Author's Note: Really really sorry about taking this long to update… got busy like you wouldn't believe, and writer's block decided to walk up and give me a swift kick in the gut. So I hope you guys and gals out there didn't get too bored waiting for me to update, and here's the next chapter at last. Enjoy!
"What the hell is that!" Bill's gruff voice broke me from my long-awaited sleep, his shout indignant and confused. Sitting up groggily and blinking in the light of dawn, I took in the old veteran standing, rifle resting on his shoulder, pointing an accusing figure at the smoker's head impaled on a stick that stood watch by the edge of our camp. "What's the matter, old man?" I heard Francis growl as he extricated himself from his sleeping bag. "You never heard of a scarecrow before?" "They're zombies, not crows, dumbass," Bill growled, taking a step toward the biker. "You could have gotten us killed!" "Well, I didn't," Francis said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Standing up, the biker dusted himself off and picked up his shotgun beneath Bill's withering glare. Louis yawned, and started struggling out of his sleeping bag. Straightening his dress shirt, he picked up his tie and started re-tying it, but stopped halfway through the act as he saw Francis's 'scarecrow'. His face turned pale, and he turned an accusing glare on Francis and Bill. Bill pointed at Francis, and Francis growled wordlessly, shouldering past the old man to stand in front of Louis. "It's a scarecrow," he said simply. "Got a problem with that?" Louis glared at the biker, and said "Yeah, you know what? I do have a damn problem! That shit is disgusting! Get it outta here!"
Later that morning, we were trudging grimly down a four-lane divided highway, wrecked vehicles scattered about like discarded toys, smashed through dividers, overturned, rammed against each other. Some were even on fire. The road was lined on either side with steep embankments of hewn stone, with dense masses of trees and brush looming atop them. It was through this that the sun pierced, sending scattered rays through the boughs to play about the ground in shifting patterns of radiance. Glancing for a second too long at one of these rippling lights, I hit my foot on an unseen obstacle and stumbled, cursing. Looking down, I identified the culprit as a severed human head, lying in the road, its face twisted in a rictus snarl of terror and pain. Gagging, I turned away from the grisly sight, distracting myself by twirling the baseball bat I was carrying. Francis, walking behind me, caught sight of the head and kicked it like a soccer ball, sending it sailing through the air to land on the hood of a car, skidding along and leaving a blood trail behind it before falling off the opposite side. Louis shot Francis an appalled glare, but it was Bill who spoke. "Show some respect for the dead, Francis," he growled in a tone that brooked no argument. Francis, however, could have argued with a tank roaring in his face. "They're dead, Bill. They were too weak to stay alive, they don't deserve my goddamn respect!" Francis said, and Bill stiffened. Francis moved on before he could say anything, however, leaving Bill to fume in silence. Louis came up and gave him a pat on the shoulder, to which Bill nodded in gruff thanks. I jogged to catch up to Francis, and the biker turned as I neared, a grin splitting his features. "Hey, Zo," he said, and extended a hand. I took it, feeling his thick, calloused fingers slide through mine. Holstering his shotgun in its sling on his back, Francis slid the .45 caliber Colt handgun from its sheath on his hip, and aimed it one-handed at a wandering zombie by the roadside. Louis came up from behind and 'accidentally' bumped into him, sending his shot wild. The bullet glanced off of the side of a wrecked semi trailer, lodging itself in the passenger door of a blood-red 4-door sedan that was abandoned and fairly undamaged. The sedan sat silent for a split-second, dark and brooding. Then it erupted into the all-too-familiar wailing of a car alarm, its interior light flashing a menacing shade of bright red.
Francis whirled on Louis, livid with rage. "What the hell!" he bellowed, stepping forward aggressively, dwarfing the smaller man in front of him. Louis had been shocked into silence – the deadly repercussions of his seemingly harmless act of mischief rendering him mute. The howls of the infected cut off Francis's rant, however, the wordless roar sounding from all around, seeming to echo from the very ground. "Shit," I hissed, hastily discarding the baseball bat in favor of my twin pistols. Francis's shotgun boomed like thunder, and an approaching infected was ripped apart, shredded like cheese as the buckshot tore through its chest and head. I backed up until I felt the reassuring presence of Francis's strong, broad back against my own, then took careful aim at the zombies now pouring over the embankments. One almost reached me as I was reloading, but I brought a foot up and kicked it in the chest, sending it stumbling backwards. Mentally thanking my dad for making me take those karate classes when I was six, I pulled the slide on the pistol back, raised it, and pumped three rounds into the offending zombie's chest and head. The signature screech of a hunter on the prowl rent the air, and I spun, searching for the stalking predator. A blur of motion in the corner of my eye made me whip my head around just in time to see the hoodie-clad zombie pounce on Louis, throwing the manager to the ground, his gun skittering away across the pavement. Louis frantically tried to defend himself, but the primal strength of the hunter was too much for him. Blood spurted and Louis cried out in agony as razor talons ripped through his white dress shirt. "Shit!" Francis growled, spinning around and letting the hunter have a blast from his shotgun. The bestial zombie was knocked clean off Louis from the force of the blast, the buckshot tearing through its body and splattering the road behind it with bloody gobbets of infected flesh. Louis was cradling his open wound, laying in a steadily-growing pool of his own blood and groaning. Bill rushed over to help him, gunning down several infected that, sensing weakness, had moved in for an easy meal. Francis lashed out, striking an encroaching zombie with his fist and flooring it, before planting his boot on its chest and blowing its head into bloody shreds with a point-blank shotgun blast. As I poured hot lead into the oncoming horde, I prayed that the situation didn't get any worse.
It got worse. The unliving tide showed no sign of ceasing, and as I pulled the trigger for what seemed the hundredth time, a polite 'click' informed me that my clip was empty. Thumbing the clip release, I reached to my hip for another… and found nothing but air. My eyes went wide, and I looked up to see the horde closing in on me, taking merciless advantage of my moment of weakness. The first blow sent stars whirling in front of my vision. The second landed right in my gut, causing me to double over in pain. The third sent me to my knees. My vision swam, my heart hammered in my ears, and I looked death in the face as one would look at an oncoming freight train. But the fourth blow never landed. A boom like thunder slashed brutally through my pain-addled senses, and I felt the wind of passing buckshot. An almost painfully strong arm was wrapped around my waist, and I felt myself being hefted, slung over someone's shoulder. I blinked my eyes open, not realizing I'd shut them. I was staring into the back of a bloodstained leather vest. Francis's gravelly voice penetrated my daze, saying playfully "How many times have I saved your ass now?" The howls of the infected had not abated, and I heard Francis roar "Bill! Louis! We gotta go, now!" "Workin' on it!" Bill yelled back, then let loose with a burst from his M16 - or so my ears told me, as the staccato blasts ripped through the horde's growls and howls. Francis's shotgun roared again, and I felt the big-bore weapon's recoil as Francis's powerful muscles stiffened to handle the kick. My eyes, bleary with pain and fear, finally registered an object of Francis's belt. A grey cylinder about six inches long, a fuse dangling from the top, a beeper protruding from the side like a rectangular white wart. A pipe bomb. Reaching out and sliding the explosive off the big biker's belt, I fished around in my pocket with my other hand for the cigarette lighter I always carried with me for this exact use - not an easy feat while dangling upside-down on Francis's shoulder. Flicking the igniter, I held the hissing flame to the fuse, stuffed the lighter back in my pocket, and hurled the pipe bomb as far away as I could while hanging with my head towards the floor.
The cylindrical explosive bounced a few times on the asphalt, skittering across the highway to land in the long, untrimmed grass by the road's edge. All the nearby infected swarmed it like sharks that scented blood in the water. Francis whooped a battle-cry, and I joined in as best I could in my awkward position. As Francis started off at a run, I closed my eyes, my body aching. It felt like I'd been trampled by a horse, and I couldn't imagine what Francis must have felt that night he'd saved my life at the supermarket. As I was pondering this, another thought struck me: ours weren't the only gunshots I had heard during the horde attack.