Epilogue

Ben Thompson glanced at his wristwatch. Eight o’clock in the morning. He was late for work, but certain circumstances hampered his routine. It was difficult owning a bar and bistro in the Wall Street area of Manhattan with such inconveniences happening on a regular basis. A boss couldn’t fire an employee for being late anymore, and an employee couldn’t always show up on time.

He offered the Brooklyn cabbie a twenty spot. “Hey, could you take me to The Home Stretch Pub any faster? I understand traffic’s a bitch, but…”

The cabbie steered the vehicle into the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. The morning sun vanished and the artificial strips of lighting took over for the sun. The oversize digital sign suspended up high read, Caution Two, ETA Five Minutes.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Ben pounded the seat. “I had a new manager interview at eight sharp, and now this comes up.”

Colby Denning, the cabbie, sympathized. “People stiff me when I take them to their destination late. I waste so much gas idling that I hemorrhage money. Hell, I’ve had a few close calls on the job. I lost a passenger during a Caution Three. A pack of wolves tore an old lady to pieces and dragged her into the sewers. They ripped her right out of the window like it was nothing. Kids across the street were playing hopscotch when it happened, and they were drenched in that woman’s blood. Disgusting. I didn’t get paid, and it wasn’t the first time that’s happened to me. I should start asking for down payments, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. We’ve gotta pay a ten percent protection tax to stay safe,” Ben huffed, “and we don’t stay safe. The government plays it off as our civic duty to actively fight the monster threat.”

“It’s bullshit,” Colby agreed. “I read in Time magazine that the government had a dozen islands housing these fucking abominations. They spent billions feeding them, kidnapping people to run the places, and stealing corpses from morgues and cemeteries and blood and tissue banks to keep ’em satisfied. Russia had three of the complexes. Mongolia had one. Peru had one. Alaska had four. Turkey built one a few years before their big escape. And Antarctica had two, if I’m remembering correctly.”

“It’s amazing,” Ben said, chiming in on the talk of government conspiracies. “Even Africa and all those third world countries have to deal with the bastards. Not only that, the government pigs stiff us with new gun-carrying laws. We’re required to carry guns now! There’s a goddamn curfew at sundown. Then you’ve got the monster sympathizers—”

“Goddamn hippies!”

“Goddamn ingrates,” Ben seconded. “When they have blood on their hands, then they can scrawl fancy phrases with markers on poster boards and then protest. Until then, they should shut the fuck up.”

Traffic slowed. It was bumper to bumper for easily half a mile. “Well, we’re stopped.”

The next overhead sign changed: Caution Two, ETA Three Minutes.

“Three minutes, buddy,” Colby announced. “I suggest you follow me. Let’s watch each other’s backs.”

Ben dug into his suit jacket for a .45 magnum. He didn’t leave home without it. Colby eyed the weapon and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’ll need more than that. This is Caution Two; not as bad as a Caution Three, though. That’s when you see everything—flying zombies to eight-armed vampires to three-headed werewolves. Their screech can deafen you. One time, the hairy bastards screamed, and my friend’s eardrums popped. It was like squashed tomatoes were spit out his ears, man.”

The cabbie stepped out of the car, motioning for Ben to follow him. “Now let’s move. I’m not dying today.”

Ben followed the man to his trunk. Everybody else parked was doing the same, many carrying twelve-gauge shotguns, semiautomatic rifles, full-out M-16s, Uzis, and AK-47s. The strange scene of commuters, businessmen and teenagers alike aiming weapons ahead of them in the tunnel didn’t help that sinking feeling in Ben’s stomach.

“You look pale,” Colby said. “This will make you feel better.”

Colby popped open the trunk. Ben gasped, taken aback by the armaments. Three sawed-off double-barrel shotguns and three Uzis. “Impressed?”

“Uh, yeah.” Ben laughed. “I think you’re my permanent cabbie from now on.”

The firing line tensed. Everybody kept their eyes and muzzles trained ahead of them. Shrieks and dog calls, howls and shrills, then vampires cackling and laughing and shouting out their hunger for blood repeated. It was level two, Ben realized, because there were no zombies in this attack. He would’ve smelled them by now.

Caution Two, ETA Thirty Seconds.

Colby handed him an Uzi. “If you get nervous, just remember one thing.”

Ben attempted a calming breath. “Yeah, and what’s that?”

“You can never go wrong by shooting them in the head.”