INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (39 page)

•
 
There’s supposed to be some caves up north. I want to avoid people at all costs.

•
 
I’ll stop before dark and set up the tent. I want to stay mobile, and tomorrow is another day.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

H
e crawls across the tiled floor, too wounded to run. You shuffle toward him, both of you knowing full well you’re gaining. He musters his final strength and rises to his feet, grunting angrily as he tries to flee on a broken leg. The doctor rushes toward a classroom, opening the door in an effort to escape.

Oh no, he doesn’t! You stumble-run after him, lunging at the last moment and falling into the classroom with him. He slams his pickaxe against the floor in front of the door, breaking through the tiles and preventing any further immortals from entry. Big mistake!

You attack him: clawing, scraping, and biting. He wrestles with you, but he’s not really trying to kill you. Instead, he’s trying to get to one of the desks. This is the science lab, not really a classroom at all, but that shouldn’t matter. Except that he grabs a vial of something, inserts it into a syringe, and stabs you with it—injecting you full-on with the liquid.

Whatever, you attack him still. But then, after a moment, you stop. You… don’t want to eat him anymore. What’s happening? You look at your hands, and see an odd sight: blood actually begins flowing out of your wounds. Your heart starts to beat and you take a breath in, let it out, then take another.

You’re human again.

“How?” you ask through an incredibly sore throat.

He smiles. “The cure, it’s in you now.” He’s in terrible shape. Almost turned, he gasps, “Take my notes… find the others… radioed from the prison.”

The door crashes open. You freeze, your eyes closed, but nothing happens. You open your eyes. The ghouls stand in the room, evidently without a purpose. They just look ahead, lifeless, paying you no mind. Slowly, you move forward. There, looking you right in the face, is a zombie—the walking corpse stares right through you.

You move without fear amongst them. You’re cured, yet they still see you as one of their own. After a moment, Deleon—the doctor who just cured you—walks past as well, without pain—newly undead.

•
 
Go radio in to the other survivors.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

“L
ook, this one’s infected!” the man in the suit shouts. Automatically, you look to see who’s around to witness. No one’s close enough to see you’re plainly healthy. Shit.
CRACK
—the baseball bat connects cleanly to your temple. A lesson you no longer have the brain to learn: in these early stages, your fellow humans pose more of a threat than the zombies.

To him, that handgun represents protection for his family. People will do crazy things to protect their loved ones. And in a world where mankind is turning into monsters and eating each other, you’re one less hungry mouth.

THE END

D
eleon’s apartment is nice, but nothing too upscale. It doesn’t come close to the opulence of Phoenix’s penthouse. The living room and kitchen have been converted into a makeshift lab: beakers and test tubes are everywhere, and various notes adorn his home. Without delay he sets to work on the cure, which, you glean from the notes is called, “Formula of Rememdium.”

You unload the equipment from the company, along with rations and other emergency supplies. After that, you set to securing and boarding up the apartment—he was remodeling his bathroom, so tools and lumber are plentiful—all the while keeping a close eye on Deleon and a tight grip on his hammer, just in case that bite gets any worse. An hour goes by. He works feverishly, knowing he doesn’t have much time. Once you finish your fortification, you follow the doctor, watching his every move.

Deleon sweats profusely. He starts to look pale and sickly, but you’re not sure if it’s because he’s turning into a zombie or because the realization of what he’s started is finally sinking in. He removes a digital voice recorder, and speaks into it: “The formula proves… troublesome. It seems we designed the delivery vehicle for the altered genetic code too well. I can stave off the transformation for a time, but I can’t seem to reverse it completely.” The man acts like you’re not even in the same room. No cure? You hold the hammer close.

He continues, “I can feel my mental faculties slowing considerably. It’s like my motivation to live is just fading out. I’ll have to resort to provisional measures.”

Deleon sets the recorder down, then inserts a vial of formula into a syringe. He turns his palm up, showing the bite. It’s not exactly festering, but something is happening, and the visual results are equally as unsettling. The wound is hideous. It oozes pus and thick, black, veiny lines appear around it like the rays of some ungodly sun.

He finally looks at you. Then, with a sigh of uncertainty, he injects the formula into his bite wound. “This isn’t a cure,” he says, “but it’ll work for now. Complete infection takes only six hours; I’ll have to give myself this inoculation every three.”

*     *     *

It works. So long as the doctor shoots up every three hours, he won’t become a zombie. Over the next month, Deleon does nothing but work on his cure, taking an injection break every three hours. He’s always making more of the liquid, but the thought of his finite ingredients weighs heavily on you.