When We Were Overrun

I can't tell you how it happened. When you've been running for your life, non-stop, for 30 hours, sleep has a way of conquering your will and forcing you into one of those coma-sleeps; the ones that, while you're dreaming, feel like forever but, when you wake up, feel like a flickering moment. So I was out cold on the floor, my gear and backpack my a pillow instead of the concrete and rubble scattered around me. It must've taken Dominic a while to actually rouse me; I only caught the last part of his plea to wake up. Still, it was enough. 

"...comi-...-verrun us!"

By the time the bangs, moans, and the unmistakable presence of The Horde filtered through my grogginess, I was on my feet and slinging my backpack onto my shoulders. 

I knew it had been a mistake to hole-up in a shack like this: rickety walls, small windows, and a single door allowing egress into and out of our small haven. It had seemed enough at the time, but I'd've had a different opinion had I been in my right state of mind when we bedded down. 

As it was, we had to get out. The door wasn't an option: I could already hear the hinges straining under the weight of dozens of eager, crazed bodies pushing against it. We didn't have long. Dominic made quick work of the butt of my rifle, smashing in the window opposite the entrance. In one smooth motion, he was out the window and into the street. Placing my heel on the broken pane, I vaulted up and after him out of the building. But before I was clear, my pack snagged on the remaining pieces of glass. Not only caught, I was wedged in place by it all: both pack and I couldn't make it through the window. Because I'd jumped through, I didn't have a lot of leverage to wiggle out. I was thoroughly stuck.

Without word or signal, Dom took out his knife. With one hand, he slashed at the shoulder straps holding the pack onto me. With his other, he grabbed my collar and yanked me out of the window. We left the pack and ran down the street - I'd rather be alive and hungry than something's dinner.

Aside from the sound of our footsteps frantically beating against the asphalt and our steady breaths, neither of us made a sound. That was the key to surviving ordeals like this: you had to be able to work together without making much noise. Even the slightest shout could alert one of them. And once one of them caught our scent, the whole Hoard would be bearing down on us. 

I and Dom - we'd been at this for a while. Running, anyway. We'd developed a sixth sense for looking out for each other. We were never ones to go crusading against these things. We just wanted to survive. And with each other, we'd done just that. We'd hopped from town to town, avoiding traveling hordes of undead whenever we found them. When forced into an encounter, we kept our heads together. We set traps, built decoys, whittled down a small herd by luring stragglers away; whatever we had to do to stay safe and breathing. When we could, we salvaged materials for weapons and clothes. Everything we had we'd built together. 

Dom was much heavier than I was, but not in a zombie-bait kind of way. If something needed breaking, lifting, or blunt-force-bashing, Dom was the guy to do it. The man was strong. He was decisive too - an invaluable quality when all you've time to do is take a few breaths. Yet, he always seemed to defer to my judgement on more long-term decisions: where to find food, how to avoid another herd, where we'd bed down for the night, etc. It made for an easy relationship. 

The sky was nearing dusk, so I couldn't be sure how long I'd been out; when I'd gone to bed, it had looked much the same. Had it been a hour? A day? More? It didn't really matter: we needed some place to hide before we lost daylight. If we couldn't...well, I didn't want to think about that. With The Hoard so close, a flashlight would be akin to suicide. Our best chance was to get out of town and hide; wait for the herd to pass. 

We ducked into alleys and ran down deserted streets, always keeping our heads below eye-level. When we could, we ran behind cover. So long as The Hoard didn't get line-of-sight on us, we had the advantage. 

While my feet were pounding the pavement, my head was trying to pound out a way to get us out of this mess. I no idea how big the herd was. Obviously, they could overrun that shack, so...at least 30? I checked my cargo pockets for anything that hadn't been in the gear we'd lost. With relish, I grasped a full clip of ammo in my right-leg pocket. Combined with what was already in the rifle, we had around 20 rounds. But even if I'd had a hundred rounds, I wouldn't dream of taking down a Hoard like this. At least not now. With time and planning, we'd taken down bigger forces than what was chasing us now. But we were panicked and on the run. Worse yet, I had no idea if there were other undead nearby. The sound of gunfire would quickly attract more than we could handle.

We passed dozens of abandoned vehicles, but that was a pipe dream. Even if we could get one started, there'd be no chance of navigating the congested and rubble-ridden roads with any modicum of speed. We could hide in a van or bus, but that solution was equally problematic: one lucky Walker would bring the whole Hoard on us. In a car, we'd have no escape route. And all this didn't consider if we would set off a car alarm. 

No cars. 

A roof would work. So long as we weren't seen getting there, the Hoard would innocently pass us by without a second thought. The key was finding a building with roof access on the outside; we didn't have time to clear a building of any ambling undead waiting for us. Apartment fire escapes were perfect, but I hadn't seen any yet. 

So we kept jogging. Dom kept eyes up front while I checked our tail for signs of the undead.

But when we turned a corner to run down a major street of the city, all my plans went to hell. 

"Shit."

We called them "potatoes", taken from the human "couch potato". These things would stand in the exact same spot for days or even months until some stimulus - like us - prompted them to move. They often came in large groups - this a couple-dozen strong. Ones like this would be more animated at the thought of a meal, as they'd been standing there for god-knew how long without any form of "food". In unison, they all looked up from their staring contest with the ground: zillions of dry, rotted eyes bearing down on us.  

Keep running.

We turned tail and went back the way we'd come. If we were fast enough, we could double-back on the hoard already chasing us. With a little luck, we could go in the opposite direction and trick our pursuers.

When we rounded the corner to retreat, that sinking feeling in my gut got a lot heavier: There, down the road we'd come, was another Hoard - likely the one that'd originally overrun us. My initial estimate had been a bit zealous: I judged there size to be more around 20-strong. While a heartening and ironic thought - that I'd been wrong - it didn't do us much good. 

I drew the rifle out of Dom's hands as we both did an about-face. I had the extra clip, and we both knew I was a better shot. We turned again down the only road still undead-free and ran for it. 

A large, office-like building came into view with the title "Informatica" on it - Wikipedia's HQ. (They ran run the world's largest, free, and respected information source. At least, back when any of that mattered). Lots of smaller, tightly packed offices and warehouse-type buildings surrounded it. If we could find a building with a ladder, we'd be golden: all these closely-built structures would make it easy to move around the city without fear of running into the undead. I glanced over at Dom. With my free hand, I signed to him:

Split up.

He nodded back and signed his interpretation of my plan:

Find roof. Wait.

We were agreed. Dom continued straight down the road while I took a left at the corner of the Informatica building.

Most people would call us crazy. You're never supposed to split up, right? People in the woods in horror flicks do it all the time, and it never works out for them. But this was different. The undead might be mindless, but they behave in predictable ways. They'll always go after a single target. When that target splits, they tend to all go after one of the two. Sure, a couple stragglers might break away from the group and go after the other. But I and Dom could handle half-a-dozen zombies on our own. It was also easier to give the horde the slip on my own. There are a whole lot more places one person can fit into that two people can't. 

Yes, there were risks. But we'd done this before. If it didn't work, well...what else could we have done? I and Dom had to do what we knew could work: we weren't at the chance-taking point. Not yet. 

I ducked behind a van and peeked back down the road. They were following Dom. While I battled mixed emotions about this, a few stumbling walkers caught sight of me and peeled off of the main surge of undead. Still conflicted about Dom's predicament, I turned and kept running. I'd deal with my feelings after we were safe and out of reach. 

With no real route planned, I turned into a nearby alley. It was a dead end, but another narrow road branched from it and continued. I followed it. Another dead end with another, single alley leading away. I continued on, growing more nervous all the time. So far, there was no exit to this path: Just more alleys. In a few moments, my pursuers would enter the alley where I had. If I didn't find an exit, I'd be trapped, with no way out but through the undead. I shuddered at the thought and kept jogging. 

Then, Chance threw me a curve. 

My alley dead-ended for good: I had no where else to go. In the distance, I could here shuffling feet and scratchy gasps. I was trapped. But at the end of the alley lay my salvation: a fire escape. The ladder itself was well out of reach, but a dumpster stood not too far from it. I'd vault the dumpster, climb the ladder, and be safe and out of immediate danger. 

If it were so easy. 

I shouldered my rifle and leaned against the dumpster. As I bent to the task of pushing, it became very apparent that this was not a one-person job. The wheels were stiff and rusted from disuse. Debris was littered around it. The thing must've been sitting here for ages. Even if I had the strength, I'd need time to clear a path to push. But time was what I had very little of left.

Adrenalin and fear were pounding in my heart. I flirted with the idea of hiding in the dumpster, but that had worse prospects than a car. They knew I was here: they'd come knocking eventually. I had to keep my cool; had to think. If I couldn't move this dumpster, I'd have to find some other way out. But there wasn't another way out. This was it. 

Maybe that's why they called it a dead end. 

Behind me, I heard the distinct scuff of shoe on concrete. The excited rasping of a dry, rotted throat sent chills up my spine. Then I heard the moans: the one eerie sign that makes you wonder if they're really fully dead. They're pretty quite when they're on their own. But when there's prey in sight - when dinner's just a few stumbling steps away - they moan. Constant, wailing, deep, throaty: they can go on for days without stopping. It can drive people mad. It's why you don't employ siege tactics: the psychological toll is too high for people. 

The lump in my throat nearly choked the life out of me before they could. I'd been in scrapes like this before, but I'd never gotten used to the paralyzing fear. I'd seen men that had: hard men without morals or feelings. I'd seen what living in war against these things had done to people. I knew what it would do to me - if I survived, anyway. But I couldn't stop the shaking. I couldn't move. I knew they were right behind me: any moment, I'd feel a hand pull me down while black and gore-filled teeth devoured me. My last moments would be the conscious awareness that I was being eaten.

No. I wanted to survive. To live. I had to force myself past the fear. Forget the hopelessness. If I was going to do this, I needed to focus. 

With trembling hands, I slid my rifle's strap off my arm. I swallowed hard, trying my best to take steady, deep breaths, and placed the butt of the rifle against my shoulder. 

One...two...three...Turn.

Bam. Zombie.