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

by James Schannep

  The armory is located next to the SHU complex, both kept away from the cellblocks and in the most secure wing of the prison. Just beyond the armory is the motorpool, then the outer fence, and beyond that—freedom.

  Solitary shuffles through the keyring, trying all the ones that look like they’ll fit the locked front door of the armory. When you turn back to provide a lookout, you’re met by an approaching guard.

  “Oh, shit,” you mutter.

  Then the guard moans. He reaches out for you and you push back, keeping him at arm’s length. He snaps hungry jaws, making wet noises from deep inside his throat. A hideous bite wound on his neck froths from the effort.

  Solitary readies the Asp and you shove the guard up against the wall. With the man pinned in this way, he’s an easy target for your new partner, and Solitary bashes the guard’s brains out with three fierce blows from the weapon.

  “Thanks,” you huff, out of breath from wrestling the nutter.

  In response, Solitary bends down, unclasps the dead guard’s belt, and offers it to you. You gratefully accept the gift and put it on while Solitary continues with the door.

  A moment later, he’s got it open and you follow him inside. Enormous stockpiles of weapons wait for you within, lethal and non-lethal, as well as four prison guards. The men are in the middle of suiting up in riot gear when you barge in, and there’s an awkward moment where no one moves.

  “So…ya’ll come here often?” you say.

  Then Solitary turns and runs back outside. One of the guards bum fires, the bullet exploding off the wall just over your head. The rest of the men scramble to claim their armaments while you take the hint and sprint away.

  Solitary runs away from this set of buildings, towards the laundry, machine shop, cafeteria, and infirmary.

  • Chase after him!

  • Split up—head for the motorpool!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Consumed by Guilt

  You go for the first hiding spot you can think of—the confessional booth. It’s not much of a barrier, but it has a door you can close, and maybe if you sit still, they’re forget you’re in here. The screams coming from out there are horrendous, and you can almost see the chaos through the ornate slats of the confessional door.

  While you’re inside, furiously praying for redemption, wondering what the hell you did that was so bad as to get to this point in life, you hear a scraping on the other side. You’re not alone in here—there’s someone on the other side of the partition.

  “Father?” you ask in a meek whisper.

  Then the partition explodes in and a hideous ghoul claws its way to you. The nutter came through face-first, so his mouth and gums are a bloody mess of splinters.

  You fall back and out the confessional door, but the fiend rides you down to the floor and tumbles out with you. There they are, the whole frenzied gang of them, gums smattered with gore like they’re wearing nightmarish clown makeup.

  They close in just as the first bites you. This isn’t going to be pleasant.

  THE END

  Contra

  Your heart beats furiously. Next to these young gun operators, you’re a fat old man. But you’ll be okay; you’re only providing runway security, and your brand-new M4 carbine is in great shape. The tactical helmet and vest you checked out from the National Guard’s para-rescue unit helps bolster your confidence too.

  Still, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re like a bride on her wedding night. The USAF combat virgin. Heh, look at that—something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

  “Our last op was a milk-run,” Lt. Dosa, the Marine Corps mission commander, says. “But tonight, we have American lives at stake. These chickenshits down here let their dictator walk all over them. Literally. We know this drug turns people into flesh-eating bastards, but it looks like they make more fleshies with just one bite and now it’s spreading, fast. We’re authorized live ammunition and have a general kill order for any combatant or non-combatant threatening the mission. Comprende?”

  It takes a moment for that to sink in. A general kill order…against civilians? The intel brief back home mentioned the potential side-effects of Gilgazyme® but could it really be that bad? Could all of Venezuela be…undead?

  The loadmaster steps out from the cockpit and shouts, “Gentlemen, time to strap the fuck down! The runway, ah, isn’t clear.”

  As he disappears, you buckle yourself into the webbing, then check your ammo for the fifteenth time. You pop out the magazine and rap it against your helmet—the old basic training trick to keep your ammo flush—before popping it back in.

  The interior goes dark, letting your eyes adjust. First combat mission is a night op. Great, you think, dropping the night-vision goggles over your helmet.

  A minute later, the C17 hits the runway, hard. You bite the tip of your tongue and taste iron. Lt. Dosa shouts something, but the belly of the beast screeches open and you can’t make him out. The men leap up and move in a coordinated response and you follow. Almost immediately; shots fired.

  The flight line in Manaus is crowded by hundreds—no, thousands—of people. Unlike most US airports, this one isn’t fenced off. In fact, its border to the north is simply jungle and it looks like half the population of Venezuela has arrived to greet you.

  Green figures sprint, shamble, or hobble towards you on sprained or broken ankles. The night-vision paints the whole area sickly green and makes human eyes shine out hungrily like a pack of rabid dogs in the moonlight. It’s nearly impossible to tell friendlies from fleshies.

  A group of about fifty children flank in from the side, previously hidden by the tall grass, but something seems off about them. Is that shock and fear you’re seeing? Or (gulp) hunger? Are they excited by the thought of rescue or by the thought of feeding?

  They rush in with open arms towards an Army Ranger near the front of the formation.

  • Dash forward to warn him; you can’t risk shooting a bunch of kids.

  • Open fire! Mow down the Children in the Corn.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Convenient

  There’s a convenience store nearby, so you duck in to check for refreshments. The place must have been evacuated for the quarantine, because the door is unlocked and no one is home. Even the drink case is nearly untouched. You take a water, down the bottle, then sip on a sports drink.

  “Water or something with electrolytes,” you say. “No soda or tea.”

  While the kids drink their fill and look for snacks, you find an area map near the cash register. Spreading it out on the counter, you compare it to the class roster you brought from the dojo and plot a course from house to house. Nolan lives closest, then Haley is down the street and Nathanael is a few miles away from there. The twins lived on the outskirts of town, where you’ll stop last to see if you can notify their parents that the children are safe at the dojo.

  “Looks like closest-to-furthest is the same order as youngest-to-oldest,” you say.

  “That’s convenient,” Haley says.

  “Indeed. Ready?”

  Leaving the convenience store towards Nolan’s house, you’re struck by how fast everything has occurred. The city feels practically abandoned, though you know that can’t be the case. The greater metro-area tops two million citizens. Where is everyone? The quarantine would account for some missing from their homes, but not nearly enough.

  As you approach the boy’s house, a hand on your sword hilt, you see that the door jamb used to be white, but is smeared with gore.

  “It’s that one,” Nolan says, “with the red door.”

  The door that sits open.

  • “Stay here while I check it out. Nathanael is in charge while I’m gone.”

  • “Stay behind me, move like shadows. We must be extra careful inside.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Cooped Up

  “What?” Cooper says, answering the knock on her door.

  “Good evening to you t
oo,” you say. She doesn’t respond, so you go on. “It’s just too weird, you know? All that going on out there, and us in here with all this. It almost doesn’t seem fair. I just couldn’t sleep, so…”

  “So, what? You thought you’d swing over and I’d fuck your brains out?”

  “Uhh, I…”

  “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. Go back to your room, jerk off, and be ready to work in the morning. I’ll forget we ever had this conversation, provided we never have to have it again. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She closes the door, leaving you alone and bewildered.

  • Go check on Angelica.

  • Go check on Jose.

  • Go check on Tyberius and Hefty.

  • Head back to your room and get some sleep.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Crack the Whip

  “Everyone, on your feet. No eye contact, try to look big and threatening,” you say.

  You step out in front of the group and slide the motorcycle chain off your shoulder, letting one end drop against the pavement. The beast’s eyes lock onto the sound, then back up at you. Snarling, it pads forward on gigantic paws.

  Taking one of the patio chairs like a lion tamer, you crack the chain against the ground like a whip. Somehow your legs propel you forward and you crack the chain once more.

  The lion crouches, ears folded back and growling, so you crack the makeshift whip again. Then it backs away. You shout and press the advantage. The lion turns and sprints around the corner, joined by several hidden lionesses, leaving you with a cold sweat.

  “Hole…eee…shit…” Hefty says.

  “Coop, that was amazing,” Tyberius says.

  So you press the advantage with them too, saying, “You can come with us if you want. But what I say goes, got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison, brows raised in shock.

  “Good. Let’s hope that amusement park isn’t totally fucked.”

  “Coop, do you think we could make a pit stop? I met some people at a hardware store that I had to leave. I was hoping to check on ’em. It’s more or less on the way,” Tyberius says.

  • Fine. But let’s hurry. I don’t want to wait around and see if that lion finds his courage.

  • No. Straight to the park. I’m not running an orphanage.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Crowd Control

  Something is deeply wrong, and it’s panic-fueled instinct that propels you forward. You smash into the cop, sending the man faltering into the bus driver’s lap, but the door is still open from when the officer came aboard, so you dash out before he can recover.

  You look about, wild-eyed, knowing that you don’t have much time to escape before that cop comes after you. He’s already getting up, but that crazed homeless guy might be a bigger distraction. Other passengers scream and blood sprays against one of the back windows.

  “Hey! Stay put. We have infected in the area,” shouts a street cop, brandishing a baton.

  Infected? What the hell does that mean? Beyond the man there’s a line of National Guardsmen defending a wooden barrier, the kind of thing they put up at events for crowd control. But these are armed soldiers, not event security rent-a-cops. What’s going on here? You’re trying to think, but the cop shouting in your face makes it nearly impossible.

  • Cooperate. Tell him there was a crazed guy on the bus!

  • Knock him out; that’ll give you some time to think.

  • Run past the soldiers. Run home. Just…run.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Crying Gang

  The armory is locked up tight, but that doesn’t much matter when there are a dozen highly-motivated, 250-pound men desperate to get inside. It doesn’t take long to break the door down, and you rush in with the crowd like Black Friday shoppers at a Walmart that just opened the path to the Blu-ray players.

  Thunk thunk! Hissssssss.

  Inside, you’re greeted by three prison guards fully decked out in riot gear. Your eyes go from the men in gas masks to the multiple canisters of tear gas they just activated in the tiny room. Then your vision goes blurry as your mucous membranes burst and tear ducts overflow.

  Lungs burning, you bounce against other inmates and the walls, trying to get back outside and away from the teargas. This stuff is potent, and from all appearances, they unloaded their full supply.

  You finally make it outside, just in time to vomit on the ground. All but blind, you stumble until you’re found by a rogue wandering nutter. It’s almost a relief to feel something other than burning when the ghoul bites into you.

  You’re INFECTED!

  Cut the Cord

  She comes at you, groping and clawing, growling and snapping her teeth. Mama isn’t the one behind those eyes; who—or what—is back there isn’t even human. It’s just hungry. But even if this thing isn’t your mother, can you kill her? The one who gave you life and fed you? She doesn’t leave you with much choice. Now you’ll have to give her death before she feeds on you.

  Stop! You want to cry. Don’t make me do this!

  But the words don’t come. Instead, she comes. The infected woman lunges out with both arms, as if she forgot she had one amputated as a child. You take her wrist in your hand, and swing her around—sending the woman flailing towards the living room floor. The coffee table explodes beneath her, but she doesn’t even notice. She gets up without using her hand to stabilize herself, almost like a snake.

  When she comes for you, it’s with the exact same movements, and so you anticipate catching her wrist once more. Taking her right hand in your left, you squeeze tight. Despite her small, frail body, she moves with incredible, hellish strength. She comes in for a bite and you take her throat with your right hand. Adrenaline pulses through you, and you’re much, much stronger. She can barely move against your grip.

  “Stop!” you hiss through your teeth but, of course, she does not.

  You squeeze tighter, cutting off the guttural moan in her throat. Tighter. Trying to choke out the fiend inside her by sheer strength alone.

  Her eyes bulge, but she shows no sign of giving up. You take her and slam her against the wall, hard. The fiend’s teeth chatter, but her eyes don’t even blink. She squirms, trying to get you, so you slam her against the wall once more. Again and again. In this macabre dance you move down the hallway towards the bedrooms, knocking family portraits off the wall as you go.

  Tears flowing freely, it’s hard to see, and you hit against the hall table, then step on one of the downed picture frames and lose your balance. Together, you both fall into her bedroom, and for a panicked moment, you think she might get free, or get her teeth close enough for a bite. She rises first and launches at you, so you kick directly into her chest, flinging her back into her closet.

  She thrashes, becoming tangled within the dresses and blouses hanging there, and it gives you a moment to wipe the tears away and try to control your breathing. It turns the momentum of battle against her, but just barely. Time to end this.

  When she comes for you this time, you throw her onto her bed and come after her. Taking her singular arm, you pin it beneath your leg so you can get two hands around her neck. You plant your other knee against her chest and push hard, squeezing until there’s a snap. You don’t hear it so much as feel it, and her body goes limp.

  But when you pull away, her mouth is still moving, masticating air or chewing her own tongue. You snapped her spinal column, but that doesn’t stop her from wanting to eat you, nor her eyes from watching you.

  In one final burst of energy, you take her head in both hands and slam it into the headboard. Over and over and over again, until red and white and grey pus flows down the wall.

  She’s not moving. It’s over.

  You fall back off the bed, weak in the legs, stumbling to find your footing. It feels like you’re going to faint. No, like you’re going to be sick. Dashing into her bathroom, you throw up. After several minutes of retching, you
compose yourself and come back out. She’s still there, twice-dead.

  “Can’t just leave her like this,” you hear yourself say.

  This is not a fitting end. You look to the closet and realize she just ruined all her good Sunday dresses. But you can do that for her. You can go to a department store, pick out a fancy dress, and send mama off right. With a real funeral, and everything. You can get yourself a nice suit. You can lay her to rest proper.

  • Find a car to drive to the mall.

  • Get walking.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Cut Your Losses

  You make a break for it, sprinting as fast as your out-of-shape legs will carry you. Why, oh why, didn’t you try harder on your biannual fitness tests? You shoot one ghoul mid-stride, and go for another—click. That’s it, the M4 is empty.

  That second zombie reaches for you and you slam the butt of the rifle hard against its head. Which does nothing. It’s not even stunned. The thing grabs hold of your rifle and you shove it away, losing your M4 in the process. They don’t call it a death grip for nothing.

  Feeling naked and defenseless, you keep running, but you’re over halfway there. Just at the entrance to the shop, several bony hands grab hold and pull you back.

  Struggling frantically, you manage to slip out of your body armor and their grasp. You lunge into the sandwich shop entrance, and pull down the security gate. At the last second, you Indiana Jones grab your rucksack and pull it in.