PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4)

by James Schannep

  PATHOGENS

  A Click Your Poison book

  by

  James Schannep

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or undead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Certain public figures were used either satirically or for parody, and no connection to their real-life personas was intended nor should be inferred.

  The chapters “Carp’s Lesson in Perseverance” and “Battle of the Bees” are adapted from Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan by Richard Gordon Smith, London, A. & C. Black, 1918—a book that is now in the public domain.

  Author’s Note: INFECTED was published in late 2011, which means that’s the year the world ended in PATHOGENS. Still, you might find a pop-culture reference or two that stems from our “non-nom’d” future. These errors you might find were intentional, because I wanted the humor to be relevant. That said, I did my best to keep the story pre-2012 in all practical ways. See: the Lady Gaga’s meat-suit reference.

  Choice-order powered by Random.org.

  Copyright © 2016 by James Schannep

  All rights reserved.

  Kindle Edition

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Schannep, James, 1984—

  PATHOGENS: a Click Your Poison book / James Schannep

  COVER ART BY BRIAN SILVEIRA

  Click Your Poison Books

  INFECTED—Will YOU Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?

  MURDERED—Can YOU Solve the Mystery?

  SUPERPOWERED—Will YOU Be a Hero or a Villain?

  PATHOGENS—More Zombocalypse Survival Stories!

  MAROONED—Can YOU Endure Treachery and Survival on the High Seas?

  SPIED (coming in 2019)—Can YOU Save the World as a Secret Agent?

  * More titles coming soon! *

  Sign up for the new release mailing list

  Or visit the author’s blog at www.jamesschannep.com

  Acknowledgments

  I am in awe of my wife Michaela for somehow managing to read this book even while you were swamped with work. You truly have the tenacity of an apocalypse survivor. As always, thank you for your sacrifices that allow me to be able to do what I love for a living.

  A big thanks to my Alpha Reader, Fred Buckley, for playing along as I wrote. Expect a GIF soon, bud.

  Special thanks to my Beta Readers, many of whom I’ve never met, yet nonetheless gave me your time and insights, for which I am both indebted and extremely grateful: Mike Beeson, Sean Miller, Andy Ross, Steven Slaughter, Maria Mountokalaki, Sara Pearson, R.L. Meyer, Brian Yoakam, Elizabeth Wright, Sarah Briggs, Kari Cowell, and Ben van Gastel.

  To my copyeditor: Linda Jay, cover artist: Brian Silveira, and to Paul Salvette and the team at BB eBooks. Thank you all for your generosity and professionalism.

  And to my friends and family, for your unyielding encouragement, enthusiasm and support.

  For Melissa, Sarah, Alison, Amy, and Samantha, my wonderfully supportive sisters who showed me that six different characters (like us!) will see the same event from six different perspectives—and for teaching me why that’s a good thing. Love you all.

  P.S.– You’ll find the names of many from our family in here. Please note that all names were assigned randomly and no inferences should be made based on character names. Seriously.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Click Your Poison Books

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  How It Works

  PATHOGENS

  Here’s the sitch: With the breakthrough wonder drug known as Gilgazyme®, Big Pharma has finally ended human aging. Newly improved genes enter your bloodstream on a viral vector; these new pathogens then replicate and alter your genetic code so you can live forever. You can probably guess where this is going. Hint: It rhymes with Mombie Dapocalypse.

  And it’s your job, Dear Reader, to survive.

  Read the chapter, click your choice at the end, and see if you’ve got what it takes. Unlike other Click Your Poison™ books, this is the first one where you don’t “play” as yourself. Instead, you can choose a character and see how that person survived the initial outbreak. Think of this page as your “character-select screen” in this gamebook.

  Each of these characters first appeared in INFECTED, but you don’t need to have that book memorized (or even have read it, truth be told), to enjoy PATHOGENS. Instead, pick a persona and learn the story as only one who experienced it truly can. Each character has his or her own perspective, strengths and weaknesses, and it’s likely you’ll connect with some more than others, so make sure you try the story multiple times.

  But beware—since these characters appear in another book, if you take the wrong path and end up bitten, mangled, or dead, you’ll rip the very fabric of the space/time continuum and your adventure will be over. Good luck!

  Sims

  Technical Sergeant Robert Sims, National Guardsman and electrician in the greatest Air Force in the goddamned world. Divorced, no kids, fourteen years of service given to your nation thus far. You’re a “Prepper” (a dedicated survivalist), and you’ve been looking forward to the zombocalypse for as long as you can remember. Your unit was mobilized, and now you find yourself at the tip of the spear. When it comes to idioms, you’re not the smartest crayon in the box, but you’re an electrical genius.

  Select Sims

  Rosie

  Smart, cute, spunky redhead. 17-year-old high school student. Your father is a combat-veteran Marine and you work weekends at the family-owned shooting range. Sarah is your real name and, truth be told, you’re more interested in boys and music than you are bug-out-bags and MREs, but you play along for dad’s sake. Ever since mom died, he’s had a hard time, and he’s not the type to get a pedicure, so for quality time you learn about pyrotechnics. Unfortunately, Sarah’s world is about to end, and you’ll have to fully embrace his training to become the “Rosie the Riveter” of the apocalyptic wasteland.

  Select Rosie

  Lucas

  Lucas Tesshu, middle-aged man who handles crises with the same serenity a stone handles the river. As a child of Japanese immigrants, you’ve lived much of your life as an outsider, making solitude a revered mentor and friend. As a Kendo instructor and master of swordplay, you’re more than capable of defending yourself, but as a disciple of Bushido, you’re committed to helping those in need. So the question becomes: Can a man unable to leave someone for dead still survive the Zombie Apocalypse?

  Select Lucas

  Hefty

  Poor as dirt, good ole southern boy. Thin as a rail, and yeah, the nickname is ironic. Known to the State as inmate #: 080620-06. They say money doesn’t grow on trees, but you can cook some up in your kitchen using a few household ingredients as fertilizer. Like literal fertilizer, for one. But you’re over that now, clean, back on the straight and narrow, and ready to be a productive member of society once you get released from the Big House. A day that’s about to come early, courtesy of the Apocalypse.

  Select Hefty

  Tyberius

  Work nights at the call center, days at the bank. Sleep? Yeah, right. It’s all you can do to provide for you and Mama, who lost her own job in the recession. She still hopes you’ll find a nice girl and settle down, but you’d settle for an apartment in the better part of town. So you
use any spare moment; while eating, even while shitting, to take online courses on a smartphone, angling for a promotion at the bank. But all that effort is about to be in vain when the global economy tanks in 3, 2, 1…

  Select Tyberius

  Cooper

  Kaeden Cooper, known as “Kay” to your friends. Daughter of a NASCAR driver who turned to the bottle and lost his shot at stardom. You’ve since done your fair share of racing on the motorbike circuit, but it’s still very much a man’s world, and no one wanted to give you sponsorship unless you posed by the bike in a bikini. Instead, you turn wrenches for a living, waiting for the weekend until you can ride again. Little do you know that this shift under the hood will be your last. Soon the world will learn it’s those who know how to change their own oil who will survive.

  Select Cooper

  Cooper

  Idling at a stoplight, you tip your helmet up, grab the Big Gulp of Mountain Dew from its handlebar cupholder attachment, and take a long pull from the straw. Sweet nectar of life. The morning ride is usually the best part of your day, but it’s an unseasonably cold Saturday morning and your lower back is throbbing.

  A homeless man sits on a nearby bus stop bench, picking at a disgusting sore on his forearm. The flesh is raised and puffy, but the skin is white rather than the normal irritated red. The veins surrounding his wound appear black. Like he’s got oil for blood.

  Preoccupied with thoughts of just how much you’re not looking forward to a day full of oil changes, the light turns green and the driver behind you blares his horn. You respond by flipping him an over-the-shoulder bird. Drink stowed and helmet down, your bike purrs as you twist the throttle. Despite your back acting up, you enjoy the thrill of over-accelerating down the road. Front wheel almost comes off the ground, but not quite.

  Up ahead, two men stumble drunkenly along the side of the road. Christ, this city, you think as one of them runs into traffic. The second man appears worse off and tries to follow his friend, but he’s much slower and probably won’t make it across the road in time. You give him a toot of your horn and his head stops lolling on his shoulders; snapping into place with surprising intensity. His eyes glisten in your headlights like an animal’s.

  Then he lunges at you.

  Your first instinct is to brake, but instead you increase the throttle, using the added momentum to swerve around him. He sees the danger, and reaches out, as if to catch you. Pushing the turn further, his fingertips only barely scrape across your leather jacket. Once clear of him, you release the throttle and squeeze the brakes, causing the bike to skid to a stop. The rear wheel fishtails, but you control the slide just like you might coming off a jump on the Motocross circuit.

  The Big Gulp is nowhere to be found, but Dew has splashed all over your helmet and jacket. Pulling the helmet off, you look back—but the man is gone. Like he disappeared into thin air. Must’ve instantly sobered up and realized the impending lawsuit against him if you crashed.

  “Asshole!” you scream.

  * * *

  Motorcycle parked in front of the garage, you head inside and throw your sopping wet, sticky jacket and helmet in the corner. After clocking-in, you notice Owen already at the waiting room coffeemaker.

  “Fuck this city and everyone in it. I wish they’d all just curl up and die,” you say, walking past him to check the overnight drop-box.

  “Morning, Kay,” he replies, just as the aroma of his coffee hits you. You’re still not sure if he brews the stuff to smell like burnt shit intentionally, as a cost-saving technique so the customers won’t drink it, but either way, it’s nauseating.

  The drop-box reveals that several early risers left their cars before the garage opened at the crack of dawn. You’ve got more than a dozen cars waiting for you today. Oil changes, mostly.

  “Seriously, boss. We need to have a no-oil-change policy on Saturdays.”

  “Yeah, well…” he says, pointing to the wall behind you.

  The sign reads, “Management’s Suggestion Bin,” with an arrow pointing straight down to the trash can positioned below.

  “Hardy har har.”

  “Hey, you can always hop behind the desk. Less customer complaints for a pretty face.”

  “So you keep telling me. And my answer always remains…?”

  “To go fuck myself?”

  “Your words, boss. Your words,” you say, pushing through the door from the lobby and into the garage.

  The lights come on automatically in response to the motion, and the sweet smell of motor oil fills your nostrils. As the shift lead, you’re the first to arrive, but as you boot up your workstation, your back tweaks in pain again.

  The bottle of Oxycodone in your desk only has three tabs left. Damn. This month’s supply went fast. Taking all three, you use the last few minutes of quiet to distribute starting assignments to the staff’s workstation inboxes.

  Stephen is tall, if not a little gangly, and overly talkative. So why not let him wrap his arms around a trio of motorcycles brought out from storage, ready for a tune-up and oil change?

  Josh has an odd sense of humor, interrupted only by his frequent cigarette breaks. H1 Humvee 4x4 scheduled for tire rotation? There you go, Josh. Let’s put you under the hummer so I can’t see you stroke your goatee while offering sage wisdom. The bumpersticker reads Ad Vitam Paramus, so I’m sure you’ll tell us all what that means before the little hand hits ten.

  Ooh, a police cruiser in need of new brake pads? Make that a priority, Brian. Despite being a white guy of average build and social status, he likes to rag on the police. Maybe that perpetual buzz cut of his is really a woulda-shoulda-coulda military cut.

  And then there’s Craig. Mr. Reliable. Station wagon here for its 120,000-mile service? Have at it, Craig. Reliable, not sexy, overlooked, but trusty. Won’t let you down. Just like the station wagon.

  As for you? It’s entirely possible that Owen made you shift lead so the other guys would stop hitting on you. But rank has its privileges. Like setting your own schedule and priorities. Which means if you want to, you can decide:

  • Meds haven’t kicked in yet. I’ll browse the internet for a bit until the guys start flowing in.

  • Guess I’ll get a jump on the rest of the pile. List isn’t getting any shorter; what’s up next?

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Hefty

  Go Fish is a game with incredibly high stakes. Especially when it’s played in prison, modified so the rules, risks, and rewards are more akin to poker. Which is exactly why you don’t play. Plenty of other opportunities to get yourself shanked in here.

  Instead, you sit at the table in front of the breakroom TV. Every table has six chairs welded to it, along with a chess/checker board printed on the center of its chrome metal surface. Though no one actually plays chess in here, the cardmongers have devised a way to set the pieces so they look like they’re mid-game, but they’re actually staged to signify the bet on the next hand. It’s similar to the betting system in roulette, but you don’t know the details because, again, you don’t play.

  Your cellmate, a hulking Mexican gang-banger and self-described cholo, whom you affectionately call “Celly,” throws his cards down, grins, and rearranges the chess pieces to indicate his win.

  “Bullshit,” Bobby the skinhead says. “I call bullshit. That’s three full schools of fish in as many hands.”

  “Be careful what you accuse a man of, cabron.”

  “C’mon, guys. Today’s laundry day,” you remind them in your slow Southern drawl.

  Laundry day, in inmate terms, is contraband delivery day. Shouldn’t be much longer before you’re sent back to your cell to trade soiled bedding for new, with a fresh batch of lotto scratch tickets tucked inside. After all, you don’t play cards, but you’ve got the itch to gamble as much as any man in here. An itch that you like to scratch in the literal sense.

  “Hefty, I suggest you turn the fuck around and watch TV, like a good boy,” Celly says.

  No m
ixed message there. The TV is muted, but a special news bulletin catches your eye. Some reality TV paternity-test program was interrupted for genuine breaking news. The screen shows a handsome man in a lab coat giving a press conference, smiling brightly against the flash of cameras.

  The headline reads, “Will YOU Live Forever?” and the closed captions below say: Dr. Lewis Deleon and his revolutionary new gene therapy promise to end aging after one dose with the patented Gilgazyme® inhaler.

  “Nobody calls me a liar, pendejo!”

  Out of nowhere, Bobby the skinhead comes crashing into the TV, knocking it off the stand. You jump up and out of the way as Celly rushes in for another haymaker, but the fist fight is quickly broken up by the guards, who take both Celly and Bobby the skinhead away. Celly is certainly a liar, though it’s true that no one calls him one. Hell, just look at the guy.

  “Everyone else, line up!” a prison guard shouts. “Laundry detail, who’s pushing the delivery cart today?”

  • Volunteer.

  • Head back to your cell.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Lucas

  After morning exercise you take a few minutes to sit and meditate before the students arrive for class. Breathing is measured, calm. The vitality in your muscles slowly fades, blood flowing, finally leaving your fists and feet to a more even flow. To the center—to calm. Be mindful of your surroundings, you tell yourself. Of who you are today, at this brief stop on the journey of life.