Two people running down a street.
The occasional pops of gunfire becoming constant echoes of rat-tat-tat.
A shape stumbling around a tree.
How many zeds stood between me and home?
The only thing I knew was that I would never even make it to my front door, let alone to my parents’ house on the other side of town. It was both a miracle and luck that I’d already made it this far. Out there, on foot, I didn’t stand a chance.
Operating on autopilot, I opened the door but couldn’t make my legs obey. I lowered my head, and the tears came. It wasn’t an act. I didn’t want to cry, I never cried, but the tears just kept coming. My shoulders shook from exhaustion as much as from adrenaline and hopelessness.
Silence filled the cab for what seemed like an eternity, before I heard a heavy sigh. “I know I’m going to regret this. If you start looking sick, I swear to God I won’t hesitate to fill your brain with buckshot. If you’re not sick, I’ll give you one day.” He held up a finger. “One day. Then you’re on your own. Got it?”
Sniffling, I nodded vigorously. “You won’t regret it, I swear.”
“I already do,” he grumbled.
I went to pull the door shut; he nudged me with the barrel. “Nuh, uh,” he said. “Get rid of your boyfriend first. And be quick about it. He’s stinking up my cabin.”
I looked back and winced. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I said weakly before my gag reflex kicked in. I twisted and reached out the door just in time to throw up the pepperoni pizza I’d had for lunch. After several heaves, I was able to sit up again. Taking a deep breath, I glanced at the trucker. He was watching me carefully, but at least he didn’t mistake my retching for getting “sick” and shoot me.
I wiped my chin and headed to the back of the cab. Fortunately, Alan was slouched over, his face hidden in his lap, which made it a bit easier to pretend that this wasn’t someone I’d worked alongside every weekday. Dark, brownish blood and brain bits were splattered everywhere. Dazedly, I noticed the blood around Alan seemed darker and more congealed than it should have been, but I was no expert. My parents would know that kind of detail. I nudged him with my toe to make sure he was really dead, as though a shotgun blast to the head hadn’t been convincing enough. No response. Some of the tension in my spine released.
Once I could breathe without gagging, I glanced around. A stack of folded bedding sat neatly in the corner, and I grabbed the top sheet already speckled with dark spots. Breathing through my mouth, I knelt by Alan and none-too-gracefully rolled him into the sheet. Frowning, I noticed his pants had been ripped, and I nudged the material aside to see a jagged wound in the shape of a human mouth.
“He was bit,” I said, taking a long breath to keep from throwing up. “In the calf.”
“Figured something like that was the case,” the trucker replied.
I continued wrapping Alan in the sheet, trying to distance myself by imagining this was anything but a human body, but my subconscious kept reminding me. Once he was fully wrapped, I tugged and dragged him to the door and had meant to lower him gently to the ground, but he was heavier than me and the position was awkward. The sheet-wrapped body slipped right out of my hands and landed on the concrete shoulder of the interstate with a solid thud.
I stared at the body. While Alan deserved better than to be left at the side of the road to rot, I really, really didn’t want to leave the safety of the truck and risk being left behind. Biting my lip, I turned back to the trucker.