Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (12 page)

You stare at the ladder, then look over at the Ardle. He shrugs. You shrug back.

“You first,” you say.

He thinks for a long moment. “No. No, you go. I gotta stay with my plants.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“Definitely? This could be your only chance.”

He nods. “Definitely.”

“Alright then—I'll see you around.”

“You bet.”

You clench fists, give each other tender manhugs, and you begin climbing.

NEXT CAR, PLEASE

This man needs help. You should call for a doctor—pull the emergency cord—do
something
. But what you saw on TV was too scary. You try to help this guy, next thing you know he's eating you. Nope—not for you.

“Sorry, sorry, excuse me, thanks, sorry,” you mumble, working yourself into the corner of the car, nearing the rear door.

Ignoring the
RIDING OR MOVING BETWEEN CARS IS PROHIBITED
sticker on the metal door, you slide it open. The roar of the subway echoes through the crowded car and the passing track below seems to nip at your feet. You step on the small, shaky walkway and cross. You open the door, catching a man by surprise. You give him a half smile and squeeze inside.

You turn and glance back at the car you just left. You can't see the man anymore—the car is too crowded. Over the rumble of the train and separated by two heavy doors, you don't hear a thing. But, minutes later, you see the chaos unfolding. The passengers at the door turn in horror, blood splattered on their faces.

No one in your car notices yet. You back away from the door, work your way to the other end, and cross over to the next car.

You squeeze your way through, gathering dirty looks like a bum begging for change. You get to the rear door. Through it you see only the dark tracks—you're in the last car.

A station whizzes past. A sign flashes
VERNON BLVD
. You're out of Manhattan now, in Queens.

The train continues to barrel along. You fly past Queensboro Plaza—nearing Long Island and the burbs. The train doesn't
slow. Nothing from the conductor. No announcement that the train is swarming with zombies.

The car shakes and rocks. You've never been on the subway doing speeds like this. The train bounces on the tracks as you turn down a hill.

You fly past another station—just a blur of people, a flash. In the distance, you can make out the parking lot where Shea Stadium used to stand. Then the new Citi Field.

The train rocks more. Shudders. Goes down a hill and your feet lift off the floor slightly. This isn't right. Next big turn, this thing's going off the tracks. You're going to crash.

You need to secure yourself, somehow. You look around. Panicked looks on everyone's faces. Fuck it. You push a bunch of people to the side, drop to the floor, and roll underneath a row of seats. You grasp the bar by your head as tight as you can. Press your feet against the rear wall.

You play the waiting game. After a few minutes, you start to think everything might be OK. But then—

CRASH!!!

Everything goes black. You're flying through the car.

And then it all stops. For one peaceful second, there's silence as you float in zero gravity. Then screams. The piercing howl of an alarm. Shouting. Another crash.

You're on your back, on what seconds ago was the ceiling of the train. The car has completely flipped.

People on top of you. All around you. An old woman in a blue shawl lies beside you, not moving.

Everything hurts. You try to stand, but disoriented, you fall. The world spins.

You drag yourself across the car's former ceiling, clawing your way through the mass of bodies and grimacing like hell as the pain tears through you. You grab the closest metal hand pole and pull. It's a miserable, painful struggle. But it could be worse, you think, as you pass a man, twisted on his side, face wet with blood and clearly dead.

The large Plexiglas windows that run across the side of the train are broken. Not shattered, like real glass, but bent out of their casing. You pull your way up, squeeze through, and fall out.

You're lying in a large grass field. A Little League baseball diamond. The train wreckage stretches out behind you, cars smoking. Some cars are still up on the track, flipped; others lie in the field.

Thirty yards away, a grassy hill leads up to the tracks and the street. You read the sign—
ROOSEVELT AVENUE
. Last stop in Queens. You're out of the city. You made it.

Then they begin pouring out of the cars. So many you can't believe it. Hundreds of the monsters.

A few living people, too, make it out. Some run from the things, screaming. Others just stumble out, too disoriented to figure out what's going on—then they're pounced upon by the horde.

You scramble on all fours up the hill, hurting everywhere. You steal a glance behind you. Not good. Two of the dead have wandered over your way. They notice you. You switch from a modified crawl to a shaky, off-balance run. Ugly, but effective.

Fuck.

Need to make it up that hill—they're coming quick.

BLAM! BLAM!

You dive to the ground. A pair of cops stand on top of the hill—one heavyset, the other thinner, younger looking. You put your hands up in the air.

“C'mon!” the young one shouts to you.

You scurry up the grass like a wounded dog, the smoking wreckage of the train behind you. Then you turn, stand between the two cops, and take in the clusterfuck that surrounds you. Half the train is still on the tracks, which run down the street. The other half is down below, in the field. The two beasts that were chasing you are dead, but there are hundreds more behind them.

Then it hits you: Cops—police—authority! You're saved!

“Guys—officers—we gotta get outta here.”

The heavyset cop stops to reload. Drops his clip to the ground, slides in another. Never looks up at you. “Not until backup arrives.”

“Backup? There're a thousand fucking, I-don't-know what, fucking monsters down there—and more inside the train. We have to go!”

“Wait in the car.”

Fine. You'll take that. You pull the rear handle. Locked.

“It's locked,” you say.

“Kid, do you see what's down there—we don't have time to help you.”

“Vinny, he's right,” the thinner cop says. “Let's go. I don't even know what the fuck I'm shooting at!”

“We're shooting the goddamn things coming at us!”

“They're people!”

“Not anymore they ain't.”

“Do you know how much paperwork we're going to have to file over this shit?”

That stops the heavyset cop. “Motherfuck, fine, let's go. This never happened.” He looks at you and you nod.

The thin cop gets in the passenger seat. Heavyset one walks around to the front driver's-side door. You pull at the handle. “Hey, it's still locked, you gotta hit the button.”

“Yeah, yeah, one sec—”

Time stands still.

With a thunderous crash, a minivan, two zombies clinging to the front, slams into the rear of the cruiser at near 50 mph. The two zombies on the hood are launched through the air, then hit the pavement twenty yards out.

The cruiser flies forward. The heavyset cop, halfway inside the car when it was hit, is pulled underneath. He gets caught in the rear wheel and dragged. Eventually, the cruiser rolls to a slow stop, just as its bumper hits the zombies. They don't
move. Nobody moves. You see the other cop now, his limbs splayed at odd angles.

The driver of the minivan, a middle-aged woman, is thrown against the airbag. You rush to help her. Then you hear their moans behind you. You spin. A half dozen, lumbering up the hill. The mass feast continues behind them.

Fuck—need to split—now.

HAMMER'S TIME

You have to kill him before he turns into a zombie. You have to. Don't want to. Definitely don't want to. But if you don't—he's going to turn, and then he's going to turn you.

Slowly, you go for your knife. Feel your way along your belt. You find the handle. Gently release it. Pull it out.

You turn to Hammer. He's looking right at you.

“Not smart, friend.”

In a split second he's up. He grabs you by the throat and rips you to your feet.

“You're bit,” you choke out. “We have to get you help.”

“Don't want no help.”

He lifts you off your feet. “Wha—”

“You're about to have a very bad accident, friend.”

“No, no!”

It all happens in slow motion. He lifts you higher. His massive arms flex. He throws you. Into the air. Over the side. Spinning. Down past the massive tablet in her left hand. You see her sandals, green and worn. Then the concrete closes in.

KILLING TIME