INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (103 page)

Like an Old West saloon, the door flaps open and closed several times. You don’t see anything from your position in the doorway but empty kitchen. The Hangman Zombie snarls at you with ferocious anger. He moves with more intensity than a mother would in defense of her child. No emotion a human possesses is stronger than the hungry will of the undead.

“What the fuck?” says a man from inside the kitchen.
Says.
Someone’s alive!

“Don’t shoot!” you say. “I’m alive!”

“Ain’t got a gun,” says another.

“Man, don’t say that,” the first says in a subdued yell. “What if
they
do?”

“I don’t,” you say, “Just an axe.”

The zombie is going nuts behind you. Pushing the door to the kitchen open with caution, you end the stalemate and meet the pair. Both are in their twenties and look like the ordeal has made them feral. The first is a handsome black man in tattered business casual. He wields a gigantic sledge hammer and has a police baton tucked in the waist of his slacks.

Taking you in as well, he says, “You must’ve set off that booby-trap. Guess it didn’t work too well.”

The other one is a white guy, thin as a rail, and clearly a redneck. Plain white-tee kind of guy. He holds a heavy length of pipe, about the size of a baseball bat. “Sweet axe; where’d you get it?” he asks with a southern drawl. You shrug, he nods; point taken.

“People call me Hefty. This here’s Tyberius,” he says. They’ve just finished packing up the pantry into trash bags.

Tyberius notices your eyes on the food. “You hungry?”

Before you can answer, a loud
thud
crashes in the room outside the kitchen. There’s little doubt as to what it could be. Tyberius and Hefty back away from the door, leaving you up front. You raise your weapon high.

The Hangman Zombie bursts into the kitchen, his length of rope dragging behind him. Crumbled bits of drywall—from when the ceiling gave way to his struggling—litters the floor like a trail of breadcrumbs. He growls, arms raised, and lunges toward you.

Tyberius and Hefty watch to see how you handle yourself. This is it! Kill… or be killed. As the zombie crests the top of the staircase, you swing your axe like a baseball bat, trying to cleave the ghoul’s head off.

It’s not that easy. Undead automaton or otherwise, decapitation is an art more than a science. Yes, terrorists do it all the time, but they’ve got a whole gang holding the victim in place, who’s otherwise paralyzed with fear. You, on the other hand, have got this frenetic hell-spawn intent on eating you, whose mania makes a speed-freak look like a cooing child.

Crack
—the axe smashes against his shoulder. It’s hard to get a clean shot when he’s moving in for the kill, arms flailing and the like. Your blade, dull as it is, digs straight in to the bone, most likely fracturing it. Not that the Hangman Zombie cares.

He comes at you again, too close for you to pull back for another full swing, so you pop him in the face with the top of the axe. Nose broken, teeth cracked, and skin pulled back; still he comes for you. Again, you pop him in the face, this time shoving him away from reach.

In what can only be a reflex of falling backward, the zombie grasps the axe. Having shoved with a full arm-extension, your own hold on the weapon is tenuous at best. You lose it as he falls against the granite countertop and to the floor.

You look over at the two men in the kitchen. They both have their arms folded across their chests, staying away from you and the zombie. Tyberius waves you the “go ahead.” You look back at the ghoul, already rising from the floor, your axe hidden behind him and tangled in the spooling rope he once used to hang himself.

The rope! That gives you an idea. You pick up the anchor point of the far end, loop it into the garbage disposal and flip the switch. The whirring growl picks up; its snarl turns to a stressed grumble as the rope gets caught up in the disposal. The ghoul lurches back from the pull of the noose, still reaching for you desperately.

The disposal grunts with overexertion and burns out its motor with a terrible coughing fit, but the fiend before you remains trapped. You claim your axe from the floor and calmly bring it down atop his head like you’re splitting firewood. Brain and viscera slosh out upon the linoleum and the Hangman Zombie falls to the floor in a heap; undead no more.

Your audience of two looks at the pile of gore with you, nobody moving or speaking until Hefty clasps his hands together and says, “Whelp, who’s hungry?”

You look at him along with Tyberius, who cringes and says, “God
damn
.”

“What?” Hefty says. Then to you, “There’s a group of us, all gettin’ food. You could join for supper? I’m sure Cooper wouldn’t mind.”

•
 
“Who’s this Cooper?”

•
 
“You guys have been a
huge help,
but I’m a bit of a loner. Good luck to you.”

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
ou round the corner of the hallway toward the stairwell and see exactly what you were expecting: the Hangman Zombie broke free of his anchor and has fallen to the floor. He’s buried in a collapse of the ceiling under debris, slabs of drywall, and white-powdered plaster.

Two men watch from the kitchen entrance, eyes fixated on the debris pile. Both are in their twenties and look like the ordeal has made them feral. The first is a handsome black man in tattered business casual. He wields a gigantic sledge hammer and has a police baton tucked in the waist of his slacks. The other one is white, thin as a rail, and clearly a redneck. Plain white-tee kind of guy. He holds a heavy length of pipe, about the size of a baseball bat.

Then the ghoul begins to rise from the rubble. Lucky you, he stands in your direction. And locks eyes. Hungry eyes. He moans and steps toward you, the rope of his noose snaking behind him like some great tendril of Medusa.

Now the two men have noticed you as well. It doesn’t seem as though they’re planning on helping. This is it! Kill… or be killed. As the zombie crests the top of the staircase, you swing your axe like a baseball bat, trying to cleave the ghoul’s head off.

It’s not that easy. Undead automaton or otherwise, decapitation is an art more than a science. Yes, terrorists do it all the time, but they’ve got a whole gang holding the victim in place, who’s otherwise paralyzed with fear. You, on the other hand, have got this frenetic hell-spawn intent on eating you, whose mania makes a speed-freak look like a cooing child.

Crack
—the axe smashes against his shoulder. It’s hard to get a clean shot when he’s moving in for the kill, arms flailing and the like. Your blade, dull as it is, digs straight in to the bone, most likely fracturing it. Not that the Hangman Zombie cares.

He comes at you again, too close for you to pull back for another full swing, so you pop him in the face with the top of the axe. Nose broken, teeth cracked, and skin pulled back; still he comes for you. Again, you pop him in the face, this time shoving him away from reach.

In what can only be a reflex of falling backward, the zombie grasps the axe. Having shoved with a full arm-extension, your own hold on the weapon is tenuous at best. You lose it as he falls backward down the stairs.

He clatters in body-contorting twists and snaps, but he won’t mind. The two men step away from the ghoul and back toward the kitchen. You head down the stairs but see that you won’t be able to reclaim your axe until the zombie is dispatched because it rests beneath the already rising figure.

Trying to get some distance while you remove the hammer, you back away toward the rear porch exit, the one with the saw and the broken glass… As the zombie stands up, you get an idea! You rush over to the saw and flip it on. It whirs to life, humming with power.

The two men move toward you, watching the zombie converge on your location. You duck out from under the broken glass, then stand and position yourself just beyond the spinning saw blade.

“Let’s go, you bastard!” you scream. “Come and get some!”

Your undead pursuer complies, and comes straight for you, paying no mind to the saw blade. He’s a bit shorter than those he planned the trap for (wow, that’s ironic, huh? Using the guy’s own booby-trap on him!), so the saw’s teeth line up only to the tip of his nose.

In a final moment of clarity, you turn and press against the side of the house. And just in time too. These
Gilgazyme
 ® zombies have no heartbeat, and therefore no blood pressure, so their fluids stay inert when you cut them open. But a whipping saw blade changes that. Gruesome viscera splashes across the lawn and patio as he presses his face through the serrated deathtrap.

Not five seconds after the body hits the floor, the saw powers down. You come around and see the two guys at the switch. One of them must’ve turned it off.

“This is some fucked-up shit, ya’ll,” the redneck says.

“God damn,” says the handsome one with a grimace.

“I’ll take that axe back,” you say, noticing the redneck holding it.

“Mighty fine weapon,” he says, looking it over. At length he hands it to you through the porch door. You take it, each of you careful to avoid the “spilled” zombie. “I’m Hefty, pleased to know ya.”

“Tyberius,” says the other.

“Was there any food in that kitchen?” you ask, all business.

“You’re hungry?” Tyberius asks, trying not to look at the gore between you.

Hefty nods. “There’s a group of us, all gettin’ food. You could join for supper? I’m sure Cooper wouldn’t mind.”

•
 
“Who’s this Cooper?”