Zombie Road | Book 8 | Crossroads of Chaos Simpson, A. (new books to read .txt) 📖

the train, everyone was quiet and stayed back from the windows. Gunny had killed the engine and let it coast in, the only sound was the tooting of Xavier’s horn, the shrieks of the gulls and the cries of the undead. Gunny watched as the boy led the pack away. The bike was big, the size of a full dressed Harley, and it looked heavy with the electric motor and batteries. He hoped the kid was keeping an eye out for the tracks running every which way, they’d knock him down in a heartbeat if he hit them wrong.

When most of the deaders had ran past the front of his train, he switched his attention to the navy ship. The anchor chain was being reeled in and the ropes that had been tied to the dock pillars were drawn tight as a thousand men grabbed hold and started pulling. Gunny didn’t know if it was because they were out of fuel or if they didn’t want to make any noise but the tide was in their favor and the destroyer began moving. The cruise ship next to it dwarfed the war machine and the gangplanks were clanking down on the dock before the ship was tied in place. The crew may have been dirty, hungry and packed like sardines for days but they moved quietly and with a purpose. They were finally going to be free of the uncomfortable misery.

It reminded Gunny of his first jump at the Airborne school in Fort Benning. It was so hot and miserable, the equipment so heavy and uncomfortable, that everyone was eager to jump out of the plane. They didn’t have any more pre-jump jitters, nobody was afraid, they just wanted out. Anything was better than being cooped up in the aluminum skinned oven for one more minute.

The ramps lowered on the train cars and they could see the rows of bus seats with packets of MRE’s on every one. Just a few more minutes and they’d be safe. They had gone over the debarkation procedure a hundred times, everyone knew their job and everyone did it. At the wave of a flag from the signalman, the silent sailors ran down the gangways. Most were armed and most only had a single magazine of rounds. They didn’t carry packs of personal possessions. If it didn’t fit in their pocket, it was left behind.

Xavier thumbed the trigger for the rear microwave gun as he entered a long, straight canyon of shipping containers stacked five and six high and watched in the mirrors as the fastest runners face planted into the asphalt. The ones directly behind tripped, stumbled and fell but their eyes never left the boy on the machine. Their hunger drove them until he toggled the gun again and more fell, their brains instantly cooked. He turned down an alley of tall, brightly colored steel containers and blasted the horn again.

They followed, jumped over their fallen comrades and screamed dusty screams from bone brittle throats. Xavier blasted them again and another dozen fell as he turned down another long aisle. He goosed the throttle, shot forward and hit the brakes. He waited for more to come around the corner, hit them with the microwaves then sped down to the next aisle. He was staying a safe distance ahead, kept urging them forward with the horn and killing a handful at every corner. He needed to get out to the open again, see if they sailors were almost loaded. He held the trigger down as more poured around the corner. They crumpled in heaps, their barely working brains fried and some with eyes melted and running down their cheeks. He was breathing heavily, not used to maneuvering in close quarters. Muscling the awkward machine around at slow speeds was exhausting but the adrenaline was pumping high.

17

Xavier

The dead kept after him, coming hard and fast, screaming and stumbling but relentless. He took off again, couldn’t remember which way he should turn to get out and started making random lefts and rights. It felt like he’d been running and gunning for a long time and he was worried the train would take off without him if a big horde came in from the city. He rounded another corner, goosed it in a long straightaway, rocketed up to sixty miles an hour then slammed on the brakes to make the next turn at the wall in front of him.

But there was no alley, no aisle for lift trucks to maneuver. He was at a dead end. A box canyon. That was okay. He had a minute; he’d left them behind and none were coming down the aisle yet. Xavier planted his feet and backed the bike up, straining under the weight of the unwieldly machine. He leaned it over a little, turned the handlebars and gave a little juice. The bike jumped forward, the front wheel hit a Yang Ming container and the big machine slowly tilted over. He strained to hold it up but the angle was wrong. His foot slipped and the bike fell to its side.

The boy jumped off, put his legs into lifting it and stared around wildly. He could hear them running down the alley next to him. Behind him. Everywhere. Their voices were dry and croaky, their keens rattled like something was broken in their throats and he redoubled his efforts to lift the bike. In the distance he heard the shouts of soldiers and a chatter of gunfire. It sounded a long way away and the fear of being left behind hit him again.

He saw a ragtag bunch run past the end of the container alley and froze. Dozens hurried by, arms outstretched, bare feet slapping on the concrete, clothes hanging in tatters. Xavier was too afraid to move and hoped they wouldn’t notice him but one of them turned its blackened eyes and stopped. They stared at each other as more undead turned their heads and sniffed