INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (68 page)

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

P
awn shop owners are the middlemen between those who’ve been crushed by life and those willing to collect the pieces. Romanticized as heirs of the bizarre and unique, these magpies make their living feeding off the desperate misfortune of others. And now you’ll feed on them. The only thing dripping from your fluid-stalled body is the irony.

You come up to the brick-and-mortar building and try for the first entrance: a window. The glass has been busted out, but you can’t get in—the wrought iron bars will make sure of that. Too many disgruntled customers think the pawn shop stole from them, and then try to steal their property right back. Security is tight. Tight as a repossessed drum.

The door is locked up tight, and the security gate is engaged and locked down. From the sight of the other immortals shuffling about outside the store, one of two things is true: either there’s no one inside or there’s no
way
inside. A smell hits your nostrils—the sweet stench of the greaseball owner hiding within.

Following the scent trail, you find yourself at an HVAC system—the building’s air conditioning unit. On the other side, your food is waiting to be harvested. Fortunately for you, this pawn shop owner was too cheap to install professional central air and yet cheap enough to buy a shoddy unit. You only slap your hands against the unit three times before the plastic cover breaks free.

The blade waiting within is a different story. The large metal fan swings quickly, but you don’t care. You reach inside. The fan blade grabs your right arm and pulls you in. Flesh, bone, skin, and clothes jam the system, and the blade stops. Your broken arm is pinned against the fan, but this is your ticket in.

You press forward, your tattered arm ripping free, and moan with pleasure. Soon you’ll be inside! You crawl through the shaft on all threes toward the hidden chewy center. Other gods and goddesses respond to your call and pile into the duct behind you.

You tumble into the pawn shop, clattering into heirloom jewelry and ornamental knockoff samurai swords alike. There’s just so much junk in here. And guns. The sound of a shotgun pumping, the shell sliding into breach, greets you. Forgot about the guns, did we?

Say what you will about pawn shop owners, they’re hearty bastards with a will to survive. They had to deal with zombie-like patrons long before your immortal coup d’état began. And they have guns—lots of guns.

You move toward the proprietor with your one arm outstretched and your mouth open wide. Your uvula makes a wonderful aiming target. He clicks the trigger and blasts through your face with the fury only a twelve-gauge can deliver. But don’t worry, you did not die in vain. You breached his fortress, and dozens of your pantheon descend upon him as he struggles to reload.

THE END

Y
ou follow the military man and the doctor toward the ingredients Deleon needs for his cure. Sims and Deleon start to look through the shelves. “What exactly am I looking for?” you ask.

“Niacin,” Deleon replies. “Look for anything with vitamin B-12 on the label.”

Sims spots something and holds up an industrial-sized pill bottle. “I’ve got a multivitamin.”

“Bring it. I need the pure stuff, but maybe I can distill it. What I really need is a lab. Think Cooper will take me there?”

“Prolly. I think she’s into you. She likes it when you challenge her. I can tell these things, so…”

“Thanks, Casanova, but I’m not interested in creating more people just yet. Not until I’ve figured out how to save the ones that are here, anyhow.” Deleon’s watch alarm blares. You and Sims look around to see if it attracts any undead. Deleon resets the watch. “You mind watching the bathroom for me for a few?”

“You time your shits?” Sims asks.

“Beats being surprised, right?”

As Deleon leaves, Sims whispers to you, “That’s not a bad idea…”

After an awkward moment, Cooper shouts from afar, “Stockroom!”

•
 
Head to the stockroom
.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
ou enter the lion’s den, eyes cast down, trying not to attract his attention. You say something like, “Yo quiero moppa los flores,” and he’s busy enough to buy it. He waves you on and turns his back to you.

“I don’t give a shit!” he screams into the phone. Luckily, he’s looking the other way so he doesn’t see your shocked look of disbelief. “No, we have not started human trials. There will be no goddamn human trials!”

When you think “Doctor,” this is not the guy who comes to mind. He looks more like George Hamilton—fake tan, bleached teeth, slickly gelled hair—he’s clearly someone concerned about looks and aging. Makes sense, considering the product. Phoenix was obviously handsome in his youth, and still creates an impressive persona as a middle-aged man. He may no longer be a tiger, but he’s still a silver fox.

“Absolutely the fuck not,” he continues. “Why? Because I’m not paying some college dropout $175 to take a drug that will make him live forever, that’s why. People pay me for that privilege, and there’s a little word called ‘MILLION’ in that equation. Look, the rat tests are perfect, and we’re moving forward without human trials. This thing is going wide on Monday. Either you do your job or I’ll find somebody else who likes money. That’s why you’re called ‘Distributor’ and I’m called ‘Doctor.’ Time to distribute; leave the science to me.”

With that, he slams down the phone. You keep mopping, whistling so as to appear inconspicuous.

“Dipshit,” he says to the phone. Then he looks up at you. “Say, you’re new here, right?”

•
 
“No hablo ingles.”

•
 
“I couldn’t help but hear you need human test subjects,” then slowly raise your hand to volunteer.