Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (5 page)

Really? That's it? Must be some mistake, you think, but you're not going to wait around to confirm your suspicions.

You get dressed and rush out of the lockdown area and down to the main floor. Then you step through the doors, out into the blinding afternoon light, not sure what to expect. Not sure where the hell you are. Not sure what the world's got in store for you.

SEND ME AN ANGEL

It's been two months, three weeks, and four days. Power went after two days. You're really, really,
really
about to lose it.

You're safe, relatively. First thing you did was board up the building's front door—then piled every damn thing you could find behind it. Thus far, no zombies inside the building. For that, you're thankful.

In the beginning, you thought you'd do some reading. The lady had some books. That had you relatively excited. But damn near all of them are religious books. And a whole bunch of issues of
guideposts
. Like, literally, no joke, nineteen years' worth.

You try starting a diary, but there's nothing to say except “zombies galore outside, read more
Guideposts
.”

Food is all but gone. The old lady doesn't have a scale, but you can tell you've lost a significant amount of weight. Your cheeks are thin. Gut has subsided some (that you won't complain about). You've looted every apartment in the building and you're still out of food. Fucking New Yorkers—they have fridges like frat boys. You're down to ketchup packets.

You need to go out. Need food. And water. The water continues to run—but who knows for how long? And if the water goes, every other holdup like you is going to hit the streets at the same time, desperate. It'll be a madhouse. There's a Duane Reade drugstore four blocks down and one avenue over. If you go slowly, move carefully, and watch your ass, you just might make it. But what you'll find there, you have no idea. Could be ransacked, empty, useless. Could be locked. Could be full of
monsters. You don't know. But you can't wait any longer—soon you'll be too weak to even attempt it.

The old lady's bathroom was in the process of being redone. From the looks of it, it was probably some son of hers who never got around to finishing it. In there you find a crowbar splattered with beige paint—could be of some use.

Duane Reade it is.

Around noon you climb out onto the fire escape, just like you've done every other day since this started. Over the past month, you've observed their behavior with near obsessive detail.

They're slow as all hell—until they want to eat. When they get a whiff of food, i.e., some poor asshole, they're fast. And when they get close, they close in on a victim in a split second. They grab and don't let go.

Three days ago, you watched a woman die just like that. She had been holed up in the school across the way—around dusk, she made a run for it. Don't know why—maybe she was out of food, maybe she just couldn't stand it anymore. She didn't make it to the sidewalk before one of the monsters got her. Dragged her to the ground, tore open the back of her head, and went to town.

It's obvious they can see, smell, hear just like anyone else. No better, no worse (unless they happen to have had their eyes ripped out or their nose cut off or their ears blown away).

They seem to have grown anxious. Food has dwindled. At first, people were everywhere—plenty of food to go around. Now the herds have thinned. They're moving more—seeking out food instead of waiting for it to come across them.

Occasionally they fight one another, but nothing ever comes of it. They're like wild dogs—they'll bark and nip and scrap, but that's it. They never dine on their fellow undead.

The day is quiet. It's chilly. It was hot when everything first went to shit—now it's cold. Leaves have fallen. Streets melancholy.

The sun sets. You go over your plan one last time—down the fire escape, slowly through the playground, then the three last blocks to Duane Reade. Once you get there, you'll wing it—no way to plan for what you'll encounter.

You slip the crowbar into your belt and slowly make your way down the fire escape. As gently as possible, you lower the ladder. Still, it makes a hell of a racket. You stay there on the fire escape for a good ten minutes, making sure none of the beasts comes to check out the noise.

They don't.

You sneak through the playground, keeping your distance from the monsters that now inhabit it. Soon you're past and out.

The city is spookily quiet. You hear the occasional zombie moan, but little else. You creep down the side streets, hugging the walls.

You're close. You hop a fence, sneak down an alley, and you're directly across from Duane Reade.

And it was all for nothing…

Moans echo from inside the store. In the moonlight, you catch flashes of them, eerie and white. Can't tell how many, but the store looks packed.

You crouch down behind two overturned trash cans and watch. They're not going anywhere, that's for sure. Hopeless.

Goddamn it!
You want to scream. Now what? More ketchup packets? Fuck that. After reading all those damn issues of
Guideposts
you've started to convince yourself there might be some hope in the afterlife… So you might as well just run into the store and let them kill you—at least this nightmare would be over. No—then you'd be a zombie yourself—and still starving. Best bet would be to hang yourself from the ceiling fan in the bedroom. Loop your belt around your neck. Pull it taut…

You sigh. Knock the thought out of your head. Not giving up
yet. Dejected, you turn to head back up over the fence, then stop dead in your tracks.

A low mechanical rumble. Then louder. Heavy machinery? Construction crew? Helicopter?

Motorcycles.

No, not just motorcycles—Harleys. A dozen headlights pierce the darkness. Heavy metal thunder.

The bikes blaze past you. On all but one of the bikes, there's a passenger on the back brandishing a weapon. The leader rides alone.

One passenger carries a huge wrench—has to be a foot and a half long. The bike buzzes by a female zombie in a wedding dress. The man with the wrench swings as they pass, taking her down. She doesn't get back up. The combination of bike speed and the weight of the wrench shatters the skull and destroys the brain in one blow.

After the first drive-by, five, six of the beasts lie dead on the ground as the bikes speed away. The roar fades as they disappear down the avenue. But no—then it grows louder. The crisscrossing headlights cut through the night again.

They fly past. The driver closest to you has a huge blade mounted on his arm. Fist closed, he slashes out. Decapitates an undead man. The pack speeds away. Six, maybe seven more zombies laid out on the street.

Then, again, they swing back around. But this time not for a fly-by. The bikes come to a halt. Kickstands drop.

The bikers go to work. Chains, bats, machetes, pipes, two-by-fours. One particularly large biker wields a piece of pipe buried in a hunk of cement. In less than a minute, every zombie in a one-block radius is dead.

You inch closer, trying to hear.

“Alright, you four, hold the perimeter!” one shouts. He's the leader. Four men sprint off, each to one corner of the street. You read the stitching on the back of his leather jacket.

HELLS ANGELS
.

“Tommy, you're up,” the leader says.

Tommy is aptly named. He steps off his bike and whips a tommy gun from a chain strap around his back.

One Angel turns his bike so the headlight shines on the Duane Reade. You can see the beasts clearly now—ghastly, gruesome, decomposing things. They've made it to the front of the store and they're coming through the shattered windows and the broken door.

Tommy lets loose. In the movies you always see people shooting tommy guns from their hips, spraying widely.

But not Tommy. Military stance. Legs spread. Sights up. One eye shut. Perfect form.

Three shots. Dead.

Three shots. Another dead.

Three shots. Another. Another. Another.

He takes out every single one of them—has to be twenty. And not one of the beasts gets close.

The leader slaps Tommy on the back, says something that sounds like “nice shooting,” then shouts to the group, “Do it!”

The four men keep the perimeter while everyone else loots the store. In less than a minute they've wiped the store clean. A few of the bikes have sidecars—they throw their loot inside.

Damn. These guys are good. If you want to survive in this zombie-infested city, hooking up with them just might be your best bet.

But they could also just as easily shoot you and leave you dead in the street.

Ahh, fuck it.

You grab your crowbar and walk out into the street, hands up.

“Hey, uh, hey fellas,” you say.

They all turn.

“The fuck?” one says.

“Hi.”

“What do we got here?”

“Um. Well I'd like to come with you guys.”

A chorus of laughter.

“No for real.”

“Fellas, mount up,” the leader says. They do.

He walks over to you. “Kid, go home.”

He's two feet from you. You can see him clearly now. Head shaved bald. Thick beard. Tats running up his neck.

“Look,” you say, “I don't need to be a real, like,
official
Angel. I just—I mean, I've been stuck in some old lady's apartment for months. The world seems to have ended. I'm not going to make it much longer. I need food. Shit, I need to have a goddamn conversation with someone.”

The leader stares at you. You can see the wheels turning. Then he pulls out a huge revolver from a holster by his side.
Dirty Harry
–type shit.

“Whoa,” you say, putting your hands up and stepping back.

“Relax, kid, I wouldn't a waste a slug on you—even if I did want you dead.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Limpy, get over here!” he shouts, not taking his eyes off you.

“Limpy?” you ask.

“That's right. I'm Jones.”

“As in Indiana?”

“As in Jones.”

“OK.”

Limpy hobbles over.

“Now kid,” Jones continues, “normally, I'd tell you to take a hike and that'd be that. But, you're lucky. Well—depending on if you're a half-full or a half-empty kinda guy.”

He points the gun at you, then points it at the thin, gangly guy limping his way over. Does this guy really need to use his .357 Magnum like it's a goddamn laser pointer?

“That's Limpy.”

You nod.

“Limpy's got a real, real serious gambling problem. Real fucking degenerate. Helluva pal, though. He liked the ponies.”

“I loved the ponies,” Limpy says.

“Limpy,” Jones says, “I got an idea.”

“Shit yeah.”

You don't like where this is going.

“Kid, here's the deal. Take it or leave it. You go stand in the middle of that intersection there,” Jones says, waving the gun across the way. “You stay there for five minutes—you live—and I'll let you come stay at the club. Limpy, you think he's gonna live?”