Zombified (Episode 1): Wooneyville)

by Matt Di Spirito

  Rounding the edge of the counter, Joey slid open a display case and retrieved a hefty jungle-style machete. He freed it from the canvas sheath and gave it a few swings.

  Hell yeah. He grinned. This'll do some damage. He slid the sheath through his belt and tightened the adjustments. His eyes found the basement door and Joey concentrated, straining his ears for any noises--he didn't hear a thing.

  He grabbed a leather bandoleer from the apparel section and threaded two-dozen shotgun shells through the loops. Reaching up above the rifle racks, Joey snagged a black 12 gauge Mossberg. He dropped a slug in the chamber, cocked it open, and loaded up five more. The final ka-chik gave him a rush.

  The basement doorknob rattled.

  Joey pushed the shotgun into his shoulder, taking aim at the door.

  THUD

  Something hit the door--hard. It kept hammering away, but the door didn't budge; Joey lowered the weapon.

  Damn. Whoever was down there ain't alive anymore. He shook his head in dismay--who was it? Lenny? Mike? He didn't want to know. Fully equipped and feeling confident, Joey turned away from the basement door, took two steps, and froze in mid-stride.

  Flashlights shone through the front windows--at least three. Joey stepped back behind the counter, ducking into the shadows.

  They tried the door; the lock rattled from the force of several blows. A boot thudded against the heavy wood. Some hushed voices… Joey couldn't make out what they were saying.

  The basement door thudded; the knob spun back and forth. The people outside must have heard it, because they fell silent and flashlights poked through the dark store. Joey's hands were sweaty on the Mossberg; he swallowed and mopped spots of sweat from his forehead.

  He heard wood cracking, groaning--they were forcing the door with a knife or crowbar.

  Shit. I hope they ain't packin'. Joey rested the shotgun on the counter-top, taking aim at the center of the front door. He made sure the Glock was loose in its holster and the machete was ready to rock.

  The door gave way with a rending snap; fragments of wood broke free and bounced on the carpet.

  THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD

  Whatever was in the basement drummed incessantly. All the flashlights fixed on the door. Three silhouettes stood just outside the front entrance; they wielded crowbars, bats, and knives--no guns in sight.

  "There's one of them things in there," a guy said. His voice wavered; he gulped and took a short step back.

  "Don't be a pussy, John." A big guy stepped over the threshold, his lower stomach protruding over stone-washed jeans. "One of 'em ain't no big deal." He kept his flashlight on the basement, but his eyes scanned the rifle displays. "I told ya this was the first place we should go--look at those AR15's! Yeah, baby!" He put the light down on the counter and reached over to grab the gun.

  Damn! I gotta get to Dana. Joey peered over the counter. I can't wait on these assholes. He moved into a crouch and got ready to stand.

  John screamed; a zombie came around the doorway from the sidewalk and tackled him to the ground. John's head smacked the stair with a sickening crunch. The guy near him yelled, "Oh shit!" and hopped backwards into the store. The big guy spun around with the unloaded rifle raised.

  Dust and dirt filtered down the edges of the basement door as it thumped again.

  The big guy rushed forward and brought the rifle butt down on the zombie's head. When it didn't stop, he smashed it again and kicked the beast away. John didn't move.

  Another zombie, this one running pell-mell across the street, was attracted by the commotion. It made straight for the front entrance of Bullseye.

  "Get outta the way!" Joey stood up and took aim. The other guys dove to the sides as Joey pulled the trigger.

  BA-BOOM!

  All he heard was ringing; the smoke rose up to the ceiling. KA-CHIK--Joey ejected the shell and locked another into place. The dashing zombie lay in the street with its torso split open. It gurgled and hissed, thrashing around and clawing its way towards the store.

  "I'll deal with it," Joey said. He walked around the counter and stepped over John's lifeless body. The zombie that attacked John sprawled on the bottom stair, its brains oozing out. Joey approached the zombie in the street; he unsheathed the machete and hewed its skull open.

  "Ah man, John's been bit! Fran, he's bit!" The lanky guy said, looking back to the fat guy still inside the store. Fran stepped to the doorway, squinting at Joey.

  "What the hell is in the basement?" Fran said.

  "I didn't check, big guy." Joey cleaned the machete on the zombie's pant leg. "Your buddy there," Joey nodded towards John, "is going to be one of them."

  "John! Damn, man!" The other guy sat near John's body, letting out bursts of whimpers and sputterings. "This is friggin' nuts!"

  That's an understatement, kid. Joey loaded another shell, topping off the Mossberg. "I'm outta here, fellas. Take whatever guns you need."

  "I planned on it." Fran hauled the sobbing guy inside.

  Joey saw a few more zombies ambling drunkenly towards Bullseye.

  "You guys are gonna have company." Joey gestured with the shotgun. "Good luck."

  He took off north, back to the park gates--this time with ample firepower.

  CHAPTER 4

  After the incident at the main gate, Joey opted to avoid entrances altogether. He stayed to the western edge of the park and found a section of fence in disrepair. Slinging the shotgun over a shoulder, Joey gripped the busted fence and yanked: a section came free from the post and he squeezed through. As he let go, the edge of a link scraped his hand: blood ran freely over his palm and wrist.

  Well isn't that dandy! He tore the sleeve from his tee shirt and wrapped the wound. Figures I forgot a fuckin' first aid kit! Idiot.

  He had no idea if the zombies were attracted to blood--they definitely cued in on noise and lights. Mossberg in hand, Joey crept through the shadows, keeping near tree cover and stopping periodically. Several shapes moved among the playground, milling about in aimless circles.

  The grass was moist, and Joey stayed clear of the cobbled paths to avoid footfalls. Skirting the edge of the park, he came to the brink of a small pond. Bugs hovered over the water, and small ripples broke the surface.

  Then he heard a loud ka-plunk, followed by thrashing and splashing.

  On the opposite shore, a pair of zombies--teenagers by the look of them--dove through the water, grasping at the ripples. They fell below the surface, rose up, and dove back in again.

  Tell me they're fishing… that is too damn ridiculous. He started around the edge of the pond, making a line to north side fence, when the situation took a turn for the worse.

  There weren't a lot of them--maybe a dozen or so--but they were spread across the area that Joey needed to get through. He ducked behind an elm, glancing in every direction. The east was clear--it was roundabout, but it was better than getting cornered.

  He bolted from tree to tree, staying low and out of sight. He crossed the center of the park, skirting the edge of a huge sandbox, when headlights flooded the area from the north.

  A pick-up slammed into the fence, grinding two zombies into the grass, and crashed through the park, narrowly avoiding a cluster of birches. A twenty-foot section of fence lay in ruin, and zombies chased after the speeding truck--more pored in through the opening.

  Joey cursed and ran--both in equal measure. He was ten yards from the eastern edge of the park when he heard the pick-up splash into the pond.

  SPLOOOOSH!

  The engine revved; water sprayed and tires choked on the murky bottom. There were dozens of zombies converging on the truck. Joey watched in morbid fascination as droves of flesh-eaters ran, shambled, and dragged themselves onward--drawn by the driver's attempts to get free from the water.

  BANG-BANG-BANG

  It sounded like a small caliber handgun. The muzzle flash lit up the scene: the truck was two feet in the water, stalled… stuck. The driver stood on the roof, gripping the top lig
hts and blasting away at the zombies clambering over the truck bed and sloshing through the shallow water. There were too many--he was a dead man.

  Joey had lingered too long: a hollow moan snapped his attention away from the pond. A knot of zombies rushed towards him, moving with track-star speed; two more lingered behind, dragging deformed legs. Still more crowded through the busted fencing.

  The Mossberg roared: BOOM, KA-CHIK, BOOM, KA-CHIK, BOOM… The last shell ejected and the small gang of on-rushers lay in a heap not ten feet from Joey. He shouldered the shotgun and blasted the two shamblers with his Glock--but the noise attracted a mob.

  Several ran at him, careening through the sandboxes and bushes, and many more staggered eastward--groaning, moaning, hissing, and growling for his flesh.

  "Son of a bitch!" Joey holstered the Glock and booked it to the east-side fence. He leapt, grabbed the top and flung himself over--snagging his testicles in the process. He hit the opposite side, clutching his groin and gasping.

  The first few sprinters collided with the fence, shaking the chain-link and wobbling the poles. Joey stumbled backward, fell on his ass, and scrambled back to his feet, running away from the fence. He re-loaded the shotgun on the run, glancing around frantically.

  Joey dodged a pair of toppled trash bins and rounded the corner of a red brick building. The bay doors were opened and a fire engine--number fourteen--hunkered in the garage. The station was dead quiet.

  A block away, near the entrance to the cemetery, blue and red lights swirled. He heard the sharp crack of pistol fire.

  The main entrance to the medical center was a mile past the cemetery.

  Joey took out the mag-lite and checked the fire station garage: a smear of crimson ran around the front tire of the truck, sliding off to the back of the station.

  Shit. Joey put some distance between himself and the truck. He traced the bloody path with the light and spotted a boot. The fireman was slumped against the side of the truck, chin on his chest, and a gory flower blossoming from his temple. A chromed pistol rested near his limp right arm.

  Joey scanned the rest of the garage and found a fully stocked first aid kit. He grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler in the garage and returned to the dead fireman. The pistol was a .45 caliber and still had fourteen rounds in the clip.

  He checked the fireman for any more ammo and, finding none, moved away.

  They can't be too far behind me--how long can that fence hold up? Joey didn't want to press his luck. He kept the .45 in hand as he stepped out of the garage.

  Pistol fire cracked again around the police cars. Joey headed in the direction.

  Two squad cars formed a barrier at the entrance to the cemetery, and four officers held their ground, blasting away.

  "Officers!" Joey kept his hands visible and slowed to a brisk walk. "What the hell is going on, guys?"

  One of the cops turned, his weapon pointed at the ground, and waited for Joey to approach. "All hell--that's what's going on. Where are you coming from?"

  "South end--it's mayhem there, and it's worse in the park."

  "There are more coming from the park? Damn it! We're going to be surrounded."

  "Why aren't there any cops over there?"

  The officer tensed; his jaw was rigid. "There aren't enough of us left, sir. When the call went out for all off-duty personnel to show up, most of them were already fighting these bastards off at their doorstep."

  "Fuck me. How the hell did it spread so fast?"

  "Damned if I know. Someone at the medical center was doing a work-up on blood samples, but who the hell knows if they finished."

  Joey's eyes bulged. "What do you mean? My girl's at the center! What the fuck happened there?"

  "A lot of sick people went in there. At first, it looked like a flu epidemic." The officer shook his head. "If all those sick turned into these… things, then I don't know how anyone survived. There were hundreds trying to get in there."

  "I gotta go. If she's holed up in there somewhere…" Joey stepped away from the officer; the cop grabbed his arm and started to say something, but a barrage of fire from the other policemen cut him off.

  Joey backed away and headed north. He watched the police firing into a slow-moving throng of zombies--no, corpses--shambling out of the cemetery. They weren't the same; they were decayed, long dead…

  Can viruses infect corpses? Joey couldn't make heads or tails out of it--he hoped Dana, or someone at the medical lab, had an answer.

  CHAPTER 5

  Crouching behind an abandoned SUV, Joey gripped the shotgun and watched the zombies. They clustered at the entrance to the ER, shuffling around a pair of ambulances and pressing through the shattered glass doors. There had to be thirty or forty of them.

  "Monkey motherfuckers." He counted his shells, checked the ammo in the .45 and his Glock, and scooted forward. The medical center parking lot was to his left; the employee entrance--still intact--was at the top of a handicap ramp adjacent to the lot. There were a handful of zombies milling around the haphazardly parked cars.

  He tried Dana's cell again: it dropped straight to voicemail. He scanned the lot but didn't see her snot-green coupe anywhere--the booger, they called it.

  Joey shuffled to the next car, keeping his head down, and plotted out a course to the employee entrance. There's no good option, he thought. If I go in there--he looked to the emergency room doors--I'm blastin' my way in. If that is locked--he turned his eyes to the handicap ramp--I'm breakin' it. Shit. This is gonna get ugly.

  Joey scooted from car to car, picking his way towards the parking lot and the ramp leading to the door marked 'Employees Only'. The zombies were spread out in the area; he shouldered the Mossberg and drew the machete.

  The first one didn't even see him; he hacked its head off at the nape of the neck, from behind, and quickly ducked behind a rusty four-door sedan. The medical center's emergency power still worked, and Joey could see the flesh-eaters in the dim glow of the center's sign and the few exterior lights around the entrances.

  With two broad strides, Joey closed the distance and drove the machete into the forehead of zombie leaning on the railing at the base of the ramp. He kicked the body free from the blade and rushed up the incline to the door.

  It was locked. Blue-tinted emergency lights shone within. He sheathed the machete and drew the shotgun back, ready to smash the glass with the stock.

  UHHHHH… GAAAAARHHH…

  One, then two and three, zombies tumbled through the jumble of cars in his direction--they found him. Their moaning attracted others.

  Joey smashed the glass door with two rapid strikes; he reached in and unlocked the door. Zombies were fumbling over the rails and staggering up the ramp.

  He could see the white counter-top of the nurses' station just down the hall. There were patient rooms to the right and left before and after the station. Another hallway branched off near the station, leading to the front of the center--to the emergency and reception areas.

  Glass crunched behind him; blood-soaked fiends started crowding the broken employee entrance, grasping and pushing in his direction.

  Damn! Joey pivoted and ran to the nursing station. He rounded the counter and heard a plastic crunch underfoot--it was Dana's cell. The purple shell and cracked screen glared up at him. Joey felt his heart pounding: She has no way to know if I'm alive, or that I'm out looking for her.

  The bandoleer saved Joey's life: he heard a faint shuffling from behind, and a zombified orderly grabbed Joey before he could turn around. The bloodstained teeth bit down on the leather strap; Joey fell forward, his abdomen forced against the counter. He tried to shift left and right as the drooling orderly chewed on the leather harness--but the zombie had him pinned down.

  More of them appeared in the halls around the station, and Joey heard noises coming from reception and the ER. He squeezed a hand between his torso and the edge of the counter, releasing the clasp on the bandoleer. Dropping to one knee, Joey slid out of the harn
ess; his forehead, just above the left eye, smacked the edge of a toppled computer monitor on the desk. He felt the stream pour out and down into his eye, blinding him.

  The zombie orderly toppled forward, flipping heels up over the counter and spilling into the hallway. Joey scrambled to his feet; his shotgun and ammo were on the floor, just out of reach--he didn't have time to grab them, there were too many converging on him.

  Left eye squinting, Joey drew his Glock and the .45--one in each hand--and started blasting. BA-BANG! The slides flew back and forth, as if in slow motion, chambering the next rounds. BA-BANG!

  "Dana!" Joey yelled between shots. "If you're here and you can hear me, yell your damn head off!"

  BA-BANG!

  "Now! Talk to me, baby!"

  He didn't see her among the massing zombies. There were too many in here--he needed to get out.

  BLAM! The zombie's face exploded; fragments sprayed the tiled floor and cream-painted walls. The .45 locked back; it was empty. Joey tossed it, reloaded the Glock, and drew the machete.

  He saw the 'Stairs' sign and made for it. The machete whirled in a downward arc, tearing a teenage zombie from collar to crotch; Joey kicked the carcass into the surging crowd and shouldered the stairwell door open.

  Slamming the door behind him, Joey pressed his back against it and breathed deep. The stairwell was empty, blue-white emergency bulbs flickering overhead. He wiped the blood from his eye; the cut was still going.

  Zombies pounded on the door; it lurched and rattled, but Joey leveraged his legs against the frame and kept the door from opening.

  He looked up the stairs. Hell no. I ain't gonna be stuck on a roof. He spotted a fire extinguisher within arm's reach to his right. Extending to his limit, Joey snagged the hose and lifted the canister free. He leaned down and wedged it against the door. With the Glock in hand, Joey stepped back.