A knot forms in your throat. You slowly shake your head.
“The hospital is lost. We’re bringing back the unit commanders, but it’s a hot-swap. We go in, they come back. Then we find our own way out,” Airman Belliveau says.
Damn. What kind of suicide mission did you sign up for? Looking around at the specialty badges around the helicopter, all you see are combat rescue and para rescue; half a dozen badasses. You fold your arms across your “Communications Electrician Maintenance” badge, but no one seems to care. Are they really that undermanned already?
Looking out the side, you see dozens of black, fiery plumes on the horizon. The sun wanes behind them and the streets below are clogged with wrecks. People, living, dead, and undead, litter the city. Your eyes are drawn to the high-rises, as whole buildings and streets go dark one after another, a rolling blackout, like electrical dominoes.
St. Mary’s Hospital comes into view as a bona fide war zone. In a massive epidemic where everyone thought their loved ones were just sick, the biggest hospital in the city became ground zero. When the dead rise again, beware the morgue.
“We can’t touch down,” the pilot calls from up front. “The LZ is too hot!”
Looking down, you can’t help but agree. It’s chaos in the hospital parking lot. Still, there’s gotta be a way. When you pull your gasmask back on, the six-man crew in the back dons their own. What’s the plan?
• All these cables and pulleys on the sides—isn’t fast-roping the default for combat rescue?
• This is the biggest hospital in the city—shouldn’t there be a helipad up top?
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Gimme Shelter
“Jay, the door,” you say, rifle at the ready.
He nods, and walks across the living room. Your mind goes back to one of Dad’s heart-to-hearts when he said, “There’s no worse feeling than killing a man, even one who deserves it. But dead men don’t feel. So if it’s you or the enemy, you’ll have to learn to live with that feeling or not live at all.”
I’m not ready, you think, heart sinking.
But before you can finish, “Jay, wait!” it’s open and the panicked man stumbles into your living room, falling to the floor in a bloody heap. His attacker rushes in right behind him, snarling and reaching out with frenzied arms. Whatever instinct possesses the man sends him straight toward Jason.
Suddenly, a red mist sprays out of the far side of the lunatic’s head and he collapses, dead. You realize you’ve shouldered your rifle and the gunshot was yours. You don’t even remember moving, you just remember one thought entered your head as the crazed attacker moved toward your brother. One word, really: No.
A quick glance to the other man shows that he is unconscious on the ground. The tension gone from the moment, you lower your rifle. Oh, God, you think. That was as easy as one of Jay’s paintball games, easier even.
“I just killed a man,” you say, but it sounds disconnected. Like someone else is speaking.
“You killed the enemy,” Dad says. “Charlie.”
“It was a z—zom…” Jason can’t bring himself to say it.
“Zulu…the enemy,” you say.
“Right,” Dad confirms. “It was either him or Jay.”
• Drag the dead body outside and lock up.
• Check on the unconscious man.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Gnawing at You
In the dream, you’re standing amidst a sea of uniform white crosses marking the graves of all those who served this country and paid the ultimate price. Despite the lack of inscriptions, you know the gravestone before you is Dad’s. Jason lies nearby, curled in the fetal position, weeping.
All at once, the crosses start sinking into the earth, just like quicksand, all save your father’s. Jason sinks into the ground and you go to save him, but Dad climbs out of the earth, the green grass oozing away like swamp water.
“Let’s be together, Sport. Forever.” He grabs you and brings you down into the muck.
You scream out, and just like that, you’re awake. With a Zulu right on top of you. The undead construction worker bites at your arms, his teeth sinking into your exposed flesh.
Jason shoots awake at the sound of your screams, then, with a deafening KABOOM! he blasts the man point-blank in the face with his shotgun.
“Asshole!” you cry. “You were supposed to be on watch!”
“Look away. I—I have to shoot you…”
You’re INFECTED!
Goodbyes
It’s surprisingly easy to carry Master Hanzo back to the dojo. He was a frail man in life, and it takes no more effort than it would to heft a bag of rice as it does to carry the man in death. The dojo itself is silent and empty, as it shall remain.
You lay Master Hanzo to rest in the office on one of his reclining chairs. Brushing your hand down his face, you close the man’s eyes for him. You’ve never given a proper eulogy, but you do remember the poem quoted at your father’s funeral.
“Blow if you will, fall wind—the flowers have all faded. Sleep well, my friend.”
With that, you leave him, and prepare to go. The hallway gives you a clear view of the front, and of the person standing at the glass doors. The shock of dirty blond hair is unmistakable—it is your eldest student, Nathanael.
He’s not looking directly at you, so you can’t see his face, but the gaping wound in his rib cage tells you he’s in trouble. In fact, you’re not even sure how he’s standing.
• Tend to your student. He’s only a boy; you can’t leave him when he might need your help.
• There’s only one reason he’s still on his feet—and nothing you can do about it. Head out the back door and leave this accursed place.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Good Move
Let’s face it; you know there’s something wrong with Harrison Ford. This is the most unnatural he’s looked since Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, and the way hunger has replaced the boredom in his eyes is off-putting, to say the least. Still, these men are paid for protection, so it’s best not to attack Mr. Air Force One while his security is on-site.
His guys do their best to restrain the raging celebrity, but he moves with the ferocity of someone half his age and rips off one man’s sunglasses with an attempted bite. Some of the teeth strike home, and crimson pours out from just beneath the man’s eye.
“Get that maniac out of here!” your father yells, thrusting a forceful point towards the door with his good hand.
It takes all six security guards to do so, each of them suffering bites and scrapes as they drag the crazed actor outside and into the limousine. The three of you watch from the window as they shove him inside, jump in, gun the engine, and spray gravel while fishtailing out of the parking lot.
A rising dust cloud shows the limo disappear in the distance.
At length, dad says, “Now’s a good time to practice those sewing skills, Sport.”
“It looks pretty deep,” you say. “Shouldn’t we go to a hospital?”
“What if we were in the backcountry, three days away from the nearest hospital? You need to know how to do this stuff.”
You nod, and Jason brings the first aid kit before you can even ask for it. You’ve had first-aid training, but don’t have any real-trauma experience yet. With a deep breath and a hard swallow, you look to your father’s bite wound.
Careful to disinfect the area, you fumble with needle and thread through latex gloves. Your father does his best not to wince, but his nerves are exposed and your hand is not as sure as you’d like. Finally, it’s done.
“Not bad,” Dad says.
“Ummm, guys?” Jason asks.
Your brother’s eyes are glued on the store TV and Fox News. The anchor’s saying, “It also appears that Shia LaBeouf, best known for the Transformers series, who was reported to have died yesterday is…still alive. The first reports came through Twitter, but sightings of the young star have been confirmed in downtown Los Angeles. Onlookers
say he’s in a blood-spattered hospital robe, evidently mocking his supposed death—stumbling and shambling after the gathered crowd with animal growls. Is it an elaborate stunt for a movie, or just more celebrity mania? On the phone we’re joined by….”
“I saw that on YouTube earlier,” Jason says. “Everybody in the comments was all like ‘faaaaaake.’”
“Are we going to acknowledge that this seems like more than just normal Hollywood crazy?” you ask.
“Turn it off,” your father says, gruff determination in his voice. After an extended moment, he comes to a decision. “Start packing up. This thing is bigger than we’re being told; I just hope to God we’re not too late. I’d bet this has been going on for weeks. Typical media—treat us like a mushroom, keep us in the dark and shit on us. Grab a rifle and plenty of ammo. Jay, get a shotgun—16-gauge—and fill the hunting vest with shells.”
“I’m old enough for a 12-gauge, pops.”
“Less weight, more room for extra shells.”
Jason simply nods, then heads off to arm himself.
“Wait, where are we going?” you ask. “I have school tomorrow, I need to—”
“School’s over, Sport. I wish I could have taught you more, but…” he says, trailing off. Finally adding, “With this bum hand, I’ll have to be support. I’ll carry the food, water, radio…and a pistol too, just in case.”
Is this what Dad’s always been predicting? The day when it all hits the fan?
Knowing there’s gravity to this moment, you head to the weapons locker to claim a rifle. You can only take one, but the decision is easy enough. A .22 caliber is lightweight and allows plenty of ammo. You grab the rifle you always called “the little one” when Dad gave shooting lessons, but have since qualified as expert-rated on several times over: The Ruger 10/22 semiautomatic rifle.
* * *
You arrive at home, only two hours later, having taken all you could from the gun range. Traffic on the streets is starting to get a little crazy. From the looks of it, looting has already begun. What was the tipping point? Did you miss something on TV?
Your father is pale, his skin slick with sweat. He’s clearly lost a lot of blood, so you check his bandage, but it’s not even red. The bleeding has completely stopped. When you remove the bandage, you see only exposed flesh, cut deep, like a pig ready for roasting.
“Daddy, I don’t think I did the stitches right. Maybe we should get you to a doctor?” you ask.
“I’m fine. Let’s keep packing. It’s not safe here.”
You’re about to respond, but then there’s a sudden and furious pounding on the door. Dad nods, resting his good hand on his 9mm handgun. The pounding continues, along with a muffled plea. You look through the peephole and see a bloodied man, fear in his eyes, checking back over his shoulder between pounds on your door.
He looks harmless enough, a typical suburban sheep, as dad would say. Somewhat overweight, balding, with a neatly-trimmed goatee. Completely unprepared. Didn’t you sell him Girl Scout cookies a few years back?
“Please, he’s trying to kill me,” the man whimpers. “Please!”
• Keep watching, but stay quiet.
• Open it. He needs your help.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Going Psycho
You reach for the guard’s Asp, the baton he dropped when the group overwhelmed him, then scramble to your feet and use the weapon to crack the nearest nutter in the shoulder. It’s a blow that would send any man reeling, but the fiend doesn’t even seem to notice.
The next time you strike the skinhead in his forehead, direct center, where he has the scar of a pentagram carved in his flesh. There’s a sickening crunch and the man falls back from the blow and something black seeps from the pentagram, but still the nutter attacks. It’s hard to get a good shot with him bobbing around like a coke fiend, especially since you can’t get enough distance between you for a full strike.
The fiend stops in his tracks, still reaching out for you, but unable to move forward. Not wasting any time, you wind up for a full swing and smash the Asp against the pentagram once more. This time you puncture the skull and dip your baton into the fiend’s inky head-well.
The nutter falls to the ground and you see Solitary standing behind the dead fiend. Looks like he held the skinhead for you, and now the man gives a nod of respect. Solitary turns away to fight more of the crazed gang and you do the same, but when you turn back, it’s into the arms of a guard—and the Taser he shoves into your rib cage. You fall limp.
* * *
When you come to, it’s in the SHU. Yep, they threw you in solitary confinement despite the fact that you’re pretty damn sure they know you helped, yet here you are. Rules are rules, and you attacked a fellow inmate during a “riot.” It’s bullshit, but at least you’re safe. If there’s some kind of super-rabies spreading through the prison population, this might be the best place to be.
Still, you can’t help but wonder if it’s getting better or worse, and no one answers your questions about the outside world. What happened to all those people? Are they sick? Are there still riots? Is everything under control?
That’s part of the punishment: no human contact whatsoever. Even your food comes from an unseen hand. With such Spartan conditions, the minutes tick by like hours. Though it’s only dinnertime, it feels like three days later when the door finally opens.
Solitary stands before you.
“What…?” you try.
Then you see the unconscious guard at his feet. Solitary unshackles himself using the guard’s keys and takes the guard’s utility belt for his own. It’s got the keyring, a handheld radio, a pair of handcuffs, and a telescoping Asp baton.
“How…?”
Solitary simply turns to leave.
• Stay with him. Guy may be a psycho, but he’s clearly got a soft spot for good ole Hefty. Strength in numbers—even Solitary must realize that.
• Head out into the Yard to get a better look at the state of things. You need to know the big picture before you plan your next move.
• Go it alone and sneak out the front door. Passing through the infirmary won’t be easy, but you’ll be careful.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Going Terminal
Lt. Dosa looks you up and down, and the edge of his mouth twitches in what might be a smile. “Corporal Gardner!” he barks. “Grab your fireteam and follow Sergeant Sims into the airport. He’s the lead, but look smart.”
“Sir, just one fireteam?” the Corporal asks, unsure.
“How many Marines does it take to fuck a lightbulb?”
“Hoorah, LT!”
Marines, you think with a shake of your head as the pair exchange salutes. Dosa turns back to command the rest of the unit while Gardner and his fireteam—a whopping three other men—look to you for leadership. Well, this is what you volunteered for, isn’t it?
“Okay, quick in and out. Grab the Ambassador and hustle back here before they even notice we’re gone,” you say.
“Hoorah!” the four Marines shout in unison.
Adrenaline courses through your veins, slowing everything down, and the hundred yards to the terminal feels like an eternity.
The terminal is heavily illuminated, so you flip off and stow your night-vision. There are (to put it in technical terms) a metric shit-ton of zombies surrounding the place. It looks like the survivors within have barricaded the whole area, which makes finding an entrance problematic.
“Orders?” Corporal Gardner asks.
You look at the man—and at the M203 grenade launcher attachment he has equipped. Decisions, decisions. If this is a rescue mission, you might not want to turn the evacuees’ barricade into molten slag. Then again, when else are you going to get an opportunity to command a Marine to bring fiery hell onto earth? And it’s already all broken loose, come hell or hot water.
• “Secure a staircar. We’re going in through the jetway.”
• “Make a hole, Corporal! Blast your way
through the barricade.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Gossip Girls
You call out to Angelica, who comes to join you and Jose while Tyberius and Hefty stay with the new guy.
“What’s going on here?” you ask. “Everything okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“Soldier boy. Where’d you find him? Is he alone? Pretend this is a sewing circle and let’s talk behind his back.”
“He seems like a good man. Not like…those others we met.”
“How do you know?”
“I think I know when someone’s trying to rape me, Cooper,” she says, icily.
“Keep it down,” you hiss back.
You look to Jose, but he’s not listening.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re not, I don’t know, being held hostage or something. Do you think we should trust him?”
“You’re asking me?” she says, taken aback. “Well, yeah, I do. Sims injured his shoulder back there, so he might need us more than we need him right now, but I think he could help in the long run. And if we run into any other military types? It’d be good to have one on our side, right?”
“Thanks,” you say with a nod.
Maybe Angelica is right and the new guy isn’t like the others. Maybe he’s a survivalist, but a good one. Either way, it’s probably a good idea to keep him close. But first…you need to assert dominance. Or maybe get a second opinion from one of the others?
• Introduce yourself. Make sure he knows you’re the boss.
• Take Tyberius aside, ask him for the low-down.
• Take Hefty aside, ask him for the skinny.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Grabbing a Bite
The cafeteria is buttressed by glass walls with a set of automatic double doors for the entry. As you approach, you see dozens of terrified figures huddled within, crowded in the center of the mess hall behind a few overturned tables.
PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4) Page 16