Zombocalypse Now (6 page)
Consider it a win.
THE END
46
Why not? You give it a shake to dislodge as much residual zombie as possible, throw the bag over your shoulder, and head out. It’s been a long time since you’ve tried to locate a specific address without Google Maps, but you decide to give it your best shot. The first house you find has a full mailbox already. If they haven’t even ventured to the curb since the outbreak, you figure it doesn’t bode well for the aliveness of any potential occupants, so you just cram the new mail in with the old and keep walking. At the next house, however, you’re accosted by a middle-aged man in a bathrobe. “Uh, U.S. Mail,” you say, handing him a stack of letters.
“You came all this way to bring return address labels from
PETA
? That’s not even how you spell my name,” he grumbles, looking at you like you’re stupid. He may have a point. “And my cable bill? The cable doesn’t even work anymore. I’m not paying this.”
“I’m not with the cable company, sir . . . ,” you start.
“Get the hell off of my lawn.”
You make your way back down the road, feeling a bit foolish. Before you get far, though, a little round woman comes running after you. “Wait!” she says, panting. “Are you really with the post office? Our son lives on campus in the city and we haven’t heard anything from him since all this started. Can you get him a letter?”
She’s staring at you with big, sad mom-eyes. If you agree to look for her son,
turn to page 100.
If you try to nip this thing in the bud before it turns into some kind of unbearable Kevin Costner drama,
turn to page 215.
47
You wanted to get this group of yokels to safety, and you suppose you’ve taken care of that. Daryl seems particularly torn up about your departure, but neither he nor any of the others are interested in leaving their newfound paradise. They’re as happy as pigs in an air-conditioned supermarket stuffed with canned and packaged goods.
You hit the streets, but now that you’re on your own, you’re kind of at a loss. Zombies are everywhere, and although they don’t move terribly fast, if you’re not careful, they could box you into a corner, especially since you’re not familiar with this part of town. Maybe you should head west, you think, back toward your apartment. It might not be suited for a long-term stay, but at least you can regroup, get a change of clothes, and try to find something to use as a weapon.
Then your eye is drawn to colorful posters of men and women in skin-tight outfits beating each other up in a nearby store window. A comic book shop! It’s been a while since you’re gotten any new comics—if you can get in, why not stop by and pick some up?
If you think taking comics from the store basically boils down to looting and head straight home instead,
turn to page 17.
If you’re okay with the looting, and figure that since the world’s going to end you might as well have plenty of reading material,
turn to page 132.
48
The truth is, with everything you’ve witnessed over the last 24 hours, you trust Ernie more than a bunch of toothpaste guys who couldn’t figure out that grinding up dead animal brains was a bad idea in the first place. “Stay away!” Gary shouts as Ernie approaches his desk. “You’ll never learn my secrets. My password is like a zen koan beneath a layer of unbreakable encryption!”
“It’s ‘passw0rd,’ with a zero instead of an O,” Ernie says, fiddling with the keyboard. “That’s like the most commonly used CEO password since the IT guys started making them use numbers and letters combined.” It doesn’t take your friend long to find what he’s looking for. “Look here,” he says, pointing at an undecipherable flow chart on the screen. “When they did the test samples they just added smartening crystals to the already-made toothpaste. But in the manufacturing process, it goes in earlier, before the fluoride,” he pauses, giving Candice a glare, “and before they activate the extreme whitening compound. That’s why they didn’t catch it earlier—the chemicals react differently when combined in a different order.”
“So how does this help us undo it?” Candice asks.
“It doesn’t,” Ernie replies. “It’s lethal poison. Those zombies are literally dead before they rise up again, and I don’t think we can do anything about it except kill them more.” Gears in your mind start to turn, however. The paste seems to pacify the undead completely, at least for a while. If you could mass produce it, re-killing them would certainly be a lot easier. Ernie checks inventory levels (the information is accessible, but the plant itself, unfortunately, is located off site), and finds that there should be an ample supply of raw materials there.
“Once we start production, we could ship it all over the world!” Candice exclaims. You know that guilt over her part in spreading the zombie plague has been eating your aunt alive, and you’re delighted to see a glimmer of hope return to her eyes. “Ernie, I take it all back,” she says. “You’re a genius!”
Candice insists on rounding up survivors on the way out, and although Gary refuses to budge from his office, you see the speaker phone on his desk that he’s been rambling on about and take it with you. It turns out that the remaining employees have completely lost touch with reality and are worshipping his disembodied voice as a god. They’re pretty far gone, sanitywise, and in retrospect you’re glad that you didn’t count on them for scientific support.
Using the last of your toothpaste water, you manage to get the crazies out of the building. The question is, what do you do with them now? They aren’t in any shape to take care of themselves, and turning them loose will almost certainly mean leaving them to become zombie food. On the other hand, the manufacturing plant is miles away, and you don’t like the idea of two dozen loose cannons mucking up your last ditch attempt to save humanity.
If you decide to take the Crogaste employees along, since you can’t bear to tell your aunt that you want to sacrifice what remains of her co-workers for the greater good,
turn to page 202.
If you decide to leave them behind, since the fate of humanity is just too important for you to be messing around with this bunch of nutjobs,
turn to page 142.
50
Calm down. Relax. Everything’s going to be okay.
Everything’s NOT going to be okay—you’ve got zombie guts in your eye!
No, no, just stay cool. You manage to navigate the crowd without losing your head, then start pounding on the police station door.
“Let me in!” you scream. “I’m not a zombie, but I’m disguised as a zombie, and I got zombie in my eye, and I need a shower really, really bad!”
The door opens and an officer lets you in. You’re saved! Then he handcuffs you (what?), brings you downstairs to the police station basement, and turns a fire hose on you. The force is incredible, and you very nearly drown, but at least it gets you clean. After about five minutes he shuts it off. “You still not a zombie?” he grunts.
“Glurb,” you whimper.
“Guess I’ll take you to see the chief, then.” The officer uncuffs you, hauls you back up the stairs, and brings you into a cramped little office. “This one was pounding on the door outside,” he says. “Not sure what the protocol for that is anymore.”
The police captain, spinning around in his chair, turns out to be a stuffed crab. Wait a minute. You’d recognize those beady little eyes anywhere.
“
Clampy Pete
,” you say. “The last time I saw you, you were about to wash out of police academy.” The two of you go way back, and regardless of the way things may have started between you, they got fairly ugly before the end. How did this guy ever wind up running a precinct? You realize that you’re not going to get any help here. “How’s Sarah?” you sneer.
“None of your damn business,” Clampy Pete retorts. “And the last time I saw you, you were a deadbeat slacker with a smart mouth. I see not much has changed.” He turns to the officer who brought you in. “Protocol is what it’s always been. We take the civilians’ statements and send them on their merry way.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer says noncommittally. “Pretty sure that’s certain death, though.”
This is insane! It would be just like Clampy Pete to run his police station strictly by the book, even in the event of biblical end times. The last thing you’re going to do is to beg him for help, though. Maybe you can convince some of the officers that if they hope to survive, they’re going to have to start breaking a few rules?
Then again, you came here looking for a safe place to wait things out. Perhaps if you broke some rules yourself they’d lock you up, which might not be the most comfortable way to wait out the zombie plague, but would beat the alternative hands down.
If you think you can talk some sense into the police force and convince them not to chuck you out into the zombie insanity,
turn to page 10.
If you’ll settle for a jail cell and come up with a plan to get yourself thrown in one,
turn to page 134.
52
“Count me in,” you say. “Now, what’s this about a shotgun?” Mittens leads you back to her car and opens the trunk to display a staggering array of weaponry. You’re not sure if hand grenades are standard issue police gear, but it’s good to know you have access. “Shouldn’t we call for backup or something?” you ask.
“Yeah, about that. I’m kind of on suspension right now,” Mittens says. “For shooting some guys.” She gives you a hard look that adds “because they asked too many questions,” and you decide not to press the matter.
The next few days are a weird combination of
Dirty Harr
y and
Night of the Living Dead
, with Mittens intimidating bartenders and street hustlers, and occasionally gunning down the stray zombie. You stumble upon a gang of thugs who are mass-producing capsules filled with zombie pus to sell as anti-infection pills (zombie drug mules and the zombie protection racket had already proven ineffective). The goal, as far as you can tell, is to make a lot of money and kill a lot of dudes? It doesn’t seem well thought out, but their plan could spread the zombie plague awfully fast. “We need to stop this before those pills hit the street,” you tell Mittens.
“There’s no time,” she says. “These are Fat Jimmy’s guys. I should have known he was behind this. If we hurry, we can stop it all at the source!”
If you agree that the best idea is to climb the corporate ladder and take things up with the delightfully named Fat Jimmy,
turn to page 257.
If you think stopping the zombie drug trade is a more pressing matter,
turn to page 176.
53
You’re not sure what disturbs you more—the fact that PerfectForeverLoveMatch.com set you up with a zombie or the fact that it took half an hour for you to distinguish it from every other internet date you’ve ever had. The last thing you need right now is to go tagging along with Crazy McShooterson out there. If there are any more of those things running around, let her take care of them. You need to sit down with a stiff drink and think long and hard about how it all came to this.
The bad news is that the waitstaff has completely abandoned the place along with all the customers. The good news is, so has the bartender. You grab a bottle of gin off the top shelf and play with the squirter gun thing until you figure out which button makes the tonic water come out. The first drink is exactly what the doctor ordered, although it doesn’t seem to provide much insight into your dating troubles. Surprisingly, the second and third don’t bring any startling revelations, either.
Your slow, steady march toward oblivion is interrupted by a chorus of moans, and you look up from your glass to see several zombies marching toward you. But their vacant, drooling faces just remind you of all the self-absorbed losers you’ve ever been set up with. Busting a few zombie heads might prove cathartic right now.
You know what your trouble is? Zombies. If it weren’t for those rotting bastards, your life would be great! If you wisely take out your frustrations on the undead,
turn to page 67.
Slow down there, champ. That’s just the booze talking. If you decide that violence is not the solution and try to escape through the kitchen,
turn to page 180.
54
You ask the girl (it turns out her name is Madison) to show you where she buried the devil dog four years ago, and she begrudgingly agrees to lead you there. Her thumbs continue twiddling on her cell phone as you follow her up a hill away from town. Neither you nor Ernie have phone reception, so you’re not sure who she thinks she’s texting.
Darkness is falling as you crest the hill (odd, you think, since it’s 11 in the morning). Madison tells you that you’ve arrived, and a handwritten, misspelled sign nailed to a tree confirms it. The poor spelling, however, bothers you less than the preternatural darkness and the deep sense of foreboding that seeps out from every leaf, rock, and shrub.
A decaying wooden cross carved with the word “Princess” has been stuck haphazardly into the earth. That would be the devil dog’s grave, you think, based on the marker, the way the ground underneath it is as black as coal, and the overwhelming feeling of evil you get when you look at it. You stand in silence for a moment. Not sure what to do next, Ernie picks up a stick and gingerly pokes at the grave.