INFECTED (Click Your Poison)

by James Schannep

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

  “What?” Deleon replies in shock.

  “He’s a doctor!” you blurt.

  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.”

  No kidding, you think, I wonder what this ragtag band of survivors would do to him if they knew he created the damn things.

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

  “Yes.”

  “And this one…” she points her giant wrench at you, “is with you?” Deleon nods.

  “All right, Doc. You and your pal can travel with us. Over there is Tyberius and Hefty.” Both are in their twenties and look like the ordeal has made them feral. The first is a handsome black man in tattered business casual. He wields a gigantic sledge hammer and has a police baton tucked in the waist of his slacks. The other one is a white guy, thin as a rail, and clearly a redneck. Plain white-tee kind of guy. He holds a heavy length of pipe about the size of a baseball bat.

  Cooper continues with, “Sims and Angelica.” You look over to see a man in his late thirties with a woman in her fifties behind him. He’s the guy with the gas mask, decked out in military gear and a little overweight. She’s the blonde, and by her demeanor and clothing, you can tell she was a privileged housewife back in the world.

  “And this here’s Jose.” She points to a man most likely in his forties, who wears the stained whites of a kitchen worker from a hole-in-the wall restaurant. He’s Latino, short, plain, and carries a calm countenance on his pockmarked face.

  “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 by 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

  Regression

  For centuries, mankind lived right next to its own excrement. People literally worked in, lived in, and ate in their own filth. The mortality rate was high and life expectancy was low. Then we learned about something called “germs.” You, however, are not as resistant to bacteria as your ancestors were. You grew up in the age of hand sanitizer and sewage systems. The latter of which, you now enter, through a simple drainage ditch mostly filled with dead plant matter and small bits of garbage. This kind of detritus is common after a good rainstorm. It’s gross to be sure, and it’s only about to get worse.

  The oxidized iron of blood stains the drainage spouts. As humanity was eaten alive, all the viscera had to go somewhere. That somewhere is now underfoot. You continue across the mire, down the tunnels of the sewage system, your flashlight illuminating the floaters. When the pieces start appearing in large enough chunks to be identified as internal organs, you consider turning back.

  Only a deep and melodious moan, emanating from somewhere to the rear, keeps you moving.

  At least you hope it’s to the rear. With the echoing tunnels, it could be coming from anywhere. Even above.

  Now you’re trudging through a river of shit and piss. Naturally, you vomit. In the movies, the sewer is seen as some kind of cool netherworld, a labyrinth ready for you in times of need. The hero exits unscathed, as clean as when he entered.

  Not you. Your clothes will be stained by the diarrhea of your brothers and sisters. By the innards of those who didn’t make it. You are in the only cemetery mankind has anymore; all that is dead will flush down this way.

  Your steps do not echo. They might, if this were an empty catacomb. Your steps squick. Shadows dance over the angles of the sewer when your flashlight approaches. You see a small group of rats fleeing from an unseen enemy and quicken your steps.

  Scanning further, you identify a rat with deep gouges and scratches. Blood crusts the little whiskers. The rodent shuffles and shambles forward at a painfully slow pace. It’s almost as if…. it couldn’t be, could it? A zombie rat? Does this mean the scourge has jumped species? You can only imagine the terror of a zombie crocodile down here.

  It’s probably just your anxieties coming to surface, but that moaning sounds like it’s getting closer and closer. You start to run down the tunnel. Your backpack slams against you and the excrement river splashes with each step. Something flies into your mouth with the gritty consistency of sand, but a deeply tart taste worse than you’ve ever experienced. You spit the feces out, but can’t completely rid yourself of it.

  Corner after corner, catacomb after catacomb, you run down the sewer. You probably won’t find your way back, you realize. You vomit again. Willing your abdominal muscles to stop cramping, you rise and run once more.

  Finally, you’ve reached a light produced by a source other than your flashlight. It’s a grate leading outside. Frenetically, you tear at the grate, and you’re happy to see it comes off with ease.

  You climb out of the sewer and into the open sunlight above. Fresh green grass greets you on the other side, along with four men with guns.

  “Wait,” you cough. Evidently, your squinting in the sunlight is enough of a human signal, and they stop before ending your life.

  “Dear God, that smell,” one of them says. He’s talking about you.

  * * *

  Later that evening you’ve showered, been fed and even given a change of clothes. Presently, you converse with the leader of the camp over drinks. “Welcome to Port Resistance,” he tells you. “You gave us quite a scare. We hadn’t thought of a creeper coming out
of the sewer. Luckily, you arrived… and not one of them.”

  “Creeper?” you ask, though you know full well he means “zombie.”

  “I might as well just come out and say it—now that you’re here, I can’t allow you to leave. We’re well-stocked and you’ll live here comfortably, but we can’t face an army of refugees. Or, worse yet, if the creepers were to find us…”

  You start to formulate your answer, but he continues before you can. “I’m sorry, you must be exhausted after your ordeal. Let’s talk tomorrow. Sleep well.”

  * * *

  You don’t. Sleep well, that is. You can’t spend more than five minutes away from the latrine. More of what you saw in the sewer comes out of you from both ends. After a while, you’ve got nothing left but fluids to expend. What can only be described as “rice water” fills the toilet with its fishy odor.

  There’s a knock at the door to your chambers. You open the door, only to find a pair of armed guards. “Come with us, please,” one commands.

  You’re too weak to question the order, much less resist. You follow, though it’s more like they follow you. The guards seem hesitant, despite your overall weakness. Keeping their distance, they usher you along.

  Eventually you’re at the camp leader’s office once more. Where are all the women in this camp? “Are you feeling all right?” he asks, with no hint of irony.

  You stare at him through glazed, sunken eyes. Your flesh has a blue tinge to it and your sallow features wrinkle from the decreased skin turgor that comes with severe dehydration.

  “I’ll be honest with you—we’re afraid you’ve got the creeping death,” he says, his fingertips aligned with their counterparts on the opposite hand, staring at you with the pose of a politician.

  “I wasn’t bitten,” you croak out.

  “We’re not entirely sure that matters. Who’s to say it’s not airborne? Or maybe you picked it up in the sewers? Can’t be too careful.”

  “So… you’re just going to kill me?” You’re far too tired for this discussion.

  “Heavens, no. But we can’t take any chances. We’ll put you in quarantine. You’ll have food and water, and we’ll make you as comfortable as we can. In one week’s time, you’ll be released. I’d say that’s fair.” He snaps his fingers at the guards, ushering them forward.

  “Medicine?”

  “I’m afraid not.” You can’t tell if that means there is none, or that you can’t have it.

  * * *

  For two full days, the vomiting and diarrhea continues. You can’t even keep the water down. Naturally, you start to wonder if you are indeed infected. Maybe one of those zombie rats got you? Maybe all the viscera in the sewer did contaminate you. Will you become a “creeper”?

  At the end of those two days, you die. Not from the Gilgazyme® plague, but from cholera. The rapid dehydration and electrolyte imbalance prove too much. You do not survive the zombie trail.

  THE END

  Regrouped

  Tyberius and Hefty make it back, but there’s no sign of Sims. Guillermo boards up the final window; the rest are already covered and blocked. “Come on, guys, let’s barricade the entrance with these tables,” Cooper says.

  “What about Sims?” Hefty asks.

  “Sims, where are you?” Deleon calls into the radio.

  “You guys’ll have to be okay without me for a bit,” Sims crackles through. “I’m radioing in for rescue.”

  “God damn him,” Cooper says.

  “We don’t have time to wait; push the tables,” Deleon declares.

  “Wait, wait, wait. We’re just gonna trap ourselves in here?” Tyberius asks. “If that was the plan, we shoulda left those searchlights on.”

  “There’s another way out behind the stage,” Deleon assures him.

  “Which means another way in,” you mumble. Deleon’s wristwatch beeps its alarm. “Time to take your meds, Doc?”

  He shakes his head. “No more inoculations—meaning I need the cure very soon.”

  “I hope you made a lot; we may need it too,” Cooper replies with arms crossed.

  “Right now it’s just the one dose.” His voice is thick with dread.

  Suddenly, a board smashes in from one of the windows, a hand hysterically reaching and groping through. “Get to the boards!” Cooper screams.

  Each person in the group grabs a hammer and races to different positions around the cafeteria. The room has eight windows and there are six people, so you’re all frantically boarding up windows. There’s a large tin of nails at each window, and a stack of boards as well, but mostly you replace the ones that are pushed out.

  You’ll just finish one window and move to the next when a new zombie bashes in one of the boards you just secured. It’s barely controlled chaos. As a ghoul breaks through, Deleon yells where to go from the middle of the room. From there, he can see each spot. “Back right!” he screams. “Now far left!”

  One zombie just pulls himself in as you arrive to meet him. You clank your aluminum bat into his head, then work to rebuild the barrier. It’s harried work. Hefty and Tyberius join together, one smashing the fingers of the undead while the other hammers the boards back up.

  Guillermo has a window almost fully boarded up by himself; he puts up the last board just as the entire thing smashes out at him. He lands on his back, covered in splintered boards. Standing in the broken window-way is a bodybuilder zombie. The undead man is massive, clearly someone who made a living from his physique. His hulking figure shuffles in and moves on top of Guillermo.

  The fiend actually lifts the chef up and holds him above the ground while he eats him.

  Tyberius runs out to the middle of the room to face the bodybuilder zombie. The undead giant tosses the corpse of Guillermo to the side in preparation for killing Tyberius next. Blood drips down its chin and massive chest.

  Tyberius takes out the two-and-a-half pound weights. He holds them at his side, his body cantered toward the fiend in the athlete’s pre-sprint ready position. His confidence is that of David preparing to take down Goliath.

  The two run at each other. Tyberius makes a daring leap at the zombie as it reaches its arms up to catch him, and then brings one of the weights down on the ghoul’s forehead in a slam-dunk-like motion. The small weight burrows into the behemoth’s skull, and the giant collapses to the ground.

  “They’re breaking through!” Cooper shouts. Several zombies come in from another window. She lets out her homemade flail and with full-body momentum, connects the end with a zombie’s head—lifting it off its feet with the blow.

  Hefty stops boarding and claims his bow. He releases arrows at nearly the rate of one per second, sending solid, razor-edged tips into zombie foreheads, deftly killing the other ghouls. These hunting arrows were designed to penetrate thick animal hide, so a human skull poses little resistance to the fifty pounds of force expertly homed on the center of the skull at 300 feet per second.

  But then his window gives way to the undead onslaught. “Backup rally point is the nurse’s office!” Deleon yells from the center, smashing his pointer finger into the blueprints.

  “Ladies and gentleman, we have contact,” Sims’ voice crackles in over the radio. “There’s a resistance group fortified in the local prison. You can kiss my ass whenever you’re ready.”

  “There’s rescue?” you say, more to yourself than the group.

  Deleon had already turned to leave the cafeteria, but turns back and grabs the handheld radio. “Sims! We’re being overrun! There’s no way we—” Right as Deleon turns back around, a zombie reaches out to grab his face, but a hunting arrow flies through both its arms and pins them together at the last second.

  The fiend’s hands are knocked away but, not feeling any pain, the zombie brings its arms back up to continue the attack. Another arrow buries into its skull and it falls to the ground. Hefty waves a salute from across the cafeteria.

  Deleon accidentally dropped the radio during the attack; the battery pack
popped out and pieces of broken black plastic lie on the tile floor. He doesn’t even make an effort to pick it up. You all run out of the cafeteria, looking both ways as you exit the door. One side of the hallway is filled with zombies. On the other side: Hefty’s already here, taking aim with his bow.

  The group of zombies is led by a topless zombie, a pantless zombie and a zombified Dr. Richard Phoenix. “Richard?” Deleon says in disbelief, despite the absolute recognition of his colleague.

  At this, the group of zombies stops its meandering and full speed stumble-runs at the group, ambling as fast as they can. It’s not a coordinated sprint like yours, but they can certainly cover some ground in their frenzied state.

  You turn away from the undead crowd and run past Hefty. He stands stoically, aims his bow, and looses an arrow down the hall. It smashes into a pre-positioned blood bag hanging by the ceiling, bursting it and sending blood cascading down the wall. A group of zombies peels off to attack the bloody wall, which is working just as Hefty hoped it would.

  Deleon, Cooper, and Tyberius run up the open stairwell but stop at the landing to look out the window. You stop as well to see what’s captured their attention. The searchlights atop the school are on again—that must be Sims’ doing—but that’s not why your friends have stopped. When a spotlight waves across the street, you finally see it.

  Every undead man, woman, and child in the city—hundreds of thousands of them—stand shoulder to shoulder, covering every free inch of street space. They’re all waiting their turn to enter the school. “There’s no way we’re gonna make it,” Tyberius says in a daze.

  “I need that cure!” Deleon shouts. “I’ll meet you at the nurse’s office.” He turns to go up the stairs, but Cooper checks his move.

  “We stick with the plan. Isolate the stairwells, then go get your cure. You get this one, once Hefty makes it up. Ty, you and I will get the east side.” Deleon nods, but Tyberius didn’t even hear her. She shakes his shoulder, “Tyberius.”