Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?
Page 1
CAN YOU SURVIVE
THE ZOMBIE
APOCALYPSE?
Gallery Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text Copyright © 2011 by Max Brallier
Illustrations Copyright © 2011 by Christopher Mitten
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Gallery Books trade paperback edition February 2011
GALLERY BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Designed by Jaime Putorti
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brallier, Max.
Can you survive the zombie apocalypse? / Max Brallier.
p. cm.
1. Zombies—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.R344455C36 2011
813.’6—dc22
2010034649
ISBN 978-1-4516-0775-8
ISBN 978-1-4516-0880-9 (ebook)
FOR THE GUYS—
AMARU, ARDLE, BAKER, CHEWY, MANDO—
YOU KNOW WHY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Boy, where to start. My wonderful agent, Jason Allen Ashlock, for believing this could be a book. My brilliant and always patient editor, Jaime Costas, for not only editing the hell out of this thing, but for editing the hell out of it while on maternity leave. Genius illustrator Christopher Mitten, who I kind of hate now because his stuff here is so damn good that it far out-shines my writing. Jaime Putorti for being a constant pleasure to work with. Lily Kosner, for sending me the most important email of my life. And for their advice and guidance I must thank Katie McKim, Matthew Shear, Joe Goldschein, Michael Homler, Jill Sullivan, Tara Cibelli, Maggie Lam, Mike Amaru, Wes Ryan, Jess W. Brallier, and Nancy Trypuc. And, of course, Mom and Dad. Love ya. You too, Rube!
THE LEGEND
Every dead body that is not exterminated becomes one of them. It gets up and it kills. The people it kills get up and kill!
DAWN OF THE DEAD
In the brain and not the chest.
Headshots are the very best.
FIDO
I don’t know what’s going on, but I know it’s not a prison break. No chemical I ever heard about can make a dead man walk. This is something that nobody has ever heard about or seen before.
This is hell on earth. This is pure hell on earth.
NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD
A BRIEF MESSAGE ON THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE AND YOU
Beyond this page lies unspeakable horror. Bone-crunching, blood-splattering, brain-impaling horror—the horror of the zombie apocalypse.
If you’re reading this, you’ve probably read your fair share of zombie stories and watched your fair share of zombie flicks. But this time it’s different. No longer do you get to sit back idle as a bunch of fools make all the wrong moves. All hell is about to break loose—and this time you have a say in humanity’s survival.
You’re twenty-five years old. You live in a crappy, overpriced studio apartment in Manhattan. You work a corporate job that you’re not particularly fond of. Up until now, your day-to-day life offered few surprises.
But today, on a hot and humid July morning, zombies have come to Manhattan.
You have choices to make now—lots of them. Moral dilemmas. Strategic decisions. Weapons. Vehicles. Will you be a hero? Or will you cover your own ass at all costs? Will you survive the coming hours, days, weeks, and months? Or will you die amidst the chaos and violence of a zombie uprising?
Or, worst of all, will you become one of them …?
The choice is yours. And hey, if you don’t make it—you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.
IT BEGINS…
Will this ever end? These Monday morning meetings always run long. Every damn time. God, in the history of man, has a morning meeting ever not run long?
As usual, you overslept, missed the subway, and arrived ten minutes late to work so you missed the Krispy Kremes and one of the good chairs. Now you’re stuck in a tiny little plastic thing you’re pretty sure you can hear bending underneath your weight—or maybe that’s the sound of your stomach aching for a doughnut.
Your head’s still hurting from Saturday night. Can’t drink like you used to. College days: drink, puke, sleep, drink, puke, sleep, drink, puke, sleep, watch some basketball, drink, puke, sleep. Rinse. Repeat. Graduate three semesters late. Good times.
But you’re a grown man now. An ah-dult. An ah-dult stuck in a miserable Monday morning meeting—with no Krispy Kreme.
All you can think about is five o’clock and getting home. Being enveloped by your well-worn but pretty-darn-comfortable-if-you-don’t-say-so-yourself Craigslist couch. Ordering some Chinese. Sweet-and-sour chicken (sauce on the side), fried rice, an egg roll. Watching some Seinfeld. Good stuff.
Oh yes—to be home…
You pull out your phone. 10:40 AM. Sigh, seven more hours to—
Suddenly—violently—Angela, the cute brunette receptionist, bursts through a set of double doors and explodes into the conference room.
Everyone turns. Someone giggles. Confused looks all around.
Eyes wide, Angela stands in the doorway, silent for a moment, then: “Um—sorry to interrupt—but I think you need to turn the TV on.”
Matthew Trypuc—head of marketing—glares from his usual spot at the head of the long conference table. Cool and condescending. “Angela, you’re interrupting.”
Prick. The poor girl just ran in here looking like she was going to wet herself—she must have a decent reason.
Angela ignores the big boss’s dirty look and runs the length of the long conference room to the fat old Mitsubishi TV in the corner, a leftover from the pre-PowerPoint days. The oversize TV sits on a banged-up TV cart—you’re pretty sure your middle school had the same one.
Someone asks Angela to explain. She doesn’t say anything. Continues to work on the TV.
A woman at the end of the table—you recognize her from around the office but don’t know her name—gets up and hurries out of the conference room. A few people follow her, headed for their computers to check CNN.com or MSNBC.com or whatever their news site of choice is.
You think terrorists. So does everyone else, most likely. You picture the word—terrorist—bouncing around their collective, coffee-fueled brains, along with images of explosions, crumbling buildings, and out-of-control beards.
The TV hums to life. One of the local news guys sits at a desk:
Again, we don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily, but our early reports say these patients are exhibiting bizarre, radical, and even violent behavior.
The broadcast cuts to an aerial view of Mount Sinai Hospital. You know Mount Sinai. It’s about twenty blocks north and a few avenues east from your office. Went there a few years back when you had a hangnail that got infected and your mom convinced you that you were about two days away from needing full
hand, and possible arm, amputation.
Now a shot from the ground: a pretty blond reporter, clearly not ready to be on live TV. A mass of ambulances, cop cars, fire engines, and workers stretches out behind and around her. The flashing red and blue lights strobe across her young, makeup-slathered face. You can make out the hospital about a hundred yards in the distance.
She reports:
Are we on? I’m on? Ahem. Yes, we’ve just received word that patients are rioting inside the hospital. At this moment, it’s still not clear what the cause of the violence is—or how and even if hospital employees may be involved. Of course, any news we get we’ll pass along immediately. Again, for those of you just tuning in, you’re looking at Mount Sinai Hospital, where violence has reportedly broken out among a number of patients and possibly hospital staff.
An aerial shot now:
A dozen police cars have formed a semicircle around the main emergency room entrance. More are arriving.
The big sliding doors beneath the EMERGENCY sign slide open and out stumbles a young doctor, bleeding from his face, neck, and shoulder. Blood pumps from his wounds, spilling out onto his scrubs. He takes a few shaky steps before collapsing onto the little green Mount Sinai carpet that lies in front of the door.
The office is silent for a split second—then a flurry of ohmygods, Jesuschrists, and whatthefucks. The woman sitting next to you grabs on to your arm. It’s weird.
The doctor begins convulsing. Blood streams onto the sidewalk and pools at the curb. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a female patient in a hospital gown bursts out from the ER and dives on top of him.
The entire conference room gasps.
The patient is biting the doctor. No, not just biting. Eating him—devouring the guy. Tearing into his flesh with her teeth and hands. Clawing at his body. Ripping skin from his limbs. As she tosses her head back to chew, stringy flesh hangs from her teeth.
The screen goes black.
For a second, no one says a word; no one is quite able to process what he or she is seeing. Then a large woman (copyediting department, you think) explodes into tears, hands cupped over her face, and rushes out of the room. More follow her, reaching for cell phones as they squeeze past one another and out into the hall.
The TV picture returns. Shakily, the pretty blond reporter clutches the microphone, talking, but there’s no sound.
There’s action in the distance—something happening. All sorts of movement.
A mass of people begins to fill the screen behind her. What’s happening? Rioting? Maybe. Thirty people. No, more. Fifty. Hospital workers, it looks like. And cops and firefighters. Running from something. No. Charging. And—Christ—what is wrong with these people? Their faces—albino white, twisted, possessed. Splashes of blood on all of them—some drenched. The reporter, oblivious to the chaos behind her, continues reporting. The cameraman sees what’s coming. The screen flashes, and the camera falls to the ground, still broadcasting.
All you see now is feet—some shuffling, some running. Then suddenly a sickening close-up of the reporter’s twisted face and neck as she hits the cement. Someone pounces on her. That pretty blond hair is torn from her scalp. Teeth dig in.
Behind her, the mob continues moving. A heavy work boot tramples the reporter’s face and you see her head partially implode.
More follow. Hundreds. Some stumble forward. Others run, awkward but quick.
Finally, the camera is kicked, spins wildly, and the broadcast cuts out.
Panic sets in all around you. Chairs hit the floor. A woman screams in pain as a man, quick to exit, spills his hot coffee on her lap. Crying. The conference room empties, your coworkers running for their phones and computers—desperate for news, desperate to get in touch with their loved ones.
You sit in your stupid uncomfortable chair, stunned, unable to move. Words dance around your brain along with images from comics and movies—and then finally you blurt out, to no one in particular,
“Zombies. Zombies… ZOMBIES! THE LIVING FUCKING DEAD!”
You can’t believe it. You don’t believe it. You goddamn won’t believe it.
But you saw it. Right there on the TV.
Have to get up. Have to move.
You don’t trust your legs to hold your body if you stand. For a long moment you just sit there, still. Sweat gathers on your brow. A drop crawls down your forehead and along your cheek. Finally, you force yourself to stand. You’re relieved when you don’t fall to the floor. You head for your cubicle.
You get to your computer and start typing. Hands are shaking. You’re hitting all the wrong keys. You feel weak. Realize you’re not breathing. You remind yourself, breathe. You sit down. Breathe in and out. Calm yourself. You bring up Drudge-Report.com. You see the red siren… never a good sign. Above, in giant letters, is the headline:
A number of smaller links sit below:
Walking dead…
Running dead?…
Avian bird flu in NYC? Developing…
911 reporting claims of the dead returning to life…
Huge horror hoax?
Manhattan under siege? Developing…
Jesus Christ. You have to get the hell out of Manhattan ASAP.
You jog to the elevators. The hallway is packed. After the fourth or fifth time the doors open to a full car, you say fuck it, you’ll hoof it. You’re on the fifteenth floor. The stairs aren’t much better. Dozens of people, running down. Someone trips, catches himself, and smacks face-first into the wall. He’s knocked out cold. You and the others step over him as you continue your descent. The fire alarm screams, impossibly loud, along with flashing white lights—someone opened the emergency doors.
You take the stairs two at a time, going over it all in your head, trying to figure out where to go when you hit the street. Million-dollar question.
You finally get to the ground floor. Coworkers flood past you out the revolving doors. Didn’t know they could spin that fast. You nearly lose a hand, pull it back just in time. You and two other guys squeeze into one slot—you being the meat in that sandwich—and a split second later you’re spit out on onto Eighty-fourth Street on the West Side. A street you’ve been on hundreds of times over the course of your short career. But this time, it’s unrecognizable.
The streets are packed. Loud. Car horns blast. People yell—angry, violent screams.
And more, it’s hot. Stinking hot and humid. Air so thick you could cut it with a knife. A New York City July. You think while you sweat…
If you think your best chance of getting out of the city is via taxi, click here.
If you want to jog the twelve blocks and two avenues to the Seventy-second Street subway and catch the next train to Brooklyn, click here.
If you want to get back to your apartment ASAP, click here.
ALL ABOARD
Fuck it. You’re getting on that train. You push. In front of you, a man fights to get on—only to be shoved out by the mob on board.
You bend your knees and turn yourself sideways, making yourself as small as possible, and squeeze through the sweaty mass of bodies. Two women go at it, exchanging blows with their purses—it provides you with a glimmer of space and you slip onto the cattle car.
A dozen times the doors nearly shut, each time making it partway, then opening again.
The pleasant, oh-so-calm recorded voice comes over the speaker: Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
Two tall black teens scream at each other, headphones blaring.
Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
A young doctor, still in scrubs, gets in the face of a Spanish woman for no reason, then shoves her in the chest. Someone sticks an arm in to break it up.
Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
You step on a man’s foot. Large guy, looks homeless, but wears a gold watch. He glares at you. Type of guy looking for a fight.
Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
A large woman pushes past you. She g
rabs the thin man blocking the sensor, standing near the doors, and tosses him off.
Ding. The doors shut. Sarcastic cheers.
You breathe a long sigh of relief as the car pulls out of the station. The conductor says nothing about the happenings in the city. You blow by the next two stations. At each one a thick crowd—a hundred scared faces visible for one blurry moment as you whiz past.
On board, people wave their phones around, trying to get a signal. A pregnant woman cries in the corner. No one offers her a seat.
The conductor comes on and announces that, due to an accident at Houston Street, this train will make one final stop on its route and then continue running as a 7 train to Queens. You crane your neck to look at the map on the train wall. A train switching routes entirely like this—that seems unheard of. But at least Queens is far away from here, and you can get to Brooklyn from Queens, so you hang tight.
At the next stop, the train unloads and a fresh crowd eagerly takes their place. The train now continues on its new route.
You pull out your phone. Smile, for one short second, at your new background: Bruce Willis from Die Hard. Now there’s a goddamn hero. He would have known what to do. You stick your phone up over your head like everyone else. No signal. Damn.
Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you notice for the first time the man in the seat below the map. He’s at the end of the row, slouched against the metal handrail. His face is a pale, bluish white, drained of nearly all color. Blood is slowly seeping through a violent tear in the puffy New Jersey Devils jacket that covers his shivering body.
Oh shit. You can see the headline: ZOMBIE MAN AWAKENS ON SUBWAY, KILLS DOZENS.
His face is nearly see-through now. Veins visible through his translucent skin.
You look from side to side. No one else notices him.
Finally, his head flops back and rests against the Plexiglas windowpane. Eyes wide open. Doesn’t look like he’s breathing…
If you want to shout for a doctor, click here.
Not your problem? Say fuck it and get your ass to the next car? Click here.