“I don’t blame you for trying that,” his muffled voice comes from outside. “And I truly am sorry, but I’ve no choice. I’ll come back for you!”
You slam against the door, desperate to be free, desperate to catch the man before he leaves. You plead a mix of panic and anger, but still he abandons you. You keep at the door: kicking it, slamming the office chair against it—nothing works. Still, you don’t give up.
In less than six hours you’ll become a zombie. The Gilgazyme ® works vigorously within, changing you. No choice here.
• Now become Death, destroyer of worlds.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Of Rats and Men
You mop closer to the action, trying to learn what you can. Dr. Deleon looks into one of the Test Group terrariums. He removes a digital voice recorder from the pocket of his lab coat.
“Test Group Foxtrot appears more lethargic and morose than usual. No evidence of sleeping or eating for several days now.” He makes some annotations on a clipboard hanging under the tank before continuing his dictation. “The rich and famous have already started taking the drug, and no one seems ‘bored’ or ‘tired,’ though I am still concerned about outlying reactions to the genetic alteration. Doctor Phoenix doesn’t share my reservations, citing potential competition as reason to move ahead quickly. I’m supposed to be comforted by this dog-eat-dog…”
He lowers the recorder and his eyes grow wide with realization. He looks to the test group, turns around to look at a control terrarium, then back again. He marches to the opposing wall, and reaches in to claim an unaltered rat. He returns, slowly lowering the healthy rat into the Foxtrot tank.
You watch closely. The unexposed rat squirms and squeaks in protest as Deleon lowers it into the terrarium. The other mice flock onto the cornered mouse and RIP IT TO SHREDS.
Deleon looks at you with horror on his face. “Dear God… What have I done?”
So much for any thoughts you had about bringing down the company or stealing a sample of Gilgazyme®. This thing’s going to bring down the world. It makes people eat each other, and it’s already out there? You feel a panic attack coming on.
Deleon starts packing supplies from the facility, shoving vials and notes into a leather bag. “I’m afraid we can’t alert the authorities,” he says. “I’ll turn myself in when the time comes, but for now we must keep silent. I’ve been working on a potential reversal at home, but I can’t finish the formula from prison. Hopefully I can catch this thing before it gets too big, but if not—I’d lay low if I were you.”
• “Yeah, right! Celebrities are going to start eating people? You just said you might have a cure—I’m coming with you; no ifs, ands, or buts.”
• “Oh I’ll lay low. Boards and nails. I can survive off my ramen noodles and Kraft easy-mac until you figure this thing out.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
On a Mission
The Command Post is actually the prison’s security room. There’s someone monitoring the camera feeds, watching for any trespassers beyond the gate (the room feeds are powered down, fortunately). As expected, Rosie and Lucas Tesshu are already here, talking with Colonel Grey and his son, Irving.
“Welcome,” the former military chaplain says. “We were just discussing your next move, if you’re up to it. We’re all survivors here at Salvation, so we understand the bonds the three of you must’ve forged out in the woods. In that spirit, we think it best if you continue as a team.”
“We’ve got two opportunities,” his journalist son says.
“They’ve given us our pick of the missions,” Lucas tells you with a subdued smile.
With a nod, Irving continues, “It’s time to plant crops if we want to survive winter. From the books we found in the library, it’s clear we’re at the tail end of sowing season. We know there’s a farm nearby; it’d be a quick in-and-out in a pair of jeeps.”
“They’ve also picked up a distress call—that gets my vote,” Rosie says, folding her arms across her chest.
“It was a radio distress call,” the Colonel elaborates. “A doctor flew a private plane into the regional airport, and when she found no more fuel, she called from the tower. The signal was weak and we’ve since lost contact. We don’t have a doctor in Salvation yet, but it could be a fool’s errand, just to warn you.”
“Or we could save a life,” Lucas adds.
• “Another team will answer the distress call, right? I’m down to go grocery shopping.”
• “That lost person could be any one of us; let’s do it. Farming can wait.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
On a Spree
Have you ever seen the YouTube videos about Black Friday sales? It looks like a zombie invasion—and that’s just for videogame consoles and designer kitchenware. Today, people are looting for their lives, and the chaos in the streets makes post-hurricane Katrina scavenging look like a sleepy Borders bookstore on a Wednesday afternoon. You know, the ones that closed due to lack of business.
Cars are crashing into anything and everything in an effort to get whatever as fast as possible. People are smashing windows just because the world’s ending. This is going to be bad.
You head straight for the sporting goods megastore in search of a gun. You’re not sure if there’s a waiting period, but you’re thinking it’ll be waived today. Besides, you’ve only got a hammer and a steak knife; not ideal for home defense.
From the looks of the parking lot, the insanity has already begun to make its way here: people pay no mind to parking spaces or any other laws designed to keep order. It’s total Lord of the Flies madness.
Inside, the crowds seem to be cooperating. The employees are still taking payments, and people are happy to charge it, knowing the credit card bill collectors will have a hell of a time in the upcoming months. Some sprint down the aisles with their arms loaded to capacity; others use shopping carts as battering rams. Polite society hasn’t crumbled yet, but it’s certainly strained.
It looks like the rifle racks were the first to go. Disappointed, and about to turn and look for other supplies, you see a handgun on the ground resting under one of the shelves, just barely in view. You pick it up. There’s a lock on the trigger—to keep people from using it in the store—and evidently it was abandoned by a frustrated shopper. Time to see if you can find the keys.
“Give me that piece,” a voice from behind commands. You turn to see who is speaking. The man in question looks polite enough in his business suit, but the baseball bat he’s carrying (and the manner in which he holds it) tells another story. “I’m not asking.”
• “Go fuck yourself.”
• Give it to him. You can get some other supplies, then hole up back home. As long as you properly barricade yourself, you shouldn’t need a gun.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
One Less Zombie
You blast the first intruder in the head—instant kill. The others don’t even look as he falls, and you’re soon surrounded by wage-slaves and convicts. They bring you down and devour your flesh in greedy droves. There won’t be enough left of you to rise again.
THE END
Only Fools Rush In
Geez, you must really want that food. You charge the bear, bring the axe down with fierce momentum. You’re like a Spartan warrior with that thing; lunging and jumping forward and using your full body weight to bring the bladed wedge into the animal.
Bears don’t need a headshot to go down. In fact, because of the extreme thickness of their skulls, hitting a bear in the head almost never causes mortal damage; even a .45 will ricochet right off. So instead, you plunge the axe into his chest—right into his heart.
Nonetheless, your attack only angers him. With bulky fur, thick skin, dense fat, hard-packed muscle tissue, and bone like concrete, your attack proves nothing more than a flesh wound. Some bears are timid in the wilderness and will avoid a confrontation if threatened, but a bear trapped at a food site? This will be a fight to the death—your death.
Adrenaline blocks out some of the pain and the bear is gracious enough to kill you before it eats you. Who did you think you were, Davy Crockett?
THE END
Oscar Mike
She nods, allowing you to simmer in your own thoughts, and checks her gear. “Oscar Mike—let’s move out,” she says. You stay quiet, still feeling a little embarrassed from the scolding you just received, and walk through the woods. Her pace is brisk; it takes a concerted effort to keep up.
“Let’s try and keep fifteen-minute miles,” she says, looking at her watch. “A curious Zulu will go as fast as twenty when investigating, and I don’t want anybody trailing us.”
* * *
You hike the day away, walking about two-thirds up the hill, allowing you to see greater distances yet not create a silhouette like you would at the top. Rosie’s dad had taught her that one.
The sun wanes over the horizon; you’re hungry and tired.
“All right,” Rosie says. “I reckon we’ve only got two or three more hours to the camp. Bad news is, we need to cross through the marshes. We can either camp here and finish our journey after first light, or we can press on, get a hot meal and sleep in a warm bed. Thoughts?”
• “I don’t want to let whatever might be following us catch up. Let’s keep going.”
• “Swamps at night? I’m okay with being the coward in the group—let’s stake camp.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Out of Time
You run with Tyberius and Cooper to the opposite end of the building. Adrenaline pumping, it doesn’t take long. You make it to the stairwell, ready to fight, but the landing is absolutely clear. Tyberius grabs the rope, the one that will release the furniture dangling above the landing, but stops before pulling it. All he has to do is tug the rope and a dozen desks, cabinets, and chairs will collapse upon the landing and seal the stairs off.
Instead, he stares a thousand-yard stare down upon the landing. “Sims is still down there,” he says. “We gotta give him time.”
“Sims made his choice; pull the rope!” Cooper screams.
Tyberius shakes his head. “I won’t do this again.”
Cooper makes toward the rope to pull it herself, and then Tyberius snaps. He reaches out, his large hand clamped around Cooper’s throat in an instant. She falls to her knees and desperately pries at his fingers. There’s a crazed look on his face.
“He can still make it,” he says, his voice eerily calm. At this time, the first zombie meanders up the stairs. It wears a welding mask. This one is certainly just the first of many.
• Attack Tyberius, pull the release.
• Try to reason with Tyberius.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Pack Mentality
You meet the woman who summoned you, a blonde in her fifties, just as the other survivors arrive. They all appear to know one another—two women and four men. The one who shouted was a privileged housewife back in the world; you can tell that by her demeanor and clothing, obviously a beauty in her youth and has tried to stay that way—but now she has the cold eyes of a survivor.
The other woman moves toward her. She’s probably in her early thirties, though it’s certainly possible the last few weeks have aged her. She’s dirty, just like you, but beautiful in a hard-as-nails sort of way. Black hair and blacker eyes. She wears an unbuttoned mechanic’s shirt with a fitted undershirt beneath. The embroidered nametag reads “Cooper.”
Cooper hands her gigantic monkey wrench to one of the men, then slaps the housewife across the face. Hard.
“Don’t you ever… Do you have any idea—the danger? I don’t care if you did see somebody.” The wounded woman looks at the concrete, rubbing her jaw. Cooper reclaims her wrench and looks up at you. “What the hell do you want?”
• “Nothing. I don’t want any trouble.”
• “Just some food and a safe place to lay my head.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Pain
You roll onto your belly and lift your broken ankle into the air. Just this movement hurts excruciatingly. Then you move across the grass, low-crawling like some Army soldier in bootcamp. Each set of movements stings your ankle, but you make progress. Slowly.
Eventually, you make it to the front of the house, and see several figures standing out in the middle of the street a few blocks away. You carefully remove your binoculars—thankful they weren’t damaged in the fall—and look at the group. Two women and four men. They’re just talking.
You scout the rest of the neighborhood, at least what you can see lying down, and finally end up looking again at the group. Now they’re all staring off in the distance toward the National Guard barrier wall. You’re about to shout out to them when they all take off running. Then you see it: the wall has collapsed, and a horde of thousands of zombies comes pouring across the neighborhood.
Your only chance is to hide, and you know it. You scoot away from the sidewalk and back toward the bushes. Several house alarms go off on the street; good, you think, that ought to distract them.
Then the alarm goes off inside the house you’re hiding by.
“Shit!” you shout out involuntarily, thinking, How the hell did that happen? In the end, it doesn’t matter; the alarm was activated, and that’s not good. You press through the pain of your ankle, escaping to the confines of the hedges. You tuck deep within and up against the house, waiting it out.
Soon you hear the mob. Moaning and shuffling, stumbling and groaning; searching. They’re moving inside the house, seeking out that alarm.
Zombies may be mindless automatons with no pulse, but they’re competent predators. And they find you. The scent of your sweat, the sound of your breath, maybe something unless entirely. There’s no hiding from them. You’re dragged out of the bushes—by your broken ankle—and torn to shreds by a dozen undead. The pain from your wounds is unbearable, so you stop bearing it. You die. There isn’t enough left of you to rise again.
THE END
Parting is Such Sweet, Tasty Sorrow
You walk toward your soulmate. Heck, you would walk 500 miles—even 500 more. Lucky for you, you don’t have to. You’re close, very close. Remember the whispered sweet nothings? The nibbles and tickles? Well, you don’t, really, at least not in the way of a poet. But you know what? Your desire is everlasting. Not lyrical or even prosaic, but truly permanent. Your need for screamed sweet loathings, for nibbles and blood trickles, will never wane. Diamonds may be forever, but so are you now.
Suddenly you’re ready for commitment. You want to scoop your love up in your arms, and say, “’Til death do us part!”—if only you could speak.
You arrive at your soulmate’s doorstep. The place has been broken down, invaded already. You’ve been cuckolded. The door and windows have collapsed under the pressure of a hundred adoring fans. Still, you move inside, just in case.
Nothing left for you but a gruesome story, written in viscera upon the walls you once knew so well. Alas, you’re to be star-crossed lovers evermore. Devastated, you leave your home. Your heart wrenches, and you want nothing more than to take out your frustration on some fresh humans.
You look around. Weren’t you here for some purpose? You can’t recall. It seems like there should’ve been a reason you came here, but it escapes you. The last feelings of familiarity flow away like a final sense of déjà vu as memory gives way to instinct within you.
Time to feed. Where to?
• 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
Pawn Ranger
Pawn shop owners are the mid
dlemen between those who’ve been crushed by life and those willing to collect the pieces. Romanticized as heirs of the bizarre and unique, these magpies make their living feeding off the desperate misfortune of others. And now you’ll feed on them. The only thing dripping from your fluid-stalled body is the irony.
You come up to the brick-and-mortar building and try for the first entrance: a window. The glass has been busted out, but you can’t get in—the wrought iron bars will make sure of that. Too many disgruntled customers think the pawn shop stole from them, and then try to steal their property right back. Security is tight. Tight as a repossessed drum.
The door is locked up tight, and the security gate is engaged and locked down. From the sight of the other immortals shuffling about outside the store, one of two things is true: either there’s no one inside or there’s no way inside. A smell hits your nostrils—the sweet stench of the greaseball owner hiding within.
Following the scent trail, you find yourself at an HVAC system—the building’s air conditioning unit. On the other side, your food is waiting to be harvested. Fortunately for you, this pawn shop owner was too cheap to install professional central air and yet cheap enough to buy a shoddy unit. You only slap your hands against the unit three times before the plastic cover breaks free.
The blade waiting within is a different story. The large metal fan swings quickly, but you don’t care. You reach inside. The fan blade grabs your right arm and pulls you in. Flesh, bone, skin, and clothes jam the system, and the blade stops. Your broken arm is pinned against the fan, but this is your ticket in.
INFECTED (Click Your Poison) Page 23