by Max Brallier
Soon, the crowds flood out onto the streets. Drivers are greeted and hugged. Guys mug for photos taken with Lucy Lowblow.
Eigle makes his way through the crowd, accompanied by Thin One and Boxy.
Another man follows, wearing a mechanic’s outfit with a name tag reading HANK. Hank has a gut, looks like he’s smuggling watermelons beneath his jumpsuit. Type of guy, you’d bet, who has more hair on his ass than on his head. Eigle says, “Jimmy, this is—”
“Let me guess: Hank, the mechanic.”
“Correct. He’ll be working with us.”
Hank’s grabbing your hand before you offer it and shaking it like it gets him off. “Real happy to be working with you, fella. Real happy. Some driving today. Whoo-boy. Some show. See why the major here was so eager to bring you on board.”
You pull your hand free and look back to Eigle. “The mission. Let’s talk.”
“Yes,” Eigle says. “Come on, I’ll explain everything.”
But as you begin walking, a voice calls out, “Jimmy El Camino!”
Boss Tanner, making his way through the crowd. Still a girl at each arm—maybe they’re sewn on. “Jimmy El Camino,” he says. “Nice driving, son. Impressed even me, and I’m man enough to admit it.”
You don’t reply.
Boss Tanner turns to Major Eigle. “Where are you taking our new star?”
After a hard moment, Eigle says, “Buying the man a drink, to celebrate not dying.”
Tanner shakes his head. “No offense meant, Major, but after the years this man has spent locked up, I suspect he’d like to celebrate his victory in the company of his many fans. Some girls, maybe? Or boys? No judgment in my city.”
Thin One and Boxy move their hands down, slowly, toward their guns. Eigle shifts his weight, steeling himself. A subtle movement, but you notice it.
You’re a chess piece here. A pawn in a standoff between Major Eigle and Boss Tanner. But you don’t yet know the game or the stakes.
Boss Tanner throws his arm around you. One of the girls grabs hold of you, running a rough hand up your shirt, along your hard stomach. She smiles, and you notice a dead tooth. The girls smell good. Trashy and sweet.
Tanner flashes his big grin. “Well, Jimmy, what’s it going to be?”
To go with Major Eigle and learn more about the mission, click here.
Getting drunk and celebrating sounds like a good time! Click here.
SICKLE MONSTER
You slice through the cult members like some avenging angel of death. You slash the closest one across the face, blood appearing in a sudden, thin line, like he was lacerated by a laser.
More gunshots ring out, but none hit you. For a moment, it’s as if you’re invincible—swinging, chopping, hacking, killing anything purple.
Soon, the floor is slick with gore and purple-red fabric. Only the Man in Antlers remains. He takes a nervous step back, hands up—suddenly appearing very human, very timid, very small. He is no god, and there is no divine being who will intervene.
But then Iris howls. The Man in Antlers grins sickly. “It’s too late.”
You look into the pit. Iris’s stomach has been torn open. One zombie has her intestines wrapped around its hand. No one is immune to that . . .
You charge at the Man in Antlers, swinging the sickle up into his gut, lifting him off his feet; his body wriggles like a worm on a hook as blood pours from his belly, down the shaft of the sickle, and over your hands. And then you drop the sickle, dropping him as well.
You pull a semiautomatic rifle from a dead cultist’s tight, lifeless hand and walk to the edge of the pit. You fire off head shots—methodical, mechanical, reloading, firing, until every undead monster has fallen.
You lower yourself down into the pit and grab hold of Iris. Her eyes are open but lifeless.
The pulley is still attached to her belt—now torn and blood-splattered. You pile the bodies, using them to climb out, gently pulling her up. Her body is mangled—skin flayed, flesh torn, bones broken.
You wrap her in a bloody robe and carry her down to the El Camino.
Click here.
DECISIONS, DECISIONS
You step closer, peeking through the wooden slats. You see zombies packed inside the cattle car, at least fifty, jammed so tight they can’t move.
The next car is more macabre: it’s filled with undead animals. An elephant with half its face rotted away. Horses with their ribs showing. Zebras, flesh torn away and hanging so that their stripes look like chessboards.
“Jimmy,” Iris says, “think we should forget the circus.”
“Agreed,” you say.
Footsteps behind you. You turn and—
KRAK!
A gun butt slams into your nose and your vision flashes bright white. Your ears ring. You hear Iris scream.
And then the butt of the gun, again, hard into the back of your head, and your legs go weak and everything goes black.
You wake up on a cracked leather couch in a room that smells of smoke and spilled booze and mold. Iris sits beside you. Your head is pounding away like a sailor on shore leave.
Across the room are two windows, looking out on the town. It’s darker now. Two men lean against the wall, guns pointed at you.
Another man, rounder, thicker, with long hair stands over you. He smells like feces. He leans in close to you and says, “We heard about a guy driving an El Camino. And a girl worth a helluva lot to Boss Tanner, back in the Rotten Apple. Seems like maybe that’s you.”
You rub at your forehead and you yawn.
“Hey!” he barks. “My name’s Ring, and I run that train. I’m the goddamn ringleader of this circus.”
“Clever.”
“I know. I pilot that train all over this shit land. So be kind, huh, and listen when I’m talking to you—it’ll make your life easier.”
“Sure.”
He nods to one of the gunmen, who crosses, yanking you to your feet, shoving you to the window. You realize now you’re on the second floor of the saloon you saw when you entered town.
“You see that out there?” Ring says, pointing to a circle of burning torches in the center of town. You squint and see two men boxing inside the circle.
No—one man is boxing; the other is an undead circus clown being beat to a pulp.
“That’s the circle,” Ring says. “The arena. Gladiator-type shit.”
“Gladiator-type shit,” you say.
Ring nods with a wide grin. “Gladiator. Type. Shit. As you can see, I’m a sporting man, so I’m going to give you a choice here. You fight for Ring’s Most Wonderful Circus Show, and I let the girl go free.”
You look to Iris on the couch. Her teeth are clenched.
Ring leans in so close you can smell tequila on his breath. He grins, flashing yellow teeth. “Or,” he continues, “I keep the girl, and you drive on outta here.”
You hear Iris, breathing hard now. You eye Ring. His skin is dirty and pocked. His eyes twinkle in a cruel way. He has a thin, waxed mustache.
It’d be a pleasure to put his nose through his brain. But you have a choice to make.
If you’ll agree to fight as Ring’s gladiator so Iris can go free, click here.
If you’d rather drive out of town and attempt to get her back some other way, click here.
ELEPHANT RIDE
You trek on. Through day and night.
You lie on top of the elephant, one hand around its side, gripping an open rib, the other holding the flagpole, which rests on the undead animal’s head.
It’s slow going.
You pivot the head on the stick when you have to, steering the animal to the left or to the right. The animal never stops. It just continues on, relentless, trying to get its teeth on the bobbing lump of flesh.
And you never get down. Never get off. As soon as you do, the beast will attack. You shift to the side to piss. Shitting isn’t as easy and the animal’s back is soon a filthy mess.
On the second day, you wake up
to pounding rain. You turn over to drink. It washes you some, and you’re thankful for that.
Outside Des Moines, a single zombie crosses the path ahead, startling you. And then more. Hundreds, crossing the road like a herd of wild animals. Bones crunch as the elephant stomps right over them.
For the elephant-monster, it’s Ring’s dangling head—the one single thing driving him forward. And for you, it’s Iris, the mission, and the poison—intertwined, your blinding focus.
You remove your belt—tie one end to the animal’s rib, another around your wrist. Best you can do to keep from tumbling over the side. You fall back asleep . . .
When you wake, rain is pounding again, coming down sideways. The stick is slipping. You tighten your grip, reaching, but it’s too late—the pole slips from your hand and Ring’s head drops to the ground.
The elephant immediately lowers its head to dine. The animal’s hide is soaking wet, and you tumble off, landing on your wounded leg.
The elephant devours Ring’s head in two bites, then turns toward you.
You take two steps back. The elephant-monster stampedes forward, trying to ram its tusk into you. You roll to the side, grabbing the gore-splattered flagpole. When the elephant attacks again, you swing the pole into its ear, into its brain. Its legs go out and it falls, making a sound like distant thunder.
“Thanks for the ride,” you say, catching your breath.
Before you have time to ponder your situation and search for a new mode of transportation, you see it. Something so unexpected, so silly, but so goddamn perfect that it makes you grin.
The SPAM Museum.
And parked out front is the SPAMmobile—a large blue RV with a huge image of a SPAM sandwich on the side.
Head inside, explore the SPAM Museum, and find something to eat? Click here.
Go straight for the SPAMmobile and continue on your way? Click here.
CLOTHESLINE FROM HELL
No more of this “Toro! Toro!” action for you. You’ll clothesline the girl. Knock her clean off that goddamn Harley, get up on it, and ride straight out of this shit city. You never did heart NYC . . .
Sonja speeds toward you.
You position yourself behind the zombie. The cuffs bend the monster’s arm back. It moans loudly, thrashing, trying to jerk its arm free.
You lean out, watching Sonja hurtling down the avenue toward you. She raises the mace. Bits of blood and brain pour off it—a red streak, trailing in the air.
She’s bearing down on you. The engine like thunder.
Forty feet. Thirty feet. Twenty feet.
And—
NOW! You leap out from behind the zombie, using the monster’s arm and the cuffs as an improvised clothesline.
Sonja shrieks as her upper body slams into the clothesline. She’s ripped off the Harley and the bike skitters down the avenue, sparking and screeching.
Your plan worked.
Almost . . .
In the same instant, the force of the impact yanks your own arm free from its socket. You stare down, mouth slack, at your open shoulder. Blood gushes, such a thick, dark red it’s almost black—like you’re leaking oil.
You turn and see your arm lying twenty feet down the street, still attached to the zombie’s arm—also ripped from its body.
Shock will take over soon.
If you go into shock, you’re dead.
Can’t get dead.
Can’t get dead.
You press your hand tight against your gaping shoulder wound and take a shaky step. But then—
The zombie in the cement block. It lunges out with its one arm, digging long, clawlike nails into your neck. You reach out with your remaining arm, whacking at the monster. Its fingers dig inside your open shoulder flesh, gripping muscle and tendon and scraping your scapula.
As you struggle to free yourself, you see Sonja marching toward you, blood pumping from a dozen cuts on her face.
You free yourself from the zombie, just in time to watch Sonja stomping closer, swinging the mace, caving your head in like a ripe melon . . .
AN END
WOOKIES ARE KNOWN TO DO THAT
You tug on the cuffs. The zombie lunges toward you, then topples over.
Hmmm.
You wrap the loose metal chain around your hand. The metal is cool in your palm. You grip tight, and you tug. There’s an audible pop! as the zombie’s shoulder bone breaks.
Its flesh is weak, muscle decayed and rotten. You raise your leg, pressing your boot against the zombie’s crotch, and you heave.
SNAP!
Flesh, soft and gray, tears, and the zombie’s entire left arm is ripped free.
You now have a sort of extra appendage, attached to your own via handcuff—one of the stranger weapons you’ve ever wielded.
The Harley roars louder and Sonja lets out a bloodcurdling howl as she swings the mace. Simultaneously, you step out from behind the zombie and swing the zombie’s arm—along with yours—treating it like a fleshy nunchaku.
The zombie arm catches Sonja in the throat. There’s a sharp choking sound as she begins to fall back—but she seizes the handlebars, barely catching herself.
She races ahead, the Harley’s front tire wobbling, and then, after sixty feet, the front wheel jerks, the bike flips, and Sonja is flung. From alleyways and storefronts come dozens of zombies. That’s why you saw so few earlier—they kept them hidden, probably chained up until the games began. Like Boss Tanner said, it’s Roman—and now it’s like someone opened the ground panels in the Colosseum and unleashed the tigers.
The monsters come at you.
An old, fat undead man, its stomach split open, intestines spilling out like sausage links, so long it’s tripping on them.
You swing the zombie arm, cracking it in the face.
You snap the arm up into the air, grabbing it by the wrist. The humerus bone juts out of the open wound and you slam it into the eyeball of the next zombie reaching for you—a woman in a torn nightgown.
More come. Encircling you. You whip the arm around in a wide, circular swing, driving them back, allowing you to move to the Harley.
Sonja looks up as you approach. She’s hurt bad. Leg is twisted around. Spine possibly broken. You nod. “Thanks for the ride.”
You place your boot on the still-cuffed zombie arm and tug, shattering the wrist, ripping it free. No longer hampered, you right the Harley, swinging up, twisting the throttle.
Just before the engine barks, you hear Sonja scream as the zombies pounce and sink their teeth in . . .
If you choose to use your new ride to escape the city, click here.
Do like Eigle asked and play the game? Click here.
GOOD-BYE, BILLY
You turn away from the crying boy.
Iris is all that matters. The mission. During your lifetime, you’ve left a trail of bodies behind you, thinking only about the mission—and it’s that thinking that propels you forward now.
You pass through the thick smoke, into the dark visitor’s tunnel. Screaming pain in your leg as you limp through the bowels of the stadium. Far behind you, the cars battle, rockets and machine-gun fire tearing the stadium apart. There’s a tremendous eruption as some very large, very powerful missile slams into the seating.
As you turn the corner, there’s a flash of movement up ahead. A smile creeps across your face. “Hello, Ring.”
He turns. A shadowy figure in the darkness.
“You seem to have found yourself on the wrong side of the stadium, Ring.”
“Other side collapsed completely,” Ring says. He’s out of breath. Panting, like a dog. “Everyone dead. Ran the length of the stadium trying to find a way out.”
“Oh, you were planning on leaving?”
Another explosion rocks the stadium. The walls shake and lights above you fall and thick dust sifts through rapidly growing cracks in the ceiling.
Ring’s face is pale, scared; his long black hair is matted with sweat. “Jimmy, look—this whole
place is going to come down. You got a beef, I know, but let’s settle it later, huh?”
“I told you I’d kill you, Ring.”
“Gimme a break, Jimmy! I was running a business! The train is my business! It provides entertainment! For people! And what the hell—you’re still alive, ain’t ya?”
You shake your head. “I told you I’d kill you.”
Ring’s eyes narrow. “Fine, then, if that’s how you want it,” he says, reaching around his back, pulling out a silver pistol, firing.
The shot misses.
Ring frowns.
His hand, shaking, scared, squeezes twice more. Two bullets hurtle past you.
You flash a deranged, sick grin and tramp down the tunnel like a man possessed.
Ring empties the clip. He doesn’t hit you once.
His eyes go wide. He opens his mouth to speak, but you slam a heavy fist into his nose, knocking him back on his ass. He slides across the floor.
You’re just twenty feet from the large exit. Daylight shines in. Explosions behind you. Ring was right. This whole damn stadium is about to implode.
A strange moan draws your attention. Through the door ahead of you, an undead elephant is rambling along, outside, in the sunlight. Must have stampeded out when the stadium began to collapse.
Ring tries to scramble to his feet. Tries to run. But you close the distance and stomp down on the back of his calf, shattering his fibula. He howls.
Outside, the elephant-monster hears Ring’s howl and lets out a bellow.
An idea is brewing.
A long flagpole juts out from the wall, above the exit. A torn Packers flag hangs from it—at one time, it used to welcome visitors.
A minute later, you’ve snapped the flagpole from the wall and you’re standing over Ring.
“Good-bye, Ring.”
Ring looks up at you. Crying now. “Jimmy, please, be fucking reasonable. Be a goddamn man, huh?”
You raise the flagpole, then slam the tip of it down into Ring’s throat. You pull it back out, now dripping with fresh gore, and bring it down into Ring’s throat and neck another dozen times, until his head is nearly separated from his body.
