Highway to Hell

by Max Brallier

  You cross the White House in barely a minute, coming to a stop at an exit on the opposite end of the building, kicking open the door just in time to see the El Camino racing past. Iris, eyes narrowed, focused, struggling to keep control of the vehicle.

  And then she swerves.

  There’s someone in front of her.

  The president.

  Zombified.

  She doesn’t turn fast enough. She hits the president—its knees shatter, the thresher carves up its lower body, and then it’s knocked aside.

  And then the Porsche engine barks and Lucy is racing around the corner, chasing the El Camino, focused on it, machine guns blasting, as you step out onto the lawn, raising the sawed-off, and—

  BLAM! BLAM!

  Both barrels, directly through the driver’s-side window. Lucy’s face is blown apart, her golden hair mixing with brain matter and skull and painting the interior of the Porsche a wet crimson. The car careens across the lawn, slamming into a large tree, cracking the trunk.

  You holster the gun and step over the writhing zombie body. “Mr. President,” you say, giving a nod to the undead leader of the free world.

  Iris climbs out of the El Camino. “I see why you like driving so much.”

  “Sure,” you say, sliding behind the wheel. “Have a car, know how to drive, you can go wherever you want. Whenever.”

  “And where are we going now?”

  “We’re getting the hell out of Washington.”

  Click here.

  QUICK DRAW

  “I’ll be back before sundown,” you say. “Need to settle a few things.”

  Outside Tanque Verde, you cut off the road, rumbling across the rough desert until you find a flowering palo verde tree.

  You pull a collapsible shovel from the El Camino and begin digging. It takes you two hours to get to six feet deep. It’s tough going, but it feels good—you feel alive, and you barely stop to catch your breath until you’re finished.

  You carry Iris’s legless body from the El Camino. As gently as possible, you slide her down into the grave. She looks at peace. Maybe that counts for something.

  Maybe.

  Knowing she was religious, you feel you should say a prayer, but you don’t know any. You think on that, then finally just say, “Good luck. Hope it’s not too cold in there,” and cover her with dirt.

  Once you’ve filled the grave, you hack a thick piece of bark away from the tree and construct a crude headstone. With your combat knife, you carve the words: Iris. Died age 19. Gave her life for something that mattered.

  From the car, you slide the sawed-off into your hip holster, slip the Smith & Wesson revolver into your belt loop, and stuff a bottle of whiskey in each pocket.

  That’ll be enough to start your new life.

  You slide back into the car and pick up the microphone. “Eigle?”

  A moment later, he comes on. “Jimmy? What’s your status?”

  “I’m done. That’s my status.”

  “Wait, Jimmy, what—” he starts, but you don’t hear him finish because you’ve put a bullet into the radio.

  You remove the ax from the car, and then it’s one last thing. You find a large rock beneath the tree, place it on the El Camino’s gas pedal. The engine roars. You reach inside, shift the car into first, and jump back as the El Camino speeds away. You wonder where it will stop. You hope it crashes into a gorge somewhere and explodes. That part of your life is over.

  Some hours later, you’re back at the gate to Tombstone, drenched in sweat. It’s dusk, and a blue haze is settling over the town. “I’m ready,” you tell the man.

  He nods and opens the gate, and you step into every Western fan’s wet dream.

  Main Street is lined with saloons and brothels. You notice a sheriff’s office, with a big wooden badge hanging out front. There’s also a barbershop, a church, a general store, and a livery.

  And it’s not fake. Not anymore. A few years ago, sure, it was a tourist attraction—but now, this is real.

  You’re approaching a saloon called the Brass Rail when you hear a commotion. The bat-wing doors fly open and five men—farmers, it looks like—tumble out, tripping over the steps, kicking up dust when they land on the dirt street. They scramble to their feet. One screams.

  Six zombies stumble out behind them, quickly upon them. Women cry out and the street empties and doors lock. The men crawl over one another, trying to get away. One man swings a bottle at the monster that’s pinning him to the ground.

  You’re twenty yards from the zombies and the men trying to fight them off. You watch the beasts claw at the men. You drop the ax to the dirt and draw your Smith & Wesson 500.

  Six shots ring out.

  Brains splash the dirt road and six zombies crumple to the ground.

  You reload the pistol as you stride toward the men. They’re just getting up, dusting themselves off, breathing heavily, confused, still scared.

  “Mister . . . Christ, thank you,” one says.

  A younger man says, “Hell, you shot all of them? No misses?”

  The oldest of the men sits up, holding his neck. Blood streams through his fingers.

  “Oh hell, Wyatt, you’re bit,” the first man says.

  The one named Wyatt looks up. He has a thick gray mustache and his hair is wet and matted and his hat lies beside him. Blood pumps steadily from his neck. He’ll turn soon. There’s a look of immense sadness on his face.

  You look up from Wyatt to his friends. “This man have any family who should come say good-bye, ’fore he turns?”

  The other men all shake their heads. “Had a brother, but he died.”

  You nod, then you place the reloaded Smith & Wesson to Wyatt’s pale forehead and kill him.

  Holstering the gun, you say, “Sorry I had to put your friend down like that.”

  “Mister, he wasn’t just our friend. He was Wyatt Earp. He was the dern sheriff.”

  You look down. Brain matter is splattered across a silver badge.

  “Wyatt Earp?”

  “Sure. Well, he played Wyatt Earp, in the reenactments, for the tourists. But after everything happened, he took the name, became sheriff officially.”

  That’s the silliest goddamn thing you’ve ever heard, you think.

  “All those O. K. Corral shoot-outs,” the man continues, “for the tourists, made him a helluva shot. He was a good sheriff.”

  A roly-poly sort of fellow comes running down the street, hollering, “What happened? What happened?” in a tinny voice.

  “Goddamn things got in,” the man says. “Crack in the fence. Came through the rear door of the Brass Rail. Stranger here put ’em down, but Wyatt was already bit.”

  The roly-poly man looks at you. “What’s your name?”

  “Jimmy,” you say.

  “Looks like you just killed our sheriff, Jimmy.”

  You don’t say anything.

  “I’m Mayor McCray. You just get into town today?”

  “Not more than ten minutes ago.”

  “You planning on staying for a while?”

  “Was thinking about it.”

  “Looks like you’re something with that pistol. How’d you like to be sheriff? Pays in food and liquor. Barter economy. But you’ll have room and board and we can give you something to gamble with, if that suits your fancy.”

  You think about that for a moment, then say, “Sure. That sounds just fine.”

  Mayor McCray smiles. “Good. That’s real good.”

  The other men say their thanks and make their way back into the Brass Rail to continue drinking. A bony, crooked undertaker hobbles over, grabs Wyatt’s body, and drags it down the dusty road.

  You’re sitting on the porch outside the sheriff’s office. It’s early morning and you’re eating eggs, pork sausage, and biscuits—courtesy of Clara, owner of the brothel down the way. She brings you breakfast every morning. In exchange, you keep a close watch on rowdy customers and you hit extra hard if anyone messes with on
e of her gals.

  You sip coffee, thick as syrup, and feel the weight of the pistol hanging at your side.

  You put your feet up on the railing.

  This is all right, you think, watching the sun rise over the row of shops and bars across the way. This isn’t the beach house you dreamed of, but goddamn, this is all right.

  AN END

  WAKING THE DEAD

  “This way, Billy,” you say as you begin racing across the muddy field toward the ambulance. The monsters are swarming. Not far from your position, an undead lion chomps the head of a zombie and swallows it whole.

  You grab hold of the ambulance’s twin back doors. You hope to find some sort of weapon inside—a fire ax, maybe.

  But both doors fling open on their own, hitting you on the nose and drawing blood and spinning you aside. An undead football player leaps out at you like the thing was spring-loaded. Dreadlocks wave as the monster soars through the air, lands square on your chest, and drives you into the ground. Its jersey is stained with grass and blood.

  The thing has its rotten mouth to your face, teeth snapping. The player’s muscles have deteriorated, mostly, but it’s still much stronger than any zombie you’ve faced before.

  Reddish saliva drips down, and you turn your face. You push at its throat, trying to hold it back.

  And then Billy’s there, slamming a fire extinguisher into the player’s head, over and over, until the thing rolls off and collapses and chunks of brain dot its dreadlocks.

  You get to your feet.

  Before you can thank Billy, the earth trembles and you see fire in the distance, and then the security gate at the far end explodes and a swarm of rockets zooms into the stadium . . .

  Click here.

  HERE’S THE DEAL . . .

  An hour later, you’re in an auto-body shop on the Lower East Side. It smells of oil and sweat and rotten meat. A single dim light flickers overhead. Maps cover one wall. You’re sitting in the shadows in a back room, on a dirty couch with strands of orange fabric sticking out.

  A moan sounds from the corner of the dark room.

  A zombie. Once a man. It wears a torn suit, a necktie hanging loosely, splattered with brown blood. Its nose is missing—face looks more skeletal than human.

  A chain around its neck leads to a water pipe not far above. It half hangs from it, half stands.

  It moans again.

  You look away from the zombie to Major Eigle. He stands near the monster, arms folded. Hank sits in a plastic folding chair, drinking a beer.

  “I’m here. Now get to it,” you say. “What’s the job?”

  “I want you to drive, Jimmy. The most important ride of your life.”

  You stare at him blankly.

  Eigle turns and calls out, “Iris!”

  A girl appears from the hallway at the far end of the room. Maybe twenty years old. Dirty blond hair, like hay. She looks beat to hell and run-down and tired of moving, like an old pickup pushed too far on not enough oil. But as she stands there, staring at you, you see she’s got eyes that still sparkle just enough to make you want to know her story and maybe buy her a drink.

  “Who’s this?” Iris asks.

  “This is Jimmy,” the major says.

  Iris sighs. “I told you, Eigle. I made it real plain and clear: I’d do this only if you got a real driver. A professional. Not gonna happen with some washed-up old booze hound.”

  “Washed-up old booze hound?” you say, reaching for the nearby bottle and pouring yourself a healthy-sized glass. “She’s observant.”

  Eigle says, “Jimmy here—he’s the only driver not loyal to Boss Tanner.”

  You take a pull from your big drink. “What’s the drive? And what does this girl have to do with it?”

  “You need to deliver Iris to San Francisco.”

  You shake your head. “No. From the little I saw out there, what you showed me? That’s a one-way ticket. A suicide run.”

  “And not long ago you were in a cell, Jimmy. I’m offering you a chance at freedom.”

  You lean back, sinking into the couch. An old cigar case full of grease-stained, poorly rolled cigarettes on the table beside you, matches scattered about. You light a smoke. Exhaling, you say, “Why’s she got to get to San Francisco?”

  Eigle starts to say something but stops. “Easier if I show you.”

  Iris looks suddenly sick. “Just tell him,” she says.

  “What we’re asking?” Eigle responds. “He needs to see.”

  “Just tell him—” Iris starts, but Eigle holds up his finger. She goes quiet.

  Eigle grabs her; she resists briefly, then goes with him, toward the zombie chained to the pipe. You lean forward, sipping your drink, curious now. Hank taps his foot anxiously and looks down at the cracked cement floor.

  Slowly, like a magician showing you that everything is on the level, Eigle begins rolling up Iris’s sleeve. Her skin is milky white. Looks soft. You want to touch it.

  He rolls her sleeve up further, past the elbow, and you see then that her skin there is scarred to hell. Like a junkie’s.

  The zombie moans.

  “The stick,” Iris says.

  Eigle takes a short, thick wooden rod from a table at his side. He slides it into the girl’s mouth, and she bites down.

  Eigle wraps his long, bony fingers around Iris’s wrist. She squeezes her eyes shut, and then Eigle holds her arm out to the zombie.

  The monster’s eyes flash and its head snaps forward and its teeth dig into her flesh. The wet sound of tearing tissue fills the room.

  You start forward. Eigle holds his hand up. “It’s okay,” Hank says from across the room, still looking at the floor. “Watch. You need to see.”

  Iris squeezes her eyes tighter and bites her lip until it bleeds and her legs quiver—but she doesn’t try to escape and she doesn’t cry and she doesn’t try to stop what’s happening.

  Blood drizzles from the zombie’s mouth. Eigle says, “Hank.”

  Hank stands, crosses the room, and slams a heavy wrench into the zombie’s head. He swings twice more, and the zombie’s teeth release Iris’s flesh. Another heavy blow to the face and the zombie’s head whips back.

  Iris’s legs give out then, and her arm falls limp. Hank is there, catching her, helping her to a couch. He quickly wraps her bleeding arm in a towel. Iris looks like she wants to cry, but she never does.

  “You just killed her,” you say, getting to your feet, ready to tear apart Eigle and Hank. “You just sentenced that girl to death. She’ll be one of those things now—undead.”

  Eigle shakes his head. “No. Iris is resistant,” he says. “Her blood, her DNA, something—she can’t be infected. We’re in communication with San Francisco. There are scientists there: men and women who can study her body and, they believe, create a vaccine. We can end all of this. We just need to get her there.”

  Iris speaks up, her voice a faint croak. “Eigle. That’s the last time. Never again. I’ve agreed to your plan—but no more of this show. I swear, you suggest it again, you try it, and I promise: I’ll fucking kill you.”

  Eigle ignores her. He’s watching you.

  You take another swallow of your whiskey—a big one.

  “So you’re asking me to save the world?” you say.

  “In a way, yes.”

  “Why me?”

  “Same thing I said yesterday—you can kill, and you can drive.”

  “But why so hush-hush?”

  “If Boss Tanner learns about Iris, he’ll kill her. Same goes for the men running every city from here to San Francisco. The apocalypse turned ordinary men into criminals, and it turned criminals into kings. They have power now. And they don’t want to lose that power—even if it means letting the apocalypse march on, until there’s nothing left . . . just unending death . . .”

  Iris eyes you, holding the rag tight, but not tight enough—the blood still coming, pooling on the floor.

  “One drive,” Eigle says. “One driv
e, and the chance to save the world.”

  Will you accept your mission? If so, click here.

  A suicide run isn’t your idea of a good time. Click here.

  LAISSEZ LES BONS TEMPS ROULER!

  You drive over the Crescent City Connection, crossing the Mississippi, following the signs into New Orleans. You’re looking for a hospital—that’s where you’ll find your backup generators.

  New Orleans was in full swing, midcelebration, and suddenly, it just stopped when the apocalypse came to town. Monsters in elaborate costumes, slathered in face paint, stumble about. Abandoned floats clog avenues. Colored beads and feather masks scattered across the ground.

  The engine growls softly as you prowl the streets, trying not to draw the attention of the undead.

  You find the hospital near Bourbon Street.

  You steer the El Camino down a winding ramp to the hospital’s storage garage. You leave the car idling and step out, carrying the ax. You chop through a thick metal chain and lift the gate. The sharp stink of death fills the garage.

  You find four wheeled generators in the rear. It appears there were more, but they’ve been taken. A few long-dead corpses lie on the floor, shot dead. A fight over the missing generators, you assume.

  You’re trying to figure out how you’ll get the massive, five-hundred-pound generators back to Dewey’s when you hear a booming voice from a megaphone outside.

  You creep back up the ramp.

  A parade float is rolling down Bourbon Street, the lane thick with zombies. The slow-moving float knocks them aside and rolls over them.

  The float is roughly twenty-five feet long and ten feet wide, the main platform raised eight feet off the ground. Squinting, you see that it’s built atop the chassis of a pickup truck.

  It’s an anti-everything float. Signs read:

  Homos in Life, Zombies in Death

  Repent, Zombies!

  Gays Become Zombies, God Becomes Happy