Free Zompoc Survivor: Exodus by Ben S Reeder

he fired. Bullets whizzed by us, but only one actually hit the truck, proving that readiness to pull the trigger did not equal any ability to actually hit what you were shooting at. The gun stopped making noise, and I surged to my feet. Unlike the two thugs, I was not too cool to use the sights, and I knew how to hit what I shot at. They were about to learn a hard lesson in cause and effect: shooting at someone means that they just might shoot back. Hat Wannabe was framed in the cone of light as he tried to drop the magazine from his pistol. Behind him, I could see his buddy bringing his hand cannon up. Time slowed for me as I brought the M4 up and tried to put the red dot in the optic in the middle of his chest. When I got it dancing around more or less where I wanted it, I pulled the trigger twice. He dropped like a rag doll, and I moved the sight to Six Gun. Fourteen, fifteen. His gun boomed and I heard a bullet whine by as it ricocheted off something. I pulled the trigger again, but he stayed up, so I tried again, and this time sent him spinning. Sixteen, seventeen.
    “You okay?” I called out to Porsche, my heart hammering in my chest.
    “Yeah, I’m fine!” Porsche said, relief plain in her voice as she got herself upright again.
    “Get us out of here!” I said as I dropped back down. She wasted no time in putting the truck into gear and leaving fresh ruts in the grass. We bounced off the curb and onto National, then she was making a hard right as we went around the nose of the hybrid. Six Gun was trying to crawl toward his shiny pistol, and Porsche swerved in his direction. He gave out a strangled scream as the front wheel hit him, then went silent when the back wheel got him.
    “Asshole,” I heard Porsche call out as she powered the truck into a sharper left than I thought possible under the laws of physics as I understood them. Once I was done bouncing off the side of the truck bed, I pulled myself up to see that we were barreling down Sunset. The street was empty, so even though we were going the wrong way down the divided road, there wasn’t much chance of us hitting someone else coming the other way. We crossed over to the right side of the road as soon as it merged back to four lanes again, and slowed down enough to make sure we wouldn’t get sideswiped when we crossed Fremont, the next big road. Porsche turned her headlights off as we blazed through the intersection, and we coasted forward quietly.
    More screams came from our left, but to our right, it was silent. Trees lined the street on that side for about two hundred yards, cutting off my view of the park. I knew from countless past trips that an empty swimming pool took up this corner of the park. A little further down the road was a playground and a parking lot. I hoped that there was no one out tonight. The thought of zombie kids in softball uniforms sickened me. It took me a moment to realize that it wasn’t just the thought of dead kids lurching around. It was the thought that followed: I’d shoot them to stay alive. It bothered me that my brain was even able to envision doing that. Still, I kept sweeping left and right for movement.
    Porsche slowed to a stop as we got past the edge of the trees, and I focused forward. Nothing was directly in front of us, but up ahead at the Glenstone intersection, I could see what made her stop. Truth was I should have expected this. Glenstone was one of the major roads through town. It made sense that it would be one of the most backed up roads right now. I could see three cars on fire, and the glow from more fires flickered through the windows and off the paint of other cars further to the south. Silhouetted against the glow were several figures that seemed to be wandering back and forth among the vehicles.
    “Well, we’re not going that way,” Porsche said with an upbeat tone.
    “Damn straight. Fremont looked pretty clear, and I think we can get past the hospital by taking one of the side