Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?

by Max Brallier

  You grab the gun and you’re out the door. You’re so buzzed with adrenaline, you forget to grab any supplies.

  You get on the bike and start it up. Shit. The commotion has brought them out of the woodwork. The parking lot and the street begin to fill. You twist the throttle and zoom out on the street. Zombies follow.

  You check the side mirror. Hundreds. As scared as you are, you can’t help but feel pretty cool as you handle the terrain like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape.

  You head for the high school. You know it like the back of your hand, and you can lose them in the woods behind it.

  You head up over the old hill. Had your first and only fight here, under the tree you just whipped past. Through a small wooded area, then down onto the high school track. You open it up, leaving them in the dust.

  But the faster you go, the louder the bike roars. And that draws more and more of them. From houses and yards they come. They stumble out—spot you—and begin their twisted, disgusting sprint.

  You cross the track and head up over the baseball diamond. Your house is just through the woods. You kick up more and more dust as you rip across the baseball diamond, around the field house, and onto the football field.

  And there they are.

  The entire varsity football team. Undead. Seventeen- and eighteen-year-old kids—peak physical specimens. Strong. Fast. Hungry.

  You kick it into overdrive, right through them. They reach out. One almost takes you off the bike.

  You shoot down the small creek that separates the high school field from the woods, kicking up mud. Then slowly, you take the bike through the woods.

  The things are gaining. They move through the woods unimpeded. Crashing through branches. Powering over bushes and chunks of rock that the dirt bike can’t handle—at least not with you behind the handles.

  Finally, you come out the other side. You’re directly across from your house—the things right behind you.

  You’ll be safe at the house, possibly. But you could lead them straight to Kim.

  Head for safety inside the house? Click here.

  Try to lead them away from Kim? Click here.

  LOOK, MY BAD

  “OK, look—I’m very, very sorry. I didn’t mean to bring them here—I was just looking for someplace safe to stay.”

  “Well this ain’t it,” Al says. He pulls a knife from a drawer and cuts through the duct tape.

  “Al, you’re not doing this,” Sully says.

  “Yes I am.”

  “Al, listen to me!”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I’m your goddamn union rep, that’s why. You’re a member of Local Two-fucking-Twelve, and you’re damn proud of it—right?”

  “Yeah—I am—proud enough to get this kid off my fucking work site.”

  Al drags you, kicking and screaming, out the door and across the lot. The other two follow, arguing with Al, but they don’t stop him.

  “Fish—fire up the crane,” Al says.

  “What?”

  “Fish—the crane, now.”

  Fish slinks over to the crane and climbs inside. He turns the keys and it roars to life. Thick, black smoke pours out the back. The thing’s a monster.

  “Wait, what are you going—”

  Big Al hits you in the gut. Hard. It shuts you up and drops you to the ground. You gasp for air.

  The crane swings over. At the end of the metal line is a huge wrecking ball—and just below that, a massive metal hook. Fish works the gears while Al directs it over your way. You try to run, but you’re too weak. You start crawling, through the dirt.

  “Uh-uh,” Al mutters, grabbing you by your collar and yanking you to your feet. Then he takes the huge hook and puts it up through the back of your shirt. It’s freezing cold against your skin.

  You beg. “Please. Don’t do this. Please, please. No. Don’t. Just don’t.”

  “Sorry bud,” he says, then yells over to Fish, “raise ’er up!”

  The hook jerks up. Your shirt gets tight around your throat. Hard to breathe. Tighter. Fuck—you’re going to choke to death. You get your hand between your collar and your neck. Manage a little room. Just enough to pull in a small breath of air.

  Your feet lift off the ground. You kick wildly at the air. You catch a glimpse of Fish, working the crane. “Don’t do this,” you squeak out. “Please.”

  Higher. You’re even with the top of the fence. The crane swings, carrying you over it.

  You can hear the moans of the zombies. You look down. Hands reaching up. So many undead faces. So many eager, hungry mouths.

  Fear rips through your body. Panic like nothing you’ve ever known. You struggle. Anything you can do to get free.

  The crane begins to lower. Your shirt, tight against your fingers. Tight against your throat. Try to breathe. Can’t.

  Please God, you think. Please get me out of here. Anything. Just make this stop. Anything.

  The first hand at your foot. Pulls you down. Then another grabs you. The crane continues to lower. Then it stops, your feet just above the ground. Christ—they’re just going to let you hang there, like a goddamn worm on a hook.

  One of the beasts digs in, teeth in your shoulder. The pain is unbearable. Your screams are silenced as your throat is ripped out. Another at your cheek. Hands tear at you. Teeth all over you—in your thigh, at your waist.

  The hands pull harder. Your shirt rips and you fall to the ground. And then, mercifully, you go into shock just before they tear you to pieces.

  AN END

  A FAREWELL TO ARMS

  No time to waste. Not worrying about the things at your back, you take the chainsaw from the floor, start it up, and bring it down, severing Kim’s arm just below the elbow. She screams. So loud. Piercing. Blood everywhere. It’s awful.

  Then, from behind, through the door, one gets you. Digs its teeth into your bicep.

  “Kim!” you shout.

  She doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. With her good arm, she pulls a knife from the wood block on the counter. Jams it into the beast’s head.

  You look at each other. Blood pours from her open arm and you’ve just been bitten. Death is upon you both.

  “Kim, get the butcher knife, my arm—now.”

  “I can’t,” she says through tears.

  “You have to!”

  You put your bleeding arm down on the counter.

  “Now!”

  She grabs the steel knife. Looks you in the eye. You nod. She brings the butcher knife down. You scream.

  It takes three whacks to separate your arm from your shoulder. Pain. Unbelievable pain. Takes everything you have not to collapse.

  Then a hand on your shoulder. Another one of the fucking monsters. Through the swinging door. You grab the bloody butcher knife and spin, burying the knife in its eye. More come through.

  Need to leave—now.

  And then—Kim’s the strong one. She pulls you upstairs, into your parents’ bedroom, and slams the door shut. You collapse on the floor.

  Pain courses through you. Blood pours from your shoulder, pooling beneath. Just want this to end. Just want to die.

  No. Not yet.

  On your parents’ dresser, a picture of your grandfather. A good guy, as far as you know. He died when you were young. Too young to remember.

  He was a ladies’ man. Worked as a surgeon in a Pittsburgh hospital. Bragged loudly about how he was going to date every nurse in the hospital. He never got past the first, your grandmother.

  Then he went off to war. Not a war hero. But a good soldier. Did his job.

  If he’s up in heaven right now watching, there’s no way you can let yourself die on this floor. No way you can let the woman you love die.

  Using the one arm you still have, you get to your feet and push your parents’ dresser in front of the door. Working together, you bandage up Kim’s arm, then she does yours. The entire time, the monsters pound at the door.

  You pass out on the bed. The pound
ing at the door continues.

  Kim looks down at her severed arm. She sobs. You try to fight it—try with everything—but you can’t. Together, you lie on the bed and cry…

  AN END

  THUNDERBALLS

  Hauk summons Hammer over. They show you the basics of the Hellfire—it’s just like a Jet Ski, only instead of controlling just right and left, you control up and down, too. Oh yeah—and there are twin harpoon guns on each side—they didn’t have that in Aruba.

  You suit up. Wet suit, oxygen, everything. Utility belt around your waist with a knife. You hop on the Hellfire.

  Hammer skips the wet suit—just takes a knife and throws an oxygen tank on his back, the tube in his mouth, and hops on. He looks like an absolute fucking madman. He gives you a scary grin, then takes off. Hauk waves you off as you follow Hammer into the water.

  About a half mile out, Hammer submerges.

  Alright—here goes nothing. You hit the switch. The Hellfire hums beneath you, gets louder, then goes under. Water splashes over your goggles—and suddenly, you’re beneath the surface, with a clear, full view of the underside of New York Harbor.

  You pass over an old Buick, half buried in the sand. Fish swim around—none of them pretty.

  Then you see the things.

  Surreal doesn’t begin to describe it. Hundreds of zombies, walking across the bay floor. They’re even slower underwater than they were on solid ground.

  Hammer fires. The harpoon slices through the water and embeds itself directly in the skull of the thing farthest in the front—a teenager in a black jean jacket. In slow motion, it falls to the sand. Doesn’t float. Doesn’t rise. Just hits the ground and stops moving. Sand slowly kicks up around it.

  You take aim and fire. The harpoon sticks harmlessly into the harbor floor.

  Hammer buzzes over the zombies. You hit the gas and follow, staying a good twenty feet above them.

  Hammer is lower than you. One of the dead reaches up, just barely misses his bare foot. You speed past all of them, get to the end of their ranks. A rough estimation—you put them at a thousand.

  Hammer loops around, cutting through the water, and flies back. You follow. You fire a random harpoon into the mass of them, just because you can, and happen to nail one in the back of the skull. You’re past it before it begins to fall.

  Hammer continues to cruise low over them. Another goes for his foot. Catches it this time. A hint of red in the water.

  Hammer lets go of the Hellfire and it continues on through the water unmanned. It glides along, downward, then crashes into the mass of zombies, sending them stumbling about and falling to the harbor floor. The sand kicks up, clouding the water while you watch helplessly from a safe distance. More grab at him now. He struggles. Rips his blade from its sheath and buries it in one of the things’ faces.

  Another one grabs him. Fuck—looks like it bit him. You can’t quite tell.

  You take aim and fire a harpoon at the one that has him. Catches it in the neck. It doesn’t let go. Continues pulling at him, harpoon sticking out each side of it. Another shot, slightly higher. This one hits it in the head. Its hands open and it sinks to the sand. Hammer bursts up through the water. A small trail of blood leaks from his ankle.

  You steer the Hellfire toward the surface and come up beside him. He grabs hold of the side and you head back for Liberty Island.

  Hammer comes out of the water first and limps his way up onto the rocky beach. You leave the glider in the water, strip off the wet suit, and race up behind him.

  “One got you, I saw!” you shout after him.

  “I’m fine.”

  You catch up to him. “I saw, one got you, you’re bleeding.”

  “It nicked me.”

  “With its nails. That could be enough.”

  “It didn’t fucking bite me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Still.”

  He spins. His dark eyes dart about wildly, looking you up and down. “Listen kid, shut the fuck up before I coldcock you, got me?”

  Silently, you follow him back to Hauk. Hauk sits at a picnic table, looking over a map.

  “Well?” Hauk says.

  “Big bad fucking news, boss. I counted twelve hundred.”

  “How far?”

  “Shit, one hour. Maybe hour ’n’ ten.”

  “Never ends. Alright—we need that radio—now. Hammer, the kit. Get it. Cover me. Kid, you spot.”

  “What are you plannin’ on?” Hammer asks.

  “I’m going over there, I’m getting that radio, I’m calling for help, and we’re getting the fuck outta here.”

  Click here.

  MOST TRAGIC…

  You grab her good arm and pull her up to your parents’ room. You barricade the door with a dresser.

  You take good care of her. Wrap her up and lay her down gently on the closet floor. In about an hour she turns.

  She howls. For two days straight, she growls and moans from inside the closet.

  Finally, it’s too much.

  You rip open the door. Fire twice. Leave chunks of Kim’s brain all over your mother’s shoe collection.

  Then you collapse against the door. Put the gun in your own mouth. And squeeze.

  AN END

  ACTUALLY, WE’RE GOOD…

  “Guess our saviors have arrived,” the Ardle says.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Fun while it lasted.”

  “Yeah…”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I might be.”

  He smiles.

  You stand up, walk around to get a good angle at the front of the copter. “We’re good!” you shout, waving your arms. “We’re good!”

  No way they can hear you above the roar. After a few minutes, though, they seem to get the message. The ladder is pulled up and the helicopter flies away, headed downtown.

  “Game of Madden?” the Ardle asks.

  You return to your beach chair. “Def.”

  AN END

  CHIVALRY ISN’T DEAD (BUT YOU MIGHT BE)

  You turn up the speed, fly down the end of the cul-de-sac, and spin around.

  You kick off your left shoe and take off your sock. You spin open the cap to the gas tank and shove your sock inside.

  Pull out Elvis this time. Spark it. You get the sock going. In a few seconds, it’s burning well.

  The football team is coming at you fast. You floor it, headed straight for them. The flame nips at your leg—stronger now. The pain is nearly unbearable. Your leg is burning, you’re sure, but you don’t look down.

  You close in on the beasts.

  Fifty feet.

  Heart pounding.

  Forty feet.

  Undead coming right for you.

  Thirty feet.

  You cut the bike to the side and it goes out from underneath you. You hit the ground hard, road rash all down your already burning leg. You stop rolling and look up just as the bike slides into the approaching horde.

  C’mon.

  They rush over the bike. Past it.

  C’mon!

  Straight for you.

  KA-BOOM!!!!

  The whole zombie football squad goes up in flames. Those closest to the blast fly through the air, head over tail. You’ve taken out about half of them.

  And the rest are blocking your way back to the house.

  You scramble to your feet. Intense pain with every step, your leg white hot and the skin shredded. You sprint for your neighbor’s house. Mrs. Cibelli. Nice woman. Babysat her kids a few times.

  You pound the door. It’s locked.

  You look away for a second—see the monsters closing in. Then you hear the sound of the door opening—thank God!

  BLAM!!!

  You’re knocked off your feet.

  Motherfucker—Mrs. Cibelli just shot you.

  She rushes out. “Oh God, oh God. It’s you! I’m sorry! I thought you were one of those things!”


  You lie on the grass, spitting up blood.

  Their dog Champ comes over. Last time you saw that dog you were a kid. How’d he get so big?

  This is what’s going through your head as you lie on Mrs. Cibelli’s front lawn, bleeding out, a pack of hungry zombies at your back.

  AN END

  GOING BACK TO SCHOOL

  You head for the closest building, Joshua Eaton Elementary School. Kids and teachers are pouring outside, eager to see what all the commotion is. You hear a siren in the distance, getting louder.

  “Back inside!” you shout, waving your hands. “Get back inside! Zombies, the living dead… monsters!”

  All at once the kids scream, “Zombies… awesome!”

  “No, not awesome. Bad. Bad fucking news.”

  “He said ‘fucking.’”

  You take a group of kids in your arms and sweep them along. The teacher, a grumpy-looking lady in her sixties, rushes over to you.

  “Get your hands off those children immediately!”

  “Lady, take these kids and get them back inside. You too. C’mon, let’s go—all of us.”

  She starts to scold you again—but then for the first time truly takes in the destruction of the train. Her eyes go wide. Looks like she’s struggling to breathe. And then she wanders toward the train.

  One of the kids, a little boy in a LeBron James jersey, follows her. You run and grab him.

  “Hey—kid, stay here.” You nudge him toward the others. “C’mon. Stay there.”

  You glance back at the teacher. “What’s her name?”

  All at once. “Mrs. Hennnnnderson.”

  “Mrs. Henderson! Get back here, what’s the matter with you?”

  But she just keeps walking toward the train. The zombies are distracted by the glut of fresh meat they’re currently feasting on, and she passes them easily.

  You glance down the street. The zombies have made it up the hill. One, down on his knees, feeds on the heavyset cop. Another slaps at the window of the van. Jesus—they’ll be coming your way any moment.