• Stay quiet, don’t move.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Bell of the Ball
You give the man your best sultry eyes and rise from the table. Sashaying over, you say, “You’re right. I am impressed. You must have big brass balls to pull off something like this.”
“Well…thanks,” Duke says, surprised.
“It might just be the wine going to my head, but—can I see them?”
“What?”
“Those big balls of yours.”
“Look, I can tell you’re fucking with me,” he says, laughing nervously, his tone suggesting he can’t tell. At all.
You’re his dream girl; he has clearly fantasized about you, so it doesn’t take much to be putty in your hands. When you get on your knees and go for his belt buckle, his eyes go wide. Focused on his own swelling manhood, he doesn’t notice when you go for the toenail clippers from your boot.
“God, I’ve waited for this moment,” Duke groans.
“Ever since you said…what was it?”
“Give my left nut for a date with you.”
“Consider the debt paid,” you say, severing the connecting flesh with the nail clippers.
Duke howls out in pain while blood and other clear fluid pools out from the wound. His hands go to his crotch in pain and then he tries to punch at you, but the strain makes it worse and he tips his chair and falls to the floor.
The door opens just as you take Duke’s steak knife and tuck it into your boot. Bud has his handgun drawn and aimed at you. You offer your hands and a confused look.
“I don’t know what happened; he just fell,” you say.
Bud holsters the handgun and goes for his boss. As Bud kneels, Duke groans in pain, trying to tell Bud to kill you through pained, gritted teeth. So you put the steak knife in Bud’s spine before the message sinks in. Bud falls atop Duke in an almost humorous position. Might make the other men who find them pause.
Time to go.
• Straight out into the woods, right now. A dress isn’t best, but time is of the essence.
• Back to the stalls. Take Bud’s key and get back in your riding clothes before you go.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Besties
“Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack,” the man shouts over the alarm.
You keep backing up until your prison tennis shoes crunch on the entry glass. He follows and finally, you get a good look at the guy. He’s a young black man with strikingly intelligent eyes. He wears a businessman’s shirt and holds a policeman’s baton in his right hand.
“You some kinda cop? Like security, errr….”
“Fuck, no,” he says. Then, noting your prison jumpsuit, adds, “You some kinda psycho killer?”
“Ain’t psycho, but I’ve had to put some a’ them nutters down.”
“The infected?” he asks.
You nod. He looks away and swallows hard. “Guess we all have.”
“Can we shut this goddamned alarm off?”
“Lemme see your pipe,” he answers.
You hesitate, but if he wanted to hit you, he would have already. There was a lot of racism back in prison, but everyone had to do what they did to survive. Out here, survival means one race—human. He takes the pipe and steps over to the side, where there’s a locked fuse box. With a great slam of the pipe, he unlocks it, finds the right switch, and shuts off the wailing alarm.
“How’d you know to do that?” you ask.
“We have the same setup at my job,” he says, handing back the pipe. “Thanks. I’m Ty, by the way. Tyberius, but to my friends it’s just Ty.”
“Mine call me Hefty,” you say, though in truth, you haven’t had a real friend in over two years.
He nods. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“Today, why? Oh…yeah, I always been this skinny. I could use some sleep though. We could run together, if the jumpsuit don’t put you off. I’ll watch your back, you watch mine. Deal?”
The man thinks about it for a minute, then his eyes grow distant. He says, “My brother wore one of those once, so no, I don’t mind. But I’d need a favor. I need to drop off a dress somewhere. We can look out for each other, and if you don’t ask me what it’s for, I won’t ask about what you did to survive, neither. We leave the past where it belongs.”
A dress? He doesn’t seem to want to elaborate, so you don’t push it. Oh well. You’re beyond exhausted, and if he makes sure you don’t get chomped by nutters while you sleep, then it’s worth an errand. Besides, what else you got planned?
The future, for the first time in a coon’s age, seems bright. Funny that it took the world falling apart to feel that way. It’s almost like being reborn, in a sense. You can have a new life—one in which you were never a con. This Tyberius guy seems ready to let the past stay buried, so why not?
“I’d best get a change of clothes, then,” you say.
Click to continue…
The Best Policy
As soon as you’ve stepped outside and closed the doors, you go right into it. “I know, I went outside while we’re supposed to be under quarantine, but—”
“Wait, you did what?”
“—but if you’ll listen to why—”
“Un-fucking-believable,” he says, not listening, “My guys have been shooting to kill in areas we’ve already cleared of survivors. The only people dumb enough to walk through a hot zone are the infected. But you know what? Doesn’t matter anymore.”
He looks to you, but you decide not to humor him with the “Why not?” he so desperately craves. At length, he continues, “We’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Oh? The quarantine is being lifted?”
“The quarantine has failed,” he says, shaking his head. “The whole city is screwed, maybe elsewhere too. You’ll get breakfast, then we’re evacuating to the hospital and pulling out.”
The man stares, hoping for a reaction, but you’ve trained hard to be the stone that lets the water flow past.
“There is a survivor camp outside of town, I heard them broadcast on the radio.”
“Yeah? You should probably go.”
“My responsibility is to my students.”
“Their parents are probably dead,” he says, unblinking.
You look back through the glass doors into the dojo, where the children are watching. Hopefully they can’t hear, but just in case, you decide to cut it short. “Thank you for letting me know, Captain. Good luck with your evacuation.”
“Sure. See you in the morning.”
One last supper, one last breakfast. Then what?
• Stay in the dojo and wait for the parents to come.
• Head out once the barricades are lifted and take your pupils home.
• Go straight for this “Salvation.” He’s right; the parents are probably dead.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Best Served Cold
You don’t own a car (hence taking the bus to work), so it looks like you’ll have to borrow one. Mrs. Alaina next door owns a large Buick, so it should be worth your time to stop by. Besides, seeing as how she’s the one that got mama infected, you owe her a visit anyhow.
But when you arrive outside her apartment, you’re struck with hesitation; your hand hovers over the door handle—coated in your mother’s blood.
Turning your pants pocket inside-out, you use it as a handkerchief to grab the handle, which sticks to the fabric. The door groans as you open it, a sound that blends with the moan of the occupant. She’s not trying to hide or trick you; she stands right on the other side of the door, waiting. Only, it’s not Mrs. Alaina. It’s your mother. Mama comes for you once more.
When she raises two hands, the illusion breaks. You crack her in the forehead with the police baton just in time and she stumbles back under the blow, but that doesn’t stop her.
When she comes back you shove the black baton in her mouth. She bites down, so you release the weapon, take her head in your hands, and lift her into the air. With the same ease as h
andling a doll, you aim at a corner of the kitchen counter and slam her head down against it, ending the woman.
The corpse falls limply to the floor. When you take your baton, it has teeth marks on it. Mrs. Alaina is your mother again, so you look away. What’s the point anymore? She screams. How can you live with yourself after this?
You shake your head to clear it. It’s not her yelling at you. Still, you feel hollow. If you didn’t have this funeral idea, you’d probably still be back home, numb, not sure what to do next.
You see one of those pill containers, split by day of the week, holding all of Mrs. Alaina’s medication. She was an older woman, so there are a lot of pills. How hard would it be to wash the whole collection down with a glass of water from her sink? End the pain once and for all. Rejoin mama.
No, you tell yourself. If you go now, who will bury her? So you continue searching, trying not to listen to the voice that says, But maybe after…? Wouldn’t it be nice just to sleep and never wake up?
Bingo—keys are in the woman’s purse by the door and ready to go.
* * *
By the time you arrive at the outskirts of the mall, the sun is setting. You’ll probably have to stay the night here, especially with that crowd still following. It should be defensible, though, because this mall sits outside of town, purchased while land was still cheap. Several construction sites are under development and just beyond that awaits the shopping mall with a large “Grand Opening!!!” sign. Brand-spanking new.
The nearest part of the mall happens to be a department store, and you figure they’re all basically the same, so long as they have a menswear department for your suit and a place to get mama a nice dress.
• Go for the service entrance, where they unload new items. It’s out of the way and should have less chance of trouble.
• Go for the main doors. The double-wide glass doors should let you see if anyone’s inside.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Big Bad Piggies
The National Guard soldiers rush in and smoke fills the store. No, not smoke, tear gas. A canister lands dead center of the helpdesk you’re hiding behind. Immediately your eyes burn and a gallon of mucous pours out of your nose.
You need to get outside—now! With a wailing cry, you rush past the gasmask-clad men and out into the open. Though you’re no longer in the cloud of tear gas, it sticks to your skin and face. You bend over, hands on your knees, and vomit.
Someone comes over to comfort you and puts an arm around you. Then they bite into you.
You’re INFECTED!
Blazing Irony
You use the fire extinguisher to start a fire. It doesn’t take much, once the chemical reaction gets going and liquid flames pour out over the floor in a flood. The overhead sprinklers kick on, but after a moment they sputter, then groan and quit. Someone must have shut off the main water line.
That slight kick of H2O seems only to have made the fire angrier. You rush forward now, keeping the fire extinguisher handy.
There’s a clear path up ahead, relatively speaking, as the nutters rush in from the eaves with every second. You can see the front door leading out of the infirmary. It’s a secure barrier with a small window of mesh-inlaid safety glass.
Off to the right a trio of undead paw at an office—with a guard and a doctor captive within.
• Help the guys out. Burning alive is a fate no man deserves.
• Keep going! It’ll only be clear for a few more moments.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Bloodbath
Once the doctor leaves, you formulate your plan. The woman in the corner is going to Turn first, so she’s priority one. With all those blankets, you could just suffocate the infected lady, hopefully without raising too much attention. Most everyone in here is asleep or otherwise highly incapacitated.
Still, you’ll need a weapon for the others.
They’ve done their best to rid the tent of exactly that, so you’ll have to get creative. The vomiter’s metal pail could do some damage, but probably just as much to you with its contents. The wall barriers are metal too, but a quick inspection shows the welding is much too strong to pull apart bare-handed.
Leaning back on your cot, you feel the metal crossbeam shift under your thighs. You flip the cot and disconnect one of the legs. The cot was designed to be collapsible, so the metal beams separate with ease. You weigh the beam in your hand to assess the possibility of the new bludgeon. That’ll do.
When you walk across the tent towards the infected woman, many eyes turn to follow you, so you make a show of asking after the woman’s well-being. Under the guise of a caring soul, the other occupants of the tent go back to ignoring you.
To keep up the ruse, you talk to the woman as you bunch up the thick woolen blankets and smash them down over the woman’s mouth. After a few quiet seconds, she starts to thrash, so you press harder.
“What’s going on?” the guy behind you asks.
“Uhhh…seizure…”
“I’ll get the doctor.”
“No, don’t! I got it under control. Here, uhhh, come help.”
The man comes to your side just as the woman goes limp. He looks to you, slowly putting it together. That’s when you lash out with the cot leg and catch the man on his temple. He doesn’t even have a chance to scream, he just falls to the ground. Two more quick thumps with the club and the man’s legs twitch with his death rattle.
That’s when other people in the tent start to scream.
You attack the nearest woman and the cheap, hollow aluminum bends under the blow. Frustrated, you go for another club from the nearest cot while the others run from you.
A gasmask-clad guard rushes in, then clutches his chest radio. “One of the infected is Turned; I’m on it.”
He raises his rifle and fires. You flinch, but you’re unharmed. When he shoots again, you see he’s aimed past you. Looking back, you see the woman you just suffocated has risen from her cot and now takes a bullet in the head as the guard finally shoots her.
“The black guy! He’s Turned too!” someone shouts. Others agree.
The guard swings his rifle to you and you open your mouth to speak, but before you get a chance, the muzzle sends out a plume of flame as he fires.
THE END
Blow Your House Down
You flip the light switch and drop behind the desk. For a split-second, you think you actually turned some lights on because of the bright flash, but then the ear-splitting roar of the explosion registers.
It’s like the air has been sucked from the room, and you gasp for breath. Pressure differential? Maybe, but either way you’re wheezing like someone punched you in the chest, and your ears are ringing. When you look up, there’s just a heap of rubble where the metal doors once stood, and the linoleum floor is coated in debris—both from the storefront and from those who stood here only a few moments ago.
There’s a finger lying on the countertop of the helpdesk, pointing right at you. Bile rises in your throat and you rush upstairs for some fresh air. Sam Colt reloads his rifle while Lily sits by one of your garden boxes, closely examining the soil.
Sam says, “They had it coming. They were deserters, and they wanted the store.”
“Deserters?” you parrot dumbly.
“They were assigned to the hospital, but it’s overrun. They only wanted to help themselves—to what’s ours.”
“To what we stole first, you mean,” Lily says, not looking up from the garden.
“It was us or them,” he says, though it’s directed at you.
“It is us or them,” Lily says, standing up and dusting her hands off on her pants. “But the ‘them’ should be the fucking fifty-percent infected and the ‘us’ should be people.”
“Should be.”
The air hangs silent.
“If the hospital is gone, and the military just…quit,” you say. “How long will it be fifty-percent? What’s the next increment or whatever?”
Lily laughs,
a cold, bitter laugh. “There isn’t one. The next order of magnitude is one-hundred-percent infected.”
“That’s not true, and you know it. We can hold out,” Sam says.
“Sure. It’s not a hundred. But it’s ninety-nine-point-nine, nine, nine, nine, nine—”
“Okay, we get it!” Sam yells.
“We need to stick together,” you say, at barely a whisper.
And it hits you hard that mama is out there, alone, with no one to help her while the whole city falls apart.
“I need to get my mom,” you say, adding:
• “I’m going now, while the soldiers are distracted.”
• “I’m going tonight, under the cover of darkness.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Boob Tube
You follow Sam and Lily back down to the hardware store and into the manager’s office. It has a TV mounted on the wall and Lily offers the boss’s chair for you to sit in. The screen comes to life and FOX News plays, mid-broadcast. TV personality Bill O’Reilly is giving his opinion on hand-picked news, as usual.
“…you know that I did, I always said he was a bit strange. Still, I can’t say I saw this coming. If there are children in the room, I recommend not watching. We did our best to clean up the footage, but it’s still graphic. The following has never aired and is a FOX News exclusive. Our source says this was recorded in preparation for tonight’s broadcast.”
Meanwhile, the ticker at the bottom of the screen is listing states where the governors have declared a state of emergency and cities that are now under martial law. You look for your city as you listen. When the screen changes to show Stephen Colbert at his desk addressing the camera, your attention shifts off the ticker and onto his face.
His skin is pale, eyes sallow. There’s something odd about his expression, like he can’t decide if he’s angry or just bored. It’s the face of someone waiting at the DMV who just found out they’d been waiting in the wrong line all morning.
PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4) Page 5