The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 1): Dead Ascent Page 3

  The thing’s nostrils flared as it smelled her flesh. Its milky, lifeless eyes locked on her.

  “Oh my God!” Wanda screamed as it pounded on the window, howling like a tortured, wild and hungry animal, trying desperately to get at her. Wanda realized with a primal fear that whatever this thing was, it was no longer human, not in any way she understood. This thing was evil, soulless, and above all else, hungry.

  Upon hearing her scream, the thing staggered backward and slammed into the side of the truck. Through her pain and panic, she remembered Harvey’s revolver in the glove box. The gun! He had taught her how to shoot it once; she prayed she could remember how to use it. It was an old, cheap, revolver-type pistol.

  She fumbled with the latch until she finally got the glove box open, then snatched out the gun and pulled the hammer back, cocking it. She didn’t even know if it was loaded, but she took aim the best she could, pointing the shaking pistol barrel at the thing’s face pressed against the windshield. She squeezed the trigger, but it wouldn’t budge. The safety!

  With shaking hands, she switched off the safety, then placed the barrel mere inches from the thing’s face as it attempted to gnaw through the glass. This time, it fired. The windshield bloomed in a small, fragmented circle, the thing’s head snapped backward and it fell limp across the crumpled hood of the truck. For several moments, the world was completely silent.

  As her hearing began to come back to her, she saw movement and watched another man stagger from the woods. He stood in the graveled road, sniffing the air, wearing what looked to Wanda like the remnants of a torn and bloody Glassy Mountain Park Ranger uniform. She pulled the hammer back again, and the metallic click drew the thing’s attention as its head snapped in her direction. The thing squealed and lunged forward, its dead, soulless eyes locked on her as it snarled and shambled towards her.

  Her first shot missed it completely, but the second hit it square in the chest, staggering it back a step. Still it came, clawing at the truck and onto the hood. She fired again and missed again. The next time, though, she took careful aim, and the bullet sent brain matter and skull fragments flying into the night sky.

  Wanda opened the chamber and saw there were no more bullets left. She realized somehow that the noise of the gun and the wreck had attracted those things, whatever they were, and she hoped that if she stayed completely quiet, maybe no more of them would find her.

  That hope ended quickly as a third dead thing came out of the dark woods.

  Wanda ducked down, listening to its dragging feet and ragged breath as it staggered out onto the gravel road. The thing stopped then, and the urge to look at it was irresistible for her. Her heart pounded in her ears as she tried to listen.

  She slowly peeked at it through the remnants of the windshield, praying it wouldn’t find her, then doubled over again, in the grips of another strong contraction. She felt an enormous pressure building inside her, and an overwhelming urge to push. “God, not now!” she prayed. But she knew she could no longer resist.

  She had to.

  Although pain ripped her insides, she bit her lip and bore it as fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Trembling, she hiked up her dress, slid her panties down and pushed with all she had. Stifling a scream, she pushed until she ripped, as the crown of the baby’s head made its way out of her. She breathed as quietly as she could, in short bursts, and then she pushed, as half the baby and a pile of something wet came from her. She pushed again, and the cab filled with the raspy, wailing cries of new life. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard, and the most terrifying.

  Seconds later, the enraged and hungry thing slammed headlong into the driver’s side door, then staggered around the truck, snarling, screeching and hobbling on a badly broken leg. She recognized him as the man they had run over. He tripped and fell in the beam of the one defiant headlight. She watched the thing try to get back to its feet, clawing at the huge white oak to gain leverage.

  She scooped the bloody newborn up and was holding it to her chest when another urge to push hit her, and a pile of afterbirth fell to the floorboards.

  Fighting the urge to scream, she gently rocked the baby as it bawled out again. She tried to comfort the child as she quickly glanced back at the road, but saw nothing.

  The thing was gone. She leaned forward, trying to see where it was.

  Beside her, Harvey flinched. She thought he was coming to, but then she watched a pale hand claw at his hair. Yellowed fingernails dug into Harvey’s neck, and the thing violently hauled him out of the shattered driver’s side window, screeching its pleasure.

  Now, she screamed.

  It wasn’t long before the thing returned, bloody, staggering and set on getting bloodier. Its head bashed through the remnants of the driver’s side window and all Wanda could do was kick at its bloody face as it tried to crawl into the truck. It grabbed her foot and bit the sole of her shoe as she kicked hard with her other foot, snapping its head backwards with an angered roar.

  As Wanda screamed and the baby wailed, the cab suddenly flooded with light. From atop the curve, two high-beams shone down on the wreckage, illuminating the gruesome scene as the thing tried to get through the shattered driver’s side window again, reaching out for Wanda and her infant.

  Then a row of five more, much brighter lights shone, and Wanda recognized them as a row of fog lights atop a truck. The driver’s side door of the other truck opened, and Wanda saw a glimmer of light reflected from a rifle barrel.

  The thing raised its head and howled at the bright lights.

  Then, with the boom of a shotgun, its shrieking was abruptly cut short.

  As she held the wailing infant close to her body, the truck slowly moved forward, creeping toward the wreck, its brakes screeching in protest.

  Wanda tried to open the passenger side door, but it was jammed shut. The truck finally stopped and a tall, lean figure stepped out. She could only make out his outline, half-blinded by the glare of floodlights at his back. Still, she desperately called out to him.

  “Help me!” she pleaded, as the baby squalled. “Help me, please!”

  Chapter 4

  November 8, 7:00 p.m.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah, son.”

  “What if, tomorrow while we’re out there hunting, say we actually do see a bear and shoot it, but the bear don’t die? What if it comes after us?”

  “What?”

  “You know, if it was just wounded or something and came running after us?’

  “Well, son, I reckon we’ll run.”

  Twelve-year-old Barry Ponder sat up in his sleeping bag, big-eyed and very much awake. “You can’t outrun a bear!”

  Dan Ponder rolled over, flicked on the flashlight and held it under his chin. His bearded jowls lit up in a reddish glow. “Boy, I don’t have to outrun that bear. I only have to outrun you!” Dan’s eyes widened dramatically for emphasis.

  Barry smiled. “You can’t outrun me, old man.”

  “Go to sleep, boy. We’re getting up super early tomorrow and bagging us a deer.” Dan turned off the flashlight and rolled up inside his sleeping bag. “A big old ten-pointer is out there just a-waitin’ for us.”

  Still kicking himself after the embarrassment that was this morning’s hunt, Barry said to his father, “I can’t believe I missed that one today. I had it right in my sights and I missed!”

  “It happens, son. You were too excited and let it get to you.”

  “I know, Dad, but I was shaking. I couldn’t stop it.”

  “It’s like I told you before: you have to forget about everything when you set your aim on that deer, everything. Clear your mind and focus. Just do like I showed you. Let out a breath, keep those crosshairs steady the whole time, and slowly pull the trigger. You’ll get him next time, you’ll see.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I’m sure of it. Now let’s get some sleep,” Dan said firmly.

  Dan was a hulk of a man, and his immense girth
filled the sleeping bag like some strange pupa ready to burst. Taking his eyes from the silhouette of his big, burrowing father, Barry stared up at the roof of the tent. Dan had left the rain flap open and Barry could see a glimmering ocean of stars through the bug screen mesh. He could see the stars from their home, but not like this. With no interference from the lights of town, the night sky above Glassy Mountain appeared as a living, breathing thing, like some heavenly entity.

  “This is awesome, Dad.”

  “Yeah, it is, ain’t it?” Dan mumbled, followed by a long, drawn-out yawn.

  “I wish she was here, with us now.”

  “I do too, son, but I know she’s looking down here at us now.”

  Barry had looked forward to this hunting trip with his old man all summer. His father was all he had left. Barry’s mother had passed away two years prior in a car accident. He had no siblings, no grandparents, just himself and his old man.

  They were camping on one of the designated primitive camping sites after signing in at the ranger station the previous morning. They had gotten lucky and had a whole tent site to themselves. The closest site to theirs was Site 34, and it looked abandoned, save for a Chevy Blazer that had been there for some time. Most of the other campers had congregated closer to civilization, at the foot of the mountain at Camp Ole Indian, with its showers and restrooms. That’s not camping, Barry thought. That place, Camp Ole Indian, gave him the creeps, anyway. Besides, it was way overcrowded. Most of the park and campgrounds had been rented out to some medical company or something, his dad had said.

  Barry tried closing his eyes, but slumber evaded him. Thoughts of the hunt ran through his head, and images of a proud, ten-point buck grazing in the meadow filled his young, adventurous mind as he stared out toward the stars, listening to the chirps of crickets and the occasional cry of a lone whippoorwill, taking in the nighttime serenade of the many critters that inhabited the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains.

  He could smell the smoke from their small campfire outside the tent, the aromatic cedar and oak wafting in the breeze as he breathed in the cool night air. He listened to the cool, clear water in the creek below their camp, laughing in the moonlight.

  Barry put his hands behind his head and laced his fingers, thinking of his mother and what his dad had said. She’s looking down on us right now. He missed his mother terribly; they both did, he knew, but they had begun slowly putting the shattered pieces of their lives back together, like a spilled jigsaw puzzle, making sense of it again, trying to make the odd pieces fit.

  Barry listened to the serenading crickets, drew in another deep breath and noticed the smell of smoke had gotten stronger, a lot stronger.

  “Dad, you still awake?” he asked.

  Looking over at the silhouette of his father, he watched the gentle rise and fall of the sleeping bag and heard snoring. He knew the answer.

  The acrid smell of smoke grew thicker with each breath he took, enough that he almost coughed. Unnerved, he crawled out of his sleeping bag and carefully unzipped the entrance of the tent, deciding to see what was going on.

  Poking his head out and looking up, he could see thick, white smoke drifting along against the purple night sky. Barry scampered out of the tent and saw an enormous orange glow farther below their camp in the direction of Camp Ole Indian. To his horror, he heard thrashing and popping, then a raspy, loud squealing sound and panicked screams coming from a camp somewhere below theirs, much farther downhill.

  “Dad, wake up!” Barry shouted into the tent.

  Dan sat up, startled by Barry’s outburst. He crawled out of the tent, nearly collapsing it as he forced his way out of it. Immediately he noticed the strong smell of smoke and saw the thick white cloak hovering over the pines. His eyes widened when he spotted the glow of the raging fire through the dark forest below.

  “It’s a forest fire, Barry. We’ve got to run for the truck!”

  “The road goes straight towards the fire, Dad,” Barry said, pointing down the gravel road. “We’ll go right at it!”

  Dan looked lost for a moment, blinking as he stared at the fire coming up the mountain, engulfing pines and timber in a hellish glow. Gunfire sounded below them and Dan nearly jumped at the sound of it. He didn’t know what the hell was going on now, but he knew this was bad, real bad. “We…we can’t stay here. We have to get out of here fast, Barry. Come on, son, we’ll head up the mountain. Let’s go!”

  “What about our stuff?” Barry asked, pointing at the tent.

  “Leave it. Let’s get out of here,” Dan said, staring again at the blaze below.

  As they made for the truck, Dan stopped suddenly, and Barry nearly ran into him.

  “What is it?” Barry asked, and then heard another crashing sound. He saw the source of the noise as a man stumbled awkwardly toward their camp from the direction of the road, and immediately Barry sensed that something about the intruder was horribly wrong. The intruder clumsily stepped out into their campsite, into the light of their campfire, and Barry’s breath caught as he got a good look at him. Tufts of hair dangled from a mostly bald scalp, and a spider web of black veins shone dark against his pale white flesh. Barry turned as several other dark figures emerged from the woods behind them. The man lurched forward, howling like an injured beast.

  Dan acted quickly, pushing Barry out of the way as four of the screeching abominations closed in on them. Clenching his fists, Dan roared as he rushed headlong into the intruders, shouldering two of them to the ground as he threw punch after punch until his hand was caught in the maw of an open mouth. Dan wailed in pain as more of them pounced on him, teeth and nails tearing into him.

  Lying on his back, Barry could only watch in horror as an ever-growing circle of monsters tore his father to pieces. “No!” Barry yelled, and jumped to his feet. “Dad!”

  But the shock of it all quickly wore off as one of them came towards him, screeching and slobbering, a wild, menacing look in his milky, dead eyes that Barry recognized as anything but human. He heard a piercing screech as another one came at him from somewhere close behind him and instinct told him to move.

  Barry took a quick step towards the closest one as it stretched out its arms to get at him. Barry dove between its legs, rolled underneath it, came to his feet at an all-out run, and ran straight into another one, knocking the thing over and falling down with it. Barry sprang up from the ground, but it had hold of his shirt, and he felt it pulling at him. The shirt tore and ripped as Barry pulled away, screaming.

  He dodged two more of the abominations and passed by the group of undead as they were tearing into his father. The closest one let out a piercing screech and lurched towards him. Barry slid to a halt, his eyes darting desperately, looking for an escape route. The area around the campfire was clear, and he decided to try to jump over the fire and flee through the forest.

  One of the things moved with more agility than the others and closed in on Barry quickly, but upon seeing the campfire, the thing reeled backward and fell. Barry seized his only chance and ran straight at the fire, jumped and cleared it, running hard.

  He ran straight into the pitch-black woods, limbs and branches slapping his face as he rushed through the forest. He saw the dark outlines of two more people, and he almost called out to them for help, but instinct told him to avoid them.

  The two figures howled as they turned toward the commotion the boy made as he ran by them. Barry’s shoulder slammed into a tree, which knocked him off balance and sent him sprawling in the dirt and pine needles. Barry scrambled back to his feet in a panic and took off again. His lungs burned and his shoulder throbbed, but still he ran. He ran as hard as he had ever run in his life, heart pounding, eyes watering from the acrid, moonlit smoke that now billowed throughout the forest in a ghostly hue.

  Once he felt he had put enough distance behind him, he chanced a look over his shoulder as he ran, but his feet tangled in a vine and he fell hard, landing on a big root that knocked the wind from him. Spitting pine needl
es and red dirt from his mouth, Barry wanted to just lie there, but with the screams and howls of those things behind him, he quickly found the will to scramble to his feet and again was on his way.

  He found himself heading up the incline of a steep, thick ridge and the terrain became so vertical that he had to grab hold of the limbs of the thick clusters of mountain laurel to pull himself along the terrain. He lost his grip and slid down several yards before catching hold again, but he kept at it until he reached the top.

  Once atop the ridge, Barry looked back through the dark woods. He couldn’t see anything in pursuit below, but farther away, he saw the glow of the raging fire.

  He watched and listened for a while, trying to catch his breath, but from what little he could tell in the dark of night, nothing was following him or moving along the ridge below him.

  The wind shifted and with it came a blanket of white smoke, burning his eyes and causing Barry to cough and choke. He covered his mouth with his torn and ragged shirtsleeve and hurried along the ridge, tripping and stumbling over unseen rocks and roots as he did, hoping to find the road somewhere ahead, hoping this was all a vivid, awful nightmare as tears welled in his eyes. Dad…

  He plunged his way along the dark, mountainous terrain, loudly cracking branches underfoot. Through all the panic and fear, he rationalized that the fire was at the bottom of the mountain, growing stronger and bigger every minute.

  He reasoned that those things had also come from below their campsite. Whatever was happening, it had started back at Camp Ole Indian and he was getting the hell away from there, as fast and as far as he could. Barry believed that his only avenue for escape, his only chance of survival, was to get as far up the mountain as he could.

  My dad is dead. So is my mother, but I have to live. I have to survive.

  Cold, scared and crying, he staggered into the night. Placing one foot in front of the other, he felt his way along the dark mountain. Each step took him farther away from the danger, and each step was a step farther into the unknown.