He comes at you again, too close for you to pull back for another full swing, so you pop him in the face with the top of the axe. Nose broken, teeth cracked, and skin pulled back; still he comes for you. Again, you pop him in the face, this time shoving him away from reach.
In what can only be a reflex of falling backward, the zombie grasps the axe. Having shoved with a full arm-extension, your own hold on the weapon is tenuous at best. You lose it as he falls against the granite countertop and to the floor.
You look over at the two men in the kitchen. They both have their arms folded across their chests, staying away from you and the zombie. Tyberius waves you the “go ahead.” You look back at the ghoul, already rising from the floor, your axe hidden behind him and tangled in the spooling rope he once used to hang himself.
The rope! That gives you an idea. You pick up the anchor point of the far end, loop it into the garbage disposal and flip the switch. The whirring growl picks up; its snarl turns to a stressed grumble as the rope gets caught up in the disposal. The ghoul lurches back from the pull of the noose, still reaching for you desperately.
The disposal grunts with overexertion and burns out its motor with a terrible coughing fit, but the fiend before you remains trapped. You claim your axe from the floor and calmly bring it down atop his head like you’re splitting firewood. Brain and viscera slosh out upon the linoleum and the Hangman Zombie falls to the floor in a heap; undead no more.
Your audience of two looks at the pile of gore with you, nobody moving or speaking until Hefty clasps his hands together and says, “Whelp, who’s hungry?”
You look at him along with Tyberius, who cringes and says, “God damn.”
“What?” Hefty says. Then to you, “There’s a group of us, all gettin’ food. You could join for supper? I’m sure Cooper wouldn’t mind.”
• “Who’s this Cooper?”
• “You guys have been a huge help, but I’m a bit of a loner. Good luck to you.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
What’s Going Down?
You round the corner of the hallway toward the stairwell and see exactly what you were expecting: the Hangman Zombie broke free of his anchor and has fallen to the floor. He’s buried in a collapse of the ceiling under debris, slabs of drywall, and white-powdered plaster.
Two men watch from the kitchen entrance, eyes fixated on the debris pile. 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. The other one is white, 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.
Then the ghoul begins to rise from the rubble. Lucky you, he stands in your direction. And locks eyes. Hungry eyes. He moans and steps toward you, the rope of his noose snaking behind him like some great tendril of Medusa.
Now the two men have noticed you as well. It doesn’t seem as though they’re planning on helping. 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.
He comes at you again, too close for you to pull back for another full swing, so you pop him in the face with the top of the axe. Nose broken, teeth cracked, and skin pulled back; still he comes for you. Again, you pop him in the face, this time shoving him away from reach.
In what can only be a reflex of falling backward, the zombie grasps the axe. Having shoved with a full arm-extension, your own hold on the weapon is tenuous at best. You lose it as he falls backward down the stairs.
He clatters in body-contorting twists and snaps, but he won’t mind. The two men step away from the ghoul and back toward the kitchen. You head down the stairs but see that you won’t be able to reclaim your axe until the zombie is dispatched because it rests beneath the already rising figure.
Trying to get some distance while you remove the hammer, you back away toward the rear porch exit, the one with the saw and the broken glass… As the zombie stands up, you get an idea! You rush over to the saw and flip it on. It whirs to life, humming with power.
The two men move toward you, watching the zombie converge on your location. You duck out from under the broken glass, then stand and position yourself just beyond the spinning saw blade.
“Let’s go, you bastard!” you scream. “Come and get some!”
Your undead pursuer complies, and comes straight for you, paying no mind to the saw blade. He’s a bit shorter than those he planned the trap for (wow, that’s ironic, huh? Using the guy’s own booby-trap on him!), so the saw’s teeth line up only to the tip of his nose.
In a final moment of clarity, you turn and press against the side of the house. And just in time too. These Gilgazyme ® zombies have no heartbeat, and therefore no blood pressure, so their fluids stay inert when you cut them open. But a whipping saw blade changes that. Gruesome viscera splashes across the lawn and patio as he presses his face through the serrated deathtrap.
Not five seconds after the body hits the floor, the saw powers down. You come around and see the two guys at the switch. One of them must’ve turned it off.
“This is some fucked-up shit, ya’ll,” the redneck says.
“God damn,” says the handsome one with a grimace.
“I’ll take that axe back,” you say, noticing the redneck holding it.
“Mighty fine weapon,” he says, looking it over. At length he hands it to you through the porch door. You take it, each of you careful to avoid the “spilled” zombie. “I’m Hefty, pleased to know ya.”
“Tyberius,” says the other.
“Was there any food in that kitchen?” you ask, all business.
“You’re hungry?” Tyberius asks, trying not to look at the gore between you.
Hefty nods. “There’s a group of us, all gettin’ food. You could join for supper? I’m sure Cooper wouldn’t mind.”
• “Who’s this Cooper?”
• “You guys have been a huge help, but I’m a bit of a loner. Good luck to you.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
What’s Reasonable?
“Tyberius!” you shout. “You’re killing her!”
“Ty… Ty… please…” Cooper barely chokes out the words.
Welding Mask Zombie makes it to the top of the stairs. It comes right up to Tyberius, reaches out for him, and somehow this breaks the man’s catatonic state. He releases Cooper—she falls down to the floor and gasps for breath—and tackles the zombie down to the landing below.
Tyberius has the undead man pinned, and attacks him viciously, but the blows just glance off his welding mask. Other zombies begin to come up the stairs as the welding mask ghoul squirms beneath Tyberius. “Pull the rope!” he screams.
You grab the rope, but you don’t pull it. All you have to do is tug the rope and a dozen desks, cabinets, and chairs will collapse upon the landing and seal the stairs off—crushing Tyberius in the process. “You can still make it; let’s go!”
“Do it,” Cooper croaks from the ground, tenderly rubbing her neck.
“Pull the fucking release,” he says. Not a shout this time, but simply a demand. He stares hard at you.
• “You don’t get to die now, you selfish bastard. Get up here!” Refuse.
• “I’m… sorry.” Pull t
he release.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
What’s Up?
Footprints to your left and the hangman zombie behind you, you quickly ascend the carpeted staircase. The ghoul on the noose thrashes and moans to get at you, so you don’t have much time; he’s calling others to your location. You hope the footprints leading to the kitchen aren’t fresh. If there’s a pair of zombies in there, it won’t be long before they’re headed your way. You notice a window at the top of the stairs; could be a possible exit.
There’s a kids’ room to the left. It’s small enough that you can see everything from the entry. Just a crib and some toys; nothing to interest you. All of it is in pristine condition, so it’s certainly possible that the kid made it out safely before the guy below decided to bungee-jump from the ceiling. Safe. What could possibly be safe in this world?
You continue down the hall, past a bathroom in the middle, trying not to look at wall portraits of the zombie downstairs and his family. The bedroom on the far end has been converted to a home office. There’s a drafting board; this guy was some kind of engineer. Explains the booby-trap.
The kitchen door opens downstairs and voices, human voices, sound from below. A loud thud crashes down there and one of them yells, “Oh, shit!”
• Rush down and see what’s happening!
• Hide until the commotion is over, then sneak out.
• Jump out the window while you still can!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
What’s Your Emergency?
As you approach the police station, you behold a glorious sight: throngs of unwashed humanity, all lined up at the front door, exposed, and demanding salvation. You’re here to deliver.
The people are a tinderbox waiting to riot, and your moan provides that spark. There are fallen immortals around the crowd; you weren’t the first to arrive. Evidently the mob was coherent enough to fight off the initial wave, but there were casualties. And the police show no sign of assisting these refugees, so each progressive wave takes a toll on the group psyche, moving them more toward desperation.
As if waiting for your cue, those who were bitten and “died” among these mortals now rise as gods and attack their former husbands, wives, children, friends; humans. Others from the pantheon join in and sweep out across the streets to attack. Your instinct was right: panicked people came to this police station and what could’ve been a formidable militia is now just penned-up cattle.
You make it to the crowd with your fellow flesh-eaters. Humanity’s first instinct is to press back, and you can actually hear the crush of those at the front of the line over the screams of the crowd. With the dumb “hands in front of my face” reaction prevalent, you get to eat a lot of hands and forearms.
Then gunshots erupt.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea (in more ways than one) and gives a clear view of police officers in riot gear, supplemented by National Guard troops. They lower their weapons from having fired them in the air and now shoulder them professionally.
“If you’re alive, get on the ground! We’re about to open fire!” orders the Chief of Police from his bullhorn.
With this command, the vast majority of the mob drops into a cowering ball onto the pavement. The Chief continues, “Open fire in three…” A lingering synapse wants to warn you of something. The feelings these people have are broken within you. It’s a vestigial fear, a severed emotional connection, but it’s not enough to get you to act.
“Two…” Instead, you continue chewing on the wrists of your victim, despite her attempts to fall to the ground.
“One—fire!” The police and soldiers open fire above the heads of the living and blast apart limbs and torsos of the immortal with automatic, burst-fire, and semi-automatic weapons. The few humans who were in too much shock to duck, now fall limply to the floor after some lead insistence. The woman you hold dances as the bullets ricochet within her ribcage.
Your torso is riddled with holes by the barrage, but none of the shots strike you in the head. You almost smile at the thought of how creepy you must look full of bullet wounds that don’t bleed. Your stomach and internal organs are a different story, however. Bodily functions may be on pause, but once your gut is punctured, the contents spill forth.
The woman you were eating falls dead from gunshots. No longer interested, you let her drop and move forward. Those firing all but drop the weapons to hip level. This is how worthless the attack proves. They don’t let off the trigger, and the damage is minimal.
But something catches your eye. Snipers have arrived on the roof. A red targeting reticule lasers in on your forehead. Your instincts were right about the number of people hoping to be rescued here, but they were off on the associated dangers with confronting a police station. The bullet in your brain confirms it.
THE END
Who is Angelica?
She walks alone, quiet as ever. She stares at her gaudy candlestick, examining the engraving of the piece. It’s by no means an antique; this is the mass-produced kind you’d find at any upscale furnishing store. She probably paid too much for it.
“Angelica, right?” You sidle up alongside her, hoping to engage her in conversation.
Shaken from her thoughts, she replies, “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I just thought you might want to talk to someone.”
“I don’t. You’re very sweet, though.”
You’re not thrown so easily. “Why don’t you tell me your story? You’ll find I’m a good listener.”
“My story? Same as everybody else’s. The world’s dead, and I’m just trying to get by.”
“But who were you back in the real world? Maybe it’s good to remember.”
She looks at you with incredulous eyes, then says flippantly, “I drank myself alone. You see, I had lost everyone before this whole thing happened, so there’s nothing to tell, I’m afraid.”
“How did you and Sims meet?”
“My, we’re a chatty one, aren’t we? I knew a few housewives who’d love to meet up with you for coffee.”
A loud crack opens in the air. You turn to see Cooper within an inch of Deleon’s face. She looks as much like she could kiss him as punch him. A broken handheld voice recorder lies on the ground next to them.
She whispers something to him, and you can’t hear it, but then intentionally loudly she says, “Why don’t you explain what we’re up against, if you’re such an expert?”
The whole group now waits on Deleon. “All right, good idea. Let’s see… I’m guessing you know that the head is the only weakness. All right, fine. You know they’re attracted to any commotion or human sounds and smells. Including their own moans, right?”
She whispers again. “I want to know how someone becomes one.”
“Well, a bite, even a small one will fester until the person eventually transforms. The gene-therapy is delivered essentially like a virus, meaning for all intents and purposes, this is a blood-born pathogen.”
Cooper finally looks intrigued. Deviously, she asks, “Really? So we should check people for bites?”
“After every skirmish, generally.”
“And there’s no hope once you’re bitten?”
“There will be. Once I finish my cure,” he smiles meekly.
A man screams out. You look back, just as Tyberius nearly gets yanked into a car. He screams as a zombie trapped in a seat belt tries to pull him in. “Get this fucking thing off me!” he shouts.
“All right, all right, pull back,” Hefty commands.
Tyberius pulls away the best he can and Hefty brings his length of pipe down on the ghoul’s arms over and over. The bones snap, but the grip holds. “Hold on.” Sims uses his ridiculous Rambo knife to cut Tyberius’ dress shirt in half from the back.
Tyberius manages to slip out and away from the car, his musculature on display in a wife-beater-style shirt.
“Kill it!” Angelica shouts, helpless with panic. Seatbelt Zombie moans.
“Hold it, Sims,” Tyber
ius says. “Hefty, do me a favor.”
“You got it.” Hefty stands at the back of the car. The zombie leans as far as it can, torso out of the car, growls, snarls, and moans at Hefty. Tyberius finds the giant sledge hammer he carried; as he claims it from the ground, its end scrapes the pavement. Sparks jump from the metal head.
“Kill it now!” Angelica shouts again.
Tyberius raises the weapon slowly and deliberately, then with an athletic fierceness, spins a three-sixty—ending with the zombie’s head caught between the car frame and the full weight of the hammer.
Another five zombies come out of nearby buildings. You’re surrounded. You axe one in the back, sending it towards Guillermo. Guillermo swings his meat cleaver and frying pan as if clapping them together; the zombie’s head caught in the center where they meet. The damage is disgusting.
Angelica and Deleon manage to knock a zombie down and beat it with candlestick and hammer, respectively. The other three ghouls move in. Cooper shouts for the first time: “Hit the pavement!”
You and Deleon look over toward her as the rest of the group dives to the ground. Cooper lets her length of motorcycle chain slide off her shoulder and it unravels to the concrete. She steps forward and begins to swing the chain. Finally, you and Deleon duck. With a whip-like motion, she connects the chain with a zombie’s skull, which gives off an incredible crack. The twice-dead zombie slumps to the ground. She takes out the other two with similar finesse.
The streets are silent now. The group rises from the ground. “We’re getting off the street for the night,” Cooper says. You realize the sun is setting.
“Where?” you ask. She points forward. You all look: a gothic Cathedral sits ahead—stark and menacing. The spires shoot up through the start of dusk, like the claws of some great beast.
INFECTED (Click Your Poison) Page 36