Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?

by Max Brallier

  “Fuck,” Chucky says. “If you’re right…”

  Shit. Not good. Not good at all. “We gotta lock that down,” you say, not hiding the fear in your voice.

  In a second, Chucky’s out of the car. You follow. He runs to the office, begins rooting through the desk drawers.

  “What are you looking for—maybe I can help.”

  “I’ll find it, I’ll find it…” he says. Then, a moment later, he triumphantly holds up a heavy chain lock. “From my old motorcycle,” he says.

  There’s a loud grinding noise. Fuck—you whirl. You were right.

  Slowly, the gate begins to lift.

  Chucky darts to the gate and drops to his knees, just inches from the feet of the monsters. He loops the long chain through the bottom rung of the gate and pulls it taut toward a thin pipe that runs along the edge of the garage floor.

  He loops it around—then, violently, it jerks free.

  “Motherfucker,” he mutters.

  The gate’s nearly a foot off the ground now. Any more and the lock won’t reach. You run over to help him. The two of you tug the chain, pulling with everything you’ve got. Finally, you get it around the pipe, and just as the gate begins to stretch the chain to its maximum, he snaps the lock shut.

  You both breathe a sigh of relief.

  The gate makes a loud whining noise—then starts to click. Chucky smiles.

  The zombies watch you, anxious, as they bounce back and forth on their feet. Some have dropped to the ground and are swiping their hands in the gap, trying to get at you. You and Chucky step back a few feet.

  “You think it’s going to hold?” you ask.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, we gotta do something… we need a plan!”

  “Already got one.”

  “Huh?”

  “While you were sleeping, I was thinking about how we might get out of here. C’mon.”

  You follow Chucky across the garage. He grabs the shotgun from the Mercedes and carries it by the middle.

  “There,” Chucky says.

  In front of you is some sort of large vehicle, covered by a large green tarp.

  “What is it?”

  “C’mon,” he says.

  You each take a corner of the tarp and pull.

  Before you sits a big old GMC pickup truck. Mounted on the front is a red snowplow. Two big, round lights sprout out of the front corners of the hood like antennas on a grasshopper.

  You look it up and down. Grab the plow and shake it. It’s rusty, but solid. It’s perfect, you realize.

  Chucky raises the shotgun slightly. “So.… you doing the driving,” he grins, “or the shooting?”

  If you want to get behind the wheel, click here.

  If you’ll let Chucky drive and you’ll handle the dirty work, click here.

  FUCK THAT NOISE

  Nope. This ain’t for you—not dying here. Not at this man’s hands.

  Anthony lunges as you run past, ducking underneath his arms. In a second, you’re out the door and in the alley.

  Zombies everywhere. Hands grab at you. You push through. Turn on to the street.

  A taxi is up on the curb, idling, its front end crashed through a bodega window. No driver.

  You book it across the street. They’re behind you, closing in. One grabs at your shirt, pulls you back. You jerk free, rip open the car door, and dive inside.

  Immediately the beasts surround the car. Pound the windows. One, a woman in a blood-spattered waitress’s apron, is halfway through the broken rear passenger-side window.

  You drop it into reverse and hit the gas. The whole storefront collapses as you pull out. You spin the cab around and kick it back into drive. You floor it—a zombie on the hood goes up and over the windshield and crashes onto the cement behind you.

  You check the side mirror. The undead waitress is still trying to get in through the back window—its legs out in the air, its upper body on the rear seat.

  You press harder on the pedal. Pick up speed. Swerve up onto the curb to avoid a mess of cars. You’re closing in on a streetlamp. You check your side mirror. Have to line it up just right.

  You floor it.

  Forty mph.

  Harder.

  Fifty mph.

  One last look in the side mirror.

  You blow past the pole. The mirror smashes against the metal and rips off. The zombie waitress is torn in half. Its severed upper body falls into the backseat; its lower half drops to the street.

  You hit the brakes and skid to a stop. You glance back at the thing’s torso in the backseat, intestines dangling onto the taxi floor. Its arms swipe at the cab partition. A disgusting lump of flesh, sure, but harmless for the moment.

  You begin driving again, headed for the bridge.

  At Nineteenth Street you run into a mass of them. Too late, you brake. The car skids and spins. You slam into the side of a small used furniture store. The air bag deploys, punching you in the face. Your nose breaks, bringing a rush of tears to your eyes. Blood in your mouth.

  You’re seeing stars. You start to drift away, but their moans snap you back to attention. They surround the car. Smoke pours from the hood. The windshield wipers flash back and forth. You try the gas. Nothing. You’re a sitting duck.

  No time for hesitation. You bolt out of the car, knocking one back with the door, and tear down the street. More ahead of you. Even more behind you. Nowhere to go but up.

  You pick up some speed, jump onto the back of a busted sedan, and launch yourself up to a hanging fire escape ladder.

  Cold, dead hands pull at your feet. Nails claw at your ankles. You kick them away and climb.

  Once you’re safely on the fire escape, you yank the ladder up. You’re dizzy. You stop to catch your breath. Your nose hurts like hell. Blood continues to stream from your nostrils. A slice on your forehead leaks blood down over your eyes. You take your shirt off, press it to the wound, but the bleeding doesn’t stop.

  You tilt your head back, just like everyone’s always told you not to do, and after a minute your nose stops bleeding. You spit blood onto the zombies below. Hit one in the face. Its tongue darts out, tasting it.

  You wrap your shirt around your head and tie it tight. That keeps the blood out of your eyes.

  You want to collapse. Sleep. Don’t want to move ever again.

  But you need to keep moving. The longer you wait, the more those things multiply. Like fucking gremlins.

  So go. Just go. Stand up. Move.

  And then you’re out.

  When you wake, it’s bright. Early morning. Sun bathes you. Takes you a second to remember where you are.

  Beneath you, the zombies haven’t moved. Still there, still watching you, still waiting for their next meal.

  You make your way farther up the fire escape. Bars cover each window.

  Finally, seven floors up, you make it to the roof. You walk to the edge and take in Union Square. In the center, a park. Store-lined streets on each side.

  A woman runs out of DSW, screaming. You watch as the things go from slow, stupid stumble to deadly sprint in an instant. Six of them pounce on her. Minutes later, she rises, a bloody mess, now one of them. You turn away.

  At the center of the roof is a skylight. You peer through. Books. Rows and rows of them. You must be on the roof of the Barnes & Noble. Have to get inside there. Food. Shelter. Delicious little muffins.

  You look around for some way to break the window. You find a cinder block. That should work. Your body weak, you struggle to lift it and toss it against the glass.

  Instead it bounces off and lands on your foot. You shriek. Sonofabitch—the stupid fucking thing just broke your toe. You go to kick it—stop yourself just in time. Don’t need to make things worse.

  OK, trying again.

  You step farther back and throw. This time it cracks it. You toss it again. A bigger crack. OK—one more—right through.

  The reinforced glass breaks. You look down. It’s about a twenty-
foot drop.

  Here goes nothing.

  You jump. The same foot that just took a beating from the cinder block rolls and snaps. Sharp pain shoots up your leg. You scream. Ankle’s broken, definitely. You’re a fucking mess. The pain is overwhelming. You lie back. Drift in and out of consciousness.

  Suddenly the entire building shakes, jolting you awake.

  You limp across the store to the large window that overlooks Union Square.

  The zombies aren’t alone anymore. Two tanks have rolled into the southwest corner of the square, diagonal from your position. Smoke pours from the tanks’ barrels.

  They fire again. The building shakes. The shell travels clear across the park and explodes against the front of a Best Buy. The front caves in, rubble pouring out into the street.

  The zombies start pouring out of every corner of the square. Hundreds.

  A military truck with a gunner in the back skids to a halt. The soldier manning the gun lets loose, mowing them down.

  The tank turret turns. Fires a shell directly into one of the rushing crowds. The blast is tremendous. Bodies everywhere.

  When the dust clears, though, it’s clear the military has a major problem.

  The zombies are limbless, broken, bodies shattered. But they’re not brainless. They still keep coming. It’s now a horde of armless things running, legless things crawling, wounded things stumbling.

  It’s a true war zone down there.

  But when the military pulls out, if you’re there, it could be your escape.

  Head down to Union Square and try to escape with the military? Click here.

  Check out the Barnes & Noble, get some food, and stay put? Click here.

  WELCOME TO CHARLIE CHAN’S

  You don’t like Wall Street and you’re not drinking what he’s buying. So you sneak back out the door and begin jogging to Amsterdam Avenue with your hand out, glancing back every few seconds for a cab. No luck.

  You stop jogging. Switch to walking. Sweat pours down your back. The heat. The stress. The fear. You need to sit down. Someplace dark. A movie theater, maybe. Need cool air or you’re going to collapse. Any second now, you’ll be sprawled out across the sidewalk.

  Up ahead is a neon sign for Charlie Chan’s Lady Land—a strip joint on Eighty-third and Columbus. Hmm. You pull your hand back and stop.

  This could be the place. You’ve been to your fair share of strip clubs—about as dark and cool as the world gets.

  So you step inside. You show the bouncer your ID and take in the perfume-heavy, beer-laden scent. Eau de Topless Bar.

  It takes a second for your eyes to adjust. Charlie Chan’s is an Asian-themed joint and laughable décor echoes that—wooden folding door panels, tapestries everywhere.

  You grab a twelve-dollar Bud Light, watch the flat screen behind the bar for a moment, and head to the main room. Two samurai swords crisscross above the stage. You wonder if they’re real.

  Your heart stops. Your dick hardens. There, below the tacky samurai swords, working the pole, is the most jaw-droppingly beautiful stripper you’ve ever seen.

  She looks half Asian, half European. Some sort of mix that made for something fantastic. Topless. High, high heels. A tiny white G-string. You’re entranced. Stunned. Gut-punched by her beauty.

  You get a seat right up front, sip your beer, and take in the show. You’re the only one near the stage, so the way-hot stripper saunters down and does her thing for you. You pull out your wallet and slide a few crumpled bills onto the stage. Wish you had something crisper, bills that didn’t look like they spent the night in your gym sock, but what are you gonna do.

  She has a nice smile and shows it off. Then, after three or four more highly, highly enjoyable moments she bends over, picks up the bills, and slips them into her G-string. She gives you a cute little wave and leaves the stage.

  The DJ comes over the speaker system: “Yo Yo this is DJ Aaaron Wemrock, let’s give it up for Yakumaaaaaaaa,” he says, the second a carrying on for about twenty obnoxious seconds. “That’s right, Yakuma finishing up on the main stage. Like all of our lovely ladies here, Yakuma is available for private dances and, of course, the Champagne Room. Coming up next is our very own lovely Latina Go-Go Dawson! Don’t be shy, folks, let that money fly.”

  The main floor is nearly empty—probably typical for a Monday afternoon. Most of the crowd is business guys, taking advantage of the ten-dollar lunch buffet. You’re hungry—but not “strip club buffet hungry.” Gotta draw the line somewhere.

  You order another beer. Six girls cycle through, an hour or so passes, then it’s Yakuma again. You’re waiting with a grin and another wrinkly single.

  She smiles at you and begins her dance.

  You’re lost in an erotic fantasy when she steps off the runway and onto your table.

  “Wha—”

  The small table tips—but she doesn’t fall—she rides it to the floor like a surfer riding a wave. On her way down, she grabs your Rolling Rock by the neck.

  “What the—”

  You lean back just in time to see her smash the bottle into the face of the pretty Latina, Go-Go Dawson. The stripper falls back—Yakuma follows her to the floor and slides the bottle into the stripper’s neck, which opens up like a gutted fish. Blood sprays out over Yakuma like she just popped the cap off a fire hydrant.

  Yakuma stands over her, holding the empty bloody bottleneck. But Yakuma isn’t quite done. She raises her leg and skewers the girl’s face with the heel of her stiletto.

  “Sorry, Go-Go…” she says.

  You stand. Chair hits the ground. What the fuck is going on? Yakuma seemed totally sweet and normal a second ago, and now she’s in a murderous rage. And then you look closer at the dead girl’s tits (you can’t resist). They’re greenish and shriveled.

  Holy shit, zombie tits.

  You look up just as three more of the things sprint toward you. Three men. Two in suits, one the bartender. Real-life zombies. Dead as dead gets. Just like the beasts on TV.

  Stunned, you watch as Yakuma dispatches the first one with the same move she used on the stripper. Kills the second one with the steak knife he was using to eat his buffet chicken. The bartender, thick and heavy, charges. She uses the thing’s weight to her favor, spinning as he hits her and sending him stumbling into the stage headfirst. She buries the knife in the base of his skull. His massive legs kick. She turns the blade and he goes limp.

  She leaps up onstage and rips down the two samurai swords. Hmm—maybe they are real? She’d know better than you would.

  She stops. Turns her gaze on you.

  “I’m, I’m not one of those—” you stutter.

  “No shit. This way, tough guy.”

  You follow her—back through a curtain and into the dressing area.

  Three strippers feast on a fourth that lies on the floor.

  Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Stay calm. Breathe, breathe—you’re in a strip club dressing room!!! Your whole life has been building up to this moment.

  Yakuma bolts forward, blades low by her side. One slices through the air, cutting the first stripper straight up from the chest to the top of the skull—splits her in two. Before she hits the ground, the other two are dead—with one horizontal slash Yakuma decapitates them both. Yakuma walks past them and out a door marked EXIT. She’s back inside in a moment.

  “No good—too many,” she says.

  Yakuma stops at a locker and throws on a white tank top and tiny plaid shorts. Damn. She looks as good half clothed as she does naked.

  She sticks a cell phone into her back pocket and slips out of her bloody stilettos and into a pair of jelly sandals.

  She orders you back out the way you came. Good-bye strip club dressing room. I hardly knew ye.

  Back on the main floor. Ten of them, at least.

  In the front, two strippers. One blonde, real tits, young looking. Even dead, still cute. A chunk of flesh is torn from her gut. The other a black girl, big fake boobs. One leg h
alf torn off—blood pouring down it. And behind the two strippers, the customers. And in the very back, the gargantuan bouncer.

  Nobody moves. Bass from the speaker system pumps through the floor. Shakes you. So strong it changes your heartbeat. Fucking Nickleback.

  You stare at the blonde’s tits. They don’t move. No rhythmic up and down. The dead things sway, but their chests don’t move. They don’t breathe.

  Yakuma holds the sword at her side. Blood drips steadily to the floor.

  She stares at the two strippers—probably friends of hers five minutes ago.

  They stare back.

  You just stand there, scared to death, not sure what to do.

  Then they charge. You sprint to your left and clamber over the wall to the DJ booth. As you land, your head smacks the floor.

  You stand up, rubbing your noggin. The DJ booth, set against the wall, offers you a degree of protection from all sides. You watch in amazement as Yakuma unleashes a furious ballet of violence unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

  She takes down one, two, three of them. Then they all come at once. Leap on top of her. She disappears. You can’t see what exactly is happening—it’s like the fight for a fumble in a football game—you know some wild, awful shit is happening beneath all those bodies, but you don’t know the details.

  And then Yakuma bursts from the top of the pile. She swings her blades in a circle, spilling zombie guts across the floor and sending them all stumbling back. Then she goes for their heads. Splitting one down the middle. Chopping the next one at the bridge of the nose, sending the top of its head spiraling off. Cleanly decapitates the next.

  One is charging from behind her. You go to shout, but before you can, she turns and throws the blade. It pierces the undead thing’s chest and pins it to the wall.

  She jumps back and up onto the stage. Grabs the stripper pole with one hand and swings around, second blade extended. Two more zombies headless.

  She leaps from the pole and marches through the rest. Chopping. Cutting. Slicing. Killing.

  You’re so distracted that you don’t notice the redheaded stripper crawling up the side of the booth until she grabs hold of you.