Zombified (Episode 1): Wooneyville (3 page)

Joey cursed and ran--both in equal measure.  He was ten yards from the eastern edge of the park when he heard the pick-up splash into the pond. 

SPLOOOOSH!

The engine revved; water sprayed and tires choked on the murky bottom.  There were dozens of zombies converging on the truck.  Joey watched in morbid fascination as droves of flesh-eaters ran, shambled, and dragged themselves onward--drawn by the driver's attempts to get free from the water. 

BANG-BANG-BANG

It sounded like a small caliber handgun.  The muzzle flash lit up the scene: the truck was two feet in the water, stalled… stuck.  The driver stood on the roof, gripping the top lights and blasting away at the zombies clambering over the truck bed and sloshing through the shallow water.  There were too many--he was a dead man.

Joey had lingered too long: a hollow moan snapped his attention away from the pond.  A knot of zombies rushed towards him, moving with track-star speed; two more lingered behind, dragging deformed legs.  Still more crowded through the busted fencing. 

The Mossberg roared:
BOOM, KA-CHIK, BOOM, KA-CHIK, BOOM
… The last shell ejected and the small gang of on-rushers lay in a heap not ten feet from Joey.  He shouldered the shotgun and blasted the two shamblers with his Glock--but the noise attracted a mob. 

Several ran at him, careening through the sandboxes and bushes, and many more staggered eastward--groaning, moaning, hissing, and growling for his flesh.

"Son of a bitch!"  Joey holstered the Glock and booked it to the east-side fence.  He leapt, grabbed the top and flung himself over--snagging his testicles in the process.  He hit the opposite side, clutching his groin and gasping. 

The first few sprinters collided with the fence, shaking the chain-link and wobbling the poles.  Joey stumbled backward, fell on his ass, and scrambled back to his feet, running away from the fence.  He re-loaded the shotgun on the run, glancing around frantically. 

Joey dodged a pair of toppled trash bins and rounded the corner of a red brick building.  The bay doors were opened and a fire engine--number fourteen--hunkered in the garage.  The station was dead quiet. 

A block away, near the entrance to the cemetery, blue and red lights swirled.  He heard the sharp crack of pistol fire. 

The main entrance to the medical center was a mile past the cemetery.

Joey took out the mag-lite and checked the fire station garage: a smear of crimson ran around the front tire of the truck, sliding off to the back of the station.

Shit
.  Joey put some distance between himself and the truck.  He traced the bloody path with the light and spotted a boot.  The fireman was slumped against the side of the truck, chin on his chest, and a gory flower blossoming from his temple.  A chromed pistol rested near his limp right arm.

Joey scanned the rest of the garage and found a fully stocked first aid kit.  He grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler in the garage and returned to the dead fireman.  The pistol was a .45 caliber and still had fourteen rounds in the clip. 

He checked the fireman for any more ammo and, finding none, moved away. 

They can't be too far behind me--how long can that fence hold up?
  Joey didn't want to press his luck.  He kept the .45 in hand as he stepped out of the garage.

Pistol fire cracked again around the police cars.  Joey headed in the direction. 

Two squad cars formed a barrier at the entrance to the cemetery, and four officers held their ground, blasting away. 

"Officers!"  Joey kept his hands visible and slowed to a brisk walk.  "What the hell is going on, guys?" 

One of the cops turned, his weapon pointed at the ground, and waited for Joey to approach.  "All hell--that's what's going on.  Where are you coming from?"

"South end--it's mayhem there, and it's worse in the park."

"There are more coming from the park?  Damn it!  We're going to be surrounded."

"Why aren't there any cops over there?"

The officer tensed; his jaw was rigid.  "There aren't enough of us left, sir.  When the call went out for all off-duty personnel to show up, most of them were already fighting these bastards off at their doorstep."

"Fuck me.  How the hell did it spread so fast?" 

"Damned if I know.  Someone at the medical center was doing a work-up on blood samples, but who the hell knows if they finished."

Joey's eyes bulged.  "What do you mean?  My girl's at the center!  What the fuck happened there?" 

"A lot of sick people went in there.  At first, it looked like a flu epidemic."  The officer shook his head.  "If all those sick turned into these… things, then I don't know how anyone survived.  There were hundreds trying to get in there."

"I gotta go.  If she's holed up in there somewhere…" Joey stepped away from the officer; the cop grabbed his arm and started to say something, but a barrage of fire from the other policemen cut him off.

Joey backed away and headed north.  He watched the police firing into a slow-moving throng of zombies--no, corpses--shambling out of the cemetery.  They weren't the same; they were decayed, long dead…

Can viruses infect corpses?
  Joey couldn't make heads or tails out of it--he hoped Dana, or someone at the medical lab, had an answer.

CHAPTER 5

Crouching behind an abandoned SUV, Joey gripped the shotgun and watched the zombies.  They clustered at the entrance to the ER, shuffling around a pair of ambulances and pressing through the shattered glass doors.  There had to be thirty or forty of them.

"Monkey motherfuckers."  He counted his shells, checked the ammo in the .45 and his Glock, and scooted forward.  The medical center parking lot was to his left; the employee entrance--still intact--was at the top of a handicap ramp adjacent to the lot.  There were a handful of zombies milling around the haphazardly parked cars.

He tried Dana's cell again: it dropped straight to voicemail.  He scanned the lot but didn't see her snot-green coupe anywhere--the booger, they called it. 

Joey shuffled to the next car, keeping his head down, and plotted out a course to the employee entrance. 
There's no good option
, he thought. 
If I go in there
--he looked to the emergency room doors--
I'm blastin' my way in
. 
If that is locked
--he turned his eyes to the handicap ramp--
I'm breakin' it
. 
Shit
. 
This is gonna get ugly
.

Joey scooted from car to car, picking his way towards the parking lot and the ramp leading to the door marked 'Employees Only'.  The zombies were spread out in the area; he shouldered the Mossberg and drew the machete. 

The first one didn't even see him; he hacked its head off at the nape of the neck, from behind, and quickly ducked behind a rusty four-door sedan.  The medical center's emergency power still worked, and Joey could see the flesh-eaters in the dim glow of the center's sign and the few exterior lights around the entrances.

With two broad strides, Joey closed the distance and drove the machete into the forehead of zombie leaning on the railing at the base of the ramp.  He kicked the body free from the blade and rushed up the incline to the door. 

It was locked.  Blue-tinted emergency lights shone within.  He sheathed the machete and drew the shotgun back, ready to smash the glass with the stock. 

UHHHHH
…
GAAAAARHHH
…

One, then two and three, zombies tumbled through the jumble of cars in his direction--they found him.  Their moaning attracted others. 

Joey smashed the glass door with two rapid strikes; he reached in and unlocked the door.  Zombies were fumbling over the rails and staggering up the ramp.

He could see the white counter-top of the nurses' station just down the hall.  There were patient rooms to the right and left before and after the station.  Another hallway branched off near the station, leading to the front of the center--to the emergency and reception areas. 

Glass crunched behind him; blood-soaked fiends started crowding the broken employee entrance, grasping and pushing in his direction.

Damn!
  Joey pivoted and ran to the nursing station.  He rounded the counter and heard a plastic crunch underfoot--it was Dana's cell.  The purple shell and cracked screen glared up at him.  Joey felt his heart pounding: She has no way to know if I'm alive, or that I'm out looking for her.

The bandoleer saved Joey's life: he heard a faint shuffling from behind, and a zombified orderly grabbed Joey before he could turn around.  The bloodstained teeth bit down on the leather strap; Joey fell forward, his abdomen forced against the counter.  He tried to shift left and right as the drooling orderly chewed on the leather harness--but the zombie had him pinned down. 

More of them appeared in the halls around the station, and Joey heard noises coming from reception and the ER.  He squeezed a hand between his torso and the edge of the counter, releasing the clasp on the bandoleer.  Dropping to one knee, Joey slid out of the harness; his forehead, just above the left eye, smacked the edge of a toppled computer monitor on the desk.  He felt the stream pour out and down into his eye, blinding him.

The zombie orderly toppled forward, flipping heels up over the counter and spilling into the hallway.  Joey scrambled to his feet; his shotgun and ammo were on the floor, just out of reach--he didn't have time to grab them, there were too many converging on him.

Left eye squinting, Joey drew his Glock and the .45--one in each hand--and started blasting. 
BA-BANG!
  The slides flew back and forth, as if in slow motion, chambering the next rounds. 
BA-BANG!

"Dana!"  Joey yelled between shots.  "If you're here and you can hear me, yell your damn head off!" 

BA-BANG!
 

"Now!  Talk to me, baby!"

He didn't see her among the massing zombies.  There were too many in here--he needed to get out. 

BLAM!
  The zombie's face exploded; fragments sprayed the tiled floor and cream-painted walls.  The .45 locked back; it was empty.  Joey tossed it, reloaded the Glock, and drew the machete.

He saw the 'Stairs' sign and made for it.  The machete whirled in a downward arc, tearing a teenage zombie from collar to crotch; Joey kicked the carcass into the surging crowd and shouldered the stairwell door open.

Slamming the door behind him, Joey pressed his back against it and breathed deep.  The stairwell was empty, blue-white emergency bulbs flickering overhead.  He wiped the blood from his eye; the cut was still going. 

Zombies pounded on the door; it lurched and rattled, but Joey leveraged his legs against the frame and kept the door from opening. 

He looked up the stairs. 
Hell no
. 
I ain't gonna be stuck on a roof
.  He spotted a fire extinguisher within arm's reach to his right.  Extending to his limit, Joey snagged the hose and lifted the canister free.  He leaned down and wedged it against the door.  With the Glock in hand, Joey stepped back. 

The extinguisher stayed in place.  Joey made an adjustment, making sure it would hold up long enough to give him a head start.

He unsnapped the cargo pocket on his pants and pulled out the first aid kit he had found at the fire station.  Inside the plastic case there was gauze, tape, antiseptic wipes, antibiotic ointment, and adhesive bandages. 

Joey tore open the gauze and pressed it to his brow; he held it tight while tearing off several lengths of tape.  He squeezed a packet of ointment onto a wad of gauze and swapped it with the bloodied one from his head; he tossed the used gauze onto the landing of the stairs above.

Let's hope they're attracted to blood
.  After securing the bandages to his head with four lengths of tape, Joey snapped the kit closed and slid it into his pocket.  He glanced at the evacuation map posted near the extinguisher mount.

"How many of these shit-heads could be in storage?" 

The stairwell door banged and thumped--the extinguisher rattled but held.

"Shut the fuck up, will ya!  I'm trying to think here!"  Joey flipped the bird at the bumping door.  "All right… the loading dock it is."  He started down the stairs, Glock and machete in hand.

Where the hell could she be?
  He ran though everything she said the last time he talked with her. 

Her voice filled his mind: "…even Kelly is at a loss."  Kelly was Dana's best friend--'chums' was the word Dana used--and if Dana were alive, she'd be with Kelly.

Joey stopped at the bottom landing; the sign posted next to the door read 'Storage & Janitorial'.  He turned the handle and flung it open, gun and blade at the ready.  Nothing stirred in the corridor. 

He followed the map, turning twice, and came to the storage room entrance.  The door was locked. 

Ten feet back, next to the restrooms, was an employee locker room.  Joey entered it and started rummaging through the lockers, looking for keys--or something to use as a key. 

"Ah, shit!"  He slammed a locker shut.  "One small iota of luck would be nice!"  He glanced at the ceiling, shaking his fist.  "A key--that's all!  Just a key!  That would be fanfuckintastic right now!"

He saw it in the periphery--a shape, maybe a person.  Joey spun right, Glock in hand, and froze.  His brows scrunched up.  "What the…"

It wasn’t a zombie--at least not the kind he had seen thus far.  It was a corpse.  It was charred to the bone; there was little, if any, flesh or hair left.  It didn't moan, breathe, or make its existence known in any way. 

It took a sliding step towards Joey. 

The cemetery!
  He remembered the cops firing towards walking corpses--some of them looking as bad as this guy. 
Where the hell did it come from?

It slid forward, arms dangling, mouth half-open.  The reek of scorched meat and fried hair filled the room.  Joey gagged and pulled his tee shirt up, covering his face.