INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (75 page)

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

T
he shopping mall is swarming with immortals. Your fellow gods and goddesses mill about, clustered around the entrance, waiting with glazed eyes and dull expressions for the doors to open so they can flood in with frenzy. To be honest, it’s not too different from the day-after-Thanksgiving sales.

So you stand there with the rest of them, waiting. The great thing about being ageless is that time has no meaning. You could stand here for weeks without being the slightest bit put out. And then, should a human finally cross your path, your wrath would awaken and you would smite them down like only a god can.

It’s sort of like hibernation. And
Gilgazyme
 ® makes it all possible. However you were rewired not only stopped your aging, it stopped any decomposition, and any need to eat or even breathe. You Are and Will Be for the rest of time.

The goddess next to you falls to the ground after her head explodes.

A millisecond later, the gunshot that caused it rings out from the rooftop across the way. Your head snaps toward the source of the sound—a lone gunman—but there are far too many immortals in the way and even if you wandered toward him, there’s no way to get up there.

He looks up from the scope of his rifle, then gives a thumbs-up to someone back over your head. You look up to the roof of the mall, where several figures stand with binoculars, returning your hungry gaze. A large man in a policeman’s uniform holds up a whiteboard with a message on it for the sniper.

Reading is something you don’t have any interest in. The written word is a human convention, a paltry attempt to attain immortality and pass knowledge from one brief life to another. What need has an immortal of such contrivances?

And yet if you were to read it, you’d see a celebrity name written on the board. And if you contained any memories, you’d recognize the name as the one your friends used to compare you to in mortal life. And if you were capable of deductions, you’d realize that you’re the target in a real-life game of
Where’s Waldo
and duck out of the way.

Instead, your head explodes. And now you start decomposing.

THE END

Y
ou’re back in the Command Post with the colonel and his son, getting debriefed about the missions. “Good work today,” Arthur Gray barks out. “Both teams were successful. So we’ve got seeds for the harvest, and Dr. Celeste Lolani is now a member of our community.”

“But I’m afraid we must ask you for more,” Irving says.

The Colonel frowns and strokes stubble the color of his last name. “The doctor’s distress call served as our wake-up. The only reason we heard her was because that airfield was so close. What if there are others broadcasting, just beyond our range?”

“We can use a radio station on the outskirts of the city as a relay,” Irving explains. “But it’s a long drive and near a major population center. This would be extremely dangerous, but well worth it. One jeep, in and out.”

“If you can do this for us, we’ll ask no more of you. With the crops, our own doctor, and a powerful communications system, we should have no reason to leave again. I’m sorry, but you’re the best we’ve got.”

“And our master of arms will furnish you with his ‘private reserve’ stock,” Irving says.

“So get some chow. You leave in an hour.”

•
 
One more mission.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
ours was the grain of sand that tipped the scales. Deleon and Cooper made a reluctant agreement, though somehow it seems that neither is happy. Cooper certainly wasn’t pleased that yours was the voice of authority. But, for better or worse, an accord was struck.

Presently you walk along the streets outside the megastore. There’s a bus stop bench billboard for a pawn shop advertising, “CHEAP GUNS—NO BACKGROUND CHECK!!!!!!!”

“Why don’t we just check that place out?” you ask.

Sims scoffs and shakes his head. “I know the owner; crazy bastard. He always talked about how prepared he’d be for the zombie apocalypse. I honestly think he just wanted an excuse to shoot minorities.” He looks uncomfortably at Tyberius. “I didn’t say we were friends… Anyway, we should steer clear. Guy probably shoots on sight, so…”

“We’re sticking to the plan, Newbie,” Cooper says firmly. “This sporting goods store is close to the school.”

“How long is the walk?”

“It was prolly a half-hour drive,” Hefty answers.

There’s a scratching along the pavement. Everyone whirls about in unison, weapons drawn. The source is a lone man in a wheelchair. He’s undead and he crawls along the street; the wheelchair drags behind him on its side as he bloodies his fingers clawing at the concrete.

“Newbie, Doc—take care of it.”

“Why? Let’s just go,” Deleon protests.

You look at the man in the wheelchair. No matter how many times you say to yourself,
He’s a zombie, he wants to eat me,
there’s just something about the bashing of his brains that screams
murder.
You’re hard-wired that way. Still…

The ghoul moans at you. “You have to kill every one,” Cooper says. “One calls in others.”

You wield the axe. The zombie’s growling and moaning grates upon your nerves. Ending the stress, you end the zombie. You bring your axe down on his neck; two strokes, and the spinal cord is severed. It makes you queasy, how easy it was to end a life. But it wasn’t really that easy—the head rolls on the pavement, still snapping its jaws.

Cooper stops the head under her boot. “Doc, be more like Newbie. Go ahead, finish it off.”

Deleon shakes his head at his own obedience, but complies. You look away while he takes care of the brain removal with his hammer.

“There’s a good Doc,” she says as Deleon’s wristwatch blares, the alarm expired. “What’s that?”

“Oh… this?” Dr. Deleon is suddenly unnerved, much more so than when dispatching an undead head. “This alarm, you mean? Well… I used to radio for help every three hours.”

“So why’s it still on?” Cooper asks.

“It’s my reminder for hope,” he says with renewed confidence.

“I need one of those,” Angelica murmurs.

Deleon clears his throat. “Say, I need to go to the bathroom; will you guys wait up a sec?”

The doctor takes off into a nearby building while the others mill about. “He actually times his shits,” Sims says to Hefty.

“There’s a man using his noodle,” Hefty replies.

Once Deleon returns, the group keeps moving. Naturally, everyone splits off into several small groups on the wide thoroughfare. You’re all still together, but each clique has its own conversation. Which one do you join?

•
 
Tyberius and Hefty.