Читать книгу Clash of the Worlds - Ned Vizzini - Страница 22

Deep within Fernwood Cemetery, Brendan Walker stumbled away from the zombie that had somehow managed to clamp its deadly jaws on to his forearm. Brendan yanked free from its clutches, and in the process tore off one of the zombie’s arms. But the damage had been done.

Brendan slumped down into a sitting position and looked at the gory bite wound on his forearm. This was it; he was a goner. Everyone knew the first rule of zombies: if they bite you, then you will eventually turn into a zombie.

He swore to himself. He had always believed he would thrive in a zombie apocalypse. He’d read instructional books, had escape routes mapped out, and had even drawn up construction plans for a fortress on the cliffs of Battery Crosby. Now here he was about to become the world’s second zombie, literally the worst you could do in this situation.

He looked up and noticed more zombies stumbling towards him. Some of the walking corpses looked much fresher than others. A few looked old enough to have even fought in World War One.

They continued to advance on Brendan. Didn’t they understand that he’d been bitten? He was already as good as dead.

He only had himself to blame. Not only had he failed to raise the spirit of Denver Kristoff, but he had somehow managed to accidently raise the dead! Brendan had just accidentally jump-started the end of the world with a zombie apocalypse.

But that didn’t mean he’d go down without a fight. The knowledge of his own impending doom erased any fear and replaced it with pure rage and courage the like of which he’d never experienced before. It was almost like drinking some sort of hero potion. It made him feel invincible – because, in a way, he sort of was.

Brendan leaped to his feet, still holding the zombie’s severed left arm. He stepped forward and reared it back like a baseball bat. Then he swung at the nearest zombie like he was back in T-ball. The zombie arm connected with its head and it flew into the trees at least fifty feet away, still groaning the entire time.

“Home run!” Brendan screamed, before pivoting and taking another swing at a different zombie behind him.

He connected again; this time the zombie’s head stayed attached to the neck, but exploded on impact like an old rotting pumpkin. Bone and dirt and dust sprayed everywhere.

“Gross!” Brendan yelled.

He whirled around swinging the severed zombie arm as fast as his injured arm would allow. Brendan stayed near the mausoleum since it provided protection on at least one side as more zombies began showing up.

Eventually, he climbed up the three stairs on the mausoleum. He looked around and then promptly dropped the zombie arm he’d been using as his weapon. From his new vantage point, he finally saw just how hopeless his situation had become.

The sea of zombies spread out around the mausoleum had grown to rock-concert proportions. If he weren’t feeling so hopeless, he might have even performed the Bruce Springsteen song “Glory Days” that had saved him back in Emperor Occipus’s Colosseum.

But, instead, he slumped against the ornate bronze doors and waited for the zombies to devour him.