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.