Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?

by Max Brallier

  Alright, all or nothing. Keeping the zombie act up best you can, you stumble right through the three things. Brush past the lawyer.

  You can feel their undead eyes on you. Penetrating you. But you keep your head up. Forward. One foot in front of the other. A soldier, marching with the troops.

  The beasts surround the group. Their moans increase. You and Khaki exchange quick, worried looks, then go back to staring ahead.

  You pass overturned cars and abandoned military vehicles. Two tanks. A Humvee.

  You’re getting close now. A hundred yards from the water. Up onto the curb, off the street, and into Battery Park. Across the grass.

  You can make it. Just keep moving. A little farther.

  The man next to you is breathing heavily. You turn your head just slightly. You can see the fear on his face. No act. His hands tremble.

  He’s not going to make it.

  You try to whisper to him—tell him you’re almost there. But it’s too late.

  The man shrieks, then peels off running. Motherfu—

  The zombies all moan and roar at once.

  “Run!” you shout.

  You take off. Everyone does. You hear some of them getting it behind you, bloodcurdling screams, but there’s nothing you can do. You’re across the Battery Park lawn. Over a jogging path. And there’s the water—just beyond the fence. And in front of you—blocking the way—is one of the things. Arms out. Waiting to embrace you in death.

  You’re so close. Not stopping, you barrel into the thing, hitting it square in the chest, and together you go over the fence and into the water. It lashes out at you once, then sinks like a rock. You see the Statue of Liberty in the distance and you start kicking and swimming with everything you’ve got.

  Fifty feet out, you stop to look behind you. You see Khaki, swimming furiously. Everyone else is dead. Their bloody bodies draped over the fence, monsters all over them, devouring them.

  Khaki catches up to you. You watch the scene, horrified. Then you continue on.

  Two hours later, you’re closing in on the island. You want to give up. Just go to sleep and sink to the floor of the bay. But you press on.

  The waves smack you against the rocky Liberty Island shore. It’s not easy going. After a long struggle, you make it onto the rocks. Your legs and arms are cut badly, but you’re safe. You’ve never been so exhausted in your life.

  You close your eyes and breathe—you feel like you might honestly be having a heart attack. Finally, your breathing slows, returns to something resembling normal. You calm down some and open your eyes.

  Khaki crawls up next to you. He smiles. “We made it,” he says.

  “We made it.”

  You stand up. Help Khaki to his feet.

  And then Khaki’s head comes apart in a bloody mess. His forehead opens. Bullets rip through his head and explode out the back of his skull. The gunshots hang in the air. He sways for a second, dead on his feet, then collapses, lifeless, on the rocks.

  You hit the rocks, eyes darting, frantic. It’s then that you take in the fence for the first time. It’s a standard metal fence, with taller posts every ten feet—it stretches out on both sides of you, wrapping around the island.

  And on each metal post—a severed zombie head.

  Above you, a seagull picks at the near fleshless skull of a Hasidic Jew—small pieces of flesh and beard and two curly sideburns are all that remain.

  One down, a bald guy’s faceless head. Most of the skin gone, pecked to nothing.

  Farther down a woman, still has her long red hair. And not much else. The skin on her cheeks peels in the hot sun.

  Dear Lord…

  “Stand up!” A high-pitched, maniacal voice.

  Beside you, the waves lick at Khaki’s dead body. His brains are leaking out on the rocks. Fear pumps through you.

  The man’s voice again. “Stand the fuck up! One more second and I’m coming over there and shooting you! I done killed that one and I’ll kill you, too.”

  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! No choice—you stand up, arms raised.

  It’s a soldier. Crazy, wild-eyed. Blood caked on his face. No shirt—dried blood covering his bare chest like war paint. His desert camo pants are torn into makeshift shorts.

  He uses the assault rifle in his hands to wave you over. “Over—over—over—over the fence—over here.”

  “OK, OK. I’m coming.” You climb the fence, ignoring the head beside you.

  “Move slow. I been collecting heads, love for you to give me a reason to collect yours.”

  Another soldier marches across the field, out from the base of the statue. “Hammer! Put the fucking rifle down.”

  The madman, Hammer apparently, lowers the gun.

  The other soldier runs up beside him. “What were you shooting at?”

  “My friend, he shot my fucking friend,” you say. “Killed him.”

  “He was one of them, Hauk, he was a monster!” Hammer protests. “I seen his face!”

  “It was paint,” you say, tired. “It was just paint…”

  “Put your arms down,” the second soldier says. “Hammer, go inside.”

  Hammer kicks at the ground like a little kid who has just been told recess is over. He sulks back to the statue. The other soldier walks over to you. Then leans over the fence. He sees Khaki’s body.

  “Fuck me. Sorry about your friend. Hammer’s gone a little nuts—if you couldn’t tell by all the heads. I’m First Lieutenant Hauk,” he says, walking to a picnic bench halfway between the fence and the statue.

  The Statue of Liberty towers above you. It’s a hell of a sight—and it feels right, considering how hard you just fought to get here. You’ve never been to the Statue of Liberty—always figured you’d make it there someday—just not like this.

  You follow Hauk. You walk past a pile of burned bodies. Just skeletons. Hundreds.

  “What happened here?” you ask, taking a seat.

  “Nothing good. Our unit, Twenty-second Marine, came by boat afternoon of day one. Island was deserted when we got here—at least that’s what we thought. Then we went inside. Must’ve been four hundred people—all turned into those fucking … monsters. Didn’t take long—our whole unit, dead. Hammer and I held up inside the little restaurant around back for a full day. Then we got up to the roof of the joint, and, well, we killed them all. Every last one. Our commander. Some children. My best friend. Everyone. That’s when Hammer lost it. He started cutting off their heads, putting them on the posts as a warning to anyone else out there.”

  “Jesus…”

  “Tell me about it. And now we’re stuck. Our boat sunk in the beginning. So no communications. All we got is the two damn Hellfires back there.”

  “Hellfires?”

  “Yeah, we use them for underwater diving missions. Like civilian Jet Skis—only they go underwater.”

  You nod.

  “If I hadn’t lost my goddamn radio we could call for help and get the fuck outta here. Get back in the fight.”

  “Don’t think there’s much of a fight. I passed a whole bunch of Army shit on the way here—Humvees, tanks—all abandoned.”

  Hauk perks up. “Shit—vehicles will have a radio—get us out of here. Where?”

  “South Ferry, Battery Park—where I came from.”

  Hauk pulls a small pair of binoculars from one of the many pouches on his vest. He walks to the fence and peers through them. “Fuck me,” he says.

  “What?”

  “I think you brought company.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “Look,” he says, handing you the binoculars. You bring them to your eyes. Smoke pours off most of the city. You focus in on the southern tip of Manhattan—same spot you escaped from. The creatures are tumbling into the water. One after the other, straight down.

  “Yeah?”

  “Last communication we got, before the ship went, was from a unit on Roosevelt Island saying those things—zombies, monsters, whatever—were coming
up out of the water. They had walked all the way from Manhattan.

  “Shit. I’d believe it. Guys I was with before—they mentioned something like that.”

  “Fuck me. I’m sending Hammer under.”

  “Under?” you ask Hauk.

  “That’s right. Have to know what’s down there.”

  “Let me go with him,” you say.

  He frowns. “You got any idea what you’re doing?”

  “Not really. I went snorkeling in Aruba with my parents once.”

  Hauk sighs.

  You continue. “But if I brought those things here—shit—let me do my part.”

  “Christ.” He steps away, lights a cigarette. Looks up at the statue. Then back to you. “Fine. Go around back. I’ll send Hammer over.”

  “OK. He’s uhh—he’s not going to shoot me, right?”

  “Probably not…”

  Click here.

  UP, UP, UP

  You follow as Hammer races across the field, into the statue base, and through the main hall. Then, up to the second and third level.

  “Where are we going?” you ask.

  “To the good lady’s crown.”

  Hammer is in military-grade shape and you sure as hell aren’t. He takes the stairs two at a time the whole way. You do your best to keep up. You hit a MAINTENANCE ONLY door. He picks the lock and you keep moving.

  Twenty minutes later you’re inside the crown. The view is breathtaking. But scary as all hell. Smoke billows from Manhattan. Parts of Brooklyn, too.

  Hammer kneels down, places a black case on the floor, flips four snaps, and opens it. It’s a full-blown, real-deal sniper rifle. He assembles it.

  Where were you three days ago? In a production meeting? Looking forward to watching TV and not much else? And now you’re watching a madman assemble a sniper rifle. Life’s got a way of messing with a guy.

  Hammer assembles a mount and screws it onto the ledge. Attaches the rifle. Then he gets down on one knee, adjusts the sight, and appears satisfied.

  You kneel down beside him, rest your elbows on the ledge, and watch through the binoculars. You’re looking at the very tip of the island.

  “Did you see all them heads on them poles?”

  “I did.”

  “I did that.”

  “I heard.”

  “Just like I shot your friend.”

  “I saw.”

  “Didn’t know he was a person.”

  “Understood.”

  “Still.… don’t feel too bad about it,” he says, and grins, showing off a mess of crooked teeth. You want to punch him, but it’s probably the worst move you could make now.

  Instead you grind your teeth and watch through the binoculars. Hauk comes up out of the water—tiny, even with the high-powered focus. He leaves the Hellfire and swims to the shore. He flashes a red light, then looks up at you through binoculars. Hammer gives a thumbs-up.

  “Alright,” Hammer says. “It’s time. Tell me what you see.”

  You look at Hammer’s leg once more. His sock is soaked through with blood. You can’t tell, but it sure as hell looks like he was bit…

  Assume Hammer’s going to turn, and try to kill him first? Click here.

  Take his word that it’s a scratch? Click here.

  YES MAN

  “Yankees,” you say, after a long moment. Then, hesitantly, trying to look enthused, “Goooo Yankees.”

  BLAM!!!

  AN END

  UP THE STREET

  The train tracks and the street alongside it run east-west. Atlantic Avenue runs up and away from the tracks to the north, forming a T. It’s a main street sort of deal—a CVS, local grocery store, Starbucks.

  A crowd is starting to gather in the middle of the street. Some stand, stunned at what they’re seeing. Others rush to the van to help. Another over to the cop car.

  You tear off, headed up Atlantic, running right through them. There’s a scream behind you. Then another. You run faster. It’s beginning.

  Halfway up the street, you stop in your tracks. A store catches your attention—A&J’s Hardware. A few dirt bikes and four-wheelers sit in the parking lot—a FOR SALE sign hanging on the fence.

  Hmm. Could be your ticket.

  A bell dings as you enter. A gruff-looking guy, sixtyish, leans against the counter. He doesn’t acknowledge you. He’s playing with a police scanner. It’s going wild.

  You lean over, hands on your knees, and try to catch your breath. God, you’re out of shape. Holding your side, you walk to the counter.

  “You uh… you selling those bikes out there?”

  Without looking up, “You see the FOR SALE sign?”

  Struggling for breath. “Yeah.”

  “There’s your answer.”

  “OK. Well, uh. I’d like to buy one.”

  “Which one?”

  You’ve never ridden a dirt bike in your life. “Oh ahh… I don’t know—whatever’s easiest. I don’t need anything fancy.”

  For the first time he looks up at you. He’s grizzled—got a face that looks like it just came off a short-order grill. Long scar running across his forehead and down his cheek. Short, stubbly white beard.

  He sighs. “You have a truck? Unless you have a truck to get it out of here with, I can’t sell you a bike. You can’t just cruise away with it. Riding on city streets is against the law.”

  “You hear the train crash?”

  “No, I didn’t. Tell me,” he says, looking at you like you’re an idiot.

  “I was on that train. All I want to do is get out of here. Cut me a break, huh?”

  His tune changes. “You were on the train? What happened? On the news—all this horseshit?”

  You take a seat on an upside-down stack of plastic paint buckets. Look around. It’s a nice local hardware store—the type that’s getting pushed out by the Lowe’s and Home Depots of the world. A throwback. Old-fashioned, even.

  You start in. “Fucking—I don’t even know. The dead started coming to life. Zombies. I mean—just like the movies.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Go take a look outside.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “Go ahead—look.”

  He steps outside. Comes back in a second later, face white.

  “Leave.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me—get out. I’m locking up.” He grabs you by the arm.

  You look out the door. Most of the monsters seem to be hanging around the train still, feeding on the passengers that didn’t already get it. But a good twenty of the things are already halfway up the block.

  “I’ll fucking die out there!” you say.

  He thinks for a second, then goes outside, pulls the heavy outer door shut, and reappears. “Alright—if you’re gonna stay, you’re gonna work. Grab some wood.”

  “OK, where?”

  He shoots you the same look that he keeps shooting you. You’ve seen it before. It’s that “you’re a kid” look. That “you weren’t part of the Greatest Generation and you’re not a Vietnam vet” look. You’re from the cell phone generation. The iThis and iThat generation. If you didn’t just return from Iraq with a bullet in your leg, you weren’t impressing this guy.

  “Aisle C, by the iPhone cases.”

  Oh.

  You run to the back and grab all the wood you can carry. Fuck, pants are falling down. Of all the days not to wear a belt.… You waddle back and drop the wood at his feet. He gets to work with a drill. “More.”

  You do like he says.

  Two large front windows look out onto the street, the door between them. He orders you to start piling stuff in front of the right window while he goes to work covering the left.

  He’s got some cabinets for sale. Those seem to work pretty well. You stack them up. More stuff on top of them—chairs, shelves—anything big and halfway heavy. Screams continue to pour in from the streets. You work faster.

  The guy finishes with the left window, then wal
ks to the back of the store. You take a look at your window—pretty good. Secure. Then you go to find him. Through a tight doorway is a second room—this one full of lawn mowers, Weed Whackers, snowblowers, and other larger tools. He pulls out a set of keys and locks the heavy metal back door. You follow him back to the front of the store like his pet cat.

  He goes back to his spot behind the counter and pulls out a pistol. Lays it down. Then nudges the phone toward you. “You want to call anyone, go ahead,” he says.

  “Oh, thanks.” You pick up the phone, begin to dial your mom, then stop and hang up. You should call her. But she’ll only worry. Ehh, you’ll text her later.

  “You?” you say, pushing the phone in his direction.

  He shakes his head.

  “No one?”

  “No,” he grunts.

  “Oh, OK.”

  You set the old phone back down gently. “What’s your name?” you ask.

  “Walter,” he says.

  “Nice to meet you Walter, I’m—”

  “Shut up. Listen.”

  Walter turns up the scanner. You can’t make anything out—just a mishmash of voices.

  “Military’s on the way,” Walter says. “Coming right through here, headed for the city.”

  “Military?”

  “That’s what I said—didn’t you hear?”

  “I couldn’t hear a damn thing on there.”

  “There’s a base about twenty miles up the road.”

  You walk to a small spot on the window that was left uncovered. The heavy rumble of military machines shakes the building. Tanks. Trucks. They’re arriving now.

  They stop in front of the wrecked train. Soldiers pour out of the truck and form a line stretching across the street. Thirty of them. Full combat gear.

  One soldier—commander, general, however it works—steps forward with a megaphone.

  “Don’t move another fucking inch—none of you.”

  Clearly zombies aren’t the best at following orders, because they take off running toward the Army.

  In turn, the Army lets loose with a barrage of fire. Even from a hundred yards away, the sound is deafening. The beasts that get it in the head drop. But the others don’t stop. Bullets rip through their bodies but they just stutter, stumble, and keep coming.