MZS: Boston: A Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Novella (7 page)

There was no drama
as we loaded the Humvee. Todd and I each carried a couple of cases of non-alcoholic drinks to the front of the store and Tucker and Cupcake were loading them when we came back with another couple of cases.

Everyone
got a little silly when I grabbed a thing of chocolate chip cookies. It was like we realized that we were on an all-expenses paid shopping spree. Chips, crackers, gum and candy were thrown into the back of the truck and stashed in every available cubbyhole.

“Pike or
117?” Cupcake asks, as he turns right onto Chestnut Hill Ave.

“Pike’ll be jammed at this hour.”
Tucker speaks a perpetual truth. The Mass Pike is jammed at all hours.

“I like
117. This baby should be able to go up, over or around anything we find on an old country lane. One wrong tractor-trailer and the jersey barriers on the Pike could end our trip fast,” Todd says. It seems has thought on this a bit.

“Can’t argue that logic. One
-seventeen it is.”

“Why not
Route Nine?” Tucker chimes in. His eyes are still darting all over the place as if they were tracking a fly.

There is silence in the Humvee.
I don’t know if Route Nine is a better idea or a worse one, but I want to speak up in support of Tucker. Are we all thinking or is Cupcake going to just ignore him?

It hits me that we are no longer in a democracy. Cupcake
’s rig, Cupcake’s rules. We happen to be lucky that we know and like Cupcake. It could be different, but for now I’m going to trust things will be fair.

“I thought you struck gold there
, buddy.” Cupcake looks away from the road and to Tucker, sitting in the passenger seat. “Nine’s divided inside of 128. It’s another concrete funnel that could leave us trapped.”

Our leader
’s words are kind and soft. Cupcake knows that Tucker is fried but still deserves credit for bailing us out of that last attack and getting us together.

“So you’re thinking we go out through Watertown and Waltham?” I’m trying to get my bearings. Navigating around the city is not second nature to me yet.

“Yeah. Lots of side streets and alternate routes in case we need to take evasive action. Things should open up in Weston and we can put some space between us and ground zero.”

“
Tucker, you must know someone in Waltham. Do you want to cast some texts and see if we can reel in other survivors?”

Cupcake catches me in the rear view. I may have just overstepped my bounds. I don’t get to save other people or invite them into his Humvee. The truth is I was just trying to give
Tucker something to do so he could come down. A subtle nod from the driver lets me know he agrees.

Up ahead, I can see a single undead shuffle out into the street. Cupcake sees it too
, and I can feel the engine rev as the truck accelerates.

“Todd. In the nest. Don’t pull the trigger unless they block the road.”

Todd disappears from the seat to my right.

How can I help?
The best, maybe only, way for me to help right now is to keep my shit together. A task that grows more difficult with every passing minute.

How long do you have to spend fearing for your life before you get used to fearing for your life? I need to be scared; fear will help me survive. I also need to be able to calm down and feel safe. Balancing these two needs seems a herculean task.

Cupcake bumps the zombie in the road with his fender as we pass by. It feels a little sadistic, but funny. Killing a human body should hold more weight; whoever it was used to be a son or a daughter. Now they’re nothing.

Todd climbs back down from the machine gun turret. He sits in silence and looks out the side window.

We’re all lost in thought.

It’s been a long day and I haven’t even been up for five hours. I had sex, I think, drank some wine and a few beers but didn’t eat anything, went for a walk
, and met up with some friends.

Along the way
, I killed more people than I can remember.

Tears start streaming down my face. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand but it doesn’t help. My breathing gets shallow and pauses for a second. This is not keeping my shit together.

I try and stifle the sobs that take over my body but I can’t. This isn’t me, this isn’t real. I was trying to grow up and make it on my own. Now I need these people. And they need me.

It
’d not about having a nice car or eating at great restaurants. It’s about staying alive, literally. For what?

The meaning of life has never really been my thing.
I’ve always been more of a “one day at a time” kind of guy. The irony of that statement and my desire to curb unhealthy habits brushes past without hitting squarely.

Figuring out the future was always something for tomorrow. Most of the time the answer to
“what do I really want?” is a steak and cheese and a cold beer. I guess that means I’ve had a pretty sheltered life.

If this can be fixed
, what do I want to do afterward? Do I want to leave a mark on the world? I don’t know how to help
people
in a big picture sense. On the other hand, I wouldn’t want to waste an opportunity to make a difference.

The conundrum of my future helps me fade off to sleep.

When the Humvee slows I wake up, grateful for the rest. I’m also grateful that I didn’t have to think about falling to sleep. The images that are stuck in my head will make it impossible to lie down and sleep the way I used to.

“Morning princess
,” Todd says, with more than a little snark.

I glance out the
window my face was recently pressed against. The sun is setting; it’s the opposite of morning.

“I was waiting for a kiss
,” I say, tossing him a wink.

Nothing out the window looks familiar. More accurately
, it all looks familiar, the generic suburbs of Boston. Old white houses, a town square with three churches, and a random monument.

If we were doing what I am
supposed
to be doing, we would be looking for a house. My fiancée or my wife would be talking about the white picket fence she wants and how important a yard is for our future children.

We would be traveling in a German
sedan that we can’t really afford but the financing rate was too good to pass up. I would be wearing an actual suit instead of my jean tuxedo and the last wine I drank would have come from a bottle with an expensive label instead of a bag of plastic protected by a cardboard box.

What we’re doing now is by no means fun. It helps me to see that the life I was searching for would not have been all shits and giggles either. Why do we have an age limit for wanting to hang out with your friends and have fun?

To me that sounds like a better description of what you are supposed to be doing. Marriage, kids and a house are great, but not instead of being surrounded by a group of people you like doing things you enjoy.

Right now people that I like surround me. I don’t really enjoy what we’re doing but someday this will be over. Hopefully my friends will still be here.

In the front passenger seat, Tucker is out cold. I’m glad for him; he needs the rest. Hopefully he’ll do okay, as the supply of drugs dries up. I never thought he was an addict, but even a solid habit can be tough to break.

“Where do you think we should stop?” Cupcake asks quietly
, so as not to disturb his copilot.

“The nearest army base?” I
say. Really, I have no clue.

The plan seriously ended at
“leave Boston.” Granted, he got me farther than I could have gone on my own, but still.

“The army doesn’t really do New England. Base
s tend to be in the South.” Todd has a tone of authority, but I think it’s all posture.

“Why stop? Let
’s keep driving in shifts,” I offer.

“No. I don’t want to be out here in the dark. What if we drive right into a herd of zombies? We should only move during the day
,” Cupcake says. It’s a well-reasoned response.

Basically
, we want to hide… a Humvee. We keep driving, and I can’t even wrap my mind around the problem. There is nothing that feels like a solution for safely storing a large military vehicle. Traditional thinking is not going to cut it in this new reality; creativity will be the key to survival.

“There.” Todd
raps on his window lightly.

I look across the vehicle and out his window to see an old run
-down gas station. The pumps are gone and a faded old sign says “No Gas,” but the building appears intact and there is a single garage bay.

“Aren’t these wider than regular cars? Will it fit in the garage?”
I ask. The Humvee feels like it’s a building on wheels. I can’t imagine that we can squeeze it into this tiny old garage.

“Only a little. It should fit. Great idea
, Todd,” Cupcake says.

The Humvee slows to a stop and Cupcake begins to back it up toward the garage bay. Backing in makes a lot of sense and spurs my survival thinking.

An old garage is the perfect hiding place. It’s small enough to easily clear and secure, though I doubt people were here when the shit hit. The cinderblock structure is also sturdy; you would need more than a crush of undead to break down the walls. The clear garage door has me a little worried, but it looks like it should hold long enough to let us drive through whatever threatens to break it down.

Getting in could be tricky
, though. We could break a window, but that would erode some of the safety the place offers. If there’s an office, we could break in there and then close and lock that door from the inside. Or if we have to break a window, we could choose one higher up the building so it’s not obvious to zombies.

While I think
, Todd hops out of the truck. He has a pair of bolt cutters with him and I can see that he left a tire iron in the foot well. Once again, he left the vehicle without a weapon. Part of me wants to be a dick and make fun of him for his potentially deadly mistake.

But a
ntagonizing a guy I just met while we’re all on edge doesn’t seem like a good plan. Instead, I hop out of the rig with my hockey stick and head to the garage door.

“I got your back
,” I tell Todd as he searches for something to use his bolt cutters on.

A quick look of panic flashed across his face before he nod
s in appreciation. We need to be a team. I know from years of playing soccer that a huge part of coming together happens in the locker room or generally off the field. We’re not in the heat of battle so I consider this “off the field,” and a good time to tighten up our team.

Todd finds a padlock securing an L-bracket on one side of the door. The bolt cutters make easy work of it and he bends to lift the door. It won’t budge.

I’m glad we’re not under pressure, but I wish he would hurry up. Now that I’ve experienced the security of sitting in the Humvee, the feeling of exposure out here in the open is frightening.

On the opposite side, down by the ground, is another L-bracket and lock. It’s in an awkward spot and Todd struggles to get the bolt cutters
on the loop. I want to offer to help, but my gut says bad shit is about to happen. My grip tightens on the hockey stick and I prepare for battle.

“Pat, come hold this up so I can snip it
,” Todd calls. “Fucking thing is impossible.”

I can’t see a zombie
, but I am close to freaking out. Backing up until my back hits the garage door, I scan the quiet horizon. Quickly I drop to a knee and pivot to hold the lock up for Todd’s cutters.

“Hurry up
,” I whisper urgently.

Todd fumbles on the first try but gathers himself and snaps the steel loop of the lock. I don’t even try
to clear the pieces from the L-bracket or open the door. My stick is back in my hands and I’m ready for battle.

“Easy killer.” Todd pats me on the back and guides me away from the now
-open doorway.

The zombie battle is raging in my head now
, too. I survived the initial surge of undead; will I be able to survive myself? Physical destruction is not the only concern in this war. That’s probably true for all wars.

Cupcake backs the Humvee into the stall carefully. It is wider than a regular car
, so the fit is tight. To get out of the rig, he’ll have to climb over and use the passenger side door.

When the engine stops Todd quickly closes the garage door. It’s loud and I’m surprised I didn’t hear it going up. The noise brings me mostly back from my self-assessment. I scan the floor looking for something.

A random coat hanger feels close to what I’m seeking but not quite. Nothing else catches my eye, though, so I grab the coat hanger. Walking to the garage door, I bend the thin metal of the coat hanger and slide it into the track of the door.

My simple lock is easy enough to remove from the inside but makes it hard to lift the door. A screwdriver would be better
, but the owners don’t seem to have left any tools behind.

Bleary-eyed
Tucker steps out of the Humvee and stretches. Cupcake tumbles after him, not gracefully. Without a word, Cupcake pokes his head back inside the Humvee and emerges with my rack of beers. The thirty-pack is placed on the hood and Cupcake tears open the cardboard.

We each take two cans and stand in silence. Guys don’t do well sharing feelings. It’s kind of a stereotype
, but for us it’s accurate. We’ll drip our feelings out through jokes and insults over the next month or so. Right now silence says more than any words could convey.

The cans are opened and
Tucker raises his in the air. We all follow suit. It looks like he wants to say something but no words come.

“Viva
,” I say somberly.

“Viva
,” my friends echo.