by Max Brallier
“Fuck!”
You look around for something, anything. Find a copy of Rolling Stone and start whacking the thing on the head. Doesn’t do a whole lot—big surprise.
Fuck. Thing is almost over the wall.
Goddamn it. Death is upon you. Another moment and you’re dead. Frantic, you look around for anything you could use as a weapon.
Go for the turntables? Click here.
Stab her with a nearby pencil? Click here.
Try to zap her with the turntable power cord? Click here.
RIDING SHOTGUN
“Get behind the wheel,” you say, adrenaline pumping through you. “And toss me the gun.”
You catch the shotgun and hop into the bed of the truck. Chucky heads for the truck door. You haven’t shot a gun in ten years—not since you were a kid at summer camp, firing .22s at paper targets of bunnies. And nothing like this—this thing is massive.
You tap on the glass partition. “Ammo?”
Chucky slides the window open and hands you two shells, plus a small cardboard box, about the size of two cassette tapes. Inside are twelve more shells.
You examine the gun. It’s about eight pounds, you guess, and close to four feet long. REMINGTON 870 engraved along the side in tiny letters. The stock and pump are a dark, fake wood. The barrel and body are tinted blue.
Now, to load it. How the hell does this work? After a little investigating, you find a loading slot on the bottom. There are two shells in there now. You fill it to the top—eight shells total.
OK—eight in the gun and eight left. Sixteen shots. Make ’em count.
Slowly, you get to your knees, rest the shotgun on the floor beside you, and watch the gate. Try to mentally prepare yourself.
There’s a loud snap as the bike lock breaks and the gate begins to rise. You can barely make out the figures in the moonlight. There are at least thirty—maybe more. Hard to tell. A zombie child stumbles in as the gate passes over his head. More follow as the gate gets higher.
“How many do you see?” you whisper through the sliding glass window.
“Can’t tell,” he says. “But we’re about to find out.”
You swallow. Sweat drips from your forehead onto the roof. You lay the shotgun on the roof and stare down the length of it.
Chucky works the gears—there’s a loud grinding noise and the plow lowers.
“Ready?” Chucky asks.
You breathe. Slow and steady. “As I’ll ever be.”
Chucky hits the headlights, flooding the dark garage with blinding fluorescent light.
Oh. Shit.
A hundred of them, at least. A whole battalion of the things.
You think about your shotgun. Sixteen shots? That’s it?!
The truck jerks forward, knocking you off your knees and onto your back. You scramble back up and retake your position, setting your knees wider apart for better balance.
The truck heads into the first wave. You fire a shot over the roof of the truck. The load of buck does little but slow down a few of them.
OK. That doesn’t work. Lesson learned. Close range only. The beasts are swept up, knocked to the side, and run over. They stumble past, wounded.
One grabs hold of the rear of the truck. You drop down on your back and slide across the truck bed. You kick the tailgate—the force breaking the thing’s grip and knocking it off.
The truck is slowing, allowing the beasts to gather around the bed. Sick, dead hands reach for you from all sides.
“Let’s go!” you shout. “What’s the fucking holdup?”
“There’s too many!”
“Give it some fucking gas!”
Suddenly you feel a tug at your leg. One of the things has a hold of you and he’s climbing the side.
Steady and slow, you raise the Remington, aim, and squeeze. The thing’s head explodes in a thousand pieces, a cloud of red mist filling the air. His hand drops from your pant leg and he disappears over the side.
OK. First kill. You did it.
You shot one. Way to go, big guy. You pump the Remington, ready for the next zombie that wants some.
The truck shutters, shakes, and rocks—tires spinning on the pile of bodies. The rear tires rotate, kicking up bits of gore.
They claw at you from all sides. One comes up over the back—a large Mexican woman in a bright red top. Barely aiming, you point and squeeze. The blast kicks the thing in the chest like a mule, launching it off the back of the truck.
“What’s going on up there?” you yell.
“I’m trying!”
Suddenly you’re flung against the truck window as it roars in reverse. The tires crunch. Chucky reverses it thirty feet, putting a little distance between you and the things. Then he drops it back into drive and floors it. You’re tossed onto your back and the shotgun slides across the truck bed.
Chucky’s plan works. You have some speed on your side, and you move through the rows of the dead. As you exit, you catch a glimpse of a WARNING: DO NOT BACK UP! SEVERE TIRE DAMAGE sign. Yeah… no shit, don’t back up.
The plow does its job. It’s slow going on the ramp, but the truck makes it up and out onto the street, leaving a hundred wounded beasts writhing in its wake.
Chucky cuts a hard left, nearly sending you over the side. You regain your balance and decide you’re probably best off sitting down.
The main avenue is a disaster zone, like a tornado came through. Cars smoke. Storefronts burn. Bodies are scattered. Ghouls stumble around.
No police. No military. Any guilt you felt about lying on your W-4 last year vanishes.
“The bridge!” you shout, pointing.
Chucky steers that way, toward the avenue. Abandoned cars crowd the way. The plow knocks aside an overturned motorcycle. Chucky plays Frogger with the truck, squeezing it wherever it can fit as you zigzag across the avenue.
You get to the base of the bridge. The top level is jammed with cars, none moving. The bottom level is worse—zombies everywhere.
Chucky brings the truck to a stop. Turns back and looks at you.
“It’s too crowded. Can’t make it across on this. I’d say hoof it, but that doesn’t look too smart, either.”
You look at the scattered, shuffling dead things on the bridge. You agree.
“Well, we need to get off the island somehow.”
“OK—we’ll go north—to the Bronx,” Chucky says. “If we can’t get across the bridge—fuck it, we swim.”
One of the things gets too close. A child. You kneel, aim, and fire—its chest explodes. “OK, the Bronx it is,” you say, dropping in two more shells. “Hit it.”
Click here.
RIO BRAVO
You literally have to tell your feet: move. You bark at them like an insane drill sergeant.
Move!
Move, goddamn it!
And, unbelievably, they do.
Anthony has his shoulder against the door and his foot wedged against the bar for leverage. “That bar stool there—give it to me,” he says.
The door bucks again and he’s almost thrown back. You grab the stool and try to wedge it up underneath the handle. The door is kicking, making it damn near impossible.
“C’mon, goddamn it!” he barks.
Finally, the door holds still long enough for you to squeeze the seat up beneath the door handle.
“Good, now move the pool table from the back; get it up here,” Anthony says.
Feeling useful now, empowered, you jog to the back of the bar. Everyone gets out of your way. You go back to the second section of the bar and into a small gaming area. Darts. Big Buck Hunter. Two pool tables. You tug at the table. Way too heavy. You walk back out into the bar. “Hey! Someone help me here.”
No one moves. Anthony speaks up. “You, get over there and help the kid. Now.” He’s talking to Wall Street.
Wall Street glares. Anthony glares back, harder. Wall Street removes his suit jacket, hangs it gently over his bar stool, and grudgingly does as he’s to
ld. Together you struggle to move the table. Four others come to help. Thankfully, it’s a fairly cheap table. Ten sweat-soaked minutes later, you have it, lengthwise, against the door.
You step back, satisfied. No way that door’s getting open now.
You take a seat at the bar and catch your breath. Wall Street continues to buy rounds, beer now, and you continue to drink them down. So does everyone else. The jukebox plays on. Time passes.
Two drunks get in a fight, arguing over the day’s events. The little one shoves the big one. Anthony steps in, breaks it up. Minutes later, they get in another fight—this time about the Jets. Anthony steps in again, tells them the next person that causes a problem is getting fed to the wolves. That stops them.
The pricks on TV say sit tight, everything will be OK. There are no more shots of gore and violence. Then they stop showing the city altogether. Can’t be a good sign.
You finish what must be your sixth or seventh beer. Anthony and the pretty bartender, Rachel, sit by the bar’s large front window, peering through the neon beer-sign covered glass. Heavy metal bars crisscross the window, keeping you safe. You walk over.
Even in the midst of this nightmare you can’t help but notice she has a rear end like a perfectly inflated basketball.
“What do you see?” you ask.
They both look at you, silent for a moment. Then Anthony says, “Those things.”
“Can I get a look?”
He shrugs and steps back and you squeeze in next to Rachel. She smells like cherry Fun Dip and tequila. Yum. You give her an awkward smile, then press your face to the glass.
The mini-erection that the bartender had given you shrivels up like a worm on a hot sidewalk. Through the neon-tinted glass, you take in a scene that reminds you of Dante’s inferno (the SparkNotes version you read in college). Cars burn. Monsters feast on bodies. You can see clearly into a bank across the street—someone’s looking out, right at you, scared shitless. Just like you.
The song on the jukebox fades. Without the music to drown everything out, the horror is amplified.
You hear the screams of a woman. You press your face against the glass and look to the right, down the street. She lies on her back, three of the things devouring her. She’s still alive, screaming, as two dig at her open chest and her guts spill out across the cement. The third beast, a homeless man, claws and bites at her legs. Her dress blows in the wind.
Rachel looks away. She walks to the tip jar behind the bar, pours out a handful of quarters, and goes to the jukebox. A minute later, the music mercifully returns. Jimmy Page’s heavy guitar drowns out the screams of the horror outside.
Anthony steps behind the counter and pours two drinks. You take one.
“Whole Lotta Love” ends. You can hear the jukebox working, grabbing for a new CD. Then you hear something else. A thump. Another thump. Then moaning.
You spin. The back door. Fuck.
Anthony hears it, too. He rushes around the bar, grabs you, and says “C’mon.”
You walk through the bar, into the second room, and to the door. The moaning is loud. Shadows beneath the doorway.
“On the other side of this door is a hallway and at the end of that is the door to the alley—where we bring the kegs and shit in,” Anthony says.
You nod and run your hand over the door. The door is hollow, the wood thin. You could probably put a fist through it.
“We have to kill them,” you say. “We don’t know how strong those things are. Could be strong enough to break right through. We don’t want to wait around to find out.”
You take a look back at the bar. Bunch of drunken bums. Wall Street’s passed out at the counter. Rachel plays with her keys. Useless, all of them.
“And I think it’s just you and me,” you say.
Anthony nods, then walks past the pool tables and through a door that says EMPLOYEES ONLY. He returns a second later carrying a power drill.
“You’re going to kill all of them with that?” you ask.
“No. But I’m not running in there blind.”
He turns the drill on. The roar of it startles you. He brushes you aside and presses the drill against the door. In a second, he’s drilled a small hole at eye level. He peers through.
“What do you see?” you ask.
“Not much. Hit that light switch.”
You hit the switch behind you. The bar lights go out. Rachel screams.
“Other one.”
“My bad.” You turn the bar lights back on and hit the switch next to it.
Anthony keeps his eye to the door for a good twenty seconds, then pulls away.
You give him a questioning look.
“See for yourself,” he says.
Slowly, scared out of your mind, you press your eye to the hole.
Zombies. Lots of them. The rear door is open to the street. No action back there, though—none seem to be coming or going. You count—there are eleven of the things, milling around. The hallway is narrow. That’s the one thing that works in your favor. The beasts won’t be able get to you all at once. It will allow you to deal with them one and two at a time.
You pull your eye away.
“Follow me,” Anthony says. The two of you walk to the employees-only room. It’s a small office. A tiny green couch left over from the ’80s. Lots of metal cabinets. Two lockers in the corner. A desk, papers scattered about, along with the various other junk that accumulates in a dive bar.
“We don’t have no secret armory full of Uzis, AKs, and rocket launchers that’s gonna help us. This is what we got.”
“I don’t see much.”
“That’s ’cause we don’t got much. First, this.” He lays the drill down on the desk.
“And this.” He pulls the hammer from his belt and lays it on the desk. It’s the hammer he killed the zombie with earlier. Small bits of flesh and hair still stick to the head—a piece of skin on the nail claw.
He walks out of the room, returns a moment later. Lays a pool cue down on the table. It rolls to the side, hits the hammer. “And this.”
He messes with the padlock on one of the lockers. Pulls out a large, cherry red fire ax.
“I’ll take that—”
“Nope, this one’s mine,” he says, laying it on the table.
“What? You’re three times the size of me. Plus, you’re good with the hammer. You already killed one with it. I can’t even hang up a fucking poster in my apartment and I got two hammers.”
He thinks for a second. “We’ll see.”
You look at the items scattered on the table. “Is that it?” you ask finally.
“’Fraid so.”
You think for a second. “Hang on.”
You grab the ax, leave the office, and walk across a small dance floor area and into the game room.
Two bright orange plastic shotguns rest in slots on the Big Buck Hunter arcade machine, locked on with heavy plastic ties. You raise the ax and bring it crashing down, severing the tie. You pull the toy gun out of its holster.
From the office doorway, Anthony nearly doubles over laughing. “Fuck you gonna do with a toy gun?”
You shrug. “I dunno—maybe it’ll scare them. They think it’s real or something. You know, learned traits. Memory. That shit.”
He laughs. “OK, your funeral. So what do you want? Think carefully, kid. This could be the last decision you ever make.”
Take the pool cue and the Big Buck Hunter shotgun? Click here.
Take the hammer and the drill? Click here.
Argue for the fire ax? Click here.
RIO BRAVO IN A CAB
You lunge for the door and slam your palm down on the lock.
The cabbie talks rapidly into his Bluetooth, then rips it from his ear and tosses it to the floor. He grips the wheel and looks about wildly. There’s a heavy crunching sound as he rear-ends the cab in front of you. Your whole body is yanked forward, and you fly into the cab’s Plexiglas divider. A sharp pain shoots up your nose and th
rough your brain. Blood pours from your nostrils. Fuck. Broken. Definitely broken. Tears fill your eyes.
No crying, jagoff. Time to think. The zombies are approaching. Fast. Like rats, filling up the cracks between cars, the sidewalks, anywhere there’s room.
And devouring everything along the way.
The cabbie throws it in reverse and smashes into the car behind him. Great—a nice bit of whiplash to go along with your busted nose.
Undeterred, he throws it back into drive and jumps the sidewalk. In the short distance, he picks up speed. But he’s going the wrong way. Toward the zombies, and fast. No, you idiot!
CRASH!!!
He slams into one of the things—a tall, gangly man. City sanitation worker uniform.
For a moment, time seems to stand still—and then everything moves in slow motion. You see the city-worker-cum-un-dead-monster lift into the air and crash up onto the hood. You can see what’s coming next. The word no slips out from your lips. And then—
The zombie smashes through the windshield. The car slams into the side of a Duane Reade and comes to a sudden, violent halt. Blood sprays the Plexiglas partition. Completely covers it. You can’t see through.
Your heart races, fear pumps through you—you’re blind to whatever danger sits in the front of the taxi, just inches from you. Then the thick, crimson liquid begins to drip and clear—and you see the zombie—clothes, face, and chest absolutely shredded by the glass, staring right at you.
You scream. A loud, bloodcurdling yell.
The beast lunges for you, but smacks the Plexiglas and pulls back, confused.
Dumb and annoyed, it turns its attention to the driver. He’s still alive. Trapped by his seat belt, face sliced to hell, but alive. The zombie digs in with his hands. Tears his cheek off. Follows with his mouth.
Watching the horror, you instinctively reach for the door handle. Then you stop. The car is surrounded. Ghouls everywhere.
One of the things stumbles into the passenger-side window, rocking the car. It’s a big fat guy in a pin-striped shirt and ugly tie—gut pressing against the glass. He paws at the window with a bloody stump of a wrist, then moves on, leaving a thick, red smear across the window as he teeters away.
