The Diverter

Chris and Commander Jenkins boarded the trailer that housed a surveillance camera system, laptop computers and a Ham/CB radio combo. The walls of the trailer were lined with big screen televisions. Each one displayed smaller screenshots of Houston’s freeways and city streets. Some pictures had motionless hordes on them. He could hear a hum from the reefers running that air conditioned the trailer.

 The commander introduced him to Mole. Mr. Mole was the techno-savvy member of the HAZMAT Team. Chris was impressed, ”Wow, Commander, you and Mole have one heck of a setup here.” The commander gave him a thankful nod and Mole didn’t even look up to acknowledge the compliment.

Commander Jenkins looked at Chris, “I can imagine you’re pretty tired. I’ll show you the barracks next door and you can get some rest there.”

Chris and the commander climbed up a short step ladder and crawled through the tunnel that linked the trailers together.  When they lowered into the next trailer, Chris’ weary eyes saw the inviting bunk beds. He felt it was much cooler in that trailer. Jenkins explained that they kept food nearly frozen behind the padded blue mats and the cooler air still makes its way into the sleeping quarters.

A crackle came over Jenkins’ two-way radio. “Boss, we got problems! The Zekes are still awake and they figured out how to get up here!”

Jenkins responded, “Affirmative, Watchtower. Mole, contact Chico and get the Diverter up here.” Mole responded by yelling through the crawlspace from the other trailer, “Okay! You know, I’m right here and you’re not the Army. You don’t have to act like George Patton. Just act normal, you comic boo-” Jenkins interrupted, “I got it, Mole! Just do it!”

Indiscernible grumbling could be heard through the tunnel.

Chris was confused and asked, “Question, what is the Diverter? Some kinda persuasive gun?”

“No, the Diverter comes in the form of a 1964 Chevy Impala armed to the teeth with eight 15” speakers and eight-thousand watts of sound. We use it to distract or, divert the zombies from our location. Chico procured it from a zombie gang-banger and thanked him by putting him down. Now, let’s go outside and watch the show.”

Chris and Commander Jenkins exited the barracks trailer and saw the horde heading toward their location. They saw the Diverter speeding up 288 on an interceptor course to the horde. The car came to a stop and the loud bass booming began. The zombies all turned their heads simultaneously and began stammering for the Impala. Chico exited the freeway with the dead heads in tow. He lured them into a parking garage on Almeda Road, turned the music off and hid the car until they went to sleep.

He couldn’t believe it, “Impressive, Mr. Jenkins. I’d never think to use noise to bait them away. Will Chico be okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Chico’s pretty smart with handling the zombies. He’s frickin’ crazy too. The Diverter was his idea; damn good one if you ask me. So, tell me Chris. Have you entertained the idea of joining HAZMAT? I know you’d be an asset to the crew.”

Chris tucked his right hand in his pocket and looked at the ground. He looked up and said, “Umm, I really appreciate your offer to rest here and the offer on joining the team, but, I have my fiancé to get back to. You said earlier that you guys would help me. Commander, I would really like that help now.”

The Trekkie Convention

Chris maneuvered his way onto 288 North. He made his way around a few vehicles on the on ramp and stopped. There were a virtual sea of cars, trucks and vans that were reminiscent of the clogged Houston freeways during the Hurricane Rita evacuation. There were sparse dead heads standing motionless by the occasional vehicle.

“It’s on foot from here. Damn, I’ll have to get another vehicle.” Chris enjoyed the air conditioning while he ate his last soggy BLT sandwich.  Chris found an opened case of bottled water in the backseat of the truck he pinched the bottle between his thighs to twist the cap off and started guzzling the water down. He was always a fan of diet Dr. Pepper, but he wasn’t about to complain. He looked on the back floor boards and found a green duffle bag. He opened the bag and found two cans of Vienna sausages, a box of rifle bullets and a roll of toilet paper. He put six bottles of water in the duffle bag and exited the truck.

As he closed in on the smoky Houston skyline. The lines of the lines of the buildings became clear. Several buildings had windows shattered or busted out. It was the same scene like he saw in the Medical Center.

With the gate of his walk and his constant readjusting of the weighty duffle bag on his shoulder, the pistol fell out of his pants’ waistband and discharged a bullet when hit the pavement.

“Oh damn! Am I hit?! Am I hit?!” Chris’ right hand patted his body all over frantically hunting for a gunshot wound, but he was okay. Now his actual threat was shuffling toward him. Chris looked around him and saw several zombies coming at him from all directions. He picked up the pistol and took off like a rocket.

He chastised himself, “Oh, you’ve done it now, ya dumbass!” He started running along the sides and between the ends of the cars and the trucks to avoid the zombies. He started hearing not-so distant gun fire. He got scared, “Man, c’mon! Don’t tell me I have the dead wanting to eat me and the living wanting to shoot me!” He turned down an alleyway of five 18-wheelers. There was a zombie in a dirty, tattered business suit walking toward the front of the rigs. Evidently, the other gun fire attracted him. The echo of Chris’ slapping tennis shoes distracted the zombie and he turned toward him. He came to a halt, pulled the pistol from his waistband and shot at the zombie missing him. His shaking hand fired a second round that landed a bullet above the left eyebrow and the meat head went down.

Chris got around the 18-wheelers and looked over the retainer wall of 288 and saw a horde of zombies approaching the freeway. He also saw a group of people running toward 288 from the Eastex freeway interchange.  Chris looked around to hide. He didn’t see any zombies very close to him and he got in an unoccupied Lexus.

He sat motionless in the car as the group of guys hunted for him. There were eight of them. All dressed like Rambo and the Dallas Cowboys had a baby. They were donning bandanas, football padding, and had war paint on their cheekbones. He heard the fat guy say, “We gotta help them. Did you see any movement?” another guy responded, “No, they might be dinner. We better get back to Command before the horde figures out how to get up here.”

Chris questioned, “Help them? They didn’t come up here to shoot me?” He jumped out of the Lexus, “Hey! Over here!” He yelled. So thankful he made contact with civilization again; he was quickly chastised, “Lock it up, stupid! You’re the reason we maybe compromised! I’m Commander Jenkins, HAZMAT, now follow me.” The fat guy announced.  Chris gladly fell in line and he ran with the group back over to 59 South.

Chris thought to himself, “HAZMAT? These guys hardly fit the profile to be cleaning up spills with the way they’re dressed.”

They got to 59 and Almeda Road. And Chris saw two modified 18-wheeler trailers. One was a Tyson Chicken truck and the other said, “FISH” on the bottom left door. They were about five feet apart and had a square tunnel built almost at the top that joined the trailers. Both trailers had cameras mounted all around them. There was a guard at the doors of the trailer on the right. “Got ya a crip, Commander? Is he the attention hog?” the guard asked. The fat guy looked at the ground embarrassed and said, “We do not refer to crippled survivors as crips, understand?” The guard swallowed the lump in his throat and agreed, “Yes Sir.”

“I ain’t crippled you bastard!” Chris grunted and swung back his right fist to punch the guard. The duffle bag fell from his shoulder. The fat commander grabbed Chris by the shoulders and said, “Listen, we’ll help you, but you can’t fly off the handle like this. It’s been awhile since we’ve found a survivor, so, keep it together and we’ll assist in any way we can.” Chris took a deep shaky breath and asked, “Okay, you said you were HAZMAT? No offense, but you guys don’t really look like HAZMAT officials.”

 The fat commander stuck out his chest and proudly announced, “We’re the REAL HAZMAT. We’re the Houston Area Zombie Military Annihilation Troopers. And if you’d like to join our unit, I just might consider it; seeing you’ve lasted this long with one arm. C’mon in and I’ll show you around.”

Chris looked at the ground scratching his head and thought, “Oh jeez, I just found the Geek Squad.”

Charging the Bull

The Chevy was still running as Chris lay frozen; wedged between the center console cup holders with something jabbing him in his right hip on the passenger side floor board of the truck; his chest was buried into the passenger’s leather seat. He glared in horror at the monsters clawing at the windows. He continued to point his shaking pistol at the dead heads as the truck rocked from all directions. It reminded him of when he and Sarah tried to evacuate Houston during Hurricane Rita when they were on interstate 59 between New Caney and Marshall, Texas in bumper-to-bumper traffic when the hurricane hit that area. The winds were terrible. They rocked the stuff-loaded Camry in all directions. Sarah was scared to death and Chris, scared to death himself, hugged and reassured her throughout the storm.

The jabbing pain in his hip became unbearable and brought him back to reality. He reached his right arm behind him and felt a shift stick.  

Chris figured to himself, “If they don’t have enough cognitive thought to open a truck door, then I’ve got to be safe. I’d been dinner by now, huh?”

He grabbed the steering wheel and pulled himself back into the driver’s seat; he ignored the raspy, growling from the other side of the window and looked down at the label. “2WD, 4L and 4H?” He asked himself. The plate at the bottom of the shifter had a little rectangular picture of the four wheels and drive train of the truck. The rear wheels were bright orange but the two front wheels were a dark grey. Chris clenched the shifter knob and pulled back.  

He felt the transmission make a clunking sound and the two little front wheel lights on the plate were illuminated. Chris looked around the truck and lost count at several dozen. Most of the goons were concentrated around the bed and tailgate. “The noise from the exhaust is definitely attracting them.”

He wrapped his five fingers around the steering wheel, slid the truck into reverse and slowly pushed the gas pedal. He felt a resistance of the pushing bodies against the truck. He gave it more gas and saw the decayed grey people at the tailgate losing their footing and succumbing to the Detroit steel of the rear bumper as they fell backward. Chris pushed the pedal farther and the truck started traversing over a bumpy terrain of skulls and bones. He twisted the volume knob up on the static noise of the radio to drown out the popping and squishing sounds of the people as the weight of the truck crushed their skulls and abdomens. He could see instantaneous splashes of chunky brown blood bursts on the asphalt in the side-view mirrors as he rolled backward.

The herd was thinned out enough that Chris could shift into drive and he steered around the few zombies that were still advancing on him and continued on to highway 288.     

The Scenic Route

Five miles an hour was the average speed Chris could drive to maneuver around the burned hulls of vehicles, the slain bodies of people laying about the narrowed Holcombe Boulevard and not to mention, the dead or undead. There was a dead woman that looks like she was shot by a machine gun as the brown coagulated bloody bullet holes made a straight perforated line horizontally across her torso.

His clammy right hand tightly clenched the steering wheel and his eyes were fixed on a new Houston, Texas that was something out of a horror movie. He turned the radio on and pushed the Seek button so the stations would constantly roll in hopes of catching someone broadcasting an emergency message.

Chris was so taken aback and in awe at the devastation he was witnessing that he failed to notice the rumbling exhaust pipes were attracting a crowd that was trailing behind the truck.

He heard a bumping sound coming from the back of the truck and turned to see a group of about 35-40 dead heads reaching over the tailgate. They were men, women and a couple of kids. Two boys. One was older, or taller and huskier than the other.  Chris recollected the conversations between him and Sarah about having kids. Chris wanted a son that he could Xbox with and teach him fake wrestling moves; like body-slamming the kid on the bed. Sarah, of course, wanted a girl. A baby girl she could play house with and teach her how to french braid hair.

They talked about having kids, how bad the economy was, the rising crime rates and the rise of grocery and fuel prices. Chris and Sarah decided it was best to wait on having children until their college courses were done. Chris was trying to finish his training on selling Real Estate and Sarah was planning on becoming a Psychiatrist.   

Chris found himself feeling melancholy with the memories of talking to Sarah and hearing her sweet, tender voice. Her embrace; her goofy blonde moments. He yearned for that feeling again. To be with her again.

*BOOM!*

Chris was so lost in day dreaming about Sarah that he hit an overturned Ford dually. He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt and the impact threw him into the dashboard; honking the horn which dispatched more meaties in the area. At five miles an hour, the impact wasn’t enough to deploy the airbags and he was able to quickly get his wits about him.  He saw the trailing people scraping down the bed of the truck in the side view mirrors. He could see the gaps between the heads and shoulders of his attackers being filled with more people. He landed on his right side on the transmission hump and yanked the pistol from his waistband and frantically aimed it at every face he made eye contact with. Unfortunately, the eyes looking back at him were dried and withered.

The zombies crowded both sides of the truck and Chris looked up toward to the sunroof of the Chevy.