Dove: A Zombie Tale (Byron: A Zombie Tale Book 2) (5 page)

“How far do you think we’ve come?” I asked.

“No idea. What’s worse is that I have no idea what direction we’ve been walking in. For all I know, we’re headed toward the cemetery.”

“No. We can’t be. We would have hit an intersection by now. I think we’re heading south.”

“Hey, here’s a genius suggestion—why don’t you shimmy your butt up one of those ladders and check?”

I sighed, giving him a wicked glare. “Fine. I’ll go check. I may need your help moving that manhole out of the way, though.”

“What? You think I’m Hercules, or something? You think a half-starved vagrant can just Hulk out and pop the cover off? You must be delusional.”

I stabbed my finger at him. “Do you want to get out of here, or not? We need to work together. We’re so close now. I might even give you a ride and take you along with me.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Well why wouldn’t you?”

“Because you’re being a pain in my butt!”

He laughed. “A pain in the butt? I take that as a matter of pride. Growing up in my family, we’re not talking if there’s no yelling.”

“Sounds like you and your family were the poster children for dysfunction. How the hell did you survive to adulthood?”

“Don’t judge until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.” He looked down at his feet. “Or the shoes I found in the dumpster last week.” He chuckled at the last thought.

I gave out a heavy sigh and grabbed the lower rungs to pull myself up. “All right. Let’s check this thing out. We need to get to my car.” Propping myself against the inside of the collar, I pushed my shoulder against the steel lid over my head. The stifling heat of the morning sun against the street above collected beneath the cover.

It didn’t budge. I tried to reposition and pushed again. Daylight filtered down through a minuscule crack, but the lid dropped as soon as it opened, slamming down with a dull clunk.

“Did you see anything?”

“Not enough time,” I grunted.

“Damn. Think you can get it again?”

I tried to shoot him a glare, but just stared at my shoulder. “Sure. This asphalt-paved steel plate is light as a feather!”

“That a girl! Get it done. You can do it!”

I grimaced at my armpit this time. A laugh came from below.

I funneled my frustration at Sammy into rage to fuel me. Groaning under the strain, I shoved with all my strength. The crack reappeared, then a gap opened. Fresh, cool air wafted through the small opening with the hint of a foul stench on it. My voice cracked from strain as the weight of the lid fought my muscles, but it slid up and over the lip leaving a one-inch gap.

Holding my breath, I craned my neck to look through the hole.

“What do you see?” Sammy’s voice came a little too loud.

“Shhhhh!” I poured as much aggravation into that single sound as I could before pressing my face to the iron underside of the lid.

Nothing. I could see nothing. Not like there were no Goners outside the manhole. After all, I could hear them. But I couldn’t see a damn thing.

“I have to open this wider. All I see is the sky above.” I slipped the fingers of one hand through the opening and pushed with all my strength. Quarter. Half. Inch. Two. Four. More and more the lid slid open and out of the way until I had enough space to put my head through. I looked down at Sammy below. If I needed to drop fast through the opening, at least it would only be a few feet.

I stared up through the opening. Nothing but blue sky. With a heavy, deep sigh I steeled my resolve and popped my head through the opening.

Goners shuffled all around, moving about like a bunch of nursing home residents on pudding day. At first I couldn’t think to count how many shambled. But as the shock wore off, numbers became clear. At least a dozen away from my car. A handful near my car. A horde swarmed the entrance to the parochial school past my car.

“Damn!” I muttered the subtle word under my breath, but its sound alerted the Goners to my presence. Faces turned in my direction, glaring, mouths snapping the air, teeth clacking. Several of them wore habits. Some of the nuns must have escaped.

Like a swarm of bees, they moved in my direction.

“Sammy! We have to move. My car is right there and they’re coming!” I surged through the collar and onto the street, my feet pounding the pavement as I dug in my pocket for keys. I didn’t look back, but could hear Sammy’s labored breaths as he hoofed it behind me.

Yellow lights flashed as I pressed the button on the key fob. Banging into the car, I yanked the handle and threw myself into the driver’s seat. Sammy slid into the passenger seat beside me as we both slammed the doors shut.

My hands trembled like a leaf in a breeze, making it damn near impossible to get the key into the ignition.

“Come on!” he shouted at me as fists pounded on the outside of my car. Glass shattered and hands reached through the rear passenger window.

“Goddamn, Freakshow! Get this piece of crap started.”

I found the hole, cranked the key, and the motor roared to life, spitting exhaust. Slamming the shifter into drive, I pressed my foot on the gas pedal, not caring who or what stood in front of me.

“Get the hell out of the way!” I shouted.

“I don’t think they’re gonna listen,” Sammy called back.

Blood coursed down the inside of the rear window as the lacerated arms slipped back out again. Bodies stepped in front of the grill and a shriek escaped me as I plowed into one. The Goner folded over the hood, its face bouncing off the sheet metal and leaving a bloody streak. It clawed its way forward, pulling itself up by the windshield wipers. I flipped them on.

“I don’t think those are meant to clear people from your view.”

“Shut up, Sammy! What else do you want me to do?”

I felt the weight of his body slide next to me.

“Hey! Get back, you creep!”

He stomped his left foot onto my right. The motor whined and the tires spun. The car shot forward as the tires found purchase. More bodies folded over the front of my car, leaving pock marks on the hood and spidering cracks across the windshield.

“Just drive!” he shouted. And I did.

chapter four

People growing up
in South Jersey generally held Philadelphia in high esteem. To them it was like Mecca, a place to which all must at some point travel. Not me. I hated Philadelphia. Don’t ask me why. I can’t really say. There is just something about the City of Brotherly Love, that seems hypocritical, and, let’s face it, just bullcrap. This is why, as I walked the streets of that waste of a city, I grumbled and groaned.

“You sensing something, Byron?” John asked, a spiked baseball bat leaning on his shoulder.

“Oh my god, what?” Evan’s squeaky voice followed. He carried a bolt-action hunting rifle with a scope. The further we kept him from the thick of the fight, the better.

“No. I just hate this place.”

“What? Philly?” John’s voice took on a quizzical tone.

“Mmm-hmm. With a passion.”

“Why? I mean how could you hate Philly? It’s the best city in the United States.”

I gave him a harsh glare. “Not to me.”

“Hey. It beats any of your stinking Jersey towns, hands down.”

“If you say so. I still don’t like it. It’s dirty. It stinks. And the people are ruder than in Manhattan, if you can actually believe it.”

“No way! Philly is awesome. You just haven’t gone to the right places, is all.”

“Not interested, John. Only reason I’m here is to help you find your parents and see if we can save them from the zombie horde gathering in New Jersey.”

“Uhm...Okay.”

“So which way do we go?”

He pointed down a road. “We follow this for a while. They live on Swain street, near Eastern State Penitentiary.”

My ears perked up. “Eastern State? Really? Think that place is as haunted as they advertise?”

John winked. “Once we check on my parents, we could go find out. May be a safe place to lay low for a while.”

“Yes, I know,” I replied. “Even though prisons were designed to keep people in, they are just as effective at keeping people out. Come on, haven’t you watched The Walking Dead?”

The Walking dead? What is that?
The voices asked. They were the bane of my existence—the microorganisms that not only made me what I am, but also kept me alive. Sentient. Curious. And, unfortunately, vocal.

“Dammit,” I moaned under my breath.

Evan turned toward me. “Did they start talking to you again?”

I nodded.
We know that means yes, Byron. You can’t avoid us. We are part of you now.

“Damn voices won’t leave me alone. And just when they’d gotten quiet for a while, too. I almost felt like I owned my own head again.” I poured a little Aw-Shucks into my voice.

We need each other to survive.

“Yes. I know that. But you don’t need to keep reminding me, like some hitchhiker from hell. Can’t you just keep quiet and watch? Why all the talking? All the questions?”

We are new to your world and want to learn. What’s more is we want to learn how to save our own kind from infecting humans like they have. We want to save both our species.

“I find that hard to believe. Otherwise you would never have infected our species in the first place. You would have infected cats, or dogs, or three-legged sloths.”

“Three-toed sloths,” Evan squeaked.

“Thank you! Three-toed sloths. You wouldn’t have infected the human race. But you did. And the result is that my head is no longer my own.”

The micro-organisms rattled on about motives and goals and all manner of rubbish I didn’t care for hearing about, so I blocked them out as best I could.

I started walking. “So your parents live near Eastern States, huh?”

“Yeah. It was pretty interesting while growing up. Not exactly the best neighborhood of Philadelphia.”

“I’ll say. You live two blocks from a high-security prison.”

Evan cleared his throat. “Hey guys. How bad do you think this thing has spread through here?”

I looked up to the sky. “Not sure. I hope that the micro-organisms have found some kind of balance rather quick, otherwise we are in some tough crap.”

“I was just wondering if it has reached all the way to Ohio, or not.”

The atmosphere changed. Any levity among us flew the coop. “Evan, your parents are smart and resourceful. I am sure if anyone survived this thing, it would be them. I mean your dad is one of those doomsday preppers, isn’t he? Wasn’t he on that show?”

Evan nodded. “They featured him twice.”

“Well, don’t you think a person like that could survive some creepy dudes biting each other?”

A moan echoed down the road. I read the nearest street sign. We stood on the corner of N. Broad and Brown Street. Another sound followed the moan, one that surprised me—the scream of a car engine.

“What the hell is that?” John asked.

I stared toward the sound, using my micro-organism enhanced vision to see the car.

It had no grill. Large dents folded the front bumper inward like it had run into a horde of telephone polls. The blood-smeared dents on the hood and the cracks in the windshield told the true story. This car had been pulverizing the undead. I couldn’t make out the driver through the damaged glass, but the passenger appeared to be a dread-locked derelict, skin leathery from years in the harsh elements. Beyond the car, I could see a pair of Lords keeping pace. These people had attracted the wrong attention.

“Looks like we have some trouble coming our way. A car with two passengers is barreling toward us. May want to seek some temporary shelter.”

The whine of the motor grew louder, but did not relent in its strain. The driver pushed it to its breaking point. Rapid-fire high-pitched knocks and taps clacked as it approached. A flume of blue-white smoke erupted into the air from around the hood, enveloping the car.

“They just blew the motor,” John called.

“I don’t think they’re going to be able to control it,” Evan added as he moved toward the inset doorway of a nearby building. The car started to swerve, having lost its motor, and its power steering. “They’re going to crash.”

“And when they do, those Lords will be on them like white on rice.” My words chilled my own veins. I reached up over my shoulders and drew a pair of laser-sharpened katanas I had found at an Army Surplus store outside the city. The funny thing about Katanas—they always seemed flimsy and frail, but could, in fact, split a bullet fired from a .45 in half without taking a lick of damage. “You guys duck inside. I’ll take care of this.”

Evan and John did not need much more encouragement than that. In an instant, they squeezed into the same doorway as the nose of the car pointed right in my direction. So close, I could see the man in the passenger seat screaming at the driver to turn the wheel. The driver’s voice came back to me with the thanks of my enhanced hearing. It belonged to a woman, and she screamed. “It’s not turning, Sammy! Oh God! Am I going to hit him?”

~ ~ ~