The odor I noticed earlier is more pungent. The buzzing from the horde of zombies to my left can be felt deep in my chest. It’s almost like they hum happily while they demolish a poor corpse in the street.
It’s strange how I can feel the undead around me even though they are not close and they haven’t noticed me.
“What the fuck,” I say as I breathe out hard.
A few steps into the alley and my world is rocked. The strength of a single hand knocks me right on my ass. The moan of an undead is far more frightening when it’s standing right over you.
My knife and hockey stick clattered away from me and are just out of reach. I’m frozen more from indecision than fear. The zombie is coming at me but not fast. Can I just get up and run or will movement cause it to accelerate?
The eyes are opaque and milky white. They don’t appear to see. The skin is a pale grey color, which makes its owner look the part of being dead. His—at least it used to be a “him” before it was undead—nose twitches in the air. The head jerks from side to side every few seconds. It’s a weird little dance and it’s coming closer with every second.
When I finally get my bearings, the thing is reaching down to grab my face. I swing a leg out in front and around so I can stand up. The action trips the zombie and it falls backward, slamming his head against the ground.
I could hear a faint crack but the hands still grab for me and there is movement in all of its limbs. Faster than I thought I was able, I get to my feet and stare down at what appears to be a helpless creature flailing on its back.
There is a large bloody hole on the left arm. I think I can see a tooth stuck in the flesh just above the elbow. I wonder if this is how it got infected, and I shudder to think about how painful the bite must have been.
Without my even realizing it, the creature has rolled over onto its side and is only one half of a roll away from being on its stomach and ready to get back on its feet. They are not fast, I think I can out run them, but they have a spooky quickness that seems designed to catch me off-guard.
The right thing to do is roll this bitch over and shove something pointy through its fucking eye. I need to record my first kill and understand what it takes to get the job done. Learning that in the relatively protected confines of an empty alley seems smart.
Instead, I just stand there and stare at the thing. There is no nametag or wedding ring to personalize the zombie to me, but I feel like I can sense its humanness.
I take the few steps needed to get to my knife and hockey stick and pick them up off the ground. I can’t keep juggling these two weapons if I expect to be ready for anything. Rather than kill the zombie, I turn and resume my jog down the alley.
Once my alley attacker is safely behind me, I stop to catch my breath. I slide the knife in my left hand down into the cardboard armor protecting my left shin and calf. There is a spot where the cardboard overlapped and, with a little wiggling, the knife goes in perfectly without cutting my leg.
The zombies don’t feel threatening one-on-one, and that buoys my spirits. All I have to do is avoid crowds and things should be okay. My journey resumes and I set my mind to the task of picking up a case of beer so I can get on the Humvee.
A few more alleys are traversed with minimal zombie sightings. There was one stuck in a stairwell to a basement apartment. Its head was jerking side to side like my first encounters did. While I couldn’t see it, I assume the nose was twitching up in the air as well.
I think there was a store up here that sells beer and wine, but I don’t want to stop and look. If I don’t make it to Tucker in time, the rack of beer won’t matter. If I’m there without it, I can’t imagine Cupcake really refusing me a ride.
If I get lucky and find a rack sitting on the side of the road great, if I don’t I’m not going to stop and look for it.
Chapter 6
I’m proud of myself. Cupcake wasn’t the only one ready for this shit.
My movements are fast and silent, but I’m fat as hell and sweat is starting to drip from the ends of my hair. I’ve probably traveled six city blocks and I’m already spent.
Leaning against the building at the end of the next alley, I pull my phone out and try to catch my breath. GPS is still working and I look at the map to check my position. I’m not far from the ballpark.
Maybe a Good Samaritan locked all the gates when people started to turn. Maybe they created a gigantic holding cell rather than turn a stadium full of undead out onto Yawkey way.
The clock on my phone shows that it’s after three. As good as my progress feels, I barely have enough time to get to my destination.
Walking feels like a good way to move forward and reward myself for surviving this long. The habitual left-right check for cars has not gone away just because of the zombie apocalypse. It’s a good thing too, because to my left I see a bike lying on the sidewalk.
It’s not a cycling bike but a cruiser. I’m sure some hipster saw something ironic in it and loved that people “don’t get it.” Now the hipster doesn’t get it anymore, but I get the bike.
There is no pool of blood or damage to the bike. I can’t imagine getting up enough speed on this thing to wipe out the way the guy did in front of my apartment. Remembering that scene sends a shiver down my spine.
Whoever was on this thing must have hopped off and tried their luck running. After staring my journey on foot, it feels like they made a big mistake. A bike is quiet, faster than walking and uses less energy to cover more distance. Perfect for getting around in a zombie-infested city.
I guess their mistake could have been riding on the main streets. It’s hard to believe that I am the most savvy city dweller, but I don’t really care. I pump the pedals a few ties and turn down the alley.
Now I am really crushing it. The first alley is crossed in no time; I may get to Tucker’s in time to have a snack and wash my face. I’m pleased to also see that there don’t seem to be any zombies in these alleys. Maybe they were all headed toward the Common.
The bike has a bell on the handlebars. I want to ring it. I’m sure the owner of the bike used it to warn pedestrians to get out of their way, but it feels like a siren to me. I let my thumb rest on the smooth metal but somehow resist the urge to push it forward.
Near the cross street for the BU bridge, the alleys stop. I turn to the right, slightly away from the baseball field, and head toward Beacon Street. After making the left on Beacon, I pump hard, knowing that once I clear Kenmore Square it’s a straight shot to Cleveland Circle.
When I come under the overpass that heads to the Longwood Medical Center I discover the flaw of using a bicycle. The zombie horde in front of me is getting closer, fast.
I apply the brakes and slow the bike as gradually as I can. Skidding out would only cause more problems, but I hate how close I am to the flesh-eaters.
Turning 180 degrees, I head back down Beacon Street looking for a left turn. Maybe Storrow Drive will be clear and I can make time going that way.
The Beacon Street horde is still off in the distance, but they appear to be headed this way. I wonder if zombie hordes will be territorial? It would be great if they fight each other to the death and solve the problem of their existence by themselves.
I bang a left and then another quick left. I’m heading in the right direction again, but if these quick turns continue I’ll be disoriented soon. Checking my phone at every cross street is not a sound navigation strategy. Maybe if I can get around Kenmore Square I can get back to Beacon Street and keep it simple.
What’s the expression: things have to get worse before they can get better? I hope it’s true, because things just got worse. Up ahead the road is lined with zombies.
Jamming on the brakes, I slow to a stop. A movement above the crowd and to my left gives me pause. I see a young man clinging to ornate stonework over a doorway. He must have scrambled up there when the horde started coming down the street.
The zombies haven’t noticed him and I make a ment
al note of the hiding space. I couldn’t lift myself four feet off the ground, let alone scale a building, but still it’s nice to know about options.
The man’s foot knocks a loose brick off the building as he fights to keep his grip. The zombies react almost instantly.
First the horde turns in unison and faces the building where the noise came from. Then a surge of undead bodies presses forward. The bodies in front are sacrificed as stepping-stones for those behind them. Quickly a mound of zombie bodies is piled high enough for the crowd to reach the soon-to-be-dead guy over the door.
When an undead hand wraps around the living guy’s ankle, I know it’s all over. A harsh scream comes out as the man is pulled into the bloodthirsty crowd. It will be gruesome, but I can’t look away.
There is a faint mist of red that appears over the killers and there will be no more screams. The whole scene is like a B-movie introduction, where a school of piranhas devours a cow in mere seconds.
I have to stop watching these scenes unfold and take advantage of the time they create for me to escape. The zombie apocalypse is not the time to become nostalgic.
I turn the bike awkwardly and pedal furiously toward the overpass to the Longwood Medical area. The problem about this bike just hit me: it’s uncomfortable and slow. My ass is killing me.
The stupid bike won’t make it up the steep embankment that leads down from the elevated roadway. I lay it on the ground gently. I still worry that any noise will cause the zombies to lock on to me. Confident that the bike is not going to fall and call attention to me, I clamber up the hill.
Climbing over the jersey barrier that defines the edge of the road, I am greeted by my first non-flesh based confirmation of a disaster: cars litter the street at unnatural angles.
It’s not just the angle of the cars though, it’s the destruction. There are no crumpled fenders or car-to-car contact points, but shattered glass and blood is everywhere.
Closest to me is a car with half a body sticking through the windshield. I can clearly identify the merlot-and-grey colored spine against the silver of the car hood. The head and shoulders have been ripped clean off. Inside the car, delineated perfectly by where the windshield would have been, are a pair of pants that appear to cover a completely intact lower body.
In fact it looks like the ass that was left in the car is fat enough to have fed several zombies. I guess the undead aren’t going to fix America’s obesity problem.
Navigating around a few more of the wrecks, I wish I had humped the bike up here. The ground is covered in partially dried blood and it is covering my shoes. Tires would be a nice way to distance myself from the gore.
I walk around a large puddle of uncongealed blood with some bones in it and remember riding my bike through rain puddles as a kid. The tires would throw water up and soak your clothes and coat your face. Visualizing the scenario and replacing water with blood causes me to vomit. Fortunately my stomach is mostly empty, so it’s more of a dry heave.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and look up towards the Fens. There are seven zombies fanned out across the surface of the road. They occupy every available gap between cars. I can see no way around them.
Heading back to the barrier, I try and ignore the fact that my shoes stick to the ground with each step. A quick peek over the edge reveals no alternate route. Maybe I can go over the top of a car and split the line.
The seven monsters are shambling toward me. Their noses are twitching in the air in a way that is becoming too familiar. Still, none of them appear to see me and I am more convinced that scent and sound are their only means to triangulate prey.
Knowing that I stink, I decide not to stand still long enough to let them pass. Does it make sense to try and climb over a car in the middle of the road or one on the side?
Either way, it won’t be quiet so I need to decide what to do after I get over the car. Run like hell may be the best plan. It seems like the zombies will work together to elevate for something to eat, but without motivation they don’t like to go vertical. Stairs and ramps provide a level of safety.
I make my decision based on the cars. Most of the vehicles in my path are minivans or SUVs, and the one closest to me is an old sedan. Even with my out-of-shape physique, the roof of the sedan is a hop and a slide for me; the other vehicles would be a struggle and climb. This path leaves six zombies to my left and one to my right.
While I run, I decide that I am fit enough to jump and land my foot on the doorframe where the window has been smashed out. Right foot on the door, left foot on the roof, I’ll just parkour my ass through this obstacle.
The zombies sense me coming and their noses and heads start moving at hyper speed. They still don’t seem to be fast, but they do have multiple speeds and the current one is increasing.
My right foot gets a solid plant on the car door and helps to propel my body upward. The left foot clears the side of the vehicle and lands cleanly on the roof. Blood and guts cover the roof and while they are sticky they are also slippery.
There is no time to recover or change my plan. My left foot slides a few inches across the roof and comes up into the air. The world is in slow motion as my body loses contact with the Earth. In my head I repeat the words “don’t drop your stick” and my hand grips tightly.
When my shoulders and head slam into the car, they keep sliding. The bang is loud and sounds like an explosion in the quiet of a city with few living things. My body tumbles to the pavement and there is pain everywhere.
I know I have to get up, but I’m scared that trying to will reveal a broken leg or some other fatal minor injury. Turning my head to make sure I’m really still holding my stick, my ear dips into the layer of blood and body fluids coating the surface of the road.
The sensation of the gore on my skin gives me enough energy to jump to the moon. I’m on my feet without taking inventory of specific aches and pains.
My weapon is still in my hand but the shaft is coated in slime. I would not be able to get enough force on a thrust to penetrate the eye socket of an undead. The edge of my t-shirt turns brown as I wipe my stick clean.
Falling and then sanitizing my weapon gave the zombies enough noise and time to gang up on me. The six that were separate on my left are now presenting a unified front. They block my path around the van pressed up against the outer wall.
I could go back over the car that fucked everything up, but the zombie that had been on my right is mulling on the other side. Apparently it’s confused about the best way to get in on the impending feeding frenzy.
Needing some time to think, I take a few steps backward until my ass hits the jersey barrier. That really didn’t buy that much time and I probably wasted time thinking about the fact that I didn’t buy myself much time.
Now the zombies are really surging. It’s almost as if they move faster as a group than they do on their own, though I can’t imagine how that would technically work.
It looks like there is enough room to the right of their offensive line for me to sneak past. I may need to kill the last one in the line though, just to be sure.
I really wish I had wasted that first zombie in the alley. Now would be a bad time to find out that it takes two or three thrusts to put one down. Maybe I can just use a poke check to keep it at distance and get the space I need.
Standing perfectly still, I wait until they are about two yards away. When their arms come up and hands start grabbing, I make an explosive move to my right. I bang into the van, which makes way too much noise, and shove the pointy end of my stick into the abdomen of the zombie end cap. It goes deep into its body and I instinctively pull it back.
I slide my back along the van and successfully turn the tables on my undead attackers. Smart and fit, I think proudly to myself.
Spinning to take off down the road bumps me directly into another zombie. This one must have been on the other side of the van and came over when I banged into it. The surprise of the collision may be what saved my lif
e. It wasn’t ready to grab me and the shock helped me to move back quickly enough to be beyond his reach.
There is no room to maneuver my stick and the zombies I outwitted a few seconds ago have turned and are ready to eat. I spin to face them and bring my stick up to my chest. Locking my elbows increases my reach and I push it toward the six undead with all my strength. As their hands grab and claw at me and the stick, I realize my own hands are exposed. I better get some gloves.
My push has enough strength and leverage to drive the undead backward. When they hit the wall, all of them tumble over.
One hand closes around the butt end of my stick and almost brings it down with him, but I refuse to let go; this is an autographed Patrice Bergeron stick! I shake hard, hoping the zombie will slip off the end, but it doesn’t work. Doing my best to scrape the creature’s hand along the rough concrete of the barrier causes his knuckles to get caught on a lip.
I pull with all my might, and when the weight of the zombie disappears from my weapon, the stick comes up and over my shoulder quickly. The next thing I focus on is the sound: it’s a sucking, like a stick being pulled out of mud. Then I can feel my stick stop like it’s hitting a wall.
There was another zombie behind me, so I don’t have time to contemplate these sensations. Turning to face my next foe, I realize that it is already impaled on the end of my stick.
The pointy remnants of a hockey blade are buried deep in the cranium of a former Yankee fan. Good riddance, I think while I pull the stick out and flick the baseball cap off its zombie head. The completely dead body crumples to the pavement and I have survived my closest call of this ordeal.
Chapter 7
An occasional tremor racks my body. I just killed someone. Technically it was an accident and technically it was self-defense, but technicalities don’t make me feel better.
I feel like I could vomit but there’s nothing in my stomach. I’m dehydrated and my hangover is coming back to pound the shit out of my fucking head.
MZS- North East Page 4