Escape From Zombie Island

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(Note: Escape from Zombie Island (A One Way Out Novel) is a Choose Your Own Adventure style book that puts you, the reader, in the middle of a zombie outbreak. The catch here is that only one ending will result in your survival.)

ESCAPE FROM ZOMBIE ISLAND

Now this is the life…

Sitting on the beach, you stare at the blue, rolling water stretching into the distance before you. Impending nightfall colors the sky with a rich palette of yellows, reds and oranges as the sun inches ever closer toward the horizon. A cool breeze comes in off the ocean, pushing back the last of the day’s lingering heat. The cries of seagulls mix with the steady whisper and crescendo of the waves crashing against the shoreline. You try to remember the last time you’ve felt this content. It’s been a while, certainly. And now you have to wonder why it took such an extreme set of circumstances before you decided to take a break from the job and the daily grind, to find the time to just… relax.

Yeah, you could get used to this in a hurry, already have in the three days you’ve been here. Nothing to do but hang out on the beach, do some sightseeing, enjoy the local food and occasional cocktail, take long naps in the middle of the afternoon and sleep in as late as you wish in the morning. The fact that in four days you have to go back to your regular life… It’s a thought you spend little time entertaining. Your tropical getaway will end before long. No point in tainting it with concerns of what might await you back in the real world. The main reason you came here was to put all that stuff behind you. To clear your head. To let all the bad thoughts and feelings drift away… And, certainly, the divorce left you with no shortage of bad feelings. But now the whole sorry mess is behind you. Here you are in this beautiful place, a thousand miles from home, on your own for the first time in over five years, back before the marriage and the year long relationship leading up to it. Alone, yes, but far from lonely. You needed some time to yourself, could use quite a bit more of it, actually, but you’ll take what you can get.

With a sigh you get to your feet. The time has come to head back to the hotel, get cleaned up and think about what you want to do for dinner. You could always drop by the hotel bar at some point. Chances are you’ll run into some of the other vacationers you’ve befriended during your stay. You can think of worse ways to spend the evening. Or you could always rent a movie and spend the night in your room.

You grab your towel, shake off as much of the sand as you can, glance around at the two dozen or so people hanging out along this section of beach. The travel agent told you this would be an ideal destination if you didn’t want to be bothered by the crowds of the more common tourist traps. Of course, the place’s exclusivity had come with a higher price tag. But it had been worth it. The day you arrived you knew this would be the perfect place to unwind.

Turning your back to the ocean, you begin the short walk to the hotel which stands behind a thin line of palm trees, stop in your tracks as a new sound catches your attention. To the north the beach gradually angles back to the east and out of view. Gazing along the coastline in that direction, you see a dark speck in the distance, high above the ground, growing larger and losing altitude as it approaches. The whine of its engine drops in pitch, becomes the choking growl of a machine in distress.

The airplane dips from side to side as the pilot fights for control of the injured craft. People duck instinctively as the plane, trailing a thick plume of smoke, zips by overhead, the letters USAF plainly visible along the undersides of its wings. The aircraft appears to be even smaller than the four seater you flew in while on vacation with your ex-significant other a few years ago. A two seater then. Single engine prop plane. Correction: A military two seater, single engine prop plane. Where did it come from? Does the Air Force have a base around here somewhere? On a nearby island, perhaps?

This strange scene goes from bad to worse in an instant when the sputtering engine gives out completely. The plane plummets to the beach, slamming down at the water’s edge with a crunching impact, landing gear bent and mangled, nose buried in the sand. Smoke drifts upward from the plane in a thick column as onlookers form a wide half circle around the crash site. A man wearing a tank top with tattoos covering his arms—acting either bravely or stupidly, you’re not entirely sure which—approaches the damaged aircraft close enough to look in through the side window. He scrambles backward as the window shatters. Someone inside the plane—the pilot, you imagine—tosses what appears to be a metal cylinder roughly the size of a loaf of bread out through the broken window. The object, leaking a thick, black, misty substance, lands at the feet of the tattooed man. Even from here, you can see the biohazard symbol stenciled on the side of the silver canister. The man coughs as he inhales the black gas. Other onlookers start coughing too as a shift in the breeze carries the mist toward them. From inside the plane the pilot screams, an awful sound reminiscent of the howling of a badly wounded animal. A moment later the cockpit of the aircraft erupts into flame.

People cry out in fear and horror. Someone shouts, “Everybody get back! The plane could explode! Move to a safe distance!” Sound advice and most of those present take it to heart. Several people do not, however, including the man who initially approached the plane. Instead, he and five others drop to the ground and commence thrashing about as though afflicted by seizures.

It’s like a scene from a nightmare. You want to do something, anything that might help. At the same time you want to turn and run as fast as your legs will carry you. What good can you do here anyway? You have no sort of emergency or medical training. You’d only get in the way. And since you left your cell phone back at the hotel you can’t even call for help. Although, fortunately, distant sirens inform you someone else has made the call. As it’s a small island, you can’t imagine the emergency personnel taking long to get here.

The people lying on the sand continue thrashing. The plane continues to burn. You close your eyes and shake your head, wishing it all away. But when you open your eyes the awful scene is still there. By now you’ve seen enough.

You turn and walk across the sand, follow a wooden walkway with ropes for railings past the line of palm trees toward the hotel. The sirens continue to grow louder, closer. As you reach the roundabout in front of the hotel entrance, you hear that howling sound again from the direction of the plane crash. You keep walking, sure you’ll hear the awful sound tonight in your dreams…