Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? Read Free Page A

couldn’t be. Wait—yep. Next to you, Chucky is puffing on a blunt.
    â€œWakey-wakey,” he says, grinning and waving it in your face. “You want?”
    Uh-uh. You were part of the DARE generation. You know the dope on dope. Click here .
    What the hell, this day can’t get any weirder, right? Click here .

AN AX TO GRIND
    â€œI want the ax,” you say.
    â€œWhy should I give you the ax? This is my bar.”
    â€œYou own it?”
    â€œNo, but I’m in charge right now.”
    You beg with your eyes.
    â€œFine, take it,” he says. “You getting killed don’t help
me
any.”
    He takes the pool cue in his meaty paws.
    You lift the fire ax from the table. Shit, it’s heavy. Real heavy. Not what you expected. You carry it in front of you with both hands, by your waist. You’re scared now—unsure. You don’t think you can wield an ax like this. Especially not in the middle of any sort of battle.
    Anthony unlocks the door. “You first,” he says, grinning.
    Son of a bitch.
    Gently, you use the ax to poke open the door. It’s barely halfway open when the beasts attack. You raise the ax high into the air. It nearly pulls you off your feet. You struggle to hold it.
    Then, with everything you’ve got, you swing it. It catches the first beast in the waist. You yank it out, bringing a string of gore with it. The thing continues to come at you. You raise the ax above your head and bring it down. Thing is heavy—no accuracy. You aim for the head but instead bury it into the zombie’s shoulder.
    It’s a sickening feeling—this weapon you’re wielding, going a foot deep into this being’s flesh. You struggle to jerk the ax free from the zombie’s muscular shoulder. But you’re too slow. The next beast lunges at you. Puts its cold, clammy hands around your neck.

    You scream. The ax falls from your hands. Pain shoots through your foot. You look down, horrified—the ax is stuck in the floor, and your foot is in two pieces. You lift your leg, leaving most of your foot on the floor. You take a step, pain shooting up your leg, and stumble back. Three more jump on you, gnawing on your face and body, and together you crash to the ground. You feel your own hot blood pooling around you. One of the things tears at your ear—there’s an awful sound as it rips off. God. God help me, you think.
    â€œAnthony,” you manage to get out. “Anthony.”
    He kicks one beast off you. Breaks the pool cue over another one’s face, sending a chunk of wood spinning down the hall. Then he reaches down, grabs the thing by its ears, and rips it up. Slams it into the wall, then tosses it down the hall, knocking the rest of the beasts back.
    â€œAnthony, please,” you beg.
    He raises the pool cue. His face, unsure, goes blurry as you focus on the chalky tip of the stick. It lowers, slowly. He squeezes his hands around it, flips it over. Now you stare up at the splintered end. Blood drips off it—a drop falls into your eye and it waters up. The cue lowers, getting larger as it closes in on your eye. Just an inch from your eyeball.
    Then, at once, he forces it down, ripping through your eye, blasting through your skull, and destroying your brain.
    AN END

FIREWORKS
    A pair of bullets whips past. A woman’s pained scream erupts behind you.
    You pull at the door of the Honda Civic next to you. The driver, a middle-aged man, heavy wrinkles across his face, a Titleist ball cap covering his eyes, shakes his head no. You pull. He slams his hand down on the lock.
    More bullets. More screams.
    You drop to the ground and bury your head in your arms. After a moment, the heavy sounds of gunfire slow. You raise your head.
    A stampede of people, coming right for you. Now you know what it feels like to be a kick returner, staring down an entire special teams unit. They run, frantic, a huge group, two or three people wide.
    You roll