by Max Brallier
“OK fellas—let’s give ’em hell!” Camel yells.
Tommy hits it. Drives across the avenue, straight up the ramp, past the burning beasts, and into the main hall. One stands at the entrance, blocking the way. The mounted saw cuts it in half at the waist. No blood. Just dry, dead innards.
You let loose with the submachine gun. It bucks in your hand. You slow it down—three-round bursts.
You send a pair of them flying into the ticket vendor windows. As they fall, you fire again, blowing apart their heads.
Tommy pulls the tommy gun from over his shoulder and begins firing. Takes down the beasts on the stairs.
Joe Camel works more methodically. With a .357 Magnum in his hand, he fires rounds sparingly. Aims. Shoots. One in the head. Aims. Shoots. Another in the head. The blasts are impossibly loud.
Finally, the shooting stops. Empty shells litter the floor beside you. Thick smoke in the air. Two balls of wet paper towel in your ears do little—your ears ring and your head pounds.
Tommy gets off his bike and walks over to Camel. They talk for a second, and Tommy returns.
“We go to the concourse,” Tommy says. “Then the elevator to the top. Camel will be waiting here, keeping things under control, then we all ride out together.”
You nod.
Tommy hits the gas. Your ass smacks repeatedly against the hard seat as he takes the bike up the stairs. At the top, he slows it down. A pair of double doors ahead of you, and beyond that, the concourse.
He continues the crawl through the doors. And then you’re there. It’s a hall about twenty feet wide, lined with bathrooms, food vendors, ATMs, beer, and all sorts of blue and orange shit for sale. And it’s packed with a mass of undead New York sports fans.
“Ready?” Tommy says.
“Not really.”
“Good!” Then he guns it, headed right for them. No more MP5—time for the Vulcan. You grab the twin triggers, like holding two joysticks, press down with both thumbs, and do everything you can to hold it steady.
The Gatling gun whirls, then begins firing. Nothing could prepare you for this thing. Huge bullets tear through the monsters. Legs separate. Chests blow apart. Arms fly off. Bodies spin around. Masses of flesh burst.
Tommy picks up the speed.
You keep your thumbs on the triggers. Arms shaking. Hands hurting. It’s like holding a jackhammer. Takes everything you have to keep it from shooting off to the right or left.
But you keep it forward. Keep mowing down whatever is in front of you.
The sound is beyond deafening. Chunks of tile fly off the walls. Bullets rip through an ATM machine. Money flies. A souvenir booth goes down in a mess of T-shirts and ball caps.
Finally, Tommy slows the bike—you’re back where you started. The damage is tremendous. Smoke hangs in the air. Water sprays from the sprinklers.
Bodies litter the path ahead of you. Some crawl. One steps, stumbles, and falls.
“Not bad,” Tommy says. “Now, we go up.”
He drives to the elevator. You lean out, press the UP button, and wait. When the doors open, Tommy backs the bike in and hits the button for the tenth level.
As the elevator ascends, you sit in silence, hand on the Vulcan. It’s hot. Smoke leaks out the end of the gun’s six barrels, filling the elevator with the rich smell of gunpowder. You say nothing. Neither does Tommy. You hope that door never opens. You don’t want to face another round of these things. Don’t want to save that woman; you really don’t give a damn about her right now.
But, of course, the doors open.
Right in front of you is a servicewoman. Young, maybe twenty-three. Absolutely gorgeous—or was. Her face is sunken in. Hollow looking. Nothing behind her eyes. Her left arm stops just below the elbow and her body sags to the side.
You let loose with the Vulcan. Bullets rip through her waist, propelling her into a deathly, spastic dance. The force of the shots pushes her back. As she falls, one of the massive bullets catches her in the chin and exits through the back of her skull.
The elevator doors shut behind you. You hear it begin to descend. Tommy drives. The sidecar goes up and over the dead woman. It’s horrific. You feel sick—but, unfortunately, not numb. Every undead person you put back down pulls at your insides.
Tommy seems to sense it. He stops the bike. You idle in the small area outside the elevator, in front of you the long hall stretching to the left and right.
The things are coming. You can hear them running down the hall. About to come around the curved corner.
“Hey—get it out of your head,” he says.
“It’s gone,” you say, not looking up.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“OK—then shoot those things, huh? Before they eat us?”
Tommy turns the corner just as you squeeze the twin triggers and lay waste to the approaching mass. Men in suits. Business types. The type of people who can afford top-level suites.
You circle the entire upper level of the arena and make it back to the elevator. It’s clear. Every zombie, dead for real.
“OK, let’s find this broad,” Tommy says.
There are eight large suites at the top level of Madison Square Garden. You try the first. Locked. Tommy tosses you a crowbar. You’ve never had to crack open a locked door, and Tommy explains it to you like you’re an idiot. You wedge it in just above the handle and pop it. Tommy kicks in the door.
You peek in behind him. Tommy fires nine quick shots and drops three zombie businessmen.
It takes two more tries before you find what you’re looking for. And it isn’t nice.
The woman lies on the floor, barely breathing. She looks awful. She’s older, mid-sixties. Emaciated. About what you’d expect for someone who spent the last three months living off what looks like nothing but water, soda, and Doritos.
Through the huge window you take in the arena for the first time. Thirty thousand undead Knicks fans. And on the floor, the entire Knicks roster—zombified.
Then a scream. You turn. Tommy. One has him pinned to the wall, teeth in his face. You can’t tell where Tommy ends and the beast begins.
You lunge at them, put the crowbar up through the back of the thing’s head. Arch it up and pull back, yanking it off Tommy.
You step back. Tommy’s face is a mangled mess. Skin hanging down over his left eye. Blood pumping out of his neck with each beat of his heart. You can already see him turning. Changing.
You take a step back. Nearly trip over a leather couch.
He stares at you. His arms raise.
He’s one of them.
Run for it? Click here.
Take on Tommy and try to finish the job? Click here.
PLEASE LEAVE, PLEASE LEAVE, PLEASE LEAVE
A long, hairy arm reaches under the platform. Its massive hand scratches at the yellow cement. It stretches, reaching farther under. Then the stupid thing falls—face-first, directly onto the gravel in front of you. It’s a massive thing—looks like one of those big old ’70s wrestlers.
It looks around, stunned. Then looks right at you and the boy. Eyes glazed over like there’s nothing behind them.
You press yourself against the wall. Trying to stay as far in the dark as possible.
You hold the boy tight against you. Any other situation you’d be breaking about ten child-endangerment laws. You feel a drop of something on your hand. Wet. The boy’s crying. You put your hand over his mouth. “Shhh.”
It moans louder.
Fuck…
It raises its head and lets out a long, gurgling roar. Three more of the beasts fall over the sides. Down on their hands and knees, they crawl forward, closing in.
The kid cries harder. You hold him tighter.
And then they pounce.
AN END
THE GARAGE
You need to get off these streets—now. That’s your only priority.
You run to the parking garage, reach the top of the ramp, and head down into t
he darkness. Pieces of the cop car’s bumper and tail end litter the ground at the bottom of the ramp. Looks like the cruiser went right through the gate. Splintered pieces of yellow wood are scattered across the ground. Cautiously, you enter the garage.
You see the cruiser. It’s come to a stop in the center of the garage floor. Smoke streams out steadily from the hood. The driver’s-side door is open. The car rests gently, eerily peaceful.
Then you see the cop. He’s crawling across the floor. Hand on his face, leaking blood.
You run to help him—then halfway there, you stop in your tracks. A landing strip of flesh has been torn from his cheek down to his shoulder. His injuries have nothing do with the accident. He’s been bitten.
You step back.
The undead cop braces himself against the bumper of a nearby SUV and rises. He turns to you. Face pale. NYPD blues soaked in red. He sees you. You think maybe, just maybe, you see a small grin creep across his face.
He takes a step, then—
BLAM!!!
The cop’s head explodes in a blast of red.
You spin—only to find yourself staring down the smoking end of a double-barrel shotgun. The gunman is a gargantuan man, some muscle, plenty of fat. Short, spiky black hair. Dark skin. Italian, you guess. Tattoos wind up from his trigger finger, spiraling up his arm.
Your ears are ringing from the shotgun blast. The man’s mouth moves, but you hear nothing. Just a high-pitched buzzing.
You stutter. He barks at you.
You shake your head back and forth quickly. “I can’t hear!” you shout.
He lowers the shotgun, just slightly.
You’re more than a little relieved when you realize he’s wearing a 24-HOUR PARKING uniform. A “Chucky” name tag hangs from his uniform. It actually says Chuck. The y is drawn on in green marker.
“Hey, hey,” you say, panicked. You’ve never had a gun in your face before. “I’m not one of those things.”
Chucky stares you hard in the eyes. “Who you like?”
The ringing is fading. You can begin to hear him now.
“What?”
“Who do you like? Mets or Yankees?”
“What?”
He cocks the shotgun. “I seen a whole world of crazy shit in the past fucking hour. I ain’t in no goddamn mood to play. So… you a Yankees fan, motherfucker… or not?”
If you want to tell him the truth—you’re not a huge baseball fan, but you follow the Pittsburgh Pirates some— click here.
If you want to lie to him and say you’re a die-hard follower of the Bronx Bombers, click here.
YOUR BEST MIKE HAMMER IMPRESSION
“OK, listen Al—I just spent the past God knows how many hours in the back of a fucking cab, staring at the decomposing body of a guy who—despite being dead—kept staring right the fuck back at me. Then, even though he was dead, I killed him again. With a tire iron. Then I outran a thousand zombies. Topped that off by doing it missionary style with a barbed-wire fence. I’m bleeding from about a hundred different places. And, from the smell, I think I may have shit myself. Or actually, that stink just might be you, Big fuckin’ Al.”
Big Al doesn’t like that.
“So if you want to kill me, kill me. But I’m not going down without a fight. So let me loose, let’s step outside, and let’s handle this like men.”
Big Al smiles. “Look at this, fuckin’ tough guy all of a sudden.”
“It’s been one helluva bad day at Black Rock, friend.”
“Alright, guy, relax. I’m not going to kill you.”
“Cut me loose, then.
“Yeah—you should cut him loose, Al,” Fish says.
They do. You stretch. It hurts like hell. Sharp, shooting pains all over. “Thanks. Now where can I pass out?”
Click here.
TAKING THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING
“Gentlemen,” Doc says, as he pulls the sheet off his workbench, “Merry Christmas.”
Weapons galore. Guns. Grenades. Rocket launchers. Swords. Axes.
“Go to town, government’s paying.”
The men walk down the bench, taking what they want, and then head outside. You take a grenade launcher and an RCP90 submachine gun—you recognize it from Goldeneye.
You flip up the side mirror on Jones’s Harley. Take a look at yourself. You’re the beautiful bastard child of Snake Plissken and John Rambo.
It’s just before midnight. Outside sits a roofless double-decker bus, glimmering in the moonlight, with the words NYC SIGHTS in big letters along the side and a huge image of an American flag next to the Statue of Liberty.
You board the bus, head for the upper deck, and take a seat in front of Jones.
Four Angels take their bikes. The rest the bus. Doc drives.
The Harleys roar to life, Doc pulls out, and your bizarre convoy hits the road. No joking. No fun and games. Men going to war. Everything at stake.
You lay the RCP90 on the seat beside you. Put the grenade launcher on your lap. Across the side it reads Milkor M32 MGL. MGL stands for Multiple Grenade Launcher, you figure. It holds six 40mm shells in a tommy-gun—style drum magazine. It can do a lot of damage. Kill a lot of people. Or whatever the hell it is you’re out to kill.
You turn to Jones. “On the corner that night—would you really have let me die?”
He exhales smoke through his nose. “Absolutely.”
“How could you just let a man die like that—when you could stop it? Not just a man. Me.”
“I gave you a choice.”
“Still.”
“Choices in life, kid. Lots of them. You live with the choices you make.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” you say.
You get up and walk to the front of the bus and lean against it. It’s been nearly a year since that sweltering July day when the zombies came to New York—and the world. Now it’s a warm May night. Type of night you should be out barbecuing. Ten years ago, you’d have been playing tag with the neighborhood kids or playing Spin the Bottle. Now you’re headed to the Empire State Building to murder zombies.
One up ahead. A thin woman in a long jacket. Standing on a corner. Doc swerves to hit it and the thing bounces off the front of the bus.
The first twenty blocks are easy going. Then coming up through Union Square, things get messier. But Doc keeps his foot on the gas and powers through them. You feel a bump as one is caught in the wheel well.
At Twenty-third Street, you meet your first real chunk of trouble. An overturned SUV and a snapped streetlight block the way.
The loudspeaker, usually reserved for obnoxious tour guides, serves as Doc’s way of communicating with you guys on top the bus and the bikers alongside it. Doc comes on. “Fellas, need some help here.”
You drop to one knee, rest the barrel of the grenade launcher on the front wall of the double-decker bus, and flip up the sight.
THWOOMP!
The grenade spirals through the air, a trail of smoke arcing behind it. It hits the side of the historic Flatiron Building and explodes, showering the street with chunks of concrete and shards of glass.
Little lower and to the right.
You fire again.
The explosion flips the car up through the air and sends a dozen of the undead things flying. The lamppost splinters.
Doc hits the gas. The Angels circle the bus, keeping the beasts at bay.
One Angel zooms past the bus and races ahead, the twin cannons on the sides of his bike laying waste to anything in his way.
Another follows behind. He whips a bike chain around the neck of a zombie in a tight white shirt. Rips it to the ground and drags it with him. Through a sitting area, into some outdoor tables and chairs, up the curb, then leaves it smashed, dead, against a streetlight.
The convoy carries on. Up ahead, through a thick fog, the Empire State Building towers over the city.
The bus slows. You pour out.
Two undead security guards stand just inside the ornate art deco
entrance. Jones drops them. On the wall is a building map. Eighty-six floors to the top.
The men move out.
The Angel named Tanner carries a scythe, looking like something straight from hell. On the seventeenth floor, inside the Croatian Tourist Board office, he beheads three undead Croatian tourists.
At floor 36, the Angel named Foster uses his two-by-four spiked with rusty nails to clean out the Alitalia offices.
On 48, you open the door to the law offices of Kurland, Aiken, & Gradwohl. There are lights. A small generator hums in the corner. Mountains of food. Boxes and boxes of cereal and crackers. Music from behind one of the doors. You put your ear to it. Opera. You ready the gun and kick open the door, prepared for anything.
Blood. So much blood. Dark red, mixed with chunks of skull, caked on the wall. Beneath it is the slumped-over body of a man, his head completely gone. Shotgun in his lifeless hand.
You look around. Must have stocked up in the beginning. Planned on riding it out. But couldn’t take it. You keep it in mind—then head back out.
At floor 53, the large, hairy Angel named Griz kicks open the doors to the King’s College administrative offices and throws a flash bang inside. Blinds the undead professors inside and then kills them all with his ax.
On 64, you enter the offices of the National Film Board of Canada. You can smell the beast—too late, you turn. The door slams shut behind you. Your guys are locked out in the hall. Alone, you face a large man, white beard. You unload the RCP90’s entire fifty-round magazine in less then a second. The monster’s chest and waist are torn apart. Not a single head shot, though. Fuck. It leaps at you. Ammo spent, you jump behind a large mahogany desk, keeping it between you and the thing.
You’re trapped. Frantic, you look for something, anything to use as a weapon.
Keyboard. You rip it free from the computer and smack the beast across the face. Keys fly. It does nothing.
