Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? Read Online Free Page B

guy on the shoulder, they chat for a second while staring at you, then go back to work.
    After what feels like six or seven hours, the trailer begins to move. You travel for hours on end—a day or two, maybe.
    Every time the trailer brakes, you slide into the wall. Then they pick up speed again and you go sliding back. Hit your head hard at one point. Bad headache. The headache is followed by hunger. And then the thirst—nothing compares to that. You need liquid. Water, beer, milk, piss—
anything!
You’ve lost all track of time—can only think about getting somethingwet down your throat. You wipe sweat from your brow then lick your hand. Lap your tongue around your chapped lips. Anything.
    Then, finally, when you don’t think you can take any more, the trailer stops—for good this time.
    You’re dragged out of the cell. Nobody speaks, and you’re too exhausted and dehydrated to complain or ask questions. You’re pushed out into a large industrial park. The sunlight stings your eyes. They bring you inside a building that, on the outside, looks a lot like a regular, civilian hospital.
    The next month is hell. You’re locked in a dark hospital room. They run all sorts of tests on you. Needles in your arms. Little suction cup things on your face and chest.
    Then, one day, they pull you out of the locked room. A military man throws you your clothes and tells you you’re free to go.
    Really? That’s it? Must be some mistake, you think, but you’re not going to wait around to confirm your suspicions.
    You get dressed and rush out of the lockdown area and down to the main floor. Then you step through the doors, out into the blinding afternoon light, not sure what to expect. Not sure where the hell you are. Not sure what the world’s got in store for you.
    AN END

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    It’s been two months, three weeks, and four days. Power went after two days. You’re really, really,
really
about to lose it.
    You’re safe, relatively. First thing you did was board up the building’s front door—then piled every damn thing you could find behind it. Thus far, no zombies inside the building. For that, you’re thankful.
    In the beginning, you thought you’d do some reading. The lady had some books. That had you relatively excited. But damn near all of them are religious books. And a whole bunch of issues of
guideposts
. Like, literally, no joke, nineteen years’ worth.
    You try starting a diary, but there’s nothing to say except “zombies galore outside, read more
Guideposts
.”
    Food is all but gone. The old lady doesn’t have a scale, but you can tell you’ve lost a significant amount of weight. Your cheeks are thin. Gut has subsided some (that you won’t complain about). You’ve looted every apartment in the building and you’re still out of food. Fucking New Yorkers—they have fridges like frat boys. You’re down to ketchup packets.
    You need to go out. Need food. And water. The water continues to run—but who knows for how long? And if the water goes, every other holdup like you is going to hit the streets at the same time, desperate. It’ll be a madhouse. There’s a Duane Reade drugstore four blocks down and one avenue over. If you go slowly, move carefully, and watch your ass, you just might make it. But what you’ll find there, you have no idea. Could be ransacked, empty, useless. Could be locked. Could be full ofmonsters. You don’t know. But you can’t wait any longer—soon you’ll be too weak to even attempt it.
    The old lady’s bathroom was in the process of being redone. From the looks of it, it was probably some son of hers who never got around to finishing it. In there you find a crowbar splattered with beige paint—could be of some use.
    Duane Reade it is.
    Around noon you climb out onto the fire escape, just like you’ve done every other day since