Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (48 page)

In front of you, a mock Doc Brown gets his ear ripped off by a wounded zombie, sending him falling back, screaming. He crashes into a table, sending a ten-foot statue of Bart Simpson tumbling over, pinning a young, freshly turned female zombie. Her teeth snap, biting at the air.

“Kid!” you shout. “Where the hell'd you go?”

You leap over a guy in a plush Snoopy costume, laid on his back. Costume shredded, pieces of polyester stuffing and fabric spilled out on the floor, along with his guts.

What appears to be the entire crew of the
Battlestar Galactica
is trapped in the large Warner Bros. booth. An undead Dominican woman closes in, chunks of flesh in her thick black hair. A young guy dressed as the old Doc Cottle shrieks and faints.

Boba Fetts—
why are there so many goddamn Boba Fetts??
—are dying all around you.

You turn down the next aisle, desperate to find the boy. Trekkies are littered about—either dead, dying, or rising. One gets to its feet. A goateed man, looking nearly identical to
half-Life's
Gordon Freeman, bashes it in the head with his crowbar.

A massive Hispanic man dressed as Alex from
A Clockwork orange
sends one of the zombies flying across the room. The rest of his droogs get it right quick in a stunning bit of the ol' ultraviolence on the undead.

Three zombie firemen stumble down the aisle toward you. A cute little blond thing done up as Buffy jumps in front of you swinging a frighteningly realistic version of the famous Vampire Slaying Scythe. But the zombie firefighters don't burst into bad CGI dust—they spill blood as they're cut to pieces. Fucking hot, Buffy.

Next aisle. You freeze.

In front of you, four guys done up as the Ghostbusters—zombified. Blood and flesh drips from their lips. Egon, missing part of his shoulder, runs at you.

Fuck.

You run.

They tear down the aisle, crashing after you.

Suddenly, in your face, a flash of wood. You drop, sliding to the ground under the swing. Above you, the wood crashes into monster Egon's face. Its nose splits.

You're on your back, staring up at one helluva authentic Donatello costume. A fat green hand pulls you up. Red headband. Raphael.

“Close call,” Raphael says behind his mask. He's got a thick Irish accent.

Irish Raphael spins his twin golden sais in his hands.

He whips the first sai through the air, nails undead Venkman in the head, killing it.

Leonardo comes out of nowhere, spinning his blade and chopping off Winston at the legs. Then the sword through its head.

Stantz closes in on Irish Raphael. Irish Raphael spins, sending the thing stumbling forward—right into Michelangelo. Michelangelo whips his nunchucks out and around undead Stantz's throat. It swipes at him. Irish Raphael buries the other sai into its throat, then up through the brain. The zombie gargles, spits up blood, and falls.

You mumble thanks and keep running. Ahead is the food court.

And then you see him. Across the food court at the center of the show floor. The boy, hiding beneath a table.

To your left, the glint of steel. A massive blade in the hand of a towering, shirtless, black man.

Conan the Barbarian.

“What is best in life?” Black Conan shouts. “Killing fucking zombies!”

Black Conan swings the gigantic blade around. Chops off the head of an undead Cobra Commander. Its headless body drops to the floor, red cape draping over it like a funeral shroud. The helmeted head rolls across the floor.

A security guard, belly torn open, runs at Black Conan. Conan unleashes a massive forward kick, sending the thing flying back into a life-size Darth Vader made of Legos. Vader crashes down, scattering thousands of black Lego pieces across the floor.

Four zombies drape themselves over a dude in a nearly perfect Predator costume. Thing must have cost five grand, at least. And right now—shit—it was worth every penny. The beasts can't break through it.

Perfect Predator knocks them back. Whips around his bronze telescoping spear and pierces one through the face. The others stumble back. One falls, and Predator brings the spear crashing down into the back of its head.

But the monsters don't stop. There're too goddamn many.

One beast climbs up Black Conan's back. Another, ignoring the massive sword buried in its chest, sinks its teeth into Conan's arm.

The tide is turning. Chaos and death all around you.

A rail-thin Captain America holds two beasts off with his shield while an obese Wolverine slashes wildly in some sort of half-assed attempt at a berserker attack.

A kid in a Tusken Raider costume takes down two of them with his gaffi stick before getting it himself.

A bunch of Asian girls in Pokémon gear get massacred.

A pretty-boy vampire, covered in sparkles, is torn to shreds by Dracula.

Against the wall sits a man in an extremely authentic Iron Man suit, head in his hands, shaking. The beasts crowd about him, but can't get through the armor.

You sprint across the floor and through the food court. You grab the kid and pull.

You look up at the banners a couple of aisles away from you. One reads
NINTENDO
. The other
LUCASFILM
.

BBQ

You wake to the smell of barbecue. It can't be. Can it? Barbecue?? Your stomach tugs at you. Your body lifts you, like Garfield chasing a lasagna, and you're carried out.

At the center of the site, Al stands over a grill, flipping dogs. Nearby is Sully, at a plastic folding table, examining what looks to be a map laid out in front of him. Fish sits across from him, playing with his thumbs.

You drag your feet over, still half asleep, but beckoned by the sweet smell of meat.

Al looks up. “Hey, it's the tough guy. How'd you sleep, sunshine?”

“Hey. Fine.”

“Burger, dog, or both?” he asks.

“Uh—both, if you've got it.”

Al nods and throws another patty on. A few dogs cook, blackened.

Everyone seems awful calm, awful relaxed, considering the army amassing at the fences. So you say, “You guys seem awful calm, awful relaxed, considering the army amassing at the fences.”

“That's 'cause we figured a way out of this mess, college boy,” Al says, taking a long drink from a Heineken.

You perk up. “For real?”

“For real.”

You take a seat at the table next to Sully. He writes on the map with a black Sharpie. He does an equation on the side—then crosses it out. Scribbles some more. Complicated math.

“What is that?” you ask.

“Map.”

“Of what?”

“City sewer system.”

The sewer! Bingo. You can Ninja Turtle your way right the fuck outta here.

Al drops a plastic plate in front of you. Cheeseburger. Hot dog. You dig in. Not stopping to chew, you manage to say, “So we escape through the sewer, huh?”

“That's the idea,” Sully says.

“Where's the manhole or whatever?”

Sully looks up at you, annoyed. Then points to a huge pump not far across the site. “Right there.”

“Huh?”

“Pump leads to a water tank, which leads directly to the sewer.”

“So how do we get down there?”

“You'll see,” he says, standing up. “Fish, mount up.”

Fish nods, looking nervous. He stands up slowly and walks to a huge truck crane with a wrecking ball attached. He climbs onto the metal tank-style tread and into the driver's seat of the enormous vehicle. There's a rumble and it starts up. The tracks move slowly and the crane begins to turn. The huge wrecking ball hangs from the end of a steel rope, swaying.

“So what—you just knock it over?” you ask.

“Basically,” Sully says. “Fish clears out the pump, Al blows the tank, and we—”

“Blows?”

Al slams the grill shut, then holds up a stick of dynamite. “Blows.”

You nod, impressed—and just a little scared.

“Right,” Sully continues. “Then we head underground.”

Sully calls Al over and they go over the math. Then Al grabs a duffel bag and places the dynamite inside.

“When do we go?” you ask.

Sully folds up the plans and puts them in his back pocket and looks up at you, sun in his eyes. “Now.”

He waves at Fish. Fish waves back. Sully gives a thumbs-up, then there's a loud cranking sound as a secondary steel rope pulls the ball toward the crane cab. Then it stops. Locked and loaded.

“Here we go,” Al says.

Fish works three large gears. Then he reaches over and slams his hand down.

The massive ball unloads, flying toward the pump. It smashes into it, breaking it to pieces. A geyser of water shoots up out of the ground.

Perfect.

And then—

Fuck…

Then it swings back.

You can see it coming. So can Sully—he reaches out, grabs your arm, and squeezes.

The wrecking ball swings back over the pump and into the fence, smashing through and carrying directly into the monsters. One cartwheels through the air and smashes into the side of an apartment building across the street. Another slams into the side of an SUV, setting off the alarm. The rest land on the street.

The wrecking ball swings back, sending another five monsters flying in the other direction.

The fence is torn open. The zombies pour in. “Al, blow it, now!” Sully shouts.

Al drops the duffel bag and pulls out three sticks of dynamite. Fish leaps down from the crane cab and begins sprinting toward you—at the same time, the beasts begin pouring through the open fencing and down the hill. You've got thirty seconds, maybe, before they're upon you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Al mutters. He holds up the three sticks and intertwines the fuses. He eyes the bomb for a split second, wheels in his head turning, then bites off a chunk of the fuse.

Then he rips a Zippo from his shirt pocket, lights the fuse, and tosses it next to the geyser. “Get back!” he shouts, running alongside Sully. You follow him around the side of a huge Caterpillar dump truck. Fish catches up.

“How long?” Sully asks, catching his breath.

“I tried for ten,” Al says.

“Tried?”

“I had to rip it with my fucking teeth.”

You peek your head around the side of the truck. The beasts are down the hill. They're coming in your direction. They're almost at the dynamite.

Then at it.

Then.

BOOM!!!

You're thrown to the ground. Your ears ring. Dust fills the air and rocks rain down around you like hail.

A hand on you. Al. He pulls you up. You see him mouth the words “come on,” but you don't hear him. He pulls you around the side of the truck. A hundred zombie bodies are scattered across the construction site. Twisted and destroyed. Some dead. Some crawling. Scraping at the dirt.

Al has just blown a massive hole in the earth—at least sixty feet in circumference. It slants down from all sides to a smaller hole at the bottom. Sully leaps in. He slides down the hill, and then disappears.

You look up. Monsters just as far from the hole as you are. It'll be a race.

Are you fast enough?

WITH WALTER