Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (33 page)

UP THE STREET

The train tracks and the street alongside it run east-west. Atlantic Avenue runs up and away from the tracks to the north, forming a T. It's a main street sort of deal—a CVS, local grocery store, Starbucks.

A crowd is starting to gather in the middle of the street. Some stand, stunned at what they're seeing. Others rush to the van to help. Another over to the cop car.

You tear off, headed up Atlantic, running right through them. There's a scream behind you. Then another. You run faster. It's beginning.

Halfway up the street, you stop in your tracks. A store catches your attention—A&J's Hardware. A few dirt bikes and four-wheelers sit in the parking lot—a
FOR SALE
sign hanging on the fence.

Hmm. Could be your ticket.

A bell dings as you enter. A gruff-looking guy, sixtyish, leans against the counter. He doesn't acknowledge you. He's playing with a police scanner. It's going wild.

You lean over, hands on your knees, and try to catch your breath. God, you're out of shape. Holding your side, you walk to the counter.

“You uh… you selling those bikes out there?”

Without looking up, “You see the
FOR SALE
sign?”

Struggling for breath. “Yeah.”

“There's your answer.”

“OK. Well, uh. I'd like to buy one.”

“Which one?”

You've never ridden a dirt bike in your life. “Oh ahh… I don't know—whatever's easiest. I don't need anything fancy.”

For the first time he looks up at you. He's grizzled—got a face that looks like it just came off a short-order grill. Long scar running across his forehead and down his cheek. Short, stubbly white beard.

He sighs. “You have a truck? Unless you have a truck to get it out of here with, I can't sell you a bike. You can't just cruise away with it. Riding on city streets is against the law.”

“You hear the train crash?”

“No, I didn't. Tell me,” he says, looking at you like you're an idiot.

“I was on that train. All I want to do is get out of here. Cut me a break, huh?”

His tune changes. “You were on the train? What happened? On the news—all this horseshit?”

You take a seat on an upside-down stack of plastic paint buckets. Look around. It's a nice local hardware store—the type that's getting pushed out by the Lowe's and Home Depots of the world. A throwback. Old-fashioned, even.

You start in. “Fucking—I don't even know. The dead started coming to life. Zombies. I mean—just like the movies.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Go take a look outside.”

He doesn't move.

“Go ahead—look.”

He steps outside. Comes back in a second later, face white.

“Leave.”

“What?”

“You heard me—get out. I'm locking up.” He grabs you by the arm.

You look out the door. Most of the monsters seem to be hanging around the train still, feeding on the passengers that didn't already get it. But a good twenty of the things are already halfway up the block.

“I'll fucking die out there!” you say.

He thinks for a second, then goes outside, pulls the heavy outer door shut, and reappears. “Alright—if you're gonna stay, you're gonna work. Grab some wood.”

“OK, where?”

He shoots you the same look that he keeps shooting you. You've seen it before. It's that “you're a kid” look. That “you weren't part of the Greatest Generation and you're not a Vietnam vet” look. You're from the cell phone generation. The iThis and iThat generation. If you didn't just return from Iraq with a bullet in your leg, you weren't impressing this guy.

“Aisle C, by the iPhone cases.”

Oh.

You run to the back and grab all the wood you can carry. Fuck, pants are falling down. Of all the days not to wear a belt.… You waddle back and drop the wood at his feet. He gets to work with a drill. “More.”

You do like he says.

Two large front windows look out onto the street, the door between them. He orders you to start piling stuff in front of the right window while he goes to work covering the left.

He's got some cabinets for sale. Those seem to work pretty well. You stack them up. More stuff on top of them—chairs, shelves—anything big and halfway heavy. Screams continue to pour in from the streets. You work faster.

The guy finishes with the left window, then walks to the back of the store. You take a look at your window—pretty good. Secure. Then you go to find him. Through a tight doorway is a second room—this one full of lawn mowers, Weed Whackers, snowblowers, and other larger tools. He pulls out a set of keys and locks the heavy metal back door. You follow him back to the front of the store like his pet cat.

He goes back to his spot behind the counter and pulls out a pistol. Lays it down. Then nudges the phone toward you. “You want to call anyone, go ahead,” he says.

“Oh, thanks.” You pick up the phone, begin to dial your mom, then stop and hang up. You should call her. But she'll only worry. Ehh, you'll text her later.

“You?” you say, pushing the phone in his direction.

He shakes his head.

“No one?”

“No,” he grunts.

“Oh, OK.”

You set the old phone back down gently. “What's your name?” you ask.

“Walter,” he says.

“Nice to meet you Walter, I'm—”

“Shut up. Listen.”

Walter turns up the scanner. You can't make anything out—just a mishmash of voices.

“Military's on the way,” Walter says. “Coming right through here, headed for the city.”

“Military?”

“That's what I said—didn't you hear?”

“I couldn't hear a damn thing on there.”

“There's a base about twenty miles up the road.”

You walk to a small spot on the window that was left uncovered. The heavy rumble of military machines shakes the building. Tanks. Trucks. They're arriving now.

They stop in front of the wrecked train. Soldiers pour out of the truck and form a line stretching across the street. Thirty of them. Full combat gear.

One soldier—commander, general, however it works—steps forward with a megaphone.

“Don't move another fucking inch—none of you.”

Clearly zombies aren't the best at following orders, because they take off running toward the Army.

In turn, the Army lets loose with a barrage of fire. Even from a hundred yards away, the sound is deafening. The beasts that get it in the head drop. But the others don't stop. Bullets
rip through their bodies but they just stutter, stumble, and keep coming.

Fucking zombies…

Then comes something even more horrifying—children. School kids.
Zombified
school kids. Hundreds. You saw the school on the corner after you climbed the hill. Why the hell didn't they stay inside?

The children join in with the rest of the monsters—moving steadily toward the military. The firing doesn't stop.

There's a loud screech from the other direction, farther up Atlantic Avenue. A car comes racing down the street, directly toward the action, and comes to a halt about a hundred feet short of the battle.

A woman jumps out. She looks around, frantic. “Ruby! Has anyone seen my daughter Ruby?”

Then she sees what the military's firing upon. Children.

She lets out a Luke Skywalker “Nooooo!” and takes off running.

“Ruby! Ruby where are you?!”

Fuck me. You can see it coming. She's going to try to get her kid out of there—and she's going to get herself killed. And for nothing—if Ruby's one of those kids, she can already be counted among the dead.

STAYING BEHIND

You walk over to Khaki, pull him aside. In a half whisper, “Hey—I can't do this.”

“What? This was your plan. Mostly.”

“It's insane. I'm not going out there with those things—I don't care how much I stink like raw hamburger. If I were you, I wouldn't go, either.”

“I'm not backing out now.”

“You're nuts.”

“Maybe. But look—I'm a zombie fanatic—I mean, crazy. Nuts. I know it. And somehow—now—all the movies I've been watching, all the comics, all the books—it's actually happening!”

He has a crazed smile on his face. He's actually enjoying this.

“The chance to go out there, to walk among them,” he continues, “it's too much to turn down. I'm scared shitless, for sure. But I also think it can work.”

“Your funeral.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

You smile. “Well, I'll be watching. If you get in trouble, I'll do what I can to help.”

“Alright.”

You stick your bloody hand out. Khaki shakes it.

“Good luck.”

“You too.”

The group is ready. You get behind a crate and watch as Khaki raises the large metal gate, pulling on the chain like
he's opening a stage curtain. It's fitting, ‘cause they're damn good actors. They've got the zombie walk thing down perfectly. The world ever gets back to normal, it'll be the next big dance at the club—you can see it already.

They shuffle out of the warehouse. Across the parking lot, through the gate, and out into the street.

Before long the zombies—the real ones—take notice. They don't attack. They stumble over. Sniff them out, not unlike two dogs meeting on the street. One, a small boy, hovers around Khaki. Brushes against him.

The group picks up their speed a little bit, probably without even realizing it. You can only imagine how scared they are. Walking straight into the lion's den, no protection.

But it's working. The beasts moan. The group moans back. Really, a dead-on impression. Rich Little turned zombie.

They get to the end of the street and turn. Slowly, to the left. Just three blocks to go. Sonofabitch, they're going to make it!

Then a scream pierces the air. One of the men has lost it. He darts out from the group, fleeing down the street.

At once, the things come to life. Fully aware. Two of the ugly things chase down the fleeing man.

Everyone else scatters, most headed for the water. Goddamn it, they're done for. Without thinking, you run out into the street.

“Hey!” you shout, waving your arms. “Hey! Hey, you stupid brain-dead sons of bitches. Over here! Over here!”

The beasts turn.

The group disappears around the corner. You don't know if they'll make it or not, but you've done what you can.

And now you've got your own problems to deal with. A horde of the things, coming straight for you.

You bolt back inside the garage and jump for the chain. You're two inches short. Goddamn it. You stick your head out the door—they're through the gate, coming fast.

OK, plan B. You sprint to the back. You can hear their feet slapping the ground, just behind you. Moans turning to howls as they close in.

A hand grabs your shoulder. Squeezes around it. A nail pierces your skin. You turn into the freezer and slam the door. But the undead arm blocks it. Behind, their snarling faces. You pull the door back and slam it again, giving it everything you have. Once more and it shuts—the thing's arm drops to the freezer floor, severed just below the elbow.

Disgusted, you watch the arm flop on the ground. But your disgust turns to absolute horror as you realize the freezer doesn't open from the inside. You're trapped. Trapped with nothing but an undead arm and the sound of thirty monsters stumbling around outside the freezer.

Nearly two years later, when Manhattan is no longer owned by the undead, the Army finds your body, frozen to the core.