Highway to Hell

by Max Brallier

  It’s a bumpy ride. Zombies stumble out in front of the car, and you watch. You never turn away. The vehicle hits one, knocking it down and rolling over it. You can feel the cracking bones.

  When the undead horde dwindles to nothing, you stare out across the river. Feels good to stretch your eyeballs. Past five years, never looked farther than five feet in front of you. You see Manhattan’s skyline. You don’t notice anything missing—no zombies snuck away with the Chrysler Building in the middle of the night.

  But it’s empty and dark. Even in daytime, the lack of lights is clear and stark and unnerving.

  The Humvee rolls on, never topping 20 miles per hour as it navigates the makeshift highway lane. The cars are now tombs, full of people who never got out, just starved to death, died along their morning commute.

  You come to the Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge. Trucks, parked horizontally across the highway, block every toll lane, forming an improvised wall across the bridge entrance. Six armed guards stand in front, bullshitting.

  The Humvee stops in the center toll lane. A guard—a young kid, half-invisible mustache—steps to the window. “Morning, Major Eigle. Destination?”

  “One guess,” Eigle says.

  “Uh. The Death Derby, sir? Right?”

  Eigle nods.

  The kid looks to the back, at you, then down at a clipboard. Nothing digital, you notice. Nothing that takes batteries or electricity. “I have no prisoner transfer on my island entrance sheet,” he nervously reports.

  Eigle glares at the kid for a long, hard moment. The soldier coughs. Nods. Turns a little red. Gives. “Uh, you can head on through, sir.”

  Eigle rolls up the window and the Humvee continues on as the kid shouts, “Major Eigle, coming through!”

  One of the trucks rumbles to life, jerks forward and back several times until it can pull out and free the lane.

  The Humvee rolls through the tollbooth and onto the barren George Washington Bridge. You cross, then come out in Manhattan. Boxy drives south on the Henry Hudson Parkway.

  At Fifty-Seventh Street, the Humvee gets off the highway, onto the city grid. No zombies here. A scattering of living folks plod back and forth between a few operating storefronts. A grocery. A stand offering roasted pigeons, jugs of water, and park-grown fruit. Most things are shut down. Storefronts with shattered windows.

  Armed men on the street corners. Militia: flannel shirts and thick beards and Mets caps.

  The Humvee takes you downtown, toward Times Square.

  As you approach, the population increases. But still, few on the street. Most of them hanging out windows. Holding up signs that read RACE LIKE A CHAMPION TODAY and ELWOOD’S MY LOVER and THE DEAD DO IT BETTER. Someone pukes out a window, then laughs. It’s like they’re tailgating.

  At the corner of Forty-Sixth and Eighth, you see a zombie.

  It’s thin, rawboned, and nearly skeletal. It’s standing in the center of the intersection.

  No, you realize, it’s not standing. Not really.

  Its feet are enclosed in a large cement block.

  It’s like an ornament, almost. Its arms thrash out. Its mouth opens and closes in a pained, hungry, silent howl. You roll the thick, bulletproof glass down and the silent howl becomes a loud moan. The zombie spots you and lunges. But it just falls forward, hands smacking the cement awkwardly, like it has no idea how to catch itself. Head bouncing off the street. The block of cement doesn’t budge. After a moment, the undead thing manages to rise again.

  “Looks like they put them out early today,” Thin One says.

  “Christmas decorations?” you ask.

  “Boss Tanner’s toys,” Boxy says. “Part of the Derby.”

  “Who’s Boss Tanner?”

  Eigle turns around to look at you. “Remember the name. Boss Tanner is the man who runs Manhattan.”

  The Humvee rolls into Times Square. Men in faded NYC Sanitation uniforms rush about, sweeping, lifting overturned benches, clearing the streets.

  You stop in front of the Paramount Building, on Broadway between Forty-Third and Forty-Fourth. The towering structure overlooks Times Square and the building where the ball dropped every New Year’s Eve.

  You’re uncuffed from the mount, led out of the vehicle, then pushed against it and your wrists are shackled again. Militiamen, drinking beer from metal steins, look on with curious eyes and action boners.

  Eigle begins walking. “Electricity is spare. You get used to the stairs.”

  “How many floors?” you ask as you enter the Paramount Building.

  “Seventeen.”

  “Delightful.”

  In the cell, you kept yourself in relatively decent shape: jumping jacks, body-weight squats. Four hundred push-ups a day, never less.

  Seventeen floors later, you come through an emergency exit into a crowded sort of ballroom. A wide, open-air terrace circles the building. People rush around, preparing. Someone setting up a cocktail bar. Another testing a sound system.

  “Get some rest,” Eigle says. “The derby starts at noon.”

  “Cuffs in the front?” you ask.

  Eigle thinks, then nods. The men keep their guns on you as Eigle uncuffs and then recuffs you, in the front.

  Then you plop down on a plush leather couch. Christ, it’s comfortable. You shut your eyes. You’re intrigued, curious about all this. But you let your mind go to that quiet place—the quiet place that lets you get through the blackness without drowning in it.

  You’re asleep in seconds.

  NOON . . .

  Whiskey. Like smelling salts. It snaps you to. That wonderful goddamn smell turns you into a cut-rate Shakespeare.

  Oh, my lover, how I’ve yearned for you. Longed for you.

  Eigle is holding a thick crystal tumbler beneath your nose. You grab it with cuffed hands, open your mouth, and pour the whiskey down.

  My darling, I’ve dreamed of your taste on my lips.

  The liquor makes its way down your throat, tentacles of warmth, circulating through your belly and entering your system. Joining you. A symbiotic bond. An old friend, back again—that rare buddy with whom you can pick up exactly where you left off, no awkward “How’s the family? How’s the job? Tough commute?” No, the booze cuts straight to the chase—it knows exactly how everything is and exactly what it’s here to do.

  Christ, darling, how I’ve ached for you.

  You swallow and softly smack your chapped lips. You blink twice, wide awake now.

  Eigle pours another, then sticks his hand out and helps you off the couch. “The derby will begin soon. Need you to know a few things before you start.”

  The ballroom and the terrace are crowded now. A jazz band plays soft, sleepy, kill-me-now music. Waiters carry appetizers. You spot one carrying pigs in a blanket—it takes every ounce of restraint not to tackle him. You grab four. Your cuffs clatter against his tray, but he just smiles and whispers, “I’ve been there.”

  You shove two into your mouth.

  You follow the major out onto the terrace. Seventeen floors up, you’ve got a full view of Times Square.

  At the far end of the long terrace is a fat man with short, bright red hair. He laughs—a hyena cackle—and squeezes the two bone-thin girls at his sides.

  “That’s Boss Tanner,” Eigle says.

  “The man who runs New York,” you say.

  “Right. C’mon. Keep your mouth shut, I’ll explain soon.”

  The major leads you across the terrace, past rich-looking folks, all dressed in their Sunday best.

  “Boss Tanner,” Eigle says, “I’d like you to meet Jimmy El Camino. Think he’d make a nice addition to your stable.”

  The fat man known as Boss Tanner turns. His cheeks are red, and a gold watch glitters in the afternoon sun. He looks you up and down, then says, “You look like shit run over twice, old man. A drunken bum.”

  Quick as snapping fingers, your cuffed hands flash out, right palm open, monkey’s paw. An instant before your
hand slams into Boss Tanner’s face, Eigle throws you, gripping your cuffs, swinging you into a pillar.

  The terrace goes silent. Bated breath.

  After a moment, Boss Tanner chuckles. He’s untouchable, apparently, and he knows it. At last, he says to Eigle, “He’s mean.”

  “I know,” Eigle says.

  “That’s good,” Boss Tanner says.

  The rich folks breathe a collective sigh of relief.

  “Play nice, Jimmy,” Eigle whispers in your ear. “It’ll be worth it.”

  Boss Tanner tugs on your cuffs. Eigle lets go, and Tanner leads you to the edge of the terrace. Eigle remains close behind you.

  “This is it, old man. The Death Derby,” Boss Tanner says to you with a proud, sweeping wave at the city. He’s a big man, but he’s got a voice that sounds a bit like Kermit the Frog on helium. He wants you to be impressed; you want to laugh.

  “It was all my idea,” he continues. “After all the badness, people wanted entertainment. We went a bit Roman.”

  He looks at you like he’s waiting for a hearty slap on the back. When he doesn’t get it, he simply says, “Just pay attention when the announcer starts.”

  You peer down the long, wraparound terrace. You see 125 people, maybe more. Girls barely dressed. A few photographers with high-powered lenses.

  An announcer sits at a table, a few yards away. When he speaks, his voice booms off jury-rigged speakers positioned around Times Square. You watch the speakers, and you notice cameras, too—CCTV cameras on every building, looking down.

  The announcer’s words are a squeal, at first; there’s feedback, and then someone, somewhere, adjusts the levels and the sound settles in. Lightbulbs burst, electricity sparks, then a giant electronic monitor flashes on the front of One Times Square—the building that sits at the crux of the world’s most famous intersection. The monitor shows the announcer.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer begins, “welcome to the Big City Death Derby. The ultimate in vehicular zombie combat! Violent! Uncensored! Death has been promised, fans, and death will be delivered!”

  The crowd cheers. They hang out of windows, like they’re in one of those photos of V-Day, welcoming home the troops.

  “You know the rules. The derby lasts ten minutes. Ten points for every undead killed solo, twenty-five points for combo deaths, fifty points for knocking another driver out of the race, and one hundred for killing another driver. And they all know to watch out for Boss Tanner’s booby traps!”

  Boss Tanner wears a wicked grin. The man is in love with himself.

  You look back at Eigle. He gives you a solemn nod.

  “Now,” the announcer says, “let’s welcome our drivers!”

  There are seven of them. As they’re announced, they pull out from different intersections, rolling into Times Square like NFL players running out of opposite tunnels.

  “First,” the announcer says, his voice echoing off the buildings, “let’s welcome Elwood. As always, behind the wheel of his 1974 Dodge Monaco.” The red-and-blue gumball lights flash and the sirens blare as he enters. Guns and missiles protrude from seemingly every inch of the car. Elwood, a big-boned man, steps out of the car and tips a black fedora.

  Next, a tremendous roar as a Harley rolls into Times Square. Atop it is a big, tall, butch redhead, hair cut close. “And here comes Sonja, atop her trademark 1991 Harley Dyna. She’s gripping the steel mace that’s bashed in a grand total of ninety-four undead skulls over the past five derbies.”

  Next, a rusted 1981 Chevy pickup rolls out from Forty-Fourth and Seventh. A massive Gatling gun is mounted in the bed of the truck, its barrel just above the top of the cabin. Out steps a younger man, on the tall side, with a bushy brown beard. He wears dirty brown corduroys and a torn denim shirt. The announcer says, “There’s Buzzy, a young driver with a lot of promise. He tells us he used to hunt the undead on his father’s property in Maine before they came to glorious New York City.”

  The announcer’s voice raises an octave and he says, “Now, hold on, folks, we’ve got a real treat for you—a brand-new racer. The Desert Fox!” From the corner of Forty-Third and Broadway out rolls—Jesus—a German World War II–era Panzer III tank. Desert unit. The driver, presumably the Desert Fox himself, pops out of the top and waves his helmet.

  “Next is Lucy Lowblow, in her little white Porsche. Who doesn’t love Lucy?!” A cute little blonde steps out of the sleek vehicle and waves and winks. Men cheer and catcall. One is so eager to touch her that he leaps from a twelfth-story window, screaming, “Lucy!” as he falls. He splatters across the cement and the crowd whoops and hurrahs.

  The announcer chuckles and then continues as a Ford van pulls into the intersection, smoke pouring from the windows. An old hippie sits behind the wheel, puffing on something fat. “Making a triumphant return from a terrible accident three months ago is the lovable onetime-pacifist slayer of the ungrateful undead: Stu Bean.”

  You take another drink. Boss Tanner leans close to you. “This next one’s my favorite. My man. Handpicked.”

  A 1965, all-black Lincoln Continental pulls out into the street. The announcer says, “And last but not least, the man known as Mr. King. You know all about the Lincoln, folks—fully equipped: flame throwers, rocket launchers, machine guns of all shapes and sizes. He’s Boss Tanner’s best loved!”

  It’s then that Major Eigle takes you by the arm. He pulls you away, to the far edge of the terrace.

  “So this is the government now?” you say. “This is what it does?”

  Eigle shakes his head. “There is very little government left.”

  “You’re military—”

  “Yes. But I report to no one. I have a few soldiers beneath me, staying out of loyalty. But most everyone else? They work for Boss Tanner. Guns for hire.”

  “Real government? Washington?”

  “Like I said, not much left. Us here. San Francisco. Local bosses like Tanner control the major cities. I provide Boss Tanner border support. Just easier that way—if he really wanted to, he’s got enough men to wipe me out.”

  You grit your teeth. “So who the fuck had me in that hole the past five years?”

  “CIA, at first—but that was just for the first six months or so. Then all this shit happened. People started dying. People started running. Soon, it was just me. I wanted to free you, but Boss Tanner wouldn’t allow it. He knows about your history. Wasn’t sure he could control you. I pulled strings to get you here today.”

  “You want me to drive.”

  “Yes. One round in the derby. And then the real mission.”

  “When do I drive?”

  “Right now. The Death Derby is beginning. We have a vehicle waiting for you downstairs.”

  You’re hot. You’re ready to kill.

  Boss Tanner might be the asshole in charge of all this, but it was this goddamn Major Eigle—this military man—who held the keys that kept you in that cage.

  If you’ll do his bidding and drive in the Death Derby, click here.

  Want your revenge? Want to hurl Major Eigle over the side? Click here.

  THE WAITING IS THE HARDEST PART

  “Can’t believe you got fucking kids sleeping in my guest room.”

  “Guest room?”

  “Fuckin’ spare room, whatever. Lounge. Office. Foyer.”

  You and Dewey are sitting on the front porch, drinking homemade hooch. It’s just past one a.m. and the moon is tucked away behind the clouds. Dewey’s handiwork is on either side of you: stuffed zombies, posed like waiters. You place your drink down on the world’s strangest end table—a zombie child, stuffed, standing, wearing a top hat. The hat makes a good surface. You don’t bother to ask for a coaster.

  “Dewey, you get lonely out here?” you ask.

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “No. I was alone a long time before this. Figure the end times changed my life a lot less than most folks’.”

  You nod. “Probably lon
ely and you just don’t know it. Used to it.”

  Dewey shrugs and drinks.

  “You any sort of pervert, Dewey?”

  He turns. “What kind of question is that to ask a man sharing his bottle with you?”

  “Are you?”

  “Why? What, the magazines? You been snooping in my drawers?”

  “No, Dewey. I mean a real pervert. Not skin mags. Kids, anything like that? You into that?”

  Dewey stands up, then. He’s got a drunk on and he’s wobbly. “I should knock your teeth out.”

  “Sit down, Dewey, I don’t mean any harm by it.”

  He glares and half-falls back down onto his rickety rocking chair.

  You say, “Even now, all alone, a girl like Suzie-Jean in there. Young. You wouldn’t do anything?”

  Dewey shakes his head. “Never.”

  “Swear?”

  “Swear on my family.”

  “You got family?”

  “No, but I’m swearin’ on ’em just like I did have ’em.”

  You nod. Silence for a while, as you smoke a cigarette and drink more. “Dewey, when we’re done with Iris, I’m going to need to leave those kids here with you.”

  Dewey chokes on his drink. “Say again?”

  “I need to leave those kids here with you. Can’t take them with me. Slow me down.”

  “No.”

  “They’ll be of help to you. They’ll grow up. Be like family, maybe.”

  “I ain’t got food to feed a family!”

  “Figured you for a skilled hunter,” you say.

  Now he really wants to knock you out. He puffs his chest. “I get the biggest goddamn bucks in the county. Gators, too.”

  “So, there you go—you can feed three.”

  He leans back, sipping the rotgut. “I suppose.”

  “Dewey, you need to. I shot the family they had. You can teach the boy things. He didn’t grow up learning anything but goddamn nonsense.”

  You see Dewey smile, just a little. He takes a long swig and his eyes water. He wipes his mouth with the back of his arm, and after a moment, he says, “Fine.”

  The month passes quickly. Dewey says Iris’s body is handling the freeze-drying process well.