INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (83 page)

Both of you try to catch your breath as you ride down to safety in the elevator.

“I’ve been bitten,” Deleon says. “I just need you to get me back to my apartment so I can administer the cure.” He sees your look. “I know, it’s not finished yet, but I think I can stave off the infection.” He begins applying pressure and wrapping his wound. “Please, I need your help.”

•
 
He might be the only chance mankind has. “All right, but if this doesn’t work, you’re on your own.”

•
 
Or you might be his first victim. “I’ll drop you off at home, but then I’m getting as far away from this accursed city as I can.”

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

L
ucas slashes at the first ghoul to make it to the top, then slides out of the way and makes room for you and your shotgun. “Let me know when you need to reload,” he says. You nod and start down the stairs with your shotgun raised. Rosie already picks off those filing their way up, leaning over the edge and expertly opening their skulls as if she were a surgeon and her rifle a scalpel.

You blast the first zombie in the face, completely obliterating its head and sending the limp body tumbling backward down the stairs. With five more downed ghouls, you’ve blown your load, and a dull
click
signals it’s time for a refill. Lucas Tesshu steps forward to fill the void, slashing with such deft quickness you have to hurry to keep up.

The jeep’s up ahead, but the three of you fight well enough, you should be able to make it to the next building. Lucas and Rosie each nod for you to continue. So, which way?

•
 
The terminal.

•
 
The hangar.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
ou are a member of the one percent, the best the world has to offer. You know the schmuck who said “Money can’t buy happiness” was probably poor. You’ve been elevated above everyone else, either through your own hard work, by birth, luck or… a little of each. And now you can finally make time to give back—by gracing the world with your presence for eternity.

You’re resting quietly in your mansion, contemplating how to spend your eons, vaguely wishing
Gilgazyme
 ® had come out last year, when your personal assistant arrives with a package.
The
package. She leaves it on your 16th-century escritoire, right next to the tray with today’s civet coffee. It briefly enters your mind that this is the closest Stacy will ever come to blessed immortality. And she probably didn’t even know it crossed her hands.

You thank her and she leaves. With deliberate care you open the package. It’s a nondescript cardboard box filled with packing peanuts. From within, you pull a long and slender tube about the size of a wine bottle without a neck. The metal is cool to the touch. A white business card inside the box reads simply: “Welcome to the rest of your life. See you in the future, PHOENIX & DELEON.”

Back to the tube—you unscrew the top and it hisses back at you in response. Along with the pressure coming out of the canister, wisps of white smoke float up toward you. Suspended in the middle of the carriage is none other than the
Gilgazyme
 ® inhaler. It gives when you tug on it, and now you hold the thing in the palm of your hand. It’s heavier than you expected—and for what you paid for it, it’s probably worth a thousand times its weight in gold.

The inhaler is minimally decorated; no words, only the symbol of infinity, ∞, repeated and interlocking like chain mail in shining silver décor around its light blue slender body. Over the mouthpiece is a red cap labeled, “Remove before use.”

Without hesitation, you pop the cap and suck down the cool solution from within. As you depress the injector, the formula forces itself into your throat and lungs. You can’t tell if it’s liquid or gas, but it coats your esophagus in a viscous embrace. The effervescent tingling spreads throughout your body and eventually dissipates altogether.

You don’t feel any differently. But, you realize, that’s sort of the point. You’ll never
be
any different. Tomorrow and all the rest of your days will feel the same as this day. No more will you age. Your body won’t decay and deteriorate like everyone else. You’ll never die.

Unless you get hit by a car or contract a terminal illness. But that’s not a fun thought. So how about instead of sitting at home, entertaining notions of hypochondria, you throw the party of never-ending lifetime? You’re immortal, time to live like a god!

Now then, where should you have Stacy invite your family, friends, coworkers, and anyone else who might envy your newfound longevity?

•
 
“Hmm, first day of the rest of my life? Vegas, baby. Private jet and penthouse suite for the win.”

•
 
“You know what would be nice? Just a small get-together. On my yacht. Do you have any idea how much tail I’m gonna get as an immortal?”