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

by James Schannep

  That’s when something latches onto your leg. Something big. Then it wrenches you off your feet and pins you underwater until you drown. The big gators don’t usually come this far towards civilization, but something must be displacing them north.

  THE END

  Enemy of My Enemy

  You rush the trio of nutters, slamming the butt of the fire extinguisher as hard as you can into the skull of the nearest one.

  “Come on!” you shout.

  The office door swings open and the guard smashes into one of the ghouls with his Asp baton. The doctor cowers behind the correctional officer, so you and the guard finish off the third flesh-eating bastard together.

  Once their undead bodies stop twitching, the guard looks you over. He removes a pair of handcuffs and you raise your hands, shaking your head and back away.

  “I’ll get the two of you out of here,” the cop says. “But we can’t have inmates running amok. If the warden sees us…”

  Say:

  • “Fuck you, and fuck the warden. You ain’t cuffin’ me.”

  • “Gimme your word and I’ll go along.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Enough

  You take off running, knowing full well that since these guys are weighed down by tactical gear (and gasmasks, no less), they have no chance of catching you. They shout warnings for you to stop; the classic empty threat, “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  But this time it’s different.

  You stumble forward as something painfully stings you in the back. It hurts so much that you barely register the deafening boom that accompanied the shot. You fall forward on your chest, wheezing for breath. Whatever just hit you, you can no longer feel your legs. Guess you won’t be running anymore.

  THE END

  Excommunicated

  “Jason, help me with Dad,” you say. Together, you lift your father from his spot against the altar and head down the aisle towards the front doors. “Dad? Daddy, can you hear me? We’re leaving.”

  The man looks over to you with glossy eyes and a slack jaw. A flicker of understanding lights behind his eyes. It’s small, but you can tell that something you said registered. He licks his lips, his tongue dry and his gums smacking because of cotton mouth. “Before…” Dad croaks. “Mil…chest…”

  Your eyes sting with tears at seeing the strongest man you’ve ever known barely able to speak. But you get what he means—his foot locker from his Marine days. It’s been at the foot of his bed for as long as you can remember, though you’ve never seen it opened.

  “I’ll take care of it. You just rest now, okay, Daddy?”

  Though they’re busy with the stranger—who thrashes and bites at them from behind the sheet—Father Thomas rises to stop you.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Somewhere else, just leave us alone!” Jason shouts.

  “No…” your father croaks. “Leave…me…”

  “You see? He wants to stay,” Father Thomas says.

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

  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.

  “I’m sorry,” you say, then raise the rifle.

  Crack—the Zulu that was once your father falls to the floor, twice-dead.

  “Enough!” Father Thomas cries. “You are no longer welcome here! Leave us!”

  You barely hear him over the pain of losing your father. Jason takes you by the arm and practically drags you outside and into the Jeep.

  “C’mon, Sarah. This place is fucked six ways to Sunday, let’s skedaddle.”

  You drive away just as a Humvee pulls up to the cathedral parking lot. Several armed men hop out and walk towards the front doors. Good luck with the crazies, you think to yourself.

  “Where are we headed?” Jason asks.

  • “We need to distance ourselves from this city. Like you said, skedaddle.”

  • “Dad mentioned his mil locker. Let’s head home and get supplies before we go.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Exit Lane

  There’s only one main road out of town and into the woods—and that tunnel to freedom is up ahead. A police barricade was set in place to prevent a mass exodus from town, but plenty of people ran the barricade, and so can you.

  The only light comes from the sirens of abandoned patrol cruisers. You scan the area, but find no sign of the police officers. The Jeep’s headlights suddenly glint off something on the road, and you slam on the brakes, but too late. The tires scream and hiss when they hit the spike strip, and you skid to the side, the Jeep threatening to flip. You hold your breath, turn into the skid, and close your eyes. The Jeep comes to a stop and after a moment, you head out to check the wheels.

  They’re fucked; you’ll have to continue on foot.

  “Conserve ammo. We need it to last and we don’t—”

  “Yeah, I get it. I’m not a kid, you know.”

  The first figure to come clear in the headlights is a man in a business suit, his necktie pulled so tight that his eyes literally bulge from his head. The white oxford shirt he wears is smattered in gore up to his nose.

  More follow. Mothers, fathers, children. Truck drivers, cops, commuters. They all come for you.

  “There’s…so many…” Jason says in awe.

  “Only shoot the ones you have to! Keep moving!”

  “Maybe we should pick off these ones and find a hiding spot until first light?”

  • Great idea. Cab of a semi-truck should work well. High off the ground and roomy enough.

  • No way. Keep moving, and eventually take guard shifts somewhere less hot.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Failure to Launch

  Your throat is hoarse and dry, and doesn’t obey when you tell it to shout. Your arms are leaden, and the rifle feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. The front of Jason’s pants darken and you can tell he’s going through the same terror-stalled body shut-down.

  Until dad bites into him.

  Jason screams and can suddenly move again, but the old man holds Jason tight. Bite after bite, and there’s nothing Jason can do about it. You force yourself forward, raise the rifle, and put them both down.

  In the silence that follows, you’re alone in this world for the first time. Well, that’s not totally true, is it? You’ll always have your guilt with you. Guilt, and bad memories.

  • Leave this cursed home. Go, and never look back.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Familicide

  A simple squeeze of the trigger, and Jason is dead. His eyes stay wide-open; his last expression was one of surprise. A sick feeling overtakes your whole body and you heave a silent, dry sob of anguish. In the back of your mind, you hear the office door open and turn back towards the ranger.

  “Monster!” she cries. She holds a can of bear spray—basically mace on steroids—and blasts you in the face.

  Nothing has ever hurt like this. Bear spray is so potent, it’s actually illegal to use on humans. It’s designed to stop a charging grizzly from an effective range of up to 35 feet. So what happens when it’s sprayed in the face of a teenage girl at point-blank range?

  Such searing pain that it’s literally blinding. Yes, you’re blind now, permanently.

  You bum-fire the 10/20 at the shrieking woman, and either you kill her or she’s smart enough to go silent. Still, without your eyesight and no friends or family to help you, there’s no possible way you can survive.

  THE END

  Family Reunion

  You rest in the living room while the parents fawn over their children. They thank you profusely throu
gh tear-streaked smiles, but delivering the students safely to their families is reward enough. Now your thoughts go to Master Hanzo and the twins.

  At dinner, the adults tell you about how congested the city is, and how they tried so hard to make it to the dojo. The quarantine blocked all routes. And their own homes? The dead and the desperate made Nathanael’s mom and Nolan’s parents flee. It was the mutual fear of their children’s safety that brought them together. As a group, they’d been planning an excursion to the dojo, but you beat them to the punch.

  Then you tell them all about “Salvation” and suggest that they meet you there. After helping plot their route to safety, you plot your own path to the twins’ home. Now that you don’t have to stop by Nathanael’s house, you could possibly hike through the swampland. It’s a straight shot from one new development to another, through a large area of uninhabitable marsh. Still, it would be a major shortcut compared to taking the roads.

  Over after-dinner tea, it’s time to ponder your options:

  • Stay the night, then follow the paved roads when you have good visibility.

  • Go now, through the swamp, lest the twins’ parents mount their own rescue effort before you reach them.

  • Head out now and take the long, paved road to find the last set of parents.

  • Scrap the plan and head back. If these parents were coming to the dojo, maybe you can protect the twins while you wait for their parents?

  • Get a good night’s sleep, then trek through the marshes at first light.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Family Values

  The man is ecstatic. He pushes his way through the crowd and says, “I’m Chris. You won’t regret this!”

  “See that we don’t,” Jason says, trying to act tough.

  “The rest of you, I’d recommend heading somewhere more defensible,” you say.

  With that, you leave the cafeteria and head towards the NICU.

  “What’re we walking into, Chris?” you ask.

  “I came down to get some food for my wife, and when I tried to go back, they said it was on lock-down. It’s probably the most secure place in the hospital. They keep high-risk and immune-compromised babies in there, so they limit access. Plus, you know, people steal babies…so they don’t let you in unless you’re on the guest list.”

  “How do you get in? Escort? Key card?” Jason asks.

  “Entry area has a camera. You show an ID and they buzz you in. That’s the door,” Chris says.

  He points to the door labeled, “NEONATAL INTENSIVE CARE UNIT.” As luck would have it, a nurse not much older than you opens the door and steps out. Rifle in hand, you charge forward.

  “Hold the door! Guy just wants to be reunited with his family! Let us in, Nurse Betty, or I’m not afraid to use your body as a door prop!”

  She holds the door open and Chris pushes his way through. You follow with Jason and your new hostage, just in case. Chris runs to find his wife and kid, but you don’t waste time on a touching reunion.

  “Doctors, now!” you shout.

  Three middle-aged men in lab coats come forward, with some hesitation.

  “One of you is coming with us; we’ve got a sick man.”

  All three shake their heads, and the man in the middle says, “You can’t just threaten violence and expect to get what you want—we’re needed here.”

  • Back up the threat with action. You only need one doctor.

  • Explain your situation.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Fast Food

  You run down the bus aisle, past terrified passengers who duck away from you, and past the cop shouting for you to stay put. The only other person moving on the bus is the vagrant in the back, who snarls and stumbles forward.

  Lowering your shoulder, you blast into the homeless man, sending him sprawling. You probably have fifty pounds on the guy, so it’s easy to force your way through. You pull on the big red handle of the emergency exit, swing the door open, then stumble as something grabs your leg.

  You pull hard, dragging the homeless man with you, but he finds an ankle and bites through your business socks with incredible force.

  You’re INFECTED!

  Fatigue

  You’re penned shoulder-to-shoulder with dozens of farm animals. Literally. Burly cows heave their distressed bodies against you, while geese dart between your feet and nip at your heels. You’re in line for the slaughterhouse; somehow you just know, and there’s no way but forward. The ground is a mixture of mud and excrement, and you catch your reflection in a foul puddle—you’re a pig.

  When you look up, you’re face-to-face with a goat, its dreadful eyes wide and angry, the flat, rectangular pupils drifting like an alien spacecraft before a brilliant sun. The goat’s ears lower with agitation, then it lets out a terribly shrill scream, piercing your subconscious.

  You shoot awake to see Lt. Dosa, eyes like saucers, screaming, as a woman sucks against his chest. He shoves her away and something that was once a part of him comes away with her. He looks at the arterial blood spurting from his chest and screams again.

  She was probably someone’s grandmother; sweet and kind and hardworking in life, now a feral powerhouse of hunger in afterlife. She pulls at him with inhuman ferocity while everyone suddenly wakes up with a mix of confusion and shock.

  Lt. Dosa levels a punch at the woman’s jaw and she opens her mouth to accept the gift. Then, fast as a striking viper, a Navy SEAL opens the woman’s neck from ear to ear. Yet almost no blood comes out, like slicing into a cadaver on the autopsy table.

  No blood pressure means…no heartbeat? A fact she’s bothered by no more than this arterial wound. Her moaning changes to something more like a sucking sound as she turns towards this new threat.

  You raise your rifle, but an Army Ranger next to you pushes the muzzle back down. “Not in flight,” he says.

  Unsheathing Isabelle, you stand and approach the woman from behind, then stick nine inches of cold steel against the base of her skull and up into her head. She falls limply and your knife comes out black and sticky.

  It’s a long moment of silence as everyone processes what just happened.

  “We can’t establish contact with the base,” the loadmaster says at last. Looking at Lt. Dosa, he adds, “You’re all on your own once we touch down.”

  “Is there something wrong with our comm?” you ask.

  The loadmaster looks to the floor, sighs, then turns back into the cockpit without answering. You stand and follow him, your brain not willing to accept what he’s saying.

  “What do you mean we’re ‘on our own’? What orders do we have? Who are we debriefing?”

  “Just what don’t you get? There isn’t a base anymore!” the loadmaster shouts back.

  “How…how is that possible?”

  The co-pilot turns and says, “It’s Venezuela all over again, man.”

  “No, we wouldn’t dose ourselves,” you say, shaking your head.

  The pilot laughs in disgust. “We didn’t have to. Think about it. How would it look if we gave this Gilga-shit to a bunch of dick-head dictators, but no one in America got sick? They had to turn a blind eye in order to have plausible deniability, and if a Kardashian or two died and ate her brain-dead fans, no big loss. Only…we waited too long to intervene.”

  “Are you saying we knew this would happen?”

  “No,” the co-pilot says. “We’re saying we made sure it would happen. Who do you think funded this little project?”

  “How…how do you know all this?”

  “Need-to-know basis, and we needed to fucking know.”

  “The first celebutard was infected a couple of weeks ago. Containment has failed, Sergeant,” the pilot adds.

  Your head swirls and stomach turns—I’m going to be sick, you think. Vision narrowing, knees weak, you stumble out of the cockpit back into the loading bay, where the soldiers now have their weapons trained on the civilian passengers.

  The infection
, it’s everywhere. You find your bag, dig into it, and pull out a black gasmask. You pull the thing on, sucking in deep breaths, and see the world anew through a plastic visor. The effect is calming, like breathing into a paper bag for a panic attack. It gives you a few minutes to think clearly, to plot out your next move.

  So…what’s next?

  • This can’t be all there is. I’ll find my guard unit. There has to be a contingency plan, and I’m better off working with the military.

  • As soon as we touch down, I’m out of here. I’ve got my bug-out bag in the car ready to go. I’m ready for this, even if Uncle Sam wasn’t.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Feast

  At the center of the park, the three survivors meet up with two more: A black-haired woman in a mechanic’s overshirt who carries a chain and a wrench, and a man in kitchen whites who carries a butcher’s knife and a frying pan. The group confers for a minute before the mechanic steps forward.

  “I’m Cooper,” she says, offering a hand to shake. “I’m sure they told you that I’m the leader of this merry band of misfits.”

  “Sergeant Sims. US Air Force electrical maintenance specialist.”

  “A pleasure. This here is Jose, man doesn’t habla mucho, but he’s good in a fight. I’m Cooper, and I guess you can think of me as your new commanding officer.”

  Trying to buy a moment to think, you say, “I’m going to signal rescue, at all costs. So…”