Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?

by Max Brallier

  Either that door opens, or you’re all going to die.

  “Please!” you shout, locking eyes with the man on the other side of the glass. But it’s too late.

  The chain breaks. You reach out, trying to grab at anything. You’re falling back. Everything moves in slow motion. Then you hit the tracks and the heavy metal wheels grind you into a dozen bloody pieces.

  AN END

  GOOD SAMARITAN

  They examine the lock.

  As Walter squeezes the trigger, you lunge for the gun. You get his arm and knock it into the air. The pistol fires harmlessly into the ceiling.

  Voices outside. Feet slap cement as the looters scatter.

  Walter stands up, fury in his eyes. “You son of a bitch.”

  “You were going to kill them!”

  A cool, scary calm comes over him. He raises the gun.

  “Oh no, please, please don’t—“

  BLAM!!!

  You look down. A small hole in the center of your chest. Blood begins to soak through your shirt, forming a perfect maroon circle.

  You fall to the floor.

  Walter’s gravelly voice. “Shoulda minded your own damn businesssssss…”

  AN END

  HOWDY NEIGHBOR

  Well, might as well go around and meet the neighbors. You walk the halls, going from door to door. No answer. No answer. No answer. Down to the next floor.

  You hear television coming from one apartment. Good television. Explosions.

  It smells like pot outside the door. You knock again. Nothing. Harder.

  You’re about to give up when the door opens. Now it really stinks like pot. Smoke wafts out into the hall. It’s a young guy, your age, in a bathrobe. Half a beard. Big pair of headphones around his neck. He sticks his head out and looks both ways.

  “Yo.”

  “What’s up,” you say.

  “I don’t know, you knocked.”

  “Yeah, uh, I don’t know, I wanted to see who was still alive around here. I’ve had a hell of a day.”

  “Huh?”

  “Y’know, with all this shit.”

  “What shit?”

  “You didn’t see the news?”

  “News? Nah bro. I’ve been sitting here for the past”—he glances over at a cheap Mets alarm clock—“shit like nine hours just getting ripped and playing Call of Duty.”

  “You didn’t hear the gunshots?”

  “What gunshots?”

  “All the gunshots and shooting and screaming and all that shit.”

  “Nah. I got a four-hundred-and-ninety-dollar pair of Sennheiser headphones. You play video games? You play videogames, you’d love it. It’s like you’re in the middle of friggin’ Afghanistan, no joke. I spent like three grand on this sick surround sound system—then the old lady upstairs bitches every time I crank it.”

  “Oh yeah—that’s the old lady next to me.” The dead old lady, you think.

  “Yeah, total bitch, right? So anyway I shut down the surround sound and went with the headphones.”

  You nod slowly, then “OK, so, uh, dude—fucking zombies are all over the place!”

  He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. Hell, maybe you have. “Bro, what the fuck are you talking about? You eat some bad acid or something? Mushrooms—is it mushrooms? You wanna come in, lay down, take a few pills? Chill you out?”

  You shrug, nod, and walk inside. Holy shit. …

  His apartment is out of this world. Fifty-inch flat screen mounted on the wall. Blu-ray rack with at least a hundred titles. PS3. 360. Wii. Old-school Nintendo. Old-school Super Nintendo. 64. Sega. Sega CD! Everything. Two bedrooms. Full kitchen.

  “How do you afford this?”

  “You a cop?”

  “What? No.”

  “You sure? ’Cause if I ask if you’re a cop and you say no I’m not a cop then you can’t arrest me for anything I do after that.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true, but no, I’m not a cop.”

  “Then follow me,” he says, grinning.

  As you enter one of the bedrooms you see how he makes his money. Rows and rows of marijuana plants everywhere. Bright white grow lamps.

  “Holy shit—this has been going on in my building this whole time?”

  “Yeah, son. You blaze?”

  “Well shit… now I do.”

  “So what were you saying about zombies? Wait—yo, is that blood on your shirt? And your hands?”

  “Yeah, I just killed a Nazi.”

  “You what—”

  “Dude, this apartment is amazing! How do you turn on the TV?”

  He picks up a beautiful Logitech universal remote and switches to cable. Horror in hi-def. He watches, stunned.

  He shuts the TV off. Slowly, not speaking, he sits down and stuffs a good twenty dollars’ worth of pot into a massive glass bong. He lights it and draws deep—exhales thick, almost green, smoke. Then, still silent, he hands it to you.

  You take it. Three-piece design, all glass on glass. No rubber to muck anything up. In green letters running down the side is the word RooR—as nice a piece you’ve ever seen. Nearly three feet tall, probably seven pounds in your hands. Made in Germany—you remember that piece of trivia from your college days. Thick glass, ash catcher, diffused downstem to cool the smoke.

  You rip the bong—feel the smoke fill your lungs—then explode in a coughing fit. You hand it back.

  His name’s Matty, he says, but call him the Ardle, everyone calls him the Ardle. The Ardle runs his finger over his enormous Blu-ray collection and pulls Starship Troopers. He pops it on. The bass rumbles.

  Minutes into the movie, you’re so stoned, so lost in the action, you momentarily forget about the chaos outside. “Man,” you say, “this movie’s not just so bad it’s good, it’s so bad it’s amazing.”

  The Ardle turns his head. Through a cloud of smoke: “What, no way man—it’s legitimately good.”

  “Dude are you watching this—it’s ridiculous!”

  “Nah, bro. You’re missing it. It’s all social commentary about mankind and war and mindless violence and shit.”

  “I dunno man—I think it’s just an excuse for coed showers and big guns shooting bugs and getting Doogie Howser back onscreen.”

  “Nah dude—social commentary.”

  “That makes it good?”

  “Yeah, I mean—yeah—social commentary automatically makes stuff good. I think. There!” he shouts, pointing at the screen. “See those tattoos they’re getting—just like the Nazis, man. Just like the Nazis.”

  “Hunh.” You take another bong hit.

  You squint at the screen and nod slowly as you exhale. “I killed a Nazi today.”

  “Right, that’s what’s up.” With a burst of energy he sits on the edge of the couch and faces you. “You killed a Nazi, and now here we are. Just like this. It all makes sense now. You get me, right?”

  And you do. You get him.

  You continue watching the film with a newfound, marijuana-induced respect for it. When it ends, you leave—but not before asking to borrow some pot. Borrow, as in smoke and never give back. The Ardle does you one better and gives you a sandwich bag of weed plus your own plant. You carry it to your apartment like a baby. You put it out on the window and name it Audrey III, then spend the next two days in a haze, smoking constantly, watching Audrey grow and trying not to think about reality.

  And then the power goes. You go to the window. It shuts in large chunks, block after block going dark.

  Immediately, you think about the effect this’ll have. You’ll have to change the way you’re eating—anything that’ll go bad you’ll have to eat now. Snack food, cereal, that kind of stuff you’ll save.

  A knock at your door. You grab the hockey stick, the splintered end still stained red with the Nazi’s blood, and tiptoe to the door. You peer through the peephole. Phew—the Ardle. You open the door.

  “Just saw the power went,” he says.

  “Yep. Didn’t take l
ong, huh.”

  “Nope. I’ve got a solar hookup—keeps the pricks at Con Ed from realizing how much energy I’m drawing for my business. You want to stay by me for a while, you’re welcome.”

  “Yeah—yeah sure. I’d love to crash on the couch. It’ll be about one hundred degrees in here without the AC.”

  “No prob, homes.”

  So you stay with him. It’s like college again. You spend your days smoking pot and playing video games. Weeks go by, each day running into the next. Yeah, it’s actually just like college. You’d forgotten how quickly time passes when you’re high off your ass all the time.

  After a month or so, you help him carry his flat screen up onto the roof. You take extension cords from a few abandoned apartments and run cables out through the window. You find two beach chairs in the basement, haul them up there, too.

  You spell out HELP in empty beer bottles—when you have to go, you piss in them, keeps them from getting blown over by the wind.

  The roof is your new home. During the days, the two of you play video games and watch movies. The Ardle’s got a BB gun—you alternate between blasting away at pigeons and shooting at the zombies on the street below. The zombies are surprisingly not as fun—the BBs don’t register.

  It’s a cool, breezy afternoon when they come.

  You’re napping, soaking up the sun, when you hear a loud mechanical howl above you. Your eyes snap open. You’re staring up at the belly of a massive military helicopter. It hovers, kicking shit up all around you—magazine pages flip, an empty Mountain Dew can is thrown off the ledge.

  Then a ladder drops.

  Rescue has come.

  But do you even want it?

  Do you want to ignore the helicopter and keep hanging out—after all, this sort of is paradise… If so, click here.

  If you want to climb the ladder and leave with the military, click here.

  A PROPOSITION

  “No thanks. That’s all you.”

  You watch him do his heroin. It’s gross, unsettling. So you curl up on the floor, roll your sweatshirt up into a pillow, and close your eyes.

  You wake up hungover as fuck. Louis is sprawled out on the bed, needle still in his arm.

  You make your way downstairs. The place is trashed. An Angel snores underneath the pool table. Guess that’s how it goes after a successful zombie-killing run.

  You pass out on the couch and don’t wake up until you hear the helicopter. It starts in your dream as an old muscle car, driven by a horrific undead man, chasing you. The engine turns to a roar, and then you snap to, awake.

  Most of the gang members are gathered around the monitors behind the bar. You peer over their shoulders and watch. It’s a military helicopter—not very heavily armed, looks more like a transport. It lands on the street outside, directly in front of the club. It’s a tight fit between the two sides of the street—it takes the pilot two attempts to set down. He finally does, and two soldiers hop out, rifles up.

  They give some sort of army hand signal, and a man in a pressed military suit and gray trench coat steps out. He approaches the club, the wind from the slowing blades kicking up his coat so it looks almost like a cape. Standing directly beneath the camera, he gives three hard knocks.

  “Whaddya think he wants?” Whiskey says.

  “Kid, get the door,” Jones says. “Find out what he wants.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I said so.”

  Three doors separate the club from the outside world. The first, nothing special. The second, heavy metal. The third, more metal. You unlock all three and walk outside. You look him up and down. He wears a green and beige service uniform. Pins and medals over his left breast. Plenty of stripes, too. Under his right arm is a large manila envelope.

  He scans you as well, obviously surprised to see an unshaven kid in a filthy Point Break T-shirt open the door.

  “Hi,” you say.

  “Can I come inside?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Colonel Troficanto, United States Special Forces.”

  “Uh, OK sir, one second.”

  “Huh—”

  You shut the door. Back inside.

  “Colonel something. Special Forces.”

  “Well—what’s he want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “No, sorry, hold on.”

  Back through the three doors. “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to speak to whoever is in charge here.”

  “What about?”

  “An opportunity to help your country.”

  “One sec.”

  “Kid, let me—”

  Back inside.

  “He says he wants to speak to whoever’s in charge and that he’s got an opportunity for you to help your country.”

  Everyone laughs.

  “Fuck we’d want to do something like that for?” one says.

  “I don’t know,” you say.

  Jones stares at you.

  “Again?” You sigh.

  Jones nods.

  Back through the three doors.

  “Sir, why would they want to help out their country?”

  He doesn’t quite know how to answer this one. “Because it’s your goddamn country.”

  You frown. “I don’t think they give a damn.”

  “It’ll be mutually beneficial, believe me.”

  “Alright, I’m not doing this anymore. Come inside.”

  You lead him in. Colonel Troficanto stands at the door. “Gentlemen.”

  No one returns the greeting.

  “Who should I be speaking to?”

  “Speak to us all,” Jones responds.

  The Colonel frowns, but does. “We’ve been watching you.”

  “What else is new?”

  “Not what I mean. To be quite honest—we’re impressed. Do you know what’s going on in the rest of the world?”

  “I can imagine,” Jones says.

  “I’ll be brief. Four months ago, something went very, very wrong at Mount Sinai Hospital. A virus was released. Yeah, zombies. Right now, Manhattan is the main problem,” the Colonel continues. “It’s a complete clusterfuck. We tried a ground assault. Got a lot of my boys dead.”

  “Get to the fucking point,” Jones says, lighting a cigarette.

  “We’d like your help.”

  “Our help.”

  “Correct. Like I said—we’ve been watching you, via satellite. When you go on your little, ahem, runs, you’re successful. Very successful. So, we’d like you to clean out some of the, uh, messier parts of the city. Soften them up. Then the military can come in and finish the job.”

  “And get all the credit,” Whiskey says.

  “That’s right. I’m not here to offer you a shot at glory.”

  You look up at that crest. when we do right, nobody remembers. when we do wrong, nobody forgets.

  “So why do we do this?”

  The Colonel now pulls the manila envelope from under his armpit. Opens the metal tabs and removes another manila envelope. He flips it open.

  “Joseph ‘Broadway Joe’ DeStefano. Killed two men in a drug-related shootout in Kansas City, 1987.”

  He looks up, scans their faces, makes eye contact with Broadway Joe. “Didn’t have the beard in this photo.”

  Broadway Joe’s expression doesn’t change.

  The Colonel flips the page. “Samuel ‘Wild Bill’ Hickock. Rape. Nineteen ninety-four.”

  Wild Bill stands up. “Bullshit!”

  “Sit down, Bill,” Jones says. Not happy, he does.

  “Thomas ‘Tommy Gun’ Baker. Assaulting an officer of the law, one count, 1999. Murder in the first, two counts, 2002.”

  “Wes ‘Whiskey’ Ryan. Operated a methamphetamine lab in southern Georgia. In 2006, it blew up, killing two men, one a United States marshal.”

  “And Johnny ‘Jones’ Amaru. Murder of a police officer. Nineteen eighty-four.”

&nbs
p; Jesus Christ, these are some serious dudes. And this Colonel—well, you hope he doesn’t know about that shoplifting charge at T.J. Maxx from middle school…

  The Colonel looks around. “Do like we ask, all this goes away.”

  It seems simple to you. But many of the guys, especially the old-timers, don’t like the idea of, and they say this, “working for the man.”

  Tommy’s convinced the government won’t stand by their promise even if they do complete the job. Some of the Angels resent having to risk their lives to bury crimes some other guys committed two decades ago.

  Finally, Jones calls for a show of hands. It comes right down the middle: 17 for yes, 17 for no.

  Then Jones turns to you.

  “Well,” he says, “what do you think, kid?”

  If you think the Angels should tell the Colonel to take a hike, click here.

  If you want to accept the mission, click here.

  MARCHING FORWARD

  You barely have time to think before the shooting starts up again. You press your back against the tail end of a Budget rental truck.

  You concentrate on breathing—slowing your pulse rate. Calming yourself. People are rushing about, panicked, mad, and it’s getting them dead fast. Some run toward the Army, confused, dying needlessly in some sort of Brooklyn Bridge Pickett’s Charge. Others run away from the Army and the M16s, toward the beasts.

  You poke your head around the side of the truck and nearly get it shot off. Two bullets whiz by. The young driver of the truck—poor kid was probably moving into his first apartment—is riddled with bullets as he tries to get out. The side mirror pops off, and the kid’s shoulder separates from his body. He stumbles back and collapses, smearing a thick line of blood down the side of the truck.

  You pull your head back.

  Holy. Fuck.

  Blood from the kid’s body pools around the rear left tire and seeps into your sneakers.