INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (16 page)

When you look up once more, you’re no longer alone. The undead rush in to investigate the house alarm and are more than happy to find you perched on your knees beneath the dinner bell. You’re in no shape to do anything but get eaten.

THE END

Y
ou keep moving, not looking back. You’re better off alone, especially with that group of misfits as your only choice. You take inventory: you’ll need food, water, shelter, and maybe firepower. From behind, several house alarms screech out. You remove your binoculars and look back.

The National Guard wall has given way. Bursting forth like too many parasites from a distended stomach, the zombie horde has demolished the barrier under their collective weight. There are hundreds if not thousands of the fiends, all marching forward, excited and frenzied. The moan, like a buzzing beehive on a massive scale, comes at you with enough sound to drown out a freight train.

The neighborhood is flooded with undead, and there’s no sign of the other survivors. From where you’re standing, it looks like you made a good choice. The next path is out of the suburbs, and quickly. But where to?

•
 
Local pawn shop. Guns are priority one.

•
 
Time to go underground. Literally. Into the sewers and out of the open!

•
 
Get the staples first. The corner market should have all I need.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

R
osie shows you how to adjust the scope to best suit your vision, how to load the magazine and how to chamber a round, where the safety is, and tells you to calmly breathe out while squeezing—not pulling—the trigger. “Aim for the top of his head,” she says in a whisper. “At this range, the bullet’ll sink a bit.”

The Ranger moves so slowly he might as well be a stationary target. You set up, bracing yourself in order to best stabilize the shot, and squeeze off a round.
Crack
—the tree next to him splashes bark from your missed shot. The zombie looks to the tree with confusion and paws at the spot.

“It’s okay, try again. You pulled to the right because you
pulled
the trigger. Just let your finger squeeze closed, as if the motion is unrelated to shooting.”

You take in a lungful of air, then slowly let it out, preparing for your next shot. As you fire the round, you see the ghoul’s neck burst open. Close, but not a head shot, and the downside of a .22 caliber is that you don’t get any breathing room for a miss. If this was a .50 cal, the Ranger’s head would’ve blasted off from a neck shot.

The zombie turns toward the sound of the rifle. You’ve been spotted. He tries to moan, but the tracheotomy you just performed at least prevents that. You’ve got him excited, and his body is otherwise intact and “healthy,” so he stumble-runs toward you. It’s not a sprint, but he’s closing the football field between you faster than you’d like.

“Keep going,” Rosie says.

You crack off another shot, but now the zombie Ranger’s head is bobbling every which way and you’re panicked with adrenaline. You take another wild shot, the bullet flying somewhere into the woods past him. He gets within ten yards of you. You take another, and another—both sinking into his chest, but the .22 has no stopping power and he keeps coming.

When he’s right on top of you, Rosie lunges in from the side, piercing his skull at the temple with her Marine combat knife. He falls dead. “Not as easy as it looks, is it? It’ll come with time, but for now, I hope you’re appreciating your axe a little more.”

You think of a response, but before you can give it, the distinctive moan of the undead fills the woods around you. You look around and see that the cacophony of gunshots you unleashed has alerted more zombies to your location. The 10/22 rifle may be quieter than larger firearms, but it is by no means silent. A Scoutmaster and his troop of zombie Boy Scouts, who were most likely traveling with the Ranger in life, come at you from the side.

“Rifle,” Rosie says, an arm outstretched to receive her weapon.

You stare at the flesh-hungry youngsters headed your way; but something doesn’t feel right, and you can’t move.

“Those aren’t kids,” she says, as if reading your thoughts, “Demons in kid’s bodies, maybe. Zulu ain’t people—Rifle!”

You give it to her and she immediately goes into action, popping out the magazine you were firing—a banana-clip duct-taped to another clip for easy reloading—flipping it around, and inserting the fresh clip. She’s got twenty-five rounds to take out the dozen zombies, and she does it in exactly twelve. Clean, efficient, one headshot each.

Rosie revisits each zombie, ensuring that there is no movement in each one, to be sure the coast is clear. Then she suddenly dives to one side in a roll—a paintball move, no doubt—and cracks off two more shots behind you.

Two more bodies fall, a man and a woman, still decked out in their hiking backpacks. You didn’t even know they were there, and they were almost upon you!

Rosie looks at you with scorn. “Next time there’s a firefight, at least watch my back.”

•
 
You look away. “We’d better get going, more are probably on their way.”

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

“I
 am so fucking tired,” Hefty says. You’ve been walking all night. The sun has risen, but the world still appears blue in the cool light of morning. The group is in rough shape: dirty, covered in soot, and salty from dried sweat. Eyes red and baggy from no sleep. And you have no equipment.