Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (11 page)

You put the crosshairs right on its head. Squeeze. His head jerks to the side and his ball cap flies through the air.

Hauk dives inside the overturned Humvee. The beasts gather around it.

Goddamn it—c'mon—get outta there!

You continue firing, putting them down. But there're too many. No way he's going to get out of there. You scan. Look around them. A motorcycle. Harley, overturned.

You get the gas tank in your sights.

Squeeze.

A window in a building about twenty feet beyond the bike shatters.

You adjust your aim. Fire again. The bike explodes. The blast catches the beasts in the back, hurling them forward and to the ground.

Hauk peeks his head out from under the Humvee. Momentarily clear. He books it for the water, firing as he runs, killing two.

At the fence, one of the beasts stands in his way, its back to you. A big guy. Bald head. You see Hauk aim and squeeze, then see the horror on his face as he realizes he's empty.

You train the sights on the back of that big bald head.

Then you squeeze.

The head comes apart and the thing collapses in a heap.

Hauk runs past, then leaps over the fence and dives into the water. He swims a quick fifty yards, climbs back on the Hellfire, and guns it.

OK—made it this far.

You race back down. Panting, pain in your side, you exit the statue base. Hauk is motoring across the harbor, a stream of water kicking up behind him. He rides the Hellfire up onto the rocks, leaps off, and vaults over the fence.

“Where's Hammer?” he asks.

“Dead. He was bitten—attacked me, went over the side in the struggle.”

“What?”

“You heard me. That's what happened.”

Hauk doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, “Where?”

“I'll show you.”

You walk to the base of the statue. There's a bloody pool on the ground, no body.

“Fuck me, where'd he go? I killed him!”

Hauk glares at you. “Forget it,” he says finally.

“You get them on the radio?”

“I got some civilian—guy runs the helicopter tours off the West Side. He said he'd come when he could.”

“When he could? We don't have time.”

“Yeah—well, he didn't seem to care.”

Then you hear the splashing. You turn. Zombies are streaming out of the water from every direction. They struggle getting over the fence as intestines and flaps of skin become caught on the tines. They slip, their decomposing skin soaking wet. But they make it over—land on the grass—and get to their feet. Then they start running.

“Fuck—inside!” Hauk shouts as he takes off running. You follow him.

And there, just inside the entrance, is Hammer. Body mangled. Bones shattered. Blood everywhere. He moans. Limps toward you.

Hauk fires. Blows undead Hammer's brains out the back of undead Hammer's skull. You sprint past.

Christ, climbing the Statue of Liberty twice in an hour—not your lucky day. The monsters follow, racing up the steps behind you.

You climb higher. And the beasts keep coming. No way to
block the doors behind you. No way to keep them from chasing.

Finally, you reach the peak—the torch. Hauk looks over the side. “How do you like heights?” he says.

“I hate them.”

“Yeah, me too—that's why I joined the Marines, not the Air Force.”

The beasts flood the platform. You and Hauk quickly climb over the side, hanging on the edge of the torch, three hundred feet above the ground.

You take the lead, dropping onto Lady Liberty's arm, wrapping your body around it as you slide all the way down to her sleeve. You smash against it, nearly fall off the side.

Hauk comes next, barreling down the arm, right for you. You brace yourself—it's a tight spot—if he hits you hard, you'll both be over the side and dead. He slams into you, rolling to the side and almost over. You grab him, holding tight as he steadies himself.

The beasts try to follow, unsuccessfully. They tumble over the side, free-falling to the ground.

Together you sit on the rock-hard sleeve of the Statue of Liberty, wind howling, threatening to blow you off, and you wait. Wait for the helicopter that maybe, just might, be coming…

MINDING YOUR OWN DAMN BUSINESS

Walter pulls the trigger—the loud pop of the gun echoes through the door, the glass shatters, and a man screams. Then a woman's voice: “Fuck, babe! Son of a…”

A pause. Then,

KRAKA KRAKA KRAKA!!!

Bullets rip through the door and into the store. You jump to the side, hands over your head. Walter's not as lucky. He screams and rolls over in pain.

Outside, the man whimpers.

You look over at Walter. “Where are you hit?”

“My goddamn leg. I'm fine.”

But he's not. In an instant, blood begins to rush from the thigh wound.

More voices outside. Hushed whispers. The woman again. Then, louder, “Get back, get back, it's gonna go.”

You and Walter exchange quick “oh shit” glances. Then the entire door frame explodes, sending chunks of metal and wooden shrapnel into the store. A jagged splinter gets you in the gut.

A man and a woman enter. She's tall with a whole mess of bright red hair. The man is balding, in his early fifties you guess, with a hint of Spanish or Puerto Rican to him. He has his hand on his shoulder, blood pouring through his fingers.

“Watch the door,” the redhead tells the Puerto Rican. She reloads the big-ass pistol in her hand.

Alright, shit's about to escalate. You stand up, arms raised. “Hey, listen, this is a big misunderstanding.”

Redhead points the gun at you. “Misunderstanding? You just shot my husband.”

“Well actually
he
shot your husband,” you say, nodding toward Walter.

Walter shoots you a WTF look. “Sorry,” you mouth, and shrug. “You did.”

“Look,” the woman says. “We're here for supplies. We got kids at home. We're scared like everyone else. Let us take what we need, we won't kill you.”

“Who are you giving orders to?” Walter shouts, then rolls over, groaning and clutching his leg.

You're about to launch into a grand “why can't we all just get along” speech—but it's interrupted by the zombies coming through the now nonexistent door. A teen in a red CVS one-hour-photo shirt leads the pack.

Redhead shoots the undead teen in the face, sending it falling back into the others, stalling them for a second.

“Can we all stop arguing and shooting at one another for one fucking second here and worry about those things outside?” you say.

Silence.

“Good.” You grab a hatchet from the wall behind you and stand beside the door. It's the perfect choke point—they can only make it through two or three at a time. As they enter, you hack at their heads. Each one takes about two or three whacks to kill.

The redhead stands at the center aisle, steadily dropping the ones you miss.

You continue pounding away with the hatchet. Your arm grows tired. At least ten bodies lying on the floor, clogging up the doorway.

The Puerto Rican carries over a huge shelf and leans it against the door frame, completely shutting it off. Phew. You can breathe.

You turn your attention to Walter. He's bleeding heavily.
You grab a painting rag and try to make a tourniquet. It does little.

“I don't know what I'm doing; do either of you?” you ask.

“Hang on,” the redhead says. She's examining her husband's wound. Looks like the bullet just grazed him.

Then she gets down on the floor and rips open Walter's jeans near the wound. The blood pumps faster. Walter appears to be unconscious. “Give me your shirt,” she says.

You pull your button-down over your head, popping off the top button, and hand it to her.

Then, from around the side of the aisle, one of the beasts latches on to the redhead's legs.

She shrieks. The Puerto Rican falls back, not sure what to do. You look around for some sort of weapon.

It's a disgusting mess of a thing. Bullet wounds all over. Huge chunk of its face missing, thanks to your hatchet. But it's still going. Fucking thing—must not have been as dead as you thought.

BLAM!

Walter. Up on one elbow. Pistol smoking in his hand.

The thing collapses onto the redhead's leg. She kicks it off. “Th-thanks,” she stutters.

“Anytime,” Walter says, then passes back out.

You look up at the woman. “Maybe we should all go in the back and lock the door, huh?”

You and the Puerto Rican drag Walter into the back room and put him beside a lawn mower. You shut the heavy door and lock it, then the redhead gets to work finishing the tourniquet.

“OK, he should be alright,” she says.

“Good. Can we all be friends now?”

She looks at her husband. He shrugs. She nods. “Friends.”

A few hours later Walter comes to. He's dazed. Takes him a second to realize where he is. Then, throat dry, barely able to
talk, he calls you over. “Kid,” he says, sputtering out the words, “there—on the wall. Take the keys. The yellow Kawasaki has a full tank.”

You look up at the redhead. “You're not gonna shoot him when I leave, are you?”

She smiles. “No. No, I'm not going to shoot him.”

You pat Walter on the shoulder. “OK. You da man, Walter.”

You turn to leave. “Kid,” Walter says. “Take the gun.”

You smile and nod. Gun in hand, you open the door to the back and silently shut it behind you. The yellow Kawasaki bike glistens in the moonlight. It's a beauty. Four hundred and fifty cc's, brand-new.

Only thing—you've never driven a dirt bike before. You hop on. Insert the keys. It roars to life. Loud as hell. Christ, have to get out of here quick.

But the sound draws one. Approaching you is the biggest, fattest motherfucking undead beast you've ever seen.

Trying to kick-start the bike. “C'mon…”

Shit. No time.

You pull the revolver from your waist, extend your arm, aim, and squeeze. Amateur hour. Your arm flies up. Bullet goes God knows where. This isn't the movies, you remember, as much as it may feel like it.

The fattie quits with the shuffle and runs toward you. Its body shakes, flab quivering.

You step off the bike. Take a solid stance. Raise the gun. Aim down the barrel.

It's close. Almost upon you.

You squeeze.

BLAM!!!

You blow its brains out the back of its fat head. Its momentum carries it forward and it hits the ground face-first with an earthshaking thud.

“That's right, big boy.” You can't help but raise the gun and blow the smoke like Dirty Harry.

You hop back on the Kawasaki, stick the gun in your belt, and hit the road.

COPTER RIDE TO FREEDOM