Free Zombified (Episode 2): Yankee Heights by Matt Di Spirito

the bus.  Pistol in hand, he walked to the center, standing on a billboard for some cosmetic product promising healthy, younger-looking skin.
    Something banged behind him; Matty whirled around, hands locked on the gun.  It came from inside the bus: zombies slapped and smashed their heads on the windows and walls, lured by the sights and sounds of food.  The overturned vehicle was packed with them; thirty-plus faces and pairs of hands drummed on the glass. 
    Matty watched as zombies from down the street turned their heads in his direction and groaned; as they called out, munchers farther away repeated the process.  They draw one another in with the calls , he thought.
    Hundreds from the shopping complex shambled and shuffled down the street; some barreled across the pavement, howling and pounding their feet as they ran.  That's how it spreads so fast.   His mind recoiled at the sheer size of the approaching horde.   One can draw in thousands… a tidal wave of flesh-eating monsters .
    In the opposite direction, away from the stores, the road was crowded but not nearly as thick with undead.  That's all I got , he thought.  Tightening the backpack straps and wiping sweat from his palms, Matty gripped the 9mm.  I gotta make a run for it .
    He stepped to the front of the bus, drilled three munchers in the face, and jumped down; when he hit the ground, Matty's knee buckled.  Feeling the bite of bone on bone, ligaments straining, he stood up and ran—well, sort of quick-limped. 
    A zombie in a button-up shirt and blue jeans streaked in blood wailed as it ran after Matty.  I can't outrun all of them , he realized.  He slowed up and took aim: the muzzle flashed and the sprinting muncher flailed its arms, tripped, and smacked its splurting concave head on the ground. 
    Jogging past the shambling undead, Matty swung his head left and right, searching the abandoned cars for any still intact.  He fired again, catching another runner in the throat.  Up on the curb a hundred yards away, Matty spotted a baby blue Prius; the front doors were open and the interior lights shined through the rear-view window.
    A muncher grabbed his bag, pulling Matty back and onto the ground.  Launching his foot up, he caught the monster under the chin and rolled over, scrambling away and getting to his feet and two more pawed at the pack and tore Matty's shirtsleeve. 
    "Get the fuck off," he twisted and spun away, "of me!"  The melee had slowed him down, allowing the walkers to tighten the noose; every direction he looked, Matty saw them stumbling and lurching, groaning and grasping.
    He raised the pistol: BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG…
    Jogging and firing, Matty blasted a path straight to the car.  With a harrowing click, the gun announced its lack of ammo.  He dropped the clip, stuffed it in his pocket, and pulled the last one out. 
    He slid the magazine halfway into the grip and then dropped it—and the gun with it—as a muncher crashed into him at a gallop.  Matty hit the street hard, landing on his left shoulder, and couldn't get a breath.  Cracked, puss-covered hands latched onto his neck and a putrid face bursting with blood-lined sores and slithering purple veins leaned in to devour Matty's ear.
    His right hand found the tactical knife in his right hip pocket; Matty yanked it free, flicked the action open, and jammed it into the zombie's chin.  Syrupy green and black ichor spilled onto Matty's neck and cheek; he gave the knife a shove and used his knee to throw the monster sideways. 
    Another one of them staggered forward, stepping on the gun and uttering a warbling cry.  Matty was on his hands and knees, surrounded and out of breath; his left shoulder throbbed and a pins-and-needles sensation made the attached hand dull and clumsy. 
    "Looks like you got the ball, motherfucker."  He spear-tackled the zombie at the knees, slamming it down on the asphalt, and scooped up his gun.  Matty stood up too fast and his equilibrium