HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse

by Zimmermann, Linda

  Chapter 4

  Phase 4: Crack Whores and Dental Hygienists: While I was fighting for my life in a warehouse at ParGenTech, the outside world was beginning to experience the rising tide of the zombie apocalypse. The infection rate was higher than the unemployment rate in several communities, and warning signs were being posted in every town.

  Sex was one of the easiest paths to zombiehood, as transfer of eggs could be accomplished through the breath, saliva, and the obvious unprotected regions of contact. Someone later dubbed it Trisextion—the triple threat of infection through sex. As a result, prostitutes were among the first to go, especially the crack whores that proliferated in every bad part of town up and down the Hudson Valley. The next in line to fall in large numbers were their customers and drug dealers. One religious zealot said the infection was a blessing from God, as it was striking down society’s worst sinners. (Wonder if he had spoken to Aunt Dorothy?)

  Another high risk group was dental hygienists. They had contact with people’s mouths and breath all day long, but often didn’t wear as much protective gear as the dentists. There was one rather gruesome news report about a dentist who went to develop some x-rays, and returned to find the hygienist eating the patient.

  It was quickly becoming obvious that this wasn’t the flu, and people demanded answers. The government’s response was to immediately blame the Asian radiated seafood for the start of it all, and illegal aliens for transporting the infection into this country. Once they established groups of foreigners for people to concentrate their hatred and anger upon, they tried to explain what was happening in the most benign manner possible.

  The White House Press Secretary faced a particularly hostile press corps as he patiently and evasively non-answered as many questions as possible.

  Yes, the severest outbreaks were in New York’s Hudson Valley.

  No, this wasn’t the flu, it was caused by a parasite.

  Yes, there were ways to treat the parasites.

  Yes, teams and facilities were in place to “care for the infected.”

  Yes, untreated, the parasites could take over your body and kill you.

  No, all dead people were not rising from their graves. Now that was just silly, wasn’t it?

  Someone on the Press Secretary’s staff used Google Translation in an attempt to put a Latin name on the mutated brain-attacking parasite, but the grandiose and incorrect cerebrum oppugnet parasitus was quickly replaced by the press with ZIP, or Zombie Infection Parasites (apparently, someone on the project leaked the name), which naturally caused an even greater panic.

  There are few words in the English language that evoke such an immediate and visceral reaction. Perhaps words such as plague, massacre, and cannibalism come close, but the word “zombie” embodies the horrors of them all. Within hours of the announcement, 143 people across the country committed suicide by leaping from bridges or shooting themselves because they thought they were infected. (Turned out most of them were right.) Another 40 or 50 murders were committed in the name of self-defense. Had any of those cases actually made it to trial, 90% would have been acquitted because their victims were indeed in the end stages of infection, if they hadn’t switched already.

  Throughout the Hudson Valley, seafood and sushi restaurants closed their doors “Until Further Notice,” movie theaters were empty, and concerts and public gatherings were canceled. Someone suggested renaming the bus and train systems Mass-less Transit, as no one wanted to be in an enclosed space with the infected, or worse, a full-on zombie, especially after the Beacon Incident.

  Fans returning north on the train from a Yankee game were attacked by a family of six who had all been infected at the same time, and all switched at the same time on the train. Chaos and panic ensued in the cramped, standing-room-only car. Someone yelled, “Stop that guy in the Jeter jersey!” but that only resulted in eleven innocent men getting punched.

  People who saw blood on the switched children’s faces mistakenly thought they were hurt, and picked them up to shield them from the fight, only to receive savage bites from their little mouths. Then someone drew a knife, and things really got bloody. By the time the train reached Beacon, everyone in that car was either dead or infected.

  Throughout the Hudson Valley, police, paramedics, and firemen were overwhelmed. Laws were quickly passed to enable all first responders to carry stun guns, and no one was shy about using them. The goal was to “subdue, gag, and mask” suspected zombies as quickly as possible. “Transfer Depots” were being set up in every community for the evaluation and transportation of the infected. And despite the White House’s assurances that there were facilities in place to “care for the infected,” most places were simply FEMA detention camps waiting to terminate and cremate anyone who had switched—and sometimes even those who hadn’t quite died yet, but who was counting?

  Remarkably, even with this deadly threat to humanity, civil rights organizations held protests chanting, “Zombies are people, too” and “Zombies have rights.” As the participants of one rally discovered, zombies had the right to bite you and have you for dinner. After that embarrassing incident, the number and frequency of such rallies greatly diminished.

  Altered Reality: By the time I was well enough to leave the ParGenTech medical facility, I re-entered a world I didn’t recognize. For starters, when Cam came to pick me up (I was still too weak to drive) he was wearing a mask with a bright orange number and he also had an orange hospital-type wristband. Apparently, if you wanted to get into certain places, such as ParGenTech, you had to submit to a urinalysis every week, and if you passed, you were issued a new colored mask and wristband.

  When I was sick, I had read about someone at the Mayo Clinic developing a test based upon one of the unique ZIP metabolites that was excreted into the human host, who then excreted it in urine. The presence of this metabolite confirmed infection. While a negative test did not assure the person was completely parasite-free, it did give about a 99% confidence level that the person was unable to infect others at that point in time.

  “My pee didn’t turn blue in the cup,” as Cam summed it up.

  The other thing Cam explained were the dogs at the ParGenTech entrance. Several weeks earlier, a K-9 team had noticed that their dogs reacted violently to the zombies, as well as to those that had more advanced stages of infection. They weren’t sure exactly what they were sensing, but they figured it was similar to the dogs that could smell malignant cancers in people. Bomb and drug sniffing dogs were quickly trained to become zombie sniffing dogs, and were now stationed at airports, government facilities, and anyplace else that could afford them.

  Then there was the checkpoint to get on the Tappan Zee Bridge. If you weren’t wearing a mask with an orange or yellow (the previous week’s color) number, you couldn’t cross. Fortunately, I had been issued an orange mask when I checked out of the medical facility.

  When we were finally on the bridge, I asked Cam if we could go to the cemetery first. I hadn’t even been able to attend my own parents’ funeral, and it may sound strange, but I needed to see their graves to make it a reality in my own mind. Cam reached into the back seat and grabbed two bunches of flowers and handed them to me. He had already anticipated my request.

  As we turned into the Rockland Cemetery, I didn’t expect to see anyone, but as we wended our way up the winding road to the top, we passed six funerals taking place. Two of them involved more than one casket. I saw at least another two dozen fresh graves along the way.

  Our family plot was on a high plateau overlooking the river. It was a beautiful view, but I wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it when I saw the rectangles of thin, pale, new grass beneath the Truesdale monument. My parents’ names had been placed on the monument over a decade ago, just waiting for that final date. I pressed my fingers against the sharp lines of the newly carved numbers, trying to absorb and comprehend what it all really meant.

  It meant that these hideous parasites were responsible for taking the l
ives of my parents, and damn near my own life, as well. It meant that the fight wasn’t over, not by a long shot, and there would no doubt be many more fresh graves before it was over.

  I placed the two bouquets of flowers against the cold granite, told my parents I would always love them, and all the while I never shed a tear. I guess I had already done just about all the crying a person could do.

  When Cam turned down my street I hardly recognized it. The usually well-manicured lawns had foot-high grass, and garbage was piled along the curb, as collection was infrequent. No one wanted that much exposure to possibly infected waste for minimum wage.

  My lawn and hedges were neat and trimmed, however, and I just looked at Cam and shook my head. Only he would see to the landscaping in the midst of a zombie crisis.

  “Now I have to warn you, Trues, things are a bit different inside,” he said as we pulled into the garage. “You may be in for a shock.”

  “It would take a lot to shock me anymore,” I said, but nonetheless gasped when I went inside.

  Apparently, thanks to Phil’s influence, my house was one of the first to undergo the new Standard Decontamination Procedures recommended by ZAP (the new government Zombie Action Program), which basically entailed stripping a place of all the carpeting, curtains, fabric-covered furniture, towels, bedding, mattresses, clothing, and anything else where eggs might remain, waiting for a new host. Then all the walls, floors, ceilings, and any remaining surfaces were sprayed with a potent disinfectant that stained and discolored anything that had been painted or made of wood. Just about the only thing not ruined was the granite countertops, and they had a pungent-smelling yellow residue all over them.

  “Oh my god! No one told me!”

  “We thought you had enough to worry about,” Cam said, feeling a bit guilty for not cushioning the blow better. But then, there wasn’t a single cushion or pillow left in the house!

  “Oh Cam, what am I going to do?” I said sinking to the bare floor, which was still littered with carpet tacks.

  “Hey, come on, Trues, our first apartment was a lot worse than this,” he said, lifting my chin with his finger. “And I got you a new mattress, and some blankets and towels and stuff to get you started again. Or, you could just come live with me for a while.”

  It was a tempting offer, but as soon as I could get back on my feet I was going back to work. I was getting damn sick and tired of the death and destruction these little bastard parasites were causing, and I was more determined than ever to wipe them off the face of the earth. Unfortunately, the little bastard parasites had the same objective for humanity.

  Locks, Locked and Loaded: Cam spent a few days with me just to make sure I was alright and to help me get the house back into a livable condition. He also continued with some “renovations” he had started—namely installing bars over all the ground floor and basement windows, and heavy duty deadbolt locks on every door. He then made some creative alterations to the front and back doors—peephole sights and movable gun ports through which I could “shoot any zombie fucker” who tried to get in.

  He had also made some additions to my arsenal, including what he called “a nice purse-sized weapon”—a Smith & Wesson Model 629 .44 Magnum pistol with the short barrel (2.625”, if you care), and his own special hand-loaded ammo that he said I could use “to shoot the head clean off any zombie fucker.” I told him the kick from this stainless steel beast was more likely to knock me right on my fucking ass, but he insisted I keep it with me at all times. In fact, he made me promise. (Local gun laws had been relaxed, or completely ignored, in the last few weeks.) There were also a few more shotguns and rifles piled up, along with enough ammunition for two zombie apocalypses.

  “What armory did you empty for all this?” I asked in amazement.

  “Just want my Trues to be safe,” he said, taking my face in his hands and gently kissing me on the forehead.

  As much as I enjoyed the tender moment, I couldn’t help thinking that the last time I received a kiss was from my mother, and she ended up dead and I got infected.

  Garden Party: I had mixed feelings when Cam left. I still loved him and I knew he would do anything for me, but we were such different people, and the years had only accentuated those differences. Was there anyone else I would rather have watching my back in a fight with zombies? No. Was there anyone else I would rather have while on my back in bed? Well…maybe. But, could I carry on a real conversation with him? Bounce ideas off of him and become inspired to be at my intellectual best? Not by a longshot.

  After meeting Cam, most of my female friends asked if I was crazy—no, correction, they told me I was crazy—for letting him go. I tried to explain that we were still the best of friends, but for me, I needed someone who knew the difference between an electron microscope and a test tube. Even better now, someone who knew the difference between non-mutated parasites and ZIPs, and how to kill them!

  As I had been instructed to take at least another week off to regain my strength, I planned on using the time to catch up on all the news. Fortunately, my television and computer had not been thrown out, but the decontamination solution residue was all over them. A bucket of soapy water and a soft cloth removed all the tiny yellow crystals, but unfortunately did not eliminate the hospital smell that seemed to have seeped into the plastic.

  The news was not good. I went to the Broadcast Synergy website archives to see how the infection had been progressing in the outside world while I had been battling the infection internally. They had some terrifying footage of actual zombie attacks, along with dangerous attempts at subduing them, and even a few shootings of some of the “suspects.” I’m sorry, but when a bus driver in Troy is stumbling down the sidewalk with his mouth stuffed full of somebody’s fingers, I think we can throw that “suspects” crap out the window.

  One of the most horrific events caught on camera was at a garden party in Rhinebeck. It was a charity event for the Magnificent Mansion Museums fund, and a lot of the Hudson Valley’s old money was rubbing elbows with the nouveau riche in what Cam would have called a Snobathon. Come to think of it, that’s what I would have called it, too.

  Anyway, the camera was panning across the patio where blue-blooded, blue-haired, old, wrinkled ladies sipped tea with late middle-aged women with dyed, jet black hair and stretched faces that had undergone way too much Botox and plastic surgery. Suddenly, a waiter on the lawn started shouting at the top of his lungs for everyone to run. To her credit, the ballsy young female news reporter yelled to the cameraman to follow her, as she raced to see what was happening.

  The property of this particular estate sloped down to the river, and up that slope now walked two male and one female zombies, their tattered clothes spattered with dried blood and bits of flesh, and their eyes wild with hunger. Parents raced to grab their children who were playing croquet on the lawn or tossing bean bags at clown targets. Waiters and waitresses fled their posts, one toppling the massive swan ice sculpture which shattered into a million pieces—slippery pieces that caused many to fall, with some of the fallen getting trampled in the ensuing panic.

  The reporter and cameraman got within about forty feet of the undead trio—where the cameraman was able to get some amazing and chilling close-ups of their blotchy, sunken-eyed faces—but then they quickly backed away when the younger male zombie started walking much faster than expected. The reporter and the cameraman retreated into the house, but only so they could have a better, and safer, view from the second floor balcony.

  A few brave men and women stayed behind to try to help the really elderly and disabled party-goers, but the zombies were upon them too quickly to get everyone inside. One woman was trying to help an elderly man who had collapsed on the stone staircase, when the young zombie fell upon her. She screamed and fought her merciless attacker, but he was able to sink his teeth into her wrist, severing an artery. Cherry red blood spurted all over her ice blue, silk chiffon Armani dress.

  Despite the terrible wound, sh
e managed to pull off one of her cobalt blue satin Manolo Blahnik pumps and drive the slender, four-inch heel all the way into an eye socket of the zombie. He shook for a moment, started trembling uncontrollably, as if every nerve was misfiring, then rolled over and lay perfectly motionless.

  Despite the horror of the attack, and her likely fatal wounds (if loss of blood didn’t kill her, the resulting infection probably would), this woman still had the humanity to run her hand across the zombie’s eyelids to close them. The wild-eyed, homicidal zombie now just looked like a young man resting in peace.

  But peace had not yet descended on the entire scene. One crotchety old man with a cane had beaten away everyone who had tried to help him, so he was now on his own. Clearly not comprehending the situation, he stood defiantly glaring at the other two approaching zombies, demanding to know who they were and shouting “how dare” they “intrude upon this lovely garden party.” When they were just several yards away, the man asked them if they had any idea how important he was, as he began reciting his family’s long, proud history in the Hudson Valley.

  Starting with Killian Van Rensselaer in the 1600s, he was up to his family’s role in the Revolutionary War when he whacked the female zombie on side of the head with his cane, then cracked the bridge of the nose of the male zombie. They both staggered back a couple of steps, but were generally unaffected by the blows.

  The proud old man managed to trace his genealogy through the Civil War when the female zombie tore into his right arm, while the male went for the throat. The three fell to the ground, but even as his flesh was being chewed from his body, he kept reciting his family’s names and accomplishments. His last words were about Iwo Jima before his own blood filled his lungs and mouth, and his gurgling sounds slowly faded to silence.