Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (42 page)

You swim up. Catch your breath and look around.

The monsters stumble toward the lake. Gathering until they surround it completely. Then, from all sides, they pour in.

You tread water. Scared to death. No idea what to do.

“The fuck, they can go in the water?” Chucky says.

You're too panicked to respond.

“Fuck this,” Chucky says, and starts swimming. Then a splash, a scream, and he goes under.

“Chucky!” you shout.

He bursts up through the water. Gasping for air. You make eye contact. See the fear in his eyes. Then he's pulled back under.

Then you feel it around your leg. A hand, tight. Thick fingers. Strong. You kick.

Then you go under.

You open your eyes. Through the murky water, you see the outline of a man.

No, not one man. Dozens.

You gasp for air. Get nothing but water. It fills your lungs.

With any luck, you'll drown before they have a chance to devour and turn you.

GO DOWN THERE

You book it down the motionless escalators, moving as fast as you can with the busted ankle.

The revolving doors are locked. You jump up, hit the lock. Then out onto the sidewalk. Out of habit, you look both ways before stepping into the street. The things are everywhere.

You limp across the street and up a small set of stairs and into the park. You duck down behind a tree, catch your breath, and watch. The zombies seem drawn by the sound of the gunfire and they're all headed in that direction.

You make your way from tree to tree. Up over a fence. Bullets whip over your head. You take cover behind a bench. The things are all around you. No safety anywhere. The gunfire lets up for a moment, just long enough for you to hear a low moan behind you. You turn just in time. A tall, lanky thing—head tilted to the side—lunges for you.

You leap onto the bench and over the fence. Hit the ground. Ankle throbbing. Sand in your mouth. You spit it out, look around. A dozen small dogs around you, yapping away. Goddamn it, the dog run.

You get to your feet. You can see the tanks through the trees. You're halfway there, halfway to your goal. Halfway home.

CRACK!!!

The world shakes as a tank shell slams into a massive oak tree behind you. The entire tree explodes, raining down splinters of wood.

Eyes wide, you watch as a huge branch crashes down. You try to jump out of the way. Too late.

A blast of pain blows through your body. Your chest shatters. You're pinned, a heavy hunk of branch lying on top of you. Sharp pains when you breathe. Ribs are shattered.

The little Manhattanite toy dogs yap away. One licks your face.

And then you feel something at your feet. Please be a dog. Please…

No. You hear the moan. You do your best not to move. Maybe if you just lie there, it will go away.

You feel something pressing against your pants. Then into your skin. Teeth. It's slow, tentative—like the thing can't tell if you're living or dead and wants to know before it starts eating.

Once the teeth get into your flesh, though, that changes. You scream as it bites down.

Then it rips its teeth free from your leg.

Then, suddenly, it appears over the top of the branch. A teenager. Short, spiky hair.

It looks you in your eyes. Looking through you. You stare back, horrified.

Then its head bursts open and blood rains down upon you. The thing sways for a moment, then falls to the side.

Had that bullet come a moment earlier, you might not have zombie saliva pumping through your veins right now.

You're stuck. You're going to turn into of those things. And you can't move. Can't kill yourself. Can't do anything to stop it. Just have to lie there and take it.

After a long while, the tanks rumble away. The zombies' moans surround you from all sides.

Soon you feel it taking you over. A living death, creeping through your body.

The hunger. It tears through your body. And then everything goes dark…

You
don't wake.

Another
you wakes.

An undead you.

An undead you that smells meat. Meat in the form of a small, yapping Yorkie with a small heart collar around its neck.

You reach for it. Grab it by its neck. It yelps.

You eat.

NO, DREAMGIRL, PLEASE LEAVE

You jackass! What's the matter with you!?

Put the book down. No, no. Throw it out the window. Or burn it. You don't deserve it.

This was the hottest girl in high school! This was Melissa Lefevre in
Angus
. That whipped-cream chick in
varsity Blues
. What's-her-name in
Fast times at Ridgemont high
.

Just… just die, jackass.

STAY AND FIGHT

You should try to run right past Anthony. Try to dodge him. Then out into the street. You figure that's your best chance of survival.

But then you picture Rachel. Breathtakingly beautiful bartender Rachel. If you leave, undead Anthony is going to shuffle into that bar and kill everyone, including her.

She's too pretty to die like that.

Hammer in your left hand, drill in the right, you run at the two undead things and swing with both arms. The drill gets one through the temple. The hammer bounces the other one's head off the wall.

You pull the drill from the one and bury it into the other one's face.

You can hear Anthony behind you. You have to make it back into the bar.

Then he hits you. You see stars and stumble forward. You spin around, through the doorway and into the bar. You get your footing and lunge forward to shut the door. But Anthony's already through. It's like he has no intention of devouring you until he's finished murdering you.

Johnny Cash on the jukebox.
Don't bring your guns to town
. Christ, what you'd do for a pair of guns right now.

Anthony swings his arm around and sends you flying. The drill and hammer slide across the floor.

You hear Rachel scream. Hear the bar patrons scatter. But no one comes to help. It's just you and him.

He buries a punch in your chest, sending you flying back
and sprawled out on the sawdust-covered floor. It's like fighting the Incredible Hulk.

He stands over you. He raises his massive fist and brings it crashing down toward your head. You roll. His fist crashes into the ground. You hear his hand shatter. But he doesn't flinch. You're back up, running for the game room, keeping him away from Rachel.

Anthony charges after you like a goddamned juggernaut. You leap across the pool table, trying to put something between the two of you. You pick up a few pool balls. Whip them at him. They bounce off his face, do nothing. The eight ball hits the table and rolls into the corner pocket.

Anthony launches himself across the table, shattering the lamp that hangs above it. You fall back—shove your legs up in the air. He lands, his chest falling on the soles of your Vans. Sharp pain runs up your legs as you keep him away in some bizarre, fucked-up game of airplane. You reach out, grab two pool balls. Your hands soar up and you slam the balls against his head. Twice more. Into his ears. Has to rattle his brain. Has to. Once more, hard as you can, and he rolls off you.

Thank God. You scramble to your feet. Look around—desperate for anything.

Darts. You rip three from the dartboard.

Anthony's up. Mad. Foaming at the mouth.

You whip one. The dart spins through the air and sticks into his forehead.

Anthony lowers his shoulder and sprints toward you.

He hits you square in the chest. The wind rushes out of you.

He's about to leap forward—finish you.

You've got one shot.

Clutching one dart in each hand, you bring your firsts smashing down.

And you connect.

Bull's-eye.

One dart through each one of his wide, bloodshot eyes.

He falls forward, on top of you. The darts stay embedded in his eyes even as your hands come loose, trying to break your fall.