Free THE SAGA OF THE DEAD SILENCER Book 1: Bleeding Kansas: A Novel Of The Zombie Apocalypse by L.ROY AIKEN Page B

their bodies make it harder for the ones closest to us to hammer at it with their fists.
    “Just get us out of this!” Tanner says. “W e’ll shake him when we’re clear!”
    “Yes, sir ,” I say. I put the shifter back into drive and floor it again. I see what looks to be a slight break to the right and cut the wheel that way.
    We jolt away just in time for another loud crack. A wide, jagged shard of the rear window on the driver’s side bows in. An arm thrusts through the gap, working at the wedge of safety glass, peeling it back.

     
     
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    The crumbling edge of the safety glass runs red from all the lacerated wrists and hands pushing their way in. The thumping at the other windows becomes heavier, louder. I’m working the wheel, all but standing on the pedal. Three out of the four tires are spinning; the rear shimmies from one side to another. Just not so fast or forceful enough to shake the mob pressing in on us….
    Suddenly we jackrabbit away so fast we’re thrown back into our seats. The arms and hands rip and snap backwards out the crumbling shards of safety glass.
    Inertia makes up for our lack of traction and our front end goes up again. The kid with the neck tattoo who’s been crawling towards me across the hood is slammed face-first against the windshield. We come down the other side, bearing down on one last quartet of living dead. The kid tumbles over, knocking them backwards. Flesh is crushed, bones are snapped.
    There’s the freeway entrance ramp, free and clear. We fishtail one last time in the gore before shooting up onto the Interstate. Sunlight pours into the cab like a blessing as we rise into the wide-open lanes of I-70.
    “That was close,” says Tanner, looking back over his seat.
    “Christ!” I’d go faster but the handling feels funny on the Tank. The tires sound weird, too, making a low, but distinct roaring as we fly over the white slab concrete.
    “Sounds like a run-flat tire running flat,” Tanner says. “Might want to slow down in case one of them starts coming apart.”
    “So much for the Luxury Tank,” I say, letting my foot relax on the pedal. Only a bit, though. I’ve got my eyes on the sides of the highway, looking down at the throngs milling about the city streets below us.
    “I can see how something like this would give you the illusion of safety,” Tanner says. “What you really need, though, is something high off the ground. A truck with a lift-kit and really big, fat tires. The kind you have to climb up into. Even then, you don’t want to let yourself be slowed down by a mob. Of course, you’d be freer to move with those big tires, so that wouldn’t be an issue.”
    “So let’s land by a truck dealership,” I say.
    “Arapahoe Road by Centennial Airport has dealerships. Anyway, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll have to rely on you to look for places like that while we’re in the air.”
    I’m sarcastic; he’s serious. Holy shit, this just might work.
    We ride in silence, just the low roar of the left front and right rear tires riding on their reinforced sidewalls, the bluster of the wind in the back where the window is ripped halfway out. It’s all I can do not to collapse into a shivering mess thinking of the different ways this could have gone.
    Staying in the city would have been a mistake, I see that now. We were damned lucky the hotel didn’t get swarmed. It would have happened eventually. And with that many of them crowding the lobby and the lower floors (the glass wouldn’t have lasted long) we would never have gotten away. We’d have stayed trapped in the upper floors until we starved to death.
    I can only imagine how it’s been going on our side of Colorado Springs. When Claire died. What happened when she came back. I can’t help feeling that even if we could beam ourselves over sci-fi style in the next five minutes, it’s already over. We’ll be lucky if we can save ourselves.
    After a while Tanner cuts on the radio. The few