Zombified (Episode 2): Yankee Heights (12 page)

Zombies crowded at the window, shoving arms and hands inside.  Matty unloaded the shotgun, firing the last round and pulling the slide back again.  He pulled the trigger and pumped the shotgun:
click, ka-chik, click, ka-chik, click, ka-chik…

How long he dry-fired, Matty didn't know.  At some point, he stopped and threw the shotgun on the floor.  Growling and groaning undead waved their arms inside the window, clawing at the air in front of Matty. 

He turned away from the window, leaving it open, and marched upstairs.  Rummaging through Alex's pack, Matty found the two homemade grenades.  He hefted Alex over his shoulder and carried the body to the second floor window directly above the kitchen.  Matty dropped Alex on the floor and opened the window.  Below, a growing throng of zombies pressed against the house.

Matty whistled.  "Hey douchebags!" 

The zombies looked up and opened their mouths, howling and clambering over one another in a futile attempt to climb the walls.  Matty watched them for a few moments.  He couldn't help but picture a crowd of seagulls gathered around a car, waiting for the fat-ass behind the wheel to toss them a fry.

Matty ducked back inside and took out one of the grenades.  He tucked it in Alex's waist and tightened the belt. 

"Looks like they're hungry, dude."  Matty pulled the pack of matches from his pocket.  "I think you're gonna give them some serious indigestion."  He sparked the match and lit the long fuse.  Hefting Alex to the windowsill, Matty grabbed the legs and shoved. 

The zombies howled in ecstasy as Alex's body hit the ground with a thud.  Matty sat against the far wall of the room, listening to the ripping and tearing sounds. 

"Eight-Mississippi… Nine-Mississippi… Ten—"

KA-BOOM!  Matty covered his ears; the explosion shook the side of the house.  A ball of fire and smoke rose up outside the window, filling the room with the acrid stink of gunpowder and molten flesh.

He stood up and meandered downstairs.  The kitchen window was gone, replaced by a gaping hole.  Flames licked the sides of the opening and along the cupboards nearest the blasted window.  A carpet of blood lay from the window to the wall and bits of flesh and bone decorated the floor and ceiling. 

Sizzling and smoking on the torched grass outside, Matty spotted severed fingers and whole hands, peeled faces and blown-off ears, blackened bones lay beside a femur with meat still attached.

Matty hefted the rucksack and tightened the straps.  He holstered the 9mm and tightened the machete.  The old military radio lay undisturbed on the couch.  Matty clipped it on his belt. 

He picked up a red metal canister and started splashing gasoline over the kitchen.  Walking through the house, Matty left a trail of fuel through the bedrooms and down into the basement.  He heard them overhead, coming through the hole in the wall.

Matty pulled out the pistol and fired a couple of shots into the concrete wall, away from the line of gasoline.  "I'm down here, you stupid fucks!" 

The door was shut and locked; he waited for them to pile into the house, banging and pawing and hollering at the basement entrance.  When the hinges started to rattle and the boards cracked, Matty pulled out the book of matches.

He walked to the basement exit and peered outside.  Zombies were filing past the narrow cellar stairs and heading to the open kitchen window.  He struck the match and flicked it across the room.  It landed and the gasoline ignited, blazing a trail up the wooden stairs. 

Matty heard the door splinter; flaming zombies tumbled down the stairs.  He drew the 9mm and opened the basement door.  It was mid-day.  Matty slowly walked up the stairs and stood at the top, watching the smoke billow from the house and the zombies still pressing into the kitchen window.

Something had changed.  He didn't feel… normal anymore.  The fury of Kayla's death, Mike's death, Alex's death—all the people he had seen maimed or eaten alive—faded into the background, replaced by a cold desire to kill every zombie in sight.

EPILOGUE

Zombies stalked past the door, groaning and wailing.

"That's my cue, Joe," Matty whispered into the mic; "I'll see you guys soon."

"Good hunting, Matty.  Watch your ass!"

He pressed the transmit button, but the radio was dead.  Next to the power switch, a red light pulsed.  Matty dumped the radio on the passenger seat and pulled out a half-empty bottle of water. 

Outside the truck, zombies marched about the parking lot.  There weren't many of them, but there were enough to overwhelm a weary traveler.  Five tractor-trailers were parked in parallel lines.  Scattered around the lot, dozens of cars with busted windshields and blown out tires offered mute testimony to the end of civilization.

Matty sat in the cab of a red truck with grimy, stained windows and seats that smelled like coffee, beer, cigarettes, and sex.  He had found an unopened pack of condoms in the glove compartment and a couple of soggy smokes on the floor—neither one were much use at the moment.

He had lost track of time after burning down Uncle Ray's lakeside house.  Some haze of bloodlust had taken hold, and Matty had let it run its course.  He remembered using a gas can to light up a small army of munchers trapped inside a fast food joint, but everything else was hazy. 

All but three clips of 9mm bullets were gone.  His machete was caked in congealed blood and shreds of flesh.  Pieces of his shirt and pants were torn, but he didn't have any visible bite or claw marks.  He was filthy and—based on the aroma filling the truck—he was covered in zombie guts.  Every muscle, bone, and ligament screamed.

Matty leaned forward and turned on the radio, dialing the volume down to a whisper.  There was enough power in the battery and the digital screen came to life, flashing a local talk radio station.  Matty hit the scan button and leaned back against the rigid seat.  Pulses of static beat a humming rhythm, punctuated by a second of silence as the scan jumped forward.

His eyes slid shut, driven down by exhaustion.  Matty's mind registered the interruption, but his body refused to respond.  There was no more static; it skipped a beat, replaced by something else… was somebody talking? 

"Red Cross and military personnel have established a refugee camp at Timmons National Guard Base at Garden Harbor.  Citizens should proceed by any possible means to route seventeen south, crossing highway four-nineteen, and continue past the Old Moss Campgrounds.  The camp has organized medical supplies and bunks on first come, first serve basis.  Personal firearms and anyone with medical or military training is urgently needed.  Message repeats."

The voice was professional and detached.  Matty heard the crackle of static as the radio skipped forward. 
Wake up, assbag!
  He wrenched open an eye and reached up to grab the steering wheel, pulling forward into a sitting position.

Shaking like a wet dog, Matty slapped his face a few times and poured water down the back of his neck.  He stopped the station scan and manually tuned back until the announcement returned.  Matty listened, memorizing every word.

Who knows if they're still there?
  Matty leaned his forehead against the wheel. 
They must have generators or something to power the signal, right?
  His eyes rested on the gas gauge.  With the engine off, he had no way of knowing how much was left.  If he turned the key and it cranked, but didn't start, then all the munchers would come. 

"I need to try," he murmured.  "Joey doesn't know the shitstorm heading his way.  We can't hold off half-a-million zombies at his parents' house." 

I have to warn him
, he thought. 
We have to try for the base
.   

Matty reached up and wrapped a filthy hand around the key.  He took a deep breath and turned the key: it groaned and cranked… and then roared to life.

"Fuck me!"  He sat up in the seat and gripped the wheel; his eyes fell to the stick shift protruding from the floor.  "Right, it's manual.  I can't drive fuckin' stick!  Damn!"

Zombies lurched toward the truck; several were already banging on the doors and howling.  Luckily, they didn't know how to climb. 

Matty worked the pedals, eventually figuring out which was which, and managed to get the rig into first gear. 

SPLAT.  He rolled over a tangled knot of zombies, bobbing up and down on the seat.  "Woo!  Fucked you up, didn't I?  Who's next?"  At the blistering pace of ten to fifteen miles per hour, Matty rolled down the two-lane road. 

He nudged smaller cars aside and kept moving.  Zombies staggered onto the road and climbed out of smashed vehicles; one of them ran full-tilt into the truck's grille, disappearing under the fender with a snap and splat.

On the right side, Matty spotted a green and white sign: "Wooneyville – 15 miles".  He checked the gas gauge: the needle threatened to touch the empty mark. 

"Let's get as close as we can."  He was tempted to shift into second but wasn't sure how; besides, the road was choked with derelict vehicles, luggage, and bodies. 

Most of the guardrails were gone, mowed down by desperate motorists, many of which were now searching for something to eat.  Overturned and burned-out cars littered the embankments on both sides of the roadway.

After the sign marking Wooneyville at five miles away, the rig sputtered and rolled to a stop.  Matty tried to start it again, but it wouldn't turn over; the gas gauge was empty, an orange light flashed next to the fuel icon. 

His legs were sore and the rest of his body felt leaden.  Matty leaned back against the seat and stretched his legs and arms. 
I feel like a can of smashed assholes
. 

Matty surveyed the area: the road was littered with cars and zombies roamed freely, stopping to chew on the dead or chase a bird.  Some were trudging toward the truck.  The woods lining the embankment were thick and reached out in the direction of Wooneyville.

"I'll cut through there," he said.  Matty opened the passenger door and slid out of the cabin, crouching as he hit the ground.  He drew the 9mm and the machete, holding one in each hand, and scampered to the trees.  Zombies were at the truck, banging on the doors and trying to claw their way into the open passenger seat. 

Matty hesistated; he sheathed the machete and slid the backpack off.  He unzipped the main compartment and fished out the other PVC grenade that Alex had made.  Matty left the pack at the edge of the trees and crept back to the road.  Staying low, he came within throwing distance of a mound of crashed cars. 

The first match went out.  Zombies were moving to the truck, drawn to the moaning and banging.  Matty lit the fuse on the second try, stood up, and hurled the grenade: it bounced and rolled under the tire of a white minivan. 

He sprinted back to the trees, scooping up his backpack on the run. 

KA-BOOM!  BOOM-BA-BOOM!  Two of the vehicles exploded in rapid succession.  A ball of flame belched skyward.  Flaming debris catapulted in every direction, raining down on zombie and car alike.  For a hundred feet around the explosion, the road smoked and hissed.  Flames caught on multiple cars, burning the interior and unleashing a thick curtain of gray and black haze.

If any zombies had seen Matty running, they were drawn back to the road.  Munchers tumbled over the abandoned vehicles and charged over the grassy patch between the northbound and southbound lanes. 

Matty watched the fires spread and heard the sizzling flesh and popping heads; glass shattered and smaller explosions lifted cars into the air for a brief moment. 

He marched into the forest, moving at a steady pace.  Wooneyville was southwest from Yankee Heights.  Matty checked the compass every few minutes.  He had found a fold-up metal compass in Ray's supplies, along with a set of maps and a pair of working binoculars.

Gigi and Hank lived on the northern side of Wooneyville, and Matty hoped to walk right into their backyard.  He had no idea what to do if Joey was adamant on staying put.  If an army of undead were moving south from the city, how long would it take them to get to Wooneyville?

A few of the runners will get there soon
, he thought. 
Then the gunshots and groaning cries will draw in the rest.
  He knew Joey well enough to know how stubborn he was—particularly with his family.  There was a good chance he would refuse to budge. 

There was a lot of firepower at Joey's parents' house, but not nearly enough to deal with the numbers coming down from Yankee Heights.  If the National Guard base were intact, they would have machine guns, rockets, grenades, and maybe an attack helicopter or two. 

Groaning echoed through the woods, shaking Matty from the train of thought.  He hefted the machete and listened. 

"Uhhhhh."  The moaning call was close.  Matty stepped cautiously around a stump and flattened himself against a tree.  He watched for any signs of movement. 

What was left of the muncher crawled over a patch of moss-covered rock, dragging severed stumps of leg behind it.  Not wanting to draw in more with a gunshot, Matty darted over and swung the machete: the blade hewed through the skull with a
thunk
and sent the back of the zombie's head spinning off into the woods.

He hiked through the rocky forest, picking a way down as the ground sloped.  Matty smiled as he approached a mound of smooth stone.  It rose up twenty feet and was twice as wide.  The charred remains of many fires—and many parties—marked the center of the rock formation. 

"Not far now," Matty said.  The house was only ten minutes away; a steep slope of evergreens and ferns stood in the way.  He looked himself over, noting the torn clothes and blood-caked hands. 

Wouldn't it be some shit if they thought I was a zombie and shot first?
  He laughed quietly, standing by the cold firepit and trying to think, trying to hope, that there would be a fire again… maybe even a party with a keg and a bag of fine bud. 

"All that's gone, Matthias.  It's not coming back."  In that moment, the lifeless charcoal represented everything and nothing all at once.