The Ugly Beginning

Written by: TW Brown

Cover Art by Shawn Conn

Dead: The Ugly Beginning

©2011 May December Publications LLC

Fourth Edition

The split-tree logo is a registered trademark of May December Publications LLC

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author or May December Publications LLC.

Printed in the U.S.A.

Dedication

To: Ronni, Cody, and Alex

They are May and December

A Moment with the Author…

Greetings,

You are holding a culmination of a lifetime of dreams and childhood fantasies. I have always loved to write. The idea that I could create feelings and emotions that would churn inside the hearts of people I have never met is a bit of a rush. That is what this series is all about to me.

There is little doubt that you are a zombie fan. You’ve watched all of Romero’s work. Probably watched the remakes. You have that “favorite scene” or the line(s) that you recite: “They’re coming to get you, Barbara” “When there’s no more room in Hell…” we know way too much about Tom Savini’s work history, and become giddy whenever a new Romero project hits the rumor mill.

Like anybody who has fallen in love, there has been heartbreak. Cheesy one-offs, and flat-out bad stuff has been a festering boil on the ass of the zombie genre. If we’re honest with ourselves, we’ve all read some really awful stuff, and seen some ridiculous movies (Zombie Strippers anyone?).

There are some who say zombies are the new vampire. I say that the zombie will always be The Zombie. First and foremost, I’m a fan. For the most part, I’m a traditionalist. However, there have been some great new mythologies rising from the grave. David Wellington, Brian Keene, and S. G. Browne have all made their own mark. They are my genre heroes out there blazing trails. For the purist in me I enjoy Robert Kirkman’s Walking Dead graphic novel or read Kim Paffenroth. Then there is Tony Monchiski and Rhiannon Frater. As I’ve said, I’m a fan. You’d find me standing in line holding a pristine copy of the book and a Sharpie with the rest of you.

This sycophantic rambling has a purpose. All those I’ve mentioned have things in common with George A Romero. They give us CHARACTERS. Of course, there is gore and abundant zombie-induced carnage. But they give you evil to cheer, boo, love, or hate. A lot of stuff out there fails in that area spectacularly.

My hope with the Dead: series is to give you something to follow with interest. I want you to feel the loss when a beloved figure succumbs to death…undeath. It sounds plain, yet arrogant at the same time. Only, anybody who knows me personally knows that I don’t believe in small ambitions. The only goal I allow myself is to be one of The names in zombie fiction.

I’m not trying to reinvent the wheel (or the zombie). I just want to create my own world and populate characters that sit beside you, seem real, and stir your emotions. I will tell you here that there will be twelve books in this series. The actual goal that I have set for myself when I first put pen to paper is for this series to occupy as much shelf space as Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time, Terry Goodkind’s Sword of Truth, or Laurell K Hamilton’s Anita Blake series.

Let’s face it, we all wanted to know what happened after that helicopter lifted off the roof of the mall. People change after major life-events. What is bigger than the zombie apocalypse? So, the men, women, and even children that you will meet in the pages ahead will change. My hope is that you will enjoy it.

If you’ve lasted this long, you get my first thanks. There are always a lot more people involved in the creation of a book than the name stamped on the cover. So, let the effusive gratitude begin. In no particular order: Doctor Pus and his Legion of Librarians—nowhere can there be found a more loyal fan base if you can manage to capture their attention; Permuted Press—all the help and professional advice coupled with some amazing stories; my wife, Denise—for doing all the things I can’t;Shawn Conn—for the best covers…ever…period; The History Channel’s Life After People series—what a great source of information for apocalypse scenario writers; and finally, Ronni, Cody, and Alexander—they will always be May and December, they are my babies no matter how old they get. My life will always belong to them and my only real goal is to make them proud of their dad.

Proceed with Caution

May 2010

TW Brown

Email:  twbrown@maydecemberpublications.com

DEAD: The Ugly Beginning

Chapter 1 – The Ugly Beginnings

Chapter 2 – Vignettes

Chapter 3 – The Geeks Shall Inherit…

Chapter 4 – Radio Traffic

Chapter 5 – Vignettes II

Chapter 6 – One Less Geek to Feed

Chapter 7 – Still Running

Chapter 8 – Vignettes III

Chapter 9 – Geeks to the Rescue

Chapter 10 – Tranquility Base

Chapter 11 –Vignettes IV

Chapter 12 – Geeks, Girls, and Guns

Chapter 13 – Illusions

Chapter 14 –Vignettes V

Chapter 15 – Geeks versus Myth

Chapter 16 – Tough Choices

Chapter 17–Vignettes VI

Chapter 18 – Geeks Plus One

1

The Ugly Beginnings

 I ain’t no hero. I never thought of being one. When I was young, I didn’t dream about being a police or fireman. I never considered joining the military, even after 9-11 when so many others my age flocked to the recruiter’s office.

Hell, I was the guy who picked a desk in the middle of the classroom on the first day of school when all the Brains rushed for front row seats and the Jocks and Stoners roamed to the back. I didn’t play sports, at least not in any organized way. When sides were chosen (even if it was just a pick-up game with my buddies), I was pointed out someplace in the middle. Sometimes I would pull off a play in football, basketball, kickball…whatever, which was only amazing because it was me doing it.

I had my share of girlfriends. I lost my virginity my senior year. On prom night. To a girl who played flute in the high school marching band. Her name was Kerri or Kathy…or Kari or Cathy.

So you’re starting to get the point. Right?

I worked in an office complex after I graduated college …B minus GPA. Never married, but I was engaged a few times. My one bedroom apartment was small, but it suited me and my dog just fine.  Well, that was until the horror movies jumped off the screen and landed right in the middle of an atypically un-believing real world.

Some of the stuff about zombies proved to be true.

Some not.

Most of how humanity was predicted to act was drastically underestimated. The best. The worst. Sometimes I wonder how in the hell we’ve survived as a species.

That will likely be answered definitively sooner than I would like.

It may seem corny, but no one I’ve met since it began can give me a solid answer as to how it all rolled into motion. Sure, there are theories: Government Bio-weapon gone awry; Super-virus; alien particles from space; demons from Hell; and global warming. Each gets equal billing when you hear the topic come up. Maybe it’s a mix of all of the above. Or, maybe God got tired of us messing up his toy. And if you don’t believe in God…well then you can refer back to the list and pick your favorite. Honestly, I don’t give a damn. I’m too tired from running. How I ended up leading a band of survivors in this Romero-Hell is my new reality. The time for blame has long passed.

Since things began, I’ve seen…we’ve all seen…things best forgotten. Yet, I, as well as anybody still alive, know that forgetting is impossible. The best you can hope for now is sleep without the nightmares coming back to refresh those images you desperately try to shove into a hard to reach spot in your mind. There are some things that the movies missed, or could not accurately convey. The biggest would be the smell; that, and the psychological toll of hearing a person scream as they are ripped apart and fed upon.

***

 “…seem to see no pattern in what is being called The Blue Plague, due to the discoloration common in the final stages where it is theorized that the body is starved for oxygen.”

Click.

“Sars. West Nile. Crap. What’s next?” I turned off the television and tossed the remote onto a stack of unread magazines scattered across my coffee table.

Pluck, my Basset Hound, twitched a big, floppy ear and closed his eyes in disinterest. I scratched him behind one of those ears, earning a contented doggie sound.

I got off the couch and made one of those habitual trips to the fridge. I popped it open knowing deep down that I didn’t really want anything. A thud from the living room signaled that Pluck was on his way, just in case I might produce some tasty treat that would undoubtedly be shared. I’m pretty sure Pavlov’s dogs are hidden somewhere in Pluck’s family tree.

As is often the case when I’m about to make a major life choice, this one being leftover Chinese take-out, or last night’s pizza, the phone rang. I passed Pluck just as his paws smacked the linoleum with a scrabble of clicking claws that were in dire need of trimming. His exasperated huff caused his thick jowls to flutter.

“Yeah?” No need for formality since I could see Bill Wright, a friend of mine’s name, in the caller ID on my phone.

“Steve, are you watching this?” My friend Bill was naturally excitable, but something in his voice was off.

“Is this sports related?” I made no attempt to hide how totally not interested I was. “Unless it involves a female gymnast losing some or all of her outfit—”

“Turn to Channel Seven now!”

The near-hysterical timbre in his voice had me grabbing my remote before I realized it. I punched the buttons with my thumb. The green volume bar inched across the bottom of my screen as I tried to comprehend what I was seeing.

“…of the local police force along with a detachment from the National Guard have set up around the town’s perimeter. No contact has been established with any of the residents up to this point. Reports from the air indicate that it is unlikely that any survivors exist.”

The buzzing in my ear reminded me that I was still on the phone with Bill. Also, my arm remained extended towards the television. My hand was empty because, at some point, I had dropped the remote.

“Another 9-11?” I felt my chest tighten.

“I don’t think so,” Bill said. I could hear his keyboard rattling in the background. “This shit is all over the place. And not just in our country. It’s global!”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Straight-up horror movie shit!”

“Uh-huh.” My enthusiasm and interest began to recede quickly.

“Dude, I’m totally serious! Packs of crazed people are going on rampages and just tearing people apart. YouTube already has like a thousand postings under “Zombie Attack” that show some twisted stuff. At least it did until the site locked up and crashed.”

“So you’re telling me that zombies are out there going all George Romero on the unsuspecting citizens of the world?” I was still watching my now muted television while sitting on my coffee table rubbing Pluck’s head as it rested on my knee. It wasn’t showing me any zombies, just a talking head and a caption that read: Possible Small Town Epidemic.

“If you saw any of these clips, you’d be grabbin’ a gun and headin’ to the nearest shopping mall!”

No, I didn’t believe Bill in the slightest. That was mostly due to the hours he, I, and others spent imagining just such a scenario; usually after viewing any of the Dead flicks. Take your pick…Night, Dawn, Day, Land. Original. Remake. We’d seen them all enough to recite lines like Rocky Horror fans. It always led to the “what if” conversation.

One of the oldest, most overused sayings is, “Be careful what you ask for…” You know the rest. So, I did what anybody else would do if their friend called to say that the zombies were coming. I hung up.

***

 Sometimes you will see something in life that makes you say or think, “That’s just like that movie….” Or, if you’re the literary type, it could be in a book. I’ve read or seen lots of ‘zombie-esque’ stuff over the years. I always thought it would be so cool. Of course, I’d never go into that dark place that so many fall prey to. Plus, those zombies move so slow…at least until the British influence brought on the sprinting zombie. Man, am I glad they got that wrong.

***

I went to bed watching Talk Show with Spike Ferensten. Overall, a normal Saturday night for me. Ironically, it was the utter darkness that woke me.

My eyes opened to that total blackness that modern man had grown so unaccustomed to experiencing. The first moments were disorienting. Usually there is a blue glow that filters through my curtains from a car rental place that casts its light on my closet door. I live near the airport, so I can count on two fingers the number of times I’ve lost power. Both times were due to terrible ice storms.

It was late April.

In the distance I heard sirens. That is nothing unusual near the airport at any time of day or night. So, I closed my eyes with the intention of going back to sleep. An unfamiliar growl signaled the change in my world…I just didn’t realize how drastic at that particular moment.

The growl changed register. Suddenly, my droopy-faced, foot-warmer of a dog began barking furiously. There was no mistaking the message.

Danger!

I climbed out of the covers and tried to creep to my bedroom doorway. If there was a creaky board in the floor that I missed, I’d be shocked. I peeked down the hallway. My front door was in a direct line of sight, and on the right was my living room window with the curtains closed. Through an arch on the left would be my kitchen and a much smaller window. My apartment was on the second floor and in the corner of the small thirty-unit complex. Usually, at night, the big lit sign from the luxury hotel across the street shone brightly in my living room; even through closed curtains.

Not tonight.

“Pluck!” I whispered.

I could see his dark shape, barely discernable against my front door in the blackness. The shape moved and was at my feet pushing against me with its bulky head. I reached down to scratch behind his ears and noticed that Pluck’s hackles were standing straight on end.

“What the hell?”

That was all I managed before something outside brushed up against my front door. In a flash, my normally docile companion was lunging towards the door barking furiously. Not thinking, I ran after him yelling his name and that he quiet down.

A dull thud.

I moved my agitated dog aside with one leg and leaned over just enough to ease the curtains aside so that I could take a peek out my living room window. A man stood at my door. To be more precise, he was leaning against it with his back to me. That was the first time I got a hint of that smell.

I watched as one hand raised and brushed the doorknob. It fell listlessly back to his side. My first thought was that this guy had been hurt and was seeking help. He wore coveralls and a heavy utility jacket. I figured him to be from the power company.

There are moments in life that you never forget. Ones that never erase themselves from memory and end up in that permanent photo gallery your mind keeps. Some of those images blur over time. Others become glossier, as if they’ve received a bit of mental airbrushing. The first girl you kissed becomes a vision of pure beauty. That first car loses all the dents, dings, and rust spots.

Some memories do the opposite.

That body leaning against my door jerked like it was convulsing. The head snapped around so suddenly that I’m pretty sure I heard something pop…right before I screamed and fell backwards on my ass.

Something heavy struck my doorknob. That sound was like a slap on the face. I scrambled to my feet and did one of those stupid things I said I’d never do. You know what I am talking about. The person in the movie has to take that ‘one last look.’  Of course that is usually when he or she gets their face eaten off. So, I pulled the curtain aside just enough to get that peek.

I know in my logical mind how dark it was that night. Over time, my brain has filled in the shadows. His name was Ed. I know that because it was embroidered on the left breast of his dark jacket with white thread. There was a milky film over his eyes that looked like a thin coat of Elmer’s wood glue. Black blood filled the vessels in his eyes, which add a particularly nasty effect to that vacant, soulless look that lets you know you’re dealing with a monster (oddly it is also a giveaway for somebody in the latter phases of infection). The dark smears around his mouth are the bright red of arterial blood in my nightmares. Ed’s mouth is open and his face is pressed against my living room window.

 The apartments I called home for over a decade were not the greatest: leaky faucets; poor insulation; and cheesy carpet from an era that was long out of style way before I moved in. But back to the windows…they are thin enough that you can feel a cold breeze through them on a blustery fall or winter day. I knew seconds before it happened that the glass was not going to hold.

Crash!

And just that quick, everything I knew, loved, did for fun…gone. My world had been shaken violently, and the pieces would never settle into anything resembling normal ever again.

Ed’s stench hit me hard. The smell was so thick that I could taste it in the back of my throat. Two things happened almost instantaneously; Pluck lunged at the body that was halfway through my living room window, and I puked. To say “vomited” or “threw up” would diminish the true nature of that moment. It was as if my stomach heaved so violently that my intestines reversed flow and joined in the event. My mouth and nose burned from the bile-laced mixture that spewed from deep inside my guts. I staggered back, unable to see for a moment. Over the ringing in my ears I heard Pluck snarl and bark as he threw himself at the unnatural thing that threatened his master. I probably owe my life to that stupid dog.

His sudden yelp brought me back.

My eyes cleared, and I could see Ed holding something in his hands. It took another second to overcome the shock of what I was seeing. It held Pluck by a hind leg and his collar as it buried its face into that soft, warm, scratchable belly. When its head snapped up, long strands of skin and viscera pulled away. My best friend howled loud enough to drown out my own cry. But for a moment anyway, Ed was occupied.

God help me.

I ran.

I scrambled for the door, fumbling with the lock for seconds which seemed eternal before I could yank it open, and I ran away. I ran away from my apartment. I ran away from all my stuff. I ran away from that smell of death, and blood, and puke. I ran away from Ed.

I ran away from Pluck!

At the bottom of the stairs was a small, pink bicycle with training wheels. My mind held up a mental flash card of a tiny Mexican girl. She would ride that bike around the square inner-courtyard of the complex. She always rang the little bell on her handlebars if she came up on somebody from behind. She would laugh.

So I ran.

I reached the parking lot and realized that I had never bothered to grab my keys. The stupid ones in the movies always go back. My mind flashed on that image of the Ed-thing taking a bite out of the middle of my dog. Every hero in the movies knows how to hotwire a car. I had no clue. I still wasn’t going back.

I stood there like an idiot for a moment, then heard a low steady sound. The backside of my apartment complex’s parking lot is a steep, tree-covered embankment. There is a wall made of river rock that forms about a five foot base before the earthen slope begins and rises up to the street above. That street is like a border between my apartments and a quiet residential neighborhood. Parked on the edge of that street, just visible through the trees that overhung most of the parking lot, was a big power company truck.

It was running!

Hoisting myself, and scrambling up the embankment, I reached the road. Typical for this time of night (it was 3:42 a.m. according to my watch) it was quiet. I sorta turned a slow circle to make sure all was clear. Farther down the road from me something may have moved in the darkness. I wasn’t about to wait and find out. Still, rushing to the truck without at least a little caution could be as fatal as a stroll down this road into the deep, black shadows.

I moved out into the middle of the street so as to allow myself the greatest amount of open space, then crept towards the idling vehicle. A large, dark smear marred the driver’s side door. I wondered briefly if it belonged to Ed…or worse…his co-worker. Just as I neared close enough to peer in the open window, a scream unlike anything I’d ever heard—before that night anyway—shattered the relative quiet. That piercing sound seemed to reach inside me and clamp down hard on my bladder.

Yeah. I wet my pants.

Now I realize that something like that never happens to action heroes. Well, I guaran-damn-tee that he or she never heard a scream like that before. Not for real anyways.

It sounded like a woman or a child.

I yanked open the truck door deciding it was time to move a little quicker. Thankfully, no surprises leapt out at me, and I slid into the cab. I took quick visual inventory: keys, big flashlight, clipboard, brown paper sack. Great.

I popped the column shifter into drive and stomped on the gas pedal while twisting the steering wheel hard left. Making a big U-turn, I raced to the corner and did a bouncy power-slide. Turning sharp left again, I dropped into the entrance of my complex. I veered slightly left clipping a beat up Buick parked in the first tenant’s parking spot. The truck fish-tailed the short length of the lot where an opening in the two-story building on my right indicated the entrance existed to one of two breezeways. Slamming on the brakes, the truck screeched to a halt and banked right just enough to have the nose pointing into the void. I found the knob and pulled, turning on my headlights.

The scene in that dark tunnel-like breezeway threatened to cause another upheaval from my stomach. Ed, along with two more of those things were clawing at this short, pudgy, Mexican woman. One of them was tearing out what looked to be a strand of intestine from a gaping hole in her abdomen. Another was jerking back with a chunk of left forearm between its teeth. Ed was on hands and knees chewing away at a thigh. Backing toward the steps was a little girl.

I struggled to remember the name I’d heard when her mom or dad had called for her. It was my little bicycle rider.

Thalia!

I leaned out the window and called her name. She spun, and I could see her clothing was splattered with blood.

Please don’t be a zombie.

The three things feasting on what I was pretty sure had been her mom glanced up, then went back to what they’d been doing. Thalia, on the other hand, ran towards me.

Zombies don’t run. Right?

“Ayuda me, por favor! Ayuda mi mamá, señor!”

“English, sweetie.” I reached down and grabbed the tiny girl, yanking her rather unceremoniously through the window.

“Please to help my mamá, Mister Steve!”

Her accent was kinda thick. “Mister” sounded like ‘meester’, but her family was the sort that worked hard at their English. Good thing, because my Spanish was limited to a poor Speedy Gonzalez impersonation.

She looked at me with large, pleading eyes. I didn’t have time to explain. Besides, I felt that any help on behalf of her mamá at this point would be useless. Mamá was done. I shifted into reverse and backed out as quick, and still cautious, as I could. It would be really stupid to wreck now.

As the headlights drifted across that horrific scene, I took one more look. My mind was screaming that this could not possibly be happening the way I was seeing it. I slammed on the brakes causing Thalia to fly forward and hit her head on the dashboard. She started crying, but I didn’t hear it. Creeping into the breezeway was a short, squat shadowy figure.

Pluck.

I watched in painful fascination as my constant companion for so many years nosed into the body sprawled on the concrete. His head pulled back, and a flap of torn flesh hung from his mouth.

Slowly, I regained awareness of my surroundings. Tiny fists were pounding on my right shoulder. I glanced at Thalia in confusion as the sounds of her sobs poured into my con-sciousness. The blurred vision and burning sensation in my eyes made me realize that I was crying, but that wasn’t why the little girl was pummeling me.

A bloodless face stared at me through the closed window of the passenger side door. The mouth opened and pressed against the glass. My mind focused on the weirdest thing.

No fog.

The window didn’t fog up!  This thing’s mouth was all over the glass, and it wasn’t fogging up even a teensy bit. Crazy.

An equally pale hand with a chunk missing, and what looked like just a stub for a thumb, smacked against the increasingly slime-smeared window. I heard a rattle of the door handle. This thing was trying to open the door, albeit clumsily. Time to go!

I made sure I was still in reverse and goosed the accelerator. Our friend came with us as he still had a grip on the door handle. I swung around and brought that side of the truck almost flush with the rock wall. A gout of blackish fluid made a macabre Rorschach pattern on the glass. Thalia screamed again and was practically in my lap. Her arms clutched about my neck so that I had to crane around her to see. My head turned just enough to allow me to see a shape rising in the shadows of the breezeway.

I eased the little girl down next to me and wrapped one arm protectively around her. She buried her face in my side and for that I am grateful. She didn’t need to see what was staggering our way. The thing outside the passenger’s side was not letting up in its effort to try and get at us, so I gave another tap on the gas. Gripping Thalia, I hit the brakes and shifted back in to drive.

Directly in front of me was Pluck. Without any further thought, I floored it. The time was long past to be outta here. The big truck lurched just a bit as our tag-along fell free and ended up under the rear wheels. Then the front sorta bounced like we’d hit a speed bump.

That “speed bump” was the end of my boon companion. My best friend. My foot warmer. I looked in the rearview mirror long enough to know I’d crushed his head like a jack-o-lantern in November. My dog, good old Pluck, lay still in the middle of the Villa la Puerta apartment complex parking lot. I think, in a lot of ways, I was relieved.

***

One sentiment that popped up in most of the zombie books and movies was the desire to ensure friends and companions didn’t “come back.” I get it now. Not just the fact that I didn’t want him wandering around as one of them, it was much more. Honestly, that thing wasn’t Pluck. It is just so vile to see somebody you knew and loved become a part of the cause. To think that his body would still be moving after his… essence?...soul?...whatever the hell you want to call it, is long gone? It just ain’t natural.

***

I pulled out onto the street just as I saw Thalia’s mom appear in my rearview mirror. I’m really glad that sweet little girl never saw what I did at that moment. What she had seen moments before, as well as what she would see in the next hours…days…weeks…would provide enough nightmare fod-der.

I turned right. Away from the airport and towards the freeway seemed the best choice. A few blocks ahead, I could see that the power was on! That held some definite plusses and minuses.

Plus—I could see. I did a quick look-over of Thalia. Not that I’m heartless, but I had to make sure. Thankfully, there were no bites or scratches. I was really hoping there weren’t any that I couldn’t see. Her face was nestled right in my side. If she turned…

Minus—I could see. Here and there, singles, doubles, and mini-herds of those things were on the move. Or worse, feeding. Again, really glad Thalia couldn’t see this. A couple of times, I had to swerve to avoid one of those things as they wandered out into the street after the few passing cars. I saw no reason to play Death Race with…

Zombies. That’s it. That’s what they are, and I can’t avoid it. After Pluck and Thalia’s mom, I have no doubts that the dead are, in fact, returning. For whatever reason...instinct, anger, hunger...they are attacking and feeding off the living.

As I hit the I-5 South on-ramp, it dawned on me to switch on the radio. A monotone, obviously recorded message, was repeating on every station I scanned to:

 “The Emergency Broadcasting System has been acti-vated. Please stay tuned to this local station for information…”

 The message was on a loop. I tried the two-way radio. It came alive with all sorts of frantic chatter.

“...advised, we have lost contact with units seven, nine, twelve, and seventeen.”

“…came out of no place and just grabbed Duran…”

“…where the hell is anybody!”

“…damn lady just bit me! I mean took a chunk out of my arm!”

 As I drove down the interstate listening to the insanity unfold, I passed a couple of cars that were pulled only partially off the road. In the opposite lane, a few cars whisked past heading north. There was no way I would even consider heading into downtown Seattle. Within hours, if not already, that place would be a chaotic death trap. I was considering my options when a snippet of conversation caught my attention.

“…of people grabbed Ed. I heard him scream as they dragged him into the bushes. I stayed up on the pole. God forgive me, but I was scared to death.”

“Then what?” a female voice demanded. “You said you lost the truck. So what the heck happened?”

“A few minutes later…five, maybe ten…one of them came out of the bushes and took off with the vehicle.”

I turned off the two-way. There was nothing I could say or do now that wouldn’t take forever to explain or clear things up in any manner. There was little doubt that it was my ‘Ed’ they were discussing. The problem being, I was pretty sure my explanation would not be very welcome. Not yet. If things held true to form, nobody would acknowledge or believe what this was until too late.

I reached over and opened the glove box. Thalia didn’t make any attempt to move away, not that I blamed her. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I rummaged, keeping one eye on the road as I felt around. Two wallets! That was the same moment I realized that I left mine. For somebody determined not to make stupid mistakes, I wasn’t doing so well.

I spotted an off-ramp that advertised FOOD-GAS-LODGING. Veering right, I decided it was time to get just a little proactive. I made up my mind that I knew what was going on, and it was my responsibility to this child beside me to start taking steps to prepare for the worst eventuality.

A fully lit service station was perched at the top of the off-ramp. You know the kind; the mini-mart disguised as a gas station with a garage added as an afterthought that was good for nothing beyond a tire change. A small car was parked in a dark corner across the expansive asphalt lot from where the entrance was—probably the on-duty cashier’s.

I pulled up to the pump station closest to the doors. No surprise, I saw no sign of an attendant...or cashier...whatever. My head was on a swivel, searching for any movement. Inside or out. I pried Thalia loose and took her tear-streaked face in my hands.

“I’m gonna take care of you, but I have to get out of the truck for a minute. I will lock the door. Don’t open it until I say. Can you do that?”

She nodded.

“I will leave the engine running. So don’t touch anything. Okay?”

More nodding.

I looked around again. This was a bad time for any surprises. At the moment, the coast was clear. I climbed out, locking the door, closing it carefully, and checking it to be certain. So far, so good. I fast-walked to the glass door and tugged.

Damn. Locked. Naturally.

Trying to watch everywhere at once, I scooted to another set of doors around the corner. Nothing was moving inside or out of the store. Yet. I could hear the occasional vehicle speed by on the nearby freeway. I think I heard gunshots from somewhere distant. I briefly wondered what I would do if another vehicle arrived with people having the same idea as me.

Also locked!

Damn! Damn! Damn!

Just a tiny bit desperate and a whole lot scared now. I looked everywhere for an idea. Turning my attention fully inside, I knocked on the glass. I don’t know if I wanted somebody to be there or not, but old habits die hard.

No answer.

I knocked again. Louder. Still no response from within, or thankfully, out. That left me with what I saw as my final option: the metal ashcan sitting next to the door. I picked it up, dumped the contents on the ground, backed up a few steps and hurled it as hard as I could at the glass door.

CRASH.

I had half-expected the thing to come bouncing back at me. Lucky me. The entire door exploded inwards. Fine cubes of glass glittered like fake diamonds under the white glare of the fluorescent lighting.

Now it was time to be quick. I glanced back at the truck. Thalia was staring wide-eyed but calmly back at me through the windshield. I noted that pump nine was closest. Peering over the counter to be assured of no nasty surprises, I quickly climbed over and found the panel allowing me to turn on my pump. In no time, I had the nozzle in place and put the lock on so that I could tend to other issues while the tank filled.

Back in the store, I stopped at a rack of those burlap carry bags imprinted with pictures of Mount Rainier, the Space Needle, and other local touristy things. Grabbing a few, I literally ran up and down the aisles scooping stuff from the shelves. The medicine aisle was almost empty by the time I finished. Mostly basic things, like allergy pills and aspirin mixed in with the first aid stuff, filled six of those bags. I grabbed food second, which made me sorta proud that I was thinking clearly. Food would be easier to grab than medicine or hygiene as this dragged on. At least that was my logic.

I decided that milk would likely become a luxury. It would do good to get some while I could. I paused at the wall of the glass-doored refrigerators when I came to the milk section. My hand grasped the handle and I totally froze, my heart pounding in my throat. I had found the clerk. Plus one.

Inside the refrigerated stock area, behind the tilted display shelves, stood two zombies. They were staring at me from the shadows, behind the orderly rows of beer, orange juice, and various name-brand sports drinks. A quick look behind them at the main door to the chill box helped ease my heart rate back under triple digits. The big, metal door looked shut.

I backed down the aisle a few steps away from the milk towards the soda. Sure enough, my ‘friends’ followed. I tapped the glass like you would an aquarium. They both lunged forward, tangling themselves in the shelving and each other. I bolted, popped the door where the milk was, grabbed a couple of cartons, and headed to the exit.

I ducked out into the open lot to hear Thalia pounding on the glass of the driver’s side window. A quick glance confirmed that a small pack of zombies were crossing the asphalt towards us. They still had some ground to cover, and I transferred our haul to the truck pronto. That finished, I pulled out the nozzle and hung it up as I replaced the gas cap. I dashed around the front of the truck and Thalia opened my door.

“Please let us go now!”

“I totally agree, sweetie!”

Climbing into the cab, I gave the approaching zombies another look. It was like the introduction to a dirty joke. An Asian, a naked lady, and two policemen walk into a gas station parking lot…

Hmmm.

I revved the engine.

“Put on your seatbelt, señorita.”

Without a word, Thalia did exactly what she was told. I heard the ‘click’ and fastened my own. I pulled away from the pumps and made a wide U-turn. A glance in the rearview…then side-view mirrors…now for a slight turn of the steering wheel to get things right. I shifted into reverse and stomped the gas.

Zombie Bowling.

I felt the impact and the ensuing bounces as I rolled over the bodies. Three of the four lay twitching on the ground. The fourth, Naked Lady, still stood. She turned towards me, arms outstretched, mouth open. Back into drive, and again I put the pedal to the floor. I swerved just enough to catch her with the driver’s side corner of the bumper. A satisfying thud and crunch rewarded the effort, coupled with the body flying several feet. Down, but not…dead? I briefly pondered the idea.

Twice-dead?

Fitting.

Thalia exclaimed her surprise when I slammed on the brakes and flung open the door. All of the zombies were in varied stages of struggling to their feet. On their backs they are a lot like turtles.

I approached the first downed policeman and was very disappointed. No gun. The second was my payoff, though. His wide, black leather belt held several toys for me to examine later once I had more time. I grabbed a window squeegee as I closed in on my target. With one swing I brought it down as hard as I could. My blow found an eye socket which exploded with thick jelly-like fluid. This thing began thrashing, arms flailing, hands grasping. A second swing…another…and another as the face shattered and the eye socket hole expanded. Finally the brass and hard plastic squeegee broke through to something softer. The thing at my feet quit struggling. Instantly. It’s like hitting an off switch.

I worked the belt off the twice-dead while watching the others. The other policeman and the Asian were back on their feet, headed my way. Naked Lady was bent almost entirely backwards. She was trying to pull her unnaturally vee-shaped self along the asphalt. Yuck. Prize in hand, I made it back to the truck with relative ease.

Dropping the gun belt on the seat, I closed the door and headed for the exit. A car zoomed past, heading for the interstate presumably. A screech of tires sounded as it slammed on the brakes, then sped back to us in reverse.

The car, a sporty foreign model by the looks…what can I say, I’m not much into cars…halted directly in front of us. I considered our chances of ramming the little car without taking too much damage ourselves, but decided to wait a second and see what this person wanted. He or she could be just like Thalia and me. Still, no sense in being stupid. I pulled the gun from the holster and glanced to see if it was loaded. Check. Safety off. Check. I’m savvy enough to know it is a nine millimeter. I glanced in the rearview. The zombies were still a fair distance away. Problem was that now there were seven. I had enough time to at least give this person in the car a moment. I wouldn’t waste time, but I also was not about to let my guard slip.

“Get down, Thalia.”

She obeyed without protest. Unbuckling her seatbelt, she slid to the floor on the passenger’s side, pulled her knees in tight, and wrapped her arms around them. Sort of like a tiny ball.

The door to the sports car opened. A tall, very attractive in an out-of-my-league sort of way, brunette emerged. My mind sped through several scenarios. All of which ended up with me as the hero and her falling into my arms. She proceeds to show her gratitude and admiration for my heroism...

“Thank God!” she screamed, and ran to my truck.

I rolled down the window, seeing no reason to open the door. I mean seriously, there are a bunch of walking dead shambling this way. Sure they’re still a ways off and moving slow, but my mind is still trying to process what’s happening.

“Ummm…you probably shouldn’t be out of your car.”

I am so smooth.

“Please help me! What the hell is going on?”

“You really shouldn’t be out of your car.”  I glanced again at the group of undead closing the distance slowly and steadily. One of them was outdistancing the others and had his arms outstretched.

“My neighbor did this!” the pretty brunette said, holding up her left arm. Blood dripped from a shallow but jagged rip below the elbow.

My look must’ve given something away, because she hastily covered up. Her expression was a crazy mix of fear, embarrassment, and confusion. Without warning, she lunged at my door, pulling wildly on the handle. I went for the lock, but a shade too late as the door opened and I tumbled gracelessly to the ground.

Thalia screamed.

Scrambling up as quickly as I could with the wind only partially knocked out of me, I had no idea what to do. Was this lady one of them? Maybe the newly turned are different. Perhaps the brain died slowly, and they kept certain functions for a while. I really had no clue where the movie stuff was right or wrong. Hell, maybe it was all wrong. All of that jumbled around in my mind like rocks in a dryer as I came to my feet.

She was apologizing over and over. Maybe she was sorry she had to eat me now. All I truly knew at that exact moment was that she was beside me with a vise-like grip on my arm. There were several of those things about twenty feet or so away, and I was not ready to die.

I shoved her as hard as I could, sending my closest threat stumbling back towards the street. I snatched the gun from the cab where it had fallen to the floorboard in all this insanity. My finger curled around the trigger as I spun and fired.

She was in the process of climbing back to her feet. With an expression of astonishment, she looked down as a bloom of red spread across her blouse. Her eyes returned to mine in shock.

“Why?” She staggered sideways a step and fell…hard.

I still heard screaming. While I was shaking my head rapidly to clear it, something grabbed my shoulder. I whirled around face-to-face with the speed-walker of the bunch. It was a woman. Or had been. Her dark hair clung to her face, glued in place by dried blood. Most of the left cheek had been ripped away. Greyish gums and blood-smeared teeth greeted me in what looked like an exaggeratedly evil grin. I raised the pistol and fired. The bullet tore through its throat, jolting the upper body backwards. I felt the grip upon my shoulder tighten, and the head snapped back toward me with mouth open wide.

It’s strange, the little things that capture our attention in a crisis. I noticed that the flat, lifeless, black-blood veined eyes never changed expression. No anger, hunger, victory, desire, pain...just empty. Truly empty.

I jammed the barrel of the gun into the now gaping maw and fired. The creature simply dropped. Again, it was as if the plug were suddenly pulled, like on a radio.

Without waiting for more bad things to happen, I jumped into the truck, slamming the door, locking it, and rolling up the window seemingly all at once. I shifted into drive and launched the big truck into the street, clipping the sports car enough to turn it a little sideways. My hard right turn aimed us back towards the interstate.

***

I’ve risked my life a whole bunch of times since that night. But at no time was I as stupid or out-of-control as I was in the way I left that gas station parking lot. Six more inches to the left, and I catch enough of that sports car to probably end our ride.

***

Looking in my rearview mirror, I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. The zombies had fallen on the brunette. That could only mean one thing. Since they ignored, and even stepped over the zombie that I had just blown the back of its skull off, the brunette was not, at the time just before I shot her at least, dead.

Adding one plus one, I had just killed someone. My mind began to argue vigorously the varying points.

She was bitten.

It was only a matter of time.

You saved her much misery.

All the way to the interstate, and for the next several miles, my mind continued. It tried to offer me the solace that no other living, breathing human being would if they’d seen what I’d done.

Eventually, Thalia fell into a fitful sleep. If things were as I suspected, and if they had just started…this was only the ugly beginning.

It would get worse.

2

Vignettes I

Portland, OR—Lukas pushed the mop back and forth, paying no real attention to what he was doing. His ear buds blasted the newest Avenged Sevenfold cut, effectively blocking out the rest of the world. The music allowed him to endure what was just another in a string of crappy jobs. This one, in its third week, was fast approaching record breaking status. Three more days and yes, ladies and gentlemen, we’d have a winner.

Dunking the mop in the long-overdue-to-be-refreshed water that half-filled his wheeled, yellow bucket, Lukas plunged it up and down a few times, slopped it into the wringer, slammed down on the handle—wringing maybe half of the liquid from the gray-black strands—then jerked it out, sending the fetid fluid in a splattering arc across the cold, concrete floor. He resumed sloshing the mop back and forth, occasionally blurting out a few off-key, nasally lyrics.

Finishing up, he carried the bucket over to the deep-sink and emptied the filthy water down the drain. He gave the bucket a cursory rinsing, then hung the still-dripping, unrinsed mop on the wall and slid the bucket under the sink.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he came out with his baggie, some papers, and a lighter. One bad thing about looking for a job was the three or four weeks he had to go without smoking weed. Never knew if a UA was gonna be requested. He quickly rolled a joint and lit up. This was probably why his current job had lasted so long. Working for this contracted cleaning company, Lukas always volunteered for the ware-houses. He had no problem finding a nice spot away from everybody where he could take the edge off the workday. If any of the folks on his crew noticed, nobody said anything. Hell, most of his co-workers were fresh out of jail or prison. Didn’t those types have some code against being a snitch?

That total feeling of relaxation was seeping through his body when the creepiest scream he ever heard managed to break through the guitars blazing in Lukas’ ears. His thumb found the volume wheel as the scream seemed about to die, only to explode again with renewed intensity.

Climbing to his feet, he made his way to a door that opened out onto the loading platform of the warehouse. Plucking both buds out, he could better hear as the screaming slowly faded to some other sound that came through the steel door in muffled fits.

“Yo, man, you all right?” Lukas pushed the bar opening the door.

A smell so thick that it seemed to fill his mouth with a greasy film met him in place of the normal cool night air. Two people were crouched on the ramp leading up to one side of the concrete platform. A yellowish light flickered just above them from a thin, metal pole. A third person, it looked like Jimmy Jenkins, was sprawled on the ground. The weak whimper, rising and falling in pitch, was coming from him. One of the crouching figures turned its head at the sound of the door.

The scene before Lukas was unimaginable. It made no sense to the young man who gazed upon it. Aaron Milburn was staring up from Jimmy’s body. His face was smeared with a dark wetness that dripped from his chin in pencil-thick ropes. Something large and jelly-like dropped from Aaron’s open mouth, landing with an audible ‘splat’ on the concrete.

“What the—” was all Lukas could manage around the bile rising in his throat.

Aaron pulled himself to his feet like an old wino. He was staggering slightly, one leg seemingly on the verge of collapse. One step forward, fully into the light, revealed the reason. His coveralls had been torn open from hip to knee on the right leg. Strips of meat hung over the torn khaki; which was itself stained a dark, blackish color obviously from all the blood. For just a second, Lukas thought he caught a glimpse of what could have been bone from the depths of the wound.

“Holy shit!” Lukas reached behind himself for the door.

His hand found the handle and he pushed the lever with his palm. The door opened out towards him causing Lukas to turn his back slightly to step around and into the relative safety of the warehouse. A hand curled around the door before he could pull it shut. The dull thud was accompanied by a series of crunching noises from the breaking of fingers between door and jamb. The fingers still continued to clutch the door, attempting to pull it back open. Another set of fingers joined the first, adding to the force being applied to open the metal door.

Lukas wasn’t even considering the option of waiting around or checking anybody out to see if they were okay. His mind was struggling with the idea of what exactly was happening. There was definitely something wrong. That was really the only thing of which he was certain. Running through the warehouse to the front exit, he dodged a few odd stacks of aluminum, giving dark spaces a wide berth. He heard the clang of the door; once, twice, a third time. Reaching the front exit, Lukas turned the knob and bolted through the doorway…right into a hulking figure that could only be Travis Reynolds.

Of all the crew, Travis was the only one you could look at and know he’d done prison time. His upper body was gigantic. He had muscle packed onto his well-over-six-foot-tall frame from the waist up. His gut was equally huge, but as solid as a rock. Both arms were ‘tatted’ with designs that related to naked women and ‘White Power’. His head was shaved and sat on a neck that you could not find without close inspection. Travis sported a long goatee that he kept braided into a distinct fork. What finished off the look were legs that, if Travis wore shorts, looked like a pair of toothpicks sticking out of a potato.

Lukas careened off the body of Travis Reynolds and flipped over the metal railing that ran across the front of the raised entrance. He hit the asphalt of the parking lot and the air left his lungs in a sudden and painful rush. Try as he might, Lukas could not get himself to inhale. He lay sprawled, making weak croaking noises.

“What the fuckin’ hell is goin’ on, Lukas?”  Travis looked down over the railing with his usual scowl of disdain.

More croaking. Having never experienced the wind being knocked from him, Lukas was quite scared. He reached up, trying but failing to form any words. Tears streamed down his cheeks, a combination of fear and pain.

“Man up, you pussy!”

Travis walked along the landing to the steps, alternately scolding Lukas for being so weak, and demanding to know where the rest of the crew had gone.

“Can’t find fuckin’ anybody. That jig Aaron must be hiding from work as always. You smell like a two-bit bag a weed, and Jimmy-fuckin’-Jenkins is likely getting his knob polished by that meth-whore, Wendy.”

Reaching down with a ham-sized fist, Travis yanked Lukas onto his feet by the collar. As soon as he let go, Lukas slid back down on his ass, still struggling to get even the tiniest amount of oxygen into his lungs.

“Walk it off, man.”

The main door to the warehouse rattled, and then slowly began to open. Out onto the landing stumbled Aaron Milburn, Jimmy-fuckin’-Jenkins, and a third man neither Lukas nor Travis recognized.

“What the…” Travis’ voice trailed off, choked by a gag as the stench from the three figures caught him full force. He staggered back a couple of steps, and all three heads snapped his direction like birds spotting a juicy worm.

In the bluish-white fluorescent glow of the walkway and parking lot lighting it was much easier to see the horrific figures that were now staggering his way. All three bodies were missing chunks, literal chunks of meat. The corpse of Jimmy Jenkins had the added horrific effect of strands of intestine hanging in bunches from a gaping hole just below the bottom of the rib cage.

Travis glanced at Lukas, then at the abominations making slow but steady progress in his direction. He continued to back slowly away.

“You best get to your feet.”

Lukas reached out, his eyes pleading for help. Setting his back against the cool, smooth concrete, he pushed with his legs, trying to wedge his body up. His progress was slow, coming inch after agonizing inch. He tried again desperately to suck air in, and once more managed only a feeble squeak…but it was a little better. Some air actually found its way!

“Travis,” he could barely manage.

In unison, all three heads snapped in Lukas’ direction, forgetting all about Travis who continued to back slowly towards the parking lot. Reaching the bottom of the gently inclined ramp that had been put in for handicapped access, the trio turned and made for the closer prey.

Lukas willed himself forward. He was hunched over as if he’d been punched in the gut. In fits and starts, he tried to follow Travis. A hand clutched his collar much as the large man had done seconds before when hauling Lukas to his feet. Only this time, it didn’t jerk or snatch, it simply pulled. Lukas fell back as hands clutched him on wrists, shoulders, and even hair. He tumbled, bringing two of the three with him. He found himself staring up into dead faces with open mouths. One of those mouths came down on his nose and bit hard, crushing cartilage and ripping away not only the nose, but a strip of flesh under the right eye.

Travis continued to watch as he backed away. He saw the bodies tumble to the ground in a heap. Then two of those things climbed on top of that Lukas kid. He must’ve gotten his wind back, because, as Travis turned to run, he heard a scream of absolute agony.

***

 Juan Hoya pulled his coat up over his face. The dull thud sounded again. If there was anything that he hated more than being woke up…he couldn’t think of it.

Thud.

There it was again! It was probably some damn wino from the Park Blocks come up to the University area looking for better pickings. Well, he would just have to set whoever it was straight. This was his street, and if somebody was gonna bang on his car, then he’d damn sure give ‘em some attention.

Jerking away the coat he slept under in the backseat of the Oldsmobile Cutlass he had called home for the past eight months, Juan sat up. His hand reached for the aluminum baseball bat he kept close by for emergencies. A face stared in, pressed against the glass of the backseat passenger window.

“Get the fuck outta here!” Juan yelled, making a threatening lunge.

Whoever it was didn’t seem fazed. Instead, a meaty hand slapped against the window. The face pressed closer, smearing a film of something on the glass.

Juan reached behind himself and unlocked the door. Whoever this was, they were about to get mopped. Scooting backwards and hoisting his legs around, his feet hit the cold asphalt. Rising to unfold his six-foot-two frame, Juan shivered slightly from the chill. Now he was even angrier. He hated being cold almost as much as he hated being woke up. It would take forever to warm his feet up again.

The sudden impact of the smell that filled his nostrils caused him to gag and lose just a bit of steam. He felt last night’s forty-ouncer surge up from his stomach and reach the back of his mouth. He swallowed hard as he spun to face this lame-o who had messed up a good night’s sleep.

“You need to drag your drunk ass down to the river and clean up,” Juan snarled.

The wino was staggering around the back of the car, reaching out for him with outstretched hands. If he was looking for money or help, this drunk had come to the wrong place. A quick glance around confirmed there was nobody near. One good crack in the head and this guy could sleep it off in a Dumpster a few blocks away.

“Another step and I’m gonna crack that dome of yours!” Juan tightened his grip and drew back, prepared to swing big if this guy didn’t beat feet in another direction.

The smell grew stronger as this thing drew nearer with each labored step. Things had gone far enough for Juan Hoya. He swung the bat, connecting solid with the cheek of this staggering bag of stench. Its head rocked back and to the right. Yet…it staggered only slightly more than it had been already. Juan blinked in disbelief as this guy took another step towards him, now clearing the rear of his car…and the shadows.

For the first time, he got a good look at the person who had not only woke him up, but took one of his best shots only to be apparently unfazed. What he saw seemed impossible. This guy’s throat was torn out. Not just a little gash. No, it was ripped open so far that you could see inside. Blood was all down the front of this guy. His eyes were sorta milky and bloodshot…but not. It was like this guy’s blood was black or something.

“That’s tight,” Juan breathed. Of course it was creepy, but it was also the coolest thing he had ever seen. The ripped open neck however was not ‘tight’.

The thing continued to come at him. Juan swung again, connecting with the temple. This time it staggered…stumbled. He brought the bat down on the back of its skull. A satisfying crunch that he could feel as well as hear was the result. Still, this thing tried to come up from its hands and knees!  With everything he had, a series of three more swings brought the thing down to stay. The skull burst open, spilling its contents in a wide, splattered arc across the asphalt.

“Now that’s tight like a tigah,” he snorted, admiring his handiwork.

A sound up the street by the pizza place jerked his attention away from the body at his feet. His heart began racing at the possibility of a witness to his crime. He sighed in relief as he made out one of the whores that worked the area, Latricia. The stagger was oddly similar to the guy laying in the gutter with his brains spilled everyplace. He had walked that same jerky, unnatural way. More like a bird than a person, Juan decided.

Two more figures came around the same corner. But it was weird; they would take a few steps past the building on the corner, then just freeze. Their heads would snap his way, and then the bodies would slowly come around in the direction the heads pointed. Then, in that strange, jerky walk, they began moving towards him.

As the trio made their way closer, they entered a large circle of light cast by the regularly placed street lamps that alternated sides in both directions. All three were covered in what had to be blood. One of them looked like it was missing half an arm.

Juan considered what he was seeing for a moment. This was like one of those movies. Something about Dead. Zombies? But that couldn’t be…could it? He watched those things get even closer. There was the first hint of that gagging smell. So, if he was right, and these things were zombies…

Hefting the bat, Juan rushed the whore. She was a good twenty feet ahead of the other two. As he circled around, her head followed in jerky, birdlike fits. Teasingly, he dangled his hand towards the open mouth of whatever the hell this thing was. A lunge and the click of teeth sounded as he jerked back.

This could be tight.

He went to work with his bat. Taking out a leg, connecting with the left knee so hard that the leg folded back, still it came. A whirling overhead spin connected with the other leg, shattering the shin. Still it came, dragging itself with out-stretched arms. Never once did it scream. By darting in and out, pretty soon all three had been denied the use of their legs. Like nightmarish paraplegics, they dragged themselves after Juan. The only sounds were moans that ranged from a squeaky sound to the low guttural sort.

This could mean all kinds of stuff.

If it was like the movies…

He walked back to his car and grabbed his knapsack. With a nudge, he closed the door. He had to take a look around and see if this was everywhere. If it was, he’d find a new car. Preferably one that actually started and ran.

A few minutes later, Juan Hoya was headed for the heart of downtown. Four bodies lay sprawled out—unmoving—heads reduced to a mass of gore on the street. Fifteen minutes later, he stood on the sixth floor of a parking garage. In every direction he saw them. Some alone. Some in groups.

Across the street was a department store. Never in his life had he been able to consider shopping in that place. He wouldn’t even shoplift there. As soon as he walked in, he knew damned good and well that security would be watching every step he took.

Leaning against the bumper of the Corvette he had hot-wired, Juan rested his aluminum bat on one shoulder. A whole bunch of cop cars had sped by with lights flashing and sirens blaring just a couple of minutes ago. Most likely, they would be real busy for quite some time. They wouldn’t be able to come check out a little store alarm for a while. Now would be the perfect time to bust in, grab some stuff, and then get the hell away from the city before sunrise.

“Tight,” Juan whispered as he opened the door to his ‘new’ Corvette. He revved the engine, feeling the power-surge vibrating the entire car.

“Tight like a tigah.”

***

 San Diego, CA—Melissa grabbed her gym bag. On her way past the mirrors she stopped for one last look. At least forty pounds! Damn, she was starting to look good! A couple more months and she would come to the gym during normal hours.

Walking out of the women’s locker room, she noticed Phil, the graveyard shift front desk guy, and a couple of others gawking up at the television. She couldn’t see the picture, but imagined it was probably the Girls Gone Wild! infomercial.

For the first seven months that she had been coming to this gym at two a.m. sharp, nobody had so much as mumbled an incoherent word her direction. That had started changing about three weeks ago. One night she had come back in because, like a ditz, she had left the lights on in her car. The battery was stone-cold dead. She had cables, but she needed a jump. When she walked in, Phil and a couple of the late night regulars were having quite a laugh.

“…an ass the size of a really big sumo wrestler,” one of the guys, Ritchie she thought was his name, was howling.

“Yeah, and did you ever catch a whiff before she headed to the showers?” Phil made gagging noises.

“Like rotten armpit and Limburger cheese,” another laughed. She hadn’t known his name yet.

“Yeah,” Phil was still waving his hand in front of his face, “can you imagine the funk from that cootchie?”

“Ain’t probably seen action in twenty years,” Ritchie crowed.

Yes, they were all having a great laugh. And Melissa knew at whose expense. She wanted to turn around and run out the door. She would walk home. The warmth in her face let her know that she was blushing deeply. But it was the next sentence that caused that warmth to spread throughout her body. And it came from Phil.

“But, damn! That girl has busted ass every single night. I even started checking the register on my off days. She hasn’t missed a night in over eight months!”

“A few more months and I might even tap that,” Ritchie added.

Melissa hadn’t heard another word. That was the closest thing to a compliment she’d had directed her way since before the miscarriage. Since before she managed to pack two hundred pounds on her five foot frame. One day, she had looked in the mirror and not recognized the face staring back. That had been it. She went on a rampage, lugging garbage bags of junk from cupboards and the refrigerator to the Dumpster. Next, she joined the gym up the street at the strip-mall that also housed an ice-cream shop and hot tub outlet. After a week, the stares and snickers became too much. Thankfully, the gym was a twenty-four hour place. She started coming at two a.m.

That night, Ritchie had come out and jumped her car for her. Then, in the backseat, he had ‘tapped that’. She drove home that night with the unfamiliar sensation of semen trickling down her thighs.

The next night, she found out that the guys wanted to help her. All of a sudden, she had five personal trainers. Not being stupid, she knew why. For the next few weeks, she also had an escort to the parking lot. That came to an end when it was suggested that perhaps two guys should walk her out. Melissa refused. No amount of persuasion could sway her.

Truthfully, she’d grown bored with them. She was almost ready for bigger game. There was this really cute, single guy in her apartment complex. His name was Jaime. He had been nice to her even when she was huge. Not in any sort of way that indicated interest. Yet, lately, his gaze lingered longer. There was a look in his eyes that Melissa had never seen before; not directed at her anyways.

Desire.

She had the meatheads at the gym to thank for that. She quickly figured out who was ‘walking her to the car’ each night by the way they looked at her.

There was a difference in how Jaime looked at her, versus how the guys in the gym did. There was a softness in his eyes, and a genuine smile. None of the guys in the gym ever smiled. And not once, in the backseat, had she been face-to-face with her paramour-du-jour. She just knew it would be different with Jaime.

She opened the glass door. A cool night breeze washed over her still warm-from-the-shower skin, causing goose bumps to well up and down both arms. Something else came on the wind.

A smell.

Melissa stepped out on the walkway and turned towards the parking lot. A row of hedges had walled off the gym ever since the women’s aerobic class had complained about the gawkers. That was four years before Melissa joined.

As she stepped around the hedge, that smell poured over her like rancid oil; seemingly clinging to her skin, filling her mouth and nose, burning her eyes. Standing right in front of her was Jaime!  Only…something was fundamentally wrong. His eyes, once bright and full of good-natured warmth, were now milky, empty, and laced with a darkness. Even in the false light that shone bluish-white from above, Melissa could see that he was empty of any of that inner-light that made Jaime who and what she knew.

His hand rose to her shoulder, the fingers closed with vice-like tightness. She looked at the arm, to where a large chunk was missing in the middle. Dark blood had dried all the way to the wrist. Something inside her wanted to scream, but she had forgotten how to all of a sudden. A war raged in her mind.

Run! 

He came for me!

Scream!

Jaime is here! 

His other hand found her other shoulder. He moved close, his mouth open. As their bodies came together, Melissa felt something wet and thick against her bare knees. She knew that if she looked down the spell would pop like a soap bubble. There was something wrong about the wet, rope-thick coils that smeared against the day-old stubble on her legs.

His mouth was almost to hers now. That smell could not be coming from him. Not Jaime. He was here to finally reward her hard work and sacrifice. Their mouths came together. In her mind, Melissa had pictured this very moment countless times.

The sudden agony was like a bucket of cold water. She jerked back and forth, trying desperately to free herself of the source of such pain. She felt her tongue rip and tear away. Blood filled her mouth and throat, causing her to cough and choke. She struggled against the hands on her shoulders and fell back onto her butt. Fingernail marks scored her shoulders and the tee-shirt hung in two pieces around her waist.

She saw Jaime for what he really was, or what he had become. Two thick intestinal strands hung to his thighs from a rip across his abdomen. Bite-sized pieces were missing from both arms, and his shirt was torn, not only at his stomach but the left side of his chest as well where another chunk had been taken.

Melissa wanted to scream, but only choked. Using her hands, she tried to scoot back away from the horror that stood above her. Jaime’s body lunged at her awkwardly and landed with his face burying itself in one still-large breast. She felt his mouth open wide, teeth brushing her skin, then…more pain. His mouth closed and tore, bringing away a wad of cotton sports-bra as well as flesh. The pain was brutal, but Melissa was drown-ing. Drowning on the blood she kept sucking into her lungs with every attempt to scream. Another bite into her flesh, and blood erupted from her open mouth in a red, hot, sticky geyser. She felt hands tearing at the loose, soft skin of her stomach.

Her scream finally came in the form of a weak, mewling gurgle. The remnants of her tongue and lower lip flapped and blood splattered her face. The light seemed to dim, and Melissa knew that she was dying. The pain slowly changed to a dull warmth.

Darkness came.

***

“You sure this isn’t some sort of joke?” Ritchie stared at the television over Phil’s shoulder.

“Ain’t seeming to be.” Phil watched the grainy footage that kept running on a loop while the commentator announced the grim news.

“…as of yet the White House has made no comment other than to deny that this crisis is terrorist related. Word of savage outbreaks like those reported earlier are now coming in from all around the globe. There has been no word from the CDC that confirms internet rumors of the dead reanimating. They were however, quick to discount what they deemed an “overactive cluster of horror-movie fanatics creating a story to satisfy an adolescent fantasy.”  Doctor Linda Sing had this to say at the latest CDC press briefing.”

A middle-aged woman with short, dark hair appeared on screen with her name and title just above the news ticker. Her pale skin looked even more washed out under the lights. This was exaggerated further by the fact that she wore absolutely no make-up.

“Those rumors of the dead coming back and attacking the living are beyond ludicrous. Ignoring the pure physiological impossibility, there is simply no way this can be considered with any seriousness.”

“You believe this?” said Gerry, another of the regulars, and the one who the others had blamed for their free piece of ass cutting them off. He’d been the first to suggest that Melissa accommodate two of them at one time.

“This is like some War of the Worlds shit,” Phil laughed unconvincingly.

The electronic pulse tone sounded, announcing some-body entering or exiting the gym. Gerry, Phil, and Ritchie looked at one another with hopeful smiles. Simultaneously they all called out in a lusty sing-song.

“Me-lis-sa.”

Shoving Phil into Ritchie, Gerry got the jump. He had been in a real dry spell with the exception of those walks out to the car with Melissa. Since the night she’d announced it was over, he had been forced ‘to go solo’, and he always struggled with that Catholic-induced shame afterwards. Running around the corner into the big entry foyer, Gerry noticed a stench unlike anything in his life. It made his protein farts smell like fresh mountain air.

“Holy—” He was unable to finish the next word as his latest power drink exploded from his mouth and nose in a bile-mixed spray of watery vomit.

The smell was bad, but it was the apparition standing just about ten feet away that turned his guts to searing jelly. As the vomit sprayed from seemingly every orifice in his head, both his bladder and bowels let go. All this took place in a matter of seconds.

What remained of Melissa stood in the middle of the lobby. Another figure was just behind her. And he—Gerry was pretty sure it was a he—seemed to be stuck in the door. Or at least what had to be his intestines were. The guy was trying to pull free, but only managed to have more of the gray-pink coils spooling out from the hole in his guts.

Melissa looked little better. She was covered in blood. Her entire abdomen was hollowed out into a crimson cavern of raw, dangling viscera. Enough of her rib cage showed to reveal that a couple of bones had been snapped off. Remnants of her over-large breasts hung in tatters. But her face was what broke Gerry’s mind. The lower jaw remained awkwardly attached. All of the left cheek and most of the right had vanished. The mouth hung open to reveal a blackish stump that had to have been her tongue at one point. The eyes were coated in some sickly film and bloodshot in black.

“Fuck!”  Phil and Ritchie breathed almost in unison.

They arrived to see two equally terrifying events happen at practically the same time. Melissa lunged forward, catching Gerry’s hand in her mouth, biting off three fingers, and the man in the door jerked forward suddenly, ripping away from his own insides that now hung from the door and lay in a pile on the rubber mat that people had wiped their feet on when entering. The smell in the air was so bad that neither man who stood right behind Gerry ever knew the other had soiled his pants.

Nobody heard the screams. The begging. The crying. Phil had the worst of the three. When he and Ritchie had turned to run, he stumbled over a flat bench and hit his head hard enough to lose consciousness. He awoke to four zombies feasting on him. He died screaming as he watched his own insides being pulled from his body.

***

 Somewhere in the Central Interior of Australia—The Old Man sat cross-legged, facing the slowly setting sun. The cataracts over both eyes had stolen his vision more than forty years ago. Not that The Old Man knew how long an actual calendar year was.

Many that came to see The Old Man guessed him to be comfortably over a hundred. They came with questions. As had their parents. As had their grandparents. The Old Man would listen to the question. Then, he would draw in the dirt with a stick. He always continued to ‘look’ straight ahead. And as he drew, he would smile. His smile was little more than a dark crease in his weathered, wrinkled, treebark-textured skin. People would look at the picture, and somehow it would answer their question or give a solution to a dilemma.

The Old Man never asked for money. People simply gave food. Sometimes, tribal groups would come and repair The Old Man’s hut and stock him with supplies. Once, long ago, a commune showed up in a bunch of beat-up vans and set up around The Old Man. They planted gardens and installed a water pump. They never asked any questions, they only wanted to be near his aura. One day, they just left.

The Old Man never spoke. He drew. Sometimes he hummed songs that nobody knew. His face never changed expression except to smile when he drew.

That was until two days ago.

The images that came so easily and often suddenly stopped. Now, there was only one overwhelming image. The sun, with a jagged, black tumor visible in its center, facing a bloody moon with a bite out of it. The feeling he got from this vision was cold.

Death.

The Old Man realized that in his vision he was in the heavens between the sun and moon. When he looked down, he knew he would see Earth, but he could not look down. The Old Man was afraid. He knew what he would see.

Death.

Slowly, The Old Man rose to his feet. He gathered a stick for walking, a leather bag for water, and a pouch of dried berries. He had to leave. He must go deeper into the nothingness of the desolate country where man did not tread.

Mankind was dying. He had to get as far away from Mankind as possible. His time was running out, and none of the machines or big buildings could help now. Earth, Gaia, Nature, whatever you call it, it was resetting itself.

The Old Man suddenly saw visions in his mind coming so fast that they all bled together. The planet had been scarred and ravaged by Mankind, who was brushing everything away. Wars raged and Mankind sought to dominate itself. Mankind could not realize that it could no more dominate itself than one toe on one foot can control the other toes.

The Old Man smiled at his realization. The planet would use the only thing Mankind understood to bring it down.

Death.

***

 Eastern Ridge Prison, Idaho—Dillon Clay lay on his bunk. The light from the three-inch-wide by two-foot-long horizontal window bathed his ten-by-eight cell with cool, soft, bluish light. The intercom had called “Lockdown!” about an hour ago. Still, no CO had come by to count him. Dillon didn’t like things he did not understand. There was always a count at lockdown.

Something must really be popping off in one of the blocks. The rest of Tier A seemed just as anxious. There was a lot of yelling going on up and down the block. That was also out of the ordinary. Usually the CO on the tier would come down on people for making a racket during lockdown.

Yep, something was not right.

“Clay!” a voice hissed.

It was the kid across the hall, Ian Lotherman. He had moved in about five months ago. Real sad story. Nothing any real man couldn’t understand. The kid had come home early one night to find his new wife of just three months with her mouth full of another man’s pole. Now they were both dead, and Ian was doing Life Without.

“What?”

“How come we haven’t been counted?” Ian asked.

“Prob’ly had some block go off the hook.”

That seemed to satisfy the kid, because he was quiet again. Dillon, however, was not convinced by his own words. He’d seen some real crazy shit in his twenty-three years down. The COs were just as particular about routine as he was. Anytime there was a lockdown, there was a headcount. That was just the way things were.

Lights.

The sudden illumination caused an uproar. Men up and down the tier cursed. Sounds of boots rushing down the concrete floored tier came even as the main door was still opening with its mechanical whine. Another sound carried on the wind.

Gunfire.

Several of the prison’s correctional officers rushed by wearing full riot gear. None of them even glanced in Dillon’s cell as they passed. The two bringing up the rear had pistol-grip shotguns and were pointing back the way they had come.

Now guys were really yelling. At the head of the tier, where the door leading out to the common room had locked open with a loud metallic clang, there was a sudden change in the timbre of the voices. It was no longer the gruff harassing sound of boisterous convicts.

Terror.

Fear.

Absolute horror.

“What the hell is going on, Clay?” There was definite fear in Ian’s voice. The kid had his tall lean frame pressed against his cell door. His eyes were wide, and his hands held on in a white-knuckled grip on the round bars.

“Get away from your door, kid.”

“Something is happening up the tier.” His face was turned now as he strained to look up the long, five-foot wide concrete tunnel.

“Get away from the door!”

Dillon Clay knew the smell of death. On the streets he had stumbled across the occasional wino that had spent a few days rotting unnoticed in an alley or under a bridge. He’d killed a few rival dealers. Once or twice, one of his girls would turn up dead in a motel room where some John had gotten rough, or decided not to pay. Yes, Dillon Clay was familiar with the smell of death.

Death was on the tier. Something was wrong though. This smell had something more. Whatever it was had grown, street-hardened convicts screaming. Begging. One scream was coming through above all the others. It was a scream of unbridled pain.

Boom!

The explosion of a shotgun echoed up and down the tier.  The acrid smoke filled Dillon’s nostrils, but it did not hide that stench of death.

Twice more shotguns blasted, drowning the screams. Drowning the sound of the door at the rear of Tier A opening, but not the vibration. The rear door only opened in case of emergency. Or, since there had never actually been one, more correctly, during a fire drill.

“Get away from the door, Ian.”

Dillon’s voiced had not changed. It had not raised or lowered. Yet, Ian heard the message clearly. He let go of the bars as if they had suddenly been charged with electricity. He stepped back, stumbling slightly as his legs contacted the stainless steel toilet and sink unit that jutted out of one wall.

The smell grew stronger. Men were gagging, retching, and spewing the contents from their stomachs. A silence far more deafening than the screams or shotgun blasts was washing down the tier like a tsunami.

A body came into view in front of Dillon’s cell. It was a CO, but he wasn’t in riot gear. He was wearing what was left of the standard uniform: gray button-up shirt, black khaki pants, and dull unpolished boots. Blood was everywhere, turning the gray to black in places. The head was tilted at an awkward angle, exposing a long, jagged rip down the left side of the neck.

“What the …?” Ian gasped.

With a jerk of its head, the creature on the tier turned towards the sound. Thick blood oozed from the rip and trickled along the collar of its shirt. A pregnant drop hung for a second before falling with a splat on the buffer-polished concrete. It lunged forward, colliding hard with the bars. Two more figures stepped into view and followed the first. Dillon couldn’t see their faces to attempt and identify just exactly who these things once were, but he had a sick feeling he knew what they were.

“Stay in the back of your cell!” Dillon yelled.

“What the hell is going on?”

Dillon could hear the edge of hysteria in the young man’s voice. Like a contagion, that hysteria seemed to suddenly spread through the tier. Screams for somebody to open the doors or to simply ‘Help!’ began in earnest.

Grabbing a shirt from his open locker, Dillon had a plan. He yelled, gaining the attention of what he knew had to be a zombie. Sure enough, it came to his bars, hands outstretched. Both its arms reached into his cell. The zombie’s face pressed against the bars, teeth gnashing.

Pulling his belt out of the jeans he was wearing, Dillon took stock of just how this thing moved as he fashioned a noose. Like a snake he struck, catching both arms at the wrist with the belt and cinching tight. Pulling down, he brought the arms across one of the crossbars with a loud crack. Both arms bent unnaturally at the elbows as he quickly came down with all his weight to sit on the floor. He secured the belt to a lower bar and then grabbed the tee-shirt. This part would be a bit tricky.

Stepping up to the door, fighting down the bile in the back of his throat, Dillon took a wrap around one hand with the tee-shirt and swung the dangling portion of the shirt, catching it as it dropped behind the head of what he now recognized as CO Johnson. Again he yanked with both arms, falling back and bringing the shirt through the bars. It was secure against the back of the neck of the abomination. Quickly, he tied the loose ends of the shirt together, securing the head against the bars.

Dillon stepped back to admire his work. The thing was helpless for the most part. It was struggling, trying to pull away while its mouth snapped fiercely. A low, moaning snarl came from the zombie that had once been CO Johnson.

Picking up his combo lock, Dillon dropped it in a sock and wound up. He swung, bringing his makeshift bludgeon down on the head of the creature. Again and again he swung, sometimes deflecting off the bars, but eventually, he accomplished his goal, breaking open the skull of this thing.

He looked across the tier. At some point, Ian had figured out what Dillon had done. A second beast was splayed against the kid’s cell door bars, hanging limply.

The third zombie had wandered off. With both doors to the tier open, distant sounds of gunfire and screaming could be heard.

Dillon hit the button on his sink and began to wash up. In his mind, he was taking an inventory of the food in his locker. He had gone to canteen the morning before and bought a hundred rack. He wondered if things would get as bad as they always did in the movies.

3

The Geeks Shall Inherit…

Norfolk, VA—Darrin’s fingers flew over his keyboard. He glanced up at his monitor screen, scanning the responses to his last statement:

DRKMISTIC: I don’t care what media sez…this is zombies!

DMNINJA: 1 was outside. me n koko got it. knock over…bash it w/ sledge. crushed chest. IT GOT UP!!!  crushed hed…

WARRIOR1197: kilt it?

DMNINJA:  yep!!

DRKMISTIC: we need to meet. away from pop. nebody got guns?

The chat room fell silent. It would figure, Darrin thought, I am the only one with a gun. Not that it was much, just a .22 that he bought a few years back when he moved into his own apartment. Other than two times at a local range, it had never been used. Truth be told, he still had the original box of bullets he purchased the day he picked up his gun…minus thirty rounds. That meant he had seventy bullets.

After almost an hour of bickering, the four, Darrin ‘DRKMISTIC’ Goldburn, Mike ‘DMNINJA’ Rathers, Kevin ‘WARRIOR1197’ Dreon, and Cary ‘KOKO’ Kolchek, agreed on where to meet. They unanimously rejected downtown Norfolk, and instead chose Trashmore Park. It was central to all of them, and more importantly, wide open so they could spot trouble at a distance.

Each agreed to load their cars with whatever supplies they felt necessary. Mike and Cary would be coming in Mike’s El Camino since Cary didn’t own a car. They would meet in two hours.

Looking out his window, Darrin couldn’t see anything moving. He had a clear view of the long parking lot. Still, he would have everything by the front door before he started loading up his trusty, but beat up, Geo Metro.

The normal late night quiet was buzzing with the occasional siren. More ominous were the gunshots. While this was by no means an affluent neighborhood, it was no inner-city gangland. Deep down, Darrin knew that things were bad, and it would only get worse.

Still, he had questions. Eventually, these things—the zombies, or ghouls, or whatever you wanted to call them—would run out of food. It was simple mathematics. Unless they ate each other. That didn’t seem likely. Otherwise, they would already be turning on each other and not walking in these groups that were being reported in the more populated areas.

Grabbing the most important bags, Darrin stuffed the pistol in his waistband and peered out the peephole to ensure his hallway was clear. He quickly unlocked his deadbolt and opened the door. Down the stairs two-at-a-time and out to the parking lot he ran. So far, all was clear. Figuring that zombies would have little use for his things, he dropped both duffels by the hatchback and sprinted back to his apartment.

It took six trips. After the last one, he ran back to make one more walk-through of his place. His last stop was the breaker box. One by one, he shut everything off. Things were gonna get pretty crazy. All public service would likely be gone soon if it wasn’t already. It was only a little thing, but Darrin wanted to do all he could to cut down on the coming chaos. Just maybe his place would not catch fire due to some random event. His last act was to leave the door unlocked. There wasn’t much to steal. He had all he deemed valuable. In the movies, somebody was always running…seeking a place to hide. Just maybe they would find his door and be safe for a minute. Just a minute.

Again he ran down the stairs to his car. The coast remained clear. He unlocked every door and the hatch. Sliding the key in the ignition, just in case, but not starting the engine, no sense making unnecessary noise, he began loading up.

As the last box of food was fit into place, he heard a distant scream followed by gunshots. He considered seeking out the source, but decided that there would be lots of bad things happening in the next few days…weeks…forevers…and he couldn’t stop them all. The best thing would be to just go and meet up with his friends.

Safety in numbers.

A few moments later, he was on the freeway. While the roads were still mostly empty, there was definitely more traffic than normal for this hour. Every passing police car had lights flashing and seemed to be in a big hurry to get someplace.

Darrin considered things as he saw them. A completely unprepared for, only-in-the-movies scenario was unfolding. Most of the initial responders to the crisis would be police, fire, andmaybe military. They would die in large numbers, at least early on. This would eliminate most of the authority figures. So what would be left?

His exit came, and eventually he found himself pulling into the Trashmore Park parking lot. He was the first to arrive. A slow drive-through revealed that, by appearances at least, there was no immediate danger. Nothing shambling about looking to take a bite out of him.

***

Kevin slowed as the neon lights of the pawn shop came into view. He knew for certain that the guys would be waiting, but he also knew that things were about to get crazy. He’d be damned if he was going to wait for absolute chaos to set in. Somebody was going to have to break the first egg. Or, in this case, window. Pawn shops had guns. He had considered going to an actual gun shop. But, most likely, there would be pretty intricate security. In a couple days, when all hell had broken loose, they could hit one of those places. Tonight would be like practice. How fast could he get in and out?

He pulled into the empty parking lot. The place was dark inside; a good sign. He parked in front of the large, plate-glass window.

King’s Pawn.

Clever.

Grabbing the brick that sat on the passenger’s seat, Kevin took one more look around. All was still clear. Leaving the engine running, he walked up and cupped his hand to the window to take a look in. The cash register was to the left. Directly behind it was his prize.

A sword collection.

Two crossbows.

Four rifles.

One shotgun.

Pistols would probably be under glass in the display counter by the register. Taking a few steps back, Kevin hurled the brick as hard as he could.

There was a crash, followed by a loud, ringing alarm bell. Lights flashed inside like strobes. He climbed through the jagged hole and dashed for his prize. Or, as was the case…prizes.

In three trips, he had the swords, crossbows, rifles, and shotgun. On the fourth time in, he grabbed a baseball bat from a stand and attacked the glass counter. As he had suspected, the handguns were right there. His plan worked flawlessly with one exception: no bullets.

Well, nothing could be done for that now. He scooped up his prizes: five guns. He had no idea what any of them were, they could worry about that later. A case of bolts for the crossbow was the last item he grabbed before running to his car.

Throwing everything into the front seat of his Ford Escort wagon—well, actually the title was still in his mom’s name and he owed four more payments—he took one more look around. Across the street, in one of those coin-eating, do-it-yourself car washes, a lone figure stood under the fluorescent lighting in the middle of bay five.

Kevin climbed into the car and grabbed one of the swords. He turned the car around and stopped in the exit drive to the pawn shop. He flipped on his high beams and turned the car at an angle that lit up whoever, or whatever, this person was.

The head jerked around to face him, followed awkwardly by the body. It was what had once been a young woman. Her long, blonde hair was matted with something dark that Kevin figured was most certainly blood. She had a big, dark stain on her right side around the shoulder area. That side of her shirt was torn leaving an exposed breast.

“Nasty,” Kevin breathed.

He climbed out of the car as the blonde zombie came stumbling across the four-lane road. He easily reached the raised strip that acted as a divider with its shrubs and young trees spaced out perfectly. The closer she got to where he waited, the stronger the gag-inducing stench became. Nothing he’d ever experienced in his life—up to that point—could compare.

Hands reached out, and even in the darkness he could see the mouth open. The zombie made a rattling sound that was like a sigh mixed with a high-pitched growl. Kevin timed his swing, bringing the sword down on the top of the skull. He had considered decapitating the zombie, but remembered a scene from Day of the Dead, when a zombie’s head lay in that dark tunnel, eyes darting back and forth. The sword crashed through the skull. Another thing left out in the movies was just how much his hands stung from the impact, or vibration, or whatever.

The pain was enough to make him let go of the pommel. The body hit the ground, knocking the sword loose with a clatter as it skittered a few feet away on the road. Shaking the pins and needles from his hands, Kevin scooped up the weapon, wiped it across the back of the zombie at his feet and headed for the car.

***

Mike and Cary hauled the last loads to the El Camino. Most of the back end was loaded with camping gear: tent, stove, lanterns, sleeping bags, Jack Daniels. A few moments later, the blue, plastic tarp was secured with twine and bungee cords. They left nothing to chance, grabbing shovels, an axe, a pick, and splitting maul.

They discussed the possibility of doing the whole “Mall Scenario,” but felt there were some definite drawbacks. First, it would be a few days before society degraded to the point where commandeering a shopping mall would go unnoticed. Second, if zombies gathered, it would be like a siege. Eventually they would need to move, and that never ended well in the movies. Also, there was the rot factor. They had smelled just one of those things, and it was worse than the smell of that tannery they had gone to during a field trip in fifth grade. Large numbers of those things could only be worse. Plus, the food in the malls would eventually go bad if it didn’t just plain run out.

 For the past ten minutes, they had been debating Cary’s plan. It was inspired by the book he had just finished. So far, Mike could not find any real holes in the logic.

“So this father and his son just keep walking?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, that’s the whole story.”

“But why did they leave that underground bunker?”

“Fear. Habit. Who can be sure? But we have it way better. The world isn’t just some wasteland,” Cary explained.

“So we snatch up a bunch of seeds and start a farm?”

“Mostly. I mean, we’ll need to fortify a defense. But, if we get out there far enough, it will work.”

“You realize that mountains make lousy locations for farms,” Mike said.

“I’m not talking the peaks of the Rockies. I’m just saying a place away from most population centers. The reason to be on top of some sort of hill is so we can see what’s coming.”

“Well,” Mike tugged on the tarp, ensuring it was held fast, “I’m pretty convinced. I bet Darrin will go for it. But Kevin…”

“You think he wants to play Road Warrior?” Cary laughed.

“Dude, he’s always going to those survivalist camps. Reading that crazy militia crap about how to live off the grid. Right now he’s probably trying to figure out how to build a still that converts urine to gasoline.”

The two locked stares for a moment, then burst out laughing. They climbed into the cab of the El Camino still chuckling. Mike turned the key and the CD player came alive a second later. A guttural guitar carried on the night air turning quite a few heads. None of the heads’ owners could tell you that they were hearing the song Stranglehold. They simply were able to decide that noise meant the source would satisfy their primal desire.

To feed.

***

Just as the sun was rising for what would, on the surface, be a bright, clear, warm and sunny day, the group all stood on the highest hill of Trashmore Park surveying the surroundings. Sirens and gunfire came from every direction. Cars raced by on the nearby expressway. Plumes of dark smoke rose in various locales. It seemed as if events were unfolding rapidly.

The EBS loop on all the radio stations was warning folks to stay indoors and not allow anyone inside. The current response was that the event currently happening was a virus or disease. Maybe it was. But not like anything the folks in charge would allow themselves to acknowledge.

The sonic roar of a flight of F-16s screamed overhead. In the big picture, they were just one small element of the total chaos. Who would think a global civilization could be dis-mantled so quickly by something that should have been just as quickly containable.

“We need to get out of the city,” Cary said to nobody in particular.

“Before the martial law crap is called for,” Kevin added.

They nodded as a group and headed for their cars. Each had a CB radio tuned to channel four. Single file, they wound their way to the Virginia Beach Expressway and headed west. Their ultimate destination was South Dakota. Kevin had given everybody a route map he printed up on his computer. There were waypoints in case anyone got separated. Outside of Hampton was a Walmart Superstore. Open or not, it would be their first stop. There was a U-Haul rental across the street. It was decided that, again, open or not, they would be acquiring a truck for Cary. He and Mike would handle that while Darrin and Kevin would ‘go shopping.’

***

As they exited the freeway, each felt a surge of adrenaline. The area was more deserted than they could have hoped for. Not a car passed them as they drove down Davis Boulevard. Both parking lots were more or less empty; the exceptions being a couple of lone zombies amidst the stray shopping carts in the Walmart lot. Mike and Cary peeled off, and Darrin led Kevin into the open concrete expanse in front of the store.

Cary had his door open before the El Camino came to a complete stop. A tool bag in hand, he ran to the glass entry door of the main office.

Empty.

Opening the bag, he produced a glass-cutter. Where’d Kevin come up with this crap? It was as if he had spent his life preparing for some sort of apocalypse. Cary attached a suction cup fitted with a handle and cut a large square out of the bottom of the door. No sense busting glass and making a bunch of noise that might attract attention.

A few minutes later, he was in the reception area. Climbing over the counter, he looked at the wall of keys on hooks. Mike came up to the door, slightly out of breath, “One over by a few of the trucks and a couple heading this way from down the street.”

“Okay. What truck am I grabbing?”

“C-26,” Mike said.

Cary scanned the board, found the key he was looking for, and rushed to meet up with Mike in the parking lot. As they threaded their way to the truck, the smell of death teased their nostrils on the gentle morning breeze.

Jumping in the cab, Cary settled in, turned the ignition. A full tank! So far, so good. Mike was already sprinting back towards the El Camino. He was running in the street to avoid the possibility of something lunging out from between the rows of trucks. Meanwhile, Cary shifted into gear and edged up and over the concrete ridge that surrounded a poorly kept flower bed. The two headed for the front entry to Walmart where they would meet up with Darrin and Kevin.

***

With shopping carts brimming, the two ran down aisles scooping things from shelves into the big, blue, plastic baskets. Once a cart was full, they would push it to the entry foyer, grab another, and rush back into the heart of the store. Each had a list with a marked map.

Blankets. Camping gear. Non-perishable food. One cart alone had been filled with an assortment of beef jerky. At some point, Kevin chopped through a door with an axe from the Home and Garden Department.

“There’s more stuff than we could possibly find room for.” Darrin was breathing heavy, unused to any sort of extended physical exertion.

“Don’t have much time left anyways.” Kevin came to a halt with a flatbed push-cart designed to carry large purchase items like refrigerators or big-screen televisions.

“Why not?”

“Alarm systems,” Kevin said as he waved his arms in the air like they were all around and in plain sight.

“What?”

“Sure. Didn’t you see those panels with the flashing lights?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much,” Kevin shrugged.

“We are stealing a truck load of stuff, an alarm has been going off for who knows how long, and I shouldn’t worry?”

“Cops are plenty busy, if any are still even on the job. Remember Katrina?”

“The hurricane?”

“Yeah. Most of the local police force hauled ass. They’d decided that staring down a big-ass storm wasn’t in the job description.”

“You think a lot have bailed this soon?” Darrin asked.

“Some. More will follow. It should be a few hours before anybody gets around to martial law. By then, we are on the move and way the hell outta town.”

Darrin mulled this over as he ran for another cart. The reasoning all seemed sound. By the time he arrived at the doors, the truck was backing up with the cargo bay door already open. Kevin was attacking the outer doors with a sledgehammer. He had already broken open the first set that led to the giant sally-port entance that all these stores felt were necessary.

Once everything was loaded into the U-Haul (it sure looked like a lot less in that big, open space) the group headed out. The entrance to Walmart looked like an ugly, jagged, gaping maw. Already, a couple of zombies were wandering in.

4

Radio Traffic

The miles ticked away. Thalia was up on the seat beside me. Occasionally, she would whimper. Having been the young-est in my family, and never having experienced the joy of fatherhood firsthand, I had very little idea how to care for this child. I mean, I know some basic stuff; I think.

A few cars shared the road with me; none even glanced my direction. After a half an hour on the road, my radio had come back to life. From the sound, the dispatch office came under attack. Somehow, the mic was keyed open. I switched it off when Thalia began to stir. That would not be a good thing to wake up to. As far as the regular radio, that message loop continued to run. Either things were slowly getting back to normal, or everything was completely out of control.

I slowed down for a sign up ahead. A glance at my gas gauge decided things for me. I mean, I had enough gas to press on, but I was coming back to more populated areas, and if things were still crazy, a big city was the last place to fill up.

Chehalis. Hmm. I’ve probably driven past this dot on the map a thousand times. Suddenly, it loomed much more ominously. I picked up the gun, and then set it back down. I had come to grips with shooting that girl in a way. She was bitten. She’d turn soon. I saved her the slow, painful transformation. Plus, I did think maybe she was already turned.

Liar.

Funny how your conscience can kick in.

As the truck slowed, Thalia sat up and rubbed her eyes. She looked around and her face spoke volumes, that deep hope that it had been a nightmare. We all have those; nowadays, more often than not.

“I must use the potty.”

Her voice held that same resignation I had just seen on her face. She scooted over to the passenger window before I had a chance to speak. She had forgotten. The window was darkened with the blood of the zombie I had crushed between the rocks and the truck. To her credit, she didn’t scream. She simply moved back up against me.

I came to a stop at the top of the off-ramp. A left turn would take us over the freeway. A gas station was perched on either side, but the one farthest from me had a big country store attached. I saw no movement in either direction. I turned left, coming to a stop in the middle of the overpass.

“Wait here.”

I climbed out to get a good look around. Not a single car in sight. I think that was the creepiest part. I took a deep breath. Nothing. Well, that didn’t mean any of those things weren’t near, just none close enough to smell. I took the time to walk all the way around the truck and get a look at the damage. The sky was overcast, but there was enough pre-dawn light to get a good eyeful.

Well, there was no way I would let Thalia see the passenger side of the truck. It was covered in dark stains. In some places there were clumps of who-knows-what dried in with the blood. I climbed back in the truck and drove to the gas station with the weather-beaten country store. Maybe I’d find something better to eat than the bags of junk food.

Keeping alert for any movement, I pulled up to the single island of pumps. I wasn’t about to shut off the engine. Climbing out, I did a full three-sixty.

Nothing.

Equally disquieting was the complete lack of movement from inside the store. The lights were on. I just didn’t want to pull another snatch and run. Thalia broke my concentration, tugging on the sleeve of my shirt.

“Can I go to the potty?” she asked.

“Okay, but we need to make some rules first.” I knelt in front of the little girl, taking a risk by not having an open field of vision. “You hold my hand till we get to the bathroom. Then, I go in first and make sure it’s empty. You keep a lookout and scream if you see anybody.”

“Scream like last night?”

“Uh...yeah.”

Whatever gets the point across I guess. So, leaving the driver’s door open, I made my way to the entrance of the market. I still hadn’t seen any movement, but I wanted to stay legal as long as possible.

I pulled the door, expecting it to be locked. It swung out! I was greeted with a cold blast of air conditioning. What did not greet us was the clerk...or that smell. One other thing happened that caught both of us off guard, made me jump, and made Thalia let out a little squeal. A bell rang as the door opened wider. So much for being stealthy.

“Hello?”

No answer.

We walked in the rest of the way and let the door close with a pneumatic hiss. A cooler just inside the door had a sign in bold black scrawl:

FRESH BAIT!!!

Another chest-style freezer right next to the one with the bait had a selection of ice creams. I noticed Thalia eyeballing the selection. What could it hurt?

“Go ahead and pick one.” It may be a while before she enjoyed such a simple luxury again.

She found what she wanted—some multi-colored Rocket Pop—handed it to me, and grabbed my hand. She led me to the sign that read: women.

“Okay, just like I said. Keep an eye on the door in the front of the store where outside is. Hold this door open while I look to make sure it’s empty.”

I held the gun up like I’d seen folks do in the cop shows. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the handle and yanked the door open. A quick look, and I was relieved to see no windows and only one stall. This could be easy. I stayed close to the wall and came at the stall door from the side. Gun extended, I tapped the door with my foot.

Locked.

That’s when I heard a noise; kinda like a whimper, but barely audible. Did zombies whimper? No, I was pretty sure they did not.

“Hello?”

A noise like somebody gasping after holding their breath for a long time sounded, followed by a scramble of feet hitting the floor and the latch moving. I took a step back with the gun leveled at what I figured to be close to head level as the stall door opened.

“Thank God!” A young girl in her teens burst out, then froze when she saw the gun. Her eyes went wide when she saw the barrel pointed at her face. I quickly lowered my arm, backing towards the door where Thalia stood...looking in instead of out at the parking lot! I came out quickly and took a step towards the front of the store so I could get a look outside. Still nothing.

“Go ahead and use the bathroom, sweetie.” I patted Thalia on the head.

The teenager came out cautiously, glancing at me, the gun, Thalia, the door. It was as if her eyes couldn’t decide where to go.

“Mister?”

I glanced back from the parking lot. I really had no idea how to handle the situation at this point. What do I say? I’m here to rescue you? Can I get a fill-up on pump two?

“Mister, what the hell is going on?”

“Umm...well...I have a theory, but it is a bit on the crazy side.” I kept my eyes on the store entrance.

“My boyfriend tried to eat Mrs. Jenkins last night,” the girl said.

“So, it’s possible you might be open to crazy. Well, best I can guess...it is like all those scary zombie movies...only this is for real.” I watched her eyes to see what sort of reaction I would get. She seemed to consider my words, then nodded. I figured she must be in some sort of post-traumatic shock. “Where is your boyfriend? Where is everybody for that matter?”

“He and Mrs. Jenkins are in the men’s bathroom. I locked the door so they couldn’t get out.”

“And everybody else in this town?”

“I saw some cars race out of here right about the time Pete showed up. After all that crazy stuff with him and Mrs. Jenkins, I tried to call the police, but nobody answered. Next thing I know, Pete and Mrs. Jenkins are chasing me! I was totally freaked. I mean, all that blood! They were missing pieces!”

I knew what sorts of things she was leaving out. There are simply some things that the mind does not want to process. I wasn’t going to press for details.

“...myself in the women’s restroom and hoped they would go away.”

“Pete and Mrs. Jenkins?”

“Weren’t you listening?” She placed her hands on her hips the way girls seem to do naturally as a sign of absolute indignation.

“Sorry, I was trying to make just a little sense of what the hell is going on.”

“I said, a few of those things wandered past, out on the road. I didn’t want them to see me so I hid—”

“In the bathroom. Got it. And how long ago was that?” I asked.

“Like two hours ago.” The exasperation let me know that she must’ve already said that before as well.

Thalia poked her head out of the bathroom door. Her relief was visible, and not just from using the bathroom, like maybe she thought the quasi-stranger who had yanked her out of her world might just drop her in this new one and take off.

“Your daughter?” The teenage girl hiked a thumb at Thalia.

“Nope. Neighbor.” Thalia rushed over and clung to my side, hiding her head behind my back. Hmm. Shy? I so don’t know anything about kids.

“Parents?”

I shook my head and made a face that I hoped made it clear that this was not an open topic.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” The girl knelt, and her voice did that magic thing a female does when talking to babies, children, or boyfriends they have total control over.

I felt Thalia move a bit. Her grip on my legs loosened, and she faced this total stranger.

“Thalia.”

“That’s a pretty name. My name is Teresa.”

“I have a tee…” she paused, and I could tell she was translating her thoughts to English, “...aunt. Her name is Teresa. She lives in Olympia. That’s the capital of Washington.”

Her face beamed as words came tumbling out. Just like that, and this total stranger knew more about my neighbor and the child I had rescued a few hours ago than I did. The two talked, and I moved away to see what I could load up and what would keep for a few days as opposed to what would need to be eaten right away.

I got about four steps when Thalia shrieked and ran after me. She latched onto my leg, again babbling incoherently. Something about “no sulga,” or at least that’s what I thought I was hearing.

“Are you crazy?” now the teenager, Teresa, was yelling at me.

I looked around, certain that we would get mobbed by a million zombies that would instantly materialize. A series of thumps and what sounded like fingernails on wood started in from the other end of a line of reefer doors. A hint of that smell found my nostrils, turning my stomach instantly. Thalia caught a whiff, too, because she grabbed tighter if that was possible, and wailed.

“Easy, Thalia.” I pried at her hands and knelt like I’d seen Teresa do. I tilted her little face up to me. Her long, black hair was an absolute mess, her dark brown eyes were all bloodshot. Tears ran down cheeks that had turned as red as her runny nose. “I won’t ever go without you. I promise.”

Her sobs let up some, and I decided to risk giving a hug. I felt her tiny hands clutch my shoulders, and to this day I can’t tell who took more comfort in that little hug. Up to that moment, I don’t think I knew how fucking terrified I was. I took a deep breath and stood up very slowly. Thalia clung with her arms around my neck.

“Okay, here’s the plan. Food. Lots. As much as we can manage. Fill the back of the truck. Next priority, the medicine aisle. First aid stuff...antibiotics...everything.”

“And you plan on putting this on a credit card?” Theresa sounded defensive and uncertain.

I guess it is tough for some people to accept serious change. I mean think about the daily routine we all sank into when life was normal. In one night, the snow globe that is our life was shaken violently, and it’s like those little flakes never quite want to settle.

I stared into her eyes and saw that struggle. If she did what I was suggesting, it would be like surrender. She would be forced to accept whatever horrific scene she had witnessed last night. Her boyfriend would be dead. So would Mrs. Jenkins—whoever that was. I saw tears try to well up, but, to her credit, Teresa was not ready to cry yet.

“Let’s go,” Teresa whispered.

I nodded, and the two of us got busy. Thalia tried to help, but the best we could manage was for her not to get underfoot. She sat on the counter by the register and ate her Popsicle while the two of us ran around in controlled chaos. It took us almost the better part of an hour.

When we were done, the store was by no means empty. We had taken a lion’s share of the most beneficial items. Teresa even came up with one of the better ideas. The bait cooler was fairly small; about two feet wide, three feet deep, and four feet long. We emptied it and pulled the plug. There was only a slight fishy smell. We managed to haul it to the truck and slide it all the way forward. We then loaded it with milk, meats, eggs, and finally, bags of ice. Hey, we both figured it would last a couple of days.

A final top off of the gas tank, and we were ready to go. A couple of times, we heard cars pass on the freeway, even heard a few gunshots. However, no new zombies wandered up to harass us. As we left the store for the last time with Thalia in tow, she looked longingly at the ice cream cooler.

What the hell. “Go ahead.” I let her scamper back for one more. She opened the glass sliding-door, standing on her tiptoes deciding what she wanted. For just that moment...the world was normal.

***

“Portland is no better of a choice than Seattle,” I explained to Teresa. The regular radio was on low with the message loop droning. Thalia sat in the middle up on her knees so she could look out at the long, empty road ahead.

“So we cut through, and head over to Highway 26.” Teresa was tracing her finger along the map. “The coast seems a good bet. There are plenty of empty places along the way. If we hit the Pacific, I know a couple of places that have beach houses. They are rented out by the owners. But there is nothing in either direction for more than ten miles.”

“You’re still thinking short-term,” I scolded. “These things—”

“Zombies?” Teresa raised an eyebrow.

“Sure, or whatever the hell you want to call them, they don’t stop moving. I’m guessing if they get locked onto food... us...they just wait. Probably congregate and draw more and more until wherever we are, we’re totally trapped.”

“You’re not much for the power of positive thinking, are ya?” Teresa said sarcastically.

“Just trying to avoid that one big mistake that turns out killing us all.”

“Maybe the coastal mountain range? Summer is coming, so we have a few months to prepare for winter,” Teresa offered.

The idea didn’t suck. I figured one more stop for gas just before we hit the mountains would set us up nicely. Teresa found some small towns along the way. I seem to remember a couple of gas stations that sprung up out of nowhere.

As Vancouver, and eventually Portland grew nearer, the apprehension rose. We had no idea what to expect. Then, the first signs began to show. We rounded a big bend that put a river on our right. I recalled an old nuclear plant that used to be somewhere nearby, but had been imploded a few years back. Up ahead, trying to blend into the low-lying, dark, grayish clouds was a pillar of smoke rising to meet the sky.

Fires.

Big ones.

The edges of suburbia began to unfold from the horizon as we drove. More cars began to appear, all moving in the opposite direction. Many flashed their headlights in warning. Whatever was up the road, it was unpleasant.

Flashing blue lights came into view as I crested a small ridge that now glided down into what were the outskirts of the city. Police cars could be a blessing or curse. The wait was short in finding out which this was.

A group of four navy-blue squad cars were set up to block southbound traffic. What I didn’t see were officers. Getting around would be no problem since the north and south lanes were split by a grassy median. I eased into the left lane and slowed.

“Oh, my God,” Teresa breathed.

I looked over to see her staring directly out to the right. We had cleaned the window on the passenger side before pulling out of Jenkins Gas and Go. Up a slope was a chainlink fence that was in place to keep people from just wandering down to the interstate. All along the fence were tens...hundreds…of those things. As if the sight triggered something in my brain, the hint of that rotted death-smell toyed with my nose.

I guessed we were still a mile from the roadblock, no sign of the drivers of those police cars. The crowd on the fence began to fill out. What was one, two, or a handful became a pack, which, as my eyes followed the fences, not only on this side, but across the way, became hordes. A mile or so past the seemingly abandoned roadblock was an overpass...as well as on- and off-ramps.

Slowing down to almost a crawl, we crept into the grass median. The truck tilted at an angle that made seeing anything but sky on our right side nearly impossible. I kept the speed low so we wouldn’t lose any of the goods stacked in the back of the truck. The smell grew in intensity, and looking ahead, I could see that we were splitting a sea of the undead like Moses. What was clear as far as my eyes could see was that both sides of the interstate were teeming with those poor creatures.

By the hundreds they pressed themselves and each other into the eight- or ten-foot high chain-link fencing that ran parallel at the top of the steep embankment bordering both sides of this stretch of road. Signs still rotated lazily and glowed in the early morning light, which indicated to me that, so far, power was still on. I wondered briefly how long that would last and decided I would plan for the eventuality.

By now, the stench was amazing. I really did believe it would reach a point of maximum saturation. Yet, it continued to worsen. The girls both began to look a little green, but to their credit, neither got sick.

As we came back up onto the road, I had to weave a few times to avoid the occasional walking corpse. No sense banging up the truck when I didn’t need to. A couple of the zombies were in police uniforms, so I had to figure they were probably part of the roadblock.

It made me think. There had been so much press the last few years about cops being too quick to shoot. I wondered if we had beat them down so much with our politically correct, civil-suit crazed society that they had paused too long…taken too much time to react to the situation. Had they been bitten while issuing the tenth verbal warning?

As we neared the bridge that would cross the Columbia River and take me into Oregon, the embankments grew higher and further away from the interstate. The overpasses were more and more crowded with wandering zombies.

Damn! How did this happen so fast?

Of course the sound of the truck seemed to agitate them and bring them to investigate the source. That would mean, in some perverse way, they could still hear. Kind of creepy.

At some point, we had become the only vehicle on the road. I knew we couldn’t be the only ones left alive. It began to dawn on me. Where the hell was I running to? Did I feel drawn this way? Was this some sort of real-life Romerofied version of Stephen King’s The Stand?

Nope.

So far, no dreams of a hundred-plus-year-old black woman in a cornfield...or pine forest. No faceless guy beckoning me to Vegas. Just a feeling—a desire—to head to the Oregon Coast. When I was a kid, that was the site of some of my best times. Vacations at the beach. That was where I met my first girlfriend...we kissed on the Fourth of July under the fireworks display at Seaside.

Hmmm...

“Hey!” Teresa screamed, snapping her fingers in my face to get my attention.

“Huh?”

“You tryin’ to get us converted?”

I realized that I had drifted to the center of the bridge, effectively straddling two lanes. I eased to the left and claimed the fast lane. Not that there was any difference. Glancing out my side window, I could see the gray ribbon that was the Columbia. A fairly large personal boat chugged down the middle. At least I knew there were other people out and about. Whoever it was, they were standing at the stern waving their arms. Probably trying to warn me away from downtown Portland.

Well, it’s the thought that counts.

We had to consider finding some high-grade camping gear. We needed more guns and ammo without a doubt. Also, it wouldn’t hurt to have some more food that didn’t fall into the “chips and cookies” group. I decided it was time to clue everybody in.

“Jantzen Mall is just ahead. I think it is best to at least check it out. It will be a bit dicey, but things will only get nastier as we get closer to the city.”

“So you think we can just go rip off a mall and...what...the cops will pretend it’s cool?” I could tell Teresa still wasn’t getting the Big Picture.

“We are the least of their worries. Besides, I’m not saying we hole up in one. I’m saying a decent sporting goods store will do, and if we run into the cops, so much the better. Maybe they can direct us to someplace safe.”

“Well, I think we—”

“Shhh!” I cut her off and turned up the radio. The message was changing. Somebody was talking! A live person!

“...currently described as hostile and displaying violent, cannibalistic characteristics. The CDC has confirmed that this disease is communicable. There is no known prevention other than to avoid contact at all costs.

“Local hospitals have ceased accepting victims of attack. You are directed to bring any person bitten but still alive to stations set up by police and National Guard. Currently in the Portland-metro area the following locations are set up as monitoring sites: the Rose Quarter, PGE Park, Roosevelt High School, Beaverton High School, Gresham High School, Tigard High School, Forest Grove High School, and Franklin High School. Be advised that more sites are planned, and that those who must use the Rose Quarter or PGE Park will be directed to a FEMA-run emergency shelter where they will be asked to provide information on the person or persons they delivered. At each high school, that information will be obtained at a designated checkpoint established in the vicinity. There will be signs clearly designating routes to take. Be advised that you should only use the Rose Quarter and PGE Park if you’re in the immediate vicinity.

“Additionally, the president is expected to speak at seven Pacific Time, approximately eighteen minutes from now. Martial law is expected to be declared on a national level—”

I turned off the radio. Teresa started to protest, but I cut her off. “This alters everything.”

“So we can go to one of those FEMA thingies.”

“They will question what we are carrying in the back of this truck and how we obtained it.”

“So we ditch the truck nearby and run for it!”

“I’ll set you close to one, but I’m not changing my plans.”

“Because of those stupid movies?” Teresa asked.

I thought it over. Was I being just a bit paranoid? I mean, our government has dropped the ball at times. But it has come through at others. Plus, I had Thalia to think of. She was sitting quietly, and I’m not sure she really understood what was being said. Bottom line, she trusts me to do what was right.

“Shit!”

5

Vignettes II

“…and as day eleven comes to an end on the East Coast, we here at World Wide News want to express our sympathy to the friends and family of President Bransen.

“Washington has issued a statement that, due to the growing threat of large groups of what many are now commonly referring to as zombies, no effort can be made to salvage the crash site of Air Force One. They did confirm that recordings indicate an unnamed member of Secret Service turned in flight. Before he could be subdued, the president was reportedly bitten by that agent on his left arm. Gunfire was heard during the last transmission. The location of the crash is being withheld for security reasons…”

***

New London, CT—Madeline Bosley stared out the huge picture window. From the third floor of the hospital, she could see most of the landscape between the hospital grounds and the ocean. She used to love the view. This time of year—as spring brought life back to all the trees and the sky began to empty itself of the perpetual gray that seemed to last from November to March—was her favorite.

Or at least it used to be.

A few of those things wandered in the open parking lot…on the roads…along the beach. The group out front against the windows and entry doors of the lobby continued to grow in numbers that merely stood, shuffling back and forth. The occasional thud of one of them striking or just bumping into the glass could be heard. It always startled her. Even though nobody had been downstairs in three days, those things waited.

A hand touched her shoulder, making her jump and emit that frail sounding squeak. She hated sounding like some damsel in distress. The way she saw it, she was holding up better than most of the guys.

“Mickey is all but gone.” Joe Bryant, or more officially, Commander Joe Bryant, USN, stood with his usual cup of coffee, his hand still resting lightly on her arm. Not in a familiar way, but rather…fatherly. “I think he wants to say goodbye to you and Reynolds.”

Rick Reynolds was a Naval hospital corpsman the same as she. Madeline, Rick, and Mitchell ‘Mickey’ Mousselman arrived at New London on the same flight. The three had become instant friends.

Mickey had been bitten yesterday by one of those things that use to be Rusty—a well-known and popular janitor here at the hospital—while working on a floor clearing detail. They had been pretty sure the building was empty.

They’d missed one.

“Thank you, sir. Is Rick already there? I mean, does he…”

“He never left the room.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Madeline insisted.

“Nobody will ever be able to convince him. He’ll probably hold onto that blame, or some part of it, his entire life.”

Rick had been on the detail the day before. His group had signed off on the sixth floor, D-Hall, the same hall Mickey’d been attacked in. Three days later, Mickey was going to die, and Rick was forcing himself to sit through every minute.

Madeline followed Commander Bryant. They reached the room, but the smell greeted them well before they entered. It wasn’t as strong on the dying as those who were actually dead, but it was close.

As expected, there was one armed guard outside as well as one within. Sitting next to the bed, Rick didn’t even look up to acknowledge the newly arrived visitors. Madeline went to the side of the bed opposite him and took Mickey’s cool hand in hers. Odd how the heat from his fever rolled off the body in waves, but the hands were already cold. It was as if the extrem-ities died first.

Mickey opened his bloodshot eyes. The blackness stood out against the white. It reminded Madeline of dark, spidery tendrilled roots from a weed fresh out of very rich soil.

“Maddy.” His smell made her want to gag, but she fought her rising gorge and smiled. “Do I look as bad as I feel?”

“Yeah, but not as bad as you smell.”

Mickey laughed, breaking down into a wheezing cough. Dark blood trickled from his mouth. A light spray of it flecked the respirator mask. His hand tightened on hers, whether in pain or recognition, she couldn’t tell.

“Take care of Rick for me.”

“I’m right here.” Anguish filled Rick’s voice, and he looked up for the first time. “Don’t talk like I’m not…or like I’m some invalid that needs tending.”

“Then knock off the guilt and self-loathing crap!” Mickey turned and locked eyes with his grief-stricken friend. “What’s done is done. You guys have to watch out. Never make the same mistake twice. For the last twenty-four hours it has been tough to tell which of us is the one dying.”

“But—”

“Nothing,” Mickey interrupted. “That thing coulda wandered up or down from any floor and gotten caught in that closet. Whatever the hell is going on is just getting worse. You need to let go and move forward.”

Rick tried to talk, but a soft cry was all he could manage. Madeline came around and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Together, they stood vigil over Mickey’s death. When he sat up, Rick was the one to put him back down.

Pressing the gun to the bluish-pale forehead, he pulled the trigger. Like all the others before, the body was disposed of in an incinerator located in the basement. Outside, more of the walking dead continued to converge on the hospital. Madeline estimated their numbers to be over two thousand.

***

Juan Hoya stood on the hood of his car. Resting the stock of the 30.06 firmly against his shoulder, he closed his left eye and peered through the scope. The head that filled his view was in full profile. One squeeze, and a bullet would explode the temple of this guy’s head.

He took a deep breath, and his finger began to tighten on the trigger. A tremor began in his left arm. With a gust of air he exhaled. “I ain’t cool with this.”

“Well ya better get cool with this,” Tracy Miller snapped.

With a flick of his head, Tracy tossed his long, straight, blonde hair back out from where it had blown into his face. Juan glanced over to see those dull blue eyes glaring at him. He gave a once over to the skinny, six-foot frame and considered what a well placed jab with the butt of a rifle would do to it. Tracy must’ve seen something in Juan’s eyes, because his expression changed. Juan took pleasure in seeing that look.

Fear.

“Travis is waiting for your shot to signal the charge, man,” Tracy whined.

Juan had met up with Tracy Miller, Travis Reynolds, and Dennis Thompkins three days after all the crazy shit had kicked off. They had all been looting the same grocery store. With everything so intense, it made sense to join up. Safety in numbers.

Juan regretted his choice two days later. As was the case every evening, they had looked for a dark house to hole up in for the night and plan the next day’s raids.

The house hadn’t been empty.

Tracy and Dennis had roughed up that old couple pretty bad. All night, Juan could hear the soft whimpers of that old lady. The next day when they left, Travis made it clear that the old folks would remain tied up, “Just in case!”

The cops—the few remaining—were barely enforcing martial law. There was no way they’d respond to some call about a home invasion. What was the sense in leaving those two tied up to experience a slow death? Juan snuck back that afternoon when he was supposed to be out scouting for a store that hadn’t been too gutted and cut them loose.

A few days ago, Travis came up with what he called his master plan: The Clackamas Jail. They would see if it was still manned. There might be a bunch of guys in there that would join up. They would be like an army. One big, bad-ass, convict army.

“Couple of my bro’s are in County right now,” Travis had announced. “Good dudes. We bust them out and we could do whatever the fuck we want…when we want!”

For the past several hours, they’d been scouting the jail. Nobody alive had come or gone. With binoculars, they could see some occasional movement inside. The cops, at least those who hadn’t vanished one way or another when all this shit broke, were trying to run the jail like things might get back to normal. Juan had news for ‘em. He’d seen some real crazy things in the past week-and-a-half.

As of this morning, news reports were saying that this was like some historical thing called the Black Plague, but completely global. He didn’t know just what that meant, but he knew it was bad. Some doctor-guy on one show estimated that the ‘Blue Death’ eclipsed AIDS on the third day! He might not have finished eighth grade, but Juan knew how serious this was, and he had a good idea as to how much worse it would get.

“C’mon, take the shot, man.” Tracy elbowed Juan in the ribs.

Juan turned his head and stared into the watery, bloodshot eyes of Tracy Miller. “You lay hands on me ever again, and I will beat you down and feed you to one of them deaders. You feelin’ me?” At over two hundred and sixty pounds, Juan looked almost twice the size of the meth freak at his side.

The ghostly, skinny, greasy man turned even paler if that were possible. He raised his hands and eased back a few inches. The hood of the car protested with a metallic pop.

“No problem, man.” Tracy slowly extended his arms and inched back a bit more.

Juan returned his attention to the building across the way. He sighted down the scope to get a better look at his target. A man inside the jail was moving a metal framed couch with ugly, orange, vinyl cushions up to the large, tinted picture window, that currently, only a few of the deaders had pushed up against.

Two men wearing dark-blue jumpsuits came into view. Juan had spent a few nights in this particular county jail. He knew the color code. Normal inmates wore blue, dangerous and violent wore the black-and-white stripes like in the old movies, and the crazy ones wore a reddish-pink. The two inmates were carrying another metal frame. This looked like a bunk bed, but without a mattress.

Using his scope, Juan took a better look at the front desk and lobby area. It was a jumble of metal framed beds, chairs, desks, and couches. Whoever was in charge had done some thinking. The clutter would be a challenge for a normal person to crawl through. These deaders were not very agile. They would become trapped in the maze of metal, and that would make it easy for somebody to kill one with minimal danger.

“Tight,” Juan breathed as he re-directed his scope. “Tight like a tigah.”

The shot rang out. It sounded so much louder in the relative quiet that had fallen upon the world. The cop, who moments ago had been directing everything, seemed to freeze in place. His hands came up as if he would grab his head, but, before they completed the action, the man fell back.

There was a flurry of activity, like ants angry at whatever force had just kicked apart their hill. The two guys in blue stood rooted in place for a few heartbeats as three other officers rushed to their downed comrade. Slamming another jacketed round into the chamber with the bolt-action, Juan took aim on a second cop and fired.

Another body fell.

The two inmates finally reacted, dropping the bunk. One of them dove into the back of one of the remaining cops…the other ran through a door and out of sight.

A few deaders began to shamble Juan’s way. The sound of a roaring engine caused everything, living and dead, to pause and look for the source of the noise. A big, red truck burst from some hedges kitty-corner to the jail from where Juan and Tracy were posted.

“Here comes Travis!” Tracy shouted with a mixture of relief and simpering reverence.

Juan glanced sideways at the frail excuse for a man at his side and considered, not for the first time, smashing his head in with the butt of the rifle he held. After a deep breath, the feeling passed. Besides, there was safety in numbers. He didn’t like the thought of having to try and make it all by himself. Those damn things never slept. They moved in packs that just grew like those snowballs in the cartoons rolling down a hill. Small at first, but in time...

***

An explosion, followed by the chatter of automatic weapon’s fire, jerked him back to the situation at hand. Travis had driven up to the entry doors of the jail and lobbed a homemade bomb that one of the guys had put together into the cluster of those things that stood pawing at the door. The explosion cleared away a nice section for the truck to back up into.

Dennis Thompkins, Travis, Boris Johnston, and Tony Adams—the guy who made the explosives—waded through the carnage of their own creation and began single-shot dropping the few deaders that remained standing, as well as finishing off the few on the ground that had been blown up, but were still managing to move.

Tony ran a chain through the handles of the jail’s lobby doors and clapped the other end to the truck. Travis and the rest continued to pick off everything in the area that was still moving. Tony jumped back in the driver’s seat and stomped on the gas. The truck rocketed forward, tearing the doors out of their hinges.

“Dennis, Boris, you come with me,” Travis barked like a drill sergeant to a couple of raw recruits. “Tony, you stay here and watch for deaders. You got plenty of ammo, and Juan is on that little ridge with Tracy. Shouldn’t be no problem picking off any stragglers. Ain’t seen none of those packs up in this neighborhood so just be...what’s that spic Juan always sayin’? Oh yeah! Be tight like a tigah!”

“Sure thing, Travis,” Tony said with a curt nod.

The three began shoving aside the pieces that made up the twisting, strangely inter-connected barricade of metal. Meanwhile, the inmates had overcome the one surviving sheriff, holding him face down at gunpoint.

“Any a you dudes know Gary Messer?” Travis called out over the erratic sound of gunfire from outside as Tony—and Juan from the varying loudness of the shots ringing out—came and went.

“Yeah, I know him,” one of the inmates, the one with the gun pointed at the head of the subdued officer, answered.

Finally, Travis and his small band of liberators made it to open floor space. Three uniformed county cops lay sprawled in pools of blood, all headshots from the looks of it. Damn, Travis thought, that Juan is a helluva shot. “Can you take me to him? And, how many cops are holding this place down?”

“Yes, and there are two back in the intake office. Prob’ly gearin’ up for you since all this is playin’ on their closed-circuit monitors.”

Travis walked up to one of the cameras mounted near the ceiling in a corner of the lobby. He waved, smiled, and then shot the camera lens.

***

The sounds of lifeless hands smacking the windows at the front of the building echoed through the practically empty grocery store. As was the case with more and more of the nation, the power here had failed within the first week and a half. The smell of rotten food tried to compete with the unique stench of the dead. It was a close contest.

“You think if we headed to a town like Boise, we’d find more living people?” Ian took another bite of his apple and wiped the rivulet of juice that threatened to drip from his chin. He noisley slurped the juice off the heel of his hand, not wanting to miss even a drop.

“I ain’t anxious to be ‘round any people, living or dead.” Dillon rummaged through his bag and produced two bottles of water. He tossed one to Ian, popped the top of his own, and took a long draw. “Besides, it prob’ly means more of them damned things.”

“Still can’t say the word can ya?”

“Nope.”

“Well I can. Zombies. The undead. That’s what they are. Is it weird? Sure. But it is what it is,” Ian said.

The sound of shattering glass caused both men to jump. Each grabbed his shotgun, instinctively checking to see that it was loaded and the safety was off.

“That is why we can’t stay here.” Dillon nodded up the aisle at the handful of zombies stumbling towards them. One of them clutched a baseball bat. He wore a jersey that read Reedy Transmission Tigers.

Dillon smiled and shook his head. The theory that these things were simply driven by some sort of primitive urge might be true, but on the radio there was a lot of talk about former ingrained habits being demonstrated.

He thought back to when all the doors on the cell block had popped open on the fourth day. He had been totally caught by surprise. It was a good thing it happened in the middle of the day. Two of those damn things had been standing just outside his cell door…

Dillon had made a stake from the neck of his acoustic guitar on that first day. So far, four of those things lay dead in front of his cell. The remaining two appeared to learn from their predecessors’ mistakes. They just stood on the tier...staring at him twenty-four/seven.

Those two lunged in like racehorses leaping through the starting gate. Dillon had heard Ian scream in surprise, but he didn’t have time to worry about any ass other than his own. He quickly dispatched the two and escaped from his cell.

What he saw, the death up and down the tier—several of the cells were unleashing men literally ripped open—made him shudder. But, it was that one...thing...at the officer’s control station that stood out. The guy was obviously dead. Missing most of his face and a good portion of his chest, he was a bloody mess. Yet, he stood at the station like he was on duty. Dillon swore that the damn thing raised an arm at him like it was trying to issue some sort of order, just like a correctional officer would if a convict came out onto the tier. That damned, dead son-of-a-bitch had unracked the cell doors!

He returned his attention to the here-and-now. Daydreaming can getcha killed these days, he reminded himself. Deciding not to waste any bullets, or draw any more attention than already was being done when that front window shattered, he pulled a three-foot machete from the leather sheath strapped to his right thigh. Ian already had his out and was moving in on what looked like it used to be a waitress from a small diner.

Dillon took a few steps back to draw Baseball Player out into the aisle intersection. It lumbered forward, arms outstretched and mouth open, white-filmed, black-bloodshot eyes staring ahead vacant...expressionless. “Little closer, buddy.”

Baseball Player barged past the full grocery cart, still moving as directly as it was able towards Dillon. Once it stepped all the way out into the aisle intersection, it paused for just a moment. Its head jerked first one way, then another, as if it were crossing a street and watching for cars. Then its head snapped back towards its intended prey, and in an instant, lunged forward.

Strange, Dillon thought as he swung two-handed with the three-foot long blade, the only time those things are truly quick and almost graceful is when they lunge at you to attack. The machete came down on the crown of Baseball Player’s head. The resulting crunch and reverberation up the arms was becoming strangely familiar. The body dropped as if it had been suddenly unplugged from an invisible power source.

Clutching the machete and ensuring that there were no more immediate threats, he glanced over to see Ian swing, cutting deep into Waitress’ head from the temple to the bridge of the nose. Black fluid oozed down its face. With a foot to the chest, he pulled his weapon free and gave it a cursory wiping off on the soiled apron.

“We need to move. Those things are coming in, and who knows how many are outside in the lot.” Dillon began up the—at least for the moment—empty aisle. “Shift to your .45. Once we reach the front and the register area, noise ain’t gonna matter much.”

Ian slid his machete into the leather sheath and drew his pistol. He grabbed the cart he had filled and pushed over one aisle. Two coming down. The next aisle was empty and gave a good view of the broken window. A few of the things were jostling each other as they tried to climb through the jagged hole, oblivious to the multiple cuts and gashes they took in the process.

As he reached the end of the aisle, Ian slowed and let go of the cart. It rolled on its own as he moved to the right and pressed against the shelves. Nothing accosted the cart as it cleared the end of the aisle and rolled out into the open area near the row of checkout stands. The grunt and distinct sound of steel embedding in a skull meant Dillon had company.

“You okay?” Ian hissed, keeping his voice low to attract as little attention as he could.

“Just one,” came the reply. If nothing else, they’d gotten proficient at minimal conversation.

Together, they pushed their carts toward the exit. A pair of zombies were struggling through the broken window. Ian paused, raised his gun, and fired. The bullet entered the forehead clean and blew out the back in a spray of greyish-black matter. The body did just what he hoped; it slumped down in the window frame. He sighted on the other and fired again. The shot was low, blowing a hole in the throat. The creature bobbled just a bit and then resumed its attempt to climb through. As it man-aged to force one leg in, with one still outside, Ian fired again. This time he nailed the thing in the temple. The head rocked sideways, and the body fell over the already slumped form next to it.

He watched a handful of others trying desperately, but with so little coordination, failing to climb over the impromptu barrier. The few stragglers that had already made it in were heading for Dillon who was shoving the caravan of empty carts, which had been their makeshift barrier, away from the door. Pushing through the doors and into the parking lot, Dillon shifted to a shotgun and began blasting at the closest threats between the door and the still idling pick-up truck they had liberated in the prison employee parking lot.

Ian remembered the feeling of running outside of the prison that day. He, Dillon, and a handful of other inmates on the block had burst out like a bunch of kids on the last day of school. They stood in a small cluster in front of the entrance and stared at each other for a moment. Then, with nods of silent agreement, they walked away. Some just headed down the two-lane road on foot. Others, like he and Dillon, found a way to the parking lot and commandeered their own vehicle. Dillon wanted a metallic-blue sports car, but Ian preached the sensibility of a pick-up.

More and more of the damned zombies, or whatever the media had taken to calling them, were shambling across the parking lot in their general direction. The biggest thing Ian noticed about the zombies was that they mostly walked about aimlessly until they heard noise. Then, it was like a dinner bell bringing them in singles and clusters to a focus. He never waited long enough to see if, or how, they dispersed.

In no time, they were in the truck and heading back to the freeway. The decision had finally been reached to head to the Pacific. By skirting larger towns and cities like Portland, they could slip into smaller ones for supplies as the need struck. Now that martial law was not an issue (mainly due to no personnel left to enforce it) they could travel much easier.

Ian tore open a pouch of beef jerky and pulled out a nice- sized piece. He offered some to Dillon who grunted his thanks as he grabbed a strip and stuffed it into his mouth.

Yes indeed, this was much finer than rotting life away in a cell. Ian leaned back and closed his eyes.

***

MILEMARKER 152, I-84, OR—Anton Maxwell swung the aluminum bat with all his might. The satisfying crunch of a shattered skull rewarded his effort. The gore-crusted thing that looked to have once been a young Hispanic girl fell to the pavement. A few more swings for good measure, and Anton stepped back while turning in a slow circle to ensure nothing else was creeping up.

A blackbird sat on the grill of an overturned semi. The trailer looked undamaged and still upright, but the open cargo doors made it unlikely that anything of value remained. The bird was eyeing him with its beak open. It looked as if the stupid thing was as hot and miserable as he was.

He gave another quick look around before returning his attention under the hood of his broke-down, overheated, piece-of-junk car. Steam rolled out of what seemed to be every part of the engine with a hose connected to it.

Oh well, finding another car shouldn’t be too terribly difficult. The muted slaps from a couple of nearby vehicles were actually a good sign. As long as a vehicle still had some gas, he could dispatch with the occupant or occupants.

Climbing up on the trunk of his former ride—a Seventies model Buick Skylark—he spotted a couple of distant zombies milling about. None seemed locked onto him as of yet. He took visual inventory of his vehicle choices: a PT Cruiser...occupied; a newer looking Honda Accord...occupied; a mid-Nineties Ford Taurus wagon...empty; and a Jeep...empty.

The Jeep looked nice, but offered no real protection. The wagon looked the most inviting simply based on not having any occupants inside waiting to try and take a bite out of him. Still, it was best to be cautious. Anton unfastened the clasp on the holster for the Glock he had been carrying for the past couple weeks. He would only use the weapon as a last resort. Its noise factor almost made it almost not worth the ease in which he could dispatch a zombie. To compound his need for firepower frugality, he had one spare magazine with ten rounds, and three left in the weapon.

Confident that the Glock was ready if needed, he adjusted his grip on the bat and moved toward the Taurus. The scorching heat caused the air to shimmer above the smooth asphalt. The now common stench of the undead rode those waves of heat and only seemed to amplify in strength.

A few steps from the car, he paused. That smell seemed to be rolling out of the open driver’s side window of the burgundy wagon. Rising up on his tiptoes, Anton could still not see any sign of movement from within. Keeping a lookout for anything that could be moving his way, he took a few more cautious steps closer to his intended prize.

He reached the vehicle and moved to the closed windows of the driver’s side backseat. If anything popped out of the open window, he’d be in a position to smash it from a relatively safe spot.

Nothing.

Expecting something terrible was the norm these days, Anton mused. Whatever had been inside must’ve climbed out the open window and wandered off. He took a moment to relax just a bit and lean against the rear quarter panel. His hand went instinctively to his breast pocket. Damn. He’d been out of smokes for two days now.

Finally, he could take a better look at his surroundings, not that there was much to see in the open, arid, desert-like plains of Eastern Oregon. This must’ve been some wreck. From the looks, the big-rig had jackknifed, taking out a couple of cars. It likely happened after this whole nightmare began, so no emergency personnel responded. The interstate was effectively blocked heading west. To make things a bit worse, the accident was just over a small bluff. That was the reason that he was in his current situation.

Blazing along on the apparently empty stretch of road, Anton had been cruising at almost ninety. Cresting the ridge, the wreck appeared with the surprise of a jack-in-the-box. He slammed on the brakes, fishtailing to a stop, but not before he had clipped the bumper of the PT Cruiser, mowed down the road marker, and one zombie. The car, already laboring in the heat, had died. Unlike the current trend, it wasn’t coming back.

Well, no use hanging out in this patch of desolation any longer. He secured the holster of the Glock, trotted over to his former ride—the Skylark—grabbed his backpack, and hustled back to his new ride. With no apparent damage, his only concern was likely to be fuel. He would pull up to the Buick and siphon out all he could before resuming his journey. He still wasn’t sure just exactly where he would go. Hopefully he could locate some more living souls. Surely he wasn’t the only one.

Anton opened the door to the Taurus. The stench of death rolled out…as did the source. A child, no more than six or seven months old, an infant really, squirmed at his feet. Black blood crusted the tiny, grey abomination. There was a jagged meaty hole where the abdomen had once been.

Unable to control himself, Anton fell to the searing hot blacktop and retched. The tiny thing continued to writhe in the tattered remnants of a swaddling blanket just inches away while his stomach emptied itself.

Once he recovered to the point of being able to stand up, he did his usual look about in all directions to ensure nothing was closing in. The larva-like bundle on the scorching blacktop continued to writhe and squirm. Motion out of the corner of his eye caused Anton to jump. It was the crow. It had moved closer and seemed intent on the horrific thing making no progress towards his booted foot. Not that it was likely able to cause much injury.

Given the choice, Anton would just as soon climb in that car and drive away leaving the scene behind to hopefully melt into all of the other terrible memories of the past several days. Still, something inside him would not allow him to leave that...thing...behind. He had to put it away like he had so many other pathetic shells of humanity.

Still watching in all directions, he jogged over to the Buick and grabbed a shovel from the trunk. Finding a spot just off the emergency lane, he dug a shallow hole. No need for the standard six. Once he was down a couple of feet, he returned for the hard part. The crow had taken a perch on top of the Taurus, growing ever bolder. It regarded Anton with its mouth still open, looking indignant as it watched him grab a corner of the blanket and drag the bundle to its grave.

With one booted foot, he nudged the still squirming thing into the hole. Taking a deep breath, he lined the blade of the shovel up with its forehead. Raising his arms, he paused just a moment, “God, if you’re still out there, accept this soul…” he brought the shovel down with all his might, “…and forgive me.”

The skull broke open like a cantaloupe. Not bothering to look more than what it took to ensure it had stopped moving, Anton filled the grave as tears trickled down his sweaty, grimy, sunburned face.

Feeling somewhat numb inside, he grabbed another bag from the front seat of the Buick and trudged back to his new car. He sure hoped it would start. Sliding into the stifling hot vehicle, Anton noticed that, other than the stench and blood, the interior was in excellent condition. He turned the key after a whispered prayer.

The engine turned over smoothly. His eyes glanced at the gas gauge. A full tank! He gave the accelerator a little tap. The engine was almost silent. This was a nice change. Well, sitting here admiring his good fortune was a good way to get killed. It was time to move. He eased over to his former ride and hurriedly transferred his meager supplies.

Anton took a final look around as he placed his one and only case of bottled water into the backseat. A couple of stragglers were indeed closing in. One was stumbling along the middle of the road, arms outstretched and mouth open. That one was a few hundred yards away. The other was trying unsuccessfully to navigate down the slope on the opposite side of the highway.

He closed the rear door and went to climb in. Half in and half out of the car, he froze. In the shimmering air at the top of the rise he had crested just prior to his wreck sat a pick-up truck. Two men stared back at him through the windshield. The passenger, an older black man, held a shotgun, thankfully pointed up. The driver, a twentyish white man, had a pistol.

Anton watched the scene unfold in slow motion. The younger, white occupant of the truck leaned out the window, aimed right at him…and fired.

The gunshot echoed across the open desert plains.

6

One Less Geek to Feed

“I still say that was the stupidest idea in the history of bad ideas,” Cary said as he knelt down beside the U-Haul and looked underneath for anything that might be stuck or wedged in any part of the undercarriage. It was like sticking your face near the opening of a rancid sewer.

“Oh, my God!” Kevin sighed over dramatically. “Are you ever going to let it go?”

Cary glanced over his shoulder to where Mike leaned against the El Camino sipping on a lukewarm soda. He smiled just enough to twitch the corners of his mouth. Darrin saw the look and began pretending to check the spare magazine for the Colt .45 he carried on a hip holster.

“The undead are growing at an exponential rate. And where does our survival specialist want to go?” Cary paused for dramatic effect. “Fucking Pittsburgh!”

“I simply suggested that this would be the ultimate way to pay respects to the man who saw the future.”

“Okay.” Cary held up his hand like he was signaling traffic to stop. “First, it was a horror movie.”

“Best one ever!” Mike chimed as he resumed scraping chunks of rotten flesh from the grill of the El Camino with a long-handled brush.

“A given,” Cary nodded, and returned his focus to Kevin. “You’re supposed to lead us to our mountain retreat in Montana.”

“South Dakota,” Kevin corrected.

“Whatever. And you lead us to a heavily populated city that is teeming with zombies. Why? So you can shoot one for Romero?”

“I didn’t realize the city would be that far gone. Besides, everything turned out fine!”

“Um,” Cary glanced around, “we got mobbed.”

“But we made it out alive. No harm. No foul.”

“Stupidest idea ever. Show of hands?” Mike and Darrin’s hands shot up to join Cary’s.

“Screw alla ya!” Kevin sulked over to his gore-splattered Escort Wagon, climbed in, slammed the door, and stuffed the earbuds to his iPod in to drown the howls of laughter.

“Company!” Darrin grabbed the .30-30 leaning against the open hatch of his Metro and brought the butt up to his shoulder. Cary already had the long-bladed machete in his hand and gave a nod.

“Moving to the right,” Cary announced as he began to try to close the distance. Through experience, they had discovered that a moving target drew the zombies away from a stationary one. He would approach and take the zombie down with the non-noise producing machete while Darrin supplied backup just in case.

“Covered,” Darrin announced, indicating he had the zombie’s forehead in the crosshairs of the rifle’s scope.

“Nothing else in sight,” Mike said, scanning the vicinity for any other stragglers. Having left the small town of Studa, Pennsylvania behind a few miles ago, they had seen no living and very little zombie activity, but where there was one...

Cary stopped advancing within a few yards. The zombie, a man in what might have been the mid-twenties—Cary imagined that it would become increasingly difficult to tell over time as the rot stole more and more of their appearance—came for him. Mouth open. Arms reaching.

Cary had a moment to make a few observations as he cocked his arm back and prepared to strike. Like so many they were seeing in these parts, this one was naked. Its clothing had probably been ripped off during the attack that turned it or torn away as it rambled about this very rural terrain. He had died from a bite on the left arm.

Poor bastard, Cary thought. This guy had probably taken a few days to turn. Sick. Most likely scared and alone. It helped him to justify the need to put these things down. It would be an end to its suffering.

The zombie staggered forward, lunging at its prey. With finality, the machete came down, crashing through skull.

“Rest,” Cary whispered as he pulled the heavy blade loose and wiped it in some nearby grass.

Twenty minutes later, the caravan was back on the road. Kevin had not come out of his car the entire time. His car dropped into the rear as soon as they reached the Pennsylvania-West Virginia State line. He hadn’t responded to any hails on the radio.

Heading south from Wellsburg, they followed the Ohio River. The plan was to try and make the dash through Wheeling and cross over into Ohio. From there, they would use I-70 as much as possible. Other than the Columbus area, they felt they could dodge large populations and still make the best time.

***

WHEELING 11mi. The sign flashed by. Mike glanced down at the speedometer. One hundred. Nice. As the landscape whizzed past, he reflected on the insanity of the last several days. Martial law had only lasted for about a week. Unfortunately, most of those responsible for enforcing it died in that first seven days. In fact, besides military personnel, the fastest growing numbers on the initial casualty list had been police, fire, and medical persons.

Most of the survivors were just everyday folks. They met a few singles and groups on the road. Some on a quest to find loved ones or family. Others were simply moving without a specific goal or direction. So far, no Savini-led motorcycle gangs or Road Warrior types. Mostly, they encountered shock and trauma. Kevin made it clear that they keep their plan a secret.

“Time to back it down, Mike,” Darrin’s voice interrupted the peacefully hypnotic drone of his El Camino eating up the highway.

“We should gas up before the city limits,” Cary’s voice added. “Clearview is just ahead.”

“Okay,” Mike acknowledged. “Everybody ready for a gas and go?”

“U-Haul’s under a quarter tank. That’s a big Roger,” Cary said.

“Second in line,” Mike called.

Silence.

“Kevin?”

“Yo, Kev, you up for this?” Darrin keyed his mike.

“C’mon, Kevin. Quit being such a lame.”

“Nice, Cary. That’ll make him want to talk to us,” Mike scolded, but only half-heartedly. Truth be told, Kevin was being a total lame.

Silence.

Oh well, Mike thought, if he follows, fine. If not, he could go off on his own and get himself killed. There was nothing to be done about it. They were all adults. Mostly. Nobody was the boss here. That was probably what Kevin was pissed about. He’d been giving orders and acting like he was their leader. Until Pittsburgh, nobody had said anything. But after that ordeal, it was as if, suddenly, nobody listened to a word the guy said. Then there was the ribbing. Cary was really good at it.

The turnoff for Clearview came and Mike veered. Well, they would know in a moment if Kevin was with them. Cary and the U-Haul appeared in the rearview as he came down the off- ramp. Next, Darrin and his Geo Metro. A few seconds later, Kevin’s Escort Wagon came down to join the others.

Mike scanned the area. It was no different than the thousands of other gas oases along the highways and interstates of the country. There were three locations to choose from: a Mobil that had some sort of diner attached; a Chevron with two islands of pumps and a three-bay garage; and a huge truck stop.

“Truck stop.”

“Truck stop,” Cary seconded.

“Truck stop,” Darrin chimed.

Silence.

Three votes truck stop. One silent, abstaining asshole. Mike veered left, heading directly across the four-way intersection. The caravan followed. With the precision of having done this before, all four vehicles pulled up to the side of the main building. Mike and Darrin jumped out of their vehicles with rifle in hand and a pistol on each hip. The T-handle of a sword stuck up over each man’s right shoulder.

Both moved fast in opposite directions, scanning the area while searching the ground. Mike suddenly froze and snapped his fingers. Cary swung the U-Haul around towards where Mike stood waiting. He came to a stop where Mike pointed and hopped out of the cab with the pump and hose set-up, along with bolt-cutters and a large wrench. He quickly went to work on the locked cover that led to a gas storage tank. In seconds, he was snaking the hose down and then running the second hose to the gas tank of his truck.

As Mike began working the manual pump, Cary jogged back to Darrin’s car. He noticed that their operation was already drawing attention. From literally every direction, they were coming. Singles. Doubles. Small groups. But they were coming. He guessed the numbers to be about thirty.

A glance over at Kevin only caused his blood pressure to raise another notch. He was simply sitting there, hands on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead at nothing in particular. A look over at Darrin snapped Cary back to task. Drawing the sword, Darrin was moving over to what looked to be a policeman or soldier. With one well-placed swing, the top third of the zombie’s crewcut-sporting head came off, landing a few feet away. Cary still couldn’t get over how the zombies just disconnected. It was instant.

He hustled over as Mike was pulling the hose from the U-Haul’s tank. Next would be Mike’s El Camino. A pair of gunshots sounded causing both Mike and Cary to spin around.

“What the fuck is Kevin doing?” Mike spat.

“Not a damn thing.” Cary shrugged.

“Yeah, well, get my car over here. We fill it and leave. If Kevin wants gas he can do it his own self,” Darrin said as Cary ran for the El Camino.

Darrin now held his pistol, a Navy-issue Colt .45 and sought another target. Cary drew his; any chance at a quiet fill-up was gone. Now it would be time to take out the closest targets. Coming out from between two semi-trailers were a pair of particularly horrifying zombies. One was a hugely obese woman. She was totally nude and there was no doubt that her death had been gruesome. Her entire abdominal cavity had been torn out. She was hunched over due to her obscenely large sagging breasts. The other, still wearing the remnants of a pair of blue coveralls, was a tall, gaunt, wisp of a man. Clumps of long, greasy, brown hair hung well past the shoulders. A large bite on his throat had long since blackened and dried to the jagged-edged hole that provided a near medical school view of the larynx and tendons that connected head to shoulders.

Cary’s first shot put a neat hole in the center of the wo-man’s forehead. He steadied his aim on the roof of the El Camino, lining up on the man next. The shot went wide, punching a hole in one of the many trailers lined up in the trucker parking lot. The thing continued towards him, oblivious of any possible danger, seeking to quench its desire to feed on a living being. The second shot at the coverall-clad fiend entered the head through the left eye-socket. It toppled back, a stream of dark jelly running down its cheek.

Three more rounded the nearby corner of the main building. Cary winced as a man missing his entire right arm led what looked to be his twin sons across the smooth blacktop of the now seemingly crowded truckstop.

“Needing some help here,” Cary called as he took aim at the one-armed father.

“Camino is almost full. Break for Darrin’s car,” Mike answered.

“We are running out of time at this spot.”

“Only going to be worse closer to the city,” Mike reminded

“And Kevin?” Cary asked.

Mike glanced over where Kevin sat in his car observing. He did not believe the guy would simply watch as they filled up cars while fighting off this oncoming horde. “Fuck him.”

“How does he think he’s gonna get gas?” Cary put both sons to rest within feet of the dad and climbed in Darrin’s tiny car. The gas tank was still half full! That meant they’d be on the road in just a few minutes. He drove over so that the vehicles now made an uneven U around Mike. Bumper-to-bumper as they had done since leaving Norfolk helped minimize any wandering creatures’ approach to whoever was pump-man.

Darrin was backing towards them, firing only at the closest threats. Their idea was never to try and take down everything in sight, just anything close enough to bite.

Cary stepped around to the front of his U-Haul, five were closing in from across the street, but none were any immediate threat. He glanced back at Mike. “We aren’t leaving the pump, right?”

“Not a chance, Kev’s got one in his car. He can pump with that,” Mike snapped. “The best I’ll do is leave the cap off. If he’s really lucky, we’ll wait for him at the on-ramp for a couple minutes.”

“How the hell is he supposed to pull off a fill-up here with all these things? And no way does he have enough gas for a long run.”

“He should have thought that through before pulling this little bitch-fit,” Darrin said as he backpedaled to his car and grabbed the hose waiting for the last couple of gallons so he could seal it, pull it, and toss it to Mike.

“I’m not sure I can just leave Kevin.” Cary turned where Mike was coiling the hoses to the siphon pump.

“He’s just sittin’ in the car not helping do shit!” Mike snapped. “We’re out here with our asses on the line. I ain’t risking my life to gas that sonovabitch while he pouts because his feelings are hurt.”

“We did agree to his idea,” Cary reminded.

“Because we’ve been trusting his so-called leadership. Well I’m not wanting a leader anymore. That little adventure damn near got us killed. This ain’t the movies, man,” Mike reminded them of Kevin’s own tired mantra. “You get bit and you’re screwed. We’ve all heard and seen it. Reports give no more than seventy hours tops before a bite turns you.”

“But to leave him behind?” Cary asked.

“His choice.”

“How is it—”

“Cary, watch out!” Darrin screamed as he turned from replacing his gas cap.

Stepping out from around the front bumper was what had once been a young girl no more than thirteen or fourteen. Her throat was torn out and her left arm was missing just below the elbow. Long, stringy blonde hair remained in clumps, but large patches had obviously been torn out leaving huge sections of raw scalp peeled back in spots to reveal exposed skull. A once white, but now obscenely torn and dirty, Christina Aguilera shirt had several bullet holes in it where somebody had taken shots at her. A pair of low-rider jeans were dangerously close to slipping off her emaciated frame.

Cary spun to face the creature as it moved towards him with mouth open wide. The one good arm reached out, opening and closing like a crab’s claw. The other arm twitched menacingly, waving its jagged stump. His first shot went wide, pinging off the fender of the U-Haul.

“Watch the tires!” Mike yelled.

The one hand grasped Cary’s free arm. He jerked back as blood-blackened teeth chomped on empty air with a loud click. He fired again. This round caught it in the face, shattering the left cheek and leaving a powder burned hole just below the eye. Oblivious of its new injury it lunged forward as Cary back-pedaled, free arm pin-wheeling to help him keep his balance. Its gnashing teeth caught hold of his thumb just above the knuckle.

Cary screamed in fear and pain as blood welled up around teeth that sought to grind through bone. He jerked back, strips of flesh peeling away from the digit. He fired twice more; both shots entered the forehead, blowing the back off its skull. It collapsed at Cary’s feet, a trickle of his blood still on its chin.

There was a flurry of activity as Mike and Darrin took out a handful of the ever approaching undead. This was not for the sake of protecting a perimeter. This was straight vengeance. In the onslaught, nobody was forced to deal with the reality that one of them had been bitten. In those few agonizing seconds while Cary tore at his shirt and wrapped his bleeding thumb, not a word needed to be said about the fact that he was basically a dead man.

The click of a magazine being released from a pistol seemed loud in the sudden silence that followed the shooting frenzy. Louder still was the new one slamming in and the slide being released to ready the weapon once more.

“Is he bitten?”

It was Kevin. At some point he had decided to come out of his car. He stood at the junction where the El Camino and the U-Haul were bumper to tailgate. He remained on the opposite side, away from Cary, as if afraid he’d already turned and might try to attack. His hands flexed nervously as he grasped and re-grasped the pistol-gripped shotgun he held across his chest.

“Get the fuck back in your car,” Mike said, his eyes unable to look away from the already blood-soaked rag on Cary’s thumb.

“We gotta get rollin’ outta here!” Darrin was turning a slow three-sixty, and things were starting to get really crowded looking; like a huge circle with them at the bullseye.

“Did Cary get bit?”

“I’m not going to tell you again to get in your car!” Mike tore his eyes away to meet Kevin’s.

“I’ve got a bottle of alcohol in my car. Cary come with me, we’ll grab it and get out of here.”

“You want to help now!” Mike was incredulous.

“Let’s take up this issue later.” Cary pushed away from the car. His thumb hurt like a bitch, but no more than he would expect for an injury like the one he had. What would turning feel like? He’d seen people in various stages of turning, and it looked real unpleasant.

“Let’s grab that alcohol,” Kevin motioned for Cary to follow him. “You guys hit the road. We’ll be right behind ya.”

Darrin and Mike cast uncertain looks, but the quickly deteriorating scene made up their minds. Mike tossed the gas pump into the El Camino and got in. He cast one more curious glance at Kevin and Cary who was already running to catch up. Darrin’s car sped past honking twice. Not sure what else to do, he followed the weaving Geo Metro towards the on-ramp.

***

“That was a really stupid move.” Cary reached Kevin’s still-idling car.

“Which one?”

Cary had to think. At this point they were indeed starting to add up. He decided to pick one. “Sitting there in your car.”

“Yeah, I know. And believe it or not, I’m more sorry than I’ll ever be able to say,” Kevin paused, his shotgun boomed and the head of an approaching zombie exploded in a greyish-black mist. With one hand, he opened the driver’s side door. “It’s in the glove box. I’ll keep us covered, but hurry we have a lot of company.”

Cary leaned forward to crawl across the driver’s seat. He never saw the blow coming as Kevin smashed the hard grip of the shotgun into the back of his head.

Kevin quickly shoved the unconscious body into the passenger seat. Tears began to blur his vision, while over and over he repeated, “I’m so sorry.” He peeled out, zooming up beside the U-Haul. Taking time to grab the weapons and ammo from the back seat, he quickly threw everything into the cab of the big truck.

His last act was one he considered merciful. He placed a .357 in the front seat of the Escort. Turning off the car and snapping the key in the ignition, he looked to ensure all the doors were locked, and then closed the driver’s door. He tugged the handle once. Satisfied the car was secure as it could be, he walked to the front and fired at the grill protecting the radiator. Water gushed in a torrent, and steam wafted from the gaping hole.

Climbing into the U-Haul, Kevin pulled out from the parking lot. He watched in the side-view mirrors as the growing horde of undead circled the disabled vehicle. He ignored the urgent voices on the radio calling for him and Cary to answer.

“I’m so sorry, Cary,” was all he could say as he accelerated up the on-ramp to the highway that would lead to Wheeling and the turn west toward South Dakota.

***

Mike pulled up beside Darrin and motioned for him to come to a stop. A couple of stragglers in the distance were heading their way, but nothing too worrisome.

“Something don’t sit right,” Mike spoke over the sound of the idling vehicles.

“You mean about Kevin?”

“What else. And we just left Cary back there with a guy who had to know we weren’t about to sit around and wait for him to gas up.”

“You think he’s gonna do something?” Darrin asked.

“Worse than letting Cary get bit by one of those things?”

Both men looked back at the sound of an approaching engine. The familiar shape of the U-Haul rumbled out onto the highway from the on-ramp. They waited for the Escort to pop into view.

Darrin grabbed the hand-mic. “Cary? Kevin? You guys hear me okay?”

“Cary, where’s Kevin?” Mike had pulled his own handset from the clip, anxious for an update.

No reply came from the truck barreling towards them. Mike and Darrin tried again, concerned and just a bit confused by the normally talkative Cary’s silence. As the truck neared and began to slow, the reason became clear.

“Kevin!” Mike keyed his radio as he opened the door to his El Camino and stepped out onto the road, stretching the cord as he made room enough to draw his .45 from its holster. “What have you done?”

“Where the hell is Cary?” Darrin screamed, not bothering with his radio. He swung the rifle up to his shoulder while moving to the center of the two south-bound lanes.

The truck stopped about ten yards away. Kevin climbed out, his hands above his head. “You both know what was going to happen to him within a couple of days.”

“You killed him!” Darrin clicked the safety off, taking a couple of menacing steps forward. “You sonovabitch!”

“I did what neither of you would. I handled the situation,” Kevin said calmly.

“A situation that you caused.” Mike had walked up beside Darrin for support.

“Blame me if you want to, but that won’t change anything. I screwed up. Yes. But that situation more than anything shows that we need each other to stay alive. You shoot me if you think that will matter. But at some point you’ll regret it.”

Darrin’s finger tightened on the trigger as he glared at Kevin. “Mike and I can do just fine without you.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think you are ready to put a bullet in a living, breathing person.”

“You did,” Darrin snapped.

“He was infected. The bite would have done him in. You know it, Mike knows it. Yet, neither of you had the guts to deal with it back there. Just how long would you have waited? Till he crashed the truck with most of our supplies?”

“Was it quick?” Mike asked. He gently lowered the barrel of Darrin’s rifle.

“He never saw it coming.”

“If you come with us, this is a democracy from here on out,” Mike announced. “All decisions are voted on and majority rules.”

“If you and Darrin will have me, then that sounds fair.”

“Darrin?” Mike faced the man who stood visibly shaking at his side. There was a moment of almost total silence that seemed to cause the tension to escalate. Finally, Darrin lowered the rifle the rest of the way.

“You’re the one who has to live with Cary’s death on your conscience,” Darrin snapped.

“I know.”

“And the next time you bail on us,” Darrin walked back to his car no longer able to look at Kevin, “I’ll...” He ducked inside his car and tossed the rifle in the back seat. After a deep breath, he turned back, glanced at Mike, and then locked eyes with Kevin. “I’ll make sure you end up just like Cary.”

The three climbed into their vehicles. It was going to be a long day of driving. Once they were across the Ohio River and heading west on I-70, things would likely be a bit easier.

They hoped.

***

The continuous but irregular sound of pounding forced its way through the oblivion of unconsciousness. Two sensations made themselves immediately apparent: the first was a dull, thudding pain that hammered at his skull, the second was the sweltering heat.

With a tremendous amount of effort, Cary opened his eyes. Everything started out blurry, but slowly came into focus. With no effort at all he closed his eyes again. The horrifying sight slid behind blackness, but the pounding...and the smell...remained.

It was a struggle, but eventually he forced himself to open his eyes again. Ghoulish faces surrounded him on all sides, pressed against the glass, leaving filthy, greasy smears. One face was right next to his, separated only by the passenger’s side window.

He took in his situation, trying to piece together what had happened. He glanced at his thumb, the gun on the driver’s seat, and the location the car was parked in.

For a while he sat there...angry. Angry at Kevin. Angry at himself. But slowly, he came to a few realizations. He had been bitten by one of the zombies and that meant he only had a couple days before he would turn. He didn’t need to look at the gun to know it held only one bullet. Also, Kevin had parked him in the shade of the building.

One by one, they added up to the fact that Kevin knew what nobody wanted to say: he was a goner. And while Kevin hadn’t been able to shoot him in the head, Kevin had done what needed to be done. In a perfect world, they would have gassed up and been on the road. In the movies, there would have been a few near misses and teasingly scary moments, but the zombies would have been denied. Or...

“I’m the fucking tragic hero.”

At first, he just gave a half-hearted chuckle. Pretty soon, he was laughing hysterically. His mind kept going to the simple idea that his “tragic death” would be the catalyst for Kevin’s “redemption.” It was just too funny. This whole time they had made a point of reminding each other that this was “not like the movies.” Yet, it was. Hell, Kevin would probably have a dream or vision of the moment that he put the pistol in his mouth in that moment of clarity just before the Turn culminated in his zombie metamorphosis. Cary laughed until tears ran down his cheeks

The sun vanished and darkness poured over the landscape like an oil spill. Cary dozed off with the pistol in his hand.

***

One by one, the creatures wandered away from the crippled vehicle. Some were drawn by the sound of other vehicles passing in the distance. Some by a sudden burst of gunfire from a hotel about a half a mile away. More still when bloodcurdling screams sounded from the same direction.

The sun rose the next morning. Only a female cat and her kittens venturing out to feast on the stinking corpses that lay rotting on the ground witnessed a man emerging from a car that was just catching the light of the rising sun. The mother cat hissed at the intruder and moved between her litter and this pos-sible predator. The man paid no notice as he moved, slowly at first, away from the car and into the middle of the four-way intersection. He turned deliberately in a full circle, and then ran...away from the freeway and towards a group of houses at the top of a gently inclining slope.

7

Still Running

I woke to Thalia’s scream.

Barry and Randi turned from where they sat on boxes keeping watch. They nodded to me as I pulled the struggling, still half-asleep girl into my lap. Stroking her hair and whispering soothing words was all I had, but it was enough. A few minutes later, her breathing returned to the slow, rhythmic cadence of sleep.

It had been a rough week. For me. Her. All of us. I looked around the room, a looted and gutted Mom-and-Pop mini-mart, and counted heads: eleven. That included Thalia, Teresa, and me. Then there were the others…

Barry and Randi Jenkins; a nice couple we met at that disaster of a rescue center at Franklin High School. Barry was just over six-feet tall with a near-perfectly round head that he still managed to keep shaved. His skin was the color of a Hershey bar, and his smile was so dazzling and genuine that you found yourself smiling almost reflexively. Randi was lighter skinned, damn near as tall as Barry, with black hair that had probably never been to her shoulders. Both were thin as willow branches and never more than a few yards from each other. Their daughter had died in their own backyard, Randi saw it all. She’d watched as her seven-year-old daughter was torn apart by a pack of neighborhood kids. Randi never smiled.

Sleeping in what could best be considered a circle of protection around Teresa were the high school football players, Joseph Wiser, Billy Haynes, Jamie Blossington, and Aaron Doss. They’d been more helpful than I would have initially imagined when we were forced to make a run from the aide station. Teresa seemed to preside over them like a queen over a court.

Doctor David Ellis; unfortunately his degree was math. In his early fifties, he was everything I imagined when I pictured some Sixties hippie all grown up. He’d had very little to say since we left the sounds of screams and gunfire behind. Had it not been for Jamie and Aaron physically carrying him, he would have likely been a casualty when the high school fell to the zombies.

Melissa Blake; that’s all we know. She was in a hall of the high school the night it was overrun, screaming hysterically. About five-foot-three and a hundred pounds soaking wet—which she actually was when they found her—I guessed her to be about twenty. The girl had been so covered in blood that I’d been certain she’d been bitten. Teresa hadn’t let me leave her.

“We can’t just leave her to die!” Teresa snapped.

“If she turns—” I’d argued, but had been cut off.

“We’ll know beforehand. I’ll check her out once we have time.”

We had no time to argue as zombies came stumbling around a not-far-enough-away corner. I grabbed her hand and she’d damn near broken bones squeezing so hard. Luckily, she followed when I took off.

We were a small tribe now. But, unlike the stories, we were not all a close-knit bunch that trusted the others with our lives. Instead, we’re several small groups or singles all smashed together. Of course we’d only been out on our own from the doomed FEMA center for just over a week. Maybe the shock will ease and we’ll gel as a group. With Randi and Melissa, I’m not thinking that is anytime soon. We’ve literally had to lead them by the hand as we stayed on the run from the hordes.

Last night we had to abandon a farmhouse outside of Hood River, Oregon. Our group had argued and eventually decided to head east. The argument against the coast was that, once there, we ran out of directions to run. Funny thing about the undead, once one finds you, it’s not long before a group is outside pounding on the door. Since they don’t need sleep, they seem to just wander. And while the biggest concentrations appear to be in the cities and towns, they do seem to actually be fanning out in all directions.

Also, we certainly did not have the monopoly on the idea of leaving town. So, as people die in these remote locations...another zombie is added to the mix. Now that the initial surge is over, we’re in this Nuclear Winter phase. Order is gone on any sort of governmental level, and it seems the world is made up of rogue bands.

Some good…some not.

Once Thalia went back to sleep, I got up and wandered over to where Barry and Randi sat. Both had scoped hunting rifles leaned against a wall and a set of semi-automatic nine millimeter pistols on their hips if it got tight.

“Any movement?” I whispered. Funny how loud everything seems in a dead world.

“No.” Barry glanced in Thalia’s direction. “Her screams didn’t seem to attract anything close…hopefully nothing far either.”

There seemed to be a consensus growing that her “nightly outbursts” were what brought heat on us every time. I never really thought of myself as a compassionate sort of guy, but what the hell is wrong with these people? It must’ve shown on my face.

“Hey,” Barry whispered, “the little girl has been through a helluva lot. We all have. It’s just that there is a concern that she might—”

“And just where would you be if we hadn’t let you and all the others in our truck?” I challenged. “Did you have a vehicle hidden close, because you sure as hell weren’t making any try for it?”

Barry held up his hands, motioning for me to keep my voice down. Screw that and screw all these folks! “She’s five-freakin’-years old! And her name is Thalia, not little girl!”

“I’m just—”

“You’re just nothing. That little girl is with me. You have a problem with her, then you have one with me.”

“And me.”

I hadn’t noticed Teresa come up behind me. Billy and Aaron stood at her sides like stone sentinels. Their sudden appearance had amped the scene from a disagreement to a confrontation. I wasn’t prepared for this to escalate. Fate took that moment to intervene. The sound of heavy thuds on the wall to my left ended the discussion. A body stepped out of the darkness and pressed against the window at Randi’s back.

I yanked her towards me just as the body hurled itself, breaking through the glass. She and I fell backwards with her landing on me at the perfect angle to knock the wind out of me. If you’ve never experienced that sensation, it’s hideous. You feel as if you’ll never regain the ability to breathe, and it scares you. The harder you gasp, the more elusive breathing seems to become. And it doesn’t return suddenly. Instead, it is the gradualness that leads you to wonder if you will ever again draw a full breath. Oh yeah, one more little side effect...moving is practically impossible.

Randi rolled off, scuttling away from the zombie thrashing near our feet. I was helpless! A hand clutched my ankle as another grabbed my arms. A tug-of-war would be useless as the thing simply needed to get a nip on my leg that it was probably bringing closer to its mouth by the second.

An explosion near my head now added deafness to my growing list of disabilities. My mind registered the familiar smell of a fired weapon, and a burning sensation on my throat came as the grip on my ankle vanished. I felt myself being dragged through glass, but I had no ability to help or protest. And what the hell was burning my throat?

Whoever had been dragging me now dropped me uncer-emoniously to the floor and jumped over my still-prone body. I was able to draw my legs up enough to avoid being stomped on as my rescuer, Billy by the shape of his shadow, stormed towards what was likely more of the undead trying to enter through the broken window.

The ringing in my ears began to subside, only to be replaced by the sounds of chaos. My hands found my throat, and I clawed at it, effectively swatting away the bullet casing that had surely left an angry, blistered burn on the hollow just below my Adam’s apple. Still, I could barely move, and all I could manage audibly was a weak croak that was drowned by the screams and gunfire.

Somebody was pulling me to my feet, forcing me to move. It was Randi, and she had help from Barry. The two were hustling me through the store towards the back door. Aaron appeared at the end of the aisle with Thalia in his arms. He raised his free arm directly at us, and for a moment, I thought he would shoot either Randi or Barry.

“Duck!” he bellowed. We dropped—which did nothing to help me get my air back—and he fired.

I managed to glance back over my shoulder as I was manhandled up to my feet once more. Damn! Like stench-ridden, flesh-eating, slow-moving moths to our living flames, the undead were piling through the ever widening hole in the front window of our bastion.

My body was slowly returning itself to my control, and now I could stumble more than be dragged along. I followed somebody—I think it was Dave Ellis—through the metal door and into the gravel lot behind the little store. The truck was already idling, and I recognized Joseph Wiser behind the wheel motioning for everybody to hurry. Everybody piled in or on the truck and, in a cloud of dust, we were on the road once more.

***

The sun flashed bright in my eyes as the truck crested a small rise on the interstate. Somebody was tapping my shoulder through the window. It was Barry. He was perched on the hood of the cab as a lookout with Dave. Randi, Teresa, and Thalia were in the cab with me, sleeping relatively sound.

“Looks like a farmhouse on the left,” he said.

I glanced over. From my vantage I could barely make out what might be a roof across a field of who knows what. One advantage of the new world we lived in; roads are optional. I veered slowly off the road and into the ditch. It was all gradual enough that I wouldn’t have to worry about tipping or getting stuck. It was a little rocky, but we came up to a flat field. Barry jumped down and cut the fence in a matter of seconds.

“Comin’ up on a house,” I announced. “Everybody awake.”

I noticed that, of everybody, Teresa was developing what I could only call “soldier’s instincts.” She woke and was ready for action before her eyes managed to adjust for light. She instantly checked her weapons; a pair of Colt .45 semi-automatics, nine rounds in the clip, one in the chamber and four spare magazines in a pouch on a webbed belt she had picked up, .30-30 with a laser sight—the rifle reminded her of the one her dad taught her to deer hunt with, minus the laser sight of course—and this three-foot blade that she kept sharp enough to shave with.

“Where are we?” she asked. It wasn’t that she cared, it’s just an old habit. You know how it was when you would wake up on a road trip.

“Just passed some place called Heppner Junction,” I said.

“Traffic?”

“Nothing. Haven’t even seen a straggler since The Dalles. Wherever the dead are, they aren’t near the roads out here. No lights anyplace, which means if anybody is alive, they are staying low and don’t care if help comes.”

“We’re out far enough,” Teresa said with a nod. “Most of these folks are farmers. They like outdoors. Likely the best equipped to take care of themselves.”

A gunshot rang out and I heard our lookouts scrambling off the roof.

“And most likely to have guns,” I chuckled. I slammed on the brakes, which caused a jolt, but as slow as we were going it didn’t ruffle anybody too much.

A flash that had to be a gun barrel catching sunlight came from a window on the second floor of the colonial-style farmhouse. Teresa had already grabbed the binoculars from the glove box and was scanning. Like I said, at sixteen she was morphing into a damned Army Ranger. “Two. One in the upstairs window far left. One set up on the roof behind the chimney. Scoped rifles, so I’m guessing that was a warning.”

“I’m getting out,” I announced. “Randi, get behind the wheel. If they shoot me, leave. If I signal to come with both hands, it’s a trap. One means everything is okay.”

I knew there would be arguments, so I simply jumped out of the truck, slammed the door, raised my hands above my head, and started walking. It was a good couple hundred yards, which gave whoever was in that house plenty of time to prepare.

I got to the edge of the field and stood at the outskirts of what was once probably a beautiful yard. The grass, long enough to cover my shoes, was lush and green. A swing sat under a tree that was starting to bloom. A big shed was off to my right, and I glimpsed the corner of a swimming pool around the back of the house. A still well-manicured gravel drive led up to a garage larger than most houses I’ve been in.

Steps led up to the covered porch. It looked like it had been screened, but the screens had been cut or torn out. A man stepped out onto that porch. He was a fairly large black man with a shaved head. He held what I had to guess was some sort of military rifle. I’m only guessing.

“Step on closer so I can see you better.”

I didn’t argue. Keeping my hands up, I took a few steps and did a slow turn. I tried to get a look at everything around me, but really saw nothing useable for cover if this went bad.

“Besides the gun on your hip,” he gestured, “you carryin’ anything else?”

“Nope.”

“How many you got in that rig over there?”

“Ten. One’s just a little girl. Only five years old.”

“Name’s Dillon Clay. Up in the window’s my partner, Ian Lotherman. The young man on the roof with the quick trigger is Anton Maxwell.”

“Sorry!” a voice spoke from above. “I didn’t know what to do and I guess I kinda freaked.”

“You the owner of this place?” I asked.

“Ain’t nobody ownin’ much of anything the way I figure.” Dillon swung the rifle up over his shoulder. If he really wanted to put me at ease, he’d put the thing down.

“So you’re on the road, too?” I eased my hands down slow with the obvious attempt to keep away from my gun.

“Been here for a couple days now. The folks I figure lived here had already...turned.”

The big man fell quiet. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable with talking about the fact that the dead were walking.

“How much activity you seen?” I asked.

“Since we met Anton about four days back, there hasn’t been anything.”

“Living or dead.” A head was peering out of the window above. That would be Ian Lotherman. “We tried to check out Pendleton and Hermiston a few miles east, but it was pretty nasty. We decided that our best bet was to get away from any concentration of people.”

“Sounds like a good plan.” I glanced back to my truck still sitting in the field. “Look, can I give my people the ‘all clear,’ or would you rather we moved on?”

“I think it’d be nice to have more bodies to keep an eye out. ‘Specially since somebody went and fired his gun.” That last remark was spoken loud enough to be heard on the roof. Dillon looked at me, smiled, and winked as stumbling apologies and protests came in a flood from above.

I liked this guy. The world was literally in total chaos and confusion and this Dillon still had a sense of humor. I turned, realizing only after it was too late, to give the signal to my little band. I was instantly aware that my back was now completely exposed to men I did not know. Men with guns. Slowly, I raised one hand and waved it. After a deep breath, and a pause to make sure my face was as impassive as I could manage, I turned back.

“Hope one of y’all knows how to cook.” Dillon had leaned the rifle against the column and was sitting on the top step. “There is a grip of food inside, but not a one of us can do much past burn water.”

The truck made its way across the field. Randi pulled around the house, effectively shielding the vehicle from being seen from the highway.

***

The former residents of this place obviously had large meals. A long table that sat everybody comfortably held the remains of one of the best meals I’ve had, even before all of this happened. Having never eaten chicken that didn’t come from a grocery store or, more likely, a drive-through window, the meal was a real treat. There were all sorts of fresh fruit and vegetables in the big walk-in pantry, along with tons of home-canned produce.

Joe, Billy, Aaron, and Jamie helped Barry build a fire pit. There was some concern that the smell of smoke, or more likely, meat cooked over open flame, would draw some unwanted attention. Dave, Ian, and Anton stood watch diligently on the roof all day as Randi and Teresa prepared the meal with Thalia underfoot the entire time. It was almost...normal.

Everybody ate their fill and, by meal’s end, a bit of laughter was heard. Names were exchanged and turns were taken up top as the meal stretched on. I took my turn with Dillon.

“So, where do you guys come from?” I peered through the binoculars, turning slowly, seeing nothing.

“Me and Ian are from Idaho. We picked up Anton heading west. His car had conked out and he was busy trying to get into another.”

I explained how I’d come to care for Thalia, met Teresa, and about the fall of the FEMA center. I told them how we had been headed towards the coast but decided against it. I rambled for ten or twenty minutes. Dillon just sat quietly, watching the horizon, paying most of his attention to the interstate. Yeah, I liked this guy.

The rest of the night was more of the same. The night sky was clear, and the moon was bright. With the area around this house so flat, it was easy to keep a decent watch. Nothing would likely sneak up on us. With so many of us, nobody had to stand more than a two hour watch.

Morning came and the sun rose on what would be another warm day. Everybody drifted in and out, finding something to eat and cleaning up after themselves. A discussion finally arose about the idea of sending out a party to forage for supplies. There was strong disagreement by Dave, Teresa, and the boys about making this house the base.

They had a good point. The house had numerous windows and, while a few zombies would be no problem, a horde could pose a serious threat. That led to questions of where we should look to go. We came up with everything, including heading to the Columbia River and searching for a boat, but David heard that these things had no qualms about just walking into the water. Then Barry came up with what many of us considered to be a great idea. Apparently there were two major prisons not farther than forty or so miles apart.

“Not a good idea,” Ian offered.

I noticed Dillon cast a sideways glance, but I couldn’t read what passed between the two. Whatever it was, Ian kept talking after just a slight pause.

“You gotta figure a place like that turned into a war zone when this shit went down. If the cops won, who knows what sort of power trip is takin’ place. If the convicts won...”

“We wouldn’t be any better off than we are out here on the run,” Anton spoke up.

“Motorcycle.”

It was Melissa! She stood in the middle of the kitchen while we sat in the living room. She’d pretty much just wandered around since our arrival. Nobody really paid her any mind.

“Holy crap!” I sprang up from the couch and went to her. She faced me, her features still expressionless except for her eyes. That dull, glazed look was melting away. I could almost see life.

“Motorcycle,” she repeated.

“Hush, everybody.” I motioned with my hands and then gently grasped Melissa at the elbows. “What about a motorcycle?”

She blinked.

All of a sudden, Aaron and Jamie were bounding down the stairs, each one brandishing aluminum baseball bats. “Two coming from out back!” Aaron called as he darted past.

I looked out the now open back door as the boys, with practiced ease, moved in on the leather-clad zombie. This one proved to be much more of a challenge. It was still wearing a helmet.

A motorcycle rider!

After taking the thing off its feet, the boys managed to smash the face of the near helpless zombie until it stopped moving. They headed around the pool to apparently take out the other zombie. They had mentioned two after all.

Teresa was beside me now, and took Melissa’s hand in her own. Even Thalia was interested, and walked over to see if Melissa would indeed start talking.

“Alan?” She looked at me, then Teresa, and then down at Thalia.

“My name is Steve.”

“Where’s Alan?”

“I don’t know who Alan is,” I said slowly.

“He said he would be with me as soon as he parked the bike,” Melissa whispered, still not looking at me.

“Do you remember what happened next?” I asked.

“So many...” her voice trailed off, and her eyes were seeing something that happened days ago. “They won’t let go of him! They’re biting him! Alan, take my hand! Pull yourself up!” Melissa fell to her knees sobbing. “I pulled loose and ran. I left him. Screaming. Begging.”

I wrapped my arms around her and felt her practically sink into me. Her anguished cries shook her entire body. I absolutely don’t know what to do. I’ve never been to a funeral. Hell, until just a couple of weeks ago, I’d never seen a real dead person. So, I stood there. Holding this stranger. Stroking her hair. The only thing I wouldn’t do is lie to her. I would not tell her that everything would be all right.

“We got trouble!” Aaron came running through the open back door. “That little valley ‘bout a half-mile away? Seems a bunch of the damn things have been following it. Couldn’t see ‘em from the roof, but it’s like an anthill that has just been kicked.”

“How long?” Teresa beat me to the million dollar question.

“Ten minutes tops.”

“Shit,” Barry, Ian, and Dillon said simultaneously.

“Load up what you can. Let’s move!” I called. Everybody sprang into action. Everybody except me and Melissa.

“Hey.” I nudged her with my hip.

She pulled back, brushing herself off. With a deep breath, she wiped her face and took Thalia by the hand, “I can help.” I guess I didn’t conceal my dubious look in time. “Really, I’ll be okay. Steve was it? I’ll be okay now. Honest.”

I didn’t really want to entrust her with Thalia, but it wasn’t a time to talk things over. I turned and ran upstairs. I’d seen a closet full of sheets, towels, blankets, and comforters. It was summer now, but it would be cold someday.

I passed a window that, in normal times, probably provided a great view of the gently rolling desert plains. Just now, that view was being marred by an enormous horde of undead. Every age, sex, and size was indeed boiling up out of a gulley of some sort. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.

***

Just over five minutes later, we were a two truck, one car caravan. This time we followed the long driveway. It led to a dirt access road running parallel to the interstate. Eventually it met with a normal two-lane road which took us to an on-ramp. I pulled up to the center of the overpass and parked.

Everybody climbed out of the vehicles. West was back the way we had come the past several days. East was...

“The mountains.” Dillon leaned against the rail of the overpass.

“Huh?” I wasn’t sure where he was going with this.

“We could try for the mountains.”

“We need more supplies.”

“So we hit whatever between here and there.”

“I still think we should give those prisons a look,” I said. “I mean securitywise, we couldn’t do much better.”

“You go if you want, but Ian and I aren’t steppin’ foot inside. Those are nasty places, and whatever managed to survive inside, cop or convict, is nothin’ you want to tangle with,” Dillon was speaking quietly. Everybody was frozen. Listening. There was something in his tone.

“Fine,” I shrugged. “But if we’re heading to the hills, we still need a grip of supplies.”

“I remember seeing a Walmart sign around Pendleton, I think,” Anton spoke up.

“Probably been sacked by now,” Dave sighed.

“Still warrants a look,” Teresa said. “Now, let’s get movin’. We have to go back through those things.”

We all looked towards the direction she pointed. Sure enough, they were staggering out onto the freeway. Christ, there were literally hundreds of them! Where have they all come from?

The drive east was a bit hairy the first couple of miles. For the most part, we were able to weave around the things. They stayed spread out. On occasion, somebody had to take a shot. I didn’t like it. Sound carrying like it does now in the silence of a dead world, we were probably drawing attention to ourselves. Living or dead, I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet anybody.

***

We came over a big hill that actually gave us a decent view of the town of Pendleton, Oregon. From our vantage, we could see very little movement. Anton pointed out the prison, a sprawling complex of what looked like a bunch of four-story buildings. I did see large, open compounds, but no movement. I scanned with my binoculars and found a couple of groups against the outside fences. Inside, nothing was stirring.

Hmmm.

We got moving again. There was an exit marked, ‘Downtown’. That would do it. We rolled off the interstate and took a left. There was a sign pointing the way! We passed a lone straggler stumbling along the otherwise deserted sidewalk.

The big, open, mostly empty parking lot was actually a good sign. If there were folks inside, most likely we would see a flock of the undead crowded around the front doors. Our little caravan sliced across the parking lot.

I came to a stop crossways in front of the multi-doored entrance. Anton pulled up nose-to-nose in front of the truck, and Dillon came in alongside. Teresa and the boys were already jogging out across the lot with spiked clubs and machetes to dispatch the few zombies that were drawn by our sudden presence.

Barry was tugging futilely at the doors, “All locked.”

“Did you expect them to be open?” Dave laughed. “Can you imagine the greeter?” He aped a zombie’s slow shamble with outstretched arms, “Welcome to Waaaalllmaaart.”

Even Melissa managed a weak chuckle. Dillon stepped up with a little toolbox and went to work on a lock. “Never had the luxury to enter a locked building without being in a big hurry,” Dillon said.

I don’t know how he did it so fast, but all of a sudden, the door was open. Within moments, the door that took us from the entry-foyer to the actual store was being held open and we were all ushered inside.

“We’ll keep an eye on the parking lot.” Teresa motioned to the four boys who voiced no objection to being tasked with guard duty by a sixteen-year-old girl.

“Thalia and I will stay here by the checkout registers,” Randi said, “until we know the store is clear.”

I nodded. “Pair up then. I’ll go with Barry.”

Ian and Dillon paired up with Dave and Anton.

We fanned out, each of us pushing a big, blue shopping cart. Away from the main entry it got dark in a hurry. Ghostly swathes of light from individual flashlights danced around. Strangely enough, it looked as if this place hadn’t been touched. Everything was neat and orderly. There was a hint of spoiled food in the air, likely from the garbage cans around the store. No telltale smell of the undead, though.

I came to a stop at a big counter. I scanned the selection. Electronics. I scooped several two-way radios, power supplies, and chargers into my cart. Now, at least we could stay in communication. If our group was going to continue to grow, we needed to stay in touch. I also grabbed all the batteries I could find from a display rack; every size and shape. Never know what we may need, and I didn’t see us making too many shopping trips.

Next, I went looking for a portable generator, not that electricity was going to do us a whole lot of good. Still, there are some things that might be made easier. I stopped in the aisle suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” Barry whispered. “See something?”

The whole world is done. Over.

“No.” I tried to shake off the feeling that things were wrong.

I pushed my cart, grabbing items as I thought of them. I could hear Barry filling his cart as well.

It was only about fifteen minutes into our spree when I heard Teresa’s call. “We got company coming! Lots.”

Everybody came on the run, pushing carts filled to various degrees with all sorts of stuff. A huge stuffed bear sat atop Ian’s cart.

Sure enough, in singles and groups, they were coming. From our view, we could see most of the parking lot, and it was already dotted with zombies. No doubt our vehicles had been more than enough noise to draw attention.

“I’ve got an idea.” I turned to face everybody. “They obviously heard the trucks. So if I were to take one and—”

“I’m going with you,” Dillon spoke up.

“And just what do we do while you two leave with one-third of our transportation?” Dave asked, the worry in his voice apparent.

“Wait for the lot to thin, and then head for the road. We’ll meet you on the interstate. Just go a few miles outside of town until it looks clear,” I said.

“And what about the supplies? That was our entire point for coming here,” Dave said angrily.

“Dillon and I can circle back. While we’re out, maybe we can find a van or something.”

“Only two of you?” Teresa was getting agitated.

“I’ll stay,” Ian spoke up.

“And me,” Barry added.

Before everybody in the group decided to volunteer, I spoke, “The rest of you get moving.”

Dillon, Barry, Ian, and I helped everybody through the doors and into the waiting car of Anton’s and my trusty power company rig. Randi and Anton would be driving. Teresa and the boys climbed into the back of the power truck.

I grabbed her arm after she was up and in. “Take a couple out with a gun once you get close to the top of the ramp. See if you can draw some that way.”

She nodded, and at the last instant, gave me a quick hug. “Be careful.”

I turned to join Dillon and the others. We took off in a screech of tires, leaving behind what I had considered to be my group. I wasn’t really sure if I would see them again.

“Which way?” Dillon asked as we reached the road that ran along the expansive parking lot.

“Away from the freeway. Take us into town so I can look for a vehicle. Preferably a van,” I said.

We cruised by what looked like a stadium and veered into what passed for downtown. I’ve heard of towns that kept some semblance of the Old West. This place seemed to take that to the extreme. With very little urging, Pendleton was now a ghost town in every sense.

In the distance, I heard gunshots. Good, Teresa was doing exactly what I’d asked. I glanced back and noticed that a few zombies were rounding the corner in pursuit. So far, everything was going as planned.

8

Vignettes III

FIVE MILES OFF THE VIRGINIA COAST—“…USS Arliegh Burke to anybody...can anybody hear this transmission?”

Static.

“This is the United States naval vessel, USS Arliegh Burke to anybody...can anybody hear this transmission?”

Static.

***

Commander Joe Bryant, technically the Commanding Officer of the Naval Hospital, went down the stairwell. He could hear them in the darkness below. The doors had finally given; the barricaded windows succumbed to the force exerted by bodies that pressed against, and evntually tumbled through, oblivious to the cuts and gashes that would incapacitate a normal human being.

“They’re pouring in!” Madeline Bosley called from the emergency door that led to the roof and opened up to the helicopter landing pad.

“I know,” Joe whispered to himself. “How long until Rick is ready to try and fly that damned helo?”

That they even had a chance of escape was a miracle. Nobody had heard from the copter since the second day after the outbreak began. It had responded, just like almost every other source of civil-aid or defense, to an emergency call. Four days ago the aircraft, flying erratically, came to rest on the rooftop landing pad.

The pilot was laying next to the open door of the helicopter when Commander Bryant, Corpsman Rick Reynolds, and a handful of others got to him. In the moments taken to debate if they should check on him, the pilot hauled himself up to a sitting position. All they could do was draw him away from the helo, and then mercifully put him down.

None of the medical team had made the return trip. Things had been so hectic that, when the flight rescue hadn’t returned or responded to calls, they were written off as just part of the growing list of casualties. Now they had a way to escape the hospital. Problem was, nobody knew anything about flying a helicopter.

The debate had been heated. The eventual conclusion was that, as more and more of those things gathered outside, it was becoming unlikely that survival was probable. The next day was the deciding factor.

On all sides, the undead were packed in. At its thinnest, the mob was a hundred yards deep. The helicopter had brought them in its wake by the thousands. Windows began shattering from the constant force. Commander Bryant summoned everybody to one of the cafeterias.

“I’ll not order anyone to try and leave. Those that feel that they’d rather trust in the barricades we’ve managed to create on the bottom two floors are welcome to stay.

“There is a large National Guard depot just northwest of here,” Commander Bryant went on to explain. “The idea is to do a fly over to check for survivors and, if it is not secure, we will double back and attempt Fisher’s Island.”

“Who will be flying?” a young woman asked. “I didn’t think we had any pilots.”

“Corpsman Reynolds has spent the evening familiarizing himself with the controls. He has managed to start the helo and perform liftoffs of a few feet. He feels that, while not gracefully, he will be able to get airborne.”

“That ain’t like takin’ mom’s car out to an open parking lot. You lose it in that thing and it’s game over,” a large pudgy man said. Commander Bryant recognized him as a cook.

“Agreed, but if those barricades fail, I doubt any other helicopters will become available. We estimate it will take three trips to ferry everybody,” the commander explained. “If we start now, we might be able to evacuate before that mob can get through and begin making their way up to us.”

“Evacuate to where?” an old man who was still wearing his patient’s gown spat. “We can see outside. Them things is everywhere. Ain’t been no television or radio in over a week! Power is out everywhere. The damn town looks to be burning, and nobody ain’t done nothin’ to put a halt to it.”

“I’m not here to argue.” Commander Bryant held up his hands to quiet the eruption of frustration that came boiling on the heels of that statement. “I’ve only come to announce that we’re going to make this attempt. Any who want to try need to let us know so we can decide how many additional trips we’ll need, if any.”

It had been useless. Almost nobody asked to go. The capacity on the helo was twelve people. Only seven, including himself along with Corpsmen Reynolds and Bosley were leaving. The consensus seemed to be that if, and it was a big if, the helo managed to get in the air and fly away, maybe most of those zombies would follow and wander off leaving a more reas-onable chance to escape for those who stayed.

“Commander?” It was Corpsman Bosley.

He shook his head and looked up the ramp to where he could see her silhouette in the now wide-open double-doors. “Sorry, corpsman, how long did you say till Reynolds says we’re ready to fly?”

“He says all the gauges he can figure that are of importance indicate we can go now,” she replied.

“Is everybody loaded?”

“Yes, sir. Just waiting on you, sir.”

“Maybe I should go down and—”

“Sir, forgive me for saying so, but those people don’t want to go. More so, they’re hoping we fly away and lead the zombies on a chase after us. Some of ‘em are even hoping we crash a few blocks away, figuring that that should definitely draw attention.”

With a sigh, he turned and walked up the ramp to the roof. April was promising to be a wet month. A light rain fell and a gentle breeze blew in from the nearby Atlantic Ocean. It carried the stench of death with it from the rotting masses below.

Faces peered expectantly at him from the open side hatch. He gave Corpsman Bosley a pat on the arm as she climbed in, then he pulled the side hatch shut. Allowing one last glance back, he stared at the gaping doorway. Nobody came running out at the last second. He climbed in the vacant front seat and put on the headset.

“All set, sir?” Corpsman Rick Reynolds’ voice came through above the whine of the rotors.

“Take her up, Mister Reynolds.”

With a shudder, and a bit of a wobble, the helicopter slowly lifted off from its pad. The vertical climb was agonizingly slow, but eventually they were about twenty feet above the roof of the hospital. The nose dipped slightly as the helo began to move forward.

“This is the part I couldn’t practice much, sir.”

“You’re doing fine, Reynolds. We’re in no hurry as long as we have fuel. By the way...how are we situated on that resource?” Commander Bryant asked.

“Looks to be about three-quarters full, sir,” Reynolds reported.

“Very well then, you just do what you have to do to keep us above the trees and buildings.”

A tap on his shoulder caused the commander to jump. He didn’t realize until then just how tense he really was. He turned to find Madeline Bosley leaning between the seats. She was fitting a headset on.

“Look down.” Her voice was grim.

Both Rick and the commander glanced out their windows. Every orifice on the ground floor was clogged with zombies trying to force their way in. It seemed unlikely, just by the sheer volume pouring into the building that the makeshift barricades of equipment and furniture had done much, if anything, to slow them down.

The helicopter suddenly lurched and jerked violently. Its tail swung to the left. An experienced pilot would have easily corrected. Rick Reynolds was not an experienced pilot.

He yanked back and left on the stick violently. Alarms sounded over the screams as the helo jinked around. One over-correction led to the next, and soon the pitching and rolling helicopter was spiraling towards the ground. Hundreds of pairs of arms reached up as if they could pluck the doomed metal bird from the sky.

At some point, the rotor clipped the corner of the hospital. Pieces of blade tore into the oblivious crowd below as the machine dropped to the ground on its side in a horrendous crash.

The occupants were helpless and, in their state of dazed shock, they offered little resistance as arms reached in, tearing away at clothes and skin. Madeline Bosley felt something grasp her leg, pulling her. She looked down to see what, to her blurred vision, looked like a wall of groping hands and arms. The side hatch was simply gone. All around her, those who had not been knocked unconscious were screaming. To her left, she saw Commander Bryant fighting off the hands that reached through the broken glass while struggling with his safety harness. Rick was dangling from his seat, not moving. Blood dripped from his face, splattering on the commander.

As her senses returned, Madeline began to kick desperately to free herself. Zombies began forcing themselves into the helicopter through the open hatchway. She felt hands, cold and slimy feeling, grabbing her everywhere. Something hot, wet, and sticky splashed her.

Blood.

Somebody beside her began kicking even more violently. The scream changed from fear to indescribable agony. The commander’s kicking legs vanished through his broken window. His screams were no different or less horrifying than those of the person beside her. For some reason, Madeline expected an officer of the United States Navy to die with more dignity.

Teeth dug in, hands tore, and Madeline’s screams joined the others. She felt pain overwhelm her senses, and she wished for death as she watched two of her fingers disappear into the open mouth of the zombie that wore the tattered remnants of an enlisted man’s dress blues.

She wished for an explosion. In the movies, things blew up when they crashed. Her now broken mind focused on that idea as the world began to fade. Her last sights were that of her own insides being ripped from a growing hole in her body.

Moments later, had anybody in the helicopter still been alive, they would have heard the screams begin inside the hospital.

***

“Tracy?” Juan walked into the dark room that once served as the county jail’s control center. “Travis wants everybody to meet in The Square.”

The Square once acted as a recreational yard. That was a stretch. All it really was was a sixty- by eighty-foot box with thirty-foot high walls and no roof.

He smelled, then heard, and then saw what was keeping Tracy Miller so long. Karen Duffy gripped the waist-high counter with both hands; her faded, blue, state-issued sweatpants were bunched around her ankles. She was leaning forward enough for Tracy to be slamming in and out from behind. There was just enough light for one to see the bored look on her face and the scrunched up concentration on Tracy’s.

“Jesus tits, Juan!” The sound of total frustration made Tracy’s already nasal voice sound even whinier if that were possible.

Juan smiled.

“Hey, he wants everybody. Now.”

Tracy made gurgling sounds and shuddered. He took a step back, yanking his pants up. He smacked the freakishly tall, skinny blonde on her ass, “You can go, babe. We’ll do this again real soon.”

“Can’t wait.” Her tone said otherwise.

The two men left the woman pulling up her sweats as they headed up the central corridor. Karen Duffy was one of nine unfortunate women that had been in H-block lockup in the county jail. Or rather, she was one of nine remaining. Three died the first night Travis Reynolds’ gang stormed and took over the facility.

Juan still had nightmares about that first night. The few officers who stayed to man the facility died either in the initial hit, or moments later as they foolishly rushed to aid their comrades. Seeing their friends and co-workers die on the video monitors caused them to act recklessly. Storming out with no real idea of the threat, they had been stunned by a pair of flash grenades when they threw open the steel door that led to the heart of the jail and its several cellblocks.

Each block held several two-man cells of varying capacity. The first thing had been to find and release Gary Messer. It was then that things got nasty.

Juan and Tracy walked through the open door to The Square. Everybody was sitting on the concrete ground except for Travis and Gary who stood atop a big metal desk that had been brought out solely to act as a makeshift stage.

If Travis was a little off center, Gary was certifiably insane. Most of his body was scrawled on with prison tattoos that glorified “White Power,” “SS,” “100% Wood,” and then the usual skulls, demons, and naked ladies. His shaved head was etched with an enormous Iron Cross.

Sitting naked at the feet of those two were the four women they had chosen. Each bore a score of bruises from their time in service to the self-proclaimed rulers of this miniature kingdom. Their blank, vacant expression showed little more life than you found on the ever-growing number of undead gathered outside the brick walls of this jail empire.

“As promised,” Travis announced, “we have finished going through all the files. We gave you freaks a chance to admit your crime. Even though you don’t deserve it, we promised a quick death of a bullet to the head.”

Freaks is prison and jail slang for a sex offender. Considering how things had gone that first night, Juan knew that things were about to take a whole new turn towards ugly. It was no big surprise that there weren’t any takers when the generous offer was announced through a bullhorn shortly after Travis had found Gary.

A nervous murmur rippled through the crowd. Dennis, Boris, and Tony stood up and were joined by Geoff McIver and two other obscenely large skinheads who Gary had declared as the Convict Council. Apparently this had been choreographed in some way, because the men began to stroll around those still seated. Juan thought of it as a really twisted version of “duck, duck, goose!”

“Joshua Martel, please stand up!” Travis bellowed like a game show host from Hell.

Heads began to turn and twist as everybody wanted a look. Still, nobody stood.

“Too bad we happen to have your picture,” Gary snarled rubbing his hands together as the roaming goon-squad converged on one man. As soon as it was clear who the target was, everybody around the man scattered to give room.

“You are charged with nine—holy shit! Nine?—counts of child rape,” Gary read from a manila file he held up for the crowd as if everybody could see it and read it as well. “It seems our boy Joshua liked to hide in bathroom stalls, wait for his victim, hmm...seems his preference was little boys ages six to ten...he’d ass-fuck ‘em, then knock them out and run away.” All eyes were on Joshua Martel. Most were brimming with hatred. Some were sharing in his fear. “How do you plead, you sick fuckin’ freak?”

The two large goons shook the trembling, sobbing, dim-inutive man. One grabbed a handful of curly brown hair and jerked his head up. Juan looked at the guy, trying to envision him as the person in those charges. The man was puny, malnourished, but his face looked like the guy you’d see behind the counter at some espresso stand.

“Please,” even laced with fear, Joshua Martel’s voice was way deeper than you would expect from such a small body. “I…”

“Guilty!” Gary bellowed. “We sentence you to death, you fuckin’ freak!”

With that, the goon-squad converged. They tore his black and white jumpsuit from his body and cuffed his hands behind his back. Juan watched in morbid curiosity as the man was bound at the ankles by clothesline.

A series of ladders still leaned against one wall from the events of that first night, but there were subtle differences in what was being done now as to what happened then.

“All shall assemble on the roof for the carrying out of the sentence,” Travis announced, and he and Gary jumped off their stage to lead the way.

Boris walked over to Juan with one of the goons and Tony, “We are supposed to guard the door and make sure that everybody goes up. Travis don’t want none of them freaks tryin’ to make a run for it.”

“Where would they go?” Juan asked with a laugh.

Boris and the goon looked at one another as if each expected the other to have an answer. Tony looked away to hide a smile. Juan liked Tony. He appeared to be the only one of Travis’ gang that didn’t seem to be getting off on this whole ordeal.

There were a few stragglers, but the goon, Boris had called him Lee—at over six-and-a-half feet tall and easily over three hundred pounds—had discouraged anybody from trying to make any sort of break for it.

At last, everybody was up on the roof. Juan stepped over the bundle of ropes that had been individually tied to the steel railing of a catwalk that would presumably have allowed the police to move around if they needed to come into a cell block from above. The ropes all quivered and thrummed. Juan felt his stomach lurch just a little.

No, sir, this wasn’t tight at all.

Over the murmur of voices, he could hear the now condemned man begging and pleading for his life. The crowd, a large portion anyways, was starting to work themselves into a frenzy. There were taunts and jeers.

“Freak!”

“Better get right with God you cho-mo!”

“You other freaks take a good look, you’re next!”

“Rape-oh’s and cho-mo’s must die!”

Travis raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “Any last words, freak-boy?”

Standing naked before a human wall of hate, the tiny man only stared at the ground, shaking. Gary and the other goon forced him to his knees and hogtied his ankles to his wrists behind his back. The nearly two hundred men spread out on the roof to see. A few hung back. Juan had a good idea why. They were next.

Somehow, Juan had migrated forward. He told himself that he didn’t want to see what was about to happen. Worse, he didn’t want to see what had already been done. It was too late.

His eyes drifted to where all the ropes led: over the side. At the end of the ropes were all the black men, and the three black women. Each had been bound, hands behind their backs. Ropes were wrapped around each body several times, keeping their arms pinned to their sides. The ropes were long enough so that each one of them had been fed on by the mob of zombies gathered below. Now, at the end of most of those ropes a zombie wriggled like a worm on a hook. Some of the tying had apparently been shoddy, because a few of the strands were empty. The body had obviously been pulled free. Some were nothing more than torsos with twitching spinal columns sticking out of the bottom. Others were missing their legs from knee or mid-thigh down.

Juan had wanted to vomit then. Now he only felt numb. Maybe that was better. He didn’t know. He watched as Lee and the other goon began to lower the child-rapist, Joshua Martel, over the side of the roof, belly down. Juan listened to the man’s screams as he neared the upturned faces of the dead and the nest of grasping hands.

They lowered him slowly and both Gary and Travis leaned forward. Occasionally, one of them would grab the rope and tug it one way or nudge it the other as they guided the condemned man to whatever particular death they had in mind. When he was only a foot above the churning mob below, Gary signaled for the goons to stop.

For a moment, Juan remembered a piñata at his niece’s sixth birthday. His uncle Hector had teased the children by tugging the line just enough to keep that piñata out of reach. There had been squeals and laughter.

Now, there were only screams of terror.

And the groans of the undead.

One of the zombies below reached and strained. Taller than the rest, he could almost touch the squirming body above. Gary motioned for the goons to lower their load just another few inches.

If that guy was guilty, and such a thing as karma existed, Juan figured it was being served right then. The tall zombie reached, straining above the other outstretched hands to claim its prize. The man at the end of the rope, Joshua Martel, screamed in an entirely different register. Juan could not force himself to turn away as he watched a tiny, dangling piece of flesh grasped by a filthy hand and torn off, vanishing into the mouth of that zombie. Blood now splattered down on the crowd only increasing their frenzy.

“Drop him,” Travis ordered.

The goons allowed the rope to slide through their hands. Like a giant fish striking, it suddenly hissed and the two let go. The screams below were terrific but brief.

Juan looked east towards the still rising sun. The day was only starting and it would be a long one. Already another name had been called. There was a commotion and a man took a running leap. He must’ve gone under a crowd, because Juan barely heard that one’s screams.

He had to get out of here. There was no way he could stay for anymore of this.

Another name was called.

***

“Strike-One to Base, we have movement in Area Ten. Multiple vehicles with hostiles in pursuit. Over.”

“This is Base, we copy. We have a ground team three-oh miles from your location.”

“Roger that. We are reaching Bingo on fuel and returning to the nest.”

“Copy. Charlie-Team, this is Mountain-Home, did you catch all that?”

“That is a big affirmative, we are westbound now on eight-four and the road is clear. We expect visual in fifteen to twenty. We’ll keep channel open.”

***

“...just one more step, you son-of-a-bitch,” Thad Bushnell hissed through clenched teeth. The zombie, a middle-aged businessman with the tattered remains of a suit, worth more than Thad made in a month at the mill, stepped out from behind the jackknifed car-transport rig that blocked three of four lanes of I-8 heading east towards El Cajon from San Diego.

Even with the suppressor, the rifle made a noise that echoed. From his perch on the overpass, Thad scanned for the nearby vehicle that he could hear approaching. He focused his attention on the football stadium. There was plenty of movement, but none of it living. The crowd was drifting and heading in the same general direction. He drew the flare gun from the open duffel bag at his feet, pointed it skyward, and fired. The radio slung around his neck crackled to life.

“We see you, Thad,” a female voice said. That would be Chelsea. “JoJo is on the way. He just scooped Keith and is en route.”

“What are they doing over at the stadium?” Thad asked incredulously. “I thought we agreed it was too dangerous.”

“The water,” Chelsea replied. “And I guess Keith was right. They found cases and cases of it.”

“We still should stay out of there. Can you see those crowds? There must be six or seven thousand in the parking lot alone.”

“Yeah,” Chelsea sounded way too happy. “I guess.”

“Well, I’m on the overpass and I managed to cut the lock on that Frito truck. Couldn’t stay down on the interstate, though. It was getting a little busy.”

“Sorry, I didn’t see that one,” some of the exuberance drained from her voice.

Thad shook his head. Her only job was to stand up there on the balcony of her suite at the Four Seasons and warn him if she saw anything coming his way. He shuddered. That girl had grabbed his shoulder. She’d been dead for a while, and the California sun had dried the corpse out enough so that the smell hadn’t carried far. Being so close to the large masses around the stadium left a hint of that stench on the air. The zombie walked right up to him from behind. Her body was now on the ground, a few yards from the one he’d just dropped.

The sound of the laboring engine grew louder all of a sudden. Thad looked as the garbage truck came into view. The truck’s prongs were out front with all of the steel grating welded on. Zombies practically exploded into pulp if they ventured across the path of that big machine. Using his binoculars, Thad zoomed in on the vehicle. JoJo was driving and Keith was on top of the cab in the makeshift turrets with Dinah Morello.

Dinah was their leader for all intents and purposes. As far as they’d been able to tell, she was the only living member of the San Diego Police Department. In the two and a half weeks that had passed, Thad had never seen her lose her cool.

He’d been with her the night this whole thing started. In fact, he was sitting in the back of Dinah and her partner’s squad car in cuffs. On the way to be booked, an emergency call of multiple officers down at Balboa Mall diverted their trip. Thad still remembered the total chaos that night.

The blood.

The death.

The screams.

“Stop wasting flares, Bushnell!” Dinah’s voice came through, crisp and curt as always. Two weeks into this nightmare, and she still treated him like he was in the back of her squad car.

“Well,” Thad yelled, “then hurry the hell up and come get me.”

The radio stayed silent. Dinah had done what she set out to, she had made him respond on the defensive. Thad grabbed his duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder, and threw a leg over the railing. He climbed down the rope they used to set up an easy access to the freeway below.

A moment later, the rumble of the big truck vibrated the insides of the cargo area. The back end of the garbage truck blocked out most of the ambient light as it backed to the opening. The warning beep echoed, doing its best to give Thad a headache.

In less than five minutes, every box containing bags of various chips, nuts, and cookies were transferred.

“They’re coming!” Dinah’s voice boomed from the PA.

The last big cardboard box was handed from one man to the next and everybody—Thad, JoJo, and Keith— scurried to the cab and jumped in. Dinah was now behind the wheel, she started the monstrous, armored truck forward as the men were still climbing up and in.

Thad popped open the overhead trapdoor and heaved himself into the machinegun turret. The .50 caliber that they had managed to salvage from an overturned National Guard Hum-vee was loaded and ready. He released the safety and swung to the left where the closest threats were pouring around all the abandoned, overturned, or burned out cars.

In short bursts just like Dinah taught, he began firing. Brass casings spat out, catching the sunlight as they flew end over end, clattering on the roof of the garbage truck’s cab and rolling away. Zombies spun as rounds ripped through their rotting torsos or simply dropped when the bullet found their heads. Some of the creatures’ skulls erupted in greyish-black explosions of jelly-like matter.

The airhorn sounded once, signaling that the vehicle was about to turn. Thad took his finger off the trigger and braced himself. With only a couple of stragglers falling under the wheels along the way, the journey back to their ‘fortress’ was relatively smooth.

Thad clicked the safety back on and turned so he could see what now counted as home for himself, Dinah, JoJo, Keith, Chelsea, and about a hundred others. The Four Seasons was twenty-three stories tall. The top floor was a restaurant and the two floors below that were luxury suites. That was where all of the meeting and planning and eating took place. They put an arsenal on every fifth floor, that way, if they were ever overrun, they had a solid source of weapons and ammo during their retreat.

Still, as they rumbled up the snaking drive that led to their home, Thad didn’t worry much about those zombies getting too thick. Their hotel-home was the only building built on this man-made plateau. Except for the curving, switchback driveway, thick undergrowth and trees covered the flat-topped hill on all sides. To climb up was difficult for a regular, healthy human, much less one of those uncoordinated undead. To make it more impossible, they uncoiled spools of razor wire all throughout the landscape.

Of course nothing is foolproof, so they completely filled the parking lot and all the flattened ground around the hotel with cars and trucks. Some had been turned on their sides. They left small gaps between every vehicle. If a zombie managed to climb the hill and got itself up onto a parked car or truck, it would then fall between the cracks. The third floor was where the guards kept lookout. Everybody able to shoot a gun took turns standing watch. Morning shift was the busiest. That was when the ten or so that managed to get in the perimeter during the night were dispatched.

There was a big gap for the garbage truck to pull into. It was like placing the last piece of a puzzle. Thad, Keith, and JoJo hopped out and while Thad pulled in a few cars that they used to wall off the truck, the other two kept lookout. As Thad parked the last car, Keith walked about ten yards down the blackened driveway to the first curve.

“About a hundred followed,” he called as he began pouring a three gallon can of gasoline on the blacktop drive.

“Getting to be less every time.” JoJo pulled a pack of gum from his jumpsuit’s breast pocket. He extended a foil stick towards Thad who shook his head. “Suit yourself.” He shrugged and peeled away the shiny aluminum, pulling the piece of Big Red out with his teeth.

Joseph Jones, or as he was better known, JoJo, was about five-feet-seven and two hundred-twenty pounds. He claimed to be part Hispanic, as well as African- and Native-American. His long, wavy black hair came to the middle part of his back when he wore it braided, which was most of the time. A stranger might think he was just short, squat, and chubby. They would be wrong. Under the easy smile and baggy clothes was the pure strength of a power-lifter.

Where JoJo was short and stocky, Keith Thomas was tall, skinny and ill-tempered. Again, a stranger might be concerned about going out amongst death with somebody so unpleasant. But nobody could shoot like Keith.

“Those bastards are learnin’,” Keith stepped back and watched the tide of gasoline spread across the smooth blacktop. He waited until a good number made it to the wet pavement. “Douse ‘em!”

JoJo stepped up with a bug-spray canister full of kerosene, pumped the handle a few times and opened the spray nozzle. A mist of fuel began coating the oncoming hordes.

“That should do it.” Keith drew a box of wooden matches from another pocket in his green coveralls. “Step back!” He lit a match and tossed it to the ground.

FWOOSH!

A wall of heat rolled over the men even at this distance. A greasy, black pearl of smoke snaked skyward. As more of the zombies caught fire, the smoke grew darker and denser. One by one, the bodies toppled and ceased to move. The men stayed until the last body fell, and then waited for them to burn down.

The third or fourth time they had done this, one of their own had started in to dispose of the remains, loading the charred bodies into a waiting pick-up truck bed. A blackened husk had taken a chomp of the guy’s forearm. Without warning, Keith had walked over and put a bullet in the zombie’s head, then their co-worker’s. These days, they let the bodies burn longer.

JoJo crawled across a few of the parked cars and disappeared for a moment only to return with a cooler.

“Warm beer, anybody?” he called and opened the small, red plastic carrier. “Kept it in the shady area for a day.”

“I’m actually getting used to it.” Thad reached out for one, popped it open, and took a long drink.

The men sat in silence, sipping warm beer, watching corpses burn. Somewhere distant, the distinct sound of gunfire erupted. It lasted several seconds.

“Think they made it?” Thad asked nobody in particular.

“Don’t know,” JoJo sighed, and took another drink.

“Don’t care.” Keith closed his eyes and lay back on the hood of the car he’d been sitting on.

9

Geeks to the Rescue

“Left! Left Dammit!” Darrin screamed into his handset.

The U-Haul swerved left, its tires squealing and leaving a blue-gray puff of burnt rubber in its wake. Mike’s El Camino sped past Darrin with a roar. A pair of zombies flew as the solid front bumper shattered legs and ribs. The bodies twitched and struggled as Darrin glanced in his rearview mirror. They weren’t eliminated, just less of a threat to anybody else that might come along now that they could no longer walk.

The three-vehicle caravan turned off Main Street and took another left on Market Street. Darrin gave directions and Kevin led in the big U-Haul truck in an attempt to clear the way as much as possible for the group. Darrin was becoming convinced that he needed a new car. The Geo was great for gas mileage, but they weren’t paying for gas anymore. It would be best if he found something durable.

“They said the building was reddish-brown.” Mike’s voice brought Darrin back to the issue at hand.

They picked up the radio broadcasts on their CBs just before they reached the bridge that would take them into Ohio. The vote was unanimous; they turned around to see if they could rescue the owners of the voice that claimed to be a mother and her three daughters.

One of the daughters was seven months pregnant.

“I see the building!” Kevin announced.

The big truck began to pull away. Bodies were being crushed and knocked aside. There were hundreds. They were packed in around the building that held their objective.

“No way we can get in there,” Mike said.

“There’s too many!” Darrin agreed.

The U-Haul was now surrounded on all sides by throngs of the undead intent on getting at the living, breathing body inside. The truck pushed ahead, but the task seemed as pointless as that of Sisyphus and the rock.

“You’re gonna bog down and get stuck!” Mike warned.

“You two back up and see how many follow. I got a full tank, I can keep edging to the door. I think once I’m under the awning, there won’t be enough room for that many. I can pop the few that get stuck between me and those doors. Switch to channel ten and tell those girls to get down to the lobby. They’re gonna have to get through the window on my passenger side because I’m gonna be pressed up against the building. Opening the door is going to be out of the question.”

“Good luck,” Mike said, and switched the CB to channel ten where they had told the girls to listen for further instructions.

“...we do? Can you hear us?” The voice was near hysterics. Another voice, calmer, spoke in the background, “Stop using the radio. They’re down below. I can see ‘em. If those guys are trying to talk to us, we won’t be able to hear.”

“Okay, ladies,” Mike said, “start heading downstairs. Kevin, the one in the U-Haul, is gonna move under the awning at the main entrance.”

“Should we head down right now?” The calmer voice had the mic now.

“Yes, me and Darrin, the one in the little car, are gonna head away in different directions and hopefully lead some of those things with us.”

A big, meaty hand slapped the windshield of Mike’s El Camino making him jump. Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw that one of the things had managed to make it into the back with all the supplies. Slowly, the thing was crawling over the plastic tarp towards the cab. He could see Darrin backing up. He was almost to the corner.

“Oh shit,” Mike breathed. He keyed his radio. “Darrin! On your left coming around the corner!”

Mike could see Darrin’s face. He saw the way his eyes widened when he looked in the rearview mirror. A wall of zombies were coming around the corner. They had followed them down Main, drawn by the sound of engines and the moans and groans of their brethren to home in on their prey.

Darrin’s car picked up speed suddenly, zooming backwards toward the sea of arms that reached out with primal need. Using the wall of bodies as a sort of bumper, the Geo slammed into them and then sped away down what the sign dangling from a stoplight wire declared to be Wheeling Boulevard

Mike looked ahead at the U-Haul that was gouging a path through the multitudes. A good number were indeed coming after him and the El Camino. From behind came an equal if not greater number.

He didn’t see any possibility that he would be able to force his way out if things got much thicker. Kevin was busy coaxing the U-Haul forward inch by violent inch as bodies oblivious to pain or injury continued to surge forward at the big truck. Yet, from the way he talked on the radio, it was as if nothing in the world was wrong. The girls signed off, saying that they were on their way down.

Meanwhile, Mike had backed up into the oncoming group from Main Street. Bodies were deep on all sides now; greasy and decaying faces of all races and ages pressed on his side windows. Many of the ones that had been near Kevin had broken off as he had driven into the more confining, less open area under the overhang of the building the women were in.

Bodies were being pressed onto the hood and into the back of the El Camino, and as the weight increased, a grinding sound began. At first it was slight, but as more bodies covered the big green vehicle, it increased until it was constant.

“I am clear, guys,” Darrin’s voice was fuzzy with static “there are a bu—”

Silence.

Mike saw his antenna sticking out of the throat of a zombie trying to claw through his windshield. The entire thing had been snapped off from the base mounted just above his head on the roof. The upside down face in the windshield stared blankly at Mike, its mouth squished tight against the glass, both hands opening and closing like claws. It paid no attention whatsoever to the two-plus-feet of metal thrust all the way through the side of its neck.

The El Camino ground to a stop. Mike tried shifting back to drive.

Nothing.

He floored it.

The engine roared, but the El Camino wasn’t budging an inch. He tried reverse again.

“Fuck me.”

The dead swarmed all over the disabled vehicle. Hands beat and clawed on every available inch of its surface. The sound echoed in the small cab, reminding Mike of a bowling alley.

A crack began to grow across the windshield.

“Fuck me runnin’!”

***

“...bunch of those things moving down Main Street where we turned left on Wheeling,” Darrin said.

“I’m at the door as tight as I can get,” Kevin replied. “I’m gonna roll down the window and clear the way for our passengers.”

“Where are you at, Mike?” Darrin called.

Static.

“Mike?” Kevin keyed his handset.

“Yo, Mikey?” Darrin tried once again. “Kevin, can you see Mike?”

“He was backing up, following you,” Kevin replied.

“I didn’t see him on Wheeling. But I wasn’t paying attention to anything past putting some distance between me and that mob.”

“Well, I know a bunch of those bastards were peeling off from me to go after him, but I thought he was on your heels and I lost sight when I pulled into the drive-up thingy that leads to the front door.”

“Well—”

“Gotta go, Darrin,” Kevin cut Darrin off. “I see the girls in the lobby, and I need to clear out a few of the more persistent types who are trying to squeeze in between me and the doors.”

“But what about Mike?” Darrin’s voice sounded like he was about to cry.

“Busy right now, but we’ll get him. Don’t worry.”

Darrin’s protest continued, but Kevin ignored it as he dropped the handset and drew his nine millimeter. Sliding across the benchseat, he rolled down the window. A pair of hands reached in from behind the cab instantly, and a face appeared. Most of the right side had been torn away. Kevin pressed the barrel of his gun against the thing’s forehead and fired. The back of its head exploded, splattering the coarse rock of the wall behind it.

Judging that he had a moment before the one squeezing itself between the front bumper and the glass of the first of the double-doors that he was parked in front of could get through, he chanced to look back. Two of the things were practically flattened between the truck and the wall. Dark smears where they had been dragged and grated stained the reddish, quartz-type rock that coated the building’s exterior.

The girls were dragging huge sofas that they had used to brace and block the doors. He swung his arm around and blew away the one zombie at his front bumper. More were massing up in front of his truck as well as along the driver’s side. Getting out was gonna be more difficult than getting in. If the bodies got too dense, he might not be able to force his way through.

“C’mon, ladies,” he yelled.

They were fumbling with a set of keys now. Finally, they came to the right one. They pushed on the door.

Clank.

Damn, Kevin cursed himself. He hadn’t considered that the door opened out, but that couldn’t be helped now.

“Step away,” he called and brought up one of his pistol-grip 12-gauge shotguns. The ladies scrambled away obediently. His thumb pressed the safety button and he fired. The sound was deafening in the cab, and all he could hear was ringing in his ears, but the glass door was now a big gaping hole.

The dead would have the building, but it wouldn’t matter. Kevin looked over the four women, he guessed the mother to be in her fifties but well maintained. The three daughters were from late teens to probably thirty (the one who looked to be about sixteen was the pregnant one).

The women all rushed to the truck, helping the pregnant one in first. Then, one by one, they squirmed through the window, spewing words of gratitude that he could barely hear above the ringing in his ears. The last one was in—the mother—and Kevin, unaware that he was yelling, told them to roll up the window. That done, he shifted into drive and floored it. The truck lunged, and bodies vanished from in front. The big vehicle rocked as it drove over downed corpses.

“Hang on!” Kevin warned as he cranked the wheel left and plowed into a sea of undead pouring through the pillars that marked the exit. He glanced left and his blood seemed to freeze. He knew where Mike was.

About three blocks away, a mass of bodies rose in a lump. Obviously Mike’s El Camino was underneath that squirming mass.

***

Darrin took another left. If his guess was correct, he should now be coming up on the street where Mike and Kevin were at…hopefully.

Why wasn’t anybody answering their damn radio?

He saw the intersection just ahead where that reddish building that those women they were rescuing were supposed to be in. While there had to be at least a hundred zombies coming at him from all sides, Darrin barely noticed. He was craning his neck trying to get a look. Another body bounced off the front fender, causing the poor Geo to shudder. The car was taking a real beating, and there would be no doubt that he would have to trade up to something more durable. At least he wouldn’t have to sweat the price of gas.

Finally he was able to see; what he saw made his bowels turn to water. The U-Haul was surrounded on all sides and barely moving through the swarm of undead that was doing everything possible to get at the five people jammed in the cab. Further up the road was a mound of rising horror that had to be the location of Mike and the El Camino.

A hand slapped his side window causing Darrin to scream and wet his pants…just a bit. The twisted caricature of what had probably been a beautiful woman pressed up against the glass in an audible squish of rotting flesh. Only an ugly, gaping hole remained where her nose had been. Black slime smeared the already gore-crusted window. One torn breast was nothing more than a thick, ham-like piece of flesh. The other had a small tear, and what had to be a silicon or saline pouch poked obscenely through the ripped skin.

Darrin gagged.

He saw several more stumbling aberrations closing in and knew he had to do something to help his friend. A block further up the street, something caught his eye.

A fire engine!

Darrin wasn’t totally sure he could drive it, but it looked like the best choice. Gunning his trusty but battered little car, he sped away leaving Breast Implant-zombie whirling and eventually sprawled on the road.

He skidded up alongside the red behemoth and was out his door—pistol in one hand, machete in the other—in a flash. Climbing up on the sideboard, he let out a little whoop when he spied the keys dangling from the ignition. Pulling open the door, he hopped in, whispering a prayer as he attempted to start the engine.

It sputtered briefly, then roared to life!

He knew there was no way he could turn the vehicle around in this tiny space, so he took off and circled the block. He came up on the rear of the mob that had Mike pinned down. He hoped and prayed that he wasn’t too late

***

Mike braced his feet against the windshield. It was desperation, but he really only had one other option. He cast a glance at the sawed-off shotgun beside him. It was ready…just in case. He didn’t relish the idea of deep-throating the barrel and spraying his head on the inside of his beloved El Camino. He liked the idea of being eaten alive even less.

The sound of their moans and other odd noises echoed in the tiny, oblong cab. Occasionally, he thought he heard something eerily similar to a baby’s cry. Meanwhile, the crack in the windshield spread across as well as up and down. The glass groaned and popped, threatening to come crashing in at any moment.

Suddenly, the entire vehicle rocked!

He looked over his shoulder, dreading to see what the hell was now on his ass. There were too many zombies, in addition to all the supplies. Of course the tarp was now all but gone having been torn off by the swarming multitude of clawing, grasping, clutching hands of the dead.

Undead?

Twice dead?

Zombie?

What the fuck does it matter, Mike thought as he stared into the several sets of milky, black-bloodshot eyes that looked blankly back at him.

Something behind him, but out of sight, roared mightily. The El Camino rocked again and, as the roar grew louder, began to move forward. The grinding metal was felt as well as heard as he plowed through the corpses that had him pinned down. The bodies, lacking any real sort of coordination, began tumbling off the shuddering hulk of a car that resisted every inch that it moved along this zombie-infested street.

Mike watched the windshield carefully. The vibration sent more spidery cracks racing through the safety glass. Any second, he expected the remaining zombies pressed against it to come crashing in.

***

Kevin leaned over the steering wheel, willing the seriously laboring truck to keep surging forward.

“I don’t want to die,” one of the girls beside him whimpered.

“Me neither, sweetheart,” Kevin said through teeth clenched so tight his jaws ached.

He felt like a child frightened of those drive-through car washes. He could see the end, but it seemed an eternity before he would reach that point. Taking a second to glance at his now cockeyed side mirror, he saw something that made him momentarily ease up on the gas pedal.

A great big fire engine had pulled into their little stretch of Hell. From the looks, it was easing in behind the bulge that hid Mike and the El Camino.

“Good luck, guys,” Kevin whispered.

The U-Haul cleared the solid wall of zombies, and now thumped and bounced through the scattered remnants of horror that were all that remained between them and the relatively open street. He would make it!

***

Darrin watched the mound of zombies seem to give birth to Mike’s El Camino. Several of the things clung to the vehicle, but at least they had pushed through the first wave. A half a block away, the rear of the second group remained. Of course they were currently focused on the U-Haul, but that was about to change.

He swung left to move up beside the driver’s side door, frantically motioning for Mike to join him. There was enough space for him to open the door and get out. Zombies were every-where, but it was the only choice. It was clear from the smoke rolling out from under the El Camino that the vehicle was done for.

Darrin leaned over and pushed a button that rolled the passenger’s side window down. He sighted in on a black man that looked as if his days of drug abuse had been as damaging as his undeath. His shot exploded the thing’s skull, and its body toppled back from its perch on the roof of the El Camino. It tumbled into a few of the zombies that had gained purchase in the supply-laden bed of the now defunct car that had been the pride of Mike’s adolescent years. Darrin nodded to Mike and opened the passenger door.

Mike swung his door open and emerged with pistol in one hand, shotgun in the other. Climbing up on the running boards, he paused just long enough to literally jam the barrel of the shotgun into the open mouth of a pantsuit clad lady missing her entire left arm as well as an eye and most of the flesh around it. He pulled the trigger and the head erupted in a chunky spray of blackened brain matter mixed with bone shards. He climbed into the firetruck’s cab and dropped the shotgun, shaking his right arm to work out the shock and tingle as he pulled the door shut with his left.

“We’re losing a lot of supplies” Mike said as the firetruck began to roll backwards.

“Mmm-hmm,” Darrin agreed as he spun the steering wheel to the right. The vehicle was bouncing over enough bodies that it was barely noticeable as he caught the curb with his right rear tires.

He straightened out the wheel and took off for the interstate. He hoped Kevin would be there.

***

“Name’s Kevin.” His grip on the U-Haul’s steering wheel relaxed as he crested the on-ramp and entered the relatively zombie-free interstate.

“I’m Angela, and these are my daughters, Ruth, Shari, and Erin.” Angela pointed them out in turn. “I don’t know how we could ever thank you enough for what you’ve risked.”

“Where’s Mike?” Erin, the pregnant one who, now that Kevin saw her up close, was absolutely no older than fifteen, asked.

“He should be meeting up with us soon,” Kevin answered as he swerved just a bit to avoid a lurching zombie that reminded him of a priest from his mom’s church. He didn’t add out loud the part about, if he makes it out from under what looked to be at least a hundred eager corpses.

“You guys are totally like heroes,” Shari purred.

Kevin knew that, as odd as it seemed, he had seen that girl someplace before. The long, unnaturally crimson hair was giving way to dirty-blonde roots, and even without a trace of make-up, there was a wholesome but simultaneously slutty qual-ity to her face. Large blue eyes stared back at him questioningly. He would probably think clearer when his heart rate was back under triple digits. He was just now starting to feel the adrenaline subside, but his mind would not rest until he saw Darrin or Mike…or, hopefully, both.

“I’m just glad you ladies are okay.”

“Yes, well,” Angela’s voice held a certain edge to it, like she was used to being in charge, “now that you’ve rescued us from that place and those...things…where do you plan on going?”

“South Dakota.” Kevin slowed and came to a stop. Up ahead he saw around twenty or thirty zombies. They were scattered, but had definitely turned his way. He unlocked the door and opened it so he could lean out and see the on-ramp that he expected his friends to appear from.

“What’s in South Dakota?” Shari enunciated the state’s name like a teenager over-dramatizing distaste in being forced to wear second-hand clothing.

“Hopefully nothing.” Kevin peeked over his shoulder at the zombies forming up in the distance and closing in, albeit slowly.

“I don’t get it,” Shari said with a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

“I believe the young man has a rather clever plan,” Angela said, shushing her daughter.

“Let’s hope so…or else.... Well, let’s just hope so and leave it at that.” No use upsetting the pregnant girl who seemed on the verge of hysterics. The distance between the U-Haul and the approaching zombies grew ever shorter.

A rumble in the distance began to grow. Suddenly, a firetruck crested the on-ramp, roaring onto the interstate. An unfortunate few of the undead staggered into the path of the approaching vehicle, only to be sent flying in a twisted mess of shattered bone and ruptured flesh.

Kevin ducked back into the cab, shut the door, and shifted into drive. They could catch up on all the events of the previous hour later. Now…it was time to put some distance between them and this dead city.

10

Tranquility Base

“They’re coming!” Barry yelled from where he sat in the open window on the passenger’s side. He propped his elbow on the roof of the truck and slid the stock of the 30.06 to his shoulder.

I turned back to the task at hand, scooping boxes of ammunition into a large duffel bag. I still couldn’t believe that this gun shop had not been completely sacked! Every so often, luck tosses you a rose.

Dillon came out from the back room with a huge grin. He brandished a pair of what I considered to be rather exotic looking weapons. They appeared familiar, and before I could guess—

“Fuckin’ AK-47s!” Dillon crowed.

“Wow! This gun store has quite a selection.” I nodded, not that I would really know.

“These weren’t for sale. The owner probably just carted them out to get his customer’s mouths watering. Good news is that I also found almost two thousand rounds in a footlocker!”

“Barry said they’re getting close, so we’d best get moving.” I shouldered the duffel bag.

Dillon handed me one of the AKs and retrieved the footlocker, then we ducked through the shattered glass of the front window. The street was in fact getting a bit crowded. The two of us jogged over to the truck and climbed in back. I knocked on the window and Ian laid into the horn as we started rolling.

So far, I had to say I was happy with how things were working out. It seemed that we’d succeeded in drawing a majority of the zombies after us. Occasionally, I heard shots that I assumed to be Teresa. That meant she was doing her part to empty the parking lot so that we could return and load up our newly accquired supplies. This gun shop had been pure, sweet icing.

“Steve! You hear that?” Barry was looking skyward.

I listened, trying to hear above the noise of the undead. A sound I hadn’t heard in a while began to rise above everything else.

A jet!

Like Barry, I began scanning the sky. It was kinda cloudy, but not too bad. Looking towards what I guessed to be south, I spotted it! It banked and took off eastward, but there was no mistaking the outline of a fighter-jet. I’m not savvy enough to discern the type…or nationality…but it was definitely a military plane. I pointed it out to the others.

“Reminds me of 9-11,” Barry said as he watched the jet quickly shrink to a dot and vanish.

“Only thing in the air were the CAP flights making sure nothing else happened. It was so strange not seeing contrails in the sky,” I sighed.

“Think it means anything?” Dillon had already returned his attention to the task at hand, which was putting down any zombie that got too close.

“Who knows.” I shrugged. I slapped the roof and leaned down by Ian’s window, “Circle around. Let’s try and make a go of grabbing our stuff.”

The town was small enough that it took us no time to get back to the Walmart parking lot. There were still zombies wandering the area; more than when we first arrived, but considerably less than when we had set this on-the-fly plan into motion.

“Barry, keep an eye open and get behind the wheel,” I yelled as Dillon and I vaulted from the open bed. “Ian, take this AK and keep an open perimeter.”

We went to work loading things into the truck’s spacious cargo bed. I must’ve zoned out and just gone into automatic, because it took me a second to realize that Dillon was calling my name. At some point, he’d drifted into the sally port, and now he stood there motioning me to join him.

“We don’t have time to do any more shopping; I want to catch up with Teresa and the others as quick as—”

“I heard a baby crying,” Dillon cut me off.

“What?”

“Serious, Steve. It sounds like it’s coming from down by the bathrooms.”

I jogged over. Dillon had a flashlight shining down the little hallway where the bathrooms and a few unmarked doors lined the walls. I listened, straining to hear it.

Nothing.

“Why didn’t we hear it earlier?” I glanced outside at the loaded truck. Ian was busy and things were deteriorating fast.

“How should I know?”

Dillon began moving towards the hall. I still didn’t hear any baby crying. I did, however, see a handful of shapes moving in the shadows and coming our way. The crash of some display stand or shelf or something caused me to jump. On reflex, I had my nine millimeter in my hand, my flashlight sweeping from left to right. Then…I heard it.

A baby’s shrill cry.

Dillon broke into a run. I lined up a shot on what had once been a very fat man. The entire abdomen was an open, gaping meat cave. I watched a particularly large and pendulous strip of gray fat swing from the left side of its exposed and broken ribcage. I think I even saw a dangling lung. Then, I shot it in the forehead and continued to glance from open, dark store, to parking lot growing ever busier, to Dillon who was now raring back to kick what I assumed to be a locked ladies’ room door.

I quickly took out the only other two zombies that might cause any problems before Dillon could get in, grab the baby, and we could quit this scene. Ian and Barry were both shooting now.

“Hurry up, Dillon!” I screamed needlessly.

He smashed open the door on the third kick, stepped in, and I lost sight for just a second. Then, two things happened almost simultaneously that caused every hair on my body to stand on end.

Dillon screamed.

And…One of the zombies, close enough to see, but far enough away to not be a threat, made the most frightening sound I’ve ever heard.

A baby’s cry.

Dillon stumbled back. Attached to his right arm was what had once been an old lady of at least seventy. My initial hope that flashed for just a split-second was that she would be toothless and that her dentures would have long since fallen out. Apparently she practiced good oral-hygiene, because before that hope could take root, she tore away a strip of flesh. Blood sprayed, looking black in the shadowy illumination of my flashlight.

Finally, Dillon managed to shove the emaciated, skeletal form aside and scramble back towards me. I stood frozen and unsure as he ran my way, clutching his arm to his chest.

“Run!” he screamed.

I turned and bolted for the truck. As we emerged into the daylight, I saw that things were worse than I had been aware of. Those things were coming from everywhere, and there were hundreds!

“‘Bout damn time!” Ian exclaimed as he swapped a new magazine into the AK-47. Barry was loading two spares between taking shots at the too-close-for-comfort horde of walking dead.

Both men glanced back and noticed Dillon’s injury almost simultaneously. Neither said a word, but their eyes were clear pictures of their emotions. Barry’s was pity and resignation. Ian’s was sadness…true and unbridled sadness.

“Let’s get the hell outta here,” Ian finally managed.

Everybody made for the truck. I got behind the wheel. Barry climbed in the passenger’s side, then Ian. The door slammed and Dillon still stood outside.

“Y’all make a run for it. Just gimme me a second to draw some of those fucks away if I can,” Dillon said, his eyes tight from the pain.

“Dill—” Ian began.

“Don’t even say a word, kid.”

“You can’t possibly consider letting those things eat you,” Barry gasped.

“Nope.” Dillon shoved his AK through the window and drew a large revolver that I was pretty sure was a .44 Magnum. He tapped his forehead with the bright, chrome-plated barrel. “I’ll take a few with me, then finish what that thing started.”

“Good luck.” I nodded. There was no sense in drawing this scene out, and Dillon obviously felt the same way because he turned and walked away.

We rolled up our windows, and I watched a man I’d come to really appreciate having at my side walk back to the darkened store entrance. I could see in the rearview mirror as he walked up to the hunched over figure of the old lady who had sealed his fate. She…it…was just emerging from the building. He strolled up, placed the gun to its forehead, and fired.

Many of the zombies to our right veered away from us, following the obvious and visible prey. I cranked over the steering wheel and dashed for the clearest path we had. Nevertheless, it was still a bumpy ride as we slammed and careened off the moving obstacles between us and the parking lot exit.

I heard three more shots…a long pause…and one final but slightly muffled boom of the Magnum. I reached the exit a few seconds later and swerved a bit as I turned down the street and towards the interstate.

There were still several zombies in the way, but I managed to miss most of them. The ones I did hit, I usually only caught with glancing blows that sent the body spinning away. I reached the on-ramp and floored it with nothing further impeding the rush to be back with our friends.

Once on I-84 East, the road was almost wide open. In the distance I spied the big, white power company truck, Anton’s car…and what looked like six or seven military vehicles. Before any of us could say a word, a pair of black attack-helicopters zoomed up from behind.

I said that the road was almost wide open. That is because halfway between us and our friends were the shambling mass of undead that remained on Teresa’s tail when we split up.

The two helos swung apart from each other and, with noses down, bracketed the seemingly oblivious pack of zombies. A loud, roaring buzz erupted as the helos’ machineguns opened up on them. In seconds, nothing was standing.

I considered stopping, but two things eliminated that option: my friends were over there, and really, where would I go? It’s not like I could outrun those attack helicopters. The best plan would be to simply drive up to where all those military vehicles sat parked around Teresa and the others and see what hand is dealt. If the military was going to kill us, then there was no reason for them to mow down that mob of zombies.

Right?

A few minutes later we pulled up. Barry, Ian, and I had our hands on our weapons, but not one single soldier so much as raised a gun in our direction. Instead, they waved us into their perimeter.

A quick scan of the situation revealed that nobody seemed agitated or scared. Thalia was even accepting a piece of gum from one of the soldiers. Maybe, just maybe, things were getting better. At the least, perhaps we would be taken someplace safe. My mind tried to set aside all of what I could only assume to be Hollywood-generated fears. Still, all fiction has some basis in fact.

Right?

***

The leader of the group, Sergeant Paul Wimmer, informed us that we were spotted by an air patrol out of Idaho. The army had a “Safe Zone” nearby. He made sure to stress that we were under no obligation to follow, but that we were welcome if we chose. He gave us a few minutes to decide for ourselves.

The vote had been unanimous.

An hour and a half later we were sitting at a checkpoint. I could see what was obviously once a very small town? ...village?...hamlet? Hell, this place is tiny.

The Army has been very busy. Large earthmovers are visible inside the perimeter. They were obviously used to dig the deep trench that encircles the encampment. A heavy-duty fence that is at least fifteen-feet high is the second line of defense. It is electrified! I don’t know how, because I don’t hear the roar of a generator. It is apparent that this place has power up and running. Of course there are the typical machinegun towers and foot patrols, but the zombie presence is minimal. A half-mile back we passed a pit or trench—whatever—where a group of soldiers in HAZMAT suits were burning bodies. They seemed to have everything under control.

There are at least a few hundred people here. Less than half are military. I was asked my name, as were all of us. That had Ian a little nervous. I am certain that he, Dillon, and perhaps even Anton, might have escaped from a jail or prison. Well, none of that matters to me. Those guys have been a part of our group, and I’d say that all debts to society are square. Besides, the soldiers didn’t ask for anything other than our names. I doubt that, even if my guess is correct, that’s enough to identify him.

“Are we really safe?”

I jumped. Teresa had come up beside me as we waited for everybody to give their name. Of course I really had no idea what to do next. All the soldiers who’d been with the patrol that escorted us here had been escorted to one of those long camou-flage tents—all except Sergeant Wimmer. He was in deep discussion with three soldiers and a lady in civilian clothes.

The last of our party, Barry, had given his name. Now we were all just standing in a huddled group. I was about to suggest that we take a look around when Sergeant Wimmer came trotting over. He removed his helmet, revealing very dark hair kept in a crew cut. Strands of gray stood out in stark contrast. “Sorry about abandoning you folks for a few minutes there. We are still trying to keep a certain degree of military order about things.” He casually waded into the midst of our little pack. “I had to dot a couple of I’s and cross a few T’s.”

“And what is it that we are supposed to do now?” I asked.

“Well,” Sergeant Wimmer faced me directly, “Steve is it?” I nodded. “First, we need our medics to check everybody out. I know that you all said nobody has been bitten, but I hope you’ll understand that we can’t simply take people at their word when it is a matter of life and death.” Most of us nodded or voiced our consent and understanding. “Then, I imagine that you all could use a real meal.”

That lit everyone’s eyes up. Still, it was just the way things had been that, at least for me, allowed a kernel of apprehension to sprout deep roots in my mind. I glanced around, but it seemed I was alone in my fears. Even if they are slight, I just can’t ignore them. I still feel a sense of obligation and responsibility to these people…especially Thalia and Teresa.

I dropped to the back of our group as Sergeant Wimmer led us through the camp. I could see construction taking place on what looked like an apartment building. Nothing fancy, just a two-story affair. I also noticed a couple of buildings with “Do Not Enter” signs and guards posted at the entrance. That added some fertilizer to my little kernel of doubt.

I could hear the sergeant talking, but my eyes were everywhere. If he was so bent on holding our attention, I imagined it was to keep us from being too observant. I watched some of the regular non-military types walking about. They seemed fine …normal. A few even waved or smiled as we passed.

We rounded a building and came to another of those camo-tents. A flag with the Red Cross on it fluttered from a small pole. Right beside the tent was a playground. Thalia squealed with delight and looked back at me from where she stood holding Teresa’s hand while clutching the giant bear Ian had procured in the other arm.

“Would you like to play with those other children?” Sergeant Wimmer knelt in front of the little girl who was excitedly hopping from one foot to the other.

Thalia nodded vigorously. Children are absolutely amazing. All of the death and horror we’ve experienced seemed washed away in an instant. Again I glanced at everybody else’s faces. All I saw was exhaustion and just a hint of—could it be?—relief.

“Well then,” he glanced up at Teresa, “we’ll get you and your friend here checked out first so you can go play.”

In the distance I heard a short burst of gunfire. We all jumped. Evan Thalia froze for a second.

“Relax, folks.” Sergeant Wimmer stood up, raising his arms like a teacher settling a classroom of second-graders. “Just somebody taking down a walker. I assure you that we are all perfectly safe inside these fences.”

Again I looked around. Nobody else even seemed to have broken stride. The children at the nearby playground were still laughing, swinging, and chasing each other around the giant play structure. These people actually feel safe!

Maybe…just maybe.

***

I sat on the paper-covered examination table in my underwear. The curtain that had me isolated from everybody else rustled as an older lady in her sixties wearing scrubs came in. Her face was stern as she read from a clipboard. All in all, this was sort of comforting. It was just like I remembered every doctor’s exam.

“You seem just fine, Mister Hobart,” Doctor Zahn said. The name was on a tag pinned in perfect symetry above the breast pocket of her scrubs. “Of course a final confirmation of your blood test will be completed within the hour.”

“Or my pizza is free?” I made a failed attempt at levity that earned nothing more than a single raised eyebrow.

“Clean clothing is being brought in for you. You may dress, and then you are free to go.” Doctor Zahn about-faced, walking away, and then paused at the curtain. She turned, and her eyes met mine, “You did exceptionally well with your group of fellow survivors. Most people get to us on the verge of starvation. Over half are infected. That little girl is…” She didn’t finish whatever she was about to say. Instead, she simply nodded and exited.

An orderly came in moments later. He had a neatly folded stack of clothing. But it was what was on top that made me just a little excited…soap, a wash cloth, and a towel! I was led to a plastic-curtained cubicle where I would actually take a real shower! I heard a couple of others already running. The water was hot!

“Five minutes, sir.” The orderly pointed to a timer that he was setting as I stepped in and felt the near-ecstasy of hot water cascading down my skin.

I glanced down at my feet and watched with mortified fascination as a brownish-red slurry swirled down the drain. I scrubbed and scrubbed, suddenly fearing that I would never come clean. Eventually, it was just clear water at my feet. I waited for the ding of the timer before I would relinquish this luxury.

I re-emerged into the brightening, clear-blue sky of late afternoon. The heat felt good on my freshly scrubbed skin. My eyes scanned quickly, searching for a familiar face either from my group or the soldiers who…rescued?...found us.

It took me a handful of seconds to recognize Teresa and Thalia. Thalia was in a pair of pink denim shorts and a halter top while Teresa was in a light blue, floral print sundress. Of course, the little girl was oblivious to my arrival as she climbed on a huge wooden playstructure engaged in some sort of chase with the other children. Teresa was standing on the edge of the cedar-chip ground that marked the playground’s boundary.

She jumped when I placed a hand on her shoulder and I immediately felt foolish. First, I was already letting my guard down while this sixteen-year-old girl was on high-alert, scanning the area and most likely already memorizing possbible escape routes and defensible positions. Second, grasping, touching, or even nudging somebody without warning could get you a bullet in the head on the other side of these fences that seemed to promise security.

“Sorry.” I raised my hands and stepped back.

“Old habits.” Teresa blushed.

We watched Thalia, neither of us speaking. The whole idea of being safe felt too surreal after what we have seen in the past several weeks. Within about an hour Jamie, Joseph, Billy, and Aaron joined us. I think I was the only one to notice Jamie and Teresa’s close proximety to one another. Could it be this simple? I mean, can things be righted and put back on track by something as simple as children playing tag at a playground and teenagers falling in love?

One by one, our band of survivors gathered at the edge of the playground. Once we all passed examinations and enjoyed a shower, we naturally congregated together. Whether it was attachment, or simply the comfort of familiarity, not one person failed to seek out the group.

Eventually, Sergeant Wimmer arrived with Doctor Zahn and two other doctors that I imagine inspected the rest of the group. With them was a man wearing slacks and a light blue button-up shirt with his sleeves rolled to the elbows. The top button was undone and the tie tugged loose. My radar went off instantly. This guy seemed to be trying way too hard to look unassuming.

“Look at his hands,” Barry leaned close and whispered. It seemed I was not the only person on edge.

I glanced at the man’s hands and, for a moment, didn’t see anything extraordinary. Then it sunk in. They were immaculate. Nails trimmed, and I’d bet recently manicured. Stepping forward I extended my right hand and shook his in greeting. Those hands hadn’t seen a hard day’s work in this guy’s life.

Politician?

“Randall Smith, CDC from Atlanta,” his drawl was slow and casual, but his eyes reminded me of every oily politician or sleezy televangelist that had ever been caught in a scam and tried to fabricate an excuse or justification.

“Steven Hobart, insurance adjuster from Seattle,” I said. Then, one by one, I introduced my fellow survivors…minus occupation or city of origin.

“Seems you folks have had quite a time,” Randall said. “But let me officially extend a welcome to our little bastion. You are all welcome to stay. Of course, we will be happy to have each and every one of you remain, and would meet with each individually to assess what skills you may possess so that you can contribute to our society of survivors. However, none of you are required to stay if you do not wish. Nobody is a captive.

“I know you have questions, but we would like to get you settled in to where you’ll be living if you decide to remain. Tomorrow I will meet with everybody individually and answer any of your questions then.

“I would do so today, but I am already late for a meeting with our electrical engineers. So, please, even if you are not planning to stay, be our guests tonight and enjoy a nice hot meal and a good night’s sleep.”

With that, he nodded to us, then patted Sergeant Wimmer on the shoulder and left. I glanced over at Barry and Ian and saw the same dubiousness that I felt tugging at my mind.

At least I would have help watching out for trouble.

I called Thalia over, and, after promising she could return as soon as we’d eaten, I gave a nod. We all fell into line as Sergeant Wimmer led us to what would be our sleeping quarters. From the rear of the group it was easy for me to spot Teresa’s hand entwined in Jamie’s.

11

Vignettes IV

He had been one of the most infamous rockstars of this generation. Thousands of women found themselves the object of his temporary affections. Thousands more claimed so. He started in the clubs and finished in stadiums.

With exceptional business smarts, he built an empire that transcended his status as just-another-rockstar. His former band-mates were not lacking for money, but he had reached an entirely different level of fame and fortune that continued to feed his bank account as well as his ego long after his last hit record slid from the charts.

Though many who did not know him assumed he was little more than an extreme egomaniac, his depth of character and ability to love was an exception to most others in his line of work. So, it was no surprise to those who really knew him—his family and small circle of real friends—that, when one of his former bandmates with whom he was rumored to have an intense feud with became ill, he dropped everything to be bedside at the hospital.

That is how he got bitten.

That is how his family died.

That is how he became just another member of the walking dead.

Now he stumbled along Hollywood Boulevard with a pack of others just like him. Ironically, a young boy of about twelve was within an arm’s distance to his left with the tattered remnants of a tee-shirt that had his face on it. As a mob, they continued to gain numbers that were likewise drawn to the vibrations that, while dull sounding, rang in their ears. None of them were cognizant enough in any manner to identify the staccato sound of automatic weapon’s fire. They simply knew that where there was sound, there was food.

The desire to feed was the only impulse their brain transmitted constantly and clearly. There were images, impulses really, that drove them to re-enact rituals that were the equivalent of mental fossils in their memories. That is why he walked for days until finally reaching the swarming streets of Hollywood.

While others, some more…some less famous, had tried to avoid the crowds of fans and camera-wielding paparazzi, he’d relished it. Whenever he was feeling down, he would pop up in public and bathe in the heat of the strobe flashes. People would yell his name and once again, he mattered.

The rumble grew to a steady buzz under the irregular beat of gunfire. Movement caused him to turn his head to the left. The jagged rip on his left forearm seeped a hint of dark fluid as his arms reached out.

The bus, with armor plates welded all along the sides and topped with two machinegun turrets, inched through the growing throng of zombies. The snowplow blade mounted in front was shoving a wad of broken bodies before it that would occasionally crest and break like a wave of wriggling death.

A bullet struck him in the face. His body toppled, eventually scooped up with so many others by the plow. Rolling, tumbling, end over end, until finally sliding off to the side.

“Hey! Is that who I think it is?” a man who looked like he’d seen Easy Rider a few too many times called above the roar of the bus engine to the younger man at his side.

“Who cares?” the younger man said and shrugged.

***

The Old Man stared up at the sun that he could not see through his cataract-covered eyes. Nothing but the baked, sparsely vegetated Australian landscape surrounded him on all sides. The heat bathed his wrinkled, naked body as the light breeze caused his snow-white hair to flutter ever so slightly.

He felt a tingle and knew he was in the right spot. Slowly, against the flaring pain of protest in both knees, The Old Man knelt on the ground and began to jab the hard clay with his pointed stick.

Within an hour he had snacked on a few fat grubs and eventually reached his goal. At the bottom of the almost foot-deep gouge in the earth, water pooled. Occasionally he would scoop out a few swallows with a little tin cup that he carried.

A dull pain formed behind his eyes and The Old Man surrendered as a new vision began to coalesce in his mind’s eye. Again, he could see the Earth from the Heavens. Things had changed. Beacons of gold that once indicated to him large clusters of mankind were all gone.

Now, the same blackness from the sun and moon covered Earth’s surface. Yet, tiny pinpricks of gold remained. That did not concern The Old Man. His visions always showed him more important things. He had seen dark, sickly gray swathes and blotches grow under those clusters of gold. The waters had turned color as well. Now, those gray lesions and bruises on Earth were fading. The healthy tinges of green were returning to the lands and blue was seeping into the waters.

Man was dying. Earth was healing.

The Old Man tilted his head to the sky and laughed long and loud.

***

The once mighty warship slowly ground to an unceremonious halt. Washed into shallow waters, the USS Arliegh Burke tilted sharply to port. The awkward angle allowed the waves to crash repeatedly into her exposed starboard side. Over a period of several days, the gray behemoth shifted until she was almost parallel to the non-descript shoreline.

Occassionally, one of her former crew would find its way to the open deck. Unable to navigate the surface with any real coordination, the figure would stumble, fall, and evenrually roll over the side, landing in the blue-green ocean water with a graceless splash.

Some of these creatures would eventually emerge from the surf and struggle to the refuge of the fine white sand of the beach. Others simply vanished.

***

Juan swung the sword in a sweeping arc, cleanly decapitating both zombies in one motion. He snatched his duffle bag from where he’d dropped it moments before and resumed running down the stairs. He saw a relatively clear path that would take him to the docks. Once there, he would have several boats to choose from.

Juan had never been on a boat in his life. Hell, he hadn’t been on as much as a rubber raft. In all honesty, he was a bit frightened of the water. He paused to glance over his shoulder. The leading edge of the pack of zombies that had been following him ever since he’d abandoned the white transport van he used to get away from the madness of the county jail—namely Gary Messer, and Travis Reynolds—was an uneven wave of bodies surging his way.

Dodging the outstretched arms of a zombie that had, in life, been an eight- or nine-year-old little girl, Juan reached the bottom of the switchback stairs that brought him near the water’s edge. About half of the slips were empty—although Juan didn’t personally know the term—but plenty of boats remained.

Tossing his bag over the ten-foot high Cyclone fence, Juan slowed just slightly to gauge his chances, and decided they were as good as they would get. He jumped, and, in a few less than graceful maneuvers, was safely up and over the fence.

As he passed what looked like some sort of guard shack, Juan glanced inside. Behind a Plexiglas panel were several sets of keys hanging from numbered hooks. Scanning the area, he made out numbers on small, square signs located along the dock. Seeing a boat that looked nice, but not too large, Juan broke through the Plexiglas, grabbed the key hanging from that corresponding number, and headed to his prize.

Using caution, he approached the boat. There was an open cabin atop a closed door that would lead to who-knows-what below. The tell-tale stench of the dead was slight and seemed to only be in the breeze coming at him from the fence that was quickly filling with dozens of zombies all clutching and biting at the wire mesh. He felt just a bit of apprehension as he stepped onto the boat. Leaning cautiously down the three stairs that would take him below to a narrow passage with a door on each side and one at the end, he sniffed.

Nothing.

Deciding that he could handle anything that may be lurking behind the three closed doors, he dropped his bag and climbed the ladder up to the bridge. The controls, while different from a car’s, at least appeared to be simple. There were a few gauges that made no sense, but then Juan wasn’t intent on spending too much time on this boat.

Finding the ignition, he slid in the key and turned. A lot of sputtering and a few noises that he couldn’t identify were his only reward. Just as he was about to give up, his eyes landed on a small cubbyhole off to one side. Inside were a few loose pages as well as a dog-eared and coffee-stained owner’s manual. The picture on the front looked a lot like the boat he was on!

Deciding that there was no way out of his current mess other than to take to the river, Juan set the manual on the big captain’s chair and went about untying all the mooring lines. Using a long aluminum pole, he shoved away from the dock and began to drift lazily out into the open harbor of the marina. Twenty minutes later he was chugging up river. He didn’t know exactly where he would go, and at the moment, he didn’t care.

***

Garrett McCormick sat down on the wooden bench that ran most of the length of the baseball dugout. The remnants of a sign that once read “Rainbow Stadium” hung askew. One wire was all that kept it from joining the clutter on the ground. Even in the shade of the dugout, the hot South Carolina sun still sent a bead of sweat trickling down his spine.

Taking a deep breath and holding it, he listened. Yes, he could hear the moans and odd cries of the walking dead that roamed outside this rundown—and currently useless—baseball stadium on the outskirts of North Charleston.

With a heavy, booted foot, he nudged the female that lay sleeping, curled up under the bench. She moaned in her sleep. Yes, Garrett thought, I’m going to have to find a replacement soon. This one was losing its appeal.

“Wake up,” he growled, this time kicking hard enough to elicit a cry.

“Please,” the brunette in her mid-twenties rasped, “water.”

“I got somethin’ you can drink.” Garrett unzipped his jeans and fumbled with the fly to his underwear. A stream of urine splashed the woman’s face. Whether out of fear, or desperation, or thirst, he didn’t know, nor did he care, the woman who told him her name three days ago when he found her on the roof of a gutted mini-mart but he’d not taken the time to remember, opened her mouth. Alternating between gulps and gags, she took in mouthfuls of his piss.

Garrett sighed in relief as his bladder—full from the two six-packs of warm beer he’d drunk the past couple of hours— emptied. Shaking himself, he enjoyed the look of fear on her face as he paused before stuffing himself back in his pants.

Garrett took a step back to avoid the rivulet of urine that was inching towards his booted foot through the dust and occasional sunflower seed husk. He stared, albeit apathetically, at the dark haired, skinny-to-the-point-of-malnourished, bruised, and abraded woman who had curled up into herself again. Certainly it was not due to modesty. She’d been debased so severely that her nudity was of little import. No, she was trying to console herself from the horror of these past few days, and the potential horror to come.

“On your feet,” Garrett said, pushing his enormous frame towards the exit of the sour smelling dugout.

The skeletal woman staggered to her feet, weak from hunger and thirst. Her face showed the pain of every movement as she willed herself up the stairs.

“That gate, number seven, we’re going that way,” he pointed, then watched as she slunk past. He looked her up and down from behind. Her back was a Rorschach pattern of bruises. His eyes lingered on the slight curve of her ass. He could see darkened flecks of dried blood from one of his more recent excursions. She hadn’t even cried out that time.

Yes, it was time for a replacement. She was the third, and had lasted the shortest amount of time. Maybe it was time to leave the neighborhood and seek fresher grounds. He hadn’t even heard any gunshots in two days.

As they ascended the concrete stairs to the darkened concourse, the moans of the dead grew louder. The smell intensified to a degree that clung to the skin in a rank, sickly sweetness with a strong undercurrent of rot. As they left sunlight behind for the cool darkness, Garrett knew how to facilitate his escape from the stadium and rid himself of this now useless creature.

As he stepped up the last stair and gained the flat concrete walkway that once led countless fathers, sons, mothers, and daughters to beer gardens, popcorn vendors, souvenir stands, and restrooms, Garrett unzipped his pants. Out of reflexive fear, the woman stopped with a shudder and a sigh.

Garrett grabbed her by the hair and pushed her forward. A long counter was just past the turnstiles. A sign reading “WILL CALL BOOTH” still hung just above the counter in front of a pair of shuttered windows. Her body offered no resistance as he bent her forward.

He had never been all that interested in anal sex before. Mostly due to some shadowy memories he had from his childhood involving his mom’s best friend’s son. He swiped at those shadows and cleared his mind before it caused him to soften. With an angry thrust of his hips he tore his way into the body now bent to his whim and will.

No reaction.

As he shoved himself in and out against the initial, then eventually lessening resistance, he glanced to the right. Scores of milky-eyed onlookers strained to reach through the grate. Hands opened and closed on air, desperately wanting to feed upon the warm flesh only feet away.

Without warning, he wrapped one huge arm around the waist of the unresponsive creature slouched before him and spun to his right. Those grasping hands found hair. Skin. Now she screamed. As she was pulled flush to the big grate, her arms yanked forward while several sets of teeth sunk into the loose flesh. She screamed louder. Garrett’s thrusting became faster. The screams changed pitch as what was left of one arm came away and disappeared into the ravenous mob.

Garrett shuddered.

Pulling back, he shoved himself back into his pants, wiping his semen and blood smeared hands on the back of his jeans.

Like sharks they converged. Even those several yards away with no hope of reaching the gate came in stumbling, staggering steps. Maybe they can communicate, Garrett thought as he disappeared down a nearby tunnel.

Moments later he was gazing out a mostly clear archway. A few stragglers remained, but nothing he couldn’t take down or outdistance. Fumbling in the pocket of his leather duster he produced his bolt cutter. With a squeeze, the padlock hasp was severed. Pulling the grate open, he shoved the first clutching corpse back. His other hand came up with a metal spike.

A few of the zombies stumbled through the gate as Garrett strode past with as close to indifference as a person could while navigating his way through a loose cluster of partially masticated, animated, walking corpses. Within moments, the parking lot was behind him. Zigzagging through the neighborhood, he finally managed to shake the growing mob.

A large raindrop splatted on his nose. Garrett paused and glanced skyward. A big storm was coming. He glanced around for suitable shelter and decided on a dreary looking tavern. There was a second floor that he could gain access to and leave minimal evidence of having passed. He took a quick look around to ensure none of those things would see.

Tomorrow he would seek a new companion. Eventually, he imagined he would run out. By then, perhaps he’d just walk into a pack of those things and let it end.

“Nah,” Garrett laughed quietly as he slid the window open to discover a musty office…and several unopened boxes of Jim Beam.

***

Jenifer Slaten stared at the ground. Her toes curled up reflexively as she stepped onto the hot sand. All around her, the whimpers and cries of the remaining breathers could be heard. Those cries drifted on the salt air of what had once been paradise.

Atlantis.

Now, the once crystal pools were filled with slime…or worse. The resort where her mother had recently landed a job as the CFO was mostly burned down. The landmark ziggurat was really all that remained in an undamaged state.

Standing atop the monolith was Adaire. As usual, he was surrounded by no less than ten of his machete-wielding hench-men. Kneeling, or, more accurately, sprawled, at their feet lay Liza Gordy. Liza was their most recent “example.” Her crime was refusal to willfully be bedded by Adaire. Her refusal alone was not really the problem. In all truth, Adaire liked it when you struggled. The real crime was that Liza managed to bite Adaire. It was a shame that Liza wasn’t one of the infected. Jenifer hadn’t seen for herself, but she heard that part of his ear was missing.

For just a moment, Jenifer almost smiled. Only, it seemed the muscles in her face that assisted with that most basic function had forgotten how to work. She’d seen so much death, pain, and sadness in the past weeks?…months? She couldn’t even remember what day it was. She had no idea that her eighteenth birthday had come and gone two days ago.

Adaire was bellowing something through his megaphone in his thick Jamaican accent. Jenifer didn’t listen. Maybe some of the others still did, but she’d heard it enough. Like when her dad had “stolen food from the people.” It had been an orange, and he’d given it to her one morning as a surprise. Only, somebody had told. Then it was her mom for refusing to “perform services for the people.” She had actually broken free from the escorts taking her to Adaire’s cabana. Both had stood atop the pyramid as their “crimes” were announced. The verdict decided. The sentence carried out.

The long slide that once sparkled as water cascaded down, carrying happy tourists into the depths of an encapsulated tunnel where sharks drifted past, was now a chute that led to hordes of the dead. Then there were the screams. No longer of the thrilled patron; now, the screams were of pain. The sounds made when your flesh is gouged away in handfuls and torn by the teeth of ghouls.

Jenifer would not watch as Liza was tossed down the slide. And, even though she could hear the screams, she would not listen. Instead, her mind focused on the moans of the dead gathered against the hastily built barricades that kept this area of the once fantastic resort free from roamers.

Glancing skyward, she could see a smudge on the eastern horizon. Perhaps the rumor was true; a hurricane was bearing down on their island. She dared to offer up a prayer that it would hit them with everything it had. That way, when she pulled open the service gate near the living quarters, it was unlikely that she would be discovered. Even better…she may actually have a chance at escape.

***

Thad stared out the window of his room and tried to admire the beautiful California sunshine. If it weren’t for the sea of undead that stretched out for hundreds of yards in every direction, it would actually be a beautiful day.

“Come back to bed,” a sleep-slurred voice purred from behind him.

“There’s more and more every day, Bridgette.” Thad let the curtain flutter back into place and turned around.

They thought they’d been so clever; the parking lot full of cars wedged in like a Tetris puzzle. The hills leading up to the plateau that their hotel rested upon was strung with rows of razor wire. Only, those things didn’t care about any of that. They were oblivious as flesh was torn away. Eventually they were able to free themselves and inch closer.

When that mob of several thousand converged, there was nothing they could do. Sure, they’d torched a bunch, but the ones behind the first wave just kept coming and eventually, smothered the flames with their numbers. The ones trampled underfoot actually made their way under the parked cars. Hundreds of heads now poked up from between the cars. More continued to make their way on top of the cars. And nobody would say it, but it looked like those damned things are learning!

Thad remembered the first time he realized the horror of the possibility that something in those undead minds must in fact be functioning in at least some primitive way. He watched a young girl that had been no more than ten when something had eaten off the side of her face and burrowed into her stomach. She stood at the edge of the cars just swaying back and forth. Then, one of the zombies beside her toppled and fell. She stepped onto her fallen comrade and then just tipped over, sprawling on the hood of the car she’d stood in front of for countless hours apparently waiting for just such an event. Then, she stepped to the edge of the car’s hood and paused. He remembered waiting to see her stumble into the gap between her current and the next vehicle. Instead, she toppled forward, sprawling on the next car’s trunk! Two days later, she was halfway across the sea of parked cars. Obviously somebody else noticed, because a shot rang out from a few floors below him. She toppled back and vanished as a bullet blew out the back of her skull.

Nobody wanted to admit it, but others had since come across the cars in the same manner. Some were shot, but as the numbers grew exponentially, none of the snipers kept up with the task for a couple of reasons. First, it was becoming clear that it was as pointless as spitting in the ocean. Second, fallen bodies acted as bridges.

Thad glanced at his watch. Sitting at the foot of the bed, he reached down for his balled up socks and began to dress.

“Do you have to go?” Bridgette sat up and slunk over behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her cheek on his left shoulder.

“Yep,” Thad tried to hide his boredom.

“Why do you always get these jobs?” she said in her annoying baby-doll voice that she thought was cute, but actually made his skin crawl.

“Because it allows me choice of rooms, pick of the haul, and lets me get a look around,” Thad stopped trying to hide his annoyance.

“What’s to look at better than this?” Bridgette rose up on her knees and turned his head with one hand.

Thad’s eyes drifted from her pretty oval face framed by thick, chestnut-brown hair, and eyes the color of amber. He paused at her round breasts with perfect pink nipples and unconsciously licked his lips. Down to her perfectly curved waist that seemed built just to fit his hands. Further down, and he felt something stir down below at the sight of her smoothly shaved—

“Well?” her voice brought his eyes back to hers.

“Huh?”

“I said, it’s about time you told that militant bitch to find a new gopher. Every shit job that comes up seems to get your name attached to it. It’s almost like she is trying to get you killed, and every single time, you just nod and do what she asks. You might be fucking me, but she sure as hell seems to be fucking you,” Bridgette said with uncharacteristic anger.

“And she can think that as long as she wants.” Thad stood, pulling on his pants and buttoning them. “All the way up to the point when I am ready.”

“Ready for what? How come you won’t tell me anything about this plan?” Bridgett crossed her arms across her breasts and gave an over exaggerated pout. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Explicitly, pet,” Thad said, and kissed her right on that jutting lower lip. “But my experience is that women love to gossip. You could let out one sliver of information by total accident…and that would put an end to my little scheme in a hurry.”

Not waiting for a retort or further questions, he turned and headed out, grabbing his leather jacket from the chair next to the door on the way. JoJo was at the end of the hall waiting with two packs and their weapon belts.

“Long blades?” Thad asked as he cinched the belt he’d been handed.

“Keith has ‘em downstairs.” JoJo cocked his head towards the doorway. “He’s already at the exit hall waiting for us.”

“Dinah down there, too?” Thad asked.

JoJo smiled. “She’ll be there to lock the door when we leave, and watch Doc check us head-to-toe when we get back. She’ll be the one to pop a round in our skull if we have so much as a scratch.”

“Yeah, well this is the last trip,” Thad scoffed.

“You think we’ll have it ready?”

“I’m positive.”

“You slipped out again last night, didn’t you?” JoJo scowled. This was the third time—that he knew of—where Thad left the hotel on his own to tend to their “project.”

“Yep.” Thad smiled slyly. “Slipped two of those pills you gave me in Bridgette’s drink. Fucked her to sleep, and was in and out before she came to.”

They reached the landing of the ground floor. Thad put a hand on JoJo’s shoulder. “We finish on this run and leave tonight. And I’m not taking Bridgette.”

“Still don’t trust her?”

“Never did, never will. Ever since I found that cigarette butt on my balcony…I’m positive this is some sort of arrangement for Dinah to keep tabs on me.”

“It’s your piece of pussy, man. You wanna ditch it, that’s on you,” JoJo sighed. “Pro’bly ain’t much to spare out there. Mother fucker just wants to cast his off like it ain’t no big deal!”

“I’ll always have you.” Thad patted the man on his broad shoulders.

“Sick bastard,” JoJo snorted and pushed open the door.

Keith was leaning against a metal door that would lead outside. As expected, Dinah was also there with two guys Thad recognized, but didn’t know by name. Both held shotguns on their hips like they were posing for some demented NRA poster.

“You’re late,” Dinah snapped.

“Got stuck in traffic,” Thad dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Besides, it ain’t like those crates are gonna go anywhere.”

“Unless somebody else finds them,” Dinah growled.

“Yeah, ‘cause we’ve seen lots of live folks just wandering around lately,” JoJo whispered not quite under his breath.

Keith snorted and quickly tried to pretend he was inspecting one of the three swords he had under his arm. Thad laughed out loud making no effort to hide his contempt.

Dinah glared at Thad for a moment. Then, as if realizing that she was clearly showing that he’d gotten to her, she gained her composure and resumed her normal outward expression of cold authority.

“Be at this door by sunset,” she said as she unlocked the big padlock that kept the additional precaution of a heavy chain secured tightly.

“Or?” JoJo spoke up as he buckled his shoulder scabbard and slid the long blade in its place.

“Or you figure out how to survive until sunrise the next day,” Dinah snapped. “I will not have lights down on the ground floor after dark. Those things seem to be able to home in on even the briefest hint of light, and if they start clustering around this door, well…”

“Then you’d all be trapped inside and die slowly of hunger and dehydration.” Keith handed Thad his sword now that he’d strapped on all his belts and the shoulder scabbard.

Dinah’s expression flickered on the edge of anger again. She hated letting these two-bit, petty criminals get to her. As a police officer, she’d gotten accustomed to the last word…her tenure as leader of this band of survivors was in jeopardy as of late. Three of her ten section leaders—the individuals that she placed in charge of each of the floors they currently lived on— had challenged her right to be the person of authority at the last community meeting.

Dinah knew that order and discipline was the key to survival now. For the first several weeks, nobody questioned a single decision she’d made. Now it seemed as if the shock was wearing off. People were beginning to call for votes on some of her rules or plans. And these three men were probably the worst agitators. She’d thought often of how ironic it was that three of her most frequent collars were now cohabitants.

All three were homeless vagrants with multiple arrests. Now that the world had fallen apart, they were all living much more luxuriously than they had before this unimaginable catastrophe. She’d decided early on that these three were her most expend-able asset.

However, she knew that she would need to dangle a carrot. So, one by one, she’d struck a bargain with the miscreant trio. A choice of living quarters and permission to claim certain “luxuries” they would acquire on their foraging runs. It was no surprise that booze was the luxury of choice, along with—and she marveled at their uncanny ability to locate—an impressive quantity of marijuana. Still, if that was all it took to keep those three subjugated, it was a small price.

Lately, they’d stopped hiding their antagonistic attitude towards her. Worse, they were beginning to affect the other residents. She’d considered kicking them out. Only, now that the dead had converged in such great numbers on their location, nobody but those three would venture out.

When they began losing at least one person per foraging mission, the volunteer pool dried up. And just like any puddle, all that was left was the scum at the bottom. As much as she hated to admit it, and she never would out loud, she needed these three.

“Ahem.” Keith shouldered past, snapping her reverie.

“Just be at the door by sunset.” Dinah spun on her heel and walked away clinging to the empty satisfaction of having the final word.

“Bitch!” JoJo called as the door slammed shut and the rattling sounds of the chains being replaced turned a few heads in their direction.

***

A lone figure sat on the roof of a visibly well-looted 7-11. Below him, swarms of the undead milled about, heedless of his presence. He popped the cap on the last Mountain Dew and took a long drink. The lukewarm fluid seemed almost tasteless after the entire package of cookies he’d just eaten.

The pressure in his gut built fast and he had to press his lips together tightly and cover his mouth so as not to belch loudly and attract attention. Sitting where he was, he could see his next destination: Jim’s Outdoor Supply.

Surveying the building from this distance of only three blocks, the place looked remarkably untouched. This was his greatest stroke of luck in days. Glancing at his hand, he frowned. Well, he mused, if I don’t count this. He flexed his hand for emphasis. The indents and bruising where he’d been bitten still hurt a bit. He was certain that every time he dozed off would be his last time as a member of the living; but day after day for the past week…nothing.

Cary stood up, careful to ensure he was out of sight of the mob. He dug a golf ball from his pocket and sought his target. Across the street and two buildings over would do perfectly: Ann’s Doll Emporium.

Seriously?

“Sorry, Ann.” Cary took aim and threw hard. The huge picture window, painted with big Ragged Ann and Andy dolls in each lower corner, shattered. The noise was incredible compared to the recent relative silence.

Bodies turned and moved towards this new distraction. The backside of the store’s parking lot was mostly clear. It wasn’t likely to get much better. Three blocks would seem like three miles, but he had to try. Cary lowered himself and dropped to the ground. Two zombies were already shambling his way.

12

Geeks, Girls, and Guns

Kevin walked up to the dilapidated Ford Escort that sat alone in what seemed to be an endless parking lot that stretched off into the horizon in every direction. He peered in the driver’s side window.

Empty.

Turning, he leaned against the door and took a deep breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Never having been a smoker, Kevin suddenly wished he could fish a cigarette from his shirt pocket and light up. It always looked as if folks who did such things in movies and on television found some sort of peace.

A dull thud made him jump. Kevin spun and staggered back a few steps at what he saw. Cary stared back at him through the driver’s side window. But that was impossible. He’d just looked in and seen the car was empty. Seriously, there was really no place to hide a body in such a small space.

A hand came up to the window and pawed in futility. Kevin stared into the milky, black-bloodshot eyes of the undead caricature of the man who had once been his friend.

“I’m sorry, Cary,” he whispered.

Pulling his nine millimeter from its holster, he lined up the shot. It wouldn’t be right to leave Cary like that; trapped in a beat up Ford Escort as a zombie. He wrapped his finger around the trigger. As he started to squeeze, his arm began to tremble. The slight tremor quickly changed to violent shaking. He dropped his arm with a cry of sorrow and frustration. Zombie or not, Kevin couldn’t reconcile the thought of putting a bullet through Cary’s head.

“I’m sorry,” Kevin cried. “I’m sorry.”

Cary’s face pulled back from the glass. His hand pressed firmly like he was trying to pop the window out. Then, with a speed unlike anything Kevin had seen from any zombie, Cary’s head shot forward exploding through the glass.

“Kill me!” Cary’s zombie screamed.

Kevin sat bolt upright. Searching frantically, it took him a few seconds to remember where he was. They had pulled into a rest area about five miles east of a town called Zanesville. After a thorough walk-through, it was decided that this was not a bad place to stop for the night. It was remote, and they hadn’t seen a zombie or any sign of movement—living or dead—in almost a half hour.

The surrounding countryside was relatively flat, and the biggest obstruction was the concrete building that housed men’s and women’s bathrooms. This allowed everybody the luxury of an actual toilet…minus the running water. Still, it was better than a bush.

After they parked and everyone climbed out to stretch their legs, Mike and Darrin did a search to make sure the bathrooms—as well as the handful of abandoned cars—were empty of surprises. Once the “all clear” was given, the senator and her daughters quickly vanished into the bathroom.

Senator Angela Bergman. While she was certainly a big deal, it was actually the daughter, Shari, who he had recognized but couldn’t recall where from. That was because he wasn’t into bubblegum-pop music. Shari Bergman was the flavor-of-the-week in the Top-40 music scene. Only, in the past month, the big scandal involved Erin, her fourteen-year-old sister. Little Erin Bergman was pregnant by Shari’s manager. The tabloid shows and magazines shifted into sleaze-journalism overdrive. Additionaly, the big cable news networks—not much better than the tabloids in Kevin’s opinion—had been in an absolute tizzy.

Now, Senator Bergman was simply Angela, and her daughters were three frightened girls thankful to be alive. The four currently slept atop the roof of the bathrooms. Kevin, Mike, and Darrin took turns on watch. Kevin exiled himself to the U-Haul’s cab when it was his turn to catch some zees.

Taking a few deep, steadying breaths, he scooped up his gun and holster along with a sturdy hand-axe that he kept in a loop on his belt. Climbing out of the truck, he waved to Mike who sat on the rear bumper of Darrin’s recently accquired firetruck. Mike raised a hand in acknowledgement.

Walking across the moonlit parking area, Kevin marvelled at the quiet. It was simply amazing. Also a bit unsettling as each footstep seemed amplified and even the sound of his own breathing carried on the cool evening breeze. As he reached the rear of the firetruck, a tremor of anxiety rippled through him and settled in the pit of his stomach. While Mike had at least been cordial, Darrin still spoke to him only when it was necessary.

“Drink?” Mike offered a brown bag containing a bottle.

Kevin accepted, then stopped suddenly as a familiar smell invaded his nostrils. “Is this…?”

“Schnaps.” Mike nodded and smiled wide enough for it to show even in the shadows.

“Where on earth did you find it?” Kevin asked. “I mean, all the booze was in the back of the El Camino.”

“Not all. I had a pint under my seat. I pulled it out when I thought the windshield was gonna burst. When things began to look like I might actually live,” Mike shrugged, “I tucked it in my pocket.”

“Literally facing death, and you worry about a pint of Schnaps. Some folks might consider that to be an alcohol problem,” Kevin chuckled and took a sip.

“Yeah, well,” Mike accepted the bottle and took a much bigger drink, “those folks are most likely dead.”

“Harsh.”

A sudden cry caused both men to jump. Each had gone for his gun out of reflex, but both stopped short of drawing their weapon.

“I’m pretty sure that’s Erin,” Mike answered Kevin’s raised eyebrows. “All that obnoxious attitude she throws out when she’s awake is probably how she’s coping with being so damned scared.”

“Well, she is just a kid,” Kevin offered, his gaze focused on the squat concrete building.

“And knocked up.”

“That can’t help.”

The two drifted back to silence, passing the bottle back and forth until it was empty. Eventually, Mike excused himself, wandered into the bathroom, returned, and climbed up into the back of the firetruck. Moments later, his snoring drifted on the night air.

Kevin walked around the rest area, scanning for any sign of movement. He heard Erin cry out a few more times. Once, he thought he heard quiet voices, most likely Angela, providing some comfort. So far, the four females basically kept to themselves. They ate apart, slept apart, and usually did not venture outside of the vehicles until the caravan stopped for the day.

That first evening they had been giddy and talkative, even Angela. But by the next day it seemed as if the rescue was long forgotten. The Bergman women—well, one girl and three women—closed ranks. What was worse, Angela seemed to believe she still held some form of authority. It wasn’t that she acted snobbish, it was simply that even though she did nothing to contribute to their overall situation, she would delegate tasks and insist that she have a say in the many on-the-fly choices that were made daily.

Yesterday, Mike finally lost his cool after a refuel stop. They spotted a Shell station all by itself just off the interstate. Just as they had on several previous occasions, Mike, Darrin, and Kevin arranged fueling order by radio. It would be Darrin’s firetruck, then the U-Haul.

Kevin could hear arguing in the backgound as he and Mike sorted the details. It was Darrin and Angela. She, Erin, and Shari opted to ride in the firetruck. That left him driving in awkward silence with Ruth. Finally, Mike came back on the radio, “Tell Ruth to be ready to meet up with her mom and sisters.”

“We won’t be sparing any of the three of us!” Darrin’s voice yelled in the background.

Kevin glanced over at Ruth who returned his look with nothing more than a raised eyebrow. He knew she had been some sort of lawyer prior to all this. He briefly wondered how many people on the witness stand withered under that look and babbled. Well, he wasn’t about to say a single word. He turned his gaze back to the road and focused an inordinate amount of attention on the upcoming off-ramp. He could feel Ruth’s brown eyes boring into the side of his head and considered asking her what the hell she wanted, but knew that would be playing right into her hand.

“If I’m getting out, I’ll need a weapon.” Her voice wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, all of the Bergman’s had very pleasant voices, with almost an underlying purr.

“Take the machete under the seat,” Kevin said.

“And what would you expect me to do with that?” Ruth asked.

“The instructions are fairly simple,” Kevin smirked. “Grip the handle and swing the cutting end at the head of any zombie that gets close.”

“I’d prefer a gun.”

“I’m sure you would,” Kevin said, trying not to sound exasperated. “But the first gunshot will be a dinner-bell to every zombie within miles. We face less liklihood of being over-whelmed if we make as little noise as possible.”

“Okay.”

Kevin couldn’t help but cast a glance Ruth’s direction. Surely she was setting him up for a bigger argument. She was holding the blade in her left hand—hmmm, southpaw—and turning it side to side, hefting it to get an idea of its weight.

“Remember, when that blade cleaves into a skull, this ain’t the movies. The blade will often times get a bit stuck.” Kevin let off the gas as they reached the off-ramp.

“If I chop off the head, will that work?” Ruth asked.

“Only in that the body will fall.” His estimation of her raised just a bit.

“Like a rattlesnake then,” Ruth stated matter-of-factly.

“Huh?” Now Kevin was perplexed.

“You can cut the head off a rattlesnake, but it will still bite you for a while out of reflex.”

“Yeah,” Kevin had been very impressed in that moment by Ruth, “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”

They pulled into the truckstop and quickly found the cap for the gasoline storage tanks. Nobody was really talking much, and there was a lot of tension above the norm—mostly between Darrin and Angela. Still, the Bergmans clustered together and held some sort of meeting. Then, as a group, they made for the main building which was obviously some sort of store. At least it had been. It also contained a diner. That was probably the source of the fire that had brought down half the place.

While Darrin methodically dispatched the few roaming zombies drawn by the group’s arrival, Mike and Kevin filled the vehicles as well as a fifty-gallon drum that they discovered the day before. Once it was topped off, Kevin called for the Bergman women to load up.

“We’re drawing a lot of attention!” Darrin called as he began backing towards the big red firetruck.

“Ladies!” Mike bellowed. “We really gotta go now!”

There was no response or movement from the charred remnants of the building. Kevin drew the longsword from its shoulder harness and began jogging to where he had seen the gals duck inside. Along the way he simply steered wide of the slow moving undead that chose him as a hopeful meal-du-jour. He’d have to fight his way back, and would save his energy for that possibility.

Just before he stepped up on the curb that ran along the length of the place, the Bergmans—led by Angela—came strolling out of the tinted glass door like they were on a Sunday outing. To her credit, it was Ruth who took immediate stock of the situation. She urged the others to make for the vehicles.

By some amazing stroke of luck, everybody made it back—the women with arms full of grocery bags—and they were quickly back on the road. There was a considerable amount of arguing in the firetruck. Darrin and Angela were almost nose-to-nose like a big league manager and an umpire jawing over who was indeed the biggest idiot. In the U-Haul, Ruth was only mimimally apologetic.

“I understand things were a bit uncoordinated back there,” she spoke in level tones, but it was curt enough to have Kevin on edge. “We needed some supplies that you boys failed to load up on. Granted, we lacked the haste we should’ve had in the situation.”

“We have food, water, weapons,” Kevin ticked the items off on his fingers, “I fail to see where we’ve been negligent in our preparation. We have basic first aid stuff, blankets, even some luxuries like books and music.”

“And just what exactly do you have by way of feminine necessities?” Ruth asked.

“Feminine necessities,” Kevin nodded. Of course! It hadn’t occurred to him—or the others most likely—that there were certain hygiene requirements that Ruth, Angela, Shari, and Erin would require. He could see in the large bag she had placed at her feet between her knees every single item that made guys squirm at the checkout stand of the grocery store with their wife or girlfriend…or mother.

“Good thing more women weren’t on the roads.” Ruth pulled out a box of tampons and waved them at Kevin.

“Okay! Okay! I get it!” Kevin exclaimed, clearly uncom-fortable.

“Price check on register-six for Playtex Pearl Tampons,” Ruth affected a nasally voice and shouted out her rolled down window.

They shared some laughs and were still having an okay time of it, all things considered, when the rest area came into view and Mike announced that they would make camp. That was when Kevin realized he hadn’t seen any walking dead for a bit.

They pulled into the abandoned facility, the arguments coming from the firetruck making both he and Ruth glance at the other with raised eyebrows.

“You pull another stunt like that and I will leave you and your daughters, pregnant or not, to fend for yourselves! And I think we all remember how successful you were last time.” Mike climbed down from the firetruck and walked straight towards the only zombie present—a rather hideous looking biker missing its left arm. Fortunately there was no motorcycle helmet to complicate things. He swung his spiked baseball bat and put it down. By then, Darrin was at Mike’s side and the two stomped into the open restrooms. Not much more was said by anyone the rest of the evening. Ruth joined her mom and sisters, and that had been it. Kevin spent his silent evening contemplating the box of condoms he’d seen in the bag of “feminine necessities.”

A brilliant flash to the west yanked Kevin’s mind back to the present. On the horizon, a dull orange glow shone like the trailing seconds just after sunset. It was focused in an area that, if he extended his arm and made a fist, was just over a handswidth wide. Something substantial had just blown up.

Whatever it was would be far enough away not to be a concern. Still, it would likely alter their plans. It had to be Columbus. A fire that size would not only draw zombies for miles, it would also mobilize any in the area. In short, it would be chaos.

He walked over to the U-Haul and pulled out his trusty AAA Road Atlas. If they swung north, they could take some state-route roads up and around. There would be an extra day’s travel through the boondocks where fuel might be sketchy, but they could come down the other side of the Hoover Reservoir and resume their trek via the interstate with what would hopefully be little complication.

With the rising sun came the eventual stirrings. By then, a large black smudge of smoke could be seen rising high into the sky. Nobody seemed to have any arguments about his proposed route change, not even Darrin who seemed to make it a point to find fault with anything he’d offered up in the way of suggestions since Wheeling.

There was still a lot of tension in the air. That, Kevin thought, is why nobody is arguing with me. After a breakfast of canned fruit and dry cereal, washed down with the previous night’s boiled water, it was time to go. Kevin climbed into the cab of his truck to discover both Ruth and Shari waiting.

“I can’t take another day of the constant arguing,” Shari said as she folded her arms across her chest, daring Kevin to protest in any way.

“Okay.” He turned over the engine and, after a glance back to ensure everybody was ready to roll, headed out onto the highway.

***

“There’s one of those phony-ass campgrounds just ahead.” Kevin pointed to the gaudy orange and brown sign at the top of the small ridge bordering the right hand side of the road.

“I don’t think anybody feels much like camping,” Shari muttered. She was sick of being ignored. All morning Kevin and Ruth carried on talking to each other like she wasn’t even there. She wasn’t used to being left out, and especially by boys.

“We won’t be staying,” Kevin laughed. “But, if my guess is correct…” his voice trailed off as he glanced across to Ruth who was nibbling on her lower lip and nodding. He noticed she did that nibbling thing whenever she was thinking seriously. He found it kinda sexy.

“RVs.” Ruth rubbed her hands together in anticipation.

“Yep,” Kevin agreed. “We could travel much more comfortably.”

“And not have to sleep outside?” Shari’s eyes closed with a look of ecstacy.

“Next town we reach, Newark I think, we could maybe dredge up some stuff to toughen the rigs up a bit,” Kevin said.

“Like in Stripes?” Shari asked, determined to stay in the conversation. As soon as she said it, she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. She certainly wasn’t doing anything to lessen the idea that she was little more than eye-candy with a pretty singing voice. She focused her gaze straight ahead and waited for the laughter.

“Well…” Kevin paused and Shari waited with dread for the condescending comment she knew was coming. “We probably won’t have the cool flame-thrower or the computers. But, basically,” Kevin flashed a sincere smile and nodded, “yeah.”

Ruth patted her sister’s shoulder. Shari glanced over and saw an approving smile. She faced forward again, feeling a warmth on her cheeks. She was actually blushing.

“Ruth, get on the radio and let ‘em know what we’re thinking,” Kevin said in a clipped tone that made it clear this was not going to be a topic open for debate.

Ten minutes later, a U-Haul and a firetruck pulled up to the gatehouse of Rory’s D-LUX Kampgrounds and RV Park.

The good news was that there didn’t appear to be too many of those things wandering about. The bad news was that there were, at best, only a few useable rigs to choose from.

“One for everybody?” Shari glanced back and forth between her sister and Kevin. “Everybody but Erin that is, and she can’t drive anyways.”

“We should probably stick to three at the most,” Kevin said, watching an old man who’d probably had trouble walking before becoming a zombie struggle to get around the lowered arm of the entry-gate.

“Why?” Shari struggled to keep the whine out of her voice.

“Those things eat up a lot of gas,” Kevin answered.

“It’s not like we have to worry about a fuel shortage or how expensive gas is,” Shari argued.

“No, but we do have to worry about them.” He gestured to the handful of undead stumbling their direction. “Every time we stop to fill up, we risk getting nipped.”

Ruth noticed Shari seem to sink down in her seat. She knew that her sister had been frustrated all morning. Quite frankly, she had taken a little satisfaction in the fact that this guy was obviously not starstruck, and seemed more interested in having intelligent conversation than in oogling her more famous sibling. Still, she’d seen a change in Shari since their rescue a few days back. She seemed to actually relax and find relief in not being “Teen-Queen, Shari Bergman” anymore.

“Hang on.” Kevin instinctively put an arm across the front of Ruth and Shari. Stomping on the gas pedal, he launched the U-Haul forward. The reflective-striped arm of the entry-gate exploded into splinters and the old man went flying uncere-moniously through the air.

Kevin pulled into the open grass of a now hard to make out baseball field. Darrin pulled up alongside, and everybody poured out of the two vehicles. Angela and Erin were the only ones not brandishing a weapon.

Ruth looked tentatively at a rather large man wearing the remnants of a softball jersey—Sam’s Softserve Softballers—as he stumbled towards her, arms outstretched and mouth open. She held a spiked baseball bat cocked back like she was at the plate.

“Swing down onto the top of its head,” Kevin called as he moved towards an elderly couple. “Pretend it’s a game. Don’t think of it as human. And don’t be scared. This is just a big three-dee video game.”

“I hated video games,” Ruth said through clenched teeth.

He was only a few steps from her, and paused with his longsword just for a moment. He wanted to see how she handled her first target. Ruth raised her weapon above her head and brought it down hard. Softball Player seemed to look up at the last second. The steel spikes drove through face and forehead without prejudice. It dropped to its knees and then collapsed face first…snatching the bat from Ruth’s hands.

Old Man and Old Woman reached out, hands pawing at Kevin’s arm. He shoved them backwards, watching Ruth shake her left hand in obvious pain. Two more zombies were closing from Ruth’s side, one in black, blood-crusted coveralls, missing his right and left arm from just above the elbows. The other was a young girl in pigtails. Her chest cavity had been torn open, ribs jutted out obscenely—advertising what had to have been a particularly gruesome death.

Old Man was reaching for his sleeve. Kevin drove the tip of his blade up through the underside of its jaw until he felt a momentary resistance which would be the top of the inside of its skull. A quick pull, and the blade came free. One more backhand motion removed the top third of Old Woman’s head.

Ruth cried out, Kevin spun fearing he’d not dispatched his two quick enough. He needn’t have worried. Ruth was already pulling a long-bladed buck knife free from where it had driven into the top of Pigtail’s head. Coveralls was already down, head cleaved at an angle from the left ear and out the right side of its mouth, Shari standing over the corpse with a mix of pride and awe etched on her face. Both of her hands clutched the machete with a white-knuckled fierceness.

“Hand still stings from having the bat wrenched from it,” Ruth said, wincing a bit and shaking the hand again as she walked over to stand next to Kevin.

“Forgot to mention to pull back after delivering the blow,” Kevin apologized.

“Thanks,” Ruth said flatly. “C’mon, sis.”

Side-by-side the trio moved in to confront the rest of the undead inhabitants of the RV Park. Darrin and Mike were likewise engaged. Meanwhile, Angela and Erin seemed to simply drift in the wake of the deaths. Occassionally, they would yell and point.

Twenty minutes later, the park was clear of any free-roaming undead. It took the better part of the next hour checking and clearing the vehicles. By nightfall, the RVs were parked in a large pentagon, bumper to bumper.

As dinner was finished, Darrin stood up and stretched. “Tomorrow, we utilize all the cleaning supplies we can find and scrub out the three we decide to take. We fill the gas tanks and inventory what we have in reserve. Then, we reinforce those babies. Mike and I will take the firetruck up the road. I think the sign said Newark was twelve miles away. We’ll find a home repair or hardware store that will hopefully still be intact. I want to move quick so it will just be Mike and I, but we’ll stay in touch on the radio except when we actually hit the store. Everybody needs to do their part.”

“I suppose that last remark was directed at me,” Angela snapped.

“Yep.” Mike dusted his hands together and stood as well. “And if you don’t help—”

“What?” Angela cut him off with cold contempt.

“We’ll leave you,” Mike shrugged.

With that, he and Darrin picked up their weapons and disappeared into one of the RVs. Kevin glanced at the four faces that now all turned to focus on him.

“Guess I better go,” Kevin broke the silence. “I’ve got first watch.”

Feverish whispering started before he’d even climbed between the front and rear bumpers of two RVs. He had no idea what was being said, nor did he have the desire to be the sole target of feminine scorn. He found a picnic table that sat apart from everything and took a seat. Laying his longsword on the benchseat, resting the bat across his knees, Kevin watched the moon slowly climb across the sky.

Before too long he found his mind drifting—thinking of Ruth. So engrossed in his thoughts, Kevin never heard the footsteps coming closer. His chin came to rest atop his chest and his eyes closed.

A hand clasped his shoulder shattering the pleasant state of relaxation. Not fully in control of himself, Kevin yelped in fright. His body flew forward gracelessly and sprawled on the ground. Instincts came online quickly and he rolled onto his back, fumbling for the handle of the bat or the longsword. Both of which had fallen to the ground. A shadowy form loomed above. The creature hissed and reached down for Kevin who discovered, much to his dismay, that neither weapon landed within arm’s reach.

13

Illusions

It has been two weeks and, try as I might, I just can’t find anything wrong here. I live in a modernized version of the Old West. People work, play, and fight as they have done since time began. There are soldiers scattered throughout the population, but they aren’t the only ones carrying weapons. In fact, yesterday, a party of about forty people were brought in—five had to be put down—and now the civilians outnumber the soldiers.

Here at Serenity Base, everybody is expected to pull their own weight. If you are older than fifteen, you carry a weapon …after you’ve been through formal training. The soldiers aren’t stingy with their gear either. I’ve been checked out on a .50 caliber machinegun. One of my jobs is manning a watchtower, covering incoming and outgoing patrols.

Our group has maintained a loose sort of cohesion. We live in the same section and get together when schedules allow. Ian is the hardest to meet up with as he is already part of the external foraging team. Also, Joseph Wiser and Aaron Doss both left today on their first mission. It was strange seeing them suited up in all that protective gear with weapons jutting out from every direction.

Barry and Randi Jenkins work at the school. Judging by the stuff that Thalia brings home every night, the curriculum is partially survival skills mixed in with the classic “Three R’s.” Dave declined a position at the school and took a job in the infirmary. That is where Teresa and Jamie work as well.

Speaking of those two, I consider myself a fairly progressive guy, but I was the only one who seemed to show any concern that those kids, Teresa and Jamie , chose to live together in the same apartment. I guess it’s just another sign of this crazy new world.

All in all, this place isn’t bad. The worst part is dealing with what happens with the survivors that are brought in. This is the only aspect of operations that the military has exercised that I have a hard time with. If somebody is infected, they have two choices: medical execution via lethal injection; or, they are quarantined until they turn…and then drilled in the head.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand the reason. Only, it just seems so harsh when you’re watching it being done. I’d like to think that I could be strong enough to do what’s right. I still have bad dreams of that first night and that girl in the sports car.

Today is one of those days. Those five people from that large group were put down this morning. One of them was a child. Only six or seven years old. He was in a coma when they arrived. At least nobody had to look in his eyes when they plugged the needle into his IV.

Doctor Zahn oversees most of the autopsies, and Dave has been on hand for a couple. After somebody is given the lethal injection, a surgical drill is used on their forehead—saves on bullets. Then, Zahn goes in and looks around. I was surprised that one of our group was given access to something like that. I guess I keep waiting for the military to act shady…withold information like they do in every thriller or apocolypse-type story. But here, it just ain’t happening.

***

It is almost sunset, and there’s been a buzz around the compound since just after lunch. The airbase in Idaho was overrun. There is little doubt that almost everybody there is gone. Only one helicopter and two jets made it out. The helo landed here about thirty minutes ago.

This is what we know according to the pilot who is being hooked up to an IV this very minute. He has a bite on his right hand, but he wanted to make a very detailed report before being put down. I was in the infirmary picking up vitamins for Thalia, so I overheard most of what he said.

“…they came in waves unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It was like an entire city population gathering and coming at our fences with too much mass for anything other than solid concrete to stop them. There were hundreds already up against our perimeter, but this…mob…yeah, a mob of undead, literally flowed over them and crushed ‘em underfoot.”

The rest of his account was scattered. The bottom line was that whoever was in charge felt that they were safe behind that fence. The consensus is that the coming and going of the various aircraft was like a dinner bell. Not only did they draw the local population, but it seems they attracted zombies from miles away.

I’ve noticed a single-mindedness in them that would support those theories. In fact, we’ve been using that to find possible survivors. If zombies are crowded around a particular location, an attempt is made to contact any individuals who may be inside.

On his last patrol, Ian said they rolled into a small town. Of course that is a relative term that has changed in definition. What used to mean less than fifteen thousand now means less than two thousand. He said that there was a small mom-and-pop store, an outdoor supply place that once specialized in hunting and fishing gear—it was entirely gutted by the time they arrived—and a couple of local businessess like the town real-estate agency and a souveneir shop. There were also a few homes, and a couple dozen trailers scattered on wide-spread plots of land.

One of the homes had about a hundred of those things around it; all of them milling around trying to get close enough to slap on the walls, doors, and windows. The team cleared them out and went to look inside. Obviously whoever had holed up in there did so after being bitten. An emaciated woman was discovered in a bathroom clawing at the door; a nasty bite on her left forearm the evidence of her fate.

I imagine this rumor about the Idaho base’s demise will cause quite a stir. I don’t imagine that news like this will stay confined for long. This place is lousy with keeping secrets. Nobody can hold back even the tiniest morsel of news—whether it holds a grain of truth or not.

***

I hate being right. I had to get Teresa to come over because we are tripling the guns around the peremiter. Even with the trenches, razor wire, electrified fencing, and our remoteness on this hilltop, there is renewed concern of being overrun by zombies. The last thing I wanted to do tonight was leave Thalia. Strange. I’ve never been a parent, never wanted to be a parent. Now, well…I’m sorta in that role, and it is super weird.

When I was putting on my gear, I heard a little sniffle behind me. I turned to discover Thalia in my doorway. She had that giant stuffed bear Ian had given her under one arm, but the other hand was planted firmly on her hip (a gesture she’d gotten from Teresa no doubt).

“Papi?” she just started calling me that one day. I tried to correct her and get her to call me Steve, but every time I did, she’d develpop this peculiar language barrier.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“Are the monsters coming?”

I stood there for a moment. There’d once been a time where it was okay to lie to your children in order to give them piece of mind. Rules change.

“They might.” That was as close to full-disclosure as I would get for now.

“Me and you and Teresa take the truck?” She walked in my room and picked up the webbed belt that held my spare magazines and handed it to me. As I strapped it on, she went to my dresser and grabbed my chain-mesh lined, studded leather gloves.

I sat at the foot of the bed and laced my boots tight, “If it becomes necessary.” I glanced up at the little girl standing patiently before me with a pair of reinforced gloves designed to prevent being bitten on the hand by a zombie. We were going through this like I was heading to the office. And, I guess, in some way, that is how we had come to deal with it.

I took the gloves and scooped Thalia up in my arms, setting her crossways in my lap. I leaned my forehead against hers in what had become our version of a kiss and hug. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Thalia. I promise.”

She pulled back just a bit, her eyes blinked, and I noticed just how long and dark her eyelashes were. “I know, Papi.”

For her, it was just that simple. The adult that she counted on…relied upon…had spoken. My words were sufficient. Then, she wrapped her little arms around my neck and squeezed tight. I think that is the most profound hug I’ve ever experienced.

“Anybody home?” Teresa called from the living room. In a flash, Thalia was off my lap and racing out to greet her.

I scooped up my gloves in one hand, 30.06 in the other. Even though I man a .50 caliber machinegun, I always carry my own arsenal: rifle with a scope, a pair of Navy Colt .45 semi-automatics, hand-axe, and three-foot machete.

“Joseph just radioed in…they are bringing in seven with their supply haul. He says they found a fuel tanker.” Teresa held Thalia in her arms and had produced an honest-to-goodness Hershey bar which was accepted with the giggle and squeal that I’m fairly certain can only be produced by little girls.

“So he and Aaron are doing okay?”

“He said he wants to learn how to drive the Bradley APC,” Teresa laughed in that way she has that reminds me of how my mom would react when I was little and would say I wanted to be James Bond or Han Solo.

“Who? Joseph or Aaron?” For some unknown reason, it made a difference to me.

“Aaron.” Teresa seemed to understand why I asked. “Can you even imagine?”

Considering that all of them, Teresa included, were in high school just about a month or so ago, I couldn’t honestly imagine any of this. Which reminded me—

“So…how’s Jamie ?” I couldn’t resist.

“Let’s not start this again.” Teresa set Thalia down and walked into the kitchen.

“I’m only asking.”

“No,” Teresa made no attempt to hide her exasperation. “You’re prying, and that will lead to you lecturing.”

“Look…I just feel…” I struggled for the right word.

“Responsible?”

“In some ways, I guess.”

Teresa emerged with a foil pouch of raisins, popped a few in her mouth, and then handed Thalia the bag. She stepped up close and placed her hands on my shoulders, “And if ever I need to turn to somebody…to ask for advice or something…yours will be the first door I knock on. Now, get out there before Wimmer comes looking for you all in a tizzy.”

I knelt and gave Thalia my best attempt at a stern look, “Behave for Teresa.”

“I will, Papi,” she said absently, focusing on the raisins.

Standing and doing a quick pat-down inventory, I made eye contact with Teresa who had a peculiar smile that I had no idea how to interpret. She nodded once, saying a million things that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

***

As it is, there is usually very little activity on any particular watch shift. Thing is, when you’re dealing with zombies, they don’t sleep or have need for any rest. They wander up whenever. Nothing about tonight has been any different.

The one thing about tonight that made up for the inconvenience of the extra shift was that I was there when the scavenger run with Joseph and Aaron came into the compound. Aaron spotted me while they were inside the first checkpoint where some of the medical personnel do the full-body check to ensure nobody is bitten or scratched.

Aaron is really quite a character. I hope he lives long enough to grow into that six-foot, lanky frame of his. I noticed that both he and Joseph have adopted the military high-and-tight haircut.

As a rule, there are a few of the armed sentries on hand during inspection in case somebody comes in bitten and tries to refuse “treatment.” It has only happened a couple of times. It reminds me of somebody withering as they finally confront the gallows.

I was surprised as I let out a breath I’d not realized I’d been holding as Aaron was checked, and again for Joseph. I was also supposed to have my gun trained on them during their check-up. It was pointed at the ground. I don’t think anybody noticed.

“Heard that the airbase is gone.” Joseph looked up at me as he finished lacing his boots.

“Yep,” I said with a nod.

“And that there was only one helo that landed here.” Aaron shouldered Joseph aside playfully, sending his friend toppling over.

“Seems you got a fairly detailed report out there in the wilderness.” I was only slightly surprised at the degree of detail that had been passed. Like I said, no secrets here at Serenity Base.

“Some of the soldiers want that helo either gone or moth-balled.” Joseph was dusting himself off, taking care that most of the dust was going Aaron’s way.

“Sergeant Wimmer has already made that call,” one of my fellow sentries, I think his name was Tim, said as he walked past with a push-cart of supplies already being unloaded from one of the big trucks.

Aaron, Joseph, and I pitched in to help get all the newly accquired supplies unloaded and delivered to their designated locations. It was while that took place that Sergeant Wimmer found me. He looked tired, stressed, and just a bit annoyed.

“Steve.” He motioned me over to the doorway to his office-slash-living-quarters.

“Yeah, Paul?” I didn’t like seeing this person who, in my mind, was the epitome of Army badass, look like something was wrong.

“Get a few people together and ensure that every vehicle that runs is topped off. Also, get your stuff ready so you can leave at a moment’s notice.”

“What’s going on?” This didn’t sound good at all.

“I’m organizing an emergency exit strategy. For the most part I’m going to try and coordinate things so we leave as a group. However, there are a few people here that I am asking to see to their own preparations. If something sudden happens, I want folks in the compound to be able to scatter.

“Shouldn’t you be telling everybody?” This was the first time I knew of that seemingly important information was being withheld from the population.

“I will. I assure you that everybody will be told over the next couple of days. I just don’t want to create a mass panic or cause a run on supplies.” Paul glanced over to the currently vacant playground.

“Do you think we’re in any real danger way out here in the middle of nowhere?” I watched Paul to see if he would make any attempt to be deceptive. His gaze lingered on that play-ground, and before he said it, I was certain not only of what his answer would be, but also of his conviction in believing completely in it.

“Yes.”

***

I arrived home to find not only Teresa and Thalia—both fast asleep on the couch—but Melissa as well. Of all our group, she had—not surprisingly—been the most reclusive. My concern was that she is more than just a little unstable. While she displays moments of clarity, more often than not she simply stands outside of the periphery of what goes on around here. She seldom speaks, and always seems just on the verge of tears.

Like right now.

“Is it true?” Her voice was a whisper. Whether out of renewed fear, or out of not wanting to wake Teresa and Thalia, I had no idea.

I walked to my bedroom, motioning her to follow. Stripping off my weapons, I gave each a cursory inspection for both cleanliness as well as readiness. “Since you are being so vague, I’ll assume you are referring to the reports of large mobs of zombies and the possibility that Serenity Base might eventually be overrun.” She said nothing, only chewed nervously on her bottom lip. For only the most brief of seconds I could see just how sexually attractive Melissa could be if she wasn’t a total wingnut.

In that second or three, my eyes took all of her in. Maybe the fact that she can be as odd as a football-bat had kept those observations from happening until now. Who knows. But she is very curvy. Her body is what I would consider perfect. She has a very appealing “thickness” like girls from back in the Eighties, before Ally McBeal and liposuction turned women into walking skeletons with breast and lip implants. I just knew if I pulled Melissa close to me I’d feel that feminine softness that has been replaced by ribs that poke and hip bones that leave bruises.

“I’ve been asked by Sergeant Wimmer to have my group ready themselves in case we need to suddenly abandon this place. So, in a nutshell, the rumor is true.” I shook off the daydream.

Those tears that had been threatening, spilled down her cheeks. I did the only thing I could think of…I pulled her close and wrapped my arms around her. I’m not proud of myself because one thing led to another and now she is asleep in my bed…naked.

Never in my life have I felt guilty about a sexual relationship. Well, until now that is. I certainly wasn’t any kind of sexual dynamo before all of this apocalyptic crap happened. Yeah, I’ve had a few one-nighters, but I’d be lying if I claimed more than a dozen different sexual partners in my life.

Gads…would that make Melissa unlucky number thirteen? I dozed off wondering how I’d managed to actually complicate my life further than by being suddenly thrust into the role of parent in the middle of an undead uprising that threatened to eliminate all of humanity.

***

It has been a week since the airbase was wiped out. All attempts to make contact with anybody by radio have been fruitless. True to his word, Paul has informed everybody of the potential for a zombie mob to displace us.

Apparently Randall Smith, the CDC guy who I dislike on just about every level, was not happy about the degree of honesty. He is doing very little to dispel the stereotype of shady governmental people. He seems to want desperately to hold onto the old way of things where “the people” are kept in blissful ignorance about matters that they—meaning us—are simply unable to wrap their—meaning our—simple minds around.

Doctor Zahn is still a mystery to me. Talking to Dave Ellis, it seems she keeps her own council. She shows no differential treatment in dealing with Paul or Randall, and refuses to boot her workers from the room when either comes to speak with her.

Other than the fact that everybody has packed bundles that would be quick and easy to grab in case the need for a hasty evacuation rises, Serenity Base is operating as always. Today, I am going to be working a shift in the radio room. I’ll be monitoring for incoming traffic as well as keeping open communications with our scavenger teams. Ian and Billy Haynes and Joseph Wiser are out on one of those missions. While I can’t personally use the equipment to chat, it is somewhat comforting to know first-person how things are going.

As for Melissa, I don’t really have any clue what the deal is with her. I woke up that morning and she was gone. I’ve seen her in passing, but other than that, we’ve not spoken. I did try to go to her place and see how she was, but I got no answer when I knocked. Maybe I’m being a bit girlish about the whole thing. I mean, what if she just needed to “knock one out” so-to-say, and I happened to be the closest guy around?

***

It’s been enough that we have to deal with countless numbers of undead intent on eating us. Yet, because of the nature of mankind, we must also deal with those amongst the living who have decided to take full advantage of this chaos for their own selfish gains.

Two days ago while I was on duty in the communications center, the radio suddenly erupted with screams, gunfire, and one decipherable fragment of a sentence before going dead:

“…—uch firepower to hold off…of our men…dead or wounded…repeat…help…—ver!”

The terrified voice belonged to Billy Haynes. I recognized it right away, but just as abruptly as it began, the message ended. No response has come in the repeated attempts to raise a reply via radio.

The other two groups we had out were contacted. Both were sent to check the area Ian, Joseph, and Billy’s team were known to have been searching. It wasn’t hard to find. Burning vehicles and buildings acted as a locator beacon.

The report we received sent a shockwave through our entire community. There was no sign of any of our men…living. One man, a soldier named Jack Simpson, was chained to the bumper of a still-smoldering military-transport truck. He’d been bitten and turned. The bite was a singular one, and it was on the left hand. He still had his mail-and-leather gauntlet on the right. And then there is the whole chained-to-the-truck thing.

More frightening is that none of our men besides Simpson were found. I’m fairly well acquainted with every man on that patrol. None of our people have acted with violence towards anybody they’ve encountered out there. Whenever another living soul—or souls—was met, they were given the option of coming to our base. There has never been an instance of coercion. And it has always been made clear what the policy is involving somebody injured by one of the undead.

What has happened is an act of aggression. Pure and simple. This changes the game plan. After an emergency gathering of the community, we have reluctantly decided upon two resolutions. The first is that we can’t put any more of our population at risk by going out to actively search for the other five missing men. It is a sad, but realistic position. The second, and this one actually passed much handier than I’d expected, is that anyone encountered will be treated as hostile and be made to prove otherwise.

Paul has restructured our patrols. Instead of three six-person groups he will be sending one twenty-person unit that will treat each foray as if they are driving into enemy territory. I’d always assumed that the folks venturing out held that belief to begin with. I’ve learned after talking to Aaron that the standing orders have been to extend an offer to any survivor.

Tonight, Aaron, Barry, and Dave will meet me and Teresa at my place. Unfortunately, Jamie will be on watch. I’m fairly certain I saw the look on each one of their faces when Paul announced that there would not be an active, organized attempt to find our people. Three of the five remaining men missing belong to our group. I’m not convinced any of us can accept that decision.

***

“I won’t just sit and allow the possibility that Billy, Joseph…or even Ian may be alive and we do nothing.” Aaron paced back and forth in my living room. “I’ve known them both since I was six. We played pee-wee football that first year. All four of us have been teammates, scouts, everything together.”

“I can’t say I blame Paul for this,” Barry leaned forward, clasping his hands, “but this sounds like a decision made by Randall.”

“Yeah!” Dave blurted out, surprising everybody in the room. “Them Army types got that ‘no-man-left-behind’ motto or some such thing. Don’t they?”

“It doesn’t matter who made the choice. Our guys are out there. Dead. Undead. Alive. If we do nothing, we have to live with it. If you can do that…fine, but we are loaded out for that emergency evacuation. Rules have always been that nobody has to stay against their will. I’m for leaving first thing. If we find the people responsible, but don’t have the numbers to take ‘em, then we’ll cross that bridge when it is in front of us,” Teresa looked everybody in the eye one by one as she spoke. “Steve, Aaron, Jamie , and I will be at the trucks at sunrise. If you stay, fine. But those are our friends. This ‘needs of the many outweighs the needs of the few’ crap is a sissified cop-out.”

“Randi and I will be there.” Barry reached over and patted Teresa’s knee.

“I’m in,” Dave said.

“Then it’s settled,” I looked around the room, “we leave tomorrow morning.”

“I take it you will be bringing Thalia,” Barry stated more than asked.

“She’s one of us,” I said, half-expecting a challenge. “Besides, this place is an illusion of safety. After that situation with the airbase, I don’t imagine anywhere actually being safe.”

Ten minutes after everybody said their goodbyes and left, there was a knock at my door. It was Melissa. Her arms were folded across her chest tight, and the look in her eyes told me I’d done something wrong.

Oh God, don’t let her be pregnant, I thought.

“So you’re all gonna just leave?” She pushed past me into the living room.

“Umm…” I didn’t really have a good answer, and saying I just forgot would probably not go over well.

“I may’ve been a mess when you found me, but I am fine. Not crazy. And while I may not be G.I. Jane like Teresa, I can do my part. I didn’t really get much of a chance before. What, with the whole being in shock thing.”

“Melissa….” Nope. I still didn’t have anything to say, so I stood there with my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“And if you’re wondering about the whole sex thing…well I can’t give you a good answer on that. I woke up and had no idea what I’d say to you…or Thalia. I mean you two are like a family. And believe it or not, I don’t make it a habit of just jumping into somebody’s bed on a whim. Counting you, I’ve had sex with three people. The last of which I saw being eaten alive before my very eyes and…” she paused and I thought the tears would start again. They didn’t. “I just needed to process things.”

“Then I’m guessing you want to come with us?” I finally had something to say.

“Absolutely, those are my people, too.”

It was settled. We said our goodnights and she left. I was already packed and ready to go, so all that remained was to enjoy one final night of relative peace and quiet. I checked in on Thalia who was fast asleep with her giant teddybear.

Settling in on the couch, I picked up the book I’d been trying to read for the past two weeks: The Mayor of Caster-bridge by Thomas Hardy. I had thirty pages left and figured this would be the last chance at such a casual event in a long while.

As I cracked open the dog-eared paperback, another knock came at my door. With a sigh I gave the book a look of resignation and set it back on the coffee table. I had no idea who to expect. Pretty much everybody I knew had been here and left. I certainly didn’t expect—

“Doctor Zahn, what a…” Surprise? Inconvenience?

“I’m coming with you.” .

Nope. I’m never gonna finish that book.

14

Vignettes V

Kirsten Malloy opened what was officially her last can of pears. Her mouth already began watering the moment that the round cutting-wheel of the can opener sliced into the tin. She couldn’t ever remember smelling canned pears in a light syrup before. But now…well it was probably the best smell ever in her thirteen years of life.

As she pushed the round piece of tin down with her thumb, then popped the lid up, Kirsten considered whether to eat sparingly or…with a slight twist, she pulled the circle of metal free, tossed it aside, and dug in ravenously. She would have to venture out for food today no matter what.

She thought back to the last time she’d gone out. Over the past few weeks, she had worked her way down the street. House by house she had broken in and taken all the food she could find. At least all the stuff that wasn’t totally gross.

Old Miss Perkins’ house had been the latest. That stupid old lady was probably still trapped in her bathroom. The monster-people weren’t good at opening doors. That old lady sure loved canned pears! Kirsten took another big plastic sporkful in her mouth, not letting a single drop of the juice escape. Of course there was a lot of stuff in the cupboards that she left behind. Seriously, she thought, who eats sardines!

The next house would be Amber’s. Of course Amber and her parents weren’t in it. They were still standing at the gate of her house.

Her house.

Kirsten guessed it really was her house now. Mom and Dad had both been gone since all this crazy stuff started almost five weeks ago. She still couldn’t think about that day without crying.

Philipé, one of the groundskeepers, had attacked her daddy at the main entry gate. He had bitten Pete Malloy on the hand and face. Arturo, another groundskeeper had beaten Philipé with a shovel to get him off her dad. Mom rushed her dad to the hospital that night. They never came back.

All of the servants took off the next day, leaving Kirsten and Arturo behind. Together they watched on the television what looked like scary movies. Only, it wasn’t movies…it was the news. Eventually, the electricity went out.

There were screams and shooting and sirens for a few days. Then…it was quiet. That was the scariest night of all. The first night of complete silence. Eventually, those things began crowding around the wrought-iron double-gates that used to open electronically and allow cars to enter Malloy Estate. What had once been an enormous plantation before the Civil War was now a walled-in private residence complete with two Olympic-sized pools, tennis court, and a driving range.

Three times, Arturo went over the wall in search of supplies. He only came back over the wall twice. Now, he was out there with Amber Cosgrove and her parents.

Sometimes Kirsten would get lonely and walk down the long driveway to the main gate. She would sit and try to talk to Amber…Mister and Missus Cosgrove…Arturo.

Amber looked bad. She was wearing a long pink nightgown torn open on the left side where she had been attacked. Her left arm was totally gone, and some of her insides hung out from a rip across her stomach.

Arturo was a nightmare. Both of his arms were gone. His throat was a big hole with something gross poking out. But his body was the worst. He’d been ripped open and most everything that should’ve been inside was missing…or more upsetting …dangling from the huge hole. Something had torn away a piece of his scalp, and the skin of his face looked like it might slip off in places.

Two times now, Kirsten ventured out for supplies on her own. She had watched Arturo each time he left the estate, and knew to go to the gate first and make a lot of noise. Then, she would duck through the hedges that lined the driveway and run a ways along the nine-foot high brick wall that separated her home from the world. She would tie the knotted piece of rope she’d made to look like Arturo’s to a tree and, after climbing up to make sure the coast was clear, she would drop it over the fence and climb down.

From there, she would sneak behind cars or slip into bushes as she made her way to whichever house she’d be grabbing food from. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out how slow and stupid those things were. Twice she’d gone into a house that was ‘occupied’. Both times she’d tricked the monster-people—or person with Old Miss Perkins—into a room, and then ducked past and out to close them in. It was creepy to be in the house with those things slapping the door. Plus, the noise always brought more monster-people.

Shoveling the last bit of pear into her mouth, then drinking the syrup, Kirsten scooped up the backpack—once used to carry her school books—and her coil of knotted rope. It was time to go down and see Amber, Mister and Missus Cosgrove, and poor Arturo.

***

Garrett brought his booted foot down hard on the head of the hissing, squirming zombie-child that had lurched at him from the thick hedgerow that appeared to run the distance of the street he was considering. There was an initial resistance, then a pop, and finally the eventual crunch as the skull gave under the pressure. He’d tried crushing skulls this way before, but it only seemed to work on children or the elderly.

If he intended to explore this street, he’d need to be cautious. He knew this had been a wealthy neighborhood before. One thing about the rich, they liked the illusion of privacy with their fences and tall shrubbery. The houses would mostly be back from the street, some behind walls.

Something in Garrett’s mind sent tingles. This, he thought, would be a good place to search for a new toy to replace the one he’d left at the baseball park. He’d been alone the past few weeks, and he was starting to have those dreams again. Ennis’ face leering at him, a floating head surrounded by blackness.

“Git over onta yer belly!”

Garrett always woke before the worst of it happened, but still, he only knew one way to make those nightmares disappear. Become the nightmare. A voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like Ennis whispered.

“Shut up!” Garrett growled as his eyes scanned the length of the street for both opportunity and danger. He was about to head towards an open gate that led to a three-story, red brick home when a sound froze him in place.

It was the slightest hint of a grunt. His eyes were the only part of his body to move as Garrett sought out the source. There! In a tree on the other side of a wall that travelled the length of the right hand side of the street was a girl! He watched her tie a rope to the branch she currently straddled. Then, she lowered the knotted rope down the wall where it vanished between hedge and wall. She lowered herself down, vanishing from sight for a moment.

When she vanished, Garrett took the opportunity to squat down behind a nearby car. A moment later, the girl emerged tentatively from the bushes. She’s done this before, a voice—not Ennis’—mused in Garrett’s head. Coltish legs emerged, and Garrett now had his first real look. She was tall. Almost six-feet, he guessed. Skinny. Probably from not eating well. Her near waist-length, sandy hair was a bit matted, but overall she looked clean.

She turned his way, and for a moment Garrett thought she looked directly at him. Then, she moved slowly out to the street and her gaze drifted away. With long strides she took off down the street, a small backpack in hand.

Standing to watch her go, he absently stuffed his hand down the front of his pants to shift things around. Just watching her brought him to almost complete arousal. His hand lingered, and it took considerable willpower to not sate the rising desires coursing through him right there in the street.

No, he scolded himself, release and pleasure would come soon enough. The question was, did he chase after her, or climb that rope and see if there might be others? If there were people who might search for the missing girl, it would be best to kill them now so he wouldn’t be interrupted later.

Garrett slipped from behind the abandoned vehicle, to the tree, and finally to the thick hedge. With one final longing glance in the direction the girl had dashed off, he plunged into the bushes. He emerged in a space much too narrow for him to fully be free of the dried and dying branches full of leaves that, without the daily watering from the timed sprinklers, would be completely dead within another month.

Grasping the rope, he easily hauled his massive frame up and over the wall. Before him, the once immaculate grounds of a house that looked like it belonged in Gone With the Wind appeared empty of any persons…living or dead. Still, he would be cautious. Garrett dropped to the gound and did his best to move in the shade and shadows of various buildings, statues, and trees. He made a mental note to come back outside and enjoy the inviting coolness of one of the two huge swimming pools that were only a little tinged with green.

Finally, he reached the enormous house. The back door was wide open. With a glance around just to be sure he wasn’t being watched, Garrett habitually ducked his head and entered. He wandered through a kitchen large enough to service a hotel.

From room to room Garrett roamed. He was convinced he would find nobody here…for now. A check out the front door revealed a huge porch that ran the length of the front of the home with a roof supported by marble pillars. A white gravel path led to a driveway that went on for what must be the length of a football field. It ended at a huge double-gated security entrance. He could see a sizeable cluster of those filthy creatures reaching futilely through the spaces between the black, wrought iron bars.

He shut the back door and made his way up a magnificent staircase. He went from room to room, ensuring that there was in fact nobody here. Eventually, he discovered the room he knew had to be where the girl stayed. A large box sat in a corner. Wow, Garrett thought, she sure likes canned pears.

Finding a place where he could sit, he leaned against the wall and slid down on his butt. A pile of dirty clothes were mounded beside him. He picked through, eventually discovering the prize he sought: a pair of panties. Bringing them to his face, he breathed deep.

***

Juan allowed the bow of the boat to drift towards shore. It was almost sunrise, and just ahead was one of those riverside gas stations. While he knew the pumps would be useless, he’d gotten quite skilled at siphoning gas from tanks. Also, for some reason, lots of boats had spare gas cans already filled and ready for the taking.

A few lone, straggling zombies lurched about. Nothing too complicated. The solitary dock that jutted out was entirely empty of the things. He’d be able to tie off without any immediate problems. A flaking, white-washed building sat atop some stairs overlooking the dock as well as the boat launch. A large, paved parking lot was mostly empty, but there were at least eight deaders scattered about. A couple had already noticed his approach, and with arms outstretched, began heading his way.

Juan counted nine boats. Two grounded near the large, open, grassy park to his left. One tied to the dock he was now edging up against, one up on blocks in front of some sort of boat garage, and five on trailers in the parking lot.

It seemed fairly obvious that a few people had made a run for the river. Unfortunately for them, they’d come up just a bit short of their goal. That would hopefully translate to good news for him.

Picking up the crossbow he’d discovered in a van at the last place he’d hit for supplies, Juan brought it up to his shoulder like a gun and aimed for the closest zombie. He pulled the trigger. The click and thrum whispered just above the sounds of the river. His target, a middle-aged man in khaki shorts, staggered slightly and then toppled over sideways.

“Tight,” Juan whispered. He was getting the hang of his new weapon. So far he’d only lost one of the ten bolts that had been in the case.

Hopping onto the floating pier, Juan tied off the fore and aft lines and picked up his crossbow. Three of the deaders were trying with mixed results to make their way down the stairs that led to the docks. After considering the possibilities and deciding against risking the loss of another bolt if one of his targets stumbled over the rail and into the water, Juan hefted his bat and advanced. With relative ease he eliminated the closest threats, then, using the crossbow, took down the rest. Before turning his attention on possible supplies, he retreived the bolts, wiped them off, and ensured his weapon was loaded and ready.

Since he was still looking good as far as food was concerned, he searched for fuel first, checking each boat. Finding seven more five-gallon cans, he unloaded those along with a half-dozen flare guns and nearly a hundred flares.

After almost an hour, he’d taken out another dozen deaders, found one decent set of running shoes that fit, and discovered that the gas station had been completely looted of anything useful. Taking one final look around, Juan untied and pushed off from the dock. Turning over the engine, he did a quick inspection of every gauge on the panel. He wasn’t entirely sure what each thing was except the fuel and temp readouts, but so far nothing had red flashing lights or was pegged one way or the other.

He backed out into the river, scanning both directions for anybody that might be out there with him. So far, he’d encountered a handful of other boaters. Not one tried to approach him. Juan couldn’t say that he blamed them, he wasn’t too anxious to meet strangers either. So far, his encounters hadn’t gone that well.

Ever since he’d left behind those lunatics holed up in the county jail, everyone he’d met that still had a pulse and wasn’t set on trying to eat his face either out-and-out ran from him, or threatened to shoot him. Considering the last group of people he’d been with, and some of the things they’d done before taking over the jail…he didn’t really blame ‘em one bit.

The rest of the day he chugged peacefully up the Willamette River, scanning the shore for signs of life. He’d been making this trip for the last couple of weeks. Making a circuit all the way around Sauvie’s Island, taking the Columbia River back up until he could turn south and rejoin the Willamette which he would follow down almost to Oregon City where the falls would force him to turn around and backtrack. He didn’t want to move too far away from the Metro area. At least he was familiar with the surroundings.

As the sun began to set, Juan began looking for someplace to stop for the night. He never chose the same place twice in a row. That was a habit from his days on the streets sleeping in his beat-up old car. The dead were worse than the cops. At least the cops didn’t try and eat you.

Finding a little inlet out of the main current, Juan killed the motor and let the boat drift. He grabbed the aft anchor and dropped it over the side, watching the line uncurl and draw taut. Once he’d come to a stop, he went to the front and released the two forward anchors.

Grabbing the cooler from beside the captain’s chair, he took his customary evening perch on the hammock he’d hung in a big open space in the back of the boat. He pulled out a can of beer, popped it and took a long drink. He’d heard that some countries liked warm beer. They were crazy.

From where he’d anchored, he could see a long expanse of sandy beach. He was pretty sure that this was near the area that the “nudie” beach was located on Sauvie’s Island. He’d been out here once about ten years ago with a girl named…

Damn, Juan thought, taking another long swig of warm beer, he couldn’t remember her name. Still, when he closed his eyes he could see her. Sandy-brown hair in curly ringlets that bounced around her shoulders. Brown eyes that were always squinting with just a hint of laughter in them. Her breasts were perfect and round and swayed with the natural movement of her walk. Her laugh…

An eerie, hair-raising moan.

Nope. That was definitely not it. Juan opened his eyes. He scanned the beach. There! Up in some thick growth of trees that almost hid from view the wooden stairs leading down to the actual beach area from what was probably the gravel parking lot if he was where he believed himself to be, a zombie was strug-gling to free itself from some vines.

Juan decided to watch this scene play out. Would others come? Would they notice him? And, if so, would they wade out or make any effort to reach him?

It was a woman. She was at least fifty with graying hair. She wore bib overalls and a tee-shirt. A large, dark stain marred most of her left side indicating where she’d been bitten. She hissed, moaned, and snarled as she…it…fought to get free. Finally, after several minutes of twisting, pulling, and clawing, it came free, and stumbled backwards down the wooden stairs. Thus far, nothing came to investigate.

Juan looked west and tried to gauge the amount of sunlight he had left. Easily a couple of hours. If his mental calendar was right, it should be late April or early May. There was a U-pick farm nearby, again, all dependent on his ability to approximate his location.

The zombie was struggling to get to its feet. It appeared to have damaged one leg in a way that compromised stability. Still, no others arrived to join this seemingly lone wanderer. Juan got up and climbed the ladder to the bridge for the best possible view. There was no movement to be seen.

Grabbing his trusty baseball bat and a webbed belt with a Baretta in a leather holster and two spare magazines, he went to the aft end of the boat. It was times like these that he disliked being completely alone. He would be leaving everything unprotected. And, while he had the keys…that didn’t ensure that his boat would be safe. Tossing two naval-issue seabags that he’d found in his travels into the inflatable yellow raft, and then easing that into the water, Juan was soon paddling to shore.

It didn’t take long for the patheticly entangled zombie to notice him. Its thrashing about intensified, and there was a considerable amount of gurgling, moaning, and hissing. While Juan beached the small rubber craft, pulled it well up above where the tide line ended, and shouldered his gear, the thing continued to struggle. Any moment, he expected hordes of those things to come spilling from the trees and bushes…but still nothing. With very little effort, he ended the zombie’s struggles with a few swings of his bat.

Climbing the stairs slowly, trying his best not to make a sound, Juan peered into the large, open gravel lot that had once been filled with cars belonging to the frequenters of this nude beach. Two blue and green portable toilets lay tipped over off to the right. A brown sign with white, hand-painted writing still stood just to the left of the stairs informing readers that this was a “clothing optional” recreational beach.

A two-lane blacktop road acted as a border between the parking lot and a large, barbed wire fenced-in field across the way. A faded billboard advertised a seasonal U-pick farm with a list of what sorts of fresh produce to expect by season. Right now he could see the ground littered with watermelons and cantalopes!

He stood at the top of the stairs for what seemed like hours. There was no sound. No movement. Nothing but a gentle breeze that carried the smell of the river tinged with a mouth-watering scent that had to be coming from the farm and its mixture of melons, berries, and corn. Where had these smells been those other times he’d been out this way? Everything was just so…different. The river actually smelled…cleaner?

Remaining alert and cautious, Juan crossed the empty parking lot, wincing at the sound of gravel crunching under his feet. Reaching the road, his mind flashed back to his childhood. Look both ways before crossing the street. All clear. Hurrying across, he jumped over the yard-wide, foot-deep ditch and took in the view of fresh, unpackaged, unprocessed food. His mouth already watered at the prospect.

The neat rows ran straight before him up a gradual slope. At the top, a white, two-story farmhouse sat overlooking the whole thing. Something about that view tickled the back of Juan’s mind. There was a long front porch and, from where he stood, he was on the left side of the house. A weathered barn was a stone’s throw from the back door with one door open, revealing the blackness within.

As he ducked between two strands of barbed wire, an unfamiliar noise carried on the warm summer air. It took a few moments for him to identify it. By the time he had, he was completely through and on the other side of the fence as the source of the sound was now in sight and bearing down on him.

A dog!

His mind whizzed though several thoughts in only a couple of seconds. Were there dog-zombies? This one was running. A dog could come in handy. This dog looked like he wanted to play more than take a bite out of somebody.

Juan knew a lot of people who were freaked out by dogs. Especially big ones like the one coming his way. Juan was not one of those people. He knelt down and patted at his knee as the floppy-eared Rottweiller bounded over a row of watermelon vines to gain the row he’d been about to walk up. The black and brown beast plowed into Juan and began eagerly snuffling and licking.

“Easy…,” Juan glanced down the length of the dog’s body, “girl.” He laughed and, as eagerly, began patting the large flat head and scratching behind the ears. Eventually he made his way back up to his feet. It took him until then to realize he’d been laughing long and loud.

He gave a cursory examination and found no signs of injury…or a collar. He took a good look around. Still nothing stumbling his way.

“Let’s go check out that house.” Juan shouldered the bat and began walking up the slightly overgrown row. He was halfway up to the house with a large watermelon under one arm and the dog a few paces ahead, when suddenly the dog froze, snarled, and crouched…ready to spring. A scream shattered the stillness.

***

Maximillian Schivone ducked under the outstretched arms of the monster that now stood between him and the exit of the home he’d just searched unsuccessfully for food. This one had followed him from his secret hideout, the tree house in back of the Gilmore residence.

Max had been sure that the coast was clear when he climbed down. This one had been on the Gilmore’s front porch and must have arrived during the night. It had scared him with a moan that announced its presence as he’d come up the side of the house and cut across the front yard. It had been the first zombie—that’s what Max’s dad said they were and Max’s dad would know because he was a famous writer—that he’d seen in almost a week.

Remembering his dad made Max’s throat seem to close up just a bit. Kevin Schivone had written lots of stories. Some of those stories had even been made into movies. But, since he was only eleven, Max hadn’t been allowed to read or watch any of them. His dad said they were too scary.

Five days ago, Kevin Schivone slipped away in the night. For a few hours, he’d watched his son sleep. He hefted the pistol in his hand, considering his possibilities. In the end, he’d been a coward. Weak. He reasoned that he’d taught Max enough to survive. Maybe somebody would find him, take him in. He’d left a note and the gun. The note said simply: “Dad loves you. Always.”

Kevin Schivone slunk away in the darkness, the bite on his arm throbbing. In his best attempt to keep his son from falling victim to what was burning the life away from inside, he staggered away until he eventually collapsed—less than two blocks away from where Max lay sleeping.

Reaching the porch, Max bounded down the stairs two at a time. Like any eleven-year-old boy, Max was curious. He made sure no other zombies were coming, but he wanted to see the one stumbling from the open doorway. The one that he, Maximillian Schivone, had put the moves on and escaped.

He absent-mindedly patted the bulge where the pistol was stuffed in the pouch of his hoodie. Max wouldn’t use the gun on one zombie. His dad had explained how the noise only invited more trouble. He had a big spiked club, but he didn’t think he could actually use it the way he’d seen his dad use it. No, Max just wanted to see the monster up close before he ran away. Up until today, he hadn’t really been all that close to one.

It finally emerged from the darkened doorway and onto the porch. It was a policeman! Only, he looked really bad. Dark and twisted things hung out of where his stomach should be. The entire bottom half of his shirt was ripped to shreds. The part that remained appeared all hard and dark from dried blood. His skin was a greenish-grey like moldy bread, and the eyes looked wrong…they were all milky with dark squiggly lines. Suddenly, Max didn’t feel too good. It didn’t help that the smell from the policeman-zombie seemed to fill his mouth as well as his nose.

Looking around, Max chose his escape route. He would lead the monster away and around the corner, then sneak back and try another house. He ran, but his legs felt weak. Of course, he could still easily outrun that thing, but he wasn’t feeling very good and suddenly wanted nothing more than to be in the tree- house.

It was only a rock the size of a large gumball, but it was enough to cause Max to turn his ankle and fall. His head bounced off the asphalt and everything flashed a bright white. When his vision cleared, Max had only a moment to scream. The policeman-zombie was on him and had Max’s hand already going to its mouth. It bit, and Max screamed again. Only, this scream was much different. It still held all the fear, but now it had the added amplitude of pain. Agony.

Max pulled away and kicked with his feet. He rolled over and came up to his knees. His hand was missing the pinky and ring finger, and now blood poured from the jagged stubs. He could see bone and knew that was bad. Still, he would run. He had to. He had to get away from the monster.

Max ran and cried. He could barely see through the tears, he was scared and only wanted to be back in his tree-house. Blood continued to pour, and Max began to feel a little sick, as well as dizzy. He saw a couple of shadowy and blurry figures coming out from behind bushes or from open doors.

He looked around at the houses. None of them were the Gilmore house. Where was he? A wave of dizziness made Max sway a bit. He tried to run, but his little legs didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

When had he sat down? Max tried to stand, but something wasn’t right. He could still run faster than the zombies, and he would in just a moment.

Max closed his eyes. They flickered open once, and for a moment he thought he saw his dad.

***

Jenifer wrapped her arms around the trunk of the palm tree. She wondered if she might actually lift off the ground and flutter like a flag as the wind continued to howl and blow relentlessly. The storm had been raging for hours. Its destructive force had not been the blessing she’d hoped. Instead, the barricades had failed. The undead were everywhere and chaos was the new ruler.

She’d heard plenty of gunfire a few hours ago, but now all she could hear was the roar of the unnamed hurricane that seemed intent on eliminating the island and relegating Atlantis to the same demise as its mystical namesake.

Once more, Jenifer tried to move forward, if nothing else, then to at least have a new tree to cling to. Never in her life had she experienced such a force of nature. Tentatively she let go with one hand as she inched forward. The dark outline of the next tree was almost within her grasp. Just a little bit more.

Success!

Hauling herself forward, she shook her arms out. Her muscles were sore from the constant effort it took to not be blown away. Also, she imagined that the meager rations she’d been surviving on did her no favors.

Something was moving towards her! It was far too dark to discern what, but a large shape was tumbling her way. It was Adaire! Rather, what was left of him. Now he was one of them. She didn’t need to see his eyes to know that.

She watched as the living dead version of Adaire struggled to stand, only to be blown over again. The stupid thing had no concept of futility. It just kept attempting to stand and failing. It would sprawl windward and then repeat the same tactic with the same results.

The thing faded into the darkness and Jenifer felt the tears well up in her eyes. She knew she should be relieved, but all she felt was cheated.

A little while later she’d managed to move forward three more trees. Then the wind began to slack. The storm was beginning to abate. She began to make out shapes a little easier.

Dawn was breaking.

***

Travis Reynolds stood on the gravel-strewn roof of the county jail. On all sides, those stinking, rotting meat-bags stood pressed against each other. In some spots they were a couple hundred deep. Some of the faces staring up at him were familiar.

Three days ago, those things forced their way into the lobby of Clackamas County Jail. They simply pressed the myriad of obstacles aside over time, and now stood just outside the metal door that led to the jail proper.

Yesterday, they breached a rear entrance. That coward Tracy Miller thought he could run for it. He foolishly believed that he could make it to the white transport van parked less than twenty feet from the narrow concrete stairs that the door opened out onto. He’d been wrong. There hadn’t been enough left of Tracy for him to come back as one of those things. But, others had come in during the night. It was Gary Messer’s scream that woke Travis. He’d heard that scream before...the night this all began. He couldn’t remember the name of the kid on that janitorial work crew, but he remembered the scream.

Travis had fought his way to the roof. He managed to escape without a scratch. However, up on the roof…he had nothing. Of course that hadn’t changed much compared to what he had down in the jail. They’d been down to the last scraps of food in the place. And it was all that spic’s fault.

That weak punk had taken off shortly after the purging of the freaks began. They’d done the world a favor by feeding every stinking sex offender to those damned zombies. Hell, Travis thought, if society ever did recover…it would owe him. When Juan Hoya took off, it was Tracy who suggested that maybe Juan ran because he had something to hide.

“Lotsa them damn Mexicans are in the joint because they think it’s okay to fuck thirteen-year-olds,” Gary chimed in on the discussion.

“Yeah.” Tracy’d nodded, thrilled that he was being listened to by the men in charge. “They sneak into this country and bring their bass-ackward ways of life with ‘em.”

Travis sent a team in pursuit of Juan. Only half returned. And on their heels, it seemed that most of the zombie population of Oregon City followed. There would be no more supply runs. No more trips to known meth labs in the area to score the quality crystal just laying around waiting to be scooped.

Nobody else had made it. At least not up to the roof. Perhaps there were folks holed up down below. But, they wouldn’t last long either. Not without food or water. Yes, Travis was safe from the zombies. They couldn’t climb the metal rungs bolted to the wall. Only, what good was it to be safe? He was going to die. Thirst and hunger were already beginning to inflict their own brand of torture. And it was clear that these damn things weren’t leaving.

“Fuck it.” Travis stood on the lip and looked down into the sea of disfigured, torn, discolored, open-mouthed faces below. There was no way he would exist like that. He’d seen enough to know that if they got on you thick enough, there wasn’t anything left to come back.

Travis Reynolds wasn’t some weak-ass, punk-bitch. Travis Reynolds was a warrior. He’d go out like one. “Fuck alla ya!” he screamed down at the writhing mass. “And fuck you, Juan Hoya!”

Travis Reynolds dove head-first into the waiting and outstretched arms below. Instantly, hands grabbed, clawed, and tore. Teeth clamped and ripped.

Travis screamed.

15

Geeks versus myth

“It’s me,” Ruth’s voice whispered.

Kevin felt instantly relieved…and embarrassed. He must’ve looked like a complete idiot. Also, hadn’t he just shrieked like a little girl? That had to have taken him down a few notches in Ruth’s eyes.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Ruth apologized. “I just wanted to tell you that my mom is thinking of taking off tomorrow when Mike and Darrin leave on their little mission.”

“Oh?” Kevin stood up dusting himself off. “So you came to say farewell?”

“No,” Ruth glanced over her shoulder towards the glow of the RV that her mom and sisters were in, “I want you to talk them out of it.”

Kevin scratched his head. He certainly didn’t want Ruth to leave, but he didn’t have a clue how to deal with this unfolding situation. He’d never been much with people skills. Truth be told, that was what had led him to all the survivalist courses and outings. He was on his own and didn’t need or have to talk to anybody. He knew he came across as an asshole to most people. But really, he just had a very weak filter when it came to saying things outloud.

“Gee, Ruth…” Kevin stammered a bit. Great, he thought, try a little harder to sound like Opie Taylor or The Beav. “I’m not much for diplomacy. I don’t know what I’d say.”

“Maybe you could—” Ruth stopped suddenly, cocking her head to the side. “Do you hear something?”

Kevin listened intently. It took a moment for him to realize that there was a low growl of an engine…or engines. It was getting closer.

“Go tell the others.” Kevin nudged Ruth, then headed towards the entry to the RV Park with his bat and sword in hand.

Ruth ducked into the vehicle Mike and Darrin had chosen. Even on the fly, her rational mind reasoned that it would be best to tell the guys with the guns first. She relayed the information and took off to warn her mom and sisters as the two men were scooping up weapons of all sorts.

The reaction of the Bergman women would have been embarrassing if anybody other than she witnessed it. That sudden fear and panic—like three old-fashioned damsels in distress—was painful to watch. It only furthered her conviction that, in this new world, her liberated mother needed the comfort of a man to rely on. As for Erin and Shari, they were almost completely useless.

Ruth had learned a great deal about her family when they were trapped in grandpa’s office complex. Certainly she expected more from her mother, Senator Angela Bergman. She’d been known as a bit of a bully in the Senate. If you gained her support, you could almost consider your bill or project a done deal.

Only…now…Angela was all bark and no bite. The main reason she’d gone to Kevin was to give her mother a way out of all the bold talk she’d spouted in front of the other two. She’d been a bit hesitant, but, considering the circumstances, her choices had been limited to one: a boorish loner with an awk-wardness around women similar to a male in his early teens. The best thing about Kevin was that she could utilize his obvious infatuation with her as a tool.

She would run this group through him, and he’d be none the wiser. She’d known she had him when she let him get a glimpse of a box of condoms that she had no intentions of ever giving him the actual opportunity to use. Not with her anyways.

***

Kevin peered from behind the gatehouse at the dark road that ran past. Coming from the same direction they’d arrived, a single headlight crested the gentle slope. Then another. And then what had to be a four-by-four truck sitting high with fog lights above the cab. The truck seemed to be trailing a fair distance behind the two motorcycles. He heard footsteps coming fast from behind him. A hand touched his shoulder.

“Whadda we got?” Mike whispered.

“It ain’t Tom Savini,” Kevin answered, pointing up the road to the approaching headlights. “But it looks like two bikes and a truck prowling slow.”

“What’s the situation?” Darrin scurried up in a crouch.

Kevin filled him in, then the trio clustered in tight and watched. As the lead bike came abreast of the turnoff that would bring them into the park, all three unconciously held their breath.

The motorcycle stopped!

The rider was clearly silhouetted by the fog lights of the still approaching truck. Darrin brought his .30-30 up to his shoulder. Mike nudged him, shaking his head.

“We got no idea about these people. They could be like us,” Mike whispered, barely audible above the idling engines only yards away.

“Yeah, and they could be bad-ass raiders out to take whatever they want without giving a damn if we’re living or dead,” Darrin snapped.

“You really need to get over the fact that this ain’t a Romero flick,” Mike said, lowering the barrel of the rifle with his hand.

“They’re moving,” Kevin tried to keep the relief out of his voice as the trio of vehicles resumed their slow advance down the road.

As the taillights vanished over a distant rise, Kevin, Mike, and Darrin rose to their feet. Each of them secretly grateful that the darkness hid the sheen of sweat on his face.

“I take it whomever it was is gone,” Ruth’s voice made all three jump.

“Jesus!” Darrin snapped. “That’s a good way to get shot!”

Ruth was standing halfway between where the three RVs were parked and the gatehouse. She held a rifle cradled in her arms. Angela, Shari, and Erin were huddled together beside their rig…weaponless.

“Sorry,” Ruth hissed back, sounding anything but. “Maybe somebody could’ve relayed the news.”

“We had to be sure,” Kevin spoke up, trying to diffuse the situation before it got any worse.

“Is it safe?” The quaver in Erin’s voice gave away her fear.

“Sweetheart,” Mike walked across the park, barely visible until he reached the soft glow coming from the curtained windows of his and Darrin’s RV, “it ain’t never gonna be safe again.” He pulled open the screen door and went inside, ignoring Erin’s gasping sob.

“Nice.” Ruth spun on her heel and went to her sister.

“We need to settle down and get back on the same page,” Kevin said to nobody in particular. “We are going to have to rely on each other out here.”

Darrin stopped at the door, one foot up on the first step. “Show of hands. Whose bitch-fit got one of his friends killed recently?” He stared at Kevin, anger clear on his face. “Preach peace, love, and understanding someplace else, Dreon.”

Kevin dropped his head and took a deep breath. He raised it as the doors shut, first on Mike and Darrin’s, then on the Bergman’s RV. A moment later, lights blinked out in both vehicles. Suddenly Kevin felt very tired.

For a moment, he stood there alone in the darkness and listened to the breeze. He had no desire to go into any of the three vehicles. There was something soothing about being under the stars. Every creak of a branch or rustle of leaves in the warm evening air added to summer’s nocturnal symphony.

Kevin fetched his sleeping bag and climbed up onto the combination men’s and women’s shower-bathroom. Staring up at the cloudless, star-filled sky, he dozed off…thinking of Ruth.

***

A loud noise brought Kevin from deep sleep to fully awake much quicker than was pleasant. His eyes darted everywhere at once. It was still dark. The stars glittered above with their brightness intensified by the utter darkness that the world had plunged into.

Another loud bang, the sound of a metallic door being slammed. Cripes! Who was fighting now? Kevin rolled over to see who was in a tizzy. Either Mike and Darrin had gotten into it…or maybe Ruth tried to do what she’d asked him to do…talk Angela and the others out of leaving. What he saw made his heart flutter and his blood freeze in his veins.

The two motorcycles, the truck, and a van were parked about ten feet away from the trio of RVs! Men with guns—Kevin counted six men—were in an arc, covering the open door to Mike and Darrin’s Landcruiser. Four more men had the Bergman’s Winnebago covered as well. Its door was also open.

There was commotion coming from both vehicles now, a lot of it screaming from the girls. Kevin went through his options and realized quickly that he didn’t really have any. He had a nine millimeter, a bat, and a sword. He’d left his other guns in the U-Haul when he went and snagged his sleeping bag. He hadn’t really seen much reason to load out too heavily just to go to sleep. In fact, he’d considered just bringing the bat, but there still seemed to be something cool about sleeping with a pistol at his side.

Bodies tumbled out from Mike and Darrin’s rig. Three men came out behind them. Darrin was struggling to his hands and knees and received a kick to the gut that lifted him and flipped him onto his back.

“I said stay the fuck down!” a voice snarled.

“Easy, TJ,” another much calmer voice spoke.

“That fucker pulled a gun on me in there!” TJ stood over Darrin, but lowered the booted foot that had been cocked back to deliver another blow.

“Well, we did sorta bust into their…home,” the calm man raised an arm gesturing to the three RVs.

Just then, Angela and her daughters stumbled from their vehicle. She, Shari, and Erin scurried over to where Mike and Darrin lay sprawled, clustering around them. Ruth simply walked over and stood defiantly in the midst of her family and companions.

“Just four females,” one of the men who followed them announced. “One of ‘em’s pregnant.”

“Put ‘em in the van,” Calm Voice ordered.

“Hey, Shaw,” another of the men who’d come from the Bergman’s RV called.

“Yeah?” Calm Voice answered.

“You ain’t gonna believe who we got.”

“No time for games, Paris.” Shaw sounded only slightly less calm.

“Shari.” Paris stepped into the soft glow of the parking lights and reached down, jerking Shari’s head up, eliciting a new series of screams and shrieks.

“My sister listened to her,” somebody piped up.

“Whatever.” Shaw seemed unimpressed. “Load ‘em into the van.”

“What do you think your doing?” Ruth demanded as she, her mom, and sisters were shoved or dragged towards the open sliding-door of the waiting van.

“You seem too smart to ask such a stupid question.” Shaw slung his rifle over his shoulder. “Men, clean this place out. One of you get that moving van, Milo said the keys were in the ignition.” He walked over to where Mike and Darrin lay, both on their backs with a half dozen guns trained on them.

The struggles and protests of the Bergman women were suddenly muffled as the sliding-door of the van slammed shut. Kevin felt sick to his stomach as he considered their fate. But at the moment, he was actually more concerned about Mike and Darrin.

“Hope you boys understand,” Shaw knelt between the two, “this ain’t personal.”

“Easy to say from where you are,” Mike said with a tremor in his voice.

“Look, if I thought you two could help us in some way…I’d ask ya to join. We got a really sweet set up. Only…I’m guessing we won’t be needing computer programmers any time soon.”

“First,” Mike struggled to keep his voice from cracking, “I’m not a computer programmer. And second, I wouldn’t join you if you begged.”

“Ya got spirit,” Shaw laughed, “I’ll give ya that. And hey, we ain’t takin’ everything. Just the girls, and the moving van of stuff. We’ll leave most everything you two had in your trailer. Of course, we’ll be disabling your rigs. Can’t have you following us.”

“You’re a real humanitarian.” Mike managed to actually sound more sarcastic than scared.

Most of Shaw’s men had been scrambling about, gathering things or ripping wires out from every vehicle in the park. The U-Haul had been brought up beside the van where the screams suddenly intensified.

“TJ, go tell those assholes to leave the bitches alone until we get back to The Basket!” Shaw barked.

TJ stepped away from Darrin and went over to the van. He pounded on the side and then jerked the door open. What Kevin saw made him ache inside. All the Bergmans had had their clothes torn or cut away. Each was cuffed with their arms over their heads to a bar suspended from the roof.

“You guys know the rules.” TJ yanked out one man who had his pants already down to his knees and tossed him to the ground.

“C’mon, TJ,” another man protested. His pants were also down and he held Shari by the hair with one hand, the other held a knife against her cheek. “We gots a bonafide celebrity here. Hell, I’ve beat off to her videos before.”

“Thanks for sharing, Snell,” TJ said. “But Shaw says we wait.” A series of grumbles and curses came from the van, but the men were pulling their pants back up.

“So you’re a gang of rapists?” Darrin had gotten his air back.

“That is such an ugly and antiquated word.” Shaw clucked his tongue. “We’re conquerors. We are rebuilding our society through selective breeding. All my men are fighters...warriors. We will create a strong tribe that will survive and flourish. To that end...we require women.”

“Rapists.” Mike nodded.

“I’ll tell ya what,” Shaw knelt beside Mike, “why don’t you call it in. If you want, I’ll let you write down our license plate numbers.”

“The men are ready to roll.” TJ came over and patted Shaw on the arm.

“Well then,” the man rose to his feet, “I imagine I should tell you two how this works. You make any attempt to follow us—a monumentally stupid idea I’d have to say—we’ll just kill you. I’m sure a couple of smart guys like you can scavenge up some new stuff. You have made an honest mistake and ventured into our territory. We’ve collected our toll, and now you have twenty-four hours to be gone. If we find you again after that, well...”

Without warning, TJ brought a huge handgun from a shoulder holster and fired. Darrin’s body lurched. There was enough light from the surrounding vehicles for Mike to see the hole in the center of his forehead.

Mike screamed in frustration, and heedless of Shaw or the men still milling about him, scurried over to his friend. Darrin’s eyes were wide open, but there hadn’t even been enough time for him to register surprise.

On the roof where Kevin watched all this, he warred with the desire to take as many of Shaw and his men down as he could. However, it wasn’t fear that stayed his hand, he’d heard something in all the talking that was important. Getting into a shootout now would be a brief and fatal tactic.

Mike held Darrin’s head in his lap, sobbing unabashedly. Eventually, only Shaw remained standing over the two. “That was as much of a warning as I give. Get out of our territory or I assure you that you’ll wish you could trade places with your friend there.”

“Can I ask one question?” Mike looked up at Shaw with tears streaming down his checks.

“Two reasons,” Shaw didn’t wait for what he assumed to be the obvious question of why, “first, you showed spirit and I respect that, while your friend just laid there accepting things. Second, I want it clear that this is our territory, and uninvited trespassers will be dealt with accordingly.”

“Actually,” Mike wiped his nose on his sleeve and took a deep breath, “what led you to us? You drove past a few hours ago and didn’t show any indication of coming in.”

“The broken gate was a giveaway,” Shaw hiked a thumb over his shoulder, “but having the lights on in your RV was like a beacon. We decided to give you time to relax and go to sleep so as to minimize any losses we might take. Living people that fit our requirements are a very finite resource.”

“You know,” Mike was regaining his composure slowly, “Hitler tried the Master Race thing. It didn’t end well for him.”

“You got a lotta spirit, man,” Shaw laughed.

“I’m stating facts. And you can play Sparta all you like, but those who don’t know history are—”

“Condemned to repeat it,” Shaw interrupted. “We aren’t stupid, man. Only, the prevailing thought is that guys,” Shaw waived his hand dismissively at Mike and Darrin, “guys like you who thought that they were so smart, likely were the same guys that are the reason that this happened. You banned prayers. You banned the Pledge of Allegiance. And, if your Big Bang or Evolutionary doctrines were ever questioned by honest, God-fearin’ folks...well, you brought your lawyers and liberal media and made us look like idiots. We don’t need your type.”

“And what the hell makes you think I’m a scientist or whatever?”

“We’ve been monitoring you guys for the past few days. We’ve heard your ridiculous conversations and arguments over some pretty stupid shit.” Shaw shrugged.

“That’s how you knew we had women,” Mike breathed.

“We also know that you had a third guy.” Shaw looked around like he could see past the dim glow of lights from the idling vehicles. “If you didn’t already run him off and he’s seeing and hearing this...he’s on the same twenty-four hour clock you’re on.” With that, Shaw turned and walked to the truck, climbed into the driver’s side and led the procession—which was now one U-Haul truck richer—out of the park and into the darkness.

“Mike!” Kevin yelled once he was certain the vehicles were gone.

“They killed Darrin!” The anguish in Mike’s voice seemed to have flooded back in the absence of a threat.

“I know.” Kevin swung over the edge and dropped to the ground, “Mike...I wanted to do something. Anything. But—”

“You’d have gotten killed, and me along with you,” Mike said. “I know, man. I’m not stupid. There wasn’t a damned thing any of us could do.”

“I’ve never felt so useless.” Kevin walked over to where Mike still sat on his haunches holding Darrin’s head in his lap.

“Why?” Mike asked the sky.

Kevin didn’t need to see Mike’s face to know he was crying. He was thankful for the darkness because he had tears trickling from his own eyes. Struggling to control his voice, “You know as well as I that nothing needs to have a reason any-more. People are going to revert to their base—”

“Jesus Christ, Kevin!” Mike yelled. “For once, just once, don’t spill out some convoluted bullshit answer that you think sounds like the logical thing to say. Be fucking human! A friend of ours was shot in the face for no damned reason! Four women were loaded up like chattel by some gang of extremist lunatics! Those wanna-be-warlords are going to rape four women that, despite our recent disagreements, we were responsible for. Those women were part of our group.”

“And I know where they are...or rather where they are being taken.” Kevin knelt beside Mike.

***

After carrying Darrin into the RV that he and Mike had been staying in, the two poured gasoline all over the interior. They finished just as the sun began its slow journey skyward. Both men stood outside the open door. Neither said a word and left the other to his thoughts.

“Let’s go.” Mike finally broke the silence.

The two stepped back several feet. Kevin produced the road flare from his back pocket. Igniting it, he glanced at Mike who nodded. Kevin underhanded the flare into the open doorway and he and Mike turned and ran for the cover of the bathroom structure. There was a loud ‘FWOOMP’ as the interior of the RV erupted in flames, blowing out all the windows that Kevin and Mike hadn’t been able to roll down.

“We’ll need a new map,” Kevin announced.

“So,” Mike turned to follow, “Where are these guys? And how do you know where they are hiding out?”

“One of them said something about heading back to The Basket.”

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Mike struggled to keep the impatience from his voice. Really, for cryin’ out loud, why couldn’t Kevin just tell him instead of treating this like some top-secret kernel of information that he had to parse out in bits and pieces.

“When I was seventeen, my family took one of those horrid see-the-country road trips for summer vacation,” Kevin explained.

“I remember.” Mike nodded as the two walked past the gatehouse and turned right on the road, moving into the center of it to better avoid being surprised by a zombie. “Your dad said Clinton was gonna get the country nuked and you might never have a chance to see the Heart of America again.”

“Something like that,” Kevin scowled. “Anyhow, we stopped near here, and the next day we toured this building shaped like a giant picnic basket that had just opened. Even met the owner and my mom got his autograph on a basket she’d purchased. His name was Dave Longa-something.”

“Weird,” Mike said, scanning everywhere at once. He and Kevin had one gun, less than thirty rounds, a baseball bat and a sword. Any serious zombie threat would not go well.

“You have no idea,” Kevin sighed. “But I’m positive that place is nearby. Why else would that guy say something ‘bout going to The Basket?”

“If you’re right…” Mike’s voice trailed off.

***

“What’d you say this town’s name was?” Mike leaned against the wall of the remains of an unidentifiable and mostly burned down building.

“Heath,” Kevin said as he wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered around the corner.

“Yeah, well I hate this place.”

“Me, too. Six more coming, and they know we’re here. They’re beelining for us.”

“That gas station better damned well have maps.” Mike pushed off from the wall and shook out first his right arm, then switching the sword to it, did the same to the left.

Kevin stepped out from his useless hiding place. He never got used to caving the skulls in on women and children. The nearest zombie had been a girl no more than ten, hair still in stringy, filthy pigtails. Her mouth was an over-exaggerated oval from all the dried-on blood and goodness-knows-what-else on her face. Equally gruesome was the gore caked on her bare arms well past the elbows. With one swing of the bat, he brought it to its knees. A couple more pile-driving-type blows cracked open the skull, spilling vile fluids and dark spongy matter. He and Mike worked their way through the small group and bolted for what appeared to be the only gas station that hadn’t burned to the ground.

Along the way, they had to dodge or hurdle decomposing bodies and piles of garbage. The smell, coupled with the hordes of buzzing flies, caused both men to struggle with not vomiting. If it was this bad in a small town, what must the large cities be like by now? They reached their destination and caught a major break. The entry door had already been shattered. Glass cubes littered the floor of the small customer area.

Kevin ducked in as Mike stood watch. He saw several zombies shuffling their direction, none close enough to be any serious threat…yet. Mike heard Kevin rifling through things behind him, but he wouldn’t risk taking his eyes off the surroundings.

“Got it!” Kevin called triumphantly.

As he did, a grisly remnant of what looked like a prom queen staggered around the corner of the gas station a mere ten feet away. A once shimmering dress hung in shreds. It opened its mouth and moaned as its arms reached out, leading the body. Mike’s eyes widened. The mouth was moist with fresh blood! Taking a closer look as he raised the sword and prepared to take the pitiful creature down, he noticed both wrists were marred with what looked to be severe rubbing caused by restraints. One ankle still had a thin leather strap buckled in place.

He swung as it stepped into range. The head split down the middle and the body toppled. Kevin stepped up by Mike’s side. Both men stared horrified. When the body fell, the dress rode up far enough to reveal the absence of panties…and a thick smear of wetness inside both thighs.

“What the fuck?” Kevin gasped.

“Shaw’s men?” Mike asked.

“Why?” Kevin couldn’t peel his eyes away. Little facts were beginning to reveal themselves. Like, even the most horrific injury—a gaping rip on the neck—was cleaned. The dress was in tatters, but it had been torn recently. The dress itself was clean. Shaw and his group obviously have living women to…

“She’s wearing make-up,” Mike said.

“And her hair’s been washed recently.” Kevin pointed.

“What do you guess her age to be?”

“A little older than Erin maybe…Sixteen?” Kevin used the toe of his boot to nudge the dress back down.

“Sabrina,” a voice called. Several of the zombies in the area shifted directions.

“C’mon,” Mike hissed, nudging Kevin and took off towards the sound of the voice. While the concentration of zombies was increasing, they remained spread out enough to not be too much of a concern.

A man less than a block from them shoved away an approaching zombie dressed like it had just come from a night at the nearest country bar. His left arm was wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage. He carried no weapon that either Mike or Kev-in could see and appeared completely unfazed by the handful of undead heading for him.

“Something feels wrong,” Kevin said.

The man’s head snapped over to Mike and Kevin at the sound of voices. A look crossed his face. He seemed suddenly much more frightened at the arrival of two living, breathing people than he did of the slowly growing number of undead.

“Nasty wound you got there,” Kevin said, shooting a look at Mike, and then moved away to the left, putting some distance between them.

The man took a step back, his eyes darting everywhere at once. Then, without warning, he bolted in the direction of several zombies!

“Decide quick.” Mike guessed the number of approaching undead to be in the forties.

“I gotta know.” Kevin shrugged, and took off after the man.

He wasn’t hard to follow. Kevin guessed him to be a few inches under six-feet tall, but easily over two hundred-and-fifty pounds. From the back, the man displayed a well-defined bald spot and a braided ponytail that swayed back and forth. The corpulent man barged through several converging zombies, unfazed by their outstretched hands, shoving or elbowing aside any that came close.

Mike and Kevin had more difficulty keeping up as they reached the cluster. With bat and sword they made their way, losing a little ground, but still keeping the man in sight. They followed, and were actually relieved when he ducked into a large, whitewashed, three-story building. The sign out front read Heath High School.

The two cut across the shin-high grass of the front lawn and to the wide stairs that led up to four sets of double-doors. The building itself, at least from what they could see, was set up so that the first-floor windows were a good seven or so feet off the ground. The front doors were covered from the inside with what looked like a mixture of corrugated metal and plywood. A few small windows—inches above the ground—were both too narrow and low to be much worry, but they all appeared boarded up as well.

They bounded up the stairs and gave the doors a tug. Each set was locked. Looking around, Kevin climbed onto the concrete banister and stretched over to the nearest windowsill. Of course, he scoffed as he tried to wedge open the window. It was locked.

“Watch out!” Kevin called over his shoulder as he swung the bat. Glass shattered. Clearing out as much of the remaining shards as he could, Kevin easily swung over and in the new opening. He was inside an office. He only had a couple of seconds though as the door burst open. The man they’d chased was there, a gun pointed, albeit shakily, at Kevin.

“Put the gun down!” Kevin yelled, hoping Mike would hear and take the hint.

“You can’t stay here.” The man’s voice was even shakier than the hand holding the large, black revolver.

“That’s a nasty wound you’ve got there.” Kevin pointed to the bandaged arm that was dripping on the gray indoor-outdoor carpet.

“You can’t stay here,” the man repeated. “You have to leave now.”

The sound of glass crashing made both men jump. Mike was obviously making his own entrance. The sudden distraction caused the man to turn away from Kevin. Seeing the opportu-nity, Kevin lunged, coming down hard with his bat on the arm that held the gun. The weapon fired, and the useless computer monitor on the large walnut desk toppled to the floor. Kevin felt, rather than heard, the sickening snap of the forearm. The man howled in pain, and the gun fell to the ground. Kevin brought the barrel of the bat up, catching the man under his jaw. The man fell back out of the doorway, bounced off what looked to be a long reception desk, and collapsed to the ground in an unmoving heap.

“Kevin!” Mike yelled.

“In here,” Kevin answered, stepping over the prone body and fully into what had once served as the front office for the school.

Mike burst into the office slamming open the frosted glass door. “I heard a gunshot.”

“He missed.” Kevin held his arms up and turned so Mike could see he was fine. “I knocked him out with the bat. I don’t think I killed him.”

“Not that it would matter,” Mike stepped through the waist-high swinging-gate to join Kevin. “That asshole’s obviously been bitten. We may as well just put him down now.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Kevin shook his head. “He was looking for somebody named Sabrina. My guess is that it’s the girl we took down. That probably means that this dude’s doing some weird shit.”

“So?” Mike shrugged.

“He also seems to be the last living soul here in Heath. I say we tie him up, then offer him a quick death in exchange for information, like any running vehicles nearby and where we can find supplies.”

“It’s not like we have anything better to do…or… umm…a twenty-four hour time limit.” The sarcasm was creeping back into Mike’s voice.

“Well,” Kevin snatched a phone cord and stepped back into the principal’s office, “this guy seemed to be existing under Shaw’s radar without any problem. Maybe Shaw doesn’t come into this town.”

With that said, he dragged the body back into the office. Within a few minutes, using phone and power cords, they had firmly tied the man to the chair behind the principal’s desk.

“I say we go look around and see what is here that we might use. Best gather stuff in case we need to beat feet in a hurry,” Mike said.

The two crept out into the dark, shadowy hall with their weapons at the ready. A staircase was on the left past a section of lockers. Together they peered around the corner. They had two choices: up or down.

“I say let’s start at the bottom and work our way up,” Kevin said.

“Suits me fine.”

They crept down the darkened stairwell. Enough ambient light existed to see up to the point where the stairs reached a landing before turning back in an about-face and continuing down.

Once on the landing, they peered cautiously down the rest of the stairs. A hallway ran either direction. A dull glow to the left indicated some sort of light source. Kevin and Mike glanced at each other, nodded, and continued down. Mike clung to the right, Kevin against the wall on the left.

With one step to go, Kevin raised his hand, signaling Mike to stop. The other froze, raising the sword in case he needed to strike.

“You hear that?” Kevin hissed.

Mike listened. There it was. A creak, a rustle, other odd sounds. He looked at Kevin with raised eyebrows. What? He mouthed silently.

No idea, Kevin mouthed back, shrugging.

Mike leaned forward to peek down the hallway. It was empty. On the right side, about twenty or so feet away, an open doorway cast a pale glow. It was also the direction of the source of the sounds.

They waited. The sounds continued, but nothing emer-ged. Kevin stepped into the long hallway. Still nothing. He walked towards the open doorway. Mike followed, glancing over his shoulder nervously.

Kevin peeked in the dimly lit room and, without warning, threw himself back. He landed on his butt, scrambling to gather up the bat that had slipped from his grip and clattered nosily on the linoleum.

“Holy shit!” Mike hadn’t been able to fight the curiosity. He stood against the far wall, staring into the dimly lit room.

Several girls—none old enough to be past high school age, all zombies—were bound to various devices scattered about the room. Some were dressed in cheerleader outfits, others in school-girl uniforms, others were completely naked.

One was only a few feet inside the door. Mike guessed she’d been the reason Kevin freaked. She was in a typical student’s desk. However, she was bound in place securely with belts and duct tape. Her hands were free and she reached for Mike, struggling in absolute futility against her bonds.

“What the fuck?” Kevin joined Mike, staring into the room.

“To hell with putting that sick fuck down. I say we feed him to these…” Mike’s voice trailed off. He was torn by disgust and pity. Disgust for that lunatic they had tied to a chair upstairs. Pity for these things. Each had only the most superficial bite, if it was even visible. This had been intentional.

In one corner of the room, one of the Schoolgirl-zombies struggled more than the rest. Kevin noticed that all of them had ball-gags secured in place except the overly agitated one. She had strips of duct tape wrapped around her head.

He stepped tentatively into the room, carefully avoiding coming into grasping range of any of the pathetic creatures scattered about. Weaving his way through the hellish obstacle- course he made his way to the long-haired brunette. The room was almost gaggingly sweet smelling, as if bottles of perfume had been dumped over each of the inhabitants.

“Shit!” Kevin suddenly bolted to the thrashing figure in the corner. He knelt beside the girl. Patting his pockets, he produced a pocketknife. “There is no way this won’t hurt,” he said, cutting through the tape vertically. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said, peeling corners back on each side of the slit.

“No way.” Mike stood over Kevin’s shoulder, staring in disbelief.

Kevin yanked both directions. It took four tries, but he removed the tape…and a considerable amount of hair. To his surprise, the girl didn’t cry. She whimpered slightly a couple of times, but that was the extent.

Neither man could ignore the partially healed bite just above the knee-high stocking on the right leg. It had to be several days old.

“Please save me.” The young girl looked up at the two with pleading eyes.

Mike and Kevin looked at each other with the same basic thought painted clearly on their faces. This flew in the face of everything they thought they knew. Could it be possible that being bitten wasn’t a one hundred-percent certainty that the recipient would turn? Cary’s face flashed in Kevin’s mind.

“Impossible,” Kevin breathed. It was as much a wish as a denial.

16

Tough Choices

“Are you going to invite me in, or simply stand there with your mouth hanging open?” Doctor Zahn asked.

“Well…umm…” I couldn’t think of what to say. I stepped aside and gestured for her to enter.

“Wimmer told me you are equipped to pull out of here on a moment’s notice.”

“So what leads you to believe I’m leaving now?” I asked, trying not to sound offensive.

“I was watching you and your little clique when the vote passed barring any attempt at a search-and-rescue mission,” she said simply. “None of you should ever sit down at a poker table.”

“So why would you leave with us?” My curiosity was more than piqued.

“Sergeant Wimmer is actually going to send out a few groups.” Doctor Zahn sat at my kitchen table and folded her hands in front of her, indicating that she might be staying for a while. “He has asked certain individuals that he deems crucial to join some of those groups. We will have a radio and instructions to make contact if a suitable relocation site is discovered.”

I had to give it to Paul Wimmer. He was nothing if not thorough. Instead of sending teams on a mission and depleting his finite supply of trained soldiers, he would let civilians do his dirty work. Only—

“Why would he risk sending crucial people out with a bunch of us untrained yahoos?” I asked.

“And what would compel you to make contact with him if you found someplace safe?” Doctor Zahn countered.

Good point, I thought.

“Also, you’ve all shown the ability to survive this nightmare without help. He believes your survival is due to your not being bound to a command structure that would have you waiting to be told to act. Your independence and free thinking is an asset.”

“But this seems a bit obvious.” I sat at the table across from Doctor Zahn. “Why tip your hand? I mean, some folks might be a bit paranoid. They may shy away from bringing a government tag-a-long.”

“He’s not simply letting everybody make a run for it, Steve,” Doctor Zahn laughed. “He isn’t stupid. Some groups are being encouraged to go in order to thin out the population in the event that one of those migrating herds comes and traps us here. That lessens the draw on supplies. Others, people he’s come to trust somewhat, are being asked to accommodate a rider,” Doctor Zahn paused, then smiled. “What was your word? Oh yes, tag-a-long.”

“So how did I get so lucky to draw the most senior medical person?” I figured tonight was not going to be that chance to rest up. It was also probably going to be the last time I’d be living in such relative luxury for a while. I got back up and walked to my little kitchen.

“The sergeant is a fairly good judge of character. He feels that your group is the most likely to survive,” Doctor Zahn said matter-of-factly.

There was something else in Doctor Zahn’s voice, and I decided to press the issue, “And?” I walked back to the table and plunked down a cold beer—the matching twin to the one in my hand which represented the last of my supply—in front of the doctor. She looked up at me, and for the first time, I saw real emotion on her face. The stoic Doctor Zahn was blushing!

“Dave Ellis!” I blurted out.

“You will say nothing,” the cold, self-assured voice I was used to held a bit of a tremor.

“I got news for ya, doc…in a small group, travelling like we will be, secrets are all but impossible.” I took a long drink. Mostly because I was trying to digest this tidbit of information.

“Yes, well,” Doctor Zahn was blushing even brighter than before, “David isn’t the most perceptive person.”

“You made a pass and he missed it.” I tried not to laugh and succeeded, mostly.

“Be amused if you want,” there was that coldness I was used to, “but it was all I could do to reveal this to you.”

“Your secret’s safe,” I assured and sat back down. “Seal it with a drink.” I held up my bottle of beer. To her credit, Doctor Zahn picked hers up, we clinked bottles, and each took a long drink.

We finished our beer in silence, then Doctor Zahn left. I told her to gather any essentials and be ready in five hours. Five hours? Damn. At least I was packed.

Stretching out on the couch, I double-checked to ensure my alarm was set. Picking up my book, I hoped that I didn’t doze off before finishing those last thirty—

Another knock at the door!

“Really?” I said out loud to nobody. Well, whomever it was, they weren’t coming in. I’d do what it took to brush them off. Finishing The Mayor of Casterbridge was now a personal issue.

“What!” I yanked open the door and barked, hoping to be as off-putting as possible so as to encourage this latest intruder to go away.

“Steven,” the calm voice deflated my annoyance. As my irritation began to turn quickly to…was it fear?

“Mister Smith,” I glanced at the two armed soldiers standing behind Randall Smith. “Don’t imagine this is just a social call?”

Randall Smith doesn’t smile much. That is why, when he glanced over his shoulder at the two armed men, then back at me and smiled…I got more than a little nervous. “Privates Gregg and Hilton were simply kind enough to accompany me because I was negligent and out after dark without my weapon.”

It was actually a standing order that children under age fifteen remain indoors unless accompanied by an armed escort. Adults were expected to carry a weapon at all times when out at night. There was a “No Exceptions” clause on those orders. It was in place to minimize the risk of somebody being caught unaware by a zombie that managed to slip past the intricate security. I guess that is military thinking: Plan for every poss-ibility.

“I believe Mister Hobart can escort me back, gentlemen.” Randall Smith raised an eyebrow at me expectantly.

“Uh…sure,” I said.

There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence, then I jumped as if I’d been hit with a mild electric shock. Stepping back, I gestured to the impeccably dressed man standing in my doorway. “Please, come in.”

He did, and just that suddenly, the soldiers turned about-face and departed. Smith glanced around the living quarters, his eyes seeming to take in every detail. He went to my couch, considered the pillow, blanket, and alarm clock, then seated himself in the adjacent chair.

I’d shut the door, but hadn’t moved. I had no idea where this was about to go. I was trying to find reasons for the neatly arranged row of carry bags sitting along the wall that separated the bedroom and the livingroom.

“A little light reading?” Mister Smith broke the silence.

“What?” I was more jumpy at this very moment than I think I’d ever been when we were on the road.

He waved the bookmarked paperback at me. “I think this is a bit on the heavy side, isn’t it?”

“It’s entertaining,” I said, and decided to stop acting like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. I walked over, shoved my blanket aside, and sat down.

“Very seldom can you find somebody so unredeemable,” he waved the book.

“Oh, they’re out there.” I wasn’t sure where this was headed.

Once again we sat in silence. I was getting over my uneasiness and making my way to annoyed. If he was here to bust me for leaving, fine. If not, then I wished he’d get to the point.

“When does your group leave?”

Okay, no more small talk. I considered playing ignorant, but that row of packed bags sorta ruled that out. Still, if he was asking…

“Why do you want to know?”

Mister Smith flipped through the pages of my book, then set it on the coffee table. He folded his hands on his knee, leaned forward, and looked me square in the eyes. “Do you have children?”

Not what I expected. “Not of my own, but Thalia is mine as far as anybody’s concerned.”

“Then you may not entirely understand what it means to be a parent.” I started to interrupt, but he raised his hands. “You have some notion, but still, you’ve not raised a child that you fathered.”

“Your point?” I’d officially reached annoyed and was now considering tossing Mister Smith out my front door.

“I have a daughter…” his mouth hung open as if he’d forgotten what to say. There was another long moment of silence. This was becoming tedious.

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” he eventually continued, “there are other outposts like this one. Some on military installations, others in strategic, or perceived strategic locales. Until yesterday, we were in touch directly with five, and indirectly with seventeen more.”

“Why?” I was suddenly wishing I hadn’t given the doctor my last beer. “What happened yesterday.”

“The numbers changed to three and nine respectively,” Mister Smith sighed. Suddenly he looked so very tired.

“Herds?” I asked.

“In every case but two.”

“What happened to those?” I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.

“Raiders.” Mister Smith let that word hang for a few seconds. “The undead aren’t our only problem. And, it would seem that certain factions of those who remain alive not only want nothing to do with order, they are thriving quite nicely in the chaos.”

“This is all well and good, Mister Smith.” I didn’t want to waste any more of my night with casual banter. It was obvious he’d come to my place with a purpose. “I don’t know what any of this has to do with me, so why not just put it on the table.”

“I have a nine-year-old daughter…here.”

I didn’t see that coming.

“She was in my car with me the day I got the phone call. Due to the urgency, I had no choice but to bring her with me.” All of a sudden, the unwaverable Mister Randall Smith was speaking quickly and with emotion. “I had to use a bit of bluster at times, and make threats that I hoped nobody would call me on. Somehow, I managed to bring Emily along with me all the way here. I thought this would be the safest place for her.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea that his daughter was among the children living here. Also, I had no idea why he was telling me all of this. After giving me a moment to digest all of it, he continued.

“I have a duty. Even though I doubt we will prevail and turn this around…the whole zombie situation…I have to exhaust every effort,” he said in that curt voice I was accustomed. “We have two herds in the vicinity. One seems to be coming at us. Estimated size is over five thousand.”

I’d seen handfuls. I’d seen hundreds. But five thousand zombies was something I just could not wrap my mind around. I thought back to that first morning as we passed through Vancouver. There had been so many of those things on both sides of the freeway. Maybe a thousand or two. But they’d been spread out.

“I’m still a bit fuzzy on why you’re here, Mister Smith,” I said.

“I want you to bring Emily with you.” What I imagine passed for a smile tried to break through his normal stoic face. “And please, I think at this point it will be okay to call me Randall.”

“I don’t follow.” I was so very confused.

“My daughter. Emily. I want you to bring her with you when you and your group leave the facility.” He gestured at my row of bags. “I assume it is tonight from all the activity at your residence this evening.”

“There could be a number of reasons I’ve had friends over.” I sounded defensive, and even in my own ears I could hear how weak and flimsy my statement was.

“And Doctor Zahn?” Mister Smith, or Randall, was all business now. “She doesn’t make house calls. Has no known social circle. Yet, she was with Sergeant Wimmer for about an hour, then came to your place only after waiting for that young lady to leave.”

“Are you having me watched?” I asked angrily.

“Having you watched?” he laughed just a bit. “Goodness no. I’ve been doing it all myself. After all, I’m entrusting you with the dearest thing in my life.”

He a moment to ponder all that I’d just taken in. Even with this gesture, I had trouble envisioning him as the doting father.

“So why would you send her with me?” I finally asked.

“I believe her chances for survival are greater than if she stays here,” Randall answered.

“Then why don’t you leave with us as well?” I wasn’t getting any less confused.

“I’m sure you’ll think me the perfect bastard,” his voice was just a bit quieter as he spoke. “As I’ve said, I have a duty. One that I take seriously. If I abandon my post, I remove one more obstacle for these abominations. As long as I do what I was assigned, I give anybody who remains working on a solution just a while longer. By walking away from my responsibility, I, in effect, surrender my daughter to this new world. That is something I am not prepared to do.”

“But just putting her in the care of a total stranger?” I objected. Some of my objection felt genuine. Yet, another part of it had to do with my own fear of responsibility. I was already quite overwhelmed with Thalia.

“I’ve listened to the debriefing interviews that every civilian who’s arrived here underwent. I heard enough to know you were my choice. I can assure you I did not make this decision lightly or without research.” Randall stood. I thought he was going to end our little meeting. Instead, he stepped around the chair and walked towards the door that led to the bedroom. To Thalia!

“Whoa!” I sprang to my feet, scrambling to get myself between him and the door. I planted my feet and my hands shot forward. He was close enough that I made contact and rocked him back a bit.

“That, Steven, is why I’m entrusting my daughter to your care.” Randall folded his arms across his chest and fixed his most serious gaze on me. “In the event that this location is overrun and I’m unable to escape, I want to know I’ve given Emily the best chance of survival possible.”

My appraisal of this man changed. The look we shared said it all. He knew he would die here, but he was willing to risk everything. If, by holding out one more day, he improved some think-tank or governmental lab’s chances of finding a way to beat this or whatever…then he would do so. Randall Smith took his job seriously. It would appear that he took his responsibility as a father equally serious. In that moment, we both knew one thing with certainty. Randall Smith was a dead man.

“I’ll do my best,” I promised.

“I have no doubt.” Randall extended his hand, and we shook. That was the physical act of a vow made and accepted. With a final curt nod, he headed to the front door.

“Don’t you want that escort home?” I asked as he opened the door to a gentle gust of night air.

“No,” he turned with a smile that suddenly reminded me of a mischievious school boy, “I like to keep the sentries on their toes. Besides, I think I’ll pay Sergeant Wimmer a visit.”

With that, he left. I had no doubt in my mind that I’d never see Randall Smith again. I returned to the couch and flopped down. Reaching over to the coffee table, I grabbed my book, flipped to the bookmark and began to read.

***

The drone of my alarm clock woke me. Ten minutes later, Doctor Zahn arrived in the company of a sleepy-eyed girl with slightly Asian features. Her straight, black hair was cut shoulder length and poking out from underneath a dark green stocking cap. I ushered them in, and it was quickly decided that Emily could be put with Thalia. Once we had everything ready, the last thing would be to grab the girls.

Barry and Randi arrived with Jamie and Teresa. Aaron was next, followed by Dave who I noticed kept trying his hardest not to look at Doctor Zahn. Ain’t love grand? Last was Melissa, but she wasn’t alone. Sergeant Wimmer walked in behind her, and I felt the tension level in the room ratchet up several notches.

“Paul.” I walked up and shook the man’s hand.

“I’d like to wish all of you good luck.” Sergeant Paul Wimmer paused a moment to give the group time to relax a bit.

“Your vehicles are fueled and waiting. I figured that you might fare better with a pair of Hum-vees. Also, I have this.” He produced a map and handed it to me. “It has fueling locations marked based on our latest intel. The ones circled in blue have the least amount of traffic.”

“Traffic?” Dave Ellis seemed to suddenly snap out of his trance.

“Zombies,” Teresa said, not hiding her exasperation.

“Oh.” Dave glanced sheepishly at Doctor Zahn and quickly began polishing his glasses, though I doubted they had even the slightest smudge.

“Also, I have indicated in black the locations and general directions of the herds we are aware of,” Wimmer announced with emphasis.

“Thanks for everything, Paul.” I tucked the map inside my leather jacket’s inner pocket.

“Randall Smith conveys his best wishes as well,” Paul said.

Once again the tension in the room spiked. “It’s okay, folks.” Now was as good a time as any to reveal the surprise. “We’re bringing his nine-year-old daughter, Emily, with us.”

My gaze went around the room and I hoped it looked resolute. This wasn’t going to be a debate. It could have been some lingering issues playing in my head, but I thought I saw a touch of disapproval on Barry’s face for a moment. Still, nobody said a word.

“Y’all best get movin’.” Paul was suddenly as un-military as I’d ever seen.

“Y’all?” Doctor Zahn smirked.

“Right now I’m just Paul Wimmer, farm boy from Tennessee. If I was Sergeant Paul Wimmer, United States Army, I’d be preventing your departure,” he said with a broad smile.

“Can I ask a question…uh…Paul?” Aaron asked with more timidity than I’d ever seen in the boy.

“Shoot.”

“Do you think there’ll ever be a United States again?”

“If I didn’t,” Paul placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “I’d be leavin with you.”

“Time to get rollin’,” I announced. Gathering up all our things, we’d loaded out in just a couple trips. Patrolling sentries walked past us like we weren’t even there. I guess the word had gone out. On our last trip, we scooped up Thalia and Emily. I wondered how our departure would play among the general population. I was certain that Randall Smith and Paul Wimmer would put a nice spin on the situation. They’d keep the population calm and prevent any sort of mass exodus.

Doctor Zahn, Dave, and Melissa climbed in to the Hum-vee with me. Of course that was the vehicle we’d put Thalia and Emily in. Both girls managed to remain asleep as we got the vehicles started up and rolling through the main entry-gates. I was only a little surprised to discover Randall at the checkpoint shack with the man who opened the inner gate. He glanced in the back before coming to my rolled down window.

“There’s a Forestry Department service road about a half mile down. Take it,” he said. I noticed two things immediately: first, his voice had just a slight tremor, second, a line of perspiration was visible on his upper lip. “No matter what you hear, and that includes on your radios, don’t come back.”

“Take care of yourselves,” I said. Randall stepped back and I pulled forward into the sally-port. The Hum-vee with Jamie, Teresa, Aaron, Randi, and Barry nosed in behind us. The gate closed and, after a moment’s wait, the outer gate opened.

We rolled forward and emerged onto the two-lane road that served as the only way in or out of this pencil-dot-on-a-map of a town. The darkness swallowed our former home in seconds. I glanced up to see thick clouds roll in front of the moon.

The patrols had done an excellent job of dropping any roamers that may have been in the area. We saw absolutely no movement in our headlights as we drove down the gentle slope of the hill this town sat perched upon. We turned onto the service road, and were quickly engulfed by the canopy of a pine forest.

Less than five minutes out, we heard the first distinct sounds of gunfire. I slowed to a stop and dialed in what I knew to be the compound’s emergency frequency on my radio.

“…up from three sides!” That sounded like Anton Maxwell. I realized that I had seen very little of him since our arrival at Serenity Base. He seemed to prefer the company of the soldiers.

“…bring the heavy machinguns to the south wall…”

“…is that an armored Greyhound bus?”

“…RPGs incoming, I repeat RP—”

A few seconds later a series of muffled explosions sounded.

“Perimeter is breached on the south barricade,” the familiar voice of Sergeant Wimmer crackled on my radio.

“We’ve got undead inside the wire!”

So was it a herd, or was it raiders? Could it be both? What the hell was going on? The radio crackled to life, but whoever pushed the button hadn’t likely done so intentionally, because one of those screams sounded, follwed by wet ripping sounds, and the all-too-familiar moans of the undead.

The headlights behind me flicked, snapping my attention away from the radio. Everybody in the Hum-vee was staring at me with uncertainty. I switched the radio off and continued deeper into the forest along the heavily overgrown service road.

***

Morning found us parked on a ridge that allowed us to look into the tiny burgh of Kamela. This was the last known location of our friends Ian, Joseph, and Billy…along with the rest of their group.

The rising sun revealed the burned out vehicles we’d heard about, along with a scattered remnant of zombies walking among the charred husks and decaying corpses scattered on the ground.

To our north, a plume of dark smoke is clearly visible. The radio has been silent for over an hour. Whatever happened wasn’t good. The attack was by zombies as well as the living. I have no idea what that means, other than things are really bad.

Once we felt it was okay to stop, we all got out—except for the still sleeping little girls—and had a discussion. We would do our best to reconcile what has happened to our friends.

We’ve found this location, and it is far enough away from that dark smudge of a town that we should be able to observe things for a while. As I sit on the hood of this Hum-vee with a rifle across my lap I wonder…what do we expect to find? And, even if by a miracle we locate our missing friends and discover that they are alive…what do we do next?

17

Vignettes VI

“Pull in that line!” Thad shouted down to JoJo.

Keith was already hauling himself over the rail, having freed the final mooring line. The San Diego Freedom drifted slowly away from the dock. Once an elegant vessel used for dinner cruises, the San Diego Freedom had two levels. The lower was a windowed dining area with enough room to seat eighty. The upper was divided between the bridge, the kitchen area, and an open observation deck.

Thad was alone on the bridge. From there, he could see over the large fence—a fence he, Keith, and JoJo had covered with tarps so that the undead could not see in from the road that ran parallel to the waterfront. It was four lanes on each side with palm trees garnishing the divider island. There were what had to be hundreds of those things milling about. Wandering with no seeming purpose.

He pressed the button that would start the engines. Keith had been invaluable in giving everything a good going-over the past two days. This ship—or whatever it was at around a hundred-feet-long or so—was set up to be controlled with minimal crew. Most functions were automated to the point where very little manpower was needed to perform all the tasks necessary to get underway.

The rumble of the engines caused an immediate reaction outside the fences of the pier. In awkward, gradual, jerky motions, the zombies turned. Their focus began to shift to the direction of that noise. By the tens and hundreds they came up against those high fences, causing them to shudder.

Thad was grateful there were no other vessels in front or behind, because his rudimentary steering abilities would not allow for any fancy maneuvers. Easing the chrome handle—Keith identified it as the throttle—forward, the San Deigo Freedom began to move towards, and slowly beyond, the end of the long pier. Out into the San Diego Bay.

“There goes the fence!” JoJo yelled above the low thrum of the engines.

Thad watched as hordes of zombies poured into the confined space of the pier. All of them with outstretched arms—provided they had one or both arms remaining—stumbled forward in a vain attempt to reach this newly discovered source of possible food. A few of the leading zombies were forced over the edge, and into the water where they sunk from sight.

“So, you think Dinah’s ordered for us to be shot on sight yet?” Keith walked in through the open door that led to the port bridge-wing.

“First night we didn’t show up.” Thad turned the wheel just a fraction to the right as they reached the center of the bay.

“You really think we can make it all the way up to San Francisco?” JoJo asked as he came in through the opposite door on the starboard side.

“I won’t know what sort of gas mileage this thing gets until we’ve used half our fuel,” Thad answered.

“Well,” Keith plopped down in one of the raised chairs, “I think I’ve figured out how and where to take in fuel. The problem will be in coordinating the operation.”

“Maybe we can just find a quiet spot, drop anchor, and call it good,” JoJo said, leaning half in and half out of the doorway, bracing himself against the frame.

“I guess we’ve got plenty of time to figure it out.” Thad picked up his coffee cup, blew lightly across the surface, and took a sip. Even with all the supplies they’d loaded over the past weeks, the need would arise for them to venture ashore again. Still, that could be weeks, or even months from now.

Eventually, they rounded the bend and looked out into the open expanse of the Pacific Ocean. For the first time since this nighmare began, Thad realized he didn’t smell the stench of the dead…the undead. After another sip of coffee, he took a slow, deep inhale through his nostrils. Over the sounds of the engines and surf, he heard Keith and JoJo do the same.

***

Kirsten Malloy stared wide-eyed at the man who was currently busy rumaging through the pack of food she’d scavenged. Her face still stung from the backhanded slap he’d caught her with as she walked unaware through the doorway and into the room she’d been living in. He’d shoved her to the floor, then snatched her pack and commenced rooting through its contents.

“You know,” Kirsten’s anger had built enough steam to give her the nerve to finally speak, “I prob’ly woulda shared. Arturo and I lived together and shared with no problems.”

The stranger’s head popped up and snapped around to her. “Arturo?” he asked. She was surprised at the sound of his voice. She expected something much deeper and mean sounding.

“He worked here till all this…weird stuff happened,” Kirsten remembered her father and Philipé in a mental flash that made her voice crack just a bit.

“Where is this Arturo now?” the man asked as he pulled out a box that made Kirsten blush a bright shade of red. He examined the box of tampons, tossed it aside, and resumed digging through her pack.

“He’s…” Kirsten considered her answer. Could she lie convincingly and maybe scare this man away? “He’s out front.”

The man laughed. “So he’s one of them?”

“Look, take what you want and go. Take everything if you like. I’ll go out tomorrow and find more.” Kirsten watched the man tear open the bag of barbecue chips that she’d been very excited to find. Her mouth watered as she smelled the tangy saltiness. He plunged a grimy hand in the bag and stuffed a bunch of chips in his mouth. What a pig, she thought.

“I will be,” he said around a mouthful of chips.

“Will be what?” Kirsten stared longinly at the bag of barbecue chips. Her bag of barbecue chips.

“Taking everything I want.”

Something in the man’s voice, in his eyes, chilled Kirsten. The way he looked at her, his eyes never really looking into hers even when he stared ar her face, made her feel bad. It was the kind of bad she’d felt when Tricia, the lady who took care of the family’s laundry, had walked into her room a few months ago and found her lying on her bed with her hands down her pants. She’d been watching Oliver Gleason, the cutest boy in the senior class, as he finished cleaning their pool. He’d been wearing knee-length green shorts, and nothing else.

Kirsten became suddenly aware of the silence. She’d been thinking of Oliver and completely spaced. The man had stopped eating and was simply staring at her.

“I can smell you,” the man’s voice was soft and frightening.

“I ain’t been able to take my bath yet today,” Kirsten snapped, blushing fiercely once again.

The man dropped the chips and rose to his feet. He was so big! Kirsten scooted back without realizing it, until her back came in contact with the wall. He took a step forward, licking his lips like he was seeing something really tasty. Kirsten glanced around for what he might be seeing. She looked up, confused, and tried to follow his gaze.

It seemed to lead straight to her lap.

She looked up again. The man was unbuckling his belt.

“No,” Kirsten breathed as the realization hit her like a punch in the stomach.

Much quicker than his size should have allowed, the man lunged, grabbing Kirsten by the hair. She struggled, only to be punched in the side of the head so hard that the world flashed bright, then began to dim. She felt hands tearing at her clothes. She could smell his breath, hot and foul, on her cheek. With a rip and a yank, her pants were gone and Kirsten was on her stomach. Hands were in places they shouldn’t be. Then…

Kirsten screamed.

***

Garrett leaned against the wall, picking up the half-eaten bag of barbecue chips, and settled down to snack and finish going through the bulging backpack of food. Across the room, the girl continued to sob. It was raw and raspy sounding. Mostly due to all the screaming she’d done earlier.

Glancing down, he felt that familiar delight in seeing the bright red smears of blood surrounding his crotch. He’d already taken her twice. He’d never considered the possibility of virginity. Garrett knew from his momma that all girls were whores.

This one had begged for him to stop like all the others. For just a moment, his mind tried to wonder if Ennis—the son of her mom’s boyfriend when Garrett was just ten years old—had gotten so much excitement from his cries all those years ago in that abandoned house they’d been exploring. He fixed his eyes on the curled up girl and let her crying cleanse his mind of such things.

It’d been a few weeks since Garrett left his last “Toy” back at the baseball stadium. So he’d been ready to go again in moments. His decision to have normal sex had been based solely on things he’d learned from past experiences. For example, until he’d properly molded their absolute submission of spirit, the mouth was off limits.

Garrett was used to a certain amount of physical resistance in the initial moments. But this was something different that no amount of spit or blood could lessen. For just a moment he felt sadness. He’d never be able to re-create that instance. His mind replayed that moment when his little Toy had screamed that certain way as he broke though, finalizing his violation.

The freshness of the memory added to its vividness. The sobs were beginning to subside to a quiet whimper. Garrett smiled at the stirring between his legs. He knew from past experiences that this hunger would take considerably longer to satiate. At last, he could truly enjoy the event. He clenched both huge fists. It was time to begin the process of teaching this whore her place in his new world. A world where nobody could call the police just because they didn’t like him. Like when Kimmy Vanderwall said he’d been peeking in her window. The same Kimmy Vanderwall who let Jim Edder put his hand down her pants in the movie theater. The same Kimmy Vanderwall who left her curtains wide open when she changed clothes.

Now Garrett was really angry. Well, the little whore could blame Kimmy Vanderwall for what was about to happen. He stood, dropping the bag of chips, letting them spill on the floor. The whimpering ceased with a gasp as the whore looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. She tried to move and winced. Garrett was across the room in three long strides.

“Please,” the little whore whined. “No.”

Garrett grabbed a handful of hair and dragged her back across the room. He yanked her to her feet and forced her over the foot of the pink-canopied bed.

A scream of pain carried on the early afternoon air.

Garrett smiled.

***

Megan Bishop sat in the narrow stairwell. She heard them down there. She knew they’d broken through the barricades that managed to hold much longer than she’d believed possible. It had been several weeks since she and her crew ran into this twenty-seven floor office complex in mid-town Manhattan.

Death had been everywhere. The unthinkable was happening. Her job as a co-anchor on a morning financial channel news show became irrellevant overnight. Instead, she’d been covering the governmental response…for all of about seven hours!

There were so many of them. So mutilated and disfigured. It seemed impossible. They arrived in a swarm, and in minutes, not hours, they overwhelmed the armed soldiers who’d positioned themselves behind a useless wall of sandbags. Most of those same soldiers were already scattered amongst the ranks of the undead by the time she and her three-person remote team climbed down a makeshift line made of clothes tied together in sturdy knots.

Always the professional, Megan was all about the story. She’d been on Wall Street during 9-11. She’d watched friends and former classmates vault past her that day after filing stories from Ground Zero. This time, it would be Megan Bishop on every channel. When this nightmare was finally over, it would be her reports that showed up in the countless documentaries that would be made.

Misery Porn.

That is what she called it. What else could you call footage of horrific, violent, agonizing tragedy? People got off on watching terrible events that befell strangers. And the money was amazing. Just ask that French documentary team fortunate enough to have shot the only footage of that first plane hitting the Trade Center.

Megan and her team—Paul, Hector, and André—had run for their lives. All the while, Hector rolled tape and André got the audio. Eventually, they’d arrived at this building. Its huge, open lobby had been empty! They’d made it inside and tossed every piece of furniture they could find at the entrance. Then, they’d gone up to the top floor. André insisted that they check every floor on the way up.

Empty!

They set up that day on the top floor and began filing reports. Of course they couldn’t send them without the equipment back in the truck several blocks away, but still they put them together.

By the fourth day, power went out across the city. The darkness had been terrifying. Coupled with the stench of the walking dead and the sporadic gunfire that would periodically shatter the utter silence, Megan experienced a fear so complete in the first days, that it made her physically ill.

That was also the day André changed into one of them. He’d gone downstairs to search for food and tried to slip out through one of the metal-doored emergency exits, hoping that all the crowds were in front. He’d been wrong. One of those things had taken a nip out of the fleshy part of his hand just below the pinky.

It was such a small bite really. By late that afternoon, André’s dark brown skin was almost grey. Just as the sun was setting, André died. No less than five minutes later, he sat up. Hector and Paul fought André off, and eventually forced him over the side.

The next morning, they looked down and saw André. His body was bent at several angles. But still he squirmed.

For days, the three of them existed off of what they scavenged from the desks and breakrooms of the top floor. The steady diet of vending-machine food kept them alive, but none of them were feeling very well after the second week.

Day after day they watched the crowds below grow in number. From some executive’s office they saw similar crowds around other buildings. Some days it would seem as if a dam suddenly breached and one of those crowds would surge into the building. Sometimes, Megan thought she heard screams come from those buildings.

One morning, she and Paul woke up to discover Hector was gone. No note. No sign of him on the ground like André. Of course the crowd had long since covered André, and if Hector had jumped, it would be almost impossible to tell.

A couple of weeks later, Paul hung himself. Megan had gone into the conference room where Paul slept and discovered him. She’d simply closed the door and never went back in.

Yesterday, the sounds of thick plate-glass windows breaking ended a long stretch of silence. Alone, but so numb from everything that had happened, Megan walked down sixteen floors before she saw the first one.

What had once been a man—he wore the tattered remnants of a suit that cost well over five-grand back when money mattered—was coming up the stairs. Could that really only be barely three months ago? She’d lost track. He was bringing hundreds just like him.

She’d scavenged every floor for every scrap of food and water. She ate the perishables during those first days. That included some fruit that had actually given her a bit of a buzz. But there’d been soups and crackers, ramen cups, and vending machines full of chips and candy. Every floor yielded the same bounty. But, it was almost gone. Last night, she’d been forced to drink rain water squeezed out of her clothes; along with what she’d caught in cups and buckets set out on the roof.

Now, they were coming. Turning around, Megan returned to the roof. She stood on the lip and looked out at the gray, dead city that lay spread out below. Millions of those things sloshed through ankle-deep water in places where the flooding from a storm that had roared through Manhattan a week ago still remained. Broken glass protruded from so many. Falling glass had found plenty of flesh to sink into. Unfeeling flesh. Undead flesh.

Hopelessness. For the first time in her life, Megan felt total hoplessness. She stood, watching the sun’s slow procession from behind the clouds. For the first time, she understood. Those things were coming. They would eat her alive. It would be terrible and agonizing.

The nightmare that haunted her for all those years…since that day suddenly made sense. She’d seen them. The Jumpers. She’d wondered all this time. Why? How? Now she knew. Death on her own terms.

Closing her eyes, spreading both arms wide, Megan stood on tiptoes, then…dove. She felt the wind on her face. Inside she felt victorious. Inside she felt peace.

A moment later, the sun was once again swallowed by the clouds. A light rain began to fall in Manhattan.

***

Juan dropped the watermelon, the burlap bags, and took off right on the heels of the big dog. He reached the house, rounding the corner and getting a full view of the long, covered front porch that wrapped around to the far side of the place. He quickly noticed that the huge picture window was boarded up with plywood. In fact, all the ground floor windows within the normal reach of a person had been similarly secured.

On the porch was a little deader. It couldn’t have been more than six before it turned. Juan no longer thought of the deaders as people. It helped with what he had to do. Also on the porch—with her leg through a rotted board—was a woman that Juan guessed to be in her mid-forties; at least she looked about the same age as his mom. She was using what looked like a fancy table leg to keep the deader at bay.

While Juan skidded to a halt to take a moment to decide how to deal with the situation, the dog plowed into the child-thing, knocking it onto its back. Deciding not to let the thing regain its footing, Juan moved in and brought the bat down on its head until the thing finally stopped squirming.

Looking up, Juan noticed a couple of things right away. One, the dog had simply sat down and was watching with its tongue hanging out making contented doggy panting sounds. Two, the woman had freed her leg, and now held a large, black handgun leveled at him!

“Easy there, lady.” Juan raised his hands, setting his gore-drenched bat on the railing of the porch.

“Real slow, take that belt off and slide that gun over here,” the woman’s voice was still a bit hoarse from screaming.

“If I do, will you stop pointing that gun at me?” Juan slowly brought his hands down and twisted the clasp, releasing the belt. He held it up in one hand.

The distinct sound of a pump-action shotgun sounded behind him. He flinched, but resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.

“Just toss the belt, cowboy,” a young-sounding female voice almost purred.

Juan glanced at the dog. It was still simply taking everything in with a big doggy smile. “You in on this, too?” Juan asked the dog. Its stubby tail wiggled, and it got up and walked over to him, nudging his leg.

“Jade seems to like him,” the unseen shotgun holder said.

“All that means is that he’s not carrying the sickness,” the woman with the pistol snapped.

“C’mon, Mom, this guy took Carson out. He doesn’t seem like he was gonna do anything to you.”

“Maybe that’s because I didn’t give him the chance.”

“It’s been a month since Mister Billings. This is the first person we’ve seen since then. And he didn’t sneak through our window at night and try anything, this guy ran in and saved you,” the voice at his back replied. Juan really wanted to look over his shoulder. That voice sounded so absolutely beautiful.

“Are you willing to risk it, Mackenzie?”

“Are you willing to kill somebody who hasn’t done anything wrong and just saved your life, Mother?” Mackenzie asked.

Juan heard movement behind him, and a moment later Mackenzie came up the steps into view. Juan did his best not to show any reaction. An ugly wound crossed the young woman’s throat where it looked to him like somebody had taken a knife to it. Her left eye was so bloodshot that it looked crimson. There were other bruises visible on her arms, and a black and purple smudge could be seen extending down her thighs past the hem of her shorts. She was wearing cut-off sweats and Juan guessed it was likely that there were more bruises underneath.

“We had an unfortunate experience a few weeks back,” Mackenzie ignored her mom, shouldering the shotgun and extending a hand.

“I’m,” Juan stammered just a bit, “uh, well…”

“Mackenzie!” the woman barked as her daughter clasped hands with the stranger.

“Look,” Juan pulled his hand free, stepped back, and again raised his hands, “I had no idea anybody was here. I have my boat over at the beach.” He waved his arm in the general direction. “I was only taking a look. But when I smelled the fresh fruit. I…well…I—”

“You decided to steal some!” the woman snapped, still keeping the pistol leveled at Juan’s chest, although she was now using both hands. Even then, she was trembling slightly.

“I don’t want any problems.” Juan was getting a little tired of having a gun pointed at him. “I’ll just go back to my boat and—”

“And sneak back some night and either steal from us or worse,” the woman spat; she was really getting worked up. Juan knew fear when he saw it. If the lady was simply angry he could deal with that. But this one was scared, and scared people did things. Bad things.

“Mother, I don’t think this guy is gonna try and hurt us.” Mackenzie turned to the frightened woman, deliberately putting her back to Juan.

“You don’t know that,” the older woman’s voice cracked as she choked back a sob. “Jack Billings was our neighbor for… well…since before you were born.”

“And I always thought he was creepy.” Mackenzie placed her hands on her mothers, lowering the gun. “And when dad died, he never did accept that you weren’t looking for a new husband. Much less that you weren’t interested in him.”

Juan lowered his hands. Suddenly it was as if he weren’t there. Even the dog lying at his feet was intent on the two women who were in the midst of ripping off some sort of serious emotional scab. For a moment, he considered trying to excuse himself. Partially because he didn’t want to be nosy, and also because it was getting dark. He wanted to get back to his boat while he could still see. Juan cursed himself silently for not having thought to bring a flashlight.

“He still shouldn’t have done what he did. Not to me…and certainly not to you.” Now the older woman was sobbing.

“And he’ll never do it again.” Mackenzie took her mom into her arms and hugged her. Juan noticed the wince. She must be pretty beat up, he thought.

“So,” Juan tried to talk quietly, in hopes that Mackenzie’s mom wouldn’t notice, “I’ll just be going.”

“Absolutely not,” Mackenzie said over her mother’s sobs.

“But,” now he was confused, “I just want to get back to my boat before dark. For what it’s worth, I’ll promise not to come back.”

“I don’t think you should go now,” Mackenzie said, looking at Juan over her mom’s head. “It’s almost dark, and I’d feel terrible if in a day or two you come staggering up with a few bites out of you.”

Mackenzie’s mother pushed away from her daughter. “And where do you think he’ll stay?”

“You know what, lady,” Juan was beginning to regret saving the woman, “I said I was just lookin’ for food. I’ve been out on the river for a long time. Folks have either run from me or shot at me. I’ve seen people do terrible things, and when I heard somebody screaming, I came to help. To me, that’s worth a few melons. So, I’m gonna go. On my way, I’m gonna put a few pieces of fresh fruit in my bags that I dropped when I came to save your ass from being eaten. Then,” he scooped up his belt and fastened it with angry, over-exaggerated movements, “I’m getting’ on my boat and leavin’. If you wanna shoot me, don’t miss.”

Juan stormed past the two women, reached the stairs, and froze. He spun suddenly. Both women’s eyes widened as he stomped back towards them. He never even gave them a glance as he reached over and grabbed his bat. Once again, minus a little pride and righteous anger, he made his exit. Just as he reached the bottom step, a voice called out.

“Wait!” it was the mother.

Juan had built up a head of steam. He was angry and continued on, ignoring the repeated calls for him to stop. He heard steps. They were chasing after him! Juan spun, the bat cocked back defensively.

“Please!” the woman held her hands up, slowing. Her daughter—several steps behind—was coming, too, but wincing visibly with every step. “I’m sorry. It’s just been so…” Her voice trailed off and she came to a stop an arm’s breadth away.

“Crazy?” Juan relaxed his arm, dropping the bat to his side. “Like a horror movie?”

“Worse.” Mackenzie caught up and stood beside her mom. “But let’s try this again. My name is Mackenzie Simms. This is my mother, Margaret. The dog’s name is Jade.”

“Juan,” he stepped forward, halving the distance between them, “Juan Hoya.”

“Pleased to meet you, Juan.” Margaret extended a hand. “Thank you for saving me.”

“Welcome,” Juan mumbled. He wasn’t real comfortable with compliments, praise, or thanks.

“Won’t you come back and join us for dinner?” Margaret extended an arm towards the house. “We’re having fresh grilled chicken and biscuits.”

“Tight,” Juan smiled a lop-sided grin. The three walked back to the house, Jade bounding up alongside them.

***

Jenifer sat on the beach, basking in the warmth of the morning sunlight. She heard the sounds of saws and hammers at work and willed them to be swallowed by the sounds of the surf. She only wanted ten minutes. Just ten minutes where she could relax and simply not think, worry, or care.

“Jenifer!” a thickly British-accented voice called. “We’ll be needing your hands to help raise the sails.”

“Dammit,” Jenifer sighed and pushed herself to her feet. Like those three men couldn’t raise a sail.

“Need to see if she’ll hold wind, love,” Graham Briarwood said standing on a fallen tree with his hands shielding his eyes.

“And you need me to do what?” Jenifer allowed the sarcasm to drip. “Admire your rippling muscles as you tug on a piece of rope?”

“Actually,” Gidean Ogilvie took a long drink of water from a bottle and passed it to Graham, “we need you to gather up your things. If this holds, we will be ready to go.”

“Yeah,” Eric Chatham piped up in his nauseatingly effeminate AND British-accented voice. “Be a love and start bringing down the rest of the baggage.”

“Whatever. Jenifer trudged through the sand to the cabana that the four of them had been sharing the past couple weeks as they repaired and outfitted a huge sailboat in preparation for their escape from this dead island.

She walked past one of the still burning piles of corpses. They’d bagged most of the things. There’d been fifteen of them after the storm. Fifteen living souls. Now, there were four. That was all that remained.

They’d hunted and killed every zombie they could find. There were still a few stragglers, but most had been taken care of. She’d found Adaire. It had been a hollow victory. He’d shown no sign of recognition—much less fear—as she aimed the pistol at his blank, dead face. In the end, she’d pulled the trigger. Now, the body was burning in one of the handful of piles they’d stacked and set ablaze.

Those zombie pyres served two purposes. Besides the obvious, they were also going to hopefully attract survivors or rescuers. They’d failed.

Up the stairs and into the gloomy cabana Jenifer stomped. She grabbed or shouldered everything she could. Best guess, she could do it in three trips.

It was on her way back to the boat during the second run as she came running down the stairs when one of the undiscovered stragglers grabbed her by the ankle. She tumbled, bags flew, and Jenifer landed face down on the ground. The scream as teeth dug into her calf was muffled by the sand. She struggled and kicked free. Drawing her large knife, she plunged the blade into the thing’s temple.

She sat up, turning her leg to see the bite. A near perfect set of teethmarks stood out, even on her well-tanned skin. Jenifer got up, testing the ankle. There was a slight throbbing pain. She felt a sudden chill which made her shiver.

Damn. Jenifer returned back up the stairs. She knew very well what this meant. She considered the gun she had in the shoulder holster. In that moment, she ceased being the tough, to-hell-with-the-world warrior that stalked the island, killing every zombie with cold callousness. In that moment, she was once again Jenifer Slaten, an eighteen-year-old girl.

Scared.

Alone.

Dying.

She rummaged through one of her bags and found her favorite pair of skinny-jeans. After changing, she resumed carrying the rest of their stuff down to the dock where their sail boat rocked gently.

Nobody commented on her change of clothes. Not even that raging queen, Eric. By the time the gear was loaded, and Graham double- and triple-checked everything, Jenifer began tasting something foul in the back of her throat. She couldn’t have described the taste, other than to say it was like infection …disease…sickness…death.

By noon they were underway. The sailboat glided from the bay and out into the open water of the Carribean Sea. They had a radio which Gideon sat at calling out to anybody, but receiving no reply.

Jenifer stood at the foremost point for a while. She tried to enjoy the sea breeze, but all she could smell was death. That stench filled her nostrils and refused to let her enjoy one final breath of clean, fresh air. With a sigh, she slumped her shoulders, dropped her head, and made her way below. She went into her cabin, closed the door, and began to cry. She looked into the mirror and gasped. Her eyes were…different. Bloodshot with blackness.

She walked over to her bunk and sat down. Again she considered her gun, now hanging from a hook on her door. Maybe later, she thought and laid down. Just now, she didn’t feel so good. Pulling her blanket up to her chin, Jenifer closed her eyes. Sweat trickled down her face and, for a while, she shivered. Her breathing became short panting gasps. Then …finally…nothing.

***

Jenifer’s eyes opened.

18

Geeks Plus One

“I’m begging you,” the girl cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please let me go before he comes back.”

Mike knelt beside the girl, producing a long knife. The girl struggled against her bonds, her eyes grew wide at the sight of the blade.

“I’m going to cut you loose,” Mike’s voice was soft and quiet, “that’s all. But I need you to promise that you won’t run or do anything crazy.

“I have to get out of here,” the girl continued to cry.

“He won’t be coming back down.” Kevin turned away from the girl and Mike. Partially to keep an eye on the dozen schoolgirl-aged zombies secured around the room. But also, to partially keep Mike from seeing the look of dread in his eyes. What had he done?

“We’ve got him tied up real good upstairs,” Mike said as he leaned forward and cut away the first belt that held her legs secure. He would free her hands last in hopes that, as he freed her, she would settle down and not run.

“You got Mister Abernathy?” The girl’s voice was still hoarse, but there was no missing the sound of cautious hope it held.

“Tied to a chair in an office upstairs,” Mike repeated, continuing to work on the bonds. The girl settled down.

“How long have you been here?” Kevin asked after a couple of deep breaths and a moment to ensure he had his composure.

“Forever.” The girl’s voice grew far away sounding. “Since about two weeks after this started.”

Kevin did the math. She’d been here about seven weeks. Give or take a couple. He’d lost track somewhere along the way.

“Sara and I had run out of food and were searching when we ran into Mister Abernathy. We were so relieved.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “He told us that he’d secured the school and that a bunch of our friends were already there.”

“When we got here, he told us that the only way in was through the principal’s office window. He climbed up and in, then had Sara tie a rope around her waist so he could help her. I came second. As I reached the windowsill, I noticed Sara out cold on the floor. Before I could say or do anything, he jabbed a needle in my arm. I woke up in this room. He’d taken all my clothes, and he had Sara on the table…” Her voice faded, tears filled her eyes.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Mike said. He glanced over his shoulder at Kevin who had his back turned to them. Something in the slouched over way Kevin was standing made him pause. He took in the other girls in the room. It was so NOT gonna be okay.

“Take her upstairs.” Kevin suddenly spun around. There was a peculiar look in his eyes.

“To the office?” Mike stepped back from the girl after cutting the last of her bonds.

“No. Take…” Kevin’s eyes drifted to the girl’s. “What’s your name?”

“Heather.” She rubbed her wrists, trying to see only the two men before her and not the girls—her friends—around the room.

“Heather, I’m Kevin, and the tall beanpole of a man with the big knife is Mike. We’re looking to supply up, and then we have an errand to run. You’re welcome to tag along, or you can go do whatever…your choice.”

“Errand?” Mike looked surprised.

“With what you’ve just seen Heather put through, can you even consider not trying to help Angela and the girls?”

“I told ya I’m all for checkin’ things out, but not so much on the suicide run.” Mike wondered if he was sounding like a panzy in front of the new addition to their group.

“I’m not talking about pullin’ a Rambo,” Kevin said. “But we have to exhaust any possibility of rescuing them.”

“I’m staying with you two,” Heather’s voice trembled, and it almost sounded like more of a request than a statement.

“Then you’ll have to listen carefully, do what we say when we say it, and, at least for a while until we’re back on the road, not argue.” Kevin placed both hands on Heather’s shoulders and looked her directly in the eyes. “I know you’ve been through some bad sh—, errr…stuff. And I won’t promise things are gonna be great. But you’re safe from me and Mike.”

Mike listened as Kevin spoke. He heard that natural sound of calm authority in it. Sure, he thought, Kevin made some gaffs, but which of them hadn’t? Nobody had objected to making a run at Pittsburg. They’d all thought it would be a “poetic” part of the adventure. It had been Darrin’s insistence that he knew where The Mall was located that had led them off the freeway and into the swarms of zombies. And Cary, well, other than teasing everybody and acting the clown, he’d not really done much at all in any aspect of the planning or actual supply. Hell, the U-Haul was the first vehicle Cary had ever “owned” such as it was.

Sure, Kevin’s bitch-fit at the fill-up had been stupid, but it wasn’t his fault Cary’d been bitten. Why hadn’t he been wearing his leather gloves with the mesh inserts that Kevin made for everyone, and insisted that they all wear during any excursions. Then, when it came to the tough choice, it had been Kevin who put Cary down—

Mike glanced down at the bite on the girl’s leg. He looked up at Kevin. He saw that look again on Kevin’s face that he hadn’t been able to identify until now. Mike’s and Kevin’s eyes met.

“You can’t think that,” Mike said.

Heather had been talking, and suddenly stopped, realizing that she was suddenly non-existant to the two men she stood between. They both had the saddest expressions she’d ever seen.

“How can I not?” Kevin’s voice was barely a whisper.

“We couldn’t possibly have known. And this,” Mike gestured to Heather, “could be a fluke.”

“In any case,” Kevin’s voice grew stronger and more resolved, “I’m not leaving anybody behind anymore.”

“But Shaw and his men—” Mike began.

“Are big, dumb animals,” Kevin cut him off. “Just like that Meyers kid back in high school. A dumb jock that had no muscle from the neck up. We always wanted to do that piece of shit in, and knew that most of our ideas woulda landed us in juvie hall. Well…rules are out the window.”

“You have a plan?” Mike asked.

“Not yet,” Kevin replied. “Up to this point I’ve been running around like a chicken with my head cut off. But, given time, I bet we could think of something that will take care of Shaw and his men…and rescue Angela, Ruth, Shari, and Erin.”

“Excuse me,” Heather finally built up the nerve to speak. “Can we get out of this room? I can’t look at my friends like that anymore.”

“Jeez,” Mike literally slapped his forehead, “I’m so sorry, Heather.”

Kevin led the way and took them to the hall. “Take her to the top floor and wait for me.”

For a moment, Mike considered protesting. He knew what Kevin had in mind. At least he thought he did. Part of him wanted to be involved. But deep down, an even bigger part didn’t. This was going to be unpleasant, and there was plenty of time in the future for him to do things that would tug at his conscience.

They climbed the stairs, emerging into the mostly sunlit corridor. Kevin and Mike traded a look, then, Mike led Heather up the stairs that would likely take them to classrooms, and hopefully some supplies.

They reached the second floor, layers of undisturbed dust in either direction indicated there would be nothing found here. Countinuing up, Mike realized that he no longer smelled the sourness of death and rot. Instead, it was…

“Pine-Sol,” Heather inhaled deeply. “I never thought that could smell so good.”

“Crazy how the little things can be so huge.” Mike joined her in a few deep, cleansing breaths.

The floor was clear, and all the doors were open to the classrooms. Directly across from them was a room full of cardboard boxes. Mike led the way. Together, he and Heather started peeking in or opening tops to discover packaged foods, along with all manner of clothing—skewed towards the more promiscuous fashions that were once so popular on the teen-oriented television and music celebrities—as well as a box that Mike took pains to ensure Heather wouldn’t see. A box of assorted sexual lubricants.

A quick walk up and down the hallway revealed that all but one of the rooms were similarly full. The one that was not full of boxes was obviously Mister Abernathy’s sleeping quarters. There was an unpleasant smell not quite maskable by the pine-scented cleaning products that had been used with such apparent vigor. Mike closed that door and hung a towel from a pair of small hooks that were attached just above the window. As he was finishing, a scream echoed through the building from below.

***

Kevin walked into the office without hesitation. He slapped the face of Mister Abernathy repeatedly until the man’s eyes opened and his muffled cries came through the windbreaker sleeve that had been used to gag him.

“You are one sick fucker.” Kevin sat on the edge of the large desk and folded his arms across his chest.

Abernathy’s eyes, which were squeezed shut in pain, flew open. He tried desperately to speak through the gag, but Kevin wasn’t ready to hear him talk just yet.

“Found your little stash of zombie sex-slaves,” Kevin spat. “I’m not sure if it is just the idea that you were having sex with zombie girls or, if it’s that you chose underage girls exclusively.”

Abernathy made more muffled pleas, but Kevin didn’t care. “Were you a sick freakin’ pedophile before, who just hadn’t been caught yet? Or is this a crime of opportunity? I mean…I’m guessing that, since the girls knew you, you were a teacher here. So…did you walk the halls doing your best to hide your hard-on while you gawked? Somebody doesn’t just magically become a sick piece of shit like you overnight. Do they?”

More muffled words and whimpers.

“But,” Kevin stood up and moved behind Mister Abernathy and began pushing the chair out of the office and to the stairs, “I must say that I owe you in a way. See, we found poor Heather in your little room. Seems she was bitten. And I bet you were surprised when she didn’t turn into one of those things. So, did that save her? I mean, can you still get it up if they’re breathin’?”

They reached the stairs. Kevin briefly considered pushing the chair and letting the man get busted up good and proper. Only, he didn’t want to risk the chance the bastard’s neck would break. Turning the chair around and tipping it back, he worked his way down the stairs to the dark hallway.

“I really would’ve never believed in just how sick a person could be till you.” Kevin had to fight his impulse to scream, to just let the chair fall. “I mean, I just lost a few friends to some wannabe mercenaries. And while I was concerned for their well-being…I wasn’t truly terrified. Until now anyways. So,” he spun the chair around to face him, and even in the darkness, he could see the fear in Abernathy’s eyes, “if I do manage to save my friends…they’ll sorta owe it to you in a sick way.”

Kevin pushed the chair to the room and situated it in the doorway. He leaned down and whispered in the man’s ear, “I’d like you to know that you will rot in this chair. I’m going to let one of those poor creatures take a few more good bites out of you before I put them all out of their misery. Then, I’m gonna shove you in that room and let you die tied to this chair and come back as one of those things. And you’ll never be able to feed. I don’t have any idea if those things feel pain or hunger. But I’ll sleep good thinking that they do, and knowing that you’ll feel that forever with no way to satisfy it.”

Kevin saw something flash in the man’s eyes for a second. Something that was stronger than the fear. No way, he thought. Kevin ripped the man’s shirt off and stood up, stunned.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!” Kevin felt sick.

Finding Heather had sent his beliefs spiraling. One person immune to the bite was a terrible, wonderful thing. The possibility that a bite was not a one hundred-percent guarantee of death and undeath was amazing. But Cary…that was terrible. Had he awoke to find himself alone and defenseless? What sort of hellish nightmare had his inability to pull the trigger condemned Cary to? It would have been better to have killed him and discovered the possiblility of immunity than to have left him alive and alone, surrounded by zombies in a disabled car.

The bite scar on Abernathy’s shoulder was bright pink. Two people immune in such a small town? Of course the odds were slim, but who knew what factors led to immunity. There were certainly enough zombies walking about to remind Kevin that this was much more of a fluke than the norm. Add in that many of the attacks were viscious enough to be fatal in and of themselves.

“Well then,” Kevin leaned down into the man’s profusely sweating face, “let’s test another theory.”

Kevin looked around the room at the girls. Three were collared and kept in place by a long lead that was attached to an eyebolt in the wall. Taking a deep breath, he drew his long blade and walked up to the first girl tied into a desk. He drove the blade into the temple and then, carefully and methodically went around the room dispatching all but those three.

Next, he moved all the ones that he’d finished off over to one corner. He looked at the three that were collared. Their eyes followed him during his task. They had stopped trying to get at him at some point. Now, all three were almost with their back to the wall.

“Well,” Kevin stood with his hands on his hips, looking from one girl to the other, “perhaps there is at least a minimal understanding. Like the ability to comprehend the most basic aspect of being endangered. So let’s see what happens here.”

Kevin walked to the doorway and grabbed the chair by the armrest and pulled it into the room. He heard movement instantly and spun around to insure he wasn’t within reach. Looking at each of the three zombies, he noticed immediately that they were no longer paying him any attention. Instead, they were fixated on the man in the chair.

“Looks like some friends of yours would like to say hello.” Kevin watched how all three came for the terrified man tied to the chair.

Kevin pushed the chair back out of the room. He turned and watched for the reaction of the schoolgirl-zombies. They just stopped. It was like a switch. All three went to standing, swaying in place, or shambling back a few steps to ease the tension on their leads.

“Okay, one more test,” Kevin whispered to Abernathy, “then I’ll be done here.”

He walked into the room. Would they still equate him with danger? Their heads turned his direction almost in unison. Each began moving towards him, arms out. “Kinda like goldfish,” Kevin mumbled. Then, over his shoulder he called, “But they sure have you imprinted in their minds, because, even though they want to get at me, it’s not nearly as spirited as when I drag your ass in here.”

Kevin didn’t relish his next task. One of the three was totally naked. Stringy blonde hair hung down just above her breasts. Her one bite was on the left hand in between the thumb and index finger. Kevin walked up just out of the range of her outstretched, grasping hands. He feinted left and it followed. In a quick lunge to the right, he ducked under the hands and swept the feet out from underneath. Quickly wrestling it onto its stomach, Kevin yanked the clasp free on the ball gag and moved away quickly. A soft moan filled the room and made the hair on his arms stand up. He stood, sizing up the other two, one was wearing a cheerleader’s outfit, the other one was in lingerie that looked even more obscene due to the girl not possibly being older than fourteen. With similar tactics, he managed to remove the ball-gags. Now all three were mewling and moaning.

“Now,” Kevin walked back out to where Mister Abernathy still sat, pleased to see that the man was renewing his struggles, “let’s go say hi.” Kevin pushed the chair back into the room. The low sounds instantly changed to a hissing and the clicking of teeth as all three strained to the limits of their leads, snapping their jaws and clawing at the air.

“I want Heather to know she’ll never have to worry about you again.” Kevin yanked the gag from the man’s mouth.

“Please! I don’t think you understand,” Abernathy pleaded.

“Understand what?” Kevin snapped. “That you’re a sick fuck that preyed on children? Or is it that I don’t understand that you simultaneously turned them into fucking zombies so you could live out your fantasies? In either case, you’re right. I don’t understand. And what’s more, I hope I never do.”

“You have no idea what it’s like watching them day after day. Every year their skirts get shorter, they grind on every boy they can in plain view. They—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kevin punched the man squarely in the face. “They’re kids, and you’re a sick motherfucker who doesn’t deserve to live.”

Kevin drew his knife and circled wide of the naked zombie. She didn’t even seem to register his presence—so intent on getting the man in the center of the room who was blubbering with a mixture of tears, snot, and blood running down his face.

“Sic ‘em!” Kevin cut the lead and the zombie sprawled face down on the floor. He quickly cut the other two loose, watching them flop face first as well, and then begin scrambling awkwardly to their feet.

One by one they rose and began their slow, lurching walk toward their intended prey. Kevin moved to the doorway, no longer surprised that none of them even glanced his direction. Abernathy continued to squirm and blubber, “Julie, Sasha, Sara…no…no…” over and over.

The naked one arrived first and leaned over like she was about to whisper a secret. Abernathy screamed as she came away with the right ear and a strip of flesh from the neck. Blood poured and splattered the cheerleader who now latched onto the right arm. Finally, the lingerie-clad one reached its target, still on its hands and knees. It reared up, and then plunged down, mouth clamping on the left leg. The thin, khaki pants tore away, exposing a white slab of upper thigh. Again it leaned in, this time finding the loose flesh of Abernathy’s flabby leg.

Another scream filled the room.

“I’ll leave you to get reacquainted,” Kevin said, although he was pretty sure he was drowned out by the screams. He closed the door and listened as the shrieks rose in pitch and volume.

***

“Is that…?” Heather clasped on to Mike’s arm like a lifeline.

“I don’t think Mister Abernathy will ever bother you again.” He hugged the trembling girl.

Together, the two stood, listening to the muffled screams. They seemed to ooze through the vacant school. Mike glanced outside, noticing a couple of nearby zombies turn in the direction of the building. Not too many, he observed. The combination of a small town, and a good number of the undead already put down was a definite bonus. Still, he didn’t want the numbers surrounding the building to grow. Currently he guessed there to be no more than thirty in sight. Of course, the stairs leading up to the main doors might explain the lack of zombies trying to get at them. He watched as one zombie in particular—a youngster who hadn’t been more than five—struggle with the first two steps, falling a couple times before finally shambling away. What had once been an elderly, white-haired old lady had the same problems and also gave up.

Still, almost a dozen made it up the stairs. He could hear them slapping at the entry doors. Heather clung to his side, also watching the zombies come and go. Occassionally she would whisper a name.

“Mike,” Kevin’s voice made both of them jump. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya. Let’s go down and see if we can zonk the ones gathered at the doors.”

“Then what?” Mike asked. Yeah, he decided, somebody needed to be the leader and make decisions. He’d speak up if he felt the urge, but for right now, he was perfectly fine with Kevin making the choices.

“We should be able to hole up here for a bit,” Kevin replied. Mike noticed that he was spattered in quite a lot of blood.

“What about Angela and the others?” Mike asked. “Shaw and his men?”

“It will take some planning.” Kevin flipped open the flap of a box next to him, peeking at the contents. “Before we do anything, I’ll want to check out their place and see if it is even feasible. Also, I am guessing they send out patrols for supplies as well as to maintain their claim. I’ll bet it is pretty easy to figure out any schedule they keep.”

“Mister?” Heather spoke up.

“Just Kevin.” Kevin turned his attention to the girl.

“Kevin,” her voice was small and hesitant, “what happened to my friends?”

“They’re at peace.” Kevin struggled to maintain eye contact, but he figured it would be best to just tell the truth.

“Good.” Heather sighed deeply. A weight seemed to visibly come off the girl. “And Mister Abernathy?”

“No longer anything to worry about,” Kevin answered.

“So let’s do this before things outside get any thicker.” Mike produced a long, steel-tipped poker perfect for jabbing into heads.

“Heather,” Kevin said to the girl, putting up his hands to keep her from following, “you wait up here and we’ll be back shortly. Watch from the window if you like, but stay up here.”

“Okay.” Her voice sounded relieved and tired.

“Once we’re done, we can rest, eat, and clean ourselves up a bit,” Kevin said over his shoulder as he and Mike left the room and headed for the stairs.

***

Eyes opened. The creature’s head hung awkardly to one side. It struggled to stand, but couldn’t free itself from the cords lashing it to the big, blood-soaked chair. It tried to work its jaw, but somehting hard and round was wedged in its mouth.

Much of its entrails were clumped in its lap, but the creature had no awareness of such things. It was oblivious to the three creatures laying in a row just a few feet away. All it knew was hunger. A hunger that drove it to struggle at its bonds so that it could search for something to satisfy that hunger…even though the creature possessed no concept of satisfaction.

It really and truly only knew one thing.

Hunger.

The unthinkable has happened. The dead are walking!

Humanity’s fragile thread may be reaching its bitter end.

Individuals and groups struggle to survive…some at any cost. Will there be anybody left?

Or, is this just…

The Ugly Beginning?

DEAD: the 12 book series

The Dead Walk:

Samuel Todd is a regular guy:

...Failed husband...

...Loving father...

...Dutiful worker...

...Aspiring rock star.

He had no idea if anyone would care, or take the time, to read his daily blog entries about his late night observations. But what started as an open monologue of his day-to-day life became a running journal of the first-hand account detailing the rising of the dead and the downfall and degradation of mankind...

Catch all 3 books in the Zomblog Trilogy

Anthologies from MDP

A Man of Letters by Eric Pollarine

A Soldiers Lament by Patrick D’Orazio

Blackout by Amber Whitley

Childish Things by William Wood

Feral by Rebecca Lloyd

One Nation Undead by Mike Harrison

Shear Terror by Chantal Boudreau

That Ghoul Eva by Marianna Mann

and more

And something from the May side of

May December Publications

Abandoned and scared, but less alone than he could have ever imagined, Sam awakens to the screams of the other children on the island of Fervor, and the absence of all adults. To make matters worse, despite hearing this chaos in his head, he finds himself deaf to the normal sou-nds around him. His only answers are now being provided by a strangely charismatic boy na-med Francis who is about to lead Sam to a gathering that will alter his life. Why have things chang-ed so drastically on the island, who is responsible for these changes, and what does this mean to the remaining inhabitants of Fervor?

Dakota Riley is a member of the Seattle Drug Task Force. During an investigation into an international drug smuggling ring, he loses his best friend and partner. To add insult to injury, he is assigned an African-American rook-ie, Marc Bradley. Seeking revenge rather than justice, Dakota ditches the rookie...and almost gets himself killed. After leaving the hospital for a 'forced' vacation, Dakota and Marc head to Marc's hometown of Charleston, South Carolina. A day out on a fishing boat goes wrong when a mysterious storm arrives. The boat is destroyed, and the two men wash ashore...in 1861, just prior to the start of the American Civil War.

LOOK CLOSELY

THESE ARE DRAWINGS, NOT PICTURES

To have your pet art done

Contact Denise @ dlbrown@maydecemberpublications.com

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and speculative fiction.

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About the Author:

TW Brown, Author of Zomblog, is hard at work on Zomblog II, Dead: Revelations, and various shorts. Additionally, he tries to get in a little time with his guitar, run a few miles a day, while juggling with mixed success the duties of husband and father. He can be followed on Twitter @maydecpub, and still replies personally to any and all emails at.

twbrown@maydecemberpublications.com

Stay up to date with his projects or browse his website at. www.maydecemberpublications.com