Did the two die? Were they infected? Was the prison evacuated, and you were forgotten? Probably some combination of these things, but it doesn’t matter. You’re left here to rot, given the choice between chewing off your hand or starvation, which is no choice at all.
THE END
Learn with a Purpose
Nathanael rises to a high kneel; his waist is straight and his thighs are extended in line with his torso, to add height. He puts his hands together in prayer pose and quotes, “Kendo is a way to discipline the human character through the application of the principles of the katana.”
“Good. And what does that mean, Christian?”
“Hone strength and honor?” he says, as if it were a question.
“Correct, but what else? Haley.”
“Improve the self, improve the community, nation and world,” she recites.
“Is a katana a weapon? Nolan,” you say, targeting one of the younger boys.
“No!” Mason shouts before clamping his hands over his mouth. “Sorry, sensei.”
“Kendo is…defense,” Nolan says, looking to the ceiling. “Of others and myself.”
“And who is the greatest enemy? Liam? Stella?”
“Myself,” Liam says.
“Liam,” Stella adds. The students all laugh.
“The untrained self,” you correct. “Only through knowing oneself can you defend others. And the Kendo purpose? To mold…”
In unison, like reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, the youngsters all jump in:
“To mold the mind and body.
To cultivate a vigorous spirit,
And through correct and rigid training,
To strive for improvement in the art of Kendo.
To hold in esteem human courtesy and honor.
To associate with others with sincerity.
And to forever pursue the cultivation of oneself.
Thus will one be able:
To love one’s country and society;
To contribute to the development of culture;
And to promote peace and prosperity among all peoples.”
The younger students only know keywords, while Nathanael’s voice is loudest and Christian and Haley’s lips at least move through the whole thing.
“Did you get all that, Salvator?”
The young boy, probably around 6 years old, looks to his mother for help. She sits off to the side, attention on her cellphone, and crosses one leg of her elaborately printed yoga pants over the other. Not finding the answer there, he turns back and simply nods.
“We have a fast learner! It’s okay if you’re feeling like this is a lot for one day; learning is a lifelong process. How about this…I’ll learn from you, if you promise to learn from me. Deal?”
“Okay…” he says, almost a whisper.
“First lesson, answer, ‘Yes, sensei’ or ‘Master Tesshu,’ okay?”
“Sin…say?” he tries.
“That’s right.”
You stand and say:
• “Class, I’m going to show our new pupil around. Set up drill stations.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Left Behind
The doctor takes your fire extinguisher and cleans the gore off while the guard cuffs your hands behind your back. Finally, they’re ready to go.
“Great,” the guard says, pointing towards the blaze with his baton.
It’s true, the fire is spreading at such a rate that you can no longer reach the front door. The doctor steps out of the office and points to the ceiling tiles.
“Up and over?”
“He can’t climb with his hands cuffed,” the guard says. “We’ll have to come back for you.”
“No, no way!” you shout.
The pair of them drag the desk from the office to the hall, shut you in the office, then one-by-one hop on and pull each other into the ceiling.
You wait. At some point, the smoke from the flames curls under the door and into the office as the fire eats at the air and breathes smoke in return. You cough until you can’t breathe, then you pass out, never to wake again.
THE END
Let the Wrong One In
Owen unlocks the door with some hesitancy, but promising food and safety, the five men come in. “You made the right choice,” the leader says. “Problem is, we’ve got enough fat white guys. Take the breeding stock and shoot the men.”
What did he just say? You’re so stunned you can barely think, but the flurry of gunshots that follows snaps you out of it. You grab the closest thing—a torque 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
Like a Wrecking Ball
You push your way through the ring of people and over to the driver’s door. Swinging it open, you practically fall back at the grisly sight within. The front windshield is coated from blood-spray and one of the driver’s pale hands is still clamped over the arterial wound in his neck.
Reaching past him, you turn off the limo, but you’re afraid to move the guy. You heard that somewhere. “Never move someone who’s had an accident if you don’t have to.” That’s what the paramedics are for. Still, better check the back.
From this angle, you can see the partition, which is also coated in blood and gore and…has some hair caught in it, has been raised. The driver’s hair is short-cropped, and this is long, feminine hair. Complete with waves and highlights.
“So fucked up…” you mutter, stepping back into the light. The gathered crowd watches intently, but none offer to help. “Yeah, I got it, thanks!”
Then you open the back door. The interior of the limo is in total disarray, even more than you might expect from a crash. The TVs, once mounted, are cracked off the walls, with parts strewn about. The glasses and champagne bottles are only so many shards now. And the three women inside are in various states of ruin. Like they’ve had parts of their body burned away by acid. Or eaten.
It looks like one woman is still breathing.
You lean in to get a better look, and a fourth woman latches onto you. She has wild, manic eyes and a tongue that waggles out of her chipped-tooth grin.
“Miley…Cyrus?” you say, baffled at seeing the celebrity in this state.
She chomps off her own tongue trying to bite you, and you fall out onto the pavement, dragging the 95-pound waif out with you. You elbow Miley in the mouth, and her tongue bounces on the pavement right by your face. Switching tactics, you roll over, pin her down, and slam her head on the concrete over and over again.
Eventually, she grows still and the world is a better place. But as you check yourself for wounds, you realize—she bit you.
You’re INFECTED!
Limited Resources
The motorpool is essentially an enormous garage-style warehouse. You’ve never been in here before, but everyone has seen the outside of the building. It’s where the bus drops you off on in-processing day.
Parked inside is that same prison bus and three patrol cruisers. Along the side walls are several stations for washing, maintenance, refueling, tire rotation, that kind of thing. And a singular, obvious-to-spot board with all the keys. They’re helpfully labeled too! All you have to do is hit the button to open the gigantic, rolling garage door, claim your vehicle, and you’re free!
Celly and his closest hermanos dig through the lockers and find a few spare police uniforms. They pass them out and change out of their prison jumpsuits. One of the biggest cholos takes the vehicle keys from the wall.
“Hey, what about me?” you say.
Celly turns and says, “You? Why,
you get to drive the bus, man. You got the most important job of all, Hefty! You’re breaking that gate down. Once you do that, we’re even.”
“Even?”
“You had a pretty cozy stay here, amigo, porque nobody fucks with my cellmate. But we’re not cellmates any longer, we’re free men!” This last part he shouts, then squeezes you on the shoulder.
• Remind Celly who helped get him out of his cell in the first place. Demand a cruiser and tell him one of his cronies can have bus duty.
• Whatever. Somebody’s gotta be the battering ram, and you can take bus out of here as easily as a car.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Lockdown
Normally, rabbiting out of a situation is your worst choice in prison, because there’s nowhere to run. At best, you’re going from one end of the cage to the other. At worst, you’re looking like a coward to the other inmates and pissing off the guards.
But somehow, you know, “normally” has gone out the window. These nutters are eating each other, and you need to get as far away as possible. You run for the doors, but they’re locked from the outside. Just in case the preacher puts the guard to sleep, no sneaking out. Damn.
Wild-eyed and frantic, you look for another way out, though it’s hard to look away from the carnage. If only there were some sign, some key to salvation! Searching for help, your eyes fall upon the arm’s-spread, stained-glass visage of Jesus.
Of course! The stained glass is a work of art, not like the reinforced, mesh-inlaid safety glass found elsewhere in the prison. Fueled by sheer terror, you pick up the metallic baptism bowl and hurl it at the window. You pick up a candlestick to clear a larger hole in the broken glass, but a growling moan draws your attention to the other side of the chapel.
The nutters, all six, stare at you with dead, hungry eyes. The shattering drew them in, and now you’re a much bigger target than the other inmates who cower, whimpering, in the wings. No time to waste. You run at the window, jump, and plant a foot on the jagged edge of the window, the thick rubber sole of your shoe protecting your foot as you leap to the other side.
Those crazy bastards push through the window right after you, the glass ripping their flesh, but they don’t care. One catches an edge in the stomach and keeps on going, even as the shards pull his intestines out.
You stare in shocked disbelief a moment longer, then turn and dart out into the yard. A warning shot rings out, the grass exploding by your feet. You drop to your knees, hands over your head. This is guard-speak for, “If you keep running, the next one won’t miss.”
Rolling over, you look back and see the nutters keep on coming. A red blossom appears in the lead man’s shoulder, and the crack registers a split second later, but even this doesn’t stop them. You close your eyes and curl into a ball as the nutters surround you.
When you open your eyes, you see the gang of six on the ground, their black brain fluid staining the green lawn of the yard. Turning back, you see three prison guards in riot gear, rifles smoking. If they went to the armory, you can be sure it’s worse than just the church, but you’ve never been so happy to see the cavalry arrive.
“Lockdown,” one says, “Get back to your cell.”
You nod furiously, feeling yourself for wounds, but you’re miraculously unscathed.
* * *
Lockdown, in prison terms, means no leaving your cell. Food is brought to you, showers consist of rubbing your body with handfuls of water from the sink, and people go stir-crazy. Celly grows more aggravated by the minute.
Just to calm your nerves, you scratch half of your remaining lotto tickets, but all three were a bust. Only three more remain, and it’s hard to space them out. The boredom is broken up by occasional bedlam. Shrill screams come from other cells. People beat against the bars like apes at the zoo. Some even fling excrement at the guards.
Rumors fly down the cell blocks: Sick bay is overrun. The guards are getting sick. There’s no warden anymore. The whole city is gone, one of the guards told me, and soon they’ll abandon us too. Not just the city, man. The country. Those nutters? They’re not just crazy. They’re the walking dead. Fucking zombies, man.
At dinnertime, the rioting starts up again.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Celly asks the neighbors.
You come close and listen in as the man replies, “The CO delivering food. Says it’s the last meal ‘for a while.’ He promises they’ll be back with help from the army, but this is it, we’re fuckin’ dead meat!”
“No, no, no,” you find yourself saying. “Not like this. I gotta get outta here. Not like this!”
“Get a grip, amigo! I got us covered,” Celly says.
You turn and look at him, and he peels up the corner of his mattress to reveal a large, industrial hand-file about the size of your forearm. He quickly sets the mattress down as the guard delivers dinner.
• Celly, for the win! Take your dinner and get to work breaking out.
• Screw that! Try to bribe the guard with your remaining lotto tickets.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Locked and Overloaded
You expect some kind of protest from the crew, but for the most part, they act like that was the plan all along, and Airman Belliveau gives a quick tutorial on how to use the system. There’s a carabiner you can hook into your combat vest, then, with both gloved hands on the rope, you put one arm behind your back to control your descent. He’ll stay up top to operate the pulleys, while you go out with the other five Airmen.
The men fast-rope out of each side while the pilot hovers close to the hospital. You watch as the rescue team fans out to find the military brass among the crowds of soldiers, and direct the evacuees your way.
Taking a deep breath, you drop out of the helicopter and, miraculously, make it down without busting your ass. Several of the key personnel are already wounded and have to be hooked into the ropes and raised mechanically.
But the helicopter draws more attention than the crew would like—both from the shambling dead and the frenetic living. You might as well be dropping yourself as a baited hook into chummed waters.
Hundreds of groping hands reach out and grab hold, and you scream to be raised up. Airman Belliveau tries to recall the ropes, but the motors whine under the weight. As you go up a few feet, more of the crowd latches on. It’s like hell’s version of a barrel-of-monkeys.
And every single rope system is under the same pressure.
The combined weight of thousands of bodies all scrambling, either for rescue or to eat the flesh of the living, proves too much. You can’t see under the mobbing crowd, but Belliveau clearly wasn’t able to cut you loose.
Death comes mercifully quickly when the helicopter turns on its side and comes crashing down on top of you, like the world’s biggest lawn-edging tool.
THE END
Locked In
Fueled by sheer terror, you pick up the metallic baptism bowl and hurl it at the window. You pick up a candlestick to clear a larger hole in the broken glass, but a growling moan draws your attention to the other side of the chapel.
The nutters, all six, stare at you with dead, hungry eyes. The shattering drew them in, and now you’re a much bigger target than the other inmates who cower, whimpering, in the wings. No time to waste. You run at the window, jump, and plant a foot on the jagged edge of the window, the thick rubber sole of your shoe protecting your foot as you leap to the other side.
Those crazy bastards push through the window right after you, the glass ripping their flesh, but they don’t care. One catches an edge in the stomach and keeps on going, even as the shards pull his intestines out.
You stare in shocked disbelief a moment longer, then turn and dart out into the yard. A warning shot rings out, the grass exploding by your feet. You drop to your knees, hands over your head. This is guard-speak for, “If you keep running, the next one won’t miss.”
Rolling over, you look back and see the nutters keep on coming. A red blossom appears in the lead man�
��s shoulder, and the crack registers a split second later, but even this doesn’t stop them. You close your eyes and curl into a ball as the nutters surround you.
When you open your eyes, you see the gang of six on the ground, their black brain fluid staining the green lawn of the yard. Turning back, you see three prison guards in riot gear, rifles smoking. If they went to the armory, you can be sure it’s worse than just the church, but you’ve never been so happy to see the cavalry arrive.
“Lockdown,” one says, “Get back to your cell.”
You nod furiously, feeling yourself for wounds, but you’re miraculously unscathed.
* * *
Lockdown, in prison terms, means no leaving your cell. Food is brought to you, showers consist of rubbing your body with handfuls of water from the sink, and people go stir-crazy. Celly grows more aggravated by the minute.
At dinnertime, the rioting starts up again.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Celly asks the neighbors.
You come close and listen in as the man replies, “The CO delivering food. Says it’s the last meal ‘for a while.’ He promises they’ll be back with help from the army, but this is it, we’re fuckin’ dead meat!”
“If only I had my fucking file, aarrrrgh!” Celly cries in dismay.
The guard moves quickly, delivering dinner as fast as he can.
“Wait!” you shout, briefly catching his attention.
• Threaten the bastard. Try to get him to come in and teach you a lesson!
• Offer the man…sexual favors.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Locked Up
PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4) Page 23
