The doors open for you, and the cow-eyed crowd simply watches. Some hold brooms and mops, or kitchen wares as makeshift weapons. One man, a middle-aged Latino in stained kitchen whites, holds a pot and a cleaver.
“Mordido?” he asks, punctuating the question with a double-chomp of his teeth.
Your brain searches through the High School Spanish archives. Morder…to bite? Ahh, you get it.
“Bitten? No. Todos bien,” you say. All good. At least, that’s what you think you say. Spanish was never your best subject. They teach to the test, and your spoken language skills are que terrible.
“You have guns?” a frightened man asks. “Where did you get guns?”
“God-given right,” Jason says, deliberately dodging the question.
“Please,” the man says. “My wife…my newborn son. They’ve locked down the NICU—please help me get to my family.”
“Anyone in here a doctor?” you ask.
Most break your gaze, but all shake their heads.
“There are doctors in the NICU!” the man presses.
• “Yeah, okay. I’ll get you in, but there sure as hell better be plenty of doctors in there.”
• “No, sorry. I’m not looking for an OB-GYN. Which way to virology and infectious diseases?”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Gray Anatomy
You have to take an elevator deep into the bowels of the hospital to reach the morgue. The basement level is oddly silent compared to the upper levels. In a word? Dead. It’s down in this windowless cavern where autopsies are performed, John and Jane Does are kept on ice, and those wishing for cremation are offered up to the flame.
You push open the double doors to the morgue and let yourself in. Dozens of bodies are on display; some hang from the ceiling, blood draining like some cannibalistic butcher shop, but many more are bound onto the slab tables. On the nearest table lies a, ummm, person—you can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman—who’s been flayed open. Their skin is peeled away and pinned back to show off the inner workings. You step closer, and the muscle tissue starts…twitching.
“Nightmare fuel,” Jason says.
“Please don’t disturb the patients,” a man interjects.
You turn to see a slight, hunched, bald man in a lab coat. He wears large goggles that magnify his eyes and push his features towards reptilian and elbow-length black rubber gloves. His fingertips rest in a steeple shape just beneath his angular chin.
“Have the field trips begun already?” he asks, eyebrow rising. Is that supposed to be humor?
“Are you…studying them?” you ask.
“But of course! This is an historic opportunity. My colleagues are focused on saving them, would you believe that? Incredibly short-sighted, when you consider the potential. Just look at this,” he says, stepping over to an industrial-sized refrigerator.
He reaches in and returns with a five-gallon jar. Suspended in fluid inside is a floating human head. The eyes are wide open with lips parted. Jason steps closer and the head’s eyes suddenly turn towards your brother. The mouth snaps open and closed.
“Look at that—mastication! This head has been detached from the body for nearly twenty-four hours and shows no signs of muscular degeneration. Incredible!”
“Is there…” you say, trying to properly order your thoughts, “a way to stop the transformation?”
“Have you been bitten? Exposed in any way? A scrape or a cut?” the man asks, stepping forward, his lizard eyes blinking with sudden, intense focus.
“Our dad,” Jason offers.
“I see. No, not that I’m aware of. But if you wanted to bring your father here, I’d be more than happy to examine him. How fresh is his infection?”
“He was bitten early this afternoon,” you say.
The man shakes his head. “Pity. I’m sure his incubation is nearly complete. I’d love to see how a patient experiences the world right from the moment of infection.”
He looks to the head in his hands, then to your brother. Something flashes across his face that you don’t like. You raise the rifle one-handed, pulling Jason away with the other.
“Back off, Umbrella Corporation. I won’t hesitate to put down every last patient in here before you get a chance to Human Centipede them together or whatever fucked-up plans you’ve got.”
The man skulks away, muttering something about “mixed metaphors” to the head as he goes to store it in the refrigerator. Time to leave the creep with his creepers.
• How about a second opinion? To the cafeteria. Maybe you can catch another doctor on break?
• Pharmacy. You have to try! Get some antibiotics or something.
• Better head home. If nothing else…to say goodbye.
• To the ER! This guy only knows the dead; time to find someone who knows the dying.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
A Great Big Convoy
Good news: The armory has plenty of ammo for your M4, and the motorpool still has about a dozen Humvees ready for checkout. Bad news: There’s almost no organization down here. No one knows who’s in charge, and what’s worse, no one cares.
“Whoever’s in charge must already be down at the hospital,” an Army Sergeant says, “otherwise, how would everyone know to meet there?”
“Looking for a ride, Sarge?” another young soldier asks.
He might not even be twenty years old, yet he looks like he was born into his desert-cammo uniform. He’s unmistakably a soldier, with that high-and-tight haircut, but his thick, ruddy handlebar mustache is definitely not in regs. Most likely, he just got home from deployment.
“What’s your name, Soldier?” you ask, noting he doesn’t wear his uniform jacket.
He touches his undershirt where the nametag would normally sit and says, “Can’t you see? I’m No-body. I changed it once I heard that nobody makes it out of this thing alive.”
“Okay, Nobody, do you also have no rank?”
“Of course I have rank, Sarge. This is the Army, after all. I’m Captain of this here ship,” he says, patting the Humvee on its hood.
Another soldier, this one not even bothering to wear the undershirt of his uniform, hops up on the gunner turret of the Humvee. He’s covered in war-paint, and the whites of his crazed eyes pop against his painted face.
“And him?” you ask.
“No rank, but I got a name. Simecek,” the shirtless man says. “Convoy’s movin’ out, pops. Get in or get lost.”
Captain Nobody shrugs and gets in the driver seat.
• I suppose you have to be half-crazy to fight legions of undead. Get in the front passenger seat.
• This is FUBAR—find a different ride; one with some sense of military bearing.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Green Dreams
You’re late for work again, though this time mama was good enough to wake you. Your eyelids are heavy, and no matter how much you strain, you can’t quite open them. Gritting your teeth and stretching your eyebrows up to the top of your head lifts your eyelids ever so slightly. Just enough to see her standing next to your bed. That’s odd…she never comes into your room. Not since you turned thirteen and—
She has two arms! Her amputated limb is a new arm, freshly made of packed mud and earth. Thick, woody roots wrap around the phantom limb like varicose veins, and bits of stone dot the skin like sylvan warts.
It’s so shocking that you try to pull away, to sit up in bed and bring the covers up, but you’re paralyzed. Like you’re the one encased in the same mud, and everything pushes back against your efforts.
Straining, you finally manage to sit up a bit. Her eyes are blank, and her mouth hangs open. It’s not her face, though, it’s that homeless guy on the bus. But it’s her too, somehow, in a way that makes sense only in dreams. She growls and her arms come up slowly, like the mummy monster in one of those black-and-white horror movies mama leaves on the TV.
You try to scream, to tell her to stop, but you can’t. Her arms come up around you
r neck, the new golem-arm crumbling from effort. Red, wet earthworms pulse forth from the earthen limb as white, mealy maggots rip through the ebony flesh of her true arm.
Dirt and worms and maggots fall into your open mouth and—
* * *
—you shoot awake with a scream, a face full of potting soil. You spit dirt, and blink to get your bearings. Somehow you managed to fall asleep on the rooftop, using a half-empty soil bag as a pillow. There’s a canvas painter’s tarp atop you for a blanket, most likely Lily’s doing.
Head pounding, you get up, accidentally kick the empty whiskey bottle, and stumble over to the side alley for an urgent morning piss. You let out a groan of relief as your stream arcs out over the roof’s edge, and the alley echoes back at you with a cacophony of moans.
Squinting hard in the morning light, you see a man and woman down below reaching up towards the source of the waterfall. They have dead, blank eyes and hungry mouths.
You stumble away and fall on your back, lucky not to piss yourself.
“Uhhh, Ty?” It’s Lily, and you quickly get to your feet and zip up before you turn around. She’s blushing, holding three more Styrofoam boxes.
Sam comes up behind her with a thermos. “I found some coffee in the break—what’s up?”
You just point to the alley. They set the food down and go for a look.
“Jesus,” Sam says.
“Why are they just out in the open?” Lily asks. “Shouldn’t the soldiers take care of them?”
Sam moves to the edge of the roof over the storefront and you follow. The street is clear now, with no cars blocking the way. A lone infected man stumbles through the open streets below.
“When did that happen?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer, so Lily prods. At length, Sam says, “If they cleared the street, it means they’re preparing to move out. Things are moving a lot faster than we thought.”
“Well, what did Delozier say? Six-hour infection rate? Based on the number of infected we’ve seen, we can assume that patient zero probably hit this city a few weeks ago,” Lily says, doing some mental math. “Three at most. If you have one infected individual on the loose, averaging one bite per hour, with new biters joining the pool hourly starting at the six-hour point….”
She trails off, her thoughts going internal. Sam sees your look and says, “Algebra teacher.”
“Holy shit. We’ve already passed the tipping point. Yesterday, if my math holds. Fifty-percent of the population already infected.”
A series of pops sound in the distance, like someone launching fireworks. You look towards the source and see a plume of dark smoke coming from the hospital.
“What if it’s more than one guy? Like, maybe a jumbo jet got sick and landed here? How does that change things?” you ask.
Lily swallows. “If there were three hundred patient zeroes? Well, in that case…we’re already fucked.”
More rifle pops sound from the hospital. The three of you hold silent, weighing your fate and more generally, that of humanity. Your thoughts are just going towards your mother when the radio on Sam’s hip goes off.
“This is Colt, go ahead,” he answers.
“Colt, this is Captain Delozier. Good and bad, bud. At least depending on where you’re sitting. We’re disbanding the quarantine. It failed, and that is bad news all around. All troops are needed at the hospital, but I’m setting up a temporary HQ in the area—and you’re sitting on it.”
Sam doesn’t reply, but something in his expression hardens.
“They’re coming here?” Lily says.
“Colt, do you copy?”
Sam looks to Lily, then to you.
• “No way. Tell that war pig to find his own farm.”
• “Not a bad idea…Might be nice to have a guard dog, no?”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Grunts
“Did you guys feel that?” you ask.
A few of the combat veterans in the C-17 belly nod or make some sort of growl in acknowledgment, but most ignore you. Aside from the flight crew, you’re the only Air Force guy on the mission. Even you questioned why you were brought along, so can you really blame them?
One of the men, Army Special Forces from the look of him, shakes a can of black spray-paint, then begins to tag over his cammo body armor. He paints, “I-D-G-A-F.”
“Id-gaf?” you say.
He shakes his head. “I-don’t-give-a-fuck. Reminds me not to hold back in combat.”
You swallow hard, suddenly feeling very naked. You squeak out something like, “Awesome,” and go find the mission commander. Combat? Please, God, no….
“Hey, LT,” you say.
The Marine in question, Lieutenant Dosa, is a young man, to be sure, but his features go beyond hardened. His eyes are gray and cold, and he’s one of the few men present who doesn’t sport a spec-ops beard. Most Air Force LTs are spoiled kids two or three years outside of college, with no clue how the military works. Not this guy. He has the gravity of an Air Force Colonel.
“Sergeant.”
“Ummm, Sir, it looks like the men are getting ready for—well, I thought we were heading home, but now….”
“Right. Hope you’re rested up. We’ve been tasked to fly into Manaus and evacuate essential US personnel.”
“Brazil?”
“That’s the one. I’m sure the Russians will have no qualms about shooting their own leadership once they switch from vodka to human flesh, but there’s been no contact with Venezuela for three days now.”
“Like…the whole country?” you say dumbly.
With a smirk he says, “We’ll be there soon, so get ready.”
You get that sinking feeling again, only this time the plane’s not turning. Time to…
• Find your weapons and battle-rattle. Time to shoot some undead commies!
• Find somewhere to hide. You’re an electrician! And you don’t want to lose your seat.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Handled
“You hit that yet?” a nearby soldier asks, trouble in his eyes.
You say nothing, just stare back.
“Nah, didn’t think so,” the man says after a beat.
There’s a loud slap from the back of the store and several of the soldiers up front howl with laughter. When you turn, you see the aggressor holding his cheek and Lily fuming red.
“Lucky I don’t hit bitches!” the man cries.
“What’s going on here?” Captain Delozier demands, stepping out from the stairwell.
“Your men need to keep it in their pants if they don’t want it shot off,” Lily says.
Sam unslings his rifle. “What happened?”
“I didn’t do nothing. Tell your buddy to keep his bitch on a leash, Captain.”
Now Sam’s rifle is at the ready, not quite pointed at the soldier, but close.
“What. The fuck. Is going on?” Delozier reiterates.
“Nothing!” the soldier says. “I was just being friendly, but the bitch can’t take a joke.”
“Call her a bitch one more time,” Sam says, cool. “And I’ll cut—”
“Bitch.”
Sam pulls a knife and the soldier raises his weapon. Then there’s a BOOM and you flinch from the sound. Another two shots ring out, and three more in response to that. Before you even know what’s happened, you see Lily holds her pistol in the air, smoke curling from the barrel. Her chest blooms crimson from the soldier’s itchy trigger finger, and that man lies on the floor dead from Sam’s rifle.
You instinctively step forward, and the nearby soldier shoots a round into your chest. Too much pressure, such a small space. All it took was one spark to set off the powder keg.
THE END
Hard-Boiled Defender
“Okay, let’s get this place defensible. Clip the wires to the door sensors; move this barricade right up against the glass. And build it high—we don’t want to be seen by Zulu, or we might attract unwanted curiosity. Let’s do a food check
; eat anything perishable right now. Like eggs—dig in.”
And so it goes, using your survival skills and know-how to lock down the cafeteria. Hours go by, and despite your best efforts, the shamblers find their way here. Did they remember where to go when hungry? Smell you through the air vents? Catch a glimpse of movement through the barrier cracks? Doesn’t matter, because it only takes one to notice and call in the rest.
The multitudes. They bang, claw, punch, scrape, and slap at the glass, first leaving fluids, then leaving cracks.
“Get ready!” you shout.
Then all goes quiet. Several gunshots thud dully from further down the hospital corridors. You pop up and peer over the barricade, only to see the police SWAT team engaging the enemy alongside regular, uniformed cops.
“We’re saved!” someone yells.
“Keep quiet!” you snap.
There may be dozens of police officers, but there are hundreds of undead out there. It’s only a few minutes before the gunshots cease. The horde returns to your battlements, but this time they’re already in a frenzied state and make short work of the glass walls, the ghouls pouring through the barricade like a collective battering ram.
You hadn’t originally planned a siege when you came to the hospital, so you don’t have much in the way of ammo. Still, this is your Alamo, behind you are your 300 Spartans, and you don’t go down without a fight.
THE END
Hardened
You sprint towards the hardware store, eyes locked on the man on the roof. He’s backlit by the morning sun, so you don’t get more than a silhouette, but you can see him sling a rifle over his shoulder, then turn away.
As you get closer to the hardware store and the sun’s respective angle sinks behind the building, the storefront comes into sharp clarity. On either side of the entrance are consumer displays. Get the perfect BBQ for summer. While you’re at it, why not install a pool and get some loungers? Above the doors, a sign reads, “Honeydew Supplies—We make hardware easy on your melon!”
PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4) Page 17