Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?

by Max Brallier

  “Nothing wrong with that,” you say.

  She frowns from behind her cup of soda.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “It’s OK. Things don’t always turn out the way we plan, huh?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “But you’re in New York City right? I saw on Facebook. That’s exciting! I’ve never been.”

  “Yeah, it’s OK, I guess—my rent is like, just, absurd.”

  “I still live with my parents, so…”

  “True.”

  You finish your meal in silence, then get the generator from the garage and get some power going. Together you go through the house. Looking for food, things that you can use. You watch old movies she’s never seen before. Play the same old Nintendo games you used to play when you were kids. With the specter of death hanging over you, you grow close quick.

  You’re outside playing Ping-Pong when Kim suggests you go for a swim in your parents’ pool. Um… yeah, only been waiting near twenty years to hear those words. You get to work skimming the pool.

  Kim steps out of the house in just her underwear.

  “I hope this is OK,” she says. “My bathing suit is all the way across the street.”

  Ohmygodohmygodohohhgohgdoghdoghodhgd…

  You try to get the words out. But all you can do is stare. She’s stunning.

  You stutter. “Sure, sure, that’s fine, of course.”

  That night you make love on your back lawn. Then you lie on your backs, looking at the stars. It’s like a movie. Nothing could be more perfect. Once again, you thank the Lord for the zombie apocalypse.

  You wake up with Kim’s head on your chest. A little puddle of drool has formed below her mouth. It’s cute. Imperfect. Human.

  You’re in love.

  You give her a nudge and a kiss on the forehead.

  “Good morning.”

  She looks up at you with her big doe eyes. “Good morning, you.”

  You. She just called you you.

  “I’m going to go try to find some stuff for breakfast,” you say, stretching. You stand and start getting dressed.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I’ll be back in a few,” you say. “Who knows how long we’ll be here, and we’re low on food.”

  “And toilet paper,” she says.

  Wow. Just conjured up an image of her taking a dump. And it didn’t gross you out. This truly is love.

  “And toilet paper,” you say. “I’ll be back. Lock the door behind me. Keep all the gates locked.”

  “I will.”

  You take the pistol. Three bullets left.

  Click here.

  PLACING YOUR TRUST IN THE ARMY

  The hazmat guy leads you into the military trailer. Inside, machines buzz and hum. Men work, some at computers, others with test tubes. Along the wall are four see-through Plexiglas cells like you’d find in a modern prison. Three of the four cells contain one civilian each: a child in the first, a young, normal-looking guy with a shaggy beard in the second, and an elderly black woman in the third.

  The last cell is empty.

  You’re starting to regret your decision.

  They lead you to the fourth cell. The hazmat guy types a code into a keypad on the wall, the door opens, and he shoves you inside.

  In the cell next to you is the elderly black woman. You try to get her attention, but she’s too busy sobbing.

  After the first hour or two in the cell, you begin to bang on the glass, trying to get some attention. Nobody notices—soundproof, you guess. At one point, one of them sees you. He taps another guy on the shoulder, they chat for a second while staring at you, then go back to work.

  After what feels like six or seven hours, the trailer begins to move. You travel for hours on end—a day or two, maybe.

  Every time the trailer brakes, you slide into the wall. Then they pick up speed again and you go sliding back. Hit your head hard at one point. Bad headache. The headache is followed by hunger. And then the thirst—nothing compares to that. You need liquid. Water, beer, milk, piss—anything! You’ve lost all track of time—can only think about getting something wet down your throat. You wipe sweat from your brow then lick your hand. Lap your tongue around your chapped lips. Anything.

  Then, finally, when you don’t think you can take any more, the trailer stops—for good this time.

  You’re dragged out of the cell. Nobody speaks, and you’re too exhausted and dehydrated to complain or ask questions. You’re pushed out into a large industrial park. The sunlight stings your eyes. They bring you inside a building that, on the outside, looks a lot like a regular, civilian hospital.

  The next month is hell. You’re locked in a dark hospital room. They run all sorts of tests on you. Needles in your arms. Little suction cup things on your face and chest.

  Then, one day, they pull you out of the locked room. A military man throws you your clothes and tells you you’re free to go.

  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.

  AN END

  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, an
d 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?”

  Limpy smiles. “Hell no.”

  “OK,” Jones says, “I’ll take the odds. Limpy thinks you die. I say you surprise us and live. You live, you got a place to stay. You die, you die. You understand?”

  You swallow. “I understand.”

  “So, what’s it gonna be, kid?”

  Hell no! You’re not dying in the middle of an intersection just because some biker asked you to! If you want to turn and leave, click here.

  At this point, you’ve got nothing to lose, right? Click here.

  THROUGH THE GLASS PAINFULLY

  You turn, grab the chair next to you, and give the huge glass window two hard whacks. It cracks.

  Tommy’s coming for you. No time to finish clearing out the glass.

  You leap.

  The glass that overlooks the Garden shatters as you fall through. It’s not like the movies where Bruce Willis just jumps through and keeps moving. The window explodes into a thousand tiny glass razor blades.

  Blood pours over your eyes—so much that you can’t see. You take one step and fall—your calf muscle is sliced to shit. You try to catch yourself, but spin awkwardly around the back of a chair and tumble down the stairs. It’s a long way down—and there’s nothing there to stop you. You try to grab hold of something, anything—but gravity’s winning.

  Your head smashes against a heavy cement step, and everything goes black.

  You come to, sprawled out on the court. A gigantic zombie looms over you. Through the death mask, you recognize him. Starting center for the New York Knicks.

  He leans down, rips you to your feet with his monstrous hands. Takes a chunk out of your shoulder, then lets go. You drop back onto the court.

  Jesus. Five of them approach. The Knicks’ starting roster. Standing over you. Ready for dinner…

  AN END

  THE BAR IT IS

  Praying for good news, you forget the cab and head for the bar. Almost on cue, the crowd thins. People pour through the doorway, poking at their phones. Good sign or bad, you don’t know.