Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (23 page)

Little lower and to the right.

You fire again.

The explosion flips the car up through the air and sends a dozen of the undead things flying. The lamppost splinters.

Doc hits the gas. The Angels circle the bus, keeping the beasts at bay.

One Angel zooms past the bus and races ahead, the twin cannons on the sides of his bike laying waste to anything in his way.

Another follows behind. He whips a bike chain around the neck of a zombie in a tight white shirt. Rips it to the ground and drags it with him. Through a sitting area, into some outdoor tables and chairs, up the curb, then leaves it smashed, dead, against a streetlight.

The convoy carries on. Up ahead, through a thick fog, the Empire State Building towers over the city.

The bus slows. You pour out.

Two undead security guards stand just inside the ornate art deco entrance. Jones drops them. On the wall is a building map. Eighty-six floors to the top.

The men move out.

The Angel named Tanner carries a scythe, looking like something straight from hell. On the seventeenth floor, inside the Croatian Tourist Board office, he beheads three undead Croatian tourists.

At floor 36, the Angel named Foster uses his two-by-four spiked with rusty nails to clean out the Alitalia offices.

On 48, you open the door to the law offices of Kurland, Aiken, & Gradwohl. There are lights. A small generator hums in the corner. Mountains of food. Boxes and boxes of cereal and crackers. Music from behind one of the doors. You put
your ear to it. Opera. You ready the gun and kick open the door, prepared for anything.

Blood. So much blood. Dark red, mixed with chunks of skull, caked on the wall. Beneath it is the slumped-over body of a man, his head completely gone. Shotgun in his lifeless hand.

You look around. Must have stocked up in the beginning. Planned on riding it out. But couldn't take it. You keep it in mind—then head back out.

At floor 53, the large, hairy Angel named Griz kicks open the doors to the King's College administrative offices and throws a flash bang inside. Blinds the undead professors inside and then kills them all with his ax.

On 64, you enter the offices of the National Film Board of Canada. You can smell the beast—too late, you turn. The door slams shut behind you. Your guys are locked out in the hall. Alone, you face a large man, white beard. You unload the RCP90's entire fifty-round magazine in less then a second. The monster's chest and waist are torn apart. Not a single head shot, though. Fuck. It leaps at you. Ammo spent, you jump behind a large mahogany desk, keeping it between you and the thing.

You're trapped. Frantic, you look for something, anything to use as a weapon.

Keyboard. You rip it free from the computer and smack the beast across the face. Keys fly. It does nothing.

A letter opener. You swipe at the beast. Swipe again.

Beside it, a compressed gas duster. You have one at your cubicle at work for cleaning Cheetos crumbs out of your keyboard.

You take it in your hand, holding it like a grenade, and wait. The thing sways back and forth, eyeing you, then lunges over the desk, mouth wide, ready to bite. You jam the can in its mouth. It gags. You stab the letter opener into the base of the can. There's a hiss—then the can bursts, shooting compressed air in every direction and blowing the thing's head wide open in a furious blast of red.

Your heart races. Pounds against your chest. Close one. You collapse in the desk chair. Reload the RCP90. Chunks of brain and skull on your face. You wipe yourself off and, reluctantly, head back out to the hall to rejoin your team.

The Angels continue working their way up through the building. On every floor, zombie resistance—and on every floor, that resistance is put down.

Finally, you approach the top. A sign points to the observation deck. Everyone gathers around the door, weapons high.

“Ready?” Jones says.

No one says anything. He kicks open the door. You take them in—a hundred dead tourists.

They immediately run for you. Tanner leads the way, swinging the scythe. Whiskey grabs a zombie kid—teeth snapping—and throws him up over the fence to the depths below. You back your way into a corner. Drop on one knee, trying to make yourself as small as possible. You've made it this far. Not going to die now. Anything gets close, you shoot it in the brain.

Finally, the zombie tourists are all dead.

“Head back down, men,” Jones says. They do. You wait behind. Watch as Jones lights the flare, holds it high, and red smoke fills the air.

And with that, your job is complete. Jones puts his hand on your shoulder. “Let's go.”

WATCH OUT FOR STEAMROLLERS

Fuck fuck fuck.

You see Al dive into the hole after Sully. You turn, away from the hole, away from the monsters—and you run like hell. Fish follows your lead, sprinting behind you.

You tear across the lot, fast as you can. You throw a glance over your shoulder—some of the beasts go in the hole after Sully and Al. Others chase you.

Then, suddenly, you're in the dirt.

An upturned rock sent you falling. It's going to be the goddamned death of you. Unbelievable.

You look up, dirt in your eyes. Fish sprints past you.

One of the beasts lands on top of you. Buries its teeth in your ankles. You twist, ignoring the pain, and throw a useless punch. Another one lands on you—your leg twists, awkwardly, and your shin snaps. Pain radiates up your leg.

You bury your head in the dirt, grind your teeth. Goddamn it, you're going to die here.

You get a glimpse of Fish up ahead. He's climbing something. Can't tell what.

The beasts get off, take off after Fish. Blood turns the dirt around you black. You manage to roll over.

You see Fish.

And he's driving a giant motherfucking steamroller. He looks at you. His expression switches from scared to apologetic. You know you're done for. You give a woozy, defeated thumbs-up, just before one of the monsters bites the thumb off.

The stupid things don't have the sense to move. They stand in the way. Fish rolls right over them. Completely squishes them.

And then the shadow of the steamroller is upon you. You're on your back, head up, watching. You close your eyes and let it take you.

Over your feet first. Indescribable pain. Bones shatter. Muscles burst. Organs liquefy. Your body literally flattens.

Over your knees. You hear them crack and shatter.

Up your thighs. Your testicles pop. Blood floods your underwear.

Then the pain subsides and your eyes open and you watch, oddly fascinated, as the steamroller runs over your chest, and, then finally, over your face…

TO THE BRIDGE!

Panic flooding you, you follow the crowd. It's running with the bulls in Pamplona—new title: running from the zombies on the East Side.

You make your way through the maze of cars. You catch quick glimpses of the panicked faces of passengers. Some leave their cars. Others try to but fail—the mass of running bodies making it impossible.

Screams fill the air behind you. You just keep moving. Run up and over a car. You pass an abandoned convertible BMW Z3. Always wanted one of those, you think. Free, right there.

It's a two-level bridge. Bottom is strictly for vehicles. Top is supposed to be for pedestrians, but cars have filled the narrow pedestrian lane. Most of the zombies seem to have gone for the lower level. You run around the side, up the pedestrian path, and onto the upper level.

You're surrounded by people, all fleeing at top speed. Fuck me, I'm out of shape, you think. But you don't stop. Keep going, even when it feels like your heart is going to burst out of your chest. Four or five minutes later, you're nearly halfway across the bridge.

And then it all goes to shit.

Bullets tear through the air. The man beside you drops—his chest blasted apart. More fall to the ground, screaming.

You drop behind a car. The rear window above you shatters. You peek your head around.

It's the Army. At the opposite end of the bridge your freedom is blocked by the
USFUCKINGARMY
.

The firing stops. Then a loudspeaker, megaphone, something:

“
STOP! THIS IS THE UNITED STATES MILITARY! THIS AREA IS UNDER QUARANTINE. RETURN TO THE CITY
.”

Behind you, people scream—the zombies like a giant meat grinder—a wall of death—destroying every living thing in its way. Coming right for you.

Ahead of you, the Army—ready to drop anything moving—walking dead or not.

FIVE LONG MINUTES

“Alright, asshole, I'm in.”

Limpy hoots and hollers.

Jones leads you to the middle of the closest intersection. You look up. Thirty-ninth and Eighth. The Harley headlights bathe you in blinding white light.

“Ready, kid?”

You spin the crowbar in your hands. “As I'll ever be.”

Jones puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles, piercingly loud. Man, you've always wanted to be able to do the two-fingered whistle. If you live, you're gonna get him to teach you how.

Jones slaps you on the back, says good luck, and walks away laughing.

You raise the crowbar. Grip it tight with two hands. Spread your feet in a fighting stance. You take quick side steps, turning, looking in every direction.

The Angels sit on their bikes, standing, smoking, watching. Bastards…

A sound to your left. You spin. Heart pumping.

Here comes the first one.

A thin Asian woman. Bloody shirt, barely there. Skin rotted away to nothing. Entire rib cage visible.