The Stryker careened around the corner and the men inside, packed so tightly that they could barely breathe, swayed back and forth into each other. It was an uncomfortable ride, but not a one of them would’ve preferred the alternative. The Gunny couldn’t really see much, locked as he was in the mass of men packed into the APC but he did spot some few details as it continued to roar away from the crowd of dead left behind.

The Stryker was heavily “modified”, meaning it was completely stripped down and any piece of equipment or electronics deemed unnecessary was removed. There were several portholes that had been roughly cut into the armored hull of the APC, with crude steel plates on hinges attached that could open up to the outside world and the bandanna woman who had saved their skins closed one such plate and latched it down and leaned a rather large riot shotgun against the hull and squeezed into the gunner’s seat where she used the LCD to scan around with the “ma deuce” on a servo at the top of the vehicle.

She saw the coast was clear for now, except for the occasional individual corpse that would wander out into the road at which point the driver would gun the engine and a distinct thump would be heard inside the vehicle, but other than that no other indication that a human form had just been turned into pulp by the 8 large wheels of the APC. She glanced back at the group of men packed into every available inch of the interior and then went back to watching the LCD.

“Spec 4 Lydia Smith, at your service! Call me Lids, we’re not big on rank these days.” she said as she continued to pan the servo around. The LT spoke up.

“Lieutenant Paul Volker, and I have to say.. Lids. That I’m damn glad you showed up when you did! I was seriously considering putting a bullet in my head.”

Lids smiled “Oh doncha think about that yet LT, we were out doing supply patrol in the city but as you can see we’ve come up pretty empty this time around. We were on our way back to base when we heard you guys open up.” The Stryker suddenly swerved and the men rocked back and forth into each other for a moment and another dull thump was heard on the hull of the Stryker.

“Sorry ‘bout that guys, Ned tends to get a bit crazy on the wheel.” She said loudly at the driver’s compartment. She got no response other than a gunning of the accelerator that kicked up their speed and another corpse slapped against the hull.

“Well Lids, we certainly appreciate the ride. What outfit you with?” questioned the LT.

“I was with the First Battalion of the 148th Infantry, but that was a long time ago. Today we’re just survivors like all the rest, if a bit more organized.” Lids said.

“So there are more of you?” The LT continued.

“Yup, about 280 of us. We’re based at the zoo.” She said glancing back at the LT occasionally.

“The Zoo?”

“Oh yeah, it’s the safest place around with heavy fencing and good security. That is also where the labs are.”

“Labs?”

Lids smiled “Yup, we have a scientific community of sorts, still doing active research.”

“I’m impressed.” The LT said with earnestness.

“Don’t be. We lead a pretty miserable existence to tell you the truth. Hand to mouth here in the city.” She said seriously and then picked up the mic to a CB that was haphazardly bolted to the wall of the Stryker.

“This is Lids. Got your ears on?”

“Sure do Lids! What’s up?” came a voice over the speaker.

“Coming in with… refugees.” She said with a wide smile on her face. “About a dozen”

“Roger on the reffs. I’ll get a clean team out on the gate to clear the way.”

“Roger and out” she said and she dropped the mic.

“So how come I have a platoon of the One Oh One in the middle of my city?” Lids asked the LT.

“Actually you have a squad of the One Oh One and another made up from a militia regiment, First Ohio.” The LT replied

“Ooooh… Militia boys eh? My uncle volunteered into one of those outfits, down near the ‘Nati.” She responded.

“Well, we’re all grateful to you for saving our asses.” the Gunny spoke up. Lids smiled back.

“No problem, Pops.”

She then returned to the LCD monitor as the Stryker roared north out of the heart of the city and towards the zoo. She swiveled the “ma deuce” back and forth. The LT stood over her shoulder and looked at what the display showed.

As they approached the Zoo the streets, which were virtually empty before, began to thicken with the odd clump or two of deaders moving around. The Stryker roaring by got their attention for a moment but then it was past and the dead continued on with the eternal parodies of their former lives. As they got near the gate however a large, thick knot of corpses could be seen piled up against the main gate of the zoo. A large sign that proclaimed COLUMBUS ZOO sat above an iron security gate, which swayed back and forth from the weight being pressed on it by the thick crowd of dead.

Suddenly the LT saw huge streams of flame roar out from the gate and move back and forth over the crowd and begin cooking and incinerating the dead in the immediate area of the gate sterilizing it long enough for the Stryker to rumble over the ashes and charred bodies and charge through the now open gate before it was closed instantly. Within a few minutes, fresh dead began moving towards the gate and collected against it, vainly reaching through the spaces in the iron and moaning in hunger and frustration.

The Stryker wound along several service roads and roared into a large vehicle garage and came to a stop. The hatch lowered and the men gratefully debarked into a large maintenance bay. The only other military vehicle within the structure was a vintage M-60 tank. The rest of the vehicles were a mix of pickups, golf carts and other vehicles marked with the logo of the zoo. The men looked around and thankful doesn’t even describe how they felt after the near death experience in the city.

“Wait here while I go find Dr. Humbacher.” Lids said as she walked out a door.

A hatch in the Stryker’s front opened and out climbed a man with a grey ponytail and wearing an ancient and faded Grateful Dead T-shirt and greasy jeans and he jumped down from the vehicle and went over to the loose standing group of men and up to the LT.

“Hey there fellas! Ned’s the name. Deadhead Ned. But you guys just call me Ned.” He said and put his hand out which the LT took.

“Paul Volker, This here is Gunny Raines” the LT said indicating to Raines at his side.

Deadhead Ned nodded and shook the Gunny’s hand as well. “I have to say guy, that wasn’t very smart getting into the Shootout at the OK corral in Downtown like that. We estimate there must be at least forty thousand dead in that area alone. If we hadn’t been in the vicinity?” the Gray haired hippy looking fellow said and then shrugged.

“Glad you guys came when you did.” said the Gunny and then turned as the door Lids had disappeared through opened and she came back in followed by a rotund little man with a bald head and wearing a pair of glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose and a white lab coat.

“This is Dr. Humbacher, formerly Professor of Biology at Ohio State University and head of our Board of Directors.” said Lids as they came up to the men, who except for the Gunny and the LT and Sgt Loomis had spread out and sat down on the floor of the garage, resting after the exertions of the day.

The little man came up to the LT and took his hand, he had a rather limp handshake, but the look in his eyes showed something sterner lay beneath, a kind of steel intellect. The Doctor repeated the process with the Gunny.

“Welcome to Columbus Gentlemen, I’m Dr. Humbacher. I can see right away you aren’t the typical starving skeletons we usually find hiding out in the city. Where’d you come from?”

The LT spoke up. “Well Doctor, I’m from the US Government, and I’m here to help.” This brought a quiet laughter to everyone in the room, except Dr. Humbacher who apparently didn’t get the joke.

“Well that is all well and good Lieutenant but wandering around the city aimlessly is statistically certain to get you killed. Why?”

“We’re looking for two girls, two very special girls.” The LT said

“The President’s Daughters you mean? Oh they are well taken care of and of no concern at the moment.“ Humbacher said with a dismissive wave and continued, “Your team can stay here and make themselves comfortable for now, we’re short of living space as you can imagine with over 250 people here. A meal will be served in about 2 and ½ hours. I’m afraid the portions are rather small, but we offer what we have.”

“We’re well provided for on personal rations Doctor, thank you. We’ll be fine on MRE’s for now, save your food.” Said the LT and the Doctor nodded.

“Well, if you and Gunny Raines was it? Would follow me, I’d like to show you something.” And with that he turned around and headed for the door to the bay. The LT and the Gunny looked at each other questioningly and then followed after the doctor.

They stepped through the door into a long corridor and then continued out a door marked EXIT where a golf cart sat patiently waiting. The Doctor beckoned the two men to get inside and then got behind the wheel where he started it up and proceeded to drive away from the maintenance garage. He then began explaining the setup of the zoo as they continued down the various footpaths through the park.

“Columbus Zoo and Aquarium, 700 acres in total area, although the Aquarium area is overrun and sealed off, so we only use about half that. There are 276 people here as of last count, 208 men, 47 women, the rest are children. You’ll notice if you look around, the distinct lack of animals in the areas. That is because they are dead, slaughtered for food. The carnivores were first to go.” He said with a smile. “Tiger is quite interesting actually.”

The Gunny and the LT smiled at the thought of living off of Lions and Tigers and Bears, but food was food and you took what you could get in times like these. The Golf Cart turned a sharp bend and came to a halt just before a large white structure. Red lettering on the Zoo themed sign on the door indicated RESEARCH AREA, EMPLOYEES ONLY.

They disembarked from the Golf Cart and the Doctor led the way as they went into the door and entered a spacious area with empty cages stacked up several high all around. The cages formed a series of corridors that the doctor led them through. The smell of animal still lingered throughout the empty building. They continued past the cages and entered into another door, this one marked PRIMATES.

“So what kind of research are you doing here Doc?” said the LT as he surveyed the room they had entered. There were more cages here, larger than the ones in the previous room, and these looked like they had been freshly inhabited. Signs with various names were on the cages like Tootsie, Sam and Beck.

“Looking for a cure of course or maybe a vaccination of some kind?” The Doctor said as he continued along to the end of the room where a large examination table was placed. The entire area was spotlessly sterile and smelled of bleach.

“These cages were once inhabited by every primate at the zoo. We kept them all alive in order to do experiments and see how Factor Z worked.” Humbacher said as they came to the table.

“Factor Z?” said the Gunny.

“That’s what I call it anyway, no one knows what it is exactly, could be viral. It could be some kind of mutation in our own genetic code too. We know it’s not bacteriological in nature but in all the experiments that I’m aware of before things got bad and since, we’ve never been able to successfully isolate any viral DNA from the blood of the dead or even recently infected. Experiments using every anti-viral known to man has failed to even slow down the onset of death and reanimation.” The doctor said with the kind of tone a teacher takes when giving a lecture, which he was in reality.

“Over time, we exposed every single primate to Factor Z. Just like humans, it killed them all within 48 hours, however unlike Humans, non-human primates apparently do not reanimate. All of them just died, except one.” said the Doctor over his glasses.

“What?” said the LT. “You say that non-human primates don’t reanimate but are killed by this Factor Z. However one actually survived? As in immune?”

“Precisely so Lieutenant, come with me.” And with that he turned and went through yet another door which led to a large balcony overlooking a rather spacious habitat area. It resembled a child’s play ground with a jungle gym and wooden platforms spread around the area. Sitting on its haunches staring back at the men, was a large Gorilla. He had black, course fur and a massive bare chest along with a prominent, whitish stripe of short fur on his back. He sat there, looking up at the men on the balcony and scratched at himself. He looked rather bored to the Gunny which was confirmed by a stiff yawn from the beast. Wickedly long and sharp canines glinted ivory in the sunlight. It had a monstrous and thick conical shaped head, with a pair of intelligent eyes that looked around the habitat with the boredom a prisoner in a prison cell might display.

“This is Kang. Kang is a 27 year old Male Silverback Lowland Gorilla from Uganda. He’s been living at the Zoo for almost 15 years now. He’s rather docile for a Silverback really, probably a result of separation from the rest of his group. He’s quite lonely, and I’m pretty much his only friend. He’s a playful fellow really, except when the dead get near him.”

“What happens then?” said the LT with keen interest.

“What do you think? He tears them apart limb by limb.” said the Doctor matter of factly and this brought a smile to the Gunny’s lips.

“He’s quite immune to Factor Z, though we haven’t been able to isolate any difference in his blood with any of the other gorillas in his group that Factor Z proved very fatal too. So we have no idea what makes him tick really.” said the Doctor with a bit of wistful curiosity. The men could see that he had a burning question mark in his head and Factor Z was a frustration because it stymied all of his years of biological expertise.

“However, there was just one problem that developed unexpectedly.” said the Doctor as he looked out over the habitat area.

“What was that?” said the Gunny.

“One of the people was bitten several months back and I decided to see if exposure to Kang’s blood might make a difference. Unfortunately, it did.” said the Doctor with not a little bit of regret.

The LT thought he knew where this was going and the color drained from his face. “Don’t tell me.” He said to the Doctor.

The Doctor merely confirmed with a nod of his head. “I ran an IV into the subject with Kang’s blood. The effects were completely unexpected. The poor woman, did I mention she was a she? Actually managed to survive the longest of anyone I had seen survive initial infection before onset of death. Four days, nearly twice as long as usual.”

“So it didn’t quite work, but?” said the Gunny

“When she revived, she had maintained much of the agility and strength she had when she was alive. She also possessed an extremely fine tuned predation instinct and obviously some kind of higher thinking.” The Doctor said in response.

“You made the hissers?” said the Gunny

“Correct. Completely unintentionally I assure you. I was just trying to save a poor woman’s life!” whined the Doctor

“So what happened after that?” said the LT

“I decided to study her. But after a couple weeks in confinement, she managed to get loose, kill two men and escape. Before long we began getting attacked by other dead exhibiting the same effects. I assume that being a more efficient hunter than the other dead; she probably managed to hunt out isolated survivors within the city, with the obvious effect of spreading her particular form of Factor Z.” the Doctor said, his voice hushed.

“Shit!” cussed the LT “So how many of these things do you think are out there?”

“There’s no way to tell.” said the Doctor. “It depends entirely on the density of survivors per square mile in the city. There could be on the order of several hundred at least.” The Doctor had obviously been doing the math before.

“Well damn Doc. You created a whole new species of deader, one meaner than the ones we already have to deal with. I understand you did it by accident, but damn Doc, bad accident!” said the Gunny as he turned in disgust from the balcony.

“Yeah Doc, really,” said the LT in agreement. “As soon as you found out what the hell she had become you should’ve shot her in the head right then and there. Why did you keep her around?”

“Professional curiosity.” said the Doc with quite some repentance.

“Well it might just have killed all the cats Doc. Damn.” replied the Gunny as he shook his head and walked through the door.

* * *

The trio piled back into the golf cart and didn’t have much to say to each other at first as the cart wound its way across the zoo grounds. Eventually the LT spoke up “Look Doc, this has all been real interesting but I was sent here for the girls. Where are they?”

“That’s where we are headed now. Over to the living quarters, they’ve been with us about two weeks now. They showed up one day in an upper level window in one of the buildings across the street from the main gate. Apparently the group they had been travelling with were ambushed and killed by several of these hissers as you call them.” The Doctor said with obvious distaste. It was apparent he didn’t like that epithet for them, accurate as it was. “We formed a clean team and they went out and got them back inside the zoo. They were extremely lucky to have survived.”

“These clean teams, are they the guys with the flamethrowers?” said the LT.

“Correct. We scavenged a few of them along with spare tanks from the Guard Armory downtown. We’re actually fortified quite well here. Heavy fencing that has been reinforced as necessary surrounds the entire grounds. The gates have been reinforced as well, as the dead like to congregate along those most of the time and when the sentries on duty deem the crowd has gotten too big, or if we need to open the gates, WHOOSH and it buys us anywhere from 5-7 minutes with a sterile gate.”

“Not to bad.” said the Gunny.

“Times are good right now with it being deep winter. Things can be very lively here in the summer when the dead are most active. We do get breaches once in the awhile, especially since the hissers became more numerous of late. In the last six weeks we’ve lost four men.” Humbacher continued as he came to the parking lot of a large warehouse. The parking lot had picnic tables with umbrellas scavenged from around the zoo scattered about and small groups of civilians sat or stood in various congregations around them. Some of the people looked up and waved as the Doc’s cart came zooming up.

“This is the living quarters. Most everyone lives here though we have a few brave souls who have staked out their own patches of territory throughout the zoo. Some of them are a bit off, but everyone is decent and works together to maintain what we have here. The biggest problem I have is dealing with tension between the men over the women in the zoo. But we have ways of dealing with that as well.” Humbacher said.

A dark haired and bearded man, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a windbreaker with COLUMBUS ZOO stenciled onto it came up to the cart. “Hey Doc, got some newbies for us?” he said.

“Not quite Karl, they’re military, sent to check up on our two VIPs.” Humbacher said in response.

“Oh?” Karl said and eyed the Gunny and the LT then nodded. “The girls are over in the house. I can take them from here Doc if you’re busy.”

“Good idea Karl,” the Doctor stated and then turned to the Gunny and the LT. “This is my Manager of Operations Karl Jones. He can take you to the girls and show you around some more. I have a meeting with my colleagues shortly, so I will leave you two with him.”

The Gunny and the LT nodded and climbed out of the cart and then with a high pitched hum the golf cart zoomed forward and the Doc was gone. The Gunny and the LT watched him go then turned to Karl who had blue eyes and dark hair and an equally dark beard. His smile was warm and he extended his hand to each one of them and they exchanged names.

Once the formalities were concluded, Karl led the LT and the Gunny towards the large warehouse that made up the main living area of the zoo. The men entered the door into a large, spacious, and nearly empty warehouse. Nearly empty except for the double tiered wire frame bunks that were lined up in neat ranks and files that spread through the entire interior. Some civilians were scattered about the dorm here and there. Some lay on their bunks asleep, others reading and some just whispering quietly to each other. It had the quiet atmosphere of a library at the moment.

Karl spoke up, “Most everyone is out right now on duty. We maintain strict schedules here, no slackers. Everyone has a job depending on their skill set or talents as we discover them even the children. We have many of the modern conveniences still. We have power generation because the zoo, being a zoo, installed solar panels for much of its electrical needs. You’ll notice them scattered about the roofs of the buildings and set up on various poles and other things throughout the zoo. Of course that means only electricity during the day but we do have backup generators and plenty of gasoline to make up for research or living demands with proper rationing policies. The Board of Directors, or “Brain Trust” as we call them, call the shots around here mostly, though thankfully they tend to be pretty liberal and aren’t trying to set up some kind of despotic regime around here like tends to happen in places like this. We’re pretty lucky actually.”

“I’m surprised. Usually when we penetrate an urban zone we find little scattered colonies of starving, feral people ready to kill on sight. That you guys have managed to create this Shangri la in the middle of a major metropolitan area is an achievement.” The LT said in complimentary tones.

They continued across the building, winding around bunks. The LT and Gunny looked at each small space as they passed by. Each bed was made and tidy, like in a military barracks. Each one had a plastic box of some sort to act as a footlocker that was pushed up underneath each bunk. Some personal items, trinkets and other things were visible on small tables of every sort and size that were scattered around the beds. Family pictures mostly.

“As you can see with so many people living in so small a space, conflict naturally develops. Most problems are easy to solve by separating the two parties for awhile but sometimes we have more serious incidents.”

“Define serious.” said the LT

“The occasional crimes that occur when people are pushed to an almost primeval form of existence, things like serious assaults, rape, even murder.” said Karl as they came to door leading into another area of the warehouse.

“What do you do then?” asked the LT

“Hold a trial of course. Three of the six Directors are chosen by random lot to act as a tribunal. One director is assigned by lot to become the accused persons advocate and one is chosen by lot to be the prosecutor for the community. The last remaining Director becomes a sort of court reporter and record keeper. A jury of six is chosen from the community according to random lot as well.” Karl walked through the door and they were in a separate corridor which led off to offices that now made up more private quarters.

“Not a bad way to dispense Justice.” said the Gunny.

“It works for us pretty well. Sentences can vary from extra sentry duty, assignment to latrine or other unpleasant work details and other stuff like that. For the most serious offenses we have exile, but no capital punishment here.” he then came to a wooden door and knocked.

“Exile into this city is pretty much a death sentence any way.” agreed the LT as the door opened and a young woman with long brown hair and eyes of the same color answered the door wearing an Ohio State sweater and a pair of jeans.

“Hi Karl! Whats up?” she asked while making a girlish grin.

“Hey Samantha, these guys came a long way to check on you and your sister.” Karl said

She looked over at the two men and looked them up and down and then frowned. “Our father sent you didn’t he? I told Kathy not to use that damn phone we found! Now she’s ruined everything!” and she slammed the door in the men’s face. The LT and Gunny stood there flabbergasted as she was heard stomping into the room and began yelling at her sister, her shrill screams piercing the wood of the door. The argument bloomed as her sister screamed back in response and the two girls were heard bickering as they once again returned to the door, then just before the door opened there was a distinct moment of silence before the door flew open and the two girls were standing there bright and sunny with smiles, as if the explosion of dual rage the men heard had never even occurred.

“Hi, I’m Kathy. My sister says Daddy sent you?” Kathy said, a pleasant smile on her face. She was blonde and blue eyed, with perfect lips though how genuine her smile was could be debated after the shouting match that had not ended but ten seconds ago.

“I’m Lieutenant Paul Volker and this is Gunny Raines. Yes, your father personally sent me here to check up on you and your sister and evacuate the two of you to Aspen ASAP.” The LT said matter of factly.

Samantha scowled in anger. “I don’t want to go back! You don’t know what kind of hell it will be with all this shit going on! We’ll be like prisoners, with some scummy goon guard wearing sunglasses and an ear bud who speaks into his sleeve. Always watching you to make sure your precious little ass doesn’t stub a toe. I’m not going back to that!” she said with resolute anger and firmness. Kathy, while not as vocal as her sister, seemed to be in at least partial agreement judging by the look on her face.

“Look madame, I understand that maybe you think you are safe here but you most certainly are not. At any time the security of this place could fail.” The LT said and this brought Karl’s ire up.

“Hey now, I’ll have you know that this place is impregnable.” Karl said with resolved certainty.

“Yeah sure buddy, whatever you say. I’ve seen entire army bases wiped clean off the Earth by hordes so large they stretch from one end of the horizon to the other like herds of buffalo. You don’t stand a chance here over the long run and with these hissers running around it’s the final countdown buddy. You need to plan to get the hell out of here.” The LT said loudly and silence prevailed for a moment.

“Sam, maybe they’re right, I mean at least we’ll be in Aspen with Mom and Dad. They haven’t heard from us but for a few minutes in almost two years sis. We have to go home sometime.” Kathy said, placing her hand on her sister’s shoulder. Her sister shrank from her strong woman act and deflated like a balloon and broke into sobs as she retreated to a couch in the room.

Kathy looked back at the men in the hall. “How are we supposed to get out of here? Walk?”

“Nope, caravan.” responded the Gunny and the LT nodded in agreement.

“You need to take us to the Brain Trust Karl, we need to talk to them.” said the LT.

* * *

A short while later the Gunny and the LT stood in front of a boardroom table that was laid out in front of them where the Brain Trust was holding their meeting. Doctor Humbacher sat at the head of the table. The other four men and one woman who made up the Brain Trust, each in various casual wear made their introduction.

After Dr. Humbacher, there came Dr. Sheila Wright, Professor of Sociology. Then there was Arthur Young, former city councilman of Columbus. Next to introduce himself was Keith Morris, Director of the Columbus Zoo. The other two men in the Brain Trust were brothers, Sam and John Wilson. They ostensibly represented the interests of the many Ohio State student survivors who inhabited the zoo grounds and as a result were younger and rougher looking than the decidedly older members of the Brain Trust. While it couldn’t be said this group of six formed an outright oligarchy, it was close enough.

“Look. I know that you people have been here for a long time and feel real secure in this gilded cage, but I am trying to explain to you that when the weather warms up in a couple weeks, you people are going to be in a world of hurt.” The LT pleaded to the council.

Dr. Wright spoke up, she was an older woman with grey streaks running through her hair, which was pulled back into a bun and she wore thin glasses that hung on the bridge of her long nose.

“We spend much time and effort keeping the people safe here Lieutenant, you really have some nerve just riding in here and making demands that we should just pack up and leave.” Several of the men around the table nodded in agreement. Dr. Humbacher was not among them.

“Lady, this isn’t some game I’m playing with you. I have the full authority of the President of the United States..” at which point she stood up and screamed shrilly at the Lieutenant, the force of which drove him back on his heels.

“THERE IS NO MORE UNITED STATES YOU ARMY PIG! IT’S GONE! YOU PEOPLE DESTROYED IT!” and her scream sort of hung in an echo for a moment around the room before she regained her composure and neutral expression once more. “We here on this Council no longer recognize the authority of the United States Government, and therefore the President.” She said matter of factly, as if that was the end of the matter and retook her seat. The Gunny and the LT were simply flabbergasted at the venomous vibe this shrew just hurled in their direction and they were caught silent for a moment.

Dr. Humbacher intervened, “These men came a long way and deserved to at least be heard. I thank them on behalf of the Council for bringing these matters to our attention and they will be given due consideration in the future. On to the matter of the girls…”

Dr. Wright interrupted. “The girls do not wish to go back. They are staying here.” Once again with the same tone as if that was all there was to the matter.

The LT lost his own temper then, though his voice was quiet and low, with a hint of threat. “Lady, I’m under direct orders from my Commander in Chief to return those girls to his custody and I fully intend to fulfill those orders or die in the process.” making it quite clear where he stood on the issue.

The shrew refused to back down. “No Lieutenant. As long as those girls remain here with us then those Pigs in Aspen will leave us alone to live as we see fit. We have no wish to return to the auspices of the corrupt Republican government that precipitated this crisis by trying to force the Earth into submission and therefore causing it to fight back with the zombie plague. We are building a new society here. One based on empathy and social justice and environmental sustainability, not the corrupt and capitalist ways of the ancien regime.”

The Gunny shook his head in amazement and then spoke up “Dr. Wright, no one gives a shit what you people do here. You want to stay here and feed yourselves to the dead of the city then that is your business, but we were sent here specifically to ensure these girls got back to their parents and your little oligarchic dystopia here is in no danger of collapse from that.”

Dr. Humbacher regained the floor “Please! Everyone stop! Mr. Raines there is no reason to insult this Council with insinuations of despotism. I assure you we care greatly about the lives of the people here and take all due consideration to our security and safety. As far as the girls are concerned there is some dispute as to whether they want to leave. We will adjourn until tomorrow morning where the girls can make their wishes known and we can further discuss security measures. Until then this meeting is finished.” and as he stood up the rest of the Brain Trust stood as well and proceeded to file out of the room without another glance or word at the Lieutenant and Gunny Raines.

A little while later, the Gunny, the Lieutenant and Sgt Loomis along with Lids, were standing off to one side in the vehicle bay examining the vehicles available in case they needed to bug out in a hurry with a large group of people in tow. There was Lids’ Stryker, half of a dozen pickup trucks, two shuttle buses and a tractor trailer rig. Then there was the M-60 tank, which stuck out like a sore thumb.

“What’s the deal with this antique?” said the LT as he looked up at Lids while she climbed up onto the turret of the armored beast.

“Some tank collector slash restorer guy donated it to the guard armory to put on display. The main gun is breech blocked and non-functional of course but this fifty mounted on the pedestal is functional enough and she drives like a dream. She’ll tear up anything that gets in her way.” Lids said with a huge grin as she slapped the metal of the tank in affection.

The LT nodded and considered how the tank could work into an escape plan. They needed to be able to drive through the city to the south side where the First Ohio truck and its guards would hopefully still be alive and waiting. Once there they would spirit the girls to the safety of Benny’s farm where the Lieutenant fully intended to get on the horn with National Command Authority and advise them of the situation with the hissers, and recommend Columbus be authorized for permanent sterilization, which was the official term for nuking a city.

“Do you have gas for all these vehicles Lids?” the Gunny inquired.

“Well, we have enough to top ‘em all off at least.” Lids responded. This brought a nod from the Gunny.

Loomis spoke up then, “Sir. This could work. We’ll put this bad boy in the lead, put the other trucks and the shuttle buses in the middle and have the Stryker follow up the rear to police up any stragglers or aid in case of an accident. We might be able to take as many as a hundred folks out of here.”

“Sarge I’m thinking the exact same thing. Lids, unless you want to stick around and become lunch for some deader, we could really use your help.” The LT said up at her.

She grinned at him wickedly and replied “Well LT, I’ve been kinda bored around here lately anyway. So I don’t think I’ll miss this place much. At least in Aspen I can ski!” She then jumped down from the tank. “I’ll go talk to as many people as I can, try to get a handle on how many may want to break out with us.” She then disappeared out the door leaving the men behind to consider the rest of the breakout plans.

* * *

Like all would be despots, no matter how petty. Dr. Wright had managed to consolidate under her control a network of like minded snitches and informants that made up a large part of her power base. Most of the Ohio State survivors were former students of hers, and often she would hold quiet meetings with the more influential members of the student body, indoctrinating them as the all important seed stock that would build the perfect future, securing their loyalty. It was her scheme that got the Wilson Brothers appointed to the Brain Trust, the idea being that they would be her rubber stamps on the Council and increase her power and influence, which it did.

She placed her lackeys in key positions of authority that guaranteed her tight control of the “variables”, by which she meant people not under her direct influence. She particularly despised the freer souls who had abandoned the communal living arrangement in the Living Quarters and staked out claims throughout the zoo. They tended to subsistence farm, and rarely had much to do with the day to day running of the community. These people would have to be brought into the fold eventually, or exiled in her opinion.

While Dr. Humbacher concerned himself primarily with his fool’s errand research into Factor Z, she had chosen upon herself the noble project of building the perfect socialist society. At first when the Apocalypse came, she was like all the others, almost as mindless with terror as the dead were with hunger. She had personally witnessed one of the gruesome final stands of Government authority at one of the barricades outside the Ohio State campus.

She had awoken to shouts and heavy activity beneath her window, and climbed out of her bed leaving the naked and snoring form of one of her male students behind and put on a thick robe. She then went to the window where the balcony that was attached to her apartment was. She opened the double paned glass doors and stepped out onto a scene of absolute chaos and terror. Gunfire was popping off all over the city, and explosions and fires were seen raging blocks away leaving the horizon awash in an orange glow, punctuated by the dark forms of the buildings that made up the Columbus skyline. The smell of death and cordite was on the wind and the stench of sulfur combined with rotten flesh made the bile rise in her throat. It all added a sense of urgency to the scene beneath her.

A mixed group of the military and police could be seen in the brightly colored strobe lights of police cars erecting barricades using whatever vehicles they could get the keys to. They piled the vehicles across the road, clear up to the walls of the buildings on each side of the street. Grim men in Kevlar helmets stacked sandbags onto the line of vehicles, forming a low parapet from which the men could fight. Off to the side, several men were assembling some kind of heavy weapon in a sandbagged pit. They shouted back and forth to each other and a radio in a nearby police cruiser squawked status reports, she could clearly hear them in the crisp, late evening air.

“This is Unit 7! Be advised I’ve got a huge crowd of IP’s heading up East 5th towards the Campus!” came over the air along with the screams of hundreds of terrified people that could be heard. In the background, faint but audible were the terrible wails of the hungry dead.

“Roger Unit 7, Unit 6 is enroute.”

“Unit 7 here, don’t bother! I’m falling back! There are thousands of them! They’re literally tearing people out of their cars and eating them on the street!” his voice was high pitched with terror and in the back ground distinct pops could be heard as armed individuals engaged targets. Their desperate calls to each other added to the auditory disaster unfolding.

“Negative on the fall back Unit 7. Unit 6 will instead reinforce.” the dispatcher responded.

“Unit 7, FUCK THAT, We’re outta here!” came the desperate voice on the other end.

“Unit 7? Unit 7? Please Respond.” This went on for several moments and then a large volume of gunfire erupted just off to the East, startling Wright for a moment then the speaker squawked again.

“This is Unit 6! We drove right into a huge pack of them! They’re everywhere!” The sound of gunfire could be heard in the background and the bloodcurdling moans and cries of the crowd of dead was evident over the speaker and one of the men in the unit was screaming over and over again “Back the fuck up! Back the fuck up! Oh shit!” The gunfire reached a hair-raising crescendo, echoing up the street and then went suddenly silent.

“Unit 6, this is dispatch. Unit 6, come in.” but instead a terrifying, inhuman moan pierced the airwaves and all the men working the barricade stopped in their tracks and stared at the cruiser a moment, the absolute fear etched onto each man’s face was perfectly visible in the bright blue and red strobe lights of the cruiser. There was a moment of silence before the speaker squawked to life.

“Unit 12 here, I’ve got eyes on Unit 6, he’s gone. They’re crawling all over him like ants. We’re falling back another block, there are thousands here. The poor civilians are being torn apart by these animals and we can’t do anything about it!” the rage and frustration felt by the sender came over loud and clear on the radio along with the chaos that could be heard on the air now. The very wind carried terrified screams of civilians to Dr. Wright’s unwilling ears.

“Unit 12, negative on the fall back, repeat, negative on the fall back we must hold them as long as possible until the barricades are ready at the campus.”

“That’s a big negative dispatch, we’re falling back another block to 4th. We’re almost cutoff already, Unit 12 out.”

An entire chorus of similar radio messages poured in, hammering the big picture deep in to Dr. Wright’s mind that the entire world she knew was coming to an end. Her hand rose to her mouth in terror when she realized that her apartment sat right at the corner of East 5th and High, just south of the Campus. That meant the dead were only a half dozen blocks or so away.

She immediately scrambled into her apartment screaming frantically at her former bed mate to get his ass up out of bed and get lost. She then began packing what clothes she could just as the first moans were heard outside her window and the shouts of “There they are! Open fire!” rang out before her world suddenly exploded into a barrage of gunfire so loud she screamed from the suddenness of it. Her companion yelped and screamed “See ya babe!” and ran out the door with just his pants on, barefoot and shirtless.

She frantically put on some jeans and a shirt and leaving everything behind but her purse, sprinted down the stairs and out into the streets. What she saw terrified her beyond all compare. Hundreds of dead were shambling mindlessly down 5th Street in a compact wall of flesh. The sound of all the gunfire and moans and screams detonated around her, the very air shook with the wall of sound that assaulted her hearing.

She saw the dead falling, but for every one that fell five more took its place and many of the ones that did fall managed to climb to their feet again and rejoined the mass. As it moved closer, even more dead began to fall and as they were mowed down yet still more came. Blood from the fresh dead collected in the gutters and ran in a thick sluice into the sewer. The dead piled up against the barricade like a wave, their mass so large that the entire barricade shifted. One cop suddenly slipped and screamed out in abject primal terror as he fell into the crowd of dead who then pounced on him and tore him apart with the efficiency of a chainsaw. The men standing on the cars and trucks that formed the barricade fired directly down into the crowd while a group of burly civilians in all manner of dress came running around the corner and towards the barricade. They were armed with every kind of tool for weapons. Machetes, crudely fashioned spears, pitchforks, butcher knives, baseball bats, handguns and every other form of weaponry imaginable was present in the hands of the crowd of men. Dr. Wright breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that the cavalry had come to save them all.

They ran forward and mounted the barricade with the military and police and wildly began hacking and slashing away at the dead beneath them on the barricades. Dead began falling into the crowd, their heads broken and smashed, however the bodies of the dead soon piled up higher and higher. The dead behind them were then able to clamber up the pile to the level of the sandbag parapet. The exhausted men on the top of the mass of vehicles and bodies soon began to succumb to weariness and it became obvious that they couldn’t hold much longer.

One heroic soldier, manning the large machine gun nest anchoring one end of the barricade held the trigger down and let a never ending stream of rounds into the crowd as it piled up against the barricade. The huge bullets tore through the crowd, blowing huge gaps that were soon filled by more dead. Then a huge knot of the crowd surged toward his position. He screamed out and held the trigger down, wiping out an enormous chunk of the horde but not enough. Their bodies began to pile up around his position before the barrel on his weapon overheated, warped and sagged and the weapon jammed up tight. The soldier rose from his now useless weapon and drew a Beretta and took several carefully aimed individual shots before the crowd was upon him. Just as the icy cold fingers of the dead wrapped themselves around his body he put the weapon in his mouth and fired.

Several of the men were snatched from the barricade and disappeared into the crowd of dead, their screams piercing and painful over the gunfire. It was just too much and the entire unit broke and began jumping off the barricades and running for their lives north towards the Campus, Dr. Wright running along with them. She looked back and the blood drained from her face as she saw the dead pouring over the barricade like a water fall.

That was almost two years before and since then she had triumphed over adversity in her mind and managed to not only survive, but also create a seedling for future generations to build around. A seedling that she lovingly cared for and tended to as she waited for the day when the dead would finally rot away and she could begin the process of rebuilding society the way it was supposed to be built. Where everyone would have a say in the production and distribution throughout the society and that say would be enacted and enforced through a larger, more powerful Brain Trust who could wield the power that would be necessary to grant them with both responsibility and justice.

But now, the seedling was in danger of being uprooted and crushed by representatives of the corrupt and greedy ancien regime. In her mind, like all nascent socialist communities in history her creation was now in danger of being destroyed by capitalist greed before it could blossom and grow from a community into a society. Sarah Hollinger provided her with the key information. That bitch Lydia was going around spreading lies and fear about the safety of the zoo’s defenses and offering a way out. Worse, people actually were beginning to believe her, and some were starting to talk about leaving the community for the West. Sarah said Dr. Humbacher had been meeting with some of the people and might leave himself. The ingrates wanted to abandon her noble project and return to the ancien regime with all its environmentally unsustainable greed. She had to do something.

“Thank you Sarah, for bringing this information to my attention. Don’t worry the gates and fences are strong enough to hold back anything. Remember how I explained that certain forces of greed and evil still lurk in the world and would one day come and try and “reclaim” the land they stole and so never had rightful claim to in the first place? The land we are going to reserve for The People? That time has come, and we must act swiftly or lose it all.” Dr. Wright explained to the naïve young girl and then proceeded to outline her plans.

* * *

Dr. Humbacher sat at his desk in the Primate Research Area going over his notes and peering through a microscope at a culture of Kang’s blood. It was almost 2 am and he removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes with exhaustion. He heard the door to his office open and he turned around to discover Dr. Wright standing there.

“Sheila? What are you doing here?” he said in confusion.

“I want to discuss the future and security of our community Doctor. I understand you met with some of the people and that there is talk of leaving.” she said, the look in her eye was distant, hazy.

Dr. Humbacher sighed and responded. “Sheila, I indulged in your little social experiment because the concept was solid for a community such as this one to adopt and survive under the current circumstances. However, the concept is predicated upon the voluntary interactions of the people here. Many do not want to stay here anymore.”

Dr. Wright’s face took on a scowl. “That is a lie! They merely remember their old wasteful lives and naturally have some wish to return to them, like a homesick child who cries for its mother at summer camp. We’ve just never provided the right message for the people to latch onto! It’s obvious that mere survival isn’t good enough anymore. The people need a vision, then they will realize how important the work we are doing here is.” she said with the desperation of a fanatic.

“Sheila, the experiment is coming to an end one way or another. I intend to broach the subject at the Council meeting tomorrow morning and recommend that we leave and take as many people with us as possible. Once far from here, as I understand it, the Lieutenant is going to recommend to the President that the city be permanently sterilized with a nuclear weapon. I agree with that assessment. These new dead cannot be allowed to spread.” He stated emphatically and stared her down. The blood drained from her face and her mouth dropped. No! They wouldn’t dare destroy her city!? Everything she worked for, her society, the most important thing she’d ever done. Humbacher stood there with hands on his hips, waiting for response. A sneer crossed her face.

She responded by reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small .380 automatic and pointing it at Humbacher, who blanched when he saw it and his mouth dropped in shock.

“I cannot allow you to destroy the future. The beginning of a new age has dawned! The corrupt capitalists, and their shills like you have no place within it.” and she pulled the trigger. There was a loud POP then a bright flash illuminated the dim office. A splash of red appeared on Dr. Humbacher’s lab coat and he clutched at the site and then collapsed to the floor. As the smoke cleared she smiled a soft smile, then turned and walked out the door.

A few minutes later, Dr. Humbacher groaned and stirred. He began crawling towards the door from his office that led out into the Primate Habitat. He left a broad streak of blood on the tiled floor as he made his way the short distance. He was just able to push the door open and crawl out onto the grass of the habitat, where Kang sat on the other side, curiously watching him as Humbacher fell onto the grass face first and expired, his body laying halfway into the habitat.

Kang, the short silver hairs on his back rising at the smell of blood, became curious and alarmed that his only friend looked hurt. He got onto his knuckles and slowly lumbered his giant frame over to Humbacher’s prone body on all fours. He nudged the body gently as a pool of red spread out and soaked into the dirt. Kang’s intelligent eyes took in the scene and his animal senses told him that somehow the Doctor was dead. Kang lowered his head and made a kind of anguished groan while continuing to prod at the Doctor’s body, but eventually gave up.

Kang then noticed that the door was open, and a new scene was before him. Curious, he carefully stepped over Humbacher’s body, and entered into the office. He was tentative, maybe even fearful at first to see these surroundings. Eventually the fear shook off and he knuckle walked his way to the other exit. The one that Dr. Wright had left previously through, and pushed it open and entered into the zoo at large.

* * *

A man sat alone on a chair at the main gate, watching the undead corpses shake the gate back and forth with the weight of their combined mass. Reaching out and moaning in frustration that such a meal was just out of reach, the corpses at the gate like a wave rolled back and forth. This was the worst duty for him. He was always afraid he would see some loved one or friend he knew appear at the gate, wanting to eat him. So far such a horror hadn’t presented itself, but if it ever did he doubted he’d be able to sentry the gate again.

What he couldn’t see in the darkness, was a shadowy form quietly creep over the fence off to his right a few dozen yards. He did however hear it when it landed in the bushes on the near side. He looked over in the direction of the sound and his eyes squinted in the darkness. He then stood up from his chair and walked a few feet, listening while peering into the shadows. He heard a soft hiss, and then a dark form blasted out of the bushes and sprinted for him, screaming a feral growl. The gate sentry yelped in fear and then turned and ran for a small guard shack, the hisser rapidly closing the distance behind him. He ran into the shack and then slammed the door shut, turning the bolt on the door to seal the monster out. The hisser didn’t slow down and didn’t even bother with the door but made its own as it jumped into the pane of glass that made up the window of the guard shack and blasted through it, covering the now screaming sentry in glass.

The shack shimmied and shook violently as the feral screams of the hisser and its struggling victim belted out into the immediate area and in the struggle, a button was hit. The gate began to groan and squeak and then it rattled open, the mass of dead tumbling over each other. Their moans picked up in intensity, calling to those that surrounded the zoo. Several hissers nearby, hearing the excited moans of the other dead that indicated food was imminent, turned and started bounding their way in the direction of the now open gate as the dead began to slowly spread out around the zoo, hunting for victims.

** *

Gunny Raines and the LT were standing in front of a group of about 70 people who had come over the course of the evening to say they wished to leave the Zoo. He apprised them of the situation and explained to them that they only had enough room for so many, and women and children had priority over anyone else.

Almost all the mothers in the zoo had chosen to leave and brought their children with them. They were going to be loaded into the shuttle buses. One of the men living in the zoo, a former truck driver, was tapped to drive the truck which would contain other survivors and whatever supplies could be gathered.

The remaining men who had volunteered to go were going to load up in the backs of the pickup trucks and be armed with whatever hand weapons could be found. These plans and other discussions were being had when the door to the vehicle bay burst open and Dr. Wright appeared with about ten of her Ohio State kids carrying shotguns and hunting rifles. They ran in and quickly surrounded the Gunny and the LT and Sgt. Loomis. The rest of the LT and Raines’ men were unarmed and spread out and relaxing when the coup became reality. No one was near a weapon, so they placed their hands in the air.

Karl marched at Dr. Wright in anger, pointing his finger at her as he came closer. “Dr. Wright! What the hell do you think you’re doing!?” he said in indignant anger.

“Stopping a revolution.” she stated plainly and raised the .380 and shot Karl right between the eyes. The women and children in the place screamed and the crowd broke in terror and ran for the exits. They streamed out as Karl’s body fell backward to the cement of the vehicle bay, spreading crimson out onto the floor and after a moment only the shrew, her stooges and the visitors remained in the bay.

She approached the LT and spit in his face. “YOU PIGS! You almost ruined it all! You thought I would let you destroy my city? You knuckle dragging Neanderthals could never understand the noble work that is being done here! I thought that maybe that putz Humbacher would understand but he turned out to be a coward and shill just like you. I cannot have such swine fouling up my space!” she yelled at him. She then stepped back from the LT as the men were all lined up against the wall of the garage and her petty goon squad of brainwashed youth took their positions to become the first executioners of her new society.

Suddenly a heavy bolt was thrown back and the sound echoed throughout the garage and she turned her head to see Lids standing on top of the M-60 with the massive .50 cal on the pedestal pointed at her. She turned white and then spun around to face the woman on the machine gun.

“You!” Dr. Wright spat.

“Damn straight bitch!” cursed Lids and then the .50 spat flame. One round that blew Dr. Wright in half. The noise was absolutely deafening and it echoed for many seconds around the building. When the echo had died, Dr. Wright was nothing but two parts lying together in a pile in a massive pool of blood. Her goon squad of kids dropped their weapons without a word and ran out the side door.

“I wondered where the hell you wandered off to!” the LT shouted at Lids and she smiled. That was when they heard the first terrible screams outside the garage as a crowd of dead flowed out of the darkness to envelop the frightened people who were standing just outside the vehicle bay. The moans of the dead mixed with the blood curdling cries of the people told the entire story. It was time to leave. But first they had to find the First Daughters.

Several people were screaming terrible, primal howls as they were being consumed by spread out crowds of undead when the side door flew open and the crack of gunfire echoed throughout the zoo and deaders began to hit the pavement. The soldiers and militiamen burst from the door and began taking down the dead in expert fashion. Each one was a seasoned pro and they dispatched the dead so quickly and efficiently they cleared the immediate area in a few moments. The moans and cries of the dead and awful screams of people being pursued, caught and eaten alive were echoing all around them throughout the zoo.

One of Dr. Wrights goon kids sprinted by screaming in terror, a hisser hot on his tail. The LT lifted his rifle and took just enough lead and pulled the trigger, tossing the hisser off its feet as the bullet caught it in the skull and it hit the ground and slid to an abrupt stop, face down.

The Gunny reached out and clothes lined the kid as he tried to run by, stopping the kid in his tracks and dropping him to the ground. He then reached down and picked the dazed kid up off the ground and held him by the scruff of his jacket. He leaned in close and growled at the kid “Unless you want me to feed you to these things I would suggest you tell me where Dr. Wright put the girls.” The kid, already white with fear turned even paler and simply pointed in the direction of the living quarters. Raines released the kid and he immediately ran off into the darkness.

The Gunny and LT led the way as they quickly trotted the several hundred yards to the living area taking down a few dead that stumbled along the road aimlessly. When they arrived what greeted them was a scene so awful that none of the men could believe it. The entire parking area was covered in thick pools of blood. Clumps of dead were everywhere, growling at each other and pulling at the entrails of victims that lay scattered by the dozen around the lot some still alive and screaming, even struggling weakly as the knots of dead men and women consumed them. The creatures were slicked head to toe with fresh blood and seemed to delight in rolling and playing in the guts and gore of these unfortunate souls.

The men took action instantly and in another brutal and efficient operation cleared the parking lot of the dead with methodical timing. Cutting their way past them to the door of the living area, they knocked loudly at the locked door and called out for it to be opened. It was opened and the men all filed in quickly and the door shut and locked tight and the Gunny looked around and noticed there were 30 very frightened people standing around the door. Most of them were from the group of women and children that had escaped from the almost-execution. The two First Daughters were here as well. They were sitting off to one side clutching each other.

Gunny Raines spoke up to the crowd “Listen folks, shit’s hit the fan out there. This place is done for. Now, we’re going to make our way back to the vehicle garage with as many people as we can gather and get the hell out of here. I want everyone to form up in the middle of the ring the men will form and you listen to me. If I say run, run. If say stop, stop. If you follow directions, you might just make it out of here alive. The alternative…” and the Gunny just let the silence hang there before the frightened crowd nodded in agreement.

“Okay, what do you say we get out of here LT?” the Gunny said.

“Damn straight gunny! Okay men! Form up, defense ring formation, let’s get the civvies home!” and a loud hooah erupted from the men and they filed out the door and formed up in the lot. They then proceeded to move at a brisk walking pace across the lot and onto the road that led back to the maintenance garage.

They were halfway there when a couple hissers, trailed by a huge pack of regular dead came bounding up the roadway. The Gunny shouted for the men to form a skirmish line in front of the crowd. The people in the crowd whined in fear and some in the back began to back away as if to head back to the living quarters. The Gunny shouted for them to follow orders and stay where they were. The Gunny was terrified at losing control of this crowd that had grown to almost fifty people and if they panicked and ran like a herd of cattle, they would all be killed.

Suddenly, a 450 pound mass of screaming black and silver fur came roaring out of the bushes next the crowd. The women in the group screamed out in terror as Kang, smelling the dead, had come out in a rage. He flew past, running on his knuckles and hind legs, his mouth wide open presenting his fangs and screaming a primal roar none of the people had ever heard before. Kang stood up on two legs between the crowd of terrified civilians and the group of dead and beat against his chest wildly. It sounded like two wooden mallets being beat on a hollow log and it echoed across the zoo. The hissers felt absolutely no intimidation from this display of natural strength from their potential meal, and so they charged at Kang, hissing wildly. The first one leaped into the air and Kang caught it in a massive bear hug, enveloping the emaciated deader in his long and powerful arms and squeezed. The crack of bones was heard and then Kang, roaring like the primal beast he was reached down with those nasty canine teeth and took a huge chunk out of the neck of the hisser effectively decapitating it. He dropped its limp body to the ground as the other hisser raced within reach.

His massive, hairy arm shot out like a piston and snatched the hisser by the throat. It instantly stopped hissing as Kang, with the ease that one would squeeze a ball of cotton crushed the creature’s windpipe and snapped its neck. He then lifted it off its feet and grabbing one of its arms by the elbow screamed out and pulled. With a snap, crackle, pop and a tearing sound the arm came free from the hisser and Kang then pile drove the corpse into the ground in anger. The wet slap of its body sounding out as it was choke slammed into the pavement several times before being thrown carelessly to the side.

Kang ran forward on two legs, pounding on his chest and roaring before dropping to all fours and charging sideways at the pack of undead in front of him. Using his muscled bulk like a battering ram he rolled through the crowd of deaders with the ease of a bowling ball hitting a strike. Like pins the deaders were scattered through the air and on the ground. Then like a machine Kang went to work systematically dismembering the dead within reach. He reached down and grabbed one unfortunate deader by the ankle and lifted it up off the ground and then slapped its limp form against the pavement breaking its neck and then using it as a club to beat several other deaders, sweeping them aside into the bushes before dropping the now useless and misshapen body to the ground.

He spun around and around within the crowd of deaders, wild with screams and literally tore the crowd to pieces with his fangs and overwhelming strength so quickly that the Gunny was reminded of the Tasmanian Devil from the Looney Toons. Body parts flew in all directions, heads, arms, torsos, legs. Like a blender Kang worked his way over the crowd, leaving nothing in his wake but a pile of twitching moaning torsos, and scattered arms and legs laying around. He then screamed, beat on his chest and fled into the darkness down the road on all fours to continue the hunt.

“There’s our chance! Move people!” The LT shouted and the crowd began moving as quickly as possible while still staying organized down the road. They heard Kang roar again in abject rage and in a moment came upon him as he finished off a hisser that had been foolish enough to charge him. He had it pinned on the ground and was jumping up and down on its head, smashing it like a watermelon and screaming with anger before continuing on down the road leaving a thin twitching body laying out in the road with a red, chunky streak being all that remained of its head. The people followed a trail of body parts left behind by the enraged Gorilla as it worked its way down the road, dismembering in seconds whatever dead happened to be within his sight.

They finally reached the vehicle garage and Kang continued running past and disappeared into the darkness where he was heard crashing through the underbrush howling out and the moans of the dead answered in response before thrashing and crashing within the bushes told the tale of what Kang was doing to the dead within the trees that surrounded the road. The crowd of people used the distraction of the wildly fighting Gorilla to make it to safety inside the vehicle bay.

Since the crowd of people was smaller than planned, it was decided that the best way would be load everyone up in the two shuttle buses and have them ride behind the M-60 as it plowed their way to freedom and safety far outside the city. The rest, all men, would ride on the outside of the tank and the Stryker and try to fend off the worst of the hissers and deaders.

The People, frightened to the point of simple herd instinct, were literally herded into the buses where they took a seat. Frightened children clutched their mothers in desperate fear and the poor women themselves were torn with terror. Lids and Deadhead Ned mounted up into the Stryker. The LT called out. “Thompson, Garcia.” And the two men ran forward and saluted the LT. “Thompson, you were Armor before you were Airborne, right?” Thompson answered with hooah.

“Okay, you two take the tank, Thompson on the wheel, Garcia on the gun, let’s get rolling.” And the men saluted quickly and ran to the M-60 and began climbing inside and starting it up. Engines roared to life and headlights came on. The huge corrugated garage doors were rocking and back and forth and the moans of dead on the other side could be heard. They were scratching and pounding on the metal doors. One of the men ran over to a button console on the wall and pushed the button and the doors began to slowly lift.

As the doors slowly rose, the legs of a mass of dead could be seen at first and then as the door rose higher their true mass became visible in the bright headlights. There were hundreds, and the dead for a moment seemed to be dazzled by all the headlights shining in their faces. They sort of stared, dumbstruck for a moment like deer on a dark country highway. Then the world exploded in a wall of gunfire and deaders suddenly disappeared in puffs of black mist. The tank rolled forward into the crowd, Garcia hanging halfway out of the commander’s hatch, blasting away with the .50 at everything around him and clearing a huge slick path through the crowd.

The buses pulled out next following slowly behind the tank as it crushed over everything in its path, rotated to the right and continued down the service road towards the main gate. The Stryker pulled out last, men clinging to the top of it, shooting off to the sides at the few dead that remained in the area. The Tank thundered along and turned towards the main gate. The gate was packed with a steady stream of dead flowing in from the street. The tank engine roared as Thompson hit the gas and the tank belched smoke and then tore into the crowd. The dead were caught beneath the treads of the tank and smashed to a sick pulp, the entire time Garcia is hooting and firing wildly with the .50 cal. The caravan turned left out of the gate and continued down the street, crushing over the packs of dead that happened to be in the way and disappeared into the darkness, leaving the dead behind to explore the zoo.

Several hours later the LT was on a battered HAM radio set with National Command Authority in Benny’s bunker like house. He identified himself with a special code, and was transferred directly to the Presidential Offices in Aspen.

“Please hold for the President, Lieutenant.” came back from the communications officer. After a moment a voice was heard.

“Lieutenant Volker?”

“Yes Mr. President.”

“I understand you have information to report?”

“Yes sir. You’re daughters are safe. We recovered them along with about fifty other survivors.”

“Thank God, and thank you as well Lieutenant. I understand you have some other information?”

The LT took the next few minutes to fill the President in on the situation. The man, sitting thousands of miles away in an office in Aspen, listened with grave attention as the LT discussed the hissers and the danger of their spreading.

“What is it exactly you recommend I do Lieutenant?” said the President, wanting to be sure he heard properly.

“I recommend that you authorize for Columbus to be immediately and permanently sterilized, sir.” The LT came back

The President nodded. “Well, color me skeptical Lieutenant, but you must understand my reluctance to detonate a thermonuclear weapon over an American city, even one infected by the dead.”

“Mr. President, There are people scattered across this entire State, entire country. Millions of them who are living in isolated communities that are still surviving. If these things spread, it’ll be even worse than the first time. This needs to happen Mr. President.” the LT said with deadpan seriousness.

“Very well Lieutenant, I’ll let you know my decision one way or another within 12 hours.” The President said.

“Yes Sir.”

The President hung up the phone and stared out at the idyllic, snow-capped peaks through the window to his office, then picked up the phone.

***

Kang sat on a thick limb of a large oak tree somewhere in the Zoo. His fur was caked in black slime from a night of tearing bodies apart. He was exhausted, bleeding, and dying. Though he was immune to Factor Z, his body was not immune to exhaustion and stress. His heart was giving out, and slowly winding to a stop. He had climbed into the tree to get away from the grasping hands of hundreds of undead which collected around the tree in which he sat. He was too exhausted now to even utter a growl. He just looked around at the massive crowd as it swayed back and forth beneath him, reaching up and calling for his primate flesh.

A sharp burning sensation ran through his chest, spreading through his arms. His breathing became slower and slower. Suddenly, a loud roar was heard overhead and he looked up as an F-111 shot right over him at full afterburner, before turning for the sky. It rose, higher and higher and higher and Kang’s eyes followed it as it zoomed into the clear blue sky. Then, a shiny object seemed to come free from the plane after which it turned onto its back and disappeared in the direction it had come.

Kang’s eyes slowly closed, his breathing stopped and then he went limp and tumbled from the branch, landing with a loud thud onto the mass of dead below, crushing many beneath his bulk. As the crowd surged in to finally pick the huge carcass clean, a blinding flash of white hot light rolled over the crowd vaporizing it, and everything around it for miles.

The End

I remember the last mission, killing that fanatic to save the king of a small Arab nation vital for our operations in the Middle East, just not every detail now.

Knowing his mind was sometimes wiped of certain data once a mission had ended, Sergeant Henry Lee ‘Hank’ Peterson formerly of the U.S. Army 25th Infantry Division remained relaxed, having little choice inside an electronically-monitored casket leaning at its 45-degree angle against one wall. Known to Army and CIA operatives by the code name Agent Romero since 1969, the single successful subject of the Vietnam War-era Project: Gravedigger, Peterson had been another KIA from South Vietnam’s infamous Iron Triangle during a battle months after 1968’s Tet Offensive.

With the 3rd Brigade, I earned my stripes and commendations after only nine months in the field, avoiding booze, drugs and whores, keeping my nose clean as a 19-year-old far from home.

Peterson still remembered the exact date he died at the hands of a young Vietcong rebel whose AK-47 round got through the gap in his loose flak vest and the heart beneath, just as the GI fired one grenade from his M-16’s launcher tube that blew the teenage enemy to bits seconds later – May 28, 1968.

The next thing I knew was waking up at a lab near Bethesda, Maryland months later.

Peterson felt latex-gloved hands examining his corpse’s preserved condition as it thawed, two men chatting about his reactivation.

“So, they think this stiff might solve what’s happened from spreading any further?”

“I guess,” the other man’s voice huffed, “don’t know, Roy, just doing what the orders say. At least we know he won’t bite us, not like others treated with that alien stuff.”

“Yeah,” ‘Roy’ replied, “or ones on the news now or in those old horror movies. I still don’t like it, Charlie. This dude is giving me the creeps just seeing him.”

“Look,” ‘Charlie’ disconnected electrodes from the corpse’s naked trunk, genitals and legs, “he’s not like things killing folks we’ve heard spreading from major cities. Just finish this survey and let the docs start testing him.”

Oh God, I miss home, Peterson’s still-active consciousness occasionally registered nostalgic thoughts about the life he had once lived on a family farm outside Great Bend in Barton County Kansas, but how long has it been?

The special agent then felt those men working controls in that capsule around his body, when he concentrated on severing the computer link. Peterson then released his brain from that built-in hard drive regulating the pod, figuring out over the years how to sever an electronic tether and opened glowing, once sky-blue eyes to face two Army technicians in lab coats and khaki utility uniforms surprised by the staring corpse.

“Oh crap,” the dark-haired balding Sergeant Charlie Porter dropped pen and clipboard checklist, stepping back from Peterson and retrieving them, “he’s not supposed to even do that until the review is over. Should we call Dr. Farnsworth?”

“I’ll check the connections again,” Specialist Roy Jensen had his hands on an interface keypad to Peterson’s right in that chamber, before the shrugging curly blonde man concluded, “maybe it’s just an autonomic response – or some equipment glitch.”

The clean-shaven brown-haired former banker’s son realized this was his best chance to return home from where he had been locked away. The reanimated man tore his wrists free of Velcro fabric restraints, grabbed both men before him and smashed their skulls together with enhanced strength. Pulling both legs free of restraints, Peterson stumbled onto hands and knees, muscles soon remembering how to walk after years in storage.

“I – thin—ach, um,” shaking the head and clearing a throat that had made no sounds for some time, Peterson slowly rose to his feet, disoriented as he looked around this large room having no windows, with a row of hooded lights hanging off the darkened ceiling illuminating two rows of similar thick white cylindrical tubes like one he had just exited. He checked the technicians and found they had died from his sudden, swift attack lying together face-down.

I never intended that. If this is the usual top secret facility, I’ll need to be smart about escaping here.

Peterson stuffed the corpses inside other containers and restrained each limb by the Velcro straps, after taking their ID badges, money from the wallets and Sergeant Porter’s lab coat for temporary covering using the other man’s coat for wiping up their blood. He found ID badges opened doors to these rooms with electronic lock boxes when sliding a card’s magnetic strip through, having minor familiarity with that technology. Hearing thumping sounds from inside tubes where he left those dead men, the freed corpse crept through low-lit hallways of a windowless interior and its antiseptic white or gray walls, floor and ceiling tiles, reading signs for directions until he found the nearest changing room with individual locker rows.

First, I’ll need a disguise to escape undetected before I ever see Kansas again.

Forcing a few locker doors open with heightened strength from the Project: Gravedigger serum that had replaced his blood long ago, Henry discarded morality for survival, recalling old assassin programming occasionally through partially retained memories from 65 CIA-sponsored missions. He rifled through personal items of soldiers here until finding a set of civilian clothes and Class-A Army uniform (belonging to First Lieutenant Marcus Krebs) that fit closely enough. This officer also had orders for three days of ‘Holiday R&R’ starting in six hours. Peterson donned the dress uniform, overcoat and Special Forces beret, after packing other items in a khaki duffle bag, adding Ray-Ban sunglasses after noticing his shining irises and glowing pupils inside one bathroom mirror.

Well, it’s about time I got promoted and commissioned after being stuck her so long.

Peterson was overcome with brief dizziness and held onto a sink as suppressed or partially-erased memories from overseas missions in 1969 to 1975 rushed through his brain. Shaking off that odd sensation, ‘Lieutenant Krebs’ shouldered the duffle bag holding civilian clothes and all cash he had taken from lockers or off those technicians, before leaving when two enlisted men entered while saluting him. Returning that salute and never arousing their suspicions, the Lieutenant hanged a spare badge from the man’s locker on that uniform below the jacket’s upper left side campaign ribbon row and a last name tag.

“Be careful out there, Sir,” one of two guards at the ground floor’s main exit advised him, when he passed through their checkpoint minutes later, “latest reports say the plague is out of control around Bakersfield.”

“And there’s been an emergency in the main lab downstairs,” the other guard’s brown skin contrasting to the first’s fairer complexion, “but you have a good leave, Sir.”

“I’ve seen more death than you can imagine, Son,” Peterson had finally regained his voice to a gravel-like strained level after exercising jaw muscles and vocal chords on the elevator ride from downstairs, “but I’ll keep alert just the same. Carry on.”

He was out the main gate to this isolated desert military facility hearing more alarms behind him, driving off in Krebs’ white Ford Ranger after having found spare keys in the locker and the officer’s parking spot on this base.

Well, signing out a Humvee might’ve been suspicious. It’s a shame about Jeeps being replaced. I’ll ditch this later and find lower profile transportation home.

The man encountered sparse traffic on State Route 58 (the Bakersfield-Barstow Highway), smoke columns rising in his rear-view mirror back at the Lindbergh Special Projects Army Base or possibly neighboring Edwards Air Force Base. His destination on the orders read Bakersfield, but he continued through Barstow, California onto Interstate 15 northeast.

So, I’m in California, same place as last I remember in ’75. I’ve got quite a trip before seeing Kansas again.

Peterson viewed time indications from one hanging paper calendar and a few electronic bank clocks. This was apparently Tuesday, July 2nd, 1996.

Boy, I put in my own twenty years as Rip Van Winkle.

#

Hank Peterson bought a Greyhound bus ticket near Las Vegas, Nevada, after abandoning the Ranger and changing into civvies in one bathroom, but kept sunglasses on examining the familiar face in a mirror. The Army maintained his deceased body well enough, suntanned skin looking only slightly greenish in spots easily concealed under makeup, damages by bullets and holes they left all repaired from cosmetic surgery or the Gravedigger serum’s slow regenerative properties. After some 20 years inside the machine, Hank had tapped into a few classified files on the special project spawning one undead CIA assassin.

Apparently none of the other subjects responded positively to the serum made from reverse-engineered UFO technology. Those men went berserk and attacked Army personnel. Bitten victims soon acted just as homicidal and everyone infected, aside from yours truly, was liquidated. The brass never did figure out why I was their one success.

Replacing the glasses after glancing at those eyes when no one else was around, Peterson pulled on that leather sheepskin-lined bomber-style jacket over the white shirt, above blue jeans and white sneakers. He exited the bathroom with his duffle bag to board the east-bound bus that would take I-15 toward Utah. Everywhere there were police with semi-automatic and automatic rifles, more than he had seen in rural California, large newer signs warning civilians that certain aspects of martial law were in effect during this national emergency. He never asked too many questions to avoid drawing attention toward self.

I just want to get home with this Lieutenant’s ID, as I’ll tell anyone asking my business.

Hank Peterson sat next to a young man about his age when he originally died in Vietnam, the youth with a long ‘mullet’ style haircut dyed bright red, dressed in that black T-shirt with Che Guevara’s face stenciled in red, puffy camouflage pants and Doc Martin brown boots. The zombie had two other complete outfits from Krebs’ possessions for his cross-country trip, but admired this 1990s youth’s aggressive appearance.

“So, are you in the service too?” Hank resisted using the word ‘son’ at the end of that question, realizing his body also retained its youthful appearance from 1968.

“Nah, numb nuts,” this brown-eyed frowning man indicated sitting to Peterson’s left at the window on their side of the aisle, “I’m into concert promotion, but had to split LA after the crazy shit going on there. Stinking corpses from Compton, Watts and East LA are taking over. I’m lying low east of the Rockies for a while, somewhere safer.”

Peterson glimpsed a young short-haired brunette woman in her knitted tank top and cutoff denim shorts seated right on the aisle one row ahead using a device (laptop computer) watching almost real-time news feeds on the ‘Zombie Crisis in America.’ Most major cities in North America were battlegrounds for riot police and special military units against an ever-growing force of walking dead. Some non-mainstream sources were quoted as saying black helicopters and top-secret military operations had caused it all. The government avoided placing blame for this epidemic’s origin, providing public information about defending against undead loved ones and the serious dangers of infection if bitten or scratched.

Would these folks freak out knowing I’m something similar to those … what was that name – zombies.

Passing through some guarded toll booths or exits along I- 15 out of Vegas and after switching to Interstate 70 around Cove Fork, Utah for a trip east concluding at Baltimore, Maryland, Peterson could see America crumbling at the margins, the bus’ passengers glimpsing soldiers and law enforcement shooting any walking corpses on sight but always at a safe distance from this vehicle’s route for the most part.

After I get off in Kansas, it’s a long dangerous walk to Great Bend. I’d better hitchhike or rent a car after the ride is no longer headed my way.

Departing the bus when it was stopped by traffic west of the I-70/I-135 intersection, Hank wandered down the north-south oriented Interstate 135, despite the driver’s protestations he could not disembark before scheduled stops at Kansas City, St. Louis, Indianapolis and Columbus. No one picked up hitchhikers in this paranoid climate he discovered, but his reanimated legs got used to marching again. That night approaching a McDonalds in McPherson, Kansas before starting west on US-56 for Great Bend, Hank saw a Golden Arches employee attack one customer in the parking lot beside her blue Ford Taurus.  Breaking up that assault with fists and duffle bag, the ex-soldier was puzzled when the gangly young dark-haired man in his brown uniform and baseball-style cap paused and stared straight at him.

“I don’t think the lady’s interested,” Peterson glanced at the victim slumped against her opened driver’s side door, the bleeding carotid artery torn at the neck where she was bitten, “back off, Dude.”

The pale young man with blood on his face and uniform then turned and stumbled toward that restaurant as if going to work. Hank helped the shocked dying woman from her car to lean against some parking lot shrubbery.

“Thank – thank you,” she gasped as those green eyes stared into his sunglasses-covered ones and he stroked her disheveled brown hair while noting the lime-green tailored jacket and skirt with cream-colored blouse covered by blood, “but I need – need a doctor or an ambulance. Please, call 911.”

I know enough about battle wounds to see she’s in shock and needs emergency surgery. Sorry, Ma’am.

Hank sat next to her, pondering why the zombie, whom he now heard causing screams inside the restaurant, had relented from attacking him, before the dying woman stop breathing and fell over. Peterson stood and retrieved his duffle bag, finding she had placed her keys into the ignition but not managed to start that Taurus. Seconds later, Peterson looked over and saw the other dead body begin moving on its own before ignoring him and the car to wander off searching for something.

Just like that guy, she’s not interested in me. Do they sense I’m different than other people?

Throwing that duffle bag onto the passenger’s seat and climbing behind the wheel, Peterson soon remembered automatic transmission driving, as with that manual transmission Ranger. Heading onto US-56 west, Hank realized he had not been hungry for food at that restaurant earlier, or the human flesh and brains radio commentators claim zombies preferred (from a late-night AM station conspiracy theory show). He drove below the speed limit, grateful this Ford’s owner had more than half a tank of gas left in it, as there were fewer outward signs here of emergency conditions prevailing near major roads and small cities unlike Peterson’s earlier experiences.

Wait a second, Hank now realized one pitfall to his plans for returning home, how do I explain this to Ma and Pa or Tina when they see me again? And what about Becky, does she still live there? Did she ever marry someone?

Regaining inner calm after brief trepidation, Hank realized he needed to check a few things first, soon recalling the family had plots at Hillcrest Memorial Park Cemetery and presuming his empty casket would have been sent there for burial. Waiting until the cemetery opened after dawn, Peterson stopped at the section called Tranquil Meadow, but only found two markers there for parents George and Naomi.

Just a damn minute, despite knowing twenty-eight years had passed since he was last home, Hank sank to his knees before the markers, reading father George had died in 1983 and Naomi just last December before this crisis started, where’s my marker? Don’t tell me that empty box was sent off to Arlington.

Returning to Great Bend, he inquired at the city’s cemetery office about “old friend” Sergeant Peterson’s 1968 burial and learned to some relief it had been at Veterans Memorial Park. The man looked up his own phony resting spot where a white cross confirmed Sergeant Henry Lee Peterson had been killed in action on May 28, 1968 at age 19.

What happened to Tina or Becky?

Departing where his body officially rested, Hank looked in a local telephone directory but found no address or number for either kid sister Tina Peterson or former girlfriend Rebecca Travers in the Great Bend area (later realizing both might have different married names by now).

“So, am I all alone?”

Leaning against the steering wheel while parked along 10th Street beside a public pay phone, Hank had two last places left to inspect before abandoning his quest.

#

No, it’s too late.

Hank Peterson stood beside the blue Taurus facing that two-story farmhouse where he grew up, removing sunglasses and facing north to behold its peeling white-painted wood and black-painted shutters beneath a gray tile roof, two oak trees at either side of the gravel driveway leading to a barn northeast of the main home. To the left of one oak tree stood some realty company’s billboard-size sign declaring the property had already been sold in April.

This was my last link to the past. I escaped for nothing.

Hank strolled around the property the rest of that morning, wandering empty fields where corn or soybeans once grew, his father George a part-time farmer and full-time vice-president at American State Bank & Trust in town. Mother Naomi ran the farm full-time as her husband was the banker paying their bills, Hank recalled. The barn was empty of livestock, of course, and even any junk, so he tried the front door after ascending five wooden steps onto that front porch past the hanging swing stirred by a slight western breeze. Finding the entrance unlocked, Peterson walked in, announcing to no one: “Hey, I’m finally home.”

Unable to cry since being reanimated, Hank sighed at the empty living room devoid of furnishings and containing only ten cardboard storage boxes filled with old papers or keepsakes near the kitchen’s doorway. He inspected the entire first and second floors and storm cellar, finding only empty space, including his former upstairs corner bedroom looking down on the west fields.

Maybe it’s just as well Ma died too, he shook his head in replacing those sunglasses from the shirt’s pocket, poor lady might’ve died of fright seeing her boy back from the dead.

Returning to the dust-covered hardwood floor living room, he began going through boxes for clues to what happened with his sister or other acquaintances. Having stopped by the Travers farmhouse a half-mile further west earlier, Hank met the family named Reese living there. Becky’s parents both had apparently also died since he was last home.

The new owners didn’t know what had happened to her, all paranoid about this crisis.

Peterson dug through books, photos and papers as memories returned seeing stored treasures his mother must have kept only for a sister to leave behind and throw out. He flipped through the 1967 yearbook for Great Bend High School, stopping at a rare color photo of the all-state baseball team with Hank as their shortstop. Inside a family album, he found his Great Bend High Senior Prom photo with Rebecca Lynn Travers, the tall brown-haired banker’s son looking handsome in an April 1967 rented blue tuxedo. At his left stood Becky, the apple-cheeked strawberry-blonde farmer’s daughter wearing her strapless peach gown. They were the Midwestern All-American couple before Hank got drafted and headed to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.

I hadn’t even graduated yet when my notice arrived in early May. Becky said she’d wait for me at college.

Hank could no longer remember if the young woman’s major would be home economics, political science or something else. He planned on seeking a business degree to please George since professional baseball scouts never saw his high school games. Hank had also felt the duty to serve, his World War II veteran father encouraging that sentiment, and never sought a student deferment from the Vietnam War’s adventure.

I showed a talent for leadership and ambushes and got two stripes within six months in country, before getting killed nine months into my tour as the short-timer.

Digging through boxes for other papers or memorabilia, Hank never heard one vehicle pull onto the drive and park behind his borrowed Ford, barely noticing footsteps across that porch until the front door’s handle turned announcing a visitor.

Shoot, someone’s here. How do I explain this?

Unable to find cover in the empty room while sitting among those boxes, Hank was surprised to see an almost-familiar face step inside. It was his now 44-year-old sister Tina in the red blazer jacket, long blue dress, red pumps and her once dark-blonde hair now ash-tinted with golden highlights styled into a bun. Peterson’s combat reflexes took over in leaping from his seated position, when she gasped with widened blue-green eyes at discovering an unexpected intruder soon grabbing and forcing her onto the floor.

“NO, don’t touch me – AIEE-MMPH!”

The 6’ 2” 190-pound zombie restrained that 5’ 6” 124-pound woman as she knocked his glasses away before he clamped a left hand over her mouth.

I mustn’t hurt her.

“Tina,” he reassured the squirming, frightened lady, “it’s me, Hank! I finally made it home from the war, Sis. Promise me you won’t scream and I’ll let you up.”

The bulging eyes studied those facial features preserved by the serum and occasional cosmetic surgery as she was shocked at his cold flesh against her face. Nodding, Tina sat up allowing him to help her stand, the lady lost for words at an unexpected reunion.

“Oh, my God, it – it is you, Hank. But you look almost the same as when,” she retrieved a photo of Corporal Peterson sent home Christmas 1967 from one box to compare faces, “no, it’s not possible. I saw your sealed casket. The Army said you’d been killed.”

“I was, or at least that’s what this shows,” he unbuttoned the white shirt’s front to reveal traces of a chest-level bullet entry hole left of the sternum’s center, “when my company swept an Iron Triangle village. This young VC about your age then got me before I blew him to bits with a grenade.”

Tina saw other small scars from injuries Hank had endured as the CIA’s lone undead assassin, almost crying before allowing this only brother to hold her after he reclosed that shirt.

“This is incredible. We lived for years believing you were buried in the Veteran cemetery. Pa never recovered from losing you right up to his heart attack. Ma mourned you more quietly and died of cancer.” She broke free of his touch to stare at the man before passing out. “But – how – how did you…?”

Hank caught Tina and gently stretched her across the floor, feeling a pulse but uncertain if she suffered medical conditions accounting for that fainting. He peered outside the door to see (presumably) her red Ford Bronco parked behind his borrowed blue Taurus.

No purse on her – maybe she’s got medicine out there in one. I’d better check before I call an ambulance.

Inspecting her vehicle, he soon found one water bottle and the black handbag, bringing both inside when discovering his sister rising off the floor to face him. Accepting the plastic bottle, she took a few sips before speaking.

“Sorry, Hank, it’s probably low blood sugar. I skipped breakfast with Alvin and just stopped to collect the last of Ma’s stuff and thought that Ford was the developer’s. There’ll be a new mall built here next year, assuming all this craziness doesn’t crash the entire commercial real estate market.”

“Imagine my shock at finding out I was the walking dead,” Hank half-joked as Tina’s comments explained that sign in their yard, “waking up back in 1969. But there’s so much we need to catch up on, Sis, I barely know where to start.”

#

The reunited siblings carried boxes out to Tina’s Ford, filling each other in on their lives (hers as a living human) since 1968 and abandoning that Taurus. The woman soon acted as though this was perfectly normal, even though her brother’s return had coincided with the recent undead epidemic spreading further across America.

“After high school, I dropped out of nursing school,” Tina Meyers was still processing the fact her brother had been a CIA assassin until the 1975 Senator Frank Church Committee hearings curtailed covert assassinations, “married Alvin after he’d got back from ’Nam with health problems due to that Agent Orange defoliant. We had two boys, Arthur in ’74 and Wallace in ’76, or Artie and Wally as they liked to be called. Artie’s in the Corps posted with the Moroccan US embassy’s guard detail and Wally still attending Texas A. & M.”

Getting her realtor’s license by 1978, Tina had become the primary breadwinner, while Hank still found it hard to believe skinny Alvin Meyers had become a Marine after his teenage years being picked on by jocks. As they drove through Great Bend, he told her about Project: Gravedigger reviving his body with some crashed UFO’s technology, and that seven-year career as Agent Romero (named in honor of a zombie horror movie director). He proved impervious to small arms fire and made a perfect assassin for any difficult-to-reach target.

“I was being considered for a mission against Castro before twenty years in storage, but think they reactivated me because of this zombie plague. I escaped and made it here instead. The Army must’ve thought my condition could solve the plague problem somehow.”

Tina had stopped to close her realty office in town before heading toward a split-level home five miles east of Great Bend on US-56 where Alvin awaited his wife’s returning that afternoon with take-out dinner.

“Hank, what are your plans now? I mean you could crash at our place in the boys’ old bedroom once I’ve explained this all to Alvin, but we can’t let the neighbors know you’re a…”

“Zombie is the word,” Hank then added something else he had heard on a talk radio program earlier, “or the US Census Bureau might classify me an undead-American. I’m probably considered technically AWOL by the Army too.”

“This isn’t funny, Brother dear.”

Pondering Tina’s earlier question as they left the downtown portion of Great Bend, Hank later knew there was one thing left he still wanted in this world.

“I need to see her.”

“Who else could you possibly-? Oh no, you can’t. She had a hard life after your death. Becky almost quit college in her grief. The poor lady switched to nursing, one hard subject I found out, got her degree, married some jerk doctor who cheated before and after their two kids were born, and left her for his moonlighting stripper receptionist.”

“Tina, she was one of the few things keeping me going while in country with Easy Company,” Hank reminded her, “if you’d ever read any of my letters home.”

I would’ve entered the University of Kansas that fall on the G.I. Bill after finishing my tour.

“Hank,” Tina reached out and took his left hand, despite still being disturbed by its cool temperature, “if my seeing you was a shock today, as if the last twenty-eight years never happened, what’ll it be like for her? Can she accept it?”

“Tina,” Hank caressed her manicured red-painted nails in his hands until she pulled away, “if you know where Becky is, give me directions and I’ll walk there. You won’t have to be mixed up in this any further.”

Giggling briefly, Hank recalling the teenager he had known years ago. Pausing once for sighing between sentences, Tina offered: “We’re kin, so I’m already involved. I’ll drive you there.”

The realtor took the next eastbound lane exit and parked in a restaurant’s lot before using her silver cellular phone from the large black purse between them on the floor.

“I need to call Alvin and tell him I’ll be late getting home. Becky lives in Topeka.  She’d kept in touch with Ma for years, especially after her parents died while driving back from a visit there three years ago.”

#

The drive to Topeka took a few hours and Hank paid for the gasoline with the last $50 he took at that California Army base. They found the highways (US-56 and US-77) adequate for getting from Great Bend to their final destination and saw few hints of the spreading zombie trouble. Toll highway Interstate 335 had more check points and warning signs along its northeast route, seeming worse the closer Tina’s red Bronco came to Topeka. Hank pulled out his Lieutenant Krebs Army ID and an official sounding manner whenever needing to dissuade scrutiny from Kansas state patrolmen and local or county cops along their drive, managing that military bluff well enough every time.

“In this third month of America’s growing undead crisis, the CDC in Atlanta is dispatching additional personnel to handle processing of recently deceased in preventing further spread of the strange infection and losses in civilian lives. Funeral homes and crematoria nationwide have been given new guide—”

Tina switched off her car’s FM radio, a public news station she tuned in to settle nerves glimpsing horrors along I-335.

“Hey, I was listening to that,” Hank mildly protested, but then joked about this situation until seeing Tina’s trepidation behind the wheel, “just getting facts on undead Americans. I can drive if you’re tired.”

“No, that’s okay,” she laughed before supposing, “I guess you’re never tired after what they did to you, right?”

“The only rest I ever got was being immobilized inside that storage pod on the base. And even if I did need sleep, I think I’ve slept enough – 20 years as Rip Van Winkle.”

I love Tina, but how can any living human understand me?

Tina had revealed to Hank that Becky was a nurse working at Topeka’s Colmery O’Neill VA Medical Center, and lived with her two teenage children in a two-story home on Southwest Prairie Road of West Topeka – December 1984 divorce settlement spoils from ex-husband Theodore K. Hunt, M.D.

Hank and Tina saw large smoke columns rising from Topeka’s central and eastern neighborhoods. Listening to a local radio station while headed along I-470 after leaving 335, they heard the Governor had fled his residence and was meeting with the state’s legislators and police/highway patrol commanders at some nearby emergency headquarters to review the state’s crisis response plan.

This might not have been the best idea, the fugitive man realized, using stolen military credentials and keeping those sunglasses on at all times, hauling Tina into this mess.

They drove east off 470 onto Southwest 21st Street, north at Southwest Crest Drive and parked across from 1728 Southwest Prairie Road facing a corner with Southwest 19th Street.

“Here comes her car,” Tina noted that vehicle in the early evening’s sunlight, a green Chrysler Town & Country minivan with imitation wood panel trim, “Ted’s receptionist was moonlighting nights as a stripper and it turned on the horny bastard enough he finally left Becky. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“So do I,” he kissed her right cheek, the realtor getting used to that cold touch, “wish me luck, Sis.”

Hank Peterson adjusted his jacket collar and watched Becky Hunt pull her SUV into the attached two-car garage’s left side beside that two-story house. She had raised the door with an automatic opener and stopped next to a black Honda motorcycle as Hank strolled across that road toward her home. The 46-year-old nurse lifted two brown paper grocery sacks from the back seats at the sliding right side door and turned toward that doorway leading inside her kitchen when she finally caught sight of the approaching stranger. Hank decided Becky looked attractive in her blue medical scrubs two-piece uniform with white sneakers, the slightly-graying darker blonde hair in a ponytail.

“Can I help you?” She then gasped when Hank removed the sunglasses and smiled, dropping her bundle in recognizing that long-dead man. “Hank, oh my God, that’s – you were buried in Great Bend and…”

One sack containing something glass made the loudest crash when those hit the cement floor beside her shoes.

“Mom,” a girl’s voice called out from an opened door behind the nurse facing this unexpected visitor, short-haired redheaded 14-year-old Lisa Hunt peering inside to investigate that noise, “did you drop something?”

“Was that glass?” Bushy brown-haired, lanky 17-year-old Tyler Hunt in the black Metallica T-shirt and blue bike shorts looked over his shorter sister’s head at the stranger with their mother. The teenagers had no idea who this was, as Tyler rudely asked Peterson: “Hey, what do you want, Dude?”

“Becky,” Hank pleaded as she became used to his glowing eyes, “please, I just wanted to see you again after all these years. Tell them everything is okay and we can talk some more. I’ve missed you so much, Sweetie.”

“Kids,” never looking back at them, Becky said, “I just got clumsy, had a really rough day at the hospital before my shift ended early. I’ll clean this mess.” She retrieved two white paper sacks from the minivan’s front seat, handing those items off her kids. “This is someone I knew in Great bend. Sorry dinner’s a bit late. I’ll be right in soon.”

Looking closer, Hank noticed the 5’ 2” Becky appeared a bit heavier after having two kids but still attractive in his sight. Those teens departed with fast food meals after final stares at this acquaintance of their mother’s. Two military helicopters then buzzed over that neighborhood as Hank spoke again.

“A lot has happened to me since 1968. I just want a chance to explain it all. I never forgot about you, but couldn’t get away from what I did for the CIA back then.”

Becky laughed and shook her head while salvaging the two grocery bags, setting the one without broken glass and spilled liquid (cooking oil) on that minivan’s floor first.

“Boy, you’ve got a lot of nerve coming back and giving me a crazy story like that, Hank, the world turning upside down from an unknown pathogen the CDC can’t isolate with all their money and personnel. They’ve taken over the VA hospital where I work, and I was lucky the Independence Day holiday meant working a short shift today. The shopping center and grocery store were insane with people buying everything not nailed down thinking it’s the end of the world as those dead people killing everyone has finally spread to almost every corner of the country.”

Hank slowly moved beside Becky as she salvaged shopping bags and hugged her once.

“Oh my God, you’re so cold – just like a dead…”

Peterson stepped back with both arms spread out to prevent his old girlfriend panicking.

“I swear I won’t hurt you or your kids, Rebecca.” He used her full first name whenever serious. “Please let me explain it all – how the CIA and US Army treated me with some serum out of a crashed UFO bringing me back from the dead after Vietnam. It was a project code-named Gravedigger.”

Suddenly, Tina appeared behind them and cleared her throat, nodding at the nurse.

“Hey, Becky – it’s true. I found him at our old house down the road from yours earlier today.”

Hank briefly stared at his shoes as Becky became transfixed by the man’s eyes.

“I’m guessing that’s a side effect of your treatment.”

The man nodded before Tina explained her joining them now.

“I just heard on the radio Topeka is being sealed off by the Army and police from across the Kansas River and on every road out of town.”

So that’s why we had more trouble getting through the last Interstate checkpoint at the 355/470 interchange.

“Crap,” Becky confirmed, lifting both grocery bags again, despite one being wet on the bottom, “I heard folks at work say we might evacuate patients to a special camp south of here. But they can’t just seal every living person in here, right?”

“Apparently they can,” Hank replaced the sunglasses in case anyone else saw his unnatural eyes, “like what I heard has been done in New York, LA and other big places under martial law.”

“We’d better move fast, Brother dear,” Tina insisted as she regretted their trip here for the first time, “before Topeka becomes a zombie concentration camp. We can take Becky, Tyler and Lisa with us.”

“Could you do that for us, Hank?”

Considering the matter a moment, they all heard other cars race along streets outside and somewhere beyond as jets roared overhead closely followed by explosions in the distance. Tina jumped slightly before briefly grabbing Hank’s right arm.

“What’s going on now?”

“Sounded like a low-level bombing run,” Hank led their way around the garage to look toward the downtown’s skyline and see rising fire plumes, “yeah, just like calling for an air strike on Charlie in the bush. They’re serious.”

The flames competed with a setting sun’s orange glowing on partly cloudy skies. Minutes later, residual heat from attacks across Topeka added to the sultry summer weather.”

“Get your kids and dog, Becky, take whatever you’ll need for overnight and pile into my Bronco,” Tina offered before she led that nurse inside her home, “I’ll help organize – I’m good at that.”

“Yeah,” Hank absentmindedly watched additional bombing runs releasing Napalm or some other explosives on city blocks nearer the Kansas River, “hope I can still talk us out of this with my stolen ID.”

The unusual zombie also glimpsed signs of distress from one block away on Southwest 17th Terrace to the north and beyond at what Peterson would later learn was Mount Hope Cemetery. Some locals not fleeing their homes fought off strangers or loved ones attacking them. This man recognized the other dead people were slowly winning that ground war.  Low-buzzing jets from the Kansas Air National Guard brought the man back to reality. He raced over to start Tina’s Bronco and pull it beside Becky’s drive, turning west to let her parked vehicle idle. Minutes later, Tina emerged carrying a yellow cooler chest with Becky, each also bringing one bagged clothing bundle. Somewhere behind them Tyler and Lisa were carrying school backpacks with personal items and a small white beagle trailed them, until one of those aircraft flights dropped explosives on this neighborhood. The spreading fireball consumed Becky Hunt’s house, dog Sadie and her kids as they were still inside the garage, the minivan and cycle also exploding. Tina was thrown against the Bronco’s interior and hit her head on the left rear passenger’s door. Hank pulled Becky inside the Bronco’s front seats just as they were hit by burning shrapnel.

#

Hank Peterson climbed out of the red Ford Bronco, as it lay on its left side, flipped by the explosion, and righted the car back onto four wheels by himself with serum-generated strength. Finding Tina only had a concussion and remained unconscious, and Becky’s children Tyler and Lisa Hunt were charred bone fragments inside their home’s ruins with Sadie the beagle, the man loaded Becky’s unconscious shrapnel-injured dying body into the Ford’s front seat, leaving Tina resting in back, and raced toward the hospital where Nurse Hunt worked. Using his military ID to gain access inside the Colmery O’Neill VA Center, Peterson found an abandoned examination room for checking all his ex-girlfriend’s blast injuries.

Her pulse is getting weaker, he then touched a jagged piece of metal in Becky’s left temple that bled badly along with other shrapnel injuries, also noticing her sprained right elbow from its odd angle, and this place is busy evacuating any remaining patients to safety.

He heard gunshots from rifles and pistols somewhere inside this facility, helicopters landing atop its roof and fighter jets still bombing the greater Topeka area, noting Betty Hunt’s pained features caked with soot and blood. Rubbing her face and noticing the wound on his left forearm that had already started healing with yellow serum from the dead circulatory system dried over that laceration, Peterson knew how he might prevent Becky becoming another mindless walking dead.

Radio reports said it takes minutes for a new corpse to start moving and attack the living.

Hank had felt faint hints of that craving for human flesh since his recent awakening, but realized the Gravedigger serum made him distinct from other corpses. Taking one cardiac needle and syringe, he siphoned a few ounces of the yellow-green liquid from his right elbow crook and injected it directly into Becky’s heart as her breathing slowed.

I know from reviewing computer files while in storage they had replaced all my blood with this stuff. It has to work again now.

Seconds later Becky Hunt died, but soon sat up on that exam table screaming. Hank restrained her against that gray leather upholstered surface until her thrashing motions ceased and she rested. At that moment, two men in camouflage uniforms wearing Military Police armbands and carrying M-16 rifles burst through the door, both weapons pointed straight ahead.

“We heard someone screaming,” a swarthy Latino of the duo stared at Peterson with heightened suspicion, “and – hey, what’s going on in here?”

“Oh my God,” the suntanned MP with red hair and freckles stared at the slow-moving injured Becky through widened eyes, “she’s one of them! Shoot her!”

“At ease, men,” Peterson kept his sunglasses on and pulled out that pilfered ID, “I’m Lieutenant Krebs temporarily attached to the National Security Agency. This staff nurse is going to be fine. Just leave her to me.”

“Sorry, Sir,” the first man’s dark eyes showed conviction in standing orders, “they get their freaking heads blown off, no exceptions.”

Before either man could pull his trigger, Peterson leaped across the exam room and shoved them through that door into the hallway cluttered with abandoned gurneys, IV stands and other discarded equipment or medical garments. His programming taking over, Hank crushed the trigger happy redhead’s throat chopping his trachea, suffering three hits in the left neck and shoulder. The other man’s bullets went through Hank’s right cheek, temple and scalp, but he smashed that rifle in the MP’s face fatally forcing his nose into the brain.

It didn’t hurt, just like every other time I’ve been shot.

The MPs both dead, Hank took their rifles and collected Becky, the reanimated woman now calmly allowing this former love to lead their way from this chaos as her eyes also glowed. The men he had killed would soon add to confusion inside this VA center’s deteriorating security situation.

She’s responded to the injection. Maybe it can help others like us someday become almost normal.

Peterson loaded Becky into the Bronco wrapped with a white blanket and Tina’s sunglasses over the eyes, and spread another blanket across his sister in the back seat. He reasoned jets would never attack moving ground vehicles as the average zombie lacked intelligence and driving coordination.

“We might make it, Sweetie,” he reassured the nurse still stirring occasionally as the serum continued affecting her body, “just hold on.”

He had glimpsed files inside the California base’s computer system about how the alien Gravedigger serum replenished itself by reverse-engineered advanced microorganisms. This innovation prevented dependence on transfusions to maintain any artificial life, and the scientists presumed the UFO ETs used it preserving injured bodies until later medical treatment was received. Hank removed Becky’s larger shrapnel and patched the wounds with some medical supplies from that hospital.

She might need more injections. We’ll wait out this crisis in Great Bend. It should be safe there for now.

The man used his Krebs ID to get past check points, guards that allowed him passage from Topeka’s quarantine zone with two wounded women ignoring bullet holes or yellowish residues dried around them on his face and clothes. Peterson used his sister’s gas card to charge fuel for the return drive across Kansas that night, figuring she would not object. They stopped at her house east of Great Bend a half-mile north off US-56 and Hank reunited his semi-conscious sibling with Alvin Meyers, borrowing the Ford taking Tina for medical care before reaching the Peterson farm.

#

At first, it was a few wandering by along that road and stopping to remain under the oak trees, but before long the non-living crowd gradually enlarged as this crisis stretched across summer. Hank and Becky heard reports, from the battery-powered radio he found inside an abandoned farm two miles west of here, about America and many other nations where the dead overwhelmed government efforts to control or eliminate them. The US Air Force had sterilized major cities using thermonuclear bombs. The radioactive fallout only served to sicken and kill people for miles around, producing more zombies.

“Those fools,” he remarked, holding Becky’s hands seated at an old card table, that and chairs found from other homes, “they finally really did it. We’re immune to radiation.”

“Maybe it’s for the best, darling,” Becky had regained full power of speech after a half-dozen injections, “we’ll manage.”

Becky’s skin had regained its vigorous tanned appearance, despite her body never being above room temperature. He gave her a dozen injections in all, the serum slowly replacing that lady’s congealed blood and creating an imitation of life.

“And just what do they want? I never liked crowds.”

He looked out his living room’s exposed front window at the wandering dead people staring toward their farmhouse, each one seemingly awaiting something.

“They never attack us,” she noted, as he kissed the spot where shrapnel was once embedded in her skull, “whenever we take walks together. Maybe you should say something to them like a politician. We’ll need to rebuild civilization.”

Initially scoffing at his lover’s quaint idea, Hank later realized Becky might be correct.

But do these other zombies even think or understand?

Days later as leaves began changing color in this part of Kansas, Henry Lee Peterson stood on the front porch’s top step with Rebecca Lynn Travers (she dropped her ex-husband’s name as death now parted them long after divorce). The couple had found some nice clothes resembling their Senior Prom attire for this occasion – Hank an ill-fitting blue suit and Becky a spaghetti-strapped peach bridesmaid’s dress.

“Maybe I can do this,” he remarked to her as the lady took his right hand, “I have to see it as an opportunity. Hell, I served my country once in Vietnam and again for the CIA after getting killed. Today I’m doing it for the third time.”

“They say ‘third time’s the charm,’” Becky gave him a small encouraging kiss on the right cheek, “and I believe you’re the one to be their leader, so go knock them dead – sorry, deader.”

There were a few thousand zombies in the yard and fields, no longer harassed from combat jets seeking targets to strafe by bullets or bomb with ordinance. As if sensing this moment’s importance, the creatures surged closer toward the couple.

“Hello, my fellow undead Americans,” he felt silly starting with words aping some Presidential State of the Union speech, “we gather here today in the sight of God after our nation has suffered its greatest crisis, as your presence testifies to our resilience against adversity. Now we begin again.”

Hank enjoyed the zombie spectators staring at him in rapt attention but never reacting otherwise, recalling an old saying appropriate to his nearly-unique (apart from Becky) role within a strange new world.

In the land of the blind, a one-eyed man is king.

1.

A wet, frigid wind tore at the long column of ragged men as they continued their march along a snow covered highway flanked on both sides by large white hills. The tops of those hills however were invisible in the grey haze of the miserably wet and cold weather. Their heads were bowed against the harsh bite of the wind and barely a word was spoken among them. Large flakes of wet snow whipped into them, liquefied, and ran down the seams of their combat fatigues. Icicles clung to the rims of their Kevlar helmets.

Their shoulders sported the screaming eagle of the 101st Airborne division and this detachment was composed of a platoon of light infantry. In total they numbered around 40 men and they trudged through the snow with the grim determination that only soldiers can muster.

Lieutenant Paul Volker trudged at the head of the column concentrating on keeping his footing in the six inch deep snow through which they marched. One foot in front of the other, then repeat. Left, then right, then left again, mile after miserable mile.

They came upon a gravel service road that disappeared into a valley and turned in file onto it. The trees around them were barren of their leaves, nothing but dry, dark husks standing in endless rows for as far as the eye could see. That wasn’t very far given the snow and thick mist that clung to every fold in the land like a sheet.

They marched down into the valley and hung a sharp left. Finally their destination came in sight. A snow and ice covered palisade wall stood several hundred yards ahead of them. The Lieutenant called for a halt and the column came to a stop with less than parade ground efficiency. He told his platoon sergeant to keep the men in position while he went forward. The Sarge nodded in assent and the Officer trudged forward slowly towards the wall. He managed to make it fairly close, within 20 yards or so before the frozen sentries on top of the wall spotted his form in the blowing white of the January blizzard.

The sound of bolts being slid home could be heard from the top of the wall and then a gruff voice rang out from the mist.

“Halt and identify yourself!”

The Lieutenant came to an abrupt halt and stared up at the sentries on the wall, still barely visible in the blow, despite them being so close.

“I’m Lieutenant Volker, United States Army. I’m with the One Oh One Airborne and I need to speak with your commander.”

“Army? Ha! Ain’t that a laugh. There ain’t no such thing as a United States Army these days boy.” came the reply from the top of the wall.

“Yeah, I hear that a lot.” replied the Lieutenant.

“Well, wait right there. I’ll go grab the Gunny.” said another voice from the wall and one of the heads disappeared from view. After several minutes a battered old camouflage baseball cap appeared at the top of the wall.

“I’m Gunnery Sergeant Louis Raines, First Ohio Volunteer Infantry. What can I do for you Lieutenant?” said the hat.

“Well Gunny, I have a full platoon with me and we’d appreciate a warm and dry place to bunk for awhile and I’d like to speak with you. I’m under orders from higher up, Presidential higher up.” The Lieutenant said.

The Gunny thought for a moment. “Well Lieutenant, I think your men can stand the cold for another 15 minutes or so while you come inside and let me get a better look at you.”

Suddenly, at other points on the wall every 10 feet or so, hooded heads began to appear above the parapet of the wall and they were apparently armed, the glint of their rifles and shotguns just visible in the dim daylight peeking out from the joints in the palisade wall.  The gate opened just wide enough for him to pass through and he stepped into the camp.

“Sorry Lieutenant, these days a man just can’t be too careful. A lot of raider bands move about in these parts sometimes and I’ve had more than one “army” unit roll through here.” The Gunny said as he handed over a hot, steaming cup of coffee a few minutes later in the commo tent. The Lieutenant accepted it greatly and held the mug in his hands, allowing the warmth to thaw his fingers and he looked around the canvas tent he was in.

“I understand completely Gunny, we had a few run ins with desperados ourselves. We marched up from Fort Campbell.” said the Lieutenant.

“Fort Campbell?  That’s a long march to make in January with such shitty weather!” replied the Gunny

“Fuel and vehicles are at a premium so foot marches tend to be how we get around these days.”

The Gunny nodded, he had his own fuel shortages to deal with.  Luckily the cabins were heated by fireplace and they had no shortage of firewood, but gasoline for the supply truck was dangerously thin. “My XO, Taylor is seeing to your men. They should just now be drying out. So what brings you to the middle of nowhere Ohio?” continued the Gunny.

“Well Gunny, Your little band of merry men here represents the only authority for at least a hundred miles.  Our listening posts picked up your CB communications throughout the last 6 months and it was decided by higher command that you guys know this area better than anyone and might be able to spare a guide.” The Lieutenant then sipped at the steaming liquid and the color began returning to his face.

The Gunny cocked an eyebrow. “Guide to where?”

The Lieutenant looked the Gunny square in the eyes. “Columbus.”

“Columbus!?” the Gunny said with not a little bit of surprise. “Just what in the hell could possibly be in Columbus!?”

“The President’s Daughters.” said the Lieutenant which dropped the Gunny’s mouth wide open.

“You’re bullshitting me!” replied the Gunny incredulously.

“Nope. When the shit hit the fan, the First Daughters were at Ohio State. The bird they sent in the pick them up crashed en route, and then the girls disappeared. It seems they surfaced again 3 weeks ago. They literally phoned home.”

The Gunny whistled. “So you propose an overland march through zombie infested plains? You do realize that the only reason we survive is because here in the mountains and hills the deaders have a hard time getting around in the terrain.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. The President has reconvened the government in the Rockies. Apparently there was some grandiose plan in place thought up by some racist South Afrikaners to hide out in specially designated safe zones in mountainous regions of the country back during apartheid days in case the natives revolted.  It seems you have your own South Africa plan here as well.” said the Lieutenant as he indicated the camp with the mug.

“The Appalachians aren’t the Rockies by a long shot, but they’re big enough to keep the deaders from gathering in numbers we can’t handle, unless you go looking for trouble in urban zones, like you apparently plan to do.” replied the Gunny as he looked at an Ohio map tacked onto the wall of the canvas tent. “Not to mention the fact that we’re almost a hundred miles from there.”

“Well, the problem is we’re not even sure where they are. The last communication we received they were moving around with one of your fellow militia units. Moving from safe house to safe house, living off the urban landscape.” the Lieutenant said as he set the empty mug down on a shipping crate that served as a table. He then reached into his ruck and pulled out what appeared to be a GPS receiver.

“The girls are wearing a pair of GPS bracelets, but they were never meant to go so long without a change in the batteries. The brains out west think that if we can get within half a click or so of them we can pick them up on this hand held receiver.” The Lieutenant held it forward for the Gunny to see.

The Gunny frowned and looked the L-T right in the eye. “At least most of the dead across the countryside will be frozen solid. That will keep the numbers manageable. But the city is a different story. The dead can hang out indoors and keep from freezing.”

The Lieutenant nodded and sipped his drink. “What’s wrong Gunny? You wanna live forever?”

An hour later the Gunny stood outside in the snow with the First Ohio drawn up into formation. They were a ragged lot. Standing there, their shoulders and the tops of their heads covered in a fine layer of dusty snow, the men listened as the Gunny filled them in on the situation. Most of them couldn’t believe what they were hearing. They whispered among themselves “The First Daughters? No way.” made up the large majority of their replies.

“Now I’m not going to bull shit with you men. This is one of those things where some, most, or even all of us may never come back. I’m asking for volunteers, but not among the men who have women and children here in camp. I’m not a widow maker. “, the Gunny said to the crowd finally and let the silence stand for a few moments. The men looked to each other.

Momentarily about 10 hands went into the air. The Gunny smiled. “Well good. Those of you who are going along have tonight to put your things in order. We’ll take the supply truck as far as we can, and then hike from there. Taylor, dismiss the men and then come see me in the supply cabin.”

Taylor nodded and shouted out the dismissal and the men broke ranks, not that they held ranks all that well anyway and wandered to their various cabins. Once the ground was clear he trudged his way over to the cabin that held the camp supplies.

A Sentry stood on guard by the door and he nodded to Taylor as he stepped past him and up to the door. Taylor opened it and stepped into the warmth of the cabin. The Gunny, Lieutenant Volker and his platoon sergeant sat in a small space surrounded by cardboard boxes, pallets of rice, sugar and other precious foodstuffs taking inventory on what they would need.

“Hey John, how much gas do we have in the truck?” the Gunny said as Taylor shook off the snow and took his parka off.

“We have a half a tank in the truck. That should get us most of the way there I think. Unless we luck out and find some gas somewhere along the way though I doubt we will.” Taylor replied to the Gunny’s question.

The Gunny nodded and continued to ponder the situation while he stared at the floor. Finally he lifted his head. “John, I want you to stay here and take care of things. You are in charge if I don’t come back.” Taylor clenched his jaw, but said nothing. His eyes searched the Gunny’s. “Don’t worry son, I plan on coming back.” said the Gunny. Taylor nodded.

The next morning dawned clear and bright, though cold. Off in a secluded corner of the compound a caged rooster crowed his own form of revile and the camp slowly came to life. Smoke began to rise out of the chimneys of the squat cabins that housed the 100 or so civilians and civilian soldiers in the camp. The smell of frying meat was on the air, and the whack of the latrine doors was heard with regularity as the camp residents began their morning rituals.

The Gunny had already been awake for an hour along with the Lieutenant. They supervised the loading of the necessary rations and checked the men’s equipment and weapons. Twenty men would go along. Ten men from the First Ohio and ten from Lt. Volker’s platoon were either chosen or volunteered for the assignment.

The regular army guys were at first inclined to look down on their civilian counterparts and would have become a source of worry and tension for both the Gunny and Volker but Sgt. Loomis, the strapping Platoon Sergeant of Volker’s was a regular pit bull and the Gunny was impressed and agreed with the Lieutenant that the Sergeant would take responsibility for the entire platoon and the First Ohio men quickly learned to fear the Platoon Sergeant as much as Volker’s men did.

Squat as a fireplug with cropped grey hair and scars that ran the length of his arms and face. The man was a frightening sight to behold. His face was in a perpetual sneer that accompanied beady little eyes and a voice that boomed like a loudspeaker. He was a terror, and the Gunny laughed at the thought of this man working his half of the platoon into shape. The men would need it where they were going. He worried if they were psychologically prepared for what awaited them in the urban zone of Columbus.

Sgt. Loomis began by dividing up the two squads and placing them in a buddy system. One paratrooper would work with one First Ohio man with stern warnings that any breaches in discipline would mean a swift shot to the solar plexus from Loomis and an ass kicking to follow and no man doubted his resolve to deliver on the punishment quickly and summarily.

Slowly as the morning wore on and things were beginning to come together for the departure the two squads of men had managed to come to a tacit understanding born more out of fear of Loomis than anything else. It served its purposes.

By noon the truck was prepped, loaded and the men lined up and climbed into the back. It was a very tight squeeze and would be an uncomfortable trip but one that would only last a few hours or so. The men would live. They packed into the back of the truck and rolled the rear door closed and latched it tight from the inside.

The Gunny and the Lt. climbed into the front passenger seat while Ellsworth, the camp communications wizard, took the wheel.  Ellsworth turned the key and the truck coughed to a start. The Gunny signaled outside the window to the guards at the gate and the gate was opened and Ellsworth put the truck in gear and began to creep his way out onto the service road. When the truck cleared the gate it was closed with rapidity and the guards resumed their posts on the rampart.

They watched as the truck ground slowly down the service road and disappeared around the bend into the forest and wondered if they had just seen their leader and their friends for the last time.

2.

The good thing about South Eastern Ohio, from a zombie apocalypse point of view, is its complete lack of large population centers, major interstate highways, and the abundance of hilly terrain that tended to shelter the residents within in a cocoon of isolation and safety. This region had always been sparsely populated from the earliest days of the Nation, and it was here that civilization had managed to at least take a stand.

The road they had chosen for the ride to Columbus was a mere 2 lane highway. It was deserted for miles at a time and only on occasion did an abandoned car have to be navigated around.  Ellsworth kept a steady 35 mph through the snow and the Gunny talked Shop with the Lt and caught up with news on the outside world.

They had just passed a highway sign proclaiming boldly that Columbus was about twenty five miles away when the fuel light in the truck blinked on. Ellsworth informed the Gunny of the circumstance.

“Okay Ellsworth, pull over up there on the shoulder. Looks like we’re walking from here.” said the Gunny and he rapped on the sheet metal behind him and opened the slot that allowed him to see into the back of the truck. The men were packed in shoulder to shoulder, standing room only. They were glad when Gunny informed them it was time to pull over and stretch their legs.

The truck squealed to halt on the snow covered highway, the door rolled open and the men quickly jumped down from the back of the truck and took a defensive perimeter surrounding it while the Gunny and the LT thought of their options for a moment.

“Well, it’s about twenty miles to the edge of the city from here. I figure 5, maybe 6 hours of good marching. Are your men up to it Gunny?” spoke the LT.

The Gunny replied “Oh yeah. They may be a rag tag bunch, but they’re strong boys.”

Volker nodded when one of the First Ohio men came up to the Gunny and saluted. Normally this wasn’t done in the First Ohio but Volker was an officer, so Loomis had “politely” reminded the men of the First Ohio of that protocol.

“What is it, Bill?” said the Gunny to the man. He was tall fellow, with a full beard like most of the First Ohio men, who lacked razors.

“Gunny, I used to live out here back in the 90’s. Up the road here a few miles there’s a farm that at least used to be owned by some crazy old farmer named Benny. I shit you not the locals around here call him “Crazy Benny”.  The reason they call him that is because he was one of those real survivor types. Ya know, stockpile weapons, ammo, food, fuel, all that stuff. Reeeal paranoid, believed in black helicopters and UN troops occupying America, that sort of thing. Now he had himself an underground tank of gasoline, 500 gallons or so hidden on his farm and I’m thinking we should head that way and see if we can’t get some of it?” the First Ohio man said.

“What makes you think this Crazy Benny would be willing to share?” replied the Gunny

The First Ohio man simply smiled and said “Because he’s my father in law.”

That settled the question for the Gunny and LT agreed it would be best to have transportation so the men saddled up, fell into a rough staggered column and marched down the road. About 45 minutes later the column came upon a gravel road that branched off and disappeared up around a set of hills. The driveway to Crazy Benny’s farm apparently.

A sign was posted on the access road about 20 feet from the paved road itself. WE PRACTICE SECOND AMENDMENT SOLUTIONS. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.

The Gunny chuckled at the sign and with Bill up at the front with him they led the column up the access road. As they came to the top of the hill another sign awaited them: LAST CHANCE SALOON, TURN BACK.

They continued past the sign, down the hill and turned into a thick copse of leafless trees. As they continued, the Gunny looked down at the ground and noticed a dismembered foot lying in the snow. A little farther they came across an arm. They continued on and the body parts grew more numerous and varied. Some were just scraps of burned flesh. The Gunny grew uneasy at the sight. He eyed the trees on either side of the road and narrowed his eyes.

Suddenly one of the paratroopers spotted a motionless, white clad form lying in the snow several yards away and hollered out “AMBUSH!” and the column dropped to the ground in an instant into the snow and began looking for targets.

But upon being discovered, the amushers didn’t fire. Instead they simply sat up and came out of cover and pointed their weapons at the group of men lying in the road. The two groups stared at each other, weapons pointed and waited to see what would happen. The pucker factor climbed to about ten.

Out on to the road stepped a man clad in white winter camo and carrying an SKS. He stepped forward to about 20 feet from Raines and his men and stared at them.  He was wearing a full ski mask, also in white and his features were reduced to two eyes and a pair of lips that emanated a cloud with every breath in the frozen air. The Gunny stared back, waiting to see what the man had to say.

“Who the hell are ya? Tell me before me and my boys fill ya fulla lead!” said the figure.

“Jesus Christ Dad, don’t shoot! It’s me, Bill!”

The white clad figure stood taller at the voice. “Billy? Zat you boy?”

“Yessir.”

“Well come up here and let me get a look at ye!” said the figure, presumed by everyone now to be Crazy Benny and Bill stood up out of the snow and stepped closer to the man. The hood came back and the mask came off to reveal an old man in his early 70’s. His hair was wild and disheveled and his smile revealed a mass of rotten teeth.

“Hey dad.” Said Bill and the two embraced.

“Glad to see ya son.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Sharon?”

Bill’s face grew long and he merely shook his head.

Benny’s eyes sank to the ground for a moment, then he closed them and took in a deep breath and nodded. “So what brings you all the way out here?”

“Well dad, you’ll never believe it if I told you. We’ll get to that in a minute.” Bill looked around at the white clad figures surrounding the column in the trees. There were eight of them all together, a sizable little force. “I see you have yourself a regular army here.”

Benny broke from his thoughts a moment and looked up. He then shouted something in Spanish to the group and the white clad figures came up on the road and began walking toward the farm.

“Come on, we’ll get inside where it’s warm and catch up. Then you can tell me ‘bout what yer doin out here.” Said Benny and then he turned around and followed after the white clad men of his group.

Bill fell back to the Gunny who questioned him about the Spanish. “Benny hosted foreign exchange students for Ohio State from Guatemala. I assume he’s turned them by now into a crack guerrilla force.”

The Gunny chuckled at the thought and realized they WERE pretty good. They managed to get the drop on a platoon of veteran paratroopers after all. The column followed after Benny and made its way up to a sturdy stone house. Purpose built apparently for strength. The place was squat, thick and made of reinforced concrete. It looked like some World War II bunker. About one hundred yards away rested a barn.

“Billy, your friends can go into the barn and dry off and warm up, there’s firewood out there and all, just don’t burn the barn down. You and these two”, he indicated to the LT and the Gunny, “can come inside.” And he pushed open the door, kicked most of the snow and mud from his boots then stepped inside. The three men followed while Sgt. Loomis led the other men to the barn.

A few minutes later they sat at an old battered wooden table and waited patiently as one of the Guatemalans boiled tea. Benny had stripped off his parka and outer pants. He walked hunched over, complained about the “rheumatis” and smoked like a freight train on his own home grown tobacco. He even claimed to have some marijuana, once again for the “rheumatis”.

He sat patiently smoking on a pipe, the blue smoke curling up to the ceiling with each puff while Bill introduced the Gunny and the Lieutenant and they filled him in on the situation. He nodded once and awhile between puffs and said nothing. Finally he seemed to gather his thoughts.

“Well I got all the gas you boys’ll be needing. But honestly I can’t imagine anyone surviving inside the city proper. It’s a tomb. The only things there are deaders and hissers.” Benny said.

The Lieutenant raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, Hissers?”

Benny’s eyes raised and he saw the confused looks on the men’s faces and then he cackled out loud, his rotten teeth showing in the dim light of the house. Then he coughed involuntarily a moment and resumed “Oh you boys ain’t never seen a hisser? Heh, well. They’s deader’s just like the rest of em but they ain’t like other deaders. They be meaner than a rabid hound and just as smart! Unlike them slow ones that just kinda pack together and come in a mass, hissers are fast and vicious! They make this god awful hissing noise to, like a pissed tom cat.  When they come, you’ll know it and they’ll split up and out flank you quicker than shit to! I lost a kid about a month back from one that somehow wandered all the way out here and had been stalking the woods around the property. We had found a dog torn to bits out there and knew something was around. We tracked that bastard all day and finally cornered her out on the back twenty by that old deer stand we used to use Bill. You know the one. Anyway, this was just a girl, maybe 15 year old or so though it hard tellin the way she looked. She was just hissin away and crouched down like an alley cat, ready to spring. None of us knew what to make of her till she suddenly sprang forward fast as a snake and snatched one of my boys by the throat and sank’er teeth right into the poor lad. We had to putt’em both down then. You know there ain’t no hope once a deader gets his teeth into ya.”

Benny coughed raggedly and continued smoking on his pipe, switching to marijuana as opposed to tobacco.

The three men looked at each other with worry on their faces. They’d seen plenty of the dead in the last year and half or so but never had they run across anything like what Crazy Benny was describing. They hoped they never did.

“Anyhow, You boys stay the night here and rest up. Tomorrow I’ll send some of the lads with you to port the gasoline to yer truck. After that, you’ll be on yer own I suppose.” Benny said and then thanked the Guatemalan boy who laid out mugs of steaming hot tea for the men and they savored the hot drinks as they continued to discuss the times in which they had found themselves in.

The sun set and darkness settled over the farm of Crazy Benny. The men turned in and slept well, wondering what the next day would bring.

3.

The next morning was considerably warmer, which worried the Gunny immensely. If the dead thawed out, who knows how large a horde they may have to face inside the city? Hopefully the temperature wouldn’t climb to far above freezing.

As promised Crazy Benny provided 3 of his Guatemalan boys to port the gasoline to the truck just as the sun was rising above the horizon. The fueling went quickly and without trouble and the men packed back into the truck like sardines to continue their trip into Columbus, Capital City of the Dead.

Just inside the suburbs they came across their first major roadblock. For what appeared to be a couple of miles the cars and trucks were stacked one behind the other. Ellsworth pulled the truck over and turned off the motor. The Gunny looked out the window and scanned for anything unusual.

The snow still lay thick on the ground, though it had a rather wet sheen to it as the sun warmed the top and began to thaw. Icicles dripped from the nearby buildings, but otherwise the street appeared to be quiet.

The Gunny rapped on the back of the cab and the rear door of the truck rolled open and the men proceeded to spill out and form up around the truck in the drilled defensive perimeter. The Gunny got out and breathed in the cold air. There it was, the perpetual smell of decay on the wind. Though not as strong in the cold winter air as in high summer, it was very evident none the less. The dead were about by thousands, but hidden among the buildings. Many would be frozen solid, but many wouldn’t. This was a very bad place to be. The Gunny shivered and hoped it was from the cold.

The Lieutenant didn’t look to happy either. He’d been fighting on the front lines of this thing since it started and even his hardcore men would avoid a city like this. To many nooks, crannies, tight spaces where one can get ambushed, surprised and cornered by a mob of deaders.  One of the first rules since the fall was to avoid heavy urban districts at all costs. Here they were headed right into the maw of one.

Five men were chosen to stay behind to guard the truck. The platoon swept out with fixed bayonets and systematically hunted the surrounding buildings for dead. They found a few frozen corpses here and there and these were quickly dispatched. The surrounding area being deemed secure for now the five men who guarded the truck were ordered to barricade themselves inside one of the nearby buildings and wait for the return of the other fifteen. Gunny ordered Ellsworth to stay behind as one of the five guards and then the column began creeping its way down the sidewalk between the buildings and the stalled vehicles in the street.

After a few blocks they came upon a group of deaders. They were frozen solid and laying together in a pile that resembled a photograph from a Nazi death camp. The pile was about 4 feet high and consisted of at least 20 or 30 deaders.  They seem to have been huddling together for warmth and having froze solid had fallen over on top of each other.

As the men crept closer to the pile, it began to shimmy and shake as the deaders on the bottom, perhaps not frozen as solid as those on top, began to try to move about underneath. What became even more eerie were the muffled moans that emanated from the pile.

The men shivered as they crept by, and eyed it suspiciously, keeping their distance. They proceeded past and as they moved farther away, the pile once again quieted down and stopped shivering and shimmying about.

The men worked their way down the street and reached a main corner just inside the city proper. The tall office buildings surrounded them and blocked out the weak winter sun, leaving them in a dusklike shadow. They had no clue where to begin their search so out of ideas the Lieutenant reached into his bag and pulled out the GPS receiver. He turned it on and after a couple minutes he had decided that there was nothing in the area and they had to continue on perhaps towards the Ohio State Campus.

The platoon moved out slowly, each man fully aware in the buildings around them were probably hundreds, if not thousands of corpses hiding from the cold. Could any of them look outside the windows and see the platoon as it snaked past the brownstone apartment buildings and around stalled vehicles on the sidewalks?  Were there any of those “hissers” around that Crazy Benny had warned them about? No one knew and it left all of them with the acid taste of fear on their palettes. Even Sgt. Loomis, that old scarred veteran nervously peeked back and forth with his beady eyes, peering up into the windows and occasionally seeing a shadow move past. He shivered as the men continued down the road and followed a sign indicating the direction towards the Ohio State Campus.

They came upon the first intersection before the campus and found the signs of a barricade battle. Countless bodies or bits of bodies lay scattered around a makeshift barricade of Humvees, passenger cars, and a metro bus. A sandbagged position, with a heavy .50 caliber “ma deuce” lay surrounded by dozens and dozens of corpses and pieces of corpses piled high around it. Whoever had manned that position had done deadly work until the barrel overheated and the weapon jammed. The Gunny could see the barrel had been warped from overheating.  He thought about the nightmarish scene that had taken place here as they fanned out around the barricade.

It was impossible to tell who had been defenders and who had been attackers there were so many bodies. They formed a snow covered carpet of hands, feet, heads and torsos for a hundred feet around the intersection.  Various makeshift hand weapons were evident. Spears, crossbows, axes, picks, pitchforks and whatever else could be wielded were scattered about or impaled through piles of bodies.

It looked like the scene from a medieval battle. They continued past, very carefully checking each body they came near to ensure that it wasn’t a half frozen deader waiting for some fool to step nearby. They continued on and came to a block of dormitories and the scene grew darker. Individual barricades were seen around the doors to the dorms. The kids inside had apparently tried to hold out. They had fought here as well, there were masses of scorched and charred deaders laying around the doors and lower windows of each apartment block where the kids within had resorted to throwing firebombs and Molotov cocktails down onto the masses of dead below.

Some of the buildings were merely blackened ruins, gutted by fire and the elements. The Lieutenant periodically checked his GPS and came up empty and shrugged to the Gunny. The Gunny wasn’t happy with this idea of wandering around in a city of the dead, surrounded by thousands of corpses and no idea where he should go. He looked up and noticed the sun was beginning the get close to the horizon. It would be dark soon. He needed a place to hole up for the night.

They stepped past the dormitory blocks and came to the first class buildings on the campus. Here the scene was almost normal. There was an odd corpse or two scattered about but most of the battle had apparently taken place near the dorms. These buildings were almost untouched and appeared to be locked.

The Gunny saw a sign that pointed towards a cafeteria and indicated they should stay the night there, hoping perhaps there might be some vending machines or something with which to feed the men. They had rations with them, but he had little idea how long he planned to be here so he preferred to “live off the land” as much as possible.

They used a fireman’s axe to break a back window to the café open and climbed inside. They then manhandled a large stainless steel fridge over the broken window and pushed it flush against the frame.

After that they fanned out around the café and looked for anything edible. True to luck a couple vending machines were found in the eating area and after breaking the glass and raiding the machines of their M&M’s, Now & Later and Twinkees, the men settled down for what they hoped would be an uneventful night.

As it turned out the night wasn’t quite uneventful. The Gunny had placed the platoon on 25% alert. So 1 out of every 4 men was placed on watch at various points around the café. The Gunny was dozing quietly in a corner when a hand gently touched him awake. He opened his eyes to see the Lieutenant. The LT put a finger to his lips to indicate silence from the Gunny and indicated he should follow him.

The Gunny got up, rubbed his eyes and followed the LT over to the large, half boarded windows that looked out on to the street.  The moon was out but was a mere sliver in the sky at this time of the month so light was almost non-existent and at first he wondered what the Lieutenant was seeing when the LT pointed out towards a dark shadow near the corner of a building across the street.

The Gunny looked that way and then spotted it. It was a deader alright, but it was moving far differently than any deader he’d ever seen. It moved in a crouch and every now and then it stopped and sniffed the air before moving on another ten feet or so and sniffing the air again.

The Gunny wondered to himself if maybe it smelled the scent left behind by the men earlier in the day. That was the path they followed almost exactly to get here, and this deader was apparently hot on the trail. He continued to watch as several more of them appeared from the same street, mimicking the behavior of the first one, trotting a few yards and then stopping to sniff the air.

This was unusual and frightening behavior for deaders and the Gunny now understood he was getting his first look at Crazy Benny’s hissers. A few of the men had noticed the attention paid by the LT and the Gunny out the window and decided to look for themselves and they whispered to each other quietly as they observed the hissers move around the intersection in front of the Café where they hid themselves.

Finally, the hissers apparently were satisfied no meal was imminent and moved on down the street and disappeared into the darkness. The men breathed a collective sigh of relief. After that Gunny put the men on 50% alert for the remainder of the night but most didn’t sleep a wink.

As soon as the sun was high enough to light the city streets outside the Café the gunny had the men remove the refrigerator from the window they used the night before and climbed out onto the street. The temperature had certainly climbed into the low to mid 40’s and the Gunny began to grow apprehensive. The dead would most certainly begin to thaw out now. Their numbers would be greater and chances were good they may run across a wandering pack or two.

The Gunny and LT had decided the best place to look that day would be in the central section of the city near the local Guard armory. If there was a military outpost within the city, that would be it, so the Gunny ordered the men to move out into the center of the city towards the looming sky scrapers full of the undead.

Things began well enough for the men, after an hour of making their way past stalled vehicles both military and civilian including a tank or two they finally managed to negotiate their way downtown. They stopped in front of a hotel to rest a moment and get their bearings. The men fanned out in a perimeter and began to watch their assigned sectors for anything unusual.

Suddenly a feral, animal like growl was heard and like a bat out of hell a male hisser burst from the door of the hotel and sprinted right towards Sergeant Loomis. A couple of the men cried out and Loomis looked up in time to see the pale faced, open mouthed creature sprinting towards him at amazing speed.

He reversed his rifle and quickly used the butt of the weapon and contacted it squarely onto the nose of the hisser. A soft crunch was heard as the bones in the thing’s face shattered and it staggered back a moment. Not one to lose an advantage, Loomis reversed his rifle and impaled the bayonet right into the hisser’s chest and shouting out drove forward with all his strength, driving the hisser backwards as it vainly clawed at the rifle barrel trying to remove the bayonet that was impaled fully through its chest.

Loomis drove the corpse into a stalled vehicle and held it there as it flailed about wildly, hissing and growling like an animal. He gritted his teeth together as it took most of his strength to hold back the wild thing he stood just out of reach of. Its eyes were black with coagulated blood and black bile dripped from its lips as it continued to reach out for the meal just in front it. It reeked of rotten death and Loomis had to bite back the bile that climbed in his throat.

One of the men raised his rifle but the LT hollered out not to fire for fear it would unleash a horde. As Loomis struggled to hold the hisser pinned to the car, another man came forward with a machete and drove it deep into the top of the hisser’s head. It instantly went quiet, it’s eyes rolled into the back of its head and then slowly slid down the car to the street.

Loomis placed his foot on the deader’s   shoulder and pulled his bayonet free from its chest and looked down at it in shock, breathing heavily from the exertion. The thing had moved far quicker than he could imagine a deader to move, and it was strong too. It took most of his strength to hold the struggling creature at bay. His blood froze at the idea of meeting a horde of these things.

As if on cue two more hissers came around the corner and having noticed the fresh meat standing in the intersection came forward howling. One bounded onto the hood of a car and leapt onto a First Ohio man, he screamed out obscenities as the creature latched on and proceeded to feed on the exposed flesh of his face as it drove him to the ground. His curses turned to outright screams as his blood sprayed out onto the nearby vehicles. Two other men leaped into the fray beating wildly at the hisser with the butts of their rifles, finally beating it down and crushing its skull.

The other hisser came sprinting towards the Gunny and he had no choice, he raised his .45 and pulled the trigger and the shot echoed among the sky scrapers surrounding them. The heavy bullet took the creature in the throat and its hissing growl was instantly quieted into a wheeze as the energy of the bullet knocked it off its feet and the hisser’s momentum carried it forward.

The Gunny followed it up with another round to the back of the head as the creature fell at his feet, putting it down for good. No sooner had the echo of the last gunshot died away then the first moans could be heard in the surrounding buildings and they began to grow in intensity.

The men looked up at the office buildings and streets around them as the moans grew to proportions that echoed around the streets and one of the First Ohio men pissed his pants right then and there and began to mutter a prayer to the Virgin Mary.

Deaders began to boil out of the buildings and coalesce into a horde right in front of the men and behind them, quickly cutting off any retreat. The men didn’t wait for orders, they just opened fire and deaders began to jerk and fall, their heads exploding in clouds of black mist before dropping to the ground, twitching with reflex action.

One of the paratroopers, a hulking man more fit for an NFL linebacker than a paratrooper came forward with his M240 Squad Automatic Weapon on the hip, the belt wrapped around his wrist and poured a withering fire into the crowd in front of the men. Dozens of deaders were hit with the heavy MG slugs and the front ranks of the horde were cut down like corn beneath a combine.  Body parts just detached themselves from their former owners.

The Gunny looked around for any kind of escape route and spotted a narrow alley that was free of dead. He shouted to the LT and the men to head down the alley and they began to file towards it, the squad Machine Gunner backing up slowly, continually holding back the crowd of undead with a sheet of bullets. The constant rat-tat-tat of his weapon beat a steady staccato of bullets into the crowd of dead just a dozen feet away.

As the Gunny came to the head of the alley he saw dead flowing away from the alley down the street in the direction they had been only a few moments before. The men hurriedly ran across the street and ducked into another side alley. They were almost home free when a crowd of undead suddenly appeared at the other end of the alley, blocking their way. They turned and reversed direction, heading back out onto the street and realized they were cut off as the pursuing horde boiled out all around them.

A hisser came trotting out to the front of the crowd of deaders and screamed out its guttural hiss then sprinted forward huffing like a wild animal. The men opened fire on it, bullets smacked into the creature’s torso but still it kept coming only jerking slightly as the .223 rounds punched into it.

The creature sprang forward and landed among a group of paratroopers. They instantly fell upon the creature with their bayonets and rifle butts, flashing their weapons up and down onto the monster while it struggled below, arms flailing about wildly.

Suddenly the whine of an  engine could be heard and the sound of multiples tires crawling over snow, ice and the dead were evident. Then an ichor spattered and dented Stryker came rolling up the street, running down packs of deaders and crushing over them without slowing down. Bodies were thrown clear into the air and the solid thump of dead flesh on the armored hull of the Stryker beat a rapid drumbeat that echoed towards the men. They’re mouths dropped in amazement.

The .50 cal on its top spit flame and roared loudly and deaders suddenly disappeared in sprays of black mist as the BMG rounds tore their bodies to shreds. It stopped not 10 feet from the stunned soldiers and the door in the rear dropped, a short woman in fatigues and with a bandanna wrapped around her forehead ran out onto the street and waved them in, shouting to hurry the hell up already while the “ma deuce” on top of the Stryker continued to rotate about on its servo, sweeping the immediate area of the intersection clear of dead with its massive bullets.

Without another thought the men piled into the Stryker and the door closed and the heavy APC revved forward into the crowd of dead. A couple hissers jumped onto the sides of the vehicle and began pounding and scratching at the hull in a vain attempt to get at the Spam inside the can. A porthole slid open and a 10 gauge shotgun barrel was pushed out and roared, blowing first one, then the other hisser off the hull and onto the pavement.

The Stryker continued down the street and turned a corner, leaving the crowd of dead behind to wander aimlessly about now that their food had disappeared.

Chapter Four

“It’s no use. The bastard thing will nae start!” Martin gave up trying to turn the jeep over. The engine was thoroughly flooded and his frantic attempts to start it again had only made the situation worse. “Sergeant, we’ve got to get out of here. If you can’t get the jeep started, we’re going to have to run.” Reuter again looked through the field glasses. The approaching throng of people wending their way out of the tiny village of Ornel was gradually growing closer, now less than 100 yards away.

“Are ye daft, ye fookin’ tosser?” Clive yelled from the back of the jeep. “I’m nae hoofin’ it! They’ll back off once I put a few warning shots from the .50 across them.” To demonstrate, Clive fired off a rapid burst from the .50 caliber. The slugs impacted into the ground directly in front of the mob to no discernible notice. They continued to press forward, the entire crowd moaning in an unearthly chorus. As they drew nearer, the grisly wounds of each person seemed to magnify before the two British and two German soldiers sitting in the jeep.

“My God…” Martin intoned in a hushed breath. “There’s no life in those eyes, is there? They’re…they’re not right. Why are they walking? Why aren’t they dead?” He began to shake involuntarily. After nearly five years of seemingly endless campaigns this veteran soldier had finally seen something that shook him to his core. In all his experiences, the dead stayed dead. That was the nature of the world, and as horrible as it often was, it also provided a certain comfort to him. If you got your number punched, the horror was over for you and that was that. But this? This was an abomination and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. There were children in this crowd, young women, and grandfathers…people who should be laughing, talking and going about their daily business. Never mind that they were Germans, because when you got right down to it, there weren’t many differences between the normal everyday folks of Britain and Germany. The normalcy of their bland, day to day lives united them in a way that politics and war never fully divided them. And to see this horror shambling before them, it was unthinkably tragic. He couldn’t take his eyes of these pitiful, horrible things.

Reuter slapped the British sergeant away from his reverie. “We can’t stay here! Come on! Raus!” Rudi, the young German Sani was the first to bolt. With his breath already coming out in a ragged, almost hyperventilating wheeze, he leapt from the backseat of the jeep and began tearing up the road away from the approaching throng. Martin jumped in his seat as the staccato roar of the .50 began to renew. Clive began firing indiscriminately into the crowd, high velocity rounds punching violently into their midst. Three of them fell to the ground as the bullets tore into their legs and shattered their kneecaps. The crowd continued pressing inexorably forward, walking over their fallen brethren, even as the stricken rose up onto their elbows and began crawling. Two more went down for good, their heads exploding as slugs slammed into their craniums.

“Clive! Dinnae mess about! Run, dammit!” Both Martin and Reuter were already out of the jeep. Martin tugged at Clive’s leg and continued shouting at the man, even as the crowd continued to slowly close the distance. “Bugger off! You run! I’m not letting these bastards spook me!”

Reuter grabbed Martin roughly by the collar and dragged the Englishman away. “Leave him! If the fool won’t come, at least let him cover our escape!”

Reluctantly, Martin let himself be led away. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed the Thompson submachine gun nestled in its leather holster attached to the side of the jeep. As Reuter and Martin raced away, Clive fired wildly. Bullets stitched their way across the front row, tearing large holes across the crowd’s chests. An arm flew off, a hand, another fell as their head was punctured. Still they pressed forward, arms outstretched and moaning with an incoherent longing. He finally queued to the fact that head shots seemed to take them down for good a moment too late. Aiming with deliberation, he managed to down three more when he noticed he was nearing the end of the ammo belt and they had finally closed the range.

Greedy hands grasped at him from all sides. He kicked the first in the face, the hobnails in his boots crunching the man’s nose inward. He punched another in the mouth, tearing his knuckles and knocking out teeth. This was how any Welshman worth his salt did things in. You gave the punter a good thrashing to the face and they usually left you alone. But these weren’t the pubs he used to fight in anymore and this crowd was not a group of surly drunks. He cursed loudly as the first set of teeth sunk into his forearm. Screaming, he bashed in his assailant’s head with an entrenching tool. Even as the woman fell, more hands grabbed him from all sides. They dragged him down and began to feed, even as he continued to rain blows upon them with the last of his desperate strength. There wouldn’t be anything left of Lance Corporal Clive Bellows to come back. The ravenous denizens of Ornel picked him clean.

Those not able to occupy themselves on the feast surrounding Clive continued to surge forward. Both Martin and Reuter quickly realized that they were clearing a decent distance between themselves and the hungry crowd. They were unbelievably slow, yet relentlessly single-minded. They never took their eyes off the fleeing men, and only slowed and turned their attention briefly away from their targets when another sound issued forth from behind them. Martin strained to make out what the noise was and cursed the fact that he’d left the field glasses back in the jeep.

A man riding astride a large horse broke through a gap in the crowd. He waved a large hatchet in his hands, cleaving at his neighbors, clearing a path for a horse-drawn wagon coming up full-tilt behind him. The undead of Ornel converged upon the wagon, but with a surge of speed it burst through, knocking aside six of the approaching ghouls. As the wagon cleared the crowd, the man wielding the hatchet kicked his horse forward and attempted to follow suit. He got no more than a few yards before the crowd tore and clawed at his horse. It kicked frantically, suddenly too spooked to run. It’s flailing back legs smashed into two of them, before the rider lost his balance and fell off. He had no time to react before the crowd pounced upon him and proceeded to devour him. The horse’s own screams drowned out those of the fallen man as the crowd grasped its flanks and neck and ultimately overpowered it, dragging it to the ground.

Reuter waved his arms at the woman driving the wagon, ordering her to pull to and let them on. “Auf halten! Dammit, woman! Stop and let us up!” The woman showed no signs of acknowledging him until Martin put a burst from the Thompson into the ground before the horse’s path. With a frightened whinny, they abruptly halted. Martin and Reuter quickly hauled themselves aboard and Reuter screamed for Rudi to stop his headlong flight and rejoin them. The medic was nearly thirty yards ahead of them and showed no sings of hearing. Martin raised the Thompson to fire a burst into the crowd when Reuter placed his hands over the barrel, forcing him to lower it.

“Nein! Don’t fire, Sergeant! They’re ignoring us for now! Let’s just get the hell out of here while we can!”

Reuter nodded to the woman holding the reins and motioned her to get going again. With a start, the horses galloped anew and they quickly left the distracted crowd behind. Leaning over the side of the wagon, Reuter reached out and grasped Rudi as they hurtled by. Grunting with the strain, he hauled the panicked Sani up into the wagon.

It wasn’t until they were a good 100 yards away that Reuter finally noticed that there were other people in the wagon with them, an old man and two children. One of the children held her hand against a gaping wound on her arm which bled profusely. “Rudi, help out the little fraulein here, jah? She looks hurt. Trodle nicht.”

Despite his panic, Rudi reacted automatically. “Jawhol, herr scharfuhrer.” He reached into his bag and began to clean the wound on the sobbing little girl.

Reuter nodded to the old man, who looked about as pale as a sheet and crawled up onto the buckboard with the woman driving the wagon. “Danke. We appreciate the rescue.” She glared at him. “I wouldn’t have stopped if the verdammt horses hadn’t halted. You should thank the Englander.”

Reuter shrugged. “All the same, I’d rather be here than back there. What happened back in the village? Why did everybody suddenly go crazy like that? And who was that man who covered your escape?”

The woman bit down on her lip and slapped the horses with the reins again with deliberation. Her face was hardened with the refusal to cry. “The man was meine bruder. He had a game leg so he was exempt from conscription. The two in the back are my sister’s children and my father. I don’t know why everyone went so fucking verruckt. I was at the morning market, buying eggs and milk when this small crowd wanders into the village square and starts attacking people. They were biting everyone they could get their hands on…and…eating them. And those…those that were being eaten got back up and started attacking too. Don’t look at my like I’m insane, damn you! I saw it!”

Reuter shook his head. “No, I don’t think you’re insane. I have to trust my own eyes. I saw that madness too.” Reuter looked back down the road. Martin had his eyes glued upon that path also, machine gun at the ready. He liked the Tommy sergeant. He was a professional and seemed like a fair man. It was a stone pity about his man back there, but his sacrifice had helped them escape at least.

He thought hard, picking over the last few hours. Obviously whatever had caused that old man to go mad had infected herr Leutnant Johannes. In turn, Johannes succumbed to it himself and passed it on to all those he met on the way into the village.

“Tell me,” he said, turning back to the woman. “What do you know about the castle ruins a few kilometers back?” She looked at him incredulously. “Why in the hell do those ruins matter? I don’t care about sightseeing or small talk! I just watched all my friends die and come back as monsters!”

“I think it relevant. Trust me on this.”

She shrugged. “I don’t care about that place. Ask meine vater about it. He’s like all the other old-timers, caught up in the legend.” She turned away, immediately dismissive. He left her to her unspoken grief. Frowning, Reuter turned to the old man, who had been listening in.

“Grossevater…tell me about the castle ruins. There’s something to them, isn’t there?”

The old man shrugged, even as he held onto his granddaughter, consoling her as Rudi cleaned and dressed her wound. “Jah, so they say. It was once a mighty keep centuries ago, during the days of the black death. When the plague hit, all the peoples from the surrounding communities flocked there for protection and sanctuary against the pestilence. But somebody got in who was carrying something even worse than the plague. There was an uprising of some sort, deep in the bowels of the castle. The lord of the castle and his men fought those afflicted with this new madness and managed to seal them off in the lowest dungeons, but it was said that the lord had kept his treasures hidden down there as well. He died a pauper, convinced that it would be insane to try and go back down into those tunnels to try and retrieve it. As the years passed, the legend grew about the treasure hidden in there, as well as the monsters guarding it. We used to joke as boys about going in there and becoming wealthy lords ourselves. I never took it all that seriously, but after what I’ve seen today…” the old man trailed off, shaking his head.

“Here, listen up.” Martin clasped Reuter on the shoulder. “Let me up there with the lady. If we go bouncin’ around the corner after all that donnybrook and Joe doesn’t see me up there, he’s liable to err on the side of caution and fill this wagon full of holes and us along with it.” Reuter nodded and moved aside to let the British sergeant forward. Rudi had finished dressing the young girl’s wounds and was finishing putting the last of his kit away. “How is she?”

Rudi just looked at him. “She was bitten, no different from herr Leutnant. I can’t speculate beyond that.   I think she’s collapsed from the shock. Her breathing was incredibly shallow, her skin very cold. But between you and me, I would put her out of her misery right now if I were you, herr Scharfuhrer.”

Reuter paled at that thought. He couldn’t think about shooting a child, even one possibly carrying this affliction. It was too horrid to contemplate. “Not yet. But keep an eye on her just the same.”

They rode on in silence for another few minutes before rounding a wide curve in the road and coming upon the parked kubelwagen and the second jeep in Sergeant Knight’s entourage. Reuter flinched when he saw his brother and the two remaining men in his group lying on the ground with their hands over their heads and the nervous Private Allen training a sten gun on them. He didn’t say anything though. Despite his initial anger, he would have done the same thing. After all, the British didn’t know what had gone on back in the village.

Sergeant Knight bounded down from the wagon and waved to his companions. “Joe! Where the bloody hell is the column?”

Kirk looked chagrined. “The news isn’t good, Martin. The column ran into a patrol of SS back up the road that’s got them tied down. They estimate it’ll be at least an hour before they can clear the tree line of their snipers and get underway again. What the fook happened back there anyroad? Where’s Clive and yer jeep?”

“Och, bloody Christ. Get on the wireless and tell them to get their arses up here immediately. We’ve got a bloody pack of madmen up the road coming this way. Tell them it’s not just urgent, but a goddamned priority!”

Martin rushed over to the kubelwagen and began tossing the German weapons out of its back. He threw the MG42 to Reuter, who caught it on the fly and began to feed a new belt into it.

“Martin! What the kiddin’ hell are ye doin’? Put that down!” Joe Kirk began to level his Webley at Reuter. “Joe! Leave off! Let the man be and get his men back up on their feet right this minute! I’m not daft, but I swear to ye, we’ll need every man we can spare in a bit. There’s a bloodthirsty mob heading this way and we’ve got to get ready! Goddammit, follow me orders, man! They’ve killed Clive already and they’ll tear ye apart too if ye don’t get ye’re arse in gear!”

Kirk began to speak when a scream punctuated the air behind them from the wagon. All turned at the sound as the wounded little girl suddenly turned and sank her teeth into her grandfather’s throat.

Chapter Five.

Rudi leapt forward and wrenched the snarling girl away from her struggling grandfather. The girl came away with blood caked to her mouth and a large chunk of flesh still clutched between her teeth. “Verdammt!” He flung the child over the side of the wagon without a backwards glance and was already pulling his scarf from around his neck to somehow staunch the bleeding erupting from the flailing old man’s neck.

The old man had already gone into shock, his body trembling as the blood poured freely in every direction. Rudi had barely wrapped the scarf once around the man’s neck and was applying some direct pressure until he could get some proper bandaging out of his bag to halt it when an unexpected shot rang out so near as to make him fall back on his rear end and nearly topple out of the wagon. When he looked up again, the old man was slumped onto his back, an enormous bullet hole in the side of his head. “Grosse Gott…vas ist?”

The woman who had been driving the wagon calmly re-aimed the pistol she’d been concealing in her skirt and fired another round into the head of her niece. The girl had landed hard, face first when Rudi tossed her aside. She appeared utterly oblivious to her shattered nose and had been clambering back up the sides of the wagon with a mad intensity up until the moment the bullet hit her. Stunned, the German and British troops hadn’t even moved to respond to her actions before she yelled at Rudi, waving the luger at him. “Idioten! I just saw my entire village ripped apart and turned into these things! You cannot try to save them!”

Reuter calmly approached the frantic woman with his hands up. He shot a glance at his remaining men to stand down and not shoot her. Behind him, Sergeant Martin Knight did the same. “Never mind the daft lassie! Keep yer eyes on the road ahead. That’s where the troubles comin’ from. Let the jerry sergeant handle her.”

The near-hysterical woman turned the pistol towards Reuter, even as she grabbed her nephew and pulled him close to her. “Don’t come any closer! This kleine kinder is all I have left! I’m not letting those demons have him too!”

Reuter nodded soothingly. “Aber naturlich, fraulein. We won’t let them get him. But we can’t hold the road and fight them off if you’ve got a pistol aimed at us, now can we? Besides, you’re pretty good with that thing. We could use the extra hand, nicht wahr?”

The woman glowered at him before hesitantly lowering the luger. “I…I got this off an officer who was one of those monsters. A man in the village tried to grab the pistol from his holster and had managed to get it free before he was bitten. It lay in the street where I picked it up. I’ve…I’ve never fired a gun before in my life.”

Reuter shrugged. It looked like in some way, herr Leutnant Johannes was still helping their little band out. “All the same, you’re pretty good with it. Now don’t point that thing at my Sani anymore, eh? He was only doing his job.”

“But you don’t understand! The bite is what turns people into those things! I saw it with my own eyes back in the village. He can’t try to help them once they’ve been bitten. I didn’t even realize my niece had been bit. I thought she’d been cut trying to run from them. If I’d known, I’d have shot here then and there before we even tried to run. I…I couldn’t let meine vater come back like that…”

“I know,” Reuter replied. “Ich vershtehen, now. We’ll know better when the time comes. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. But we don’t have time to grieve, jah? You must understand that.”

The woman slumped back onto the buckboard and held her nephew all the tighter, turning his head away from the carnage in the back of the wagon and the even greater horror she knew was coming down the road. “Jah. I do understand it.”

Reuter turned away from the woman and helped Rudi to his feet. “Are you alright?” The Kriegsmarine Sani glared at him. “I warned you, didn’t I? I told you that little girl was done for. And now that old man’s death is on your head, Herr Scharfuhrer. Don’t make that same mistake again or it’ll be the death of all of us.” Rudi wrenched free from Reuter’s grasp and stormed off. He waved away any attempts at conversation with Horst, Burkhardt and Hans.

Sighing at the rebuke, mainly because the man was right, Reuter rejoined Martin. “Sergeant, we’d better tell all the men to aim for the head. That seems to be the only thing to take these monsters down.”

“Aye. I’ve kenned to that. That might be a problem with the fifty cal we’ve got left. That’s nae the sort of weapon used for precision firing. Ye’re bolt actions on yer Mausers are more the sort for this business, d’ye think?”

“Jah. I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right.” Reuter turned to Horst and Burkhardt. “Look, I don’t have time to explain this to you. You’re going to have to see this to believe it. There’s a bloodthirsty mob coming from that village, our own people. But you can’t think of them that way. They…I don’t know any other way to say this, but they are monsters out for blood, any blood. They won’t care if it’s the Tommies or the Amis or us they feed on. They’ll tear great bloody strips out of you regardless of what uniform you’re wearing. Shoot them in the head. Remember that! It’s imperative that you shoot them in the head!”

Horst spat on the ground incredulously. “Du bist verruckt! That woman back there and the little girl are sure as hell crazy, I’ll grant you that in a second. And I don’t know what kind of deal you struck with the Tommies to get our weapons back, but let’s take advantage of this and just leave! We have to look out for our own skins! We’ve already deserted! The goddamned war is supposed to be over for us.”

Reuter threw him against the side of the kubelwagen. “What must I do to get it through you’re thick head! We’re in a totally new war now! And if we don’t stop this mob here and now, you don’t want to envision what they’ll become if they spread to another town.”

“Why should I believe anything you have to say?”

“When that mob rounds the bend in the road, you can ask me that question again.”

Sergeant Martin Knight climbed aboard the hood of his remaining jeep and addressed all those present. “Reuter, ye’d best have yer brother translate to the others in yer company. This is to all ye lot. The village of Ornel has become…infected I guess is the word I’d have ta use…infected wi’ somethin’ that’s driven every last one of them mad as hatters. The whole lot of ‘em is actin’ like cannibals, I swear ta ye. We’ve seen it. Me, the jerry Sergeant and his medic, tha’ poor woman and young lad in the wagon. We watched ‘em tear apart Clive back there. They ripped the poor bastard ta pieces and nothin’ seems ta stop ‘em but a blow to the head. Save yer shots for the head, I’m tellin’ ye now. Don’t go daft firin’ full auto into that lot, cuz I swear to ye now, it won’t bring ‘em down. Now, Joe. What’s the word on the column? Give us some good now, eh?”

The man shrugged through tight lips. “I told ‘em to hurry their arses up, that we were about ta run into some major resistance. They told us to disengage if we could and get back, but that’d mean runnin’ right into those Jerry snipers that’ve got the column tied down anyway. They told us to stand by while the conferred the situation with the higher-ups.”

“Poncy bastards. It’ll take ‘em hours to get their twats in gear and get up here. You tell them to send us somethin’…anything at all, as long as it’s got a bastard amount of firepower to it! A single tank could take out that entire lot piecemeal, I’d reckon. Tell ‘em exactly what I’ve told ye, Joe. There’s at least two more villages and God knows how many farms in the way between Ornel and the column. Reuter’s right. This mob’ll only get larger if we don’t do somethin’ to thin ‘em down. Git on it like ye’ve got a purpose, man!”

Martin turned away from Joe as his friend dashed back to the radio and reestablished contact with the armored column to their rear. Exhaling with a snort of anger and frustration, he joined his German counterpart. “What d’ye think the odds are on this lot comin’ down the road? Smart money would be on them cuttin’ through the woods and hittin’ us from the flanks.”

Reuter considered this. “Jah. That’s how we would do it. But something tells me they aren’t thinking about anything but food. Hell, I don’t believe they’re thinking at all. It looks like some sort of drive…instinct, maybe? I think they’ll follow the road because it’s the obvious thing to do.”

“Ye’re right. We should completely block it. There’s fences on either side of the road, so that should provide us with some impediment ta them getting’ around. If we line the wagon up end ta end wi’ ye’re kubelwagen and the jeep, that’ll at least slow ‘em down and bunch ‘em up enough fer us ta’ take ‘em out one by one.”

“I can’t think of anything better. It’s as good a plan as any.”

As Reuter directed Burkhardt to move the kubelwagen into position, Joe approached Martin with a bitter expression on his face. “I dinnae want ta be the bearer of worse new, Martin. But I spoke wi’ the column again, made contact with Captain Lewis himself. They aren’t movin’, not till that nest of Jerries is cleaned out. I think I fooked us well and good when I said it was a mob of crazy civilians comin’ towards us. They say we’ve got plenty of firepower to intimidate a crowd of civvies and want us to pull crowd control. They’ve gotten into contact with a force of Yanks farther to our north. They said they’d dispatch an observation plane that’s already up in the air to further assess our situation. I’m sorry, mate.”

“Goddammit! Typical officer shite! We get back there, I’m gonna rip that bastard poncy Oxford dilletante’s tongue out! Call ‘em back up again! I’ll give him a piece of me mind directly!”

As Martin stormed off towards the wireless set in the back of the jeep, Hans scanned the road ahead of them with a pair of field glasses retrieved from the kubelwagen. “I know you think my brother is mad, Horst. But I’m telling you, you won’t meet a more down to earth man. He is very practical and doesn’t have the imagination to make up such outlandish stories. If he tells you there are insane cannibals coming towards us, believe him.”

“Jah, don’t be so dour, Horst.” Burkhardt agreed. “Obviously, something happened back there to spook herr Scharfuhrer and that Tommy Sergeant. Why else would they give us our weapons back? Rudi looks frightened out of his mind. He wouldn’t even talk when I tried to approach him. But you have to admit, Hans. It sounds pretty crazy. German citizens going mad and turning cannibal? I can maybe see that in some of the cities. Dresden was hit really hard from what I heard. I heard stories of survivors driven mad by the Amis’ firebombing the place. But this? Aside from Wessel, this area is nothing but farmland. The Amis and the Tommies don’t have anything to bomb here. Food is rationed, but still available. I don’t understand what possibly could have driven them mad. It doesn’t make sense.”

Hans gasped audibly as the first of Ornel’s former inhabitants rounded the bend in the road a few hundred yards ahead of them. “Mein Gott…It’s not possible…”

He handed the binoculars to Burkhardt and shrank back into his seat. The Luftwaffe ground trooper looked through the lenses and swore a long string of profanity before handing them in turn to Horst.

The caustic skeptic couldn’t put the glasses down.   Burkhardt noted that his companion’s face had gone noticeably pale. “How much ammunition do we have left? How much is in those ammo boxes behind the seat? Rudi is going to have his hands full bringing us stripper clips. Ach du lieber…I can’t believe what I’m seeing. They look…dead.”

Burkhardt. Looked down the sights on his Mauser, nervous to fire even though he knew they were still out of range. “I’ve already counted. We’ve got maybe thirty rounds left.”

“Shit.” Horst spat under his breath.

Just then the drone of an engine approaching cut through the air above them. A lone American observation plane shot slowly over the trees of the forest running to the north of the roadside. It waggled its wings in recognition to the British soldiers below before veering off to make a pass at the throng of people approaching their position.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on down there?” The pilot hit the transmit button on his radio. “Kettle, this is Lima Bean. We have reached the coordinates forwarded to us by the Limeys, over.”

“Acknowledged, Lima Bean. What’s the situation look like, Ralph? Over.”

“Kettle, I don’t know what the hell is happening on the ground. It looks like there’s Krauts down there with the Brits. Looks like they’re working together. They’ve got the road blocked off and there’s a crowd of about fifty or sixty people approaching them from about two hundred yards away. Observation of the village shows that there’s fires burning in the main square, lots of bodies lying around, also a couple dozen people just standing around doing nothing. There’s also a jeep parked in the road just outside the village with bodies lying around it too, couple of civvies milling around. Looks like they’ve seen some action down there, over.”

“Please repeat that first part again, Lima Bean. The Brits and Krauts are working together? Acknowledge, over.”

“That’s an affirm, Kettle. The British and German troops on the ground appear to be working together. They’ve got a roadblock set up, a kraut vehicle, a civilian horse-drawn wagon and another jeep. We’re coming around for another look at their position, over.”

“Lima Bean, assess how many troops appear to be on the ground, over.”

“Kettle, we can spot four Brits and five Germans. They seem…holy crap! Jesus God! Kettle, they’ve begun firing into the crowd! Say again, the troops on the ground are firing at will into the crowd approaching them. They don’t look like they’re armed! Those people were just walking towards them! Please advise, Kettle. Repeat, please advise! What the hell are we supposed to do, sir?”

Back in the CP tent of the American camp, Lieutenant Colonel David Kaplan of the 413th Regiment, 104th infantry Division’s reconnaissance detachment rubbed his eyes in disbelief and weariness. When was this shit finally going to be over with? Four days after crossing the Roer, the division had gone through hell fighting for Mannheim. Then there was that mess in Operation Grenade, taking all those friggin’ dams in the Roer valley. Now this? What in God’s name was wrong with those goddamned limeys?

“Lima Bean, this is Kettle. Maintain position and keep us posted. Get some photos of this shit while you’re at it. We’ll advise momentarily. Kettle out.”

Colonel Kaplan sighed and looked to his radio operator. “Son, get me that British column again and tell them I want the frequency of the people they’ve got on the ground down there. I’m going straight to the horse’s mouth on this. I want to talk to the man in charge of that rabble and find out just what the hell he’s playing at. This is beginning to stink like last week’s laundry and I want to know why.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Farris replied, “I mean, how many of them will have families…y’know…in the area.”

“That’s why they need to be told. Come on Cal, they’re professionals. They’re trained, we owe it to them to…”

“They will not know,” Captain David Reiner spoke for the first time in the meeting, and ended the conversation, “what we have to do, we have to do. I won’t risk a mutiny; moreover, I think if they are going to be forced to do such a thing, it is best that they be ignorant of the fact.”

There was a silence then, in the huddled closeness of the captain’s cabin.

“We are going through with it then sir?” Farris asked.

“Read the message again. Out loud this time.”

“From National Command Authority, to Commander, USS Wyoming. Be advised that Biological Anomaly containment has failed. Conventional military operations have proved ineffective. Security of United States now depends on prompt action to neutralise threat at all costs. The release of strategic arms has been authorized. You are hereby ordered to attack targets according to updated strike package SLBM 99-001. You will then stand by for further instructions.”

“It read any differently out loud than it did last time?”

“No.”

“XO, ten minutes ago, Lt Farris told me that the communication he’s holding in his hand, the communication from our Commander in Chief, was authentic and you concurred. Have you changed your mind?”

“No sir,” said Highfield.

“Well then,” Reiner took out a bottle of whiskey from under his bunk.

“I bought it for the day we actually launched the goddamned things. Very illegal but I thought, at that point, what the hell.”

They drank, and the tension receded slightly.

“Thing that gets me, is that it’s zombies…I mean, shit,” said Farris, his voice high pitched and wavering.

“I believe you are referring to the ‘Biological Anomaly’,” said Highfield sourly. For reasons pertaining to morale and the general welfare of the services, talk of ‘zombies’ was banned.

“Back when it was the Reds, I always had this recurring nightmare that we’d survive it, initially, and we’d be the ones who’d have to sail back into port, and find out what was left. It’s going to be that way now, I’m finally going to do it, pop the hatch and see what a nuke strike looks like up close. Say what you want about the BA, they don’t have fast attack subs out here hunting us.”

They listened to Reiner’s Midwest brogue as they waited a spell, taking their time with the whiskey. But it had to end. And the captain stood up, saying nothing. The other officers made to go. Highfield, however, stayed behind.

“Something I can help you with XO?”

“I just don’t understand, when we left Kings Bay there were only scattered incidences, random attacks. I don’t understand how in three months…”

“Steve, I don’t get it either. Come on, let’s have another drink.”

Reiner poured two more generous shots, they clinked glasses. Then the captain retrieved a sallow folder from his small work desk, handed it to Reiner.

“I’ve been getting updates from the wise men over at Defence Intelligence. First graph they sent out showed the numbers of BAs / zombies roughly doubling every month. I got a second one through the next day, revised projection, showing it doubling every two weeks. Last one came through a week after that, and it was exponential.”

“They must have known, else why put us to sea.”

“We are what we always have been, the backup; the absolute last resort. Only thing different is, they actually need us this time, they need us to do the unthinkable. If I had to guess what’s changed, last update said they were going to set up a cordon outside the main east coast axis. Six divisions, national guard, reserve, green army and a marine expeditionary unit. If they’re calling us in, I reckon it’s safe to say the cordon’s been breached. But I don’t think the ‘why’ is your problem Steve. I think you’re stalling for time, so it’s best if we just skip the BS and get to it.”

Reiner took another sip, looked down at his feet.

“I don’t think I can do it sir.”

“Well that’s going to be a problem, what with you being the executive officer of the boat and all. Can’t do it without your agreement Steve, you know the rules. It’s amazing how many hoops you have to jump through before they allow you to kill ten million people.”

“It’s just, I left Boston in the middle of the night, those were the orders. Immediate. I told Kathy not to wake the girls, said I’d be back in a few weeks, because, well, that’s how it usually is with emergency call ups. I went in to their rooms, smelled their hair, kissed them on their foreheads. I just, y’know, I just wish I’d said goodbye.”

“Can’t be helped Steve. You know why we do this? No matter how terrible it is, the man up the chain is in the know and he reckons this is the best thing to do and he knows more than we do. We jeopardise that by not following orders. You don’t want to have ten million deaths on your conscience, well neither do I. But if those critters are through the cordon, breaking out into the Great Lakes and the Western plains, we’re talking 100, maybe 200 million deaths. Then there’s the oath you took, if you remember, I know it’s a long time ago. Then there’s old master chief Wilkins’ on why follow the chain of command. He was a rough old boy, Korea vet, and when I was an ensign at Annapolis, if you can imagine such a thing, he’d tell us we do what we do ‘because at the least boy, at the very goddamn least, you get to go to your grave like a sailor, and an officer in the United States Navy. And the stairway to heaven is packed with the millions who’d kill for the privilege.’”

Reiner laughed along with the captain, too hard and too long. But the laughter, just like the whiskey, had to end. Then Reiner spoke again;

“Now I need you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“I need you to go up to the bridge, set condition 1 for strategic missile launch, strike package SLBM 99-001, targets are Atlanta, Richmond, Washington DC, New York and Boston, four warheads a piece. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Aye aye sir.”

Captain Reiner sat down on his bunk, allowed himself another swig of whiskey. And as he heard the orders shouted across the fifteen thousand tons of submarine under his command, he breathed a prayer.

Higgins hears the deer approaching. A buck – five-pointer at least. He spent enough time canvassing the Allegheny’s to know the difference between the dainty sound of a doe and the lumbering sound a buck. But he can’t do anything about it, except hope the deer continues on into the shallow woods.

Higgins clears his throat to whisper into the headset, but Whitney’s voice crackles through his ear-piece before he has the chance.

We see him, Whitney says.

The other ten voices positioned along the tree line also confirm visual. They’re taking their attention off their main focus of operation – the nine story office building, the swarm of Z’s at the front entrance, and the supposed mark holed-up on floor seven – to watch a stocky buck poke around Higgins’s cover.

The deer begins to study the odd lump protruding from the dirt and grass. Higgins’s closes his eyes and tries to will the deer on, down the hill, into the woods, back across the clearing, anywhere but here.

But it doesn’t go anywhere.

The deer prods the lump instead, no doubt catching a mixture of his scent, and the Z’s down the hill.

Whitney radios again – Steady, Higgins. Don’t spook it.

Higgins grits his teeth. The deer lowers its head into a tangle of leaves and crab grass, sniffs something, and then sneezes, kicking the camouflage tarpaulin. The ruffling sound startles the deer, and it jumps back, hind hoof coming to rest on the small of Higgins’s back, the freezes. The pressure is horrifying – it feels like his guts are being squeezed through his eyeballs. Higgins’s bladder unfastens. Warmth releases. A trickle, than a wash, flooding his pants and soaking the dirt underneath him. But he knows he still can’t move. He’ll have to sit there soaked in piss until the thing smother him or takes off. But lurking is the thought – my lungs are probably next. So he sucks in as much air as he can and holds it, worried less about suffocation and more about the deer picking up his scent, have it panic even more, and cause a big enough stir to get their attention.

Blue and purple dots swirl behind the lids of Higgins’ tightly shut eyes. Fast, in waves, dancing in and out of focus like a kaleidoscope. That reserved breath is quickly building into a bubble, ready to burst.

Another second, Whitney says. Hang in there one more second…

Control fades. Tingling crawls over his fingers and toes. A hum begins inside Higgins’s ear and buzzes on and off like a table saw. He can feel his soul escaping from his throat. So sorry for the bodies, oh Lord – I killed them for the greater good of mankind…

And just as absolute serenity begins to inundate his brain, his thoughts, and choke his panic, a rolling moan tears up the embankment to where the fire teams are positioned. The deer skitters back, releasing Higgins, and tears off toward the far tree line on the opposite side of the clearing, never thinking twice about its former object of curiosity.

Rapture.

Higgins rolls over and gasps like an old man fumbling for his oxygen, no longer caring if the zombies can hear him. When he’s able to catch his breath, Higgins begins to laugh. He can’t help it. Both Speaker and Moses radio for him to, shut the fuck up, but by then Higgins is hysterical.

He’s spent over two years as a mercenary with EZE squad, fulfilling contracts for the U.S. Government, extracting VIPs from their rapidly weakening strongholds or sometimes eliminating them. He’s spent almost two years having faced thousands upon thousands of Z’s. He’s seen the inception of a plague, the taboo of human sacrifice and mutilations and cannibalism, the brink of a nationwide genocide, but the first time he pisses his pants is because of a fucking white tail deer.

Karma, he says to himself. For all those suckers I had mounted on the wall of my den, this is payback.

Whitney calls back over the radio, Get back on your rifle, Higgins.

Higgins takes a few deep breaths, somewhat composes himself, and then returns focus to the M110 scope, relocating the pack of Z’s below. His site moves past the crispy car shells dotting the parking lot, past the cement plaza, and locks on the entrance of the barricaded office building.

They’re still there.

Forty of them. Maybe more. Pressed up against the office walls and high windows, rotting hands banging and clawing. The collective moan swells again, tracing an invisible line up Higgins’s freshly bruised spine. The humor vanishes. He’ll never get over seeing them like this, in pack mentality, trying every which way to hunt down fresh flesh and devour it.

He’s seen it a million times.

But there’s something off about this particular scene. A pack of Z’s this size, all bunched together in one spot, but no stragglers? And what were they doing keying on a nine-story office building, roughly three miles east of the Hudson River? This part of New York has been all but abandoned over the past eighteen months. It’s been just over three years since the Battle of Manhattan, and the last series of major evacuations of the New York Metro area finished over three months ago. All the “real” military units have been gone since June.

Whitney’s crew had pulled off one other operation in this area about nine months earlier, down in Scarsdale, a formerly ritzy suburb of Manhattan. This time, their orders were to rescue the heiress of some pharmaceutical fortune from a compound on outskirts of town. Like many other affluent people during the early stages of the war, she had locked herself inside the maid’s quarters and spent eighteen months rationing cans of olives, peas, corn, and whatever else was left behind. When they received orders from The Radio Man (the government’s resident patsy and filter), the heiress was on the brink of starvation. But Whitney’s crew ran into trouble when a group of unaffiliated mercenaries intercepted the call and tracked her down too. If Whitney had been unable to negotiate a joint credit payout, someone would have put a round in someone else’s face. Higgins remembered the look on the other crew’s faces, and remembered thinking one thing about them – killers of Z’s and man alike.

Back to the front door of the office. The Z’s are riled up. They’ve found something inside. And whatever it is, it’s alive. It’s probably their mark. And they could sit around and let the zombies do the job for them, breach the building, climb the stairwells, crush barricades, but that might take days – weeks even. And every day sat idly by was another dollar gone to another crew.

Higgins didn’t want to know what the mark they were looking for did. He just knew what his job was, and what he was being “paid” to do.

Veach’s voice crackles over his earpiece, Whenever you’re ready, Sugar.

With a quick tinker of the sight, Higgins arbitrarily picks one out of the pack. A young woman, naked from the waist down, legs the color of plums. Her right arm dangles from the socket like a broken turkey wing, the other incessantly bangs on a spider-webbed portion of the reflective glass. Higgins aligns the crosshairs with the nape of her neck, and mock squeezes. Then he rotates left, slightly jerking his finger with the two nearest flanking heads, a tall, dainty man, and a squatty teenage boy missing half his torso.

Female, no pants, front and center, Higgins whispers, and her two buddies, on the right one left.

Always going for the ladies, Speaker says, waiting for a laugh in return. But no one does. No one ever laughs at Speaker’s lame jokes.

A series of hushed callouts follows: I got fatso…I’ll take the little guy…I have the three skeletons on the left end…Walker, you hit Mini-Me…

Whitney waits for the sighting to end. On Higgins’ mark.

The kick of the rifle surprises Higgins, mainly because he rarely uses this particular gun. The echoing shot crackles down the hill and back across the field like a thunder, stirring everything in its path. Birds flutter. A cat skitters out from a bush and disappears under an upturned tow truck lying dead across Route 119. The targeted Z is decapitated before she has a chance to react. Higgins’s other two marks have just enough time to turn and face his general direction, only to have their heads blown apart like a firecracker detonated inside a pumpkin.

Eleven seconds after the first shot is fired, all forty-plus Z’s lie crumpled in the entryway. The headless corpses sit twisted and contorted into unnatural positions; black ooze coating the windows and doors and the closest rusting cars like abstract paint.

Movement? Whitney asks.

There’s a collective no, so the fire teams dig in and wait for a second wave. Z’s stumbling from the woods, staggering down the highway, flooding from a nearby sub-division. It always happens. You think you’re done, you think the area is safe, and then BAM, out comes some starved fuckers with no eyes and no jaws but a sense of smell that could put the Cheverny Hounds to shame.

But still, nothing.

The moaning is gone. No more banging or wailing or tinkling glass. The shallow valley is quiet. All that’s left to fill the void is cackling from the crows, the wind, and the last of the summer cicadas.

Ok boys, we’re breaking for the day, Whitney says. We’re losing the sun, and I don’t want anyone going in there without natural light. So go ahead and set up camp. We’ll finish this up in the AM.

Higgins wipes a hand over his brow and stands up, waiting for catcalls from the guys about the dark stain on his baggy fatigues. But he doesn’t care, really. He’s happy to be alive. Happy the deer got spooked by Z, and happy the Z’s were so easy to retire.

Speaker walks over to him and pats him on the shoulder. “Gotta get you some diapers next time, my man,” he says with a laugh.

Higgins feigns a smile. He’s over the embarrassment, but still unable to shake what’s bothering him. He just can’t place it.

Fifty yards north of Higgins, Captain Whitney watches as the Veach, Walker, and Moses remove themselves from their cover and go and retrieve the vehicles from over the ridge. The other men strip off their extra gear, check their ammunition, and wait.

The trucks rumble across the clearing – one stripped Humvee, one Jeep, and one Econoline painted olive drab, the letters EZE painted in red on the side, and the roof custom-fitted with a makeshift perch and a .50 caliber machine gun. The men call it the “A-Team” van, and Whitney gets a chuckle out of it every time.

Everything should be copasetic – the men begin unloading tents and cots and food, Walker is canvassing the shallow woods for kindling – but Whitney can’t shake this uneasy feeling, a feeling he unknowingly shares with Higgins. Something about the place and the appearance of the zombies isn’t sitting right. It may be anxiety. But it may be intuition causing that anxiety. Either way, he strokes the stringy beard covering his chin until he notices Hobbs standing next to him, clearing his throat loudly, trying for Whitney’s attention.

“Sorry,” Whitney says, sheepishly. “Thinking about next steps.”

Hobbs nods. “The Radio Man is calling,” Hobbs says. “Asking me how far along we are.”

Whitney nods. “Tell him everything is progressing nicely. Should have the subject free and clear by tomorrow morning, 0800.”

Hobbs nods and turns to leave, but Whitney stops him. “Oh, and tell him no more of these suburban operations, or I’m taking up the stakes and heading West.”

Hobbs tells him okay, and trots off.

Whitney returns to his beard, and watches Hobbs jog across camp. They’ve known each other a long time, twelve years or so, came up through boot camp together, were stationed at Camp Lejeune for years. But lately, he’s sense detachment from Hobbs – the man seems to be losing his focus, his rigidness. He wonders if Hobbs has lost the cold blood that used to pump through his veins.

Killing can wear on a man, Whitney should know.

Whitney starts to call for Hobbs, but realizes his throat is parched, rough as sandpaper. As he reaches down to grab his canteen, he catches Higgins’s gaze. It’s troubling. But Higgins looks away quickly, embarrassed, and returns to setting up wire along the perimeter.

Whitney imagines the concerned look on Higgins’s face could be the mirror image of his own.

*

Ten of the twelve men sit around the low fire smoking, playing cards, or lying in the cool grass watching the last of the sun leave streaks along the horizon. Two are on watch, patrolling the perimeter and keeping an eye on the flickering candles inside the office building. There’s some low chatter on the CB from The Radio Man, but largely, the evening is peaceful. Soothing almost.

Captain Whitney sits in the driver’s seat of the Jeep, peeling off his shirt and utility harness, letting the cool breeze wash over his sticky skin. He chews a mangled cigar and watches the other men absently, his hesitation from earlier still lingering. He’s only thirty-four years old, but his face looks a decade older. Crow’s feet slither from the corner of his eyes, frown marks grove their way into his face, from his nose to the edge of his beard, and scars cover the majority of his neck, shoulders and torso. He’s been on contract for over three years, heading up EZE Squad for the majority of that time, saving countless VIPs, eliminating others, and breaking tough men who bucked former leaders. But the questions he asked himself earlier about Hobbs, he now associated with himself, because after all, time was taking its toll. He felt tired constantly, on the brink of exhaustion even. Since paper money was now as coveted as old newspaper, he’d been working for a third party via Washington (or were we calling it Honolulu now?) mostly for nothing more than IOU’s, and grandeur promises of a bright, postwar future. Every kill/extraction equaled another bip point, another boost in his post war docket. And even though he knew his wife was being treated like gold for what he was doing, and he knew these people he was “handling” really did need “handling,” still, something felt hollow. Although Whitney preferred the term, Soldier of Fortune, it didn’t change what Whitney and EZE did to ensure theirs, and their family’s comfortable future.

“Cap,” a voice calls, cutting Whitney’s chain of thought. “Mind if I sit?”

Whitney turns around and sees Higgins standing beside the Jeep. In one hand, Higgins holds a bottle of chrome polish, in the other his Desert Eagle. Whitney nods his head and Higgins drops into the passenger’s seat. He begins to polish the siding with the tender rub of someone washing a baby. The two men spend a few moments sitting quietly, staring out over the valley, watching the office building, the littered parking lot, and the road running alongside it.

“How’s your back?” Whitney asks.

Higgins stares blankly at Whitney for a second, as if missing the point of the question, but then he shifts and winces. “Oh yeah, my back. I guess it’s all right. That was a big goddamn deer, huh?”

Whitney smiles and nods, then spits some soggy paper onto the grass.

He likes Higgins, because Higgins isn’t like most of the others. His eyes still have some life behind them, they still dance from time to time. He hasn’t acquired that dead, blank thousand yard stare – the shark’s eye – that the others have. And his attitude is still mostly intact, which was important when an operation hits some turmoil. Higgins keeps his wits when others go off the reservation and start pumping bullets into anything with – or without – a pulse. While the other men are busy reenacting glory scenes from old war flicks to satisfy the gap growing in their conscious between sane and something else, Higgins makes plotted moves to correct whatever it is that’s going wrong.

“Can I ask you something, Cap?” Higgins asks, leaning over the console so he can keep his voice down. “Who are we after this time?”

Whitney turns to Higgins and furrows his brow. “Doesn’t matter. Just like the rest of the time.” He replies.

But this does nothing to stop Higgins. “It does. To me, at least. I feel something off. Something ain’t right about all this. That deer gave me a bad feeling.”

“It was just a deer, Pete. Don’t lose sleep over it.”

Higgins sucks on his teeth and gingerly lights a cigarette, cuffing the tip and shielding his eyes from the smoke. “Well, we’ve seen some shit, right?”

Whitney nods. “That’s one way to put it.”

“So we’ve seen some serious shit in our time together, but we ain’t never seen a few dozen Z’s standing in the middle of nowhere, attacking some random door on a whim. So we’re supposed to get this VIP, this writer, or official, or gangster, or whoever, right?

Whitney cuts in. “It’s a scientist.”

This stops Higgins. “A scientist?” It’s rhetorical, but Whitney repeats himself anyway.

“Now why in God’s name would they want us to pop-off a scientist?” Higgins replies.

“This is why I keep the occupations of our targets mostly between Hobbs and myself, because sometimes finding out more about a mark allows a moral conflict to arise.”

Higgins digests this and then nods, as if settling on something. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter. But let’s say he’s here and he’s up there on what, the seventh floor? Now, I know Z’s can track a scent like a bloodhound, but there’s no way they’re smelling a group of five or six shut-ins that high up in a building like that. No goddamn way.”

Whitney lets Higgins’s theory sink in. “The Radio Man says he’s in there. He’s never failed us before.”

“Well how do we know the Radio Man didn’t decide to fail us this time?”

“It doesn’t help anymore to pass along incorrect information, now does it?” Whitney asks. “If we don’t get him, he continues to do whatever he’s doing to piss Washington off. It doesn’t make sense to send us on a wild goose chase.”

Higgins takes one last drag and flicks the butt into the darkness. It arcs through the air and explodes into a starburst of red embers against the grass. Then he leans over to Whitney and says, “Or does it?”

This troubles Whitney, because Higgins’s has a point. It doesn’t make sense for the Radio Man to lie, to pass along bad information, but then again, a lot of things don’t make sense anymore.

Higgins senses Whitney’s pondering thought. “Look, I’m not trying to cause trouble, Cap. It’s just the way I feel.”

Whitney shakes it off, it’s too abstract, too unlikely. “I appreciate the concern, Pete. Hopefully we finish this one tomorrow and the next one will have us following the warm weather south, to Atlanta or Jacksonville.”

Higgins smiles, but it’s about as authentic as nylon. He begins to say something else, but behind them, the radio crackles to life.

Hobbs gingerly removes the damp towel covering his eyes and gets up off his cot to pick up the handheld. His squatty body wades through the crowd, grimacing with each step as if working out the kinks. He picks it up and speaks in a low tone, responding to the voice on the other end monotonously.

The sound of the radio makes Whitney think back to the early days of the War. Before the collapse of local governments, before the mass pullouts and mass migrations west. Before he was plucked from the ranks and asked to do a job not many men were willing to do. Back when he would sit with Ally at their small kitchen table inside their quant house on a quiet street in Severna Park, holding hands, jaws dangling lower and lower with every piece of breaking news coming across the airwaves, unable and unwilling to grasp the severity of the events taking place.

But that was a different person, Whitney says to himself. He closes his eyes, desperately trying to see the face of the man sitting across the table from his wife. But he can’t. The face isn’t his, it’s amorphous. Ripples on a disturbed pond, a smudged glimpse of a life led by someone else.

But he can still see Ally. Perfectly. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to feel the small of her back, right where he spine met her butt, the smooth skin that felt like brushing your palm over the surface of water. Her smile, her sweet words of wisdom. And he can still see the look of horror on her face when he explained what he had to do. What he had to do for them. She never came out said what she wanted to say, but Whitney knew what she wanted to say.

But what mattered was he knew she was safe somewhere, halfway across the country, near Park City or Carson City or Salt Lake City, holed up in one of the military compounds. But Whitney also knew the dangers of the war, how things went from stable to mass chaos in the blink of an eye. How safe could anyone really be, anyway?

“Cap…Cap…Cap!” Hobbs yells. “You need to take this.”

“Tell the Radio Man to calm down,” Whitney replies. “I already told him that we’re waiting for first light.”

Hobbs still has the phone extended toward his old friend. “Cap,” he says, in such a hushed tone that it’s almost a whisper. “It’s not the Radio Man. It’s HQ, Cap.”

Whitney feels the saliva dry up in his mouth. He slowly walks over to the handheld and grabs the oversized CB. He takes a deep breath and does his best to clear all alarm from his voice. “Captain Whitney here.”

All eyes are on Whitney and his slowly nodding head. No more cards, no more books, no more guns being meticulously cleaned. All eleven men watch intensely like Doberman’s watching a dropped piece of steak.

“Yes sir. Yes sir. That makes sense, sir. Yes sir. We’ll move on it ASAP. Thank you, sir.”

Whitney hands the dead receiver back to Hobbs, who’s staring at Whitney like a man waiting to hear a punch line.

Higgins leans over the backseat of the Jeep, his eyes heavy with sleep and concern. “So?”

“We have to move now. As in, five minutes ago.”

Hobbs shakes his head. “No way, it’s too late. Look at the sky. We have about an hour of daylight left. Didn’t you explain to them that it’s too late?”

Whitney nods. “I did. But they said the urgency is no longer up to our discretion. That if we don’t move now, we don’t get anything.”

Hobbs’s face goes from conflicted to angry. He didn’t spend three days trekking and then a day-and-a-half prepping in some rotted-out fucking town trying to pop some dipshit just to be bent over a chair at the eleventh hour.

“Fuck that,” Hobbs says shaking his head wildly. “Fuck them. Why don’t we begin preliminary ops, and then start the siege in the morning?”

Whitney looks past Hobbs, past the other men, toward the building. “We can’t. They want visual confirmation by midnight. Otherwise, like I said before, nothing.”

Hobbs folds his arms and turns away. “Well, if you’re taking a poll I’m against this move. A rush job never does anyone any good. All it does is end up getting someone killed. Remember Robio? That kid could kill a Grizzly Bear with his bare hands, but the Radio Man rushed us into that goddamn burning Victorian, he got clamped and ended up dead all because we had a schedule to keep…”

“Enough,” Whitney barks, his voice now guttural and hard. “I remember Robio, and I remember that fuck-up. But this isn’t up to just me. Or you.”

“Okay. Then we vote.” Hobbs replies.

Whitney nods his head. Because technically, yes, the men are under his command, but only because they all assumed a contract. The only punishment they face if they decide to not follow through on an order is they don’t receive bips. At worst, they’re disbanded. But most of these guys would pick up with another crew, a rogue crew even, the ones Whitney tries so hard not to tangle with. When you broke out the crazy scale and compared his craziest guy with a rogue’s most sane, the gap was as wide as the Grand Canyon.

The men crowd around Hobbs and Whitney, most of them kneeling, looking up at him like football players waiting for half time pep-talk. Whitney runs through the mission change, and leaves it up to a vote tally as to whether or not they finish what they started. He promises a pass to anyone unwilling to go forward tonight, because it wasn’t part of the original itinerary. But he hopes the majority votes to get it over with. He doesn’t want to scrap all the effort he’s already invested. It would be foolish to do so. And he knows Hobbs, deep down, knows this.

The vote. Eight for moving forward – three against moving forward. Only Hobbs, Youngman, and Higgins voted to abandon the objective, and request a new one. But all three agreed to advance once they were outvoted.

“We have until 1900 hours to get ready for the dance. I’ll let you know how the fire teams are going to play out as soon as I decide how were heading in. Try not to stress too much about the dim and the urgency. There’s a reason they call on this team to carry out the dirty ones.”

*

Within the hour the crew is regrouped, reloaded, reenergized, locked and loaded. Guns, gear, ammo, Kevlar, and night vision. It’s a scramble, but it’s controlled, because now everyone is anxious to get moving, get this over with, and leave the valley and all the bad omens that have come with it.

They lineup for briefing, not formal, but in a neat rows, their all-but-abandoned military habits still shining through, occasionally, especially during briefings.

Whitney begins to tick off who’s going in, and who’s hanging back, and who will be on reconnaissance.

“Walker, Speaker, Higgins – you’re team 1. Alonzo, Hollander, and Brown, you’re team 2. I want you two in first. Both teams use the lobby for entry and then team 2 will use the north fire escape at the back of the lobby. Team 1, you use the south stairwell, the one closest to the entrance.”

“Veach, Moses, and Cavaretta, you’re in reserve. If anything happens, do not hesitate to enter and relieve teams 1 or 2. Hobbs and Youngman, you two stick to the M110’s and stay up here on the hill with me. We’re going to keep an eye out on the perimeter and make sure there are no surprises.”

Whitney asks if there are questions, receives none, and tells teams 1 and 2 to be ready in fifteen minutes for departure.

*

We’re live, Walker says, sliding back the hammer. He sends Higgins out on point, waits a second, and then has Speaker cover the rear. Right behind them is Team 2, fanning out wide and stuttering their progress to make sure they don’t bunch up with the first fire team.

The six men slowly make their way down the steep hill that funnels into the parking lot, crouching, scanning the landscape for stragglers. In quick succession they move across the lot, heads on a swivel, radioing back up the hill about any sort of stirring. Team 2 hangs back behind a cavalcade of overturned SUVs, as team 1 lines up next to the main door.

Breach, Walker says. Speaker moves up to the entrance and uses a small handheld ram to batter open the barricade doors. The glass webs and then shatters, but the heavy oak desk propped against it from the inside cracks and shifts enough for Speaker to get leverage. Then the three men shoulder it out of the way.

Holy…, Walker says, entering the lobby. Looks like a damn pig slaughter.

The carnage in the lobby is worse than the mess outside. Rotting and shriveled body parts – everywhere. Black palm prints on every surface like macabre cave drawings. A pile of stacked bodies fill the empty fountain basin. At the front desk is the corpse of the security guard, face down on the desk, body at least eighteen months into the decomposition process. But his hat still rests on his head. Stuck in his bony grip is a walkie-talkie with springs and wires popping from the cracked seams like broken springs from a couch.

Then shit really gets strange.

Near the back of the lobby, lying in a neat row, are three dead men in white lab coats. The crowns of their heads face south toward the entrance. What stops Team 1 is the freshness of the blood. It’s still sticky and red, not black. And the corpses aren’t bloated. The men’s faces look serene, not twisted or bulging with gases. Lying at their sides, the men’s limbs are still limp, not yet affected at all by rigor mortis. The three dead men are the complete opposite of the dozens of other corpses littering the lobby.

Poor bastards, Speaker says.

Higgins taps Walker’s shoulder. “This doesn’t look right,” he says.

“These guys haven’t been dead more than a couple of hours.”

Walker lets the words marinate then radioes back to Whitney and explains the situation.

Check for wallets, Whitney says. And then check for a Michael Lewis Montgomery. If you find identification that has that name on it, we ID the body and we move out of here.

Speaker begins rolling the bodies and fishing for wallets. He tosses three wallets on the granite floor. Ya’ll check them for the name. I need a breather.

Higgins scans through the wallets. A Harrington, a Florence, and a Tanner. No Montgomery. That’s a negative, he says into the headset.

Walker taps his shoulder and directs him toward the stairwell near the rear of the lobby. “Let’s go.”

Higgins hesitates. He wants out. It’s a growing fear, a fear that comes from somewhere deep, because he’s starting to think if it fully materializes, he will not be able to control it. Walker senses something and says, “We’re ready for anything. You remember this.”

And so they go. But Higgins feels a piece of him stuck behind on the cold granite floor, something he’ll regret ever leaving.

The three men move slowly up the stairwell, which is surprisingly clear, aside from the errant broken piece of office furniture. Team 2 reports the same sort of blockage in the north stairwell.

Anything is better than the lobby, Hollander mumbles.

Veach, Moses, and Cavaretta radio in from the cement plaza, waiting for instructions.

There’s a pile of dead ones out here, too, Veach says. Neatly stacked against the wall of a janitors exit.

Whitney reminds both teams to announce their presence should there be contact. If you decide to pull the trigger, make sure our guys aren’t on the other side of a Z, waiting to swallow whatever bullets miss.

When Higgins, Walker, and Speaker reach the seventh floor, Higgins peaks inside to survey the hallway. The only illumination comes from the red emergency lights above the exit signs, so the hallway is lit with a crimson haze. It smells like smoke, cigarettes or tobacco. Someone’s been out in the hallway recently, Higgins says to himself.

Then something moves. Slow and staggering.

Higgins comes back into the hallway and quietly shuts the door.

I have a visual on a Z, north end of the hall, Higgins says, quickly strapping on his night vision for a better view of what’s out there in the darkness.

Hollander, come in, Higgins calls into his headset. This time his voice is excited. Can you confirm a visual?

Higgins opens the door slowly and sticks his head inside. He watches as the Z turns around and paces back toward the south stairwell. As it’s body shift, he sees two more zombies behind it, following suit.

Hollander, come in. There are two more Z’s approaching from the north end.

Walker says to no one specifically, This is going to shit. Going to shit quick, man. I don’t like this one bit.

Whitney’s voice cuts over the radio. Hollander, if you can’t talk then please click your radio so we know you’re receiving transmission.

Silence.

So the three other teams wait and pretend like it’s just an electronic malfunction.

Higgins returns for another look down the hall. Three more Z’s turn the corner. Behind them are another two. Suddenly, the hallway is filled with moaning. The metal railing rattles. Higgins looks at Speaker, but before he can tell him to go down to floor six and see what he can see in that hallway, Speaker is already skipping down to the next landing.

Hollander. Alonzo. Brown. Come in, over, Whitney’s voice again crackles over the radio. Higgins senses a touch of panic in Whitney’s voice, and feels fear begin to build inside his own gut.

Walker taps Higgins, covers his mic and says, “I think we need to get the fuck out of here right now. Like fucking thirty seconds ago, dude.”

Walker’s eyes are swimming. They are filled with a glaze that says more than just, abandon ship. The glaze is bordering on saying, every man for himself from here on out.

But Higgins agrees, because he’s right. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. Higgins’s slings his M-4 over his shoulder, and removes the Desert Eagle from his shoulder holster, then cocks the hammer.

Walker pulls his own pistol from his ankle holster and then turns to tell Speaker the plan. But he looks down just in time to see the door to the sixth floor door burst open. But instead of Z’s swarming in tearing the three men to shreds, instead of the smell of decomposing flesh and blood, the stairwell fills with the smell of burnt gunpowder.

Speaker’s torso explodes. Six, seven, eight bullets rip into him, with so much force he tumbles over the railing, and begins a violent descent down the shaft, bouncing from one banister to the other. Into the stairwell rush three men holding compact carbines, their faces covered with gas masks, their fatigues neat and government issued. They first swing their weapons down the shaft toward Speaker’s now silent body, which is what gives Higgins and Walker enough time to escape. They both know they have a better shot against the Z’s than they do the men with masks.

As Higgins shoulders the stairwell door open, bullets rattle and ricochet off the landing they just escaped, a spectacular shower of sparks lights up the darkness.

The door bangs into a Z, and Higgins rolls to the floor taking aim at whatever else is behind him. He sees the rush coming. Ten Z’s, maybe more now. Their arms stretched as far as possible, ligaments bulging, emaciated muscles twitching, reaching for a piece of cloth, skin, a shoelace to grab hold of. But Higgins unloads three perfectly placed bullets from the Eagle, and falls three of them. They drop like sand bags onto the carpet, not only stopped, but also acting as a plug for the Z’s behind them. Walker sidesteps into the hallway and unloads with his M-4 at point-blank range, tearing the faces off four more of them. Black ooze explodes over both men, but they have no time to panic, because more Z’s turn the corner. Higgins gets to his feet and lines up three headshots, and takes them. All are executed perfectly. The two men finish off the remaining Z’s, then do their best to block the stairwell door from opening.

They tear off down the side hallway, keeping low, searching for the north stairwell, hoping Alonzo and company couldn’t respond because of the other masked gunmen.

Here, Higgins yells, and pulls the other stairwell open, rushing instead with his Eagle extended. But he halts in his tracks like he’s been hit by a bus. And everything inside him collectively sinks – his throat, his heart, his stomach. On the landing lie the riddled bodies of Brown, Alonzo, and Hollander, bent over one another in awkward fashion like the Z’s they dropped hours before. The bullet wounds smoke and blood pours over the edge of the stairs and leaking seventy feet to the bottom.

Walker turns and vomits, only to be met by a series of bullets. He falls forward onto his chest, one arm protecting the gaping wound slashed across his abdominal muscles, the other clawing at the carpet, trying to pull himself along.

Higgins pulls the stairwell door shut, and leans up against it. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the volley of bullets that litter Walker on the other side of the door. A flashlight hits his eyes. And he’s no longer scared, only resigned to his fate. He places himself back in the mountains, away from all this, and seems to be at peace when the men aim their guns at his head and shoot him dead.

*

Up on the hill, Whitney knows it’s all over even before he feels the cold barrel of the pistol touch his temple. Only seconds earlier, through the scope of his rifle, he watched as Caveretta, Veach, and Moses were forced up against the wall by seven men in shiny boots and clean uniforms and gas masks, and then executed.

He radios to Hobbs, the wars over, good buddy. I’m sorry about this one.

Then the gun touches his head. Whitney thinks about running. He thinks about escape. But he can’t leave the sinking ship. Because this is Little Big Horn, the Alamo, his last stand.

“On the floor,” the voice says.

Another one flanks Whitney to his right.

The first man repeats himself when Whitney balks, and then pistol-whips him across the temple.

“Does it look like we’re fucking playing around, Captain Whitney?” The man yells.

But what the man with the gun doesn’t know is Hobbs is twenty yards behind them, no doubt watching the scene unfold. So when Whitney hears the air cut by the bullet, and hears the short, strangled cough of impact, and then feels the blood splatter his face and neck, he knows Hobbs isn’t planning to go down without a fight. Two bodies drop, he runs east as fast as he can, with Hobbs right behind him.

I don’t hold it against you, Hobbs says between gasps, I just want to say ‘I told you so.’

This brings a smile to his face. This is the way it should be in the end – Whitney and Hobbs, the last of the Mohicans, sprinting through the woods, parallel to the office building, which is now engulfed in flames. There are dogs barking, voices shouting, gunshots from small firearms whizzing past them, sawing off chunks of wood that explode like wooden flack. But they continue on. The hunted. Whitney wants to process everything, but can’t, his lungs are on fire and his head is pounding. Both men are shedding gear as the hurdle logs and skip over puddles. Pistols, ammunition, packs and stashed rations. And neither of them are on the lookout for Z’s. That’s all over with now.

A helicopter soars overhead, the spotlight stabbing the darkness, searching for their moving position. Both their radios crackle. They hear the nasally voice of the Radio Man. He sounds panicked, but this is fabricated panic, because they know he was the one who set them up for extinction. In just a few minutes, EZE squad will be nothing more than a legend, source material for conspiracy theorists everywhere.

They stagger up an embankment, across tall grass and back into woods, hitting a swamp. Two men pop out of the weeds dripping black muck, like the earth just came alive, and fire at Whitney and Hobbs. Whitney hears the gurgle as Hobbs’s throat tears off, and then the splash as his body tumbles into the murky water. But can’t stop. He’s numb, head to toe, like he’s already a corpse.

The gunshots fade. But the spotlight gets closer, like it can sense Whitney’s body heat, the growing rage in his gut. It’s probing around him, a step too slow…ten yards to the right…But the margin is shrinking each time it juts off and then returns. Whitney knows his ultimate fate is inevitable – his immediate, more likely – but he continues to run regardless.

In spite of his burning calves and hamstrings and lungs, he runs as fast as his body will allow him, ignoring the potential for a collision, the hazards the come along with running in the dark and through the woods. Instead of the impossibility of what’s going on, he puts his mind elsewhere. Instead of the trailing footsteps and the whomp-whoomp-whoomp of the helicopter blades above, Whitney thinks of Ally. He thinks of their quiet Saltbox Colonial and their lazy weekends on the porch with the newspaper. He begs her to forgive him for doing what he’s done. But he continues to run, because as long as he can run, there is a chance that he can ask her for forgiveness himself. As long as he’s running, he’s still the last one left.

Jeff Robinson sat in the chair and waited for his inevitable death. In fact he wasn’t as much sat in the chair, as strapped in. Think leather fastenings were secured tightly round his ankles, thighs, wrists, arms and waist. He looked around the empty room, moving only his eyes as his head was held firmly in place by the metal cap tightly fixed to it. It reminded him of a room where prisoners on TV shows were taken just before receiving several thousand volts in the electric chair. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

In front of him was a huge mirror. He knew it was a two-way mirror, and right now he was damn sure he was being watched. He would have died happy if he could just move his hand so he could give the middle finger to whoever was behind it.

Other than the two doors in the room there was nothing of any interest to occupy Jeff’s mind. He glanced down at the floor. The view wasn’t inspiring. The white tiles had turned a light shade of pink around the vicinity of the chair.

It must be where spilt blood has stained the tiles, Jeff thought to himself.

He looked back at the mirror, hoping to stare out whoever was staring back at him, but all he succeeded in doing was staring at his own reflection. It also didn’t help that he could make out the faint red marks of blood smeared across the reflective surface.

Maybe I should have eaten the food, he thought.He knew it was drugged, but that could have been a good thing. It could have relaxed him, or made him so out of it he wouldn’t know what was happening.

Not long ago his life had been simple. Well, as simple as it can get in a world overrun with the walking dead. He had moved from town to town, taking what he needed, when he needed it, when he could find it. He stayed away from groups as much as possible. The more people there were together the greater the risk of being noticed.

Of course, he wouldn’t have been captured if there had been someone watching whilst he slept. Taken by a group of soldiers who Jeff was sure weren’t official military, he had been placed in a prison cell with dozens of other men. They all had the same story to tell, either captured in small groups whilst scavenging, or living in secure communities until the soldiers had come and rounded them up.

There were only a few things they knew about their situation. Firstly, the women and children were not being held with them, and none of the soldiers would divulge their whereabouts. Secondly, around twice a week, one of the men, seemingly selected at random, would be asked what he wanted as his last meal. Shortly after finishing the meal he would be taken away by the soldiers and never seen again. Thirdly, there was no escape.

A couple of men had refused the last meal, aware that it was laced with something because of the effect it had on whoever ate it, but that didn’t stop the soldiers taking them anyway. It just meant they had to be more forceful when dragging them off to whatever waited down the corridor. More forceful usually meant beating the unfortunate man with batons.

Jeff had been in his cell for around two weeks. Time held no meaning when you had no access to the means to tell it. He would sleep when it was dark and wake when told to.

Finally, they had come for him. He refused the meal out of protest, and hadn’t even struggled as they carried him off, although that hadn’t stopped several hits from a soldier’s baton when it was decided he wasn’t walking fast enough.

Now here he was, strapped to a chair, in a blood-covered room, awaiting his almost certain death by means unknown, and for reasons unknown.

He really wanted to give the finger to whoever was behind that mirror.

~~~~

“I hope you don’t disappoint me this time General.”

The speaker took a long draw of his cigarette before dropping the remains on the floor and grinding it under his heel. He wore a jet-black suit, with white shirt and black tie. He also wore black lens sunglasses. He had an air of importance about him, which made people aware he considered himself far more significant than anyone around him.

“The boys in the lab have assured me there will be some obvious effects this time, Sir.” replied General Baxter.

“That doesn’t fill me with confidence. An obvious effect doesn’t mean it’ll do what I asked for.”

“That’s true.”

“Turning them blue would be an obvious effect, but that doesn’t solve the problem of the walking dead.”

General Baxter laughed, stopping suddenly once he realised the man stood next to him wasn’t joking.

“Just get this farce over with so I can go back to more important matters,” the man said, his face emotionless.

The General pressed the button on the intercom in front of him and ordered the test to begin.

Both men watched as a soldier in a red biohazard suit entered the room carrying the large needled syringe that contained the serum V two-zero-four. He walked behind the man strapped to the chair and waited.

The general rubbed his chin, finding himself shocked at the amount of stubble on his face. He was so used to being clean-shaven. How long had it been now since he had deliberately looked in a mirror? Too long, that was for sure. He just couldn’t look at himself anymore. Two-zero-four. Two hundred and four people sacrificed for the sake of millions, provided there were that many people left alive in the world. Could it be there were only thousands left to save now, or even just hundreds? What if they found the solution only to discover there was no left to save.

It had been a necessity at first. He had fooled himself into thinking that they would find the solution after a few sacrifices. However you can only last so long until you realise that you are doing wrong and your guilt comes back to bite you in the ass.

The General was roused out of his thoughts by an irritated cough from the man next to him.

“Waiting on your signal, General.” said the man, with a little annoyance.

“Of course.” he replied.

General Baxter removed a walkie-talkie from his belt and pressed the call button. This was the only way to communicate with the soldier inside the biohazard suit.

“Commence experiment please.”

There was a nod from the man on the other side of the glass.

Both men had watched this dozens of times. Even though they hadn’t seen all two hundred and four tests, they were always the same. First was the swab on the back of the subject’s neck to clean the area of any possible infections, followed by the injection itself. The serum had to be pure when it entered the blood stream, without even the tiniest hint of dust, dirt or bacteria.

The soldier would then leave the room and three captured undead were let in. So far there had been no success. Each time the undead feasted on the subject and nothing happened to them except being exterminated by the soldiers afterwards.

The soldier who’d administered the injection had now left the room.

“Time to let our hungry guest’s in.” said General Baxter, this time into the room’s intercom.

A few seconds later three zombies were pushed through the second door via poles with ‘C’ shaped ends. They grasped ineffectually at their tormentors until they noticed the figure in the chair and started shambling towards the free meal.

General Baxter was impressed with the condemned man’s tenacity. He refused to scream for as long as possible, although as soon as one of the zombies ripped his ear of his head, along with a large flap of the surrounding skin, he screamed until his throat was torn out. Not for the first time General Baxter was relieved he was in a sound proof room and could only see the man opening his mouth wide, and not actually hear the noise.

It took just under 10 minutes for the zombies to devour almost all of the man. Once they had finished their meal they made their way over to the mirrored glass and vainly pawed at it. They had enjoyed the main course and now wanted the dessert on the other side.

After a few minutes of watching the undead beating on the glass, the man in the suit turned on his heel and walked towards the door.

“I am not pleased General.” he stated as he stormed out of the room, letting the door slam behind him.

The General continued to stare at the undead for a few minutes longer, hoping that something, anything, would happen. He was fast becoming an unnecessary resource. All this time spent on researching a successful means of mass elimination would soon be better spent sending men in the field to just hunt down and shoot the undead.

“Fuck!” he said to the room.

Once more he pressed the intercom on the wall.

“Three more to dispose of.”

Unlike the walkie-talkie the intercom went through to the rooms either side of the condemned mans cell, where right now, in one of them, three soldiers were waiting.

He knew what was coming next, and usually stayed to watch the zombie execution. It made him feel slightly better knowing the undead weren’t getting away with having a free meal.

As if on cue the three undead slowly turned round as the soldiers entered the room, guns drawn. General Baxter turned and started to walk out the room. As he reached the door he glanced back over his shoulder expecting to see a room with corpses laying on the floor, instead the three undead were still on their feet and shambling towards the soldiers.

The General ran through his mind what could be wrong. Each of the soldiers was armed with an MP5 and the chance of all three weapons jamming was highly unlikely. Plus each man carried a side arm, an extendable baton and a taser gun. Even if all those weapons failed on each of the soldiers, they were all highly trained in martial arts and could easily deal with three corpses or failing that they would be sensible enough to just leave the room.

With a mix of curiosity and annoyance, General Baxter marched over to the window to find out what was going on.

Of the three soldiers only one had his weapon pointed at the undead. He was down on one knee in front of the other two and swinging his gun back and forth; adjusting the height slightly each time he came to a zombie to ensure he had a clear head shot. The other two soldiers appeared to be arguing with each other.

The soldier pointing the gun was Private Bone. The two men arguing were Second Lieutenants Hawk and Griggs.

Hawk had his gun pointed at the floor and was frantically pointed at the undead, whilst mouthing words at Griggs. General Baxter was unsure if he was shouting or not.

Griggs pointed at the undead and started poking Hawk in the chest then several times in the head. Hawk backed off slapping Griggs’ hand away.

Griggs gave Hawk the middle finger and General Baxter could easily read his lips as he spoke.

“Fuck you Hawk!”

He turned from Hawk and joined Bone in pointing his gun at the undead, which were no more than a few steps from the trio of men. A look of relief crossed Bone’s face, glad of the extra support he now had.

Suddenly Hawk brought up his weapon and pointed it at Griggs. His right hand held the gun firmly, whilst with his left hand he pointed to the door. Griggs never moved his gun from the undead; he just glanced quickly to look at Hawk, before looking back at the undead. He mouthed something, which seemed to upset Hawk even more.

General Baxter could tell Hawk was now shouting, the veins in his neck standing out and spit flying from his mouth. He moved the gun closer to Griggs, almost poking him in the head with the barrel and once again pointed to the door. After a few tense seconds Griggs lowered his weapon and tapped Bone on the shoulder. The two men backed slowly out of the room finally followed by Hawk. A few seconds after the door closed the undead reached it. They scratched at the door, attempting to reach the soldiers now safely on the other side.

The General let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He turned and walked to the door, confusion now completely replaced by anger. He was damn sure he was going to find out why there were still three undead in the room, and why one of his trusted soldiers had firstly disobeyed an order and secondly almost committed mutiny.

~~~

As he stomped down the corridor General Baxter could hear raised voices, and knew it was Griggs and Hawk before he even saw them.

When he rounded the corner he saw the men at the end of the corridor. They were face to face, each trying to shout the other down. He couldn’t make out the exact words but each man seemed to be very stuck on his own opinion.

Private Bone was sat on the floor to one side, trying to stay out of the way. Every so often one of the men would turn to him, seemingly asking his opinion. He would just shrug or mutter something and the two men would go back to their argument.

As the General got closer he started to make sense of the noise and could actually hear the argument. Griggs was currently putting his point of view forward.

“…pressure has finally fucking got to you, man.” he yelled.

“I know what I heard. You heard it too, no matter how much you try to deny it.”

“I heard one of the bastard things groan, like they always do.” Griggs made his point whilst poking Hawk in the chest.

“I told you once before, get your hands off me.” Hawk yelled back, slapping Griggs’ hand away for a second time. “It wasn’t a groan. I know it, you know it and Boner knows it.

Private Bone looked up at the mention of his nickname, and saw General Baxter closing the gap down the corridor. He was on his feet in seconds and pulled off a textbook salute.

“General.” he announced. His back was straight against the wall, eyes staring straight ahead.

Hawk and Griggs took a second to realise what was going on, and just managed to come to attention as General Baxter stopped a few centimetres in front of them.

“I want to know what the fuck is going on right now soldiers, and I want to know in an organised way. The first man to speak when he hasn’t been instructed to will be on trench duty for the next month, do I make myself clear?”

“Sir, yes Sir.” the three soldiers all intoned together.

General Baxter paced back and forth in front of the three men. He wanted to make them realise he wasn’t happy, but also he was trying to decide whose story to hear first. He had a feeling, even with the threat of trench duty, Hawk and Griggs would find it hard to remain silent whilst the other spoke and so decided to go with the only other option.

“Private Bone, as the only man to not fully disobey my orders I want you to tell me what happened in there.”

Private Bone was still saluting and Baxter realised he hadn’t returned the salute.

“At ease Private,” he said. “Now in your own words, what happened?”

Private Bone relaxed a little.

“Well Sir, it started off routine. We went in and the Z’s started coming for us. They were groaning as always when they see a meal, but then Second Lieutenant Hawk lowered his weapon and told us he heard one of them talk.”

“Heard it talk?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Thank you Private Bone.” said Baxter, turning to look at Hawk.

“And just what did it say Hawk?”

“It said ‘hello’ Sir.” replied Hawk.

Griggs coughed, which sounded suspiciously like the word “Bull Shit”. General Baxter just glared at him.

“I see. Did it say anything else?” he asked, turning back to Hawk.

“No Sir. Just ‘hello’, Sir.”

“What happened next?” asked General Baxter, now turning his attention back to Private Bone.

“Well Sir, Griggs said it was nothing and went to fire. Hawk stopped him and they argued about it for a few seconds. When Griggs went to fire again Hawk turned his weapon on him and told us to leave the room or he would shoot. We left the room and shortly afterwards you arrived.”

General Baxter walked down the line of men and looked at Griggs.

“Is what Private Bones describes an accurate report Griggs?”

“Yes Sir.”

“And you didn’t hear the Z speak at all?”

“No Sir. Just groans as usual Sir.”

“You could check the video recording Sir,” said Hawk.

General Baxter side stepped over to Hawk.

“What did I say about speaking out of turn Hawk?”

“Sorry Sir, but you could check the video recording to prove what I’m saying. If you find out I’m lying Sir, I will volunteer for trench duty for the rest of the time I serve with you.”

General Baxter took a step back and studied Hawk intensely. He had known the man for some time now and had never had to discipline him before. Also no one would volunteer for trench duty if they had any doubt about what they were talking about.

He finally came to a decision. Walking up and down in front of the three men he explained what would happen.

“All three of you are confined to quarters until further notice. I shall check the tapes and make my own mind up.”

He stopped in front of Hawk and lowered his voice, just a fraction.

“But if I find out you are lying to me Hawk I will come up with a punishment that will make trench duty will seem like a day at the beach I promise you.”

Baxter turned and marched off down the corridor.

“Dismissed!” he shouted over his shoulder as he turned the corner.

~~~

A few days later General Baxter had gathered the four head scientists and the black suited man together in the main meeting room.

Five of the six men sat around a polished wooden table. The four scientists sat two each side of the table and General Baxter sat at the head. A portable TV hooked up to an old VCR sat in the space at the other end opposite the General. A tape sat half out of the VCR. The man in the suit stood in the corner of the room smoking a cigarette.

After everyone had got comfortable, and settled down, General Baxter stood up.

“Gentlemen, we have made a discovery. It seems serum V two-zero-four has had an effect on the undead. Now it’s not what we were expecting, but it could prove to be the turning point in winning this war.”

He started walking slowly around the table, hands clasped behind his back.

“I would like to show you the tape of what happened in yesterday’s final experiment. Now only Dr Blake and I have been present during the tests, but let me assure what you are about to see is one hundred percent real and a good example of what happened to each test subject.”

The statement was more for the benefit of the man in corner then the other three scientists. He was the one to impress, and at last General Baxter had a chance to do that.

“Dr Williams, Dr Zen and Dr Green, although you contributed work to each of the V serums, none of your work would be viable on its own. Only when the individual results are combined do we see a result, which is why I wanted you to be here. After seeing the results you may be able to improve it.”

He reached the TV and pushed the tape fully into the VRC player.

Quickly walking back to where he was originally sat General Baxter continued to the wall and turned the lights off. He sat back down and pressed the play button on a remote control. All eyes were on the TV screen, which jumped into life.

Static filled the small screen for a few seconds until a couple of black horizontal lines appeared followed swiftly by a black and white picture.

The angle of the shot showed the camera was positioned in the corner of a room, pointing down towards the centre.

In the middle of the image there was a female figure strapped into a chair. It became quickly obvious to the assembled men that the image shown was the room where the experiments took place. The main difference being, instead of a human strapped into the chair, it was in fact a zombie.

She was naked, her greying skin covered in dark black blotches. A large portion of her right hand side was missing, a couple of lower ribs clearly showing at the top of the gap.

“This Z is around 3 months old, from what we can tell.” said General Baxter. “We wanted to make sure that what was about to happen couldn’t be dismissed because the Z was recently deceased.”

Another figure appeared on the screen. He looked up at the camera and the group recognised him as Dr Blake, one of the four scientists sat around the table.

He glanced down at his watch then back up at the camera.

“This is Dr Blake,” the figure on the screen said. “It is now fourteen hundred hours, give or take a minute. This is our tenth test of serum V two-zero-four and if it is successful it will mean a continued one hundred percent success rate. We have used different ages, sexes and death ages to make sure of a statistically even spread.”

With that he turned away from the camera and walked towards the zombie strapped into the chair. Its sunken eyes followed the doctor as he walked whilst its mouth moved in a vain attempt to bite him, despite him still being several feet away.

“As you can see,” said Dr Blake, turning back towards the camera, “the subject is fully restrained and conscious, in its own way of course.”

The doctor moved out of the camera shot and a few seconds’ later two soldiers in red biohazard suits appeared. They were dragging a man between them. He wore a white, sleeveless jumpsuit and his mouth was covered by a gag, presumably to stop him screaming.

All over the jumpsuit were various belts and straps, which secured the man to two metal poles, one running vertically down his back, the other horizontally across his shoulders. The effect was to hold the man in a ‘T’ shape.

Although it was a futile effort the man still struggled as much as he was able.

“Please pause it there General.” said the suited man from the corner of the room.

The screen froze but for two wavy lines in the middle of the picture.

“Why wasn’t that man sedated? Or for that matter why wasn’t he secured to the chair?”

“Well Sir, the first time we saw the results of serum V two-zero-four the test subject had refused the drugged food. It’s possible this was a factor in its success. Secondly in order to properly examine the Z we need it to be secure after it has consumed the virus. It works out easier if it is secure from the start.”

“Very good General, please continue.”

General Baxter pressed the play button and the picture jumped back into motion. The soldiers continued to manhandle the struggling man towards the zombie. When they were just a few feet away one of the soldiers gripped the condemned mans wrist, whilst walking behind the seated zombie. Once there was a soldier either side of the zombie they moved the held mans arm towards the zombie’s waiting mouth.

As soon as it was able the zombie took a massive bite from the arm, just below the elbow.

A couple of the scientists watching the video winced at the sight of freshly torn flesh and muscle. Blood dripped from the ragged hole and the zombie’s mouth simultaneously, pooling around the chair legs.

Even though he was gagged the cries of the man could clearly be made out in the silence of the room.

The zombie went back for another bite, followed by another. It chewed its way up and down the arm as much as its restrained head would allow, like it was eating corn on the cob. Every few bites the soldiers would move the arm a little to the left or right so uneaten flesh was exposed to the zombie.

By the fourth bite the man still had not passed out despite there being hardly anything left of the arm, except a hand attached to the lower half of the elbow by a bone and a few bits of flesh.

The front of his white jumpsuit was covered in yellow vomit that had soaked through the man’s gag, mixing with the splattered blood from his all but destroyed arm.

Choking on the bile trapped in his mouth the man finally passed out as the zombie took a few last bites of the remaining flesh.

The unconscious mans limp body was dragged off screen by the two soldiers as the zombie chewed its final mouthful of flesh.

The image of General Baxter appeared on the screen. He slowly walked up the restrained zombie and stopped a few feet in front of it, hands crossed in front of his chest.

“Hello.” he said.

The zombie carried on chewing, but looked up.

“Do you know where you are?” he continued.

“Give it a few more minutes General,” said Dr Blake from off camera.

Finally the zombie finished chewing and continued to stare at General Baxter.

Nothing happened for several minutes, and then its eyes cleared slightly and it spoke.

“Where am I?” asked the zombie. The voice was croaky and gruff, spoken through dry, cracked lips, but also monotone and flat.

There was a collective gasp from the other three scientists watching the video. They started talking amongst themselves and trying to question Dr Blake.

“Silence!” ordered the suited man.

“You’ve been attacked my dear.” continued the on screen General. “Do you remember?”

“Have you seen my husband or children?” the zombie continued, either ignoring the question or not hearing it. It started to look around the room.

“Do you miss them?”

“No. They were with me a few minutes ago. We were running from a man for some reason.”

“Can you tell me your name?” asked the General.

It didn’t answer; she just kept looking around the room.

“Look at me!” ordered the General.

The zombie’s head snapped round to look at the General.

“Good. Now, tell me your name.”

“Jane.” said the zombie. “My name is Jane.”

“How do you feel Jane? Are you hungry at all?”

“No. Not hungry. Not anything. Why am I naked? What’s happening?” Even though it asked questions its voice didn’t change, as though it wasn’t actually interested in the answer.

The zombie started shifting around against it restraints.

“Please sit still Jane. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Don’t be scared”

Jane sat still.

“I’m not scared.” She said. “I don’t feel anything.”

The General turned away from Zombie Jane and made a cutting motion across his throat. Seconds later the TV screen filled with static before going black.

General Baxter stood up and switched on the lights. Almost immediately the scientists all started talking at once.

“Gentlemen, if could please be patient a little longer we will answer any questions soon. First Dr Blake will explain what he believes is happening here.”

The three scientists quietened down a little but continued to whisper to each other as Dr Blake stood up.

He was a middle-aged man with a horseshoe of white hair around the top of his head. Small half circle glasses sat on the end of a wide nose. Like the other three scientists he wore a long white lab coat with a few pencils sticking out of his left breast pocket.

He shuffled some papers in front of him and cleared his throat.

“General, esteemed colleagues and… erm…”

Dr Blake had nodded at each of the people as he spoke until he came to the man in the black suit.

The man took a long draw on the fresh cigarette he was now smoking.

“You may refer to me as Agent Carter.” he said, blowing the smoke out in one long breath.

“Very well.” said Dr Blake. “General, esteemed colleagues and Agent Carter, as you are aware we have been working for several months on a antivirus that will kill the dead virus that reanimates dead tissue and has lead to this plague of walking corpses. Well it seems we have been wasting our time.”

Once again there were some whispered questions between the three other scientists. Dr Blake continued, talking over them.

“Our original plan was to create a virus that we would inject into a live subject. The virus would work its way through the blood stream, into the oxygen and work its way to the brain. There it would develop a taste for brain tissue. Shortly after this we would somehow transfer it into the undead, preferably not via a bite, although that was how we first started. Now we wanted to develop this virus with a low tolerance to the human immune system, so that it could last an hour, maybe two in the human body before it was destroyed. This way any human infected with the new virus would suffer no ill effects, but seeing as the dead have no immune system that we know of, any virus that entered their system would have nothing to stop it.”

“But the dead have no blood flow Doctor. How would the virus move around an undead body?” asked Agent Carter.

“Good question. Once the virus found a taste for brain tissue in the original host’s body it would seek it out automatically if it entered a new body. There is still a blood like liquid in the undead body and veins to carry it, so the virus would still have a way to the brain. In basic terms it would walk down the highway instead of hitching a lift. It’s why we need to use live subjects to start with. If the virus was injected into a dead body it may not find the brain.”

“I see. Please continue.”

“Thank you. This new virus would attack the undead brain until eventually it had destroyed enough of it to render the victim officially dead, for as we know the only way to put a zombie down for good is to destroy the brain. Now what we have discovered, thanks to the recent tests, is that the virus that causes the dead to rise is in fact more of a parasitic virus. It actually takes over the host as opposed to killing it. For what end we do not yet know. Our new virus, V two-zero-four, decided it preferred the taste of parasite to brain tissue and started only attacking the parts of the brain directly controlled by it. Due to this we have discovered that the consciousness of the original host is not destroyed when they become these zombie creatures. Instead it seems it is simply pushed back into an area of the brain and lays dormant, in an almost coma like state.”

Dr Blake held for dramatic purposes and it paid off, as there were more gasps from one or two of the assembled scientists.

“Eight of the ten subjects we tested had no memory of being attacked, becoming zombies or their time as a zombie; however the other two could remember everything.”

Once again he paused, this time there were a few cries of dismay.

“Do you mean they were consciously in control?” asked Dr Green.

“No Dr Green. In their own words they could see and hear what was going on but had no control over their own body. They were like the passenger in a car, unable to affect the driver in anyway.”

“Do we know why those two had a different experiences to the others?” asked Dr Zen

“Again, no. It may just be they had a stronger will power than the others. Maybe they refused to accept they were dying after they were bitten. Maybe the parasitic virus wasn’t as pure in their bodies as others.”

“Wasn’t as pure?” asked Agent Carter.

“From what I have surmised, the parasite needs several weeks to fully control a host depending on the body and amount of infection. Imagine a single small bite on a healthy host. He or she would turn into a zombie in maybe twenty-four to forty-eight hours. This is the parasite taking control. Once in control it needs time to fully develop. Now if the host takes a bite out of someone else as soon as it has turned then some of the parasite is transferred into a new host. The old parasite needs to regenerate. It’s like giving blood. You can only do it once every few weeks, as you need time to make new blood. It’s why I believe some zombies are able to use basic tools, or why several will congregate in certain areas. We always just assumed it was a base memory, but it could in fact be the original hosts trying to assert some control again.”

“So those who remember their time as a zombie could have been bitten by a recently animated corpse, and so the parasite was in effect still growing,” said Agent Carter.

“Exactly Agent Carter. The body was strong enough to try to fight back but still ultimately lost. However the parasite wasn’t strong enough to fully subdue the consciousness.”

“Let me see if I have this correct,” said Agent Carter, walking to table and leaning on it. He looked Dr Blake in the eyes. “We inject a living subject with a virus, which attacks brain matter. This virus is then transferred into an undead subject. The virus destroys the part of the undead brain that is under the influence of a parasitic virus, allowing the original host to re-emerge and once again control their own actions.”

“Essentially, yes.” replied Dr Blake, a smile on his face. “Although now we know the virus works, I shall be working on a way to transfer it from the host to the undead without the need to sacrifice any more living beings. The only side effect is the re-born human is like an empty shell. No emotions of any kind. They care for, and about nothing and have no needs or desires. They don’t even have any basic concept of hot or cold. But they do seem to obey any order they are given. This may have something to do with the parasitic virus eliminating the part of the brain that controls independent thought, however without more research it is only a theory at the moment.”

Agent Carter stood up and slowly walked to the door.

“Gentlemen, ask your questions.” he said to the other scientists. “General Baxter, please come with me.”

With that agent Carter left the room.

As General Baxter followed him he heard the scientist fire their barrage of questions at Dr Blake and was glad he didn’t have to sit and listen to the long winded, and no doubt confusing, answers.

“If the virus is located in the brain how does it transfer to the undead through a bite to any other part of the body?”

“What happened to the ten test subjects and the people who were bitten in order to transfer the new virus?”

“If the virus can only be stopped by the immune system will these resurrected people be able survive it?”

~~~

General Baxter followed agent Carter down the corridor into another meeting room. Neither man spoke as they walked. As they entered the room Agent Carter sat down at the small table and gestured for the General to join him.

“I know it’s not exactly what you wanted Sir, but it’s a start,” said General Baxter.

“General it’s better than I could have hoped for. Your scientists have just given me a way to create almost invincible soldiers,” replied Agent Carter.

General Baxter looked at the man in confusion. For the first time he could remember, Agent Carter was smiling and it wasn’t a nice sight. It reminded him of a shark about to eat its prey.

“I’m not sure I follow you Sir.” General Baxter said.

“It’s simple; we infect a few of our best soldiers with the zombie virus, or parasite if that’s what you want to call it, then cure them with the vaccine. We then have a group of soldiers who can only be killed by a headshot. They won’t be scared to walk into a zombie infested town and since they’re undead the zombies won’t attack them. They can simply kill them all without danger. Add to that there is no need to feed or water them, they don’t get tired or feel the heat or cold, hell they have no feelings whatsoever and obey without question. Soon we’ll have destroyed every undead in this area, then the State and eventually the country. We finally have our super soldiers General.”

“But Sir, with what we now know how can we possibly kill these…these… infected people? The fact that they are still alive inside those bodies changes everything.”

Agent Carter shot to his feet and slammed his hands hard on the table.

“It changes nothing!” he roared.

In the space of a few seconds General Baxter had seen Agent Carter go from smiling to showing pure rage. It was a shock, as he had never seen him show any emotion at all before today.

“The undead almost rule this world and it is time we took it back,” continued Agent Carter, slightly calmer now. “This now gives us an edge we didn’t have before. We have just evened the playing field.”

“I can’t condone this new course of action Sir. We have the means to help these people. We can cure the world.”

“You surprise me General. I seem to recall a time, not too long ago, when you said you would be willing to sacrifice every man, woman and child to end the zombie menace.”

“Yes I did say that, and I stand by it, but we now have a way to end it without sacrificing anymore people. In fact we can end it and save lives at the same time.”

“This is war General, and in war there are casualties. As far as I’m concerned those people are already dead.”

Agent Carter started pacing back and forth in front of General Baxter.

“How many of them do you think will thank you if they have to live the rest of their lives with the memory of killing and eating their families and friends? How many will be happy to live with bite marks all over their bodies or even large parts of themselves missing?”

He stopped pacing and placed both hands back on the table, leaning into the Generals face and staring into his eyes.

“How do you think the living survivors will react to being asked to share their world with the very killers who forced them to fight for their right to live?”

General Baxter met Agent Carters gaze and slowly rose to his feet.

“You said it yourself; the ones we bring back will have no emotions at all. It may be harsh but they won’t care for their dead friends or family and they won’t have any feelings about the shape of their bodies. And as for the living, well, they will just have to adjust to these new events, as we all will Agent. The human race is very adaptable. We adjusted to this current situation, in time we will learn to adjust to a new one”

With that the General turned around and started to walk away.

“I will not help you kill these people if we can save them, not anymore.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way General. But I’m sure I can change your mind.”

“I very much doubt that Agent. You see…”

The General was unconscious before he hit the ground

Agent carter slipped the taser back in his pocket and stood over the Generals body.

“In fact General Baxter I promise you I can change your mind.”

~~~

General Baxter slowly opened his eyes and looked into the face of Agent Carter, who stood a few feet away from him. He realised he was strapped into a chair.

“Welcome back General Baxter,” said Agent Carter. “How do you feel?”

“I feel… I feel nothing,” replied General Baxter flatly.

“Do you know me General?”

“Yes, you are Agent Carter.”

“Correct. Do you hate me?”

“No.”

The General knew he should hate this man, but he didn’t. In fact he didn’t hate anything. Or for that matter he didn’t like anything either.

It was an odd feeling. No not feeling, not even a sensation. It was like having a memory which you couldn’t quite remember. You knew it was there, but every time you thought about it, it faded to nothing.

“So you will do what I order?” asked Agent Carter.

“My original orders were to follow your command so I will.” replied General Baxter.

“Excellent,” said Agent Carter, showing his shark like smile. “Then as soon as we get you out of that chair I shall introduce you to your new squad. I want you to start your new mission ASAP. The sooner I have this town under my command the sooner I can start saving the world.”

1.

Moonrise.

The darkened, almost pitch black landscape below began to shift into faint shadow as a nearly full moon climbed above the eastern horizon. The cold, white lunar light gave the entire forest surrounding the tiny compound of the 1st Ohio Volunteer Regiment an eerie, almost enchanted quality. The chorus of crickets was almost deafening in the cool night air, broken only by the occasional hoot of a solitary owl.

The rectangular compound, consisting of a dozen ramshackle tourist cabins surrounded by a palisade wall, sat within the embrace of a group of forested hills deep in the dense woods of a State Park in the sparsely populated Appalachian foothills region of Eastern Ohio.  It represented one of the few signs of living humanity that could be found for miles around.

As the bright moon climbed higher into the night sky, more details could be discerned inside the camp. The compound was aligned on a north-south axis, with 6 cabins on the eastern and western sides of the compound, separated by a large rectangular parking area. A once white, but now dirty and bloodstained panel van was the sole vehicle occupant. The rest of the space was being taken up by several large canvas tents that were pitched on the rough gravel surface.

Gunnery Sergeant Lou Raines was making his nightly rounds of the camp, checking that each of the sentries was awake and doing his duty. Occasionally the Gunny would find one of his men had nodded off in the dark, boring hours of the night. So these rounds were important in the overall scheme of keeping the compound secure.

Gunny Raines came first to the front gate of the palisade wall. The gate had two guards on duty. They stood on a wooden landing built into the palisade that allowed them a clear view down the old service road for several hundred yards before it made a sharp bend to the right and disappeared into the otherwise unbroken forest.

The men looked behind them when they heard the crunch of gravel and nodded to the Gunny as he made his way to the top of the landing. He spoke with them for a few minutes and hearing that all was well, nodded and looked out over the moonlit road and thick trees surrounding either side of it. All seemed quiet and secure.

Raines turned and was about to walk back down off the landing when a distant, yet still audible gunshot echoed through the valley. The Gunny stopped and cocked his head in the direction of the sound. A moment later another report sounded through the trees, then a third. Finally a fusillade of distant shots could be heard, echoing throughout the trees, punctuated by sharper and larger explosions. One of the sentries looked to the Gunny,   the worry on his bearded face could just be seen in the pale moonlight. “What do you think it is Gunny? Hearing the occasional shot isn’t unusual, but that sounds like a regular pitched battle going on.”

The Gunny just shrugged his shoulders and turned his ear in the direction of the ensuing reports, trying to discern a pattern. He recognized the blast of shotguns, along with the occasional sharp rattle of an automatic weapon. That was strange, not to many of the civilians in the various holdout farms and compounds scattered throughout the area were armed with automatic weapons.

A call came from behind and the Gunny turned his head and looked down to see a figure standing in the dark.  His pale, young face practically was shining in the white light of the moon. It was the camp radio operator, Ellsworth. “Hey Gunny, better come over to the commo tent, I think you’re gonna to want to hear this.”

The Gunny nodded, turned and made his way down the steep stairs and back onto ground level. The pair then crossed the short distance to a canvas tent. The sound of static and voices could be clearly heard as they approached the entrance. Ellsworth pulled the flap aside and the Gunny entered into the tent. It was dimly lit by just a single candle, which sat sputtering on an old saucer plate that itself sat on a stack of shipping crates that served as the table upon which rested a Citizens Band radio. The radio was the primary means of communication between the network of holdout farms and survivor communities scattered throughout the region.

Ellsworth quickly crossed over to the CB and turned up the volume. The desperation in the voice coming from the speaker was clearly evident, along with the noise of gunfire in the background.

“Hello! Hello! Does anyone have their ears on out there!? This is Jake Miller! Does anyone read me out there?”

Ellsworth reached down and grabbed the mike and depressed the button. “This is Ellsworth, First Ohio Volunteer Infantry, please identify.”

There was static for a moment, and then voice and the gunfire returned.

“Miller! Jake Miller! We’re a farm located just east of Pomeroy!”,   between the static and the gunfire the voice was just barely audible. Gunny Raines went over to an Ohio map that was tacked to the canvas wall of the tent and ran his finger along until he spotted Pomeroy on the map. The farm sat about 5 miles to the south of their encampment. Just outside the borders of the park near Ohio Route 32.

He listened as the voice came back over the airwaves. “We need help! We’re being shot at!” and then silence again. Ellsworth keyed the microphone, “Miller! This is Ellsworth, report your situation!” but no more replies came over the speaker.

After a few minutes of trying, and not having gotten a response the Gunny placed a hand on Ellsworth’s shoulder. “Go get Taylor.” Ellsworth nodded and quickly left the tent while the Gunny considered his options.

There wasn’t much the Gunny could do before daylight. The idea of a forced night march over the hills and down into the adjacent valley where the Miller Farm was located, across a possibly zombie infested wilderness was not very pleasing to the Gunny. He had to know more before making that march. He continued pondering the tactical situation when the flap moved to the side, spilling moonlight into the entrance. The XO of the 1st Ohio, First Sergeant John Taylor stepped into the dimly lit tent and looked around. He was shirtless, his broad shoulders blocked a good portion of the entranceway to the tent and the Gunny looked over at his XO.

“Hey Gunny, what’s up?”, Taylor asked as he walked into the tent. He looked over the Gunny, an older man, with long, tangled gray hair that ran to his shoulders. He was going bald on top, and without his customary battered old baseball cap, the Gunny had the resemblance of an old hermit monk, complete with tonsured hair.

“Not sure yet John, apparently one of the holdout farms a few miles south of here is being attacked. I’m not sure by who or what, but the guy sounded pretty desperate to me on the CB.”, the Gunny replied and proceeded to fill Taylor in on what he knew. Then he showed him the location on the map.

“I want you to take a few men, and form a patrol to cross the hills to the south of here and into the adjacent valley where the Miller Farm is located and find out what’s going on. Take Symmes with you in case anyone needs medical attention.”, the Gunny said as he continued staring at the map.

“If you run into anything you can’t handle, I want you to retreat into the woods and hole up until I can come with a larger relief in the morning. I want you to stay out of serious trouble. Do you understand?” The Gunny finished and looked at his XO, who despite the darkness could be seen working his square jaw back and forth, as was his habit when making decisions.

“That’s a rough walk Gunny. That terrain, with only moonlight to guide us?”, Taylor replied as he looked at the map, considering his own plans and shaking his head.

“Exactly, that’s why I need you to scout the area first so that I know what we’re walking into. I don’t want any surprises that will get our men killed. Lord knows there aren’t many of us left these days.”, the Gunny said gravely.

Taylor nodded and thought for a moment, “Okay boss, we’ll be ready in 15”, Taylor replied and then disappeared through the flap of the tent, leaving Raines to stare at the stub of a candle, it’s small flame dancing in the draft.

Exactly 15 minutes later the Gunny stood just outside the main gate as the men Taylor chose for the patrol filed through, each one acknowledging the Gunny as they made their way past. He looked at each of them as they came by.

First came Symmes, the unit medic. He had a scruffy red beard to go along with his equally disheveled red hair. He wore a pair of blue jeans, the knees long since worn out and a heavy black turtleneck sweater to ward off the chill of the night air. He nodded to the Gunny as he walked by, placing a black baseball cap onto his head and readjusting his medical bag.

Next to come by was Sequoia. Sequoia was an oddity in the camp. A pure blooded Cherokee Indian straight out of the days of Daniel Boone. He had grown up in the Mountains of Eastern Tennessee before joining the Army to fight the War on Terror. Of course no one could imagine what real terror was until the Shit came down on everyone’s heads, including the Muslims.

The Gunny suspected that wasn’t Sequoia’s real name, but the Indian insisted on being called Sequoia and so that was how he was known. He had long, raven black hair that he kept back with a dirty blue bandanna tied around the top of his skull, your typical “do rag”.  He was short, with thick, sinewy arms and he carried little more than a 9mm Berretta and an ancient iron Tomahawk that had been passed down in his family for generations. He was bar none the best scout in the regiment, and it spoke well of Taylor to bring the sturdy aborigine along on this demanding hike. The sun had darkened the Native’s skin to a deep red, so dark that only the whites of his eyes were visible in the moonlight. As he passed the Gunny he flashed a white grin of perfect teeth.

After Sequoia came Paulson. Paulson was a skinny rail of a man. In his late 20’s, he’d once lived in Pomeroy and knew the area well. So Taylor took him as a natural choice. He filed past and nodded to the Gunny as he went by.

Behind him filed Ellsworth. The skinny, pale-faced kid who just turned 21 that week, and barely needed to shave. He nodded and said “Guns.” in acknowledgement as he passed by. Raines cocked an eyebrow. He looked over at Taylor who was standing next to him. Taylor shrugged. “Kid insisted he come along.” and the Gunny nodded in assent.

Taylor then turned, and held out his hand. Raines took it in a firm grasp and their eyes met. Nothing more needed to be said between the two men. The mission was laid out before them and they knew what each was to do. Taylor turned, shouldered his AR-15 and followed after the line of men as they turned south and disappeared into the thick black of the forest.

2.

A few hours later, the night was at deepest pitch. The moon rode high in the sky. The fact that it was late in the month and the moon was almost full was a blessing for the five men as they came down the final slope into the valley in which the Miller Farm was hidden. It had been a demanding hike over five miles of rugged Appalachian terrain, but the men had made good time using the stars to keep their bearings due south until they crested a rise and looked down upon the moonlit valley beneath them.

The Valley ran east to west, and had a 2-lane highway running down the center that was Ohio Route 32. To their right, off to the west they could just spot the moonlit spire of the church in Pomeroy itself. The town was really just a mile long strip of homes, a few stores and single gas station that sat pressed up against and even some of the buildings built into, the side of a massive hill.

Taylor pulled his low light binoculars from his pack and scanned the valley from end to end. He slowly followed the terrain, looking for any irregularities, when he spotted what he was looking for. The dim light of a fire could just be seen on the other side of a rise that blocked his view. A black column of smoke, darker than the surrounding night, rose steadily from behind the rise. It was a sure sign of trouble.

Taylor put away the glasses, and then led the way down the steep hillside towards the fire. Within a half hour they came to the Miller Farm proper and plunged into a ripening cornfield. The Millers had indeed been busy this season, despite living perilously close to Pomeroy. Towns and valley roads were typically avoided by the locals, as these once populated areas were where the dead tended to cluster and wander about, living bastard parodies of their former lives and looking for an easy meal.

The Miller compound was in a fortuitous location on a rise just above the road. Taylor could see the barricade gate that had been thrown up on the access road to the farm proper was smashed. He hurried the men across an open space and into a copse of trees that butted up against the farm compound.

They looked off into the open clearing that contained a sturdy, fortified farmhouse and a barricaded barn. The house was on fire. Thick smoke curled up into the sky and flames could be seen inside the windows on the ground floor. The sounds of several male voices could be heard shouting from within the burning structure.

In a semi circle surrounding the house, were parked vehicles. A suburban, a couple pickup trucks, and about 25 motorcycles were evident. Clustered in a group near the vehicles was a crowd of about 30 men or so. They were clad in an odd array of clothing and gear mostly leather biker jackets with a mish mash of various gang patches. Apparently the apocalypse had caused a truce among biker gangs in the state. There were Hell’s Angels next to Iron Horsemen, a group of Outlaws stood off to one side cheering, as the flames grew higher within the burning house.

One of the men, a huge specimen of humanity, easily 6’4” and weighing in at 300 was pacing back and forth in front of the porch, as if expectantly waiting for something. It wasn’t long before what he was waiting for happened.

First a man stumbled out of the smoke, coughing and hacking. He stepped onto the porch and made it to the first step before gunfire erupted from the group of men standing in front of the now fully engulfed farmhouse. The man dropped off the porch and landed into the dirt at the base of the stairs.

Two more men came out of the burning structure next. Having seen the first man shot down as he exited the structure these two came out shooting. One of the bikers went down in the dust, grabbing his leg and howling in pain while the group opened up on the two men who didn’t make it farther than the first man did before they too fell into the dirt, riddled with bullets.

Finally, stumbling out of the flames, coughing and black with soot and smoke came an old man, obviously Farmer Miller and with him was a frail teenage girl. He had his arm around her as they came out and this time the men did not open fire, but allowed the two to escape the house and come into the semicircle of rough, leather clad and reeking men.

The huge fellow came out into the center of the semicircle. The massive flames from the farmhouse casting his shadow on to the two hacking, gasping creatures that cowered beneath him. He laughed and kicked the old man in the face, knocking him down into the dirt before pulling a .45 and putting three rounds into the old man’s skull.

The girl screamed out in terror and ran to the body of the old man, but the big guy just backhanded her small frame away, knocking her back from the body and her cries ended with a short yelp. She lay on the ground, whimpering and in tears. The huge guy lumbered over to her, grabbed her up by her hair and ignoring her screams and cries began dragging her the short distance to the barn, alone.

Taylor looked at the men and indicated the direction towards the barn. Each man nodded and quietly slipped out of the copse of trees and using the fact that the fire was destroying the night vision of the men in the clearing kept to the darkness just outside the fire as they crossed the open ground to the rear of the barn.

They filed in through a cracked door in the rear of the barn and quietly snuck into the main area. The light from the house fire was flickering into the cracks in the roughhewn walls of the barn and the smell of hay and corn was evident in the thick moist air.

Taylor took the lead as he passed the stalls filled with grain and came upon the scene of this massive brute in the process of tearing at this tiny little girl’s clothing. She was catatonic with terror and offered no resistance to the groping of the massive bear paws that served as this guy’s hands.

Taylor pulled a beretta from his holster and proceeded to sneak forward in the hopes of surprising the guy and capturing him. He slowly took one step forward, and then another. The big brute was completely distracted by his prize.

Then Taylor took one step too many, and an old board beneath his boot creaked loudly and it almost echoed throughout the barn. The giant man looked to his right and caught Taylor in the light of the fire that glinted through the cracks in the wall.

Taylor was amazed at the raw speed the guy had as he fairly leaped off the girl and towards the front of the barn. He squeezed off two quick shots that buried themselves just a couple inches from the monstrous guys head as he disappeared out the front door of the barn, yelling for all he worth to shoot the shit out of it.

Taylor ran over and grabbed the girl up and turned just as gunshots echoed outside and bullets began punching neat round holes full of firelight into the walls. Taylor high tailed it to the rear of the barn and set the girl down. She was obviously completely in shock and stared blankly at the men and didn’t even understand who they were in Taylor’s opinion.

He turned to the sturdy Indian. “Sequoia, grab the girl! Come on, we’re getting the hell out of here.”

The men filed out of the barn and ran to where a thick line of woods began and were almost there when the group of bikers came running around the sides and out of the rear of the barn and opened fire on them. The bullets zipped close by the group like angry hornets as they reached the tree line a mere 100 yards from the group of men.

The soldiers crouched into cover and returned fire, chasing the men in the open off to find cover around the sides of the barn and a tense exchange of gunfire took place between the two groups of men. Then there was short lull. Big guy came out of the barn and started yelling at his men to spread out and flank around the small group of men.  Groups of 4 went off to the right and left to outflank the 5 men and 1 terrified girl cowering in the woods.

Taylor looked at Sequoia, “Take the girl and get the hell out of here. We’ll hold them off as long as we can. Gunny will be here in the morning, so find a safe place to hole up and we’ll link up then.” he then patted the Indian on the shoulder and Sequoia flashed him a white tooth grin and snatched up the girl onto his shoulder like a sack of grain and sprinted off into the trees.

Taylor loaded a magazine into his AR-15 and pulled back the charging handle, then looked at his pitifully small force. He then hunkered down and waited.

3.

A short, sharp gunfight bloomed behind Sequoia as he hustled down an old deer trail through the woods away from the Miller farm. The shouts of men in pain could be heard and rattle of automatic weapons fire slowly faded behind the stout Indian as he made his way down the winding path in the only direction he could go. Towards the zombie infested ruins of the town of Pomeroy.

He broke from the tree line onto the paved surface of Route 32 and looked around. His senses were alive and functioning at an increased rate thanks to adrenaline and a lifetime of experience. He sucked in air into his nose and like a hound his brain broke down the various scents into their component parts. He could smell cool sweat on the now unconscious girl’s body. He could smell gunpowder drifting downwind from the vicious gun battle that had only a few minutes before ceased suddenly, leaving nothing but silence and the soft blowing of the wind.

He also smelled decay. Rotten flesh, as well as rotten leather and wood and mold from decayed and decrepit buildings. He looked toward the town and the moon was just beginning its slow descent towards the western horizon. It threw an eerie blue light onto the necropolis, and for a moment he reconsidered on his plan to enter the town. His moment of indecision was broken however when he heard the tell tale roar of dozens of motorcycle engines as they started up and begin filing down the access road from the Miller Farm.

Sequoia glanced back as he caught the first headlights crossing onto the highway and heading for town and he made his mind up then. He sprinted towards the wrecked town.

As he made his way up to the line of buildings he spotted a few corpses standing in the middle of road. They were idly shambling about moaning and carrying on, but otherwise not much of a threat. Sequoia jumped off the right into the darkness between two buildings and sniffed the air. His sharp eyes missed nothing and his ears even less as he heard the engines roar into town and the sharp cracks of gunfire as the bikers rolled into town and opened fire on the deaders in the street.

Sequoia scooped the girl up and moved off, blending into the night as if he was a shadow and soon came upon a tool shed sitting in a backyard. It sat unlocked and practically empty. He opened the door and laid the girl down on a dirty canvas rug that was lying inside the shed. He then sat her up and slapped her gently a few times on the cheek. She came to her senses and then her eyes grew wide as the dark form in front her motioned for silence by putting single finger to his lips.

He then reached down and unclipped his holster and brought out a beretta and jacked a round into the chamber, turned off the safety and placed it into the terrified girl’s hands. He wrapped her shivering fingers around the handle and then their eyes met. She nodded in understanding then he smiled a white tooth grin, ruffled her hair and retreated out the door of the shed. Closing the door behind him leaving the girl to sit alone and scared with the moonlight shining in through a window above her head.

Unburdened, Sequoia blended with the shadows even better than before. With the grace of a cat he snuck between the homes, shadowing the bikers as they rolled to a halt just inside of town. A few dozen corpses shambled out into the streets to attack the men, but were quickly dispatched. The headlights from all the motorcycles and vehicles lit the entire area up well and Big Guy got out of the suburban truck and looked around to survey the scene.

He then climbed on top of the suburban and looked down on the assembled men around him.

“Spread out! Find that girl and bring me that Goddamn Indian’s scalp!”, he cried out and the Sequoia watched as the men hustled off into the darkness between the buildings. He was watching so intently that he forgot himself for a moment until he heard a faint snap behind him.

Instantly his nose picked up the odor of rotten flesh and his white eyes widened, then shot to his right. He then ducked to his left as a woman, or the naked, rotted remains of one reached out for him. He quickly recovered and came around with that ancient tomahawk, the weapon of his forefathers, and brought it down clean on the back of the rotted woman’s neck. There was a quiet crack, and her body went limp and collapsed to the ground at his feet.

He spit onto the corpse and then his ears picked up the sound of two men nearby. They were whispering to each other in the darkness.

“What the fuck are we doing man? Why’s he got us out here in zombie town huntin’ for some stupid Indian and a fucktard little girl for?” one of the bikers said as he scanned the area next to him with his shotgun.

“Shut the fuck up, I don’t know. But I don’t want no dead fuck to sneak up and take a chunk out of me, or some crazy fuckin’ Indian. So shut the fuck up.” His companion said to him then pointed towards a dark spot in the night and said, “Did you see that?”

“Nah, I ain’t saw shit.”, the longhaired biker said and peered into the darkness.

“I saw it, I bet it’s that fuckin’ Indian. You go around to that way. I’ll sneak over here, one of us is bound to run into him.”, said his companion. A skinny, shorthaired, guy with a goatee.

“Oh fuck that man, I ain’t splittin’ up!”, Long Hair said.

“You fuckin’ pussy, go over there before I split your skull myself then you won’t have to worry ‘bout no damn Indian.”, Skinny snarled and then as quietly as possible, which wasn’t very, snuck off in the opposite direction.

Skinny proceeded behind the houses. It was pitch black and the smell was awful, of rot and mold. He continued past a rusty swing set. The swings, their chains rusted and squeaking, slowly swung in the cool pre-dawn air. He swept the barrel of his shotgun right and left into the night, squinting and peering.

He was looking at a bush that had a particularly strange outline. He furrowed his brow and approached it slowly, his gun pointed in the direction of the bush. He swallowed a dry swallow and his thumb nervously flicked the safety to off. His eyes darted back and forth and the sweat on his brow was dripping down as he finally approached the bush. Something was moving inside it. He got closer, when suddenly a small dark form shot out from underneath the bush, snarling and hissing.

Skinny yelped and jumped back, blasting a shot into the ground at his feet and heard a squeal of pain. He stood there panting in terror as the smoke from his errant shot cleared and looked down to the see the blasted remains of a big, fat gray possum.

He cursed his stupidity and then turned, just in time to see nothing in the darkness but white eyes and a flashing white grin, then all went dark for Skinny.

Long Hair continued in the opposite direction, shivering with fright and cold, he continued down a dark alleyway between a store and a ramshackle house when he heard a strange whistle behind him.

He turned in time to see a dark form disappear behind another house. He hurriedly went over in that direction, just in time once again, to just make out a shadow as it disappeared around another corner.

Long Hair licked his lips and then sneered, he pumped a round into his shotgun and yelled out, more to steel his own nerves than anything, “I’m comin for ya, you little red bastard!” and he jumped around the corner to find, nothing.

He furrowed his brow for a moment and then spotted movement just ahead of him. He continued down, peering into the darkness. He was halfway past the building to his right when he came to a door.

Suddenly that door flew open with a loud crash and a perfect nuclear family of deaders spilled out onto the man. A father, a mother, a teenage boy, and a little girl poured onto the hapless biker. They snarled viciously and clawed into him. He managed to get off one shot before they were upon him and their weight bore him to the ground. He screamed out in pain as they tore into his guts and he looked back. He saw, just a few tantalizing feet away, a pair of white eyes and a grinning white smile of perfect teeth seeming to float in the darkness.

Sequoia continued down the half mile of ramshackle houses, silently avoiding a few deaders he smelled long before they had any hope of noticing him, and worked his way up to the towns single gas station.

The gas station sat on a slight rise just at the edge of town. Sequoia, his bright white eyes darting back and forth over the terrain, moved up the hill as silent as a ghost and made his way to the old fashioned pumps that sat there. He raised the handle a few times and flashed a wicked grin when a steady stream of gasoline poured from the nozzle.

He used a zip tie to hold the handle down and continued along the chain. He tied every pump open on full and gasoline quickly collected and began to run downhill into the town itself. He then pulled a Hershey bar from a fanny pack and began unwrapping it while he crouched down in the darkness to wait.

4.

Big Guy was pissed. He stood around in the center of the circle of bikes. Every now and then a deader came out of the buildings but he kept a few men back and they made quick work of the slow, stiff corpses.

All that time wasted, and he didn’t even get the chance to wet his dick in that virgin farm girl. What a waste. Those assholes just had to come and spoil him and his boy’s fun. Well he’d make them all pay. If only he could find them. He lost more than a few men in a wild, close quarter ambush that lasted just a few minutes and then the shooters melted into the woods, like fuckin’ ghosts.

He did spot the trail left behind by that Goddamned Indian though. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he knew that the reddish brown form he saw in the firelight in the barn was a Goddamn Indian and he wanted his scalp.

“Hey man! You smell gasoline?” one of the guys in the circle of bikes said.

Another guy sniffed the air then replied, “Yeah! It’s strong too!”

Big Guy furrowed his brow and looked around to see a steady reflection in the street as a thick flow of gasoline crept at a steady pace towards the broad circle of motorcycles. Then he looked up and just visible at the crest of a hill was a dark, man shaped shadow. His eyes widened when he saw the form throw a smaller object in his direction. Then flinched as a grenade went off and a searing envelope of flame approached down the street.

Big Guy dropped to the ground and rolled under his Suburban as the flames reached the circle of motorcycles and began lighting the motorcycles on fire one by one. His men scrambled and ran off into the darkness as each motorcycle flared into a giant bonfire, 2-dozen of them reaching high into the sky.

Big Guy climbed out from underneath his truck and looked around. His men had fled. He was alone. Then he heard a shuffling noise over the roar of flames and saw deaders by the dozens begin to appear in the shimmering air. Only the heat and the wall of flames kept them from penetrating to claw at his flesh. They stood there, staring at him, and moaning.

Suddenly he turned, and standing about 10 feet away was a short, squat form with thick sinewy arms and powerful legs. His deep red tan evident in the firelight while the whites of his dark eyes showed bright.

Big Guy snarled in anger. “Alright Red Man! You wanna play!? Let’s play!”, and he drew a massive, 12 inch bowie knife from a scabbard at his back. It sat heavily in his massive paw.

Sequoia brandished his ancient weapon. Its origins were almost entirely unknown to him. Who made it or when, was but a rough idea.  He felt the power of his forefathers in the strong, wooden handles which adorned the otherwise black iron blade. However Sequoia worried the ancient iron would shatter underneath the massive impacts it would receive from this massive brute.

They both dropped into a crouch and circled each other. Sizing each other up. The crowd of dead outside the ring of fire caused by the burning motorcycles had swelled to form an almost impenetrable ring of necrotic flesh. Yet they could not get past the searing flames and heat, so they could only watch as the two men faced off.

Each time they circled, they moved a bit closer to each other like two binary stars in a dance of ultimate doom as one impacts with the other. Slowly they moved, Big Guy smiling wickedly and laughing. He tossed the massive knife with ease back and forth between his hands and moved his head side to side and cracked his neck.

Sequoia for his part merely stared silently. Trying to come up with a way to take on this massive creature without getting his head broke in the process. The flames wouldn’t last forever, and these dead would then rush in and finish them both. Time was of the essence.

Growing impatient with the game, Big Guy howled and came forward amazingly fast and thrust his massive blade at the Indian. Sequoia ducked out of the way with amazing speed himself and recovered just in time as that massive blade made of modern steel whistled just centimeters from his nose once again.

He ducked and twisted as Big Guy lunged again and again. Finally he caught an opening and dropped the blade of his tomahawk deep into the Big Guys thigh. It became stuck in the massive tissues that made up his leg. He yanked and it still didn’t free, Big Guy howled in agony and then swiped down with that massive knife and Sequoia jumped out of the way as the steel sparked on the pavement of the street. Sequoia was forced to back away.

Big Guy pulled the tomahawk from his leg and threw it a distance away and then laughed as he limped closer to Sequoia, holding that massive bowie knife in the air. Suddenly, a number of dead broke through the ring of fire where the motorcycles at last began to fade and made feeble attempts to attack the massive man.

One latched onto his arm, trying to take a chunk of the sinuous muscle and it barely broke the skin. He tossed it like a rag doll into another group of dead. Even more set upon him and he screamed out and used that knife to wicked effect, hacking and slashing limbs, heads, whatever he could as the crowd of dead grew denser around him.

Sequoia backed into a hard object and realized it was the Suburban. He quickly, and deftly climbed up on to the roof as the fires finally gave out and the throng of zombies waiting outside the ring finally came forward and swamped the huge man. With such a wildly fighting prize, the Dead were not the slightest bit interested in the dark form that quietly grabbed hold the bottom of a balcony that reached near the SUV upon which he stood and climbed into the shadows.

Big Guy wasn’t near finished. He was torn with wounds and bites yet he continued in his rage to wreck the rotted corpses that pressed against him. He plunged his knife over and over into the necrotic tissue around him. Bellowing out like an angry boar as more dead pressed in on him. Eventually, he lost his knife and used his bare hands to break necks or snap arms.

He was a bloody, torn mess before he finally collapsed under the sea of dead, the corpses wildly attacking his muscular form.

5.

Sequoia quietly returned to the tool shed where he collected the terrified little girl into his arms and made his way out of the now burning town. The moans of the dead as they crowded towards the remaining flames in the center of town could be heard at first, but then slowly faded behind the stout Indian as he carried the girl back up to the short service road to the Miller Farm.

The sun was just breaking the horizon and flooding fresh morning light down on the pair and as the light grew, Sequoia’s form became more visible. His skin was a deep tan, and wizened by years in the sun. He was covered head to toe in soot, and looked like something out of the days of Daniel Boone. He continued up the hill and arrived to find Taylor and the other 3 men of the patrol reinforced by a 10-man platoon brought over the hills by the Gunny.

As he came forward into the courtyard of the wrecked farm compound, Symmes ran up and took the girl from the aborigine’s arms and whisked her away to a more private area to examine her.

The Gunny walked up to the squat Indian and was greeted by a big white shit-eating grin on the face of the Noble Savage. The Gunny came up and held out his hand and gave a firm shake of Sequoia’s hand then clapped him on the back.

“Damn Good Job, Son! Damn Good Job!”, the Gunny said

Sequoia merely looked at the Gunny out the side of his eyes and with that wild, white tooth grin said, “Thanks.”

The End

I meet the interviewee, ‘John’, in an interstate diner. John had tracked me down a week previous, after hearing about my report ‘from some friends’, and requested to be interviewed.

John’s a lean, rangy man and he’s wearing mirrored aviators. He drinks his coffee and explains his request for confidentiality.

The stuff I’m about to tell you, you won’t find any other way, but it’s our story and I think it needs told. Most of is still technically classified. Not that it matters much now… the government, hell, even the army who set our mission, aren’t around anymore. But I survived ten years of hell, I’m not gonna risk jail just because some bureaucrat’s following the letter. Besides which… we did some stuff in the early days which I’m not proud of.

I’d been in Delta for three years when they selected me to join the new unit. 5th Special Forces Operational Detachment-Alpha.I’d seen the tail end of Gulf Two and Afghanistan, and when they told me it was a covert homeland security gig, I jumped at the chance. Nothing in America could be as bad as hunting insurgents in crowded streets and stinking caves, in countries where even the people you’re supposed to be helping don’t want you. I know, I know, but this was way before everything kicked off, and this new rabies was just the next swine flu.

The 5th were based at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. There we had access to the 160th ‘Nightstalkers’ SOAR and rapid transport across the continent. We also bunkered with the 101st Airborne, so I knew a few of the guys who fought in the battle of Portsmouth. Brave guys, they knew what they were getting themselves into.

We didn’t, but that changed fast. My first day at Fort Campbell, I met the rest of my team. Our teams were four man units, for speed, stealth and flexibility. The guys on my first team, ‘Mike’, ‘Jack’ and ‘Joe’, were a mix of SEALS and Green Berets. I’d worked with Mike, in Afghanistan, and knew him to be a solid fighter. It was also good to have a familiar face. There were about twenty other Delta or ex-Delta in the twenty five teams that made up the 5th initial field elements, but none that I knew too well.

They sat us down, me, my team and about fifty other new arrivals in a briefing room and told us the score. To their credit, no one cried bullshit. I had the sneaking suspicion this was some PsyOps evaluation nonsense. I’d seen worse. The suspicion was still there when they showed us the images, the police reports, the details of the skirmishes in border towns and local hospitals. All covered up, of course, wouldn’t do to panic the American public, not with the economy the way it was.

I was still sceptical right up until the moment the took us through to the holding cells in the warehouse next door and put several large calibre rounds through a zed, and it kept on trying to get at us. Never forget your first Z, right? This one had been a cop, and was missing a crescent shaped chunk of flesh from its forearm. Apart from the five large holes in its chest, and the five massive exit wounds in its back, that was the only injury we could see. It just kept on reaching through the bars of its holding cell, even whilst missing a good portion of its torso. The officer who had given us the briefing put a final round through its head. They had our attention.

That was it; that was our selection process. I guess we’d already proved ourselves in a regular fight, so they just wanted to know if we could take what we were going up against. Still, none of this ‘locking us overnight in a room with a bunch of biting heads’, like I keep hearing. Thank Christ for that! The later recruits had it different, but with us, the first wave, no one really knew what they were doing.

We got to work training to put down the dead. A lot of that training was focussed on headshots. All the Alpha operators had seen action in one arena or another, but fighting armed, fast human opponents encourages that centre-of-mass aiming that does absolutely no good against a walking corpse. We took time to ensure that habit didn’t crop up in high-stress combat situations, and time to get acquainted with the range of weapons and tactics the programme was proposing. It wasn’t the dark ages, but it wasn’t quite the New Model Army either.

They kitted us out over the course of the first week. We carried lightweight recce body armour, little more than advanced skating protection, but enough to stop some bites and bullet ricochets. We had access to pretty much any weapon we could ask for, but generally stuck to MP5 ‘shorts’ for covert actions, and FN SCARs for anything heavier. Sidearms were a matter of preference, I kept the .45 M1911 that I’d brought from Fort Bragg. Some of the teams were specialised into heavy or exotic weaponry: Barretts, flamethrowers, SAWs, M60s, foam guns and slip guns. We’d use these teams as support if things started to go south. Talking of which, do you have any idea what I’m saying? I could just call big guns and small guns, if you’d prefer?

Things were pretty quiet in the states for that first month. There were isolated incidents across the country, but they were all met by local law enforcement and put down before they got out of control. Our ready teams would scramble and comb the area, just to be sure, whilst the spooks took care of the publicity.

Our prime objective was to prevent the spread of infection. We would go into an area, sweep through and report. If it was an after action assay, we’d generally wear civvies. No need to scare the populace more by having a town crawling with ninjas in the wake of a shooting incident. In the beginning, we had spooks to accompany us and determine the vector, interviewing the local police and civilians. When we’d declared the area clear, we might move onto the next town, backtracking a patient zero, say, or investigating suspicious police reports. We didn’t find much that first month, a lot of the P zeros had just gone to sleep and woke up dead. That was worrying, no obvious vector. It took a couple of weeks for the spooks to work out lots of them had received infected organ donations from abroad. Some of our teams were deployed to bring in suspected cases, but by that time things had started to heat up, both at home and in the rest of the world.

Our first major incident came a month and a half after I started. Our team had come together well, especially for guys picked up and thrown in at the deep end of a war. I guess the small team numbers and prior experience were to thank for that, it minimised selection and training time.

We were one of the ready teams that day. The call came to haul ass to the flight hangers and we’d be briefed when airborne. The Nightstalkers busted us across the country double time and took us in by Blackhawks for the final stage. Details were sketchy, but it seemed like a an escalating outbreak centred around the local hospital. The town was small and spread out, about five thousand people, but the hospital served a larger area and was five stories tall. The outbreak had spread overnight through the wards, and the small police force hadn’t been able to handle it. Our intel guys had caught the radio chatter and is sounded bad.

We got there six hours after the scramble order. Six active teams, with two heavy weapon teams in reserve, a squadron of attack helicopters, and a pair of F22s over the horizon. The spooks had cut the landlines and an airforce bird was jamming all civilian radio traffic across that part of the state.  We made a pass over the hospital at dawn, but couldn’t see anything obvious apart from the abandoned emergency vehicles in the lot. The lights were still on but we couldn’t see movement in the corridors. The hospital lay in its own open campus, set away from the town proper, so three of our teams landed at road entrances and swept the grounds towards the main building whilst we rappelled onto its roof.

The roof access was locked, so team 3 made a forced entry with breaching charges. The moment the door popped, the dead were on us. We figured later that they must have followed some poor soul who’d been trying to escape to the roof, and got them when they couldn’t make it through the door. Whatever, there were about sixty of them in the stairwell, all freshly dead with little rigor, against our twelve guns and a hundred square feet of fighting roof space. Team 3 went under straight off, just ripped apart. That, and the logjam in the stairwell, saved us. We opened up with everything we had six magazines of 9mm each, grenades, swearing. All that stuff I said about the finest soldiers in the world drilling for headshots? That went out the window when we suddenly found ourselves ten feet from all that blood and snapping teeth. We fired until there was nothing moving in the doorway, and then threw a few more frag grenades in for luck.

The rest of the hospital was pretty much a clean sweep, though I was scared shitless the whole time. We resupplied from the helo and went in through the top story windows: there was no way I was going down that stairwell. The vector turned out to be a woman who had recently returned from South Africa. Hers was the only room in the place without any blood in it.

That was our first real action, our first casualties. We blew the hospital. Gas explosion. Those excuses became common as time went on.

After that, things got busy. We got another two hundred operators. Two incidents a week, then six, then ten. Hospitals were always the worst for me, and there were far too many of them. Apartment blocks, airfields, goddamn funeral homes, small towns…

When I said we did stuff I not proud of, one particular incident sticks in my mind. It was just our team, doing a routine clean sweep of small outbreak. The town’s sheriff had shot a vagrant who had ‘tried to eat’ him and a few of the townsfolk. Our intel system was sensitive to reports like that.

We were dropped at the nearest airfield and picked up a federal vehicle. Prevent infection, avoid exposure. We got to the town at sunset, nearly half a day after the sheriff filed his report, but like I said, it was a routine sweep, we even wore civvies. It was a small town in forest country. Two thousand, three hundred and sixty five people in new builds, a few shops, a police station and a mini-mall. No hospital, but a clinic. It lay on an island, mid river, with a road bridge at either side.

Things began to go wrong shortly before we got there. First, control radioed us to say that the police frequencies had gone dead. Next, we noticed flickering lights silhouetting the forested rise that separated us from the road down towards the town. I had Mike gun the car and we crested the rise a minute later.

The situation was all fucked up. From our position, we could see both sides of the town. Most of the lights were off, but the fires from burning cars and houses gave us enough illumination. The town crawled. From a distance, we couldn’t tell infected from uninfected, but there were a lot of them. Gunfire was concentrated in the main street, semi-automatic but uncontrolled, filling streets with lead but mostly not hitting anything important. Both roads out across the river were blocked, three to four car pile ups. The bridge on the far side burned, but the one on our side still held, and some of the townsfolk were trying to get across the wreckage. A horde was following them.

I radioed this into Command and while we awaited their response we broke out the weapons. We were only carrying MP5s for this mission, Quiet but relatively short ranged. If we were to sweep the town we’d have to go over the bridge and get up close and personal. No pleasant at the best of times but we’d also be contending with the wild fire of the town’s defenders. And there were only four of us.

The order from command came through, and it took us a few moments to process it. We deployed to the end of the bridge and took up a firing arc around it. Then we shot everything that came into range. Everything. We kept the fire slow and steady. We used headshots on infected and uninfected alike, because if you can’t tell who’s been bitten, there’s no point wasting ammo once they’ve turned. Our targets were backlit by the fires in the town, and it was all far too easy. Man, woman, child, corpse, all just paper cut-outs; silhouettes.

The civvies soon stopped trying the bridge, and a few tried to swim for it. We put them down, too.. We must’ve killed a couple of hundred targets before the wave stopped. The advantage of the MP5 is that it’s integrally suppressed, and so much quieter than the civilian rifles which were tearing up the middle of the town. With their fleeing human prey exhausted, the zeds were all attracted to the gunfire along the main street.

The two minute warning came through, and we pulled back to the drainage ditch along the treeline, putting the road between us and the bridge but still within weapon range for anything that came over it. Nothing did.

When the bombs hit, the town just ceased to exist. The buildings blew apart, the bridge shattered and fell into the river, and then the napalm munitions hit and incinerated anything still moving. We were picked up and smashed into the muddy water at the bottom of the ditch, but otherwise we got off lightly.

Two thousand, three hundred and sixty five people. All dead because we were too late and too few. I don’t know how many had been turned by the time we got there, but we weren’t just shooting the walking dead on that bridge. It’s not something you think about at the time… it’s not something I thought about, but afterwards it weighs deep.

A collapsed dam was the explanation for that one.

I remembered wondering at the time how the public could keep buying these excuses: forest fire, flash flood, earthquake, gas explosion, serial killer, armed gangs, terrorists. It says something when natural disasters and major terrorist attacks are considered less destabilising to society than the truth. But the truth was that we were under attack from walking corpses, and even for a public coming to terms with the global spread of African rabies, that was not an easy truth to accept.

The winter wore on with more and more separate outbreaks, but the cold up North kept them slow whilst we piled operators into the Southern ones. The 5th received reinforcements, and eventually reached regiment strength with a thousand field teams; four thousand operators all in. Even then were stretched thin, taking casualties every single day. After our near-miss, there was no such thing as a ‘routine sweep’. That meant supersonic transport and either airdrop or stealth helo infiltration into outbreaks. We’d be on the ground no more than two hours after receiving a call. There were far fewer false alarms than we’d hoped for.

Joe once compared our situation to the Spitfire pilots fighting the Battle of Britain. “Never in the field of human conflict”, and all that. Except I’ll bet those ‘few’ were never forced to gun down unarmed civilians.

Things like that happened more often towards spring. The teams were never triggerhappy, but there’s only so much a four man team or even a platoon could do. It was never a case of shooting people to keep things quiet, but sometimes we were outnumbered and there was no way to police civilians to screen for bites. In those cases, where one infected slipping the net could bring devastation to a much larger area, the rules of engagement were clear.

Then spring came and the net just… broke.  Suddenly there were class 2 and 3 outbreaks everywhere. All those zeds that we’d missed, one that had wandered off and frozen in rivers and forests, just woke up and started tearing up everything in their path. Now every incident required at least three teams and maybe aerial drone support. Covert went out the window. We were fighting in small towns and big cities, coast to coast.

And then the story broke. The new rabies wasn’t rabies at all, and the vaccine was a piece of shit. The dead were coming to eat you.

For us, it was actually a relief. Battling monsters isn’t easy on your own. We were allowed to work with the national guard units that up until then had just been background support in our bigger operations. We still did most of the wetwork, but at least we had help cleaning up. We were still stretched though. Teams were screwing up through sheer exhaustion after dropping into five or six outbreaks a week. We’d been fighting solidly for nearly a year at this point, and things were not getting better.

Then New York happened. We’d fought in large cities before, but the high population densities actually worked for us and we’d be able to react quickly. A lot of people screaming is easy to here. But when the Osaka Express came aground at Manhattan, it created an instant class 3 outbreak, spilling ten thousand zeds onto the West Side. I think I read later that some billionaire philanthropist had chartered the cargo ship to help take refugees from Cape Town. Asshole.

The terminal was lost within minutes, and the surrounding area was crawling by the time we arrived. An airforce strike had turned the Express into a flaming hulk, and thick clouds of smoke rolled through the New York streets. We overshot the planned landing area because it was stinking with the dead, and defaulted to Central Park. There were nine hundred operators on the ground before the local guys at Fort Hamilton had even managed to muster. It was the largest operation the 5th had undertaken up to this point in the war. It also nearly got us all killed.

We deployed in a defensive perimeter around the LZ, then the helos that brought us in took off to provide air support. The Colonel in charge left a dozen teams to secure the LZ, and split the rest of us into detachments to sweep the hostile streets, West 46th through 60th. We took about a companies worth of men down each street, with enough firepower to end a war.

It was, smoke, gunshots and screams aside, a pleasant summer’s day. The roads were gridlocked, as normal, but no one was in the cars. Our detachment swept down West 54th street. Many people had barricaded themselves in the apartment and offices, and they called to us for help, but we had to ignore them and push on.

The smoke thickened as we closed on Dewitt Park. We could tell that the detachments on the others streets had already come into contact by the crackle of the comms and the sound of the military grade weaponry in play. The thick smoke cut our effective combat range down to less than six hundred feet. Infra red systems were useless against even the freshly turned, as the smoke and fires had raised the ambient temperature to above that of a cooling corpse. We dug in on the corner of 10th avenue and turned the street into a kill zone.

Our support helos buzzed overhead, churning up the smoke and throwing down grenades and streams of tracer fire into the horde. We could hear the moans even over the explosions and gunfire. There were panicked faces in the windows above us, shouting stuff we couldn’t hear and pointing frantically towards the smoke. A few teams had deployed to the roofs of the buildings, and their shooting was nearly as frantic. Contact reports were flooding the net.

When they came out of the smoke, we were only four hundred feet away.  There were thousands of them. They packed the whole width of the street, flowing around abandoned cars like a river. We opened up at once, no orders needed. The front line wet down in a red mist, and then the next and the next. Tracer bullets found fuel tanks, and cars exploded. The horde kept coming, a fiery, blood soaked wave of carrion.

It was a numbers game. Our detachment could, theoretically, put down around a hundred and sixty enemy in a second, though the real number was probably closer to a hundred, what with duplicate fire and no chance to communicate targets. They would take two or three minutes to cross the kill zone, meaning, theoretically, we should’ve been able to hold off twelve to eighteen thousand of them. Magazine changes and jammed weapons reduced that number, but all things being equal, we should still have been able to perform a fighting withdrawal.

All things were not equal. Our left flank got hit whist we were concentrating on the horror approaching us from the front. The detachment holding 53rd street had made contact and withdrawn before us, and the corpses following them had spilled up 10th avenue. There were hundreds of them, and they tore the left flank to pieces.

My team were holding the right flank, so we were spared the brunt of the assault. We poured suppressing fire down 10th and tried to retreat down 54th street, but the smoke was now billowing down and both waves were on us. I had Joe blow the door of an apartment block and we held it whilst the survivors retreated in. The streets were crawling with zed, stumbling at us out of the smoke. Jack was taken as the last men got past. Mike and I bought Joe enough time to rig a demolition charge out of grenades, then we ran hell for leather up the stairs with a hundred of the bloodsoaked bastards on our heels.

The charge took out the first two flights of stairs and knocked us flat. When I looked down, the stairwell was a burning, blackened wreck, but the zeds were still pouring in, trying to reach us, climbing over shattered bodies and rubble. The stairs we were on were threatening to give as well, so we quickly decamped to the roof.

Sixty, seventy feet up, and all we could see was carnage. The ten thousand zeds from the cargo ship had already turned five or six times their number, and the streets were choked with the dead. The fighting receded away from us as the wave pushed the rest of the 5th back towards Central Park. Street fires burned out of control to the west of us, and several buildings were ablaze, too. Much of the Hudson river was obscured by a mile high pillar of smoke from the passenger terminal.

We sat the next four hours out on that roof, the thirty of us who’d made it. We took potshots when the smoke cleared enough for us to see, but there wasn’t much else we could do. Army units were being flown in to reinforce the LZ, but the heavy equipment couldn’t move through the streets because of all the fleeing traffic. Spectre gunships and attack helos poured down fire, but probably did more damage to the ground than to their targets.

Central Park was abandoned shortly before the horde reached it, dozens of helicopters lifting off in staggered waves. Another flight of helos came in shortly after that to extract us and the other survivors from the rooftops. The last I saw of New York was smoke and fire as the sun went down. We’d lost the city.

People say what happened outside of New York, a few weeks later, was the first major military engagement of the war. That’s not true, though it had much more publicity and far more casualties. Of the twelve hundred operators that went into New York that day, we lost five hundred and two. That seems trifling on the scale of the war, and of the thousands lost on that day, but it crippled us. And for no gain; we learned no lessons, saved no lives. We fought reactively, as we’d always done, but on a scale we not been part of before, and we died for it.

The 5th was disbanded shortly after. The teams were split and sent as advisors to different regiments, or to guard high value installations. I never saw Joe or Mike again, though I heard Joe was still at Fort Campbell when a megaswarm hit it.

As for myself, I spent the rest of the war firstly guarding VIPs in Hawaii, and then leading a Border company in the Rockies. I transferred back to the regular army for the Push, and spent the next few years slogging across the bible belt. You know the rest.

I still hate hospitals.