Zombified (Episode 3): Garden Harbor Page 2

  "Dana," Matty leaned toward the window, "do you think the confusion we're seeing in the munchers is because of starvation or could it be the infection dying off? If it attacked the nervous system, maybe there's some degeneration of motor functions over time."

  "I really don't know." Dana shrugged. "I'd have to do some tests to understand how it infects the body, but even then it's not my area of expertise. Sorry."

  "Who cares!" Joey swerved around a tractor, scraping against a concrete barrier. "Whatever it is, I'll take the handicapped version any day."

  "I hear ya, bro," Matty said, "but I want to know if it's happening everywhere or just in areas where they haven't fed in a while. If the infection destroys the host's nervous system and burns itself out, we might have a shot of rebuilding in our lifetime."

  "And if it's just the zombies around here—or it's just the storm—then what?" Joey glanced in the rearview mirror. "We have to expect the worst, Matty. The shit has hit the fan and it splattered all over the room. It's a fuckin' mess, bro, and clean-up is going to be a fuckin' mess."

  "I'm not an optimist, Joey—you know that." Matty took a deep breath. "But if it's going to be a non-stop shitstorm, then why are we bothering to fight? So we can live a life filled with—"

  "So we can live!" Joey yelled and slapped the dashboard. "That's the whole point! We're alive and I have no plans on that changing. Do you?"

  Matty turned away and stared off into the dark sky. "No."

  "Good!" Joey gunned it as the truck cleared a jumble of vehicles and entered an open section of the highway. "Then let's concentrate on staying alive."

  Do we want to live in this world? Matty turned the thought over in his mind. What's the point? I don't know. He leaned back, huddling under the tarp, and closed his eyes. When does it become pointless? As he dozed, hazy daydreams of running and hiding from zombies filled Matty's mind; in all of these visions, he watched lines stretch over skin and gray hair replace brown, but there was no rest to be found. I need a reason to grow old. I need a reason to live.

  "Hey Pop," Joey tapped on the rear window; "how far until we cut through Hatchet?"

  Hank ran a finger along the map, pushed his glasses back into place, and pursed his lips. "I'd guess about three or four miles, Joe. We'll pass through it in a minute or two, though." He peered closer at the map. "It's barely two miles across and the highway cuts through the narrowest part of the town."

  "You and Matty keep an eye out. I'm only stoppin' if you see something worthwhile."

  The rain had relinquished and low rumblings rolled in from the distance; subdued flashes lit the sky sporadically, but the heart of the storm had passed.

  Between Wooneyville and Garden Harbor, a mantle of small towns—villages of a thousand or less people—spread across the middle of the state. Highway 93 crossed the wooded hamlet of Hatchet, an old farming and fishing community known for its pristine campgrounds and hidden ponds stocked with monster bass.

  The white-lettered green sign zipped past; Matty caught 'Hatchet' but couldn't make the words or numbers below it. Bad Betty slowed dramatically and the front end bounced over an obstruction: Matty and Hank clung to the floodlight frame. Both rear tires caught and spun, but the momentum of the massive truck pulled it free. A mound of bodies stretched across the road, piled into a makeshift barrier like a mound of sandbags.

  "That's… weird," Matty said.

  "Thanks for the warning, Joe!" Hank scowled at his son. "You could have flipped us right out of the back."

  "Relax, pop." Joey shook his head. "It wasn't big enough to tip the truck that far."

  "A little warning would have—"

  "Okay boys!" Gigi interrupted Hank, shooting them each a raised-eyebrow glare. "I think the stress of everything is making you two a little bitchy."

  Dana busted out laughing. "It's so true! I always said that men have their own version of PMS!"

  "You done now?" Joey snapped. "I'm glad you think it's funny—really, because I'm trying to keep us alive here."

  They entered the isolated cabins and farms marking the outskirts of Hatchet; less than a hundred yards ahead, Matty spotted a cluster of buildings and a broad brick structure bearing the tomahawk logo of Hatchet Junior-Senior High School.

  "Relax, baby." Dana rubbed Joey's arm and kissed his cheek. "I'm just playing."

  He pulled away and looked at her. "Just like you were playing earlier when you bit me? That was real fuckin' funny, wasn't it? Until we get somewhere safe, can we be a bit more serious? Is that possible?"

  "Whoa," Dana stopped giggling and pointed a finger at Joey; "you need to calm the hell down, Joey. You're stressed out—we get that—but take it down a notch."

  "I told you how much I fuckin' hate it when you tell me to calm down!" He roared and punched the seat. When his fist hit the seat, a loud bang exploded under the truck.

  Matty had seen the first brick buildings of Hatchet's main street pass by on the left; he had noticed the boarded windows and barricaded doors; and he had thought it odd that most of the vehicles lined the streets in front of the buildings.

  As the Bad Betty slipped from Joey's control, tires sliding sideways and up, Matty caught a glimpse of something thin stretched across the road in front of the Hatchet town hall. All four tires had popped on impact with it.

  Hunks of shredded rubber slapped against the truck; the deafening shriek of rim on asphalt preceded a chorus of screaming and shouting… and then Bad Betty's left side caught on something and the truck flipped, catapulting Hank, Matty, and the gear. The truck crashed, shattering the floodlights, and then rolled to a stop on the driver side.

  Matty heard himself breathing, but his eyes swam in a sea of black dotted with white and yellow stars. He had no sensation of arms or legs, only the steady rhythm of inhale and exhale.

  "Get the guns!" A somber, gravelly voice said. "Darren, Mike—you two check the truck and see who's still alive."

  Gray light seeped into Matty's vision; he blinked and saw the sky overhead, drifting iron clouds concealing thin strands of blue. Unable to feel his legs, Matty tried to sit up; a mud-caked boot pressed his chest down.

  "Stay still or I'll put a bullet in your head." The same gravelly voice commanded. Matty saw a short, clean-shaven man with close-cropped salt and pepper hair; camo pants and a black tank top completed the spartan appearance.

  "I don't see much choice." Inches from his face, Matty focused on the barrel of a shotgun. "Was that spike strip your idea?"

  "Shut up," tank top said. "Darren, what's the status?"

  "We got three in the cabin," a nasally voice replied. "A big guy with a head wound, a hot blonde with huge tits, and an old lady who ain't breathing."

  "Mike, help Darren secure the living and then shoot the dead one." Buzz cut signaled to someone to his left. "Randy, what's the story with that guy?"

  "Uh… he's fucked, Dave. He's still breathing, but both legs look busted and he's bleeding from the stomach."

  "Put a bullet in his head and leave him with the old lady."

  "You're a sick son of a bitch," Matty said. "You're not even going to try and help? How are you any better than the fucking zombies?"

  "I told you to shut up." Dave reversed the shotgun and brought it down on Matty's forehead. The steel sky vanished from view, replaced by darkness and dreams of the dead walking…

  …screaming—Matty heard Dana's high-pitched shriek, but it sounded subdued or muted somehow. A thin line of wavering light cut across his vision; he guessed it to be the bottom of a door. Trying to focus brought a wave of sharp pain lancing through his temples. Matty squirmed on the hard floor and rolled onto his knees; something hard and sharp bound his hands.

  Tight-fitting boards blocked the only window, but he heard the telltale groaning of the munchers. Judging by the level of noise, there had to be a lot of them outside.

  They can't be the ones from Wooneyville, he thought; these must have eaten recently. He knew Garden Harbor—the closest city
—had little urban sprawl, being mostly houses and businesses related to the port or National Guard base. The only other place with a high enough population to feed zombie hordes was Crankshaft, a clogged metropolis riddled with subway tunnels and high-rise tenements. Shit, if they've marched here from Crankshaft, there could be a million of them.

  Footsteps echoed beyond the door, and a shadow blocked the line of light. A whisper of scraping signaled the doorknob turning; a young guy stepped inside, pressing a finger to his lips.

  "I'm going to get you out of here." Kneeling down, the sandy-haired teen cut Matty's bonds. "I can't let them… do things to that girl and then kill her." He shuddered. "Your buddy's in the next room. Here's your pistol and knife, it's all I could find."

  Matty snatched the pistol and pressed the barrel to the kid's forehead. "You were out there, too. You should have stopped it then, asshole."

  His eyes watered. "I know… I'm sorry…"

  "If I didn't have to sneak out of here, you'd be dead." Matty pulled the gun away and then swung it down, cracking the kid on the side of the head: he collapsed, head thudding on the floorboards.

  Matty closed the door and crept down the hall. He heard Dana screaming, and he heard sounds of a struggle. Shit, I have to stop this right now. He followed the noise and peered around a corner; at the end of a short hall, a doorway opened into a bedroom. Inside, bound to the bedposts by wrist and ankle, Dana twisted and thrashed as a pair of guys—Matty recognized both from the crash—removed her clothes and ran their hands over the exposed flesh.

  "Don't fuckin' touch me!" Dana spat on one of them.

  "Nice!" one of them said; Matty remembed him as Mike. "With an attitude like that, you know she's gonna be a great fuck!"

  "Hell yeah," the other, Darren, agreed; "but I ain't takin' sloppy seconds."

  Mike turned around and looked down the hall: Matty ducked out of sight.

  "Where the fuck is Randy? He was supposed to keep watch until we were done."

  Matty heard footsteps come out of the room and march down the hall.

  "Randy, where the—" Mike stopped short, the business end of Matty's pistol pressed into his cheek. Darren remained oblivious, his attention focused on removing Dana's bra and panties.

  "Turn around and walk back into that room," Matty whispered; "one word—one fuckin' mumble—and I'll blow your brains out the front of your face, savvy?"

  Mike nodded and slowly rotated, walking back to the bedroom.

  "So where is that worthless piece of shit?" Darren held up Dana's bra, twirling it around in one hand. His face fell as Matty threw Mike to the floor and leveled the gun at Darren.

  "If your mouth moves, so does my trigger finger." Matty planted a boot in Mike's ass, sending him crashing forward into Darren's feet.

  "Thank fuckin' god!" Dana blurted. "Holy fuckin' shit on a shingle…" Her string of profanities degenerated into convulsive sobs. "I was almost raped by these fuckin' pigs!"

  Matty clicked open his tactical knife, keeping the gun on Mike and Darren, and cut Dana's right hand free. "Cut yourself free and get dressed, please—I'm trying not to stare at those."

  She used the knife, freeing her left arm and both legs; still cursing, Dana collected her clothes and started dressing.

  "We need a vehicle," Matty said. "You have ten seconds and one chance to answer, if you want to avoid being knocked out and thrown outside for zombie bait."

  "What the fuck are you talking about?" Mike blurted.

  "Wrong answer, dickhead." Matty nodded at Darren. "How about you?"

  "All the keys are kept on a calkboard near the back door, and the vehicles are parked behind the building."

  "Are there any locked gates between this building and the vehicles?"

  Darren shook his head. "The back door leads through a fenced alleyway and brings you right to the lot."

  "You get to live today, gentleman. Don't worry, the 'worthless piece of shit' is in the other room, tied up. Where are your weapons?"

  "There's a safe under the stairs, but only Dave has the combination. We only take guns when we leave the house."

  "Everyone except Dave, I'll bet. Dana, tie and gag both of these fuckers," Matty said; "and don't be gentle."

  "You bet your ass I won't be gentle." She pointed on the bed. "Face down, assholes."

  With Mike and Darren bound, Matty and Dana left the room and searched the rest of the floor. They found Joey in a narrow closet between two bedrooms; bruises dotted his face and dried blood caked the back of his head.

  "Joey!" Dana rushed in and pulled the gag out of his mouth. "Talk to me, baby." She kissed his puffy lips and peeled back an eyelid. "They really fucked him up. Help me."

  They carried him out of the closet and into one of the bedrooms.

  "Check the bathrooms and see what you can find." Dana untied Joey's hands and feet.

  Matty stepped out of the bedroom and moved through the hall, searching each room for anything resembling bandages or antiseptics. One small bathroom had a pocket first-aid kit and a glass jar full of cotton balls; he grabbed these and went back.

  "There's not much up here," he said. "I'll take a look downstairs."

  Dana's eyes shot up. "Don't leave me up here alone. You don't know what's down there, and I can't handle this shit without you or Joey around." She swallowed. "Please, Matty."

  He nodded. "Okay."

  She opened the first aid box and went through the meager supplies. "He doesn't have any deep cuts and I don't see any signs of broken bones, so I'm hoping it's just minor scrapes and bruises. He might have a concussion."

  I should have a concussion, Matty thought; one hand rubbed the mushy patch above his right eye.

  From downstairs, they heard the sound of a door slamming.

  "Mike! Darren! Randy!" the gravelly voice yelled; "get your asses down here!"

  Dana stared, mouth open, and her hands trembled. "What do we do?" Her voice barely above a whisper, Dana panted and flared her nostrils. "Joey can't move right now."

  "Stay here and be quiet." Matty slipped out of the room and shuffled down the hall, rounding the corner; he crouched at the top of the stairs, gun drawn and aimed at the bottom.

  This guy Dave is the top dog here, he thought. There can't be too many more like him—at least not in Hatchet. Matty half-shut his right eye and adjusted the grip on his pistol. Cut the head off the snake.

  "Let's go! Get down here—" Dave stepped into view at the base of the stairs, his command cut short by the sight of Matty aiming at his head. "How the—"

  BANG! Matty didn't hesitate because of fear or guilt—those emotions no longer mattered, not after he watched Alex die and used the body as a bomb; he paused to adjust the aim, ensuring a one shot kill. At five yards, there was little chance of missing; Matty had practiced enough at the range to blow someone's head off within twenty feet.

  Dave lurched backward and slammed to the ground; blood spurted from a hole below his left eye. Matty bolted down the stairs and searched the body; he found a .40 caliber handgun, three loaded magazines, and a pair of fixed blade knives. A set of keys dangled from a bike chain on Dave's neck; one of the keys looked the right size for a door and the others might be ignition or trunk keys.

  "Matty!" Dana yelled from upstairs. "Fuckin' answer me!"

  He dashed to the second floor and opened the bedroom door; Dana recoiled, one hand raised above her head. "Are you shot?"

  Matty frowned. "Of course not! The ringleader is dead. We need to get out of here, right now!"

  "He's out, Matty." Dana brushed a hand on Joey's head.

  "I'll carry him." He stepped forward and handed Dana the 9mm. "Take this and lead us out the back door. If anyone gets in front of you, start shooting."

  "Did you find Hank or Gigi? We can't leave them behind."

  Matty grimaced. "Gigi died in the crash and they killed Hank."

  "Are you sure?" Tears streamed down her cheeks. "You saw it?"

  "Yes." He looked a
way. We can't go searching for him anyway.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dana used one of Dave's keys to unlock the back door, nudging it open with her foot and holding the gun in both hands.

  "It looks okay." She stepped out into a narrow alley between two makeshift walls. Immediately, the moaning calls rang out and undead pounded on the barriers.

  Matty paused to adjust Joey's unconscious bulk, shifting his friend across both shoulders. "It's pretty solid, Dana." He nodded at the fence. "There must be three or four layers of sheet metal." In truth, he felt exposed in the twenty-foot corridor—if they broke through, there was nowhere to run and no room to fight.

  They hustled down the alley, surrounded by hungry zombies, and came to gate topped by barbed wire; a thick padlock hung from an equally thick chain. Dana fumbled with the keys, trying a few different ones before getting the barrier open.

  A parking lot opened up beyond the fence; five vehicles lined one side, and twice as many wrecks lined the other. Surrounding the asphalt square, undead gnawed and clawed at the steel mesh: the fencing shook continuously.

  "Over there," Matty said, sticking his chin out toward the parked cars. "Start trying the keys until we find a winner."

  "What if there isn't one?" Dana hustled to the first vehicle, a faded blue sedan.

  At the far end, a chained gate rocked back and forth against the pressing mass of snarling zombies.

  How long until they start starving? Matty wondered. How many people are left?

  "This one's a loser." Dana hopped out of the sedan and scooted to a rusted station wagon.

  "Let's hope that one's a loser, too." Matty lowered Joey onto the hood of the sedan and stretched his back.

  The station wagon stuttered and then started with a guttural coughing fit.

  "Figures we get lucky with a piece of shit!" Dana slapped the steering wheel. "Put him in the back." She slid out and wrenched open the rear driver-side door. "I'll ride with him until he wakes up."

  The fencing shook violently; Matty drew the pistol, turning and waiting for them to rush through a gap. They're hungry, he thought.