Zombie Soap 2: Conspiracy

Thirty-One

Uh... trigger warning for gore?

Jayson

Elko, Nevada

Nevada sucked balls. The entire state was one long ass freeway meandering from one end of the state to the other, with a smattering of tiny towns and maybe a couple of cities, excluding Vegas and Reno. The landscape consisted of endless desert among mountain ranges, dotted with sparse vegetation and cacti.

Despite the smaller population compared to Arizona, providing relatively safe travel, the drive was lonely. Too late to say sorry and unable to communicate lest those government creeps trailed him, Jayson was officially on his own. Well, unless he counted the stray animals and rotting carcasses on the side of the road.

He'd driven well into the night and all the way into the morning until the sun rose above the mountains. If not for the need to refuel, he would have pushed on despite his growing fatigue and constant migraine.

Staring at the eerily silent city ahead, Jayson sighed. A population of twenty thousand wasn't any less deadly than that of one and a half million. All it took was one bite. One bite, and he'd be a mindless Soapie like the rest.

Abandoned cars littered the freeways, doors open and personal belongings spilled onto the asphalt. Dried blood smeared cracked ground and dented metal alike; small streaks of red barely visible beneath a thin sheen of morning ice.

A crow picked at an unidentifiable lump ahead, and Jayson tilted his head, watching in both fascination and disgust. Oblivious to his presence, the bird plucked something from the mound, unaffected by the disease.

Huh.

Storing this immunity in the back of his mind for later, Jayson observed the animal until its head shot up. A crash nearby made him jump, and the crow immediately took flight. It didn't go far; a gray cat with open sores and blood matted to its fur darted across the hood of two adjacent cars, leaping into the air and catching the bird. A loud squawk cut short echoed in the heavy air as the cat landed and tore into its prey.

Jayson froze, keeping one hand on the rifle in the passenger seat. His first instinct was to put the Soapie out of its misery, but a gunshot would only attract more.

He held his breath and waited for the animal to finish eating as feathers scattered and blood soaked the pavement.

Groans joined the noise of teeth tearing into flesh, whether from the smell of fresh meat or the cat's snarls acting as a lure, followed by Soapies emerging from the shadows. Men, women, children, and elderly, all in tattered clothing and various states of decomposition — eyes missing from sockets, bone showing beneath sinew and muscle, and chunks of flesh torn off — approached the animal with hunger reflecting in their milky white eyes.

Okay, this was officially a bad idea. Jayson didn't need gas this much. There had to be another gas station somewhere on the outskirts, a hole in the wall station that wasn't so densely populated.

Engine still idling and foot still on the brake, Jayson shifted the vehicle into reverse. Then he eased the pressure on the pedal and prepared to turn. So far, so...

"Jesus!"

He glanced to his left out of habit to check for obstacles and jumped. A Soapie, a man dressed in a flannel shirt, bared his rotted teeth and growled. Deep gashes marred right half of his face, and the bottom half of his nose looked like it had been chewed off.