Walter is running for his life. Down a dead, empty street, he runs, pausing momentarily to throw a few shots towards the group following him. Two of them fall. Another, only hit in the shoulder, staggers on, completely unaware. They do not feel pain, only hunger. An insatiable, never-ending hunger. (more…)

The log cabin sat within a small clearing of the Catskill Mountains, two miles north of the minute town of Roscoe, New York. The hamlet, at one time, had been a resting point for travelers, its location just off Route 17, a busy highway used by people traveling from New York City to Binghamton. The nearby, Beaverkill River, combined with the cabin’s wood stove, supplied drinkable water. The water had to boil at least twenty minutes, making sure all contaminants were killed off. (more…)