INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (30 page)

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

T
he farmhouse is oddly serene and peaceful. Perhaps the plague hasn’t made it this far? The screen door opens and closes in the wind, the door behind it ajar and inviting. Maybe the owners fled? You notice a pickup truck still parked out front. Making a mental note to check it later, you head inside.

With a major case of the willies, you decide it’s best to get into the kitchen, take what you need, and get out before you discover what befell this home. The kitchen has a large pantry and an even larger freezer. You check the pantry first.

Inside awaits a cornucopia of foodstuffs: jars of preserves, sacks of flour and rice, a whole spread. You stock your backpack as best you can, trying not to wonder why all this remains untouched. Realizing your need for protein, you turn toward the gigantic freezer. Obviously, the owner of this house slaughters meat, and must store it inside. You’ve subsisted on snacks this long and you’re ready for a big meal that’ll stick to your ribs.

You open the freezer, ready for another cabinet full of supplies, but you’re shocked when the half-frozen lady of the house tumbles out upon you. Your reflexes are just a little too slow, and the schoolmarm-looking woman bites down onto your right shoulder before you’re able to dispatch the ghoul.

Did someone trap her in there, or was it self-inflicted, you wonder. It doesn’t really matter, you’ve been bitten. You’re infected. You’ll soon find out if the accompanying fever might have driven her into the fridge or not. This being your first (and last) encounter with a bite wound, you’re not sure what to expect.

*     *     *

Soon your anxiety dissipates, the stress melts away, and your fears are replaced with boredom. Maybe a stroll across the farm grounds would help? Exploring the house itself sounds fun. Your antisocial tendencies flip, and soon you want nothing more than to find other people—to find and
eat
other people. The city’s calling, and there’s no place like home. How long has it been since your bite, six hours? Only a few more and you’ll have walked back into town. And now, you walk without fear, day and night, never tiring.

•
 
Better get walking.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
ou’re not a hundred percent sure the house is empty; you heard someone moving through the rubble of your knickknacks as recently as two days ago. So you proceed with extreme caution. As you push the ladder down, a great creak emanates from the self-raising spring mechanism. So much for stealth.

Holding your weapon tight, you look down into the room below. Even the ambient light of your home is blinding compared to the gloomy attic you’ve spent the last two weeks in. Still, you see no signs of life (or death) down the stairs.

With a deep breath, you turn to walk down the ladder. First one foot down, then another, then… something grabs your ankle! From the other side of the house—the “blind spot” you couldn’t see when peering out—a ghoul tugs at your leg.

It’s enough force to pull your foot from the rung and without balance, you tumble down the ladder and onto your back.
Oof.
You just fell ten feet, spread out flat against the floor. The breath leaves your lungs and all your joints pop in response.

You don’t get your breath back. The zombie follows you to the floor, tearing into your flesh with bite after bite. Soon, your heart stops too. But—good news—even though your blood no longer pumps, the
Gilgazyme
 ® still works within, altering your genetic code. In six short hours, it won’t matter that you don’t breathe.

You’ll rise again.

The zombie gnaws on your flesh until it grows cold. Then he loses interest. Fortunately for you, the right half of his jaw is split in two and a majority of his teeth are nothing more than fractured stumps. Because of his weakened mastication, he doesn’t eat much of you before he leaves in search of warmer quarry. Which means you’ll be more complete, stronger and more capable when it comes to paying the gift of immortality forward. In the meantime, you just lie there—dead to the world.

*     *     *

Six hours later, you awaken, but now everything’s different. There are only fragments in your mind of who you once were. Not that it matters. The only thing that matters, the only choice that remains for you now, is to seek out human flesh.

•
 
Better get to walking.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
ou walk next to Deleon. Cooper is two yards away, standoffish as usual. “Why do you let her boss you around?” you ask the doc.

He shrugs. “I don’t need to rule the roost. If they get me to a lab safely, that’s all I’m concerned with.”

“I just thought you’d have more insight, seeing as how you’re an expert.”

He squints at you thoughtfully, then approaches Cooper. “What kind of experts do you have in the group?”

“Field-tested killers,” she replies.

“No really, what did your people do before the collapse?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She’s starting to get annoyed.

“Sure it does. Sims obviously has some skills with electrical systems. What other valuable knowledge might there be?”

“We practice silence. Talking too much attracts attention.”

“You need to know your people. Their strengths and—”

“I said we’re fine. We’ve been fine, and we’ll continue to stay fine. We’re being too loud as is.”

Deleon removes the hand-held recorder and turns it on. He speaks into it, “I’m stuck with some hanger-ons. Their leader seems to be a real bitch. If I’m dead, the one called Cooper is probably to blame.”

Cooper snatches his recorder and smashes it against the ground. She rushes toward him, ending within an inch of Deleon’s face. She looks as much like she could kiss him as punch him. The whole group has its eyes on them.

She whispers, “You’ll learn not to cross me.” 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.