Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (41 page)

You glance over to check on Chucky. He's wielding the halberd like a maniac, decapitating beasts left and right.

Glasses jumps out in front of the group. Does some crazy, Street Fighter Guile–style backflip kick. He nails the zombie in front of him in the chin. Its jaw snaps shut. Blood sprays as it bites off its own tongue. The tongue hits the ground a second before the body.

Wave after wave of zombies come at Glasses. And this small man, the same man that scolded you for touching a piece of art just twenty minutes earlier, deals with them all. He never stops moving. One undead arm comes at him, he spins, using the beast's momentum, and throws it to the ground. The kid jams the pirate dagger into its face.

Glasses is like some crazy, kung fu drum major, leading your caravan to safety. Everything that comes at him, he deals with it, and leaves it sprawled out on the ground behind him. Hundreds of monsters die at the hands of ancient swords and axes wielded by this ragtag group of civilians-cum-warriors.

You're close to the bus. So close.

Fuck. A loud moan. Three charging at you, all side by side. A cabdriver, you can smell him from twenty feet away. A guy about your age in flip-flops and a button down, shaggy beard. And a soldier. Looks to be the last of the military men.

You aim at the cabbie and squeeze the trigger.

Click
.

You squeeze again. Nothing. The trigger won't even pull back.

Fuck! It's jammed.

You look over at Chucky—he's surrounded, doing his best to
survive. One comes at him—he punches it in the face with his heavy metal gloves and it collapses. More appear. Fuck. He's of no help.

The three things, moaning, growling, white bubbly spit all over their faces, close in. Their arms spring up, just steps away, ready to take you down.

THIS DJ, HE GETS DOWN

You let loose with a kick and nail the undead stripper in the chin. Her head whips back. It gives you a split second—you back up, rip the turntables loose, and bring them crashing down on her head.

It does little. She keeps coming. Over the wall. Hands on you.

You kick her again, in the crotch this time, pushing her back once more. Turntables again, across her face. This knocks her aside. You raise the tables high and bring them down as hard as you can. She drops to the floor.

You bring the tables down again. Again. Again. You feel her head break, her skull shatter. She grabs your pant leg, pulls tight.

One more heavy crash and the tables break full through the skull and crush her brain.

Phew…

You give her an angry kick in the gut and turn, looking for Yakuma.

I'M ON A BOAT!

The driver does her job well—twenty minutes later, you come up on the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin. As expected, it's a mess. Police walk the docks. Houseboat owners shout, demanding safe passage. Coast Guard boats are anchored two hundred yards out or so. No one coming or going.

Wesley leans over you and points at a beautiful white boat. In gold letters across the side are the words
HER MAJESTY'S
. “There she is,” he says.

The driver parks the bus on the lawn. You go out first—leaving the rifle inside. Police presence is heavy. You've made it this far—just have to get through.

You order everyone to stay on the bus, then you and Wesley walk to the yacht. A police officer stands in your way.

“Excuse us,” Wesley says.

“What?” the officer says.

“We'd like to get through, please.”

“You're not going anywhere, pal.”

“The hell I'm not. This is my yacht.”

“No seafaring vehicles leave. I'm not even allowed to let you board.”

“Not allowed to board? Are you mad? This is my yacht!”

“Hey, James Bond, I don't give a damn. Now back off.”

“Wesley, calm down. Officer, this doesn't have to go down like this.”

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

“Oh yeah.” You remove the helmet and shoulder armor.

“Sorry, weird day,” you say. “Look officer, there has to be
something you can do to let us out of here. We're not going to say anything. We won't tell anyone. Just let my friends and I board, we'll be out of your hair.”

“What friends?”

“On the bus back there.”

The cop leans, looks past you, and laughs. “Buddy, I told you—”

“Wesley, how much money do you have on you?”

The cop shakes his head. “If you're attempting to offer me a bribe, I'll lock you up right now.”

“What bribe? I'm just asking my friend how much money he has. Wesley, how much you got?”

“What, on me, I don't know.”

“On the boat.”

“That's none of your business.”

You turn and grab him by his upturned collar. “Goddamn it,” you whisper, furious. “Do you want us all to die here? How much fucking money do you have on the boat?”

“Um—I don't know, fifty thousand American.”

“Boy,” you say, whistling. “Fifty thousand bucks? That's a lot.”

The cop perks up, just slightly.

“You hear that, officer, he's got fifty thousand bucks on that boat.”

The cop stares you down. One half of him is intrigued. The other half wants to knock your teeth out.

Finally, he caves. “Goddamn it, c'mon. Both of you.”

Wesley leads the way, up the plank and onto the yacht. It's beautiful—massive, all brand-new, shiny wood, white leather everything.

The cop follows Wesley. You follow the cop. You go down a small set of stairs, through a beautiful living room area, and then into the captain's cabin. Wesley grabs a painting and swings it open. Behind it, a safe. You and the cop stare, fascinated.

“Do you mind?” Wesley says.

The cop sighs and turns. You do the same. You roll your eyes, trying to be friendly. He's not interested in being friends.

The dial spins and you hear the door creak open. Wesley sighs deeply, and you hear the door close.

You and the cop turn. Wesley stands, cash in hand.

“Fifty thousand American dollars,” he says.

The cop eyes him suspiciously, then takes the cash. He flips through it. Then he pulls his radio from his belt and walks to the corner of the room. He takes a seat on the massive king bed. Wesley frowns.

“Joe, go to eleven,” the cop says, then turns the dial, switching frequencies. “You there? Yeah, yeah—listen…”

The cop's voice drops and he begins whispering. Finally, he switches frequencies back and stands up.

“OK,” he says.

“OK?”

“OK. You can go. All of you. You have five fucking minutes to board this thing and get the hell out of here, you understand?”

“You got it—five minutes—no prob.”

Wesley stays behind as you run out and grab Chucky, who is anxiously hanging on to the door frame of the bus, and tell him the good news. The two of you lead everyone onto the yacht. It's about ten minutes before you get going—the cop gives you the extra five for free.

Everyone heads to the front of the boat. You hang back, staring at the city. You silently say good-bye—to your apartment, your job, your family, your friends, everything. Who knows when you'll be back? Who knows where you'll wind up?

The boat shudders and the engine starts. It pulls away.

You sigh deeply. What a day. What
the fuck
happened to the world?

You take a seat, put your feet up on the side of the boat, and watch the Manhattan skyline grow smaller. You pass the
Coast Guard boats. Pass the houseboat owners desperate to leave. Goddamn, money can get you out of just about anything, you think.

A noise behind you. Still on edge, you turn, scared. It's Chucky. He's grinning, two glasses in hand and a bottle of good whiskey. He holds up a cigar.

“Cuban?”

“Don't mind if I do.”

A STROLL THROUGH CENTRAL PARK

The way your legs feel right now, the Met's massive, iconic staircase looks like Mount Everest.

“Park,” you say, then take off running across the street. You hit the sidewalk and vault over the wall, landing on your back in the grass. Fortunately, the soldiers are occupied with the undead SWAT team and are no longer firing at you. You look around. Chucky's gone. Not sure which way he went.

No time to find him. You take off through the trees. Stop for a second to catch your breath. Up a small rock cliff and down the other side.

That's when you realize the park may have been the wrong choice.

They're everywhere.

An hour ago, they were lying on blankets, playing Frisbee, picnicking on prepared foods from Dean & Deluca—now they're shuffling around, hungering for human flesh.

A whistle pierces the air.

It's Chucky. The cavalry. Riding a police horse.

Alright, you've seen enough old Westerns to know how this works. One swift move. Up and onto the back.

A beast lunges at him. Chucky swings the shotgun. Catches it in the head and sends it sprawling back. Another goes right for him. The horse gallops over it, crushing it.

“C'mon buddy!” he shouts.

He sticks out his arm and hangs to the side.

Galloping closer.

You can do this.

Closer…

You grab hold. And up. It's not perfect, but you're on the back of the thing. And you're not dead.

Chucky rides through the things. Down a wooded path, through the hill. A bridge in the distance.

Chucky kicks the horse. It speeds up. Onto the small bridge. But there—right in the middle of the bridge—two of the beasts. The horse rears back.

Shit.

You're tossed off the horse, then over the side of the bridge. You splash down in a small pond. Chucky lands on top of you, pushing you under.