INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (84 page)

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“Get my plane and entourage prepped. I hear Paris is quite nice when you’re ageless.”

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

O
nce the siren song of the mega-obese, the all-you-can-eat buffet is now host to its final promotion: Zombie Thursday. You approach the feeding trough and it’s immediately apparent from the influx of immortals, the place is in a state of pandemonium normally reserved for Mother’s Day brunch. The scooter-bound flee like rats from a sinking ship and yet others—gelatinous mountains—rush in to fill their handicapable vans with prime rib and peach cobbler.

For you, it’s certainly all-you-can-eat, but supplies are limited. Like a Paleolithic tribe, you bring down a mammoth with the help of a few other hunters. This catch should last you through half of winter, but you have no concept of moderation. You down as much blubber as your gullet will take… and there is a limit.

You don’t feel pain in the same way as mortals, and yet you’re aware that your stomach and intestines are expanding to their tensile boundaries. Something’s going to give soon. You’ve seen the other gods and goddesses in the advanced stages of over-eating: stomachs distended from tissue failure, digestive systems ruptured and abdominal cavities filled with flesh and fluid. Then, once the body’s extra storage space is maxed out, the over-pressurized bellies burst and newly consumed victims simply spill out onto the street. Stay young and beautiful forever with
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There’s a loud gurgling from within, loud enough to drown out your moan. Your backed-up digestive system groans like an exhausted engine—and then it happens. You shit yourself. Luckily for you, the bone fragments, scraps of clothing, chunks of scalp and hair didn’t put any serious clogs in your plumbing, and gravity does its job.

Like a pigeon in mid-flight, this process happens without your consent, and to all outward appearances, it’s as if you didn’t notice either. You just keep filling the top with new food while the old drops out below. Much like the eatery’s former patrons.

But soon Zombie Thursday is over, the pantheon disperses, and it’s time to wander once more.

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Wander.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

T
he fact that they just monetized arguably the most significant discovery in history notwithstanding, this company is rather underwhelming. There are only two offices in this section, those belonging to the Doctors: Richard Phoenix and Lewis Deleon. Granted, the building is full of techs running tests and collating data, but you get the feeling that this project is severely undermanned.

As you can see from the glass façades, one office is occupied and the other is empty. The larger houses Dr. Phoenix, who stands behind a cluttered desk and shouts into his office telephone. Where does your mop take you?

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The main office. Doc Phoenix must be Mr. Bossman, so he’ll probably have whatever info I need. Plus, I can overhear whatever it is he’s saying. Waste not another minute!

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Deleon’s office. He’s away, so it’ll be easier for me to snoop through his stuff.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

“W
indow,” you say, moving over to remove the boards from atop it. With each wooden plank removed, a brilliant ray of fresh sunlight enters; something you’ve not seen for a month.