Can YOU survive the zombie apocalypse? Now's your chance to find out!

Miss me, kids? Well, I'm back! Because I just couldn't resist this:

I'm helping my pal Jason Ashlock celebrate the launch of his client Max Brallier's awesome new pick-yer-own-poison novel CAN YOU SURVIVE THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE?

You're invited to participate in a whacked-out online choose-your-own-adventure story, based on Max's book. Leaping from Twitter to Facebook to Tumblr to Blogger to Posterous and beyond, you'll determine your own destiny, and see if you have what it takes to survive. If you want to start at the beginning and see how the apocalypse starts, click here.

If you're already playing, read on...

EXCERPT:

You can’t believe it. You don’t believe it. You goddamn won’t believe it.

But you saw it. Right there on the TV.

Have to get up. Have to move.

You don’t trust your legs to hold your body if you stand. For a long moment you just sit there, still. Sweat gathers on your brow. A drop crawls down your forehead and along your cheek. Finally, you force yourself to stand. You’re relieved when you don’t fall to the floor. You head for your cubicle.

You get to your computer and start typing. Hands are shaking. You’re hitting all the wrong keys. You feel weak. Realize you’re not breathing. You remind yourself, breathe. You sit down. Breathe in and out. Calm yourself. You bring up DrudgeReport.com. You see the red siren…never a good sign. Above, in giant letters, is the headline:

ZOMBIES TAKE MANHATTAN?

A number of smaller links sit below:

Walking dead…
Running dead?...
Avian bird flu in NYC? Developing…
911 reporting claims of the dead returning to life…
Huge horror hoax?
Manhattan under siege? Developing…

Jesus Christ. You have to get the hell out of Manhattan ASAP.

You jog to the elevators. The hallway is packed. After the fourth or fifth time the doors open to a full car, you say fuck it, you’ll hoof it. You’re on the 16th floor. The stairs aren’t much better. Dozens of people, running down. Someone trips, catches himself and smacks face-first into the wall. He’s knocked out cold. You and the others gingerly step over him as you continue your descent. The fire alarm screams, impossibly loud, along with flashing white lights – someone opened the emergency doors.

You take the stairs two at a time, going over it all in your head, trying to figure out where to go when you hit the street. Million-dollar question.

You finally get to the ground floor. Coworkers flood past you out the revolving doors. Didn’t know they could spin that fast. You nearly lose a hand, pull it back just in time. You and two other guys squeeze into one slot – you being the meat in that sandwich – and a split-second later you’re spit out on onto 84th Street on the West Side. A street you’ve been on hundreds of times over the course of your short career. But this time, it’s unrecognizable.

The streets are packed. Loud. Car horns blast. People yell - angry, violent screams.

And more, it’s hot. Stinking hot and humid. Air so thick you could cut it with a knife. A New York City August. You think while you sweat…

Try to find someplace cool and calm so you can collect yourself?

Get back to your apartment, ASAP?

--------> Go!