Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (35 page)

It's perfect. By the time your foot heals, you'll be prepared. Prepared to do battle with the bloodthirsty army of the dead that awaits you…

MATT CHRISTOPHER PRESENTS:
THE DIRT BIKE KID

You speed through the side streets you know so well. You go for the supermarket first. That's where you see them. The beasts. The entire parking lot is full. And if they're there, that means they could be anywhere.

They hear the bike and begin chasing you. You're still riding the high from last night—you feel invincible, wind in your hair. You hit the throttle hard and lose them down a maze of side streets.

JK's Market. That's perfect. You know the neighborhood well, and it's way off Main Street.

Driving slowly, keeping the noise to a minimum, you make your way over. You park the bike and look around. Empty.

Slowly, gun in hand, you enter the store. Empty, too. Phew. It's been gone over pretty well, but there's still some good stuff to be found. You set the gun down on the counter and move through the store quickly, throwing everything you can in your backpack. Flashlight, drinks, soup.

You go to the last aisle—that's where they used to keep the Funyuns.

And there he is. JK himself. Fifteen years ago, you would have been happy to see him—that would have meant Marlboro Lights and copies of
Penthouse
(he charged you and your buddies double for everything, but man-oh-man was it worth it).

Not happy to see him now, though. His face is twisted and swollen. A chunk of the top of his head is missing.

You backpedal. “Hey—hey—don't—”

He charges. You turn and run. Goddamn it—why'd you have to leave the gun on the counter?

You run down the aisles, throwing anything you can find at him. Bags of potato chips. Copies of
Us weekly
. He's between you and the counter, blocking your way to the gun.

You grab hold of a display case. You can move it. An idea forms.

“C'mon!” you shout.

Here goes nothing.

He powers toward you.

Using everything you've got, you pull the case to the side. It crashes down, pinning him.

You grab the gun and you're out the door. You're so buzzed with adrenaline, you forget to grab any supplies.

You get on the bike and start it up. Shit. The commotion has brought them out of the woodwork. The parking lot and the street begin to fill. You twist the throttle and zoom out on the street. Zombies follow.

You check the side mirror. Hundreds. As scared as you are, you can't help but feel pretty cool as you handle the terrain like Steve McQueen in
The Great Escape
.

You head for the high school. You know it like the back of your hand, and you can lose them in the woods behind it.

You head up over the old hill. Had your first and only fight here, under the tree you just whipped past. Through a small wooded area, then down onto the high school track. You open it up, leaving them in the dust.

But the faster you go, the louder the bike roars. And that draws more and more of them. From houses and yards they come. They stumble out—spot you—and begin their twisted, disgusting sprint.

You cross the track and head up over the baseball diamond. Your house is just through the woods. You kick up more and more dust as you rip across the baseball diamond, around the field house, and onto the football field.

And there they are.

The entire varsity football team. Undead. Seventeen- and eighteen-year-old kids—peak physical specimens. Strong. Fast. Hungry.

You kick it into overdrive, right through them. They reach out. One almost takes you off the bike.

You shoot down the small creek that separates the high school field from the woods, kicking up mud. Then slowly, you take the bike through the woods.

The things are gaining. They move through the woods unimpeded. Crashing through branches. Powering over bushes and chunks of rock that the dirt bike can't handle—at least not with you behind the handles.

Finally, you come out the other side. You're directly across from your house—the things right behind you.

You'll be safe at the house, possibly. But you could lead them straight to Kim.

LOOK, MY BAD

“OK, look—I'm very, very sorry. I didn't mean to bring them here—I was just looking for someplace safe to stay.”

“Well this ain't it,” Al says. He pulls a knife from a drawer and cuts through the duct tape.

“Al, you're not doing this,” Sully says.

“Yes I am.”

“Al, listen to me!”

“Why?”

“'Cause I'm your goddamn union rep, that's why. You're a member of Local Two-fucking-Twelve, and you're damn proud of it—right?”

“Yeah—I am—proud enough to get this kid off my fucking work site.”

Al drags you, kicking and screaming, out the door and across the lot. The other two follow, arguing with Al, but they don't stop him.

“Fish—fire up the crane,” Al says.

“What?”

“Fish—the crane, now.”

Fish slinks over to the crane and climbs inside. He turns the keys and it roars to life. Thick, black smoke pours out the back. The thing's a monster.

“Wait, what are you going—”

Big Al hits you in the gut. Hard. It shuts you up and drops you to the ground. You gasp for air.

The crane swings over. At the end of the metal line is a huge wrecking ball—and just below that, a massive metal hook.
Fish works the gears while Al directs it over your way. You try to run, but you're too weak. You start crawling, through the dirt.

“Uh-uh,” Al mutters, grabbing you by your collar and yanking you to your feet. Then he takes the huge hook and puts it up through the back of your shirt. It's freezing cold against your skin.

You beg. “Please. Don't do this. Please, please. No. Don't. Just don't.”

“Sorry bud,” he says, then yells over to Fish, “raise 'er up!”

The hook jerks up. Your shirt gets tight around your throat. Hard to breathe. Tighter. Fuck—you're going to choke to death. You get your hand between your collar and your neck. Manage a little room. Just enough to pull in a small breath of air.

Your feet lift off the ground. You kick wildly at the air. You catch a glimpse of Fish, working the crane. “Don't do this,” you squeak out. “Please.”

Higher. You're even with the top of the fence. The crane swings, carrying you over it.

You can hear the moans of the zombies. You look down. Hands reaching up. So many undead faces. So many eager, hungry mouths.

Fear rips through your body. Panic like nothing you've ever known. You struggle. Anything you can do to get free.

The crane begins to lower. Your shirt, tight against your fingers. Tight against your throat. Try to breathe. Can't.

Please God, you think. Please get me out of here. Anything. Just make this stop. Anything.

The first hand at your foot. Pulls you down. Then another grabs you. The crane continues to lower. Then it stops, your feet just above the ground. Christ—they're just going to let you hang there, like a goddamn worm on a hook.

One of the beasts digs in, teeth in your shoulder. The pain is unbearable. Your screams are silenced as your throat is ripped
out. Another at your cheek. Hands tear at you. Teeth all over you—in your thigh, at your waist.

The hands pull harder. Your shirt rips and you fall to the ground. And then, mercifully, you go into shock just before they tear you to pieces.

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

No time to waste. Not worrying about the things at your back, you take the chainsaw from the floor, start it up, and bring it down, severing Kim's arm just below the elbow. She screams. So loud. Piercing. Blood everywhere. It's awful.

Then, from behind, through the door, one gets you. Digs its teeth into your bicep.

“Kim!” you shout.

She doesn't think. Doesn't hesitate. With her good arm, she pulls a knife from the wood block on the counter. Jams it into the beast's head.

You look at each other. Blood pours from her open arm and you've just been bitten. Death is upon you both.

“Kim, get the butcher knife, my arm—now.”

“I can't,” she says through tears.

“You have to!”

You put your bleeding arm down on the counter.

“Now!”

She grabs the steel knife. Looks you in the eye. You nod. She brings the butcher knife down. You scream.

It takes three whacks to separate your arm from your shoulder. Pain. Unbelievable pain. Takes everything you have not to collapse.

Then a hand on your shoulder. Another one of the fucking monsters. Through the swinging door. You grab the bloody butcher knife and spin, burying the knife in its eye. More come through.

Need to leave—now.