Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (2 page)

The TV picture returns. Shakily, the pretty blond reporter clutches the microphone, talking, but there's no sound.

There's action in the distance—something happening. All sorts of movement.

A mass of people begins to fill the screen behind her. What's happening? Rioting? Maybe. Thirty people. No, more. Fifty. Hospital workers, it looks like. And cops and firefighters. Running from something. No. Charging. And—Christ—what is wrong with these people? Their faces—albino white, twisted, possessed. Splashes of blood on all of them—some drenched. The reporter, oblivious to the chaos behind her, continues reporting. The cameraman sees what's coming. The screen flashes, and the camera falls to the ground, still broadcasting.

All you see now is feet—some shuffling, some running. Then suddenly a sickening close-up of the reporter's twisted face and neck as she hits the cement. Someone pounces on her. That pretty blond hair is torn from her scalp. Teeth dig in.

Behind her, the mob continues moving. A heavy work boot
tramples the reporter's face and you see her head partially implode.

More follow. Hundreds. Some stumble forward. Others run, awkward but quick.

Finally, the camera is kicked, spins wildly, and the broadcast cuts out.

Panic sets in all around you. Chairs hit the floor. A woman screams in pain as a man, quick to exit, spills his hot coffee on her lap. Crying. The conference room empties, your coworkers running for their phones and computers—desperate for news, desperate to get in touch with their loved ones.

You sit in your stupid uncomfortable chair, stunned, unable to move. Words dance around your brain along with images from comics and movies—and then finally you blurt out, to no one in particular,

“Zombies. Zombies…
ZOMBIES! THE LIVING FUCKING DEAD
!”

You can't believe it. You
don't
believe it. You goddamn
won't
believe it.

But you saw it. Right there on the TV.

Have to get up. Have to move.

You don't trust your legs to hold your body if you stand. For a long moment you just sit there, still. Sweat gathers on your brow. A drop crawls down your forehead and along your cheek. Finally, you force yourself to stand. You're relieved when you don't fall to the floor. You head for your cubicle.

You get to your computer and start typing. Hands are shaking. You're hitting all the wrong keys. You feel weak. Realize you're not breathing. You remind yourself,
breathe
. You sit down. Breathe in and out. Calm yourself. You bring up Drudge-Report.com. You see the red siren… never a good sign. Above, in giant letters, is the headline:

A number of smaller links sit below:

Walking dead…
Running dead?…
Avian bird flu in NYC? Developing…
911 reporting claims of the dead returning to life…
Huge horror hoax?
Manhattan under siege? Developing…

Jesus Christ. You have to get the hell out of Manhattan ASAP.

You jog to the elevators. The hallway is packed. After the fourth or fifth time the doors open to a full car, you say fuck it, you'll hoof it. You're on the fifteenth floor. The stairs aren't much better. Dozens of people, running down. Someone trips, catches himself, and smacks face-first into the wall. He's knocked out cold. You and the others step over him as you continue your descent. The fire alarm screams, impossibly loud, along with flashing white lights—someone opened the emergency doors.

You take the stairs two at a time, going over it all in your head, trying to figure out where to go when you hit the street. Million-dollar question.

You finally get to the ground floor. Coworkers flood past you out the revolving doors. Didn't know they could spin that fast. You nearly lose a hand, pull it back just in time. You and two other guys squeeze into one slot—you being the meat in that sandwich—and a split second later you're spit out on onto Eighty-fourth Street on the West Side. A street you've been on hundreds of times over the course of your short career. But this time, it's unrecognizable.

The streets are packed. Loud. Car horns blast. People yell—angry, violent screams.

And more, it's hot. Stinking hot and humid. Air so thick you could cut it with a knife. A New York City July. You think while you sweat…

ALL ABOARD

Fuck it. You're getting on that train. You push. In front of you, a man fights to get on—only to be shoved out by the mob on board.

You bend your knees and turn yourself sideways, making yourself as small as possible, and squeeze through the sweaty mass of bodies. Two women go at it, exchanging blows with their purses—it provides you with a glimmer of space and you slip onto the cattle car.

A dozen times the doors nearly shut, each time making it partway, then opening again.

The pleasant, oh-so-calm recorded voice comes over the speaker:
Stand clear of the closing doors, please
.

Two tall black teens scream at each other, headphones blaring.

Stand clear of the closing doors, please
.

A young doctor, still in scrubs, gets in the face of a Spanish woman for no reason, then shoves her in the chest. Someone sticks an arm in to break it up.

Stand clear of the closing doors, please
.

You step on a man's foot. Large guy, looks homeless, but wears a gold watch. He glares at you. Type of guy looking for a fight.

Stand clear of the closing doors, please
.

A large woman pushes past you. She grabs the thin man blocking the sensor, standing near the doors, and tosses him off.

Ding. The doors shut. Sarcastic cheers.

You breathe a long sigh of relief as the car pulls out of the station. The conductor says nothing about the happenings in the city. You blow by the next two stations. At each one a thick crowd—a hundred scared faces visible for one blurry moment as you whiz past.

On board, people wave their phones around, trying to get a signal. A pregnant woman cries in the corner. No one offers her a seat.

The conductor comes on and announces that, due to an accident at Houston Street, this train will make one final stop on its route and then continue running as a 7 train to Queens. You crane your neck to look at the map on the train wall. A train switching routes entirely like this—that seems unheard of. But at least Queens is far away from here, and you can get to Brooklyn from Queens, so you hang tight.

At the next stop, the train unloads and a fresh crowd eagerly takes their place. The train now continues on its new route.

You pull out your phone. Smile, for one short second, at your new background: Bruce Willis from
Die Hard
. Now there's a goddamn hero. He would have known what to do. You stick your phone up over your head like everyone else. No signal. Damn.

Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you notice for the first time the man in the seat below the map. He's at the end of the row, slouched against the metal handrail. His face is a pale, bluish white, drained of nearly all color. Blood is slowly seeping through a violent tear in the puffy New Jersey Devils jacket that covers his shivering body.

Oh shit. You can see the headline:
ZOMBIE MAN AWAKENS ON SUBWAY, KILLS DOZENS
.

His face is nearly see-through now. Veins visible through his translucent skin.

You look from side to side. No one else notices him.

Finally, his head flops back and rests against the Plexiglas windowpane. Eyes wide open. Doesn't look like he's breathing…

IT'S ELECTRIC, BOOGIE WOOGIE WOOGIE

Desperate, you tug at the power cord on the back of some big thing with red lights on it. With three strong jerks, it rips loose. Sparks fly.

The beast launches itself over the side of the booth and onto you. Mouth open wide, saliva dripping, it goes in for the kill.

You jam the cord into its mouth and the bitch shakes violently. Almost jerks loose of it. You push it farther down its throat. The bitch's eyes light up.

But still it keeps coming. Teeth inching closer. One last chance before you're dead. You rip the cord from its mouth and jam the sparking, spitting end into its eyeball. It sizzles. You push farther, deeper into the eye socket.

Then, a split second before its teeth have a chance to sink into you, the cord pushes through to the brain. The monster shakes harder. Faster. Head jerking back and forth. Vomits all over your chest—bile and chunks of red. Then, finally, it goes limp and collapses on you.

You lie there for a moment, happy to be alive. Then the smell hits you. Burnt eyeball. Charred brain. Vomit. It's not nice. You push the thing off you and stand.

BUCCOS

After a long moment, you manage to squeak out “Um, I'm a Pirates fan, actually.”

He laughs—then lowers the shotgun. “Pirates fan? Don't think I've ever met a Pirates fan.”

“Well, there aren't a whole lot of us.”

“As long as you ain't a Yankees fan, we're cool. Can't stand a Yankees fan.”

Jesus—are you really talking baseball while a dead cop lies at your feet? A dead, headless zombie cop, at that.

“All you parking garage guys carry shotguns?” you ask.

Chucky hops on the hood of the SUV and takes a seat. He lights a cigarette and lazily bounces his feet off the headlight. “Nope. It was up front of the cruiser. Grabbed it out the other side of the car soon as the cop fell out.”

You nod and look around. It's dark—he's got all the lights off, except for the one in the office, by the gate. The office light flickers, goes out for a second, then comes back. “Hey, there's a power line down outside,” you say. “Does this place have a generator or anything? Emergency power?”

He looks at you like you just asked him the metric weight of Mars. “I just park the cars, man. I don't know about a damn power grid or whatever.”

Gunshots outside. Then an explosion. The sounds echo down the ramp and through the garage.

You're sure as hell glad you're not out there—but how long will you be safe in here? You spend a moment sizing up your
surroundings. Eye the entrance. “Can we lower that security gate?” you ask.

“I was about to do that when that cop came barreling down here. Then you showed up.”

“So let's do it now.”

Chucky hops down off the SUV and you follow him to the office. It's tiny and cluttered. There's a desk, a computer, two chairs, papers everywhere. Chucky opens a metal box on the wall and pulls a switch. There's a loud grinding noise. Through the window, you watch the metal gate slowly lower, shutting you off from the outside world.