MZS: New York: A Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Novella

by McAdams, K. D.

  “But it’s your rig. If you tell them you’re going to let me drive, they’ll both think I talked you into it. They’ll be pissed at you for not picking one of them and they’ll be pissed at me for trying to take control. Like it or not, you’re in charge.”

  “Fuck.”

  “When you’re totally stuck, throw the decision out to the team. If you trust me, just go with my suggestion and at least half of us will be in agreement. I’ll be like your secret vice president,” I suggest.

  “I guess this means we’re going to New York?”

  Todd and Tucker didn’t complain too much when Cupcake told them we were headed to New York. I’m pretty sure they both know it’s the right thing to do. Actually, I think Tucker is hoping he can hook up with McLean.

  The roads are dead, no pun intended. Last night we had made it as far as Stockbridge, Massachusetts. As we rolled out of the garage, Cupcake made the decision that we were going to test the highway and try to make good time. None of us argued.

  We’ve passed a few off ramps littered with carnage, but not too many cars on the road. Our working theory is that no one just changed while they were driving. If they ran out of gas, they pulled their car to the side of the road, out of habit, and then probably tried to walk somewhere.

  If a driver decided to pull off and try to get more gas or food or anything, that’s when they ran into trouble. It’s good for making time, but not so much for being optimistic that there are other survivors.

  Cupcake went to school in central New Jersey, so he knows this route well. We pulled to the side of I-95 just before we got into The Bronx so we could all take a piss. The sports drinks are running through us, but I’m glad we’re all hydrated.

  Now we’re just inside The Bronx and Cupcake declares that we need to make one more stop. A tractor-trailer is pulled neatly to the side of the road and we need fuel. There was a brief argument about getting out of the Humvee even to check, but Cupcake pointed out that it was safer to stop and check than to run out of gas.

  I can only imagine that the guy in the tractor-trailer had pulled over to rest or something. When we open the fuel tanks they have plenty of diesel, so he didn’t run out. Whatever it was that stopped him, I’m sure he regretted it.

  Tucker has declared that all truckers keep guns in the cab. It doesn’t seem too far-fetched, but I’m not sure it can be considered an absolute fact. Each of us remembered to bring our weapons out of the Humvee, though, so we are ready to deal with a zombie if one appears.

  “I’ll check the cab, you guys can start refueling,” Todd says.

  When we get the door open, the stench hits us hard. Todd turns and pukes his chips and blue electrolyte solution all over the road.

  There was so much blood in the cab that it streams out the open door. I can’t imagine how many people had been in there, but it seems like enough blood for five or six adults.

  “Zombie!” I notice the buzzing before anyone else.

  We all take a few steps back and focus on the door.

  I didn’t know that zombies could be skanky, but this one is. A short black leather skirt has ridden all the way up to her waist and revealed a black g-string with the word ‘Tap’ written out in rhinestones. Her torso is completely naked and her left breast is missing. There are bite marks on her right breast and the open wounds are dripping a plum-colored ooze that was once blood.

  Her face and arms are also covered in blood, but it does not appear to have come out of her body. She was in there eating, probably for the first time in a while, based on how skinny she is, or was.

  The heel of her black stiletto catches on the lip of the door and she—I guess she’s an “it” now?—stumbles out of the door. Her opaque eyes look up at me from the ground and her nose twitches to catch my scent.

  Todd’s tire iron goes through her right eye and the buzzing and moaning stop immediately. I catch the smile on his face and think back to Cupcake’s opinion of him. It had to be done, but that seemed too easy.

  I close the door to the cab and recommend that we just gas up and get the hell out of here. Cupcake was smart enough to bring a hose, but it’s me who steps up and sucks on the end to get the siphon working. The taste of diesel in my mouth is disgusting, but it helps me feel alive.

  Tucker didn’t look up from his phone once while we siphoned the gas. He’s a terrible laborer and a worse security guard.

  Once we’re back in the Humvee, the mood is somber. We had gone more than twelve hours without dealing with a zombie. I think on some level we thought it was done and we were going to be okay. This was a harsh reminder that it’s still early times for the zombie apocalypse; we’re not close to being done with our troubles.

  McLean lives on the Upper West side and suggested we go across the Alexander Hamilton Bridge and then turn down Broadway. Cupcake said he used to use the George Washington Bridge, so he knows the route well enough up until we get on Broadway. None of us know the city, so once we get off the highway we are totally winging it.

  Just before we make the exit onto Broadway we get another, more brutal, reminder of what we face. The George Washington Bridge is partially gone. There are pieces of superstructure sticking out of the river, but the roadway is completely missing.

  Someone bombed the city. Let’s hope they have some other things to do before they come back and finish the job.

  McLean

  Chapter 3

  How long has it been since I called Patrick? I don’t want to seem like a desperate, clingy girl, but where are they?

  He said they’d be here around noon when I spoke to him an hour ago. I wish he had been more precise, because I have been looking out the window since eleven thirty and I am totally fried. It’s eleven fifty-three—should I call him and see where they are?

  Sleeping through yesterday made it hard for me to get any rest last night. Every time I was able to calm down enough to approach REM sleep, the screaming started. There are survivors out there, but they keep making stupid mistakes. Stay inside, especially at night!

  When morning came and Patrick called to say they were coming, I thought I would be able to finally get some rest. Instead I got to spend three hours freaking out.

  I don’t really know these guys. Patrick and I were friends for maybe four months. There were some great conversations, but he never gave me the impression he was a knight in shining armor.

  What if the guys he’s with are assholes?

  That’s not really my concern, though. What if they don’t make it? What if I’m left here to figure out a new plan all by myself? I can handle assholes, but I do not want to be alone.

  It’s odd to me that the electricity is still on and I have hot water. I supposed that zombies don’t have any particular interest in the infrastructure. The problems will come when services go down and there is no one alive to repair them.

  Maybe I need to go easier on the coffee? After this cup.

  I walk across my small apartment, lift the carafe and fill my cup. With trembling over-caffeinated hands I open the fridge and grab the milk. The last of it goes into my mug and I leave the little puddle that spilled on the counter. I’ll clean it up after they get here; I have to get back to the window.

  Nothing.

  Maybe they’ll come in from a different direction. Every ten minutes I have this thought and shift from focusing on the end of the street that comes off Broadway to looking back and forth.

  I decide that I’ll check each direction ten times and then I’ll call Patrick again.

  The seventh time I look back toward Broadway I see a Humvee turn down my street. They made it!

  I wrestle my window open and lean out, waving. I probably seem a little crazy, but it will feel so good to be part of a group.

  When I know they see me, I duck back in the window and head to my kitchen. I’ve never really entertained so I don’t have a lot of stuff on hand, but I break out some crackers and fill a pot with water and place it on the stove so I can make pasta.<
br />
  Even assholes soften up when they get fed. God, I hope they aren’t all assholes.

  Once the water is set to boil, I run over to my door, buzz them up and prop it open with a chair. I don’t want them banging on the wrong door, these are my saviors; the neighbors will have to find their own.

  Nervously, I move stuff around my apartment, like if it’s messy they won’t let me come with them. I know that’s not the case, but I feel better being occupied.

  Out of habit I go the window and look out. Where are they? Does it really take that long to walk up two flights of stairs? What if one of them is injured? Eeww, I hate blood.

  I turn to go to the bathroom to get a facecloth and some antiseptic.

  They barge through the opening like knights storming a castle. Four of them armed with a machete, a tire iron, a hunting knife, and—is that a broken hockey stick? This is who I’m left with to survive the zombie apocalypse.

  Who cares, they’re people and they are alive. After the shock wears off I rush across the room and jump into Patrick’s arms and hug him with all my might. Fortunately he hugs me back. It makes me feel safe.

  “Jesus Christ McLean, do you want to die?” Patrick says as we separate.

  “What? Of course not.”

  “They can’t open doors, but they can walk through them. I also have to believe that there are more than a few looters in New York City.”

  “There aren’t any zombies in my building.”

  While I’m saying this I step back and look at the weapons in their hands. Patrick’s—the hockey stick—has dried blood all over it. The machete is coated in a deep red that looks wet and the tire iron has pieces of hair stuck to the drippy red ooze clinging to its metal.

  I rush past them, slam my door closed and flip the locks. Holy shit, there are zombies in my building and here I was inviting them in for tea with my open door.

  “Could you be a little more quiet? They’re attracted to noise and there’s not much room in that hallway to fight,” says the gigantic one with the tire iron, scolding.

  “Have you had to…” I trail off.

  “Yes. We all have.”

  The water on the stove boils over a little and makes a quick hissing sound. I can’t bring myself to move.

  I’ve been up here, in my tower, watching the zombie apocalypse. It’s been on TV and out my window. Now it’s standing in my door and—I may barf—its gore is dripping on my floor. Before this, it was just happening, now it’s really happening, to me.

  Patrick breaks the silence. “Um. This is Todd, Cupcake and Tucker,” he says.

  “Cupcake? Really?”

  “What can I say? A couple of no-handed cupcake-eating races and you’re labeled for life.” The big guy smiles warmly as he talks.

  The one Patrick nodded to as Tucker steps forward and takes my hand gently to his lips. “Enchanted,” he says softly.

  The other three burst out laughing. After a beat or two I join them. It’s a creepy way to meet someone but the release from laughing feels good.

  “Tucker is harmless. Kind of like a puppy, be nice to him and he’ll always trust you.” Patrick eases some of my fears.

  “Being a gentleman is never a bad idea,” I say, flashing a smile. “Thank you, Tucker.”

  Now we’re back to silence, but at least we’re all smiling and they don’t seem like assholes. What’s the protocol for welcoming guests in the middle of an apocalypse?

  “Do I smell something cooking?” The big one, I think it was Cupcake, breaks the silence.

  “I have water up. I was going to make some pasta,” I explain.

  “Oh my god, I would kill for pasta!” Tucker declares.

  The four men flood into my small apartment. Weapons are placed haphazardly on my small table and a chair. Cupcake goes to the kitchen and Patrick crosses over to the window.

  He scans the street below. I’m not sure if I hope he sees some of the horrors I’ve witnessed or if I hope he sees nothing. The things that have gone on outside that window are unspeakable and while I want them over, I want someone else to know that I couldn’t stop it.

  As I survey Patrick’s doughy frame, I notice the glossy grey wrappings on his arms and legs. It’s a weird look, even for him. The jean jacket cannot be comfortable on a warm day like today.

  Looking more closely, I can see that the grey coating on his leg is torn in places. It looks like the teeth of something very large chomped down on him and he had to struggle to get free.

  “Patrick, what are you wearing?” I ask.

  “Jean tuxedo,” he calls over his shoulder.

  “No, I mean the grey stuff on your arms and legs.”

  “Oh. That’s my wine box armor, covered in duct tape. Do you like it?” He turns and strikes a catwalk pose.

  I want to ask him so many questions. Does it help? Have you needed it? Is it comfortable?

  I know the answer to all of them, though: Yes, yes, and probably no.

  I have to get my brain around this, have to stop thinking like a stupid little girl. It’s happening at a really bad time, but this is not how I deal with big things. Not normally. Jason, that asshole, threw me completely off-balance.

  “Can I make both boxes?” Cupcake yells from the kitchen.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you have any red sauce?” he asks.

  “Top-right cabinet,” I reply.

  Todd and Tucker have flopped down on the couch. Their feet are up on the small coffee table. Todd is leafing through a magazine and Tucker is immersed in his phone. I doubt there is a magazine that truly interests Todd, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It all seems too typical for the state of the world.

  The smell of food starts to take over the apartment. I can’t remember the last time I ate. If I had known the zombie apocalypse was coming, I would have gotten dessert the other night.

  “How much food do you have here?” Patrick asks. He has turned away from the window, facing back into the apartment.

  “Some? I wasn’t planning to grocery shop until the end of the week.”

  “Any bottled water or jugs of water for like a power outage or a blizzard?” Patrick asks.

  “No. There is an old wooden tank on the roof. Gravity takes care of everything.”

  “You thinking about staying?” Todd sounds harsh and studies Patrick intently.

  “Might not be a bad idea to hang for a day or two,” Patrick says, shrugging.

  “I don’t think we should spend the night. No way I’m signing up for a day or two.” Todd says. Clearly he is not happy to be here.

  “Why wouldn’t you stay the night?” I ask.

  Todd, Tucker and Patrick all stare at me in silence. Patrick eventually inhales deeply. “Supposedly they are going to be dropping nukes on the major cities. I think it’s too late. There’s probably no one left to give the order or no one left to carry it out if it was given,” he says.

  “I heard an explosion last night.”

  “The GW Bridge was taken out,” Todd says. “Looked like conventional weapons to me, though.” Todd has a hard look on his face, like he’s remembering something from years ago.

  “And?”

  “And what?” Todd seems to resent me.

  “And does that mean they are or are NOT going to drop a nuclear bomb on us?” I ask urgently.

  Todd gets to his feet slowly and pauses. I think he’s doing it for dramatic effect. “In my opinion, the bridge was a local act. The nukes will be federal government; they may be late, but they are coming.”

  “So they’re going to drop a nuke on us, but you’re comfortable sitting here on my couch, flipping through a magazine?” I can deal with fear, but not fear-mongering.

  “Cupcake’s rig, Cupcake’s rules,” Todd says offhand. “He says we’re here, so I’m here.”

  Patrick looks into the kitchen. I can tell that he wants to say something, but he’s not sure. If these four are playing politics, I may be in real trouble. It would have been nic
e if someone more organized had come to save me.

  “My vote is that we crash here, if that’s okay with you?” Patrick asks. “If the government was together enough to drop nukes, they would also be changing the message on these emergency broadcasts. Managing people with words is actually a lot easier than directing them with force.” Patrick looks to me with hopeful eyes.

  None of these guys are taking a stand. They’re voting, hoping and guessing. Someone needs to man up and take charge. I don’t want to do it, but “damsel in distress” has never really suited me either. Maybe Cupcake will have more conviction and I can get behind his plan.

  “So what’s the plan?” I ask the giant in the kitchen.

  “My plan is to eat,” Cupcake says. He raises a big bowl of pasta in the air before moving to the table and setting it down. He slides a chair out and drops his hefty frame down with a thud.

  The other three make a beeline for the kitchen, two of them return with bowls and plates loaded with pasta. Patrick drops five beers on the table and then goes back for his food. When he sits down, they all crack open cans and raise them over the middle of the table.

  All eyes turn to me.

  I make them wait.

  Just before it gets awkward, I crack open my can and lift it in the air. I meet them above the center of the table, but my can is higher than theirs and they all see it.

  “Viva!” They toast.

  “Viva.” I nod in agreement.

  Looks like we’re going to stay here for a while. They may not know it, but that’s my first leadership decision.

  Patrick

  Chapter 4

  Thank God Tucker has boundless energy. After a couple of bowls of pasta I don’t feel like getting out of my chair, let alone cleaning up in the kitchen. He’s in there scrubbing away and I think I can hear him whistling.

  I bet in his mind Tucker thinks he and McLean are a couple already and this is like a dinner party. She cooks, he cleans; it’s one of their “couple things.” In fact I think he almost kissed her on the forehead when he cleared her place.