Read Online Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? by Max Brallier - Free Book Online Page A

came.
    â€œGo, or I shoot,” he shouts over the firing.
    You shake your head like a wet dog trying to dry off. You frantically wipe the blood from your face, trying to make yourself look like less of a bloody mess. “I’m not one of those things. I’m not bit. I’m not hurt. I’m not infected. I’m not fucking dying or fucking dead or whatever
the fuck
is going on. I’m just trying to get to Brooklyn.”
    The soldier continues to stare at you. You can see the wheels turning. See him struggling. He’s probably got orders to kill anything that looks remotely human—but to shoot a guy like you, a regular Joe…
    â€œPlease…” you say. Begging now.
    Finally, he takes a few steps back. Taps the shoulder of a higher-up, someone with rank. They exchange some words. The officer looks you up down like a piece of meat. He nods. The soldier marches over to you and grabs you by the arm. “Alright, let’s go.”
    â€œThank you, thank you, thank you.”
    He leads you back through the maze of tanks and Humvees. Past the gunfire.
    Beyond the bridge, men stand around in big yellow plastic suits—hazmat, you think they’re called. The shit from that Dustin Hoffman movie with the monkey from
friends. Breakout. outbreak
. Something like that.
    One of the hazmat guys, accompanied by the soldier, leads you by the arm to a large trailer that says MILITARY SCIENCE on the side.
    And then a burst of fear rushes through you—your knees go weak. What if they’re going to take you and do a bunch of experiments on you? You know you’re not infected—but they don’t know that. They probably don’t know much more about what’s going on than you do. You could end up some test patient—the star of some alien autopsy shit.
    Your mind races.
    If you want to go with the Army and the dream of safety, click here .
    Forget about it—the Army’s too scary—run! Click here .

A MAN’S HOME IS HIS CASTLE
    You skid to a halt and hop off the bike, the things right behind you.
    You run up the back of your parents’ Camry, up over the top, and leap off the hood to the fence. You scramble over and fall into the backyard.
    Kim comes running out of the back of the house. “What happened?”
    â€œBack inside, back inside, go.” You follow her, through the back door, into the kitchen, and then through a swinging door into the dining room. There, you look out on the front yard.
    â€œWhat is that?” she asks.
    â€œThe entire high school varsity football team.”
    â€œYou brought them back here?”
    â€œNot on purpose!”
    â€œYou’re right, sorry. Well, fucking now what?”
    â€œWe get to work. Lock up everything.”
    A man’s home is his castle—in this case, quite literally. You have your princess. You’ve already rescued her. This isn’t Super Mario Bros. Your princess isn’t in another castle. She’s here. In
this
castle. Now, as the king, you have to protect her.
    That’s right. You’re the king.
Hail to the king, baby…
    You get to work. Lock all the doors. They scratch and claw at the big front window. Have to do something about that.
    Backyard. Tool shed.
    Thank God your dad retired early and went on that absurd Tim Allen, “I’m a man” kick and bought all those tools and decidedto build the patio himself. It’s the shittiest patio in town, sure, but he’s got one hell of a tool set.
    You reach the shed, throw on his tool belt, and start putting anything that might be useful inside. Hammer. Nails.
    Weed Whacker? Nah. That’d only work on, like, kids.
    Chainsaw? That could work.
    Ooh, nail gun. Fuck it, bring both.
    There’s some spare wood in the rear of the shed. Just long enough to board up that window.
    A scream. No. Kim….
    You forget the wood and dart back inside and into the dining room. Shit! They’re through the