by Max Brallier
Click here.
GUNNING FOR TOMMY
He charges, closing in, fast.
You jump to the side, just in time. His hand swipes at your chest, but gets nothing. As he passes, you grab hold of the strap keeping the tommy gun around his shoulder and tug. It pulls him back toward you. You pull again, hard as you can, and the strap breaks.
He waves his arms around wildly. You kick him in the side, pushing him back.
Then you unload.
Bullets riddle his body and shatter the glass. Punch through his chest and send him back, through the window. He disappears over the side.
Christ. You stop. Breathe. Your hands are shaking. Your whole body shudders.
A noise at the door. Without thinking, you spin and squeeze the trigger.
It’s Joe Camel. He collapses into the door frame, panting, holding his gut, then falls to the floor.
“Fuck!”
You run over.
“Came to help,” he gets out. “Just came to.…” He fades away. You killed him.
You help the woman up. She can barely stand. You try to get her attention, but she doesn’t speak. You usher her into the sidecar, toss the crowbar in her lap, and drive the roaring bike out into the hall.
Moaning. Loud. Fuck. Dozens of them. Must have followed Joe Camel up. Sonofabitch.
You hit it. Cruise back down the hall. They give chase, keeping pace. At the end of the long hall is a service elevator. Big metal thing.
You point the tommy gun forward while trying to keep the bike on a straight path with your left hand.
You glance in the side mirror. They’re coming fast. No time to slow down.
Bike bouncing, arm shaking, you aim for the buttons beside the elevator. You fire.
Bullets punch the wall. Sparks fly. The elevator door opens.
Nice work.
You release the throttle and slide into the elevator. Reach out and hit the bottom button, wherever that goes. It doesn’t light up. You hit it again and again until the light goes on. Phew.
Your relief is short-lived. The door doesn’t close.
Come on, damn it. You slam the DOOR CLOSE button with your thumb and hold it, then press it what seems like a hundred more times. You break into a cold sweat as you realize you may have broken the elevator by shooting at it. What were you thinking?
The beasts stampede toward you.
Shit. Close, door. Fucking close! You’re freaking out.
They’re coming fast.
Close!
The door shuts. There’s a loud thud as they slam into it.
Phew…
The elevator starts going down.
It opens to a dark hall. Slowly, you ride out. You don’t recognize anything. This isn’t the way you came.
You take a right. And there, right in front of you, is the main floor of the Garden.
Directly across from you, the exit. But in between you and that exit—an entire basketball court full of the undead.
“Hey, lady—wake up,” you say, pushing at her. “I need your help.” Nothing. She’s useless.
You eye the crowded court. No way you’re making it across there. Wait—the RPG. The huge JumboTron that hangs over the arena. Bring that down, it’ll clear you a path. Maybe. Hopefully. Hey, best chance you’ve got. You climb off the bike and assemble the small RPG. Look it over. Hold it over your shoulder and pull the trigger, right? Simple enough…
Then a moan. A roar, almost. You stare at the court. From around the tunnel exit comes Tommy. He leans against the wall. Blood-spattered—but not bleeding.
There are thousands of the beasts out there. You pull the trigger and miss, there’s going to be a thousand of them on top of you.
You need to concentrate—must get Tommy out of the way first. You pull out the crowbar. Hold it, one hand at the top, one at the bottom. Sharp edge up.
Tommy growls.
You spit on the floor.
He runs at you. You run at him. Two trains, ready to collide. Just as you smash together, you swing up, blindly. Then, as you hit the ground, you feel the crowbar pierce something solid and wet. Your head smacks the floor. Head pounding, you look over. Tommy is sprawled out, blood pooling beneath him. The crowbar is sticking up through his chin, the sharp end peeking out the top of his head.
Slowly, you rise to your feet. Look at Tommy’s dead body. Almost want to say sorry.
No time. Back to reality.
You pick the RPG up off the floor and walk to the edge of the tunnel. Any farther, they’ll see you. You get on one knee and aim it at the massive video scoreboard that hangs from the rafters.
You pull the trigger. A burst of heat around your head.
Wooomph—Boom!!!
The explosion rocks the building. Blows out the side of the JumboTron. Sparks rain down upon the arena.
For a second, it doesn’t seem like it’s going to fall. Then the huge thing shifts. Hangs to the side. And breaks off.
It crashes down onto the center of the Madison Square Garden floor. It crushes a whole mess of them. Others are thrown out across the court. A fire erupts.
You toss aside the smoking RPG case, hop on the bike, and hit the throttle. Out through the tunnel, onto the court, through the mess of them. Down the hall and through the concourse, past your handiwork.
Next to the door, two zombies are burning. You ride between them and down the steps. Across Seventh Avenue. Then as soon as you find a quiet spot, you stop.
You pull the key from the ignition and rest your head in your arms on the handlebars. You enjoy the silence. The peace.
And then a moan.
Christ. The woman. She’s been bit!
You reel, crowbar high in the air, Tommy’s gore still dripping off it. You’re ready to bring it crashing down on her skull.
She moans again. Then her head flops toward you. She murmurs softly and her eyes flicker. She’s peacefully asleep.
You catch your breath. Close call.
You turn the keys and make your way back to the club, wanting nothing more than a dozen ice-cold beers and maybe a good movie…
Click here.
EIGHT-BIT ACTION
You and the kid race down the Nintendo aisle.
Three of them come around the corner toward you. A ragtag group of undead geeks. A kid done up as Tintin, his trench coat torn and covered in blood, but his cowlick still perfect. A middle-aged Woody from Toy Story, legs gone, clawing his way down the aisle. One of the dozens of Lara Crofts at the show—this one actually gorgeous, or was moments ago. Now the thing is horrifying. Her iconic green T-shirt ripped open, one breast exposed, the flesh torn.
You spin. Fuck. The other end of the aisle is blocked. A big-nosed guy in a Kid Icarus costume, feathered wings dripping blood. Horrific, undead versions of Mario and Luigi. A woman in a cheap Samus Aran costume, helmet ripped off, half her face gone.
They all come at you.
You run into the Nintendo booth, putting the row of tables between you and them. Laid out is a display of all the company’s game consoles, past and present. You raise a Super NES and throw it at Tintin’s head. The plastic cracks and the thing stumbles back. Beside you, the kid chucks old NES cartridges at the approaching horde.
You whip a GameCube controller around by the cord, smacking the five things in the head like a bad Three Stooges sketch.
Then a guy done up as some bizarre-looking alien pushes forward.
You reach down, grab an original NES, and bring it flying up into its chin. Up again, cracking its jaw. Then you bring the console crashing down on top of its head, nearly shattering it. It swipes at you, but you slam the Nintendo down again, slamming the creature’s face into the table.
You whip it across his face—left, and he spits blood, back right, and his nose shatters, left again, and his eyeball pops loose, then right again, and a dozen bloody teeth go flying.
You’ll give yourself a B for originality, dazing him with a Nintendo, and an A for execution.
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You look again at the stuff below, select the old Zapper, and start jamming it into the empty eye socket. It pushes through, and he drops dead.
That’s when you realize you just killed a zombie with the Contra code…
But, fuck—no time for jokes. You step back—feel the booth wall against your back. Nowhere to go.
Suddenly the kid falls to the floor, screaming. Legless Woody has him by his Keds. It pulls him underneath the table.
Shit. Barrier be damned.
You grab the table and lift it up, tossing it back against the monsters. It lands on legless Woody. The kid is freed.
But you’re both trapped. You look around. Weigh your options. Have none.
Your old man always told you—do the right thing. Just do the right thing in life, and everything will work out.
You breathe deeply.
“Alright, kid—up,” you say. “Run, don’t stop, find the exit, and then keep running toward the river.” The kid steps into your interlaced fingers and climbs the booth wall.
You feel a hand on your shoulder. One of the monsters.
You stay put, raising the kid up until he reaches the top of the wall.
Another hand on you. Rips you back. The kid hangs on the wall, halfway over. He looks at you with wide, horrified eyes.
“Go!”
You’re pulled to the ground, monsters all around you. The last thing you see is the boy’s foot kicking as he disappears over the side of the booth.
AN END
EARNING YOUR WINGS
The Hells Angels clubhouse is on the Lower East Side. They’ve fenced off both ends of the street—before everything went to hell, they owned the block in a sense of the word, but now they own it quite literally.
It’s a brick building—five stories like every other building on the block. No windows on the first floor. One big, black metal door with a yellow and red devil spray-painted on it. Cameras everywhere—you count six, and that’s without even looking for them.
You follow Jones. He knocks hard on the door three times, waits a moment, then knocks once more. Then he unlocks the door. You go through two more doors—security’s clearly high on their list of priorities—and then you enter.
The Hells Angels clubhouse is basically the greatest frat house anybody ever saw. Full bar along the side. Two flat-screen TVs hanging above. Plush leather chairs. Waist-high ashtrays. Walls completely covered with photos of the Angels.
An open entryway leads to a second room in the back with a pool table, long leather couches, and another flat screen. Above the entry way is a crest—“When we do right, nobody remembers. When we do wrong, nobody forgets.”
And then you realize the TV is on. Three Stooges in HD—a Shemp episode. And a stereo is playing the Allman Brothers. And there are lights.
“Wait—you guys got power?” you ask, shocked. “Generator,” Limpy says.
You nod. A smile creeps across your face as you continue to take it all in. You made the right decision.
“Good run, boys,” Jones says.
“Who’s the kid?” asks a guy behind the bar.
“Whiskey, meet the kid. Kid, Whiskey.”
“Fuck’s he doin’ here?”
“Limpy bet him he couldn’t last five minutes on the street. He did.”
“That right?”
“That’s right,” you say proudly.
The Angels celebrate—drink hard, drug hard. You do your best to keep up.
Jones introduces you around. Most of the guys are friendly enough. Jones is chapter president, he explains. But really, no one guy counts more than the next guy.
“You all live here?” you ask.
“Now we do. Thirty of us here, if I had to guess. Rooms are upstairs. Tight quarters these days. Before, just a few of us lived here. Others would come and go. Shit—Bob over there’s a lawyer—got a nice apartment uptown.”
Bob raises his glass. You return the gesture.
“But now we’re all sticking together.”
After meeting everyone, you take a seat at the bar. Watch the Stooges and bullshit with Whiskey. Before the zombie apocalypse, he owned a moving company. “Had six trucks and twenty guys on the payroll,” he explains, proudly.
You get a few beers in you and ask Jones to show you how to do the two-finger whistle. He spends twenty minutes trying, but you fail miserably. Then Tommy shows you how to pack a lip—you stuff your mouth full of Kodiak tobacco, take a swig of beer, then promptly puke on the hardwood floor. Apologetically, you clean it up. They laugh plenty, but don’t seem to care much. More drinks. You party into the early morning.
Finally, a skinny drunk named Louis tells you you’ll be bunking with him, and you stagger up the stairs behind him.
His room is a toilet. Shit everywhere—old issues of Barely Legal, Pabst Blue Ribbon cans, cigarette butts stamped out on the carpeted floor.
He collapses onto the bed, then reaches for a drawer. Pulls out a cigar box.
“You want?” he says, his words slurred.
“What is it?”
“Junk.”
“Huh?”
“Junk. Smack. Scat. Fuckin’ heroin.”
“Oh…”
Want to play Trainspotting and do a bunch of heroin with Louis? Click here.
Say no, roll over, and pass out on the floor? Click here.
PENCIL PUSHER
The she-beast lunges over the side of the wall and hits the ground. Its tiny fingers, surprisingly strong, get a hold of your leg and the thing tries to chomp down. You struggle to shake it off, but it digs its fingers into your clothes for grip. You fall back, hitting the ground, hard, and it begins crawling up your body.
You grab the she-beast’s exposed breast, squeezing it, getting a grip, and then you toss her against the wall. You scramble to your feet.
You look around, frantic, and grab the first thing you see.
A pencil.
In a split second, it’s up on its feet.
You lunge forward, stabbing the pencil down and aiming for the eye. But you miss. The pencil pierces its cheek, snaps in two, and you fall right into the thing, exposed. The bitch sinks its teeth into your neck.
You scream. Swing wildly with the broken pencil. You connect with the thing’s ear. You jam it in again—feel the wood pierce the eardrum. Blood pours through your fingers and down your wrist.
Twice more through the eardrum, then into the brain and the bitch collapses in a bloody, naked heap. But the damage is done. Your throat is torn open. Blood pours out onto the dirty, sticky floor. This is where you’re going to die—in a fucking strip club DJ booth.
You open your mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. Your head goes light. Legs weak. You go for the counter, bracing yourself.
Then you get a rush. For an instant, you can feel the blood pumping through your body—you are intently aware of every microscopic cell flowing through each of your hundred thousand veins.
Then it’s gone. Everything. Mind goes blank. The pain subsides. Your conscious mind begins to fade.
Woman. She fights.
Legs. Moving. Propelled forward.
Woman.
Object in way. Past it. over. On floor. Stand up.
Woman.
Pretty woman. Fleshy.
Wet. Wet on floor. Body. Dead. Dead meat. Good meat? Bad meat. Carrion. Useless.
Woman.
Fresh meat…
Legs faster. One. Two. One. Two. Pulling forward. To woman.
In front of you. Woman. Shiny thing.
Woman. Speaks. Awwwwww kiiiiiiddddd ayyymmmmmmm sorrrrrryyyyy…
Shiny thing.
Legs faster. Woman moves. Stop woman. Stop.
Shiny thing in hand.
Uh-oh. Woman moves fast.
Shiny thing flashes. Coming at face. In eyes. Through head. Skull. Brain…
…..
AN END
PASS ON GRASS
You do enjoy the occasional hit off a nicely rolled Du
tch or Philly (no wraps please)—but the timing ain’t so good. Too, too weird. “Ah, no thanks, I’m good. You’re getting high right now?”
“How the fuck else you think I make it through a twelve-hour shift?”
“What time is it?”
Chucky takes a huge hit and bursts into a coughing fit. He waves at the car’s dashboard clock, trying to catch his breath. 6:17 PM.
“Jesus. I was asleep for like six hours.”
You scratch at your eye. You’ve got a mean contact high—your brain buzzes. Bass ripples through your seat and you realize music is playing. Some hip-hop that you don’t recognize.
“You had a big morning, little buddy,” Chucky says.
“Yeah,” you say, replaying it in your head. “What’ve you been doing this whole time?”
He shrugs and holds up the blunt.
You sit up and look through the car window toward the gate. Very little light makes it down the tunnel, making it hard to see exactly what’s out there. Looks to be about thirty of the monsters at the gate. Some lean against it awkwardly. Others bang at it. Others just wander around the small tunnel.
There’s a Gatorade bottle between the two of you. You smell vodka. Chucky puts his massive hand around the neck and shakes it around like a joystick.
“Any other way out of this place?” you ask.
“Nope. Just the gate. This is a privately owned garage—has nothing to do with the building above us, so there’s no access.”
“There a phone?”
“In the office. But it’s out. No cell service down here, neither.”
The office lights flicker.
“What happens if we lose power down here?”
Chucky shrugs.
You sit silently for a moment, thinking. “You think maybe that gate’ll open up on its own—like some sort of failsafe so that if the power goes out no one gets trapped inside?”
Chucky leans forward, looking ultraserious. “I don’t know. But that does make sense.”
The office lights flicker again, then go dark. There’s a loud “shutting down” noise—reminds you of Obi-Wan pulling the tractor beam switches on the Death Star.
