INFECTED (Click Your Poison)

by James Schannep

  The redneck stays on the landing and prepares to fire another arrow, but a god reaches up under the rail and grabs his leg. He screams out as he’s dragged down and gets trapped against the rail. You manage to sneak in and get a bite of glorious flesh.

  Then the athletic man pulls a rope release, felling a pile of rubble from the ceiling and crushing the redneck in the process. As he dies, so does your interest in him. That wasn’t very nice. Some members of the pantheon try to scramble through the rubble, but you join those who spread out in search of another way up.

  Eventually, you find another landing and walk up the stairs, gods and goddesses trailing behind you. As you make it up to the second floor, you see the tough woman and the scientist/doctor skid to a halt. They were running toward this stairwell, probably to seal it off—but they’re too late.

  She turns and kisses him as you stumble forward. Perhaps she sees the end coming, and rightly so. You are death, come to bring them eternal life. But then she pulls away and bashes him in the leg with her crowbar—not so sentimental after all. He falls to the floor and she runs away.

  • Follow the running woman.

  • Go after the injured scientist.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Nobody Puts Baby Out of Her Misery

  You step toward the pair, calm and collected, the way you’d want to look if anyone were watching. Four hungry arms reach out toward you. You bring the axe back and prepare to slam it into the child like you’re ringing the bell in the carnival strong-man tower. The thing that strikes you (before you strike it) isn’t anything in the infant’s appearance per se, but the singularly unbabylike manner in which the baby behaves. Not cooing or crying, but moaning. Not soaking in the world around it, but focused solely on you with lucid clarity.

  Your axe connects cleanly with the baby. You look away and mash your face in a clench, trying to block out the sickening squick that follows. It sounds like you just slammed your axe into a mudpot. The infant’s too young for fully-fused bones, so the axe slides right through the baby and into the mother’s chest cavity.

  You weren’t expecting such little resistance. Your momentum keeps pressing you toward the momma, and in an awkward flying slouch, you slap into her. She bites you right in the jawbone. Aaarrrgh! That hurt.

  You bounce back, ripping the axe out of her and tearing part of your cheek off in the process. With a surge of anger you cleave the axe sideways, beheading the ghoul. Her head bounces off the pavement, skipping across the street and rolling to where Deleon sits atop the fat man, pounding final bits of his skull with the hammer.

  Deleon rises from the corpse, wipes his sleeve across his brow and looks to you. He’s smiling slightly, proud of his kill, but that look stops immediately. Blood pours out of your face. Thick, nearly black blood.

  “You’ve… you’ve been bitten?” he asks in vain hope. You don’t say anything.

  The doctor rips his sleeve off and applies it to your face. “Keep pressure on it. The drugstore’s just up ahead, we’ll get you some gauze and wrap it right.”

  “You can cure me, right?” you ask, like a child asking a parent to make it better.

  There’s pain in Deleon’s eyes. “Of course. I just need more niacin. C’mon.”

  With axe in hand, you follow him to the drugstore.

  * * *

  This particular station hasn’t exploded… yet, though there are plenty of drugstores that are not so lucky. Maybe it’s because of the “Sorry, No Gas” signs up on the pumps, or because it’s too close to the heart of the city—anyone who wanted to evacuate probably planned on filling up on the way out. Still, it’s eerie to see such a popular locale with no patrons.

  You go up to the front door, looking in through the glass façade. As evidenced from the orderly shelves within, you see that people have yet to loot the road-trip snacks and caffeine-laden drinks. They may not be the most nutritious diet, but they’re high in calories and chock-full of preservatives, so they’ll do while you’re on the move.

  “Smash the glass,” you say, one hand still pressed against your wound.

  “What if it attracts more?”

  “So what? We’re both infected,” you reply drily.

  “They still want to… eat us.” He shakes his head and looks at the door. It’s unlocked, and he pulls it open. The familiar convenience store ding sounds as Deleon turns and smiles at you. Guess that works too.

  The two of you step into the dark store and immediately notice that people have indeed been here. Some food and drinks are missing, though the looters were kind enough to leave some for you.

  “Oh, no,” Deleon mutters. You follow his gaze. The door to the pharmacy in the back is open; through the portal you see that a car has smashed its way in. Deleon heads back there, frantically looking for what he needs, stepping over downed cinderblocks and debris.

  “Well?”

  “Raided,” he says, throwing an empty box to the ground. “This won’t work at all. We’ve got to get moving—hospital or supermarket?”

  “What about the cure, Doc?” you ask, catching a glint of reaction in his eye.

  “First things first; you’re losing blood. There’s no compress wraps, but…” He trails off, already on the move through the store. You follow him into the feminine hygiene aisle. He stops at some Maxipads, tears open a box and turns to you.

  “It’s not pretty, but it’ll stop the bleeding,” he says in response to your recoil. You lower the crimson-stained sleeve you were holding and let him apply the pad to your face, the adhesive strips contouring to your jawline.

  “The cure,” you say, growing weary.

  Deleon looks at the floor, then at his watch. “Okay, it’s just about time for my own injection. Let’s synch up.” He looks around nervously, then heads back toward the pharmacy again.

  The doctor makes his way to the manager’s office, a small room where important files are kept. He looks around. On the wall near the door is a set of keys, hanging on a hook. Deleon claims them.

  “What are those for?” you ask.

  “Listen… why don’t you sit down?” You do as requested. “Once I get a large enough supply of niacin, and a decent lab to work in, I’ll have a cure—I know I’m close.”

  You nod. “But you can keep me from turning until then, right?”

  He sighs. “Well, therein lies the problem. I’m running low, and we haven’t found any more niacin. We just left the apartment and already I’ll need to inoculate in…” He looks at his watch. “…ninety seven minutes.”

  That’s not right. “I thought you said we were synching up now?”

  You see in his eyes a look of realization. You both know you caught him in a lie. He backs toward the door, keys in hand and says, “I’m sorry. I’ll come back for you once I finish the cure.”

  • “You bastard!” Lunge at him and force him to inoculate you too.

  • “Swear to me that you will.” Resign yourself to the office with dignity and pray that he returns.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  No Light at the End

  For the first time, you feel the full strength of traveling with the pantheon. The number of immortals tallies in the thousands now, all of you shambling the path of the evacuation route, but not because of any conscious choice, or even a desire to be together. Such things are behind you now. The pantheon travels as a group of individual gods and goddesses, all homed in on the same cue—smell.

  The smell of gasoline reaches out to you the way a fresh pie cooling in a window on a hot summer day would for a human child. Or like Pepé Le Pew following the trail of his lover, for the cartoon aficionados in the group.

  Up ahead: traffic. Never before has this been a more welcome sight. Cars have been zooming by, smashing into immortals, crashing, flipping, getting torn open like cans of sardines, and just driving delightfully recklessly in general. In short, it’s been a fun journey.

  But all those red taillights, that’s where you’re headed. Humans st
art to panic, taking their sedans off-road or smashing their SUVs into other cars. You’re getting excited. You moan with pure joy.

  Up ahead, the source of the traffic becomes evident. The road leads into a tunnel (you used to know the name of it, but alas, the devil ate the details), which, as the world around grows dark, gleams like one giant flashlight.

  You enter the tunnel with your fellow immortals, some of whom have beaten you to the chase, and look for the best way to wreak havoc. A group of gods in hard hats rocks a car like an unruly vending machine, the passengers inside screaming in the most pleasing fashion. These blue-collar immortals must’ve been traveling together since the beginning. How touching.

  Anyone foolish enough to have a window rolled down is instantly plucked out of their vehicle. A few can’t help it, though. You know the car you used to see parked downtown occasionally? The one with the plastic sheet and duct tape where there used to be a window? It wasn’t fooling anyone then, and it’s not fooling the immortals now.

  People melt their tires, trying to push through the traffic in vain. And deep in the long tunnel, there’s no room for an alternate route. Some of the panicked humans try to abandon their vehicles and run; they’re easily picked off. Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen near you.

  You find a car with a family locked inside. The father/husband holds a crowbar tightly. This doesn’t bother you; the fact that no one’s eating them does. You pound one fist against the windshield. Then another. Again and again. The bones in your hands shatter; the windshield does not.

  Other gods and goddesses answer the call. Whatever passes for instinct among you drives those in the vicinity to join in. Good idea, they intone with their moans. Twenty fists pound the glass from all sides. Then thirty. Now fifty. Every square inch of space has immortals bashing their limbs against the car. Muffled cries from the children within excite the group further.

  Someone gains entry from the passenger’s-side window. Their pulpy hands reach in for the mother, only to be beaten back by the father. All the immortals rush toward the breach with arms groping. You’re closest, and able to shove your left arm through the window. The father beats your arm with his crowbar, but you don’t react. This whole feeling-no-pain thing is pretty cool!

  Finally, you get what you were hoping for: his wife’s hair. The atrous locks intertwine with the mash of your hands and you pull her out. The husband opens his door to help—big mistake. Immortals sweep over him and flood through the driver’s door.

  Like any delicious meal, she’s gone too quickly. In fact, so is the whole experience. Before you know it, the whole tunnel is dead, immortal, or waiting to rise. Time to move on to greener pastures.

  • I’m still hungry. How about an all-you-can-eat buffet?

  • Hmm, where do scared people go? Police station!

  • The dead are rising; a cemetery seems appropriate to continue my own personal horror movie.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  No Loitering

  This particular station hasn’t exploded… yet, though there are plenty of drugstores that are not so lucky. Maybe it’s because of the “Sorry, No Gas” signs up on the pumps, or because it’s too close to the heart of the city—anyone who wanted to evacuate probably planned on filling up on the way out.

  Still, it’s eerie to see such a popular locale with no patrons; a ghost ship, floating amidst a newly dead city. You step across thick lines of burnt rubber, stamped out across the pavement as a signature of chaos.

  You go up to the glass façade and look in. Some food and caffeine-laden drinks remain, but there have been looters here before you. Ding! You open the front door and step in. There’s a haze of dust, like what might be found at a construction site. None of the lights work—that entrance bell must have an independent battery.

  A single fluorescent light flickers on in the center of the room, but goes back out again. There’s enough ambient light leaching in from outside, but deep shadows hide within the aisles. The refrigeration has gone out, though everything in here is so packed with preservatives that there’s no rotting smell.

  You crunch over potato chips and pork rinds, scouting what remains of the store. Just as you stop to scoop some fruit pies and beef jerky into your backpack, a flutter sounds from the pharmacy in the back.

  You hold your axe high and check it out—best to make sure the place is clear before you put yourself into the vulnerable position of forager. It gets darker as you move away from the storefront and into the recesses of the shop.

  But there’s a light coming from the back as well, and after you pass the darkest point in the store, you see the source of this new illumination—a car has crashed through the back wall and into the pharmacy section.

  The whole area is raided. A few empty cardboard containers held medical supplies once, but nothing remains now, save for downed cinderblocks and dust. A black flash pulses out toward you from the shadows with severe intensity, and you find you’re swinging your axe at a raven. The bird screeches at you and loses feathers as it flees through the broken wall.

  You stand still for a moment, lower the axe as your muscles relax, and try to collect your breath while listening to distant fluttering and your own heart pounding. Turning back toward the food, you see another burst of black lighting—only this time the shadow isn’t fleeing.

  It’s pursuing.

  A woman reaches out at you. The axe reels back up in a fierce eruption of instinct. You batter her away, then rush in and swing the blade. She’s so close you’re only able to hit her with the first third of your swing, but it’s enough to knock her down. You bring the axe down over the ghoul over and over until you’re still and listening to your heartbeat once more.

  Then you feel it—the throb on your arm. Even now there’s the raised evidence of teeth. Red, swollen, and punctured. You’ve been bitten.

  This is why survivors never travel alone.

  But don’t worry, in six short hours, you won’t be alone—you will be legion.

  • Time to wander.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  No More Orders

  “Area One, clear,” Tyberius reports in over the radio.

  “Copy that, come on back,” Deleon’s voice chirps in reply. “Hefty, are you in position?”

  “Area Two, clear.”

  “All right, Hefty. Bring it home.”

  “Okay, Newbie,” Sims says to you. “Straight ahead is the third barricade. You can take this flashlight and report in if you want. I’m going to the student radio station, and I’m broadcasting a distress call. I don’t care if you come with me, but you’re not going to stop me, so…”

  “Sims, what’ve you got?” the radio crackles.

  Sims removes a spare radio and offers it to you. Make your choice.

  • “Let’s go put in that distress call.”

  • “Good luck.” Take the flashlight and radio.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Nothing In or Out

  Tyberius uses his considerable strength to stack desk upon desk around the entrances to the school. Since you believe in working smarter and not harder, you section off the extremities of the school by sliding the large black partition gates across the halls. Between the two of you, you leave open only the service entrance at the rear, which is guarded by a sturdy metal door, the kind that rolls up and down for delivery trucks.

  With one of those carts used to wax the floor as a makeshift plow, you push desks and shelves against the entrances to strengthen the barricades. With your help, Tyberius hoists up volleyball nets, filled with more desks and chairs, above the stairs. With a quick release of the ropes, the furniture would collapse from the ceiling and seal off the stairwells. In the event of an attack, you could hide out on the top level.

  “Good work,” Tyberius says. The school, by your estimation, is now defensible.

  • Return to the gym.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Not Interested

  You turn away from the long, t
an wall that stretches across the neighborhood like a desert serpent. Time to check the houses for supplies, then head out.

  Some homes are boarded up, some had their boards removed by force, and others just look deserted. You see one house that looks less touched by the calamity than the others—no boards, minimal damage; was it abandoned? Perhaps the owner was away when the world ended? Perhaps they left food inside?

  Then there’s a demolished house; it’s been razed to the ground. That being said, there’s a large treehouse in the back. If your time in the attic taught you anything, it’s the value of the high ground—even when that height sits just above arm’s reach.

  So, where do you look for some extra food?

  • I like the house where the door is busted in. If the zombies invaded early, there’s probably still food inside.

  • The untouched house. As in, no brains splayed out across the cans of spam and jars of peanut butter I’ll find within.

  • Around to the treehouse behind the demolished house. I’ve been in closed-in spaces long enough.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Not Without a Fight

  You lunge at the man in anger. All the faith you’ve put into him, and this is how he repays you? Bastard, indeed.

  The doctor swings his cast at you, clobbering you in the head. Unlike someone with a real fracture beneath their cast, he’s strong and firm, and the cast serves as a powerful bludgeon. You fall to the floor, your head fuzzy with the near-concussion.

  Before you can regroup, he slams the door and locks it from outside. You stand, one hand on your head where he struck, the other furiously trying the doorknob.