Highway to Hell

by Max Brallier

  “So you’re some sort of horseshit Dr. Frankenstein?” you say.

  The man thinks about that for a moment. “No, no. Not quite. I’m more in the vein of Dr. Moreau, I’d suppose.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “No matter. I go by my God-given name—Splicer. Dr. Splicer.”

  His name means nothing to you. You only know that he’s clearly insane, you need to get out of this place, and that probably means killing him.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” Splicer says. “Finishing a procedure. Combining a human torso with the lower body of a horse. The centaur project. Henry will keep an eye on you while I’m gone. Won’t you, Henry?”

  Henry grunts.

  “Don’t worry about him, by the way. I’ve removed his teeth,” Dr. Splicer says. He reaches inside Henry’s mouth and there’s a wet, smacking noise as he lifts up Henry’s lips, revealing the toothless orifice.

  Dr. Splicer beams, proud of himself. “I’ll be back in a bit. You two have given me an idea. I wonder—have you ever seen conjoined twins in person? Quite captivating . . .”

  With that, he crosses and exits.

  Across the barn, Henry sits, unmoving, staring at you with his cold, half-dead eyes.

  “Jimmy,” Iris whispers. “Let’s get the fuck out of this madhouse, huh?”

  You nod. “I’m thinking.”

  If you want to wait it out and try to escape when Dr. Splicer returns for you, click here.

  Attempt to free yourself now? Click here.

  ON YOUR OWN, INTO THE STORM

  “Trust me, all right? I got you this far. I’ll see you soon, in the city. Beyond the bridge.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  At last, she nods.

  You reach into the car and take out a map of San Francisco. You detail the route she’ll take on foot. “You’re going up and around this big, overgrown hill, here. Grass is so tall that no one will be able to see you. You’ll come down the bottom then, and you’ll find the guardrail to the bridge. Hop that. That’ll put you behind the army. And then you stay on the pedestrian path; it’s walled on either side, shouldn’t be so thick with the zombies—and you just goddamn sprint to the gates at the end of the bridge. Head down, move quick, all the way to the city.”

  Iris looks up from the map. “And you?”

  “I’ll keep driving, keep battling long enough to let you get across the bridge. Got it?”

  “They’re going to know. They’ll see I’m not with you. And that leaves me dead. All this, for nothing.”

  “I’ll make sure they think we’re together.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  “Yes. Now go.”

  She begins to walk, then stops. Two quick steps back, and she throws her arms around you. You don’t know how to respond. After a second, you wrap your arms around her and hold her tight.

  A moment later, she steps back. A sad smile, and then she’s gone, running across the hills. San Francisco’s pale skyline is just visible through the mist in the distance.

  Time to get to work. Only way this plan succeeds is if they’re convinced you and Iris are together.

  Gripping the sawed-off, you march down the hill, right up to the three zombies shuffling around below. You execute the two zombie males, leaving the undead blonde. It lunges for you. You step back, club the zombie with the grip, knocking the thing to its knees, then dragging it back up the hill.

  While it struggles to stand, you retrieve duct tape from the car. When it’s finally back on its feet, you step around behind it and fire the sawed-off—the blond zombie’s body is blown forward, again, to the ground. You jump on its bloody back and wrap duct tape around its mouth before it has a chance to bite. Ten, fifteen times around, until it’s mostly harmless. Then duct tape around the arms, so it can’t claw you.

  You stand up, wipe the sweat from your forehead. It’s been six minutes. Iris should be about a quarter of the way to the bridge.

  You push the blond monster into the passenger side of the El Camino, then belt it in. Through the duct tape, it still moans. You tug your shirt up, over your nose, blocking some of the undead stench.

  Shifting into gear, back down the hill, onto the 101, and down the half mile of highway toward the awaiting army. When you turn the corner, the throng of hired guns stretches out in front of you, two hundred yards away. A line of vehicles blocking access to the bridge.

  Gripping the sawed-off, you step out of the car, walk around to the passenger side, and grab the blond-haired zombie. You muss its hair so it falls over its face. Then you pull it up by its shirt, standing it up straight, so the drivers can see it. On the quick look you offer them, the undead beast will appear to be Iris.

  You fire the gun twice in the air—the two hollow booms letting the enemy know you’re coming—then push the monster back inside.

  The cars begin charging—one thick mass of vehicles, thundering toward you. There’s a crack as the first bullet fires, and then it’s a storm of shots, thundering and snapping.

  You slide into the El Camino, take a long swig of whiskey, and decide it’s time to get on with it. It’s been eleven minutes. Iris should be halfway to the guardrail now.

  Teeth clenched, then, shifting into first, stamping the accelerator, using up every last bit of power this dying muscle machine has—leading the old girl into a stampeding charge of cars, trucks, motorcycles, and undead bodies.

  Your reflexes are quick and you feel sharper than you have in years, gripping the stick, triggering the minigun—glorious and deafening—and you’re smiling now, grinning, blowing them apart, the bullets non-stop thudding and pounding at the armed onslaught.

  A souped-up Camaro is the first car upon you, zooming fast, veering from side to side. You fire a rocket. It explodes at the ground just in front of the Camaro—the front tires burst, melting instantly, and the vehicle skids, flipping past you.

  Two motorcycles hurtling toward you. The riders fire AK-47s, but the bullets tick tick harmlessly off the El Camino’s metal plating, and it feels good, the machine eating up what the enemy throws at it. You swerve hard into the leading motorcycle—the thresher catches the front tire, chewing, and the rider is catapulted over the back of the El Camino. You imagine you hear the sound of him hitting the ground and breaking, but it’s only in your head.

  Pop, pulling the emergency brake, cutting the wheel, swinging the tail end of the El Camino around, connecting with the second bike. There’s a heavy thud as the El Camino plows into the motorcycle like a right hook, swinging through it.

  You gun it then—turning, continuing forward, toward the bridge, the army of cars firing at you from all sides. Concrete explodes. Fire rains down. You slam into the flaming wreckage of a Ford Taurus, ramming it, spinning the husk aside.

  If you had Iris with you, this would be a straight ride into the gauntlet—a direct assault. But this is different. Your only job is to stay alive as long as possible.

  But how far along is Iris?

  Nearing the bridge, explosions bursting all around you, you skid to a stop. Bullets pound the car’s metal hide while you lean over your blond zombie passenger—the idiot thing moans—and you peer through the window.

  Searching.

  Searching.

  There!

  You spot Iris, crouched down, at the base of the bridge.

  But where’s Mr. King?

  Where would you be? At the far end of the bridge, a last line of defense.

  That’s almost certainly where he is, too. That mass of zombies on the bridge—that crowd so thick you can’t see anything? You’re sure that Mr. King is waiting at the very end. You’d bet the future of humanity on it. In fact, you have.

  You need to draw him out, or Iris’s dead.

  Quick shifting, mashing the accelerator now, steering away from the bridge so it looks like you’re fleeing the heavy fire. You push the El Camino across the highway, toward the hills, firing two rockets into the gu
ardrail, then hopping over the twisted, burning metal and charging up the thick-grassed hills that line the highway and overlook the bridge. You tug the wheel, drifting, so the passenger door is facing out and you brace yourself for the next volley. Bullets pound the door as cars race after you, up the embankment.

  To the undead blonde: “This is your stop.”

  You reach over it, snap open the passenger door, extend the sawed-off, and fire it into its face. The shot blasts it out, onto the grass.

  You bring the car to a full stop, tearing up dirt, sliding across the grass. Then, very slowly, you step out, arms raised. You see the blond zombie, now nearly headless—brain everywhere, its face like someone took a pickax to a watermelon.

  You kneel down and hold it, like it’s something that mattered to you.

  A dozen cars encircle you as zombies shamble forward through the cracked guardrail and up the hill. The ring of cars keeps the monsters at bay.

  Looking out into the distance, you see movement on the bridge. Zombies being pushed aside.

  Mr. King.

  The Lincoln, rolling through.

  You were right—he was waiting at the end of the Golden Gate for you. And now he’s coming.

  The men step out of their cars. All of them in heavy clothes, leather jackets, two or three layers. Hired guns. Beards on most of them. One of them raises a rifle, but another says, “Hold. Wait for Tanner’s man.”

  A minute later, the Lincoln rumbles up the hill and Mr. King gets out. You see him for the first time since Times Square—face scarred and twisted and burned.

  He takes out a zombie that gets close as he steps up and over the hood of an old VW and into the circle.

  “Took a while for us to get you,” he says. His voice is a hard growl.

  “It did.”

  “Nice driving.”

  You don’t respond.

  “So this is Iris, huh? This is the lady who caused all the fuss. The blood that launched a thousand cars.”

  “No,” you say, “it isn’t.”

  You look up at him, a smirk on your face.

  His face twists. He steps over. Grabs the zombie’s blond hair. Sees its shattered face. Sees what little remains of the duct tape on its mouth. He pulls up its sleeves and sees its arms, rotted away to nothing. “She’s one of them,” he says.

  “Gotcha,” you say, raising a finger, pointing, winking, sounding like a bad game show host.

  Mr. King roars and kicks you in the face, snapping your nose, loosing teeth. You tumble back. When you sit up, he’s pulled a revolver from a hip holster and has it against your left eye. “Where’s Iris?”

  “You want to see Iris?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” you say, standing. Very slowly, you reach inside the car. You pull out your binoculars and focus on the bridge.

  There she is. Running past the thick horde of monsters, pushing through the few that get in her way. She’s close to the end. The big gates are opening. Men welcome her in. Soldiers fire shots at the zombies that get too close.

  Smiling, you hand the binoculars to Mr. King. He looks. Sighs. After a second, he brings them down.

  “You’re useless,” he says to the men. “He fooled you.”

  “What about our payment?” one of the drivers calls out.

  “There is no payment,” Mr. King says. “You failed.”

  “Do we get to kill him?”

  Mr. King turns back to you. He’s thinking. “No,” he says after a moment. “No, we don’t. He had a job to do. So did we. He finished his. We did not.”

  And then Mr. King swings, his thick, scarred fist connecting with your jaw and knocking you to the ground.

  “But blow the fucking El Camino to hell.”

  You get to your feet as a man hurls two grenades inside the El Camino. You make it only a few yards before it erupts, the blast lifting you off your feet and plunging you down the embankment.

  And for a while, you just lie there. You lift your head and watch the cars leave. The Lincoln rumbles away as well, into the distance. Good-bye, Mr. King.

  When the fire dies down, you examine the wreckage of the El Camino. Somehow, you find the sawed-off shotgun intact, buried beneath the rubble. You load it and stuff the few remaining shells into your pocket.

  You light a cigarette and begin limping toward the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Maybe you can make it across the bridge without being bitten.

  Maybe.

  You hope you can.

  You’d really like to see Iris one last time, before the scientists cut her up . . .

  AN END

  BIDING YOUR TIME

  The Man in Antlers pulls Iris to her feet and drags her toward the trees.

  A cult member kicks you in the side. “C’mon. Move it.”

  You struggle to your feet. The pain is blinding. The man pushes you forward. You stumble, then pitch over into the dirt. He yanks you up and shoves you along. Your gun lies in the grass, behind you.

  The Man in Antlers pushes Iris along, but she never cries or begs or calls for help.

  You walk nearly a half mile through the trees, stopping at a run-down barn in a field. The wood is chipped and rotting.

  The Man in Antlers orders a robed cult member to open the door, and you’re led inside.

  This barn appears to be the cult’s base and home. Large crucifixes are spray-painted on the walls. Candles, a few hundred, placed throughout. Dead animals, drained of blood, hang from the rafters and the walls.

  And zombies. You hear them. You smell them. But you don’t see them . . .

  You’re kicked forward, so you’re standing beside Iris. Cult members with their rifles on either side. Iris looks at you, terrified.

  That’s when you see the zombies.

  You’re standing over a large, circular pit dug into the center of the barn floor. Fifteen feet deep, forty feet around. Zombies fill the pit. Howling, hungry, reaching things. Your stomach roils, the poison rushes to your head, and you nearly pitch over the side. Iris grabs your arm, steadying you.

  The Man in Antlers crosses to the opposite side of the pit, then speaks like some mad preacher. “This place contains the rotting bodies of men who visited the temple—men who were not the leader. Men who would not bring us forward, into the new age. The girl will join them, though her death will be a true and final end. We pray that her inhuman, unnatural, foul biology might bring forth the True One.”

  He lowers his head and prays silently. The cult members join him.

  You focus.

  If you can ride out this pain, get back half a fucking grip on reality, there’s a chance you can get Iris out of here alive.

  Suddenly, a hand on your collar, pulling you back, dropping you onto the ground. “You watch,” a cult member says.

  The prayer has finished, and the Man in Antlers now walks around the pit, toward Iris. He grabs hold of a dangling pulley, a large rusted hook at the end. He slips the hook through her belt. Her shirt is still torn and her breasts are bare. One cult member begins to raise the pulley. Rusty metal squeaks as Iris is lifted into the air.

  Iris is silent, stoic, as she spins around helplessly.

  You concentrate only on the blinding hurt. You can fight this. You’ve fought worse. You breathe into the agony. Deep breaths, sucking in air, directing the oxygen toward the pain points.

  It begins to fade. The poison retreats.

  The cult member who knocked you to the floor stands over you. He watches with intensity as Iris dangles, rubbing at his crotch through the robe.

  You’ll kill him first, you decide.

  Breathing slowly, accepting the pain, defeating it, you rise. Farming tools hang from the barn walls. You spot a sickle. That’ll do.

  The cult members are all focused on Iris, being swung out over the pit.

  Quietly, you pull the sickle from the wall.

  She’s being lowered into the pit now.
>
  The men watch, entranced. The Man in Antlers has his eyes closed and he holds his arms out, embracing the bullshit.

  Time for you all to die, you think.

  You tap the closest cult member on the shoulder—the one who is watching Iris with a perverted intensity.

  “Uh?” he grunts, turning.

  You swing the sickle, slashing his throat, his head dropping from his shoulder. A geyser of blood erupts from his neck and he collapses onto the floor.

  Chaos then.

  Men yelling. Guns firing.

  You swing the sickle low, severing the next cult member at the legs. He falls, bloody stubs kicking.

  “Stop him!” the Man in Antlers demands.

  You take on a human shield—a bullet sponge. You work your way around the circular edge of the pit, disemboweling one cult member, slicing open the next one’s face, swinging the sickle through the next man’s gut so it exits his side trailing blood and viscera and purple fabric.

  The blade slashes the next man’s arm, and he cries out, reaching for a limb that’s no longer there. And then, blood splashing, he tumbles back into the man gripping the pulley.

  There’s a high-pitched whine as the rope rushes through the pulley and Iris plummets into the pit. “No!” she screams, and then there’s a whack as she hits the ground, and then she goes silent. The moaning of the zombies grows louder.

  All around you, the remaining cult members raise their guns.

  And beneath you, Iris fights and thrashes and kicks as the undead begin mauling her.

  You kick the bloody bullet sponge to the floor, mind racing . . .

  To jump in after Iris, click here.

  If you want to kill the remaining men first and then try to rescue Iris, click here.

  KLAN ATTACK

  Dewey leaps into action, flinging open the door, dropping to one knee, shooting steadily with a Remington Woodsmaster. He fires in three-round bursts. Burst. Kill. Burst. Kill. Burst. Kill. Nothing wasted.

  Walter and Suzie-Jean aren’t screaming. You glance over, and they don’t even seem scared—eyes just narrow and almost eager.