he rounded the winding bend he found the ramp ahead blocked by a chain of crashed vehicles.
He opened his door and leaned out to assess what was happening. Dozens of emergency blinkers flashed in the darkness. Headlight beams pierced the rainy night at oblique angles, fading up into the bleak atmosphere or down into the marshy fields on either side of the road. Angry voices echoed through the darkness.
Hopping back into the car he threw it into reverse, praying he’d make it back down the ramp before another arrival blocked him in. He could barely make out the guide rails of the ramp through the teeming rain but he could see the gleam of deep puddles forming in the marshy fields on either side, the first hint of the flooding that was sure to come.
His nerves were on edge until he made it back to the street. He sat for a minute reconsidering his options, then drove forward onto the long arching structure that crossed the salt-water channel separating the tiny coastal island of Wildwood from the mainland. He stopped the little Chevy on Beach Creek Bridge, the final section of the overpass. Feeling safe for the moment, he pulled over to regroup his senses and formulate a new game plan.
Checking the Chevy’s fuel gauge he had a sinking feeling. The needle was on empty. The owner of the car had apparently been attacked before he had a chance to start the pump. Ryan flashed back to the sight of the twitching legs behind the car and remembered his little brother meeting the same fate on his mother’s bed. He knew he had to choose his next move wisely or he wouldn’t survive the night.
Just a hundred yards ahead was Wildwood, the largest town in the area. Even in the dead of winter there were thousands of residents. Most would have obeyed the evacuation order, but a stubborn few would have stayed to ride out the storm.
There were only a few roads leading in and out of the island. They might be defensible. But according to news broadcasts related to the storm, only a handful of police and emergency workers would remain on duty throughout it. And even if there were no zombies on the island yet, they woul d probably show up fairly soon.
He wondered if there were enough people on the island to man the defenses. Would they even be willing to try? And if he could find the local police, could he convince them of the impending danger or would they think he was crazy? If not he would likely be trapped. If he ran out of gas, and the roads were overwhelmed by invading zombies…
He considered his other options. There was no thought about heading south; he would only be heading deeper down the peninsula, bo xed in by the spreading plague. And the Parkway was obviously out. The only other road running north was Route 9 but it was narrow and somewhat winding, with only one lane in either direction. And based on the fiery accident he’d witnessed earlier, it would be a very risky drive all the way. He’d have to detour down side streets to loop around road-blocking accidents and might run out of gas in a very bad spot.
That left the western routes. He wouldn’t get far on Route 47 without gassing up the Chevy... if he made it as far as 47 in the first place. To get there meant backtracking through the heavily infested areas he’d just crossed. The roads were already flooding and hordes of the hungry corpses clogged the streets. If he ran out of gas there, he’d be toast.
Only one other option remained—Route 147, the back road to the Pine Barrens. Since the zombies had been drawn toward the lights and noise of Route 9 before the power went out, they would probably be less active in the sticks, fewer and far between. The further he got from the populous beach towns the better his chances were. If he could cross Route 9 and make it a few more blocks before running out of gas, he’d stand a fighting chance of survival.
He glanced at the dusty little St. Christopher statue on the dashboard and managed a nervous smile.
“I know
He opened his door and leaned out to assess what was happening. Dozens of emergency blinkers flashed in the darkness. Headlight beams pierced the rainy night at oblique angles, fading up into the bleak atmosphere or down into the marshy fields on either side of the road. Angry voices echoed through the darkness.
Hopping back into the car he threw it into reverse, praying he’d make it back down the ramp before another arrival blocked him in. He could barely make out the guide rails of the ramp through the teeming rain but he could see the gleam of deep puddles forming in the marshy fields on either side, the first hint of the flooding that was sure to come.
His nerves were on edge until he made it back to the street. He sat for a minute reconsidering his options, then drove forward onto the long arching structure that crossed the salt-water channel separating the tiny coastal island of Wildwood from the mainland. He stopped the little Chevy on Beach Creek Bridge, the final section of the overpass. Feeling safe for the moment, he pulled over to regroup his senses and formulate a new game plan.
Checking the Chevy’s fuel gauge he had a sinking feeling. The needle was on empty. The owner of the car had apparently been attacked before he had a chance to start the pump. Ryan flashed back to the sight of the twitching legs behind the car and remembered his little brother meeting the same fate on his mother’s bed. He knew he had to choose his next move wisely or he wouldn’t survive the night.
Just a hundred yards ahead was Wildwood, the largest town in the area. Even in the dead of winter there were thousands of residents. Most would have obeyed the evacuation order, but a stubborn few would have stayed to ride out the storm.
There were only a few roads leading in and out of the island. They might be defensible. But according to news broadcasts related to the storm, only a handful of police and emergency workers would remain on duty throughout it. And even if there were no zombies on the island yet, they woul d probably show up fairly soon.
He wondered if there were enough people on the island to man the defenses. Would they even be willing to try? And if he could find the local police, could he convince them of the impending danger or would they think he was crazy? If not he would likely be trapped. If he ran out of gas, and the roads were overwhelmed by invading zombies…
He considered his other options. There was no thought about heading south; he would only be heading deeper down the peninsula, bo xed in by the spreading plague. And the Parkway was obviously out. The only other road running north was Route 9 but it was narrow and somewhat winding, with only one lane in either direction. And based on the fiery accident he’d witnessed earlier, it would be a very risky drive all the way. He’d have to detour down side streets to loop around road-blocking accidents and might run out of gas in a very bad spot.
That left the western routes. He wouldn’t get far on Route 47 without gassing up the Chevy... if he made it as far as 47 in the first place. To get there meant backtracking through the heavily infested areas he’d just crossed. The roads were already flooding and hordes of the hungry corpses clogged the streets. If he ran out of gas there, he’d be toast.
Only one other option remained—Route 147, the back road to the Pine Barrens. Since the zombies had been drawn toward the lights and noise of Route 9 before the power went out, they would probably be less active in the sticks, fewer and far between. The further he got from the populous beach towns the better his chances were. If he could cross Route 9 and make it a few more blocks before running out of gas, he’d stand a fighting chance of survival.
He glanced at the dusty little St. Christopher statue on the dashboard and managed a nervous smile.
“I know
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