Four Door Prison
He flipped between channels on his radio endlessly, FM, AM, getting nothing but static. George hadn’t heard anything for about two hours now, but he hadn’t stopped trying. He lifted his Phillies hat off his head and wiped the sweat off his balding head, as the summer sun peeked through the clouds and the open moon roof of his Honda Accord. George’s air conditioning had cut out about the same time as his radio, but he figured that was the least of his problems now. Squinting ahead, there was nothing but cars and trucks ahead of him on the highway as he sat in the middle lane. To his right sat a tractor trailer, the huge double set of rear tires mere inches from his passenger door. To his left was a minivan, with a grim faced dad holding the wheel, while mom sat in the passenger seat weeping and twisting her hands. Bambi was playing on the tv in the back, as two kids sat entranced in the back, oblivious to their parent’s worries. He twisted his bulk around and saw the same line of cars and trucks behind him as sat before him. George’s gaze fell to his loaded backseat, a duffel bag full of clothes and whatever food he had in the house.
George had quickly decided to head west and away from the city as soon as the first reports of the dead rising and attacking the living had poured across the tv and radio. Unfortunately it seemed like everyone else had the same idea, which is traffic was barely moving. In fact George hadn’t even moved an inch in the last twenty minutes. He grunted as he twisted around to face forward again. The sea of cars showed no signs of moving, and George sighed. One hand crept off the steering wheel and rested on the handle of his baseball bat sitting in the front passenger seat. Thank God for the softball league. The last few years it had been as much a beer league as softball, and George couldn’t play anything but first base anymore, but he still had power, and you didn’t have to run too fast if you hit the ball far. As slow and out of shape as he was, George could still stay ahead of the zombies. Which was more than you could say for his neighbor, poor Mrs. O’Leary. She came shuffling up his driveway in her nightgown, skin gray and eyes glazed, moaning and clutching at the air when he was loading his Honda to leave this morning. She was easier to hit than a curveball, and George put her out of her misery before leaving.
The minivan on his left started to creep forward, and was replaced by a truck, its wheels rolling forward until they were even with the driver’s side door. Traffic stopped again
“Shit. Wonderful. Dueling tractor trailers” he muttered. He flipped through the radio channels fruitlessly and sweated. George began to get a headache from smell of the exhaust surrounding him, but it was too hot to close his windows or the moon roof. He leaned back, closed his eyes and pulled his hat low on his forehead. George tried to retrace the route to his buddy Jeff’s hunting cabin. He had been out there with Jeff one weekend about three years ago, and could barely remember how to get there, but he had no place else to go. Jeff might make it there, and he would have a bunch of guns with him. The stomping feet on his hood as someone climbed over his car snapped him out of his reverie.
“Hey what the hell!” George yelled. He saw nothing but the panicked eyes and flashing feet as two more people poured out of the car ahead of him and ran over his Honda, leaving a few dents in their wake. “Oh fuck” George whispered. People were boiling out of their cars and those not heading for the side of the highway were heading right at him. The stamped surrounded him, squeezing around and over him. George tried to open the door, but the sheer pressure of humanity wouldn’t give him an inch. The flood of screams and panic ended as quickly as it began, and all that was left was the endless cars and a one or two shambling figures left on the highway. Two figures, then four, then seven, and then George stopped counting and frantically slammed open his door. The truck was so close to him it only opened about six inches. All those afternoons spent drinking Budweiser between innings flashed before his eyes as George knew he’d never squeeze through the gap. The groans of the approaching zombies grew louder, and George looked to the passenger side. That truck was even closer. His desparate eyes looked to the moon roof, and he struggled as he stood up and reached an arm through. “Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.” George swore and whimpered. He was head and shoulders sticking out of the moon roof, and tried to force his bulk the rest of the way out. The zombies groans grew louder, and he looked ahead to see far too many of the walking dead. The frame of the moon roof gripped and tore at his skin. The zombies inexorably drew closer. They were too close. George forced his way back down into the Honda. Decaying hands slapped against his hood. He fumbled with the power windows and raised them up, finally shutting the moon roof as the zombie horde clambered over his roof. Their groans surrounding him. The Honda began to rock back and forth. The car felt like an oven. Dull eyes and grinding teeth were on every side. George closed his eyes and gripped his bat with white knuckles, waiting for the sound of breaking glass.