Punks Versus Zombies - Episode 48 of the weekly zombie surival story

Welcome to episode 48. In our last episode, the gang lost their van on the outskirts of West Chester, forcing them to continue their journey on foot...

The grey sky churned overhead as Tommy trudged along the highway, his injured ankle throbbing with each step, but he gritted his teeth and pushed on.

Behind him, Zero, Roxy, and Laila lagged as they checked inside each vehicle they passed.

“Come on, guys,” Tommy called over his shoulder. “We need to keep moving.”

Zero straightened up from where he’d been rummaging through a battered sedan, his rifle slung across his back. “Slow down, Tommy boy. Rushing past resources isn’t going to do us any favours in the long run.”

“Resources won’t mean anything if we’re dead.” Tommy stopped, leaning heavily against a rusted-out Chevy, his ankle screaming. “We’re losing time. Every second we spend here, we’re exposed.”

Roxy slammed the trunk of a Honda. “Zero’s right. We find a working car, it could cut hours off our travel time. Give your ankle a chance to heal.”

“I’ll heal when I’m dead. Getting to Philly by nightfall. That’s all that matters now.”

A distant moan carried on the wind. Shadows moved at the far end of the highway, just beyond the last abandoned car.

Tommy’s pulse pounded in his ears, his hand tightening around his bat.

Zero wrenched open the door of a van and cursed, leaping back as a zombie lunged out at him, its jaws snapping. He brought his rifle up, smashing the butt into the creature’s face once, twice, until it crumpled.

“This is what I’m talking about,” Tommy said. “The dead are everywhere. We can’t afford to—”

“Hold up, dudes.” Jimbo stepped between them, his hands raised. “Pretty sure we can walk and search at the same time, yeah? Let’s motor before we’re the blue plate special.”

The moans rose.

Tommy risked a glance over his shoulder and immediately wished he hadn’t. The horde was close enough now to make out individual faces, rotted and twisted with mindless hunger.

“Truck!” Zero yelled. “It’s gassed up and good to go!”

They converged on the pickup, throwing bags of scavenged goods into the rusted bed.

Roxy swung into the passenger seat as Zero slid behind the wheel.

Tommy, Laila, and Jimbo clambered into the back.

“Stay sharp.” Tommy hefted his bat. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

The engine roared to life. Zero slammed it into gear and stomped the gas. Tyres screeched and smoked as the truck leapt forward, bouncing and rattling over debris, the suspension shrieking.

Tommy clung to the side of the bed, his knuckles white, his injured ankle screaming as the jolts sent agony shooting up to his hip.

“Guys, I…” Tommy swallowed, tasting bile. “I’m sorry. You were right. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard.”

Laila stared straight ahead, saying nothing.

Jimbo clapped Tommy on the shoulder. “All in the past, dude. We’re rolling now. That’s what counts.”

Tommy nodded, looking back at the receding horde.

But as the first drops of rain began to fall, splattering cold against his skin, he couldn’t shake the feeling that their luck was running out. That it was only a matter of time before the death and ruin around them caught up and dragged them down.

He clutched his bat tighter and turned to face the road ahead. Towards Philadelphia. Towards home—or whatever was left of it.

Ten miles. That’s all that separated them from Philadelphia now. Ten miles of uncertainty, of not knowing what horrors might await them.

Tommy’s grip tightened on his baseball bat, the wood rough against his calloused palms.

Jimbo sidled closer. “How’s that ankle holding up, dude?”

Tommy shrugged, wincing at the movement. “I’ll live. Got bigger things to worry about.”

“True that.” Jimbo hesitated, his eyes searching Tommy’s face. “You know, I just realised—I haven’t seen you take a swig for a few days.”

“Huh. Guess I’ve been too busy to think about it.”

Jimbo clapped him on the shoulder, a grin splitting his face. “Proud of you, dude. Kicking the habit in the middle of the apocalypse? That’s as punk as it gets.”

Tommy glanced down at the ‘X’ tattoos on his hands and managed a chuckle. “Couldn’t have done it without you, man. You’ve been there for me. That means a lot.”

“Always will be.”

The road curved ahead, a gentle bend that obscured the path forward.

Zero rounded the corner and cursed.

Zombies. Hundreds of them, a writhing mass of rotting flesh and grasping hands, spilling onto the road.

“Damn it!” Zero slammed the brakes. “Roxy, take the wheel!”

In a blur of motion, Zero stepped out of the cabin as Roxy took the wheel.

He clambered into the back and unslung his rifle, the barrel glinting in the watery sunlight. “Get ready.” He took up position at the front of the truck bed as Roxy moved them forward. “This is going to get messy.”

Tommy, Jimbo, and Laila fanned out behind him.

The truck bed felt impossibly small, a flimsy scrap of metal between them and the horde.

“Hold on!” Roxy called, her voice barely audible over the roar of the engine.

The truck surged forward, Roxy aiming straight for the heart of the horde.

Tommy’s stomach lurched as they ploughed into the mass of bodies, zombies thudding against the grille, bouncing off the hood.

Zero opened fire, his rifle cracking.

Each shot found its mark, zombies crumpling.

The truck shuddered and bucked as it mowed through the horde, the crunch of bones, the squelch of rotten flesh.

Tommy swung his bat in wide arcs, the impact juddering up his arms as he shattered skull after skull.

Beside him, Jimbo’s golf club whirled, caving in faces, sending teeth and flesh flying.

Laila’s tyre iron flashed in the sun, finding eye sockets, throats, temples.

Tommy fought in grim silence.

Every breath was a gasp, every muscle screamed with exertion.

Roxy held the truck steady as she barrelled forward.

Zombies scrabbled at the doors, their fingernails screeching against the paint.

Zero fired methodically, each shot precise, calculated.

Brass casings clattered at his feet, bright against the blood-slick metal.

He reloaded, never taking his eyes off the road ahead.

As the horde began to thin. Roxy crushed the last few stragglers beneath the tyres, their bodies pulverizing into ruin.

Silence fell, broken only by the panting of the living, the hiss of the engine.

Tommy slumped against the side of the truck, his arms aching, his lungs burning. “Everyone okay? Anyone bit?”

Jimbo and Laila shook their heads. Zero gave a curt nod.

Tommy leaned towards the driver’s window. “Rox, that was some damn fine driving.” He turned to Zero. “And shooting. You saved our asses back there.”

Roxy flashed him a smile in the rearview mirror.

Zero grunted, already scanning the road ahead. “We got lucky. Can’t count on that happening again.”

Tommy nodded. He tightened his grip on his bat and stared ahead, trying not to think about what awaited them in the city. Trying not to picture Niamh’s face, Sean’s smile, warped and twisted by the infection.

They were so close now, close enough that he could almost taste the acrid tang of home on the back of his tongue. But with each passing mile, each ragged breath, he couldn’t escape the sinking realisation that it might already be too late.

Tommy closed his eyes, letting the rumble of the engine, the rush of wind, drown out his spiralling thoughts.

Beside him, Jimbo started humming under his breath, a familiar tune that cut through the gloom.

Tommy recognised it instantly—‘I Fought the Law’, by The Clash.

One by one, the others joined in, their voices ragged but defiant, a chorus against the endless drone of the dead.

And as he added his own voice to the mix, Tommy felt something flicker to life in his chest, fragile but fierce. Something that felt almost like hope.

Punk’s not dead, Tommy thought, a grim smile tugging at his lips.

Not yet.

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