The radio crackled before a high-pitched squeal, the sound it makes before an emergency broadcast. Tony turned his head towards the dashboard, adrenaline pumping into his veins and making his eyeballs appear to jut outwards. Felix reached for the revolver with his left hand, fingers creeping around the barrel, and then he was pulling the gun away with arms that felt like they were filled with lead.
A blast exited the chamber, smoking up the tip of the gun and tearing a peach-sized hole into Felix’s rib cage. The recoil of the slug hitting his body was the last tug needed to pull the revolver out of Tony’s hand. It dropped down on the floor, and was kicked under the seat as Felix thrashed around in the back of the car.
The radio still punched out reports. “…in your homes, do not attempt to go outside…”
Tony tried to reach down under the seat for the .44 magnum, finding instead mostly old crescent wrenches and a thick steel chain.
“…disease spreading through most of North Dakota. It is thought to have infected everybody through the water system. Deceased individuals at risk for reanimation and violent behavior…”
The Derringer sat on the rear seat beside Felix. Tony gave up on the revolver and slammed his fist into the side of Felix’s jaw. The thrashing stopped at once, his body going limp and sagging to the side. Tony grabbed the tiny pistol from beside him.
“…injured or sick individuals must be quarantined…”
Riggs was catching enough of the radio blurbs to understand what was happening. Zombies, they were talking about fucking zombies. This didn’t surprise him so much as piss him off. During his time spent in Laos in the 70’s, he had seen how the dead aren’t always dead, and the things they talked about in comic books didn’t tell half the story of the reality of it.
He reached into the side pocket on the door and pulled out a large handful of napkins. They didn’t look very clean, but they would have to do. Wrestling his body from the passenger seat, he leaned into the back and slapped Felix in the face a few times. No response. Tony pushed him over to the side and stuck a wad of napkins in the gaping hole. He tore Felix’s tank top right off his back, and wrapped a make-do tourniquet around the wound. This would have to last, his only other resort was his own shirt, the black one with the “Motorcade City” symbol on it that his sister gave him his first day back from the war, and he sure as hell wasn’t ripping that one up, even to save his own life.
The things that used to be people we’re climbing on top of the car, sinister faces of death watching and breathing in rasps that brought fog onto the sunroof. They were scratching at the windows, and one had broken several teeth off slamming its mouth into the dark black glass.
“Sarah, I don’t know why you picked this one, but you did. He better be tough.” Tony said, reaching for the water bottle stuffed in between the seat and the center console. He opened the lid, splashed a little on his face, and turned to face Felix. ” You better wake up, you son-of-a-bitch.”