Chapter 97: Survivors in the Mountains
The night wind in the mountains of northern Georgia was cold, carrying the scent of pine resin and decaying leaves.
Bob Stookey crouched behind a wooden fence, gripping a sharpened wooden spear. The tip was still stained with the dark blood of a Walker from the previous night.
He stared into the pitch-black forest beyond the fence. His eyes felt dry and gritty, as though they had been rubbed with sandpaper.
Eight months.
He had spent eight months hiding in these godforsaken woods—staying awake every night, watching for the dead to emerge from the darkness, and huddling beneath a leaking awning during the day while chewing on moldy ration biscuits.
He was an Army medic, not a savage.
He should have been stitching wounds in a field hospital, writing prescriptions in a clinic, or sharing drinks and stories at a county bar.
Instead, he was crouched behind a pile of rotting wood, stabbing Walkers in the head with a crude wooden spear.
Behind him came the sound of snoring.
More than twenty people were crammed into makeshift shelters built from branches and tarps. Some snored loudly. Others muttered in their sleep. One person rolled over, bumped into a neighbor, cursed under his breath, and promptly fell back asleep.
Bob rested the spear across his knees and rubbed his aching temples.
Rustle.
Rustle. Rustle.
The sound came from the bushes to the east—soft and faint, like wind moving through dead leaves.
Bob tightened his grip on the spear and held his breath.
The rustling grew louder.
Closer.
And there was more than one source.
Bob jumped to his feet and accidentally kicked over the iron bucket beside him.
Clang!
The bucket rolled across the ground, the sharp metallic noise shattering the silence and waking everyone.
"Get up! Something's coming!"
The camp exploded into motion.
People poured out of the shelters like ants from a disturbed nest. Some were barefoot. Some wore only underwear. One man still clutched a half-eaten rabbit leg.
The archers rushed to their positions. They dipped their arrows into a brazier, igniting the tips before nocking them and aiming toward several prepared woodpiles in the distance.
Flaming arrows streaked through the darkness.
The woodpiles burst into flame.
Firelight spread across the surrounding forest.
One.
Ten.
A hundred.
Gray-white figures emerged from the shadows, packed together like a living tide.
Their pale eyes reflected the firelight. Black saliva dripped from their open mouths. Their growls blended into a single horrifying roar, like waves crashing against a shore.
"Run!"
Someone shouted.
Nobody hesitated.
The survivors sprinted away like a frightened herd of deer, heading toward the only direction not blocked by Walkers.
One person hacked through thick bushes with a machete.
Another guarded the rear, using a wooden spear to keep the dead at bay.
Someone tripped over a tree root and was immediately hauled back to their feet by a companion.
A few self-proclaimed geniuses broke away from the main group, believing they could slip around the horde.
They pushed through a dense thicket, moving quietly and holding their breath.
When they emerged, they ran directly into a wall of flesh.
A gray-white, rotting wall of flesh.
The leader looked up and found himself staring into the eyeless face of a Walker. Its mouth hung open, jagged teeth only inches from his nose.
He screamed and turned to flee.
More Walkers blocked the path behind him.
Rotting arms reached from every direction, grabbing at clothes, hair, and limbs. Dirty nails tore into flesh.
Blood flowed.
Teeth sank into shoulders, arms, and necks.
Desperate screams echoed through the woods.
Then, suddenly, they stopped.
The others heard the sounds and ran even faster.