Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? by Max Brallier Read Free Book Online

bar—or maybe that’s the street. You hope street.
    You pull out your phone, hit Safari, and check the Web. Nothing will load. The whole country—hell the whole world, maybe—is online right now, checking the news, trying to figure out what’s going on.
    Just then, you hear a scream. A man’s scream. Then more. “Oh Lord!” someone shouts.
    A rush of noises from beyond the door. Bar stools hitting the floor. Glasses shattering. Chaos.

    You tiptoe toward the door. You need to block it, or else you’re next. You look around for something—anything.
    There’s a loud slamming sound from just outside the door. The hinges buck. You back into the corner, terror rushing through your body.
    Banging on the door. The wood splinters. The door’s top hinge pops off and it falls open, awkwardly, still attached at the bottom. It lands on the sink and cracks apart.
    A rotund redheaded man collapses on top of the door, blood pumping steadily from an open wound in his back.
    Standing behind him, staring directly at you, is one of them. One of those things. On TV you believed it, but you didn’t understand. But now—right in front of you—it’s real. A zombie. The walking dead. A beast in a business suit. Blood is spattered across its yellow power tie and the pink shirt beneath it.
    Sonofabitch. It’s Wall Street.
    Its face is deathly white. A hole is torn in its cheek—you can see the inner workings of its mouth and jaw. It jerks forward. Fills the door.
    You make a move for the bathroom stall. But it’s too late. It leaps. You stick your hands out, try to toss it aside. No luck. Its teeth get a hold of your hand. It rips you forward and sinks its teeth into the bridge of your nose.
    Your body goes into shock. You lose all sense of time. Minutes later, hours maybe, you regain some vague semblance of your senses. And then some. You smell flesh. Want it. Need it.
    You’re one of them now. And you’ve got a driving urge to devour that pretty young bartender…
    AN END

IS THERE A DOCTOR IN THE CAR?
    His eyes stare up at the ceiling, glossy and devoid of life. Then they roll back into his head—a slot machine, both wheels coming up death.
    â€œHey,” you say, quietly, to no one in particular. You’ve never had to yell for a doctor and to be honest, you’re feeling awkward as hell about it, despite the circumstances. “Um.… is anyone here a doctor?”
    A thirtyish woman, straight off the set of
Sex and the City
, turns and looks at you like you asked her if she wanted to swap underwear.
    â€œIs anyone here a doctor?” you ask, louder now. “This man needs help!”
    You look back down at him. He’s no longer shivering. Definitely not breathing. Jesus…
    â€œIs anyone in here a doctor?” you yell.
    A tall, handsome woman with dark, mid-length, curly hair pushes her way over and announces herself as a neurologist.
    You talk fast, stuttering. “I don’t think this guy’s breathing—and—and—and his eyes just rolled back in his head. And he’s all bloody there—by the arm.”
    You half expect her to throw a stethoscope over her neck, pull out a little black bag, and play small town doctor making a house call. Instead she leans over and lifts open his left eyelid. Then his right. Nothing looking back but creamy white.
    She orders the onlookers to get back. There’s little room and they complain loudly—but manage to squeeze to the side and clear a small space on the bench. She lays him down and openshis coat. You see the severity of his wound now. His shirt is torn, like it’s been clawed by a wolf, and there’s a huge gash on his chest. Despite the size of the wound, there’s no blood leaking. Dried, black blood around the gash and on his jacket—but nothing wet. The doc looks puzzled. Not a good sign.
    She shoves her finger into his open mouth and