by Morgan Rice
I now stand inside, in the aisle of the school bus. I quickly hurry down it, looking back and forth frantically as I go. There are dozens of young girls in here, chained to each other, and chained to their seats. As I go, they all look up at me, terrified. I scan each row quickly, from left to right, looking for any sign of my sister.
“BREE!” I yell out, desperate.
As the girls catch on to my presence and realize I might be a key to their salvation, they start crying, hysterical.
“HELP ME!” one of them screams.
“PLEASE, GET ME OUT OF HERE!” another screams.
The driver catches on to my presence; I look up and catch him starting at me in the rearview. He suddenly swerves the bus hard. As he does, I go flying across the aisle and bang my head on the metal casing of the ceiling.
I regain my balance, but then he swerves in the other direction, and I go flying across the other side of the bus.
My head is pounding, but I steady myself, this time clutching the seats as I pull myself carefully forward, going row to row. I look each way for Bree, and there are only a few rows left.
“BREE!” I scream out, wondering why she’s not raising her head.
I check the next two rows, then the next two, then the next two…. Finally, I reach the last row, and my heart drops.
There’s no sign of her.
The realization hits me like a hammer: I chose the wrong bus.
Suddenly, I glimpse motion out the window and hear an explosion. I turn to see our Humvee, Logan inside, go flying up in the air as it hits a land mine. It lands on its side, skidding through the snow. Then it stops.
My heart drops. Logan must be dead.
TWENTY-FIVE
I take my eyes off the driver for too long, and it is a stupid mistake.
He pulls out a handgun, and now aims it right at me. He smiles a cruel smile. He has me.
He cocks back the trigger and is about to fire. I brace myself. There is nowhere to go, and I realize I’m dead.
Suddenly, over the driver’s shoulder, I see a crazy jump out of a manhole, aim his RPG right at us, and fire. I watch as the missile sails through the air, coming right for us.
A tremendous explosion rocks our world. The noise is deafening, and I am thrown up into the air, smashing my head, as I feel the tremendous impact of the heat. Then my world turns sideways, as the bus smashes onto its side, skidding.
Because I’m the only one standing, the only one not buckled or chained down, I’m the only one who goes flying across the bus. I go flying through an open window, propelled out of the bus, and as I do, the bus explodes—and the shockwave sends me flying even further. I continue flying through the air and land twenty yards away, face-first in a mound of snow.
Flames rip through the air, just searing my back, and I roll in the snow and luckily put them out. I feel the tremendous heat of the waves of fire behind me.
I turn to see the entire bus is up in flames, on its side, in the snow. The flames must rise twenty feet high. It is an inferno. My heart drops as I realize that no one could possibly survive that. I think of all those innocent little girls, and I feel sick.
I lay there in the snow bank, trying to catch my breath from the smoke. My head spins, and I hurt more than ever. It is an effort to sit up. I turn and set my sights on our Humvee. It sits there in the distance, at the base of the Flatiron building, on its side, like a dead beast, two of its tires blown off.
Logan. I wonder if he is alive.
I claw myself to my feet with my last ounce of strength, and manage to hobble his way. He is a good fifty yards away, and it feels like I am crossing a desert to reach him.
As I get close, another manhole opens up, and a crazy suddenly sprints right for me, holding out a knife. I reach down and raise my gun, take aim, and shoot him in the head. He lands on his back, dead. I reach down and take his knife, and put it in my belt.
I check over my shoulder as I run, and several hundred yards back I spot a group of crazies charging right towards me. There must be at least fifty of them. And all around them I see more manholes open up, more crazies crawl up from the ground, and come running out of the subway stations, scurrying up from the steps. I wonder if they live in the subway tunnels. I wonder if any subways are even still running.
But there is no time to think about that now. I race for the Humvee and as I reach it, I realize it’s destroyed, useless. I climb up on it and open the driver side door. I brace myself as I look in, praying I don’t see Logan dead.
Luckily, I don’t. He is still sitting in the driver’s seat, buckled, unconscious. There’s blood splattered on the windshield and he’s bleeding from his forehead, but at least he’s breathing. He’s alive. Thank God he’s alive.
I hear a distant noise, and turn to see the crazies getting closer. I need to get Logan out of here—and fast.
I reach in, grab his shirt, and begin to yank him up. But he is heavier than I can manage.
“LOGAN!” I scream.
I pull harder, shaking him, afraid the Humvee will blow any minute. Slowly, he begins to wake. He blinks and looks around. He realizes.
“You OK?” I ask.
He nods back. He looked stunned, frightened, but not seriously injured.
“I can’t get out,” he says back in a weak voice. I see him struggling, and look over and see the twisted metal of his seatbelt buckle.
I climb in, reach over him, and jab at the buckle. It’s jammed. I check back over my shoulder and see the crazies are even closer. Fifty yards, and closing in. I use both hands, pushing it for all I have, sweating from the exertion. Come on. Come on!
Suddenly I get it. The buckle snaps and the seatbelt goes flying back. Logan, free, rolls over, banging his head. He then begins to pull himself out.
Just as Logan sits up, his eyes suddenly open wide, and he reaches out with one hand and roughly pushes me aside. He raises a gun with the other and takes aim just past my head and fires. The fire is deafening in my ear, which rings badly from it.
I turn and see he’s just killed a crazy, a few feet away. And the others are only thirty yards behind him.
The crazies are closing in fast. And there’s no way out.
TWENTY-SIX
I think quick. I see an RPG lying in the snow, a few feet away from the dead body of a crazy. It looks intact, never fired. I run to it, my heart pounding as I run right towards the mob. I only hope that it works—and that I can figure out how to use it in the next few seconds.
I kneel down in the snow and scoop it up, my hands freezing, and hold it up against my shoulder. I find the trigger and take aim at the mob, now barely twenty yards away. I close my eyes, praying that it works, as I squeeze the trigger.
I hear a loud whooshing noise, and a moment later I’m knocked backwards off my feet. The force of it sends me flying about ten feet, landing flat on my back in the snow. I hear an explosion.
I look up and am shocked at the damage I’ve done: I managed a direct hit on the mob, at close range. Where there were dozens of bodies a second ago, there is now nothing but body parts spread over the snow.
But there is no time to revel in my small victory. In the distance, dozens more crazies crawl up from the subway stations. I don’t have any more RPGs to fire, and don’t know what else to do.
Behind me I hear a noise of smashing metal and turn to see Logan standing on the hood of the Humvee. He lifts his leg and kicks at the machine gun mounted to its hood. Finally, it comes flying off. He picks it up, and a chain of ammo dangles from it, which he wraps over his shoulder. The gun is massive, made to be mounted on a car—not carried—and looks like it weighs over fifty pounds. He holds it with both hands, and even as big as he is, I can see it weighing him down. He runs past me and takes aim at the new group of crazies. He fires.
The noise is deafening, as the machine gunfire rips through the snow. The impact is tremendous: the huge bullets tear the incoming crowd in half. Bodies drop like flies wherever Logan aims
the gun. Slowly, finally, the gunfire stops, and the world returns to its still, snowy silence. We have killed them all. For now, at least, there are no more crazies in sight.
I look around, survey this canvas of destruction: there is the destroyed black school bus, taken out by the RPG, the destroyed yellow one, lying on its side, in flames, bodies are everywhere, and our Humvee is a shell beside us. It looks like the scene of an intense military battle.
I look down and follow the tracks where the other bus went, the one with Bree on it. They forked left at the Flatiron.
I chose the wrong bus. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.
As I study the scene, catching my breath, all I can think of is Bree, those tracks. They lead to her. I have to follow them.
“Bree’s on the other bus,” I say, pointing at the tracks. “I have to find her.”
“How?” he asks. “On foot?”
I examine our Humvee and see that it is useless. I have no other choice.
“I guess so,” I say.
“The Seaport’s at least fifty blocks south,” Logan says. “That’s a long walk—and in dangerous territory.”
“You have any other ideas?”
He shrugs.
“There’s no turning back,” I say. “Not for me, anyway.”
He examines me, debating.
“You with me?” I ask.
Finally, he nods.
“Let’s move,” he says.
*
We follow the tracks, walking side by side in the snow. Each step is a fresh burst of hell, as my calf, so swollen, is beginning to feel like a separate entity from my body. I hobble, doing my best to keep pace with Logan. Luckily, he is weighed down by the heavy machine gun, and is not walking too fast himself. The snow is still coming down in sheets, the wind whipping it right into our faces. If anything, the storm feels like it’s getting stronger.
Every few feet another crazy pops out from behind a building, charges us. Logan fires at them as they come, mowing them down one at a time. They all hit the snow, staining it read.
“Logan!” I scream.
He turns just in time to see the small group of crazies charging us from behind. He mows them down at the last second. I pray that he has enough ammo to get us wherever it is we need to go. My gun only has a single bullet left, and I feel I need to save it for a desperate moment. I feel so helpless, and wish I had rounds of ammo myself.
As we pass another block, several crazies jump out from behind a building and charge us at once. Logan fires, but doesn’t see the other crazy, charging us from the other side. He’s charging too fast, and Logan won’t make it in time.
I pull out the knife from my belt, take aim, and throw it. It lodges in the crazy’s forehead, and he drops to the snow at Logan’s feet.
We continue down Broadway, gaining speed, moving as fast as we can. As we go, the crowd of crazies seems to thin out. Maybe they see the damage we are doing and become wary of approaching. Or maybe they are just waiting, biding their time. They must know we will run out of ammo, and will eventually have nowhere to go.
We pass 19th street, then 18th, then 17th…and suddenly, the sky opens up. Union Square. The square, once so pristine, is now one big, untended park, filled with trees and waist-high weeds, sprouting up through the snow. The buildings are all in ruin, the glass storefronts shattered and the facades blackened from flames. Several of the buildings have collapsed, are nothing but piles of rubble in the snow.
I look over, checking to see if the Barnes & Noble that I once loved is still standing. I remember the days when I would go there with Bree, when we would go up the escalator and get lost in there for hours. Now, I am horrified to see that there is nothing left. Its old, rusted sign lies face-down on the ground, half covered in snow. There’s not a single book left in the shell of its windows. In fact, there’s no way of knowing what the store even was.
We hurry across the square, sidestepping rubble as we follow the bus tracks. All has become eerily quiet. I don’t like it.
We reach the southern side of the square, and I’m saddened to see the huge statue of George Washington mounted on a horse toppled, lying in pieces on its side, half-covered in snow. There is really nothing left. Anything and everything that was good in the city seems to have been ruined. It is astonishing.
I stop, grabbing onto Logan’s shoulder, trying to catch my breath. My leg hurts so bad, I need to rest it.
Logan stops and is about to say something—when suddenly we both hear a commotion and turn. Across the square, dozens of crazies suddenly rise up from the subway entrance, heading right for us. I can’t believe how many there are: there seems to be a never-ending stream of them.
Worse, Logan takes aim and pulls the trigger, and this time we hear nothing but an empty, horrifying click. His eyes open wide in surprise and fear. Now we have nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. This huge group of crazies, at least a hundred and growing, are closing in. I turn in every direction, looking frantically for any source of escape, any vehicles, any weapons. Any source of shelter. But I find none.
It seems we have reached the end of our luck.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I frantically scan our surroundings, and I spot the façade of what was once a Whole Foods. It is abandoned, like everything else, completely gutted. But unlike the other stores, it appears the doors are still intact. I wonder if maybe we can get in and lock them behind us.
“This way!” I scream to Logan, who stands there, frozen in indecision.
We run to the entrance of the Whole Foods, the crazies just 30 yards behind us. I expect them to be yelling, but they are dead silent. With all the snow, they don’t even make a sound, and that somehow is even more eerie than if they were screaming.
We reach the doors and I try the handle and am relieved it’s open. I run in, Logan behind me, then turn and slam it behind us. Logan removes the heavy machinegun from his shoulder and shoves it between the door handles, barring the doors. He wedges it in there, and it is a perfect fit. I test the doors, and they don’t budge.
We turn and run deeper into the store. It is cold in here, empty, gutted. There aren’t any remnants of food, just torn and empty packaging, all over the floor. There are no weapons, no supplies. No hiding places. Nothing. Whatever was once here was looted long ago. I scan for exits, but see none.
“Now what?” Logan asks.
There’s a sudden crash against the metal door, and I see dozens of crazies slam into it. I can already tell our lock won’t last long. I search the store again, frantic for an idea. And then, in the distance, I spot something: a stairwell.
“There!” I yell, pointing.
We both run across the store, burst open the door, and find ourselves in a stairwell. Logan looks at me.
“Up or down?” he asks.
It’s a good question. If we go down, maybe there’s a basement. Maybe there are some sort of supplies, and maybe we can barricade ourselves in down there. Then again, it could be a death trap. And judging from the look of this place, I doubt there are any supplies. If we go up, maybe there’s something on a higher floor. Maybe an exit through the roof.
My claustrophobic side gets the better of me.
“UP!” I say, despite the pain in my leg.
We start ascending the metal steps. Logan climbs so fast, it is a struggle for me to catch up. He stops and turns, realizing, then runs back, wraps an arm around me, holds me tight, and pulls me up the steps faster than I can manage on my own. Each step is torture, feels like a knife entering my calf. I curse the day that snake was born.
We run up flight after flight. When we cross the fourth flight I have to stop, gasping for breath. My breath is raspy, and sounds scary even to me: I sound like a 90 year old woman. I think my body has endured too much in the last 48 hours.
Suddenly, there is a horrific crash. We both look at each other, then look down the stairwell. We realize at the same time that the crazies have broken in.
“COME ON!�
� he screams.
He grabs me, and I feel a surge of adrenaline as we run twice as fast up the steps. We clear the sixth flight, then the seventh. I hear the sound of the crazies barging into the stairwell, and look down and see them starting to sprint up the steps. They know exactly where we are.
I look up and see there is only one more flight to go. I force myself, gasping for breath, up the last flight of steps. We reach the landing and race for the metal door to the roof. Logan puts a shoulder into it, but it won’t open. It’s locked. Apparently, from the outside. I can’t believe it.
The mob of crazies is getting closer, the sound of them on the metal stairwell deafening. In moments, we will be torn to bits.
“STAND BACK!” I scream to Logan, getting an idea.
This is as good a place as any to use my last round. I pull out my gun, take aim, and with the last round I have left, I fire at the knob. I know it’s risky to fire in such close quarters—but I don’t see what choice we have.
The bullet ricochets off the metal, missing us by an inch, and the lock opens.
We run through the door, out into daylight. I survey the roof, wondering where we can go, if there’s any possible escape. But I see nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Logan suddenly takes my hand and runs with me to the far corner of the roof. As we reach the edge I look over and see, below us, a huge stone wall. It spans University Place, running across 14th Street and blocking off everything south of it.
“The 14th Street wall!” Logan screams. “It separates the wasteland from the desert.”
“The desert?” I ask.
“It’s where the bomb went off. It’s all radiated—everything south of 14th street. No one goes there. Not even the Crazies. It’s too dangerous.”
There’s a sudden crash of metal, and the door to the roof slams open. The mob pours out, running right for us.
