Heartland Junk - Part I: The End (A zombie apocalypse serial)

Chapter 8: Cadillac

There wasn't a single car on the two-lane highway until we were nearly to Carrborough Street, but near the point the sparse homesteads grew more dense and transitioned into regular houses, we saw a white Cadillac SUV on its side in the ditch on the right side of the road. Jennie was the first to spot it. She sucked in a breath and held her hand over her open mouth. The undercarriage was facing the road, facing us, and the two top tires were spinning slowly, as if the accident had just happened. There was nobody in sight, but I slowed anyway as we approached.

"Should we stop?" I asked. I brought the truck to a crawl. The Cadillac was directly beside us now. Exhaust rolled in ghostly plumes from the tailpipe. The engine was still running.

"No," said Rivet with finality.

"What if someone needs help?" Jennie argued. "They could be hurt. You know they can't call an ambulance."

"What if 'someone' turned freak-a-boo behind the wheel?" Rivet said. "We're leaving them. Go ahead, Ray."

"I don't see anybody..." I said. Fuck it. I dropped the brake pedal, then shifted into park and cranked up the parking brake below my door. "I'm gonna look. Real quick. You guys stay here."

"No, you're not," said Rivet. I gave him a sidelong glance, then opened the door and stepped out. "Be careful, Ray," Jennie called. "Don't get close to it." I nodded. Rivet scooted sideways to the steering wheel. "You need to run, go to that side and I'll gun it." Jennie slid into the middle of the bench seat, leaving the passenger side open. I grabbed the axe from the bed of the truck and walked toward the Cadillac.

It had fallen at an angle to the road, putting the hatchback door at the rear closest to the asphalt. The driver's side door was pressed into the ground. The pavement ahead of the pickup was scuffed and streaked, so I figured the Cadillac must have come from town. Was it worse over there? More people than our little neighborhood, that was for sure. We should be heading the other direction, away from town, into the plains. Find a farmhouse somewhere far away from everyone else. Hole up. Wait it out. I shouldn't be here, shouldn't be out of the truck.

Beyond the wrecked Cadillac was a white, one-story bungalow. The Cadillac's grill had dug a wide, earthen trench through the edge of their scrubby front lawn. No sign of movement from the house, nor from the neighbors adjacent to either side. Where the hell was everybody? Not home? Scared to come out? Freak-a-boos already, trapped in their own homes?

Gripping the axe in both hands, muscles tensed, I stepped to the roof side of the toppled vehicle. I could hear the engine idling under the hood, but that, the prattle of the Ford behind me, and my heavy breathing were the only sounds. Every other noise seemed to have been whitewashed into oblivion. The Cadillac had a sunroof, but first I stooped to look through the rear window in the hatchback. Sunlight streamed through the passenger windows, now at the top of the vehicle, illuminating most of the interior. I didn't see anybody, didn't see any movement.

I moved along the side of the Cadillac to look through the sunroof. Beyond the glass, I could see the two front seats and the middle seat behind them as if from a top-down view. All were empty. I breathed out and loosened my white-knuckle grip on the axe. Blood flowed back into my fingers, into my limbs.

"Nothing here," I called, turning back to the truck. Jennie and Rivet were watching me through the window. I started toward them. "Let's go."

Jennie screamed, and my first thought was that something had gotten into the truck. She banged the window, pointed at me. Get in here. Help. I started to run just as something grabbed my ankle and pitched me forward into the grass.

I shut my eyes reflexively as my face smashed the spindly grass, saving my eyeballs from the dry, needlelike blades, and then rolled onto my back and kicked out. My tennis shoe smacked a face. The grip on my ankle loosened. I scrambled back, hands and feet. Axe? Shit, the axe. The man was on his belly, legs still out of sight behind the hood of the Cadillac. Crawling toward me. Teeth gnashing. A long red crack split his forehead, blood still wet, dripping. Over his eyes, blinding him.