Zombified (Episode 2): Yankee Heights Page 6

  There was nothing left except desperation: he crushed the pedal down and screamed—it was a maniacal, almost suicidal, sound. Dan pounded on the rear window, his eyes wide and face pale. He was yelling something, but Matty's war cry, along with the revving engine, zombie growling and pounding, and grinding of skin and bone, swallowed up Dan's voice.

  A legion of undead, drawn to the chaos in the intersection, erupted from the shopping center. Women in dresses, businessmen in suit coats and slobs in their favorite athlete's shirt, girls with pigtails and boys in muscle tops were coming for them. It was a cross-section of Yankee Heights, torn from the screen of a horror movie.

  Flailing and gibbering, the ones capable of running hit the truck at full speed; they slammed into the sides, the tailgate, and the front. Slapping and digging with fleshless fingers, they provided the means of escape. The truck rocked and then a tire grabbed hold of something—maybe a compact mass of bone—and shot suddenly down the pile, crashing to the road. Metal crunched and pieces of the gore-covered grill broke off and clattered on the pavement.

  An ocean of zombie bodily fluids stretched out around the mound and the truck swerved, spinning sideways. Matty steered out of it and got the vehicle pointed straight. He eased the gas and started off; an ominous clunk-clunk-clunk sound came from the front end.

  "Shit-fuck-bitch-motherfucker," he growled. The truck was re-painted red and decorated with hair, fingers, lips, eyes, and strands of intestine. He punched the washer button, holding it in until a waterfall of blue fluid ran down the windshield.

  Matty reached behind and slid the window open. "Dan, how you holding up back there?"

  GRAAAAAR!

  The zombie lunged into the cabin, wedging its head and one arm far enough to grab Matty's collar. It pulled him close—close enough to breathe on Matty's ear.

  Instinct took hold: Matty pulled away, leaning against the driver's window, one hand reaching for his gun while the other—no longer on the wheel—pushed the monster's face back. He jammed the barrel into its mouth and pulled the trigger: BOOM! Shards of bone and lumpy wads of brain splashed over the back of the truck, spraying the still-sleeping Mike.

  In that long second before the impact, Matty glimpsed Dan's unconscious body in the truck bed. There was a gash on his forehead and a circle of missing flesh on his upper arm: Shit, one of 'em bit Dan. Matty saw Mike stir and heard him groan: Fuck me, he's turning!

  But those were fleeting perceptions: the truck—no longer under operator control—wandered onto the left shoulder, heading for the tail end of an overturned city bus. Matty's sight moved from Dan to the hole-headed zombie to Mike, and then took in the lights and bumper stickers of a public transportation vehicle lying on its side.

  He grabbed the wheel at ten and two, but even superhuman reflexes would have been hard-pressed to avoid the impact.

  Matty rocketed out of the seat, felt the steering wheel compress his torso and snatch the air from his lungs; he felt the solid, unyielding impact of shatter-resistant glass on the crown of his head; and he watched the dashboard lights wane, fading into an ghostly light… and then darkness.

  CHAPTER 7

  Even in his dreams, Matty was in a world overrun with munchers.

  He sat on a rooftop, watching Wooneyville burn; a horde of hungry undead clamored for his flesh, flexing their wretched hands and clacking rotted teeth. Joey was beside him, holding a shotgun in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  "You believe this shit, Matty?" Joey took a drag and nodded at the smoke-filled horizon. "Went downhill pretty damn fast. Our plan was shit from the get-go."

  Matty said something, but he couldn't recall what it was—at least not after waking up. Whatever he said, Joey nodded in agreement. The faced each other: Joey raised the shotgun and Matty raised a rifle, barrels leveled at each other's head.

  "On three," said Joey. "One, two, three."

  The best dreams I've had are the dreams in which I'm dying…

  A haunting melody played in the back of his mind as Matty awoke, cramped on the floor of the truck. Mike's brown suede shoe was touching his nose, and Matty followed the foot up the leg to the body: Mike was lying across the front seat, unmoving and silent.

  Matty grabbed the dashboard and door handle, pulling himself up and onto the passenger side. Every atom in his body felt nuclear, burning and pulsing and needing to be freed from its bond. A web of cracked glass ran down the windshield from a half-moon crater where Matty's head had hit.

  Still hanging in the rear window, the zombie's lifeless eyes watched Matty. A puddle of blood pooled on the front seat, soaking Mike's shirt and pants. The truck wasn't running anymore and judging by the condition of the front end, it wasn't going to run anytime soon; it was lodged in the back of the bus, folded up, and surrounded in twisted metal and ragged panes of broken glass.

  Outside the truck, the undead marched in a macabre parade. To and fro they swayed, plodding along the darkened street, uttering their moans of lament. Handprints painted in blood covered the windows.

  Matty leaned over and checked Mike's pulse: he was gone. Matty noticed no discoloration of his lips or eyes, and no sign that Mike had turned before the crash. Without trying, Matty had kept his word to not let Mike become a zombie.

  Why didn't he turn?

  He picked up Mike's hand and undid the gauze bandage. The wound had stopped bleeding but didn't appear infected, blackened, or oozing. He looked outside and watched the munchers; many of them had wounds, and every injury was inflamed and discolored.

  It didn't take over in his body. Matty looked back to Mike. If it can be resisted, then it can be cured… or at least vaccinated against.

  He peered through the back window: Dan's body was gone. A puddle of dry, spongy flesh and bits of clothing marked where he had lain in the moment before they smashed the bus.

  Matty searched the cab and found his pistol under the seat; the extra clip was still in his left hip pocket. His ribs flared and a stabbing pain lanced into his neck. Matty felt around his body, finding more bruises and scrapes than normal skin. There was no blood on his head, only a sore patch right above his forehead at the hairline.

  The first aid kit was open, its contents strewn all over the truck. Matty collected whatever he could find and stuffed the plastic case in his backpack. If I had a needle, I'd take some of Mike's blood… yeah, but where would I bring it?

  He watched the zombies for a few minutes, trying to formulate a survivable exit strategy—no matter which way he went, they would see or hear him. His eyes swept to the bus. Wonderful, he thought; but it was high ground and he needed bearings.

  Slowly and quietly, he rolled down the driver-side window. He grabbed the edge of the frame and hauled his upper body on top of the truck; using the door, he kicked and pushed off, rolling onto the roof.

  He made little noise, but it was enough to alert the closest munchers. They whipped around like hounds on a scent; when their eyes settled on Matty, they growled and closed in on him.

  Matty took two quick steps down the windshield, onto the hood, and then jumped up on the side of the bus. Pistol in hand, he walked to the center, standing on a billboard for some cosmetic product promising healthy, younger-looking skin.

  Something banged behind him; Matty whirled around, hands locked on the gun. It came from inside the bus: zombies slapped and smashed their heads on the windows and walls, lured by the sights and sounds of food. The overturned vehicle was packed with them; thirty-plus faces and pairs of hands drummed on the glass.

  Matty watched as zombies from down the street turned their heads in his direction and groaned; as they called out, munchers farther away repeated the process. They draw one another in with the calls, he thought.

  Hundreds from the shopping complex shambled and shuffled down the street; some barreled across the pavement, howling and pounding their feet as they ran. That's how it spreads so fast. His mind recoiled at the sheer size of the approaching horde. One can draw in thousa
nds… a tidal wave of flesh-eating monsters.

  In the opposite direction, away from the stores, the road was crowded but not nearly as thick with undead. That's all I got, he thought. Tightening the backpack straps and wiping sweat from his palms, Matty gripped the 9mm. I gotta make a run for it.

  He stepped to the front of the bus, drilled three munchers in the face, and jumped down; when he hit the ground, Matty's knee buckled. Feeling the bite of bone on bone, ligaments straining, he stood up and ran—well, sort of quick-limped.

  A zombie in a button-up shirt and blue jeans streaked in blood wailed as it ran after Matty. I can't outrun all of them, he realized. He slowed up and took aim: the muzzle flashed and the sprinting muncher flailed its arms, tripped, and smacked its splurting concave head on the ground.

  Jogging past the shambling undead, Matty swung his head left and right, searching the abandoned cars for any still intact. He fired again, catching another runner in the throat. Up on the curb a hundred yards away, Matty spotted a baby blue Prius; the front doors were open and the interior lights shined through the rear-view window.

  A muncher grabbed his bag, pulling Matty back and onto the ground. Launching his foot up, he caught the monster under the chin and rolled over, scrambling away and getting to his feet and two more pawed at the pack and tore Matty's shirtsleeve.

  "Get the fuck off," he twisted and spun away, "of me!" The melee had slowed him down, allowing the walkers to tighten the noose; every direction he looked, Matty saw them stumbling and lurching, groaning and grasping.

  He raised the pistol: BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG…

  Jogging and firing, Matty blasted a path straight to the car. With a harrowing click, the gun announced its lack of ammo. He dropped the clip, stuffed it in his pocket, and pulled the last one out.

  He slid the magazine halfway into the grip and then dropped it—and the gun with it—as a muncher crashed into him at a gallop. Matty hit the street hard, landing on his left shoulder, and couldn't get a breath. Cracked, puss-covered hands latched onto his neck and a putrid face bursting with blood-lined sores and slithering purple veins leaned in to devour Matty's ear.

  His right hand found the tactical knife in his right hip pocket; Matty yanked it free, flicked the action open, and jammed it into the zombie's chin. Syrupy green and black ichor spilled onto Matty's neck and cheek; he gave the knife a shove and used his knee to throw the monster sideways.

  Another one of them staggered forward, stepping on the gun and uttering a warbling cry. Matty was on his hands and knees, surrounded and out of breath; his left shoulder throbbed and a pins-and-needles sensation made the attached hand dull and clumsy.

  "Looks like you got the ball, motherfucker." He spear-tackled the zombie at the knees, slamming it down on the asphalt, and scooped up his gun. Matty stood up too fast and his equilibrium shifted: he stumbled sideways. The magazine was five feet away, lying in the path of a cluster of staggering undead.

  Matty reached out, but a rotting arm smashed down on his head, sending Matty back to the ground. He lunged like a sprinter from the starting line, diving for the ammo; his hand closed around the clip. It slid into the 9mm with a satisfying SNIKT. Matty flicked the release, the slide snapped into place. He rolled over and aimed.

  Its teeth touched his arm the moment Matty squeezed the trigger; the head rocketed back, spraying brain debris into the sky to rain down on the mob. An ugly red welt rose up on Matty's forearm. Still on his back, Matty fired six shots, holding the gun in both hands. He rolled onto his stomach, pushed up, and took off towards the Prius.

  Two more gunshots cleared a path to the driver's seat. Six rounds left—that bitter thought scared the shit out of him. He slammed the door and hit the automatic locks. Zombies surrounded the car, hammering on the windows and roof. The keys were there, dangling from the ignition. Enjoy the little things, he thought.

  Matty started the car and watched the gas gauge rise to half a tank. Praise… whoever, he thought. The incessant drumming increased as more undead mobbed the little blue hybrid.

  "What I wouldn't give to hear Lars right now. Damn, I'm gonna miss Metallica." Matty sighed and shifted the car into drive. He started off slow, nudging the zombies out of the way and rolling over one or two bodies at a time, nearly getting stuck with the ridiculously low clearance of the Prius.

  Once he was past the thicker tangle of bodies, Matty opened it up and zipped off down the unlit street. He tapped the interior light and held the reddened arm under it; the skin wasn't broken, but he had no idea of a scrape from teeth could transmit… whatever it was. He turned off the light.

  "Figures," he grumbled, "I survive a moshpit with the undead, shoot off most of my bullets, and end up dying from a fuckin' nibble."

  He glanced at the rearview: the horde of munchers faded into the darkness.

  I need to find bullets, he thought. There's no way I'm gonna make it to Wooney with six shots.

  Matt knew there were three places in Yankee Heights to get ammo: Stump's Sporting Goods on the lonely road to Tarkwood Pond; Longridge Sportsmen's Club behind the quarry, but too close to the highway for Matty's liking; and Bear Pro Shop on the western edge of the city.

  "Stump's or Bear Pro." He weighed the options, the locations, and the distance. Bear Pro was closer to Wooneyville, but it was in an upscale residential neighborhood that bordered a newly renovated cluster of condos—a lot of potential munchers. Stump's was farther away, but it was on a pristine stretch of road with only a handful of houses within shooting distance.

  Tarkwood Lane loomed on the left; Matty slowed up, gave it a final thought, and took the turn. The six bullets in his gun rendered the verdict: I can't shoot my way into Bear Pro if it's overrun.

  The sleepy, narrow road wound up and down, coursing around rocky hills and traversing rickety wooden bridges. Five streams emptied from the old worn-down mountains around the city of Yankee Heights; three of them fed into Tarkwood Pond.

  Matty drove for a half-hour, passing by two lavish houses and a handful of farms; he even saw a pair of brown-speckled white horses. There were no cars on the road and not a living—or non-living soul—to be found.

  What happens when they're done eating everyone in the city? Matty guessed the population of Yankee Heights to be around three hundred thousand, give or take a thousand. They'll head into Wooneyville or fan out, searching for food—or hosts, if it's the parasite in control.

  Matty turned onto a wider, level section of Tarkwood. Five minutes later, he eased off the gas and leaned forward in the seat, searching for the flattened dirt driveway that led to Stumpy's. In the unlit twilight, everything beyond the narrow circle of headlights was an abyss.

  He came upon it suddenly, screeching to a halt and backing up. The undercarriage of the Prius grated on the ground, dragging a swath of uneven dirt in its wake. He couldn't imagine anyone coming out here without four-wheel drive.

  Illuminated in the halogen beams, Stumpy's brick cottage swam into view. If there were lights on, they were concealed behind opaque curtains because the place looked deserted. Matty pulled up within a hundred feet of the front door and killed the engine; he pocketed the keys and stepped out of the car.

  BOOM! The windshield shattered from the bullet, falling into the front seats and clattering over the dashboard. Matty had seen the muzzle flash and heard the blast, hitting the dirt right after the glass was destroyed. He laid in the dirt, listening to the gunshot echo in the distance. Shit, every muncher in the city must've heard that!

  "Git up and lemme see yer hands!" Stumpy's hoarse drawl came from an upstairs window, followed by a bolt-action rifle being reloaded.

  "Okay! I'm getting up, Stumpy!" Matty stood up, every move slow and deliberate. "I just wanna do some business."

  "You armed?"

  "I have a handgun in my belt," Matty said.

  "Well take it out and put it on the hood of yer car," Stumpy ordered.

  Matty complied, keeping his left hand up; he slid the pist
ol across the hood and backed away. "I'm almost out of bullets, Stumpy. I need to buy some ammo. There's some crazy shit goin' on out there."

  "I know it." There was a pause; Matty thought he heard another voice in the background. "Do I know ya, kid?"

  "My name is Matthias Josephs, Stumpy. I come here every weekend in the summer to buy shiners and sometimes I buy a box of 9mm Luger." Matty ran through his memories of Stumpy, searching for something to anchor the discussion. "Last time I came by, you told me about the dumbass that believed your man-eating catfish story."

  "Ohhhhh," Stumpy droned. "I think I remember. Well, no matter, you ain't gittin' any ammo today."

  "Please, Stumpy, if I don't get more bullets then I'm a dead man—literally, Stumpy." There was no reply. "I'll give you everything I have… I'll even give you this car. It's great on gas."

  "Money and cahs don't mean diddly squat, kid." There was definitely another voice; it sounded like a young boy. "What?" Stumpy said; his voice was muted, as if he were talking away from the window. "All right, all right."

  "Stumpy, can you at least give me one box?" Matty asked. "Please?"

  "Since I don't got any guns what use that caliber, I'll give ya a couple of boxes."

  Matty smiled and, finally, exhaled. "Thank you, sir!" He stepped toward the house, and the ground ten feet in front of him exploded, showering dirt and rock into the air. The deafening blast echoed away and was followed by the shik-click of the bolt.

  "You stay right there, kid. Ma boy will leave em on the stoop and you can get em when I tells ya, understand?"

  "No problem, Stumpy." Matty said. This is fuckin' crazy! He thought. There are zombies—motherfuckin' zombies!—and I'm being held at gunpoint by the owner of a bait shop. He took a few deep breaths.

  The door opened and a kid of no more than twelve placed two boxes of bullets on the front step; he gave Matty a brief nod and then shut the door.