Escape

Paul spread the map out onto his lap, unfolding it on his lap. The center light was on in the car, illuminating the lines but the shadows still made it hard to read. He couldn't get it completely open in the backseat either. He was too close to Michael and Karen for that. He struggled to try and read their direction.

"How far?" James asked from the driver's seat. His voice was even, a sign that he still wasn't over the fight he had with his brother earlier.

"I'm not too sure." Paul said, trying to trace where they were headed. "I think we've got a little while until-"

"New York." James interrupted.

"Yeah," Paul said, "New York." The only light came from other drivers. Their headlights lit up the dark, open highway in front of them. The interstate was packed, and their pace was slow, but they were still moving.

"No," James continued, "I mean we just passed into New York." He pointed to the right where a sign passed by. The white lettering told them they had entered the limits of the state.

"I'm glad we skipped Erie." Karen said to no one in particular.

"Me too, honey." Her husband had an arm around her and was stroking her shoulder, his head against hers. It didn't stop him from shooting the driver a glare now and then.

A lot of cars were passing them by from the shoulder, and Michael had to wonder why his brother wouldn't just join them. It would make the trip faster. A state troopers passed by, siren blaring, red and blue lights too bright to look at directly.

"I wonder where they are going." Paul wondered aloud, watching them disappear. Police meant that there was still some order in place, right?

"Who cares?" James said, a frown on his lips. "For all we know, they're probably just running from this too." No one said anything more. They watched traffic slow to a crawl. Karen yawned.

"Well, are we still heading up to my place?" Paul broke the silence.

"Smith Falls?" James questioned. Paul answered yes.

"Maybe."

"What do you mean 'maybe'?" Michael asked. "That was the plan."

"Yeah, and plans change." His blood boiled at his brother's comment.

"That's the plan, James." Using his brother's name wasn't something he did frequently, only when he was serious. "You can't just change the plan." He corrected himself. "Our plan."

"And you aren't supposed to just run out and do whatever the fuck you want!" James raised his voice, shaking with anger. Michael unlaced the arm around his wife's shoulders and grabbed the driver's seat, pulling himself closer to his brother's ear.

"Is that what this is about?" He asked softly so only James could hear. "Me running off earlier?" His brother didn't answer. Karen placed a hand on his shoulder to bring him back into his seat. It took everything he had not to shrug off his wife's touch.

"Hun, please." He took a breath, her hand creeping into his and squeezing. She laid her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He whispered in her ear, planting a kiss on her forehead. He was still hot in his seat, but could feel himself calming. His anger was then flushed by guilt, and his stomach twisted when he imagined how Karen must have felt. Him running off probably hadn't been the best idea he's ever had, but they had gotten out alright in the end in the end. No one got hurt. He thought of Dave.

"You two shouldn't argue." He heard his mother say. "Especially with the driver." He closed his eyes and ignored her, pulling his wife closer. He held her like that for a while more, feeling her breath next to him. Everyone had gotten out safe.

Not everyone.


Turning the ignition key, Dave felt the engine rumble to life. It almost drowned out the sound of their moaning. He made sure that the windows were up and that enough gas was in the tank to take him away from this place. Gently placing his foot on the gas pedal, he edged the car forward into the huddled mass. It bumped them aside, and he slowly parted the dead sea. If there was one thing he was glad for now, it was the propensity of cars that he could get into. He had come upon this red sedan and searched it for supplies. He didn't expect to find the keys sitting on the driver's seat. Looking in his rear view mirror, he squinted against the morning light. The sky swirled with orange and red.

He drove slowly, around other cars and the dead who still wandered the streets. His neck was still so sore. He had a large band aid covering the wound. It was all they he could find on such short notice but still it burned like it was aflame.

Leaving a large part of the horde behind him, he planned on leaving them all eventually. He needed to find a highway or something to get out of the city. He couldn't stay here. In his imagination, those men were still after him, still right behind him. Natalie's face flashed in front of him and he felt his gut twist. Oh how he hoped she was okay.

The sedan hit another crowd of the dead and it jerked him against the seat belt. He had picked up speed without realizing. Bringing the car back down to around ten mph, he tried to focus.

Where had those men come from? The question flew through his head. Where did they go? Why shoot people? Why? He felt his grip on the steering wheel tighten. Why would they do something like this? Teeth gritted, he felt his blood turn hot. He couldn't make sense of it, no matter how hard he tried. His mind refused to understand. He pressed the gas pedal further into the floor.

Why shoot them? Why? Why? Why? Why? He repeated in his head. Why? He wanted to scream. They had been on their way. They were safe. Why?

The car thumped against another group of them but he didn't slow this time. He drove through them, the dead disappearing underneath his wheels and rocking the sedan. The blood would mix well with the red paint. He realized that he was yelling, his voice ringing in his own ears.

He turned a corner too quickly, his voice rising in the car, and almost hit a streetlight. He swerved, twisting the wheel and barely missed another car parked in the street. He turned again, whipping by a dead man standing dumbly on the street. He glanced down to the speedometer and saw that he was almost hitting forty. When he looked back up, a box truck seemed impossibly large in his windshield

Dave slammed on the brake, coming to a stop only a few feet away from its bumper. The car rocked and his neck felt like it was on fire.

"Fuck." He said unceremoniously. Dave leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, shifting the car into park. His ears were ringing, his voice raw from yelling. He took a deep breath, trying to relax. He needed to be somewhere else right now, not in this car in whatever city this was. He needed to be on a beach somewhere. He always had liked the beach.

His fantasy was interrupted by a pounding the car window. He jumped, his neck complaining when he twisted to see what was trying to get inside. It was one of them. Of course. It always was.

He grabbed the car handle and shoved the door open, forcing the zombie back. His anger spilled over once again, a forcing a grunt from his lips as he got caught up in the seat belt. He ripped it away, slamming his thumb down on the release in order to get out.

"What do you want!?" He stepped closer to the thing, to what was once a man. It opened its mouth like it was going to speak but nothing came out. It took a step forward, reaching a hand out to touch him.

Dave took a step back and reeled his fist, bringing it back to punch the dead man right in the face. It stumbled back and fell to the ground, a wheezing the only sound it made. Dave felt his fist, his knuckled stinging. He felt a little better. Maybe.

He sat on the hot hood of the car and closed his eyes, holding his head in his hands. He had a headache again. He wanted out. He didn't want to deal with dead people anymore. Dave could hear it writhing on the ground, and then shuffle to its feet. He could feel its breath hot on his neck. It didn't moan or grunt like the others, it was closer to a wheeze or a rattle. He wanted it to go away, but knew it wouldn't. It would continue to follow him just like all the others, mindlessly and without any real purpose. He could never get it away from him. Finally, Dave looked up to see that its dead eyes were locked with his.

"What do you want with me?" He asked, not expecting a response. All the anger had drained out of his voice, leaving it tired. He was tired, he realized. The day hadn't even begun, but he was so drained emotionally. Everything that had happened the in the past few days, he had never gotten a real break or rest from it all. Everything had been taken away from him. Now he was here, sitting on the roof of a car with a dead man as his only company. Dave felt a tear slip from his eyes, dipping his head back to the ground and closing his eyes. There was no one left.

That's when he felt a weight on the car beside him, and a cold hand on his shoulder.


Michael shivered in his seat and covered a yawn. He looked down to see his wife sleeping soundly next to him and smiled. Then it disappeared as he looked up to the driver. James was still behind the wheel, although not for much longer by the look of it. His brother looked as exhausted as everyone else. He had driven all throughout the night. Sooner or later, Michael thought to himself, he would have to ask someone else to take over.

"Hun?" Karen whispered from beside him. She had woken up and he planted a kiss on her forehead.

"Go back to sleep." He told her, and she tucked her head back into his chest.

"I don't wanna." But, he felt her breathing slow and knew she had anyway. He smiled despite his arm having gone numb from holding her an hour ago.

He looked back out the window, to the sun as it rose slowly on the horizon. They weren't moving, once again stuck in gridlock, but they were almost used to it by now, not that it wasn't still frustrating. They just needed to move.

"Are you sure there's no other way?" His mother asked from the passenger seat. James grunted, wiping at his eyes. From the backseat Paul snored, drool running onto his shirt.

"Was that an answer or...?" His mother continued.

"I don't know, mom." James answered. "This is our best bet. If we get off of here then we go through towns and that's not good either." He paused. "Either way this sucks."

The morning sun reflected off of the other windshields and Michael had to squint his eyes to see. The grassy median in the center was filled with almost as many cars as the road. So many had chosen to try and get through using it, and even the lanes traveling in the opposite direction.

They sat for another few minutes, listening to a loop of music that was playing on the radio until the line of cars finally started moving again. "Finally." Michael muttered under his breath, the car slowly picking up speed.

"About time." James commented, also seeing that the traffic was beginning to move. Paul snorted, stirring in his seat.

"We finally moving?" Paul asked. Michael told him yes and he closed his eyes again, content. "About time."

They picked up more speed, and James finally smiled from the driver's seat.

"We are finally out of here!" He cheered, one arm raised in the air. James looked over to his mother, and then turned in his seat to look at Michael. "Look," he began. He didn't finish; his mother cried from the passenger seat.

"Look out!" The car in front of them had stopped. James turned to see. The impact jerked them forward in their seats and deployed the airbags. The last thing that Michael remembered was the sound of squealing brakes and crunching metal.


Dave felt the cold and rotting hand on his shoulder and flinched away. The hand didn't move, it just remained on his shoulder. Looking to his side, he saw the thing sitting next to him. He stared into its face, and saw its mangled mouth twisted into a frown. Did it even know what it was doing?

"What?" He said, waiting for an answer he knew wouldn't come. "What do you want?" He saw the zombie take a slow breath and then let out a low wheezing sound.

Dave was still wondering what to do when the zombie raised his hand and softly brought it back down on his shoulder. It repeated this action several times before stopping and looking at him expectantly, almost hopefully. When Dave didn't give it the response it was looking for, it gave a low moan and rubbed Dave's shoulder with its hand. Dave's face twisted up with disgust.

"What do you want?" He asked again, eying the zombie. He looked closer, studying it. It had been a young man once, wearing a worn gray suit with tears in the elbows. It's neck was torn open, the muscles and skin hanging open, and he realized that was why it could only wheeze at him.

"Get away from me." He told it, but it continued to stand there. He shrugged its hand away and hopped off the hood of the car. He needed to get away from here; away from that. Dave scanned the homes around him. They were all the cookie cutter suburban types that he expected. One had its front door hanging open, a bloody hand mark marring the wood. There was another that had its living room windows smashed in.

He walked through the front yard of one, the grass crunching underneath his feet, and tried the front door. It wouldn't budge so he walked to the next. The wheezing zombie followed him. It was always just right behind him, and he imagined its cold dead breath on his neck. Twice he twisted around ready to push it away, but it never came close enough. He felt his stomach turn.

Finally, he found a door that was unlocked and pushed his way inside. He quickly closed it once he was inside and locked it. He stepped back and waited, his heart beating harder than we expected. Then a moment later he jumped when the thing outside began beating against the wood.

"Go away!" He yelled, turning away. He would deal with it later.

Dave found himself standing in the living room. He took a breath, steadying his nerves and looked around. The walls were a pale blue and two leather sofas sat against a long wall. A large flat screen was opposite of them, a low glass table in between. Oh how he wished he could just sit back in one of these seats and turn on the television, relaxing all night until he fell asleep. The remote was on the floor nearby and bent over to pick it up. Pressing the power button, the TV lit up.

"-reports coming in from New York city say the city has been completely quarantined. Officials warn anyone heading in that direction to choose another destination as the military and forces of the national guard are turning away anyone and everyone attempting to enter." The lady behind the desk was reading off the paper, her voice monotone. She didn't bother looking up. She just read. The news room was aflutter with activity. Behind her, a man was setting up lights. He hooked them into a line that ran off camera and then set about with something off camera. Another man continued to lay sheets of paper at the reporter's desk. She would finish reading off one, place it into another pile, and pick the next. Her long dark hair was coiled into a messy bun. Her eyes were ringed. She looked like she hadn't gotten sleep in days.

On the bottom of the screen, a blotter ran bits of news and information. The red cross stations in Erie and Pittsburgh were non-existent. The temporary one displayed earlier in Jamestown was no longer in contact with officials. The Allegheny National Forest was partially on fire. Everyone should avoid contact with anyone they don't know. Board up your windows. Seek shelter. Hide.

Dave felt his hands shaking. His heart was pounding hard. He was biting the inside of his cheek until the taste of blood snapped him awake. He watched the reporter get handed another piece of paper and stop reading just long enough to wipe the tears from her eyes. She began just as quickly after. Union City should be avoided. Interstate 90 is overwhelmed with traffic. The Rainbow Bridge toll gate and interstate 190, the two major crossings of the Niagara and into Canada, are being barricaded. Canada still wasn't reporting any major outbreaks. The border is shut down.

He dropped the remote back onto the floor and shambled into the kitchen, feeling like one of the dead outside. He felt hollow and worked on autopilot. He pulled open a cabinet, still listening to her voice in the other room. Again, we can't predict how long we'll be on the air. Power is intermittent. The station is cut off. We will continue to update any listeners until we can do so no longer. This is twelve-news, still reporting from Erie, Pennsylvania. There was a pause where he didn't hear her voice and he thought maybe the television had turned off. But a moment later, she was back. With her voice shaky and soft, she continued. Again, anyone who is listening: do not attempt to reach us at the station. We are cut off.

David watched his vision cloud as he reached for a packet of instant noodles. He wiped it away, trying to ignore the woman's voice as she continued to read her reports. What was it like to be in that situation? How hopeless must they feel? He brought a pot of water to a boil and dumped the noodles in with a splash. He stood over them, watching them cook but not seeing. The dead man from before continued to beat away at the front door.

He poured the noodles into a bowl and mixed in the flavor packet. The smell hit him hard and his stomach growled, reminding him how hungry he really was. He walked back into the living room and shut the television off. He wanted to keep his appetite.

Eating in silence, he tried not to think. He slurped the noodles away, feeling as much as hearing the hands that continued to beat on the door. They must be bloody by now, he imagined. Just little stumps where hands used to be. He wondered if the dead man would beat on the door for all of eternity or at least until it crumbled into dust, whichever came first.

He brought the bowl to his lips and drank the broth. It was still hot but it felt good going down. He set the bowl back on the table and rose from his seat. If he continued to sit here he would very likely never want to get back up, but he still had business. Natalie was out there somewhere.


"Get up!"

Michael could only hear muffled voices.

"Get out of the car!"

"Move!"

He could hear gunshots very close to him and he tried to reach for his own gun. Everything was muffled to him though, like someone was holding pillows to his ears. He still hadn't opened his eyes. The only thing he saw was black.

"Michael, you have to get up!"

It was Karen.

"Just leave him!"

That sounded like Rachael.

He grunted something intelligible and felt a line of hot liquid seep down onto his face. It dripped into his mouth, he tasted copper. He must be bleeding.

Now his hearing was returning, a loud ringing sound still blocked out most of everything. He tried to open his eyes, ignoring the fact that they felt like weights. He swung his arms about, trying to get a feel for what was going on around him since he couldn't yet see. He touched the roof of the car, then the sharp stinging of glass. Why was glass on the roof?

He managed to mutter something, trying to get his family to hear him, but no one responded. He heard more gunshots, clearer now that his hearing was getting better, and then the sounds of screaming.

It was quiet at first, like it was far away. Then it rose in volume, pitches, and he recognized that many people must be making this sound at once.

"Hello?" Michael croaked, hoping that someone would hear him. Where was Karen? Where was Paul? He then realized that he couldn't feel the seat underneath him. The straps of the seat belt were digging into his chest, hurting him. He had to get out. He opened his eyes and thought that it was strange that the world was upside down.

"Michael?" He heard the voice in front of him. It was his brother.

"James, are you okay?" Michael reached out for his wife to find her gone. He almost panicked.

"Shit." His brother swore. "No. Michael, I'm hurt bad." His brother's voice was strained.

"It's okay, man." Michael struggled in his seat belt. I'm going to get you out of this." He reached beside him and felt the hard plastic button that held him in place. Pushing it, he heard it click and release, sending him straight down. He put a hand out to brace himself and he rolled out of the seat belt strap and onto the hard ceiling. He heard bits of glass snap and crack as they dug into his back. He ignored the pain, ignored the blood.

"No man, I don't think I'm going to be alright." Michael almost didn't hear his brother speak. He was focused on the big body that hung halfway in the car through the window. It was Paul, and the rest of him was hanging out onto the grass outside.

"Paul?"

His friend didn't answer.

"Paul, are you okay?" He then remembered that his friend hadn't had his seat belt on.

"Michael, are you still there?" His brother's voice was weak. "I don't think that I'm going to make it."

Michael turned his body so that his legs were hitting the glass window beside him, only it wasn't there. His legs stuck out where the pane should have been.

"It's going to be okay, man." He repeated his mantra. "It's going to be okay." Michael inched his way out, the glass cutting through his clothes and into his back. It dug into his palms as he pushed himself out and when he was finally able to get to his knees, he felt his head swim. Michael had to place a hand on the car to keep himself upright.

Behind him, the grass was matted down where they had rolled. They had come to a stop maybe twenty feet from the road but he couldn't be sure. His head was still spinning, but he could see people moving in between the cars.

He heard his brother yell for help again and it brought him back. He used his grip on side of the car to help him to the driver's door. He dipped his head down so he could see his brother sprawled out on the roof. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt either.

"Michael." His brother gasped. "It hurts." Michael averted his eyes and reached underneath the door for the handle. He grasped for it and pulled it open, crawling to the side so that it opened fully.

"Can you move?" Michael glanced behind him, ignoring the sharp pain in his neck to make sure that nothing was there. He was all too aware of the danger that lurked on the highway. When his brother didn't respond, Michael asked again, loudly this time. His brother finally answered.

"Yes, I think I can."

"Good." He knew he shouldn't move him, that it was probably only going to make him worse, but the only other option was to leave him. That was unacceptable. "I'm going to have to pull you out." He made sure his brother was listening. "It's going to hurt." James grimaced but nodded.

"I'm ready." James reached his hands out and Michael grabbed them. As gently as he could, he began pulling his brother out of the wreckage. As soon as he did, his brother began screaming.

"I'm sorry, James!" Michael gasped, releasing his brother at once. James shook his head.

"I don't think you can pull me out." It didn't look like he had moved at all.

"Yes I can." He argued. "You have to move." Michael looked around again and saw fuel leaking from the car's underside. They had to get him out, now. "Come on." He reached for his brother again and pulled, trying to ignore his brother's screaming.

"Stop pulling! Stop pulling!" His brother cried, begging for the pain to stop. Michael didn't respond, didn't stop. He only pulled faster. "Please Michael!" He was almost out of the car; Michael could see his waist before he had to halt his pulling. As he was catching his breath, he watched his brother writhe in pain. His heart wrenched at the sight and he wiped away the blood that was sticking to his brother's face.

"I'm so sorry James." His brother opened his mouth to protest but Michael grabbed a hold of him again and began pulling. James continued to scream.

Finally, after another few minutes of pulling, Michael finally had his brother out of the car. James couldn't yell anymore. His voice was hoarse. All he could do was whimper, tears streaming down his face. Michael wished he could express the mountain of guilt that sat on his shoulders.

After another minute of rest, they had to begin moving again.

"Come on James." He tried to get his brother to stand, knowing that they had to leave. He still didn't know where Karen or Rachael was. He only knew that the fuel was leaking on the car and that they had to leave.

"I can't do it." His brother said, struggling against him. "I don't think I can stand." Michael sat him up and put James' arm around his shoulder.

"You have to stand buddy." He began to lift him. "We can't stay here." His brother grunted in pain but allowed him to lift him; he was probably numb to it by now.

Finally on their feet, Michael looked to the highway and then to the tree line that stood parallel to the road. That had to be their best bet and Michael started limping across the field, his brother struggling along with him. It might as well have been miles away. They struggled to close the distance, stumbling over the rocks and holes in the ground. Michael looked behind him and felt his heart plummet to his stomach.

"Shit." Michael reached around his waist to grab the .38. The dead were on the road. They were here.

He unholstered the pistol and continued to half-drag his brother closer to the trees. When he looked behind him again, there was a stream of people coming off the road. They passed him in groups, some looking his way and others too busy to notice. He looked to his left and saw a group of soldier leading more.

"Get into the treeline!" They yelled. "Run!" And the sound of gunfire filled the air.

They didn't stop running.