Patricia Sanchez rushed from her home, the bleeding child clutched to her breast as the grown woman heaved. With shaky hands and uneven breath she pulled the door to her Durango open. Patricia's eyes were blinded by her tears and everything around her was muted by the cacophony of her two-year old son's high-pitched screams. She leaned into the Chevrolet, sobbing hysterically as she attempted to buckle the little boy into his car seat. She had to move fast, because they were coming.
She pulled her carnation pink nightgown, now reddened by little Jimmy's blood, closer about her frame, her feet planted within her matching slippers. Patricia pushed down with all her might atop the buckle of the seat, but it only managed to scrape against the boy's bleeding shoulder. In all honesty, if Patricia didn't get control over herself, she'd never get this kid in his seat.
"MOMMY!" the boy cried out, his hands extended towards the woman.
"GODDAMN IT!" the woman cursed as she ripped the boy from his seat. Behind her, the door to her modest suburban home was busted open and three forms walked out onto the porch, their decimated faces on a swivel – scanning the area for potential prey.
And they spotted her.
In an instant, they leapt off of the porch, sprinting down the walkway, trampling the meticulously planted begonias Patricia had so carefully planted and maintained. In fact, the entire yard was well-arrayed with a variety of flowers and carefully-sculpted hedges. For, once, Patricia had been the ideal gardener... Once she had been the ideal mother, and the ideal caregiver, and the ideal wife.
But it appeared that, today, after all hell had broken loose, none of that mattered.
Patricia Sanchez hefted the Glock pistol her husband had kept in the nightstand next to their bed for safety precautions before her. There were already two shots lost - Patricia had emptied them into her husband mere minutes before.
But that apparently hadn't fazed them.
Her finger found the trigger, the pistol quivering in her hand as she held the boy to her breast, the wetness of his tears dripping down her collarbone.
It seemed that Patti wouldn't be able to fire again – to kill her husband – but then she remembered... Remembered Marco Sanchez getting up to see what that crashing noise was, and not returning after five minutes... She remembered throwing her white bathrobe over her silk nightgown and hearing screams – screams from her little boy, coming from his room.
The anger came and she fired.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
One fell to his knees. The other toppled backwards onto the concrete driveway. The third stumbled, and then looked back up at her, his yellowed eyes locked upon her smoky browns.
Marco Sanchez glanced down at his bloodied chest, a fresh hole imprinted in his bare flesh. His abdomen had a giant tear and parts of his intestines were exposed. Patti felt the bile rise in her throat as she clutched Jimmy closer to her.
His face was empty, devoid of expression as a stream of blood dribbled from his white lips. Then his lips parted, in a most horrific and terrifying smile, as he sneered. In an instant he charged forward, his bare feet scampering across the concrete as an explosion ripped through the air. Marco's body lurched with each contact until finally, his head exploded and he fell backwards, his body unmoving and still.
Patti continued to pull the trigger with each click as she stared in awe at the corpse of her dead husband. Tears streamed down her dark cheeks, tendrils of her longish black hair falling in her face.
She had no time to recover, however, as the other two beings that had stolen the life of her husband rose to their feet. The abominations rushed the Hispanic woman – but she thought quickly.
Pivoting in her slipper she darted down the driveway, the boy in her arms. He was quiet, no longer screaming, as his chest lurched as hiccups escaped from his mouth. She had no time to check on him – she heard them close behind her.
Patricia Sanchez never stopped to take in what had happened to her modest suburb as she bolted – her only motivation being to get her child out of there... But had she stopped, she would have noticed the fires and the explosions, the overturned cars and the broken down doorways... Patti did see her neighbors, all in different states of emergency around her.
Some were running, like her – others were on the ground, their eyes closed, surrounded by a pool of blood. People she knew, people she was friends with.
It was then that Patti had a realization. Where was she running to? Who would save her? Patricia was winded and, even though she jogged daily and was a distance runner in high school, it had been a while since her limits had really been pushed like this. She was fueled solely by adrenaline and her child's safety. She had to get to a hospital.
Patti rounded a corner, stepping carefully to avoid of a pair of corpses in the middle of the road – was it her imagination or was one of them moving?
Patricia was now on the main road that led out of her subdivision – to the highway. The noises behind her had diminished... Had she gotten away? Were they still following her? Had she actually gotten away?
"Patti!" A voice called out from behind and she turned. A silver F-150 pulled up beside her. "Get in!" a rugged-looking man called, his long brown hair blowing in the morning wind as his head protruded from the window.
Wes Warren was a friend of Patti's husband – a mechanic that owned his own shop downtown. As far as she knew, Wes was married but didn't have any kids.
"Agradezca a Dios," she whispered in Spanish as she ran to the other side and pulled the door open, her gun still in hand. But immediately she gasped, covering her mouth at the sight before her.
Wes' wife was lying in the seat, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow, and her face deathly pale... But what was worse was the gaping chunk of flesh missing from her side and the stained blood that was seeping through the shower towel Wes had obviously thrown together to use as a makeshift tourniquet. She moaned quietly, her dark hair matted to her forehead from sweat.
"One of those motherfuckers got in," Wes spoke quietly as Patti slid quickly into the backseat, holding Jimmy. "Had to stick the fire poker through his head before the little shit finally died." Wes pressed the lock button and Patti emitted a sigh of relief. Jimmy leaned against her shoulder and she kissed his head. His bleeding had stopped.
"How's Marco?"
Patti stared ahead at nothing, massaging her son's neck. "He's... Marco's dead."
Wes nodded as he slammed his bare foot onto the clutch and shifted to third. He rubbed his wife's sweaty forehead as they sped away. But, right as they were taking off, there was a loud thud in the bed of Wes' truck – and a rudimentary growl accompanying it.
"Aww, fuck. Get down Patti!"
Covering her child with her body, Patricia dropped to the floor of the truck as a bloodied face exploded through the rear window, showering the four with glass. Suddenly, another body slammed into the side of the Ford. Wes kicked the accelerator and they were off. He turned in his seat, hefting the aforementioned fire poker.
The zombie clawed at Patti. She felt his hands on her thick robe and silken gown; blood dripped from his gaping maw onto her back, covering the seats with the sticky substance as the man flailed. Jimmy kicked and screamed beneath her. Patti looked to Wes... She had never been more terrified in her life.
"Do something!" she shrieked as he leaned further backwards. With a grunt he slammed the poker into the zombie's head, and, immediately, the monster went limp. Wes turned quickly and resumed control of the wheel, hitting seventy miles per hour.
Patti got to her knees and pushed the corpse out of the car, the momentum of the moving vehicle causing the being to fly out of the bed and land in a bloody skidmark on the road below.
"You ok?" Wes inquired as he manned the truck.
But Patti couldn't respond.
They were everywhere. People she knew, people she didn't... Civilians crowding the streets – but they didn't look...alive. In fact, they all looked about as dead as they could be.
Wes flicked on the radio, flipping through channels until he found what he wanted.
"This is Sandra Sanderson reporting live from Fort Pastor – where there is still room! All individuals currently searching for a safe location, please proceed to Fort Pastor – there are currently plenty of paramedics and doctors here to tend to the wounded as well as ample fortifications... To get here, take I-90 past Crossroads Mall all the way to..."
"That's where we're gonna go," Wes said as they zoomed down the road.
Claire Warren moaned and Wes massaged her shoulder.
"Wes..." Patti spoke in a hush.
"What is it?"
"Look to your left..."
Charging, at alarming speeds, was a horde of zombie men and women, headed straight for the truck.