Zombie Flash Fiction: Rally Z

     The tyres spun kicking up a shower of brown Scandinavian mud and dirt.  We were stuck.  Navigation was Peter's job.  Driving was my job.  I failed at my job, spun us out in a sharp turn, and now my door was jammed up against a roadside embankment.  Now Peter's job was to get us unstuck and back on the rally course fast.

     "I need to get some stuff under the tyres to get us some traction," Peter yelled.
     "How buggered are we?" I asked.
     "We aren't buggered until our fans reach us," he replied gesturing over his shoulder.

Ford Escort RS1600 photo by estoril / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

     Looking across Peter's empty seat and up hill at the long straight away, I could see that a whole mob of spectators had just crested the hill behind us and was trudging our way.   Ordinarily, rally fans were a big help to a racing team that was stuck in a muddy ditch.  But, these rally fans were something different.  They were dead--dead and still walking our way.

    "500 meters," I yelled.  "They are 500 meters away."
    "Don't worry," Peter replied.  "We'll get out of here."

     As Peter gathered gravel, sticks, and other traction, I wondered how I had gotten into such a jam.  The thought of rally racing in Sweden had long thrilled my soul.  When Peter joined the London office, turned out to be from Stockholm, and was into vintage cars, I thought I had found an excellent new mate.  I had no idea that it would lead both of us to this ditch.

   "Can we go?"
     "Not yet!"
     "200 meters.  They are getting closer."

  The dream started when my father left me his old Ford Escort Mark 1 with directions to take her racing.  I had done some laps on tracks in the London suburbs, but those were tame affairs that sometimes seemed like parades.  Everyone was gingerly guiding their aging saloons around the course and then retiring for talk of tyres over tea.  I wanted to push the RS1600 to her limit.  That's what my father would have wanted.  Well, I pushed her and chose a poor time to reach the limit.


  Where the hell was Peter?  The dead were about 100 meters away and they were closing fast.  I nervously watched the horde.  Soon my navigator emerged from a stand of birch with more twigs and underbrush.

    "They are close mate!" I yelled.  "We've got to go!"

    I thought back to the rallies in England and Scotland that we ran in the spring.  They were good training and Peter turned out to be a excellent co-pilot.  We took the ferry from Immingham to Gothenburg and made our way to a rally in southern Sweden.  It was awesome until the spectators turned strange and we ended up in this ditch.  Peter carefully laid out the sticks, twigs, and rocks to provide a bit of traction.

    "Try it now," Peter yelled.  "Go slow."

    I fought the urge to pop the clutch and unleash the lively 1.6 liter twin cam that idled under the bonnet.  Easy.  Easy.  The rear tyres gained traction on a hastily laid bed of sticks, logs, and gravel.  Peter was pushing hard, too.  The Escort slowly regained the harder dirt road surface.  Peter disappeared from my rear view mirror.  I slammed on the brakes.  

Ford Escort Mark 1 RS1600  back on the road - photo by estoril / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

    "Peter!  Peter!" I yelled.
    "Hej, hu mår du?" a muddy figure replied from the passenger window.
    "Get in!  Get in!" I said seeing the dead approaching within arms reach.
     Peter climbed in and shook his head.
    "You are going the wrong way," he said.
    A dead spectator slapped his hands on our bonnet and started to climb up on the car.
     "Go over that troll," Peter ordered.
     I released the clutch and slammed into the dead man.  The little Ford flung him off the road.  I pointed up back up the hill, popped the clutch, and deliberately spun the little racer around in the road, smacking into the dead that surrounded us, and pointing back onto our originally intended course.
     "Get us out of here," I said.
      "Can you handle straight?" came the reply.
      "Yes," I said.
      "Then go straight," he said.  "And there's an EASY left over the next hill."

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Leaving the scene - Adapted from photo by estoril / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

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