by Max Brallier
She’s coming for you again. Part of her face is gone, so it looks like a half-eaten tomato. Her brain still operates.
You push back, out onto the pavement, and slam the door shut. Suzie-Jean’s twig-like arm snaps in two. You limp around to the other side of the car, rip open the door, and grab Walter by the back of the collar, throwing him out onto the parking lot.
Suzie-Jean crawls forward, over Iris’s body. You wait for her to tumble out of the car, then you place your boot on her chest and fire. This time, you don’t miss.
Then it’s Walter, a mercy kill, standing over him, firing, splattering him across the Anything Is Paradise parking lot.
You sit down on the cement.
What to do?
What now?
Well, now you press on. And it’ll go quicker. A blessing in disguise, maybe, that the children are dead, a terrible person would say.
But it doesn’t feel like that.
As you wrap the wound and get back in the car, it sure as hell doesn’t feel like that . . .
Click here.
DRAG RACE
Sitting in the El Camino, one arm out the window, a cigarette burning, you look over a map of Kentucky. There’s a stretch of empty field outside a place called Licking River.
That’s where you’ll attack the train. That’s where you’ll take back Iris.
You key the microphone. “Eigle, it’s Jimmy.”
After a moment, “Go.”
“Iris’s been taken.”
Another moment. “By who?”
You sigh. “A fucking circus train.”
“Ring’s?”
“Yes, you know it?”
“I do.”
“Do they know what she is?” you ask. “What she’s worth?”
“Only that Tanner will pay for her. You need to get her back, ASAP.”
“No kidding. Or else I die.”
“That’s right.”
“You saw to that, too, sure as hell, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
You slam down the microphone. More than anything, you want to turn the car around, drive straight to New York City, and strangle Eigle with that goddamn radio cord . . .
But you don’t.
Iris is the mission, and the mission must be completed.
You don’t let off the gas until you’re nearly into Kentucky. You do four hundred miles in just over five hours, including back roads, hitting the nitrous on straightaways. Greasy is in the back of the El Camino, flat on his back, chained up like an animal, groaning with every hard bump and sharp turn.
Outside of Covington, you spot the long circus train, thundering down the tracks. You drop down onto a parallel tree-lined road and stamp the accelerator, charging ahead.
You stay hard on the gas, getting out far in front of the train. Coming into Kentucky, bluegrass farmland stretching out on either side of you like ocean water, you pick up the tracks again. They’re the only ones recently greased—the only ones used in years.
You pull to a stop alongside the rail. You guess you’ve got fifteen minutes before the train arrives. Need to work quickly.
Zombies shuffle through the bluegrass fields—huge groups of the monsters, grazing like herds of wild animals.
You walk around the back of the car. Greasy watches you, eyes wide, terrified. You tug on the rope still attached to his ankle and say, “We’re going to play one more game.”
“What are you doing?” he asks. His voice is shaky.
“Stopping a train.”
He tells you to let him go. Tells you all the things he’ll give you: guns, food, electronics to barter. Begs. Threatens.
“Keep making noise,” you say. “It’ll only bring them quicker.”
You tie the rope around Greasy’s bloody ankles, give it twelve feet of slack, then double-knot the other end to the El Camino’s rear bumper. You drag Greasy from the bed to the ground. He struggles to get to his feet, shrieks as his ankle gushes blood, and quickly falls, smashing his nose against a rock.
“Hey,” you say.
He turns, panting hard—anger is getting in the way of his breathing.
“What?” he says. When he talks, the blood from his nose mixes with the soil on his face and sprays a dirty sort of mist.
“It’s been nice chatting with you.”
“Don’t!” he shouts. He gets up again, charging toward you—but you step to the side and the rope tangles his feet and again he falls.
You slide into the El Camino, shift into first, and drive. The rope goes taut and you hear Greasy yelp as he’s dragged through the field like some Wild West outlaw caught horse thieving.
“We’ll try some different tunes this time!” you yell. “Don’t want you getting bored!”
You take out the Lynyrd Skynyrd eight-track, toss it behind the seats, and pop in a Rolling Stones tape. You turn it up as loud as it will go.
The zombies turn at the noise. They shamble forward. They get a whiff of human flesh, of Greasy, his bloody nose, and they hear his hollering.
The thresher spins as you drive, slicing up the overgrown bluegrass, and you give the field a fine mowing as you steer toward a large horde of the monsters.
As you drive through the pack, they slap at the windows like some undead car wash. They reach for Greasy, stumbling after him. You shift into third and pick up speed, pushing it to 15 miles per hour. The monsters give chase. In the side mirror, you watch Greasy kick and thrash, trying to free himself.
One zombie gets hold of him and hangs on, pulled along with him.
The El Camino bursts through a rotten fence and into the next farm. You drive slowly, giving it gas when you need to, gathering a trail of the undead like you’re the Pied Piper, collecting rats.
Undead cows—ugly, bony things—watch you, uncaring.
You weave through four more farms. The horde of zombies shuffles after, growing in number until there are nearly two hundred monsters chasing the El Camino.
You steer up onto the rails, then toward the train. You hear the loud, pained bump, bump, bump of Greasy’s body banging against the wooden tracks.
In the distance, you see smoke rising off the locomotive engine, over the trees. The train will be here soon. You slow the El Camino, shifting into neutral.
Gripping the fire ax, you march around the back. Greasy is horribly battered and soaked in blood; he’s been bitten a dozen times, and his face is a pulpy thing.
“Bye now,” you say.
With a hack, you sever the rope. Then you’re back in the El Camino, steering away from the track, letting the monsters congregate and dine on Greasy’s flesh.
You stop the car behind a farmhouse not far from the tracks, and you sit up on the hood, waiting.
The train comes around the bend and there’s a sharp screech as the massive locomotive begins to brake. It can’t simply plow through the undead—there are too many. It would derail.
The train finally stops mere feet from the remains of Greasy and the zombie mass.
The second train car is the most ornate. Even without Greasy’s help, you probably could have figured out that it belonged to Ring. The side of the car slides open, and Ring appears, peeking his bulbous head out.
Crouched down, you creep through the waist-high bluegrass until you’re just twenty feet from Ring’s car. Other windows open—carnies looking out.
Ring looks back into his car, saying something. Talking to Iris, maybe.
Ring then hops down, immediately spots the zombies, and quickly climbs back into the car. “Christ, it’s a goddamn herd,” he says. He calls out to a guard, “Clear them shits out of the way, goddamn it!”
You quickly cross toward the train. Someone points at you. Someone else yells something, but Ring doesn’t hear.
“Just a herd on the tracks. We’ll have them gone in a minute,” Ring is saying as he’s closing the door.
But it won’t close.
Your hand is there.
He turns. “Huh?�
��
And you’re stepping up, inside the car, sawed-off pressed against his chest.
“Miss me?” you say.
Ring stumbles back, falling into a plush purple seat. Iris sits on a chair in the corner. She eyes you curiously—not scared, not angry—just . . . curious.
The car is lush and opulent. Full of gold and silver and bronze. An oriental rug on the floor and mounted zombie heads on the wall. A TV set in the corner plays Dumbo.
“What happened to Bob?” Ring asks.
“He the oily-looking guy?”
Ring nods.
“I happened.”
Ring wipes sweat from his brow.
“Come on, Iris,” you say.
Iris doesn’t move.
“Iris,” you say, “now. We don’t have much time.”
Ring’s lips curl into an ugly grin. “Mr. El Camino, I’m afraid your friend may not want to leave. I’ve told her all about life aboard the train. She’ll want for nothing here.”
“Bullshit.”
You grab Iris by the wrist, but she pulls back. She swallows. “I like it here, Jimmy.”
Ring grins.
“Iris,” you say, “you’re coming with me. Now.”
She shakes her head, sharp and hard. “I don’t want to die, Jimmy.”
You speak slowly, so you’re very clear. You raise the gun and aim it directly at her. “You’re not leaving me any choice, Iris. Even if you’re dead—even if I shoot you—the scientists may be able to pull a cure from your body. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Iris looks at the gun and nods. “I understand. But, Jimmy, I really don’t think you’ll do that.”
If you want to continue arguing with her, trying to convince her to come with you, click here.
No. No more arguing. Click here.
DETHRONED
You reach down, flick the red metal switch, and—
FA—SHOOOM!
Four rockets spiral through the air, streaming smoke, zooming toward the nucleus of the rat king. The explosion rocks the tunnel. Thick, wet chunks of New York City rat rain down, splattering the ground and the walls and the car. You hit the windshield wipers, smearing blood and fur, speeding through the cloud of black vermin hair and still-falling viscera.
You steer the El Camino out of the tunnel and into New Jersey. You’re lucky: a hard rain begins to fall, cleansing the windshield some, allowing you an image of the road. A few old apartments, still lived in, loom over you. People eye you. Live music from somewhere: guitars and drums and something with a horn. On street corners, zombies stumble about.
After a long moment, Iris says, “That was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of horrible shit the past few years.”
“There will be plenty more bad before we reach the end.”
Iris reloads the sawed-off, then leans back, tugging the seat-recline lever. “Fun.”
You take the highway, briefly, before exiting and heading for the open road, driving west.
You can’t forget about Tanner or his drivers. Good odds they’ll be following you. They don’t know your route, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be searching. But you push that thought to the back of your mind as you focus on the blurring pavement ahead.
You felt it before: the freedom, when you were driving in the derby. But now, on the wide, curving roads, it’s different. It’s more than freedom. You are yourself again.
You are Jimmy El Camino.
One hand on the wheel, another on the stick, you feel a great tension in your chest releasing—a darkness surging forth, rushing through you like black energy and escaping through the tips of your fingers and your boot on the gas.
You’re driving again.
You’re in control of your own destiny.
It’s fucking fantastic.
Behind you is Manhattan, buildings reaching up to the sky like jagged spikes: a bloated corpse of a city. The Death Derby. Boss Tanner. Major Eigle. Your jail cell. All of that gone now. Tanner might chase you and his thugs might gun for you, but New York City is in the past.
Knee on the wheel, you reach across Iris and open the glove box. Grab the bottle of whiskey and fill your trusty flask. Drink. Drink again.
The roads are cracked. The grass is greener and taller than any you’ve ever seen in the Northeast. Reminds you of the jungles in Colombia. Overgrown trees hang over the highway. Cars on the side of the road are rusted and broken.
Zombie bodies hang from trees like warnings.
Far outside the city, headed toward Pennsylvania, you drop it into fourth. The powerful engine roars, the machine happy to be used. You haven’t been on a road this open in a long while. You race around corners, hugging bends, leaving a growing cloud of dust in your trail.
You push the El Camino, pistons churning, carrying your old friend up over 100 miles per hour. You hug a bend, hands loose on the wheel, then ease off the gas, downshifting into third, and the wind through the cracked glass softens and you feel your chest, up and down, up and down, breathing almost in time with the pistons. You reach into the console, pull a cigarette, light it, and exhale deeply. Better than sex. Better than any you ever had, at least—but maybe you just never knew how to screw right. Wouldn’t discount it.
Iris smiles nervously—you can see her feeling the rush of the ride, almost see her heart beating against her chest.
“Y’all alright?” you say.
“Yes,” she says. “I’ve never been this far out of the city before. Never seen the countryside, or whatever you’d call this.”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“So you were . . .”
“Fourteen or so when it happened. When I was real young, we went south a few times. Family. But I don’t remember that too much.”
“Maybe in San Francisco you can drive. Maybe it’s safe.”
After a moment, Iris says, “I learned how, on my father’s box truck. I think I might enjoy doing it again.”
Coming into Pennsylvania, the roads narrow and zombies occasionally stumble out, like deer. You spot one far up ahead, beneath an off-ramp exit sign.
“Take that one,” you say to Iris.
“What?”
“That one, up there. Take it out when I drive past.”
“I never did.”
“A zombie? Neither did I, until a day ago,” you say, slowing down the El Camino, shifting into second, so you’re rolling along at just over 20 miles per hour. “Go ahead,” you say. “Grab the door handle and just pop it.”
Iris grunts an “okay,” grabs the handle, and then as you pass the shuffling monster, she snaps open the door and—
POW!
The metal door knocks the monster onto its back, arms splayed out, then rolling, legs breaking. The right front tire rolls over one arm with a vicious crunch. You light a smoke. “Fun, isn’t it?”
“Not fun,” she says, “but . . .” She takes a while, looking for the right word: “Satisfying.”
You nod. “I know it. Once you get a taste for it, well . . .”
Outside of a town called Loag is an ugly little roadside joint named Piggy’s. You pull over to take a leak and look for supplies.
When you come back out, Iris’s sitting on a rotted wooden picnic table, flipping pages. “Look at this here,” she says, holding up a book. It says Odd America. It’s a travel guide, with a big foldout map, listing a mess of the country’s strange and kitschy roadside attractions.
“I had a copy of this,” she says. “At home, when I was younger. Not the exact same one, but like this. My father brought it back from a trip down south—before everything happened. When the city became locked down, I used to read it. Look at all the stuff. I was just a kid, but I’d think about going to these places. Traveling. Like this here: the World’s Largest Ball of Twine. My mom used to talk about it. She did some sort of Fresh Air Fund kid thing, spent a month in Kansas. Said this ball was the dumbest fuckin’ thing she ever saw. As a
kid, I always wanted to see it—see the dumbest thing. Wouldn’t you rather see the dumbest thing than see something that was just all right?”
“Get in the car, Iris.”
“Foamhenge. Weird shit in this country, huh.”
“That’s south.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been all over this country, driving.”
“Well, aren’t we going south?”
“Not the plan right now. Might change.”
“Well, if the plan changes, maybe we can see it.”
“Get in the car.”
“Don’t gotta be a prick. Just the ball of twine. Drive past. No harm.”
“No.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“It’s not news.”
Past the Susquehanna River, the rain comes down in sheets, hammering the road, drubbing the windshield, water whipping about the cabin. The radio hisses on. “Jimmy, it’s Major Eigle. Something I need to tell you.”
Picking up the microphone. “Go.”
“I poisoned you, Jimmy.”
Silence. After a moment, you key the mic. “What are you talking about?”
“I poisoned you. The scotch, in the garage. You make it to San Francisco with Iris in less than one month, the poison is treatable. Antidote waiting.”
You think back. He handed you that drink in the garage. You noticed a look in his eyes. You shared the bottle. But the poison must have been in the glass.
“Only way I could make sure you wouldn’t toss Iris from the car and head for the hills.”
“You sonofabitch,” you growl, slamming the brakes, tires sliding and squealing. “I’m turning around, and you’re making me right again.”
“Not going to happen, Jimmy.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
“I don’t have the antidote. It’s only in San Francisco. Couldn’t help you even if I wanted.”
You want to put your fist through the radio.
“What if I don’t make it in a month?” you say.
“One month is plenty of time. Good luck, Jimmy. We’re here if—”
You slam the microphone back down and glare at Iris. Her face is blank. “I didn’t know,” she says with a cold shrug. “Doesn’t make any difference, but I didn’t know.”