Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (34 page)

THE LONG HIGHWAY

It takes you twenty minutes before you find a sign for the highway. You ride up the entrance ramp.

The sight is unbelievable. Apocalypse. The real deal. Abandoned cars stretch down Interstate 95 as far as you can see.

You weave around the stalled cars and head for your folks' house in Wakefield, Massachusetts, about two hundred miles away. You work up speed, getting used to the feel of the bike.

It's been three days since the zombies arrived. You're unshaven. Starting to feel like Mad Max. Only need the dog.

You replay everything in your mind. The train station. That horrible ride. The crash. Watching that poor woman and her child die on the street. Walter. The trigger-happy couple. What a fucking nightmare.

About sixty miles in, the bike is low on gas. Need to fill up—last thing you want is to be stuck out here on foot.

Another ten minutes and you spot a Mobil station. You slow the bike down, keep your distance, and see what you can see. No walking dead. No walking living. Empty cars. All in all—deserted.

You keep the bike as slow and quiet as possible as you approach the station. Don't want to alert anyone to your presence.

Everything looks kosher. You pull in and get off the bike.

The Mobil station is one of those supermart things. Supposed to have everything. Could be a helluva lot of useful stuff in there. Could also be a hundred beasts in there, ready to eat
you for breakfast. Wait—check your watch. 12:13. Ready to eat you for
lunch
.

The sun is high in the sky and bright as all hell—you can't make out much through the windows of the store.

Could be food, water, maps, and dirty magazines in there—but there could also be instant death.

Ahh, what the hell. Slowly, you open the door.

It looks like a tornado came through. Damn near everything gone. Where are the Funyuns? You walk the aisles. A lone Bud Light sits in the back of the cooler. You're more of a Rolling Rock man, but this'll do. You crack it open. Yum.

The technically important stuff like flashlights, batteries, toilet paper—that's all gone. But there's still some good stuff to be found. Slim Jims. Hostess Cup Cakes. A Marilyn Monroe knockoff Zippo. An Elvis one, too. You take both. No Sour Patch Kids—but Sour Patch Watermelons. Not the same, but they'll do.

Some cash on the floor behind the counter. You take it—you know it has little to no value at this point, but it just feels wrong to leave two hundred dollars sitting there when it's free for the taking.

Then you notice the back room. Could be all sorts of goodies back there. Drinks, still cool. Food that actually has some substance to it.

You jiggle the handle. It's locked.

You walk to the end of the aisle and aim the gun at the door handle.

First shot misses badly. Second shot is a direct hit. You walk over. A big hole through the handle. Sonofabitch, it worked.

You open the door—then you immediately realize your mistake. Twenty of them. At least. Truckers. Stranded travelers. All dead. All moaning. Poor fucks must've locked themselves in there and then let somebody else in who'd been bitten but hadn't changed over yet. Then it was just a matter of time before they all got it.

You book it through the store and back outside. Fuck—not
going anywhere without gas. You grab the nozzle and swipe your debit card. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon.

This is what you get for living check to check. Always thought,
What's the worst that could happen?
Well—here's the answer. The worst that could happen is that you don't have enough money for the minimum purchase to buy gas at a Mobil station on an abandoned highway to use as a flamethrower to fight off the living dead.

Finally, it goes through.

You stick the nozzle in the tank and begin pumping.

The door flies open and the things rush out.

Now or never.

You rip the nozzle from the tank and begin spraying. Then, with your other hand, you spark the Marilyn Monroe lighter and toss it into the stream.

WOOOSH!!!

All twenty of them go up in flames. Yet they keep coming. A burning mass of the walking dead. You pour it on and finally, one by one, they begin to fall.

But they're not done. They writhe—not in pain: it's clear they feel no pain—but the burns have weakened them. Skin sticking to the ground. Fat melting into puddles. One takes a step—his foot looks like he stepped in gum, the way the melting skin stretches, some stuck to the pavement. The smell of burning skin and hair is overpowering.

They're not done. Everything you've seen so far says they'll be back up in seconds. Ignoring the wall of flames and the crackling, writhing bodies, you fill the tank—you have no choice.

You hop on the bike and gun it. Then, halfway down the on-ramp, you stop. The things struggle, reach for you. But they just burn. Smoke pours off their crisping bodies.

You stop and aim—then fire a single bullet into the closest gas pump. The whole thing goes up in a massive explosion. Michael Bay would be proud…

Then you hit the road. It's around dusk when you pull into Wakefield. You haven't been back in a year, at least. The setting sun gives the whole thing an eerie quality.

You pass your old high school. Past JK's Market—the little convenience store where you used to buy cigarettes at fourteen. The town is empty. No zombies, but you don't see any people, either. You wonder how far this mess has gone.

You pull into your driveway. Oh man—if your mom saw you riding a dirt bike with no helmet she'd have an aneurysm.

One car in the driveway. The SUV is gone.

Across the street is Kim Fine's house. High school crush—yours and everybody else's. Captain of the cheerleading team. Total knockout. You used to play together in elementary school—that all changed when you hit middle school and everyone realized how good-looking she was and how, y'know, average you were.

Can't help but wonder how she's doing. Last you heard she was still hanging around town, working for a flower distributor or something like that.

You get your key from under the fake rock key holder that sticks out like a sore thumb and walk inside.

“Mom? Dad?”

Nothing.

In the kitchen you find a note.

Went to your grandmother's in Ithaca. If you see this note, come. Hoping you're safe. Love, love, love, infinity—Mom

You drift off to sleep on the couch. A knock on the window wakes you. More than wakes you—scares the shit out of you. You fall off the couch.

It's Kim. Holy shit. You wipe the crust off the corners of your mouth and open the door. She looks amazing.

“Um. Hey Kim.”

She jumps in and throws her arms around you. “Oh my God I'm so happy to see you. So happy to see anyone!”

Mmm. You're warm all over. You haven't seen her in years. Can't believe she's in front of you right now. Can't believe she just hugged you.

“Where is everyone?”

“They left. News said those things were on their way here.”

“The whole town?”

“Pretty much.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“No way to get out of here. Don't know where my parents went. I have no car. It's just been me over there, for like, ever.”

STAY PUT

You limp to the escalator and ride it down. Explore carefully, slowly. The whole place is empty—everyone must have fled when this all started.

You head over to the opposite escalator and return to the top floor. Once there, you flip the switch so both are headed down. That should keep any of those things from coming up and catching you by surprise. You're proud of yourself for thinking of that.

Then you head for the good stuff—brownies, pastries, fancy coffee drinks. It's all Starbucks stuff—they have this banana chocolate chip cake thing that's good as all hell. You tear through the food, downing everything in sight, not even thinking about rationing food or what you might need to save for later. You've never been so hungry. Once you're stuffed, you're tired.

The sound of the battle outside is driving you nuts, so you retreat to the farthest corner of the store. Then you sleep.

It's dusk when you wake. You go to the window.

The zombies have won the battle. The tanks are still there, abandoned. The trees in the park burn. Storefronts caved in.

But the zombies are still standing. Even more now. Two or three thousand, just wandering around Union Square—waiting for their next meal.

Your stomach sinks. The fucking military, tanks, guns, and all—they were defeated?

God help us
.

But then you realize—Christ—it could have been you out there among the undead. Stumbling around, mindless.

It's the long haul, then, you think. You ride the escalators down to the bottom floor and start exploring. The Union Square Barnes & Noble has
everything
. First you grab a floor lamp, snap the head off, unscrew the base, and use the pole as a makeshift cane. That allows you to get around. Then you overturn tables and push them against the doors. Make sure the revolving door is locked.

In the back corner of the top floor, you set up your home base. Barnes & Noble, for some odd reason, sells yoga mats. You stack three of those and make a half-decent bed. You make a pillow out of masking tape and a shitload of paper towels from the bathroom.

You do your best to make it feel like home. You get a globe, put it next to your yoga mat bed. Candles. A clock. Picture frames with photos of beaches and happy couples.

On the third day, you decide to start reading. You've never been much of a reader—but being trapped in a Barnes & Noble, now would probably be a good time to start.

Wandering through the store, a display catches your eye—a table with a sign over it that says
UNDEAD SUMMER
.

Lo and behold, it's a zombie book promotion. A whole table of them laid out.

World War Z
, by Max Brooks

Patient Zero
, by Jonathan Maberry

Day by Day Armageddon
, by J. L. Bourne

Hater
, by David Moody

The New Dead
, by a whole bunch of authors

The walking Dead
, a set of beautiful-looking graphic novels

And then some that look particularly helpful:

The Zombie Survival guide
, by Max Brooks

Zombie Combat Manual
, by Roger Ma

You grab one of each and limp back to your corner. You read for days. Nonstop. When the power goes, you read by a small booklight that attaches to the spine. Soaking up all the information you can. Which weapons are best against the undead. How to defend a home (or bookstore).