Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? Read Online Free

between walking and jogging through streets quickly turning explosive. It’s a miserable thirty-block hike to your apartment. You keep your eye open for a cab. Nothing, all full.
    You get to your building a half-hour later, soaked in sweat. Up the five flights of stairs to your apartment. Through the door. Slam it shut and collapse against it, exhausted. God, it feels good not to be moving. Sweat bleeds through the back of your shirt and the fabric sticks to the door.
    You close your eyes. Breathe slowly—in through your mouth, out through your nostrils. Calming.
    You open your eyes. Your apartment looks strange, feels just slightly off—something about being home at a time when you weren’t expecting to be. Like a stranger in your own space.
    A mouse skitters across the floor. Sonofabitch—so that’s what goes on while you’re at work? Yeah, well, that’s what you get for leaving the Ray’s Famous box out with half a slice of pepperoni-and-sausage left.
    You stand up and flip on the local news. A bunch of images of random chaos. No real reporting—just people blabbering, clueless. No one has any real idea what’s happening, but they’re paid to talk.
    People loot a corner store in the West Village. Shit, you should stock up. You’ve got about five edible things in your apartment right now, and that’s including a month-past-the-date carton of eggs and a half bottle of Black Velvet—Jack Daniel’scheaper, shittier cousin. You look over again at the half slice of pepperoni-and-sausage and quickly throw it in the fridge.
    You grab your keys and head for the corner bodega.
    It’s packed. You realize suddenly that you’re in survival mode. You have a vague sense of what to do from watching a lot of bad disaster movies. You navigate the narrow aisles, grabbing the essentials. Batteries. Frozen pizzas. A glass candle with a smiling, open-armed Jesus on the front. Ramen. Beer. Lots of beer.
    It’s getting ugly. People shoving. Grabbing for what they need, even if someone else already happens to be holding it. The Korean guy who runs the bodega threatens to close the doors unless the customers “form one motherfucking line!”
    You grab all you can carry, pay, and leave. Outside it’s only getting nastier. People rushing about. Like a great storm is on the way and everyone is racing to get to shelter.
    Hands full, you take the stairs up to your apartment as quickly as you can. Your building is usually empty—more often than not you come and go without seeing anyone. Not today. People in the hallways. Some coming, most going—all moving quickly, with a frantic yet steady purpose.
    You lock your apartment door behind you. Both locks.
    Your phone’s ringing. The
Speed
theme—
DUN DUN
DUH DUH
DAH DAH
. You walk in just in time to hear the triumphant bass finale.
    You look at the display. See your mom’s big smiling face. Great…
    If you want to ignore the call and start pounding beers, click here .
    If you want to answer Mom’s phone call, click here .

SLEEPOVER
    â€œYou can stay here if you want. You, uh, you shouldn’t be alone.”
    You shouldn’t be alone
. You idiot. Who do you think you are? Could you be any more obvious?
    â€œYeah? I’d love to—I’m going crazy over there. And I keep hearing things—probably just my imagination—but it’s scaring
the fuck
out of me.”
    â€œI can imagine. So, great, you’ll stay here.”
good work!
    You’re beaming. Heart swelling. Thank the Lord for this massive zombie takeover.
    She walks through the foyer and into the kitchen, looking around. “I haven’t been in this house in years.”
    â€œYep, been a long time.”
    She turns and smiles. “It’s good to see you again.”
    Your face feels a little flush, so you quickly turn and look around the house like some idiot prospective buyer. You don’t