by Jim English
You sprint to the nearest lifeguard stand and shout up to the strapping young hottie on duty. “My friend Jose is drowning!” you exclaim.
“Stay here,” the lifeguard says.
As he dives into the ocean, you’re glad you’ve enlisted his help. The lifeguard is swimming much faster than you ever could—and who knows? Maybe once Jose is safe, you and your new hero can practice some mouth-to-mouth.
But who are you kidding? When the lifeguard returns to shore, Jose is clinging to him like a jellyfish. “I’m so grateful,” he says. “This mysterious force was pulling me out to sea!”
“It was just a riptide,” the lifeguard shrugs.
“But you risked your life to save me!” Jose exclaims. “There must be something I can do to return the favor.”
The two of them pass you without a word and disappear into a nearby sand dune. It must be some kind of world record: You’ve only been on Fire Island for two hours, and already Jose is hooking up.
* * *
Turn to this page.
By the time you make up your mind, Jose is out of sight—and by the time you make it to the beach, there’s no sign of him anywhere. “Hello?!?” you call out. “Jose!!!!”
You quickly realize that shouting was a mistake: all of your nelly-yelling has attracted the attention of dozens of zombies. They come streaming out of the dunes, blocking off the west end of the shore and slowly advancing in your direction. You can outrun one or two at a time—but not dozens!
When you look out to sea, you notice a sandbar about one hundred feet from shore. Your hunch is that zombie drag queens will refuse to swim—so maybe you should get in the water. You might be safe there until help arrives.
On the other hand, the main lifeguard station is just five hundred feet down the beach—and you can see people inside, peering out the windows. Maybe Jose is with them! At the very least, they can probably offer you a place to hide out.
* * *
If you run to the lifeguard station, turn to this page.
If you swim out to the sand bar, turn to this page.
If anyone deserves to be slaughtered by zombie drag queens, it’s your annoying, pain-in-the-ass, nelly-bitching best friend Jose. But you just can’t bring yourself to abandon him.
You stop running and watch the ferryboat sail toward the horizon.
“I’m so sorry,” Jose says. “We’ll find another way off the island, don’t worry.”
“I hope so,” you say. Then you gesture to the ferry terminal. “We’ll be safe in here until we come up with a plan.”
* * *
Turn to this page.
“I appreciate the kindness of your offer,” you tell Dr. Nemo. “And if I joined your community, I’m sure I would make many friends and learn many exciting new things. But I know that ultimately I would miss my family and friends back in Manhattan, and I would never truly be happy. I must return to the place I call home.”
Dr. Nemo listens to your speech and nods. “I respect your decision,” he says, “and I can return you to Manhattan by midnight. Of course, I must ensure that you will never bring anyone back to our kingdom.” He asks you to close your eyes and places a small clump of seaweed over them. “Relax and breathe deeply,” he says.
Within moments, you’re unconscious—and when you wake up again, you’re splashing around in the Hudson River! You quickly swim to the surface and make out the familiar sight of the New York skyline; conveniently enough, you’re near the Weehawken Ferry Terminal on West 38th Street. You swim over to the pier, climb up a ladder, and run out to the West Side Highway to hail a taxi. It’s just before midnight, and you can’t wait to get home and turn on the news.
* * *
Turn to this page.
“Our only chance is to swim under the riptide,” you tell Jose. “So we’ll both take a deep breath and dive down.”
Jose nods, pinches his nose, and then follows you down to the sandy floor of the ocean. But no matter how low you go, you can’t escape the force of the riptide—it’s a losing battle. Jose drifts out of sight as the currents carry him away.
You try to swim after him but your lungs feel ready to burst. You surface for air and realize that you’re easily five hundred feet from shore. You can barely distinguish the people standing on the beach. There’s little chance that anyone can see you.
And with a sinking feeling, you realize that your adventure is over before it even started.
THE END
“We only have seven minutes left,” Lance says. “We can’t just stay down here and wait for the missiles to launch!”
“This bitch is crazy!” you tell him. “If we go up there, she’ll cut the rope!”
“We don’t have any other choice,” Lance says. “We have to get close enough to pull her wig off. Your friend Jose may look fantastically hot in his Speedo, but it’s either his life or the lives of everyone on the island!”
You look around the lighthouse and consider your options. You could start running up the stairs immediately. Or maybe you should walk around to the back of the lighthouse, with the hope of finding another way to defeat Champagne Toast.
* * *
If you start running up the stairs, turn to this page.
If you look for another way to defeat Champagne Toast, turn to this page.
The ferry terminal is deserted. The ticket windows are closed and shuttered. Trash and debris are everywhere.
In one corner of the room, a television is broadcasting live news coverage of the zombie epidemic. Geraldo Rivera is standing on the beach, addressing the camera: “Fire Island is in a state of emergency,” he declares. “The zombie population is doubling every ten minutes. All humans must evacuate the island immediately! We have several options for our viewers.”
Jose grabs your shoulder. “Oh, thank God!” he exclaims. “I knew Geraldo would have the answer to our problems!”
Geraldo continues, “We recommend running to your closest ferry terminal. If you miss the last boat to the mainland, then we recommend—”
Suddenly, a hideous-looking queen steps into the frame and claws his face with her three-inch press-on nails. Geraldo shrieks, and then the screen is filled with a meaningless test pattern.
Jose begins to sob. “Now what are we going to do?”
* * *
Turn to this page.
You lean over and read the inscription beneath the ugly drag queen statue:
CHAMPAGNE TOAST: According to legend, this heinous tranny placed dead last in the Miss Fire Island Pageant of 1963, and she vowed revenge by unleashing a plague of zombies on the island. Although her plans were foiled at the last moment, Champagne Toast was never captured—and many fear that she’s been plotting another evil scheme ever since …
Before you can read any further, a voice behind you shouts, “Hands in the air, Mary!”
You raise both your hands and whirl around. Standing in the doorway is a short, paunchy man with a white beard. He’s squinting in your direction—and aiming a rifle right at your chest!
“I don’t have my glasses on,” he says, “but you sure look like one of those zombies to me. I always knew the zombies were going to come back!”
The old coot is clearly crazy—you’ll probably have better luck with all the zombies outside! Then again, maybe you can convince him that you’re not a zombie.
* * *
If you run for it, turn to this page.
If you try to convince him you’re not a zombie, turn to this page.
“I’ll wear the boots,” you tell Lance—and as you slip the Prada boots on your feet, you suddenly feel lighter than air! You can jump up and touch the ceiling with ease.
“If you find yourself in danger,” Cosmo tells Lance, “you can ride piggyback. But that will greatly diminish the power of the boots, so I don’t recommend it.”
You’re grateful for the warning—because as soon as you and Lance walk out of the museum, you immediately find yourselves in danger! The road h
as been completely barricaded by zombies!
On the north end, a dozen zombies are scattered around. With your boots of speed, it would be easy to get past them—unless it’s a trap.
On the south end, a dozen zombies are tightly clustered in a large circle. Getting past them would be difficult—but maybe the Prada boots of speed would give you the strength to jump over them.
Whatever you do, you’ll need to decide quickly—because the zombies are moving in!
* * *
If you run north and try to weave through the zombies, turn to this page.
If you run south and try to leap over the zombies, turn to this page.
“We’re telling the truth!” Jose exclaims.
The sheriff removes a handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose. “You boys sound just like that crazy ol’ coot Cosmo. You ever meet him? He’s curator of the Fire Island Historical Wax Museum. Cosmo’s always telling people how zombies invaded Fire Island forty years ago, and he says he was the only person who knew how to stop them.”
You quickly consult your map but don’t see a clear route to the Historical Wax Museum. “Can you tell us how to find it?”
The sheriff nods. “Just take a left at the post office, a right at the coffee shop, and another right at the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transsexual, and Transgender Bookshop. But hell, if I was in your shoes, I’d head straight to Glowstix, the nightclub across the street. Take in the scenery and get yourself a nice stiff drink. Those Glowboys have the biggest baskets you’ve ever seen!”
“Thanks, Sheriff,” you tell him, “but I think our next choice is pretty clear.”
* * *
Turn to this page.
As you step into the taxi, you realize that the people on 38th Street are walking rather strangely. It looks like they’re limping, or maybe it’s just—shuffling. And everyone seems to be wearing such loud, garish colors …
As you settle into the back of the cab, you realize that they’re not people at all—they’re zombies! The entire sidewalk is filled with zombie drag queens!
“Listen to me!” you tell the driver. “We have to leave immediately! We’re in great danger!”
The driver turns around in her seat and glares at you. “Wheeerrrrree tooooooo, sweeeetie?” she growls, and then she leaps into the back seat with her claws outstretched.
THE END
Cosmo looks so wild and deranged, you know there’s no way you’ll ever convince him—so you immediately bolt toward the exit. There’s a loud blast—and the wax statue of Champagne Toast explodes!
“Come back here!” Cosmo shouts, and then he fires his rifle again. A glass display case shatters into a thousand pieces!
You stumble outside and start running, but halfway down the block there’s another explosion that stops you in your tracks. Out of the smoke emerges the real Champagne Toast—and she’s looking bitchier than ever. “I thought I told you to stay away from the museum,” she says. “Now you’ll see what happens to whores who don’t pay attention!”
She snaps her fingers and suddenly you’re surrounded by eight queens. As they advance with their hideous claws outstretched, you close your eyes and wish you’d jumped on that ferryboat when you had the chance.
THE END
“Get on my back!” you tell Lance.
He shakes his head. “Cosmo says that diminishes the strength of the boots. You go ahead and I’ll find a way to catch up.”
He’s one of the few attractive men you’ve met all day. “Come on,” you tell him. “I’m not going to leave you here.”
Reluctantly, he grabs on and hooks his arms around your chest. “All right,” he shouts. “Giddyup!”
You bolt toward the loosely scattered zombies and—although the power of the boots feels slightly diminished—you have no trouble weaving around them. The zombies hiss and screech but none of them catches you.
“You did it!” Lance exclaims, and then he leans forward and kisses you on the cheek. “You’re amazing!”
You turn the corner and race toward the beach, where you have a clear runway straight to the lighthouse. “Full speed ahead!” you shout, and race toward your destination.
* * *
Turn to this page.
As you and Jose step outside the police department, you announce, “We must go to the museum immediately. Maybe Cosmo has a vaccine to stop the zombies!”
“Zombies, shmombies,” Jose says, and he points to the nightclub across the street. “I came to Fire Island looking for a well-hung Top, not a goddamn zombie vaccine! We’ve spent the whole afternoon running all over town, and now I just want a hot lifeguard to put my legs in a V. Is that too much to ask?”
You have to admit that Jose has a point—these zombies really are ruining your vacation. Plus, there’s safety in numbers—maybe the people in Glowsticks could protect you.
Then again, this might not be the best time to fool around …
* * *
If you insist on trying to find Cosmo, turn to this page.
If you decide to have just one drink at the nightclub, turn to this page.
You take a map of Fire Island from a rack on the wall and consider your options. “It looks like we have two choices,” you tell Jose. “We could try going to the sheriff’s department. It’s just a few blocks from here. I’m sure the police officers would help us.”
“What’s the other option?” Jose asks.
You point to the west end of The Pines, to an infamous stretch of wilderness known as The Meat Rack. An untamed mix of trails, shrubs, sand dunes, and forest, The Meat Rack is the best place on Fire Island to cruise for hand-jobs, blow-jobs, and anything else you can imagine.
“Just west of The Meat Rack is a town called Cherry Grove,” you tell Jose. “I’m sure the zombies haven’t made it that far. If we can get to Cherry Grove, we can use their ferryboat to escape.”
The mere thought of making a decision seems to paralyze Jose. “You know I’m lousy at these things,” he says. “You decide for us, please!”
* * *
If you go the sheriff’s department, turn to this page.
If you run through The Meat Rack to get to Cherry Grove, turn to this page.
“All right,” you tell Jose. “We’ll stop in for one drink.”
The nightclub is one long room, with a bar on one side, a series of tabletops on the other, and dozens of hot guys in between. The house music is blaring and clothing appears to be optional; most people are naked except for their Speedos, and everyone’s drenched with sweat.
Jose starts dancing to the beat, ready to join the party. “Now this is what I call a vacation!” he exclaims, and you both saunter over to the bar. “Two Margaritas, frozen, with salt.”
The bartender is cut like a Men’s Health cover model and wears a g-string so skinny you could floss with it. “Coming right up,” he says.
While he blends the drinks, you lean over the bar and shout, “Aren’t you people worried about the zombies?”
The bartender shrugs. “This year it’s zombies, last summer it was Christian fundamentalists. There’s always someone trying to spoil the party. If you ignore the freaks, they always go away.”
You’re not so sure about that, but what can you do?
* * *
Turn to this page.
You run toward the lifeguard station, waving your arms frantically.
“Help!” you cry out. “Let me in, please! I’m human!”
The survivors open the door just as you approach and slam it shut as soon as you’re inside.
“Oh, thank God,” you exclaim. “I thought I was doomed.”
A blonde lifeguard with a faint resemblance to Pamela Anderson steps out of the shadows. She’s dressed in the same red one-piece swimsuit that all the female lifeguards wear—but, strangely enough, her top appears to be stuffed with rotting seaweed!
“No problemmmm, sweetieeeeee,” she moans, and her voice is as coarse and raspy as sandpaper. “We’ve been waiti
ng for you to joinnnnn usssssss!”
THE END
“Go fuck yourself,” you tell the captain. “I’d rather stay here and take my chances with the zombies!”
“Suit yourself, laddy!” the captain shrugs. “Good luck.”
As you watch his yacht sail off, you quickly regret your harsh words. It’s not long before two dozen zombies are circling the sandbar on inflatable rafts, so there’s nowhere left for you to go.
They begin closing in.
One of the zombies scratches your back. You jump forward, and another one claws your face. “No, damn it, no!” you scream. “I’ll never become one of you!”
Suddenly, two strong hands grab your ankles. You barely have a chance to take a deep breath before someone—or something—pulls you underwater. Is it a shark? Some kind of sea monster? You have no idea—but you’re moving at speeds of sixty miles an hour, racing along the floor of the ocean. Eventually, you can no longer hold your breath, and your lungs fill with salt water.
And then, slowly, everything goes black.
* * *
Turn to this page.
You’ve been at the bar for ten minutes when Jose nudges you. He points across the room and says, “Looks like someone has a secret admirer!”
Sure enough, there’s one hell of a cute guy dancing a few feet away from you. His short dirty-blond hair and frat-boy looks are accented by his smartly coordinated outfit, and his six pack ripples beneath his ultra-tight wife beater. Now that he has your attention, he flashes a heart-melting grin.