Wildfire will be available for Kindle and Nook within the next two weeks. Until then, I hope you enjoy this preview chapter.
Chapter
One
Maria Gilardo crouched by the
hospital's side entrance. Across the street was the six-story parking
garage. She would have to steel herself and make a run for the
garage. She was beginning to think herself foolish for leaving Emma
and the others, but her first priority was Jake. She wanted to hear
his voice. That slight crack that entered into it once and a while.
Calling Jake right now wasn't possible. Her cell phone was in the
Honda and she didn't dare linger in the hospital to use the phone.
He was a smart boy. Maria made him lock
the doors when she wasn't home. He kept a Louisville Slugger and a
hunting knife that had been his father's stashed in his bedroom. The
knife didn't thrill her, but Jake was a good kid and she trusted him
not to use it unless someone was busting the door down.
Now, she scanned the strip of road that
separated the parking garage from St. Mary's main building. There was
no sign of any freaks. With a hitch in her belly, she sprinted for
the parking garage. She reached it to find the glass attendant's
booth empty. The yellow arm that protected the entrance was raised.
She had parked on the fifth level.
Maria went to the elevator, hit the button, and waited for the doors
to open. Multiple times she thought she heard footsteps on the
concrete. The doors opened and the faint odor of urine wafted out.
She took the elevator to the fifth
level and got out. The Honda was parked at the end of the first row.
The wind whipped through the garage, blowing a dirty newspaper across
her path. There were ten cars left in the row. Maria guessed some of
the staff had made it to their cars and taken off.
She reached the Honda and dug into her
pocket. Pulling out the keys, her hand shook. She dropped them and
they clattered on the ground. She bent down and picked them up.
That's when she heard the sound, a soft scraping on the concrete.
She crept to the rear bumper and peered
down the row. It was the ramp attendant. His shirt was painted with
blood and the knees were torn out of his pants. He stopped, sniffed
the air. As she started to back toward the driver's side door, the
attendant saw her. He broke into a run, arms pinwheeling. Dammit
he was fast.
Scrambling to get the keys in the lock,
she saw the attendant closing. There was no time to get the key in
the lock, so she flattened out and slipped under the car. A moment
later she saw the dark-skinned man with the egg-white eyes peer under
the car. The bastard looked like he was grinning. He reached for
Maria and she slapped his hand away.
He was flat on the ground, straining to
reach. Maria inched away. The undead attendant pressed closer,
attempting to squeeze under the Honda.
Maria remembered a tip from a women's
self defense course the Sheriff's office had put on at the hospital.
She gripped the Honda's key, point out between her knuckles. With it,
you could go for an attacker's eye. The zombie wedged itself under
the car. Maria jammed the key into its eye. It pulled back and she
scooted out from under the Honda.
Kneeling, she unlocked the passenger
door and slipped in. She locked the door. Then she climbed over the
center console and got behind the wheel. The attendant, his eye
dripping goo, pressed against his face against the window.
Maria started up the Honda, got it in
reverse, and backed out. The attendant gripped the door and she could
hear him being dragged. She turned the corner to head back to the
entrance and heard a thump as the Honda's rear wheel rolled over the
dead man.
She pulled out of the ramp. Had to put
a death grip on the wheel to keep her hands steady. The hot glow of a
fire burned in the distance, and oily black smoke rose into the air.
It made her think of fire and brimstone. The pits of Hell. She didn't
know what could have gone up to cause smoke like that.
She reached her little Cape Cod and
pulled in the driveway. The lights were out, but nothing looked out
of place. Jake might be upstairs watching television. He usually did
so with the lights off.
After putting the car in park, she got
out and went inside. The smell of pepperoni and cheese hung in the
air. She guessed Jake had made himself a microwave pizza. Advancing
through the house, she called his name. When she got to the stairs
she stopped and listened, straining to hear the television. It was as
quiet as a tomb.
She went upstairs, the stair risers
squeaking under her weight. She called his name. At the top of the
stairs she turned right. Jake's bedroom door was closed. Maria
expected to hear Avenged Sevenfold or Megadeth blasting through the
speakers, but it was silent. That gave her a chill. She knocked on
the door.
“Who is it? I've got a knife.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Jake,
it's mom.”
“Hang on,” he said, sounding
muffled through the door.
Thumps and bangs came from behind the
door. It sounded as if he were moving furniture.
A moment later, he opened the door. She
marveled at how much taller he seemed every time she looked at him.
Tonight the t-shirt of choice depicted the band Lamb of God. A pair
of ripped jeans and black Chuck Taylors rounded out his outfit.
“Preparing for the apocalypse?”
“Did you see those things out there?”
If only you knew, she thought. “Yeah,
the world's gone off its psych meds.”
She saw the hunting knife and
Louisville Slugger on his desk. Next to the desk was a little
Marshall amp and his Jackson flying V.
“So you saw them?”
There was no sense lying to him, or
trying to sugarcoat things. “They got loose in the hospital.
Overran the place.”
“Shit. That's bad.”
“Watch the English, young man.”
“Are you hurt?” Jake asked.
“I'm in one piece. How did you know
what was going on?”
“I heard a bunch of noise. Growls. I
looked out the window and there were a bunch of freaks out in the
street. So I barricaded myself in,” Jake said.
“Why's it like the inside of a cave
in here?”
“The lights? They'd see them. Give me
away.”
Smart kid, she thought. “Is the back
door locked?”
“Yep.”
“I wish your father was here.”
“To protect us?”
“To stay with you. I hate leaving you
alone. What if something had happened?” Maria said.
“Any zombies show up, I'll beat them
down.”
She didn't want to tell him that he'd
last not two minutes against those things. “That's the spirit,
zombie slayer.”
“What caused it?”
“Something with that flu bug that's
going around.”
Something crashed outside. It sounded
like a garbage can being tipped over. Her stomach clenched in a knot.
The noise had come from the back yard and she slipped into Jake's
room, stepping over a balled up pair of sweatpants. Memo to Jake:
clean your room. Jake's window overlooked the back yard.
Maria eased the drape away from the
window and looked down upon the yard. Nothing by the two-car garage.
She spotted the cause of the noise. A man the size of a small boulder
trudged across the yard. Blood streaked the side of his face. Maria
replaced the drape and backed away from the window.
“Not a sound. They're outside.”
They huddled in the living room, the
drapes drawn. She could hear them stomping and muttering to
themselves outside. Their shadows danced against the thin drapes. It
was only a matter of time before one of them tried to get in the
house.
“We got to boogie, my friend,”
Maria said.
“Why?”
“They'll find a way in,” Maria
said.
“We can go to the basement, lock up,”
Jake said.
“We'd be trapped. Listen up. Very
quietly, we need to gather some supplies. Clothes. Food. The whole
town's not safe.”
“I don't want to leave.”
“We might be back someday,” Maria
said. “But not now.”
She watched him, saw the tears form in
his eyes. For all his bravado sometimes, he was still a boy. She put
her arm around Jake and gave him a squeeze. “Go upstairs and get
some clothes in a backpack.”
“Can I bring my guitar?”
“Jake, not now.”
“Please.”
“All right. But make it quick. Go.”
Jake scampered up the stairs. Maria
went to her bedroom and packed a bag of clothes and toiletries. Then
she went to the kitchen and boxed up dry goods: cereals and granola
bars. She took five cans of pork and beans, the can opener, and a
flashlight. Then she grabbed a few afghans off the couch and set
everything by the front door. The pile of survival goods seemed
woefully inadequate.
Jake returned with a backpack slung
over one shoulder. He also had the survival knife and baseball bat.
They didn't own any guns.
“Didn't bring the guitar?”
“It'll be here when we get back,”
Jake said.
“I like the way you think.”
She peered out the front window. The
Honda sat bathed in early morning sunlight. The street was empty.
They picked up their supplies and Maria opened the door. The chilly
air stung her cheeks. When she was sure things were clear, she said:
“Okay. Move like your pants are on fire.”
“Really?”
“You haven't seen these things in
action,” Maria said.
They reached the Honda. Got the
supplies and packs into the back seat. As Maria turned she caught
movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned around and saw one
of them coming across the lawn. She got a nasty, greasy feeling in
her stomach. The zombie was a kid – nine or ten. Not just any kid.
It was Dylan, the boy from two doors down. His thick, black hair was
matted with blood.
“Jake, hand me the bat.”
She reached her hand out, not taking
her eyes off of the dead Dylan. A series of strangled grunts came
from the boy. Jake slipped the bat into her hand. It felt oddly
disconnected. Gripping the bat with both hands, she said: “Don't
look.”
Dylan saw the bat, narrowed his eyes,
and charged. Maria planted her feet and swung. The bat connected,
sounding like she'd smacked a hollow log. Dylan staggered sideways
and fell. She took a deep breath and swung the bat as if splitting
wood. It took four blows to finish him off. Dizziness flooded her
head and tears stung her eyes. Had it really come to this?
“Mom, you okay?”
“He was just a boy.”
“But he wasn't Dylan anymore. You
could see it.”
“Get in the car before more of them
show up,” she said, wiping the Louisville Slugger on the grass. “I
feel sick.”
Copyright 2012 Anthony Izzo
