MZS: Philadelphia (Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Book 3) (3 page)

Terri is an alpha nerd. She is using a tablet, her phone, and the Humvee’s radio, which she disconnected from Cupcakes phone without asking, simultaneously. When the radio finds a signal, it’s the same looped message—not a test, stay inside.

Updates from her prepper contacts have been slowing. The people who have offered sanctuary in Mexico are still there but not overly active. It seems that they are happy to help Terri but don’t feel any responsibility for the rest of the world.

The streets are oddly quiet. In New York there were still cars everywhere. Here it’s like they were preparing for a snow emergency. It goes a long way to explain the highway exits that looked like parking lots on our way here, but I’m missing the logic behind it all.

Cupcake has the Humvee rolling slowly toward Liberty Bell Square. Terri has instructed him to get to the square and then drive in circles outward. If some force had the planning and skill to clear and secure the entire city of Philadelphia, I’m not sure our rudimentary tactics will fool them. The idea of checking out the site of the rally makes sense though, so I choose not to grumble.

Every few minutes I lean forward and peek out Patrick’s window. The side streets have had some zombie activity but nothing like what I expected after the hordes in New York. Our truck is not silent though, so I am worried that as we pass the zombies will follow and we will be greeted by a horde as soon as we park.

It’s a mixed message. On one hand it makes perfect sense that the main route to the square would be cleared. They secured the city and part of that meant removing cars that could hide the undead or hinder an escape.

Zombies on the side street represent the other side of the argument. If there are undead walking around ten blocks from the square, I’m not sure you can consider the city secure.

Something doesn’t feel right but am I really in a position to raise a flag?

“Can we go through our thinking one more time? I’m getting scared and I don’t want to mess things up if we meet new people,” I say, trying to play ditzy.

Terri responds immediately. Her voice is inappropriately loud and I hear a hint of a slur.

“We are here to connect with other survivors. Once we understand their situation, people can choose to stay here and work with them or move on in search of an alternative.”

“And Cupcake, if you decide to stay, will you let someone who wants to leave take the Humvee?” I ask. It seems like a difficult question.

“I think so. If I decide to stay I’m guessing there are a few rides in the area to be commandeered.”

I sit back and let the Humvee fill with the awkward silence of fear. We all must have questions. Who are these people? How did they survive?

We roll a few more blocks in silence. I catch Terri tipping her flask frequently. She is not nearly as comfortable or confident as she acts. I wonder if the others are noticing her imbibing?

“When I was like seven or eight, my mom was a real mess.” Tucker looks to the back of the Humvee, where there is no window. “There were times when I would get home from school and walk into the house and know something was wrong. Nothing was obviously different than when I went to school but I could just tell. You know?”

“I think so.” I know the feeling that something is wrong, but never in my own home, never where my parents were. For me, home was familiar and safe.

“I was right every time. The first ten times or so I looked all over the house for my mom. Calling for her, searching for her, just panicking that something bad happened to her. I’m not sure why it took so many times to learn.”

I don’t want to ask him what he learned. I’ve known Tucker for less than two days but I don’t want to know him as anything other than happy-go-lucky.

“Her bathroom. She was always on the floor of her bathroom,” he says. “Most of the time she was totally wasted, sitting or lying there trying to sober up before I got home. Sometimes she was beat up; some guys didn’t like hearing that they had to stop having fun because her third-grader was coming home.”

“Are you getting the same feeling now?” I ask, trying to steer him away from this darkness.

“Not really. I’ve had it for three days. Just saying, you kind of get used to it.”

I don’t want to get used to it. I want to find a way to make it stop.

Terri’s plan is for us to drive to the square and then circle out. Her thinking is mostly sound. If there are people at the Liberty Bell or watching it, they will see the Humvee and expect it to stop. When it doesn’t, they will be looking for it. We will approach the square on foot and act like we’re new and separate from the Humvee. If we like them, we tell the truth later; if they are shady, we can escape back to the rig and get out of town.

The problems I see are Jaden—how far can a six-year-old walk?—and Terri. When Tucker said she was fat, he wasn’t exaggerating; she doesn’t walk, she lumbers. On top of all that she has consumed enough of her flask to make a sailor drunk.

“I’m nervous about Jaden having to walk too far,” I say. “Do you think that maybe we should drop a few of us at the square and let the Humvee circle for protection?”

“Stick with the plan, girlie!” Terri says loudly, with a full-fledged slur.

She is not the boss of me. Just because she has contacts in the outside world does not mean she gets to be in charge. When we get out of the car, I am seriously going to have words with her.

“Well, I think someone needs to stay with the Humvee,” I insist. “There’s a chance that we could outsmart ourselves. If someone is watching the square, they could watch us park and leave and then just come take everything, including the Humvee. Then what are we going to do?”

“How many tactical operations threads have you read? Do you have any idea about proven strategies for engaging with unidentified contacts? I’m a professional, sweetheart, leave the thinking to me.” Terri’s slur is most obvious on the word “professional.”

She is not a professional—she plays one online. It doesn’t matter how heated a thread gets or the credentials of one of the posters; the moderator is there to keep it civil, not validate content.

I can’t help but get snippy. “Are there any threads about being flexible when it comes to planning? How about ‘adapt or die’? Does that sound familiar? Reading about tactics doesn’t make you an expert on them.”

The guys are all silent while Terri and I argue. Cowards.

“Careful princess,” she snarls. “There are more than enough threads for me to know what militant groups do with pretty girls. It’ll probably be a typical Saturday night for you, except these guys won’t buy you dinner.”

“Fuck you Terri.”

“Yeah, fuck you Terri,” Jaden chimes in.

“I’ll offer up both your asses. A virgin and a whore. We’ll cover the whole spectrum of wackos.”

“Hey. We’re supposed to be together,” Patrick snaps at us. “Both of you shut up and look out your windows for anything that seems suspicious.”

“Now you’re going to speak up?” I demand.

Patrick turns and looks at me with laser beams.

“Shut up and let her pass out,” he says, whispering so softly I have to read his lips.

At least Patrick has noticed her drinking. I could have gone for a little more support, but this is better than nothing.

“I can’t see from back here. Can I climb up into the turret to look or is there a thread against that?” I ask with a lowered tone, but definitely loud enough for Terri to hear.

“No.” Patrick crushes my initiative.

Patrick looks back to Tucker who meets his gaze immediately. They nod at each other and Tucker climbs up into the gun turret.

I don’t need to be coddled and protected, but I also don’t know how to use the machine gun. Having Tucker up there probably makes more sense, but it still makes me angry.

As we approach Independence Hall Todd visibly tenses. Out Patrick’s window is a hotel and a street sign that reads “Chestnut St.” Todd must see something, so I move over and lean forward to look out his window. He’s less accommodating than Patrick and gives me no room to get a better look.

There are bodies all over the ground. None of them appear to be reanimated, which means they’ve each had a brain trauma. Did this happen before or after the undead rose? The crows picking at the flesh don’t seem to care when it happened.

Confirmed brain trauma requires specific one-on-one attention. A spray of bullets did not kill these people; they were targeted and taken out. It’s in keeping with the claim that the city was secured, but why not clean them up?

The people we’re hoping to meet are well-trained at either marksmanship or hand-to-hand combat. Or both. If we’re lucky, they are military or former military and will keep us safe until we get to somewhere even safer.

The world has gone mad. A cult of cannibals, large enough to take over the city of Philadelphia, are attacking and eating people in plain sight. There are more people supporting this action than fighting against it.

With no access to the outside world, I have no way of knowing if this incident is isolated to Philadelphia or if it is occurring across the United States. I have to believe this is a unique situation. There’s no way it’s happening anywhere else.

Eventually they will run out of food. My question is who can hold out longer, them or me? The answer frightens me: them. If they are crazy enough to attack a police officer and kill him, they will likely turn on one another when they get hungry enough.

I have liquor and crackers enough to last maybe three days. There were hundreds of the cannibals on the second floor. It could be months before they eat through each other.

Outside, snipers are shooting innocent men and kidnapping women. Inside is a crazy cult, eating human flesh. My choices are to be eaten alive or shot in the head, and neither is a good option for me.

Drinking myself to death might work. It’s kind of the opposite of my earlier decree, but then I have learned a few things since making that decision to sober up.

A flash of light comes through the window and I immediately recognize it as movement.

I don’t want to see another murder/abduction scene but I can’t resist going to the window.

Passing slowly down the street is an army vehicle. It has a machine gun turret on top with a young man scanning the street.

Are they here rescuing people or searching out the cult?

Part of me waits for the shot to ring out and the head of the young man to explode in a red mist. The other part of me wants to run out of the building and climb into the vehicle and beg them to speed off and never return.

When the vehicle is out of sight, my hopes crash and bring my psyche with them. Hiding in this hotel is not going to get me saved or contribute to stopping the cult. My choices are act or die, and I want to see Susan but I don’t want to die.

I don’t know much about military tactics. If I were in charge, I would send a single scout vehicle ahead of the larger force. Once the scout vehicle determines an area is relatively secure, the rest of the force can enter and establish operations.

If this is the approach they are taking, I need to take advantage of the arrival of a large force. To do that, I will need to be down at street level with a view out the door. When the larger force arrives, I can run to the closest vehicle and receive refuge. Once I’m safe with the military, I can explain what I know.

My stairwell smells disgusting and it’s creepy to have the body in there, but I know it’s safe. I can use that to get to the ground floor, but once there it opens into the lobby, which is teeming with cannibals. I’m not sure I can make it through the lobby without an incident.

There has to be another stairwell.

I wish I had a map of the hotel.

The back of the door has the standard hotel placard! It outlines fire exits and stairways for use in case of emergency. I would say this qualifies as an emergency.

According to the map, there is a stairwell that includes a fire exit on the ground floor. It’s in the opposite direction of the lobby. The idea of being away from the mass of crazy people makes me feel better,

They’ve also been kind enough to highlight the vending station on the map. I can stop and get a soft drink and a bottle of water in case I have to wait in the stairwell for an extended period.

With my hand on the doorknob, I stop and take a deep breath. I have enough booze to lose another day in a drunken stupor. That would be so much easier than sitting nervously in a stairwell.

Susan’s memory speaks to me: “Open the door.”

Pulling the door open, I step out into the hall, checking to my right before turning to head left. I touch my pocket to confirm that I still have my keycard, but it’s not there. I left it on the bed.

Suddenly, something hits me fast. The collision is violent and I fly through the air.

“Owwwww,” growls the young man in a white t-shirt and uniform pants. He’s also on the floor in front of my door, which just clicked closed.

There are four people following behind him. Based on the distance, they must have been trailing him when we collided.

“Where is it?” the guy on the floor screams.

For a brief second, he struggles to get to his feet, then changes his mind and instead begins searching for “it.”

The handle of a standard piece of hotel flatware sticks out from underneath my door.

“There!” I call to the young man, assuming the knife is what he’s looking for.

“Where?! Jesus Christ, just get up! We have to get away,” he screams at me and finally gets to a squat while whipping his head, around searching.

When his eyes land on the silver handle of the knife, he dives toward it and claws clumsily for a grip.

I’ve gone from sprawled out on the floor to sitting on my ass. My arms are out behind me, holding up my chest. The young man’s four stalkers are getting very close now.

They are covered in blood. At first I think they look like the people I saw on the second floor. Then I notice their eyes, or where their eyes are supposed to be. It’s the same cloudy potato color I saw in the lobby.

This is not a cult of cannibals; these people are sick. Something is changing their eyes and affecting their body. They may not be able to control their bloodlust.

Having extracted the knife from beneath the door, the young man scrambles to his feet. He turns to run, apparently prepared to leave me to deal with these deadly sick people.

A hand flashes out from the lead pursuer. It grabs the forearm of my fleeing friend and spins him around.

A glint of polished steel flashes and I watch the knife plunge deep into the eye socket of the sick man. My able-bodied new friend stands clumsily, trying to maintain his balance. Even while the sickened corpse crumbles to the ground, he avoids the mouth and teeth.

The quick sound of suction briefly fills my ears. A maroon stripe against a blue pant leg flashes in front of my eye and jolts me to awareness. He’s leaving me.

Is he one of the killers from outside?

There is no gun and if he wanted me dead he could have plunged a knife into my eye just like he did to the other fellow. Even if he is a killer, getting away from these things is a higher priority. Which means I should probably follow his lead.

Sicko number two is just stumbling over his fallen comrade when I start getting to my feet. His hand brushes against my shoe but it doesn’t look like a normal hand. The fingers are hard, like the nails have taken over the entire digit and become claws. They may able to tear through the leather of my shoe.

I pull back my foot quickly and hop up with a surge of adrenaline. I will not be left behind.

As I chase the hotel employee running in front of me, I can’t help but wonder who authorized the use of deadly force inside the hotel. When this situation is resolved, there are going to be a number of people who have to answer for their actions.

He slams through the door to the stairwell and disappears out of sight.

Concerned about the noise I try to open the door quickly but without banging it. The combination of nerves and adrenaline are too much for me to control. Just before the door hits the wall, something soft stops it.

“Owwww!”

My friend was waiting for me.

“Please don’t kill me,” I beg

“Did he get you?” he asks, while pushing the door closed until I hear a click.

“What? No?”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“I’m here with you. Of course he didn’t
get
me.”

“Were you scratched or bitten? Did any of his blood or fucking goo get in your mouth or eyes?”

“Oh my god that’s disgusting. No, none of those things happened. Why do you care so m much about a stark raving lunatic?”

“Do you live under a fucking rock? They’re zombies. They bite you or scratch you and it’s all over. Any of their juices get in contact with your juices and you’re done.”

“They are sick,” I mutter.

“Sick? Fuck no. They’re D-E-A-D dead. Or undead or whatever, but not human anymore.”

“And the knife through the eye?”

“You really have no idea? The only way to stop them is to destroy the brain. I don’t know if you ever fell as a kid, but I can tell you from experience my skull is as hard as a rock. You wanna get to the brains, you gotta go through soft tissue—eyes, nose, or the roof of the mouth.”

It’s funny how the inexplicable can explain so much. Why are the phone networks out? Zombies. Why are we under martial law? Zombies. Why are there men shooting survivors and forcibly taking women? Zombies?

I should have stayed in my room and drank myself to death. Susan would have wanted me to fight for justice, but against zombies? She would totally understand me giving up.

“So where were you headed?” Uniform pants asks me.

“The other stairwell and down to the street.”

“Good plan. I was clearing that stairwell when I bumped into you.”

“There are zombies in it?”

“There were. I teased ’em all out into the hallway. I figured they could stir around out there as long as they wanted. I needed some privacy.”

“Did you see the Humvee go past?”

“No, I wanted privacy so I could practice my guitar,” he says, sarcastic. “Of course I saw the Humvee. We need to get down to the street so we are there when the cavalry comes rolling in. The stairwell with the door to the street is clear, but we have a few obstacles between us and there.”

“Third floor is clear. I just got back about ten minutes ago.”

“Then let’s hit it. I’m Damon, by the way,” he sticks out his hand to shake.

“Hi Damon. I’m Parker.”

“Enough nice-nice. Let’s go. Fast and silent.”

Damon heads down the flight of stairs and waits for me by the door to the third floor hallway. On more than one step I think this could be a trap. He could be working with the shooters. But if it’s true, I should be dead already. I can think of no value that would come from tricking me before killing me.

As we dash down the hallway, I’m screaming inside my head: faster, quieter! The pressure to not make a sound but to keep pace with the guy in front of me is more taxing mentally than physically. Sweat comes heavily and I think I smell whiskey.

For some reason I expect the worst when Damon opens the door to the stairwell. His movements are sure and steady. A moment after he’s through, a hand comes out and waves me forward. It’s a good opportunity for them to ambush me, but right now I don’t have any more choices.

When I’m through the door, it takes my eyes a second to adjust to the slightly darker space. I faintly hear Damon on the stairs below me and quickly begin my descent.

The exit door has a side window that lets in natural light and allows us to look out and survey the road. It’s a smart design that I never would have recognized in daily life.

Damon bursts through and I follow several paces behind. As the door slowly closes, I remember not having my room key. If this closes all the way, we will be stuck out here.

I stop and spin to catch the door with plenty of time to spare. Looking back over my shoulder to Damon, I draw in a breath to call to him.

His head explodes.