Zombified (Episode 3): Garden Harbor Read Free Page A

passed.
    Between Wooneyville and Garden Harbor, a mantle of small towns—villages of a thousand or less people—spread across the middle of the state.  Highway 93 crossed the wooded hamlet of Hatchet, an old farming and fishing community known for its pristine campgrounds and hidden ponds stocked with monster bass.
    The white-lettered green sign zipped past; Matty caught 'Hatchet' but couldn't make the words or numbers below it.  Bad Betty slowed dramatically and the front end bounced over an obstruction: Matty and Hank clung to the floodlight frame.  Both rear tires caught and spun, but the momentum of the massive truck pulled it free.  A mound of bodies stretched across the road, piled into a makeshift barrier like a mound of sandbags.
    "That's… weird," Matty said.
    "Thanks for the warning, Joe!" Hank scowled at his son.  "You could have flipped us right out of the back."
    "Relax, pop." Joey shook his head.  "It wasn't big enough to tip the truck that far."
    "A little warning would have—"
    "Okay boys!" Gigi interrupted Hank, shooting them each a raised-eyebrow glare.  "I think the stress of everything is making you two a little bitchy."
    Dana busted out laughing.  "It's so true!  I always said that men have their own version of PMS!" 
    "You done now?" Joey snapped.  "I'm glad you think it's funny—really, because I'm trying to keep us alive here."
    They entered the isolated cabins and farms marking the outskirts of Hatchet; less than a hundred yards ahead, Matty spotted a cluster of buildings and a broad brick structure bearing the tomahawk logo of Hatchet Junior-Senior High School. 
    "Relax, baby." Dana rubbed Joey's arm and kissed his cheek.  "I'm just playing."
    He pulled away and looked at her.  "Just like you were playing earlier when you bit me?  That was real fuckin' funny, wasn't it?  Until we get somewhere safe, can we be a bit more serious?  Is that possible?"
    "Whoa," Dana stopped giggling and pointed a finger at Joey; "you need to calm the hell down, Joey.  You're stressed out—we get that—but take it down a notch."
    "I told you how much I fuckin' hate it when you tell me to calm down!" He roared and punched the seat.  When his fist hit the seat, a loud bang exploded under the truck.
    Matty had seen the first brick buildings of Hatchet's main street pass by on the left; he had noticed the boarded windows and barricaded doors; and he had thought it odd that most of the vehicles lined the streets in front of the buildings. 
    As the Bad Betty slipped from Joey's control, tires sliding sideways and up, Matty caught a glimpse of something thin stretched across the road in front of the Hatchet town hall.  All four tires had popped on impact with it.
    Hunks of shredded rubber slapped against the truck; the deafening shriek of rim on asphalt preceded a chorus of screaming and shouting… and then Bad Betty's left side caught on something and the truck flipped, catapulting Hank, Matty, and the gear.  The truck crashed, shattering the floodlights, and then rolled to a stop on the driver side.
    Matty heard himself breathing, but his eyes swam in a sea of black dotted with white and yellow stars.  He had no sensation of arms or legs, only the steady rhythm of inhale and exhale.
    "Get the guns!" A somber, gravelly voice said.  "Darren, Mike—you two check the truck and see who's still alive."
    Gray light seeped into Matty's vision; he blinked and saw the sky overhead, drifting iron clouds concealing thin strands of blue.  Unable to feel his legs, Matty tried to sit up; a mud-caked boot pressed his chest down.
    "Stay still or I'll put a bullet in your head."  The same gravelly voice commanded.  Matty saw a short, clean-shaven man with close-cropped salt and pepper hair; camo pants and a black tank top completed the spartan appearance.   
    "I don't see much choice."  Inches from his face, Matty focused on the barrel of a shotgun.  "Was that spike strip your idea?"
    "Shut up," tank top