MZS: Philadelphia (Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Book 3) (2 page)

Sleep would definitely help but I can’t imagine it will come soon. Last night was probably my final good chance and I blew it.

After deciding that we were heading to Philadelphia, I should have just gone back to my apartment and crawled into my own bed. It would have let me pretend that everything is okay and ignorantly make my way to dreamland.

The same things that kept me awake also kept me in Terri’s apartment. When I closed my eyes, I saw zombies and people turning into zombies. There was no time to sleep; I had to run. My body didn’t react but my mind wouldn’t stop.

Even when my dreams weren’t filled with undead, they were filled with running, running across a street that kept growing wider. I was constantly close to safety but not there. I’d run a little faster and a little longer. In my dreams, I ran until I was so exhausted that you stop running, and then wake up in a cold sweat.

I know that having those dreams means that I must have slept, but I definitely did not rest.

The warm shower and clean clothes helped me power through the morning. There were also some good supplies in the Humvee. They helped a little, but the combination of sugar and granola led to an energy crash. The guys were a little heavy on the beer, but I didn’t dare suggest getting rid of it.

Patrick, Todd and Tucker went down to the neighborhood shop and added to our resources. They got water, juice for Jaden and as much pasta as they could carry. I’m pleased with how logical they were. Even if we can’t cook the pasta, we can eat it. Plus it’s lightweight and relatively durable.

Most surprising of all was that they grabbed clean t-shirts, underwear, and socks. Tucker even got a few sticks of deodorant. They all seemed happier after freshening up, even though we showered after returning from across the street. The light mood made it easier to get Jaden rolling. I’m glad he’s not difficult, seeing how none of us knows what to do with a six-year-old.

Cupcake and Terri went through directions: the best way out of New York; the most direct road to Philadelphia; and the best road from the highway into Liberty Bell square.

While they worked, I played with Jaden. He seems to be doing fine. I know kids are resilient, but this feels exceptional.

I wish I had taken more useful psychology classes in college. The two I did take,
The Mind of an Aficionado
and
Valuing Art,
were all about people who buy art. There were no interesting classes about the influences of childhood experiences on an artist. Studying the
why
behind an artist would have been fascinating. It would have helped me understand what might happen to Jaden in the future.

Terri packed a ton of computer gear and I think the guys were a little frustrated with her. I heard Todd grumble something about not being able to eat it, but they didn’t complain too loud.

It probably bothered me more than anyone. The plan was to leave by nine so we could check out the area before we walked into the square. It was 9:37 when the engine started. But I didn’t say anything.

The rig was mostly quiet as we navigated out of the city. With the George Washington Bridge gone, the logical alternative was the tunnel.

Cupcake stopped on the top of the ramp and we sat staring down at that dark hole. No one said a word as we pulled away and headed for the Brooklyn Bridge instead.

It was actually my first time driving across the Brooklyn Bridge. The experience was rather muted, though, as our seating arrangements have me cross-legged in the back with Tucker and Jaden. No view and certainly no comfort.

Terri somewhat commandeered the navigator seat. With her size there was no way she would fit in the cargo area where I am. Plus her gear and her connectedness are good resources if we get into a sticky situation. On top of it all she’s so assertive she basically told us that was her seat.

Asking the guys about an exit strategy in the event of an emergency was comical.

“Um get out of the car and fight?” Todd joked, and gave them all a laugh.

Once they thought for a few minutes, we were able to actually discuss a plan.

If we stop and there are zombies near the car, Todd moves up to the machine gun, Tucker climbs into his seat, and then Patrick and Tucker get out and clear the area with Todd covering them. If things go south, Cupcake speeds us away to safety.

That may have been when the silence started, as we realized that we absolutely will leave people behind if it means saving most of us.

The quiet was hard but now I wish it was back. Cupcake turned on the radio and connected his phone. Drinks and snacks move about the cabin and the windows are cracked to let the breeze in. It’s like a regular weekend road trip.

“Terri!” I call. I had to raise my voice to be heard in the front seat.

“Terri I have a question about preppers!” I yell again after receiving no response.

I can feel the mood in the truck drop. Cupcake reaches forward and turns down the music.

“If there were so many preppers out there, why aren’t we hearing from or seeing more survivors?”

“Ha. It’s the same with all of your fringe hobbies,” she says. “There is a core group that are dead serious. Then there is a much bigger group who think it’s cool, spend money on it and talk about it, but never make the tough steps to be serious.”

“Are you talking about guns?” I ask. “I know a lot of people don’t like guns but were worried about a catastrophe occurring.”

“No. I’m talking about the big picture. With a gun, a go bag and a plan, you’re a prepper. But think about it. If you really thought the shit was going to hit the fan, would you live in Manhattan? Or Jersey City? Or any other town or city with fifty thousand people? Hell no. You’d live on a farm in some piss-poor forgotten old run-down town. If you were committed to surviving, you did.”

“How do you explain us?” Patrick asks her.

“Dumb luck? The exception to the rule?”

“Shit,” Cupcake says loudly.

We’ve been trying to keep the language clean for Jaden’s sake, but we all slip occasionally.

“It’s okay, there are a few more choices that won’t add much time,” Terri says, soothing and upbeat.

I lean forward over Patrick’s shoulder and look out the window. A green sign whizzes past with “Philadelphia” and an arrow pointing right. The road it points to is the definition of gridlock.

Smashed cars, vans, and trucks are obvious obstacles. Looking closer, I can see the secret threats. In some of the vehicles are bodies that jerk and twist in an unnatural way. Between the cars I can see at least two pairs of arms reaching and stretching for freedom. Zombies are littered all over the pile up.

When there is nothing left to see, I sit back into my small part of the cargo area. The car is silent as we each think through the significance of what we just saw.

A flash of light catches my eye and I focus forward. Terri is facing the window with a flask to her lips, its bottom to the sky.

The guys have been really good about not breaking into the beer yet. I don’t blame anyone for needing a drink, but I respect the effort to stay sober. Hopefully Terri’s tilt won’t open the floodgates and leave our warriors impaired.

“Tucker, you check the site today?” Cupcake calls back. It seems like a deliberate effort to distract us.

“Just thinkin’ the same. A fresh wake-up would be sweet,” Tucker calls back.

“What’s a wake-up?” I regret asking the question as soon as the words leave my lips.

“Ahhh. It’s just cool pictures,” Tucker says, so obviously lying.

“Of girls, I assume? That happen to have lost their clothes?” I’m not a prude or a moron.

“They mostly have clothes on. It’s just that their clothes have shrunk to a ridiculously small size or are very surprisingly falling off,” Patrick explains.

“Just what guys need: ammunition to start the day horny and pervy.” I say.

“Page not found. Barstool is down,” Tucker reports somberly, like they’ve lost a close friend

“I haven’t found a commercial server operating,” Terri adds.

If the Internet is falling apart, the end is near. My dad taught me that the sites most people visit every day are just the surface. The Internet is the global communications backbone. All governments and militaries rely on the connectivity of the Internet to coordinate action.

I’ve never really known a world without the Internet.

“You know people with private servers operating?” Todd asks.

“Yes. Like I said, the hardcore preppers were serious and ready for anything. They have wind and solar electricity and private on-premise servers. As long as the infrastructure stays up, we can keep in touch.”

We ride along in silence for a little while more before I feel the truck slowing. Anticipation grows in my chest.

“This is option two right?” Cupcake asks Terri.

“It was.” She turns to the window and tilts the flask again.

The speed builds along with my nerves. It’s just about eleven, and we wanted to be observing the square by now. I don’t know how far this detour is going to set us back, but it feels wrong.

“Do you think these are signs of how they secured the city?” I ask, but I’m not sure if we all want to talk about it.

“If they are, let’s hope the next bridge has a gate,” Todd snarks.

“And someone to operate it,” Patrick adds.

The third bridge is our last chance for Philly. While they were going over the map Cupcake pointed out that if the GW was gone, the bridges to Philly could be destroyed, too. That’s why they laid out three options for crossing the river. It was my idea to make it baseball: three strikes and Philly is out.

We probably could have communicated the plan better, but Patrick and Todd didn’t really seem to care. Sometimes their “roll with it” attitude is a blessing.

The fact that option three is clear causes me conflict. Does it mean something? What’s different about it? Should we skip Philly anyway and head straight to D.C.? I don’t think any of them would go for revising the plan. We’re committed to Philly.

Heading north on 95, we pass the airport. The roads are eerily quiet, but I can just imagine what the terminals are like. I don’t even want to think about being on a plane with someone who turns.

Usually when I’m on this stretch of road I’m heading in the other direction. That means that the Navy Yard should be coming up on my right.

I place my hand on Patrick’s shoulder and lean forward again. Looking out the window, I anticipate the familiar sight of gunmetal grey warships.

Patrick taps my hand on his shoulder. “Little tight there, Laney.” I didn’t even realize I was squeezing; I’m stunned.

In the river, the deck of an aircraft carrier is perpendicular to the surface of the water. Several other ships are listing to one side or the other and there are gaping holes where I assume ships used to be docked. There are fires burning almost everywhere and I can’t believe no one mentioned the black smoke before this.

Zombies don’t have the mental or physical dexterity needed to operate machinery. A living being intentionally destroyed those ships. What it is the point of bombing the Navy Yard?

Federal or local, it looks like someone wasted time and ordinance on what I would consider irrelevant targets.

Susan would say to tell their story. She’d say: if you can’t help them directly, share what you know so others will not face the injustice.

How can I tell their story when I hardly know my own?

The televisions system seems to be on lockdown. The same text-based message keeps looping over and over with no other content available.

Stay in your room. Our staff is coordinating with local and federal officials to ensure your safety. Please be patient. We will let you know as soon as it is safe to leave your room.

I’ve showered and shaved and consumed my allotment of minibar nourishment. Somewhat moderating my blood sugar helped clear my head a little. Drinking water will also help, but that is a slower process.

Beyond the pedestrian activity there has been no action out my window. No motor vehicles and no airplanes or helicopters. I’m on a virtual island from a communication and transportation perspective.

Escaping and telling people what I saw will require some organization and planning. I need to break the situation down into short-term and long-term priorities.

The rumble in my stomach lets me know that food is a short-term priority. Snack mixes and granola bars are decent pick-me-ups, but I haven’t eaten real food in almost three days.

Longer term, I need to go somewhere or at least find people who will take me in.

After watching a third murder and abduction sequence play out, I am confident that the men watching the square would not take me in. I’ll need to go out the other side of the hotel and avoid anyone in this general area.

I’ve been to New York enough times to know my way around. Plus there are so many people there that no one could shut down the entire city even if they wanted to. I guess New York should be my goal, but is it still a good idea if I have to walk there?

Stealing a car feels like a bad idea. How would I react if a car thief came in and told me that someone else was killing people and kidnapping women? So far I haven’t broken any laws and I’m not prepared to start.

Think!

Whenever I became frustrated, Susan would sit down and meditate. She was always trying to get me to join her. “Growling and stomping aren’t going to solve the problem,” she would tell me. “Thinking works.”

I sit right down on the floor. My legs are crossed and I focus on my breathing. Calm down and think.

Focus on breaths. In… out… in…

Fuck this.

I’m going to go talk to the front desk and get some food. If they aren’t going to call the cops, I want them to get me a cab and I will physically go to the station to report what I saw. I don’t need to go to New York—that was a ridiculous thought.

My keycard and wallet are already in my pocket but I pause by the dresser and look at my phone. It has never failed me before and I have been to some shitty hotels in some shitty countries. This may be more of a network issue than a device issue. Regardless, it does me no good, so I decide to leave it.

I read an article once that said ones physical position provided a direct relation to their emotional state. People studied had a positive attitude when they stood tall and raised their arms in triumph, even if they had done nothing to be triumphant about. When others in the study stood stooped and slouching, their attitude was dour even if they had just been given a small reward. With that in mind, I pull my shoulders back and lift my chin slightly.

As I walk down the hall I remember the scene at the bottom of the stairwell. I’ll take the elevator.

The expected ‘ding’ announces the elevator car’s arrival. It came quickly, which is not surprising. I have not seen another soul inside the hotel.

Before stepping inside, I wonder about the prudence of using an elevator in such uncertain times. There hasn’t been a hint of electrical failure and I’m sure they would have shut them down if they did not want us to use them. Besides, it’s four floors, not a skyscraper.

As I step out into the waiting area of the elevator bank, my mood improves. The granola bar, water, and posture all working together for the better.

When the doors open at the bottom floor I’m greeted by a faint buzzing noise that initially sounds like an electrical issue. Maybe the elevator wasn’t a good idea? When I head back to my room I’ll be sure to use the stairs, just in case.

After a few steps, I realize that the buzzing is not coming from the elevators. Its origin is further out, in the direction of the front desk. A rather curious sound, but not my priority. Once the authorities have been contacted, I can mention the sound to the front desk.

Another benefit to keeping your shoulders back and chin up is improved visibility. For weeks I have been walking around aware only of the ground at my feet and the drink in my hand. Now I can see all the way to the grand lobby.

At first I’m angered that there are people milling about. Was the message of an open lobby only conveyed to certain guests? How can they be so casual? They certainly must have heard the gunshots and been able to see the murder victims.

While I approach the desk, my eyes fix on the small sundry shop on the far end of the lobby. Through the glass I can see bags of chips and other foods. My stomach grumbles at the thought of being filled. I’m sure there is also a cooler full of drinks that can quench my thirst.

Priorities must be maintained. I can eat and drink after I’ve spoken with the desk.

As my gaze travels to the registration desk, I detect a disturbing trend.

Blood.

Hastily I scan the guests on the other side of the lobby.

More blood.

Is it possible that every single guest in this hotel has an open wound? Are these survivors of the accident that caused the martial law order?

The wounds give more sense to their dragging motion but only slightly. They must be in shock, which is why they shuffle aimlessly in small circles. Someone needs to take charge and get these people to sit down. The couches and chairs are all open, but for triage purposes the floor would work fine as well.

There is no one behind the desk. Appropriate, as I expect them to be tending to the injured, but not helpful.

A young man in a hotel uniform catches my eye.

“Excuse me. Are you able to contact the authorities?” I call to him, working hard to keep the fear out of my voice.

The young man turns and makes me wish I were still drunk. His face is covered in blood, some dry, some wet. The corners of his mouth are big gashes of open skin and his teeth snap at me. These are not blast injuries; these are the results of savagery.

When I look to his eyes to get a sense of his sanity, I see only an opaque white, the dull uniform color of a cloud of boiled potato. Gone are the unique characteristics of the human eye; no pupil, no color and no bright white.

Apparently he has lost control of his lungs and vocal chords as well. A loud moan spills from the hole in his face and he starts shuffling towards me.

Reflexively, I take a step back. I’ll go around him and find a more responsive hotel employee. Though there may not be a path around him through all of these guests.

Each of the shufflers in the lobby has turned to face me. Their eyes all share the milky-potato coloring of the ravaged clerk. Not only are the facing me, they are walking in my direction—with purpose.

I notice a large tuft of hair clinging to the side of the face of the lady to my right. It is clearly not hers; she is a version of blonde and this hair is much darker. After blinking in disbelief, I can see the bloody scalp attached to the hair. The woman doesn’t seem to notice or care.

The police officer in the stairwell leaps into my mind. He was bitten and chewed. I thought it was an animal, but …could it have been another person?

Something tells me the bloody messes walking toward me don’t want my help: they want me. The moaning has grown louder and the buzzing, which had been faint, takes over the space and reverberates in my chest.

Turning to go back down the hall and up the elevators to my sanctuary reveals another mob. They posses the same bloodied and battered bodies of the crowd in the lobby. Potato-y eyes don’t seem to see me, but they somehow know I am here.

I am too scared to panic. A deep-seated survival instinct at least gets me moving. I walk toward the one available door with a red exit sign hanging from the ceiling above it.

My brain performs advanced calculus and determines that at my current pace I will not arrive at the door before the throng of people. I walk faster and then break into a run. None of my actions are planned or thought out, they just happen.

I slam into the door at full speed with my shoulder and the pain sends lightning bolts through my arm. The door does not fly open as I expected it to; there is something obstructing it from the other side.

Even though the door does not open all the way, there is just enough room for me to slide through. As a bloody palm just misses my head and slams against the door, I squeeze into the opening. My body gets all the way through the door just as several more hands make their red imprints on the other side.

Turning to race up the steps, I stumble on a corpse lying on the floor. It’s the officer; this is my stairwell. For a brief moment I consider taking his gun and his mace. The need for protection is growing and this may be my only or best chance to arm myself.

No. I have never held or fired a gun in my life. I should leave those jobs to trained professionals.

At the landing for the second floor I decide to search for a sign of something normal. Are these hostile mobs covering the entire hotel or are they in the lobby exclusively?

Poking my head through the door I am greeted with a gruesome sight. Not only are there more blood-soaked people shuffling aimlessly, the stench is overwhelming. Puddles of former people litter the open space and I can actually make out bones on the floor.

An easel holds a sign for a real estate seminar but the sign is covered in blood splatter. One man stands motionless, blood dripping from a mangled stump where his hand used to be, his head tilted to one side. Even in my worst state of shock, I could not imagine standing around like that.

I close the door quietly so as not to draw attention to myself. Stepping cautiously, I make my way up to the next landing. My thoughts shift from speed to stealth. I want to get back to my room but I need to do so without making a sound.

For some reason, I can’t just go back to my room. I need to check for life. On the third floor landing I am far more careful opening the door. Fortunately the hallway appears clear; no people, in shock or otherwise. There is a housekeeping cart on one side and I can easily make out the drawer labeled “minibar.”

After a brief hesitation, I walk quickly over to the cart and slide out the drawer. My hand dives in and seizes two small bottles of vodka. It will serve as an antiseptic in case of injury, I tell myself. The earlier declaration of sobriety rings in my ears. If I had seen the lobby before that, I never would have promised sobriety.

Dropping the bottles back in the drawer, I turn to leave, fearing alcohol is not the answer. It would be viable medicinally for another, or myself. I should take it and have the courage not to consume it.

The drawer of liquor slides out and goes on top of the cart. Underneath is a drawer of snacks, which I also pull from the cart. I stack the two drawers of supplies so I can carry them both.

I hurry through the door to the stairwell and up to the fourth floor landing in a flash. My hallway remains clear and I get back to my door quickly. The stash of supplies rests on the carpet while I use my keycard to let myself in. It’s rushed and urgent, but I make it through to safety without incident.

Leaning heavily against the closed door, terror washes over me.