Breaking into Alcatraz

By Shawn Denson

Ryan Graham is your average nineteen-year-old student struggling to make grades at Ohio State University. One morning he oversleeps, only to discover that the world as he knows it is over. Anarchy and chaos dot the landscape. Escaping campus in a stolen car, he runs across John Sanford, a tough but kind factory worker and former marine. Together, the two of them embark on a journey that may lead to their salvation. Or it could very well end up being their damnation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514490044

Shawn Denson

Shawn Denson is a father of three who lives in rural Ohio. If the zombie apocalypse ever truly happens, he believes that he will be one of the first ones to get eaten. This is his second novel, and he is hard at work on his third novel, which is about a subject very near and dear to his heart.

Book preview

CHAPTER I

1

I have a story to tell you---well, if there are any of you left to read it.

I know what you are thinking; I'm probably just being dramatic. It certainly sounds very inviting. If this were a novel, you'll probably be standing in the bookstore, reading this with your other intended purchases tucked under your arm.

This is not the newest blockbuster novel sweeping the United States of America, I assure you. If you are reading this---I hope at least someone does---you are reading a collection of three-subject, collegiate-spaced notebooks. They are labeled in order---one, two, and three. This page is the first one of what I call Book One. The first part of this tale fills the red binder, then Book Two occupies the green one, and finally, Book Three is in the blue notebook.

The story contained in these manuscripts is the tale of the end of society as we know it, as seen from my perspective. This story is about the degradation of society into fires, crimes, and uncontrolled chaos. Society as a whole has broken down into nothing. Anarchy dots the landscape. We who are left, the few members of our former society, have ended up as a loose band of stragglers; our only goal is to find the Holy Grail.

What is our holy grail? I'm glad you asked---did you ask? I find I could care less; I just need to get this story told. It's land, well, a certain kind of land actually. I know, I know. Some of you are probably thinking: What the heck is he talking about? If you hang in there with me, I will explain why.

Lex Luthor (Gene Hackman, not Kevin Spacey) once mentioned in the Superman movies that land was the most valuable asset because it was the only thing they weren't making anymore. I loved that line when I watched it as a kid. It was a late Friday night. We were at my friend's house; I couldn't watch it at home. My mother didn't have a television set in our house. As the events that I was writing about occurred, that line began to resonate with me in a way that I never thought it would.

I think I am getting ahead of myself a little bit here already. God, there is so much I want to tell you. Better slow it down, kid. Wow, it still hurts to call myself that. Johnny says that; you'll meet him in a few pages. Before I get too far ahead of myself, I guess I should introduce myself to you.

My name is Ryan Graham. At the time my story began, I was nineteen years old; I'm currently twenty years old. I was raised in a Pentecostal household by my mother; I loved her very much, and I still do. She was a wonderful lady. She raised me good and well, even if she got a bit out there (to steal a slang term kids my age sometimes use, well, used to use) with her faith at times. I got the door for others, often nodding at their kind words of thanks. Brought up with a sense of manners---something I feel others in my generation lack---I often appreciated their thanks.

Mom raised me in Huntsville, Ohio. It was a very small town near the border with West Virginia, near Parkersburg. I never knew who my father was. I was just a baby when he died. It was an accident at the mill he worked at. Someone forgot to check a gauge at shift change (maybe thinking of a beer after work or some time with their honey in the sheets), and he died. When the man stepped in front of a boiler, the pressure was too much; he was torn apart when the furnace blew its top, exploding sky-high.

I never heard that from my mother, of course. How would you explain that to a child? When I asked her about it, she just said, Ryan, oh honey. Daddy is with Jesus.

Dad's life insurance paid off the house, taking care of us. I didn't bother to find out the truth about him until last year. Looking it up on the Internet, I found myself to be largely indifferent. Did that make me a bad person? Maybe. I think the jury was still out on that one; before you would pass judgment on me, I would ask only that you read my tale. I never knew the man. From the pictures I saw, he gave me my smile, hair color, and body build. He was nothing more than a stranger, a part-time chef in the soup that was my DNA.

Oh wait, what's the Internet? We don't have that anymore. Ha!

I was an athlete in high school. Mom said that was the one extracurricular activity I was allowed to do, preaching to me that sports were therapeutic for the mind and the body. And I did okay at it. My two best sports were track and basketball. Trying football, I found it to be a bit mindless---not to mention my physique would never inspire fear or awe from any opposing defender. My skills on the hardwood offensively were average (heck, I once missed a layup in practice), but I was great on the glass and fast, so I made the squad. Track was my sport, however. Having the ability to run a mile in just under four and a half minutes, I had a decent first burst once the gunshot rang out, its blank bang filling the air. Bang---that word just made my blood run cold. As it turned out, running would end up being the best skill I learned in all my formative years.

Getting ahead of myself yet again. Story, Ryan. Tell the darn story. So I did some dating in high school, but I never got serious with anyone. Two dates and done---that was me. I wanted more, but I could never express those intentions to my intended amore without coming across as too pushy or distant. To quote Bobby Boucher's mother in the film The Waterboy, You don't have what they call the social skills.

I did well in school, earning a straight B average---with an A or two thrown in the mix as well---along with a good SAT score. Those grades, plus the athletics---not to mention being an in-state resident---basically guaranteed my acceptance by Ohio State University. So that was where I went. Arriving on campus on a miserable hot, muggy day in late August to begin my freshman year, I decided to not choose a major. Ole Ryan just took the basic course load for any incoming undecided undergrad.

I had a few dates; nothing much came of it. If you were paying attention, you probably already knew that. Too much or not enough---that was the story of my life. Well, not anymore.

I know I sound cryptic. Bear with me. Three notebooks yet to go, remember?

You know what I discovered in college? Movies. Yes, good old-fashioned movies. Most undergrads partied it up with shots and keg stands, but my drug of choice was sixteen millimeters. Mom never let me watch movies, so once I was out of her house and out from under the umbrella of her rules, I went hog wild. I would go out to cinemas and sit there for double (even triple at times) features. Going home with a headache forming behind my eyes, I would smile. Sitting in my dorm room with my roommate's DVD player, I would watch any movie I could get my hands on. I loved them all. I could never get my fill.

But looking back on it, I think I was drawn most to the horror genre. I loved them more than all the others, like Casablanca or Gone with the Wind, even Dr. Zhivago. Give me A Nightmare on Elm Street any day of the week. From Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees all the way back to Dracula and the monster built by Dr. Frankenstein, I absorbed them all. I couldn't get enough. My favorites, however, were the zombie movies by and inspired by George Romero. From the original Night of the Living Dead all the way to the remake of Day of the Dead, I sopped up those movies like a biscuit picking up the last of the sausage gravy on a plate.

It amazed me that we as a society used to be able to make anything into entertainment. I was never allowed to watch movies at home, but once I moved out and went to college, I was amazed at how blunt and honest some directors of motion pictures could be. Nothing was off-limits as long as the masses were entertained. Horrible tragedies were done in fancy computerized effects for our amusement.

One thing that really got me was the almost flippant attitude for a certain phenomenon known as the zombie apocalypse. The best of these was done by the aforementioned Mr. Romero, of course. Undead cannibals rising out of their graves to dine on living human flesh? That sounded like a nightmare to me. Hannibal Lecter would have had fun with my gray matter, but I would listen in on people who thought that the prospect of that sounded cool. They said it would be cool. Oh my.

Are you kidding me? Then again, I cannot be too harsh. Most who called it cool are now what they used to say they would shoot in the head. Me? I'm still alive. Barely, but it still counts.

That is where our story begins, as I feel I have given you enough backstory on myself. My freshman year at Ohio State is coming to an end. Let's sum up where I am at in my life, shall we?

I was a nineteen-year-old kid who has never cussed or smoked anything harder than a candy cigarette. (Remember those? A quarter got you a pack, and despite the chalk, they tasted delicious.) I've never drunk anything stronger than Pepsi, I have never kissed a girl, nor have I fired a gun. Then one warm and fragrant morning---once I got out of the city, the air was ripe with honeysuckle---my life changed forever.

I think part of me wanted the change. I certainly isn't averse to what emerged from my shy and soft shell once the crap hit the proverbial fan. Truth be told, I like who I am today a lot more than I did when I first stepped out on the campus of Ohio State several months ago.

Those who gloated about how cool it would be if the undead rose out of their graves? I doubt they were gloating when it actually happened. When the dead arose, beginning to gnaw on the living, I was sleeping. I had stayed up late because I was cramming for a psych final.

The day was April 1, 2015. On that day, God played the biggest April Fools' joke of all; He decided to prank humanity as a whole. I overslept on the day that the world as we knew it ended.

Figures.

2

I guess it was my fault I overslept, but I had a good reason for it. Staying up late to cram for that psychology exam, I couldn't remember what time I dozed off. My sleep that night had been dreamless, deep, and restful; with just one break in the cycle to use the bathroom and then crawl between my sheets, it was just what the doctor had ordered before this exam. My grades in the class were slipping more than just a little, and I knew I needed at least a B to keep my GPA up.

Rolling over that morning, I blinked my eyes wearily. I knew I fell asleep with my nose in my textbook because, when I woke up earlier that morning (shortly after five o' clock), my nose was pressed in the open spine of the learning tool. The pages were wet with my drool. Yes, when I slept, I slobbered---sue me. Craning my neck up, I wiped my mouth and closed the text. Putting the book on my nightstand, I looked over. My roommate, Greg Varney, mumbled and rolled over in his sleep. Crawling under the covers, I was instantly asleep again. It would be the last time I ever saw Greg.

I sat up later that morning, scratching my head. Leaning over toward the nightstand, I looked at the clock. The digital green numbers told me it was 9:08 a.m. Oh crap! Class had started eight minutes ago. Jumping out of my bed, with my adrenaline levels already beginning to spike in my veins, I said a silent prayer that I was still dressed from the night before. Throwing my Nikes on and lacing them quickly, I snatched my toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, and hairbrush and ran down the hall to the dormitory bathroom. Quickly cleaning my teeth, I slapped some antiperspirant on my armpits, with the toothbrush still in my mouth. Turning on the faucet, I ran the hairbrush under the water and then brushed my unruly blond hair. Spitting the white foam into the sink, I gargled with some water from the tap and then spat that into the sink as well. Jogging back to my room, I grabbed my folder, textbook, and a few pens.

I lived in a dorm room on the third floor. Normally, I took the elevator down to the lobby, but time was not on my side. Barreling through the door to the stairwell, I heard the loud report of the door hitting the wall echo in the dim, slightly musty air. I took the steps, two at a time, and came running into the lobby of my dorm building. Running across the lobby, I barely noticed it was deserted. Usually, there were a few stragglers idling around, even at this time of the day.

Running to the front doors, I pushed them open. The soft, warm April sunshine hit my face as I ran out onto the wide but shallow concrete porch, which leaned slightly down to three steep steps. After that, the campus was yours. Not noticing anything at first, I was judging running speed and distances---calculating them in my head---and deduced that the worst would be being about thirty minutes late for class.

It was bad but not a deal-breaker. Dr. Cox, my psychology professor, was a pretty cool cat. He would make a joke at my expense, of course; everyone would laugh, but I might even get away with it. At the worst, I would be forced to take a makeup exam. Dr. Cox's makeups were tough, however.

That was when I finally noticed that everything was wrong.

I froze then grew silent as I heard the door close behind me. All thoughts of sprinting and distances to buildings---not to mention the ribbing of Dr. Cox, testing, and makeup exams---exited my brain so quickly that they might have never been there at all. What I had expected to see was what I saw every morning---an idyllic shot of campus life in Columbus, Ohio. Instead of seeing buildings looking serene and peaceful in the early April sunshine (with just a hint of ground fog), my eyes saw something else. There were no people walking about, taking their time; no couples holding hands, the boy hoping to get a kiss from his fair lady; not even another student late for class, much like myself, jogging across the university grounds. My eyes expecting to see kids on bikes, the irises instead took in a sight that was surreal.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It couldn't be real. There was no way what I was seeing was what was really happening. What had happened to the Ohio State that I had come into? Where was the idyllic college campus? For that matter, where was the idyllic college life?!

It wasn't college; it was chaos. I saw people running by me, with pure terror in their eyes. A girl with blond hair and a nice rack ran by. Her eyes bugged out in terror. My eyes drank in, for just the briefest of moments, her bouncing breasts. Oh my God, they're going to kill us all! she shrieked.

I watched the girl turn to look behind her as she ran. She was headed, running a full sprint, in the direction of the big oak tree that sat to the right of my dorm. It was about ten yards away from the steps. With her head still turned backward, she still hadn't noticed the impending accident that was about to happen. Hey, lady, watch out for that tree! I yelled.

Dimly, I thought of George of the Jungle (always running into those pesky trees), and I had to subdue an urge to cackle wildly. Finally turning her head back around, she hit the tree while still running, full speed ahead. Falling back instantly, her nose started gushing blood. Her leg gave three spasms; she was then still. I guessed she was unconscious.

Turning my head to the left, I noticed the Wexler Center was on fire. My books fell from my hands. After rubbing my eyes, I looked again. Yep, still on fire. What the hell was happening! My brain screamed.

Shaking my head the slightest tilt that I could manage back and forth, I saw a man who had a larger dark-haired woman pinned down on the grass. It looked like he was kissing her neck. Thinking that this was no time for making out, I gaped at the two of them. A small jet of blood spurted in the air. It hit me then. He wasn't kissing her; he was biting her. Why?

I watched as a group of people---eight, maybe nine all told---joined the man and woman on the grass. They all dropped down to their knees (with little to no grace in their movements) and bent down, like they were praying to God. The crowd bent over the woman, forming a large lump of humanity. My eyes straining, I couldn't even see the larger dark-haired lady anymore.

My feet took the first step. Now I really focused on the sounds that I could hear. I heard gunshots, screaming, sirens, and that crinkling roar that was associated with large out-of-control fires. Smoke rose in the air from many areas, both near and far, making the misty morning even murkier. Taking the other two steps, I was jostled by a running pedestrian. He was a freckled young redheaded man who was maybe my age. The pedestrian nearly stumbled over me, cursing. Righting himself, he turned and called out to me, his legs still pumping. What do you think you're doing? he yelled. Get out of here, man!

I . . . I . . . I'm sorry about that! I stammered. What's going on?

What's it fucking look like? he responded. Fucking zombies, man!!

That said, he turned and ran behind my dormitory. As my gaze followed his progress, I noticed the pretty blonde who had run into the tree. She was awake; sitting up, her eyes looked dazed. I started toward her, and then someone came around the tree. It was my psychology teacher, Dr. Cox.

He was a tall obese man, who favored khakis and button-down polo shirts. It took me about two seconds to notice something was wrong. Dr. Cox's neck was severely injured. The injury looked like someone or something had taken a huge bite of flesh out of his neck. I then noticed his skin. While he was never going to be mistaken for a Native American, he usually had a touch of tan. Now he was fish-belly white---well, almost. There were some black lines running under the surface of his skin. That was when I noticed his eyes. They were faded down to a dull white color, with no sign of a pupil. There was no sign of life in those eyes. He looked soulless.

My professor fell to his knees; he was awkward in his motions and almost collapsed on the blond woman. His left knee landed on a rock. I heard several audible, popping noises issue out from the joint. Dr. Cox appeared not to notice. Taking his right hand, he grabbed the head of the blond girl. Pushing her back to the ground, he leaned in, like he was going to kiss her neck.

He didn't kiss it. Instead, I watched him bite away a huge chunk of flesh from the girl's neck. She screamed as blood began to flood the grass; the green around her turned red almost instantly. I watched, horrified, as Dr. Cox ripped open her blouse. Forcing up her bra, he bent over and bit off her left breast with two savage mouthfuls. As the girl shrieked, sobbing loudly, the front of her was immediately covered with crimson.

Dr. Cox, what are you doing?! I yelled, my skin crawling with fear and repulsion. Dr. Cox noticed me and then looked down at the girl. He stood up slowly. I could hear his knee popping again. His jaws moved as he stood; he was still chewing on the woman's breast as he drew himself upright. Almost in an insane trance, my eyes noticed his teeth turning the woman's nipple into pulp in his mouth. Without saying a word, he immediately began to come at me. Turning tail, I ran away as fast as I could.

As it turned out, I could have saved my legs and my lungs that morning. My psychology professor's left knee was completely ruined. The best he could do was shuffle in his attempt to capture me. I looked behind me once, saw that he was several lengths behind me, and slowed my sprint to a jog. As I passed the burning Wexler Center, I was nearly taken off my feet by the force of several concussions rocking the campus. The ground shook for a second, but I stood still, steadying myself once the quaking stopped. Pausing for that brief second, I surveyed the grounds. Scanning the situation, I was looking for a way out. All I saw was more chaos and confusion, plus people getting eaten; I couldn't forget to tell you that little detail. There was quite the macabre buffet going on in this institution for higher learning. Finally, I noticed something that might be useful.

My eyes took in the sight of a Columbus police cruiser. The door was open. Sprinting to the car, I looked in the cabin. The keys were still in the ignition switch. Looking around for the owner of the vehicle, I saw no uniformed cops in sight. Oh well, I guessed when it was the end of the world, a little grand theft auto was acceptable. Getting in the car, I closed the door shut behind me. Starting the car, I put the transmission into Drive. Hitting the gas, I sped away, dimly hearing the sound of squealing rubber. Sooner rather than later, I found myself on one of the main roads to get in or out of the university, with uncontrolled anarchy going on around me. There were more attacks from these things (whatever they were; the one kid said zombies, but I had yet to draw my own conclusions), along with people screaming, gunshots, several fires, and blood---lots of blood.

My immediate goal was to get off campus as fast as possible. Maybe what was going on was just isolated to the college. A part of me knew better than that, but there was nothing wrong with hope. You had to always have hope. At least, that was what I believed.

As I decided that, I saw another one of those things---whatever they were---standing in the middle of the road. His head up, he was looking at the sky. Why? I had no idea. Turning his head down and to his left, he looked right at me. I could see the black marks under the white skin and the gaping, drooping mouth. The white eyes regarded me for a moment; Dr. Cox had the same look when he had eaten that pretty blond girl's neck and breast. I said a small prayer and then punched the gas pedal down as far as it would go.

I hit the body, doing just over eighty-five miles per hour. A slight impact made me shift forward in my seat a little as the thing's body flew upward. His skull barely shook the windshield as he flew into the air, leaving a small spider-web crack and a few drops of black blood on the top center of the glass. Looking in the mirror, I watched the thing fall into a heap on the road. Driving on, I neared the main entrance to the university. There was a stoplight there, but I ignored it, hitting the brakes. Turning the wheel sharply to the left, I could hear the tires screaming again in protest. Ignoring their whine, I gunned the car again, leaving Ohio State behind.

3

Whatever had happened, it wasn't just isolated to the university I attended at one time; the whole city was the poster child of anarchy.

I drove as fast down the main drags as I could; but fires, traffic, and chaos blocked my way. Pedestrians, both normal looking and those who looked like those things, were making fleeing the city next to impossible---at least on the main streets.

Now I had been in Columbus a couple of times before I started attending college there. Mom had taken us there to see a few museums and to hear a few concerts when I was younger---concerts of the orchestral variety, of course. When you were raised in a Pentecostal household, Disturbed and Linkin Park weren't exactly the kind of material you listened to with your mother.

So I had been in Columbus before I went to college. Driving around late at night after the cinemas finished up showing their feature presentations, I had explored one end of the city, most notably around the campus. Often, I was just looking for a Taco Bell or a White Castle to get something on my stomach, something with a bit more substance than greasy popcorn and a stale Pepsi.

So while I wasn't an expert, I did know a little about driving in the city. I thought I could work my way out of the city on the side streets. It was risky, but I knew that passage out of the city would be spotty at best, impossible at worst. And I needed to get out. Knowing that truth in my heart of hearts, I knew the alternative to leaving town was very nasty.

Burning to death was not what I had in mind when I woke up that morning. Given the amount of fire already ablaze in the short time I had been awake, I estimated that the entire city could very well be in flames by two o'clock in the afternoon, three at the latest. So escape was necessary. I hoped that other survivors realized this awful truth as well and were trying to get out.

I looked to my left, seeing the road I thought would be just the ticket. Turn left here, go up a few blocks, hook a right, turn left again just before the cul-de-sac at the end. That road would come out right in West Arlington, Columbus, right by the on-ramp to the I-270 beltway around the city. From there, down to I-71 southbound, one would be heading for Cincinnati. Once out of the city, I could backtrack on the back roads and go get my mother. That was my plan; well, it was at that moment. Flipping the lever beside the steering wheel, I hit the blinker and then blinked myself twice.

All of a sudden, I bellowed out a small snort of laughter at the absurdity of it all. Here I was with death and destruction all around me---not to mention things that looked dead eating living people---and I was worried about my turn signal. Well, my mind rationalized, it was muscle memory. I always used my blinker, even when switching lanes on the interstate.

As I began to turn the wheel, I looked to the side of the road. I saw something that nearly caused me to stop and intervene. Notice that I said nearly. My stolen police car seemed safer still. From my perspective (I could see about one-third of what was really happening), it looked to me like a thin tanned man with a thick mustache and greasy hair slicked back from his head was attempting to rape a young girl. This lady, who couldn't have been any older than I was, was on the hood of a Honda Accord. He was trying to rip off her clothes. She struggled mightily against his advances, but she was half his size---a petite, little redheaded thing. As my foot began to move toward the brake pedal, one of those things did me a favor.

A large muscled black man---in death, his skin color had faded down to a dull gray---attacked the would-be rapist by grabbing him around his neck and tearing an enormous chunk of skin and muscle out of the attacker's shoulder and collarbone area. The rapist appeared to cry out, but I couldn't hear anything because the windows were up, and he took his hands off the girl, falling backward. Scooping herself off the hood, the girl took off, clothes half-torn, in the opposite direction---directly toward me, in other words. Her face was a mask of shock and horror, and she appeared to be screaming. I pushed a button on my left as she passed me; the window rolled down on the passenger side. My car couldn't have been doing more than five miles per hour. Stupidly, my eyes were not on the road.

Hey! Do you . . . I trailed off as she paid me no mind. Running past me, she didn't even register she heard me. So much for safety and strength in numbers. I could hear her now with the window down. And yes, she was screaming. I turned my eyes back to the road, just in time to hit someone. Oh no, I thought.

As I finished my turn, I looked down at what I had hit; my stomach dropped all the way down to my bowels. I had just struck a little girl. She couldn't have been a day over the age of ten. As my mouth began to move in dismay, she looked up, and my mouth closed in an instant. She was one of them. Finally, I got a very good look, up close and personal, at one of the things that were causing all this chaos and confusion.

The girl's eyes were a dull, lifeless white. Her hair was matted and dirty with soil, blood, and leaves caked deeply in the strands. The right side of her skull appeared to be caved in; I could only guess what caused that wound. I could finally make out the black markings under the skin. They were veins; apparently, the blood in these things was blacker than ink. I could only imagine what contaminants were running in their bloodstreams.

My curiosity was now satisfied. I was safe to no longer think of them as things. What the running redheaded boy had said to me back at Ohio State was right. So was Mr. George Romero. These were not things. They were zombies---dead bodies that came back to life and craved one thing and one thing only; and that was living, breathing, and red-blooded human flesh.

Another certainty hit me. I also knew that I had to get the zombie off my hood. So I jerked the steering wheel hard first to the left and then to the right. Accelerating the vehicle at the same time, the young zombie flew off my borrowed car as I gave the engine as much gasoline as I could. As it turned out, I remembered correctly about the side roads. Emerging near the beltway about eight minutes later, I had a tight smile on my face.

I had run across very little commotion or problems on the side streets. It was no picnic, I assure you, but compared to the main streets, it was a piece of cake. I cut off a bread delivery truck when I jumped on the entrance ramp. Watching for a horrified second in my rearview mirror, I watched the truck veer off, falling on its side. The truck slid into a gas station, sparks showering as the metal dragged across the asphalt, and I watched the whole shebang erupt into a huge fireball. I was moving so fast down the ramp that I didn't feel the hot winds, nor did the vehicle shimmy or shake at all.

Having a moment of remorse for the driver of the truck, I said a small prayer for him. But I couldn't dwell on it long. I was still alive, and if I had stopped to help him, I would have died as well. I knew that sounded horrible, but trust me, I saw the fireball. You didn't. No one could have survived that blast. Besides, I could already feel my survival instinct kicking in.

I had two thoughts on my mind at that moment: One, get out of the city as fast as possible. Two, go get my mother.

Merging on the beltway, I got the car up to about ninety. Surprisingly, stalled traffic and moving cars were pretty minimal, and I quickly worked my way from the west side of the city, heading south. When I saw the road signs, I smiled for the first time that day. They read

Interstate 71 South

Cincinnati

Frankfort

Lexington

My smile fading down to a grin, I merged onto I-71 southbound. I was soon clear of the city of Columbus, Ohio. Relief flooded my pores. I watched, for the briefest of seconds, the city fall away into the distance, the city I had just escaped.

My eyes took in the sight of a storage facility and a factory erupting in explosion; the flames licked the morning air. Looking back with a smile on my face, I knew I had made the right decision. My eyes took in the sight of a twisted, smoking wreckage on the side of the road. There was a large puddle of clear fluid on the blacktop. I could see the sun reflecting lazily off it; waves shimmered in the air. All I had time to do before I hit the puddle was pray that it was water.

It wasn't water.

4

As the tires hit the puddle, the car began to hydroplane. I was never sure what the liquid was that I hit. Some kind of petroleum maybe. The car began to skid, sliding and slipping to the left. The police cruiser slid off the road, hitting the guardrail on the left. A hollow bang filled my ears. I smelled the dry, dusty smell, and I felt the fabric scratch me as the air bag in the steering wheel deployed.

Dazed, I sat back for a minute. The air bag was already beginning to deflate. Reaching up, I felt wetness on my forehead. I pulled down the sun visor and flipped open the mirror, bracing myself for the worst.

It wasn't that bad actually. I had a few nicks and scratches on my cheeks and nose, along with a ladder-looking cut across my forehead. The scratch was still oozing blood, hence the wetness on the forehead. Looking around for something to wipe the blood off, I found nothing of any use to me. Opening the door, I got out of the car.

My mind had a question for me. Now what, Ryan? I had no reply.

Surveying the situation, I looked around. It was quiet at first. Then I could hear gunshots echoing in the distance. They were very faint, the crack of the echo delayed nearly a second. I turned from right to left---surveying Columbus one final time in my sweep---and drank in the scenery. As I was finishing my circle of perspective, I saw, about one hundred yards down the road, a large farm truck sitting crookedly on the road. A figure was hunched down by one of the tires.

I took off running as fast as I could toward the truck and (presumably) its owner. As I got within fifty yards of him, closing half the distance, I began to call out. Hey! I yelled. Hey!

Noticing me finally, he stood up and looked at me. As my running petered out to a jog, I got a good look at him. He was a large man, probably standing at about six feet and two or three inches. This was a big, broad-shouldered dude, well over two hundred pounds. His face looked open and kind. I hoped my read of his face was correct.

He was the kind of man who had only a passing relationship with his razor at best. The stubble was a salt-and-pepper mixture of gray and black. His shoulder-length hair was held back in a ponytail. As I came within a few feet of him, he held up both hands in a calming gesture. In his right hand, I noticed he had a pistol of some kind. Slow down, kid, the man said. His voice was very deep with some rasp. Before I have to turn the hose on you. You okay?

I was out of breath. As I was panting, I surmised that I was a good runner. However, I was not used to doing a one-hundred-yard sprint. "Yeah . . . fine . . . crashed my car back that way . . . oh . . . my . .