I'll start just posting the first couple of parts of this story I wrote back (with the editing of a great friend). It's a zombie story, but it is not as Romero depicts zombies, or depict people even. It ain't nonstop violence. It actually has dramatic moments. Hell, you might spot a few little themes here and there. But what am I? I'm just the dude who wrote it.
Feel free to download the full story here.
I
With & Without Preparation
He walked quickly up the stairs to the third floor of the building and found his neighbors gathered in front of his apartment. Even with the sound of his neighbors’ discussion, he distinctly heard something banging around in his home. One of his neighbors heard him and turned. “Hey, York! You got a dog or some beast in there? Tell me I’m not up in the middle of the night because of some damned animal.” Aaron, the speaker, wasn’t a man who was easy to frustrate.
“Alright, alright, I’ll take care of it.” York scratched his dark chin as he pushed through the crowd, and carefully pressed his ear to the door. He heard something inside the apartment scuffling and growling. With his left hand York inserted his rusted key into the bronze knob in the door and turned it while, with his right hand, he drew his police-issue SIG 9mm from its holster under his shoulder.
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Having been a part of the NYPD for over fifteen years had given him more than enough experience dealing with criminals. He’d seen thievery, domestic abuse, muggings, murder, and worse, but none of that would help him now. The reality of his situation devastated him, and the pain tugged at his mind even as he sped through the chaos that New York City had become. The steering wheel rumbled, clenched in his bloody hands as he drove through Forrest Hills from his apartment in Queens. The life of the city that he had known for many years had become a hell that burned anyone that it could.
These creatures, once people he might have known, walked in the filth of cannibalism. There could be a dozen or so of them on a careless person so quickly that there would be no way of saving them. Each of them was a bloody mess covered in boils, blisters, scabs, and bleeding under the skin. Because of their rotting skin, dead eyes, and dead minds these infected couldn't be called anything more than zombies.
York drove on, passing through Bushwick and then over the Williamsburg Bridge, finally falling under the shadow of the high-rise jungle of Southern Manhattan. Panicked figures rushed through the streets and into stores looking for loot or to escape the zombies wandering in search of food. He turned the car left at an intersection, driving over three bodies in the process, away from a burning van. An explosion of smoke and fire behind him filled the air with debris, blood, and flesh, but York continued on. He watched as police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks flew through the streets, some of them toward where the explosion had been; York knew that they would do no good, not with so many zombies around. They and other vehicles collided, throwing people from their cars, and the detective shook his head sadly at how quickly people forgot even the most basic safeties. His thoughts always came back to the same question: What the hell is happening? Almost without thinking he side-swiped a pick-up truck with zombies clinging to the back. The truck swerved, hit something, and flipped, throwing several zombies down onto the scarred street.
As he pulled up to the precinct, York saw that there would be no way of getting in. It was packed full of civilians, who were backed up out the doors because of the size of the crowd. Those unlucky enough to be on the outside of the crowd were being torn to shreds by the infected. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed his partner's number. He waited, but no one answered, so he tried again. Again, there was no answer, which meant he was either stuck in the precinct with loads of witnesses, or that he was dead. On another day, that might have been a blow to him, but York only drove out of the officers' parking lot and back into the street.
Well, he figured, given that the precinct gun locker was impossible to get into because of the crowd; his next best option would be a gun store. His 9mm wouldn’t get him far, if all of New York was infected.
Another image flashed through his mind, of a cradle in a darkened room, and a corpse by its side; both bodies lay unmoving.
The roar of aircraft overhead brought him back to reality. York shook his head, trying to banish that thought; it wouldn’t help him survive. He got out of his sedan, drew his weapon, and walked toward Patriot Arms, one of the places he had had to keep an eye on before but had not found anything on. As he reached the door, a hand grabbed his arm. He pulled away and stared down his sights into the pale face of what had once been an elderly woman. A screech and moan assaulted his ears and small red spot appeared on her forehead when he pulled the trigger. He turned back to the door and she hit the concrete sidewalk, spilling blood from the new void in her head.
Most of the rifles and shotguns were already gone, probably taken by looters, and so was the clerk. “Anybody here?” his voice echoed quietly through the open aisles. York leveled his pistol on a human shadow coming from a back room. The figure halted and readied his own weapon.
“Who the hell are you?”
“None of your business.” The unknown character’s response was almost nonchalant, but his sawed-off shotgun never wavered.
“Well, then, I suppose I’ve got to be the adult here. My name is Officer York,” he said, never dropping his sights, “and I suggest you get out of here.” He was in no mood to try a bust in a situation like this.
“I’m Red.” The young man pulled back his hood to show a long-haired, thing-bearded face. The dark pouches under his eyes betrayed the fact that he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in some time. York relaxed and slowly lowered his pistol. Red picked up a large blue duffel bag and walked towards the door.
“Okay, Red, let’s move our asses. What’s in the bag?”
“Only the best of presents. Not for you, really, but I can share.” Red set the bag on the store’s counter and opened it to reveal an assortment of firearms and boxes of ammunition for each.
“Good,” said York, “grab a set of binoculars or a scope or something.” Surprised by York’s foresight, Red did so. The few words shared gave neither much trust for the other, but both knew they didn’t have much of a choice. Any delay or infighting now would waste precious time and energy, which would likely mean death for both of them.
With their equipment in hand, Red and York headed for the door, York with his pistol and Red with his shotgun. A car engine roared outside and a single vehicle smashed through the barred and windowed front of the store. Both men covered their faces to keep flying glass out of their eyes. When they brought their hands down, the groaning of the car’s driver was growing louder. York only watched as it pulled itself from the car, leaving its legs behind. Red walked up as it reached the end of the car’s hood, trailing entrails. He calmly pulled a Beretta from his bag, covered his eyes, and hesitated a moment before pulling the trigger. The zombie convulsed once and went limp. Red dropped his arm and replaced the pistol in his bag. He turned to see York staring, and wiped his bloody hands on his jeans. “gotta be careful, it’s a bad idea to have some bastard’s blood spatter into your eyes or mouth. Whatever caused this is probably in their blood.” Red’s reaction and attitude worried York, but it didn’t matter as long as Red did what was necessary.
They walked out the door onto the sidewalk and got into York's sedan. York drove himself and Red north-east toward the Holland Tunnel, but traffic was terrible. Between the fear the zombies inspired and their actual presence in the streets, where they banged on windows trying to get at those live humans inside of vehicles, many cars filled the same streets they needed to travel. This was not normal traffic, however, as those trying to escape the city were driving as quickly as they could. Even as fast as York drove, cars blurred past over bodies and through zombie after zombie.
York's car had just turned the corner to enter the tunnel when another car bashed it from the rear. Once York had his own car under control, he checked and saw that the other vehicle had overturned, and that the roof on the driver's side had caved in. Fortunately, York and Red ended up with only a few bruises.
“Ah, shit,” Red yelled, “time to huff it, I guess.” York nodded and opened his door against an abandoned car, and Red followed suit, slowly standing up out of the wrecked car. Both climbed onto York’s car to get a better view of their path to the tunnel, which was littered with trashed cars and several visible undead roaming toward the living or ripping the flesh off of those who were truly dead. Several of the infected had noticed the two new arrivals and were slowly advancing toward them. York led the way toward the tunnel, hopping from car to car to avoid the zombies on the ground. Red panted as he ran because of the weight of the bag on his back, but York moved steadily and calmly, with his pistol ready. When he hopped down onto the hood of a small sedan, a hand shot out of the broken windshield and grabbed York’s leg. The hand jerked York’s ankle from under him, bringing him down backwards to dent the hood. He raised his weapon and fired as the mouth of a young chilled pulled toward his ankle. The body fell back into the passenger seat with a blacked red spot through its jaw and a gaping hole in the back of its neck.
Red hooked his arms under York’s shoulders and helped him up. “Avoid broken windshields” York muttered to himself as they started again over the cars. After a dozen more cars, they reached the exit for what would have been oncoming traffic, and started down the elevated sidewalk. A few undead were also in the tunnel, trying to crawl out of vehicles that had been abandoned by their previous owners hours or minutes before. Some people had been so suddenly stricken by the infection that they hadn’t even removed their seatbelts. Several of those struggled to unbuckle or break their belts when they saw York and Red, but they couldn’t evidentially remember how.
“Where’re we headed, exactly?” Red panted beside York.
York remained quiet as he continued jogging down the sidewalk.
“Okay, I guess we’ll see. You have any idea what has happened that made so much shit hit the fan? I’m not exactly up-to-date on the news,” Red continued.
“Don’t know, don’t really care. Just keep moving, try not to talk.”
They ran out of the tunnel into the gloomy atmosphere, and found helicopters hovering overhead. “Looks like they may try to lock New York down.” York stopped to watch as he spoke, while marines and traffic officers appeared near the vehicle entrance to the tunnel.
“Yeah, Good luck with that. I mean, this shit seems to have gotten around fast. Real fast. I didn’t know about it until I looked out my window and saw people going crazy on each other. I thought I was either going insane from energy drinks or I was dreaming. Either way, it just didn’t look good. Maybe the military could help us out, though?” The teen was getting jittery. York shook his head, and they continued jogging down the street, over cars and behind houses.
They broke into a two story house and made their way out to the roof by way of a balcony. Sirens rang over Newark. Red stared out in surprise at the clear sky and the silent skyscrapers. “You think that place will be any better? I mean, it will obviously be better than New York City, but do you think it will be sane?”
“Nope. I hope I’m wrong, though. We’ll go around the edge of it, though, just to be safe.” They looked over their shoulders at the New York skyline, which was clouded by helicopters, smoke, and fire. More sounds of screaming and gunfire came from the city of over nineteen million lives. “Never mind, I’m not wrong.”
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