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

by James Schannep

  “Clever,” you say. “See how—”

  Just as a voice shouts, “Oh, my God!” and Haley’s mother steps onto the upper balcony. “It’s them!” she shouts.

  Haley’s father joins her out front, then Nathanael’s mother, and Nolan’s parents.

  “Hang on! I’ll grab the ladder and let you in,” Nolan’s father says.

  Not much of a choice here:

  • Deliver the trio of students to their parents.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Quit Early

  The double doors are unlocked. The main thing this tells you is that the employees left before the end of the day and didn’t bother to lock up. Or, perhaps, they didn’t leave at all. They could be inside, infected and waiting.

  “Hello!?” you yell. “I’m coming in!”

  The store lights are on, but the area is quiet. Looks like somebody raided the jewelry counter already, though the store is largely untouched. No one tends to steal a Sunday dress at the end of the world. The distinct lack of moaning is comforting, but that is tempered by a new, unsettling thought: to law enforcement or security, you would look very much like the looter that you are.

  “Not here to cause trouble,” you say, almost as an afterthought.

  You turn back and see several figures in the far distance, stumbling your way. The infected may not be smart, but you have to hand it to them, they’re persistent. Better lock the doors.

  Heading into the main mall, the place is truly abandoned. Locking the exterior entrances as you go, you see that quite a bit has been stolen from the various stores, though a few rolled down their security gates to protect their wares. Your stomach leads you to the food court, which has plenty in reserve with which to sate your hunger. Sandwich shop? Cold cuts should be easy. Or maybe you’re feeling industrious and want to fire up those pizza ovens.

  After dinner and a second lap around the mall, the power suddenly dies—total blackout. Better stop by the overpriced candle shop.

  * * *

  Though you’re sleeping in the mattress store next door, you’re woken in the middle of the night by a wailing alarm. They’re breaking through the double-doors of the department store! You rush over and see the entrance bathed in moonlight.

  Aiming for a better look, you stay in the shadows, hoping that the ghouls can’t miraculously see better than when they were alive, and move around to get a good angle on the doors. But it’s not the infected horde like you’ve feared—it’s a man in a convict-orange jumpsuit.

  He smashes the outer set of doors with a large pipe, letting himself in. It’s muffled, but you can hear his curses when he finds the second set of doors locked. Several wandering dead come into the entrance way behind him.

  Should you help him out? He’s clearly an escaped prisoner, but you’ve seen your brother Julian wearing that same color. What would mama want you to do?

  • She’d want me to survive. Push some furniture in front of the door and keep out the crowds.

  • She’d want me to help. Let the man in and fight off the infected together.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Radio Somewhere

  As a class, you huddle in the back office to listen. Truth be told, the twins couldn’t care less what the radio says, and Nolan and Mason are just old enough to realize that you find the boom box important, though they’re not quite able to grasp why.

  Master Hanzo turns the radio on and Jazz music comes through the speakers. You all wait in silence, hoping the DJ will soon interrupt with some news.

  “Change the station,” you say.

  “It’s the same song,” Haley says.

  “What?” Nathanael asks.

  “From yesterday. That’s the same song or whatever from when the DJ talked about closing school.”

  “She’s right,” Hanzo says. “Shhh, listen.”

  The song finishes up with a flurry of piano keys and brass notes, fades out, then starts up again from the beginning. The exact same song.

  “It’s on loop?” Nathanael asks.

  “So what?” Mason says. “They love that song or something? That’s dumb. I wouldn’t do a radio station with just one song.”

  “No one would, dummy. That means there’s, like, no one at the controls or whatever,” Haley says.

  You nod, “Master Hanzo, try an AM station. Talk radio.”

  He flips the dial and a woman with a reporter’s voice is saying, “—but it’s a bit odd, don’t you think? He’s just sitting there?”

  A man then says, “We received word from Dr. Richard Phoenix himself, this kind of thing is normal. It’s quite a shock to the system to accept that you’re going to live forever.”

  “Uh-huh, well I suppose it would be,” the woman replies. “If you’re just joining us, this is AM with Amy and I’m here with presidential hopeful Mitt Zombie, ahh, Zomney—Romney—whew! Really sorry about that, folks. Rough couple of days in the studio. And his press secretary, Saul Andreas, who was just explaining why Mr. Romney will be resurrecting his campaign for the next election cycle. Would you say, with the help of Gilgazyme® that Mr. Romney is just going to ‘wait out’ the competition?”

  “I’d say that he’s able to play the long-game unlike any other candidate in history. Part of why America and China have such a hard time seeing-eye-to eye is because we tend to think it terms of election cycles, while China thinks in terms of centuries. They’ve been around since the dawn of history, and see themselves in a secure position on the globe.”

  “And now your guy sees things the same way, is that it? But what about those already worried about elitism in Washington? Doesn’t immortality create a new class of…umm, what’s he doing now? Please stay seated, Mr. Romney. If you have something to say, there’s a mic right—hey! What the hell? Aghhhhhhh!!!!!”

  The live broadcast becomes a stridency of blood-curdling screams and Master Hanzo hurries to turn the dial. The new channel is mostly static and the old man leaves it there, catching his breath from the excitement.

  A gruff man’s voice suddenly crackles in through the speakers, “…you’re not alone…civilian camp….”

  “What is that?” you say, “Re-tune it, see if you can get a better signal.”

  “…be humanity’s…and all survivors…Route…ansmission-only…way communication.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a normal broadcast,” Haley says.

  “It’s not,” Master Hanzo confirms. “This is certainly local, but our antenna is not strong enough to receive the transmission. Yet there is a way.”

  “Master…what are you saying? That someone is trying to talk to us?”

  The old man nods. “During the war, the community put a large antenna on the roof and we listened to reports all the way from Japan. It is not difficult. If you bring the radio up top, you can use the antenna to boost the signal.”

  “I thought that was a cell phone tower up there?” you say, somewhat stunned.

  “Proof that you don’t know everything yet,” he replies with a smile.

  There are no stairs up to the roof, so you’ll have to get on from outside. A dangerous prospect, especially with armed soldiers patrolling the streets.

  • If Nathanael helps me, I can push the dumpster in the alley and boost myself up to the top.

  • The captain mentioned there are other civilians in the hardware store across the street. Perhaps I can borrow a ladder?

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Raise the Roof

  By sunset, you’ve put in five hours of solid work. In a strange way, this might be the closest you’ve ever felt with your mother, despite the fact that she’s half a city away, with an ocean of quarantine in between. Growing up, you never really got why she’d want to work so hard for something you could walk down the street and buy for no effort at all.

  Your back aches, but it feels good to have accomplished something. In the glimmering twilight, you look out over the rooftop garden. Half a dozen raised-beds constructed from storeroom palates s
tand gravid with seeds, soil, and potential. Plenty of room to walk between them and harvest their crop: carrots, potatoes, radishes, squash, cabbage, and watermelon.

  The only thing missing is water. Sure, several drums are stored on the roof, but that’s for drinking. As Sam said, it’s for, “When downstairs dies and we have to rise up top.”

  Now he says, “Hot damn, Ty! You’ve been busy.”

  You turn back to see Sam and Lily come from the stairwell, Lily holding a trio of Styrofoam to-go meal containers while Sam brandishes a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and three metal camping mugs.

  “Found this in the manager’s desk,” Sam says, breaking the seal and pouring. “I figure a nip at the end of a long day might help us sleep a bit.”

  “And I’ve got dinner courtesy of the National Guard,” Lily adds.

  You take the cup with a nod of thanks, then sip while your eyes go to the horizon. The whiskey warms your chest as you drink and pain in your muscles slowly numbs. But a different sort of pain comes flooding in.

  Mama. You can’t help but think of her out there, alone. Worried sick about you, no doubt. And maybe…sick…herself. Downing the rest of the cup, you try to drown the thoughts.

  You clear your throat, then say:

  • “Once it’s dark, I’m out of here. I have to find my mom. I’ll come back with her, if I can.”

  • “I could use a refill, Sam. This shit ain’t gonna get easier, is it?”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Rank and File

  Slowly unfolding the blankets, you look over your shoulder. You can’t help it. Obviously, no one’s there, but it’s a reflex of being sneaky. It’s not like you’re good at being a criminal. You’re in jail, after all.

  Oh…shit.

  Inside the gray wool blanket is a large industrial-looking file. Like, the size of your forearm. The kind of thing that could produce shanks on a mass scale. This is bad news. Why? It’s almost as bad as smuggling in a weapon. Worse, in some ways. Your Celly smuggled in a goddamned weapons factory.

  Here’s the kicker: Right now, this is your cell and yours alone. If the guards decide to do a cell toss, it’s your ass on the line. Something like this could put you in the SHU for a week and add another year to your sentence.

  For-profit prisons are always looking for an excuse to add time.

  • Toss the thing out the window. You can always feign ignorance when your cellmate wonders why it never arrived, but ignorance won’t work on the guards.

  • Put it back. Celly’s a huge guy, remember? If he wants to make shanks, you don’t want to get on his bad side.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Ratlines

  The three of you separate from the rest of the group without a word, and in the chaos, the C-17 closes up without you. Most likely, you’re presumed dead. With the crowd of zombies growing larger by the second, there’s no time for the LT to be sure.

  “C’mon!” cries Agent Bertram. “Our only chance is to follow that C-17.”

  They lead you to a small, ratty-looking hanger where a local pilot waits with an antique private plane. You know enough military history to notice the Luftwaffe emblems painted on the hull and wings. The pilot gives a thumbs-up and clears the chocks while the agents board.

  “Hold on, we’re taking a fucking Nazi plane?”

  The agents pause and Danly says, “It’s a seaplane. So far as I’ve seen, those things out there don’t swim.”

  “But it’s gotta be almost a hundred years old!” you protest. “How do we even know it can fly all the way to America? The range can’t be that far, can it?”

  Bertram grins. “How do you think it got all the way from Germany in the first place?”

  “She’s in great shape. Constant maintenance, recent restoration. There are airshows every year,” the pilot says.

  “Sims, this is Garcia. Garcia, Sims,” Agent Bertram says.

  “Hi, mucho bueno to meet you,” you say, still eyeing the plane.

  “You know I don’t speak Spanish, right?” the pilot asks.

  “That’s okay, neither do I.”

  The C-17 rumbles loudly and you look back to the runway. There are still hundreds of civilians scrambling to board with their families and thousands of undead following their lead.

  “Now or never,” Agent Danly says.

  • “Go without me, I’m not flying in that rust bucket.”

  • “Man, I sure hope you guys know what you’re doing….”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Realism

  The dead don’t move quickly, but they move faster than the plodding pace of your behemoth. If you’re going to avoid the crowd of undead doctors and nurses at the cafeteria, you’ll have to do it on foot.

  When you dismount and turn down the opposite hall, you’re greeted with an even more terrifying sight. Instead of hospital goers, this gang is made up of SWAT police and hardened soldiers—all having failed their rescue mission—all on a new mission from hell to tear the flesh from your bones.

  You should have known better. There will be no cavalry to save you.

  Though you can try to fight your way through, their armor is meant to protect against rioters. For example: protection against a wrench-wielding madwoman. And now the dead from the cafeteria entrance are behind you, cutting off escape.

  Don’t worry, there won’t be enough of you left to rise again.

  THE END

  Red Rover

  You sprint towards the National Guard barrier, but the men stand stock-still. With their faceless gasmasks on, it’s almost like they’re mannequins set in place for a Potemkin defense, and as you get closer to the line, their rifles rise to meet you.

  They wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would they?

  Not stopping to find out, you hurdle the saw-horse style barrier and the men open fire. You’re shot a dozen times, and with the last bits of life draining, you land atop several other would-be line breakers. Some have blood-encrusted mouths.

  THE END

  Repeat Offender

  You round the corner of the laundry building, hot on Solitary’s heels. The sweeping searchlights can’t reach you from the shadows of the cafeteria, but it looks like Solitary is heading towards the prison hospital.

  Bad idea, you think. You’re just about to say as much when Solitary makes a hard turn towards the entrance to the machine shop. It sits on the back side of the laundry building, and you immediately get it—no weapons from the armory? What’s the next best thing?

  You round the corner after him, but the man was waiting for you. He lashes out with a guard’s telescoping Asp baton, cracking you hard in the shoulder. You cry out, but just as quickly, he hits you again.

  “Fucking psycho!” you scream, nursing your arm.

  He then lands a blow on your knee, and when you fall to the ground, he hits you with a kick to the rib cage.

  “Why?” you groan. He ignores you, going for the locked machine shop door.

  A hungry moan draws your attention from the base of the hospital where a skinhead corpse, missing its lower half, claws towards you. What’s worse, his moaning draws in more of the fiends.

  Suddenly the busted-out infirmary windows pulse with life as every goddamned white supremacist in the prison pours out like worms from a rotten apple.

  You try to get up, but it feels like Solitary probably broke a rib. Wincing with pain, you climb to your feet just as the bastard makes it into the machine shop and closes the door.

  Stumbling, you realize he’s ruined your knee as well. The horde of KKK zombies rushes towards you, and you’re left with nowhere to run and no way to defend yourself.

  THE END

  Restless

  With a sigh of relief, the big guy says, “I’m Tyberius. My thin friend here is Hefty. We’ve met Jose and Angelica.”

  “Mi nombre es Guillermo,” Jose says.

  When you don’t reply, Angelica says, “Her majesty is called Cooper.”

  “How long have yo
u guys been here?” you ask.

  “The zoo? All morning,” Hefty says.

  “Check the cafeteria yet?”

  “No. Was on the way when Angie called out to us,” Tyberius says.

  Damn her, you think. She’s going to get you killed. She agreed to your “what I say goes” terms, but technically, you didn’t say anything about calling out to random people.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” you say, eyes narrowed. That leaves an uncomfortable silence, so you lead the group outside. Louder, you say, “I’ve got three goals: water, food, shelter. These two are along for the ride, and I said they could tag along, so long as what I say goes. Same rules apply if you guys—”

  “Seriously?” Hefty says. “The dead’re eating the living, and you’re worried ’bout the damn pecking order? Lady, you’re lucky you found couple’a badasses like us. Been out there with the nutters for too long. We’ll keep you safe if you tag along with us.”

  Something in his tone strikes you as painfully reminiscent of the self-righteous bastards you just left in the dust. Angelica would have you trade one group of masters for another, and just the thought boils you up with anger. You raise the rifle and fire—sending the dart past Hefty and into an undead wanderer.

  You all turn and watch the ghoul, though she still stumbles forward. The dart did nothing. In frustration, you rush in and beat her with the stock of the rifle, which sends teeth and flesh flying, but doesn’t crack the skull. Instead, you sweep her legs and use the barrel of the weapon to crack her head against the pavement until she stops moving.