by Max Brallier
Two more are atop Dewey, tugging at his arm, digging long, gnarled fingers into his mouth. The one with his hands on Dewey’s cheek wears no hood—just a pale, gory, crumbling face.
The sawed-off hangs at your hip, but it’s the wrong tool for the job: pull it, and you’ll kill just about everyone. Instead, you yank the rifle from Walter’s shaking hands.
Suzie-Jean, seconds from death.
Dewey, just a moment from being bitten.
You swallow hard, realizing you can only save one of them . . .
Shoot the zombies hanging on Dewey? Click here.
If you’ll instead blast the zombies about to devour Suzie-Jean, click here.
GORE
You shift into reverse, throw your hand over Iris’s seat, and glance at the tight alleyway behind you.
You stamp the accelerator, and at the same time, you hear thundering on the cement as the rhino-monster charges.
“It’s coming,” Iris barks. “Coming fast.”
You look ahead. The undead beast stampedes toward you, charging with a strong, almost-drunken gait. It lets out a deafening wail—a mixture of the undead moaning of the human zombies and its natural call.
You stamp the gas harder, hand tight on the wheel, as you race in reverse toward the end of the alley.
But then they come. Fifty zombies, at least, charging into the alley. Filling it. Ending any hope of rear escape.
“Jimmy . . . ?”
You slam the brakes. As you do, the rhino’s massive hoof comes down on the El Camino’s hood, snapping the rear of the car up into the air. You’re tossed forward, into the wheel.
And then the rhino is on top of the car.
Its head lowers and the animal bucks. Its long, pointed horn pierces the windshield and rips into your throat, the tip pushing through your Adam’s apple, exiting out the back of your neck, blood now fleeing your body.
Iris gets her hand on the door, swings it open—and is immediately tackled by the undead horde. She curses, punches, screams bloody fucking murder, then goes quiet. After that, you hear only the soft, wet sound of warm flesh being greedily swallowed down.
The rhino steps back and its horn slides from your neck. You fall back into the seat. You try to breathe, but your throat bubbles blood and there is a soft whistling sound as you gasp for breath that will never come.
And then the undead rhino’s head comes through the windshield fully, turned sideways, destroying the glass and twisting metal—its mouth open wide, its thick, dirty teeth tearing your face to bits.
AN END
THE SHOW GOES ON
Ring puts you in your own cattle car, a cell, wooden-plank walls reinforced with sheet metal, keeping you from punching your way out.
You sit in the corner and the train rumbles on.
Every few days, it stops, you’re dragged out, and you fight. You crush them and you impale them and you skewer them.
And then, at night, it’s back into your cattle-car cell.
You remain focused. Your mind never drifts, always on Iris, always on your mission.
Through a small crack in the wall, you watch wasteland America race by. Crumbled buildings and distant smoke and gray skies and zombies loping like herds of wild animals.
Sometimes, hordes of zombies crowd the tracks and they need to be cleared off before the train can proceed. Other times, the train is assaulted by bandits and gunshots ring out and you do nothing but lie on your back and think about Iris.
In a small town called Fairbanks, you fight six zombies with your bare hands. Your knuckles are bruised and bone protrudes and you roar when you grip one of the monsters by its ears and rip its ugly head right off its shoulders.
In Milwaukee, you use a hammer to beat to death a zombie wearing a gray hooded sweat-shirt, torn and blood-spattered. After killing it, you remove the sweatshirt and pull it on. The crowd laughs and claps and goes wild.
You think about running, always. An escape. But there are the guards and the guns and you can’t be reckless because it’s not only your life at stake but Iris’s, and—hell—the rest of goddamn humanity.
In a town outside Decatur, waiting for the night’s fight to begin, you spot a boy who works on the train. He’s not supposed to talk to you—Ring’s rules: no talking to the gladiator, the killer, the monster. But there’s a stick of gum in the gray hooded sweatshirt—watermelon—and you bribe him for water.
He brings it to you and smiles and says you’re his hero.
That night, he climbs through a small crack in the ceiling of the cattle car. He shimmies down into the car and sits across from you. He hands you a bottle of whiskey.
You look at the whiskey, then up at him. “How’d you know?”
“Your face,” he says. “You look like my dad. Your cheeks and your nose. They’re red.”
The boy is covered in freckles, with blond hair that’s short in the front and hangs long in the back. He wears a grease-stained white shirt and pants that are two sizes too big for him.
“How old are you?” you ask.
“I’m seven and three quarters.”
“Not very old.”
“Well, how old are you?”
“Fortysomething. I forget, I think.”
“You look older.”
“I feel older.”
“I’m Billy,” the boy says, after a moment of silence.
You nod. “I’m Jimmy.”
“Can I try it?” Billy says, pointing at the bottle.
You hesitate for a moment, then hand him the bottle. He takes a large swig, then coughs a few times and runs to the corner of the cattle car and vomits.
You laugh a little.
“Don’t laugh!” he says.
You drink some more.
“I’m sorry I threw up,” he says softly.
You shrug. “It’s all right. Probably improves the smell in here.”
You drink more, until you’re finally tired, and you tell Billy to leave. He doesn’t. You shrug, lie down, and soon fall asleep.
Nightmares come.
You’ve always had nightmares. Ever since Desert Storm.
But these are different.
You see children. Zombified children. Children robbed of life and turned into monsters.
You watch yourself, murdering them.
You see Iris, alone in the El Camino, surrounded by undead beasts, pounding at the windows. You see Iris in the driver’s seat, the car parked, and the monsters swarming around it. You see Iris, strong, but you see that strength fading.
Iris in the passenger seat now. Numb. Running out of food. Running out of water. Wondering if you’ll come. She did what she said she would. She made it. Will you?
She hopes you will.
She doubts you will.
You see her giving in. You see her pulling the sawed-off from beneath the seat, loading one shell. And then, finally, placing it in her mouth and pulling the trigger.
Because you didn’t come.
Because you didn’t make it.
You see Major Eigle being executed while Boss Tanner howls. Laughing. Winning.
You see the poison in your bloodstream, driving you mad. You see the world ending, never to return to what it once was. You see humanity erased, because you failed.
You feel a hand on you. A nightmarishly small zombie hand. The boy. Billy. Undead. Eaten.
And then you feel the hand shaking you.
Your eyes open. You taste booze and cigarettes.
Billy is shaking you awake. “Jimmy? Jimmy, you okay? You’re making sounds.”
You sit up. You’re dripping, clothes soaked through with sweat. You inch back, into the corner of the train car.
Billy hands you the bottle. You shake your head, pushing it away. Billy pushes it toward you again. You growl and pick up the bottle and fling it against the wall. It hits with a thud, falls to the floor, and booze pours out.
You’re struggling to breathe.
This happened to you twice before, when you first came
back to the States after Afghanistan, and when you first woke up in Eigle’s cell.
Need cool air.
You crawl to the corner of the train car. There’s a break there, between the wooden boards. Night air rushes in as the train races along the tracks.
You press your face to the wood and you breathe in deeply and exhale slowly. Finally, your body begins to cool. The sweat feels like ice water. The wooden floor is comforting. Your heart stops racing.
But the images, when you shut your eyes—the images don’t go away.
Iris.
Tanner.
The world, burning.
You sit up.
“You okay?” Billy asks.
You reach for your cigarettes. Light one with a trembling hand. Exhale, slowly, through your nose.
You need to get out of here. You can’t spend another night in this fucking cattle car. You can’t spend another night with this poison inside you. You can’t spend another night not working to complete your mission—not getting Iris to the coast.
If you want to ask Billy’s help in escaping, click here.
If you’d rather hold tight and try to escape later, click here.
MADNESS
“I can’t free my wrists,” you say.
Iris curses. “We need to do something before that lunatic comes back.”
Farm tools hang from the walls—shovels and spades and dike cutters. They’d all be deadly in your hands, but there’s no way to get to them.
Iris swallows loudly. Then, “Henry,” she says, almost cooing. “Hey there, Henry.”
You glance over, not understanding.
“Iris . . . ,” you start.
She turns and grins, a spark of something devilish in her eye. “He’s half human.”
You shake your head slowly.
“Henry, come over here,” Iris says. “Come sit next to me. Please.”
Henry the man-beast stands up. He stumbles forward, his joints all out of whack, moving like a tin man needing oil. He nearly falls onto Iris.
“Sit beside me,” Iris says. Her voice is throaty and for a short moment, amidst the terror of dangling zombies and Frankenstein monsters, you wish it were directed at you.
Henry sits. His thick hand lands heavily atop Iris’s head. He’s trying to be gentle, but he practically slaps her. Iris leans back and you watch her jaw clench as she braces herself.
Henry paws her body, grabbing her soft denim shirt. Gets his fingers in it and rips it open. Buttons fall to the dirt floor. Her left breast slips out. He pulls at it.
You look up at Iris’s face; she chokes back vomit.
Suddenly, Henry’s hands stab downward, toward Iris’s crotch. Iris scoots back. “Untie me,” she says. She tries to keep her voice soft and gentle, but it quivers.
Henry looks confused.
“Untie me,” she says again, slowly and clearly. “FREE. ME.”
Henry grunts, then reaches around behind her. His thick fingers have no dexterity. He moans in frustration, then simply grabs hold of the rope and tugs.
Iris’s wrist snaps and she bites back a shriek. He pulls again, jerking her hand through the rope. Iris yanks her wrist around, cradling it. It’s broken, but not a compound fracture—you can set it when you get back on the road.
What matters is that she’s free. Henry grabs for her breast again.
“The pitchfork,” you whisper.
With her good hand, Iris takes hold of Henry’s arm. Gently, she stands. She looks into his eyes.
Then you whistle.
Henry turns his head sharply, looking over to you, allowing Iris to dart away. She yanks the pitchfork from the wheelbarrow. Henry the man-beast is charging toward her, but she’s raising the pitchfork, screaming—a roar, summoning strength from somewhere deep—and jamming it through his chest, snapping ribs, puncturing organs.
Henry whimpers—he registers pain, unlike full zombies—then begins pummeling her with his meaty fists. Strong blows that cut open her nose and cause blood to run.
Iris yanks the pitchfork from his chest and darts to the side, ducking as he swings his almost-concrete fists. Henry stumbles forward, off balance. When he turns around, Iris is bringing the pitchfork up, through the base of the monster’s square chin, tines jabbing through his face and blood gushing from his mouth, nose, and eyes.
After a long moment, his legs give and he falls, his body yanking the pitchfork from her hands as he tumbles. He lands on it, and it jabs further, popping through the roof of his skull, and then he lies still, in a heap, dead.
Iris collapses in the hay, breathing heavily, cheeks wet. She wipes her eye, then spits on the monster. Saliva splats on his face.
And then Iris, holding her injured bone, comes to untie you.
“Let me see your wrist. Quick, before that lunatic returns,” you say. You’re standing at the workbench, drinking from a water jug.
“It’s broken.”
“I know. Let me see it.”
She lays it out on the bench. It’s already turning purple.
“I’m going to set it,” you say, wrapping your fingers around her narrow wrist and hand.
“Fine. Just be fucking quick about—”
SNAP!
Iris bites back a shriek and you throw your hand over her mouth. “It’ll feel better soon. No noise. Let’s go.”
You put a boot on Henry’s shoulder and yank the pitchfork from his face. Stepping out into the field, you see half-lobotomized zombies grazing mindlessly. You catch a glimpse of one—toothless, the product of Dr. Splicer.
You move quickly through the tall grass, toward the El Camino.
“What about the doctor?” Iris whispers.
“Not our problem.”
“He can do it again—to the next people to come along.”
“Doesn’t matter. Only you matter.”
You slide inside the El Camino and reach inside your pocket. Then you realize: Dr. Splicer has your goddamn keys.
Quickly, you’re out of the car, moving back across the large field, toward the stables. Iris is at your heels.
“Go back to the car,” you say.
“I’m coming with you.”
“Go back to the damn—”
A howl stops you. Slowly, crouched, you move toward the twin stable doors. Inhuman moans come from inside. Just outside the large doors is a tall pile of discarded flesh and bone—some human, some not. The air above the pile is thick with buzzing flies.
You loop around the stable, peering through cracks in the wooden boards. Iris gasps as she peeks through.
Each stable stall is filled with some foul, inhuman thing—unnatural creatures born from the hands and mind of a madman.
Zombified men with the faces of pigs, and pigs with the faces of zombified men. Goats with human legs, rotten and diseased. Undead horses with exposed rib cages and, nestled inside those rib cages, human infants, sobbing.
You find a rear door and gently nudge it open.
From behind, you see Dr. Splicer, leaning over a body on a metal table.
On the floor beside the table is something that looks like a person, but the whole thing is so slick with fresh blood that it’s nearly unrecognizable. It whimpers.
You hold your hand up, indicating to Iris to stay put. She nods. Then you kick the door open, as loud as possible, pointing the pitchfork at Splicer. He spins around, startled, gripping a scalpel. “Drop the blade, hand me the keys,” you say.
“Where’s Henry?” Dr. Splicer says.
The doctor steps forward, revealing the horror on the table behind him. It is a zombified man. His belly has been removed and replaced with a cow’s udder. His hands have been hacked off. Where there should be a right hand, there is instead a baby rooster, crudely sewn on. Its wings flap and it squawks in pain. His left hand ends in a cow’s hoof.
You look back to Splicer. “The keys.”
“Henry!” the doctor howls like the madman he is. “What did you do to Henry?!”
&nbs
p; “Keys,” you say. “Give them to me now, or I run you through.”
“No. NO!” he shrieks, running toward you, waving the scalpel. You jab out with the pitchfork and Splicer impales himself. The scalpel falls to the floor. Holding the pitchfork with one hand, keeping the madman at arm’s length, you shake his coat. You hear keys jingle. You reach inside and take them.
That’s when you hear the engine roar. That’s when you hear Iris scream.
The stable doors fly open, splintering, half the barn imploding and the ceiling caving as Mr. King’s Lincoln bursts inside.
One of Boss Tanner’s men has found you . . .
King triggers the machine guns and the stable stalls are torn open by the fire. Dr. Splicer’s mad creatures rush forth, free. Beams splinter and the ceiling crumbles and the walls break.
You drop the pitchfork and charge through the back exit, Iris close behind. Bullets punch through the wall and the door explodes behind you. The entire stable lurches, its final collapse imminent as the Lincoln reverses out.
“Get to the car, Iris!” you shout, pushing her forward.
Together, you race through the tall grass, Splicer’s strange beasts roaring and howling behind you.
“I’ll drive!” Iris calls as you reach the El Camino. “You take care of him!”
Try to take out King with Iris at the wheel? Click here.
You’re Jimmy El Camino and you do the damn driving. Click here.
LONG NIGHT IN GEORGIA
You watch the zombies shuffling about, far off across the highway. You eye the evergreens, beyond the field.
And you look to Iris—the woman who will soon give her life—and you say, “Fine. I’ll stay up, keep watch.”
“You won’t sleep?”
“No.”
“Your choice.”
It’s near four a.m. when the men come.
You’re smoking a cigarette, leaning against the slab covered in Russian words, looking up at the stars. Haven’t seen something like this since you were across the world, in the desert land.
Past five years, looking up at the ceiling of that cell every night, all you saw were constellations of cracked concrete.
