We decided that I would drive the Humvee while Cam tossed the grenades out of the passenger window. I figured that three on each side of the crowd would be enough to get of the fatal domino effect going. It was not the most relaxing thing, driving straight toward a mass of zombies. It was kind of like a game of zombie chicken, only I knew I would have to pull out before getting within arm’s reach of the crowd. The plan was to get within about 30 feet and then turn ninety degrees and drive parallel along the line. Cam would toss the meat grenades as close to the zombies as possible.
We started on the southbound lane, and we didn’t anticipate that the crowd would launch themselves towards the speeding vehicle. The thirty foot buffer we had intended quickly became a mere 10 feet before I turned sharply to the left. By the time Cam was tossing his second grenade, the crowd was almost within reach. I had to turn sharply again and drive away from the surging mass of zombies. Cam simply dropped the last grenade out the window, and the starving zombies were upon it in seconds.
“How about we go to plan B?” Cam said, wiping perspiration off his forehead with his sleeve.
“Yeah, I think I had better turn just a bit sooner,” I replied. “Let’s make that at least 50 feet to start.”
We went north in the southbound lane to get some distance before crossing over to the northbound side. This time I was prepared for the crowd to rush towards us, so I turned at a safer distance. Even still, by the time Cam had thrown the final grenade, several dozen zombies were already close enough to smell. I raced back up the road to rejoin the others. We then had a bit of the discussion as to the second part of the plan.
Everyone wanted to fire the .50 caliber machine gun. I argued that it was my gun so I should do the shooting. The men countered that it wasn’t fair that I was having all the fun. You would have thought we were a bunch of children arguing on the playground about who got to use the swings. There’s nothing worse than a bunch of grown men whining, so I relented and told them we would all take turns. After a couple of coin tosses, The Monk happily took his position behind the machine gun. I was about to explain how it worked, but he already had it locked and loaded.
The other two vehicles were going to stay behind until we could determine how long it would take to clear a safe space through which we could pass. I eased forward and when we were about 50 yards from the center of the pack, The Monk opened fire with a short, but deadly, burst. The first few rows of zombies broke open like piñatas as The Monk’s aim was a little low, and the fierce projectiles tore up their abdomens, spilling their guts everywhere. Despite the horrific wounds, many actually stayed on their feet. Cam and the other men derided The Monk over the walkie-talkie.
“You shoot like a girl,” one of them said, but then added, “Oh wait, if you shot like Trues they would all be down.”
“You can all feel free to go fuck yourselves,” The Monk yelled, a moment before he sent twenty or thirty brains splattering all over the Thruway.
As I moved closer and The Monk continued firing, the roar of the machine gun definitely had an effect on the mass of zombies. Many began to back away, some ran as best they could, and a few even put their hands over their ears. I decided to add to their discomfort by blowing the horn when The Monk wasn’t and firing. I noted that some appeared to be completely oblivious to the noise, so I assumed those were relatively recent zombies. That supposition was further bolstered by the fact that those who held their ground were wearing clothes that were relatively cleaner and less tattered then their companions who were fleeing.
Those who didn’t move away were cut down, and in a very short time we had a wide enough space to literally drive a truck through. I suggested to the two other vehicles to lay on their horns as they passed through just to be on the safe side, and fortunately we all ran the gauntlet unscathed. Of course, the road was a bit bumpy as it was now paved with bits of zombie. As I drove over them, I saw quite a few of the gut-shot the zombies grasping at the Humvee. One even managed to lock on to my bumper, and I must have dragged him at least half a mile before he fell. Cam remarked that I had left quite a trail of hamburger meat.
Unfortunately, we encountered another inhuman barricade near Woodbury. We did the same routine with disbursing the meat grenades and letting the zombies dine for a few minutes before the next man had his chance at the .50 caliber. As we passed through, I noticed that Route 17 also had some big packs of zombies. We had no idea why such large groups were forming on the highways, but this did not bode well for traveling around looking for supplies. Since the early days of the apocalypse, I had relied on the ability to move around with relative ease. It looked like those days were gone for now.
On the other hand, such large groups offered excellent opportunities to infect huge numbers of zombies with the new I-ZIPs. As I drove, I did some calculations in my head, trying to determine the exponential death rate. It went something like: If ten zombies ate the infected meat and died within two days, then forty zombies ate the dead ones and got infected and they died in a few days, etc., etc., I quickly realized that in a week or so, there could be as many as ten thousand really dead zombies! If it all worked as planned, of course. But if the speed at which the reverend and the others had been overtaken by my strain of parasites was any indication, we would need a snow plow to clear the roads of bodies next time we drove through.
Despite the frightening numbers of zombies that now roamed the streets, my little statistical analysis actually made me feel optimistic—until we approached the major intersection where the Thruway met Route 287 in Suffern. There was yet another mass of zombies bigger than the first two combined, and they were stretched down the length of the road this time and they must have been at least 200 feet deep. There was no way we could shoot a path through this mob as the others on the side would just quickly fill the gap. Cam and I did a quick meat grenade run then doubled back to assess the situation with the others.
“This may be a case where we use horsepower instead of firepower,” said Jerry, the driver of the big truck. “I could just rev this baby up to about 90 miles per hour and ram right through those bastards.”
It wasn’t the safest idea, but we couldn’t come up with a better one if we wanted to continue on. None of us could say for sure that even a huge speeding truck would be able to break through all of the zombies that were crammed together, shoulder to shoulder. We decided that Jerry should try it in stages. He would get up to speed and ram into the crowd, and try to go about 40 or 50 feet, then back out and we would reassess the feasibility of the plan.
I don’t think anyone was breathing as Jerry gunned the engine and went hurtling toward the herd of zombies. Even at the distance at which we were waiting, the initial impact produced a sickening, bone-crunching sound as the truck easily plowed through about 50 feet of zombies. Screeching to a halt on the blood-soaked road, Jerry threw it into reverse and backed out over all the bodies. He told us there was clearly some resistance, but he thought that one or two more attempts could be sufficient to break through to the other side. We examined the truck for impact damage, but the homemade crash bars he had welded on had protected the front end. There were some body parts stuck in the undercarriage, but we were able to poke those free with a stick.
We observed the reaction of the zombies to having several dozen of their comrades mowed down. In the past, zombies would not touch a dead zombie for several days. It had been surmised that the zombie parasites produced some sort of pheromones that kept zombies from attacking each other, and that it took a couple of days for the scent of those pheromones to dissipate. Apparently, the smell of fresh blood and guts now surpassed the repulsive power of the pheromones, as these zombies were clearly starving. They descended on their fallen comrades like packs of ravenous wolves.
With many hundreds of zombies now on their hands and knees feeding, it made it easier for Jerry to plow deeper into the crowd on his second run. However, this time as he started to back up, his wheels began to spin on the piles of sl
ippery organs and blood. There were some tense moments as he became surrounded by zombies pounding and clawing at the truck, but like I had done with my boat, he pulled forward and back a number of times until his wheels caught pavement and he was able to pull out.
We let Jerry catch his breath before he described what had just happened. Although he was still fairly confident that he could push through on one more run, he wasn’t so certain my Humvee could make it if it became engulfed in zombies. And he was fairly sure that Cam’s pickup truck would not make it. We sat there for a few minutes trying to figure out what to do. Then The Monk noticed that as the zombies had compressed to feast on all the broken bodies, a small opening had formed along the concrete divider in the center of the highway. It wasn’t big enough to get our vehicles through, but it gave us an idea.
Jerry made two more ramming runs into the right side of the crowd, which drew more zombies from the left side. We waited several minutes and sure enough, the gap along the divider opened up wide enough that we felt it was worth trying to break through. We would stick closely together with Jerry leading the way, me next, and Cam hopefully bringing up the rear. It was a risky maneuver, but we hadn’t come this far to give up now.
We started off together and rapidly accelerated. The speedometer on the Humvee was reading 85 and we were hugging the divider with only inches to spare when Jerry first reached the gap. For the first 20 feet or so the way was clear, but then he started hitting zombies. Fortunately, there were only one or two at a time and he had no trouble clearing the way for us. I had driven over plenty of bodies, but never at such a high rate of speed before and I felt like I was riding a bucking bronco for a couple of hundred feet. I could see in my rearview mirror that Cam was also having the bumpiest ride of his life, but he was keeping pace with us.
I can’t even put into words the relief I felt when we had cleared the pack. The feel of smooth, dry pavement beneath my tires was heavenly, which was in direct contrast to the visions of hell through which we just passed. While we did see some smaller packs the rest of the way down the Thruway, they were all off on the sides of the road and we didn’t have to do anything more than toss them each an infected meat grenade.
We didn’t see a single zombie on the streets of Nyack, which I took to be further evidence of the success of the grenades, and when we pulled up my street and I saw that my house appeared to be intact, I was finally able to take a long, deep breath and relax. The place smelled a little musty and dusty, but it also had some of those familiar smells, like my Mom’s scented candle collection and my Dad’s cedar boxes. In other words, it smelled and felt like Home Sweet Home.
Chapter 17
Phase 17: Deflated: While the rest of us cleaned up my house to make it a bit more livable, Cam actually mowed the lawn. We all thought it was a foolish waste of time and gas, but maybe for him, it was a way to feel like he had some control over his life.
The next order of business was to go down to the docks and get my boat ready. There were many other boats whose owners were long gone, most likely either dead or turned zombie, so we cleaned and prepped a few of them, as well, so we would have a little fleet at our disposal.
The final order of business for the day was to see what kind of food and supplies we could find. Before breaking into any house, The Monk shouted through a megaphone that if anyone was alive inside to give us a sign and we would leave them alone. Obviously, we were only interested in abandoned houses, and had no intention of being like the reverend’s people, stealing from others. But I guess we really didn’t have to be so cautious, as none of the twenty houses we entered had any signs of life.
I confess, it was upsetting every time we entered another house and saw the remnants of shattered lives all around us. There were suitcases, clothes, and boxes scattered around in the houses where the owners had fled when quarantine was lifted. There were signs of violence and human remains in those houses where one or two family members had turned zombie and then preyed upon their parents, siblings, spouses, or god help them, their own children. We did not encounter any zombies, but it actually would have been nice to shoot one or two of the fuckers to alleviate some of the sadness and frustration.
By the third or fourth house we had broken into, we had our routine down to a science. While one man was in charge of siphoning gas from any vehicles, lawn equipment, etc., someone else searched for any usable tools, flashlights, and batteries. Cam and The Monk looked for food and water in kitchens, pantries, closets, basements, and garages. Of course, if they came across any beer or cigarettes, that was okay, too. My job was to search bathrooms, night stands, purses, dresser drawers, and under mattresses for any type of drugs, prescription or illegal. I also gathered vitamins, bandages, crutches, towels, and blankets—basically anything that could be used at the clinic.
It never ceased to amaze me how many drugs, vitamins, and supplements the average American household contained. Each one was like a little pharmacy, and by the end of our scavenging expedition, my Humvee was crammed full of everything from aspirin to Viagra (in fact, an unbelievable amount of Viagra!), oxycodone, crack, heroin, and zip lock bags full of marijuana. Similarly, it was equally impressive how much food, bottled water, beer, and hard liquor that just about every house contained. And that was even after most homeowners had taken box-loads of food when they fled. America had truly been a land of glorious excess.
When we got back to my house, Cam said he would surprise us with the dinner he’d prepare. It sounded like we were in for a gourmet feast the way he was talking. To be honest, I was so hungry I could have eaten a horse, but I was really looking forward to what “specialty items” he had found.
I guess my definition of specialty items was slightly different from his, because when he called us to dinner we found a huge, steaming pot of Beefaroni in the center of the table and a package of bright pink Hostess Sno Balls next to each plate. The men cheered in delight, and once I adjusted to my lowered expectations, I actually enjoyed the meal. (Although I wasn’t so sure I hadn’t just eaten horse meat. I guess calling it Horsearoni wouldn’t have been good for business.)
We listened to Voth after dinner and he announced that farmers throughout the Hudson Valley were looking for survivors to help them plant crops and guard against zombies and human raiders. Those who pitched in for the season would share equally at harvest time. The men took great interest in this information and scribbled down the names and locations of all of these farmers. They were certain many of the people at the compound who had either grown up or worked on farms, would welcome the chance to be useful again and help ensure the food supply for the next winter. I took it as a very positive sign that even in the midst of this zombie apocalypse, at least some degree of normalcy and life was returning to the region.
We were then all stunned when Voth announced that, “Dr. Rebecca Truesdale has returned to her home in Nyack, and we can only hope she has plans to reopen her clinic on Bannerman’s Island, as there are many people in need of medical attention.”
How the hell did he know?
I now had two reasons to live. First, to see the end of all zombies and witness the rebirth of civilization, and secondly, to meet this mysterious Voth and find out how he seemed to know everything.
He then ended his broadcast with a tantalizing piece of news. After many months, there finally seemed “to be signs of activity at West Point.” That was all he said, but it sparked a great debate over just what that meant. Did the activity involve battling zombies within the walls of the military academy? Were troops gathering and training for combat? Were survivors in the Hudson Valley finally going to get some help from the military? The debate could have lasted late into the night, but we were so tired from the long day’s activity, and so full of Horsearoni and Sno Balls, that we decided any further discussion could wait until morning.
I was actually dreading the next day, as our plan was to go search for supplies at Nyack Hospital. The last time I was there seemed like a li
fetime ago, and I thought back to how many friends and colleagues I had lost. On the other hand, I was looking forward to dropping by Yvonne’s house. I had been somewhat concerned the last few weeks, as I was unable to call PayRay, but there could be a whole host of reasons why the call wasn’t going through or he wasn't answering his sat phone.
The Monk took charge of breakfast, and with powdered eggs, powdered milk, a box of Bisquick, and a jug of real Vermont maple syrup, we had a delicious pancake breakfast. And what breakfast was complete without orange-flavored Tang? I didn’t even know they still made Tang, but from the taste of it, we speculated that it had been left over from the 1960s.
Our convoy first headed for Yvonne’s house, and my heart skipped a beat when we turned down her street and saw several zombies. They were on their knees feeding on one body in the street and two more on the lawn. Cam yelled over the walkie-talkie that we needed to proceed with caution, but I was so wild with panic that I leapt out of the Humvee, firing with both pistols. When the zombies were down and dead, I started to run towards the house, but Cam literally tackled me to the ground.
“Hang on, Trues, hang on,” he said softly, keeping me pinned to the dirt until I stopped struggling. “We’re going in, but we’re going to do this the right way. Okay?”
I agreed, and he finally let me up. We took a look at what was left of the human remains, and while the faces had been eaten to the bone, I knew by their size that none of them was Yvonne or PayRay. I was also pretty sure that two of them weren’t any of PayRay’s people, as among the torn clothing were distinctive bandannas that were worn by a local Hispanic gang. The thought made me ill—with all of the countless zombies to kill, had two rival gangs actually fought each other?
HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse Page 29