half formed theory started to spin in my head.
“Slow down!” I yelled over my shoulder as I flipped the M-4 to burst mode. The truck’s engine dropped a pitch, and Flash started getting a lot closer a lot faster. Suddenly calm, I brought the rifle up to my cheek again and tried to place the red dot on Flash’s chest. When he was close enough that I was pretty sure I’d hit, I pulled the trigger. The rifle bucked against my shoulder and muzzle flare blotted out everything in front of the scope for less than a second. When I brought the barrel back down, Flash was tumbling along the trail about a hundred feet behind us. He slid to a stop, and I reached back with my right hand to slap against the glass. Mentally I counted off three rounds.
“Stop!” I called. The truck slowed and stopped. Behind the infected doctor I’d just
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