Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (40 page)

Finally, the barrage subsides.

You raise your head.

Everything burns. Thick smoke—can't see a damn thing. Two people stumble past your window, shell-shocked. Even the live ones look like zombies.

But you're OK. You're alive.

Then… a different sound. You can't quite place it at first. You sit up. A helicopter, rising up from below the bridge. The rotors clear the smoke and it ascends through the darkness and flames like some deadly machine exiting hell.

It's a version of the Apache. You had a toy when you were a kid—looked just like it. This one's just more modern. Cannon underneath. Four massive rockets on each side, bookended by huge cannons that look like silver honeycomb. Four blades spin, kicking up dust and debris, along with the tail rotor.

It moves backward, rising higher into the air. You stare—watching those giant guns and those oh-so-deadly rockets. The roar dulls as it flies to the very rear of the bridge.

It hovers a hundred feet above the bridge.

Then, like a shark through water, it cuts through the air,
bringing all hell with it. Streams of missiles and machine-gun fire light up everything and everyone in sight. A chain reaction of cars and trucks blown to smithereens. People are torn apart. Zombies blown to bits.

You reach for the car door. But it's too late.

You see it in slow motion. The pilot's taut face. The blades spinning. The missile. It drops from the bottom of the chopper, hovers in the air for a second, and—

Oh no.

K
A
-B
OOM
!!!

ARMOR

Glasses leads the way, with you, Chucky, and the rest of the group following. You walk the long halls, past million-dollar paintings and beautiful statues, then turn a corner.

There it is—Arms and Armor. A huge, bright room with multicolored flags hanging from the ceiling. At the center, four model horses clad in armor, similarly protected medieval knights on top of them. Glass cases line the walls—an ode to all the effort mankind has put into destroying itself over the past two thousand years.

“Whoa,” Chucky says. “I didn't know museums had this kinda shit.”

“Cool right?”

You turn to the group. “Take what you need—we meet back in the hall in five minutes.”

Everyone splits up. You walk the rooms, browsing the display cases. You wander past a collection of Revolutionary War swords and rifles, then Civil War uniforms—all the way up to World War II. Chucky's fascinated by the medieval stuff. There's a huge racket behind you as he knocks over one of the model horses while trying to pull the rider's jousting lance loose. “My bad,” he says.

You head into the next room and something strikes your fancy. Samurai armor. You look closer—the nameplate says
ARMOR (GUSOKU), 17TH AND 19TH CENTURIES; EDO PERIOD; JAPANESE
.

Bingo—that's the one for you. You step back and slam the butt of the assault rifle into the case. It cracks. Once more and it shatters. Gently, you remove the armor.

You pull the yellow and blue robe over your head. You skip the baggy pants and sandals—your pants and Vans will do just fine. You tie the front thigh guard, sort of like a very thick skirt, around your waist. Then you lace up the greaves to protect your ankles. Next is the chest piece, not unlike a baseball catcher's chest protector. Then you strap on the thick, layered shoulder armor, followed by the sleeve armor. Then the helmet and neck guard. Finally, a small side katana—no more than three feet long. You ignore the larger blade, too much to carry with the rifle.

As you leave, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in one of the cases. You look patently absurd—yellow and blue Samurai gear, frayed work khakis sticking out the bottom, assault rifle in hand.

Then you see Chucky and don't feel so ridiculous—he's donned head to toe in heavy medieval jousting armor. Heavy medieval jousting armor that is
way
too small for him. His gut sticks out the bottom. He has the shotgun slung over his back. In his hands a massive, ornate halberd, five feet long—at the top, a dazzling but deadly battle ax with sword blade at the peak.

You laugh. “What the hell is all that shit?”

“It was Henry the Second's,” he says.

“Who's that?”

“I dunno—some old dude from France. Badass though, huh?”

“Little tight, no?”

“Bro I'm six five—dudes were like three feet tall back then. This is the best I could do.”

Behind Chucky, something catches your eye. A medieval morning star—a wooden club, about two feet long, with a length of chain at the end connecting to a spiked metal ball, slightly larger than a softball. You flash the samurai sword and break the case. You pull the morning star out and tuck the club into your waistband. The steel ball bounces gently against your thigh armor as you walk out into the hall.

There are the rest of them.

The mother, minutes ago refusing to leave, now holds an elaborate pirate sword. Beside her is her young son, with a matching dagger.

A fat man with chain mail draped across his chest holds an old British hunting crossbow.

Wesley has nothing in his hand but his BlackBerry. His wife, however, wields a long trident.

The rest of them, similar items, old armor, clubs, anything that looks like it might be protective or good in a fight. Many of them carry round wooden shields.

But strangest of all is Glasses. He has a small black satchel over his shoulder, nothing else. And he's barefoot. You don't ask.

“Looking good, guys,” you say. “Now let's go check out that big dog.”

You lead them to the Cerberus statue and order everyone to get behind it. They do—though Glasses looks quite conflicted.

Then, on your order, everyone pushes.

You dig your foot into the floor. Throw your shoulder into it, giving it everything you have. Beside you, the mother does the same. Chucky, a juggernaut, screams, and gives it a huge final push and the wheels begin to turn. You continue with it, guiding it across the museum lobby until it's at the far left door, closest to the bus.

The massive statue fills the entire door frame. You continue pushing—the middle hound's snout now against the glass. Then it breaks through, shattering the glass completely. Undead hands reach through and the moans turn to howls. The twin doors finally crack and open. Then the statue slides out—the front two wheels tip over the top of the stairs.

Like a bobsled team, everyone jumps on, one foot on the platform, one on the statue. You take the front left, Chucky at the front right.

The Three Heads of Hades hangs on the ledge for a second, it tips, and then—

Then goes.

CRASH!!!

The thing barrels down the stairs, crushing everything in its way. It's like riding a runaway train—it bulldozes over the beasts, never slowing. The monsters are spun around, beaten, destroyed.

The statue hits the streets with a tremendous bang. The wheels snap off and it skids across the street.

Behind you, nearly fifty zombies lie on the stairs, not moving, brains mush—crushed under half a ton of Greek architecture.

“Move!” you shout.

At once, everyone leaps off, weapons up. They form together, and you all begin jogging. The bus sits a hundred feet down the avenue, so close but so far.

You stay along the left side of the group, assault rifle up, morning star on your waist, samurai sword sheathed at your side. Chucky takes the right side, carrying the massive halberd with the shotgun slung over his back.

Six of the monsters sprint down the sidewalk, then cut through two burning cars, straight for you. The mother steps forward, slashes out with the ornate pirate sword. Slices open the face of one. Her son rams the dagger up into the chin of the next.

Chucky fires, blowing the other four back with one blast from the Remington.

Footsteps coming up behind you. You turn, too late. The beast plows into you, knocking you to the ground. It wrestles its way up on top of you.

You look up into its undead eyes.

Christ…

You recognize the thing. It's your fucking asshole boss, Matt
Trypuc. For a second, you're too shocked, too confused to even move. You've wanted to kill your boss a million times—but you never thought he'd actually try to kill you.

Its head lowers, its mouth open.

Then a flash of black steel. Blood.

WTF…

Jutting out from your undead boss's forehead is a ninja throwing star. Your boss-turned-beast rolls off you.

Glasses sticks his hand out and pulls you up. “Seven years in China, studying at the Shao-Lin temple,” he says.

Glasses is a fucking ninja?? This day just keeps getting weirder…

His hand flashes into his satchel and then out—three more throwing stars fly through the air, each one a direct hit to the face of a charging beast.

He moves forward, reaching for more.

No time to rest. Footsteps to your left. Two zombie soldiers and a regular-looking guy. You raise the rifle, aim, and squeeze. All three shots hit the first zombie soldier in the face. Takes it off its feet. You pump six shots into the second thing. Its chest blasts apart in a bloody mess, but it barely slows. You squeeze again—
click—
out of ammo. Fuck.

The two remaining monsters draw near. You look to your right. Chucky's battling half a dozen of them. Glasses flicks another two throwing stars through the air. Wes's wife has the trident buried in the chest of a wild-eyed woman who's foaming at the mouth.

Everyone, locked in battle.

You, on your own for the moment.

You sling the assault rifle over your back and begin spinning the morning star above your head. You have no idea how to use this thing. What the hell were you thinking? Honestly, a morning star? Just 'cause it was cool-looking? You jackass.

Here goes nothing…

You extend your arm and lash the weapon out at the soldier.
Direct hit. The spiked ball slams into the side of its face and the soldier's head explodes like someone placed an M80 inside its skull. Its helmet flies through the air and it hits the ground. So does the morning star, as you lose your grip on it. It clatters away.

The other thing—a middle-aged guy, khakis and a denim shirt—is close behind.

You release the clip on the rifle, it hits the ground, and you pop in a new one. You aim for its head. Squeeze. You miss. It's close now. You aim lower and blow the thing apart at the knees. It crumples—a second later, it's crawling, growling, as it pulls itself forward. You put twenty bullets into the cement all around its head, a few finally making contact and leaving its skull leaking cerebral fluid.

Phew.

You spin, need to get a sense of the group. The fighting continues, but you're moving—getting closer. About halfway to the bus.

One sprints full-out at Chucky, arms swinging around maniacally. Chucky throws his heavy, steel-laden shoulder into it, knocking it to the ground. Then decapitates the next with the halberd.

A man screams. You spin. Wesley. A zombie draped over him. He slaps at it, trying to fight it off. And then next to him. Another scream. Wesley's wife.

Fuck. No time to save them both.

Women and children first, right?

But you need Wesley's yacht to get to freedom.

Sorry, Lord.

You fire, blowing the beast off Wesley. Then pivot—but his wife is already dead. Her throat is torn out and she's sinking to the ground. You kill the beast, then her. Wesley runs over, drops to his knees, sobbing.

You step over, grab his arm, and yank him to his feet. “No time. Mourn later.”

You keep jogging. Getting closer. One comes from around the side of the bus, wild hair flowing. The fat man with the crossbow fires. Nails it in the chest.

“The head!” you shout. “The head!”

He fires again—the bolt goes through the thing's eye, blowing the back of its skull out.