INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (33 page)

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“I guess you’re right. I’ll have to infiltrate the company and steal a sample.”

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

F
or centuries, mankind lived right in their own excrement. People literally worked in, lived in, and ate in their own filth. The mortality rate was high and life expectancy was low. Then people learned about “germs,” which, as it turns out, have no lasting effect on
you
. Another benefit of immortality is, you don’t get sick.

And as the blood, guts, and excrement of humanity flows by, you’re lucky you aren’t capable of retching. So the river of filth—the only “leftovers” of the apocalyptic feast—do not bother you as they would a human being. You are a little handicapped, however, in that there’s so much viscera you’re unable to track your prey by smell.

You wade through the muck, sloshing through the corridors and catacombs, but not aimlessly. You’re exploring. If by the smallest chance there’s a human down here, you’ll find them eventually. You hear something wading through the tunnels ahead, but you just
know
it’s merely another god, and not prey. You don’t waste time contemplating; you just keep searching.

In truth, the labyrinthine sewer system is chock full of immortals. Silent sentinels, trudging their way beneath humanity, seeking them out 24-hours-a-day. More than a normal-size crowd is clustered around an illuminated passage, milling about a hall as if unable, or unwilling, to go through. When you make it there, you see why.

A ceiling grate is open to the outside world, and moonlight flows through it in a checkered spotlight. You nudge your way through the mob and when the terrestrial air moves across your scent glands, you know why they’re here—humans. The smell is vague, like a subtle spice in a casserole, but the humans are up there somewhere, and in good numbers.

Your hands move up to the grate, searching through the holes for a way out. Your digits have been through a lot, and your ring finger has a splint of bone protruding from the top. This gets caught on the grate when you pull but you have enough tensile strength left so that the barrier comes off.

A goddess to your side snaps her head toward the new opening with zealous attentiveness. She moans her desire, rushing toward a potential meal. The others swarm in behind her. You try to follow, but the sewer grate has your arm pinned by that gnarled ring finger. With a mighty tug, you’re free and following the swarm. They’d better leave some fresh meat for you!

“Creepers!” a voice yells.

You climb out of the sewer and into the cool night air. The screams of men excite and invigorate your senses. It’s a compound! One of the last bastions of humanity, and you’ve stumbled upon it. Gunshots ring out, more screams, and even more moans fill the air. You grab your first victim and spill her life out onto the earth. Back into the sewer her innards flow.

The immortal pantheon spreads out, trying to maximize the panic. Those armed with guns are in the minority, but other humans prove competent blasphemers and bring down gods and goddesses with battle-forged melee tactics.

You corner a group of five men, although it looks like they are cornering you. Yet there is fear on their faces, and nothing but excitement on yours. You moan your battle cry and stumble toward them, unconcerned with their axes, baseball bats, and machetes. They stand their ground, letting you come to them.

Then the wall collapses behind them. It was a temporary barrier, to be sure, and it crashes under the weight of two dozen immortals. These are your reinforcements, members of the terrestrial pantheon who came at the call of the moan.

They turn to face the larger threat and hack away at your brothers and sisters. You take one human down from behind, and the distraction allows your fellow immortals to overwhelm the other human survivors.

It’s a brief but wonderful bloodbath, perhaps even the last of its kind. Soon there is nothing more than silent shuffling once more. These pockets of humanity are surely dwindling, so now you’re back to wandering, in hopes that you’ll stumble across a mother lode once again.

•
 
Wander.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

E
ver the model of calm and clarity, Lucas Tesshu follows Rosie up the road and away from what he believes to be the right choice. He successfully covers up whatever concerns he might feel from being outvoted. In fact, he’s so collected you wonder if it wasn’t folly to ignore his wisdom. But silence isn’t always intelligence.

“How long should we travel in this direction?” you ask.

“That depends on how far away we assume the compound to be. Should we set a point of no return, based on supplies?” Master Tesshu asks, much like a teacher offering a problem to the class.

“I don’t really know, obviously,” Rosie answers. She consults her watch. “But it’ll be dark in ten hours.”

“Perhaps sooner with those clouds.” You look to the sky; there’s a storm on the horizon.

It’s not a comforting answer, but it’ll work for now. The three of you continue down the road in silence, ever watchful of the brush for signs of life… or death. In the quiet of the following hours, you’re a bit unnerved. Where there’s one zombie, there are usually others. But what does a lack of zombies imply?

*     *     *

Dusk settles over the purpled woods like bruised flesh. “We will need to look for camp,” Lucas says.

“After the next road sign,” Rosie agrees.

In the hours that passed, you hadn’t seen a single corpse, any signs of violence, or even one undead. This singular aloneness is highly unnerving. You’re not sure you’ve gone an entire day without a ghoul or two. But they’ve been strangely absent since the swamp.

The final road sign is ahead. Rosie jogs up to view it closer, then turns to you and lets out a hearty “Boo-yah!”

Along with Lucas, you jog up to meet her. The sign reads, “PENITENTIARY CANYON TRAIL.” Without a word of debate, Rosie turns off the country road and onto the dirt trail. It looks like an overused deer path, but she’s not deterred. Lucas looks to the sun with a degree of wariness.

The descent is a quick one. Soon the grass and woods give way to rocky outcroppings and stone walls. You enter a slot canyon—the walls rise up twenty feet and higher; this canyon was carved out by streams and rainwater over the course of millennia.

Dark clouds brood above. “Think it will rain?” you ask Lucas.

“
Ame futte ji katamaru
—after the rain, the earth hardens. It’s something my mother used to say; basically it means there will be adversity, but things will get better.”

“So… it’ll rain?” You both laugh.

“Quiet!” Rosie commands.

The laughter echoes through the canyon, reverberating a hundred times until it finally fades away. But something is still there—
moaning
. Much further down the canyon, there must be undead. Thunder crackles deeply across the sky, dipping down into the canyon like a perverse demigod joining in the laughter.

You turn back and look at the way you came. The sky is torn in midnight streaks, recognizable as rain in the distance. The light wanes far more quickly than you’re comfortable with. “We need to turn back,” you say.