PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4)

by James Schannep

  Jennifer Lawrence sits in the guest seat, nervous. She’s looking around as if for help. The camera zooms in on Colbert, who sits unblinking.

  “Stephen? We’re rolling,” a voice says from somewhere off-screen. “Stephen, don’t you want to ask about X-men? Hunger Games? The Oscars, maybe?”

  Colbert’s lips part and his voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. The news broadcast provides subtitles, because it’s nearly impossible to hear. He says, “Live forever? Why? What…is there? At some point it’s just eat, sleep, sh—t. Eat, sleep, sh—t. Eat…sleep…sh—t….

  “…eat…

  “…sleep…

  “…sh—t….”

  FOX bleeps his curse words as Colbert continues the phrase like a mantra. His words become less like speech and more like growls with each utterance. Finally, he just wheezes and his eyes glaze over. It looks like the man had a tiny, almost imperceptible stroke.

  “Stephen?” Jennifer says.

  The camera pulls back and Colbert turns to face his guest, and both motions occur eerily at the same speed.

  “Are you—” she says, putting a hand on his.

  Suddenly he’s got her wrist and is pulling, hard. At the same time, he lunges over the desk, trying to get to her. She screams and punches the TV host with her free hand. She’s got a mean left hook, but it doesn’t even register, and Colbert claws at the starlet with his own free hand.

  The TV crew rushes in too late. He gains purchase at the front of her dress and that part of the screen blurs as he pulls apart the thinly constructed designer gown. When he bites into her neck, the rest of the screen becomes a red-and-flesh-toned blur, and the audio is simply a series of bleeps.

  The feed cuts back to O’Reilly.

  “Motherfucker ate J-Law…” Lily says.

  “This isn’t even here,” Sam says. “This is New York, or Hollywood, or wherever they film his show.”

  “It’s…everywhere?” you say. It’s a question, but you know the answer.

  “From what I’ve seen, it only takes a few hours to spread,” Sam says.

  A strange tone sounds as the television is suddenly taken into local control and your community Sheriff appears on the screen.

  “The Governor has declared a state of emergency,” the Sheriff announces. “But we are as of yet unprepared for any sort of mass evacuation. We’re working as hard as we can to set up aid stations and sanctuaries. In the meantime, work with friends and neighbors. Find a group. Nobody can beat this thing alone. And… we need all the help we can get.”

  “Mama—I need to get home!” you say.

  “I don’t think that’s happening anytime soon, Ty,” Sam answers.

  Before you can reply, there’s a heavy pounding on the metal doors from outside. It’s definitely a “cop knock” and it sends a chill down your spine.

  “I’ll handle it,” Sam says. He steps over to the doors and slides open an eye-level panel. “Captain Delozier, what can I do you for?”

  “We’re here for the runner, Sam,” a man says. The voice is stern, even muffled by the National Guardsman’s gasmask.

  “I’ll take responsibility for him. You have bigger problems, I’m sure.”

  There’s a tense moment and Lily shifts, taking the pistol in both hands.

  After what feels like ages, the Captain says, “How’s Daisy? Need anything? Water?”

  “Lily is fine, thanks. We’re good here, Captain.”

  • Wait! Tell the Captain he has to let you go. You need to get home and protect your mother.

  • Stay quiet, but try to call home as soon as they leave.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Bound by Compassion

  “First, we need to treat his wound,” Owen says.

  “Fine by me, boss. Just so long as I’m not on the menu for a midnight snack,” you add.

  “Tourniquet,” Craig says. “It’s the only way to stop the bleeding and—with any luck—stop infection. Sorry, bud, but I think you might lose that arm.”

  Brian nods, stoically accepting this part of his fate. Stephen takes Josh’s belt from his corpse, then closes the trunk. He ties down Brian’s arm, and that gives you an idea.

  “Into the Honda,” you say.

  Brian does so while Owen finds the keys to crack the windows. Craig takes all the blankets you can spare to make Brian comfortable, which isn’t much. Still, Brian could easily let himself out of the car, so it’s time for that tie-down idea.

  Once he’s inside, you wrap the entire car with nylon tie-downs, then ratchet the doors shut. One set gets strapped across both rear doors, and another set over the front. There’s no way he’s getting out.

  “What if I have to piss?” Brian says.

  “Use an empty water bottle,” Stephen replies.

  “What if…what if I have to shit?”

  “Don’t,” Owen says. “If you make it a day, we’ll let you out. Once you make it, I mean.” The man looks away, knowing he doesn’t even have himself convinced. You raise the car on the auto platform, just to be safe.

  * * *

  It’s hard to sleep with a dead guy in the trunk and an infected co-worker above your head, groaning in pain. The occasional pop of distant gunfire and the collective din of the moaning undead doesn’t help, either.

  Stephen’s fast asleep and sawing logs, Owen writes something in a journal, and Craig stares out into the night through a porthole window on the rolling garage door. You check your computer. Surfing the Internet in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep almost makes the world feel normal. But, no, you can’t even have that—your computer shows “Installing Updates, Please Do Not Shut Off Or Unplug Your Machine.”

  Craig’s workstation is active, glowing softly in the dark garage. He must’ve been on it recently, because the screensaver isn’t even active. He won’t mind if you check the news.

  When you get to the screen, you see he’s been on one of his chat message boards. He’s signed in as user NotTNelson and the most recent comment posted at this computer says, “they r all sleep. quiet out. good time for package pickup.” There’s a reply right after from Rebel_Yell_1997: “Rog. En route. ETA: 10 mike.”

  You scroll up to see the original post, which was also posted by Rebel_Yell_1997. It says:

  By now you’ve seen this email, I’m sure.

  FROM: PreppyLongStalking69

  TO: Distro-all; zombiefiend.com

  SUBJECT: See? I wasn’t crazy!

  TEXT: To all you doubters, nay-sayers, and haters, prepare to be shrugged off. I knew this would happen. I fucking knew it! When you’re being eaten alive by the living dead, just remember, if you wouldn’t have been such a dick, you might have survived too. Sent from my compound.

  TL;DR: I told you so!

  So the Prepster has a compound, wants to rub it in our faces, but was stupid enough to complete his message with attached map coordinates. If you’re seeing this private post, it’s because I trust you. You’re part of my ZA survival team. We knew this day would come.

  Get your gear and weapons. Prepster’s about to have a lot of visitors, and a new Mayor in yours truly. We’re gathering up breeding stock now. Don’t worry, the righteous shall be rewarded and the faithful will inherit.

  Ad Vitam Paramus

  “The fuck…” you mutter to yourself, scrolling along. From the looks of it, they’ve already taken Prepster’s compound and killed the guy. Christ.

  There are a lot of replies from people talking about when and where to meet, then one from Rebel_Yell_1997 directed at NotTNelson reading, “You got my girl at that garage, right? If you deliver, you’ve got a place in paradise.”

  And a response: “kay’s here alright. come get her.”

  Your spine tingles and you quickly scroll back down to the bottom. “ETA: 10 mike” is timestamped exactly ten minutes ago. That’s when you realize the sound of gunfire has been slowly growing louder. Now you hear engines outside. Sounds like a couple motorcycles and something big, li
ke a Humvee.

  Craig punches the red plunger-style button in the garage and the doors start to open.

  • Quick! Warn Owen and Stephen that you’ve been betrayed. That gang is back!

  • That bastard! Grab my wrench and get the jump on them.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Boys Are Back

  You get Owen’s attention and Stephen comes out of the haze of sleep rather quickly, but it’s too late. The men from outside stand in the garage doorway with firearms drawn. Craig avoids eye contact with the lot of you.

  “You should have let us in when you had the chance,” the leader says. “Take the breeding stock and shoot the men.”

  You’re not going without a fight. You take your trusty wrench and swing it at the nearest man.

  He flinches, so you miss his head, but he screams out as you hit his shoulder. The leader rushes in and knocks the wrench away with a machete, then he punches you in the gut. As his men bind your wrists behind your back with zip-ties, he says, “I like the feisty ones. Boys, I formally call dibs. This one goes to my personal breeding stockade.”

  Then they blindfold you.

  • Go limp, but plan an escape as soon as you can.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Broker

  The man’s eyes grow wide when he sees you charge in. He was hoping to shoot his prey in the back as you ran away; he wasn’t expecting another predator. Moving with new urgency, he claims a long brass rifle shell from the box resting between the bars of the pawn shop window.

  Something glints on the street in the morning sun, and you see an empty bottle; a fifth of whiskey. God bless the homeless! You scoop the bottle up in mid-stride, and as the rifleman slides the bolt-action forward, sling the bottle at him.

  It hits the barred window, which works perfectly. The bottle explodes and the man takes a glass rain-shower full in the face as a result. He fires blindly and the rifle sets off a car alarm in the distance. You make it to the shop as the man rubs the shards from his eyes.

  The metal is ungodly hot, but you grab the rifle by the barrel and pull it free of the building.

  “That’s enough, goddammit! Drop the weapon, and turn slowly,” a man says from behind, his voice muffled by a gasmask.

  • It is enough. Hands up, go quietly.

  • Take the rifle and run! They won’t shoot you in the back.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Bug-out

  With new passengers turning into fleshies and the situation in the C-17 growing worse by the minute, as soon as the plane touches down, you sneak out the back without anyone noticing. The base is under attack, just like in Manaus, except here the soldiers are shooting at each other too. Time to get the fuck out with a Dodge, you think. Or, in your case, a Toyota.

  The Camry is easy enough to spot, what with its chipped maroon paint and veteran bumper-stickers: support our troops ribbon, American flag, “If you can read this, thank a teacher. If you can read this in English, thank a soldier,” and your personal favorite, “I’ll keep my money, my guns, and my freedom…you can keep your CHANGE.”

  That last one is especially true now that the world’s going to shit, right? If you relied solely on a nanny-state, you wouldn’t be ready. Those begging for Change are now changing. But you? You’re ready.

  You pop the trunk and pull out Bob (bug-out-bag; get it? B-O-B.) to switch out a few choice items from your ruck. You’ve got dehydrated food, bottled water and a filter for more, a sleeping bag, extra undies and socks, utility tools, and a handgun to complement your M4. Which, unfortunately, only has fourteen rounds left. Damn.

  A pang of regret washes over you. Why couldn’t this have happened ten years from now? You’re only six years from retirement and were planning a completely off-the-grid compound. The survival forums you frequent would’ve helped you develop a detailed plan.

  Closing the trunk with a sigh, you go for the driver’s seat and start ’er up. Where to?

  • It’s getting late, and the streets are the most dangerous place you can be. Get off base and find somewhere to hole up for the night.

  • Wait, didn’t somebody on the forums post about a nearby compound? It probably has room for two! Pull up the thread on your phone and head for Prepper Paradise.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Building an Offense

  It’s still in the framing stage, so you’re not sure what this building will be, once fully constructed. Actually, scratch that. The world is crumbling, right? This nutter plague is only going to get worse. So this place will forevermore be a construction site until it rots and eventually becomes nothing at all. Job finished! Pack it up, guys.

  You claim a nice, baseball-bat-sized chunk of wood, give it a few test swings and move on in search of something better. There’s plenty of rebar but none of the metal rods are short enough to be useful. Best keep looking.

  One of the rooms in the back is in the plumbing stage and you step down into the foundation to manually wrench free a length of pipe. It’s not easy, but leverage is on your side. With the final tug, you kick something tucked under the half-finished floor and get the pipe free.

  Bending lower, you see someone has stashed a nail gun under the boards—jackpot. A quick inspection shows the nail gun has roughly a hundred nails in reserve and a heavy-duty battery pack sits fully charged on its cradle. You waste one nail test-firing into a board, but yep, it works!

  Now, strolling back across the parking lot with the pipe held over your left shoulder and the nail gun at the ready in your right hand, several nutters approach. They start at you first with curiosity, but when the closest fiend starts to moan, the other ghouls grow genuinely excited.

  “Sir, can I get ya to look here?” you say, raising the nail gun to the first zombie’s brow.

  His dead eyes cross as he looks up, then he wraps cold, claw-like fingers around your arm. With a pull of the trigger, his head snaps back and he falls like a sack of dead meat.

  “Hefty’s Nailers for Nutters is open for business!”

  The next two go down just as easily, happy to allow you the chance to get close enough to press the nail gun flush against their skulls. The two after that, however, come in unison, and you opt for the pipe here. After setting the nail gun down, you’re free to use it two-handed.

  First ducking to the side, you nearly decapitate the first ghoul with a firm swing, leaving her head as only mush. You’re quick to recover, stepping away from the dead nutter and offering another kiss of pipe to her friend.

  Teeth rain onto the pavement with the cadence of loose change, but even without a lower jaw, still the bastard comes. You line up with one of the twice-dead corpses on the ground, aiming to trip him, and bring the pipe straight in; shoving the ghoul by his ribcage. Once the undead man falls to the ground, you end him with a few quick strokes from the pipe.

  After the parking lot grows still once more and adrenaline wears off, you realize just how exhausted you are. That all-night hike took its toll. Better rest up in the mall for a spell. The nearest entrance is one of the department stores, but the glass double-doors are locked.

  • Kick your way in.

  • Smash the door open with the pipe.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Burned

  You run past the men, not looking back. They most certainly see you dart past, but you don’t need to see the look on their faces. You quickly make it to the end of the hall, grab the doorknob, and turn.

  It’s locked. By a keypad, no less.

  You slam the fire extinguisher against the door handle again and again, exhausting yourself, but it doesn’t budge. Secure entry is limited in the infirmary, in or out, and you’re exactly the class of person this door discriminates against. You turn back, thinking maybe there’s time to help those guys out and use their keycards, but you’re greeted by a wall of fire.

  In defeat, you slump against the door. That’s when the flaming zombies rush towards you. Melting skin, and teeth so hot they burst. This is goin
g to be an agonizing death.

  THE END

  Burning Bright

  Even in broad daylight, it is incredibly creepy to have the living dead follow your every move. They’re not very fast, but they don’t take breaks, and it’s exhausting to look over your shoulder every other second.

  The park itself is green and lush, a verdant oasis in a city of brick and steel. This Garden of Eden has already been corrupted by sins of the flesh, however, in the form of a mostly devoured hobo who crawls your way.

  There’s no muscle-tissue left on his legs, so it’s just a torso of a man dragging behind gristle, bone, and connective tissue. He starts to moan, so you better not waste any time. You flip him over on his back with a swift kick to the ribs, then jab Isabelle up under his chin and into the brain cavity.

  That’s when you hear a rustle in the bushes.

  You wipe Isabelle off on your pant-leg, bringing her back to glimmering steel. It won’t intimidate a fleshie, but it might deter a human scavenger. Squinting hard, you can just make out something inside. The bushes glow with a fiery-orange light, giving you a better feel for the shape of the thing: It’s huge.

  It’s a goddamned tiger.

  The zoo is on the other side of the park, but how the hell did it get out? Moving almost too fast for your brain to process, the beast bounds out of the brush and leaps with a swat of its paw—which hits like a catcher’s mitt filled with concrete.

  You’re eaten alive, but hey, look on the bright side. You’re not infected.

  THE END

  Busy Streets