The Living Dead 2

Grace knelt over him and pressed her hands to the wound.

Somewhere in the ducts, a sharp, high-pitched giggle broke loose, echoing down on them like spilled nails.

“Welcome to the zoo,” Trask said behind her.

“You know I’m right,” Jacobs whispered. “Don’t you know I’m right?”

But Grace knew nothing about chemistry or pathology. The mysteries of science were Jacobs’s domain, and the brilliance of his vision eluded her.

He was coughing now, bloody saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth. On the other side of an examination table, the dead girl gri

Trask moved closer. He was wearing work-boots and the soles squeaked on the linoleum. “Look at his face. He’s infected anyway. You know it, I know it. Just end it-for him and for us. We need to be strong if we’re going to restore the nation.”

All through the compound came the sounds of scrabbling, shuffling laughing. Grace had a strange, unbidden thought. There is no nation; only people.

Under her palms, Jacobs coughed again. The skin around his eyes had taken on a bluish hue.

Trask had nothing on his side but grim conviction and force of will. A man who was simply not afraid could persuade the masses to follow him anywhere. He might not be a war hero, but he could marshal the survivors.

Above them, the metallic clamor was much louder. Grace lifted her hands.

She raised the gun, held the muzzle to Jacobs’s cheek. His eyes were pained and cloudy. She felt for the trigger and did not think, because it was easier not to.

Steve and Fred by Max Brooks

Max Brooks is one of the kings of contemporary zombie fiction. He is the author of World War Z-which is currently in the process of being adapted into a feature film-and The Zombie Survival Guide, both of which were huge international bestsellers. Brooks has also published a graphic novel, The Zombie Survival Guide: Recorded Attacks, and he’s had short stories in the anthologies The New Dead and Dark Delicacies II. Prior to becoming the world’s foremost expert on zombies, he worked for two years as a writer for Saturday Night Live.

There comes a point in life when you must look in the mirror and ask yourself certain basic questions: Who am I? What am I doing with my life? And most importantly: How will I fare when the zombies come? As you survey the vast landscape of zombie fiction, you must appraise each character and ask: Would that be me?

Maybe you’ll be the coward who locks himself in the basement and refuses to help fortify the house, and refuses to let any strangers into your domain, all the while ignoring obvious signs that your child will soon be among the undead. No? Then maybe you’ll be the strong leader of your enclave of survivors who goes mad with power and turns into a sadistic monster more horrifying than any zombie.

Don’t think so? Of course, you know exactly who you’ll be: The hero, the one who perseveres when all others have succumbed. You’ll have the weapons, the car, the steely determination, the girl. You’ll ride into town like a white knight and sort the local zombie problem right out, and ride off into the sunset as the weak gather in the dusk and wave and wonder about your name. That’s the way you’ve always imagined it, right? Well then, our next story should be right up your alley.

Think you know exactly who you’ll be when the zombies come? Well, so do we. You’ll be exactly like the main character in our next tale.

“There’s too many of them!” Naomi shrieked, the sound perfectly matching the skidding of the motorcycle’s tires.

They came to rest just short of the treeline, the Buell’s engine purring between their legs. Steve’s eyes narrowed as he sca

The neuroscientist actually cocked her head. “There is one?”

Steve couldn’t help but chuckle. For someone so smart, Naomi sure could be dumb. Steve licked his finger and placed it dramatically in the wind. “Let’s find out.”

The lab was completely surrounded. He’d expected that. There had to be, what, a few hundred shuffling and groping at each side of the hexagonal perimeter.

“I can’t see another gate!” Naomi shouted over the bike’s roar.

“We’re not looking for one!” Steve shouted back.

There! A spot where the living dead had crowded against the wall. Maybe there had been something on the other side: a living survivor, a wounded animal, who knew, who cared. Whatever it was had been tasty enough to entice enough Stinkers to crush some of their buddies against the naked cinderblocks. The pressure had created a solid mass of compressed necrotic flesh, its shallow angle allowing the still-mobile Stinkers to literally walk up it and over the wall.

The “ramping” must have happened at least a few hours ago. The original prey had long since been devoured. Only a few ghouls now stumbled or crawled over the undead ramp. Some of its parts still moved: a waving arm or a clicking jaw. Steve could have cared less about them; it was the mobile ones still slouching over them he worried about. Just a few. He nodded imperceptibly. No problem.

Naomi didn’t react when Steve aimed the bike’s nose at the ramp. Only when he gu

“Are you-” she began.

“Only way in.”

“That’s crazy!” she screamed, loosening her grip on his waist as if to leap off the Buell.

Steve’s left hand instinctively shot out, holding her wrist and pulling it to him. Looking back at her terrified gaze, he flashed his signature grin. “Trust me.”

Wide-eyed and chalk pale, Naomi could only nod and hug him with all her might. Steve turned back to the ramp, continuing to grin. Okay, Gu

The Buell took off like a rifle bullet, Hansen leaning into the howling wind. Five hundred yards… four hundred… three… Some of the zombies near the ramp began to notice them, turning and stumbling towards the oncoming crotch rocket. Two hundred yards… one hundred… and now they were massing, grouping into a small, but tight swarm blocking the ramp. Without flinching, Steve swung the M4 out of its worn leather scabbard and with eyes still fixed firmly ahead he bit down hard on the weapon’s charging handle. It was a move he’d only tried once before, that night his Harrier had crashed outside Fallujah. The impact had broken one arm and both legs, but not his warrior’s spirit. He’d tried using his teeth to cock the automatic carbine. It’d worked then, and damn if it worked now. The first round clicked reassuringly into the chamber.

No time to aim. He’d have to shoot from the hip. Crack! The closest one’s left eye disappeared, a reddish brown cloud exploding out the back of its head. Steve might have commented on his marksmanship, if only there was time. Crack! Crack! Two more went down, falling like puppets with their strings cut. This time he smiled. Still got it.

The path began to open, but at the blinding speed they were traveling, would it open fast enough? “Oh my god!” Naomi screamed.

With barely half a dozen bike lengths to go before they hit the ramp, Steve squeezed the M4’s trigger, spraying a fully automatic burst of copper-coated tickets to hell. Kiss Satan for me, Steve thought. Or my ex-wife, whichever you see first.