The double doors slide open once more, with the other survivors rushing in behind you, bringing in sounds of moaning and chomping teeth at their heels. Time to move! The narrow doorway doesn’t open up to a room, but instead to an equally narrow hallway. The corridor is illuminated by red lights, which feels like an odd choice, given that no customers should normally pass through here.
You stumble over boxes of costume masks, spare fog generators, and myriad plastic detritus: false chains, bones. You can hear the zombies on your heels, tripping over the same hazards, but still gaining on you.
The next turn in the hall is only an alcove. There’s the inside of a clown costume, hollowed out so an employee could insert his or her hands inside the clown gloves, like hell’s version of an infectious disease isolation glove box. That explains the red lights; they’re so the employees can keep their night vision.
You pass several other such “scare stations,” barely pausing to see if each is a way out. Finally, you make it to another doorway at the end of the hall—it’s your way out! You sprint past the werewolf-dressed mannequin and through the door. The room is dark, so you feel for a light switch, finding the panel on the left side.
When power comes on in the room you see…it’s a bathroom. The goal may be to scare the shit out of the guests, but the employees are the only ones with access to a pooper.
Turning back, you see what you already knew—the hallway is thick with the undead. Shoulder-to-shoulder, trampling over each other, all to get to you. The gang is looking to you, but they can see it on your face. You’ve failed them.
THE END
Not So Fast
You rush towards the rack of shinai, barely slowing down as you pull a wooden sword and windmill it about to ready position. The homeless man stays focused on the terrified mother as your students shrink away from the crazed attacker.
He grabs hold of her and his mouth opens wide, like a python dislocating its jaws before feeding, before the man goes for a bite. It’s sloppy form to take full, sprinting strides in Kendo, and after a lifetime of short, controlled steps it feels alien to lunge at the man.
You jab at the man with a non-traditional leaping strike to the forehead, hoping to knock him back before he can sink his teeth into the woman. But the spray of red that erupts from her neck screams of failure. The children shriek in response.
“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.
Returning, you lock the doors behind you, then pull off the cloth belt around your gi and wrap it around the sobbing woman’s neck. It’s a terrible spot to be wounded, because you can’t tie the tourniquet too tightly, lest you suffocate her.
Clearing his throat to make his presence known, Master Hanzo says, “All circuits are busy.”
“No ambulance?” you say.
He simply shakes his head.
“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, tackling 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 croaks. “Let’s get some help.”
• “No! Do not take the boy, he is safer here.”
• “Tell them I have children here. Good luck.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Not the Answer
You hit the cop square in the jaw. It’s a sucker-punch, and the man takes another step before he falls like a sack of potatoes. Still, you manage to catch him and help lower the guy to the concrete. He’ll wake up with a helluva headache, but at least he’s no longer one for you.
Crouched over the cop, your hand hesitates over his holster. That pistol…if it really is a terrorist attack or whatever, this could be a major asset.
Then the shadows of several soldiers fall over you.
“We got an infected here!” a man shouts from behind.
“Shoot ’em both; it’s the only way to be sure,” says another.
You hesitate a moment longer. Should you threaten with a show of force? Or put your hands up? Too late. In the next instant, the group opens fire with their rifles, taking you and the cop down in an indiscriminate shower of gunfire. Whatever’s going on here, these guys aren’t taking any chances.
THE END
Not without a Fight
Their eyes open wide with the speed at which you claim the handgun and draw down on the men. They start to raise their hands, but already blew that chance. The apocalyptic wasteland will be a better place with a few less assholes in it.
Click.
Your own eyes grow wide at the realization. The Colt isn’t loaded. What, you thought a gun-safety nut leaves his gun-locker loaded? That’s what the one on the owner’s hip is for. In fact, if it weren’t a state of emergency, you would’ve needed a welding torch just to open the supply.
“Fuck,” you say.
“Exactly,” the center man replies.
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
Not Yet
You shake your head. You’re not one to disobey your father, but this is just wrong. Jason, on the other hand, doesn’t share your reservations. He marches right on over to the door and before you can finish, “Jay, wait!” it’s open and the panicked man stumbles into your living room, falling to the floor in a bloody heap. His attacker rushes in right behind him, snarling and reaching out with frenzied arms. Whatever instinct possesses the man sends him straight toward Jason.
Suddenly, a red mist sprays out of the far side of the lunatic’s head and he collapses, dead. You realize you’ve shouldered your rifle and the gunshot was yours. You don’t even remember moving, you just remember one thought entered your head as the crazed attacker moved toward your brother. One word, really: No.
A quick glance to the other man shows that he is unconscious on the ground. The tension gone from the moment, you lower your rifle. Oh, God, you think. That was as easy as one of Jay’s paintball games, easier even.
“I just killed a man,” you say, but it sounds disconnected. Like someone else is speaking.
“You killed the enemy,” Dad says. “Charlie.”
“It was a z—zom…” Jason can’t bring himself to say it.
“Zulu…the enemy,” you say.
“Right,” Dad confirms. “It was either him or Jay.”
• Check on the unconscious man.
• Drag the dead body outside and lock up.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
No Warning
You rush out into the yard, but it’s already dark out and you’re offered little in the way of information. Still, the lights of the cell block shine brightly, so you can orient yourself. The searchlights from the guard towers sweep across the prison grounds.
Something makes a squick underfoot, like the yard after a heavy rain, but it’s not mud—you can smell that much. You bend down to get a better look, and when the searchlight sweeps across, you see you’re standing on top of som
ething that was once someone. As the light continues, you see several more horribly dismembered and gutted corpses splayed out across the yard.
You stumble away from the body, trying not to vomit. The searchlight turns back, following you, and when it comes across your body, a crack sings out from the guard tower and a terrible pain slices through your right thigh.
You howl, limping back towards shelter. If they’re shooting on-site, the prison must be in a terrible state. Another crack rings out—and this time the marksman doesn’t miss. Headshot.
THE END
The Nun Also Rises
With Jason’s help, you get your father to his feet.
“Dad? Daddy, can you hear me? I’m…I’m trying to say goodbye.” The man looks over at you with glossy eyes and a slack jaw. “You’ve been bit. It’s bad. So we’re gonna wrap—we’re gonna help you so you can rest, okay, Daddy?”
A flicker of understanding lights behind his eyes and he gives the slightest nod. The group of ushers waits by the altar with a white sheet. As your father walks into it, they encircle him, swaddling the man in several layers of cloth. They tie ropes at his ankles, knees, chest, and neck. He’s secured into the devil’s cocoon—where he’ll metamorphose into Zulu.
Father Thomas says a blessing, and then your father is laid to rest on the third pew from the front. Several other identical shapes fill your vision. In fact, all of these pews are filled by wrapped, immobilized bodies.
“Tell the sisters we need more sheets,” Father Thomas instructs his altar boy.
Jason pokes at the bundle next to Dad, and the person trapped within wriggles violently, falling to the floor, groaning. Jason backs away, startled. Other wrapped parishioners take up the call and thrash about in their bindings, adding their own disturbing moans to the chorus.
“Jay, I think we should—” you start, cut short by a scream.
It’s the altar boy, mobbed by the dozen sisters from the annex. They’re a fiendish coven now; fully-turned Zulu on the hunt.
“The power of Christ compels you!” a woman screams, rushing forward.
“Angelica, no!” Father Thomas cries. “We must bind them. Come, men, help me!”
“The power of Christ compels you!” she screams again, holding out her rosary crucifix towards the nuns. Before you can react, Jason runs after the crazed woman, and throws her to the side to prevent her meeting the same fate as the altar boy. One of the nuns—Sister Mary—grabs your brother’s arm.
• Nooo!!!! Time to exorcise some demons using the gospel of Ruger.
• Sprint over and shoulder-tackle the woman. There are more living than undead in this cathedral, and you can overwhelm them by force.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Nun-chucked
Sister Mary sprawls out when you bash into her, freeing your brother and attracting the attention of the other sisters. Now you enact the revenge fantasy of every troublemaker whose ruler-slapped wrists wanted to strike out and backhand those who scolded their back-talk. You punch, kick, and strike the nuns with righteous indignation while the ushers claim sheets to wrap the sisterhood.
When it’s done, you sit down on the pew, breathing heavily and sweating from the exertion. You’ve got blood on your hands—literally—and a quick examination of your forearms tells you some of it is your own. During the struggle you were bitten several times. The adrenaline rush must have been enough to block the pain, but it doesn’t matter….
You’re INFECTED.
Nundead
With a firecracker pop, you send a .22 into Sister Mary’s habit and it transubstantiates into red mist out the other side. Jason frees himself from her grasp and backpedals from the rest, unslings his 16-gauge, and blows the face off the nearest Bride of Christ.
“No!” Angelica screams, grabbing your brother from behind.
Several other Zulu nuns come for Jason, and he’s vulnerable, while he has to grapple with the crazed housewife at his back. Not wasting a beat, you attack the woman with the butt of your rifle, landing the blow directly into her perfectly coifed blonde tresses. As she falls to the ground, you shoot the nearest nun.
“Stop!” Father Thomas cries, stepping between you and the sisters. “We must bind them!”
You back away with Jason while the ushers help Father Thomas subdue the rest of the rabid women; most of them give bites to their would-be saviors as thanks.
Pulling Jason away, you say, “This place is hotter than a pair of mice screwing in a wool sock in front of the fireplace. Let’s go.”
“Not so fast,” a man says from the cathedral entryway.
It’s not one man, but five. They’re decked-out in paramilitary gear and leather. Clean-cut types with hard arms and soft bellies. Each holds at least a handgun on his person. You also notice several large knives. One has a belt of grenades…are those real?
The blond housewife Angelica rushes towards them, clutching a candlestick from the altar.
“Thank you, Jesus, please, take me with you,” she pleads.
“Certainly,” the lead man says. “Any woman who ain’t been bit can come with us.”
His eyes come to land on you.
“No, thanks,” you say. “But they could use your help.”
“Ain’t interested. Drop your weapons, missy. Boys, grab the breeding stock, take care of the rest.”
Jason fires his shotgun at the nearest man, but at that range, the guy just gets peppered with shot and lets out a pained scream. The other men open fire, and you do as well. You take three of them down, but they give a lead funeral to both you and your brother.
THE END
Nut Shot
You lunge forward and butt-smash the paintball rifle into Jason’s groin as hard as you can, which is pretty hard. Your brother collapses, coughing from pain, hands cupped around his injured fourteen-year-old’s manhood.
“Not funny,” you say, standing and removing your own mask. “CEOs and company presidents are eating one another, and that’s not a joke, Jay.”
Jason simply wheezes.
“Anyway, hope you enjoyed your Saturday pick. Next time we’re seeing a chick-flick, muahahaha.”
You turn and start out of the paintball arena. “C’mon, I’m late for my shift at the range.”
• Get driving before dad calls.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Oathbreaker
Master Hanzo’s death weighs heavily on your conscience. You gave the man your word that you’d return, and you failed. You helped the children find their way to their parents, and that is something to be proud of, to be sure. But you’d be nothing without that man. He didn’t just teach you martial arts, he taught you courage, respect, and a willingness to help those in need.
“I’ll have to save others,” you say aloud. “As many as I can. I will bring them to Salvation and together we will survive.”
Better get walking. The old reformatory is deep in the woods, and you’ll have to cross the city once more before heading into the wilds.
Click to Continue…
Occupied
Suddenly your legs kick to life, and you find yourself hurdling the barrier. You couldn’t see it before, but you fly over the bodies of several other would-be line breakers. Some have blood-encrusted mouths.
You practically fly down the street on adrenaline-boosted strides. Still frantic, at the next intersection you stop and look around. What you see is another city block, cordoned-off, and your heart sinks. This area is a downtown strip mall, the road filled by another block of commuters held hostage in their sedans. Your mouth dries up and you get a vertigo feeling. Just how big is this quarantine zone?
Several National Guard soldiers look your way, one of whom clutches a radio with one hand and signals towards you with the other. Best get out of sight.
You duck behind a newsstand. The place has already been attacked, from the looks of it, what with tabloids covering “Celebrity Cannibals” smattered in fresh gore and newspapers with headlines on the new Gilga
zyme® wonder drug torn, tattered, and strewn about.
The countertop drink cooler sits open, a few water bottles left inside. Without hesitation, you reach for a bottle, twist off the cap and chug.
“Hey, that’s not for sale!” a man hisses.
You spit out half of the water, raising your baton in fear. The man—the newsstand owner, from the looks of it—looks over your shoulder, and nods, then shrinks back into his hiding spot behind the counter.
The whole cooler suddenly explodes, not two inches from your head, with a deafening boom. You duck and spin around, looking for the source. Off to your left, there’s some kind of Karate dojo where a man tries to pull young and curious eyes away from the storefront. To the right, there’s a hardware store with a man and woman up on the roof. The guy points and you turn to see a pawnshop directly behind you. Leaning out of a barred window is a redneck holding a bolt-action hunting rifle, a Duck Dynasty cap on his head.
“Act like a thug, die like a thug!” the man shouts.
He slides back the bolt-action, reloading the weapon.
• Go for the Dojo! Who’s going to shoot at a bunch of kids?
• Go for the hardware store! The man must’ve warned you for a reason.
• Go for the pawn shop! He’s close—charge the shop owner before he can reload.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4) Page 27
