Highway to Hell

by Max Brallier

  Iris shakes her head. “Wha— No way.”

  “I’ll keep that damn army busy,” you say. “And you’ll run, straight across the bridge. Take the footpath. Looks like most of the monsters are on the bridge proper. Any on the footpath will chew at you, but you just need to get to that gate at the end, then the doctors can take care of you.”

  “And you?” Iris asks.

  “I just need to give you enough time.”

  “Damn it, Jimmy. We started this together, I’d like to finish it together.”

  You sigh and take a step back. You light a cigarette and look down at the massive, endless army.

  If you’ll bring Iris with you, click here.

  Stick to your guns and go with your plan? Click here.

  ENHANCED INTERROGATION

  You drive slowly along the shadowy Virginia back roads. Any faster, and the thresher—even shut off as it is—will slice Greasy to shreds.

  You pass Foamhenge—a full-size replica of Stonehenge made of foam. Iris mentioned that—one of the locations from the Odd America book. Zombies shuffle around it.

  In a town called Blue Ridge, you take a turn into a large cemetery. Zombies stumble outside the tall, cement-brick walls. You drive down the winding cemetery roads, pulling to a stop in front of a tall oak tree.

  You pull your flask from the glove box and knock back most of it with one hungry swig.

  “All right,” you say, stepping out of the car. “Time to get started.”

  Carrying the fire ax, you walk to the front of the El Camino. You raise the ax and Greasy shuts his eyes, expecting death.

  You bring the ax crashing down. Four times, severing the bungee cords.

  With the last cut, Greasy tumbles forward onto the grass. His back is torn up, like it’s been attacked by a cheese grater.

  Using the razor-sharp edge of the ax, you cut a slice in the duct tape covering his mouth. “Where does the train go next?” you ask.

  “Go spit,” Greasy says, gasping for breath.

  You take a seat on a nearby headstone. You drink from the flask and watch him curl up, holding himself, overcome by pain.

  “The route,” you say. “Tell me, I’ll let you go.”

  “I won’t tell you nothing.”

  “Sure you will.”

  You hear his pained breathing and you hear zombies moaning just beyond the cemetery walls. A few of the monsters mill around near the entrance. You place two fingers in your mouth and whistle sharply, causing the monsters to turn. Three or four begin stumbling toward you.

  From the El Camino bed, you take a long coil of rope and tie it first to Greasy’s sliced ankle. He kicks at you—tired, harmless. You throw the other end of the rope over a thick tree branch twenty feet above you. You catch it as it comes over and tie it to the El Camino’s front bumper.

  “Hey,” Greasy says. His voice is shaky. “Hey, what are you going to do?”

  “Play a game.”

  You slide into the El Camino, shift into reverse, and slowly back the car away from Greasy and the oak tree.

  “Hey!” Greasy screams as the rope begins pulling at his bleeding leg. Soon, Greasy’s leg is yanked up into the air. “Stop! Stop now!”

  You lean out the window. “The train route,” you say calmly.

  “Fuck your father!”

  “Okay.”

  You click on the old eight-track and turn the volume up as loud as it will go. Lynyrd Skynyrd blasts.

  More zombies come stumbling now, shuffling toward the El Camino and toward Greasy.

  “Don’t!” Greasy says. “You can’t!”

  At first, it’s just the sound that draws the monsters. But as they get closer, they smell his flesh and their undead eyes flash. One is nearly upon him.

  “C’mon!” Greasy shouts at you.

  You smile and give it some more gas, lifting Greasy fully into the air. He dangles like a side of beef as the monsters shamble toward him, arms raised.

  “Tell me the route,” you call.

  “Fuck you!”

  You release the brake. The car begins rolling down the hill, lowering Greasy. One of the zombies grabs hold of his stained suit jacket. A hand claws at his face, drawing blood.

  “Okay, okay!” Greasy screams. “Just pull me up!”

  “You going to talk?”

  “Yes!” he says. “Yes! Yes!”

  You shift back into reverse and lift Greasy so high into the air that his foot is wedged against the branch.

  “Kentucky!” he screams. “Louisville! That’s the next stop!”

  “What’s the route?”

  “Tracks run along Route 64, through all that bluegrass nothingness. That’s all I know!”

  “Where will Iris be?”

  “Huh?”

  “The girl! Where will Iris be?”

  “I don’t know!”

  You release the brake, rolling forward; Greasy plummets downward. One zombie grabs hold of his hand. The monster tries to bite it.

  “With Ring!” Greasy screams. He thrashes his arms. “She’ll be with Ring! Ring likes a girl in his car.”

  “Which car?”

  “Second from the front.”

  Again you reverse, just seconds before one monster devours Greasy’s face. “Was that so hard?” you say.

  You put the car in park and pop the e-brake. A zombie is pawing at your cracked window. “Excuse me,” you say, opening the door, slamming it into the undead thing. It stumbles back, and you bury the ax into its face.

  You walk down the hill. Nine zombies are crowded beneath Greasy, reaching up for him, moaning.

  You hold the sawed-off at hip level and fire, the wide blast catching four of them in their chests and knocking them back. You fire again, dropping the rest. Before they can get up, you’re over them, swinging the ax, splitting their heads, one by one, like you’re chopping wood.

  Greasy dangles above you. “You’re insane,” he says.

  “Brother, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  Click here.

  GO ON, GIT!

  “Fucking go on,” you say after a moment. “Do what you want.”

  “I will,” Billy says.

  You flick your cigarette butt at the boy. It hits his bare foot as he escapes through the roof.

  You lie on your back and you drink what little is left of the bottle and you smoke until you fall asleep.

  When you wake, the train is screeching to a stop. Minutes later, the big cattle-car door slides open, revealing Ring. Billy stands at his side, his head just peeking inside the car.

  “He tried to escape,” Billy says, pointing at you. “He asked me to help him. So I told you, Mr. Ring, just like you said.”

  “You did good, Billy,” Ring says, climbing up into the car.

  The two gunmen, as always, have their rifles trained on you. Ring pulls the bottle from your hand. You leap to your feet, about to tackle him, but he brings the heavy bottle crashing down, into the side of your skull. You stumble forward. He swings it twice more, and you drop.

  When you come to, you’re on your knees. You blink. Confused. Unsure. Head pounding.

  After a moment, you realize you’re on top of the train car. But the train is not moving.

  Looking around, you see the train is stopped in the middle of a thick wood. Some carnies sit in the trees, watching, and others hang upside down from the branches.

  Ring has his hands on your hair. Holding you. The edge of a knife presses against your shoulder.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” you growl. “I’m gonna kill you if it’s the last thing—”

  Ring jabs the knife into your shoulder. Twists. Pain explodes.

  “You’re not going to do nothing but die,” Ring says.

  Ring pushes you forward so you’re looking through a sliding roof hatch, down into the car. Beneath you are the monstrous, zombified clowns. They fill the car entirely—a hundred bodies packed so tight you see nothing but their rotted, painted faces. The stench rushing
up from the car is overpowering. Blood from your shoulder rains down on them, and they stare up, moaning, hungry. Their outstretched arms reach for you. Gnarled, rotten fingers grasping at air.

  Ring stabs again, this time into your other shoulder, and he twists the knife and you pitch forward, through the open hatch, into the waiting arms of the clown-monsters.

  You never even hit the floor of the car. There are too many of them. They grab at your flesh and they gnaw at your tissue.

  And now?

  Now you rise. Broken. Ripped of nearly all skin. Organs torn loose, devoured.

  Undead.

  Now you’re part of this godforsaken undead circus.

  Permanently.

  Or at least until some other gladiator comes along. Someone like you. Someone who will kill you in front of the roaring, bloodthirsty crowd.

  AN END

  ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK

  The Harley rumbles beneath you.

  Fuck Major Eigle and his offer. Fuck Boss Tanner and his game. You can taste freedom now—sweeter than Southern whiskey.

  You speed across Manhattan, to the east, toward the river. You twist the throttle and navigate streets swarming with monsters. The Harley hugs the corners as you dodge stumbling, lunging beasts. Explosions boom in the distance: other racers, locked in vehicular combat. If you can cross the bridge or the tunnel, you can get to Queens—that gives you options: head upstate, or maybe ditch Tanner and Eigle in Brooklyn, bide your time, get to Staten Island, then swim to Jersey—from there you can go anywhere you want, lose them for good.

  The announcer’s voice echoes off the buildings: “It looks like Boss Tanner’s newest driver, Jimmy El Camino, has decided to abandon the Death Derby! Our beloved ruler will not be pleased.”

  A moment later, Boss Tanner’s voice comes over the loudspeaker: “Mr. El Camino, turn around. Understand, you cannot escape this island. Play the game, Mr. El Camino. Return to the game, or die.”

  You’ve come to the Queensboro Bridge. The cantilever truss structure looms over you, towering and steely. Unlike the nearly abandoned bridge you and Eigle came in on, this one teems with zombies—a thick mass, covering the deck.

  Concrete barriers block the bridge entrance. Beyond the barriers are tractor-trailer trucks, turned sideways—a second wall.

  You need to get around them. Or over them.

  You search, soon spotting a large flatbed truck with the bed raised, angled to the sky like a ramp—like a fucking gift from above. A way out.

  You turn, ready to race the bike up the back of the flatbed, and Boss Tanner’s voice booms again: “Mr. El Camino, this is your last warning. Play or perish . . .”

  If you want to listen to the villainous Boss Tanner and turn around, click here.

  If you choose to ignore him and continue your escape attempt, click here.

  AT THE HIP

  You tug at the ropes. They’re wound tight around your wrists. You could maybe dislocate a wrist, free yourself, but the wound from the pitchfork jab won’t let you.

  “We wait,” you say, finally.

  Iris nods toward Henry. “Can he understand us?”

  “Just be quiet,” you say. “And wait.”

  It’s your best bet. The scientist can be overpowered. He only needs to give you a second, and you can break him.

  Above you, the zombies continue to moan and the wooden rafters creak. Strange animal sounds in the distance—freakish, tormented howls. You shut your eyes.

  An hour later, Dr. Splicer returns. You flex your arm. Get your hands ready. You’re eager to kill this man.

  “Henry,” Dr. Splicer says, “be a good monster and fetch the wheelbarrow.”

  A confused grunt from Henry.

  “Wheeeeelbaaaaarroooooow,” Dr. Splicer says, like he’s talking to an imbecilic child. Henry grunts again, then rises and leaves.

  Dr. Splicer kneels down beside Iris. “You are so pretty, my dear. I hope you don’t mind my asking—have you and this brutish thug, the man driving that odd vehicle, been intimate?”

  Iris spits in his face.

  Splicer smiles and smacks his lips together, tasting her saliva. “As you can see,” he says, gesturing to the chunks of gore and animal intestine that cover him, “I’m not troubled by germs. Now—it’s time for you two to take a short nap . . .”

  Dr. Splicer reveals a syringe. Iris kicks and thrashes as Splicer places it to her neck and injects her.

  “When you wake, my dear, you and your Stone Age friend will be more intimate than you can possibly imagine . . .”

  Iris’s head rolls to the side. She’s out. Ketamine, you suspect. Complete temporary paralysis.

  Splicer pulls another syringe and comes toward you. You pull at the beam. Tugging with everything you have. The zombies rattle above you.

  Splicer chuckles. “Try all you want. I’ve had stronger men than you in—”

  The beam cracks. Part of the ceiling fractures. The doctor’s eyes go wide. As the ceiling breaks, the zombies tumble to the dirt floor.

  You pull your arms free and rise, but Splicer is diving at you, his arm extended, the syringe like a small sword, poking at you. Splicer lands on top of you. You kick him in the balls and he sucks in air. But it’s too late. His arm comes down, jabbing the needle into your neck, thumb pressing the plunger.

  You punch Splicer hard, shattering his cheek. He cries out and falls back into the hay.

  You stand.

  And then you fall.

  All around you, the zombies are rising.

  You’re beginning to fade out. Your vision is blurred. You can just make out Henry, returning with the wheelbarrow. He sets it down, then moves methodically through the barn, swinging his ball-peen hammer, delivering crushing blows to the zombies’ skulls.

  You waited too long . . .

  You come out of the ketamine hole, half-dazed, trying to move. You’re in the wheelbarrow, on your back, in a heap. Henry is pushing you.

  You can move your eyes. You can swivel your head, just slightly. Your arms and legs are completely anesthetized.

  A door opens and you’re pushed inside the large horse stable you saw earlier. Your head hangs over the front of the wheelbarrow and you see everything upside down.

  You pass stables. In each one, a grotesque, zombified beast.

  A zombified man with the hooves of a horse.

  A zombified horse with the head of a pig.

  A woman with giant sagging cow teats for breasts.

  There are two dozen stable stalls, and each one contains some malformed madness. Each creature moans and howls and cries, together forming a horrid symphony of pain—a cacophony of ungodly terror.

  Candles dimly light Dr. Splicer’s operating space. Iris lies nude on a long metal table. Her stomach is open in vivisection.

  Henry lifts you up onto the table. You’re touching Iris, though you only scarcely feel it. Iris can’t speak. Her head hangs to the side, and she looks at you with wide eyes that beg for mercy and for saving but know it’s not coming—eyes that are aware of the absolute maddening horror that awaits her but can do nothing about it. You can almost see her sanity escaping.

  Dr. Splicer’s face is red and already bruising from the blow you delivered. He uses a rusty hacksaw to cut open Iris’s head and remove the top of her skull. Her brain is visible. Using an X-ACTO knife, Splicer slices into it. Chained to the wall behind you is a zombie, the top of its head removed, looking like a soft-boiled egg. Splicer removes one half of Iris’s brain, sets it on the table, then crosses to the zombie, removes one half of its brain, then sets it inside Iris’s skull.

  Next, Dr. Splicer begins sawing away at your arm and, mercifully, you lose consciousness.

  When you wake, your sense of touch has returned. But everything feels off, secondary, like navigating in a dream.

  Iris’s chin rests on your shoulder. No. Not resting. Terror overwhelms you as you realize her face is attached to yours. Sewn tight.

  You look down.
Your left leg is gone. Iris’s right leg is gone. You now share a lower body.

  He’s combined you. You and Iris now share a broken, disfigured, half-undead body.

  Craning your neck, you can just see Iris’s eyes. They stare into yours, but there’s no recognition there. Her eyes are hollow and dead and unmoving. Iris—who she was—is gone.

  You open your mouth to scream, only to discover that you have no tongue . . .

  AN END

  BELTING AWAY

  You mash the pedal, looping around the White House, bursting through the gates, back onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Machine-gun fire hammers at the rear of the El Camino.

  Into fourth gear, now charging down Fifteenth Street, swinging onto Constitution Avenue, hopping the curb onto the National Mall. The Lincoln Memorial looms ahead of you; the Washington Monument towers behind you.

  You race past the World War II Memorial, bursting through an outcropping of trees, up a small incline, the El Camino hanging in the air for a moment, wheels spinning, then splashing down in the reflecting pool. Streams of rainwater shoot up as you wrench the wheel, slicing across the slick surface.

  The Porsche follows, landing, guns blazing.

  You cut the wheel, fishtailing, and Lucy does the same, the two vehicles mirroring each other, your bullets at her tail, hers at yours, a circular dance—a dogfight on water. Zombies, which fill the reflecting pool, are blown apart, spun aside, run down, limbs exploded.

  You drift closer and closer to the Porsche, each of you circling the other, and then, suddenly, you cut the wheel in the opposite direction and the El Camino hydroplanes, spins, and a moment later you’re on the heels of the Porsche. Lucy Lowblow tries to correct, but the Porsche just slides. You reach down, flick the red switch, and—

  KA—BOOM!

  A single missile hits the Porsche in the rear, lifting the ass end into the air, blowing apart the rear tires, and shredding the undercarriage. The blast sends zombies spiraling, aflame, then splashing down, sizzling when they land. Steam rises off the water.