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THE DEAD OF WINTER by Anthony Renfro

They picked up their feet and hurried through the thick snow. It was tough going, but fear made their muscles move. The moaning sounds faded into the distance as they moved as quickly as they had moved all day. Bobby could see something looming, growing closer. It was an oasis of safety, a big hulking dark mass.

What they were moving towards was a package delivery truck that looked like an armored vehicle from a Road Warrior movie, parked long ways across the fast and slow lanes. It looked like it’d been barreling through the cars before it came to a sudden and sliding halt. The front had a big spike sticking out of it with at least ten dead zombies hanging from it. Bullet holes to the head of each of them had stopped their moaning and taste for flesh. Zombies, as we all know, won’t stop until you stop them. The doors on either side of the cab had a gigantic spike welded to them with more zombies hanging around, dead, dark holes in the center of their foreheads. There was nothing on the sides of the truck, beyond the doors. It was smooth and flat like it was the day it rolled off the factory line, but dinged and severely scratched, covered in blood, as if this truck had been through a war zone.

They reached the truck and stopped.

Eric motioned to Bobby to stay put, handing the cat carrier to him as he cocked the gun and approached the truck. He tried the cab doors first, but they were both locked. A loud moan erupted from the dark, but this time it wasn’t behind them. It came from somewhere in front of them. It, like the moans behind them, was too close for comfort.

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