Zombified (Episode 3): Garden Harbor (6 page)

"What about you two," Joey asked, waving at Allison and Carey.

"We were having drinks right at this bar when Geoff shoved his way in—everyone else was shoving their way out—and started screaming for us to start blocking the doors." 

"Smart move," Matty said.  "By the looks of it, a lot of people didn't make it out of here alive."

Allison drew in a breath and shook her head.  "No, it was really bad.  We saw some sick people come in here, but we thought it was just a bad cold or something, ya know?  It was like a switch." She snapped her fingers and shivered.  "Dozens of people just freaked out and attacked whoever was next to them."

"Wait a sec—are you saying they changed into these things at the same time?"  Matty put the bottle of whiskey on a small circular table and folded his arms.  "In the middle of the night?"

"I don't remember what time, but it happened fast." She shrugged. "It was a while ago, so I really don't remember if they all changed at the same time or not, but it was pretty close."

Matty turned to look at Dana.

"That doesn't sound like any natural disease that I know of," Dana said.  "That sounds like some kind of biological or chemical weapon."

"Or a disease released as a weapon," Matty thought aloud.  He turned his attention back to Allison.  "How'd you guys survive in here so long?"

"There was plenty to drink and tons of snack stuff like pretzels and chips.  We're all feeling like crap, but it's kept us alive."  She walked behind the bar and grabbed a cluster of hand-sized bags.  "Do you want some pretzels?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods?" Joey tore open the bag and wolfed down the contents.  "If the package was edible…"

"It's no cheeseburger," Dana said, "but it's pretty damn good right now!"

"Whoa!" Geoff stood abruptly and swayed, sloshing rum on the floor and over his shoes.  "Did someone say something about a cheeseburger?  I'm dying for a double cheeseburger.  If you're hittin' the drive-thru, I want five double-cheeseburgers and a huge—I mean monstrous—chocolate milkshake."  He fished through his pockets and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.  "Here it is!"  Geoff ambled over and stuffed the money in Matty's hand.  "Keep the change, brother."

"You got it, dude." Matty stuffed the cash in his pocket.  Geoff returned to his chair and tipped the bottle back, spilling more on his collar and shoulder.

"Are there any working vehicles around here?" Joey asked.  "We're going to try Timmons, but our car shit the bed."

"The National Guard Base?" Allison frowned.  "Is it still intact?"

"Last we heard," Joey replied.  "They were broadcasting for a while, and we got a hold of someone but the signal was all fucked up."

"There's a horde of zombies coming this way from Yankee Heights, so whatever firepower the base has seems like the safest bet."  Matty took a pull from the whiskey and cringed.  "I can't imagine anyone trying to outlast half-a-million munchers."

"That's nothing," Roger said; he hobbled over from the machine and shook Joey's hand.  "Crankshaft is probably home to twice that number."

"Shit, I wasn't even thinking about that place." Matty hadn't been to Crankshaft in years, but it was triple the size of Yankee Heights and packed with blocks of tenement housing.  "It's a lot farther away, so we'll have some time before they make it here."

"Unless they already started a week ago," Roger said.  "It's only a matter of time for all of us, isn't it?"

"That's a cheery thought," said Dana.  "We need to get to the base yesterday."

"I'm sure there are plenty of cars with gas in the tank, but we don't have enough firepower to get through the mobs out there." Roger scratched at his scraggly chin.  "I whipped up a couple of explosives, but there's not enough to blow them all to hell."

"You made explosives?" Joey clapped Roger on the shoulder.  "That's what I'm talking about!  What did you use and how'd you do it?"

Roger smiled and shrugged one shoulder.  "Eh, it's just something I picked up.  I'll show you how to do it, but we don't have enough supplies here to make more than a few."

"Geoff grabbed a gun from a dead cop in the lobby, and we have a few other homemade weapons." Allison picked up a section of metal pipe topped with a thick knot of wood.  "Roger said it was better to bash their heads, because sharp things get stuck too easily."

"I miss my sword," Joey sighed.  "That fucker slices clean through anything.  It was clay-tempered, carbon steel death with a handle."

"Well, let's see about making some more bombs and then we'll figure out which area of the lot to clear out." Roger cracked his knuckles.  "We'll probably get one shot at this, so let's make it count."

Matty hunched over the table, adjusted his position on the barstool, and watched Roger spread out the components for a homemade explosive. 

"I don't even know where to begin." Matty picked up a bottle of liquor and examined the label.  "One hundred and ninety-proof… we use to make gelatin shots with this stuff."

"Combine it with the right amount of household cleaning products and you get quite a bang." Roger smiled.  "We have enough to make four good-sized bombs."

He proceeded to mix a batch of chemicals, using three different products and pouring the foul-smelling goop into plastic baggies.  "Okay, you need to attach these to the covers."  Four large sections of PVC pipe lay on the counter-top. 

"This chemical baggie suspends in the liquor, right?" Joey carefully tied a length of monofilament to the knotted plastic.  "The wick burns into the liquor, melts the plastic, and the chemicals spill into the burning alcohol."

"Exactly," said Roger, giving Joey a thumbs-up.  "You catch on fast."

"I did make some grenades with gunpowder." Joey carefully poured the liquor into the hollow tube, filling it a third of the way.  "Roger, can we add some frag material to this sucker?"

"Hm.  I wouldn't recommend it, because the pieces might tear the bag."

Joey grinned.  "What about on the outside of the canister?  We could use wax or tape to fasten it to the outside."

Roger snapped his fingers.  "If you can't fix it with duct tape—"

"It ain't worth fixin'!" Joey bounced off the stool and started searching through the room.

Allison and Carey returned from exploring the roof.

"What's it lookin' like out there?" Matty asked.

"There's a lot more of them," Allison replied; she glanced at Carey.  "And we might have heard gunshots, but I'm not sure.  It sounded far away."

"The flare probably attracted the zombies." Matty wondered about the shots, though. 
Could there be anyone from Hatchet following us?
  He didn't think they'd have persisted in the pursuit, but if munchers had overrun their hideout...

"We got a pretty good idea of where to go," Carey said; "there are two cars, a van, and a pick-up in one area, and they all look to be in good shape."

"That sounds like a good idea.  At least we'll have multiple possibilities.  After the bombs clear out the zombies, we'll have to split up and check all the vehicles at once."  Matty took another swig of whiskey, forcing the gag reflex to back down a hair. 

Joey tore a strip of duct tape and hung it on the edge of the counter; he repeated the process, laying out a dozen lengths. 

"Now to find some frag." He rummaged around behind the bar and scavenged a handful of eating utensils.  "This'll do some serious damage."

Matty slid a bundle of steel forks and knives across the counter and started fastening them to the bombs with tape.  When he finished, the PVC pipe bristled with prongs and serrated edges.  Joey had already finished the other three.

"Nice work, Joe—as usual." 

Roger inspected the bombs, nodding and humming as he prodded the caps, wicks, and dining fragmentation.  "This is possibly the most ingenious improvised device I've ever seen.  Between the concussive wave, the fire, and the bits of flaming steel, the zombies are in for a nasty surprise."

"Thanks, Roger!" Joey's eyes gleamed.  Matty had seen that look a hundred times before; whenever Joey messed around with weapons of any kind, he looked like a kid with a new toy.

"What do you think the blast radius is on these things, Roger?" Matty eyed the bombs.  "We don't wanna get a spoon in the eye, ya know?"

Roger chuckled.  "Let's just say we should be at least twenty yards away—hopefully more than that—and we should be behind cover.  The fireball and shockwave is going to be deadly within 10 yards, I would think; beyond that, the danger comes from fragmentation."

"Seriously, Roger, where did you learn all this stuff?  I'm grateful, but it's not something your average jarhead is going to learn in boot camp."

"A little here and a little there," Roger said evasively.  "Some of it comes from… specialized training, shall we say."

"You're not going to give us anything else, are you?" Matty smirked.

Roger let a mischievous smile cross his face and then shook his head.

"We need to start packing up food, water, and whatever else we might need." Joey ticked off various items on his fingers.  "Start looking for bags, tablecloths, or whatever else we can use to carry stuff."

They scurried about the bar area, collecting every useable item within reach.  A pair of bins and three knotted tablecloths lay in a heap, bristling with supplies. 

"What—HO!" Geoff leapt from the chair and held the empty bottle of liquor above his head; his eyes bulged with a mingling of surprise and madness. 

"We're off to see the wizard, good chap," Roger said, patting Geoff on the back.  "Are you ready?"

Geoff blinked and leaned in close, trying to focus on Roger's nose.  "After I piss, we'll go find the wonderful wizard!"  He staggered behind the bar, dropped his pants, and hosed down the stool.

"It's like watching a dog at a fire hydrant," Allison said. 

It took Geoff a good half-hour to navigate the narrow ladder to the roof, but he managed it without falling or throwing up.

The parking lot was a wasteland; wrecked cars, bloody lumps, and smoking debris littered the area—and mobs of groaning undead patrolled the narrow gaps, sliding between and over cars, searching for something to chew on.

"There's a lot more of them now," Dana said.

"Yeah.  That flare must've drawn in every zombie for twenty miles." Matty spotted the two sedans, mini-van, and beat-up truck that Allison and Carey had reported.  Given the condition of the parking lot, all of the vehicles were in great shape.

"We don't have much in the way of guns," Joey said.  He checked the ammo on both pistols, passing one to Matty.  "Forty-two rounds by my count.  I swore I'd never be in this situation with less than a thousand rounds."

"With the explosives, we should be able to get out of here and head right for the base," Roger said.  "If that goes as planned—"

"Nothing goes as planned," Joey interrupted.  "In fact, I'd be willing to bet my ass that the more you plan, the more your plans get screwed up."

"What are we waiting for?" Geoff pointed to the zombies, firing his finger-pistol with pinpoint accuracy.  "Sally forth!"  He stepped to the edge of the roof before multiple hands pulled him back.

"Unless you can fly," Allison pointed to the ground, "we need to use the ladders.  Do you remember the ladders?"

"Woman!" Geoff put both hands on his hips.  "I'm drunk, not retarded!  Lead the way!"

The yelling had attracted nearby zombies; Matty watched clumps of rotting undead shamble to the base of the building, clutching at empty air and pleading for a meal.

"Let's descend the other wall." Roger pointed away from the clustering bodies.  "Joey, I think you or Matty should head down first."

"I'd planned on it," Joey replied; he marched to the edge, attached the rope ladder, and started down it. 

"He doesn't waste any time, does he?" Roger tied a bundle of supplies to a length of paracord and lowered it down next to the ladder.  "Passion like that is a double-edged sword."

Matty grinned; Roger had noted Joey's signature trait in such a short time.  "Yup, it's proven to be the blessed curse many times over."

Joey touched down and untied the supply bundle, piling it against the wall; Roger hoisted the empty cord back up and secured another package.  Geoff started down the ladder.

"It seems there's some… angst between you two." Roger raised an eyebrow at Matty.

"Nothing gets by you, huh?" Matty shrugged. "On some level, he blames me for his plan getting fucked up… and his parents dying in the process."

"Was it your idea to head for the base?"

Matty pushed his hair back and sighed.  "Yes and no.  I escaped Yankee Heights and made it to Wooneyville with the news of a half-million zombies looking for food.  Joey had heard a broadcast from the base, and I suggested we head there."

"Something happened along the way, though."  Roger glanced at Matty while lowering another bundle of supplies.

"A little village called Hatchet happened."  Matty scowled.  "Filled with a bunch of fuckin' psychos—they spiked the road for shit's sake.  Joey's truck flipped and we were prisoners for a little while.  There's more to the story, of course, but that's the jist of it."

Roger seemed to think for a moment.  "Everyone would have been comfortable at home, of course, but comfort won't change the inevitable."

"You know, the fucked-up thing is… I don't even care." Matty heard his voice and knew it was true; from toenail to hair, every fiber echoed agreement.  "About my life, I mean.  Joey thinks there's still something to live for, but I don't see a point in surviving simply to exist.  He's my friend… my brother… so if he wants to live, wants to fight, then I'll help him find a way."

Geoff finally touched the bottom, landing on his back and staring up at the sky; a fit of giggling took over and he rolled side to side on the pavement, flailing his arms.  Allison and Carey climbed down, followed closely by Dana.

"Don't count us out just yet," said Roger; "People, I mean.  Humans are resilient and resourceful."  He nodded at the group below.  "There's proof right in front of you."

"There was proof at Hatchet, too." Matty shook his head.  "Even if we outlast the dead, the wolves will come."