Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (3 page)

You walk to the gate and lean against it, tired. You replay the morning's events. Started off pretty regular: woke up late, crowded subway ride, morning meeting—that's when things went a little haywire. Zombies, crazy cab ride, dead cop, general chaos and horror—

“Smoke?”

You jump. Chucky's standing beside you, holding out a cigarette.

“Shit. You scared me. Uh, yeah, sure.” You take one. You're not much of a smoker, but if there was ever an occasion, this was it. You take the lighter. On the third try you get it. You wrap your fingers through the metal fence and rest against it, exhaustion tugging at your body.

Together, you smoke in silence. He finishes his. Flicks it through the metal gate. Lights another. A moment later you finish yours. You don't ask for a second, and he doesn't offer.

“Shh, shh,” he says, hushing you, even though you weren't making a damn sound anyway. “Look.”

A zombie staggers down the ramp. It's an old man in a short-sleeve button-down, splashed with blood. Wisps of white hair. Horn-rimmed glasses, one lens cracked. It trips over its feet, regains its balance, and continues to shuffle along. Its shoulder
scrapes against the ramp wall as it stumbles forward. A streak of blood tags the wall.

More follow behind it. A dozen, you guess. You watch, aware that you're safe behind the gate, but still scared shitless. You want to run—retreat into the temporary safety of the garage. But you don't. You watch. Just a short time ago they were regular people—now they're actual living dead monsters. Their faces—almost familiar looking, despite the gashes and the gore. The same people you passed every day on the street, stood behind in line at the movies, worked with, drank with.

“C'mon,” Chucky whispers, touching your shoulder.

You snap out of it and step back.

“Stay in the dark,” he says. You nod and park yourself behind a large support beam. Chucky jogs over to the office. Through the window, you see him open a box on the wall full of keys. He flips through a few, turns around to look back at the garage, then flips through a few more. Finally, he takes a set of keys, shuts the box, and jogs back across the garage floor.

You follow him to a black two-door Mercedes that sits directly opposite the gate, allowing you a clear view of the entire garage. He unlocks the doors and climbs into the driver's seat. You hesitate a moment, then get in the passenger's side.

You watch the things gather at the gate. Some claw at it. Others pay it no attention and just sort of stumble about. After a while, it's simply too much to look at—you can no longer process what you're seeing. You recline the seat and before you know it, you're asleep.

You wake up confused—not sure how much time has passed. You smell something in the air—pot? No, couldn't be. Wait—yep. Next to you, Chucky is puffing on a blunt.

“Wakey-wakey,” he says, grinning and waving it in your face. “You want?”

AN AX TO GRIND

“I want the ax,” you say.

“Why should I give you the ax? This is my bar.”

“You own it?”

“No, but I'm in charge right now.”

You beg with your eyes.

“Fine, take it,” he says. “You getting killed don't help
me
any.”

He takes the pool cue in his meaty paws.

You lift the fire ax from the table. Shit, it's heavy. Real heavy. Not what you expected. You carry it in front of you with both hands, by your waist. You're scared now—unsure. You don't think you can wield an ax like this. Especially not in the middle of any sort of battle.

Anthony unlocks the door. “You first,” he says, grinning.

Son of a bitch.

Gently, you use the ax to poke open the door. It's barely halfway open when the beasts attack. You raise the ax high into the air. It nearly pulls you off your feet. You struggle to hold it.

Then, with everything you've got, you swing it. It catches the first beast in the waist. You yank it out, bringing a string of gore with it. The thing continues to come at you. You raise the ax above your head and bring it down. Thing is heavy—no accuracy. You aim for the head but instead bury it into the zombie's shoulder.

It's a sickening feeling—this weapon you're wielding, going a foot deep into this being's flesh. You struggle to jerk the ax free from the zombie's muscular shoulder. But you're too slow. The next beast lunges at you. Puts its cold, clammy hands around your neck.

You scream. The ax falls from your hands. Pain shoots through your foot. You look down, horrified—the ax is stuck in the floor, and your foot is in two pieces. You lift your leg, leaving most of your foot on the floor. You take a step, pain shooting up your leg, and stumble back. Three more jump on you, gnawing on your face and body, and together you crash to the ground. You feel your own hot blood pooling around you. One of the things tears at your ear—there's an awful sound as it rips off. God. God help me, you think.

“Anthony,” you manage to get out. “Anthony.”

He kicks one beast off you. Breaks the pool cue over another one's face, sending a chunk of wood spinning down the hall. Then he reaches down, grabs the thing by its ears, and rips it up. Slams it into the wall, then tosses it down the hall, knocking the rest of the beasts back.

“Anthony, please,” you beg.

He raises the pool cue. His face, unsure, goes blurry as you focus on the chalky tip of the stick. It lowers, slowly. He squeezes his hands around it, flips it over. Now you stare up at the splintered end. Blood drips off it—a drop falls into your eye and it waters up. The cue lowers, getting larger as it closes in on your eye. Just an inch from your eyeball.

Then, at once, he forces it down, ripping through your eye, blasting through your skull, and destroying your brain.

FIREWORKS

A pair of bullets whips past. A woman's pained scream erupts behind you.

You pull at the door of the Honda Civic next to you. The driver, a middle-aged man, heavy wrinkles across his face, a Titleist ball cap covering his eyes, shakes his head no. You pull. He slams his hand down on the lock.

More bullets. More screams.

You drop to the ground and bury your head in your arms. After a moment, the heavy sounds of gunfire slow. You raise your head.

A stampede of people, coming right for you. Now you know what it feels like to be a kick returner, staring down an entire special teams unit. They run, frantic, a huge group, two or three people wide.

You roll to your right, underneath the Civic.

Feet scramble past you. An elderly woman falls. She shuts her eyes. You reach out, try to help her, but there's nothing you can do. She's trampled. A hundred feet run over her. A heavy boot lands on the back of her head, pushing her face into the cement. Blood seeps from her nose. A crack as a huge man steps on her ankle, snapping it. A few horrific minutes later and the stampeding crowd has thinned. The woman is dead.

You roll out from the other side of the car, closer to the middle of the bridge. A large gap, maybe ten feet wide, runs down the center of the bridge, separating inbound and outbound traffic. Steel girders connect the two sides.

Across the gap a police officer is standing in the middle of a
crowd firing into the air. His cruiser sits behind him, door open. Possible safety, you think. The cruiser is bulletproof. Probably has a shotgun inside. A radio!

You peer down the gap at the bridge's lower deck. No people. No army. Just the dead. The monsters have completely taken it over.

You climb up on the closest girder, the metal warm against your palms. You begin to inch your way across. The moans of the dead rise up.

There's a huge blast as the car ahead of you explodes. Instinctively, you reel back, trying to shield yourself. In the process you lose your balance. Your foot slips off the girder. Then your leg. Suddenly you're clinging to the edge, hanging on for dear life.

Don't look down. Don't look down. Don't look down.

You look down.

Fucking idiot. Why'd you look down?

Gnarled hands reach up—a moaning throng of the dead, begging for you.

You struggle to pull yourself up. You kick your feet—but there's just air.

Their moans get louder as the beasts sense your impending fall.

You block out everything—the angry sound of gunfire, the deathly moans, the agonizing screams. You concentrate only on making it back up. Feel your muscles tighten. Your hands grip the steel. Finally, using everything you have, you pull yourself back up onto the girder.

You stare ahead. Not going to fall again. Not going to die. You move forward—slowly, steadily.

Finally, you make it to the other side. You pass the burning car and beeline it for the cruiser. Hop the hood of a taxi, slide off like Starsky. Jump across the next car.

You dive into the cruiser and slam the door shut behind you. It's a mess inside. Dunkin' Donuts coffee cups on the floor.
Empty food bags—KFC, McDonald's, more Dunkin' Donuts. A pack of True cigarettes nestled between the dashboard and the front window.

W
HAP
W
HAP
W
HAP
!!!

The bulletproof glass spiderwebs. Your heart leaps up your throat as you realize the cop is shooting at you.

The officer frowns, frustrated.

You wave—mouthing “What the fuck?” You're not locking him out. He can get in the car, too. You're just looking for cover.

He pushes a citizen aside and marches toward the car.

What the fuck is this nut job doing?

He fires twice more. You lunge across the car and lock the door. The cop shakes his head and pulls the keys from his belt. Waves them at you and smiles.

Then, out of nowhere, three of the beasts tackle him. He's gone—just like that.