Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?

by Max Brallier

  “Through,” Chucky says, looking at the park. Zombie NYU students and zombie homeless dudes and zombie musicians are scattered across the park. As usual, you can’t really tell the difference between them.

  “Yep, right through.”

  You press down lightly on the gas. The truck rumbles forward, through the famous Washington Arch.

  Then you stop.

  The behavior of the beasts is odd. Slow, stupid. They stumble about, walk in circles, putter along. But you saw it in the garage—once something gets their interest, they move like goddamn hyenas. Zero to sixty like.

  You roar through that park, they’ll come for you right away. Take it slow, maybe they won’t pay you any mind.

  But damn it if you don’t hate NYU students. Really, can’t stand them. You applied to NYU out of college—they politely declined. Really, given the opportunity, you wouldn’t mind taking a few of the artsy snobs out.

  So you floor it. Three bounce off the front. One gets stuck, spins around the plow, then is dragged underneath. The truck bounces as you drive over it.

  They come at you from all angles. A thick crowd of them. All you can make out is the dead.

  Then—

  CRUNCH!!!

  You hit a heavy stone chess table. The truck bounces right. The wheels screech, lift up into the air, and come back down. There’s a huge bang as one tire blows. You cut right. The plow smashes into one of the benches that surround the dry fountain at the center of the park. Chucky shrieks. The plow snaps and a piece flies up at the windshield, cracking it. Then the massive vehicle lifts, tips, and rolls down into the fountain.

  Your ears ring. What the fuck just happened? You’re wet. Fuck. Blood? No. Chucky’s vodka Gatorade.

  You’re upside down. The wheels spin. Thank God for seat belts. You crane your neck—pain shoots through it. Fuck—you’re definitely suing NYU. Through the shattered passenger-side window you see Chucky, lying on his back, on the grass. One of the beasts leaps onto him—then there’s a bang, and like someone just pressed rewind, the beast flies off him in a cloud of smoke. Chucky crawls to his feet, holding the shotgun, and wipes his sleeve across his bloody face.

  Two more of the things, each wearing a backpack covered in stickers and pins, come at him. He turns, panicked, not sure who to target.

  “Hey you fucks!” you shout. “Over here!”

  You lay on the horn. It works. They turn. Chucky raises the shotgun, aims, and takes both their heads off with one shot. Before they hit the ground he’s running, his massive legs pumping. But not for safety—he’s running toward you.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” you shout.

  Chucky slides, pretty well for a big guy, under the overturned truck bed and sticks his head in the partition. “I ain’t leaving you behind, little buddy.”

  “Thanks for the thought—but now we’re both dead.”

  You jerk to the left as one of the beasts reaches through the window and grabs your hair. Another pushes past him and grabs your shirt.

  You unbuckle your seat belt and fall to the ceiling, which is now the floor. The undead hand still clings to your hair. You grab it, twist, and rip it off—a chunk of your hair along with it. The truck cab is tight as hell—you barely manage to roll over.

  No room to move.

  No room to breathe.

  Hands reaching in through the windows, grabbing at you. From all angles.

  “Squeeze through the window,” Chucky says as he reloads the double barrel.

  You shove your body through the partition window. Manage to get up to your biceps, then you’re stuck. Can’t move forward or back. Claustrophobia chokes you—cold hands grabbing at you, beasts moaning, and you can’t move. You kick your legs violently, scared. You feel your Vans make solid contact with a face.

  “Pull me!” you shout.

  Chucky grabs hold of your shirt and pulls. Three horrific seconds, you pop through, the truck bed now a roof above you. Pain in your stomach—a cracked rib, you realize. One of the things makes it into the cab and you see its grisly face pop through the partition window, snapping its jaw at you. Chucky sticks the shotgun in its face, turns his head away, and squeezes. The thing explodes, blood spraying the inside of the cab.

  “Yeah, let that be a lesson to the rest of you bastards,” Chucky snarls.

  “OK, now what?” you say, wiping the blood off your face with the back of your hand.

  The two of you sit under the overturned truck bed, catching your breath. The back end is on the ground, leaving a triangle of open space on each side of you. And through that triangle of open space—nothing but zombie feet.

  “I don’t know,” Chucky says.

  “Yo, you smell that?”

  You sniff at the air. “Yeah. Gas.”

  “OK, plan.” Chucky pulls his pack of smokes from his pocket. Then a Bic—it looks like a Tic Tac in his massive hands. He lights the cigarette, then hands it to you.

  “OK, the second I shoot, you drop the cigarette. We’ll have like three seconds. Got it?”

  “Wait, wait—what?”

  “No time,” Chucky says, then aims at the zombie legs. Point-blank range. Squeezes. The legs explode. Bones splinter and shatter. Three of the things fall. Chucky scrambles out and over them. They’re already beginning to rise again.

  You drop the cigarette and follow. Scamper through the hole on all fours, then push yourself up off the first zombie, stepping on its head as you run.

  The things turn and watch you go. Then they give chase.

  And then—

  BOOM!!!

  The truck goes up like the fucking Death Star. You’re lifted off your feet and tossed to the grass. The zombies aren’t so lucky. Forty of the flaming beasts fly through the air in every direction.

  “Whaddya know, it worked,” Chucky says, laying nearby.

  Up ahead, a horn honks. A military transport. A soldier shouts, “Need help, boys?”

  You scamper across the park to the transport. One beast stands in your way, blocking you. Arms out.

  The soldier leans out the window. Fires two shots and drops the thing. Phew.

  You leap into the back of the truck. Help Chucky up and in. Breathe. Relief floods you.

  And for some reason, you just start laughing. Chucky, too. Laughing until you’re howling. And together, in the back of the truck, you giggle your way out of the city.

  AN END

  ALONG FOR THE RIDE

  “Are you aiming for them?” you ask Chucky after he hits his fifth zombie in as many blocks.

  Chucky turns his head toward you and grins.

  You can’t look at these things anymore—can’t take it. Too emotionally exhausting. You lie down and hug the gun across your chest. Stare up at the sky. The sun is setting. You listen to the sounds of this new version of Manhattan. Sirens. Gunfire. Screams.

  You drift in and out of consciousness as Chucky drives through the city. Waking nightmares about beasts coming for you, grabbing you, pulling you under.

  The truck slows to a crawl. The gunfire gets louder.

  “Yo, heads up.”

  God. Back to your knees. You’re on Eightieth Street and Fifth Avenue. Central Park to your left, then farther up, the Metropolitan Museum, looming over you.

  Up ahead it’s a small war zone—the police battling the Army. Bullets pierce the side of an armored police vehicle resting in front of the museum. A SWAT team takes cover behind it. Fifty yards farther, on the other side of the street, the soldiers fire from behind parked cars.

  “Chucky, I think maybe we should get out of here.”

  The SWAT team returns fire. The sound is deafening. Grenades roll, and then a huge explosion as a taxi goes up in flames.

  A soldier sprints to the sidewalk, tosses something over the wall to the park, then scrambles over. A second later, he reappears behind the wall, large weapon on his shoulder.

  Oh. Shit.

  It rockets toward you.

  “RPG!”
<
br />   You leap from the truck just as the RPG hits—the explosion throws you through the air. Chucky makes it halfway out the door as the truck blows.

  You’re sprawled out on Fifth Avenue. Your ears are ringing. Warm blood bubbles up and out, rendering you nearly deaf.

  Chucky’s behind you, on his back.

  You hear the dampened sound of gunfire as the SWAT team moves up the street, firing as they run, taking cover behind cars.

  One member of the SWAT team remains—sitting against the truck, blood pumping steadily from his neck. A man lies dead in front of him, head blown open. You watch the SWAT member intently. His head nods, like he’s tired. Then he starts to shake. His legs kick. Then, in a second, he’s on his feet.

  Now among the undead, it sprints out from behind the truck and takes off down the street after its unit. It tackles the first SWAT member it comes across. Begins devouring him. And then it’s up again, taking down the next one.

  The soldiers continue to fire. Bullets rip through the thing. But it doesn’t stop. In a minute, the entire SWAT unit is undead. The soldiers continue blasting away.

  You turn to look back at Chucky. “Fuck, Chucky—we gotta move.”

  Chucky sits up, rubbing at his head. Blood pours from his nose. “Yeah, yeah—what else is new?”

  About half of the undead SWAT unit runs for the soldiers. The others turn, survey, and lock in on you.

  “Chucky! Now!”

  The soldier’s shots whiz past you. You get to your feet, pull Chucky up, and take shelter behind the SWAT truck.

  You and Chucky look around, desperate for a way out. You peek your head around the side. The zombie SWAT team is tearing up the street—they’re close—maybe fifty feet.

  “Museum?!” Chucky shouts.

  The shadow of the Metropolitan Museum looms over you. “Could get trapped in there,” you say.

  “Park?”

  No time to think. The creatures will be on you in seconds…

  If you want to run for the safety of the museum, click here.

  If you’d rather run into the park and try to lose them, click here.

  APACHE DAWN

  You throw yourself onto the passenger seat, staying low. Explosions all around. The car windows shatter, showering you with tiny pieces of safety glass.

  Screams. Horrific, frightened, excruciating screams. The tank shells and machine-gun fire take care of everyone, living and/or sorta-living. Thank God you decided to wait it out in a police cruiser.

  Finally, the barrage subsides.

  You raise your head.

  Everything burns. Thick smoke—can’t see a damn thing. Two people stumble past your window, shell-shocked. Even the live ones look like zombies.

  But you’re OK. You’re alive.

  Then… a different sound. You can’t quite place it at first. You sit up. A helicopter, rising up from below the bridge. The rotors clear the smoke and it ascends through the darkness and flames like some deadly machine exiting hell.

  It’s a version of the Apache. You had a toy when you were a kid—looked just like it. This one’s just more modern. Cannon underneath. Four massive rockets on each side, bookended by huge cannons that look like silver honeycomb. Four blades spin, kicking up dust and debris, along with the tail rotor.

  It moves backward, rising higher into the air. You stare—watching those giant guns and those oh-so-deadly rockets. The roar dulls as it flies to the very rear of the bridge.

  It hovers a hundred feet above the bridge.

  Then, like a shark through water, it cuts through the air, bringing all hell with it. Streams of missiles and machine-gun fire light up everything and everyone in sight. A chain reaction of cars and trucks blown to smithereens. People are torn apart. Zombies blown to bits.

  You reach for the car door. But it’s too late.

  You see it in slow motion. The pilot’s taut face. The blades spinning. The missile. It drops from the bottom of the chopper, hovers in the air for a second, and—

  Oh no.

  KA-BOOM!!!

  AN END

  ARMOR

  Glasses leads the way, with you, Chucky, and the rest of the group following. You walk the long halls, past million-dollar paintings and beautiful statues, then turn a corner.

  There it is—Arms and Armor. A huge, bright room with multicolored flags hanging from the ceiling. At the center, four model horses clad in armor, similarly protected medieval knights on top of them. Glass cases line the walls—an ode to all the effort mankind has put into destroying itself over the past two thousand years.

  “Whoa,” Chucky says. “I didn’t know museums had this kinda shit.”

  “Cool right?”

  You turn to the group. “Take what you need—we meet back in the hall in five minutes.”

  Everyone splits up. You walk the rooms, browsing the display cases. You wander past a collection of Revolutionary War swords and rifles, then Civil War uniforms—all the way up to World War II. Chucky’s fascinated by the medieval stuff. There’s a huge racket behind you as he knocks over one of the model horses while trying to pull the rider’s jousting lance loose. “My bad,” he says.

  You head into the next room and something strikes your fancy. Samurai armor. You look closer—the nameplate says ARMOR (GUSOKU), 17TH AND 19TH CENTURIES; EDO PERIOD; JAPANESE.

  Bingo—that’s the one for you. You step back and slam the butt of the assault rifle into the case. It cracks. Once more and it shatters. Gently, you remove the armor.

  You pull the yellow and blue robe over your head. You skip the baggy pants and sandals—your pants and Vans will do just fine. You tie the front thigh guard, sort of like a very thick skirt, around your waist. Then you lace up the greaves to protect your ankles. Next is the chest piece, not unlike a baseball catcher’s chest protector. Then you strap on the thick, layered shoulder armor, followed by the sleeve armor. Then the helmet and neck guard. Finally, a small side katana—no more than three feet long. You ignore the larger blade, too much to carry with the rifle.

  As you leave, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in one of the cases. You look patently absurd—yellow and blue Samurai gear, frayed work khakis sticking out the bottom, assault rifle in hand.

  Then you see Chucky and don’t feel so ridiculous—he’s donned head to toe in heavy medieval jousting armor. Heavy medieval jousting armor that is way too small for him. His gut sticks out the bottom. He has the shotgun slung over his back. In his hands a massive, ornate halberd, five feet long—at the top, a dazzling but deadly battle ax with sword blade at the peak.

  You laugh. “What the hell is all that shit?”

  “It was Henry the Second’s,” he says.

  “Who’s that?”

  “I dunno—some old dude from France. Badass though, huh?”

  “Little tight, no?”

  “Bro I’m six five—dudes were like three feet tall back then. This is the best I could do.”

  Behind Chucky, something catches your eye. A medieval morning star—a wooden club, about two feet long, with a length of chain at the end connecting to a spiked metal ball, slightly larger than a softball. You flash the samurai sword and break the case. You pull the morning star out and tuck the club into your waistband. The steel ball bounces gently against your thigh armor as you walk out into the hall.

  There are the rest of them.

  The mother, minutes ago refusing to leave, now holds an elaborate pirate sword. Beside her is her young son, with a matching dagger.

  A fat man with chain mail draped across his chest holds an old British hunting crossbow.

  Wesley has nothing in his hand but his BlackBerry. His wife, however, wields a long trident.

  The rest of them, similar items, old armor, clubs, anything that looks like it might be protective or good in a fight. Many of them carry round wooden shields.

  But strangest of all is Glasses. He has a small black satchel over his shoulder, nothing else. And he’s barefoot. You don’t ask.
/>
  “Looking good, guys,” you say. “Now let’s go check out that big dog.”

  You lead them to the Cerberus statue and order everyone to get behind it. They do—though Glasses looks quite conflicted.

  Then, on your order, everyone pushes.

  You dig your foot into the floor. Throw your shoulder into it, giving it everything you have. Beside you, the mother does the same. Chucky, a juggernaut, screams, and gives it a huge final push and the wheels begin to turn. You continue with it, guiding it across the museum lobby until it’s at the far left door, closest to the bus.

  The massive statue fills the entire door frame. You continue pushing—the middle hound’s snout now against the glass. Then it breaks through, shattering the glass completely. Undead hands reach through and the moans turn to howls. The twin doors finally crack and open. Then the statue slides out—the front two wheels tip over the top of the stairs.

  Like a bobsled team, everyone jumps on, one foot on the platform, one on the statue. You take the front left, Chucky at the front right.

  The Three Heads of Hades hangs on the ledge for a second, it tips, and then—

  Then goes.

  CRASH!!!

  The thing barrels down the stairs, crushing everything in its way. It’s like riding a runaway train—it bulldozes over the beasts, never slowing. The monsters are spun around, beaten, destroyed.

  The statue hits the streets with a tremendous bang. The wheels snap off and it skids across the street.

  Behind you, nearly fifty zombies lie on the stairs, not moving, brains mush—crushed under half a ton of Greek architecture.

  “Move!” you shout.

  At once, everyone leaps off, weapons up. They form together, and you all begin jogging. The bus sits a hundred feet down the avenue, so close but so far.

  You stay along the left side of the group, assault rifle up, morning star on your waist, samurai sword sheathed at your side. Chucky takes the right side, carrying the massive halberd with the shotgun slung over his back.

  Six of the monsters sprint down the sidewalk, then cut through two burning cars, straight for you. The mother steps forward, slashes out with the ornate pirate sword. Slices open the face of one. Her son rams the dagger up into the chin of the next.