MZS: Philadelphia (Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Book 3)

MZS: Philadelphia

A Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Novella

K. D. McAdams

Copyright © 2015 by K. D. McAdams

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are figments of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

Cover design:
Robin Ludwig Design Inc.,
http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/

Interior design: K. D. McAdams

Version 9.03.15

Caveman Worldwide LLC

ASIN
:
B00NDA0EGO

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The Zombie plague consumed the planet in one night. By the time people recognized what it was the chance for stopping it had passed. In rural areas survival was easier -- population, distance, and terrain worked in favor of the living. In the cities and major metropolitan areas zombies purged more than 99% of the population. But there was the 1%, they survived, they fumbled, they found each other, they managed small victories. These are their stories.

MZS: Boston

MZS: New York

MZS: Philadelphia

MZS: D. C.

MZS: North East

“Come up to Philly, we’ll have a few laughs” they said. I didn’t want to have a few laughs a week after burying my wife. Escaping to the islands to think for a few days didn’t work though, so I had to try something. Home was never an option, so Philadelphia was next.

I know what wasn’t funny—the flight here.

Aruba to Toronto was a cakewalk. They were good flight attendants who understood that the only thing worse than a drunk passenger on their way home from paradise is an
awake
drunk passenger. The cocktails didn’t stop and I wondered why I was leaving the islands.

Toronto to Philadelphia was hell with wings. I thought the short flight would be the easy one. Supposedly they are trying to put an end to passengers sitting on the tarmac; let me just say, they still have plenty of work to do. We sat there for almost two hours. I was able to use the grieving husband card to get a few tiny bottles of liquor but they barely kept me buzzed.

Fortunately all these poor airlines are ready to make a buck any way they can. In-flight duty-free liquor saved me from sobering up and jumping off the plane somewhere around Niagara Falls.

How I made it from that fortress they call an airport to my hotel is anyone’s guess. Whatever, at least it’s not a holding cell, like that time I went to Thailand.

Speaking of cells, if I wanted to experience martial law again I would have vacationed in Cuba. Closing an entire city and requiring hotel guests to remain in their rooms or be shot sounds like an old Communist trick. It’s not a reception I expected in “The City of Brotherly Love.”

Ahh, brothers. It’s that demon brother of mine who brought me here. “Park’s in Philadelphia, there is so much to see,” he tells me. How will he show me these wonderful things if he doesn’t even call me? Though my mobile doesn’t seem to be working.

Aruba is barely a different country but it seems to have screwed up my phone completely. Before I left, I swore I wasn’t going to need the international calling features. I was in the islands to drown myself in tropical drinks, not talk on the phone. That lasted about six hours.

Now that I’m in the North East my phone isn’t fixed and the tropical drinks are done. All I have to drink is in the minibar in my room and after the bottle of white wine is gone, I have nothing. I could watch a movie or read through the glossy magazines again. What I cannot do is sleep any more. Hell, I don’t even know if the seven-thirty-four showing on the clock is morning or evening.

I ought to slide open the curtains, figure out if we’re at the beginning of the day or the end and enjoy my grape juice while I think.

Definitely morning. Somehow the damn sun seems brighter in Philadelphia.

Maybe, if I think hard, I can piece together my journey.

My flight was scheduled to arrive in the middle of the day Saturday. Let’s assume it did. I can also assume I was delivered to my hotel in a reasonable amount of time, so sometime Saturday. Naturally, I passed out upon entering the room.

Waking at some time on Sunday, I found the note declaring martial law slid under my door. I have no idea when it arrived; there is no time or date on it. I checked the newscast—the world is awful—finished my duty-free vodka and drained the minibar. My stupid brick of phone does not work; hotel phone has no messages and does not connect to my brother.

Go to sleep crying.

Wake up wanting more vodka but discover only the white wine remains in my minibar. Settle for coffee from the machine in the room and pace, wondering what to do.

That makes it Monday morning.

I suppose those people walking on the grass are a good sign. They probably came here from California or some far-off state to see the Liberty Bell. The city protects this symbolic piece of iron with glass walls and high security. It’s like the Constitution except bigger and less fragile.

Crrrraaaack!

That was a gunshot; there may have been two.

Two of the people walking toward the bell are now on the ground. The third one looks like a woman. Man or woman, doesn’t matter, they’re in shock.

In time, her shrieks arrive at my ears. Surely in America this cannot happen? I should go provide aid, but I am in no position to help. Someone else will go help her.

The men who eventually come jogging across the lawn do not look like the American military I have seen on television. They have bare arms and black vests over denim pants. There are no helmets and each appears to have a different weapon.

I’ve seen Internet propaganda telling people that the American military is a joke. Out-of-context pictures are used to call our servicemen and women ill-equipped to fight the new threats to our country. It’s a small group of people that believe it, but I choose not to believe lies about the strength and ability of the U.S. military.

The brutality with which these two men engage the woman is another indicator that they are not part of a disciplined force. This is not a rescue, it’s a capture. But what can I do?

I’m not even sure where the nearest exit is or what I would do once outside. Surely if these men were prepared to kill the first two men in cold blood, they would not hesitate to shoot me.

I can go to the front desk and tell them what I saw.

Sitting on the bed to pull on my pants, I catch myself in the mirror. This is not my face, not my body. I am a young man. I have traveled internationally for pleasure and for business.

I would never have accepted martial law in Kuala Lumpur last month, so why do I give my own country the right to impose it on me? The answer is not at the bottom of a bottle.

The ring I still wear on my left hand says everything about me. Last month Susan was alive; I had something,
someone
, to live for. I would have battled a tank with my bare hands to get home to her.

In the three weeks since her death, I have become a shadow of the man I was. Crawling into a bottle should have made things easier. Instead, not only do I miss her, but I feel l am letting her down.

If she were here and I did not go out and stand up for that woman, she would have. Susan was a fighter who would have battled to the end of the world for what she believed in. I’ve become a drunk, cowering in a hotel room.

As the last of the white wine drains down my throat, I decide that this is my final drink.

From today forward, I will no longer hide behind alcohol. When there is injustice, I will speak up and fight. My actions will make Susan proud, and one day I will feel worthy enough to be reunited with her.

Stopping in the bathroom to splash water on my face allows self-doubt to creep in. I am disconnected in a strange city; what can I do? Susan was always helping out locally but wondered if the needs she saw at home were the same in other places. Each time she asked this question she made herself answer it, even if the answer didn’t always lead to action.

Move forward. Leave the room. Those are actions that can spur other action. When faced with a choice, I must decide, not hide.

Gripping my keycard securely, I pull open the door and step out into the hallway. It is quiet. There are no room service trays on the floor or cleaning carts in the hall. The expected bustle of a hotel, even one in lockdown, is missing.

The door to a flight of stairs appears before I get to the elevator. I am fit enough not to need the extra steps but perhaps it will improve my circulation—and my attitude.

As I open the door, I’m greeted by a slightly unpleasant smell. It is unique; I can’t compare it to anything I have ever experienced before. My instincts tell me to turn and find another way. My intellect says that I cannot fear the unknown; push forward. “Let’s find out,” Susan whispers in my head.

I take the first step, not sure how many flights I must go to reach the bottom. My room number is four-twenty-three, which likely indicates that I am on the fourth floor.

Counting steps makes the flights go by faster.

When I think I must be reaching the bottom, the smell intensifies. It’s pungent, somewhere between a sewer system and a compost pile. There are also a growing number of flies telling me that I must be close.

Seeing the crumpled blue pile on the bottom floor slows my steps considerably. The shape is human but the position of its body is not normal. He or she must be dead; now would be a good time to stop walking.

Another three steps pass before my brain registers with my body. I stop, closer than I want but far enough to feel respectful. This was a man, a police officer. His face and neck have open wounds that look like bite marks. His hands are covered in blood but none of those injuries appear to be fatal.

Rising up on my toes, I look over to the other side of his head. It lies flat against the concrete floor. My only guess is that while he was fighting with whatever it was that bit him, he fell over the railing and landed head-first down here. The impact must have crushed his skull, damaging his brain and killing him instantly.

The fight must have been a surprise. A gun and handcuffs remain securely stored in the officer’s belt. I can also see a spray can that likely contains pepper spray or mace for non-lethal action.

Something surprised him and killed him, but it was not recent. The blood on the floor is congealed and the flies are so thick they must have been here for hours. How can a hotel leave a dead police officer in the stairwell for hours?

A sudden wave of fear overcomes me. I turn and race back up the stairs. I’m breathing heavy after one flight, but soon get it under control.

I used to be a runner. Before…

When I get back to my room, I have a light sweat. For a moment I regret not bringing my running shoes and clothes but it passes.

So far today, I have seen three dead bodies and an abduction. One of the bodies was a police officer and the kidnappers looked like a militant group. This is more than just martial law.

The clock on the nightstand reads a little after eight. What would Susan do?

Out my window, the sun is getting higher and brighter but it provides no answers. I step closer and search outside for activity that would indicate a civil response to the atrocity I witnessed.

Instead I find that the captors and their victim are gone and there is a new group of people walking toward the Liberty Bell. This group is easier to identify: an older man and woman, accompanied by two teenage girls.

Their arrival at the bodies of the previous victims triggers more gunshots. A puff of red appears at the man’s chest and he drops.

The older woman is not hit and neither are the two girls. All three run toward the glass wall of the Liberty Bell display.

At the wall they pound helplessly until more shots ring out. The glass shatters and the young girls drop to the ground, covering their heads. The older woman staggers around on her feet and I can see patches of crimson darkening her white t-shirt.

The young girls are not physically harmed. I remain motionless while I wait for the abductors to enter the square and seize their trophies.