Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? by Max Brallier

Author:Max Brallier [Brallier, Max]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, General, Choose-your-own-ending, zombies, Thrillers, Fiction, zombie apocalypse
ISBN: 9781451607758
Publisher: Gallery Books

PUFF, PUFF, PASS

You rub at your eyes.

Sigh. What’s to lose? You take the blunt and inhale deeply, then cough loud, long, and heavy. You may have just left half a lung on the dashboard. Chucky’s laughing hysterically, waving a Gatorade bottle.

You try to regain your composure. No luck—more coughing. “Drink, drink,” you say, waving your hands at Chucky, feeling like you just crossed the Sahara.

“You want this?” he asks.

You nod, nearly choking. He hands you the Gatorade and you take a long swig—then you just about puke.

Chucky is cackling now. “Vodka, son. It’s vodka! Vodka and red Gatorade.” Like it’s the funniest thing anyone ever said.

There’s a fire in your throat. The surprise two shots of vodka did kill the cough in your lungs—but now you want to vomit.

“More?” Chucky says, holding the bottle out.

You wave him off. Lean back. Catch your breath. Sit there for a few minutes, just breathing.

You can’t deny it—the weed and liquor has you feeling a bit numb. Good. Less scared.

For the next hour you pass the bottle back and forth, taking long, end-of-the-world swigs. Chucky plays some mixtape—“the hottest shit in the streets right now,” he says—and you gently bob your head.

The high you’re feeling has you talkative. You bitch about your ex-girlfriend. You bitch about work.

He complains about parking cars and living with his parents. You agree: in general, life pretty much blows.

You avoid the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room: the undead army at the gate. Finally, you ask him what the plan is.

“The plan? The plan is to drink.”

“The bottle’s done.”

Chucky grins and gets out of the car, carrying the empty Gatorade bottle. You don’t realize how drunk he is until you see him stagger across the lot. He watches the zombies for a few minutes; he’s swaying back and forth. You can’t help but think Chucky looks oddly similar to those things right now. Then he throws the bottle against the gate. The zombies perk up.

Chucky stumbles to the office, rummages around, then returns with another bottle—this one a full, unopened bottle of Belvedere vodka.

Fuck.

Chucky slides into the seat.

You drink more. Drink to the point where you forget about the zombies. Drink until you can’t remember what happened thirty seconds ago.

Drink, drink, drink. Drink until you pass out.

You wake up to the sound of shotgun blasts. You’re passed out on the floor of the garage. All the lights are off. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust—when they do, you wish they hadn’t.

The gate is up. Chucky is backed into the front corner of the garage by the gate, fighting for his life. A horde of zombies surrounds him. He fires a shot—the spread sending three of them stumbling back. More step up to take their place. He struggles to load the gun. Shells fall to the ground. He gives up, swings the shotgun wildly. One of the beasts digs into his shoulder. He shrieks. Another goes for his arm. He collapses against the wall, still alive as they begin to feast.

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