Zombified (Episode 2): Yankee Heights (7 page)

"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, dude."  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. 

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.