MZS: Boston: A Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Novella

MZS: Boston

A Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Novella

K. D. McAdams

Copyright © 2014 by K. D. McAdams

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are figments of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

Cover design:
Robin Ludwig Design Inc.,
http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/

Interior design: K. D. McAdams

Version 8.
21.14

Caveman Worldwide LLC

ASIN:

The Zombie plague consumed the planet in one night. By the time people recognized what it was the chance for stopping it had passed. In rural areas survival was easier -- population, distance, and terrain worked in favor of the living. In the cities and major metropolitan areas zombies purged more than 99% of the population. But there was the 1%, they survived, they fumbled, they found each other, they managed small victories. These are their stories.

Someone put a bullet in my head. I’ve had the “I’m never drinking again” hangovers before. This is more of a fucking “I may never move again” kind of hangover.

Why do I do this? I came back from Telluride so I could grow up and stop this shit. My Boston friends welcomed me home in style
; it’s lasted the better part of a month. I suppose my Boston friends are the same as my Telluride friends—they just gave up on the resort lifestyle sooner.

It seems like every time I do what you’re
supposed to do
things suck. I was
supposed
to go to college. I did and that was terrible. My parents say I failed out after the first semester. In reality I bored out. Part-time online college was a far better choice for me.

Now that I have a degree and some experience running a business
, I was
supposed
to come home, get a real job, buy a house, get married, and have kids. Apparently running a liquor store isn’t a “real job.”

Managing five employees
—all flakes, by the way—tracking inventory, working with suppliers, doing marketing and sales promotions, tracking cash flow and profit margins apparently aren’t “real” skills if they are learned at a liquor store. Every interview I’ve been on wants me to sit in some shitty cube farm cold-calling morons all day. These companies aren’t sure they can trust me with setting appointments, and I could probably run their business better than they are.

It’s all enough to drive a guy to drink.

On top of all that, living poor in Boston is a lot harder than living poor in Telluride. Waking up in the Colorado Mountains was like its own medicine. At times I would luck into a short-term luxury sublet for next to nothing. It was amazing what a carefully gifted bottle of scotch could get you if you knew when to do it.

Here
, I pay twice as much for a quarter of the space. My two-hundred-and-eleven square foot studio feels big because of the high ceilings. Plus my bed is lofted, so it’s like I have a separate bedroom. It just has a four-foot ceiling and I can’t really sit up in bed.

I also have a rat that visits regularly. Today it’s being a total ass and banging
on every single surface in the kitchenette. Maybe it’ll cook breakfast for me and I can hate it a little less.

Crawling to the edge of the bed takes herculean effort. My head is pounding and my mouth is so dry
I’m exhaling dust. That thing better not be messing with my box of wine or I’ll have to actually do something today.

Boxed wine is my secret hangover helper. It doesn’t have the carbonation and bloating effect of beer and it tastes better than a shot of vodka. The hair of the dog that bit you is a
vicious cycle, but when you feel like this you can’t criticize what works.

Expending far too much energy
, I am able to pry my eye open. I can’t tell if the need to barf is from shock or from the hangover.

My favorite Ray Borque t-shirt
is standing in the kitchen. It’s just starting to ride up on a perfect bare ass while whoever is wearing it reaches for the top shelf. I know what my shirt looks like so I let my eyes trail down the tanned and toned legs. They meet the floor on tiptoes and while I haven’t seen her face yet… yeah me!

Who did we meet out last night?

I did a little pregaming at Cheers, and then Wes came in and we went to Daisy Buchanan’s. Somebody texted that girl we met on Tuesday, but I thought she said no. Do I know this chick or is it someone we just bumped into?

The
hook up itself isn’t surprising. If I’m honest, though, most of the time they don’t have rockin bodies like this one. Not remembering the hook up is what gets to me, I usually remember who I bring home. What if she’s wicked cool and we had a great time? Being blackout drunk the first time we fucked doesn’t seem like a strong foundation for a relationship.

Jess! Wes
’s college friends’ friend from home.

She was cute. I thought she was a little wider in the hips? She did not seem like the type of girl who would get busy on a first date
, but hey, no regrets here.

I smile, knowing that I have saved the day yet again.

“Hey Jess, coffees underneath, in the drawer by the wall,” I rasp out.

A howitzer blasts back at me.
“Who the fuck is Jess?”

I guess this isn’t Jess.

“I’m sorry. I think I’m still drunk, I know you’re not Jess.” Technically that’s the truth, I know she’s not Jess and I probably am still a little drunk. What I don’t know is who she really is.

“Is Jess your girlfriend? Or are you a scumbag who’s actually married and has a little fuckpad in the city? Did you just forget you weren’t banging your wife last night?” Whoever she is, she spits fire.

I wonder how many married guys keep fuckpads in the city? Seems like a lot of work and I agree it’s totally a scumbag move.

“Definitely not married.” Time to work the char
m. “Jess is this awesome girl I’ve known since like the fifth grade. She’s gorgeous and she’s way too cool to be friends with someone like me, but we’re still buddies. From what I remember from last night you seem a lot like her. It’s just that being this hung-over means my mouth isn’t working right.”

“Then what’s my name?” Her eye daggers let me know she sees right through my lies.

“Come on, how can you think I don’t remember your name?” Stalling.

“You are the worst fucking kind. When I go home with a playa I know he’s a playa. It’s my choice because I want to get with a hard body or a giant cock. You’re pudgy and pasty white. I bet even your mother wonders what happened to your face. But you play the nice guy card. Tired of games and
one-night stands. Making big changes to grow up and settle down. You lie through your fucking teeth and don’t even have the decency to remember my name!”

Her screaming pounds on my sore head.

“That’s not fair –“

“Five seconds. What’s my name?” She’s not going to let this name thing go.

Deep breath. Guess.

“Renee.” I speak with confidence
, knowing that if I’m right I’ll sound great and if I’m wrong it won’t matter.

“Asshole.” She storms out of the kitchen space and across my small studio.

After a brief scan of the floor, she shakes her head and picks up her pants. I’m not sure what she was looking for, but I turn my head slowly as if I might be able to help her find it. The pants go on one leg at a time like everyone else. She may look even hotter with clothes on.

Her phone comes out of her pocket and she scans the screen quickly. Bending over to show me her perfect ass one more time
, she grabs her shirt off the floor. Without another word, she heads straight for the door.

If she thinks she’s leaving with my Ray Borque shirt
, she’s dead wrong.

“Wait, let me buy you breakfast to make it up to you.” I fumble out of my loft.

“It’s one-thirty in the afternoon. If you can get my name right, I’ll let you take me to the Capital Grille for lunch and I won’t trash you to every single woman in Boston.”

This is my Ray Borque shirt we’re talking about her
e. I need every ounce of my brain to function. What is her name?

“Let me get dressed and we can go.” Maybe she’ll get sick of waiting and put on her own shirt.

Her little headshake makes her ponytail flip around in the way that I love so much. Why do I have to fuck things up with smart hot chicks?

“Julie!” I call out the open door.

She doesn’t stop. I have to get that shirt back. I wore it for every game of the Stanley Cup in 2011; it’s special.

I don’t even have a closet
; why can’t I find a pair of jeans in this shithole? I throw on my Grit and Balls t-shirt and the shorts I wear when I’m just sitting here sweating. It’s definitely not my “win chicks over” A-game, but at least I won’t frighten women and children down on the street.

Keys, phone,
flip-flops; I’m good. The first step is jarring and reminds me how dehydrated and hung-over I am. I need determination, Grit and Balls, if I’m going to get my shirt back.

She’s not that far ahead of me but I’m struggling to keep up
, let alone close ground. I hear the door open and realize I have no way to guess which direction she is going to turn. My heart rate quickens and I’ll probably puke as soon as I hit the street.

The sun assaults my sensitive eyes before the door even closes behind me. Whatever liquid I have in my stomach rises quickly and burst
s out of my mouth all over the front stoop. At least I won’t have to clean that up.

I squint to the left and see nothing. Squinting to the right I can see the 77 on the back of my
shirt; it’s almost at the cross street.

“Wait. I made one mistake
, let’s work this out!” I holler after her.

She turns, puts her hands on her hips and throws her head back.

“Zoe,” she yells back at me. “My name is Zoe. Next time you can’t remember who you fucked, maybe you can at least be creative in guessing her name.”

“What’s my name?” I wish I had thought of this inside.

It’s oddly quiet on the street. On a sunny September Saturday afternoon, Beacon Street should be busy. There are no cars and no people, except for this girl who hates me.

“Are you fucking kidding me with this?” Zoe yells back.

“Hah! You don’t know it, do you? You weren’t looking for coffee. You were looking for my wallet or some mail so you could figure out my name. You’re pissed off ‘cause you’re just like me!” I can’t help but chuckle a little. It looks like my shirt will be safe soon enough.

“Patrick. But your stupid friends call you Pat-O. Do you want me to tell you your middle and last names
, too?”

Fuck. She gets better and better the more she hates on me.

The wave of bodies crashes into her in a blur. They aren’t running or walking, they just seem to be flowing, and they don’t stop. Body after body streams out of the alley like no crowd I’ve ever seen before.

Zoe’s body is lifted up on top of the crowd. I can hear her screams but I can’t move
. What would I do anyway?

A broad arc of crimson sprays across the blue sky. Her face is suddenly covered in blood. I can see bright patches of red d
otting the black and gold of her clothes. They’re ruining my shirt.

“Heeeellllpppp me!” Zoe shrieks.

I watch in horror as her arm is torn from her body and held up in the air. The detached limb is brought down into the crowd and I see greedy mouths attack the flesh.

When Zoe stops making noises
, I realize that she must be dead. These people attacked her and ate her alive. I am too shocked and stunned to even take out my phone and dial 911.

A fresh round of vomit rises up and sprays out of my mouth. The retching is loud and I cough violently.

As the water clears from my eyes, I can see that the hungry crowd has noticed me. The bare arm bone that was a part of Zoe’s body a few seconds ago is tossed to the side. A piece of tendon or sinew trails off of it like a wet noodle.

In the same instance that the crowd surges toward me
, I turn back toward my building. Obscene amounts of adrenaline propel my body up three steps. The pool of vomit I left earlier is a skating rink, causing me to slip and bang my elbow hard on the concrete.

The angry mob is only yards away when I get back on my feet. My key goes into the lock smoothly and I am in the door just as they get to the foot of the stairs.

I saw them kill someone; they won’t let me live.

My best bet is to get back to my apartment. There is no way they can figure out which one is mine
, and I can call the cops anonymously. I’ll say I saw it from my window.

Speeding up the first two stories gets me away from the killers. I don’t hear the glass break or the door open so I may be safer than I thought. On the third floor landing I slow to a walk.

By the time I reach my fifth-floor apartment, I am determined to take a shower and then get drunk. Growing up sucks.