Van replaced the nozzle on his 2020 Chevrolet Express. A glance at the sky, 5 PM, but darkness clung to the New Mexico desert like a shroud.
Five more hours on the road. He looked at the cargo bay, full of cheap goods.
Gotta make this delivery.
He chugged his coffee. An unwelcome image surfaced: the kid in the store, a fresh, oozing bite on his forearm.
Not my circus. Van flicked the cup out the window. A perfect shot into the trash.
Cars screeched out of Hurley, fleeing north. In his mirror, two men climbed from a minivan, storming the store, nearly getting hit.
He reached for the keys. Then he saw her.
A blonde in a tank top and boots, sprinting toward his truck.
A scream cut the air.
Van's eyes snapped to the store. One man was down. The cashier, the bitten kid, was on top of him, mouth tearing a chunk from the man's cheek.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Fists hammered the passenger window. Van's hand went to the glove box, finding cold steel.
"What?!" he barked, window cracking open.
"Zombies!" she screamed, eyes wide. "My driver turned! Let me in!"
Zombies. A movie word.
In the mirror, figures spilled from town. Their gait was wrong, a jerking, broken sprint.
"No bites! See?" She clawed at her clothes. "They're coming!"
Van gritted his teeth and hit the unlock. The door flew open; she tumbled inside.
"Go! He was bitten! I'm clean!"
A face smashed against her window. Half its jaw was gone, leaving yellowed stumps. Red irises pinned them in place.
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Van reacted. He raised the Glock and fired.
The window spiderwebbed. The bullet tore through the thing's cheek, shattering bone and teeth.
It didn't flinch. It kept chewing the glass, dark blood smearing the cracks.
A pickup sideswiped the Express with a deafening crunch, shearing off the left mirror. Van locked the doors, twisted the key, and slammed the gas.
"They're on us!" she whispered, glued to the mirror.
The loaded truck lumbered. The things behind were faster.
THUD.
Something landed on the roof.
A skeletal hand, flesh stripped to bone, scraped down the windshield. An eyeless face followed, scratching with a sound that set Van's teeth on edge.
He made a choice.
He stomped the brake. The truck screeched to a halt. Seatbelts bit.
The thing on the roof flew forward, hitting the pavement. Others plowed into the rear bumper.
Van threw the shifter into reverse and floored it.
The truck lurched back. Tires found purchase, then something softer.
POP.
Like a watermelon. The rear wheels crushed a skull, painting the asphalt with grey matter and tangled filaments. The headless body twitched and lay still.
A chime sounded in his mind.
[ VEHICLE SYSTEM ACTIVATED ]
[ VEHICLE: CHEVROLET EXPRESS ]
[ LEVEL: 1 (1/10) ]
Van shook his head. He reversed again, crushing another twitcher.
[ +1 XP ]
"Hold on!" he growled, shifting to drive.
Headshots. It's the headshots.
He rolled down his window. As the truck passed a shambler, he leaned out, extended his left arm, and put a round between its eyes. It dropped.
[ +1 XP ]
Something cold and sharp uncoiled in his chest. A feral thrill.
A dozen more converged. Van worked with brutal efficiency.
Right hand steering, using the truck to mow them down. Left hand out the window, the Glock barking, dotting the road with bursts of gore.
[ +1 XP... +1 XP... ]
The counter hit 10.
[ VEHICLE LEVEL UP: LV 2 (0/30) ]
[ SELECT UPGRADE: ]
[ 1. REPAIR & REINFORCE ARMOR ]
[ 2. INCREASE ENGINE OUTPUT: 100% ]
[ 3. MOUNT RAMMING PROW ]
Second. Give me power.
His choice was instant.
A blue shimmer engulfed the engine bay. The truck's rumble deepened into a predatory roar. Raw force surged through the frame.
The woman beside him stayed silent, hand over her mouth. She saw the blue light. She said nothing.
More shadows poured from the town. Dozens. His Glock's magazine was nearly empty.
Van spun the wheel. The truck, now humming with savage new strength, pivoted. He stomped the accelerator.
The engine roared. Tires screamed. The Express catapulted onto the highway, pressing them into their seats. Hurley vanished behind them.
On the empty road, Van finally breathed. He kept the wheel steady with his right hand.
His left, still holding the Glock, rested on his thigh, barrel angled toward the passenger.
He looked at her. Blonde, blue eyes, mid-twenties. Clean. Polished. Straight, white teeth.
She looked like a sheltered rich kid who'd never gotten her hands dirty.
The gun didn't move.
"We're clear," Van said, voice flat. "Get out."
Her eyes widened. "You're... throwing me out?"
"I got you out. What else do I owe you?"