by Max Brallier
Chucky fires, blowing the other four back with one blast from the Remington.
Footsteps coming up behind you. You turn, too late. The beast plows into you, knocking you to the ground. It wrestles its way up on top of you.
You look up into its undead eyes.
Christ…
You recognize the thing. It’s your fucking asshole boss, Matt Trypuc. For a second, you’re too shocked, too confused to even move. You’ve wanted to kill your boss a million times—but you never thought he’d actually try to kill you.
Its head lowers, its mouth open.
Then a flash of black steel. Blood.
WTF…
Jutting out from your undead boss’s forehead is a ninja throwing star. Your boss-turned-beast rolls off you.
Glasses sticks his hand out and pulls you up. “Seven years in China, studying at the Shao-Lin temple,” he says.
Glasses is a fucking ninja?? This day just keeps getting weirder…
His hand flashes into his satchel and then out—three more throwing stars fly through the air, each one a direct hit to the face of a charging beast.
He moves forward, reaching for more.
No time to rest. Footsteps to your left. Two zombie soldiers and a regular-looking guy. You raise the rifle, aim, and squeeze. All three shots hit the first zombie soldier in the face. Takes it off its feet. You pump six shots into the second thing. Its chest blasts apart in a bloody mess, but it barely slows. You squeeze again—click—out of ammo. Fuck.
The two remaining monsters draw near. You look to your right. Chucky’s battling half a dozen of them. Glasses flicks another two throwing stars through the air. Wes’s wife has the trident buried in the chest of a wild-eyed woman who’s foaming at the mouth.
Everyone, locked in battle.
You, on your own for the moment.
You sling the assault rifle over your back and begin spinning the morning star above your head. You have no idea how to use this thing. What the hell were you thinking? Honestly, a morning star? Just ’cause it was cool-looking? You jackass.
Here goes nothing…
You extend your arm and lash the weapon out at the soldier. Direct hit. The spiked ball slams into the side of its face and the soldier’s head explodes like someone placed an M80 inside its skull. Its helmet flies through the air and it hits the ground. So does the morning star, as you lose your grip on it. It clatters away.
The other thing—a middle-aged guy, khakis and a denim shirt—is close behind.
You release the clip on the rifle, it hits the ground, and you pop in a new one. You aim for its head. Squeeze. You miss. It’s close now. You aim lower and blow the thing apart at the knees. It crumples—a second later, it’s crawling, growling, as it pulls itself forward. You put twenty bullets into the cement all around its head, a few finally making contact and leaving its skull leaking cerebral fluid.
Phew.
You spin, need to get a sense of the group. The fighting continues, but you’re moving—getting closer. About halfway to the bus.
One sprints full-out at Chucky, arms swinging around maniacally. Chucky throws his heavy, steel-laden shoulder into it, knocking it to the ground. Then decapitates the next with the halberd.
A man screams. You spin. Wesley. A zombie draped over him. He slaps at it, trying to fight it off. And then next to him. Another scream. Wesley’s wife.
Fuck. No time to save them both.
Women and children first, right?
But you need Wesley’s yacht to get to freedom.
Sorry, Lord.
You fire, blowing the beast off Wesley. Then pivot—but his wife is already dead. Her throat is torn out and she’s sinking to the ground. You kill the beast, then her. Wesley runs over, drops to his knees, sobbing.
You step over, grab his arm, and yank him to his feet. “No time. Mourn later.”
You keep jogging. Getting closer. One comes from around the side of the bus, wild hair flowing. The fat man with the crossbow fires. Nails it in the chest.
“The head!” you shout. “The head!”
He fires again—the bolt goes through the thing’s eye, blowing the back of its skull out.
You glance over to check on Chucky. He’s wielding the halberd like a maniac, decapitating beasts left and right.
Glasses jumps out in front of the group. Does some crazy, Street Fighter Guile–style backflip kick. He nails the zombie in front of him in the chin. Its jaw snaps shut. Blood sprays as it bites off its own tongue. The tongue hits the ground a second before the body.
Wave after wave of zombies come at Glasses. And this small man, the same man that scolded you for touching a piece of art just twenty minutes earlier, deals with them all. He never stops moving. One undead arm comes at him, he spins, using the beast’s momentum, and throws it to the ground. The kid jams the pirate dagger into its face.
Glasses is like some crazy, kung fu drum major, leading your caravan to safety. Everything that comes at him, he deals with it, and leaves it sprawled out on the ground behind him. Hundreds of monsters die at the hands of ancient swords and axes wielded by this ragtag group of civilians-cum-warriors.
You’re close to the bus. So close.
Fuck. A loud moan. Three charging at you, all side by side. A cabdriver, you can smell him from twenty feet away. A guy about your age in flip-flops and a button down, shaggy beard. And a soldier. Looks to be the last of the military men.
You aim at the cabbie and squeeze the trigger.
Click.
You squeeze again. Nothing. The trigger won’t even pull back.
Fuck! It’s jammed.
You look over at Chucky—he’s surrounded, doing his best to survive. One comes at him—he punches it in the face with his heavy metal gloves and it collapses. More appear. Fuck. He’s of no help.
The three things, moaning, growling, white bubbly spit all over their faces, close in. Their arms spring up, just steps away, ready to take you down.
Try to fix the jam? Click here.
Drop the rifle and go with the morning star? Click here.
THIS DJ, HE GETS DOWN
You let loose with a kick and nail the undead stripper in the chin. Her head whips back. It gives you a split second—you back up, rip the turntables loose, and bring them crashing down on her head.
It does little. She keeps coming. Over the wall. Hands on you.
You kick her again, in the crotch this time, pushing her back once more. Turntables again, across her face. This knocks her aside. You raise the tables high and bring them down as hard as you can. She drops to the floor.
You bring the tables down again. Again. Again. You feel her head break, her skull shatter. She grabs your pant leg, pulls tight.
One more heavy crash and the tables break full through the skull and crush her brain.
Phew…
You give her an angry kick in the gut and turn, looking for Yakuma.
Click here.
I’M ON A BOAT!
The driver does her job well—twenty minutes later, you come up on the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin. As expected, it’s a mess. Police walk the docks. Houseboat owners shout, demanding safe passage. Coast Guard boats are anchored two hundred yards out or so. No one coming or going.
Wesley leans over you and points at a beautiful white boat. In gold letters across the side are the words HER MAJESTY’S. “There she is,” he says.
The driver parks the bus on the lawn. You go out first—leaving the rifle inside. Police presence is heavy. You’ve made it this far—just have to get through.
You order everyone to stay on the bus, then you and Wesley walk to the yacht. A police officer stands in your way.
“Excuse us,” Wesley says.
“What?” the officer says.
“We’d like to get through, please.”
“You’re not going anywhere, pal.”
“The hell I’m not. This is my yacht.”
“No seafaring vehicles leave. I’m
not even allowed to let you board.”
“Not allowed to board? Are you mad? This is my yacht!”
“Hey, James Bond, I don’t give a damn. Now back off.”
“Wesley, calm down. Officer, this doesn’t have to go down like this.”
“What the fuck are you wearing?”
“Oh yeah.” You remove the helmet and shoulder armor.
“Sorry, weird day,” you say. “Look officer, there has to be something you can do to let us out of here. We’re not going to say anything. We won’t tell anyone. Just let my friends and I board, we’ll be out of your hair.”
“What friends?”
“On the bus back there.”
The cop leans, looks past you, and laughs. “Buddy, I told you—”
“Wesley, how much money do you have on you?”
The cop shakes his head. “If you’re attempting to offer me a bribe, I’ll lock you up right now.”
“What bribe? I’m just asking my friend how much money he has. Wesley, how much you got?”
“What, on me, I don’t know.”
“On the boat.”
“That’s none of your business.”
You turn and grab him by his upturned collar. “Goddamn it,” you whisper, furious. “Do you want us all to die here? How much fucking money do you have on the boat?”
“Um—I don’t know, fifty thousand American.”
“Boy,” you say, whistling. “Fifty thousand bucks? That’s a lot.”
The cop perks up, just slightly.
“You hear that, officer, he’s got fifty thousand bucks on that boat.”
The cop stares you down. One half of him is intrigued. The other half wants to knock your teeth out.
Finally, he caves. “Goddamn it, c’mon. Both of you.”
Wesley leads the way, up the plank and onto the yacht. It’s beautiful—massive, all brand-new, shiny wood, white leather everything.
The cop follows Wesley. You follow the cop. You go down a small set of stairs, through a beautiful living room area, and then into the captain’s cabin. Wesley grabs a painting and swings it open. Behind it, a safe. You and the cop stare, fascinated.
“Do you mind?” Wesley says.
The cop sighs and turns. You do the same. You roll your eyes, trying to be friendly. He’s not interested in being friends.
The dial spins and you hear the door creak open. Wesley sighs deeply, and you hear the door close.
You and the cop turn. Wesley stands, cash in hand.
“Fifty thousand American dollars,” he says.
The cop eyes him suspiciously, then takes the cash. He flips through it. Then he pulls his radio from his belt and walks to the corner of the room. He takes a seat on the massive king bed. Wesley frowns.
“Joe, go to eleven,” the cop says, then turns the dial, switching frequencies. “You there? Yeah, yeah—listen…”
The cop’s voice drops and he begins whispering. Finally, he switches frequencies back and stands up.
“OK,” he says.
“OK?”
“OK. You can go. All of you. You have five fucking minutes to board this thing and get the hell out of here, you understand?”
“You got it—five minutes—no prob.”
Wesley stays behind as you run out and grab Chucky, who is anxiously hanging on to the door frame of the bus, and tell him the good news. The two of you lead everyone onto the yacht. It’s about ten minutes before you get going—the cop gives you the extra five for free.
Everyone heads to the front of the boat. You hang back, staring at the city. You silently say good-bye—to your apartment, your job, your family, your friends, everything. Who knows when you’ll be back? Who knows where you’ll wind up?
The boat shudders and the engine starts. It pulls away.
You sigh deeply. What a day. What the fuck happened to the world?
You take a seat, put your feet up on the side of the boat, and watch the Manhattan skyline grow smaller. You pass the Coast Guard boats. Pass the houseboat owners desperate to leave. Goddamn, money can get you out of just about anything, you think.
A noise behind you. Still on edge, you turn, scared. It’s Chucky. He’s grinning, two glasses in hand and a bottle of good whiskey. He holds up a cigar.
“Cuban?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
AN END
A STROLL THROUGH CENTRAL PARK
The way your legs feel right now, the Met’s massive, iconic staircase looks like Mount Everest.
“Park,” you say, then take off running across the street. You hit the sidewalk and vault over the wall, landing on your back in the grass. Fortunately, the soldiers are occupied with the undead SWAT team and are no longer firing at you. You look around. Chucky’s gone. Not sure which way he went.
No time to find him. You take off through the trees. Stop for a second to catch your breath. Up a small rock cliff and down the other side.
That’s when you realize the park may have been the wrong choice.
They’re everywhere.
An hour ago, they were lying on blankets, playing Frisbee, picnicking on prepared foods from Dean & Deluca—now they’re shuffling around, hungering for human flesh.
A whistle pierces the air.
It’s Chucky. The cavalry. Riding a police horse.
Alright, you’ve seen enough old Westerns to know how this works. One swift move. Up and onto the back.
A beast lunges at him. Chucky swings the shotgun. Catches it in the head and sends it sprawling back. Another goes right for him. The horse gallops over it, crushing it.
“C’mon buddy!” he shouts.
He sticks out his arm and hangs to the side.
Galloping closer.
You can do this.
Closer…
You grab hold. And up. It’s not perfect, but you’re on the back of the thing. And you’re not dead.
Chucky rides through the things. Down a wooded path, through the hill. A bridge in the distance.
Chucky kicks the horse. It speeds up. Onto the small bridge. But there—right in the middle of the bridge—two of the beasts. The horse rears back.
Shit.
You’re tossed off the horse, then over the side of the bridge. You splash down in a small pond. Chucky lands on top of you, pushing you under.
You swim up. Catch your breath and look around.
The monsters stumble toward the lake. Gathering until they surround it completely. Then, from all sides, they pour in.
You tread water. Scared to death. No idea what to do.
“The fuck, they can go in the water?” Chucky says.
You’re too panicked to respond.
“Fuck this,” Chucky says, and starts swimming. Then a splash, a scream, and he goes under.
“Chucky!” you shout.
He bursts up through the water. Gasping for air. You make eye contact. See the fear in his eyes. Then he’s pulled back under.
Then you feel it around your leg. A hand, tight. Thick fingers. Strong. You kick.
Then you go under.
You open your eyes. Through the murky water, you see the outline of a man.
No, not one man. Dozens.
You gasp for air. Get nothing but water. It fills your lungs.
With any luck, you’ll drown before they have a chance to devour and turn you.
AN END
GO DOWN THERE
You book it down the motionless escalators, moving as fast as you can with the busted ankle.
The revolving doors are locked. You jump up, hit the lock. Then out onto the sidewalk. Out of habit, you look both ways before stepping into the street. The things are everywhere.
You limp across the street and up a small set of stairs and into the park. You duck down behind a tree, catch your breath, and watch. The zombies seem drawn by the sound of the gunfire and they’re all headed in that direction.
You make your way from tree to tree. Up over a fence. Bullets whip over your head.
You take cover behind a bench. The things are all around you. No safety anywhere. The gunfire lets up for a moment, just long enough for you to hear a low moan behind you. You turn just in time. A tall, lanky thing—head tilted to the side—lunges for you.
You leap onto the bench and over the fence. Hit the ground. Ankle throbbing. Sand in your mouth. You spit it out, look around. A dozen small dogs around you, yapping away. Goddamn it, the dog run.
You get to your feet. You can see the tanks through the trees. You’re halfway there, halfway to your goal. Halfway home.
CRACK!!!
The world shakes as a tank shell slams into a massive oak tree behind you. The entire tree explodes, raining down splinters of wood.
Eyes wide, you watch as a huge branch crashes down. You try to jump out of the way. Too late.
A blast of pain blows through your body. Your chest shatters. You’re pinned, a heavy hunk of branch lying on top of you. Sharp pains when you breathe. Ribs are shattered.
The little Manhattanite toy dogs yap away. One licks your face.
And then you feel something at your feet. Please be a dog. Please…
No. You hear the moan. You do your best not to move. Maybe if you just lie there, it will go away.
You feel something pressing against your pants. Then into your skin. Teeth. It’s slow, tentative—like the thing can’t tell if you’re living or dead and wants to know before it starts eating.
Once the teeth get into your flesh, though, that changes. You scream as it bites down.
Then it rips its teeth free from your leg.
Then, suddenly, it appears over the top of the branch. A teenager. Short, spiky hair.
It looks you in your eyes. Looking through you. You stare back, horrified.
Then its head bursts open and blood rains down upon you. The thing sways for a moment, then falls to the side.
Had that bullet come a moment earlier, you might not have zombie saliva pumping through your veins right now.
You’re stuck. You’re going to turn into of those things. And you can’t move. Can’t kill yourself. Can’t do anything to stop it. Just have to lie there and take it.