Brooklyn, New York City, the North Crossroads of Oak Street.
The roar of an engine grew louder, and the entire street, swarming with thousands of zombies, seemed to boil over.
In no time, a yellow Chevrolet Camaro roared through the intersection, black stripes slashing across its sleek body, the chassis slightly higher than most sports cars. In America, it was known as the "people's sports car," made famous by the Transformers movies as the real-world version of Bumblebee. This machine could top out at two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. Behind the wheel was the gang gunman, Robby.
Bang bang bang!
After shooting through the crossroads, Robby slammed the brakes, making the car skid sideways with a screech. He popped open the sunroof, stood halfway out, and fired several shots into the sky. Without a suppressor, the gunshots cracked and echoed across blocks. He ducked back inside, sealed the sunroof, and stomped the accelerator, pushing the Camaro back up to a hundred kilometers per hour within seconds, tearing eastward.
Using gunfire to attract zombies was playing with fire, because it never pulled the dead from just one direction. They would come from all sides, forming a deadly ring. Worse, Robby was driving a sports car built for speed, not survival. In a city reduced to rubble, finding a smooth street was impossible. It wasn't just the abandoned cars, but the scattered corpses, both human and zombie, that posed threats. SUVs and regular sedans might roll over bodies without much trouble, but not a low-slung Camaro.
But Robby couldn't afford to care. There were plenty of off-road vehicles in the garage he had left, but he chose the Camaro for one reason, and one reason only: speed. Power. If there had been an Aston Martin parked down there, he would have picked that instead. Every minute shaved off meant a better chance for Dogg, his brother.
The Camaro tore down the road, zombies lunging and flailing at it as it blew past. Speed had its advantages. As long as he didn't slow down, they couldn't touch him. But the rough streets battered the car hard, shaking it like it might fall apart. Robby gripped the wheel tight, his jaw clenched, weaving as best he could between the obstacles.
After blasting through another block, he slammed the brakes again, spinning the car into the middle of a crossroad. Popping up through the sunroof once more, he emptied his guns into the advancing zombies, bullets snapping into skull after skull with perfect, ruthless precision. He switched magazines again and again, each reload faster than the last. By the time he emptied over a hundred rounds, all his mags were dry.
Sliding back into the driver's seat, Robby didn't immediately drive off. Instead, he grabbed a bag full of bullets, snatching up empty mags scattered around the car, reloading them one after another at lightning speed.
The gunfire had already summoned every zombie within hearing distance, from the connecting blocks to Elm Street. Waves of them poured toward the Camaro, their rotten faces twisted into grotesque hunger, blood-caked mouths open in furious howls, blood-red eyes burning with mindless rage.
The car was surrounded in seconds, hands slamming into the doors, nails scratching against glass.
Robby was calm. Eyes flicking between mirrors and windows, his hands worked without pause, jamming rounds into mags. He figured the noise should have pulled almost all the nearby zombies off Elm Street. Some of the dead were already climbing onto the Camaro, and the front windshield cracked and spiderwebbed under their weight.
He slammed a fresh mag into his pistol, shoved one gun into his waistband, gripped the steering wheel with his free hand, and jammed the gas pedal to the floor.
Vroooom!
The Camaro's tires screeched against the pavement, burning rubber, throwing up blue smoke. Even surrounded, pure horsepower blew the car free. Bodies bounced off the hood, the windshield finally gave out with a shattering crash. A zombie that had clung to the hood smashed through the broken glass, landing half-in the cabin.
Without slowing, Robby snapped his gun up and blew its head apart, gore splashing across the dash. He glanced at his arm, checking the scrapes. Everything was scabbing over, the bandaged cuts sealed tight. Some zombie blood had splattered him, but with the wounds closed, infection seemed unlikely. A grim sense of relief touched him.
Suddenly the Camaro jolted hard. It crunched over a mass of corpses, the impact lifting the car into the air for a sickening moment before it slammed back onto the asphalt. The impact warped the frame, shattering every remaining window. Robby jerked violently in his seat but held on, eyes narrowing, teeth clenched. He gunned the engine harder, steering with one hand while firing out of the broken side window with the other, taking down any zombies directly ahead.
If he slowed, the broken windows could let the dead pour into the car. As long as he kept moving, he still had a fighting chance.
"Damn it!" Robby cursed, grimacing. The situation was deteriorating faster than he'd hoped.
Clearing the worst of the zombie cluster, the road opened a little. He weaved between abandoned cars, scanning the buildings flanking the street.
Soon he slid the Camaro into a wide alleyway.
The zombies still chased him, but the alley was dangerous. Only four or five meters wide, if even one abandoned car blocked the way, Robby would be forced to ditch the Camaro. Worse, a crash or a jam here could flip the vehicle.
He knew this. Still, he chose this route because it led closer to Elm Street.
The Camaro was battered, almost beyond recognition. The headlights were gone, windows shattered, side mirrors missing, dents and filth covering the body.
Face grim, Robby saw a delivery truck parked ahead. Tight against the wall, sure, but the truck was wide. The gap beside it was barely wider than the Camaro itself.
A normal driver might slow down, but not Robby.
Instead, he accelerated.
At the last second, he flung open the driver's side door.
The Camaro screamed through the gap.
With a brutal crack and a shower of sparks, the door tore off against the truck's side.
In the same instant, Robby twisted, grabbing his guns and gear off the seat, and dove out the gaping hole where the door had been.
At that speed, any normal person would have been crushed, shredded, killed outright.
But Robby was no normal man.
He hit the side alley perfectly, rolling hard, bouncing off the grimy pavement, using the momentum to spread out the impact. Scraped and bruised but still breathing, he popped back to his feet without hesitation, guns holstered, ammo pouches slapping against his hips.
The alley was lined with the back walls of old tenements, some with rear doors, but none within easy reach.
No time.
He sprinted toward the wall, kicked off it, boosting himself up onto a windowsill, then again onto a second floor ledge. Grabbing the window frame, he hauled himself up, smashed his fist through the glass, swung a leg up, and threw himself inside.
Crashing down hard onto a bare floor, Robby gasped for air, scanning the dark room. He was close to Elm Street now. Very close.
Behind him, the howls of the dead echoed down the alley. He didn't know if they had seen him dive through the window, but it didn't matter anymore.
BOOM!
The ground shook violently.
The Camaro, driverless, had slammed into the far end of the alley, scraping along a wall before flipping onto its roof. It exploded in a thunderous fireball, metal shrieking, fire washing up into the sky.
Robby lay flat, breathing heavily, heart hammering in his chest.
That explosion would pull every zombie's attention away.
He was sure of it