Zombified (Episode 2): Yankee Heights (3 page)

He picked up the sandwich and avoided eye contact with the chef. 
Are they called chefs in a sandwich shop? 
Matty wondered.  Originally planning to eat in the shop, he found himself sitting in his pick-up and staring out the front window.

"Did I just get a date with Kayla Santos?"  He grabbed the pack of smokes and fished around inside—it was empty.  "I need a smoke."  Matty started the truck and pulled out of the cramped lot, heading for the convenience store a stone's throw away.

He was in such a daze that he barely noticed the police cruiser parked in front of the store, lights flashing.  In the back seat, a gaunt-looking woman struggled against handcuffs on her wrists and ankles; her mouth was gagged and she had a feral, animal quality to her eyes.  As Matty walked past, she slammed her face into the window, smearing blood over the glass.

"Holy shit lady!  Are you nuts?"  He traced a circle next to his temple. 

The store doorbell rang when Matty stepped inside.  A police offer stood behind the counter, talking with a young Hispanic man; Matty caught something about an assault and pressing charges.

Behind the second register, a bored-looking guy in need of a haircut watched a couple of kids rummaging through the candy aisle.  Matty went to the back and grabbed two bottles of cheap wine and a six-pack of stout ale.  He placed it on the counter in front of the bored guy.

"I'll take a pack of Yellow Spirits, too," Matty said.  He pulled out the last of his cash and counted it.  "Make that two packs, amigo."

He had cash left for another coffee. 
I'll save this for tomorrow morning
.  When he climbed back into the truck, Matty stashed the three bucks in the glovebox and deposited the booze in the cluttered backseat. 

He slapped the cigarette back on the palm of his left hand; after the obligatory five-pat pack, Matty peeled off the cellophane and pulled one out.  As he lit it up, the sound of breaking glass made him jump.

The psycho woman's head was half out of the cruiser's rear window; bits of glass and globs of flesh and blood clung to her forehead and hair.  She pulled back and slammed the shattered window again, blasting the rest of the glass out onto the ground.

Matty laid on the horn; the cop barreled out of the shop brandishing a nightstick.  Writhing like a worm on a hook, the bound woman tried to squeeze through the hole in the back window; her shoulders, arms, and chest were torn open in jagged ribbons.  Again and again, the nightstick connected with the lady's head; after a half-dozen shots to the skull, she stopped moving. 

The cop was panting and sweat poured down his face.

Matty rolled down the window.  "You don't get paid enough for that shit, officer."

He looked over one shoulder and nodded.  "No kidding."  The cop threaded his baton through a belt loop and shoved the bloody lunatic back into the car.  He promptly peeled off his gloves and tossed them in the trashcan.

"So what the fuck was that about?"  Matty asked the cop.  "Is she jacked up on angel dust?  I heard about a guy that punched through a windshield and didn't feel a thing, even though his hand was shattered."

The officer shook his head.  "I don't know.  I just hope she doesn't have any serious disease."

Matty burst out laughing, smoke billowing from his mouth.  "She put her head through a window.  I'd call that pretty fuckin' serious!"

Cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Matty backed out of the lot.  He pulled onto the road and headed towards the fraternity house.

CHAPTER 3

He rolled past Dan's beat-up coupe and found a spot on the street under an overhanging willow tree.  Matty killed the engine and started in on the turkey sub.  It was barely dinnertime, but the roller coaster of a hot date followed by a psychotic woman smashing her head through a window worked up Matty's appetite.

The sandwich was gone and a smoke followed.  He fished through the backpack and found a black tactical knife; slipping into his hip pocket, Matty took out the hard case at the bottom of his bag.  Rotating the dials to the proper combination, he clicked the cover open and pulled out the blued 9mm pistol. 

"I thought about using you today," he whispered to the gun.  "If that nutjob had come at me…" He dropped the clip and cleared the chamber; a quick inspection eased Matty's mind. 
Ready to rock
, he thought.  Only his buddy, Joey, appreciated an obsession with cleaning and handling weapons.

"We'll be back at the range soon enough."  He replaced the clip and switched the safety off. 
Red dead
.  Matty placed the gun back in the case and reset the combination; he slid it under the driver's seat.

Reaching behind the front seats, Matty collected the wine and beer and used his foot to shove open the door.  He hopped out, kicked the door closed, and ambled across the street and over the lawn of the Phi Moon Beta house.

Clusters of frat boys sat on plastic lawn chairs, knocking back beers from plastic cups and chuckling at bad jokes.  Matty nodded at them and strolled around the back, passing through a half-open wooden gate.  An in-ground pool covered most of the back yard, and a dozen people were swimming and grab-assing in the shallow end.

The sun was setting and subdued orange lights filled the yard, complimented by tiki torches and the glow of a coal-fired barbecue in the far corner.  Despite the sub, Matty's stomach growled as the smell of burgers filled the air.

Clearly hammered, a pair of freshman girls staggered out the back door of the house; they were topless and shaking their tits at everyone, regardless of gender.

Oh boy
, Matty thought,
it's gonna be one of those parties
.

He cracked open the wine and drank straight from the bottle; the six-pack of stout was in his right hand.  A few of the frat boys greeted him as Matty entered the house, but most of them were too busy sucking face, playing beer pong, or taking pictures with their phone to notice his presence.

Matty passed by a mirror set atop a polished oak desk and frowned at the reflection. 
You're lookin' shabby, Matthias
.  His ratty jeans ended in frayed edges and the faded 'Star Wars' tee shirt had a couple of holes; the short-cropped hair was manageable, but the mountain-man scruff and gnarly goatee was in serious need of attention. 
Why the hell would Kayla want to hook up with you?
 

He headed upstairs, chugging the wine along the way, and investigated the dozen or so rooms in the house.  Having never been in a frat house, Matty was dumbstruck by the size and opulence. 
Daddy's money is going to a good cause
, he mused.

Most of the doors were shut, and the sounds coming from within gave an obvious explanation: moans, squeals, and the occasional "Fuck me harder!" filled the second floor.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, Matty heard:
In the jungle, the mighty jungle… o-weema-wum-a-way…  o-weema-way, o-weema-way…

He found the upstairs bathroom and stopped in to take a leak.  The toilet was full of what Matty guessed to be vomit.  "That's nasty."  He turned to the tub and aimed for the drain.  "It's going to be one of
those
parties, also."

By the time he came back downstairs, the bottle of wine was empty.  He placed it on the oak desk and winked in the mirror. 
You're starting to look a little better.  A few beers and you'll be a fuckin' stud!

Forty or so guys and an equal number of girls—give or take a dozen—filled up the downstairs area and the yard.  Given the university population, it was a telling sign of how many people had caught the latest epidemic of flu.

Matty weaved a path to the barbecue and snatched a plate from the rapidly disappearing stack; he stood next to the grill and checked the menu.

"Hey chef, hit me up with two of those well-done ones," he said. 

"Sure thing, bro." It was one of the basketball guys; Matty couldn't remember his name because basketball took a far backseat to the gridiron.  "Cheese and all the other goodies are over there."  Chef Point Guard gestured with the spatula.

Matty slapped a couple slices of cheddar, some onions, and a healthy dose of relish on the steaming beef.  He found an unoccupied lawn chair across the yard and plopped down.  Cracking a stout, he chowed down on the quarter-pound, sesame seed bunned circles of dead cow goodness.

The topless chicks made their rounds, stopping in front of Matty and presenting him with a bong.  One of them sat down on his lap and offered the water pipe.  As he took a rip, she started grinding against his crotch.  He leaned back and blew out a big cloud; the girl took the pipe and slid off, moving on to the next guy.

"That ain't right, girl!" Matty called after her.  "You can't leave me hangin' like that!"  When she didn't respond—or even look in his direction—Matty returned to the rest of his burger, washing it down with a second bottle of stout. 

All at once, people started sparking up joints and blunts, passing around the weed; a haze of thick yellow-white smoke rose up from the yard.  Through the haze, Matty saw Kayla approach.  She had a slim smoky bottle in one hand and a plastic cup in the other.

"Kayla!"  Matty yelled and waved. 
A little overzealous, dude
.  He put his arm down and watched her walk… every step sent chills up and down his back.  She wore a tight-fitting yet tasteful purple dress, and her hair was bunched up at the top, with a few loose strands hanging down near her cheeks.

"Hey Matty!" She glanced at his pants and then up to his eyes.  "I dressed up, what's your excuse?"

Matty shrugged.  "I don't own any nice clothes and I never, ever dress up." 

"Does that make me your arm candy?"  She winked and poured some of the clear liquor into her cup.

Damn that wink!
  Matty shivered. 
If we both get drunk, that wink is going to be responsible for whatever happens
.

She killed the shot like a pro, emptying the cup without a flinch. 

They hung for most of the night, dancing a little bit to the pulsating beat of some nameless techno DJ, and the alcohol worked its magic: sometime around midnight, they staggered upstairs arm-in-arm. 

People were passed out on the landing, the stairs, and in heaps on the furniture or floor—wherever they could find space, they landed. 

They tried every door, and the ones that weren't locked were occupied by amorous couples—or threesomes—or by knots of half-naked, unconscious people. 

"Well that's not cool," Kayla slurred; her eyes fluttered a bit and she stumbled, giggling madly.  Matty reached down and removed her heels, savoring the view of silky brown legs and the smell of perfumed thighs.

"Nope," he agreed, "it's not cool at all.  That leaves us two options: the pool or the front seat of my truck."

"Hmm."  She tapped her chin, swaying in the dimly lit hallway.  "I didn't bring a bathing suit, Matt-attatt-atty."  She giggled madly at the funny repetition of sound.  "Matt-attatt-atty—that's so funny!"  Kayla collapsed into his arms and stuck her tongue in Matty's mouth, groaning and running her hands down his chest towards his belt.

"Holy shit!" It came from downstairs; the voice was deep and boomed through the house.  The sound of a TV rose; the volume reached a point where it shook the floor under Matty's feet.

Kayla pulled away and tried to focus on Matty's face.  "What?  I didn't do anything yet."  She licked her lips and grabbed his crotch.  "But I'm about to."

"It wasn't me, Kayla."  Matty grabbed her hand and pulled her along, moving slowly and holding the rail as they descended the stairs.

"Ooo!  Is it time for the pool?  I wanna fuck in the pool, Matty!"

This better be really, really important
, he thought,
because I'm about to fall in love with this girl
.  "Who doesn't, Kayla?  Let's go downstairs and see where the pool is."

They stumbled a few times and Matty ended up carrying her piggyback the rest of the way.  Huddled around the widescreen, a dozen hardcore alcoholics stood in the glow of an emergency broadcast.  Kayla leaned on Matty's shoulder with her eyes closed and murmured obscene things into his ear.

A talking head droned on in the background: "…coming in from Wooneyville, Garden Harbor, and Yankee Heights.  Authorities have cautioned everyone to remain in their homes and keep doors locked.  Do not open the door unless it is an emergency worker.  We will stay on the air throughout the coming hours to keep you apprised of the situation.  As of right now, the cause is unknown and the governor has placed the Timmons National Guard base on alert."

Kayla's tongue caressed the edge of Matty's ear and he lost all focus on the news.  He scooped her up and carried Kayla past the living room, through the kitchen, and out to the yard.  As he stepped onto the patio deck, he stumbled forward and crashed down on his left knee.  Kayla slipped from his arms and landed on her rump; she found it hilarious.

"Sorry, special K—I'm a little tee-rashed," he warbled.  She pulled him down on top of her and they locked lips; hands explored and Matty managed to unclip her bra.

"Nice moves," she whispered; one of her hands slid down the front of his jeans.

As his eyes rolled back, a blood-curdling scream ripped into the night; it came from an upstairs bedroom.

Kayla screamed too, and pulled her hand free from his pants.  Matty scrambled to his feet: the hard-on was instantly snuffed out. 

"What the fuck was that!"  She stood up and stepped behind him, digging her nails into his back.

"Come on."  He darted into the house.  A group of guys were bolting up the stairs while a handful of girls stood at the bottom landing, whispering to one another. 

"AHHHH!" It was a man's voice and it was full of panic.  He crashed down the stairs, tangled up with naked big-breasted blonde girl; she was snarling and biting into his shoulder: blood welled up through the white shirt and stained the sleeve red.

Sounds of banging, screaming, and fighting erupted from upstairs.  The gaggle of women cleared the bottom of the stairs; some of them made for the front door and ran outside.