Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (19 page)

You step back, satisfied. No way that door's getting open now.

You take a seat at the bar and catch your breath. Wall Street continues to buy rounds, beer now, and you continue to drink them down. So does everyone else. The jukebox plays on. Time passes.

Two drunks get in a fight, arguing over the day's events. The little one shoves the big one. Anthony steps in, breaks it up. Minutes later, they get in another fight—this time about the Jets. Anthony steps in again, tells them the next person that causes a problem is getting fed to the wolves. That stops them.

The pricks on TV say sit tight, everything will be OK. There are no more shots of gore and violence. Then they stop showing the city altogether. Can't be a good sign.

You finish what must be your sixth or seventh beer. Anthony and the pretty bartender, Rachel, sit by the bar's large front window, peering through the neon beer-sign covered glass. Heavy metal bars crisscross the window, keeping you safe. You walk over.

Even in the midst of this nightmare you can't help but notice she has a rear end like a perfectly inflated basketball.

“What do you see?” you ask.

They both look at you, silent for a moment. Then Anthony says, “Those things.”

“Can I get a look?”

He shrugs and steps back and you squeeze in next to Rachel. She smells like cherry Fun Dip and tequila. Yum. You give her an awkward smile, then press your face to the glass.

The mini-erection that the bartender had given you shrivels up like a worm on a hot sidewalk. Through the neon-tinted glass, you take in a scene that reminds you of Dante's
inferno
(the SparkNotes version you read in college). Cars burn. Monsters
feast on bodies. You can see clearly into a bank across the street—someone's looking out, right at you, scared shitless. Just like you.

The song on the jukebox fades. Without the music to drown everything out, the horror is amplified.

You hear the screams of a woman. You press your face against the glass and look to the right, down the street. She lies on her back, three of the things devouring her. She's still alive, screaming, as two dig at her open chest and her guts spill out across the cement. The third beast, a homeless man, claws and bites at her legs. Her dress blows in the wind.

Rachel looks away. She walks to the tip jar behind the bar, pours out a handful of quarters, and goes to the jukebox. A minute later, the music mercifully returns. Jimmy Page's heavy guitar drowns out the screams of the horror outside.

Anthony steps behind the counter and pours two drinks. You take one.

“Whole Lotta Love” ends. You can hear the jukebox working, grabbing for a new CD. Then you hear something else. A thump. Another thump. Then moaning.

You spin. The back door. Fuck.

Anthony hears it, too. He rushes around the bar, grabs you, and says “C'mon.”

You walk through the bar, into the second room, and to the door. The moaning is loud. Shadows beneath the doorway.

“On the other side of this door is a hallway and at the end of that is the door to the alley—where we bring the kegs and shit in,” Anthony says.

You nod and run your hand over the door. The door is hollow, the wood thin. You could probably put a fist through it.

“We have to kill them,” you say. “We don't know how strong those things are. Could be strong enough to break right through. We don't want to wait around to find out.”

You take a look back at the bar. Bunch of drunken bums.
Wall Street's passed out at the counter. Rachel plays with her keys. Useless, all of them.

“And I think it's just you and me,” you say.

Anthony nods, then walks past the pool tables and through a door that says
EMPLOYEES ONLY
. He returns a second later carrying a power drill.

“You're going to kill all of them with that?” you ask.

“No. But I'm not running in there blind.”

He turns the drill on. The roar of it startles you. He brushes you aside and presses the drill against the door. In a second, he's drilled a small hole at eye level. He peers through.

“What do you see?” you ask.

“Not much. Hit that light switch.”

You hit the switch behind you. The bar lights go out. Rachel screams.

“Other one.”

“My bad.” You turn the bar lights back on and hit the switch next to it.

Anthony keeps his eye to the door for a good twenty seconds, then pulls away.

You give him a questioning look.

“See for yourself,” he says.

Slowly, scared out of your mind, you press your eye to the hole.

Zombies. Lots of them. The rear door is open to the street. No action back there, though—none seem to be coming or going. You count—there are eleven of the things, milling around. The hallway is narrow. That's the one thing that works in your favor. The beasts won't be able get to you all at once. It will allow you to deal with them one and two at a time.

You pull your eye away.

“Follow me,” Anthony says. The two of you walk to the employees-only room. It's a small office. A tiny green couch left over from the '80s. Lots of metal cabinets. Two lockers in
the corner. A desk, papers scattered about, along with the various other junk that accumulates in a dive bar.

“We don't have no secret armory full of Uzis, AKs, and rocket launchers that's gonna help us. This is what we got.”

“I don't see much.”

“That's 'cause we don't got much. First, this.” He lays the drill down on the desk.

“And this.” He pulls the hammer from his belt and lays it on the desk. It's the hammer he killed the zombie with earlier. Small bits of flesh and hair still stick to the head—a piece of skin on the nail claw.

He walks out of the room, returns a moment later. Lays a pool cue down on the table. It rolls to the side, hits the hammer. “And this.”

He messes with the padlock on one of the lockers. Pulls out a large, cherry red fire ax.

“I'll take that—”

“Nope, this one's mine,” he says, laying it on the table.

“What? You're three times the size of me. Plus, you're good with the hammer. You already killed one with it. I can't even hang up a fucking poster in my apartment and I got two hammers.”

He thinks for a second. “We'll see.”

You look at the items scattered on the table. “Is that it?” you ask finally.

“'Fraid so.”

You think for a second. “Hang on.”

You grab the ax, leave the office, and walk across a small dance floor area and into the game room.

Two bright orange plastic shotguns rest in slots on the
Big Buck Hunter
arcade machine, locked on with heavy plastic ties. You raise the ax and bring it crashing down, severing the tie. You pull the toy gun out of its holster.

From the office doorway, Anthony nearly doubles over laughing. “Fuck you gonna do with a toy gun?”

You shrug. “I dunno—maybe it'll scare them. They think it's real or something. You know, learned traits. Memory. That shit.”

He laughs. “OK, your funeral. So what do you want? Think carefully, kid. This could be the last decision you ever make.”

RIO BRAVO IN A CAB

You lunge for the door and slam your palm down on the lock.

The cabbie talks rapidly into his Bluetooth, then rips it from his ear and tosses it to the floor. He grips the wheel and looks about wildly. There's a heavy crunching sound as he rear-ends the cab in front of you. Your whole body is yanked forward, and you fly into the cab's Plexiglas divider. A sharp pain shoots up your nose and through your brain. Blood pours from your nostrils. Fuck. Broken. Definitely broken. Tears fill your eyes.

No crying, jagoff. Time to think. The zombies are approaching. Fast. Like rats, filling up the cracks between cars, the sidewalks, anywhere there's room.

And devouring everything along the way.

The cabbie throws it in reverse and smashes into the car behind him. Great—a nice bit of whiplash to go along with your busted nose.

Undeterred, he throws it back into drive and jumps the sidewalk. In the short distance, he picks up speed. But he's going the wrong way. Toward the zombies, and fast. No, you idiot!

CRASH!!!

He slams into one of the things—a tall, gangly man. City sanitation worker uniform.

For a moment, time seems to stand still—and then everything moves in slow motion. You see the city-worker-cum-un-dead-monster lift into the air and crash up onto the hood. You can see what's coming next. The word
no
slips out from your lips. And then—

The zombie smashes through the windshield. The car slams into the side of a Duane Reade and comes to a sudden, violent halt. Blood sprays the Plexiglas partition. Completely covers it. You can't see through.

Your heart races, fear pumps through you—you're blind to whatever danger sits in the front of the taxi, just inches from you. Then the thick, crimson liquid begins to drip and clear—and you see the zombie—clothes, face, and chest absolutely shredded by the glass, staring right at you.

You scream. A loud, bloodcurdling yell.

The beast lunges for you, but smacks the Plexiglas and pulls back, confused.

Dumb and annoyed, it turns its attention to the driver. He's still alive. Trapped by his seat belt, face sliced to hell, but alive. The zombie digs in with his hands. Tears his cheek off. Follows with his mouth.

Watching the horror, you instinctively reach for the door handle. Then you stop. The car is surrounded. Ghouls everywhere.

One of the things stumbles into the passenger-side window, rocking the car. It's a big fat guy in a pin-striped shirt and ugly tie—gut pressing against the glass. He paws at the window with a bloody stump of a wrist, then moves on, leaving a thick, red smear across the window as he teeters away.

The one in the front of the car is different, his body twitching, jerking. He's finishing up with the driver. A large coil of intestine hangs from his mouth.

You look away. Double-check both rear locks. You're safe for now, but you're surrounded. Confident that the one up front won't get you through the Plexiglas, you turn, kneel on the seat, and survey the scene behind the car.

Chaos. Absolute bedlam.

Thousands of people fleeing for the bridge. The lucky ones, those already on the bridge, kick it into high gear. Worse off are the people who were still on the street when the things
appeared—the ones who hadn't yet made it to the bridge. They run for shelter in stores and buildings. A few make it, but nearly every store is already on lockdown. Others see doors slammed shut in their faces. Down the block, a mother and her young son bang on the door of a bodega. A cluster of the zombies moves toward them. The mother and son flee into an alleyway. The things follow. The two have no chance.

Hundreds of the living stay in their cars, like you, afraid to leave. Not sure what the hell to do.

One of the things—what used to be a black teenager in a dirty Allen Iverson 76ers jersey and a pair of hand-me-down Jordans—feeds on a fake-tanned white guy in a slick black convertible.

Should have gone with the hardtop, asshole.

All around you, the beasts feast. Hordes of them. Killing and eating. On the sidewalks. On the streets, between cars. A fire hydrant, pierced by a crashed moving truck, sprays water high into the air. Beneath it one of the beasts, in a brown trench coat, devours an old woman. Her blood mixes with the water and a light pink liquid makes a path along the curb and down the gutter.

A man lies on the hood of the car behind you, fighting off three of the things. He loses. His chest is torn open and the three zombies gorge themselves. The poor bastard's entrails spill out onto the hood and onto the cement.

You see firsthand how everyone killed comes back to life and becomes another mindless killing thing. Some jerk to life almost immediately—others take some time and rise later.

It's then that the true horror sinks in. Each one kills two, those two kill four, those four kill eight, and on and on and on. It's like the cheesy AIDS video you had to watch in health class in middle school—only scarier. Yep, scarier than AIDS. That's scary.

It all becomes quite clear that this nightmare won't be ending anytime soon.

You dial 911. Can't connect. Fuck. Everybody in New York City is on the phone, of course. You hang up and try again. Nothing.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Nothing.

Goddamn it! The fear dissipates, replaced with fury and frustration.

“Motherfucker!!!”
You punch the ceiling. Kick the back of the seats.

The beast in the front seat jumps. Takes a break from dining on the cabdriver to slap at the glass with bloody palms.