Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (22 page)

You lunge at them, put the crowbar up through the back of the thing's head. Arch it up and pull back, yanking it off Tommy.

You step back. Tommy's face is a mangled mess. Skin hanging down over his left eye. Blood pumping out of his neck with each beat of his heart. You can already see him turning. Changing.

You take a step back. Nearly trip over a leather couch.

He stares at you. His arms raise.

He's one of them.

PLEASE LEAVE, PLEASE LEAVE, PLEASE LEAVE

A long, hairy arm reaches under the platform. Its massive hand scratches at the yellow cement. It stretches, reaching farther under. Then the stupid thing falls—face-first, directly onto the gravel in front of you. It's a massive thing—looks like one of those big old '70s wrestlers.

It looks around, stunned. Then looks right at you and the boy. Eyes glazed over like there's nothing behind them.

You press yourself against the wall. Trying to stay as far in the dark as possible.

You hold the boy tight against you. Any other situation you'd be breaking about ten child-endangerment laws. You feel a drop of something on your hand. Wet. The boy's crying. You put your hand over his mouth. “Shhh.”

It moans louder.

Fuck…

It raises its head and lets out a long, gurgling roar. Three more of the beasts fall over the sides. Down on their hands and knees, they crawl forward, closing in.

The kid cries harder. You hold him tighter.

And then they pounce.

THE GARAGE

You need to get off these streets—now. That's your only priority.

You run to the parking garage, reach the top of the ramp, and head down into the darkness. Pieces of the cop car's bumper and tail end litter the ground at the bottom of the ramp. Looks like the cruiser went right through the gate. Splintered pieces of yellow wood are scattered across the ground. Cautiously, you enter the garage.

You see the cruiser. It's come to a stop in the center of the garage floor. Smoke streams out steadily from the hood. The driver's-side door is open. The car rests gently, eerily peaceful.

Then you see the cop. He's crawling across the floor. Hand on his face, leaking blood.

You run to help him—then halfway there, you stop in your tracks. A landing strip of flesh has been torn from his cheek down to his shoulder. His injuries have nothing do with the accident. He's been bitten.

You step back.

The undead cop braces himself against the bumper of a nearby SUV and rises. He turns to you. Face pale. NYPD blues soaked in red. He sees you. You think maybe, just maybe, you see a small grin creep across his face.

He takes a step, then—

BLAM!!!

The cop's head explodes in a blast of red.

You spin—only to find yourself staring down the smoking end of a double-barrel shotgun. The gunman is a gargantuan
man, some muscle, plenty of fat. Short, spiky black hair. Dark skin. Italian, you guess. Tattoos wind up from his trigger finger, spiraling up his arm.

Your ears are ringing from the shotgun blast. The man's mouth moves, but you hear nothing. Just a high-pitched buzzing.

You stutter. He barks at you.

You shake your head back and forth quickly. “I can't hear!” you shout.

He lowers the shotgun, just slightly.

You're more than a little relieved when you realize he's wearing a
24-HOUR PARKING
uniform. A “Chucky” name tag hangs from his uniform. It actually says Chuck. The
y
is drawn on in green marker.

“Hey, hey,” you say, panicked. You've never had a gun in your face before. “I'm not one of those things.”

Chucky stares you hard in the eyes. “Who you like?”

The ringing is fading. You can begin to hear him now.

“What?”

“Who do you like? Mets or Yankees?”

“What?”

He cocks the shotgun. “I seen a whole world of crazy shit in the past fucking hour. I ain't in no
goddamn
mood to play. So… you a Yankees fan, motherfucker… or not?”

YOUR BEST MIKE HAMMER IMPRESSION

“OK, listen Al—I just spent the past God knows how many hours in the back of a fucking cab, staring at the decomposing body of a guy who—despite being dead—kept staring right the fuck back at me. Then, even though he was dead, I killed him again. With a tire iron. Then I outran a thousand zombies. Topped that off by doing it missionary style with a barbed-wire fence. I'm bleeding from about a hundred different places. And, from the smell, I think I may have shit myself. Or actually, that stink just might be you, Big fuckin' Al.”

Big Al doesn't like that.

“So if you want to kill me, kill me. But I'm not going down without a fight. So let me loose, let's step outside, and let's handle this like men.”

Big Al smiles. “Look at this, fuckin' tough guy all of a sudden.”

“It's been one helluva bad day at Black Rock, friend.”

“Alright, guy, relax. I'm not going to kill you.”

“Cut me loose, then.

“Yeah—you should cut him loose, Al,” Fish says.

They do. You stretch. It hurts like hell. Sharp, shooting pains all over. “Thanks. Now where can I pass out?”

TAKING THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING

“Gentlemen,” Doc says, as he pulls the sheet off his workbench, “Merry Christmas.”

Weapons galore. Guns. Grenades. Rocket launchers. Swords. Axes.

“Go to town, government's paying.”

The men walk down the bench, taking what they want, and then head outside. You take a grenade launcher and an RCP90 submachine gun—you recognize it from
Goldeneye
.

You flip up the side mirror on Jones's Harley. Take a look at yourself. You're the beautiful bastard child of Snake Plissken and John Rambo.

It's just before midnight. Outside sits a roofless double-decker bus, glimmering in the moonlight, with the words
NYC SIGHTS
in big letters along the side and a huge image of an American flag next to the Statue of Liberty.

You board the bus, head for the upper deck, and take a seat in front of Jones.

Four Angels take their bikes. The rest the bus. Doc drives.

The Harleys roar to life, Doc pulls out, and your bizarre convoy hits the road. No joking. No fun and games. Men going to war. Everything at stake.

You lay the RCP90 on the seat beside you. Put the grenade launcher on your lap. Across the side it reads Milkor M32 MGL. MGL stands for Multiple Grenade Launcher, you figure. It holds six 40mm shells in a tommy-gun—style drum magazine. It can do a lot of damage. Kill a lot of people. Or whatever the hell it is you're out to kill.

You turn to Jones. “On the corner that night—would you really have let me die?”

He exhales smoke through his nose. “Absolutely.”

“How could you just let a man die like that—when you could stop it? Not just a man. Me.”

“I gave you a choice.”

“Still.”

“Choices in life, kid. Lots of them. You live with the choices you make.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” you say.

You get up and walk to the front of the bus and lean against it. It's been nearly a year since that sweltering July day when the zombies came to New York—and the world. Now it's a warm May night. Type of night you should be out barbecuing. Ten years ago, you'd have been playing tag with the neighborhood kids or playing Spin the Bottle. Now you're headed to the Empire State Building to murder zombies.

One up ahead. A thin woman in a long jacket. Standing on a corner. Doc swerves to hit it and the thing bounces off the front of the bus.

The first twenty blocks are easy going. Then coming up through Union Square, things get messier. But Doc keeps his foot on the gas and powers through them. You feel a bump as one is caught in the wheel well.

At Twenty-third Street, you meet your first real chunk of trouble. An overturned SUV and a snapped streetlight block the way.

The loudspeaker, usually reserved for obnoxious tour guides, serves as Doc's way of communicating with you guys on top the bus and the bikers alongside it. Doc comes on. “Fellas, need some help here.”

You drop to one knee, rest the barrel of the grenade launcher on the front wall of the double-decker bus, and flip up the sight.

THWOOMP!

The grenade spirals through the air, a trail of smoke arcing behind it. It hits the side of the historic Flatiron Building and explodes, showering the street with chunks of concrete and shards of glass.