MZS: Philadelphia (Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Book 3)

by McAdams, K. D.

  The man in the gun turret lets fly with an extended burst of gunfire. Expended shell casings clatter off the roof and fall to the ground with a pitch high enough to break through the explosive sound of their other half. I cannot see his face but have an impression that the man in the turret is perfectly calm.

  I arrive at the door in conjunction with the fourth runner and we both push inside.

  My ears are assaulted with a new sound: screams and cries. I forgot how long I had been alone in my room without stimulation.

  “What the fuck!” screams the man close to the woman.

  Outside, the gunfire stops.

  “Tucker!” the three of them scream in panic.

  The man holding the child has leaned his face into the wall. The bloody pulp of flesh that used to be a head has flopped off to one side. I can see the man’s back trembling and hear his sobs above all else. That must be his son.

  The largest of the three men opens the outside door, the one that came through in front of me. On cue, the gunfire resumes, but still they scream to their friend.

  “TUCKER! TUCKER! TUCKER!”

  He doesn’t even glance our way.

  The first zombie appears at the back of the Humvee and I know there are many more on the way. We need to help Tucker, but leaving our door open so zombies can get in is not the way.

  With all my might, I push them aside. My effort is justified when an arm thrusts through the opening and grabs at the large guy’s chest. The hockey stick I saw earlier connects with the zombie’s chest and pushes the thing back several steps. I grab the bar of the door and pull it closed, listening intently for the click.

  “Here,” I scream, too loud for the newly reduced level of noise.

  They slide over to the sidelight window and jockey for position. The young woman stands motionless. The distant look in her eyes conveys nothing and everything.

  I have to take a step back from the guys by the window. They are oblivious to my presence here in the stairwell. Moving about to get a better view of the outside, they dance around each other but see only their friend outside.

  “He’s okay. They can’t climb onto the rig,” the big one says.

  “He needs to get under cover before he runs out of ammo. I’ll try texting him,” the one with the hockey stick says.

  From my vantage point I can see out to the Humvee. The guy in the turret is firing and pausing.

  After a sustained burst of fire, I can see a fist pump and briefly catch a smile purse his lips. For a moment I forgot that, in addition to the zombies, this guy is getting shot at from the snipers.

  Another short burst of gunfire erupts and Tucker—I gather that’s his name—slides down out of view. There was no telltale red puff to indicate that he was shot. He may be reloading or just resting.

  The big one pulls out his phone and reads the screen.

  “Tucker thinks he got the last shooter.”

  “Now what?” Mr. Hockey stick asks.

  Out the window, there are hundreds of zombies on the street. There are more than I remember seeing in the lobby. How many bullets would he need to stop them all? More than I believe are in the truck.

  “We can distract them,” I say without thinking.

  “What?”

  “If we go to the lobby, we can make loud noise to get the zombies turned around and maybe give him enough of an opening to get to the door.”

  “Let’s go!” the big one yells.

  “McLean. You stay here with Todd,” the guy with the hockey stick says to the girl.

  “When the zombies get away from the Hummer, open the door and call Tucker over.”

  “Uh huh,” she nods vaguely.

  “Laney, do you understand?” he asks again.

  “Yeah. Open the door and yell for Tucker.” She’s distant.

  We turn to head into the hotel.

  The three of us pause to look at the man still holding the lifeless child. He continues to sob and has begun lightly banging his forehead against the wall. We’ll have to find a way to help him when their other friend is safe.

  The big guy moves first. He gives his mourning friend a wide berth and heads to the hotel door. The hockey stick guy directs me to go second and I follow without protest. I have not been inside the hotel from this entrance, so I know as little as my new companions.

  We get through the door and into a short hallway. It leads deeper into the hotel and I hope it connects to the main passage to the lobby.

  “Which way is the lobby?” Big guy asks.

  “To the right, it’s not that far.”

  He takes off at a slow jog. For the first time, I notice that his forearms and calves are covered in something. The surface has a light shine and some decorations but I cannot make out what they are. It seems odd that a grown man would wear something like this at all, let alone on the outside of his clothes. Maybe he’s one of those cosplay guys and thinks it makes him look like a character from some movie.

  The distraction does me no good. My nose smashes into his back while his friend collides with mine.

  “Shit,” is all I hear in response.

  It’s followed quickly by moaning and that buzzing that has been noticeable as well. When we stand far enough apart, I can see that the hallway in front of us is full of undead.

  “Behind us!” the hockey player calls out.

  The deathblow is almost reflexive. Before I can process the presence of the zombie, the pointy end of the hockey stick has lashed out and penetrated the eye socket.

  In the hallway outside my room, the killing was reluctant. Damon was trying to escape and leave his pursuers alone in the hallway. Only our collision forced him to turn and use deadly force.

  But this response left no room for consideration or alternative. Target identified, target eliminated, with brutal efficiency. These men may not be part of the military, but they behave like trained killers.

  As the one with the hockey stick steps forward to engage with another monster, I feel a push in my back. The big guy is driving me back to the stairwell. It is probably an appropriate course of action, but I feel like I should resist.

  Will I be safe trapped in a stairwell with these people?

  McLean

  Chapter 8

  I can’t believe Patrick left me here with Todd. It has crossed my mind a few times that when he stops mourning he may have a psychotic break. That means my life could be in danger on all fronts.

  Looking out the window, there are more zombies than I can count. They have surrounded the Humvee and Tucker is nowhere to be seen.

  Granted, it was just yesterday, but the only other time we have tried a rescue we came home with a new person for our group. We’ve now lost that person and I’m afraid that any rescue attempt for Tucker will result in losing more people.

  Tucker slowly rises up out of the gun turret. His phone is held out in front of him and he spins slowly, taking in his surroundings. Old habits die hard, but sharing a Vine video does not seem appropriate right now.

  At about the two-hundred-and-eighty-degree mark of his rotation, a shot rings out. I can hear it ricochet off some part of the Humvee and then the glass in front of me shatters.

  A shriek escapes my lungs and I turn to alert Todd. Instead I see Patrick hurrying back through the door, followed by the new guy and Cupcake.

  “The fuck happened here?” Patrick asks in shock.

  “I don’t know! They’re shooting at Tucker again and something must have bounced off the Humvee and broken the window.”

  It doesn’t take long before an undead arm comes through the newly missing window, followed by a head. It’s a man with five o-clock shadow. His face is covered in blood and I can see bits of long human hair stuck to his stubble. There is a tiny bit of flesh in the dimple of his chin and the cloudy vacant eyes send a shiver down my spine.

  “MOVE!” Patrick screams at me.

  He pulls on the back of my shirt and the zombie hand flashes in front of my face. A forcefu
l grip on my shoulder spins me around and leaves me facing the stairs. The sidelight is big, it’s good design suddenly a liability when the glass is gone. With nothing solid covering the opening it also allows human-sized creatures, like zombies, to pass through easily.

  “Where do we go, new guy?!” Cupcake yells.

  The new guy is standing next to Todd, who continues to hold Jaden is if he were alive. Terror is painted all over the new guy’s face. I notice that he does not have a weapon, which makes his run outside of the building all the more heroic.

  “Up?” he finally mutters, unsure of his answer.

  I’m not sure why we’re not going out into the hallway and the lobby like we had planned. It doesn’t really matter; I know we can’t stay here. Why am I not moving, though?

  Grunts and groans come from the form beside me. Patrick is thrusting and pushing with his hockey stick. He is in control but just barely, with each jab more frantic than the previous. Looking back to the window, I can see why. Sheer numbers is the only thing keeping the undead from getting through the window.

  Cupcake pushes the new guy up the stairs. He walks right past me but bumps me enough to illicit movement. I follow close behind him and am surprised by the fast pace. We seem well away from the violence after only a few steps.

  “Laney! Help me with Todd,” Patrick yells after me.

  I am not fully back from being immobilized with fear, but I can force myself to move. In a light fog, I walk down the steps I just climbed and wait for something to happen.

  Is this a psychological turning point? Have I gone over the edge and submitted to the probability that I will die here, only to come back confident in my ability to survive? Does this somehow make me stronger and better able to deal with the brutality likely in my future?

  Patrick is gone and the zombies are making progress at getting through the sidelight window. They are so ruthless that there is no hesitation in severing a limb to get just an inch closer to human flesh.

  Todd’s ashen face appears. He seems to have gone over the edge and I wonder if he will make it back. How long do we give before we have to leave him to snap out of it or die?

  A final push gets Todd up onto the first step. Patrick returns to stab at the zombies in the window some more and I reach my hand around behind Todd to encourage his progress.

  The gooey wet slime I feel reminds me of how brutal our recent trauma has been. Somehow I manage to push through, literally. With help from my hand and his own autopilot, Todd makes it up several steps, with me close behind.

  “You’re doing great. Keep going,” Patrick says calmly from behind me.

  Cupcake and the new guy are waiting on the landing a few steps ahead of me. I can’t remember taking any individual steps, but we have gone several flights.

  Patrick guides Todd and me past the other two and tugs on my shirt to stop us from taking the next set of steps. I’m left staring at the mostly headless corpse of a six-year-old. It is an unpleasant view, to say the least, so I turn to look at the wall behind me instead.

  I can hear and I can move, but I just can’t think. The guys have an extra day of zombie fighting experience. Will I be able to compartmentalize my fears tomorrow? If I am going to survive, I’ll need to learn to think and act while faced with paralyzing fear.

  “I’m Patrick. This is Cupcake. How well do you know this hotel?” Patrick asks the new guy.

  “Not well.”

  “Do you have anything you could use as a weapon?” Cupcake asks him.

  “No.”

  “Listen. I know this is pretty fucked up, but we are in kind of a sticky spot right now. We have two friends out there in that Humvee that could either get eaten or shot. One-word answers don’t make you a valuable member of the team.” Patrick is calm but assertive.

  “Sorry, it’s a lot to take in. I’m Parker,” the new guy says carefully.

  “Nice to meet you Parker. First things first: any idea where we can get you a weapon?” Patrick brings a hint of normalcy into this crazy situation.

  “A gun! There’s a gun in one of the other stairwells.”

  “Sweet!” Cupcake whoops.

  “Okay Parker, how do we get to the other stairwell and the gun?” Patrick asks, prodding him along like a child.

  “Fifth floor. Down the hallway, stairwell before the elevators.”

  The wall I am staring at has a sign. We’re on floor three. The sign also says that there is a rooftop lounge. A drink would work wonders right now.

  “Laney, head up to the landing for the fifth floor and stop. Got it?” Patrick instructs.

  “Got it.”

  I push Todd into the next flight of stairs and he complies. When and how we are going to get him to put down the body, I don’t know. For now, I’ll just walk and try to ignore the sound of blood dripping onto concrete with each step.

  The first three flights went past in a blur, but these last two are a struggle. I don’t know if fear burns calories, but the little bit of fuel we gave our bodies in the Humvee does not seem like enough to keep us going.

  Patrick gives out loose instructions when we reach the fifth floor landing. “Okay, me first, then new guy, Todd, Laney, then Cupcake. Got it?”

  None of us speak; we just nod and follow him out the door in the requested order. The hallway is quiet and normal. I want to stop and sit and rest and be comfortable, but Patrick keeps moving.

  Our leader is through the door to the next stairwell and fear comes over me again. I have this feeling that the hallway is the normal world and we are choosing to leave it and walk through a gateway to hell. Why are we leaving the safe comfortable world?

  When we are all gathered on the landing, Patrick faces the group.

  “Hang on a little longer. We’ll be safe soon.”

  How can he know this?

  “Parker, where is the gun?”

  Before Parker can answer, a body comes flying onto the landing. In a scene that brings back the trauma from our New York rescue mission, a second zombie comes flying down from above and crashes into the landing, almost directly on top of the first attacker.

  Patricks’ broken hockey stick is aimed quickly and thrust through the eye socket of the undead on top. In a smooth dance-like motion, Patrick withdraws the stick and drives it into the skull of the lower undead.

  We wait. There is an unspoken agreement that we will stand our ground here on this landing. Nothing comes.

  “The gun is at the bottom of the stairs in a holster on the body of a policeman,” Parker says.

  “Is the policeman… alive?” Patrick asks weirdly.

  “No. He’s dead-dead,” Parker explains, conveying the non-sentient status of the officer.

  Patrick looks around the group quickly and takes a deep breath.

  “Okay. You and me then. We go get the gun and come right back here.”

  Parker nods and says, “I think we should try and be quiet–“

  “They’re attracted to noise,” Cupcake, Patrick and I finish his thought.

  A brief smile is shared before Patrick and Parker head off down the stairs.

  Patrick reacted so quickly to the arrival of the zombies that had flung themselves from a floor above. He delivered the death strikes swiftly and efficiently. How does taking a life become that routine? I need to get to that level, but I am afraid of what that would make me.

  There is nothing in this stairwell to distinguish it from the last one. The sign says “Floor 5,” and there is another advertisement for the rooftop lounge.

  “Cupcake, we should go up. The rooftop lounge may have food,” I say.

  “We aren’t moving until Pat-O gets back. Plus, what if it’s full off zombies?”

  “I haven’t seen them going up. If they could use stairs, they probably wouldn’t fling themselves over the railings trying to get to us. Plus it may give us a vantage point to better help Tucker.”

  Cupcake slowly bobs his head in agreement. It’s amazing how certain thoughts and tas
ks become automatic while others, which seem simpler, require huge amounts of effort.

  “When Pat-O gets back, that seems like a good idea,” he says.

  Cupcake and I stand and stare at one another in silence. The presence of Todd and his gruesome cargo consumes the space, but we do not look at him or acknowledge his existence.

  Parker

  Chapter 9

  The leader of this group is steady and efficient. I like that. He seems to care about each of the people with him and they seem willing to let me join them.

  I would prefer if they were a little more organized, but I guess I can’t be picky about my rescuers. In fact, I wouldn’t have guessed who the leader was without having listened to them talk. They were just as disorganized walking down the street as any of the other small groups I watched come into the square.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Shhh!” Patrick gives me a funny look.

  I forgot my own recommendation of silence. How long have these guys been “on,” I wonder? None of them look exceptionally sloppy. I wouldn’t be surprised if they all showered this morning, but their eyes all hold a sense of exhaustion.

  At the bottom of the stairwell, the flies are thick. It’s only been an hour since I came upon this grisly sight, but the stench seems more powerful. Not wanting to get too close to a rotting corpse, I stop four steps from the bottom.

  “I got your back. Go ahead,” Patrick says.

  Me? I’ve never held a gun in my life. Why doesn’t he take the gun and give me his hockey stick? Should I suggest that or will it incur his as-yet-unseen wrath?

  “I don’t know how to use a gun,” I offer apologetically.

  “Pretty easy. Point and shoot, a lot like a camera.”

  “What about the can of mace?”

  “They seem oblivious to pain, so I’m not sure that would help.”

  “But there are other people out there that we may need to…”

  They have a man—wait, he said two men—pinned down in the Humvee and he doesn’t remember that there are other survivors who may not be nice. I know there is strength in focusing on the task at hand, but during a moment of rest a leader should be able to reengage the big picture.