Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (38 page)

“The museum—let's go for it,” you say.

But before you can move, the SWAT truck door flies open and a zombie, in full SWAT gear, leaps from inside. You reel back, trip over your feet, and hit the ground. He pounces. You reach to your left and grab a dropped riot shield. You get it up just as the thing lands on top of you.

Its face is inches from yours, separated only by the riot shield. Its teeth gnaw at the heavy plastic. You look in its eyes—they're bloodshot to the point that they're pure red. Saliva drips. Its hands claw at the shield, then move down. Fingers dig into your sides.

BLAM!

Blood splatters the plastic. The zombie's head drops heavily onto the shield, cracked face squished against it, then slides off. Chucky towers above you, smoking pistol in hand.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you coulda killed me!” you shout.

“You had the shield thing up.”

“Still!”

“Whatever. We gotta move, son.”

You take the assault rifle for yourself and throw the dead officer's pistol to Chucky. He sprints back to the overturned plow and grabs the shotgun.

You peek your head around the side of the truck. Fuck! They're closing in. You squeeze the trigger and the assault rifle shakes violently in your hands. Bullets spray wildly. You catch the front one in the head, dropping it and tripping up the few behind it.

Chucky's already running. You follow, booking it across the avenue, then up the museum steps.

Chucky tugs at one of the three huge museum doors that line the top of the stairs. They're locked from the inside. He tugs again.

You look behind you. They're coming up the stairs, quick. “Let us in!” you shout.

A woman at the window. Wide-eyed. Scared. She shakes her head no.

You raise the rifle, point it at her. She scampers away from the door. You step back, aim the gun at the handle, and unload. It blows apart, wood splinters, and the metal handle drops to the floor. Chucky throws his shoulder into the door and it opens.

You slam it behind you, just in time. It bucks as the zombies collide with it. In a moment, they're at every door, clawing at the windows.

“Go,” you say to Chucky. “Get something, anything—I'll hold this, I got it. Quick.”

Chucky sprints to the center of the museum lobby. In a second he's back, pushing a huge wooden bench. You slide away from the door and Chucky slams the bench against it. It holds.

You stop. Breathe. Turn around for the first time. You've been to the Met once before, with your parents on vacation. The lobby is huge. High ceilings. A big stairway ahead of you leads to art, art, and more art. Large doorways on the lobby level lead to exhibit halls.

“Please don't shoot us.” A little girl's voice. You look down into her big eyes, then at the gun by your side.

“Why would we shoot you?”

“Everybody's shooting everybody,” the little girl says.

“You're telling me,” Chucky says. “Why were those soldiers shooting at us?”

A woman, her mother it seems, steps up and puts her arms
on the girl's shoulder. “No one knows what's going on. Soldiers shooting the police. The police shooting at us. We were fine in here—until you led those things up.”

“Sorry,” you say, feeling legitimately guilty. But—nothing you can do about it now. You take a look around. There are about fifteen people in the museum lobby, a few on benches, the rest on the floor. No one talks. Some weep silently. Others look too shocked to move.

“Where's everyone else?” you ask.

A little man, mid-sixties, round glasses, steps forward. “Nearly all of our museum guests left as soon as they heard.”

“Who are you?”

“The curator,” Glasses responds.

You take another look out the door. One of the monsters' faces is pressed flat against it. Its jawbone protrudes, jutting through the flesh. Dozens of bloody palms slap the glass. Some pound with fists.

A wave of heat washes over your body. You feel sick. Nauseous. You rub at your face—pull your hand away and see a mixture of sweat and blood. “Where's the bathroom?” you ask the little man.

He points down the hall. You head that way, Chucky following. Once you're through the door, you nearly dive for the sink, turning the knob until the water runs cold, then splashing it over your hair and face.

The nausea subsides some. You stand. You barely recognize the man in the mirror. Despite the water, your face is caked with blood. Some yours, some not. You run warm water over your hands and scratch at your face, desperate to clean it off.

Chucky enters one of the stalls and takes a seat on the toilet. You hear him reload the shotgun and set it on the floor.

Chucky says something quietly. You can't make it out—your ears are still ringing.

“What?” you say. “Speak up. I can barely hear.”

“I said now what?”

You shut the water off and take a seat on the floor. The cool tile feels good. “I don't know.”

“I have seven shells left in the shotgun.”

“OK.”

“You?”

“What?”

“How many shots do you have left in the rifle?”

The rifle. The heavy gun you used to shoot those monsters. Fuck. Nausea returns. Your vision narrows and you get hotter. Bright white spots clear your field of vision. You feel more and more out of it. “I don't know,” you mutter. “I can't think about that now.”

Chucky walks out of the stall. “Fuck do you mean you can't think about that. You have to think about that. We gotta keep moving. And you gotta get your shit together.”

You nod. Fuck. Here it comes—your insides are rushing up your throat. You pull yourself to your feet and over to the sink. You puke. Your eyes water. You drop to your knees and puke again. Spit out bile.

“You alright?” Chucky says.

“Yeah,” you say, spitting again. “Just give me a second.”

Your body cools down. The nausea fades. Hands grip the sink. You look in the mirror. Looking back at you is a scared little kid. A kid that was so frightened, so near-hysterical that he just vomited. That kid—that kid won't live another hour. You can't be that kid. You shake your head. You're not going to die like this. Not you.

Not. You.

You spit into the sink one last time and stand. You get your feet under you. You feel OK. You're going to be OK. You say it out loud, “I'm going to fucking be OK.”

Chucky looks worried.

You pick up the rifle. You fool around it with for a second, then the magazine drops out. “It's almost full,” you say.

“Good,” Chucky says. “Um—but are you alright? Head on straight?”

“Yeah. I'm good.”

“You sure?”

“I said I'm good.”

You march back out into the museum lobby.

There, at the top of the stairs to the main exhibit hall—a zombie. A college kid, backpack hanging off it. About to come down. No one sees it.

You do.

And like you said, you're good.

You stop, raise the rifle, aim, and squeeze. The thing's head bursts and it falls over the rail, down onto the lobby floor. The shot echoes through the lobby. Everyone jumps up. Several people scream.

You clutch the hot rifle. “OK,” you say. “Listen up. If there's one of those fuckers in here, that means there's more. We have to leave. Does anybody have any ideas on how to do that?”

Chucky looks at you and smiles. “Look who decided to take charge.”

“I told you, I got my shit together.”

No one says anything.

“Again, anyone got any ideas?” you say, shouting now. “C'mon, speak up.”

A man stands up. He's with his wife and two girls. “I… I have a yacht.”

Chucky's eyes light up.

“What's your name?” you ask.

“Um, Wesley. Wesley Downing.” He has a cheesy, upper-class British accent. Must be visiting.

“Nice to meet you, Wesley.” You stick out your hand. Timidly, he shakes it.

“How big is this yacht?”

“Ninety-footer,” he says, less timid now, more proud.

“So it can take all of us?”

“Sure. It's a ninety-footer.”

“Shut up, Wes,” his wife says, standing up. “Yes, it can hold everyone here. But we'd have to get to it. It's docked at the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin.”

A black woman, mid-forties, steps forward. “I drive a bus for the city. It's outside. I ran in here when some guy in the back of the bus went schizo.”

“Good. Perfect.” You walk to the doors. The glass has cracked on one. The monsters continue to pound at it. Won't hold forever. Through the mass of bodies, you can see the city bus. It's about seventy-five yards up the avenue.

But the steps are full with the things—and the streets, not much different. How the hell do you get to the bus?

That's when it catches your eye. A statue in the corner of the lobby. A huge thing—twenty feet tall, at least. It's a massive, three-headed dog—horrific, beastly, almost rabid faces.

You walk over. Look closer. The statue sits on a wheeled platform. A plaque along the bottom is inscribed with Eισαγωγή κειμένo
v
(αγγλικά ή ελληνικά)—next to it, it's translated as
THE THREE HEADS OF HADES
.

You knock on it. Hmm, feels hollow.

“Don't touch that!” someone screams. It's Glasses—he's running over like his pants are on fire.

“That's an important piece—don't—don't ever touch.”

“What is it?”

“Cerberus. According to Greek and Roman mythology, he guarded the gates to hell.”

Fitting, you think, as the idea forms in your head—because you're sending this big motherfucker straight into the arms of hell. “How heavy is it?” you ask.

“Half a ton, I'd suppose.”

You rub at your chin. “OK,” you say, walking back to the group. “I've got an idea. We don't wait for the zombies to back off—we go down there, straight for the bus. Any objections?”

A woman stands up. “Out there? Are you crazy? In here
we're safe! We have food! Look—Christ, just look! There're hundreds of them, waiting for us!”

There's another crack at the glass.

“Lady, those doors aren't going to hold. And there's more of those things inside this museum. We're seventy-five yards from a bus that can take us straight to a boat that can get us
the fuck
off this island—we have to take the risk.
I'm
taking the risk. Chucky?”

“Yeah. I'm in. Sooner we get out of here, the better—place gives me the creeps.”

The mother stares back at you. “O-OK”

“Good. Now”—you turn to Glasses, a small smile on your face—“which way to the arms and armor exhibit?”

FAIL

You do nothing. You bum. You
loser
. What is wrong with you? You just let those little kids die…

Have fun living with yourself. Asshole.

DEAD MAN ON CAMPUS