Zombified (Episode 3): Garden Harbor (9 page)

"I'm surprised there's no repeating message from the base," Joey said.  "The CB from the truck would come in handy right about now."

"Nevermind the CB," said Dana; "the truck would come in handy."

Joey snorted.  "We can thank those asswipes at Hatchet."

"They paid the price." Matty leaned back in the seat.  "Blood for blood, right?"

No one answered. 

Let it sink in
, Matty thought. 
This is what we're reduced to: scraping by with a knife at each other's throat
. 

Dana leaned forward and turned off the radio.  "It's like nails on a chalkboard."

"Here." Roger passed out shrink-wrapped granola bars.  "I think all of us could use a bite to eat."

"Shit, Roger," Joey blurted, "it's high in fiber!"

Dana busted out laughing, doubling over in the front seat.  "Look out!  I'm ground-hogging!"

"Stick your ass out the window," Joey suggested. 

"That's the way you like me, don't you?" Dana grinned and shot Joey a dirty look.  "Ass first?"

"You know it." Joey leaned over and planted a kiss on Dana's pouting lips. 

Roger covered his eyes and shook his head; Matty saw a pained expression cross Roger's face. 

The girls
, Matty realized. 
Was he involved with one of them—both of them?

Joey was busy flirting with Dana, oblivious to the dark red car that came hurtling onto the road from an adjoining dirt path. 

Matty lunged forward and snagged the wheel, twisting it right.  "Joe!"

The front left side of their car struck the red coupe, spinning both cars in opposite directions.  Matty tumbled sideways, smacking his head on the rear passenger window and crushing Roger against the door.

Glass broke and metal crunched; there was a moment of weightlessness as the rear end left the ground and sailed off the road.  Dana screamed; Joey swore in one long syllable.

The impact shook the car, hurling everyone inside against the passenger side.  Matty fought the encroaching darkness; his vision closed to a tunnel, fixed on the half-shattered window above him. 

A thumb-sized piece of glass broke loose and fell, bouncing on Matty's exposed forearm; he felt it, but he couldn't move the arm.  Someone groaned beneath him; vaguely, he felt a body shift, trying to move under a crushing weight. 

Roger?
  The thought didn't translate to words; his body felt distant, fading into a comfortable numbness…

…burning heat and the smell of cooking flesh assaulted his nose.  He didn't bother with the door handle; he kicked the smoking door open and stepped into a kitchen.  Fire clung to the walls, greedily consuming the cabinets, wallpaper, and popcorn-plastered ceiling. 

To his left, a paneled door opened to a sun-drenched scene free of fire and smoke; his ratty pick-up—the one he had driven into a bus—idled on the front lawn.  To his right, an army of undead staggered and shambled down a long hallway; they seemed a mile away, but there were hundreds of them and they stared hungrily.

"I'm dreaming," he heard his own voice echo above the crackling flames.  "What happened?"  He couldn't pull in any waking memories—only the dream existed. 

A scream grabbed his attention.  Between the zombies and the kitchen, a woman crashed out of a room, stumbling and falling to the floor.  It was his mother.  Glasses hung low on her nose and dirty tears streaked her face.

"Help me!" She wailed.  With visible effort, she got up and limped forward, trying to brace herself on the steaming walls. 

Matty took a step forward, about to dash to her, when he saw the zombies start running; they closed the distance, coming within arm's reach of his mother.

He stopped and patted down his waistband and pockets in search of a weapon; his eyes scanned the kitchen, finding nothing but burning debris. 

"Help me!" She screamed again, reaching out to him. 

He stepped back as the first zombie wrapped a rotted, smoldering arm around her neck. 

"I can't, ma." He swallowed and took another step back.  "We'd both die."

They bore her to the ground, tearing with teeth and fingers.  Matty turned away and dashed outside as bile rose in his throat.  He retched on the lawn, hands braced on his knees.

"Wake up," he rasped.  When the scene refused to vanish, Matty went to the truck and climbed in.  Keys dangled from the ignition, bearing all his old key chains and discount cards. 

"You let me die."

Matty jumped in the seat, pressing himself against the driver side window.  Charred and smoking, the shredded body of his mother glared at him from the passenger seat; one eye dangled from its socket and her lower lip swung like a pendulum. 

"I really need to wake up." He pinched his leg, but the image persisted.

"Why didn't you save me?" She croaked.

"Because you couldn't be saved!" He shouted at the horrific figure.  "What's the sense in committing suicide to save someone who's going to die anyway?"

"You didn't even try." She accused.  Her body leaned forward, mouth agape and teeth flashing.  "You let your own mother die."

Matty kicked out and smashed her face back into the passenger window; he felt behind for the handle and wrenched it open, tumbling to the ground below.  As he hit the grass, the dream shattered…

…glass cracked and something wet splashed on his cheek.  Matty struggled back to consciousness, his mother's accusations echoing in his ears.

"Fuck me!" His eyes opened to the chomping, snapping jaws of a zombie; the bloodied face was less than six inches from his own, dripping gore onto Matty's cheek and neck.  Its lower body was stuck in the shattered window, impaled on the broken, ragged glass.

He thrust a hand under its jaw and shoved the mangled visage against the back seat.  With the other hand, he felt around for his gun: it wasn't on his body, but his fingers found the clip to his pocketknife.  Pulling it free, Matty flicked it open, reversed the blade, and drove the knife into the base of the zombie's skull.  He twisted and heard a sickening pop: the muncher went limp. 

There were two more outside the wrecked car, banging on the cracked front windshield.  Joey and Dana lay in a tangled heap in the passenger seat; neither of them moved a muscle.  Matty shifted, grabbed the back of the front seats, and pulled himself up; a sharp pain lanced through his right hip and thigh.

"Ow," a gurgling voice moaned.  On the seat, crushed against the door, Roger stirred slowly.  "I… I'm in bad shape… maybe… ribs."

Matty spotted his pistol on the floor and scooped it up.  The front windshield buckled as the two zombies pounded and howled. 

"Hey!" Matty punched Joey in the arm and rocked him back and forth.  He stretched forward and slapped Joey in the face, leaving an instant red handprint.

"What the fuck!" Joey twitched awake and swung at the air.

"Easy!  Dana's stuck under your left side." Matty pointed at the windshield.  "And we have dinner guests."

Joey reached for his gun, but it was wedged below his beltline and he couldn't shift his body to get a hand down his pants. 

"I got it," Matty said.  "See if she's okay."  He took aim and fired: the first shot blew off a zombie's jaw, ejecting gore from the back of its head onto the car hood.  The second shot hit the other one between the eyes, sending skull and brain rocketing out in a crimson arc.

"Come on, baby!" Joey tapped Dana's face.  "Dana, wake up."  He kissed her and peeled both eyes open. 

"I don't see anymore," Matty said.  "Roger's pretty fucked up—broken ribs, I think."

"What the hell happened?" Joey glanced out the window. 

"A car came out of the woods, totally out of control.  We must have been out for a few hours."  Matty rubbed his head.  "It's heading toward evening already."

"We can't sit out here," said Joey.  "If they came out of the woods, maybe there's a house nearby."

Matty nodded.  "I don't see much of a choice.  They might have been trying to get away from the house, though."  He pointed a thumb behind him at the zombie dangling from the rear window.  "These things might have come from wherever the car came from."

"I'm not sittin' here any longer." Joey climbed to the driver door and forced it open.  "It looks clear out here.  We'll have to carry them." 

Matty's side flared in pain.  "Right."

CHAPTER 8

Roger was in serious pain.  Matty supported most of the older man's weight, but the pace was sluggish and they had heard thrashing and moaning in the woods.

"Is this a logging road or something?" Joey asked aloud.  "It goes on for fuckin' ever!  Where did they car come from?"

"We haven't come that far, Joe," said Matty.  "We've been trudging up a steadily increasing incline bearing two wounded… needless to say, the going has been slow."

"I keep hearing zombies growling and something crashing around through bushes." Joey cocked his head and listened; after a moment, he nodded to the left of their position.  "Sounds like it's coming from that direction."  In his arms, Dana stirred and started coughing. 

"Looks like she's awake."  Matty lowered Roger against a tree.  

"My fucking head," Dana mumbled.  "What the hell happened?  Did I have an accident involving a bottle of rum?"

"If by rum, you mean car, then yes, you did have an accident."  Joey kissed her forehead.  "Other than the headache, how are you feeling?"

"All right, I guess."  She stood and stretched, twisting her torso side to side.  "A little stiff but nothing major."  Her eyes fell on Roger, whose face bore an expression of chronic discomfort.  "What happened to him?"

"Broken ribs," Matty replied.  "Dunno if there's any internal damage, but he's in bad shape." 

"Where are we?" Dana looked around, scowling at the scattered trees and jutting rocks sprinkled about the rising landscape. 

"A car came down this path," Joey said, gesturing to the thin brown scar that wound up the side of the sloping hill; "we hit it, woke up, killed some zombies, and started climbing."

"Holy shit!" Dana shook her head.  "How long was I out?"

"Long enough." Joey rubbed his biceps.  "You need to lay off the chips, baby."

"You son of a—" She lunged at him and caught him in the ear with an open palm slap.  "I haven't had any fucking chips for weeks, but if I find some I'm going to eat every fucking one of them!"

"Guys!" Matty interrupted, pointing off to the left.  "We have company."

A lone zombie swerved around a pair of thin trees, walking crookedly, and opened its mouth in a long, mournful howl.  Thick brownish-black liquid streamed from its nostrils, painting a streak down the pale exposed chest.

"Shit!" Dana yelped. 

Another moan echoed farther off in the trees… and then several more from scattered points around their location.

"Fuck me," Matty rasped.  "How the fuck did we manage to walk right down the middle?"

"We need to move." Joey pointed up the hill.  "Let's make for the high ground and hope there's some shelter."

Matty grabbed Roger's arm.

"Nope." Roger pulled his hand free.  "I can taste blood in the back of my throat.  I won't last much longer."

"I'm not leaving you here to be eaten alive," Joey said, running up and tugging at Roger's shirt.  "On your feet, old man."

"Hands off, kid." Roger slapped Joey away.  "I have a little surprise for them, when they come—something I've been saving.  You best get moving."

"Let's go, Joe." Matty pushed Joey back.  "It's his choice and I agree with him.  Put it on my account, if you need to."

"Son of a bitch!  This isn't fuckin' right." Joey spun around and stormed off. 

"He'll learn to let go," Roger whispered, coughing between breaths. 

Matty breathed deeply.  "No, he won't."  He turned and shook hands with Roger.  "There's nothing left to let go of, except one's own life."

The zombie was thirty feet away when Matty took off after Joey and Dana. 

They climbed for an hour, ascending the hill and reaching a level area just as the sun dipped below the horizon.  For a while, Roger had whistled and called, drawing the zombies to his location; when the noise stopped, they heard the crackling of fire and saw tendrils of black greasy smoke ascend from the woods below. 

"There's a silhouette ahead," Joey said.  "Looks like a house with a chimney… I don't see any lights."

"This is a classic 'fucked either way' scenario," Dana said.  "Stay out here and get eaten by zombies or go in the house and get shot by paranoid wackjobs."

Joey shook his head.  "I'm trying to think, babe—don't say wackjobs, okay?"

"Don’t have such a gutter mind," she retorted.

Matty watched them exchange verbal jabs, grinning in the darkness, and realized how rare such a picture had become. 
How many couples are doing that now?
  For a fleeting moment he thought maybe, just maybe, he understood why Joey fought so hard to hang on to the tiniest shred of normalcy.

He shook it off. 
No, I don't understand it.  It's pointless.  A few seconds of happiness isn't worth a lifetime of misery
.  He knew that Joey disagreed and Matty realized Joey would die fighting for those precious seconds of joy… and he knew that was okay. 
I'll help you find those moments, bro
. 

Joey marched toward the house, gun in one hand, and strode to the front door; Dana stayed behind him, crouching slightly to hide behind his wide frame.  Matty trailed behind, covering their approach with his gun drawn.

"It's unlocked."  Joey nudged the door open; it creaked slightly, swinging inward.  "The front room is clean.  Get in here and lock the door."

Dana and Matty slipped inside the aged cottage and locked the door.  They checked the rest of the ground floor, closing and locking windows.  There was no basement, or at least no door or stair leading down from the first level. 

Joey rounded the bottom of a staircase leading up, pointing his gun into the darkness above.  "I'm going to check it out.  Dana, stay close; Matty, cover our asses."