Once, when he was a child, Elliott endured a hazing ritual at the hands of the neighborhood kids which involved a Slip n’ Slide, several Nerf guns (which had likely been modified to increase the velocity of the foam projectiles) and what could only be described as unchecked juvenile aggression. This run for the SWAT van through a sea of zombies reminded him of those times: Roger and Higgins were blowing a path through the enemy so the way always looked clear, just like that Slip n’ Slide. Then, just when Elliott thought it was okay to uncover his head, there was a barrage of foam bullets flying at it. In this case it was zombies lurching at him out of nowhere and that was much worse.
They approached the corner of the building; the van was right on the other side. Higgins held up a hand to stop them and peeked around the corner; he gestured to them to come forward while he fired a few rounds around the corner. Elliott, Fipps, Shavian and Jackson dashed forward eagerly; every step no one died was a small victory in Elliott’s book.
One second Elliott was looking forward, the next he was looking up as something heavy landed atop him. The smell of rot was overpowering as the weight took him to the ground.
Panic dimmed the edges of his vision and he felt teeth scrape his arm; he battered mindlessly at the zombie, his heartbeat hammering his chest. He could hear yelling all around, and Shavian’s screams.
“I can’t fire, I might hit Elliott!” she shrieked in answer to a question Elliott hadn’t heard.
The zombie’s teeth clacked close to his ear as it made a play for his neck. The rancid scent of the thing, like week old garbage, was so thick he could taste it in his throat and he gagged violently. The zombie lunged for his throat and Elliott grabbed its neck and tried to hold it off.
Rough hands grabbed Elliott under the arms to drag him away while someone else tried to pry the zombie off. He heard screaming and it took Elliott a moment to realize it was he. Roger dragged the zombie a few feet away and tossed it violently to the ground; Shavian was standing by to put a bullet through its skull and it was still at last.
Elliott struggled to stand, lurched a few feet away and vomited roughly on someone’s shoes. He looked up to apologize and his words froze in his throat: he had just ralphed on the three hundred dollar black Versace loafers of another zombie. Elliott shrieked as the zombie knocked him to the ground again.
“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Shavian cried. She brained it with her pistol, then when she was sure she had a clear shot, she tapped it once in the head. She turned back to Elliott. “If you do not stop trying to get eaten, I’m going to let you.”
They looked around; Higgins and Roger were holding off the horde but they were starting to press harder with greater numbers and their only gap was closing fast.
“Out of time, my boy!” Roger called to him and they made a dash for the opening in the crowd; once they rounded the corner, Elliott could see the SWAT van, and could hear Pat barking madly on the inside: it was a comforting sound.
They broke away from the zombie pack at last and the final dash to the van was mostly clear. Fipps with his long legs reached the van first, jerked the door open and herded everyone inside while Roger and Higgins remained outside, holding off the undead. The German Shepherd calmed down once he saw that his people had returned. Higgins jumped into the back of the van and Roger followed, letting off a few more shots then slamming the doors shut and bolting them.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief even as the zombies began throwing themselves against the van. Higgins went to the front to start the van.
As they rolled away from the convention center, Shavian looked down at Elliott’s arm and paled.
She knelt by his side and touched a red spot on his arm. “Elliott? Did you get bitten?”
Elliott glanced at her and shrugged. “Maybe.”
Then he fainted.