He heard machine gun fire and saw Joey and Dana dash to the gate; Joey fired a few shots at straggling zombies. A pair of ropes descended from the guard tower; they grabbed ahold and a winch lifted them to safety.
Dozens of zombies closed in on Matty. He heard the sound of a helicopter powering up, but there weren't enough bullets to hold off the munchers—and he never intended on making it into the base.
"Four." He blasted a zombie's head off. "Five." Another fell, spinning and landing on the growling mob below. "Six. Seven." Two more fell at Matty's feet, blood spurting from holes in their skull.
The helicopter rose slowly from the base. Joey and Dana watched from the guard tower, holding each other.
Surrounded by zombies, Matty lifted the gun to his temple.
"Now or never."
EPILOGUE
Joey took a long drag from the cigarette and flicked the ashes to the concrete floor. In the corner, curled up under a wool blanket, Dana snored. They had been in quarantine for eight days; Colonel Simmoneli required ten days for all new arrivals.
Boots echoed in the dim corridor, coming to a stop outside Joey and Dana's holding cell. Keys jingled in the lock and the heavy door swung open. Sergeant Paquette stepped inside, a pair of MREs in hand.
"Beef stew or spicy chicken?"
Joey frowned. "What do you think, sarge? The spicy chicken gives me the shits."
"Right." Paquette tossed over the stew. "But I call dibs on the cookie."
"You can have the cookie when you pry it from my cold dead fingers."
Sergeant Paquette tapped a hand on his sidearm. "I don't know, Joe. You're looking a little zombie-ish today. Maybe I should put you down before you infect all of us."
"Fuck you." Joey grinned and tore open the ration package.
They ate quietly for a few minutes, letting the main course cook in the flameless heaters.
"Any news?"
Paquette shrugged. "Not really, man. The party we sent out to Crankshaft hasn't come back, but their GPS is still tracking through the city."
"Who knows what kind of interference is going on in there," said Joey. "How many people lived there, anyway? Wasn't it over a million heads?"
"Last census had it at a million-two."
Joey whistled through his teeth. "If half of those are zombies now… damn, I can't even imagine it."
"You said it, Joe. That's what we're trying to figure out—how many people are alive and how many are walking around trying to eat the people that are alive."
"Did you get any information from the scouts before the radio flaked out?"
Sergeant Paquette swallowed a mouthful of food. "They came under fire on the south side of Crankshaft. Apparently, some surviving criminals found a new leader when the zombies showed up… and he's got a little kingdom setup over there."
Joey laughed. "Are you shittin' me? Fucking hordes of zombies walking around and a new gang boss is in town. Who the fuck is he going to rob?"
"Absolutely no idea." The sergeant chuckled. "Maybe he's thinking about going after places like this."
That caught Joey's attention. "Shit, I hadn't thought of that angle. There must be more refuges, right?"
"I would think so. We need to find out some more information about this guy before he shows up on our doorstep with a gang of heavily armed thugs."
Joey scratched behind his ear. "I dunno about that, sarge. We got thousands of zombies outside the gate, for one; we have machine guns, tanks, grenades, and a couple hundred trained soldiers." He leaned back on the bunk. "I don't think he's looking at a place like this… at least not until he can match our numbers or firepower."
"I don't think so, either," agreed Paquette, "but if there are survivors in Crankshaft, we need to find them before he does."
Joey gobbled a mouthful of stew. "So," he wiped a line of gravy drool from his chin, "when is the next patrol heading out?"
"I knew you'd want in." Sergeant Paquette shook his head. "You have the crazy look in your eye. What about your girl?"
Joey glanced over at Dana. "She's pretty tough. If I can't keep her from coming with me, she'll be useful here. She's a—was a—registered nurse."
"I'll drop your name to the Colonel, Joe. If you made it here through this hell then you can survive pretty much anything." Paquette stood and thrust out a hand; Joey took it.
"Hell yes," he agreed. "There's bound to be more survivors and we have to try and find them. We have to rebuild."
Paquette smiled. "I love your attitude, Joe."
"I'm alive, sarge." Joey swallowed; his friend's last words echoed in his ears. "And I don't intend to waste it."
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Thank you for reading the final episode of "Zombified". I appreciate it and I hope it was worth your time and money.
This installment took much longer to complete than the previous two, and it challenged my ability as a writer and even strained my imagination (*gasp*). Trying to keep track of two previous story plots and balance a new one was a tad more difficult than I initially thought. I appreciate your patience and truly hope it was worth the wait.
"Garden Harbor" marks the end of these continuous episodes but not the end of the "Zombified" universe. I plan to write short stories using the background, events, and themes created in the first three episodes. These stories will be compiled and released in novella-sized editions. Look for the first volume by the end of 2011.
As for upcoming projects, I have too many to list here. The two most likely to see the light of day next are "Wakers" and "Myrmidya: Wild Men".
"Wakers" is a science fiction thriller touching on the alien abduction phenomenon. A man with a long history of strange nocturnal encounters decides to face his fears and learn the truth, but that revelation comes with a heavy price. Armed with the knowledge of his nightmarish abductors, the man is no longer able to be a victim.
"Myrmidya: Wild Men" takes place at the same time as the first volume, "Warding the Magic", but the events transpire on another continent. Magic is alive and has a will of its own; events are in motion, triggered by memories and cycles from dim ages. Among the nomadic tribes of Teiraz a chieftain celebrates the birth of his son… and his enemies plan to murder the child before it takes a breath.
Thank you!
A sample chapter of my previous horror novella, "Painted", follows this section.
Sample Chapter from "Painted"
Party Crasher
Jack reclined in the seat, watching the town nightlife. Across the street, a banged-up, rusted sedan pulled alongside a pair of street ladies and rolled down the passenger window. They bent over, putting their cleavage on display, and smiled at the driver. After a minute or two, a blonde with bright red lipstick hopped in the car.
Another minute or two passed and a group of teenagers strolled down the sidewalk, passing by the front of Jack's cruiser; one of them—a young kid with pants dangling around his knees—raised a middle finger at Jack and grabbed his crotch. The others thought it was funny, but they kept walking.
Jack scarfed the rest of his hot dog with the works, washing it down with a long pull of iced tea. He was in no hurry to shake down prostitutes or chase off a group of punks. Eight years on the south-side watch was enough to teach Jack the basic rule of police survival: if they aren't shooting or beating someone, it was best to leave the natives alone.
His phone buzzed; Jack scooped it off the seat and answered, "Hey, baby. How are my girls doing?"
"You don't know if it's a girl, Jack," his wife replied.
"Yes, I do. I told you the day after you confirmed it at the doctor's office, didn't I? I said 'Honey, I can't wait to meet my princess', remember?"
"I remember." She sighed. "When you are coming home?"
"Cindy, it's the same time every night. I heard somewhere that brain damage is a side effect of pregnancy, so I'm not surprised you keep forgetting."
"Oh, now you're a comedian? Well, Mr. Funny-man, maybe I'll forget how to get up at two in the morning to feed your princess."
"Ouch! Take it easy! That would be neglect, and I'd have to arrest you."
"You promise?" She giggled. "When are you going to bring home a set of handcuffs?"
Jack shook his head. "I'm working, Cindy. Don't put stuff like that in my head."
He heard the sound of water running and splashing. "Are you in the bathroom?"
"Duh. I pee every two minutes, remember?"
Jack heard the toilet flush. "That's… weird, Cindy. I guess it comes with the territory, but I never imagined talking to a woman while she's on the toilet."
"Girls do poop, Jack."
"Then how come you never went to the bathroom in my apartment while we were dating?" He clearly remembered wondering if Cindy had regular bowel movements during their two-year courtship.
"How come you never burped or farted or scratched your balls in front of me when we were dating?" Cindy laughed; it was a high-pitched, squirrelly sound. "It's the same thing."
"It's not the—"
"Unit sixteen, what's your location?" The radio squawked.
"I know, you have to go," Cindy said. "I love you and I'll see you later. Be careful!"
"I will and I love you, too."
Jack clicked off the phone and pulled the mic from his shoulder strap: "This is sixteen. I'm on watch at the corner of Fourth and Chestnut, over."
"Unit sixteen, we have a group of kids seen entering a house at twenty-eight Tanglewood Lane. There were reports of flashlights and loud music coming from the house, over."
"Ten-four, dispatch. I'm en route." Jack started the car, turned on the lights, and pulled out of the alley. He turned down Chestnut and headed north.
The address rang in bell in Jack's mind; he knew something about twenty-eight Tanglewood, but the memories were just out of reach. It was a dead-end road, he knew that, but he also thought twenty-eight was the last house on the road, a gray Victorian-style building with a creek around back.
Jack clicked the radio on, "Dispatch, do we know who the owner of twenty-eight Tanglewood Lane is?"
"No, sixteen. The previous owner abandoned the property six years ago and there's no record of current residency and no contact information."
Jack frowned. "Dispatch, who was the previous owner?"
If it was the house he thought, Jack couldn't imagine anyone up and leaving; the building was gorgeous, spacious, and the land was at least three or four acres in size.
"Sixteen, the listed name is Robin Erasmus Montiban. Nothing on file with us, over."
"Dispatch, copy that. I'll be there in five minutes, over and out."
Jack hung a right onto Masonry Street and followed the winding road to a fork; he took the left, passing several side streets until Tanglewood Lane appeared on the right.
"Robin Erasmus Montiban… why does that sound familiar?" Jack chewed on his lip, struggling to connect the name to a memory. "It's an unusual name, but there's something else." He saw the house on the left; an overgrown yard surrounded the property, and a broad expanse of trees blocked off the building from neighboring lots.
He shut the car off and stepped out. No other vehicles were parked nearby and aside from trashcans, there were no cars parked on Tanglewood Lane at all.
Jack donned the police cap and pulled a Maglite from his belt. Sweeping the beam across the front of the house, Jack checked for any signs of forced entry or other mischief: there were no broken windows and the door was intact.
Standing on the front stoop, Jack turned and looked at the street. The nearest neighbor was at least a hundred yards away; trees, bushes, and utility poles obstructed any clear line of sight.
"There's no way a neighbor spotted a group of kids sneaking in on foot," he mumbled. Jack inspected the front door closely; it was locked, and there were no indications on the lock, or around the frame, that someone had pried it open.
An idea hit him: Maybe Mr. Montiban and some of his friends came home.
Would he still have a key?
Jack wondered. It seemed a reasonable guess, given the circumstances, but it didn't explain who called it in to the police.
"Dispatch," Jack leaned his head to one side and gripped the microphone; "I'm at the Tanglewood house. There are no signs of entry, no lights inside the house, and no vehicles parked near the residence. I'm going to sweep the property and then call it a night, over."
"Sixteen, copy that."
Jack walked around the corner of the house, shining the Maglite in windows and checking the ground for footprints. He came to the back porch; it was in disrepair with patches missing on the roof, peeling paint, and rotting floorboards.
The flashlight settled on the back door: it was ajar, pushed open an inch from the frame.
Jack queued the mic: "Dispatch, this is unit sixteen at twenty-eight Tanglewood. The rear door of the house is open. I'm going to check inside, over."
"Copy that, sixteen. Proceed with caution."
Jack drew his pistol and held it low. He nudged the door open with one foot and shined the Maglite inside. Thick globs of dust floated through the beam and a smell of damp wood and musty, mothball-lined closets greeted Jack's nose.
Boards groaned with every step. From the second floor, Jack picked up a faint sound of music; it wasn't loud enough to recognize the song, but he heard the pulsating beat of techno or rap.
If that's how loud it was
, he thought,
there's no way a neighbor heard it
.
Not wanting to surprise someone and cause an incident, Jack walked to the bottom of the stairs and called, "Kingstown Police! I need you to come downstairs, right now!" He kept the flashlight pointed on the landing at the top. "Hey! Kingstown Police! Let's go, party's over!"