MZS- North East

by K. D. McAdams

  I am too scared to panic. A deep-seated survival instinct at least gets me moving. I walk toward the one available door with a red exit sign hanging from the ceiling above it.

  My brain performs advanced calculus and determines that at my current pace I will not arrive at the door before the throng of people. I walk faster and then break into a run. None of my actions are planned or thought out, they just happen.

  I slam into the door at full speed with my shoulder and the pain sends lightning bolts through my arm. The door does not fly open as I expected it to; there is something obstructing it from the other side.

  Even though the door does not open all the way, there is just enough room for me to slide through. As a bloody palm just misses my head and slams against the door, I squeeze into the opening. My body gets all the way through the door just as several more hands make their red imprints on the other side.

  Turning to race up the steps, I stumble on a corpse lying on the floor. It’s the officer; this is my stairwell. For a brief moment I consider taking his gun and his mace. The need for protection is growing and this may be my only or best chance to arm myself.

  No. I have never held or fired a gun in my life. I should leave those jobs to trained professionals.

  At the landing for the second floor I decide to search for a sign of something normal. Are these hostile mobs covering the entire hotel or are they in the lobby exclusively?

  Poking my head through the door I am greeted with a gruesome sight. Not only are there more blood-soaked people shuffling aimlessly, the stench is overwhelming. Puddles of former people litter the open space and I can actually make out bones on the floor.

  An easel holds a sign for a real estate seminar but the sign is covered in blood splatter. One man stands motionless, blood dripping from a mangled stump where his hand used to be, his head tilted to one side. Even in my worst state of shock, I could not imagine standing around like that.

  I close the door quietly so as not to draw attention to myself. Stepping cautiously, I make my way up to the next landing. My thoughts shift from speed to stealth. I want to get back to my room but I need to do so without making a sound.

  For some reason, I can’t just go back to my room. I need to check for life. On the third floor landing I am far more careful opening the door. Fortunately the hallway appears clear; no people, in shock or otherwise. There is a housekeeping cart on one side and I can easily make out the drawer labeled “minibar.”

  After a brief hesitation, I walk quickly over to the cart and slide out the drawer. My hand dives in and seizes two small bottles of vodka. It will serve as an antiseptic in case of injury, I tell myself. The earlier declaration of sobriety rings in my ears. If I had seen the lobby before that, I never would have promised sobriety.

  Dropping the bottles back in the drawer, I turn to leave, fearing alcohol is not the answer. It would be viable medicinally for another, or myself. I should take it and have the courage not to consume it.

  The drawer of liquor slides out and goes on top of the cart. Underneath is a drawer of snacks, which I also pull from the cart. I stack the two drawers of supplies so I can carry them both.

  I hurry through the door to the stairwell and up to the fourth floor landing in a flash. My hallway remains clear and I get back to my door quickly. The stash of supplies rests on the carpet while I use my keycard to let myself in. It’s rushed and urgent, but I make it through to safety without incident.

  Leaning heavily against the closed door, terror washes over me.

  McLean

  Chapter 27

  Terri is an alpha nerd. She is using a tablet, her phone, and the Humvee’s radio, which she disconnected from Cupcakes phone without asking, simultaneously. When the radio finds a signal, it’s the same looped message—not a test, stay inside.

  Updates from her prepper contacts have been slowing. The people who have offered sanctuary in Mexico are still there but not overly active. It seems that they are happy to help Terri but don’t feel any responsibility for the rest of the world.

  The streets are oddly quiet. In New York there were still cars everywhere. Here it’s like they were preparing for a snow emergency. It goes a long way to explain the highway exits that looked like parking lots on our way here, but I’m missing the logic behind it all.

  Cupcake has the Humvee rolling slowly toward Liberty Bell Square. Terri has instructed him to get to the square and then drive in circles outward. If some force had the planning and skill to clear and secure the entire city of Philadelphia, I’m not sure our rudimentary tactics will fool them. The idea of checking out the site of the rally makes sense though, so I choose not to grumble.

  Every few minutes I lean forward and peek out Patrick’s window. The side streets have had some zombie activity but nothing like what I expected after the hordes in New York. Our truck is not silent though, so I am worried that as we pass the zombies will follow and we will be greeted by a horde as soon as we park.

  It’s a mixed message. On one hand it makes perfect sense that the main route to the square would be cleared. They secured the city and part of that meant removing cars that could hide the undead or hinder an escape.

  Zombies on the side street represent the other side of the argument. If there are undead walking around ten blocks from the square, I’m not sure you can consider the city secure.

  Something doesn’t feel right but am I really in a position to raise a flag?

  “Can we go through our thinking one more time? I’m getting scared and I don’t want to mess things up if we meet new people,” I say, trying to play ditzy.

  Terri responds immediately. Her voice is inappropriately loud and I hear a hint of a slur.

  “We are here to connect with other survivors. Once we understand their situation, people can choose to stay here and work with them or move on in search of an alternative.”

  “And Cupcake, if you decide to stay, will you let someone who wants to leave take the Humvee?” I ask. It seems like a difficult question.

  “I think so. If I decide to stay I’m guessing there are a few rides in the area to be commandeered.”

  I sit back and let the Humvee fill with the awkward silence of fear. We all must have questions. Who are these people? How did they survive?

  We roll a few more blocks in silence. I catch Terri tipping her flask frequently. She is not nearly as comfortable or confident as she acts. I wonder if the others are noticing her imbibing?

  “When I was like seven or eight, my mom was a real mess.” Tucker looks to the back of the Humvee, where there is no window. “There were times when I would get home from school and walk into the house and know something was wrong. Nothing was obviously different than when I went to school but I could just tell. You know?”

  “I think so.” I know the feeling that something is wrong, but never in my own home, never where my parents were. For me, home was familiar and safe.

  “I was right every time. The first ten times or so I looked all over the house for my mom. Calling for her, searching for her, just panicking that something bad happened to her. I’m not sure why it took so many times to learn.”

  I don’t want to ask him what he learned. I’ve known Tucker for less than two days but I don’t want to know him as anything other than happy-go-lucky.

  “Her bathroom. She was always on the floor of her bathroom,” he says. “Most of the time she was totally wasted, sitting or lying there trying to sober up before I got home. Sometimes she was beat up; some guys didn’t like hearing that they had to stop having fun because her third-grader was coming home.”

  “Are you getting the same feeling now?” I ask, trying to steer him away from this darkness.

  “Not really. I’ve had it for three days. Just saying, you kind of get used to it.”

  I don’t want to get used to it. I want to find a way to make it stop.

  Terri’s plan is for us to drive to the square and then circle out. Her thinking is mostly sound. If ther
e are people at the Liberty Bell or watching it, they will see the Humvee and expect it to stop. When it doesn’t, they will be looking for it. We will approach the square on foot and act like we’re new and separate from the Humvee. If we like them, we tell the truth later; if they are shady, we can escape back to the rig and get out of town.

  The problems I see are Jaden—how far can a six-year-old walk?—and Terri. When Tucker said she was fat, he wasn’t exaggerating; she doesn’t walk, she lumbers. On top of all that she has consumed enough of her flask to make a sailor drunk.

  “I’m nervous about Jaden having to walk too far,” I say. “Do you think that maybe we should drop a few of us at the square and let the Humvee circle for protection?”

  “Stick with the plan, girlie!” Terri says loudly, with a full-fledged slur.

  She is not the boss of me. Just because she has contacts in the outside world does not mean she gets to be in charge. When we get out of the car, I am seriously going to have words with her.

  “Well, I think someone needs to stay with the Humvee,” I insist. “There’s a chance that we could outsmart ourselves. If someone is watching the square, they could watch us park and leave and then just come take everything, including the Humvee. Then what are we going to do?”

  “How many tactical operations threads have you read? Do you have any idea about proven strategies for engaging with unidentified contacts? I’m a professional, sweetheart, leave the thinking to me.” Terri’s slur is most obvious on the word “professional.”

  She is not a professional—she plays one online. It doesn’t matter how heated a thread gets or the credentials of one of the posters; the moderator is there to keep it civil, not validate content.

  I can’t help but get snippy. “Are there any threads about being flexible when it comes to planning? How about ‘adapt or die’? Does that sound familiar? Reading about tactics doesn’t make you an expert on them.”

  The guys are all silent while Terri and I argue. Cowards.

  “Careful princess,” she snarls. “There are more than enough threads for me to know what militant groups do with pretty girls. It’ll probably be a typical Saturday night for you, except these guys won’t buy you dinner.”

  “Fuck you Terri.”

  “Yeah, fuck you Terri,” Jaden chimes in.

  “I’ll offer up both your asses. A virgin and a whore. We’ll cover the whole spectrum of wackos.”

  “Hey. We’re supposed to be together,” Patrick snaps at us. “Both of you shut up and look out your windows for anything that seems suspicious.”

  “Now you’re going to speak up?” I demand.

  Patrick turns and looks at me with laser beams.

  “Shut up and let her pass out,” he says, whispering so softly I have to read his lips.

  At least Patrick has noticed her drinking. I could have gone for a little more support, but this is better than nothing.

  “I can’t see from back here. Can I climb up into the turret to look or is there a thread against that?” I ask with a lowered tone, but definitely loud enough for Terri to hear.

  “No.” Patrick crushes my initiative.

  Patrick looks back to Tucker who meets his gaze immediately. They nod at each other and Tucker climbs up into the gun turret.

  I don’t need to be coddled and protected, but I also don’t know how to use the machine gun. Having Tucker up there probably makes more sense, but it still makes me angry.

  As we approach Independence Hall Todd visibly tenses. Out Patrick’s window is a hotel and a street sign that reads “Chestnut St.” Todd must see something, so I move over and lean forward to look out his window. He’s less accommodating than Patrick and gives me no room to get a better look.

  There are bodies all over the ground. None of them appear to be reanimated, which means they’ve each had a brain trauma. Did this happen before or after the undead rose? The crows picking at the flesh don’t seem to care when it happened.

  Confirmed brain trauma requires specific one-on-one attention. A spray of bullets did not kill these people; they were targeted and taken out. It’s in keeping with the claim that the city was secured, but why not clean them up?

  The people we’re hoping to meet are well-trained at either marksmanship or hand-to-hand combat. Or both. If we’re lucky, they are military or former military and will keep us safe until we get to somewhere even safer.

  Parker

  Chapter 28

  The world has gone mad. A cult of cannibals, large enough to take over the city of Philadelphia, are attacking and eating people in plain sight. There are more people supporting this action than fighting against it.

  With no access to the outside world, I have no way of knowing if this incident is isolated to Philadelphia or if it is occurring across the United States. I have to believe this is a unique situation. There’s no way it’s happening anywhere else.

  Eventually they will run out of food. My question is who can hold out longer, them or me? The answer frightens me: them. If they are crazy enough to attack a police officer and kill him, they will likely turn on one another when they get hungry enough.

  I have liquor and crackers enough to last maybe three days. There were hundreds of the cannibals on the second floor. It could be months before they eat through each other.

  Outside, snipers are shooting innocent men and kidnapping women. Inside is a crazy cult, eating human flesh. My choices are to be eaten alive or shot in the head, and neither is a good option for me.

  Drinking myself to death might work. It’s kind of the opposite of my earlier decree, but then I have learned a few things since making that decision to sober up.

  A flash of light comes through the window and I immediately recognize it as movement.

  I don’t want to see another murder/abduction scene but I can’t resist going to the window.

  Passing slowly down the street is an army vehicle. It has a machine gun turret on top with a young man scanning the street.

  Are they here rescuing people or searching out the cult?

  Part of me waits for the shot to ring out and the head of the young man to explode in a red mist. The other part of me wants to run out of the building and climb into the vehicle and beg them to speed off and never return.

  When the vehicle is out of sight, my hopes crash and bring my psyche with them. Hiding in this hotel is not going to get me saved or contribute to stopping the cult. My choices are act or die, and I want to see Susan but I don’t want to die.

  I don’t know much about military tactics. If I were in charge, I would send a single scout vehicle ahead of the larger force. Once the scout vehicle determines an area is relatively secure, the rest of the force can enter and establish operations.

  If this is the approach they are taking, I need to take advantage of the arrival of a large force. To do that, I will need to be down at street level with a view out the door. When the larger force arrives, I can run to the closest vehicle and receive refuge. Once I’m safe with the military, I can explain what I know.

  My stairwell smells disgusting and it’s creepy to have the body in there, but I know it’s safe. I can use that to get to the ground floor, but once there it opens into the lobby, which is teeming with cannibals. I’m not sure I can make it through the lobby without an incident.

  There has to be another stairwell.

  I wish I had a map of the hotel.

  The back of the door has the standard hotel placard! It outlines fire exits and stairways for use in case of emergency. I would say this qualifies as an emergency.

  According to the map, there is a stairwell that includes a fire exit on the ground floor. It’s in the opposite direction of the lobby. The idea of being away from the mass of crazy people makes me feel better,

  They’ve also been kind enough to highlight the vending station on the map. I can stop and get a soft drink and a bottle of water in case I have to wait in the stairwell for an extended period.

  With my hand o
n the doorknob, I stop and take a deep breath. I have enough booze to lose another day in a drunken stupor. That would be so much easier than sitting nervously in a stairwell.

  Susan’s memory speaks to me: “Open the door.”

  Pulling the door open, I step out into the hall, checking to my right before turning to head left. I touch my pocket to confirm that I still have my keycard, but it’s not there. I left it on the bed.

  Suddenly, something hits me fast. The collision is violent and I fly through the air.

  “Owwwww,” growls the young man in a white t-shirt and uniform pants. He’s also on the floor in front of my door, which just clicked closed.

  There are four people following behind him. Based on the distance, they must have been trailing him when we collided.

  “Where is it?” the guy on the floor screams.

  For a brief second, he struggles to get to his feet, then changes his mind and instead begins searching for “it.”

  The handle of a standard piece of hotel flatware sticks out from underneath my door.

  “There!” I call to the young man, assuming the knife is what he’s looking for.

  “Where?! Jesus Christ, just get up! We have to get away,” he screams at me and finally gets to a squat while whipping his head, around searching.

  When his eyes land on the silver handle of the knife, he dives toward it and claws clumsily for a grip.

  I’ve gone from sprawled out on the floor to sitting on my ass. My arms are out behind me, holding up my chest. The young man’s four stalkers are getting very close now.

  They are covered in blood. At first I think they look like the people I saw on the second floor. Then I notice their eyes, or where their eyes are supposed to be. It’s the same cloudy potato color I saw in the lobby.

  This is not a cult of cannibals; these people are sick. Something is changing their eyes and affecting their body. They may not be able to control their bloodlust.