Through the Ashes

“I…I don’t…know if I can do this…” gasped John. The youngest of their group, barely out of high school, dragged the heavy backpack slowly.

“Suck it up, buttercup,” Sarah The Zombie Killer said raising her rifle and checking the street out in front of them with her scope.

Smoke from charred buildings wrapped around her sights as she tried to see.

Visibility was limited to five feet.

Maybe.

The moans from the undead could be heard a block away.

A big group this time.

“I’m carrying all of our supplies. I deserve…” said John.

Max or Mad Dawg as he was known, lit his cigarette while looking at John. “What? You deserve what?”

His battle-hardened face was blackened by soot from the many battles he had survived.

A testament to his toughness.

John set the backpack down and took a seat.

“Nothing,” he murmured. He took a long look at her rifle.

“Street looks clear,” Sarah said.

She looked down at John. “Stop complaining about everything. Once you’ve killed one hundred zombies, you can carry the rifle.”

John looked at her clothes and face. Blood crusted jeans. Torn bullet proof vest. A handgun strapped across her chest. A riot helmet with a face shield, dried blood smeared across her face shield.

“Can I at least get a nickname? Like you two?”

Max handed Sarah the rest of his cigarette. She took it and blew a billow of smoke toward him.

“You need to kill at least two hundred zombies for that pleasure.”

“We need to move,” Max said. He raised his pump action shotgun behind them. The sounds of zombies grew closer. Max took several slugs from his tactical vest, inserted them into his shotgun, and then racked the slide.

“Street clear ahead from what I saw,” Sarah said. She tossed the cigarette to the ground, not bothering to put it out. What else could catch fire after the planes had dropped the bombs in the city in an attempt by the government to slow the spread of the virus. The buildings downtown were almost all destroyed, nothing more than a smoldering black heap.

The irony of it all was that the zombies were the last ones standing.

Their moans grew louder.

“Let’s move. Now!” snarled Sarah. Her rifle’s muzzle moved slowly upwards.

The moans grew louder.

The street was quiet just a minute ago.

Now, they seemed to be everywhere.

John struggled to sling the backpack over his shoulder.

“Go, Go!” Sarah said, her voice as cold as ice.

John was sweating profusely as he limped down the street, the weight of the bag throwing off his balance.

The two warriors covered his retreat with the intensity of a squad of Navy Seals.

Nothing would harm John.

John found it more difficult to breathe as he ventured down the street. Smoke from burned cars made him nauseous and obstructed his vision.

He struggled to move as his senses became blurred.

He just wanted to lie down and give up.

It would be so easy…

A strong hand shoved him forward.

“Don’t give up on me,” snarled Sarah.

The sounds from the zombies grew ever closer. John could hear their feet shuffling on the cement.

He was glad the zombies were not fast moving like in some of the movies.

Suddenly, the shotgun roared to life. The loudest sound in the world.

One blast after another.

“There’s so many. So many,” Max said in between reloading.

John looked back, unable to see his two protectors.

Then, the rapid fire of the rifle, and the glow of the muzzle, gave John a brief glimpse of the battle.

Sarah was mowing them down with extreme prejudice.

Was she smiling?

John couldn’t be sure…

Max had resorted to drawing his two pistols, holding each in both hands, head shots all around, bringing the undead to their second death in record time.

It grew quiet again after seconds.

No more groans and moans.

Humans had prevailed.

Again.

Sarah stuck another magazine into her rifle and checked the action.

She was ready for round two immediately.

They continued down the street, the only sound the panting of their breaths.

Actually, mostly John’s breath.

The other two were as quiet as bodies in a morgue.

“Where is it?” Max asked quietly after a minute of silence.

John pulled his phone.

The GPS map showed they were close.

John gasped, the pack on his back, starting to really hurt.

He put his phone back in his pocket.

“Should be close. It’s hard to tell with the smoke.”

“But you’ve been here many times, right?” asked Sarah.

She lifted her face shield, giving him a clearer look at her face.

The soot and blood gave her face an apocalyptic warpaint appearance.

She looked like an avenging angel going to battle against the evil forces plaguing earth.

“I’m sure.”

She nodded.

Just then, voices were heard.

Not far.

And just ahead.

Sarah expertly raised her rifle and moved forward, as silent as a Marine Force Recon Scout, three times as deadly.

Max quickly reloaded his shotgun, his bicep muscles could make Arnold Schwarzenegger cower in fear.

“Go.”

He gently pushed John forward.

Bright lights were just ahead.

Could this be it, John thought to himself.

Yes!

“This is it!” he whispered excitedly.

“Shhh,” scolded The Zombie Killer.

The sounds they heard were human.

And the closer they got, the more they could hear.

“I asked for a triple shot, soy latte. This isn’t triple shots. At best one shot. I’ve been coming here for years.”

He heard a voice apologizing for the mistake.

“Not good enough. I want to speak to your manager. Now!”

The rag tag team of tough guys and gals, and John, approached the walk-up Starbucks window, just behind a woman who wanted to see the manager.

“I…” the young barista leaned out the window, noticing the newcomers. “I think my manager is around here somewhere. Of course she was a zombie last time I saw her.”

“This is ridiculous. I expect better service than this-”

Sarah pushed the woman aside.

“Hey!” she yelled, ready to protest until she saw the guns.

Down the street, from where they just came, the familiar sounds of the undead began again. The moans and groans. The shuffling of their feet, the crackling of their stuff body parts coming closer.

“Not again!” John said.

Sarah turned her head backwards to the barista, and said, “Three large drip coffees to go.”

The recently deceased grew ever closer.

“Can I get a Frappuccino?” John asked meekly.

Max, The Mad Dawg raised his shotgun toward the undead.

Sarah The Zombie Killer gave John a look.

Then she turned back to the barista.

“Two drips, one Frappuccino. Make it quick,” she growled, her rifle slowly raising through the ashes.