The Infected (Book 1): Jim's First Day by Joseph Zuko Page A

get old and
can’t take care of themselves it can get gross. Add torn flesh, missing limbs,
open night gowns, popped colostomy bags and it gets absolutely disgusting. It
would be nice if I could go five minutes without all of my senses being
completely bombarded with horrifying, nightmarish gore.   
    Behind
us a diesel engine is moving fast. It is a snow plow. Where the hell did this guy
get a snow plow? He tears across the intersection. The big plow is covered in
human remains. It absolutely decimates these old bodies. It hits six at a time
and doesn’t slow down. I look over at Sara and she gives me a half smile. It is
so over the top, even though it is incredibly wrong and disturbing, you want to
laugh. Only so you don’t go completely insane. The plow takes out all of the
infected on the street. I hit the gas and follow him. The Bronco slides around
on the concrete as I get up to speed. The ground is slick with body fluids. The
plow weaves all over the street purposely hitting the infected.
    “This
guy’s like, bat shit insane!” exclaims Devon.
    The
plow hits a parked car and tears off every metal panel and the door like it was
newspaper. We zip down two blocks before I know it. I wish I could follow this
guy all the way home. I would be there in ten minutes.
    The
road comes to an end and the plow slams on its brakes and makes a hard right.
It takes down a fire hydrant on the corner. Water explodes into the air and
splashes down on us. It covers my windshield with so much water we go blind for
a few seconds until I find the controls for the wipers. The next road we pull
onto is littered with cars. The people drive like maniacs trying to get home,
or leave home, who knows. I thought this guy would slow down now that he is on
a main road, but he is going even faster. He weaves in and out of traffic still
pulverizing the random infected that try to cross the street.
    “He’s
going to kill someone,” I shift into the last gear. I stay with the plow. It is
the best lead blocker ever, but I am pushing seventy. The speed limit is only
thirty five. My butthole eats the seat every time I pass a car or enter an
intersection. There is a major intersection up ahead and it is full of cars. He
tears the back and front bumper off them. It makes for a nice opening that we
dart through.
    The
next intersection opens up to a four lane with a median and it has more cars to
navigate through. I don’t understand why he is driving this way. If he took it
slow he would still get where he is going. Why drive like a maniac? The stress
of getting into another car crash is not worth following this madman. We have
gone thirteen blocks and it only took us a minute to get here. So that is cool,
but Goddamn, slow down you weirdo. He blows apart a few infected bodies. Some
of the guts and blood spray up and over the top of the plow and land on our
ride. I fire the wipers back up to clear the window.
    The
plow races through the next intersection and is t-boned by a fast moving fire
truck. The unstoppable force has met its match. The fire truck pushes it into
another car and the plow tips over on its side. I jam on the brakes. The whole
intersection is full of busted vehicles and now I don’t have a lead blocker. I
search for a clear path that will keep me going in the right direction, but
there is none.
    Seconds
after the plow comes to a full stop on its side the passenger door pops open
and a woman climbs out. I push away the urge to make a joke about women drivers.
The joke pops in and out of my head quickly but I keep it to myself. The woman
gets stable and surveys the area. She has something big strapped to her back.
She watches as packs of freshly turned infected roam the streets killing
everyone they meet. She pulls the object from her back. It is an assault rifle.
The woman opens fire. She spays bullets in every direction. Unfortunately the
Bronco is not bulletproof. Rounds rip through the cabin and engine compartment.
She misses our