“Get the goddamned guard!” you roar.
The doctor takes the hint and rushes out the front flap of the tent. A moment later, a gasmask-clad soldier returns, his rifle at the ready as if he’s clearing a house in Fallujah.
“You want me to end you, Troublemaker?”
“Take me to aggressor tent!”
“Shut the fuck up and sit down!”
“Get me out of here! I belong in aggressor tent!”
To demonstrate your explosive rage, you throw more equipment around the tent. You scream and roar. Two other guards rush in to see what’s going on and give a look at the first man.
“You really don’t want aggressor tent. I’m doing you a favor here. Calm. The fuck. Down.”
Instead, you charge the men. You only want them to take you seriously, so you don’t put your full effort into it, but it’s enough that they stop trying to help you out and switch to beating you with their rifles.
The three men drag you out of the tent and through the military compound, back to an alley where two other guards let you pass. Once you make it through, you find yourself among dozens of bodies—some charred and burned, but most freshly dead.
“There is no aggressor tent, asshole. That’s just something we tell the med-heads so they don’t give us shit for terminating their patients once they turn.”
“Wait…”
“You shoulda listened.”
The men open fire.
THE END
Neutral Good
You pull out your police baton from the waistband of your work slacks, ready to fight. In a lightning-fast move, the wooden sword swoops in and cracks against the joint where your thumb meets your wrist—forcing you to drop the weapon. Then the sword is up and at the ready again.
The man stares at you, a dull, almost uninterested expression on his face.
You bring your fists up as a distraction, then reach out with your foot to kick the baton back towards yourself, but the staff lashes out again, this time connecting to your ankle. You roar with pain and your nerves scream out in concert.
Blind with rage, you bum-rush the guy, but his sword is already up and waiting. The man dashes to the side, windmills the wooden sword around, and slaps you in the back—sending you reeling. You hit the floor chest first. It’s a padded practice mat, but still your ribs crack from the impact.
When you get up and turn around, the man stands calmly, sword raised. His eyes dart to the side, and you follow his gaze to a rack full of practice swords. Is that a challenge? Accepted!
You grab one of the swords two-handed, like a baseball bat, and attack with brash haste. What you lack in skill you’ll make up in ferocity. You swing the wooden sword like mad and the guy effortlessly parries the blows. The fact that it’s so easy for him makes you all the more enraged.
You bring the sword up over your head and he plunges his own into your abdomen. Coughing, you offer one more wild swing. The man slides out of the way and slaps the end of his sword against your elbow. Your whole arm goes numb and, in reflex, you drop the weapon.
That’s when you see that the National Guard soldiers have arrived, rifles raised.
“He is all yours, gentlemen,” the Japanese man says.
You’re too exhausted for any other choice:
• Hands up, go quietly.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Never Sicker
Flashlight on and wits about you, it’s time for a drink. The door is unlocked and lets out an electronic ding! when you push it open. Damn thing must be battery-operated. After a moment, nothing appears to stir, so you take a look around.
Looks like the owner just abandoned the place. Several bottles lie broken on the floor, most likely from looters, but the store was well-stocked and they didn’t clear the place out.
Tequila? Seems like an occasion for tequila. Ooh, wait, there’s that Top Shelf cabinet up front. The one with the three-digit prices for each display bottle. A quick crack with Mitch the M4’s butt and the case is open. You grab the most expensive one, lift your mask, and take a swig. Then another. Annnnnd a third. But that’s it—gotta keep your wits about you.
It’s almost an instant buzz, but the sounds of scratching somewhere in the back kills it. You pull the gasmask back down and get ready. Flashlight and M4 pointed as one, you sweep back towards the sound, keeping as quiet as you can. Your heartbeat practically echoes in the silence.
When you make it to the back, you see that the rear of the liquor store has been broken open. It’s the loading doors where the supply truck drops off the week’s shipment, and from the thick black tracks left burnt on the pavement, you can tell the delivery guy left in a hurry. The truck’s ramp was probably still attached and ripped the rolling gate right off its hinges.
“Damn….”
At that exact moment, a pair of zombies burst forward from the periphery of the supply area, and you stumble back, knocking over a whole shelf of wine bottles. You aim and shoot; one down! The other is already on top of you and grabs hold of Mitch the M4. You pull hard and discharge a round into the thing’s gut, but it won’t let go. Ever heard of a “death grip?” Yeah, they don’t compare it to a vise for nothing.
One of the bottles catches underfoot and you fall back—hard. The ghoul comes on top of you, still gripping the rifle with one hand, and now claws at the gasmask’s faceplate with the other. Dropping the rifle, you wrestle with the creature with one hand and search for an advantage with the other.
BOOM! Right through the head with your sidearm and you’re free. Thanks, Deb!
After a moment to right yourself and check for others, you open the bottle for another drink and to clean up a bit. Something thick and black oozes from both infected brain cavities. It’s difficult not to vomit and you’re ready to leave. With the back of the store wide open, can’t sleep here anyway. Where next?
• The tattoo parlor. With its tough-guy design scheme, nobody will mess with me there.
• The strip club. It’s designed from the ground up to keep out unwanted flesh-hungry men.
• The payday loans building. With all the people they screw, they’ve gotta be ready for a mob invasion.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
New Exhibit
God, you haven’t slept that good in days. Exhaustion has a way of doing that, but fear has a way of keeping you awake too. Maybe that was the difference? In the garage, you never knew if someone was going to turn and try to bite you. In the horse stall, well, a worse fate loomed. It’s strange, because you barely know Jose and Angelica, but you felt like…like you could trust them to watch your back.
When you check your watch, you see that it’s nearly noon. You slept through the whole morning? Apparently the canopy in this exhibit is dense enough to block out direct sunlight, and you still feel like you could sleep longer. So what woke you up?
That’s when another peanut shell hits you.
“Looks like one of ’em’s finally up,” a man says in a thick Southern accent.
You shoot to your feet, grabbing the wrench, but the pair of men are on the other side of the bars. One of them is a tall, well-built black man wearing tattered business casual and wielding a sledgehammer. The other is a thin-as-a-rail redneck-type with a plain white tee and jeans, who holds a lead pipe.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” the redneck says. He tosses another peanut and adds, “I know the sign says don’t feed the animals, but ya’ll just look soooooo cute in there.”
“Who are they?” Angelica whispers, awake now.
“C’mon, Hef. You’re freakin’ her out. Can’t you see she scared?” the big man says.
“Ha. A ragged pair like you hardly scares me,” you say, shaking your head. “Just leave us now, peacefully. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
“It ain’t like that,” the big guy says. “I’m Tyberius. My thin friend here is Hefty. Why don’t you come on out and we’ll all grab something to eat, real civil like?”
“I’m Angelica. That’
s Jose.” When you don’t reply, Angelica adds, “Her majesty is called Cooper.”
“Angelica, stop talking. Leave the negotiations to me,” you say in a low voice.
“Doesn’t look like they have guns,” Angelica whispers. “And I’m hungry.”
“Didn’t ask for your opinion,” you growl.
You look to your Chef companion, who shrugs and says, “No entiendo.”
The thin guy shakes his head and says, “We in this together. The living, that is. What, you wanna get eaten?”
“Is that an offer?” you say, eyebrow raised. Attempting to disarm them.
Thin guy flushes, and the big guy laughs. Gives you a handsome smile and says, “Listen, we’re just looking for some food. It’s okay with you if we get some lunch, huh?”
• “Sure, you go your way, we’ll go ours.”
• “Fine, but don’t think that makes us together.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Night Ranger
The modified school bus chugs to life when you turn the engine. I think I can (escape), I think I can (escape)… You put the bus in gear and drive out of the motorpool, turning towards the front gates. Shit! The gates. Usually, someone manually opens those things so vehicles can pass through the inner and outer fences going to and from the motorpool. In your rear-view mirror, you see the guards from the armory heading your way. They set up and take aim. Damn!
Looks like you’re going to have to ram the gates. Do you have room to gain speed in this behemoth? Probably not. Unless you make room! You keep the bus in reverse and head towards the guards.
They dart out of the way and, once you’ve backed up almost to the yard, it’s time to plow your way through. As you floor the gas pedal and head back towards freedom, the guards come back and open fire. The bus windshield is reinforced, so the bullets only paint spiderwebs across your field of view.
One of the guards has a weapon that catches your eye. It kind of looks like…a grenade launcher. It’s stocky and black with a thick, rotating chamber of tube-fed ammo. He takes aim and fires as you pass, and a shattering somewhere behind you signals a clean hit. You wince and brace yourself for an explosion, but it never comes.
It takes a while for the bus to build up steam, but you’re soon up to ramming speed. By the time you make it to the inner gate, the barrier doesn’t stand a chance. You have to correct an involuntary fish-tail, but it barely slows you.
The second fence, the outermost barrier, is more formidable. Eyes stinging and breath growing short, you smash through the second fence. It catches something under the bus, and your side mirrors show a shower of sparks in your wake.
When you look in the main rear-view mirror, you see a cloud of smoke—inside the bus. Are you on fire? Now you turn back for a better look. There’s a canister rolling around on the floor, angrily spewing smoke. That’s the source.
As you start to cough, a burning sensation burrowing in your throat, you realize it’s tear gas. That bastard guard! The cloud grows thicker and your vision watery. Soon it’s impossible to see. Hacking, wheezing, you miss a bend in the road and slam into a ditch. Unable to think of anything other than breathing, you scramble for the door mechanism and free yourself, stumbling out into the night air.
Off to your side is a police cruiser; the guards have chased you down. Now they open fire and you do a lead dance before you fall into the field, dead.
THE END
No Fairytale Ending
Only yesterday, a shopping spree at the mall would’ve been your greatest fantasy, but tonight it leaves you feeling hollow. If you could have rounded up your friends and had the mall to yourself? That would have been amazing! Then your thoughts turn sour. Friends that you’ll probably never see again. Friends that, in all likelihood, will soon be dead or infected, if they’re not already.
No more sleepovers, no more birthday parties, no makeup or dresses. You won’t even have a prom.
“Sarah, are you okay?” Jason asks.
You realize you’re crying; mourning for a lost childhood, but when you look at Jason, the tears flow in earnest. He’s only fourteen, and the world has come to this?
“No prom, Jay. No more going to the movies. No homecoming football games. No college. No jobs. No future.”
“Doesn’t sound all bad to me. No cleaning my room. No more dirty dishes. No school!”
A laugh escapes through the sobs. Then a sobering look washes across Jason’s face.
“I just realized…I’m going to be wearing braces for the rest of my life,” he says.
Despite everything, the mall was a welcome escape from the reality waiting for you back home. But as you pull into the driveway, you’re filled with hesitation. What if Dad’s condition is worse? Should Jason see that? What about the guy in your bedroom?
“Ready?” Jason asks.
“Yeah, just…don’t tell Dad I cried, okay?”
Jason shrugs. “Whatever.”
Now then, back to business. You say:
• “Let’s check on the stranger first.”
• “Let’s see if Dad has a plan.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Not Having It
The tween chuckles and says, “There’s a Subway down the street, but that’s about it.”
Most of the others just stare, aghast, as you shrug and walk away. Most go back to watching the freak show that is the limo wreckage, but you can still feel some of their eyes burning into your back. But so what? It’s not like they’re doing anything to help, right?
So you continue on, hoping the eponymous sandwich shop can make one of those giant six-foot-long party subs (and, of course, deliver it), but it’s not meant to be. There’s a sign on the door that says, “Closed due to illness.”
• Screw that. A sign like that just means it’s free sandwich day.
• Damn it. Walk back.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Notice Me, Senpai!
Nathanael moves with his shinai just like you taught him: Bare feet shuffle along the mat in quick, controlled steps. Then he shouts, building up energy in his ki before executing textbook kote-men: first slapping down the hobo’s arms at the wrists, then following up with a blow centered on the forehead.
There’s a loud crack, but the man doesn’t even register the blow. Drugs, you think, rushing in to take over for your pupil. Christian strikes against the man’s back, wanting to pile-onto the defense, but your shouts send both of them away.
The man’s focus has switched from the screaming mother to your students, so you step in to divert that attention to yourself. With a hand out, you take the shinai from Nathanael, then plant a sharp jab into the bum’s sternum. His lungs make a loud moan of exhalation and he staggers back.
Shuffling your feet, you crack the wooden sword against the man’s hands, knocking them askew. You’ve probably just broke the man’s knuckles, but not his attack. He comes for you relentlessly, and you use that to your advantage.
“Doors!” you shout.
Mason and Nolan each open a door to the dojo, and you step around to bring the madman lunging towards the outside air. You duck out of his path, then kick as he passes to send him reeling over the sidewalk and into the rows of stalled vehicles. The children cheer as you re-enter the dojo, close and lock the doors.
“Defense comes from re-directing your opponent’s energy,” you say, not missing a chance for instruction. “In real life or in Kendo, it is the same.”
“He’s insane, he tried to bite me!” Sal’s mother shouts. “We need to call the police!”
Clearing his throat to make his presence known, Master Hanzo says, “All circuits are busy.”
“911 is busy? That’s impossible!” she shouts again, hysterical.
“Bad man’s getting up,” Liam says.
The children all rush to the glass doors to watch. Traffic in the streets is at a standstill, you realize. Gridlocked. Someone passes by on a bicycle with most unfortunate timing—the bum is up, and lunges, tackli
ng the cyclist. Several motorists come out to help, and end up getting bitten for their trouble.
A booming gunshot cracks in the morning air and the homeless man’s back opens with a hole clear through to the front, but it doesn’t stop him.
“Children! Look away from there!” you shout.
“Army men!” Stella shouts.
Getting a closer look, you see that she’s right. On the far distant edge of the street, several canvas-covered trucks unload men and supplies. They’re setting up a barricade.
“Come on, Sal,” his mother says. “Let’s get some help.”
• “Tell them I have children here. Good luck.”
• “No! Do not take the boy, he is safer here.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
The (Not So) Fun House
You follow Sims into the funhouse, where the double-doors open automatically with a hiss. Artificial smoke pours out while a strobe-light gives off a lightning effect from inside and a pre-recorded “Witch Cackle” echoes throughout. Guess there are a few downsides to the park still having electricity. The doors will slide open for the undead just as easily, so you’d better get going.
As you rush inside, you see a tall, thin man dart out from the smoke and shadows wearing his own combat fatigues and gasmask. In a panic, Sims swings his oversized knife and the man lashes out to block. It’s a hard connection, and the blow lands with a painful crack!
In response, the world around you shatters. It was just a fun house mirror, obscured by the low light and fog machine. Now that Sims is cursed with seven years’ bad luck, you take a moment to look around. To the right is a small doorway with an official Employees Only sign pinned above. Perfect, you think. That way you don’t have to deal with more trickery and bullshit.
PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4) Page 26
