HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse

by Zimmermann, Linda

  “I, uh, I…” I began, purposely stumbling over my words. “It wasn’t my intention to keep Paroxin a secret. It’s experimental, and I’m the only one who has tried it.”

  “And despite all the infected people you have come in contact with, you, yourself, have remained uninfected?” he asked, clearly intrigued.

  I could feel the hook setting in my prey. Now I just needed to carefully reel him in.

  I launched into a convoluted, highly technical description of how my immunizing formulation worked. He would have had to be an expert in parasitology to even begin to have a clue about what I was saying, but he pretended that it all made perfect sense. His ego wouldn’t even allow him to show the slightest indication that he didn’t understand a word I said.

  “You will turn over your entire supply of Paroxin to me right now,” he demanded. “Of course, I don’t need it as God has blessed me with his divine protection, but I will distribute it to my most worthy disciples.”

  Looking defeated, I unlocked a cabinet and removed a rack that had a dozen, large, plastic test tubes filled with capsules. But before I handed them over, though, I made a heartfelt plea.

  “Please, let me keep at least one tube of Paroxin for the people who will be turned out of the compound. It will at least give them a fighting chance!”

  “Those who are foolish enough to turn their backs on God do not deserve immunity!” he shouted, as he grabbed the rack out of my hand, and then began concealing the test tubes in his pockets.

  I told him that for full immunity you needed to take three capsules, one every twelve hours. There might be some stomach irritation, so they should be taken with plenty of water. There also might be some slight aches, but that was normal as your body would be rapidly producing the anti-parasitic antibodies.

  He ordered me to tell no one that I had given him the Paroxin, and then he told me to get back to my patients. He was alone in my lab for a few minutes, then the reverend emerged drinking a large glass of water.

  Hook, line, and sinker.

  The Wages of Sin: The next 24 hours I continued to play the dutiful doctor, while cautiously causing as much medical mayhem as I could. A couple of people had very bad cases of flu, and I made sure I infected as many other people as I could. It was announced that Cam and twenty-seven other men and fourteen women would be cast out in a public ceremony on Friday, which was in three days. I hoped that between my infectious sabotage and the work of The Monk and the others, by the time casting out day arrived the tables might be turned.

  The next evening, as I was being escorted back to my cabin, I heard a faint popping sound and my guard dropped like a sack of potatoes. A nice, clean entry wound was in his forehead, and the back of his skull was rather messy where the bullet exited. The Monk and another man raced out of the bushes and grabbed the body. I quickly told them what I had been up to and that I wanted to stick with my routine and inflict more damage, but The Monk convinced me that I had done more than enough and that is was time for me to escape with them.

  It did make more sense once he told me what they had planned, so after grabbing the guard’s rifle and pistol, I followed them back into the woods. They tossed the guard’s body into a pit that contained other bodies. In the dim light I couldn’t see how many corpses there were, but the smell indicated that The Monk and the other men had been busy. They covered the pit with some camouflage netting and branches, and then we jogged deeper into the woods for several minutes.

  We suddenly stopped, and The Monk stomped his foot three times. A panel in the ground slid open, revealing a staircase down to a bunker. It was quite spacious, and there was plenty of room for the weapons, supplies, our men and women from the compound, and about a dozen men from Fort Ace! One of our women had escaped and made it down to Ellenville to get help; a move which really did a lot to even the odds. Even though all of the reverend’s people numbered about 250, only about 50 were experienced fighters, and that number had been dropping over the last few days thanks to our handy work. In another three days, I fully expected that we would have the larger fighting force.

  Unfortunately, the guards now knew better than to patrol the woods and kept close to the center of the compound. Smokin was quite disappointed that he couldn’t pick off “any more of them religious hippie bastards,” but he was delighted when I told him about my biological warfare strategy. On Thursday night, another of our men escaped his captors and brought us some both disturbing and encouraging news.

  The disturbing news was that Cam and the others in detention had all been badly beaten and had been given little or no food. The guards were trying to find out where the missing men and weapons had gone, and were surprised that no one had cracked under the beatings and starvation. Our men were all tough, to be sure, but what the guards didn’t realize is that they didn’t crack because they didn’t have anything to tell. If even they wanted to talk, they didn’t know that we had hidden the guns and supplies.

  The encouraging news was that the flu was ravaging the ranks of the Army of the Lord. But there was also another mysterious illness that seemed to only be affecting the reverend’s most trusted personal guards. Rumor had it that the reverend was also ill, but no one had seen him in two days. I asked the man to describe these mysterious symptoms, and he said that those men were complaining of severe headaches and backaches, and they seemed to be twitching a lot.

  “If I didn’t know any better,” he concluded, “I would say they were all infected with zombie parasites.”

  The Monk and I exchanged glances, and he said I should tell everyone what I had done. I first explained how I had given the flu to all my patients by using infected swabs and tongue depressors, and told them of some of my other feats of malpractice at the infirmary, to which they all resoundingly approved. But I was hesitant to tell them about the Paroxin, as I may have treaded into war criminal status with that scheme.

  “Go on, tell them,” The Monk insisted. “If anyone ever deserved to reap the wages of his sins, it’s that devil Pulsifer and his evil army.

  He had a point there, so rather than viewing myself as a war criminal, I decided to picture myself as an avenging angel.

  “They are infected,” I blurted out, “and it isn’t the flu.”

  All eyes in the bunker were riveted on me as I explained what I had been doing in my lab all winter. I told them about my poison meat grenades, and what a difficult and time-consuming job it was to grow enough I-ZIPs and keep them stable for any length of time. What I had been able to do the last few months was develop a more rapidly maturing and reproducing strain of I-ZIPs. I then created a special lyophilization buffer in which I was able to successfully freeze-dry the parasites for portability and long-term storage. This would enable me to quickly reconstitute the parasites at any location, introduce them into any available meat, produce more potent grenades, and do it in a day instead of a week.

  All of those eyes riveted on me were now glazed over, as they didn’t understand a thing I was saying. I guess I got carried away and forget that I shouldn’t use words with more than two syllables.

  “I had packed those dried zombie infection parasites into capsules and stored them in plastic test tubes,” I continued, getting right to the point. “I told the reverend it was a miracle cure I called Paroxin. He must have swallowed those capsules and obviously gave some to his personal guards. The way those I-ZIPs reproduce, the reverend and his men will turn zombie any day now.”

  The glazed looks cleared in a flash and were replaced with expressions of shock…and was that joy, as well? Instead of condemning me for being a war criminal, a cheer went up that reverberated through the bunker. The unanimous opinion was that “the fuckers deserved it” and it was hoped “that they would all rot in zombie hell.”

  My conscience temporarily assuaged, I nonetheless had to remind them that there were now at least a dozen infected and contagious people in the compound, and we would have to get Eradazole to our people asap. And I feared for the
safety of Cam and the others, hoping that they would not pay the price for my acts of medical sabotage. One way or the other, everything would come to a head on Friday morning, and we worked well into the night to make sure our people would be as safe as possible.

  We were all in our positions well before dawn. Even Smokin had been hoisted to a deer stand high up in a tree using a rope and pulley. His keen eye and sniper skills were worth ten regular men. As soon as it was light, a guard blew a bugle or trumpet to signal that the casting out ceremony was about to commence.

  As people gathered in the central courtyard, we could hear a lot of sneezing and coughing. And it appeared as though only about 100 members of the invincible Army of the Lord had been able to get out of bed. Even better, the number of guards also appeared to be cut in half, and many of them did not look well.

  My heart sank when the very battered and bloodied group of our people were ushered into the middle of the courtyard. They were obviously all weak from lack of food and water, and several limped from the injuries that had been inflicted by their holy inquisitors. Everyone, men and women, was ordered to strip to their underwear, as part of the symbolic and humiliating gesture of being “cast out naked into the world.” Then the bugle sounded again, and everyone just stood there waiting. And waiting.

  They were apparently all waiting for their Most High Reverend to appear and give a sermon before sending the godless sons and daughters of the devil out to face their punishment. Minutes ticked by and we didn’t know what we should do. Finally, there was some commotion in front of the reverend’s cabin, and through the binoculars I could see two guards propping up the reverend as he slowly made his way to the platform. He looked like shit, his hands were trembling, and his legs barely supported him. His army was obviously shocked by his appearance and there were unsettled murmurings throughout the crowd.

  One of the guards—who also looked like shit—spoke into the microphone and said that there was no cause for alarm, it was “just a touch of the flu,” but everyone present had heard that a thousand times from the government in the early days of infection. The guard then held the microphone to the reverend’s lips. The crowd held their breath in anticipation of the inspiring words of their sacred leader, but more drool came out of his mouth than coherent words, and the crowd became very agitated.

  The Monk then gave the first signal, and our man who had cut into the PA system began shouting, “He’s infected! He’s infected with the zombie parasites! Run for your lives!”

  As if on cue (or was it the hand of God?), the reverend collapsed and started shaking uncontrollably. Screams went up from the crowd and people began running in panic. The guards didn’t know what to do—should they also run, or stand their ground and contain the prisoners? We made that decision for them as The Monk gave the second signal.

  The woods around the central courtyard erupted with sounds of rifles and shotguns—our rifles and shotguns. Half the guards fell in the first volley, and the other half enjoyed only a few more seconds of life as another deadly round of fire cut them down. Cam and his men scrambled into the woods, leaving only the members of the Army of Lord exposed, and we took full advantage.

  Those who didn’t run were shot down where they stood. Once Cam and everyone else who was still able to fight was given a weapon, we rounded up all the runners who surrendered. We killed every one who didn’t. Those who were still in their beds were dragged into the courtyard, and their once mighty army, 250 strong, was now about 90 sick and terrified people, and about a third of them were just children.

  Despite being battered, bruised, and severely dehydrated, Cam climbed up on the platform and took the microphone. He pointed down to the helpless, quivering reverend, and told the people how they had all been taken in by him. As further proof, he had the reverend’s “zombie” brought to the platform, where she proceeding to start crying and begging for help because she was sick. Apparently, the reverend had shared the Paroxin with his mistress.

  The remaining members of the Army of the Lord Christ the Redeemer and of the Sacred Blood of the Innocent Lambs, who had survived by preying upon other survivors from Georgia to New York, now all dropped to their knees and professed their innocence and begged for forgiveness.

  “I am in no mood for any more of your bullshit!” Cam shouted as he turned and put a bullet in the reverend’s head, then another in his mistress’ brain. “You people are going to clean up this mess, and then we will decide your fate!”

  As it was impossible to tell who had been infected with the I-ZIPs, it was decided to start an enormous bonfire and burn all of the bodies. Fortunately, I didn’t have to see or smell that, because I was too busy attending to all of our wounded, who had been so cruelly beaten and tortured I lost all doubts that what I had done to the reverend and his people was the right thing to do. What pain and suffering had they caused in their unholy pilgrimage north, and how many more victims would there have been if we didn’t stop them?

  There was some controversy as to how we would deal with our 90 captives. They were all held in one of the large bunkhouses for a few days while we discussed the situation. Many people wanted to execute all the adults, some wanted them all to be stripped, branded (with the “Z” on their cheeks), and “cast out.” No one suggested we show them any mercy. As much blood as was on all of our hands, however, executions and banishments were still things with which most people were uncomfortable. Cam finally decided that, as much as he wanted to kill them all, we should try to preserve some shred of our American heritage and have a trial. We would judge the fate of each of them separately.

  No one liked the idea of prolonging this nightmare with trials, but no one had the guts to carry out executions without everyone’s consent, either. We were all still on edge from our ordeal of “occupation,” and the tension just grew day by day. Before the different factions came to blows, however, fate stepped in and offered a final, tragic solution.

  All right, so maybe it wasn’t exactly fate. It was a byproduct of my germ warfare campaign, which exceeded all my expectations. In addition to the blond, fake zombie, and the seven women he had impregnated, the reverend had a few other sex slaves in his army, and apparently valued them enough to give them Paroxin. They were among our 90 captives, and they said nothing about taking the capsules or their rapidly developing symptoms. These women must have had some pangs of a bad conscience, or were fanatical in their desire to rejoin their fallen leader, because they decided that they should all suffer the wages of their sins.

  In what they called the “Kiss of Redemption,” they intentionally infected every man, woman, and child in their group. The virulent strain of I-ZIPs devastated the last soldiers of the Army of the Lord before we knew what was happening.

  A few days later, when one of our men was bringing food to the bunkhouse, one of the dying women told him what they had done. I rushed down to examine the infected, but every last one of them was already too far gone for treatment. I had no pity for the adults who had knowingly conspired with the reverend for months, but the children!

  What had I done!

  Cam brought me back to our cabin and told me they would do what needed to be done. He tried to tell me that none of this was my fault. When he left, I put a pistol to my head and tried to think of a reason not to pull the trigger.

  Then I heard the distant sound of gunshots from the bunkhouse. I counted two, four…ten…twenty. I dropped the pistol and covered my ears with pillows.

  Was it my fault that the zombie apocalypse happened? Was it my fault that in these desperate times, there were evil people who preyed upon others? Was it wrong for me to protect people I cared about—good people who went out of their way to help others?

  No, the reverend would not make me his final victim. He and all of his followers chose to walk in slippery places. All I did was give them a little push down that steep slope to hell.

  The world suddenly became all black and white. I would do anything to help good people. I wou
ld kill everyone else.

  Home Sweet Home: I couldn’t leave the compound soon enough. The horror of so many human deaths made me question whether I would ever return to the scene of my crimes against humanity. I know I was acting in self-defense, but the sight of all those infected children, and the sound of the dozens of gunshots from the bunkhouse was too much for my conscience. On the other hand, I wish I had gotten a video of Cam shooting Reverend Pulsifer, as I would never get tired of seeing that.

  As Voth had warned about the increase in the zombie population throughout the Hudson Valley, Cam refused to let me make the long ride back to Nyack alone. I didn’t argue, as I was in no mood for anymore big surprises. Also, the Army of the Lord had eaten everything they could get their hands on and used up a significant amount of supplies, so Cam needed to scout out new sources of everything his people needed.

  I was the lead vehicle in our short convoy. Cam drove his pickup behind me with The Monk riding shotgun (literally), and two more men drove a big truck in the rear. We made it to the Thruway without incident and headed south, but as we approached Kingston, we saw what looked like a barricade across all of the lanes. When we got a little closer, we noticed the barricade was moving! It was a solid wall of zombies, at least seven or eight deep, stretched out like a long, undulating snake. I hadn’t seen that many zombies since Manhattan. We stopped a few hundred yards away and discussed our options.

  As the undead barricade stretched across the Thruway and off to either side for a significant distance, we couldn’t drive around them. I could blast a path through them with the .50 cal, but I wasn’t sure if the deafening sound would scatter the pack. Not that it would be a bad thing, but I wanted to toss some infected meat grenades into the crowd near the two ends first. Once they had a few minutes to eat, we could then clear a hole through the center. No one was too thrilled about getting that close to the pack, but they did understand the importance of letting my new strain of I-ZIPs work their deadly magic.