Zombified (Episode 3): Garden Harbor Read online

  ZOMBIFIED

  Episode 3: Garden Harbor

  By

  Matt Di Spirito

  © 2011 Matt Di Spirito

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without the consent of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  First Kindle Edition: July 2011

  Dedicated to my friends and fans who asked me more than once, "When is episode three coming out?"

  You guys rule.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Appendix: Sample chapter from "Painted"

  CHAPTER 1

  They stared open-mouthed as Matty recounted the destruction of Yankee Heights and the hordes of undead moving south. Even Joey listened with a hand pressed over his face, eyes wide and body tense.

  "Every ounce of me fought to get here." Matty paused and took a long drag from the cigarette. "I don't want to leave, believe me, but we can't stop two-hundred thousand munchers."

  "Shit, there might be twice that number!" Gigi turned from the counter and stared out the kitchen window; dozens of rotted corpses shambled around the house, groaning and wasting away. "How many bodies does it take to break through plywood?"

  Hank sighed. "They could do it now, if they were smart enough to work together."

  "Eventually one of them will find out there's food in here," Matty said, "and when that happens, the moaning and pounding will attract the rest."

  Dana pulled an inhaler from her hip pocket, shook it vigorously, and sucked in two quick puffs. Dark stains ran down from her eyes; fresh tears bubbled up and followed the same track.

  "Damn!" Joey slammed his fist on the counter: everyone jumped.

  "Easy, Joe," Hank patted his son's shoulder. "We don't want those sons of bitches coming for us just yet."

  "Yeah, I know. Sorry, pop." Joey flipped off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his unkempt hair. "We worked so fuckin' hard to get this place ready, too. Why didn't we stop and think about this?"

  "Dude, we did the right thing." Matty waved a hand around the house. "We're alive and we have plenty to keep us going. What other option was there?"

  "What do we do now?" Dana squeaked. "Where are we supposed to go?"

  "I ain't sittin' here!" Gigi lit a smoke with the smoldering butt of her previous one. "I ain't waitin' to die, I'll tell you that much."

  Matty and Joey looked at each other, eyes exchanging information; they both nodded.

  "Timmons National Guard Base," Joey said. "We'll start packing whatever we can carry and plan out a route to Garden Harbor."

  "Now Joe, how do we know if anyone survived down there?" Hank said.

  "We don't, pops, but we know they still have power and their broadcast equipment is intact." Joey pointed to the garage. "We'll try and make contact with them before we go, and we'll keep trying on the road."

  "I don't know about this one, Joe." Hank shook his head. "We could be driving right into an army of these damn things."

  "There's an army of them on the way, Hank," said Matty. "I agree with you: it might be a one-way trip. If we don't go, we'll face a long siege against an enemy that doesn't get tired and can't run out of food or bullets."

  "We'll last a hell of a lot longer if we hold our ground," Hank said firmly. "It's a bad idea to hop in the trucks and get on the road."

  "Hank," Gigi spoke softly, "I don't want to feel trapped, listening to these shitheads moaning and banging on the walls all day."

  Matty added, "Nobody will be able to sleep and we'll end up killing each other before long."

  "Pop, what happens when we run out of food and water?" Joey put a hand on Hank's shoulder. "Even if we hold our ground, we can't outlast these things."

  Hank stared out the window, the fading sunlight reflected on his glasses. Finally, he nodded and pulled Joey into a hug.

  "I'll go dig out some maps." Hank disappeared upstairs.

  "Gigi, why don't you get on the radio and start scavenging anything useful from the garage. Dana can go through the house while me and Matty tackle the basement."

  "I'm on it." Gigi stepped out through the interior door into the garage.

  Dana sat on the wooden stool, hands flat on the counter; tears streamed from her reddened eyes and her chin crinkled and twitched.

  "I'll be downstairs, bro." Matty clapped a hand on Joey's back. "Holler if you need me."

  As he opened the cellar door, Matty heard Dana burst into a fit of sobbing and hiccups. He closed the door and descended into the stonewalled basement. Stacks of boxes sat on foldout tables and pressure-sealed cans lined racks of shelves. In the far corner, Matty spotted Hank's monstrous weapons locker—a cast iron cabinet capable of holding dozens of arms and thousands of rounds of ammunition.

  It would have been ideal, he thought. A year of supplies and ten thousand bullets… if every zombie story had someone like Joey, there'd have been more happy endings.

  He opened the locker and browsed the selection: shotguns, rifles, revolvers, pistols, and a few homemade grenades. Matty loaded several 9mm magazines, filling a fanny pack and a belt pouch with the full clips. He was stuffing a large black duffel bag with weapons and bullets when Joey stomped down the stairs.

  "These freakin' women are going to be the death of me!"

  Or you'll be the death of them, Matty thought. He brushed away the images of Kayla from his mind and continued packing the weapons.

  Joey walked to the far corner of the cellar and grabbed a stack of plastic totes; he dumped them on the floor near the racks of preserved food and water. "Seriously, what happens if Dana or Gigi has a nervous breakdown in the middle of a zombie horde?"

  "I doubt Gigi is going to have a nervous breakdown, Joe."

  "Yeah, I know." Joey rubbed his face and sighed. "It's Dana. She's been through so much shit and… Matty, I really don't know if she can deal with us leaving."

  "It's the last thing any of us want, dude." Matty went over and started loading food into the totes. "I was looking forward to some relative peace and quiet."

  They worked together, packing a dozen large bins with provisions. When the shelves were empty, Joey opened an MRE and they dined in the basement, using the totes as seats and tables.

  "What's plan B?"

  Joey shrugged. "Fucked if I know, bro. If the guard base is toast, we'll have to keep moving away from the cities and find somewhere to build a fort."

  "It happened fast," Matty said. "We have no idea if there's anything left… anywhere."

  Joey chomped down the last bit of cracker and peanut butter. He fished around in a cargo pocket and produced a crumpled pack of smokes. They both lit up.

  "I'm not as worried about the zombies as I am about the people." Joey took a drag and watched the smoke drift up to the ceiling. "People like us—people with guns and the will to survive."

  Matty nodded. "If they don't have enough food or water, we'll be a target. Survival trumps civility."

  "Zombies win." Joey frowned.

  "Yeah… maybe, in the long run, we just beat ourselves."

  "Joey!" Gigi yelled from upstairs. "I got someone on the radio! I think it's a soldier!"

  They both jumped up and dashed out of the basement, taking the stairs two at a time. Gigi stood next to the radio, puffing on a freshly lit smoke and listening to a garbled transmission.

  "It was clea
r a minute ago," she said.

  Joey fiddled with the dials, twisting the dials and searching for a stronger frequency.

  A bone-jarring crash of thunder rattled the house.

  "I guess that explains the interference," Matty said. "I'll climb out on the roof and see what's cooking."

  Pistol and machete at his belt, Matty opened an upstairs window and clambered onto the shingled roof. Angry black clouds muscled in from the west, and bolts streaked down from the dark underbelly. The wind had increased in the last hour and the antenna wobbled precariously.

  Even with the gusty weather, the collective groaning filled the air. They shambled over Hank's lawn, trampling the last patch of daisies and lilies; rotting bodies cast an odor of filth and foul meat. Since Matty's arrival, hundreds had staggered towards Wooneyville. Undead surrounded the house, and a ghastly parade choked the connecting streets.

  I brought these fuckers here, he thought. Maybe they would have come anyway, but I chummed the water.

  Matty turned away from the munchers and moved carefully, keeping a hand on the roof; he knelt by the antenna and checked the connecting wires, tightening anything that was loose.

  The storm intensified; lightning flashed overhead, burning a white branch from sky to earth. Matty felt the electricity in his bones, and all the hair on his body prickled. As the thunder intensified, the chorus of moaning subsided; the zombies wandered in random directions, walking face-first into trees and vehicles, and swatted at the air when a bolt flashed.

  "They're confused," Matty said aloud. "They can't process it fast enough." He scrambled across the roof and tumbled through the window. Careening against the wall and railing, Matty jumped the last few steps and staggered into the kitchen. Hank stood over a map of New England, one elbow propped on the counter top.

  "Where's the fire?" Hank looked over Matty's shoulder.

  "It's the storm," Matty gasped; "they can't focus on anything."

  Hank pushed his glasses up. "That won't do us much good unless it sticks around for a while or—"

  "We leave now," Matty interrupted. He bolted past Hank and went into the garage.

  Joey leaned over the radio; a garbled, static-laden voice crackled from the speaker: "We have… soldiers and… spread on the… recommend highway ninety… supplies…"

  "Dude, the storm is right on top of us." Matty squeezed Joey's arm. "The munchers are all messed up—they can't see or hear, and they're fumble-fucking around."

  "What are you saying?" Gigi squawked.

  Joey nodded at Matty and then turned to Gigi. "We need to leave right now, while they're distracted. If they can't follow us—"

  "We can't leave now! There's a ton more to pack!"

  "Ma, listen to me," Joey spoke softly, but his tone was unyielding; "if we wait until the storm passes, the zombies will be all over us from here to Garden Harbor."

  "Joe," Hank walked in, holding a map up at eye-level, "we've got about ten different ways to get down there."

  "I just spoke to someone at the base," said Joey, "and they recommended highway ninety, but they could have meant ninety, ninety-five, or ninety-three."

  Hank scowled. "That doesn't help us much, Joe."

  "Pop, I didn't say it; I'm just repeating what I heard on the radio."

  "Ninety-three is faster," Matty chimed in. "If we're going to try the highway, that's the best bet. It's a longer route, but it's lightly traveled and it only goes through one town between us and Garden Harbor."

  "Well why don't we stick to the back roads?" Gigi asked.

  "There are too many intersections, shops, and neighborhoods along the way." Matty locked eyes with Joey. "We need to go soon if we want to take advantage of the storm cover."

  "We don't even know if it'll work. What if these things see us and come right for us?" Hank folded the map and approached Joey. "Joe, I'm not saying we have to stay put, but we don't know our ass from our elbow with this storm idea."

  Matty moved to the garage door and put a hand on one of the wooden beams bracing the door. "There's one way to find out." He pulled the beams free and flung the door open.

  "What the fuck!" Joey charged after him, but Matty was already outside when Joey appeared in the doorway. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  Matty stood ten feet from the garage, pistol in hand. A crack of thunder ripped the sky.

  "Hey, fuckheads!" Matty taunted; "are you hungry?"

  Dozens of zombies turned in his direction. Oh shit, he thought. They didn't rush at him—they stood and stared, eyes roving back and forth. Another flash and peal of thunder lit up the dreary gray world. The undead seemed to recoil, staggering in different directions and losing focus on Matty. He stepped back and retreated into the garage.

  "I think that answers the—" Before he finished, Joey punched him in the face. Matty fell back, crashing into a stack of wooden pallets.

  "If you pull some shit like that again," Joey grabbed Matty's shirt and hauled him up, "I'll beat the living shit out of you!"

  Matty wiped a line of blood from the corner of his mouth. "The important point is that I was right about the storm. Now let's stop dicking around, all right?"

  Joey whirled around. "Grab everything and bring it upstairs, right now!"

  "What are you going to do?" Gigi asked.

  "I'm gonna back the truck up to the house and slide everything down the roof. We'll strap it in and then get the hell out of here."

  "Joe, the last time you tried that—"

  "Pop, a tree fell on the cabin. If another tree falls…" Joey stopped talking; his brows creased and a look of confusion crossed his face. "Hold up—how come these assholes weren't messed up during the storm at the cabin?"

  "That doesn't make any sense, Joe," Hank said. "They were coming for us like rabid animals before."

  "If I had to guess," Matty said, "I'd say it has something to do with their senses decaying. At the university, one of the biologists said it connected with the nervous system somehow. I'm not clear on how the infection interacts with the body."

  Dana cleared her throat; she had been listening from the dining room, standing out of sight behind Hank. "If the germ feeds off its host, then their bodies may be strained—especially if they haven't… fed in a while." Dana shuddered. "You know if you don't sleep well for a while, or if you're really stressed out, bright lights and loud noises can cause headaches."

  "So there's an army of zombies with a really bad hangover?" Joey laughed. "They gorge on humans for a few days and then start going through withdrawals, is that about right?"

  Dana shrugged. "I'm only guessing, Joey. Kelly was good with infectious diseases, but…" Her voice trailed off.

  "That's a damn good guess," Matty said. "The munchers are hyper-sensitive to whatever cues they normally look for, so we can use light and sound to our advantage."

  Joey thrust a finger in Matty's chest. "Now you're talking, bro! Make sure you pack all the flares and grenades—and anything else that'll make a bang."

  "I'm on it, dude."

  Matty raced downstairs and started collecting every road flare, pipe bomb, and case of gunpowder he found. He packed it all in the duffel bags and raced back upstairs.

  Outside, he heard Bad Betty roar to life. Flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder continued. Matty and Hank worked like ants to haul food and gear to the second floor; they slid it down the roof where Joey packed it into the back of his green monster-truck.

  "Pop!" Joey waved Hank down. "You and Matty strap in the back with the gear. Ma and Dana are in the front with me."

  One by one everyone slid down the tiles and into the truck bed. The zombies meandered around the lot, sometimes banging into the truck. Matty or Hank made quick work of them with a machete to the skull.

  Joey popped the truck into gear. Hank double-checked the canvas straps holding his body to the steel rack encasing the cabin; satisfied with the result, he gave a thumbs-up. Matty banged on the window and pointed south.

  "I ho
pe he doesn't drive like he did on the way back from the cabin," Hank said. "Damn near took my head off!"

  "That's encouraging." Matty adjusted his grip on the shotgun.

  They tore out of the driveway, bouncing over splattered bodies, and squealed onto the main road, heading south.

  CHAPTER 2

  Joey and Matty strained against the metal frame, shoving the abandoned pick-up off the road and onto a grass patch; they moved three more vehicles, clearing a path for Joey's monster to shoulder onto the exit. The downpour continued and rumbling thunder made the ground tremble. Soaked to the bone, Matty climbed in the truck and ducked under the tarp Hank had rigged over the bed.

  "Good thing it's not cold." Hank handed Matty a towel. Bad Betty lurched over a curb, driving on a tilt until they cleared the ramp and leveled off on highway 93. Periodically, a zombie collided with the arm-thick steel girders wrapped around the front of the truck and a spray of gore—or a random body part—colored the puddled pavement.

  "It's gonna be rough going for a bit," Joey called from the cabin; "the highway is littered with abandoned cars."

  "Do you have enough room?" Hank poked his balding dome inside the sliding rear window.

  "Damn, pop!" Joey swerved. "Don't stick your head in the window like that!"

  "All right, all right!" Hank fixed his glasses. "Easy on the wheel there, Joe."

  "Listen," Joey held up a finger, "I had a fuckin' fuckhead try and eat the back of my skull like that, so I don't want anyone sticking their head through windows—got it?"

  "I'll second that," said Matty; "I had one get an arm through, too."

  "Good, I'm glad we're all clear on that point." Joey shuddered.

  Matty watched zombies milling around the jumble of cars. Some of them, staggering in irregular circles, tumbled off the side of the elevated roadway. With every flash and rumble, the undead seemed to twitch or cringe.

  It's like they're all hung over—or still drunk from the night before. He watched a zombie walk into a van, step back, and then repeat the process. They're not even looking in our direction.