INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (26 page)

Y
ou were smart enough to tie the hammer on the outside of your backpack, so it’s easy to grab. You sprint over, slide to the floor like you’re stealing home, and slip the tool out just as the pair of zombies make it over to you. Housewife Zombie is out in front, so she’s the first threat—she reaches down for you and you crab-walk backwards to evade her grasp.

She’d have you, if it weren’t for the axe lodged in her ribcage. As she lunges forward, the shaft of the weapon holds her at bay like the third leg of a tripod. You scuttle backward, desperate to get back on your feet. She pushes hard, the axe ripping her open and spilling out her abdominal cavity.

Thieving Zombie is now your greatest threat. He’s able-bodied and lunges at you fast. In reflex, you roll back as he falls upon you, kicking him in the chest and sending him over your shoulders with his own momentum.
I’ll have to remember that trick
, you think. He smashes head-first into a china cabinet, and Housewife Zombie grabs for you once more—thank God for that axe.

Still, her fervor for your blood proves stronger, and she comes at you with such strength that the axe begins pushing out of her back. First, the blade protrudes, then the handle inches its way out as she inches closer.

You crack her across the head with the hammer, but from your seated position you’re not able to use your full strength. Her head bobs to the side from the blow but her skull stays intact.

Thieving Zombie is back on you again. Thinking quickly, you grip the axe handle and maneuver Housewife Zombie into him, using her as a shield. Finally, you’re able to get to your feet again. Now the couple is on the floor, and you’ve got the high ground because you’re standing.

From overhead, you bring the hammer down on Thieving Zombie as hard as your body weight allows.
Crack
—dead. Housewife Zombie looks up at you with hungry rage. You bring the hammer down on her head three times, just to make sure the job is done, then you bludgeon Thieving Zombie once more for good measure.

All is still, it is done. You’re suddenly aware of your pounding heart, glistening sweat, and heaving breath. And… you’re not alone. You turn toward your new visitors, a man and a woman, with hammer raised, but quickly realize they’re human.

The woman is 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.”

The man is most likely in his forties and wears the stained whites of a kitchen worker from a hole-in-the wall restaurant. He’s Latino, short, plain, and his pock-marked face has a calm countenance.

Cooper holds a giant monkey wrench, and a chain coiled around her shoulder. He wields a meat cleaver and a frying pan. They stare at you; how long have they been watching?

“Thanks for the help,” you huff out.

The woman looks over at the bodies you just dispatched. “Did either of them bite you?” she asks. You shake your head.

The cook slides his cleaver back into his belt. “
Vienes con nostros
,” he says, welcoming you with a wave of his hand.

“Wait, I didn’t say you could join us,” the woman says, taking control of the situation.

•
 
“Do I have to say pretty-please?”

•
 
“I didn’t say I wanted to. Good luck to you both; I travel alone.”

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

I
nside the student radio hall, you find and key the microphone. “Hello?” you say, unsure what else to say.

There’s an immediate response. “This is Colonel Arthur Gray of the civilian camp, Salvation. Are you with Sergeant Sims?”

“He’s not… I’m the last one, sir,” you say.

There’s a moment of silence as the man on the other end accepts the gravity of your words. “What’s your situation over there?”

“I’ve… been cured,” you reply, unable to believe it yourself. “They’re all dead but me.”

“Listen, just stay tight, we’ll have a team out in the morning,” he responds, a sad desperation in his voice. You’re much more his hope than he is yours, you realize.

“Colonel, the cure wasn’t a reversal. I know that much. I still have something new in me, but I’m human—mortal—again. And yet they no longer try to attack me. It’s like they see me as one of them. I can simply walk to you.”

After a moment, the voice returns to the radio, more strained by emotion than ever. But it’s relief now. “He stood between the living and the dead, and the plague stopped.”

Is that scripture? It certainly has the ring. “Keep the lights on, I’ll see you soon,” you say.

And that’s it. You really can just walk through all the death and destruction without fear. If it was a scripture he quoted, a more appropriate one might be
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.
For Deleon is with you, his legacy will be the immortality of
Gilgazyme®.

You push out the broken barrier, the one Sims was supposed to cover, the one the zombies breached and made it through. It’s hard, shoving your way through the walking corpses, but you make it out just as a woman’s scream pierces the night air.

Turning back, you look up toward the roof. Zombie Deleon is up there, and he’s covered in blood. You raise a hand toward him, waving goodbye one last time. Maybe you’ll see him again, when the cure is widespread, but maybe not. His arm moves up, almost a wave back.

“Thank you, Lewis Deleon,” you say. “The man who saved the world.”

You smile, turn around, and walk away, running your fingers over the raised bump where your bite wound is healing.

•
 
Click to Continue.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

T
he master-of-arms soldier leans out the trailer window and looks at you with a grin. “How’d that combat shotgun treat you?”

“Good,” you reply.

“But not great, eh? Well, time to pull out all the stops.” He steps back into the recesses of the trailer and appears with a much larger grin and an equally proportioned weapon. It looks like the prehistoric ancestor of your shotgun; all muscle and built to terrify. Just looking at it, you feel like an ’80s action star.

“AA-12 combat shotgun,” the soldier says, handing the olive drab behemoth off to you. He holds up what looks like an old film reel, but what you realize is the ammo clip. “Twenty rounds in each of these, and I’m giving you ten drums. But be careful: it’s full auto, and those drums will empty out in four seconds if you hold down the trigger.”

Then he holds up a white ammo drum, pops open the side and removes a bullet that looks like it was torn from the pages of a sci-fi pulp comic. It’s all silvery-chrome and has fins at the base, like some kind of mini-missile. “Frags,” he explains. “High-explosive anti-personnel round with a nine-foot blast radius. Accurate at well over five football fields. Remember the white drum—this one takes you up to eleven.”

Trying not to cream your pants, you step into the sunlight and inspect this pinnacle of shotguns. Rosie steps up to the counter and asks for more ammunition. “Oh no, ma’am, I have something special for you,” the soldier replies.