HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse Read online

  I was way ahead of the masses. Cam had a bunch of survivalist friends who had inflamed my paranoia to a suitable bunker mentality years ago, so I already had a supply depot in the basement of my parent’s house (where I still lived with my elderly parents) that had enough guns and food to equip and feed a small country. Of course, post 9/11 we had all been expecting hordes of al-Qaeda fanatics, not zombie Girl Scouts.

  My first direct experience was at the hospital. As my part-time job at ParGenTech was in limbo, I accepted an offer of overtime Saturday night. The ER was overflowing, as there had been a rash of “flu-like symptoms,” which is a blanket medical term for “How the hell do we know what’s wrong with these people?” But these weren’t any symptoms of flu that I had ever seen.

  Granted, there was some vomiting, but there weren’t any fevers, and the four patients I encountered had a lot of non-flu-like things going on. For example, while I was taking the vitals of Jonathan Bronovitch, a 27-year-old bartender from Congers, he constantly twitched and fidgeted. I asked him to please sit still, but he said he couldn’t. It was like his muscles had a mind of their own, and involuntary spasms wracked his body. He also complained of sensitivity to light and sound, and a sharp pain in his head—classic migraine symptoms—but everything together wasn’t adding up.

  To me, this was something neurological, and the other three patients also exhibited varying degrees of involuntary movement, as well as pain in the head, neck, and spine. I suggested to the ER doctor, Sullivan Randolph III, that a series of tests be run to determine if perhaps some sort of neurotoxin was involved, or a central nervous system pathogen. The “Unamazing Randi” as the staff called him behind his back, like his more famous debunking namesake, was skeptical of just about every human action and motive, and hardly ever believed people were really sick. He thought 99% of illnesses were a cry for attention, and unless you came into his ER with a bone sticking out of your leg, more likely than not, you were treated as a lazy, insecure faker wasting his valuable time. The Unamazing Randi also treated anyone without a medical degree like a janitor, and I can’t even begin to describe how badly he treated the janitors. Never mind the fact that I was this close to becoming a full-fledged doctor, I was still “just a nurse” as he kindly reminded me, and he scoffed at my suggestion, and none too politely at that.

  “Besides, nurse, had you bothered to read the latest CDC bulletin, these flu-like symptoms are the result of a virus originating in southeast Asia,” he added with a wave of his hand to dismiss me.

  I have to admit—and it is with perverse satisfaction—that I wasn’t too upset when later that night around 2am when things were relatively quiet, Jonathan Bronovitch stopped twitching and lay very still for a few moments. Then he arose stiffly and awkwardly, and quietly crept up behind Dr. Sullivan Randolph III and sank his teeth into the doctor’s ear, biting it clean off of the screaming physician’s head, and swallowing it before security had a chance to take him down.

  More Questions Than Answers: By Monday morning, people were afraid to leave their homes, which probably helped save a lot of lives. Even though it was final exam time in many districts, health concerns about the rapidly spreading “flu” closed many schools. Local National Guard units were put on alert, but no one could devise a plan of action against so many seemingly random acts of violence. It was an unseen enemy striking the old and young, the rich and poor, the healthy and the sick. People needed answers, but officials gave them nothing more than the standard BS of “urging patience” as “everything possible was being done” and “everyone should go about their lives” as normally as possible.

  But nothing was normal, and the attacks were no longer restricted to the Hudson Valley. Isolated cases had sprung up around the country in cities where flights from Stewart Airport had landed. The bordering states of Pennsylvania, Vermont, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Massachusetts all began reporting mutilated corpses and I&Vs.

  Rumors spread that everyone showing flu-like symptoms or twitching was being rounded up and held in an abandoned insane asylum in the mid-Hudson region. Conspiracy theorists swore that the infected were being brought to secret FEMA concentration camps that were all across the country. Some even claimed this was all a FEMA plot to usher in a new world order. Panic was spreading faster than the unknown contagion, and my fear level was at as high a pitch as anyone else’s. After all, you don’t witness a man having his ear eaten without it rattling your nerves.

  When I arrived at the hospital, there was a strong security presence everywhere—and they were all wearing surgical masks and gloves. Before any employees could enter the building, we were all told to double glove and wear masks at all times, and to register at a security post that had been set up in the cafeteria. There was also a large trailer (one of the infamous FEMA trailers?) in the parking lot, and all patients were first directed there before they could enter any of the hospital’s buildings. All elective surgery was cancelled, visiting hours were suspended, and every patient file was being reviewed by a special panel.

  While I had seen the cannibalistic bartender restrained and carted away by the police, I was surprised to find that the other three patients with similar symptoms I had seen Saturday night were no longer there. All three had been admitted, but their records indicated that they had been “transferred to other facilities.” The discharge signatures were unrecognizable, and I knew the handwriting of every doctor who had the authority to discharge a patient.

  I was also unnerved by the fact that all patient room doors were to be kept locked, and personnel was instructed that no one was to enter a room without a security guard. The hospital now resembled more of a maximum security prison. Through the digital grapevine, we also learned that similar actions were being taken in hospitals in Poughkeepsie, Kingston, and Albany. Everyone was afraid and most of the staff wanted to go home, but no one dared to claim to feel ill, for fear of being “taken to the trailer”—even though they didn’t know what was going on in there.

  In the early afternoon, I got a text message from Phil, asking if I would please come in to work as soon as my shift ended at the hospital. I would probably be in for a shock, in fact, several shocks, and there may be some danger involved. I texted back the simple but effective, “WTF?” Phil’s response was simply that he would explain when I got there, but it was imperative I did get there.

  I was relieved to escape the paranoia of the hospital, but my nerves were back on edge when I reached the Tappan Zee Bridge. Traffic was slow, to the point of creeping and crawling, and I could see a red car about mid-span that was sideways, blocking at least the two right lanes. One lane was just squeezing by along the median, but at a glacial pace. There seemed to be some commotion around the car, but I couldn’t make it out as a FedEx truck in front of me was blocking my view.

  When I was finally about 5 car lengths away from getting past the red car, the driver of the FedEx truck suddenly lurched into reverse, missing my car by just inches, then rocketed forward right into the side of the red car, pushing it out of the way and not slowing down for a second as he raced across the span.

  I was stunned, and was in the midst of screaming, “What the hell are you doing?” when the words caught in my throat. Two cars ahead of me was a BMW convertible with the top down. A man was driving, and there was a woman in the passenger seat. A late-middle-aged man in a business suit was standing by the passenger door, leaning over, obviously attacking the screaming woman. The driver stood up on his seat and pounded his fists on the attackers head, shoulders, and back, with seemingly no effect. Then he jumped out of the car, wrapped his arms around the crazed man in the suit and threw him to the ground.

  The woman in the passenger seat had blood gushing from her scalp and was waving her hands wildly, screaming in a piercingly high pitch. When her companion went to look after her, the assailant on the ground grabbed his leg and sank his teeth into it. My training told me to get out and help these people, but my gut told me to get the hell out of the
re. I slammed down on the accelerator and hurtled through the gap the FedEx truck had opened up. I damn near collided with the two men, who were now locked in a struggle on the ground. I averted my eyes, but the sound of that shrill, shrieking cry could be heard until I was almost at the end of the bridge.

  Several police cars passed me going the opposite direction, so they would be on the scene in seconds, but it didn’t help assuage my guilt at leaving people who needed medical help. But there was a little voice in my head that said, “It’s called survival, and you had better get used to it.”

  As I entered ParGenTech’s long, tree-lined driveway, I took a deep breath of relief and started to unwind. Since the incident on the bridge, I realized I had had a death grip on the steering wheel, and my shoulders ached from being so tense. I always looked to the lab as a quiet haven from life’s insanity, and as I pulled out my ID badge from my purse and saw how much my hand was shaking, I really hoped I could regain some balance by immersing myself in the comfort of pure science. You designed experiments, tested samples, reviewed the results, made slight alterations as necessary, and then repeated the tests until you found your answers. It might take days, it might take years, but it was comforting to know that there were rules that governed the natural world, and if you played by the rules you couldn’t fail.

  As I slowed down for the guard booth, I prepared a cheerful welcome for Old Fred, a sweet elderly gentleman who had been manning some form of guard booth since WWII. I couldn’t imagine spending my life in a little box, but I suppose for Old Fred, it was his quiet haven from life’s insanity.

  “So Fred, how about that game last-”

  I fell silent when I looked up and didn’t see the smiling and friendly face of ParGenTech’s beloved security guard. Instead, I was being scrutinized by an army Sgt. Pelton, who couldn’t have been less welcoming if I was an insurgent wearing a vest of explosives.

  “ID!” he demanded, even though I was already holding it up to the scanner. I stretched my arm as high as I could without dislocating my shoulder, but I probably would have even risked that if Sgt. Pelton ordered me to. “State the nature of your business.”

  “I work here. I mean, Dr. Phil Masterson asked me to come in,” I said sheepishly, amazed at how guilty this man made me feel.

  The sergeant carefully reviewed some papers on a clipboard, checked and rechecked a computer screen, then made a phone call. He looked at my ID again, for what seemed to be an eternity, before hitting the button to raise the gate.

  “Have a nice day, ma’am,” the sergeant said as if it was an order to be strictly followed.

  The driveway curved upward to the right to the ultramodern white, windowless laboratory building that held more nasty bacteria, viruses, parasites, and deadly microorganisms than a public water fountain. But for me, it was kind of a home away from home—until now. My jaw dropped as I saw dozens of army vehicles, tents, windowless trailers, and guards (all wearing masks and gloves) with enough firepower to bring a tear to the eye of any survivalist. This didn’t look like my home away from home any longer. It was an armed camp that could have been on the front lines in Afghanistan.

  Someone in camo directed me to a parking spot, then scrutinized my ID again. As I was walking toward the entrance, I looked at the scene around me, and there was a surreal moment where I was certain this must be a Hollywood movie set and a director would yell “cut” at any moment. Unfortunately, I wasn’t looking where I was going, tripped on the curb, and went down hard.

  Instantly, four guards ran towards me, and I thought how nice it was for them to rush to the aid of a woman. Chivalry was not dead! As I reached up my hand, thinking some big, strong soldier would grab it and help me to my feet, I instead got a boot in the back that flattened me face-first onto the pavement. Then some big gorilla slammed his knee on the back of my neck to pin me, while someone else yanked a plastic strap around my wrists behind my back.

  I’m not sure what I was yelling, but I was yelling bloody murder, wondering if a bullet would be next. It was hard to breathe with the pressure from the knee on my neck, and I think I was about to pass out when mercifully I heard a voice order them to let me up. I was pulled to my feet and the sudden rush of blood made me wobbly for a moment.

  “How long have you been experiencing dizziness and lack of coordination,” an army doctor shouted as he shined a bright light in my eyes.

  “Ever since your goons tackled me and started crushing my neck,” I blurted out as all the fear of the past week transformed into anger. I surprised myself with the outburst, but that didn’t stop me from continuing. “I tripped on the damn curb for Christ’s sake! Is that some sort of army crime?”

  “Have you been experiencing any of these symptoms?” the doctor continued undaunted, in a voice still way too loud, as he held up a laminated card that listed everything from headaches to muscle spasms, to passing whitish egg sacks in my feces.

  There was another surreal moment where, despite my currently serious predicament, I couldn’t help but thinking what nice laminated cards they had made up, and wondered if the army had made them, or had they used a local print shop? Then it hit me that whatever this was had gone so far as to require standardized symptom cards. And passing whitish egg sacks, WTF!

  “No! I tell you I’m fine. I was looking at all the trucks and guns, and stuff, and I just tripped on the curb,” I replied much more compliant now, as I saw that violent behavior was one of the symptoms that was sure to land my ass in a sling.

  The doctor paused a moment, flashed the bright light in my eyes again and shouted again to ask if I was sure I hadn’t been experiencing any of the symptoms. As both sensitivity to sound and light were on that card, I made sure I didn’t blink or flinch during what must have been a test to see if I was infected. I assured him I was fine, but he ordered me taken “to the trailer” anyway.

  I couldn’t recall if panic and feeling like vomiting were on the list.

  I was half-dragged and half-carried to a pristine white metal trailer on cinderblocks, and then none too gently pushed up a short set of stairs and through the doorway. The door was then closed and locked behind me. I was in a small partitioned room with a simple stainless steel bench bolted to the floor. There was another door with a small barred window, which must have led to the rest of the trailer. After five minutes of silence I was completely freaking out and wanted to scream and throw myself against the door, but I didn’t dare show any aggressive tendencies, or I was certain my situation would go from bad to worse.

  Finally, after what seemed to be at least half an hour, the little barred window opened. Then the lights went off, and a black light on the ceiling went on. A voice on the other side of the door ordered me to stand up and turn slowly. Then I had to stick out my tongue and open my eyes as wide as possible. I was then told to sit, the black light went off, and the regular light came back on. A few minutes later, the door opened and a guard followed by a nurse entered the cramped space.

  “We need a sample,” the nurse said with zero bedside manners.

  The guard pulled me to my feet and turned me around, and I prayed this sample had nothing to do with egg sacks!

  Without warning, a needle was jabbed into my arm, and even without being able to see, I counted five tubes of blood taken. The nurse pressed a band aid on my arm then told me to “Sit down and wait here.” Like I had somewhere else to go!

  My mind raced to try to put together all the pieces. Obviously, egg sacks meant parasites, but there weren’t any parasites I knew of that could account for all those symptoms and everything that had been happening. I actually found it calming to run though a mental list of the Latin names for the all the parasites I knew—which was actually quite extensive—as well as the list of symptoms produced by each.

  I had quite lost myself in thought when a soldier abruptly entered the trailer carrying a knife. My mind didn’t have time to process the scene as he yanked me to my feet, spun me around, and cut off the plastic ha
ndcuffs.

  “You’re free to go, but please watch your step, ma’am,” the soldier said, clearly annoyed that my stumbling had caused them a lot of unnecessary trouble, which he confirmed by adding, “We don’t need any more trouble around here.”

  Rubbing my hands and wrists to increase the circulation to my cold and half-numbed fingers, I carefully stepped down from the trailer. I walked as cautiously as if on a tightrope back to where I had tripped, and stepped even higher than necessary to get onto the sidewalk. Once inside the lobby, I had to pass another security check point, then another after I exited the elevator to my third-floor lab. Finally, I made it to Phil’s office.

  “For the love of god, what the fuck is going on here!” I said in a whisper as I closed the door behind me, not wanting to be overheard being angry.

  “Calm down, Becks, I’ll explain-”

  “Calm down? Are you kidding me? Do you know what they just did to me because I tripped on the curb?” I said, fighting to keep my voice down.

  Phil rolled back his sleeves and showed me fresh bruises on each arm where blood had obviously been recently drawn, and not carefully.

  “I know, I know. I’ve been to the trailer three times already. Every time someone sees my nervous eye twitch they think I’m about to go zombie on them,” Phil said, as his nervous tick now seemed to be a permanent feature.

  It took a moment or two for the “go zombie on them” part to sink in and I began to feel a few nervous twitches of my own.

  “Phil, you have a lot of ‘splaining to do,” I said as I sat down and gripped the armrests as tightly as I had my steering wheel.