Read The Infected (Book 1): Jim's First Day for Free Online

tires screech behind us. I sink down in
my seat. My eyes catch a glimpse of something big in my rear view mirror. It is
a big Dodge truck barreling right for us. I brace for impact.
    SMASH!
It destroys my trunk and folds the bumper into nothing. Sam’s head hits the
passenger window and it spiderwebs. Luckily, the logging truck has passed us
because we are forced into the intersection. I do not want to get out and check
the damage. My neck is killing me, but I grab the stick and force it into first
and hit the gas.
    I
pull away from the Dodge. Steam rises out of the grill of the big truck. My
back bumper drags on the ground and after a few feet it tears off and falls to
the asphalt. Several seconds later the airbags blow. What the hell? That was a
little late! It scares the shit out of me and I let out a scream. It sounded
like a gun went off and the hard rough fabric scratches the hell out of my
forearms. The passenger airbag hits Sam in the face. It knocks his glasses off
and gives him a bloody nose. I have swerved into oncoming traffic so I jerk the
wheel back into my lane. We start to slide. I tap the brakes and try to correct
our course. An oncoming car clips into my rear quarter panel. It helps
straighten us out at least.
    I
make a hard right. I am trying to get back onto Sandy Boulevard, because it is
a straight shot all the way to the Oregon/Washington border. Sam picks his
glasses up off the floor and sees that they are broken, snapped right in half.
    “Oh
no,” he grumbles. I know it is a big deal. He is almost blind. Sam needs these
glasses. I remember I have duct tape in my glove box. I reach over his lap and
pop the door open. I grab the tape and toss it to him.
    “Here,
can you fix them?”
    “I’ll
need another set of hands,” he says.
    “Pass
them back here, we’ll do it,” Tracy speaks up from the back. Sam passes the
glasses back with the tape. I am coming up to the Sandy intersection. There are
shops on both sides of the street and people are looting. Why would they risk
going out to steal a pack of socks, toilet paper or a six-pack of beer if it
meant you could die? Humans act so weird when the shit hits the fan.
    “Where
are we going, Dude?” asks Devon.
    “Home.”
    “My
pad is in West Lynn,” he says slowly.
    “My
kids are in Lake Oswego,” Tracy pleads.
    “I
can stop here and let you out if that’s what you want,” I do not mean to sound
like a dick, but my emotions are running hot. “You hopped in my car. I can’t
drive to West Lynn right now!”
    The
intersection looks clear so I gun it and hang a left onto Sandy heading east.
The second I enter the crosswalk someone runs out in front of me. He slams hard
onto my hood, rolls up and destroys my windshield. His bones snap, skull
cracks, and joints fold backwards. He flies off the roof and lands face down in
the street. This guy is all jacked up. I hit the brakes and come to a stop. We
look out my back window at the body on the ground. He is really hurt but not
infected.
    “FUCK!”
I punch my deflated airbag. Seconds later a pack of infected are on him.
    “GO!
GO!” Devon and Tracy yell from the backseat. Again I slam into first gear and
gun it.
     My
windshield is completely busted. I can’t see out of it. I roll down the window
to stick my head out. Normally this would seem insanely dangerous, now it feels
like suicide. We are getting close to the hospital. I know this because I have
lived here my whole life. Besides being a native of Portland, I could tell we
were close because of the amount of infected on the street. I swerve to miss
them more than the parked cars that litter the road. I drive quickly, close to
fifty in a thirty-five zone with my head out the window. My brain works
overtime trying to process everything it sees.
    I
am a lucky man, living in the beautiful Pacific Northwest; I have not gone to
war, lived through a natural disaster or seen death up close before. The most
exciting thing I have every done, where