Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? Read Free

place have a generator or anything? Emergency power?”
    He looks at you like you just asked him the metric weight of Mars. “I just park the cars, man. I don’t know about a damn power grid or whatever.”
    Gunshots outside. Then an explosion. The sounds echo down the ramp and through the garage.
    You’re sure as hell glad you’re not out there—but how long will you be safe in here? You spend a moment sizing up yoursurroundings. Eye the entrance. “Can we lower that security gate?” you ask.
    â€œI was about to do that when that cop came barreling down here. Then you showed up.”
    â€œSo let’s do it now.”
    Chucky hops down off the SUV and you follow him to the office. It’s tiny and cluttered. There’s a desk, a computer, two chairs, papers everywhere. Chucky opens a metal box on the wall and pulls a switch. There’s a loud grinding noise. Through the window, you watch the metal gate slowly lower, shutting you off from the outside world.
    You walk to the gate and lean against it, tired. You replay the morning’s events. Started off pretty regular: woke up late, crowded subway ride, morning meeting—that’s when things went a little haywire. Zombies, crazy cab ride, dead cop, general chaos and horror—
    â€œSmoke?”
    You jump. Chucky’s standing beside you, holding out a cigarette.
    â€œShit. You scared me. Uh, yeah, sure.” You take one. You’re not much of a smoker, but if there was ever an occasion, this was it. You take the lighter. On the third try you get it. You wrap your fingers through the metal fence and rest against it, exhaustion tugging at your body.
    Together, you smoke in silence. He finishes his. Flicks it through the metal gate. Lights another. A moment later you finish yours. You don’t ask for a second, and he doesn’t offer.
    â€œShh, shh,” he says, hushing you, even though you weren’t making a damn sound anyway. “Look.”
    A zombie staggers down the ramp. It’s an old man in a short-sleeve button-down, splashed with blood. Wisps of white hair. Horn-rimmed glasses, one lens cracked. It trips over its feet, regains its balance, and continues to shuffle along. Its shoulderscrapes against the ramp wall as it stumbles forward. A streak of blood tags the wall.
    More follow behind it. A dozen, you guess. You watch, aware that you’re safe behind the gate, but still scared shitless. You want to run—retreat into the temporary safety of the garage. But you don’t. You watch. Just a short time ago they were regular people—now they’re actual living dead monsters. Their faces—almost familiar looking, despite the gashes and the gore. The same people you passed every day on the street, stood behind in line at the movies, worked with, drank with.
    â€œC’mon,” Chucky whispers, touching your shoulder.
    You snap out of it and step back.
    â€œStay in the dark,” he says. You nod and park yourself behind a large support beam. Chucky jogs over to the office. Through the window, you see him open a box on the wall full of keys. He flips through a few, turns around to look back at the garage, then flips through a few more. Finally, he takes a set of keys, shuts the box, and jogs back across the garage floor.
    You follow him to a black two-door Mercedes that sits directly opposite the gate, allowing you a clear view of the entire garage. He unlocks the doors and climbs into the driver’s seat. You hesitate a moment, then get in the passenger’s side.
    You watch the things gather at the gate. Some claw at it. Others pay it no attention and just sort of stumble about. After a while, it’s simply too much to look at—you can no longer process what you’re seeing. You recline the seat and before you know it, you’re asleep.
    You wake up confused—not sure how much time has passed. You smell something in the air—pot? No,