You’re eaten alive.
THE END
She’s Dead
“No, no, please—I cannot do this thing,” Lucas pleads. He falls to his knees, freely weeping now.
“Then I will,” Rosie says, unslinging her rifle.
“No!” Lucas shouts, tackling Rosie to stop her. She falls down on the pavement on her back, discharging a wild round into the forest.
His zombie sister takes this as her invitation to the party. She leaps upon Rosie, who struggles to stop the attack. Lucas is frozen; helpless. But you’re not—you rush in and bash the undead girl with the stock of your shotgun, knocking her clear from your friend.
You fire the shotgun, forgetting that the FRAG-12 rounds are still loaded. Lucas’ sister completely explodes from the shot and you fall back to the ground from the force. You’re wounded, you realize, from ricochet pellets. It’s not bad; you’ll live, but you need to get back to that doctor in camp.
Rosie, on the other hand, will not be so lucky. Blood pours from a bite wound on her neck. In a shocked realization, she puts a hand up to the wound. She looks to Lucas, then to you. “You’ve got to kill me,” she says.
Lucas, stone-faced once more, unsheathes his sword. Rosie trains her rifle at him and says, “Not you.” Then looking back your way, she says, “You.”
• Time to end this madness. Switch ammo, shoot Rosie, then return to Salvation.
• Knock her unconscious and leave her be. Lucas will certainly understand.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
She’s the Boss
Your new friends escort you out of the house and into the streets. One of them gives some kind of code-whistle/bird call, then waits. Stillness on the afternoon air. Within thirty seconds, more survivors pour out of other houses, four of them in total, to round out the group to six.
One of them seems perturbed, a woman who walks up to you with purpose. “Who the hell is this?” she asks.
She’s probably in her early thirties, though it’s certainly possible the last few weeks have aged her. She’s dirty just like you, but she’s beautiful in a hard-as-nails sort of way. Black hair and blacker eyes. She wears an unbuttoned mechanic’s shirt with a fitted undershirt beneath. The embroidered nametag reads, “Cooper.”
She slaps a giant monkey wrench in the open palm of her hand whilst looking you up and down. “Ain’t got a tongue?”
You’re about to introduce yourself when Angelica speaks. “Sims and I found this poor lost one. I suggested teaming up.”
Cooper’s eyes narrow. She walks over to Angelica and slaps a backhand across her face, hard. Sims moves toward her, but Cooper stares him down. Both of them look away from you.
“I decide who joins and who doesn’t. But you look fit enough,” Cooper says. “You’ve already met Sims and Angelica. 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 has a calm countenance on his pockmarked face.
“Mucho gusto,” he says.
“And 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.
“You can call me Cooper, and what I say goes. You got a problem with that?”
• “No, Ma’am.”
• “Actually, yeah. I’ll try my chances alone.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Showdown
Remember that “it doesn’t matter…this is the end of your compound” warning? Oh, well, huh? Stubborn to the end, that you are. Things are about to go down O.K. Corral style. If only you’d saved up for that mounted .50 cal!
Still, you’ve got quite a few ammo crates up on your balcony (part of your prep for sniping zombies), and so you’re unworried about wasting bullets on potshots. You crank away at the oncoming caravan, which puts them into war mode—swerving and gunning the throttle. Boom! You must’ve hit the driver, because the lead vehicle crashes into a ditch.
Flashes of light glint off the side-windows of the other cars, and it’s a split second before you hear the ping of incoming bullets bouncing off your compound. You duck behind cover. This is about as much fun as you can have with your clothes on. Yee-haw!
As they get closer, you switch to your assault rifle and unload a stream of lead down upon the vehicles. You put so much brass through the barrel, it gets too hot to hold. Their numbers have been thinned by a third—only eight vehicles remain—and the odds are good some passengers are at least injured.
They pour out of the SUVs and pickups; those who were foolish enough to ride in the beds now permanently lie there. Though you rain molten terror down upon the invaders, some are able to make it beyond your reach. Then two canisters, spraying a mist, appear upon your porch from below—tear gas!
You stumble back inside, desperate to get away from the chemical. Your eyes and throat burn, and your nose pours out mucous like a fountain. Without thinking, you rub your eyes, but that just makes the stinging worse. Tears flow down your face as a result of the eponymous gas.
The intruders break glass windows to get inside, and you do your best to clear your senses. You sit back against a wall and reload. They move through your home, sweeping and clearing each room in search of you. Obviously these guys hail from one of the law enforcement or military message boards you frequented in times of yore.
The first guy moves into your room, sweeping his rifle toward you, but you’re faster and plug two into his chest. He falls over just before two more tear gas grenades plink into the room. Goddammit. You’re blind. They rush in; your frantic shots meet with screams on the other end, but then you’re shot.
You bleed out. That’s fourteen less soldiers humanity has against the undead, but you know what? Fuck those guys.
THE END
Shuffled Off This Immortal Coil
Night descended upon the wooded valley like it had each night before; with an eerie stillness made only more unsettling by knowledge that movement does indeed exist beyond sight and sound. Eternal movement, never resting, always seeking.
You’re alone on watch. Dinner is long past. Lucas went up into the tree for his sleep shift, and you haven’t heard from him since. So here you are, alone with your thoughts. What will this compound be like? A Mad Max Thunderdomesque rule-by-force dictatorship where only the insane thrive and survive? Or a utilitarian commune where reason reigns supreme and frivolities are shunned for the good of the masses?
A stirring in the grass just beyond the perimeter of camp gives you a final thought on the subject. Whatever this compound is, it won’t be running and hiding. It won’t be half-slept nights and fearful looks over the shoulder.
An undead traveler emerges from the shadows. Maybe the compound will have automated turrets ready to take intruders down? Or minefields, crow’s nests with snipers, or machine-gunners always at the watch? Like a WWII fortress, ready for invasion. That’d be nice.
You rise to your feet, your axe scraping along the earth dully as you lift it in preparation for a fight. The zombie’s features materialize in the pale moonlight. He’s a cyclist, a mountain biker whose luck didn’t hold. He wears a helmet, gloves, and smart-tech clothes. There’s an obvious bite wound on his arm. The man must’ve ridden along, infected, until eventually he became a pedestrian evermore.
He’s moved beyond curious investigation now and comes at you with excitement. The absence of blood around his mouth suggests you’re his first human encounter since his half-death. Now you’ll put him down for good.
Usually, you bring your axe down upon their heads like you’re chopping firewood. That won’t work with his bicycle helmet. It wouldn’t be enough to save a huma
n, but it could be just enough of a barrier to keep his brain tucked securely within his skull. So you’ll have to go with decapitation.
You swing the axe like you’re felling a tree, but the movement is unfamiliar and he moves in awkward lunges, so the bulk of the axe misses behind his head. You knock him to the ground nonetheless.
His ear is ripped off but does not bleed. This one-time lover of extreme sports rises to his feet again. You chop toward him this time, aiming for the face just beneath the helmet. You connect with his chin and chest and split him open with grisly results.
“Enough of this barbarism,” Lucas says from the tree. He hops down and lands in a roll on the forest floor. In one seamless movement, he’s back on his feet and decapitates the ghoul with a stroke of his sword. Lucas stabs down on the zombie’s head to finish the job.
The kendo master sighs, sheathes his sword, and with his back to you, says, “Get some rest. The marshes will be full of surprises.”
• “I can’t wait.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Shut the Front Door
As you pry apart your carefully assembled barrier, Deleon speaks into his recorder one last time: “So, if you find this, good luck. And help yourself to what’s left in the cupboard.” He pops the tape out of his handheld, then inserts it into a desk recorder on a table with a note, “Listen to me.” After claiming a new blank tape, Deleon turns to you and nods. It’s time to head out. You’ve got your hammer, he’s got his club.
The hallway is pitch-black due to the loss of power. Deleon flicks on his flashlight. The stairs are a ramshackle of make-shift barricades and debris. They’ve been penetrated, though it’s hard to tell if by invaders or other refugees fleeing the safety of the building in search of greener pastures.
Shadows jump away from the flashlight. Deleon takes notice of a fireman’s axe on the wall, contained in a “BREAK-IN-CASE-OF-FIRE” case. He picks up the provided safety hammer, and winces in expectation. You hold your breath.
The glass shatters all over the floor and he claims the red axe, handing it to you. It was designed to break down doors, which means a zombie skull shouldn’t be a problem. From somewhere above, a significant thud crashes against the wall of another apartment. Deleon swings his flashlight around to illuminate the area of ceiling with the noise behind it.
Shuffles and scratches move across the area. The doctor follows the sound with his flashlight and stops when it goes silent. After a pause, he races down the stairs, eager to avoid whatever it is. You follow closely.
The outside world blinds you with the sheer power of the sun; a sight you’ve not seen for a month. Once your eyes adjust, you take in the carnage. The cityscape is bathed in evidence of a former chaos—now smoldering and calm. Flipped cars. Ammo casings adorn the street. Windows broken. Blood stains. Eerie silence. Motionless, save for tatters flapping in the wind.
There’re no undead immediately visible in the streets around you. It’s possible they were all destroyed, but that’s doubtful. The ghouls must have moved on in search of other prey, but there’s most likely pockets still lurking within the city. No sign of living humans either.
“Where to?” you ask, handing off the hammer to the doctor.
“We need to find some niacin,” he replies. “It’s not uncommon, but I need a lot of it. So a supermarket with a pharmacy or a hospital is probably our best bet. What do you think?”
• “Hospital. The supermarket’s probably been raided already.”
• “Supermarket. Hospitals scare me; especially when the sick try to eat you.”
• “Why not just a local drugstore?”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Sickly Green Acres
“Okay, this is it,” Lucas Tesshu tells you as you come upon a large farm. There are acres upon acres of wheat, and in the distance there’s a home and barn. You turn onto the dirt road leading to the farmhouse, Rosie right behind you in the second jeep, and proceed toward your goal. Just a quick snatch-and-grab job, but that’s easier said than done. Already, you see the wheat parting in odd serpentine trails as the undead are alerted to your presence. Just ahead, the zombie farmer ambles toward you.
“Take me alongside him,” Lucas says, unsheathing his sword. You do so, allowing him a drive-by beheading of the farmer. The blade is so sharp, his arms don’t even recoil when steel meets flesh.
You arrive at the farmhouse, park the jeep out front and hop out, shotgun at the ready. Lucas and Rosie meet you there; Rosie takes aim at a wandering ghoul fifty yards away. After the familiar crack of her .22, the zombie falls dead.
“They know we’re here,” she says, “and that doesn’t give us much time. I’ll stay out front and pick off the ones that get too close—make sure we got an escape route. That leaves the barn and the farmhouse for you two.”
Lucas smiles at you. “The decision is yours, my friend. I have no preference.”
• “I’ll take the barn.”
• “My shotgun and I will clear the house.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
The Sidekick
“Fine, I could use the help,” Deleon says. “Grab a bag, we’re stocking up and then I need to go speak with Richard—Dr. Phoenix.” He looks at his watch, then adds, “He should be on his way home, but I’ll try to call from the car.”
You help the doctor as best you can. He’s getting ingredients for his formula, the eventual cure he’s working on, and you feel a bit like Dr. Frankenstein’s Igor. Resisting the urge to hunch and recite “Yes, Master,” after each command, you move swiftly.
The thought crosses your mind that this secure facility could be a good hideout spot should the dead start walking, but you quickly dispel that idea. This is probably the worst spot to be; angry mobs will most certainly form right outside these doors should the company’s famed product go massively wrong.
Soon you’re out the door, bags loaded in the back of Deleon’s Jeep, riding toward Phoenix’s apartment. Deleon gets no answer from Dr. Phoenix on his cell phone.
* * *
By the time you arrive, the sun has already set. Dr. Phoenix lives in the heart of downtown, in a thirteenth-story penthouse. The millions must already be flowing in, because he’s certainly spent a small fortune on this apartment. You ride up on the elevator in silence. What can you say? Right now, you’re a spectator. You’ve got a front-row seat to the start of one of the most terrifying crises in human history.
Once out of the elevator, Deleon leads you to Phoenix’s apartment. He rings the bell. No answer. He knocks on the heavy, metal industrial-warehouse-chic door. Still nothing. The doctor tries the door handle—it’s unlocked. As he slowly opens it, the door gives a low metallic growl as he pushes.
“Richard?” he calls out. “It’s Lewis.”
He steps inside, and you follow close behind. It’s quiet inside the plush home, but a scene on the couch catches the attention of both of you: a topless woman, wearing nothing but a black pair of panties, sits back on the couch. Her perfect-10 body is pale and emaciated. She leans far back on the sofa, and her comely legs are contorted out in front of her at odd angles. Her head droops away from you, so you cannot see her face. On the table before her sits a Gilgazyme ® inhaler and an area where several lines of cocaine were snorted away; other lines remain. From the looks of her, she may have overdosed. She’s not breathing.
From the top of the stairs, Dr. Richard Phoenix appears, wearing a scarlet bathrobe. There’s blood on his neck and some kind of wound. He starts walking down toward you, in an awkward stumble. With each step, there’s a danger he’ll fall down the landing.
“Christ, are you high?” Deleon asks. Phoenix merely continues walking toward him. “I need you to sober up. We’ve got problems—big problems.”
The topless woman rises from the couch, a little too slowly. She begins to come toward you. Vomit cakes her hair to her face.
Phoenix makes his way to Deleon, who says, “I knew I shouldn’t have gone along with you. The rats
are reacting violently—”
Phoenix lunges at Deleon, mouth open and growling. Deleon instinctively raises his right arm to block his face and his coworker bites down into his forearm. Deleon screams out in pain, wrestling with his former partner.
The topless woman makes her way to you, but you’ve seen enough to know that you’re not going to end up like the control group rat lowered into an infected terrarium. You grab a modern art sculpture on the table beside you, and smash it into the ghoulish hooker as hard as you can. It’s not enough to incapacitate her, but the ninety-pound waif of a woman falls to the floor under the blow.
Deleon punches and jabs at Phoenix, but can’t seem to shake his assailant. Another woman arrives at the top of the stairs, this one wearing only a brassiere. She ambles toward the commotion with such excitement that she fumbles and crashes down the wooden stairway. She rises as if it didn’t even happen, her neck limp atop her shoulders, her head hanging at the side, and moans. The broken neck fails to deter her at all. It’s like she’s dead, but not. Like she’s… a zombie.
And now the topless woman starts to stand back up too. Deleon breaks free from Phoenix, losing the skin of his forearm in the process. Just as the bottomless zombie is about to join in, he slips out from between them and sprints out from the apartment. They all look at you.
You’re quick on Deleon’s heels; he’s already at the elevator at the end of the hall. The three undead saunter out of the apartment after you. “Come on, open!” he shouts. Luckily, no one in the building used the lift, and the doors open immediately. The two of you jump in; you press the “Lobby” and “Door Close” buttons repeatedly. The zombies are getting close. Only a few more steps… but the doors shut before they breach.
INFECTED (Click Your Poison) Page 28
