INFECTED (Click Your Poison)

by James Schannep

But don’t worry, your legacy will live on in the half-dozen survivors from the elevator. You see, you’ve infected them, and the six-hour incubation period will make tonight fun for the hospital staff at Las Vegas General.

  THE END

  Machiavellian

  You turn away from Deleon’s anguished cursing and follow Cooper down the hall. You can hear the doctor grunting and crawling as the undead growl and shuffle after him. Eventually, you don’t hear anything anymore, once you’re far enough away.

  You enter the nurse’s office and Cooper starts rummaging through the supplies the group had previously stashed here. “You grab food, I’ll grab emergency supplies,” she says.

  In less than a minute, you’re out of the office and on the move once more. Your arms are so full of foodstuffs, you’re constantly dropping canned supplies. Cooper does the same with her full load. Without incident, you make it to the roof access stairwell and up to the roof. One of the parcels Cooper drops prevents the roof door from fully closing, but neither of you notice.

  “Goddamn, Sims,” Cooper says, looking at the siren and search lights.

  “Maybe his plan worked?” you respond. “Rescue could be on the way.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping. He said he contacted somebody, so now all we have to do is sit here and wait.”

  “All he ever wanted to do in the first place,” you muse.

  “Don’t get sentimental on me now, Newbie.”

  Then the roof doorway opens. You turn back to see Deleon limply moving toward you. His color is washed out by the repeated blue and red light splashes, and it’s difficult to see how pale and dead he looks.

  “You?” Cooper says in disbelief, walking toward him. “Your cure worked?”

  The spotlight swings by and lights up Zombie Deleon. She sees he’s undead and takes out her crowbar. They meet in the middle; she raises her crowbar and swings it at his head. He catches her forearm and they both look at it. A look of panic crosses her face. The closest thing to a smile is on his face.

  He pulls her to himself and bites down hard on the base of her neck. She screams. You rush to help, but it’s too late. The rest of the horde pours out of the stairwell and onto the roof. Trying to find a last, desperate escape, you run to the edge.

  You can’t even see the ground, so thick is the pavement with undead. They come at you now, ready to feed on your flesh, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Your axe is no match for the two dozen—and more on their way. This is it, you will be devoured beneath the stars. Your blood will appear alternately clear and black beneath the red and blue strobe.

  • No it won’t! JUMP—head first.

  • Try to take one or two out before they eat you.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Many Moons…

  Some time passes. You’re not sure how much, as time doesn’t mean much to the ageless, but it was dark and then it was light, and that pattern repeated itself for several iterations. Human beings are less frequently encountered and better armed than they were in the beginning… so that sucks.

  But there goes one right now! Across the wet pavement, his boots hitting puddles and disrupting the reflected starlight as he runs. Apparently he thinks his shotgun will keep him safe while he goes out for food. Time to prove him wrong.

  The local pantheon of immortals descends upon him, yourself included, elbowing their way through the gods and goddesses already tailing him. He slams against a door but finds it won’t budge. “Open the door, hurry up, goddammit!” he shouts as he pounds against it. “Open the fucking door!” His voice shrieks with strain.

  Knowing this is the end, he turns back to face the crowd with his shotgun raised. You’re seventh in line. The immortals push forward and BOOM! the shotgun gives the first goddess’s face the firecracker-inside-the-pumpkin treatment. He slides back the pump action, feeds another shell into the breach, and blows away the next immortal.

  He’s quick, and your compatriots drop to the pavement in less than a second each. One, two, three down. Only one more god between you and the human—oh boy, it’s almost your turn! He sprays the last immortal’s face all over yours, then pumps and levels the weapon at your forehead—click.

  Has there ever been a more beautiful sound? He pumps once more, and once more: click. That’s one of the many great things about eating people, no reloading. You bring him down to the pavement, his writhing form directly atop the slain immortals, and others of the pantheon help you feed.

  The rest of the crowd decides it’s only right to honor this man’s memory by bashing in the door and finding out exactly why he wanted in there. From the screams, it must’ve been his home base and he led the pantheon right to them. Unfortunately, jackpots like this one are increasingly hard to stumble across.

  When everybody’s holed up and hiding, where’s a hungry immortal to go?

  • Shopping mall… I bet they’re all hiding there.

  • Into the sewer! Because why not?

  • Peaceful vegan commune.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Marshes

  Finally, you’re to the last barrier before wilderness melts into civilization once more. Or at least that’s what Lucas Tesshu believes. You hope he’s right. Zombie movies always portray shelter as too good to be true, bastions as much of hope as hubris—but that’s just fiction, right? People always band together through tough times; always have and always will. Survivors make this rockin’ world go ‘round. Things will be okay…

  The forest grows denser and moister with every step until you reach a point of clear differentiation. It’s forest behind you and swamp before you. Despite the bright of day, you see nothing but darkness within the mire you approach. The canopy blocks out much of the light, giving the swampland a dim but still visible appearance.

  The new land starts to form slowly, with a few steps wetter than just the morning dew, the foliage growing greener and denser still, until the forest transforms into almost a jungle. Soon the puddles of stagnant water do more than just squeeze out from the grass underfoot, and you find swamp pouring into your shoes from above. The water rises to mid-calf level before you’ve even traversed twenty yards into the bog.

  “Is it much further?” you ask in a hushed whisper.

  “I do not believe so,” Lucas replies. “But, in truth, this is my first visit.”

  He walks with one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other spread out before him with palm down as if he could navigate by feel. You keep close. Some steps sink further than others, but the overall trend is a deepening of the marsh. You’re now wading in brackish water up to your thighs.

  There’s a thick film of algae on the surface, which you break when you wade through, and the stale water beneath is brown and cloudy. You’re hoping it won’t get much deeper. There’s an eerie silence. To your horror, you realize this is patently wrong. In a place as rich and biodiverse as this, there should be frogs or insects at the least.

  “Shouldn’t there be animal noises?” you ask.

  Lucas stops and so do you. Both of you stand frozen, listening. No sounds, just eldritch silence, save for the sloshing water settling into place. A few bubbles percolate in the pool ahead of you. Then they grow in intensity. Lucas makes to move toward you, but stops just as bubbles start appearing on his side as well. These globules of rank air escape from below, and soon you’re surrounded by blistering froth, rollicking something deep from within.

  A wetland zombie comes at you from behind a tree, catching you off-guard, almost as if the bubbles were a planned ruse. “Take him; clean and easy,” Master Tesshu commands. You’re between the zombie and his blade, and there’s not enough time for you to flee. You’re forced to fight. You crack your axe against the ghoul, instantly collapsing his forehead with the blow.

  Another rises from the murk. Dramatically. Slowly. Up from a curled position, one vertebra at time, like a yogi exiting a pose. With a metallic shing! Lucas cuts through both air and fiend with equal ease.
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br />   Then more undead rise from the marsh, four of them, thick brown sludge pouring off their bodies. They’re not decaying, but the flesh is missing in chunks and most of the skin has been picked away by the swamp’s other inhabitants.

  You swing at the one closest to you, but the weapon’s too large and ungainly and gets caught in the vines and branches. The nearby zombie moves in on you. Lucas is busy dispatching the other attackers and cannot help.

  Thinking quickly, you pull a knife from your belt and jab it into the ghoul’s eye, push it all the way in, palm flat against his face. The zombie drops. Two more come from behind the trees and head for you. Lucas Tesshu swings his katana in a circular arc, not dispatching his assailants, but at least keeping them at bay. He too is hindered by the thick vegetation.

  You try popping one of your attackers in the face with the axe, but you don’t have the room for a killing blow. It’s all you can do to keep them at bay, and even that proves too much for you. One of the zombies grabs your left arm, and while you struggle to keep away from his mouth, the other zombie grabs your right arm.

  They pull at you from opposite sides, spreading you like Christ on the cross, the undead centurions threatening to crucify you right here in the swamp. Lucas rushes to help, but gets held up by a zombie of his own. She bites down on him, though his kendo armor keeps teeth away from flesh.

  With his sword effectively useless in the underbrush, Lucas uses his martial arts skills to avoid their grasps and parry their bites. You wish you had those skills. The zombies draw you out as if over a medieval rack; the quartering will come next.

  A crack echoes across the swamp—it’s not a cannon boom, but more like a cherry-bomb bursting in the distance. Your right arm is free; the zombie falls into the water with a slap. Another crack and one of Lucas’s assailants drops dead with a bullet hole in the head. He’s then able to remove his secondary weapon, a short sword, and fight back against the remaining two.

  You continue to struggle with your lone ghoul. Suddenly, the source of the gunshots makes her presence known. “Get out of the way, Goddammit!” she shouts to you. It’s a teenage girl in paintball armor.

  You shove the zombie away, and she blows his brains out with another shot of her rifle. Skull and flesh sprays into the air and sends a hundred ripples into the water around you. She sweeps her rifle, looking for further danger, but Lucas has already dispatched the remaining undead.

  “Are either of you bit?” she yells.

  “No,” Lucas says, sheathing his weapons.

  You shake your head and raise your hands in reflex at having a gun pointed at you. She lowers the rifle and raises her mask. She’s cute, seventeen, and a redhead.

  “I go by Rosie. You know, the Riveter? World War II, sleeve rolled up, ‘We can do it,’ and all that? I’m sure you’ve seen the poster. Anyway, you two looked like you needed a hand. We can stick together if you want, but fair warning—I’ll shoot ya as soon as you get bit. Whaddya say?”

  Then, with an unexpected speed and ferocity, one last zombie bursts out of the water behind her and grabs a handful of her hair. Rosie screams and the ghoul brings her down, splashing into the water below.

  • Reach in and save her!

  • Heroes die first. Watch with shocked helplessness.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Mayday, Mayday, Mayday

  The tower is suspended sixty feet in the air—a relic of the old style. Constructed out of metal latticework with a winding open-air staircase, the control room itself is glass-walled with a high enough roof for the controllers to view most of the sky from within.

  You ascend the stairs, taking the lead due to your shotgun, hoping to find the doctor above. Wind shoots through the open staircase, bringing a chill to your skin. “Don’t look down,” Lucas says. Despite the chill, you perspire from adrenaline.

  At the top, you’re given only a waist-high guardrail to prevent you from tumbling over the side to your demise. The door to the control room is open and once inside, it’s only a few seconds before you’re made painfully aware the doctor is not here.

  Rosie depresses a nearby radio call switch on the control panel. “Come in, Salvation, this is Rescue Team One.”

  There’s a pause, and you’re about to declare the radio dead, when it chirps to life with static. “Rescue Team, this is Colonel Gray, we read. Any sign of the doctor? Over.”

  “None yet, but we’ll keep going. Over and out.”

  Lucas rubs his face, finally clean-shaven, and muses aloud, “The radio is still operational, which means the doctor left the tower by will and was not able to get back. She must be trapped in either the terminal or the hangar.”

  Or she’s dead, you think. Instead of saying as much, you just nod and turn to leave. Rosie is out the door first and casts her gaze over the rail. “Uh-oh.” Those might be the two worst syllables when the dead walk the earth.

  You look down, ready to see zombies, but not remotely ready for what’s below. Your scent must’ve been on the wind because there’s already a sizeable crowd gathered beneath you. And the stairs won’t outsmart them the way a ladder might.

  “Now what?” Rosie asks.

  • “Use the staircase as a choke point and call in Rescue Team Two.”

  • “Lucas, pull the pins on that grenade belt, then drop it overboard.”

  • “Let’s force our way down. We’ve got more ammo than they have heads, right?”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Mexican Food

  Guillermo just shrugs when you follow him. But once he gets in the cafeteria, it’s like you’re not there. Finally, this man is home. He runs his fingers over the implements, gingerly testing every knife, pot, and pan. “Bueno,” he says, acknowledging you.

  From the back, Guillermo raises an economy-sized can of beef. With a huge grin he offers you a high-five. Looks like plenty of food in the storeroom! If nothing else, at least that’s in your favor. Guillermo goes to work, hands flying across the implements.

  “¿Qué tal si nos hacen un banquete, amigo?” he says. Seeing your blank look, he adds, “Comida… ‘food’… mucho comido, no?”

  Guillmermo shrugs. He waves you away as he gets back to work.

  • Return to the gym.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Moan, Sweet Moan

  You roam the city like you own it; out in the open and on the lookout for possible food. It seems any remaining humans have already gone into hiding and—if you had the capacity—you’d be surprised just how many other immortals wander the streets around you. It’s not a coordinated effort, but a group of individuals, each migrating toward whatever scrap of memory sends them toward loved ones. It’s sort of like the airport over the holidays.

  It’s peaceful. No traffic, no radios, not even any birds chirping. Something’s on fire in the distance, but save for that, it’s only a calm breeze. Mother Earth will thank you for cleansing her breast of rotting, festering humanity. Mother.

  You stand at your parents’ doorstep without even realizing you’ve arrived. Your senses search in unison, but there’s no sound, and apparently no way in. The windows are boarded up. You pound lightly against the door.

  “My baby!” your mother screams from within.

  “Quiet!” Father chastises.

  “Open the door, open it! We can let our child in, there’s still time!”

  The sounds of barricade removal: a dresser scraping along the floor, a couch tumbling off the pile, boards pried loose from the frame.

  “Come in—hurry,” Dad says, with an outstretched arm to grab you.

  Again you’d be surprised if you were capable of such a thing, but instead you just accept the invitation. You grab hold of his arm and, with strength he wasn’t expecting, pull him out of the house and onto the lawn.

  A few other gods and goddesses pick up on the cue—is that moan coming from you? And they stagger over to see what all the fuss is about.

  “Leave him alone, that’s your father!” Mo
m shouts as you eat dear old dad. Mother. You leave your writhing father for the other immortals and move toward the house.

  Finally recognizing the signs of your oedipal rage, she slams the door—on your fingers. Four of the digits on your left hand snap under the power of her adrenaline-fueled shove, but this doesn’t bother you in the least. If anything, it’s a good thing; the door isn’t closed and you can force your way in.

  You do so, bringing the neighborhood with you. It’s an end-of-the world block party. Your mother, never ready for company, runs back into her room for cover.

  This isn’t just another fad, Mom. This is eternal life. You’ll like it, just let me show you. Feeding your child from your own body is natural, healthy, and has many benefits for both mother and offspring. You have your mother’s eyes.

  Once you’ve finished, you rise, and your mind tells your body where to go. There are other people out there you know, but that memory has faded. Where are you now? What’s this house? Memory has given way completely to instinct. Your feet start moving, but where are they taking you?

  • To the hospital. I want to give back, share this gift, heal the sick.

  • I’m gonna keep rockin’ the suburbs.

  • Isn’t there a nursery or an old-folks’ home somewhere around here? I like slow prey.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Morning After

  For the first time in weeks, you’re refreshed. On an intellectual level, you know that sleeping in a prison cell on the same twin mattress that a convicted killer spent eighteen hours a day on shouldn’t be the most comfortable of conditions, but you slept like a babe. That prison cell was more of a safe and secure crib than anything else. It isn’t until the next morning that you realize your luxury suite is anything but.