HVZA (Book 2): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse 2

by Zimmermann, Linda

  Driving through a maze of rusted patio furniture, tree limbs, swing sets, overturned barbeque grills, and tool sheds, she made her way slowly past house after house. There was one yard that had a short picket fence, but it was more decorative than functional and with a little nudging by the ATV, a 6-foot section of the flimsy wood broke and gave way. She gave it a little extra gas just to make sure she would not get entangled in the splintered pieces of fence, but gave it just a little too much and lurched forward. Hitting the brakes, she stopped just short of driving right into an inground pool.

  “Oh no! I am not doing that again!” she said out loud, remembering all too well one of the worst nights of her life, when she had fallen into a pool in Nyack, and had then been surrounded by zombies.

  Skirting the edge of the pool, she drove up and over a patio that had several corpses sitting in Adirondack chairs. At least, she thought they were all corpses. Out of one of the chairs, a young female zombie suddenly lunged forward and grasped Becks’ left leg. Startled, Becks turned too sharply and almost veered back around into the pool. The zombie was small, but strong and determined, and Becks couldn’t shake her loose.

  Realizing that at least three more of the figures in the Adirondack chairs had now risen and were heading her way, she didn’t want to stop and get into a prolonged fight so close to the big herd. Instead, she spun the ATV around and headed for the picket fence on the other side of the yard at full speed, hoping it would shake off her attacker. Dragging the clinging zombie through the tall weeds and then smashing straight into the fence, the tenacious zombie still had both hands firmly gripping Becks’ leg. In fact, now she was even hanging from Becks’ boot by her teeth.

  The sound of the ATV was clearly drawing more attention, so Becks needed to do something on the fly. The careening vehicle was hard enough to control without removing one of her hands to grab a gun or another weapon, so she drove through three more backyards dragging the zombie before an opportunity presented itself.

  Someone had gone to considerable time and expense to build an impressive outdoor wood-fired brick oven. BZA, this family must have been the envy of the neighborhood cookout scene. Years ago, Cam and Becks had gone to a party where they were making pizzas in a similar outdoor oven, and she never forgot the scrumptious taste of that crisp, smoky crust. Now, she was about to make another brick oven memory of an entirely different nature.

  Going as fast as she dared, Becks aimed right for the brick edifice to America’s love affair with backyard cooking. It was a tricky piece of steering and coordination, but with the correct timing and angle of her last-second turn, as well as having the strength to stick her occupied left leg out about two feet, the female zombie’s body impacted with the bricks with a delightfully satisfying cracking sound. The shattered zombie let go of Becks and fell in a crumpled heap.

  As relieved as she was to be free of the unwanted passenger, she was far from being home free, as more dormant zombies were rising up from yards and streets, spilling out of houses, and staggering blindly toward the sound of the engine. Even though she had put some distance between her and the main herd, she had underestimated the number of undead who had not joined the pack. While the ATV was powerful enough to knock down a few single zombies in her path, groups of three or more presented a real problem, and more groups were starting to form.

  The night vision goggles saved her life time and again as she was able to zigzag through the growing crowd, but they couldn’t help her if she became boxed in a backyard with impenetrable fences. When it looked as though a sturdy stockade fence was about 60 feet ahead, Becks made a sharp left between two houses, running over a prone zombie who was too weak to stand, but still feebly reached out to try to grab her. The aggressive treads of the tires and weight of the vehicle made hamburger meat out of the already half-decayed zombie, but Becks’ only thought was that she was glad no chunks sprayed up onto her.

  Zooming out onto the road, the way ahead was clear as far as she could see, so she took advantage and went as fast as possible. At top speed, however, the engine sputtered again and the vehicle bucked once or twice, so she had to back off on the throttle. Still, she kept moving at a good pace and had gone at least half a mile before the next obstruction loomed in the distance.

  The two-lane road opened up to four lanes before a major intersection—an intersection jam packed with cars. There had been a major multi-car accident as people fled right after quarantine, and many other cars became blocked, unable to move forward or back. Herds of freshly switched zombies quickly surrounded the stranded motorists, and it became a deadly waiting game—a game that zombies almost always won.

  The zombies just stood there waiting for days, as one by one the stranded motorists got out of their cars and tried to make a run for it. The tale of the outcome of this ultimate game of cat and mouse was told by the hundreds of scattered bones and bits of tattered clothing strewn about the intersection.

  There was no way the ATV could get through this scene of carnage, so Becks turned right down a side street, hoping to bypass it. She wasn’t the first to try to do that, as another line of abandoned cars made for an interesting ride. Repeatedly bouncing up, over, and down the sidewalks, she snaked her way two blocks before she had a relatively clear left turn. The main street was clear of cars at this point, but dormant zombies in twilight states were everywhere, and with the roar of the ATV, they would become active very quickly.

  As much as she wanted to keep heading toward 287, she didn’t want to take any foolish risks. She had a clear path diagonally across the street to a fabric shop, so she made a beeline to the glass double doors. Withdrawing her pistol, she prepared to shoot the lock, but a quick tug on the handle revealed that it was unlocked. It was a bit tricky trying to hold the doors open wide enough to get the ATV inside, but before any of the zombies got within arm’s reach, she was in the fabric store with the doors locked.

  It took a few minutes to make sure the aisles were clear, and the offices and storeroom in the back were unoccupied. Then she made sure the growing crowd in the street didn’t start pressing against the glass storefront, which could give way with enough weight. But fortunately, once the ATV was silent, they all lost interest and sank back into twilight.

  Realistically, Becks had been hoping to make it at least a mile that night. (Unrealistically, she had hoped to be cruising down Interstate 287 by dawn.) She had only gone a bit under three-quarters of a mile, but it was a huge step to finally get out of the post office and really start her journey home. Granted, the large populations of zombies everywhere was going to make things more difficult than she had anticipated, but with patience, and starting fires to create diversions, she felt confident she could make it, even if it meant only traveling one block or just one building at a time.

  “Slow and steady wins the race,” her father used to tell her whenever she felt overwhelmed, referring to one of her favorite childhood stories. Of course, Becks always identified with the swift hare—and was always bewildered and annoyed that he lost—but she would now have to embrace the qualities of the tortoise; a tortoise with the fiery breath of a dragon.

  Turning off her night vision goggles, Becks switched on a flashlight so she could have a look around. She had very fond memories of visiting fabric stores with her mother, who was an accomplished seamstress. Unfortunately, Becks was even worse at sewing than she was at cooking—which was saying a lot—but only with cloth. With flesh she was something of an artist, deftly suturing blood vessels and closing up wounds. But give her a dress pattern and a couple of yards of polyester and it was an embarrassment. Once, Becks even managed to sew the sleeve of the shirt she was wearing to the material of the skirt she was trying to make!

  Despite her failings in the field of fashion, she still loved the look and feel of all the different fabrics. From the soft comfort of fleece and flannel, to the slinky sensuality of satin and silk, she was enamored of all the plaids, flowery prints, neon colors, and subtle earth tones the
se materials had to offer.

  Pulling down several bolts of blanket fabric covered with cartoon characters, she unraveled yards and yards of the fluffy material and layered it on top of sheets of foam rubber in the corner of an office to make a bed. On the road, she usually slept with all of her clothes on so she could be up and on the move in case of an emergency, but a bolt of 100% silk in a vibrant hot pink just made her melt. Becks never had the money or inclination to indulge in expensive lingerie, but this silk was just screaming to be wrapped around a naked body.

  Peeling off all of her clothes—every last stitch—she used at least five yards of the fabric to create a half sari, half mummy-like outfit that probably looked bizarre, but felt divine. There were plans to be made and scouting missions to undertake, but all the horror of the outside world would just have to wait until morning. Snuggling in between several hundred dollars-worth of fleecy dinosaur, sheep, and alphabet block-patterned material, wrapped in even pricier silk, Becks drifted away to sweet dreams of happier times from the past, and better times ahead.

  A strange sound penetrated her sleep around dawn. At first she thought it was part of her dreams, but as it grew louder, she opened her eyes to the wonderful reality—a helicopter! Sprinting to the front windows, which faced east, she was unable to see it. Racing to the back of the store, the alley entrance was locked, and before she could even begin to look for a key, the distinctive whump whump whump of the rotor blades faded to silence.

  It was disappointing, yet also encouraging to know there were still aircraft in the area. Getting her bearings, she determined that the helicopter had been flying from north to south—another West Point to Picatinny Arsenal patrol? Trying not to jump to any conclusions that the spring offensive was starting, and armored vehicles and soldiers could be coming down the street at any second, Becks nonetheless felt a surge of excitement. After an MRE for breakfast, she began to make plans to stick out like a sore thumb in case any other helicopters came by.

  Locating the stairs to the roof, she really had to put her back into lifting the rusty trap door. The building was rectangular, with a flat roof covered with more than half a century of tar. There were a couple of obsolete antennas that no one ever bothered to take down, which were perfect for the pieces of neon orange, yellow, and green fabric Becks tied to them, like a warship returning to port with all flags flying.

  Then she unrolled long bolts of red and white cotton, alternating two rows of each, and using upholstery tacks to secure them to the roof. With a can of black spray paint, she wrote on the strips of white material, “BECKS WAS HERE. HEADING WEST FOR 287. LOOK FOR FIRE.”

  That was the easy part of her plan. The other part involved the pile of cars back in the intersection two blocks away. Becks counted at least 80 zombies on the street, and at least half of them were between her and the intersection. She would use far too much ammunition eliminating them all, and the sounds of gunshots would probably draw many more—and possibly even hostile humans. She would need to get creative to thin the herd more quietly—but not completely quietly, she decided.

  There was a an old boom box back in the warehouse that was battery operated, and she found enough D-cell batteries in a drawer to get it working. That was the good news. The bad news was that there was only one cassette tape, Donna Summer’s Best Disco Hits.

  “Ugh. Maybe I’d rather be eaten by zombies,” Becks said, as she made sure the tape player still worked.

  Next, she emptied a couple of coffee cans from the office and filled them with buttons she tore off of their little cards, concentrating on the metal and rhinestone buttons. Instead of replacing the tight plastic lids, she loosely covered each can with tin foil. Bringing the cans to the roof, she used all her strength to toss one of the them as far down the street to her left as she could.

  The can made an impressive clank when it hit the blacktop, followed by the clinking sounds of hundreds of metal buttons scattering and bouncing. The noise, coupled with the rhinestone buttons glittering in the late afternoon sun, drew zombies from at least a block around. Tossing the other can to the right, it provoked a similar reaction, drawing most of the zombies toward it, and away from the front of the fabric store.

  Armed with her guns, bladed hockey stick, and a boom box set to auto replay fourteen songs from the queen of disco, Becks ran out the front door and across the street to Sid’s Laundromat. She had scoped out the building from the roof of the fabric store, and hadn’t seen anyone inside. She hoped to change that.

  To her dismay, the front doors were locked, but the butt of Becks’ sniper rifle punched a nice hole big enough for her hand. Once inside, she made a quick sweep to make sure it was clear. Placing the boom box on a washing machine at the back of the long room, she turned it on and let Love to Love You Baby boom at full volume. Running to the front of the Laundromat, she propped open the front doors, and then raced back to the fabric store. Climbing to the roof, she waited to see if her plan would work.

  As the first song droned on and on—Doesn’t this thing ever end? Becks wondered—the zombies who had become disinterested in the buttons started turning around and shuffling toward the Laundromat. Before I Feel Love began, at least a dozen of them had gone inside. By the time the last beats of Hot Stuff echoed down the block, only six zombies remained within eyesight on the road.

  Sprinting back across the street, Becks’ heart was pounding as she released the latches on the front doors of the Laundromat to close them. But before she could reach inside the hole in the glass to lock the doors, a male zombie with some kind of terrible skin disease on his face, which obscured both his age and ethnicity, lunged for her, throwing his weight against the doors. Becks had to hunch down and plant her feet to keep him from getting out. With her arms, she swung the hockey stick around and thrust the blade up through the hole, catching the zombie just under the ribcage.

  Even after being stabbed, the persistent zombie still tried to get through the doors, so Becks jumped to her feet and pushed forward with all her strength. Firmly caught on the blade, which was now buried at least six inches deep, the zombie staggered backward, but remained standing. The stick was just long enough to keep the zombie out of arm’s reach and allow Becks to get her hand through the hole and turn the deadbolt. Once the doors were secure, Becks yanked back on the hockey stick to pull it free from his body.

  The zombie stumbled forward again, and his hideous face slammed against the door. As he bled out, his face slowly slid down along the glass, accompanied by Donna Summer singing Bad Girls. Despite the peril of her situation—and the awful music—Becks actually stayed a few moments to examine the severely damaged flesh.

  “Hmm, it’s some sort of necrotizing fasciitis,” she began out loud, as if dictating a diagnosis. “His left cheek has been eaten clean through to the teeth and gums, and sections of the skull are exposed. His left eye is completely gone. I do hope it’s highly contagious to other zombies.”

  If she had access to a lab, she would cut a sample out of his face to determine what nasty microbe was at work, and find out if she could exploit it as a weapon against the zombies. As it was, Becks was just left watching, and pondering which was worse—flesh eating bacteria, or prolonged exposure to disco music.

  Her moment of being a doctor again ended quickly as two of the remaining six zombies were now within a few yards. The already bloody blade of the hockey stick made quick work of them, and a third zombie fell to her deadly stickwork as she ran down to the intersection. Climbing up to the center of the mass of wrecks, she surveyed the surrounding streets and saw hundreds of zombies milling aimlessly about in small groups. Ignoring them, she dropped down under the cars and started her preparations.

  Removing the two bolts of cotton gauze material she had strapped to her back, she cut off a couple of yards at a time and bunched up the fabric under at least a dozen gas tanks. Then with a hammer and screwdriver, she punched small holes in the tanks; just enough to create slow drips. As the gasoline soaked t
he fabric, she waited under an SUV until it was almost dark. Then, unrolling the last several yards of fabric, she twisted it like a giant wick, soaked it in gasoline, and then stretched it as far out from under the cars as it would reach.

  Literally keeping her fingers crossed, she lit the fabric “wick” and then took off back down the street. As she approached the fabric store, the umpteenth rendition of Love to Love You Baby was still playing loud and clear, but the song was momentarily drowned out by the sharp report of something exploding back in the intersection. Billowing black smoke and intense flames were already reaching high into the sky by the time Becks dragged an office chair onto the roof to watch the show.

  With dozens of cars fully engulfed, and the flames starting to spread to dozens more, explosions rocked the neighborhood every few minutes. Zombies from at least a half of a mile around made their way to the source of the sounds and light. And as happened before, once crowds gathered, the first ones to arrive were pushed relentlessly forward into the searing flames. Becks would have liked to stick around to watch them all burn, but she had to get moving once the street to her left was almost clear.

  Just before she started the ATV, she ran back to the pink silk she had slept in, and used her knife to slice off a yard and stuffed it in her pack. Perhaps it was a foolish indulgence, but there were far too few pretty things left in this world, and Becks wanted something nice to hold onto for a change.

  Turning on her night vision goggles and then pushing the ATV out the doors, it reluctantly started on the third try, and then dutifully roared off to the left, away from the expanding conflagration in the intersection. The first street on her left looked clear, and she raced past an appliance repair shop, two auto mechanic shops, and a classic old ice cream stand with all its windows smashed, and its fiberglass Eskimo fallen from the roof and hanging by its anchoring wires.