INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (100 page)

“Must be security,” she says. “Keeps out uninvited guests without calling in more Zulu.”

“Uninvited—like us?” you ask.

The three of you wheel about in response to a voice from above. “What’s the password?” There’s a marksman, his rifle trained down upon you.

Rosie hesitates, unsure of if she should aim back at him. Lucas slowly raises his hands from their position on the hilt of his blade. You stand stock-still.

“You have three seconds to respond,” the man says.

“Don’t fucking shoot,” Rosie answers.

“That’ll work,” the marksman calls down, lowering his rifle.

There’s a loud buzz, and a gate starts to open around the front of the penitentiary. You move around toward an enormous fenced-in tunnel. This must be where the new inmates are bused in. The inner moat of zombies doesn’t connect here.

The three of you walk through the tunnel as a giant gate slides open within. You can’t help but think of a drawbridge on some mighty castle. Waiting inside is a small contingent of four armed men and two equally deadly women.

Leading this group is a large bear of a man with a great gray beard evocative of a great Civil War general. He wears an old-style army BDU camouflage blouse as a jacket, with a Colonel’s eagles on the shoulders and an appropriate nametag—“GRAY.”

“Are any of you injured? In need of medical attention?” the brusque man asks.

You all shake your heads, and Rosie adds, “No bites neither.”

“Then let me be the first to welcome you to Salvation,” he says, with ceremoniously outspread arms. “Come, you must want showers and a change of clothes. Then we’ll talk over a hot meal.” That sentence practically melts your insides, and then something gives. All the stress suddenly gone, you slump to the ground.

*     *     *

The water was warm and ample. You had to shower with Lucas and Rosie in the large, open prison showers. A partition is erected, to separate the denizens of Salvation by gender, but it’s thin enough that you heard your companion on the other side groaning with delight. You could’ve fallen into a deep sleep right then and there, but the allure of a hot meal proves enough to keep you stirring.

Presently, you sit in a great banquet hall, the rest of the compound eating in the cafeteria alongside you. You’re at the center table with Rosie, Lucas, Colonel Gray and one other man. You’re in prison orange. There’s a loud thunderclap and a flash just outside. Rain begins to pelt the windows and rooftop.

“I apologize for the outfits,” the Colonel says. “You’re welcome to wash your clothes or look through what we have in the morning.”

“I’m just glad I’m not stuck out in that,” Rosie says in sync with a boom of thunder.

“I’m Arthur Gray, Army Chaplain Retired, and this is my son, Irving.”

The younger man raises a camera with a hefty telescopic lens. “I was with the Associated Press,” he says. “I’d like to take your pictures, if you don’t mind. And get your stories down when you get a chance.”

“Is there a news organization still active?” Lucas asks.

“No. But one day, when we’ve beaten this thing, we’ll need some documentation of what happened and how we survived.”

“An optimist! I love it. I go by Rosie, you know, from the World War II posters?”

“The Riveter—as good an image to conjure up as any,” the Colonel says.

You and Lucas introduce yourself, and Irving Gray snaps your pictures. He has a small notebook and jots down notes. “So who’s in charge here?” Rosie asks.

“I am,” Colonel Gray answers. He rips off a piece of biscuit, stuffing it in his mouth. His square jaw flexes behind the bites.

“No offense, pops. But I know chaplains don’t get combat experience. What do a priest and a journalist know about leading troops?” Rosie asks.

He slowly wipes his mouth with a napkin and swallows his bite. “I was trained as a soldier first, young lady. But make no mistake—it’s the chaplain that’s accepting you with open arms, not the soldier.”

Irving clears his throat. “My father and I may not have shot at the enemy, but we’ve both spent time in combat zones.”

“And what does God say about this plague?” Lucas asks Arthur Gray.

“He says to survive,” the man answers with rust in his voice. “The three of you are strong, fit survivalists. That’s good—we need hearty troops who can navigate these woods. I’m afraid our fight is long from over. Get some rest, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

•
 
As pillow touches face, go from zero to sleep in 6.4 seconds.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

T
his particular station hasn’t exploded… yet, though there are plenty of drugstores that are not so lucky. Maybe it’s because of the “Sorry, No Gas” signs up on the pumps, or because it’s too close to the heart of the city—anyone who wanted to evacuate probably planned on filling up on the way out.

Still, it’s eerie to see such a popular locale with no patrons.

Not eerie like it would be for a human, suddenly seeing the building as a ghost ship floating amidst a newly dead city, but eerie in the sense that you were hoping there’d be people here to eat. Not having people to eat gives you the willies.

You go up to the front door, looking in through the glass façade. As evidenced from the order within, you could deduce that people have yet to loot the road-trip snacks and caffeine-laden drinks. If you were capable of such deductions. Instead, you look in, your glazed-over eyes searching for any sign of prey through the glass. You put your flat palms up against the door and shake them with a frustrated grunt.

After a moment, you give up and go search for another entrance. Oh hey, look at that, someone crashed a car into the back area where the pharmaceuticals are normally locked up. You move around the hood, past the crushed cinderblocks, and amble your way into the building.

There have certainly been people here. You can
smell
the panic from those looting the medical supplies. They tried to be quick, but almost certainly attracted a group of immortals during the siege. They made a clear mistake: using their getaway vehicle as a battering ram. Oh, what you would give to have been here for that!

Unfortunately, that event has long since passed. Now it’s just the dull panorama of a raided pharmacy. Nothing could interest you less than medical supplies. What need have you of triage when you don’t bleed? It’s amazing how much emphasis the mortals put on healing; one quick dose of
Gilgazyme
 ® and they’d never be sick again. Maybe you should open a free clinic?

Ding!
the dinnerbell rings, in the form of the front door motion-detector. Your jowls tingle in a sensation that once would’ve brought a rush of saliva. You move toward the front of the store; there’s a connection through the manager’s office.

“I’m gonna check the pharmacy,” a man says.

“Be quick,” a woman replies.

Oh, I will!
you’d say if you could.

The man walks through the portal to your world, looking back and saying, “Two minutes,” to his companion with a grin that promptly turns into a look of
oh, shit
when he turns and bumps into you. Two minutes? Nah, you don’t need that much time.

You’ve bitten into him before he even had time to scream. But scream he does. You claw and bite at the source of that screaming, wanting to claim it for yourself. His revolver falls to the floor in a clatter; that could’ve been a lot worse. Then he falls, his lifeblood shooting out like hell’s geyser, no longer possessing the strength to do anything but die.

The woman runs in, screaming like a car just before impact, ready to get revenge with her crowbar. She puts all of her ninety-pound weight into the swing and lands the implement in the crook of your neck with a dull
thud.

Oh, how she must regret trying to be
skinny
all these years. The times she refused weights at the gym because she didn’t want to look “gross and muscle-y.” Now she’s a waif, and to you she’s a wafer. She crunches between your teeth, folding under your grasp with laughable effort.

You hunch and eat her, and once you do, you rise to leave. The man’s corpse has gone cold, so it interests you no more. Lucky him, he’ll rise again in six hours. This is how the strong survive.

So… where to next?

•
 
I’m still hungry. How about an all-you-can-eat buffet?

•
 
Hmm, where do scared people go? Police station!