HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse

by Zimmermann, Linda

  “What!?”

  “They’re planning to blow all the bridges and tunnels tonight to contain the situation.”

  I could only process so much information at once. I couldn’t allow myself the luxury of thinking about all of my friends and colleagues who would be trapped in Manhattan. I couldn’t allow myself to think about what else the government was hiding from us that could be used to combat the infection and the zombies. Right now I had a patient to take care of, and that was what I had to focus on.

  As the soldiers had been ordered to the New Jersey side of the GW Bridge and would be crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge before heading south, I convinced them to help me get Sgt. Pelton into one of the army Humvees and accompany me to my house. We went out the warehouse exit—as there was a pile of zombie bodies at the front door—and cautiously made our way to one of the Humvees that had a .50 caliber machine gun mounted to the roof.

  “Will this be an appropriate escort vehicle, ma’am?” one of the soldiers asked with a smile.

  We actually ended up with a formidable convoy. I drove the supply truck, while in front and behind me each soldier drove a Humvee with a machine gun. I had expected the roads to be empty, but with the quarantine officially over and hordes of zombies roving the streets of the Hudson Valley, many people had chosen to take their chances elsewhere and flee to other parts of the country.

  The local roads in Nyack were relatively deserted, except for a couple of groups of zombies trying to get into houses. One group was wandering down the middle of the street a few blocks from my house, but after our three vehicles ran them down and ran over them, I doubted that any of them would be mobile again.

  Note to self: get an armored Humvee.

  There were a few bodies on my street, but otherwise the neighborhood appeared secure. The two soldiers did a sweep of my house while I waited in the truck, then they gently carried their sergeant onto my bed. He was just regaining consciousness, so I immediately gave him an Eradazole pill.

  As the fog cleared in Sgt. Pelton’s brain, I explained to him what had happened and where he was. He asked to speak to his two soldiers in private, and afterward, one of the soldiers handed me the keys to a Humvee. I was excited at first, until he explained it was for the sergeant when he recovered. We then wished each other luck, and the two soldiers took off to face another hellish situation. God bless them.

  Over the next few days I carefully monitored Sgt. Pelton for any signs of infection, running every test imaginable in the lab I had set up in my living room. Either he hadn’t become infected when he punched the zombie, or the Eradazole worked. And despite the significant blood loss, he quickly regained his strength and healed remarkably well.

  “The results of clean living, ma’am,” he said as I sat on the edge of the bed taking his pulse one evening.

  “I hope not too clean,” I replied, perhaps in retrospect, a little too provocatively.

  The next thing I knew I was in his arms, and believe me, the Granite Sergeant certainly lived up to his name.

  It was crazy, insane; no one had sex anymore. And what was I thinking? I mean me and Sgt. Pelton?

  I don’t know, maybe it was just one of those wartime stress release reactions. I can’t recall ever feeling any sort of desire for him, and he never showed the slightest interest in me. But I’m over-analyzing it all. It happened, and I’m glad it happened. In fact, at the time, I was very glad.

  Let’s just say it was nice to finally get screwed in a good way.

  Chapter 9

  Phase 9: One of the Nicest Gifts: “As pleasant as this diversion has been, ma’am, I need to rejoin my men,” Sgt. Pelton said on the morning of his fifth day at my house. “And I would appreciate if you would accompany me to West Point, as I have some special supplies to give you.”

  He explained that we could drive together in the Humvee, and someone would drive me back. He wouldn’t say what he wanted to give me.

  I had mixed feelings about having him leave. On the one hand, it was certainly nice to have a professional soldier/trained killer around the house. On the other hand, the personal aspects had gotten, well, a bit awkward. Neither of us had the time or inclination to let our sexual relationship grow into anything romantic, so a quick, clean goodbye would be best for both of us.

  Just about everyone who had wanted to leave the Hudson Valley had already done so by now, so the Palisades Parkway was eerily empty on the entire route north. At least the road was. In the woods along the parkway in New City and again in Pomona, I spotted some groups of what I surmised were zombies. They were big groups, too, around 50 per group.

  There were some army vehicles in the Bear Mountain Circle, checking everyone attempting to cross the bridge, or heading north to West Point. Sgt. Pelton explained that there were regular patrols and snipers from this point northward to West Point, and I should consider moving into this protected zone. It was tempting, especially when I saw that there were actually some real people on the streets of Fort Montgomery and Highland Falls, but we both knew I wasn’t going to leave my home, which more importantly, had now become my lab. But I told him I would think about it.

  We didn’t say much else during the drive. I mean, what could we really say?

  “Hey, nice killing zombies with you, and thanks for the sex. Too bad the entire world has gone to shit and none of may survive.”

  No, this was not the time for small talk.

  Heavily armed guards and those retractable spikes to puncture car tires formed a checkpoint at least a hundred yards from the gates of West Point—gates I used to enter for football games, or brunch at the Thayer. Now, only civilians employed on the base or part of the immediate family of one of the military personnel were allowed to enter, and I wasn’t either one, so I was out of luck. But this was what kept them safe. (Well, that and having lots of soldiers, guns, and access to Eradazole that no one else had.) The rumor was that the cadets hadn’t even missed a day of classes since this whole mess began.

  We were allowed to proceed through the checkpoint up to the actual gate, but that was as far as it went for me. I waited next to the Humvee while Sgt. Pelton went to speak to the guards. There was some discussion amongst the soldiers, some laughing, and I swear the guards were checking me out. I couldn’t believe the sergeant would have been so indiscrete as to talk about me and what had happened between us, but then again, I really didn’t know anything about him, not even his first name!

  While the guards went inside the gate and started bringing out some wooden crates and large metal cases, Sgt. Pelton walked over to me with an envelope that had a Department of the Army insignia on it.

  “Here, you might need this,” he said, revealing no clues in his stony expression as to what it could be. Or more accurately, his lack of expression.

  I reached inside and pulled out an ID card with my face on it (they had somehow gotten my driver’s license photo), an army insignia, and the official looking title, “Special Operations Civilian Medical Liaison.”

  “Wow, this is so cool! What does it mean?” I asked, wondering if I was going to be an honorary Green Beret or something.

  “It really doesn’t mean anything,” he replied, deflating my hopes. “We kind of made it up. But if you are ever stopped by a patrol or get into any kind of trouble, you flash this and no one will give you any shit.”

  Before I could thank him, he also handed me the keys to the Humvee.

  “And you will also need the ID in case anyone stops you and asks why you are driving this vehicle. But it’s officially on loan, you understand.”

  I wanted to hug him, but the look in his eyes told me “not in front of the men.”

  The guards started loading the cases into the back of my Humvee, but the sergeant waited until they were out of earshot before he explained. One the wooden crates was full of Eradazole, another held .50 cal ammunition for the gun on the roof, and another was full of MREs, as you could never stockpile enough food.

  “The metal
cases are filled with cow brains.”

  “Uh, come again?” I said, not sure if this was another of his lame attempts at being funny.

  “We have had some success in suppressing the zombie population with these,” he said, putting one of his beefy hands on a smooth metal case. “They have all been injected with the Israeli-modified ZIPs. Tests have indicated that once a zombie ingests the brains, it eventually dies, just like Barney. Once dead, the body is eaten by other zombies, thereby spreading the I-ZIPs. Then those zombies die and are eaten, and so on, and so on. Just keep them cool until you need them. Instructions are in each case.”

  I didn’t want to ask how long the army knew about this, or how long they had been handing out cow brains. I was just grateful that I now had yet another weapon in my anti-zombie arsenal. Plus, I was a bit miffed that I hadn’t thought about doing this first!

  “Cases of infected cow brains! That just might be the nicest thing anyone ever gave me. Well, that and an armored Humvee.”

  “That’s just a loaner car,” he reminded me.

  “But of course.”

  “Well ma’am, it has been an honor and a pleasure,” he said, standing very formally and extending his hand. But when he took my hand he lowered his voice to a whisper and gave me a wink “A real pleasure.”

  I actually felt flushed and tried to suppress the stupid grin I felt spreading across my face.

  “Right back at you, Sergeant,” was all I could manage to say, as he turned to leave. He was almost at the gate when I remembered something. “Hey, what’s your first name?”

  “Hannibal, ma’am. Hannibal MacArthur Pelton.”

  As I drove away, I thought how fortunate I was that during our time together he had not become Hannibal the Cannibal. There were already enough flesh eaters out there, waiting for what was left of the human race.

  Johnny ZIPseed: As the hefty tires of the Humvee gripped the pavement when I sped off, the wheels in my brain were already turning. Before I left the protected zone, I pulled over in the parking lot of a gas station to examine the contents of the metal cases. (And to get gas, as this station was actually open for business!)

  The cow brains were each sealed in thick, plastic bags stamped with biohazard labels and some technical info about the concentration of I-ZIPs and the optimal storage temperatures. And I had to laugh when I read the expiration date, “Best used before October, 2013.”

  There was some dry ice in foam sleeves keeping the brains cool, and a quick count showed 18 brains per case. With three cases, that was 54 brains, and given an average weight of 500 grams (Another bit of trivia in my head, along with 1500 grams for a human brain, 1600 for a bottlenose dolphin, and 7500 for an Asian elephant. Okay, I’ll stop showing off, now.) that gave me roughly 50 pounds of cow brains to spread among thousands of zombies. But as this could also work with the domino effect (in our favor for a change), if I did this correctly I could do some serious damage to the undead.

  I took out one brain before resealing the cases, and put it on the passenger seat. I was disappointed that the guards at the Bear Mountain Circle checkpoint just waved me through, as I had hoped to be able to flash my (unofficial) official ID. Actually, the guards were preoccupied with a caravan of a couple of RVs and several SUVs and minivans trying to head toward West Point. A few families were out of their vehicles obviously pleading their case, and obviously not getting anywhere. Unfortunately, this would become an all too familiar sight with “Road Refugees” trying to find someplace safe in a world crumbling around them.

  It was quite an experience going from my flimsy little compact car to this armored beast, but after just a few miles I was already feeling like the king of the road. No one with any sense will fuck with me, I thought, but then reminded myself that zombies had no sense.

  I reduced my speed when I was back in the Pomona area where I saw the pack of zombies (or would you call them a herd?) in the trees on the northbound side. Since there weren’t any troopers around and the Humvee could cross just about anything, I went through the wooded median and drove back and forth in the northbound lanes until I spotted them.

  I grabbed the rifle with the big scope from the rack (some vehicles have cup holders as standard accessories), but I had no intention of shooting anyone. I opened the passenger window and aimed the rifle at the zombies. My trigger finger was itchy, but I had to remind myself this was a scientific experiment, so instead of shooting I started counting. I made note of 18 adult males, 16 adult females, 7 adolescents, and 6 children—47 total in the Pomona Pack.

  They were all just standing there in the woods, fairly close together—behavior no one had yet been able to explain, but quite convenient if you wanted to lob in a round of artillery. Anyway, I double-gloved and cautiously got out onto the side of the road. I used my knife to cut open the plastic bag, and then cut up the brain into small pieces. Then came the hard part.

  The zombies were about 50 yards away, and the terrain was rocky and had a lot of fallen trees between me and them. I would have to be very careful not to slip and fall, as the consequences could be fatal. There was no way I could shoot my way out of this if the whole pack descended on me. I had to get as close as I could, though, to make sure they would take the bait—the cow brains I mean, not me!

  I was hoping they wouldn’t notice me, but apparently I needed to work on my stealthy techniques, because at about 15 yards the entire pack turned in unison and looked right at me! With 94 hungry eyes now locked on mine, my blood ran cold.

  Oh…shit!

  I quickly flung about half the contents of the brain bag in their direction, then ran like hell. I stumbled for a moment over a large tree that had been uprooted in a storm, but thank god I stayed on my feet. My heart was pounding and sweat was pouring out of me more in fear than exertion. Just how stupid was I? When I was almost back to the road, I turned to see how close the pack was behind me, and was so, so relieved to see they had all stopped right where I had thrown the brains.

  Looking through the scope, I could see they were actually fighting one another over the bits of brain. I would have liked to be able to see who exactly was eating the infected brains and take careful notes for my study, but to be honest, I had been scared so shitless I just wanted to get back in the Humvee and lock the doors. Once inside, I actually started hyperventilating and my hands were shaking.

  What was my problem? I had faced zombies before. I had shot them, experimented on them, ran them over, so why the panic attack now?

  Because now I’m alone.

  It finally hit me. I wasn’t in a safe and secure lab anymore. There weren’t any cops or soldiers who would come to my rescue. I was on my own in a world where packs of bloodthirsty killers were waiting to literally tear the flesh off my body.

  I completely broke down, and I mean, completely. I cried, I shook, I screamed, and I got out of the Humvee just long enough to throw up. Then after about 20 minutes of hysteria, I wiped my eyes, vigorously rubbed my face and hands, and drove south to the New City pack of zombies and repeated the count and the brain drop—but at a safer distance this time.

  When I was back in the Humvee watching the zombies gobble up the pieces of I-ZIP-infected cow brains, I thought about the story of Johnny Appleseed. We were similar, he and I, only I hoped for a harvest of death.

  Harvest Time: Throughout the Hudson Valley, electricity and water became intermittent, regular phone service and cable were pretty much gone, and cell phones were no longer reliable. Fortunately, I had a couple of generators and my “strategic fuel reserve,” which I was saving for times when it was absolutely necessary. To recharge my satellite phones and laptop, I set up some portable solar panels that Cam had fortunately badgered me into buying months ago.

  The mail stopped being delivered the first week of quarantine, and you could forget about ever getting it again. That whole “neither snow nor rain” motto never included zombies.

  Food was not a problem, at least for me. I was not a big eater and
I had originally stockpiled enough food for me and my parents before this whole mess began, and had significantly added to my supplies since. Water was another story. While I did have many cases of bottled water, there was no telling how long I would need it to last, so I put out containers to collect rain water. And whenever the water service was working, I filled up both bathtubs and every spare bottle and bucket I had.

  Other people were not so lucky. Many were convinced by the lying bastards doing the ZAP commercials that this was all temporary and quarantine would solve everything. Some ate and drank everything in their house the first two weeks, and when they began the two week extension, they had to subsist on the survival crackers and nutrition tablets that were handed out once a week. But when quarantine ended and all the military and Enforcement Teams withdrew, there weren’t any more handouts, and no stores were open.

  You had three choices: depend upon the charity of others (fat chance), break into someone’s home and risk getting shot if the homeowner was alive or bitten if he wasn’t, or, drive as far as your tank of gas would take you and hope you would find a store, restaurant, or relief station. In that regard, people had heard that Canada did not have such a high infection rate, so it was a mass exodus north. The Canadians tried to close the border, but it was like trying to hold water in a sieve.

  A fourth option quickly developed: Truck Stops. Not the type where truckers pulled in to eat greasy food and buy the latest porn magazines, but something new where tractor trailers full of food and water—and armed guards—from regions of the country still functioning, would drive to a town and sell you some packaged food for exorbitant prices. At first they demanded cash, but soon switched to asking for gasoline, jewelry, guns and ammo, medical supplies, warm clothing (winter was coming), and anything they thought they could use or resell. However, as infection spread to every part of the country, those Truck Stops became fewer and far between.