HVZA (Book 2): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse 2

by Zimmermann, Linda

  Becks watched in fascination as the stream of deep, crimson blood poured out, accompanied by some sickly greenish strands of zombie parasites. As if conducting an experiment, the scientist in her took over and she actually checked her watch to time how long the blood gushed in spurts before the heart stopped beating. She even took a stick and poked around in the puddle of blood to examine the size, color, and relative health of the pieces of the parasitic network that had killed this child—and the rest of its family—and turned them all into mindless, savage predators.

  The snap of a stick beneath the feet of the two other ski-jacketed zombies jolted Becks back to reality. She drew in closer to the holly bush and held her breath while she assessed the scene. Apparently, the other two zombies hadn’t noticed the death of their former family member, but they were still too close for Becks to make a run for the next clump of shrubbery. Grabbing the nearest rock, she threw it as far as she could in the other direction, and was fortunate enough to hit an overturned metal garbage can. The can resounded from the hit, and then noisily rocked back and forth a few times, drawing the attention of not just the ski-jacketed zombies, but all the others on the street.

  It took a few minutes for them all to stagger over to the garbage can. The cold weather, lack of food, and visible decay, were clearly having an effect on the zombies’ speed and maneuverability, which was very good news, but then Becks was not up to speed, either. Waiting for the coast to be relatively clear, she got to her feet, but remained low, as she hurried to the long row of shrubs which ran the length of the front yard.

  From this point, she would have to cross the street and just hope she wasn’t noticed. In a sprint that made her lightheaded, she made it to the other side of the street and then hunkered down behind an SUV with all of its doors open. The interior was splattered with dark brown blood stains. Whoever had tried to flee in this vehicle obviously hadn’t gotten very far.

  Crawling along the curb, Becks stayed as low and as quiet as possible as she made her way inch by inch to the edge of the driveway of the house she hoped would be a safe haven. A row of thick hedges ran the length of the driveway to the garage, which was set back behind the house. After a careful scan of her surroundings, she felt confident enough to stand and walk the forty feet or so to the RV parked in front of the garage.

  It was a Winnebago Class C, and apart from a year’s worth of dirt, it looked pretty nice—and expensive. Becks and Cam had often talked about getting an RV and going cross country and up into Canada for a few months, but there was the small matter of time and money; i.e., a lack of both. Before life went to hell with the onset of widespread infection, Becks had still hoped to one day make enough money to pay off her mountain of medical school loans and get a decent secondhand RV to fulfill some of that dream a couple of vacation weeks at a time. Now, she had all the time in the world and her pick of RVs, but unfortunately, the landscape had changed and the scenery wouldn’t quite be the same.

  Becks wished she could get this Winnebago up and running and find her way back to 287, but so many trees and telephone poles had come down in the storm that she would be lucky to be able to drive a couple of blocks without a major obstruction. If she was to get out of this mess, she was either going to have to be airlifted, or walk out. And as the weeks had passed, the cold, hard reality had set in that rescue teams were probably not coming. She knew she would have to go on foot, but not before she was one hundred percent healthy, and she had enough guns and ammo to shoot her way through the hordes of zombies that stood in the miles between her and the highway.

  The RV was unlocked, and with her trusty Smith & Wesson in her left hand, she slowly pulled open the door with her right. It was always a good thing when nothing rushed out at you, but she was still very cautious as she entered. The first thing she noticed—other than a fortunate lack of zombies, humans, or corpses—was that the RV was filled with luggage and boxes of supplies. The owners were clearly ready to bug out, but never made it. Why? Becks would have to explore the house to look for answers, but there was a more pressing issue at the moment!

  “MREs!” she practically shouted, before clamping a hand over her mouth.

  Freezing in place, she waited breathlessly to hear if her outburst had attracted attention, and then carefully pulled back a shade to see if anything was moving her way. When the coast looked clear, she grabbed one of the cases of MREs, climbed onto the queen-sized bed at the back of the RV, and prepared to have her first hot meal in ages.

  Becks was well versed in the practice of heating and eating one of the military “Meals, Ready to Eat,” although she had told Cam on some of their camping trips that she would swear MRE actually stood for “Meals, Rarely Edible.” Some of his military buddies also referred to them as “Meals Rejected by Everyone,” “Meals Rejected by the Enemy,” and a host of even less flattering monikers. But at this moment in time—starving, scared, hurt, and alone—the beef ravioli MRE currently hissing and heating up in its pouch would be like a Christmas feast to her.

  The first part of the MRE to be consumed was the chocolate chip brownie, which actually elicited several moans of delight. Then she sucked down the packet of cheese spread in one continuous squeezing action. The packet of applesauce and crackers didn’t last long, either. Finally, came the hot ravioli. Hot food! Even greater than the calories and nutrition, was the morale boost the hot meal gave her. Now, if she could only have a hot shower!

  After scarfing down two more MREs—some chicken and noodle dish and some beef stew—she was ready to tackle the house. Even if the house was stripped of supplies, she could live for weeks on the food and water in the RV. She could also see if she could get the generator going for a shower splurge, although the noise would most likely attract way too much attention.

  The yard was clear as Becks crept up to the back door of the house. Using the palm of her glove, she wiped away some of the grime from the storm door window, but could only see down a short hallway. There was a duffle bag and another piece of luggage in the hall, but no signs of life—or the undead. The latch on the storm door made far more noise than she had hoped, and the hinges and spring squealed loudly in protest, but at least it was unlocked. The wood and glass interior door was standing open, which seemed strange. It was like the owners were on their way out when something derailed their plans.

  Before stepping inside, Becks grabbed her bladed hockey stick. It wasn’t the proverbial 10-foot pole, but if any zombies were lurking in the house, she wanted to make sure she could keep them at a distance and dispatch them quietly. Becks had forgotten the adrenaline rush of entering a building in search of supplies, and never knowing what was around the corner. As terrified as she was, she had to admit she was also experiencing a twisted thrill.

  Holding her breath, she went the few yards down the hallway, which went left toward a dining room, and right toward a kitchen. Choosing the kitchen first, on the closest countertop she found the keys to the RV, two cell phones, and a stack of cash—all of which were valuable BZA, but were now worthless. The other countertops had a variety of food stacked on them—mostly fruits and vegetables that had shriveled and blackened, but there were a few boxes of pasta and cereal, and some canned food which were all worth their weight in gold.

  Becks then went into the next room, which was a den with a woodstove with a huge stack of logs and kindling! A pile of diamonds wouldn’t have made a more welcomed sight. As tempted as she was to start a fire right that instant, she knew that nothing drew scavengers like the sight of smoke curling up into the air. Although she hadn’t seen or heard any signs of other humans in the area during the past few weeks, she wouldn’t take the chance. Darkness would fall soon enough and she could stoke the stove until it felt like a July heat wave—and maybe warm up some water for a bath, too.

  But her wonderful plans would have to be put on hold, because the house wasn’t as empty as she thought.

  Chapter 3

  A creaking floorboard sent a wave of panic
through Becks as she backed against the woodstove and raised her makeshift spear in front of her. Tense seconds ticked by without another sound, and she hoped against hope that it was just a noisy old structure—until she heard that distinctive shuffling from the other end of the house, as well as upstairs.

  The best course of action would be to retreat to the back door, prop it open, and hopefully lead the zombies outside. As she wasn’t in top fighting shape, she could actually just let them go on their merry way, if possible. If not, she would have a better chance out in the open to kill them with her spear. Unfortunately, the best laid plans usually go to shit where zombies are concerned.

  As she stepped back into the kitchen, two figures emerged from the shadows of the dining room and blocked the hallway to the back door. It was a woman around forty, as best as Becks could tell with all the facial decay, and a small male child, maybe four or five years old—both most likely zombies for a year, and both very hungry.

  Becks lunged forward and thrust her spear toward the woman’s eye socket, but the tip of the blade hit her cheek bone and slid back across the side of her face and ear. The sharp knife left a nasty gash, and split her ear in two, but it was not a fatal wound, and Becks needed some instant fatalities.

  Her next thrust found its mark and the blade plunged deep into the woman’s skull. She quivered for a few moments like a fish on the end of a hook, and then slid off the knife and fell in a heap. Out of the corner of her eye, Becks could see more figures coming down the staircase and entering the den; at least three adults. Two more older children were coming toward the kitchen from the dining room.

  By this time, the first child had reached Becks and was trying to bite her left leg, but thanks to his small teeth and a row of teaspoons and a couple of butter knives duct-taped to her thigh, the child was having no success. Becks tried not to think about this once happy little kindergartner as she withdrew her hunting knife and buried it deep into one of his blue eyes until it gushed deep crimson.

  Turning to assess the adult zombies in the den, she saw that there were actually five—three older adults, two males and a female, and two large, male teens. There were too many. She would either have to start shooting, or get the hell out of there. A couple of quick knife thrusts to the midsections of the other two children were enough to send them reeling backwards and allow Becks to step over the dead woman and into the back hall. As fast as she could, she opened the back door and slid the holder to keep it open. Then rushing back, she grabbed the wrists of the woman she had just killed and used all her strength to drag her out the back door, down a walkway, and half way up the driveway.

  The stress and exertion made Becks head pound and a wave of vertigo swept over her for a second—threatening to bring up the three MREs she now regretted scarfing down—but she managed to stay on her feet and run back to the RV. Just as she got inside and locked the door, the adult and teen zombies started filing out of the house. They squinted at the sunlight and stumbled around for a few minutes on the patio, knocking into lawn furniture and each other, but then one of the teens started following the fresh blood trail. As he shuffled on, he made a beeline for the body in the driveway, and the others soon followed.

  Becks tried not to look as the five zombies started feasting on the fresh kill—relatively speaking. In the early days of the infection, a zombie wouldn’t touch another zombie until it had been dead for days and the parasites’ pheromones had dissipated. Now, starvation drove them to eat one of their fellow undead the second it stopped breathing. If only they would start killing each other!

  Becks kept her eyes on the back door, waiting to see if anyone else came out. She was stunned to see one of the older children she had stabbed come crawling out about ten minutes later, slipping twice on its own blood and some internal organs that were sliding out of the huge gash in its abdomen. It made it as far as the driveway, where it keeled over and would become dessert for the adult zombies once their main course was complete.

  When another ten minutes passed with no one else exiting the house, Becks dumped the clothes out of one of the pieces of luggage and stuffed it full of MREs and bottles of water. A quick scan of the contents of the other luggage uncovered some medical supplies and an enormous zip lock bag full of pill bottles—hopefully, some of which contained antibiotics. But she could go through those later. First she had to make her way back into the house before the zombies lost interest in their meal, or they realized there was fresher meat to be had.

  Using the RV as a screen, Becks worked her way to the back end, and then darted ten feet to her left behind a bush, which got her past the corner of the house and the line of sight to the zombies. From there, she went straight to the back door, where she put her things inside, and then closed and locked both doors. Hockey stick spear at the ready, she made a room-by-room search, upstairs and down, and the basement, and found nothing but the dead younger child, and the one that clearly was about to expire with a few more labored, rasping breaths.

  BZA, she would have been completely heartbroken by such a scene when she worked in Nyack Hospital, but now she was simply impatient for the child zombie to quit stalling and just die. There was already enough zombie food in the driveway, and Becks didn’t want to draw a bigger crowd, so she wrapped the two little bodies in a shower curtain and put them in a large plastic bin in the basement.

  “I feel like a goddamned serial killer,” she said out loud in disgust, as she snapped the lid shut.

  Her next chore was to get a big bottle of bleach from the laundry room and pour it on the puddles of blood to kill the ZIPs. She would mop it all up another time. And she would explore all the supplies this house had to offer—including a dining room table covered in guns—at another time, as well, because at this point she was so exhausted and in such pain that she had to rest. Curling up on a comfortable couch in the den, she slept deeply for several hours.

  It was dark when Becks awoke, and although still very tired and sore, she found the energy to start a fire in the woodstove, and it felt glorious. Throwing the couch cushions in front of the hot stove and wrapping herself in some blankets, Becks drifted peacefully off to sleep, despite the sound of zombies in the driveway fighting over the last scraps of the woman and child.

  By dawn, the zombies had wandered off, carrying away most of the bones so they could keep gnawing at them for days, hoping to eventually get through to the marrow. All that remained of the woman and child were some pools of congealed blood, clumps of hair, and scraps of clothing.

  Becks began her morning with a vegetable lasagna MRE, but only one this time, as she had to think long term. Still, as this group of nine people had planned enough in advance to have emergency rations for all of them for at least a week, she could eat well for months, if necessary. Too bad they hadn’t also planned on all being infected and turning zombie before they could get out of Dodge.

  All of the previous day’s activities had been physically too much for Becks, and she knew she would have to stay inside and take it easy for a few days. She began to inventory the food, beverages, weapons, clothing, and most importantly, all of the medications. Two big bottles of antibiotics were a sight for sore eyes, and her sore, lingering, infected bite wounds, as well. This would be more than enough to kill the last of the bacteria, with plenty more in case of other injuries.

  There were also full prescription bottles for everything from allergies to anxiety, and attention deficit disorder to a king-sized box of sildenafil—the “little blue pill,” because God forbid you might have trouble getting an erection during a zombie apocalypse, Becks thought, shaking her head. Unfortunately, the one thing that was missing was Eradazole; the one thing that could have prevented this group from getting infected, and the one thing that could save Becks’ life if she got bitten again.

  Curious to know more about the members of the group that were so well organized and prepared to hit the road to seek a safer place, Becks looked at all the holiday and vacation photos on the w
alls and refrigerator. It was apparent that the family that lived here had consisted of the woman Becks killed, her husband (who was one of the adult zombies who ate her), and two of the children. The others appeared to have been from the husband’s two brothers’ families, although there were two women and several other children who were not in the house. Concerned that she had missed some zombies somewhere, Becks grabbed her pistol and spear to make another search.

  She found her answer in a walk-in closet upstairs. Although on her initial search, Becks had used her spear to poke the racks of clothes in the closet to make sure no one was hiding in there, she didn’t look down closely enough. She thought there were just piles of clothing and shoes scattered across the floor, but in the beam of a flashlight she saw the mixed skeletal remains of women and children—the missing family members.

  Becks could only imagine the terror these people experienced, thinking they were moments away from all getting in the RV and taking off, and then witnessing their husbands, fathers, and children switching right before their eyes. The women must have grabbed the children and tried to hide in the closet, but their zombified relatives caught, killed, and devoured them. It was a chilling thought, and Becks suddenly decided she didn’t need any of the clothing from this closet.

  Needing to feel a little reassurance, Becks next took a look at the weapons piled on the dining room table. There were two .22 cal pistols and a .22 rifle, which didn’t have the stopping power she preferred, but there were 200 rounds of ammo. Considering she only had a few dozen rounds left for her pistols, this was a treasure trove. There was also a 9mm pistol with a box of 50 rounds, which also put a smile on Becks’ face. Then there were the two 30-06 hunting rifles which would pack a nice punch, but there were only two boxes of twenty rounds each available for them. All in all, it was a huge upgrade to her arsenal and Becks felt a little less vulnerable.