by Max Brallier
Next aisle. You freeze.
In front of you, four guys done up as the Ghostbusters—zombified. Blood and flesh drips from their lips. Egon, missing part of his shoulder, runs at you.
Fuck.
You run.
They tear down the aisle, crashing after you.
Suddenly, in your face, a flash of wood. You drop, sliding to the ground under the swing. Above you, the wood crashes into monster Egon’s face. Its nose splits.
You’re on your back, staring up at one helluva authentic Donatello costume. A fat green hand pulls you up. Red headband. Raphael.
“Close call,” Raphael says behind his mask. He’s got a thick Irish accent.
Irish Raphael spins his twin golden sais in his hands.
He whips the first sai through the air, nails undead Venkman in the head, killing it.
Leonardo comes out of nowhere, spinning his blade and chopping off Winston at the legs. Then the sword through its head.
Stantz closes in on Irish Raphael. Irish Raphael spins, sending the thing stumbling forward—right into Michelangelo. Michelangelo whips his nunchucks out and around undead Stantz’s throat. It swipes at him. Irish Raphael buries the other sai into its throat, then up through the brain. The zombie gargles, spits up blood, and falls.
You mumble thanks and keep running. Ahead is the food court.
And then you see him. Across the food court at the center of the show floor. The boy, hiding beneath a table.
To your left, the glint of steel. A massive blade in the hand of a towering, shirtless, black man.
Conan the Barbarian.
“What is best in life?” Black Conan shouts. “Killing fucking zombies!”
Black Conan swings the gigantic blade around. Chops off the head of an undead Cobra Commander. Its headless body drops to the floor, red cape draping over it like a funeral shroud. The helmeted head rolls across the floor.
A security guard, belly torn open, runs at Black Conan. Conan unleashes a massive forward kick, sending the thing flying back into a life-size Darth Vader made of Legos. Vader crashes down, scattering thousands of black Lego pieces across the floor.
Four zombies drape themselves over a dude in a nearly perfect Predator costume. Thing must have cost five grand, at least. And right now—shit—it was worth every penny. The beasts can’t break through it.
Perfect Predator knocks them back. Whips around his bronze telescoping spear and pierces one through the face. The others stumble back. One falls, and Predator brings the spear crashing down into the back of its head.
But the monsters don’t stop. There’re too goddamn many.
One beast climbs up Black Conan’s back. Another, ignoring the massive sword buried in its chest, sinks its teeth into Conan’s arm.
The tide is turning. Chaos and death all around you.
A rail-thin Captain America holds two beasts off with his shield while an obese Wolverine slashes wildly in some sort of half-assed attempt at a berserker attack.
A kid in a Tusken Raider costume takes down two of them with his gaffi stick before getting it himself.
A bunch of Asian girls in Pokémon gear get massacred.
A pretty-boy vampire, covered in sparkles, is torn to shreds by Dracula.
Against the wall sits a man in an extremely authentic Iron Man suit, head in his hands, shaking. The beasts crowd about him, but can’t get through the armor.
You sprint across the floor and through the food court. You grab the kid and pull.
You look up at the banners a couple of aisles away from you. One reads NINTENDO. The other LUCASFILM.
Run for the Nintendo booth? Click here.
Down the Lucasfilm aisle? Click here.
BBQ
You wake to the smell of barbecue. It can’t be. Can it? Barbecue?? Your stomach tugs at you. Your body lifts you, like Garfield chasing a lasagna, and you’re carried out.
At the center of the site, Al stands over a grill, flipping dogs. Nearby is Sully, at a plastic folding table, examining what looks to be a map laid out in front of him. Fish sits across from him, playing with his thumbs.
You drag your feet over, still half asleep, but beckoned by the sweet smell of meat.
Al looks up. “Hey, it’s the tough guy. How’d you sleep, sunshine?”
“Hey. Fine.”
“Burger, dog, or both?” he asks.
“Uh—both, if you’ve got it.”
Al nods and throws another patty on. A few dogs cook, blackened.
Everyone seems awful calm, awful relaxed, considering the army amassing at the fences. So you say, “You guys seem awful calm, awful relaxed, considering the army amassing at the fences.”
“That’s ’cause we figured a way out of this mess, college boy,” Al says, taking a long drink from a Heineken.
You perk up. “For real?”
“For real.”
You take a seat at the table next to Sully. He writes on the map with a black Sharpie. He does an equation on the side—then crosses it out. Scribbles some more. Complicated math.
“What is that?” you ask.
“Map.”
“Of what?”
“City sewer system.”
The sewer! Bingo. You can Ninja Turtle your way right the fuck outta here.
Al drops a plastic plate in front of you. Cheeseburger. Hot dog. You dig in. Not stopping to chew, you manage to say, “So we escape through the sewer, huh?”
“That’s the idea,” Sully says.
“Where’s the manhole or whatever?”
Sully looks up at you, annoyed. Then points to a huge pump not far across the site. “Right there.”
“Huh?”
“Pump leads to a water tank, which leads directly to the sewer.”
“So how do we get down there?”
“You’ll see,” he says, standing up. “Fish, mount up.”
Fish nods, looking nervous. He stands up slowly and walks to a huge truck crane with a wrecking ball attached. He climbs onto the metal tank-style tread and into the driver’s seat of the enormous vehicle. There’s a rumble and it starts up. The tracks move slowly and the crane begins to turn. The huge wrecking ball hangs from the end of a steel rope, swaying.
“So what—you just knock it over?” you ask.
“Basically,” Sully says. “Fish clears out the pump, Al blows the tank, and we—”
“Blows?”
Al slams the grill shut, then holds up a stick of dynamite. “Blows.”
You nod, impressed—and just a little scared.
“Right,” Sully continues. “Then we head underground.”
Sully calls Al over and they go over the math. Then Al grabs a duffel bag and places the dynamite inside.
“When do we go?” you ask.
Sully folds up the plans and puts them in his back pocket and looks up at you, sun in his eyes. “Now.”
He waves at Fish. Fish waves back. Sully gives a thumbs-up, then there’s a loud cranking sound as a secondary steel rope pulls the ball toward the crane cab. Then it stops. Locked and loaded.
“Here we go,” Al says.
Fish works three large gears. Then he reaches over and slams his hand down.
The massive ball unloads, flying toward the pump. It smashes into it, breaking it to pieces. A geyser of water shoots up out of the ground.
Perfect.
And then—
Fuck…
Then it swings back.
You can see it coming. So can Sully—he reaches out, grabs your arm, and squeezes.
The wrecking ball swings back over the pump and into the fence, smashing through and carrying directly into the monsters. One cartwheels through the air and smashes into the side of an apartment building across the street. Another slams into the side of an SUV, setting off the alarm. The rest land on the street.
The wrecking ball swings back, sending another five monsters flying in the other direction.
The fence is torn open. The zombies pour i
n. “Al, blow it, now!” Sully shouts.
Al drops the duffel bag and pulls out three sticks of dynamite. Fish leaps down from the crane cab and begins sprinting toward you—at the same time, the beasts begin pouring through the open fencing and down the hill. You’ve got thirty seconds, maybe, before they’re upon you.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Al mutters. He holds up the three sticks and intertwines the fuses. He eyes the bomb for a split second, wheels in his head turning, then bites off a chunk of the fuse.
Then he rips a Zippo from his shirt pocket, lights the fuse, and tosses it next to the geyser. “Get back!” he shouts, running alongside Sully. You follow him around the side of a huge Caterpillar dump truck. Fish catches up.
“How long?” Sully asks, catching his breath.
“I tried for ten,” Al says.
“Tried?”
“I had to rip it with my fucking teeth.”
You peek your head around the side of the truck. The beasts are down the hill. They’re coming in your direction. They’re almost at the dynamite.
Then at it.
Then.
BOOM!!!
You’re thrown to the ground. Your ears ring. Dust fills the air and rocks rain down around you like hail.
A hand on you. Al. He pulls you up. You see him mouth the words “come on,” but you don’t hear him. He pulls you around the side of the truck. A hundred zombie bodies are scattered across the construction site. Twisted and destroyed. Some dead. Some crawling. Scraping at the dirt.
Al has just blown a massive hole in the earth—at least sixty feet in circumference. It slants down from all sides to a smaller hole at the bottom. Sully leaps in. He slides down the hill, and then disappears.
You look up. Monsters just as far from the hole as you are. It’ll be a race.
Are you fast enough?
To head down into the pit and go for the sewer, click here.
To turn and run like hell, click here.
WITH WALTER
On the third day, the looters come.
You and Walter are talking Hogan’s heroes. You’ve pretty much run out of topics that interest both of you. You know those bad relationships where the boyfriend and girlfriend are hanging on to just one thing? Well that’s you and Walter—and that one thing is Colonel Klink. You’re about to ask him if he likes F troop, in hopes of widening your conversation options, when Walter cuts you off.
“Shhh. You hear that?”
“I hear the same thing I’ve been hearing for three days straight. Your busted AC rumbling and those fucking things moaning and groaning out there.”
“No. Something else.”
You both go to the window. He’s right. Two people. Across the street trying to break into the CVS. You look down at Walter’s hand. He grips the large metallic revolver. You can read his mind.
“Don’t,” you say. “They’re just looking for supplies to survive.”
“They cross this street, they’re dead.”
“And then what? You shoot them—let every one of those fucking things know we’re in here?”
“Maybe. I don’t give a damn. They touch my store, they die.”
The pair, dressed in all black, creep across the street. They move carefully between abandoned cars. The zombies don’t take notice.
They approach the store.
Walter raises the gun and slips it between two planks of wood, aimed directly at the outside door.
“Walter, don’t do it.”
Walter’s finger curls around the trigger as the pair step closer.
Mind your own damn business and let him shoot? Click here.
If you want to physically stop Walter, click here.
EPISODE VII: THE COSPLAY WARS
You and the kid dart down the Lucasfilm aisle. Grab a mock Luke Skywalker lightsaber out of a freshly dead man’s hand.
Up ahead, you can see an exit sign, just above the top of a gigantic, near life-size model of the Imperial AT-ST chicken walkers from Return of the Jedi.
An undead Harry Potter and Hermione sprint around the corner. You swing the saber, knocking Hermione into Harry. But another dozen of the monsters follow.
Above you towers the massive AT-ST model. You look at the legs. You think like an Ewok.
“Push!” you shout. The kid throws his weight into the legs. You do the same. You feel it move. One final push, and it tips, bringing the entire wall down with it.
A clear path.
In front of you, the signing booths. Deserted. Empty chairs, some knocked over. Every booth abandoned.
Except for one.
He sits there. Calm. Giant black horn-rimmed glasses. A green fishing vest. White beard. Pen still in his hand.
George.
Fucking.
Romero.
And behind him, the exit.
You sprint across the floor, covering the distance in seconds. You put your hand on the door, then you stop. Turn around. What the hell is Romero doing?
“Let’s goooo,” the kid says, tugging at your shirt.
You nod. But you don’t move.
Slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, as if an onslaught of zombies isn’t facing him, Romero puts his pen down, pushes his chair back, and stands.
“Stop!” Romero shouts. Then, in some bizarre language, “Finjt!”
And, amazingly, they do. Every single zombie. They shuffle into a semicircle stretching the entire length of the exhibit hall. Those on the ground, eating, raise their heads, flesh dangling from their chins like a baby eating spaghetti. The wreckage of the battle stretches out behind them.
Footsteps to your left. A man comes around the corner booth, clutching his shoulder. He’s bit. But not yet turned. He makes eye contact with you, then stumbles over.
You recognize him. He’s an actor, maybe? Something. You’ve definitely seen him. Sex Machine?
He stumbles into you, hits the wall, and sinks to the floor.
“Hey, aren’t you?” you whisper.
“Yes,” he chokes out.
Good lord—it’s Tom Savini. The sultan of splatter. The godfather of gore. The makeup artist that for decades made George Romero’s monsters come to life onscreen.
“I never thought this day would come,” Savini says. His words are raspy. He can barely speak.
“What are you talking about?”
He looks up at you. His face has gone white. He’s going to turn soon.
“George did this.”
“George Romero?”
“Fuck do you think I’m talking about?” he says, then coughs up blood.
“What—”
“Years ago. Nineteen seventy-seven probably. We were shooting Dawn of the Dead. I was”—Savini stops to wipe the blood from his chin—“I was doing makeup. We had these extras on set—just a handful, that George would never let me touch. Only George was allowed to work with them. There were these rumors—rumors that they weren’t actors at all. That they were zombies. The real fucking thing. And that only George could communicate with them.”
“Get the fuck out of here.” But you look up, and George is in complete control of the monsters. He continues to bark at them in this strange, foreign language.
Savini nods, his eyes beginning to glaze over. “It’s all true. So one night, we had just wrapped shooting and we were celebrating in this local Pittsburgh bar. I got George drunk—just kept feeding him can after can of Iron City. And that’s when he started talking.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nineteen fifty-eight. George was eighteen—had just moved to Pittsburgh to study art at Carnegie Mellon. He had this best friend—a local guy, townie. He was a coal miner, like every guy over eighteen in rural PA back then. So this one night—it’s his buddy’s birthday, so George and his girlfriend drive out to the mine. They’re going to pick his buddy up when he gets off work, surprise him. But he never comes out of the mine. No one does. Finally, it’s like two A.M., and George decides to go down the
re looking for him.”
Savini rolls over, vomits. He grabs your arm, twists. Just minutes until he turns.
“Something had happened—some gas had escaped. I’m not sure. Only George knows for sure. But down there—the whole crew, zombified. Monsters. Turned into a fucking monster. George runs like hell, gets back to the car just in time to see his best friend tear his girlfriend’s throat out.
“The mining company covered it all up, caved in the mine, wrote it off as an accident. Wasn’t uncommon back then.
“But George went back, two days later. Into the woods. And he found them. His girlfriend and his best friend—these mad, snarling zombies. He got a hold of them, locked them up in this shack, way deep in the woods.
“That’s when George lost it. This woman—this woman that was going to be the love of his life—she was a fucking zombie. He developed this hatred for the world. You’d never know it—he buried it down so deep inside him.
“Nineteen seventy-two. Made a film called Season of the witch. Then he disappeared—for five years, no one saw him. He just stayed out by that shack, studying the two of them. Doing tests. Taking blood. He wanted to figure out what had made them into these monsters—and he wanted to re-create it.”
“All of his films—all shot in rural Pennsylvania. Never shot a scene more than a hundred miles from that shack. He couldn’t stand to be away from them for more than a day or two.
“We never spoke about it again after that night. Though I’d hear him—in his trailer—speaking this language. This shit he’s speaking now.”
“Wait—so you’re saying?”
“What I’m saying is, George has done it. He’s re-created it. He’s unleashed it. George Romero is the fucking lord, leader, and king of the undead.”
Romero continues to speak to the crowd. “Reech nargh tan sein renchhhh!”
“What is he saying?” you ask.
Savini manages a few words at a time. “Something like ‘My children, our time is now.’”
Romero continues: “En vest nass rane ciptola. Roark thu masse. Roark San tremen. tremen vuye DEAD!”
Savini translates: “Here, in New York City, not five miles from where I was born, you were birthed today. Birthed to become an army. My army of the dead!”
