Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (29 page)

“Brooklyn's out of the question. Bridge is fucked. Just head south to the bottom of the island. We'll find a way out.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you say, and hit the gas.

SEWER RAT

Al and Fish sprint for the hole. You follow, sliding your way down the sandy side.

And then you're falling.

You land in a stream of disgusting water. Something lands on top of you, knocks the wind out of you. You gasp for air, but you're forced underwater. It's a body. A fucking zombie, on top of you. It thrashes in the water. You try to raise your head, but can't.

And then it's gone.

You scramble to your feet. Al has the thing. He throws it into the water, lifts his heavy work boot up, and brings it crashing down, shattering the thing's entire face against the sewer floor.

The four of you begin running.

The sewer is narrow—a dimly lit catacomb. You have to crouch to avoid hitting your head. Standing in the middle of the rounded tunnel, you could reach out and touch both sides of it at the same time.

Splash after splash behind you as the zombies hit the water. You turn and look. A dozen in the sewer already. More coming every second. They hit the water, lift their heads, and then they take off after you.

You run, splashing through the knee-deep liquid, Al, Fish, and Sully in front of you. The tunnel glows with an eerie yellow light. Water drips from cracks in the ceilings.

“Catch!” Al says.

Huh?

Al's Zippo flies through the air. You leap, grab it with one hand, and keep running.

“What's this for?” you shout, your words echoing.

“Whaddya think?”

Al comes to a halt and spins, holding a stick of dynamite. “Light!”

Your thumb, shaking, flicks at the flint-wheel ignition. On the fourth try it lights. Al holds the fuse over the flame. It catches, sparking.

The beasts are bearing down on you, splashing.

Al throws it as far as he can, straight at the one in front. It spins through the air, end over end. Then, in midair—

K
RAKA
-B
OOM
!!!

You watch as the lead zombie's chest shatters like glass and the thing's blown apart into a hundred pieces. The rest are blown back, some against the wall, others sent spiraling back into the water.

Near silence, for a moment, then the steady sound of dripping water.

And the moans.

Drip.

Plunk
.

And the horrid sound of the undead. And the rough, haggard breathing of Al.

And then—a crack, a sound like skates on ice too thin.

The roof gives away, raining down heavy chunks of concrete upon the teeming horde of undead.

And then a low hum. Then louder. An echo.

Rushing water.

You can see it through the rubble—the tunnel turning back as the shadow of the tsunami approaches.

“Oh shit,” Al says.

“What did you do?” Fish says, scared.

“May have blown the main line.”

The tidal wave comes roaring around the corner, filling the
entire sewer. It hits the beasts, then the pile of concrete, and sweeps everything all away.

You're next.

The wave punches you in the chest. You're lost, tumbling through freezing wet darkness. Your knee bangs against cement—the top, bottom, side of the sewer, you don't know.

Through the green-black water, you see arms and legs. You hit the surface for a moment. An inch, maybe two between the water and the ceiling. Grab a mouthful of air. Then something at your feet, fingers around your ankle. Pulls you back down into the dark water.

You kick free. Feel your foot kick some sort of flesh.

Through the darkness, you can see Fish. He tumbles beside you, carried along with you. He reaches out—fear in his face. Then you turn a corner and he's thrown into the sewer wall, blood bursting from his shattered face.

Your head bursts through the water again. Grab air. And inhale water—shitty, pissy water. You vomit, lift your head to breathe in air, but only take in more water. Your hands claw at the ceiling. Find a brick. Get your finger in. You hang on—the water rushing below you, through your legs, and around your body. Your fingers bleed. Then your nails snap, rip off, and you're back under.

You see Al. His mouth is wide open. Blood pours from his throat. Undead. More monsters floating around him. You can't win. They won't drown. They'll never drown. They'll never lose like this.

Sully—you see a flash of his eyes, then he disappears, gone.

You surface again, smack your head against the brick, then go back under. You see something ahead of you. A hole. Some sort of pipe.

Then a stop. Sudden. Your shoulder blades shatter. Wedged in a hole.

You can't move—completely trapped in the water-filled pipe. Your shoulders are stuck. Something hits your feet.
Zombie. And another one. You're a fucking clog in the drain.

The sounds go first. You hear nothing. Just your own screaming inside your head.

Feels like a massive pair of hands around your neck, choking the life out of you.

Tears mix with sewer water.

And then you choke out, inhale water, and it's done.

YES, MOTHER?

Against your better judgment, you answer the phone.

“Hello?”

It's like the dam broke—out pours a torrent of
ohmygods whereareyous
and
areyouokays
.

Should have had that beer.

“Mom, relax. I'm OK.”

Relax
isn't in your mom's vocab—it disappeared the day you were born.

Your folks live outside Boston, so you don't have to worry about them ever popping in. Though they'd love to, surely. They'd be Kramer to your Seinfeld if geography allowed them.

“I'm at home, Mom.”

Momtalkmomtalkmomtalk

“Yes, of course I saw the news.”

Momtalkmomtalkmomtalk

“Yes, Mom, I have a flashlight.”

Momtalkmomtalkmomtalk

“Mom!” you finally shout. “You—need—to—relax.”

She tells you to take the ferry to your aunt Judy's house in Staten Island.

“Why? Why should I do that?”

She tells you it will be safe. She wants you to be safe.

“Mom—I'm safe here.”

She tells you she'll send you a check for five hundred dollars if you go. OK, done. You hang up, grab your old backpack, same one you used to smuggle beers up to your dorm room a few years back, and fill it with the essentials—some
clothes, Nintendo DS, a few issues of
Hustler
—and you hit the road.

The Staten Island ferry departs from South Ferry Station at Battery Park, the southernmost tip of Manhattan. You're about fifty blocks north. With no other choice, you begin running. Around you it's like an unofficial city marathon—full of a bunch of out-of-shape guys sweating through their work clothes and women regretting their shoe choice of the day.

The streets are crazy in all directions. Gridlock. Cars don't move. The sidewalks are jam-packed, so you work your way through the cars. You hear little pieces of news—that the zombies are uptown, on the West Side, in Brooklyn. Christ, who knows what the hell to believe?

You pass a police station. It's surrounded—people bang on the windows, yelling for protection, demanding to be let inside. Half a dozen cops stand out front, trying to keep order. Pushing. Shoving. Then a gunshot. People scatter. Some charge. A riot begins. You pick up the pace.

Farther on, a man bursts out of P.C. Richard carrying a DVD player. No one chases him. Three men beat another man mercilessly on a crowded street corner. No police around to stop it.

Twenty minutes later, seeing stars, jagged pain in your side, feet sore as all hell, you finally see South Ferry Station in the distance. A throng of thousands greets you. You push your way into the crowd.

Hours pass. You stand in the stinking heat. Miserable. Any longer, and you're going to collapse.

A Staten Island girl in a Wagner College tank top bitches about the heat. “It is
so
gross out here,” she says. “I swear to
God
if that ferry doesn't get here
like now
I'm going to scream.”

Her boyfriend, tall, 'roided out, and fake-tanned, tells her to “be cool, slut.”

You can only shake your head.

Word starts to make it down the line. One of the ferries is stopped about two hundred yards out—right in the middle of
the water. You press to the edge, along the waterline, where you can see. Yep—ferry, just sitting there.

A lightbulb goes off in your head. You inch your way through the park to the twenty-five-cent binocular viewers—the type that tourists drop a quarter in to get a sixty-second look at the Statue of Liberty. A few others follow your lead.

You fish a quarter from your pocket and drop it inside. Bend over, put your eyes to it. You spot the Statue of Liberty first—it takes you a moment to locate the ferry. There's all sorts of movement on the upper level. A fight. Then someone jumps—they don't quite make it—the body hits the lower-level railing and tumbles violently into the water. Another person jumps—this one makes it. Then more. The entire lower level. Dozens of bodies leaping into New York Harbor.

“Holeee shit.”

Panicked gasps and ohmygods echo among the others looking through the viewers. Someone pushes you aside to get a look.

By now you can see the survivors with your naked eye. They swim furiously, headed for Battery Park and the ferry dock. They arrive in minutes. A man crawls up on the shore, bloodied and half dead. A group runs to help him. Bad idea. A scream erupts from the center of the group. A woman spins away, clutching her shoulders.

More screams from across the park and inside the dock. The crowd goes mad as more and more of the things make it to shore and start to attack.

You run for it. You make it a block. Fuck. More of them. The beasts are everywhere—goddamn it—how do they multiply so fast?!

Up ahead is a large warehouse, one of many. There are two trucks out front. A huge image of a cow with bright red smiling lips is painted on a perimeter gate. You sprint for the gate. Open, thank God. You enter, catch your breath, and make for the first open garage door.

It's open about two feet. You drop and roll underneath. Pitch black. You slap around at the wall next to the door. Feel around. Light switch. You hit it.

Shit!

Zombies. A hundred dead faces fill the warehouse. You let loose a bloodcurdling scream, squeeze your eyes shut, and prepare to die.

“Hey dude—chill—it's OK.”

Huh?

You crack open one eye. One of the zombies is walking over to you. “We're not real zombies.”

“Huh?” you squeak out. You look around the warehouse.

“Supposed to have a Zombie Walk today,” the guy says as he shuts the gate.