Highway to Hell

by Max Brallier

The Jeep, at 40 miles per hour, goes over the side, plunging into the gaping hole. The car falls, dropping forty feet onto the 1 2 3 subway line . . .

  Your head slams into the wheel, and everything goes . . .

  Black, all around you, when you come to. Takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. Ringing in your ears. Over it, you can just make out the announcer: “. . . appears Jimmy El Camino has dropped onto the subway! And we all know who lives down there, don’t we, folks?”

  The headlights are shattered. You reach up. Tap the overhead light, and—

  Pale faces, all around you. Yellow eyes watch you and dirty teeth chomp. Thin hair hangs over bloody skin. The ringing in your ears fades and you hear a new noise. The famished moaning of a thousand undead.

  You reach for the seat belt buckle, but one of them grabs your hand. Cold fingers paw at your face. Another tumbles over the passenger-side door, reaching for you.

  You get the belt buckle undone just as the teeth sink into the base of your neck. Fangs pierce your scalp. You’re swinging a fist, trying to knock it free, as another undead beast bites into your shoulder. Your flesh splits. Another falls into you, teeth in your neck.

  “And it looks like Jimmy El Camino’s first Death Derby will be his last . . .”

  AN END

  SOUTHERN COMFORT

  It’ll be the south, you decide—a longer trip, yes, and the more time on the road, the better chance some monster or highwayman gets you. But if it allows you to avoid Boss Tanner’s drivers, so be it.

  You cruise alongside 81.

  Iris soon falls asleep. The madness she’s witnessed would tire anyone.

  Late afternoon: a band of roving marauders, like something out of Mad Max, forces you back east. You drive straight through the evening and into the night. Iris snores softly while you listen to Waylon Jennings and smoke cigarette after cigarette, lighting each with the last.

  You notice, curiously, that you have a slight smile on your face.

  It’s early morning when you come into southern Philadelphia. You drive up a winding suburban road, to a point overlooking the city’s skyline. Through binoculars, you see that the city is overrun—thousands upon thousands of undead filling the streets.

  Goddamn it.

  That forces you even further east, as every possible southern route is blocked by hordes of zombies, marauders, or general destruction.

  You’re passing by something called the National Museum of Dentistry, getting close to Washington, DC, when you hear it. The sound starts in the distance, low at first, then turning to a thundering roar.

  A train.

  You stop in front of the tracks. No safety gates lower.

  The train barrels down the track, rumbles past the intersection. At first you think it’s some strange freight train, but it emits a different sort of noise: a calliope. Across the side, in tall stenciled letters, are the words Ring’s Most Wonderful Circus Show. The growl of the diesel engine wakes Iris. She clears her throat, and spits out the window. “What’s happening?”

  “Circus train, believe it or not.”

  That brings her to like a bucket of cold water. “Circus? No shit, huh. Let’s go.”

  “No.”

  “Never seen a circus. Be a break from the horror. Something decent, ’fore I die.”

  “Maybe there’ll be one in San Francisco,” you say, then immediately regret the words.

  “We could follow the train. They probably know a good route.”

  The rickety caboose hurtles past you—must be the fiftieth car, at least—then the train winds around a bend, disappearing.

  “I’m serious, Jimmy. Why not follow the tracks?” Iris says.

  She has a point. The train is headed south and the crew, most likely, will follow a route that steers clear of cannibal dens, undead hordes, bandits, highwaymen, and the rest.

  But there’s a feeling in your gut, saying this decision is big. Saying that whatever choice you make, it’ll result in two very different journeys . . .

  If you’ll continue into DC, click here.

  If you think Ring’s Most Wonderful Circus Show sounds like a grand ol’ time, click here.

  RIDE IT OUT

  “You okay?” Billy asks.

  “Yeah. Just can’t sleep anymore right now.”

  “You like war?” Billy asks.

  You blink. “What?”

  “Do you like war?” Billy says again.

  You shake your head, not understanding.

  Billy shoves his hands into his oversized jean pockets and pulls out a beat-up, rain-damaged deck of cards. “We can play. I like it. Mr. Ring taught me.”

  “Oh,” you say softly. “Yes. Yes, that’d be good. I like War. Keep me from sleeping. Let’s play War.”

  Billy counts out the cards and gives you half. You pick up the whiskey bottle and you drink and you smoke and you and Billy play for hours.

  When you get tired of War, you play Slapjack. Billy has never played it, so you show him how.

  Your hands are strong. They come down hard, smacking Billy’s. He laughs. You laugh, too. You laugh for the first time in a long time.

  When the sun comes up, Billy sneaks back through the crack in the roof.

  “Good-bye, Jimmy,” Billy says as he leaves.

  You nod good-bye. You don’t thank him for the company. You fall back asleep, and this time you go under just fine.

  The next day, just as dusk is beginning to settle over the horizon, you see Mr. King’s black Lincoln. You’re peering through one of the cracks, watching Wisconsin race by, when you spot the vehicle speeding across rough fields. It’s off in the distance, following the train, kicking up dust.

  You’re surprised it took him this long to find you.

  You smile, thinking about how disappointed Mr. King will be when he discovers you’re no longer with Iris. How angry Boss Tanner will be that his man won’t get to kill her.

  The train rolls to a stop just outside the Amtrak station in Green Bay, Wisconsin. The air is refreshingly cool and you breathe deeply.

  The door rattles open. As always, the gunmen are there. “Wrist,” one says.

  You stick your arm out, and they cuff one hand to the side of the cattle car.

  Looking out, you’re surprised to see there’s no crowd waiting—no onlookers eager to ride the rides and watch the undead bloodshed. The area surrounding the train is completely desolate. Empty storefronts. Scorched houses. Forgotten vehicles. Garbage piled in the streets, scattered along sidewalks and avenues.

  Not even zombies shuffle around.

  “Some crowd,” you say, and one gunman hits you in the gut with his gun barrel. You light a cigarette and keep your mouth shut.

  Not far from the tracks, six large army transport trucks are idling. A man in a suit leans against the closest truck, and Ring greets him, shaking hands, chatting. Ring waves his hand at the train, showing it off. He points to the elephant cars, the lion cars, the giraffe cars, the undead-clown cars, and finally to you.

  Ring and the man walk over. “Really packing ’em in,” you say as they stop in front of you.

  “Special show today,” Ring says. “Off-site. Jimmy, this is Big Stump. He runs this area.”

  Big Stump smiles. He’s got a toothy grin. “I keep my folks safe in a little town not far from here.”

  You puff your cigarette.

  Big Stump continues, “We’re all real excited to have you in town. Folks here, itching for entertainment like you wouldn’t believe. Real excited to have you—just real excited.”

  You nod, then flick your cigarette butt into his eyes.

  The man stumbles back, shrieking and wiping the sparks from his face. “Jesus Christ, Ring!”

  Ring chuckles. “I told you, Stump. He’s a wild animal. Why you think we got him caged up?”

  Stump looks you up and down. “Yeah. Well, guess that’s what you want in a gladiator.”

  Ring puts his arm around Stump and they walk off, Ring bragging more abou
t his enterprise.

  The carnies unload the wildlife only, no rides. They usher the undead animals into the large transport vehicles. It’s not easy work—like trying to wrangle a bunch of oversized, rabid dogs.

  You lean your head against the car door and shut your eyes.

  Ring comes to get you around noon. You’re ushered to the last transport truck, then cuffed to the rear bumper. “You’ll walk to the stadium,” Ring says. “That’s for misbehaving, not being kind to our host.”

  The six-vehicle caravan rolls out. You jog to keep up. The chain tugs at your wrist and after two miles, your breath comes sharp and pained.

  Over the Fox River, down South Ashland Avenue, onto Lombardi Avenue. You know exactly where you’re going: Lambeau Field.

  A little over an hour after leaving the train, you come to the stadium. It towers over the town that surrounds it.

  The statue of Green Bay’s legendary coach, Vince Lombardi, has been torn from the ground. It lies on its side. You wonder how they pulled it free. Was it ropes, like Saddam? You saw that firsthand.

  A local crew at the stadium. They raise the gates to one of the large vehicle entrances, and the caravan rolls inside, through a tunnel, and then out onto the field. You hear the noise then. The crowd. And then you come out of the darkness, into the sunlight, and you’re walking out on the legendary Lombardi turf. A goalpost towers over you and you can still make out the faded yard markers on the field.

  It’s a big crowd, though nothing near capacity—nothing like a Packers game in December. Stadium holds eighty thousand, you guess—probably not that many people alive in the whole region. But there are at least five thousand here, spread all around the stadium, leaning over the first few rows.

  Big Stump shouts into a bullhorn. “Citizens! Thanks for coming out today! I know it’s not easy travel for you, but I promise to make it worth the trip!”

  The crowd cheers and whistles. Ring takes the bullhorn from Stump, then grabs you by the wrist.

  “This, friends, is Jimmy El Camino! THE GLADIATOR. Killed five hundred zombies in just three weeks!”

  Well, that’s just a giant fucking exaggeration, you think. No way it’s more than two hundred.

  He continues, “Jimmy El Camino is the greatest gladiator Ring’s Most Wonderful Circus Show has ever had! And today, he’ll do battle for your viewing pleasure. But not against a few simple zombies. No. Would I have you come all the way out for that? NO! Today, it’ll be six elephants, one tiger, five giraffes, two rhinos, and one hundred zombies. AGAINST ONE MAN!”

  The crowd screams and stomps their feet.

  “Folks, there’s no point in delaying the action,” Ring says. “So let’s get to it!”

  Ring hands the bullhorn to Big Stump and slaps you on the shoulder. “Well, Jimmy, this is where I say good-bye,” Ring says. “I doubt we’ll see each other again.”

  “I don’t know about that,” you say.

  “Oh, one other thing!” Ring says as he climbs up into his truck. “My son, Billy. I told him not to talk to you. He didn’t listen. So now you can die together.”

  You hear a pained cry, and then the boy Billy stumbles around from the far side of the truck you’re cuffed to. His eye is black. Bruises on his neck. He’s been beaten.

  Ring waves good-bye and his truck rumbles away, across the field, back into the tunnel.

  The other transport trucks open their rear doors, then do a circle around the stadium, dumping out the horrible creatures they contain. Undead tigers tumble out. Elephants, falling over themselves. Soon, the arena is nearly full of undead animals.

  But still, no human zombies . . .

  A gunman tosses you the keys to your handcuffs, then climbs up into the truck as it begins pulling away. You have to run to keep up with the truck, struggling to unlock the cuffs before your arm is yanked from its socket. You get the cuffs off and stumble, falling into the mud, just as the vehicle pulls into the tunnel and the heavy security gate slams shut.

  You’re officially trapped inside the stadium.

  Billy tries to help you up from the mud, but you swipe his hand away. “Just stick close,” you say.

  The zombie animals have begun to notice you. Some come slowly toward you, others move fast, galloping with their strange, undead gait.

  And then the tunnel at the far end of the field opens and hundreds of human zombies flood out. Some of them are Packers players, still in jerseys and helmets. Others are local fans, turned undead. In a moment, they’re rushing across the length of the field, toward you.

  The crowd erupts.

  You look around. You have no weapon. No cover. Need to find both.

  Not far from you, one of the undead elephants lies on its side. Both its legs shattered when it tumbled from the transport truck, and it struggles to move.

  Across the field, closer to the visitor’s tunnel, is the ambulance the team used to carry injured players from the stadium.

  There’s little time to think—an entire army of zombies and undead animals is racing toward you. Billy tugs at your shirt. “Jimmy? What are we going to do?”

  Take cover behind the elephant? click here.

  If you want to sprint to the ambulance, click here.

  CITY OF ANGELS

  When you see the Welcome to Los Angeles sign, you’re low on gas, you’re short on sleep, and Iris’s body is starting to smell. It was those damn Klansmen—interrupted the freeze-drying process. You can find the gas, the sleep you can do without, but Iris’s body . . . if her insides rot, then this was all for nothing.

  You’re contemplating the issue as you cross over the 101. The freeway is clogged—you’ve never seen so many cars. The sky is a dark gray and a haze hangs over everything.

  On Hollywood Boulevard, you pull over to piss and refill the tank. A large theater looms over the street. The Dolby. A sign announces something about the Oscars. Looks like it was Oscar night when the zombies came to Los Angeles.

  A few monsters, dressed up like famous movie characters, stumble around; most of them you don’t recognize. You were never much for pop culture—a pirate, something that’s either Star Wars or Star Trek, some other nonsense.

  “You there!” a voice calls out.

  You whirl around, drawing the sawed-off.

  A man—hunchbacked, with a sort of Igor look to him—is hobbling out of the Madame Tussauds wax museum. He waves his hand, beckoning you close. “What is that marvelous smell?”

  You raise the gun. “Go back inside, old man.”

  Igor continues across the street. “I mean you no harm. I’ve only come to help. That wonderful stench caught my nostrils.”

  “I don’t want to kill you,” you say, “but I won’t much care if I do.”

  He stops then and meekly holds up a hand. His hair is white and wispy. He has high cheekbones and large, deep eyes. “Let me speak, at least. From the smell there, and from the somewhat distraught look on your face, I suspect you are in possession of a rotting body, yes?”

  After a moment, “Yes.”

  “Now, why would you be hauling around a rotting body?”

  You don’t reply.

  “Well?”

  “Trying to get somewhere with it.”

  “Need to put it on ice, I’d say.”

  You lower the shotgun, just slightly. “Keep talking.”

  “Come inside,” he says, throwing a nod toward the wax museum. “I can help you keep a body cool, for travel.”

  “Talk here.”

  “No, no. Inside, I can show you. Much easier,” he says, turning and limping back toward the museum.

  Curious? Want to follow Igor inside? click here.

  No! No more delays. To keep moving, click here.

  OFF TO THE RACES

  You follow Eigle down two long halls, through a steel door, and then up four flights of stairs. Thin One and Boxy keep their guns on you—and they keep their distance.

  Twin doors open onto the world. Outdoors. It’s early morn
ing and the sun is dull, but still, it’s been years since you’ve seen any sunlight, and you squint. Not helping much. You place your forearm over your eyes and focus on the weeds poking through the cement and your shuffling feet as you follow Eigle.

  Sniffing at the air, you ask, “New Jersey?”

  “Yes,” Eigle says.

  Whole time you were in that cell, you had no idea where you were. Didn’t even know if it was American soil. Figured a black site somewhere overseas—Lithuania or Poland. But no—a black site in the goddamn Garden State. A nondescript factory with a second, more secretive use.

  It’s quiet. The white-noise hum of the highway is absent. The other sounds—the honking horns, the distant machinery, the steady buzz of humanity—none of it is there.

  You pull your arm from your eyes, let your irises adjust. The sky is gunmetal gray. A filthy afternoon in a filthy world.

  Thin One and Boxy push you into the back of a Humvee. At gunpoint, you’re handcuffed to a ceiling mount.

  “Play nice,” Eigle says. “It’ll be worth it.”

  Boxy drives, Eigle rides shotgun, Thin One sits beside you. The Humvee drives up a ramp, away from the facility, past abandoned factories, and out onto 95, headed toward New York City. The highway is choked with rusted, abandoned cars. Undead figures shuffle between them.

  You’ve seen horrors, but these undead things roil your stomach. This tastes like bile. The living dead. You want to look away—but you force yourself to watch. You pick one of the monsters, focus on it: a child. An undead corpse that was once a young girl. You see its clothes: A blue T-shirt, torn. Black pants, shredded and caked in blood. Its hair, once long and curly and red, now all but gone, just spots of scalp.

  You don’t look away. You force your eyes to accept the unacceptable. To believe the unbelievable, to understand it—doing that removes the fear. And it’s the fear that gets a man killed.

  A path has been sliced through the highway, cars pushed aside, allowing the Humvee through.

  You lean forward, peering through the bulletproof window.