by Max Brallier
AN END
MINDING YOUR OWN DAMN BUSINESS
Walter pulls the trigger—the loud pop of the gun echoes through the door, the glass shatters, and a man screams. Then a woman’s voice: “Fuck, babe! Son of a…”
A pause. Then,
KRAKA KRAKA KRAKA!!!
Bullets rip through the door and into the store. You jump to the side, hands over your head. Walter’s not as lucky. He screams and rolls over in pain.
Outside, the man whimpers.
You look over at Walter. “Where are you hit?”
“My goddamn leg. I’m fine.”
But he’s not. In an instant, blood begins to rush from the thigh wound.
More voices outside. Hushed whispers. The woman again. Then, louder, “Get back, get back, it’s gonna go.”
You and Walter exchange quick “oh shit” glances. Then the entire door frame explodes, sending chunks of metal and wooden shrapnel into the store. A jagged splinter gets you in the gut.
A man and a woman enter. She’s tall with a whole mess of bright red hair. The man is balding, in his early fifties you guess, with a hint of Spanish or Puerto Rican to him. He has his hand on his shoulder, blood pouring through his fingers.
“Watch the door,” the redhead tells the Puerto Rican. She reloads the big-ass pistol in her hand.
Alright, shit’s about to escalate. You stand up, arms raised. “Hey, listen, this is a big misunderstanding.”
Redhead points the gun at you. “Misunderstanding? You just shot my husband.”
“Well actually he shot your husband,” you say, nodding toward Walter.
Walter shoots you a WTF look. “Sorry,” you mouth, and shrug. “You did.”
“Look,” the woman says. “We’re here for supplies. We got kids at home. We’re scared like everyone else. Let us take what we need, we won’t kill you.”
“Who are you giving orders to?” Walter shouts, then rolls over, groaning and clutching his leg.
You’re about to launch into a grand “why can’t we all just get along” speech—but it’s interrupted by the zombies coming through the now nonexistent door. A teen in a red CVS one-hour-photo shirt leads the pack.
Redhead shoots the undead teen in the face, sending it falling back into the others, stalling them for a second.
“Can we all stop arguing and shooting at one another for one fucking second here and worry about those things outside?” you say.
Silence.
“Good.” You grab a hatchet from the wall behind you and stand beside the door. It’s the perfect choke point—they can only make it through two or three at a time. As they enter, you hack at their heads. Each one takes about two or three whacks to kill.
The redhead stands at the center aisle, steadily dropping the ones you miss.
You continue pounding away with the hatchet. Your arm grows tired. At least ten bodies lying on the floor, clogging up the doorway.
The Puerto Rican carries over a huge shelf and leans it against the door frame, completely shutting it off. Phew. You can breathe.
You turn your attention to Walter. He’s bleeding heavily. You grab a painting rag and try to make a tourniquet. It does little.
“I don’t know what I’m doing; do either of you?” you ask.
“Hang on,” the redhead says. She’s examining her husband’s wound. Looks like the bullet just grazed him.
Then she gets down on the floor and rips open Walter’s jeans near the wound. The blood pumps faster. Walter appears to be unconscious. “Give me your shirt,” she says.
You pull your button-down over your head, popping off the top button, and hand it to her.
Then, from around the side of the aisle, one of the beasts latches on to the redhead’s legs.
She shrieks. The Puerto Rican falls back, not sure what to do. You look around for some sort of weapon.
It’s a disgusting mess of a thing. Bullet wounds all over. Huge chunk of its face missing, thanks to your hatchet. But it’s still going. Fucking thing—must not have been as dead as you thought.
BLAM!
Walter. Up on one elbow. Pistol smoking in his hand.
The thing collapses onto the redhead’s leg. She kicks it off. “Th-thanks,” she stutters.
“Anytime,” Walter says, then passes back out.
You look up at the woman. “Maybe we should all go in the back and lock the door, huh?”
You and the Puerto Rican drag Walter into the back room and put him beside a lawn mower. You shut the heavy door and lock it, then the redhead gets to work finishing the tourniquet.
“OK, he should be alright,” she says.
“Good. Can we all be friends now?”
She looks at her husband. He shrugs. She nods. “Friends.”
A few hours later Walter comes to. He’s dazed. Takes him a second to realize where he is. Then, throat dry, barely able to talk, he calls you over. “Kid,” he says, sputtering out the words, “there—on the wall. Take the keys. The yellow Kawasaki has a full tank.”
You look up at the redhead. “You’re not gonna shoot him when I leave, are you?”
She smiles. “No. No, I’m not going to shoot him.”
You pat Walter on the shoulder. “OK. You da man, Walter.”
You turn to leave. “Kid,” Walter says. “Take the gun.”
You smile and nod. Gun in hand, you open the door to the back and silently shut it behind you. The yellow Kawasaki bike glistens in the moonlight. It’s a beauty. Four hundred and fifty cc’s, brand-new.
Only thing—you’ve never driven a dirt bike before. You hop on. Insert the keys. It roars to life. Loud as hell. Christ, have to get out of here quick.
But the sound draws one. Approaching you is the biggest, fattest motherfucking undead beast you’ve ever seen.
Trying to kick-start the bike. “C’mon…”
Shit. No time.
You pull the revolver from your waist, extend your arm, aim, and squeeze. Amateur hour. Your arm flies up. Bullet goes God knows where. This isn’t the movies, you remember, as much as it may feel like it.
The fattie quits with the shuffle and runs toward you. Its body shakes, flab quivering.
You step off the bike. Take a solid stance. Raise the gun. Aim down the barrel.
It’s close. Almost upon you.
You squeeze.
BLAM!!!
You blow its brains out the back of its fat head. Its momentum carries it forward and it hits the ground face-first with an earthshaking thud.
“That’s right, big boy.” You can’t help but raise the gun and blow the smoke like Dirty Harry.
You hop back on the Kawasaki, stick the gun in your belt, and hit the road.
Click here.
COPTER RIDE TO FREEDOM
You stare at the ladder, then look over at the Ardle. He shrugs. You shrug back.
“You first,” you say.
He thinks for a long moment. “No. No, you go. I gotta stay with my plants.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Definitely? This could be your only chance.”
He nods. “Definitely.”
“Alright then—I’ll see you around.”
“You bet.”
You clench fists, give each other tender manhugs, and you begin climbing.
AN END
NEXT CAR, PLEASE
This man needs help. You should call for a doctor—pull the emergency cord—do something. But what you saw on TV was too scary. You try to help this guy, next thing you know he’s eating you. Nope—not for you.
“Sorry, sorry, excuse me, thanks, sorry,” you mumble, working yourself into the corner of the car, nearing the rear door.
Ignoring the RIDING OR MOVING BETWEEN CARS IS PROHIBITED sticker on the metal door, you slide it open. The roar of the subway echoes through the crowded car and the passing track below seems to nip at your feet. You step on the small, shaky walkway and cross. You open the door, catchin
g a man by surprise. You give him a half smile and squeeze inside.
You turn and glance back at the car you just left. You can’t see the man anymore—the car is too crowded. Over the rumble of the train and separated by two heavy doors, you don’t hear a thing. But, minutes later, you see the chaos unfolding. The passengers at the door turn in horror, blood splattered on their faces.
No one in your car notices yet. You back away from the door, work your way to the other end, and cross over to the next car.
You squeeze your way through, gathering dirty looks like a bum begging for change. You get to the rear door. Through it you see only the dark tracks—you’re in the last car.
A station whizzes past. A sign flashes VERNON BLVD. You’re out of Manhattan now, in Queens.
The train continues to barrel along. You fly past Queensboro Plaza—nearing Long Island and the burbs. The train doesn’t slow. Nothing from the conductor. No announcement that the train is swarming with zombies.
The car shakes and rocks. You’ve never been on the subway doing speeds like this. The train bounces on the tracks as you turn down a hill.
You fly past another station—just a blur of people, a flash. In the distance, you can make out the parking lot where Shea Stadium used to stand. Then the new Citi Field.
The train rocks more. Shudders. Goes down a hill and your feet lift off the floor slightly. This isn’t right. Next big turn, this thing’s going off the tracks. You’re going to crash.
You need to secure yourself, somehow. You look around. Panicked looks on everyone’s faces. Fuck it. You push a bunch of people to the side, drop to the floor, and roll underneath a row of seats. You grasp the bar by your head as tight as you can. Press your feet against the rear wall.
You play the waiting game. After a few minutes, you start to think everything might be OK. But then—
CRASH!!!
Everything goes black. You’re flying through the car.
And then it all stops. For one peaceful second, there’s silence as you float in zero gravity. Then screams. The piercing howl of an alarm. Shouting. Another crash.
You’re on your back, on what seconds ago was the ceiling of the train. The car has completely flipped.
People on top of you. All around you. An old woman in a blue shawl lies beside you, not moving.
Everything hurts. You try to stand, but disoriented, you fall. The world spins.
You drag yourself across the car’s former ceiling, clawing your way through the mass of bodies and grimacing like hell as the pain tears through you. You grab the closest metal hand pole and pull. It’s a miserable, painful struggle. But it could be worse, you think, as you pass a man, twisted on his side, face wet with blood and clearly dead.
The large Plexiglas windows that run across the side of the train are broken. Not shattered, like real glass, but bent out of their casing. You pull your way up, squeeze through, and fall out.
You’re lying in a large grass field. A Little League baseball diamond. The train wreckage stretches out behind you, cars smoking. Some cars are still up on the track, flipped; others lie in the field.
Thirty yards away, a grassy hill leads up to the tracks and the street. You read the sign—ROOSEVELT AVENUE. Last stop in Queens. You’re out of the city. You made it.
Then they begin pouring out of the cars. So many you can’t believe it. Hundreds of the monsters.
A few living people, too, make it out. Some run from the things, screaming. Others just stumble out, too disoriented to figure out what’s going on—then they’re pounced upon by the horde.
You scramble on all fours up the hill, hurting everywhere. You steal a glance behind you. Not good. Two of the dead have wandered over your way. They notice you. You switch from a modified crawl to a shaky, off-balance run. Ugly, but effective.
Fuck.
Need to make it up that hill—they’re coming quick.
BLAM! BLAM!
You dive to the ground. A pair of cops stand on top of the hill—one heavyset, the other thinner, younger looking. You put your hands up in the air.
“C’mon!” the young one shouts to you.
You scurry up the grass like a wounded dog, the smoking wreckage of the train behind you. Then you turn, stand between the two cops, and take in the clusterfuck that surrounds you. Half the train is still on the tracks, which run down the street. The other half is down below, in the field. The two beasts that were chasing you are dead, but there are hundreds more behind them.
Then it hits you: Cops—police—authority! You’re saved!
“Guys—officers—we gotta get outta here.”
The heavyset cop stops to reload. Drops his clip to the ground, slides in another. Never looks up at you. “Not until backup arrives.”
“Backup? There’re a thousand fucking, I-don’t-know what, fucking monsters down there—and more inside the train. We have to go!”
“Wait in the car.”
Fine. You’ll take that. You pull the rear handle. Locked.
“It’s locked,” you say.
“Kid, do you see what’s down there—we don’t have time to help you.”
“Vinny, he’s right,” the thinner cop says. “Let’s go. I don’t even know what the fuck I’m shooting at!”
“We’re shooting the goddamn things coming at us!”
“They’re people!”
“Not anymore they ain’t.”
“Do you know how much paperwork we’re going to have to file over this shit?”
That stops the heavyset cop. “Motherfuck, fine, let’s go. This never happened.” He looks at you and you nod.
The thin cop gets in the passenger seat. Heavyset one walks around to the front driver’s-side door. You pull at the handle. “Hey, it’s still locked, you gotta hit the button.”
“Yeah, yeah, one sec—”
Time stands still.
With a thunderous crash, a minivan, two zombies clinging to the front, slams into the rear of the cruiser at near 50 mph. The two zombies on the hood are launched through the air, then hit the pavement twenty yards out.
The cruiser flies forward. The heavyset cop, halfway inside the car when it was hit, is pulled underneath. He gets caught in the rear wheel and dragged. Eventually, the cruiser rolls to a slow stop, just as its bumper hits the zombies. They don’t move. Nobody moves. You see the other cop now, his limbs splayed at odd angles.
The driver of the minivan, a middle-aged woman, is thrown against the airbag. You rush to help her. Then you hear their moans behind you. You spin. A half dozen, lumbering up the hill. The mass feast continues behind them.
Fuck—need to split—now.
If you want to take shelter in the nearest building, an elementary school, click here.
Take off up the street, hoping to put as much distance between you and these things as you can? Click here.
HAMMER’S TIME
You have to kill him before he turns into a zombie. You have to. Don’t want to. Definitely don’t want to. But if you don’t—he’s going to turn, and then he’s going to turn you.
Slowly, you go for your knife. Feel your way along your belt. You find the handle. Gently release it. Pull it out.
You turn to Hammer. He’s looking right at you.
“Not smart, friend.”
In a split second he’s up. He grabs you by the throat and rips you to your feet.
“You’re bit,” you choke out. “We have to get you help.”
“Don’t want no help.”
He lifts you off your feet. “Wha—”
“You’re about to have a very bad accident, friend.”
“No, no!”
It all happens in slow motion. He lifts you higher. His massive arms flex. He throws you. Into the air. Over the side. Spinning. Down past the massive tablet in her left hand. You see her sandals, green and worn. Then the concrete closes in.
AN END
KILLING TIME
In dead heroin junkie Louis’s room, you sl
eep. No AC—the heat is unbearable. You toss and turn throughout the night. Death chases you through your dreams.
Downstairs, the Angels continue to party. Drink. How do they keep going like this? Every once in a while one will come in, reeking of booze, and mess with you. You tell them to go to hell.
The Angels continue to do what the government asks. You don’t go—you’ve done your part.
Then one day Jones comes in, kicks the bed. “Get up.”
You wipe at your eyes. Sit up. “Why?”
“Man’s here.”
You climb out of the bed, still disoriented. Look around for your shirt.
“Wear something of Lou’s.”
“Huh?”
“It’s alright—here,” Jones says, tossing you a T-shirt from Lou’s dresser. Reluctantly, you put it on and follow Jones out the door.
The Colonel is sitting in Jones’s room, on the bed, not looking happy about being there.
“Gentlemen,” he says.
You take a seat.
“Last one.”
“No shit,” Jones says.
“That’s right. How’s it felt, serving your country?”
“Fuckin’ lovely. What’s the job?”
“Empire State Building. Clear it out. When you get to the top, pop this,” he says, handing Jones a flare. “We see that red smoke, we know you’ve done your job.”
“The file,” Jones says. “Give me the file.”
“When you complete the job.”
Jones stares him down. “If you fuck me…”
“Don’t worry—you’ve done good. You’ll get your reward.”
You go back to Louis’s room. Suit up. Borrow a pair of heavy black jeans. Black boots. Leather coat.
Click here.
MORNING STAR ACTION
In one motion, you drop the rifle, dive for the morning star, leap back onto your feet, whip it around your head once, and snap your arm out.
The spiked ball barrels through the three monsters. Rips the first one’s head apart, carries through, shatters the second one’s face, and then finishes by nearly ripping off the cabdriver’s head. They all collapse.
Screams up ahead to your right. You reel. Chucky drops two of the things with a shotgun blast. Phew. It looks like your group is safe, but time is running out. Two more come at Chucky from the side—he spins with the halberd, taking off the first one’s head, then jamming the sword end through the head of the second one. He pulls it out, leaving a massive, gory vertical hole in the thing’s face.
