The Survivalist: Madness Rules Part 9

Mason hurried over to the ma.s.sive truck, climbed the metal step, and pulled on the handle. The door swung open but, before he could climb in, strong hands grabbed him from behind. He fell back onto the ground, his M4 clattering off the b.u.mper and falling beneath the truck. Mason rolled onto his back, drew his Supergrade, and shot his attacker in the throat. The man thrashed violently, running around as if on fire before finally collapsing by the rear of the truck.

Scores of the infected were now closing in from every direction.

He shouted for Bowie to get into the truck, and the dog immediately obeyed, launching himself from the ground up into the cab with a single giant leap. Mason scrambled to his feet and half-crawled, half-climbed in after him. He slammed the door shut and quickly locked it.

He realized that his and Bowie's lives were dependent on a single event-something that had occurred weeks earlier. Either the operator had left the keys in the truck, or he hadn't. If the keys were there, they might live. If the keys were missing, he and Bowie would surely die in the next few seconds. He leaned down and felt next to the steering column. Not only were the keys in the ignition, but dangling from the key ring was a lucky rabbit's foot.

Mason held his breath and turned the keys. The truck's 466 cubic-inch diesel engine came to life with a throaty roar, finally settling to a metallic rumble that caused Bowie's lower jaw to shake up and down like he was suffering from tremors. There were three pedals on the floor, which Mason a.s.sumed were the clutch, brake, and gas. The gear shift poked up from the floorboard, the letters and markings on the black k.n.o.b worn away with years of use. There was also a handle with a sticker above it that read PTO, as well as a panel of various payload b.u.t.tons.

Figuring that the controls were identical to a standard transmission, he pressed the clutch and shoved the gearshift up and to the left. The first of the infected were already arriving, and they struggled against one another to get to his door. Mason eased off the clutch, and the heavy truck rolled forward. Several of the infected stepped directly in front of him and held out their hands as if thinking they could possibly stop a thirty-five-thousand pound rolling steel box. The results were easy enough to predict: screams, blood, and the crunching of bones.

Mason dropped the transmission into second gear and steered out onto the four-lane divided highway. Even in second, he was barely managing ten miles an hour, and the infected continued to hurl themselves at the truck in a desperate attempt to stop him.

A scraggly looking woman jumped onto the front b.u.mper and began beating against the windshield with her disfigured hands.

Holding the oversized wheel steady with his left hand, he slid his Supergrade from its holster and shot her through the windshield. The report of the .45 was deafening, but it had the desired effect. She fell away, cupping the fresh hole in her chest. Mason shoved the pistol back into its holster, afraid that the gun might be lost if he left it on his lap.

The truck rolled on, b.u.mping over anyone foolish enough to stand in its way. Mason shoved the transmission into third, and his speed increased to twenty miles an hour as he pulled away from the mob. He plowed ahead for another two hundred yards before whipping the heavy truck into the salvage yard. Bowie slid across the cracked vinyl seat, pressing against him. The dog seemed to be enjoying the ride and used the opportunity to lick the side of his master's face.

Mason sped down the long rows of crushed cars until he got to where Jules and John had been hiding. The horn b.u.t.ton had been broken off the steering wheel, so he swung his door open and leaned out.

"Jules! John! Time to go!"

The trunk on the impala swung upward as John kicked it open. He struggled to climb out, his injured leg stiff and unresponsive.

Mason hopped down and ran over to help.

"Where's Jules?" John asked, leaning heavily on Mason.

Mason searched the pile of cars. It was getting darker by the minute, and he could no longer even see the top of the stack.

"Jules!" he shouted.

No answer.

Mason felt his gut seize. Even though he had managed to gain a little distance, the screams of crazed attackers were steadily growing louder. The enemy was coming, and Jules was nowhere to be found.

Jules crouched behind a rusted metal barrel, clutching a 20-gauge pump shotgun in both hands. Her plan to stay hidden on top of the heaps of cars until Marshal Raines returned had quickly fallen apart. Not only had a group of the infected shown up, but they had resorted to searching individual cars. Perhaps they were having heartburn with John's disappearing act from the night before, or maybe it was just a bit of bad luck. Either way, when they turned down her row, she knew that her husband was in trouble.

Hoping to lead them away, she had climbed down and fired a shot before running deeper into the junkyard. What she hadn't realized was that half of the property was a huge parking lot of cars set aside for scavenging. She now found herself stuck on that half, with absolutely no advantage over the disfigured monsters. To make matters worse, the night was growing darker, and she was having trouble seeing through the thick shadows. She had no doubt, however, that the creatures would eventually find her. The d.a.m.n things possessed an uncanny ability to see in the dark, like drow elves that had spent their lives in a subterranean underworld.

A long string of gunshots sounded in the distance, undoubtedly the marshal fighting his way back to his truck. a.s.suming that he made it, he would be returning soon. She had to get back to her husband, or they would be forced to leave her behind.

Jules shuffled down a long row of cars. She could see the taller stacks of crushed vehicles up ahead and was confident that if she could make it to them, she could once again climb out of reach. She was so focused on the tower of cars that she ran headfirst into one of the infected as he rounded the corner. The collision sent her toppling backward onto her b.u.t.t.

He dove for her, hands outstretched as he prepared to rip flesh from bone.

She braced the b.u.t.t of her shotgun against the dirt and prepared to fire. She had only four sh.e.l.ls remaining and couldn't afford to waste a single one.

He landed directly on top of her, nearly impaling himself on the shotgun barrel.

As he lay dangling over the barrel, fumbling to push it out of the way, she pulled the trigger. The m.u.f.fled blast imparted a tremendous amount of energy, jerking his body upward and blowing a hole the size of a quarter through his belly. The pellets tore through flesh, intestines, and organs, and he collapsed, drooping over the gun with his arms reaching for her like a drunken lover.

Jules pulled frantically at the b.u.t.t of the shotgun, but the man's weight held it firmly against the dirt. Warm blood spilled down the barrel, dripping onto her hands and chest. Panic threatened to overwhelm her, and she bit at her lip to keep from screaming. Ignoring the wet slime that oozed over her hands and forearms, she swung both legs up and kicked the man away.

She lay there for a moment with the shotgun trembling in her hands, convinced that a hundred more of the monsters would appear at any moment. They didn't. The night remained quiet except for the sound of a deep rumble, which slowly grew louder. It had to be Marshal Raines. He was coming for her and John like he had promised. She needed to move, now!

Jules scrambled to her feet and ran.

Hanging from the doorframe of the garbage truck, Mason searched the night. A crowd of the infected was turning down the long row of cars. He had maybe a minute before they were on him.

"Jules!" he shouted again.

"I'm not leaving without her, Marshal," John said, sliding across the seat to reopen the pa.s.senger side door.

Mason flopped back down and dropped the truck into reverse.

"Sit tight. We're not leaving her."

A loud beeping sounded as the truck began backing up. A makeshift reverse camera had been installed on the dash, but there was barely enough light for him to see the outline of the crowd forming behind him.

"What are we doing?" John shouted over the roar of the engine.

"We're buying her some time."

When the truck finally plowed through the infected mob, it was moving at a pretty good clip. Bodies were crushed under the heavy tires; others fell into the hopper at the rear of the truck. Mason continued backwards until the truck smashed against a stack of crushed cars. Some of the infected who had managed to get out of the way swarmed the truck, leaping onto its side. One tore at the handle to John's door.

John fumbled with his Commander, and it fell heavily onto the floorboard. As he bent over to grab it, Mason drew his Supergrade and fired a single shot, blowing out John's window and taking off the top of the infected man's head. Cool night air spilled in, as did the smell of the truck's exhaust.

John screamed something unintelligible.

Mason dropped the transmission back into low, and the heavy truck began inching forward.

An infected woman leaned in through John's open window, her mouth wide as she tried to latch onto his neck.

"Bowie!" Mason shouted, fighting to get the truck into second. "Clear the window!"

Bowie lunged across John, catching the woman under the jaw with his bottom teeth and across the bridge of the nose with his top teeth. Before he could clamp down, she jerked away, cartwheeling back onto the dirt road.

"What about me?" John asked, holding the Colt up with both hands. "What should I do?"

"You keep an eye out for Jules. She's here somewhere. And for G.o.d's sake, don't shoot me or Bowie."

Another of the infected climbed onto the hood and began smashing his head against the windshield. He was more disfigured than most, his hands elongated and his joints swollen and enlarged from ma.s.sive calcification.

Mason fought the steering wheel as the truck b.u.mped over bodies.

"John, shoot him!" he shouted, trying to see around the man.

John pointed his pistol at the man but hesitated, his hands shaking.

Bleeding profusely from his forehead, the infected man managed to shove his hand through the hole he had made in the windshield. He pawed at Mason, desperately trying to grab something he could rip away.

"d.a.m.n it, man, pull that trigger!"

John squeezed the trigger over and over, pumping 230-grain lead slugs into the infected man's face. He didn't stop until the gun's slide locked to the rear. Blood arced overhead as the man pitched backward off the hood.

Even with the attacker gone, the windshield was now cracked and splintered in a hundred places, making it nearly impossible to see through. Mason leaned back, raised his foot, and kicked out what remained with his boot. As soon as it fell away, he saw a tower of cars looming directly ahead. He swung the wheel hard to the right, but it was already too late. The garbage truck crashed to a stop.

They all slammed forward against the dash, Bowie yelping as he tumbled onto the floorboard. Something sharp hit high on Mason's brow, and blood began trickling down the side of his face.

Taking advantage of the truck's sudden stop, more of the infected began to climb onboard.

Mason stomped the clutch, dropped the transmission back in reverse, and floored the gas. He could hear dozens of the infected banging makeshift weapons on the sides and top of the garbage truck, as if trying to down a wooly mammoth with sticks and stones.

Not knowing exactly what he was doing, but figuring that it couldn't possibly hurt, Mason reached down and pulled the PTO k.n.o.b. Almost immediately, the engine whined as the output shaft engaged the truck's hydraulic systems.

But that was it. Nothing else happened.

Okay, he thought, let's put this truck to work. Moving from left to right on the control panel, he began by pressing the Hopper Start b.u.t.ton. The night was suddenly filled with screams as the two-thousand-pound hopper paddle tore off arms and legs, sweeping several of the infected from the rear hopper into the main storage bin.

Something heavy hammered the roof, and dimples began appearing on the inside of the headliner. Mason didn't know if they could pierce the sheet metal with primitive weapons, but he didn't want to find out. He stomped the brake pedal and watched as several of the infected tumbled off the back of the truck. Then he pushed the gearshift up into low and started forward again. He didn't know how much longer he could continue the back and forth motion before one of the creatures got inside with them.

Meanwhile, Bowie continued snapping at hands as they tried to reach in to unlock John's door. John was all but overwhelmed by the pure chaos and seemed content to let Bowie do his bidding.

Mason swerved right, sc.r.a.ping the side panel against jagged cars to peel away some of the attackers. There were sounds of footsteps above them as more of the infected found their way up top. He raised his pistol and fired three shots through the roof, watching as a man swan dived off the side of the truck. Using his knees to steer, Mason quickly dropped the spent magazine, slapped in a fresh one, and released the slide. Eight rounds in the gun and eight left on his belt-not nearly enough for the army of crazies that continued to grow around them.

Hoping to make it harder on those riding up top, he reached down and hit the next b.u.t.ton on the control panel, Packer Start. A huge metal wall inside the compacting bin slowly pushed forward, crushing what was left of those who had been swept in from the hopper earlier. It did little, however, to deter the half a dozen people crawling along the rooftop.

Continuing to work his way down the control panel, Mason hit the Top Door Open b.u.t.ton. The whine of the engine changed pitch again as the roof of the storage compartment slowly slid rearward, sending several people falling down into the compacting bin. He quickly pressed the Packer Start b.u.t.ton again, crunching them into contorted mounds of meat and bones. He left the door open, hoping that it would make it harder for others to come over the top.

"There!" John shouted, pointing up to their left. "It's Jules!"

A lone figure stood atop a tall stack of cars, waving her arms in the air. It was Jules all right, but getting her into the truck was going to be a trick. There was no way for them to stop without being completely overwhelmed. Mason only saw one way to rescue her, and it wasn't going to be pretty.

"Hang out your window and yell for her to jump onto the truck," he instructed.

"Are you kidding? They'll kill her."

"It's the only way. If she can get into the compacting bin, I can close it up and keep her safe. It'll be like riding in a tank."

John started to argue the point but quickly realized that they were out of options. He slid out the window, sitting on the edge of the frame, and waved for Jules to drop.

"Jump into the hopper!"

Jules moved to the edge of the stack of cars and looked down as the garbage truck approached. The drop wasn't far, maybe five feet, but the timing would have to perfect to land not only on the truck but to thread the needle and fall directly into the hopper. She readied herself.

"She's only going to have one shot at this. I'll slow, but I can't stop."

John nodded. "She'll make it."

Mason swung close to the cars and eased off the gas.

"Now!" he yelled.

Even before John motioned for her to drop, Jules was already in the air. She landed on the roof the truck and then rolled backwards, tumbling into the open bin. Mason immediately hit the Top Door Closed b.u.t.ton, and a few seconds later, they heard a shotgun blast from deep within the belly of the truck.

John turned to him with a worried look but said nothing.

Mason steered the truck around a sharp corner and dropped the transmission into second. The infected continued to give chase for a few blocks but soon fell behind. Mason leaned back against the seat and enjoyed the wind rushing in through the missing windshield, a welcome reminder that the only thing ahead of them was the dark open road.

With the fight over, Bowie scooted across the seat and laid his head on Mason's lap. He seemed utterly exhausted.

Mason reached down and gently stroked the dog's ears.

"Take it easy, boy. We're safe now."

As soon as they cleared the outskirts of Elizabethton, Mason pulled the garbage truck over to the side of the road. He opened the bin's top door and climbed up on the roof. With only the shine of moonlight, it was difficult to see down into the hopper.

"You alive in there?"

The reply was a few choice words.

He laughed. "I'll take that as a yes."

"I'm waist deep in blood and other things I don't even want to think about," she said, standing up and shaking off some of the slop.

"At least you're still breathing."

She handed out her shotgun.

"Give a lady a hand, will you?" she said, reaching up with both hands.

He reached down and hauled her out.

Jules was a mess all right, covered from head to foot in blood and every manner of human waste. But as far as Mason could tell, she was uninjured. Given the dramatic rescue, that in itself was a miracle.

John called around from the cab of the truck. There was terrible worry in his voice.

"Marshal, is she okay?"

"I'm fine!" she hollered back. "Marshal Raines, you've got to get me somewhere I can wash up. John can't see me like this."

"Are you kidding me? He isn't going to care what you look like."

"Maybe not, but I do. Seriously, Marshal, you have to help me."

Mason looked around. "There's not a hose on the truck, but I suppose we can stop at the Doe River. We're going to cross over it in less than a mile."