MZS: New York
A Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Novella
K. D. McAdams
Copyright © 2014 by K. D. McAdams
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are figments of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Robin Ludwig Design Inc.,http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/
Interior design: K. D. McAdams
Version 9.06.14
Caveman Worldwide LLC
ASIN: B00MWX2G4G
The zombie plague consumed the planet in one night. By the time people recognized what it was, the chance for stopping it had passed. In rural areas, survival was easier — population, distance, and terrain worked in favor of the living. In the cities and major metropolitan areas, zombies purged more than 99% of the population. But that 1%, they survived, they fumbled, they found each other, they managed small victories. The tale continues when a New York survivor connects with the Boston survivors. The men agree to brave the horrors of another city in the hopes that an old acquaintance will join their group and become another Metropolitan Zombie Survivor.
McLean Davis Upper West Side, New York, New York
Chapter 1
I wish my phone had a way to sort contacts by how much I like them. Normally you’d say, “Just look at the recent calls list.” But that’s flawed logic. Mine is dominated by my, as of last night, ex, who I fucking despise, and people who only know me in the context of work. of the gallery.
Mom and dad are easy. So are sis and the girls from my quad at school. Zoe from home is in there, but once I’m past the top ten it gets foggy.
Now I’m in contact purgatory. Names of people I vaguely remember meeting but have little context for why their number is in my phone. Guys who I thought seemed cool only to find out they were typically lame, only looking for sex, assholes. Why don’t I just delete those?
I’ve been awake for precisely two hours and I want to go back to bed. The outside world is a disaster, literally. Not in the way that my life is a disaster, but in the millions of people are dead and more die by the minute way. I think.
My liquor embalmed brain is struggling to choose between my two big issues:
What time did I finally get in this morning?
What’s really happening with this new disease?
For the first issue, I can trace things up to four a.m.—after that they get really iffy. I was on my third and intended final glass of Pinot Grigio when I found out Jason was cheating on me, big time. Throwing it in his face would have a perfect reaction, instead I finished and said ‘Got your text.’ Before storming off to the nearest bar.
I rarely drink to excess so this binge was completely over-the-top, for me. When I left the speakeasy at four I was heading home, but something tells me I stopped; I just can’t remember where.
The second issue is a little harder to work through. I know the situation is serious—TV stations wouldn’t let these reports loop endlessly when there are college football games and important baseball games being played. But I also know enough to know that if the government is at fault, they could manipulate the story to divert blame.
Thankfully I didn’t do any drunken texting. It might be helpful for finishing my timeline, but would hurt my pride.
Actually, I don’t have any pride left. Jason and I were together for almost a year. The sex was average but he was a nice guy who always treated me well. I thought I could see a future with him and was even considering a discussion about moving in together. Which makes his dick pic and text message so hurtful.
Instead of being the guy that is honest and responsible, it turns out he’s the guy who sneaks out of a romantic dinner, snaps a photo of his junk and texts his mistress “Had to take the trash out. Hope this holds you until I ditch the bitch.” Except he fucked up and sent it to me.
Losing Jason isn’t what hurts most; it’s knowing how colossally I misread his character. If I can’t judge people and pick the good ones from the bad, what does my future hold?
I should be breaking up with guys because I realize that I’ll never like country music or be able to understand LARPing. Ending a relationship because you find out after a year that a guy considers you trash is like buying a shovel the week after a blizzard.
How sure can I be about any of my judgments? Do I actually know what a fair price is or if the bestseller I just read was actually good? Are my clients and coworkers nice to my face but hate on me behind my back? My world has been rocked to its core by one asshole and his stupid camera.
My judgment is so off; maybe this epidemic really is the zombie apocalypse? When the newscaster looked at his notes and carefully called it a disease, I assumed it was a controlled situation.
Most people wouldn’t distinguish between infection and disease. They hear either and assume sick. Subconsciously, they know that a disease is not necessarily contagious, so they can worry about the patient but not fear for themselves. My father taught me to recognize subtle nuances in word choice.
We also know that an infection can spread. One infected person gets others around them infected, and so on. Infections are fast and scary you worry about those that are infected and everyone else.
When an infection gets as bad as what is being reported, the sick are eating people alive, you also worry about each person you meet. Are they infected but not showing symptoms yet? Where have they been before this? Am I going to get the plague simply by breathing the same air as this person?
But maybe I’m just making all of this up? I don’t know how to judge anything. I am a full-fledged idiot. Which is why I was out drinking until sunrise.
The noise hits first, followed by a rumbling strong enough to knock pictures off the shelf. I rush to my window and throw open the light-blocking drapes that allowed me to sleep for most of the day.
Again I am reminded of what an idiot I am. Unless the building across the street is collapsing, I’m not going to see anything. Struggling art dealers don’t get apartments with a view in New York.
The building across the street is not collapsing. In fact, I can barely even see the sky from my window. One thing I can see is the street, which is empty. That simply does not happen in New York. Every street in the city that never sleeps has at least something going on.
Holy shit, this could be real.
In the future, when people ask me how I survived the zombie invasion, can I really tell them I slept through it?
If ever there was an incentive to get over a breakup, I guess this is it. Hopefully battling zombies is as therapeutic as pints of ice cream and romantic comedies. Maybe I shouldn’t jump right into battling zombies, though; signing up for spin classes is not the same as actually going.
Yeah! Idiot status confirmed.
The runner that comes into my view looks a little weird, but hey, this is New York. He—I think it’s a guy—is running faster than I’m used to seeing, but what do I know? I’m not a runner. At any rate, nobody would be out jogging in the middle of a real zombie apocalypse.
I leave the window and go get my phone. Maybe if it’s safe to go out for a run, cell service is back and I can call my parents.
Nothing. I quickly call through my list of top contacts and get a couple of voicemails, but mostly dead air. Now I’m back to staring at my recent calls list to see if anyone has tried to reach me. Thankfully Jason’s name has aged off my first screen, but all the activity is outbound. Seriously though, why didn’t anyone try and call me? Where is my dad, he always checks in o
n me over the weekend?
While I fire off a few texts, I walk back to the window.
Checking the street for more activity brings me a sense of normalcy. There is another runner, also going surprisingly fast. Maybe there is a neighborhood road race toady? That would explain the low car traffic and the fast running.
And that family that’s struggling to get down the street.
I kind of get exercising as a family, but this is extreme. These parents are actually dragging their kids along the street. If mom and dad want to win the race that bad, why not leave your four-year-old with a sitter? The way they’re wrenching the kids’ arm is borderline child abuse. But hey, they’re ahead of the sizable pack by almost two blocks.
I’m a little bit embarrassed that this helps me feel better about myself. My childhood was awesome. Dad was a bit of a loud cheerer at field hockey games but he never would have dragged me along a city street to win some stupid neighborhood race. If this family loses the “coveted” family trophy, I wonder who will get scolded worse, the big kid or the little one.
Oops, the big kid tripped. They are right in front of my building so I can see it all. I giggle a little, knowing that I have my answer. Hopefully the abuse is just verbal.
Mom and dad appear to be screaming at the poor kid right there on the street. Do I dare open the window and try to listen? They do an awkward scream-drag-pause cycle. Is winning a race really this important?
Listening in on a family in turmoil isn’t that bad. No one will ever know and hey, it’s a free country. I can open my window whenever I want. Sheepishly, I slide the window open and focus my listening.
“GET UP!” The dad’s voice is clear and his urgency is palpable.
“Please GOD, PLEASE!” The mom sounds like she’s having a breakdown.
The verbal pleas are repeated over and over. I can’t hear the poor kid, but I have to assume he’s crying. I know I would be.
The pack over takes them and I wonder if they’ll finish strong and salvage some pride or if they…
Oh. My. God.
A buzzing, like cicada bugs but more ominous, rises up to my window. Spurts of blood spray the pack. I can see an arm with nothing else attached rise into the air. A second later a blood-red side of beef that I can only assume used to be a human body bubbles to the top of the pack before disappearing.
Those are not runners, and that’s no hometown race I’ve ever seen.
No more being picky. I need to find someone I know and figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do.
Maybe I should dip into some of the people I met during my mistake year in Telluride. What was the name of my partner at the gallery there? Melanie!
She was such a bitch. Any time I talked to a guy she would try and sleep with him. She acted like my bestie, but couldn’t bear to see me have something she didn’t. I think I got the upper hand, though, getting the homeless guy and that Mexican gardener laid.
What was her last name?
Mackie.
M’s, who do I know in the M’s? Fucking Jason Monson. I hope the zombies eat his sorry ass.
Don’t I know a Mick?
Oh, Patrick. He was kind of cool. We went on one real date and hung out a few times. What was wrong with him, I wonder?
He had kind of a meathead thing going on, but it seemed like it might be an act. The other guys all thought he was getting around, but every girl I talked to said they were friends with him and never got to the hook-up stage. As one of the few guys in Telluride with a real job, he should have been a hot commodity.
His last name was…
McCann. Right, I sent Zoe his contact a few weeks ago when she told me she had moved to Boston.
I press his number and bring the phone to my ear, praying.
…
…
“Hello?”
“Patrick? It’s McLean… Davis. From Telluride?”
“Laney!”
Now I remember that he’s the only one who calls me that and I kind of hate it.
Patrick McCann, somewhere near Sturbridge, MA
Chapter 2
“Is that the chick you know who was a local smoke show?”
Tucker thinks every girl I know that he doesn’t is hot and was once a featured on Barstool Sports as a “local smoke show.”
Getting out of Boston feels like a real win. Cupcake hasn’t embraced his leadership role, but him stealing that Humvee is what got us all together. Tucker will never cease to amaze with his energy and off the wall thinking. He is our connector and even when he’s a liability I’m glad to have him around. Todd still frightens me but that’s because I don’t know him well. The guy is sarcastic and on edge, but it seems fair for having escaped the zombies in Boston.
“No. McLean would not agree to something like that. She’s… not like us,” I say.
McLean came from a rich family. Her dad made millions in high-tech and everything she owned was high-end. But she didn’t own that much.
One of the things I liked about her was that she was working to be successful on her own. Art was her passion, seriously. She went to college and studied art history. She traveled around Europe, visiting museums and studying the works of “the masters.” Her father could have bought her enough paintings to start an amazing gallery, but she wanted to learn from the ground up.
She is also stunningly gorgeous. Like, I know of one modeling agency exec who wanted her to come do a photo shoot. These were the kind of people you met in Telluride. He told me that she gracefully declined, but if she had said yes she could have made millions.
“And she’s in New York?” Cupcake has wheels turning.
“Yeah, and I guess things are pretty fucked up there, too. She said there was an explosion earlier, but she doesn’t know what it was.”
“I thought we were trying to stay out of the cities? New York will only have more zombies and more shit to fuck things up,” Todd says, raining logic all over our heads.
“Yeah, but Pat-O knew some real smoke shows in Telluride.” Tucker wiggles his eyebrows.
“I don’t fucking care if she’s a nymphomaniac, my goal is to stay alive. Going to New York does not feel like a good way to achieve that goal.” Todd is focused on self preservation.
“How many other survivors have we heard from?” I ask.
They all look at me blankly. It’s kind of a dick question to ask. The answer, of course, is none. Not a single member of our families, none of our other friends, not even strangers on the street.
The four of us are uneasy in the small garage bay. Cupcake fills the space physically but is not taking charge. Todd has his eyes narrowed to a slit and he is prepared to fight for his own safety. I’m not as physically imposing as Cupcake but I think I can use logic to my advantage.
“Cupcake’s rig, Cupcake’s rules. I go where you lead man,” Tucker says, backing out of the discussion.
Tucker pulls out his phone and quickly becomes immersed. I suspect he’s checking Barstool Sports and probably posting stupid shit in the comments section.
“I wouldn’t mind breaking up the sausage fest, but man it feels like a bad idea.” Todd puts his hands in the air as if he’s surrendering.
“Well we’re not going anywhere tonight. Why don’t Pat and I take the first watch, you two get some sleep? We’ll switch around midnight.” Cupcake asserts himself.
Cupcake slides down from his seat on the hood of the Humvee and walks over to me. I can see, by the look on his face, that he wants to talk about something. I’m a little worried that we’re quietly conspiring already, but it may be something else entirely.
Todd and Tucker climb into the back of the Humvee and start the work of getting comfortable. I have no idea how long it will take them and I don’t look forward to sleeping in the uncomfortable seats myself.
Cupcake and I aimlessly walk to the garage door and inspect it. Yup, wheels and a track. I have no idea what we’re supposed to be looking for. Cupcake looks back at the truck and in
hales before he starts talking. “I don’t want to be in charge,” he says.
“What?”
“Pat, I was going to start a landscaping company, but I was too afraid of having to layoff people someday to even do that.”
“Sorry I’m not following,” I reply.
“Dude, I watched my dad have to layoff like two hundred people at his job,” Cupcake says. “It totally ate him up. Some of them, there was no reason for it, just had their job eliminated. He started drinking a ton, but you know, by himself, not in a fun way. My mom said he felt like he was ruining people’s lives. He was just doing what he had to do.”
“I don’t think anyone was suggesting we kick someone out of the Humvee to go get McLean? And we’re not starting a landscaping company,” I answer, confused.
“Pat. What if I decide we should go to New York and one of us gets eaten by a zombie? Or they drop the nukes? My decision could seriously ruin someone’s life, and I don’t want that.”
We’ve walked along the garage door and are heading to the back of the bay. It’s not a big space, but it feels good to stretch my legs and loosen my stiff muscles.
I don’t know Todd. He seems a little intense, but I don’t know if that’s adrenaline and the circumstances. Would he make a good leader?
Voting isn’t going to work; there are four of us. We would either get four different ideas or a tie on opposing actions. Someone has to be in charge to make the final call on where the truck goes. My vote would have been Cupcake.
“Todd?” I suggest.
“Barely know the guy, but he scares me a little. Like there was no hesitation on his first kill, and I swear to god he was fucking smiling. He’s been solid, but just a total wildcard. Pat, it has to be me or you.”
“Why me?”
“You ran the liquor store. Wes told me you were the captain of the soccer team. People always check with you when they are trying to make a plan. Hell, you even had the idea to load up on supplies before we left town,” Cupcake says.
MZS: New York: A Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Novella Page 1