Highway to Hell

by Max Brallier

  More explosions shake the stadium. Need to move quickly.

  You kneel down and use your hands to finish the job. You crack the vertebrae and twist and pull until, finally, Ring’s head is removed.

  You then hurl Ring’s headless body through the exit door. It lands beneath the elephant-monster with a wet thump. The elephant looks down at the body, lowers its head, begins eating.

  Next, you tie Ring’s long, ratty hair to the torn Packers flagpole. In moments, you’ve got his head strung up.

  You exit the stadium, out into the afternoon light, where the elephant-monster is nearly finished devouring Ring’s body. You move slowly, circling around the side of the thing. The undead animal’s entire rib cage is exposed. You jam your foot in its side, wedging your boot between two ribs, hoisting yourself up atop the elephant-monster.

  The animal attempts to crane its neck but can’t. After a moment, it seems to regard you only as a minor annoyance, and lowers its head again and finishes eating Ring.

  You lean forward then and extend the flagpole out, so that Ring’s head dangles in front of the elephant-monster’s mouth.

  The creature’s mouth opens and closes. It wants to eat Ring’s head, but it can’t quite reach. So it walks forward, toward it, like the old donkey-and-carrot routine.

  More explosions behind you as you ride the elephant-monster down a short flight of steps and out into the stadium parking lot. The sounds of screams and gunfire chase after you. But they sound wonderfully far away. You rest your head on the elephant’s back and shut your eyes and think about Iris.

  Outside of town, you hear one final, giant eruption—and you turn to see Lambeau Field crumbling, the stands caving in on themselves, collapsing, half the structure imploding and filling the sky with a cloud of debris so thick that, for a long while, it blocks the sun.

  Did the implosion swallow Mr. King and his Lincoln? You hope so, but you doubt it . . .

  There will be plenty of time to think about that later, once you’ve reached Iris. You lie on your side and urge the animal forward. Ring’s head swings back and forth, back and forth, his eyes like two little beads.

  “Ring, you sonofabitch, you and this big undead beast are going to take me all the way to that goddamn ball of yarn.”

  You light a cigarette, smoke half of it, then toss it. You drape your body over the flagpole, trapping one end beneath your belly, then put your head down and shut your eyes. Only nine hundred miles to go.

  Click here.

  CUT THE CHATTER

  Driving down Route 29, leaving DC behind you, you say to Iris, “We need guns. Lost most back there. Call Eigle.”

  Iris talks into the microphone. Eigle tells her to wait—a moment later, he comes back on. “Remington factory, in North Carolina. Closest thing to you.”

  “Don’t need an entire factory,” you say loudly. “Just enough to get us where we’re going.”

  Eigle says, “Remington factory, Jimmy.”

  “Christ. Okay.” You say nothing for a long time.

  After a while, Iris says, “You like guns, huh?”

  You don’t respond.

  “You do,” she continues. “Why do men love guns?”

  “Didn’t know we did.”

  “Yes, you did. And you do. Why?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Sure you do.”

  You shake your head. “Open me up a new pack,” you say, pointing to the carton of stale cigarettes on the floor.

  “Tell me why you like guns first.”

  “Light me a cigarette.”

  Iris plucks your Zippo from the center console, lights a butt, and hands it to you. You smoke slowly, one arm out the window, and after a long moment, you say, “A gun is a tool. Does a carpenter like hammers? No. But it’s a tool, and he’s good and comfortable with it, because his job requires him to be that way.”

  “I just think you love killing.”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Okay’?”

  “I mean, okay, you can think that.”

  Iris sighs, leans back in the seat, and puts her feet up on the dash.

  “Can you keep your feet down?”

  She kicks off her shoes. Just her bare feet. “Better?”

  “Not really.”

  You reach for your flask. You unscrew it with your teeth, navigating around an overturned Greyhound bus.

  After another few quiet minutes, Iris says, “Then what do you like?”

  You don’t respond.

  “You like that?” she asks, nodding her chin at the flask.

  Holding up the booze, you say, “This?”

  “Yes. That.”

  You flick your butt out the window, turn to Iris. “What are you asking all these questions for, anyway?”

  “Because I want to talk. Didn’t think I’d want to—usually can’t stand talking. Told you that, back at the garage. But all this emptiness, all this driving—it’s new to me. Makes me feel like a different person . . . not so tight inside. Figured I’d make it easy on you by talking about something you’re into. From what I can tell, guns and drink are about it. And the firearm chitchat didn’t go far.”

  “Don’t like to talk. Told you that.”

  “Well, I’m the one with the special fucking body that’s supposed to save the world, and for the first time in a long time, I want to talk. So tell me—does it make you feel good?”

  You don’t reply.

  “Come on, I said talk!”

  “I am!” you say, barking it out. “I’m thinking. I’m trying to answer your question correctly. You ask me a question, you want to talk, fine, I’ll try. I’ll try to answer it. But give me a goddamn second to try to form the words.”

  “Not good with words?”

  “Been alone in a cell for five years. I’m out of practice.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  A few minutes and a few swigs later, you say, “Booze doesn’t make me feel good. It makes me feel right. My brain, it’s like—I don’t know, an old undershirt. Gets dirty, right? Gets shit all over it. So you need to wash it. Get it clean. That’s the booze. It washes my brain, makes it right again—removes the dirt. Or more like, it helps me ignore the dirt. The dirt’ll always be there, but I notice it less when I’m drinking.”

  “But every time you wash a shirt, it falls apart a little.”

  “Maybe,” you say, turning to her and grinning, “but what are you gonna do, walk around in grimy clothes all the time?”

  “I guess, but it seems like—”

  “I’m done talking for now.”

  Iris nods. “Got it.”

  You find the Remington factory in Madison, North Carolina. You leave the car running. “Wait here,” you say. “Keep the car locked.”

  You head inside.

  Eleven minutes later, you return, splattered with blood, carrying a heavy automatic shotgun—like the military AA-12, but this is something new, state-of-the-art. A large drum beneath the barrel holds twelve rounds.

  You pull a rag from the back of the El Camino and wipe the blood from your face and arms. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Iris says, “Shit. What happened?”

  “Cannibals.”

  “What did you—” she starts.

  “They were grilling infants over a fire. They’re all dead now.”

  Iris’s face goes slightly pale. She tries to hide it, but you see it—it’s bad in New York, but it’s hell out here. You don’t say much for a while after that—just continue driving south, hugging 85, looping around Charlotte, and then racing down back roads, staring at the pavement until it all begins to look the same. You want to drink more, but you don’t.

  Click here.

  SPINNING YOUR WHEELS

  You throw it into first, alternating gas and brake, trying to rock the El Camino free, but the tires just kick up grass and dirt and—soon—flesh.

  You throw it back into reverse.

  Nothing.

  Mud and dirt and gras
s and zombies, all together, chopped up and chewed up and spit out like fatty meat.

  And then the howitzers start up again. You hear a single shell, whistling as it soars through the air.

  The explosion is so tremendous, so loud, you hear only the pop of your eardrums shattering. You don’t feel it. No pain. Just flashes. You see the ground. And the sky. You feel yourself flying.

  When you wake, you’re lying on wet grass. You see your own arm, a dozen feet away.

  You open your mouth, but there’s blood in your throat, gargling and bubbling with every raspy attempt at breath.

  You manage to lift your head. Your legs are gone. Only two gory stumps remain, charred black. You must have been thrown fifty yards through the air.

  A tall shadow falls over you. You see an undead hand, clutching a piece of paper. You can just barely make out a few words on it, written in fancy script: Four score and seven years ago . . .

  And then a face appears. A zombie. One eye is gone, only a dark hole where it should have been. A tangled beard, dark hair, crawling with maggots. The thing towering over you, you realize, is an undead Abraham Lincoln reenactor.

  It bends down and begins clawing at you. Its left hand has no fingers, and bony nubs paw at your skin. One rips through your flesh, poking at your windpipe.

  And it really does look pretty accurate. That’s what you’re thinking as its nubs get hold of your Adam’s apple and it tugs, turning your gasps to a soft, airy whistling.

  It looks pretty damn accurate . . .

  AN END

  HIGH ON THE HOG

  Your mind races as you twist the throttle. Freedom feels close—but you don’t want to die, not yet.

  You make up your mind.

  All right, Boss Tanner, you want me to play your game, I’ll play your game.

  And, Eigle, you want to offer me my freedom? But I need to slay a few zombies first? Maybe a few breathing folks, too? Will do.

  You rev the engine, turning onto Fifty-Sixth Street, back toward Times Square. Roaring through the crowd of undead monsters, knocking one aside, rolling over another, and racing out into the street.

  As you slide around the corner, they surprise you. Undead bodies, crawling out of open manholes, stumbling from the shadows of overhangs. Hands reaching through sewers.

  One staggers out from behind a rusted delivery truck—this one long and tall, in a shredded camel topcoat. You get a glimpse of a dark face and broken teeth and then it’s ripping you down, off the Harley.

  You hit the ground, roll, and rise. Nothing broken.

  A piece of splintered wood nearby. You grab it, flip it in the air, swinging as you catch it, snapping topcoat zombie’s neck with the first blow. Two more swings and its head separates from its body. Another lunges—you jam the splintered wood into its brain.

  You’re near the Paramount Building, where this whole shitshow started—the building where Eigle offered you your freedom. Where you rebuffed him and tried to kill him. The crowd, leaning out windows all around you, hoots and applauds.

  Now, far down the avenue, you see two cars dueling, veering back and forth, metal sparking and clanging, and you hear machine guns rat-a-tat-tatting.

  Need to keep moving.

  You round the corner, and there you spot a Jeep Wrangler. Rocket launchers on the side. Whopping fifty-cal on top.

  This, you realize, is what Eigle was referring to when he said a vehicle was waiting downstairs.

  He really did have it all set up, everything arranged. He must need you bad.

  You climb inside. Wrap your hands around the steering wheel.

  Another salvo in the distance. Explosions. All the action, together, forming some ungodly orchestra. It’s time you added your own instrument to the tune . . .

  You start the engine, stamp the accelerator, slipping it into second as you enter Times Square. Ahead of you, chaotic car combat and Boss Tanner’s handpicked man—Mr. King—hurtling toward you in the Lincoln.

  Click here.

  AT THE WHEEL

  “The deal is,” you say, sliding into the seat, “only I drive the El Camino.”

  You slam the key into the ignition as Iris climbs in beside you, then press your foot hard on the pedal, gas pumping through the engine like the adrenaline through your veins. You twist the wheel, steering your death machine toward the stable.

  “You’re driving toward him?” Iris says. “Wonderful.”

  “Want to kill King now, if I can.”

  You trigger the rockets—an instant later, twin spirals of smoke as they speed ahead, zooming toward the Lincoln with a piercing shriek. Your enemy cuts at the last moment and the rockets erupt harmlessly against an outcropping of trees in the distance.

  You wrench the wheel, sliding, triggering the M134D minigun. Bullets pound the Lincoln’s hood. Smoke erupts and the Lincoln’s locked tires howl as it turns wildly, a spinning top, out of control—and then—WHAM—slams into the farmhouse.

  Before you can stop the car and finish him, the front end of the El Camino goes up and over a zombie, dragging it beneath the chassis. You stomp the brakes, but the tire skates, hydroplaning on the monster’s wet flesh.

  The El Camino slips into the shattered horse stables, up and over the wreckage left by Mr. King. Inside, Dr. Splicer’s monstrous menagerie is loose.

  You drop it into first gear and steer the El Camino forward, four-wheel drive pushing you through the collapsing stable and through an army of strange creatures—the thresher chewing some of them up, pushing others aside.

  Pigs run, squealing unnaturally, eyes darting—some seem to have the eyeballs of human beings. Undead toddlers stagger about, one covered in chicken feathers, another in goat hair. A zombified cow stumbles forward, its udders replaced with human fingers. You slam into it, threshing it to nothing but specks of red.

  And there, at the end of the stable, is Dr. Splicer, hunched over his operating table, blood streaming from his lacerated belly.

  He sees you. Horror on his face. You just grin and give the El Camino gas.

  The El Camino smashes into the metal table and knocks Dr. Splicer back. He’s scrambling to his feet, clutching his mangled gut, when the thresher gets him, taking his foot first, then more of him, the whirling blades devouring the man as his fists beat the hood, swallowing his torso, and he’s howling, howling, howling still as the El Camino bursts through the back of the stable, out into the wild grass, Splicer still pounding his fists against the hood, wailing, until he’s no longer there, alive, because the thresher has consumed him entirely.

  Gone. Red mulch.

  You circle around, searching for the Lincoln, but it’s gone, too. You spot muddy tire tracks, headed east.

  You ignore them.

  Charging out into the street, nitrous pumping, supercharger pounding, the El Camino leaves behind a long trail of blood and pulp on the grass.

  Click here.

  SNAP!

  The scent of roasting animal is in the air as you move carefully through the trees, taking a wide berth around the house.

  Coming around the rear, you catch a glint of light along the ground. Something reflecting in the afternoon sunlight.

  Fishing line.

  Kneeling down, following the line with your eyes, you see it leads to a tin-can alarm system.

  You carefully step over it.

  Twenty yards from the house now.

  A loud creaking then, followed by a loose smacking—a screen door opening and shutting. A man steps out. He wears a filthy New Orleans Saints jacket. He has a thick gray beard, halfway to ZZ Top, and a greasy trucker hat on top of his head. Late forties. This must be Dewey.

  You slide behind an oak tree, one eye around the side.

  Dewey walks toward the section of fence nearest to you. There’s a grill there. He opens it, smoke pours out, and he curses. Clumsily, he clambers over the fence, out into the woods.

  He drops down to one knee and reaches through the fence to adjust something on the gri
ll.

  Slowly, quietly, you step through the dense brush. You raise the sawed-off, just a threat, not to kill. Another step, and—

  SNAP!

  You choke down a scream. Your eyes drop and you see rusty metal slicing through your boot into your right ankle. A bear trap.

  Dewey turns. He holds a revolver. He has a wide, shit-eating grin on his face. “Hello there, fella.”

  You grit your teeth. The rusty blade cuts into your bone.

  Leaning against the fence, relaxed, Dewey keeps the revolver on you. “Saw you coming a ways back, end of the path. Figured if I fiddled around here, you’d come up behind me—try to get the jump. Figured, too, that you’d step right into that there trap. I’m real good at figurin’.”

  “I need help,” you say.

  He chortles and nods at your foot. “You sure do, fella.”

  “I’m not here to rob you or hurt you. I need your skills.”

  “For what?”

  “A woman. It’s hard to explain.”

  “I saw a dead woman in your car.”

  “Yes, she died. But I think you can still help me.”

  “ ’Fraid not.”

  “Please,” you say. “I can trade. Guns. Booze. Food.”

  “I got plenty of all three.”

  You see how this is going. So you jerk the sawed-off up and—

  BLAM!

  Dewey’s shot punches you in your shoulder, knocking you onto your ass, your ankle snapping as you fall. You lie there for a long time, bleeding, before you lose consciousness.

  You wake up in a dark, windowless room, strapped to a wooden table. Belts and chains around your ankles and legs.

  Creatures surround you, staring at you. You blink. Realize they’re taxidermied animals—squirrels and cottonmouth vipers and snapping turtles and big-ass alligators.

  Dewey appears, leaning over you. “Fella, you were out a long time. Already finished work on your lady friend.”