Zombified (Episode 3): Garden Harbor (2 page)

"I think that answers the—" Before he finished, Joey punched him in the face.  Matty fell back, crashing into a stack of wooden pallets. 

"If you pull some shit like that again," Joey grabbed Matty's shirt and hauled him up, "I'll beat the living shit out of you!"

Matty wiped a line of blood from the corner of his mouth.  "The important point is that I was right about the storm.  Now let's stop dicking around, all right?"

Joey whirled around.  "Grab everything and bring it upstairs, right now!" 

"What are you going to do?" Gigi asked.

"I'm gonna back the truck up to the house and slide everything down the roof.  We'll strap it in and then get the hell out of here."

"Joe, the last time you tried that—"

"Pop, a tree fell on the cabin.  If another tree falls…" Joey stopped talking; his brows creased and a look of confusion crossed his face.  "Hold up—how come these assholes weren't messed up during the storm at the cabin?"

"That doesn't make any sense, Joe," Hank said.  "They were coming for us like rabid animals before."

"If I had to guess," Matty said, "I'd say it has something to do with their senses decaying.  At the university, one of the biologists said it connected with the nervous system somehow.  I'm not clear on how the infection interacts with the body."

Dana cleared her throat; she had been listening from the dining room, standing out of sight behind Hank.  "If the germ feeds off its host, then their bodies may be strained—especially if they haven't… fed in a while."  Dana shuddered.  "You know if you don't sleep well for a while, or if you're really stressed out, bright lights and loud noises can cause headaches."

"So there's an army of zombies with a really bad hangover?"  Joey laughed.  "They gorge on humans for a few days and then start going through withdrawals, is that about right?"

Dana shrugged.  "I'm only guessing, Joey.  Kelly was good with infectious diseases, but…" Her voice trailed off.

"That's a damn good guess," Matty said.  "The munchers are hyper-sensitive to whatever cues they normally look for, so we can use light and sound to our advantage."

Joey thrust a finger in Matty's chest.  "Now you're talking, bro!  Make sure you pack all the flares and grenades—and anything else that'll make a bang."

"I'm on it, dude."

Matty raced downstairs and started collecting every road flare, pipe bomb, and case of gunpowder he found.  He packed it all in the duffel bags and raced back upstairs. 

Outside, he heard Bad Betty roar to life.  Flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder continued.  Matty and Hank worked like ants to haul food and gear to the second floor; they slid it down the roof where Joey packed it into the back of his green monster-truck.

"Pop!" Joey waved Hank down. "You and Matty strap in the back with the gear.  Ma and Dana are in the front with me."

One by one everyone slid down the tiles and into the truck bed.  The zombies meandered around the lot, sometimes banging into the truck.  Matty or Hank made quick work of them with a machete to the skull.    

Joey popped the truck into gear.  Hank double-checked the canvas straps holding his body to the steel rack encasing the cabin; satisfied with the result, he gave a thumbs-up.  Matty banged on the window and pointed south.

"I hope he doesn't drive like he did on the way back from the cabin," Hank said.  "Damn near took my head off!"

"That's encouraging."  Matty adjusted his grip on the shotgun.

They tore out of the driveway, bouncing over splattered bodies, and squealed onto the main road, heading south. 

CHAPTER 2

Joey and Matty strained against the metal frame, shoving the abandoned pick-up off the road and onto a grass patch; they moved three more vehicles, clearing a path for Joey's monster to shoulder onto the exit.  The downpour continued and rumbling thunder made the ground tremble.  Soaked to the bone, Matty climbed in the truck and ducked under the tarp Hank had rigged over the bed.

"Good thing it's not cold." Hank handed Matty a towel.  Bad Betty lurched over a curb, driving on a tilt until they cleared the ramp and leveled off on highway 93.  Periodically, a zombie collided with the arm-thick steel girders wrapped around the front of the truck and a spray of gore—or a random body part—colored the puddled pavement.

"It's gonna be rough going for a bit," Joey called from the cabin; "the highway is littered with abandoned cars."

"Do you have enough room?" Hank poked his balding dome inside the sliding rear window. 

"Damn, pop!" Joey swerved.  "Don't stick your head in the window like that!"

"All right, all right!" Hank fixed his glasses.  "Easy on the wheel there, Joe."

"Listen," Joey held up a finger, "I had a fuckin' fuckhead try and eat the back of my skull like that, so I don't want anyone sticking their head through windows—got it?"

"I'll second that," said Matty; "I had one get an arm through, too."

"Good, I'm glad we're all clear on that point." Joey shuddered. 

Matty watched zombies milling around the jumble of cars.  Some of them, staggering in irregular circles, tumbled off the side of the elevated roadway.  With every flash and rumble, the undead seemed to twitch or cringe.

It's like they're all hung over—or still drunk from the night before
.  He watched a zombie walk into a van, step back, and then repeat the process. 
They're not even looking in our direction
. 

"Dana," Matty leaned toward the window, "do you think the confusion we're seeing in the munchers is because of starvation or could it be the infection dying off?  If it attacked the nervous system, maybe there's some degeneration of motor functions over time."

"I really don't know." Dana shrugged. "I'd have to do some tests to understand how it infects the body, but even then it's not my area of expertise.  Sorry."

"Who cares!" Joey swerved around a tractor, scraping against a concrete barrier.  "Whatever it is, I'll take the handicapped version any day."

"I hear ya, bro," Matty said, "but I want to know if it's happening everywhere or just in areas where they haven't fed in a while.  If the infection destroys the host's nervous system and burns itself out, we might have a shot of rebuilding in our lifetime."

"And if it's just the zombies around here—or it's just the storm—then what?" Joey glanced in the rearview mirror.  "We have to expect the worst, Matty.  The shit has hit the fan and it splattered all over the room.  It's a fuckin' mess, bro, and clean-up is going to be a fuckin' mess."

"I'm not an optimist, Joey—you know that." Matty took a deep breath. "But if it's going to be a non-stop shitstorm, then why are we bothering to fight?  So we can live a life filled with—"

"So we can live!" Joey yelled and slapped the dashboard.  "That's the whole point!  We're alive and I have no plans on that changing.  Do you?"

Matty turned away and stared off into the dark sky.  "No."

"Good!" Joey gunned it as the truck cleared a jumble of vehicles and entered an open section of the highway.  "Then let's concentrate on staying alive."

Do we want to live in this world?
Matty turned the thought over in his mind. 
What's the point?  I don't know
.  He leaned back, huddling under the tarp, and closed his eyes. 
When does it become pointless?
  As he dozed, hazy daydreams of running and hiding from zombies filled Matty's mind; in all of these visions, he watched lines stretch over skin and gray hair replace brown, but there was no rest to be found.  
I need a reason to grow old.  I need a reason to live
. 

"Hey Pop," Joey tapped on the rear window; "how far until we cut through Hatchet?"

Hank ran a finger along the map, pushed his glasses back into place, and pursed his lips.  "I'd guess about three or four miles, Joe.  We'll pass through it in a minute or two, though." He peered closer at the map. "It's barely two miles across and the highway cuts through the narrowest part of the town."

"You and Matty keep an eye out.  I'm only stoppin' if you see something worthwhile."

The rain had relinquished and low rumblings rolled in from the distance; subdued flashes lit the sky sporadically, but the heart of the storm had passed.

Between Wooneyville and Garden Harbor, a mantle of small towns—villages of a thousand or less people—spread across the middle of the state.  Highway 93 crossed the wooded hamlet of Hatchet, an old farming and fishing community known for its pristine campgrounds and hidden ponds stocked with monster bass.

The white-lettered green sign zipped past; Matty caught 'Hatchet' but couldn't make the words or numbers below it.  Bad Betty slowed dramatically and the front end bounced over an obstruction: Matty and Hank clung to the floodlight frame.  Both rear tires caught and spun, but the momentum of the massive truck pulled it free.  A mound of bodies stretched across the road, piled into a makeshift barrier like a mound of sandbags.

"That's… weird," Matty said.

"Thanks for the warning, Joe!" Hank scowled at his son.  "You could have flipped us right out of the back."

"Relax, pop." Joey shook his head.  "It wasn't big enough to tip the truck that far."

"A little warning would have—"

"Okay boys!" Gigi interrupted Hank, shooting them each a raised-eyebrow glare.  "I think the stress of everything is making you two a little bitchy."

Dana busted out laughing.  "It's so true!  I always said that men have their own version of PMS!" 

"You done now?" Joey snapped.  "I'm glad you think it's funny—really, because I'm trying to keep us alive here."

They entered the isolated cabins and farms marking the outskirts of Hatchet; less than a hundred yards ahead, Matty spotted a cluster of buildings and a broad brick structure bearing the tomahawk logo of Hatchet Junior-Senior High School. 

"Relax, baby." Dana rubbed Joey's arm and kissed his cheek.  "I'm just playing."

He pulled away and looked at her.  "Just like you were playing earlier when you bit me?  That was real fuckin' funny, wasn't it?  Until we get somewhere safe, can we be a bit more serious?  Is that possible?"

"Whoa," Dana stopped giggling and pointed a finger at Joey; "you need to calm the hell down, Joey.  You're stressed out—we get that—but take it down a notch."

"I told you how much I fuckin' hate it when you tell me to calm down!" He roared and punched the seat.  When his fist hit the seat, a loud bang exploded under the truck.

Matty had seen the first brick buildings of Hatchet's main street pass by on the left; he had noticed the boarded windows and barricaded doors; and he had thought it odd that most of the vehicles lined the streets in front of the buildings. 

As the Bad Betty slipped from Joey's control, tires sliding sideways and up, Matty caught a glimpse of something thin stretched across the road in front of the Hatchet town hall.  All four tires had popped on impact with it.

Hunks of shredded rubber slapped against the truck; the deafening shriek of rim on asphalt preceded a chorus of screaming and shouting… and then Bad Betty's left side caught on something and the truck flipped, catapulting Hank, Matty, and the gear.  The truck crashed, shattering the floodlights, and then rolled to a stop on the driver side.

Matty heard himself breathing, but his eyes swam in a sea of black dotted with white and yellow stars.  He had no sensation of arms or legs, only the steady rhythm of inhale and exhale.

"Get the guns!" A somber, gravelly voice said.  "Darren, Mike—you two check the truck and see who's still alive."

Gray light seeped into Matty's vision; he blinked and saw the sky overhead, drifting iron clouds concealing thin strands of blue.  Unable to feel his legs, Matty tried to sit up; a mud-caked boot pressed his chest down.

"Stay still or I'll put a bullet in your head."  The same gravelly voice commanded.  Matty saw a short, clean-shaven man with close-cropped salt and pepper hair; camo pants and a black tank top completed the spartan appearance.   

"I don't see much choice."  Inches from his face, Matty focused on the barrel of a shotgun.  "Was that spike strip your idea?"

"Shut up," tank top said.  "Darren, what's the status?"

"We got three in the cabin," a nasally voice replied.  "A big guy with a head wound, a hot blonde with huge tits, and an old lady who ain't breathing."

"Mike, help Darren secure the living and then shoot the dead one."  Buzz cut signaled to someone to his left.  "Randy, what's the story with that guy?"

"Uh… he's fucked, Dave.  He's still breathing, but both legs look busted and he's bleeding from the stomach."

"Put a bullet in his head and leave him with the old lady."

"You're a sick son of a bitch," Matty said.  "You're not even going to try and help?  How are you any better than the fucking zombies?"

"I told you to shut up." Dave reversed the shotgun and brought it down on Matty's forehead.  The steel sky vanished from view, replaced by darkness and dreams of the dead walking…

…screaming—Matty heard Dana's high-pitched shriek, but it sounded subdued or muted somehow.  A thin line of wavering light cut across his vision; he guessed it to be the bottom of a door.  Trying to focus brought a wave of sharp pain lancing through his temples.  Matty squirmed on the hard floor and rolled onto his knees; something hard and sharp bound his hands.

Tight-fitting boards blocked the only window, but he heard the telltale groaning of the munchers.  Judging by the level of noise, there had to be a lot of them outside.

They can't be the ones from Wooneyville
, he thought;
these must have eaten recently
.  He knew Garden Harbor—the closest city—had little urban sprawl, being mostly houses and businesses related to the port or National Guard base.  The only other place with a high enough population to feed zombie hordes was Crankshaft, a clogged metropolis riddled with subway tunnels and high-rise tenements. 
Shit, if they've marched here from Crankshaft, there could be a million of them
.