Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (25 page)

SORRY MOM, DRINKING

You let it go to voice mail, sit down, pop open a bottle of Coors, and turn on the TV. Your mind is entering full denial mode now to combat the stress of the past hour. You quickly flip channels—can't handle any more news. Thank God for DVR—man's great contribution to society in the twenty-first century. You put on some early-season
Simpsons
. Your pacifier. Relaxing. You drink more.

The phone rings two more times. You turn it off.

You go through the beers like they're water. Well, not quite like water—you never drank seven bottles of water in an hour. Empty bottles pile up beside you. You begin playing basketball with them, tossing the empties into the sink. Violently—just asking one to shatter. Finally, one does, splashing glass across the counter and onto the floor.

Sirens outside. Nonstop. Some right out front. Some pass in the distance. It's a nightmare. You keep drinking—drink enough, maybe you'll wake up from the nightmare.

The sun is setting, casting an eerie orange light through the window and into the apartment.

You're hammered now. But the gnawing feeling—the fear—won't leave. You need something else. Not beers. Something prescribable.

You go to the bedroom. Root through your ex-girlfriend's stuff. She moved out two months ago and hasn't come back to collect it. You find a fat plastic bag stuffed with her pills—various blue and white and pink pills to deal with anxiety and depression. You grab the bottle that reads
ALPRAZOLAM
on the
side. Unscrew the top. Dozens of little blue ones. Xanax. Bingo. Instant relaxation.

This is way out of character, you think to yourself, as you toss four into your mouth and raise the bottle of Coors. But, well, it seems like the world is falling apart—and as long as you've been alive, that's pretty out of character for the world. So, it—

BLAM!

You cough, spitting out the pills, and jump about a mile into the air. The bottle drops and the little blue guys scatter out across the wood floor. You mentally check your pants for shit. All clear.

Gunshot! That was a
FUCKING
gunshot! You try to wrap your head around that.

You tiptoe to the door. You press your head against it and listen. You can just barely make out a low moaning sound. You grab a hockey stick from your closet—an old, beat-up thing you found lying in the trash one day and figured shouldn't go to waste.

You squint out the peephole, which you realize you've never used before. Nothing there.

Stick in hand, you carefully open the creaky door and step out into the hall.

You see her immediately. A woman, lying in the corner by the stairs, on her side, face down. Blood on the wall behind her.

You recognize her. Old lady from down the hall. “That rent control bitch,” you used to call her. Third day you lived in the apartment you had some friends over, went pretty hard at it late into the night. Next morning That Rent Control Bitch was knocking on your door, saying something about she's been in this building forty years, never heard such a racket, so late—how could you be so rude, blah, blah, blah. You apologized, assured her it wouldn't happen again.

Old bag. Never wanted her to die, though.

She howls with pain. You step over and kneel down. “What happened?” you ask softly. Stupid question. You heard the shot.

“Who shot you?” you ask. OK, more helpful question, but sounds pretty messed up. No response. Her eyelids flicker. She's fading fast.

You notice the door to her apartment is slightly ajar. Fuck. You should run. You
would
run—downstairs, out to the street, screaming and yelling—but there's nothing out there for you. No help. You could run back to your apartment. But then who knows—you could be next, lying on your side, bleeding out.

Fuck it. Time to man up.

You tighten your hand around the stick and gently open the door to her apartment.

C
RACK
! C
RACK
!

A bullet punches the wall behind you. Another rips through the hockey stick, splintering the top.

You're staring at the shooter—a big dude, shirtless, tats all over. Neo-Nazi type. Pistol in his hand, smoking.

No time to think. You charge at him. He fires again and you feel the bullet buzz past your head. You swing the stick wildly and miss by a long shot. Your momentum carries you forward and you stumble.

He fires another shot. Misses. Something behind you breaks.

You swing again. Connect this time with his side. Fuck—dude's in shape. Barely moved him.

He cracks you on the top of the head with the butt of the gun and drops you to the ground. Any second you expect to be shot in the back, but nothing comes. Out of bullets? Heart pumping, scared to death, you grab him by the legs and pull him to the ground with you. You roll around for a moment. Hands search. Find his crotch. Squeeze with everything you've got. You feel a ball. Left nut. You squeeze harder. He shrieks. Lashes out—lands two punches to your skull. Hurts like hell. You don't punch back, you know it won't do anything. Instead
you roll away from him, grab the hockey stick, and scramble to your feet.

As he rises, you lunge forward with the stick. You're aiming for his chest—but you miss. Instead the splintered wood connects with his throat. He cries out—but his scream is cut short as you twist and push it through his flesh and into his larynx. There's a horrible cracking sound as the wood breaks his windpipe.

You let go of the stick. He falls to the floor, gurgling, blood squirting from his neck. You step back, panting like a dog, trying to catch your breath.

You just killed a man.

YOU
.

J
UST
.

K
ILLED A MAN
.

You're shaking. Weak in the stomach. Takes you a second to start thinking straight.

You go to the bedroom to make sure he was alone. He was. Then you walk back out into the hall. You check the woman's pulse—dead. You stand there, taking in the silence. Trying to wrap your head around everything.

You return to her apartment, doing your best not to look at the dead man on the ground. You search around a bit. Her kitchen is packed. Jesus—did this lady get groceries delivered by the ton or what? She's stocked. Not surprising, though—she was old as hell—couldn't do her own shopping. Probably had some delivery service set up, come once a month. Jackpot, you think. If this zombie thing plays out like the movies, you're going to need food. And there's enough stuff here to live for months, if you're careful.

But first you need to get rid of these bodies.

You stand over the old lady. Don't want to touch her. Like a dead animal in the road. You just want to keep walking.

But you can't. You close your eyes and grab the old lady by the ankles and drag her into her apartment and lock the door behind you.

You take a seat on the old lady's couch. It's covered in that weird heavy plastic, like the couch at your grandmother's place in the assisted living home. Lady has a decent new flat-screen TV and a DVD player that looks like it's never been touched. Two DVDs, still in the packaging, sit on top of the player.
The Sound of Music
and
The Best of victor Borge
.

You flip on the TV. Every station is zombies.

“Unconfirmed reports.”
“Only been two hours, but the mayor has already declared a state of emergency.”
“Details are sketchy at the moment…”
“Religious groups…”
“Scientists…”
“Scientologists…”
“Secure all residences with windows locked and secured…”

You turn the TV right back off.

You open the window and drag the lady over. For an old broad, she's damn heavy. You get her halfway out, then she gets stuck, folded in half, legs and arms sticking out the window straight at you. You step back and assess. You use a broom to poke at her chest, trying to push her through. You give her a good hard whack and hear her rib cage splinter. Shit, sorry lady. One more hard push and she falls through. You climb out onto the fire escape, hoist her up, and toss her over the side. She falls the six stories, then splat.

Nazi's next. You give him a kick in the side, just to let him know one last time that he's a son of a bitch and you don't appreciate him shooting at you. With great effort, you drag him out, get him through, and toss him over the side.

One last look at the bodies in the alley below, then back into the apartment. You lock the window and collapse on the couch. Jesus, and it's not even noon…

PUFF, PUFF, PASS

You rub at your eyes.

Sigh. What's to lose? You take the blunt and inhale deeply, then cough loud, long, and heavy. You may have just left half a lung on the dashboard. Chucky's laughing hysterically, waving a Gatorade bottle.

You try to regain your composure. No luck—more coughing. “Drink, drink,” you say, waving your hands at Chucky, feeling like you just crossed the Sahara.

“You want this?” he asks.

You nod, nearly choking. He hands you the Gatorade and you take a long swig—then you just about puke.

Chucky is cackling now. “Vodka, son. It's vodka! Vodka and red Gatorade.” Like it's the funniest thing anyone ever said.

There's a fire in your throat. The surprise two shots of vodka did kill the cough in your lungs—but now you want to vomit.

“More?” Chucky says, holding the bottle out.

You wave him off. Lean back. Catch your breath. Sit there for a few minutes, just breathing.

You can't deny it—the weed and liquor has you feeling a bit numb. Good. Less scared.

For the next hour you pass the bottle back and forth, taking long, end-of-the-world swigs. Chucky plays some mixtape—“the hottest shit in the streets right now,” he says—and you gently bob your head.

The high you're feeling has you talkative. You bitch about your ex-girlfriend. You bitch about work.

He complains about parking cars and living with his parents. You agree: in general, life pretty much blows.

You avoid the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room: the undead army at the gate. Finally, you ask him what the plan is.

“The plan? The plan is to drink.”

“The bottle's done.”

Chucky grins and gets out of the car, carrying the empty Gatorade bottle. You don't realize how drunk he is until you see him stagger across the lot. He watches the zombies for a few minutes; he's swaying back and forth. You can't help but think Chucky looks oddly similar to those things right now. Then he throws the bottle against the gate. The zombies perk up.

Chucky stumbles to the office, rummages around, then returns with another bottle—this one a full, unopened bottle of Belvedere vodka.

Fuck.

Chucky slides into the seat.

You drink more. Drink to the point where you forget about the zombies. Drink until you can't remember what happened thirty seconds ago.

Drink, drink, drink. Drink until you pass out.

You wake up to the sound of shotgun blasts. You're passed out on the floor of the garage. All the lights are off. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust—when they do, you wish they hadn't.

The gate is up. Chucky is backed into the front corner of the garage by the gate, fighting for his life. A horde of zombies surrounds him. He fires a shot—the spread sending three of them stumbling back. More step up to take their place. He struggles to load the gun. Shells fall to the ground. He gives up, swings the shotgun wildly. One of the beasts digs into his shoulder. He shrieks. Another goes for his arm. He collapses against the wall, still alive as they begin to feast.