A.) Sprint out the back door and into the woods.

Nice writing. Worth several smirks. I like your preoccupation with inane details. The sock. And the coffee. And the coffee.

You slam down your coffee mug. Oddly enough, you don't really feel like you need it any more; your heart is hammering like you've just downed a triple espresso. You shove your feet into your running shoes and bolt for the back door. You snap open the lock, yank the door open, and run like hell across your yard and into the woods.

As you run, you can hear growling and screaming from your front yard and your neighbors' front yards. It decreases doppler-fashion the farther into the trees you get.

We should pause here to get straight a few details about you. First of all, are you male or female?

A.) Male.
B.) Female.

whats your first name?
jake

Now we need to decide what you're good at.

What's your profession? I mean, your profession now appears to be "zombiepocalypse survivor." But what was your profession before the world went to hell?

A.)Advertising executive.
B.)Paramedic.
C.)Software engineer.
D.)Plumber.

You drive an ambulance and are often the first on the scene of terrible accidents. That severed leg in your yard was not the first you've ever seen. You'd know how to amputate a limb yourself if you had to. More to the point, you know how to do the stuff necessary to avoid amputating limbs. You're very good at CPR, setting broken bones, and stabilizing patients when hospitals are not available. All that time spent driving an ambulance at high speeds with the sirens going has made for some good reflexes, too. And you were able to grab a first-aid kit on your way out the door.

And what do you most like to do in your spare time?

A.)Play sports.
B.)Play video games.
C.)Collect stamps.
D.)Woodwork.
E.)Hunting.

You first went hunting with your dad when you were a kid, and now you go several weekends during the season, with friends. You love the deep quiet of the woods, and you're proud of your precision with a rifle.

You wonder if shooting zombies will turn out to be more or less difficult than shooting deer. You expect you'll be finding out. Soon. You didn't have a chance to grab your gun on the way out the door, but you hope you will find one in your travels.

That tells us what you're good at, but you can't be perfect. What would you say is your greatest weakness?

A.)I don't waste time being tactful. I say what I mean and I mean what I say. Some people don't like that, but that's their problem.
B.)I'm terribly out of shape. I always say I'm going to do something about it, but I'm always so busy…
C.)I'm clueless at anything to do with machines or how things work. I've never managed even minor home repair.

Indeed it is. Diplomacy is a bullshit sort of skill anyway; it's obviously far better to be good at doing things than it is to be good at handling people. After all, there's no chance you'll need to persuade other people to do things for you under the current circumstances…

Er. Let's move on.

Right, then! Now that we know who you are, we'll return to "flight from the zombies," already in progress!

Once you're well into the forest, you stop to listen. You don't hear any rustling or anything, so you walk more slowly.

Soon the pines begin to thin, and you can see glimpses of apple trees on the other side. This must be the outlying edge of Coursers' Farm, though you've never come at it from this direction. When you go to their farmstand, you always go by road. A few steps more, and you can see the farmhouse, some distance away. Beyond that is the long dirt road that leads from the farmstand to the farmhouse, and beyond that (though you can't see it) is a paved road.

Are you going to head for the paved road, or go warn the Coursers?

A.)Warn the Coursers, of course! They may need my help.
B.)Warn the Coursers, of course! I bet they've got food and guns and useful supplies.
c.)Head for the paved road, thanks. I'm not about to risk going into that farmhouse. What if they've already turned?
D.)I'm staying right here.

This decision is a no-brainer to you. There is strength in numbers and for all you know, the farmhouse may well be a weapons trove of the bludgeoning, slicing, and shooting variety. At this thought your hands clench into white-knuckled fists, the emptiness between them unnerving. The flesh rending undead couldn't be far behind, you are certain of it.

You were always a bit neurotic when your nerves became jangled. Whenever an ambulance patient was in dire condition, the steering wheel was a life ring in your hands and the siren your shrieking curse hurled at other drivers crowding the roads. That was the strange comfort of tangibility... Tangibility...Thoughts turn further inward, back to a dry summer day long past. The cool aluminum pressed into a hot and sweaty palm through a gritty tape. The flash of the polished silver blood red to the setting sun. Hollow vibrations echoed through your arms as little Tommy Sawyers screamed for his mommy, for you to stop... that he was sorry. Little was a misnomer of course, Lil' Tommy-boy was the biggest twelve year old in the neighborhood, a veritable neanderthal of a child. Vehemence fills your stomach like hot molten fire, it spills from your lips, scorching Tommy's ears as the pillar in your hands raises to the heavens. It is a pillar of light, of strength, of vengeance. You can almost read the faded sticker on the side, "oe Slugge," the familiar helmeted face grinning wolfishly back at you. "Tommy you scum sucking shit! Don't you ever touch Emily again! Don;t you even look at her! If you do, I swear on your life...!" You trail off, the threat hanging like a blade over his throat choked with rivers of snot and spit. "Okay! Okay! I swear, I promise! Please..!" You picture your twin sister. She had quietly snuck into the house, but wasn't quiet enough to sneak past your door. Her usually radiant face smudged in a vain attempt to hide the tear streaks. Her cheek was the color and shape of an eggplant. Her delicate golden locks filled with stinking mud. And worst, her new overalls (the ones she spent hours sewing delicate and colorful horse designs into ever since Mother showed her how) were torn breast to hip and caked with grime. She wouldn't say a word. But you knew better, you knew who to ask and how to make them squeak. So what if you were younger and smaller than shit brained Tommy? You knew how to even the odds. The bat flashed down in a luminous arc, a dull soft thud culminating your final attack on Tommy's soft, rubbery, "brain." Your thin arms were tired, legs aching from running, but the molten lead in your blood gave you strength hundredfold. Tommy writhed on the ground wheezing desperately, his hands clutched between his legs. "I'll be watching you," you spit. The coppery river oozing from his nose sated your blood lust, filling you with blackened satisfaction. The bat is cool and heavy in your hand... behind you the sky and trees flush in blood red light and the forest floor, creeping with jet black shadows...

That was the day you peered into the dark well that was your Self and found two blazing red eyes staring back. When the mind raged against the cage of flesh, consumed with emotions, a sense of serenity descended. The anger and the fear dissipated. And in those brief moments, the mind was akin to a laser, frighteningly focused and the body, a goliath of power and olympic sure-footedness. A monster dwelled in your mind, as cold and wrathful as the steel of a cleaver. It is no coincidence you preferred living alone.

You shake your head violently, thoughts lingering on Emily. Your concern deepens. "I need to find a phone," you murmur aloud.
God knows what shit the world has just been plunged head first into. Your survival, however, is of the utmost priority.

If memory serves, the Courser's were reasonably decent folk. You'd been to several barn dances on their property when you'd been growing up and it didn't hurt that Beth Courser (the youngest daughter) who'd gone to high school with you was mighty attractive. You'd even had a crush on her at one point, but that all was forgotten when you went off to State University. Warning and helping them was the right thing to do. Your resolve solidified, you navigate past their fence (cutting your leg slightly on the cattle wire) and begin to walk cautiously towards their barn and home.

You reach the barn first and peer inside. It is devoid of animals, but the rank odor lingers. There in tractor inside, however, the rear wheel is missing. Perhaps there is a spare elsewhere? You note that the driver's seat is enclosed by a plexiglas cabin. You pause, should you search the barn completely? You are already trespassing, so it shouldn't really matter if you start digging around. In for a penny, in for a pound. You step inside the barn, the atmosphere within is hot an stuffy, unlike the warm but dank weather outside. As you peer around rusting farm equipment and tools for a suitable weapon, redneck jokes creep into your mind. "How do you castrate a redneck?" Harharhar. Your ADD addled mind can't even focus on the simple task at hand. You are searching the hay loft above about to give up your fruitless search when you suddenly come upon an old rust-tinged machete hanging against the back wall. It blended in so well the the dark boards you almost missed it. You grasp the handle and swing it around a few times, trying it out. The blade whistles happily though the air and the handle is a solid wood. You peer down the blade. The metal edge is fine, but nicked over its lifetime of hard use. Perfect.

You leave the barn and make your way up to the farmhouse. You are careful to make yourself visible lest they mistake you for a zombie. It would be unwise to try and snoop around the windows when armed folk may be inside raring to shoot anything that moves. Once on the broad wooden porch you take a deep breath and knock loudly on the front door. After a long silent pause the barely perceptible sound of shuffling can be heard from the other side of the door. The pause lengthens unbearably. You cautiously raise the machete to bear and hammer on the door again.

A thunderclap deafens you as a portion of the door disappears in a jagged circle as if by magic. A deadly swarm of wood and metal screams past your midriff as a second thunderous report tears the sword from your hand. Without thought, you throw yourself to the side as two more explosions thoroughly rip the door into splinters. You know the sound well, it is the familiar report of a 12 gauge Remington 1100. It is a shotgun you have used once before during your hunts with your father. Your ears ring painfully, your hand throbs dully, and you side aches from the dive onto a potted plant (well it used to be a pot and a plant anyways). It is a miracle that you didn't gut yourself on the jagged pottery pieces. Your weapon is gone, shot to pieces most likely and you are in a most compromising position as heavy footfalls approach the ruined door. Death is near, brought on by honest mistake or selfish paranoia on either side.

But you feel no fear. Only the cool, clear rationale of the machine. Ice courses through your veins and molten lead fills your stomach.

You have no time! Only a split-second remains to decide!

A. Attempt to communicate and reason out the mistake! You're no zombie, right!?

B. Ram the door as the shooter exits and fight for the gun! You? me? I'm the guy with the gun!

C. Use the sharpened pottery pieces as a knife to attack the shooter! Stabstabstab!

D. Flee and risk being shot in the back

E. Surrend-HA! Jake never surrenders!

F. Beg for mer-HA! Jake never begs for his life!

Ripped word for word, choice for choice from "Choice of Zombies" on Google Play.
https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.choiceofgames.zombies&feature=search_result#?t=W251bGwsMSwxLDEsImNvbS5jaG9pY2VvZmdhbWVzLnpvbWJpZXMiXQ..

>>16567

not *entirely*