MZS: D. C. (Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Book 4) (5 page)

Patrick panics well. It’s not probably a skill I would have looked for on Match.com, but it is serving the group nicely.

The Humvee is moving fast but not recklessly. We just turned onto the National Mall and the ride got a whole lot bumpier. With each jolt from the sidewalk curb or dips in the Earth, more blood rains down from the turret.

I was one of the last to scramble into the rig and that has earned me an actual seat. With the easy view out the window and support of my back, this is a far better mode of travel than the rear cargo area.

Thinking that Washington D.C. was free of zombies was pretty naïve. The others may have assumed that there were still undead roaming, but I didn’t. I had moved on to how we deal with renegades and establishing trust with new groups.

Having Todd turn into a zombie in the truck is resetting everything I thought I understood about the infestation. He wasn’t scratched, bitten, or otherwise infected. The simple act of dying caused him to turn.

Jaden died and he didn’t turn. I guess dying from a headshot leaves nothing to turn. If zombies can start coming back without brains, we are in even more trouble.

THUMP.

THUMP….THUMP….THUMP

“I could use a little help on the fifty-cal,” Patrick says, calm but loud from the driver’s seat.

Parker has rolled down his window and is leaning out dangerously. The report of a handgun is distinct from his side of the rig. I never saw Cupcake pass him the weapon, but it make sense to use it from his seat. Patrick has the other gun, but he’s a little busy.

Cupcake could probably get to the turret, but he is so large I worry that he won’t fit. Tucker is trapped behind him in the cargo space and I know how tight things are back there.

That leaves me.

I reach out and grab the magazine and duct tape armor around Todd’s leg. A drop of blood falls squarely on my hand. I pull away fast, as if the blood burns, worried that some little scratch is going to result in my infection. Fortunately, my skin is completely intact.

I wonder for a second if anyone has studied the evolution of the infection. If body fluids are contagious while the zombie is animated, are they still contagious once the zombie’s brain has been scrambled? Maybe they are contagious for a time after the zombie transitions fully to being dead? The length of that window could tell us a great deal about whatever is causing this horror.

With a deep breath I regroup and grab onto Todd’s legs with both hands. Lifting with all my strength doesn’t move him much. I’m not a weakling but the seated, twisting dead-lift of close to two hundred pounds is too much for me.

“Cupcake. Help me lift him up,” I call into the back.

My large friend is confused for a second or two. When he finally looks at my hands wrapped around Todd’s legs, though, he gets it. The two of us lift together and the body in the turret inches higher. A second thrust of effort leaves just the feet dangling down into the cab.

From here I can take it. I crawl up onto the center floor and squat underneath the legs. Pushing straight up to a standing position causes Todd’s body to tumble over the edge of the turret.

When my head finally reaches daylight I can see the fabric from Todd’s pants caught on a piece of metal. It’s enough to keep his limp body on the Humvee, but it doesn’t interfere with the machine gun.

The machine gun that I now have to learn to fire.

Grabbing the handles is an obvious move and one that should lead me to a means of firing the weapon. There is a lever in front of the right handle that is a little far for my finger to reach, but must be involved in the firing process.

Nothing.

Pressing a button that is a good fit for my thumb and stretching a finger forward to lift the lever results in an incredible explosion. I have no idea where the bullet went, but I’m shooting!

A few short bursts are all it takes to figure out how to aim the gun. Trying to zero in on skulls from the top of a moving vehicle proves exceptionally difficult. When a zombie behind the one I was aiming at falls to the ground, I realize that I don’t need to kill them—I’ve simply gotta slow them down.

With a more critical slant to my shooting, I start to notice an impact. When a torso explodes or a pelvis is shattered, the creatures are left doing little more than chomping their teeth. They remain a threat and could infect and kill any of us, but they cannot pursue or hinder our progress.

The path in front of us is clearing. A border of immobilized undead—a border that I’ve created!—is starting to define the way.

When the Humvee hits a particularly uneven piece of pavement, I’m lifted into the air. My brain fluctuates between the urge to hold on and the fear of slamming back down into the rig.

Gravity is not a choice, so my body slams back down into the Humvee. My elbows bang on the sides of the turret and the pain is intense. Still, I have a job to do.

Steadying myself in the turret, I return to firing. I count the first zombie that falls in this new round of path clearing. Soon the numbers come too fast for me to keep track.

Minutes ago I hadn’t killed anything. Ever. Sure there were mosquitos, ants, and flies, but nothing larger than a pest.

Explosions stop roaring forth from the barrel and I fear that somehow I have broken the gun. I look all over the device for signs of a change or failure, but nothing is apparent. If something broke, it was on the inside.

Ahead of us and to my left, I can see a bridge. It appears to be free of the military vehicles clogging the streets around the mall. There are plenty of zombies in front of us, but I think that we can make our way through them and get across the bridge.

“Patrick! To the left is a bridge with no army stuff on it,” I say as I sink back into the cab.

“I see it. Get back on the machine gun; these things are getting pretty thick,” he answers.

“It stopped working,” I admit sheepishly.

The noticeable thud of human flesh and bone bouncing off the car is coming more frequently. Engine sounds vary constantly with acceleration and deceleration while the car pitches and rolls from side to side. No one speaks, but it is far from silent.

I look at the faces of the men here in back with me. For passengers, we are all remarkably intense and focused. Oddly, fear is not an emotion I sense in them or myself.

Being together with them was not actually a choice I made. Relying on them for my survival doesn’t make me feel better about my ability to judge people. Maybe that was my biggest problem, trying to judge people and predict who the good ones were.

Cupcake is a large, rough-looking man whose actions outside of survival are gentle and tender. Tucker is a babbling fool, but if you listen for intent and not word choice, his caring and kindness show through. I still don’t know Parker very well, but he is quiet and analytical yet ready to step forward and act.

Terri is a mystery. At times she can be warm and thoughtful in a crass sort of way. In other instances she is selfish and withdrawn to the point of causing trouble. I can see how she would do well in a text-based, semi-anonymous setting like a chat forum.

I know Patrick better than any of them. Still, he surprises me. He relies on the group but isn’t afraid to act on his own. When he decides to kill, it is complete, but I have noticed the pain in his face with each thrust of the hockey stick.

In the art world, pain and beauty are often linked. Some of the most beautiful paintings and sculptures came from people who poured raw emotion into their work. Our new world has plenty of pain; maybe I need to focus on the beauty of the people who survive.

Goals keep getting smaller while achieving them becomes harder. Right now my goal is to get the Humvee to the bridge. It’s probably two hundred yards away, but my level of confidence in achieving that goal is about fifty percent.

There is a rough path through the undead to the bridge but it is closing quickly. Zombies just keep coming, and I fear that they will clog our path and overwhelm the vehicle. Speed may be my only friend right now.

Tunnel vision starts to set in and all I can see is the bridge. My mind counts down the imagined measurements I’ve determined. One hundred and fifty yards left.

For the first time, a zombie smashes squarely into the front of the Humvee. The head looks back at me like some sort of deranged hood ornament. I don’t feel a thing when it drops off and falls under the Humvee. Just like when I was walking on the streets of Boston, a single Zombie can be dealt with; it’s the hordes that have an impact.

One hundred yards to the bridge.

I’ve driven in snow enough to understand how momentum is important when traction is low. As the Humvee slides and squishes off piles of flesh, the sensation is similar. No quick stops or sharp turns when the roads are slick, I remind myself. It helps not to think about what is making them slick now.

Fifty yards to the bridge.

Toward this end of the mall the zombies have a more unified appearance. The army force that parked their vehicles in the street did not up and leave. They fought, from the looks of it, a losing battle against the undead.

The body armor, helmets, and boots must have been too tough for human teeth to penetrate. Bloodied faces show bite marks and deep scratches. The zombies that overwhelmed our forces could not eat them, but they were able to infect them.

We are on the bridge!

It’s miraculously clear. There is a slight upward slope that I am guessing deterred the walking dead. The path of least resistance is not uphill.

Thank god the walkers are not strategic thinkers. With the numbers they posses and their willingness to sacrifice their bodies for the horde, they could have easily clogged the path to the bridge.

At the center of the bridge I can see that the other side is perfectly clear. The dramatic distinction between areas that are infested and those that are not is still hard to comprehend.

The world is not as clearly divided. Grey areas abound. In Philadelphia, anonymous snipers were killing healthy survivors. Washington D.C. continues to be ruled by corrupt politicians and at least one has taken a lethal turn.

Survivors should be banding together. I can’t even envision the end game for either of the two groups we’ve encountered. The first group we never even spoke with. The second group said continuing the United States was their motivation. It was not genuine, though, since they had also declared martial law and were prepared to commit crimes against us.

I guess people always feel stronger in a group. Parker joined us with no problem. In fact, he stepped up to actually help us; there were no expectations of a trade of services for security. He was alone.

We didn’t even discuss letting him join us; it was just assumed that he would. Who would have made the final decision on letting him come with us? Cupcake’s rig, Cupcake’s rules, but he has more or less abdicated the leadership role.

Since it was my plan to kill the senator and his bodyguards, I am responsible for the fallout: if we want to be safe, we have to find a new place to go. I am responsible for the safety of the group. I have become the leader.

Unfortunately my new leadership coincides with realizing I am completely in love with McLean. I would sacrifice every other person in the Humvee to keep her safe. Those aren’t the thoughts of a leader.

This is what I was
supposed to do.
Meet a girl, fall in love, and settle down. I was fighting it because I didn’t like being controlled by society. The zombie apocalypse gave me the perfect opportunity to continue my avoidance of a traditional existence. Now the normal society things are all I can think of, all I want.

It could be that the stress and fear of our predicament is driving me toward this sentiment. But isn’t that how life works? Events in our lives influence how we see everything, from friends to marriage.

“Terri, go back,” Parker says, interrupting Terri as she turns the dial on the radio.

“I heard it,” she slurs.

Squawking across the radio comes, “Form up along the service road.” .

“There are thousands of them!” another voice cries.

“We need an ammo resupply. We’re in the sand trap, but I think I can see the service road.” Another, different person, makes this request.

Silence.

We’ve crossed the bridge and turned right onto an empty highway. I stop the Humvee on the side of the road to listen. We don’t know who they are or where they are. They could be around the corner or miles away.

The last voice we heard speaks again: “Is there a bridge on this end of the island?”

“Could use an ammo resupply at the Jefferson Memorial, too,” a new voice calls out with an undercurrent of urgency.

“Hains Point was the rally. Sorry, Jefferson Memorial, looks like you’re more cut off than the rest of us,” the first voice says, emotionless.

“What about ammo to the sand trap? We’re almost out and there are thousands more coming!” the third voice says frantically..

The second voice comes across in a panic. “We’re out on the service road!”

I have no idea where Hains Point or the Jefferson Memorial is in relation to our current location.

Then a faint explosion rumbles through the truck. Then another.

“That’s the last of the grenades from our team. The Browning is out and we’re down to one clip for the M4s,” the radio squawks.

Another explosion rocks through the cab. Closer.

“Last grenade from the Jefferson. We’re at knives and prayers boys. See you on the other side.” The voices are starting to feel familiar.

“The Jefferson Memorial is just east of here,” Terri shares, using her softest tone since we got in the truck.

“Those guys sound pretty formal. I would guess army or marines. If they can’t stop ’em, we probably wouldn’t be able to help,” Cupcake chimes in from way in the back.

We didn’t really have a plan for what we would do after stopping in D.C., so moving on shouldn’t be tough. But it is. In spite of the bad guys looking to take advantage and gain power, there were still good guys fighting to stop the onslaught. That has to be worth something.

“Where to now?” I ask the truck.

“I say we head for the coast, get on a ship, and wait this out in the ocean,” Parker votes.

“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve heard. Just lock yourself in a closet with a whole bunch of undead: it would be the same thing,” Terri says, shooting him down.

“I say south. The CDC is in Atlanta. Maybe we should try there?” McLean says, and she has some logic to her vote.

“Yeah, ’cause this last run-in with former government types went so smooth. Stop being morons,” Terri says. She’s not having a conversation; she is just being contrary.

“Terri, give me an idea or shut the fuck up. We’re all scared, but you shitting on everything someone else says doesn’t help,” I snap. I guess I have to put assholes in their place as part of being in the driver’s seat.

“You’re such a pussy,” she snarls. “Go inland like we agreed. Fresh water and farms are what we need to survive.” She hasn’t left her seat or killed a single zombie, but acts like it’s all so easy.

“There are farms and fresh water near Atlanta. We could check on the CDC
and
stay comfortably in the country,” McLean suggests, searching for a compromise.

“I’m stuck going where the rig goes,” Terri says. “But let me share one more thought before you fools take us right into the kill zone. Every idiot on the East Coast knows about the CDC in Atlanta. People probably flocked there like lemmings, hoping to find an antidote or vaccination. After going through three cities, I want to get as far away from ‘everyone’ as I can. Mobs of people turn into hordes of zombies faster than Mexican food through a gringo. West is not just toward farms, it’s away from population centers.” She’s suddenly working hard to couch her comments.

I don’t want to be with people right now. This crew I can handle, but the thought of a refugee camp almost causes me to panic.

Slowly the Humvee responds to my right foot pressing on the accelerator. Today we’ve killed bad guys and listened to good guys fight until the bitter end. I don’t want to see or hear any more violence.

“Where are we going?” McLean asks.

“Away from here. I’m going to wing it. Basically we’re going to follow road signs that say south or west,” I say, explaining my loose semblance of a plan.

There are no winners or losers in this argument. Conventional wisdom for surviving the zombie apocalypse doesn’t exist. When anyone tells me what I’m supposed to do, I know they are full of shit.

I tried moving to be near family. Settling down and finding a real job were part of my plan. Making sacrifices and growing up were part of my daily thinking. Now look where I am.

A boring job where I spend my day in a cube farm suddenly sounds fantastic. Having work that you can do every day without taxing the brain would be refreshing. The day job would take care of my security by providing money that I could turn into necessities.

All the pressure from family and friends caused me to miss the real goal of finding a job. Looking for the perfect opportunity in the perfect field was doomed to fail. What I should have been looking for was something that I could live with. A tolerable job would still leave the opportunity to pursue my interests outside of work.

What you are supposed to do is be happy. The problem is that too many people tell you what the acceptable means to happiness are. A house, a dog, kids, or some combination of those that is basically the same is supposed to deliver the classic American dream. But it doesn’t.

It’s not just family, either. Every marketing campaign basically pulls on the strings of traditional family values. Movies try and convince you that finding that perfect someone will fulfill your life and deliver happiness. Restaurants make the bar area shady so that good people with families aren’t distracted by the crazy people who want to eat or drink alone.

The problem is that the harder I look, the more difficult it is to find. Like when I’ve lost my keys or wallet. When I search frantically, I can’t seem to find anything. Stopping the search and quieting down to just be can sometimes make the missing item to spring into view.

That must be where I am with McLean. The zombie hordes made me stop looking for my future. Now that I am not obsessing over finding the right girl, McLean stands out as perfect in a way she never did before.

It’s hard to say that I’m happy with all the death that is occurring, but maybe
this
is what I was supposed to do. Survive with friends, fall in love, and start to rebuild the population.

Maybe it’s time to restate my goals and let them get bigger. Be happy and protect McLean oddly feel within reason. They are specific enough to be measurable but abstract enough to allow for wiggle room. Now I have permission to do what I want to do and not what I am supposed to do.