Albert Peterson: The Hibernia Strain

I keep a low profile as I run, looking somewhat similar to someone running towards a helicopter in the movies. What I wouldn’t give to have a chopper come and fly me out of here.

I manage to reach the car unnoticed and slip in the driver’s door. I huddle into the seat. The keys are in the ignition; at least I was right about that. I peer over the top of the dash and wait until the two teens eventually saunter off into the distance.

I switch off the lights to give the car every chance of starting. I pop it into neutral and pump the accelerator as I try turning the key.

Rrrrrr rrrrr rrr r… The battery dies a pathetic sounding death. Now what do I do? I sit motionless for a moment, racking my brains. Maybe I could try a push start. It’d be difficult on my own, although the road does slope significantly back the way. Is it even possible to hill start a car going in reverse?

I wish the internet was working on my phone so I could Google the answer. The only way to find out now is to go ahead and try.

I examine the road behind me and surmise a trajectory for my roll. I turn the key to the on position and then release the handbrake but the car doesn’t budge at all. The rear left wheel is marginally caught on the kerb. Not badly caught, but just enough to prevent the car moving without a measure of force being applied.

I straighten the steering wheel so that all four wheels are aligned. Opening the door, I stand up and push backwards. As I do, the sight of the hoodlums from before sprinting towards me is enough to make me shit a brick.

The pitiful sound of the engine must have attracted their interest. How the hell did I not spot them before now? They’re only two hundred metres away and closing fast.

I have approximately twenty seconds to get myself out of jail here. I push hard and the car rocks but doesn’t move. I try again. Same result. A quick panicky glance over my shoulder reveals the hunters have halved the distance. There’s only time for one more try.

I step back and make a barging thrust into the door frame. The metal and rubber dig deep into my shoulder, but I’m too preoccupied to notice any pain.

The car tyres crunch on the tarmac as they slowly begin to turn. I drive my feet hard against the ground and give one last almighty heave with all the strength I have in me.

The runners are just a matter of metres away. I have no choice but to jump in the car. I slam the door behind me and lock it just in time before they finally catch up to me, and start banging ferociously on the windows.

The car has freed up enough from the kerb to begin rolling slowly down the incline under its own weight. It’s still not fast enough to try to start it. I’m going to have to get the timing just right, otherwise I’ll cock it up and end up stationary and helpless in the middle of the road.

I’m beginning to pick up momentum, so I make good use of my mirrors to ensure the best possible position on the road is maintained.

Aggrieved eyes stare in the windows, intent on capturing me. One to the left of me, the other to the right and here I am stuck in the middle with Drew, that being the name on the taxi drivers identification, that’s stuck to the dashboard.

They’re struggling to keep up as my speed grows steadily faster. I can see that I’m starting to run out of sloping road and it will soon level out. I’m still not going fast enough.

Bang. A heavy hit shatters the passenger side window but it stays in place. Thousands of little glass pieces make up an intriguing jigsaw puzzle.

There’s a second wallop and the window caves in, sending glass everywhere.

A little more speed is all I need. I just hope they aren’t clever enough to somehow jam up my wheels.

As if he was somehow reading my mind, the jerk on the driver side, who obviously can’t run anymore, decides to fling himself into the path of the front wheel in a last ditch effort to slow me down. The car bumps and kicks slightly, as it bobbles over what looks like his leg, but it doesn’t slow down.

Meanwhile, his longhaired companion has made a failed attempt to lunge in the broken window. His efforts have fallen well short, but he did manage to hold on to the window frame.

Blood streams from his fingers as shards of glass pierce deep into them. He’s being dragged along like a rag doll and it’s hindering my speed. This combined with the fact I’m about to reach level road means it’s now or never to try the start.

I depress the clutch, and knock the gear stick into reverse. I quickly release the clutch pedal and start giving it some throttle. The engine chokes for a second before roaring into life and jerks backwards as I over-rev it.

The sudden increase in speed dislodges the window hanger and he tumbles along the road. I slam on the brakes. The car jolts to a standstill.

Throughout this entire harrowing experience, I’ve tried to maintain a level of composure. I’ve tried to prevent my humanitarian side from snapping; not wanting to cause harm just in case the zombies could still have a chance to regain their former humanness.

The only problem is I’m feeling this ordeal is finally catching up with me and something has sparked inside of me. These grunts are no longer human. All they care about is devouring society. My society, and no matter how cruelly it may have treated me in the past, I can’t stand seeing it being brutalised in such a manner, even if I am a coward.

There certainly is something of an affinity between the defenceless general public in all this and my own mistreated upbringing; both being tortured by an overbearing and seemingly unbeatable force.

These infected, despite being victims themselves, are no longer human and there’s probably no hope of getting them back. They’re nothing but sadistic bullies now. Meat puppets to a domineering virus master.

I see red. Knocking the gear stick into first, I floor the accelerator.

I have no feeling of joy or satisfaction as I mow down the lowly miscreant. The thud against my bumper doesn’t exactly fill me with remorse either. If I’m going to survive, if I’m going to protect those few I care about then I must be callus.

Leaving the hit and run behind me, I get back to following my agenda and head for the hotel. It’s about an hour’s drive.

I wonder if the others made it safe and sound. In that beast of a jeep they surely wouldn’t have encountered any problems. Every possible scenario is running through my head but I realise there’s no point in dreaming up contemplations. I’m only cluttering my brain with unnecessary distractions.

Speaking of distractions… Emma. It’s typical, I finally meet a girl like her and Armageddon decides to begin. She’s brave, smart and the right mix of in your face, yet sensitive. Oh ya and not forgetting the hotness levels.

I can’t help allowing myself to fantasize about how good she’d be in the sack. If my impure thoughts and previous encounter are anything to go by, then I wouldn’t be disappointed.

I feel a little embarrassed when I wonder just what she’d think of me if she could glimpse at the images in my head right this minute. I allow myself a slight laugh out loud at the notion. Ah testosterone, even when the world is in jeopardy, it can still leave men sexually yearning.

With my voyeuristic imagination satisfied for the moment I turn my attention to the radio. I tune in the emergency station, but there’s no reception from it.

Did something happen to the president? Was his secure location also compromised? It’s not altogether unlikely. If the infected really are as cunning as they seem to be then there’s no reason they couldn’t figure out how to get to him.

I wonder if it’s possible the virus is able to use each individuals own knowledge to its benefit. If that’s the case, then how do you beat something that knows its enemy secrets? Maybe you don’t. Maybe you just run and hide and try to outlast it. After all isn’t that my plan in essence? Escape to the countryside, lay low and hope the military, scientists or somebody else comes up with an answer. One way or another, that’s all I can do.