HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse

by Zimmermann, Linda

  Cam called me at least once a day to ask me to come up to the compound. He hated the idea of me being alone, but I needed to feel useful. I needed to keep trying to do something to fight the zombies. But we would have to get together sometime soon as I had to give him some bottles of Eradazole for him and his friends, and maybe a cow brain or two for him to spread around in his area.

  My immediate plans, however, were to continue to observe the Pomona and New City packs of zombies for any effects from eating the I-ZIP infected brains. I had waited four days before returning, and hoped they were still where I had seen them last. This time, I was bringing a big pair of binoculars so I would be able to observe them at a greater distance.

  Remarkably, both packs were still in almost the exact spots where they had been when I tossed the brains. The Pomona pack was missing two adult males, one adult female, and four of the younger members. That was a loss of seven, but of course, they could have just wandered off. But something odd was going on, they weren’t just standing in place like the other day. There was movement back and forth, and up and down, but with all the trees in the way I couldn’t tell what they were doing.

  Carrying both pistols, a shotgun, and the M16, I slowly and cautiously entered the woods. I had put on a camo outfit I had bought years ago for a paintball outing, in hopes it would help me in the stealth department. And rather than move straight toward the pack, I headed for a rock outcropping to the left. Quietly ascending the far side of the rocks, when I got to the top I was pleased to find I had a much clearer and safer view down to the pack. When I put the binoculars up to my eyes, I was both thrilled and disgusted.

  I knew where some of the missing pack members were—on the ground in pieces. The remaining zombies were milling about the corpses, bending over to grab a tasty liver or to tear off a prime chunk of thigh meat. I should have been professional and taken another count, but I was just too revolted. These people had most likely been family members or friends, and now they were eating each other. And the way they ate was beyond description, shoving chunks of meat in their filthy mouths as fast as possible, while making these disgusting grunting sounds. I quickly turned and started sliding back down the rocks.

  I jumped the last few feet to the ground, and started to jog back to the car. I stopped in my tracks when I saw a small boy standing by the side of the road. He was just a toddler in a cute pair of green overalls and sneakers, not much more than two years old. At first I thought someone had abandoned him on the highway, until I got a little closer and noticed a large part of his scalp was missing, as was one of his eyes and a few fingers on one hand.

  When he saw me approaching, he came toward me in that awkward, but determined, toddler walk, and bared his few small, temporary teeth. I drew my pistol, and aimed it at his blood-caked, baby-fine blond hair. But I couldn’t pull the trigger, and lowered the gun. I saw he was still clutching a little plastic toy dinosaur, and both of his shoelaces had come untied. A couple of months ago, this was an adorable toddler being held lovingly in his mother’s arms.

  This is not a human child, I had to tell myself as I raised the gun again. But I simply could not bring myself to shoot this little boy.

  I easily went around him and got back in the Humvee. I turned it around to head south, but stopped opposite the toddler, who was still trying to pursue me. As I battled it out in my head as to whether I should let even this tiny zombie live, or to kill him, he reached my car and started clawing at the door and making inhuman noises that should never be heard from a child. But I knew I couldn’t shoot him, and I wasn’t about to run him over.

  Perhaps I took the coward’s way out, but I reached into the cooler behind the seat and took out a piece of the cow brain. I lowered the window and dropped the bloody chuck unto the road. The toddler instantly fell to his knees and eagerly jammed the infected brains into his tiny mouth.

  Like giving candy to a baby.

  I was not proud of myself.

  I stopped long enough near the New City pack to see that they were also feasting on some of their former friends and relatives. Obviously, the experiment was a success and my harvest of death had begun. But I would not be returning to see the rest of the pack devouring each other. And I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I saw one of them tearing into a small figure in green overalls.

  Strange Bedfellows: There’s a saying that politics makes strange bedfellows. Well, zombie apocalypses make even stranger alliances. On my way back from observing the packs, I decided to see if there were any signs of life in downtown Nyack.

  The westernmost section of Main Street had a couple of convenience stores with broken windows. I thought I detected movement in one of them, but couldn’t be sure if it was a hungry human or zombie. Many of the stores and restaurants in the center of town had been boarded up, and the only things moving were a few stray cats.

  I actually stopped in front of the Temptations Café and looked longingly at the place where I had spent many an hour with friends sipping huge mugs of coffee and eating Triple Double Chocolate Decadence Indulgence Sin Cake, or whatever it was they called one of their many outrageously delicious desserts. What I wouldn’t have done at that moment for a piece of chocolate anything!

  I was about to turn south onto Broadway when I slammed on the brakes as someone suddenly jumped in front of the Humvee. It wasn’t a zombie, but I wouldn’t exactly call him human, either. It was Edgar Johnson, a.k.a. “Cooljon,” a member of one the local scumbag gangs. I had sewed up a gash his ass in the ER one night after his black gang had a knife fight with an Hispanic gang. And here he was now, putting his stupidity on display by waving a gun at my windshield, while using his other hand to grab his crotch. He was yelling something about how the army and the government could “suck this,” but he was so drunk or high I could barely understand him.

  The windshield was bulletproof glass so I wasn’t worried about his gun, I just didn’t want to get his body tangled in my suspension when I ran him over. After the morning I just had, I was in no mood for this bullshit.

  I lurched the Humvee forward a couple of feet, nudging him not-so-gently backward. I did it again, then began revving the engine ominously to indicate the next time I wasn’t stopping. He finally got it through his thick skull that he might want to get out of the way and stumbled to the sidewalk. As I continued down the block to look at the sadly abandoned town I knew and loved, I heard a scream. Looking in my rearview mirror, I saw that a pair of zombies had grabbed a hold of Edgar. He was trying to fire his weapon, but it was either jammed, or the idiot had forgotten to load it.

  I actually drove another twenty or thirty feet before I hit the brakes and threw it into reverse. I had no problem with letting this worthless human die, I just didn’t want one more zombie on the streets of my town.

  My tires squealed as I raced backwards. Both zombies already had their teeth into him, and he was screaming bloody murder, which in fact, it was. I couldn’t get a clear shot from the car window as the three were on the ground thrashing around like a gator with his meal, so against my better judgment I got out of the Humvee.

  As I quickly assessed the situation, I decided on the Magnum as it would leave the biggest mess.

  Despite the turmoil of the struggle, I recognized the two zombies as a husband and wife who owned a shop in town. They had cheated my parents in a deal years ago, so I admit I was going to get some satisfaction out of this. (I told you, I was in a bad mood.) The woman was clamped down on Edgar’s forearm, so that was a clear headshot. The splatter at such close range was impressive. The man had his teeth sunken into Edgar’s shoulder, so their two heads were actually touching. I knew at this distance I still couldn’t miss, but in the vindictive frame of mind I was in, I decided to mess with Edgar’s head, in more ways than one.

  Putting my hand over my eyes, but keeping open a slit between two fingers just wide to see through, I shouted, “Here goes nothing!”

  You should have seen the look of panic in Edgar’
s eyes. I think he was actually more terrified of me at that moment than of the zombie latched onto him. I squeezed the trigger and the zombie’s head popped like a blood-filled water balloon all over Edgar.

  “What the fuck, you stupid fucking bitch! You’re fucking crazy!” Edgar yelled, jumping to his feet, as bloody bits of brain ran down his face and arms.

  I reached into the Humvee and grabbed a bottle of water and a roll of paper towels and tossed them to him.

  “You’re welcome. And you might want to rinse off before I save your life a second time, Edgar.”

  When I said his name, his fear and anger turned to puzzlement for a moment, then finally to recognition as his hand instinctively moved to his right rear cheek.

  “My name is Cooljon, bitch, and there ain’t nothing you can do for me now. I been bit, so I’m a dead man. And maybe I’ll just make you dead, too,” he threatened, aiming his gun at my head.

  “Your name is Edgar Johnson and if that thing worked you would have shot them yourself. Now if you don’t want me to save your life I’ll just go on my merry way and let the parasites eat what little brains you have.”

  I started to get back in the Humvee as he started to change his tone.

  “You’re lying! There ain’t nothing can be done once you get bit. Is there?”

  “Actually, there is. But I don’t think you’re worth the effort. I’ve already wasted two bullets,” I replied, getting back into the Humvee.

  “Wait, please! You gotta help me, nurse! I don’t want to become…one of them,” he said pointing to the nearly headless corpses at his feet. He suddenly looked very vulnerable and scared. I almost felt sorry for him, but not quite.

  I got back out of the Humvee and crossed my arms. I stood silently for a few moments, as if trying to decide whether I should let him die.

  “Well, at least you have progressed from calling me ‘bitch’ to ‘nurse’. Now if you call me by my proper title, doctor, and ask me nicely to save your sorry ass, I just might do it,” I said, realizing that my behavior actually did warrant the title of bitch.

  “Please, doctor, I don’t want to die!”

  It was amazing how fear could humble a person. I later tried to tell myself that I had always intended to help him, that I was just trying to teach him a lesson, but I’m not sure I was being honest with myself.

  I grabbed my medkit and told him to sit on the ground by the Humvee in case any other surprise guests came out of an alley or storefront. I didn’t waste any painkillers on him, as whatever he was already on seemed to be keeping him from feeling much pain. The wounds were deep, but fortunately no chunks of flesh and been torn away, which made my job easier to stitch him up. To his credit, he never even flinched, or spoke, while I worked on him.

  After applying the bandages, I gave him a shot of antibiotics. Then with some hesitation, I put one tablet of Eradazole in his right hand, and the rest of the full bottle in the left.

  “Now listen very carefully to me,” I said, finally sounding like a medical professional. “Swallow this right now. Okay, good. That will prevent the infection. You only need one, you understand?”

  After he swallowed he shook his head that he understood.

  “These pills are only effective if you take them within 24 hours of being bitten or exposed. And you only need one. Two or five or ten won’t be any better. Now repeat that back to me.”

  “You only need one. You have to take it within 24 hours,” he said in a completely civil tone, which surprised me. And I was totally stunned when he added, “Thank you, doctor, for saving my life. Twice.”

  “You’re very welcome, Cooljon,” I replied, deciding that he had at least earned that much from me. “Now, do you need a ride somewhere?”

  “Ain’t no zombie gonna get the drop on Cooljon again,” he said as he got to his feet, then began sprinting north on Broadway.

  No Good Deed Goes Unpunished: My mood did not improve that day. In fact, it declined as I began feeling guilty about my behavior toward Cooljon. He was a scumbag, no doubt, but nurses and doctors were supposed to be committed to helping people—regardless of what worthless scumbags they were.

  I needed a drink. Nothing as strong as Jack Daniel’s again, just a glass or two of red wine to go with my Salisbury steak frozen dinner. I was hoping to just relax and try to forget about everything for one night, but the barely edible Salisbury steak gave me an idea.

  It had obviously been partially thawed and refrozen several times during all the power outages, and the power was most likely gone for good, now. I didn’t want to waste precious gas running the generator to preserve the food in the freezer, so I would eat what I could, and use the rest as a weapon.

  No, I wasn’t going to fling rancid pot pies at the zombies. What I was going to do was take the jumbo Costco-sized bulk packages of ground beef, chops, and steaks that my mom always insisted on buying, and try to weaponize them with the I-ZIPs. I had a limited supply of the infected cow brains, and if I could mix some of them with the meat, I just might be able to coax the parasites to reproduce. If successful, I would be able to greatly increase my supply. After I had thought about it for a while, I realized I could eventually have a steady supply of infected meat by using zombie flesh, which was walking around the streets in abundance. I just needed to make sure I could get the I-ZIPs to reproduce in the ground beef.

  I quickly disposed of my half-eaten dinner and got to work in my living room laboratory. I would have to set up a series of different conditions, varying the ratios of cow brains to hamburger meat (there was something I never thought I would be writing in my lab notes!), as well as the temperature, and the additions of certain nutrients and chemicals that might promote the parasite’s growth and reproduction. And I did this all by the light of a couple of antique oil lamps in my parent’s collection.

  I’m sure they were looking down at that moment laughing at me, as I had always said something to the effect of, “Why would anyone want to buy and use old stuff?” I had always been a “Give me the latest and the best technology and throw out the rest” kind of person. Now, I actually found a sort of charm to the glow of the oil lamps, and felt a kind of kinship with the countless generations of doctors and scientists who did their important work by the light of the flickering flame.

  Hey, if it was good enough for Pasteur, who am I to complain? I thought as I worked well into the night.

  I was startled awake a loud knock on my front door somewhere around dawn. I had fallen asleep at my lab table and when I sat bolt upright I had a pipette stuck to my cheek. By the time the second knock sounded at the door I was fully awake with a pistol in each hand.

  “Who is it?” I shouted, standing clear of the door in case someone tried shooting through it.

  “This is Raymond Atchinson. Are you Dr. Truesdale?” the deep, male voice asked. I couldn’t place the name.

  “And who the hell are you?” I responded, trying to sound more formidable than my size. (Which I actually was, as long as I was armed, at least.)

  “You saved my man Cooljon today. We need to talk.”

  Light dawned. Raymond Atchinson, a.k.a. PayRay, chief scumbag of the scumbag gang. He earned his name because if you didn’t pay him a cut of whatever you made selling drugs, pimping whores, etc., he would make you pay in another way. You could make it easy on yourself, or you could make it really difficult—and painful—but one way or another, you would pay Ray.

  Great, I try to help someone and it brings the gang leader to my front door. No good deed goes unpunished.

  “I doubt we have anything to say to one another,” I replied, trying not to let the growing fear show in my voice. For a moment I wondered how he had found me, but the Humvee in the garage and the army truck in the driveway probably gave a few clues, and the “Truesdale Antiques” sign on the gate could have been a tip off.

  Cooljon was a harmless fool compared to his boss. PayRay was a bona fide killer who allegedly slit the throat of a guy just because he was
wearing purple. He hated purple. I quickly glanced down at my clothes and was relieved to see I was in jeans and a green t-shirt.

  “I need your help.”

  “Like I told Cooljon, if you’ve been infected in the last 24 hours just take one of those pills,” I said, hoping that would be enough for him to go away.

  “It ain’t me. It’s my sister,” he replied, sounding genuinely concerned.

  I could only imagine the skanky crack whore of a sister he had.

  “Just give her a pill,” I said, inching forward to look through the peephole in the door. Even in the dim light I could see that PayRay was easily six-foot-five and about two-eighty. With his size and personality, he could have made a lot more money expressing his violent tendencies on the football field.

  “No, it ain’t like that. She was bitten a month ago, by our mother! I had to put down my own mother because of this zombie shit, and I don’t intend to have to do the same thing to my sister. You have to help her. You have to!”

  I didn’t reply right away. There was a chance I could administer the QK drugs, if she wasn’t too far gone. If I wasn’t successful and she died, PayRay might kill me. But if I refused to help, he would definitely kill me.

  “Hey, you listening to me?” he shouted, clearly losing his cool.

  “How do I know this isn’t some sort of trick?” I asked, imagining all kinds of unpleasant scenarios where I ended up dead.

  Instead of responding to me, he called out to the street. Someone got out of the driver’s side of the Cadillac Escalade and opened the passenger door. Leaning inside he reached for something, and when he straightened up he was holding a small figure wrapped in a blanket. He carried the little bundle up to my front door and pulled back the corner of the blanket to reveal a frail, five-year-old girl who appeared terrified and in pain, but still conscious—i.e., still human.