Zombified (Episode 2): Yankee Heights

by Spirito, Matt Di

  Zombies were everywhere. Some knelt by the mangled corpses, gnawing on bones or shredding hunks of blackened human flesh. Droves of undead milled around the trashed cars, moaning softly and stopping to chew on the leftovers of whatever catastrophe brought down the ramps.

  "Do you think we can get a car without them noticing?" Alex gave a half-smile.

  "Yeah, sure… and all politicians are honest."

  "I think you mean 'were honest'." Alex glanced back and forth along the Pike.

  "There's no way we can grab a car unless we know for sure it has keys in the ignition and gas in the tank," Matty said. "Even then, there's no way we're gonna get through this shit and make it to Wooneyville."

  "Hey." Alex nudged Matty's shoulder and pointed to a gas station across the lanes. Between a pair of bumper-to-bumper SUVs, a zombified kid—no more than eight, Matty guessed—stared at them; its vacant, white-washed eyes unblinking in the early morning sun. "Does it see us?"

  "I fuckin' hope not." Matty retreated deeper into the shadows of the trees, keeping a tight grip on his 9mm.

  "We should head to my Uncle Ray's house," said Alex; "it's on the other side of Tarkwood Pond."

  "I can't see any other options at the present. What's the situation with your uncle?"

  Alex chuckled softly. "He's an ex-army ranger with a paranoid streak. He has guns, MREs, bottled water, and whatever else is available at military surplus stores."

  "That sound like the kind of guy we need to be friends with right now." Matty watched the undead kid shamble into the roadway. "How do we get there?"

  A shrill, cackling cry rang out; the zombie child was hobbling faster, headed in their direction with its arms outstretched.

  "By the fastest possible route," Alex said.

  "We can't go back down Tarkwood, dude. All those zombies aren't that far behind us. And by the looks of it, Dougland is a no-go, too." Matty and Alex looked at each other for a moment.

  "Let's hope somebody left a boat."

  They broke cover as a chorus of gurgles and moans swelled up. The zombies clogging Dougland Pike followed the undead boy in pursuit. Matty and Alex sprinted out of the tree cover and made for the pond. Behind them, the rapid slap of running feet—more than a few pairs—punctuated the hungry groaning.

  Dashing across the wooded lane, they charged into the forest on the shores of Tarkwood Pond. Less than a football field's distance down the lane, back toward Stumpy's, the mob of walking dead filled the street.

  "If there's no boat in sight, I'm swimming it," Alex said as they ran, swatting aside branches and hurdling downed trees.

  "Fuck me. I hate swimming in ponds and lakes!" Matty huffed.

  They cleared the trees and emerged on a stretch of pale sand and dirt dotted with clumps of tall grass. The waterline was fifty feet away.

  There was no boat or anything seaworthy in sight. Matty hunched over, hands on his knees, and sucked in sharp, shallow breaths. "Plan B is also a loser."

  "Take your pants off," Alex said. He unbuckled his own pants.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  "We're going to make floats. It's something I learned in the Navy—trust me."

  "All right, dude, but if something bites my junk off I'm holding you responsible." Matty pulled off his pants. Snapping branches sounded from the trees, followed by the hollow moaning of approaching undead.

  "Let's go." Alex tightened the clasp on his rifle strap and waded into the water.

  "Dude, what if there are zombies at the bottom?"

  Alex tied knots on the bottom of the pant legs, binding them together and creating a opening suitable for a human head. "Then we're dead."

  Alex held the waistband and swung the open pants overhead and down into the water, trapping the air inside the legs. Matty copied the procedure; it took a few attempts, but he managed to make a viable life preserver.

  A pair of zombies burst onto the beach area.

  "Loop the legs over your head and hold the waist against your chest. We might have to tread water and re-fill it." Alex waded deeper into the murky water, clutching the pants and rolling onto his back. His face remained above the water as Alex paddle-kicked away from the shore.

  Undead filled the beach, staggering forward; their eyes were fixed on Matty and Alex. An overweight man, belly protruding beneath a plain white shirt, ran to the water and disappeared beneath the surface.

  "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Matty screamed and started kicking faster.

  "Stop!" Alex shouted over the frantic splashing. "You'll burn yourself out. Slow and steady, all right? They aren't floating or swimming. We're out of reach of the bottom."

  Matty slowed down. The shore faded back; it was packed with undead, all of them sprinting, shambling, or crawling into the water.

  What happens when we get to the shore? Matty imagined an army of zombies emerging from the water, catching them with their pants down… literally.

  After an hour in the water, Alex stopped them to re-fill the pant preservers. He shaded his eyes with one hand. "There's a small island over there. I don't see anything moving on it."

  Matty followed his eyes and spotted the truck-sized piece of land. It was covered in thick grass and a couple of broad-leafed trees hung out over the water.

  "I wouldn't want to stay there too long," Matty said, "but it might be a good idea to catch our breath."

  "Yeah. I'm guessing if the zombies are following our splashing, it might throw them off for a bit."

  "Or they might follow us to the island and then we're royally fucked." Matty finished refilling the pants and slid his head between the legs. They started kicking again, heading for the island.

  "We need to eat, at least. I have a few more MREs and the packaging is waterproof." Alex squinted; the sun was rising and the heat with it. "Some shade wouldn't hurt, either."

  "I'll second that, dude. The zombie apocalypse couldn't happen in a colder month, could it? No, the fuckers had to come when it's warm out!" Matty tasted salty sweat running into his mouth.

  Alex laughed. "Would you want to do this in freezing water?"

  "If it was freezing, we could sled across, dude. Shoot a few spots behind us and let those things fall in: problem solved."

  They made it to the island and collapsed in the grass for a few minutes. The shore was far off, but they saw rows of figures pressing into the water.

  "How many of them are there?" Alex watched the zombies thrash around and vanish beneath the surface.

  "Figure a quarter of a million in Yankee Heights alone." Matty ran through the surrounding areas, trying to guess how many people lived within walking distance of the city. "Add another hundred thousand if all the surrounding communities are gone."

  Alex closed his eyes. "I can't even imagine it, man. We've seen a thousand, maybe two, at most."

  "Not with a bang but with a slow, whimpering crawl to the grave," Matty recited. "My buddy Joey and I used to talk about how it would end. Would it be a nuclear bang? Even then, we'd have anarchy and gangs of armed thugs taking whatever was left." Matty sat up and removed his pistol from the soaked pack; he took it apart and spread the pieces on the grass.

  "I guess no matter how it could have gone, there would be this," Alex waved a hand towards the shore. "We're bleeding to death."

  "I think we've bled to death, Alex." Matty emptied the rest of his pack on the grass. "We're looking into the light right now and trying to decide if we want to be there or come back and fight."

  "Nobody wants to die," Alex said. He sat up and folded both arms across his knees. "The instinct to live is too strong."

  "Is this life?" Matty shook his head. "It's more like waiting for death."

  "Looking into the light," Alex whispered.

  After a moment, he got up and pulled a pair of military rations from his dripping bag. He opened the contents and handed Matty a meal pouch, crackers, and a pack of peanut butter.

  "Beef stew?" Matty asked.

  Alex smiled. "It'
s the only one I enjoy eating."

  They devoured the food and then rung out their clothes.

  "Alex, do you think our guns will fire?"

  "It's not the guns we need to worry about." Alex fished out a handful of rounds from his pack and examined them. "If the primers or powder are too wet, none of our bullets will fire."

  "Wow… does that suck." Matty grabbed a handful of his Luger rounds and tried to figure out if they were wet. "How do you tell?"

  "Pull the trigger," Alex said.

  "Nice, dude. You really inspire me." Matty shoved the bullets back into his backpack and started putting his pistol back together.

  "My uncle has plenty of ammo. We need to get there soon."

  Matty's eyes drifted to the still water. "Before they do."

  Alex nodded.

  They tightened the knots on their makeshift preservers and eased back into the water. The afternoon wore on as they kicked towards the shore, angling towards a red and brown brick house set back from the shore.

  "It looks quiet," Alex said. "I know that means dick, but it's more than I hoped for." He splashed water over his head.

  "How deep do you think this water is?" Matty peered into the gloom; his mind conjured up pairs of dull white eyes watching him from below.

  "Eighty feet in some places, but it's probably about thirty under us."

  "Good. That's good. So six or seven of them would have to stand on top of one another to reach us." Matty tore his eyes from the water and leaned back against the puffy pant legs.

  "Try not to think about."

  Matty belted out a maniacal laugh. "Yeah right! 'Don't think about the hundreds of flesh-eating monsters underneath us'. You're a fuckin' riot, Alex."

  "All right, try not to think about it until we get into the shallow areas. Then you can think about it."

  "What the fuck, dude!" Matty twisted around and peered at the approaching shore. "When does it get shallow?"

  "Pretty soon." Alex wore a smile that Matty wanted to tear off his face.

  "Damn you, Alex. May the fleas of a thousand mutts molest you." Matty started thinking about zombie fleas. Can insects become zombies? "Shit, Alex, what are the chances of zombie bugs?"

  Alex laughed and laughed… and laughed. "You'll get along well with my uncle. You two are paranoid as hell. I'd be more worried about zombie fish right now."

  "Zombie fish? Alex, you asshat. Thanks for that, man." Matty closed his eyes, breathed through his nose, kicked out, and exhaled. "Zombie fuckin fish… don't bite my nuts off, please."

  "I was kidding, man. Zombies are uncoordinated. Can you imagine zombies underwater, trying to catch and eat a fish?"

  Matty couldn't imagine it. "No… no, I can't. All right, I'm cool."

  They kicked on for another hour until Alex reached over and patted Matty's shoulder. "Put your feet down, man."

  Matty stood up in the chest-high water. "Dude, you didn't tell me we were this close to the shore! I'm gonna fuckin' choke you!"

  Alex thrust a finger to his lips. "Shut up." The house was a hundred feet from the water; there was no movement, no lights, and no sign of damage outside.

  "We aren't done talkin' about this," Matty whispered. He drew the pistol, shook the water off, and chambered a round.

  They crept to the near wall, pressing their backs to the cool brick. Alex took the lead, rounding the corner and climbing short wooden stairs onto a patio. A sliding door, boarded up with sheets of plywood, led inside from the patio.

  Alex gave thumbs up and whispered, "He was ready. We're good."

  The windows were likewise boarded; there was no view inside the house. While Alex was peering in the windows and checking the sides of the house, Matty checked the sliding door and found it unlocked.

  "Pssst," he called to Alex. Matty pointed at the door and mouthed, "O-pen".

  Something thudded inside the house. Alex walked over and raised his rifle. Matty gripped the handle; his heart hammered and a burning sensation rose up in his throat. Alex nodded.

  Matty flung the door open. Alex's eyes widened and the tip of his Garand slid down to the ground.

  "Uncle Ray?" He said in a weak voice. "It's me… it's Alex."

  "What is it, dude?"

  Tears erupted from Alex's eyes; his words were lost in a string of mumbling and gibberish. "Uncle Ray… no…"

  Uncle Ray stepped onto the patio: Uncle Ray wasn't alive anymore. His dark, unkempt hair spilled over gaunt, pale cheeks and his wide eyes were cloudy and rimmed in red. His lower lip was torn off and hung by a thread of flesh, swinging from his chin.

  Alex stepped back, but Uncle Ray wasn't a shambler: he lunged forward, grabbed Alex by the shirt and bit into his nephew's collarbone. Matty heard the crunch. Alex screamed, dropped his rifle, and ripped zombie Ray off. Alex's chest spewed rich crimson blood onto the deck; he slapped a hand over the wound.

  Matty raised the pistol and pulled the trigger: click.

  Fuck! He pulled the slide back, ejecting the dud round, and fired again: click.

  Zombie Ray slurped the blood from his exposed teeth and gums and ran at Alex, bearing him to the wooden deck. Matty reloaded but couldn't get a clean shot.

  Ray's fingers dug into Alex's cheek, tearing a pair of parallel gashes. Screaming and crying, Alex wrestled Ray and got a knee under him; he shoved the muncher off and crawled away as Matty took aim.

  Uncle Ray raised his bloodied fingers and bit down on them, scraping the strings of Alex's cheek into this mouth. His lifeless eyes focused on Matty.

  Matty pulled the trigger: click. "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me!" He pulled the slide back again as Ray charged.

  BANG! The fourth round went off, blasting the rest of Ray's face off and splashing teeth and brain on the deck. Momentum carried the faceless zombie into Matty; with a rending snap, the rail gave way and they plummeted ten feet to the ground.

  Matty couldn't breathe for a few seconds, and spots of shining light spun and swirled overhead. His ribs felt tender as Matty crawled away from the oozing hole that used to be Ray's face.

  He staggered back around to the stairs and climbed up. Alex lay on the deck, blood streaming out between his fingers. He was still conscious, but his skin was rapidly losing color and his breathing was ragged and raspy.

  Shit! What the fuck am I supposed to do now! Matty ran a hand over his short hair. Check the house, dumbass. If it's clear, we hold up here.

  He combed through the house, finding plenty of supplies and weapons—just as Alex had said. In the upstairs bedroom, he found a woman's body with a knife buried in her skull. She had been a zombie when the knife was used: her eyes were washed out and dried blood caked her lips. Based on pictures scattered around the bedroom, she was Uncle Ray's wife.

  She must have attacked him and bit his face. Matty remembered the shredded lips on Uncle Ray. That's fuckin' nasty. Matty closed the door and went back to the patio. He grabbed Alex under the arms and carried him inside.

  As he slid the patio door closed, Matty heard splashing from the pond. Zombies emerged from the water, dragging themselves toward the house. He shut and locked the door.

  CHAPTER 10

  "Oh man… that's revolting." Matty backed away from the bed, pressing a blue and white rag over his face. "How can there be anything left?"

  "I dunno," Alex mumbled, his head half inside the five-gallon bucket. He coughed, snorted, and spit a wad of stringy green gel into the bucket.

  "How's the bandage?"

  Alex lay back down, pouring sweat and gasping for a full breath. "I think it bled through again."

  Matty changed the gauze on Alex's chest and cheek. "There's good news here, dude. My friend had his fingers bitten off and he threw up, too."

  "How is that good news?" Alex scowled. His bloodshot, black-rimmed eyes tightened.

  "He didn't turn into a zombie." Matty taped the bandages in place.

  "What happened to him?"

  "Died in a car accident shortly thereafter
." Matty shrugged. "He died human."

  "I ask again: how is that good news?"

  Matty stood up and deposited the bloody bandages in the puke bucket. "We're not in a car, for starters." He opened the bedroom window and dumped the vomit and bandages outside.

  Snarling and groaning noises greeted the rain of human filth.

  "There's something satisfying about dumping a bucket of puke on a zombie." Matty sighed. "Enjoy the little things, right?"

  "If you say so." Alex closed his eyes. "I think I'll sleep for a bit."

  "Okay. I'll be downstairs if you need me."

  Matty left the bucket and exited the room, leaving the door ajar. He lumbered down the creaky wooden stairs into the basement.

  The dank concrete cellar was stacked with boxes of bullets and rations, cases of bottled water, and bags of clothes and survival gear. Matty spent the rest of the day sifting through the goods and separating out anything of use that could be stuffed in a backpack. Judging by the supplies, Ray had intended to sit out any disaster in his house.

  Matty spent the next day hauling the sorted goods up from the basement while Alex slept and vomited, the former overtaking the latter. Matty left bottles of water and bits of food such as crackers or protein bars, but Alex either refused to eat or wasn't conscious long enough to make a decision.

  Alex wasn't turning into a muncher, but he wasn't recovering from the wounds. There were no antibiotics in the medical supplies, and the wound was too big and deep to be stitched properly. Alex had lost a lot of blood, and he had been unable to keep down any food or water.

  "First Mike and now Alex," Matty said aloud. "If someone's immune, their entrails become extrails… what's the connection?" He tried to recall what Mike said about the parasite. "Something about it using viruses and bacteria to piggyback into the human body." I wish Mike were here. Alex is a living sample of what Mike needed. "Shit!" He yelled and swatted a tower of boxes to the floor.

  It'd be nice to know if I was immune or not, he thought. One less thing to worry about if I get bit.

  Matty rummaged through the boxes and started packing rations and water into olive-drab rucksacks. He added a magnesium fire starter, ponchos, thermal blankets, and a length of paracord. The side and front pouches he filled with bullets and loaded magazines. Uncle Ray had plenty of 9mm rounds, and even some compatible magazines.