MZS: Boston: A Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Novella

by K. D. McAdams

  “So you killed a bunch and then carried their disgusting corpses into a creperia? And then came out and did it again?”

  “What else was I supposed to do? I’m not smart like you, Pat-O, I just had to make the place ready for the Humvee. That shit is gonna be sick!”

  “I can’t believe you carried them all inside. You’re a good dude, Tucker. That must have been hard.”

  “Speakin’ of carryin’, I don’t see a rack in your hands,” Tucker says.

  “Shit. Do you think he’s really going to let me stand here and die over a case of beer?”

  “Yup. Told me he wants to have some rules and this is one of them.”

  Cupcake is not an ass, but this seems like a stupid thing. My choices are to risk it or to get a rack and argue the point with him while I’m sitting safely in the Humvee.

  “Any idea where I can grab one?”

  “Round the corner. Half a block on your left. Get two and maybe he’ll let you ride shotgun.”

  “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere without me.” I focus on Tucker to make sure my point is clear. His eyes are glassy and moist. My friend is almost completely fried.

  Knowing that the area is mostly clear, I set off at a run. No longer worried about making noise, I let my feet pound the pavement. The speed, the physical release, it all suddenly feels good.

  It feels so good I blow right past the market with the hand-painted “Beer & Wine” sign. I have to skid to a halt and reverse to get back to it.

  The door opens easily and I charge right in. Stupid.

  As jacked-up as Tucker is, he probably didn’t go around letting zombies out of buildings and then killing them. He cleared the streets, and since the undead don’t do doors, it was good enough.

  Off to my right, a few sleeves of donuts fall off a shelf. Whatever knocked them over isn’t coming toward me, which is very un-zombie like. Could be a cat, I suppose.

  My brain tells me to go investigate. Figure out what it is, clear the store, and be safe.

  My gut says grab and go.

  After one more look at the donuts, I turn to head down the aisle and find my rack of beers.

  My face hits first. Square into a neatly pressed buttoned-up shirt. I bounce backward, off-balance and totally surprised. Then I hear it.

  “Owww. What the fuck!” The oxford-clad roadblock complains.

  “You’re alive!”

  “Yeah, I’m alive. Does this mean it’s over and the police have the city back in control? I can’t spend another minute in this cesspool.”

  “No. I’m meeting a Humvee and we’re getting out of the city. Rumor has it they’re gonna nuke the whole thing.”

  “Get the fuck out,” the stranger says. “They can’t nuke Boston.”

  “You make your own call. A ride on the Humvee costs a thirty-pack of beer. I ain’t stayin’ to chat.”

  I push past the guy and walk to the back of the store. The thirty-packs are lined up on the floor in front of the coolers and just below the doors. I take two and turn for the door.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he says.

  “Yup.” I’m not going to stop and debate the point.

  Before I get to the front door, I hear him. “Hold on. Wait for me.”

  A quick look over my shoulder and I can see Mr. Blue-oxford-and-brown-khakis running my way. He’s got a thirty-pack in his hand and he’s catching up fast.

  Chapter 10

  Once we turn back on to Beacon Street, I see the Humvee. It’s rumbling toward us from the same direction I came into Cleveland Circle. I wonder if Cupcake would have rolled right past me, or over me, if I had been on the street.

  In the time it takes me and blue oxford to walk to the restaurant, Cupcake pulls up and parks. I can see the Barstool Sports flag hanging from the comically long radio antenna.

  “Pat-O!” Cupcake yells as he climbs out of the Humvee.

  As soon as his foot touches the ground, he shrugs his shoulders and I can see him mouthing, “shit.” He looks around and rocks his head from right to left and back.

  “Sorry,” he whispers to me. “I keep forgetting we need to be quiet. These things have unreal hearing.”

  “Yeah.” I nod at him.

  “I see you brought the party with you. Not sure we can get after it tonight, brotha. A clear head is called for in times like these.”

  Something feels off. Cupcake seemed surprised to see me. He also seems a little critical of me for bringing a thirty-pack, which I thought was what he wanted.

  “If we can get secure, it might be nice to take the edge off. Not a priority, just a nice to have.” I’m not ready to get into the real reason I have the rack of beers.

  A rear door on the Humvee opens slowly and a tall lanky guy climbs out. He stretches his arms over his head, like a swimmer, and then cracks his neck.

  “Pat-O, this is my neighbor Todd. He was on the fifty-cal to help get us out of the Guard parking lot. Battle tested, real solid guy.”

  “Hey. I’m Pat this is…” I turn and look at blue oxford. I don’t know his name and I kind of don’t care. If people are going to be dying, I don’t want to know who they are. Maybe this way my friends will get to survive and only strangers will die. It’s an illogical and irrational thought, but this whole situation is surreal. How can I rule one thing out when the impossible is already happening?

  “I’m… fuuuuucccckkkkk!” Blue oxford turns pale and points behind Todd.

  There are nine zombies that seem to have just stepped out from behind the Humvee. Todd has about a second to hop toward the rest of us and escape their grasp. He just makes it.

  I stand still for several beats waiting for Cupcake and Todd to take action. They’re the pros. Cupcake uses terms like “LZ” and “fifty-cal.” He should be able to deal with a few zombies easily.

  Their only movement is backwards toward me. I’m not sure if I’m more pissed or stunned.

  With a twirl of my stick, I step forward and plunge the pointy end into an eye socket. The damn thing gets stuck and I have to slam the dead undead into the Humvee to free my weapon. As soon as it’s free, I acquire another target and thrust forcefully toward a face.

  My jab hits of a cheekbone and peels back a long strip of flesh. The monster doesn’t even hesitate. Half of its face is missing, but still it presses forward, intent on sinking its teeth into my flesh.

  Zombie slaying requires accuracy and precision. I pull back and aim for the mouth. Driving forward deliberately, my hockey stick gnashes teeth before centering itself in the open mouth. The soft pallet behind the roof of its mouth gives way and my pointy stick finds the brain cavity.

  Another zombie down.

  A quick glance behind me finds Cupcake and Todd motionless. The look of terror on their faces makes me want to hold them and whisper “it’s okay,” but Cupcake is 6’3” and 270 pounds. He can handle himself.

  The buzzing behind me is a reminder that I have pressing business to attend. It also highlights how loud Cupcake and Todd are screaming. Imagine the scariest roller coaster you have been on and the highest-pitched, loudest scream from any of the riders. That, up an octave and maybe ten decibels louder, was the sound they were making.

  Blue oxford runs past me screaming. I don’t know his story or what he’s seen. We didn’t talk about how he wound up in a convenience store all cleaned and pressed in the middle of the zombie apocalypse.

  Before I can turn to see past the creperia door, Tucker bursts out. I’m not surprised that he heard we were in trouble. The screams are bringing help and probably more trouble.

  Our unnamed new friend stops his run just short of the zombie posse. Titling forward at the waist, he screams at them forcefully. He’s lost it and he’s just venting raw emotion, but if I don’t pull him back he’ll be dead.

  Too late.

  Claws latch onto his arms, face and chest. The formerly human hands are calloused, rough and raw. The fingers have hardened into weapons designed to puncture an
d pull flesh from bone.

  They tear him apart efficiently, but they know there are more good eats nearby. A few bites of flesh are consumed, but they don’t stop progressing toward me.

  I can’t afford to wait and watch. Taking a step closer to the seven remaining undead, I thrust my pointy stick wildly. It’s like bobbing for apples, but using a stick instead of my mouth, and human heads instead of apples.

  Scrambling a brain suddenly seems like an impossible task. Forehead, cheek and even neck are stabbed over and over without slowing my attackers. When I pause for a second to catch my breath, one of the idiots bites down right on the end of my stick.

  Pivoting so that the zombie is between me and the Humvee gives me something to use as leverage. With two strong steps, I drive the zombie backward until it thuds into the side of the military transport. A final push with my arms and my stick tickles grey matter one more time.

  The head next to me splits in two with a crunch. I watch it fall and notice that the edges of the skull are not smooth and clean like you would expect. Both halves are rough and jagged with pieces missing and a deep red mound of Jell-O pooling between them.

  Tucker gets another one before I’m back in the fight.

  My “let it bite your stick” tactic doesn’t work twice. Trying to attack is my only other option. I thrust and miss. Did he just dodge me? If these things are intelligent, life is about to get even worse.

  Another thrust catches him on the bridge of the nose. He didn’t evade me; I’m getting tired and I missed. With nothing but cartilage, the nose buckles easily. Hockey stick finds zombie brain and then there are three left to deal with.

  Make that two. Thanks, Tucker.

  Poke-and-pray isn’t a long-term strategy for relationships or zombie-slaying. I need a tactic. Should have figured shit out with that first one in the alley. It was just lying there on its back, struggling to get up. I knew that would come back to bite me in the ass, so to speak.

  The proverbial light bulb goes off. With my soon-to-be-patented stick twirl, I choke up and assume a baseball stance. Swinging for the fences, I send the shaft of my hockey stick smacking into the undead just below the knees. The backlash sends the hockey stick flying out of my hands and clattering across the road.

  Did I really think that I could knock his legs out from under him with a hockey stick? It would have hurt like a motherfucker if I did that to a regular guy on the street, but the zombie didn’t flinch.

  A little squat helps me reach my steak knife and I slide it out of the wine armor. The other remaining monster has been separated from its head and Tucker is walking over to finish the job.

  It would be so cool if I could throw my knife and finish the last one. That’s not reality though. I would probably miss and it would just leave me unarmed.

  This thing seems locked onto me, too. The nose isn’t twitching and the head isn’t jerking from side to side. It’s not trying to triangulate me based on sound and smell; it fucking knows where I am.

  I exhale and decide that after the next step backwards I’ll hold my ground and plunge my knife through its eye once it’s close enough.

  Okay, maybe after the next backward step.

  CRRRUNCH!

  Tucker’s blade smashes through the skull of my biggest fan. It collapses to the ground and Tucker withdraws his blade and flashes me a smile.

  “Viva!” Tucker greets Cupcake with their co-opted version of the “Viva la Stool” slogan from Barstool Sports.

  “Viva brotha! Tucker, man that was some sick shit.” Cupcake grabs him and pulls him into a bear hug.

  “Cupcake, what the fuck!” I scream at him. “You’re the one who’s cut out for all of this. You just stood there screaming like a fucking pussy!”

  “Pat-O, I’m sorry, man. I panicked.”

  “I panicked too, but I still fought for my life!” I yell.

  “Pat, we left our weapons in the rig. I had nothing to fight with. When we boosted the Hummer, we planned and executed. It was fucking brutal man. Trust me, we trashed enough skulls to earn our keep. This was a surprise attack.”

  “Pat-O, are you using your signed Bergeron stick to kill zombies?” Tucker asks. He walked over and picked up my weapon from where it fell on the street.

  Cupcake, Todd, and I all break out in hearty laughter.

  Tucker brings my stick back and hands it to me, a little confused at what we all find so funny. A signed Bergeron stick has no value anymore. A weapon I can use to mangle brains from a safe distance, however, is priceless.

  “Is there any food in there?” Cupcake nods at the creperia where he must have noticed Tucker coming out from.

  “Nah, it’s dead in there.” Tucker smiles oddly and I know the joke he was making but not happy about making.

  “Cupcake, do you have supplies? Or a plan?” I don’t want to lead this group, but I can’t just blindly follow.

  “No, and get the fuck out of dodge. You got anything?”

  “There’s a store around the corner. We can get drinks and snacks to get us through a night or two.”

  “Why don’t you go on ahead and get things together. We’ll pull the rig over and do a splash and dash.”

  Cupcake and I stare at each other for a long minute. Would he ditch me? I always thought Cupcake was a good guy.

  He is a good guy. These are just fucked up times. They forgot their weapons in the Humvee and had nothing to fight with. In fact, it’s a good thing that he panicked; it means he’s human and not flawless. It means that when I fuck up or when Tucker does, we won’t get kicked out of the Humvee and left to fend for ourselves. At least, I hope that’s what it means.

  “Todd, will you give me a hand? I think Tucker deserves to ride.”

  “Hell yeah, Tucker can ride, dude just went beast mode and saved our asses,” Todd agrees.

  Chapter 11

  There was no drama as we loaded the Humvee. Todd and I each carried a couple of cases of non-alcoholic drinks to the front of the store and Tucker and Cupcake were loading them when we came back with another couple of cases.

  Everyone got a little silly when I grabbed a thing of chocolate chip cookies. It was like we realized that we were on an all-expenses paid shopping spree. Chips, crackers, gum and candy were thrown into the back of the truck and stashed in every available cubbyhole.

  “Pike or 117?” Cupcake asks, as he turns right onto Chestnut Hill Ave.

  “Pike’ll be jammed at this hour.” Tucker speaks a perpetual truth. The Mass Pike is jammed at all hours.

  “I like 117. This baby should be able to go up, over or around anything we find on an old country lane. One wrong tractor-trailer and the jersey barriers on the Pike could end our trip fast,” Todd says. It seems has thought on this a bit.

  “Can’t argue that logic. One-seventeen it is.”

  “Why not Route Nine?” Tucker chimes in. His eyes are still darting all over the place as if they were tracking a fly.

  There is silence in the Humvee. I don’t know if Route Nine is a better idea or a worse one, but I want to speak up in support of Tucker. Are we all thinking or is Cupcake going to just ignore him?

  It hits me that we are no longer in a democracy. Cupcake’s rig, Cupcake’s rules. We happen to be lucky that we know and like Cupcake. It could be different, but for now I’m going to trust things will be fair.

  “I thought you struck gold there, buddy.” Cupcake looks away from the road and to Tucker, sitting in the passenger seat. “Nine’s divided inside of 128. It’s another concrete funnel that could leave us trapped.”

  Our leader’s words are kind and soft. Cupcake knows that Tucker is fried but still deserves credit for bailing us out of that last attack and getting us together.

  “So you’re thinking we go out through Watertown and Waltham?” I’m trying to get my bearings. Navigating around the city is not second nature to me yet.

  “Yeah. Lots of side streets and alternate routes in case we need to take evasive action. Things
should open up in Weston and we can put some space between us and ground zero.”

  “Tucker, you must know someone in Waltham. Do you want to cast some texts and see if we can reel in other survivors?”

  Cupcake catches me in the rear view. I may have just overstepped my bounds. I don’t get to save other people or invite them into his Humvee. The truth is I was just trying to give Tucker something to do so he could come down. A subtle nod from the driver lets me know he agrees.

  Up ahead, I can see a single undead shuffle out into the street. Cupcake sees it too, and I can feel the engine rev as the truck accelerates.

  “Todd. In the nest. Don’t pull the trigger unless they block the road.”

  Todd disappears from the seat to my right.

  How can I help? The best, maybe only, way for me to help right now is to keep my shit together. A task that grows more difficult with every passing minute.

  How long do you have to spend fearing for your life before you get used to fearing for your life? I need to be scared; fear will help me survive. I also need to be able to calm down and feel safe. Balancing these two needs seems a herculean task.

  Cupcake bumps the zombie in the road with his fender as we pass by. It feels a little sadistic, but funny. Killing a human body should hold more weight; whoever it was used to be a son or a daughter. Now they’re nothing.

  Todd climbs back down from the machine gun turret. He sits in silence and looks out the side window.

  We’re all lost in thought.

  It’s been a long day and I haven’t even been up for five hours. I had sex, I think, drank some wine and a few beers but didn’t eat anything, went for a walk, and met up with some friends.

  Along the way, I killed more people than I can remember.

  Tears start streaming down my face. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand but it doesn’t help. My breathing gets shallow and pauses for a second. This is not keeping my shit together.

  I try and stifle the sobs that take over my body but I can’t. This isn’t me, this isn’t real. I was trying to grow up and make it on my own. Now I need these people. And they need me.