by Max Brallier
Click here.
THAT SINKING FEELING
You want nothing to do with this madman.
You’ll make it to San Francisco—and Iris will, too. You just need to drive hard and fast. And you can do that. Because you’re fucking Jimmy El Camino, and no one’s better.
Back in the driver’s seat, you stamp the accelerator and race through Los Angeles.
You pass the TCL Chinese Theatre, which is damaged from fire. The Whisky a Go Go, where zombies with long black hair stumble about.
Coming around Wilshire Boulevard, you see the all-black Lincoln, lying in wait.
Mr. King.
Two puffs of smoke erupt from beneath the Lincoln’s front bumper, then two rockets, in flight. You wrench the wheel, tires protesting, but it’s too late—the bastard was camped there, waiting to end you.
The first rocket slams into the front of the El Camino. The second into the driver’s-side door, ripping it apart. Hot metal slices through your leg. The El Camino flips, rolling across the sidewalk, crashing through a fence, and tumbling down a small hill. You hear an odd, hushed splash, and the car stops.
Blackness fills your vision. Black, covering the windows. Black, rising up, all around you.
You try to kick open the door, but there’s resistance. Thick, black liquid. No. Not liquid. Something else. You quickly roll down the window and the blackness begins to seep into the car. You grab Iris’s body and pull her out with you, squeezing through the window.
The black sludge surrounds you. Struggling to swim away from the El Camino, you see the sign: La Brea Tar Pits and Museum.
A fucking tar pit. And you’ve landed directly in the center of the millennia-old thing. The tar bubbles and burps, slowly pulling the El Camino under. You try to swim, but it’s too thick—like moving through molasses.
The monsters come for you then. Moaning beasts, rushing forward from the museum parking lot, stumbling down the hill, into the pit. Fat men in bad shirts. Asian women, their faces blood-splattered.
Some land headfirst, sinking, their feet kicking wildly. Others topple down from the viewing area above, then begin the slow tread through the tar toward you.
You have an arm wrapped around Iris and you use your other arm to try to swim, but the tar is too damn thick.
More bubbling, as Iris is pulled under. Her face—it’s like she’s watching you, accusing you of failing. And she’s not wrong. Some small part of you is almost happy when she slips under, completely, into the darkness. You won’t see those accusing eyes again.
The tar is up to your neck now.
Standing at the broken railing above, Mr. King watches with a smile on his scarred face, smoking a cigarette and enjoying the sight of your death.
The monsters close in from all sides. The tar tugs at you from below.
And as hands grip you and the tar pulls you, you wonder: Will some scientist in the year 2200—if the world manages to right itself—excavate you? Will they wonder how you wound up in this pit of shit? What will they think of the girl with no legs? And what will they say of the El Camino?
You wonder if you’ll go down in history, while, at the same time, you’re going down, down, down—zombies on you, tearing at your tar-coated flesh, as you’re swallowed whole by the thick liquid like some ancient woolly mammoth.
At last, your head goes under and the thick tar fills your lungs . . .
AN END
MISFIRE
You level the gun at Iris’s belly. She stares you down, almost daring you to do it. The balls on this woman, you think. The goddamn balls.
Your eyes narrow, telling Iris, I’ll do it. I’ll shoot you and I’ll take your dead body to San Francisco and maybe that’ll be enough to keep me alive.
And she just stares back.
Your finger curls around the trigger. Tightens.
But you can’t.
You can’t pull it.
Iris exhales. You’re lowering the gun when Ring attacks—leaping to his feet, launching himself into you.
And the gun goes off, deafening in the small car.
Iris is shot in the belly. Blood explodes and she’s thrown back, slams into the wall, then pitches forward off the bed. Ring goes for the door as the gun clangs to the floorboards. You spin, swinging the ax, slicing Ring’s right leg clean off.
You look to Iris: dead.
“You did this!” you bark at Ring. Then, with a sharp swing, you split his face in half.
There’s a commotion outside. Someone calls out, “Everything okay in there, boss?”
Back to the wall, you thrust the door open. The men outside see the blood splattering the walls.
“Boss?” one squeaks.
And then you step into the doorway, holding Ring. You throw his body from the car, into the men, knocking them aside.
You grab the gun, reload, then leap down, carrying Iris’s dead body over your shoulder.
Someone raises a rifle. You fire the sawed-off, blowing the man apart.
Moving quick now. Gunshots ringing out as you race across the field, toward the El Camino, rifles cracking, bullets whistling past you. The barn splinters as bullets hammer it.
You dump Iris in the bed of the El Camino, hop into the car, and floor it, bursting out from behind the barn, leaving Ring’s Most Wonderful Circus Show behind you.
A mile from the train, you stop the car and walk around to the bed.
Iris’s mouth is open and her dead eyes stare up at nothing.
You curse Iris for resisting. You curse yourself for raising the gun. You curse Ring for the whole fucking mess.
And then you get to work, wrapping her, bandaging her belly wound. You don’t know what the scientists in San Francisco need, but you hope that Iris’s body—even her dead body—is enough.
You take a long swallow of whiskey and slide into the driver’s seat.
Click here.
GETTING CLOSE NOW
Igor is pulling hunks of meat from a plastic bin and feeding the zombified husk of a former action-thriller actor. When he sees you enter, without the girl, disappointment crosses his wrinkled face.
“She’s dead. Actually dead. Not like this shit,” you say, indicating the monsters in the room.
Igor’s shoulders sag. For a moment, you think he might cry. But then he looks up, angry. “You lie,” he barks. “You didn’t even look for her!”
You slap the necklace into his open palm. “Here’s your proof.”
Looking down, the realization that you’re telling the truth hits him, and he does begin to cry then. Big tears pour down his cracked face.
“I was so hoping you’d find her,” he says, sniffling, then wiping at his nose with a dirty sleeve.
“I completed my part of the deal,” you say coldly. “Give me Iris.”
“What?” he says softly, and then, “Oh. Yes, yes . . .”
He disappears into the back. A long moment later he returns, carrying Iris. He hands her over. She’s icy cold and stiff. Her lips are now as blue as her eyes.
“Nice doing business,” you say.
You carry Iris back out to the El Camino and, for what you hope is the final time, buckle her into the passenger seat.
No more stopping now.
This is it.
You have a full tank of gas, half a bottle of whiskey, and Iris’s frozen body. Nothing to do but drive.
You travel up the Pacific Coast Highway. Rusted and wrecked cars line the road. Vehicles overturned. Belongings, lives, spilled across the ground.
You get into a rhythm, sliding from lane to lane, handling the El Camino like an instrument, finely tuned, your hands piloting without really thinking. Stereo music howls and you smoke cigarettes and, every once in a while, you pat Iris on her frozen shoulder.
When you pass the sign that reads San Francisco—25 miles, you turn down the stereo and pick up the microphone. “Eigle,” you say.
After a moment, he comes on. “Long time. Thought we lost you.”
“How’s Iris?” he asks.
“Cold.”
You hang the microphone on the radio and glance in the side mirror. Wreckage and blight behind you—nothing else. Your long, cross-country hell ride is nearly finished. You couldn’t keep the girl alive—no, you failed mightily at that—but you’ll deliver her. You’ll get her to your destination. That’s something, isn’t it?
That’s when you hear the roar. Gunfire explodes, bullets ricocheting off the rear of the El Camino, and you know, instantly, that your journey is far from finished.
Coming around a bend, you crane your neck. It’s Mr. King, behind the wheel of the Lincoln, putting the heat on, closing in.
He’s followed you across too many goddamn states to count, doing Boss Tanner’s bidding. And now he’s here. One last obstacle to overcome before you reach your mission’s end.
You mash the accelerator and the engine growls, charging forward, speeding up even as you take the next bend, sweeping across three curving lanes, far door grazing an overturned tractor-trailer, so close the metal on metal shrieks.
Coming out of the turn, you see a mess of wreckage ahead, crashes, debris, hot metal shiny in the sunlight, scattered across the road.
Stomping the brake then, wrenching the wheel so you swerve off the road, thudding and screeching down into the parking lot of a roadside joint called the Deuce Deuce. Here, zombie bikers shuffle about amidst the shattered remains of two dozen Harley-Davidsons. One gets caught in the El Camino’s thresher, leather shredding, and then a fat one, tattoos covering his swollen and bloated belly, is hit and bounces off.
You jerk the wheel, throwing the zombie off, then flicking the nitrous, hurtling around the roadhouse in a swooping drift. You swing back around front, the Lincoln directly ahead of you now, and you trigger the M134D minigun, unleashing a barrage of bullets on the enemy’s driver’s-side door.
Mr. King’s head snaps to the side, then ducks as his bulletproof window cracks, finally weakened.
The Smith & Wesson. If you could stick that big mother through that cracked glass, you could blow Mr. King’s goddamn head right off.
You punch it, whipping past the Lincoln, the El Camino leaping back out onto the highway. You quickly hit 90 miles per hour, weaving around an abandoned pickup and clipping a rusted motorcycle, sending it spinning back toward Mr. King. The Lincoln plows through it, charging forward, traveling in your slipstream.
A hard turn ahead, tight—the wreckage of a half-dozen vehicles crowding the road. You release the gas and slide, drifting across the turn, through the scattered obstacles, the ocean stretching out far to your left, a jumble of wreckage to your right.
Coming out of the turn, straightening the wheel, a second to breathe—and then suddenly, filling the road, filling your vision, a hundred rotting, undead beasts—too many to thresh through, plow through, or slam through. You jerk the wheel, one tire bursts, and then the El Camino is careening off the road, smashing through a wooden sign, hanging in the air for a brief moment before tumbling down a grassy embankment.
The car rolls three times, then lands on its wheels with a heavy, shuddering thud. The engine cuts out. You twist the keys, but the machine has shit the bed. You jam the Smith & Wesson 500 into your belt, scoop up Iris, and run like hell.
You hear the Lincoln racing down the hill behind you. Ahead of you are massive, overgrown grapevines and stalks. A building to your right has the words Foster Family Vineyards across the top.
As you charge into the winery’s thick, nearly impassible rows of rotting grapes, you hear the whistle of rockets and then a deafening blast. You grip Iris tight, waiting for it—and then the heat is white-hot on your back as the El Camino explodes and the blast hurls you thirty feet through the air, into the grape fields.
You hit the ground and your arm snaps and your bone rips through the skin. Iris’s torso falls beside you.
No time to tend to your wound. Moans drift through the rows of grapevines ahead: zombies in the fields.
You limp to the end of the row and peer around the corner. The Lincoln had stopped beside the flaming wreckage of the El Camino, but now it continues on, slowly entering the sprawling fields. You’re being hunted.
You set Iris’s body on the ground, hiding it among the towering, overgrown grape stalks, and then you move. Coming through the next row, an undead beast pounces on you. You don’t fire the gun for fear of drawing the attention of Mr. King, more monsters, or both.
Instead, you swing hard, punching the thing in the jaw, snapping its head back. You tackle it, pulling the pistol and whipping the monster, feeling its skull crack, until, at last, its brain begins to seep from its ears.
Another comes, and you just run.
You come out into a large clearing, the grass waist-high. Monsters roam here as well, most of them wearing torn jeans and bloody denim shirts.
Behind you comes the rumble of the Lincoln. You turn. Grape stalks are ripped from the ground as the vehicle prowls, drawing closer, the sound telling you it will be into the clearing in moments.
If you want to hold your ground and unload with the Smith & Wesson, click here.
If you’d rather wait, hoping and praying that some inspired plan enters your rattled brain, click here.
BACK TO IT
The house looks like an invitation to death. So you continue on, leaving the girl behind. But as you watch the little one in the rearview, alone, surrounded by nothing but hell, you think of Iris. Iris, who agreed to give her life—to walk alone, into the open arms of death . . . for something bigger.
And you can’t let that go unrewarded.
You need to finish what you started.
So you turn around. New Orleans it is . . .
Click here.
DELIVERING IRIS . . .
Your boot mashes the pedal until pain shoots up your leg—pushing the El Camino on—faster, harder, thundering toward the Lincoln with pistons pumping, every bit of the machine pushed to its limit—metal howling, bolts rattling, and the thick grille of the Lincoln growing in size as you storm toward it.
Two hundred yards.
One hundred yards.
Fifty yards . . .
At the last possible moment, Mr. King flinches. The Lincoln goes into a screeching slide, clipping the side of your car, you correcting, the Lincoln spinning, and then two bangs as the Lincoln’s tires burst and the car flips, tumbling into a high-speed barrel roll, hurtling down the bridge.
You skid into a stop, turning to watch the Lincoln roll six, seven, eight times. Metal and glass explode.
On the ninth flip, Mr. King is tossed from the car, his body a rag doll, tumbling through the air, hanging there for a short instant, then crashing hard on the bridge.
Yet he’s still not dead.
He struggles to stand, but he quickly falls to the pavement—his leg is shattered and his femur protrudes through the flesh. Bloods pours from a massive gash on his forehead. But through the gore, you see him watching—can feel his glare penetrating, staring at you through the El Camino’s shattered passenger-side window.
He pulls a pistol.
Raises it, shakily.
Points it at you.
And then the monsters tackle him. Six zombies upon him, dragging him to the ground, tearing at him. The report of the pistol, twice, and Mr. King gives in, crumples and allows himself to be devoured.
Iris places her hand on yours. You nod, turn the wheel, and drive. Approaching the end of the bridge, two makeshift gates begin to open. Soldiers rush out, holding off any nearby zombies while men in uniforms usher you inside.
An excited scientist in a lab coat, like he just ran out in the middle of his research, hurries forward. He speaks to other men in hushed tones. It seems no one thought you’d make it.
You stumble out of the El Camino. Using your good arm to brace yourself, you limp around the car, then open the p
assenger-side door for Iris.
“Always the gentleman,” she says, climbing out.
“Iris?” the man in the lab coat asks. “This is Iris?”
She nods. “Yep,” she says, sounding a bit proud but also like she’d rather not admit it. “That’s me.”
“Oh thank Christ in heaven,” he says. “Please, come with us. We’ll tend to those wounds.”
“No,” she says coolly. “No, I’m not coming with you.”
Your heart just about seizes up. She’s come so far. She can’t back out now. It’s too important. You understand the fear of death that grips her now, but it must be done. The horror you’ve seen on your journey—the hell on earth this land has become—it must be ended.
“I’m sorry?” the man says.
“Not until you give Jimmy the antidote.”
The man in the coat exhales, relieved. “Of course,” he says, turning. “Admiral?”
A navy admiral—full dress blues, square jaw, thick head of hair—steps forward, looking you up and down. “It’s an honor, Mr. Casey.”
“Mr. El Camino.”
“Mr. El Camino. The poison . . . ,” he says, trailing off, then picking back up. “I’m sorry we were forced to do that. Eigle’s idea.”
You shrug. “It got me here. So, oh well.”
The admiral cracks half a grin. He pulls three pills from a pouch at his side, then calls for someone to bring water. A moment later, a young soldier appears, holding a bottle, and you down the pills.
“The water will give you the runs—still working on good, clean water—but your system will be clear in two days,” the admiral says. “Thank you for your service.”
You say nothing. You sit on the hood of the El Camino, rest your arm on the hot barrel of the M134D, and watch Iris’s time on this Earth draw to a close.
“Iris,” the man in the lab coat says, almost timidly. “Could you please come with us now? It’s time.”
Iris turns to you. Her face is ashen, but her eyes are dry and her mouth firm.