by Max Brallier
Feet trampling. They besiege you from all angles. Over the wall, from the park. Down the museum steps. From up the street.
“We gotta move!” you shout. “Everybody—quick!”
Directly ahead is the bus. Through the back window, you can see a passenger inside, pacing back and forth, hungry. Must be the guy the driver mentioned—the one who went schizo; went zombie.
Chucky jogs up alongside the bus. Wesley is next to you. You toss the bloody, gore-covered morning star to him. He looks at it like you tossed him a rubber chicken. But when his wife screams, and he turns and sees her zombified form running up on him, he doesn’t hesitate. He swings. The morning star hits it in the chest. Sends it sprawling back. Whoa. He tackles it now, raises his arm, and brings his BlackBerry crashing into its face over and over again.
You drop the assault rifle’s magazine out—remove the jammed bullet—and pop it back in. You drop to one knee, turn, aim, and put a round through the forehead of one of the other charging beasts. Good—it works.
You give Chucky a thumbs-up.
He boards the bus. You stay behind, watching through the back door. The undead passenger spins. Chucky scuttles down the aisle, halberd out, and spears it. He keeps running, carrying the thing down the aisle, slamming it against the rear of the bus, and pinning it to the wall. The thing kicks wildly, waves its arms around, then clutches at the pole in its stomach.
Chucky gives you a nod, then ducks. You raise the gun and fire through the back door, blowing the monster’s head to pieces.
OK, bus is safe. Your group is running past you, fast. Good. Chucky edges his way out and ushers them inside while you hold off the charging horde. The rifle pounds your shoulder—each shot more painful than the last. It’s sore—hurts like hell. Finally, everyone’s on board.
You and Chucky step on last.
“Alright, Wesley,” you say, out of breath, “let’s go check out this yacht.”
Click here.
COCONUT BALLS
If you have to die you’d rather be run over by a train than be eaten by a horde of the walking dead. And you can’t let that kid die down there. You throw one last look down at the tracks—the train’s headlights telling you if you’re gonna go, you gotta go now—and with the approaching enemy behind you and probable death in front of you, you make the big Butch Cassidy leap.
You land in a mass of bodies. Your ankle twists. Standing on the tracks, frozen, is the boy. You grab him around the waist and tug him to the ground. Together you roll beneath the platform overhang.
Screams pierce the darkness as the train rushes by.
You press the kid’s head against your chest and squeeze your eyes shut tight. Rats skitter over you. Your skin crawls as their disgusting little feet scamper over your arms and face.
Finally, the train passes, leaving behind a sick, disgusting mess of death. You feel like a soldier, witness to the aftermath of his first battle. You want to look away, but you can’t. You just stare for a moment—shocked and horrified, but happy to be alive.
“Keep your eyes shut for now—alright, kid?” you say. He does as he’s told. You take him by the hand. “I’m going to Brooklyn,” you say. “You want to go for a walk?”
The kid says nothing, eyes closed. He nods his head once, short and hard.
“Alright,” you say, “we walk.”
The trek is slow going. It’s dark. Sounds around you—some you’re probably just imagining. Feels like at any moment some monster is going to leap out from the darkness and take you.
Soon you see movement up ahead. You stop in your tracks. You squint, trying to see what it is. Relief floods over you when you realize it’s another person, doing the same thing you are. There’re a few people, walking up ahead. You keep your distance.
More trains pass—each time you press your body flat against the tunnel wall and keep your hand on the kid.
Your shoes are soaked. Huge, muddy puddles line the tunnel. After nearly two hours of walking, you’re approaching the Fiftieth Street station. You check your iPhone. Yes, service.
“OK, kid—I don’t want to leave this subway until we have to. It has to be crazy out there—”
You stop. A sound up ahead. You hug the tunnel wall and listen.
“What is it?” the kid says.
“Shh… I’m trying to hear.”
What you hear isn’t nice. Moans. Then sounds of eating. People being devoured.
Shit. You look down at the little guy. Eyes gigantic and wet. You have to get him through this.
You get down on one knee and whisper. “OK, here’s the plan, buddy. We gotta keep moving. So we’re gonna crawl, real quiet, right past this station. Stay under the platform. You gotta be quiet. Super quiet. You ever play the quiet game?”
“Yes I’ve played the quiet game. But I’m six and three-quarters. I can be quiet without the quiet game. You can just tell me to be quiet and I’ll be quiet.”
“Oh. OK, well, good. Be quiet. Let’s go.”
You walk the next few yards, sticking to the tunnel wall, then slowly get down on all fours, and begin crawling.
You crane your neck and whisper, “OK, here we go. Keep your hand around the bottom of my pants, at my ankle here. So I know you’re with me. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
A woman moans. Not the sick, guttural moan of the dead—but the pained howl of someone still alive. The things make disgusting, throaty sounds. Someone shrieks. It sends a chill down your spine.
You’re at the overhang. Can they smell you? God, you hope not, you think, as you crawl underneath the platform.
You keep crawling. Hands in rat shit. Knees in puddles of filthy water.
Brave kid. Keeps his hand on you the whole time.
You’re halfway now. You’re going to make it, you think. Going to fucking make it.
Then an arm swings down past you. Your heart stops. The limb hangs there. A woman’s dead arm. It’s been chewed all to hell—the bone visible. Flesh hangs off it like string cheese, some caught up in her silver watch.
The kid screams.
Fuck!
You turn. He has his hands over his mouth, shaking his head back and forth. His wide eyes say sorry.
The moans above you stop. Feet shuffle. Something falls down. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
A shadow stretches out across the track. One of the things. It leans over the side of the platform. Sort of sniffing, looking. You grab the kid and get as far back as possible.
Two more of the things now, down on their stomachs, reaching out, looking around.
Grab the kid and run like hell? Click here.
If you want to stay still and pray they go away, click here.
ONE AT A TIME NOW, FOLKS
Instead of waiting for them to come to you, you run right at the mother. Take it out, then deal with the rest, you think. You launch yourself and ride it to the ground. Before it gets a chance to bite, you push the pointed edge of the crowbar up through the roof of its mouth and into its brain. You rip it out, a string of gore coming with it, and hop up over the putrid creature.
The father and daughter turn around to face you. You step back.
Footsteps behind you. You spin. Another one—quick—coming hard and fast. Fuck—you’re done for.
BAM!!!
The entire side of the quick one’s head blows out. In a split second, it crumples.
You look at the Angels.
“OK, I’ll waste one bullet on you, kid!” Jones shouts. Mental note: thank the asshole.
Back to the father and daughter. You crack the father in the face. Its head spins, but it comes right back. Tackles you. The crowbar skids across the cement. You’re pinned. It goes in for the kill. You want to push it back—but you can’t risk getting hit by those teeth.
You grab its head, lifting it. It’s near unstoppable. You press your fingers into its eyes. They’re dry, don’t feel human. You keep going, pushing through, into the sockets. You feel the soft, mushy interior of his skull
. But it feels no pain. Doesn’t stop. Teeth closer. Inches from your face.
You push in deeper. Thumbs completely through its eyes now. You have leverage. You push up while turning your thumbs outward toward the side of its head.
A quick jerk to the side and it’s off you. You stand—not a second to breathe—the girl’s on your leg. You try to shake it off, but it’s not going anywhere.
“Three minutes!”
You grab the girl monster by its hair and rip its head back. Pieces of your jeans hang from its teeth. Christ—close call.
You toss it as far as you can. Need to separate the father and daughter. The thing flies six, maybe seven feet. You rush over and smash it in the mouth with your sneakers. Its baby teeth, probably loose already, spill out across the sidewalk. You grab it by the hair, run with it, and toss it into a Dumpster. It hits the top of the Dumpster and falls in. The lid shuts behind it.
The father’s on its feet again and coming fast. You look for the crowbar—it’s a good ten feet away. And the fat, Hawaiian shirt–wearing, drool-spilling, son-of-a-bitch father stands between it and you.
“Almost there, friend!” yells one of the Angels.
“Looking fucking lovely,” shouts another.
You step back. Pat yourself up and down. Looking for anything.
Your belt. You unbuckle it and rip it off.
The monster’s closing in. Hands out. Mouth open. Just as it gets to you, you jump to the side, wrap the belt around its neck, cross your hands, and pull tight. You step behind it and bury your foot into the pit of its knee. It goes down. You pull the belt even tighter. If it had been breathing in the first place, it’d be out by now. But the lack of oxygen ain’t doing a damn thing. It shakes, trying to jerk itself free.
You let the belt go, lift your foot, and kick it as hard as you can in the back of the head. It falls forward. You put your knees into its back, grab it by its hair, and slam its head into the sidewalk. Again. Again. Again. Until its face is nothing but mush. Finally, a piece of its skull cracks and enters its brain. The thing’s done.
“Four minutes!”
Alright. One minute left. Let’s do this.
You stand up.
They’re coming out of the shadows like rats. Dozens. Closing in around you.
But you’re not scared. Shit, if time was up—you might even be a little disappointed. You’re not yourself anymore. You want every one of them. You’re angry. Full of bloodlust. Plain fucking demented.
You run for the crowbar. A punk rock thing comes at you—black and white sneakers flashing in the moonlight. It lunges for you. You dive to the cement, roll, grab the crowbar, and bury the sharp end into the base of its skull as you rise. It kicks, twitches. You push it in farther.
An arm on your shoulder. You rip the crowbar free and spin. Old man. Mouth wide open. You grip the crowbar with both hands and block its bite. Its teeth clamp down. You hear them break. Bastard has some jaw on him.
You roar and push. Run, driving it backward. Farther. Screaming now. You run it right into a wall. Two solid whacks with the crowbar and its head sags.
More now. Three, four. You swing the crowbar wildly, trying to keep them at bay. Connect with one’s eye socket. Makes a nasty, mushy sound. Three more behind you. You’re surrounded.
Goddamn it. Wild swings. Anything to keep them away. You’re not going down without a—
RATATATAT!!!!
Their heads blow apart like watermelons. Chunks of skull and brain matter and fleshy, matted pieces of hair fly through the air. Then, almost in sync, the zombies fall to the ground.
Tommy. Gun up and aimed. He grins.
“Almost made it six minutes.”
“Six?!”
“You looked like you were having fun. Didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You son of a—”
“Don’t worry, I had them in my sights.”
“And what if I only made it four minutes?”
“Then you’d be dead.”
“Well I fucking made it, didn’t I?”
“That you did,” Jones said, getting on his bike. “Now get on—any longer here and the whole neighborhood’s gonna come out for our little block party.”
Click here.
LET IT HAPPEN
You can only imagine what’s going through her head as she watches the army unload round after round into this mass of zombies, many of them children.
She sees her daughter. Stops in her tracks—then darts into the crossfire and swoops the girl up. She turns to run, then stops. The girl is already one of them. The woman lets out a bloodcurdling cry. Her daughter’s tearing at her face.
You turn your head, unable to look, and walk to the back of the store. “Walter, maybe we should head out the back, huh?”
He sits on his stool behind the counter. “Go to hell. I’ve owned and operated this store for twenty-seven years. I’m not running now.”
You nod and take a seat. You and Walter sit in silence. Walter keeps the gun on the counter and stares at the door. You keep your eyes on your shoes. Nothing to say—the sounds of battle outside are noise enough.
After an hour, the fighting stops. Walter walks to the window and peeks out. Hesitantly, you follow. All of the military vehicles are gone. Bodies are strewn across the ground. The zombies are everywhere—many of them soldiers.
Walter goes back to the counter and turns the scanner back on. It’s all frantic reports, garbled orders, and calls for help. Around dusk, the transmissions slow. They finally cut out altogether just after midnight. Then it’s radio silence…
Click here.
C’MON KID, RUN!
You grab the kid by the wrist, scramble out from under the platform, and take off sprinting down the track.
“You OK?”
“Yeah,” he squeaks out through hurried breaths.
No more low moaning from the things. Loud now. They’re angry. You hear them hitting the tracks.
Then something louder. A train.
You look behind you. It’s coming around the bend, lights nearly blinding you. Through the bright white beams you can see the silhouettes of damn near fifty of the things.
To your left is the third rail. If you had time, you’d carefully cross it and avoid the train. But you don’t have time. You have fifty fucking zombies on your heels.
You start running, dragging the kid.
Up ahead you see a maintenance door. It’s like that moment in Stand By Me. You’re River Phoenix, obviously. (Well, you want to be River Phoenix—clearly, you’re more Wil Wheaton.) Just have to outrun the train and get to that door.
You swoop the kid up in your arms and sprint. Long strides. Feet splashing in the dirty water. You trip, stumble, regain your balance, and keep going. You can feel the train bearing down on you.
Then you’re safe—in the doorway—just like that.
A split second later, the train passes. Went your whole life without ever almost getting hit by a train and now that’s three times in the past few hours. Not your day.
The train roars by, taking the zombies with it. Three are stuck to the front like hood ornaments. One, a Brooklyn hipster type, reaches out at you as the train passes. You get a quick glimpse of its hands and a supertight lumberjack button-down, and it’s gone. You’ve got your hand over the kid’s eyes by now. If he makes it out alive, poor guy’s going to be traumatized as all hell.
Other zombies are caught beneath the wheels. You half expect the train to grind to a halt with all the gore in the wheels, but it doesn’t. The wheels keep turning, the zombies keep getting diced.
Once the train passes, you and the kid start walking again.
After a moment, though, it’s clear they’re not done. There’s a dozen behind you still, at least. Persistent fuckers.
You pull the kid along, running like hell. You see a light in the distance. Next station. If it’s swarming with monsters, you’re dead. Need a little luck on your side here.
You come up on i
t, heart pounding.
Thank Christ—deserted. You lift the kid up and over the platform edge. Then you hoist yourself up. You finally breathe. The zombies are clawing at the platform edge, but they can’t make it up. Moaning, they try with everything they’ve got. Dead arms slap against the platform. But nothing.
You and the kid leave the station and come up near the Lincoln Tunnel. Might as well walk that way, see if you can get through. Nothing interesting ever happens in New Jersey.
And then you come upon the Javits Convention Center—biggest convention center in Manhattan. And across the top, a huge banner: COMIC-CON 2011.
Outside is a guy dressed up as that Star Wars character in Jedi who watches the ship leave with the binoculars. Appropriately, he’s holding a pair of binoculars, staring in your direction.
From across the avenue you can hear him shout, “They’re here!”
And he’s pointing at you. Huh? Quite the welcome.
Then you hear them behind you. Running for you. Hundreds.
You sprint across the street, kid’s hand in yours, up the front steps and inside the convention hall. Clearly, they’ve been preparing. Armaments have been set up. Booths moved to block the windows.
And then you realize, and you can’t help but smile. Zombies have just struck Manhattan. And inside this joint are about twenty-five thousand people who have been waiting their whole lives for exactly this to happen.
A guy dressed as Legolas from Lord of the Rings steps past you and out the door. He pulls an arrow from his quiver, draws back the bow, and fires.
The single arrow sails through the air—a weapon from another time, out of place inside the modern city.
But it’s still deadly as all hell.
The arrow nails the zombie leading the charge—goes straight through its head and the zombie crashes to the ground. Legolas steps back inside, takes a slow look around, and says, “Alright, geeks—time to shine.”