Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (39 page)

You take a jagged route downtown, crisscrossing avenues and side streets. Every time you seem to be making progress, you come upon some sort of holdup. Fire trucks, masses of people, more zombies.

The Army seems to have entered the city—but they're stuck on the outskirts—you see them in the distance as you cross Twenty-third Street.

You come to a stop at Washington Square Park, NYU buildings surrounding you. You look left and right. An overturned fire truck blocks the route to the east and a thick mass of the dead blocks the route to the west.

“Through,” Chucky says, looking at the park. Zombie NYU students and zombie homeless dudes and zombie musicians are scattered across the park. As usual, you can't really tell the difference between them.

“Yep, right through.”

You press down lightly on the gas. The truck rumbles forward, through the famous Washington Arch.

Then you stop.

The behavior of the beasts is odd. Slow, stupid. They stumble about, walk in circles, putter along. But you saw it in the garage—once something gets their interest, they move like goddamn hyenas. Zero to sixty like.

You roar through that park, they'll come for you right away. Take it slow, maybe they won't pay you any mind.

But damn it if you don't hate NYU students. Really, can't stand them. You applied to NYU out of college—they politely
declined. Really, given the opportunity, you wouldn't mind taking a few of the artsy snobs out.

So you floor it. Three bounce off the front. One gets stuck, spins around the plow, then is dragged underneath. The truck bounces as you drive over it.

They come at you from all angles. A thick crowd of them. All you can make out is the dead.

Then—

C
RUNCH
!!!

You hit a heavy stone chess table. The truck bounces right. The wheels screech, lift up into the air, and come back down. There's a huge bang as one tire blows. You cut right. The plow smashes into one of the benches that surround the dry fountain at the center of the park. Chucky shrieks. The plow snaps and a piece flies up at the windshield, cracking it. Then the massive vehicle lifts, tips, and rolls down into the fountain.

Your ears ring. What the fuck just happened? You're wet. Fuck. Blood? No. Chucky's vodka Gatorade.

You're upside down. The wheels spin. Thank God for seat belts. You crane your neck—pain shoots through it. Fuck—you're definitely suing NYU. Through the shattered passenger-side window you see Chucky, lying on his back, on the grass. One of the beasts leaps onto him—then there's a bang, and like someone just pressed rewind, the beast flies off him in a cloud of smoke. Chucky crawls to his feet, holding the shotgun, and wipes his sleeve across his bloody face.

Two more of the things, each wearing a backpack covered in stickers and pins, come at him. He turns, panicked, not sure who to target.

“Hey you fucks!” you shout. “Over here!”

You lay on the horn. It works. They turn. Chucky raises the shotgun, aims, and takes both their heads off with one shot. Before they hit the ground he's running, his massive legs pumping. But not for safety—he's running toward you.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you shout.

Chucky slides, pretty well for a big guy, under the overturned truck bed and sticks his head in the partition. “I ain't leaving you behind, little buddy.”

“Thanks for the thought—but now we're both dead.”

You jerk to the left as one of the beasts reaches through the window and grabs your hair. Another pushes past him and grabs your shirt.

You unbuckle your seat belt and fall to the ceiling, which is now the floor. The undead hand still clings to your hair. You grab it, twist, and rip it off—a chunk of your hair along with it. The truck cab is tight as hell—you barely manage to roll over.

No room to move.

No room to breathe.

Hands reaching in through the windows, grabbing at you. From all angles.

“Squeeze through the window,” Chucky says as he reloads the double barrel.

You shove your body through the partition window. Manage to get up to your biceps, then you're stuck. Can't move forward or back. Claustrophobia chokes you—cold hands grabbing at you, beasts moaning, and you can't move. You kick your legs violently, scared. You feel your Vans make solid contact with a face.

“Pull me!” you shout.

Chucky grabs hold of your shirt and pulls. Three horrific seconds, you pop through, the truck bed now a roof above you. Pain in your stomach—a cracked rib, you realize. One of the things makes it into the cab and you see its grisly face pop through the partition window, snapping its jaw at you. Chucky sticks the shotgun in its face, turns his head away, and squeezes. The thing explodes, blood spraying the inside of the cab.

“Yeah, let that be a lesson to the rest of you bastards,” Chucky snarls.

“OK, now what?” you say, wiping the blood off your face with the back of your hand.

The two of you sit under the overturned truck bed, catching your breath. The back end is on the ground, leaving a triangle of open space on each side of you. And through that triangle of open space—nothing but zombie feet.

“I don't know,” Chucky says.

“Yo, you smell that?”

You sniff at the air. “Yeah. Gas.”

“OK, plan.” Chucky pulls his pack of smokes from his pocket. Then a Bic—it looks like a Tic Tac in his massive hands. He lights the cigarette, then hands it to you.

“OK, the second I shoot, you drop the cigarette. We'll have like three seconds. Got it?”

“Wait, wait—what?”

“No time,” Chucky says, then aims at the zombie legs. Point-blank range. Squeezes. The legs explode. Bones splinter and shatter. Three of the things fall. Chucky scrambles out and over them. They're already beginning to rise again.

You drop the cigarette and follow. Scamper through the hole on all fours, then push yourself up off the first zombie, stepping on its head as you run.

The things turn and watch you go. Then they give chase.

And then—

BOOM!!!

The truck goes up like the fucking Death Star. You're lifted off your feet and tossed to the grass. The zombies aren't so lucky. Forty of the flaming beasts fly through the air in every direction.

“Whaddya know, it worked,” Chucky says, laying nearby.

Up ahead, a horn honks. A military transport. A soldier shouts, “Need help, boys?”

You scamper across the park to the transport. One beast stands in your way, blocking you. Arms out.

The soldier leans out the window. Fires two shots and drops the thing. Phew.

You leap into the back of the truck. Help Chucky up and in. Breathe. Relief floods you.

And for some reason, you just start laughing. Chucky, too. Laughing until you're howling. And together, in the back of the truck, you giggle your way out of the city.

ALONG FOR THE RIDE

“Are you aiming for them?” you ask Chucky after he hits his fifth zombie in as many blocks.

Chucky turns his head toward you and grins.

You can't look at these things anymore—can't take it. Too emotionally exhausting. You lie down and hug the gun across your chest. Stare up at the sky. The sun is setting. You listen to the sounds of this new version of Manhattan. Sirens. Gunfire. Screams.

You drift in and out of consciousness as Chucky drives through the city. Waking nightmares about beasts coming for you, grabbing you, pulling you under.

The truck slows to a crawl. The gunfire gets louder.

“Yo, heads up.”

God. Back to your knees. You're on Eightieth Street and Fifth Avenue. Central Park to your left, then farther up, the Metropolitan Museum, looming over you.

Up ahead it's a small war zone—the police battling the Army. Bullets pierce the side of an armored police vehicle resting in front of the museum. A SWAT team takes cover behind it. Fifty yards farther, on the other side of the street, the soldiers fire from behind parked cars.

“Chucky, I think maybe we should get out of here.”

The SWAT team returns fire. The sound is deafening. Grenades roll, and then a huge explosion as a taxi goes up in flames.

A soldier sprints to the sidewalk, tosses something over the wall to the park, then scrambles over. A second later, he reappears behind the wall, large weapon on his shoulder.

Oh. Shit.

It rockets toward you.

“RPG!”

You leap from the truck just as the RPG hits—the explosion throws you through the air. Chucky makes it halfway out the door as the truck blows.

You're sprawled out on Fifth Avenue. Your ears are ringing. Warm blood bubbles up and out, rendering you nearly deaf.

Chucky's behind you, on his back.

You hear the dampened sound of gunfire as the SWAT team moves up the street, firing as they run, taking cover behind cars.

One member of the SWAT team remains—sitting against the truck, blood pumping steadily from his neck. A man lies dead in front of him, head blown open. You watch the SWAT member intently. His head nods, like he's tired. Then he starts to shake. His legs kick. Then, in a second, he's on his feet.

Now among the undead, it sprints out from behind the truck and takes off down the street after its unit. It tackles the first SWAT member it comes across. Begins devouring him. And then it's up again, taking down the next one.

The soldiers continue to fire. Bullets rip through the thing. But it doesn't stop. In a minute, the entire SWAT unit is undead. The soldiers continue blasting away.

You turn to look back at Chucky. “Fuck, Chucky—we gotta move.”

Chucky sits up, rubbing at his head. Blood pours from his nose. “Yeah, yeah—what else is new?”

About half of the undead SWAT unit runs for the soldiers. The others turn, survey, and lock in on you.

“Chucky! Now!”

The soldier's shots whiz past you. You get to your feet, pull Chucky up, and take shelter behind the SWAT truck.

You and Chucky look around, desperate for a way out. You
peek your head around the side. The zombie SWAT team is tearing up the street—they're close—maybe fifty feet.

“Museum?!” Chucky shouts.

The shadow of the Metropolitan Museum looms over you. “Could get trapped in there,” you say.

“Park?”

No time to think. The creatures will be on you in seconds…

APACHE DAWN

You throw yourself onto the passenger seat, staying low. Explosions all around. The car windows shatter, showering you with tiny pieces of safety glass.

Screams. Horrific, frightened, excruciating screams. The tank shells and machine-gun fire take care of everyone, living and/or sorta-living. Thank God you decided to wait it out in a police cruiser.