MZS- North East

by K. D. McAdams

  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 14

  “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 inhales 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 p
lan. Hell, you even had the idea to load up on supplies before we left town,” Cupcake says.

  “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 15

  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 bre
ak out some crackers and fill a pot with water and place it on the stove so I can make pasta.

  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.