Chapter 6: The Desperate Escape

The ice cream truck careened through the forest like a missile, its cheerful exterior now a grotesque mockery as it fled the horrors behind them. Kenny gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, his foot pressed to the floor as branches scraped against the windows and the suspension groaned under the punishment of the rough terrain.

"Where are we going?" James shouted over the roar of the engine and the crash of undergrowth against the truck's sides.

"Away!" Kenny replied, his voice cracked with hysteria. "Just away from that place!"

Through the rear window, James could see lights moving through the trees—flashlights, or maybe something worse. The infected were following them, moving with that same unnatural coordination they'd displayed in the grove. But they were on foot, and the truck was putting distance between them with every second.

The forest began to thin as they reached the lower elevations, and suddenly they burst onto the old county road that wound around the base of the mountain. Kenny yanked the wheel hard to the right, the truck's tires screaming as they found purchase on asphalt.

"We did it," James gasped, allowing himself a moment of relief. "We actually—"

The celebration died in his throat as he looked ahead. The county road stretched before them, but it wasn't empty. Figures stood in the middle of the asphalt, arranged in a perfect line that blocked their escape route. Even from this distance, James could see their vacant smiles gleaming in the truck's headlights.

"Ram them," Kenny said through gritted teeth.

"What?"

"They're not people anymore, James. You saw what they did back there. They're just... shells." Kenny's foot pressed harder on the accelerator. "Hold on."

The truck picked up speed, bearing down on the human roadblock with mechanical fury. The infected didn't move, didn't even flinch as two tons of metal and momentum rushed toward them. They just stood there, smiling, as if they were waiting for friends to arrive for a pleasant evening gathering.

At the last second, James closed his eyes.

The impact came with a series of wet thuds that he felt more than heard. The truck shuddered and bucked as it plowed through the line of bodies, but Kenny kept his foot down, pushing through the horrific obstacle course with grim determination.

When James finally opened his eyes, the road behind them was littered with motionless forms. Some were clearly dead, their bodies twisted at impossible angles. Others were already stirring, beginning the process of getting back to their feet with mechanical persistence.

"Jesus Christ," James whispered.

"Don't look back," Kenny said, his voice hollow. "Whatever you do, don't look back."

But James couldn't help himself. In the side mirror, he watched as the injured infected began to rise, their movements jerky but determined. Some were missing limbs, others had obvious skull fractures, but they all shared the same expression of patient hunger.

They weren't just infected—they were something beyond human now, something that couldn't be stopped by physical trauma alone.

The truck reached the main highway, and Kenny turned toward town without hesitation. James grabbed his arm, panic flooding his system.

"What are you doing? We can't go back there!"

"We need supplies," Kenny replied, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Food, money, gas. We can't run on empty."

"But the town—"

"Is compromised, I know. But we know where they all are right now—back at that grove, dealing with whatever chaos we left behind. This might be our only chance to get what we need."

James wanted to argue, but Kenny was right. They had maybe twenty dollars between them, the truck's gas gauge was hovering near empty, and they had no food or water. If they were going to survive more than a few hours, they needed supplies.

The town looked normal as they drove down Main Street—street lights glowing softly, houses dark and peaceful, the occasional porch light casting welcoming pools of yellow warmth. It was almost possible to pretend that nothing had changed, that the horrors in the woods were just a shared nightmare.

Almost.

"There," Kenny said, pointing to Mel's Diner. "The register will have cash, and there's food in the kitchen."

They parked behind the building, out of sight from the main road. The diner was dark, but Kenny had worked there the previous summer and still had a key. Within minutes, they were inside, moving through the familiar space like ghosts.

James ransacked the kitchen while Kenny emptied the register, stuffing backpacks with canned goods, bottled water, and anything else that looked useful. The normalcy of the task—breaking into a diner, stealing food—felt surreal after what they'd witnessed in the grove.

"How much money?" James asked as they prepared to leave.

"About three hundred," Kenny replied, shoving bills into his pocket. "Should be enough to get us pretty far from here."

They were loading the last of their supplies into the truck when James heard it—a sound that made his blood turn to ice water in his veins.

The ice cream truck's jingle, drifting through the night air like a funeral dirge.

"No," Kenny whispered, his face going pale. "No, no, no. We left him back there. He was still in the grove."

But the melody was getting closer, and through the darkness between buildings, James could see lights approaching. Not the warm yellow glow of street lamps, but the harsh white beams of headlights cutting through the night.

"There's more than one truck," James realized with dawning horror. "Jesus, Kenny, there's more than one of them."

The first ice cream truck rounded the corner, its cheerful facade looking demonic in the darkness. Behind it came another, then another—a convoy of corruption spreading through the night. Each one played that same haunting melody, but they were slightly out of sync, creating a discordant harmony that seemed designed to drive listeners mad.

"The gas station," Kenny said, pointing across the street. "We need fuel before we run."

They sprinted across the empty road, the stolen supplies bouncing in their backpacks as the convoy of ice cream trucks drew closer. The gas station was self-serve, but Kenny had brought a crowbar from the diner, and the cash drawer opened with a satisfying crack.

James worked the pumps while Kenny gathered more supplies from the convenience store—energy drinks, snack foods, a road atlas that might help them figure out where to go. The gas seemed to flow with agonizing slowness, each second bringing the ice cream trucks closer to their position.

"Come on, come on," James muttered, watching the numbers tick upward on the pump display. Fifteen gallons, sixteen, seventeen...

The lead ice cream truck turned onto their street.

"Time to go!" Kenny shouted, slamming the store's door behind him as he ran toward their vehicle.

James yanked the pump handle from the tank and dove into the passenger seat just as Kenny fired up the engine. Through the windshield, he could see the approaching convoy, maybe two blocks away and closing fast.

But as Kenny put the truck in drive, something stepped out from behind the gas station building.

It was the Ice Cream Man—not a copy or a replacement, but the same entity they'd encountered in the grove. His white uniform was torn and stained, and half his face had been scraped away by their escape, revealing something wet and pulsing underneath. But he was smiling that perfect, horrible smile, as if this were all just part of some elaborate game.

"Going somewhere, boys?" he asked, his voice carrying that same layered quality that spoke of multiple throats working in unison.

Kenny floored the accelerator, aiming directly for the figure. But instead of dodging or being struck down, the Ice Cream Man simply... stepped aside. Not quickly, not frantically, but with the casual ease of someone avoiding a puddle on the sidewalk.

The truck shot past him and onto the street, but James could hear laughter following them—not one voice, but dozens, all laughing in perfect synchronization.

"He let us go," James said as they raced toward the town limits. "Why did he let us go?"

Kenny's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "I don't think he did. I think..." He swallowed hard. "I think we were supposed to escape."

The horrible truth of it settled over James like a shroud. They weren't heroes who'd fought their way to freedom—they were rats in a maze, following the path their captors had laid out for them. But why? What was the point of letting them go?

Behind them, the convoy of ice cream trucks had stopped their pursuit, content to let their prey flee into the night. As they passed the town limits sign, James caught a glimpse of something that made his stomach clench with fresh terror.

Other trucks were leaving town in different directions, spreading out like spokes on a wheel. The infection wasn't contained to their mountain community—it was expanding, carried by those cheerful white vehicles to every corner of the region.

"We have to warn someone," James said. "The government, the military, somebody who can stop this."

"Stop what?" Kenny replied bitterly. "An invasion that's already won? Look around, James. How many towns do you think they've already taken? How many people are already infected?"

The question hung in the air between them as they drove through the darkness, leaving behind everything they'd ever known. In the distance, James could see other lights moving through the night—more convoys, more spread of the infection, more proof that their small mountain town had been just the beginning.

They were free, but freedom meant nothing when the entire world was being consumed. All they could do now was run, and hope that somewhere ahead lay sanctuary that hadn't yet been touched by the sweet song of decay.

But as the miles rolled past beneath their stolen vehicle, James couldn't shake the feeling that they were still dancing to someone else's tune, still playing their assigned roles in a script they'd never been allowed to read.

The infection was spreading, and they were its unwitting messengers, carrying news of its existence to whatever unfortunate souls they encountered next.

The thought made him sick, but it also made him angry. And anger, James was beginning to realize, might be the only weapon they had left.