Zombie Fallout: Last Stand of the Survivor

The dorm room reeked of stale crackers and desperation.

Marcus Cole sat by the rain-streaked window of his NYU off-campus apartment, watching the dead shuffle through the snow-covered streets of Manhattan. His last protein bar sat like cardboard in his mouth. Three years ago, he'd been a pre-med junior with a 3.8 GPA, a football scholarship, and a girlfriend who laughed at his terrible jokes.

Now he was just another rat in a cage, waiting to die.

He remembered the exact moment everything went to hell. Not the pandemic—that had been a slow burn, a global influenza that killed millions before mutating into something far worse. No, Marcus remembered the vaccination centers.

January 2023. The H1N9 vaccine had finally arrived. The line at the Javits Center wrapped around three city blocks. Marcus had brought his girlfriend, Summer Chen, bundled in her red parka, practically bouncing with excitement.

"Finally," she'd said, squeezing his hand. "No more masks. No more quarantine. We can actually live again."

They'd been three people from the front of the line when the screaming started.

The woman ahead of them—a middle-aged nurse in scrubs—suddenly seized. Her body jackknifed backward, spine arching at an impossible angle. Her mouth foamed. Her eyes rolled white. Then they snapped open.

Blood-red. No whites. No pupils. Just crimson orbs of pure hunger.

She moved faster than anything human should move. One second she was convulsing on the floor, the next she had her teeth buried in the throat of the CDC worker administering shots. Blood sprayed across Summer's red parka. The Javits Center became a slaughterhouse.

Summer's legs gave out. Marcus caught her, hoisted her over his shoulder, and ran.

That was thirty-one days ago.

Now the power was dead. The water ran brown. And the last of his food was gone.

Marcus powered on his phone—carefully rationing the remaining battery—and tuned to the emergency broadcast frequency. Static. More static. Then a voice, fragmented but clear:

"...all citizens...military evacuation points...Central Park...West 86th Street..."

Summer stirred on the mattress they'd dragged against the door. Her face had thinned, shadows pooling beneath her dark eyes. She'd stopped crying a week ago. That scared him more than the gunfire echoing through the city.

"Marcus?" Her voice cracked. "Do you think...do you think they're coming?"

He set the phone down and sat beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Through the thin wall, they could hear the wet dragging footsteps of something that used to be their neighbor, Professor Halloway, still wearing his tweed jacket, now stained black with old blood.

"They're coming," Marcus lied. "The National Guard, the Army, everyone. They didn't abandon us during the pandemic. They won't abandon us now."

Summer leaned her head against his chest. "My parents," she whispered. "They were in Queens when it happened. Do you think..."

She didn't finish. They both knew.

Marcus stared at the fire axe propped against the wall. He'd taken it from the hallway emergency station on Day Three, after the thing that used to be his roommate, Derek, had tried to break down their door. The blade was chipped and dark with old gore.

He'd been a linebacker at Penn State before transferring to NYU for pre-med. Six-foot-two, two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle that had once driven quarterbacks into the turf. Now that strength meant something else entirely.

Outside, the gunfire grew louder. Closer. Organized.

Marcus made his decision.

"Stay here," he said, standing. He grabbed the axe, testing its weight. "Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone but me."

Summer's eyes widened. "What? Marcus, no—"

"The military's close. I can hear their rifles. I'm going to find them, bring them back here." He cupped her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I will come back for you. I swear on everything I am."

"And if you don't?"

He kissed her forehead. "Then you wait three days. If I'm not back, you go to the roof. Signal flares are in the emergency kit. Someone will see."

"Marcus—"

He was already at the door. "Lock it behind me."

The hallway smelled of copper and rot. Three doors down, a figure in a blood-soaked NYU hoodie shambled toward him, jaw hanging loose, teeth blackened. Marcus didn't hesitate. The axe came down in a clean arc, severing the spinal cord at the neck. The body dropped. The head rolled.

Sorry, Derek, he thought. Sorry I couldn't save you.

He stepped over the corpse and ran toward the stairwell, toward the gunfire, toward whatever hope remained in this dead city.

What he didn't see—what he couldn't have seen—was the figure that slipped from the shadows of Room 412 and followed him down the stairs.

A small figure. A terrified figure.

A figure in a red parka.