I glanced up from where I sat, sprawled across the top of a mossy flat boulder that was once a temple pillar, and looked in the direction Roy was turned. I moved with languid care; there was a viper coiled in a patch of warm Cambodian sunlight next to my steel-toed boot, and since I didn’t know what sort of snake he was, I thought it would be better not to offend him. There were things in the jungle much scarier than a basking snake, but a snakebite thousands of miles from MTV-watching civilization would be no picnic, either.

There was indeed a psychotic monkey, and two pissed-off young tigers, too. The tigers were being chased around a small clearing a few hundred yards down the river. I set my crossbow along one thigh and paused to watch the monkey swing down from the trees in a suicidal dive to snatch an ear or tail of the two dozing tigers. The tigers would fly into a rage, lunging at the monkey only to have it swing away, probably smirking all the while.

Other than the amused screeching of the monkey, the indignant squalls of the tigers, and the drone of rainforest white noise, the only other sound—so out-of-place in the jungle—was the slick metallic clicks and sliding swipes of weapons being maintained. Crossbows disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled. Knives ground against a whetstone, honed to razor sharpness. Guns oiled and repaired. The clinking racket of ammo belts and cases of bullets as they were inventoried.

Roy was leaned back against the wide furrowed trunk of a tree that stretched hundreds of feet in the air. A sawed-off shotgun stood propped against his knee.

“That’s some crazy shit,” Roy continued, his gaze never leaving the monkey as it tormented the two tigers. The poor cats were too young to even begin to know how to retaliate against the obnoxious, gangly creature vaulting overhead.

I watched the tigers with the others and took a deep breath of rain that hadn’t fallen yet. It was a quiet moment, the calm before the storm. The deserted village was miles down the road, and we had half our pay already. Nobody was living in the village of Samrong anymore, but then, we weren’t there to mess with the living.

Blake sat on the back of the jeep with Luke and Ryan, sharpening the pikes while Luke did inventory and Ryan rolled a spliff, balancing it precariously on his overturned canteen. His hair spilled into his eyes over reflective sunglasses, and I could see where Roy accidentally singed his bangs the night before in a game of Chase-The-Sniper-With-A-Flaming-Stick. When you’re stuck in the middle of the Cambodian jungle with a jeep full of ammunition, recreational substances, five Gameboys, and a dwindling supply of double A batteries, your extracurricular activities get a little creative.

I contemplated Roy’s commentary for a moment, taking the spliff when it was handed to me, and said, “I really don’t like monkeys.”

“Awwwwww.” Roy raised an eyebrow at me, lip stuck out in a mock pout. The ring in his lip caught the sunlight in a blinding star that was there and gone again in the twilight of the canopy. “What did monkeys ever do to you? Were you traumatized by Curious George as a child?”

“I just don’t like them. They’re dumb enough to be useless to society and smart enough to be obnoxious. Monkeys are just people that didn’t make the hump. I think monkeys taking over the world is my worst case scenario.”

“Zombies taking over the world isn’t your worst case scenario? ‘Cause I’m thinking zombies taking over the world would be worse.”

“I can fight zombies. I do that for a living. But monkeys are tricky, and they have prehensile tails and tiny needle teeth. Zombies can’t attack you from above. Plus, zombies are pretty slow. Monkeys are like little midget ninjas. But with claws and a banana fetish.”

“What about zombie monkeys?” Blake said. Beside him, Luke blew a smoke ring that caught the light in a dancing golden hoop and passed to Ryan.

“That would suck,” Ryan added sagely.

“Indeed. But if the good people of Cambodia were to be plagued with zombie monkeys as well as zombie people, its tourism would probably suffer. The walking undead are kind of interesting. Zombie monkeys are just damned scary. You might get some crazy assholes that would want to be helicoptered in to see zombies, but anybody who isn’t touched in the head would stay the hell away from zombie monkeys.”

“I saw a zombie cat once,” Luke said as he slung an ammo belt over his head, attempting to contribute to the seriousness of the conversation. I didn’t really want to think about zombie cats, either. I sort of wished someone would change the subject.

An enraged roar drew our attention away. One of the two tigers was dangling from the trunk of a tree by its claws, and the monkey had retreated to the safety of the higher branches. The tiger finally fell backwards into a bed of ferns. Ryan laughed so hard he fell off the tailgate of the jeep.

“You know what would be really funny?” I asked.

“What?”

“If after all this goofing around, the tigers finally caught and disemboweled the monkey. Those tigers are pissed. This could go from happy-go-lucky to National Geographic real fast.”

“Are you kidding? That wouldn’t be funny at all.”

“Maybe you just have a lack of appreciation for good irony.”

“Or a lack of appreciation for the sight of animals getting eaten alive.”

The snake curled up by my heel, unnerved by some unknown in the jungle—or maybe just by Ryan’s laughter—peacefully slithered across my ankle and into the bush. Suddenly, as quickly as the monkey appeared, it was gone, rocketing through the trees and howling all the way.

Further into the jungle, something else screamed…but it was definitely not a monkey.

We weren’t on vacation, after all.

“All right, kids. It’s time to pack up the car and head to town,” I said. “No rush, but hurry the hell up.”

As easily as they fell into relaxation mode, the boys were serious again. Professional killers raised on video games, the trained slayers of things other people had nightmares about. I’d usually say it’s a dirty job and somebody has to do it, but that somebody isn’t us. We could use some help from the Cambodian army for a change; a tank or two would be nice. Still, the pay is good, and we get to blow shit up sometimes.

Luke, Ryan, and Blake loaded the jeep and climbed into the back. I got into the driver’s seat and Roy, ever the navigator, curled up in the passenger seat like a cat. Once everyone was settled in, I started her up and began the slow, laborious job of easing the Range Rover along the primitive dirt road between villages.

It was almost dark. The sun, which was so warm and golden before, was sinking behind the canopy of the trees, sending the jungle from a comfortable half-light to gloom. Not my favorite time to hunt. We wouldn’t get to the village tonight. And we wouldn’t fight. Not in the dark.

“Hey.” Roy’s voice was soft in the passenger seat.

“Hm?”

“Do you think that…the zombies, well…do you think that, I mean, can they still know things? Can they think?”

It was an unexpected question, and it took me by surprise. I started to say Fuck if I know, because if you’re the least bit unsure, fuck if I know pretty much covers you, but the look in Roy’s eyes told me that would be a bad response. As usual, he was being absolutely serious. I shrugged, not really wanting to think about it.

“Jesus Christ, do you think they know they’re dead?”

I let the not-silence of the jungle creep into the jeep as we made our way and didn’t say a word. If there’s an answer to that particular question, I have no idea what it is. And I don’t want to know. Hopefully, if the deadheads ever get a hold of me, someone will take me out before I have a chance to figure it out.

I don’t ever want to have to know.

Kind of like zombie monkeys, some things were just too damned scary to think about.

“Shut up, Roy,” I said, and handed him a cigarette.

He did.

It was stupid to leave the cabin in the first place. Erin and Carolyn would be up by tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest and he should be getting the place prepared. Couldn’t afford to get lost with the world bein’ the way it was. They all needed to stick together.

But he was bored, plain and simple. Tired of hanging around an empty log cabin in the middle of nowhere. Tired of listening to the wind howl at night. Tired of keeping a constant watch, looking for what might be comin’. Tired of watching snow fall, white on white, layering higher and higher, hiding what might be lyin’ on the ground.

So he went for a walk before he went nuts. Last thing they all needed was for him to go stir crazy so early on. God only knows how long they were going to have to stay up here.

Alex walked along, his footsteps breaking through new snow, the only sound to follow him. Most of the animals must have taken to ground already. He hadn’t seen any deer so far, which might be a problem. They could only live on canned food for so long.

A long, low moan broke into his thoughts. Alex froze and tried to pinpoint where it had come from. His heart thudded and Alex thought he could hear it pounding underneath his coat. And if he could hear, God knows what else could too.

There. That moan again. He knew what it was. He had heard it was impossible for them to be this far north, not in this cold. He had to see. Had to find it, make sure there weren’t more. Make sure it was just the one.

He broke from the path and pushed on through the trees, the snow getting knee deep. His muscles got tired fast and he had trouble feeling his toes, but he kept on going. He had to find it. He stopped to listen every few feet. There it was again. He shifted his direction slightly and kept on going.

The trees were getting thicker and Alex began to get worried that he wouldn’t be able to find his way back. If another snow storm came this way, his tracks would be covered and he’d be royally screwed. He entered a small clearing and all thoughts of snow storms were driven from his mind.

In the clearing, someone had made a campsite, tents sitting round a campfire. Apparently, Alex and his family weren’t the only ones to decide to come up here to get away from it all. There were three tents. Two were open, unzipped and letting in the cold. The third had been pulled down. Blood was splashed across the snow in front of it and Alex could see a pair of boots poking out from under the tent. There was no snow on the tents or the boots, so they had set up camp after last night’s snow fall. Whatever had happened had happened fast.

The fire was just smoldering logs and ash now. It had gone out not too long ago. Alex stepped further into the campsite, wishing he had brought his gun. “Hello? Is anyone…” he almost said alive. “Is anyone here?”

Silence, not even the moaning. He walked over to the collapsed tent first. Maybe this had been the problem and they killed it. If so, there might be survivors and they ran out into the woods in a panic.

He lifted the tent off the body and winced. It looked like it had been a man. Shot at close range in the face. Didn’t prove that it was one of them, but at least Alex knew it was definitely dead. He bent down and took ahold of one of the man’s arms. Not stiff, rigor hadn’t set in. Hell, the body hadn’t even frozen yet. He rolled up the man’s sleeves. Nothing on the right arm. Alex grimaced when he got to the left though. A nasty bite midway up the arm, near the elbow. Yep, dead man had been one, but his friends took care of him.

So where did they go?

Alex stood back up and looked around. He should go back and get his gun before he did anymore searching. It was too dangerous and Erin and Carolyn depended on him. He had to do this carefully.

He stepped past one of the other tents and was knocked to the ground as something lurched through the flaps. Alex fell onto his back and pushed at the woman, trying to keep her mouth away from him.

He pushed against her throat with his left arm, while he reached toward the campfire, hoping for one, sturdy log. The woman clicked her teeth, again and again, long blond hair falling into his face. He avoided looking at her, didn’t want to see more than he already had. That circle of teeth marks around her left eye, the empty socket, didn’t need to see that again.

He heaved up on her and knocked her body back. He scrambled onto all fours and grabbed a log, turned and struck her on the head just as she reached him. The log disintegrated into sodden ash and she grunted, but didn’t stop. She bit down hard on his right wrist and he howled, jerking his arm out of her mouth and then punching her as hard as he could in her empty eye socket. Her head snapped back and she fell backwards. Alex grabbed another piece of wood and then bashed once, twice, three times. And she stopped moving.

Alex sat down hard, out of breath. He looked at his wrist, a perfect half circle of teeth marks above and below, blood trickling from the wound. Alex stared, long and hard and time seemed to stop for an instant.

He jumped to his feet and ran, leaving behind the bloody abattoir behind him, all thoughts of survivors fleeing his mind. He just wanted to get out of there. Needed to get out of there.

He ran back along his trail, up the path and up to the cabin, threw himself through the door and fell onto the floor, exhausted and out of breath. His legs burned from the exertion and he felt like he was going to throw up. Sweat poured down his face and he just lay on the floor, his heart jack-hammering.

He pulled off his coat and stared at the wound on his wrist. Fine, black lines were leading away from the wound, trailing along the blood vessels. He had to stop it somehow. He ran into the bathroom and dug through the medicine cabinet, pulling out the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He stared at it for a second and threw it to one side. If that’s all it took to stop it, there wouldn’t be preachers talking about the end of days right now.

He went into the kitchen and turned on the gas stove; flames jumped up and lit the kitchen. The house was getting dark as the sun set, but Alex didn’t bother to light any lanterns. He had to act quickly.

He dug around in the drawers trying to find…there, that should be big enough. He took the butcher knife in his unbitten hand and lay it across the lit burner. The blade grew hot and still hotter. He left it on for five minutes, before taking it off. Alex took two deep breaths, shut his eyes and then lay the flat of the blade across the bite.

He screamed, but still kept the blade pressed down. The smell of burning hair and flesh filled the room. He finally just dropped the knife and fell to his knees, clutching his burned and bitten arm. He stayed that way, on his knees with his eyes shut tightly, praying that he had killed the infection, that there was no way it could possibly spread.

Alex took in a deep breath and opened his eyes and looked at the injury. At first it looked all right. The skin was red, peeling and a blister was rapidly raising and it freely wept pus, but there was no trace of the infection. It was a shallow bite, maybe it hadn’t had enough time to set in.

But then he saw the tiny black threads tracing through his skin. He could see it spreading before his eyes, trailing down his arm. He buried his face in his good hand while the infected arm hung limply at his side. It hurt to move it.

He was going to turn into one of them. Going to become some horrible…thing. Erin would have to kill him, put him down before he could hurt their daughter. And then what? She hadn’t even been camping before. The place was his, left to him by his father. They would starve or freeze without him. And what if they were attacked? Erin couldn’t fend them off by herself, not with Carolyn to look after as well.

He stood up on shaky legs. He couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t let that happen. He went outside and picked up the hatchet that leaned again the firewood pile. He looked up at the sky. Night would fall soon. Erin was supposed to bring Carolyn after night fell, to make it less likely that someone would follow her to the cabin.

He went back inside with the hatchet. He set it on the counter and placed the cast iron skillet on the stove. While he waited for it to get hot, he took off his belt and cinched it up above his elbow, as tight as he could get it. He stared in amazement at the black trails that led up his forearm. He needed to move more quickly. He went over to the stove and laid his arm on the stovetop, next to the pan. He could feel the heat radiating from the surface.

He gripped the hatchet in his left hand and rested the blade against the skin. He watched his skin crease. He raised the hatchet and brought it down again slowly, just below the elbow. It was awkward, but he thought he could manage enough strength to do the job.

“Ok,” he whispered, raised the hatchet and brought it down with a wet thud. Pain, an explosion of pain made the world go grey around the edges. Alex raised the hatchet and brought it down again. And again. And again.

Blood pumped weakly from the stump, his tourniquet doing a decent job. He felt the world going grey again and swooned, nearly falling away from the stove. He had one more thing to do though and then he could let himself pass out. He grabbed the skillet, the handle burning his unprotected hand. He pressed the glowing hot pan against his stump, cauterizing the wound and killing what was left of the infection. He screamed, dropped the pan on the stove and passed out onto the floor.

He awoke an hour later, feeling feverish. He was lying on his back by the stove. He had trouble remembering what had led to him being here. And then the pain reminded him. Slow, sickening waves of it rolling from his arm. His missing arm. Gone now. He didn’t look at his stump, couldn’t do it. Couldn’t look just yet. He stood up, a wave of dizziness rolling through him. He turned off the stove with his left hand and stared at all the blood on the stove. No wonder he was so dizzy. He giggled.

Something seemed missing though.

And then it hit him. His arm was gone. It had fallen onto the stovetop and now it was gone. He turned around and looked on the floor. A red streak led toward the front door. Feeling a chill deep in his heart, he followed the trail and saw his hand crawling toward the door. Dragging itself along by its nails. With a primal yell, Alex snatched up the hatchet again and began to chop up his right arm. Again and again and again he brought down the blade, but the pieces still moved and jived. Weeping, he kept going, until his left arm refused to continue, the muscles seizing.

Alex sat there, tears rolling down his face, the dizziness stronger than ever. In the dying light of day, in the open doorway, he finally looked down at the stump. Small black lines ran up past his elbow and up under the sleeve of his shirt. He lifted his shirt and saw the lines spreading across his chest and down toward the waistband of his jeans. He dropped his shirt and stood up.

He staggered out into the living room, headed for the gun rack. He had to finish it, before they came home. Alex tripped and fell and lay still on the floor.

A few hours later, Erin drove up with Carolyn in the seat next to her. She was tired and had been driving for most of the day, taking multiple routes, making sure she wasn’t being trailed by anyone looking for a place to hide, for easy picking. They couldn’t risk the infection reaching the cabin. It was their last possible refuge.

Carolyn had fallen asleep, which was a blessing. There had been those things along the side of the road and that was the last thing she needed to see. Erin parked the car behind Alex’s and got out. There were no lights on inside. That was bad. Alex would have a fire going at least.

She opened the front door and stepped on something. She frowned and looked down, in the dark, it looked like the remains of some animal. There was a hatchet laying next to it, covered with drying blood. Ignoring the blood, she bent down and picked up the hatchet. She also grabbed the lantern that had been hanging next to the door, lighting it with a match.

She walked into the kitchen and grimaced. She could smell blood, burning something, the cabin reeked of burning something. She stopped. The edge of the light caught something

Erin heard a low moan and her blood went cold.

Alex shuffled into the light, his eyes cloudy and white. His right arm was gone, but his left reached out to her, the fingers opening and closing.

A wave of sadness wash over Erin and she lowered the hatchet and put the lantern on the floor.

“Oh Alex,” she whispered.

He got closer and closer to her and when he was within a foot or so, she raised the hatchet and hit him square in the forehead. He sank down to the floor, pulling the hatchet from her hands. He landed on his back, the hatchet sticking up.

She reached down, grabbed onto the hatchet and planted one foot on his chest. She tugged and wiggled it free with a wet smack. “Sorry Alex,” she murmured. She had loved Alex, but Alex was dead and she couldn’t die too. There was Carolyn to think about. Someone had to take care of her.

Erin swung the hatchet down on his neck to remove the head. Better safe than sorry. Again and again she brought it down. For Carolyn.

Barry ducked into a store, “a bo-de-ga,” he over pronounced to Tommy and Mike, his eyes wide open for emphasis while flashing that Hollywood smile. The guys were not so enthralled with their new college roommate right now. “Here,” he passed a brown bag to Tommy.

“What is it?”

“A forty.”

“What?”

“Just drink it.”

Tommy took a swig and made a face like he’d bitten a lemon. “Oh, that’s, that’s…”

But before he could finish Barry took the bottle out of his hands and took a long drink. “Hey,” he pushed the bottle to Mike, “a little local flavor.” Mike gave Barry a sly sliding look, wiped the mouth of the bottle, and took a conservative sip.

“Where is this place?”

“Just a few more blocks,” Barry answered and after another sip he settled into the street.

To Tommy, it felt like every eye was on him. “Barry, I feel like, I feel like a fucking Ralph Lauren ad on a porn site.” He noticed some guys, his age, in hooded sweatshirts with their arms crossed, not looking directly at him, but looking all the same. Shadowy figures, hunched over, or sitting on the stoop, their legs wide open. “I thought we were going to a club.”

“What?” Barry asked, “You afraid to live a little?”

“No, I’m afraid to die a little.”

“You with me, okay. You’re fine, okay?” Barry’s eyebrows shot up emphasizing the question. “Just relax.”

From the steps, “You boys lost.” It wasn’t a question.

Tommy wanted to jack-rabbit, but Barry slung his arm around him keeping him still. Barry’s mouth was open just a bit and jutted his chin in the direction of the voices. Barry was all street. Relaxed. “I’m Deke’s cousin comin in to visit. These are my friends. You okay with that?”

Mike looked at Barry with new eyes. Barry was bad-ass.

“Have fun boys,” the man said and Barry shot him a wave and pulled his friends along, and down the street.

The guys from the stoop got up and followed.

“Oh, shit,” Mike whispered and Tommy looked over his shoulder.

“You’re gonna get us killed,” Tommy said low and made fists.

“Relax, it’s just up ahead. If they wanted to harm us, they would have by now.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Yeah.”

They walked to the door of an abandoned warehouse, they could hear voices inside, echoey in the open space. “Come on,” Barry jogged ahead of his friends. The inside of the warehouse was lit up with construction lights and a large group of mostly men stood around tipping beers, talking, and from the crowd a large man with a pronounced limp ambles forth. “Aye, College Boy,” and his face was alive with his smile.

“Deke!”

“Whatchoo doing here, huh?” And he nodded to Tommy and Mike.

“Come to see you.” Then Barry shot a glance back to the guys tailing them and watched them disband.

“Now I know college is boring.”

Barry laughed an exaggerated “Ha-haaa,” letting the last run of a’s string out and echo. “These are my friends, Tommy and Mike.” Barry made a sweeping gesture toward the two. “This is my cuz, Deke.”

Deke offers his hand, “Good to meet you,” and he sounds genuine. “Just push your way through, it’s gonna start in a few.”

“Can you hang?”

“Not tonight, I got the book.”

“Sweet. Movin up.”

“Movin up.” Deke shot him a wink. “You boys want a bet on the fights?”

Barry pulled a twenty out of his pocket. “I got twenty says the first one goes five minutes.”

“Fights?” Mike looked over to Tommy who shrugged.

“Hold, hold,” Barry said and raised a finger to keep his friends quiet.

“Twenty for five,” Deke says, and jotted the numbers on a pad and gave Barry a chit. “House takes five.”

“House takes five.” Barry repeats.

Deke disappeared into the crowd taking bets along the way.

“Fights?”

“Yeah, man. Bum fights. It’s crazy. They gather up a bunch of homeless dudes, and offer them money to fight. It can get insane.”

“That’s,” Tommy was about to say something arbitrary.

“Listen, they need the cash and know the score. No one forces them into it. You don’t want to hang, I understand, but I ain’t leaving. Got me.” His expression turned from friendly to menace.

There was no way Tommy or Mike were going it alone, so they followed.

Barry cut through the crowd quick as a bouncer, and sidled up ring side. “Oh, man,” and his body went slack.

“What?” Mike said.

“See that dude,” Barry pointed at a man bouncing in his corner of the open ring. There were no ropes, just duct tape on the floor to indicate the ring. “I used to spar against him. He’s good.” Barry rubbed his hand over his head. “I think I’m out a cool twenty.”

Mike clapped him on the back.

“Look who he’s fighting,” Barry pointed to a jagged-out junkie shuffling, lurching, his vagabond outfit trailing like streamers. The junkie looked around, and a crazy smile broke across his face.

“Looks like someone spent their winnings already!” Someone yelled above the jeers and yells of the swelling crowd and got a gunshot laugh in return.

Mike and Tommy are riveted, watching the boxer approach the bum. Tommy yells something and raises his fist, anticipating the violence.

The junkie stares as the boxer comes forth, and snarls.

“Oh, man! This is way past cool,” Mike yells.

The boxer shifts fast and blasts a heavy right that sends a blood arc into the crowd.

The cheer is deafening. Mike gets something in his eye, and he turns from the fight, rubbing his face on his clean white shirt. It was blood. He’s scared, he’s past scared, grossed out, and runs the drummed in facts of HIV through his mind. Airborne, I should be fine, but hep, oh, fuck, he thinks and steps deeper into the crowd.      Tommy grabs the bottle from Barry, rinses his mouth and spits it out.

The junkie is still standing.

“What the fuck?” Some one yells and the disbelief spreads.

The boxer looks at the junkie and can’t believe what he’s seeing, gesturing his surprise. He dances a bit and throws a jab, but the junkie lunges, grabs the boxer by the waist biting his hip.

The boxer’s eyes go wide, his mouth makes an O, and he pummels the junkie with his elbows. Deke races in, grabbing the junkie around the shoulders and gives him a spin. Deke sends him sprawling into the crowd, and lurches strong and fast after the man. “Bust him up, Deke,” someone yells, but then there’s another scream.

The crowd fans back away from the raggedy man, the biter, moving away like a school of fish from the jaws of a predator.

Barry raced ahead, cutting through the crowd to watch. Tommy stood still, putting his hand to his forehead and one hand out to catch his balance. Mike was on his back, writhing from something.

“What’s this boy on?” A man bending over Mike yelled to Tommy. But all Tommy felt was a rage. He wanted to shriek and attack the man, but he was too weak. The floor seemed to up end itself and twirl, and Tommy landed with a swack.

“Deke!” Barry pushed past the idlers.

“Fucker,” Deke was cradling his hand, his face was pale and his shirt was bloodied. “Take me to the ER,” he yelled to Barry.

Deke’s legs went out from under him.

“I got you.” Barry couldn’t hold him up. Around them the shrieks grew to screams.

“Where you friends?” His voice was weak and Barry looked up.

“Here they come,” Barry brushed his cousin’s face, he looked up to ask for help but couldn’t. Tommy and Mike were shuffling toward him, nice and slow, their eyes shined with a primal rage and their mouths were twisted into murderous grins.

Steve Blum scowled in pure hate as he heard the cackle of the old woman. How he hated her. He hated her more than he hated the roaming dead. They had an excuse for what they did. They were dead and, if the scientists were to be believed, simply acting on instinct. She, however, did it because she was senile. The hag was a drain on their resources, and Steve had made this very clear many times. Not only did she take up room in the already crowded refuge but also she wasted their supply of food and water. Not to mention the time it took to look after her. As long as she was awake then someone had to be with her at all times.

He said a small prayer of thanks to whoever may be listening that it wasn’t him today. She seemed to be acting up more than usual. Making stupid noises and, no doubt, causing trouble for whoever was unlucky enough to have to keep an eye on her.

Another shriek made him grip the rifle in his hands even tighter and grit his teeth as he walked a few feet down the walkway he stood watch on. He reached the end, opened the door and stuck his head inside the building.

“Who’s looking after the annoying witch of the east today?” he asked the man inside.

He got no response from the person sitting in the wooden chair with his back to him.

Noticing a bit of the wall to the concrete building was loose he pulled off a small chunk and threw it across it room. It missed the man but ricocheted off the table in front of him and hit the radio that was on it.

The man quickly sat upright and looked over to the door. Noticing Steve stood there Jason Price took his headphones off and put them down by the radio he had been listening to.

“What’s up mate?” he asked.

Steve repeated his original question.

“Vicki,” Jason replied, a smug grin on his bearded face.

“For fuck sake,” cursed Steve. “So I get the day off from her but I get to hear about it when the wife get homes. I hate that bitch so much.”

“Vicki?” teased Jason.

“No not Vicki you idiot, the mad hag. She’s half deaf, almost blind and senile so why not just put her out of her misery.”

“Because she’s still a human?” replied Jason.

Steve just snorted and went to leave the room. At the last minute he turned back to Jason.

“Anything on the radio today?”

“Nothing recently. I thought I heard something earlier though. A conversation between two guys about a safe house and flying a helicopter there, but I lost it. Lots of static you see. It may have just been an old recording on repeat. There are still plenty of abandoned military bases and police stations that are transmitting emergency broadcasts”

“Well good luck mate. I would rather listen to static for hours, than that bitch for a minute.”

“I’ll tell Vicki you said that about her.”

Steve walked out of the room giving Jason the middle finger as he did.

Jason smiled and put the headphones back on. He put his feet up on the desk and sat back listening to static as he stared out the window at the sea that stretched out to the horizon.

~~~

Jason and Steve were just two in a group of thirtyish survivors who had come to call the small dockyard on the English east coast their home. It was a perfect place to hold up for the time being. A 10-foot high concrete wall with steel supports and topped with barbed wire ran along three sides of the area, with the North Sea providing the fourth defensive wall. The edge of the port that ran along the sea was a good six-foot from the water at high tide so nothing could climb ashore unseen.

Other than using a boat there was only one-way in and out; a large, solid metal gate that took three men to open when it was unlocked. A walkway ran most of the length of the wall, connected to the only real building on the site, what used to be the office block. The two-story building had been converted into the command centre of the group. Weekly meetings and strategy planning were carried out in the ground floor offices whilst the upper floor was used as a lookout post and radio room.

The survivors had made their living areas out of the many large shipping containers that had been stored in the dockyard. Once a few holes had been cut out to allow in light and some furniture moved in they weren’t too bad. Some people had even moved into containers that had been stacked two high, cutting a hole in the floor of the upper create and the roof of the lower crate and using a ladder as a staircase.

It wasn’t perfect, and the slightest knock on the create would vibrate around the whole of the inside like ringing a bell, but they were warm, dry and allowed the occupants some privacy and could be locked from both the inside and outside for extra security.

Steve walked along the wall, looking out over the industrial estate beyond the safety of the dock. Most of the warehouses had already been raided for anything useful. Generally it had been fishing supplies; nets, baskets, create to store fish, etc, but there had been a few good finds. A sporting goods warehouse had provided them with lots of hand held weapons, like cricket bats and golf clubs, but also stuff to keep them entertained. Steve had spent many hours just whacking golf balls into the North Sea.

Fishing provided the main source of food. Now that the North Sea was void of fishing vessels the fish had flourished. I was almost impossible to drop a line in the water without getting a bite. It took some of the fun out of it, but Steve still enjoyed a bit of fishing on his days off.

He wished he were doing that right now as the shriek of the old woman brought him back from his day dream.

What was her problem now? Normally she just made the odd noise then shut up for a while, but this time she was continuously shrieking. Suddenly there was another scream, a woman’s voice. Then a gun shot.

Steve ran down the walkway back towards the office building, removing the safety on his rifle as he did. He burst into the radio room and pulled the earphones of Jason.

Jason looked up at Steve, about to chastise him for his actions until he saw the look on his face and the curse died in his throat.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Gunshot. Downstairs.”

“Shit,” said Jason, opening a draw in the desk before him and pulling out a handgun. As he stood he hit the warning siren button.

Originally it was just the tannoy system to alert workers they were needed in the office, but it had since been hooked up to an air horn. Once the main button was pressed it simultaneously turned on the tannoy and pressed the air horn. Once people heard the noise over the loud speakers situated around the dockyard they made their way to the largest container and locked themselves in. A few people would stay on guard duty until the all clear was given.

“Just how loud is that radio that you can’t hear a gunshot?” asked Steve as they cautiously made their way to the staircase.

Jason said nothing as they both slowly edged downstairs. As they reached the bottom they could hear talking coming from the front room that used to be the reception. Opening the door they stepped into the room. The first thing they noticed was the smell, a mix of dead flesh and sewage. A zombie lay on the floor, most of its head missing or splattered on the ground next to it. The old woman was cowered in the corner sobbing, being calmed by one of the other women.

Len Clark stood in the middle of the room trying to calm down the half dozen people who surrounded him. Steve noticed Vicki sat down, her usually bright face now pure white and she cradled her right arm in her lap, her left hand gripping the wrist tightly.

Steve ran over to her, ignoring everyone else.

“Baby, what happened?” he asked.

“Steve, it was an accident,” she replied, looking up with sad eyes.

“What was?”

“Please don’t get mad. I don’t want to remember you being mad.”

Steve stood up to face the group of people milling around the room.

“What…. the fuck…happened?” he growled.

Len walked over and put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. He shrugged it of as soon as he felt the touch.

“Would someone please tell me why there is a headless zombie on the floor and why my wife has a bite mark on her wrist?”

“From what we can tell,” started Len, “this one somehow made it into the compound. We have people looking for more now.”

“I don’t give a shit about more of them. How was my wife bitten?”

“He was banging on the door,” answered Vicki. “But at the time we didn’t know who it was outside.”

“We? You mean you and her?” said Steve pointing an accusing finger to the old woman in the corner. She shrieked and backed further into the corner as if Steve’s finger was a gun about to go off.

“She opened the door,” continued Vicki, “and it burst in. I tried to shut the door again which is when I got bit.”

“I was in the other room and came as soon as I heard the commotion. I managed to put it down but not before it got Vicki.” said Len. “So you see Steve it was an accident.”

“In which case so is this,” Steve lifted his rifle up and pointed it at the old woman who was now rocking back and forth, sobbing madly.

The woman comforting her moved so she was in the way of the shot.

“Don’t Steve, please,” she pleaded.

Steve was suddenly aware that several of the others had drawn their weapons as well, and had them pointed at him.

“Put the gun down Steve,” said Len calmly. “Don’t make us shoot you.”

“You would kill me to protect her?”

“No one has to die. Just put the gun down and lets talk.”

“She is a drain on our resources. She wastes man-hours looking after her. And now she gets my wife killed. She deserves to be put out of her, and our, misery.”

“It was an accident Steve. Please put the gun down.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if it was your wife who had been bitten Len.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But that isn’t the point right now. Put the gun down or I will put you down.”

“Fuck you Len”

Len sighed, shaking his head.

“Damn you for making me do this Steve.”

Len lifted his gun pointed it right at Steve’s head and flicked off the safety. Steve turned his head slightly to look at Len, which is when Jason hit him round the back of the head with the butt of his gun. Steve dropped to the ground. He heard Jason say sorry before he fell into unconsciousness.

2

Steve slowly came round. He reached up to his head and remembered too late to stop himself from prodding the back of his skull. The pain caused him to almost black out again. He would be having words with Jason at some point.

He felt the warmth of sunlight on his bare arms and slowly opened his eyes so as to let them grow accustomed to the brightness. Once he was able to see, he looked around at his surroundings. He’d been laid out on a pile of blankets in the corner of one of the shipping containers. The only hole that served as a window was high on the back wall, clear plastic sheeting covering it to keep out as much of the wind as possible, and far too small to fit through.

Half way along the container metal bars had been welded to the top and bottom to create a cage that he now found himself in. On the other side of bars Len sat on a white plastic patio chair.

“Morning.” he said.

“Got any aspirin?” replied Steve. “I’ve got a killer headache.”

“Some on the table.” Len said, gesturing to the corner of the cell with a nod of his head.

Steve cautiously got to his feet, the pounding of his skull a constant reminder of his situation. In the corner of the cell was a simple wooden table. On it sat a plastic cup of water, half a bottle of pills, a candle in a holder and some matches.

He removed the top of the pill bottle, tipped three into his hand and threw them down his throat. Without touching the water he swallowed and went back to the pile of blankets. He sat down, his back leaning against the back wall and looked at Len.

“Not thirsty?” asked Len.

“No telling what’s in the cup.” replied Steve.

“Damn it Steve, no one wants to poison you.”

“Maybe not, but maybe you just want to keep me sedated.”

“In which case why take the pills?”

“I’ve got a headache,” said Steve, smiling for the first time.

“What am I to do with you?” asked Len, smiling himself.

He stood up from the chair and paced back and forth along the bars. After a few minutes he stopped and turned back to look at Steve, who hadn’t moved the whole time.

“If I let you out of here, what will you do?”

“Kill her,” replied Steve, without a seconds pause.

The smile left Len’s face.

“Fuck sake Steve, leave it. It was a disaster what happened, but it was accidental. You must know that.”

“She was allowed to wander around. She should have been confined to a container, like this one. Nice job by the way. How long did it take to get this ready?”

“Couple of hours,” replied Len. “Once me made sure you were going to be ok we put you in here and welded these bars in place. Only way out is for us to cut you out”

To prove his point Len grabbed the bars and tried to shake them. They didn’t move an inch

“But that’s not what we are here to discuss. Look Steve, we’ve taken your views on board. You have a right to say how she is dealt with. She has now been confined to a container. We’ll let her out for a few hours every day to get some air and stretch her legs but other than that she’ll be a prisoner. It’s the best I can do, because I am not willing to end her life.”

“Then let me. It’s my damn right Len and you know it!” shouted Steve.

“You’re getting upset and that’ll get us nowhere,” replied Len. “Look I’m going to give you some time to cool off again.

He walked over the end of the container and pushed the door open. As the light came in Steve saw the roofs of the warehouses outside their compound and knew they must be high up.

“Three containers high Steve,” said Len, as if reading his thoughts. “Even if you do get through the bars you’ll not be able to get down with out a ladder, which by the way I will be taking with me once I get down.”

“So I’m just expected to live out the rest of days in here?”

“Just until you calm down and see reason. She’s no longer a threat or a burden to anyone. Instead of someone watching her 24 hours it’ll just be a couple whilst we let her out for a bit each day. I’ll be back later with some food and something to read. We’ll talk again then.”

Len started climbing down the ladder.

“What about Vicki?” shouted Steve.

Len stopped, the top of his head just visible above the edge of the container.

“About four hours ago,” replied Len, sadly. “She came to say goodbye, but you were still out. Again, I’m sorry Steve.”

“So am I Len,” Said Steve as the container door closed. “So am I”

3

Steve spent the next couple of weeks contemplating his situation. He rarely spoke to anyone, declining any visitors and just mumbling a few words of thanks to those who brought him food and items to pass the time.

He spent hours thinking back to the times he and Vicki had spent together. The fun they had together with his children and his parents before the outbreak, then trying to survive on the run with his family. The pure devastating feeling of failure when he’d lost his children and praying he’d never have to feel that way again. The joy at finding safety with other people, and the security it offered with new friends.

He cried for days at the loss of Vicki, but came to terms with it quicker than he would have liked.

But what made it worse was every time he tried to find it in his power to forgive the old woman the rage built in him. Len had given him a pair of boxing gloves after finding him pounding his blooded fists into the side of the container. He wanted him to work the anger out in any from he could, but didn’t want him to hurt himself in the process.

It was the start of the third week when he finally started talking again

~~~

It was Doug’s turn to bring food to Steve. Everyone was surprised Doug had survived this long. He was a skinny kid, only 24 and completely bald. He had a slight limp and was a bit on the slow side when it came to thinking. From a distance he looked like one of the walking dead. The group often joked he should paint his head a different colour so they would recognise him and not accidental shoot him.

He awkwardly passed the tray of food through a gap bars to Steve who walked over and picked it up.

“Thanks Doug.”

“No worries Steve. See you later.”

“Wait a minute. You got some time?”

“Err, sure. What’s up?” Doug sat down on the patio chair removing the rifle he had slung over shoulder and resting it across his across his lap.

“Nothing really. How is everyone?” asked Steve.

“Good, I think. They don’t talk much to me really, but everyone seems fine.”

Steve carried the tray over to table and placed it on the top. He picked up the fork and then froze. Tilting his head he walked over to the makeshift window and looked out.

“Not hungry?” asked Doug.

“Thought I heard something,” he replied.

“I hear things as well,” said Doug, a simple smile across his face, glad to be in a conversation.

“Shhh!” hiss Steve.

As he listened he heard it again. It could have been a gull, but Steve was sure it was a human scream, and this time it was louder. A couple of seconds went by with nothing happening, then Steve saw a girl come running out from behind a container. She stumbled and fell, looking back over her shoulder whilst crawling hurriedly across the floor. Seconds later a zombie lurched out from behind the same container, arms reaching for the girl, mouth moving silently.

“Shit!” said Steve. “That’s Valerie’s daughter.”

He turned to Doug who was still sat on the chair, a smile on his face.

“Doug, quick give me your rifle and go tell Len with have a Z in the compound.”

Doug’s face screwed up in concentration.

“I shouldn’t give you my gun. Len would be unhappy with me.”

“Do you think he would be happy if Samantha is killed by a zombie?” asked Steve.

Doug bit his bottom lip as he thought over the question. Steve turned back to look out the window. The young girl now had her back to a container, the zombie advancing slowly. Her shoulders bobbed up and down quickly and Steve knew she was out of breath and probably unable to move anymore.

“I shouldn’t leave you alone with the gun either,” said Doug.

Steve turned back to him. Trying to hold his anger back. Getting frustrated wouldn’t so any good now.

“Ok. Stay and keep an eye on me, but give me your gun or else someone is going to die.”

“Do you promise to give it back after, and not hurt anyone?”

“Yes I do. Now give it to me.”

“Cross your heart?”

“DOUG!” shouted Steve, regretting it straight away. If he upset Doug now he could have just sentenced Valerie’s daughter to death. He thought his fears would come true as Doug stood up and started to turn away. Instead he moved back towards the bars and passed the end of his rifle to Steve.

Grabbing the rifle he spun it round as he hurried back to the window. The angle wasn’t great, and he hadn’t fired a weapon in a while, but he knew he was good enough to make the shot.

Breathing slowly he aimed down the barrel and fired a shot. The bullet missed the zombie by a couple of feet and bounced off the ground, causing Samantha to let out a yelp of panic.

Wind must be blowing more than I know, he thought, as he compensated for it. His second shot hit the zombie in the shoulder. It staggered slightly but continued to make its way towards the promise of an easy meal.

“Shit,” muttered Steve. If he missed this shot then he knew it would be all over for Samantha.

Once again he aimed down the barrel, and adjusted for the wind. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out before squeezing the trigger. The zombies head exploded, seconds later its body dropped to the ground, like a puppet with the strings cut.

Samantha let out a scream as the zombie’s hand landed on her foot and shook her leg until it was no longer touching the lifeless limb. She slowly turned her head to look up at Steve, a smile of relief and joy on her young face. Steve smiled back. He heard the sound of people running and calling out to Samantha as he walked back across his cell and handed the rifle though the bars to Doug, who had been waiting patiently.

“Told you you’d get it back and I’d not hurt anyone,” he said.

Doug took the rifle and looped the strap over his shoulder.

“I better go now. Bye Steve.”

“Do me a favour Doug. Tell Len I’m ready to talk.”

4

Steve sipped his coffee, pulling a face at how strong it was. It had been a while since he had drunk coffee and knew it would take a few more cups before he was used to the taste again.

He looked up from the black liquid in his mug and focused on Len, who was sat on the other side of the table to him.

“So you will not go anywhere near her accommodation unless in a dire emergency, is that agreed?”

“Even in dire emergencies I may decide to stay away,” replied Steve, smiling.

“Damn it Steve, will you take this seriously. Unless you want to spend another week in that cage I have to make sure you’re not a threat to anyone on site.”

“Look Len, I will stay away from her as long as you can promise me I won’t see or hear her around me.”

“That’s fine. You won’t even know she’s here.”

“Then we’re good,” said Steve.

Seeing another zombie attack in the apparently secure area had forced Steve to make the decision that there were more lives at stake here than he was willing to risk. With his incarceration it meant there were less people out there protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. So he had agreed to follow Lens rules if he were to be released. He would stay away from the old hag at all times, and promise to do her no harm. In return he would be given areas of patrol that were no where near her, and she would be confined to her living quarters 23 hours of the day, only allowed out an hour for a walk, and whatever toilet breaks she may need. During those times Steve would be informed before hand and be moved as far away as possible. It wasn’t the ideal situation, but it was the best they could do at the moment.

Steve was glad to be out of his cell and free to move around. He was desperate to find out how two undead had been able to get inside the compound.

They hadn’t come through the main gate that was for sure. He had been guarding it on the first attack and he knew that someone else would have been there during the second. Plus the zombie had come from the port side. There was no way it could have made it that far across the compound without being seen if it had come in the front way.

“So what are you thoughts so far?” asked Len, noticing Steve had been sat in silence for the past few minutes.

Steve explained about his theory of the zombies coming in by the port side.

“Well that makes the most sense but I’ve had guys on patrol around the waters edge since the first attack. The tide hasn’t been high enough for something to climb up, and there haven’t been any waves strong enough to wash a floating corpse over the edge.”

“They’re getting in somehow Len, and we need to find out soon or else we could be over run before we know it. I’m going to patrol the grounds tomorrow and see what I can look up, but now I really need to get some proper sleep. That cage just wasn’t comfy.”

Steve got up and finished the last of his coffee. The now cold liquid made him pull a face again. He nodded to Len as he made his way out of the meeting room into the night air and across the yard towards the container that he called home. The home he used to share with Vicki. The memory brought with it pain and his eyes started to water. Maybe it was time to move. There were plenty of families who could use a bigger container, as he only needed a single now.

He didn’t notice someone walking up behind him until it was almost too late. If it weren’t for the awful smell he would have been dead before he knew it. As it was the smell brought him back to reality.

“Good lord, what the hell is that?” he wondered aloud.

As if answering the question the zombie that had moving up behind him let out a groan. Steve spun around and narrowly avoided its grasping hands by a hairs breadth.  He backed away, cursing the fact that he didn’t have a weapon on him. He should have asked Len for one as soon as he had been released. Too late for that now though, he had to work out what to do. One on one with a zombie shouldn’t be too much bother, but he was weapon-less. He could out manoeuvre the thing easily, but that would only do him so good. He needed to find a weapon or someone with one.

It seemed luck was on his side. As he backed away he saw a torchlight sweeping back and forth. Just at the edge of his night vision he could make out a black shape of a man walking behind the zombie, completely oblivious to what was going on just meters away.

“A little help here.” he shouted.

The figure looked around and his torch illuminated Steve and the zombie. For the first time Steve got a good look at his attacker. It was a regular zombie in most aspects with the typical sunken eyes, greying skin and rotten teeth. The few distinguishing features he did notice were the sailors clothing it wore, the fact that it was dripping wet and stank of shit.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed the figure with the torch. He charged at the zombie and shoulder barged it out of the way of Steve, who also fell over backwards in his attempt to get out of the way. The creature stumbled sideways, hit the side of a container and fell to the floor.

Steve heard muttered curses coming from inside the container; the zombie’s collision had obviously woken up whoever lived there. Steve watched as his rescuer, who he now recognised as Paul, pull out his gun and put a single shot through the zombie’s head. The zombie twitched for a second before laying still. Paul waited a few seconds, the gun still aimed at the zombie’s head. He holstered his weapon once he was sure that he had delivered a killing shot.

“You alright mate?” asked Paul, offering his hand to Steve and pulling him to his feet. “I just came back from the toilet so you’re lucky I was patrolling this area, otherwise I would have been on the other side of the compound.”

“Actually I’m fine.” replied Steve. “I think I may have just solved the zombie mystery thanks to sailor Jim here.”

“If you think it comes from the sea just because of its clothing you’ll have a hard time proving it. We’ve had guys on sea watch since the first attack.”

“But I think I may have discovered another clue, something to check out in the morning. Night Paul.”

“Night mate.”

Paul walked off as he carried on his nighttime patrol. Steve smiled to himself. If he was right he may have just saved the community further zombie attacks, and also have a way to settle accounts with the person he hated the most.

5

“What do you see?” Steve asked Len.

They were stood on the deck of the small fishing vessel that was used for gathering fish, patrolling the waters and, if ever needed, escape from the compound.

Len looked out towards the compound, taking in everything as the small boat bobbed up and down and the gentle sea.

“Our compound, which consists of several containers and an office building, the dock side where this ship is normally moored up and an impenetrable wall surrounding the whole thing.” said Len eventually.

“A bit too literal, but a goods start.” replied Steve.

“Well just tell me then.”

“Look below the compound.” said Steve, ignoring Len.

“I see a solid wall which is around eight foot from sea level to the top.”

“And?” pressed Steve.

Len looked again; he was slowly getting frustrated with the game of eye spy.

“I don’t know what you want me to see Steve, but I’m obviously missing it so just tell me.”

“The large hole about seven feet down from the top and a foot from sea level.”

“You mean our sewage outlet pipe? What about it?”

“That, my friend, is how the undead are getting in to our compound.”

“Impossible. We’ve been using that old sewer pipe since this thing began and we decided to hold up in the docks. We just built the toilet over an existing water pipe that ran out to sea. That pipe also goes all the way inland as well, and to make sure nothing did walk down the pipe we barred it up just before it reached our entrance.”

“That’s what I think is causing the problem.” replied Steve.

“How so?”

“Well normally any debris which was swept up into the pipe would be flushed all the way through. Since you put up the bars in the tunnel you created a net of sorts. Anything washed in gets caught on them and stays there. Now we know the pipe goes underwater at high tide, so I’m guessing a zombie floating in the sea gets washed into the tunnel where it stays until the tide goes down. When someone goes to the toilet the zombie tries to get at the food and eventually manages to climb out and goes on a wander.”

“That’s a lot of big coincidences to consider.”

“True, but that’s why we have only had three attacks in almost as many weeks not more. The one that attacked me last night was wearing a Royal Navy sailor’s uniform. I can only guess he fell overboard from a ship or maybe he was at the coast on leave. Plus it smelt of shit, and Paul had just been to the toilet before I was attacked. I bet if you check with Samantha she will say she had either been or was just heading that way as well.”

“So what do you suggest?” asked Len

“Put up another grill at the entrance to the tunnel. In the mean time I’ll keep guard of it. It’ll keep me well away from you know who.”

“Well ok. But I’m still not convinced. I’m not going to go to the trouble of sending men to put up a grill that may not be needed. It’ll be a waste of manpower and resources. You can stay on guard and if you can prove your theory then we’ll see about the grill.”

Steve smiled to himself as he walked back to the controls of the boat and started to steer them back to dry land. Len had reacted just as he hoped he would. His plan was slowly coming to it conclusion.

6

It took several weeks until Steve could complete his plan. He had been on guard every night for almost two weeks outside the toilet with no sign of any zombies. He was beginning to think that maybe his theory was just that, and the zombies were in fact finding another way in. Then one night he heard the almost unperceivable sound of moaning. He entered the toilet, opened the lid of the bowl and looked down the hole. Staring back at him was a pair of dead eyes.

The zombie began frantically clawing at the air above him, despite being a few inches short of actually grasping anything that it could use to pull itself up. The zombie’s feet were covered in seawater, but the walls around the sides were not yet wet. So the tide was obviously still on its way in. It wouldn’t be long until the zombie would be floating enough to grasp the ledge and pull itself up.

Steve hurried out of the toilet, leaving the lid up. If anyone tried to go before he had managed to complete his plan they would be able to see the zombie and avoid any disasters. His main job was to silence the alarm but he needed to hit the tool shed first.

~~~

Jason removed his headset as soon as Steve walked in radio room. Normally he would be watching the sea for signs of ships, or just daydreaming, but as it was still dark outside he was content to drift off in his own imagination whilst watching the door.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” asked Steve.

“Only when there’s something boring on the radio.” replied Jason.

Steve smiled and walked closer to Jason.

“So aren’t you supposed to be on toilet guarding duty? Looking for the zombie from the black latrine.”

I found something.” replied Steve. “I need to speak to Len, is he around?”

“Still in bed I would guess. Like most people. I think it’s just me you and two other guys on guard duty tonight.”

“That makes things much easier.” said Steve, still smiling.

He suddenly pulled his gun on Jason, the barrel resting no more than a few centimetres from his forehead.

“What’s up buddy?” asked Jason, going crossed eyed whilst trying to stare at the end of the gun.

“I don’t want to hurt you mate, just get of the chair and slowly move away from the radio.”

Jason did as he was told. A part of him was thinking it was all a joke, and any minute the other guys would all jump out and yell surprise.

Steve stayed in the same spot, just turning his body to keep the gun pointed at Jason. When Jason was by the far wall Steve told him to stop. He fished in his pockets and pulled out a pair of handcuffs and tossed them over to Jason.

“Put these on and handcuff yourself to the radiator please.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I am.”

Jason did as he told, fastening one of the cuffs over his left wrist and the other around the old metal radiator that was secured to the wall. He tugged his wrist a few times to prove he wasn’t going to be able to move anywhere.

Steve nodded to confirm he was satisfied. He walked to the door and stopped just before he left the room.

“Tell Len I’m sorry I betrayed his trust and let him know he won’t ever see me again.”

Steve walked out the room, but came back in a few seconds later carrying a small bag. He slid it across the room so it was in easy reach of Jason.

“There’s a hacksaw and a pistol in there.” he told him. “If you start on the cuffs now you should be free in about 20 minutes, and the gun can be used in case something goes wrong. But don’t try to shoot the cuffs off like in the movies, you’ll only hurt yourself.”

Steve left again and Jason reached for the bag. True to his word Steve had put the hacksaw and gun in the bag, along with two spare hacksaw blades and an extra magazine for the pistol. There was also a chocolate bar and bottle of water.

“Damn it Steve.” Jason said to himself as he pulled out the hacksaw and started on the handcuffs. “Just what are you planning?”

Steve moved as quickly as he could from container to container. He checked each one had someone inside before locking them, making sure the handles to the containers were in the closed position and inserting a metal peg into the hole that would normally accommodate a padlock. He found the two men on guard duty one at a time and, at gun point, escorted them into a container before locking it as well.

Finally when he was sure that everyone in the compound was locked up safely he went back to the toilet. The moaning was still audible as he carefully opened the door. He couldn’t have timed it better, as soon as he opened the toilet door he saw the soaking wet zombie dragging itself out of the hole to the sewer pipe.

Its dead eyes locked onto Steve and it started making more of an effort to pull itself free, moaning louder now it saw a potential meal.

Steve slowly backed away, keeping the door open the whole time to make sure the zombie didn’t loose interest in him. With one final pull the zombie freed itself from the hole and fell forward towards Steve, landing a few feet from him in the doorway. Steve slowly started walking away, checking behind him to make sure the zombie was following him.

The creature at first started to crawl after Steve until it managed to pick itself up and slowly stumbled after Steve, arms raised in typical zombie fashion.

Steve walked off leading the zombie to his final destination, the only container he hadn’t locked. As soon as he saw the container ahead of him he checked behind him one last time to make sure he was still being followed and quicken his pace.

When he reached the container the zombie was still about 30 feet away from him. He pulled open the containers door hiding behind it as he did so. This was now the biggest gamble of his plan. Hopefully the zombie would walk into the container instead of following him.

Not wanting to wait around in case the it case it decided he was the tastier option, Steve made his way past the container and started walking towards the docks.

As he reached the end of the container he heard a voice shouting to him.

“Help me. Rotting thing. Rotting thing.”

Steve glanced to his side and saw the old woman at one a window that had been cut into the back wall of the container. Bars had been welded into the gap to prevent anyone getting out. She held the bars tightly, knuckles white, her face pushed out as far out as she was able to.

“You, help.” she called to Steve.

He just carried on walking.

“You deserve this you hag.” he muttered to himself as he made his way towards the waters edge, pulling the boat keys out of his pocket.

“Please Steve, don’t do this. I love you.”

In a rare moment of clarity the old woman had suddenly regained her senses. Maybe it was the knowledge of imminent death that had allowed her to fully understand what was about to happen.

“STEVE. STEVE!”

As Steve walked away he tried to block out the shouts. They slowly turned from coherent words to just random noises. Either her sanity had retreated back into her brain in order to block out what was going on, or she had given up trying to appeal to him and was now attempting to rouse help from another source.

Eventually the noises turned into screams.

Steve climbed into the boat and took one last look at the place he had called home for the better part of a year. He had lost so much here it no longer held anything for him.

“Goodbye Len, Jason and everyone else.” he said to the air.

Turning the key the boat sputtered into life.

“Goodbye Vicki. I’ll always love you.”

He manoeuvred the boat away from the dock and turned it to face the open sea.

Just before he throttled the engine he thought he heard one last high pitch scream coming from the compound. He gritted his jaw, and put the boat in to gear as he headed off, saying one last goodbye.

“Goodbye mother.”

Crying.

A flash. A Memory.

—

Janie is seven. Santa just gave her her very first kitty. Mommy and Daddy said that she would have to learn how to feed it and clean its litterbox. She knows that those are stinky and yucky because her friend Annie has three cats, but they aren’t kittens. They are all grown up cats. Janie thinks she can get Daddy to clean the box, because he always does the yucky things instead of making Mommy or her do them.

The kitty is golden orange with really long fur. It’s little mouth opens with a silent meow.

Janie decides to call it “Poofy” because it looks just like a little poof-ball.

As she holds it and pets it, its fur turns ragged and tangled. It’s little nose turns gray. Poofy bites her hard on her hand.

—

No. It wasn’t like that! Poofy never…

Heat. Pain.

Flash.

—

Jane is sitting at the little dining room table, a decorated white cake in front of her. There are two lit candles on the cake, shaped like numbers. A ‘one’ and a ‘seven’.

“Make a wish!” Momma says.

Jane closes her eyes and inhales deeply, dramatically overdoing it. Her cheeks puff out as she blows hard on the two candles.

A camera flashes.

“Ah, crap.” Dad says. “These damned digital cameras! Why can’t they take the picture when you push the button? I missed it!”

“Well, I’m not doing it again.” Jane says. They all laugh.

Momma is visibly excited. She never could keep a secret.

“Give it to her, Steven.”

Giving Momma a ‘don’t get your panties in a bunch’ look, Dad places a small box in front of Jane.

“Here you go, my little, well…not so little, girl. Happy Birthday.”

Jane tears open the package. She’s just like her Momma like that. Don’t wait around, don’t be neat. Tear off that paper and see what it is.

It’s a key, on a keyring attached to a small black remote.

“Go ahead,” Momma says. “Push the button.”

Jane almost knocks her chair over, she stands up so fast. Poofy, her cat, has been laying on her feet, as is his long time habit. Startled, he scampers out of the kitchen.

Quickly she pushes the largest button on the small remote.

In the garage, a ‘beepbeep’ sounds.

Unable to suppress a squeal, Jane bounds to the door that leads to the garage. Her Momma almost runs into her as she stops to unlock the door before opening it. Her Momma is probably the more excited that Jane is herself.

Jane opens the door to behold her new expression of independence, of adulthood. And, from the looks of it, her newfound level of ‘coolness’.

The little two door car is light blue, but not in a little girl way. More of a ‘look-at-me-I’m-flying’ way.

She opens the driver’s door, but turns when she hears a moan behind her. Her parents have changed. They are standing, but limply. Their skin is all gray and their hair is filthy.

They reach for her. Her Momma grabs her hand and bites hard.

Jane screams.

—

The car. That wasn’t what happened. Momma didn’t…

Heat. Pain. Tired, so tired.

Flash.

—

Jane is standing, facing the man she loves. He is repeating after another man.

Henry is tall. And dark. And handsome. She calls him her ‘own little cliché’.

As Henry speaks, she looks out at the crowd of people watching. In the front row are her parents, both crying through smiles.

There seems to be an awful lot of people standing in the foyer of the church. They are looking in through the small windows in the doors. They sway side to side, and appear to be pawing at the door, trying to get in.

Their skin is gray.

A sharp pain in her hand snaps her attention to Henry.

Instead of placing a ring on her finger, he is biting her hand.

His skin is gray, too.

—

What…that isn’t true! Henry never hurt me!

Pain. Heat. Deep exhaustion.

Flash.

—

“Push, Janie, push!” Henry encourages.

“Just a little more, Jane, one more and we’re there.” The doctor says.

Pain, oh, pain. But so worth it. This baby wasn’t supposed to be, couldn’t happen.

Yet, here we are, she thinks.

The doctor interrupts her thoughts. “And, here we go! Congratulations! It’s a girl! Ten fingers and ten toes, a beautiful girl!”

Henry is crying, just like Jane. “Oh, sweetheart! She’s so beautiful! I’m so proud of you!”

Crying, Jane holds out her hands and receives a tiny, blanket wrapped package. The baby isn’t crying, but moaning slightly, even growling.

Pulling the folds away from the baby’s face, she sees a blank stare, peering black eyes, and slate gray skin.

She looks up at Henry. He is beaming, making little cooing noises.

Suddenly, pain sears in her hand. The baby has gray-black teeth and it busily chewing.

—

No! Zoe was perfect! That isn’t right!

Pain. Searing heat. Head heavy. So tired. Need sleep.

Flash.

—

Jane never got to enjoy her new home. The Zombies had overrun the city, if not the entire state.

She and Henry hadn’t even been able to unpack the boxes.

Henry was lying on the couch, asleep and feverish. Zoe was missing.

The Army was driving up and down the street declaring quarantine. They were blaring instructions from megaphones as they drove.

“If anyone in your house is sick, leave them there. If you are not sick, come out and you will be taken to a Federal Safe Refuge. Only healthy individuals will be taken. All others should stay indoors and wait for a doctor to determine their condition.”

The message repeats.

Jane did not know what to do. Henry was sick, but she couldn’t leave him. What if he woke up and she was gone? And what about Zoe? She had to find Zoe!

She stands, unable to think or move.

A pounding at the door. “Is anyone in there? We are going to break the door down. Stand back!”

And the door virtually exploded inward, the knob punching into the sheetrock as it slammed into the wall.

Soldiers poured in.

“Are you sick, ma’am? Have you been bitten by anything or anybody? Is this your husband? Has he been bitten?” Hands examined her, checked her.

Another yelled, “We got a bite here!”

He pulled Henry’s pants leg up, revealing a very tiny bite mark.

“She appears fine, no fever. Get her outta here! Robinson, take care of the man when we leave!”

She is pushed out of the house.

A shot.

A single person comes out of the house. Alone.

There is a shout from the side of the house.

“Oh, shit! Oh, my God, it’s a baby!”

Zoe.

Another shot.

She screams and breaks free. Running to the side of the house she yells. “You bastards! She’s my baby! What have you done to my baby!?”

She rounds the corner of the house and sees Zoe, dressed in her little pink sleeper. Her beautiful two year old little girl is just laying on the ground.

Her head is gone.

She is tackled from behind. She struggles, but cannot break free.

She hears growls and moans.

Managing to turn over, she looks into the eyes of a Zombie dressed in Army fatigues.

She punches the abomination in the face, but it latches onto her hand with it’s teeth, gray lips sucking greedily.

Screaming, she sees her arm start to turn gray.

—

Oh, God, Zoe! Not Zoe! They shot Zoe.

Pain fades. Head too heavy. Sleep. Just go to sleep.

Flash.

—

Jane awakens to the alarm. This one is the one that indicates the perimeter has been breached. This means only one thing.

The Zombies are here.

As she works a split breakfast/dinner shift in the Refuge’s cafeteria, she is alone in the Single Women’s Dormitory. At this time of day, most are at the cafeteria, either working or eating.

“Ironic”, she says to nobody. “The Zombies come to eat us when we ourselves are eating.”

She stays inside the building, figuring she is safer on the second floor than out on the grounds running around. She watches from a window.

People run. People scream. People fight.

Zombies eat.

Paying such rapt attention to the goings on outside, she failed to hear the door open at the far end of the dormitory.

She only became aware of her company when she heard a moan.

The Zombie was missing his entire right arm. Some of that thick black blood of theirs had run onto his light blue shirt in the seconds it took to coagulate, sealing the wound.

He was already on her. He grabbed her blouse with his hand, pulling her to him.

She struggles and tears out of the blouse. Squirming away, she is yanked back. The Zombie has grabbed her wrist.

He bites a large chunk out of her hand.

Jane screams. She breaks loose and runs.

She locks herself in a supply closet.

There are thumps on the door, but she does not hear. Slumping to the floor, she cries.

She cries for her parents, her husband, her Zoe. Even her long dead cat.

She cries for a life that was.

—

No more pain.

Only hunger.

Riley held still, feeling foolish and angry. She should’ve made sure he was dead. Who would’ve figured he had a bullet proof vest on? She had made another blunder. Her mental notebook was becoming jammed with things to never do again. Maybe she was afraid that if the man she shot wasn’t dead she wouldn’t be able to finish him off. No, that was bullshit, she was assuming and careless.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“For starters . . . why’d you shoot me?”

“I thought you were after me, wanted to hurt me.”

The man kicked out the chair opposite him and lowered his weapon. “Sit. Relax,” he told her.

Riley placed the items down before meandering over to the table where she took a seat. The man pulled an apple from his coat, tossing it to her. She caught it, looking upon it as if it held the answer to the apocalypse.

“Haven’t seen one of those in a while, eh?” he asked.

“No.” Her stomach was queasy; her mouth watering. Riley’s eyes, like two spherical sponges, absorbed the sight. Her tongue seemed to throb, begging for a taste, but her mind was wary. Was the fruit poisoned?–like in the fairy tale with the witch? Maybe he was going to drug her, make her less of a problem when he had his way with her?

“Don’t worry. It’s not poisoned,” he said as if reading her mind. He pulled out another apple and took a bite, the crunching vividness echoing throughout the small cabin. Riley’s mind went blank, her mouth winning over as she brought the fruit to her mouth and bit. Her mouth flooded with saliva, her taste buds thanking her over and over as the sweet sugary juices flowed down her throat. Once she began she couldn’t stop gnawing on the apple, devouring it all down to the core. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted. Riley plucked a seed from the core, admiring it.

“Plant that, along with the others, and hopefully in a few years you’ll have yourself a few fruit bearing trees.” He was only half done with his apple as if it were a common item for him. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“I shot you,” she said flatly.

“Before that.”

“No.”

“I found you at the diner during one of our sweeps.”

Riley remembered now. He’d asked if she was alone, infected. He’d seemed pleasant, his voice and manner genuine, but she wasn’t about to trust him.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” she said, placing the skeletal apple core on the table.

“Okay, go ahead then.” He gestured to the door.

Riley got up, hesitated. Was he tricking her? Once her back was to him would he attack her? Try to force himself on her like his fellow soldier?

“Problem?” he asked.

“No.” She kept walking, wincing with each step, expecting to be tackled. She reached the door; a sigh of relief falling over her.

“We’ve got a lot to discuss and little time so hurry back.”

Riley closed the door behind her. She hadn’t a clue what the man was referring to, but knew running wasn’t an answer. He’d catch her within minutes. The man, after getting shot in the chest, had followed her to the cabin–avoided her alarms, walked across the floor without making a noise and sat at her table without her being aware of any of it. She was left with only one option.

It was dark outside, the sun having dipped way below the horizon making room for the gloom to set in. Riley walked toward the rock she’d hid the .38 under, hoping it was still there.

Like a gleaming jewel, the gun rested under the rock, sealed securely inside the plastic bag. She took it out, made sure it was loaded, and stuffed it into the small of her back–the cold steel sending goose-bumps along her flesh.

She went back inside the cabin.

“Before you shoot me–again,” the man said, catching Riley off-guard, “we need to talk.”

He must have been watching her through the cabin’s windows, saw her retrieve the weapon.

“You’re very well trained,” he told her. “Parents in the military?”

“No.” She didn’t bother removing the gun, if the man wanted her dead–or in other ways–he could have had her already. She decided to hear him out.

“There are men looking for you,” he told her.

“Why me?” she asked, thinking she knew the answer.

“You killed Deak, right?”

Riley wasn’t sure where this was going. Maybe the man was here to bring her back alive, a trophy to be tortured. His posture hadn’t changed since she’d laid eyes on him. He remained casual, relaxed with the gun lying across his lap. Soldiers were brothers and looked out for each other no matter what happened. Maybe this guy wasn’t like the man Riley killed back at the diner, but they were still brothers, brought together by a deeper bond.

“I killed him,” Riley said, not afraid to be blunt about it. The man’s eyebrows rose. “He deserved it.”

“He had a bad rap. Did he attack you?”

Riley looked away, unsure, then stared into the eyes of her new visitor. “He was a pig and wanted to have his way with me, regardless of my protests.”

“I shouldn’t have left him alone with you. I’m sorry. I never thought he’d try anything in the middle of a fight.”

Riley took her gaze from his, her face feeling flush, and stared at the floor.

“I’m glad you killed the son-of-a-bitch, but now the squad, headed by his brother, Big Ben, wants his killer dead.”

“You’re the only one who knows it was me.”

“I told my commander that Deak, the man who attacked you, was bringing in a little girl. Like I said, I never thought he’d be stupid enough to try anything.”

“Someone else could’ve killed him,” Riley said continuing to stare at the floor. Her eyes locked onto a piece of cereal. It was probably a few days old. She’d need to clean it up later.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re involved. At least that’s how they’ll see it.” The soldier took a sip of his tea. “The luckiest you’d get is a shackled work order. But most likely they’d kill you, but not before . . . well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be pretty.”

Riley looked up, staring off into space. “All because it was my birthday and I wanted to see the town.”

“Happy birthday,” the man said.

Riley shot him a look of disgust, her face crinkling up. “Why are you telling me all this?” He wanted something. A trade. Maybe he was more like his buddy Deak than she thought, simply using a different tactic to get what he wanted.

“I’ve done some bad things, looked the other way when I had to. I want out and if I can save your ass . . . well it’ll be a start down the road to redemption for me.” His tone was somber, quickly becoming more upbeat. “Don’t get me wrong. What the army is doing, at least the northeast division, is a good thing: eradicating the undead. But there’s no application period, no background checks. They’ll take on anyone. They need the man power. This new military is hardcore. The officers let the men get away with a lot during the downtime, keeping the troops happy. Being around them has ruined me, damaged my soul. The man looked haggard, his face appearing to have aged ten years. But if you want food and safety you join up and play along.”

“My name’s Riley,” Riley told him.

“Jack.” He smiled, his face brightening. He went on to explain a few things, bring Riley up to speed.

After being shot, he followed Riley through the woods to the cabin. The other men, Ben’s squad mates led by Ben’s brother Deak, would start searching the area at first light. They’d known Jack was with the dogs and when they returned without him they’d know something was wrong–the dogs trained to return to the nearest encampment when fired upon. The squad would search for his corpse along with Riley and when they didn’t find either they’d assume he’d been taken hostage.

“We need to pack up and move as quickly as possible,” Jack said.

Riley didn’t want to believe him–a soldier bent on making up for his past. Why couldn’t he simply leave her alone, let her be. Damn the town, damn the soldiers and damn the world for causing her such grief. She fought to keep the cabin; had killed people to stay alive and had escaped the clutches of a rapist, making it back home only to be told she had to leave it. What would her father have her do? The answer was simple.

They packed up as many essential supplies as possible–fishing line, flashlights, batteries, matches, knives, toilet paper, toothbrushes, among other things. And food–mostly dried goods and canned items. They left immediately.

Riley’s brain told her not to look back as she walked away from her home, but her heart insisted; wanting her to burn the memory of it into her mind. She shed a single tear, wiping it away quickly not wanting Jack to see her angst. She marched onward, never looking back again.

Jack had explained that the soldiers would only chase them so far before it wasn’t worth their time and effort. He and Riley needed to hoof it, make haste. Take minimal breaks and stay hydrated, but not enough to cramp up. Once they figured out Jack was a deserter and aiding the individuals responsible for Ben’s death, they’d have orders to shoot to kill. Riley only walked faster.

Using flashlights, they hiked south, going around Roscoe and onto Route 17. Traveling the open highway was risky, but a blessing on the travelers. The forest, with each footfall taken, could prove a potential broken or sprained ankle. Riley’s knee ached from tripping on a rock and falling. They were both branched-whipped and itchy from pine needles. Traveling at a fast pace in the woods during nightfall had been an unwelcoming prospect.

They walked along the cracked asphalt highway. Weeds sprouted about; the flora determined to take back what man created.

The moon was almost full, and with the sky clear of clouds, the way was lit well allowing the travelers to save their batteries.

If a vehicle came along, the noise or headlights would alert them in time to dash into the woods alongside the roadway where they’d hide until the way was clear.

After four hours of non-stop walking, the two companions stopped for dinner. They ate beef jerky, canned tuna, and drank small amounts of water.

“We can’t rest for long,” Jack said.

“We must be far enough away by now,” Riley figured, chewing on a piece of jerky, her face grimacing at the taste.

“They’ll use dogs and vehicles to find us, especially once they realize we’ve taken the road. If we’re far enough, I’m hoping the army will not want to waste man power or fuel on finding us, leaving only one small team on our trail.”

Riley stopped chewing, looking up at Jack. “Ben’s brother. It’ll be him that comes looking for us farther than the army would.”

“Yes,” Jack said, nodding his head. “He’s an angry man to begin with and he’ll want to use his brother’s death for an excuse to do something other than shoot zombies. Revenge and fun. Two birds with one stone.”

An hour later, even after a break and dinner, Riley couldn’t go any further. She was exhausted, the bottoms of her feet throbbing and asking to be let free of her shoes. The road was truly less obstructed than the forest, but the pavement was as unforgiving as it was solid.

They decided to camp for the night making sure to hike a good half-mile off the road. They’d passed abandoned gas stations and houses, but Jack thought they’d be too easily trapped should some problem arise, and the night was clear of rain.

Satisfied a fire wouldn’t give away their position– the woods thick with foliage–Jack started a fire so Riley could keep warm.

The following morning, after only four hours of sleep, the two companions moved on. Following alongside the road, using the woods for cover, proved too slow and tiring. Traveling along the open road during daylight was extremely dangerous, but the two travelers had little choice. They chose the highway, keeping as quiet as possible. Hardly a word was uttered between them, allowing their ears to be free.

“Where are we heading?” Riley asked, breaking the long silence.

“Poughkeepsie,” Jack answered in almost a whisper. “Heard there’s a working city there. Non-military controlled.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t, just a rumor around base.”

“Isn’t Poughkeepsie far? I remember seeing it on a map once.”

“Yes, but I’m hoping to get us a car.”

“Really?” Riley responded, as if she’d heard the best news in the world.

“Would’ve had one already,” Jack said, pointing to a house standing a few hundred feet off the highway. “Many of these homes probably still have vehicles in them. Back near Binghamton, where the base is, they used to commandeer them from the neighboring houses, whether people were still in them or not. But I wanted to put some distance between us and Roscoe. Cars are an easy, noisy target.” Jack had been looking forward the entire time he spoke, but turned his head around and winked at Riley when he was done. She smiled, unable to help herself.

Riley hadn’t known Jack very long, but she liked him. He reminded her of her father–ruggedly handsome and sure of himself in a positive manner. She also hated connecting with Jack in a way, wanting to stay self-sufficient and strong. But at the same time it was nice to have a friend. At her age, even with all her father had taught her and all she had been through, she still had much to learn. She would follow Jack, listen and learn from him. Like a sponge, she had to absorb all she could if she wanted to not only survive, but live.

Over the next couple of hours, they searched various homes along the way, climbing over guardrails and across rough terrain. They’d had no luck with vehicles. Either they didn’t run or the tires were flat or keys couldn’t be found. Most families that had two cars, when they left during the apocalypse to try to get away or reach family members, used only one vehicle. Jack was sure they’d find a working one sooner or later.

After a few hours of house-exploration, finding the occasional zombie inside and having to blow its brains out, they came upon a house with a two car garage. Peering through the dusty window, Jack saw a car inside.

They broke into the house via a rear window. Inside they found food–mostly rotten and moldy, but the bags of chips and unopened cereal, although stale, were edible. In the pantry they hit the jackpot, finding a can of corn, two cans of carrots and a can of peas.

“Check out the upstairs,” Jack said. “But be careful and quiet. Grab anything valuable for our survival.”

Riley headed upstairs, the .38 at her side. The house was quiet, but she acted as if someone or something might be home. She climbed slowly, passing crooked family photos as if the people that had lived there had left in a hurry. She hoped to find soap and other hygienic items in the bathroom, having not taken many from the cabin.

The first bedroom she entered was made up as if the occupant had cleaned before leaving. The bed was made, pillows looking fluffed. The closet door was open; shoes and shirts neatly arranged. Riley guessed from the décor and clothing that she was in the master bedroom, the parents’ room. It had a bathroom. She entered and found two packaged toothbrushes, two rolls of toilet paper and a bar of Irish Spring soap.

The next room was a girl’s room. Posters of forgotten teen idols lined the walls. Pink sheets embroidered with daisies covered the bed. A purple radio sat on a wooden desk with stuffed animals guarding it. Riley had a room like this once–comfortable, soft. Would she ever have one again? Needing to leave, she exited the room, shutting the door behind her.

The next room’s door was closed and as she approached it she heard a scraping noise. She crept up to the door, putting her ear to it. Something was moving on the other side. She heard the scraping sound again, followed by a moan. She swallowed, shaking her head slightly. As she backed away something heavy thumped against the door causing her to jump. She knew what horrible creature lay on the other side. It could smell her; her presence arousing the thing’s sense to living flesh. The moaning grew louder along with the scratching sound. The thing on the other side was clawing at the door to get at her. It probably hadn’t eaten in some time.

Riley raised the handgun, pointing it at the door. It was too much to hope she’d found a place with no undead. Tears began to blur her vision before spilling over her eyelids and down her cheeks. She could never relax and would always have to be on guard wherever she went.

She suddenly felt tired, as if all the strength had left her body, zapped by some unseen force. She lowered the gun and wiped her face with her sleeves. The moaning and scratching continued relentlessly, and she knew it would never stop.

She wanted to blast holes in the door, hopefully hit the zombie in the head and silence it, but she had no idea how tall it was. Was it an adult? A small child? She could find out, but she hadn’t the strength to open the door with the zombie up against it. She’d let Jack take care of it, realizing how lucky she was to have someone to count on. People weren’t meant to be alone.

Riley walked, half in a daze, back to the girl’s room. She let her backpack slide off her, then removed her coat and flopped onto the soft, dusty mattress. She felt like she was invading someone’s privacy, but the reality was that the bed no longer had an owner. Closing her eyes, she fell asleep.

She awoke to Jack’s voice and the shaking of the bed.

“Riley,” Jack said, softly, sitting on the bed next to her. She opened her eyes, blinking away the dreariness. “You okay, kiddo?”

“Guess I fell asleep,” she said, remembering the zombie. Her face faltered. “There’s one in the room at the end of the hall. I couldn’t open the door by myself.” She felt weak, not physically, but emotionally as if she’d let him down. Jack put a hand on her arm.

“I took care of it,” he told her.

“Good,” she replied, coldly.

“Found these,” he said, smiling and letting a pair of car keys dangle from his finger. “Already checked it out. Runs fine and has about three quarters of a tank of gas too.” Riley forced a smile, matching the grin on Jack’s face. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

A short time later, their bags packed and the car loaded with supplies, they pulled out of the driveway and began heading down the road.

—

Bio: When David first wrote Amongst the Dead, he never intended it to be more than a short story. It has grown, developing into a much longer story, one he himself has no idea where it will end. He hopes the readers enjoy it and thanks them for their support and comments. David can be reached at dbern77@hotmail.com or davidbernsteinauthor@blogspot.com

I first met Neal shortly after my wife had died. I was holed-up in the attic of a boarding house in the middle of a safe zone just outside of Denver, recovering from a long illness that had beaten me down through most of the winter. I was thin as a waif, looking emaciated despite the repeated attempts of my aunt, who lived in a room below me, to try to keep some meat on my bones. I’d withered to a hundred and forty miserable pounds when spring finally came, my long fever broke, and we knew the long days and nights of maddening siege would come again. My old friend Allen, who had wintered in the room next door to my aunt, had told me stories of this crazy saint who drove the open roads through swarms of the dead.

Neal Cassady drove the bus, an old 1940 Chevy school bus- armored along the flanks, with barbed wire across the cattle-catcher grill, and painted in wild, swirling purples, reds, and greens- in that great arcing triangle between the safe zones of San Francisco, Mexico City and Denver, moving supplies, drugs, soldiers and stragglers to the places they needed to go. He’d pick up an occasional survivor along the way and regale them with stories of the road. He was a madman, sweating and shouting as he drove that bus. To me, the whole thing seemed like suicide going out there like that on the vast, still-infested stretches of the west. My first ride went something like this:

He angled that bus out of Denver, down the lonely two lane roads that connected the burned out remnants of the western towns which stood between the outposts of survival. He knew every little spot in-between the fortified safe zones where he could hole-up and pack it in for the night without waking up surrounded by a thousand ghouls, but he usually never stopped the bus for anything, driving on through days and nights. He’d take off and run that rig at 90 miles an hour, left hand on the wheel as casual as can be, sitting sideways in his seat, cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth, flipping that goddamned hammer of his in his right hand. He didn’t carry a gun. That wasn’t like him at all. I don’t know if he even knew what to do with one, because I never saw him so much as touch a gun, but he carried that hammer. It was just a regular carpenter’s hammer, something odd and useful that he’d picked up along the way, and when it wasn’t in his hand he’d tuck it in his belt, brown, beaten and old, which held up his baggy trousers. He’d sit there on the edge of his seat, almost spilling out of it in his enthusiasm, balling that jack in his mad hysterics down narrow country lanes, driving and laughing, his attention on a hundred things at once. He’d flip that hammer over and over in his right hand, lick his lips, whip that bus between lanes, around burned-out wrecks, gracefully flick his wrist and run down a ghoul straggling along the shoulder, pull it back onto the road, not missing a beat in his story, which was usually about some army nurse that he screwed in ‘Frisco or LA or somewhere in-between.

Miles and miles, he went on like this. He was totally unlike me, a real man of the old school, afraid of nothing, living right there in that moment, taking in everything, whatever it was, while I was dreaming about writing for the few people who were left alive after all of this goddamned mess, after all of this got settled and America was America again. But for now, Neal liked having me beside him in the bus, and I liked watching the madman drive. He knew I was a writer, which was why he wanted me along with him, and I’m sure he thought that I could show him a thing or two. He’d spent most of the war in jail and had just gotten out when the outbreaks began, and he’d done some writing while he was in there. He shared a bit of it with me on our first trip out together, running down the west side of the Rocky Mountains on a purple April morning. Most of his words were like sediment in a fast-flowing stream, but there was clear water there, and I’d help him find it if he wanted me to.

In the movies, the apocalypse was like Never-Never Land. When the world goes to hell, you get to be a kid again. There aren’t any rules, there’s no one to tell you to stop that damned idiot thing that you’re doing, or ask you why you’re breaking that thing (or why you’re hurting that girl). You never have to grow up and do anything with yourself, because nothing that you do really matters anymore. You forget everything that came before, and you don’t really worry about what comes after. My ancestors had dreams of annihilation because they thought that it would be freedom.

What losers.

I can tell you a story about the apocalypse.

I dreamed of food, and a sky that isn’t grey.

This is the apocalypse: you wake up. That’s usually a bad. You check the doors and windows without moving (if you can see them), you listen for a couple of minutes for anything that sounds off–you get used to listening for that lack of noise that mean something fucked up is around. You’re quiet too. This isn’t difficult, because you’re always quiet, almost always. As long as you can be, anyway.

Then, when it seems to be okay, you crawl out of whatever hole you’ve found for yourself, mouth filled with that bile-copper taste of fear, shaking because this is the worst part of the day, when you don’t know what exactly is going to be out there and you don’t really want to get up. You think that maybe one day you’ll just hide and never come out, but now you’re hungry and you have to pee and these two conditions seem to be worth paying attention to.

This morning, you can see the sun when you finally squirm out of that damned soggy culvert pipe, but the infinite blue sky looks colorless to you. You check around again, listening. This morning, nothing. You remember other monochrome mornings that weren’t this peaceful. You don’t smile, but so far it’s a good day.

I dreamed of nothing, and when that happened, I was happy.

This is the apocalypse: you wander. There isn’t a good place to go, and the people who used to say that there was were liars, and now they are dead liars. To the north, the winter is freezing and there is no food. To the south, the summers are awful and the underbrush gets so thick that you can’t see through it and you spend all day straining your eyes for movement and all night listening to things that rustle and shake the bushes near you. On the coast, there are cities, and thinking about cities makes you want to puke like the taste of salt in the air and the taste of rot on the ground.

You’re looking for food, in a general sort of way. You ate yesterday, and you nibble on a few mouthfuls of dead rabbit now, so it’s not a big deal. Rabbits are good. They’re quiet too, and good at hiding. They have a home that’s a hole. You wish that you were a rabbit. You eat some grass to illustrate the point to yourself. It doesn’t taste very good.

I dreamed of home.

This is the apocalypse: you remember. Home was a place where lights turned on when you flicked a switch, and where you got food all the time without having to kill it or steal it. Then home was the back of Mom and Dad’s car, watching fires flicker behind a thick pane of glass that didn’t shatter even when it got hit with a clenched fist that was in front of crazy eyes, that you watched go by like you watched everything else, numb and shaking and stupid. Then a vacant lot with a shack, and then no place in particular.

You don’t really remember what happened to Mom and Dad after you started to wander under the baking sun. You think that maybe it will bake all of your memories away one day, and then you will be nothing but wandering hunger. You think this is what has happened to all those other people, and you wonder if they were good and so got to forget or if you are good and so get to remember.

You remember other people, who came and went. Sometimes they shoot at you, sometimes they give you food, sometimes they hurt you. Whatever happens, you take what is given to you and move on. It used to be that these people were noisy and stupid, and you were slipping away at the sound of the first screams. Now, the people you see are smarter, and mostly they just look at you and pass you by, because you aren’t much good to anyone and neither are they and you mean nothing to one another. This is freedom. You are completely free.

You don’t dream about crying, or the sound of running feet. You think that this is because today, right now, you crouch in the grass and wish you had a better place to hide since you’ve seen something on the horizon. It’s high grass, and you’re still pretty small. You are still and quiet, but behind you there’s a gust of wind, and it makes you stiffen because it blows your scent towards the shambling thing. You hear a shriek from what seems to be far away, and you are frozen in the grass, hoping that it doesn’t see you. But it does. It gets bigger and bigger in your vision. You see it like a series of still images as you blink. When you close your eyes for a moment longer than usual, it seems that instead of running, it’s springing forward at you. You don’t really notice man or woman anymore, you don’t think jeans or plaid, or blood, all you see are hands, teeth, and eyes.

You have a spear, but you’re the one that makes a sound like your last rabbit when you bring it up and shove it through an eye in a motion that you’ve had a lot of practice at. Teeth clench and unclench, heels drum on the ground, and then there is nothing. You wriggle the spear around in the hole that you just made to make sure. Then you pull it out and you run away as fast as you can, hoping that there won’t be another one. The breath in your lungs comes hard, at it feels like dying to go on, mile after mile.

I dreamed of dying.

This is the apocalypse: it wasn’t always, but it always will be. Someone said to you that people used to get old and sick and die and never get up again. You didn’t believe them, and you still don’t, really. Now, you are as old as you have ever been, and you are sick, mostly from that bite on your leg from the afternoon when you climbed a tree and thought that you were safe. You were wrong. Now you are climbing up, up, up a high tree, wrapped in the warmth of a fever and listening to hands clawing at bark below you. The spear is down there, too, somewhere, but you don’t really need it anymore in this old, tall tree, stubborn hope keeping you company.

When you watched Peter Pan, you hate that those stupid English kids started to forget everything once they learned how to fly. You are doing much better. When you creep out on a high branch, one that goes far away from the trunk of the tree and into open air, you remember. When you teach yourself how to fly, arms spread out in your sort-of belly flop that quickly becomes a dive, you are thinking about home.

Candlelight etched Jean’s forty-something face stark with fear. Her head looked like a boulder perched precariously on a mountaintop. She was six-foot-one and giving birth to three children put her weight at a solid two-twenty. “How long?” she asked.

Masson was Stan Laurel to Jean’s Oliver Hardy. He moved like he expected the world to bite him and flipped open the peephole of a steel-core door. Outside, rats covered his basement floor. The rodents moved with stiff lurches so unlike the usual quick and furtive movements of their species. Instead of black, their eyes were milky white.

Masson’s angle didn’t allow him to see the rats’ progress as they gnawed at the base of the shelter’s front wall. Cinder blocks had three two-inch sections to breach before the rats got to the shelter’s soft gooey centers — he and Jean. How much concrete could a horde of rats chew through in two days? Standard rates would no longer apply, Masson knew. Zombie rats wouldn’t be distracted by whatever diverted living rats: building nests, making baby rats, swimming in sewage, etc. All the undead cared about was eating the living.

Masson wrung a guess from his brain. “They’ll be in by morning.”

Jean wrung sweat from her hands. “How can they get in by morning? This is a fallout shelter, isn’t it? It’s supposed to survive bombs, right?”

“Sort of,” was all Masson could reply. His anxiety disorder made normal social interaction challenging, and this situation went far beyond normal. The sound of enamel rasping against cement grew louder in Masson’s skull. It seemed to transmit itself through his bones, causing fingernails-on-chalkboard vibrations that made him feel like he was going to shatter like glass. The noise might have been unbearable if not for a more unsettling prospect:

What would it sound like when the rats started chewing on him?

Cursing, Jean paced the shelter. On each side of her stood boxes holding another week’s worth of food and water. Masson built the shelter in the basement of his childhood home after his father died. It wasn’t that Masson greatly feared a nuclear apocalypse (he feared all such things equally). He simply wanted a place to feel safe. And what could a person build to make them feel as safe as a bomb shelter? Masson supposed the best answer was good relationships, but talking to people (including psychologists) made him feel like trying to digest metal while showering in public. Medication offered no solution either. Masson tried several but couldn’t handle their side effects, which included migraines and nausea. Hence, Masson coped with his anxiety disorder by building a shelter and using a trick his father taught him.

Walk to the end of the street. Hang a left…

“The chewing!” Jean stopped pacing and covered her ears. “I can’t stand it!” She went to a radio and flipped through the same stack of CDs she had flipped through numerous times before. “Are you sure you don’t have anything other than this Christmas crap?”

“You could try the radio stations again,” Masson suggested.

“There hasn’t been anything for five days,” Jean snapped. “To hell with it. I’ll put on the one with no singing. Then I’ll try to sleep. I need to sleep. I can’t think of a way out if I don’t sleep!” With that, Jean disappeared behind the curtain separating a cot from the rest of the shelter. Strains of an orchestral Joy To The World followed her exit.

Masson owned the CD as a sentimental reminder of the Christmas Eve church service he participated in when he was five-years-old. Masson had balked at leaving the house to go stand before packed pews with the rest of the Sunday School kids. The balking led to tears, which led to Masson’s father teaching him the trick.

Why are you crying? Masson’s father asked.

I don’t want to go to the front of the church, Masson said.

Going to the front of the church makes you cry?

Yes.

Then why are you crying now? You’re not at the front of the church. Masson’s father grabbed his son by the shoulders. If you’re going to cry at the front of the church, cry at the front of the church. For now, put one foot in front of the other. And because Masson was an obedient child, he allowed his father to lead him out the door despite his thrumming nerves and churning guts. First, Masson’s father said, walk to the end of the street. They walked to the end of the street. Hang a left. They hung a left. Take things one step at a time, Masson’s father continued. Do that and I bet you don’t cry at the front of the church. And when the time came, Masson stuttered and sweated through his line before everyone: for unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a savior, who is Christ the Lord.

But he didn’t cry.

Like a dog returning to its vomit, Masson returned to the peephole. The undead rats seemed to sense him, noses up and jaws forming natural smiles. They were the sort of smiles Masson believed people always had behind his back — look-at-the-loser smiles.

Masson calculated what he and Jean’s odds might be if they threw open the door, bull-rushed their way upstairs and out of the house. They might make it…

“But making it isn’t good enough,” Masson reasoned. “We have to make it without getting bit. If we get bit, we’ll end up zombies ourselves.”

Masson shot a paranoid glance over his shoulder when he realized he said that out loud. He didn’t want Jean to see him talking to himself. She would use it against him. The curtain between him and Jean remained drawn, however. Masson considered the rest of the shelter. He constructed it incorporating the sidewalls and back wall of his basement, bricking up the latter’s two windows. That way he only had to build the shelter’s front wall.

Masson remembered lugging the shipment of cinder blocks from the garage to the basement. Jean walked in unannounced while he worked, wanting to borrow a garden hose (Jean always walked in unannounced, and she always wanted to borrow something).

What are you building, she joked/mocked, a bomb shelter?

And because Masson lacked the nerve to lie, sort of, is what he said.

Of course, Jean treated it as one more proof of Masson’s eccentricity. The entire neighborhood had stories of the man who still lived in his childhood home, who sometimes turned and went back inside if he saw someone approaching on the sidewalk, who only left the house to go to church, buy groceries and clean the library. Fortunately, this latest oddity wouldn’t get added to the community mythos. Jean had a neighborhood reputation, as well, that kept others from talking to her. First, she had the house with the peeling paint; second, her kids were always up to no good; and third, when neighborhood boys turned eighteen, she had a habit of inviting them over — sometimes right in front of their parents.

When the zombie apocalypse went into full swing, Masson entered his sort-of shelter. When he heard a knock, he didn’t need to look out the peephole to know who it was…

Let me in, Jean said.

You’re better off trying for a safe zone, Masson urged. There’s only enough in here for me, not for you and your kids. We won’t last.

I’m not bringing my kids, Jean said.

Masson recoiled from this matter-of-fact statement while Jean knocked and cajoled. When she started shouting, Masson retreated to his cot, curled into a fetal position and wept until she went away. He rejoiced (as much as was possible for him) in the silence.

Ten minutes later, Jean was outside the shelter again.

Let me in.

Masson dragged himself to the peephole. I told you—

Jean held a sledgehammer. Let me in or I’ll break in…

Now, in the flickering candlelight, with the sound of rats’ teeth scraping away more and more of the cement between them and their meal, Masson berated himself for relenting; he berated himself for his weakness; he berated himself for being an outcast due to his weakness; and he berated himself for being unable to think of a means of escape. That familiar sensation of constriction gripped him. What felt like acid pumped through his veins. His essential self sank into a morass where even drawing breath seemed impossible.

Eyes clenched, Masson recited Matthew 6:27 until the worst of the panic attack subsided. “Don’t break,” he seethed through gritted teeth. “Break the problem down.”

Walk to the end of the street. Hang a left…

Maybe fire could drive the rats away. But all Masson had was candles. Their flames were pitiful in the face of the number of rodents outside. Masson had once considered installing a generator in the shelter, which would have meant a cache of flammable gasoline. In that case, fire might have been an option. Unfortunately, a generator was at the bottom of his list of things to accomplish. Masson had always been more interested in a sanctuary than a practical shelter. For this reason, the habitation also lacked a toilet. Masson and Jean had to collect their waste in used water bottles. The smell in the shelter grew unbearable despite their care. Masson supposed that was what drew the zombie rats — that ripe, pungent, alive stench wafting down the grated floor drain and into the sewers.

Frustrated, Masson flopped into an easy chair. What the shelter lacked in disaster functionality, it made up for in comfort with a recliner, carpeting and paneled walls. A pile of library books sat close at hand, as well. Before the dead rose, Masson spent a year of afternoons in the shelter, safely tucked away from the world and sometimes escaping it altogether through the stories he read. In books, heroes weren’t reduced to quivering bundles of nerves when faced with problems. They put their shoulders back and overcame.

Masson wished he could read his way into a better place now, but such activity was impossible. Like Jean, Masson’s body cried out for rest. Plus, the relentless chewing forbade concentration. It was like being trapped inside a giant bowl of crackling cereal.

The closest Masson could come to sleep was remembering a nightmare he had the last time he drifted off. Masson followed his father as the man staggered to the end of the street, hung a left, staggered to the end of the street and hung another left. The gait of Masson’s father was that of a zombie, but the realization held no horror. Masson knew his father’s soul was in heaven. The husk the man left behind was merely a marionette guided by whatever caused the undead phenomenon. No, the horror of the dream came from understanding what happened when one mindlessly used the trick over and over — one went in a circle.

After he awoke, Masson grew dizzy realizing he began every activity by walking to the end of the street and hanging a left — literally in his excursions into the outside world, and mentally with everything else. Masson rued his inability to build a life apart from a rigid pattern repeated day after day, but stepping outside the box was to be torn apart by irrational worries (and now it was too late to change anyway). Nevertheless, Masson couldn’t help but dwell on the things he missed out on. For example, being stuck in the shelter with someone as odious as Jean was the closest thing to a relationship with a woman he had ever experienced.

Tears of self-loathing came to Masson’s eyes. As he cleared their blur from his vision, he became aware of a human-shaped shadow on the wall. Embarrassed, Masson stood and turned. To have Jean see him crying was rotten icing on a rotten cake.

Masson tried to get himself under control. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

Jean held her sledgehammer. A reason why was lost on Masson as it, combined with the image of her shadow on the wall, gave him the momentary spark of an idea.

“No,” Jean replied.

Whatever idea Masson might have had flitted away at her tone, and an explanation for why she held the sledgehammer began to dawn on him.

“I thought of a way out,” Jean smiled, and her expression had all the humanity of the rat grins Masson saw earlier. “If we give them something to eat, they’ll go away.”

“What do you mean?” Masson asked, even though he already knew the answer. But if he asked, they were talking, and if Jean was talking, she wasn’t doing. On the radio, Silent Night began to play, accompanied by the ever-present sound of gnawing rats.

Jean brandished the sledgehammer. “Go to the door.”

“You’re crazy,” Masson said.

Jean shrugged with bemusement. “People say the same thing about you. The difference is…I don’t worry about what others think.”

Masson nodded. What Jean said was the truth, even if it was a cold truth. Well, he had a cold truth of his own. “Maybe you should,” he said.

Teeth barred, Jean swung the sledgehammer. Masson ducked as the weapon whisked over his head. He shouldered past Jean and took up position behind her while she gathered herself for another attack. Masson waited for some part of himself to erupt in some expected way, perhaps with desperation, rage — something, anything. Instead, disbelief dominated. So much of life was things not equaling the sum of their parts, but this case was an exception. Sort-of bomb shelter + zombie rats + being stuck with an unpleasant uninvited guest who wouldn’t leave turned murderer = something too nightmarish to comprehend.

Jean charged, swinging the sledgehammer again. Masson hit the floor and grabbed a box of candy bars. He brought the box up as a shield, and Jean buried the head of the sledgehammer in the bulk package. Candy bars rained over Masson’s face as Jean shook her weapon free. Masson looked into her eyes, the windows of her soul, and saw nothing but himself reflected, mouth agape as Jean raised the sledgehammer once more.

Walk to the end of the street. Hang a left…

Even dying could be broken down into a process. Masson took some solace in that fact. God help me, here I come. To his surprise, Masson found he looked forward to the trip. He wouldn’t be his own mind’s chew toy any longer.

Before the killing blow smashed home, Jean’s eyes slid from Masson’s to something beyond them both. The sledgehammer fell from her hands and clunked on the carpet. A breath caught in Jean’s throat, hitched into a gasp and grew into a scream.

Masson followed Jean’s gaze and watched, mesmerized. Several blisters formed in the cinder blocks along the base of the front wall. Flecks of concrete crumbled off their surfaces and sprinkled the shelter’s carpet. Next, rat snouts burst through the weakened spots, teeth flashing, grating against the edges of the holes they just made, widening them further.

“No!” Jean shrieked. “Go away!”

Masson once read that rats could squeeze through holes the size of a quarter. In that case, they wouldn’t need much more time to widen their breaches into entrances. Whatever window of opportunity existed for escape had just slammed—

Masson went rigid. The idea he almost had earlier hit him like a snapped towel.

Jean’s shadow on the wall…the sledgehammer…window of opportunity…

“Windows!” Masson cried.

His shout had such a note of triumph that Jean could not help but turn away from the rats and look at him with an uncomprehending expression.

“We can get out through the windows!” Masson explained. His excitement caused him to forget that Jean had just tried to kill him with a sledgehammer. “They’re only bricked up, no reinforcement rods! All we have to do is tear away the paneling and knock them out!” Masson reached for the sledgehammer, but Jean snatched it away.

“Where?” she snarled.

Masson rushed to the back wall and pointed out a three-foot section of paneling. He nearly lost a finger as Jean hammered at the spot.

“I’ll do it!” she yelled between swings. “You keep them off me!”

Masson faced the front wall once more. In the heat of the moment, he found his anxiety manageable. He supposed this was because everyday life made him feel ninety percent filled with dread. Experiencing one hundred percent didn’t require that much of an adjustment. Plus, he was used to things being worried, whether it was his own brain by real or imagined problems or his shelter’s cinder block wall by zombie rats.

Walk to the end of the street. Hang a left…

On the CD player, Silent Night gave way to We Three Kings. Bearing no gifts from afar, an undead rat squeezed through a hole like toothpaste from a tube. The rodent fixed Masson with milky eyes and, meal-ward leading still proceeding, scurried forward. Masson cried out in revulsion and stomped, mashing the rodent into the carpet.

As if in aid to their fallen comrade, three more rats poured themselves from holes. Two came apart under Masson’s heel, their bones crackling like frying bacon. The third managed a feeble leap and clung to Masson’s pants leg. Masson danced in a circle on one foot, kicking. The rat lost its grip and was smashed into jam under Masson’s shoe.

Breathing heavy with adrenaline, Masson threw a stricken glance over his shoulder. Jean had succeeded in breaking through the paneling. Now she hooked her fingers underneath its edges and tore a chunk away, revealing the bricked-up window.

By the time Masson’s attention returned to the front wall, the rats had established a beachhead. One moment there had been three. The next moment there were thirteen. Sounds that were part-squeaks, part-grunts emanated from their throats.

The hair on the back of Masson’s neck rose. Stomping feet weren’t going to cut it much longer. Masson lunged for the cot along the back wall, narrowly avoiding Jean’s backswing on the way. The cot was the folding variety with a wooden frame. Masson kicked one of its center joints, snapping it. Next, he grabbed the head strut and broke it at a corner. This left him with a three-foot club about the thickness of a broom handle.

Thus armed, Masson waded into the rats (which charged with sluggish yet relentless speed) swinging his newly-acquired club like an insane golfer. Rats flew this way and that, but more continued to join the fray. Custer’s Last Stand rose unbidden in Masson’s mind. Victory was out of the question. The goal was to survive as long as possible. Frantic, Masson grabbed a box of food and climbed on top of it, seeking higher ground.

“Get up on something!” Masson screamed at Jean.

Jean spun, making too much progress at the window to want to stop. What she saw changed her mind, however. What looked like a brown carpet unrolled itself from the shelter’s front wall. Masson stood atop a box of food as a wave of zombie rats came at him like a slow motion, inexorable tide. He beat at them with his club, but their numbers negated being held back for long. Mewling, Jean grabbed the easy chair, and with the strength of panic, threw it into position. She hopped up on its seat, almost falling as it rocked, and started pounding at the window once more. She had a hole through the bricks now.

“How long?” Masson shouted.

“Two minutes!”

“We don’t have two minutes!”

Undead rats crawled on top of each other to get a bite of Masson. At first they only attacked from the front. Then the mass, which now completely covered the carpet, spilled around the box, coming at Masson from all quarters. His club swung in a continuous pendulum, bashing furry bodies. Teeth tugged at Masson’s shoelaces, and claws pulled at his pants cuffs. He kicked by reflex, sending zombie rodents bouncing off the ceiling.

Still more rats invaded the shelter. Knowing he could buy no more time, Masson leapt from the box in retreat. He saw Jean had succeeded in partially opening the window, letting in twilight. Rats nipped at Masson’s heels and, with no other recourse, he jumped into the chair with Jean. It rocked drunkenly, like they stood on a raft at sea.

“Not yet!” Jean shouted. “The hole isn’t big enough!”

“There’s no more time!” Masson yelled back.

“Make time!”

Jean shoved Masson, bracing herself against the wall for leverage. This resulted in the chair swiveling beneath them with a life of its own. Crying out, Masson snagged the window breach before he fell to the rats. Reaping what she sowed, Jean overbalanced, her spine arching over the chair’s backrest like she was a limbo contestant. Her free arm flailed, and Masson made a desperate grab for it, snagging two of Jean’s fingers.

“Bastard,” Jean growled, dangling over the churning mass of zombie rats that surrounded the recliner. “You’re nothing but—” Then her fingers, sweaty with exertion, slipped from Masson’s grip. Jean fell like a diver flipping off the side of a boat, and the rats closed over her like water. She shrieked until the rodents invaded her mouth and muffled her screams. Her figure humped, twisted and thrashed beneath the swarm of rats.

“Jean!” Masson cried.

As if in response, Jean erupted from the squirming rodents. They clung to her limbs and torso, a living fur coat eating her alive. He face was hidden by rats that dangled like bunches of grapes. “Yur umin’ wife meee!” Jean howled and reached for Masson.

Instinctively, Masson planted a shoe in Jean’s chest and kicked. She went down once more, and Masson didn’t wait around to see if she’d come back up. He lunged for the window. Jean was right; the hole wasn’t big enough — for her — but it might be big enough for him. Masson forced his head and shoulders through the opening, cutting himself on broken glass still in the window frame and not caring. The edges of bricks dug into Masson’s chest as he clutched handfuls of the outside lawn and pulled, inching his way up and out. The house held the weight of an entire life spent no more than a few mile from its walls, and it seemed to bite down on Masson like an alligator on its prey. His hips caught in the hole, and he strained. Sharp edges scraped away skin. With a final embryonic burst, he was free.

Masson laid there, wanting to fall into a stupor and perhaps never move again, but the rats continued to pursue him with single-minded hunger. Maybe some didn’t get their fair share of Jean, or maybe there were so many that Jean was already consumed, like a cow in a piranha-filled river. Either way, Masson heard their claws scrambling up the basement wall. Mewling, he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled out of his backyard.

Cars stood in the street with broken windows and blood on their doors. Stripped skeletons rested in untidy heaps here and there on the sidewalks. Plumes of smoke rose in the distance, making it look like the inner city was besieged by an army of tornadoes. The neighborhood was a giant graveyard, and all of the homes were giant tombstones on the verge of falling down. Overhead, the sky was an expanse of gray. Thunder rumbled in its depths like a massive hungry stomach.

Masson froze as his senses were assaulted by the sights, and his brain was assaulted by their ramifications, but he did not freeze for long. The undead rat horde spilled around the corner, still ravenous. Masson ran, biting down on his inner cheek to keep from crying.

Once Masson reached the end of the street, he stopped. It was the place he stood many times before — Christmas Eve with his father, his first day of school, his first day of work, the way to church, the grocery store and everywhere else. It was the place Masson stood at in his mind whenever he faced a challenge. It was the place from which he tried to step into life and usually fell, but what did life have to do with the world anymore?

Squeak-grunts closed in on Masson’s back.

“Christ,” he whimpered. “What do I do?”

Masson’s shoulders squared in the slightest way once he knew.

Then he hung a right…