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

by James Schannep

  By some miracle, the shop door is unlocked and you rush inside, throw the deadbolt and turn to face any threats within. The corpse of an employee is sprawled out on the floor, blood splattered and pooled everywhere. You plant both feet for a quick stop, but her bodily fluids lubricate your boots and the linoleum goes out from under you.

  When your forehead slams against the counter, 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 the sandwich shop, lying on the linoleum floor, gasmask still on. Isabelle is still in her sheath, and it looks like the security gate must have held, because you concussion-slept all night without being eaten. Speaking of which, the memory of the corpse comes back and you look over to see the sandwich shop employee lying next to you with a bloody mouth and a sandwich knife inside her head. In the back room, the manager is dead and eaten.

  Despite the terrible scene and pounding headache, you keep your wits enough to grab a bite to eat before you get going. You got lucky. Better be more careful next time.

  • Time to see what’s left outside…

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Cynicism

  While you take the motorcycle chain and giant monkey wrench, Angelica opts only for her candlestick. Not what you would pick in a fight, though there’s something to be said for the weapon you know. In a running crouch, you head from the parking lot to the front doors but the entrance is filled with ghouls; dead end.

  Barely able to think, with the sounds of gunfire and men’s screams all around you, you look for an alternate route. Around the side, there’s a wing under construction and a welcome sight: a great, shining behemoth. A red dragon, inviting you to ride on its back, slaying your enemies like a fantasy warrior-queen.

  It’s a construction vehicle with a backhoe claw serving as its spiked tail, and a trenching tool—what appears to be a gigantic chainsaw—serving as your fire-breathing front. Stenciled on the side of the vehicle is his name: Ditch Witch® RT80 Quad.

  “Let’s go,” you say.

  There are two seats on the thing, one for the driver and one to operate the rear claw. Once mounted, you’ll ride atop four tank-tread-style limbs. You take the reins, telling Angelica just to play with the levers to get the hang of the claw. No need to worry about collateral damage here. The seat is bloodied, but the keys are still in the ignition. You’ll have to make sure you aren’t pulled off, like the poor sap who rode it last.

  With a mighty roar, your chariot growls to life and you propel it forward. The chainsaw front engages and you tear through the construction and into the hospital. Immediately, you’re faced with several of the hungry dead, but your dragon is hungrier. It paints the walls with viscera and tears the ghouls apart.

  The floor tiles crack under the weight of your beast, but no matter. You continue on. A quick glance back to Angelica shows the woman swinging the claw around like mad, battering any undead who might try to follow. The sheer mass of the claw deals brutal damage, but nearly all of the ghouls find their footing again to follow.

  The hallway ahead is cordoned off with waiting-room couches and coffee tables, secretaries’ desks and filing cabinets. There must be a couple thousand pounds of office furniture between you and the next area of the hospital: the cafeteria.

  And more shocking still, there’re people on the other side. Living people. You can see their blood-stained faces looking at you with terror through the glass portholes in the double doors beyond the barricade. Men, women, and children.

  They’ve locked themselves in, but they’re really trapped, due to the wall of undead. Even if they wanted out, they couldn’t possibly fight off that many infected hospital patients.

  • Take the group of corpses down. The only good zombie is a twice-dead zombie.

  • They made their choice. Mine? Find a way up to the roof and that chopper.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Daddy’s Girl

  The road home is darker than normal, as only about half of the streetlights are working. A few have been knocked over from all the haphazard driving accidents, but a few more are simply dark. This part of the grid must be down already, but some sections are still intact.

  Despite the figures constantly darting out towards your headlights, and the need to weave the Jeep in a zig-zag pattern, you drive home in silence, the new knowledge you gained from the hospital weighing heavily on your heart. Jason, on the other hand, is fast asleep in the passenger seat. Poor kid.

  You pull into the driveway, wake your brother, and take your rifle. Time to say goodbye. Power’s still on here; half the lights are on inside your house. You pause at the front door—there’s a bullet hole at chest-height, the interior light shining through.

  “Look alive,” you tell Jason. “Could be looters.”

  The door is locked, so you use your key and slowly head inside. There’s blood everywhere. Dad’s handgun lies in the center of the room, and a trail of red leads towards the kitchen. Panic swelling in your chest, you follow the trail, where there’s a man lying face first on the linoleum.

  Despite seeing a corpse with the back of his head blown out, your heart soars. It’s the stranger, not Dad. There are several footprints in the blood, the tread matching dad’s boots. Following the limping gait with your eyes, you see a figure in the hallway by Dad’s room.

  “Daddy?” you say, slowly stepping forward.

  The man stumbles with odd, cavorting steps. Despite the slack jaw and glazed eyes, you’d know that face anywhere. His skin is ashen gray, almost like marble, and his fingers are contorted claws.

  “Oh, shit…” Jason says.

  Dad’s head snaps towards your brother and a low, guttural growl comes from his throat. The metal of your rifle is cold in your sweat-drenched palms. Oh, God. This isn’t happening! You’re frozen, paralyzed. Time creeps by, each second lasting a decade. He can’t be dead, he can’t. He can’t be one of those things!

  “No…!” Jason cries as Dad’s hands rise up to embrace his son.

  • You can’t do it—you know you can’t. Scream for Jason to run!

  • That’s not your Daddy. It’s Zulu. Put him down.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Damage is Done

  You grab a scarf from your closet and tie it tightly around Jason’s bicep, cutting off the circulation, and then inspect the wound. It’s bad—really bad. The bite is deep, and the flesh around it is puffy and rended.

  “Cut it off! Cut it off!” Jason screams.

  “…don’t…” Dad croaks from the doorway. He looks like death warmed over—pale and slick with sweat, eyes bloodshot, skin around them dark and bruised. “Circulation…takes under…a minute…. Infected…”

  He’s right, and you know it. Fresh from that lifeguard course, you know it takes under a minute for blood to flow from the heart and do a full circulation lap throughout the body. If the infection is transmitted from a bite, it left Jason’s arm and flowed into his body in only seconds.

  “Jay,” you say, the name catching in your throat. “It’s too late.”

  “No, it’ll work, cut it off!”

  The old man stumbles back against the door jamb like a drunk, his eyelids heavy. “…blade…not sterile…”

  You remember back to your AP History class. Civil War amputations had, what, a fifty-percent mortality rate? You’d probably do more damage than good. Slowly, you look to Jason and shake your head no. He sinks against the bed, looks at his wound, and starts to cry.

  Now your own tears flow freely. “Daddy, what do we do?”

  His eyes blink open and with renewed clarity, he hisses, “Leave us!”

  “No! I won’t. I won’t leave you.”

  “Once bitten…soon biting….”

  “You won’t turn. I’ll stop it, somehow.”

  Jason wipes his eyes, inadvertently painting himself in a bright-red, bloody b
andit’s mask. “If you want to stop it, you’ll have to shoot us. In the head, like that guy. I shot him in the chest first, but—”

  “Jay, no!”

  Dad stumbles forward, then gathers himself. With extreme effort, he says, “If you live…we live…with you…”

  • Do the merciful thing; put them out of their misery.

  • Refuse. Barricade them in the house, get in the Jeep and leave.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Dancing Partner

  “You want me to be submissive; is that it?” you ask.

  “I want you to want to please me, like I want to please you,” Duke says.

  You stand up, saunter across to his side of the table, bringing your knife and fork.

  “Well, let me cut your meat, dear,” you say, plunging the fork into his steak.

  You position the knife to cut his filet, then swing the blade up to cut his throat instead. But the attack stops short. You’re nothing less than astounded when his hand clenches tightly around your forearm, halting the blow. Blood oozes from his self-inflicted carving wound, but he doesn’t seem to care.

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” he says.

  “I…wanted to see how good you are. If you’re a worthy king.”

  Duke grins and releases his grip. He says, “And? What did we decide?”

  Taking a moment to think, you decide:

  • I can seduce him, fairly easily, then make my escape once he falls asleep.

  • Yes, I do think he’s stupid, and I can play him like a fiddle. Time for some mind games.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Dark Ages

  The Ferris wheel was visible on the horizon once you passed the skyscrapers of downtown and since then has served as your North Star to navigate you safely into port. Your legs ache from jogging/hiking all day, and the sun went below the horizon about an hour ago, but you’ve finally arrived.

  Automatic lights beam at the entrance, which is designed to look like a castle, complete with a drawbridge permanently welded in the open position. Though the walls may be built of plaster atop rebar, they’re better than nothing.

  The Funtastic Rockencoaster Adventure Park is full of kitsch, from the streaming banners to the inflatable princess ready for photos. From the looks of it, this was a Medieval Funtimes park that was bought out, updated, and bastardized into what lies before you.

  “Welcome home, m’lady,” Hefty says.

  “What kind of bullshit place is this?” you say.

  “Parents never brought you?” Tyberius asks. “I only came once, after my brother…well, never wanted to come again after that; guess it always reminds me of him.”

  It sounds like someone is trapped inside the ticket booth, groaning and growling in hell’s version of snoring, but you’re too tired to start clearing out the dead now. After looking at the front map, you say, “There’s a hotel with a restaurant. Let’s secure the building, eat, and get some rest. We can take the park tomorrow.”

  The group nods and follows you towards the hotel. It’s near the front entrance, presumably so people can check in on a Friday night before exploring the park over the weekend. Still, you have to put down three ghouls on the way, one of whom still dutifully clutches a selfie-stick.

  The hotel exterior is that of a gigantic castle, and, in case you didn’t get the theme—there’s a gigantic Castlelot! logo above the entrance. The lobby’s centerpiece is an enormous sword sticking from a boulder and the directory boasts: The Canterbury Theatre, Round Table Restaurant, Lady-of-the-lake Pool and Spa, and other Arthurian-inspired attractions.

  The hotel is a bona fide resort. Several pools with swim-up bars. A mini-golf course for guests. In short, it’s the kind of place that would cost you half a month’s pay for a night’s stay. Which means the beds are going to feel amazing.

  You open the doors only to be met by darkness. Your stomach sinks—can’t explore a hotel in complete darkness. There’s power to the park; the entrance taught you that much, but the hotel must be on a separate circuit.

  “Goddammit,” you say. Then with a sigh, add, “We’ll find some flashlights and clear it out tomorrow.”

  The group lets out a collective weary groan, but they know you’re right. Okay, where are you spending the night?

  • The public restrooms. Small enough to secure in the dark.

  • The gift shops. Eat some candy and sleep on top of a giant teddy bear.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Dead of Night

  Despite Sam and Lily’s insistence that this is not a good idea, you ready yourself for departure. Sam offers everything short of his rifle. “Want me to make you a shield? Forge a spear?”

  “Nah, I’m faster when I’m not weighed down. Besides, I still got this pigstick,” you say, showing off the baton.

  “Goodbye, Ty,” Lily says.

  “See you later,” you correct.

  Not wanting to attract the soldiers’ attention, you use one of the spools of rope in the store and rappel your way off the rooftop. Once on the street, you duck behind a parked car and scout your route. The driver of the car slaps the windshield and chomps his jaws, psychotically trying to get to you from inside. The man’s growls are barely muffled.

  Down the street, the soldiers go car-to-car, tapping on windows and collecting car keys from the frightened occupants within. Those that are still living, anyway. The undead man accidentally presses his chest against the steering wheel while trying to get to you, and the horn beeps loudly.

  “Shit,” you mutter. Knowing you’ll need to make a break for it, you turn to leave, but you’re stuck on something. When you look down, you see that a gray, ashen fist holds your pant leg. The arm comes from the sewage drain and suddenly the other arm grabs around your ankle and pulls.

  You slam the baton down on the wrists over and over, but they don’t even flinch. Instead, your leg is dragged into the gutter and you experience excruciating pain as teeth pierce your work socks. You manage to pull away, losing a strip of flesh and a good chunk of your slacks.

  Doesn’t matter, though. It’s not a clean getaway.

  You’re INFECTED!

  Death of Reason

  “They’re just a coupla kids!” the woman shrieks.

  The man rubs his eyes with the back of his pistol hand, then resumes pointing the gun at you. He steps forward, blinking rapidly. “Where’d you get all that?” he says, pointing the pistol at your weapons and gear.

  “It’s ours.”

  “Yeah? Give it here.”

  “Can’t do that,” you reply coolly.

  He shakes the pistol at you, and you shake your head back. He scratches at his chest and looks back at the pharmacy window. “You don’t open this door, I’m gonna shoot these kids!”

  Whatever the pharmacist says, the man doesn’t like it. The pharmacist’s voice is muffled by the security window, but the junkie thumbs the hammer back, and there’s no mistake there.

  The next few seconds go by in a flash. Jason steps forward, the blond junkie turns toward you with wide eyes, and the woman screams out as a barrage of gunshots erupt inside the room.

  The junkie man gets peppered by pellets from Jason’s 16-gauge, as well as three sucking chest wounds courtesy of your .22. He drops the pistol, falls to the floor, and touches his wounds with surprise. It looks like he wants to speak, but only rasping, wheezing breath comes out.

  You look to your own chest, touching a similar spot, but your fingers come away with dark, almost black, blood. You fall to your knees, then black out.

  THE END

  Debutante’s Ball

  The dress fits perfectly. Like it was tailored for you, in fact. But the guy forgot shoes, so you’re wearing your biker boots underneath. And yeah, though you hate to admit it, cleaning up a bit felt amazing after a few days in that horse stall. At least he didn’t drop off a curling iron and makeup compact, you think. Just in case you end up zip-tied again, you keep Angelica’s fingernail clippers tucked into t
he left boot.

  “Hot diggity,” Bud says with a whistle when he returns. “Guess I can see why Duke wanted you in that dress so bad. Okay, almost dinner time, let’s go.”

  You can’t even remember the last time you wore a dress, and despite the warm night, it’s breezier than you’d like. Bud walks with the swagger of a man not threatened by you in the least. That’ll help with escape.

  The constant armed patrols, however, will not. There are far more people here than you’d expected, both infected and healthy. As you walk to “the big house,” you can see several pockets of dead in the distance and men moving to fight them. This isn’t a clean-up action, it’s a battle.

  “You’ll come to realize you’re lucky. It’s safe here,” Bud says, noting your gaze.

  You don’t acknowledge the man. Is he saying that for your benefit, or trying to convince himself? Things must be really bad in the city at the rate the dead are flowing into the camp. Worse every day, you think. How many days are left?

  * * *

  A candlelight dinner for two. You down the glass of wine set in front of you, meant for sipping as you wait for dinner. Seated across the table is the man you recognize as the owner of the Hummer. The man the others are calling Duke.

  “Is this supposed to be a romantic gesture?” you ask. “Not likely to make me forget that I just came from a horse stall.”

  “I’m sorry about that, really. I’d like it if you stayed up here, with me. I figured you could use some time to cool off and to ponder the alternative, but I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”

  That gets a laugh. “I have to ask…why me? It’s clear you singled me out, but I have to be honest. I don’t get it.”