Free Zombocalypse Now by Matt Youngmark Page A

delighted to see you, and you debrief him on the military situation. Your friend is now convinced that the zombies are supernatural in origin. “I’ve been doing more research,” he says, “and I’m almost positive that it either traces back to this voodoo guy who hangs out at the psychic bookstore, or a little girl who buried her dead dog in an ancient Indian burial ground.”
    “Fine,” you say. “But this time you’re coming with me.”

    If you decide to look into the girl with the dog, turn to page 227.

    If you think the voodoo thing will turn up more answers, turn to page 191.

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    74
    Can’t we all just get along? “Everyone calm down,” you say. “We need to formulate a plan so that we all make it through this.”
    “Yeah? And who made you the boss?” someone shouts. “You just want all the french fries for yourself!”
    This is pointless. “We don’t even have any cooking oil ,” you say.
    “The stuffed bunny is hoarding all the cooking oil!” someone yells from behind you. You try to make it clear that there is no cooking oil, but Daryl and his crew choose this moment to make their move and leap into action, tackling the group with the frozen french-fry bags. Violence erupts all around you, and you fall to the ground, getting more than a little trampled in the process.
    Really, people? Really? You manage to free yourself from the crowd and head toward the nearest exit. This isn’t worth it, you think. Alas, someone has beaten you to it.
    “If I can’t have the french fries, no one can!” a frenzied, middle-aged woman yells, opening the stadium gates and letting a mob of ravenous zombies push their way inside. The bad news is, you’ve now witnessed humanity at its worst. The good news is, you have very little time to ponder the ramifications before being overrun by zombanity at its best.
    Humanity doesn’t stand a chance.

    THE END

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    75
    As much as you want that shower, you’d rather live to bathe another day. As you leave the gym, however, you find that the rest of the city doesn’t seem to be faring much better. Zombies are milling about everywhere, stumbling after terrified pedestrians and devouring anyone they can get their clammy, disgusting hands on. You attempt to keep your distance from any large masses of undead but they seem to be zeroing in on you—soon a dedicated group is trailing, moaning to themselves about brains. You break into a sprint, but another crowd develops in front of you, cutting off your escape. Desperately searching for a way out, you spot an elderly woman sitting in a third story window, staring at you. “Help!” you yell. “Please! Throw down a rope or something!”
    “Oh, I don’t think I have any ropes, dearie,” she says, not seeming to grasp the urgency of the situation. “I have some knitting yarn. Will that help?”
     “Or a weapon to fight these things off with! Anything—just hurry!”
    “Okay, let me see what I have here,” she says sweetly, wandering back into her apartment. After an impossibly long time, just as the zombies are almost on top of you and you’re convinced that she’s been distracted by Diagnosis: Murder or something, you hear her call out to you. “I have a mop,” she says. “And a hammer. It’s kind of heavy, though, sweetheart.”

    The mop definitely has more reach. If you think it would make a better weapon, turn to page 175.

    On the other hand, the hammer might actually do more damage. If you ask her to drop that, turn to page 254.

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    76
    “I’m sure it won’t come to that,” you say, trying to sound more confident than you actually are. Anyway, it was self-defense, right? Before Mittens can protest, the door is thrown open and two officers enter the room. Her eyes light up. “Vinny! Carlito!” she says, jubilant. “You have no idea how good it is to see you guys!”
    After brief introductions the cops get down to talking shop. “Clampy Pete is worse than ever,” Carlito says.