INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (80 page)

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

“D
on’t be such a pussy,” Rosie says. She turns toward the canyon and prepares to cross, testing the ropes for firmness.

“It’ll be all right,” Lucas assures you. “This is newly built, tested, and used—sturdy. If you want, you can walk in the middle.”

Rosie starts on the bridge, a hand securely on each rope and lunging forward to the first step. One more step and she’s out on the bridge. It sways in a serpentine motion once her weight is fully supported. Now it’s your turn.

Your hands and feet tingle with the sudden rush of blood. You sweat. It’s high up, precarious, and each step spells certain death. Your head expels any sense of well-being to make room for the growing vertigo, pressing like swelling cotton within your skull.

Heights suck. But heights with a fate worse than death waiting at the bottom are in a league of their own. You grasp the rope, the coarse fibers itching at your sweaty palms, and take your first step out over the abyss.

“Don’t look down,” Lucas Tesshu says.
Great fucking suggestion
, you think. What do people always—always—do when they’re told not to look down?

You peer beyond your feet, the foreground fading away and the zombies below coming in with sharp clarity. It’s like a Hitchcock shot; or the shark coming at you in a sickening dolly zoom in
Jaws
, but it’s happening in real life. The bridge all but disappears and the writhing mass of ghouls jumps up at you in telescopic intensity.

You fall to your knees and vomit. “Hold onto the ropes!” Lucas shouts.

The undead canal below comes to life with the introduction of your lunch and the shouts of your partners next to you. It’s a concert of moans, all echoing off the canyon like an amphitheater and coming at you in a booming drone. They struggle further, reaching up to you in hopeful expectation.

You need to get off this bridge. You need to get off this
goddamn
bridge! Lucas is right behind you and Rosie has stopped only two planks ahead. You stand, the bridge swaying forcefully in response, and start to move forward.

“Hurry up,” you mutter.

“You okay?” Rosie asks.

“Get out of the way. Hurry up—hurry
up
!”

“Okay, chill out.”

She starts to move, but it’s not enough for you. You’re having a full-blown panic attack; you can’t breathe, see, or think. You’re on her heels, trying to overtake her.

“Hey! Cut it out!” she shouts. The zombies are screaming now too.

She’s stopped on the bridge. That won’t do at all. It’s wide enough; you can pass her. You lunge forward, stepping onto the same plank as Rosie. The resulting swing, as if the two of you were trying to stand upon a literal playground swing, is enough to knock both of you off-balance.

“Stop!” Lucas shouts, trying to reach out and restrain you. But it’s too late. You fall back, landing perfectly upon the thin air between two planks. A sickly feeling of malaise flows over you as you pass through the bridge.

From above, you can see Lucas reaching out, still hoping to catch you. Rosie falls as well, and catches the rope with one hand, but her body weight coupled with gravity is too much force and the rope tears away from her grasp.

The two of you tumble down the canyon and land with a crunch atop the thrashing, palpitating undead throng. Arms worm their way around you, holding you down and tearing you apart in the same motion.

You’re eaten alive.

THE END

“N
o, no, please—I cannot do this thing,” Lucas pleads. He falls to his knees, freely weeping now.

“Then I will,” Rosie says, unslinging her rifle.

“No!” Lucas shouts, tackling Rosie to stop her. She falls down on the pavement on her back, discharging a wild round into the forest.

His zombie sister takes this as her invitation to the party. She leaps upon Rosie, who struggles to stop the attack. Lucas is frozen; helpless. But you’re not—you rush in and bash the undead girl with the stock of your shotgun, knocking her clear from your friend.

You fire the shotgun, forgetting that the FRAG-12 rounds are still loaded. Lucas’ sister completely explodes from the shot and you fall back to the ground from the force. You’re wounded, you realize, from ricochet pellets. It’s not bad; you’ll live, but you need to get back to that doctor in camp.

Rosie, on the other hand, will not be so lucky. Blood pours from a bite wound on her neck. In a shocked realization, she puts a hand up to the wound. She looks to Lucas, then to you. “You’ve got to kill me,” she says.

Lucas, stone-faced once more, unsheathes his sword. Rosie trains her rifle at him and says, “Not you.” Then looking back your way, she says, “You.”

•
 
Time to end this madness. Switch ammo, shoot Rosie, then return to Salvation.

•
 
Knock her unconscious and leave her be. Lucas will certainly understand.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
our new friends escort you out of the house and into the streets. One of them gives some kind of code-whistle/bird call, then waits. Stillness on the afternoon air. Within thirty seconds, more survivors pour out of other houses, four of them in total, to round out the group to six.

One of them seems perturbed, a woman who walks up to you with purpose. “Who the hell is this?” she asks.

She’s probably in her early thirties, though it’s certainly possible the last few weeks have aged her. She’s dirty just like you, but she’s beautiful in a hard-as-nails sort of way. Black hair and blacker eyes. She wears an unbuttoned mechanic’s shirt with a fitted undershirt beneath. The embroidered nametag reads, “Cooper.”

She slaps a giant monkey wrench in the open palm of her hand whilst looking you up and down. “Ain’t got a tongue?”

You’re about to introduce yourself when Angelica speaks. “Sims and I found this poor lost one. I suggested teaming up.”

Cooper’s eyes narrow. She walks over to Angelica and slaps a backhand across her face, hard. Sims moves toward her, but Cooper stares him down. Both of them look away from you.

“I decide who joins and who doesn’t. But you look fit enough,” Cooper says. “You’ve already met Sims and Angelica. This here’s Jose.” She points to a man, most likely in his forties, who wears the stained whites of a kitchen worker from a hole-in-the wall restaurant. He’s Latino, short, plain, and has a calm countenance on his pockmarked face.

“Mucho gusto,” he says.

“And over there is Tyberius and Hefty.” Both are in their twenties and look like the ordeal has made them feral. The first is a handsome black man in tattered business casual. He wields a gigantic sledge hammer and has a police baton tucked in the waist of his slacks. The other one is a white guy, thin as a rail, and clearly a redneck. Plain white-tee kind of guy. He holds a heavy length of pipe about the size of a baseball bat.

“You can call me Cooper, and what I say goes. You got a problem with that?”

•
 
“No, Ma’am.”

•
 
“Actually, yeah. I’ll try my chances alone.”