MZS: D. C. (Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Book 4)

by McAdams, K. D.

  Inside the tunnel, I am impressed with the amount of light thrown by the headlamps. I’m also concerned with how slowly we’re moving. In general, when the Humvee is moving along at speed I feel safe, like we could go through anything. Moving slowly feels like we are expecting to be attacked or maybe we even want to be attacked.

  The field of light moving in front of us reveals nothing out of the ordinary. No cars and no zombies appear, making me think for a minute that we might be safe. Turning back to the pitch-black out the side window reminds me that feeling safe is not a long-term emotion.

  Tucker’s voice comes down from outside the rig. “Oww, what the fuck?!”

  A large drop of water splashes on the front window and makes me tense up.

  “Sorry. Just some water dripping from the roof,” Tucker says, dropping back into the rig. “Scared the shit out of me but didn’t hurt.” He turns to look at me and smiles.

  “Glad you’re okay,” Patrick says. “Maybe you could go back though? I think we’re getting to the low point of the tunnel which is probably half-way.” His tone conveys the point-of-no-return sentiment I have in the back of my mind.

  We’re technically underwater, but I’m holding my breath only out of fear and anticipation; there is plenty of oxygen. The sound of the engine is the only thing I can hear and my eyes are focused in front of us. Every second that passes increases my hope for the natural glow of daylight signaling the end of the tunnel.

  My heart beats louder and faster with each revolution of the tires that does not bring us within sight of the exit. A new worst fear comes into my head. What if they sealed the tunnel on one end? To combat that fear I start trying to judge if we could make a turn in this small and conceptually shrinking space.

  The wall on the right is too close. Are we in the right lane or the left?

  I scramble from Todd’s side to Cupcake’s side and look out his window. We’re almost touching the wall on the left! The tunnel is squeezing in and we’re going to be trapped!

  Back to the right side and Todd’s window. There are sparks coming off the mirror. Holy shit he’s speeding up. We’re going to be wedged in here and trapped. What the hell kind of tunnel is this that gets narrower?

  “Patrick!” I scream out, pleading for him to notice what’s happening.

  “I see it, Laney. Looks like we’re going to make it.”

  I look out the front window and see a rectangle of daylight growing larger. The walls of the tunnel are back to their original size. Patrick has the Humvee positioned in the center of the road and there is ample space on both sides of the rig. My mind was playing tricks on me and I nearly lost it.

  When we finally emerge from the tunnel, I want to pull over and get out and dance. Being in the back of the Humvee does not make me feel claustrophobic but that tunnel definitely did.

  Now that we are clear I expect the speed to increase, but surprisingly we do the opposite. Patrick is pulling to a stop; maybe he wants to get out and dance, too?

  “Cupcake, how do you feel about scavenging that? I think I can see his sidearm,” Patrick says.

  “Yeah, Philly made it pretty clear that knives and hockey sticks might not be enough. There’s probably even a shotgun in the car,” Cupcake says, agreeing with Patrick.

  Todd pops open his door and leans forward. It’s a tight fit, but Cupcake climbs out.

  “Todd, do you have his back?” Patrick asks back into the rig.

  I don’t wait for Todd to answer, he’s still mostly catatonic. My arms and head lead the way over Todd’s seat and I tumble out the open door and onto the pavement. It’s not a graceful exit, but I’m glad to be out in the open.

  The quiet is eerie. I’m standing in the middle of a highway that I expect was quite busy at one point not too long ago. Instinctively I look back from where we came and check for traffic. Thankfully it’s just the dark hole of the tunnel.

  “You alright?” Cupcake asks me with a smirk.

  “Fine. I just figured that Todd was probably not ready to be out and about so I’ll watch your back,” I answer, trying to sound confident.

  Pulling my butcher’s knife out of its spot in my leg armor helps my false confidence become more real. I grip the handle tightly and then relax my fingers. There are no visible threats, but that’s no reason to be unprepared.

  “Thanks. It looks pretty quiet. Why don’t you check around the front and I’ll deal with Baltimore’s finest?” He sounds more comfortable than I think he should.

  “Sounds fair,” I reply, trying to match his casual tone.

  I appreciate that Cupcake is not making me retrieve the weapon. It is still tightly gripped in the hand of the officer lying on the ground. As my angle changes I can see that the back of his skull is missing. Remnants of a brain cling to the inside of the cavity and deep red pool of congealed blood spreads out on the ground underneath.

  My eyes are fixed on the scene and it is a repeat of my past experiences with death and gore. I need to toughen up and learn to look and then look away, but how? How can I get used to seeing people dead? It’s not a skill I’m interested in mastering.

  Whatever I’m looking for around the front is not obvious. Hopefully it will catch my eye and I can stop looking at the fallen officer.

  “Looks like he did this to himself,” Cupcake says.

  I watch in silence as he kneels down and stretches out the officer’s arm. His right hand cautiously grips the gun as his left peels back the fingers. He is careful but strong in his movements.

  Cupcake stands and surveys the body. A puzzled look comes over his face. He stoops over and rolls the officer onto his stomach and performs another visual search. He shakes his head.

  “I can’t see any bite marks. Do you think he ended it without even being infected?” Cupcake moves to the officer’s feet and a new look washes over his face.

  “Was he bit on the legs?” I ask, almost hopeful.

  “Yeah. Fuckin’ ankle biter got him. That sucks man,” Cupcake says, confirming my suspicion.

  Before his last syllable is done vibrating my eardrum, a vice closes on my left calf. I try and pull my leg away but it only moves an inch.

  Looking down, I see a bony hand wrapped tightly around my lower leg. A face, covered in blood and baring brilliant white teeth is pulling closer. The teeth begin to snap closed and slowly open again before repeating the process.

  “Cupcake!” I call out.

  Hearing my cry, Cupcake leaves his investigation and hurries around the car. His hands go under my arms and he pulls me back from the hood.

  While I’m being dragged backwards, the teeth at my feet sink into the duct tape and cardboard protecting my lower leg. Patrick’s stupid armor is actually temporarily saving me.

  Several paces away from the car Cupcake stops pulling on me. We both look down in shock. The thing that is so hungry for my flesh is not even half a person. It’s hard to describe exactly where the body ends, but it’s somewhere in the middle of a human stomach. It has no waist, no ass, and no lower body—but still it’s hungry.

  Cupcake raises his crowbar to stop the assault.

  “Wait.” I put up my hand. “I need to do this.”

  The big burly guy gives me the sad puppy dog eyes of a toddler. We both know I’m right, but he doesn’t want me to be. In response he gives me a slow nod before stepping away.

  I take a deep breath and flex my grip on the butcher’s knife in my hand. As the pressure on my leg intensifies, I realize that I don’t have all kinds of time to be contemplative.

  Slowly squatting, I aim my knife carefully. When the tip punctures the milky whiteness of its eye the creature feels nothing, and neither do I. As the blade slides deeper and finally disturbs the brain matter, I begin to feel something:

  Relief.

  Pat-O

  Chapter 3

  McLean is part of the club now. It’s a shitty club and I didn’t want her to become a member, but I guess it had to happen eventually.


  I’ve read about people who get a kind of high from killing. Mostly it was articles about soldiers coming back from war having difficulties acclimating back to society. They missed the rush of shooting at people and, probably, having them shoot back.

  After my experiences with the undead, I didn’t believe them. But now that I see Laney reacting to her first kill, I know the stories were true. She is completely energized to the point that Parker may need to strap her down in the back.

  “Hey, do you think I should give Tucker a break in the turret?” she asks optimistically.

  “Not really. I think he’s doing fine up there.” No one else wanted to respond so I calmly reject her idea.

  “Then maybe I can drive? You probably could use a rest,” she says. Her words come out fast.

  “Nope. We’re getting close to D.C. and I could go for another five or six hours,” I say, trying to keep an even tone.

  I wish she would shut the hell up. I suppose it needs to run its course and we should just let her talk. At some point she’ll have to come down from the high, and I‘m a little worried about what that experience will be like.

  More stopped cars are on the road now and for some reason that makes me feel better. I try not to inspect any of them too closely, which has the opposite of the desired effect.

  In more than one car there is faint movement behind red-washed windows. Several other cars have their gas flap opened, signaling that they ran out and have not totally abandoned their car.

  Both types of cars remind me that I still have no idea how this whole thing started. The guy on TV said that if you came in contact with infected people’s fluids you would become infected. Does that mean that the cars containing what I assume to be zombies all got together after they were infected? Or does it mean that someone unknowingly got in a car with an infected person and when he or she turned a blood bath ensued? The latter is the only thing that makes sense.

  The cars that ran out of gas had no infected people inside of them so they were able to operate the doors, get out, and leave. Leaving exposed them to zombie hordes, so maybe some could have made it while others perished.

  A car with two shapes moving inside throws a twist into my mental puzzle. Apparently zombies don’t eat other zombies. How can they tell who is infected and who is not? Smell and hearing are their only obvious senses; do the infected impart a special odor?

  Can you imagine being trapped in a car with a zombie? A shudder runs down my spine. Instinctively I look in the rearview mirror at my traveling companions. If any of them are infected, they could tear through this vehicle in a matter of seconds.

  Is there any warning? We still haven’t seen anyone turn, so I have no idea of the progression. There was one report that said it happened in seconds, but that can’t be accurate. Who would get into a car with someone who was infected? No one!

  I’m sure it could have happened a few times where someone was just getting into the car when they were attacked and infected. Being scared shitless, you might not feel the bite or scratch that infected you, so everyone reports that they are “okay.” Then you turn and eat your friends. But that couldn’t have happened as many times as I am seeing on this road.

  A more likely scenario is that people agree to get in the car and escape. They battle zombies getting out of their building or hide out or whatever. That’s when someone gets infected. By the time they get to their car a few minutes later, everyone is sweating and breathing hard. Noticing an infection would be tough in that situation.

  I guess these cars are all left from early on when people had no idea what was happening. There is probably more than one car that was taking an infected person to the hospital, hoping to get them help.

  Ahead in the right lane is a school bus. It’s parked at a funny angle and is funneling me to the left side of the road. Some of the windows have tiny red handprints on them. I have to slow down to navigate past the bus and that gives Todd too much time to soak in the scene.

  “Fucking animals,” he mumbles.

  Less than a mile further down the road is a big rig, parked at a similar angle across the road but this time on the left-hand side. I’m funneled to the right and I have to slow down again.

  I’m not sure the others are sensing a pattern like I am, but my nerves are increasingly worse. If there is another traffic funnel, I’m going to be downright scared.

  …

  It’s official: I’m scared.

  This time the funnel is not a single large vehicle but two parked cars. They are off in the right lane and parked next to each other in such a way that the only path around is to the left. Slowly.

  “Terri?” I want to know if she sees the pattern, too.

  She’s nodded off. I can see the glint of the flask in her right hand.

  “Terri!” I yell. I need another set of eyes.

  My drunken copilot startles to attention.

  “Don’t yell at me. It’s hard enough already,” she slurs.

  I don’t know what she’s individually dealing with that is “hard enough,” but I don’t care right now.

  “I think skipping D.C. is going to be a better idea. What road do I take to head around it and go south?” I ask.

  “Of course it is. I told you,” Terri snarls back.

  “Yeah, but do I need to get off the highway before D.C. or afterwards?” I insist. I am quite frustrated.

  I’ve been to Washington D.C. once in my life. It was on a school field trip in the eighth grade. Needless to say, I didn’t drive and I was not paying attention to directions.

  I wish my dad were here. He can navigate through or around almost any city in North America. There was one time he gave directions to a place he had never even been. Told the guy who was going that he always wanted to go there and had planned out the trip several times.

  Not me. I struggled getting from my apartment to the same local bar every day.

  “Stay on two-ninety-five until it ends. Then go right on ninety-five. We’ll be around D.C. in no time,” Terri says. She acts like it’s obvious.

  Another set of parked cars sends me back into the right lane. These ones are closer and I actually hit my mirror on one as we drive past. Someone is definitely trying to control how people pass through this area.

  The sign for Pennsylvania Avenue says it’s half a mile ahead. That’s where we were planning to go, but not now.

  There are two more parked auto chicanes in the half-mile before Pennsylvania Avenue. I am able to navigate them without contact, but our speed is down to twenty miles an hour when we get to the off-ramp.

  It’s okay though, because we don’t have any choices to make. Two-ninety-five is blocked off. There is an eighteen-wheeler across the road and two rows of cars in front of it. I would be willing to bet that there are another two rows of cars behind it as well. A tank would choose to turn off the highway if faced with this obstacle.

  At the bottom of the ramp, the car is headed back away from D.C., which confuses me and gives me a little hope. Whoever set this up may be trying to keep us from hordes or other types of danger.

  My optimism is quickly crushed. Another roadblock forces us into a U-turn. When the rig comes around, the U.S. Capitol building is straight ahead of us.

  Back under the highway we see a small horde of zombies off to our right. There are maybe fifteen to twenty of them and they all appear to be dressed in business attire. Is it possible that the zombie disease hit D.C. on Friday and worked its way up the coast to Boston on Saturday? Does this mean it could have been a terrorist attack with a biological weapon?

  “Terri, you gotta find us a way out of this mess,” I say quietly. I’m barely able to keep my cool.

  “Over the bridge, stay to the right. It should take us back down to two-ninety-five,” she answers. She sounds more compassionate now.

  Pitched… no sale! Another roadblock.

  “Screw it. We’re just going to see where this leads,” I say and keep driving, trying to act as if it was
a decision I could make.

  I weave the Humvee through several sets of alternating roadblocks. The navigation is easy but the pace is slow. The setup allows the right people to come and go as they please, but also gives them the time they need to see a threat coming.

  Sixth Street is the first road that is not blocked, but that is only true for the northbound side. Further progress on Pennsylvania Avenue is impeded, but I’d be willing to bet that I could force the Humvee through the obstructions on the street. After our experience in Philly and the apprehension this street is giving me, I’m a little frustrated with the entire state of Pennsylvania, even though we’re in Washington D. C.

  The final roadblock forces me to turn the Humvee toward an office park that looks relatively secure. There is a guardhouse and a token barricade across the entrance to the parking lot.

  It feels kind of weird, but I pull up and press the button on the intercom.

  “Name, nationality and health status,” a voice says. The response is quick and stern.

  “Um, Patrick, American and a little overweight,” I reply. I’m not sure how honest these people will expect us to be.

  The intercom crackles back: “Infected, exposed or clean?”

  “Clean, I guess?” I’m still not sure what they are looking for.

  “How many are in the Humvee with you?” The voice is formal and a little frightening.

  I do a quick check in the rear view mirror and a mental count.

  “Five,” I lie, not really sure why. Something in my gut tells me acting stupid might be to my advantage.

  “Okay. Pull into the lot and get out of the car. If you have weapons, leave them inside,” the voice orders before the thin wooden barricade is raised.

  In one of the windows of the office building behind the parking lot I can see a woman. A small child clings to her leg and they look out at us hopefully. Checking a few of the other windows shows that she is not alone. There are a number of women in this building. My guess is that it’s safe.