INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (73 page)

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Go with Tyberius and Hefty.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

F
or centuries, mankind lived right next to its own excrement. People literally worked in, lived in, and ate in their own filth. The mortality rate was high and life expectancy was low. Then we learned about something called “germs.” You, however, are not as resistant to bacteria as your ancestors were. You grew up in the age of hand sanitizer and sewage systems. The latter of which, you now enter, through a simple drainage ditch mostly filled with dead plant matter and small bits of garbage. This kind of detritus is common after a good rainstorm. It’s gross to be sure, and it’s only about to get worse.

The oxidized iron of blood stains the drainage spouts. As humanity was eaten alive, all the viscera had to go somewhere. That somewhere is now underfoot. You continue across the mire, down the tunnels of the sewage system, your flashlight illuminating the floaters. When the pieces start appearing in large enough chunks to be identified as internal organs, you consider turning back.

Only a deep and melodious moan, emanating from somewhere to the rear, keeps you moving.

At least you hope it’s to the rear. With the echoing tunnels, it could be coming from anywhere. Even above.

Now you’re trudging through a river of shit and piss. Naturally, you vomit. In the movies, the sewer is seen as some kind of cool netherworld, a labyrinth ready for you in times of need. The hero exits unscathed, as clean as when he entered.

Not you. Your clothes will be stained by the diarrhea of your brothers and sisters. By the innards of those who didn’t make it. You are in the only cemetery mankind has anymore; all that is dead will flush down this way.

Your steps do not echo. They might, if this were an empty catacomb. Your steps
squick
. Shadows dance over the angles of the sewer when your flashlight approaches. You see a small group of rats fleeing from an unseen enemy and quicken your steps.

Scanning further, you identify a rat with deep gouges and scratches. Blood crusts the little whiskers. The rodent shuffles and shambles forward at a painfully slow pace. It’s almost as if…. it couldn’t be, could it? A zombie rat? Does this mean the scourge has jumped species? You can only imagine the terror of a zombie crocodile down here.

It’s probably just your anxieties coming to surface, but that moaning sounds like it’s getting closer and closer. You start to run down the tunnel. Your backpack slams against you and the excrement river splashes with each step. Something flies into your mouth with the gritty consistency of sand, but a deeply tart taste worse than you’ve ever experienced. You spit the feces out, but can’t completely rid yourself of it.

Corner after corner, catacomb after catacomb, you run down the sewer. You probably won’t find your way back, you realize. You vomit again. Willing your abdominal muscles to stop cramping, you rise and run once more.

Finally, you’ve reached a light produced by a source other than your flashlight. It’s a grate leading outside. Frenetically, you tear at the grate, and you’re happy to see it comes off with ease.

You climb out of the sewer and into the open sunlight above. Fresh green grass greets you on the other side, along with four men with guns.

“Wait,” you cough. Evidently, your squinting in the sunlight is enough of a human signal, and they stop before ending your life.

“Dear God, that smell,” one of them says. He’s talking about you.

*     *     *

Later that evening you’ve showered, been fed and even given a change of clothes. Presently, you converse with the leader of the camp over drinks. “Welcome to Port Resistance,” he tells you. “You gave us quite a scare. We hadn’t thought of a creeper coming out of the sewer. Luckily,
you
arrived… and not one of them.”

“Creeper?” you ask, though you know full well he means “zombie.”

“I might as well just come out and say it—now that you’re here, I can’t allow you to leave. We’re well-stocked and you’ll live here comfortably, but we can’t face an army of refugees. Or, worse yet, if the creepers were to find us…”

You start to formulate your answer, but he continues before you can. “I’m sorry, you must be exhausted after your ordeal. Let’s talk tomorrow. Sleep well.”

*     *     *

You don’t. Sleep well, that is. You can’t spend more than five minutes away from the latrine. More of what you saw in the sewer comes out of you from both ends. After a while, you’ve got nothing left but fluids to expend. What can only be described as “rice water” fills the toilet with its fishy odor.

There’s a knock at the door to your chambers. You open the door, only to find a pair of armed guards. “Come with us, please,” one commands.

You’re too weak to question the order, much less resist. You follow, though it’s more like they follow you. The guards seem hesitant, despite your overall weakness. Keeping their distance, they usher you along.

Eventually you’re at the camp leader’s office once more. Where are all the women in this camp? “Are you feeling all right?” he asks, with no hint of irony.

You stare at him through glazed, sunken eyes. Your flesh has a blue tinge to it and your sallow features wrinkle from the decreased skin turgor that comes with severe dehydration.

“I’ll be honest with you—we’re afraid you’ve got the creeping death,” he says, his fingertips aligned with their counterparts on the opposite hand, staring at you with the pose of a politician.

“I wasn’t bitten,” you croak out.

“We’re not entirely sure that matters. Who’s to say it’s not airborne? Or maybe you picked it up in the sewers? Can’t be too careful.”

“So… you’re just going to kill me?” You’re far too tired for this discussion.

“Heavens, no. But we can’t take any chances. We’ll put you in quarantine. You’ll have food and water, and we’ll make you as comfortable as we can. In one week’s time, you’ll be released. I’d say that’s fair.” He snaps his fingers at the guards, ushering them forward.

“Medicine?”

“I’m afraid not.” You can’t tell if that means there is none, or that you can’t have it.

*     *     *

For two full days, the vomiting and diarrhea continues. You can’t even keep the water down. Naturally, you start to wonder if you are indeed infected. Maybe one of those zombie rats got you? Maybe all the viscera in the sewer did contaminate you. Will you become a “creeper”?

At the end of those two days, you die. Not from the
Gilgazyme
® plague, but from cholera. The rapid dehydration and electrolyte imbalance prove too much. You do not survive the zombie trail.

THE END

T
yberius and Hefty make it back, but there’s no sign of Sims. Guillermo boards up the final window; the rest are already covered and blocked. “Come on, guys, let’s barricade the entrance with these tables,” Cooper says.

“What about Sims?” Hefty asks.

“Sims, where are you?” Deleon calls into the radio.

“You guys’ll have to be okay without me for a bit,” Sims crackles through. “I’m radioing in for rescue.”

“God
damn
him,” Cooper says.

“We don’t have time to wait; push the tables,” Deleon declares.

“Wait, wait, wait. We’re just gonna trap ourselves in here?” Tyberius asks. “If that was the plan, we shoulda left those searchlights on.”

“There’s another way out behind the stage,” Deleon assures him.

“Which means another way in,” you mumble. Deleon’s wristwatch beeps its alarm. “Time to take your meds, Doc?”

He shakes his head. “No more inoculations—meaning I need the cure very soon.”

“I hope you made a lot; we may need it too,” Cooper replies with arms crossed.

“Right now it’s just the one dose.” His voice is thick with dread.

Suddenly, a board smashes in from one of the windows, a hand hysterically reaching and groping through. “Get to the boards!” Cooper screams.

Each person in the group grabs a hammer and races to different positions around the cafeteria. The room has eight windows and there are six people, so you’re all frantically boarding up windows. There’s a large tin of nails at each window, and a stack of boards as well, but mostly you replace the ones that are pushed out.

You’ll just finish one window and move to the next when a new zombie bashes in one of the boards you just secured. It’s barely controlled chaos. As a ghoul breaks through, Deleon yells where to go from the middle of the room. From there, he can see each spot. “Back right!” he screams. “Now far left!”

One zombie just pulls himself in as you arrive to meet him. You clank your aluminum bat into his head, then work to rebuild the barrier. It’s harried work. Hefty and Tyberius join together, one smashing the fingers of the undead while the other hammers the boards back up.

Guillermo has a window almost fully boarded up by himself; he puts up the last board just as the entire thing smashes out at him. He lands on his back, covered in splintered boards. Standing in the broken window-way is a bodybuilder zombie. The undead man is massive, clearly someone who made a living from his physique. His hulking figure shuffles in and moves on top of Guillermo.

The fiend actually lifts the chef up and holds him above the ground while he eats him.

Tyberius runs out to the middle of the room to face the bodybuilder zombie. The undead giant tosses the corpse of Guillermo to the side in preparation for killing Tyberius next. Blood drips down its chin and massive chest.

Tyberius takes out the two-and-a-half pound weights. He holds them at his side, his body cantered toward the fiend in the athlete’s pre-sprint ready position. His confidence is that of David preparing to take down Goliath.

The two run at each other. Tyberius makes a daring leap at the zombie as it reaches its arms up to catch him, and then brings one of the weights down on the ghoul’s forehead in a slam-dunk-like motion. The small weight burrows into the behemoth’s skull, and the giant collapses to the ground.

“They’re breaking through!” Cooper shouts. Several zombies come in from another window. She lets out her homemade flail and with full-body momentum, connects the end with a zombie’s head—lifting it off its feet with the blow.