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

by James Schannep

  You look to the driver of the Humvee. It’s usually the silent one who’s in charge. Finally, he speaks up. “Take the girl for breeding stock, kill the rest.”

  Before he’s even finished speaking, you unsheathe the sword and cut down the first biker. By the time they raise their weapons, you’ve dispatched the second. And just as you’re engaging the third, you learn that kendo armor doesn’t stop bullets.

  Is this what humanity has come to? And in such a short time?

  THE END

  Chaotic Good

  Down the aisle, cell by cell, you free the others from their stalls. Angelica takes the opposite side of the horse barn, and you toss the keys back and forth for maximum efficiency. In only a matter of minutes, roughly fifty women and girls are set free.

  Mothers are reunited with daughters, sisters weep in each other’s arms, complete strangers fall at your feet, pleading for God to bless you and thanking you for your kindness.

  “Everyone shut up and quit your damn blubbering!” you shout. “We’ve got a small lead here; we don’t need someone hearing the lamentations of the women and coming in here to investigate.”

  “It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay,” Angelica adds.

  “What now? Where will we go?” a mother who holds a young daughter under each arm asks.

  All eyes go to you.

  “The good news is that these men don’t want to kill you. The bad news is that they’ll want to lock you back up in here. Use it to your advantage. Run; they won’t shoot you. But if you get the chance, take a few of the bastards out. We can’t face them as a gang and win, but if we flee now, they can’t catch us all.”

  “Every woman for herself,” a college-age woman says. Looks like a runner.

  “Pretty much,” you reply. “Good luck and all that.”

  With that, you turn to go. Angelica follows and says, “You should consider a career as a motivational speaker.”

  “Funny. Good luck to you too,” you say, hoping she’ll get the hint.

  “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” she says. “Besides, I snatched Bud’s key to the Humvee.”

  You look back to see she’s brought her candlestick, and in the other hand she’s holding up the keyring. “Fine. You can come with me, but what I say goes. Got a problem with that?”

  She shakes her head. Hounds bay, much like during a prison break. Which, in a sense, it is. Powerful flashlight beams sweep the fields and one comes to rest on a pocket of the escaping women.

  “Breeders are out!” a man shouts.

  “Keys,” you say, hand out.

  Angelica hands them over and you hit the lock button on the FOB, listening for the horn. It’s close. You run towards the garage where the Humvee’s parked, which is a maintenance shed for vehicles. Probably where they would have had you working when you weren’t in the barn.

  “Grab anything that looks like it could break a skull,” you say.

  Taking only a minute, you shove a large wrench, a motorcycle chain, a tire iron, and a long-neck screwdriver in the back of the Hummer. Then the sound of voices approaching makes you turn back.

  “Hey!” a man shouts. His eyes roll back into his head and he hits the floor in a heap. Angelica stands behind him, a spot of crimson shining at the base of her golden candlestick. Maybe she’ll prove useful after all.

  “Quick!” you say, jumping in the car.

  The Humvee starts up with a growl and you slam on the accelerator. The shed doors swing open when you smash into them, sending men flying at the periphery. Under the glow of the headlights, you swerve towards as many of the search parties as you can, giving the fleeing women the best chance you can.

  “Where are we going?” Angelica asks.

  “No idea. I was blindfolded when they brought me here.”

  She nods. “Maybe the GPS? I’ll try the recent destinations.”

  “Good thinking,” you say, just as the front of the Hummer knocks a man with a rifle out of your way.

  * * *

  Most of the recent POIs were random GPS coordinates, so you’re not sure where they lead, but one was an address you easily recognized: Owen’s Garage. There was a twinge of pain in your chest when Angelica selected the garage, but thoughts of claiming your motorcycle and hitting the open road keep you driving.

  Say what you will about the assholes back at the compound, but they were certainly prepared. The Hummer was topped off with gas before they stored it, so you’ve got a full tank to get back to town. You groan and a hand goes to your back before you can stop it.

  “What’s wrong?” Angelica asks.

  “Nothing,” you say. Though in truth, you’re half-considering turning back to the compound to search for Oxycodone. “An old riding injury. I’m fine, don’t bring it up again.”

  She reaches over and flips on the toggle switch for your heated seat, then smiles meekly. A smile that quickly drops as you re-enter civilization. The city is in chaos. Burning buildings, dead bodies everywhere—walking or otherwise. The Humvee isn’t as agile as your motorcycle, but the cattleguard on the front proves useful nearly every block. You’re only a few miles from the garage when you reach a military blockade.

  A young soldier, probably not even of drinking age, waves you down. He’s in full battle gear, and despite his fresh face, you can tell he’s seen a lot of action in the last few days.

  “Couldn’t help but notice your bumper sticker,” he says.

  • “Just scavenged this rig, to be honest. You know how it is out there.”

  • “Yep, Ad Vitam Paramus, that’s us. What’s with the barricade?”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Chaotic Neutral

  Captain Nobody and Simecek both seem on the edge of mania, and you get the feeling that it takes a concerted effort on their parts to fall in line with the convoy. Hoping not to set them off, you turn up the tactical radio as a distraction.

  “—a full-scale retreat from St Mary’s Hospital. Where the hell is that damn convoy?”

  “Sir? This is Sergeant Sims,” you say, keying the mike. “Convoy is putting down en routes. What is the situation down there? Do you have an extraction point? Over.”

  “Sergeant, get your asses down here! We’re overrun. The bastards are eating—”

  Gunfire erupts on the radio, along with men screaming in the background, then the line goes dead.

  “Hello? Come again, over,” you hail, to no avail.

  Then gunfire erupts from behind. You turn to see Simecek blasting away on the .50 cal at a crowd of fleshies too far off in the distance, wasting ammo and drawing more undead to the commotion.

  “What the hell—” you start when Simecek’s head snaps back from a headshot. “SNIPER!!!”

  The other gunners in the convoy open fire on surrounding buildings and Captain Nobody takes evasive action, pulling away and down a sidestreet.

  “Where are you going?” you ask.

  “The hell away from here!”

  “We need to stay with the convoy, the hospital—”

  “Is overrun!” he screams, cutting you off.

  You take a moment, composing yourself. “Soldier, this is a direct order. Those men need our help, goddammit! The hospital may have fallen, but we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

  He looks at you, sizing you up, before coming to a conclusion. “No way to change your mind, Sarge?”

  “No. When someone signals rescue, you come, so….”

  “Well, in that case, I’m sorry,” he says.

  He swings at you, and you duck, but too slowly.

  Everything goes black.

  * * *

  You wake up, the morning light pouring in through the storefront window, head pounding. As the fuzziness starts to dissipate, you take stock.

  You’re in a clothing shop, lying on a pile of sweaters, gasmask still on, firearms gone. The bastard left your rucksack and Isabelle in her sheath, but not much else.

  • Better see just whe
re you are…

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Civil Liberties

  “Stay put!” the cop shouts as you rush forward.

  He draws his gun, sinks into a quarter-squat, and aims right at you—both hands, center mass. It’s textbook hostile-engagement position.

  “That guy’s crazy!” you shout.

  “I said stop!”

  No way. You continue forward, sprinting to put the cop between you and the crazed homeless man, when you’re suddenly thrown on your back. The gunshot echoes through the bus with powerful reverberations and the shock is so great, it takes a few seconds for the truth to set in.

  The bastard shot you. Hopefully somebody got it on their smartphone, because that would definitely go viral.

  THE END

  Clean Room

  Tyberius opens the men’s room and an obese man with a fanny-pack and a bib-shaped vomit stain on his shirt rushes out with a gurgling moan. Pale hands raised for feeding and, ultimately, disappointment. You swing your wrench from the left while Hefty swings his pipe from the right; the blunt instruments meeting in the epicenter of the man’s skull.

  It’s a disgusting amount of damage, but the smell coming from the bathroom is worse.

  “Let’s try the women’s,” you suggest.

  The ladies’ room is spotless by comparison. Hell, you could eat off the floor if you had any food. Hefty pulls down the baby-changing station tray and uses it as a hammock. The rest of you are forced to catch what few z’s you can on the cold tile floor.

  * * *

  The next morning, you regroup at the front.

  “Okay, I’m thinking we’ll split the park right down the center, east and west, north and south, as viewed from the Ferris wheel,” you say. “Report back for lunch. We’re looking for flashlights, food, anything useful.”

  “Haven’t you ever seen a horror movie?” Angelica asks.

  You cross your arms across your chest. After a terrible night’s sleep on the stiff, cold floor, it’s too early for this crap. “Yeah, I have. And in case you didn’t notice, it’s broad daylight outside. There’s no full moon. No thunderstorm. No goddamned eclipse. And you’re no virgin in peril, lady.”

  “I’m putting up with your ‘leadership’ so I don’t have to be alone,” she says, firmly.

  Tyberius and Hefty avoid eye contact, waiting to see what you’ll say. After a moment, you go with:

  • “You’re putting up with it because you’d be dead without me. We’re splitting up. You three go together, I’ll take Jose. Meet back here.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Cold

  You run past the men, not looking back. They most certainly see you dart past, but you don’t need to see the look on their faces. You quickly make it to the end of the hall, grab the doorknob, and turn.

  It’s locked. By a keypad, no less.

  You slam the fire extinguisher against the door handle again and again, exhausting yourself, but it doesn’t budge. Secure entry is limited in the infirmary, in or out, and you’re exactly the class of person this door discriminates against. You turn back, thinking maybe there’s time to help those guys out and use their keycards, but you’re greeted by a shambling horde of undead Aryans. Even the trio at the office, flummoxed by something as simple as a door handle, now come for you.

  You fight, using the fire extinguisher, but it’s hopeless. Icy-cold hands grab hold while teeth cut deep. You’re eaten alive.

  THE END

  Cold Cuts

  The man looks at you with tears welling in his eyes, but simply sinks back into the crowd. For a moment, there is only silence, the crowd staring at you as if waiting for direction. You look to Jason, but the disappointment is clear on his face.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” you say, hushed yet firm.

  “You know,” Jason says to the crowd. “You guys might want to disconnect the automatic doors, if you’re going to barricade yourself in here. Kinda defeats the point.”

  You pick up on his direction. “Speaking of, why not use some of those knives to sharpen your broom and mop handles? A blunt instrument won’t do much against raging Zulu.”

  “You’ll stay here and show us, right? Protect us?” an older woman asks, desperation in her voice.

  Will you help them, or continue your search for a doctor?

  • ER. This is an emergency!

  • “Uhhh…sure. But y’all have to do whatever I say. Got it?”

  • Pharmacy. If there’s something that’ll help Dad, that’s where it will be held.

  • The Morgue. When the dead are rising, it’ll likely be the safest place here.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Collateral Damage

  A good night’s sleep is exactly what you need. You’re up at the crack of dawn, ready to beat the heat of the day on the road back into town. You just need to re-hike what you did yesterday, and then do about the same after a ninety-degree turn to find the twins’ neighborhood.

  You’re walking a wide-open patch of road, watching a few walking corpses on the horizon, when suddenly you hear a procession of incredible cracking booms. Like an entire forest of trees being snapped in half one after another in rapid succession.

  You turn just in time to see the dirt on the side of the road leaping into the air with impact strikes as a fifty-caliber machine gun traces its way towards you. With no time to run or signal the driver that you’re a living, breathing man, the enormous bullets rip you apart.

  Apparently only corpses wander the middle of nowhere these days.

  THE END

  Committed

  The following six hours and twenty-nine minutes are some of the worst in your life. The thought that your government would allow its own people to knowingly take poison is a hard rock to swallow and the guilt that you might be a part of it sits in your stomach like lead paint.

  You never gave any credence or clear water to those who suggested we faked the moon landing or the “Truthers” who think 9/11 was an inside job. Sure, you follow the same message boards as other preppers who think Sandy Hook was invented to help pass anti-second-amendment legislation, but paranoia comes with the territory. You always figured they just didn’t know the government like you.

  Now you don’t know what to think. Are aliens real? Is there a secret base under the Denver Airport? Do the Freemasons and the Illuminati rule the world? Were cancer meds suppressed by Big Pharma? Christ, do lizard people walk among us?

  The whole flight passes like this, in a flash of panic. It only makes things worse when two more civilians attack and are subsequently put down. Then the LT freaks out at the six-hour mark and bites three of his men while they try to strap him to a gurney. Did any of the civvies bite their own before they were killed?

  As soon as the C-17 touches down and the bay door lowers, you’re the first one out. Gasmask securely pulled over your sweaty head, ruck slung, and rifle at the ready. Keeping your head down, you head for your reserve unit.

  The base is insane. Total chaos. You’ve never seen anything like it. The entry gates have been breached, most likely by semi-truck drivers looking for answers; looking for sanctuary. The airport in Manaus was insane, but here the mental patients have taken over the asylum.

  Inside the reserve office there’s a measure of calm relative to the hellscape outside. At the manning desk sits a young Airman whose nametag reads “FANUZZI.” He looks at you wearily as you approach, probably because you’re still wearing a gasmask.

  “Just touched down from Operation RAS-Putin,” you say. “Is the Group Commander in?”

  “Sorry, Sergeant. All guard members have been mobilized. We’re assisting the Army with a humanitarian something or other.”

  “Where? How long ago?” you ask.

  “Ahh, all day, as far as I know.” He consults his log book. “We’ve got one bird still in the area, and I can get you a seat if you’re ready for it. Otherwise, the Army is putting together crews for Humvees at the Armory.”


  The kid clearly has no idea what’s going on, so you’ll have to get a mission brief en route. Last time you checked, you had less than half a full magazine for your M4, and the armory might be a good spot for a refill. Then again, a bird in the hand gets the worm, and a helicopter ride to front lines would be significantly faster than a Humvee ride through clogged streets.

  • I think I’ll stick with Air Power and take that last seat on the helicopter.

  • Strength in numbers: both people and bullets. Humvee it up!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Con

  You step into the visitation room, spin around, and spray the fire extinguisher at the doctor and guard. They cough and stumble back into the hungry arms of the Aryan Brotherhood. The men scream, and once you’ve blown your load of chemical foam, you see the keycard on the ground.

  You sweep the card back with your foot, then slam the door closed, leaving you alone in the visitation room.

  Taking the keycard, you’re able to let yourself right out the front door. Sure, that was a dick move, but you’re alive. And you’re free.

  The night is dark, and the parking lot is empty, but you’re alone. Funny, the damage doesn’t look so bad from here.

  • Take one last look, then start walking towards the city, a free man.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Concealed Weapons

  Solitary snaps open the Asp baton and you look around for something to arm yourself with, but fall woefully short. They don’t just leave weapons lying about the prison, after all. They keep all the good stuff locked away in the armory. Which, you realize, is exactly where Solitary is headed.

  He ducks out of the SHU complex, keeping close to the sides of the building. With one eye on Solitary, you look around the prison once you’re outside. Just what happened while you were locked away? It’s already dark out and you’re offered little in the way of information. Still, the lights of the cell block shine brightly, so you can orient yourself. The searchlights from the guard towers sweep across the prison grounds.