Last Words

May 11, 2007 at 7:00 pm (Fiction, Survival Story, Undead, Zombie)

“What the fuck?! GET IN THE CAR NOW!,” the last words I ever heard my Dad speak.

We had been on the highway for about two hours. The sun had come up, and traffic was moving so slowly people were getting out of their cars. It was an accident waiting to happen. Hundreds of panicked people, most of whom were armed, sitting around waiting for traffic to move. Occasionally down the road you could hear gunshots ring out, presumably a traffic jam variation of road rage.

My brother Dan and I had been sitting on the trunk of the car for quite a while by that point, waiting for Dad to tell us traffic was getting ready to move. He kept telling us to stay in our seats, but when you haven’t moved in an hour it just doesn’t seem logical. The radio was up so loud we could hear it from here warning people not to take the highways as they were all at a stand still. One station even suggest the fastest safest route out of town was taking bicycles or motorcycles on back roads. It sounded like the nearby gunfire was getting closer and closer. It was starting to get concerning, but Dan kept joking about how many he was going to kill. His confidence made me feel a little bit better about our odds of survival.

Dan was discussing the killing power of his A&P when I heard it, the last words my father ever spoke. Looking over the front after the car as he spoke, far down the highway, I could see the most horrible vista imaginable. Hundreds if not thousands of people all running in our direction, the first line stopping at each car as the next line climbed over them. From the distance it almost looked like a red mist followed the hoard. Zombies! In awe it took a minute before the shock wore off enough I could get into the car.

Before my door was shut my father was moving. He slammed on the gas turning as sharp as he could. We managed to push the car in front of us a few feet into the next car forward before he took us off the side of the raised highway. Dad drove the car off the highway down a the steep grassy hill to the road below. This road, however, was also horribly congested. By the time we had gotten to the bottom he had managed to maneuver the car into facing the opposite direction. When we hit the bottom he took off driving so fast, all Mom could say was things like “Hold on!,” “Slow down!,” and “Buckle up!” With all the cars on the road the old man had to drive halfway on the sidewalk halfway on the grass we had just driven down. Already horribly upset Mom was virtually crying now.

We got to the intersection in just under 3 minutes. A feat that had taken us two hours going from the same intersections on-ramp, the other direction, in traffic. Unfortunately there was no room to get the car past, and with half of our wheels on the grass Dad wasn’t able to stop before he slammed into a car in the middle of the intersection. The airbags deployed as we hit, and retracted in what seemed like an instant. Dad grabbed his gun, but his arm bent out of shape as he tried to pick it up now yelling in pain. The bones of his forearm must have been shattered. Probably caught between the rim of the steering wheel and the airbag. Mom, slightly hazy from the crash, was bent over checking on him as the the background noise filled with moans.

(Cont. May 12, 8PM EST “My Life? Lunch”)

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