“This is bullshit,” she says.
“Come on.” Scavy puts his arm around her shoulder. “It’s going to be awesome. You’ll have the entire wasteland to yourself. You can wreck shit up all you want.”
“What if I start to rot like the others?” she says. “I don’t want to be just bones and slime.”
“Fuck it,” he says. “Just have fun with it.”
“But I don’t want to be alone.”
Scavy looks back at the others who are waiting for him to leave. Junko looks so impatient that she might punch the camera ball floating next to her.
“What about Brick?” Scavy says. “He’s a zombie too, now. Maybe the two of you can hook up again and rule the wasteland together. That is, unless you have a problem with his looks being uglier than usual.”
Poppy laughs. “Well, half his face is gone, but he did look pretty hot in those pink combat boots.”
“That’s the spirit,” Scavy says.
“Let’s go,” Junko yells. “Now.”
“I got to go,” Scavy says.
He hugs her and steps back.
“I should eat your ass for leaving me like this,” she says.
“Say hi to Brick for me.”
Popcorn waves to him as he goes, her bloody tendon dangling from her wrist, swaying back and forth. Then she looks out across the wasteland, imagining it as her new kingdom.
Before Scavy enters the building, he calls out to her. “Hey, Poppy.”
She looks back.
“You look pretty hot with that bullet hole in your head.”
She flips him off.
He smiles, then follows after the others.
Lee pushes a squirming zombie torso off of him. Its sludgy head and limbs had been blown away by the grenade, coating the barroom floor in ground meat. The living corpse absorbed most of the blast, but Lee didn’t get away unscathed. The blast took off flesh from the right side of his head, including his right ear. Both of his legs are mangled. He can’t feel anything in his left arm. There are also large shards of glass buried in his back.
The corpses outside of the dilapidated tavern are in much worse shape than he is. The grenades he had tossed blew many of them into pieces. All of them are still alive, worming across the ground, pulling themselves by finger bones. The only one still standing wanders the street with nothing but a mass of pulpy soup for a head.
Pulling himself up by his one good arm, Lee goes behind the bar of the old tavern. Most of the shelves have rotted away, breaking bottles on the floor below. But the bottom shelf is still standing and holds a single bottle of 55 year old sour mash Kentucky bourbon.
Lee’s eyes light up.
“Hello, beautiful,” he says to the bottle, before breaking it open and taking a swig.
He plops himself down on a wrought iron barstool and exhales the smooth whiskey fumes.
“Braains,” belches a severed zombie head on the bar next to him.
“Cheers to that,” Lee says, and taps the zombie’s forehead with the bottle, like a toast. Then he takes another swig.
When Lee separated from Junko and the others, he had only one goal in mind: he wanted to get drunk. He knew there was no way he was going to win the contest. He didn’t even want to win. Lee was fucking old and ready to die. Life is shit when you’re a 65-year-old homeless war veteran abandoned by your society. There’s nothing he wanted more than to just throw in the towel and die already. If he had the guts he would have hung himself years ago.
Bosco was the only other contestant he had run into after leaving the yard of the hotel. The young redneck was hanging from a fire escape with zombies grabbing at his ankles. He called out to Lee for help but the old man wasn’t stopping for anything. He waved goodbye to the screaming man and just took off down an alley.
When he opened his pack, he groaned at the sight of grenades. There were almost twenty of them, but they were heavy and not the type of weapon that he could use at close range. With all of those years of zombie-fighting experience, he knew that close-range defense is what matters most.
He crossed a park, waking three of the undead sleeping there. They were half-submerged in the dirt, covered in grass and weeds. One of them couldn’t get up due to the roots of trees that had grown through its abdomen. He lost the other two that chased him by ducking into a liquor store. As the corpses passed, Lee watched them through a broken window: two dirt-coated skeletons whose flesh looked to be made of chewed-up clay. Their mouths and throats were so filled with mud and weeds that their voices came out of holes in their necks when they tried to say
When Lee turned around, what he saw was pure heaven. Lined up before him were shelves upon shelves of spiced rum, potato vodka, pear brandy, orange cognac, single malt scotch, and every other liquor he could possibly dream of. And it was old world liquor, not the cheap shit that people pass off as liquor these days in Neo New York. It was made back when people cared about the quality of their wines, their foods, their cigars. People lived well and died old. Their lives didn’t revolve around fighting every single day just to stay alive.
Lee had grown up in this era, before the zombie apocalypse. He lived in the suburbs with his upper middleclass family. This period of his life he remembers well. He remembers playing basketball with his best friends, picking flowers for his first girlfriend, watching television with his parents. But he doesn’t remember much of Z-Day. It was like a distant dream, a time when everyone was in a constant state of shock as the chaos swept in around them. One day he was scribbling notes to his girlfriend during math class, and the next everyone he knew was dead and he was being evacuated by fire truck to the only safe zone in Kansas.
Then he went from safe zone to safe zone. Each one either fell to the zombies or ran out of supplies and had to be evacuated. After surviving for eight months with random strangers whose faces changed on a weekly basis, he eventually ended up in a fortified city along the Gulf of Mexico that would become his home for the next twenty years.
Like most male refugees with no family to take care of him, Lee was immediately drafted into the local army. Despite the fact that he was still a teenager, he was expected to defend their city from the hordes of undead surrounding their settlement. At first, Lee was proud of his job. The city’s population was over 2,000. He wanted to do his part to keep all of those people alive. But so many of his fellow soldiers died. Even the trained soldiers were little match for the indestructible undead. Lee realized that it was unlikely that he would live long enough to see adulthood.
In the first year after Z-Day, there were over 150 fortified cities like this one in America. By the next year, there were only 57. The year after that, there were only 22. By the time the island of Neo new York was constructed and the entire continent was undergoing evacuation, only 6 cities were still standing and most of those had populations that had dwindled into the low hundreds.
The worst part was when Lee realized that the people he was giving his life to protect were a bunch of selfish assholes who didn’t give a shit about him. They lived in comfort and safety, while he risked his life to hold back all the undead who tried to break through the barricade. The citizens despised the soldiers so much that they separated them from their society. The soldiers became third class citizens. They weren’t allowed in most parts of town and spent most of their time in the barracks, in the guard towers, or patrolling the city walls. Lee saw this as a form of slavery. His superior officers, who did have full rights as citizens, saw this as just following orders.
He knew that the only way he could be integrated into society was if he became an officer. He did his best to rise through the ranks, but could never get past the rank of sergeant. This rank meant that he was more commonly put into dangerous situations and had far more responsibilities than lower ranked soldiers, but without the benefits of being an officer.
The only time Lee was truly happy was when he led scavenging missions. Once a month he would take a team of six soldiers in an armored vehicle into the Red Zone for several days, picking up canned food, tools, machine parts, and everything else that could be useful. They had to fight their way through zombie hordes to get from store to store. Part of the reason Lee liked these missions was the absolute freedom he had. He wasn’t a slave to his superior officers, he was a ruler of the wasteland. But the main reason he loved going on these missions was
