Crying.

A flash. A Memory.

—

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

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

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

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

—

No. It wasn’t like that! Poofy never…

Heat. Pain.

Flash.

—

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

“Make a wish!” Momma says.

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

A camera flashes.

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

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

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

“Give it to her, Steven.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quickly she pushes the largest button on the small remote.

In the garage, a ‘beepbeep’ sounds.

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

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

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

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

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

Jane screams.

—

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

Heat. Pain. Tired, so tired.

Flash.

—

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

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

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

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

Their skin is gray.

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

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

His skin is gray, too.

—

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

Pain. Heat. Deep exhaustion.

Flash.

—

“Push, Janie, push!” Henry encourages.

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

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

Yet, here we are, she thinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Flash.

—

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

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

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

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

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

The message repeats.

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

She stands, unable to think or move.

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

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

Soldiers poured in.

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

Another yelled, “We got a bite here!”

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

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

She is pushed out of the house.

A shot.

A single person comes out of the house. Alone.

There is a shout from the side of the house.

“Oh, shit! Oh, my God, it’s a baby!”

Zoe.

Another shot.

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

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

Her head is gone.

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

She hears growls and moans.

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

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

Screaming, she sees her arm start to turn gray.

—

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

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

Flash.

—

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

The Zombies are here.

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

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

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

People run. People scream. People fight.

Zombies eat.

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

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

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

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

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

He bites a large chunk out of her hand.

Jane screams. She breaks loose and runs.

She locks herself in a supply closet.

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

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

She cries for a life that was.

—

No more pain.

Only hunger.

He laughed at that thought. It was a running joke around the lab. It had started when a rookie assistant in the University Pathology Laboratory had absent-mindedly wondered where they got all of the dead brains that they studied.

Brian had been that assistant, two years previously. His supervisor, Mr. Leans, had responded with the now-famous joke.

“Son, nearly every brain in this place has died of something. What did you have?”

Something he saw brought him back to the present. Under the bright, white light, Brian noticed a small, dark line on the back of his right hand examination glove.

“Oh, shit!” He yelled.

As he dashed over to an emergency wash station, Mr. Leans approached, attracted by the exclamation.

“What happened, Brian? You alright?”

Pulling the gloves off, one tucked inside the palm of the other, he said, “No, there’s a freaking tear in my glove.”

“You’re on the necrotizing virus, right?”

Elbowing the hot water lever, Brian replied, “Yes, sir. Could you get that light for me?”

Mr. Leans placed a hand on Brian’s back and reached past him.

The emergency wash basin was shiny stainless steel. At eye level, there was a placard describing graphically how to properly wash hands and eyes. Just to the right of the sign was a small metal toggle switch. It had a small line drawing of a light bulb above it, little lines radiating out from the bulb.

When Mr. Leans flipped the switch up, the short circuit in the switch sent a burst of voltage through his body and into Brian. Brian’s hands were under the flow of hot water.

Sparks flew from the switch and from Brian’s hands. Mr. Leans jumped back, stung a little in the fingertips on both hands. Brian jerked and fell, striking his forehead on the rolled edge of the stainless steel sink.

—

The necrotizing virus had not been completely eradicated from the brain by the cleansing and preserving process. When the preservation fluids flowed through the tear in his glove, many individual viruses were carried onto his skin,

The viruses were able to penetrate his skin, entering several capillaries on the back of his hand. This happened long before he reached the emergency wash basin. They went to work on the first cells they encountered, his blood cells.

These blood cells had already delivered their payload of oxygen to the tissues in his hand, and were on their way back to his heart and lungs to gather more. The few of them that were attacked produced more of the viruses, but they were not quite identical to their forebears. The preservation process performed on the brain had damaged the DNA of the original viruses.

The new generation did not destroy the blood cells by lysis, or the rupturing of the cell’s membranes. They released by budding, being released by the victim cell. Thus, the blood cells would continue with their duties, but with the additional ability of providing a host for more of the necrotizing viruses.

Several blood cells were birthing new viruses when the electric shock coursed through Brian’s body. One of these new viruses had budded out of a blood cell carrying methemoglobin, which binds with iron, not oxygen. This iron present in the virus conducted the electricity, mutating the virus’ DNA.

This third generation virus had several unique characteristics.

First, it carried a small electric charge, which was imparted to the cells it conquered. Any virus budding out from one of these cells also carried the charge.

Second, when the virus infected a cell, apoptosis, or the process of natural cell death, was eliminated. In order for an infected cell to die, it now had to lose its electric charge or be physically damaged.

Third, the telomeres on the end of the cell’s DNA molecule were eliminated. Similar to the ends on shoestrings, these cap off the DNA, and determine how many times a particular DNA molecule can replicate itself. Every time the molecule makes a copy of itself, this cap gets shorter. When the virus removed the telomere, it prevented the cells from multiplying.

Fourth, every affected cell no longer used oxygen to power its processes. They all used mineralized iron.

Soon, the newest generation of the virus would outnumber the original. They would assimilate the brain, easily penetrating the blood/brain barrier. The heart would take a while longer, but when it succumbed, it would stop.

—

It took twelve minutes for Brian to be transported to the University Hospital’s Emergency Room, due to the storm which was blowing. The first storm of the year had blown in the day before, on the the third day of the new year. His fever had escalated to an unbelievable 109 degrees by the time the Ambulance arrived.

By the time they had him in an examining room, his heart had stopped. He did not respond to defibrillation, nor to manual Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation.

A nurse closed Brian’s green eyes with her fingers. They covered Brian with a sheet and called for an attendant to take his body to the morgue.

—

The heart, once it had been completely assimilated, was unable to beat. The electric charge present in each of it’s cells prevented it from doing anything but contracting in a final clench. Thus, on it’s last beat, it squeezed most of the blood from it’s chambers, making it nothing more than a congealed lump of dead muscle. It was now only a junction for blood to pass through.

The brain now craved mineralized iron instead of oxygen. Starved of this supply, it started sending out pulses of electrical current. These pulses flexed muscles.

This flexing of muscles created a hydraulic pressure in the circulatory system. This pressure caused blood to flow throughout the body, including into the brain.

The attendant, Henry, nearly screamed when the corpse thrashed its arms and legs, throwing itself off the gurney. Henry crossed himself and moved to aid the man, thinking there had been a horrible mistake.

“Oh, my God, sir! Are you alright? Here, let me help you. Sit up on the gurney.”

The man stood. His body jerked and spasmed, as if being shocked by electricity.

His skin was grey, as if covered in ash. There was a small cut above his left eye. The cut was open and black as night. His sweat matted hair was brown.

The man’s face was slack, slimy grey saliva dripping from between his teeth, which blackened visibly as Henry watched.

What caught Henry’s attention, though, were his eyes. The orbs were the same ash grey as the skin, but the pupils were a brilliant green. There was no intelligence behind them.

Henry reached up to the man’s shoulders in order to assist him in sitting on the gurney.

The man grabbed Henry’s right arm with both of his hands and tore out a mouthful of flesh and muscle with his teeth. Some of the tendons and muscle fibers remained attached to Henry’s arm and pulled out from the man’s teeth, like gory floss.

Henry screamed. He jerked his arm free of the man’s grasp and punched the grey form in the face. The nose flattened, and a thick black tendril ran down.

The strike caused the man stumble back and fall down. Taking this opportunity, Henry bolted up the hallway, yelling for help.

—

Brian was no longer Brian. He was a simple machine.

The brain occupying his skull now subsisted on mineralized iron. This was provided by the flow of blood now black with the mineral.

The brain may have lost the higher functions which made up the man who had been Brian, but the lower functions were still present. The creature knew how to stand up from the ground. It knew how to walk.

It knew hunger. It did not know what it craved, just that it craved.

Even though the lungs had collapsed, no longer able to process gases, air still entered the nostrils. The movements of the body compressed and expanded the chest and neck enough for this.

The creature detected the smell of something. Something desirable. It turned in the direction of the smell and started walking.

A few moments later, it came to a closed door. An echo of a memory sounded through the pathways of the brain, and it put up a hand and pushed.

The door to the morgue opened.

—

One doctor and two University police officers ran down the hall toward the morgue. They found the gurney, but there was no sign of the man who had been dead. Henry was being tended in the Emergency Room.

In this last portion of the hall, there were no doors except those which opened into the cold storage facility. They pushed open the swinging doors and gasped.

The dead man had located a woman’s body which had not yet been placed in the locked refrigerated storage room. Henry had been called away to retrieve the man which now stood over the woman, whose corpse still lay on a gurney.

The dead man had been feasting on the only exposed flesh. The left side of the dead woman’s face had been ravaged, exposing bone and teeth.

The dead man looked up at the sounds of horror behind him. He turned and started toward the men, growling.

Blood and tissue dripped off his chin as he walked. He reached both hands out for the doctor, who was closest. His hands opened and closed, grasping air, searching for something to drag to the mouth.

The officers both reacted. One stepped to the side and drew his sidearm. The other stepped forward to intercept the approaching man.

“Hold it right there, bud. We can help you, but you gotta calm down.” This from the officer who did not have his weapon drawn. “Just take it easy and we’ll take good care of you.”

The man shambled two more steps and then lunged at the officer. The policeman had been ready for an attack, and smoothly grabbed the man’s arm and pivoted the man right down to the floor, twisting the arm severely behind the man’s back.

The other officer placed his gun back into its holster and knelt down beside the struggling figure. He went to place his hand on the man’s neck to hold him down. Before he could accomplish this, the man turned his head and snapped his teeth together with a loud clack, neatly removing the officer’s right pinky finger.

Jumping to his feet, the officer yelled, “Son of a bitch!”

He cradled his hand to his chest as the doctor stepped forward, removing his white smock.

“Let me see it, Bob. Let me see.” The doctor said, pulling the injured hand to him.

He wrapped it tightly with his smock.

“There. You’ll be fine, Bob. We’ll get you back upstairs and take care of you.”

The other officer twisted the arm a little more. “Hey, prick! You just lay nice and still, I won’t have to hurt you.”

To his surprise, the man rolled over on his back. The captured arm snapped at the shoulder, twisting the skin taught. The man on the floor grabbed the officer’s foot with his unfettered hand and reached with his open mouth toward the ankle. The pinky finger fell out of the man’s mouth, chewed and bloody.

“The fuck? Get offa me!” The officer yelled as he jumped back. He drew his pistol and aimed it at the man.

“Just stop right there! I will shoot you if you continue to attack!”

“Just shoot, him, Tom!” Bob yelled. He grabbed the radio off his belt and spoke into it.

“Dispatch, we got a crazy guy down here, eating corpses, trying to bite us. Shit, he did bite me! Bit my fucking finger off! Send somebody down here to help us! We’re in the morgue.”

There was a response, but it went unheard in the chaos.

The doctor had stepped up behind the man on the floor, his hands raised in a placating manner.

“No! Don’t! He’s just sick! There’s no need to shoot him!”

The doctor kneeled down behind the man and put his hands on the twisted shoulder.

“Doc, don’t! This guy’s psycho!” Tom said.

“No, he’s just urrkkk…”

The man turned suddenly on the doctor and bit out his throat. He jerked free, mouth full of blood. He was chewing hard and quick.

The doctor’s body convulsed and he raised his hands to his ruined neck. Blood flowed freely down his shirt and gurgled out of his neck.

Inhaled blood was coughed up to the ceiling, where it dripped a red rain back down on the two.

Tom fired his weapon three times, directly into the grey man’s back. The doctor was already dead, he knew, so there was no fear of injuring him.

The body jerked from the impact, but did not fall. The grey man swallowed forcefully and leaned in for another bite on the doctor’s throat.

A final shot from Tom’s gun exploded the grey man’s forehead, and the body fell. Black ichor oozed from the wound, only to solidify quickly.

The man who had been known as Brian was, finally, dead.

—

Henry was starting to feel very hot, like he was running a fever. The Emergency Room doctors were busily sewing up the gaping bite wound in his arm.

Within a few minutes, long before his arm was sutured, he passed out.

And died.

—

An unidentified homeless woman, who had died earlier in the evening, stood.

One side of her face was stripped to the bone and muscle.

—

Bob had retrieved his finger from the floor, but was burning up by the time he walked into the Emergency Room.

The blood on the stump of his bitten finger had turned black, and it did not hurt anymore.

—

Doctor Andrew Taylor had been laid on a table in the Hospital’s morgue, where he had died. A grey skinned woman stood over him, looking at him with her head tilted to one side, like a dog.

Doctor Taylor twitched, then his arms flailed and legs kicked, and he was off the table, laying on the floor. He stood, his head flopping forward. With an effort, he raised it to look at the woman.

She didn’t smell like food.

“Food?” He thought to her.

“Food.” She agreed.

They walked out of the morgue, the woman in the lead.

“…ster Stanley? Can you hear me?”

The woman’s voice intrudes on my fog. I’m enjoying my fog, it’s peaceful. It was quiet.

“Miisster Stanley?” She stretches it out. “Carl?”

“Yeah, I hear you. Now go away.” I go to turn over and find myself restrained. Ankles, wrists, chest, and head. All strapped down. Tight.

“Hey! What the…”

“Please be calm, Mr. Stanley. The restraints are for your safety as well as ours.”

“What? Safety? How is strapping me to a table making me safe?”

The Voice, as I begin to think of it, says, “Well, you wouldn’t want to get shot, now would you?”

I had to agree. I’ve been shot. No end to the trouble it causes. “OK, but couldn’t you just lock the door?”

“Oh, we did that, too.” The Voice sounds as if she is smiling.

I lay still, as if I have any choice in the matter. I really want to move. Movement helps me relax. Funny as it sounds, I get jittery when I can’t move. Which, of course, makes me want to move even more.

In the brief moment before she answers, I start trying to inventory myself. I don’t feel clothing on my arms or feet, but it feels as if the rest of me is covered in a sheet. I assume this is a hospital gown.

The crook of my right arm feels like it’s bandaged. Like I’ve had blood taken.

As I cannot move my head, I cannot see anything but the ceiling. I see a small round grill mounted there. The Voice seems to be coming from that grill.

“Alright.” She says. “I will have someone release you. However, if you attempt to escape or injure anyone, you’ll be shot immediately. Do you understand?”

“Shot. Right. Got it.” I roll my eyes. It’s the only thing I can do besides make rude gestures with my hands. I do that, too. Several different ones. There is no comment, so I assume that I am not on camera. Either that or they just don’t care.

After a full minute, I hear a bolt throw and a door open. A man dressed in military fatigues comes into my field of vision. He puts something hard against the top of my head.

He says to me, “Move. Please. I’m tired of fighting you people.”

Another military type comes into view and yanks on the straps around my right wrist, then leaves.

The rude man holding that hard something to my head says “Count to 60 out loud, slowly. Then you can undo the rest of the straps. If you start before 60, even on 59, I’ll be back.” He taps me hard on the head and adds, “With my friend here.”

The hard thing, I’m assuming it’s a gun, leaves my head. I hear the door close and the bolt throw.

I start counting. I count to 65 just to be sure, adding a nice seven letter expletive beginning with “F” in between the “60” and the one, two, three, four, and five.

The Voice comes back. “Now, Mr. Stanley. There is no need for sarcasm.”

I laugh as I undo the straps. “Oh, no. No need for that at all.”

Finally standing, I see a room no more that ten feet on a side. Grey. One door. One gurney. I am dressed in a hospital gown as I suspected. I start to pace around the room.

Ahhh. That feels much better.

“Can I have some clothes?”

“I’m sorry, but that would put our people in unnecessary danger. Nobody is to be in your presence unless you are restrained.”

“Ah.” I nod my head. “I see. So, I’m just gonna starve in here, then?”

“Are…you hungry?” The Voice asks slowly. Almost with apprehension.

“Actually, yes. I’m sure you’ve done your research. I like red meat, very…rare. After all, that is why you grabbed me, isn’t it? Because I’m a Zombie?”

Then

I’m not really a Zombie. I’m just, well, part Zombie. No, I don’t mean my mother was a Zombie and my Dad was a baker or anything.

I’m just immune to whatever virus created the Zombies.

What really pisses me off is that is was a nine year old girl who bit me. Tried to eat my face. I shoulda shot the little twerp when I first saw her.

I and some other people were trying to get to Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Angelo, the only Federal Safe Refuge in our immediate area.

The FSR’s had been set up all over. The Feds had selected some defensible locations and armed the snot out of them. Any live human, and the distinction was now very real, could come to any FSR. If there was room, they would be allowed inside.

If the FSR was full, the best you could hope for was to stay close to the barrier. The troops did all they could to keep the Zombies at bay, and you might get lucky.

Of course, you could get shot or blown up, too.

It was a chance you took gladly.

We were ten or fifteen miles from the Goodfellow FSR, coming in from the East on some Farm-to-Market Road. Look it up. It’s the Middle of Freaking Nowhere. We were cruisin’ right along in a beat up old Ford pick-up. A couple with their son rode in the cab. I and two other guys rode in the back.

We topped a rise and there they were. A bunch of Zombies, I don’t know how many, but a lot. Just walking up the road, heading the way we had come.

The guy driving did the only thing you can. He punched it. When he hit the group, bodies flew everywhere. He musta taken down half of them. Maybe even killed a few.

But, he also almost took us out, too. He lost control of the truck and we went sliding sideways down the road. God, or luck, or something, kept the wheels on the asphalt and we didn’t get tossed out on our heads.

The truck stopped when the two leading tires blew. It leaned up horribly, but settled back down. Steam billowed from under the hood. The radiator had been damaged. The truck wasn’t going anywhere.

The remaining Zombies had already turned and started toward us. They were moaning and growling hungrily.

We hadn’t slid very far, so we had just enough time to jump down and start shooting. The couple in the cab joined us, locking their young son inside.

“Way to go, Bob.” I told the driver. “Good job”.

His response was rather blue, if you know what I mean.

We were all armed. Shotguns mainly, but I had a pistol. Big ol’ .45 with six or seven clips.

We chewed through the front Zombies real quick, but the rest just kept coming. That little girl I mentioned came to the lead, and started running right at me, growling.

“Shoot her!” the guy next to me said. George? Jim? Something like that. He turned his gun on her, but just like in the movies, the damned thing just went ‘click’.

“She’s just a kid! I’m not shooting a kid!” I yelled.

By this time, the point was moot. She was on me. Jumped right at my face. I threw my right arm up and she chomped down.

I screamed like, well, like a little girl, and put the pistol to her forehead. Then, she was falling to the ground, that horrid, black, smelly crap they have for blood spraying all over me and George. Or Jim. Whichever, he got covered in it, too.

That was it for me. I turned and exercised the better part of valor. I booked it. Didn’t even bother to see what happened to the others. I knew that if they survived, I wouldn’t. They’d take me out just like they did the Zombies.

And if they didn’t survive, the Zombies would just add me to the menu.

I ran until I couldn’t breathe. Wasn’t far, I never was an athlete. Put me at a computer and I’m good. Running? Not so much.

When I had to slow to a walk, I was burning up. I figured it was that Zombie virus, and that I was going to join the “Hordes of the Walking Dead”.

I had dropped the pistol in my flight, so I couldn’t even do myself in.

I eventually fell and couldn’t rise. My arm was bleeding and hurt like hell. I was covered in stinky, black Zombie blood.

I was so hot, so tired. I just laid down and went to sleep, cradling my arm.

I woke up a few hours later, according to my watch. My arm wasn’t bleeding or hurting anymore. I was hungry as all get out, but not burning up.

And, I wasn’t a Zombie, either. I reckon that if I could tell I wasn’t, I wasn’t.

So, there I lay, in the middle of Texas somewhere near San Angelo, alive, hungry, and…twitching. That was new. Felt like I needed to get up and just move. So I did. Got up and started walking. The movement made be feel a lot better.

There appeared to be a farm or something like that a couple miles off. I could just see the house. As I started that way, I heard footsteps behind me.

Yep, you guessed it. I turned to find Zombies. Five of them, walking right at me.

Well, I turned tail and took off.. For about two steps. My twitchy legs betrayed me and I went down. Did a face plant right into some dumb little bush.

About the time I managed to frantically untangle myself, the Zombies had walked right past me.

Seriously. Went by like I wasn’t even there.

Except the last one. He must have been around 40 when he turned, but was all grey like they get. Vacant stare. You’ve seen them.

He stopped and look down at me.

And spoke.

Now

The Voice replies. “No, Mr. Stanley. We don’t think you’re a Zombie. We’re actually interested in why you aren’t.”

“Well, I’m immune, aren’t I?”

“And we want to find out why.” She says.

“From the bandage on my arm, I assume you’ve got enough blood to tell you plenty. You don’t need me any more, do you?”

“Oh, we’ve studied your blood. I would like to discuss the results with you.”

After just this few minutes of pacing, I feel much better. I hop up on the gurney. “So, what, I’m a doctor now? I don’t know anything about blood.”

“We found some similarities between your blood and that of a Zombie. We would like to know what behavior you have been exhibiting that could be considered, um, Zombie-like.”

I smile. If only she knew. Sarcastically, I say, “I prefer ‘Zombie-ish’. It’s more friendly.”

The Voice laughs. “OK, Mr. Stanley. Zombie-ish.”

“And, by ‘similarities’, I assume you mean those black streaks in my blood? And that god-awful stink?”

“Yes. But we’re having trouble isolating the immunity factor. If it’s in your blood, we can’t find it. We are having some problems with the methemoglobin. It’s interfering with our research.”

I make a face. “The whatsits?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stanley. Methemoglobin is similar to hemoglobin, but is receptive to iron, not oxygen like hemoglobin. In normal humans, methemoglobin is found only in very small amounts, while hemoglobin carries oxygen to all the body. In Zombies, the two are reversed. They have almost no hemoglobin. Your blood, though, carries an equal amount of both. And, it appears to be, um, magnetic.”

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “Did you just say magnetic?”

“Yes. It appears to be a side effect of the high amounts of bio-electricity present in the bodies of Zombies, and somewhat present in your body. That is making it almost impossible to study your blood. I’m afraid that we are going to require, well, other samples from you.”

Well, this just day just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?

Then

Zombies don’t speak with their mouths. They think at each other. And, let me tell you, they ain’t great conversationalists.

The man who spoke to me simply said, “There food?”

My ears heard a slight growl, but the words were in my brain. My jaw dropped. All I could do was shake my head.

He must have retained enough brains to know what that meant. That, or the fact that my own brain had just gone completely blank did the trick. Either way, it was enough. He turned and resumed following the others.

Now, I’m not the most inquisitive guy, but, you gotta admit, this was weird enough to check out. So, believe it or not, I followed along, too. At a distance.

Zombies don’t normally move as fast as regular folks, but they do get along. It didn’t take us as long as you might think to get to the house. I stayed back quite a ways, figuring the Zombies would be cut down if there was anybody home.

I was right.

The first Zombie’s head exploded, the bullet going right on through and into the chest of the second Zombie in line. She flew back and didn’t get up.

Contrary to popular belief, you can take a Zombie down without a head shot. It’s just more difficult. Her spine must have been severed, because she twitched for a couple seconds, then lay still.

I heard her die. In my head, I heard her die.

There wasn’t any coherent thought, just a general feeling of, well, the only way to describe it is a feeling of ending. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but there it is.

The other three looked down at her, then at each other.

The same thought ran through all three not-quite-dead brains. I heard it plain as day, though not with my ears.

“Food!”

Seems they know that anyone who can shoot a gun can provide a little sustenance. They all three turned and started running toward the house. Even as far away as I was, I could hear the howls and growls they always make when close to meat.

They didn’t make it to the house, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. The last one to fall was just a few yards from the front door.

Oh, yeah, that’s something else. Zombies know about doors and windows. When’s the last time you saw one not try a door or window? They do remember things, know things. Not much, and not on any kind of intellectual level, but they know. They know.

I thought about approaching the house, but took off when they started taking shots at me. I guess traveling with Zombies while being covered in black Zombie blood isn’t the best way to win friends and influence people.

It took a while, but I finally found another house. I had managed to clean up somewhat. I convinced them I was alright, that the bite on my arm wasn’t from a Zombie, but from a pissed off girlfriend. I guess the fact that I could actually tell them that worked in my favor.

They gave me something to eat, but it almost made me sick. The vegetables smelled rancid to me, and the meat seemed burned to a crisp. I got it down to be polite, but only just.

They put me up in the living room. Late that night, I snuck over to the kitchen and found some thawed hamburger meat. Raw.

Man, was that good.

I had gone from meat-and-potatoes to steak tartar. I knew the bite had done it, but didn’t know why I hadn’t changed completely. As I ate, I found myself pacing around their living room.

It was late at night, or early morning, whichever you prefer. I hadn’t slept since waking up in the grass, and I wasn’t tired. Believe me, I shoulda been beat, the day I had.

I mean, gunning down Zombies, running for my life while bleeding, then walking no telling how far. Not to mention the fact that Zombies now talked to me! I should have been exhausted.

Nope. Just walking around somebody’s living room.

I walked, and thought, the rest of the night.

I didn’t remember ever seeing a Zombie stop moving, unless it was ‘killed’. And that meant they didn’t sleep.

The best I could figure was that I was almost a Zombie.

Great. Just what I needed.

Now

“Now,” I say, regaining my feet. “When you say ‘other’ samples, I’m hoping you just mean more blood. Right?”

The Voice hesitates. “Well, no. We are going to need several different samples. The easy ones are urine, semen, and stool. The others are a little more, um, invasive.”

Holding my hands up in front of me, I say, “Hey, I’m all for scientific advance and defeating the ‘Zombie Menace’, but I got my limits. I’ll pee in a cup for you, and you can go mining in the toilet as much as you want, but that’s about it. I ain’t looking for a good time, and I ain’t really geared up for no surgeries.”

“We will be as careful as we can. We have a fully functional surgery here, so you should suffer no adverse affects. We aren’t taking any samples that aren’t taken from normal people. Just cell samples from most of your organs, some muscle cells, and bone marrow. That’s it.”

“Oh! ‘That’s it’?” I am very agitated. Hmm. Wonder why? “Not much, is it? Just samples of everything! Ya know, the freaking Zombies don’t treat people this way.”

The Zombies never imprisoned me. Never threatened me, at least not after that little girl bit me. Sometimes they are more humane than people. They don’t treat their own like this.

I don’t say this out loud.

She goes on as if I hadn’t said anything. “As you know, Zombies don’t decay while they, uh, live. Even though they are technically dead, their bodies don’t ever break down, don’t seem to age. Our tests of your tissues indicates the same kind of activity. That’s one of the things we want to investigate, and that requires tissue samples.”

“First of all, stop trying to sell me on this. It ain’t gonna happen. And, second, are you saying that I’m not gonna die unless somebody kills me?”

I can almost hear The Voice shake her head. “No, but you probably won’t age at the same rate as normal people. You could be a walking fountain of youth, as well as the way to end this war.”

Hmmm. Interesting.

The Voice comes from the grill again. “You said you like rare meat. Did you before the bite?”

”Hell, no. I’m a, well, was a well-done kinda guy. Didn’t want no E. Coli, ya know? Go figure.”

“But no cravings for humans?” The Voice asks.

I lie. “No. I ain’t no Zombie. I haven’t gone over to their side yet.”

The Voice is anxious. “Yet? Have you considered it? Are you saying you actually want to be a Zombie?”

Once more, I stop my continuous trip around the room. “I am not one of the walking dead! I am still me. Not that you care. If you thought I was human, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

“We’ve investigated you thoroughly, Mr. Stanley. We have talked to everyone involved in the shooting incident at Goodfellow. We know of your preference for rare meat, your constant need to be in motion. We even understand how all of that works. What we want to learn about is how the Zombies seem to treat you like one of their own. If we could duplicate that, we could stop every future attack. It would give us an enormous advantage in our war against these unfortunate creatures.”

“I wasn’t aware,” I say. “that my getting shot was common knowledge.”

I took one in the leg. Some dumb guy thought I was a Zombie. I shoulda known not to be out walking the streets at three in the morning. Goodfellow’s a big place. Figured I’d just take a little walk.

The Voice seems to be smiling again. “Some things need to said to be understood. We know everything.”

Well, not quite, I say to myself. And smile.

“If you help us, we can end this problem and start returning to normal. These samples will allow us to do that.”

Suspicion creeps into my mind. “Are you are trying to end this, or control it?”

No response.

“So you are planning on using this immunity of mine for something else. How does that old saying go? ‘He who is silent is said to agree?’ Something like that?”

“I’m sure you appreciate our position in this, Mr. Stanley. Zombies are overrunning the world. Only in the United States and a very few European countries have we been able to reach a stalemate. We need something to turn the tide. Quite honestly, if we don’t get it, we’re going to lose. The Zombies are becoming more numerous. The only weapons which will kill enough of them would also kill too many of us. That leaves us with face-to-face fighting, and there are just too many of them. You could save all of us.”

I sigh. “I notice you still haven’t answered my question.”

“And I won’t. Decisions like the one you are asking about are not the ones I make. I just do what I am told.”

“Like a good little Nazi, huh? Isn’t that what they said at Nuremburg?”

The Voice is very upset now. “Mr. Stanely! How dare you compare me to a Nazi! I am trying to save lives!”

“Yeah.” I spit out. “And then, you just happen to have the means to make some unstoppable army. Zombies don’t feel pain. They don’t fear. Perfect army material. But, they also don’t use each other. They actually work together.”

An intake of breath from The Voice. “Are you saying that they are a cooperative force? That they organize?”

Oops. Almost let a cat out of the bag. “Of course not. I’m just saying that they don’t fight against each other. They don’t stab each other in the back. They are more like animals than people.”

“Yes, well, these animals just happen to want to eat us, so we would appreciate your help.” She’s a little snippy. Just like my ex-wife.

Whew. If they think the Zombies can be organized, and that I am the one that can do it, I’m either dead or, well, I’m just dead. Zombie-dom is looking better all the time.

“Look, I’m just not keen on giving you the means to take over the world, just to save the world from being taken over. Um, well, you know what I mean.”

“Are you saying that you aren’t going to cooperate with us?”

“I am saying that I won’t be a guinea pig. I am willing to prove my loyalty, but not by letting you dissect me. If you can’t use the samples you have, you’re just S.O.L.”

“We could force you to cooperate.”

“You can force me to choose sides, and I don’t really want to side with the living dead! Not much of a future there, huh? We help each other, we can both be happy. I don’t want to live in a world of Zombies, I can tell you that.”

Well…

Silence for a moment. Then, “If we have to compromise with you, we will, but we will have your help, Mr. Stanley. You owe this to your country.”

“Right.”

Then

The next morning, I learned that humans smell really good.

When the family came downstairs, I found myself almost salivating. Take the best food smell you can think of and imagine yourself starving, but not being able to eat. It’s that good. Or bad, depending on your point of view.

I thanked them for their hospitality, and asked for directions to Goodfellow.

As I walked, I thought some more about Zombies. Didn’t have much choice, I kept coming up on small groups. They would just look at me, ask “Food?”, then go on.

I noticed two things.

The first one is something we all should have noticed earlier. Zombies never travel in packs of less than three. Ever. If a pack gets diminished, they stop hunting for food and start hunting for other Zombies to travel with. They search mentally, sending out a kind of ‘help’ message. The closest group not eating will come to them, meet them half-way. The new, larger group will then start off looking for food.

The second thing I noticed is that they have a very distinctive smell. Animals must be able to pick it up. That’s why you don’t see many animals getting eaten. At least, not animals free to run.

I could smell them a long way off, and apparently they could smell me, too. Every time I picked up the scent, I got the “Food?” thought. Usually long before I actually saw them. Wind definitely affected the range of the smell, but I guess that’s normal.

When I got to the FSR, they let me in, but only after some serious questions about the bite.

Then, it almost went south. Inside the FSR was George. Or Jim. Whatever. He had survived and made it. Probably had told the story of how I had been bitten and run off to change.

He pulled me aside. Started threatening to turn me in as a Zombie if I didn’t tell him the cure I had found.

I had been wondering what would happen if I bit someone. Would they become a full Zombie? Or just almost, like me?

I found out.

Now

So, I think they are going to take me apart to find out what makes me not a Zombie. Then, use that to make controllable Zombies. Or Zombie warriors. Or whatever.

Not this boy.

The Voice seems a little too eager to find out about me. That’s why I ain’t gonna tell her that I can talk to the Zombies.

“So, Mr. Stanley, you apparently don’t sleep anymore. Is that true?”

I nod my head.

“Mr. Stanley?”

“Yes, that’s true.” Good. No camera.

“Other than the appetite, the need to constantly move, and not sleeping, are there any other Zombie-li…uh…ish behaviors you’ve exhibited?”

Shaking my head, I say “No, that’s pretty much it.”

Except, I add inside to myself, that I can call for help, too.

You see, I think I’ve found a way out of here.

And, with that very thought, an alarm starts blaring.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Um,” The Voice hesitates. “It appears that a rather large force of Zombies is attacking the facility.”

Trying to keep the smile out of my voice, I ask “Are you going to be able to hold them off?”

“We don’t know. This isn’t a large building, and we don’t have many troops. And there are a lot of Zombies.”

“Well, for crying out loud, let me outta here! I can fight them better than anybody else. And, if they eat all you guys up, I’ll starve in here! Let me out! I can help!”

The Voice is quiet for a moment. “Alright. We’ll let you out. Lord knows we need every able body we can get.”

“And clothes. I ain’t fighting Zombies in the buff!”

There is no response, but the bolt throws on the door in a minute or so. The door opens and a rather attractive woman enters. When she speaks, I recognize her.

The Voice.

Handing me a duffel, she says, “Here are your clothes. I’ll be waiting outside. When you are dressed, I’ll take you to the Lieutenant. He’ll put you to use.”

She backed out and closed the door. It didn’t lock.

Ah! I hear that Jeff is leading the pack. Turned out his name wasn’t George. Or Jim. He tells me they will take the building soon.

I dress quickly, then open the door. There is a soldier standing with her.

“Uh, ma’am, could I speak to you? Private?”

“Certainly, Mr. Stanley.” She enters and closes the door.

She smells so good.

And, the meat is very rare.