by Max Brallier
You squint out the peephole, which you realize you’ve never used before. Nothing there.
Stick in hand, you carefully open the creaky door and step out into the hall.
You see her immediately. A woman, lying in the corner by the stairs, on her side, face down. Blood on the wall behind her.
You recognize her. Old lady from down the hall. “That rent control bitch,” you used to call her. Third day you lived in the apartment you had some friends over, went pretty hard at it late into the night. Next morning That Rent Control Bitch was knocking on your door, saying something about she’s been in this building forty years, never heard such a racket, so late—how could you be so rude, blah, blah, blah. You apologized, assured her it wouldn’t happen again.
Old bag. Never wanted her to die, though.
She howls with pain. You step over and kneel down. “What happened?” you ask softly. Stupid question. You heard the shot.
“Who shot you?” you ask. OK, more helpful question, but sounds pretty messed up. No response. Her eyelids flicker. She’s fading fast.
You notice the door to her apartment is slightly ajar. Fuck. You should run. You would run—downstairs, out to the street, screaming and yelling—but there’s nothing out there for you. No help. You could run back to your apartment. But then who knows—you could be next, lying on your side, bleeding out.
Fuck it. Time to man up.
You tighten your hand around the stick and gently open the door to her apartment.
CRACK! CRACK!
A bullet punches the wall behind you. Another rips through the hockey stick, splintering the top.
You’re staring at the shooter—a big dude, shirtless, tats all over. Neo-Nazi type. Pistol in his hand, smoking.
No time to think. You charge at him. He fires again and you feel the bullet buzz past your head. You swing the stick wildly and miss by a long shot. Your momentum carries you forward and you stumble.
He fires another shot. Misses. Something behind you breaks.
You swing again. Connect this time with his side. Fuck—dude’s in shape. Barely moved him.
He cracks you on the top of the head with the butt of the gun and drops you to the ground. Any second you expect to be shot in the back, but nothing comes. Out of bullets? Heart pumping, scared to death, you grab him by the legs and pull him to the ground with you. You roll around for a moment. Hands search. Find his crotch. Squeeze with everything you’ve got. You feel a ball. Left nut. You squeeze harder. He shrieks. Lashes out—lands two punches to your skull. Hurts like hell. You don’t punch back, you know it won’t do anything. Instead you roll away from him, grab the hockey stick, and scramble to your feet.
As he rises, you lunge forward with the stick. You’re aiming for his chest—but you miss. Instead the splintered wood connects with his throat. He cries out—but his scream is cut short as you twist and push it through his flesh and into his larynx. There’s a horrible cracking sound as the wood breaks his windpipe.
You let go of the stick. He falls to the floor, gurgling, blood squirting from his neck. You step back, panting like a dog, trying to catch your breath.
You just killed a man.
YOU.
JUST.
KILLED A MAN.
You’re shaking. Weak in the stomach. Takes you a second to start thinking straight.
You go to the bedroom to make sure he was alone. He was. Then you walk back out into the hall. You check the woman’s pulse—dead. You stand there, taking in the silence. Trying to wrap your head around everything.
You return to her apartment, doing your best not to look at the dead man on the ground. You search around a bit. Her kitchen is packed. Jesus—did this lady get groceries delivered by the ton or what? She’s stocked. Not surprising, though—she was old as hell—couldn’t do her own shopping. Probably had some delivery service set up, come once a month. Jackpot, you think. If this zombie thing plays out like the movies, you’re going to need food. And there’s enough stuff here to live for months, if you’re careful.
But first you need to get rid of these bodies.
You stand over the old lady. Don’t want to touch her. Like a dead animal in the road. You just want to keep walking.
But you can’t. You close your eyes and grab the old lady by the ankles and drag her into her apartment and lock the door behind you.
You take a seat on the old lady’s couch. It’s covered in that weird heavy plastic, like the couch at your grandmother’s place in the assisted living home. Lady has a decent new flat-screen TV and a DVD player that looks like it’s never been touched. Two DVDs, still in the packaging, sit on top of the player. The Sound of Music and The Best of victor Borge.
You flip on the TV. Every station is zombies.
“Unconfirmed reports.”
“Only been two hours, but the mayor has already declared a state of emergency.”
“Details are sketchy at the moment…”
“Religious groups…”
“Scientists…”
“Scientologists…”
“Secure all residences with windows locked and secured…”
You turn the TV right back off.
You open the window and drag the lady over. For an old broad, she’s damn heavy. You get her halfway out, then she gets stuck, folded in half, legs and arms sticking out the window straight at you. You step back and assess. You use a broom to poke at her chest, trying to push her through. You give her a good hard whack and hear her rib cage splinter. Shit, sorry lady. One more hard push and she falls through. You climb out onto the fire escape, hoist her up, and toss her over the side. She falls the six stories, then splat.
Nazi’s next. You give him a kick in the side, just to let him know one last time that he’s a son of a bitch and you don’t appreciate him shooting at you. With great effort, you drag him out, get him through, and toss him over the side.
One last look at the bodies in the alley below, then back into the apartment. You lock the window and collapse on the couch. Jesus, and it’s not even noon…
If you want to do some exploring and see if anyone’s still in your building, click here.
If you want to buckle down and hang tight, click here.
PUFF, PUFF, PASS
You rub at your eyes.
Sigh. What’s to lose? You take the blunt and inhale deeply, then cough loud, long, and heavy. You may have just left half a lung on the dashboard. Chucky’s laughing hysterically, waving a Gatorade bottle.
You try to regain your composure. No luck—more coughing. “Drink, drink,” you say, waving your hands at Chucky, feeling like you just crossed the Sahara.
“You want this?” he asks.
You nod, nearly choking. He hands you the Gatorade and you take a long swig—then you just about puke.
Chucky is cackling now. “Vodka, son. It’s vodka! Vodka and red Gatorade.” Like it’s the funniest thing anyone ever said.
There’s a fire in your throat. The surprise two shots of vodka did kill the cough in your lungs—but now you want to vomit.
“More?” Chucky says, holding the bottle out.
You wave him off. Lean back. Catch your breath. Sit there for a few minutes, just breathing.
You can’t deny it—the weed and liquor has you feeling a bit numb. Good. Less scared.
For the next hour you pass the bottle back and forth, taking long, end-of-the-world swigs. Chucky plays some mixtape—“the hottest shit in the streets right now,” he says—and you gently bob your head.
The high you’re feeling has you talkative. You bitch about your ex-girlfriend. You bitch about work.
He complains about parking cars and living with his parents. You agree: in general, life pretty much blows.
You avoid the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room: the undead army at the gate. Finally, you ask him what the plan is.
“The plan? The plan is to drink.”
“The bottle’s done.”
Chucky grins and g
ets out of the car, carrying the empty Gatorade bottle. You don’t realize how drunk he is until you see him stagger across the lot. He watches the zombies for a few minutes; he’s swaying back and forth. You can’t help but think Chucky looks oddly similar to those things right now. Then he throws the bottle against the gate. The zombies perk up.
Chucky stumbles to the office, rummages around, then returns with another bottle—this one a full, unopened bottle of Belvedere vodka.
Fuck.
Chucky slides into the seat.
You drink more. Drink to the point where you forget about the zombies. Drink until you can’t remember what happened thirty seconds ago.
Drink, drink, drink. Drink until you pass out.
You wake up to the sound of shotgun blasts. You’re passed out on the floor of the garage. All the lights are off. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust—when they do, you wish they hadn’t.
The gate is up. Chucky is backed into the front corner of the garage by the gate, fighting for his life. A horde of zombies surrounds him. He fires a shot—the spread sending three of them stumbling back. More step up to take their place. He struggles to load the gun. Shells fall to the ground. He gives up, swings the shotgun wildly. One of the beasts digs into his shoulder. He shrieks. Another goes for his arm. He collapses against the wall, still alive as they begin to feast.
You scramble to your feet. You’re drunk still, you realize. But the fear and adrenaline gives you a whole new buzz. You run for the office—your only hope. You turn the corner.
Pain shoots through your leg. One of the things, on the ground, its hands tearing at the flesh on your thigh. It’s got you. It’s teeth dig into your leg.
You scream. Howl. Collapse onto your back. The thing crawls up over you. You don’t even attempt to fight it off. It’s over. You know that.
You lie back and let it take you.
AN END
THE WAITING IS THE HARDEST PART
The claustrophobia is overwhelming, but you know your best chance of getting where you need to go is to wait for the next train, so you decide to stick it out. And you sure as shit don’t feel too jealous watching everyone move from the crowded platform to the just-as-crowded train.
The train is ready to burst—you can almost see it swell. After about a dozen tries the doors shut and the train pulls out.
You take advantage of the momentary breathing room and snake your way to the side of the platform to lean against a graffiti-covered column.
People continue to pour down the stairs. You step forward, careful of the platform’s edge, crane your neck, and peer down the dark tunnel. Dark as midnight. You hope to God the 2 or 3 train comes soon.
Suddenly a shriek reverberates through the station. Then another one—a man’s heavy, choked cry. You look back. A fight at the top of the stairs. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with people? There’s no more fucking room!
And then you see.
Two of them. On the stairs. Looking just like those things on the TV. Zombies.
Your stomach does a roller-coaster flip. Your heart punches at your rib cage—feels like it might break through. With every bone in your body you regret not fighting your way onto the train.
The two things lurch down the stairs. For the first time, you get a good look at the undead monsters. In front are the remains of a hulking Hispanic teenager. One eyeball hangs from its socket, bouncing sickly against his cheek with every awkward step he takes down the stairs. Blood covers an oversized Scarface shirt.
Behind it is the second beast: the undead version of a middle-aged woman who is distinctly indistinct. Could be a secretary, librarian, teacher, anything. Only distinguishing feature is the huge, gaping gash in the side of its head and the chunks of flesh and broken skull that mat its short, curly brown hair.
People tumble down the stairs like dominos. Panic sets in all around. Earsplitting screams. You can’t see much of anything—just the crowd rushing around you. But you hear. Frightened moans. A child sobbing. A man squealing in agony. Violent, pained howls.
You need a way out. Against the wall are three wooden benches. You make yourself small, low to the ground, and work your way over. Then, carefully, you climb up onto the closest bench. Another man follows your lead—but tumbles down into the crowd below. He sticks his hand up, asking to be pulled up, but you turn away and brace yourself against the wall. You have a full view of the horror now.
The two ghouls continue down the stairs, tearing people limb from limb. Blood splashes the wall. Bodies tumble over the side of the railing.
The horror at the rear of the station has pushed the waiting crowd over the turnstiles and out onto the platform. A young woman screams as the stampeding crowd forces her over the ledge and onto the tracks. A dozen more follow her, crashing onto the dark tracks as the rolling mass pushes forward. It’s like a sick, horrific version of the arcade game where you try to push quarters off the ledge by sending more quarters down the chute.
A young boy in a Mets cap, about to be caught up in the rush and carried over the side, grabs on to your sweatshirt. Frantic, he tugs. You fall off the bench and onto the tiled floor. Feet trample over you. You curl into a ball. A boot slams down onto your face. A loud crack reverberates through your skull and pain shoots through your jaw.
More feet—you’re pushed forward across the ground like a mop. You lunge for the leg of the bench, but it’s now out of your reach. A woman’s high heel lands on your hand and you yank it back—it immediately begins throbbing. Someone kicks your gut. You get pushed back, farther along the floor. You kick your feet and feel nothing but air—horrified, you realize you’re next to go over. A huge fat man falls to the floor and another man tumbles over him. You wrap your arms around the fat man’s leg. You look up. He’s hanging on to the woman behind him. She has her arms wrapped around the bench. You struggle to hang on as bodies continue to rain over you.
BLAM!
BLAM! BLAM!
The hard report of three gunshots echoes off the underground walls.
Normally you’d be scared shitless by the sound of gunshots, but right now you’re relieved. Could, should, mean help. The crowd thins for a short moment as another row of people falls over you onto the tracks. You grab on to the man’s belt and pull yourself up. Then you slip your fingers into his collar, pulling yourself farther. He chokes as you tug, but you don’t care—you want away from that goddamn ledge. You continue forward, grabbing on to the woman’s leg—then, with everything you have, you pull yourself up.
Slipping your fingers into the slats you manage to get yourself to your feet and then up again onto the bench. You press your back against the cool cement wall. Standing on your toes, you catch a glimpse of a police officer. He’s standing in the center of the station, by the ticket booth, firing at the beasts.
Police! Thank God!
You need to lower your center of gravity so you don’t get knocked off. You sit down on the far side of the bench, wrapping your legs around the base and holding the seat tightly with your hands. Others crowd in around you, holding on to your shoulders and arms. A woman grabs at your leg, trying to pull herself up. Instinctively, you kick—nailing her square in the face. Grimacing, she falls back to the ground and disappears, swept up in the current of bodies. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry!” you yell, but she’s gone. You reach up to wipe your face. Blood pours from a gash over your eye. A huge lump on the back of your head. A sharp pain in your side—cracked rib, you guess.
Two more gunshots.
You pray the cop will handle the ghouls—you just have to worry about not being pulled off the bench and landing on those tracks. To your right, the mob pushes, the beasts behind them. The lone cop, back at the ticket booth, does what he can.
There are more of the monsters now. Five or six. They’re multiplying. Looks like each person bit soon joins the ranks of the undead, just like in the movies.
In front of you, a few feet away, are the tracks. Fifty or so people there, scratch
ing and crawling, trying to get back up onto the platform. More tumble on top of them, over them. You grip the bench harder and look away, trying to ignore their calls for help.
Then, over the screams, a sound. A piercing, screeching sound—heavy iron, metal on metal.
A train. God no.
Its headlights flood the awful scene with a bright white light, making the horror on the tracks all the more clear. People climbing over one another, pushing and fighting. Bodies cook on the third rail, kicking, convulsing. You can almost taste the sick smell of burnt hair and what you can only guess is frying skin.
And then you see the boy in the Mets cap. He’s down on the tracks, scrambling to get back up onto the platform. You glance to your left. The cop is overmatched. The ghouls are pressing forward, infecting more people. A dozen of the monsters now.
And down there, the boy—his eyes wide—staring at you.
Gripped by fear, your mind races.
Is the fear too much? Do you hold tight, hope the cop can hold the beasts off, and try to save yourself once the train passes? If so, click here.
If you’ve got balls the size of coconuts and you want to risk your life to save the boy, click here.
TAXI?
You walk to the corner—the sounds of the pulsing city explode around you, loud enough to wake the dead. Car horns blare. A fire truck races by. People rush about. Word is spreading quickly.
You pace back and forth on the corner, arm in the air, checking both sides of the intersection. Traffic is at a standstill. You stare down the long avenue—every cab full. This is going to take forever.
Voices erupt behind you. A crowd has gathered at the corner bar, Finnerty’s, an Irish pub you’ve walked past hundreds of times but never paid any attention to. It’s packed to the gills. Outside, people hover at the windows, clamoring for a glimpse of the TV.
Hmm … maybe there’s some amazing news on TV. Some great update—like maybe the whole thing was some sort of Orson Welles hoax dealie—and you can go home and, y’know, not worry about monsters taking over Manhattan.