INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (105 page)

A
s you approach the police station, you behold a glorious sight: throngs of unwashed humanity, all lined up at the front door, exposed, and demanding salvation. You’re here to deliver.

The people are a tinderbox waiting to riot, and your moan provides that spark. There are fallen immortals around the crowd; you weren’t the first to arrive. Evidently the mob was coherent enough to fight off the initial wave, but there were casualties. And the police show no sign of assisting these refugees, so each progressive wave takes a toll on the group psyche, moving them more toward desperation.

As if waiting for your cue, those who were bitten and “died” among these mortals now rise as gods and attack their former husbands, wives, children, friends; humans. Others from the pantheon join in and sweep out across the streets to attack. Your instinct was right: panicked people came to this police station and what could’ve been a formidable militia is now just penned-up cattle.

You make it to the crowd with your fellow flesh-eaters. Humanity’s first instinct is to press back, and you can actually hear the crush of those at the front of the line over the screams of the crowd. With the dumb “hands in front of my face” reaction prevalent, you get to eat a lot of hands and forearms.

Then gunshots erupt.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea (in more ways than one) and gives a clear view of police officers in riot gear, supplemented by National Guard troops. They lower their weapons from having fired them in the air and now shoulder them professionally.

“If you’re alive, get on the ground! We’re about to open fire!” orders the Chief of Police from his bullhorn.

With this command, the vast majority of the mob drops into a cowering ball onto the pavement. The Chief continues, “Open fire in three…” A lingering synapse wants to warn you of something. The feelings these people have are broken within you. It’s a vestigial fear, a severed emotional connection, but it’s not enough to get you to act.

“Two…” Instead, you continue chewing on the wrists of your victim, despite her attempts to fall to the ground.

“One—fire!” The police and soldiers open fire above the heads of the living and blast apart limbs and torsos of the immortal with automatic, burst-fire, and semi-automatic weapons. The few humans who were in too much shock to duck, now fall limply to the floor after some lead insistence. The woman you hold dances as the bullets ricochet within her ribcage.

Your torso is riddled with holes by the barrage, but none of the shots strike you in the head. You almost smile at the thought of how creepy you must look full of bullet wounds that don’t bleed. Your stomach and internal organs are a different story, however. Bodily functions may be on pause, but once your gut is punctured, the contents spill forth.

The woman you were eating falls dead from gunshots. No longer interested, you let her drop and move forward. Those firing all but drop the weapons to hip level. This is how worthless the attack proves. They don’t let off the trigger, and the damage is minimal.

But something catches your eye. Snipers have arrived on the roof. A red targeting reticule lasers in on your forehead. Your instincts were right about the number of people hoping to be rescued here, but they were off on the associated dangers with confronting a police station. The bullet in your brain confirms it.

THE END

S
he walks alone, quiet as ever. She stares at her gaudy candlestick, examining the engraving of the piece. It’s by no means an antique; this is the mass-produced kind you’d find at any upscale furnishing store. She probably paid too much for it.

“Angelica, right?” You sidle up alongside her, hoping to engage her in conversation.

Shaken from her thoughts, she replies, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I just thought you might want to talk to someone.”

“I don’t. You’re very sweet, though.”

You’re not thrown so easily. “Why don’t you tell me your story? You’ll find I’m a good listener.”

“My story? Same as everybody else’s. The world’s dead, and I’m just trying to get by.”

“But who were you back in the real world? Maybe it’s good to remember.”

She looks at you with incredulous eyes, then says flippantly, “I drank myself alone. You see, I had lost everyone before this whole thing happened, so there’s nothing to tell, I’m afraid.”

“How did you and Sims meet?”

“My, we’re a chatty one, aren’t we? I knew a few housewives who’d love to meet up with you for coffee.”

A loud crack opens in the air. You turn to see Cooper within an inch of Deleon’s face. She looks as much like she could kiss him as punch him. A broken handheld voice recorder lies on the ground next to them.

She whispers something to him, and you can’t hear it, but then intentionally loudly she says, “Why don’t you explain what we’re up against, if you’re such an expert?”

The whole group now waits on Deleon. “All right, good idea. Let’s see… I’m guessing you know that the head is the only weakness. All right, fine. You know they’re attracted to any commotion or human sounds and smells. Including their own moans, right?”

She whispers again. “I want to know how someone becomes one.”

“Well, a bite, even a small one will fester until the person eventually transforms. The gene-therapy is delivered essentially like a virus, meaning for all intents and purposes, this is a blood-born pathogen.”

Cooper finally looks intrigued. Deviously, she asks, “Really? So we should check people for bites?”

“After every skirmish, generally.”

“And there’s no hope once you’re bitten?”

“There will be. Once I finish my cure,” he smiles meekly.

A man screams out. You look back, just as Tyberius nearly gets yanked into a car. He screams as a zombie trapped in a seat belt tries to pull him in. “Get this fucking thing off me!” he shouts.

“All right, all right, pull back,” Hefty commands.

Tyberius pulls away the best he can and Hefty brings his length of pipe down on the ghoul’s arms over and over. The bones snap, but the grip holds. “Hold on.” Sims uses his ridiculous
Rambo
knife to cut Tyberius’ dress shirt in half from the back.

Tyberius manages to slip out and away from the car, his musculature on display in a wife-beater-style shirt.

“Kill it!” Angelica shouts, helpless with panic. Seatbelt Zombie moans.

“Hold it, Sims,” Tyberius says. “Hefty, do me a favor.”

“You got it.” Hefty stands at the back of the car. The zombie leans as far as it can, torso out of the car, growls, snarls, and moans at Hefty. Tyberius finds the giant sledge hammer he carried; as he claims it from the ground, its end scrapes the pavement. Sparks jump from the metal head.

“Kill it now!” Angelica shouts again.

Tyberius raises the weapon slowly and deliberately, then with an athletic fierceness, spins a three-sixty—ending with the zombie’s head caught between the car frame and the full weight of the hammer.

Another five zombies come out of nearby buildings. You’re surrounded. You axe one in the back, sending it towards Guillermo. Guillermo swings his meat cleaver and frying pan as if clapping them together; the zombie’s head caught in the center where they meet. The damage is disgusting.

Angelica and Deleon manage to knock a zombie down and beat it with candlestick and hammer, respectively. The other three ghouls move in. Cooper shouts for the first time: “Hit the pavement!”

You and Deleon look over toward her as the rest of the group dives to the ground. Cooper lets her length of motorcycle chain slide off her shoulder and it unravels to the concrete. She steps forward and begins to swing the chain. Finally, you and Deleon duck. With a whip-like motion, she connects the chain with a zombie’s skull, which gives off an incredible crack. The twice-dead zombie slumps to the ground. She takes out the other two with similar finesse.

The streets are silent now. The group rises from the ground. “We’re getting off the street for the night,” Cooper says. You realize the sun is setting.

“Where?” you ask. She points forward. You all look: a gothic Cathedral sits ahead—stark and menacing. The spires shoot up through the start of dusk, like the claws of some great beast.

“Looks cozy,” she replies.

•
 
Continue to the Cathedral.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
our new friends escort you out of the house and into the streets. One of them gives some kind of code-whistle/bird call, then waits. Stillness on the afternoon air. Within thirty seconds, more survivors pour out of other houses, four of them in total, to round out the group to six.

One of them seems perturbed, a woman who walks up to you with purpose. “Who the hell is this?” she asks.

She’s probably in her early thirties, though it’s certainly possible the last few weeks have aged her. She’s dirty just like you, but she’s beautiful in a hard-as-nails sort of way. Black hair and blacker eyes. She wears an unbuttoned mechanic’s shirt with a fitted undershirt beneath. The embroidered nametag reads, “Cooper.”

She slaps a giant monkey wrench in the open palm of her hand whilst looking you up and down. “Ain’t got a tongue?”