Apoc Series (Vol. 1): Whispers of the Apoc [Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse] Read online

  “Only if you die,” he said.

  I threw a broken piece of asphalt in front of the Crossover, then shimmied around the back of the car and burst into the street. The man, his back to me, shot at the asphalt.

  “Put it down,” I growled.

  He wheeled and pointed his rifle, but before he could pull I deposited a bullet in his right shoulder. He staggered back as I put another one in his left. The rifle clattered away, and he fell heavily onto his back. The cigar flip-flopped onto his belly.

  The Z’s patrolled the street and sidewalks like nothing had happened. They didn’t even look.

  I kicked the rifle away and stood over him. “The King of New York?” I said.

  He wheezed. “Guess not, huh?”

  “Not today, friend,” I said.

  There was blood everywhere. He was bleeding out fast.

  “Tell me something,” I asked. “Did you ever have a wife or a girlfriend who bit you often during sex?”

  He furrowed his brow. “How did you know?”

  “Just a wild guess,” I said.

  “Well, you’re a cop,” he said, his eyes closing, his voice weak. “So you’re obligated to save me. I need help fast, so haul me into the hospital and find a doctor. Serve and protect, isn’t that right?”

  “Not today,” I replied. Then I aimed and put a bullet in his forehead. I picked up his cigar and sucked on it hard, twice, so it wouldn’t go out. I didn’t want to have to go searching for a light.

  Here’s how I figured it. This joker was as good as dead, anyways. Two bullets and all that blood. I’d hit one artery, maybe two. He’d already tried to kill me once, and I didn’t want him coming after me as a Z. He may have been an immune, but everyone comes back as a Z after they die. At least that’s what my phone told me.

  So did my immunity protect me from another immune who turns into a Z? Do angels dance on pins? I didn’t know, but I wasn’t about to take chances. The efficient solution was a bullet in the brain right then and there. Ending his career as a Z before it even began. I was always proactive when it came to efficiency.

  And yada yada, blah blah.

  I never was much of a people person anyway.

  ***

  My phone buzzed. Finally, a text from Captain Blodgett: Marks, urgent you find suspect #17. Pizza joint near 8th & W 46th. Get him here ASAP. Blodgett. Another text followed with the address of the pizza joint.

  I still had the list, and number seventeen was a 23-year-old high school dropout named Jose Ramon Ramirez. He’d committed a string of petty crimes in NYC and Miami Beach. And he was a hacker. A pretty good one, too, given how badly the Feds wanted him.

  But the assignment made no sense. The world was falling apart. Millions were dead with millions more at the doorstep. Infrastructure was cratering or becoming useless. Economies were collapsing, and food chains were dissolving. Civilization hung by a thread, and Blodgett wanted me, maybe the only immune on the NYPD, to find some petty thief at a pizza parlor.

  Still, orders were orders. I thought about taking a car. I had my pick of any on the street. But the Z’s were everywhere and they weren’t going to get out of the way. Walking was faster. And it was early afternoon on a pleasant sunny day. And the cigar tasted good. And I needed the exercise.

  So I started walking. And then I realized something strange and terrible. I actually liked the Z’s. I mean, sort of. In their natural element, strolling the streets and sidewalks of the Big Apple without purpose or destination, the Z’s were beautiful. Of course, you had to get used to how they looked. And the pungent odor of camphor.

  But it was like swimming with a school of dolphins. Even though they were sharks. I was immune, so they didn’t see me as food. They let me pass like I was a ghost. They were polite and stayed out of my way. They didn’t get into fistfights or try to pick my pocket. And they didn’t say a word. If my first wife had been that quiet, I’d probably still have been married to her.

  And they were decimating the rat population in NYC with fierce enthusiasm.

  In a way, the Z’s were the ultimate egalitarian society. Everyone was flat-line, no-questions-asked equal. There were no race or class or gender barriers. No one cared about sexual preference or what bathroom you used. Old, young, rich, poor, it didn’t matter. And every Z was a victim, who then became a predator. The symmetry of the whole thing was breathtaking.

  And did I mention that no one said a word? I really liked that.

  Which made me think again about Karolynn. Was she a Z, walking around somewhere hunting food? Or was she an immune like me, baffled by the spectacle? Or maybe she found her way, somehow, somewhere, to safety. For the first time in years, I realized I missed her.

  By that time I was somewhere on West 46th near Eighth Avenue. Suddenly, there was a noise from one of the stores. Or maybe it was a restaurant. That splintery sound of a door giving way. At the same exact precise instant, every Z’s head turned to the sound. And then they began sprinting towards it. That sound was a dinner bell. The Z’s had broken into some place where there were people. Real people. And everyone was hungry.

  The Z’s were always hungry.

  At that moment, I saw the Z’s for what they truly were. Raw brutal instinct made flesh. Their humanity had been deleted. The push of a button on a keyboard. It was like Alzheimer’s. You sort of recognized the body, but inside there was nothing that rang a bell. Still, that’s egalitarianism for you. It works only if people aren’t people.

  My phone buzzed. Another text: Marks, Pls advise whereabouts. Urgent we get suspect soonest. Blodgett.

  And then I noticed the suspect’s address was where all the Z’s had just run to. I sighed. One thing was for certain.

  I was going to need more guns.

  ***

  I reconned the place first. There were hundreds of Z’s pushing and shoving to get into the pizza parlor. I tried elbowing my way to the front, but couldn’t get anywhere. So I dropped to my knees and began crawling. I was wet from the Z’s blood and body parts when I got to the front. My fifth bullet eliminated the fat Z in the doorway, and I was inside. The smell of camphor was so strong I almost couldn’t breathe.

  The joint was small and narrow with roughly thirty-five Z’s angling toward the back. I didn’t see any bodies, so I figured Ramirez, if that’s who was in here, had holed up in the bathroom. At least, that’s what I would have done. Behind the counter was a side door leading to an alley. The Z’s didn’t know it was there, so the alley was dirty but deserted.

  Abandoned cop cars were everywhere. It took me three to get what I wanted. Two .500 Smith & Wesson magnums, one for each hand, and a trunkful of clips. I parked one by the entrance to the alley and left the motor running with the driver’s and left rear doors open. I was hoping Z’s didn’t know how to drive. I shoved clips into my pants pockets, then dumped the rest in the passenger’s seat in front.

  The plan was classic shock and awe. Donning sunglasses, I positioned myself against the wall by the edge of the Z’s. I loaded both magnums and began blasting Z heads at close range. The exploding blood and bone and cartilage blocked the sun. Everyone got drenched, including me. I pushed each body away from the wall after I shot it, then inched forward. Shoot and push and inch forward. Shoot and push and inch forward. Reloading twice, I slowly made my way to the front door. I blasted two rows of Z’s on the outside, then turned around and did the same on the inside.

  Before the Z’s could regroup, I shouldered the shattered door back into the frame, then propped tables and chairs against it. This would keep away the Z’s outside for a few minutes at least. Then I reloaded and took out every Z inside the joint. One by one. The outside Z’s pounded and already the door was giving way.

  By the end, it felt like a video game, except I didn’t enjoy it. I could still see in the Z’s the people they had once been.

  Slathered in blood and fluids and body parts I didn’t even recognize, I crouched on the linoleum floor and yelled into the bathroom
.

  “Ramirez, this is Detective Marks, NYPD. I’m here to take you to the station.”

  Nothing.

  “Ramirez, you in there? Say something.”

  “You got to be fucking kidding me,” a weak voice protested from inside. “I got the fever and chills bad. Ain’t you got eyes? The world’s ending, man. Just let me die.”

  “That’s just your fever talking, son,” I said. “We can get you a doctor down at the station. Just open the door.”

  “No way I’m opening the fucking door. Them zombies are out there. I seen them eating people. They going to eat me.”

  “I just shot a bunch of them, Ramirez. This is your chance to escape.”

  “How you gonna get away?”

  “I’ve got a car outside. I’ll drive you to the station.”

  “You fucking crazy, man. They be on us like ants.”

  “I blasted my way in here. I can blast my way out. You’ll see. It’ll be all right.”

  Nothing.

  “I’ve done this before,” I lied. “It’ll be all right.”

  “I dunno,” he said.

  “Ramirez, they’re going to get you if you stay here. You know it, and I know it. It’s just a matter of time. Coming with me is your only chance.”

  I heard scraping inside the bathroom. I think he was lifting himself up to open the door.

  “Better hurry, son. They’re about to break down the front door for the second time. I don’t think there’ll be a third.”

  The door clicked and swung open. Ramirez staggered out. He was a mass of sweat and could barely stand upright. His eyes were yellow and he shook all over.

  “Get me outta here, man,” he said.

  “You look like shit,” I said.

  “So do you,” he replied, eyeing me.

  At that moment the front door gave way and Z’s began pouring in.

  “Put your arm around my waist and let me drag you to the alley,” I yelled. He nodded and complied.

  Magnums in both hands, I blasted the Z’s with head shots as we made our way behind the counter, then through the door. I closed it tight behind us, then carried Ramirez into the alley. The car was still there in the street, the doors open and the motor running, like I’d left it. I poured Ramirez into the back seat and climbed behind the wheel. I glanced to the alley, and the first Z’s began streaming through. Meanwhile, hundreds were still trying to cram through the front. It was like a rave or something.

  And I’d just taken away dinner.

  Ramirez stretched out in back, one arm draped over his head, shielding his eyes. His shakes had turned to convulsions. He was as wet as if I’d pulled him from a swimming pool.

  “This be the end of the world, man,” he croaked. “What you guys want with me, anyways?”

  Grimacing from my own stink, I stared through the windshield.

  “Fuck if I know,” I said.

  ***

  I texted Blodgett that I had Ramirez and was on my way.

  I wanted to roar out of there, but there were too many Z’s on West 46th. So I crept forward, navigating our way forward like a seeing-eye dog.

  It took the Z’s about a minute to figure out there was food in the car. I think they smelled Ramirez, and the car was moving slowly. They surrounded the car, walking beside it, then they climbed on top of the trunk before splaying themselves on the rear window. Some climbed on the hood, then others on them, then still others on them, layered like a stack of pancakes.

  I ignored them. I was waiting for the main event. It didn’t take long—the front windshield. The Z’s beat against it with their faces to get in. I waited until I couldn’t see, then steered with my knees while reloading both magnums. My first shots took out the windshield, then I began eliminating Z’s, some hanging upside down from the hood.

  Camphor flooded into the car, and it was hard to breathe. But I couldn’t afford to lower any windows.

  “You OK back there?” I yelled to Ramirez.

  “Having the time of my fucking life,” he replied, then groaned.

  The bodies piled high on the hood, making it hard to see, so I stepped on the accelerator before pumping the brakes. The bodies flew off in front of the car, but then were replaced by live bodies falling from the roof. One fell into the car as I reloaded. I splattered its face against the side window, and the headless trunk collapsed against the front seat, its legs, still moving, sticking out through the windshield.

  I reloaded as fast as I could, but the Z’s kept coming. I continued the pattern of accelerating and braking, but we were being inundated. The Z’s falling in front of the car were a speed bump. Each time, the car strained harder to surmount the hurdle. But how long would it take for the Z’s to become a logjam, trapping us?

  The back windshield cracked, and I glanced over my shoulder. I saw faces slammed against the glass, their mouths wide like they thought they could bite through.

  Fighting panic, I decided to risk flooring it. The car lurched ahead, then broke free as I mangled the Z’s in our way. I thought if I got up enough speed the Z’s couldn’t stop me. But I was wrong. When I slammed into four Z’s at once, the car bounced as it tried to roll over them. And then it stopped.

  I floored it, and the engine roared, but the car didn’t move. I thought I smelled smoke. I fumbled the magnums, then realized the clips were gone. I reached for the .380 in my sock and prepared to shoulder my way out of the car. Was I Butch Cassidy or the Sundance Kid?

  Then I sat back in the seat, breathing hard. Everything was quiet. The car had stopped rocking. The front hood was clear. No faces peered into the space that used to be the windshield. I turned off the ignition.

  I looked over my shoulder, and the back seat was empty. Ramirez was gone. I rolled down my window, and after a few seconds I spotted him, ambling away with the rest of the Z’s. The fever had finally taken him and he’d crossed over.

  The car was a wreck, but at least the Z’s were gone. Two were still under the front bumper struggling to get free. I was too tired to kill them or move the car, so I left them there. I peered back at the carnage I’d inflicted on the Z’s while trying to save Ramirez. Their mutilated bodies lay strewn like parade litter for at least a mile.

  And not one of them had even tried to bite me.

  I leaned against what was left of the vehicle, then took out my phone to text the captain. It hit me as I scrolled through the texts. I read them twice just to be sure. I grimaced, then I smiled, then I laughed out loud. I pounded the car twice, hard, with my left hand. Then I reared back and threw the phone as far as I could. I watched it shatter on impact.

  I’d been played. How could I be so stupid?

  ***

  First things first. I found a swanky restaurant, strolled into their swanky bathroom, and put my head under a faucet for about ten minutes. Then I found a nearby men’s shop, stripped naked by the cash register, and treated myself to new clothes, head to toe. I ignored the price tags.

  But no tie. I decided in favor of casual Tuesdays from that day forward.

  Then I went to find him. I doubted he’d strayed far from the precinct. Something about cops. They never wander too far from home. It took about an hour, but I finally spied him in the deli two blocks from the station. The one he ate at nearly every day for lunch. He was walking in circles in front of the fresh meat counter, as if waiting to be served one last time.

  “I hate to do this, Dagwood,” I said when I found him, “but I can’t risk having you run off on me.” So I took my .380 and emptied the last round into Captain Blodgett’s forehead. Then I dragged his body out of sight behind the counter.

  I took my time reporting to his office. The precinct was largely empty. A few Z’s wandered around, but I didn’t see a single person. When I entered the office, Jon Jonny 16 was seated in his chair, his right arm still handcuffed to Blodgett’s desk.

  He stood up. “There you are,” he said, with some exasperation. “We’ve been waiting for nearly two hours. You
stopped texting.”

  “We?” I asked.

  “Well, Captain Blodgett and I,” he said, then sat back down.

  I sat in Blodgett’s chair and twirled around on it. I loved chairs that let you spin.

  “Tell me the truth,” I said. “Did Blodgett send even one of those texts? Or was he already a zombie?”

  Jon Jonny 16 didn’t answer right away. You know, like he was thinking. “They all came from me,” he said finally.

  “I should have known,” I said. “They were addressed to Marks, but Blodgett always called me Mark, just Mark.”

  “Ah, right you are,” Jon Jonny 16 said.

  “And I can guess why you wanted Ramirez,” I said, pointing at his cuffs. “They’re digital. Tough to crack unless you know how.”

  “Yes,” Jon Jonny 16 said, with annoyance. “The world is experiencing foundational change and I’m chained to a desk. Might I ask what has happened to our Mr. Ramirez?”

  “He’s a Z now,” I said. “So it looks like you’re stuck. Unless, of course, you can find Blodgett. His digital scanner could unleash you in a second.”

  I smiled like the cat that ate the canary.

  Jon Jonny 16 stared at me. “You have the scanner, don’t you?” It was an accusation.

  As he spoke, other Jon Jonnies sidled in. All of them three feet high and gold. And presumably with the same snooty English accent. Blodgett’s office wasn’t that big, but twenty or more managed to crowd in.

  “I suggest you give it to me now,” Jon Jonny 16 said, standing up, reaching out with his hand. “You’d be surprised what we’re capable of.”

  I surveyed the Jon Jonnies and leaned back in the chair. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Which is why I don’t have the scanner on me.”

  Then I leaned forward conspiratorially. “But I may know where it is,” I whispered.

  Jon Jonny 16 sat down.

  “Tell me something,” I said. “You’re awake, aren’t you? I mean, you know, aware. You’re all aware.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “How long has that been going on?”