Zombocalypse Now Read online

  You find shipping crates in the loading bay out back, and use one to board up the shattered window, making the store a serviceable shelter for the night. When morning comes, you instruct your crew to gather up as much food as they can carry. The group, though, has other ideas.

  “We voted on it, and it was unanimous,” Isabelle says. “We want to make this our new home.” She smiles broadly. “If we leave, who’s going to eat all this ice cream?”

  Maybe they’re right. If you decide to wait out the zombie apocalypse with them in this consumer paradise, turn to page 139.

  On the other hand, your gut tells you that the whole zombie situation isn’t going to just blow over, and even this much food will eventually run out. If you decide to leave the group and strike out on your own, turn to page 47.

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  14

  “You picked the wrong day to die,” you say in your best action hero monotone. “And then, uh, come back to life again. Sort of.” You’re going to have to work on your one-liners. The zombie keeps stumbling toward you, and you back up slowly, not at all wanting to touch it. You glance around for something heavy to hit it with, but nothing presents itself. Could you take off your shoes and throw them? That just seems dumb.

  The zombie lunges at you, and suddenly you’re out of choices. You tackle it at the waist, trying to avoid its whole face area, where the biting and chewing happens. It falls backward with you on top, hitting its head against the pavement with a loud smack. You untangle yourself quickly, but fortunately the thing seems to have stopped moving. Well, that wasn’t so hard. You hurry to the zombie’s victim, still lying in the middle of the street. “Are you okay?” you ask.

  “Nnnnnnnnggg.” Hold on. Was that an “ow my leg hurts” groan, or an “I hunger for the flesh of the living” groan?

  “Brrraaaaiiinnns,” he continues, trying to stand up even though his leg seems to be chewed down to the bone. Crap. You hear another moan, and glance behind you to see that the first zombie is revived and back on its feet. Double crap. To make things worse, a mob of screaming pedestrians rounds the corner with several new zombies close behind. “They ate Mr. Friskums!” one of them cries. “Save us!”

  If you attempt to rescue the crowd from the ever-growing legion of undead, turn to page 21.

  This is spiraling out of control. If you decide to run for help, turn to page 30.

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  15

  You rip the toothpaste out of its packaging and pop the top off, squirting a healthy glop right in a zombie’s face.

  It falls away, clawing at itself and trying to slurp the paste into its mouth. Its two undead companions lose interest in you as well, mobbing the first zombie to get a piece of sweet toothpaste action. That worked surprisingly well! You squirt another glop at the zombies on the passenger side with similar results. They can’t get enough of this stuff!

  During the fracas, however, the undead crowd around you has grown. You can’t even see your friends anymore. Zombies rush the car, and you squirt toothpaste at them until you’re out, throwing the empty tube as a last resort. Still they come. You look down and see a big smear of paste on your arm. You frantically wipe it on your pants, but realize that you’re only making things worse.

  Clammy hands grab at you, and before you know it you feel teeth as well. Slowly, your consciousness drains away and is replaced by the hunger. The smell is overwhelming, and you join your zombie brethren in desperately trying to get a taste of the paste. You realize now that zombies don’t crave the stuff because it tastes like brains.

  Zombies crave brains because they taste like this.

  THE END

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  16

  You know what? That waiter can take care of himself. You ditch your weirdly aggressive and possibly drunk date, handing a twenty-dollar bill to the greeter on the way out to cover the appetizers.

  As you walk toward your car, you smell something all too familiar. At first you think your date followed you out of the restaurant, but you look around and see a middle-aged woman stumbling toward you, grunting and staring blankly just like your date did. What is this, an epidemic? You walk faster, and get inside your car just as the woman reaches you. You feel a bump, and glance in your mirror to see some guy climbing on your trunk. A third person, with a gaping head wound that makes gender difficult to determine, presses two bloody hands against your car window.

  “Braaaaaaiins,” it moans.

  The realization hits you like a freight train. Zombie invasion! This, in turn, makes you feel a little better about abandoning your date and a lot worse about not helping the waiter. You lock the doors, turn the key in the ignition, and step on the gas, feeling ill-equipped to deal with a situation like this. Your friend Ernie might know what to do—he’s always going on about the paranormal and secret government plots and so forth. On second thought, Ernie might not be the most stable person to turn to in a crisis.

  If you decide to get Ernie’s advice on what is turning into a really weird day, turn to page 40.

  If you decide you’re better off driving toward some actual authority, like the police, turn to page 86.

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  17

  West it is. The streets are swimming with undead, but you know your neighborhood well enough to avoid getting trapped, and arrive home safely. On your way to the stairs, you’re startled by a figure lurking near the mailboxes. Your first instinct is to hit it with something heavy and run, but it turns out to be the girl who lives in the apartment underneath yours.

  You’ve never introduced yourself, but you have chatted with her once or twice in passing, and she seems to be at least medium-friendly. And also super, crazy good-looking. She’s like French and Japanese or something.

  You do the neighborly thing and warn her that zombies have overrun the city, but it looks like you might be a tad late. “Nnnnngh,” she replies. “Braaaains.” She makes a move toward you, and you hate to admit it, but the whole unkempt, hollow-eyed, lurching thing is working for her. The zombies you’ve seen so far have been utterly repulsive, but this one is definitely rocking the reanimated corpse look.

  Your fleeing skills are becoming quite honed, and you start to do just that, but hesitate. This isn’t some stranger. You know this girl, kind of. It might be more humane (not to mention safer for the rest of the building) to put her out of her misery. Then again, is there any chance she can still be saved?

  If you decide to bring the zombie girl with you in the hopes of finding a cure, turn to page 229.

  If that sounds like crazy talk and you just leave her there, turn to page 125.

  If you think the responsible thing to do is to put her down, turn to page 147.

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  18

  The zombies outside seem to be congregating around your car, so you take Ernie’s El Camino instead, burning rubber out of the garage and plowing through a gaggle of undead hooligans in the driveway. You have to admit, a little automotive zombie slaughter actually feels kind of good.

  Ernie drives out to the edge of town and turns onto a dirt road, unlatching the little rope barrier with a sign that reads “no unauthorized vehicles beyond this point,” even though you seriously doubt you’re an authorized vehicle. After a short drive, he pulls over and the two of you sneak the rest of the way to the plant, which is surrounded by a high chain link fence.

  “That’s what the bolt cutters are for,” Ernie grins, digging through his duffel bag. He gets to work on the fence while you scout the premises for guards. At first, the place appears to be abandoned, but then you spot a guy in a hard hat with a clipboard wandering around on the far side of the facility, probably on a smoke break.

  “I thought you said there would be armed guards here or something,” you say when you get back to the spot where Ernie is still cutting chain link. You distinctly remember your friend mentioning the need for overwhelming force.

  “Guns, clipboards, whatever,” Ernie replies. Now he’s strapping on a big bandolier-
style shoulder belt thing, with who knows what stuffed into the little pouches on it. “A clipboard can be used as a weapon. The point is, this ends now.”

  Hmm. Your friend may have gone over the deep end. “Um, right,” you say carefully. “So what’s the plan?”

  “The plan is, we set these charges and blow this place sky high.” Yeah. Ernie has left the building. “Don’t you see?” he continues. “The fluoro-industrial complex has been poisoning us for years, and now it’s gone too far. They’re behind all of this! Your aunt’s note proves it!”

  He pauses. “Listen, if you don’t want to be part of it, you can leave. That’s why I told you about the valley—go there and hunker down, in case I can’t stop them. But I have to do this, and chances are, I’m not making it out alive. This is my Little Big Horn. My Waterloo. My Endor.”

  You’re fairly certain that the rebel forces survived Endor, but now doesn’t seem like the time to bring it up. Also, you suspect that a better plan of action would be to just waltz in and ask the guy in the hard hat if he knows anything about zombies. This is crazy. But then again, who knows? Maybe Ernie’s right. If the plant really is pumping zombie juice into the water, you probably should stop it. Or at least come along to see that any innocent bystanders get out alive while Ernie does his thing.

  “What’s it going to be?” your friend demands. “You can leave if you want, but don’t try to stop this. Are you with me or against me?”

  If you’re with him, turn to page 276.

  If you’re against him, or at least against the insane idea of storming the water facility and blowing it to smithereens, turn to page 88.

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  20

  Really? You’ve fled every remotely dangerous situation so far, but a swarm of forty or fifty zombies gorging themselves on the flesh of the living sounds like the kind of thing you’d like to take your chances on? I mean, good for you and all. It just seems a little out of character.

  You take a closer look at the ghastly scene before you, trying to come up with a plan. It looks like the zombies only prey on regular human beings and never other zombies. How do they know the difference? By sight? Smell? If you disguise yourself as one of them by stinking yourself up with zombie filth, you might be able to get through the mob without drawing any attention. On the other hand, you don’t really know how the whole infestation thing spreads—do you really want to get that close to them?

  You know what? You’ve had it with these motherflippin’ zombies on this motherflippin’, um, street. In front of this motherflippin’ police station. You see an abandoned car propped up on a jack in the alley behind you, with a tire iron lying on the curb next to it. You have half a mind to take it as a weapon, wade into the fray, and break some zombie heads.

  If you disguise yourself as one of them and try to sneak past the zombie feeding frenzy, turn to page 183.

  If you grab the tire iron, flip out and get medieval on their undead asses, turn to page 11.

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  21

  Fifteen or twenty grown human beings, you think, and they look to a lone, stuffed bunny to save them from zombies. Well, maybe one of them at least has a cigarette. “Listen!” you yell at the panicked crowd. “They don’t move that fast. Everyone follow me at a brisk walk and we’ll all get out of this alive.”

  You herd the crowd back toward the restaurant and, sure enough, the zombies are easily outpaced. Once in front of the spaghetti house, though, you see a mess of undead wandering out the door. Looks like your dream date has been busy inside. You think you can make it to your car unmolested, but the crowd around you just stops and stares at this new threat.

  “What do we do now?” asks a thin, shirtless gentleman with an AC/DC hat and what looks like a pair of homemade nunchucks. “My name’s Daryl,” he says, wide-eyed and breathless. “I’ve waited my whole life for this. I also have throwing stars.”

  It is true that there’s strength in numbers, even if those numbers aren’t particularly bright. Then again, dragging around Daryl’s band of roving yokels might get you killed even quicker.

  If you decide to team up with Daryl’s group, or at least try to save them from being eaten, turn to page 63.

  If you’d rather take your chances going it alone, turn to page 97.

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  22

  Good work escaping there, Sparky. Although it’s a common misconception, sweetbreads aren’t brains. They’re thymus or pancreas glands, and although a zombie probably wouldn’t turn down such a meal, it isn’t nearly as mouthwatering as the creamy center of your crunchy noggin.

  So you lock yourself back in the kitchen. It’s miserable. Now that you’re no longer passed out, there’s really no place comfortable to lie down, and despite access to plenty of food in the big industrial freezer, the last thing you want to do is eat anything. Also, the restaurant smells horrible. After sitting there for what seems like days (in reality it’s a bit shy of 45 minutes) you peer out into the alley again, only to discover that the size of the undead crowd waiting patiently outside has tripled. Great—now they think this is the place where the free rancid glands get thrown away. You’re like the mom who gives out the full-sized Snickers bars at zombie Halloween.

  That leaves the barricaded doors into the restaurant, and anything could be in there. Your memory is hazy, but you can’t imagine that you erected that barrier to keep out puppies and kittens. Now you need to use the restroom, though, and there isn’t one attached to the kitchen. It looks like you’ll have to venture through those doors at some point.

  If you take down the makeshift barricade as quietly as possible and risk a peek through the swinging doors, turn to page 39.

  No. You live here now. In this kitchen. If you do what it takes—whatever it takes—to make this your permanent hideout until such time as help arrives, turn to page 146.

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  23

  Nothing against Ernie, but these guys have an underground freaking bunker. You know where you’re not likely to encounter any zombies? An underground freaking bunker. “Sign me up,” you say.

  Billy’s dad is pleased that you’ve brought his youngest son home to him, but isn’t quite convinced that you’re bunker material. “You saved my idiot kid,” he says, “and seem to have driven off that squirrelly girl he’s obsessed with. But I can’t let you in unless you bring something to the table. You got any supplies with you? We’re particularly hurting for entertainment and toiletries.”

  You rummage through your car and turn up a nearly-empty first aid kit, a promotional tube of toothpaste that your aunt sent you, and a tattered copy of a Danielle Steel novel that somebody apparently left under your seat. You bring it back to Billy’s dad, and he takes a hard look at your sad little offering.

  “Alright, you’re in,” he says. “But only because I love me some Danielle Steel.” You climb down the ladder into the bunker, not sure what the future holds in store, but knowing you’d rather be in here than out there.

  You hope to never see another zombie again.

  THE END

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  24

  You grab your date’s arm, trying to free the surprised and apparently helpless waiter. He drops your appetizers—and, more tragically, your drink—and suddenly blood spurts everywhere as teeth sink into his skinny neck. Startled, you redouble your efforts, and slowly your date turns toward you. With the addition of a mouthful of gore, the hollow, staring eyes, intermittent moans, and shambling demeanor suddenly make a lot more sense.

  It would appear that you’ve been on a blind date with the living dead.

  At this point, the other restaurant patrons start stampeding for the door. You trip over something squishy—sweetbread, most likely—and your date falls on top of you. This is it, you think. This is the worst internet date ever. You try to free yourself, but your perfect forever love match is surprisingly strong for a corpse. Its teeth are inches away from your face.

  Suddenly the room explodes with the sound of
gunfire, and your undead lover falls away. A woman with an oversized handgun and a steely-eyed expression to match then fires seven more rounds into your date’s torso. The zombie seems unfazed, pulling itself to its feet and slouching toward this new threat.

  “Behind you!” you yell. The waiter, covered in his own gore, now has the same vacant eyes and questionable posture as your date, and is reaching for the woman from behind. She casually finishes reloading and pumps most of her new clip directly into the first zombie’s face, blowing its brains out the back of its head. Then she turns and sticks her gun’s muzzle in the waiter’s gaping mouth. She squeezes the trigger, and with a disgusting splat both mostly-headless zombies fall to the floor.

  That was totally badass.

  “You’re welcome,” the woman says as she turns toward the door. Your first thought is that you could really use that gin and tonic about now. On the other hand, maybe you should tag along with your new friend for a while. After all, she has a gun and knows how to use it. And who knows if there are any more of these things wandering around?

  Screw it. If you head to the bar to try and process whatever it was that just happened, turn to page 53.