Zombified (Episode 1): Wooneyville
ZOMBIFIED
Episode 1: Wooneyville
By Matt Di Spirito
© 2011 Matt Di Spirito
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without the consent of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, places, or events is coincidental.
Revised Kindle Edition: April 2011
First Kindle Edition: March 2011
Dedicated to Rob, the King of Ten Layers!
CONTENTS
Appendix A: Dana at the Medical Center
Appendix B: Bullseye Survivors
Appendix C: The Supermarket Aftermath
CHAPTER 1
Joey shouldered the door open, leaving the keys dangling from the lock. He staggered into the hallway, arms full of groceries. The kitchen table was twenty feet away.
"The hell with that," Joey said. He dumped the bags on the hallway floor, turning to remove the keys from the door. Huffing and puffing, Joey fished out his pack of smokes and lit one up. "Nothing like a smoke while you choke!" He chuckled, which turned into a coughing fit.
Cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Joey ferried the grocery bags to the kitchen and put them away. He snubbed out the butt in a glass ashtray, snagged a beer from the counter, and headed to the living room.
The widescreen came to life, bathing the parlor in vivid colors. Joey plopped on the loveseat, sipped his beer, and flicked through the channels. The pro-football draft was on; Joey stopped clicking and dropped the remote on the cushion.
He leaned forward, unclipped the holster, and set his gun on an endtable. He settled in, taking a long pull from the beer.
"Come on, Pats, don't blow this one! We need some pass rushers." Joey watched intently as the seconds ticked by; finally, the draft board skipped to the next team--the Pats had traded down. "You gotta be kiddin' me!"
Chirp-cheep
.
Chirp-cheep
.
Joey yanked the phone from his pocket and tapped the screen.
"Hey sexy, what's up?"
"My blood pressure. It's gonna be a long night: we've already had three people brought in by ambulance. I need to get off the graveyard shift." Dana's voice was strained, maybe a little anxious.
Joey muted the TV. "You all right, baby? You sound stressed." He walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. "Maybe you should take some time off."
"I will--eventually. It's the usual bull over here, ya know? Two nurses, one doctor, a handful of aids, and no time to catch your breath."
Joey cracked another beer and returned to the parlor. "It's that busy on a Tuesday night? Damn. Maybe it's a full moon or something."
"It must be," Dana replied. She sighed, dramatically, and lowered her voice: "When I get home, there's going to be some serious stress release--don't wear any clothes to bed, got it?"
"You're a bad girl." Joey grinned. "You know what happens to bad girls?"
"No, why don't you tell me?" She giggled.
"Well, first--"
"Shit! I gotta go! There's another ambulance coming in. I love you!"
"Love ya, too." Joey clicked the phone off, depositing it on the stand next to his pistol. He picked up the remote and turned the volume on. The draft proceeded and the beers disappeared; before the Pats' sixth pick, Joey was snoring.
… … …
Chirp-cheep
.
Chirp-cheep
.
A foul-smelling belch erupted from his mouth as Joey sat up, rubbing both eyes. Faint azure light filtered through the curtains and a small square of brilliant white flashed from the endtable: his phone was ringing.
Joey glanced at the time and caller ID: it was three in the morning and Dana was calling from the medical center. He clicked the answer icon.
"Hey sexy, what's up?"
"Joey, can you come down here? Me and Kelly are totally freaked out, and I can't think of anyone else right now."
That got Joey's attention; he stood up and walked to the window, brushing the curtains aside. "What the hell is going on? All the streetlights are out."
"The town's power is out, Joey. We're on emergency power here. There's a couple of cops outside, but I don't feel safe. Some freaky shit happened earlier."
"What freaky shit? Tell me what happened, babe."
"Okay." Dana breathed deeply and exhaled. Joey heard her sifting through papers or charts. "We had a dozen people come in since I called you, all of them with similar symptoms. They started dying--just stopped breathing. It was like the S.A.R.S. outbreak they were worried about, remember that?"
"Yeah. So what happened that spooked you so much?"
"The power went out, for one, and then the cops showed up and said there were some disturbances around Kay's Pub--people fighting and just being drunk idiots. I figured we'd get some of them in here needing stitches and whatever. When they got here, Joey, it wasn't like anything I've seen before."
"What the hell are you talking about? You've seen people mangled in car crashes, Dana." Joey moved from the window and paced the hallway.
"Joey," Dana made a gagging sound before continuing, "they were… bitten. Their bodies were covered in bites and scratches from other people. It was repulsive, gory, and just… disturbing."
Joey stopped in mid-step. His mind raced: people attacking each other, biting, clawing… "Dana, do you think this is some kind of rabies infection? These people are acting like zombies, straight out of a horror flick. Maybe there's some animal disease that crossed over."
"I don't know, Joey. It's something to check out. Some of these people didn't die from the wounds, though." She paused, shuffling around papers. "You remember Mr. Peterson, the tax guy?"
"Sure. His office is two buildings down."
"He came in an hour ago. He didn't have any marks, bites, or scratches--nothing. He died within twenty minutes. His body just stopped working: respiration, cardiovascular and nervous systems turned off. I don't know how to explain it. It's not something I've dealt with before--even Kelly is at a loss."
"She's a smart girl, too." Joey ran a hand through his hair. "All right, baby, I'll be there as soon as possible. My truck is still in the shop, so I'll have to hoof it."
"Okay… just hurry up, please. I'd feel a lot better with you around."
"I'll feel better when I have you in arm's reach. Who's there with you now?"
"Dr. Hobbes, Rich, Kelly, and--"
BANG!
"What the hell was that? Dana?"
"Oh my God!"
Joey heard the phone hit the floor.
"Dana! Talk to me! I'm on the way, baby!" Joey grabbed his gun and headed to the kitchen to find his mag-lite. "Dana! Talk to me!"
"Mr. Peterson? What the hell is wrong with you!"
A guttural animal snarl filled the phone. Dana screamed.
"Dana!" Joey looked at the phone; the connection was still open. "Dana!"
Another snarl followed by Dana's hysterical voice: "Get away from me!"
The connection went dead. Joey dropped fresh batteries in the mag-lite and headed for the door. He dialed Dana's phone but it went straight to voice mail.
"Shit! What the hell is going on!" Joey plunged out the door and down the stairs.
He pulled up the phonebook on his cell and clicked on an entry. It rang.
"Yo, this is Matty, leave a message."
BEEP
"Matty, it's Joe. I dunno if you're up to speed on the shit hitting the fan, but it's code-fuckin-red bro! I'm goin' to scoop up Dana now; meet me at the house!" Joey clicked the phone off and slid it into his pocket.
He chambered a round in his Glock as he approached the apartment building exit. All the endless scenarios ran through his mind.
He turned t
he handle and stepped outside.
CHAPTER 2
The world was bathed in blue-white glow. Not a single window winked, and none of the streetlights worked. A full moon hung low in the sky and deep shadows covered most of the street. An adjacent apartment building seemed quiet; nothing stirred on the street.
Joey clicked on the mag and scanned the area, checking around garbage bins and parked cars. Satisfied, he broke into a quick jog and headed north. He plotted the quickest route to the medical center: two blocks north, cut through the park, past the cemetery, through the high school field, and straight to the ambulance drop-off.
He passed the Wooneyville Tax Services office, and Dana's encounter with Mr. Peterson crossed his mind. Joey slowed up and scanned the area, shining the mag in windows and checking the door--it was locked. He turned and picked up the pace.
After the next apartment building, Joey hung a left and stuttered to a stop. A beat-up station wagon rested against a telephone pole, smoke curling up from the radiator. The driver-side door was open, the window busted. A dark trail ran from the seat, across the pavement, and behind the car.
Joey raised the Glock, mag-lite held in his left hand, and lined up the night sights with the flashlight's circle. He walked slowly around the car, keeping a healthy distance, and approached the rear end.
The sound turned his stomach.
CRUNCH
.
GURGLE
.
SLURP
.
What the hell
, he registered the thought as his eyes came to rest on a woman crouching over the prostrate body of a chubby, flannel-shirted guy. He was sprawled perpendicular to the rear bumper, spread-eagle, and covered in gore. The woman wore a nightgown, splattered red, and held a ropy strand of intestine like corn on the cob. She gnawed and chewed, slurping the bloody slime.
Joey wretched and took a few steps back. Tears welled up in his eyes.
There's no movie in the world that can get you ready for this
, he thought. He raised the Glock, fixing the green dots on the woman's head. His finger resisted; he'd never killed anyone before, and he knew once he started…
BANG!
The muzzle flash and ear-splitting sound stopped his heart. Joey lowered the gun, breathing heavy; adrenaline rushed through his body. He didn't remember pulling the trigger, but the woman was thrown forward several yards. What was left of her head oozed and squirted; chunks lay in a wide arc around her body. A wisp of smoke curled from the barrel of Joey's gun.
He looked up at the moon and forced himself to breathe. Sweat coated his body, running down his face and neck. Joey scanned the area, sweeping the mag-lite for any signs of movement. He started to walk away when he heard it.
The dead man groaned and stirred, his limbs making a blood angel on the street. He tried to sit up, then rolled over and staggered up. Blood-shot eyes fixed on Joey; its intestines hung like spilled noodles. It lurched forward, teeth snapping.
Joey backpedaled and raised the Glock: the second shot came easier, more controlled and deliberate.
BOOM!
The man's head exploded; fragments flew back, splattering the station wagon and sidewalk beyond. The headless corpse floundered for a moment and then flopped to the side, unmoving.
Joey shuddered.
At least head shots work
, he thought. The area seemed clear and Joey took off towards the park entrance.
A block away from the park, Joey ducked into an alley between two abandoned mills. Nothing stirred in the rubble-strewn area; he bent over, hands on his knees, and gasped for air.
Why the hell do I want a smoke right now?
He laughed; a hand went unconsciously to his right hip pocket, tracing the outline of a cigarette pack.
He shook it off, straightened up, and made for the end of the alley. A hundred feet away, the chain-link fence surrounding Wooneyville Municipal Park was visible. He stopped where the alley emptied into the street, keeping out of sight, and checked the area. Several cars were parked along the near side, and a few looked abandoned: doors opened and headlights on.
