Zombified (Episode 2): Yankee Heights Read online

  "Shit, Mike, I haven't understood a damn thing you've said so far!"

  "Ahahahaha," Mike laughed, but this time he threw his head back—it was something new, at least.

  He made up a dozen slides, using tissue samples from the organs, spinal fluid, brain, muscles, nerves, and skin of the guinea pig.

  "The skin is desiccated and all the follicles are filled with coagulated blood." He made a few more observations and switched slides. "Muscle fibers appear normal, except where the subject strained or pulled with no regard for limitations."

  When Mike got to the nerve samples, he whistled. "Now this is something I have never, never, never seen." He fiddled with the dials on the microscope. "I think we may have answer about how the parasite infects dead or destroyed tissue."

  "Can you explain it to me in idiot terms?"

  "Ummmmm." Mike turned the microscope dials a fraction. "There are appendages running from the parasite into the nerve cells. It's literally connected to the nervous system." He made a few more adjustments and frowned. "Damn!"

  "What happened?"

  "Nothing! That's the problem: there's no activity at all. I can see the connection, but there's nothing happening. I'd have to study a living specimen to know how it interacts with the nervous system."

  "What about the brain?"

  Mike was already switching slides. After a few minutes he pulled away from the eyepiece and shrugged.

  "I can't make heads or tails of it. I'm used to studying human cells, unfortunately." Mike rubbed his eyes. "I didn't expect to see it in the nerve cells—at least, not like that. Whatever this thing is, Matty, it's… advanced. If it's hijacking viruses or bacteria in order to replicate, it seems to be aiming to reproduce enough to take over the nervous system. I've never seen anything like it."

  "We're not talking about tremors and seizures, though," Matty said. "We're talking about something that enables deliberate and motivated actions. What the hell kind of disease does that?"

  Mike stood there, mouth agape and hands up. "I have no idea."

  "All right." Matty got up from the stool and stretched his back. "I think we should try and explain all this to the others."

  Mike nodded. "Good idea." He collected the laptop and the sketches.

  Matty opened the lab door; pimple-faced Shane stood on the other side, his hand outstretched towards the handle.

  "Oh, hey," Shane said. "I was just coming to get you guys. We have another survivor."

  Behind Shane stood a pudgy guy wearing a faded baseball cap. It was Dan. Matty did something totally out of character and wrapped Dan in a bear hug.

  "Dude! I thought you were zombie chow!" He let go of him and held Dan at arms' length. "What the hell happened to you? Where'd you go?"

  Dan grinned and held up his smartphone. "I heard about the zombies while you were upstairs trying to get lucky with Kayla. I got the hell out of there right away."

  Matty shook away the images of Kayla's shredded body.

  "Glad to know you had our back." He punched Dan in the shoulder. "Good lookin' out, amigo."

  "Hey! I had to get my pack of survival stuff and my .22. I wasn't going through this without them." He rubbed at the shoulder Matty had punched. "I'm here now, aren't I? By the way, where is Kayla?"

  Matty swallowed. "She's—"

  "She's right there!" Mike bellowed, thrusting a meaty hand out and pointing behind Dan. "Holy shit, she's one of them!"

  Down the hall, the stairwell door was open and Kayla's shredded body stood in the dim glow of emergency lights. More zombies staggered and shoved through the doorway.

  "Shane," Matty said in a hushed, angry voice, "tell me you forgot to lock the fuckin' door!" He yanked the 9mm from his pants. "Head to the elevators!"

  "We can't leave the other people!" Shane pointed to the security office.

  "If you think you can get there without the munchers getting you first, go right ahead." Matty turned away and ran down the corridor. Dan was right on his heels, but Mike hesitated.

  "Now or never, Mike!" Matty yelled over his shoulder.

  "We can't wait for him," Dan said, panting heavily. "Some of those things can run."

  "I know." Matty looked at Dan. "Where's your pack? Where's your gun?"

  "In my car." Dan gulped down air. "I'm parked right behind your truck."

  "Are you fuckin' crazy? You came down here without your fuckin' gun? Come on, Dan!" Matty shook his head and loosed a string of profanities.

  The sound of footsteps echoed behind them; Mike was sprinting to catch up.

  They skidded to a stop in front of the elevators. Matty flipped through the ring and inserted the facility key into the lock between the doors: the arrows flashed briefly and he punched the up button.

  "The munchers are going to be busy down here," said Matty; "hopefully, all the ones from the lobby will be attracted to the commotion from the stairwell. When we get to the lobby, run to the vehicles—no hesitation."

  DING. The left door slid open. Matty, Dan, and Mike piled in; Dan punched the lobby button. As the doors closed, the sound of echoing zombie carnage faded out.

  "Where the hell do we go?" Mike asked, clutching the laptop to his chest.

  "No fuckin' idea, doc," replied Matty. "Let's focus on getting out of here alive."

  DING. The door opened: the lobby wasn't empty.

  Fuck me. Matty raised the gun and fired two quick shots, caving in the face of two zombies within reach of the door. He stepped over the bodies and fired again, blowing off the top right side of a girl's head.

  "Move!" He yelled. Eight munchers converged on the party as they bolted to the shattered doors of the main entrance. Matty's pistol barked three, four, five times: zombie heads popped, spouting red fountains into the gloom of the lobby.

  "Watch out!" Dan yelped. Right outside the entrance, more zombies attacked. Dan darted between Mike and a muncher, knocking the laptop from Mike's hands.

  Matty charged out of the doors, blasting the last rounds of his clip into the closest undead. One of the shots missed, ricocheting off a low stone bench. The noise was attracting a horde of them; the parking lot was a concert crowd of groaning dead.

  "Leave it!" Matty screamed as Mike shoved a zombie away while trying to collect his laptop. He dumped the empty clip into a pocket and slid one of the two full magazines into the grip, tapping the release.

  Hands grabbed Matty's back and hot, slimy breath fell on his neck. Matty fell forward and rolled; it was far from graceful, but the zombie's hands tore off shirt and missed Matty's flesh. On one knee, his left hand came up to support the gun: BANG! The shot entered at the muncher's chin, sending a fan of bone and brain backward.

  Mike was struggling against two zombies; his voice was a fever pitch of hysterical screams and swears, hands pushing ravenous blue-black mouths away.

  Matty scrambled over and yanked a zombie away, kicking it in the backside and sending it crashing to the pavement face-first. He turned back and aimed the gun, trying to get a bead on the other one.

  Over the din, Matty heard Dan's car start and the transmission drop into gear.

  Mike screamed; the stub of his pinky finger shot a jet of crimson into the zombie's face. A sickening crunch and slobbering swallow came from its mouth: it had swallowed Mike's finger.

  BANG! From the teeth up, the muncher's head was gone; it lurched back, bubbly wells of blood overflowing its neck, and toppled over.

  Dan laid on the horn: zombie heads turned and they converged on the car.

  Matty grabbed Mike and ushered him to the truck. He got it unlocked as Dan was backing up, undead pawing and gnawing on the windows. Matty slammed the door and blasted a pair of zombies at the front of his pick-up.

  Fuck! There are hundreds of them! He noticed the exterior lights were still on. Son of a bitch, Shane. Matty hopped into the driver's seat, getting the door shut and locked as zombies crowded around both vehicles. Torn faces and dismembered bodies pounded against the metal and glass.r />
  Mike was alternating between swearing and moaning as he clutched the maimed hand. "I'm so screwed… so totally fucked! I don't want to go out like this, Matty."

  "I won't let it come to that, Mike." Matty shifted into drive. "I won't let you turn."

  He floored the accelerator and smashed through zombies; the truck bounced and careened, clearing the front of the building and swerving wildly out into the parking lot. Dan weaved through denser knots of munchers, but a few hit the front hood and rolled up and over the roof.

  Shoulda bought a truck, Dan. Matty watched in the rear-view.

  When they cleared the parking lot, he reached behind the passenger seat and felt around for the first aid kit.

  "Here." He handed Mike the large white box. "See if you can patch it up for now."

  "Thanks." Mike put the box on his lap and went through the contents, pulling out gauze, tape, antiseptic wipes, and antibiotic salve. "I dropped the laptop."

  "That's unfortunate, but I don't think it's going to matter," said Matty.

  Mike looked up from the kit. "Why's that? With the right facilities, I might have worked up a profile and—"

  "Mike," Matty interrupted, "given how fast this shit happened, what kind of facilities do you think are left?"

  CHAPTER 6

  Dan pulled his blood-striped coupe alongside the truck. Mike reclined in the passenger seat of Matty's pick-up, breathing erratically and losing color.

  "He doesn't look too good," Dan said.

  "I'm not dead yet, Dan." Mike opened one eye and grinned at Dan.

  "So what's the plan?" Dan raised both hands. "Where are we supposed to go?"

  Matty drew a cigarette and flicked the lighter to life. He took a long drag, holding in the smoke. "If we can," he exhaled long gray strands, "we need to get to Wooneyville."

  "You don't think it's just as bad there?" Dan asked. "These things are everywhere!"

  "No doubt." Matty took a couple of quick drags. They were idling on a baseball diamond; it was part of a park on a dead end street. "My buddy Joey and I used to talk about shit like this all the time. We had a plan, in case it ever happened."

  "What kind of plan?"

  "Dan," Mike said in a hoarse voice, "does it matter? Any plan is better than this." He held up the blood-soaked gauze wrapped around his pinky stub.

  "We stocked up on food, water, medicine—all kinds of shit." Matty remembered the months of splurging at survival websites and sportsman stores. "His dad had this huge gun safe. It must be the size of a closet at least. We filled that fucker with guns, bullets, knives, and even a couple of swords."

  "Is that where you friend is now?" Dan asked. "Did you get in touch with him?"

  Matty shook his head in the negative. "Nah. I lost my fuckin' phone at the party."

  "I still have mine." Dan started tapping away on the touch screen of his palm-sized smartphone. He scowled at the screen and then punched the steering wheel with his free hand. "Aw, come on!"

  "Power is out, and it looks like communication is fucked, too." Matty dropped the truck in gear. "I'm heading for Wooneyville. You're welcome to come, Dan."

  "Lead the way. Uhhhh." Dan glanced at his dashboard. "Looks like I'm going to need gas. Do gas pumps work without electricity?"

  "How much do you have left?" Matty asked.

  Dan smiled weakly. "How much is left if the gas light is on?"

  Matty's forehead hit the steering wheel. "You're joking, right? You're being a smartass comedian right now, right?"

  Dan didn't say anything; he just stared at the dashboard.

  "Without a hand pump, the stations are useless. If we had a tube or something, we could siphon from cars."

  "I'm not feeling too—" Mike turned, leaned his head out the window, and threw up. Retching heaved through his body; he came off the seat a few inches with each wave. The sound of heavy splashing and meaty chunks plopped on the ground outside the truck.

  "I'm glad I parked on this side," Dan said. "Is that normal?"

  Matty glared at Dan. After a moment of staring with that 'are you fucking serious' look, he started laughing; it was a loony, out-of-my-mind madman laugh. "Dan… really, dude? Normal?" As he was laughing, Mike heaved and gagged; the smell crept into the truck.

  Matty stuck his head out the driver's window. "Woof. That shit ain't right."

  "S-s-sorry, Matty," Mike sputtered between spits and hiccups. "Be glad you aren't tasting it." He pulled his head back into the truck and flopped against the seat. "I might be close to changing. Remember what you said?"

  "I will, Mike." He squeezed Mike's shoulder and looked over at Dan. "Let's go. When you run out of gas, we'll stop and you can hop in the truck."

  Dan gave a thumbs-up and they sped off, tearing up the infield on the way out.

  Mike fell asleep, snoring softly, as they cruised down Old Brook; it was a narrow, winding road lined with fields, forests, and a few farms. There weren't any zombies to be found.

  Flocking to where the people are, Matty thought. Sound and light draws them, but what else? He looked over Mike. Would they be drawn to him now that he's infected?

  The face of a cartoon mermaid floated around the back of his mind, and he heard a song: I want to be where the people are… I want to see them dancing…

  "What the fuck was that about?" He slapped the side of his head. "That's your brain on drugs, kids."

  The dashboard clock read '2:13'. Will they be affected by sunlight? Matty scanned the road, but there were no signs of movement—not even an abandoned car. He sped up, cruising down the sleepy lane at sixty. Dan's headlights kept pace.

  Cresting a rise, the pick-up lifted off a little and came down with a clanking and groaning from the undercarriage. Matty winced. "Hold together." He patted the dashboard. Mike was still out in the passenger seat.

  Less than a quarter-mile ahead, the road forked. Matty flicked the blinker, indicating right, and slowed down to make the broad turn. He took the corner and saw flashing red and blue lights in the distance; there was a pair of cop cars parked perpendicular to the lanes, blocking the road.

  And Dan's headlights were gone from the rearview.

  "Fuck!" He slowed down and pulled into a gravel driveway, backing up and reversing direction. "You were supposed to flash me, dumbass."

  Dan was standing outside the car, .22 rifle slung over one shoulder and backpack on the other. Matty pulled up and Dan climbed into the bed, sitting down behind the cab. Matty slid the rear window open.

  "What happened to letting me know? A horn, high beam flash—something?"

  "I didn't want to honk. What if those things are nearby?"

  "Okay, what about flashing your lights?" Matty executed another turnaround and headed for the fork.

  "I forgot." Dan shrugged. He sat with the rifle across his knees.

  "You're a piece of fuckin' work, dude." Matty slowed up as he hung the wide right. "There are two cruisers blocking the road," he reported. "I doubt there's anyone there, but we need to go that way regardless."

  Dan peered through the back window. "I don't see anyone moving over there."

  "Me neither." Matty slowed down but kept rolling as they neared the cop cars. He turned off the road, skirting the edge of the trees and passing the rear bumper of one cruiser. Shell casings lay strewn about the ground and twenty or so corpses were strewn in front of the cruisers.

  "Where are the cops?" Matty cleared the debris and steered back onto the road.

  "I betchya they're all at the shopping center," Dan said.

  "Shit. I forgot about that place." If memory served, the Applewood Shopping Center was a few miles ahead; it was a vast, sprawling complex with a dozen major retailers and thousands of parking spots. "There's a theater over there, right?"

  "Yeah." Dan cleared his throat. "We're not going by there, are we? There could be a million of those things in that place. The theater is open until midnight and I think most of the stores don't close—"

  "I get it, du
de." Matty waved a hand at the rear window. "It's either this or the highway, and I don't wanna get trapped in a sea of wrecked cars and hungry munchers."

  He took a deep breath and drove on. Up ahead on the right, the trees thinned out and a broad driveway opened into the shopping center. The traffic lights at the intersection blinked yellow.

  The first of them charged down the road from the parking lots, moaning and screaming; they zeroed in on the headlights, dull whitewashed eyes gleaming in the night. Farther down the street, a second entrance emptied out from the stores; throngs of undead milled about in the gloom, roving back and forth across the street.

  "Shit, there must be hundreds of them," Matty mumbled. "I dunno if we can get through them all."

  A sharp crack rang out from the truck bed. Dan pumped the .22 rifle and fired again: POP! The second shot took out a zombie at the knee.

  "Don't bother, Dan," Matty said; "there are way too many to make a dent."

  As they drove forward to the second entryway, zombies poured down the ramp and flooded into the intersection. The cacophony of gurgling and groaning undead drowned out all other noise; even the rumbling exhaust of Matty's pickup was overridden.

  "I'm gonna aim for a thin spot and try to ram through. I don't see any other option!" Matty gritted his teeth, hands in white-knuckle grip on the wheel. He punched the gas and the rusty truck lurched forward, rattling and roaring.

  A sprinting muncher crashed into the passenger side door, bouncing off and leaving a splash of foamy red slime on the window. Mike slept on.

  When the truck hit the first line of bodies, its momentum carried it up and over the pile of crushed and mangled corpses. The hood and windshield were washed in dark blood, entrails, teeth, and a few dislodged eyeballs.

  I just drove into Hell's carwash, Matty thought.

  Zombies swarmed around them, banging and clawing and gnashing their teeth; the truck climbed up the growing mound of smashed undead, losing speed and traction with every second.

  Matty knew it: we're gonna get stuck. He tried to cut the wheel and pull the truck off the flesh-heap, but the front tires dipped down, spinning on bloody slicks; ribbons of shredded flesh, torn from the compressed bodies beneath the truck, shot out and flew into the air. A constant spray of blood fanned out from the wheels, like mud in an off-road competition.