“The one who created Gilgazyme?” the engineer asks.
“Yes!” Dr. Lolani shouts.
“He has a cure, and he’s bringing it with him,” Colonel Gray smiles.
“Why don’t we go help him?” you ask, ready to go.
“Once the cure is applied, the living dead no longer see you as food,” Irving says. “He’s able to walk among them now, and soon so shall we.”
“My sister…” Lucas says with dread.
“Rosie,” you say to him. “We can still go out and save her.” Lucas looks up to you with purpose and nods.
“Of course,” the journalist says. “And many others. This is just the beginning.”
“No, it’s over… we’ve won,” you reply.
“Indeed!” Arthur Gray laughs. “Now let’s celebrate.”
• Click to Continue.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Congrats
When you make it back to Salvation, the entire population is there to hail your arrival, cheering and hollering. People throw toilet paper-like streamers and sprinkle you with confetti (paper shredder residuals) from the catwalk above.
As you exit the jeep, men and women alike fall on the ground before you, kissing your hands. You share the same What’s going on? look with Lucas and the engineer. You notice bottles of wine and liquor bandied about by the three-sheets-to-the-wind populace.
The Colonel’s personal assistant, the smartly dressed woman carrying an attaché case whom you met in the cafeteria yesterday, greets you all with a smile and tears in her eyes. “Come with me,” she says. “The pastor wants to tell you himself.”
Entering the command post, the staffed security personnel rise and give you a standing ovation while Irving Gray snaps your picture. Dr. Celeste Lolani is a sobbing mess and gives you the most genuine hug you’ve ever had.
Arthur Gray’s face is filled with emotion when he sees you. Finally, he throws up his hands and shouts, “You did it!” The master-of-arms soldier gives each of you a mug of amber liquid smelling of whiskey. “Not five minutes after you activated the radio, we contacted a survivor group in the city,” the colonel explains. “They were under attack, and for some of them we’re sadly too late…”
“Dr. Lewis Deleon is alive, and on his way here now,” Irving interjects, allowing his father to clear the emotion from his throat.
“The one who created Gilgazyme?” the engineer asks.
“Yes!” Dr. Lolani shouts.
“He has a cure, and he’s bringing it with him,” Colonel Gray smiles.
“A cure?” you ask.
“Once the cure is applied, the living dead no longer see you as food,” Irving says. “He’s able to walk among them now, and soon so shall we.”
“My sister…” Lucas says with dread.
“Rosie,” you say to him.
To the confused onlookers’ dismay, Lucas unsheathes his sword, turns it around, grips the blade, and shoves the tip into his stomach in the bushido-ritualized suicide of seppuku. He collapses to the floor as the doctor and colonel rush in. Lucas twists and removes both the sword and his life-force with his last ounce of strength before he dies.
Irving snaps a picture.
Well, that’s all. That is, if you can live with Rosie’s blood on your hands, and… how many others have you killed? How many fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters could have been cured but never will be because of you? Remember when you wantonly discharged your shotgun into the crowds of undead? Crowds of people.
So, what’ll it be?
• Follow Lucas’ example.
• Tell yourself you did what you did to survive.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Control Room
You knew something seemed off about this guy, and you’re not about to let him get you killed. Without a word, you turn and make haste to the stairway. He’s surprised, and that one moment of split-second indecision buys your way out. He shoots at you, the bullet glancing off the iron stairs with a high-pitched twang. He shoots again, another miss, and you make it to the control room.
Inside is a grisly sight: the foreman shot himself, and the rotting gore of his brain coats half the room. There’s a revolver on the floor. You pick it up—there are three shots left. The door behind you opens. You turn to see the cop, his handgun raised; you put two slugs into his chest without batting an eyelash.
He falls backward out of the room, tumbling down the steps. He’s a big man and the shots didn’t kill him, but he’s not getting back up, either. At least this will buy you some time. You look out through the glass window at the warehouse floor below. The gunshots have gotten the zombies excited; they converge on the stairs with frantic anticipation.
You want to block the door, but the only thing here that isn’t bolted down is a wheeled office chair. Well, that sucks. Still, you flip it upside-down and brace it against the door. It might stop one zombie, for a minute at most.
You key the mike. “Hello—hello?” Your voice echoes into the warehouse below. More zombies emerge from the woodwork. Okay, wrong mike.
By now the undead are eating what’s left of the cop out on the stair landing. You try what looks like a CB radio, click the dial to Public Address, and announce, “Mayday, SOS, anybody out there?”
The ghouls pound on the door to the office, eager to get in. You flip the receiver to auto-scan and wait for a reply. Each channel clicks by—there’s only static. There’s nobody out there, it would appear. Your door gives way to the zombies. You’ve got one bullet left:
• I’ll opt out.
• Shoot the first zombie, go down fighting.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
The Coward’s Reward
You sprint away from the violence, leaving all your gear and weapons behind, but as soon as you breach the front door’s frame, you’re greeted by an enormous monkey wrench swinging toward you at face-level. This leaves you just enough time to close your eyes and crumple your face into a grimace before the forged steel connects cleanly across your jaw.
Lights out. But in the last moment of consciousness, you hear a woman say, “Oh shit, I think this one was alive.”
* * *
Through the fog of unconsciousness, a terrible noise reaches out and drags you back into the realm of the living. You’re on the floor, unable to bring yourself out of the groggy ache enough to fully realize where you are. That piercing sound ringing in your ears is a house alarm that won’t let you fall back asleep.
You move your head from side to side, your own clotted blood making your hair stick to the carpet. As your vision and some mental capacity returns, you jump up on all fours at the sight of a zombie next to you. Or, at least what used to be a zombie. Now it’s just a corpse, like all the rest. Whoever struck you earlier was kind enough to dispatch both Housewife and Thieving Zombie, and then leave you to die. But based on the amount of blood on the floor, it’s possible they thought you already were dead.
You reach up and feel the pulp that is now your face. Trying to ignore that, you use the kitchen table to pull yourself up and then take a step on uncertain legs. You’re like a newborn fawn, struggling with uncoordinated muscles, and you fall to the floor again.
When you look up once more, you’re no longer alone. The undead rush in to investigate the house alarm and are more than happy to find you perched on your knees beneath the dinner bell. You’re in no shape to do anything but get eaten.
THE END
Coyote in the City
You keep moving, not looking back. You’re better off alone, especially with that group of misfits as your only choice. You take inventory: you’ll need food, water, shelter, and maybe firepower. From behind, several house alarms screech out. You remove your binoculars and look back.
The National Guard wall has given way. Bursting forth like too many parasites from a distended stomach, the zombie horde has demolished the barrier under their collective weight. There are hundreds if not thousands of the fiends, all marchi
ng forward, excited and frenzied. The moan, like a buzzing beehive on a massive scale, comes at you with enough sound to drown out a freight train.
The neighborhood is flooded with undead, and there’s no sign of the other survivors. From where you’re standing, it looks like you made a good choice. The next path is out of the suburbs, and quickly. But where to?
• Local pawn shop. Guns are priority one.
• Time to go underground. Literally. Into the sewers and out of the open!
• Get the staples first. The corner market should have all I need.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Crack Shot
Rosie shows you how to adjust the scope to best suit your vision, how to load the magazine and how to chamber a round, where the safety is, and tells you to calmly breathe out while squeezing—not pulling—the trigger. “Aim for the top of his head,” she says in a whisper. “At this range, the bullet’ll sink a bit.”
The Ranger moves so slowly he might as well be a stationary target. You set up, bracing yourself in order to best stabilize the shot, and squeeze off a round. Crack—the tree next to him splashes bark from your missed shot. The zombie looks to the tree with confusion and paws at the spot.
“It’s okay, try again. You pulled to the right because you pulled the trigger. Just let your finger squeeze closed, as if the motion is unrelated to shooting.”
You take in a lungful of air, then slowly let it out, preparing for your next shot. As you fire the round, you see the ghoul’s neck burst open. Close, but not a head shot, and the downside of a .22 caliber is that you don’t get any breathing room for a miss. If this was a .50 cal, the Ranger’s head would’ve blasted off from a neck shot.
The zombie turns toward the sound of the rifle. You’ve been spotted. He tries to moan, but the tracheotomy you just performed at least prevents that. You’ve got him excited, and his body is otherwise intact and “healthy,” so he stumble-runs toward you. It’s not a sprint, but he’s closing the football field between you faster than you’d like.
“Keep going,” Rosie says.
You crack off another shot, but now the zombie Ranger’s head is bobbling every which way and you’re panicked with adrenaline. You take another wild shot, the bullet flying somewhere into the woods past him. He gets within ten yards of you. You take another, and another—both sinking into his chest, but the .22 has no stopping power and he keeps coming.
When he’s right on top of you, Rosie lunges in from the side, piercing his skull at the temple with her Marine combat knife. He falls dead. “Not as easy as it looks, is it? It’ll come with time, but for now, I hope you’re appreciating your axe a little more.”
You think of a response, but before you can give it, the distinctive moan of the undead fills the woods around you. You look around and see that the cacophony of gunshots you unleashed has alerted more zombies to your location. The 10/22 rifle may be quieter than larger firearms, but it is by no means silent. A Scoutmaster and his troop of zombie Boy Scouts, who were most likely traveling with the Ranger in life, come at you from the side.
“Rifle,” Rosie says, an arm outstretched to receive her weapon.
You stare at the flesh-hungry youngsters headed your way; but something doesn’t feel right, and you can’t move.
“Those aren’t kids,” she says, as if reading your thoughts, “Demons in kid’s bodies, maybe. Zulu ain’t people—Rifle!”
You give it to her and she immediately goes into action, popping out the magazine you were firing—a banana-clip duct-taped to another clip for easy reloading—flipping it around, and inserting the fresh clip. She’s got twenty-five rounds to take out the dozen zombies, and she does it in exactly twelve. Clean, efficient, one headshot each.
Rosie revisits each zombie, ensuring that there is no movement in each one, to be sure the coast is clear. Then she suddenly dives to one side in a roll—a paintball move, no doubt—and cracks off two more shots behind you.
Two more bodies fall, a man and a woman, still decked out in their hiking backpacks. You didn’t even know they were there, and they were almost upon you!
Rosie looks at you with scorn. “Next time there’s a firefight, at least watch my back.”
• You look away. “We’d better get going, more are probably on their way.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Crossroads
“I am so fucking tired,” Hefty says. You’ve been walking all night. The sun has risen, but the world still appears blue in the cool light of morning. The group is in rough shape: dirty, covered in soot, and salty from dried sweat. Eyes red and baggy from no sleep. And you have no equipment.
All you want to do is lie down and sleep. Your arms ache from carrying the axe, and you can’t even feel your legs anymore. You move with your team down the street, well, like zombies, too tired to even talk until Sims randomly laughs aloud.
“That’s why they call me Hefty,” he says. The laugh is contagious, and one by one you all join in the college-all-nighter-it’s-2am brand of laughter. It’s not as funny as all that, but your abs ache and tears come to your eyes. You’re laughing just to laugh. It’s a welcome break from exhaustion and stress.
You move past a cross street with a “Zoo to the right” sign. Following the sign with your eyes, you see a rhinoceros rooting through trash. You stop and watch. The folds of the rhino’s skin border on plate mail, dry and hot in the sun. It’s almost surreal, seeing this giant animal out in the open. Despite the fact that his whiskers are brushing aside greasy plastic bags, the animal looks somehow majestic amongst the post-apocalyptic violence of the city. Deleon takes notice and says, “I am not capitulating.”
“What’s that?” you ask.
“Nothing. Something from a play I read in college.”
Sims appears on his other side. “Wasn’t the Bard, was it?” he asks.
Deleon smiles. “No, it wasn’t the Bard.”
“That thing… isn’t one of them, right?”
Deleon rubs a dirty hand against his beard stubble. “The ‘infection’—if you can call it that—isn’t a virus at all. It’s an alteration of the genetic code, meaning it’s DNA-specific, so there’s no risk of interspecies contamination.” He catches a confused look from Sims. “Only people.”
“How do you know that?” Sims presses.
“Hey!” Hefty shouts. “Les’ go sleep in that bank. We can go into the vault.” You turn to see what he’s talking about.
“What a sec… That’s my bank!” Tyberius yells. The street façade is barely recognizable, even to those who used to live and work here. The city is just a shadow of its former self. Tyberius starts to jog over to the bank, and with renewed energy, you find yourself bounding over with the rest of the group.
The sign above the large glass entrance reads, “MARSHLAND STATE BANK,” and the interior is filled with zombies. They mill about the entry, becoming excited as you approach. No sounds escape as they pound the glass, but the streaks already present at fist-level indicate you’re not the first passers-by.
Tyberius moves right up against the glass, fearless. His breath steams as he looks at the white-collar zombies. They, on the other hand, have no breath. “I know all these people. That dude was an asshole. Oh, fuck her. There’s my boss!”
“So how ‘bout it, Coop? Maybe there’s an armored car inside?” Hefty says.
She shakes her head. “They’re enclosed—and silent.”
“We’re almost there anyway,” Sims interjects. “Actually, we’re just about exactly halfway between the guns and the school.”
“Awww, Jeff didn’t make it out? Jeff was good people,” Tyberius says to the zombies.
Deleon clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest. “Look,” he says. “I don’t want to get into this debate again, but I think the loss of our supplies re-emphasizes the need to get to the school first.”
“I don’t want to debate, either,” Cooper answers. “It’s early enough in the day that we can go get guns
and take the school before dinner.”
“Why? Why can’t it wait a few hours?” He says with anger in his voice.
“Why? Weapons count, who’s got what? I’m out.” She holds up empty hands. You frown; she’s right about that. Some of them lost their weapons in the fire, you realize.
Sims holds up his Rambo knife. “I’ve got Isabelle.” Hefty holds up empty hands, though you remember when he abandoned his heavy lead pipe on the night’s march. Deleon raises up his hammer for inspection.
“One dull axe,” you declare.
Tyberius holds up his police baton. “I’ve got this Brotha’ Beater.”
“Ooh, bad idea,” Sims says, sucking the ooh in through his teeth. “It can’t deal a killing-blow. It’s designed that way, so…”
Tyberius tosses it over his shoulder. “I’m out.”
Everyone looks at Guillermo. “Jose?” Cooper asks. He raises up his frying pan and his meat-cleaver. Cooper holds out a hand. “Give me one.” He slowly shakes his head, comprehending yet refusing. She takes a step forward. He takes a step back, raising the cleaver. “Fine,” she says, giving up. “But the point stands. We won’t do well in an encounter with the undead.”
• “Cooper—we’re all exhausted. The guns will be there tomorrow.”
• “She’s right, Doc. And who knows what we’ll have to fight off at the school?”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
The Cure
The group has reconvened at the gym, and Deleon is wide awake. He holds a syringe of blue liquid, the formula glimmering in the light of the lanterns. It’s nearly sunset and the skylights don’t bathe the gym in light like they once did. “So that’s it?” Cooper asks, looking at the supposed cure.
“I believe so. What we need now is a guinea pig. If you’ll permit me,” Deleon says, holding up his pointer finger. He passes the syringe to you and jogs off across the gym. He reaches a doorway, with the word “VISITORS” prominently painted above. With a wave, the doctor bids you come closer.
INFECTED (Click Your Poison) Page 5