INFECTED (Click Your Poison)

by James Schannep

  Going back to formalities, he hands off a set of jeep keys and a map of the route to the airport. After ensuring Lucas can read it correctly, he escorts you to the vehicles. You’re to take lead.

  “Whelp, thassit,” the soldier says. “Either don’t get bitten or don’t come back—good luck!”

  • Continue to the farm.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Armored

  You follow the map route around the recreation courtyard, past the walking track, outdoor bench presses, and basketball courts. At the far end there’s an open trailer—from this far away it looks like a roadside fireworks stand. As you get closer, you see a uniformed US Army soldier sitting inside; the trailer walls are lined with guns. The trailer itself is marked PROPERTY OF US ARMY. The young man, probably no more than 20, looks up from a porno magazine, slides his feet down from atop the rail, and releases thick brown spittle into an empty beer bottle.

  “Well, we got a newcomer, huh? Here to check out the wares?” Although his hair is short-cropped in the Army’s high-and-tight fashion, he has a thick, ruddy handlebar mustache. He rises from his rolling office chair and opens a gate to let you in. “Take a good look around, Newjack. This is Salvation’s only art gallery.”

  The armory is meticulously organized, the firearms segregated by breed: shotguns, scoped rifles, assault rifles, semi-automatic pistols, and revolvers. Your gaze lingers over a large, nickel-plated revolver the likes of which would make Dirty Harry proud.

  “You know the old saying, ‘God created man, Sam Colt made them zombie slayers.’” The soldier smiles at you. “I take it the old man will have you going on missions soon, huh? I stock everyone going on missions, so make sure you swing by beforehand.”

  Marveling over the large ordnance stash—boxes of ammunition in the corner—you ask, “Where’d all this come from?”

  “That’s everybody’s first question. The short answer is me. My convoy was coming to resupply the National Guard unit, but that didn’t end up so good for us. The rest of it comes from leftovers in the prison after the riots, and one or two are extras that refugees brought with them. You’d be surprised how many people think it’s a grand idea to travel with a half dozen firearms.”

  The trailer is spotless, save for the sunflower seed-laden sitting area used by this young master-of-arms. There’s even a couple of mortars and rocket-propelled grenades, not that anyone but him would be able to use them.

  “If you want to get some trigger time, we do range passes from time to time. We have to go offsite, though, because gunshots attract the zombs. Whaddya say? I need an excuse to go squeeze a few off.”

  • “Only if we use the undead as targets.”

  • “I think I’ll go check out the ‘Happy Room’. I could use a break from violence.”

  • “No time, sorry.” Straight to the “Command Post”. I bet Lucas and Rosie are already there.

  • “I’m just looking around—which way to the ‘Fitness/Power Room’?”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Asylum

  As you roam the halls, a sad revelation proves true: a paltry few patients remain alive and uneaten. Hospital food is the worst. Enough with the sick and the dying, you’re ready for the healthiest stag in the herd. And who might that be in a hospital? The staff.

  It’s hard to keep your footing when so many innards coat the linoleum floor, but you make do. Persistence is the name of the game. You make your way through the wing where the administration keeps house. Despite the “Staff Only” warning signs, others like you prowl the area. When you’re a god, human rules no longer apply.

  There’s some scuffling and a scream around the next corner, and naturally you rush in to see if you can help. A group of immortals is chasing a wounded janitor, and they’re coming your way.

  While he flees, his access badge gets close enough to unlock the secure door to an office.

  • Chase the janitor. I’ve got the lead on him!

  • Green light means go. The receiver chirped at me, and I want to investigate.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Away We Go

  You’re sitting on your own jet, watching the sunset above a blanket of clouds. It’s probably still half an hour till dusk for those pissant mortals earthbound below. But for you and your puissant friends, things are getting dark.

  Your drink sits on the tray next to you, ice melted and untouched. You’ve been staring out of the window for… how long? It’s been about six hours since you took the Gilgazyme ® and you’re feeling the worst kind of melancholy. You’re dead inside. Did you make a mistake taking the drug? No, that’s not it, you just feel incomplete.

  Then a hand touches your shoulder. The pressure is very light, but the effect shoots through you like a live wire. Everything inside you pulses, better than any high you’ve ever experienced.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” your assistant whispers. You turn toward her slowly, soaking in the feeling that builds deep within the cockles of your heart. She leans in. Stacy, her necklace dangling just in front of the cleavage of her perky breasts. She catches you looking down her shirt, something you’ve never done during her entire employment, and clears her throat.

  You look up. She’s so vivacious, so painfully young and pert. Despite having seen her daily for years, suddenly you’ve never seen a more beautiful sight. “Since the other passengers are sleeping, will we be serving a meal?” she asks.

  A sound comes from your throat. You open your mouth as if to speak, but the noise coming out is barely audible and barely human. Stacy’s face is filled with with concern. Your face tingles with excitement. And suddenly, you know what you must do to become whole again.

  You reach out, grabbing Stacy’s blouse, and bring her in close. But not for a kiss. You bite down on her sweet and supple neck. She wants to scream, but her throat is in your mouth. She falls to the floor of the plane, her life pooling out around her body.

  No one wakens. Between the hum of the aircraft, the effects of your top-shelf alcohol, and the best noise-cancelling headphones money can buy—your guests don’t hear a thing. Time to share your gift with them.

  The lap belt holds you in the seat. You feel like there must be a way out of this trap, but you can’t remember what it is. Your hands are dumb and useless. You scratch at the belt, but that does nothing. So you growl out in exasperation and shake violently. You beat the window with your fist, desperate to be free and to share immortality with your friends.

  Your fit finally gets the attention of your fellow passengers. “Oh my God, what’s happened?” shouts the woman in front whose name you used to know.

  “Is it a seizure? Does anyone know anything about epilepsy?” a guy you want to eat asks.

  “You’re supposed to spread them out on the floor and let it pass,” another mortal says. He rushes in to help. Not that you intend it to play out this way, but you’re fortunate enough that he unbuckles your belt just before you bite the side of his face.

  He screams. The others, confused as to what just happened, stand in awe as he falls back to the far side of the plane. You rise and step toward your closest friend with arms high. Your mouth opens and something falls out as you moan. Your friend looks down at the object: it’s an ear. He looks back up at you with horror just as you grasp his shoulders and bring him in for a bite.

  The five other passengers instinctively step away. “What the hell are you doing?” one asks. You answer her not with words, but with actions. Those speak louder anyway, right?

  Your friends have apparently had enough and decide, finally, to attempt to restrain you. A guy comes around and holds you in a bear hug from behind. This close contact excites you even more. With a thrash of your head, you bash into his nose over and over again. That does terrible things to your scalp, but you don’t feel any pain.

  At last, he drops to the floor.

  “Get some straps, something!” one survivor yells to another. Two bodies lie in a pool of blood, one man cowers in t
he corner, and four others look for some way to restrain you. This is fun; like cat and mouse. You chase the nearest one. She tries to distance herself from you, keeping a seat between the two of you, while the other three look for supplies.

  The cabin door pops open and the copilot steps out. “What the hell is going on?”

  “This…psychopath attacked me!” says the man with one ear.

  “Is she okay?” he asks, pointing at Stacy. Oh, she will be. In a few short hours, she’ll be immortal. Figuring out the situation, he says, “Enough of this bullshit.” He turns back into the cabin.

  “Wait!” the woman fleeing you calls.

  Then the copilot returns, fire extinguisher in hand and heads toward you. You move toward him. He hits you with the bottom of the cylinder, aiming to incapacitate you. With a metallic ping, your head bobs back under the blow. He doesn’t expect you to come back at him so quickly, and your lunge at his arm is successful.

  “Fuck!” he shouts as you sink your teeth into his forearm. He hits you again, harder. You lose your balance and fall to the floor.

  “Did you…?” the woman you were chasing asks, coming close to check on you. Big mistake. You grab onto her ankle and bite firmly onto her gym-toned calf.

  The copilot rushes in and now beats the fire extinguisher into your head repeatedly, until your skull bursts in. He bludgeons your brain into the carpeted floor. That’s it for you. But guess what? That’s four humans you shared your gift with—five, depending on how much of your scalp got into that one guy’s nose—and they’ll be up and continuing your legacy in just six hours. Good work, patient zero. Paris won’t see what’s coming.

  Sadly, your friends will have to paint the town red without you.

  THE END

  Bang

  You put the firearm up to your head and pull the trigger. The nightmare is over.

  THE END

  Bare/Arms

  “Sorry, compadre, no can do,” he says, resting a hand over the sidearm. “I mean, how do I know I can trust you, ya know? No offense, but I’m a cop. You’re just somebody—know what I’m sayin’? Besides, you get to drive.”

  He gets in the car and waits for you to do the same. When you’re inside, he pats his weapon and says, “Oh, man—I’m sitting shotgun! Get it?” He then laughs uproariously at his own joke.

  You start the engine and draw out, back to the main road. “I’m not from around here; where to?” you ask.

  “There’s like a warehouse not too far up the road. We should probably look there, you know? Not another thing for miles and miles,” he says.

  * * *

  The roads are surprisingly devoid of traffic. Granted, there’s an overturned car every mile or so, and plenty of deserted vehicles, but at least they had the decency to head into the grass before abandoning their transportation. You’re just about out of gas too.

  You pull off the highway to the warehouse exit. It’s a major potato chip processing plant and shipping facility. That may not be the healthiest snack, but it’ll feed you for the time being. As it’s the only thing around “for miles and miles,” you notice cars clustering around. The parking lot is nearly full. Several RVs are here as well.

  “Shit, looks like people had the same idea, homie,” your partner says. “We better be on the lookout. Do a lap around first.”

  As you drive around the building, you pick up a tail—three zombies, on foot. You lead them slowly, allowing them to stumble after your car until they lineup at the back of the building. Once they’re as far from the entrance as possible, you gun the engine, taking the vehicle to the front, far ahead of the ghouls.

  “Hey, that’s smart,” he says, tapping his head. “That’ll buy us some time. I like the way you think.”

  You follow the hulking policeman from the parking lot to the warehouse. There’s a large set of automatic double-doors at the front, and as you arrive, the doors prove that electricity is still working in this area. That’s a good sign—maybe you can phone or radio for help once you’re inside.

  The lights are on inside, and you breathe a brief sigh of relief that the entry isn’t thick with the undead. You know better than to fully celebrate, though; there could be more of them around any corner. The entry splits three ways: a hall on both sides, and a wider hallway leading you forward.

  As you near the first turn ahead, you hear scraping on the linoleum behind you. You both look back—a zombie in a convict-orange jumpsuit crawls along the floor. The ghoul is badly wounded; his legs are all but worthless.

  “Fucking pendejo!” your companion yells as he pumps his shotgun.

  “Wait!” you call out. “The gunshot will attract them from every last room. This one’s too slow to be a problem.”

  “All right, let’s just get some food and get out.”

  You’re thinking more of the control room and the radio than you are of potato chips, but you nod and continue on. The zombie moans at you, but he’s slow enough that he’s only calling the other corpses away from you. Might make escape tricky, though, should they stay clustered at the entrance.

  You and your cop buddy wind through the hall, eventually coming to the main room. It’s wide open, with hundreds of pallets of potato chips. The conveyor belts are still running, and the low hum of the equipment prevents the zombies from hearing your footsteps. There are maybe half a dozen ghouls visible in the large room—three in convict orange and three in warehouse uniforms with hardhats. Evidently there was a large-scale prison break, with many inmates choosing this warehouse as their sanctuary, possibly bringing the scourge with them.

  Wrought-iron stairs lead up to the control room above, and there’s a large glass wall overlooking the floor of the warehouse. This must be where management oversaw the day’s shifts; it’s your best bet for radio communication.

  Still, you can’t help but feel this endeavor is foolhardy. The place is crawling with corpses, and you can easily imagine yourself trapped, the way the workers were when the inmates arrived. The cop ravenously digs into a nearby pallet of chips; he must not have eaten for days. The crunching and crinkling of the bags of chips alerts a nearby zombie. His moan alerts the rest of them.

  “Look, homie, I can kill all these Diablos. Then we can just stroll out, you know?” He pumps his shotgun in preparation. Then, almost as if their shift has begun, a dozen zombies walk out of the break room. Goddamn unions. Other workers emerge from behind pallets and crates.

  “Shit, man. We gotta get out of here. Let’s push one of these carts out. Maybe we can steal an RV?”

  You shake your head. There will be other chances for food. “We need some kind of distraction,” you say, looking around for other exits.

  He slings the shotgun over his back, takes out his sidearm, and picks up a box of chips with his free hand. “Look! There’s an alarm on the back wall. Go pull it!”

  “No way,” you say. “I’d be trapped.”

  “I knew you were a smart one,” he says. He pulls back the hammer on the pistol, cocking it, then aims the weapon at your chest. “You’re my ticket out of here, homie.”

  • “You’ll have to shoot me.”

  • Sprint for the control room!

  • Listen to the guy with the gun and pull the alarm. Maybe there’s another way out?

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Biker Gang

  The horde of a hundred undead swarms the entrance to the store, filing in one by one. They’re hungry and anxious, and throngs more are arriving from the surrounding area by the minute. Something shoots out from behind the crowd: seven figures on bicycles are leaving by the service entrance, speeding by in the background. It’s your group, escaping like a wily cartoon character slipping out from under a pile of animated foes.

  You speed away from the danger on your bicycles, but your daring attempt is by no means foolproof. You bob and weave through the stragglers, who are quick to realize their meal is trying to escape. Ahead there’s a body-builder zombie so large it puts 1980s Schwarzene
gger to shame. It moves to tackle you with its enormous meat hooks, but you veer away. With a furious roar it tries to stumble-run after the group, almost like a gorilla, but they split around him like a flock of birds and the zombie has no chance to catch up.

  For a time, you ride in silence. The only sounds are the zombie moans and the airy whirring of tires. It doesn’t take long until you’ve escaped the thick of them. Feeling victory, Deleon rings his handlebar bell with a smirk.

  * * *

  What would’ve taken an hour if you were walking whizzes by in less than twenty minutes. You’ve stopped on your bikes and are looking up at the school entrance. It’s not extra-large or glamorous, but to you it’s beautiful because it’s exceptionally pristine. No broken glass, no sign of forced entry. Evidently, there’s been no struggle here. A school isn’t the first place people think to go when the dead start to eat the living, and the odds are that most people died wherever that place was.

  Cooper breaks the reverent silence. “Let’s get inside, find a secure room, take shifts guarding, and get some rest.”

  “Amen,” Hefty replies.

  • Get some rest.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Black Swan Dive

  You leap off the building, hoping the mosh-pit below won’t hold you up and stop your fall. Good news! You lawn-dart your way through the crowd, your head smashes on the pavement, and you snap your neck. The bad news? You’re paralyzed but not dead, so you get to hear and see the crowd tear you apart and devour your flesh. Soon everything goes black forever. The nightmare is over.

  THE END