Becks had to use the scissors and a Bic disposable razor to gingerly clear the hair around the 4-inch wound on the left side of her head. It was a jagged tear, and didn’t she have fun putting a few more blue stitches into her scalp to try to hold the torn flesh together. She almost passed out, but managed to get through her Frankenstein transformation.
She was beginning to feel feverish, and prayed that it was from bacteria and not parasites. She needed more sleep. Crawling back through the living room and over some of the dried corpses, she made it to the couch and found a soiled, orange and 1970s green, crocheted afghan to cover her. The house was cold at night, and maybe an hour later she awoke shivering. God help her, but she unzipped the World’s Best Dad’s sleeping bag and rolled out his body. Turning it inside out at least, she tried not to think of the former contents and what caused all the staining as she snuggled inside the sleeping bag for warmth.
The next day she had one important mission—get upstairs and find antibiotics. Her wounds were seriously infected and she needed heavy doses of amoxicillin or ampicillin, or anything she could find. With a family of five—three of whom were boys—there must have been plenty of need for antibiotics, and she was counting on the fact that a substantial number of people never finished the full course of their prescriptions because they were feeling better or just forgot. With the average attention span in the digital age being about 60 seconds, or less, a 10-day course of medication was often too much to ask of a patient!
Forgetting she had a fractured skull, she made the mistake of trying to stand, which only made the room start spinning like a centrifuge and she fell back onto the couch. Giving herself a few minutes to regain some equilibrium, she slid down onto the carpet and began crawling to the staircase leading to the second floor. It was covered with the same nasty, dirty shag carpeting as the living room, only most of the shag was worn down to nubs in the centers of the steps from years of kids going up and down.
Becks could just picture the three brothers racing down the stairs, two at a time, the morning they all took that trip to Disney World. (She wasn’t psychic; there was a framed collage of photos on the wall.) She could also picture them dragging their feet down the staircase on the first day of school every year, and reluctantly heading up the stairs when their mother told them to stop playing video games and go to bed. But she couldn’t dwell on the memories of this family, as she was in very real danger of becoming a memory, too.
Lifting her butt onto the first stair, she grabbed onto the railing overhead like she was riding the subway. Using both her arms and legs, she raised herself up to the next stair, and slowly but surely lifted and sat her way up. Fortunately, the bathroom was right at the top of the stairs, so she turned onto her hands and knees and made her way into the small room with fixtures that were even more outdated than the carpet.
Starting with the cabinet under the sink—as it was at eye level—she found more rubbing alcohol, Ace bandages, gauze bandages, athlete’s foot cream, and Costco-sized bundles of cheap shampoo, soap, and cleaning supplies. Then she carefully and slowly raised herself high enough to sit on the toilet, which she then used as a platform to help lift her rear end onto the sink, so she could reach the medicine cabinet without having to stand. Unfortunately, her hopes of a treasure trove of medications were once again dashed, this time by tubes of toothpaste and Clearasil, Pepto-Bismol, Imodium, children’s aspirin, and eight half-empty bottles of a variety of cough medicines.
Becks was incredibly disappointed and scared at finding nothing to fight the infections, but then it dawned on her. Where were the tampons? Where was the Midol, the mascara, the lipsticks, and eye shadow? There must be another bathroom in the master bedroom where the mother of the household kept all of her cosmetics and personal items—and hopefully all the family’s drugs.
Crawling back out of the bathroom, she saw that the bedroom at the end of the hall to her right was the only one that didn’t have piles of clothing on the floor, so she assumed it had been the parents’ room. She was correct, and she was also correct in assuming it had another bathroom. And to her great relief, the large, double-doored medicine cabinet in that bathroom was a small pharmacy of Walgreens’ prescription bottles.
You name it, and someone in this family had at one time been prescribed it—including no less than seven different bottles of antibiotics, all of which still had anywhere from two to six capsules or pills left. Didn’t anyone ever take the full ten days of medication as prescribed? Not that she was complaining, as their inability to follow their doctor’s orders just might save her life.
As Becks looked over the labels, she saw that two of the bottles were for doxycycline and had been prescribed in June of 2012—prime tick season—so she suspected that Dylan Serviss and his brother Bryan (the names on the labels) had both showed symptoms of Lyme’s Disease, which had almost been running as rampant as the ensuing ZIPs infection. Two other bottles had been prescribed for their mother, Betty Serviss, both of which were for 250mg of Ciprofloxacin—commonly prescribed for urinary tract infections.
As Becks dry-swallowed 500mg of Cipro, she gave thanks to the disease-carrying ticks and Mrs. Serviss’ compromised bladder that made her salvation possible. There were no guarantees this would be enough antibiotics, but it sure beat nothing.
After stuffing all the drugs she could find into a bag, she crawled over to the dresser and closet looking to find some clean clothes. She was smelling mighty ripe and her torn and chewed shirt and pants were still covered in her own clotted blood, and that of Sgt. Colaneri. Gently peeling off her clothes over her swollen and painful wounds, she used a couple of wash cloths and some scented body spray (which had a high alcohol content) to clean up a bit. What she wouldn’t have given for a hot shower or bath!
Unfortunately, Mrs. Serviss was a very petite size 4, which was half of Becks’ size. However, World’s Greatest Dad had been short and trim enough that his sweat pants weren’t too baggy on her, especially when she put on three pairs for warmth. And she even found a couple of NY Giants sweatshirts and jerseys which she also put on in layers.
While Becks was now warmer and more comfortably clad, and relieved that she now had some antibiotics in her system, the exertion had made her head pound and she was quite nauseated. Shaking some of the dust off the bed comforter and pillows, she crawled under the covers and slept a few hours. As soon as she woke up, she took another 500mg of Cipro. Then she slid back down to the floor and decided to explore the boys’ rooms.
21st century boys’ bedrooms: Video gaming gear, stacks of graphic novels, sports equipment, and posters of 21st century girls. While some of the boys’ toys may change over time, testosterone is still testosterone in any century.
Apart from some stale candy, there didn’t appear to be anything of use to Becks until she crawled onto a pair of upside-down football cleats hidden under a dirty t-shirt.
“Son of bitch!” she shouted as she rubbed her bruised knee.
It wasn’t quite the apple falling on Newton’s head, but the cleats on Becks’ knee made her realize that all of these football and hockey helmets and pads could offer protection if she got in a close quarters fight with zombies, and baseball bats and hockey sticks could make great weapons—with a little modification. She remembered visiting the survivor outpost at the Ace Hardware store in Ellenville, NY the previous year—Fort Ace, they called it—and marveling at all the cool and highly effective weaponry they had made from tools, gardening equipment, and simple household items.
“Every home contains an arsenal, if you just get a little creative,” one of the Fort Ace men had told her.
If Becks wanted to conserve ammunition and not attract attention from the undead, or any living scavengers who might be in the area, she would have to come up with some silent and deadly zombie killing weapons.
But that could come later. First, she had to heal enough to fight, and that meant sleeping, eating, and antibiotics. It also meant keeping warm as the temperatu
res at night were already dipping below freezing and there came a point where it didn’t matter how many layers of clothing and blankets she had, she needed a source of warmth.
Until she could secure another house that had a fireplace, or preferably a woodstove, she would have to use the kerosene heater. As carbon monoxide from that heater had more than likely been the cause of death of the entire Serviss family, Becks was less than pleased that it was her only choice, but at least it was better than no choice.
Her excellent memory—which was a mixed blessing at times—brought to mind that carbon monoxide was absorbed by hemoglobin 210 times faster than oxygen. Unless a room was adequately vented to remove carbon monoxide from the air, death would come quickly and quietly as the body was slowly deprived of oxygen. Not a bad way to go when death by zombies was awaiting you at your doorstep, but Becks had too much fight left in her to cash in her chips now. And she never, ever, again wanted to experience the horror of something trying to eat her alive.
Every time she slept, she woke up at least once from a screaming nightmare—a nightmare that had been all too real and almost fatal. And not a single hour of the day passed without her thinking of the inexpressible terror of feeling the teeth of the undead tearing into her flesh in a frenzy of mindless hunger. She tried to put it out of her mind, but the infected bite wounds were a constant reminder. If she survived this ordeal, the scars would continue to haunt her every day for the rest of her life.
Two long weeks passed with Becks rarely getting out of bed. She had managed to get the kerosene heater—and two heavy containers of kerosene—upstairs and into the parents’ bedroom. Using the kids’ mattresses as extra insulation against the drafty windows, she made a rather warm “nest” in which to recuperate.
To vent the carbon monoxide, she used Dylan’s hockey stick with a Ginsu knife duct-taped to it to cut some holes in the ceiling above the heater, which she kept in the doorway. She safety tested the arrangement for several hours before trying it while sleeping and found that all the fumes rose harmlessly into the even draftier attic where they were blown to the outside through vents on either end of the house. Probably a substantial amount of heat was being lost, as well, but better that than waking up dead, she told herself in an attempt at some zombie humor.
To pass the time, Becks piled a stack of the boys’ comic books and graphic novels on the bed and snuggled under the covers to read by candlelight. She never had any interest in comic books as a kid—and quite honestly thought they were only for people with very poor reading skills—but she found herself getting into the fantasy world of superheroes and alternate realities. Given the seriousness of her current situation—wounded and alone in the zombie-infested suburbs of New Jersey—it was just what she needed to escape reality for a few hours a day.
The rest and antibiotics really helped. All but two of the wounds had closed up and were no longer infected. The others were still of some concern, but as soon as she could explore other houses, she hoped to find more meds to mop up at last of the bacteria. Her head still hurt like a son of a bitch, but at least she was able to stand and walk slowly without waves of dizziness and nausea. And now that she felt able to function in at least a limited capacity, she could do two important things—make plans and make weapons.
Becks really liked her ceiling ventilating tool of the Ginsu taped to the hockey stick. Taking a few practice swings at the fake leather couch and a coat rack, she realized this could make a decent weapon for ventilating zombie skulls, as well, or at least for thrusting a blade through an eye socket or ear canal and into the brain to sever the ZIP nexus controlling the body. And there was not one, but two large sets of knives with which she could create her hockey stick and broom handle spears. Either Mr. or Mrs. Serviss got sucked into some late night infomercials, or they had received the knife sets as gifts from friends or relatives who had gotten sucked into some late night infomercials. In any event, God bless American consumerism where no one is truly happy until they have at least two of everything they don’t need!
Using a small department store telescope that one of the boys had trained on a neighbor’s bedroom window—could it possibly have been a woman’s bedroom!?—Becks began checking out the surrounding houses. She used crayons and 11x17 sheets of printer paper to draw a layout of the neighborhood.
Red rectangles denoted houses with broken windows or busted-in doors that had most likely been stripped of supplies, or had become winter nests for small packs of zombies. Blue squares were houses that still looked intact, but didn’t appear to have chimneys for fireplaces or woodstoves. They would be worth exploring for food and weapons, though. The most promising prospects were the two green squares that were both intact and had chimneys.
One of those green square houses was only three doors down across the street. Becks could just see the corner of a wood pile in the backyard. There was also an RV parked back there, which meant there was most likely a generator and a camp stove—unless someone else had already taken them. What Becks wouldn’t do for a hot meal and some hot water to bathe in! When she worked as a nurse at Nyack Hospital and at ParGenTech in the biohazard labs, she usually showered at least twice a day. It had now been weeks without washing and she was beginning to gross herself out.
Between her pistols and the spears (for which she had used a wicker umbrella stand and backpack straps to make a quiver), she was good to go on offense. But Becks also knew she had to do something about defense, as she had to make damn sure she didn’t get bitten again. The blood-soaked Eradazole had apparently been sufficient to eliminate the ZIPs eggs from the bites, as she wasn’t feeling those symptoms that she knew all too well. But there wasn’t any more Eradazole, and she no longer had a safety net between her and a full-blown zombie infection.
For protection, she used some of the boys’ shin guards, elbow pads, and paintball gloves. She also created some primitive armor by duct-taping rows of silverware across Mr. Serviss’ leather jacket and down the length of some thick denim jeans. She would challenge any zombie to bite through a cluster of soup spoons and salad forks! Dylan’s hockey helmet fit just right, and would help protect her skull from further injury. And what zombie apocalypse survival outfit was complete without a surgical mask, which every household bought by the dozens in the early days of infection.
Of course, the best scenario would be to stealthily cross the street and get to the “green” house (which was actually covered in fake brick face) undetected by the dozen or so zombies that were shambling about. Unfortunately, even if she was perfectly healthy and able to run at top speed, stealth was not one of her strong points, but she would give it a try. Between the overgrown shrubbery on the lawns and the cars in the street, she would not have to be completely exposed for more than about 20 feet at a time. Before leaving the house, she went over her planned route in her head at least five times.
Taking a deep breath and rechecking her pistols for the tenth time, she opened the back door and took her first step outside in weeks. She chose to leave the house that way for two reasons—the backyard provided the best route through the neighbor’s shrubs, and she wouldn’t have to look at the shattered Humvees and stained bits of cloth and bone fragments that used to be Sergeant Colaneri and the four other soldiers.
Although able to walk fairly well, Becks was still very weak and out of shape, and she soon discovered that crouching down and then standing again made her head pound. However, she felt she could fight through the pain, and just prayed that the vertigo didn’t return.
Her progress was much slower than she had planned, as a few of the filthiest scummers Becks ever saw, clad in torn and soiled matching ski jackets (had this been a family?) suddenly took an interest in the front lawn where she was hiding behind a holly bush. Although the leaves were fairly thick, she didn’t dare move an inch for fear of attracting attention. After a few minutes of trying to remain in a squatting position, she started to get wobbly and ever so slowly had to shift to her hands and knees
.
The ground was cold and squishy from a recent light snowfall that had quickly melted. She tried to adjust her position to put her knees on some leaves to prevent getting her pant legs too wet, but the rustling sound was just enough to attract the shortest of the ski-jacketed scummers, who began shuffling her way.
If she fired one of her pistols, she would have at least twelve hungry assailants converging on her, with no doubt hundreds more in the neighborhood being alerted to her position. As quietly as possible, she pulled the Bauer hockey stick from the wicker umbrella stand quiver on her back. On the straight end, she had secured a 10-inch slicing knife for close quarters and for accuracy. On the curved end, was a heftier 12-inch chef’s knife for long, arcing swings that wouldn’t be very accurate, but should pack quite a penetrating punch.
When the lone zombie got within ten feet, Becks determined it was an adolescent, but due to filth and rot, she couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. The kid’s left eye was swollen and bloody, and it was probably blind in that eye, which was why it still hadn’t detected Becks when it was only a few feet away. Becks looked upon that eye as a big, red bull’s eye target, and spun her hockey stick around so the 10-inch slicing knife was raised and ready.
“Hey, Shithead,” Becks whispered softly.
The zombie stopped shambling and turned slowly toward the sound, leaning down and baring its brown and yellow teeth in anticipation of a meal. With one short thrust of the hockey stick, the razor-sharp blade easily sunk five or six inches through the damaged eye, which burst like a rotten grape. Becks would have sworn that the knife only stopped because the tip had reached the back of the skull. Twisting the stick back and forth a couple of times just to make sure the ZIP nexus was sufficiently disrupted, she backed away a few feet, pulled out the knife, and watched as the twitching adolescent of undetermined gender fell face first in the cold muck of the unkempt suburban front lawn.
HVZA (Book 2): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse 2 Page 5