MZS- North East Page 3

  “So he’s coming to pick you up and then your heading out of town. Do you think he’d come get me?”

  “Nope. I guess he knows a few survivors and he told them all to meet here. It’s his only stop on the train outta Dodge.”

  “That’s gotta be like five miles from me. How am I supposed to make it with zombies everywhere?”

  “You gotta improvise, brotha. Oh and if you want a lift, Cupcake says you gotta bring a rack. You know what he likes.”

  “Cupcake wants me to make a beer run? That’s insane.”

  “He says we need fluids. No glass, too heavy and breakable. He wants a full rack. You must provide if you want a ride!” Tucker rhymes his ending.

  I used to think that Cupcake was normal. This does not seem normal, but I have to remember that it’s through the Tucker filter.

  “Okay, I’m going to check the news again. I’ll call you if I decide to come.”

  I click the phone off and make sure it’s plugged in. The screen shows that there are no missed calls. Tucker is my only connection to the outside, but his plan seems too far-fetched.

  I hate grown-up decisions.

  Chapter 4

  This isn’t really just about trusting Tucker. It’s about believing the whole thing. If I decide to walk to Cleveland Circle, it means I believe that the zombie apocalypse is real and the government is preparing to drop a nuclear bomb on the city of Boston.

  That’s a tough pill to swallow.

  What would my dad tell me to do?

  I grab my phone and try calling my parents again. Now that the lines are open I should be able to get through.

  Straight to voicemail.

  I bet they’re sitting in their big house with the doors locked and everything turned off or unplugged. They’re probably reading quietly, waiting for this all to pass. Mom is going to say, “It was actually nice. I got to finish a whole book.”

  Anyway, Dad would tell me that options are good. So what are my options?

  Option one is to sit here in this apartment with half a box of wine and no food for an indeterminate amount of time. That option assumes that at some point the police will come and clear the streets and life will go back to normal.

  Option two is to walk five miles to Cleveland Circle, find a thirty-pack of beers, climb into a stolen military Humvee, and drive out of town. This option assumes that at some point there will be a nuclear blast that levels the entire city and kills everything.

  I prefer the assumptions behind option one. But option two has an expiration date. If I want to get to Tucker by four, I need to leave here around two-thirty. I know it’s a straight shot up Beacon Street, but I need to add time in case I have to detour around zombies.

  I set an alarm for two-fifteen on my phone; when it goes off, I’ll be out of options. I decide to get more input from the news guy across the hall before making my final decision.

  A long check through the peephole reveals nothing, yet again. I look back at my box of wine and consider a quick sip before scooting across the landing. It’s tough to say how much I’ve already had and I was still a little drunk from last night. As much as I hate to admit it, stone sober might be a better way to deal with all of this.

  With far more care than I had used to close it, I open and unlock my door. The stairwell is silent and all I can hear is the reporter from the television.

  My sock-clad feet slide quickly across the landing floor and through the door to the shithole. The reporter’s face still fills the screen and he looks no less haggard than he did ten minutes ago.

  The first thing I really notice are his eyes. They are alive, dancing around multiple points. He’s looking past the camera at something or things I cannot see.

  “We are getting reports that the only way to stop an infected person is to damage their brain tissue. Infected people with severed limbs, exposed internal organs, and otherwise mortal injuries have been seen walking and even attacking the non-infected. The security guard here is reporting that their skulls are not, I repeat NOT, soft and brittle. If you do not have a gun, get a knife, a screwdriver, or a crowbar. Hell, sharpen the end of a broomstick! Use whatever you have and stab them in the eyes or up into the roof of their mouth.”

  The newscaster stops talking and resumes scanning past the camera. His hand clumsily reaches toward his tie, searching for something.

  “NO!” he screams and starts to get up from his chair.

  The cords from his earpiece and microphone become visible as he rises. They impede his movement. Beyond the shuffling of his microphone, I can hear buzzing similar to that coming up off the street. He starts to turn and walk around his desk before stopping abruptly to face the camera.

  His leg is hastily thrown over top of the anchor desk and the newsman’s face shows determination and fear.

  “God helps us all,” he says, the words faintly coming through the TV speakers. I would have known what he said even without hearing it; I could read it on his lips.

  Before he can get across the desk, they are on him. I can make out the uniform of a security guard, likely the one he just mentioned, and the clothes of average office workers.

  The mic is still open and not covered so anyone watching can hear the crying and screaming coming out of the poor man. I’m surprised that there is nothing unique or personal uttered, just classic emergency words—help, please, and no.

  A woman in a cream-colored, blood-streaked blouse and a navy skirt plunges her face into his throat. His screaming ends with a gurgle and is replaced with the buzz I am growing familiar with.

  Involuntarily I vomit, managing to turn just enough to miss the TV. Everything is disgusting, but I can’t look away. I draw my hand across my mouth and wipe away some spittle.

  The buzzing starts to turn into more of a growl. It seems they are finishing their meal and preparing to move on.

  From the pile of monsters and flesh comes flying a red projectile I can’t recognize. It lands on the camera and hangs down over the lens.

  When I adjust my focus and the camera auto-adjusts, the bloody skin is easy to identify. I’ve never seen human organs before, but I know what skin looks like.

  I vomit again, but this time I don’t turn fast enough to avoid the television. Half the screen is covered in puke, and the only thing remaining in focus is the bloody piece of human hanging in the frame.

  No need to wait for my alarm. This shit is real and I don’t want to be alone. Even if Cupcake doesn’t show, I’ll feel better sitting on the couch with Tucker smoking a bowl and watching movies.

  One time I was in a street hockey fight, but that was the closest I’ve come to combat. Even then, I was rabbit-punching a guy in the gut while still wearing my gloves. Let’s just say damage was not being done.

  How am I going to fight my way across Boston?

  Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through the zombie apocalypse. The thought of Animal House makes me smile.

  There’s nothing I can do right now about the fat part. Drunk and stupid, however, I can correct.

  Leaving the shithole, I cross the landing quickly and close my door in silence. This time I do not lock it.

  In the kitchen I dump the pennies, buttons, and paper clips out of my large souvenir cup. I filled it back up with cold tap water and drain half of it immediately. Hydration will help sober me up and make sure I don’t crash halfway through my walk.

  My parents have a butcher-block full of knives on their counter. I would kill for their big chef’s knife right now. Unfortunately I’m poor and all I have is a drawer full of hand-me-down utensils with plastic handles and a shitty two-inch pairing knife.

  When I scan the counter for anything that could be used as a weapon, the box of wine fills my eyes. “Buzzed is not drunk” is my first thought. Then I see things differently. The cardboard is light and could probably stop a bite. I can use the box as a kind of armor.

  I rip open the top of the box roughly and then scold myself for not being more careful.
How can I fasten this to my body? Wait, I know. Duct tape.

  Every time my parents come in for dinner, Dad sneaks me a new role of duct tape. He knows that half my shit is held together with the stuff and it’s his own subtle jab at mom to stop coddling me.

  By the door, in the corner, is a nightstand I use to hold “stuff.” Basically it’s shit I need sometimes but I have no idea what to call it or do with it. My duct tape is in this nightstand.

  On top of the nightstand is a stack of empty boxes of wine. I don’t generate much trash and I’m too lazy to walk down to the basement just so I can put cardboard in recycling.

  All told, I have six boxes of wine. Armor for my arms, legs, chest and back. I’ll look ridiculous, but if it saves me even once it’ll be worth it.

  From the closet I grab my Carlins hoodie, thinking that the long sleeves will provide a little extra protection. Struggling with the hood itself makes me realize it’s basically a zombie handle. The hoodie comes off.

  My only other option is a jean jacket my mom brought in. She heard they were coming back in style and thought I would like the one she had in her attic. I think it was my brother’s from, like, the eighties.

  Denim actually seems to make sense as protective clothing. I pull the jacket on, take off my shorts, and track down a pair of pants from under a pile near the bed. Once ensconced in the jean tuxedo, I bring the wine boxes to the counter.

  Carefully pulling apart the glued seams, I flatten out all six boxes. For the arms, I need to trim the boxes a little so they fit between my wrist and my elbow. They are long enough to wrap around twice and I am glad for the extra protection. My arms will likely be the most exposed.

  Once my legs and torso are protected, I start adding layers of duct tape to each piece of cardboard. Movement is a little awkward and I feel kind of like an eight-year-old dressing up for Halloween. I also feel a little invincible and I guess that’s a good thing.

  I grab another long drink of water and for some reason I’m trying to remember who I know that loved Halloween. This is not the shit I should be thinking about right now. My mind is seriously fucked.

  A quick check of the clock and it’s ten after two. Life is seriously getting tense; I need to leave soon and I don’t have a weapon. I refused to let my mom buy me a broom. I told her I could do the whole place with a dustpan and brush, if I ever thought it needed sweeping.

  Who was into Halloween?

  Focus! Figure out a weapon.

  Colleen! At least that’s out of the way. Colleen loves Halloween. I think it was Tucker that introduced me to Colleen. That must be why I was trying to figure it out.

  I wonder why Colleen and I never hooked up? She always seemed pretty cool. Actually, she gave me the one real knife I have; she stole it when she was working at Morton’s Steak House, but it was still nice of her. A weapon.

  Digging through my junk drawer, I find the bulky steak knife with the Morton’s logo engraved. Thank you, Colleen! I remember it being larger than this, but I guess it’s better than nothing.

  Didn’t she give me something else?

  Slowly I turn my head to the loft. Hanging in a place of honor is my signed Patrice Bergeron game-used hockey stick. The blade is cracked and he said not to try and play with it or it would break.

  Colleen gave that to me. Bergeron actually gave it to her directly when she was his waitress like five times in a row. She never watched hockey, but knew I was a huge fan. That was very cool of her, but now I can’t believe I missed such obvious signals.

  Carefully I lift the stick out of its mounting and inspect the signature. He was a great player and a nice guy. I’m sure he’d be proud to have his stick slay a few zombies.

  With a simple slap on the floor the blade snaps and dangles from a piece of tape. Pulling the blade free leaves a jagged point at the end of the stick.

  I take a few practice jabs with it and absolutely slaughter the air.

  My phone buzzes and I know it’s the alarm telling me to hit the road. I am as well equipped as I can be, but I am far from ready.

  Chapter 5

  A long look out the window doesn’t change the view. The street below is still full of undead. I realize that just standing here is wasting time, but I’m scared so I give myself a break.

  Deciding that the cell networks must be almost clear, I try calling a bunch of people in my contacts list. A few voicemails pick up and I leave short messages, but in general “Service unavailable” is displayed.

  No more excuses; time to get going. I grab my knife and hockey stick and walk to the door. Before I leave the room, I put everything down and pull out my phone one more time.

  “On my way,” I text Tucker before I head out the door.

  Out on the landing I scold myself for selling my truck to come up with first and last months rent. It was a shitty old beater and my plan was to get a new car once I had a job and a regular paycheck but I could really use it now.

  The car is not the only thing I’m missing. There is not even a hint of a plan in my head. I think about going back in my apartment to come up with something, but that’s just a stall tactic.

  Screw it. I don’t need a plan. I’m resourceful and quick-thinking. I’ll deal with shit as it happens. Fast and loose is the best way to deal with zombies anyway.

  My feet are silent as I walk down the first flight of stairs. There is not a sound coming from any of the apartments. Either people were out when this hit or they are taking the advice from the newsman seriously.

  Should I bang on doors and warn them about the nukes coming? Just because they live in the city doesn’t mean they are disposable. Could the government really destroy entire metropolitan areas to stop zombies?

  The next few flights are uneventful as well. I don’t have time to go door-to-door warning people about a rumor I heard through the Stoolie grapevine. Plus I don’t really know anyone, and I probably look a little crazy in my wine box armor.

  At the front door I grab the handle and take a deep breath. I search my foggy memory for what the street outside looks like. Duh, there is a massive horde of zombies. Maybe the alley entrance would make more sense.

  Letting go of the handle, I spin and head back down the hall. I prefer the alley entrance anyway. My biggest concern is visibility.

  Will I be able to see enough of the alley to be sure it’s clear? For some reason I can’t visualize the scene outside the back door. I think if the alley is clear I will be able to get far enough away from the building to have room to maneuver.

  If the alley is packed with zombies, though, I’m just fucked. I don’t want to think about choosing how I die, so I ignore the issue.

  At the back door, the window is smaller than I thought. There are so many details you don’t notice or record to memory when they don’t impact your daily life. Sightlines out the alley entrance of your apartment building are one of them.

  I guess I’m lucky, because I don’t see any zombies in the hundred square feet of space I can see through the tiny window.

  Out of habit, I check to make sure I have my keys—I do. If I have to get back in the building, I can, but not quickly; every lock around this place sticks.

  This will be my first time out of the building since Zoe was attacked. I get a small panic attack. There is a hint of a strange odor but it’s not strong enough to make me stop. I’m standing in a short tunnel that opens to the alley at the end opposite the door into the building.

  Hustling through the tunnel, I get to the end and feel invincible. My first little goal has been achieved.

  Poking my head out of the tunnel I look up and down the alley. There are no zombies visible. My hope is that they are similar to me and prefer the path of least resistance.

  The alley has the typical amount of trash lying around. For the first time I realize how many dumpsters and cars fit back here in this tiny space. Between my building and the one on the other side of the alley is a space a little narrower than a country road. Cars line both si
des, bumper to bumper. There is a space down the middle just large enough for a single car to pass, but probably not anything as wide as a Humvee.

  I don’t really know what I’m looking for but I check the area carefully. It doesn’t seem like a zombie will eat me right away if I walk in the middle of the alley.

  Walking out of the tunnel makes me feel exposed. I look up at the blue sky and feel like it’s too open for the middle of a city. I immediately move back to the edge and walk along next to the parked cars. It feels safer, like the cars add protection.

  A cat scurries across the alley only a foot in front of me. It scares the shit out of me and makes me realize that all the cars are actually hiding spots for zombies.

  I detour back to the middle and pick up my pace.

  Violence generally isn’t in my nature. I don’t fight or threaten to. How am I going to react when I meet my first zombie face-to-face? Maybe I can get to Cleveland Circle without bumping into any.

  An incoming text causes my phone to vibrate. I decide to wait until the end of the alley before I take a break to check it. For some reason I feel like I’m making good progress and I don’t want to slow my momentum before achieving another milestone.

  When I reach the end of the alley, my confidence is overflowing. A whole alley traversed without incident. I’m going to be more than fine.

  The knife and hockey stick both go into my left hand and I pull my phone out with my right. I bring the screen to life and read the message on the screen—“BTW Sox had a day game today”

  Great. I have to walk through 34,999 idiots who probably don’t even know who plays in front of the Green Monster.

  I jog across the road as quietly as I can. Scoping things out to my right, I can see the back and side of the zombie crowd mulling around on Beacon Street in front of my building.

  A glance to the left just before I hit the next alleyway reveals another horde of zombies. Those appear to be busy eating, and I’m glad they don’t recognize me.