Offered Up
With barely a moment to think, you hurdle the pew benches and run up on stage. There’s a large altar where communion sits prepared, ready to wash away your sin with grape juice and Jeezits instead of wine and bread. This is a prison; a prison on a budget.
The preacher already cowers behind the altar and puts his hands up, expecting you to bite him. When you don’t, he points away with desperation, but you shake your head.
“Go! I was here first!” he says, as firmly as a whisper will allow.
“What do you think this is, hide-’n-seek? Sorry, father.”
His eyes turn to your rear, and when you look back, you see the gang of nutters has found you. Suddenly, the preacher shoves you into the crowd before running off. The last words to escape your lips are the Lord’s name in vain.
THE END
Off the Rails
Maybe the aircraft’s movements are merely due to final approach? It didn’t feel like you slept that long, but that would explain it. Just a traffic pattern before landing. Maybe. Time to find out for sure. Unlike a commercial airliner, the cockpit isn’t sealed off like a quarantine zone, so it’s easy to interact with the Air Force crew.
“Any idea how much longer ’til we’re home?” you ask the loadmaster near the front.
“Ahhh, change of plans. I’m…not sure it’s my place to say more.”
Great. You push past the loadmaster and head into the cockpit, and the man doesn’t try to stop you. Before you can ask what-the-hell’s-going-on, you look up and see a face full of airplane, flying only mere feet ahead. The C-17 is being refueled! But you didn’t need mid-air refueling on the way to the mission, so why on the way back?
“What the hell’s going on?” you ask.
The pilots ignore you.
Once the refueling is complete and the planes detach and separate to a safer distance, the copilot finally turns to address you. “We’ve been re-routed, Sergeant. There was a sister-op last week in Venezuela that didn’t end as well. Or maybe went too well, depending on how you look at it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Viva fucking Chavez,” the pilot says. “And Viva the whole goddamn country.”
“What does that mean?” you repeat, voice frayed.
“Venezuela is lost. We’re heading into Manaus to evacuate US personnel out of the region before the rest of the continent goes too,” the co-pilot says. “You guys’ll be providing security once we touch down.”
You get that sinking feeling again, only this time the plane’s not turning. Time to…
• Find somewhere to hide. You’re an electrician! And you don’t want to lose your seat to some refugee.
• Find your weapons and battle-rattle. Get ready to shoot some undead commies!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Off the Streets
“Quickly!” you say, rushing towards the nearest house.
Adrenaline pumping, you don’t stop to see if it’s unlocked. Instead, you kick the door in, only to find a walking corpse right on the other side. Your sword moves before you even have time to think, and you split the ghoul in half from neck to navel. The thing falls to the floor, but continues to thrash about even after being disemboweled.
“Out the back, let’s go,” you say.
The back patio leads to a freshly mowed, fenced-in back yard. Quintessential suburbia. The Humvee and motorcycles are loud enough that you can hear the men in the streets behind you, and you’re thinking of hopping the fence and continuing on, when you see a large garden shed and change your mind. If these men are looters, they’re looking for food and medicine, not lawnmowers.
Ushering the three children inside, you close yourself in the shed.
“Sensei, how do you know they’re dangerous?” Nathanael asks.
“All men are dangerous, depending on the situation, young one.”
“But they could help us!” Haley protests.
“It’s true, they could. But whether or not they would is a different matter. This is a distraction on the path, not the path itself. We have an old saying in Japan, ‘If you try to catch two rabbits, you will catch neither.’ We are not out looking for friends, we are out looking for your families.”
“Yes, sensei,” they all say in unison.
“Good. Those men didn’t need our help, and we don’t need theirs. Once they’re gone, we’ll head to Haley’s.”
* * *
Haley’s house might be “on the way” to Nathanael’s, but it’s certainly not close. It’s in a newer development, one that backs up against the marshes, so you follow the long road away from suburbia and into swamp-front property marketed as “Gladedale Estates.”
Stomachs rumbling, you hope that whether or not you find Haley’s parents, there will at least be something to eat. There’s a greasy spoon restaurant just off the road and you watch as each of your students lock onto the diner, their heads moving in unison. Your own salivary glands tingle at the prospect.
• Keep moving. Her house is out of the way, but only a few hours of walking remain.
• It’s worth a quick detour. Someone passing out from hunger would be a longer delay.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Of Low Caliber
“Light ’em up, Jay!” you cry.
Your brother blasts his 16-gauge at the man’s center-mass, while you pop off shots from your 10/22 at the guy’s face. But here’s the thing—Dad recommended these weapons because they’re light, relatively quiet, and you can carry lots of ammo. They’re ideal for fighting against Zulu, not a man in full body armor.
The shotgun sends its flak true, which happens to be exactly what the flak jacket is for. The man wouldn’t even feel the pellets. Meanwhile, your .22 caliber rifle shots get deflected by the man’s facemask. If you had something with a little more punch, your shots would’ve gone right through, but instead, the man sprays at you both with his sub-machine gun.
And his shots go through your clothes with ease.
THE END
The Old Man and the Tea
The children scurry to their positions and you wave Salvator to your side.
“Hey, is this a dead zone?” his mother asks, waving her cell phone. “No service at all. Do you have Wi-Fi?”
Resisting the urge to sigh, you say, “You’re welcome to try your luck outside.”
“Thanks,” she says, stuffing her phone into her purse and taking your advice.
“Now then, Salvator-san.”
“It’s just Sal,” the boy says, matter-of-factly.
Offering a smile, you nod, then lead him over towards your tournament armor. “This is my armor; what do you think? Would you like armor of your own some day?”
The boy nods and you continue, “Kendo is a full-contact, vigorous sport, so we wear armor to protect ourselves. At first you will learn movements, but eventually, you will face opponents much larger than yourself who will attack with all their strength.”
He looks up with full eyes and says, “With a samurai sword?”
“With shinai,” you say, pulling one of the wooden practice swords from a rack on the wall. You touch the tip to the helmet on your armor and add, “They may be only bamboo, but a strike here, to your men, can still be painful, and that can be scary. But you must choose: Will you learn to fear pain and run? Or will you learn to stand your ground and defend against the strike? You cannot learn both.”
The boy nods, though you know you’re only sowing the seeds. He won’t understand these lessons for a long time yet, but repetition is key. Repetition is key.
“I want to introduce you to someone very special, so follow me.”
At the rear of the dojo, there is a hallway with a door that leads straight out into the back alley, a bathroom to the left, and an office to the right. It is the latter where you lead your pupil.
Inside, resting on a large sitting pillow is Master Hanzo, an old man with white hair. He holds an equally ancient pipe in his lips, though i
t remains unlit. His large, bushy eyebrows, which flare out like cat-eye glasses, indicate a gaze down into a novel.
“Master Hanzo,” you say, knocking on the open door. “Our new pupil is here.”
Hanzo closes the book, Sociality Abounds: A Novel by Jacques Deleon. There’s a sticker canted sideways on the cover, “Nobel Prize Winner.” Always the philosopher, you think as he looks up. Young Salvator hesitates.
“Go on, don’t be afraid. Sensei Hanzo trained me when I was around your age. Many of the students come to call him ‘Grandfather Hanzo,’ you know.”
“And I like that very much,” the old man says.
“Master Hanzo owns the dojo, though he has passed on the responsibility of teaching to me, your sensei. As the newest student in the class, your responsibility will be to bring Master Hanzo tea before we begin each session. This is a great honor.”
The boy looks from you to Hanzo and back again, unsure how to respond.
“Come now, I will show you how to make the tea. In Japan, tea preparation is its own art form and people gather to watch the ceremony, much like going to see actors perform at the theaters here in—”
A violent, urgent scream sounds from the dojo entry. It strikes you down to the bone, but the instinct to protect your students propels you forward.
“Stay with Hanzo!” you shout, running forward to see what’s happened.
It’s Salvator’s mother screaming as a homeless man rushes into the dojo after her. The children hold shinai, clearly terrified, but they’re much closer to the entry than you. You’ll have to act fast.
• Tell Nathanael to fight the man off while you get the younger kids out of the way.
• Grab a shinai and rush in—no time for talk.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
One against All
Angelica looks at you with disdain, but that’s okay, because when the other men from Duke’s gang arrive at the stables, they won’t find you here. Instead, you head out into the night, using darkness for cover as you try to find a way out. There’s gotta be a spare motorcycle or an old car you can hotwire to make your escape.
Though it’s a dark night, many of the former farm’s structures are illuminated, and you can use their glow to see. It’s a noisy community, that’s for sure. Laughing, yelling, even gunshots as they fight off the dead. A strong smell too; someone’s BBQing. Maybe everyone gets a steak dinner?
Hounds bay, much like during a prison break. Which, in a sense, it is. Powerful flashlight beams sweep the fields and one comes to rest on you.
“Here she is!” a man shouts.
If you run now, you might get lucky and they’ll shoot you. If not, you’ll be returned to the stables, only with much tighter security this time. And probably many more “visitors.”
Not much of a choice, is it?
THE END
On Loan
The building is locked, but through the glass door you can see the lobby is undisturbed. Most likely, the owners just didn’t come to work today. A quick crack with Mitch’s butt and the glass near the lock breaks open. You reach in, release the deadbolt, and let yourself in. One nice thing about the power going out—no alarms. That’s why you always get a battery backup.
A sweep of the building shows a large lobby and a counter with four computer stations, with an office in the back for a manager, and an employee bathroom. There’s only the front door and a fire door in the back, so it’s defensible.
Granted, you broke in fairly easily, but—despite needing to shoot them in the head—the fleshies seem pretty brain-dead. You should be able to lock up and make a quick getaway out back if you hear their dead hands pawing for a way in.
That couch looks inviting, or you could take a look at the other buildings in the area.
• You’re not one to kick a gift horse in the mouth. Lock the door and get some sleep.
• The liquor store. I could use a drink after these last couple of days and the windows have bars.
• The tattoo parlor. With its tough-guy design scheme, nobody will mess with me there.
• The strip club. It’s designed from the ground up to keep out unwanted flesh-hungry men.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Open Season
When the buzzer sounds and the doors of the cell block open in unison, it’s instant chaos. Whatever is infecting people and turning them into flesh-hungry nutters, more than a few of these inmates have it. Men begin biting, stabbing, punching, and throwing each other over the rails. It’s a full-scale riot within seconds.
There were occasional riots in the past, more than the average taxpayer would believe, but you played it safe. Every riot would end up with at least one death, and a dozen or more sent to the infirmary. Meanwhile, you sat in your cell like a model citizen and waited out the violence while other inmates had their temper tantrum.
What’ll it be this time?
• The safest place in a stampede is in the herd. Stay with the flood of inmates and rush the yard outside.
• Never change a winning strategy—wait out the initial rush from my cell, then follow the path of destruction.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Operation
“Doc! Doc!” you scream.
Now the Turned in the room grow restless. Frenzied. 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 brings menace with him, and it’s genuinely terrifying here in the dark. You want to keep screaming, but you’ve lost your voice.
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.
“DOC!!!” You thrash and scream and kick and bite at the air in the darkness—just like all the other infected around you. 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. “No…please….” you sob.
BANG! There’s a bright flash, just like the others, but this one doesn’t go out. Is this what dying is like? Heading in “towards the light” for good?
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” cries Dr. Abdous. Without her surgical mask and goggles, she’s stunning. Like an angel, if this was heaven. But, no, the lights are on in the tent, you realize. The soldier stands only one cot away from yours, three dead patients in his wake.
“Stand back, doctor. We’re falling back to the hospital and I’m acting on orders.”
“Corporal Amos…you’re killing people.”
“They’re not people,” he says, cold.
“I’m people!” you scream.
“These are my patients, under my direct care,” she says, circling back towards you. “And you need my permission to…well, you can’t just fucking terminate them!”
He laughs and shakes his head. “What do you think is happening here, ma’am? My orders come straight from Captain Delozier, and he specifically told me to carry them out whether or not you object.”
She pulls out a small pair of shears and cuts through your binds. Must be the same kind of scissors they use to cut people out of their clothes in the ER.
“Ma’am! You do not have the authority to—”
“Want to shoot me too, Amos? Did Delozier give you that authority? Get up, Tyberius. Stay behind me.” She uses herself as a human shield, leading you out to the front flap. Seeing the rest of her “patients” chomping their teeth like mad, she adds, “Do what you will with them.”
“Ma’am, you can’t.”
“I just did.” She turns and hands you the police baton that was taken from you when you arrived. Her eyes are full of tears, but she’s holding them back. “Go, now. Hurry!”
You nod your thanks, then turn and run. It’s hard to believe she really stuck her neck out for you like that. You only know one woman that strong, and you’re going to go help her if it’s the last thing you do.
• Go home, before it’s too la
te.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Optimism
You hunch next to one of the military Humvees, Angelica by your side, doing your best to stay below the line of fire. The soldiers know enough to aim for head-level, so you know to stay low. The helicopter hovers above and a man rappels down into the crowd.
The effect is like dipping your finger in honey before poking an anthill. The crowd of dead latch on, so much weight, in fact, that they threaten to take the helicopter off its flight path. There’s just so many of them!
They continue their slow, patient onslaught of the hospital, and the only fatigue you see is in the soldier’s weapons. There are far more undead in the city than these men have bullets for. A realization that comes too little, too late. You look around; they have you surrounded.
I’m going to die here, you think.
The good news is that you won’t just take a single bite—there won’t be enough left of you to rise again.
THE END
Orders and Chaos
Though you know it’s the right move to leave the civilians holed up in the cafeteria, you feel sick at leaving those kids in there. In anger and frustration, you plow your shoulder into the chest of the nearest SWAT-thing, knocking the ghoul onto its back. A foot on its chest, you stick your rifle under the faceplate and offer a point-blank shot.
The front entrance is barricaded as well, and the rest of the evac team heads an emergency exit, so you waste no time doing the same. Immediately, you’re forced to put down two fleshies as the six Airmen shoot their own way through the crowds.
The hospital parking lot looks even worse from the ground than it did from the air. It looks like the SWAT team was defeated, and a dozen police vehicles sit abandoned. So are several National Guard Humvees, which leads you to one conclusion—this operation has failed.
PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4) Page 28