INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (62 page)

“Oh, no,” Deleon mutters. You follow his gaze. The door to the pharmacy in the back is open; through the portal you see that a car has smashed its way in. Deleon heads back there, frantically looking for what he needs, stepping over downed cinderblocks and debris.

“Well?”

“Raided,” he says, throwing an empty box to the ground. “This won’t work at all. We’ve got to get moving—hospital or supermarket?”

“What about the cure, Doc?” you ask, catching a glint of reaction in his eye.

“First things first; you’re losing blood. There’s no compress wraps, but…” He trails off, already on the move through the store. You follow him into the feminine hygiene aisle. He stops at some Maxipads, tears open a box and turns to you.

“It’s not pretty, but it’ll stop the bleeding,” he says in response to your recoil. You lower the crimson-stained sleeve you were holding and let him apply the pad to your face, the adhesive strips contouring to your jawline.

“The cure,” you say, growing weary.

Deleon looks at the floor, then at his watch. “Okay, it’s just about time for my own injection. Let’s synch up.” He looks around nervously, then heads back toward the pharmacy again.

The doctor makes his way to the manager’s office, a small room where important files are kept. He looks around. On the wall near the door is a set of keys, hanging on a hook. Deleon claims them.

“What are those for?” you ask.

“Listen… why don’t you sit down?” You do as requested. “Once I get a large enough supply of niacin, and a decent lab to work in, I’ll have a cure—I know I’m close.”

You nod. “But you can keep me from turning until then, right?”

He sighs. “Well, therein lies the problem. I’m running low, and we haven’t found any more niacin. We just left the apartment and already I’ll need to inoculate in…” He looks at his watch. “…ninety seven minutes.”

That’s not right. “I thought you said we were synching up now?”

You see in his eyes a look of realization. You both know you caught him in a lie. He backs toward the door, keys in hand and says, “I’m sorry. I’ll come back for you once I finish the cure.”

•
 
“You bastard!” Lunge at him and force him to inoculate you too.

•
 
“Swear to me that you will.” Resign yourself to the office with dignity and pray that he returns.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

F
or the first time, you feel the full strength of traveling with the pantheon. The number of immortals tallies in the thousands now, all of you shambling the path of the evacuation route, but not because of any conscious choice, or even a desire to be together. Such things are behind you now. The pantheon travels as a group of individual gods and goddesses, all homed in on the same cue—smell.

The smell of gasoline reaches out to you the way a fresh pie cooling in a window on a hot summer day would for a human child. Or like Pepé Le Pew following the trail of his lover, for the cartoon aficionados in the group.

Up ahead: traffic. Never before has this been a more welcome sight. Cars have been zooming by, smashing into immortals, crashing, flipping, getting torn open like cans of sardines, and just driving delightfully recklessly in general. In short, it’s been a fun journey.

But all those red taillights, that’s where you’re headed. Humans start to panic, taking their sedans off-road or smashing their SUVs into other cars. You’re getting excited. You moan with pure joy.

Up ahead, the source of the traffic becomes evident. The road leads into a tunnel (you used to know the name of it, but alas, the devil ate the details), which, as the world around grows dark, gleams like one giant flashlight.

You enter the tunnel with your fellow immortals, some of whom have beaten you to the chase, and look for the best way to wreak havoc. A group of gods in hard hats rocks a car like an unruly vending machine, the passengers inside screaming in the most pleasing fashion. These blue-collar immortals must’ve been traveling together since the beginning. How touching.

Anyone foolish enough to have a window rolled down is instantly plucked out of their vehicle. A few can’t help it, though. You know the car you used to see parked downtown occasionally? The one with the plastic sheet and duct tape where there used to be a window? It wasn’t fooling anyone then, and it’s not fooling the immortals now.

People melt their tires, trying to push through the traffic in vain. And deep in the long tunnel, there’s no room for an alternate route. Some of the panicked humans try to abandon their vehicles and run; they’re easily picked off. Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen near you.

You find a car with a family locked inside. The father/husband holds a crowbar tightly. This doesn’t bother you; the fact that no one’s eating them does. You pound one fist against the windshield. Then another. Again and again. The bones in your hands shatter; the windshield does not.

Other gods and goddesses answer the call. Whatever passes for instinct among you drives those in the vicinity to join in.
Good idea
, they intone with their moans. Twenty fists pound the glass from all sides. Then thirty. Now fifty. Every square inch of space has immortals bashing their limbs against the car. Muffled cries from the children within excite the group further.

Someone gains entry from the passenger’s-side window. Their pulpy hands reach in for the mother, only to be beaten back by the father. All the immortals rush toward the breach with arms groping. You’re closest, and able to shove your left arm through the window. The father beats your arm with his crowbar, but you don’t react. This whole feeling-no-pain thing is pretty cool!

Finally, you get what you were hoping for: his wife’s hair. The atrous locks intertwine with the mash of your hands and you pull her out. The husband opens his door to help—big mistake. Immortals sweep over him and flood through the driver’s door.

Like any delicious meal, she’s gone too quickly. In fact, so is the whole experience. Before you know it, the whole tunnel is dead, immortal, or waiting to rise. Time to move on to greener pastures.

•
 
I’m still hungry. How about an all-you-can-eat buffet?

•
 
Hmm, where do scared people go? Police station!

•
 
The dead are rising; a cemetery seems appropriate to continue my own personal horror movie.