She hurt. Her battered foot pleaded helplessly as she stumbled down the abandoned dirt road. A thick, humid mist hung in the still air. On one foot, she wore a white athletic sneaker; her other foot wore only a blood-soaked sock.
Exhausted legs carried her wounded feet across sharp rocks, almost dragging them. Every other step broke the deafening silence with a soft, squishing sound as her tender foot met the hard, unforgiving road.
The rising sun glared its cruel intentions of another scorching hot day.
Her bleeding foot tarnished the road with each cruel step, leaving a Hansel and Gretel-like trail behind her. Her blank stare resembled something between an unknowing daze and an all-knowing fear.
Remnants of the makeup and blush that once highlighted her pretty face were now covered with dirt and dried blood.
The tracks of yesterday's tears streaked her dirty cheek.
Her muscular thighs bounced gingerly with every step. Not Arnold Schwarzenegger-like freakishly big muscles, but a sensuous feminine muscle that warned of powerful strength when needed.
She spent the past four years as a cheerleader, which meant she would put herself through daily rigorous training. In her freshman year at high school, she had been picked to be on the Cougars Cheerleading squad as a flyer, often called a top, because of her ability, dedication and willingness to try the most difficult stunts. She placed her trust entirely in the hands of the bases, the girls on the bottom, who put her high in the air and caught her on the way down.
Cheerleading may have looked somewhat girly with scantily clad, teenagers flying in the air to impress the crowds, but it was serious work. If the base screwed up, the flyer could be crippled for life, or worse.
Her Daisy Duke style cut-off shorts, which were entirely too short for her father's liking, did little to protect her from last night’s chilly air or the harsh branches that slapped at her thighs as she fumbled through the dark forest, desperately trying to find the road she now traversed. Her right hand held a death-grip on a giant, bloodstained machete.
She wore a skimpy belly-shirt that not only displayed her thin midriff, but her shiny belly ring, two more things her father did not exactly approve of on his teenage daughter: skimpy shirts and body piercing. If he could only see her now.
Her shirt, half torn off her, hung lazily from one shoulder, her other shoulder completely bare except for scratches, dirt and more dried blood. A broken bra strap swayed side-to-side as her half-exposed breasts jiggled to the rhythm of her steps. With her clothes barely on her, the nearly naked teen did not look much like the ‘daddy's little girl’ who had kissed her father goodbye just a few days ago.
She wasn't exactly the picture of innocence holding that giant, blood-soaked knife that she clenched so tightly it turned her knuckles white. She may have looked battered and beaten, but whatever had been on the receiving end of that knife was in worse shape. A lot worse.
Her toned waist, small stature and model-pretty looks hid the fact that she was a hell of a lot stronger than most people expected. But here, now, on this lonesome dirt road, smack damn in the middle of nowhere, this Cougar cheerleader did not have a whole lot to cheer about, and her strength was fading fast.
She raised an empty bottle to parched lips and drank imaginary water as the sun glistened mockingly off the plastic bottle. Her tired fingers released their grip. The bottle bounced on the road with a hollow thud then rolled quietly to a stop. An eerie silence followed.
She stopped her torturous walk and hesitantly turned to look at the road behind her. Fear sent a wash of tingles over her skin. She blinked slowly, as if saying a silent prayer, then raised her frightened eyes to the disquieting mountain road. Rows of spruce and tall pine trees flanked the quiet dirt road. Everything was so perfectly still that it looked more like a photograph than the real thing. There wasn't even the slightest breeze to move the trees. It was picture-perfect still.
Her small body shivered in the rising heat. She knew what was coming. Her heart pounded in her ears; a form was slowly emerging over the horizon. Its unsteady gait resembled something between a drunk failing a sobriety test and a baby taking its first step. With the rising sun in her eyes, she couldn't make out any other details. She didn't have to, she already knew.
Another shadowy figure emerged. Then another, until the entire width of the dirt road was an endless sea of staggering figures approaching at a slow but steady pace. Like an ominous shadow, they were always there.
She broke the piercing silence with a sound that was somewhere between a deep breath and a shallow sigh.
The mist had surrendered to the rising sun, the last of it trying to hide amongst the pine-scented trees, a losing battle. She did not know if she was walking in the right direction, if she was on the right road, or if she would get off this God-forsaken mountain alive. But she had to keep moving.
She was beyond tired; she was completely exhausted. She wanted to rest her aching muscles, her throbbing foot. Her exhausted legs begged her to rest, but she ignored them. She was so tired she felt like she could lie down and die. But she knew; she knew that if she did not keep moving that is exactly what would happen. Willing her body forward, she gritted her teeth through parched lips and continued her agonizing walk.
The tiny freckles on her nose wrinkled as she squinted to focus on something as it glimmered in the blistering sun. It was a van. It was not moving, she wasn't that lucky; it was as motionless as the surrounding forest. It sat halfway off the road, crunched into a massive tree. The van's windshield was shattered and bloodied. One of its tires was completely flat, void of air.
The scene painted an unmistakable picture. The tire blew, the van hit the tree, and the driver's head hit the windshield. There was no mistaking that.
A single tear ran down her pretty face.
She thought she had run out of tears, but apparently she had one left. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. Her socked foot screamed for mercy as she hastened her pace towards the motionless van.
She cautiously approached it, poised to swing her giant knife instantly and without hesitation. She witnessed what happened if you hesitated. To second guess yourself meant certain and violent death. She had no intention of dying that way; she had no intention of hesitating.
With her knife at the ready, its sharp edge glimmering in the hot sun, she wrapped her fingers around the handle of the sliding door, took a deep breath then pulled.
A stabbing, metallic creak echoed in the stagnant forest. The smell hit her instantly, rushing into her nostrils and down her throat. Her hand instinctively covered her nose and mouth as if that could stop the rotting odor of death from racing deep into the bowels of her stomach.
Flies buzzed around the driver’s head and she barely managed to choke back a scream. She stared at the lifeless driver with remorse and stifled back the lump in her throat. Maggots crawled inside the driver’s mouth, and she gasped in horror. What little contents she had left in her stomach came rushing out. Puke spewed from between her fingers like an erupting volcano. She escaped to the road and continued to empty her stomach.
Through watery eyes, she looked towards the approaching mob. Deciding they were still a safe distance away, she walked back to the stench-filled van.
Duffel bags were scattered, tossed about during the head-on collision with the giant tree. She quickly rummaged through the bags, half holding her breath trying not to vomit again. She found a bottle of water. Precious water.
She took a long drink. It was disgustingly warm, almost hot, but it quenched her agonizing thirst.
She poured some over her head as if trying to wash away the stench and it trickled down her face like tears, but she did not have time to cry.
She wanted to, but she just didn't have time.
She took another drink of the warm water then rifled through the duffle bags, finding more of the sun-roasted water, a pair of running shoes, socks, and a t-shirt. She grabbed her cache then stepped outside to escape the stench that burned in her nostrils.
Sitting on the ground, she grit her teeth in pain and peeled the blood-soaked sock from her battered foot.
She took a deep breath and poured water over her wounds. Without taking the time to let the pain subside, she used a sock as a makeshift bandage to wrap her blistered and beaten foot.
Pain raced through her foot and shot up her leg as she tied the shoe tight. With a tired grunt, she lifted herself back to her feet, then stripped out of her torn shirt and unclasped her broken bra.
With the mob barely fifty yards away, she stood before them naked from the waist up.
She did not have time for modesty; they were not interested in the view. They wanted her for another reason.
She dumped more water over her head and shoulders to cool herself from the scorching sun, then pulled on the clean, white shirt. The shirt clung to her curves like a wet t-shirt contest.
She picked up her trusted machete and stared defiantly at the approaching mob. The emblem on the back of her shirt read “Cougars Cheerleading.”
She took one last look at the crumpled van that brought her here just two days ago and turned to face the approaching mob. Her lightly-freckled nose crinkled as she stared at them with pure hatred. Empty, emotionless eyes stared back at her. The corner of her lip curled in disgust as she turned her back to them and started to jog.
Pain shot through her foot with a jolt. Her thighs screamed for mercy. She had only taken a few steps before slowing to a fast walk. She knew she just needed to put some distance between her and them, and torturing herself was pointless. She knew they could not move any faster. The problem was they never tired either.
The image of the driver's shattered and maggot infested face forced itself back into her thoughts. More tears raced down her face. She was tired, scared and alone. Alone, except for that goddamned mob. The disfigured, bloody and relentless mob that just kept coming.
They only had one thought on their mind. Not a thought really, more like an instinct, because these people, if you could still call them that, had stopped thinking long ago. Now they only had instinct. One instinct.
In the last couple of days, she learned that whoever, or whatever they were, they were already dead. The other thing she knew about them scared her even more.
They were dead, but they were hungry. And the dead hunt.