Die Trying: A Zombie Apocalypse by Nicholas Ryan Read Free Book Online Page B

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    Jed pulled ahead of me – he was big and fit and strong, and I kept my eyes on the broad of his back as he ran with his legs high through the grass, like a man running into beachside surf. He reached the nose of the helicopter and I saw him crouch there, peering past broken twisted metal, while Harrigan and I struggled to catch up.
    I ran with my eyes moving everywhere, trying to take in everything in an instant. The undead were much closer now – they were solid shambling shapes that were sweeping towards us like a dark ragged tide. The helicopter was badly damaged. The whole underbelly of the craft seemed to have split wide open. The tail section had broken off: it lay in the grass like a dismembered limb, and as I got closer, the ground became a series of deep troughs and furrows where the rotors had cleaved gouts out of the soft earth before splintering and breaking. I could see the cockpit door. It was hanging open – as if the lock had been sprung by the shattering impact as the helicopter crashed to the ground.
    I ran faster. Harrigan was at my shoulder. I was breathing hard from the effort, my nerves screwed up tight.
    I saw Jed turn his head towards the approaching zombies, and then quickly back to us. He had the Glock in his hand, resting it on a piece of the broken helicopter.
    “Check the pilot,” he said urgently as we got nearer. “I’ll keep an eye on the bastards. When I start shooting, you’ll know it’s time to get the hell out of here.”
    “Okay,” I gasped. It was all I had breath for. I felt the strain of fatigue in my shoulders and legs, and my lungs were burning from the effort. I went straight for the cockpit door. Jed turned back towards the zombie tide.
    The door was crumpled , and hanging at an angle off one broken hinge – but for all that, it was stuck. I hooked my hand inside the door and heaved. The door moved an inch or two – just far enough for me to see inside the dark cockpit. I could see the shape of the pilot. He was hunched against the straps of his safety harness, his head slumped forward, his arms limp at his side. He wasn’t moving.
    “Clinton!” I shouted. The big man was close beside me. There was a sliding door behind the cockpit. It was buckled and folded into the wrecked fuselage. He turned to me, and his eyes were wide and panicked. “Give me the crow-bar.”
    I braced the bar against the door and heaved. The sound of rending, tearing metal was suddenly loud in the night. The door moved a couple of inches. Harrigan elbowed me out of the way impatiently and hefted the bar. “Let me.”
    I stood back, hands on my knees, and sucked in deep breaths. My lungs felt like they were on fire.
    I heard Harrigan grunt and saw the strain contort his face as he put all of his weight against the door. It held for another long moment – and then groaned open, buckling in the center, as the thin metal peeled apart like opening a can.
    He threw down the crow-bar and wrapped his big hands around the door. It came all the way open in a final tear of metal and smashed back against the broken side of the machine.
    I dived into the cockpit. The air was filled with the smell of gasoline and smoke. The control panel had been driven against the pilot’s legs and lower body by the impact of the collision. I glanced through the crazed, shattered Plexiglas of the cockpit bubble. There were splashes of blood against the screen – and through it, I saw the nearest undead ghouls, approaching fast. I tore my eyes away and turned my attention back to the pilot.
    He was wearing headphones. I snatched them off, and when I did , the man’s head rolled heavily to the side. I felt under his jaw for a pulse, but my hands were shaking and my breath sawing so loudly, I couldn’t feel or hear anything. I slapped my hand hard against his chest and it came away wet and sticky.
    Blood. Oozing from a small hole in the man’s chest. I couldn’t see a lot in the gloomy darkness, but I used up a