Charlotte Hoaks. . . .(C. A. Hoaks)

“Shit,” Tate whispered. “Guess we got a problem.”

Tate reached for the bag Matt had taken from her truck and opened a side pocket. She stuck her hand inside and retrieved a white bottle with a red label. She spilled out two pills and tossed them in her mouth then washed them down with Matt’s bottle of water. She dropped the pill bottle back into the bag and opened a long zipper across the top. She pulled out a silenced handgun. When she saw Matt looking at her, she responded.

“I lost my blade the last time I got gas. It’s stuck in some dead fuck’s head.” She checked the load in the magazine then slid it home with the palm of her hand. “Quiet is better.”

“You don’t have to do this. We can handle it.” Matt answered.

“I’m fine.” Tate snarled. “Besides, I’m calling dibs on that truck. Figure I need to earn it if I’m planning on taking it.”

Matt spoke into the radio. “Got about a dozen infected ahead. We move close enough to draw them toward us then take them out. We’ll be using machetes. Keep it quiet. Jake, hang back and watch our six.”

When the hummer got to within ten feet of the closest infected, Matt stopped the Humvee and reached for the door handle. Meanwhile, Tate slid her door open and placed one foot on the ground before she took her first shot between the door and vehicle. A small black dot appeared in the front of the closest gray forehead and the back of the head exploded in a mist of red and gray matter. The sound was little more than a hand slap.

Matt looked over the hood of the Humvee and nodded at Tate. “Nice.”

She grinned then winched at the pain it caused. “Let’s get this done so I can use the sleeper in that truck. My head is killing me.”

Jenkins and Dreschel walked up with machetes in hand. Matt gave a nod then the three men and Tate approached the white truck. The infected furthest away didn’t seem to notice them until Matt stepped up to a man in overalls and took the top of his head off. The hair thatched disk sailed past the pair and suddenly they turned and they’re focused changed.

Tate laughed. “Hey, shitbags! Come on down. Let’s make a deal. I’ll trade lead for you…dead. Again!” She took another shot. Another infected fell to the ground as if strings holding them up had been cut.

Matt stepped up to a man in terrible shape. The stench was nearly overpowering when he cleaved in the head trying to avoid the viscera hanging from the massive damage to his midsection.

Jake took out two men both with strips of flesh torn from their arms and legs. Flesh on their faces had begun to sag and pull from the muscle and bone. It hung in raw open wounds. Flies swarmed around the bodies but seemed hesitant to land on the decaying flesh.

When Dreschel took out the last of the infected, he turned to Matt and commented. “Have you noticed even the old ones don’t have maggots where the flesh is decaying. You would think as bad as they smell they would have maggots all over them by now.”

Tate stepped closer and pointed at their feet. The soles of their feet were bare and the flesh shredded and torn down to the bone. “See what I mean. They probably had shoes when they died, but they’ve walked right out of them.” She pointed to another body with remnants of shoes clinging to his ankles. “Ain’t that just the damnedest thing you ever seen?”

Matt looked them over then walked toward the last four. “These are fresher than the rest of them.”

The group included four men of varying ages. One was young and probably in the early twenties when his throat was torn out. A handgun hung from a holster on his hip. Another man looked to be in his fifties or so. He was a rough looking man dressed in torn and tattered overalls and flesh torn from his arms and face. The side of the man’s neck was torn open, leaving a dark brown crust over the front of his clothes.

The last two men looked to have been around forty. Both wore of a mismatched collection of clothes that spoke of a hasty gathering of resources. Again they bore terrible injuries that spoke of a horrendous death.

The rest of the gathering of infected included office drones wearing the remains of business suits and workplace attire. Somewhere families had expected them that afternoon and they had never made it home. The only exception was a waiter wearing black pants and blood splattered white shirt with a name badge still pinned to the breast pocket.

Jake nodded toward the four men then back at a dozen more dead monsters walking from around the white truck. “It looks like this bunch stumbled down the road until they came across these fellas filling the truck.

“There’s only four of us. Tate, how many can you take out before we have to deal with them?

Tate grinned. “How many do you want me to take out?”

He laughed. “As many as you want.”

Tate tapped a pocket on her cargo pants then raised her handgun and took aim. She fired, again, and again. She took out six before they stumbled close enough for the men stepped into the fray.

Matt walked up to the nearest infected and slammed a machete into its head. The body fell at his feet. Tate stepped forward and fired at a woman in nursing scrubs. She stumbled but didn’t go down when the bullet it the side of the head. Tate fired again. This time the nurse went down in a heap.

Jake sidesteps over the nurse behind an overweight infected woman. He planted his foot in the back of one knee and she fell to the asphalt her face slapping with a crunch when her nose broke. Before she could even push herself up on her thick arms, he slammed his blade into the back of her head.

Jenkins used a tire iron to crush the head of a teen girl then turned to face a second youth. The girl had been athletic build and wore the remnants of a t-shirt that exposed the injuries she had suffered. Strips of flesh had been torn from her face and shoulders. Jenkins struck out and she fell to the ground.

In less than three minutes, all the infected were put down.

Matt glanced around then leaned down to swipe his blade against the clothing of the closest infected. “Everyone okay?” With a chorus of affirmative responses, he continued. “Let’s check out the truck.”

“I’m checking out the rig!” Tate called out as she gave a careless wave over her shoulder and headed toward the cab of the white truck. As she neared the truck, she picked up the pace and jogged to the front door of the white cab. With the gun in her hand, she climbed up the gas tank at the side to peer through the driver’s side window.

She slapped her hand against the window, but nothing appeared inside. She tucked the gun in the back of her pants then jerked open the door and climbed inside the cab. After a full minute, she reappeared. Her face announced her disappointment.

Tate walked around to the back of the truck. “No fucking keys.” Tate lamented.

Matt walked up to her. “That could be a problem.”