“I think it’s a bad idea not to take their help,” Craig says.
“Noted. I’ll make sure I leave space for your dissenting opinion in my captain’s log,” Owen replies.
You watch out the front window as the men talk amongst themselves. After a moment, they notice you watching. Slowly, they each turn to face you, and grin.
“Boss, we need to secure these windows,” you say.
“Truth be told, we’re better off sealing ourselves in the garage,” Craig says. “The front office is mostly glass and—aside from the bathroom—isn’t worth much, strategically speaking.”
“There’s a second shitter in the garage anyway,” Stephen points out.
“Okay, let’s grab anything that looks useful and take it in the garage,” Owen replies.
You nod, then after one last look at the group outside, add, “And let’s weld the fuckin’ door shut.”
* * *
Josh isn’t much help, but when five other grease monkeys who spend all day fixing cars put all that effort into securing a garage, it becomes a veritable fortress. The downside is that you don’t have much in the way of food. Your inventory consists of: a mostly-empty box of donuts containing the stale, jelly-filled flavors that no one wanted, a bin of popcorn kernels and powdered butter taken from the lobby, a dish of mints kept at the register, and Owen’s Costco-sized can of coffee “crystals.”
Craig informs the group that you’ll want to add a scoop of the crystals to each cup of water; it’s not much, but it is a source of calories. You inform him that he can go fuck himself if he thinks you’re drinking that sludge.
Presently, the group waits on the popcorn maker for dinner while Josh groans in pain from the break couch. He’s covered in blankets that’re soaked through with the man’s sweat.
“He’s ice-cold,” Owen says. “Do we have anything to use as a space-heater?”
Josh makes a noise like a tire going flat, and suddenly his chest becomes still.
“Is he…is he dead?” Stephen asks.
“If his wound was infected, it’s possible,” Craig shrugs. “We should isolate him, or we might all get sick.”
“Where? We barricaded this whole place tight,” Brian says.
“We can still open one of the roller doors,” Craig suggests.
• “No. Put him in one of the car trunks.”
• “Open it, quick. We need to keep the air clean in here.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Seeking a Friend (with Benefits?)
The doctor blushes, and the edges of her mouth turn up in a smile. “Guess there’s not much time to be coy these days, is there?”
She finishes checking on the other patients in the tent, then leaves. You’re left to simmer in self-doubt, wondering if you’d read the situation wrong, when the tent flap opens. Doctor Abdous consults a clipboard, then speaks with confident professionalism.
“Patient…Tyberius? If you could come with me, please.”
You stand up and follow her out the tent, past the guard, and into the main compound. It’s a strip mall parking lot filled with other tents. With the sun setting, nearly everyone is inside. As you pass the main area, she takes off her surgical mask, goggles, and gloves. Despite no makeup and her hair done up in a messy bun, she’s stunning. Even worked to the bone and running on no sleep.
“The guards change shift in ten minutes,” she explains as you continue on. “Meaning those who saw us leave won’t be around to ask questions. This is me.”
She stops in front of a navy blue Ford hatchback crossover. She finds the keys, unlocks the car and opens the door.
“Are we going somewhere?”
She leans in for a whisper. “The seats fold down.”
“Oh,” you say, thinking, Smooth, Ty. Real smooth.
You make up for the moment by leaning in and kissing her. It sets off a spark and she shoves you inside the car, ripping off your clothes and fogging the windows in only a matter of moments.
“I’ve never done this before,” she says.
And you’ll probably never do it again, you think, then say, “It’s the end of the world.”
Somehow it doesn’t come off cheesy, probably because it’s true. She takes you inside herself then, and rides you with an intense passion. All those frustrations, all the people she couldn’t save, all the thoughts that humanity is dying—they all come out in a liberating, anger-driven fuck. Sure, it leaves you feeling used, but you’re not one to complain.
You spend the rest of the night just talking; getting to know Morena Abdous. Learning about her life and family. You tell her about your mother and the loss of your brother. Then you make love once more, gently this time. Focused on pleasing each other and taking your time to explore.
* * *
It’s morning now and there’s a pounding on the car window. One of the National Guard soldiers. Morena covers up with your dress shirt and cracks open the door.
“Sorry to…interrupt…ma’am, but we’re clearing the streets.”
“What? Why?”
“Orders. The quarantine is officially Can-X, and all remaining personnel are reassigned to assist the hospital. Yourself included.”
“Okay, give me five.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the soldier says before moving on to the next car.
“What’s Can-X?”
She starts dressing and says, “Military-speak for cancelled. It means things are worse at the hospital than we’d feared. Here, I think this is yours.”
She reaches under the passenger seat and produces the police baton you carried before you were brought here.
“Don’t go,” you say.
“The soldiers will be busy packing up. I suggest you sneak out now, while there’s an open window.”
“The hospital…just don’t, Morena.”
“What would you have me do, Ty? I’m a doctor. This is what I signed up for. Go find your mother, she needs you. Maybe….” She says, trailing off and thinking better of it. She leans in and kisses you, then says, “I won’t forget you.”
Unsure what to say, you just nod.
“Get going,” she says, forcing a smile.
“I’ll tell my mom about you.”
“Oh, geez…” she says with a laugh. “Go.”
She’s right and deep down, you know it. This is your best chance to get back home. Not much of a choice here:
Go home, before it’s too late.
Self-interest
“Sorry, fellas,” you mutter to the cell block security footage.
Unfortunately, these screens don’t give you any information on the world outside the prison. If the guards aren’t getting local reinforcements, things are probably worse outside than they appear in here. You’ve got to find a way out, and fast. Escaping from prison is nearly impossible, but with a massive distraction (like, oh, say, inmates and guards eating each other, just as an example), you’ve got a chance.
There are two ways out. First is the public entrance, where visitors come to see their friends and family. Unfortunately, you’ll have to go through the infirmary to go that way. The other option is the service entrance by the motorpool, but that particular building is in the most secure wing of the prison, located behind the SHU and the armory.
Where to?
• Head out into the Yard to get a better look at the state of things. You need to know the big picture before you plan your next move.
• Stay quiet, stay out of sight, and go for the motorpool. With any luck, the guards won’t have taken all the cars yet.
• The front way out is the closest. The infirmary won’t be easy, but you’ll be careful.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Semi-shelter
“The truck’ll do! Bring everything you can.”
Loaded up to the gills, you waddle your way to the 18-wheeler. With the tunnel clear of Zulu, you’re free to take on some extra weight.
Jason steps up, opens the passenger door to the truck, and a snarl c
atches your attention. From the cab of the 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!
Service (with a Smile)
The service entrance is locked; the handle remains stiff when you give it a turn. But when you pull, the door swings wide. There in the door crack is a small, pink Zippo lighter, waiting so someone could let themselves back in. Bless the smokers, you think with a grin before realizing that if the person didn’t come back for it, they’re most likely dead.
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 store, you find no one on duty. Must have fled in a hurry. There’s a reception desk and behind that lie several offices, the entrance to the warehouse, and a security hutch. Without hesitation, you go for the security nook.
Nothing for you to use, unfortunately. No pepper spray or Tasers, though you’re not sure those would even do much against the undead. The good news? The security feeds are still hot. You look at the various closed-circuit TV screens, scanning for signs of life…or death. No movement.
After a few more minutes, you satisfy yourself that the mall is indeed abandoned. Time for a look around. Your stomach leads you to the food court, which has plenty in reserve with which to sate your hunger. Smoothie stand? If nothing else, you can eat the fruit and down the overpriced almond milk. Or maybe you’re feeling industrious and want to fire up those chicken fryers.
After dinner and a second lap around the mall, the power suddenly dies—total blackout. Better stop by the hipster/goth paradise and crack some glowsticks.
* * *
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 help. Let the man in and fight off the infected together.
• She’d want me to survive. Push some furniture in front of the door and keep out the crowds.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Shawshanked
“This one’s got a big mouth, no?” one of the cholos says.
“Hefty, Hefty,” Celly says, shaking his head. “If I have one of mi hermanos drive the bus, what use do I have of you?”
From behind, a sharp pain digs in, right at your kidney. You stumble forward, grab onto Celly and hold tight as something warm flows down your backside. You try to talk, but the pain chokes off whatever words you might have. Celly pushes you away, and you fall to the ground.
“Sorry, but I said you’re no longer in my protection. Shoulda took the deal. Vaya con Dios.”
THE END
Shift Change
If there’s one place you’re guaranteed to find a doctor, it’s the ER, right? And—even better—these guys have probably been working on bite wounds all night. Maybe they know how to treat the infected? Maybe they can stop this plague?
When you make it to the ER, the whole place is a madhouse. Orderlies push hospital beds through the halls, narrowly avoiding collisions with nurses. The laminate floors are streaked with blood. Patients wail and scream from all around. One man who’s strapped to a gurney snaps his jaws at everyone who passes. In short, the ER makes the roads you took to get here look like a carousel ride.
“Excuse me. Sir? Ma’am? Hello? Can you help me?”
No one answers; it’s like you’re invisible. They’re all frantically trying to meet the overwhelming demand for triage. It’s like a WWII clinic. Soon they’ll start marking foreheads to prioritize treatments based on survival chances.
You tap a nurse on the shoulder, and she flips around, eyes wild. Seeing you’re not trying to bite her, she shouts, “You need to check in at the front desk!” and turns back down the hall.
The front desk, however, is empty. You scan the ER for an easy target; after all, this is a kidnapping mission. Ahh, there! A young, female, Indian doctor steps out from one of the operating rooms. She slips off bloodied gloves and pulls down her surgical mask to let out an exaggerated sigh. She looks exhausted.
You wave Jason over and follow her down the hall and into the break room. On break? Perfect! Cornering her, you say, “We need your help.”
She puts up her palms in mock surrender. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Not a request, ma’am,” you say, raising the rifle.
Now her arms shoot all the way up in genuine surrender. A disgusting bite mark on her wrist draws your eye. You lower the rifle.
“You’re bit?” Jason asks the obvious, then adds, “Can you treat it?”
“Not that we know of. We’re trying, but it’s only an average of six hours before the infection fully takes hold. At that point the patient’s heart stops, and the hunger instinct starts. It’s fascinating, really. It’s an animated stasis; a medical contradiction.”
Six hours? That’s it? When did Harrison Ford bite Dad? It must be getting close. And that guy at the house already had a bite when you found him….
• Better head home. If nothing else…to say goodbye.
• Pharmacy. You have to try! Get some antibiotics or something.
• How about a second opinion? To the cafeteria. Maybe you can catch another doctor on break?
• To the morgue. If these things really are coming back from the dead, the guys down there should know, for sure.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Shit Creek
A gasmask is only so useful, and as the mid-day’s heat pounds onto your combat uniform, the visor starts to fog up with drips of perspiration. Out in the open you should be okay, right? You really only need the thing for engaging fleshies. You’d only be wearing down the filter with 24/7 usage.
So you lift the mask up on top of your head, letting the breeze wick off the sweat. The city smells of death. Rotting corpses, excrement, blood, bile, and all the other bodily fluids. It’s almost enough to put the mask back on.
Several undead mill about the streets, but none have spotted you yet. It’ll require extreme caution not to frenzy the group again. Yeah, it both sucks and blows to be without any firearms, but you’re still alive, and that’s more than most can say. Still, you can’t knife-to-re-death all the fleshies in the city, so priority one needs to be: Signal rescue.
It’s impossible not to dwell on the fact that the government was partly responsible for the plague, but they’ll have some kind of backup plan. We wouldn’t attempt an operation like this without contingencies, right?
All you have to do is find a way to contact whatever remains of the government, and rescue will surely come. You’re still in the Air Force; they’ll happily pick you up and you can join the fight where you were always meant to be—safely far, far behind the front lines.
That quarterly computer-based-training on survival and anti-terrorism sure would come in handy right about now, but you always pencil-whipped the Air Force ancillary courses, figuring you mostly had to survive life behind a desk.
&n
bsp; But a few lessons stayed with you. For one, you know you should steer clear of downtown. There will be marauding bands of looters to contend with, and with your military uniform, even the good people will mob you like the lone lifeboat afloat after a cruise ship capsized; all passengers scrambling to get aboard the overwhelmed dinghy.
So where to, if not the heart of the city?
• Head to central park. I can start a signal-fire, and it’s probably the best open-space to set up helicopter extraction.
• That mega theme-park is fairly close. Odds are, not many people will head there during crisis, so I should be free to forage and use whatever crisis-center they have.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
SHOOT ALL THE THINGS!!!
Burst firing into the prepubescent crowd, you blast the children into oblivion. You’re like the Oprah of gunfighters: You get a bullet! You get a bullet! And you get a bullet! Everybody gets a bullet! When the kiddos you didn’t score a headshot on keep coming towards the Ranger, he turns to face them and you switch to single-fire and take them out one by one, with his help.
“Thanks,” he huffs, offering the first smile you’ve seen from these men. “How’d you know they were infected?”
The uncertainty must show on your face, because the man’s smile falters. With a curt nod, he turns back and helps a man in bloodied business casual and his wife or girlfriend get onto the plane.
“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.”
PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4) Page 35
