INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (37 page)

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“Let’s do this—put the extra ammo between us and keep the Hummer at your back.”

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
ou run at the zombie, screaming to embolden yourself, hammer raised high. Such a non-thinking entity surely won’t attempt to dodge, so you get as big a windup as you can and slam-dunk the tool at his head.

Zombies may not duck, but they don’t stay static, either, so you have to adjust your trajectory mid-bludgeon. Your blow hits the thing in the skull, glancing off and causing the head to bounce. It’s not propped up against any sort of backboard, so essentially you just push its head away—albeit very hard. The attack would have at least incapacitated a man, probably causing death from internal bleeding.

But not an undead man. These ghouls don’t bleed, and a fractured skull is not enough to destroy the brain. The fisherman isn’t fazed in the least, and grabs hold of your arm, even while his head still recoils. With the zombie holding your primary arm, you can’t do anything with the hammer. He bites down.

You can’t help but shout from the pain. His two fishing buddies enter the cabin behind him with hungry eyes, looking forward to helping their friend finish you off. This doesn’t look good.

Just as you think this is it, with what sounds like a small firecracker the first zombie’s brain sprays out the front of his head. As he hits the ground, there’s another pop and the second zombie goes down. The third falls in just the same way. What just happened? Before you have time to put two and two together, the shooter runs into the cabin and with a sweep of the rifle, comes to point at you. It’s a teenage girl in paintball armor.

“Are you bit?” she yells.

You can’t help but look at your arm, at the deep red gouges, clearly in the shape of teeth. You’re infected. You look back to her. She raises her rifle, and with another firecracker pop, puts a bullet squarely into your head.

THE END

Y
ou skirt the outside of the entry, taking extra care to keep your distance from the dangling ghoul. He lurches, swatting at you, trying to keep you in his sight. As a result, he’s swaying and twisting like mad. Figuring you don’t know how well that rope will hold, you move on quickly.

The back patio catches your attention: there’s a radial arm saw jury-rigged to perfection; it stands at neck height, waiting to engage and decapitate anyone who might hazard upon it. The door remains closed, yet the glass in the door is broken. Being the detective-type, you notice that the glass lies on the floor
inside
the house, meaning it was broken from the outside. Even so, there’s no blood on the saw blades.

The home remains perfectly intact and pristine on the inside as well. Even the furniture sits where it would have before the pox descended upon the other houses. Only one element sticks out: two pairs of dirty footprints, leading from the patio to the kitchen.

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I’ve seen enough; time to move on.

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Only two sets of footprints? Let’s see what’s in the kitchen.

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Maybe the upstairs has some good loot.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

D
r. Richard Phoenix has an amazing pad. Right in the middle of downtown, top floor, large glass walls. He must have anticipated the wealth
Gilgazyme
 ® would bring, and spent himself into massive debt. There’s literally no other way he could afford this place. Everything is sleek and modern, meticulously decorated according to the latest trends. When you arrived, the girls—a pair of escorts—were already strung out on cocaine. They must be expensive as well; they’re gorgeous. One has her top off and the other girl wears nothing but a bra. Two empty
Gilgazyme
 ® inhalers sit on the coffee table.

“Welcome!” he yells from the railing on the second floor, when the bottomless hooker lets you in. He rushes down to meet you, channeling Hugh Heffner in a scarlet silk bathrobe. With arms wide open, he greets you, embracing you in a hug and offering a kiss on each cheek. “Janitor, so glad you could make it.” He’s manic from the cocaine. “What’s your poison?”

From the look on his face, you know that “No, thanks” is not an option, unless you want to turn around and go home. You say:

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“You have a full bar, yes? Top-shelf cocktail please.”