Soon you’re stuffed to capacity. You hope you don’t have to run soon, because you’d probably pop. You stand up and let out a hearty groan in satisfaction. It’s like you just finished an opulent Thanksgiving meal, a feeling you thought you’d never experience again in this world.
As you start to walk toward a new patch, thinking you should take what you can with you, you stumble and trip. Strawberry fields have deep irrigation grooves throughout, so it’s only natural that your hiking boots got tangled in the earth. You catch yourself, swaying, with arms wind-milling.
“Hey, Brainer!” someone shouts from behind.
You turn to face a hunter, completely decked out in woodland cammo, pointing a deer rifle at you. Your mouth drops open with surprised shock. You see a muzzle flash. You hear the crack. Time stops, and you think: you’re alone, the red-stained mouth and hands, the groan of satisfaction, the stumble, the wide-open mouth—this guy thinks you’re a zombie.
Then his bullet enters your forehead.
That’s one drawback to traveling solo: a loner is much more commonly identified as a wandering ghoul. Plus someone could’ve been watching your back.
THE END
SURVIVED
That’s it! You’ve survived the zombie apocalypse. Few can brag of this accomplishment, and you are one of those few. Well done, but know this: the path you chose was not the only path to survival. There are other ways, and in that vein, other survivors with a completely different experience and story than you.
INFECTED has three unique storylines with over 50 possible endings, so, if your gut says there’s more to explore, click to RESET or go to THE END for the full chapter list.
When you’re done, don’t forget to check out the other exciting titles in the Click Your Poison multiverse!
Congratulations!
Your author,
James Schannep
• Check out a preview of MURDERED (Click Your Poison #2)
MURDERED—Could YOU Solve a Murder?
* More titles coming soon! *
The Survivor
Inside the student radio hall, you find and key-in the microphone. “Hello?” you call out, unsure what else to say.
“This is Colonel Arthur Gray of the civilian camp, Salvation. Are you with Sergeant Sims?”
“Who?” you ask. “I’m sorry, but I think everyone else is dead.”
There’s a moment of silence as the man on the other end accepts the gravity of the message. That woman with the crowbar could still be out there, but odds are the horde has already chased her down. Plus, she did just take out the kneecap of the doctor who saved you; you’re not so sure finding her is a good idea. The undead want nothing to do with you, which means your biggest fear now is feral survivors.
“What’s your situation over there?” the man calls on the radio.
“I’ve… been cured. It’s incredible, I used to be one, but now…”
“Listen, just stay tight, we’ll have a team out in the morning,” he responds, a sad desperation in his voice. You’re much more his hope than he is yours, you realize.
“Colonel, the cure wasn’t a reversal. I know that much. I still have something new in me, but I’m human—mortal—again. And yet they no longer try to attack me. It’s like they see me as one of them. I can simply walk to you.”
After a moment, the voice returns to the radio, more strained by emotion than ever. But it’s relief now. “He stood between the living and the dead, and the plague stopped.”
Is that scripture? It certainly has the ring. “Keep the lights on, I’ll see you soon,” you say.
“Follow the roads to the highway, keep your head down, and you’ll find a jeep waiting for you at the outskirts.”
You really can just walk through all the death and destruction without fear. You’ve done it; you’ve endured. You’ll live—that is, if you can live knowing that you actually ate other people. How many have you eaten? Flesh, bone, hair, and fingernails all passing through you; inside you now. You curl over and vomit human remains.
• Click to Continue.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Swamp Things
Twilight fades as you enter the marshes. A swamp is a terrifying thing at night when the dead aren’t walking. You either have nerves of steel or a spare set to swap out once these are shot. Even so, you’re creeped out by this bog. If you were a backcountry hiker you’d have to contend with trench foot from soaked footwear, venomous wildlife in the form of both animals and plants, myriad diseases and parasites waiting to call you their home, and sinkholes threatening to encase and drown you.
Now people are trying to eat you too.
“Go ahead, I’ll cover you,” Rosie says, her voice quieter than it’d been all day. The marsh must be getting to her too. She picks up on your look. “I’ve got this rifle, see? That makes me the hunter and you the bait.”
Despite the chill in the night air, the swamp is warm as you enter. You move through the brackish waters, the muck beneath threatening to take your shoes with each step, trying in vain to stay quiet. It’s slow going and soon you’re wading through knee-high water.
“How much further?” you ask.
“Dunno. Never been through the marshes, but from the terrain map, it doesn’t look far. How about mouth shut and ears open? Radio silence.”
Obviously, the stress is getting to the girl. It’s getting to you too, you realize. Each wet drip from the dank canopy into the humid moors below sets you on edge. The water level is now above your thighs. Then something strikes you. For one of the most biodiverse ecosystems in the world, this marsh is oddly silent.
“Shouldn’t there be animal noises?” you ask.
Rosie stops and so do you. Both of you stand frozen, listening. No frogs or crickets or anything. A few bubbles percolate in the pool ahead of you. Then they grow in intensity. Rosie Points her rifle at them, just as bubbles start appearing on her side as well. These globules of rank air escape from below and soon you’re surrounded by blistering froth, rollicking something deep from within.
“Goddammit—I’m going for the drum! Cover me with that axe,” Rosie instructs, popping her magazine out and swapping it with the 50-round variety. Before you can respond, she’s already moving.
Then the undead rise from the marsh, four of them, thick brown sludge pouring off their bodies. They’re not decaying, but the flesh is missing in chunks and most of the skin has been picked away by the swamp’s other inhabitants.
You crack your axe against the one in front of you, instantly collapsing his forehead with the blow. The others come in toward you; Rosie’s still swapping out that mag. The weapon’s too large and ungainly and gets caught in the vines and branches. The nearby zombie moves in on you.
Crack! Rosie sinks a round in his forehead. She puts the other two down as well. Two more zombies come from behind the trees, and barely get out a moan before she pops a round in each; all headshots. The bog is silent once more.
Rosie lowers the rifle with a smile. “You owe me, buckaroo. Just you remember this when it comes time to do my laundry at the camp.”
With an unexpected speed and ferocity, one last zombie bursts out of the water behind her and grabs a handful of her hair. Rosie screams and the ghoul brings her down, splashing into the water below. You try to rush in and grab her, but you’re greeted only with empty slough below the surface.
• If I stick around, it’ll only get me too. Run!
• Keep looking; don’t give up!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Sweat Generator
Whew—nice job! 400 calories spent and 200 watts accumulated. May want to take it easy in the future; that’s a pretty intense workout. You must’ve had some stress you needed to push through, huh? Well, after another wonderful shower (after a month without, it just feels so good!), you’re ready to keep looking around.
Up next?
• The “Happy Room” sounds fun. I could use some more pampering after this ordeal.
/> • The “Armory.” Sold.
• Straight to the “Command Post.” I bet Lucas and Rosie are already there.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Sweet Relief
Why not take a load off? You’ll be here a while, and you could certainly use a break after what you’ve been through. Sitting outside is an older schoolmarm of a woman, knitting in a rocking chair with the glasses of a librarian crested on her nose, complete with chain draped across her shoulders. She looks at you with a warm smile.
“Cookie?” You accept the gift—chocolate chip. “Here’s how it works, dearie. No one’s inside right now, but if a queue forms, I’ll have to give you your rationed time. You’ll see a red light flash three times, and that means two more minutes. Do you like classical music?”
You lift the hand-painted “Happy Room” sign to reveal a formal, stenciled “ISOLATION CELL.” Then the woman buzzes the door open and ushers you in. Bach announces his presence over the intercom system with Sarabande, just light and airy enough to be heard, but quiet enough to be ignored.
The padded white walls have been painted over to look like a sunny, partly-cloudy day, the white billowing through as clouds with negative space. In the far corner, aromatherapy incense sticks smolder with wisps of smoke curling in welcome as you enter.
The door closes softly, truly cutting off the sounds of the outside world. In the opposite corner there’s a small table with green tea, should you so desire. A beanbag chair sits against the wall near a reading lamp and a stack of books, puzzles, and games.
But that’s not all that’s in this room. Trotting by, movement catches your eye. There’s a puppy! And a kitten! Omigod, they’re so cuuuuuuuuuuuute! They can only be about six weeks old, just little balls of fluff bounding around on stilted legs. The kitten squeaks with a mew, staring at you with enormous glossy eyes. The puppy leaps toward you, but stumbles on the padded floor.
You sink to the ground, greeted by a barrage of licks and tiny nibbles. The kitty purrs and the puppy whines with joy. You lie on the floor, your heart melted, and completely relax. The little animals frolic and wrestle with one another.
After you’ve had your second cup of tea, moved onto Mendelssohn, lit another incense stick, and settled down in the beanbag with Mr. Paddy O’Paws, Little Miss Ginger Fluffkin, and a well-worn copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, a red light from above flashes three times.
Sorry, time to give somebody else a turn.
• “Fitness/Power Area”? Color me interested.
• The “Armory.” Sold.
• Straight to the “Command Post.” I bet Lucas and Rosie are already there.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Taking Inventory
“Let’s try the back room,” Tyberius suggests. “The shelves were probably the first to go.”
“Good idea,” Hefty replies in his deep Southern accent. You follow them toward the rear, walking in silence, until Hefty says, “What’s your story, Newbie?”
“You first,” you say.
“Fair enough,” Hefty replies, taking a can of chew and putting a dip inside his lip. “Georgia boy, born and raised. I went to Florida—you know, for college? And I was out here visiting my Aunt when shit went down. Oh, and you know the government made this zombie thing, right?”
“I did not.”
“Oh, hell yeah, they did. Always mixing shit up with their secret weapons and shit.”
“Shit,” you say. “What about you—Tyberius, right? You still in school?”
“Never. I been working since I was fourteen. Right now I got a cush job. Bank teller.”
“Bank, eh?” Hefty says. “Ever think about robbing it?”
“No way, man.”
“Come on, never?”
“Money’ll always end up bad. Man’s greed and man’s killer instinct go hand-in-hand. Watch a barracuda attack something shiny and you’ll see what our fascination with gold is. Think about it. We give actually valuable things like food and shelter for stones. We kill for it. Make no mistake, behind every man who seeks his fortune is a predator.”
Hefty stares blankly. “Damn, dude. That’s deep.”
“Here we are,” Tyberius announces. You’ve made it to the stockroom where huge pallets of food sit untouched. “Yo, Coop! We got something here!”
From the distance, your leader shouts, “Stockroom!”
• Wait for the others to head to the stockroom.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Taking It to the Streets
Back out in the neighborhood, your feet move quickly beneath you. You rush out to the middle of the street to scan for potential threats, and hurry down the road. Adrenaline has kicked in. You can feel your body temperature rise. Sweat appears on your brow, your palms, underarms—you’re starting to perspire all over.
Suddenly, you’re jogging. You don’t remember telling your legs to do so, but as a wave of panic rushes over you, you understand why your legs decided it was best to get moving. Your head whips about, unable to pinpoint the source of melodious dread, but you’re certain something is after you. You don’t feel safe out here in the open. Exposed. Each house, countless around you, could hold a dozen fiends just waiting to gnaw on your bones.
“Hey, you!” someone shouts from behind.
In reflex, you turn around. She’s a full block behind you, glimmering like a mirage in the midmorning sun, but you can make out her distinctly human movements. She’s waving her arms. Behind her, there’s a man. Out of two homes on opposite ends of the street, more survivors emerge; a pair from each, six human beings in total.
Your heart pounds in your chest. Your legs say to run, but your stomach says they might have food. What do you do?
• Turn back and meet the neighbors.
• After that shout, the zombies are surely on their way. Keep running!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Team Cooper
After reclaiming any gear you may have dropped, you come back to the group. Cooper nods her acceptance, adjusts the long motorcycle chain she carries atop her shoulder, and then she’s back to business. “All right guys, what do we got? Sims?”
“The area isn’t very secure. I’d recommend leaving ASAP. That wall? Put up by National Guard before the panic, so who knows if it’s even complete. This place is crawling with Fleshies, so…” Sims finishes his report, then begins fiddling with the gas mask he carries.
“Guys?”
“Plenty of food,” Tyberius responds. He sets down two trash bags in the center of the group, and then Hefty does the same.
She doesn’t smile but she nods. That’s all anyone can hope for, it appears. “All right, here’s what we’re—” She cuts herself off mid-sentence, perking up and cocking her head like a fox on the hunt. You all listen.
And now you hear it too. A profound and hearty moan, coming at you like the dying breath of God. Each of you pinpoint the source and look down the suburban street. It’s coming from several blocks down, toward the National Guard wall. You slide your pack off one shoulder so you can access it on your body, remove your binoculars, and look.
One lone zombie, the wandering ghoul from when you first left home, has finally found you. His moan carries on the wind, straight into your bones.
“There he is, just one,” you say.
“Goddamn it!” Cooper says, suddenly flustered. “Jose, Tyberius, run—andele!”
The two of them take off down the road, Tyberius obviously faster than his backup. The group watches as he closes in.
“You think more are coming?” Angelica asks, her voice quivering.
“Always,” Hefty answers. Grim.
“You guys don’t have long-range weapons? No guns?” you ask.
Cooper turns, anger in her eyes. “Do you?”
You watch in your binoculars. Tyberius sprints the last twenty yards and closes in on the ghoul. Even with his gigantic sledgehammer, he’s incredibly fast. At last, he discus-spins around and cleanly connects his hammer across the zo
mbie’s face. Even at this range, you see the pulp smatter as his head is obliterated. The man makes killing look easy.
You lower your binoculars and look to the trash bags full of food, wondering if you’ll be able to eat after having just seen that. Then your attention is pulled back to the distance when you suddenly realize the moaning hasn’t stopped. You look into your binoculars once more.
The zombie is certainly dead, but the sound still permeates the air. Jose or Guillermo or whatever his name is stands next to Tyberius, both of whom look to the wall. The moaning, far too powerful to come from a single living corpse, comes from behind them.
Tyberius and Guillermo turn and run back toward you. There’s a great reverberation and, lest your eyes fail you, the wall itself is moving. No, despite the adrenaline, what you see is not a trick of your optic nerves shuttering. The whole wall shakes and creeps forward, testing the joints of the disaster relief tool. A test, as it turns out, that the wall fails.
Bursting forth like too many parasites from a distended stomach, the zombie horde demolishes the barrier under their collective weight. There are hundreds if not thousands of the fiends, all marching forward, excited and frenzied at the sight of the two men running. The moan, like a buzzing beehive on a massive scale, comes at you with sound such that it could drown out a freight train.
“Grab a food sack, newbie!” Cooper yells to you, lifting one herself. “Sims, did you rig the place?” The man nods, picking up a sack. “Good. Light it up!”
Sims removes a baggie filled with garage door openers. He sets the trash sack back down so he can use both hands. He removes the first remote and looks at you. “I rewired the security system on a few houses. I was an electrician in the Air Force.”
INFECTED (Click Your Poison) Page 30
