INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (81 page)

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

R
emember that “it doesn’t matter…this is the end of your compound” warning?
Oh, well
, huh? Stubborn to the end, that you are. Things are about to go down O.K. Corral style. If only you’d saved up for that mounted .50 cal!

Still, you’ve got quite a few ammo crates up on your balcony (part of your prep for sniping zombies), and so you’re unworried about wasting bullets on potshots. You crank away at the oncoming caravan, which puts them into war mode—swerving and gunning the throttle. Boom! You must’ve hit the driver, because the lead vehicle crashes into a ditch.

Flashes of light glint off the side-windows of the other cars, and it’s a split second before you hear the ping of incoming bullets bouncing off your compound. You duck behind cover. This is about as much fun as you can have with your clothes on.
Yee-haw!

As they get closer, you switch to your assault rifle and unload a stream of lead down upon the vehicles. You put so much brass through the barrel, it gets too hot to hold. Their numbers have been thinned by a third—only eight vehicles remain—and the odds are good some passengers are at least injured.

They pour out of the SUVs and pickups; those who were foolish enough to ride in the beds now permanently lie there. Though you rain molten terror down upon the invaders, some are able to make it beyond your reach. Then two canisters, spraying a mist, appear upon your porch from below—tear gas!

You stumble back inside, desperate to get away from the chemical. Your eyes and throat burn, and your nose pours out mucous like a fountain. Without thinking, you rub your eyes, but that just makes the stinging worse. Tears flow down your face as a result of the eponymous gas.

The intruders break glass windows to get inside, and you do your best to clear your senses. You sit back against a wall and reload. They move through your home, sweeping and clearing each room in search of you. Obviously these guys hail from one of the law enforcement or military message boards you frequented in times of yore.

The first guy moves into your room, sweeping his rifle toward you, but you’re faster and plug two into his chest. He falls over just before two more tear gas grenades plink into the room. Goddammit. You’re blind. They rush in; your frantic shots meet with screams on the other end, but then you’re shot.

You bleed out. That’s fourteen less soldiers humanity has against the undead, but you know what? Fuck those guys.

THE END

N
ight descended upon the wooded valley like it had each night before; with an eerie stillness made only more unsettling by knowledge that movement does indeed exist beyond sight and sound. Eternal movement, never resting, always seeking.

You’re alone on watch. Dinner is long past. Lucas went up into the tree for his sleep shift, and you haven’t heard from him since. So here you are, alone with your thoughts. What will this compound be like? A
Mad Max
Thunderdomesque rule-by-force dictatorship where only the insane thrive and survive? Or a utilitarian commune where reason reigns supreme and frivolities are shunned for the good of the masses?

A stirring in the grass just beyond the perimeter of camp gives you a final thought on the subject. Whatever this compound is, it won’t be running and hiding. It won’t be half-slept nights and fearful looks over the shoulder.

An undead traveler emerges from the shadows. Maybe the compound will have automated turrets ready to take intruders down? Or minefields, crow’s nests with snipers, or machine-gunners always at the watch? Like a WWII fortress, ready for invasion. That’d be nice.

You rise to your feet, your axe scraping along the earth dully as you lift it in preparation for a fight. The zombie’s features materialize in the pale moonlight. He’s a cyclist, a mountain biker whose luck didn’t hold. He wears a helmet, gloves, and smart-tech clothes. There’s an obvious bite wound on his arm. The man must’ve ridden along, infected, until eventually he became a pedestrian evermore.

He’s moved beyond curious investigation now and comes at you with excitement. The absence of blood around his mouth suggests you’re his first human encounter since his half-death. Now you’ll put him down for good.

Usually, you bring your axe down upon their heads like you’re chopping firewood. That won’t work with his bicycle helmet. It wouldn’t be enough to save a human, but it could be just enough of a barrier to keep his brain tucked securely within his skull. So you’ll have to go with decapitation.

You swing the axe like you’re felling a tree, but the movement is unfamiliar and he moves in awkward lunges, so the bulk of the axe misses behind his head. You knock him to the ground nonetheless.

His ear is ripped off but does not bleed. This one-time lover of extreme sports rises to his feet again. You chop toward him this time, aiming for the face just beneath the helmet. You connect with his chin and chest and split him open with grisly results.

“Enough of this barbarism,” Lucas says from the tree. He hops down and lands in a roll on the forest floor. In one seamless movement, he’s back on his feet and decapitates the ghoul with a stroke of his sword. Lucas stabs down on the zombie’s head to finish the job.

The kendo master sighs, sheathes his sword, and with his back to you, says, “Get some rest. The marshes will be full of surprises.”

•
 
“I can’t wait.”

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

A
s you pry apart your carefully assembled barrier, Deleon speaks into his recorder one last time: “So, if you find this, good luck. And help yourself to what’s left in the cupboard.” He pops the tape out of his handheld, then inserts it into a desk recorder on a table with a note, “Listen to me.” After claiming a new blank tape, Deleon turns to you and nods. It’s time to head out. You’ve got your hammer, he’s got his club.

The hallway is pitch-black due to the loss of power. Deleon flicks on his flashlight. The stairs are a ramshackle of make-shift barricades and debris. They’ve been penetrated, though it’s hard to tell if by invaders or other refugees fleeing the safety of the building in search of greener pastures.

Shadows jump away from the flashlight. Deleon takes notice of a fireman’s axe on the wall, contained in a “BREAK-IN-CASE-OF-FIRE” case. He picks up the provided safety hammer, and winces in expectation. You hold your breath.

The glass shatters all over the floor and he claims the red axe, handing it to you. It was designed to break down doors, which means a zombie skull shouldn’t be a problem. From somewhere above, a significant thud crashes against the wall of another apartment. Deleon swings his flashlight around to illuminate the area of ceiling with the noise behind it.

Shuffles and scratches move across the area. The doctor follows the sound with his flashlight and stops when it goes silent. After a pause, he races down the stairs, eager to avoid whatever it is. You follow closely.

The outside world blinds you with the sheer power of the sun; a sight you’ve not seen for a month. Once your eyes adjust, you take in the carnage. The cityscape is bathed in evidence of a former chaos—now smoldering and calm. Flipped cars. Ammo casings adorn the street. Windows broken. Blood stains. Eerie silence. Motionless, save for tatters flapping in the wind.

There’re no undead immediately visible in the streets around you. It’s possible they were all destroyed, but that’s doubtful. The ghouls must have moved on in search of other prey, but there’s most likely pockets still lurking within the city. No sign of living humans either.

“Where to?” you ask, handing off the hammer to the doctor.

“We need to find some niacin,” he replies. “It’s not uncommon, but I need a lot of it. So a supermarket with a pharmacy or a hospital is probably our best bet. What do you think?”

•
 
“Hospital. The supermarket’s probably been raided already.”