Francis, Louis and Bill had taken up station behind an overturned table next to our extinguished campfire, firing over the table's edge at the oncoming horde. Coach stood out in front, laying about himself with his machete. I saw a zombie's head go flying, spurting blood, then Coach disemboweled another with his backswing, nearly cutting the foul thing in twain. Rochelle and Nick stood together by the group's sleeping bags, taking potshots at any zombies that got too close. Turning Ellis toward the sleeping area and giving him a hard shove and a yell of "Go!" I turned and made a mad dash for the table where my compatriots had taken cover. Firing off a few shots with my pistol as I ran, I caught one infected in the chest, staggering it and slowing its charge, then placed a bullet squarely between its eyes, killing it. Sliding into position behind the table like an NBL player sliding to home plate, I reloaded on the fly and said "How's it look?" "Bad," Bill replied as I stood up, firing a burst from his M16 and dropping two oncoming infected. "At first, they were all coming in a straight line from those woods," he said, pointing to the forest directly in front of us before felling another zombie with a well-aimed shot and continuing "Now they're spreading out, flanking us. Before too long, we'll be surrounded. "Shit," I cursed, and meant it. Being surrounded by zombies was not something that you wanted to happen to you.
"Shit! I'm dry!" Francis yelled, throwing his empty shotgun to the ground. The infected were all around us now, and we had retreated into a semicircle around the sleeping bags. With concerted firepower from all eight of us - Ellis had been hurriedly patched up by Rochelle and given his sniper rifle - we had managed to hold the infected off for a few minutes, but now they took advantage of the lapse in firepower and pressed in on our side. One leaped over our makeshift barricade, tackling Francis to the ground with the force of its charge. Cursing, the biker rolled it over onto its back, grabbed his shotgun and caved in the zombie's skull with the butt of the weapon. Turning, he swung the shotgun like a club, knocking a nearby zombie off its feet and snapping its neck with the same blow. Bill was down on one knee to steady his aim, taking careful, precise shots into the crowd. Louis was unleashing a steady stream of profanity as he sprayed the crowd of oncoming zombies with his submachine gun, only pausing to reload. Slamming a fresh clip - one out of only three remaining - into my waiting pistol, I racked the slide and quickly put two rounds into a zombie trying to climb over the barricade. Blood spurted from the gaping wounds in its chest and head as it toppled over backwards, almost instantly replaced by another zombie, which I felled by placing a bullet in its forehead.
"There's too many!" Bill yelled, smashing a zombie in the face with the butt of his rifle. "We have to pull out of here!' "Where the hell did they all come from!" Francis roared, ramming the heel of his boot into the face of a zombie that he had tripped. "This is just a goddamn rest stop!" "Should have paid more attention to the terrain, grease ball!" Nick yelled back, blasting away with his handgun, his assault rifle having run dry. "There's an overrun CEDA evacuation center just down the road!" Oh, I thought, my heart turning to ice. That explains it. I could picture it now - the camp packed with terrified refugees, flooding in faster than they could be evacuated. The roads for miles around would be jammed with cars full of even more people, trapped in their vehicles, unable to move. All it would take would be one infected person…
Shaking off the horrifying mental image, I dropped a charging zombie with a shot to the head, then turned to look for any possible escape route. The open door of the rest stop was tantalizing, but I knew that it could quickly become a death trap. With limited exits and cramped quarters, we would soon become trapped and, almost inevitably, killed. My eyes flicked around desperately, finally coming to rest on an old, rusty ladder that led up to the rooftop. It wasn't perfect, but it was our best bet. "Bill!" I yelled over the din of battle. "Ladder!" I jabbed my finger at the ladder in question, and Bill followed my gesture, his gaze landing on the ladder and hardening. He considered for a split-second - in truth, a split-second is all the time he had - and then barked "Everyone, get to that ladder! Nick and I will cover our retreat!" I don't know how high-ranking Bill was back in his time in the army, but he could belt out orders like a drill sergeant when he wanted to. Even the usually quarrelsome Nick obeyed without a word of protest, laying down a field of covering fire with his assault rifle while slowly walking backwards beside Bill. The rest of us bolted for the ladder. Rochelle went up first, nimbly scooting up the ladder and calling down encouragement from above when she reached the roof. I went next, and the ladder, however rusty, seemed sturdy enough. Ellis climbed up next, his injuries causing him to move a little slower than either me or Rochelle. Then came Coach, and the ladder groaned in protest under the big man's weight. Cursing as he hauled himself up, Coach turned and started blasting at the oncoming horde with his shotgun. Nick climbed up next, deftly clambering up the rickety metal with an athlete's grace, making me wonder about his past. Francis grabbed Bill by the shoulders, turned him around and shoved him at the ladder. While the old veteran was climbing, Francis held the zombies off by swinging his shotgun like a club, knocking down any who came near. Coach helped Bill up the last few rungs, and then it was Francis's turn. He had almost reached the top when, with a shriek of tortured metal, the ladder gave out and sent him tumbling downwards towards the countless outstretched hands and gaping mouths beneath.
I'm not entirely sure what happened next; blame it on the adrenaline, the fear, the shock, what have you, but the next thing I knew, I was flat on my belly at the building's edge, Francis dangling from my hand, bare inches above the straining fingertips of the infected horde below. I could feel my grip slipping, slowly but surely, my sweat-slippery fingers unable to keep a firm enough hold on his wrist - and it didn't help that Francis must have weighed close to two-fifty pounds or more, and almost all of it muscle. My eyes locked with Francis's as he dangled there, and his hardened after taking in my expression. I'm not sure what he saw there - terror or sorrow, maybe? - but whatever it was, he found strength in it. His booted feet scrabbled for purchase on the brick wall, and his other arm reached upwards, taking a hold of my wrist. This situation, however, was not much better; Francis's weight was starting to drag me over the edge as well. Suddenly, my slow slipping was stopped dead as a pair of thick, powerful arms wrapped around my waist, and Coach's voice boomed "Don't worry none, I got ya'll!" Between him and me, we managed to haul Francis up onto the roof, where he lay for a few moments, panting.
Moments later, I suddenly realized that I was on top of Francis, his powerful arms around me, pinning me to him. The side of my face was pressed against his chest, and I could hear his heartbeat - loud, and surprisingly fast, hammering in his chest like a runaway drummer. Was it possible? Was Francis actually scared? I felt his fingers running absently through my hair, and I heard him whisper in my ear "I love you, Zoey." Giving him a brief squeeze, I whispered back "I love you, too." A loud throat-clearing above us broke up the impromptu romantic scene, and Francis released me, sitting up and shaking his head as if to clear it of unwanted thoughts. Standing up awkwardly, I dusted myself off and looked up to see Nick standing beside us, looking down at Francis with a single eyebrow raised. "I hate to break up the love-fest, but we kinda have to get moving," Nick said, voice dripping with his usual cynicism and scorn. "Ah, piss off, Colonel Sanders," Francis growled, struggling to his feet and brushing off his vest. He glanced at me, and I saw - or thought I saw - a sliver of that vulnerability and fear glimmering in the depths of his eyes, but it was covered up so quickly by his usual 'uncaring badass' attitude that I wondered if I had imagined it. Turning away, Francis followed the rest of our group to the other edge of the roof, where there were, fortunately, a whole lot less zombies. "Well," Francis said, folding his arms over his chest and looking at Bill. "What now?" Bill sighed and removed his beret, running a hand through his graying hair. Replacing the beret and taking a moment to adjust its angle, he turned to the big biker and said "Now, Francis…" pausing to rake his gaze across the rest of our group like a commander inspecting his troops, he finished "we walk." Francis groaned. "Ugh. I hate walking." Nick rolled his eyes but said nothing, and I mentally took stock of our odds. Eight immune survivors with limited weapons, almost no ammo, no transportation, and only the vaguest of ideas about where in the hell we were. I leaned on Francis for a moment, and, to my slight surprise, felt him lean back a little. Just a little, so little that I hardly noticed it, but it was there. Wrapping an arm around his chest, I smiled, letting my head rest against his side as I stared out across the sprawling vista before us. Well, if we had nothing else, at least we had each other. That would have to be enough.