Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?

by Max Brallier

  After a long while, the tanks rumble away. The zombies’ moans surround you from all sides.

  Soon you feel it taking you over. A living death, creeping through your body.

  The hunger. It tears through your body. And then everything goes dark…

  You don’t wake.

  Another you wakes.

  An undead you.

  An undead you that smells meat. Meat in the form of a small, yapping Yorkie with a small heart collar around its neck.

  You reach for it. Grab it by its neck. It yelps.

  You eat.

  AN END

  NO, DREAMGIRL, PLEASE LEAVE

  You jackass! What’s the matter with you!?

  Put the book down. No, no. Throw it out the window. Or burn it. You don’t deserve it.

  This was the hottest girl in high school! This was Melissa Lefevre in Angus. That whipped-cream chick in varsity Blues. What’s-her-name in Fast times at Ridgemont high.

  Just… just die, jackass.

  AN END

  STAY AND FIGHT

  You should try to run right past Anthony. Try to dodge him. Then out into the street. You figure that’s your best chance of survival.

  But then you picture Rachel. Breathtakingly beautiful bartender Rachel. If you leave, undead Anthony is going to shuffle into that bar and kill everyone, including her.

  She’s too pretty to die like that.

  Hammer in your left hand, drill in the right, you run at the two undead things and swing with both arms. The drill gets one through the temple. The hammer bounces the other one’s head off the wall.

  You pull the drill from the one and bury it into the other one’s face.

  You can hear Anthony behind you. You have to make it back into the bar.

  Then he hits you. You see stars and stumble forward. You spin around, through the doorway and into the bar. You get your footing and lunge forward to shut the door. But Anthony’s already through. It’s like he has no intention of devouring you until he’s finished murdering you.

  Johnny Cash on the jukebox. Don’t bring your guns to town. Christ, what you’d do for a pair of guns right now.

  Anthony swings his arm around and sends you flying. The drill and hammer slide across the floor.

  You hear Rachel scream. Hear the bar patrons scatter. But no one comes to help. It’s just you and him.

  He buries a punch in your chest, sending you flying back and sprawled out on the sawdust-covered floor. It’s like fighting the Incredible Hulk.

  He stands over you. He raises his massive fist and brings it crashing down toward your head. You roll. His fist crashes into the ground. You hear his hand shatter. But he doesn’t flinch. You’re back up, running for the game room, keeping him away from Rachel.

  Anthony charges after you like a goddamned juggernaut. You leap across the pool table, trying to put something between the two of you. You pick up a few pool balls. Whip them at him. They bounce off his face, do nothing. The eight ball hits the table and rolls into the corner pocket.

  Anthony launches himself across the table, shattering the lamp that hangs above it. You fall back—shove your legs up in the air. He lands, his chest falling on the soles of your Vans. Sharp pain runs up your legs as you keep him away in some bizarre, fucked-up game of airplane. You reach out, grab two pool balls. Your hands soar up and you slam the balls against his head. Twice more. Into his ears. Has to rattle his brain. Has to. Once more, hard as you can, and he rolls off you.

  Thank God. You scramble to your feet. Look around—desperate for anything.

  Darts. You rip three from the dartboard.

  Anthony’s up. Mad. Foaming at the mouth.

  You whip one. The dart spins through the air and sticks into his forehead.

  Anthony lowers his shoulder and sprints toward you.

  He hits you square in the chest. The wind rushes out of you.

  He’s about to leap forward—finish you.

  You’ve got one shot.

  Clutching one dart in each hand, you bring your firsts smashing down.

  And you connect.

  Bull’s-eye.

  One dart through each one of his wide, bloodshot eyes.

  He falls forward, on top of you. The darts stay embedded in his eyes even as your hands come loose, trying to break your fall.

  You hit the floor. The weight of his body damn near crushes you. His head comes down—the tails of the darts hit your chest, and they’re pushed through his eyes and into his brain. Thick blood leaks out of the sockets and pools on your chest.

  He twitches, kicks, then stops moving.

  “Hello?” you say. “Anyone want to get him off me?”

  You hear someone. Then the body moves slightly. It’s Rachel. She has her shoulder against Anthony, pushing with everything she’s got. Finally, he slides some, and you make your way out from under him.

  Rachel stares at Anthony. Her friend. Dead.

  In that split second, she looks at you differently. Something in her eyes. She needs you. He’s not around anymore.

  She.

  Needs.

  You.

  Feels damn good.

  “Are you alright?” you ask her.

  She smiles. “I am, actually. I probably shouldn’t be—but I am. I just can’t even process it all anymore. Whole thing has me feeling—I don’t know—hard to explain.”

  Then she gets up. Gives you a smile. A sort of—did you read that right?—naughty smile. “I have to pee,” she says.

  “Yeah—I need to clean all this shit off me,” you respond.

  “I’ll go first,” she says, and walks to the bathroom. Then stops and turns. “Hey, toss me your phone.”

  “No service.”

  “Just gimme it,” she says.

  “Alright,” you shrug, and throw it over. She catches it and steps inside the bathroom. A minute later, she comes back out.

  You go in. Run the water. Clean Anthony’s blood and gore off you.

  Reaching for a paper towel, you see your phone, sitting on the edge of the sink.

  You unlock it. It clicks.

  And there’s a picture of Rachel.

  With a big grin.

  Flipping you off.

  And no shirt on…

  AN END

  WASTING AWAY

  You shake your head. “No—no I can’t do that.”

  Limpy curses.

  “OK,” Jones says, “your life.”

  They climb on their bikes and roar away. You watch the blur of taillights as the Angels disappear into the night.

  You work your way through the quiet streets back to your apartment. Climb the fire escape. Through the window. You kick off your pants, nearly trip, and lie on the couch.

  Time passes. Months. You lose track. You talk to yourself. Scold yourself. Scream at yourself. You had an opportunity. It was a risk, sure. A gamble. But you didn’t even play—never gave yourself a chance to lose.

  And now you’re stuck here—alone—a coward.

  You close your eyes and sleep, thinking it’d be just fine if you never woke up.

  AN END

  SUPER SEXY SAMURAI-SWORD-SWINGING STRIPPER

  You scan the club. Yakuma is finishing up. All that’s left is the bouncer and the thing pinned to the wall.

  She sprints toward the bouncer, blade by her side, and flashes past. She turns around, blood dripping from the blade.

  The bouncer stands strong, arms out, frozen still.

  Then the upper half of its body slides off and falls to the floor with a wet thud. Its legs stay upright. Yakuma spins on her jellies, and plants the blade through the bouncer’s head and into the floor.

  Then its legs fall.

  God. Damn.

  Yakuma looks at you, up in the booth. “What, no sweaty singles for that?” she says, pulling the blade from the floor.

  “Um.”

  She walks to the wall and pulls the second blade from the zombie’s gut. It lunges for her. She swings and
leaves it minus one head.

  “C’mon tough guy, let’s split,” she says.

  You tiptoe through the disgusting mess of bodies.

  “Very masculine. You’ve got me hot right now.”

  “Shaddup…”

  You follow her to the front door. She opens, peers outside, and shuts it.

  “Nope.”

  “Shit,” you say, running your hands through your hair. “Now what?”

  “Champagne Room.”

  “Champagne Room?”

  “No sex. Follow me.”

  You follow her alright. You stare at her rear end, entranced. The sway of it. The way it moves from side to—

  Out of nowhere, you’re lying prone on the floor, head completely and totally inside some guy’s open torso. Instantly, you’re retching into the half-empty stomach cavity. Try to breathe. Blood in your mouth. Drowning in blood.

  Yakuma grabs you by your hair and pulls you up, your face covered in vomit and gore. You puke again on the headless body, gagging. Gasping for air. Blood covers your eyes. You use the back of your hand to wipe off your face, then realize you just covered yourself in even more gunk.

  You can’t see—too much blood in your eyes. “Help,” you squeak out.

  Something cold and wet splashes over your face. Tastes like—gin? You open your eyes, which are now burning. Yakuma’s holding an empty glass.

  “Better?” she says.

  “Yeah, thanks.” You lift up your shirt and use the bottom to wipe off your face. The smell is wretched. You have to steady yourself to keep from puking again.

  “Watch where you’re walking, OK, moneybags?” Yakuma says, heading up the stairs.

  “Yeah—I got distracted.”

  “It happens. You’ve got intestine on your head.”

  “Thanks.” You pull off a noodle-like section of the guy’s gut and fling it to the floor.

  At the top of the stairs is a heavy red velvet curtain. Yakuma walks through. You use it to wipe your hands and face, trying to get the rest of the gore off. You can already feel the blood beginning to harden.

  Through a second velvet curtain, and you’re in the Champagne Room. It’s dark, a tiny room with a few tables and couches running along the walls.

  “This is it?” you say. “This is the Champagne Room?”

  How disappointing…

  Beyond the Champagne Room, you enter a small hall that leads to the bathrooms. Ahead of you Yakuma opens the bathroom window and climbs out onto the fire escape. You stay right behind her. Undead moans float up from below—along with screams, honking horns, sirens, and the sharp bark of gunfire.

  Up on the roof, you get the sights to match the sounds. Buildings burn. People writhe on the streets. Monsters stumble around.

  You grimace. Christ—your skin is tight with a dead man’s drying blood. Claustrophobia choking you. You sit down. Spit in your hand. Wipe it over your face, desperate to get clean.

  Yakuma slips the two blades into her belt behind her back so they crisscross above her butt. She pulls her phone from her back pocket and casually walks along the roof ledge as she talks. She gets loud. Then laughs. Then hangs up, hops off the ledge, and walks over.

  “OK—I got a ride.”

  “What do you mean you got a ride?” you ask.

  “A ride, out of the city.”

  “Huh? How?”

  “Listen—I’m telling you, you can come if you want.”

  “Well yeah, duh, I’ll take the ride—but take a look out there,” you say, waving at the streets below. “It’s a complete shitstorm.”

  She puts her finger to her lips. “Shh.”

  “Look—you were impressive with the sword. It was amazing. Way hot. But did you see the TV? There’s absolutely no way we’re getting out of the city.”

  “We’re not. But [LEGAL EDIT] is.”

  “What? [LEGAL EDIT]? What does he have to do with this?”

  “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “[LEGAL EDIT] is your boyfriend?”

  “We’ll not really my boyfriend, but…”

  “You’re fucking [LEGAL EDIT]? [LEGAL EDIT] as in the starting shortstop for the New York Yankees?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “Nothing. I mean, yeah, sure why not. Hell, I’d probably fuck him, too. And I’m a guy. And I’m a guy who doesn’t even like the Yankees. But wait—how does you doing him get us out of the city?

  “His driver—I can use him whenever I want. Right now I’m using him to get us the hell outta here. His driver comes, gets us, takes us to Yankee Stadium, we leave with the team. Trust me—that team’s getting out of the city.”

  “There’s a game today?”

  “Yup, twelve-oh-five.”

  “Wait—how’d you even get cell service? My phone hasn’t worked in hours.”

  “Satellite phone.”

  “What?”

  “Gift. He’s [LEGAL] fucking [EDIT].”

  “So when’s this ride coming?”

  A car horn interrupts your thought. Three sharp beeps.

  “That’d be him,” she grins.

  You walk to the edge. A limo has come to a stop up on the curb. The undead creatures take notice and descend upon it. Rocking, shaking it. Clawing at the windows.

  The horn blasts twice more.

  “Shall we?”

  “Huh?”

  Yakuma leaps off the building. Her hair flows, wild, as she falls two stories onto the roof of the car. She lands perfectly, blades out, on one knee.

  She spins. Heads roll.

  Goddamn it. Heights. Even twenty feet has your stomach doing flips. Zombies on the ground doesn’t help any. But you throw your leg over the side and begin to work your way down the fire escape.

  You get down to the first level—no more climbing from here. Have to jump.

  “What should I do?!” you shout down.

  Yakuma’s a little too busy to talk. One of the monsters has climbed up onto the hood. A high school kid probably—tight jeans, tight T-shirt, trucker cap. Yakuma slides down the windshield and slams both swords through its head, lifts it up with a brutal Mortal Kombat move, and tosses it into a second one that was getting too close. One claws at the passenger-side door. Yakuma leaps off the hood, over the thing, and lands behind it. One sword flashes through the air and cuts clear through the thing’s head, exposing the wet, pink brain. It falls.

  Yakuma climbs into the passenger side.

  “Wait!” you shout. “Don’t leave without me!”

  The sunroof opens. You see Yakuma’s smiling face. “Jump!”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “You got two seconds.”

  Sonofabitch.

  You leap. Crash onto the roof, half your body inside through the sunroof, the other half out. Your wrist snaps against something hard. Intense pain. A feeling like fire rips through your thigh. You want to cry. No. Don’t cry. Not in front of the pretty stripper.

  Yakuma pulls you inside. You collapse onto the leather seats. Massage your wrist.

  “Hit it, Rick,” Yakuma says to the driver, and the car takes off.

  You introduce yourself to the driver, but he doesn’t seem too interested. Too busy driving like a madman.

  “Lady, you’re gonna get me in so much trouble,” he says as he swerves up onto the curb, smashes into something, and cuts back onto the street. Copies of The onion and the Village Voice splash over the window. Rick hits the wipers.

  “Rick, how long have I known you?”

  “I don’t know. While.”

  “Have I gotten you in trouble yet?”

  “No…”

  “So stop worrying.”

  He sighs deeply. “To the stadium?”

  “Yep. Stop for nothing.”

  Click here.

  HIGH-PRICED REAL ESTATE

  You look out at the abandoned city. “I’m gonna stay,” you say.

  “Huh?”

  “There was a law office a few floors down. Had power. Had
food. Like the military said, this is the last job—now they’re coming to take the city back. I never did shit like you guys—I have no record that needs to be wiped clean. I want my reward for all this work. Apartment in the Empire State Building? How can I resist? Hey—maybe I can claim squatters’ rights.”

  You stick out your hand.

  Jones looks you in the eyes. Then grips your hand. “Good luck, kid.”

  “You too. And try not to kill any more cops, huh?”

  Jones smiles, turns, and disappears out the door.

  Down there, nearly one hundred stories below you, they look like roaches boarding the bus. It pulls back out onto Fifth Avenue, taillights glowing in the pitch-black night. You can’t even hear the roar of the Harleys from this height.

  But you do hear the blast from the Abrams tank.

  The huge machine comes around the corner of Twenty-eight Street. The cannon fires and blows the bus apart. Soldiers running alongside it unload.

  The bullets tear through the Angels. Rip them off their bikes.

  Jones is lifted off his bike, hangs in the air for a second, then crashes to the ground, not moving. The soldiers walk through the street, executing any men that are still breathing.

  You should have seen it coming. No way they’d let them get away with it.

  When we do right, nobody remembers. when we do wrong, nobody forgets.

  The tank reverses and disappears down the alleyway. The soldiers follow.

  You choke back a tear as you lean against the fence and stare at the smoldering remains of the Angels. And you wait—wait for the city that never sleeps to rebuild itself.

  AN END

  OUT!

  You hop out. Another car in front of you explodes in a colossal ball of fire. The heat is extraordinary. Eyebrows—gone.

  You turn to run but slam right into one of the things. A girl. College aged. Pretty.

  It throws itself into you, sending you both flying back. Your back hits the bridge wall. The beast whips its head forward, its teeth aiming for your neck. You counter with a head butt, meeting it in the middle.

  It pushes harder against you. Your upper half is hanging over the bridge. You feel nothing but air behind you. Its teeth are at your shirt. Through it. You’re pushing back as hard as you can, hands on its shoulders, desperately trying to get it away. But it’s got you.