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

shifted: he stumbled sideways.  The magazine was five feet away, lying in the path of a cluster of staggering undead.
    Matty reached out, but a rotting arm smashed down on his head, sending Matty back to the ground.  He lunged like a sprinter from the starting line, diving for the ammo; his hand closed around the clip.  It slid into the 9mm with a satisfying SNIKT.  Matty flicked the release, the slide snapped into place.  He rolled over and aimed.
    Its teeth touched his arm the moment Matty squeezed the trigger; the head rocketed back, spraying brain debris into the sky to rain down on the mob.  An ugly red welt rose up on Matty's forearm.  Still on his back, Matty fired six shots, holding the gun in both hands.  He rolled onto his stomach, pushed up, and took off towards the Prius. 
    Two more gunshots cleared a path to the driver's seat.  Six rounds left —that bitter thought scared the shit out of him.  He slammed the door and hit the automatic locks.  Zombies surrounded the car, hammering on the windows and roof.  The keys were there, dangling from the ignition.  Enjoy the little things , he thought.
    Matty started the car and watched the gas gauge rise to half a tank.  Praise… whoever , he thought.  The incessant drumming increased as more undead mobbed the little blue hybrid. 
    "What I wouldn't give to hear Lars right now.  Damn, I'm gonna miss Metallica."  Matty sighed and shifted the car into drive.  He started off slow, nudging the zombies out of the way and rolling over one or two bodies at a time, nearly getting stuck with the ridiculously low clearance of the Prius.
    Once he was past the thicker tangle of bodies, Matty opened it up and zipped off down the unlit street.  He tapped the interior light and held the reddened arm under it; the skin wasn't broken, but he had no idea of a scrape from teeth could transmit… whatever it was.  He turned off the light.
    "Figures," he grumbled, "I survive a moshpit with the undead, shoot off most of my bullets, and end up dying from a fuckin' nibble." 
    He glanced at the rearview: the horde of munchers faded into the darkness. 
    I need to find bullets , he thought.  There's no way I'm gonna make it to Wooney with six shots . 
    Matt knew there were three places in Yankee Heights to get ammo: Stump's Sporting Goods on the lonely road to Tarkwood Pond; Longridge Sportsmen's Club behind the quarry, but too close to the highway for Matty's liking; and Bear Pro Shop on the western edge of the city. 
    "Stump's or Bear Pro."  He weighed the options, the locations, and the distance.  Bear Pro was closer to Wooneyville, but it was in an upscale residential neighborhood that bordered a newly renovated cluster of condos—a lot of potential munchers.  Stump's was farther away, but it was on a pristine stretch of road with only a handful of houses within shooting distance.
    Tarkwood Lane loomed on the left; Matty slowed up, gave it a final thought, and took the turn.  The six bullets in his gun rendered the verdict: I can't shoot my way into Bear Pro if it's overrun .   
    The sleepy, narrow road wound up and down, coursing around rocky hills and traversing rickety wooden bridges.  Five streams emptied from the old worn-down mountains around the city of Yankee Heights; three of them fed into Tarkwood Pond. 
    Matty drove for a half-hour, passing by two lavish houses and a handful of farms; he even saw a pair of brown-speckled white horses.  There were no cars on the road and not a living—or non-living soul—to be found. 
    What happens when they're done eating everyone in the city?   Matty guessed the population of Yankee Heights to be around three hundred thousand, give or take a thousand.  They'll head into Wooneyville or fan out, searching for food—or hosts, if it's the parasite in control .   
    Matty turned onto a wider, level section of Tarkwood.  Five minutes later, he eased off the gas and leaned forward in the seat, searching for the