by Max Brallier
You fiddle with the radio but get nothing.
The little bike lock’s time is almost up, you think. The clanging is growing louder and you can see the metal straining. The moans of the beasts grow louder with it, like they know what’s coming. The sound sends shivers down your spine. You look at your hands on the wheel—they’re shaking.
“Hey, Chucky—you got any more of that booze?” you say, not turning around, just staring at the opposition. The Gatorade bottle appears suddenly in your field of vision. You grab it. Four heavy swigs. Need all the courage you can get.
“And a cigarette,” you tell him. He hands you one.
You turn the key in the ignition. The truck jumps to life. It’s loud, shakes and shudders beneath you. Not a healthy automobile. You pat the dashboard like you’re trying to calm a spooked horse.
You light your cigarette. Watch the chain. Focus in on it. Any moment now…
It snaps. The gate begins its climb. You smoke the butt, trying to enjoy every last minute before the gate rises.
You pull a large knob to your right and the headlights flash on. They flood the garage, and for the first time you can clearly see what it is you’re up against. A hundred of the things, at least. A thick mass of the undead, blocking the garage’s only exit.
Twisted, disfigured faces. Skin bubbling. Women in summer dresses, their strappy sandals long discarded. Kids in overalls and cute little dresses. Men in business suits. Some torn and ripped, some still ironed and pressed from this morning—a morning that now feels like it was a lifetime ago.
You pump the gas and the engine growls. You’d hoped it might scare them off. It didn’t.
The gate lifts up and passes over the zombies’ heads. They begin marching forward.
A large lever sticks up from behind the gearshift. You jerk it down, then to the right. With a loud mechanical churning sound, the truck’s plow lowers to the ground. A few seconds later it settles against the cement.
You glance in the rearview mirror. Chucky raises the shotgun and nods.
You nod back and flick the cigarette out the window. Hands tight on the wheel. Looking straight ahead.
You hit the gas.
They charge.
There are fifty or sixty feet between you and the cavalcade of walking dead. Just enough time to pick up speed. You bear down, knuckles white on the wheel, and brace yourself as they close in.
The plow pushes through the first wave, knocking them aside like stray cows caught on an Old West train track. Some get scooped up. Others spun aside.
They shriek and howl. You’re hurting them, you think. But then you realize the cries are not coming from the ones you’re killing. It’s the others. It’s a battle cry.
You give it more gas. Bodies crunch beneath the wheels. The truck keeps moving.
You keep on the gas. Resistance. You push harder, but the truck continues to slow. Finally, the horde becomes too much for the plow. Bodies slip underneath. The wheels spin in place, turning on a pile of fleshy death.
The stopped truck makes an easy target now. One beast—an Asian teenager in a private school uniform—climbs up the side of the truck. She scratches and claws at the window. More climb onto the hood.
You pump the gas. Nothing. Hydroplaning on a bloody mess of guts and gore.
A gunshot explodes behind you. Then another. Your eyes dart up to the rearview. The beasts are scaling the back and Chucky is doing everything he can to keep them at bay.
Fuck—this ain’t working.
You take your foot off the gas. The truck settles, then begins rocking and swaying on the hill of bodies.
You drop it into neutral and floor it, the engine roaring—then, after a long moment, with beasts climbing all over the truck, you drop it back into second.
It works. The truck jerks forward over the hill of bodies. The beasts clinging to the hood drop to the ground. More shotgun blasts—Chucky does his job.
The plow sweeps the next batch of beasts off their feet and you’re able to steer the truck out of the garage, up the ramp, and out onto the street.
The Chambers Street you’re on now is a world away from the one you escaped hours ago. The beasts are scattered in bunches. Small groups.
But the people—normal, living, everyday people—are gone. Their cars are still there. Mostly empty. Some with shattered windows, filled with living-dead drivers and passengers, now rendered too stupid to work the seat belt or door so they can leave.
A young woman on Rollerblades, her shirt ripped, face torn, rolls around. Struggles to stand—then her foot goes out from under. Turning into a zombie with a pair of Rollerblades strapped to your feet is clearly not the way to do it.
The sound of horrific carnage is gone—but the city is not quite silent. Car alarms and gunshots float over from blocks away. It’s like standing outside Yankee Stadium halfway through a game—you can hear it, know something big is happening, but you’re not quite a part of it.
You turn to Chucky. “You alright?”
“I’m good,” he says as he reloads the shotgun.
“Good. Where to?”
“Brooklyn’s out of the question. Bridge is fucked. Just head south to the bottom of the island. We’ll find a way out.”
“Sounds like a plan,” you say, and hit the gas.
Click here.
SEWER RAT
Al and Fish sprint for the hole. You follow, sliding your way down the sandy side.
And then you’re falling.
You land in a stream of disgusting water. Something lands on top of you, knocks the wind out of you. You gasp for air, but you’re forced underwater. It’s a body. A fucking zombie, on top of you. It thrashes in the water. You try to raise your head, but can’t.
And then it’s gone.
You scramble to your feet. Al has the thing. He throws it into the water, lifts his heavy work boot up, and brings it crashing down, shattering the thing’s entire face against the sewer floor.
The four of you begin running.
The sewer is narrow—a dimly lit catacomb. You have to crouch to avoid hitting your head. Standing in the middle of the rounded tunnel, you could reach out and touch both sides of it at the same time.
Splash after splash behind you as the zombies hit the water. You turn and look. A dozen in the sewer already. More coming every second. They hit the water, lift their heads, and then they take off after you.
You run, splashing through the knee-deep liquid, Al, Fish, and Sully in front of you. The tunnel glows with an eerie yellow light. Water drips from cracks in the ceilings.
“Catch!” Al says.
Huh?
Al’s Zippo flies through the air. You leap, grab it with one hand, and keep running.
“What’s this for?” you shout, your words echoing.
“Whaddya think?”
Al comes to a halt and spins, holding a stick of dynamite. “Light!”
Your thumb, shaking, flicks at the flint-wheel ignition. On the fourth try it lights. Al holds the fuse over the flame. It catches, sparking.
The beasts are bearing down on you, splashing.
Al throws it as far as he can, straight at the one in front. It spins through the air, end over end. Then, in midair—
KRAKA-BOOM!!!
You watch as the lead zombie’s chest shatters like glass and the thing’s blown apart into a hundred pieces. The rest are blown back, some against the wall, others sent spiraling back into the water.
Near silence, for a moment, then the steady sound of dripping water.
And the moans.
Drip.
Plunk.
And the horrid sound of the undead. And the rough, haggard breathing of Al.
And then—a crack, a sound like skates on ice too thin.
The roof gives away, raining down heavy chunks of concrete upon the teeming horde of undead.
And then a low hum. Then louder. An echo.
Rushing water.
You can see it through the
rubble—the tunnel turning back as the shadow of the tsunami approaches.
“Oh shit,” Al says.
“What did you do?” Fish says, scared.
“May have blown the main line.”
The tidal wave comes roaring around the corner, filling the entire sewer. It hits the beasts, then the pile of concrete, and sweeps everything all away.
You’re next.
The wave punches you in the chest. You’re lost, tumbling through freezing wet darkness. Your knee bangs against cement—the top, bottom, side of the sewer, you don’t know.
Through the green-black water, you see arms and legs. You hit the surface for a moment. An inch, maybe two between the water and the ceiling. Grab a mouthful of air. Then something at your feet, fingers around your ankle. Pulls you back down into the dark water.
You kick free. Feel your foot kick some sort of flesh.
Through the darkness, you can see Fish. He tumbles beside you, carried along with you. He reaches out—fear in his face. Then you turn a corner and he’s thrown into the sewer wall, blood bursting from his shattered face.
Your head bursts through the water again. Grab air. And inhale water—shitty, pissy water. You vomit, lift your head to breathe in air, but only take in more water. Your hands claw at the ceiling. Find a brick. Get your finger in. You hang on—the water rushing below you, through your legs, and around your body. Your fingers bleed. Then your nails snap, rip off, and you’re back under.
You see Al. His mouth is wide open. Blood pours from his throat. Undead. More monsters floating around him. You can’t win. They won’t drown. They’ll never drown. They’ll never lose like this.
Sully—you see a flash of his eyes, then he disappears, gone.
You surface again, smack your head against the brick, then go back under. You see something ahead of you. A hole. Some sort of pipe.
Then a stop. Sudden. Your shoulder blades shatter. Wedged in a hole.
You can’t move—completely trapped in the water-filled pipe. Your shoulders are stuck. Something hits your feet. Zombie. And another one. You’re a fucking clog in the drain.
The sounds go first. You hear nothing. Just your own screaming inside your head.
Feels like a massive pair of hands around your neck, choking the life out of you.
Tears mix with sewer water.
And then you choke out, inhale water, and it’s done.
AN END
YES, MOTHER?
Against your better judgment, you answer the phone.
“Hello?”
It’s like the dam broke—out pours a torrent of ohmygods whereareyous and areyouokays.
Should have had that beer.
“Mom, relax. I’m OK.”
Relax isn’t in your mom’s vocab—it disappeared the day you were born.
Your folks live outside Boston, so you don’t have to worry about them ever popping in. Though they’d love to, surely. They’d be Kramer to your Seinfeld if geography allowed them.
“I’m at home, Mom.”
Momtalkmomtalkmomtalk
“Yes, of course I saw the news.”
Momtalkmomtalkmomtalk
“Yes, Mom, I have a flashlight.”
Momtalkmomtalkmomtalk
“Mom!” you finally shout. “You—need—to—relax.”
She tells you to take the ferry to your aunt Judy’s house in Staten Island.
“Why? Why should I do that?”
She tells you it will be safe. She wants you to be safe.
“Mom—I’m safe here.”
She tells you she’ll send you a check for five hundred dollars if you go. OK, done. You hang up, grab your old backpack, same one you used to smuggle beers up to your dorm room a few years back, and fill it with the essentials—some clothes, Nintendo DS, a few issues of Hustler—and you hit the road.
The Staten Island ferry departs from South Ferry Station at Battery Park, the southernmost tip of Manhattan. You’re about fifty blocks north. With no other choice, you begin running. Around you it’s like an unofficial city marathon—full of a bunch of out-of-shape guys sweating through their work clothes and women regretting their shoe choice of the day.
The streets are crazy in all directions. Gridlock. Cars don’t move. The sidewalks are jam-packed, so you work your way through the cars. You hear little pieces of news—that the zombies are uptown, on the West Side, in Brooklyn. Christ, who knows what the hell to believe?
You pass a police station. It’s surrounded—people bang on the windows, yelling for protection, demanding to be let inside. Half a dozen cops stand out front, trying to keep order. Pushing. Shoving. Then a gunshot. People scatter. Some charge. A riot begins. You pick up the pace.
Farther on, a man bursts out of P.C. Richard carrying a DVD player. No one chases him. Three men beat another man mercilessly on a crowded street corner. No police around to stop it.
Twenty minutes later, seeing stars, jagged pain in your side, feet sore as all hell, you finally see South Ferry Station in the distance. A throng of thousands greets you. You push your way into the crowd.
Hours pass. You stand in the stinking heat. Miserable. Any longer, and you’re going to collapse.
A Staten Island girl in a Wagner College tank top bitches about the heat. “It is so gross out here,” she says. “I swear to God if that ferry doesn’t get here like now I’m going to scream.”
Her boyfriend, tall, ’roided out, and fake-tanned, tells her to “be cool, slut.”
You can only shake your head.
Word starts to make it down the line. One of the ferries is stopped about two hundred yards out—right in the middle of the water. You press to the edge, along the waterline, where you can see. Yep—ferry, just sitting there.
A lightbulb goes off in your head. You inch your way through the park to the twenty-five-cent binocular viewers—the type that tourists drop a quarter in to get a sixty-second look at the Statue of Liberty. A few others follow your lead.
You fish a quarter from your pocket and drop it inside. Bend over, put your eyes to it. You spot the Statue of Liberty first—it takes you a moment to locate the ferry. There’s all sorts of movement on the upper level. A fight. Then someone jumps—they don’t quite make it—the body hits the lower-level railing and tumbles violently into the water. Another person jumps—this one makes it. Then more. The entire lower level. Dozens of bodies leaping into New York Harbor.
“Holeee shit.”
Panicked gasps and ohmygods echo among the others looking through the viewers. Someone pushes you aside to get a look.
By now you can see the survivors with your naked eye. They swim furiously, headed for Battery Park and the ferry dock. They arrive in minutes. A man crawls up on the shore, bloodied and half dead. A group runs to help him. Bad idea. A scream erupts from the center of the group. A woman spins away, clutching her shoulders.
More screams from across the park and inside the dock. The crowd goes mad as more and more of the things make it to shore and start to attack.
You run for it. You make it a block. Fuck. More of them. The beasts are everywhere—goddamn it—how do they multiply so fast?!
Up ahead is a large warehouse, one of many. There are two trucks out front. A huge image of a cow with bright red smiling lips is painted on a perimeter gate. You sprint for the gate. Open, thank God. You enter, catch your breath, and make for the first open garage door.
It’s open about two feet. You drop and roll underneath. Pitch black. You slap around at the wall next to the door. Feel around. Light switch. You hit it.
Shit!
Zombies. A hundred dead faces fill the warehouse. You let loose a bloodcurdling scream, squeeze your eyes shut, and prepare to die.
“Hey dude—chill—it’s OK.”
Huh?
You crack open one eye. One of the zombies is walking over to you. “We’re not real zombies.”
“Huh?” you squeak out. You look around the warehouse.
“Su
pposed to have a Zombie Walk today,” the guy says as he shuts the gate.
“What?”
“Zombie Walk. Y’know, a zombie parade. We dress up like zombies and do, you know, the classic zombie shuffle. We start here, in Battery Park, and go to Midtown. It’s a whole-day event. We do it to raise awareness.”
“Awareness for what?”
“Zombies.”
“Buddy—I think people are aware.”
Most of the zombie walker folks sit along the wall on boxes and crates, eyes on a big fat guy talking up front, who looks a lot like the late, not-so-great president William Howard Taft.
It’s a meatpacking warehouse. Main floor is near empty—besides the boxes and crates and zombies, just a few pallets. You take a seat and listen. The one you first met—clearly the leader—addresses the crowd. You take notice of his awful, fake-blood-splattered khaki shirt.
“It’s getting worse, guys. Police presence has dwindled to nothing. The military seems to have pulled out of the city, from what we can tell. Obviously today’s Zombie Walk isn’t going to happen, but I’m glad we’re all together for this epic experience.”
Taft picks up the discussion: “Now what we’re dealing with here appears to be some sort of mash-up of the classic Romero zombie and the more modern Rage virus zombie.
“As we all saw—these zombies just sort of walk around. Very slowly. Dumb. Classic Hollywood zombie. But when something gets their attention—they can run like the wind. Rage-zombie style.”
“Looks like we’re on our way to a classic Stage Three outbreak,” Khaki says.
You speak up. “Classic Stage Three outbreak? What the hell is that?”
Taft takes over. “Yes. Stage Three can spread to Stage Four quickly. At Stage Four—well, then you’re just one stage away from the end of the world. Like A Boy and his Dog. With zombies.”
Then there’s Four-Eyes, looks like Elvis Costello with a bad chin strap.
Elvis speaks. “We do have one advantage over the rest of these idiot Manhattanites.”
You lean forward, deadly serious. “What’s wrong with Manhattan?”
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“No, really.”
“You waste all that rent money to live in a shoe box. What are you paying for?”