Zombified (Episode 2): Yankee Heights
ZOMBIFIED
Episode 2: Yankee Heights
By
Matt Di Spirito
© 2011 Matt Di Spirito
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without the consent of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, places, or events is coincidental.
First Kindle Edition: April 2011
This one is dedicated to everyone who read, reviewed, and supported Episode 1.
Remember: don't get bit!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
"Hello?" Matty stuck his head out the window and leaned closer to the intercom. "Anybody home in there?"
A banged-up yellow two door was parked diagonally in the lot and the sign was lit up—well, the second 'D' in 'Drippin' Donuts' was flickering.
"What the hell." He glanced at the dashboard: 7:44 a.m.
Fantastic… Sixteen minutes to get to class
. His hand hovered over the horn.
Piece of cake… thirty-five minute drive at a hundred miles per hour
.
"Welcomoodripdonuts," a garbled voice shot out of the speaker; "cantakeordplease?"
Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?
Matty ran a palm over his face, peering between two fingers at the menu.
It's a good thing they have registers to count the change for them
.
"Doyaneeminit?"
"I can't hear you through the speaker, dude," Matty replied; "so assuming you're open and taking orders, hit me up with two jumbo ice coffees—no sugar and easy on the ice."
Another string of chipmunk-on-crack speech warbled from the speaker, but Matty had already pulled forward. His rusty, dirt-streaked pick-up bounced over the speed bump and squeaked to a halt at the window.
Great; another pimple-faced terd that can't talk right, can't do simple math, and
—the window opened and the cashier reached out a hand, eyes glued on the register, and said, "Four sixty-three"—
can't look someone in the eye
.
Matty tossed a wadded up five-dollar bill in the kid's hand and snatched his coffees from the counter. "Keep the change, chief." He dropped one of the drinks in the cup holder, shifted the clunker in gear, and tore away from the drivethru window; by the time he reached the nearest traffic light, the first ice coffee was gone.
BURP!
He tossed the empty plastic cup in the backseat, where it had ample company. Inching forward, Matty gunned it on the green light and squealed onto the highway. There was only a handful of people out and about.
"On a weekday morning at ten of eight?" Matty looked around the roadside: the supermarket lot was less than a quarter full and even the fast-food joints were sparsely populated.
He clicked the radio on and tuned in to the local news station.
"Coming up next, folks," bleated the nasally female voice, "we have the ten winners from yesterday's contest, but first we have a few news items to cover."
Matty killed half of the second ice coffee. "America drives on Drippin'… yeah, well I think you mix crack in the beans, because it tastes like shit."
"The President promised more aid for our allies overseas as violence escalates—"
HONK!
Matty laid on the horn, holding it a good four or five seconds to drive the point home; a young girl with bleach-blonde hair pulled out of a nail salon, weaving across two lanes of traffic with one hand cupping a cell phone to her ear.
"Get off the phone, dumbass!" He mimed hanging up a receiver.
The radio news continued: "…and the latest superbug is making its rounds through the state this week. Even in the studio, we have half the staff out sick. Must be some bug! Health officials are saying to treat it no different than the swine flu, but that it poses no long-term—"
Matty cut the radio.
How many people are using it as an excuse to bunk school?
He laughed out loud.
I should've thought of that an hour ago
.
The highway opened to four lanes and Matty passed the blonde, hoping to drown out her conversation with his truck's obnoxiously loud exhaust.
Somewhere around eight the second ice coffee was gone. He pitched it into the backseat and patted down his pockets.
"What the fuck," he groaned. Reaching over the passenger seat, he pulled open the glove box and rummaged inside. "Not good, Matty. You're gonna be one cranky bitch without caffeine
and
nicotine."
If it were a normal weekday morning, his attention would be on the road, but the lack of traffic allowed Matty to rummage around his car without too much concern for adjacent lanes. After a couple minutes—and a lot of overturned trash—he found a half-finished pack of butts in the compartment.
Matty pulled one out and lit it up.
"There we go," he groaned. The cigarette disappeared in less than five minutes: he reached for a second when he saw the state trooper's front fender peeking out from behind a roadside billboard.
Shit
. He saw the needle topping ninety.
Might as well just pull over
. Matty flicked the blinker and eased into the right lane; the state trooper pulled up behind, lights flashing but no sirens.
Read my mind, buddy
.
Matty killed the engine and slid the registration and insurance card from the visor. The trooper stepped out of his car and donned the cowboy-style sheriff's hat; his boots clacked on the pavement.
"Do you know why I pulled you over this morning?" He asked.
"Good morning, officer," Matty said; "and, yes, I do: speeding." He handed over the documents and waited.
The trooper sifted through the paperwork. He handed the documents back through the window and was about to speak when the squeal of tires erupted from the road.
A blue sedan, spinning and belching clouds of tire-burned odor careened across the highway; it ricocheted off a red mini-van and skidded towards Matty's truck.
Screaming, the trooper tried to jump Matty's hood but ended up with his legs dangling and kicking air. Matty dove into the passenger's seat and curled up against the door.
The sedan impacted the pick-up's left front fender, reversed direction, and flipped sideways down the embankment; the sound of crushed metal and broken glass filled the air.
"Holy shit!" Matty pushed open the passenger-side door and bolted down the embankment; the trooper was there first, reaching through the shattered window and checking for a pulse.
"Sir!" the trooper yelled to the bloodied, middle-aged guy slumped behind the wheel; "Sir, can you hear me?"
The man's arm was bandaged from the wrist to the elbow and bloodstains were visible through the gauze. He was abnormally pale with blue—almost black—lips.
"Dispatch, we need an ambulance at mile marker nineteen." The trooper shined a light in the man's half-open eyes. "Victim is unresponsive with a faint pulse."
Another state trooper cruiser appeared at the roadway, lights flashing; two cops hopped out and sprinted down the grass.
"Sir, you're free to go," said the trooper who had pulled Matty over.
Without a word, Matty climbed up the embankment and scooted into the pick-up. He didn't even bother to check the damage.
"That was capitol-f fucked up." He sparked up a smoke and pulled out of the breakdown lane. Ambulance sirens flashed a mile or two behind him.
Matty drove the rest of the way in silence, chain-smoking and thinking about the man behind the wheel of that blue sedan.
He must have had that superflu they were talking about on the radio. Was he trying to get to the hospital?
Matty coasted onto the ramp, turning off the highway and taking the scenic route to Yankee Heights. Normally he took the same exit that led to Yankee Memorial Hospital, but the prospect of thousands of sick people driving in the same direction wasn't something Matty cared to face.
Highland Avenue was a long, winding road lined with overhanging trees and old rustic houses: Matty loved it. The drive took almost twice as long, but since he hated driving anyway, he might as well enjoy the scenery.
Nestled near a state park, Colonial Community College passed by on the right. Matty had spent four years there, squeezing out every conceivable credit before moving on to the more prestigious—and significantly more expensive—Colonial University. So far, half a master's degree and a mountain of debt were the only things he had to show.
The community college parking lot was barely half full, and no one was driving around in search of a prime parking spot—not even a campus security car patrolled.
"Are you shittin' me?" Matty leaned against the headrest. "Half the population of the state is sick? Nah." He did the math: half a million people infected, some of them at work or in public places, and probably half of those not showing symptoms were infected anyway.
Matty turned the radio on and tuned to the student news program at Colonial U. Voices crackled and hissed; he tried to fine-tune it but failed to clear up the signal. He tried the Rockin' Heights station and listened to DJ Blaster for a few minutes.
"Superflu? I'll give ya a superflu!" Blaster's baritone voice boomed. "Stop washing your hands every ten seconds and maybe your immune system will work!"
Matty shut the radio off. He fished out a worn cell phone from a hip pocket; the numbers were barely visible. He dialed the number for Bullseye, a gun shop in Wooneyville.
"Yo, Matty!"
"Joey, what's cracking bro?"
"Nothing," Joey replied; "and I mean nothing—not a single customer today. I'm bored out of my mind, man. I think I made about two thousand bullets already."
"Nice, dude! Save me some nines. I was calling to see if this flu thing was hittin' Wooney hard."
"I guess so, but I've seen plenty of people out and about. It's like all the other ones, Matty. A lot of people will get sick, but a lot more people will get scared."
"That's what I was thinking. There's bound to be a ton of people stayin' home just because and a ton more going to clinics, hospitals and doctors' offices." Matty took a sharp turn and continued down a narrow, wooded lane. "Dana must be swamped."
"She's home sleepin', Matty. She goes eleven to seven now—extra dough."
"Ah," Matty chuckled, "she still wants that dream home, huh?"
"You know it, kid." A doorbell rang. "I got a customer, dude, so I'll give you buzz later."
"All right. Take care, Joey."
Matty clicked the phone off and dropped it in an empty cup-holder. He fished out another cigarette.
"Damn." He held the pack open, frowning at the single filter bouncing around inside the box. "I have to get up earlier."
Twenty-five minutes later, Matty pulled into the campus parking lot; he was only ten rows back from the main entrance. A pair of campus security guards stood by the glass doors, checking student identification cards.
"What the hell is that about?" He snagged his backpack and hopped down from the truck. The rusty door squealed in protest as he slammed it shut. Ten steps from the pick-up he stopped.
Zero tolerance
, he thought.
Fuck it—I don't like this at all
. Matty turned back and opened the passenger side door; he reached under seat and pulled out a black case. Even with a concealed carry permit, university rules forbade any weapons on campus.
He pushed the case to the bottom of his backpack and covered it with notebooks, textbooks, and his netbook.
If they want to search me then I'll just go home
.
Matty took the broad stairs two at a time and strode to the entrance, glancing at campus security as he approached.
"We need to see student ID," one of the guards said.
Matty handed over the laminated card and waited. The guard examined it carefully, squinting and rubbing a finger over the surface.
"That's not a flattering picture, Matthias," the guard said, chuckling as he handed the card back.
"Nobody uses my full name, dude—not even my mom."
"There's always a first." The guard waved him through.
Matty stepped through the automatic door as it swung in; the lobby was full of students moving back and forth on their way to classes. Quite a few new faces stood to the side, chatting and texting simultaneously.