Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (49 page)

On the third day, the looters come.

You and Walter are talking
Hogan's heroes
. You've pretty much run out of topics that interest both of you. You know those bad relationships where the boyfriend and girlfriend are hanging on to just one thing? Well that's you and Walter—and that one thing is Colonel Klink. You're about to ask him if he likes
F troop
, in hopes of widening your conversation options, when Walter cuts you off.

“Shhh. You hear that?”

“I hear the same thing I've been hearing for three days straight. Your busted AC rumbling and those fucking things moaning and groaning out there.”

“No. Something else.”

You both go to the window. He's right. Two people. Across the street trying to break into the CVS. You look down at Walter's hand. He grips the large metallic revolver. You can read his mind.

“Don't,” you say. “They're just looking for supplies to survive.”

“They cross this street, they're dead.”

“And then what? You shoot them—let every one of those fucking things know we're in here?”

“Maybe. I don't give a damn. They touch my store, they die.”

The pair, dressed in all black, creep across the street. They move carefully between abandoned cars. The zombies don't take notice.

They approach the store.

Walter raises the gun and slips it between two planks of wood, aimed directly at the outside door.

“Walter, don't do it.”

Walter's finger curls around the trigger as the pair step closer.

EPISODE VII: THE COSPLAY WARS

You and the kid dart down the Lucasfilm aisle. Grab a mock Luke Skywalker lightsaber out of a freshly dead man's hand.

Up ahead, you can see an exit sign, just above the top of a gigantic, near life-size model of the Imperial AT-ST chicken walkers from
Return of the Jedi
.

An undead Harry Potter and Hermione sprint around the corner. You swing the saber, knocking Hermione into Harry. But another dozen of the monsters follow.

Above you towers the massive AT-ST model. You look at the legs. You think like an Ewok.

“Push!” you shout. The kid throws his weight into the legs. You do the same. You feel it move. One final push, and it tips, bringing the entire wall down with it.

A clear path.

In front of you, the signing booths. Deserted. Empty chairs, some knocked over. Every booth abandoned.

Except for one.

He sits there. Calm. Giant black horn-rimmed glasses. A green fishing vest. White beard. Pen still in his hand.

George.

Fucking.

Romero.

And behind him, the exit.

You sprint across the floor, covering the distance in seconds. You put your hand on the door, then you stop. Turn around. What the hell is Romero doing?

“Let's goooo,” the kid says, tugging at your shirt.

You nod. But you don't move.

Slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, as if an onslaught of zombies isn't facing him, Romero puts his pen down, pushes his chair back, and stands.

“Stop!” Romero shouts. Then, in some bizarre language, “
Finjt!”

And, amazingly, they do. Every single zombie. They shuffle into a semicircle stretching the entire length of the exhibit hall. Those on the ground, eating, raise their heads, flesh dangling from their chins like a baby eating spaghetti. The wreckage of the battle stretches out behind them.

Footsteps to your left. A man comes around the corner booth, clutching his shoulder. He's bit. But not yet turned. He makes eye contact with you, then stumbles over.

You recognize him. He's an actor, maybe? Something. You've definitely seen him.
Sex Machine
?

He stumbles into you, hits the wall, and sinks to the floor.

“Hey, aren't you?” you whisper.

“Yes,” he chokes out.

Good lord—it's Tom Savini. The sultan of splatter. The godfather of gore. The makeup artist that for decades made George Romero's monsters come to life onscreen.

“I never thought this day would come,” Savini says. His words are raspy. He can barely speak.

“What are you talking about?”

He looks up at you. His face has gone white. He's going to turn soon.

“George did this.”

“George Romero?”

“Fuck do you think I'm talking about?” he says, then coughs up blood.

“What—”

“Years ago. Nineteen seventy-seven probably. We were shooting
Dawn of the Dead
. I was”—Savini stops to wipe the blood from his chin—“I was doing makeup. We had these
extras on set—just a handful, that George would never let me touch. Only George was allowed to work with them. There were these rumors—rumors that they weren't actors at all. That they were zombies. The real fucking thing. And that only George could communicate with them.”

“Get the fuck out of here.” But you look up, and George is in complete control of the monsters. He continues to bark at them in this strange, foreign language.

Savini nods, his eyes beginning to glaze over. “It's all true. So one night, we had just wrapped shooting and we were celebrating in this local Pittsburgh bar. I got George drunk—just kept feeding him can after can of Iron City. And that's when he started talking.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nineteen fifty-eight. George was eighteen—had just moved to Pittsburgh to study art at Carnegie Mellon. He had this best friend—a local guy, townie. He was a coal miner, like every guy over eighteen in rural PA back then. So this one night—it's his buddy's birthday, so George and his girlfriend drive out to the mine. They're going to pick his buddy up when he gets off work, surprise him. But he never comes out of the mine. No one does. Finally, it's like two A.M., and George decides to go down there looking for him.”

Savini rolls over, vomits. He grabs your arm, twists. Just minutes until he turns.

“Something had happened—some gas had escaped. I'm not sure. Only George knows for sure. But down there—the whole crew, zombified. Monsters. Turned into a fucking monster. George runs like hell, gets back to the car just in time to see his best friend tear his girlfriend's throat out.

“The mining company covered it all up, caved in the mine, wrote it off as an accident. Wasn't uncommon back then.

“But George went back, two days later. Into the woods. And he found them. His girlfriend and his best friend—these mad,
snarling zombies. He got a hold of them, locked them up in this shack, way deep in the woods.

“That's when George lost it. This woman—this woman that was going to be the love of his life—she was a fucking zombie. He developed this hatred for the world. You'd never know it—he buried it down so deep inside him.

“Nineteen seventy-two. Made a film called
Season of the witch
. Then he disappeared—for five years, no one saw him. He just stayed out by that shack, studying the two of them. Doing tests. Taking blood. He wanted to figure out what had made them into these monsters—and he wanted to re-create it.”

“All of his films—all shot in rural Pennsylvania. Never shot a scene more than a hundred miles from that shack. He couldn't stand to be away from them for more than a day or two.

“We never spoke about it again after that night. Though I'd hear him—in his trailer—speaking this language. This shit he's speaking now.”

“Wait—so you're saying?”

“What I'm saying is, George has done it. He's re-created it. He's unleashed it. George Romero is the fucking lord, leader, and king of the undead.”

Romero continues to speak to the crowd. “
Reech nargh tan sein renchhhh!”

“What is he saying?” you ask.

Savini manages a few words at a time. “Something like ‘My children, our time is now.'”

Romero continues:
“En vest nass rane ciptola. Roark thu masse. Roark San tremen. tremen vuye
DEAD
!”

Savini translates: “Here, in New York City, not five miles from where I was born, you were birthed today. Birthed to become an army. My army of the dead!”

In unison the zombies moan.

Savini begins to turn. You can see him trying to fight it off. “Go—go now,” he says. “Far away from here. Just go.”

Savini hobbles to his feet. “George, George old friend. This is madness.”

George turns.

He shakes his head. “Tom, Tom, Tom… Please, don't interfere.”

Then George points at Savini and barks out
“Vast minch. Enreark!”

Six of the zombies step forward. George points at Savini.

Savini doesn't resist. He stands, ready for it. The monsters tackle him. Devour him.

“Enziet!”

The monsters stop. Slowly, they return to where they were.

“Farich!”

The zombies turn. Begin marching out the door. All of them. Back through the maze of overturned booths.

George walks behind them, letting them lead the way. Finally, they reach the exit. George barks an order, and they leave, out into the streets.

And George follows.

The place is silent. Just you and the kid. Your head is spinning. Can't believe what you just heard—what you just saw.

“What was that?” the kid asks.

“Kid, if I told you, you'd never believe me,” you say, and you push open the exit door, grab him by his hand, and take off running.