Hey guys, so this is the last chapter of Follow the Leader, and I hope you all enjoy it, and have enjoyed the rest of the story. I apologise for the lack of personal input that I could have included, and in hindsight, maybe some introductions and some author's notes would have been a good idea. Anyway, on with the final chapter!
9 – Better Safe than Sorry
There was an explosion of colours ranging from flickering yellow, to dark orange. Flames splashed from the pierced petrol can, leaping in all directions and clinging to anything they could. The ground exploded into life as the flames quickly crawled across the dirt and dead grass, transforming everything in its grasp into a blackened and twisted mess. The animated petrol splashed up into Zoey's clothes and face, burning her and charring her jeans and jacket. Within seconds, the soles of Zoey's trainers had melted, letting the flames jab at her feet, smarting as they scolded her. Her pink jacket had splashes of burning petrol dotted over it, and the fire was quickly spreading from these places.
The burning and crackling sounds were temporarily drowned out by the blood thirsty roar of the Tank, as the flames quickly clambered up its mottled and flammable grey skin, turning it lightly charcoaled, and alive with flame. Now, it stood opposite the small and ruined girl who stood before it, both alight, both as good as dead. The very ground they stood on was a flaming pool of death, and the cruel flames clung to their skin and clothes. The pain that the flames were causing the Tank made it grunt angrily, and rage took over once more, as it lurched through the fire to the motionless girl who stood before him, accepting death so readily.
Zoey stood still, allowing the flames to crawl across her skin, grateful for the pain from the flames distracting her from her dying body, and ruined bones and lack of blood. She allowed herself to smile, although it hurt her bloodied lip, and broken teeth. The Tank was lurching towards her, through the fire which had spread over its body incredibly quickly. She let herself feel happy that the Tank would die by her hands even after he had smeared her across the church wall.
Then she was flying again, air zooming past her body quelling the flames slightly. The Tank that stood in his own pool of flickering lava zoomed away from her, getting smaller and smaller, and then there was another loud crunch, and then Zoey's vision went black. There was a falling sensation, and then Zoey hit the dirty gravely ground, landing with a loud thwack, and bouncing and rolling back in the direction of the burning Tank that was hell bent on murdering her.
Zoey tried to breathe, but ended up inhaling some dirt and blood. Her nose was broken, and there was a huge bruise forming on her eye. She knew instantly that her left leg was broken and she could feel the sharp bone poking through the skin of her leg. Her pistol was gone, and as she tried to feel about for it, she realised that most of her fingers were broken, along with her already broken arm. She had apparently bitten clean through her bottom lip, and all she could taste was the dirt and blood that had been stuffed into her mouth from when she had hit the ground. She tried twisting her head to the side to look at the church, and saw the dent in the wooden wall, with a smear of blood on it. That must have been where she had made contact.
All of the fear was gone from Zoey. She knew that the Tank would be on her in moments, and that she didn't have a hope in hell of surviving. The Tank had already killed her, and she knew that she was already dead. But it wasn't over yet. Using the arm that wasn't broken, she pushed into the ground, trying to lift herself off the floor. She just didn't want to lie down and die. As she managed to lift her upper body off the floor, the Tank was on her, and it brought its flaming arm down on her back, smashing her back into the ground.
The ground met Zoey with massive force, but Zoey couldn't feel the pain anymore. Her rib cage was probably shattered by now, and her lungs were probably pin cushions. She could no longer be bothered to breathe, because it was almost impossible. The Tank roared, angry that its prey wouldn't fight back. It beat its chest in frustration as pure rage coursed through its swelling veins. If there had been breath in her lungs, Zoey would have laughed at how much punishment she had taken. When she was younger, she would cry for hours after tripping and stubbing her toe, her father had chastised her time and time again, urging her to grow up, and toughen up. If only he could see her now. Bitterness passed over Zoey, and she shook it away, trying to find a more suitable last thought.
As Zoey's eyes closed, she thought of the three men who she was dying to protect. She smiled a little, eager to let death pass over her gently.
But it didn't. There was another extended louder roar, too consistent to be the roar of the Tank. There was a helpless and jarred yelp, and the Tank thudded to the floor behind her. There were the sounds of lots of men's voices, and footsteps, and the crackle of a radio. Then Zoey let the blackness take over her once more.
When Zoey's eyes fluttered open, consciousness swept over her in a painful wave. The smell of sterilisation stung her broken nose, and shredded gums, reminding her of her deceased mother and her obsessive cleaning habits that were all too compulsive at times. The pain was slowly worsening as Zoey became more and more aware of her situation. She determined which of her arms wasn't broken and then used it to pull the blanket from herself slowly and cautiously. She examined her body, and grimaced as she realised that she was a physical wreck. Thick white bandages covered major sections of her body, and as she looked down she could see thick tubes running in and out of her arms and legs, with crimson liquid seeping through them, into her skin and veins.
Zoey forced herself to crane her neck upwards, scanning the whitewashed walls and ceiling, and observing the various tools and equipment around her, all which had a medical feel to it. Was this a hospital? Zoey tried to sit herself up in bed, but the pain was too much. She was seriously screwed up. Slowly, as she lay there in the hospital bed, she remembered the flaming Tank which had tossed her about the graveyard like a toy. She gasped as she remembered Bill, Louis and Francis, but the pain in her lungs stopped her in her tracks and she had to lay her head back on the pillow and wait for the stabbing pains to dissipate.
Then there was a muffled noise and Zoey heard someone in another room say, something that sounded like "She's awake", and then there were movements, doors opening and slamming, and then anxious footsteps. Then the door to Zoey's room flung open and framed in the doorway was a weedy looking priest. Zoey blinked at the sight, thinking maybe she was delusional, but then she saw the pistol that she had strapped in a holster on his belt. It looked dangerous, which made the priest himself seem more dangerous and threatening. But he wasn't that at all. The first thing Zoey realised was that he was extremely worried about her.
He stood in the doorway for an eternity, half in half out, half anxious to comfort her and half anxious to leave her in peace. Slowly he walked into the room, his eyes cautious but also reassuring. He didn't smile, but his face looked like he was content with her, and the way she was coping with the pain. Zoey observed the black shirt which had been torn in a few places and stitched back up, recently as well. She could see that he still made an effort to uphold his position and authority, by wearing his white collar, even though it had a blotch of red on it, which at closer inspection looked to be the bloody imprint of a knuckle.
"I'm glad you are conscious… Zoey, isn't it?" said the priest, his voice soothing, the voice of every persuasive and god fearing sermon giver. Zoey mustered a nod, and offered a faint smile. He smiled back, more brilliantly, gaining confidence, and then he pulled a chair from the side of the room and sat down facing Zoey. His eyes focussed on Zoey, making her feel like she had to reply with something. Her lips opened, as if she was going to say something, but then they closed again, hesitant. She inhaled through her nose slowly, and opened her lips again, her throat rasping to life as she tried to speak. But the priest shook his head, transforming into an enigmatic figure, more by every second.
"Don't try and speak. You've been unconscious for three days, and we have done extensive surgery on your trachea which was almost crushed by that Tank," He said, his voice slow, but the facts came too fast. Zoey blinked in surprise, again.
"I know it's a lot to take in, but you'll come around." The priest said. "In fact, it's surprising that you even recovered from the attack, considering the state it left you in."
Zoey remembered all of the events which had led her on the road to physical ruin, and almost defeat. She remembered the Witches, and grimaced, feeling the thin wounds itch underneath their protective bandaging. She remembered the way that the Tank had sent her crashing though grave stones, and had left her blood stain on the side of the church. Then she remembered the noise and the light.
"Y-you? You saved me?" She whispered hoarsely, with the slightest question in her voice. The Priest nodded.
"You are very lucky. We were on a routine perimeter sweep, when we heard the noises. As soon as we rushed out to see what it was, you were lying in front of that Tank, beaten and bloody. If we hadn't opened fire right then, you would have been a carcass."
Zoey grimaced slightly at the thought. "Who are "we"?" Zoey whispered her voice clearer this time.
"Well here's the good news," said the priest, a broad grin settling onto his face. "This fine town of Riverside is now one of the only secure and uninfected areas in the whole danger zone. We have supplies, medical facilities and lots of firepower to see us though, and a group of soldiers who defected when the military started shooting… well; they were ca- I mean they were immune, so they came to help us."
Zoey couldn't help herself. She smiled, and it was genuine. But what about Bill, Francis and Louis? The priest hadn't mentioned them yet.
"Did you find my friends?" asked Zoey urgently. "The Tank scattered us, and chased me down."
"Yeah, we found them. They were in a bad shape too, but they are fine. They are already helping out the soldiers with their patrols, I do believe." He flashed another reassuring smile.
"Oh thank god!" Zoey sighed with pure relief, not just because they were alive, but because she had actually succeeded in getting her team to safety. She rested her head backwards against the pillow, and felt more relaxed as the silence washed over them. Both were content. But then two thoughts flashed over Zoey in quick succession. She sat up again; her eyes sharp once more, each question itching to be asked first.
"You're immune, right?" She asked.
"Sadly, yes. Every person who lives in New Riverside is a… an 'immune'. I'm afraid that those who weren't… umm… were weeded out pretty early on. The streets of Riverside were a battlefield, but I managed to pull through, and set up a safe haven in my church. All of the uh 'immunes' helped me hold off the horde, and once the 'immune' soldiers arrived, it was only a matter of time before we retook Riverside from the slavering infected." He took in a deep breath after he finished. It seemed like he was glad to get it off his chest, do Zoey didn't question why he spoke the word 'immune' so cautiously and unfamiliarly.
That explained why it had been so quiet. The infected had been cleaned off the streets, and the survivors had learnt to keep noise to a minimum. Zoey was content with the answer she received, but she felt a twinge in her back, and felt obliged to ask the next question quickly.
"Will I ever be able to walk again?"
There was an awkward silence.
"… It's definitely a possibility. But it won't be for another couple of weeks, maybe even months. There is no permanent damage, and we actually have a surgeon here who has done a considerable amount of work on you already," The priest had become shifty eyed and nervous. "I'll bring you a wheel chair at the end of the week and we'll get you moving about." He added, to reassure her. She smiled back at him, not fully happy with her answer but not devastated. It just meant that she wouldn't be out in the field for a while. The priest checked that she was done asking questions, and made his move to leave, but she stopped him with a simple gesture.
"Will I be able to do sniping duty, y'know… from the chair?"
The thought seemed to enlighten the priest, and he smiled and nodded, then once again turned to go.
"Umm, one more question. Why did you try so hard to save me? I could have been insane and tried to kill you or something." Zoey flashed her cheeky and nervous co-ed grin, and he flashed back a roguish smile.
"Well we have to save everyone we can. I may not be following His law as strictly now, but I still follow the basic principles. Plus, it's better to save you than be sorry later. You know what they always say, Better safe than Sorry." He winked and turned, leaving Zoey slightly confused but content with the man in whom she now had to trust.
The wheels of the wheelchair squeaked as Zoey pushed herself along the roadside. She waved to a fellow survivor as they went about their new apocalyptic daily routine. The air smelt cold and damp, as though it was threatening to rain, and she drew in a deep breath. The ramp that led up to the scaffolding before her looked monstrous, and she grimaced at the thought of pushing herself up it. She was struggling as it was, with one arm in a cast, and another badly bruised. She could hear voices coming from the scaffolding that overlooked the main entrance to New Riverside. They were arguing, muffled voices. One low and gruff, the other upbeat and higher. Zoey smiled to herself, and started to push herself forward.
The incline of the ramp was too steep to for the wheelchair, and Zoey started to panic. Every time she managed to push herself up a few meters, she seemed to roll back down. After rolling down for the 4th, or possibly the 100th time, Zoey sat there gasping and panting. She hadn't had any exercise for a week and a half, since she had fought the Tank, and had been in bed for most of the time since.
But she hadn't let the Tank beat her, and she hadn't let her physically wrecked body beat her, so she wouldn't let this ramp beat her. Once she had caught her breath, and the pain from her crushed ribs subsided, she pulled the lever that locked the wheels in tune with each other and began to work on the wheel by her non-broken arm. The exertion was extensive, and tears were forming in Zoey's eyes, as she was slowly defeated by this piece of wood. Beads of sweat were dampening her hair and face, causing them to gleam and glisten in the moonlight. And then came pure exhaustion and Zoey gave up, relaxed her tired arm, and let herself roll back down the ramp. But she stopped in her tracks. The wheelchair stayed rooted where it was, halfway up the ramp, and then it slowly began to move upwards. Was this some power of her will? Was she being moved up by her own strength of mind?
"I gotcha, don't worry," whispered Bill in her year as he took a firm grip on the handles of the wheel chair and pushed her further up. Zoey felt overwhelmed, and tried to form words in her mouth, apologies for her shortcomings, grievances for the suffering and anxiety that had befallen them, things she had wanted to say before, but couldn't, for fear of weakening herself in the eyes of Francis and Louis. Bill made a hushing sound.
"Look, I didn't want to say this in front of the guys, but," his words were hushed and effortless, but contained so much passion in them. "You did me proud out there. You did what I couldn't do. You saved us."
He pushed her to the top of the ramp, and they made a sharp turn, catching the eyes of Francis and Louis who stood at the top, guns in their hands. They both turned to her and smiled broadly.
"See! We knew you'd make it!" exclaimed Louis loudly.
"Shut up Louis!" roared Francis, "She's been out on the wheelchair for ages now." He quickly wiped the scowl off his face and leapt over to Zoey, handing her a Sniper rifle.
"I meant that she'd come on patrol duty with us!" Louis shouted back.
"As ya' can see, nothing's changed. The infected always bring out their argumentative side," chuckled Bill, his cigarette bouncing up and down in his mouth in a jolly sort of way.
Zoey laughed out loud as Francis pulled a sort of pouting scowl, and Louis chortled briefly. There was an awkward silence.
"Anyway Zoey," said Francis embarrassedly, "We wanted to say, well, that…"
"We wanted to say that we are glad that you are safe, and umm, thanks." said Louis. Bill puffed his cigarette. Francis shifted his eyes to the side, and Louis blinked rapidly.
"Umm thanks guys," Muttered Zoey, a smile stretching onto her face, yet again. "Geez, you'd think there would be nothing to smile about in the zombie apocalypse!" She laughed, and smiled at them all, but was interrupted when she saw, out of the corner of her eyes, and small group of infected in the distance, emerging from the woods, and sprinting angrily. Each shambling figure was running towards them with one purpose, and that was to inflict their rage on the survivors of New Riverside. Zoey cocked her rifle in their direction and glanced down the scope before pulling the trigger in quick succession, felling a few of them.
The three men turned to look at where she was firing, and they followed suit, all smiling. Zoey looked at Bill, who was firing off round after round. He looked back at her, and they shared a comfortable glance. Zoey turned back to her scope and continued doing what she enjoyed the most, with her friends. No wait, with her family. She couldn't help but laugh at the cliché.
