Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (26 page)

You scramble to your feet. You're drunk still, you realize. But the fear and adrenaline gives you a whole new buzz. You run for the office—your only hope. You turn the corner.

Pain shoots through your leg. One of the things, on the ground, its hands tearing at the flesh on your thigh. It's got you. It's teeth dig into your leg.

You scream. Howl. Collapse onto your back. The thing crawls up over you. You don't even attempt to fight it off. It's over. You know that.

You lie back and let it take you.

THE WAITING IS THE HARDEST PART

The claustrophobia is overwhelming, but you know your best chance of getting where you need to go is to wait for the next train, so you decide to stick it out. And you sure as shit don't feel too jealous watching everyone move from the crowded platform to the just-as-crowded train.

The train is ready to burst—you can almost see it swell. After about a dozen tries the doors shut and the train pulls out.

You take advantage of the momentary breathing room and snake your way to the side of the platform to lean against a graffiti-covered column.

People continue to pour down the stairs. You step forward, careful of the platform's edge, crane your neck, and peer down the dark tunnel. Dark as midnight. You hope to God the 2 or 3 train comes soon.

Suddenly a shriek reverberates through the station. Then another one—a man's heavy, choked cry. You look back. A fight at the top of the stairs. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with people? There's no more fucking room!

And then you see.

Two of them. On the stairs. Looking just like those things on the TV. Zombies.

Your stomach does a roller-coaster flip. Your heart punches at your rib cage—feels like it might break through. With every bone in your body you regret not fighting your way onto the train.

The two things lurch down the stairs. For the first time, you
get a good look at the undead monsters. In front are the remains of a hulking Hispanic teenager. One eyeball hangs from its socket, bouncing sickly against his cheek with every awkward step he takes down the stairs. Blood covers an oversized
Scarface
shirt.

Behind it is the second beast: the undead version of a middle-aged woman who is distinctly indistinct. Could be a secretary, librarian, teacher, anything. Only distinguishing feature is the huge, gaping gash in the side of its head and the chunks of flesh and broken skull that mat its short, curly brown hair.

People tumble down the stairs like dominos. Panic sets in all around. Earsplitting screams. You can't see much of anything—just the crowd rushing around you. But you hear. Frightened moans. A child sobbing. A man squealing in agony. Violent, pained howls.

You need a way out. Against the wall are three wooden benches. You make yourself small, low to the ground, and work your way over. Then, carefully, you climb up onto the closest bench. Another man follows your lead—but tumbles down into the crowd below. He sticks his hand up, asking to be pulled up, but you turn away and brace yourself against the wall. You have a full view of the horror now.

The two ghouls continue down the stairs, tearing people limb from limb. Blood splashes the wall. Bodies tumble over the side of the railing.

The horror at the rear of the station has pushed the waiting crowd over the turnstiles and out onto the platform. A young woman screams as the stampeding crowd forces her over the ledge and onto the tracks. A dozen more follow her, crashing onto the dark tracks as the rolling mass pushes forward. It's like a sick, horrific version of the arcade game where you try to push quarters off the ledge by sending more quarters down the chute.

A young boy in a Mets cap, about to be caught up in the rush and carried over the side, grabs on to your sweatshirt.
Frantic, he tugs. You fall off the bench and onto the tiled floor. Feet trample over you. You curl into a ball. A boot slams down onto your face. A loud crack reverberates through your skull and pain shoots through your jaw.

More feet—you're pushed forward across the ground like a mop. You lunge for the leg of the bench, but it's now out of your reach. A woman's high heel lands on your hand and you yank it back—it immediately begins throbbing. Someone kicks your gut. You get pushed back, farther along the floor. You kick your feet and feel nothing but air—horrified, you realize you're next to go over. A huge fat man falls to the floor and another man tumbles over him. You wrap your arms around the fat man's leg. You look up. He's hanging on to the woman behind him. She has her arms wrapped around the bench. You struggle to hang on as bodies continue to rain over you.

BLAM!

BLAM! BLAM!

The hard report of three gunshots echoes off the underground walls.

Normally you'd be scared shitless by the sound of gunshots, but right now you're relieved. Could,
should
, mean help. The crowd thins for a short moment as another row of people falls over you onto the tracks. You grab on to the man's belt and pull yourself up. Then you slip your fingers into his collar, pulling yourself farther. He chokes as you tug, but you don't care—you want away from that goddamn ledge. You continue forward, grabbing on to the woman's leg—then, with everything you have, you pull yourself up.

Slipping your fingers into the slats you manage to get yourself to your feet and then up again onto the bench. You press your back against the cool cement wall. Standing on your toes, you catch a glimpse of a police officer. He's standing in the center of the station, by the ticket booth, firing at the beasts.

Police! Thank God!

You need to lower your center of gravity so you don't get knocked off. You sit down on the far side of the bench, wrapping your legs around the base and holding the seat tightly with your hands. Others crowd in around you, holding on to your shoulders and arms. A woman grabs at your leg, trying to pull herself up. Instinctively, you kick—nailing her square in the face. Grimacing, she falls back to the ground and disappears, swept up in the current of bodies. “Oh, God, I'm so sorry!” you yell, but she's gone. You reach up to wipe your face. Blood pours from a gash over your eye. A huge lump on the back of your head. A sharp pain in your side—cracked rib, you guess.

Two more gunshots.

You pray the cop will handle the ghouls—you just have to worry about not being pulled off the bench and landing on those tracks. To your right, the mob pushes, the beasts behind them. The lone cop, back at the ticket booth, does what he can.

There are more of the monsters now. Five or six. They're multiplying. Looks like each person bit soon joins the ranks of the undead, just like in the movies.

In front of you, a few feet away, are the tracks. Fifty or so people there, scratching and crawling, trying to get back up onto the platform. More tumble on top of them, over them. You grip the bench harder and look away, trying to ignore their calls for help.

Then, over the screams, a sound. A piercing, screeching sound—heavy iron, metal on metal.

A train. God no.

Its headlights flood the awful scene with a bright white light, making the horror on the tracks all the more clear. People climbing over one another, pushing and fighting. Bodies cook on the third rail, kicking, convulsing. You can almost taste the sick smell of burnt hair and what you can only guess is frying skin.

And then you see the boy in the Mets cap. He's down on the
tracks, scrambling to get back up onto the platform. You glance to your left. The cop is overmatched. The ghouls are pressing forward, infecting more people. A dozen of the monsters now.

And down there, the boy—his eyes wide—staring at you.

Gripped by fear, your mind races.

TAXI?

You walk to the corner—the sounds of the pulsing city explode around you, loud enough to wake the dead. Car horns blare. A fire truck races by. People rush about. Word is spreading quickly.

You pace back and forth on the corner, arm in the air, checking both sides of the intersection. Traffic is at a standstill. You stare down the long avenue—every cab full. This is going to take forever.

Voices erupt behind you. A crowd has gathered at the corner bar, Finnerty's, an Irish pub you've walked past hundreds of times but never paid any attention to. It's packed to the gills. Outside, people hover at the windows, clamoring for a glimpse of the TV.

Hmm … maybe there's some amazing news on TV. Some great update—like maybe the whole thing was some sort of Orson Welles hoax dealie—and you can go home and, y'know, not worry about monsters taking over Manhattan.

FUN AT THE SUBWAY STATION

Traffic is horrific—it's rush hour times twenty. No way you'll get a cab. The subway, that has to be your best bet. So you kick your feet and begin running.

The streets are buzzing, alive with the spreading news of some bizarre, unknown threat. You were a teen then, still in the burbs—but you imagine this was what the city was like on 9/11. You're separated from the immediate threat by Central Park, but there's a feeling in the air that things might never be the same again.

You catch bits and pieces of conversations as you dart your way through the crowded sidewalk—hopping onto the street to avoid one throng of people, around a car, back onto the sidewalk. You hear the emotion in the people's voices—disbelief, fear, confusion, excitement:

“Burn victims, gotta be—”
“Gay kid at American Apparel said dead people were coming back to life…”
“Let's get back to Hoboken—”
“Girl said she saw Army trucks on the FDR—”