They hit the east and west ends of the compound so hard that the gates bowed inward, hinges ripping off of columns made of iron-hard railroad ties so violently that they shot the two-inch wood screws out like shotgun slugs. The gates collapsed and the horde was through. It took five seconds to defeat a barricade that took a week to build.
He looked at her. She looked at him. Without a word, they slung their rifles and ran for Dozer, their tricked-out post-apocalypse Chevy Tahoe wreathed in iron bars and extended running boards. They called it “Dozer” because of the very after-market snow plow on the front. When you absolutely had to clear the road of the zombies, it got the job done.
Everyone who stood and fired into the mob of undead pouring through on both sides disappeared into the rotting tide of slavering undead. He tossed her the keys—she caught them with one hand—and dove through the open passenger door and crawled into the driver’s seat.
He did a running jump to the top of the all-terrain run-flat tire and alleyooped himself to the rooftop gun turret. He was firing the .50-cal before he had even settled in.
“GO!” he screamed over the screams and gunfire.
She turned the key. The engine roared. Dual rooster tails of dirt coated the zombies that were already leaping for the rig. In seconds they were carving a path through the undead and heading for open road.
She was his ride-or-die.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Rise Above to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.