by Max Brallier
Fucking zombies…
Then comes something even more horrifying—children. School kids. Zombified school kids. Hundreds. You saw the school on the corner after you climbed the hill. Why the hell didn’t they stay inside?
The children join in with the rest of the monsters—moving steadily toward the military. The firing doesn’t stop.
There’s a loud screech from the other direction, farther up Atlantic Avenue. A car comes racing down the street, directly toward the action, and comes to a halt about a hundred feet short of the battle.
A woman jumps out. She looks around, frantic. “Ruby! Has anyone seen my daughter Ruby?”
Then she sees what the military’s firing upon. Children.
She lets out a Luke Skywalker “Nooooo!” and takes off running.
“Ruby! Ruby where are you?!”
Fuck me. You can see it coming. She’s going to try to get her kid out of there—and she’s going to get herself killed. And for nothing—if Ruby’s one of those kids, she can already be counted among the dead.
If you want to try to stop the woman, click here.
If you want to let it happen, click here.
STAYING BEHIND
You walk over to Khaki, pull him aside. In a half whisper, “Hey—I can’t do this.”
“What? This was your plan. Mostly.”
“It’s insane. I’m not going out there with those things—I don’t care how much I stink like raw hamburger. If I were you, I wouldn’t go, either.”
“I’m not backing out now.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Maybe. But look—I’m a zombie fanatic—I mean, crazy. Nuts. I know it. And somehow—now—all the movies I’ve been watching, all the comics, all the books—it’s actually happening!”
He has a crazed smile on his face. He’s actually enjoying this.
“The chance to go out there, to walk among them,” he continues, “it’s too much to turn down. I’m scared shitless, for sure. But I also think it can work.”
“Your funeral.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
You smile. “Well, I’ll be watching. If you get in trouble, I’ll do what I can to help.”
“Alright.”
You stick your bloody hand out. Khaki shakes it.
“Good luck.”
“You too.”
The group is ready. You get behind a crate and watch as Khaki raises the large metal gate, pulling on the chain like he’s opening a stage curtain. It’s fitting, ‘cause they’re damn good actors. They’ve got the zombie walk thing down perfectly. The world ever gets back to normal, it’ll be the next big dance at the club—you can see it already.
They shuffle out of the warehouse. Across the parking lot, through the gate, and out into the street.
Before long the zombies—the real ones—take notice. They don’t attack. They stumble over. Sniff them out, not unlike two dogs meeting on the street. One, a small boy, hovers around Khaki. Brushes against him.
The group picks up their speed a little bit, probably without even realizing it. You can only imagine how scared they are. Walking straight into the lion’s den, no protection.
But it’s working. The beasts moan. The group moans back. Really, a dead-on impression. Rich Little turned zombie.
They get to the end of the street and turn. Slowly, to the left. Just three blocks to go. Sonofabitch, they’re going to make it!
Then a scream pierces the air. One of the men has lost it. He darts out from the group, fleeing down the street.
At once, the things come to life. Fully aware. Two of the ugly things chase down the fleeing man.
Everyone else scatters, most headed for the water. Goddamn it, they’re done for. Without thinking, you run out into the street.
“Hey!” you shout, waving your arms. “Hey! Hey, you stupid brain-dead sons of bitches. Over here! Over here!”
The beasts turn.
The group disappears around the corner. You don’t know if they’ll make it or not, but you’ve done what you can.
And now you’ve got your own problems to deal with. A horde of the things, coming straight for you.
You bolt back inside the garage and jump for the chain. You’re two inches short. Goddamn it. You stick your head out the door—they’re through the gate, coming fast.
OK, plan B. You sprint to the back. You can hear their feet slapping the ground, just behind you. Moans turning to howls as they close in.
A hand grabs your shoulder. Squeezes around it. A nail pierces your skin. You turn into the freezer and slam the door. But the undead arm blocks it. Behind, their snarling faces. You pull the door back and slam it again, giving it everything you have. Once more and it shuts—the thing’s arm drops to the freezer floor, severed just below the elbow.
Disgusted, you watch the arm flop on the ground. But your disgust turns to absolute horror as you realize the freezer doesn’t open from the inside. You’re trapped. Trapped with nothing but an undead arm and the sound of thirty monsters stumbling around outside the freezer.
Nearly two years later, when Manhattan is no longer owned by the undead, the Army finds your body, frozen to the core.
AN END
THE LONG HIGHWAY
It takes you twenty minutes before you find a sign for the highway. You ride up the entrance ramp.
The sight is unbelievable. Apocalypse. The real deal. Abandoned cars stretch down Interstate 95 as far as you can see.
You weave around the stalled cars and head for your folks’ house in Wakefield, Massachusetts, about two hundred miles away. You work up speed, getting used to the feel of the bike.
It’s been three days since the zombies arrived. You’re unshaven. Starting to feel like Mad Max. Only need the dog.
You replay everything in your mind. The train station. That horrible ride. The crash. Watching that poor woman and her child die on the street. Walter. The trigger-happy couple. What a fucking nightmare.
About sixty miles in, the bike is low on gas. Need to fill up—last thing you want is to be stuck out here on foot.
Another ten minutes and you spot a Mobil station. You slow the bike down, keep your distance, and see what you can see. No walking dead. No walking living. Empty cars. All in all—deserted.
You keep the bike as slow and quiet as possible as you approach the station. Don’t want to alert anyone to your presence.
Everything looks kosher. You pull in and get off the bike.
The Mobil station is one of those supermart things. Supposed to have everything. Could be a helluva lot of useful stuff in there. Could also be a hundred beasts in there, ready to eat you for breakfast. Wait—check your watch. 12:13. Ready to eat you for lunch.
The sun is high in the sky and bright as all hell—you can’t make out much through the windows of the store.
Could be food, water, maps, and dirty magazines in there—but there could also be instant death.
Ahh, what the hell. Slowly, you open the door.
It looks like a tornado came through. Damn near everything gone. Where are the Funyuns? You walk the aisles. A lone Bud Light sits in the back of the cooler. You’re more of a Rolling Rock man, but this’ll do. You crack it open. Yum.
The technically important stuff like flashlights, batteries, toilet paper—that’s all gone. But there’s still some good stuff to be found. Slim Jims. Hostess Cup Cakes. A Marilyn Monroe knockoff Zippo. An Elvis one, too. You take both. No Sour Patch Kids—but Sour Patch Watermelons. Not the same, but they’ll do.
Some cash on the floor behind the counter. You take it—you know it has little to no value at this point, but it just feels wrong to leave two hundred dollars sitting there when it’s free for the taking.
Then you notice the back room. Could be all sorts of goodies back there. Drinks, still cool. Food that actually has some substance to it.
You jiggle the handle. It’s locked.
You walk to the end of the aisle and aim the gun
at the door handle.
First shot misses badly. Second shot is a direct hit. You walk over. A big hole through the handle. Sonofabitch, it worked.
You open the door—then you immediately realize your mistake. Twenty of them. At least. Truckers. Stranded travelers. All dead. All moaning. Poor fucks must’ve locked themselves in there and then let somebody else in who’d been bitten but hadn’t changed over yet. Then it was just a matter of time before they all got it.
You book it through the store and back outside. Fuck—not going anywhere without gas. You grab the nozzle and swipe your debit card. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.
This is what you get for living check to check. Always thought, What’s the worst that could happen? Well—here’s the answer. The worst that could happen is that you don’t have enough money for the minimum purchase to buy gas at a Mobil station on an abandoned highway to use as a flamethrower to fight off the living dead.
Finally, it goes through.
You stick the nozzle in the tank and begin pumping.
The door flies open and the things rush out.
Now or never.
You rip the nozzle from the tank and begin spraying. Then, with your other hand, you spark the Marilyn Monroe lighter and toss it into the stream.
WOOOSH!!!
All twenty of them go up in flames. Yet they keep coming. A burning mass of the walking dead. You pour it on and finally, one by one, they begin to fall.
But they’re not done. They writhe—not in pain: it’s clear they feel no pain—but the burns have weakened them. Skin sticking to the ground. Fat melting into puddles. One takes a step—his foot looks like he stepped in gum, the way the melting skin stretches, some stuck to the pavement. The smell of burning skin and hair is overpowering.
They’re not done. Everything you’ve seen so far says they’ll be back up in seconds. Ignoring the wall of flames and the crackling, writhing bodies, you fill the tank—you have no choice.
You hop on the bike and gun it. Then, halfway down the on-ramp, you stop. The things struggle, reach for you. But they just burn. Smoke pours off their crisping bodies.
You stop and aim—then fire a single bullet into the closest gas pump. The whole thing goes up in a massive explosion. Michael Bay would be proud…
Then you hit the road. It’s around dusk when you pull into Wakefield. You haven’t been back in a year, at least. The setting sun gives the whole thing an eerie quality.
You pass your old high school. Past JK’s Market—the little convenience store where you used to buy cigarettes at fourteen. The town is empty. No zombies, but you don’t see any people, either. You wonder how far this mess has gone.
You pull into your driveway. Oh man—if your mom saw you riding a dirt bike with no helmet she’d have an aneurysm.
One car in the driveway. The SUV is gone.
Across the street is Kim Fine’s house. High school crush—yours and everybody else’s. Captain of the cheerleading team. Total knockout. You used to play together in elementary school—that all changed when you hit middle school and everyone realized how good-looking she was and how, y’know, average you were.
Can’t help but wonder how she’s doing. Last you heard she was still hanging around town, working for a flower distributor or something like that.
You get your key from under the fake rock key holder that sticks out like a sore thumb and walk inside.
“Mom? Dad?”
Nothing.
In the kitchen you find a note.
Went to your grandmother’s in Ithaca. If you see this note, come. Hoping you’re safe. Love, love, love, infinity—Mom
You drift off to sleep on the couch. A knock on the window wakes you. More than wakes you—scares the shit out of you. You fall off the couch.
It’s Kim. Holy shit. You wipe the crust off the corners of your mouth and open the door. She looks amazing.
“Um. Hey Kim.”
She jumps in and throws her arms around you. “Oh my God I’m so happy to see you. So happy to see anyone!”
Mmm. You’re warm all over. You haven’t seen her in years. Can’t believe she’s in front of you right now. Can’t believe she just hugged you.
“Where is everyone?”
“They left. News said those things were on their way here.”
“The whole town?”
“Pretty much.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“No way to get out of here. Don’t know where my parents went. I have no car. It’s just been me over there, for like, ever.”
Invite Kim to stay with you? Click here.
Tell her that’s nice, good to see you, but you only have so much food, she needs to leave? Click here.
STAY PUT
You limp to the escalator and ride it down. Explore carefully, slowly. The whole place is empty—everyone must have fled when this all started.
You head over to the opposite escalator and return to the top floor. Once there, you flip the switch so both are headed down. That should keep any of those things from coming up and catching you by surprise. You’re proud of yourself for thinking of that.
Then you head for the good stuff—brownies, pastries, fancy coffee drinks. It’s all Starbucks stuff—they have this banana chocolate chip cake thing that’s good as all hell. You tear through the food, downing everything in sight, not even thinking about rationing food or what you might need to save for later. You’ve never been so hungry. Once you’re stuffed, you’re tired.
The sound of the battle outside is driving you nuts, so you retreat to the farthest corner of the store. Then you sleep.
It’s dusk when you wake. You go to the window.
The zombies have won the battle. The tanks are still there, abandoned. The trees in the park burn. Storefronts caved in.
But the zombies are still standing. Even more now. Two or three thousand, just wandering around Union Square—waiting for their next meal.
Your stomach sinks. The fucking military, tanks, guns, and all—they were defeated?
God help us.
But then you realize—Christ—it could have been you out there among the undead. Stumbling around, mindless.
It’s the long haul, then, you think. You ride the escalators down to the bottom floor and start exploring. The Union Square Barnes & Noble has everything. First you grab a floor lamp, snap the head off, unscrew the base, and use the pole as a makeshift cane. That allows you to get around. Then you overturn tables and push them against the doors. Make sure the revolving door is locked.
In the back corner of the top floor, you set up your home base. Barnes & Noble, for some odd reason, sells yoga mats. You stack three of those and make a half-decent bed. You make a pillow out of masking tape and a shitload of paper towels from the bathroom.
You do your best to make it feel like home. You get a globe, put it next to your yoga mat bed. Candles. A clock. Picture frames with photos of beaches and happy couples.
On the third day, you decide to start reading. You’ve never been much of a reader—but being trapped in a Barnes & Noble, now would probably be a good time to start.
Wandering through the store, a display catches your eye—a table with a sign over it that says UNDEAD SUMMER.
Lo and behold, it’s a zombie book promotion. A whole table of them laid out.
World War Z, by Max Brooks
Patient Zero, by Jonathan Maberry
Day by Day Armageddon, by J. L. Bourne
Hater, by David Moody
The New Dead, by a whole bunch of authors
The walking Dead, a set of beautiful-looking graphic novels
And then some that look particularly helpful:
The Zombie Survival guide, by Max Brooks
Zombie Combat Manual, by Roger Ma
You grab one of each and limp back to your corner. You read for days. Nonstop. When the power goes, you read by a small booklight that attaches to the spine. Soaking up all the information you can. Which weapons ar
e best against the undead. How to defend a home (or bookstore).
It’s perfect. By the time your foot heals, you’ll be prepared. Prepared to do battle with the bloodthirsty army of the dead that awaits you…
AN END
MATT CHRISTOPHER PRESENTS: THE DIRT BIKE KID
You speed through the side streets you know so well. You go for the supermarket first. That’s where you see them. The beasts. The entire parking lot is full. And if they’re there, that means they could be anywhere.
They hear the bike and begin chasing you. You’re still riding the high from last night—you feel invincible, wind in your hair. You hit the throttle hard and lose them down a maze of side streets.
JK’s Market. That’s perfect. You know the neighborhood well, and it’s way off Main Street.
Driving slowly, keeping the noise to a minimum, you make your way over. You park the bike and look around. Empty.
Slowly, gun in hand, you enter the store. Empty, too. Phew. It’s been gone over pretty well, but there’s still some good stuff to be found. You set the gun down on the counter and move through the store quickly, throwing everything you can in your backpack. Flashlight, drinks, soup.
You go to the last aisle—that’s where they used to keep the Funyuns.
And there he is. JK himself. Fifteen years ago, you would have been happy to see him—that would have meant Marlboro Lights and copies of Penthouse (he charged you and your buddies double for everything, but man-oh-man was it worth it).
Not happy to see him now, though. His face is twisted and swollen. A chunk of the top of his head is missing.
You backpedal. “Hey—hey—don’t—”
He charges. You turn and run. Goddamn it—why’d you have to leave the gun on the counter?
You run down the aisles, throwing anything you can find at him. Bags of potato chips. Copies of Us weekly. He’s between you and the counter, blocking your way to the gun.
You grab hold of a display case. You can move it. An idea forms.
“C’mon!” you shout.
Here goes nothing.
He powers toward you.
Using everything you’ve got, you pull the case to the side. It crashes down, pinning him.
