Us vs. the Apocalypse
Title: Kind of Like Bowling
Word Count: 445
Crossposted: HERE at runaway-tales
The mid-afternoon rainfall had turned the Dead Zone into a mud pit, and Mason slowed to a stop on the highway to watch a pack of eight Ollies slogging through it, their stiff arms pinwheeling at the efforts. There was nothing exceptional about them - the same old mix of fresh and foul from all walks of previous-life - but I noticed Mason fidgeting in his seat, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel and his foot against the gas.
"Mase." I smacked his arm, and when his head whipped around he had that wild, almost feverish look about him. Sighing, I pinched the bridge of my nose. "No, Mase."
"But it's been forever," he whined.
"Zeke was in the shop for a week after the last time," I reminded. He just stared at me with wide, pleading eyes, his lower lip quivering, and I turned my face toward my window. "No," I repeated, though my resolve was crumbling and he knew it. Desperate, I scanned our surroundings for an out, and spotted the heavy black clouds rolling in from the coast. "There's another storm coming," I said. "We need to get to Carwell and back before it hits."
"This'll take, like, five minutes." He waved his hand in front of my face, fingers extended.
"You'll get us stuck."
"Oh come on, have I ever gotten us stuck?"
"Figuratively, or literally?" I asked. We stared at each other for a moment, a battle of wills, before he grinned and revved the engine. "Mase, I said -"
"OFFROADING!" he yelled, and the truck surged off the highway and into the field. I had barely enough time to brace my hands against the padded bars of the roll cage before we hit the first hole, deep enough to throw me painfully against my seatbelt, and the truck swerved violently in the slick mud before Mason could get it under control again.
The Ollies stopped their tedious trek to stare at us, their twisted and rotted faces almost dumbstruck, until they realized that we were headed straight for them. Some of them crouched and snarled, baring blackened teeth at us, while the rest twisted and tried to move out of the way, tripping and falling over each other. Within seconds we had closed in on them, and with a whoop of victory Mason cranked the steering wheel and sent the truck fishtailing into the wretched beasts. His aim was eerily perfect, the rear of the truck slamming violently into the small pack - the vehicle shuddered and I could hear the crack and crunch of breaking bodies, even over the roar of the engine and Mason's inarticulate battle cry.
Word Count: 445
Crossposted: HERE at runaway-tales
The mid-afternoon rainfall had turned the Dead Zone into a mud pit, and Mason slowed to a stop on the highway to watch a pack of eight Ollies slogging through it, their stiff arms pinwheeling at the efforts. There was nothing exceptional about them - the same old mix of fresh and foul from all walks of previous-life - but I noticed Mason fidgeting in his seat, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel and his foot against the gas.
"Mase." I smacked his arm, and when his head whipped around he had that wild, almost feverish look about him. Sighing, I pinched the bridge of my nose. "No, Mase."
"But it's been forever," he whined.
"Zeke was in the shop for a week after the last time," I reminded. He just stared at me with wide, pleading eyes, his lower lip quivering, and I turned my face toward my window. "No," I repeated, though my resolve was crumbling and he knew it. Desperate, I scanned our surroundings for an out, and spotted the heavy black clouds rolling in from the coast. "There's another storm coming," I said. "We need to get to Carwell and back before it hits."
"This'll take, like, five minutes." He waved his hand in front of my face, fingers extended.
"You'll get us stuck."
"Oh come on, have I ever gotten us stuck?"
"Figuratively, or literally?" I asked. We stared at each other for a moment, a battle of wills, before he grinned and revved the engine. "Mase, I said -"
"OFFROADING!" he yelled, and the truck surged off the highway and into the field. I had barely enough time to brace my hands against the padded bars of the roll cage before we hit the first hole, deep enough to throw me painfully against my seatbelt, and the truck swerved violently in the slick mud before Mason could get it under control again.
The Ollies stopped their tedious trek to stare at us, their twisted and rotted faces almost dumbstruck, until they realized that we were headed straight for them. Some of them crouched and snarled, baring blackened teeth at us, while the rest twisted and tried to move out of the way, tripping and falling over each other. Within seconds we had closed in on them, and with a whoop of victory Mason cranked the steering wheel and sent the truck fishtailing into the wretched beasts. His aim was eerily perfect, the rear of the truck slamming violently into the small pack - the vehicle shuddered and I could hear the crack and crunch of breaking bodies, even over the roar of the engine and Mason's inarticulate battle cry.