Highway to Hell

by Max Brallier

  The Porsche engine revs as Lucy tries to flee across the lawn, headed toward the Capitol. The rear tires—now just rolling on rims—shred the grass.

  Finally, coasting down Maryland Avenue, the smoking Porsche rolls to a stop.

  Fifty yards away, you stop the El Camino, step out. “Iris,” you say, “grab me that big weapon there—the one that says M32.”

  She hands you the grenade launcher. You aim through the reflex sight, locking onto the Porsche first, but then aiming up—putting the Capitol doors in your sight, squeezing, firing a volley—the doors are blown apart, and out come the monsters.

  Undead congressmen. Undead senators. Undead pages. Undead interns. Undead lobbyists.

  The first wave is engulfed in fire, but they continue forward still—staggering toward the Porsche.

  Lucy stumbles out of the car, looks around, frantic. Begins to run, but it’s too late. Washington’s most influential are upon the deadly young woman, pulling her hair out in bloody clumps, hands plunging into the flesh, stripping her bones, and finally dining.

  Click here.

  THANKS, BUT NO THANKS

  “All right,” you say, standing. “You got me. Let’s do it.”

  “Good choice,” Eigle says.

  But then, too quick for either of them, you’re grabbing the whiskey bottle from the nightstand, smashing it against the wall, jamming it into Hank’s throat, twisting it, pulling the fat man around as Major Eigle draws his gun and fires.

  Five shots, all of them into Hank’s chest.

  Hank’s hand tightens around the revolver. He pulls the trigger, firing into his own foot, blowing it to mush.

  Your turn, pushing Hank forward, grabbing his hand and the gun. Raising it. Holding it up straight, pointed at Eigle.

  Eigle fires again. The bullet causes Hank to tighten. Causes him to squeeze the trigger. You hold Hank’s arm steady, and—

  BLAM!

  The big gun goes off.

  Eigle is hit in the upper body—face and throat, point-blank range. His body is propelled into the nightstand and he’s dead before he hits the floor.

  You drop Hank.

  You breathe.

  Body heaving.

  Ears ringing.

  The smell of cordite in the air.

  There’s movement outside, then the door opens. It’s the owner of the brothel and one of his girls.

  The girl shrieks. The owner doesn’t. He just looks tired.

  “Get ahold of Boss Tanner,” you say. “Tell him Major Eigle and his fat mechanic are dead. Tell him Jimmy El Camino has a hell of a headache and he’s going back to bed.”

  When Boss Tanner wakes you up, two of his men are dragging the bloody bodies out the door. One of the brothel girls scrubs the floor. She doesn’t appear to be enjoying her morning, particularly.

  “What happened?” Tanner asks.

  “Eigle wanted me to do something. Some job, mission.”

  “And you didn’t want to?”

  You shake your head. “Rather stay here and drive.”

  Boss Tanner nods and pats you on the arm. “Fine choice, Jimmy. Fine choice.”

  And you do drive.

  You’re damn good.

  You drive every week.

  In between, you drink and whore your way up and down Manhattan.

  They throw you a big party when you kill your thousandth zombie in the derby.

  You remember that zombie well. It was a child. A small girl, face rotted away. It was still wearing its backpack. It had one tiny red sneaker on. And a tiny Pittsburgh Pirates cap.

  You mowed it down in a pickup truck. Ran it right over. It was so small, the truck barely bucked as your right tire flattened the girl’s face.

  It was your final kill.

  The next race, you got behind the wheel so drunk you couldn’t see.

  That was a mistake.

  Mr. King caught you in an alley.

  Napalm.

  You burned in your car. It took seven minutes for you to die. Seven minutes for your skin to melt and your insides to cook.

  And you never found out what the mission was. Never knew you could have saved the world . . .

  AN END

  KILL ’EM ALL

  You roar, a screeching wail, as you force yourself to your feet, demanding your body listen to you. You pull the automatic shotgun as you stand, swinging it up, shooting.

  It’s the loudest handheld weapon you’ve ever fired. An automatic shotgun with a hair trigger. Twelve powerful rounds.

  Your vision is blurred. Trails of light. Drunk with vertigo. Movement unfocused, unclear. The dim moonlight suddenly blindingly bright.

  Goddamn Eigle. Goddamn his poison.

  You try to fire slowly, steadily, deliberately, but your body is a herky-jerk machine on the fritz and adrenaline, which usually has you functioning at your peak, has been replaced by poison—suffocating your system, clouding your vision, obscuring your ability to kill with precision.

  You simply squeeze.

  BLAM!

  Two purple robes torn to ribbons, bodies seeming to tumble in slow motion, globs of blood hanging in the air like confetti.

  And then everything speeds up. You’re moving faster than you’re able to control, spinning, firing, whirling. Smoke in your eyes, watering, tears blurring things further.

  BLAM! BLAM!

  Purple-robed bodies tumbling back, looking almost comical to your warped mind—like a shoot-out in a silent movie.

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  Barely feeling the heavy gun jerk in your hands, you move through the structure, firing. Coming around one corner, shooting a purple body in the chest. He flies back ten, twenty feet. Rifle fire ricochets around you, glancing off and grazing the cement slabs.

  You’ve turned the poison around. Flipped it, so it now fuels you.

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  Men scream. Faces explode. Chests cave in. Bodies crumple.

  At last the gun is empty and the men are dead and you collapse in the tall, dewy grass—other men’s blood splashed across your face.

  You cough and you catch your breath and you whisper, “Iris?”

  “Jimmy?”

  You crawl toward the voice, climbing over purple-clad bodies. Iris leans against a cement slab.

  She’s shot. Blood all over her topless body.

  Her gut has been hit and the flesh is torn and open and blood gushes out.

  It’s not a rifle shot. It’s a shotgun blast.

  You shot her. You did this.

  She looks up, her mouth twisted and bloody, eyes cloudy. She’s gone into shock, and she seems to be smiling, almost. Relieved, maybe, that it’s all over. “Jimmy, you killed me.”

  “No . . . I couldn’t control it, Iris, I . . .”

  “It was all for nothing?”

  “No.”

  “It was.”

  “It wasn’t. I swear, Iris. I swear, it wasn’t.”

  “It was. We failed. It was all for nothing . . .” Then her voice fades out and her body trembles and a leg jerks and she’s dead. You slump over. The poison overtakes you and you force your face down into the wet grass.

  You come to. Dawn is approaching. The poison has faded some and your body feels like it belongs to you again.

  Iris’s face is frozen. Her mouth is open, her lips still forming her dying word. Nothing . . .

  You killed her.

  You can’t let it all be for nothing now.

  You can’t.

  Moaning behind you. Zombies? You turn.

  No.

  The Man in Antlers. He’s gutshot but still alive. He’s on his back, looking up at the pale yellow sky.

  You struggle to your feet, staggering over to him, ripping the antler crown from his head. Beneath the antlers is a sweaty comb-over.

  You press them down into the soft ground, bridging his neck, pressing harder, choking him.

  “You’re going to die now,” you say.

  “Yes,” he
whispers. “Happily. In death, I will meet the One. I will look down from heaven as the new world order marches on.”

  “There’s nothing after for you. No heaven.”

  “Ha. I will find release. Eternal happiness. I’m ready for you to kill me, here, in the shadow of the temple. Eager.”

  You lift the antlers from around his neck and step back. “If that’s the case, then I won’t let you die.”

  “Nothing can stop my death,” he says, a sick smile on his face. “It will overcome me in minutes.”

  Looking off at the fields, you see a few zombies stumbling about. “We’ll see.”

  Moments later, you’re grabbing the ax from the El Camino, then crossing Route 77 and wading through the waist-high grass. Three zombies shuffle around. You come up behind them. Two destroyed instantly, ax blade to the head, splitting skin and skull.

  The last one stumbles toward you. It was a farm boy, tall and strong once, but now its eyes are a buttery beige color and blood covers its jaw.

  The farm boy lunges for you, but you step aside and it falls. You press your boot onto its back, then raise the ax and swing twice, chopping off its arms. There’s little blood. This one has been undead a long time.

  You grab the zombie by its torn shirt collar and drag it through the field, across the highway, toward the Guidestones. The monster moans and its teeth snap at the air.

  Gripping the collar, you soon hold the monster over the Man in Antlers.

  “I will not give you easy death,” you say. “I will give you an eternity of undying.”

  Suddenly, the Man in Antlers is horrified. The blood rushes from his face as panic overcomes him. “No. No, no. I can’t! The plague is for the others. Not me! I believe! I believe!”

  “Sorry, pal. Hell comes to believers and nonbelievers alike.”

  With that, you shove the zombie downward, driving the thing’s gnashing teeth into the man’s face. The armless monster feasts and blood foams and bubbles and the man howls and cries and shits himself.

  You let go of the zombie and stumble back. It continues feasting. The man kicks and writhes. As you scoop up Iris’s body and carry her back to the El Camino, you still hear him weeping.

  Just before you enter the car, the crying stops. There’s quiet in the fields, for a moment—and then you hear the moaning of two zombies.

  You gently set Iris’s body in the passenger seat. She continues to hemorrhage, blood seeping from her gut wound.

  Something the Man in Antlers said runs through your head: The woman, she is foul. Her organs and her blood are tools of the devil.

  You reach for the radio . . .

  Click here.

  TIP OF THE SPEAR

  You pick the spear up from the pavement. Grass growing through cracks in the street tickles the back of your hand as your fingers wrap around the wooden handle.

  “He has chosen . . . the spear!” Ring shouts.

  With that, the monsters rush forward. A thin one in front moans loudly. Its big red wig blows off as it comes at you, stumbling awkwardly, arms out.

  You let it come. Let it get close.

  Then you jab out, jamming the spear into the thing’s chest. The spear hits its rib cage. As it continues rushing toward you, you lift, using its movement as leverage, raising the undead clown up into the air and over you.

  Screams erupt as the body lands in the crowd. Blood splashes you from behind.

  The remaining monsters come at you at once now.

  You jab out with the spear, getting one through the mouth. You swipe up, shredding its palate, then you’re yanking the spear out and jabbing again, through the clown’s forehead, piercing the skull.

  The other three lunge, arms extended, pushing you back against the metal fence. You hold the spear horizontally, struggling to keep them off.

  And then, a sudden pain. A bottle, shattering against the side of your skull.

  It’s the boy.

  Blood pours down over your eyes, blinding you, and more hands grab at you. The crowd whoops. You struggle, but more hands grab on, holding you tight.

  Launching that zombie into the crowd may not have been smart . . .

  The crowd grips you as the clown-zombies throw themselves upon you. Their fingers rip flesh from bone and their teeth puncture your skin. One gets its hand in your mouth, clawing, pulling at your cheek, ripping it open . . .

  Your knees give out, but you don’t fall. The crowd holds you. The crowd holds you as the clown-monsters gorge themselves on your flesh and your blood flows and flows.

  “Now, that’s a show!” Ring shouts. “Now that is a goddamn show!”

  AN END

  LAMBEAU LEAP

  Bullets crack, whizzing by you as you race toward the wall, Billy at your heels.

  You jump over player benches, past discarded helmets and pads and empty Gatorade jugs.

  And then you’re at the stands. You grab Billy, still running, and toss him. His small body clears the wall and he lands among the screaming fans.

  You charge forward and leap into the arms of the waiting crowd. “Pull me up!” you yell.

  But the crowd doesn’t seem to want this gladiator to survive.

  One man—long hair, jagged yellow teeth—slashes you across the forehead with a razor. Blood pours down, over your eyes. Through the blood, you see Billy on the floor of the stands, watching, crying.

  You try to wrestle free, but the crowd holds you tight, gripping your wrists. Some pour beer on you.

  And then the sound of the Lincoln. The engine behind you, roaring.

  You crane your neck. Blinking away the blood, you can just make out the battle-scarred vehicle barreling toward you. You try to rip your hand free, but the fans hold you tight, laughing wildly as the stadium crumbles. Soon, they’ll all be dead—but all they do is cackle and slash and spit.

  And then the Lincoln is there. Slamming into you, guns firing. Driving not just into you, but through you—demolishing your body entirely, turning you into something like chum, just bits and pieces of broken, red flesh.

  AN END

  AND NOW . . .?

  KRAKA—BOOM!

  The Jeep is blown to pieces. Shards of glass, chunks of brick, and hot metal rain down. A flaming car door nearly takes your head off.

  You’re in the middle of the street, two blocks from the Desert Fox and his big swinging dick of a tank. Zombies stumbling toward you from all directions. Shattered faces, hungry moans, closing in.

  If you’ll use the zombies to create an “undead shield,” click here.

  Choose to ignore the zombies and run toward the Desert Fox? Click here.

  THE GEORGIA GUIDESTONES

  You’re outside Anderson, Georgia, listening to Ry Cooder, Iris humming along to a song she doesn’t know, when she suddenly says, “The Georgia Guidestones! Son of a bitch!”

  “Uh . . . ?”

  Iris pulls the Odd America book from the glove box. “This is it,” she says, stabbing at it with her finger. “Jimmy, pull over. I’m not fucking around. Pull over.”

  “No.”

  “This is about me,” she says, waving the map. “The Georgia Guidestones are about me.”

  You glance over at her. Something intense in her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “Just stop the car, I’ll show you.”

  You sigh and pull over to the side of Route 77.

  Iris hands you the map. “See? That thing out there in the field, they’re called the Georgia Guidestones. Says here they’re a ‘guide to future societies, designed to help provide a pathway to prosperity, happiness, and survival.’ ”

  Oh Christ . . .

  “What does that have to do with you?” you ask.

  “I’ll show you,” Iris says, climbing out of the car.

  You reach across, grabbing for her, but she’s already out. “Goddamn it.”

  There’s no guardrail alongside the barren Route 77. Sprawling fields border the road, and large groups of evergreen trees d
ot the distance.

  Iris walks slowly toward the monument, like the weight of the world is on her shoulders. In a way, it is. You follow her, carrying the automatic shotgun, striding through the overgrown grass.

  The monument sits a hundred yards from the road: six large granite slabs sticking out of the ground, each one twenty feet tall. It looks like some half-assed American version of Stonehenge.

  As you step closer, you see there is writing on each stone slab—inscriptions in different languages: English, Hebrew, Arabic, Chinese, Russian, Spanish, Sanskrit, and what looks like Swahili.

  You both stand in front of the English slab, reading. When you’ve finished, you walk a slow circle around the structure.

  “I wonder what the other ones say,” Iris states.

  “The same thing.”

  “You can read it?”

  “Not Sanskrit or Swahili, but the others, yes.”

  “You don’t seem like a guy who knows a lot of different languages.”

  Coming around the other side, you smile. “I’m full of surprises.”

  “Do you see what I mean now? How it’s about me?”

  You shake your head and light a cigarette. “I do not.”

  Iris sighs and looks at you like you’re dense. She reads the English text again, this time out loud, and she reads slowly, like a student uncomfortable speaking in front of her class:

  “ ‘Maintain humanity under five hundred million in perpetual balance with nature. Guide reproduction wisely—improving fitness and diversity. Unite humanity with a living new language. Rule passion—faith—tradition—and all things with tempered reason. Protect people and nations with fair laws and just courts. Let all nations rule internally, resolving external disputes in a world court. Avoid petty laws and useless officials. Balance personal rights with social duties. Prize truth—beauty—love—seeking harmony with the infinite. Be not a cancer on the earth—Leave room for nature—Leave room for nature.’ ”