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

by James Schannep

  Fueled by sheer terror, you pick up the metallic baptism bowl and hurl it at the window. You pick up a candlestick to clear a larger hole in the broken glass, but a growling moan draws your attention to the other side of the chapel.

  The nutters, all six, stare at you with dead, hungry eyes. The shattering drew them in, and now you’re a much bigger target than the other inmates who cower, whimpering, in the wings. No time to waste. You run at the window, jump, and plant a foot on the jagged edge of the window, the thick rubber sole of your shoe protecting your foot as you leap to the other side.

  Those crazy bastards push through the window right after you, the glass ripping their flesh, but they don’t care. One catches an edge in the stomach and keeps on going, even as the shards pull his intestines out.

  You stare in shocked disbelief a moment longer, then turn and dart out into the yard. A warning shot rings out, the grass exploding by your feet. You drop to your knees, hands over your head. This is guard-speak for, “If you keep running, the next one won’t miss.”

  Rolling over, you look back and see the nutters keep on coming. A red blossom appears in the lead man’s shoulder, and the crack registers a split second later, but even this doesn’t stop them. You close your eyes and curl into a ball as the nutters surround you.

  When you open your eyes, you see the gang of six on the ground, their black brain fluid staining the green lawn of the yard. Turning back, you see three prison guards in riot gear, rifles smoking. If they went to the armory, you can be sure it’s worse than just the church, but you’ve never been so happy to see the cavalry arrive.

  “Lockdown,” one says, “Get back to your cell.”

  You nod furiously, feeling yourself for wounds, but you’re miraculously unscathed.

  * * *

  Lockdown, in prison terms, means no leaving your cell. Food is brought to you, showers consist of rubbing your body with handfuls of water from the sink, and people go stir-crazy. Celly grows more aggravated by the minute.

  Just to calm your nerves, you scratch half of your remaining lotto tickets, but all three were a bust. Only three more remain, and it’s hard to space them out. The boredom is broken up by occasional bedlam. Shrill screams come from other cells. People beat against the bars like apes at the zoo. Some even fling excrement at the guards.

  Rumors fly down the cell blocks: Sick bay is overrun. The guards are getting sick. There’s no warden anymore. The whole city is gone, one of the guards told me, and soon they’ll abandon us too. Not just the city, man. The country. Those nutters? They’re not just crazy. They’re the walking dead. Fucking zombies, man.

  At dinnertime, the rioting starts up again.

  “Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Celly asks the neighbors.

  You come close and listen in as the man replies, “The CO delivering food. Says it’s the last meal ‘for a while.’ He promises they’ll be back with help from the army, but this is it, we’re fuckin’ dead meat!”

  “No, no, no,” you find yourself saying. “Not like this. I gotta get outta here. Not like this!”

  “If only I had my fucking file, aarrrrgh!” Celly cries in dismay.

  The guard moves quickly, delivering dinner as fast as he can.

  “Wait!” you shout, briefly catching his attention.

  • Threaten the bastard. Try to get him to come in and teach you a lesson!

  • Try to bribe the guard with your remaining lotto tickets.

  • Offer the man…sexual favors.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Logic Prevails

  “I don’t think so,” the guard says.

  But the doctor steps forward. “It’s true. We need his help as much he needs ours,” the doc says. “I’ll go on record as such, once this riot is over.”

  You can’t help but laugh. “Paperwork? C’mon Doc, look around. The dead is risin’.”

  The doctor bobbles his head uncertainly. “Technically, the patients’ hearts have stopped beating, but it isn’t until true brain death—as you’ve seen—that I would qualify the infected as ‘dead.’”

  “We’re all dead if we don’t get moving,” the guard says.

  “Ain’t that many, we can just push on through,” you say, adding, “If we work together.”

  The doctor’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down with a hard swallow, but he doesn’t protest. The guard heads out, and you’re right there with him. You hit one of the undead bastards with the fire extinguisher on the way, sending his teeth onto the carpet.

  While you and the guard defend the doorway, the doctor gets the door open by using his keycard. Your heart soars when you hear the chirp that means the door is unlocked and open. He pulls the door open, and you’re in position to go first.

  • This is your chance to escape! Time to be a treacherous bastard….

  • Keep the extinguisher raised, check for zombies, sweep the room.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Long Range

  You’re not really close to your younger brothers. They never really knew dad during the “glory days,” and so his current form doesn’t affect them as much. Besides, they’re all two states away, which might as well be two lifetimes, given the conditions out there.

  After saying half-hearted “see-ya-later”s, you take your bike out onto the open road. Things are bad out there, really bad. There must’ve been some kind of cover-up until it got so big that “they” couldn’t hide it anymore. Until today.

  You drive past an ambulance with the back doors open. The inside is painted with gore and a figure in the center eats something. The person is so encrusted in viscera that you can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman, but it looks up to you with hungry eyes and you drive on.

  Outside of your apartment building, a police cruiser is crashed into a fire hydrant, spraying a geyser of water into the air. A woman runs from the building in her nightgown and a man chases after her with a baseball bat. A shotgun blast echoes from somewhere inside the building.

  Best leave your knickknacks where they lie and hit the dusty trail. It’s tempting to stop at the local gas station, but there are fistfights at the pump. You’re at about half a tank, which should get you to a station further from chaos.

  On the way out of town, you see an ad for a local gun range. That’ll definitely move you to the front of future fuel-pump lines. So you park at “OPEN FIRE,” and head inside in search of firearms. The front door is locked, but as dad used to say, locks only stop honest thieves.

  Once you’ve broken in, you see that you weren’t the only one with this idea. The front has flecks of drying blood on the counter, but the gun lockers sit open. There are still plenty of weapons and ammo, though the shelves for 16-gauge shells, .22 caliber rifle shots, and 9mm bullets sit empty. You’re about to take a Colt 1911 .45 and Mossberg 12-gauge when you hear the door behind you creak open.

  A quick glance over your shoulder reveals five men. They’re decked-out in paramilitary gear and leather. Clean-cut types with hard arms and soft bellies. Each holds at least a handgun on his person. You also notice several large knives. One has a belt of grenades…are those real?

  “Great minds…” one of the men says.

  “Plenty for everyone; help yourself. I was just leaving,” you say.

  “Didn’t you hear? We’re supposed to stick together. I think we’re lucky to have found each other,” the man in the center says.

  “Yeah, real lucky,” another says.

  “Well, not that lucky. We did follow you from the garage, after all,” the center man says.

  He takes a step forward. The others follow.

  • I don’t want any trouble. Say, “Take what you want; I’ll look somewhere else.”

  • Take the Colt and show ’em just how lucky they are.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Looters

  Food, water, weapons, blankets, medicine. With your powers combined, I am surviving the apocalypse! That’s the best you can come up with, on short notice anyway. Owen
said he had to stay with the garage just in case anyone came by to pick up their cars. That left five categories and five employees, so you’re out looking for medicine. More Oxycodone, specifically.

  There’s a pharmacy at the shopping center where you normally fuel up and grab your daily Big Gulp of Mountain Dew. It’s a Walgreens-style mini-mart where you can get just about anything. Lawn chairs and hammocks are in the “stock up for spring” section, but you’re just looking for a few bags to fill with pills.

  There are plenty of other people here, of course, but it’s more of a mad-grab than it is a territorial claim. Grab what you can! The cops don’t care! They’ve got enough to worry about! These are the battle cries of the looters.

  You find that sweet, sweet Oxy, then snag as many other medications as you can, checking labels and ingredients for a wide variety. Antibiotics and painkillers is the name of the game. Acetaminophen, that’s a fever and pain reducer, right? Niacin? What’s that for?

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention, please!” a man shouts.

  A quick glance over your shoulder reveals five men. They’re decked-out in paramilitary gear and leather. Clean-cut types with hard arms and soft bellies. Each holds at least a handgun on his person. You also notice several large knives. One has a belt of grenades…are those real?

  “This here is a citizen’s arrest. Ya’ll are taking valuable property that does not belong to you. Turn it in to my deputies in an orderly fashion.”

  They fan out across the store and one points over towards you. “Found the mechanic chick,” he says. The center man looks to you and grins.

  • Make a run for it.

  • I don’t want any trouble. Say, “Take what you want; I’ll look somewhere else.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Lucky Day

  Scratch, scratch. The metallic film comes off the lotto ticket, collecting under your thumbnail. Two apples, a pair of skulls in concert with two sets of crossbones, and—one more apple! That makes you the big winner. You turn the scratch ticket over to see how much three apples are worth. Drum-roll, please…

  Twenty bucks. Well, at least it’ll pay for this week’s supply.

  You hide the rest of the cards under your mattress for later. Scratching one per day gives you something to look forward to in this place.

  What now? Do a couple of pushups, maybe take a dump. Not much else to do. With a sigh, you look around for a way to kill time before the dinner call. After today’s incident, your cellmate is currently in the SHU (AKA “the shoe,” AKA solitary confinement) and his new bedding sits neatly folded atop the bare mattress. You pick up the paperback novel on his nightstand—Calm Before the Storm.

  You’re about to sit and read, but your gaze stays on the folded bedding. His contraband’s in there. You could always take a peek?

  • Nah, I’ll just read this paperback and wait for dinner. My Celly’s a huge, scary guy, so it’s not worth the risk.

  • Who am I kidding?—I’m going to look. If I don’t, I’ll never be able to stop thinking about it.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Mad Dash

  Before leaving, you open the back and strap on a pack, then hand another to Jason. You look at the other two packs in the back, but you know your father and this stranger will have a hard enough time just walking. Jason helps Dad from his seat. He starts deliriously wandering towards the front of the tunnel.

  “I’ll catch up, stay with Dad!” you shout, hurrying to help the other man out.

  As soon as you open the door, he lunges for you, snarling, snapping his jaws and taking you firmly in his grasp. He pulls you in, but you break the hold. Dad taught you that one after your first kindergarten experience with a bully, and you’ve been practicing breaking grapples with Jason for as long as you can remember.

  The seat belt holds the crazed man firmly in place and you leave him there, jogging to catch up with your family.

  “The other guy’s lost it,” you say.

  “I think…” Jason starts, but trails off when he catches sight of a dozen figures wandering through the headlights.

  “Hey, what’s going on?!” one man shouts.

  All the others suddenly turn in unison and descend upon the hapless man. Not wanting to be next, you push forward, weaving between the cars and dragging your father along by the arm. He’s strong, he’ll be okay. He has to be okay.

  Some of the drivers start to panic and blare on their horns. Others actually try to ram their way out of the traffic jam. The wanderers quickly lose interest in the man and you rush past two cars just as one slams forward—with you caught in-between.

  With excruciating pain, you know your hip is shattered. It’s not long before your cries of anguish bring the wanderers your way. Jason does his best to defend you, but there are too many and he has to reload before they’re done with you.

  This won’t be pleasant.

  THE END

  Mad Props

  Jason sighs, but doesn’t argue. He positions himself in a flanking position so that you can fire at a crisscross pattern, maximizing damage while minimizing friendly fire. While he gets set up, you look for something to distract the gang. Though the mall is full of gunfire, you’ll be shooting very close to the biker gang, and it’s a fair bet that they won’t appreciate it.

  You’re near one of those skater/goth/naughty-party-gifts stores and the pleather-clad mannequin out front gives you an idea. Moving quickly, you lift the lifesize plastic doll onto a skateboard from the display rack, then go for the lighters. The one with the USMC skull and crossed rifles should work nicely. “U.S. Marines: Mess With The Best—Die Like The Rest!”

  There are several bottles of lighter fluid on sale, so you douse the mannequin, light it up, and send it boarding into the center of the chaos. The gang members immediately wheel around to face this new threat, and you open fire, using a photo booth as cover.

  The Zulu don’t evade, so it’s a turkey shoot.

  The gang members, however, think you’re trying to kill them. They go for defensive positions, and return fire. You fall back behind the photo booth and wait for a break in the action.

  With their attention on you, several gang members scream out as they receive bites from the last remaining Zulu, then finish your job for you and drop the ghouls with small arms fire.

  “Cease fire!” you scream. “Lower your weapons and we can all go our separate ways.”

  “Over my dead body!” one of the bikers shouts, just before he unloads on the photo booth.

  “If you say so!” Jason shouts.

  Your brother’s sixteen-gauge sends buckshot into the man, and you use the opportunity to swing back around and draw down on the rest of the gang.

  “Weapons down, now!”

  The nearest biker brings up a shiny, nickel-plated pistol and you put one into his shooting arm at the shoulder. He drops the weapon involuntarily and the other bikers do so by their own accord.

  “Disrespect the dead again, and you’ll join ’em. We’re going to back out real slow, and so long as there’s no sudden movements from this corral, we all live happily ever after, get me?”

  The bikers nod. More undead flow in from the recesses of the mall, announced by an echoing moan. Best hurry.

  • Get going while you still can.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Mama’s Boy

  You jog through the open streets, following the bus route, which is cleared of cars in preparation for the National Guard departure to support the hospital. When you look back, you can see that the building in question has a thick, dark cloud of smoke spiraling up from it.

  Moving down the middle of Main Street makes you a target for snipers and soldiers, but they should be busy, now that the dead roam free. Instead, moving keeps you clear of the wandering infected that come from the alleys and side streets. They moan and claw at the open air and some of the “healthy” ghouls come at you in a stumble-run, but it’s uncoordinated and you’re faster t
han they are.

  The day is young, and despite all you’ve been through, you feel fit and spritely. It’s only twelve miles from work to home, and your bus stalled a few miles before the bank, so it should be ten or less miles that you’re forced to run. Still, you spend your days at a teller counter, not training for marathons, so you have to walk for stretches. When you slow down, the tail of undead behind you grows, which is motivation enough to keep your rest breaks short.

  When you turn onto your street, you’re almost shocked to see your apartment building. Part of you worried it would somehow be gone. Or at least crumbling; maybe engulfed in flames. But there it is, same as always. The garden your mama was working on this morning sits complete, waiting to grow, the sidewalk swept clean. Just the sight of it hits you like an arrow to the chest.

  A light moan comes, carried on the wind, but the infected are far enough away that they shouldn’t know where to go if you head inside now.

  The lobby is a mess. Letters and bills are strewn about just below the wall of mailboxes, one of which sits open. Some of the floor tiles are speckled red. You head up to your apartment, with the police baton at the ready. The stairs squeak when you walk up them, as if they’re already unaccustomed to use. As you pass Ms. Alaina’s place, your nearest neighbor, you hear moaning from within. The outside door handle is smeared with blood.

  With a deep breath, you return home.

  “Mama?” you say, after opening the door.

  A figure comes rushing in at you, and you instinctively raise the police baton, but too late. She slams against you, knocking your breath out and squeezing you tight with an animal-like embrace.

  “Tyberius!” she cries. “Don’t you ever scare mama like that, boy!”

  “Oh, mama…” you say, melting in her arms like a child.