Highway to Hell

by Max Brallier

  You nod.

  “What happened to you?” she asks.

  You shake your head. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  The sun is setting behind you. The sun sets big in Kansas—orange and red and pink streaks, filling the whole sky, like the man upstairs dumped a few buckets of paint across the horizon and called it a day.

  “I need to sleep,” you say. “We’ll start again first thing in the morning. We can sleep in the SPAM truck. Plenty of room.”

  “The what?”

  “You’ll see. Outside.”

  “Forget that,” she says. “Upstairs, above the gazebo. I made a small room.”

  You shrug. “Lead the way.”

  You climb a ladder through a small door in the ceiling to the room above the gazebo. It’s there for storage: all the World’s Largest Ball of Twine–related–item storage anyone could ever need. The ceiling is low and you have to duck. A small pile of discarded food packaging sits in the corner—Iris survived on jars of peanut butter and ramen noodles. A mailbox on its side collects rainwater.

  You can see the sky.

  “There’s a hole in the ceiling,” you say.

  “It’s nice,” she says.

  “It’s nice there’s a hole in the ceiling?”

  “You look up at the stars while you sleep.”

  Iris has built a sort of sleeping bag from things taken from the surrounding stores. She lies down on it. You take a seat on the wooden floor.

  “We can share,” she says. “It’s not much of a bed, but . . .”

  “Floor’s fine for me.”

  She shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

  You lie on your back. Stars are beginning to peek through the purple sky. Your stomach is tight, like your insides are wrestling. Too much SPAM, you think—but then you realize it’s the poison, beginning to rot your interior.

  You and Iris lie in silence for a long while. “You run into much trouble?” you ask at last.

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “How’s the car?”

  “It’s in one piece.”

  “Good.”

  “Jimmy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Appreciate you coming.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  As you drift off to sleep, half-awake, your vision nothing but purple sky and silver specks, you say, “Iris?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The hole in the ceiling is nice.”

  “I know.”

  You wake up to a screeching sound. You sit up, holding your gun.

  Iris is snoring.

  You step onto a crate, poking your head through the hole in the roof. It’s morning now and the sun is huge and bright, coming over the horizon like it’s rising for the first time. You put your arm above your eyes, blocking it. And then you see them—

  Prairie dogs. The whole fucking Prairie Dog City—they’ve surrounded the gazebo. Thousands of the little bastards. All infected. They have beady red eyes and their hair has wilted away. Probably some infected wolf tried to eat one—now the whole damn city is an army of overgrown fucking rodents.

  Something tugs at your pants. You wheel around, looking down, and see Iris.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Goddamn prairie dogs. You see ’em before?”

  “No. Had no problems with them.”

  “Must have heard the RV coming in last night.”

  They’re an army, disgusting, zombified. They gnaw at the screened-in walls.

  You slip through the hole in the floor, back down the ladder, and into the gazebo. “Where are you going?” Iris calls.

  You ignore her. You have an idea. A stupid idea.

  The rodents are clawing at the fence around the gazebo. Little teeth picking away. They’ll be through in moments.

  You put your weight into the ball of twine and push, struggling, sweat pouring down you and your arms pulsing in pain.

  “Iris, get down here and help!” you call.

  Iris slips down. She immediately gets to it, digging her feet into the cement floor and pushing against the ball.

  And then it goes. The ball of twine is upended and, very slowly, begins rolling. You keep pushing, and finally it bursts through the fenced-in gazebo, tumbling down the great hill.

  “Holy shit,” Iris says.

  You don’t say anything. You just grab Iris’s hand and chase after it.

  The World’s Largest Ball of Twine barrels over the rodent monsters, crushing them. They make rotten squishing sounds as they’re smashed. The things nip at your heels as you run the length of the long hill. Your foot hooks in one prairie dog hole, and you wrench your ankle. But you keep moving. Limping. Following the ball of destruction.

  Suddenly, Iris shrieks. You turn. Her foot, too, has been hooked by a prairie dog hole and she’s on the ground, a zombie prairie dog bursting up from a hole beside her, digging its teeth into her flesh.

  You step forward and kick the thing off her, then pull her to her feet.

  Her neck is bleeding. “I’m fine,” she says. “Keep moving.”

  You continue running.

  There’s a thunderous crash as the ball slams into the side of Prairie Dog City, taking out the porch and knocking down the main wall.

  You barrel inside the building. Animals run free—a menagerie of terror. Strange creatures. At first, you think they’re mutated—but no, they’re simply what was promised on the sign: six-legged steers and five-legged cows and snakes, overgrown, slithering at your feet.

  You rush through the back and into the El Camino. Then turn the key, stamp the pedal, crushing monster rodents, leaving a scattered trail of undead prairie dogs behind you.

  Click here.

  AND YOUR JOURNEY BEGINS

  Just before dawn, Major Eigle wakes you with a kick in the side. “It’s time.”

  You piss, drink a glassful of dirty water, and step into the garage. Hank slides out from beneath the El Camino’s chassis. “Just finishing up, Jimmy.”

  “Fine.”

  “She looks pretty, but she’s tough as hell. Heavily reinforced, two-inch steel plating, sides and rear. Military-grade bulletproof glass.” You watch Hank run his hand over the hood. “Dillon Aero M134D minigun mounted on the roof. Three thousand rounds a minute. Turn a zombie into mashed potatoes quicker than—well, hell, quicker than you can say ‘mashed potatoes.’ Here, on the front fenders, mounted rocket pods. Only get six rounds on each side, so use them sparingly.”

  You whistle. “No joke.”

  “In the bed, twin nitrous tanks. Browning M2 machine gun along the passenger side. Those stay hidden away in a compartment until you roll them out.”

  You nod, impressed.

  “Now, up front, the best part—the thresher. A long line of blades, they’ll spin when you stamp the accelerator—like a lawn mower. Anyone gets in your way, they’ll chew ’em to hell.”

  You follow Hank, walking around the car.

  “And in the bed, your favorites: fire ax, Remington Spartan sawed-off. Also, food, drinks, spare ammo. And a cooler full of beers and a case of whiskey.”

  “You’re all right, Hank.”

  He grins, palms up. “I do what I can.”

  You open the door and climb inside. Been five years since you sat in the El Camino. The cracked leather seats feel like home. When you wrap your hands around the fake-walnut wheel, it’s like the familiar touch of an old lover. The leathery, oily scent of the car brings back a flood of memories.

  Iris steps into the garage, sipping coffee.

  “Time to do this,” you say.

  “All right.” She goes off to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she comes out, teeth brushed, face wet with water, clean. She slides in.

  In the glove box, you find your scratched-up aviators. Same pair you wore for twenty years. You slip them on and light a smoke.

  Eigle opens the rear garage door. “You’ll take the George Washington Bridge,” he says. “I have a man there
who will let you through.”

  “Okay.”

  “Head low until you’re out of the city. This car, hard not to draw attention, so be quick. Boss Tanner’s men are everywhere.”

  You nod.

  “And good luck.”

  “Not needed,” you say. “Just stay on the radio.”

  Eigle stands over the car. “Iris,” he says. “Thank you. You don’t know—”

  She cuts him off. “I do know.”

  Eigle swallows. For a second, you almost think he might start crying, but he’s just tired, you see—exhausted. The type of exhaustion that comes from years of fighting a battle that seems unwinnable. “Be safe. Be smart. Don’t die.”

  He gives the hood a slap, and with that, you roll out.

  The sun is coming up. Blinding and bright. Same sun as always, and it doesn’t give a damn about your mission. Doesn’t give a damn about Death Derbies or zombie attacks or old stories like the broad with a heart of gold and veins full of special blood.

  But you do.

  Right now, you give a damn because you have to. If you’re going to survive, if you’re going to get that house on the beach, your attempt at some sort of peace, after all these years, then you have to care.

  You have to drive the best you’ve ever driven. Kill the best you’ve ever killed.

  You make it just six blocks before the trouble starts. Boss Tanner’s men, standing on the corner, holding their AKs and eyeing you.

  “They’re watching us,” Iris says.

  “They are.”

  “They know about me.”

  A moment later, you find out she’s right.

  The big speakers—the ones used to announce the race—crack and hiss. A voice comes on. Boss Tanner. “Jimmy El Camino. Stop now, hand over the girl, and I may allow you to live.”

  No hesitation, you stamp the accelerator, slicing around the corner as Tanner’s men open fire. You reach over, push Iris down on the seat, and floor it. The men dive as you race toward them.

  Your radio crackles. It’s Eigle. “Jimmy, that got started quicker than I expected. Forget the bridge. Too far. Drive to the Lincoln Tunnel. My two men there can get you through.”

  Locals scatter as you weave through the busy streets, pushing 50 miles per hour. Boss Tanner’s voice continues to boom, like he’s some sort of unseen god—the man behind the curtain. “Jimmy, you will not get off this island alive!”

  You cross Eighth Avenue. The tunnel entrances—three of them, set into filthy gray and brown brick—visible now. Two of Boss Tanner’s militia stand guard. They raise their assault rifles, aiming, and then they both fall to the ground.

  Thin One and Boxy come out of the shadows, knives in hand, plunging them into the throats of Tanner’s men.

  You drive forward. Each of the three entrances is blocked by heavy concrete walls chained to trucks. Thin One and Boxy climb into the trucks and slowly drive forward, pulling the concrete walls aside, revealing the middle tube entrance.

  The soldiers nod. You nod back. And then you enter the Lincoln Tunnel.

  “Jimmy El Camino, stop now or else I—so fucking help me—I will . . .”

  Boss Tanner’s voice fades as you drive further into the tunnel. You flash on the headlights and the twin beams slice through the darkness.

  The tunnel is nearly empty of cars. Water drips from cracks in the ceiling. The fusty odor of rust and decay and death is trapped within the tight walls.

  But no zombies.

  “Anyone live down here?” you ask Iris.

  “When it happened, they locked the tunnel down. A lot of people trapped inside. All of them turned, though.”

  “They must be dead by now,” you say. “Truly dead. What could they have been eating?”

  Iris straps on her seat belt. “We’ll find out.”

  Then comes the sound.

  A clicking, almost—a wet snapping and hissing. When you hear it, you no longer wonder what the zombies have been eating—you wonder what’s been eating the zombies . . .

  “Stinks like death and shit,” Iris says.

  “Yeah . . . ,” you say, pushing harder on the gas. “Not a good sign.”

  You push the El Camino faster through the tunnel. Rounding a bend, you see them coming down the tunnel like a tidal wave of black death, leaping over cars, scampering over the bodies of decomposed, starved zombies.

  Rats.

  Zombie rats.

  New York City rodents, now changed, zombified—almost mutated—the size of goddamn pit bulls.

  Iris begins to shriek but swallows the sound. Your boot punches the pedal, plowing into the undead things. Three of the rotting rodents roll up onto the windshield. Others are caught in the thresher and ground to bits.

  “Gun, in the back,” you say.

  Iris doesn’t hesitate. She grabs the sawed-off, rolls down the passenger window, and—

  BLAM!

  She blows four rodents off the hood. A clean shot.

  You swerve, jerking the wheel, as Iris fires—and the blast blows a hole in the windshield. You both curse. Not off to a great start . . .

  A zombie rat leaps off a rusted old Civic and slams into the window just as you’re accelerating. The glass cracks further and its head bursts through. The snout snaps. It writhes, foul claws scratching, trying to wriggle inside.

  You veer right, narrowly avoiding a horde of the creatures.

  “C’mere!” Iris barks as she reaches across you, grabs the rodent by the face, and yanks it through the glass. The massive thing bulges in her hand, snapping and hissing. It leaps for you, but she throws her other hand around the long tail. A second later, she hurls it out the window. Its fetid odor hangs in the car.

  Rounding the next turn, finally nearing the end of the tunnel, you see more: hundreds. Thousands. And—Christ . . .

  “Hey,” Iris says, swallowing hard. “What is that?”

  You clench your teeth. “I was gonna ask you . . .”

  Something’s happened to these rodents—something changed after they were zombified. You know what it is. You don’t want to admit the truth, but there’s no denying it.

  “It’s a rat king,” you say.

  “Huh?”

  “Never seen one. Urban legend; myth—when a mess of rats are in a tight space, their tails get intertwined, caught together. Blood, piss, dirt, shit—all mixed together. They form one giant sort of rat—but this? This is enormous. This shouldn’t be real.”

  And this isn’t just any rat king. It’s a zombie rat king. As big as a tank.

  And it’s wriggling and clawing and snarling as it drags itself toward you.

  Want to hit this vile beast with the heavy artillery? Click here.

  If you’ll lay on the gas and try to squeeze past the beast, click here.

  BAD NEWS, EIGLE

  Sitting inside the El Camino, you key the radio. “Eigle.”

  A moment later, “Go ahead.”

  “She’s dead,” you say matter-of-factly.

  Silence. Then his voice comes back, thin, sucker-punched. “How?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Christ . . .”

  “But, Eigle, is there any chance? Her organs—could they still do anything with them?”

  A moment later, Eigle says, “Get her to San Francisco.”

  “Will it work?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “All right.”

  “You need to keep the body cold, Jimmy. Or keep it preserved. The men in San Francisco won’t be transplanting the organs, so you have more than the half hour you’d have if it were a heart or a liver. But still, she needs to be kept cold. And beyond that—hell, I don’t know, Jimmy . . . I don’t know how you get her there without her rotting away to nothing . . .”

  “Okay.”

  “Need I remind you, if you don’t get her to San Francisco, then the poison . . .”

  You clench your jaw so hard you half-expect your teeth to shatter. You want to scream at the ba
stard. Tell him what he can do with his fucking poison. But you don’t. There’s no point. Instead, you slam the microphone against the dash and pick up Iris’s Odd America book.

  You flip through it. Something catches your eye. An idea. You stamp the accelerator, light a smoke, and drive as fast as the old El Camino will let you . . .

  Click here.

  CAN’T STAY, WON’T STAY

  In moments, the zombies will be past the El Camino, and then it might be too late.

  Without speaking, you rip open the door in the floor and hurry down into the basement. You yank open the freezer door, grabbing Iris’s legless, lifeless body, then you’re back upstairs.

  Dewey is loading a rifle. “The hell you doing?” he says.

  “Leaving.”

  “You brought them here!”

  “There’s too many. I can’t risk failing now.”

  You throw a look back at the room. At Dewey, red-hot with anger. At Suzie-Jean and Walter, confused, scared, eyes saying, “Don’t leave.” Then you slam the door shut and step outside.

  You pull the sawed-off as you cross the garden with Iris’s legless body thrown stiff over your shoulder. Opening the fence door, you shoot the nearest undead Klansman in the face—its hood explodes in a mess of dirty old brain tissue and cheap white cotton.

  To the El Camino.

  Zombies approaching.

  Setting Iris’s torso down in the passenger seat.

  Zombies near on top of you.

  You’re spinning, firing, killing a lunging Klansman, then sliding into the El Camino, starting her up, hearing the familiar rumble.

  You throw a glance at the house. Walter and Suzie-Jean watch you from the window. You look away.

  Shifting into reverse, rolling over two hooded ghouls. You’re smashing into more, when—

  BLAM!

  It’s Dewey, in the doorway. Firing. Not at the zombies. At you. Four bullets hit the door, ricocheting off the reinforced steel.

  You throw it into first, and the car leaps, charging down the path. A glance at the side mirror. Dewey, ferocity on his face, drops the gun and steps back inside. He appears a moment later holding his Mauser 1918 T-Gewehr—an elephant gun. Strong enough to blow a hole through your door. Through your windshield. Through goddamn Superman, most likely.