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

by James Schannep

  Trying to swallow down the dread when you hear carving, you give your best sympathetic nod.

  * * *

  Chapel is neutral ground. Despite their immoral proclivities, most inmates are religious men. Blame it on temptation, the devil made me do it, that kind of thing. That, coupled with the warden’s higher punishments for any “malcreant behavior” on church grounds, makes for a quiet atmosphere every Sunday.

  “When evening came, Jesus was reclining at the table with the Twelve,” the preacher says. He has a Bible in his left hand, but it’s closed; a prop. He has this part memorized. “And while they were eating, he said, ‘Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me.’”

  A terrible, hacking cough sounds out behind you so loud the preacher has to wait to continue. You look back and see one of the skinheads hacking into his wadded up t-shirt. He releases the shirt and leaves black, sticky phlegm across his chest, like he’d swallowed tar and coughed it back up.

  With a new sense of dread, you look back up to the preacher, who’s saying, “…while they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, ‘Take and eat; this is my body.’”

  A terrible shrieking roars out, and it takes some effort not to lose your bowels right there. A guard takes an Asp from his belt and, with a snap of his wrist, expands the telescoping baton. That’s when six inmates shoot up, as if suddenly awakened, and surround the guard.

  This is it. This is survival. So what’re you gonna do?

  • Fight.

  • Hide.

  • Run.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Pave Hawk Down

  The helicopter sets down on top of the hospital and the six Airmen leap out to secure the rooftop. You check your M4; only fourteen rounds left. Better make ’em count. The pilot gives you a thumbs-up and you disembark.

  The grit of the rooftop crunches under your boots, though it’s more something you feel than hear. There’s no sound but the helicopter. The rescue team opens the roof access door and floods inside.

  You follow behind, and as soon as the exit door closes behind you, you’re greeted with stunned silence. The six of them stand in rows of three against each wall, weapons lowered, as a former doctor and two undead nurses approach.

  “Stop where you are!” Airman Belliveau commands with a hand extended, palm flat.

  Not wasting another second, you put the three down. In adrenaline-fueled panic, your second shot goes wide, so it takes four rounds. The twice-dead ghouls fall to the floor and the rescue crew turns to you, weapons raised.

  “Nobody told you guys what’s going on?” you ask.

  “Rabies,” Belliveau says.

  “Some kind of biological weapon,” the operator next to him says.

  “Terrorist attack,” another Airman adds.

  You shake your head. “It’s that Gilga-shit. Supposed to make people live forever, but instead makes them living dead.”

  “We’re supposed to minimize casualties to the infected,” Airman Belliveau says.

  “Yeah, well, that’s the flying ointment, isn’t it? You get bit, you’re infected. The only way to stop the infection from spreading is a headshot, so….”

  The team nods in understanding and moves down the hall. With the blackout, the hospital is on emergency power and the corridors are sparsely lit by a battery-powered flood-light, one per hall.

  An orderly staggers out, his position given away by the shadow he casts, and you put him down with one between the eyes. Without these emergency lights, you wouldn’t stand a chance.

  The halls crowd with more fleshies after every shot fired, so you do your best to conserve ammo and steer clear. Still, you have to fire three more precious rounds just to make it towards the exit signs. The elevators are down, so you’ll have to take the stairs. Six sweaty, mask-fogging flights down.

  On the main floor, several police SWAT members mill about, listless. Until they see you. Then the hunger rises from behind their riot helmets and their arms rise to greet you. You steady yourself and aim at the nearest—crack!

  His head snaps back from the shot, but then rights himself. There’s a spider-web pattern on the mask in front of his right eye. Bulletproof. And six of the armored bastards stand between you and the front entrance to the hospital.

  At the far end of the hall is an unexpected sight. The hallway is cordoned off with waiting-room couches and coffee tables, secretaries’ desks and filing cabinets. There must be a couple thousand pounds of office furniture between you and the next area of the hospital: the cafeteria.

  And more shocking still, there’re people on the other side. Living people. You can see their blood-stained faces looking at you with terror through the glass portholes in the double doors beyond the barricade. They look to you with pleading eyes. Men, women, and children. It hits you like a punch to the gut—they think you’re here to rescue them.

  “We can’t. We have our orders,” Airman Belliveau says, noting your stare.

  The soldiers continue on and more ghouls come in from the eaves. It’s getting crowded in here. But can you just leave all those people?

  • They’re safer than I am—avoid eye contact and keep moving with the extraction team.

  • What’s the point of being on a rescue team if not to rescue people? Help them out!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Payback

  It’s hard enough to sleep when every creak or rustle of wind grates on your nerves, but with a gasmask on, it’s impossible. But you figure this place didn’t get hit by the plague, and you’re alone, so you can take the thing off for a night.

  Once you do, you fall into a deep sleep on the lobby couch. Which is interrupted at some point in the night by a kick to your shin. When your eyes shoot open, you’re looking down the barrel of a shotgun.

  “Guess I’m debt-free now, asshole,” the man holding it says. “Payback’s a bitch.”

  Wait, what? Your mind scrambles. Debt? Payback? Holy shit, the guy thinks you own the place!

  “No!” you shout, reaching up to stop him.

  Too late. BOOM!

  THE END

  Perfect Gentleman

  “Mind your own goddamned business, we’re just talking,” the soldier says.

  “No, we’re done here,” Lily says.

  You stand your ground while she walks away. The man stares at you with hatred in his eyes. You’re not sure how much time passes, but it feels like you’ve been standing here staring each other down your whole life.

  “Mother—” the man says, stepping towards you.

  His curse is cut short when you smack him over the head with the police baton. You don’t even remember telling your hand to pull it from your waistband, but somehow it knew to be ready. He collapses, screaming, and his hands go to his head.

  “What’s going on here?” Captain Delozier demands, stepping out from the stairwell.

  The other soldiers come running, rifles raised at you. Lily comes to your side, placing herself in front of the rifles.

  “What. The fuck. Is going on?” Delozier reiterates.

  “Bastard just hit me,” the soldier complains, coming to stand. “Crazy motherfucker.”

  “You had it coming,” Lily says.

  “Hey!” Captain Delozier cries. “We need to get along here!”

  “Then this troublemaker needs to go,” the man says, showing off the red spot on his forehead.

  “So do you,” Lily adds.

  “Lily…” Sam says, low.

  “I’ll go,” you say, surprised to hear yourself say it. “But you watch this man, Sam.”

  “Ty, no!” Lily says.

  “I don’t belong here.”

  “You do,” Sam protests.

  “Bring back your mom, okay?” Lily says. “We’ll wait for you.”

  I hope you’re still here, you think, but you just nod.

  • Go home, before it’s too late.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE
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  Pessimism

  The dragon rumbles towards the survivors, and the wall of dead turn to greet you. They’re mainly hospital staff and patients, so you see lots of surgical scrubs and hospital robes on the ghouls.

  Now they’re going under your knife.

  The machine chews through the group with disgusting efficiency, and soon you’re able to slice a hole in the barrier for the survivors to escape. Yet, as soon as you do, they start piling up barricades again.

  “What the hell are you doing?” you cry over the diesel. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  “It’s not safe!” a woman in front yells in response.

  “No shit, but it’s only getting worse. Come on!”

  Though they still hold sad, hopeless looks on their faces, none move. One at a time, they start to shake their heads, “no.”

  “Help will come for us!” another woman shouts.

  You’re about to reply when a young boy points behind you. Looking back, you see more ravenous dead have converged on the rear. Angelica readies the claw, but your heart sinks when you see the dead approach. Instead of hospital goers, this gang is made up of SWAT police and hardened soldiers—all having failed their rescue mission—all on a new mission from hell to tear the flesh from your bones.

  You should have known better. There will be no cavalry to save you.

  “Clear us an exit with that claw!” you cry.

  Angelica smashes through the wall and then you back around to angle the dragon through. Once out into the night air, the swelling crowd of dead comes for you. There are just so many!

  Taking the vehicle up and over the curb, you head into a nearby park. Many of the dead are attracted by the hospital battle, but your construction vehicle draws a large crowd of followers as well. The dead don’t move fast, but neither does your mighty steed. It’s a terrifying chase of desire versus diesel.

  A park bench bolted to the ground groans as you grind it into the earth. The undead also fall beneath your tread with sickening crunches. Ahead, the other side of the park is buttressed by a large concrete wall; easily ten feet high, if not more.

  “Angelica, we’re getting off up there! Stretch out that claw, make us a ladder.”

  She gets the idea and does her job as you position the vehicle. You turn off the engine, hop up, and scramble the length of the claw, pushing Angelica up and over the wall. The dead follow on your heels, but scaling the claw requires a level of dexterity too difficult for their singular minds.

  Angelica rolls out of the way and you smack against the pavement on the other side with a painful drop. The sting shoots through your ankles and up into your back, blinding you with a white flash of pain.

  “Cooper, look out!” Angelica cries.

  A pair of undead—zookeepers? Yep, tan short-shorts and everything—come for you from the side. You strain to stand up and position your wrench, but residual pain from the fall slows your movements. Angelica cowers behind you, waiting for you to make the first move. You curse and prepare to fight, but out of nowhere, a man in kitchen whites appears. He hits the ghoul with his frying pan so hard it falls off its feet. Then he finishes it off with a butcher’s meat cleaver.

  “Nice swing, Jose Conseco! Where the hell’d you come from?”

  “He followed us from the hospital,” Angelica says.

  “Hola, mucho gusto,” the man says.

  “I don’t speak Spanish, do you, Cooper?”

  You shake your head. The man points to you and says, “Cooper?”

  “Yeah, Cooper. Thanks for the help, okay?”

  You turn and walk away, with Angelica and the man following you. Feeling far too tired for this shit, you stop and turn to the Hispanic chef. “Listen. Thanks, okay? Gracias. But I don’t know you and you don’t know me. Let’s go our separate ways, okay? Ciao. Auf Wiedersehen.”

  “Adios,” Angelica says.

  “That’s right,” you say. “Adios, Jose.”

  He shakes his head and says, “No, yo voy contigo. Yo he estado escondiendo en ese hospital demasiado tiempo sin esperanza, y de repente llegas de la nada. Nunca he visto tal fuerza. Eres un luchador y yo quiero luchar contigo. Mi nombre es Guillermo y si usted me acepte, seré su humilde y respetuoso servidor.”

  It’s a long, impassioned speech, of which you get nothing. In a low voice, you turn to Angelica and say, “Catch any of that?”

  “I don’t think we’re getting rid of him,” she replies.

  “Jesus. Well, whatever. At least he has a good swing. Okay, let’s go, Jose.”

  “Mordido?” he asks, champing his teeth twice.

  “Hungry?” you ask.

  “I think he’s asking if we’ve been bitten.”

  “Oh, no,” you say, then mime biting Angelica, shake your head, and add, “Nooo. No bite-o’s.”

  He nods and follows you. When you look to your watch and activate the glow, you see it’s nearly four in the morning. You’re beyond exhausted and sure that your two followers are too. Time to find a place to sleep.

  • It’s a zoo—maybe you can find a temporarily closed exhibit and lock yourself in the cage.

  • There’s bound to be a staff office or something. All you need is a door that you can sleep against.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Phrasing

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” the center man says with a leering grin. “We’ll take what we want. It’s the dawn of a new world, sweetie. Play your cards right and you might just end up somebody’s wife.”

  Your jaw clenches and you want nothing more than to knock this asshole in the jaw. After a lifetime of “get in the kitchen and make me a sandwich” jokes, you have no sympathy for pigs like him.

  They come for you, but you won’t give them the satisfaction. You don’t scream, you don’t kick and punch. Cold and stone-faced. There will be a time to fight, but it’s not now. Five against one aren’t great odds.

  They bind your hands behind your back with zip-ties, then blindfold you.

  • Sit quietly until your moment to strike.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Pilgrimage

  After breakfast, the National Guard unit starts to break down their encampment. You steel yourself to tell the class they’re heading out into the fray, but at least they’ll be headed home. Eventually. They’re gathered around you now.

  “Ki…?” you ask.

  “Spirit!” the class answers.

  “Ken?”

  “Sword!”

  “Tai?”

  “Body!”

  “Good,” you say. “These are the three pillars of kendo. None of you believed me on your first day when I told you I was only going to teach you three things, but perhaps now you see it is true. And today is the culmination of your training. Today, each of us must become ki-ken-tai-icchi –full synchronization of spirit, sword, and body.”

  “Master Tesshu, what is today?” Nolan asks.

  “Today we leave the dojo. We go find your families.”

  “Isn’t that…dangerous?” Haley asks.

  You nod. “Yes. There are walking corpses out there, ghoulish fiends who will try to bite and eat you. But we will wear our kendo armor to keep their teeth away and bring shinai to protect ourselves. Together, we will protect one another.”

  “Sensei, a word?” Master Hanzo asks from the office door.

  “Everyone—gear up! Be ready to go in ten minutes,” you say, then head towards the office.

  “Mom! Dad!” Mason shouts, palms up against the glass in excitement.

  He pulls the doors open and the trio shares a heartwarming reunion full of hugs and kisses. The other kids look on longingly, then past the family and into the street, hoping to find a glimpse of their own parents.

  Mason’s father says, “Seriously, thank you. If Mason would’ve been hurt…or…well, I don’t know what we would’ve done.”

  Pushing the compliments aside, you tell them all about the radio broadcast and Salvation off Route 14. “That’s
where you should go now. I will try to reunite my other students with their families, and then we will see you there.”

  The family nods and the class says goodbye to Mason, who assures his peers that he’ll save them a spot at Salvation.

  “Ten minutes,” you say, before going back to speak with Master Hanzo.

  “Please, shut the door,” he says. Adding, “You need to leave me here.”

  “W—what?”

  “I am an old man, with a bad heart. I will slow you down and endanger you all. But if you leave me here, I will tell any other parents to go home and wait for you there. And the twins. They’re too young for this. Find their parents, and tell them to come claim their children.”

  “Master Hanzo, I can’t just—”

  “I know why you’re afraid,” he says, before fishing out a box from the shelves behind the office desk. “It’s dangerous to go alone! Take this.”

  Inside the box is a full-sized, curved samurai katana and a smaller, matching wakizashi—short sword. They’re sheathed in ornate scabbards, and you lift the larger sword to inspect the design. Carved into the wood is a detailed mural of a dragon fighting a tiger. Unsheathing the weapon, you see that it’s flawless.

  “Your father gave me this set as payment for training you in the kendo arts. When I die, it was supposed to go to you, along with this dojo. But the time for sentiment is over. This is yours now.”

  “Master Hanzo, this set is wonderful, but I don’t know if I could use it. I’ve never used a real sword. I don’t know…that I could kill,” you say, head bowed.

  “The sword is the soul of the samurai!” he yells. “This is katsujinken—the sword that brings life. You must protect your pupils, and remember that you cannot kill a walking corpse. If you strike down a fiend that hopes to attack the children, you are bringing life. Take it, you must. And you must go on this mission alone.”

  You close your eyes, feeling the sword—Life-bringer—in your hands and letting the new responsibility sink in. At length, you say, “I will come back for you and the twins—I swear it.”