Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (13 page)

In dead heroin junkie Louis's room, you sleep. No AC—the heat is unbearable. You toss and turn throughout the night. Death chases you through your dreams.

Downstairs, the Angels continue to party. Drink. How do they keep going like this? Every once in a while one will come in, reeking of booze, and mess with you. You tell them to go to hell.

The Angels continue to do what the government asks. You don't go—you've done your part.

Then one day Jones comes in, kicks the bed. “Get up.”

You wipe at your eyes. Sit up. “Why?”

“Man's here.”

You climb out of the bed, still disoriented. Look around for your shirt.

“Wear something of Lou's.”

“Huh?”

“It's alright—here,” Jones says, tossing you a T-shirt from Lou's dresser. Reluctantly, you put it on and follow Jones out the door.

The Colonel is sitting in Jones's room, on the bed, not looking happy about being there.

“Gentlemen,” he says.

You take a seat.

“Last one.”

“No shit,” Jones says.

“That's right. How's it felt, serving your country?”

“Fuckin' lovely. What's the job?”

“Empire State Building. Clear it out. When you get to the top, pop this,” he says, handing Jones a flare. “We see that red smoke, we know you've done your job.”

“The file,” Jones says. “Give me the file.”

“When you complete the job.”

Jones stares him down. “If you fuck me…”

“Don't worry—you've done good. You'll get your reward.”

You go back to Louis's room. Suit up. Borrow a pair of heavy black jeans. Black boots. Leather coat.

MORNING STAR ACTION

In one motion, you drop the rifle, dive for the morning star, leap back onto your feet, whip it around your head once, and snap your arm out.

The spiked ball barrels through the three monsters. Rips the first one's head apart, carries through, shatters the second one's face, and then finishes by nearly ripping off the cabdriver's head. They all collapse.

Screams up ahead to your right. You reel. Chucky drops two of the things with a shotgun blast. Phew. It looks like your group is safe, but time is running out. Two more come at Chucky from the side—he spins with the halberd, taking off the first one's head, then jamming the sword end through the head of the second one. He pulls it out, leaving a massive, gory vertical hole in the thing's face.

Feet trampling. They besiege you from all angles. Over the wall, from the park. Down the museum steps. From up the street.

“We gotta move!” you shout. “Everybody—quick!”

Directly ahead is the bus. Through the back window, you can see a passenger inside, pacing back and forth, hungry. Must be the guy the driver mentioned—the one who went schizo; went zombie.

Chucky jogs up alongside the bus. Wesley is next to you. You toss the bloody, gore-covered morning star to him. He looks at it like you tossed him a rubber chicken. But when his wife screams, and he turns and sees her zombified form running up on him, he doesn't hesitate. He swings. The morning star hits it
in the chest. Sends it sprawling back.
Whoa
. He tackles it now, raises his arm, and brings his BlackBerry crashing into its face over and over again.

You drop the assault rifle's magazine out—remove the jammed bullet—and pop it back in. You drop to one knee, turn, aim, and put a round through the forehead of one of the other charging beasts. Good—it works.

You give Chucky a thumbs-up.

He boards the bus. You stay behind, watching through the back door. The undead passenger spins. Chucky scuttles down the aisle, halberd out, and spears it. He keeps running, carrying the thing down the aisle, slamming it against the rear of the bus, and pinning it to the wall. The thing kicks wildly, waves its arms around, then clutches at the pole in its stomach.

Chucky gives you a nod, then ducks. You raise the gun and fire through the back door, blowing the monster's head to pieces.

OK, bus is safe. Your group is running past you, fast. Good. Chucky edges his way out and ushers them inside while you hold off the charging horde. The rifle pounds your shoulder—each shot more painful than the last. It's sore—hurts like hell. Finally, everyone's on board.

You and Chucky step on last.

“Alright, Wesley,” you say, out of breath, “let's go check out this yacht.”

COCONUT BALLS

If you have to die you'd rather be run over by a train than be eaten by a horde of the walking dead. And you can't let that kid die down there. You throw one last look down at the tracks—the train's headlights telling you if you're gonna go, you gotta go now—and with the approaching enemy behind you and probable death in front of you, you make the big Butch Cassidy leap.

You land in a mass of bodies. Your ankle twists. Standing on the tracks, frozen, is the boy. You grab him around the waist and tug him to the ground. Together you roll beneath the platform overhang.

Screams pierce the darkness as the train rushes by.

You press the kid's head against your chest and squeeze your eyes shut tight. Rats skitter over you. Your skin crawls as their disgusting little feet scamper over your arms and face.

Finally, the train passes, leaving behind a sick, disgusting mess of death. You feel like a soldier, witness to the aftermath of his first battle. You want to look away, but you can't. You just stare for a moment—shocked and horrified, but happy to be alive.

“Keep your eyes shut for now—alright, kid?” you say. He does as he's told. You take him by the hand. “I'm going to Brooklyn,” you say. “You want to go for a walk?”

The kid says nothing, eyes closed. He nods his head once, short and hard.

“Alright,” you say, “we walk.”

The trek is slow going. It's dark. Sounds around you—some
you're probably just imagining. Feels like at any moment some monster is going to leap out from the darkness and take you.

Soon you see movement up ahead. You stop in your tracks. You squint, trying to see what it is. Relief floods over you when you realize it's another person, doing the same thing you are. There're a few people, walking up ahead. You keep your distance.

More trains pass—each time you press your body flat against the tunnel wall and keep your hand on the kid.

Your shoes are soaked. Huge, muddy puddles line the tunnel. After nearly two hours of walking, you're approaching the Fiftieth Street station. You check your iPhone. Yes, service.

“OK, kid—I don't want to leave this subway until we have to. It has to be crazy out there—”

You stop. A sound up ahead. You hug the tunnel wall and listen.

“What is it?” the kid says.

“Shh… I'm trying to hear.”

What you hear isn't nice. Moans. Then sounds of eating. People being devoured.

Shit. You look down at the little guy. Eyes gigantic and wet. You have to get him through this.

You get down on one knee and whisper. “OK, here's the plan, buddy. We gotta keep moving. So we're gonna crawl, real quiet, right past this station. Stay under the platform. You gotta be quiet. Super quiet. You ever play the quiet game?”

“Yes I've played the quiet game. But I'm six and three-quarters. I can be quiet without the quiet game. You can just tell me to be quiet and I'll be quiet.”

“Oh. OK, well, good. Be quiet. Let's go.”

You walk the next few yards, sticking to the tunnel wall, then slowly get down on all fours, and begin crawling.

You crane your neck and whisper, “OK, here we go. Keep your hand around the bottom of my pants, at my ankle here. So I know you're with me. Everything's gonna be fine.”

A woman moans. Not the sick, guttural moan of the dead—but the pained howl of someone still alive. The things make disgusting, throaty sounds. Someone shrieks. It sends a chill down your spine.

You're at the overhang. Can they smell you? God, you hope not, you think, as you crawl underneath the platform.

You keep crawling. Hands in rat shit. Knees in puddles of filthy water.

Brave kid. Keeps his hand on you the whole time.

You're halfway now. You're going to make it, you think. Going to fucking make it.

Then an arm swings down past you. Your heart stops. The limb hangs there. A woman's dead arm. It's been chewed all to hell—the bone visible. Flesh hangs off it like string cheese, some caught up in her silver watch.

The kid screams.

Fuck!

You turn. He has his hands over his mouth, shaking his head back and forth. His wide eyes say sorry.

The moans above you stop. Feet shuffle. Something falls down. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

A shadow stretches out across the track. One of the things. It leans over the side of the platform. Sort of sniffing, looking. You grab the kid and get as far back as possible.

Two more of the things now, down on their stomachs, reaching out, looking around.

ONE AT A TIME NOW, FOLKS

Instead of waiting for them to come to you, you run right at the mother. Take it out, then deal with the rest, you think. You launch yourself and ride it to the ground. Before it gets a chance to bite, you push the pointed edge of the crowbar up through the roof of its mouth and into its brain. You rip it out, a string of gore coming with it, and hop up over the putrid creature.

The father and daughter turn around to face you. You step back.

Footsteps behind you. You spin. Another one—quick—coming hard and fast. Fuck—you're done for.

BAM!!!

The entire side of the quick one's head blows out. In a split second, it crumples.

You look at the Angels.

“OK, I'll waste one bullet on you, kid!” Jones shouts. Mental note: thank the asshole.

Back to the father and daughter. You crack the father in the face. Its head spins, but it comes right back. Tackles you. The crowbar skids across the cement. You're pinned. It goes in for the kill. You want to push it back—but you can't risk getting hit by those teeth.

You grab its head, lifting it. It's near unstoppable. You press your fingers into its eyes. They're dry, don't feel human. You keep going, pushing through, into the sockets. You feel the soft, mushy interior of his skull. But it feels no pain. Doesn't stop. Teeth closer. Inches from your face.

You push in deeper. Thumbs completely through its eyes now. You have leverage. You push up while turning your thumbs outward toward the side of its head.

A quick jerk to the side and it's off you. You stand—not a second to breathe—the girl's on your leg. You try to shake it off, but it's not going anywhere.