Margo Quinn, Zombie Fighter

by Chambers, V. J.

  Margo Quinn, Zombie Fighter

  by V. J. Chambers

  MARGO QUINN, ZOMBIE FIGHTER

  © copyright 2011 by V. J. Chambers

  http://vjchambers.com

  Punk Rawk Books

  Smashwords Edition

  Please do not copy or post this story in its entirety or in parts anywhere. You may, however, share the entire book with a friend by forwarding the entire file to them. (And I won't get mad.)

  Margo Quinn, Zombie Fighter

  "Fractions," I said as I scribbled what I was saying on the wall of my makeshift classroom with orange sidewalk chalk, "need a common denominator if you want to add them."

  I turned and looked out at my students. The four that were learning fractions were looking up at me expectantly from the first row. The rest of the class was working diligently on their assignments. I smiled. These kids were a teacher's dream come true.

  "Now," I said. "Who can tell me what common means? If Jenny and I have something in common, what does that mean?"

  Jenny's hand shot up.

  "Yes, Jenny?"

  "Like we both have blonde hair," she said.

  Ricky raised his hand. "That's the same about you," he said.

  "Right," I said. "The denominators have to be the same. And which part of the fraction is the denominator?"

  The walkie-talkie on my desk crackled. "Quinn, 911. Quinn, 911. Over."

  I reached over and picked up the walkie-talkie. The classroom wasn't that big. Most things were within reach. "Quinn here," I said into the walkie-talkie. "Copy that. I'm on my way. Over and out." I addressed the class. "Guys, I've got to go, so we're going to have to cut class short today."

  They actually groaned, and there was a cacophony of, "No, Ms. Quinn"s.

  "Tell you what," I said. "You can all take one book from the shelf home with you in addition to your book-report book."

  That cheered them up. It's amazing. Without television, kids sure are into reading.

  Within five minutes, I had the students out, the classroom closed up, and I was on my way to strike force headquarters. My name is Margo Quinn, and I'm a volunteer zombie fighter. It's kind of like being a volunteer fire fighter, but I don't get to wear the nifty hat. I'm on the zombie strike force because I'm immune to zombie bites. At least as near as we can tell, I am. I've been bitten three times, and I've never turned.

  Headquarters was an upstairs office of what used to be a pricey women's clothing store in St. Armand's Circle. It was small and, with all of the strike force there, crowded. Everything's crowded on Lido Key. About a year ago, we set this place up as a safe zone. Humans only. That meant getting rid of all zombies on Lido Key and on Bird Key, which is the quarantine zone for people coming in from the mainland. Clearing out the zombies was dangerous and hard and messy. Before we did it, the strike force would not have fit into the tiny room that served as headquarters. There were a lot more of us. That's the thing that's scariest about this job. Zombies might not be able to turn me, but they can sure as hell kill me. It seems like a hundred years ago that I studied to be an English teacher. I wanted to read about heroes, not try to be one.

  I was the last person to squeeze myself into headquarters. Chief Stravinsky, an old fire chief who now heads up the strike force, already was attempting to pace in the two square feet of space he had. Stravinsky likes to pace. Besides the ten members of the strike force, my best friend Gabby Whetzel was there. Gabby's the head doctor on Bird Key. She basically oversees the quarantine. If she was there, it probably meant . . .

  "We've got a quarantine escapee," said Stravinsky.

  Oh. That sucked.

  "He's on Lido."

  That sucked even more.

  "He's got a bite."

  Wonderful. Zombie bites meant you were going to turn into a zombie in three days or less. If it was a relatively small wound, it usually took three days. If the bite were enough to kill you sooner than that (neck wounds, multiple bites, etc.) then you'd turn as soon as you died.

  "It gets worse," said Stravinsky.

  How could it possibly? We had a potential zombie running around in our safe zone. He could infect people, who would in turn infect more people, and suddenly there would be no more safe zone.

  "This guy has demands," said Stravinsky. "We do what he says, he'll turn himself in. If not . . . well, I'm sure you can all imagine what will happen."

  "So what does he want?" asked Jesse Irving. Jesse's been on the strike force the longest. He's good at surviving. He's also very cute. We dated briefly. Well, it wasn't exactly dating. We had sex a couple of times. I, in my naiveté, thought we were dating. Jesse didn't really see it that way. I was hurt and embarrassed. It was totally junior high, except it was a few months ago.

  "I'm going to turn it over to Dr. Whetzel for the explanation," said Stravinsky. "She actually talked to him on the radio."

  Gabby smiled at Stravinsky. "Thanks Chief," she said. "This guy's name is Norman Ericson. He arrived via boat this morning at Bird Key. He had a bite—day, day and a half old—on his upper forearm. He and his daughter have been hiding out in the movie theater downtown since right after the outbreak. He apparently was a manager there, and they've been able to stay relatively safe. His daughter—her name is Meagan—is really sick. So he went for help. When he got to Bird this morning, he demanded we go after her. I explained to him that we don't do that. It's too dangerous and all of that.

  "He was angry. There was a struggle, and he took off in his boat. I assumed he was going back to his daughter, but I reported it, and Stravinsky posted some lookouts. Two hours later, we get a radio message. He's basically saying he'll infect the whole island if we don't go and get his daughter."

  Stravinsky nodded. "Now, we don't have any proof he's here. He could have radioed from anywhere, and our lookouts didn't see his boat arrive. But we still can't be sure. We're going to comb the island, and hopefully we'll find him. But he could be on the move, and we might not find him in time, so I'm sending three people to the mainland for the girl: Irving, Quinn, and Jameson."

  Ugh. Me, Jesse Irving, and Mick Jameson? Why?

  Okay, I knew why. Jesse's the best fighter we've got and Mick and I are immune. For years, we thought I was unique, but three months ago, Mick and bunch of refugees showed up in a school bus at the marina on the main land. Mick had a zombie bite, but didn't turn. Everyone got real excited about there being another immune person, and, of course, Mick got drafted onto the strike force. He's so arrogant, though.

  Up to this point, we'd rarely worked together, because generally they split us up to have one immune person in each group. Clearly, it made sense for us to work together this time, but I wasn't looking forward to it. My opinion of Mick Jameson was that he was sort of a jerk.

  "Can we take the chopper?" I asked. That would at least make it less excruciating.

  Stravinsky shook his head. "Choppers only got enough fuel to go refuel next rainy day we get."

  If we go out to the mainland, we usually go when it's raining. Water screws the zombies all up for some reason. They can't seem to sense human flesh when they're wet. We don't know why. We don't think they can smell. We know they can't see or hear. (They don't react to noise, and they walk into walls a lot.) What they do have is an uncanny ability to sense living humans, and once they sense it, they head in that direction. If it's raining, or they're submerged in water, they can't seem to do that. At least not as well. But I wouldn't dangle my fingers in front of a wet zombie. Not if I wanted to keep them.

  "No chopper?" asked Jesse. "How are we supposed to get there?"

  "The bus I drove here is still at the marina," offered Mick. "We could take a boat over and drive it to the theater
."

  "I'm sure you'll figure it out," said Stravinsky. "But do it fast. We've got a time limit on this. Dr. Whetzel says this guy could turn anytime tomorrow or the day after. We'd like him found or the girl in as soon as possible."

  "One more thing," said Gabby. "They were living in Theater Four. That's where the little girl is supposed to be."

  "Great," said Stravinsky. "Let's get on this."

  * * *

  Within the hour, Mick, Jesse, and I were coming up on the marina in our boat. We'd had just enough time to gather what few supplies we could. Of course, we each had guns. We also had flashlights and ammunition in packs on our belts. I had a first aid kit, and Jesse had the walkie-talkie we'd use to communicate with HQ. We were all also in our zombie fighting attire, which basically means spandex, because it's good not to have loose clothing. It slows you down if it's flopping in the wind when you're running, and it can get caught on things. Plus, the zombies can grab it and pull you in to them. So it makes sense. But it is the least flattering fabric on earth. I'm in the best shape of my life, and I still feel utterly self-conscious in this skintight getup. And it's embarrassing to see the outline of every guy's package on the strike force.

  The marina stretched out in front of us. Marina Jack's was all broken windows and dulled paint. There were still boats tied up to the docks. And there were zombies everywhere. It's creepy how much they look like humans. Except for their shuffling gait, they looked just like group of people out on the water. As we got closer, I could see them more clearly. Their clothes were dirty, smeared with caked blood, and torn. Many of them had large, gaping wounds. I saw one with a missing eye, and another whose entire midsection was missing. It had ragged flesh just above its belly button, but no belly button, just the gleam of white spine. Ugh. One thing I really can't stand about this whole zombie outbreak thing is that it's so gross.

  The zombies gather at the marina in such large numbers because it's the closest they can get to the Keys. They can sense us across the water, and so they go right towards human flesh. They're always all over this coastline and in hordes behind the barricades on the bridges.

  Because of their gathering here, I hadn't wanted to come this way. When we got off the boat, we'd be greeted by masses of the undead. But Mick said that if we went further down the coast, we'd have no transportation once off the boat, and besides, they'd sense us and start heading towards us anyway. Which was true. So I gave in.

  Mick pulled the boat up to a dock and began securing it while Jesse and I covered him. We were trying to save ammunition. After all, we only had what we could carry, but we still had to pick off a few zombies that came shuffling towards us.

  With the boat tied down, we split up and took off. If you're moving, the best way to get by the zombies is to simply move faster than them, ducking in and out of their bodies before they can react. Shoot if you have to, but shooting is better when you're standing still or trying to protect a stationary object. Stravinsky always says to us: "There are more zombies than there are bullets in your gun." If we ever try to take the world back, maybe we'll use a different strategy. For now, we're just trying to survive.

  I quickly fixed the location of the bus, my destination, in my mind. Then I focused my attention on the zombies I had to maneuver around to get there. I took off running. An arm brushed me. It felt dry, cool, and leathery. Yuck. I ducked under the next arm and righted myself face to face with a zombie in a tattered police officer's uniform. It lunged at me, its jaw gaping. I pulled back, collided with dead flesh, pushed off of it with my back and kept running. Eew, eew, eew.

  Twin zombies (I guess the bond lives on after death) with matted red hair grabbed me as I tried to squeeze between them. I elbowed one in the face, and kicked the other's legs out from beneath it. I was less than ten feet from the bus. I could see the door hanging wide open, but neither Jesse nor Mick was there yet. I pushed worries about their safety to the back of my mind. If they didn't make it, I'd go on. That was the way it worked.

  I swerved to miss a fat lady zombie and I was there. I bounded up the steps into the front of the bus, my gun ready. A half-demolished face greeted me. One side was a young man's face. Short brown hair, brown eyes. The other was a grinning skeleton. I pulled the trigger. The face exploded. Bits of it got on my face. Geez. So gross.

  There was no time for being grossed out, however, because now there were zombies behind me, trying to get on the bus. I turned and leveled my gun to shoot, but stopped. Zombies have a real problem with steps. The last thing I wanted to do was make a nice body ramp for them to climb up on. I swung back around. Behind Two-Face, there was an old lady zombie, still clutching her cane. I put a bullet in her forehead.

  This wasn't good. I couldn't cover behind and in front of myself. Sooner or later, the zombies outside would get up those steps. Where the hell were Mick and Jesse?

  As if on cue, the zombies' heads at the door began bursting open, underscored by the rattle of gunfire. Jesse came up the steps behind me.

  "Where's Jameson?" I said.

  "Down," he said.

  I got down.

  He blew the head off the one behind me. Mick backed into the bus, shooting all the way. Jesse was still shooting the zombies on the bus. Mick pulled the door shut and stole a glance at the driver's seat. "Thank God," he said. "The keys are still here."

  I stood up to help Jesse with the remaining zombies, but there had only been about eight of them, and they were all dead. We dragged the corpses to the back of the bus and threw them out the back door.

  The bus secure, we took a moment to catch our breath.

  "Piece of cake," said Jesse.

  Mick started the bus. "Hollywood 20's at Main and Washington, right?"

  "Yeah," I said, "but you can't take Main. There's that car pile-up at Pineapple. Street's totally blocked."

  Generally, if we came out to the mainland for any reason, we had our whole trip planned. We'd know our routes, how we were going to get in and out of any structures we needed to get into, and would have backups for each route and escape route in case we ran into trouble. This wasn't a typical trip, and so we didn't have any of this down. Stravinsky had barely given us enough time to change our clothes. It made me nervous, but the operation seemed clear enough. We knew our objective, and we seemed to be doing okay so far.

  Mick was pulling the bus around to drive out of the marina parking lot. There were a couple of thuds and splats as he hit zombies. "How about Orange? Can I take Orange to Main?"

  I shrugged and looked at Jesse. "I guess so. Orange is clear, right?"

  "I don't know," said Jesse. "I haven't driven downtown for over a year."

  "Yeah, but you take the chopper to refuel at the airport all the time," I said. "Don't you ever look down?"

  The bus lurched forward and Jesse and I were forced to sit down hard.

  "Watch it, Jameson," I said.

  Mick was pulling out onto Route 41. "Just stay seated, the two of you."

  "You could have warned us," I said.

  "Calm down, Quinn," said Jesse.

  I tried to give him my best Ms.-Quinn-is-two-seconds-from-sending-you-to-the-principal's-office glare.

  "Let's just get this done," he continued.

  It doesn't work on thirteen-year-olds either. Even if we still had principal's offices.

  "We trying Orange or not?" Mick asked.

  "I guess," I said. "Irving?"

  "Whatever," he said.

  Mick turned onto Orange when we got to the intersection. "You know Quinn," he said. "If you've got a problem with me, I wish you'd just—shit!"

  He broke off because there was an overturned eighteen-wheeler ahead near the intersection of Ringling and Orange.

  "Turn right on Oak!" I said.

  "Where?"

  "Right here!" I nearly screamed.

  "Geez," said Mick, barely making the turn.

  "Quinn, are you okay?" asked Jesse.

  "Fine," I said.

  "Now wh
at?" said Mick.

  "Turn left at Osprey," I said. "There should be a stop sign."

  We were quiet for a moment. I looked out the window. The houses on Oak Street were nice ones. They used to sell for big money. They still looked nice. True, the yards were overgrown. Some of them had no windows or doors. But there were hibiscuses blooming in bright colors and palm trees growing in the lawns, their fronds waving in the breeze. Then a zombie with a big gash in his neck ambled out the door of one of the houses. Illusion ruined.

  I turned back to the guys. "So how weird is it this guy's been holed up in Hollywood 20? Didn't we determine that place was empty a few years back?"

  "Almost right after the outbreak," Jesse said. "We didn't do a complete search. It was locked up tight and the zombies were pretty much leaving it alone. Of course, there were a lot more people downtown back then. Zombies didn't so much notice one or two people hidden somewhere."

  "Is it still locked up tight?" asked Mick.

  "Last we checked," said Jesse.

  "So how are we going to get in?" Mick asked.

  "Just bust in, I guess," said Jesse.

  "Then the zombies can follow us," I said.

  "The ones from the marina are already following us," said Jesse.

  That was true. And every zombie from miles around could sense us. If they didn't have better prospects, they'd be heading straight for us.

  "We've got to get this done fast," I said.

  They both nodded.

  We were on Osprey now and nearing the intersection with Main Street. The road seemed clear. So far, so good. After a minute or two, we turned onto Main, and shortly thereafter Hollywood 20 came into view. A two-story turquoise and pink sign (nearly everything in Sarasota seems to be turquoise and pink for some reason) proclaimed the name of the mammoth-sized theater, which took up nearly half the block. We pulled up on the sidewalk, right next to the main entrance. Much to our surprise, Hollywood 20 wasn't "locked up tight" anymore.

  The front doors, glass of course, had been busted in. A large enough group of zombies can do that. They don't use tools like we do, so no single zombie could pick up a chair and break glass, but if you get a huge group of them they just push against something until it breaks. That's why I keep recommending we destroy bridges instead of just barricading them. Our barricades are strong, and so far they've held, but unless the bridge has a drawbridge we can leave up, I think we're leaving ourselves vulnerable.