INFECTED (Click Your Poison)

by James Schannep

  “Let’s go. We’re not alone,” you say. A faraway zombie meanders toward the store.

  The doors open with a ding! and you enter the main floor with silence, axe at the ready. The mechanism must be battery-operated; there’s no electricity. Yet it’s not dark inside. The multiple sky-lights illuminate the store; not fully lit, but it’s enough.

  The group fans out at the entrance. You look around for any signs of life… or death. Tyberius finds a nearby bargain-bin of aluminum baseball bats and takes one out. He clinks the bat against the linoleum floor and everyone freezes; they stand in silence, waiting. He’s hoping to draw them out, you realize. No response.

  “That doesn’t mean there’s not one in a back room. Take it slow. And keep an eye out for crawlers,” Cooper says.

  Sims motions in the military style, with two fingers extended. “Guns are this way.” You all follow him through the outdoor apparel section. This is going to be just like Christmas! Past the clearance section. Guns, guns, guns, guns—guns! Past the sports equipment. Hopefully they have holsters and shoulder straps, so you can carry more. He leads you past everything, in fact. Perhaps they hide the firearms in the back so as not to frighten young children and hippies, or perhaps it’s like the milk in the grocery store: in the back, so you have to walk past everything else to get to what you came for. There is a lot of nice stuff here; it’ll be fun to root through after—“Drum-roll, please,” Sims says, interrupting your thoughts.

  Around the corner to the firearms section…. The entire place is barren. No guns, nothing. Your stomach turns. Your vision tunnels. Once you breathe in again, you see the faces of those in your group have become sorrowful. This must be what you look like.

  Sims is the first to speak, with just a simple, “Oh, no.”

  “I was thinking it; I just didn’t want to jinx it,” Tyberius whispers.

  “Then you shouldn’t have thought it!” Sims shouts.

  “Oh, come on. We were all thinking it,” Deleon spits out. He’s obviously angry you didn’t go straight to the school. “Why the hell wouldn’t it be raided?”

  Hefty scoops a box of bullets from the shelf and cradles it against his chest with one arm as if it were a sleeping kitten. With the other hand he opens the box, removes a bullet, and tosses it at Sims. “Bang.” Sims recoils and catches the thing as it bounces off his chest. Hefty tosses one more, “Bang.” And another—“Bang.” The bullets tink off the tiled floor.

  “This is not my fault! You can all blow me.”

  Suddenly you’re speaking. “Hey, hey, hey. All is not lost. There’s a lot of good stuff here.” Who appointed you group cheerleader? You’re not sure why, maybe it’s because you can’t have walked here for nothing—you just can’t have—but you need to make a lemonade gun out of these lemons. “That’s a nice bat, Ty.”

  “You want it? Here.” He hands you the aluminum bat.

  Cooper’s suddenly excited. “It’s true, we can re-supply. Camping food, survival gear. We’re not fucked yet. There’s new weapons here, maybe not guns, but still.”

  “And everybody get a change of clothes,” you add.

  Still in a state of shock, the group blindly follows the order and disperses into the store to search for gear. You walk the aisles with the fireman’s axe on one shoulder and the baseball bat on the other, watching as your cohorts pick out new weapons and clothes.

  Deleon looks over a mountaineering pick-axe. Gives it a couple of quick, jerky swings and then thumbs over the tip to check sharpness. He picks out some new hiking clothes and boots. As he holds up the shirt and looks in a mirror, his wristwatch alarm goes off. He looks down to silence it, and when he looks back up, Cooper has materialized behind him. “Handsome.”

  “Oh? Th-thanks.” He waits for her to leave, then skulks over to the bathroom, looking suspiciously over his shoulder as he enters. Presumably he’s going to try on the new clothes, but there’s something guilty about his grimace. Maybe it’s the hard-to-shake the feeling of shoplifting?

  Guillermo is already in new clothes by the time you come across him. He puts a pocket-knife in his camping shirt, finds a shovel, and then gets a knife-sharpening kit. He starts sharpening the shovel. Damn, that guy is prepared for anything.

  Hefty gives you the thumbs-up in a brand-new white-tee and jeans, essentially a clean version of what he was already wearing. He finds a giant machete and a compound hunting bow with quiver for his new weapon set.

  Tyberius finishes putting on new clothes—all Underarmor-style tech gear. Finds a hockey stick and straps it across his back. Claims some two-and-a-half pound weights. Nearby, Hefty looks at the tiny dumbbells. Tyberius sees his smirk and says, “Go ahead, laugh it up.”

  Sims finishes making a Molotov cocktail out of some camping lantern oil. He’s in new clothes already too. Surprise, surprise—hunter’s cammo. He’s smart enough not to have chosen orange; deer are color-blind, zombies are not. He tries out a slingshot, then gets the sharpening kit from Guillermo to sharpen a decorative sword.

  Tyberius and Hefty watch. “Look at Douchery Dan over here,” Tyberius says. You can hear them snickering, but Sims cannot.

  “It’s pronounced ‘d-bag’, the ‘ouche’ is silent,” Hefty replies.

  Cooper has changed into sport-tech undergarments, but has covered them up with motorcycle gear. Tight, durable, light, and armored—not a bad idea. She looks even more badass than before, like she’d be the villain in the next Terminator movie. She holds a crowbar and slides it into a belt loop. She gets a length of rope and begins forging what can only be a homemade flail.

  Now it’s your turn. First, it’s top-of-the-line hiking boots. Then you pick lightweight, breathable travel clothes. The kind that resist odor on the microbial level. Who knows when you’ll get to change again, so you’re going for something you could backpack through Europe in. You find some face wipes and take a bath in the things; it’s incredibly refreshing. You snag a headlamp, knowing it could come in handy soon. As for a weapon, the aluminum bat isn’t bad, so you’ll keep it, but what really catches your eye is a tactical tomahawk-style axe. The edge is razor sharp and the reverse side has a pike tip (much like Deleon’s ice pick) perfect for skull penetration. It’s much lighter than your dulled fireman’s axe, and the ergonomic grip begs you to swing it.

  The ding! of the front door rings through the store, reverberating in your teeth like an alarm clock after a sleepless night. Any feeling of comfort and safety is now gone. You all look back at the entrance, but the door view is obscured by rows of tall shelves.

  Like wraiths in the shadows, you all flow toward the door in a wide sweep, slowly placing each foot in front of the other until you’re in view of the door—and nothing’s there. Blazing daylight comes through the glass doors, but there’s no sign of whoever entered.

  “What the hell?” Hefty breathes out.

  You see something outside; a woman—a ghoul, to be sure. She approaches the door awkwardly, with a broken leg, and places a gnarled hand against the glass door. She sees you and mouths at the door, her tongue leaving a trail of slime across the glass like some great slug.

  She pushes on the door, and though all she’d have to do is pull to open it, the pressure extends the edge far enough in to trigger the ding! once more. The woman looks up to the bell, curiously wondering if it’s something she can eat. The group lets out a collective sigh as the feeling of danger passes.

  Then Cooper screams.

  You all wheel about to see a zombie behind her, its hand full of hair and wrenching her head toward his mouth. Her neck is taught with resistance, but it’s an odd angle and the fiend is winning this game of tug-o-war. Guillermo’s closest to her and comes in with his razor-sharp shovel. For a moment, you think he’s going to behead her, but instead the shovel takes off the zombie’s hand at the forearm. She drops to the floor and an instant later, the zombie’s head snaps back. A hunting arrow protrudes from his forehead.

  Hefty lowers his bow and blows a
cross the front curve of it as if he’d just shot a rifle. The zombie falls to the floor and Cooper rises, the hand still holding tightly to her hair.

  “That’s a good look for you, Coop,” Tyberius says.

  She smiles at him sarcastically. “Sims, let me see your knife.” He complies and she cuts a chunk of her hair out to free the hand. She tosses it to the ground and returns the knife.

  Another zombie slams against the glass door. “How did this one get in?” you ask.

  “Got lucky,” Cooper replies. “Let’s not stick around to see if it happens again. Newbie, you and Sims go grab the Doc and let’s get out of here.”

  Sims moves quickly and you follow closely, keeping an eye out for anything worth grabbing. Iodine tablets and a water purification kit? Yup. You make a note to come back to the hydration packs as well; ideally, you should each have one on.

  “They found us; time to go, Doc,” Sims says as he pushes the bathroom door. It sticks and he has to put his weight against it. “Pants are on, doors are open!” he says as he shoulders his way through the barrier.

  Lantern light illuminates the scene. Dr. Deleon is indeed caught with his pants down, but that’s not where his modesty lies. Around his legs are twin bandoliers holding vials of some bluish liquid. His cast is off and open and sitting on a baby-changing station with a syringe, an empty vial, and several notes with a pencil. Deleon tries to quickly cover his newly bare arm, but it’s too little too late.

  There’s a hideous bite wound the cast was previously hiding. It looks like the nightmarish eye of an unspeakable evil. The center is thick like keloid scar tissue, and black with an orange discharge. The black color spreads out several inches away from the bite, through the veins, as if marking a path within.

  Sims’ eyes grow wide with realization. “What the fuck is that?” But he already knows.

  “Hold on, I can explain.”

  “Outside.”

  “Sims, listen to me—” Deleon starts to move toward him, but Sims pulls out his huge knife.

  “Right now, motherfucker.”

  Cooper uses a set of battery-operated clippers to buzz off her hair in its entirety, and the men watch in fascination. Her thick, black hair is no more. They look back as you approach and immediately the group knows something’s up by the way Sims escorts the doctor, knife drawn and pointed at Deleon. Guillermo sharpens his meat cleaver and looks up. Deleon gulps.

  “What’s going on?” Cooper takes a step forward.

  Hefty frowns. “Where’s the cast?”

  “He’s bit,” Sims answers.

  “Oh, Christ…” Tyberius says, “There’s always one in the bathroom.”

  “No,” Deleon says firmly, desperately. “I’ve been bitten since long before I met you.”

  Cooper raises an eyebrow. “But how? That was so long ago—how are you still… living?”

  “I have a cure.”

  The group confabulates in anger. They’re shouting their betrayal, and Deleon holds up his hands to calm them. He wants to explain. Bad move. All Guillermo sees is the bite wound and he chomps his teeth twice, then says, “Mordido!”

  Guillermo jumps to his feet, cleaver raised, and charges at Deleon, who backs away, hands still raised. “Hold on, estoy bien! Medicina!” The doctor ducks into Guillermo, evading the cleaver but still taking the force of the chef’s tackle.

  It’s a sight too familiar since the end of the world, that of two men wrestling on the ground while one’s trying to kill the other. Sims and Hefty get Guillermo off Deleon, then Tyberius helps the doctor to his feet. Guillermo paces around, ranting in Spanish about the crazy people he’s with.

  Cooper is not pleased. “I knew there was a reason I wanted to kill you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us you have a cure? Why lie?” Tyberius looks legitimately hurt.

  “Well… it’s not finished. But as long as I take this inoculation every three hours—I just need to find a lab to finish it—look, I tried to say stay away from me, but you guys wouldn’t—”

  A loud thud and corresponding ding! reminds the group that the zombies are still outside. And now there’s a lot of them, all trying to press their way in. They’ll be in soon, that’s inevitable.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Cooper says.

  “I’ll be okay. I just need to get to a lab.”

  She’s awash in thought. “How much of that stuff do you have left?”

  The pounding and scratching from the doorway intensifies the need to act. “Enough for now,” he says.

  The entire parking lot is filled up with meandering ghouls. It seems as though they don’t know what’s going on inside, but something has piqued their interest. “How do we get out of here?” you ask.

  Sims brandishes his Molotov cocktail and says with a grin, “Problem solved. I throw this, distract them. Then we escape while they’re engulfed in hot flaming goodness.”

  “Or there’s the service entrance,” Tyberius suggests. You follow his gaze and see a group of mountain bikes between here and there. So what’ll it be?

  • “Sims—light it up.”

  • “The bikes! Quick, silent and maneuverable.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Whatever

  “Just hurry up,” he says. “Andele, ariba!”

  The doctor sits down at his computer, answering a few emails, but it’s obviously closing time and soon you’ll be ushered out. As would befit a janitor, you empty out his trash can and—hello, what’s this?—slide a pile of letters from the far corner of the desk into the wastebin.

  And just in time too; Dr. Phoenix locks his computer, rises from the desk, and shoos you from his office. “All right, get. You’re done here, vaya con Dios.” You leave, idly mopping the floor in the hall outside while your employer locks up and exits with a mock salute and a curt, “Adios.”

  Once he’s safely around the corner, it’s time to rummage through the trash: used courtside tickets, an empty hair-color box, several sodden green tea bags, a flattened tube of women’s anti-wrinkle cream, a pomegranate rind, a magazine for private jet owners, and a used condom. Gross.

  Donning a pair of latex gloves from your utility cart, you move on to the letters. There’s a pitch from Kim Kardashian’s management team offering to do a Reality TV show based on Kim’s new life on Gilgazyme® in exchange for a free dose, an offer to some kind of hedonistic free love party at Brangelina’s house where Phoenix can bring the drug and have his way with either (or both) of them, a dozen companies’ announcements of the doctor’s approval for a new high-limit credit card, and a “requested materials” packet for more information on private island purchases.

  Interesting, but this won’t help you with your goal. Where to next?

  • I’d like to keep rummaging: Next stop? Deleon’s office!

  • I’ve seen enough condoms for one day. Time to ratchet my search up to the next level: Rodent Testing!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  What’s Cookin’?

  The kitchen has one of those doors on spring hinges, so that it swings open with the lightest push. It’s painted white to match the walls. With axe in hand, you shove the door open and back away, ready to strike if need be.

  Like an Old West saloon, the door flaps open and closed several times. You don’t see anything from your position in the doorway but empty kitchen. The Hangman Zombie snarls at you with ferocious anger. He moves with more intensity than a mother would in defense of her child. No emotion a human possesses is stronger than the hungry will of the undead.

  “What the fuck?” says a man from inside the kitchen. Says. Someone’s alive!

  “Don’t shoot!” you say. “I’m alive!”

  “Ain’t got a gun,” says another.

  “Man, don’t say that,” the first says in a subdued yell. “What if they do?”

  “I don’t,” you say, “Just an axe.”

  The zombie is going nuts behind you. Pushing the door to the kitchen open with caution, yo
u end the stalemate and meet the pair. Both are in their twenties and look like the ordeal has made them feral. The first is a handsome black man in tattered business casual. He wields a gigantic sledge hammer and has a police baton tucked in the waist of his slacks.

  Taking you in as well, he says, “You must’ve set off that booby-trap. Guess it didn’t work too well.”

  The other one is a white guy, thin as a rail, and clearly a redneck. Plain white-tee kind of guy. He holds a heavy length of pipe, about the size of a baseball bat. “Sweet axe; where’d you get it?” he asks with a southern drawl. You shrug, he nods; point taken.

  “People call me Hefty. This here’s Tyberius,” he says. They’ve just finished packing up the pantry into trash bags.

  Tyberius notices your eyes on the food. “You hungry?”

  Before you can answer, a loud thud crashes in the room outside the kitchen. There’s little doubt as to what it could be. Tyberius and Hefty back away from the door, leaving you up front. You raise your weapon high.

  The Hangman Zombie bursts into the kitchen, his length of rope dragging behind him. Crumbled bits of drywall—from when the ceiling gave way to his struggling—litters the floor like a trail of breadcrumbs. He growls, arms raised, and lunges toward you.

  Tyberius and Hefty watch to see how you handle yourself. This is it! Kill… or be killed. As the zombie crests the top of the staircase, you swing your axe like a baseball bat, trying to cleave the ghoul’s head off.

  It’s not that easy. Undead automaton or otherwise, decapitation is an art more than a science. Yes, terrorists do it all the time, but they’ve got a whole gang holding the victim in place, who’s otherwise paralyzed with fear. You, on the other hand, have got this frenetic hell-spawn intent on eating you, whose mania makes a speed-freak look like a cooing child.

  Crack—the axe smashes against his shoulder. It’s hard to get a clean shot when he’s moving in for the kill, arms flailing and the like. Your blade, dull as it is, digs straight in to the bone, most likely fracturing it. Not that the Hangman Zombie cares.