Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (45 page)

After a minute or so, [
LEGAL EDIT
] glances at the dugout and his eyes go wide. You can only imagine what's going through his mind—“is that my stripper girlfriend, splattered with blood, holding two samurai swords, in the fucking dugout? ESPN is going to shit a brick.”

Without hesitation, Yakuma marches out onto the field.

Just beside the dugout stands a New York City cop. He glances over, does a double take. He shouts at her to freeze. She ignores it. He rips his Taser from his belt, trains it on Yakuma's back, takes two steps forward, and fires.

Two tiny, dartlike electrodes fly from the Taser and stick in Yakuma's neck, just above her tank top. She immediately shrieks, begins shaking violently, then hits the grass just short of the pitcher's mound. After a moment, she stops convulsing.

Shit. You tighten your fingers around the bat. OK, in for all or in for nothing, right? You sprint out onto the field and bury the bat into the back of the cop's legs. He crumples. The Taser falls to the grass. He scrambles for it, but not fast enough. You grab it and point it at him. Your heart is pounding—you can't believe you're doing this.

“Officer, look, I'm really, really sorry about this,” you say softly. “But you'll understand in a second.”

And that second is now. A maniacal scream. A flurry of movement in the stands. The chaos is under way.

In the seat behind first base, one of the things dines on some poor father. A gorgeous woman in the front row leaps
onto the field, blood pouring down her side. She takes a few shaky steps, then falls. Fans scramble over seats. Rush for exits. Complete madness—anything to get out of there. A man in a Gehrig jersey shoves a cotton candy vendor, sending him somersaulting down the stairs, backward, gravity pulling him at a deadly speed. Bodies tumble from the upper decks, crashing to the seats below, dead on impact. A frat-boy type, already turned, is knocked over the side and lands in the netting behind home plate. Confused, the fratboy zombie kicks, lashes out, only to get himself more entangled.

The whole time, the stadium stereo never stops—
dun dun da duh, duh dun da duh
.

[
LEGAL EDIT
] helps Yakuma to her feet and rips the Taser electrodes free. She glances over at you, sees the cop on the ground, and throws you a nod. She's not hurt—just pissed.

As the players take in the 360 degrees of madness that surrounds them, they slowly begin moving to the center of the field.

Bodies litter the stands. The lucky ones make it out. You can only imagine the horror in the halls, in the parking lot.

As the crowd thins, the sound of fear and panic is replaced with the hideous moans of the dead.

You, Yakuma, a handful of cops, and the entire roster of the Yankees and Red Sox are huddled together in the Yankee Stadium infield.

The monsters start coming over the walls. Slowly at first, a trickle. Then more. Crashing onto the field. Hitting the grass, then rising.

The players form a circle, bats up. You stay in the middle of the herd, like a weakling lamb. Just because you've already encountered these monsters doesn't mean you're not still shitting your pants.

All at once, the beasts charge—a huge mass of them,
coming in. Yakuma's already out there, slaying the things two and three at a time.

“Oh man, Selig's definitely fining me for this,” an outfielder says to you. Then he winks, runs forward, and buries his bat in the side of the undead fan leading the charge.

And with that, the battle is under way.

The umpire gets it first. Three fans on him, tearing at his flesh. His mask is ripped off and it spins across the ground. Teeth sink into his neck. He shakes. Begins to turn. Shit. You recognize him, even as his face goes white—Jim Joyce. A player swings his bat wildly, clearing out the undead fans. Then he raises the bat high, says, “This one's for Galarraga,” and caves in the zombie ump's head.

A tall, entitled-looking Yankees third baseman gets it in the leg from a young kid who happens to be wearing his jersey. He shrieks and pushes the brat away. Blood pours from his open wound.

He pulls his bat back and swings. The kid goes flying. Two more fans tackle the third baseman from behind. Teeth sink into his shoulder and neck.

A large, Dominican batter for the Red Sox runs over, does away with the two fans, and then kills the downed Yankee for good with a powerful whack. Then spits on him.

A tall, mustached, Italian-looking guy in a Joe DiMaggio jersey has his eyes on you. His lower lip has been torn open and hangs, sickeningly, against his chin. He starts in. His lip flops. You raise the bat. The power of the Babe flows through you. You point the bat directly at the man. Yep—you're calling your shot. Just like Ruth.

And then you swing.

CRACK!!!

You can almost hear Michael Kay's obnoxious home run call. “Seeee ya!”

The man's head rips to the side. His neck snaps. He falls, blood splashing the beautifully trimmed infield grass.

An older player, classy looking, grabs a bag of balls. He gets to work. Fastballs. Two-seamers. All strikes, right between the eyes. Two or three to the head, and it's a kill. The zombies drop.

The bodies pile up as the players give it everything they've got.

Yakuma and you-know-who are now standing back to back, holding their ground, she with her blades and him with his bat. The things surround them.

His bat splinters against a zombie skull. He takes another one from a Red Sox player at his feet. Must have been on deck, because there are metal batting doughnuts at the end of it. He wields it like the weapon it is.

One thing gets close. He swings, shattering its face. Two more. Same deal, one swing, takes them down.

He beats them into submission—Yakuma carves them up. Helluva couple.

Then a chopping roar from the sky.

A dust cloud kicks up around you. Debris and trash whips across the field. Five huge police choppers hover above the field. And in the passenger seat of one of them—is that? Christ, it is. Hank goddamn Steinbrenner—the old man's son—the new guy in charge.

Ladders drop from the copters. Sway over the field.

Steinbrenner yells into a megaphone. “New York Yankees, begin boarding! Long-term contracts first. Boston, you wait your turn, if there's room, you can board.”

[
LEGAL EDIT
] lets Yakuma go first. You follow, climbing the ladder, bat stuffed down your pant leg and in your sock. You're not losing that. When you get to the top, Stein-brenner gives you the stinkeye, but as he climbs aboard [
LEGAL EDIT
] says, “He's with me.” You feel incredibly cool.

You pull the bat free and you take a seat next to Yakuma, across from her man. The chopper fills up and takes off.

You look down at the Babe's bat, rested across your legs. Helluva thing. You pull your keys from your pocket, mark one last notch in the wood, and watch as Yankee Stadium shrinks to nothing beneath you.

DON'T STOP, DON'T LOOK BACK, JUST RUN
!

You dart through the crowd, across Chambers Street. Feet tiring, heart pumping. Then, out of nowhere

SLAM!!!

You roll up over the hood of the car. The car brakes and sends you flying. Everything goes black. Pain racks your entire body.

No dizzying, spinning view of the world as you fly through the air—just black. You don't feel yourself hit the ground. Don't hear the wet crack as your head splatters across the cement.

DOWN TO RIDE

“First of all, let me say how frankly fucking horrified I am by the things you guys have done. Jones, you killed a cop?”

“Prove it.”

Jesus. You knew these were bad guys—but not on this level. You're surprised, though—surprised at how much it doesn't bother you. The shit you've seen over the past few months—either you've gained some perspective or you've completely lost perspective, but either way…

“Well, if I killed a cop, I'd want that erased,” you say. “So yeah, I'd take them up on the offer.”

Jones looks around at the group. Some are pleased, some aren't. But like he said before—he has final say.

“OK,” Jones says, “we're in.”

The Colonel smiles. “Good. I'll have your first target in seventy-two hours.”

“Fine. Go with Doc to the garage,” Jones says, nodding to a round, Santa Claus–looking guy in the corner. “He'll get you a list of what we need.”

The next day the helicopter returns. You step outside, crack open a beer, and watch. The zombies are gathered at the fences. They moan, unhappy, hungry.

As you stand there next to Tommy, you decide to give his Kodiak another shot. You get the hang of it, not to the point of finding it less than miserable, but you're not puking. A pool of thick black spit gathers on the sidewalk below you, running into the cracks.

Three soldiers, working together, carry a large wooden crate out of the helicopter toward the club.