Rick watched our approach through the car window, waving his arms to show that he was still alive. He was half-pinned by the air bag and blood was dripping into his hair from a small cut on his forehead, but other than that he looked fine. Lois and her carrier were strapped into the seat next to his. I didn?t want to be the one to let that cat out of the box.
I knocked on the glass, calling, ?Rick? Can you open the door?? Despite the urgency of the situation, I couldn?t help but be impressed by the structural integrity of his little car. It had to have rolled at least once before coming to a stop on its roof, and yet it wasn?t showing any dents: just scratches and a crack in the passenger-side window. The folks at VW really knew what they were doing.
?I think so!? he called back. ?Can you get me out??
Mirthlessly, I echoed, ?I think so!?
?Not the most encouraging answer,? he said, and twisted in the seat, movements constrained by seat belt and air bag, until he could kick the door. On his second kick, I grabbed the handle and pulled. I didn?t have to pull that hard; despite the car?s inverted position and the beating it had taken, the door swung open easily, leaving Rick?s foot dangling in the air. He pulled it back into the car, saying, ?Now what??
?Now I get your belt, and you get ready to fall.? I leaned into the car.
?Hurry up, George,? said Shaun. ?I don?t like this.?
?No one does,? I said, and unsnapped Rick?s belt. Gravity took over from there, sending Rick thumping against the roof of the car.
?Thanks,? he said, reaching over to unhook Lois?s carrier before climbing out. The cat hissed and snarled inside the box, expressing her displeasure. Straightening, Rick eyed his car. ?How are we supposed to flip that back over??
?Triple A is our friend,? I said. ?Get in the van. We need to check on Buffy.?
Paling, Rick nodded and climbed in. Shaun and I were only a few feet behind him. I noted without surprise that Shaun had his own pistol?substantially larger than my emergencies-only .45?with specially modified ammo that did enough damage to human or posthuman tissue that it was illegal without a disturbing number of licenses, all of which Shaun obtained before he turned sixteen?out and at the ready. He wasn?t buying my glib assurances of our safety. That was fine. Neither was I.
Shaun took my assumption of the driver?s seat with just as little surprise and didn?t bother fastening his belt as I slammed the gas pedal down, sending the van racing across the hard-packed ground between us and the still-smoking equipment truck. The truck wasn?t likely to burst into flames; that only happens in the movies, which is almost a pity, given the number of zombies that arise from automotive accidents every year. Buffy and Chuck could die from smoke inhalation if we dawdled? assuming they weren?t dead already.
Rick braced himself against the seat. ?Has there been any word from Buffy??
?Not since the truck went down,? Shaun said.
?Why the hell didn?t you go for her first??
?Simple,? I said, steering around a chunk of rubber torn from the truck?s tires. ?We knew you were alive, and we might need the backup.?
Rick didn?t say anything after that until we pulled up alongside the equipment truck. Shaun reached between the seats and pulled out a double-barreled shotgun which he passed to Rick. ?What am I supposed to do with this?? Rick demanded.
?You see anything moving that isn?t us, Chuck, or Buffy, you shoot,? Shaun said. ?Don?t bother checking to see if it?s dead. It?ll be dead after you hit it.?
?And if I hit emergency personnel??
?We?re stranded, and we?ve been the victims of a malicious attack in possible zombie territory,? I said, stopping the engine and opening my door. ?Cite Johnston?s, and you?ll get a medal instead of a manslaughter conviction.? Manuel Johnston was a truck driver with several DUIs on his record, but when he gunned down a dozen zombies in highway patrolmen?s uniforms outside Birmingham, Alabama, he became a national hero. Since Johnston, it?s been legal to shoot people for no crime more defined than existing in rural hazard zones. We usually curse his name, since the precedent he set has gotten a lot of good journalists killed. Under the circumstances, he was a savior. ?Shaun and I have the truck. You?ve got point.?
?Got it,? said Rick, grimly, and climbed out the van?s side door as Shaun and I got out and moved toward the still-smoking truck.
It was obvious that the equipment truck had taken the worst of the beatings. Lacking the maneuverability of my bike, the armor of Rick?s car, or the paranoia-fueled unstoppability of our van, it had taken two bullets to the front left tire and completely lost control. The cabin was half-smashed when the truck went over. The smoke had thinned without clearing, and that lowered visibility as we started toward the cab.
?Buffy?? I called. ?Buffy, are you there??