Read Online The Last: A Zombie Novel by Michael John Grist - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael John Grist
Tags: Zombie Apocalypse
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transfer is finished. I put the USBs in my pocket. I look at my bag and think about where I'm going to go. I think about Lara, and where she would go. I don't know anything about her, not really. Her folks live in upstate New York somewhere, but that could be anywhere. She lives in Brooklyn, but that could be anywhere too.
The computer blanks out abruptly. My phone chimes to say it's been disconnected.
The power's gone out. I toss the keyboard and mouse away, useless now. There's only one place I can go where she might conceivably be.
Sir Clowdesley. It helps that I'm still the mayor.
First I experiment. I smash the glass out of my window and toss mugs and plates down at the zombies' heads, but that doesn't do a damn thing. Mugs bounce off their heads in shards, and plates, no matter how hard I Frisbee them down, just buckle whichever one they hit for a few seconds.
Next I try my computer, contained within a 33" monitor. It's heavy, edged, and I won't need it anymore.
"Goodbye old friend," I tell it. I take aim and hurl it out the window. It hits a male zombie on the head corner-first, staving in his skull. There's a nasty crunch and he goes down bleeding. Then he comes right back up.
I feel nauseous. He's looking right up at me. He still looks like a person despite the gray skin and white eyes. He's dressed like a salesman with his tie neatly knotted at the throat. Now black blood discolors his white shirt.
I turn to the side abruptly dizzy. I just tried to kill someone. It doesn't seem to matter that he's already dead, I still feel sick. Is he even dead? Could be they'll all recover in a day or two, and I just tried to kill one of them.
I bend over and breathe heavily for a while. Shit. Perhaps I'm not cut out for murder with a monitor. The sweet scent of orange blossoms on the air only makes it worse. I pant until I'm feeling better.
At the least, I learned something. Caving in their skulls doesn't kill them. Good to know.
It's past two. I've got my bag and my USBs. It'll never be any easier or better a time than now. I survey my room a final time, then I move the chair beneath the skylight, push it wide open, and climb out onto the roof.
It's chilly here but sunny. The roof is red slate and thankfully dry, so I'm not slipping on moss. The zombies start to breathe harder down below. From higher up they look like an ocean of grayish heads. To the south the skyline of Manhattan rises over the blocks of tenements. Still there are no jets or helicopters in the air.
I have a loose plan, and for it this bit needs to be quiet, and fast. I slide awkwardly up to the roof's sloping crest, with my bag on my back. At the crest a line of stacked ceramic tiles runs like a monorail, which I hold onto as I pad along the roof, looking down into the square back yards behind each tenement house.
Three houses over I see the first parked motorbike, a black and chrome beast which is surely more than I can handle on a first outing. I've never ridden a bike before, plus there's no skylight into the garret for easy access, so I slide on. Two buildings further on there's a pastel green moped on a kickstand, much more my style, and a skylight in the roof.
I try to pry it open, and to my joy it's already unlocked. I peer in checking for zombies, but there are none. It's a rec room with a drum set in one corner and some workout weights in the other. I dangle in from the skylight frame, then drop to the carpeted floor with a soft thump.
Breaking and entering.
Remembering something from a movie I saw, I go to the weights. The dumbbell bars are just about right, and after I slide the weights off one, it fits in my hand perfectly as a club. I creep to the door and creak it open.
The corridor beyond is mercifully empty. The house smells like toasted bagels, and there's a large poster of Bob Marley's face on the wall. I tread lightly to the stairs and start down. The inhabitants like pictures of Bob Marley, and flowery wallpaper. I
The computer blanks out abruptly. My phone chimes to say it's been disconnected.
The power's gone out. I toss the keyboard and mouse away, useless now. There's only one place I can go where she might conceivably be.
Sir Clowdesley. It helps that I'm still the mayor.
First I experiment. I smash the glass out of my window and toss mugs and plates down at the zombies' heads, but that doesn't do a damn thing. Mugs bounce off their heads in shards, and plates, no matter how hard I Frisbee them down, just buckle whichever one they hit for a few seconds.
Next I try my computer, contained within a 33" monitor. It's heavy, edged, and I won't need it anymore.
"Goodbye old friend," I tell it. I take aim and hurl it out the window. It hits a male zombie on the head corner-first, staving in his skull. There's a nasty crunch and he goes down bleeding. Then he comes right back up.
I feel nauseous. He's looking right up at me. He still looks like a person despite the gray skin and white eyes. He's dressed like a salesman with his tie neatly knotted at the throat. Now black blood discolors his white shirt.
I turn to the side abruptly dizzy. I just tried to kill someone. It doesn't seem to matter that he's already dead, I still feel sick. Is he even dead? Could be they'll all recover in a day or two, and I just tried to kill one of them.
I bend over and breathe heavily for a while. Shit. Perhaps I'm not cut out for murder with a monitor. The sweet scent of orange blossoms on the air only makes it worse. I pant until I'm feeling better.
At the least, I learned something. Caving in their skulls doesn't kill them. Good to know.
It's past two. I've got my bag and my USBs. It'll never be any easier or better a time than now. I survey my room a final time, then I move the chair beneath the skylight, push it wide open, and climb out onto the roof.
It's chilly here but sunny. The roof is red slate and thankfully dry, so I'm not slipping on moss. The zombies start to breathe harder down below. From higher up they look like an ocean of grayish heads. To the south the skyline of Manhattan rises over the blocks of tenements. Still there are no jets or helicopters in the air.
I have a loose plan, and for it this bit needs to be quiet, and fast. I slide awkwardly up to the roof's sloping crest, with my bag on my back. At the crest a line of stacked ceramic tiles runs like a monorail, which I hold onto as I pad along the roof, looking down into the square back yards behind each tenement house.
Three houses over I see the first parked motorbike, a black and chrome beast which is surely more than I can handle on a first outing. I've never ridden a bike before, plus there's no skylight into the garret for easy access, so I slide on. Two buildings further on there's a pastel green moped on a kickstand, much more my style, and a skylight in the roof.
I try to pry it open, and to my joy it's already unlocked. I peer in checking for zombies, but there are none. It's a rec room with a drum set in one corner and some workout weights in the other. I dangle in from the skylight frame, then drop to the carpeted floor with a soft thump.
Breaking and entering.
Remembering something from a movie I saw, I go to the weights. The dumbbell bars are just about right, and after I slide the weights off one, it fits in my hand perfectly as a club. I creep to the door and creak it open.
The corridor beyond is mercifully empty. The house smells like toasted bagels, and there's a large poster of Bob Marley's face on the wall. I tread lightly to the stairs and start down. The inhabitants like pictures of Bob Marley, and flowery wallpaper. I
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