INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (20 page)

The doctor’s face is covered in sweat. He looks around nervously. “Enough for now.”

“We need sleep. We’ll post a guard and decide what to do with you in the morning.”

•
 
Get some rest.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
ou’re upstairs staring at the Frida Kahlo painting,
Thinking About Death
, when the doorbell to the penthouse rings. You can’t remember exactly what that sound means, but a feeling deep within tells you that something edible is nearby. Your new friends hear it too and their interests are piqued as well. Then there’s a knock on the door and you know
exactly
what that means. Time to shuffle down and meet dinner.

“Richard?” a voice calls out. “It’s Lewis.”

A man wearing a lab coat enters. This must be the other doctor, Lewis Deleon. Not that either of you recognize his name, but Richard Phoenix heads down to meet his guest nonetheless. You’re very interested in meeting him too.

“Christ, are you high?” Deleon asks, seeing the stumble of his former partner. You continue walking toward him. “I need you to sober up. We’ve got problems—big problems.”

Phoenix makes it to Deleon, who says, “I knew I shouldn’t have gone along with you. The rats are reacting violently—”

Phoenix lunges at Deleon, mouth open and growling. Deleon instinctively raises his right arm to block his face and his coworker bites down into his forearm. You’re jealous. You shuffle toward him with excitement, racing the two hookers for who will get there next.

Deleon breaks free from Phoenix, losing the skin of his forearm in the process. Just as you’re about to join in, he slips out and sprints away from the apartment. You groan in frustration. But the good doctor was kind enough to leave the door open, and you hobble after him.

“Come on—open!” Deleon shouts at the elevator. Unfortunately for you, no one else in the building has used the lift recently and the doors open immediately. Still, you’re not far, and you’re getting closer. Only a few more steps… but the lift doors shut before you can reach him.

You beat on the doors, your entourage growling and moaning with aggravation and shared disappointment. Then Dr. Phoenix discovers that the door to the stairs is the kind you only have to push to swing open. You could kiss him. You make your way down the stairs, though there’s no way you’ll catch Deleon, but you don’t care.

Sure, you wish you could share your immortal gift with him; after all, he freed you. But you’re hungry enough that any meal will do. The world is now your oyster.

•
 
Better get walking.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

I
t’s tragic, really. The world’s moving so fast and now you’re moving so slowly. You’re going to live forever, but it seems as if humanity won’t last a month. What will you do? Where will you go? And most important of all… who will you eat?

Such questions don’t even enter your everlasting mind. The neighborhood shakeup is pure ecstasy. If you were gluttonous as a human being, it’s gluttony that defines you now as an immortal. Things were nice early on, when people were coming outside to
see what was happening.
Now? They’re all boarded up.

Just as early humanity quickly killed off any animals docile enough not to run away, so the immortals have taken care of any curious humans. The ones that remain are survivors. Maybe not badass
Rambo
/commando survivors—at least not most of them—but these survivors have at least figured out that there’s no reasoning with you. And that’s unfortunate.

You roam the streets with the other gods and goddesses. The wind is strong enough to bring smells of life to your nostrils; life newly snuffed out and something better: panic. The sweat and adrenaline of humanity flows like a sweet perfume, further accompanied by something even more pleasant: screaming.

“Come and get some, motherfuckers!” a man shouts from down the street. You, it would appear, are that motherfucker. And you will most certainly come and get some. So will all your friends. In a chorus of moans, this neighborhood pantheon converges on the man and his small group.

The cacophonic gurgles each individual spews forth come together in a unifying Gregorian chant, fully drowning out the taunts and jeers the men down the street feel brash enough to make. The only sound that registers above the moan is the crackle of gunshots from their leader’s deer rifle.

Some of your companions around you fall down, yet the group marches on. It’s like a military line in the civil war; you just hope it’s not your lucky day to catch a bullet in the head. You stumble-run down the middle of the street, anxious to be first in line when the food is distributed.

As you get closer, you see a group of five: three shooters plus two guys trying to cut down a utility pole. The man on your side grinds away with a hacksaw while his companion swings an axe opposite him.

These two barely register, though, as the three gunmen holler like they’re circling wagons in the Wild West. Still, the two on the pole are closer…

Just as the crowd makes it to the finish line, Mr. Hacksaw doubles back and helps his friend shove the pole—Timber! It crashes down into your mob of immortals, and you’re right there to experience it. The mess of power lines above, yanked down with the pole, are whipping and snaking violently. One goddess gets beheaded immediately by a thrashing power line.

The utility box hits the pavement and explodes, sending sparks all around like the grand finale on the 4th of July. Each power line arcs with electricity, the end blowing up like a divine sparkler, frying and boiling the brains of the immortals around you.

You’re all shoulder-to-shoulder, the power lines unifying and melting your flesh together. 35,000 volts fight back, attacking the group—you included. The electricity, no longer constrained by the wire and free to discharge where it pleases, superheats everything around. Even the oxygen burns away, leaving a scent of fried ozone.

One of the cables snaps at you like a bullwhip. All you can do is watch as it comes toward your face, like witnessing the birth of a star. Sorry, but immortal or not, you don’t stand a chance. As your eyes pop out and your roasted brain squeezes its way out of your skull, the only thing “immortal” about you now is the seared imprint you’ve left upon the concrete.