INFECTED (Click Your Poison)

by James Schannep

  But here you are, your seeds planted, your generators running, ready to survive the apocalypse. Escape Plan Zulu is running flawlessly. You had your first ghoul wander onto your property yesterday, and it only took five shots from your hunting rifle to score one in the head. You’ll get better. But that home-brew you cracked open in celebration of your first kill was the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted.

  And now, as you survey your property with your tactical Marine-surplus binoculars, you can’t help but feel a sense of pride. You thought of everything. All those know-it-all college students you debated online are probably dead and dying. Heck, if you’re lucky, they’ll stumble your way and you can finally put one right between the eyes.

  Then, off in the distance, something catches your attention. It looks like a dust cloud but it’s moving linearly. You adjust the focus on the binoculars and soon you realize: it’s a convoy. There are a dozen vehicles all headed your way. It’s just starting to dawn on you; there’s one crucial mistake you made in your preparation for the end of the world. You told other people about it.

  And if you build it, they will come. Your bragging, both in person and online, to anyone who would listen, will be your undoing. Remember that forum for other survival nuts where you showed off Google-maps images of your compound? That, “See? I wasn’t crazy!” email you sent is coming back to haunt you. People believe you now, unfortunately.

  This is only the first wave. Here come the thirsty, the starving, the infected. Wretched immigrants illegally crossing your border and taking what’s rightfully yours. Maybe you won’t go down without a fight, but it doesn’t matter. Even if you accepted them with open arms, you don’t have enough to feed and defend everyone. Attacks will start occurring from within.

  The worst part? Even though they know you’re right, they’re not here to listen to you. They won’t accept your leadership. They’re here not only to take, but also to give: you’ll share their fate. If you’re lucky, it’ll only be a matter of days before your fields will burn and your home will be overrun. If you’re not lucky, that caravan is armed and you’re about to go down, Wild West-style. Either way, this is the end for your compound.

  • I prepared for this too. Blow it and go. Evac-pack and geo-cache.

  • Stay and fight, go down in a blaze of glory.

  • Into the panic room.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  It’s You or Him

  The undead rush up the landing, desperate to get to you while you play tug-o-war with Hefty’s life. “I have to,” Deleon says. “For the cure.”

  The doctor pulls the release. For a fraction of a second, before the bramble of heavy furniture collapses from the nets above, time freezes. Oh how you wish you were up there with Deleon, the treacherous bastard. But even though you’re aware of each millisecond, soaking in the world with perfect clarity, there’s no time to move—save for a wide-eyed, jaw-open stare to the ceiling above.

  A desk, upon which some student had carved the anarchy symbol, careens down toward your head. As the particle-faux-wood and steel furniture falls, the last thought you have is: Anarchy, huh? I wonder how that kid liked having his wish fulfilled.

  The slam upon the landing is so forceful, you don’t even feel the crunch. At least you’re granted that small mercy. Your grave is now the two inches between the laminate flooring and the ton of office furniture heaped upon you.

  THE END

  Journey to the Underworld

  As you exit the student radio hall, you’re immediately in trouble. A zombie is right there to meet you, his hands clenched around your throat before you even realize he’s there. You put your own grip firmly around the undead man’s neck in an effort to keep his teeth at bay and the two of you wrestle in this stance like a badly choreographed fright from an old pulp sci-fi film. Only Sims’ quick reaction with his sharpened samurai sword frees you. He sticks it into the zombie’s ear and the man falls limp.

  “Thanks,” you cough out, rubbing your sore neck.

  “Thank me later,” he says, turning to face the other two ghouls in front of you.

  You take your aluminum bat and go to work. The hatchet axe will work better for close quarters, so best to keep it sharp for your descent into the boiler room. After you slay these two, you follow Sims down the hall. He stops for a moment, looking down toward the barricade you were supposed to cover.

  The hall is crawling with undead. The barrier has been flattened into the hallway and they flow in through the door without any signs of ceasing or slowing down. There’s a flickering light at the opposite end of the hall, and the hellions all march toward it. Sims curses under his breath, but continues away from them.

  Around the corner, he tries his handheld radio again. “Guys, are you there?” he whispers urgently. No response. He shakes his head with a grimace.

  Sims opens a heavy “Faculty and Staff Only” door and flips on a flashlight as you head down the stairwell. Hopefully that door will keep them at bay for a while. He’s been down here several times now, and makes it to the fuse box he connected his alert system to. The switches are labeled in his handwriting. He flips on the “strobe” and “search” switches, but leaves the “siren” switch in the off position.

  “Why the hell did you even make a siren?” you ask.

  “I figured most survivors probably have their windows boarded up,” he says with a shrug. “Anyway, c’mon. Rescue’s on its way and we need to see if the gang’s still…” Sims looks down, unable to finish the sentence.

  “Okay, let’s go,” you say.

  The two of you hustle back up the stairs. On the other side of the door, the hallway’s most likely filled with zombies. You take a deep breath in preparation, hands ringing around the grip of the baseball bat. Sims draws his slingshot tight and aims at the door. “Open it.”

  You push the door and, sure enough, there are undead out there. Sims releases the slingshot, and the steel ball flies the two feet so fast you don’t even see it. The only sign that a projectile was sent is the zombie’s head collapsing in at the side. “Shit, yeah!” Sims hoots as it falls dead.

  And now the others want you.

  You swing your bat like a kid going after a piñata, doing your best to clear a path through the hallway. Sims follows you, releasing steel shot at any who venture close enough to guarantee him a clean hit.

  “Stairwell!” you shout, remembering the plan to close them off and fortify the second story of the school. Hopefully they haven’t sealed you off yet. True, the rest of the group could easily be dead, but they could also assume the same about you and abandon you.

  This realization gives you a new boost of energy, and with untold ferocity you smash through the undead with your bat. But you swing and miss, somehow. You put your whole body momentum into the attack and lose your balance as a result. You stumble and fall forward, ending up face first on the ground.

  You roll onto your back, ready to defend yourself with the bat, and quickly realize where the error came from—your aluminum bat has bent. At over ten pounds on average, with over a quarter of an inch of thickly packed calcium defending it, the human head will warp an aluminum bat after prolonged use. You swing at the ghoul who falls atop you, but the queerly bent bat doesn’t do as much damage as it used to, and he simply keeps attacking you.

  Sims kicks the ghoul off you as you stand and brandish your hatchet-axe. Together you keep going down the hallway, but you stop when Sims begins screaming out obscenities. Turning, you see that his ornamental sword has failed and broken at the hilt, leaving him weaponless against the crowd.

  “It said battle-ready!” he complains, bashing the nearest ghoul with the sword’s pommel. It breaks the fiend’s teeth, but doesn’t come close to incapacitation. Another grabs onto him, and you see the stairwell just ahead.

  You’re left with an obvious choice. Stick around and get swallowed by the crowd, or allow him to distract the horde and sprint toward the stairwell before the avenue closes forever.r />
  • He just saved me! I can’t leave him now.

  • The truly brave thing to do is survive—RUN!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Just a Peek

  Curious, you check out the wall: desert-cammo tan and not much more than some fencing surrounded by a canvas tarp. You silently pull yourself up to get a quick look over the side—zombies. Hundreds of them, maybe even a thousand or two, cordoned off and standing dumbly, they shuffle aimlessly behind the barrier. The wall looks like some sort of National Guard response erected early in the panic for containment. From the destruction on both sides, it must not have worked too well.

  Hoping not to arouse the horde, you back away and return to the neighborhood. Time to check the houses in search of supplies.

  Some homes are boarded up, some had their boards removed by force, and others just look deserted. You see one house that looks less touched by the calamity than the others—no boards, minimal damage; was it abandoned? Perhaps the owner was away when the world ended? Perhaps they left food inside?

  Then there’s a demolished house; it’s been razed to the ground. That being said, there’s a large treehouse in the back. If your time in the attic taught you anything, it’s the value of the high ground—even when that height sits just above arm’s reach.

  So, where do you look for some extra food?

  • I like the house where the door is busted in. If the zombies invaded early, there’s probably still food inside.

  • The untouched house. As in, no brains splayed out across the cans of spam and jars of peanut butter I’ll find within.

  • Around to the treehouse behind the demolished house. I’ve been in closed-in spaces long enough.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Just In Time

  You can’t even say anything, but maybe the pain on your face will express your sorrow. Turning your back on Sims, you run toward the others. He screams out, either from the anguish of your betrayal or the searing pain of being eaten—but probably from both.

  You can hear voices as you run toward the stairwell. Thank God they’re still alive! You make them out as you sprint the rest of the way, the shuffling and stumbling crowd still coming after you. It’s Tyberius and Cooper, and they’re arguing.

  “They’re still down there,” he says. “We gotta give them time.”

  “They made their choices; pull the rope!” Cooper screams.

  You can see them now, but you’re too winded to call out. Tyberius shakes his head. “I won’t do this again.”

  Cooper makes toward the rope to pull it herself, and then Tyberius snaps. He reaches out, his large hand clamped around Cooper’s throat in an instant. She falls to her knees and desperately pries at his fingers. There’s a crazed look on his face.

  You sprint to the top of the landing. “I made it!”

  Tyberius drops Cooper. Both are obviously shocked to see you. At this time, the first zombie follows you up the stairs. It wears a welding mask. This one is certainly just the first of many. Tyberius sees the fiend and lunges out, tackling it to the landing. He has the undead man pinned, and attacks him viciously, but the blows just glance off his welding mask.

  Other zombies begin to come up the stairs as the welding mask ghoul squirms beneath Tyberius. “Pull the rope!” he screams.

  You grab the rope, but you don’t pull it. All you have to do is tug the rope and a dozen desks, cabinets, and chairs will collapse upon the landing and seal the stairs off—crushing Tyberius in the process. “You can still make it; let’s go!”

  “Do it,” Cooper croaks from the ground, tenderly rubbing her neck.

  “Pull the fucking release,” he says. Not a shout this time, but simply a demand. He stares hard at you.

  • “You don’t get to die now, you selfish bastard. Get up here!” Refuse.

  • “I’m… sorry.” Pull the release.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Just Picking a Few Things Up

  The megastore lies ahead. It’s one of those buy-in-bulk-for-a-reduced-price warehouse types. The parking lot is eerily bare, a concrete savanna before you. “Think we’ll find food?” you ask.

  “It’s probably been raided,” Tyberius answers.

  “So what?” Hefty chimes in. “Of the good stuff, maybe. There’s probably ketchup or salad dressing or something that’ll keep us alive. Alive, man. Let’s go!” He runs across the parking lot and the group follows. Sims dons his gas mask—that’s comforting.

  Cooper opens the door; pitch black within. She says “Flashlights and weapons,” before she heads in. You nod, flick your flashlight on and enter with the group. The megastore is as much a disaster zone as the outside world, if not more so. Entire shelves are overturned. Food containers broken open, rotting. Describe it in a word? Raided.

  The place has an atmosphere the opposite of its day life. Jungle gyms and trampolines cast ominous shadows. DVD displays reflect your flashlight beam with devious glares. Suddenly, red lights pop on and flood the store. “That’d be Sims with the emergency generator,” Hefty says, answering the look on your face.

  You keep looking through the store with your flashlight. Despite the red glow, you can’t see many details, and there could be a zombie hiding anywhere. Sims comes back from wherever he disappeared to.

  “Let’s stay together until we secure the area,” Cooper says. You start down an aisle with the group, then—the shuffle of feet. Shoes squeal on linoleum flooring.

  You take off down the aisle and steps follow. So do labored breaths. You turn the corner, axe raised in preparation for mortal combat, only to be met by a lone man in a lab coat. You only stop because he raises his arms—one of which is covered in a homemade plaster cast—and recoils. Zombies don’t flinch.

  “I’m alive!” the man shouts. He could be a candidate for a GQ model, but instead wears a lab coat for a living. He’s even got the studly five o’clock shadow.

  Composed, Cooper slaps a giant monkey wrench in the open palm of her hand while looking the man up and down. She devours his features, digests them within, gesticulates upon some sort of conclusion, then finally shits out, “Give me one reason we let you live.”

  “What?” you blurt in shock.

  “I’m a doctor!” he shouts.

  She looks at him with dark seriousness. “Got some ID?”

  He hands her his badge. Line 1: “DELEON, LEWIS M.D.”; Line 2: “GENETICS RESEARCH DIVISION”; Line 3: “HUMAN INFINITE TECHNOLOGIES.”

  “Research doctor?” she says aloud. “Who gives a shit?”

  “Most of my research was with these—things—we’re dealing with now. I’m probably the foremost expert on the planet.”

  “Uh-huh. And that pack you’ve got there, full of supplies?”

  “Yes.”

  She muses for a moment, then says, “All right, Doc. You can travel with us. Looks like you already met our Newbie.” He looks at your axe.

  “Sorry,” you say.

  “That over there is Tyberius and Hefty, Sims and Angelica. And this here’s Jose.”

  “Me llamo Guillermo. Mucho gusto,” the cook replies.

  “You can call me Cooper, and what I say goes. You got a problem with that?”

  “No.”

  “All right, so we’re gonna—”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” Deleon says, cutting her off. “I don’t have a problem with that because I’m not going with you.”

  Cooper sizes him up. “All right, Doc, you can leave. But before you go, we’ve got a hurt man here. Can you help him?”

  “I’m mostly a research doctor.”

  “But you still went through some kind of med school, right? It’s just a bum shoulder. Sims, c’mere.”

  Sims moves forward. His left shoulder hangs oddly. Funny, you hadn’t noticed until it was pointed out. Makes you wonder who else might be nursing injuries. Deleon sighs, “First, take off that ridiculous gas mask. It’s not airborne.”

  “How do you know?” Sims asks, muffled b
y the mask.

  “Because none of these fine people are trying to eat you. Besides, this pandemic is my specialty. They would’ve come to me for help had the whole network not gone to shit. Now turn around, please.”

  Sims takes off the mask and faces away from Deleon.

  “It’s dislocated. You’ll feel a sharp pain.” Deleon cracks the shoulder into place. Sims cries out, but moves his arm about; it’s fixed.

  “Welcome aboard, Doc,” Cooper says with a slap on Deleon’s back.

  “No, no, no. Glad to help and all, but I’m traveling solo.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re valuable, so you’re coming with us.”

  Deleon looks at their desperate faces. They all see him as hope. “I’m looking for niacin, to develop a cure. If you guys want to walk toward a hospital or a lab, that’s where I’m going.”

  Angelica, the blonde housewife, steps forward. “You have a cure?!”

  “I said I’m working on one.”

  “Well, now you’re definitely coming with us,” Cooper says. “Sims, go with the Doc to the pharmacy. Help him find whatever he needs. Everybody else, split up and look for supplies.”

  • Go with Sims and Deleon.

  • Go with Cooper, Guillermo, and Angelica.

  • Go with Tyberius and Hefty.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Keep Waiting

  “Fair enough,” Sims shrugs. “Give me a hand with this.” Together, you push a large old-fashioned radio desk against the door. It’s probably in the classroom to give the students a historical perspective on broadcast communication, but it works as a wonderful barrier, since the analog equipment is heavy and sturdily constructed, unlike the microchip-laden control panels of today. They just don’t make ‘em like they used to.