Zoey and the Zombies (A Mondamin Court Adventure)

Chapter One: Scene One

Day Zero

Miami, Florida

Steven Shriver was sitting on the find of his life. Someone had propped open a fire exit door in an out-of-the-way building on the University of Miami Hospital campus. He knew that building. A few years back, Steven had been a productive member of society and a pharmacy tech; the building had belonged to the pharmacy.

He thought about the possibilities as he eyed the door. He figured if the codes were the same to the internal doors of the pharmacy, he could snag a goldmine of drugs, worth hundreds of dollars on the street. He made his move.

When he entered the building, he could see the area was different than he remembered—converted into a biology lab or something. He walked closer to a large, glass-front refrigerator case and inspected the contents. Not what he was looking for. He startled when he heard a noise.

A woman walked out of the backroom, unaware of his presence. But not for long. He quickly pounced before she realized he wasn't supposed to be there, before she could try to leave and sound an alarm.

"Where are the drugs?" he roared.

"There aren't any here," she replied, her voice shaking.

He pushed her against the wall then. It excited him, the look of fear in her dark brown eyes. But he couldn't delay. He needed to get the drugs and get out. "Tell me, or else," he growled.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "This is a biology lab. There are no drugs."

"This used to be part of the pharmacy," he said.

"They moved," she said, still shaking. "They're over in the west wing. How did you get in here?"

"None of your damn business," he yelled, backhanding her. He scowled. The west wing. He'd have to cross too many halls—too many halls with too many people. This wasn't going to be the easy score he had imagined.

He made towards her, stumbled, and inadvertently stuck his hand into pile of petri dishes on the counter, the glass shattering and cutting his palm. He swore.

"Sir," she said, her voice high and frantic. "Please, let me help you."

Steven hated women, especially weak women. The world was a fucked-up place, and anyone dumb enough to show weakness deserved what he or she got. And she must be one of the weakest, most misguided creatures he had ever met, to show concern for him.

He carried a piece of metal pipe in one pocket of his trench coat for such occasions, when his rage threatened to erupt and take him over.

It only took a couple sharp blows to the side of her head and she went down. It was not the release he'd expected; it only worsened his disappointment and frustration. He wrapped his hand in his bandana, looked the lab over once more to confirm there weren't any drugs, and fled.

He staggered down the street, clutching his bandana-wrapped hand. A vague orange glow on the horizon told him dawn was approaching. Downtown Miami was distant behind him. The good people were safe in bed. He felt dizzy and clutched the brick facade of the nearest building. "Fucking bitch," he muttered. It wasn't the bitch's fault, he knew, but that didn't stop him from blaming her.

He wiped the sweat from his brow. It was hot and humid. Then again, it was always hot and humid in Miami. When did I start sweating like this?

He paused and unwrapped the hand. The bleeding had stopped. The cut wasn't that deep, but it didn't look right. The edges were pale and dusky. It was infected for sure. Already?

He muttered another curse at "that little bitch" and rewrapped his hand. Swaying slightly as another wave of dizziness hit him, he crossed the street and disappeared into a park, making for the thick brush at the back and the homeless camp he called home. A good day's rest, that was all he needed.