Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (18 page)

“No good—too many,” she says.

Yakuma stops at a locker and throws on a white tank top and tiny plaid shorts. Damn. She looks as good half clothed as she does naked.

She sticks a cell phone into her back pocket and slips out of her bloody stilettos and into a pair of jelly sandals.

She orders you back out the way you came. Good-bye strip club dressing room. I hardly knew ye.

Back on the main floor. Ten of them, at least.

In the front, two strippers. One blonde, real tits, young looking. Even dead, still cute. A chunk of flesh is torn from her gut. The other a black girl, big fake boobs. One leg half torn off—blood pouring down it. And behind the two strippers, the customers. And in the very back, the gargantuan bouncer.

Nobody moves. Bass from the speaker system pumps through the floor. Shakes you. So strong it changes your heartbeat. Fucking Nickleback.

You stare at the blonde's tits. They don't move. No rhythmic up and down. The dead things sway, but their chests don't move. They don't breathe.

Yakuma holds the sword at her side. Blood drips steadily to the floor.

She stares at the two strippers—probably friends of hers five minutes ago.

They stare back.

You just stand there, scared to death, not sure what to do.

Then they charge. You sprint to your left and clamber over the wall to the DJ booth. As you land, your head smacks the floor.

You stand up, rubbing your noggin. The DJ booth, set against the wall, offers you a degree of protection from all sides. You watch in amazement as Yakuma unleashes a furious ballet of violence unlike anything you've ever seen.

She takes down one, two, three of them. Then they all come at once. Leap on top of her. She disappears. You can't see what exactly is happening—it's like the fight for a fumble in a football game—you know some wild, awful shit is happening beneath all those bodies, but you don't know the details.

And then Yakuma bursts from the top of the pile. She swings her blades in a circle, spilling zombie guts across the floor and sending them all stumbling back. Then she goes for their heads. Splitting one down the middle. Chopping the next one at the bridge of the nose, sending the top of its head spiraling off. Cleanly decapitates the next.

One is charging from behind her. You go to shout, but before you can, she turns and throws the blade. It pierces the undead thing's chest and pins it to the wall.

She jumps back and up onto the stage. Grabs the stripper pole with one hand and swings around, second blade extended. Two more zombies headless.

She leaps from the pole and marches through the rest. Chopping. Cutting. Slicing. Killing.

You're so distracted that you don't notice the redheaded stripper crawling up the side of the booth until she grabs hold of you.

“Fuck!”

You look around for something, anything. Find a copy of
Rolling Stone
and start whacking the thing on the head. Doesn't do a whole lot—big surprise.

Fuck. Thing is almost over the wall.

Goddamn it. Death is upon you. Another moment and you're dead. Frantic, you look around for
anything
you could use as a weapon.

RIDING SHOTGUN

“Get behind the wheel,” you say, adrenaline pumping through you. “And toss me the gun.”

You catch the shotgun and hop into the bed of the truck. Chucky heads for the truck door. You haven't shot a gun in ten years—not since you were a kid at summer camp, firing .22s at paper targets of bunnies. And nothing like this—this thing is massive.

You tap on the glass partition. “Ammo?”

Chucky slides the window open and hands you two shells, plus a small cardboard box, about the size of two cassette tapes. Inside are twelve more shells.

You examine the gun. It's about eight pounds, you guess, and close to four feet long.
REMINGTON 870
engraved along the side in tiny letters. The stock and pump are a dark, fake wood. The barrel and body are tinted blue.

Now, to load it. How the hell does this work? After a little investigating, you find a loading slot on the bottom. There are two shells in there now. You fill it to the top—eight shells total.

OK—eight in the gun and eight left. Sixteen shots. Make 'em count.

Slowly, you get to your knees, rest the shotgun on the floor beside you, and watch the gate. Try to mentally prepare yourself.

There's a loud snap as the bike lock breaks and the gate begins to rise. You can barely make out the figures in the moonlight. There are at least thirty—maybe more. Hard to tell. A zombie child stumbles in as the gate passes over his head. More follow as the gate gets higher.

“How many do you see?” you whisper through the sliding glass window.

“Can't tell,” he says. “But we're about to find out.”

You swallow. Sweat drips from your forehead onto the roof. You lay the shotgun on the roof and stare down the length of it.

Chucky works the gears—there's a loud grinding noise and the plow lowers.

“Ready?” Chucky asks.

You breathe. Slow and steady. “As I'll ever be.”

Chucky hits the headlights, flooding the dark garage with blinding fluorescent light.

Oh. Shit.

A hundred of them, at least. A whole battalion of the things.

You think about your shotgun. Sixteen shots? That's it?!

The truck jerks forward, knocking you off your knees and onto your back. You scramble back up and retake your position, setting your knees wider apart for better balance.

The truck heads into the first wave. You fire a shot over the roof of the truck. The load of buck does little but slow down a few of them.

OK. That doesn't work. Lesson learned. Close range only. The beasts are swept up, knocked to the side, and run over. They stumble past, wounded.

One grabs hold of the rear of the truck. You drop down on your back and slide across the truck bed. You kick the tailgate—the force breaking the thing's grip and knocking it off.

The truck is slowing, allowing the beasts to gather around the bed. Sick, dead hands reach for you from all sides.

“Let's go!” you shout. “What's the fucking holdup?”

“There's too many!”

“Give it some fucking gas!”

Suddenly you feel a tug at your leg. One of the things has a hold of you and he's climbing the side.

Steady and slow, you raise the Remington, aim, and
squeeze. The thing's head explodes in a thousand pieces, a cloud of red mist filling the air. His hand drops from your pant leg and he disappears over the side.

OK. First kill. You did it.

You shot one. Way to go, big guy. You pump the Remington, ready for the next zombie that wants some.

The truck shutters, shakes, and rocks—tires spinning on the pile of bodies. The rear tires rotate, kicking up bits of gore.

They claw at you from all sides. One comes up over the back—a large Mexican woman in a bright red top. Barely aiming, you point and squeeze. The blast kicks the thing in the chest like a mule, launching it off the back of the truck.

“What's going on up there?” you yell.

“I'm trying!”

Suddenly you're flung against the truck window as it roars in reverse. The tires crunch. Chucky reverses it thirty feet, putting a little distance between you and the things. Then he drops it back into drive and floors it. You're tossed onto your back and the shotgun slides across the truck bed.

Chucky's plan works. You have some speed on your side, and you move through the rows of the dead. As you exit, you catch a glimpse of a
WARNING: DO NOT BACK UP! SEVERE TIRE DAMAGE
sign. Yeah… no shit, don't back up.

The plow does its job. It's slow going on the ramp, but the truck makes it up and out onto the street, leaving a hundred wounded beasts writhing in its wake.

Chucky cuts a hard left, nearly sending you over the side. You regain your balance and decide you're probably best off sitting down.

The main avenue is a disaster zone, like a tornado came through. Cars smoke. Storefronts burn. Bodies are scattered. Ghouls stumble around.

No police. No military. Any guilt you felt about lying on your W-4 last year vanishes.

“The bridge!” you shout, pointing.

Chucky steers that way, toward the avenue. Abandoned cars crowd the way. The plow knocks aside an overturned motorcycle. Chucky plays
Frogger
with the truck, squeezing it wherever it can fit as you zigzag across the avenue.

You get to the base of the bridge. The top level is jammed with cars, none moving. The bottom level is worse—zombies everywhere.

Chucky brings the truck to a stop. Turns back and looks at you.

“It's too crowded. Can't make it across on this. I'd say hoof it, but that doesn't look too smart, either.”

You look at the scattered, shuffling dead things on the bridge. You agree.

“Well, we need to get off the island somehow.”

“OK—we'll go north—to the Bronx,” Chucky says. “If we can't get across the bridge—fuck it, we swim.”

One of the things gets too close. A child. You kneel, aim, and fire—its chest explodes. “OK, the Bronx it is,” you say, dropping in two more shells. “Hit it.”

RIO BRAVO

You literally have to tell your feet: move. You bark at them like an insane drill sergeant.

Move!

Move, goddamn it!

And, unbelievably, they do.

Anthony has his shoulder against the door and his foot wedged against the bar for leverage. “That bar stool there—give it to me,” he says.

The door bucks again and he's almost thrown back. You grab the stool and try to wedge it up underneath the handle. The door is kicking, making it damn near impossible.

“C'mon, goddamn it!” he barks.

Finally, the door holds still long enough for you to squeeze the seat up beneath the door handle.

“Good, now move the pool table from the back; get it up here,” Anthony says.

Feeling useful now, empowered, you jog to the back of the bar. Everyone gets out of your way. You go back to the second section of the bar and into a small gaming area. Darts.
Big Buck Hunter
. Two pool tables. You tug at the table. Way too heavy. You walk back out into the bar. “Hey! Someone help me here.”

No one moves. Anthony speaks up. “You, get over there and help the kid. Now.” He's talking to Wall Street.

Wall Street glares. Anthony glares back, harder. Wall Street removes his suit jacket, hangs it gently over his bar stool, and grudgingly does as he's told. Together you struggle to move the
table. Four others come to help. Thankfully, it's a fairly cheap table. Ten sweat-soaked minutes later, you have it, lengthwise, against the door.