Riley smiled as the flora flew by, a blur of green and gray. Why were humans the only living thing affected by the plague or whatever it was that was causing the dead to rise up?

Riley was more at ease than she’d been in some time, guessing the gentle ride and having Jack at her side had something to do with it. It was cool out, but she kept the window down, allowing her hand to sail up and down like the wing of a plane; the rush of air exhilarating.

The car slowed as it approached the entranceway to Route 17. Jack stopped the car, but left it running. “You’re going to be a second pair of eyes and the main gunner should we run into any hostiles. It’s obvious you can shoot, but firing from a moving vehicle is completely different. You’ll need to aim of course, but set your sights slightly ahead of the target, almost anticipating it.”

“Okay,” was all Riley could say. She’d never shot from a moving vehicle and only practice would help her become proficient at it.

“Get ready to shoot. Practice on objects in the distance like road signs. I hate wasting ammo, but it’s important to learn to shoot while on the move. In this world shooting and survival are equivalent to learning the A, B, C’s. Jack hit the gas. The car lurched forward and they sped onto the highway; the speedometer reaching sixty miles per hour, Jack maintaining that speed. “Okay, unbuckle the seatbelt and start shooting at any signs you see.”

A good two-mile stretch of asphalt lay ahead as the car sped along. Making sure the passenger door was locked, Riley leaned out of the window, eyeing a yellow road sign in the distance. The wind was fierce causing her eyes to tear and the weapon to jostle. She tightened her grip.

“They’ll most likely be firing at us too,” Jack yelled.

Riley squeezed the trigger. The gun’s loud crack erupted, but was quickly left behind.

“Keep firing. Steady shots.”

Riley had missed badly the first few times, seeing the dirt splash up alongside the road nowhere near the sign. After a dozen tries she caught on, quickly getting a feel for the new experience and was able to puncture holes through the metal signs.

“You sure you’ve never . . .” Jack was about to ask. “Damn!”

A black SUV came around a bend up ahead, barely sideswiping the car. Jack swerved, reaching out a hand to grab Riley and yank her back inside the vehicle.

“What’s going on?” Riley said. “What’s that vehicle . . . ”

“They found us,” Jack said.

“The army men? Ben’s brother?”

“Yeah. They must have been on their way back to base, having given up on us. Damn, if we’d only stayed off the road a little longer.”

Riley spun around in her seat, looking out of the rear window. The SUV had turned around and was in pursuit of them. She turned to Jack. “What do you want me to do?” The back window exploded as bullets struck it. Riley screamed, ducking low.

“Stay down,” Jack hollered.

“No,” she told him, already reloading with a new clip.

“All right, but don’t bother shooting back until we get around this bend. Put the Kevlar vest over the seat and use it as a shield.”

Riley reached into the backseat and grabbed the vest, draping it over her seat before grabbing a bag of clips, and setting them on the floor at her feet. Now she was somewhat protected–the headrest the only piece poking through the neck slot. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine. You’re the gunner, just stay alive and take them out.”

The highway was windy for a bit; the men in the SUV firing wildly and missing. “I know this road,” Jack said.  “There’s a straight stretch coming up. Get ready. Aim for the truck’s grill.”

“I can’t believe they traveled so far to find us.”

“That’s not an official vehicle. That’s Deak’s personal vehicle. He’s on his own with a few buddies. He wants the person dead for killing his brother and when he saw me driving I became a deserter. He wants me as dead as you.”

As the car came around the last bend, a long stretch of highway lay ahead. “Get ready to fire before they do!”

Riley aimed her rifle at the SUV and pulled the trigger. The .30-30’s report was three times as loud inside the small confines of the car. Riley emptied the clip–the SUV still approaching as if she’d fired plastic bullets.

“I hit that thing square in the grill,” Riley reported.

“Damn, must be armor-plated in the front.”

The headrest exploded in front of Riley’s face. Jack began swerving the vehicle, no longer as easy a target. Riley not ready for the maneuver banged into the door. Dull thuds, like balls of hail, sounded from the car’s trunk as it was riddled with bullets. The radio in the dash exploded, sparks flying out like a sparkler on July Fourth. Riley steadied herself and popped in another clip.

“You’re going to have to shoot their windshield and hope it’s not bullet proof.” Jack continued to swerve the car, the tires screeching angrily. Riley gripped her seat, fingers white, to keep from tumbling about like a rag doll. “When I straighten out, blow the hell out of that windshield.”

Jack finally held the steering wheel still, the car straightening out. Riley, using the back of her seat, readied her aim and fired upon the approaching SUV. Four bullets harmlessly bounced off the windshield directly in front of the driver.

“No good,” she told Jack.

“Okay, there’s another bend up ahead. We just have to make it to that and buy us a few moments.”

Riley didn’t want to wait. A man popped up out of what she guessed was the SUV’s sunroof. He had what looked to be a dark olive colored tube of some kind. It was on his shoulder. “Jack,” Riley screamed. He glanced up at the rearview mirror.

“Riley, you’ve got to take him out. He’s got a rocket launcher. We won’t survive if he hits us.”

She began firing, nerves taking hold, her shots missing. The wind seemed to be hampering the man holding the rocket launcher, but he finally managed to hold it straight. Riley exhaled, letting out her breath slowly. A rushed shot was a missed shot. She couldn’t worry about the man with the rocket launcher. If she took care at her end, all would be well. Steadying herself, she pulled the trigger, willing the bullet to its target.

The man holding the rocket launcher was hit in the right shoulder, causing the weapon to point downward a second before it was fired. At the same time Riley saw a man’s arm holding a small machine gun from the passenger window. Yellow flashes of light burst from the weapon’s barrel. She felt the bullets whiz by her head, while others hammered into the Kevlar vest. A stream of gray smoke erupted from the rocket launcher, sending the missile into the road in front of the SUV. The road exploded into a plume of orange flame and smoke as debris flew into the air. The driver tried swerving around the small crater, but the left wheel caught sending the vehicle flipping end over end at eighty-miles per hour.

Riley watched as the hunk of metal rolled, tumbling down the highway; pieces of SUV scattering about and flying in all directions, landing alongside the road. She cheered, pumped her fist and turned to sit back down when she noticed the grim look on Jack’s face. He was driving with one hand and grimacing. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, sounding out of breath. He started coughing; flecks of blood dotting the windshield and steering wheel.

The car began to slow as Jack’s coughing grew worse, pulling the car to the side of the road.

“Sorry kid,” he said, blood covering his lips and chin as it oozed from his mouth like an underground spring.

“Were . . .” she took a deep breath . . . “were you . . . shot?” She already knew the answer, but the words came out anyway. Jack making it official.

“Seems they got me good, but at least . . . you got . . . them.” He forced a smile revealing blood stained teeth. “I’m going to get out now. It will be hard . . . for you to . . . drive if I’m in the seat.” He started laughing before the chuckle became a gargle of blood and phlegm.

“No,” Riley said, grabbing his arm. “You’ll be fine.”

Jack smiled after clearing his throat. “No kid. I won’t.” He opened the door, placed a foot on the pavement and went to get out, but tumbled to the ground.

Riley’s eyes widened as her mouth hung open at what she saw. Blood glistened on the back of the driver’s seat, pooling on the cushion like spilled strawberry syrup.

She opened her door, jumped out and ran around the car to where Jack lay face down. She saw the bullet hole in his jacket–crimson fluid leaking from it. He’d been shot between the shoulder blades–almost centered.

“Jack,” she whispered, tears forming, vision going blurry. She bent down, placing two fingers on his carotid. She felt nothing. No thump. He was dead.

She stood up, the world seeming to spin out of control. She’d only known Jack a few days, but she’d grown to love him in that short time. The air around her was still save the car’s gentle idle. Another person–taken from her. She should’ve broken down, cried hysterically, but instead she felt a growing kernel of heat within her gut. She was beyond angry, her insides fuming with rage. This wasn’t circumstance; this was the doings of evil men. It was the army men’s fault Jack was dead–that Riley was left alone again. The small kernel of heat now spread throughout her body as if she was radioactive.

Feeling numb, dead inside except for utter hatred, Riley pulled Jack’s sidearm from his holster, pointed it at his temple and fired. Jack’s head jumped, but whether it was an automated defense mechanism or Riley aware on some level, she’d managed to shut her eyes upon firing, not wanting the image of destroying her friend’s remains stuck in her mind. The act would be enough to bring nightmares. She didn’t need to see the gore.

Riley turned away, opening her eyes. Leaning into the car, she turned the ignition off and withdrew the car key stuffing it into her pocket. There was no point in wasting gas or leaving a vehicle with a car key that could be used to come after her. She’d never learned how to drive, the car useless to her.

She would hike the rest of the way to Poughkeepsie, no matter how long it took. Going back to the cabin was too dangerous–if there still was a cabin to go back to.

Riley was ripped from her thoughts by a scream. It came from behind her, beyond the bend in the road where the SUV flipped. Her eyes became slits, her teeth grinding together, jaw muscles defined.

Walking around the car to the passenger’s side, she reached inside, grabbed her rifle, a couple of ammo clips and began marching back up the road.

Within a few minutes she came upon the wreck. The black SUV rested partially on its roof and front end, slanted against the pavement. Steam hissed from the crumpled hood as fluids leaked onto the ground. The windshield had multiple cracks, lightning-like throughout, and was splattered with shiny redness.

Riley approached cautiously, tiptoeing around to the driver’s side. A man lay broken in the driver’s seat, appendages twisted at unnatural angles like a discarded marionette. His body was jerking as if something was tugging at it. His eyelids flung open; Riley jumping back, barely containing herself. She raised her weapon.

“Please . . .” the man groaned. “Kill me.” His face was caked in blood and he spoke as if he’d just come from a visit to the dentist.

“Are you Deak?” she asked, coldly.

“Please,” the man gurgled.”

“Is your name Deak?” Riley repeated, her tone demanding.

“Yes. Please shoot me.”

Riley was delighted to oblige, but saw movement from the passenger seat. Bending lower, she saw another man in the car. His left arm was missing, severed above the elbow, and half his face was gone–jaw bone and eye-socket revealed. Now Riley understood why Deak’s body was jerking. His undead companion–fellow murderer–was grabbing and tearing pieces of his flesh, eating him. The man had turned undead quickly, having only died minutes ago. The undead passenger’s face disappeared into Deak’s side. Riley could hear moist chewing sounds as flesh was ripped away.

“Please . . .” the driver begged again.

It wasn’t proper to leave zombies alive; to be able to wander and infect others, but the man was getting his due. Riley could only hope he lived long enough to suffer greatly, hoping his friend was trapped somewhere in the undead thing’s body, horrified at eating his buddy.

Riley walked toward the rear of the truck, opening the hatch. Another zombie, the man who had been wielding the rocket launcher, lay inside. The thing sprung at her, its body not in too bad a condition.

Riley, caught off guard, stumbled backward; her gun going off. The zombie crawled out. She saw that it wasn’t in as great a condition as she’d thought. Its head was partially caved in and a large buck knife was protruding from its neck. The man must’ve fallen onto it when the truck crashed. It appeared like the guy had just missed dying properly; if only the blade had gone into his head.

With the zombie standing over her, looking down with vacant but horrifying eyes, Riley righted herself pointing the rifle up and blew the thing’s brains out of the back of its head. She rolled left and out of the way as the lifeless corpse tumbled to the ground.

She checked the rest of the vehicle finding no more surprises except for a small arsenal of weapons and ammo. She had her rifle and plenty of ammo, leaving the machine guns. She grabbed two identical handguns–Sig Sauers–four boxes of ammo, and a first aid kit. She also found four grenades, pocketing them as well.

Heading past the man in the driver’s seat on her way back to the car, she saw that he was still very much alive. Not wanting to become a monster, needing to hold onto what little compassion she still had for humans, Riley pulled a book of matches from her pocket. Not wanting to waste a single match, but needing to, she ignited it and tossed it to the gasoline flooded ground. The area around the SUV roared into flames, the truck catching fire quickly. The man inside the SUV began screaming as Riley hurried away. A few minutes later the truck exploded. Riley never looked back.

—–

David wants to thank the readers for their support and enjoys reading their comments. Riley has many adventures ahead and wants people to know that this is only the beginning. This would be the sixth installment with much more to come. You can check out a list of David’s work at davidbernsteinauthor.blogspot.com. He can be reached at dbern77@hotmail.com

-ed.

-ed.

A red grevillea reached toward Brie.  Straining at its roots, tiny red petals, barbed at the end, reached out for flesh.  Grandma brought down her machete chopping the head off the flower.  It fell to the ground with a tiny squeal and rolled down an embankment into a swarming mass of tangled weeds.

Brie clutched her face in her hands and screamed.

“Don’t be such a sissy!” scolded Grandma as she was pushed along in her wheelchair by her son, Edward.  Grandma cackled, her sizeable bosoms heaved up and down causing her necklace made of tiny bones to rattle.

“She’s fine, Ma.”

“Only if she’s gonna be a sissy. I’m raisin’ this one to make it in this world.  She can’t be screamin’ at every goddamn bush, tree or flower that tries to eat her, Edward.”

“Giver her time, Ma.  Brie will be fine, won’t you punkin?”  Brie’s father ran his hand through her hair and smiled.  Brie just stared into the angry swarm of crusty, brown weeds as they tore the red grevillea’s head into tiny pieces and devoured it.

“She’s only ten.”

“I’d like her to make ten more.”

Grandma crossed her arms and Edward wheeled her down the road as Brie followed close behind.  The sun started to drop, rippling the horizon with waves of reds and pinks.  The wind whipped through a group of maple trees up ahead causing their branches to sway and groan like tired old men.  A small finch, with a crimson head, riding the current flew past one of the maples and a thin, brown limb whipped out like a frogs tongue, snatching the bird and stuffing it inside a hole in its trunk.  A few of the finch’s red feathers floated aimlessly in the air above the treetop.

“It’s getting dark,” Edward said.  “We need to hole up.”

Grandma pointed her machete toward a long, winding driveway that disappeared behind several large clusters of trees whose trunks were cracked and weeping sap in thin, hardened streaks.  “Let’s follow the driveway and see what’s there.  The Cookers won’t look for us there.  They’d be too damn scared of those hungry lookin’ trees.”

Edward handed Brie his machete.  His had the leather grip, Grandma’s had the rusted handle.  “Take this.  You might need to hack some branches off if they reach for us.”  Brie shook her head ‘no’.  Grandma let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Get on my back then, while I push Grandma up the driveway.  She can handle any branches that get too grabby.”

“Damn straight I can”, Grandma said as she grabbed the other machete.

Brie climbed up on her father’s back and clung tightly to his neck.   He took a deep breath then shouted, “Here we go!”

Edward ran as fast as he could.  Brie closed her eyes tight and Grandma held a machete in each hand ready to strike, her eyes darting back and forth looking for danger.  The trees that lined the driveway were old and hungry.  When the aged branches tried to reach for them most just snapped off and fell to the ground.  At the end of the driveway was a small trailer home.  The wind howled as the sun slipped beneath the horizon.

“We don’t have much time, let’s hope we get in with no problem,” Edward said as he pried Brie’s fingers from around his neck and lowered her to the ground.

Edward turned the doorknob and it fell off and hit the ground with a clang.  Off in the distance they could hear the growling and cat-like hissing of the Cookers.  Edward took his machete from Grandma and stepped inside.

The small home was cold and dark.  All the furniture was overturned; a green fabric couch was on its back, the matching loveseat upside-down and a round kitchen table stood on its end.

“Looks like a goddamn tornado hit this place,” chuckled Grandma.

“Anyone here?” Edward asked the darkness.

The only reply was the distant cries of the Cookers.

They all stepped inside and Edward wedged the couch and loveseat against the door.  The two front windows were boarded up with plywood.

“We’ll wait here until morning,” Edward said as he took the green backpack that hung from the wheelchair and handed each of them a flashlight.  “Remember, try to shine it in their face if they get in, that hurts them the most.”

The Cookers ruled at night.  Beneath the tatters of a world left behind was translucent skin that covered a pulsating heart, which no longer remembered.  A thin, mucousy layer of epidermis sat like jelly over the Cookers’ thin frames.  A criss-cross highway of blood vessels could be seen churning black blood that fed their stringy, grey muscle.   The tips of bone not covered by frayed connective tissue were dull and pale.  A blooming web of thin, black nerve endings connected everything together.

The beta radiation bombs, or ‘Tritium Bloomers’ as they were called, had perverted the form of every human exposed to its blast, turning man inside out.  The bombs also ramped up their metabolism so high it emitted high levels of heat that could boil people in their own juices; hence this version of man became known as Cookers.  They had to constantly eat to fulfill their high-energy needs or risk being reduced to a smoldering pile of grey ash.

Mother nature found herself unexpectedly affected as well when the Bloomers fell.  Plants turned into starving tangles of vine and blossomed with voracious appetites for flesh and other plants alike.  Plants could still feed on sunlight; however, light of any kind burned the Cookers and could easily be harnessed as a weapon.  The network of black, filament nerves beneath their lucid skin would ignite, like millions of tiny fuses causing protoplasm to sizzle and burst upon exposure.

Some Cookers tried to fashion body suits to protect them from light but the heat they gave off was too intense and would accumulate beneath the protective layers.  They would eventually have to tear their clothes from their bodies screaming as steamed flesh hung loosely from their bodies.

Edward, Brie, and Grandma sat huddled in the living room of the trailer home clutching their flashlights.

Brie put her head on a couch cushion and lay on the floor.  “Why can’t they just eat the plants?  We get sick from the plants but they don’t.”

Edward rolled his flashlight between both hands.  “They eat whatever they can. Whatever provides the most calories.  Also, the plants fight back now.”

“Whatever tastes the best”, Grandma chimed in, “ and that’s us.  Plus I think they’ve cooked their goddamn brains to mush in their skulls.”  Grandma paused then grunted, “Brain stew.”

Outside they heard shrieking and the rustling of branches.  There was a series of dry snaps then a loud squishing sound like someone dropped a watermelon from the roof.

Brie closed her eyes tight and tried to remember what is was like before the bombs went off.  Her thoughts were a blank canvas, empty save for a splash of sky blue.

They could hear the breaking of branches outside.  Grandma grabbed her machete, “They’re commin’.”

They heard the moaning and whispers of the approaching Cookers.  Brie buried her head in a couch cushion and whimpered.  Edward held his flashlight in one hand and blade in the other.  Grandma just smiled and whispered, “I’ll be addin’ to my necklace before this night is through.”

The door shook as it was pressed upon but didn’t budge, then came banging on the boarded windows.  Raspy voices garbled by singed vocal cords howled for food.  The door shook more violently now and Edward pressed his weight against the furniture that kept the door closed.

The Cookers charged against the walls of the house and their heat began to filter into the room.  The nails holding the boards on the windows began to squeak as they loosened.  Edward struggled to keep the door shut as sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision.  Brie’s collar was soaked from the rising temperature and small droplets of sweat rolled down her back.  The stagnant air pressed in on her and she struggled to breathe.  Grandma scanned the room.  Her eyes, dull with cataracts, moved back and forth with a calm urgency.

The whole room started to vibrate, heat rippled in waves, and the boards on the windows became loose, letting fresh darkness pour in.  Clear fingers poked through, like searching worms, and started to pull at the plywood.

Grandma looked at the hole in the front door where the doorknob used to be and saw an eye peering in.  It stared at her suspended in the darkness, a clear orb of jelly with a thick red optic nerve tethered to a floating green iris.  “Gotcha,” she said and clicked on her flashlight.

The beam of light struck the eye and the monster let loose a horrible scream that shook the front door and rattled Edward’s teeth.   Suddenly there was a chorus of shrieks and pounding fists.  The boards over the windows splintered and cracked apart, and fists randomly broke through the walls all around them.  Wood and flakes of paint rained down from the ceiling.

Edward left his position guarding the front door and began to hack off the arms that were reaching inside the windows.  Grandma wielded her flashlight like a laser gun, punishing any Cooker flesh that came into view.  They heard footsteps on the ceiling.  Brie hyperventilated and passed out in the rising heat.  His hands slick with sweat, Edward nearly lost his grip on his machete.

Grandma reached down and picked up Brie’s flashlight and fought with double-barreled fury.  More dust and plaster fell from the ceiling; suspended by humidity they drifted like fat snowflakes.

The front door burst open revealing a swarm of Cookers.  “What do you suggest, ma?”

“I suggest we keep kicking their ass, Eddie!  Take my machete.”

Edward wielded both blades chopping off translucent body parts.  An arm burst through the wall behind him and grabbed him around his neck.  The grip was hot and wet and pulled him tight against the wall.  He dropped both blades and tried to pry the limb from around his throat.  Rancid heat rose up his nose and he quickly lost his breath.  He was suffocating.  His vision dimmed, the black around him growing impossibly darker, when two light beams shinned in his face and hit the arm that was choking him.  The Cooker recoiled in pain and Edward fell to his knees gasping, a red burn mark around his neck.

Leaping over the heap of simmering bodies that lay piled in the front door was a Cooker holding a hammer.  It wore the black scars of burning across his body in criss-crossing patterns and his face bore the grimace of war.  Its lips were curled back to reveal obsidian teeth and the flesh from one check hung loosely in opaque sheets revealing bone that glinted like ice.

Edward could only watch in slow-motion horror as the monster approached Grandma, her back turned to the hammer aimed at her skull.

His neck throbbed and he tried to yell but no sound came out.  Grandma read Edwards eyes and turned around as the hammer descended.  It whistled past her ear and struck the arm or her wheelchair tearing off a piece of the cushion.  She shined the flashlights over her shoulder at her attacker but the Cooker leapt over her and pounced on Edward who had recovered his blade.

Edward drove his machete into the monsters gut letting loose a gush of fetid steam.  The Cooker growled and raised the hammer again but Grandma brought the beams from both flashlights to its head scorching its skull in a cloud of black ash.  The scalding grey body fell over, the hammer still held tightly in its fist.

The attack was over.

Edward and his mother waited in the dark, catching their breath.

“Damn, ma.  That was close.”

“That was one tough hombre.  It was nuthin’ though, you should have seen when they got Grandpa.”

They placed Brie on the old, green couch.  Grandma bit her lower lip.  “She ain’t going to make it, son.”

“She’ll come around.”

They stayed awake until the sun came up.   Bright rays poured through all the newly made holes in the house making a jagged series of intersecting sunbeams.  Finally feeling safe they fell asleep.  An hour or two later Brie woke up rubbing her head.

“Dad, wake up.”

Edward opened his eyes and smiled at the sight of his daughter.  “You O.K.?”

“Fine.”

Hearing voices, Grandma awakened. “We could have used your help last night.”

Brie looked around at the piles of severed arms and legs and heads.  “I’m sorry.”

Edward stood up, his knees snapping.  “I’m hungry, let’s start a fire.”

When burning irradiated wood the flames always started out as low green, then flickered to red, until it glowed a warm shade of yellow.  The fire often sputtered as the thin rings of fat that were stored inside sizzled away.  The surrounding trees moaned in protest and rustled their leaves in anger at the roasting of their comrade.  Edward placed a small frying pan over the spitting yellow flame then dropped a handful of meat strips on it.

“What are we eating today, Dad?”

“I caught a rabbit after you passed out last night.”

Grandma chuckled as she threaded some small ring shaped bones onto her necklace.

“We’re not eating those things are we?”

“You know we can’t, Brie.  We’d get sick.”

“I miss vegetables.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say that!”

Brie smiled and her stomach growled as the small strips of meat sizzled in its own fat.  “I can’t wait to grow some veggies when we get out west.”

Once she finished adding to her necklace Grandma tied it around her neck, “It will be nice to eat something that doesn’t try to eat you back for once.  Vegetables that aren’t nuked?  I’ll believe it when I see it.”

After they finished the scraps of meat they made their way back to the road and continued moving west.  Off to the side of the street was a pile of bones protruding from a thatch of rose bushes.  The bones were still slick, their meat picked clean by the plants hungry thorns, a few strands of gristle still hanging from the leaves and flapping in the slight breeze.  Brie turned her head in disgust and Grandma sighed once more in disappointment.

Further up the road they saw a Cooker chained on the hot tar road writhing in agony.

“Can we go around him?” Brie asked.

Edward scanned the road.  Tall yellow weeds swayed back and forth on each side.   Their spiny leaves rustled as thin, hollow stalks rumbled with hunger.  “Stay with your Grandmother.”

Edward walked closer to the writhing figure.  Its muscles were gray and emaciated and its clear skin, dry and cracked, looked like splintered glass.  When Edward got closer he saw that the chains led to shackles around its legs and were connected to a huge, metal spike that was driven into the road.  The Cooker turned its head toward Edward when he heard him approaching.  Its eyes were cloudy distorting the floating optic nerves within.  When it opened its mouth to speak black vapors escaped from between its cracked lips.

“It’s O.K.,” Edward shouted as he waved Brie and Grandma forward.  As they approached Edward held his machete in both hands and pointed the tip towards the squirming Cooker.  “Once you guys pass, I’ll put him out of his misery.

“Who did this?” Brie asked.

“I told you girl, their brains are mush,” Grandma said.  “They’re probably punishing him for some reason.”

“Or, it was done by another one of us who’s out there somewhere.  Doesn’t matter who did it, nothing deserves to be tortured like this.”

Grandma pointed a shaky finger at Edward, “You didn’t see what they did to your daddy.  They ate him right before my eyes.  I watched as their black teeth chewed his bones.  At night when you both are sleeping and all is quiet I still hear him begging me for help.  I still hear the splatter of him on the floor and the sucking clean of his old marrow.”

“They didn’t choose to be like this, ma.  They can’t help it.”

“Let the girl do it then!  Let Brie put it out of its misery.”  Grandma jutted the rusted handle of her weapon in Brie’s direction.  The shackled Cooker writhed in agony, scraping chunks of clear flesh off on the asphalt.  It bled blue-black blood, which collected on the street in shimmering pools.  The creature moaned and shrieked like a newborn calf, its words making no sense, pain taking its language and distorting it.  They didn’t need to understand what the Cooker said to know what it desired.  With every movement, every inhuman whimper, it begged to die.

Brie grabbed the handle and the weight of the weapon caused her arm to drop, striking the tip of the blade on the ground.  The creature stretched out its neck across the ground and its eyes met Brie’s.  She stared straight through its foggy eyes into its soul and saw merely a wretched inhuman, a wounded beast that knew nothing but suffering.  More steam rose from its parted lips and dissipated in the heat of midmorning.

“Do it!” demanded Grandma.

Brie looked at her father and he was staring at the ground unable to meet her gaze.  She dropped the machete, ran off to the side of the road and cried, her tears spilling into the withered bentgrass.  A moment later she winced as she heard the thump and gush of the Cooker being decapitated behind her.  A thin flow of blood snaked past her foot.  The bentgrass turned away from her tears and reached frantically for the warm tributary.

“Girl’s got no hope,” Grandma spat.

Edward walked over to his weeping daughter and put both hands on her shoulders.  “The world, even this one, needs all kinds, ma.”

Together all three walked further west until they found an abandoned eighteen-wheeler.  Edward slid the back door up stirring up a thick layer of dust and feathers.  Inside were three steel crates, which housed the yellow skeletons of long dead chickens.

Edward climbed inside, “I’ll get rid of these.  We should crash here. It’s getting dark out.”

Brie climbed in and helped her father clear out the truck bay in silence.  After getting Grandma and her wheelchair inside Edward pulled the steel door down.  Saying little more than goodnight to each other they slept amid the settling dust and feathers as the moon bleed into the indigo night.

Brie woke to the crackle of meat sizzling in the skillet.  Her father had opened the back of the truck and started a fire while she slept.  He poked at long triangular slices of meat with a stick.  The tender, pink morsels were turning to tough, brown strips.

“More rabbit, Dad?”

“More food,” Grandma said, sliding a few more bones onto her rattling necklace.  Grandma’s skin was pale and her forehead dotted with beads of sweat.  Edwards handed Brie a paper plate with four pieces of meat.

“Go see if Grandma wants some.”

Brie walked over to Grandma smiling despite the shame she felt in the old woman’s presence.  “Here’s some food, Grandma.”

“I don’t want any of that, thank you.  It looks old and tough and I’ve had my full.”

“What are you going to eat then?”

Grandma looked up at Brie and smiled as she tied her necklace around her neck.    Her grin sent a shiver though Brie’s body.  “I started dying the day the Lord saw fit for me to watch Grandpa get eaten alive.  I’m finishing up here, ready to move on.  You’re a kind girl, Brie, but I worry for you.  I worry you ain’t gonna’ make it when I’m gone.  Even when I’m dead I’ll know if the last branch of my family tree is chewed up and shit out!  I think that would be more than my soul could take.”

Brie placed a stringy morsel of meat in her mouth and chewed, “Are you disappointed in me Grandma?”

“You need to adapt or you’ll be eaten.”

Tears rolled down Brie’s face.

“Look darlin’.  Remember how you were god-awful at soccer?”

Brie nodded her head while wiping away some tears.

“Then what happened?”

“You told me to get my head in the game, to go after the ball and not just wait for it.”

“Then you shined.  You scored in every game.  So, that’s what I’m tellin’ you now, get your head on the game!”

Grandma placed her hand on Brie’s shoulder and kissed her on the forehead.  Brie managed a small smile.

All three of them continued on the deserted highway weaving between the car and trucks that sat in various stages of erosion, baking in the sun.

“Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you really think we’ll be able to plant food in California?”

“We will be able to plant food and go fishing.  The deepest parts of the ocean weren’t affected by the Bloomers, that’s what I heard anyway, and fresh, clean ocean water has been hitting the coastline, cleaning everything up.”

Grandma wiped sweat from her forehead with her shirt causing an ivory jingle around her neck.  “You guys just need to stay alive long enough for Mother Nature to put things right.”

There was a rustle in the brush to their left.  The bushes, brown and brittle, groaned as they snapped and splintered.  A small brown, furry animal was rushing towards them.  Once it cleared the brush it leapt through the air onto Grandma.

The creature was emaciated; its muscles lean and taught with scruffy auburn fur, wild and mangled, with gold circles around its eyes.  It’s long, black claws dug into Grandma’s abdomen and chest and its teeth sunk into her collarbone, ripping her necklace and causing its pieces to clink and rattle on the pavement.

Grandma dug her thumbs into the creature’s eyes.  It howled in pain and released its vice-like grip on her.  It fell to the ground growling.  Blood spurted out just below Grandma’s neck and started to pool in the fresh claw wounds.   The animal let out a guttural moan as it grabbed hold of the tip of her boot and clamped down.  Edward brought his machete down across the creature’s hindquarters, slicing off a large circular piece of its flesh, exposing a glistening hipbone.

Blind and wounded it yanked the boot from Grandma’s foot and headed off the road into a patch of flowering red weigelas; who smelling blood, finished the job Edward had started.

“I think that was a wolverine”, said Brie, her face white with shock.

Edward ran to his mother who sat pale and motionless in her wheelchair.  Blood dripped off the seat onto the wheels and down the spokes, forming a puddle on the ground.  He put his fingers to her neck and closed his eyes tight hoping to feel some sort of pulse. There was nothing.  He grabbed her shoulder and shook her.  “Ma!  Can you hear me?  Mom?”

Edward clenched his fists and was about to scream when he saw Brie crying.  He held his emotions in check, swallowed hard and motioned for Brie to come to him.  He hugged her tight and whispered in her ear, “We’ll be fine.”

“This isn’t soccer, Dad.”

“What?”

Brie cried into his shoulder.  Edward hugged her a little tighter then stood up.  “We have to find a spot to bury her, Brie.”

They walked for a quarter mile, the wheelchair leaving two crimson streaks in its wake, until they found a clearing where they could put Grandma to rest.   In a small patch of squirming brown grass they lifted Grandma from her chair.  Brie’s hand became slick with blood and she lost her grip, causing Grandma’s body to twist and fall face first onto the ground.  Grandma’s lower back was exposed and Brie covered her mouth and gasped.  There was a series of triangular, sliver-like scars going across her back in neat rows.  Brie noticed her Grandmother’s exposed foot and saw that all of the toes were missing, cut clean off.  Small fragments of bone from Grandma’s necklace sat in the sticky red pool of coagulated mess on the wheelchair.

Brie’s stomach lurched and she dry heaved.  She croaked and spat out a small yellow strand of mucous that hung from her lower lip. She glared at Edward, her eyes glowing with anger and disgust.  “How could you?!” she demanded as she wiped the phlegm from her lip.

“It was her idea.  Without it we would have starved to death”.

“I hate you!  There was never any rabbits was there?”

“She loved you so much and she was so old and tired, ready to be with Grandpa.  She would rather us have her than this world.  She didn’t want to rot uselessly in the ground.”

“Why bury her then, Dad?  Why not roast her on a spit?”

“Because it would be wrong.”

“What’s the difference?!”

“I don’t know, Brie there just is.”

Brie sat in silence as her father used his hands to dig a grave deep enough to bury his mother.  After placing Grandma in her final resting place he noticed a network of roots had already started to envelop her in a cocoon, probing her wounds.  He covered her body with dirt and stood up.

Edward grabbed the backpack from the wheelchair and placed it on his back.  Then he took Grandma’s machete and slid it through his belt.  He left the chair in the grass, which strained upwards, thirsty for the drops of blood that still dripped off the wheel spokes.

They walked in silence as the sun started to set.  Edward looked at his daughter and was sadden to see her eyes showed sadness beyond that which a ten year old should know.  “We need to find shelter.  It’s getting dark.”

“I know, Dad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s O.K.  I get it, I think.”

Up ahead the sun was setting behind a small barn off the side of the road.  Edward pointed his machete at the barn.  “Let’s go there.”

The darkness started to creep in and they picked up their pace.  As they came to the top of a small hill they looked down at the barn.  There were already about ten Cookers there, banging on its door and trying to scale the wooden walls to get to the roof.  Brie remembered their experience two nights ago and a shiver ran through her.

“Shit”, said Edward,

“There must be people in there, Dad.”

“I know.  Look, you should stay here.  I’ll go and try to help whoever is inside.  The bastards won’t even know I’m there until I kill about four of them.”

“No, Dad.”

Edward looked into his daughter’s eyes.  The sadness had melted and in its place was a small spark.

Brie thought of her world, what is was and what it had become.  She thought of hunger and food and sacrifice.  She looked her father in the eyes and Edward saw the spark ignite and ripple into fire.  Brie grinned and Edward saw, for an instant, his mother’s smile.

“I’m ready now, Dad.  I’m ready to help.”

Edward pulled his Grandmother’s machete from his belt and pointed the handle toward her.  She hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath then grabbed the rusted handle. wrapping both hands around it.

“Follow me”, said Edward, “and be careful.”

Together, under the cover of nightfall, they made their way toward the barn.

Screaming could be heard from inside as they approached barn.  The front door had been shattered and the Cookers climbed over themselves to get in.  Edward and Brie approached three of them from behind.  Brie raised her weapon and brought it down across a Cooker’s back leaving a huge gash that spewed bile colored fluid.   She hesitated which allowed the monster to turn to face her, its mouth stretched wide hissing black steam.  She swung her machete like a baseball bat, aiming for the black maw that was closing in on her.  The top half of the Cookers head slid off and its grey body slumped to the ground.  She stared in disbelief at what she’d just done.  Her chest heaved as she caught her breath.  Her body tingled with adrenaline.  Then she heard shouts from inside.

Running into the barn she saw her father pinned down by a Cooker that was chewing on his shoulder.  His blood started to spread across the wooden floor and disappeared between the spaces between the floorboards.  Brie charged and swung her blade into the exposed grey flank of the Cooker, which split open like an overripe plum spilling colorless loops and coils onto the ground.

Edward stood and grabbed his wound.  Together they surveyed their surroundings.  It was hard to tell how many Cookers were dead because they had been hacked into so many pieces but there were at least seven of their heads visible.  Also among the carnage were two dead adult humans, a man and woman.

Sobbing broke the silence.  Brie and Edward looked at each other and followed the crying to an armoire that had been barricaded with several crates.  After clearing the boxes they opened the door to the armoire to find a young girl cradling an aluminum baseball bat.

Brie extended her hand and the girl recoiled, crying louder now.

“Honey,” Brie said pulling her up, “you’re going to have to toughen up to make it in this world.”

and ashes, waxes her board to surf the waves

of undead coming through the gate, their shoulders

bent at just the right angles. Her skin glows sulfur,

a bottle placed high on a blackened shelf, fallen

through the cracks between life and afterlife,

the miracle potion of a quack now dust beneath

the soles of an undead little girl.

Each of the seated figures was as different to the others as they could be. The first figure was huge, and not due to fat but pure muscle. Every inch of him was a bulging mass of rippling muscle with think veins like worms crawling across his exposed skin. His neck was easily the size of a normal man’s waist. He wore tight red vest top and denim shorts, with a red baseball cap sat backwards on his head. A large cigar, twice the size of a mans finger, was gripped between his teeth.

Next to him sat a very thin man, although he wasn’t the thinnest of the group. His cheeks were sunken and were he to lift up the white t-shirt he wore, his ribs would clearly be visible. His bony thin arms rested on the arms of the chair and somehow were able to support the glass of brandy he held in his claw like hand.

Thirdly there was an average sized man. Looking at his face it would at first appear to be covered in mud, until you realised it was not mud but scabs. In fact if it weren’t for the green and yellow shirt he wore it would be easy to see the scabs covered his whole body. Every now and then he would absentmindedly pick at one of them.

Finally sat the fourth figure. He wore black jeans and a black hoody and was considerably thinner than the second figure. In fact he was skeletal thin. In fact he was a skeleton.

He held a remote control and changed the channel on the TV with each press of his bony thumb. The picture changed from a ruined city, to a view of fields, to the endless desert, the only common thing in each image was the seemingly endless tide of zombies. The figure continued to flick the channels, spending no more than a few seconds on each.

“Hold on Death, go back a few.” said War in a voice like thunder. He leaned forward in his chair causing it to groan under his massive bulk.

Death sighed, the sound like ivory dice shaken in a bone china cup, and pressed the channel back button a few times.

“There.” announced War, a grin on his face. “Survivors. I told you Famine. You owe me one week of cleaning out the stables.”

“Well they must be the last few,” grumbled Famine, literally. His voice sounded like a stomach after not receiving food for days.

“Doesn’t matter.” boomed War. “The bet was that there were still people alive, not how many.”

“Don’t gloat, War.” hissed Pestilence, scratching his chin until yellow puss seeped out and flowed down his neck.

“Let him have his moment,” said Death. His voice was like the cold wind blowing through a graveyard at the dead of night. “He will not have any more.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked War.

“Tell me what you see.”

“People waging war against the zombie hoard.” said War happily without actually looking at the screen.

Death sighed again. He did that a lot.

“Take another look and tell me exactly what you see.

War rolled his eyes and turned to study the TV screen. The image showed six men in ragged clothing firing a various range of weapons at the oncoming hoard of the undead. For every one they put down three more took its place. They sheltered behind a hastily constructed defensive wall, made of furniture and bits of things you would find in the average garden shed. Behind them was a boarded up house. The image changed to show the inside of the house, where there were two women, three small children and a baby all huddled together in the back room.

“I see twelve people who will very soon be eaten by a group of zombies,” said War after a few moments

“That is your problem War, you just are not that clever,” said Death. “You never see the big picture.”

“Well please enlighten me then you bag of bones.”

“There are only six, sorry make that five, people fighting the undead. When they die there will be no one left to fight the zombie hoard. With no one left to fight, there will be no war.”

“What are you suggesting? That as soon as the five,”

“Four.” interrupted Death.

“As soon as the four men get eaten I will just cease to be?” finished War

“That is about the crux of it, yes.”

“But what about the woman and children?” asked War, the panic now clearly noticeable in his voice.

“They are too scared to fight. And even if they did, they would not see it as a war, merely an attempt at survival. Two left, by the way.”

“But if you knew this why didn’t you say anything?” asked War, now sounding more hurt than panicked.

“Not my fault if you did not figure it out.” replied Death with a shrug. “I am not your mother.”

“But I don’t want to die. I have so much….”

With a small pop there were only three figures left in the room.

“Good riddance.” growled Famine, although he may have just spoken it and is was his stomach that growled. It was hard to tell with Famine. He moved his foot over the cigar that had been in War’s mouth and ground it under his heel.

“I agree.” agreed Death, obviously.

“He always was my least favourite,” said Famine. “Claimed I needed to put some meat on my frame. How would that look I ask you? Famine turns up and is fat. Do you know he once force-fed me 20 cream cakes? Took me years to get rid of the excess fat!”

“It wasn’t just you he picked on.” said Pestilence. “I once woke up to find he had covered me in antibacterial cream in an attempt to clear up my skin. A practical joke he called it. Very funny, I don’t think. And I had to visit the parents the next day. You try explaining to my dad why I had no scabs on my left cheek. He all but disowned me.”

“Stop moaning Pestilence.” said Death. “You will not be around long enough to enjoy the moment.”

“What?”

“Well with no humans left there will be no illness. Only a matter of time before you go the same way as War.”

“Don’t talk daft Death. The world is full of the undead. Those things are technically walking bags of disease. Plus when they bite you, it spreads infection. I’m here for good.”

Once again death sighed.

“They only spread disease to the living. They themselves cannot catch a cold, or pick up an infection. To be honest I think you are only still here on a possibility.”

“A possibility?”

“Well since the humans left alive will no doubt be fully eaten there is no chance of the disease spreading. So my guess is the baby may catch a cold before it is eaten as it has the weakest immune system, so you are hanging around just in case, but I can not see you being here for long.”

“But, but, but.” stammered Pestilence, trying to think of some argument to the inevitable.

Death turned back to watch the TV. The zombies had stopped feasting on the remains of the 6 men and had started to attack the house. Slowly cracks started to appear in the wooden boards that covered the windows and doors.

“Not long now.” mentioned Death.

“This is ridiculous,” said Pestilence. “We are the four, well three, horsemen of the apocalypse. We can’t just stop being. We will…”

There was another pop and only two beings were left.

“I did not see that coming,” said death. “Killing your own baby to save it from being eaten. What a hard choice to make.”

The two remaining entities sat and watched the TV in silence. Slowly holes began to appear in the boards and the zombies began to stick arms through, waving them around as is the zombie way. One of the children inside waved back, before being slapped by its parent.

Death slowly turned his head to look over at Famine.

“What are you grinning at?” asked Famine.

“I am always grinning.” replied Death, sounding a little hurt.

“You know what I mean. I can always tell when something is amusing you. You get a little twinkle in your eye socket.”

“I find it funny that you do not seem to have realised that soon you will go the way of the other two and I shall be left alone, in peace.”

“I think you have your facts wrong skull face. If anyone is to be left, it will be me.”

Death sighed for a fourth time, making a mental note to try and kick the habit.

“Do you not see Famine, once the five remaining humans are killed, the undead will be all that is left and death, that is I, shall rule the earth.”

“And that’s exactly the reason why I shall be the only one left Death old boy.”

A look of confusion passed over Deaths face. At least it would do if a skull can ever look confused.

“You said it yourself,” explained Famine. “When the humans are killed the undead will be all that is left. They are already dead therefore they have no way to die again. With no one left to die there is no need for death.”

“I AM DEATH.” roared Death, standing suddenly, an outstretched skeletal finger pointed at Famine. “DESTROYER OF WORLDS. I SHALL BE THERE AT THE END.”

“Afraid not bony. I give you no more than two minutes.” Famine pointed to the TV which now showed the zombie hoard had finally gained access to the house are were slowly advancing on the last humans alive.

“They may not have wars or catch diseases and they can’t die again but they are always hungry.” said Famine, a huge smile on his thin lips.

“This is an outrage!” ranted Death. “I shall not let this stand. There will be a reckoning. I shall…”

Pop

After a few seconds Famine got up and walked over to the only door in the room. He opened it and stepped through arriving on the planet he had, until recently, been watching on TV. He stood at the side of a river and looked around.

Zombies wandered aimlessly around him. A few glanced his way, but quickly looked away again. Maybe they didn’t register his presence or maybe they simply didn’t consider his thin frame to be a worthy meal.

Famine walked through the countryside following the course of the river upstream. He thought back over the last few million years and how each of his brothers had attempted to do what he had done and be the last being standing.

Death’s big act had been to throw a huge rock at the earth; all that had succeeded in doing was killing off a few big lizards. After that he had given up and sat back happy let the others do his job for him, arguing no matter what they did he would always be the last one.

War had come close a few times. The second of his carefully planned wars could have been the end, but it had finished before the big weapons had come in play properly. He had tried again a few years later but it never amounted to more than a few empty threats and paranoia.

Pestilence also had a few good shots at it. He had given up for a few years after death stole the limelight on the plague, by renaming it the Black Death. Eventually Pestilence had tried to get a few pandemics going, but unfortunately for him the humans were very good at curing diseases in the modern day.

After a while of walking Famine finally reached the source of the river. A tiny stream that trickled out of the earth, high up in the hills.

The warm sunlight reflected off something in the grass catching Famine’s eye. He bent down and picked up the glass test tube. There was a small message written down the side.

WARNING. ZOMBIE VIRUS. DO NOT OPEN AT ANY COST. VERY CONTAGIOUS!

“So that’s where I left it.” Famine said to the world in general. “Silly me.”

He turned around and walked though the door that had appeared behind him, appearing back in the large room with the TV.

He knew that eventually the zombies would just fall apart as nothing last forever, but hopefully by then something should have evolved and become aware of it’s own existence. Then it wouldn’t be long before death made his comeback. Ohh he wasn’t looking forward to that. When Death was in a mood you did not want to be on his bad side.

Then after Death, Pestilence would come oozing back as someone caught a cold, and finally War would storm in, as one group blamed something on another group.

But until then Famine was alone and able to unwind in peace.

He relaxed in his chair, picked up the remote and flicked through the channels until he came to his favourite station.

“Next up on the diet channel, a none stop run of how to loose those unwanted pounds.” Blurted out the voice on the television.

“You know,” Famine said to himself, “I have never felt this full in all my life.”

I was just back from the war, about two months, still feeling like I was cleaning sand out of my private parts, if you know what I mean. I also had the bum ear and the bum leg from the war. So all in all I was feeling pretty useless to my family. We were in a tight spot, with Dad long gone, my brother Jorge deep into the meth, my sisters married off and living back in Mexico, and with a tiny sheep ranch that pretty much had no sheep. Well, there we had the two left. Ma tried to hold our family together. She kept saying the Sun always had to shine again sometime. But I could see in her eyes that things looked bad even to her.

The dog just showed up one day, probably looking for scraps. I saw my brother out front, playing tug-of-war with it with an old rope.

I told him, “Jorge, get that pinche dog outta here before it gives you rabies.”

“It’s a great dog,” he said, but I could see it was nothing but a curly-haired mutt, big empty patches of skin on it. Maybe it’s great grandma was a border collie, maybe, but the apple had fallen pretty far from the tree.

“It’s a mangy dog,” I said.

“Could be a great sheep dog,” he said.

“We ain’t got but two sheep, brainless,” I said, but he ignored me. I figured the dog would figure soon enough there wasn’t much chow for him here and then move along.

I limped to the truck and drove out to the edge of our property. Did a perimeter patrol. New habit. We lived outside of Mason, in Texas Hill country. Really pretty land. At least it used to be. You could go fly fishing one day, count wildflowers the whole next day. Now most of it was dry, unkind, not pretty anymore. Can’t keep up good land without good workers.

It was only a little while before the bank would come take it anyway, pretty or not.

Sure enough, we didn’t need another body to look out for.

* * *

The next day the dog was still around, sitting on the steps back of the kitchen door. I walked over, and it scooted out of my way, its tail between its legs. But it didn’t have that look that most dogs do when they’re letting you know who’s master. His body was wiggling, but that dog still had this sparkly look in his eye, like he was playing me for a fool. I give him a good kick off the steps.

But I hit it with my bad leg. Dang. A bolt of pain ran up my knee and to my skull. I caught my breath and yanked the door wide. Inside, I hollered at Jorge, “What’s that pock-mocked mutt still doing ’round here?”

He hit ’bout as high as the ceiling when I came in. The meth’ll make you jumpy.

“Marco!” Jorge was sitting there, rocking from side to side, his supper in front of him. “Marco!” he said again.

“Don’t be feeding that dog, guey,” I told him, “or it’ll never leave.”

Then that boy did something he’d been doing a lot of lately. Crying.

“Listen, Marco, I ain’t got nothing here. My girl left me and took my kids. Speedy’s run off.” Speedy was our collie. A good sheep dog. He went for a long walk months ago and hadn’t come back. Smart dog, I tell you what.

I could see the skin of Jorge’s face was dry and scratched. His mouth was already starting to concave.

“Listen. Listen,” he said, getting up and then sitting back down. “I didn’t get to go to school. I didn’t get to go to the army. That’s all you. On top of that, you’re Mom’s favorite. She looks at me like I’m a piece of furniture. So let me keep the stupid dog!”

My brother never was one to make a whole lotta sense. But I figured he was saying the dog made him happy. At least it wasn’t gonna kill him, like the meth.

“Fine,” I said. “Keep the stupid dog. That’s all we need is another mouth the feed.”

I took my supper and went to the living room. Mom was in there, watching the news. She had her after-dinner bourbon next to her, and was doing her knitting. The TV said Los Angeles was under martial law. Nothing new. Something about the flu getting out of hand, not enough inoculations. You hear the same thing every winter.

Mom looked up from the TV and said to me, “How you like that supper, son?”

She’d made ropa vieja and refried beans. It was pretty darned good. A world better than rations.

“It’s great, Mom. Just like you always made it.”

“Well, that just about finished that last groceries we had. You’ll have to go to market end of this week.”

“How’s our credit?”

“We’re still in good graces, gracias a dios,” she said and knocked on the wood of her chair.

Then she handed her glass to me. “Top me off, por favor.”

I got up, got her bourbon, and refilled her glass. Then I finished up my supper. In New York City, they’d declared a state of emergency.

* * *

I had the dream again. I was sitting in the back of a truck, and we were making good time on this road outside of Mosul. That’s when we must have hit it. An explosion so loud it was the last thing my right ear would ever hear. I went tumbling, feeling things break in my body. I was on the side of the road, one arm curled under me, my other hand opening and closing on the dirt.

I woke up in the corner of my room, blankets tangled around my leg, covered with enough sweat to make my shirt and shorts wet.

Lord, I hated that dream.

Well, it was about time to wake up anyway.

I hobbled downstairs and found my brother curled around that dog on the couch. You could see the ribs easy on both of them. I went to wake Jorge, when the dog bared its teeth and me and growled at me. That son of a bitch.

“Wake up, guey!” I said, bouncing then tilting the sunken cushions with my good foot so the danged mutt and he rolled off the couch and hit the floor. “Time to go to market.”

Waiting in the truck, I saw Jorge was bringing the dog along, helping it into the back.

I waited till Jorge was in the truck.

“I bet you named him already?” I said.

“That I did,” Jorge said. He was drumming on the dash like it was a conga.

“So what you name him?”

“Pendejo,” he said and used his fingers like drumsticks.

“Pendejo.” I laughed. “What the hell for?”

“It’s the only thing he answers to. “Get out here, Pendejo!’ ‘Sit, Pendejo.’ ‘Fetch, Pendejo.’ Old Pendejo is his full name.”

Pendejo was not a nice thing to call someone, even a dirty-looking, curly-haired, mangy dog. But I guess the name kind of fit.

* * *

When we pulled into the Super S mart, there were a mess of cars and trucks parked outside. People were coming out with two or three shopping carts apiece, hauling away food, water, supplies.

We passed Mr. Perez loading the back of his truck.

“Morning, Mr. Perez,” we both said.

“Marco. Jorge. Seems like new deliveries didn’t come this week and won’t be coming next week. Better stock up now, boys.”

We said our thanks, found a parking spot, and went inside the store. The dog would’ve followed us — it wanted to be wherever Jorge was — but my brother got some rope and tied it up in the truck bed.

I hadn’t seen this kind of chaos in the store since the last round of big tornadoes we had a few years ago. The shelves were pretty bare, and there was no beer left at all.

We was just about finished loading the back of the truck, the damn pooch Pendejo watching us the whole time, wagging his nasty excuse for a tail. He had chewed through the thick rope Jorge had tied him up with. Some chops on that dog.

So that’s when Jorge went up front to start the truck when I heard him yell.

I looked around the side and saw one guy punch my brother square in the face, knocking him back, then pulled him out of the cab. Another guy right was behind that guy with a crowbar. It was the Gardner brothers, Aaron and Ryan. Local roughhouses. I went to move, but the pain that shot through my leg stuck me in place.

That’s when the dog jumped them. He had gotten to the roof of the cab without my seeing him, and from there he landed right into Aaron’s chest with his paws, pushing him back and away from Jorge. Ryan took a step toward him with the bar, but the dog barked up a fierce storm. Old Pendejo flashed his teeth and growled like a bear and stood his ground. Jorge lay twitching on the ground, dazed and bloody.

Ryan swung the crowbar, but the dog was faster, and leaped high and bit the air — so close to Ryan’s face he must have felt the breeze.

“Whoa! Villalobos. Back your dog off,” Ryan said. “Thing’s probably got rabies.”

“What you want, Ryan?”

“We just want the truck, Marco. Just give us the truck.”

“Get your own goddamn truck.”

“Ours broke down. We gotta get gone out of town.”

“I ain’t letting you. And sure enough this pooch ain’t letting you.”

“Hell with this,” Ryan said, and he dragged his brother up and they got out of there. Pendejo kept up his barking and growling the whole time till they were out of sight.

I helped my brother up, and we both got the dog get into the cab with us. Then I hit the gas.

Fighting the Gardner boys would not have got us killed, but it wouldn’t have been easy, what with my leg and all. I had to admit I was impressed by the dog.

“That Old Pendejo’s full of fight,” my brother said, starting the conga again on the dash. “He sure can kick some butt.”

“Sure can,” I said. “Old Pendejo.”

We both laughed. It was good to laugh with my brother again.

* * *

On the way back to the house, Mom called my cell and told me she’d gone to Mrs. Coleman’s, who’d taken ill. Mrs. Coleman had two daughters, both of whom had moved to the coasts soon as they were old enough, so she had no one to take care of her. Mom was always doing stuff like that for people.

It was before noon, and my brother said he didn’t feel like looking over two scrawny sheep. I guess his laziness was catching because I didn’t feel like doing much of anything either. Maybe it was because my knee was throbbing. Maybe it was because Mom wasn’t around for the first time in a long time, and so it felt like we were kids who had the run of the house.

I said to my brother, “You want a beer, Jorge?”

“Say what? It’s not even noon, bro.”

“I’m getting a beer.”

“Hell, then get me one, too.”

So we sat drinking beers in the living room, me in Pop’s old chair, and Jorge in Mom’s, and Old Pendejo cleaning hisself on the rug in front of us, making these disgusting licking sounds.

“I wish I could do that,” he said.

“Don’t you think you should get to know the dog a little more, guey,” I said, and we both got a kick out of that for a while.

Jorge broke into a bag of chips and ate them like a starving man. “Chips,” he said. “Chiiippps,” between and during bites.

After a few beers I told him I was worried about Mom.

“She’ll be all right. Mrs. Brown still has her old shotgun she used to scare us with as kids.”

“No, I mean, Mom, Mom’s getting older, and this ranch ain’t got the legs to go much longer.”

“It’s pretty much past dead, I say.”

I looked at him. His body seemed melted right into the chair. He looked even more useless than I felt.

“I’m worried about you too, Jorge.”

He laughed. “You got your own problems. Let mine be mine.”

We didn’t say nothing for the longest time after that. Just drank beer after beer. The TV was on, but there was no picture. “Cable’s out,” my brother said. “Shoot, it was just on last night. Something about air traffic being stopped, borders being closed.”

“Same old drill,” I said.

“Same old drill,” he said.

I cracked open another beer. My brother kept shifting around in his chair, kind of restless, picking and scratching at hisself. Sometimes he would get up and walk around the room, and the dog would follow him. Finally, Jorge put in a DVD for some action movie we’d seen a million times. But then he started talking.

“What was up with those Gardners today?” he said, looking at the screen.

“Just loco,” I told him. “They were always a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”

He laughed. “But why would they want to leave town? You think this virus got them spooked?”

“Everything spooks them. Here we are, miles from the nearest big town. We got nothing to worry about. Worst thing’ll happen, it’ll hit Houston. They’ll make people wash their hands a lot, and that’ll be the end of it,” I said.

“But, Marco, I heard — I heard that people that pass from this thing . . . well, they don’t stay dead.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, that’s what I read.”

“Read where?”

“On the Internet. Though it’s not working.”

“What you mean?”

“I don’t know. Internet went down. Probably ‘cause of the cable.”

“People spend too much time on the Internet anyway,” I said. “That’s all false information and gossip. Shoulda seen all the stuff they wrote about us in Iraq. Don’t pay that garbage any mind.”

It was getting on long past suppertime, and we’d finished three six packs. I looked over at Jorge, and he was looking kind of paler than normal.

“You look tuckered out, guey. Go on to your room and get some rest,” I told him.

He said maybe I was right and took off. The dog followed right behind him. Me, I took two steps and collapsed onto the couch. I propped my bum leg on a pillow and lit out.

When I woke up, it was night time. I rolled over and saw my wallet on the floor. Must’ve fallen out when I fell asleep. It was empty.

I found the dog was tied to the front porch and gnawing on the thick piece of rope keeping him tied.

My brother was gone.

* * *

I had an idea where Jorge was, out at the Motel. Kids had been getting high there for years. Even I used to go there. I got out my M9 pistol from my foot locker, loaded it. I pictured aiming it right at Jorge’s head.

Pinche guey.

I put the gun in the drawer next to my bed, and threw myself down on the bed.

The dream came back that night. Sitting in the truck. Driving outside of Mosul. The explosion so loud. I went tumbling, feeling things break in my body. On the side of the road, I had one arm curled under me, my other hand opening and closing on the dirt. Then someone was calling my name, getting my attention, bringing me back to consciousness. “Villalobos! Villalobos! You all right?” It was my CO, and I think he saved my life, snapping me awake before I could fall deeper. You know what I mean.

I woke on the floor again, blankets around my leg, covered with sweat.

I noticed then the dog was in the room. It walked slowly over to me, its dirty nails scratching on the floor, wagging its dirty tail, and damn if that dog didn’t sit down right in front of me and put its head in my lap. He looked up at me with these huge brown eyes. Looking right through me. Like it knew.

I got up, got myself a shot from my bottle next to my bed, sat back down in that spot on the floor, and the dog put its head right back where it was before, and looked up at me again.

* * *

I woke up late, a few hours past dawn, and I was about to call Mom on my cell, when the house phone rang.

“Marco. Gracias a dios! Hurry!”

When your mother calls you half-hysterical on the phone, you better get going. I didn’t think twice when the dog followed me into the cab, and we raced out the ranch in a cloud of dust.

I heard the shotgun blast about a mile before we got there.

The truck had good pickup, and I floored it.

The dog and I jumped out of the car at the same time and ran for the door, Old Pendejo barking fiercely the whole way. I ripped open the front door. He pushed right past my legs and ran inside. In the foyer it smelled — it smelled like a thousand places I knew in the war. In the kitchen, there was Mom was sitting on the floor, with a shotgun in her lap.

And there, in front of her on the floor, was Mrs. Coleman. With her head busted open like a pumpkin tossed out a speeding truck. I’d see things like that before, but seeing it on Mrs. Coleman’s plain, brown kitchen floor just made it much more disgusting. She had on her bunny slippers, too.

My mom started talking. “She got the strangest fever I ever saw,” Mom said. “She was so cold, so cold. I made her some soup, but she wouldn’t eat it. Did you boys eat?”

“Yes, Mom, we ate.”

Mom nodded. Her hair, which was always neatly combed, was a big cotton candy mess above her head.

“What happened, Mom?”

“She got up, looking horrible. Really bad. And then she attacked me. Like she was . . . like she was trying to eat me. She was trying to eat me. She clawed me like an animal.”

My mother showed me long, deep scratches on her arm.

“I got to get you to the hospital.”

“I shot her. You have to understand, I had to. Then she got up again. She got up again. So I had to shoot her again.”

I saw then that Mrs. Coleman also had a spread of gunshot across her left side. The kind of shot that should have stopped just about any woman in her 60s.

“I’ll call the sheriff later,” I said.

Mom showed me the cell phone in her hand. “I tried. No answer.”

Mom seemed like she was in shock, but she said she just wanted to go home. In the truck, she whispered, “Drive faster, Marquito.”

At the ranch, I picked her up and carried her inside the house. There was blood on her apron.

* * *

I wanted to get Jorge, and drag his ass back to house, but Mom was sick, and I had to take care of her. I sat on the floor right outside her room while she slept. Old Pendejo, he stayed right there with me.

I went downstairs and made some toast and tea with a little of her bourbon and brought it up to her. She was propped up on a bunch of pillows and staring out at nothing. It looked like she had a fever, but she looked cold and pale.

The dog came into the room with me.

“Some food for you Mom.”

“Thank you, son. But I don’t think I could keep it down.”

“Well, I’ll just put it here. Tea’s got some bourbon in it.”

She reached for that right away. She said, “I see that mangy dog is still around.”

“Yeah, it’s Jorge’s. It’s his best friend,” I said and sat down in the chair by her bed. The dog sat on the floor next to me, and my hand naturally went to pet him.

“Looks like he’s pretty attached to you, too.”

“I guess.”

Mom suffered a lot in her life. My dad was from Mexico City, and he met Mom when he was in the army back in the day. She was from Fajardo, which is in Puerto Rico. That’s right, we’re Mexiricans. Mom used to live right on the beach, she told us. But Dad took her deep into the heart of Texas, I guess, where the skies go on blue forever, but there ain’t no beaches. I know she had a tough life here on the ranch, with one son a druggie and the other pretty much a gimp.

But what on Earth could have made her shoot Mrs. Coleman in the head? Mom was just too young to be senile.

“Where’s that wonderful brother of yours anyway?” she said.

“He’s —.” I couldn’t think of a lie fast enough.

“I know where he is. You don’t have to tell me.”

I didn’t say nothing. I just kept petting the dog.

“He’s why I hide my money all over the house, you know.”

“I know.”

She finished the tea and put down the cup. “I gotta close my eyes for a few minutes. You don’t have to stay.”

* * *

I closed the door behind me and stood there in the hallway, feeling more useless than ever.

That’s when the dog started wagging its tail. Touching my hand with its nose and then going to the stairs and coming back to do it again.

“What’s the matter, boy? What’s the matter, Pendejo?”

The dog led me outside, and then he did the damnedest thing. He found this rope and he nudged it right up to me. I picked up one end and right away he picks up the other in his teeth.

Dang. My brother was out getting high, and my mother had just killed her friend and now was upstairs sick with Lord knows what, and all this stupid dog wanted to do was play tug-of-war.

Stupid simple animal.

And you know what?

I could feel the heat of the setting sun on my shoulders, and Old Pendejo, he was pulling pretty hard. I could feel an ache in my forearms. I felt like a kid again, like a boy, better than I had felt in a couple years.

It was a good feeling.

Stupid dog was right. Right there he taught me something important. To enjoy the little things, the small moments.

And then he stopped.

His eyes did this sort of dance, to the left and to the right, and he dropped the rope from his mouth. He turned and looked toward the western arm of the ranch, where a series of hills lead over to the Brown property.

There were three of them coming over the hill. With the sun behind them I couldn’t see their faces. They walked slowly, wobbly, like they had all the time in the day and more to burn.

The dog started barking, then running toward them, and then running back, behind me. The dog was scared. I thought this dog had the biggest cojones I’d ever seen. But now he was scared and tucked behind me.

I looked back at the three figures. I was about the call out, when right then another figure ran out from a small grove of trees we had, over to my right.

It was Jorge, his mouth opening and closing, yelling something. I could hear it like a whisper in my left ear. It took a second to work it out. “Marco! Marco! Run!”

When he was a few feet away, the dog ran to him, jumping up and down on him, barking, “Hello,” I guess.

But Jorge ignored him. “Get your guns, bro!”

The three figures weren’t much closer. But I could see they looked pretty odd. One looked like it had a broken neck.

There was a Remington 700 in the house, and the M9. I got to the house first and grabbed the rifle.

“What’s going on?” I yelled at my brother, running up the stairs.

“Give me the rifle,” he yelled.

“You’re getting the gun.”

“Why not the rifle? We gotta hurry.”

In my room, I checked the pistol, then handed it to my brother.

“Why can’t I get the rifle?” he said. “I have to get up close with this!”

I ignored him and checked out the window and the three figures were just approaching the front yard. Then I realized there were a few more a few yards behind them. I could see now that there was something wrong with all of them. They were deadly pale, some of them had blood all over their mouths. One of them for sure had a broken neck. And another had a hatchet stuck in its chest.

“Who the hell are these people?” I said.

“They came to the Motel,” he said. “At first I couldn’t tell them apart from everybody else. And then they just starting eating people. It’s that virus, I tell you, that virus!”

“Whatever,” I said. “Vamos.”

You live in the Texas Hill country like we do, with its small towns and big ranches, its oaks and its rivers, and the miles of big open sky, you sometimes forget there is a whole other world out there. You think the world out there can’t touch you. Sometimes you forget. Until you’re forced to face it.

As I stepped out the door I shot the first one. The bullet went through his chest and he kept coming. Next shot I stood my ground and aimed. Right between the eyes. He went down.

My brother took aim and shot the ground in front of another one.

“Aim for the chest,” I yelled.

He did and shot the next one right in the face.

“Again,” I said.

Old Pendejo didn’t have a gun but he was barking his face off. He looked nervous, ready to pounce, standing there between me and my brother. Good dog.

We had four of them down by the time I had to reload. I could smell them from the front steps. It was nasty, hot smell, like being upwind of a body dump next to an overused latrine.

Just as I was reloading, that smell got even more powerful. Coming from my right. Just as I turned, I felt the dog right behind me. I saw him crashing into two of them.

Before I could react, I saw another one come out the trees, stumbling. I took a breath and aimed and breathed out and shot. His head split open.

I heard the dog howl. Old Pendejo was ripping and pulling at one thing but the other one was clawing, and sinking its teeth into the poor dog’s hide.

I fired the rifled but it was empty. So I swung and used it like a bat, knocking the biter’s head up and cocked to the side. With two more swing down I had crushed its skull. The dog meanwhile had made quick work of the other one.

“No fair when they go two on one, boy,” I said. And Pendejo, his muzzle covered in blood, barked back.

“We got those,” my brother said. He looked like hell. Pale and scratched up.

“You look like hell,” I told him.

“I’m still prettier than you,” he said.

“Pinche guey.”

“Listen, son, we gotta get outta here. There’s more of them coming.”

“What are those things?”

He asked where Mom was, and I told her she was upstairs, sick.

“Sick with what?”

I told him about what I’d seen at Mrs. Coleman’s, that I’d thought Mom was a killer, but now that I’d seen these things, I understood.

My brother right there checked his weapon for ammo. “Marco, listen, we gotta. . .  we gotta take care of her.”

“Of course, guey—.”

“No, we can’t. . . we can’t let the old lady go that way.”

“What do—?”

“The virus. She’s probably got the pinche virus. She’s gonna turn into one of them.”

“Hold on,” I said, but he was running up the stairs. The dog took a look at me and ran after him. “Jorge! Wait!”

Running up the stairs was not an option for me. But I couldn’t let Jorge do what he was going to do. I took the steps slowly, pulling myself up. He was right at her door at the top of the steps.

“Jorge, stop!” I wanted to understand this thing first.

He was in Mom’s room. I forced myself the rest of the way. He was aiming at her. Jorge.” He turned. I stood my ground and aimed. And shot.

He crumpled to the floor.

The dog sniffed at his body.

I bent down to check him — and from behind me my mother latched on to my neck.

She was one of them now. Jorge had been right. She’d been infected.

She was strong, but skinny. I found the pistol on the floor and used it.

The house was quiet after that. I didn’t feel anything. The world had turned into a crazier place that I ever could’ve imagined. I had fought a war to help protect people I had just killed.

I checked the MP. One bullet left.

Old Pendejo whimpered. He nudged me in my leg, but gently, almost caressing it. That’s when I realized. He was all bit up, too, like Mom had been. And those crazies outside.

Could it turn a dog? I wonder if he was wondering that, too.

He looked at me with those big, brown blazing eyes. He knew. And he knew what I had to do.

I had seen some of my best friends killed in front of me, but I never did for them what I did for that dog. I cried. I cried like a child.

“Goodbye, Pendejo,” I said.

* * *

I got the rest of the ammo and took the truck. Wasn’t much gas left but I figured I’d take it as far as it would go.

I got a few miles from the house when I saw them. Over two dozen of them, moving on the road that slow, stumbly way they do. There was no way around them. I revved the engine. As I came to them, they looked up and reached out for me.

I plowed. They were softer than people.

They flew apart in pieces.

There were so many of them.

I lost control of the truck. I couldn’t see where I was going with the blood on the windshield. The engine lurched. Then I hit something. Hard. The truck spun and turned, and turned over. Glass. Metal crunching. Then it stopped.

I crawled halfway out, got to my feet, reached back slowly for the rifle.

They were coming for me.

I got partway to my knees and took a position. I started shooting at everything that moved, my rage boiling in my guts.

“Pinche gringo culero ve a chingar a tu reputisima madre!”

I shot and reloaded, shot and reloaded.

“Pinche gringo culero ve a chingar a tu reputisima madre!”

And then — I thought there would be more. But it was silent there on the road.

I collapsed on the ground. Something else was broken inside me.

I couldn’t get very far. I didn’t have the will. I didn’t want to go no more. I was on the side of the road. I had one arm curled under me, my other hand opening and closing on the dirt.

It took a long while, but then he came. Of course he would. I turned my head as much as I could and saw him, walking slowly in. Doing that death walk, but on four legs. He looked even mangier. Old Pendejo. Bullet hole in his hide. Those old sparkling eyes empty now, but still looking right at me.

Well. If it’s going to happen, might as well be your best friend.

I could feel its hot breath on my neck – it stank like death and latrines – and just as a drop of foamy spittle hit me and made me shiver, the dog bit.

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.