Free Madness Rules - 04 by Arthur Bradley Page B

violently, running around as if on fire before finally collapsing by the rear of the truck.
    Scores of the infected were now closing in from every direction.
    He shouted for Bowie to get into the truck, and the dog immediately obeyed, launching himself from the ground up into the cab with a single giant leap. Mason scrambled to his feet and half-crawled, half-climbed in after him. He slammed the door shut and quickly locked it.
    He realized that his and Bowie’s lives were dependent on a single event—something that had occurred weeks earlier. Either the operator had left the keys in the truck, or he hadn’t. If the keys were there, they might live. If the keys were missing, he and Bowie would surely die in the next few seconds. He leaned down and felt next to the steering column. Not only were the keys in the ignition, but dangling from the key ring was a lucky rabbit’s foot.
    Mason held his breath and turned the keys. The truck’s 466 cubic-inch diesel engine came to life with a throaty roar, finally settling to a metallic rumble that caused Bowie’s lower jaw to shake up and down like he was suffering from tremors. There were three pedals on the floor, which Mason assumed were the clutch, brake, and gas. The gear shift poked up from the floorboard, the letters and markings on the black knob worn away with years of use. There was also a handle with a sticker above it that read PTO , as well as a panel of various payload buttons.
    Figuring that the controls were identical to a standard transmission, he pressed the clutch and shoved the gearshift up and to the left. The first of the infected were already arriving, and they struggled against one another to get to his door. Mason eased off the clutch, and the heavy truck rolled forward. Several of the infected stepped directly in front of him and held out their hands as if thinking they could possibly stop a thirty-five-thousand pound rolling steel box. The results were easy enough to predict: screams, blood, and the crunching of bones.
    Mason dropped the transmission into second gear and steered out onto the four-lane divided highway. Even in second, he was barely managing ten miles an hour, and the infected continued to hurl themselves at the truck in a desperate attempt to stop him.
    A scraggly looking woman jumped onto the front bumper and began beating against the windshield with her disfigured hands.
    Holding the oversized wheel steady with his left hand, he slid his Supergrade from its holster and shot her through the windshield. The report of the .45 was deafening, but it had the desired effect. She fell away, cupping the fresh hole in her chest. Mason shoved the pistol back into its holster, afraid that the gun might be lost if he left it on his lap.
    The truck rolled on, bumping over anyone foolish enough to stand in its way. Mason shoved the transmission into third, and his speed increased to twenty miles an hour as he pulled away from the mob. He plowed ahead for another two hundred yards before whipping the heavy truck into the salvage yard. Bowie slid across the cracked vinyl seat, pressing against him. The dog seemed to be enjoying the ride and used the opportunity to lick the side of his master’s face.
    Mason sped down the long rows of crushed cars until he got to where Jules and John had been hiding. The horn button had been broken off the steering wheel, so he swung his door open and leaned out.
    “Jules! John! Time to go!”
    The trunk on the impala swung upward as John kicked it open. He struggled to climb out, his injured leg stiff and unresponsive.
    Mason hopped down and ran over to help.
    “Where’s Jules?” John asked, leaning heavily on Mason.
    Mason searched the pile of cars. It was getting darker by the minute, and he could no longer even see the top of the stack.
    “Jules!” he shouted.
    No answer.
    Mason felt his gut seize. Even though he had managed to gain a little distance, the screams of crazed attackers were steadily growing