Life After The Undead (Book 1) (78 page)

Something
moved
in
the
cab
and
everyone
froze.
Our
breaths
came
in
soft
puffs.
If
we
breathed
too
loud,
the
zombies
would
hear
us.
At
least
tha
t’s
what
I
thought.
As
if
they
could
hear
our
breathing
over
the
idling
diesel
engine.
After
a
few
minutes,
when
nothing
else
moved,
we
relaxed
a
bit.

“Too
bad
we
can’t
cut
our
losses,”
Kyle
said.

“Yeah,
too
bad
they
aren’t
our
losses
to
cut.
A
lot
of
good
people
are
waiting
on
these
supplies.”
  I
swung
my
legs
into
the
front
seat.
“We
’v
e
procrastinated
long
enough.
I
’
m
going
over
there.”

Quinn
grabbed
my
arm.
“It
only
takes
one
moan
to
sound
the
alarm.
If
there
is
one
still
in
the
truck,
you
’l
l
be
a
sitting
duck.”

“Sitting
here
isn’t
getting
the
zombie
out
of
the
truck or it
fixed.
We
need
to
get
moving.
I
don’t
see
anyone
else
volunteering.”
I
glanced
at
Bill
and
Kyle.

“We’ll
give
you
support
from
the
top
of
the
truck.”
Bill
opened
his
door.

Kyle
opened
the
door
and
climbed
onto the
roof.
I
slid
down
into
the
dirt,
my
gun
drawn,
and
cautiously
walked
to
the
other
truck.
My
heart
pounded
in my
ears.
I
did
a
quick
sweep
of
the
trailer,
making
sure
nothing
was
on top
or
beneath,
then
stepped
around
to
the
passenger
side
door.
The
truck
was
covered
in
blood,
puss,
and
body
parts
from
the
road,
so
I
didn
’t
want
to
lean
against
it.
I
took
a
deep
breath,
closed
my
eyes,
then
turned
so
my
gun
pointed
into
the
cab.
Nothing.
Skin
flakes
and
bits
of
tattered
clothing
that
had
fallen
off
the
creatures
coated
the
interior.
The
smell
of
rotting
flesh
bombarded
my
nostrils, and
my
stomach
jerked.
I
covered
my
nose
to
block
out
some
of
the
smell and
keep
from
puking.
A
breeze
stirred
some
papers
that
had
been
scattered,
and
I
assumed
that
was
what
we
’d seen
from
the
other
truck.

Cautiously,
I
climbed
the
stairs
and
parted
the
curtain
to
the
sleeper
cab.
Nothing.
The
zombies
had
moved
on.
I jumped
out
of
the
cab
and
holstered
my
weapon. Walking
around
to
the
front
of
the
truck,
I
signaled
the
all
clear to
the
others.
Bill
and
Quinn
refueled
the
vehicle
while
Kyle
stood
watch.

“With
any
luck,
this
will
be
all
the
semi
needs.”
Quinn
squinted
at
the
sun,
keeping
his
eye
on
the
horizon
for
undead.

After
they
finished,
Quinn
climbed
into
the
drive
r’
s
seat.
“Oh,
my
god!”
He
cried.
We
all
ran
to
see
what
was
wrong. He
looked
at
us,
his
nose
wrinkled.
“Are
you
sure
there
aren
’t
any
zombies
in
here?
It
stinks!”

I
chuckled silently
and
turned
my
attention
back
to
the
hills.

“Eww,
there’s
something
gooey
on
my
seat.”

I
tried
to
refrain
from
laughing,
but
I
couldn
’t.
When
I
searched
the
truck, I
noticed
a
layer
of
clear
fluid
covering
the
seats,
and
I’d
succeeded
in
covering
my
jeans
with
the
stuff.
I
didn
’t
feel
sorry
for
Quinn.

The
truck
roared
to
life,
and
I
pushed
Quinn
into
the
passenger
seat.
“You
really
should rest
your
wrist,”
I
explained.
“Just
tell
me
where
we
’r
e
going.”

He
pointed
toward
the
highway.
“Get back
on
I
-80
and
head
west.
When
we
hit
I
-25,
we
’l
l
head
down
into
Colorado
and
see
what
we
can
find.”

I
pulled
the
truck
onto
the
highway
and
followed
his
directions.

***

By
nightfall,
both
trucks
were
loaded
with
supplies,
and
we
camped
in
Fort
Coll
ins’s
jail.
Several
propane-powered
lanterns
were
distributed
throughout
the
room,
and
our
camp
stoves
were lit
so we
cooked
canned
vegetables
and
chili.
Quinn
kept
readjusting,
arching
his
back
and
rubbing
his
shoulder.
More
than
likely
he
was
stiff
and
sore
from
sitting
in the
truck.
Even
though
his
wrist
was
the most
serious
of
his
injuries,
he
had
bumps
and
bruises
from
the
fall.

“Are
you
all
right?”
I
eventually
asked
him.

He
rubbed
his
shoulder.
“No, my
shoulder is
killing
me.”