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and turns the radio on. Top 40 stuff. Lady Gaga, you think.
    â€œThanks, but can you put the news on?” you ask.
    Nothing.
    â€œNews station?”
    He ignores you. You ask twice more, then give up. Oh well—probably better off not knowing anyway. You look out the window. Seconds later you’re biting your lower lip and bobbing your head to the music. What? It’s a good song.
    Back to your phone. You try to send a few texts, but the connection keeps timing out. You agree to resend in digital, whatever the hell that means.
    Half an hour later, you’ve gone maybe ten blocks. Streets are absolutely packed—unlike any other Monday, 11:30 AM you’ve ever seen in the city. It’s Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade status. You could walk faster than this.
    You try to call your friend in Brooklyn.
    Ring.
    Ring.
    Ring.
    Then an automated voice, “I’m sorry, due to
unusually high call volume
we are unable to connect your call at the moment. Please try again later.”
    Goddamn it—fucking AT&T.
    Traffic’s still not moving. Anxious, you pick at the stickers on the back of the driver’s seat. Watch the news on the little TV. It’s the same cheesy clip playing over and over: Regis and Kelly talking about the wonders of New York City. All sorts of shots of landmarks and multicultural crowds and all that good shit. Just begging for tourist money.
    Outside, it’s nothing like that. Not the iconic city that never sleeps. Not the Manhattan from
Manhattan
. No—it’s a powder keg—a city on the verge of exploding.
    Finally, after an hour and a half of stop-and-stop-some-more traffic and a forty-three-dollar cab fare, you can see the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge. And it’s just what you hadfeared. Absolute gridlock—on the street and on the bridge. Police try to direct traffic, but it’s useless.
    Thousands of people are crossing the bridge on foot. A mass exodus. A guy on a ninja bike drives past you, weaves in and out of the traffic, past the police, and up onto the on-ramp. Bastard. Guys on motorcycles have all the luck.
    You sit, anxious. An hour goes by. You move maybe ten feet. A cop directs traffic. Finally, he waves his hands in the air and gives up. He walks through the maze of cars, hops on his police bike, hits the siren, and drives up onto the bridge.
    Again, pricks with motorcycles.
    You’re about to give up, pay the fare, and join the pedestrians when you hear it. The sound. You can just barely make it out over the din of horns, sirens, and angry New Yorkers. Shouting. Screaming. It’s the sound of panic.
    Out the window, to your left, you see it. People running.
Stampeding
. Behind them, the zombies. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. A thick mass of the dead—stretching all the way across First Avenue. A goddamned army of the things, headed right for you…
    Lock the door and hold tight? Click here .
    Get the hell out and run for it? Click here .

THE HAMMER AND THE DRILL
    You take the hammer and the drill from the table. Hold one in each hand. Feel their weight. Two weapons are better than one, you think—even if they are close range. This gives you freedom of movement—you can wield them like twin Glocks on some John Woo shit, no prob. You forget about the
Big Buck Hunter
gun and follow Anthony out of the office. He carries the fire ax.
    Standing at the door to the hall you listen to the moans. They’re louder now. Anthony unlocks the door slowly. You can almost hear the click of the pins.
    You breathe in, pause, breathe out. No point in waiting.
    â€œLet’s do it.”
    He kicks open the door and sends the two closest zombies flying back.
    In front of you is a regular-looking guy—type of guy you might see around the office. You swing the hammer, catching him in the side of the head. He stumbles to the side. You follow the hammer blow with the drill, squeezing the trigger and burying it into the