Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse by Shawn Chesser

and he recognized the hydraulic boom
protruding like a shark’s fin from the bed. In the next instant he heard the
engine and exhaust note and squelch of tires on gravel and it became obvious
that the tow truck he’d driven non-stop from Nebraska was now approaching fast
along the lake road. Then, as if it couldn’t get any stranger, the light bar
flared on, strobing orange and yellow as it geared down and disappeared again
behind a staggered grouping of A-frames and hewn-log structures and boat houses
stretching west away from Bishop’s lake house.
    Because of the way the light spilling through the canopy
played off the approaching vehicle’s windshield, Elvis had no idea who was
behind the wheel until he saw the thick neck and high brow and coal black hair
of the driver, which told him unequivocally that it was none other than Bishop
himself.
    The tow truck crunched to a complete stop a dozen yards
beyond the dozer, and the backup warning sounded even before the trailing dust
cloud caught it. With a discordant beeping filling the air, the window powered
down and Bishop hung his head out and expertly reversed down the thirty-foot-wide
corridor Elvis had gouged out of the forest.
    The annoying backup warning ceased and the emergency lights
went dark. Elvis watched Bishop spill out and shoulder the door shut.
    Unsure what to do, Elvis remained seated and watched Bishop
walk the length of the makeshift driveway, pacing off dimensions front to back
and then left to right. Apparently satisfied, Bishop flashed Elvis a thumbs up
and made his way slowly towards the idling dozer, grinning.
    Mired in indecision, Elvis silenced the big diesel and was
preparing to dismount when he saw Bishop halt at the newly created ‘T’
junction, gaze west down the road and begin talking into a small radio of some
sort.
    Following his first impulse, Elvis walked along the
tractor’s muddy tread, hopped to the ground and took a few tentative steps
forward, straining to hear what Bishop was saying.
    But before he could get within ear shot he was met with a
glare and an open palm that could only mean one thing: Keep your distance .
    Faking an air of nonchalance, Elvis leaned against the
tractor, cracked open a warm bottle of water, and fought to stay awake. Barely
a minute had passed when he heard the distinct braaap of a big rig’s
compression braking coming across the narrow finger of lake from the northwest.
    A short while later an eighteen-wheeler and its accompanying
cacophony of engine noise and rattling couplings appeared momentarily some
distance away. Trailing a tail of dust and dragging fallen pine needles along
the ground in its wake, flashes of chrome and glass were evident between the
houses as it traced the arc on a southeasterly heading. A minute later it
passed directly in front of Elvis and there was a metallic gnashing of gears as
it slowed and made the same run out to the left as the tow truck had earlier. A
blast of dusty air washed over Elvis and then there was the hiss of pneumatics
and the big rig lurched and shimmied to a full stop.
    Then with the radio pressed to his mouth and his free hand
offering additional visual cues, Bishop directed the olive-drab Kenworth into
the flag cut where the driver snugged it cheek-to-jowl next to the tow truck,
leaving both rear bumpers lined up perfectly.
    Elvis watched on as Bishop conferred with the driver, who
was wiry and compact and wore his ball cap creased and flannel shirt cut at the
sleeves. In Elvis’ estimation the silver-haired man was aged a hair north of
fifty and was probably born in the sleeper cab of a big rig.
    As the conversation ensued, Elvis regarded the two trucks of
disproportionate size and functionality and racked his brain trying to figure
out why Bishop had wanted them shoehorned in there in the first place. After
kicking it around for a minute and coming up with no logical explanation, he
leaned against the dozer’s track and waited for his next task.
    Elvis