INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (71 page)

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“Seems kinda dangerous. I think I’ll go check out the ‘Happy Room.’”

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“No time, sorry.” Straight to the “Command Post.” I bet Lucas and Rosie are already there.

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“Maybe another time—which way to the ‘Fitness/Power Room’?”

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
ou’re stock-still in your sleeping bag, arms out and gripping the knife with potent fear. You hope your guest will somehow wander away, but that hope leaves when an undead hand—with black-painted fingernails—reaches into your tent through the open zipper. The hand gropes around, seeking and finding your sleeping bag, and you plunge your knife deep into it.

Zombies don’t feel pain, but evidently the nerve endings do still serve a function; in this case, they tell the primitive brain, “Found something!” The other hand comes in, followed by the face. She’s dressed all in black, hair dyed to match, with skin as pale as the moon. A Wiccan. You wouldn’t know she was a zombie, save for the hungry eyes and the distinctive moan.

You pull your knife out of the hand and stab furiously at her face. No blood flows from the wounds, and you turn her skin into gory shreds of pulp. Other hands paw at the nylon flaps of your tent—the attacker is not alone. She continues to squirm her way in, despite the gruesome injuries you inflict.

Then, the worst happens. With so many zombies trying to get at you, the poles give way and your tent collapses. The air leaves your body, you cannot see anything, and there’s a zombie trapped inside with you. Helpless, you’re crushed and devoured by the group.

THE END

A
s you move down the halls of the Company, it strikes you that you’ve been given a rather wide berth as a janitor. No one’s watching your movements; you’re free to roam as you please. You’d think with such a controversial product, security would be tighter. Small startup, indeed. You wonder where they got their backing. Pharmaceutical? Military? Whatever it is, it wasn’t privately funded, which means the product will be going worldwide almost immediately.

You make it to Rodent Testing, but the door requires “Level 3” access. Damn. You knock on the door—couldn’t hurt, right?

A handsome young scientist, Dr. Lewis Deleon, opens the door. Deleon could be a candidate for a GQ model, but instead wears a lab coat for a living. He’s even got the studly five o’clock shadow. Either he’s tested some other beauty products before
Gilgazyme
 ®, or he was inspired to make the formula in an effort to keep his good looks. It’s a chicken-or-egg kind of thing.

“Hey, come on in,” he says with a warm smile. “I was just running a few tests, but you won’t be in the way.”

You nod and push your mop bucket through, entering the secure area. There are several terrariums, lining opposite sides of the room, marked as either “Test Group” or “Control Group,” followed by a sequential alphanumeric and a date. You begin mopping the floor, but your eyes wander. The
Gilgazyme
 ® formula is all over the place here—JACKPOT!

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This is fly-on-the-wall level spying. Time to listen close…

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“EWW—What’s wrong with that one?” you say to distract the good doctor, then pocket a nearby vial of formula.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE