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

by James Schannep

  “Cutting it awfully close, Sport,” Dad says, running a hand over his ruddy, high-and-tight ex-Marine haircut—known to you as his signature, keeping-my-anger-bottled-up move.

  “I know, I’m sorry. I—” Your voice has suddenly stopped working. Standing before you, cradling an IMI Galil assault rifle, is none other than the legendary actor Harrison Ford. He notices you staring, and his iconic grin spreads across his face, making you feel warm inside.

  “Mr. Ford and his friends have been waiting,” your father continues.

  That’s when you notice he’s not alone. His entourage, looking much like Secret Service agents, mill about, inspecting the wares. There are six guards, a bit much for a celebrity; he must’ve beefed up his security detail in the wake of recent celebrity murders. That’s when you notice he wasn’t grinning at all. You were so starstruck you’d just imagined it.

  In fact, his face is blank; expressionless. It’s not like he’s angry, just…bored.

  “Can I have your autograph?” It’s Jason. He’s finally noticed Indiana Jones too.

  And yet Harrison Ford doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t even blink. At length, his head turns, his gaze finally landing upon Jason. You share a concerned look with your father.

  One of the men steps forward. “I’m gonna level with you,” he says. “We were down here meeting the Docs at Human Infinite. You know, the Gilgazyme guys? Anyway, Mr. Ford—”

  A clatter rings out. Harrison Ford has dropped the assault rifle. Dad rushes in, lifts the weapon, and inspects it before he hands it back to the movie star. Ford’s movements are slow, as he raises his arms to receive the weapon. But the Galil just rolls off his fingers once more. It’s as if his hands are numb.

  “I think he’s having a stroke,” you say. You’ve been training as a lifeguard for a summer, and you can tell something’s not right.

  “Looks more like shell shock to me,” your father says. “Only I’ve never seen a look that blank.”

  Dad slowly waves his hand in front of Harrison’s face, trying to gauge his mental acuity. No reaction. Not even a dilated pupil. Dad snaps his fingers.

  Suddenly able to move like lightning, the Oscar-nominee lunges and bites onto Dad’s hand. Your father roars a mix of shock and pain and, in reflex, punches his childhood hero in the mouth. Harrison Ford’s jaw dislocates and a guttural gargle spews forth from his throat.

  • Grab the Galil and go for the kneecap. Remember, Han shot first.

  • Don’t get cocky—let his security guys deal with it.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Hop-ons

  The men commandeer a staircar, drive it up to an open jet bridge, and secure the long hallway that leads to the gate and the main terminal.

  “All clear!” Corporal Gardner announces.

  With a nod, you say, “Breach.”

  It’s a standard push-bar door connecting the jetway to the building, and the men make their way inside using quick, practiced movements to check for hostiles. These guys have infiltration down to an art. While they check for fleshies, you take a moment to look around. The flight status screen above shows a whole board full of CANCELLED notifications. A few say DELAYED, and even fewer say ON TIME, apparently from when they stopped updating the system.

  A loud, repetitive thud draws your attention over the rail towards the ground floor. The passenger drop-off area out front is completely flooded with the undead. They slam themselves against the glass walls, the barricaded entrance shuddering in response.

  That’s when you see the other figures milling about—inside. The ghouls found a way in from somewhere, and there are dozens looking up at you.

  “Uhhh, Sarge?” Gardner asks, shaking your shoulder. “I said, ‘What now?’”

  “Gotta find the Ambassador, so…” you say through a dry swallow.

  “Is this our egress route?” he asks, his thumb pointing towards the gate.

  You nod, and the fireteam fans out, searching for the Ambassador. Though they move silently and communicate via hand-signals, they intermittently yell out for their target, and the growing horde on the first floor moans in excited hunger.

  “Hello? We’re over here!” a meek voice cries out from one of the shops in the terminal.

  You jog over and see that the security gate has been rolled down; two dozen people are cowering within. Smart place to hide, you think, noting the snacks and foodstuffs in the concession shop.

  “Ambassador Mays?” Corporal Gardner asks.

  “Yes, that’s us!” the slight man up in front announces. The crowd parts for a man in his mid-50s, with a politician’s warm smile, his graying hair neatly combed and short-cropped. He wears a navy blue suit, the red power-tie beaming with authority.

  “Thank god for the Marines,” the Ambassador says.

  “Get this gate up, quick. We have a way out, but we can’t stay here long,” you say.

  Several tough-looking men in suits comply and raise the barrier. They all file out, and the Marines form a defensive perimeter around the crowd, like sheepdogs herding cattle.

  The fleshies have found a way up, and they’re flooding in from all sides. Your palms start to sweat; it’s time to go.

  “Keep moving!” you shout.

  The horde is close on your heels, but it looks as though you’ll just make it. The fireteam lets off clean, controlled bursts at the fastest of the undead, but it does little to stop the growing crowd. Finally, you arrive back at your gate.

  “Sergeant Sims, the door lock is engaged,” Corporal Gardner announces, a note of panic in his voice.

  You step forward and take a look. Damn! You pushed your way into the terminal without realizing the door would lock behind you. Now there’s a keypad and electronic lock blocking the way between your group and the way out.

  “What do we do?” the corporal asks.

  Shit, shit, shit! Think!

  • There has to be an override or something. Order the Marines to cover you while you look!

  • Turn back and fight our way through! We need to find an alternate way out!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Hosed

  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.

  From the look on her face, you can see she’s not convinced. With a sigh, you look out over the roof, and seeing the dry garden boxes, you get an idea. After a quick trip down into the belly store, you come back up with the longest length of hose the garden aisle had.

  “Gesture of good faith,” you say, screwing a spray nozzle to one end, handing it to Sam.

  Sam helps you rappel over the roof’s edge with the hose, then gives you more slack as you search for the alley water main. As luck would have it, there’s an old spigot hookup compatible with the hose, so you screw it on and grab the ancient red handle to turn on the flow.

  “Water the garden while I’m gone!” you shout. “I’ll be back with my mom as soon as I can.”

  The couple waves to you before you turn to start jogging. Home can’t be more than an hour away on foot, even if you do encounter undead on the way.

  • Knock on wood, then get going!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Hospice

  Skirting around the paraplegic nutter, you hoist yourself into the hospital window. It’s just as you feared. The whole place is trashed, whether by riots or life-and-death struggle, you can’t be sure. Probably both.

  Prisons don’t relish privacy, so the offices and exam rooms have windows large enough so that the rooms are essentially made of glass from waist-level up. Makes for an interesting view: undead skinheads roam the entire floor, many smearing dark gore across the nearest window.
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  As you move forward, hungry eyes lock onto you. They’re coming from all directions, even from behind you. Continuing down the hall, you see a large cabinet of chemicals and medications, and can’t help but notice the Flammable icon.

  • Grab the fire extinguisher and smash the cabinet. The ensuing fire ought to buy you a bit of time.

  • Keep going! Distractions really only apply to me, whereas nutters are singularly focused.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Huff and Puff

  “Colt, come again?” the radio says.

  “The store doesn’t have resources to support your unit. I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t a request, Sam. I was telling you out of courtesy.”

  “And so am I. We won’t open our doors for you.”

  There’s a pause, then an angry reply, “Then we’ll open them ourselves. Delozier, out.”

  “Captain, that’s not a good idea. Have your men stand down. Captain? Delozier!” Sam says, but the walkie-talkie returns only static. He dashes forward on the roof and hurls the radio while screaming, “FUCK!!!”

  After a moment, Lily says, “You knew this would happen eventually.”

  Sam sighs, looking out towards the military barricades. “I knew someone would come, I just didn’t think it would happen so soon. And I didn’t think it would be Delozier…”

  “Fifty-percent infected?” you ask Lily. She simply nods, so you continue, “It’s time to blow those doors, Sam. Man didn’t leave a choice.”

  He turns, his jawline set. “You’re right, Ty. Head inside. I’ll give you the detonator; I’m staying up here to reason with him.”

  “It’s not automatic?” you say.

  “It could be, but you’ll do more damage if you wait until there are a few of them inside.”

  “Sam….” Lily says, not more than a whisper.

  He keeps his eyes on you. “I’ll do everything I can to stop them from breaking in. But if diplomacy fails?”

  Sam goes for a storage tote on the roof and pulls the lid off, removes a brick of machinery and hands it over. Atop the circuitry is a standard light switch, like those inside any apartment.

  “You’ll know what to do.”

  “But…first you try to stop them? From up here?”

  “That’s right,” he says.

  With a nod, you take the device downstairs. It’s relatively dark in the store, with the storefront windows barricaded. The metal doors look almost frail, knowing what you hold in your hands. Part of you hopes Sam will diffuse the situation and come down in a few minutes to tell you the coast is clear. But there’s another, darker part of you that wants to flip that switch.

  You hang back and settle in behind the “Expert Desk” used for customer service. You set the detonator on the counter, sit low in the stool, and wait.

  Five minutes go by, then ten. Maybe they’re not coming? You consider heading back up the stairs when you hear an engine out front. It’s a loud, diesel chug. Sounds like a garbage truck…or a Humvee.

  That’s when the shouting starts. You recognize Sam’s voice from the rooftop, but you can’t quite make out his words. It’s a heated argument, that much is certain.

  Then there’s a pounding on the door. Not knock-knock but more slam-pound, like a medieval battering ram. After a few more hits, the doors smash inward and sunlight streams in. Several figures come into the store, silhouetted against the light; you can’t make out their particulars.

  • Hit the button!

  • Ahhh, I can’t do it! Hide or call out for a truce or something!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Human Nature

  It makes sense to stick close by, you figure. You’ve seen this area daily. You know the high ground, where to find food, water, shelter. Maybe heading back to the shooting range is a good start? There should still be running water, and more than enough in the armory to hunt for food and keep you safe.

  A few miles into your hike, you pick up on engine sounds. Using your rifle’s scope, you see a Humvee and three motorcycles on the horizon. Are they coming back from the shooting range? Your gut instinct: Looters.

  “Get down!” you cry, pulling Jason towards an abandoned station wagon.

  The caravan slows down at the traffic jam you’re using for cover, and from your position against the pavement, you see several pairs of boots on the ground.

  “We spotted you a ways back,” a man says loudly. “Come on out, or I send a grenade under that car to clear you out for me.”

  Standing up, you position your rifle so it’s a clear threat. There are five men in total, two in the Hummer and three on bikes. They’ve taken this whole “apocalypse” thing to heart, from the looks of it. They’re dressed like they stepped out of Jason’s Borderlands videogame.

  The bikers hop off and form a semi-circle on the road, brandishing weapons and effectively surrounding you.

  “People call me The Duke. What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “I’m…Rosie,” you say. “My brother and I don’t want any trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. Last Rosie I fucked was Rosie Palm and ’er five sisters. Shoot the kid, take the breeding stock.”

  For an instant you’re frozen, unable to process what you just heard. Then one of the bikers shoots Jason and that’s when furious instinct takes hold. You drop three of them right off the bat, but they’ve spread out enough that you take a shotgun blast from a biker on your flank.

  With any luck, you’ll bleed out. If not, the rest of your life won’t be pleasant.

  THE END

  Hunger

  Heading outside, you take a look at your motorcycle parked out front. Can’t really pick up lunch in that. Well, you could, but the guys might not appreciate the pizza so much after a ride with the box tucked under your arm. No, you’ll have to walk. Could be good to work out the kinks in your back injury anyway.

  Pulling out your phone to check what’s close, you’re met with zero bars of service and no network. Great. You’re definitely getting a refund on this month’s billing cycle. How did people find a place to eat before cell-phones?

  “Excuse me,” you say to a man standing in front of a dry cleaning shop.

  He looks up, glares, then backs inside the store, closes the door, slips the sign to “Closed” and shuts the blinds. You can hear the bolt slam home in the door. Asshole, much? Do you have something on your face or what?

  Up ahead a crowd has gathered. If you’re lucky, it’s for a food truck. Pushing your way through, you see that a stretch limousine has crashed into a dentist’s office. The wheels spin, as if the driver were trying to wedge the limo even further into the building. Guy must be passed out, with his foot on the accelerator.

  “Anyone call 9-1-1?” you ask.

  “Phones are down,” someone says.

  “The government took down the satellites. Just down the block, they’re doing some operation. Part of a cover-up,” another guy says.

  “No, I got a call through. Ambulance inbound,” a professor-type adds.

  “Who’s your provider? I can’t get anything,” a tween asks.

  “Anybody check on the passengers?” you interrupt.

  “You a doctor?” a woman says condescendingly, her eyes on your workshirt.

  “I’m clearly a mechanic, bitch. But I know this much: if the guy doesn’t ease up on the accelerator, he’ll burn out the engine. Could catch on fire.”

  The crowd looks at the limo, then back to you.

  • “Fuck it. Anybody know of a sandwich shop near here?”

  • “Sigh. Fine, I’ll do it. Buncha pussies.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Hunger for Home

  As the day warms, the kendo armor grows stiflingly hot. You’re thankful that the helmet’s face-guard is open and allows a breeze, but thirst claws at your throat. About halfway to her house, Haley stumbles and falls off the road.

  You rush to her side and pull the heavy armor off her small frame. Shockingly, the girl
’s underclothes are dry. They should be drenched in sweat. The fact that they’re not means her dehydration is severe. Looking around, you see a large tree nearby.

  “Nathanael, take her armor. We need to get Haley into the shade.”

  With no water, your only recourse is to fan cool air onto the girl’s face, once you’ve carried her over to the tree. After a few minutes, her eyes flutter open, and then she vomits. This isn’t good.

  “Armor off, both of you. We need your full strength.”

  It takes the better part of an hour, but eventually Haley comes to and says she’s strong enough to walk again. At your command, the students abandon their armor but keep their shinai as walking sticks. It’s hot and slow-going, but you’re now the only line of defense and are forced to take rest breaks at every shade tree along the way.

  * * *

  When you finally arrive, you see a pair of walking corpses out front. Haley’s house has a raised porch, most likely to protect against flooding; the stairs are barricaded by an overturned BBQ, a porch swing, and a pair of couches. With this as the only entry point, the undead don’t seem to be able to climb up to the front door. Even so, they don’t give up, and paw through the slats of the porch railing like mindless automatons.

  “Are they…?” you ask, removing your sword.

  “No,” Haley says, “I don’t know them.”

  At the sound of human voices, the pair turn to face you. One is a police officer, or was, at least; her uniform is so filthy that you can only tell because of the badge pinned to her chest. The other is a prisoner in an orange jumpsuit. Their wrists are handcuffed together.

  Two quick strokes behead the pair, just as a voice shouts, “Oh, my God!” and Haley’s mother steps onto the upper balcony. “It’s them!” she shouts.