INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (57 page)

T
he tower is suspended sixty feet in the air—a relic of the old style. Constructed out of metal latticework with a winding open-air staircase, the control room itself is glass-walled with a high enough roof for the controllers to view most of the sky from within.

You ascend the stairs, taking the lead due to your shotgun, hoping to find the doctor above. Wind shoots through the open staircase, bringing a chill to your skin. “Don’t look down,” Lucas says. Despite the chill, you perspire from adrenaline.

At the top, you’re given only a waist-high guardrail to prevent you from tumbling over the side to your demise. The door to the control room is open and once inside, it’s only a few seconds before you’re made painfully aware the doctor is not here.

Rosie depresses a nearby radio call switch on the control panel. “Come in, Salvation, this is Rescue Team One.”

There’s a pause, and you’re about to declare the radio dead, when it chirps to life with static. “Rescue Team, this is Colonel Gray, we read. Any sign of the doctor? Over.”

“None yet, but we’ll keep going. Over and out.”

Lucas rubs his face, finally clean-shaven, and muses aloud, “The radio is still operational, which means the doctor left the tower by will and was not able to get back. She must be trapped in either the terminal or the hangar.”

Or she’s dead,
you think. Instead of saying as much, you just nod and turn to leave. Rosie is out the door first and casts her gaze over the rail. “Uh-oh.” Those might be the two worst syllables when the dead walk the earth.

You look down, ready to see zombies, but not remotely ready for what’s below. Your scent must’ve been on the wind because there’s already a sizeable crowd gathered beneath you. And the stairs won’t outsmart them the way a ladder might.

“Now what?” Rosie asks.

•
 
“Use the staircase as a choke point and call in Rescue Team Two.”

•
 
“Lucas, pull the pins on that grenade belt, then drop it overboard.”

•
 
“Let’s force our way down. We’ve got more ammo than they have heads, right?”

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

G
uillermo just shrugs when you follow him. But once he gets in the cafeteria, it’s like you’re not there. Finally, this man is home. He runs his fingers over the implements, gingerly testing every knife, pot, and pan. “Bueno,” he says, acknowledging you.

From the back, Guillermo raises an economy-sized can of beef. With a huge grin he offers you a high-five. Looks like plenty of food in the storeroom! If nothing else, at least that’s in your favor. Guillermo goes to work, hands flying across the implements.

“¿Qué tal si nos hacen un banquete, amigo?” he says. Seeing your blank look, he adds, “Comida…
‘food’
… mucho comido, no?”

Guillmermo shrugs. He waves you away as he gets back to work.

•
 
Return to the gym.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
ou roam the city like you own it; out in the open and on the lookout for possible food. It seems any remaining humans have already gone into hiding and—if you had the capacity—you’d be surprised just how many other immortals wander the streets around you. It’s not a coordinated effort, but a group of individuals, each migrating toward whatever scrap of memory sends them toward loved ones. It’s sort of like the airport over the holidays.

It’s peaceful. No traffic, no radios, not even any birds chirping. Something’s on fire in the distance, but save for that, it’s only a calm breeze. Mother Earth will thank you for cleansing her breast of rotting, festering humanity.
Mother.

You stand at your parents’ doorstep without even realizing you’ve arrived. Your senses search in unison, but there’s no sound, and apparently no way in. The windows are boarded up. You pound lightly against the door.

“My baby!” your mother screams from within.

“Quiet!” Father chastises.

“Open the door, open it! We can let our child in, there’s still time!”

The sounds of barricade removal: a dresser scraping along the floor, a couch tumbling off the pile, boards pried loose from the frame.

“Come in—hurry,” Dad says, with an outstretched arm to grab you.

Again you’d be surprised if you were capable of such a thing, but instead you just accept the invitation. You grab hold of his arm and, with strength he wasn’t expecting, pull him out of the house and onto the lawn.

A few other gods and goddesses pick up on the cue—is that moan coming from you? And they stagger over to see what all the fuss is about.

“Leave him alone, that’s your father!” Mom shouts as you eat dear old dad.
Mother.
You leave your writhing father for the other immortals and move toward the house.

Finally recognizing the signs of your oedipal rage, she slams the door—on your fingers. Four of the digits on your left hand snap under the power of her adrenaline-fueled shove, but this doesn’t bother you in the least. If anything, it’s a good thing; the door isn’t closed and you can force your way in.

You do so, bringing the neighborhood with you. It’s an end-of-the world block party. Your mother, never ready for company, runs back into her room for cover.