One of the tent’s occupants, a man whose brow is slick with sweat, stares at you. He knows. You stare back, cold, and the man turns away.
Doctor Abdous comes in the tent and looks with horror at the scene of blood and bile. She checks on bucket-lady’s bite wound, which isn’t even bleeding, then helps her lie down on her cot. The doctor looks to you.
“Was anyone else bitten?”
• “Shouldn’t you strap her down? What if she rises in the night?”
• Try hitting on her. Something like, “You wouldn’t want to spend the end of the world alone, right?”
• “No, ma’am. Were all ship-shape in here, obviously.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Kiddiewinks
Your tac-gear bounces heavily and the strain on your legs feels a bit like running through mud. You shout warnings, but this is a war zone. In-between the deafening volleys of rifle fire, your calls are drowned out by shouts of “GET SOME!!!”
Finally, you catch the Ranger’s attention, but he can’t make out what you’re saying. He turns your way to see what you want—right as the kiddos arrive. They take him down, frenzied like a school of piranhas on meth. You raise your rifle, but firing at the hellions is impossible without shooting him as collateral damage. Your shouts are soon drowned out by the Ranger’s guttural, blood-curdling screams.
“You saw that coming?!” a nearby SEAL shouts, hatred in his eyes.
Several of the other soldiers open fire into the crowd of kids, so you join them, avoiding the confrontation with the SEAL.
“Aim for the head, fucksticks! Am I the only one who’s ever seen a goddamned zombie movie?” Lt. Dosa shouts in between shots at hostiles.
“Sir, we have reports of VIPs trapped in the terminal,” a soldier says.
“Who?”
“The Ambassador and his staff. It was the diplomatic rendezvous point.”
“Damn,” Dosa growls. “They’re mission-essential. We have to get him out.”
• Don’t make eye contact, and hang back towards the C-17.
• Volunteer to lead a force inside.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Kinda Ironic, No?
You run to the next entrance; the service department of the same big-box store. It’s just a single door, but it’s equally locked. Damn. Better keep going. You’re starting to grow a tail, like a cosmic, flesh-eating comet; the nutters follow you from door to door.
Food court? Locked. Second department store? Locked. Employee entrance? Locked. Every single damn entrance is locked and with each pit stop, the growing crowd gets closer.
Seriously? You broke out of a prison but can’t break into a shopping mall?
Eventually, you make it back where you started, only this time you’ve got nowhere to run. At least thirty zombies crowd in around you, ready to make you their first meal of the day.
THE END
The Last Supper
When the dinner call goes out, you’re at the part in the novel where the girl hiding in the farmhouse basement manages to sneak outside and get to her cellphone from the Jeep. Her friends are being held hostage, but does she have enough battery to call 911?
You’ll have to find out later. “Hang on, let me finish this chapter” is never an option in the slammer. The cell doors open and you proceed to the cafeteria in an orderly fashion. You arrive and prepare to take your seat in the usual segregated-by-race arrangement, when you’re surprised to see a few inmates already seated.
One is your cellmate. Looks like they opened the SHU and dumped out the contents. Celly nods at you in recognition. The other inmate you recognize is simply known as Solitary. He’s the guy everyone in here recognizes.
The man’s been in solitary confinement for as long as you’ve been here, probably longer, and he always finds a way back into the SHU as soon as he’s been released. A lifer who prefers solitary to the yard, they say. Even now, he wears wrist and ankle cuffs, the two shackled together so the man can’t raise his hands over his head—the price of being a repeat violent offender.
You take your tray and find a seat, when someone starts screaming.
Jumping up, you move to the outside walls; removing yourself from the fight, lest you take an accidental shiv between the ribs or a blow from the guards. The cafeteria forms a ring around the fighters, just like high school. Only something is terribly different. It’s not two men fighting, it’s one man biting another.
“Shit, that’s Don Vito,” mutters a nearby skinhead.
“Get him off of me!” shouts the poor victim, but no one moves to help.
Vito D’lunga is the head of the largest mafia family in the state, and thus the de facto boss of the prison. If he wants to bite somebody, that’s his business.
The guards rush in and pull the victim away, and Don Vito reels back to latch onto a new one. It’s Bobby, the skinhead who beat you in foosball this afternoon. Bobby puts up his hands and the mob boss takes a bite. Looks like Bobby won’t be playing foosball for the foreseeable future.
Realizing this isn’t a traditional fight, the guards focus on Don Vito. Even in his frenzied state, the guards fear the man.
“Take it easy, Mr. D’lunga,” one of the guards says, hands up almost as an apology.
Vito snaps his jaws and lunges at the guards, managing to catch one, who screams as Vito bites down. There’s a blur of movement in your peripheral vision, and you flinch as Solitary darts past. Despite the shackles limiting his movement, the man moves like quicksilver.
Solitary sweeps the mob boss’s legs out from beneath him, sending D’lunga to the ground. He then stomps on the prison boss’s head, again and again, until D’lunga stops moving—save for the black blood that oozes from his fractured skull.
* * *
You hardly sleep a wink that night, tossing and turning with dreams of being bitten. You practically sleepwalk through breakfast the next morning, and you’re still dragging major ass when the call comes for Sunday morning church.
Chapel is neutral ground. Despite their immoral proclivities, most inmates are religious men. Blame it on temptation, the devil made me do it, that kind of thing. That, coupled with the warden’s higher punishments for any “malcreant behavior” on church grounds, makes for a quiet atmosphere every Sunday.
“When evening came, Jesus was reclining at the table with the Twelve,” the preacher says. He has a Bible in his left hand, but it’s closed; a prop. He has this part memorized. “And while they were eating, he said, ‘Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me.’”
A terrible, hacking cough sounds out behind you so loud the preacher has to wait to continue. You look back and see one of the skinheads hacking into his wadded up t-shirt. He releases the shirt and leaves black, sticky phlegm across his chest, like he’d swallowed tar and coughed it back up.
The other neo-Nazis don’t seem to care. They’re all sweaty, paler than normal (which says a lot), with dark veins pressing up against the skin, and hollow eyes.
“They were very sad and began to say to him one after the other, ‘Surely you don’t mean me, Lord?’” the preacher says.
You lean over to the con next to you and whisper, “What’s up with the KKK back there?”
“One of ’em ate his cell mate last night,” the man says, in a thick Russian accent, his face blank. “Others are filling up the infirmary. Some kind of rabies, they think.”
Shit, you think. Prison outbreaks spread fast. Then you remember Vito in the cafeteria last night and the skinhead he bit. “Was it Bobby? The guy who….”
The Russian simply shrugs. With a new sense of dread, you look back up to the preacher, who’s saying, “…while they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, ‘Take and eat; this is my body.’”
A terrible shrieking roars out, and it takes some effort not to lose your bowels right there. You duck forward and turn around to see one of the skinheads attack a guy you’re pretty sur
e is Yakuza.
A guard takes an Asp from his belt and, with a snap of his wrist, expands the telescoping baton. That’s when the rest of the skinheads shoot up, as if suddenly awakened, and surround the guard.
Solitary is here, in his shackles, and pulls the chains around one of the frenzied fiends’ necks from behind, but there are far too many of the frenzied ghouls for him to take on alone. There was only one guard posted in the chapel, but with all the screaming, it won’t be long until the others arrive. In fact, when you look over at the preacher, you see him trigger the silent alarm under his podium.
This is it. This is survival. So what’re you gonna do?
• Run.
• Fight.
• Hide.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Latch/Key
The next morning, after breakfast, you watch from the glass doors as the National Guardsmen pack everything up. They move all the cars from the streets to make room for their exodus, and many walking corpses are drawn by the noise, but with all the soldiers out on duty, they make short work of the intruders. It’s better to think of them as walking corpses, otherwise you’re watching the military shoot civilians in the head.
Once the quarantine is officially disbanded, those held in the tents go every which way. You’re considering rushing out to let them all know about Camp Salvation when a pair of familiar faces catch you from the crowd. A man and a woman, both haggard from exhaustion, make a beeline for the dojo.
“Mom! Dad!” Mason shouts, palms up against the glass in excitement.
He pulls the doors open and the trio shares a heartwarming reunion full of hugs and kisses. The other kids look on longingly, then past the family and into the street, hoping to find a glimpse of their own parents.
“You were in the quarantine?” you say.
“They barely let us out of our tents!” Mason’s father says, then, putting a hand out for you to shake, says, “Seriously, thank you. If Mason would’ve been hurt…or…well, I don’t know what we would’ve done.”
Pushing the compliments aside, you tell them all about the radio broadcast and Salvation off Route 14.
“Well let’s go!” the boy’s mother says. “We can fit two more in our car. What are you driving?”
You shake your head. “I need to be here. With communication down, the other parents will be coming here, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” she replies.
“You’re a good man, Mr. Tesshu,” the boy’s father says.
“Be careful in your car,” Master Hanzo adds. “Many people will be desperate even after only a few days. If you look like you have something worth taking, there are those who will try to take it.”
The family nods and the class says goodbye to Mason, who assures his peers that he’ll save them a spot at Salvation.
* * *
No one else comes that day, nor the day after. The remaining food has been stretched thin and the water in the bathroom sink finally stopped this morning. You’ll have to head out soon for supplies. Though you’ve kept the door locked and shied away from the glass, there has been some excitement.
Many walking corpses have passed by, like silent spirits on a pilgrimage. Several military men came back through the streets, though you’re thinking it’s more likely they were men who stole military Humvees. Either way, when they started shooting their machine guns at the hardware store across the street, it was difficult to get the twins to stop crying.
It’s even more difficult to tell the class that they’ll have to go to bed without dinner. Tomorrow, you assure them, tomorrow you’ll go find food.
* * *
There’s a great pounding and thrashing at the doors in the middle of the night. A few of the walking corpses have stopped to slap against the glass, especially when you were still running drills, but once you kept away from the entry during the day, they mostly wandered away. This is more urgent. This is a distinctly human panic.
When you unlock the doors, Liam and Stella’s parents tumble in. The twins rush to greet their family, but they barely even see their children.
“Lock the goddamned doors!” the father shouts.
As you do so, you see several hundred eyes glinting in the moonlight outside.
“How many are there?” you ask.
“Too many,” the mother says, tears in her eyes.
That’s when the group of undead smashes against the glass doors. It’s unlike the strange curiosity the early attempts displayed. This is pure, rabid hunger. They know people are inside, and they burn with desire to join you. Some leave bloody smears on the glass as they break their fists on the doors.
“You have a back exit?” the man says, holding Stella while his wife picks up Liam.
Nathanael points the way and the family starts running. It’s time to go, now.
“Master Hanzo!” you shout, pounding on the office door.
Haley screams and you flip around. The back door is open, the twins and their parents gone, and a stream of walking corpses flows from the alley and into the dojo in their place.
“Stand back!” you cry.
Then there’s a crash as the glass doors explode under the force of a thousand dead bodies. They must feel no pain, because the ones up front continue towards you despite the glass tearing their flesh to ribbons.
Their greedy, hungry teeth come for you all. With only a wooden sword for defense, there’s no way you’ll make it out of this alive. But at least there won’t be enough of you left to rise again.
THE END
Lawful Evil
Your eyes scan the bodies, starting with the smallest. There are some children in the piles, which is tragic, but none of them look familiar. Your heart soars, and that leaves you feeling guilty. They were each familiar to someone, after all.
Exhaling slowly, you turn to leave. That’s when a shock of white hair catches your eye. You move closer, carefully rolling the body onto its back with your foot. But you already knew it was Master Hanzo, didn’t you? He stares up at you with blank eyes and a third, red eye on the forehead.
A painful moan comes from your chest. This man was there for you, even after the death of your parents. He helped your family emigrate from Japan and is solely responsible for your station in life. And these people left him here like trash.
• Take him to the Dojo office. There is no earth to bury him in this concrete jungle, but you can’t leave him in an alley to rot.
• Say your goodbyes now, usher his spirit to the next world, then leave his body and move on.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Lawful Good
After tucking Dad and Jason in for the long sleep, you load up the Jeep, grab the map and compass, and head out. It’s hard to believe they’re really gone. It feels like you’re just driving out to meet friends, and you’ll be back home soon, and so will they. Dad cleaning his guns and Jay tapping away at his smartphone.
But all that’s gone now. There’s nothing there for you now. And the memory of discharging your weapon into the skulls of your family will keep you from ever going back. There’s only one main road out of town and into the woods—and that tunnel to freedom is up ahead. A police barricade was set in place to prevent a mass exodus from town, but plenty of people ran the barricade, and so can you.
The only light comes from the sirens of abandoned patrol cruisers. You scan the area, but find no sign of the police officers. The Jeep’s headlights suddenly glint off something on the road, and you slam on the brakes, but too late. The tires scream and hiss when they hit the spike strip, and you skid to the side, the Jeep threatening to flip. You hold your breath, turn into the skid, and close your eyes. The Jeep comes to a stop and after a moment, you head out to check the wheels.
They’re fucked; you’ll have to continue on foot.
There are several figures wandering inside the tunnel already, but there’s no other way out of town. The tunnel is jammed, in a literal sense, with cars crashed into one another. You keep your r
ifle at the ready and move forward.
A low, breathy moan is terribly amplified by the tunnel. But it’s not just one—it’s a whole chorus of the damned. You raise your rifle. The first figure growls and charges in at you—crack! He falls limp at the command of your 10/22.
Suddenly the whole tunnel is alive and frenzied. Your rifle is low-caliber, but in this confined space, it might as well be a dinner bell. Dozens of deadened eyes glint in the darkness and a whole crowd of crazed, hungry Zulus now stumble forward in anticipation.
Crack, crack, crack! You make each shot count, knowing the Ruger factory standard JX-1 ten-round magazine will soon run dry and you’ll need to replace it. Why didn’t you put one of the larger ones in? Damn.
You try to cut a lane through the cars, only shooting those who stand in your way. As you dart forward, light and nimble on the balls of your feet, a snarl catches your attention. From the cab of a semi-truck, the driver tumbles out on top of you. You slam against the pavement, your breath purged from your lungs. When you wheeze back in, you choke on the viscera streaming from the gaping maw of the man astride you.
Blinded, you put your hands up to block the attack, and the trucker bites down on your forearm.
You’re INFECTED!
Lawful Neutral
The visitation room is predictably devoid of visitors—undead or otherwise. When you turn back, you’re met by the correctional officer, who’s uncomfortably close. Before you have time to react, the guard slaps a cuff around your wrist, then secures the other with one of the clasps on a meeting table.
“Hey!” you shout.
“It’s safe here,” the guard says. “We’ll come back for you.”
The doctor says nothing, averting his gaze. The men head out the front door, leaving you to stew in your anger. It’s likely he meant it when he said they’d be back, but it never happens.
PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4) Page 22
