Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (4 page)

More zombies run past, headed toward Brooklyn. They pay no attention to you. Up ahead, you can see the Army stepping back.

Then the artillery starts. The big guns. Tanks? You're not sure. Something loud as fuck. Ahead of you a truck explodes. A giant, fiery blast. Then another. Bodies fly through the air. A man is launched wildly off the side of the bridge.

You watch, eyes wide, as the bridge lights up like the Fourth of July.

WHERE THE HEART IS

Home, you think. That's the best bet—has to be. Familiar. Safe. Secure.

You alternate between walking and jogging through streets quickly turning explosive. It's a miserable thirty-block hike to your apartment. You keep your eye open for a cab. Nothing, all full.

You get to your building a half-hour later, soaked in sweat. Up the five flights of stairs to your apartment. Through the door. Slam it shut and collapse against it, exhausted. God, it feels good not to be moving. Sweat bleeds through the back of your shirt and the fabric sticks to the door.

You close your eyes. Breathe slowly—in through your mouth, out through your nostrils. Calming.

You open your eyes. Your apartment looks strange, feels just slightly off—something about being home at a time when you weren't expecting to be. Like a stranger in your own space.

A mouse skitters across the floor. Sonofabitch—so that's what goes on while you're at work? Yeah, well, that's what you get for leaving the Ray's Famous box out with half a slice of pepperoni-and-sausage left.

You stand up and flip on the local news. A bunch of images of random chaos. No real reporting—just people blabbering, clueless. No one has any real idea what's happening, but they're paid to talk.

People loot a corner store in the West Village. Shit, you should stock up. You've got about five edible things in your apartment right now, and that's including a month-past-the-date carton of eggs and a half bottle of Black Velvet—Jack Daniel's
cheaper, shittier cousin. You look over again at the half slice of pepperoni-and-sausage and quickly throw it in the fridge.

You grab your keys and head for the corner bodega.

It's packed. You realize suddenly that you're in survival mode. You have a vague sense of what to do from watching a lot of bad disaster movies. You navigate the narrow aisles, grabbing the essentials. Batteries. Frozen pizzas. A glass candle with a smiling, open-armed Jesus on the front. Ramen. Beer. Lots of beer.

It's getting ugly. People shoving. Grabbing for what they need, even if someone else already happens to be holding it. The Korean guy who runs the bodega threatens to close the doors unless the customers “form one motherfucking line!”

You grab all you can carry, pay, and leave. Outside it's only getting nastier. People rushing about. Like a great storm is on the way and everyone is racing to get to shelter.

Hands full, you take the stairs up to your apartment as quickly as you can. Your building is usually empty—more often than not you come and go without seeing anyone. Not today. People in the hallways. Some coming, most going—all moving quickly, with a frantic yet steady purpose.

You lock your apartment door behind you. Both locks.

Your phone's ringing. The
Speed
theme—
DUN DUN
DUH DUH
DAH DAH
. You walk in just in time to hear the triumphant bass finale.

You look at the display. See your mom's big smiling face. Great…

SLEEPOVER

“You can stay here if you want. You, uh, you shouldn't be alone.”

You shouldn't be alone
. You idiot. Who do you think you are? Could you be any more obvious?

“Yeah? I'd love to—I'm going crazy over there. And I keep hearing things—probably just my imagination—but it's scaring
the fuck
out of me.”

“I can imagine. So, great, you'll stay here.”
good work!

You're beaming. Heart swelling. Thank the Lord for this massive zombie takeover.

She walks through the foyer and into the kitchen, looking around. “I haven't been in this house in years.”

“Yep, been a long time.”

She turns and smiles. “It's good to see you again.”

Your face feels a little flush, so you quickly turn and look around the house like some idiot prospective buyer. You don't want to embarrass yourself.

You find some still edible food in the kitchen. You make the best meal you can—peanut butter and jelly on Ritz crackers with orange soda. You apologize, and explain that most everything else seems to have gone bad.

You talk some, about what you've been doing, how she's been. She doesn't work at the flower shop anymore; she's a cashier at the local Target now.

“Nothing wrong with that,” you say.

She frowns from behind her cup of soda.

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“It's OK. Things don't always turn out the way we plan, huh?”

“Tell me about it.”

“But you're in New York City right? I saw on Facebook. That's exciting! I've never been.”

“Yeah, it's OK, I guess—my rent is like, just, absurd.”

“I still live with my parents, so…”

“True.”

You finish your meal in silence, then get the generator from the garage and get some power going. Together you go through the house. Looking for food, things that you can use. You watch old movies she's never seen before. Play the same old Nintendo games you used to play when you were kids. With the specter of death hanging over you, you grow close quick.

You're outside playing Ping-Pong when Kim suggests you go for a swim in your parents' pool. Um… yeah, only been waiting near twenty years to hear those words. You get to work skimming the pool.

Kim steps out of the house in just her underwear.

“I hope this is OK,” she says. “My bathing suit is all the way across the street.”

Ohmygodohmygodohohhgohgdoghdoghodhgd…

You try to get the words out. But all you can do is stare. She's stunning.

You stutter. “Sure, sure, that's fine, of course.”

That night you make love on your back lawn. Then you lie on your backs, looking at the stars. It's like a movie. Nothing could be more perfect. Once again, you thank the Lord for the zombie apocalypse.

You wake up with Kim's head on your chest. A little puddle of drool has formed below her mouth. It's cute. Imperfect. Human.

You're in love.

You give her a nudge and a kiss on the forehead.

“Good morning.”

She looks up at you with her big doe eyes. “Good morning, you.”

You. She just called you
you
.

“I'm going to go try to find some stuff for breakfast,” you say, stretching. You stand and start getting dressed.

“You're leaving?”

“I'll be back in a few,” you say. “Who knows how long we'll be here, and we're low on food.”

“And toilet paper,” she says.

Wow. Just conjured up an image of her taking a dump. And it didn't gross you out. This truly
is
love.

“And toilet paper,” you say. “I'll be back. Lock the door behind me. Keep all the gates locked.”

“I will.”

You take the pistol. Three bullets left.

PLACING YOUR TRUST IN THE ARMY

The hazmat guy leads you into the military trailer. Inside, machines buzz and hum. Men work, some at computers, others with test tubes. Along the wall are four see-through Plexiglas cells like you'd find in a modern prison. Three of the four cells contain one civilian each: a child in the first, a young, normal-looking guy with a shaggy beard in the second, and an elderly black woman in the third.

The last cell is empty.

You're starting to regret your decision.

They lead you to the fourth cell. The hazmat guy types a code into a keypad on the wall, the door opens, and he shoves you inside.

In the cell next to you is the elderly black woman. You try to get her attention, but she's too busy sobbing.

After the first hour or two in the cell, you begin to bang on the glass, trying to get some attention. Nobody notices—soundproof, you guess. At one point, one of them sees you. He taps another guy on the shoulder, they chat for a second while staring at you, then go back to work.

After what feels like six or seven hours, the trailer begins to move. You travel for hours on end—a day or two, maybe.

Every time the trailer brakes, you slide into the wall. Then they pick up speed again and you go sliding back. Hit your head hard at one point. Bad headache. The headache is followed by hunger. And then the thirst—nothing compares to that. You need liquid. Water, beer, milk, piss—
anything!
You've lost all track of time—can only think about getting something
wet down your throat. You wipe sweat from your brow then lick your hand. Lap your tongue around your chapped lips. Anything.

Then, finally, when you don't think you can take any more, the trailer stops—for good this time.

You're dragged out of the cell. Nobody speaks, and you're too exhausted and dehydrated to complain or ask questions. You're pushed out into a large industrial park. The sunlight stings your eyes. They bring you inside a building that, on the outside, looks a lot like a regular, civilian hospital.

The next month is hell. You're locked in a dark hospital room. They run all sorts of tests on you. Needles in your arms. Little suction cup things on your face and chest.

Then, one day, they pull you out of the locked room. A military man throws you your clothes and tells you you're free to go.