MZS: Boston: A Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Novella (5 page)

My push has enough strength and leverage to drive the undead backward. When they hit the wall, all of them tumble over.

One hand closes around the butt end of my stick and almost brings it down with him, but I refuse to let go; this is an autographed Patrice Bergeron stick! I shake hard, hoping the zombie will slip off the end, but it doesn’t work. Doing my best to scrape the creature’s hand along the rough concrete of the barrier causes his knuckles to get caught on a lip.

I pull with all my might
, and when the weight of the zombie disappears from my weapon, the stick comes up and over my shoulder quickly. The next thing I focus on is the sound: it’s a sucking, like a stick being pulled out of mud. Then I can feel my stick stop like it’s hitting a wall.

There was another zombie behind me
, so I don’t have time to contemplate these sensations. Turning to face my next foe, I realize that it is already impaled on the end of my stick.

The pointy remnants of a hockey blade are buried deep in the cranium of a former Yankee fan. Good riddance
, I think while I pull the stick out and flick the baseball cap off its zombie head. The completely dead body crumples to the pavement and I have survived my closest call of this ordeal.

An occasional tremor racks my body. I just killed someone. Technically it was an accident and technically it was
self-defense, but technicalities don’t make me feel better.

I feel like I could vomit but there’s nothing in my stomach. I’m dehydrated and my hangover is coming back to pound the shit out of my fucking head.

For some reason, the ones I pushed off the overpass don’t bother me. Chances are they are still straining and moaning while they look for new people to try to eat. If there turns out to be a cure for this, those people could be helped. The Yankee fan is done for good.

There were a couple more zombies on the road
, but I was able to get around them. I considered killing them, but I was afraid I was developing a bloodlust. Even if I have to keep slaying zombies, I don’t want to get to the point where I enjoy it.

Now I’ve made it to the Fens
, and while a second ago I was in a concrete jungle, now I’m in a real jungle. There are more trees and plants than I thought there could be in the whole city.

This area is part of the old
“emerald necklace,” and there ends my knowledge. My dad probably tried to teach me more about it when I was a kid, but I can guarantee I wasn’t listening. The name makes me assume that there were parks that went around the outside of the city of Boston. Who really cares though?

A small creek or something is running in this park and I think it must go to the Charles
River. If I follow it, I’m sure I’ll cross Beacon Street again at some point and can be on my way.

There are no zombies in these woods and the footpath lets me walk quickly.

After about ten minutes of walking, I realize that I am probably going upstream. The Charles River and Beacon Street are the other way. I have no idea if this path is curving toward my final destination or away from it. I am effectively lost.

Checking my phone again reveals g
ood news. I am almost at Beacon Street and, in fact, I see a side street that runs parallel to Beacon, which may be even better. If the zombies prefer main roads, I’m happy to stick to the less-traveled path.

While I commit the route to memory
, a text message invades the screen:

“
Just heard from Cupcake. Don’t forget the rack. He’s serious.” Tucker reminds me that surviving is not enough.

When I clear the message from the screen
, the map is still there. It shows a package store not far from the edge of the green space.

When I moved back here from Telluride
, the first thing Wes did for me was download an app that added pins to my map. The pins marked every store that sold beer and wine in greater Boston. He told me you could never be sure where you would wind up and it was good to be prepared.

I’m pretty sure he told me he learned about the app and how to use it from a post on
the Barstool website, which reminds me that Tucker is not the only Stoolie in my life. Maybe there is more to the site than pictures of girls and totally biased fans.

The package store is on the side street I want to take anyway
, so I plan to stop and get the rack I’m going to owe to Cupcake. My phone goes back in my pocket and the hockey stick gets twirled once before I head out.

If zombies attract zombies
, they should all be heading toward Fenway. I have no problem going against the flow. If I’m quick and quiet, they’ll never notice me.

My
view of green slowly gives way to urban sprawl. In the blink of an eye I walk out from a dirt path under a maple tree onto a concrete sidewalk next to a four-story building.

I’ve been walking too long
; this pace is too slow. My walk turns into a medium-paced jog and I scan the street, looking for the package store that is supposed to be here. It’s very possible that Wes’ app was wrong or that whoever created it was just guessing based on where they wanted a package store to be. No Stoolie ever gave me the impression that precision was important to them.

At the end of this street is another building, forcing the road to the right and back to Beacon
Street. I had hoped to stay on the side roads all the way, but it looks like that won’t be possible.

On the inside corner of the right turn is a convenience store and I can see several beer signs hanging
in the window. I’m going to get a sports drink to help with my dehydration. I should be able to grab the beer here, too.

I have to cross the street to get to the side with the store. Everything looks quiet
, so I figure now is as good a time as any. The sun is starting to sink in the sky and that puts this side of the street in the shadows.

My eyes adjust and I see that there are a few doorways I have to worry about but no zombies milling about in the open. I’ll call my jogging pace quick but cautious
, and I sprint when I come to an entryway I can’t see the back of.

Stopping at the corner
, I feel like my luck is improving. I’ll quench my thirst, get the beer I need, and have an easy trot down the street to Tucker’s.

Poking my head around the corner makes me want to kick myself. My luck still sucks. The windows of the store on this side are all blown out.

Lying in the doorway is a corpse with most of the back of its head missing. There is no gun in its hand, so I know it wasn’t a self-inflicted wound. If the shop owner is here and defending his store, I could wind up being killed by another human. That would totally suck.

“Hello?” I call out, totally fucking forgetting about zombies for a second.

Nothing.

How long do I wait?

I’m on a deadline, so I can’t wait long. I’ll enter the store with my hands up and if the owner is in here I’ll offer to pay for what I need. If not, well maybe that was the owner in the door and he won’t care if I take anything.

The place is not big and I pass along all five aisles quickly. Not a soul to be seen. The beer is in the back of the store and I s
ee the sports drinks down the second aisle.

If the coolers are still on I’m going to stick my head in. Why is it that I only realize I’m sweating when I stop running?

As I walk down the aisle with sports drinks I grab a bottle filled with fluid the color of antifreeze. I twist off the top and I swallow a long gulp. I was never a fan of this stuff, but it tastes amazing.

A few steps later and I stand in front of the cooler doors. My hand reaches out and touches the glass door and it is frosty.
I smile from ear to ear, pull open the door, and shove my head inside.

The cold air from the cooler feels so refreshi
ng. I let out a loud moan; I have to react to this. If a zombie can hear me through a cooler in the back of an old building then I’ll fucking deal with it.

A carton of milk smashes into my left ear. My body bangs against the doorframe and the flab where my bicep is supposed to be pushes against a sharp edge.

“Owwww!” I cry out. Hopefully if there is another human in here they will realize I’m not a zombie having a hot flash and stop assaulting me.

In response to my complaint is a moan and buzz I am becoming all too familiar with. There’s a zombie in the cooler.

Fortunately the cooler rack holding milk and orange juice acts like a protective cage. The undead stock boy can’t get his teeth on me, but it looks like one of those hands might be able to do some damage.  

I pull my head out of the cooler and rub my ear. The door thumps closed. Even stupid shit like getting milk from a cooler is dangerous.

“Son of a bitch,” I say to no one in particular.

The impact of the cold milk carton has my ear on fire
. It’s that artificial burn that you can totally feel but know is going to disappear if you stop messing with it.

From around the corner, where I expect the cooler door is located, shuffles a little old zombie.
The thin, permed gray hair and horn-rimmed glasses have no place in this century. Her short legs don’t cover much distance with each step but she has a determined lean.

She’s wearing a smock that makes me believe she worked at this store
; maybe she hasn’t left since the 1950s. I can’t see anything wrong with her though, so I’m not sure why she’s a zombie.

Why can’t I do anything? Running is an option. Walking is even an option. The thirty
-packs are behind her though, so I do have to deal. Out-maneuvering her shouldn’t take this much brainpower.

Three steps later and I can see her zombie
-maker: a mouth-sized chunk is missing from her neck. It looks just like someone was giving her a hug and then chomped down. That’s no way to treat your grandmother.

Using a poke check I learned playing lacrosse, the sharp and pointy stick drives into her eye socket and back through her brain. She is so small and light I can barely feel her weight on the end of my stick.

Have you ever tried to run while carrying a thirty-pack? It sucks. In the unlikely chance that the load of fluid swings forward and back, the momentum is off and makes every step an effort. Most of the time though, the box moves in an elliptical motion and drives a sharp corner directly into your thigh with each step.

Also I’ve never had to carry a rack much further than across a parking lot. From the store to the car was usually longer than car to apartment. Plus
, once the car checkpoint was achieved I usually rewarded myself with a beer, lightening the load for any other journeys I needed to make.

For my current marathon
, I am stopping every half a block to change hands. I know I’m not in shape or anything, but I thought I could carry a rack of beers one full block. It’s kind of embarrassing.

The next time I stop
, I check around me on the sidewalk. Thankfully there is no one watching. When you put it all together—the rack of beer, the broken hockey stick, the wine box armor, and the sweaty matted hair—I must look like a crazy person walking down the street.

Whatever, I’m crushing blocks. At this pace I’ll be to Cleveland
Circle with almost ten minutes to spare.

A vice clamps down on my left bicep. Instinctively I pull away and wind up dragging us both out into the street
: it won’t let go. I don’t have armor on my upper arm and I’m worried that if I don’t break free it will be able to plunge its fingers into my flesh.

Using more force than I thought I could muster
, I twist and squat. In my mind, I’ve broken free and I’m ready to release a triumphant whoop. Reality is different: this thing won’t let go. Panic starts to set in. If it breaks my arm, which feels like a possibility, I can’t carry the rack and a weapon.

That reminds me
: I have a weapon. Thankfully it’s in my right hand.

I spin to the right and use my leverage to drag the zombie out into the middle of the street. In doing so I see the alley he came out of and the friend currently shuffling over to join the party.
My lifespan can probably be measured in seconds if I don’t get out of this grip.

Together wit
h my zombie dance partner, I twirl clockwise. It’s a clumsy shuffle and I stop it abruptly. Anticipating the undead lady’s momentum, I raise the stick in my right hand. I’m not skilled enough to aim for anything smaller than the face, and I hope that my pointy part finds one of the voids in its skull.

She was mid
-moan when my weapon connected. I’m close enough to see it knock out a couple of teeth and go through the roof of her mouth.

Behind me
, her friend is steps away from grabbing distance. My mind knows what to do and is giving instructions, but my body is not reacting well. I can’t pull my hockey stick from the zombie’s head. It’s left me cross-armed, and my left arm feels like it’s buried in concrete. Maybe the death grip did some serious damage.

Or maybe I’m holding a few hundred ounces of carbonated beverage.
The thirty-pack weighs a ton, but I can’t seem to let it go.

At the last second
, I let go of my hockey stick. My right hand races backward and starts my body rotating. The flab of my beer gut helps the energy continue and I pull on the handle of the thirty-pack.

Spinning as forcefully as I can
, I start the beer on an upward arc. My eyes find the opaque orbs of my attacker an instant before the case makes contact with its head. The force of the blow knocks the zombie to the ground and several feet off to my right.

As I follow through
, the handle breaks and cardboard disintegrates. My bus ticket, my thirty cans of beer, spills across the street.  A few of the cans pop and spray beer in the air. Others just clatter to the ground and role aimlessly about.

Why do the fucking zombies have to ruin everything?

Remembering that the blunt force trauma that would seriously bother a human is a mere inconvenience to the undead, I look to the ground. The one I hit with the case is already rolling over and trying to get up. If I’m going to have time to get my hockey stick back, I’m going to need to deal with her.

I stoop down and pull the steak knife from the armor around my left leg. The first thing I have to do is switch hands. My left is useless for anything more than wearing a watch. The inefficiency is yet another reminder of how poorly prepared I am for the zombie apocalypse.

With the steak knife in my right hand, I take the few steps to the zombie struggling on the ground. My actions should be quick and violent, but I can’t do it.

In the heat of battle I had no problem driving a sharp object into
someone’s brain. Now that I have to think and be deliberate, it feels like there should be a better way. Why didn’t I have second thoughts about the granny in the store?

I wonder if serial killers reach a turning point like this. After the first few killings
, do they pause over a victim? Do they decide that the thrill is worth it and go on merrily?

I’m confident that I am not a serial killer, just a survivor. A survivor who will be toast if I don’t get moving.

My foot goes onto the neck of my target. Again I can’t help but pause. I do not want to do this.

The zombie quickly grabs onto my leg and begins to squeeze. The wine box armor protects me surprisingly well. I can feel pressure but no sharp points.

Kind of ignoring the zombie’s grip, I drop to a knee and aim the knife in my right hand toward her undead eyes. The point of the knife misses its mark and digs into her forehead. A huge layer of skin and hair is peeled back, revealing the skull.

Her teeth are less than an inch away from my knee. I forgot that their bones aren’t brittle and you can’t just plunge a knife through someone’s skull. Being this close to the kill makes it harder to keep a steady hand.

Somehow I manage to steady the knife long enough to get the point into her eye. I collapse with all my weight onto the handle and drive the serrated edge back into her brain. The teeth stop chomping at my knee.

Before getting up
, I reach over and grab a can of beer. The sound of it opening feels comfortable and familiar. Tilting my head back, I pour it carelessly into my mouth. The delicious golden liquid splashes onto my chin and I close my eyes, relaxing instantly.

My moment of
zen is over and I hoist myself to my feet. I’m going to regret the beer on my chin later when it’s sticky and uncomfortable, but for now I’m happy.

Mostly I’m happy that my last murder was not the little old grandma. It’s
kind of weird how killing in self-defense can cleanse the pallet after a kill for no solid reason. Maybe I shouldn’t think too much about killing or the justification behind scrambling a brain. It could leave me a figurative undead instead of an actual one.

A quick shake of
my head doesn’t clear it completely but does remind me to get moving. I put my foot on the forehead still holding onto my hockey stick and pull forcefully. The stick pops out and I give it a twirl.

I can actually see my destination now. There is no Humvee there yet
, but part of me is afraid it came and left while I was fighting,

Nerves cause my heart rate to increase and the pounding of the pavement does nothing to slow it down. My jogging pace is now a flat run
; I want to be standing there before Cupcake arrives.

When I get to the circle
, which isn’t really a circle at all, I realize my most recent big problem. I have no idea where Tucker lives. We never met at his house when we went out and if he gave me an address I do not remember it.

“Whoo!”
Tucker walks out the door of a small restaurant.

Frantically I look around the area
, checking for zombies. Doesn’t he know they’re attracted to sound?