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

by James Schannep

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever. In the meantime, any chance you can get the power back on in the hotel? There’s a restaurant on-site, and it’d be nice to have a real meal, don’t you think?”

  “Listen, Cooper, you seem…nice, but I’m not one to take orders from random strangers, so….”

  Cooper sighs. “I was trying to be civil…” She wraps an arm around you, taking you into her confidence. Her voice grows hushed, and harsh. “Truth is, I think you could be useful, Sims. I really do, but I don’t take chances. I protect my friends and my friends protect me, but if we’re going to travel together, I need to know I can trust that you’ll do what I say.”

  Out of nowhere she applies pressure to your wounded shoulder, sweeps your feet out from under you, and before you know what’s happened, you’re face-first on the ground, in agonizing pain.

  “So what’s it going to be, cuntfuck? Are we going to be friends or not?”

  “YES!!!” you scream.

  “And what I say goes?”

  “Yes, yes! Goddammit, yes!”

  She releases you. After a humiliated moment, you climb back onto your feet. Cooper stares at Angelica, an unspoken agreement passing between them. You look away in shame and see Jose smiling. Tyberius and Hefty simply shrug. That’s just the way it is, it would seem. Until you can signal rescue, it looks like you’re stuck with Tyberius, Hefty, Jose, Mega-bitch Cooper, and Angelica the Meek.

  You’ve never been bullied before, but with a wounded shoulder and no real weapon, what choice do you have? Truth be told, you feel safe under the wing of such a strong leader. The walk to the hotel passes in silence, and so does the dinner that follows. The hotel is in immaculate condition, with zero fleshies, ample power, and running water. Flip a few breakers and you’re in business.

  There’s a maintenance radio down here that crackles to life once you get the power going. It’s a weak transmission, but it’s something. You crank up the volume, tune the station manually, and listen closely to the man’s voice on the other end. “…threat…God…and all…are…at the…off….” the man says through bursts of static. It’s so hard to make out, but maybe you can boost the signal? This kind of thing used to be your job, after all.

  After a moment, the message comes back with, “anyone…alone…Salvation…blind…” and continues where you found it with “…threat.” It’s looping. Some kind of distress call? Someone’s last words?

  Then the cheering starts. The group calls out to you from upstairs, thrilled that you turned the power on, and ready to eat a feast, with you as the guest of honor. Even Cooper seems truly happy.

  “Sims, you magnificent son-of-a-bitch, come on up! Dinner and drinks are on me,” she says.

  * * *

  “Okay, here’s everyone’s room key,” Cooper says after the meal. “We’re in the suites. Take the night, get your head on straight, and tomorrow we’re checking out the park in earnest. We might be here a while, and we’re going to make the best of it. This is a great place to be—and this hotel is miraculously free of those things, so I want you to count your blessings and wake up with a smile on your faces. Got it?”

  The hotel suite is somewhere a king or pop star would stay—a level of luxury you could never afford after a million years in the National Guard. Taking off your gasmask and uniform for the night, you prepare to unwind. After pillaging the mini-bar, you fill up the private Jacuzzi and take a soak.

  Now, sprawled out in a bathrobe on a bed big enough to sleep triplets, you cruise the pay-per-view channels, which asks for a credit card. You laugh aloud. The whole thing is surreal. No, not the fact that there are porno rentals at a family-friendly resort, but that here you are, all these luxurious amenities at your fingertips, while the world crumbles outside….

  Wonder what everyone else is up to? Tyberius and Hefty opted to share the multi-bedroom “family penthouse,” but everyone else is just down the hall.

  • Go check on Angelica.

  • Go check on Cooper.

  • Go check on Jose.

  • Go check on Tyberius and Hefty.

  • Nope. Stay in for a quiet night alone.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Feminine Wiles

  “Haven’t decided yet,” you say as you lower the knife and cut his steak in earnest.

  You slice off a bite, bring the fork towards his mouth, but when he opens his mouth—take the bite for yourself. You then sip his wine, with a devious smirk curling around the edges of the glass.

  You sway your hips as you go back to your seat, the fabric clinging, then sliding; knowing full well what the visual is doing to the man. You finish the meal in silence, feeling his gaze on you, but not meeting it. That smirk, however, remains a constant feature.

  “How about dessert?” you say, one eyebrow rising.

  He swallows. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I remember you saying something about a garage? I’m ready to be impressed.”

  Duke nods and rises from his seat. He leads you out of the big house and off to a prefab metal shelter—a garage built just for you, so he says. You can’t help but notice Bud trailing as a shadow.

  “He’s not coming with us, is he?”

  “He’ll stay outside. You won’t even know he’s there.”

  The inside of the garage is truly impressive. Several bikes and a full set-up to work on them, along with several posters of you in your racing days. It looks like what you might have had in Motocross if your contract hadn’t gone to shit. Ironic, in a way. You weren’t willing to whore yourself out to magazines for all this, but look how you got it in the end. Well, screw irony.

  You sit on one of the bikes, knees high, letting the little black dress fall up your thighs; give the man what he wants to see. “All this for little ole me?” you say, demurely.

  “The world,” he says. “Last we met you said to me, ‘not if I were the last man on earth.’ Thought you might rethink it, now that we’re at the end of the world.”

  He steps forward and rubs your leg. His hands are sweaty. You pull him close and kiss the man, suppressing the bile in the back of your throat and playing the sex-kitten act to full force. Stepping off the bike, you shove him away, hard.

  He hits against a worktable, where there’s an electric wench used to strap down motorcycles and immobilize them for easy work. It’s built-in, right there on the end of the table. When you pull out a length of nylon cable, it makes a loud whirring sound as it unspools, and Duke’s eyes grow wide with fear.

  You laugh, playfully, and then in a husky voice say, “Trust me…”

  Taking the nylon around one wrist, you feel his muscles tighten with resistance. But when you rub against his chest, his fight dies down. Working quickly, you thread the tie-down cable around his wrists, pinning him to the table like it’s a medieval torture rack.

  Duke tries to sit up when you flip the electric wench on. He reaches out, wasting the few precious seconds where he might have freed himself before it was too late. You watch the man’s face as he realizes you’ve betrayed him, savoring the moment. He opens his mouth to speak, but instead screams as the wench pulls the cord tight.

  The electric motor strains, but his body gives out first. He cries bloody murder as his bones, joints, and tendons do the same with sickening crunches and snaps. Then you claim a fifteen-inch tire iron, feeling the curved steel in your hands before heading to the front door. When you open it, you see Bud rushing forward.

  “Help! Duke is stuck!” Bud looks at you, trying to comprehend what you’re saying. Inside, he looks at Duke on the table, then back to you. “It was a sex thing. I can’t get him out!”

  Bud growls, then rushes to Duke’s side. From behind, you smash the man in the back of his knees and he collapses to the floor. Then you smash the back of his head and he falls, still. Duke’s arms bend the wrong way as he’s drawn further into the wench. He might live, but he’ll never have full use of his arms again. Besides, leaving him alive might slow the other gua
rds as you escape.

  Time to go.

  • Back to the stalls. Take Bud’s key and get back in your riding clothes before you go.

  • Straight out into the woods, right now. A dress isn’t best, but time is of the essence.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Field Trip

  The National Guardsmen leave; they’re off to defend the hospital. You leave too, your students and Master Hanzo in tow, defending them as you make the trek across the city. The day threatens to be a warm one, made warmer still by all the hiking. You’ll want to check convenience stores for water bottles along the way.

  Though you instructed the group that they’ll have to travel in silence, somehow the walking corpses know where to find you. Some instinct, perhaps? Just the movement of people walking? Either way, they come for you. Though they stumble, they’re gaining on you. A shambling corpse never tires, while an aged man quickly does so.

  Still, he’s virile, for someone who spends most of his days drinking tea, reading poetry, and meditating.

  “I’m ti-awwwww’d,” Liam complains.

  “No!” Stella shouts. “The bad people!”

  Tears stream down her face as she points back to the growing crowd of walking corpses. You pick Liam up and carry him for the time being. Stella rushes to your side, puts her arms up to be held, and Nathanael takes her. He’s the eldest, at seventeen, but his post-growth-spurt lean frame will tire quickly.

  When a group of undead come around the corner in front of you, Master Hanzo gasps and clutches his chest, then falls to his knees.

  “Leave me!” he shouts.

  You prepare to fight off the group up front by setting Liam down and assessing the threat of the group when Liam suddenly screams and runs towards a nearby second-hand bookstore—The BookWorm. Stella wriggles her way free from Nathanael and follows her brother. The door is unlocked and they disappear inside.

  You take Master Hanzo under one arm and Nathanael takes his other arm. As a group, you amble towards the bookshop, hoping it might provide refuge.

  “Find a back door!” you shout.

  Haley quickly reports back that there is only a store room and toilet. No other way out. It’s an older store; a relic of a different age. But the front of the shop is primarily glass, and you’re not sure how long that will hold.

  That’s when the group of undead smashes against the glass doors. It’s unlike the strange curiosity the early attempts displayed. This is pure, rabid hunger. They know people are inside, and they burn with desire to join you. Some leave bloody smears on the glass as they break their fists on the doors.

  Their greedy, hungry teeth come for you all. With no back exit, there’s no way you’ll make it out of this alive. But at least there won’t be enough of you left to rise again.

  THE END

  ¡Fiesta!

  Jose opens the door, frying pan and cleaver at the ready.

  “No, no! I just wanted to say hi. Hola?” you say, hands raised in supplication.

  “Hola…” he responds, looking past you and into the hall.

  You pull a handful of tiny alcohol bottles from your bathrobe pockets and hold them up as a peace offering. His eyes light up in understanding, and he rattles something off in rapid-fire Spanish, ushering you into the room.

  It’s basically the same as yours—right down to the porno up on the pay-per-view. Guillermo opens his own mini-bar, then mixes some of the alcohol with a tiny can of pineapple juice into two tumblers and hands you one of the cocktails.

  “Arriba, abajo, al centro, adentro…salud,” he says. As he does so, he raises the glass, lowers it, brings it in, then downs the drink.

  “Uhhh… ‘May the girls with itty bitties at least let you pet their pretty kitties!’” you say, before downing your own beverage.

  Though the language barrier is high, man-code proves universal. You drink the night away, but eventually, what goes up must come down. At some point you wake up, still drunk, the TV on its loop of advertisements for on-demand entertainment, and Guillermo passed out next to you on the couch.

  • Go check on Tyberius and Hefty.

  • Go check on Cooper.

  • Go check on Angelica.

  • Head back to your room and get some sleep.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Final Solution

  You stay quiet in the dark, hoping against hope that the Turned patients in here with you won’t pick up on your presence. That you won’t get them in a frenzy. Because they don’t care if the straps cut through their skin. They would break their own arms to get free. To get to you.

  Panic settles in, so you try to focus on something outside of the tent. There are car engines in the distance—a sound you haven’t heard in a full day. Is the army leaving? Is the quarantine over?

  That’s when the main tent flap opens. There’s some light from outside, so you can see the silhouette of a gasmask-clad soldier. He’s muttering something that sounds religious in tone, but you’re pretty sure he’s speaking Spanish. You recognize the word “Maria.” Sounds like the Hail Mary prayer.

  Now the Turned in the room grow restless. Frenzied. The room erupts with the brightness of a lightning strike; it’s the muzzle of the soldier’s rifle as he shoots the first infected in the head. A moment later, the crack of gunfire shakes the tent and illuminates the scene once more at the next cot over.

  He’s going person-to-person, one bullet for each. Now your screams blend with the groans and growls of the damned, but it doesn’t make him stop. Eventually your turn comes up too.

  THE END

  Finding Mr. Right

  It’s already dark out and the searchlights from the guard towers sweep across the prison grounds. You move quickly, darting from building to building to keep clear of the searchlight beam.

  The armory waits up ahead. Just beyond the armory is the motorpool, then the outer fence, and beyond that—freedom. You’re considering the armory as a possible “pit stop” when you see another figure in the darkness.

  You creep closer, hoping not to alert a nutter. But as you get closer to the armory, you see it’s Solitary, the prison’s resident violent offender. He wears a guard’s utility belt and rifles through a set of keyrings, trying to let himself into the secure building.

  After a few moments, he finds the right key and opens the armory door. You step forward, but a second later, Solitary comes sprinting back out. A gunshot cracks from inside the armory and the inmate runs away from whoever is inside, away from this set of buildings, towards the laundry, machine shop, cafeteria, and infirmary.

  • Chase after him—he might know another way out!

  • Use him as a welcome distraction—head for the motorpool!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Fine Print

  “I’m in,” you say.

  “Sarah, what the fuck?!” Jason screams.

  One of the nuns produces a yardstick from somewhere deep within her robes and slaps your brother with it. She follows after him, swatting Jason for his foul mouth, until he’s forced from the room.

  After the commotion, Sister Mary III passes out the rest of the inhalers to the superfluity of nuns while she sing-song chants, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”

  Without hesitation, you pop the cap and suck down the cool solution from within. As you depress the injector, the formula forces itself into your throat and lungs. You can’t tell if it’s liquid or gas, but it coats your esophagus in a viscous embrace. The effervescent tingling spreads throughout your body and eventually dissipates altogether.

  The Mother Superior then says, “Ite ad Evangelium Domini nuntiandum.”

  “Deo gratias,” her sisters reply in unison.

  “Amen,” you say.

  Disinformation can be just as deadly as a lie, and you’ve just been fed the forbidden fruit. Gilgazyme® doesn’t prevent the plague, it is the plague. But you’ll find that out soon enough once feeling gives way to instinct. Then you’ll help the helples
s in the most merciful way possible, by releasing them from their suffering.

  You’re INFECTED!1

  1. Just a guess: You didn’t read INFECTED, right? Either that, or you thought, Heh, I’m going to be a zombie! Not this time. Different book, different rules.

  Fire in the Hole!

  “This is where the shit hits the road, gentlemen. Look alive!” you say.

  Finding cover behind a food services cart with the other Marines, you hunker down while the corporal readies his M203 grenade launcher. A hollow thunk announces the shot, and a moment later, there’s a satisfying KABOOOOOM!!!

  When you bring your head up, you see an enormous hole where once there was a barrier. Unfortunately, so do most of the zombies on the tarmac. More of the fiends come out of the woodwork, and you’ve got a quarter-million or so hungry eyes looking your way.

  Better hurry.

  Flaming debris dots the landscape, and there’s a ring of fire that marks your entrance. In the middle of the pack of Marines, you rush inside the opening and into the terminal. A smear of cooked flesh paints the walls within, followed by more bits and pieces of something that was once human. A torso and head twitches just outside that line of gore and beyond that—more fleshies.

  “Ambassador!” you scream.

  “Up here,” a meek voice cries in the distance.

  Time to find a way up to the second level. You do your best to step around the…squick…that paints the linoleum floor. It seems the barricades weren’t foolproof, as evidenced by the dozens of zombies that already wander the airport’s interior.

  With your fireteam of Marines, you quickly cut your way through the crowds and upstairs. Jogging over towards the shops, you focus on one store in particular where the security gate has been rolled down and two dozen people cower within.