I
cracked open the throttle on the big Beemer, doing a buck-ten down the dotted
center line. I figured it would take
another three minutes at that speed to reach the bridge. I had brought a handheld radio that was
supposed to have twenty mile range, but one never knew with those things. I had a pistol strapped to one leg and my
long knife strapped to the other, but was otherwise unarmed. I wanted to get eyes-on the bridge, make sure
it was sound, and then get back to the group.
Two
miles out from the bridge, I spotted the first car. It was a mid-‘00’s sedan, and it was halfway
off the right lane and onto the shoulder, canted inward. I released the throttle a little, and the
motorbike instantly responded, slowing down.
110 became 95 became 80. There
was another car behind the first one, arrayed in the same position, and one on
the left lane, also pointed inw-…
I
got hard on the brakes then, back end skidding lightly as I brought the bike to
a halt. One of those cars like that was
explainable; somebody abandoned it, maybe ran out of gas, maybe someone was
infected in the car and snapped, something like that. Three though?
That was an ambush. Memories of
the sweep night came back full bore and I was on instant alert. I slowly swung around until I was parallel to
the interstate, and looked for movement from the dead cars, occasionally giving
the A rock came from behind the cars, hurled with enough force that I heard it
whistle through my helmet as it went by.
Four throttle a twist. Between
revs, I drew my pistol.
Beloved
came charging at me, hurling rocks. One
of the rocks was on target and I lifted my arm to block it, the stone glancing
off the crash guards sewn into my riding jacket. The padding saved me from a shattered arm,
but the force still caused my arm to go instantly numb, and I dropped my
pistol. Shit! My fingers wouldn’t work, and I couldn’t grip
the throttle. I would have to fight four
Beloved one-armed.
I
got off the bike and put it between them and me as I drew my long knife,
cursing myself for not bringing my katana
with me. I thought I could handle four
with two good arms, but I wasn’t so sure with the way things stood. Damn, I was barely outside of Boise. D.C. was a million miles away now.
I
gripped my long knife in my left hand as I banged my right with futility on my
side, trying to get feeling back in my digits.
They were closing fast as they always did, and I couldn’t hit them from
distance like I always did. But I still
had to win.
The
first one came leaping over the motorcycle, arms outstretched, teeth
bared. I went with his momentum,
gripping him by his shirt and slamming him down. A boot to the skull stopped his threat. The remaining three came on. I backed up, giving ground and trying to make
them rush me one at a time. It worked. Sort of.
One of them charged, and the other two approached behind her
slowly. Okay, then. Baby steps.
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