AUTHOR'S NOTES:

I took some time planning out a new series of events for "Crash Course". Although quite a bit of it is similar to what I had written before, I have added additional scenes and some "foreshadowing" that will hopefully improve the quality of the story. There is now also an extra chapter. Hooray.

I will also be going back over all my old chapters and trying to improve them once again.

As always, reviews are appreciated.

Chapter 20: The Scrap Yard

While Francis secured the safe-house door, Bill sat down on the floor of the safe-room and leaned back against the wall as he lit up a cigarette. He was pleased to have found a pump-action shotgun, along with a full box of shells, lying forgotten in the corner of the room, which he eagerly traded his metal pipe for.

"I reckon we rest up here for a couple of hours. But then we should get moving again."

Francis shot him a strange look. "We do that, and we'll be leaving at night-time. Is that such a good idea?"

Bill took a deep puff from his cigarette. "Every rabid son of a bitch within a three mile radius probably heard the racket we made firing off that Howitzer. They'll be closing in on where the noise came from. I want to put as much distance between us and that gun as possible."

Suddenly, Zoey, who had been looking around the safe-room, spoke up. "Hey, guys. Take a look at this."

The others looked over at her and saw a hastily-scrawled message on the wall behind her.

PETER

ARMY IS STILL IN RIVERSIDE

WE'RE WAITING FOR YOU AT THE DEPOT

WE FINISHED THE TRUCK

HURRY

"We should check out that truck depot," Zoey suggested. "Maybe there's something there that we can use to drive out of here."

"Sounds like a plan," Louis agreed, while Francis nodded.

"I hate walking. Driving out of this shithole city in style would be nice."

As Francis began to clean his shotgun and sidearm, and the others prepared a paltry meal of jerky and bruised-looking apples scavenged from the hospital, Zoey surveyed the rest of the messages written on the walls. There was an argument between several people over which one of them had killed the most zombies, and one individual had put down in writing his longing for the internet. Suddenly, a poem written in neat, loopy handwriting caught her eye.

Jonathan,

You have touched my very being. I shall remember you.

You taught all that know you what courage is.

And have shown us an example in death as you did in life.

God give me strength in my life without you.

And I shall thank him.

I can only hope our souls shall entwine again

In that place where there is only love, no tears, no sadness,

No injustice, no cruelty, no white, no black (no zombies, someone had added here)

No hate, no war, only love

Alison

"Damn..." Zoey muttered to herself. "What a God-awful poem..." She then noticed that someone else had scribbled a message below the pretentious poetry.

Jesus lady. I'm hiding from zombies and reading this was the most terrible thing to happen to me today.

Zoey chuckled. "Too right, man."

Several hours later, the metal safe-house door swung open once more and Bill led the way out into the night. However, something felt immediately wrong, more so than usual. Usually, the distant moans and growls of the former humans now inhabiting the continent could be heard coming from somewhere. Bill strained his ears and listened. He could not hear howling, or screaming, or anything. Absolutely nothing. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Louis and Zoey followed, covering him with their submachine guns, while Francis casually strode out of the building, cocking his shotgun. The four of them made their way around the cinderblock structure and into an abandoned scrap yard, skirting the various piles of twisted metal. All the while, Louis glanced around nervously at the dark outlines of the various junk surrounding them.

This is bullshit... We're totally out in the open here...

His heart started pounding when he heard some rustling off to the right. He immediately swung his flashlight around, but could not locate the culprit behind the noise he just heard... Or had he? It was so quiet... Maybe he was just imagining things?

"Move it along," Francis growled from behind, startling him into motion again.

The ragtag little group pushed forward through the junkyard in a tense silence. Zoey felt the somewhat good mood she had been in when they left the safe-house quickly evaporating. It was not fair. They had made it to Mercy Hospital, and fought their way to the helicopter. They should be in the safe-zone by now, sitting back and chilling in deck-chairs with mojitos on the beach. Or… something like that.

Why were they still in Fairfield, wandering through a dark and dank junkyard?

"This is weird…" she said presently, as three pairs of eyes turned to her. "I mean, where are all the Infected?" Seeing Louis' puzzled expression, she quickly added, "Not that I'm complaining."

"I was wondering about that too," Bill replied solemnly. "Until I saw that." He jerked his thumb ahead toward a horrific sight of carnage.

Two helicopters lay crumpled and broken side-by-side, smashed to pieces. They must have marked the place of an obviously-failed evacuation attempt. Countless shards of glass covered the ground, along with hideously bent and buckled pieces of rotor and fuselage. The scorch marks and lack of fire gave sight to the fact that whatever events transpired here had happened a while ago.

Zoey was glad to have missed them.

"What the hell happened here?" Louis exclaimed in shock. "Do you think the army shot them down or something?"

Bill had moved in take a closer look at one of the helicopters, and what he saw chilled him to the bone. The entire left-hand side of the fuselage was buckled inward, as though it had been hit with tremendous force. But it was the shape of the dent that was most disturbing – it almost looked like the outline of a gigantic fist! He could even see the circular depressions from four great knuckles, the size of baseballs, and the dents from four fat fingers, each one the width of his entire hand.

My god…

"What is it, old man?" Francis chimed in. "I thought you'd be used to seeing crashed helicopters by now? What, with fighting in Vietnam, and knowing her." The biker jerked a thumb at Zoey with the last word, to which she shot him an angry look.

The old veteran straightened up. "We're leaving. Now."

"What is it, Bill?" Zoey asked in alarm.

"Whatever did this sure as hell wasn't the army. It was something else – something big. Whatever it is, it has the Common Infected in the area either in hiding, or running scared. We've got to – "

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

A shrill scream shattered the silence as an infected woman leapt from the darkness behind them, wrapping her arms around Francis, and, without the slightest hesitation, sank her teeth into his shoulder.