INFECTED (Click Your Poison) (92 page)

Y
ou amble past the iron gates, dry roses crunching underfoot, and into the cemetery. The place is a graveyard; no one’s here. You clearly watched too many movies back when you were mortal. And apparently something deep within your psyche told you this would be the place to go. It’s not.

Humanity no longer has the means to bury their dead in ceremonious plots. The dead here will not rise again. There will be no mourning of loved ones inside this once green-lawned sanctuary of bones. So… better keep moving.

•
 
I’m still hungry. How about an all-you-can-eat buffet?

•
 
Hmm, where do scared people go? Police station!

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
ou make it to the third and final stairwell. Cooper and Deleon almost crash into one another coming around the corner. They stop and double-back to their own hallways, then look down the intersection—the undead have already made their way up the stairs and now are meandering down the hall toward you. So much for isolating yourself up here.

“Hefty?” she asks.

“Tyberius?” he says in unison.

They both shake their heads. “Shit,” Cooper says.

“Any more ideas?” Deleon whispers. Cooper shakes her head once more. “If you can slow them down, I can get to my lab—”

“It’s too late for that. There’s no stopping them now.”

They take a moment to contemplate, and you rack your brain as well. What now? Where else is there to go? What else is there to do? Cooper reaches out, grabs Deleon, and enters into a passionate kissing embrace. They finally release and Cooper gets out her crowbar. She takes a deep breath and lets it out. You wonder if she’s decided to slow them down after all, to charge headlong into the massing crowd.

Nope. She bashes Deleon in the knee with her crowbar. He cries out in pain and falls to the floor. “You bitch!”

“You’re dead anyway, you’re turning,” she says. “And who knows if your cure even works? But hey—thanks for slowing them down for us.” She backpedals a bit, then looks to you to see what you’ll do.

“Please, help me get to the lab; it’s our only hope,” Deleon begs of you.

•
 
Help the wounded doctor to the lab.

•
 
Follow Cooper.

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

Y
ou are now three weeks older. Sorry, life isn’t fair. But you’re also three weeks wiser. Strange things have been happening in the world. You’re plugged into the TV, and you’ve been following the news. It’s on right now.

“More upset in Tinseltown. A gruesome attack at a movie premiere, only days after the third in a string of incidents where a Hollywood set was shut down for the violent mental breakdown of a star. We’ll go to the tape right now; the following footage is graphic and it is suggested you look away if you’re squeamish.”

You lean in close to your TV. On the red carpet, the stars and starlets pose for cameras in designer garb. Something strange catches your eye: Joan Rivers shuffles over toward the newest young-hot-thing to grace the silver screen; her gait is almost a drunken stumble, yet there is some degree of control. She stares aimlessly with glazed eyes, her jaw is slack and her face is morbidly still. When she looks at the budding celebrity, she grows hungry. Not that any of this is strange—the strange part is that she holds no microphone.

She grabs her victim by the shoulders and bites down on the supple neck.

Those around her move quickly amidst the calamity. George Clooney accepts the call to action and pulls Joan off, only to receive a bite for his trouble—right onto his gorgeous face. Screams of panic ring out. A man in a tux shoots out from the theater, missing an arm and blood gushing everywhere. His date follows him, holding and gnawing on his arm, his life stained crimson upon her mother-of-pearl gown.

The footage falters as the cameraman runs for cover, returning the show to the newsroom and the supermodel reporter. Oddly calm, she reads from the teleprompter, “In an ironic twist, it seems many of those killed are users of the new longevity wonder drug
Gilgazyme®
. It’s still unknown if there is a connection between the drug and the homicide sweep hitting major urban centers across the country. No spokesperson for the creators of
Gilgazyme®
has agreed to comment as of this broadcast…”

The television is suddenly taken into local control and your community Sheriff appears on the screen. You change the channel instinctively, but it’s all the same. You’re not sure, but it seems that something like this hasn’t happened in decades. With so many channels…

“The Governor has declared a state of emergency,” the Sheriff announces. “But we are as of yet unprepared for any sort of mass evacuation. We’re working as hard as we can to set up aid stations and sanctuaries. In the meantime, work with friends and neighbors. Find a group. Nobody can beat this thing alone. And… we need all the help we can get.”

There you have it; the zombie apocalypse is upon you. The movies, genre books, comics—all of it is coming true—and it wasn’t Bath Salts. All because a few bastards wanted to live forever and got their wish the hard way. George Romero is probably on his way to “I Told You So” Ranch, and all the survival nuts are toasting in eager anticipation.

What’s your plan?

•
 
Hole up right here. Boards and nails. I can survive off my ramen noodles and Kraft easy-mac until the government figures this thing out.