as easy as it looks, is it? It’ll come with time, but for now, I hope you’re appreciating your axe a little more.”
You think of a response, but before you can give it, the distinctive moan of the undead fills the woods around you. You look around and see that the cacophony of gunshots you unleashed has alerted more zombies to your location. The 10/22 rifle may be quieter than larger firearms, but it is by no means silent. A Scoutmaster and his troop of zombie Boy Scouts, who were most likely traveling with the Ranger in life, come at you from the side.
“Rifle,” Rosie says, an arm outstretched to receive her weapon.
You stare at the flesh-hungry youngsters headed your way; but something doesn’t feel right, and you can’t move.
“Those aren’t kids,” she says, as if reading your thoughts, “Demons in kid’s bodies, maybe. Zulu ain’t people—Rifle!”
You give it to her and she immediately goes into action, popping out the magazine you were firing—a banana-clip duct-taped to another clip for easy reloading—flipping it around, and inserting the fresh clip. She’s got twenty-five rounds to take out the dozen zombies, and she does it in exactly twelve. Clean, efficient, one headshot each.
Rosie revisits each zombie, ensuring that there is no movement in each one, to be sure the coast is clear. Then she suddenly dives to one side in a roll—a paintball move, no doubt—and cracks off two more shots behind you.
Two more bodies fall, a man and a woman, still decked out in their hiking backpacks. You didn’t even know they were there, and they were almost upon you!
Rosie looks at you with scorn. “Next time there’s a firefight, at least watch my back.”
• You look away. “We’d better get going, more are probably on their way.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Crossroads
“I am so fucking tired,” Hefty says. You’ve been walking all night. The sun has risen, but the world still appears blue in the cool light of morning. The group is in rough shape: dirty, covered in soot, and salty from dried sweat. Eyes red and baggy from no sleep. And you have no equipment.
All you want to do is lie down and sleep. Your arms ache from carrying the axe, and you can’t even feel your legs anymore. You move with your team down the street, well, like zombies, too tired to even talk until Sims randomly laughs aloud.
“That’s why they call me Hefty,” he says. The laugh is contagious, and one by one you all join in the college-all-nighter-it’s-2am brand of laughter. It’s not as funny as all that, but your abs ache and tears come to your eyes. You’re laughing just to laugh. It’s a welcome break from exhaustion and stress.
You move past a cross street with a “Zoo to the right” sign. Following the sign with your eyes, you see a rhinoceros rooting through trash. You stop and watch. The folds of the rhino’s skin border on plate mail, dry and hot in the sun. It’s almost surreal, seeing this giant animal out in the open. Despite the fact that his whiskers are brushing aside greasy plastic bags, the animal looks somehow majestic amongst the post-apocalyptic violence of the city. Deleon takes notice and says, “I am not capitulating.”
“What’s that?” you ask.
“Nothing. Something from a play I read in college.”
Sims appears on his other side. “Wasn’t the Bard, was it?” he asks.
Deleon smiles. “No, it wasn’t the Bard.”
“That thing… isn’t one of them, right?”
Deleon rubs a dirty hand against his beard stubble. “The ‘infection’—if you can call it that—isn’t a virus at all. It’s an alteration of the genetic code, meaning it’s DNA-specific, so there’s no risk of interspecies contamination.” He catches a confused look from Sims. “Only people.”
“How do you know that?” Sims presses.
“Hey!” Hefty shouts. “Les’ go sleep in that bank. We can go into the vault.” You turn to see what he’s talking about.
“What a sec… That’s my
You think of a response, but before you can give it, the distinctive moan of the undead fills the woods around you. You look around and see that the cacophony of gunshots you unleashed has alerted more zombies to your location. The 10/22 rifle may be quieter than larger firearms, but it is by no means silent. A Scoutmaster and his troop of zombie Boy Scouts, who were most likely traveling with the Ranger in life, come at you from the side.
“Rifle,” Rosie says, an arm outstretched to receive her weapon.
You stare at the flesh-hungry youngsters headed your way; but something doesn’t feel right, and you can’t move.
“Those aren’t kids,” she says, as if reading your thoughts, “Demons in kid’s bodies, maybe. Zulu ain’t people—Rifle!”
You give it to her and she immediately goes into action, popping out the magazine you were firing—a banana-clip duct-taped to another clip for easy reloading—flipping it around, and inserting the fresh clip. She’s got twenty-five rounds to take out the dozen zombies, and she does it in exactly twelve. Clean, efficient, one headshot each.
Rosie revisits each zombie, ensuring that there is no movement in each one, to be sure the coast is clear. Then she suddenly dives to one side in a roll—a paintball move, no doubt—and cracks off two more shots behind you.
Two more bodies fall, a man and a woman, still decked out in their hiking backpacks. You didn’t even know they were there, and they were almost upon you!
Rosie looks at you with scorn. “Next time there’s a firefight, at least watch my back.”
• You look away. “We’d better get going, more are probably on their way.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Crossroads
“I am so fucking tired,” Hefty says. You’ve been walking all night. The sun has risen, but the world still appears blue in the cool light of morning. The group is in rough shape: dirty, covered in soot, and salty from dried sweat. Eyes red and baggy from no sleep. And you have no equipment.
All you want to do is lie down and sleep. Your arms ache from carrying the axe, and you can’t even feel your legs anymore. You move with your team down the street, well, like zombies, too tired to even talk until Sims randomly laughs aloud.
“That’s why they call me Hefty,” he says. The laugh is contagious, and one by one you all join in the college-all-nighter-it’s-2am brand of laughter. It’s not as funny as all that, but your abs ache and tears come to your eyes. You’re laughing just to laugh. It’s a welcome break from exhaustion and stress.
You move past a cross street with a “Zoo to the right” sign. Following the sign with your eyes, you see a rhinoceros rooting through trash. You stop and watch. The folds of the rhino’s skin border on plate mail, dry and hot in the sun. It’s almost surreal, seeing this giant animal out in the open. Despite the fact that his whiskers are brushing aside greasy plastic bags, the animal looks somehow majestic amongst the post-apocalyptic violence of the city. Deleon takes notice and says, “I am not capitulating.”
“What’s that?” you ask.
“Nothing. Something from a play I read in college.”
Sims appears on his other side. “Wasn’t the Bard, was it?” he asks.
Deleon smiles. “No, it wasn’t the Bard.”
“That thing… isn’t one of them, right?”
Deleon rubs a dirty hand against his beard stubble. “The ‘infection’—if you can call it that—isn’t a virus at all. It’s an alteration of the genetic code, meaning it’s DNA-specific, so there’s no risk of interspecies contamination.” He catches a confused look from Sims. “Only people.”
“How do you know that?” Sims presses.
“Hey!” Hefty shouts. “Les’ go sleep in that bank. We can go into the vault.” You turn to see what he’s talking about.
“What a sec… That’s my
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