Determined To Live (15 page)

He looks in
disbelief at my cast, as if he's just now realizing the problem with
his plan of a reunited zombie-killing duo. "Shit! Let me think."

While he thinks of
a plan, I do the same - but I think of a way to get away from Jake.
He wants in the armory, and I want to get the hell out of here!

"Look, Jake.,
I should stay here. If I go in, I could get us both killed. You can't
be dealing with me, and try to fight zombies at the same time. It
just won't work." I hide any disgust I might be showing and lean
against him, wrapping my arms around his neck. "I don't want
anything to happen to you, Baby. You're all I've got now. I love you,
Jake." Then I press my lips against his.

My gag reflexes
kick in and I duck my head, faking a cough to cover it up. He lifts
my face roughly and slaps his hand against my forehead.

"Don't get
sick, Canada! Please, don't get sick." He jerks me against him
and I feel his body tremble.

"Jake! Jake,
I'm fine. It was probably some dust or something. I'm fine! Really."

Damn it! Did I
just screw everything up?

I pray he doesn't
decide to forget the armory and stay up my ass.

"Well,
just to be safe you're going to stay here while I go take care of the
armory. Don't even think about arguing with me either." -
Hey,
dumbass! I think I suggested that a few minutes ago.
- "Let's get you upstairs and settled, so I can get that shit
done and get back here."

Take your time.
Please!

He picks me up and
back up the damn stairs we go. I could have argued to stay
downstairs, but I didn't need him getting suspicious. He carries me
back to the room we had slept in and sets me in a chair. I watch as
he goes over to a locker in the corner of the room. After rummaging
through it and cussing a few times, my mouth drops when he pulls out
a length of rope and gives a satisfied sigh.

Jake stalks toward
me then ties me to the chair, the rope wrapped around and through and
all kinds of ways on my wrists, and then the same with my right ankle
and left cast. I glare at Jake's back as he walks to the door, but
transform my expression to one of concern when I call out for him to
be careful.

He turns back to
me, his hand on the door knob, and says, "I will. I love you,
Honey."

I force a smile in
his direction and when he continues to stand there, staring at me
expectantly, I jump with the realization that I'm supposed to say
something.

"I love you
too, Jake," I tell him and inwardly cringe at the robotic-like
tone. But he doesn't seem to notice because he grins at me, salutes,
and closes the door.

I
wait as long as I can - which seems like
too
long but is probably only a few minutes. I frantically search for a
way out of this damn rope. Seeing a toolbox sitting inside the
locker, I wonder if there's something inside that might help.
But
how the hell do I get over there?
An idea comes to me - and though I'm aware of the possibility of
totally screwing up - it's well worth a shot.

Planting my good
foot and my cast firmly on the floor - and putting most of my weight
on my good foot - I stand as much as I can, which is really just a
hunched-over effect with a chair strapped to my butt. Carefully I
turn so that the back of the chair is facing the locker - and do my
best to ignore the excruciating pain from the brief moments of having
to rely on only my broken ankle in order to move my good foot. I
slowly sit back down and have a few seconds of sheer terror when the
chair wants to tip. But it settles down and I use my foot and cast to
push myself toward the locker. A couple times the chair's legs catch
in an uneven crack and I almost fall over backward when I give a good
push against the floor.

I'm concentrating
so hard on moving and not falling, that when the metal of the chair
and the locker meet and loudly slam into each other, I almost have a
damn heart attack. Getting up and turning the chair again, I face the
locker and pray there's enough slack in the rope that I can reach the
toolbox. Blowing out a big sigh of relief when my hands connect with
the cold metal of the box, I frantically open it and look inside. A
bunch of screwdrivers, a hammer, some wrenches, and an assortment of
nails and screws of every type and size...but nothing to get these
damn ropes cut off!

Frustrated, I cry
out and stomp my good foot on the floor. Seething with rage, knowing
how close I am to escaping - but apparently, I'm going nowhere. I sit
- accepting I've been defeated - and just stare at the toolbox. But
then something black lying against the back wall of the box catches
my attention. Leaning down, I reach for it, but the ropes snap to
their limit.
Just a few more
inches!
I lean forward as
much as I can, but when the chair begins to tip, I quickly straighten
back up.

Tears well up in my
eyes as I stare at the damn box cutter - so close, yet so far away. I
take my good foot and kick at the toolbox, not expecting to be able
to reach it. But I connect and my frustration quickly turns to new
determination. I stick my foot inside the metal toolbox and try to
move it toward me but the edge of the opening tears into my foot.
Changing to my cast-covered foot, I pull the box easily until I can
reach the box cutter. Snatching it out of the toolbox, I slide the
blade up and almost cry when I see the sharp shiny metal. Realizing
my hands are a lost cause as they're tied too closely together, I
bend down and cut away at the rope around my ankles...or cast as the
case may be.

Once they're
released, I cut the rope hanging from my wrists to the chair, then
lower myself to the ground. I crawl on my arms and knees as fast as I
can to the door, where I raise my bound hands to the knob. As I
scramble to the stairs, I take constant peeks over the edge of the
balcony to the lower floor.

At the stairs
things get a little scary, but once I get turned around and start
down, I realize I don't really need my hands. Of course, my ass is
going to be a bit sore as I'm unable to ease myself down the next
step, but if this works and I can get the hell out of here, then
bring on the pain!

I reach the bottom
and quickly get back into my awkward crawl and race to the truck. But
then I keep going, deciding on a newer, stronger truck. I reach the
very next truck and manage to stand, open the door, and get inside.

You
have no idea how frikken happy I am to see the keys in the ignition!

Or maybe you do.

I
realize this is it. This will either get me out of here and away from
Jake or...it will cause Jake to kill me. Straightening and setting my
mind to nothing but escape, I ignore the voice telling me that this
is a bad idea. A very bad idea. But I'd rather die than not try at
all.

Twisting the key,
the motor roars to life. I reverse, then turn and face the big-ass
garage door.

Ah, shit!

Forgot
about that.

Whatever you're
gonna do, do it now! He's not going to be gone forever. He could
already be on his way back!

Terror has me
getting back out of the truck. I leave the Hummer's door open wide
and crawl to the big garage door. I reach up for the handle and just
as my hand touches the hard cold metal, the door starts to open.

I see a man's legs
and I scream. He screams too. I crawl away from him as fast as I can,
until his voice finally cuts through my fear.

It's not Jake!

I turn my head back
- ready to take off - and look at the man who is walking slowly
toward me. Terror shows on his own face, his arms stretched out
toward me as he begs me to stop.

"Please,
I won't hurt you. We have to get out of here. There's a man inside
shooting everyone. We have to hurry."

I nod furiously as
I turn and crawl back toward him as fast as I can. He helps me up and
holds my arm as I hop as fast as I can to the truck. When he pulls me
to the right at the same time I pull to the left, we stumble.

"Screw you,
buddy! I'm driving," I inform him, daring him to argue with me.

But he just nods
and helps me to the drivers seat. When I'm inside, he runs to the
other side and jumps in. Almost before the door shuts, I stomp on the
gas. The other man pulls out a pocket knife and starts sawing away at
the ropes still binding my wrists. As I drive around the armory, we
see the entire front gate swarming with undead. So I blow right past
it and head to the side gate that I hope is here like the one in
Springfield.

The front door of
the armory is thrown open and a shotgun comes out of the door before
I see Jake raising it and aiming it right at us. The man with me
freaks out and ends up slicing me across the back of my right hand,
but I ignore him - and the pain of the cut - the best I can and stomp
on the gas once again. My focus is completely on the side gate that I
can now see in the distance. I refuse to believe we won't get out of
this place, safely at that. I feel my face harden with determination
and the power of anger...and fear.

Jake misses the
tires and, of course, the body is bullet-proof. How he missed I don't
know. He's an excellent shot.

Shit!

As
we near the gate, we can clearly see that this gate isn't much better
than the one in the front.

Frikken
zombies!

Damn you!

You know what?

Screw you!

I stomp on the gas
once again, the man beside me screams that we can't bust through the
gate - just as we bust through the gate. I look over at him and can't
help but grin at the "Holy Shit" look on his face.

"Holy
shit!" -
See?
Told ya.
- "You mean this whole time anyone could have done that? This is
an
armory
for God's sake! What the hell were they thinking?"

I shrug and say,
"What the hell were they thinking when they let Jake in the
military? What the hell were they thinking when they started this
whole shit?"

"What!
That guy was military? I just thought he stole the fatigues. And what
the hell do you mean "They started this shit?" The
military
?
No. I'm sorry, but you got that wrong. They wouldn't do this!"
he insists.

I just shrug again
and concentrate on the way I'm going - and in the rearview, the way
I've been.

You can believe
whatever the hell you want to, buddy. I saw proof.

"Look, does it
even matter who started it now? Little late to stop them. Anyway, we
got bigger problems, like a mentally unstable live one who will be on
our ass soon enough. Do you happen to know how to disable the
tracking system on this truck?"

He stares at me for
a moment, obviously still in shock at the idea the military could
ever possibly be involved. He finally shakes his head and his eyes
focus on me.

"What?
The tracking? Well, sure. I mean, I
am
the tech guy. I installed them."

Thank you, Lord!

"If we can get
stopped somewhere, you need to get it out or Jake will find―"
I stare in astonishment as he reaches under the panel close to the
floor, rips out a hand-sized black box - and wires and all, tosses it
out the window.

"Done,"
he says as he grins at me.

"Well, looks
like we're stuck with each other, so what's your name? Mine's
Canada."

"And mine's
Larry. So where we headed, Canada?"

"Hopefully to
find my family before Jake does. He knows that's where I'll go."
I tell him.

"Then don't
go! Go somewhere else. He'll kill us!"

"Look,
asshole! That's my
family
.
My
kids
are with them. If I don't get there before he does, he'll kill
them
.
I'll be more than freakin' happy to drop your ass off along the way.
Doesn't make a shit bit of difference to me!" I yell at him.

He raises his hands
and says, "Damn, woman! Calm down. I wasn't thinking. Sorry."
He lowers his hands and we both stay silent for a few minutes. And
then I hear him mumble under his breath as he looks out his side
window, "Women are so damned emotional. Damn! Am I glad I'm not
a woman."