by Max Brallier
KRAK-KOW!!!
A rocket slams into the car beside you—fiery, white-hot chunks of shrapnel slice through the air. The monster at your chest is thrown to the side. The explosion lifts you off your feet, and your whole world is turned upside down. Intense heat. Flames at your face. Then you’re falling. Spiraling. Spiraling down into the East River.
…
…..
Your eyes flitter. It’s nighttime.
It’s silent. No gunfire. No explosion. No tremendous banging sounds that make your head want to implode.
Your body is broken. Arms, legs, everything. But you’re alive. How? You should have drowned. Confused, you try to move.
Garbage. You’re tangled up in some sort of netting. Plastic trash bags, torn open, lay about. You’re the centerpiece of a massive floating pile of garbage. And is that a syringe on your chest?
Ahh, the East River…
You drift for hours. Any sort of movement is impossible. The pain is too strong.
Fuck me, just let me die here, I don’t care.
Then a bright light flashes over your eyelids. You struggle to open them. Can’t turn your head. Feels like you’re about to be abducted by a UFO.
A man’s voice, shouting. “Hold up! Over there, in that hunk of shit!”
The light flashes over you again. A searchlight. The sound of a boat. Two splashes. Bodies in the water next to you. Hands on you. Ever so slightly, you tilt your head. Make out the words COAST GUARD on their chests.
A man’s voice. “Hang on pal, we got you, you’re going to be alright.”
AN END
PEANUTS AND CRACKED BATS
The undead drift into the parking lot, moving toward the stadium, drawn by the smell of fifty-two thousand fresh, live bodies and a pennant race.
The limo stops just in front of the main entrance. Yakuma’s out of the car in a flash, Rick yelling after her to be careful. You wave good-bye to Rick as you hurry to catch up with her.
You race trough the parking lot, over a track of perfectly trimmed trees, planted at perfectly measured ten-foot intervals, and around the side of the stadium. The blue walls become a blur as you race pass.
Yakuma slides to a stop in front of a set of large twin doors. In big letters: PLAYERS’ ENTRANCE.
She bangs twice. A heavy metal door slides open. Slim man, suit, funny cap.
“Yakuma! How are you?”
“Fine, Freddy, move it, gotta talk to you-know-who.”
“Oh c’mon, you know I can’t—”
His eyes glaze over. He stares beyond you.
“Wha—”
“Exactly,” Yakuma says.
“On the walkie—they said something was happening—but don’t interrupt the game, don’t alarm the fans.”
“I think the fans are about to be alarmed, hon.”
Yakuma brushes past him and you follow. As you turn the corner, Freddy shouts “Wait—are those samurai swords?”
“It’s been a crazy day.”
You follow her through the guts of the stadium. Down pipelined halls that are still clean. “New” Yankee Stadium. What a joke. In other countries, they hang on to their landmarks, their important buildings, their places of worship. Here they tear them down, go across the street and build crappy replicas, and slap “New” on the front.
Shit, even before zombies invaded the island, New York City was already half dead…
You come out in a more normal-looking hallway. Two lefts, and you’re standing inside the Yankees home locker room. It’s empty.
“Shit,” Yakuma says. “Too late.”
A beautiful flat screen mounted on the wall shows the game under way, first inning, someone you don’t recognize at bat.
“Hey,” you ask, “so, what’s the plan? What the hell am I doing in the Yankees locker room?”
“I’m getting [LEGAL EDIT]—and he’s getting us out of the city, now. C’mon, to the field,” she says.
To the field. Yankee Stadium field? You watch Yakuma go, hair long and thick, ass perfect, samurai swords gleaming—yeah, you’ll follow.
On your way out the door, you pass a tall glass display case. A plaque reads NEW YORK YANKEES. PRIDE. POWER. PINSTRIPES. Inside the glass—the Louisville Slugger that Babe Ruth used to hit his first homerun at Yankee Stadium. Dark wood. Worn handle. A number of gunslinger-style notches are etched into the grain—one for each home run he hit with it.
Yeah, you gotta have that.
You grab a stool and smash it against the case. You reach inside and take the bat from its stand. You feel like King Arthur clutching Excalibur for the first time. Babe Ruth’s bat, in your hands…
An alarm sounds. Out in the hall, a security guard stops you. Yakuma flashes the blade. He shuts up and steps back.
At the end of the hall, through the dugout door, you see the bright green field. You follow Yakuma—right through the door and into the Yankees dugout. You haven’t been to a baseball game all season, forgot that feel of taking in the field for the first time. The boys of summer.
The Yankees are in the field, Red Sox at bat. A few players sit around, bullshitting. The manager leans against the dugout fence, spitting sunflower seeds. The cheer of the fans is loud, overpowering. Hard to hear anything.
After a minute or so, [LEGAL EDIT] glances at the dugout and his eyes go wide. You can only imagine what’s going through his mind—“is that my stripper girlfriend, splattered with blood, holding two samurai swords, in the fucking dugout? ESPN is going to shit a brick.”
Without hesitation, Yakuma marches out onto the field.
Just beside the dugout stands a New York City cop. He glances over, does a double take. He shouts at her to freeze. She ignores it. He rips his Taser from his belt, trains it on Yakuma’s back, takes two steps forward, and fires.
Two tiny, dartlike electrodes fly from the Taser and stick in Yakuma’s neck, just above her tank top. She immediately shrieks, begins shaking violently, then hits the grass just short of the pitcher’s mound. After a moment, she stops convulsing.
Shit. You tighten your fingers around the bat. OK, in for all or in for nothing, right? You sprint out onto the field and bury the bat into the back of the cop’s legs. He crumples. The Taser falls to the grass. He scrambles for it, but not fast enough. You grab it and point it at him. Your heart is pounding—you can’t believe you’re doing this.
“Officer, look, I’m really, really sorry about this,” you say softly. “But you’ll understand in a second.”
And that second is now. A maniacal scream. A flurry of movement in the stands. The chaos is under way.
In the seat behind first base, one of the things dines on some poor father. A gorgeous woman in the front row leaps onto the field, blood pouring down her side. She takes a few shaky steps, then falls. Fans scramble over seats. Rush for exits. Complete madness—anything to get out of there. A man in a Gehrig jersey shoves a cotton candy vendor, sending him somersaulting down the stairs, backward, gravity pulling him at a deadly speed. Bodies tumble from the upper decks, crashing to the seats below, dead on impact. A frat-boy type, already turned, is knocked over the side and lands in the netting behind home plate. Confused, the fratboy zombie kicks, lashes out, only to get himself more entangled.
The whole time, the stadium stereo never stops—dun dun da duh, duh dun da duh.
[LEGAL EDIT] helps Yakuma to her feet and rips the Taser electrodes free. She glances over at you, sees the cop on the ground, and throws you a nod. She’s not hurt—just pissed.
As the players take in the 360 degrees of madness that surrounds them, they slowly begin moving to the center of the field.
Bodies litter the stands. The lucky ones make it out. You can only imagine the horror in the halls, in the parking lot.
As the crowd thins, the sound of fear and panic is replaced with the hideous moans of the dead.
You, Yakuma, a handful of cops, and the entire roster of the Yankees and Red Sox are huddled together in the Yankee S
tadium infield.
The monsters start coming over the walls. Slowly at first, a trickle. Then more. Crashing onto the field. Hitting the grass, then rising.
The players form a circle, bats up. You stay in the middle of the herd, like a weakling lamb. Just because you’ve already encountered these monsters doesn’t mean you’re not still shitting your pants.
All at once, the beasts charge—a huge mass of them, coming in. Yakuma’s already out there, slaying the things two and three at a time.
“Oh man, Selig’s definitely fining me for this,” an outfielder says to you. Then he winks, runs forward, and buries his bat in the side of the undead fan leading the charge.
And with that, the battle is under way.
The umpire gets it first. Three fans on him, tearing at his flesh. His mask is ripped off and it spins across the ground. Teeth sink into his neck. He shakes. Begins to turn. Shit. You recognize him, even as his face goes white—Jim Joyce. A player swings his bat wildly, clearing out the undead fans. Then he raises the bat high, says, “This one’s for Galarraga,” and caves in the zombie ump’s head.
A tall, entitled-looking Yankees third baseman gets it in the leg from a young kid who happens to be wearing his jersey. He shrieks and pushes the brat away. Blood pours from his open wound.
He pulls his bat back and swings. The kid goes flying. Two more fans tackle the third baseman from behind. Teeth sink into his shoulder and neck.
A large, Dominican batter for the Red Sox runs over, does away with the two fans, and then kills the downed Yankee for good with a powerful whack. Then spits on him.
A tall, mustached, Italian-looking guy in a Joe DiMaggio jersey has his eyes on you. His lower lip has been torn open and hangs, sickeningly, against his chin. He starts in. His lip flops. You raise the bat. The power of the Babe flows through you. You point the bat directly at the man. Yep—you’re calling your shot. Just like Ruth.
And then you swing.
CRACK!!!
You can almost hear Michael Kay’s obnoxious home run call. “Seeee ya!”
The man’s head rips to the side. His neck snaps. He falls, blood splashing the beautifully trimmed infield grass.
An older player, classy looking, grabs a bag of balls. He gets to work. Fastballs. Two-seamers. All strikes, right between the eyes. Two or three to the head, and it’s a kill. The zombies drop.
The bodies pile up as the players give it everything they’ve got.
Yakuma and you-know-who are now standing back to back, holding their ground, she with her blades and him with his bat. The things surround them.
His bat splinters against a zombie skull. He takes another one from a Red Sox player at his feet. Must have been on deck, because there are metal batting doughnuts at the end of it. He wields it like the weapon it is.
One thing gets close. He swings, shattering its face. Two more. Same deal, one swing, takes them down.
He beats them into submission—Yakuma carves them up. Helluva couple.
Then a chopping roar from the sky.
A dust cloud kicks up around you. Debris and trash whips across the field. Five huge police choppers hover above the field. And in the passenger seat of one of them—is that? Christ, it is. Hank goddamn Steinbrenner—the old man’s son—the new guy in charge.
Ladders drop from the copters. Sway over the field.
Steinbrenner yells into a megaphone. “New York Yankees, begin boarding! Long-term contracts first. Boston, you wait your turn, if there’s room, you can board.”
[LEGAL EDIT] lets Yakuma go first. You follow, climbing the ladder, bat stuffed down your pant leg and in your sock. You’re not losing that. When you get to the top, Stein-brenner gives you the stinkeye, but as he climbs aboard [LEGAL EDIT] says, “He’s with me.” You feel incredibly cool.
You pull the bat free and you take a seat next to Yakuma, across from her man. The chopper fills up and takes off.
You look down at the Babe’s bat, rested across your legs. Helluva thing. You pull your keys from your pocket, mark one last notch in the wood, and watch as Yankee Stadium shrinks to nothing beneath you.
AN END
DON’T STOP, DON’T LOOK BACK, JUST RUN!
You dart through the crowd, across Chambers Street. Feet tiring, heart pumping. Then, out of nowhere
SLAM!!!
You roll up over the hood of the car. The car brakes and sends you flying. Everything goes black. Pain racks your entire body.
No dizzying, spinning view of the world as you fly through the air—just black. You don’t feel yourself hit the ground. Don’t hear the wet crack as your head splatters across the cement.
AN END
DOWN TO RIDE
“First of all, let me say how frankly fucking horrified I am by the things you guys have done. Jones, you killed a cop?”
“Prove it.”
Jesus. You knew these were bad guys—but not on this level. You’re surprised, though—surprised at how much it doesn’t bother you. The shit you’ve seen over the past few months—either you’ve gained some perspective or you’ve completely lost perspective, but either way…
“Well, if I killed a cop, I’d want that erased,” you say. “So yeah, I’d take them up on the offer.”
Jones looks around at the group. Some are pleased, some aren’t. But like he said before—he has final say.
“OK,” Jones says, “we’re in.”
The Colonel smiles. “Good. I’ll have your first target in seventy-two hours.”
“Fine. Go with Doc to the garage,” Jones says, nodding to a round, Santa Claus–looking guy in the corner. “He’ll get you a list of what we need.”
The next day the helicopter returns. You step outside, crack open a beer, and watch. The zombies are gathered at the fences. They moan, unhappy, hungry.
As you stand there next to Tommy, you decide to give his Kodiak another shot. You get the hang of it, not to the point of finding it less than miserable, but you’re not puking. A pool of thick black spit gathers on the sidewalk below you, running into the cracks.
Three soldiers, working together, carry a large wooden crate out of the helicopter toward the club.
You hear the jangle of keys and then the grating sound of a garage door being pulled open. Doc steps out, puffing a cigar. He meets the soldiers halfway and examines the crate, then directs them to the garage. Inside, you hear him curse one, saying, “No, numbnuts, over there in the corner.”
The soldiers carry in a total of nine crates, then take off in the helicopter.
For the next two days, Doc works. Comes out of the garage just to eat and get water. Each time he comes dirtier and greasier.
Then, finally, three days after the Colonel first arrived, just before midnight, Doc comes out and collapses on the couch. He nods at Jones.
“OK,” Jones says, “let’s take a look.”
You step into the garage and your jaw drops. In front of you is the most badass collection of death on wheels since twisted Metal 2. Ten Harleys. Each one armed to the teeth. Doc gives the guys the tour, but you’re barely listening. Just staring at the beauties.
Doc goes over each Harley one by one. Guns. Missile launchers. Blades. Saws. Did he just say flamethrower?
“Kid!” Doc says, snapping you out of it.
“Oh, sorry. Yeah?”
“This one’s yours.”
“Uh, I can’t ride.”
“No—the sidecar. You’re with Tommy.”
Tommy grins and slaps you on the back.
Two pipes stick out of the chassis, parallel to the ground. At the end, about two feet in front of the tire, is a large horizontal circular saw. “Now Tommy, this blade here—this runs on the bike,” Doc says. “You give it gas, the saw spins. Anything in your way—cut it right in half.”
“And kid, this is my pride and joy here,” he says, indicating the sidecar.
You nod, awestruck.
“This sidecar is your new home. This big bastard mounted on the
front is the M61 Vulcan minigun.”
“Shit yeah, the gun from Predator.”
“Dunno, never saw it. The Vulcan’s serious—shoots bullets the size of my fist. Two wires run from the main trigger down under the hood,” he says, pointing to the interior of the sidecar. “Twin triggers—gotta hold down both to make it shoot. Now under here, along the side, I’ve got a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. Kickback ain’t too bad—should be good for a little guy like you. And, ahem, at your request—a red Vitamin Water.”
The Angels roll their eyes.
“What? It’s refreshing,” you say.
“Almost forgot,” Doc says, walking around the back of the bike. “On the sidecar here, you’ve got an RMG multipurpose disposable rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Use it once, then it’s done. Who knows what you’ll run into out there, so it could prove useful. Tommy’s got some experience with the things.”
Tommy laughs. “Sure have—remember when we had to go to war with those fuckin’—”
Tommy is interrupted by Jones at the door. “Colonel just phoned. He’s got tonight’s target.”
“What is it?” you ask.
“Madison Square Garden. We’re rescuing a woman. Wife of some congressman.”
“How do we know she’s there?” Tommy asks.
“Man didn’t say much. They picked her up on radio—she got a hold of some security guard’s walkie-talkie. Everyone thought she was dead. She’s not.”
“Who’s going?” someone asks.
“Tommy, Joe Camel, and the Kid.”
“What, why me?”
“You’re the one that cast the last vote. So now you ride. Get dressed—meet Tommy outside in ten.”
Sigh—how’d the hell did you get yourself into this…
Click here.
THE JIG IS UP!
George Costanza running from that fire at the kid’s birthday party? That’s you. Pushing anyone and anything in your way aside.
