Infamy: A Zombie Novel

by Detrick, Bobby

  Infamy

  A Zombie Novel

  by Robert H Detrick

  Prologue

  UNN News reports disturbing riots, cannibalism in Tijuana, Mexico . . .

  We interrupt your regular scheduled program to bring you a live report with footage of a mass execution of citizens by Mexican government troops loyal to cartels on the U.S. - Mexico border.

  Earlier we showed you smoke rising from riots near the Plaza Pia Pico in central Tijuana, as Mexico officials told UNN sources that today’s ongoing fighting was in retaliation for recent attacks on the Mexican drug trade by both U.S. and Mexico officials.

  Mass casualties of soldiers and citizens have been reported.

  You are now looking at live scenes of smoke rising beyond an El Pollo Loco on Agua Caliente Boulevard, and also, the Paseo de los Heroes, very close to the Tijuana River.

  There are no reports of riots in San Diego.

  All U.S. borders with Mexico were closed as of noon today.

  What we are about to show you is disturbing. We warn viewers to use discretion. This footage was recorded just a few moments ago by Arturo Mendoza, of Tijuana, who was caught in the deadly fighting. He uploaded this video to our YouReport servers only moments ago. He tells us he is currently locked in a 7-11 convenience store with other Mexican nationals. He says they all fear for their lives.

  This is Mendoza’s horrific footage . . . The screams and cries you hear are real. The blood and carnage is unlike anything we’ve ever witnessed. As you can see, government troops and citizens alike are not only firing upon each other, but biting and eating their victims.

  [images: federale troops in uniforms shoot into a crowd. Citizens with guns fire on other citizens. A group of people break from the mob, running and limping. Though sprayed with bullets, they overpower some of the soldiers, biting and snapping jaws onto exposed flesh. A soldier’s neck spurts blood. Screaming people drip blood from their mouths, growl and vomit as they attack a man trying to run down the street. Two more crowds converge. Some people are on the ground, thrashing as they’re being torn inside-out. A screaming young girl is picked up by Arturo Mendoza. As he carries her she spits blood and tries to bite him. He throws the girl to the ground, runs and curses. The footage ends].

  Five hours later UNN News reports riots have spread . . .

  The world is in shock as widespread cannibalism and rioting has spread throughout Mexico and into Central and South America, including Honduras, Panama, Brazil, Argentina and Peru.

  Mexico President Melchor Guerrero, along with leaders throughout Latin America, has announced a State of Emergency.

  There has still been no official response from the White House.

  Within the hour UNN News reports a street drug may be related to cannibalism . . .

  Officials say a new kind of narcotic going by the street name Infamy could be the main cause for the mass hysteria and cannibalism. We will keep you posted as the situation unfolds . . .

  Chapter 1

  Dead Rising

  Here it comes again—the Super Mario theme song. Pulsating eight-bit music sends beep after mind-pounding beep against my eardrums, waking me yet again from a dream I can’t remember but still felt better than my reality.

  Takes me a minute to remember I left the television on all night from the chick-flick I was watching. Selfie for Sophia. I grimace at the fact that I watched it seven times with Kathy back when we were dating. Twenty-seven times since we broke up.

  I focus on the television. The sound is muted. News images show a lot of flames and riots somewhere. I think I see blood but I’m not sure. Everything’s kind of fuzzy. I answer the phone just before voicemail kicks in. My voice cracks like a thirteen-year-old virgin.

  “Hello?”

  “Seth? It's Kathy.” Her voice has a lot more hate in it than I can remember. Funny how two people can move so far beyond cooing lovingly in each other’s ears.

  “I know who this is. Never changed your ring tone,” I say.

  “This avoiding thing has gone on too long.”

  “Avoiding? I’ve been working my ass off. Thanks for waking me on my day off.”

  “It’s eleven. Your lazy ass should be up.”

  “Are you asking me back? Because I can wake up for that.”

  “You know what I want.”

  “I do?” I roll away from the television just as I see a phrase scroll across the UNN broadcast:

  Tijuana on high alert along with other Mexico border cities. San Diego threatened. Mexico City on lockdown.

  “Are you listening?” Kathy says. “I’m coming by to pick up the rest of my stuff.”

  “Don’t bother,” I say.

  “What do you mean, don’t? I need to get my shit. You’ve had it for months.”

  I really want to just hang up and go back to sleep. Just hearing her voice is depressing enough. I kind of still like having photos of her family on the walls. But she’s right. This is ridiculous, especially when I know hope is a losing cause.

  Why did I hang on for so long? No idea. Stupidity? False hope for make-up sex? I don’t have the heart to tell her I rendered her computer tablet useless while cracking it for some of the hardware. Better to just lie.

  “Thought you already came by and got your things,” I say. “I put them in a box and set it outside the door.”

  “How could I pick up a box when you didn’t tell me you put a box outside?”

  “I sent you a text. I think. Maybe someone stole your shit.”

  “You set my stuff outside and let someone just take off with it? Shit like this is why I left you.”

  I’m waking up now. She’s hissing and I can tell she isn’t ever coming back, even though I’ve been wallowing in self-pity over her.

  This is where I show some backbone. “Tell Carl I said good luck putting up with your sorry ass.”

  “You’re a dick, Seth.”

  Hitting End Call before that bitch can scream gives me a little satisfaction along with her freak-out over her stuff being gone. Truth is, I’m holding onto the rest of her shit as payback for cheating on me with Carl. Did I mention that asshole is my boss? We hate each other, but he needs me to finish building a website about videogames. I’m also integrating my blogging fanbase to it. I’m only sticking around because of the cash.

  No way I’m gonna sleep now. I throw on a bathrobe, stroll into the living room and grab a warm beer off the bar. It’s nestled among two-dozen other beer bottles and energy-drink cans. I might open the fridge, but sometimes it stops working when I pull on the door. Still manages to keep Hot Pockets frozen.

  I scan the living room for one of four game controllers lost in a sea of empty fast-food bags and dirty napkins. My hand swims around in the litter and hits against something plastic and sticky. There it is. I bring the controller up from the abyss covered in dried Dr. Pepper.

  After rubbing brown soda-goop on my bathrobe, I slip on my videogame headset. The opening scene of Zombageddon lights up the flatscreen. Bloody, flesh-tearing 3-D animations of undead cannibals scream along with horror queens and death metal. This is fucking awesome.

  When the fast-load screen comes to life, my avatar walks out of a safehouse with gun in hand. Oh yeahhh.

  A voice then comes over the headset and greets me by my screen name.

  “Snipe!”

  “What up, EdgeCrusher?”

  “You know, same old. Pizza for breakfast. Saving the world from zombies. You got two Romeros behind you.”

  Though EdgeCrusher’s words are muffled by the food shoved in his mouth, the message is still received. A flick of my joystick spins my character. Yes. Then a perfectly-timed trigger pull on the shoulder button sends a blast from my shotgun
. That shit tears through both undead brains. Bone and grey matter explode as my avatar reloads.

  “From my Boomstick with love,” the computer avatar says, striking a pose with the gun on his shoulder.

  “Thanks for the heads up, bro,” I say.

  “While I got you on the mic, Seth, there’s a hotel party tonight.” EdgeCrusher texts me the location of the party. “Want to come?”

  “Hell yeah. I need a good excuse to drink Kathy out of my memory.”

  “She call you for her stuff again?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You know better than answering the phone.”

  Another player’s voice bursts through the mic, interrupting our conversation. Sounds like it belongs to some ten-year-old boy whose mother uses videogames as a babysitter. His pink-haired, face-painted avatar runs into view with the tag “Snot Shot” over head.

  “Your mom called,” the tiny voice squeaks and laughs.

  “Shut your mouth you little shit,” I say. “You’re not even old enough to buy this game.” My retort shrieks some feedback into my ear as I empty a clip into the boy’s avatar.

  “Hey,” the boy cries. “My avatar!”

  “Mine now. Go cry to mama,” I yell.

  EdgeCrusher jumps on the corpse and begins to teabag him over and over.

  I empty one more clip just for the hell of it. And then another. I’ve really lost it.

  EdgeCrusher was never sane to begin with. He laughs hysterically.

  “Mom, the man on my head set is cursing at me,” the boy whines.

  “Grown men shouldn’t do this to kids,” comes a woman’s voice through the static.

  “Hey don’t be mad at me because your husband prefer porn. I’m starting to see why,” I say.

  “Oh my god. You’re never playing this game again, Patrick,” she says. “Why did I buy this game?”

  The mic cuts off and the pink-haired avatar disappears from screen.

  “Oh man, Seth, that was too much,” Edgecrusher says. “I was laughing so hard my dude died like three times. It was worth it. You pushed her button hard.”

  “Right? Makes me hope I never have any kids. At least none who are videogame pussies.”

  “You've got nothing to worry about. Your hand can’t get knocked up.”

  “Asshole,” I laugh.

  We splatter zombies for hours on end. I’ve never had so much fun virtual-killing, pretending every decayed head is my ex-girlfriend on her way to the apartment to pick up her broken computer tablet.

  Finally, I realize I have to shower and eat some cold pizza. “I have to get some shit done before the party,” I say.

  Steam fills the bathroom. After wiping the mirror I realize a hat sounds like a better solution than trying to tame my hair with gel. I grab a bottle of body spray and give some pants from a pile of dirty clothes a good squirt (Also works as a repellent for spiders that nest in unwashed t-shirts and underwear).

  I’m in my blue 2002 Honda Civic on Hillcrest, just north of downtown San Diego. It’s clear out, breezy, which is nice when stuck on the side of the freeway waiting for a group of Marine Hummers accompanied by cops to pass. I’m assuming the military vehicles are out of Camp Pendleton to beef up the U.S. - Mexico border over whatever chaos that UNN news guy was talking about earlier.

  I don’t care about who is killing who in the latest drug war chaos going on down there. Aren’t the cartels always chopping each other’s heads off, or wiping out everyone on a bus for no good reason? Maybe the people are fighting back for once. We all know the cartels are here in America too. But if they start causing shit, they’ll just start getting gunned down by grannies packing in their purses. Seems like everyone has a gun these days. And everyone knows grannies won’t put up with any kind of a cocksucker. Not in America anyway.

  I run a few errands, sleep on the beach for an hour, then jump in the car and head to the hotel party EdgeCrusher told me about.

  The Coronado Crowne is fifteen stories tall and overlooks the city and bay. The lobby looks nice. Marble-polished floors reflect light from a ten-foot-wide chandelier. Walls are painted so bright it’s like walking up to the Gates of Heaven. Can’t imagine passing through with a hangover. I’ll soon find out.

  Rob (EdgeCrusher) is near the lobby next to a glass container filled with some fancy ice water mixed with cucumbers. He's dressed in khaki shorts, sandals, and a pink polo with a popped collar.

  “Bro, what up? Good to see you,” he says with a fist bump. “Tonight’s going to be awesome. Scored some new stuff that just started to be sold on the streets last week. You probably won’t remember a thing once you down the shit.”

  “I just want beer,” I laugh.

  “Cool by me. Feel free to change . . . or explode your mind.”

  “How did you know about this party?”

  “The chick I hooked up with last week told me about it. It’s a wedding afterparty. She said the groom is some male model who’s loaded. He booked the entire seventh floor.”

  Rob washes down a pill with a cup of cucumber water before we find the elevator and head up to the party.

  The entire hallway on the seventh floor is packed with partygoers. We wriggle through, entering a room with a makeshift dance floor. Ravers used to do this by putting the bed on the balcony to make room. The bed here is up against the wall. No one wants a mattress to fall on someone seven stories down.

  Rob squeezes his way into a bathroom where a tub full of ice chills the kegs. He fills a couple of cups and hands one over to me.

  “Drink up,” he says, slapping me on the back.

  I take a huge chug, wipe foam off my lips and scan all the chicks grinding against each other. “So many hotties are in here it isn’t funny,” I say.

  “About a three-to-one ratio,” Rob says. “We might have a chance.”

  “I just want to drink,” I say.

  “Still pissed about Kathy? Make up your mind. She’s a loser.”

  I drink some more beer, imagining Kathy is grinding up against a short Asian girl in a black mini-skirt. The Asian girl is real. And hot.

  “Oh, should warn you,” Rob laughs. “I put a little something in your drink.”

  “Better not be that Infamy shit, asshole.”

  “Hell yeah. It’s making people riot in Mexico.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you watch the news? Mexico’s all fucked up. Tijuana, Juarez—all the border towns. Mexico City now too.” Rob starts laughing like riots are some really funny shit. “Don’t you need a little riot in your life? Don’t worry. You’re not going to go shit in the corner or anything.”

  I start to put the beer down. “How do you know?”

  “Hey, don’t put that down. Drink it, bitch. My dealer says those people in Mexico are only crazy because they’re ODing on the stuff by spraying it on their eyeballs or tripling the amount they’re swallowing. Something stupid like that anyway.”

  “How do you know about ODing on Infamy?”

  “Quit freaking out. I only dropped in a ruffie. It worked in that one Hangover movie. Those guys forgot everything. You’ll have a blast. And maybe that Asian girl will hook up with you. I saw you eyeing her.”

  “I just want to forget Kathy, not the entire night. You’re such a fuck-ass.”

  No matter how much I cut down Rob, it’s too late to do anything about it. I’ve already sucked down half my beer. Within moments the room, voices, faces, even my memory becomes fuzzy, followed by random blackouts. I can’t even remember who Rob is. He melts into the crowd. I don’t know how, but suddenly I’m on a balcony outside one of the rooms.

  “So you make websites?” the Asian girl asks.

  I recall staring at her ass, her grinding against a skinny redhead with blue earrings. How did I come to talking to her? “Umm yea,” I say. “Have we met before?”

  “Before what?”

  “Before this moment?”

  “Like, earlier tonight? Before today? In a
past life?”

  “Fuck it,” I say. “You’re hot.” I grab a handful of her straight black hair and our lips mash together. Now we’re on a couch (have no idea how I got here). I’m rubbing everywhere under her shirt. I want to say I’m coming to my senses (though not all the way by a longshot). I can actually feel my lips instead of hearing kissing sounds amplified and distorted into one-hundred-and-twenty-decibel whale screams. Also, because I notice Rob, and remember who he is, and frown at the fact that he just hooked up with the oldest-looking dinosaur in the place. She has a blonde wig, long face and droopy black eyelids.

  He drags her in our direction and almost falls over the couch. “Isn’t this awesome, bro?” he says. “If only Kathy could see you now.”

  The Asian girl pulls away from me. Damn if she doesn’t have some beautiful eyes. “Who’s Kathy?” she says.

  Shit, here comes the blur again.

  “Shots, shots, shots!” some dudes start chanting as my vision continues to come back in to focus. My hot, brown-eyed girl has been replaced with a small glass filled with a dark, brownish liquid. Tossing the shot into the back of my throat causes a burning sensation that wakes me further. I slam the empty glass on the table. Cheers ring all around. Elbows and shoulders slam into each other as I push my way through the crowd into an empty room.

  Taking a seat on a bed, I stare at UNN News images, trying to collect my thoughts, though the drug still has a hold of me. What is it with this shit? Feels like I want to go kick some ass and eat a raw burger. Doesn’t even have to be made out of cow.

  The ticker on the news story reads, Will America Be Pulled Into Border War? and shows live footage of the international border crossing into Tijuana. Gunshots are mixed with fireballs from smashed Molotov cocktails. Streets are lit like a Middle Eastern street war. What the fuck? I wonder if I can see that shit from the balcony but don’t get up. I can’t stop looking at the television. An El Camino with high-powered, heavy machine gun strapped to it is blowing holes through buildings in TJ. People abandon their cars, run for their lives, while large trucks smash them down. In the middle of all the carnage, a photo shows up of some drug lord. He’s in his mid-forties, has dark grey hair and beard. I barely start to read his first name, Caesar, when I get sick.