The mat beneath your sit bones feels firm, with springs just below the surface, waiting. Like you. Ding! the door chime announces your first student. Your eyes almost open in reflex, but you keep them shut.
“Good morning, Master Tesshu,” a demure young voice says, huffing with excited breath.
“Haley, welcome. Please sit. Find your Ki.”
You hear the shuffling of feet, a bag tossed to the side. The mat rocks slightly as the girl plops onto the floor on your right side.
“See you after,” her mother says before the door chime dings once more.
They flow in like this; a stream of students. Nathanael, Christian, Mason, Nolan, and the twins: Liam and Stella. They may be the water, but you are the boulder that guides their path, and in return they too, shape you. Life made smooth by decades of students flowing through.
Finally, you open your eyes. Some students have theirs closed, emulating you. Nathanael makes eye contact, then quickly breaks it, blushing. He is the eldest in this youth Kendo class. He turns eighteen next week, when he will have to switch to adult Kendo Wednesday evenings. But for today, on a peaceful Saturday morning, he can blush like a schoolboy.
“Fascinating stuff,” a woman says from the doorway. She’s a young mother, not even thirty, and a small boy hides in her shadow. She continues, “Hi, there. I talked with the old man. This is Salvator; first day. Do you mind if I sit in?”
You smile. “Today. But today only. An atmosphere free of parental expectation is essential for growing confidence.”
“You won’t even know I’m here,” she says, then finds a seat at the far wall.
“Sit, listen, learn,” you say to the boy, who joins the others.
You let time pass, listening to the breath of the room. The calmness evaporates as commuter traffic out front erupts into a cacophony of screeching tires and car horns at the advent of a traffic jam.
“Mason, music, if you please.”
The boy hops up, jogs over to the stereo, and presses “Play” on the ancient boombox. The pre-loaded CD doesn’t try to drown out the traffic sounds, but instead blends recordings of running water, birds chirping, and meditation bells to create a more pleasant atmosphere.
“Much better. Now then….”
• “Around the room, what do you hope to learn today?”
• “The Kendo concept and purpose—do you remember them? Let’s see.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Rosie
You run, crouched in a three-quarter squat, keeping your head down as best you can. The dirt kicks up beneath your heels and you slide into position behind the dilapidated barrier, like you’re stealing home. The whole place screams apocalypse—rusted-out cars, paint-chipped walls, broken windows. You huff labored breaths behind your paintball mask, the condensation building up on the visor. It’s not much in the way of protection, but it’s better than nothing.
Once you’re able to control your breathing, you realize there’s another rasping sound—right behind you. You turn to see your younger brother Jason, his own mask upturned and a blank look on his face. His jaw is slack, showing off his braces-covered maw, tongue out slightly, his moan permeating the air. His arms rise up like Boris Karloff’s mummy, and he staggers toward you.
• Brother or not, shoot him in the head.
• Rack him in the nuts, that’ll make him snap out of it.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Sims
The belly of the C-17 rumbles over the Pacific as you rise from a nap, hoisting yourself up by the nylon webbing straps that run along the metal hull, and stretch your legs. Situated around the plane in other states of boredom-prevention are an odd jumble of soldiers, marines, SEALs, seamen, and airmen.
It’s a strange collection of US military personnel, to be sure. In fact, no one onboard is from the same unit—even the flight crew, which is highly against regulations. The Top Secret classification of the mission, along with the extremely unusual nature of said mission, led to a joint operation where not one soul knew another. Which is how a USAF National Guard electrician ended up on this particular mission.
Makes it harder to drop the beans, you think.
Operation RAS-Putin: The mission, in which you helped give a free dose of Gilgazyme® to the Russki President, or Prime Minister, or whatever they’re calling their elected dictator these days. Your job, simple as it was, involved showing the spooks how to cut security system wires and avoid the generic systems, like lighting. Then they planted the inhaler as if it were a gift from the founders of Human Infinite Technologies, and the megalomaniac did the rest himself. Bingo! Instant regime change.
Your stomach drops and you stumble with unsure footing. The C-17 is banking, you realize. What the hell? It should be a straight flight from Russia back home to the US. Why are they turning?
• Go ask the flight crew.
• Stay back here and ask the mission commander.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Tyberius
Shit, shit, shit! You only closed your eyes for a second, but you must’ve dosed off. Extra hours at the midnight call-center mean a few extra dollars come payday, but if you show up late to the bank (again), it’ll mean your ass. That bank teller job is your bread-and-butter right now.
You slide on a new pair of undershorts and tank-top undershirt, spray Febreze on your workshirt, then pull on yesterday’s slacks—all the while swishing mouthwash around. Shoes, money clip, bank ID, cell phone, and it’s time to run out the door. The TV is on in the living room, but the couch sits empty.
“Mama?” you say, buttoning your white, Walmart-brand business shirt.
You flip off the TV and rush outside. There she is, back turned, bent down over the stoop, huddled over something you can’t quite see. Shoulders straining, she digs with an intensity you’re not used to; whatever she’s after makes a wet, sucking sound as she pulls at it. She’s filthy, you can see that, with some kind of dark muck caking her skin.
“Mama…?”
She turns slowly, giving you a good look at the open plot of ground. In one hand, there’s a large kitchen spoon, full of fresh dirt. The stub of her right wrist is coated in the stuff. She sets down the spoon and wipes her left hand and her amputated right limb on her apron.
“Mama, what’re you doing?”
“Gard’nin’,” she says, drawing the word out in her thick Rwandan accent. “City-man waters this here. Gotta get up early if we want to replace them bushes with berry plants.”
Have to hand it to her; the woman could fold a dollar in half and spend it as two. You laugh, then turn just in time to see your bus pass by. Damn!
“I’m makin’ chicken and manioc tonight, okay?” she says, then seeing your panic, smiles and adds, “Go on, now. Best hurry! That bank can’t run proper without my handsome boy.”
You start to run, then dart back, kiss her on the cheek, and sprint back after the bus. It takes full, Olympian strides to catch up. Hurdling fire hydrants and juking past pedestrians, you fly down the sidewalk. The bus’s emergency flashers come on as it prepares for the next stop.
“Wait! Hold the bus!” you cry.
A stuffy-looking old man glances your way, then quickly boards the bus in silence. You arrive just as it pulls away from the curb. Frantic, seeing the best-paying job you ever had disappear, you slap on the side of the bus and cry for it to wait. By some miracle, the bus stops. The door opens and you try to catch your breath as you board.
“Hey, thanks—” you start.
“Hit my bus again and it’ll be your last ride,” the bus driver says angrily. “Well? Let’s go!”
The bus is nearly full; only two benches are empty. The first is two rows in, right by the asshole who ignored your calls for help. The other is in the last row in the back, just across from a sleeping homeless dude bundled up in a nest of blankets.
• Head to the back and get some sleep. It’s a twenty-minute ride, so might as well take advantage.
• Stay up front
, and make the guy who didn’t say anything even more uncomfortable.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
17 Forever
As you pull at the double doors, Nathanael turns to face you. His skin is sickly, with a decidedly anemic pallor. Even his eyes seem to have faded from blue to gray. You look to the wound on his side, but he keeps his gaze fixed on you.
Slowly, gently, like a doubting Thomas, you reach out and touch the hole in his ribcage. The boy makes no reaction. Indeed, there isn’t even a rise and fall in his chest from breathing. He puts his hand on yours. You’re shocked by the icy-cold touch of his skin, so you pull back in reflex.
He doesn’t let go. Maybe you’re projecting, but he looks concerned. Not nervous, like he often did over the years in class, but maybe…apologetic? He opens his mouth, and you expect him to say sorry, but it’s a growling moan that comes out. Then, faster than he’s ever moved while sparring, he pulls you toward that open mouth and whips his neck towards you.
You react quickly and execute a perfect break of the hold. Or what should have been a perfect escape maneuver, but his pain receptors must not be working, because he doesn’t let go. Instead, he bites you right on the cheek. A fitting kiss goodbye.
You’re INFECTED!
Access Denied
“Don’t you need me to come in and pay?” the guy asks.
“Consider it an IOU,” Owen says. “Good luck out there.”
“Wait a sec. My boys out here dropped off some motorcycles. Can we get those too?”
“At least one of those is still in the garage,” Stephen says in a voice low enough so the men outside can’t hear.
Owen grimaces, unsure.
“You guys okay in there? Listen, we all need to help each other out, right? I’ve got a place with food and shelter. I could use some guys who know how to turn an engine,” the man says.
“We don’t have much food, boss. Let’s strike a deal,” Craig says.
Owen sighs, then looks to you.
• “Open it up. We can’t stay in here alone forever. Josh needs a doctor anyway.”
• “We already said no. Stick to your guns, boss.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Affronted
The guy makes a point to stare out the window, as if just looking at you might be dangerous. People suck, but you’re used to it. Being tall, athletic, and black means dealing with people who cross the street when you approach. You see it as kind of like being a Rottweiler or a pit bull. Not dangerous by nature, but given a bad rap after a few highly-publicized incidents.
After a while you notice the bus isn’t moving. You’re not at a stop, you’re just…stopped. When you look out the front, you see it’s not a traffic signal. It’s a sea of traffic. Beyond are military Humvees and police cruisers.
“Ah, hell,” the driver says.
You have the same thought. Your boss won’t stand for another day late, no matter the excuse. The bus driver opens the door and you look forward as a uniformed police officer boards the bus.
“What’s goin’ on?” the driver asks.
“This area is under military quarantine,” the cop says in a low voice. The closest passengers murmur, but most of the others don’t hear.
“Oh, lord. Terrorists?” the driver asks.
“I bet it’s Anthrax,” the old guy next to you says.
Someone stands up.
“Everyone remain in your seats!” the cop shouts, a hand on his piece. He looks scared. “We’re evacuating the area in an orderly fashion,” the cop tells the driver, his voice low again. “Stay on the bus, lock your doors, and you’ll be safe.”
The homeless dude in the back stirs, growling with anger. Or is that hunger? Then he lunges at the nearest passenger, who screams out. Yet instead of moving to help, the cop just goes for his radio.
“I’m on the Red B-Line bus now. Looks like they’ve already got infected on board, over,” he says.
“Roger that. Take the driver’s keys and we’ll notify the National Guard to send in a containment team.”
You’ve seen enough TV to pick up on the buzzwords and that conversation terrified you. No way you’re staying on this bus.
• Head to the rear emergency exit and duck out.
• Rush past the cop.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Agh! Mazing*
You reach the entrance to The Bramble, a man-made wrought-iron “hedge-maze” with a sign boasting that this is the most difficult man-made labyrinth. Great. In order to keep the solution top-secret, the maze is covered so it can’t be seen from the famous Ferris wheel or from any of the park’s sky-high roller coasters.
The maze gets its name from the briar-patch theme, which gives you the ability to see movement from one path through the next, but you’ve got no chance of breaking through from one path to another. You’re going to have to make it through the old-fashioned way—by getting lucky.
The opening forks with an immediate turn to the left, or a path straight ahead. You glance both ways, hoping for a clue, and see that they both appear to end in a bend, with more maze around each corner. With a full horde of the undead on your heels, you’d better get going. Where to?
• Left.
• Straight.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
* The subsequent numerical maze choices were randomly ordered for added difficulty. Good luck.
1
Looking over your shoulder, you sprint down the long hallway, leading dozens of ghouls behind you. When you round the bend, you come to an end. The maze simply stops, but through the gaps in the metal briar you can see the way out from the other side. Freedom was almost in your grasp, but there’s no way through the hardened barrier.
And no way back, either. The horde is upon you, and when they stumble-run into you with the force of a stampede, you’re crushed against the brambles. You bleed out, but not before the ghouls make a meal of you. Don’t worry, though, there won’t be enough left of you to rise again.
THE END
2
You take great strides down the straightaway, then follow the path’s bend around to the right. This leads to another immediate right and another straightaway. A forced left turn doubles into another, which opens into a long straight path. You sprint hard to the end of the hallway, expecting another bend, but it’s an optical illusion.
The hallway’s end looks just like those that lead to a bend in the maze, but this one’s a dead end. You can see through the bramble into another path beyond, but there’s no way to cut through. Instead, you have to run back in the opposite direction.
It’s a long, flat path, then a winding snake of four turns before you finally make it back from the way you’ve come. By now, the hungry masses have flooded into the maze behind you, completely clogging the other routes. With a roof above you, there’s no way out. The survivors have followed you in, but so have hundreds of zombies.
THE END
3
This path gives way to an abrupt right-hand turn. Once you round the bend, you’re greeted with a flat wall—a dead end. Luckily, it was a short enough detour not to have cost you too much time, so you sprint back into the hall. Angelica sprints past, left to right. She clearly sees you, but keeps right on. Is she going the right way? Are you? Where to?
• Double-back left.
• Double-back right.
• Continue on right.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
4
Looking over your shoulder, you sprint down the long hallway, leading dozens of ghouls behind you. When you round the bend, you come to an end. The maze simply stops, but when you go to look through the gaps in the metal briar, you see it’s just a hard left, half-hidden by the bramble.
“An obstacle illusion!” Sims shouts. And he’s right, even if he did blunder the phrase. The truth is, if you hadn’t practically stumbled into it, you’d never have seen the way out!
As you round the corner and free yourself from the maze, the undead masses plow into the br
amble, skewering themselves upon the iron thorns. You can hardly believe you’ve made it out, but it’s true! And you can see some others from your group, heading for the parking lot.
• Time to leave The Funtastic Rockencoaster Adventure Park for good.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
5
The hallway ends with a forced bend around to the left, and then you’re directly presented with a fork. Both paths curl away from one another, like a pair of opposing ram’s horns. Behind you, throngs of zombies close in and the wretched brambles tear flesh off those who scrape against the maze wall. Better keep going—but which way?
• Left.
• Right.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
6
The turn brings you to an end in the hall, and you’re about to turn back when you realize that it’s just a hard left, half-hidden by the bramble. An optical illusion, you think. You press forward, following the path around, and when you turn the corner—you’re met head-on by a frenzied zombie.
He grabs hold of you, wrestling for your very life. When you’re pulled against the scraping walls of the bramble, your uniform ripping in protest, it gives you an idea. You slam the ghoul’s head against one of the enormous thorns, imploding his skull against the maze wall like a pumpkin dropped off a balcony.
If he beat you to this path, that means he was in the maze before you opened the emergency tunnels and let loose the horde. How long has that bastard been lost in here?
PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4) Page 2