MZS- North East Read online

  I check the locks on the door and go back to the window again. What if they grabbed the guy from across the way instead of me? Oh shit, am I guilty of a crime if I let them beat up the wrong guy?

  Looking back down on the street, I begin to study the people swarming about. Not having a clue about what the person across the landing looks like makes the effort pointless. Something about the way they are all moving is weird.

  It’s not so much that they are all shuffling as walking funny. Like, they have a hitch in their gait. I’m not sure where the word gait came from, but I may have just used college.

  There seems to be a lot of bumping into each other. None of them seem to care right now, but I can imagine someone getting pissed off pretty soon. Still, I don’t see any clues about where they came from and those sirens still haven’t arrived.

  I tiptoe across my tiny apartment and check the peephole again. No change. The door is still open and there are no signs of people.

  When my eye gets tired of squinting I start back across toward the windows. I make a brief stop at the box of wine and fill up the cleanest glass I have. The wine’s mostly for medicinal purposes; my nerves need calming.

  After filling my glass, I stop at my phone again. No missed calls. I try and call my parents again, but still nothing. There is no service, regardless of whom I try and call and I go through several of my contacts.

  Once during Blues and Brews they told me that if voice isn’t working you could still send a text. So I blast off a few quick messages to friends. Wes won’t believe this shit; he’ll have a hundred reasons why it’s a government conspiracy.

  Didn’t someone tell me there is a city-wide emergency text thing? Like if there’s a blizzard and they have to close the T or something, they just send everyone a text? I should totally find that and sign up.

  For a second I forgot what I was doing. The deep red color of the wine in my glass reminds me of Zoe’s blood in the sky. I was going to the window to check on the mob.

  I’ve grown comfortable that they do not notice me up here in my fifth-floor hideout. Standing square in the window, my eyes scan up and down Beacon Street.

  This close to the window, there is much more noise. More sirens and horns are going off in the distance. There is almost a buzz coming up from the crowd below and the distinct thump of helicopter rotors pound the window rhythmically.

  Looking to the left, in the direction of Fenway, I can see some clear street. To my right, toward the Common, the street is also generally clear.

  Great, the one spot in the city with a crazy mob congregating is outside my building.

  Turning back to the left, I see a guy on a bicycle come flying around the corner. From the way he pumps his legs I can see that he’s not out for a ride; he’s trying to get somewhere. His whole body visibly tenses up when he sees the crowd in the street.

  The bike slides out from underneath him and he tumbles along the pavement. From my vantage point there is no sound, but the mob below can clearly hear something. Every head turns in the direction of the fallen bicycle.

  They don’t just look at him, though; they start walking in his direction. Their walk is not fast but it is purposeful. The random mob now seems to have a loose structure. Row after row of crazy people line the street.

  One of the people near the front trips on the edge of the sidewalk and falls to the ground. Those behind step right on top of him and move forward to fill the hole left in his line. He’s being trampled to death and no one even pauses.

  The cyclist is on his feet but limping. He looks to a few of the doorways nearby and shakes his head. After checking on the fast-approaching mob, he hobbles a few steps toward the side street he came out of before stopping.

  Another mob appears on the side street. They have a structure and walking motion similar to my mob. The injured cyclist hops over to a building and hefts himself up the steps.

  I can see him pound on the door but again I hear nothing.

  My mob gets to the stairs first. Take that new mob, we’re number one! I chuckle to myself while watching the bike rider slump down on to the top step.

  Without any hesitation or apparent conversation, the mob attacks. Thank god I can’t see details.

  What looks like a torso with one leg quickly appears on top of the crowd. It’s covered in a deep red that I just know is blood. As fast as it appeared, it is gone. The leg was ripped away and taken by one side of the mob while the opposite side took the chest and head.

  Two people are now dead and the police haven’t even returned my call.

  A flash of light across the street grabs my attention. There is a young woman on the steps in jogging clothes. She has buds in her ears and she is loosening up for a run. The door is closing slowly behind her and I want to yell at her to go back inside.

  She must have been waiting for the crowd to leave and headed out as soon as she saw they were gone.

  It’s like a silent movie but I know the door made a BANG when it closed. I know it because the hungry mob has turned their attention from the bloody mess that used to be a guy on a bike and is now coming for the runner.

  I watch, paralyzed with fear, as the crowd surges towards the woman. Her head bobs along to the music in her ears, blissfully unaware of the horror closing in.

  They consume her almost instantly.

  “NO!” I cry out and slam my open hand against the window.

  The faces in the crowd snap in my direction. Through the blood smeared all over them I can see glistening white teeth. They scan the façade of the building with twitches of their head. The mob faces me, but it’s more like they are listening for something than looking.

  Sound must be the thing that sets them off: Zoe yelling, the cyclist crashing, and the door slamming. Then it was me screaming and pounding on the window. I pray for silence until they come down from whatever hallucinogen they are on.

  My phone buzzes and beeps with a new text message.

  Chapter 3

  I know that windows can reverberate like speakers, but I have to hope that my phone isn’t strong enough to make that happen. Regardless, I scoop it off the counter and quickly flick through the settings to stop any alarms. Keeping quiet has suddenly become the most important thing in my life.

  Hurrying across the room, I do a quick check out the peephole before reading my message. No change. The door across the way is still open.

  Stepping away from my door, I slug back the rest of my wine. I’ll definitely need another box if I’m going to keep my nerves in check.

  Looking down at the phone in my shaking hand, I read the message:

  “Dude shit is whack. If you still breathing hit me back.”

  Of course it’s Tucker. That kid kills me. His texts aren’t abbreviated; that’s exactly how he talks.

  I text him back, not sure that I should tell him what I’ve seen today. “I’m at my place. What’s going on with you?”

  “Dude zombies are dominating this bitch. Look outcha window”

  He went to college too, and still thinks “outcha” is a word. I know it’s not a typo because he does it all the time.

  I hate texting. My fat fingers and persistent buzz make it too hard to press the little keys. Out of habit I tap his digits and bring the phone to my ear.

  “Oh this isn’t good, motherfucker,” he answers.

  “What are you talking about?” I know we have caller ID, but I hate it when people don’t answer the phone with an actual greeting.

  “If the cell networks are clearing it means there aren’t enough people alive to clog them up.”

  “Shut up, you idiot,” I say. “Do you know a chick named Zoe? We hooked up last night.”

  “Hey asshole. Did you not hear me? The fucking city is crawling with zombies.” Tucker sounds sober and scared. Tucker is never sober on a Saturday.

  “How do you know? Is there a mob outside your apartment, too?” My fear keeps growing.

  “Yeah they’re outside my apartment!
Turn on your radio or some shit,” he screams through the phone. Tucker knows that I don’t own a TV.

  “What are you gonna do?” I’m worried that he’s going to freak out and run into the crowd like some Kamikaze warrior.

  “I’ve been texting with Cupcake. That kid fucking lives for this shit. Did you know he was a crazy prepper? He was talking about it the other night and it blew my mind,” Tucker says, calming down.

  “So what does the crazy prepper say to do?” I don’t want to be in this alone.

  “Let me get with him live and I’ll hit you back. Sit tight bro, we aint leavin Pat-O hangin.”

  The connection drops and I stand like an idiot with a silent phone pressed to my ear.

  Tucker is a good guy. His family life is all kinds of fucked up and we wind up helping him out with stupid shit all the time. If there is an easily accessible drug out there, he’s tried it, more than once. He makes some really bad choices in life and it can be extremely annoying. At the end of the day though, if anyone in our group needs something, he is the first one to show up.

  I love him and I trust him like a brother, but it still helps to know things for myself. What I’ve seen on the street below could easily be called zombie behavior. Somehow I have to find out if that’s really what’s going on.

  Checking the peephole yet again yields nothing new. A quick cross to the window and the bloody, angry mob is still staring at my building.

  I need to go across the hall and see if there is a TV in that pigsty.

  A pair of dirty old socks is on the floor. I decide that they would be quieter than walking across the hall in bare feet. Listening intently for any sound coming from the landing, I sit down carefully and pull on the socks before standing back up.

  It takes me almost two minutes to slowly turn both the locks on my door. I’m scared to death that the faintest click will alert anyone shambling about in the stairway.

  My head pokes out the door and takes in the empty landing. There are no sounds and I realize that I have never just listened to the stairwell. I can’t imagine it’s always this quiet.

  The dirty socks work perfectly and help me glide across the tile floor. At the door to the messy dump I stop abruptly. What if the person who slammed into my door was running away from a zombie?

  My door is wide open. My rough calculation is that I can get through the door and have it locked in about seven seconds. If there is zombie in here, all I have to do is run.

  Normally I would call out to see if anyone is home, but being terrified of making a sound stops that instinct and I just step into the apartment.

  The shithole is the same basic coffin I have across the hall. It’s a fifteen-by-twelve box with a kitchenette and a bathroom. There’s no loft, so they don’t have a “private bedroom” like me. In fact I don’t even see a bed.

  On one wall is a filthy couch. Across from it is a massive TV, easily sixty inches. There are a couple of different video game consoles and assorted controllers. On one arm of the couch is a dirty uniform jacket from some chain restaurant.

  Rather than search the cushions for a remote, I walk to the screen and feel around for an on/off button. I’m rewarded with squat. That’s actually a good thing, because I need to mute the TV as soon as I turn it on. I’ll have to find the remote.

  Looking back at the couch I can see just how gross it is. There are stains everywhere and food wrappers litter the floor in front of it. A pizza crust peeks out from underneath and there are bits of food everywhere.

  If I shove my hand in the cushion and come out with a banana peel, puke may soon be added to the mix. The need to see what is going on in the outside world overpowers my disgust. Holding my breath, I plunge my right hand down behind the left cushion.

  Mostly there is popcorn and sand. There is a candy wrapper in the corner and I slide my hand around to the side. It’s amazing how focused I am on this simple task.

  Along the side of the cushion and toward the front, my hand hits the smooth familiar plastic of a remote control. I squeeze it with two fingers and lift the remote free of its hiding spot.

  As the screen glows to life, I’m not sure what to expect. How will the news cover a zombie outbreak? Every story would have gory death and violence; the whole thing would be a constant warning for sensitive viewers. Hopefully it will just be a press conference telling us what to do, looped over and over.

  I lower the volume and un-mute the talking box.

  “We’ve been covering the zombie outbreak for over fourteen hours now.” The harried-looking news reporter is clearly not reading a teleprompter. “Officials recommend that people in the city stay inside and keep your doors closed. Not just screen doors or storm doors, but your main security door. There had been warnings of looting earlier with recommendations to lock doors, but now we are asking people to leave your doors unlocked. I repeat, leave your doors unlocked.”

  The reporter pauses and rereads the note on his desk. A shake of his head and shock in his eyes conveys bewilderment.

  “Our note says that first responders and volunteers may require refuge from the monsters and leaving your door unlocked could save a life. Eyewitness encounters have said that the zombies cannot open closed doors and our last report of looting was… six hours ago?”

  He picks up a cup on the desk and looks at the bottom. I’m sure he could use a drink if he’s been talking about this for fourteen hours. He throws the cup violently and it quickly disappears off camera. The reporter rakes his hand down his face and takes a deep breath.

  “People in rural areas are fairing better but are still not safe. If you leave your home, you are encouraged to arm yourself for protection. Anyone with visible blood or cloudy opaque eyes should be treated as extremely violent and infectious. Being bitten by or ingesting any fluid from an infected individual will lead to your own infection. Act accordingly.”

  For several seconds there is no sound at all.

  “Who the hell are we kidding? Act accordingly? It’s the end of the world and we still can’t just say things clearly,” the reporter says, looking tired. “If you see a zombie, avoid it or kill it. It’s been over two hours since we last heard from anyone in authority. Rules and laws are suspended. If you’re still alive, do what you must to survive.”

  A loud bang sounds from above. I drop to a crouch to avoid whatever is going to fall. Then panic sets in.

  Completely forgetting the need to be silent, I drop the remote on the floor and head for the door. My socks are slippery but it isn’t far back to my apartment. There is just enough traction to propel me across the landing in three steps.

  The door handle helps me stop and I slam it closed. To hell with the advice: both locks are clicked shut and my eye goes to the peephole.

  Nothing.

  My breathing is fast and labored. I am not fit. If I had known there was going to be a zombie apocalypse, I would have gotten in shape.

  Another glass of wine will help bring my nerves down. I shuffle silently across the room. Carefully I lift a glass off the counter and place it under the spigot. It doesn’t matter if the glass is clean or dirty. The only other thing I would have drunk out of it would have been coffee or a cocktail.

  It’s so good when the first sip hits my lips. I can feel the calmness wash over me and I breathe deeply in the silence.

  But it’s not silent. The windows are vibrating slightly and I can hear a buzz coming up from the street. When I summon the courage to look out the window, my glass drops to the floor and shatters. The zombie horde has grown.

  My phone adds to the buzzing but snaps me out of my fog.

  “You still living?” Tucker asks in greeting.

  “Yeah. I turned on the news, this is fucking crazy.”

  “When did you get a TV? You were my hero, I tell everyone about the dude I know who doesn’t watch TV.”

  “What is Cupcake’s plan?” I ask. I need to keep Tucker focused.

  There is a long pause and I’m worried that Tuck
er is gone. He’s my connection to someone with a survival plan. I guess that’s proof right there that it’s the end of the world.

  “He said he saw some Humvees at the National Guard place over near Fresh Pond. Like badass machine guns on top and everything. Army Humvees.”

  “Cupcake went for a walk in all this shit?” I don’t trust the story so far.

  “Nah man, there’s fucking zombies everywhere. He saw them yesterday on his way home from golfing.”

  “And what’s he going to do, ask if he can borrow one?”

  “Pat-O, I don’t fucking care how he gets one. He’s our ticket out of the city.” Tucker is jumpy and could probably use a sedative.

  “I don’t know man, the news guy said to stay inside and sit tight. I have a box of wine, I might try and just ride this out.”

  “Yeah that’s a bad idea. Remember that Stoolie I met at the Fuckin Foam show? The one who was in Afghanistan and shit?”

  Tucker thinks that Stoolies, the followers of the Barstool Sports blog, are like a little fraternity. He says they help each other out and you can always trust a Stoolie. At one of their parties, when Tucker was flush with cash from having worked for a solid week, he picked up the tab for a vet home on leave from the Middle East. I guess they kind of kept in touch and he mentions his “Army Brother” occasionally.

  “Yeah, I remember your army brother.”

  “He texted me. Said they’re gonna nuke the major cities. They don’t want survivors trying to get out ‘cause it’ll just spread the infection. It’s leave or die baby!” He sounds a little manic but I can’t blame him.

  “So what is Cupcake doing?” I’m not sure I’ll go with them but it might be good to have options.

  “The Humvee is leaving Cleveland Circle at four o’clock sharp. Be here or be dead.”