Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (37 page)

You turn up the speed, fly down the end of the cul-de-sac, and spin around.

You kick off your left shoe and take off your sock. You spin open the cap to the gas tank and shove your sock inside.

Pull out Elvis this time. Spark it. You get the sock going. In a few seconds, it's burning well.

The football team is coming at you fast. You floor it, headed straight for them. The flame nips at your leg—stronger now. The pain is nearly unbearable. Your leg is burning, you're sure, but you don't look down.

You close in on the beasts.

Fifty feet.

Heart pounding.

Forty feet.

Undead coming right for you.

Thirty feet.

You cut the bike to the side and it goes out from underneath you. You hit the ground hard, road rash all down your already burning leg. You stop rolling and look up just as the bike slides into the approaching horde.

C'mon.

They rush over the bike. Past it.

C'mon!

Straight for you.

KA-BOOM!!!!

The whole zombie football squad goes up in flames. Those closest to the blast fly through the air, head over tail. You've taken out about half of them.

And the rest are blocking your way back to the house.

You scramble to your feet. Intense pain with every step, your leg white hot and the skin shredded. You sprint for your neighbor's house. Mrs. Cibelli. Nice woman. Babysat her kids a few times.

You pound the door. It's locked.

You look away for a second—see the monsters closing in. Then you hear the sound of the door opening—thank God!

B
LAM
!!!

You're knocked off your feet.

Motherfucker—Mrs. Cibelli just shot you.

She rushes out. “Oh God, oh God. It's you! I'm sorry! I thought you were one of those things!”

You lie on the grass, spitting up blood.

Their dog Champ comes over. Last time you saw that dog you were a kid. How'd he get so big?

This is what's going through your head as you lie on Mrs. Cibelli's front lawn, bleeding out, a pack of hungry zombies at your back.

GOING BACK TO SCHOOL

You head for the closest building, Joshua Eaton Elementary School. Kids and teachers are pouring outside, eager to see what all the commotion is. You hear a siren in the distance, getting louder.

“Back inside!” you shout, waving your hands. “Get back inside! Zombies, the living dead… monsters!”

All at once the kids scream, “Zombies… awesome!”

“No, not awesome. Bad. Bad fucking news.”

“He said ‘fucking.'”

You take a group of kids in your arms and sweep them along. The teacher, a grumpy-looking lady in her sixties, rushes over to you.

“Get your hands off those children immediately!”

“Lady, take these kids and get them back inside. You too. C'mon, let's go—all of us.”

She starts to scold you again—but then for the first time truly takes in the destruction of the train. Her eyes go wide. Looks like she's struggling to breathe. And then she wanders toward the train.

One of the kids, a little boy in a LeBron James jersey, follows her. You run and grab him.

“Hey—kid, stay here.” You nudge him toward the others. “C'mon. Stay there.”

You glance back at the teacher. “What's her name?”

All at once. “Mrs. Hennnnnderson.”

“Mrs. Henderson! Get back here, what's the matter with you?”

But she just keeps walking toward the train. The zombies are distracted by the glut of fresh meat they're currently feasting on, and she passes them easily.

You glance down the street. The zombies have made it up the hill. One, down on his knees, feeds on the heavyset cop. Another slaps at the window of the van. Jesus—they'll be coming your way any moment.

“Mrs. Henderson. Come back here!” She is only a couple of feet from the train now.

You watch in horror as two white hands come out of the top of the overturned subway car and an old man zombie climbs out. It balances awkwardly on the edge for a second, then reaches for Mrs. Henderson. It falls violently to the ground, landing face-first. You can hear its cheekbone shatter.

“Whoa!” one of the kids says.

The old man thing rolls over. More bone-cracking noises. It rises. Its left shoulder hangs far lower then its right—dislocated—and its left leg drags behind as it stumbles along.

Mrs. Henderson stands still, in apparent shock.

“Lady, get back here—now!”

She snaps out of it. Turns to run. But it's too late. The old man thing, bum leg and all, sprints after her and drapes itself on top of her. Together they crash to the street. They roll on the ground for a moment before it pins her. Then it dives in. Straight for the jugular.

The kids go fucking nuts. Screams, tears, the whole nine.

The old man thing raises its head, strings of Mrs. Henderson's neck flesh in its teeth. It stares at you and the kids.

“Kids—inside—now.”

It takes another chunk out of Mrs. Henderson and works its way to its feet. Behind it, more of the beasts exit the overturned train's busted windows and climb through the open doors, each falling flat on its face and getting up a second later.

They're drawn by the screaming kids. They stumble forward for a second, seem to lock on to the sound, and then run.

“Inside, go, move, move!”

You usher the kids inside and slam the doors shut behind you. The beasts collide with the double doors and bounce off.

“Someone—grab me a bike lock.”

“Bike lock?”

“Yeah, don't you ride fucking bikes anymore?”

“We have Rollerblades in our shoes.”

“Jesus Christ. A chain lock, any kind of lock!”

A kid runs off to his locker and appears a second later, lock in hand. You wrap the chain through the emergency door bars and lock it. If the things figure out how to pull open a door, they'll still only be able to get it to move an inch or two.

You turn and stare down the long elementary school corridor. It's empty.

“Where is everyone?”

A little know-it-all girl—smarter than you, probably—chirps up. “Principal Valiant called an emergency fire drill.”

“Fire drill. Where's the exit?”

“By the playground.”

“Alright. Who here's big, strong, and tough?”

Five boys and a girl step forward. “Are you kids brave? I need really super, super brave little kids for this.”

They nod their little heads.

“OK, good. Go in groups of two and lock every outside door to the school, OK? Then go back to your classroom.”

The kids run off. The others point you in the direction of the playground, then you order them back to their classroom, too.

“Lock it and stay inside, got it? When your friends come back, let them in, but nobody else, OK?”

From the gym you have a good view of the schoolyard. You see about 150 kids, separated into six lines, each with an adult at the front.

It's what you feared. A big, fenced-in area, set against the side of the building. One big open gate at the side. A death trap—the perfect killing ground.

You can hear their moans. They'll be here soon.

You open the window and yell—but it's too late. The things are already rushing in through the gate. Panic and confusion set in. And the dead begin to multiply.

At the far end of the playground is a trailer—one of those temporary classrooms a school uses when it's overcrowded or under construction. You did third grade in one.

The lucky ones make it inside. A few teachers. Forty, fifty kids.

In just minutes, the dead have multiplied by ten. The schoolyard is filled with murderous, monstrous undead children.

They're quick. They dart around, hunting down any kids that are still among the living and taking them down. They get their teachers, too—the payback the little bastards have been waiting for.

Once they've finished, they turn to the trailer. Surround it. Tear at it.

Poor people are not going to last long in there.

LONG WALK

As you all gather behind him, Khaki pulls the metal chain, hand over hand, and slowly the aluminum warehouse door opens.

Alright, here goes.

Being the only one not wearing absurdly detailed makeup, you stay in the middle of the group.

You put your arms out and put on your best “I'm a zombie” face. You let one lip hang. Head back. Eyes half open. Your “I'm a zombie” face is a whole lot like your “I'm Sylvester Stallone” face.

Slowly, everyone makes their way out of the warehouse. You shuffle across the parking lot, then out into the street. You move as slowly as you can—fighting every instinct to run.

The real zombies stumble around you. Get closer. Sniff you out, examine you.

A few join in your group. One sidles up next to you.

It's a lawyer type, late fifties. Sharp suit. His button-down has been torn open and there are long claw marks across his chest. His face is greenish. His hair is spotty and it's been ripped from his scalp in places. A huge, open wound stretches from his ear to his Adam's apple.

You avoid eye contact. Their eyes are dead—almost hollow. If they spot the life in yours, you're done for.

He continues to walk beside you. Sweat pours off your scalp, and it's not from the July heat.

You want to run. With everything in your body, you just want to take off.

The lawyer bumps into you, trips you up. You stumble. You try to regain your footing without looking overly alive. No luck. You hit the ground hard, sprawled out. The walkers around you try not to react. You lie there. Do you get up? How do zombies stand up? You've never seen one get up. Should you just lie there?

No. That's useless. Then you'll never get out of here. Slowly, moving as awkwardly as possibly, you get to your feet.

The businessman is right in front of you, staring at you. Two more stand in your way. Their moans grow louder.

Oh God…

A VISIT TO THE MET