INFECTED (Click Your Poison)

by James Schannep

  The handheld radio crackles and Deleon’s voice asks, “Sims, where are you guys?”

  “You’ll have to be okay without us for a bit,” Sims responds. “We’re radioing in for rescue.”

  Sims sets down the handheld radio and returns to the large console. He does a frequency scan, seeking out any possible transmissions. Staticky station after staticky station passes by, but the scan stops automatically as it reaches a gruff voice speaking over the radio. “—broadcasting in the blind. We have food and shelter and—”

  “Hello?” Sims calls in with excitement.

  There’s a pause, but after a moment the voice comes back. “This is Colonel Arthur Gray of the civilian camp, Salvation. Please respond.”

  “This is Technical Sergeant Robert Sims, part of a resistance group located at Montgomery-Packard High School. Sir, is there still a military presence?”

  “I’m afraid that’s a negative, soldier. Yours is the first outside contact we’ve had. You don’t know how great it is to hear someone’s out there, son.”

  “Yes we do, sir. Trust me!” Sims laughs.

  You clear your throat. “Sims, you may want to mention we’re under attack.”

  He nods. “Colonel Gray, I don’t know how much longer we can hold out here. Do you have Search and Rescue teams activated?”

  The emotion in the man’s voice transcends radio and you hear genuine tones of regret as he responds. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. We don’t have that kind of firepower. Almost all of our resources have gone to defense, but if you can make it out to the old reformatory prison, we’re stocked pretty well.”

  “Colonel—we have a cure.” The line goes quiet.

  Sims smiles to you. “Let’s see if that makes him change his tune.” Sims picks up the handheld radio and calls back to the others. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have contact. There’s a resistance group fortified in the local prison. You can kiss my ass whenever you’re ready.”

  As soon as he finishes, the other end squeals with feedback. “Sims! We’re being overrun! There’s no way we—” And just like that, the line goes dead.

  “Doc? Come in, Doc.” No response. Sims looks to you with genuine fear. You’re both thinking the same thing: Are the others dead?

  Before the weight of this fear truly sinks in, the student radio dashboard chirps to life once more. “Sergeant? How do you mean you have a cure?”

  “We’ve got Dr. Lewis Deleon out here, the original drug’s manufacturer. He’s managed to reverse the process. But Colonel, they’re breaching our defenses as we speak!”

  “Hold tight, son. We’re working to figure something out.”

  Sims turns to you and says, “I think we should turn the searchlights back on.”

  • “I think we should barricade the goddamn door and hope to survive.”

  • “You’re right. Let’s hurry.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Wanderer

  Once again, time flies and you see no sign of humanity. Maybe they’re all dead? Maybe the Earth is now and forevermore host to your immortal walking club? Still, you search. It doesn’t bother you, the endless walking. You’ll never get sore or tired, and there are simply too many nooks and crannies on this planet for you to explore.

  So you’re taken a bit by surprise as you’re walking on the outskirts of the city, and the cool night air is pierced by the sound of a large diesel generator starting up. Deer don’t start generators. Raccoons don’t need power. Fresh, human meat is surely nearby.

  Just as you turn to move toward the noise, another sound surprises you, and this one even more so. It’s like an old WWII raid siren, and when you turn your head, you see searchlights arcing their way through the sky above a newly powered building.

  Two distinct signs of humanity, and you’re right in the middle of the both. So, which one will it be?

  • First come, first served, and I heard the generator first.

  • That siren makes it seem they really want me to come, and I hate to disappoint.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Welcome to the Company

  If you could just sign this non-disclosure agreement. Oh yes, that’s standard for all janitors. We do a lot of hush-hush work here. You’ve heard of Gilgazyme ®, right? Well, this is just like Wonka’s chocolate factory, except the secret behind our everlasting gobstopper—which is truly everlasting—is worth billions. Okay, just initial here saying you won’t sell our mice carcasses, and initial here saying if you steal our product and alter your genetic code, you then become company property. Also, our lawyers tell us we should explicitly inform you that “moral qualms” are not grounds for release from employment. That’s it! Welcome. Here’s your jumpsuit and there’s the mop. Get to janitizing!

  You’re in. Time to find out more about what goes on here. The whole place has tiled floor, and you’ve got a key to be anywhere without arousing suspicion: a mop and a bucket. You’ve also got a literal set of keys, and a key-card labeled, “LEVEL ONE ACCESS.”

  There’s a sign on the wall explaining the split in the hallway; where to?

  • Staff Offices… Maybe there’s some paperwork worth stealing, or perhaps you’ll spy on the famous doctors?

  • Rodent Testing Labs… They’re bound to have something valuable lying around.

  • The bathrooms… Dirty toilets stink of dirty janitors. You don’t want the staff getting suspicious on your first day!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Welcome to Salvation

  Nestled within the trees, a bastion of hope and humanity is a sight to behold. If you were seeing this structure for the first time during its heyday, as an inmate arriving for day one of the rest of your life, you might’ve pissed yourself. Just the mere façade would’ve rattled your bones more deeply than any zombie could ever hope to reach. What was once a “Reformatory”—a castle where men would go to die once sentenced—was remodeled and upgraded to a modern prison.

  Now it’s a fortress against the undead.

  The high buttressed walls shoot up through the woods; the surrounding acre is cleared of all foliage. You feel like a character in a gothic horror tale, arriving to collect the inheritance of a peculiar uncle, ready to face the ghosts of the manor. And yet you’re here not for ghosts, but for the living.

  Around the massive stone walls, beyond a few yards of grass, rests another barrier: a chain link fence topped with razor-edged concertina wire.

  “This is totally Shawshank,” Rosie remarks, bouncing with glee.

  You continue around the edge of the fortress toward the front entrance. As you round the corner, a zombie bashes against the fence, leaving both you and the fence rattled. He opens his bloodied mouth and bites at the chain link between you. Rosie raises her rifle.

  “Wait!” Lucas says. “Look.”

  She lowers her weapon and you both follow Lucas’ finger to the zombie’s throat. Something was cut out. That’s when you notice the ghoul’s not moaning. His mouth opens and closes, but no sound is produced. There are two more undead on his other side, each with the same surgical mark on the throat.

  “Must be security,” she says. “Keeps out uninvited guests without calling in more Zulu.”

  “Uninvited—like us?” you ask.

  The three of you wheel about in response to a voice from above. “What’s the password?” There’s a marksman, his rifle trained down upon you.

  Rosie hesitates, unsure of if she should aim back at him. Lucas slowly raises his hands from their position on the hilt of his blade. You stand stock-still.

  “You have three seconds to respond,” the man says.

  “Don’t fucking shoot,” Rosie answers.

  “That’ll work,” the marksman calls down, lowering his rifle.

  There’s a loud buzz, and a gate starts to open around the front of the penitentiary. You move around toward an enormous fenced-in tunnel. This must be where the new inmates are bused in. The inner moat of zombies doesn’t connect here.

 
The three of you walk through the tunnel as a giant gate slides open within. You can’t help but think of a drawbridge on some mighty castle. Waiting inside is a small contingent of four armed men and two equally deadly women.

  Leading this group is a large bear of a man with a great gray beard evocative of a great Civil War general. He wears an old-style army BDU camouflage blouse as a jacket, with a Colonel’s eagles on the shoulders and an appropriate nametag—“GRAY.”

  “Are any of you injured? In need of medical attention?” the brusque man asks.

  You all shake your heads, and Rosie adds, “No bites neither.”

  “Then let me be the first to welcome you to Salvation,” he says, with ceremoniously outspread arms. “Come, you must want showers and a change of clothes. Then we’ll talk over a hot meal.” That sentence practically melts your insides, and then something gives. All the stress suddenly gone, you slump to the ground.

  * * *

  The water was warm and ample. You had to shower with Lucas and Rosie in the large, open prison showers. A partition is erected, to separate the denizens of Salvation by gender, but it’s thin enough that you heard your companion on the other side groaning with delight. You could’ve fallen into a deep sleep right then and there, but the allure of a hot meal proves enough to keep you stirring.

  Presently, you sit in a great banquet hall, the rest of the compound eating in the cafeteria alongside you. You’re at the center table with Rosie, Lucas, Colonel Gray and one other man. You’re in prison orange. There’s a loud thunderclap and a flash just outside. Rain begins to pelt the windows and rooftop.

  “I apologize for the outfits,” the Colonel says. “You’re welcome to wash your clothes or look through what we have in the morning.”

  “I’m just glad I’m not stuck out in that,” Rosie says in sync with a boom of thunder.

  “I’m Arthur Gray, Army Chaplain Retired, and this is my son, Irving.”

  The younger man raises a camera with a hefty telescopic lens. “I was with the Associated Press,” he says. “I’d like to take your pictures, if you don’t mind. And get your stories down when you get a chance.”

  “Is there a news organization still active?” Lucas asks.

  “No. But one day, when we’ve beaten this thing, we’ll need some documentation of what happened and how we survived.”

  “An optimist! I love it. I go by Rosie, you know, from the World War II posters?”

  “The Riveter—as good an image to conjure up as any,” the Colonel says.

  You and Lucas introduce yourself, and Irving Gray snaps your pictures. He has a small notebook and jots down notes. “So who’s in charge here?” Rosie asks.

  “I am,” Colonel Gray answers. He rips off a piece of biscuit, stuffing it in his mouth. His square jaw flexes behind the bites.

  “No offense, pops. But I know chaplains don’t get combat experience. What do a priest and a journalist know about leading troops?” Rosie asks.

  He slowly wipes his mouth with a napkin and swallows his bite. “I was trained as a soldier first, young lady. But make no mistake—it’s the chaplain that’s accepting you with open arms, not the soldier.”

  Irving clears his throat. “My father and I may not have shot at the enemy, but we’ve both spent time in combat zones.”

  “And what does God say about this plague?” Lucas asks Arthur Gray.

  “He says to survive,” the man answers with rust in his voice. “The three of you are strong, fit survivalists. That’s good—we need hearty troops who can navigate these woods. I’m afraid our fight is long from over. Get some rest, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  • As pillow touches face, go from zero to sleep in 6.4 seconds.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Welcome to Z-Mart

  This particular station hasn’t exploded… yet, though there are plenty of drugstores that are not so lucky. Maybe it’s because of the “Sorry, No Gas” signs up on the pumps, or because it’s too close to the heart of the city—anyone who wanted to evacuate probably planned on filling up on the way out.

  Still, it’s eerie to see such a popular locale with no patrons.

  Not eerie like it would be for a human, suddenly seeing the building as a ghost ship floating amidst a newly dead city, but eerie in the sense that you were hoping there’d be people here to eat. Not having people to eat gives you the willies.

  You go up to the front door, looking in through the glass façade. As evidenced from the order within, you could deduce that people have yet to loot the road-trip snacks and caffeine-laden drinks. If you were capable of such deductions. Instead, you look in, your glazed-over eyes searching for any sign of prey through the glass. You put your flat palms up against the door and shake them with a frustrated grunt.

  After a moment, you give up and go search for another entrance. Oh hey, look at that, someone crashed a car into the back area where the pharmaceuticals are normally locked up. You move around the hood, past the crushed cinderblocks, and amble your way into the building.

  There have certainly been people here. You can smell the panic from those looting the medical supplies. They tried to be quick, but almost certainly attracted a group of immortals during the siege. They made a clear mistake: using their getaway vehicle as a battering ram. Oh, what you would give to have been here for that!

  Unfortunately, that event has long since passed. Now it’s just the dull panorama of a raided pharmacy. Nothing could interest you less than medical supplies. What need have you of triage when you don’t bleed? It’s amazing how much emphasis the mortals put on healing; one quick dose of Gilgazyme ® and they’d never be sick again. Maybe you should open a free clinic?

  Ding! the dinnerbell rings, in the form of the front door motion-detector. Your jowls tingle in a sensation that once would’ve brought a rush of saliva. You move toward the front of the store; there’s a connection through the manager’s office.

  “I’m gonna check the pharmacy,” a man says.

  “Be quick,” a woman replies.

  Oh, I will! you’d say if you could.

  The man walks through the portal to your world, looking back and saying, “Two minutes,” to his companion with a grin that promptly turns into a look of oh, shit when he turns and bumps into you. Two minutes? Nah, you don’t need that much time.

  You’ve bitten into him before he even had time to scream. But scream he does. You claw and bite at the source of that screaming, wanting to claim it for yourself. His revolver falls to the floor in a clatter; that could’ve been a lot worse. Then he falls, his lifeblood shooting out like hell’s geyser, no longer possessing the strength to do anything but die.

  The woman runs in, screaming like a car just before impact, ready to get revenge with her crowbar. She puts all of her ninety-pound weight into the swing and lands the implement in the crook of your neck with a dull thud.

  Oh, how she must regret trying to be skinny all these years. The times she refused weights at the gym because she didn’t want to look “gross and muscle-y.” Now she’s a waif, and to you she’s a wafer. She crunches between your teeth, folding under your grasp with laughable effort.

  You hunch and eat her, and once you do, you rise to leave. The man’s corpse has gone cold, so it interests you no more. Lucky him, he’ll rise again in six hours. This is how the strong survive.

  So… where to next?

  • I’m still hungry. How about an all-you-can-eat buffet?

  • Hmm, where do scared people go? Police station!

  • The dead are rising; a cemetery seems appropriate to continue my own personal horror movie.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Well, Shoot

  Tyberius moves back up to the glass, examining first his own filthy reflection and how he’s deteriorated over the weeks, then looking past himself to the zombies and how fit—healthy, even—his former coworkers look in their preternatural agelessness. It’s like they’re cadavers, cut up in some lab, their flesh open where wounded
but without any red. No blood, no raised or swollen skin. The flesh is sallow, nearly porcelain.

  He beats his chest and jumps at the ghouls, trying to assert dominance. They don’t flinch; just bite and mouth the glass. “God damn,” he says sourly.

  The group starts off toward the gun store. “I’m gonna be like boom boom—” Hefty mime-shoots a shotgun “—Mutha Fucka!”

  Deleon stews and grumbles, making calculations on his fingertips. Truth be told, you’re excited about the prospect of firearms. Attacking a zombie with a fire axe is cool and all, but it’s a little too up-close and personal for your likes. You’re musing over this, and how it reflects the evolution of warfare from personal conflicts to dehumanized enemies who can be obliterated in droves with a simple touch of a button, when suddenly you arrive.

  The store sits right up against the trees, all marsh and forest behind it. Wilderness creeps forward toward the city at this boundary, green arms reaching out behind the building, but within the woods there is only silence. No animal or insect noises. No birds. Just the wind rustling through the leaves.

  You cross the concrete savanna parking lot. The sign above the store reads, “MAILAR’S SPORTING GOODS.” Sims spreads his arms wide like he’ll hug the store, then spins back to the group, arms still raised, and declares, “Heaven on Earth, my friends. Heaven… on… Earth…”

  “Take it slow,” Cooper says. “We don’t run. I know we’re happy; we’re getting guns. But we don’t know what’s in there. Game faces.”

  “She’s right,” Deleon agrees.

  “I know I’m right. We don’t have many weapons, so treat this like your first time.”

  “So to speak,” Sims whispers, sotto voce.