On the Highway to Hell…
You’ve probably read your fair share of zombie stories. But this time it’s different. In a horrific and hilarious cross-country road trip (or rather, suicide mission), you must overcome obstacles of every kind to save zombified America from utter collapse.
You’re inside your prison cell, waiting to be released. Your name is Jimmy El Camino, and you’re a badass—in fact, you’re a supreme badass. Rambo with style. Snake Plissken with a failing liver. You’ve killed more men than cancer. But more men than the zombie apocalypse? That’s questionable.
Your mission? Drive your heavily armed 1967 El Camino from New York City to San Francisco in order to save the world. Along the way, you’ll encounter Ring’s Most Wonderful Circus Show; you’ll battle zombies gladiator-style; you’ll be forced to deal with lunatics. And every step of the way, an army of drivers in armored vehicles is hot on your tail—because there is one man, the mayor of New York, who will stop at nothing to keep this apocalypse of the undead alive.
Once you catch your first taste of this “pick-your-own-path” zombie adventure, sequel to Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?, then we guarantee you’ll want more!
“Who’s this?” Iris asks.
“This is Jimmy,” the major says.
Iris sighs. “I told you, Eigle. I made it real plain and clear: I’d do this only if you got a real driver. A professional. Not gonna happen with some washed-up old booze hound.”
“Washed-up old booze hound?” you say, reaching for the nearby bottle and pouring yourself a healthy-sized glass.
Eigle says, “Jimmy here—he’s the only driver not loyal to Boss Tanner.”
You take a pull from your big drink. “What’s the drive? And what does this girl have to do with it?”
“You need to deliver Iris to San Francisco.”
You shake your head. “No. From the little I saw out there, what you showed me? That’s a one-way ticket. A suicide run.”
“And not long ago you were in a cell, Jimmy. I’m offering you a chance at freedom.”
You lean back, sinking into the couch. An old cigar case full of grease-stained, poorly rolled cigarettes on the table beside you, matches scattered about. You light a smoke. Exhaling, you say, “Why’s she got to get to San Francisco?”
Eigle starts to say something but stops. “Easier if I show you.”
Iris looks suddenly sick. “Just tell him,” she says.
“What we’re asking?” Eigle responds. “He needs to see.”
“Just tell him—” Iris starts, but Eigle holds up his finger.
She goes quiet.
Eigle grabs her; she resists briefly, then goes with him, toward the zombie chained to the pipe. You lean forward, sipping your drink, curious now. Hank taps his foot anxiously and looks down at the cracked cement floor.
Slowly, like a magician showing you that everything is on the level, Eigle begins rolling up Iris’s sleeve. Her skin is milky white. Looks soft. You want to touch it.
He rolls her sleeve up further, past the elbow, and you see then that her skin there is scarred to hell. Like a junkie’s.
The zombie moans.
“The stick,” Iris says.
Eigle takes a short, thick wooden rod from a table at his side. He slides it into the girl’s mouth, and she bites down. Eigle wraps his long, bony fingers around Iris’s wrist. She squeezes her eyes shut, and then Eigle holds her arm out to the zombie.
The monster’s eyes flash and its head snaps forward and its teeth dig into her flesh. The wet sound of tearing tissue fills the room.
You start forward. Eigle holds his hand up. “It’s okay,” Hank says from across the room, still looking at the floor. “Watch. You need to see.”
Iris squeezes her eyes tighter and bites her lip until it bleeds and her legs quiver—but she doesn’t try to escape and she doesn’t cry and she doesn’t try to stop what’s happening.
Blood drizzles from the zombie’s mouth. Eigle says, “Hank.”
Hank stands, crosses the room, and slams a heavy wrench into the zombie’s head. He swings twice more, and the zombie’s teeth release Iris’s flesh. Another heavy blow to the face and the zombie’s head whips back.
Iris’s legs give out then, and her arm falls limp. Hank is there, catching her, helping her to a couch. He quickly wraps her bleeding arm in a towel. Iris looks like she wants to cry, but she never does.
“You just killed her,” you say, getting to your feet, ready to tear apart Eigle and Hank. “You just sentenced that girl to death. She’ll be one of those things now—undead.”
Eigle shakes his head. “No. Iris is resistant,” he says. “Her blood, her DNA, something —she can’t be infected. We’re in communication with San Francisco. There are scientists there: men and women who can study her body and, they believe, create a vaccine. We can end all of this. We just need to get her there.”