Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (30 page)

“What?”

“Zombie Walk. Y'know, a zombie parade. We dress up like zombies and do, you know, the classic zombie shuffle. We start here, in Battery Park, and go to Midtown. It's a whole-day event. We do it to raise awareness.”

“Awareness for what?”

“Zombies.”

“Buddy—I think people are aware.”

Most of the zombie walker folks sit along the wall on boxes and crates, eyes on a big fat guy talking up front, who looks a lot like the late, not-so-great president William Howard Taft.

It's a meatpacking warehouse. Main floor is near empty—besides the boxes and crates and zombies, just a few pallets. You take a seat and listen. The one you first met—clearly the leader—addresses the crowd. You take notice of his awful, fake-blood-splattered khaki shirt.

“It's getting worse, guys. Police presence has dwindled to nothing. The military seems to have pulled out of the city, from what we can tell. Obviously today's Zombie Walk isn't going to happen, but I'm glad we're all together for this epic experience.”

Taft picks up the discussion: “Now what we're dealing with here appears to be some sort of mash-up of the classic Romero zombie and the more modern Rage virus zombie.

“As we all saw—these zombies just sort of walk around. Very slowly. Dumb. Classic Hollywood zombie. But when something gets their attention—they can run like the wind. Rage-zombie style.”

“Looks like we're on our way to a classic Stage Three outbreak,” Khaki says.

You speak up. “Classic Stage Three outbreak? What the hell is that?”

Taft takes over. “Yes. Stage Three can spread to Stage Four quickly. At Stage Four—well, then you're just one stage away from the end of the world. Like
A Boy and his Dog
. With zombies.”

Then there's Four-Eyes, looks like Elvis Costello with a bad chin strap.

Elvis speaks. “We do have one advantage over the rest of these idiot Manhattanites.”

You lean forward, deadly serious. “What's wrong with Manhattan?”

“Don't make me laugh.”

“No, really.”

“You waste all that rent money to live in a shoe box. What are you paying for?”

“I don't know. How about convenience? Living in the greatest city in the world. Where do you live?”

“Brooklyn,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms defiantly.

Khaki calls order. “Alright, guys. Brooklyn versus Manhattan. What killed the dinosaurs. These are questions that can be debated forever. Now isn't the time. You were saying?”

“I was saying we have one advantage over the rest of these—unprepareds,” Elvis says, looking right at you. “We look like the zombies.”

“You thinking what I'm thinking?” Taft says.

Then the three of them, together, big grins:
“Shaun of the Dead.”

“What that's now?”

“Hello?
Shaun of the Dead
. 2004. Simon Pegg, Nick Frost. Directed by Edgar Wright. Classic zom-com.”

“But where to?” Khaki says. “What's safe?”

You've got it. You were just staring at it. “Statue of Liberty.”

They exchange glances.

“He has a good point,” Taft says. “In John Carpenter's
Escape From New York
, Liberty Island served as a base of operations for the military. We could use it in much the same way.”

“Can zombies cross water?” someone in the crowd pipes up.

You interject. “I um, I just saw them swimming—but I mean I don't know if they were full zombies, or y'know, in transition or whatever.”

Taft shoots you a look that says you're invading his zombie knowledge territory. “Well,” he says, “the water issue depends on who you ask. In George Romero's
Land of the Dead
, they do cross the water—finally infiltrating Fiddler's Green. And in Lucio Fulci's
Zombie
, also known as
Zombi 2
, there's the classic zombie-versus-shark scene.”

“But won't they smell us? You know, smell that we're different, when we're out there?” someone else calls out.

“Depends. Some zombie fiction, yes; some no.”

“Wait—isn't this a meat storage warehouse?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

“So—you get some meat. Rub it on yourself. It'll hide the smell.”

They argue. Buncha dorks. They're insufferable. You stand up and go to explore on your own—can't stand much more of these guys.

In the back is a heavy metal door that leads to the freezer area.

Huge slabs of meat hang on hooks. Thick sides of beef. Jackpot. You walk back out to the group.

“Guys—if we want to go out there or not—having the meat can't hurt. So how about you quit arguing and you help?”

They shut up. Think for a second, then a few get up and follow you to the freezer. You're feeling pretty good—you came into this situation and took charge. Not common for you.

Five of you work together, lifting the slab of meat up off the hook. It hits the floor with a thud. You try to push it. Too cold. You leave the freezer, take off your shoes, put your socks on your hands, and put your shoes back on. They do the same. Together, some pushing, some pulling, you get the beef out onto the floor.

It takes nearly three full days for the meat to thaw. You and the others sleep as much as you can. When you don't sleep, you discuss the plan. Diagram the walk. You're just three blocks from the harbor—you'll drench yourselves in cow guts, shuffle over there, drawing as little attention as possible, then jump straight into the harbor and swim your asses off.

The whole time—as you talk, as you discuss the plan—you hear the moans of the beasts outside.

Finally, the meat has thawed enough that it's usable. Khaki calls everyone together.

“Alright,” he tells everyone. “Wash up.”

You stab your hand into the cold side of the cow. Pull an ice-cold chunk from the animal's meaty underside. You hold the fleshy pile in your hand and stare at it. Is this really what it's come to? Ahh, the twists and turns of life…

You wash your body with the meat, rubbing it over your face, neck, and arms. And then over your clothes. You stick a few hunks in your pocket. Can't hurt.

When you've finished lathering in beef, you try to rip your shirt for the visual effect. Man, Hulk Hogan made it look easy. After a minute, you get your collar to split. Guess that's all you'll get.

You look around at everyone rubbing chunks of dead cow over themselves. Christ, this is the most ridiculous plan ever.

Are you really going to go through with this?

DAMN THE MAN

The Angels stare at you. The Colonel's look is penetrating.

You cough, then start. “It seems to me you've got a lot to risk here. And for what? You're a bunch of halfway outlaws anyways. What do you want that the government can give you? Privacy? You already got it. Money? Everyone here is doing OK.”

The Colonel glares. “I don't think you're in any position to—”

“Hey, GI Joe—back off,” Jones says. “He's with us, for now.”

Wow. Have cooler words ever been spoken? The leader of the NYC Hells Angels chapter just told a United States colonel to back off, because you're with them.
You're with them
.

Whatever got you this far, you must be doing something right.

“Like I was saying,” you continue, “I don't really see what they can offer that you haven't already got. So why stick your neck out?”

The Colonel steps forward. “How about this for an answer—because if you don't, I'll send a smart bomb straight up your asshole and turn this cute little clubhouse here into a smoking hole in the ground.”

Jones is out of his chair in the Colonel's face in two seconds flat. “I was leaning toward yes,” he says, “but now you can go fuck yourself. You want a war with the Hells Angels? Don't think you do—that's a war you ain't gonna win, boss. Not even
the fucking Army. So why don't you get the fuck out the way you came?”

The Colonel glares at Jones, then abruptly spins on his heels and leaves.

Everyone looks at you. You look at the floor, not sure what to say.

“Fuck 'em all,” Jones says.

Even the ones who wanted to go for it can agree with that statement.

Thankfully, the Colonel's threats never come true. You spend the next six months holed up in the club, making occasional runs for food and booze. On one run, you split one of the creatures in half with a chainsaw—a half second before it has a chance to get at Limpy. You're a hero.

Louis ODs on heroin about a month after that. Jones pulls you aside, tells you can have his room. You thank him. For the first time in months, you get to sleep in a real bed, and it's fantastic—even though Louis died in it.

The sleep is great—the waking up part, not as much. Something wet on your face. Water? No. Whiskey is standing over you, pissing on you. He raises his pecker, pissing in your face.

“What the fuck!” you scream, coughing, rolling out of the bed onto the floor and spitting out piss.

Whiskey laughs riotously as Tommy pulls you to your feet and knees you in the balls. You buckle over. Then he throws a vicious right hook, dropping you to the floor.

“What did I do?” you say, tears coming to your eyes.

Tommy grabs you, piss dripping from your face, and drags you out into the hall. He gives you a kick in the face that sends you down the stairs. Something cracks. Finger. Broken.

You hit the floor at the bottom of the stairs. You're seeing stars.

Then you look up. Jones is standing over you, smiling. He
holds a leather vest, full Hells Angels patch on the back. He drops it on you. Smiles.

“Welcome to the Hells Angels, kid,” he says.

SAVIN' SOME KIDS

You rush back to Mrs. Henderson's room. The kids are at the windows, looking outside.

“Hey, knock it off—get in your seats. Don't look out there. Now tell me—is there a janitor's closet or something like that around here?”

“Yes but it's locked,” the know-it-all girl says. “Billy can open it—he got suspended for breaking in.”

Someone—Billy, you assume—tells the know-it-all to shut up.

“Billy, show me that closet.”

He leads you down the hall. You forgot how cute elementary schools were. Charming little lockers. Drawings pinned to the walls.

He leads you to the closet.

“Damn, how'd you get into this thing?”

Billy crosses his arms.

“Tell me.”

“Twenty bucks.”

“Twenty bucks! You know what I pay each month in rent?”

Billy doesn't say a damn thing. You reach into your rear pocket, thumb through your wallet. “Little bastard, here.”