Zombified (Episode 1): Wooneyville (8 page)

"Yeah, I know it, but they were already coming before I turned it on.  I can't see in the dark, and I don't want to miss when I shoot.  Know what I'm saying?"

"Gotcha, Pop.  I'll be there in a hot minute.  I got an idea--unlock the attic window for me."

"What the hell for?"

"Just do it, Pop."  Joey turned the truck and plowed into a zombie, mashing it with the heavy-duty grill.

"Whatever you say, Joe." 

Joey hung the mic and clicked off the radio.  He made a sharp turn, angling Bad Betty between two tall pines, and plowed over a tangle of flesh-eaters.  The cabin was close.  Joey cut the wheel and hit the brakes: Betty spun sideways and then turned about.  Joey popped it in reverse and backed up to the roof overhang. 

He killed the engine, pocketed the keys, and gathered his armaments.  Sliding the rear window open, Joey squeezed through and pulled his gear after him. 

There were dozens--maybe a hundred or more--zombies moaning, groaning, and slobbering around the cabin.  They started converging on Bad Betty but couldn't climb the sides to get in the bed, and the tailgate was flush against the overhang. 

"Awww, what's the matter fuckheads?  Can't figure out how to climb?"  Joey taunted them, flipping the bird and hocking a loogey.  He scampered up the shingled incline and nudged the attic window open.

"Pop?"

"Right here, Joe."  Hank got up from behind a toppled cabinet, 12-gauge in hand.  He trotted over and pulled Joey inside.  Joey grabbed his bag of ammo and shut the window.  "I can't squeeze through your rear window, Joe.  What's your plan?"

"You can always ride in the back, Pop, or we can clear a swath around the truck--you know, blast our way out."  Joey mimicked firing and loading a shotgun.

Hank grinned, pushing his glasses back to the bridge of his nose.  "You always were a damned maniac, Joe."

Joey clapped Hank on the arm and pulled him into a rough hug.  "Someone has to be, you old dog."

"All right, enough of this mushy crap.  We need to get the hell out of here."

"I'll second that, Pop.  Let's gather what we can.  I'll bring it down and tie into the bed of my truck."

They climbed down the attic stairs, rounded the second floor landing, and descended to the parlor.  Hank gestured to a pile of stuff near the fireplace: boxes, wooden chests, and a pair of old military-style duffel bags. 

"It's all ready to go.  Just needs to be hauled out."  Hank grinned.  "Get to it, kid."

"You ain't foolin' anybody, Pop--you're as diesel as anyone I know.  Except for yours truly, of course."

"Of course.  You arrogant son of a--"

KRAK-KOOM!

Lightning lit up the house, washing everything in white, and thunder shook the walls and windows.  Rain pattered, then beat, and then drummed on the cabin.  The noise dominated.

"That's going to make it difficult to load the truck and pay attention to all the zombs," Joey said, pushing aside a slatted shade and peering through a crack in the boarded window. 

"Not to mention the risk of slipping and falling--they'd be on us like that."  Hank snapped his fingers and then re-adjusted his glasses. 

"Yeah."  Joey moved away from the window.  "I say we get a fire going and wait out the rain.  With the lightning and thunder, they shouldn't be any more attracted here than anywhere else."

Hank nodded.  "Sounds good.  I'll try to get Ma on the radio and let her know what's going on."

Hank shuffled down the hall to the back bedroom. Joey went to the fireplace and removed the screen.  He grabbed a few paper logs and piled them in the fire pit, shredding some of the paper for tinder.  Inside a zippered pocket on the ammo bag, Joey found his magnesium striker.  He shaved off a dusting of gray flakes and struck the flint--the magnesium caught and the frayed paper flared.

Hank appeared from the hall, nodded at the fire, and plopped himself down on a leather chair; the shotgun rested across his lap.  "Nice work on the fire, Joe." 

"All those camping trips, Pop."  Joey got up and went around the room, checking windows and doors.  He peered out the window, checking on Bad Betty: none of them had climbed in the bed; they ignored the vehicle, marching in jagged lines around the house, slapping walls, windows, and doors.

"What's the story with Dana, Joe?"  Hank gestured for Joey to hand him a beer.  A six-pack sat on the kitchen table.

Joey grabbed the whole pack and sat down across from Hank.  He tossed a beer over and took one, cracking it open.  "She was attacked and bit by one of them."  Joey drained half the beer and belched.

"I'm sorry to hear that, kid--I really am."  Hank took a swig and shook his head.

"She's not dead--or undead--yet.  She was sick, but she was still alive when I locked her in the spare room."

"Our spare room?  That's a little risky, Joe.  What did Ma say?"

Joey drained the rest of the beer, tossing the can into the fire.  He opened a second one.  "She didn't like it, but I told her not to open the door no matter what she heard.  If she listens, then I'll deal with whatever happens when I get back."

"I guess that's the only thing you could have done." 

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the thunder rumble and the zombies groan and pound.  Flashes punctuated the dancing firelight.

"Pop, I saw dead bodies coming back.  I mean, dead bodies.  I ran into one of them at the medical center.  It was long dead, charred to a crisp.  It wouldn't go down.  I hacked it apart, Pop, and it kept coming."  Joey stared into the fire.  "I don't know what's causing this shit, but that wasn't like these things."  He waved at the walls.  "What could make buried bodies, people that died years ago, come back?  Diseases can't do that, can they?"

"That's the first I heard about that, Joe."  Hank sipped his beer, rocking slightly in the chair.  "I suppose Dana or one of them folks at the center would have known more about it."

"Dana was trying to sort it out with one of the doctors--and her friend Kelly--before the center was overrun.  She started talking about it before she passed out."  Joey guzzled his second beer and pitched the empty into the flames.

"Did you learn anything?"

"She thought it might be some sort of parasite or something like that.  I didn't really understand it all."  Joey mulled it over, trying to remember what she'd said.  "Something that gets in the body and hijacks the nervous system.  She said people just stopped breathing… like those automatic systems were cut."

Hank whistled.  "That's over my head.  It couldn't have just popped up out of nowhere, right?  Is it one of those superbugs they talk about?"

"I really don't know, Pop.  Maybe it's some government experiment gone wrong."

Hank huffed and shook his head.  "That wouldn't surprise me one bit.  They can't even keep the roads paved."

"I dunno."  Joey cracked another beer.  "It's those dead and buried bodies that freak me out.  Viruses, bacteria, experiments gone wrong--it makes sense for us, for the living that are exposed, but for bodies six feet under?"

"There's got to be some explanation, Joe.  I don't buy into any of that religious doomsday bullcrap."  Hank cracked another beer and slurped the foam from the top.

Lightning flashed and a rip of thunder followed close behind, shaking the room.  Glass rattled in the windows and a lamp toppled off the corner table, smashing on the floor.

"Sounds like the storm is moving in right over our head," Hank said, glancing up at the ceiling.  "Good thing I fixed the roof last year."

"Leaks are the least of our worries, Pop."  Joey got up and made his rounds past the windows, the front door, and through the bedrooms. 

Another burst of light and rip of thunder boomed; a painting fell from the wall and the fridge rattled against the wall.

"Pop," Joey called from the kitchen window, "are there any old trees within striking distance of the cabin?" 

Hank got up from the leather rocker and stood behind Joey.  "Now that you mention it, there were three or four of them starting to rot out."  He peered over Joey's shoulder, pointing towards a thick chestnut tree twenty yards from the house.  "I was going to clear them out this summer."

"Where are the others?"  Joey followed Hank to the front windows, where Hank pointed out two more large trees in need of culling.  The last was behind the guest bedroom at the back of the cabin.

"Pop, we may want to consider loading up and getting out of here.  At least two of those trees are close enough to hit the cabin.  If a bolt strikes them or hits close to them, we could be in serious shit."

"You think so?  They've been on the way out for a couple years, Joe."

"Yeah but the trees are probably weaker now than a couple of years ago.  Not to mention we got a badass storm right over us and a couple trillion zombies looking for a way in."  Joey paced the parlor, stopping by the fireplace.  "I'm going to load up the truck.  Can you cover me from the attic window?"

"Of course, Joe."  Hank shouldered his shotgun as Joey started carrying the supplies into the attic.  He piled everything next to the window.

"Ready, Pop?" 

Hank nodded, shotgun nestled against his right shoulder.  Joey threw open the window and started sliding the supplies down the shingles.  He slid down behind the goods, pushing them into Bad Betty's bed.  Rain poured down, drenching his hair and shirt. 

A flash erupted, blinding Joey and Hank.  The bolt struck a healthy pine thirty yards from the side of the house.  Thunder rippled through the cabin, cracking several windows. 

Joey rubbed his eyes; white spots bubbled and floated in his vision. 

"Joe!"  Hank's voice cut through the rain--the old dad voice, capable of reaching miles when required.  Joey looked up at the window: Hank was pointing to the trees.  The pine that was struck hissed and smoked, flames licking up the bark and popping the needles and cones in firework colors. 

The tree snapped and wavered back, angling away from the cabin.  Joey tied down the trunks and bags, then clambered up the roof to the window. 

Another wooden snap resounded through the beating rain: the tree collapsed downward, splintering under its own weight, and shifted directions, falling towards the cabin.

It bounced off younger trees and collided with the rotted oak.  The ailing old oak held up, but the pine rebounded from the impact and came down on the corner of the cabin. 

Shingles catapulted upward as the roof buckled; beams and supports crackled and snapped; and the double-sized window in the kitchen shattered.  Driving into the wall, the fallen pine came to rest on the foundation.  It had torn through the roof, wall, and window, opening a four-foot wide gap in the kitchen.

"Toss me the last two bags, Pop!"  Joey waved, pointing at the black ammo bag and a bulging military duffel bag. 

Hank leaned his shotgun against the wall and grabbed both bags, one in each hand.  Grunting with the effort, Hank tossed them onto the shingle roof.  Joey caught them in mid-slide and transferred both to the truck.  He tied them down and scampered up the roof to get Hank.

Zombies poured into the cabin, howling and rampaging through the rooms and up the stairs. 

Hank slammed the door shut and dragged a cabinet over to barricade it.  He lowered a shoulder and pushed.  The door slammed into the cabinet, shoving it--and Hank--back a foot.  There were too many undead piling up behind the door.

Joey dove into the attic as the door crashed open and the cabinet was flung aside.  Dozens of zombies stampeded at Hank and Joey, snapping their jaws and clawing with bloodied hands.

"Pop!" Joey grabbed Hank's collar and yanked him back.  Hank tripped and lost his balance, falling on his ass near the window.  Joey drew his Glock and opened fire.

BANG! BA-BANG! BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!

He let loose, not even really aiming, and emptied a clip into the moaning mob. 

"Pop, toss me my shotgun!  On the floor to your left!"

Hank leaned over, grabbed Zeus, and tossed it to Joey.  Joey snagged it in from the air and turned on the zombies--they were almost within arm's reach.

KA-BOOM! BA-BOOM! BOOM! BOOM-BA-BOOM!

Zeus lit up the attic, mowing down the zombies with 00-buck ferocity.  The autoloader pumped all ten shots into the gibbering creatures with astounding effect.  Bodies blocked the doorway and landing, but more were coming up the stairs.

"Down the roof, Pop!  Move!"  Joey stepped back, slung Zeus over one shoulder, and drew the Glock.  He swapped magazines from a belt holster and freed the slide.

Hank skidded down the shingles, tumbling into the truck bed with a yelp.

"You all right, Pop?"

"I'll live!  Get your butt down here!"

Joey heard Hank's shotgun bark:
BOOM! KA-CHINK. BOOM!

"On my way!"  Joey emptied another clip into the zombies trying to squeeze through the attic door, which was thoroughly jammed up. 

That should slow 'em down
, he thought.  He reloaded the Glock and slipped into the holster.  Gripping the top sill, he swung both legs out the window and hit the roof on his feet; he surfed down and landed in the truck.

"That's how you do it, Pop."

"I'll try and remember that next time, wise guy."  Pop decapitated another zombie, ejecting the last shell.  "The damned things are climbing up the dead ones!" 

Sure enough, zombies hauled up the side of the truck, stepping over the corpses, and clawed at Hank and Joey. 

"Can you get in the cabin, Pop?"

Hank glanced at the sliding rear window and shook his head.  "Cover me while I reload the 12-gauge and then you can get in there and get us out of here."

Joey drew his sword and alternated between slicing zombie skullcaps and blowing them off.  He finished another magazine while Hank loaded up.

"I'm good.  Let's get out of here!"  Hank yelled, cocking the shotgun.

Joey went headfirst into the cab, wriggling through the window.  As his hips passed through, a hand clamped down on his ankle.

"Pop, something's got me!  Fuckin' shoot it!"

Joey heard a scuffle, then the sound of a gun stock whapping against skull.  His leg was released.  Hank yelled and Joey heard a thump.  Zombies climbed into the truck bed, and one of them had Hank pinned against the side.