Untitled Zombie Novel

***ALL WORK COPYRIGHTED UNDER FEDERAL LAW***

CHAPTER 1: AWAKENING

October 30, 2011/Gloucester, Virginia/two weeks after Initial Outbreak

Lying unconscious in the basement of an abandoned single-story house, Mike Reynolds’s mind ran through visions of the past. His ex-wife, that whore that she was, twisted his heart and stained his soul with infinite sorrow, played to his sockets like a black and white movie. It was her that opened his mind to the darkest corners of sanity, offering him a completely different outlook on life itself. Before, in the times where the name Brittany had meant nothing to Mike, he was as kind and selfless as his deceased grandfather. But after, even now, he was changed, as if his soul was in a constant state of disarray, warring with itself. It tore the man apart.

Images of his mother came next. He could almost hear her voice calling to him. She was an angel, disguised by her earthly flesh and flaws; always looking at the best in Mike—even in his worst moments. He would always be her son, no matter what. But even in her brightest hour she couldn’t pull the man out of the downward spiral that consumed his life after the ex became “The Ex.”

Shelley, his girlfriend, rained into unconsciousness like the calm after a storm. She was the only person that seemed to bring light to the darkness. Mike’s last images of here were morbid and maddening. Through the swelling blackness that surrounded her silhouette, he could make out her screams, and see her reaching for him as the restless undead ravaged her.

Days prior to Mike’s current bout with unconsciousness, Shelley had been attacked by a horde of carriers, the infected, walking corpses from the remains of a time before the world had moved on. Unwillingly, Mike relived the exact moment where he could do nothing but extinguish the flame that lit her very being before it transformed into the hellish rage similar to everything outside the basement he lay motionless in. In his twenty-seven years of life, this was the worst thing Mike had experienced. Shelley was sweet, making him feel ten years younger every time she smiled. Not even The Ex had that power over him. And then, as quick as a moment gone unnoticed, she was gone.

These horrid images brought movement behind his eyelids and to the fingers on his right hand.

Steve Coons was Mike’s best friend, and one of the only fragments left that connected Mike to his former life. He remembered how the two had met in the seventh grade. They’d been friends ever since. Too many times they had gotten high, sharing stories of the likes youth can only share. They were like family, and the two would often joke that they were brothers. If it weren’t for Steve, Mike would already be dead. But that street ran in both directions.

After minutes of replaying some of the best and worst times of his life, Mike began to regain consciousness. His last memory before waking was watching the love of his life being eaten alive, torn piece from bloody piece, screaming to a god that hadn’t been listening. Eyes opening suddenly and painfully, her cries echoed in his mind.

As reality swam back into every sense, the first thing Mike realized was that he had been thrown down the wooden steps, where he had landed face first onto the concrete slab. A small pool of blood was beside him, the upper right side of his forehead hurting, and moist. An explosion was his first assumption. What else could have sent him flying like a marionette cut from its strings?

He attempted to move but soon found out that the basement door had landed partly across his back, the doorknob digging into the small of his back. An old and rusted metal shelf had fallen on him, too, its contents spread haphazardly across the floor. He rotated his head to survey the area. Pain surged through his body, causing him to moan aloud.

“Fuck me.”

A smile crossed his face when he saw that it was paint next to him, not blood; an irritating maroon that must have been used by the house’s former occupants.

The same color on the trim outside, he remembered.

He took a strained breath and pushed himself up with a groan, the door and shelf sliding to the floor. As he stood, he realized for the first time since waking that his ears were ringing. And then his vision started to go blurry; an after-effect of the supposed explosion.

What the hell could have caused an explosion? He let the thought linger in the back of his head as he brought his hand to his forehead, almost out of instinct. There was a wound, and it was all but pleasant. Feeling the warmth of his own blood just over his right eyelid, he limped around and searched for the backpack he’d been wearing before coming to. There were bandages inside; disinfectant, an FRS radio, and the rest of his supplies. He found it lying beneath a workbench on the far wall. He also found his gun; a Sig Saur P226 nine millimeter.

“There you are,” he said as he grabbed the pistol.

There was a chair off to the side, next to fallen shelf. Grabbing and setting it in place, Mike sat in front of the bench and sifted through his backpack. The first thing he pulled out was a bottle of water, and he took a swig, his mouth as dry as a forgotten river. Next was a gauze pad, which he used to cover the laceration above his eye. He wrapped the elastic bandage around the gauze tightly.

After he finished wrapping the wound, Mike saw something behind what remained of the stairs. He barely noticed it. Making his way around the clutter, Mike cleared the debris off what appeared to be an antique chest in poor condition. Upon further inspection, the words SCUBA GEAR could be made out. Faded but still visible under the layer dust that had probably been there before his trespassing, the words stuck out in a pallid white tone, yelling to him in contrast of the chest’s stained wood. The only points of interest were waterproof gloves, socks, and facemasks. There were four of sets of each. Grabbing them, Mike set his findings down on the bench, and reached into his backpack for something he should have grabbed upon awakening.

The ringing in his ears subsided, and as Mike took out his radio, he could hear Steve coming through. But that wasn’t all he heard. The shuffling sounds of the undead were seeping through the cracks in the frame of the window above the bench. Then the moans of the undead, their pleas for flesh and brains, crossed his ears. He watched as the shadows of countless zombies passed by, and the entire spectrum of his reality came back. Hearing his best friend through the radio brought back his most recent memories before the explosion.

Steve and an adopted friend, a young boy named Alex, whom they’d found just a few days prior roaming the streets of Gloucester, were across the street. They were going to check out a gas station for any remaining supplies. Food and water were going to run out at their safe house, so they had gone out on a raid. The streets and neighboring roads appeared clear of any zombies, so Mike had gone to check out the houses across the street. The only house that gave him probable cause was the one he sat in now.

From the outside it appeared to be a well-maintained property that had a fresh coat of (irritating maroon) paint on the trim boards and shutters. Even all the windows appeared new, energy-efficient. It had the expensive gutters that advertised never having to be cleaned spanning the front of the home. Whoever lived here before the outbreak had taken a lot of care of their place.

The inside appeared safe enough through the windows. Nothing was out of place, as if untouched for quite some time. There were no signs of struggle or panic, as if this house was trapped in another dimension, void of the epidemic that had swept through the rest of the known world.

The front door had been unlocked, and he cautiously opened it. Too many times in the past two weeks had his haste almost cost him everything. The door creaked as it opened. Drawing his gun, Mike had entered. There was nothing in sight but old furniture and a bad taste in decoration. The familiar odor of rot that he’d grown accustomed to was nonexistent inside. Instead, there was only the aroma of spoiled food coming from the refrigerator, which, he’d discovered, had been left wide open.

Each room was empty, closets bare, and dressers with each drawer open and barren. When the first floor of the rancher was cleared, he had left for the basement. From there, he could only remember waking up, dazed and confused.

Mike pulled himself back to the present, and keyed his radio.

“Steve, come in, man. You there?”

A few moments passed with no response. Then there were a few gunshots, followed by a haunting silence—and still more shadows crossed the basement window.

“Mike,” Steve finally said. “Man, am I glad to hear you voice. Thought you were dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Yeah, well don’t start with the jokes yet. You’re surrounded. Those bastards came out of nowhere.”

Glass shattered above, and Mike sighed.

“Looks like my luck ain’t what it used to be,” he said.

“Yeah, it looks that way from here. I don’t even want to count how many zombies are over there. I know you can’t see it, but they’re in the streets, the yard… it’s like they were waiting for us.”

Before he could respond, Mike heard something come crashing down directly above him.

“On the bright side, some of them have gotten in. I can hear some footsteps above me.” He looked at the entry to the basement to see that it had caved in. “I don’t think that they can get to me, but I don’t want to stay and find out if they can. There’s a window I can use, but there’s quite a crowd passing by it.”

“Well that’s a little fucking ray of sunshine, isn’t it?” Steve said.

“You ain’t lyin’, man.” Even Mike could hear the faint tinge of desperation in his voice. The footfalls above were becoming more and more distinct, almost a march.

“I’ve got a plan,” Steve said, “but it’s going to take a few more minutes before I can draw them away from you. Can you hold on for a while?”

“Oh, I’m no rush, Steve. Just your average day, you know.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Just do your best to make sure that this window isn’t a one-way ticket to the afterlife, all right?”

“That’s the plan. Stay put, and try not to piss your pants down there.”

Mike set the radio down and emptied the rest of the contents in his backpack on the workbench.

He tried on a pair of the waterproof gloves. They were skintight, and he found that he’d be able to aim and fire his gun without a problem. Next, he put on one of the facemasks. It wasn’t comfortable by any stretch, but now the only parts of his body exposed were his eyes. The socks could wait for another time; he would soon be entering a supposed warzone. There was ammunition to count and magazines to fill.

There were three extra clips on the table next to the dwindling box of rounds, all full. Feeling in his back pocket, Mike sighed. The two clips that were supposed to be there weren’t, and with the basement in the condition that it was in, there wouldn’t be a chance of finding them. He ejected the magazine from the pistol and topped it and locked it back in place, loading one in the chamber before he shoved the firearm in his shoulder holster. The three remaining clips were placed in his front right pocket.

All should have been well, but Mike couldn’t help but to feel that the haze of recent unconsciousness was still shrouding something. He looked around, not entirely sure of what he was in search of. Then it caught his eye; the cold steel of the twenty-eight inch blade from his Damascus-forged Katana. A smile formed on his face as he reacquainted himself with the weapon, swinging and lunging as if the phantom dust floating in the air were as threatening as a horde of undead. As he trained, he found the sheath sticking out of the rubble that once was someone’s workplace.

Now he felt like he had everything, and loaded his supplies and strapped the sword across his back. A sudden cacophony of gunfire echoed through to the basement, and Mike waited eagerly as his friends worked to free him from this shambling prison.

***

Outside, Steve was in the street, forming a plan as he gunned down any cannibalistic corpse that came close enough to dispatch with a single headshot; for that, if not incineration, was the only way to permanently down those rotting sacs of flesh and bone. Alex, the young boy, fortified himself at the doorway of the gas station—per Steve’s order—and sniped those out of Steve’s range; when he wasn’t shooting, Alex watched through his binoculars for any in the distance. It was a trying process of elimination, and both were beginning to feel the strain of desperation as Mike was. It was as if each one downed was eventually replaced, and so far, the gas station seemed to be the only safe place. But for how long?

Steve ejected an empty clip, placed it in his back pocket, replaced it with another from his front pocket, and ran back to the store. Setting his compact GLOCK 23 on the front counter, he made for the alcohol cooler in the rear of the hastily cleared store. He sighed in relief, feeling as if fate left what he saw in front of him for this very moment. He pulled out a twelve-pack of Budweiser bottles, ripped the top of the casing away, and poured the contents of each bottle to the floor with one thing on his mind.

Incineration…

As each bottle emptied, it was placed back in the case. Steve could hear Alex screaming in the background for him to hurry up. Come on… come on. When the last bottle finally ran dry, he grabbed a roll of paper towels from an aisle, along with the case, set them on the counter next to his GLOCK, and headed for the door. Sitting beside Alex was a gas can full to the brim (from a previous raid). Steve took the can, and set it next to the beer. He’d seen at least fifteen zombies closing in on the store, and Alex was in the process of reloading his Savage .22 rifle. Even more were surrounding the house where Mike sat trapped and unaware of how bad things were.

“Need a little help, Steve,” the young boy shouted, fumbling with the rounds as he loaded them into a clip. The boy was a boy, and just like Steve and Mike and the rest of the survivors back at the safe house, he wasn’t battle-trained. His nerves had to be twitching and jarring just like Steve’s.

Without a second thought, Steve ran out, shot the closest of the zombies, and turned to Alex to say, “I need you to hold them off for a little bit longer.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I know,” Steve said grimly, and placed his gun and spare, full clips on the industrial window sill next to Alex, then ran for the counter, heart pacing as death loomed over and around their newfound shelter. Carefully, Steve filled each of the bottles a little over three-quarters. After that, he opened the roll of paper towels and twisted the sheets into makeshift flints. In a matter of minutes he had a twelve-pack of Molotov Cocktails, all ready for use. He set the gas can beside Alex, and had the boy follow him out into the parking lot.

Steve went left, away from the fuel pumps. Not yet. Alex was right behind, holding his fire until given the command. In their short time together, Steve had learned to appreciate the boy’s presence.

“Hold on,” Steve said, and then advanced closer to the approaching horde. Most were drawn to the house, pouring in through several broken windows, he saw.

Steve pulled out his lighter, grabbed the first Cocktail, and sent it flying down the street, far right from where the house stood, near an overturned bus. A small drove had been negotiating there way around the wreckage, and the Molotov set all afire, forming a temporary wall of flames. Inside, Steve prayed for something else, other than the undead, to catch, keeping the blaze going for much longer than intended. The next bottle was sent in the opposite direction where several shambling zombies were approaching. The street, on both ends, resembled hell as Steve tossed another Molotov into each fire, broadening their range.

The fire almost reached their van, and by then it seemed Steve had gained the attention of the entire horde.

Alex ran back to the store before Steve could tell him to. It was as if the boy could read minds sometimes. He was much more acquainted with a rifle than a pistol, anyhow. At one point, Alex picked off an entire horde surrounding two survivors, Barry and Anna Hamley—who were back at the house, recovering from a traffic collision. If it hadn't been for Alex, the two would surely be dead now.

As the boy began firing at those farthest away, Steve unsheathed his sword—his weapon of choice, as it never ran out of ammunition. He swung it back and forth, slicing air as if each strike would be enough to knock the undead off their decaying feet. Each swipe felt better than the last as he prepared himself. He waited for the first to move within his blade’s reach, and when it did, he cut its skull clean in half, both sides flopping like a blooming flower in the wind as the body dropped in a sprawl.

***

Mike could hear the battle heating up as he sat in the chair, staring at his radio on the bench. The shadows of the walking dead came across the window in plentiful amounts, only this time they were headed in the opposite direction. Steve’s plan was working.

After what seemed like an eternity in the dust and rubble filled basement, the radio went off.

“If you’re going to go, now would be the time, Mike.”

Finally!

Mike made no haste in flinging the window open and tossing out his backpack. He crawled out, gun in hand, sword on back, and made careful notice of all the undead making their way to the street. He saw the barrier of flames on either side, and ran toward the undead, gun now holstered, sword now unsheathed, and backpack now strapped around his back.

Steve saw that Mike had made it out, nodded his head, and backed away from several dismembered carcasses. Looking behind, Mike saw that several zombies, or at least their arms, were sticking out of one of the windows, flustered, desperately seeking an exit to the warm meal outside. Steve yelled something to Mike, and he turned around just in time to see a lit bottle soaring overhead. It was a Molotov—not the first he’d seen, especially in the last week or so.

“Shit.”

He ran forward, ducking as the Cocktail nearly hit him. He heard the collision and felt the whoosh that came after the glass broke.

Steve, still backing up, began lighting and throwing several more Molotovs, igniting several small factions of zombies. For the most part, Mike noticed, Steve’s plan had worked. The outskirts of the battle zone were mostly afire, but the thick of the horde was in between the two friends. Mike counted twelve.

Tossing his backpack as close to their van as he could, Mike readied himself, gripping the sword with practiced ease. This was dangerous grounds for handguns.

As the undead drew closer to Steve, still unaware of Mike’s presence, he snuck up from behind and started swinging with precision. Bodies dropped as heads, hands, legs flew far from their base, brown-red clouds of mist staining the fall air. Each decapitated head rolled away still having life to it, teeth chewing, and eyes—if they still had them—focused on of the survivors.

Mike could hear Steve yelling at the zombies, doing what he could to keep them distracted as
Mike silently cut the horde down, limb by rotting limb.

“Come on, you dead fucks! It’s time to die… again!”

It only took another minute or so before the vicinity between the two was clear of the walking dead. Only those that were brave enough—if that were possible—to traverse through the walls of flames remained. Sheathing his sword, Mike withdrew his P226 and had a little target practice along with Steve.

As their clips ran dry, so did the ranks of the dead.

The two greeted each other with a nod of the head and quickly made for the store. Though it seemed safe, both knew that appearances were deceiving, especially nowadays.

What the two had deemed as a “Runner”—those with enough brain and motor function to still move fast—jumped over a car just barely in sight, hiding partially behind the store. It was swift, and pounced on Steve before anyone could do anything.

“What the…!”

The undead assailant jumped atop him, pummeling him as they dropped to the pavement. Steve was able to use the thing’s weight against it, using the fall as momentum to throw it off him. The Runner stumbled back as Mike took out his gun. It brought a smile to his face as the undead man, clad in bloodstained, tattered clothing, skin dark gray with splotches of black that could either be dried blood or an effect of the infection, turned its attention to him. It snarled. He fired, once. Its legs buckled, eyes darting to the back its head, and dropped forward, knees first, face second.

“Hey, that bastard was all mine,” Steve said. “I was just about to…”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“What the fuck are you wearing, Mike?”

Alex laughed in the background, still peering through the scope on his Savage.

“This,” Mike took the facemask off, “I found this and a few other articles in the basement, four pairs of them. You never know, they might come in handy. Maybe help keep infected blood off our hands.”

“I guess,” Steve replied. “We should get what we can here first. Then you can worry about looking like a douche.”

“Uh-huh. Just tell me how the fuck that happened.” Mike pointed back to the collapsed house. “It’s not every day your fucking house blows up.”

“You didn’t hear it?” Alex said, still at his post while the two walked up to him.

“Hear what?”

“It was a suicidal Screamer,” Steve picked up the conversation—

The Screamer was a name they’d adopted for certain zombies that yelled gutturally, almost preternaturally—as if their voice carried on the wind, enticing other undead, drawing a horde to its location. Every zombie moaned or groaned, or made some sort of sound, but these ones had heightened vocal capabilities. Just how the infection infected them, Mike and Steve had guessed.

—“Some dead military guy in fatigues ran at the house from the backyard. Alex saw it. I heard it. The next thing we knew, we were nearly knocked to our feet. Then, out of nowhere, Uncle Sam’s friends came out of nowhere. Fucking crazy, man.”

“No shit. Next time you check the houses.” Mike walked over and opened one of the back doors to their van, placing his backpack inside, as Alex and Steve started the raid. He backed it up to the front door and left the vehicle running. Then he turned on the pumps and began filling the eight gas cans—not including the one by the store’s entry—keeping a watchful eye out. The fires were dwindling down.

Steve and Alex were already tossing items into the back of the van by the time the last gas can was full. Still no threats were visible.

By the time he made it inside to help, Steve and Alex were almost finished with the coolers. Nearly all the floor in the back of the van was full. Mike started on the canned goods. It only took one trip. He then took every last bag of rice and Ramen Noodles he saw. Next was the candy aisle.

A small ice cream freezer sitting next to the entrance caught Mike’s eye as reentered. He slid the top open and started tossing its contents aside recklessly. Steve came over and helped him set it in the van.

Shutting the doors, Mike made for the driver’s seat, and pulled out into the parking lot.

Steve and Alex were giving the store another once-over while Mike kept a watchful eye on the perimeter. Something, possibly a shadow, caught his attention in the side-view mirror. But before he could investigate it…

“Mike,” Steve yelled. “Need you in here, quick.”

He passed Alex on his way to the back of the store. They always tried to have someone watching the perimeter, and that was what the boy headed to do.

Steve was standing in front of a door marked Employees Only.

“There’s one in here,” he said. And, as if to signal its concurrence, whatever was inside started hitting the door with determined force. There were even a few muffled growls.

“Whoever’s in there, they sound pissed,” Mike said, unholstering his firearm.

“It’s locked. I’ll kick it in while you put’em down.”

“Right.”

Like clockwork, Steve kicked the frail door partially off its hinges and Mike fired three times. One shot hit the money—between the eyes—while the other two hit the left shoulder of the zombie, helping to spin it around as it fell lifelessly on its back, fingers still twitching as death took its final toll.

“Damn,” Steve said, pointing inside the room. “Looks like this bastard’s full.”

A woman, dead and maimed, sat with her back against the far wall, legs spread on the floor. Her blond hair was stained crimson, her throat, face, and right arm torn to shreds. One eye had been pulled out of its socket, tendrils of chewed muscle barely held on to its base. Mike leaned in close to read the nametag above the woman’s right breast.

“Michelle...” He turned to Steve. “I think I knew her, man. Used to buy weed off her husband.”

“You know what to do, dude.”

The echo of the gun shot was half-deafening, but a noise that had become more common as of late. They never left any corpse without a head wound, or they did they best to. Mike made it a point to look for some earplugs on one of these raids, the ringing growing a bit old.

And before he knew it, Steve was tugging at his shirt, saying something Mike couldn’t make out. But when the ringing stopped, he could hear Alex’s shots and shouts.

“We’ve got more company. A lot of it!” He was outside, by the van, in a sniper’s crouch.

The boy fired, and then reloaded.

“Where?” Mike yelled.

“By that bus.”

Alex fired another shot. Even from inside the store Mike could see the worry on the Alex’s face. He kicked himself for dismissing that shadow in the side-view so absentmindedly.

Steve snatched a clothing rack suspended from the dropdown ceiling that held socks and winter hats and tossed them in the back, and ran for the front passenger’s door.

Mike caught a glimpse of the approaching horde as he neared the van. “Holy shit.” There must have been over fifty of them piling out from the streets beyond the wreckage, and they’d come out of nowhere; late arrivals from the suicidal Screamer’s call. He fired at closest ones, none of the shots hitting their mark, as Alex ran out of sight and got in the back of the van.

“Hurry the fuck up, son,” Steve yelled from inside the van.

Mike was in the middle of saying something but was cut off from the rumbling vibration of what felt like an earthquake. “What in the…” The ground trembled as if hell itself were rising from the depths of blackness beneath the pavement.

“What the hell is that?” he could hear Alex screaming from the van.

Mike turned to his right. The house that held his unconscious form just minutes ago completely fell in on itself. The blacktop below cracked like dried skin on lips. The approaching horde ahead still gained ground, the echoes of more Screamers in the distance, somewhere behind the ranks of zombies.

He fired until his clip was dry and the slide locked back.

“Fuck you,” he said lowly, gritting his teeth.

As he turned to get in the van something yelled with monstrous force—much louder than any Screamer he’d heard before. This had bass, pain, anger. Not hunger.

“Fuck this…”

He tore the door open, handed Steve the pistol, and dropped the transmission into gear. He kept his foot on the brake.

“Did you see what the hell that was?” Steve said.

“What was it? What was it?” Alex said relentlessly.

“I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s big.” He turned to the boy. “Open that back door and shoot at the pumps with the .30.06, Alex.”

“What?”

“Now!”

Mike watched in the rearview mirror as the left door opened and Alex took aim.

“I… I…” the boy fumbled with his words, his rifle trembling like the ground outside. “I can’t get a shot.”

“Shut the door and hold on.”

Alex did so.

Mike floored the gas pedal. The tires barked, and then they were in motion, both passengers with their eyes glued to the gas station. But their vision was torn as Mike turned the wheel while slamming on the brakes. The contents in the rear shifted, and Alex fell over, nearly losing grip on the rifle.

“Give me the rifle and Steve a shotgun.” Mike said to Alex, pointing to the chest strapped to both the passenger and driver’s seat. Inside was a collection of firearms and ammunition that had been appropriated by either those that didn’t need them anymore or those that left them behind.

“Here.” Alex handed Steve a Mossberg and Mike the rifle.

“I’ll shoot those pumps, man. Watch my back.”

Both got out, stood beside their open doors, and Mike fired at the pumps while Steve guarded. The roar of whatever beast approached was drowned out by the concussive explosion caused by one of Mike’s bullets. A mushroom cloud of gas and chaos fought to burn the clouds, eliminating nearly the entire approaching horde. Those that weren’t caught in the blast were knocked off their feet.

They jumped back in, doors slamming.

“Holy shit. I can’t believe we just did that,” Steve exclaimed.

“I know. Hopefully it took care of whatever was approaching.”

“That was crazy,” Alex almost sounded excited, but his face still spoke of fright.

Mike took a look in the side-view one more time and put the vehicle in gear.

“What caused…”

Mike looked back at Alex, but something in his peripheral caused him to look at Steve.

“What?”

In less time that he could even process what he was seeing, it happened. A tan Volvo came crashing down on the road right beside the van, as if being rained down by a vengeful god. The hunk of metal and glass smashed and bounced, coming within a hair’s width of hitting the passenger-side front fender.

Alex screamed. Steve nearly jumped out of his skin. Mike made no haste in slamming down on the gas pedal, quickly dodging the newly-made obstruction.

“Fuck me!” Steve said, eyes peeled to the mirror.

“Can either of you see what just threw that at us?” Mike asked.

Neither could.

“Holy hell,” Mike released a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Unless that shit just fell out the sky, whatever that was, wasn’t your average zombie.”

“You can say that again.”

“It was a monster,” Alex said.

“They’re all monsters,” Steve answered.

“Don’t worry, kid—

“I’m not a kid!”

“—I know. But we’re putting some major distance between that thing and us.”

“You think it will follow us?” The boy’s tone oozed of apprehension.

“Not where we’re goin’, Alex.”

CHAPTER 2: GRASPING THE TRUTH

Kristin and Mary were tending to Barry in the master bedroom, which was on the second floor. Anna lay on the couch in the living room, trying to get some sleep. Both she and Barry had been injured from their accident, but her husband suffered much greater than her, and that thought tore at her like a dull blade against soft skin. She needed him now more than ever.

It had all happened so fast…

When the infection had reached D.C., the couple had decided to leave their home for a safer location in Williamsburg; to a gated community called Kingsmill—which, at that time, seemed to be a smart bet. And even though the media warned against leaving home, they left, as did countless others.

Barry had run a red light. He’d been panicked, constantly worrying about his wife and unborn child, looking at Anna to see if she was all right more than the road, and didn’t even notice that the light had changed, or the black hatchback that was crossing the intersection. Anna screamed, grasping her stomach protectively, and braced for impact. Barry hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt, and his chest collided with the steering wheel, his head the windshield. The airbag hadn’t deployed, which had to be a defect in the vehicle’s manufacturing; and that very well might cost Anna her husband’s life.

The accident had cost both their consciousness, however. And when she had awoken later that evening, Anna had been quite shocked to find that their savior was their neighbor’s son, Alex. Anna was quite happy to find that the boy had survived. She and Barry were fond of their neighbors, and always thought of them as extended family. But, to her, everyone else in this house was a stranger.

Everyone was kind, and the house, from what she’d seen, was relatively safe and out in the middle of nowhere. Woods bordered the backyard, and even both sides of the house. She hadn’t stepped outside since waking, however. Barry was her main concern.

But, even though they were both a mystery, she couldn’t help but to worry about the two friends, Mike and Steve. They were reckless, “young and immortal,” as her mother would have said, but they were risking everything by going out there to find food and water; things they would share with her and her family. If Barry were up, she knew, he’d be right out there with them, instead of Alex. She really worried about the boy, however, but found solace in the fact that his father was an army ranger (who had been deployed when the infection hit) that had trained his son how to use a rifle at the Lafayette Gun Club. Like father like son.

She closed her eyes and let herself drift on such a comforting phrase.

“Like father like son.”

***

Mary entered Barry’s room with a damp towel to rest over Barry’s head, which was elevated by two pillows. His left leg raised on three more. There was a laceration on his ankle, discovered by Steve when transferring Barry up here the day he and his wife had been rescued. Kristin was changing the wrapping.

“Anna’s asleep on the couch again. She seems to be doing a little better now.”

“I wish I could say the same for Barry,” Kristin said lowly. “He’s getting worse by the hour. Still running a fever. And his complexion seems to fade every time I look at him.” She turned, grabbed the towel from Mary, and said in an even lower tone, “I don’t think he’s gonna make it, Mare. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Alex and Anna, but I think Mike and Steve are right; I think he’s infected. And without the proper care—the care I cannot possibly provide—I doubt he’d make it even if he weren’t.”

“What do you think we should do?”

“Honestly?”

There was a moment of uncomfortable, lingering silence.

Mary nodded her head, somewhat disheartened by the look on Kristin’s face. It couldn’t be good.

“I think that… maybe we should restrain him.” She nodded to Barry, and began cleaning the wound. “Tie him down with some rope or something. That way, if he does take a turn for the worse, it will be much easier to handle him.”

“What about Anna? What will we tell her when she sees him like that?”

“I guess we’ll tell her that he needed to be, when the time comes. I mean, I’m not talking about torturing the man. Just concerned about our safety, is all. And if she doesn’t like that, I’ll gladly point her to the door.” She turned to Mary, tossed the now bloody towel to the pile of bloody towels in front of the nightstand beside the bed.

Mary found herself somewhat shocked by the callous remark, and was searching for the appropriate response when Kristin continued.

“Look, I didn’t mean for it to come out like it did. But we do need to think for the safety of the group as whole, not just an individual.—“

Good point.

“—If there is a possibility that Barry’s infected, I think we need to something about it now. I would much rather play it safe than to be awoken to the horror of one of us being eaten alive. I’m sorry if what I said sounded harsh. I want him to pull through, too… but I want to survive more.”

Mary walked closer, taking the opportunity to see just how bad the wound had gotten. Her eyes cast across pallid yet slightly discolored skin around a deep cut that must hurt. It was only confirmation, for her at least, that the man was infected when she saw this. It was as if his leg was already rotting. It was even starting to hold an aroma that only added to the condition.

She’d never spoken a word to the man, yet she found herself pitying him now, and Anna, too. Only in passing had Mary heard that this man came to every once and a while. Kristin had guessed that his ribs were broken and a concussion had been suffered due to the accident. Something else caused the wound on his ankle, and that gave Barry much more of a chance of being infected.

“Do you really think all that is necessary?”

“Yes,” Kristin said. Her voice was cold, almost lacking humanity. “I’m not trying to sound like a bitch, Mary. Really, I’m not. But what other options do we have? You ever seen a cut like this cause someone’s skin to look like this?”

She hadn’t.

“I think, no, I know it’s best to prepare for the worst, Mary. We’ve all been out there. I don’t want that here. I know you don’t, either. But I don’t think that there’s anything else I can do for the man. I’m sorry.”

“No one expects you to perform a miracle, Kristin,” Mary said, backing to the door. “We’ll deal with Anna when the time comes. I’ll go and look for something to restrain him. There’s got to be some rope or something in the basement.”

“Thanks.”

Kristin continued to tend to Barry. Mary made for the basement, reluctant but still accepting the fact that Barry would indeed die, either by infection or ignorance. It was a shame, she thought.

***

Heavy footfalls brought Anna out of a short, fitful nap. Shaking the phantoms of a dream she’d rather not recall, Anna opened her eyes to see Mary open the door to the basement and fall out of sight. She appeared determined, a strange look plaguing her face.

Eventually Anna found her way up to the room her husband had been occupying. Kristin was watching over him, back to the doorway, whispering something that Anna couldn’t quite make it out.

“Do you think he’s getting any better?”

Kristin shook, startled. “Oh, Anna, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“No, it’s perfectly fine. I was just thinking, is all.”

“About what?”

It took her a moment to answer, as if she were making up what she was about to say.

“About the past. Friends. Family. Stuff like that.”

“I think about my family all the time. Shit, I find myself thinking about people I never thought I would think about again. Childhood friends. Ex-boyfriends. Old bosses. Part of me is always wondering if any of them made it. I doubt they did, but I guess the hope brings me some peace, if any at all.”

“I know what you mean. There are some ex’s I wouldn’t be too particularly against seeing being eaten alive by those rotting bastards, though.”

The two shared in a laugh, and then Anna walked up beside Kristin. Barry was sweating, pale, and still unconscious or asleep—she couldn’t tell.

“Do you think he’s getting any better?”

Kristin was hesitant, but answered, “He’s running a fever now, so—”

The words already began gnawing at her heart, her soul.

“—I can only assume no.”

“I… I understand. I,” she cradled her stomach, “we can’t thank you enough for what you and the rest have already done for us.”

“It’s nothing, really.” Kristin turned to Anna, eyes telling the tale of misfortune and sorrow, and said, “From the bottom of my heart, Anna, I hope Barry pulls through, but he has to have some ribs broken, possibly, and more than likely a concussion. But none of that explains why he’s been out like this, or his complexion.” She sighed. “Are you sure that he wasn’t scratched by one of those things? I hate to ask…”

“It’s fine, Kristin, I know how it has to look. He cut himself when we were leaving our house. He was in the middle of packing and fell over some baby stuff, landing back first. His leg got caught on a rusted nail in the hardwood floor.” She shook her head and forced a smile. “I always told him that nail would get him one day. Isn’t it amazing what happens when men don’t listen? They always think we’re on the rag or just plain old cranky.”

“Right,” Kristin responded. “Well, do you think there’s any possibility that his wound could have come in contact with infected blood.”

“I… I don’t know, Kristin. The boys rescued us, but we were both unconscious. Do you think…?”

“I’m sure one of them would have noticed and said something.”

Anna remembered how the others had spoken of Alex fighting off several zombies before pulling the two out of the car. Mike and Steve had been fending off a supposed horde attempting to surround their van. Could the little boy have been so careless as to contaminate Barry’s laceration? There was no way he could have known, she knew, but that thought stewed for several moments.

“I’ll leave you three alone, okay?”

“Thanks, Kristin, for everything.”

“I’m just glad I can do my part, Anna, really.”

As soon as the door shut, Anna leaned beside her husband, snatching his hand like a child would for candy. Tears welled in her eyes, and she was surprised that she held out as long as she had. Crying would bring unwanted and unnecessary attention, taking time away from her family. His hands were cold, not freezing, but much colder than they had ever been before. Pockets of black dots formed under the sags of his eyes.

She knew.

But the fact could never be accepted.

Barry, her husband, father to their unborn child, was going to die. And she needed him now more than ever, if not for her, for the growing fetus who had yet to be named. Barry was supposed to name him. If they were having a daughter then it would have been her.

She couldn’t hold on anymore. Anna buried her face in Barry’s blanket, gripping his hands as hard as she could, as if that alone could ward off whatever it was that was killing him.

But it wasn’t.

“Barry, I need you. Wake up.”

In her fifth month of pregnancy, Anna had never felt so alone.

***

“We’re still going to restrain him?”

“I’d say so,” Kristin answered as she sat across Mary at the kitchen table. “I think Anna knows.”

“About Barry?”

Kristin nodded her head.

“How?”

“A person gets a certain look in their eye when they know the end is coming, whether for them or a loved one. Seen it too many times before.”

Silence retook its hold over the kitchen while the two girls stared at each other. Neither knew what to say next. Kristin was all too familiar with this feeling. Time and time again she’d watched the plagues of calm wash over those in mourning, or those aware of impending misfortunes.

Mary eventually went to the counter beside the sink and grabbed two plastic cups from a small stack of cups, and then the Captain Morgan from atop the fridge. “Soda or beer for a chaser?”

“I’ll take a soda, thanks.”

Mary brought the goods back to the table. Kristin poured the sodas while Mary mixed the alcohol. She always made her drinks strong, and these ones appeared nothing less than.

Wincing after taking her first sip, Kristin asked, “Mary, do you think it was a mistake bringing those two in? I mean, since they got here the other day we’ve all known it was likely Barry wouldn’t make it.” It was a question she’d been meaning to ask, almost a burden on her soul.

“That’s probably the nicest thing I’ve heard you say all day.” Mary had a fire in her eyes, and it bled into her voice.

“Look,” Kristin leaned in, taking another sip, “I get it; I can be a real bitch sometimes. I’ve been cursed with this gift since childhood.” Deep down she hoped that Mary would catch the humor, but her steeled look didn’t soften a tad. “Mary, when you work in a hospital, you get used to the grim, the dark. I’ve seen what some would call ‘it all,’ and the truth eventually numbs you, at least it did for me. The truth hurts, that saying is true now more than ever. I’m just asking if you felt the same way.”

“Well, at times I do, Kristin. But you do remember how we found you, right?”

The truth hurts.

And Mary couldn’t have been any further from it.

Just six days ago, Kristin had been staying with another group survivors—mostly horny teenagers that had nothing better to do than admire her “C” cups, pretty ass, and hazel eyes—in a house much similar to the one she stayed in now. She knew she was beautiful, but was reminded of it daily with them. There were two middle-aged women, each as ugly as a smoker’s last cigarette, but they kept to themselves. Probably friendlier in private, she thought.

Eventually, as she’d played out in her mind, one of the teens had snuck out in the middle of the night for one reason or the other. He returned, bearing nothing but look of grief and bite wound on his forearm for his efforts. From there everything went to hell.

Kristin had snuck out through her window as the first gunshot sounded. One of the teens had gotten too rowdy. Or maybe it was one of the could-be lesbians. It didn’t matter. Those sounds, she’d hoped, would serve as a distraction to any wandering undead, allowing her safer travels. And they did. As she left down the street, there had already been a platoon of zombies making for the front porch. They hadn’t even seen her.

It wasn’t until sunup the next day that she’d seen her first zombie up close. It was in the middle of Route 17, in Yorktown. This one was what Mike or Steve would have called a Runner, and it did just that. There were others, ones that screamed so unnervingly loud. Not long after she was being chased by a pack of Runners on the desolate road. There had been other zombies here and there, but they had been easily avoided, their movements too slow to touch the fleeing woman. The Runners had been on her tail until Mary and the others showed up. If it hadn’t been for them, she’d surely be dead. Zombies didn’t run out of breath, get exhausted, or give up. But, she remembered, she had only been minutes from doing so herself, had help not arrived.

“You’d be dead if Mike hadn’t pulled over.”

“I know.”

“Oh, I know you know, but I want you to know this; you and I are more alike than I think you understand. It was I that asked that very question when we saw you.”

“I don’t blame you,” Kristin said, finding a strange appreciation for Mary’s statement.

“I know, and I don’t blame you. You’re doing all you can, Kristin, and it’s perfectly fine to be on edge. We’re not dealing with a child that fell of a bike, you know. Just watch what you say.”

“Hah,” Kristin laughed. “I’ve got countless stories about kids falling off bikes.”

“Well, we’ve got nothing but time.” Mary downed her entire cup then went for the refill.

CHAPTER 3: HELPING HAND

Mike watched Alex through the rearview mirror. The boy was ever-curious of his surroundings, as any child would be, but the expression on his face was nothing short of discontent.

“Why is it that you two seem to enjoy going out there?” He nodded toward the cloud of smoke behind; it was growing smaller as each second passed.

Mike looked to Steve then to Alex. Steve answered first.

“We do what we have to, Alex. It’s a different world out there now.”

“I know that,” the boy replied shortly. “But you treat those people out there like they’re monsters, not caring. It’s like they were never human to you two.”

Steve took a deep breath and turned around with a more serious look on his face, and said, “Look, kid, those things out there aren’t human anymore. They’re not. That’s it. In fact, though it may be hard to believe, they are monsters.” Steve pointed out the back window to some straggling cadaver-in-motion that barely even noticed the van’s presence. “Humans like you and me don’t go around eating each other. They were human, yes, but once they rise, they are only shells of their former selves, nothing more.”

“But you don’t need to act like you enjoy it so much. That’s not right. They don’t deserve that. No one does.” The kid was relentless in making his point: these two were wrong to take joy what they did.

But, Alex, still a young boy, just didn’t understand, and Steve grew irritated and let out his true feelings. “Look, son, those sick fucks out there are dead. They have no soul, no heart, and no reasoning. No characteristics of humanity other than the bodies they control are present. What once was in no more, and you need never to forget that. The moment you do is the moment you die. I… Mike and I, we both watched as those rotting sacs of shit clawed at my family, ripping them apart while they screamed for help. I didn’t even think about doing what was necessary, then, and you know what?”

“What?” Alex’s voice was a mere squeak.

Mike sighed as Steve continued. Steve didn’t much like talking about what had happened to his parents, and given the circumstances, who would?

“They’re dead! They’re all fucking dead, Alex! I watched as my parents died, and so did Mike. If we’d acted then as we do now, they might still be alive, not watching their son and his best friend struggle to survive in a dying world. Every night, every goddamn night, their screams haunt me in my sleep, and it’s because I should have done what was necessary. But I didn’t, and they’re deaths are what I have to show for it.”

“Calm down, Steve. Christ, the boy just asked a question.”

Steve let out a few deep exhales, turned around, and kept his eye on the side-view mirror.

“Look, Alex,” Mike said while keeping an eye on the road, “What I think Steve was getting at is that those thingss out there took everything away from us in one fell swoop. Any remaining survivors, including us, are drastically outnumbered, and the Zs gain numbers as each day passes. And they’ll do so until there is absolutely nothing left.”

Mike paused to take a left turn, which led into the neighborhood where the rest of the group was staying. “The odds of surviving are stacked against us, and it’s all because of them. So, you ask if we get some sort of fulfillment from killing them, well, the answer not only a ‘yes,’ it’s a ‘hell yes.’ Why not?”

“You still shouldn’t act so carefree. I mean, back at the station, you could’ve kept going, but that wasn’t good enough; you needed an explosion. What if we’d been ambushed or something when you stopped? What would we have done then?”

“Zombies or human, we would have fought, Alex; just like we’ve been doing.”

“We’re all eventually going to get hurt or die,” Steve said. “That’s life—especially now. We all need to find some sort of enjoyment while we still can.”

“But it doesn’t mean you have to take all these risks.”

“If we don’t, who will? As of right now, I only know of ten people left alive in the world, other than myself. Two of them are at the house, recovering, and then you have the Robinson’s. They can’t even leave their house.” Mike took a left.

“Yeah, but that’s because their grandson’s disabled,” Steve said.

“Understood, and that leaves you, me, Alex, and the girls. Every cop, soldier, or anyone else in a uniform have all tried to eat us.”

“Alex… someone has to get the food and other shit. It might as well be the ones that don’t mind doing it. Remember, you’re the one that wanted to go with us. We told you it would be dangerous,” Steve said.

“And eventually there will be more of these raids,” Mike continued. “More risks and more dangers. I mean, some areas are already losing power.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty crazy,” Alex agreed. “I thought it would’ve lasted more than a few weeks.”

“Either way, Alex,” Steve said, “the job has to get done, or we’ll starve to death, which is as equally unwanted as being eaten alive. What we’re doing is necessary. If there are other people out there, they sure as hell aren’t doing anything to help us out. Everything fell apart in a matter of days, and it’s up to us to pick up the pieces and start over. And that means doing things you and I might not agree with.”

“If my dad were here, he’d help us out.” Alex went silent for a moment. “When he comes back from Afghanistan, you’ll see.”

“Well,” Mike said, “that’s one of the reasons why we do what we do. When he does come back, we plan on having you alive and well.” Mike knew it was giving a false hope to agree with the kid, but there wasn’t much else Alex had left. And everyone needed something to hold on to.

Alex smiled, almost forcing the gesture.

“Sometimes people need to do things; things that don’t seem right. But that doesn’t change the fact they need to be done in order to survive. All of us have been unwillingly put in this position, and we need to make the best of it,” Mike said.

The van swerved, jerking each of the occupants to the right. Mike and Steve watched as an undead teenager in gothic attire disappeared under the hood. Then the van bounced a little as it ran the creature over.

“What was that?” Alex said.

“Just another bump in the road, kid.” Mike answered, smiling.

Alex huffed, and became quiet. The point had been made.

A few minutes later, Mike turned left onto another road. Street signs were scarce in the back roads of Gloucester. Mainly posts with route numbers just barely visible were scattered here in the deeper parts of the county. This road’s post read 641.

Soon the driveway to their house came into sight. The house sat about a hundred yards from where the driveway met the road. Trees lined the street on either side, cloaking it, and followed the driveway almost halfway to the house. To most, it was invisible, and so far they hadn’t gained any unwanted attention from their undead neighbors.

It was an older Colonial-style two-story house, complete with a basement. It was sturdy, and provided them with the protection they so desperately needed. Behind it, past the outskirts of the spacey backyard, were acres of woods that stretched as far as the eye could see. The group was fortunate enough in the fact that their closest neighbor was a half-mile down the road. Mike took a glance at the gravel driveway as they passed it, and wondered why a computer geek would need such a big house; there were no signs of a family, no photo albums; just, for the most part, nearly empty rooms with random stuff stored about. But that didn’t matter. Farther up was the Robinson’s house; a group of survivors Mike and Steve had met while scavenging through the neighborhood just a few days ago.

John Robinson—the grandfather, his wife, Dana, and grandson, Tommy, hadn’t left their home since the outbreak, fearing the worst from the outside world. But that wasn’t all. Tommy was a young boy, paralyzed from the waist down, and mentally disabled. When the boy was only three, his parents had taken him with them to go see a movie. Their car had been struck by a drunk driver. His mother and father were killed, and he was left in his current state. John and Dana had taken care of the boy since. Needless to say, Tommy’s disabilities had made it particularly difficult for the couple to go anywhere, especially now. And even if they did, they had no idea where to go; just like Mike and the rest.

When Mike and Steve first met John, he’d been foraging through some abandoned houses. At their sight, John dropped the goods in his hand, and called them over. Never, not even once, had any of them felt threatened at each others’ presence. The dead had a certain swagger that the living, at least these survivors, dare not imitate, and John was so ecstatic at the new signs of life that he had invited the two to come and meet his family. And that was when Mike and Steve realized just how difficult it would be for them to survive.

The entire house had been converted to be wheelchair accessible. There was a ramp leading into the front door, and a motorized lift that was used to transfer the grandson between the first and second floors. John and Dana had even gone as far as to install a small elevator that could take Tommy down to the basement in case of a hurricane or some other emergency.

That night, Dana had made dinner for everyone; canned chili and deer jerky for the main course, with pudding and canned pears for dessert. After the meal, John, Steve, and Mike sat in the basement and shared their stories of the apocalypse over a twelve-pack of High-Life.

It had been during their conversation that the two had really come to admire John and Dana for all of the sacrifices they’d made for this family. After Tommy went to sleep, Dana had joined in the gathering. It had amazed each of them that, how, even in the midst of everything that had befallen the world, they could still make new friends. It was a rare treat, and none had wanted let the opportunity pass. If anything, it made the world seem less empty.

Before Mike and Steve had left, they handed John one of their spare FRS radios. They wanted to be in constant contact if something went wrong, on either side. Not only did they gain new friends, they could possibly have a secondary dwelling if their house was compromised. Mike had instructed that the only channel they could be reached on was channel seventeen. Steve assured the family that there was no need for John to go out on any more raids. That anytime the two went out, they would acquire supplies for them as well. They would until they couldn’t.

And now, as the van pulled up in the Robinson’s driveway, Steve took out his radio.

“John, you there, man?”

A moment passed.

“Hey, buddy! How’s everything with you guys?” John’s deep voice came through almost piercingly.

“We’re in the driveway, and we’ll be at the door in a minute.”

“Alex,” Mike turned around. “Wait here and keep an eye out. Enjoy the view from the top of the van. We won’t be long. Just unloading a few supplies.”

“Okay.”

***

After unloading the Robinson’s portion of supplies, Mike and Steve said their goodbyes to the family while Alex stayed outside, guarding the van. They’d been gone long enough, and an extended visit wasn’t on list of things to do, at least not today.

“You’ll stay next time, right?” Dana inquired as the two made their way down the front steps.

Steve turned around, smiling. “You have our word. Hopefully we’ll be able to bring a few others from the house.”

“Yeah,” Mike interrupted, “but now we gotta get these supplies back. One of ‘em’s sick… and it doesn’t look like he’ll be getting any better.” He recalled watching the black veins spreading from Barry’s wound like an overactive fungi feeding on his very existence. It was a sour sight, indeed—and one that had Mike somewhat alarmed. There was no concrete proof of infection other than how the laceration had looked, and that wasn’t enough (at least for a few others in the house) to put the man down. In another world Mike would have dropped him dead upon the discovery. But with the girls tending to him constantly, if Barry turned, he’d be taken care of, one way or the other.

“Well, you two be safe.” John had no sincerity in his voice, as if he and the others were on their separate plane of thinking. It was like he knew he didn’t have to say it, like it was a joke.

Dana’s smile faded.

“Same with you, friend.” Steve shook hands with the man, holding a tone much more serious.

Mike waived, and for the first time noticed how right these two seemed to be. Man and woman, husband and wife. Deep down, unattached to anything conscious, he knew that should be him and Shelley, minus a few decades. But things were different, at least in this plane.

The ride home was quiet and uneventful. Both Steve and Alex nodded off, the day’s events bearing the weight of a dying world; a thought that was now more literal that figurative, sadly. The only thing he could do was study the road in front as he lost himself—again—in his thoughts.

The kid’s right, you know. You do enjoy killing those things, Mike.

I know, he agreed with himself, glancing briefly into the rearview mirror. But those things took everything from me!

They did that to everyone.

There is no retrieving what I’ve lost—only settling a debt.

It’s one that may never be paid in full.

Well, I’ll take back as much as I can while I still breathe.

You’ll surely die.

We all die, and besides, what else could one do when he finds himself in a position as I?

He had no answer.

Everything around him, all that the vehicle passed, transformed into fixated illusions of full yards, families grilling out, the children running around recklessly and without care; life before the outbreak. But these ghosts soon faded as he turned down the road that would bring home. Home; a word he’d not yet found himself comfortable saying, or even thinking. That was a word reserved for him and Shelley. No, this was more like a prison, and each day grew lonelier and lonelier without her.

Shelley, that beautiful (and dead) brunette, kept crossing his mind. It was inevitable, he guessed, but still didn’t welcome the thoughts.

He mentally took himself to the dealership, to the time when they stole very van he was driving. Then, the group had only consisted of Shelley, Mike, Steve, Mary, and a middle-aged software designer. His name was Bruce. He was a pussy.

And pussies get what pussies deserve, Mike interrupted himself, veering slightly to the left, away from the ditch.

Bruce had found the group while they were wandering the streets. He’d been hiding in a comic store. And when they’d passed, Bruce revealed himself, friendly and unarmed. He was a skinny little thing, save for a beer gut. Nothing about the man seemed violent, even in the slightest. If it had been him or a fly, it would be the fly that was victorious.

Unwillingly, urged by Mary and Shelly, Mike and Steve approached, asking if he he’d been bitten, and, if he knew how to use a gun. No. To both questions. It was a miracle he’d survived thus far. From the jump, neither of the two liked the guy. But that didn’t mean Bruce deserved to die alone, abandoned by quite possibly the last few living he’d ever see again (oh, how true that was, though). So, against his own gut—something that’d kept them all alive so far—Mike handed Bruce a spare 9mm he’d been holding onto. A Berretta. He didn’t have an extra clip, and it didn’t matter.

They’d traveled for a grand total of no more than fifteen minutes before the dealership came into sight. So did countless undead. It was a jaw-dropping, heart-stopping sight, it was. Zombies were staggering in the streets, chasing their own shadows or fixating on some unknown sight in the sky. But there were others. Many of them. They were in the stores; the helpless survivors that really thought glass, even metal grating, could keep out these abominations. And for such a fatally flawed plan, it was their Judgment to spend eternity roaming the aisles in a place that no longer mattered…

…until they caught the scent of new blood…

And to make things worse, the dealership was in the center of it all.

The only cover was in a side alley, in between a barber shop and a sub joint, and they made for it before any zombies had caught sight; although some had begun stirring around, moaning. It was as if they could sense their presence; it wasn’t a windy day, the group’s scent couldn’t have made it that far yet. Either way, it was a disturbing sight, unwelcome to all who still had a pulse.

They had to come up with a plan, and fast, or else they’d have to turn around and head back to Steve’s parent’s house (which had just been overrun by the walking dead an hour prior, consequently costing them their only vehicle back in Newport News). Steve and Mary were both good shots, and they had the idea that the two would both sneak out to the main road—hopefully—and cause a minor distraction, thus allowing the remaining (Mike, Shelley, and Bruce) to head to the dealership.

“We’ll split the horde,” Steve had said. “We’ve done it before.”

“Yeah,” Shelley responded—beautifully, Mike might add, “but it’s never been anything to this scale, Steve. We’ll be dead if something goes wrong.”

How right she was, Mike thought regretfully, straightening the steering wheel again.

“There’s no other option,” Steve insisted. And like that the two were gone, not waiting for second thoughts.

At the time, and even in his clearer moments, Mike knew that was the right decision, and respects his friends for doing what needed to be done; no matter what the risk might be. Even death.

Mike took point, waiting for the first few shots. And when they went off, he led Shelley and Bruce toward the dealership. He didn’t like the man’s demeanor, or his eyes. Not one bit. There was just something about him, you could say. Nevertheless, the three ducked between cars, looking around all sides, and moved forward when the time was right. They had made it to the front lot of the dealership, where the customers and employees parked—a lot that was unfortunately empty. All the cars had been locked up in the back of the property, which was separated from the front by a ten-foot metal gate. They would have to break in through the front door.

Shelley fired a quick three-round burst with her GLOCK. She wasn’t the best shot, but she’d tried—and that is what you really needed to do in a situation like this. Bruce, however, made for the front door. And, of course, it was locked, and sturdy-looking.

Mike turned and focused on the crowd.

Shelley shot several more times, and yelled, “NOW.”

The crowd split. Well, they spread out, most indecisive of which prey to choose from. The undead, however terrifying—and deadly—they might be, were no match for human intuition. Thinking was a tool of the past for them, well, for most, it seemed (The Runners and Screamers did appear to be capable of some sort of thought, or instinct). Zombies acted, carelessly and ever-determined. They were the embodiment of a soulless thing that only wanted to see you on to the next life, uncaring of who you were, or who you were going to be.

And the group took advantage of that. All, except Bruce. He was running back and forth and forth and back in a pitiful attempt of reconnaissance.

“We need your gun, Bruce,” Shelley had said.

“I… I… never really fired one. We need to get inside. I’ll find us a way to get in.”
His words were all but comforting, Mike thought. The man had begun to panic. It wouldn’t be long before he went into shock. Mike and the others had seen it before, mostly in movies. If you weren’t on top of things when shit went downhill, you were soon to be dead meat—literally.

“Get on your—”

Gunshots rang from near the alley they had just briefly occupied. It wasn’t long before Mary and Steve were in sight, and safe; shooting down the closest of the rotters as they lunged and swiped, meeting their final end for their efforts. But as each body fell—like countless times before—it had been replaced. The survivor’s time was running out, and Mike could feel the sweat pouring down his face, his heart beating at speeds any racer would appreciate.

Steve knew this, too; the expression on his face was all business. He tossed the sac that contained their ammunition and spare firearms—which at that time had been a very small amount; nothing to be comfortable with, and pulled his shotgun from around his back, pumping a round in the chamber. All of this took mere seconds.

“Move,” Steve had ordered.

Bruce had backed out of the way, drawing his hands to the clouds.

“BRUCE,” Mike had yelled, “GET THE FUCK OVER HERE AND PULL THAT GODDAMNED TRIGGER.”

Rot. It was a nasty smell, and now it had grown, overpowering the fall air, tainting it like poison in a well.

Bruce finally ran up, and pulled out his gun, even aimed it. But, for some unknown reason, the man didn’t fire. And it was all Mike could do not to turn and pull the trigger on him there. But, as fate would have it, the report from Steve’s shotgun had grabbed his attention.

“Dude, help me clear this glass out.”

Mike had withdrawn from the firing line. The girls had both reloaded at the same time, a tactic both Mike and Steve had taught them to avoid. In a battle scenario, especially against the undead, you didn’t want to give them any advantage. Allowing their numbers to swell was just the help they’d need in order to get to their next meal. And a constant rate of fire could help to put the approaching off balance, tripping over their dead. And those spare seconds, those precious fragments of time, that it took them to reload (time that Bruce had to fire the gun), allowed the unmoving, deceased pieces of shit to disappear behind the waves of the unwavering dead.

“BRUCE,” Mike had yelled again, “FIRE THAT FUCKING GUN, YOU IDIOT.”

But by now the roars and hollers of those rotting things drowned him out. He’d turned his attention back to the door—he had to, because if they couldn’t get in, they’d all have died—and fired five rounds into the glass. Both frantically kicked and swiped, clearing out an opening just big enough for one person to climb through at a time; a choke point, if you will.

Steve had been on his way in when one of the girls let out a cry. It was Shelley. Mike didn’t have to turn to find out, but he had to. Mary had been running back, tears already welling in her sullen blue eyes. Bruce, that fucking pussy, backed away slowly; his gun still pointing at the zombies. He still hadn’t fired a single damned shot.

It didn’t take long for the zombies to pull the love of Mike’s life, his savior, to the bloody asphalt. She’d screamed. She’d fired. She’d fought with everything her maker had made her with. But it wasn’t good enough. Once you were bitten, even scratched, that was it.

The next few moments were blurry, either by choice or by circumstance. Mike only remembered firing a round into her skull and then he was inside, safe with a crying Mary, an upset Steve, and a still-pussy Bruce; who was now slouched against the Customer Service Desk, crying like a child who spilled milk all over his meatballs. The gun was still in his hand, trembling, unused.

Shelley was gone.

Most of the horde had already trampled over her corpse, making their way to them.

For the second time in his life, Mike felt his heart break. Maybe, he thought, that’s what had caused his next actions.

Consciously, he checked the mirrors to the side. They were almost home.

Unconsciously, Steve and Mary were already hard at work by the time Mike cleared his head of unwanted thoughts. They were in the process of sliding a heavy sales desk, possibly oak, in front of the door. Its screeching across the floor would have raised the hairs on the back of Mike’s neck, if they hadn’t already been raised. Something treaded through his veins, like a warrior on the prowl, and led him to block out all except one thing.

One living thing.

One crying thing.

One pussy thing.

Bruce. It was his fault, Mike thought at the time, and still did—not a single ounce of doubt or remorse plague him over what had happened next. The zombies no longer mattered. Escape no longer mattered. Living no longer mattered. Bruce had taken Shelley, just like some military fuck took his ex-wife—one minute there, the next, gone.

His feet had echoed as the world around him silenced. He’d made his way, step after step, until he was cock-to-face with Bruce; the pussy having fallen to his ass, back slack. The windows, he’d noticed through his peripheral had been crowded with the living dead, their pounding like a silent, orchestrated scene inspired by Satan himself.

“Bruce,” Mike had had said, leaning down, his voice calm, tamed.

The man only looked up, eyes hiding behind dirty glasses.

“Bruce,” he’d said in a lower but deeper tone.

There was an unsaid moment between the two, each exchanging a glare.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry Shelley’s dead, Mike.”

“Why didn’t you shoot, Bruce?”

“I… I… I never said I could use one of these.” His right shoulder had a spasm, and then his left, his voice cracking like a maturing teenager.

“Well we showed you how to use it, didn’t we, Bruce?”
As Mike continued reliving these moments, he could feel his conscious self pressing on the gas pedal with slightly more force.

He had been dimly aware—in the past, that is—that Steve had been pulling on his shoulder. He’d seen the look in Mike’s eye, knew what Bruce’s future held, and wanted to change it, both for Mike and for Bruce. But it didn’t matter for fuck’s sake! This man, this piece of shit, worthless excuse for a human being, had just gotten his girlfriend killed. Bruce’s hesitation had cost him everything! And he would be damned to just let the man get away with it.

He deserved to die!

“My Shelley’s gone, and you could have stopped that, should have stopped that,” Mike had said with stone-like eyes. “It is your fault—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mike,” had been all Bruce could get out before Mike snatched the pistol from his grip. He remembered racking the slide and drawing the hammer.

“You’re going to die, Bruce.” His tone was as cold as death itself, possibly colder. His eyes were solid, unmoving. The pistol rose in his hand like a valkryie lifting a fallen warrior off a blood-strewn battlefield; with the ease and grace of a professional.

“Mike.” Bruce’s eyes had gone wide, tears racing to the floor. Already his cheeks were blooming with shame, and fear. He knew Mike hadn’t been joking. There was no real way to explain it other than he knew. This world wasn’t what it had once been. It just wasn’t. People didn’t need to abide by any laws other than the one that made Darwin’s name infamous; survival of the fittest.

And Mike knew this, too. All too well, unfortunately, for Bruce.

Mike had shrugged Steve’s hand away, barely able to remember Mary’s arctic stare from beside his best friend. In hindsight, Mary’s eyes appeared eager to see that pussy’s brains splatter the wall behind his balding head. Maybe.

“Mike.” That was Bruce’s last word.

He needn’t explain any more. Mike squeezed the trigger, eyes never leaving Bruce’s. The recoil from the blast had been nonexistent, even in memory; only Bruce’s eyes. The bullet hit dead-center in his forehead, eyes rolling back. As his body fell, Mike followed it, kneeling, staring… smiling.

“I’ll see to it that if some part of you is stuck in there, you’ll watch theses sons of bitches eat your remains. Shelley was too good for what you allowed to happen to her, and you deserve much worse as far as I’m concerned.” Mike moved the lifeless sac of flesh, blood, and pussy to where Steve and Mary had placed the heavy oak desk, leaving it in plain sight of most of the mob surrounding the lot. “He deserves much worse,” he’d said to Mary and Steve, tears of his own now flowing in a winless race.

“I can’t believe—”

“No, Steve! Anyone who causes us loss again, I will personally execute them myself! You mark my words, son; if I do the same you sure as hell better kill me.” His voice was as solid as a street in an earthquake.

Steve was in shock. Mary still silent.

There had been an uncomfortable lingering silence between the three, a trespass on the environment that quickly spread back to its normal effect, for Mike. The bashing, a thudding assault on glass that would soon cave-in. The moaning, the voices of pure madness and savagery, echoed throughout the interior. It was an apocalyptic theme that resonated throughout Mike’s being. But Shelley was still dead.

“I… we… we need to do something before they get in.” Mary was on her way to the manager’s office before she even finished the sentence. They were all friends. Shelley’s death plagued her almost as much it did Mike.

Steve followed, silent.

Mike had found himself alone, and it was a harrowing feeling, but, Mary was right; something had to be done, or they would all perish. Before he’d followed, a thought struck him. It wasn’t a thought he’d ever thought he’d think, but he never thought he’d actually kill a man, either—and the term “man” is used loosely. He reached down into Bruce’s back pocket and pulled out the man’s wallet, then opened it. A smile drew his face to the point where he could actually feel the warmth of the mood. He shut the wallet, reached into Bruce’s front left pocket then his front right, finding (thankfully) what he’d been looking for; a set of keys.

He’d caught up with the other two, eager to spill the beans on his find. Mary had been staring out of the far window, Steve at a lockbox full of car keys. Both were searching.

“Found it,” she’d said, pointing toward a group of vans. Unfortunately, on the other side of the chain-link fence behind the van, was encompassed by rot. The whole fence shifted and danced like there was a hurricane. It wouldn’t last much longer. Time wasn’t on their side, never seemed to ever be, really.

“Good.” Steve had snagged the keys and turned to Mike.

“I think I found us a place to go, guys.”

There was no denying the uncomfortable presence looming over the three, but it had only intensified since the beginning of the outbreak, not just created by Bruce’s untimely passing. And it hadn’t helped that Steve had just lost his parents not but over an hour ago (which Steve had taken remarkably well, and still had as he sat, resting in the passenger’s seat—it was as if the man only prepared for the worst, never allowing that bitch disappointment back in his life).

“Oh yeah,” Steve said. “And where exactly might that be?”

Mike pulled out Bruce’s ID (having left the wallet behind—it wasn’t needed any further) and tossed it to Steve. “Looks like we’re going to Gloucester. He’s got a house out there.”

“I’ve never been out there before,” Mary had said as she made for the door.

“Well, now’s as good a time as any, I guess.” Steve nonchalantly grabbed a map from the manager’s desk and followed her.

Mike could see the discontent in Steve’s eyes, hear it in his voice. They’d been best friends for years now. But all that once made Mike who he was no longer existed. Both knew that. Mike could only hope that Steve would find some understanding in his actions. Yes, he murdered Bruce, but hadn’t Bruce murdered Shelley? Was it in overreaction? No. It couldn’t be. Bruce would have gotten more killed by his cowardice, and that was a fact. The honorable thing for him was death, however dishonorably he received it.

Hopefully Steve understood. Mary seemed to. But Steve had always been the reasonable one. The one with enough sense that, no matter what the circumstances, he could differentiate between right and wrong and act accordingly, with control. Mike had always been the high-strung one, and Bruce’s death definitely proved that.

When they’d reached the van, Mike couldn’t have been happier with the choice. It was a van specially designed for a general contractor. There were no seats in the rear, only two bucket seats in the front, with a decent-sized console in between. The stereo was fancy, and it had every electronic accessory except for a GPS. In the back there were countless shelves and compartments, all of which eventually found a use. There were even hooks for changes of clothes (or protective armor). There were ladder racks mounted on either side of the roof, running from front to back. It was black, perfect for if they needed to travel at night.

“You drive.” Steve had thrown the keys to Mike and moved to the back, allowing Mary to travel shotgun.

And it was when Mike opened his door that he—they—heard a Screamer for the first time.

“What the hell was that?” Mary had said.

“It sounded like a person screaming.” For a moment all too brief, Mike had hoped it was Shelley, but that just couldn’t be.

Then another loud scream had erupted, this one completely inhuman but just as loud, on the opposite side of the lot. Then, as if only to accent the calling, that side of the fence fell, the undead swarming like a drove of starved demons. Some lost balance, being trampled by their unthinking brethren. Only a few of them were Runners, but the three had encountered enough to know that any amount was too much. They were indeed strong and faster, and even a tad smarter, able to distinguish dead prey and live prey. They didn’t much care for dead prey (those that had been infected but not yet undead). It was like they had a grudge with the living, the jealous primate with little more than an infant’s mind to think with. But it was enough.

Mike had hopped in, brought the engine to life, and aimed for the opposite end of the fence, hoping to catch the undead off-guard and achieve as much speed as the vehicle would allow. The tires peeled and they were off. “Hold on,” he had yelled back to Steve.

There was a loud crashing and several violent thumps, but then they were in the road, past the thick of the horde…

This memory soon faded into reality as Mike pulled into the driveway that had once belonged to a pussy named Bruce, the only man he’d ever murdered.