A Devil in God's Country

Chapter 34

2012-02-18T12:36:00.000-06:00

Taxicab Confession

“I have a confession to make.” Lt. Dan said with a serious look on his face.

Israel gripped the steering wheel tightly and glanced at the rear view mirror. “You weren’t in the military, yea I already figured that out.” He said. Israel studied Lt. Dan’s face in the rear view mirror in the hope of gleaning a clue to his “confession”.

“No that’s not it . . . you’re right, but that’s not it.” Lt. Dan said. “Father Webb’s a bit . . . kooky. He’s harmless for the most part, but . . .”

“But what?” Israel asked, growing tired of Lt. Dan’s deliberate cadence.

“It’s the new guy,” he whispered.

“Huh, what do you mean? Who’s the new guy?” The taxi crested a small hill just as the words left his mouth and the church came into view.

Is everything creepy and rundown out here? Israel thought. The church sat at the top of a dusty hill on the corner of county road 169 and the aptly titled Church road. For an old-time country church in the middle of rural Nebraska, the massive structure struck Israel as a bit odd. As he contemplated that oddity, Lt. Dan interrupted him with an answer to his previous question.

“Lucas McLuhan. This Lucas is either gonna get us outa this mess alive . . . or feed us to the fucking locusts just for shits and giggles. Locusts, that’s what Father Webb calls those who get infected. It’s creepy. Hell, he’s creepy but he’s not a bad dude. I’ve known him all my life. I wasn’t a real church-going kinda guy, but he’s just trying to get us all through this.”

“You’re not making a whole lotta sense here.” Israel said. He slowed the taxi to a crawl and approached the church as if it were the local haunted house and not a house of God. “Some of that sounds like it would have been pertinent information before you talked me into coming out, but we’re here . . . so let’s see what happens.”

Israel pulled into the gravel parking lot without noticing the gunman in the bell tower, or even the armed man that stood at the entrance; instead, he focused on the sign that greeted those who drove by.

Put on the full armor of God

So that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.

Ephesians 6:10

“Here he comes,” Lt. Dan said.

“Huh?” Israel Muttered just as the man known as Lucas made himself seen on the steps of the church. “He’s just a kid,” Israel said under his breath.

“Daniel!” The man said cheerfully. “You’ve made it back . . . and with a guest no less.”

Israel Looked at Lt. Dan questioningly.

“He doesn’t like my nickname.” Lt. Dan said with a shrug of the shoulders.

Lt. Dan jumped out of the back seat with his duffel bag full of supplies. “I got us some goodies!” He said.

“Well done Daniel,” the man on the steps said. He paused and his demeanor turned sour. “Where’s Rich?”

Israel watched the exchange from behind the wheel. He knows what happened to Rich; he’s just toying with us.

“He turned. It—I mean he, almost got me . . . but I locked him in his truck.” The words tumbled from his mouth as his desire to please the young man intertwined with the fear he would say the wrong the thing.

“I’m truly sorry you were put in that position Daniel, but” he said with exaggerated joy, “It’s a real blessing you made it back.” Lucas stared at Lt. Dan. The joy in his words did not translate to his eyes. “Who’s your friend?”

Israel climbed calmly out of the Ford. The wind was bitter and it cut deep as it travelled unhindered across the flat Nebraska landscape. “My name’s Israel Escudero. I’m just passing through.”

Lucas slid down the last of the stairs with little effort and pushed back the hood on his sweatshirt; a shock of sun-bleached blond hair hung in his eyes. “Well that would be a shame, I can’t allow it.” He said.

Israel felt he meant that. He took a moment to digest his options; they appeared slim. “I ran into my new friend Daniel here at the gas station. We had a mutual interest . . . to get the hell outa there.” He said with a nervous chuckle. He held his smile until Lucas matched it.

“You know it’s been like Grand Central around here.” Lucas said finally. He shifted his eyes from Israel to Daniel without moving his head. “Just after you and Rich left, there was an accident down on the highway. An SUV rolled over, a young couple busted up pretty good. We brought ‘em down and Marge is doing her best to fix ‘em up. The young lady is gonna make it I believe, but the gentleman . . . well, he’s gonna need a miracle.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath on that miracle son,” Israel said. “I think God’s using up some of his vacation time right now.”

Lucas smiled. “I think you may be right about that one. But you know what they say . . . God helps those who help themselves.”

It was then Israel saw the gunman in the tower, the lens from his hunting rifle twinkled in the first tendrils of the sunrise. Lucas registered Israel’s line of sight.

“Don’t worry friend. We have a lotta good folks in there and Mr. Hendricks volunteered his hunting expertise to keep a lookout . . . and maybe even bag us some tasty treats, if anything is unlucky enough to find itself in his crosshairs.”

Israel nodded his head to show his understanding.

“Listen, Mr.—”

“Escudero.”

“Mr. Escudero, come on in. We’ll get you some food, a safe place to sleep. You’re welcome to stay if you’de like and of course . . . you can leave whenever you please.”

Israel remained quiet as the two men stared at each other. “Daniel, help Mr. Escudero with his things. Get inside and out of this cold before you catch something.” With that, Lucas turned and disappeared back into the church.

* * * * *

Israel and Daniel ate heaping bowls of last night’s chili while Daniel introduced them to Father Webb’s flock. Despite the intimidating meeting with Lucas McLuhan, Israel felt at home with the other members of the church. If he learned anything in his cross-country trip across the apocalypse, it was its no fun to do it alone.

The two of them ate in a large dining room off the main kitchen in the church basement. They dined at two large tables pushed together and Israel could easily imagine the entire church community crowded around these tables for dinner every night. The thought made Israel smile.

After their breakfast of chili, heartfelt introductions, and story telling, Dan led Israel into the large banquet room that took up the rest of the church basement. Fifteen to twenty camping tents of varying sizes beset the banquet floor. A Ping-Pong table sat along the west wall, while a few rickety card tables littered with pop cans, and ashtrays broke the monotony of the tents. Israel accepted his new sleeping quarters gladly, excited at the thought of sleeping in relative safety and out of the front seat of his car.

His tent was a basic two-person unit, which sadly stored everything Israel owned with room leftover. He rolled out his blanket with a sigh. “I’m gonna sleep like the dead.” He mumbled to himself and instantly frowned at his poor choice of words. Just as his head hit his pillow, the sound of shuffling feet came to a stop at the entrance to his tent. I need some sleep; please, just keep walking.

“Mr. Escudero?”

Shit. “I’m awful tired. Maybe we could do this after I get a couple winks . . . that would be great.”

“I understand Mr. Escudero; I assure you it’ll only take a minute.”

“All right,” Israel said, ashamed of the petty tone that seeped into his voice. He unzipped his tent and stared into the sun-hardened face of a man who could only be Father Webb.

“Well hello Israel. My name’s Father Leland Webb, welcome to my church.” He extended his hand and gave Israel’s a mighty shake.

“Yes Father, I’ve heard so much about you. Thank you for taking me in.”

“Absolutely young man,” even though they were close to the same age, “whoever has a bountiful eye will be blessed, for he shares his bread with the poor.” The Father preached.

Israel didn’t know what to say. “Thank you . . .”

Father Webb waved his hand, brushing the small talk aside. His congenial features replaced with the cold, hard look of a man with an ugly chore on the horizon. “Daniel spoke of your heart . . . your fire. I don’t need to ask if you’ve been sick, Lt. Dan as they called him in his school days, has assured me you’re clean. If Daniel is sure, I’m sure.”

Israel nodded his head as if they were on the same page, although the old man seemed to be talking in riddles.

“The locusts are swarming Israel, my own son among them.” His eyes drifted off and glazed over at the mention of his son. “My wife Evelyn passed in ’95. Cancer. It was a hard death Israel, but she was a strong woman and her faith was hard as nails. The Lord has seen fit to take my son’s mind but his soul is wandering out there . . . that will not do. Richard, my sweet boy, needs to be with his mother.” The Father refocused himself; his leathery features appeared to harden. “Surviving in our secluded house of the Lord is no longer—” he drifted as he searched for the right words. “—surviving isn’t good enough anymore. I must send my boy home. We all deserve to go home, don’t you agree Israel?”

The two of them grew silent, Father Webb at the mouth of the tent, Israel on his knees inside his new home.

Israel nodded weakly. “I do.”

“Will you help us send our loved ones home?” Father Webb asked. The look on his face exposed the weight of his pain, anger and hopelessness.

Israel suddenly felt as if his own soul was at war. He knew the right answer to Father Webb’s question, but the man was born to talk and he was used to getting his way. Israel stared at the fork in road that looked like a serpent’s tongue and chose his path.

“Yes Father.”

Chapter 33

2012-02-04T18:47:00.002-06:00

Tombstones and Skyscrapers

The Chevy Suburban rolled slow but steady through south Lincoln, while Holly and Willis slept not so peacefully in the backseat. With the cemetery behind them, they approached a different sort of final resting place. On the corner of 27^th and Old Cheney, a military humvee stood abandoned. Anna gasped as she took in the scene; dead soldiers mixed with dead civilians in a bloody tapestry of meat and gore. Both factions lay tattered and strewn in all directions. They would never know if this was the unit that had gun-downed Demetri, but they were both glad Holly was sleeping nonetheless.

“Oh my God . . .” Anna mumbled. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Keep moving,” Harry said, he leaned up in his seat to get a better view. Thousands of spent shell casings littered the street and made popping noises under the Suburban’s tires. “We’re lucky,” he said as he shot Anna a sideways glance. “If those things were able to overrun a militarized unit armed to the fucking teeth . . . it’s a damn miracle we survived with just kitchen knives and tennis rackets.”

“I don’t feel too lucky.” Anna said, her stomach still churning from the butchery in the street. She found herself thankful for once that they hadn’t eaten all day. She gave the bloodbath as wide a berth as she could afford and continued piloting the massive Chevy south. The mild autumn was giving way to the real deal in Lincoln on this early morning as the first snow of the season began to fall.

“We’ve got no place to go and no food. We’re the worst survivalist’s ever.” Anna said.

Harry chuckled in agreement. “But were still alive . . . which makes us sort of a minority I’m afraid.”

Anna nodded solemnly as she swerved around abandoned and disabled vehicles. A pair of infected (who looked to have been teenage girls a few days ago) shambled past a bus stop and gave the Suburban a confused gaze of hatred and malice as it passed. Anna snapped her eyes back to the road and fought back the tears that seemed to be ever fighting for control.

“God,” Anna said desperately. “I just wanna curl up in a ball and wait for this to end. It’s only been a few days . . . but I don’t think I can do this.”

“Yes you can.” Harry said. “You can and you will. We’ve come this far, we’re gonna—”

“What’s this ‘we’ shit?” Anna snapped. “I thought you were getting ready to bail—” the last sentence died in her mouth as she stared wide-eyed out the front windshield. Harry followed her gaze and marveled at the towering inferno that approached them on the right.

“Uh, I think that was a Taco Bell.” Harry mumbled.

The restaurant was ablaze, the flames licked the sky hungrily, as they devoured the building. Infected surrounded the building like an evil cult surrounding a funeral pyre. They stood dangerously close, twitching and jerking, unafraid of the lethal flames. Several burst in flames and died screaming in anger, while others stared transfixed on the burning building, oblivious to their brethren in flames.

“I wonder if that was someone’s last stand.” Anna said morosely. “You suppose that restaurant was somebody’s version of Stu’s apartment?”

“Could a been.” Harry admitted. “Either way, I bet someone forgot to turn off the gas.”

“Too bad, Taco Bell sounds fucking amazing right now.” Willis added from the backseat.

“Jesus you scared me! How long you been awake?” Harry asked.

“I’m not . . . so shut the hell up.”

“Sorry.” Anna whispered.

Harry turned to her and smiled. She returned it reluctantly and continued driving. The swirling winds made it difficult to tell how hard it was snowing, but everything not covered in concrete was disappearing under a white blanket of snow. By the time they reached the outskirts of town, the Suburban’s tires and the road weren’t enjoying the close relationship they once had.

“Just keep heading south,” Harry said. “And keep it between the ditches please,” he added as Anna expertly corrected the Chevy’s fishtailing rear end.

“I’m a farm girl, tough guy. Don’t worry about it. I’m not scared of a little snow on the ground.”

The two-lane blacktop changed to gravel as Lincoln shrunk in the rear window. Anna increased her speed knowing the gravel would provide better traction.

“Where are we?” Holly asked from the backseat, her voice still groggy from sleep.

“Uh, south of Saltillo road five or ten miles I think.” Anna said.

“Were on fourteenth right now,” Harry added, he turned to look at his two friends in the backseat. Willis had fallen back asleep and his head rested on Holly’s shoulder. Holly wore a strained look on her face as she looked out her side window. She appeared to be looking for something. “Why Holly, what are you looking for?”

“Have we passed Shadow Creek road yet?” Holly asked, ignoring the question.

Harry looked to Anna. “Have we?”

“Shadow Creek . . .” Anna repeated. “I don’t think so, but I’m not real familiar with this area.”

“There’s a big power station on the right, about a half a mile before Shadow Creek. You can’t miss it.”

“I don’t remember a power station.” Harry said. “Why, what the hell are you looking for? What’s on Shadow Creek road?”

“Yes!” Holly said as she pointed out the front windshield on the right side of the road. The power station was just coming into view. “We should take the next left Anna.”

“What the hell is it Holly?” Anna asked.

“My girlfriend’s folks live there. I think we’d be safe . . . it’s gated. They’re rich as hell.”

“I don’t know.” Anna said. “They’re probably not up for visitors right now.”

“They’re really cool though. They won’t turn me away . . . they love me. ‘Sides, I don’t think they’ll be there. They don’t spend too much time here this time of the year.”

Anna wasn’t convinced but she carefully navigated the corner of South 14^th and Shadow Creek Road. They could see the fence almost immediately. The wrought iron bars stood about six feet high but they didn’t appear built to keep anything locked in or to keep things locked out, but rather as a status symbol—a declaration of wealth for all passers-by to see.

“Holy shit,” Harry said as he stared at the sprawling property through the veil of snow. “How do you know these people?”

“Heather is—was my sorority sister . . . we’d throw parties here when her parents went on vacation. They were sweet . . . her parents.” Holly said. She looked up the long driveway towards the house as she reminisced. “Me and Dem partied here last month.”

“How do we open the gate?” Anna asked as she pulled the suburban up to large rolling Iron Gate.

“Don’t worry, I got it . . . wake up Will,” Holly said softly as she slid Willis’s head off her shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked around the inside of the vehicle.

“Where are we?” He asked as he stared at the others in a half asleep state.

Holly opened the door against the blowing snow and shivered. “I know the code,” She said as she hopped out into the cold. I think.

“What is this? It looks like the villa from Scar Face.” Willis said. They remained transfixed on the extravagant home that stood at the peak of a rare eastern Nebraska hill. The smoke that billowed from its chimneys was the only sign of life.

Anna looked into the rear view mirror and met Willis’s gaze. “I don’t know.” She admitted.

Just then, the gate began to slide open. Holly threw open the door and jumped back in to the warmth of the big Chevy. “Shit, it’s cold out there.” She shook the snow from her curly blond hair and shivered.

“What’s the code?” Anna asked as the gate slowly rolled open.

“It’s the month and year Heather was born, 0990.”

Anna nodded and slid the Chevy into gear. The driveway stretched out about a quarter mile and twisted about dizzyingly to the top of the hill where Heather Chisholm was born and raised. They passed a large fountain that stood empty for the winter; an angel statue adorned it with its wings spread out and her head gazing to the sky. The survivors drove passed it in silence.

“They could be sick,” Willis said. “Then what?”

“We’ll deal with it then.” Holly said. She stared at Willis and practically dared him to continue. Wisely, he fell silent but he did retrieve his salvaged pistol from the pouch on the back of Harry’s seat.

“That’s weird,” Anna said as she approached the four-stall garage. One of the garage doors remained open and the blowing snow stood a couple inches thick on the otherwise pristine garage floor.

“There are no tracks in the snow but ours. That’s something.” Harry said.

“You think that means they took off . . . In a hurry or something?” Anna asked. She shot Harry a hopeful glance.

He shrugged. “That makes sense. I guess.”

Anna parked the Chevy on the massive snow covered driveway and the four of them stepped into the October storm.

“We’ll just clear it like we did the third floor at Stu’s building,” Harry said over the howling wind. “At least we all have guns this time.”

He watched Willis sling the duffel bag over his shoulder and give Holly the crank flashlight. The two of them clutched their weapons like the scared kids they were. He swung his rifle into position while he fumbled awkwardly with his own flashlight. If he hadn’t been so scared, their ineptness would have been funny. As the four of them entered the garage, he thought if the Chisholm’s were home and infected, people were going to die—and it would probably be them.

A late model Lexus LS sedan sat in the stall closest to the house, while an older Toyota Camry and a dirty 4Runner with a Rise Against sticker in the back window filled the other two spots. They four of them stood in the lone empty stall in the garage.

“They’re probably gone; Heather’s folks had a Lexus SUV.” Holly said, “That’s Heather’s car back there . . . and the 4Runner’s Kevin’s.”

“Kevin?” Willis asked.

“Heather’s little brother.” She clarified.

“It kinda looks like they were all here and took off in a hell of a hurry.” Harry said. “But shit usually doesn’t work that easily so stay ready.”

The door that led into the house was unlocked and stood open several inches. Holly moved up and followed Harry into the house. “That’s the kitchen,” Holly pointed straight ahead. “Past that is the living room, It’s massive . . . pretty much takes up the rest of the floor. It’s wide open.” Harry acknowledged her information with a nod.

The kitchen was dark and cold. Harry’s flashlight danced across the marble countertops and exotic appliances at a dizzying pace. The refrigerator door hung open, and although the interior light was out, he could see the paltry contents were scattered and askew. Someone had emptied the contents in a hurry. Harry reached inside and felt a bottle of domestic beer. It was still cool. He closed the refrigerator door quietly as he passed.

The living room was indeed massive. The remains of a neglected fire crackled in the fireplace and lit the space with meager lighting. “Wow . . .” Anna whispered. She looked about the Chisholm’s luxurious home with a look of wonder in her eyes. “This looks like . . . something out of a movie.”

A comically large chandelier hung between two pillars that sprouted from the marble floor and extended up to the second floor’s vaulted ceiling. A winding staircase wrapped around the west wall, which no doubt led to even more extravagant living space.

“It does feel empty, doesn’t it?” Anna whispered.

“Then why does every shadow look like a pissed-off cannibal?” Willis wondered aloud.

* * * * *

Although it took thirty minutes to clear the house, they confirmed it was empty. It wasn’t until Holly’s third Michelob that she was able to laugh about blowing a hole in the mirror behind the hot tub in the master bathroom.

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. My ears are still ringing.” Willis said with a devious look in Holly’s direction.

“Suck it, dickhead.” She said, unable to hide her embarrassed smile.

“This place is so seriously sick. I can’t even imagine living in a place like this.” Willis sat on an exotic rug in front of the raging fireplace. A half-empty 12 pack of Buck Head Wheat and an open box of Cap’n Crunch cereal sat next to him. He scooped up a handful of the cereal and tossed it into his mouth; he washed it down with a generous gulp of the local brew. “But I can’t imagine ever leaving now that I’m here.”

The others chuckled in agreement. They all reveled in their full bellies, dizzy heads and warm bodies. If only for a few hours, the survivors were determined to take a day off from the end of the world.

“What was your band called again?” Holly asked. Her eyes were glassy and her smile, mischievous.

“Shoot the Glass.” He said.

“I don’t get it, what does it mean?” She asked.

“It’s a line from the greatest Christmas movie ever.” Willis said with a smile, always happy to talk about his band.

“Shoot . . . the glass.” Harry said in his best Hans Gruber (the terrorist mastermind from the movie Die Hard) impersonation he could muster.

“Ah, Harry knows what’s up!” Willis said, unable to hide the excitement that someone had cracked his code. “Bruce Willis bustin’ up some uncircumcised Euro terrorist’s at the Nakatomi Plaza. You know . . . the movie Die Hard?”

Holly laughed and rolled her eyes.

“You’re kinda young for that movie aren’t you?” Harry asked. “How old are you?”

“I’m hoping to see birthday number twenty-five this march, but it ain’t looking good.” Willis said with a smile. “How ‘bout you ole timer?”

Harry chuckled while he did the math in his head. “Uh, thirty-four I think.”

“Jesus you’re old grandpa!” Willis said.

Anna brushed Harry’s leg as they sat stretched out on the floor. “That’s not old.” She said. She broke eye contact to pull a generous gulp from one of the assortment of beers that lay out on the floor in front of them.

“How about you two,” Willis asked, “how old are you guys?”

“Uncool!” Holly exclaimed. “You don’t ask a girl how old she is . . . unless you wanna die a virgin.”

Anna spit a mouthful of beer across the room and rolled over on her side, unable to hold back the laughter.

“I’m definitely no virgin.” Willis said with mock pain on his face. “I’m the singer in a rock band. Trust me, I’m no virgin.”

“Oh gross, that’s even worse.” Holly said. “You’re probably more virusy than a pervert’s unprotected hard drive.”

Even Willis laughed at that one. “Fuck it,” he said, “now you’re just being mean.”

“I’m twenty-four too.” Anna offered to appease Willis’s hurt feelings.

Holly took a swig of her beer, “And I’m a very young twenty-two,” she said with a belch.

“What does that even mean?” Willis said through his laughter.

“I don’t know. I’m drunk.”

They laughed and drank their beers heartily, their worries forgotten for the moment.

* * * *

“Looks like its stopped snowing,” Anna said. She stood at the base a large picture window and leaned against the largest TV she had ever seen.

“Good.” Harry said.

“Is the fire still going in the master bedroom?” She asked him.

“Should be, you gonna lie down up there?”

“Thinking about it.” She said.

Holly snored quietly on the lavish rug, surrounded by an army of empty beer cans. Willis wasn’t far behind. Harry crawled painfully off the floor.

“You wanna throw a couple more logs on the fire while you’re up?” Willis asked before he rolled over to nestle up against Holly’s warmth. He shut his eyes before Harry could answer.

Harry tossed a handful of logs on the fire and even tossed a few blankets on the two cuddling on the floor.

“Ain’t they just the cutest thing you ever saw?” Anna asked playfully.

“Oh yeah,” Harry said through a yawn. “I’m gonna throw some wood on the fire upstairs real quick.” His eyes remained on the two sleeping on the floor.

“I’ll help, I’m gonna sleep like a baby.”

“Yea me too,” Harry followed Anna up the stairs. The fire was still going, but just barely. They restocked the fireplace and stoked it until it was raging.

“That feels so good,” Anna said, rubbing her hands in front of the flame. She kicked off her shoes and began stripping the bed. In moments, she had the sheets and comforter spread out on the plush carpet in front of the storybook fireplace.

Harry looked out the window that made up the whole north-side wall and sighed. Through the early morning light, he could see the Lincoln skyline in the distance. Fires were burning unchecked all over the city, but it was the Capital Building that held his attention. He thought back to Wittstruck Cemetery, how the tombstones had looked like tiny skyscrapers. Now, just a few hours later, a strong sense of déjà vu had settled in. He stared at the Capital Building loom over the city and could finally see it for what it truly was. A tombstone.

“The city is a cemetery now.” He mumbled.

“What did you say Harry?” Anna asked quietly.

“Never mind,” he said. “Tomorrow . . . what are we gonna do?”

Anna moved in next to him at the window and stared out at the snowcapped city. She eventually turned to look him in the eyes. “We’ll worry about that tomorrow.”

He looked at her and smiled. “You’re a very wise twenty-four.”

“I don’t know about that. I can be pretty stupid too. Besides, you’re supposed to be the wise one grandpa.”

“Oh shit, here we go.”

“I’m supposed to be the brash and free spirited one.” She continued with a smile.

Harry smiled back at her. “Na, you’re probably the most mature of the whole—”

Anna swooped in and put her lips on his open mouth. She was kissing him before he knew he was no longer talking.

Then he kissed her back.

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 32

2012-01-27T17:38:00.002-06:00

Shadows and Snakeskin

“What’s your name?”

The woman opened her eyes at the sound of the stranger’s voice. “Susan Sterling.” She answered shakily. She was scared and confused, which is to say, she was like everyone else.

The man who asked the question wasn’t scared—or at least didn’t appear to be. He stood at the open doorway with his simple white button-up shirt rolled up at the sleeves. The thick tufts of gray hair on his forearms and hands matched the Einstein-like mop that sprouted from his head.

“You’ve had an accident.” The man said with a tenderness that belied the look in his eyes. “A car accident,” he continued. They stared at each other in uncomfortable silence.

“Who are you? Where am I?” The words hurt her throat and she coughed painfully.

The man took a step back and for one brief second, Susan saw the fear in his eyes.

“Where am I?” She asked again after she composed herself.

The man’s gaze softened a bit. “I’m Father Leland Webb. This is my church, The Holy Name of Jesus.” He said this proudly, as if he were speaking of an accomplished offspring. “You’ve had a nasty accident; you’re gonna rest up in our care . . . only ‘till you’re better of course.”

Susan had a million questions but none she could articulate. I’ve been in an accident, she thought and as if on cue, her head began to throb. “Ryan . . . where is Ryan? The man who was with me . . . is he ok?”

Father Webb had been expecting this question and was ready for it. “He’s alive . . . we’re doing all we can.”

“Take me to him, I want—”

“That won’t be possible.” Father Webb interrupted her coldly.

She knew something was wrong. The tear that trickled down her face shamed her into action. She sat up in her bed, ignoring the dizziness that swarmed her.

“That’s enough.” Father Webb said.

Susan looked up and fell silent as she looked into a barrel of a gun.

“Are you sick? Have you been ill at all?” He asked. “How about your friend, was he sick?”

Susan looked over the gun barrel and stared at the apparent man of God. She ignored his questions and asked her own. “Where is Ryan?”

The man smiled. “I told you. He’s being taken care of. We’re doing the best we can . . . but sadly, it doesn’t look good. Again Mrs. Sterling, this is very important—was he sick?”

Susan though back to her escape from Lincoln. Her mind grew foggy as she tried to piece together her memories; they swam in and out of focus making her stomach turn. She thought of the commotion at the hospital across the street from her work. That thought reminded her of a tense conversation with her estranged husband and Ryan’s roommate being deathly sick. The last thing she remembered was driving Ryan’s Dodge Durango down Hwy 30 while Ryan lay sick in the backseat.

Father Webb interrupted her stroll down memory lane. “Your husband Mrs. Sterling, was he sick? This is very important.”

Harry, where are you? “What do you care about my husband?” She asked.

“While he’s in our care, we must be sure we take all the precautions necessary to insure our safety. Surely you understand the severity of our situation?” Father Webb asked.

Susan grappled with the Father’s words until she put it together.

“Oh, Ryan’s not my husband. He’s huh, just a friend.”

Father Webb studied her face for a moment until he broke eye contact and glanced at her left hand. Susan followed his gaze and thumbed her wedding ring self-consciously.

“I’m agnostic,” Susan said, “You can save your guilt trip.”

Father Webb responded with a nod as he pierced her with his condescending gaze—a gaze many of his parishioners would have been familiar with.

An unassuming young man entered the room and stood next to Father Webb. The hood of his navy blue pullover partially hid his face in shadows while he buried his hands in the pockets of his well-worn blue jeans. The click-clack of his dusty snakeskin boots announced his arrival. He offered Susan a warm smile before he whispered in the Father’s ear. Father Webb frowned and nodded solemnly. The young man wore a practiced look of remorse.

“Sorry Father.” The young man said.

The father sighed loudly before he replied. “Twas God’s will Lucas. I suspected you were right on this matter to begin with. Your foresight has prepared me for this dire piece of news . . . with the Lord’s hand I will trudge forever forward.”

“Yes sir.” The young man said.

“The good Lord has thought to reward us with the return of Daniel at least.” The Father said.

“Daniel has brought with him another guest as well father.” The young man replied with a curious smile on his face.

“More company!” Father Webb said with overt enthusiasm. “God is good . . . God is good.”

“Yes sir . . .” The young man agreed.

Father Webb returned his attention to Susan who took in the exchange with curiosity and dread. “Well Mrs. or Ms. Sterling, I have urgent business to attend to. It seems I lost a member of my flock today. If you’ll excuse me . . .” He turned without waiting for a response and left her alone with the young man in the shadows and the snakeskin boots.

Susan watched Father Webb go but didn’t feel the relief she had expected, and although the young man appeared unarmed, she didn’t feel safe in his presence.

“Hello ma’am,” she flinched at his words. “Welcome to the flock.”

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 31

2012-01-21T12:55:00.005-06:00

Loose Ends

If this were a movie, Marilyn Anderson’s nightmare would have incorporated the sound of the distant gunshot before ripping her mercilessly from the clutches of sleep. In the real world—Lincoln Nebraska, with autumn finally beginning to sink its teeth in—she rose quietly, so as not to wake her son who lay peacefully with his head on her lap.

Although gunshots have become the status quo in the new world, this one brought Marilyn to her feet. For one brief moment, she basked in the heat of the wood burning stove that accounted for the centerpiece of her basement’s living room. She tried to rub the sleep from her eyes as she stepped quietly to the basement window to investigate. Her ranch style home sat on the south side of 33^rd and Sumter, and the small basement window provided the best view of the neighborhood Marilyn could get. The dead streetlight that swung precariously over the intersection at 35^th and Sumter acted as her landmark; someone’s looting the gun shop she assumed and thought briefly of her own foray into the store and the firepower she looted but hoped would never have to use.

Marilyn was not surprised when headlights illuminating the street quickly followed the sound of a vehicle cranking over. She watched with excitement and unease as three wiry forms raced through the headlight beams toward the vehicle. Marilyn’s heart rate jumped as she thought of the group of survivors that had saved her downtown.

Is that you Harry? She wondered but dismissed it soon enough. They seemed to be missing a few members, but in this desperate time, most groups were running short on members. She turned away from the window with a frown and looked at her sleeping kids. They all slept peacefully, dead tired from a day spent hauling firewood Mr. Cresner had cut and stacked neatly under his second floor balcony. Marilyn found her neighbor, Mr. Cresner laying face first in a sickening pool of dried blood on his formerly pristine kitchen tile. He wouldn’t need the firewood, and now her and her family had enough heat to outlast the upcoming winter.

The sound of screeching tires echoed from a distance, Marilyn looked back to the window but it was dark. The vehicle and the lights were gone. She tossed another log in the stove and listened to the soothing sounds of a crackling fire. She closed her eyes and lost herself in her memory.

I found what I was looking for. I pray you do the same Harry.

I pray you do the same.

* * * *

Emy Whiteside’s Suburban was a Cadillac compared to Harry’s old pickup, the full tank of gas was just a bonus. Anna drove while Harry sat quietly on the seat next to her, fumbling mindlessly with his freshly scavenged M1 rifle.

Willis and Holly stretched out in the back while they rummaged through the contents of Anna’s duffel bag. He held up a wind-up flashlight with a built in am/fm radio. He gave it a few cranks and shined the light on Holly’s face. “Fucking idiots cleaned out the machine guns but left the ultimate apocalypse tool. Unlimited light and radio with just a crank of the wrist . . . this is fucking gold Anna. Good job.”

“Yea good job Anna,” Holly said, “now get the light outa my goddamn eyes.” Willis jerked the light away from her face sheepishly.

“Sorry.”

Anna looked into the rearview mirror and smiled. “Thanks guys. I grabbed two of those big-assed Mag-lites too. The batteries are dead but . . . I couldn’t pass ‘em up.”

Willis nodded.

“Speaking of the radio,” Anna said as she thumbed on the Suburban’s stereo system. The fm side was nothing but static and she was about to give up when the white noise morphed into a broadcast. “Shh!” Anna said even though no one was speaking. They all held their breath as they listened to a robotic voice that came from the speakers.

THIS IN NOT A TEST . . . PLEASE STAY INDOORS . . . ISOLATE ALL INFECTED . . . PLEASE KEEP PHONELINES FREE FOR EMERGENCY PERSONNEL . . . STAY CALM, STAY INDOORS AND STAY TUNED FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTION.

The same message they heard on Stuart’s TV, repeated on a loop. Anna flipped off the radio in disgust.

They drove south through town in silence. The surreal collapse of Lincoln was almost impossible to comprehend as they snaked their way to the outskirts of town in search of a safe place to sleep for the night.

“What is this?” Willis asked solemnly from the backseat. They all glanced at him but remained silent.

“What is what?” Harry asked without craning his neck to peak to the backseat, his eyes remained locked on the front windshield.

“This!” He said and waved his hands to indicate the world around him. “This virus . . . or whatever it is. Is it fucking terrorists? Are we under attack? Or is it a giant government fuck-up like in that Stephen King book?” No one spoke so he kept going. “Is it punishment from God? Or Aliens? I mean . . . what the fuck could do this?” He shook his head in disgust and exhaustion.

“Who knows,” Anna offered. “It could be any of those, or a million other things.”

“I just wanna live.” Holly said from her corner of the backseat. Her head was resting on the cold glass and her eyes had drifted shut. She was asleep seconds later, with Willis closely behind her.

* * * *

Thirty-Fifth Street dead-ends at Wittstruck Cemetery so Anna turned left and circled the Suburban around on Center Boulevard. The cemetery spread out on Harry’s right; he stared at it with morbid fascination. The moonlight that trickled through the cemetery’s trees lit up the immaculate landscape and Harry marveled at how the tombstones, as they passed behind trees and in the morbid light of the moon, began to resemble tiny skyscrapers. He was pondering that as Anna startled him back to reality.

“I’m Sorry we missed her Harry.” Anna said.

“Huh? Oh yeah.” He looked in her direction. The cab was dark but he could see the weariness and pain in her eyes by the dashboard light. She looks like Susan ten years ago, he thought. “Thanks.” He said weakly.

“It didn’t look like there was a struggle. I mean . . . it looked like she packed some things. So maybe she got out early.” Anna said with real enthusiasm.

“Yea, Maybe.” He grew silent for a while until his long suppressed anger began to boil over. “She coulda left a note or something.” The words flew out of his mouth in such a rush; Anna figured they had been trying to get out for a while. “She knew I would come for her no matter what. She can’t even leave a note telling me where she’s heading . . . or that she’s still alive.” His voice cracked at the end and Anna could sense the tears were on their way. She began to cry herself and wanted desperately to reach for his hand, but she didn’t. She kept her eyes on the road and continued driving.

“She’s so goddamned selfish.” He whispered.

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 30

2012-01-08T16:47:00.002-06:00

Suicide Note

“No offense man, but maybe we should look for a vehicle that’s . . .”

“More roomy,” Anna interrupted, “more reliable.”

“. . . not so shitty,” Willis finally finished.

“Yea, that’s it.” Anna agreed and smiled at Willis.

Harry ignored them and kept his eyes on the road. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw it was finally void of infected. He reached out and patted his truck’s dashboard. “Don’t you worry Harriet, were not gonna replace you.” Everyone burst out laughing except Holly, who fought off a smile.

“Oh dude, that’s too good.” Willis said when the laughter began to dwindle. “Harry and Harriet,” he said. “That’s fucking beautiful.”

They drove through the streets of Lincoln just fast enough to keep any stray infected from latching on to Harry’s truck. The route felt random, but Harry knew where he was going. He was going home.

Anna sat closer to him than she needed but he didn’t notice. Susan was all could think of. The last time he saw her she had been climbing into an SUV with some guy’s hand on her back. It was a memory he would love to erase and replace with a new one tonight. He thought of what he would say to her when Willis broke the silence.

“Stop man.”

“Huh, why?” Harry asked.

He answered by pointing at a pawnshop that was fast approaching on their left.

“You wanna pawn your IPod?” Anna asked with a playful elbow to his ribs.

“Fuck that,” he said while rubbing his side and trying not to disturb Holly who was setting on his lap. “We need some weapons. I’m tired of running around the apocalypse with nothing but a pig-sticker.”

Anna guffawed. “Pig-sticker? What, are we in the old-west all of a sudden?”

“I’m serious,” Willis cried. “We need weapons and ammo, and we all know it.”

“You’re right Will,” Anna conceded. “I just like how you refer to your fancy kitchen knife as a pig-sticker.”

“This bitch is from Cabela’s,” Willis said as he thrust his knife in Anna’s face so she could read the insignia on the handle, “the world’s foremost outfitter.” He added as if that proved his point.

“I stand corrected.” She said with a shake of the head.

“I’m not sure scavenging in the dark is the best idea.” Harry said.

“True, but I don’t plan on sticking around town all night to search in the morning.”

“He’s right Harry,” Anna said. “There’s no good reason to stay in town.”

“We need to get our shit and get out,” Willis said. “Away from people . . . away from sick people. I don’t wanna do this in the dark either, but it’s better than spending another night in town, ya know?”

They did know.

“Do we all feel that way?” Harry asked.

Willis and Anna both nodded, while Holly remained silent. “Holly?” Harry prompted.

She looked almost as if she was sleeping as she sat on Willis’s lap in the crowded pickup cab. Her body seemed to melt into his. She spoke without lifting her head, which she had resting on Willis’s shoulder. “Just get what you need, so we can go.”

With that, Harry pulled his pickup in front of Montage Gun and Pawn, careful to assure there was nothing that would block a quick get-away. He put the truck in park and sighed. “Listen,” he said. “I need to find my wife. I know ya’ll have family missing too and Susan doesn’t mean anything to you all, which is why I don’t expect any of you to follow. I’ll help find another vehicle and whatever we find in there,” he motioned to the pawn shop, “should be enough to set us all up.”

The survivors in the truck cab were silent and Harry wished he had kept that to himself a bit longer.

“Yea,” Willis began with a voice that was void of its normal bluster and spunk. “I guess I could—”

“Fuck you.” Holly interrupted and fixed Harry with an icy stare before she continued. “My loved one is lying dead in the street about twenty blocks back, remember? Ya know . . . the one you guys wouldn’t even let me say g’bye to. One last fucking time!” She literally spit that last part out.

Harry stared at her slack-jawed; the shame and embarrassment hung off his face like a costume mustache. “Sorry . . . I’m—” The words died in his mouth, which hung open stupidly.

“I’m tired and hungry.” Holly said, her voice sapped of its previous venom, now just weary and laced with helplessness. “Let’s go.” She opened up the truck’s door and slid off Willis’s lap to the curb, only giving a passing glance at the Chevy Suburban parked at the end of the block.

Willis led the charge, his flashlight cutting swaths of yellow across the black and gray landscape. No one spoke as the survivors approached Montage Gun and Pawn and it had nothing to do with their plan to be stealthy. It was silent minus the sound of their chattering teeth, the unseasonably warm temperature plummeted as the sun went down and put winter gear near the top of their must acquire list.

Willis reached the entrance and with a heavy heart noticed the smashed front window. Probably picked clean or full of infected he assumed. The flashlight found its way into the gaping hole in the glass and panned the interior. Shards of glass littered the dirty carpet while a shelving unit holding obsolete electronics lay toppled and broken, blocking a hallway that led to the back of the store.

Anna gripped her pistol with cold fingers as she followed Willis and his flashlight into the store. She felt like the stupid girl from the movies that always enters the dark basement when everyone knows it’s full of pain and death. Her only consolation is she isn’t marching into the darkness alone.

“Looks pretty well cleared out.” Willis whispered as he flashed the light across the front counter and the empty gun rack behind it. Looters had used the cash register to smash open the glass display case that made up the front counter and only a few handguns and random boxes of ammunition remained.

“Get ‘em all.” Willis said as he kept the light trained on the last few guns in the case. Harry and Anna moved in to scoop them up, both surprised they wouldn’t be leaving empty handed. Holly moved out of the light as she approached the counter on the far end. “Careful Holly,” Willis whispered in her direction. “Stay in the light.” She answered him with the unmistakable flick of a lighter, and her shadow stretched out long behind the glow of a freshly scavenged bic.

Willis turned his attention to Anna as she crammed the last of the ammunition into an old Nike duffel bag. We need more damn flashlights he thought as he tried the shine his tiny light on all of them at once. He trained the light on Harry who had moved behind the counter and was inspecting an old rifle that Willis thought he recognized from countless hours of playing Call of Duty. Meanwhile, Anna rummaged through the electronics that littered the floor.

Holly stood hunched over the counter where the cash register had once sat; she appeared to be studying something intently. Willis looked back to the others and then walked hesitantly over to Holly. “What’cha got?” He asked as he lurked over her shoulder. She looked at him briefly with tear-filled eyes and shook her head.

“Oh God . . .” was all she said.

There was an open notebook on the counter streaked with blood and filled with the unmistakably neat penmanship of a young girl. Willis began to read under the meager light of Holly’s lighter. He stopped to reread the final paragraph:

Damn me if you want to, but don’t you dare pity the monster in that backroom. He is evil, and if there is any good that could possibly come from the end of the world (this is the end right?) than it’s this demon will never hurt anyone ever again. If I’m going to do this, I have to go now. If whoever reads this needs a car, my daddy’s suburban’s parked outside. The keys are in it.

p.s. Don’t go in the backroom. He’ll be dead, but I’ll be back there. I’m turning into one of them.

“Jesus . . .” Willis mumbled. He only read the final page of the young girls note but it was enough to understand her story. “That’s horrible.”

Holly clutched the notepad and the compact pistol the author of the note had used for a paperweight as she glanced to the back hallway. Willis followed her gaze. “We should go.” He said, afraid of what she was thinking.

Harry and Anna joined them, their new duffle bag stuffed with gear. “What’cha got there?” Anna asked.

Willis shook his head. “It’s a fucking suicide note.”

“We need to help her.” Holly said to no one specifically.

“She’s gone Holly. She said so in her note.” Willis said trying to sound sympathetic.

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked.

“There’s an infected girl in the back—”

“Her whole family died from the infection,” Holly interrupted, “she came here ‘cause she had nowhere else to go. The storeowner molested her. She came back to . . . get revenge.”

“What?” Harry asked confused.

“She was changing . . . from the infection. She came back to change while locked up with the bastard who molested her.”

“Jesus, that’s messed up.” Willis said again.

“I wanna go back there,” Holly said. “Make sure she’s at peace.”

“Too risky.” Harry said and shook his head.

“I didn’t ask you Harry.” Holly said, “You’re leaving anyway right? Maybe now’s the time for you to get going.”

That one stung, Holly saw it on his face but she didn’t care. “Can I borrow the light?” She asked Willis.

“Fuck it,” Willis whispered in frustration. “Let’s get this over with.”

He led the way with his light while Holly followed close, her new handgun held awkwardly out in front of her. Anna and Harry shared a glance; she reached out and touched his shoulder, a weak smile on her face. Harry shrugged and returned his own sad smile as she turned to follow the others down the hall.

Willis reached the end of the hallway first and stared with fear at the door. He tried and failed to muster the courage to reach for the doorknob as he wondered what kind of monsters waited on the other side. Holly surprised him as she gripped the knob and gave it a twist. It didn’t budge.

“Anyone there?” Holly asked with a rattle of the doorknob.

They all braced themselves for an outburst from behind the door but it was silent. Willis laid his hand on Holly’s shoulder. “They’re dead hon.”

She looked at him but didn’t reply.

“Watch out,” Harry said as he scooted them out of the way. He braced himself and before anyone could protest, kicked the door with all the strength he could muster. It splintered at the frame but didn’t give way. He repeated the kick two more times before it finally fell away, allowing dim light from a dying battery powered lamp to spill into the hallway.

“Holy shit!” Willis said as he took an instinctive step back.

Holly fought the urge to vomit as the smell of death hit them like a fist to the temple. An old man lay on his back in the center of the room, his arms outstretched while his considerable potbelly escaped from the confines of his shirt. The man’s eyes stared at the ceiling and his mouth hung open, his scream frozen in time. What once was the old man’s throat is now just a drooling black hole.

“She’s still alive!” Willis muttered, pointing at the girl in the red pullover. She lay on her stomach and weakly raised her head to look at the newcomers at the door. Her gore-streaked hair stuck grotesquely to her face, which she didn’t bother to adjust as she crawled towards them.

“Oh God . . . Oh God . . . Oh God . . .” Anna repeated under her breath.

Holly dropped to her knees, eliciting a strained moan from the girl’s throat as she increased her efforts in crawling across the room.

“Holly! What the hell are you doing?” Harry asked angrily. “That thing is gonna kill you.”

“Emy Whiteside.” Holly said as she shot Harry a hateful look. “The things name—is Emy Whiteside.”

Emy crawled the last few feet and reached out a skinny pale arm, her fingers clamped painfully on Holly’s left wrist. Holly’s weight shifted forward as the girl’s strength was unexpected, but Holly didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry Emy, for what you went through . . .” the girl pulled Holly closer as she began to claw her way to her feet. “. . . It’s over. It’s finally over . . .” The girl’s blood red eyes, glassy but full of life, grew wide as she raised her head closer and closer to Holly’s. Their faces just a foot away from each other’s now. The girl’s mouth opened wide showing bits of flesh and bloody gristle but Holly didn't see it, she was looking into the young girl’s eyes. “It’s over Emy. You’re not gonna hurt anymore . . . you win Emy . . .” Emy’s mouth opened even wider, now just inches from Holly’s face. Holly’s right hand swung up, “You win Emy . . .” she whispered one last time and then the room filled with a shocking white light and a bang as Emy’s own pistol went off.

Emy Won.

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 29

2011-12-31T16:01:00.006-06:00

Lt. Dan

The man in the backseat screamed. He didn’t know why exactly, but once the cab driver started screaming, it seemed like the right thing to do. The wails filled the taxicab and reverberated across the campgrounds parking lot, stirring the owner of the blacked-out pickup truck who bashed angrily against his tinted windows. Luckily, for both Israel Escudero and the young man in the backseat, the owner of the truck had forgotten the important skill of opening car doors.

Israel’s first instinct had been to open the driver side door and jump out, but as the taxi began to roll across the lot, the safety locks kicked in and latched all four doors. He slammed on the brakes and clawed at the door handle while keeping his eyes locked on the stranger in his backseat.

“I’ve got money!” The stranger said loudly from the backseat over the taxi drivers screeching voice.

Thank God, he only wants my money Israel thought briefly as he began to dare he might actually live through this ordeal. “Take it!” Israel screamed as he tossed his wallet in the backseat at his strange passenger. “Take it and go!”

The man ducked as the cab driver’s wallet flew end over end across the Crown Vic’s expansive back seat. “What the hell man? I don’t want your money, I want a damn ride.” He stared at the taxi driver with a look of disbelief. “I’ve got money . . . to pay for a cab ride. I may be from the sticks, but I’m pretty sure that’s how this works.”

Israel tried to make sense of the man’s words as he replayed them over in his head. I’ve got money the man had said. Not give me your money, so . . . he just wants a ride? The fact that he’s been driving a “borrowed” taxicab suddenly dawns on him and the absurdity of this begins to set in.

“You want a ride?” Israel screamed as a note of hysterics danced on the edge of his words. “Have you looked around? Do you see what’s happening here?” He asked incredulously.

“Hell yes I see what’s happening!” The man in the backseat raised his voice to match Israel’s. “Why do you think I wanna ride? ‘Cuz I wanna get the fuck outa here.”

Israel’s fear had abated but the first icy fingers of anger started to tighten their grip, and he was unable to keep it from his voice. “Does it look like I’m on duty here?” He asked. “What . . . you need a ride to the Four Seasons, or maybe I could give you a lift to the airport Mr.—” he paused to read the man’s t-shirt that hung loose under his olive-drab military-style coat. “Mr. Devil Wears Prada.” He finished.

The man frowned as it suddenly dawned on him that all of his favorite bands were going to break up. Hell, they’re probably all dead by now . . . or infected. He snapped out of his funk and looked the taxi driver in the eyes. “I’m not infected and I haven’t been sick. You ain’t sick neither, I been watching you.” The man spoke with a calm, slowed-down cadence that Israel found unusual and a little bit soothing. “We might as well roll together. Don’t ya think?”

Israel didn’t know what to say. He stared at the man in his backseat while his thoughts took him down the road, to the days and months that lay ahead, and God knows what other hell awaited them. Why do I need to be alone? Why should I punish myself more than I already have . . . isn’t their enough suffering going on right now?

“What’s your name?” Israel asked him.

“Lt. Dan.”

Israel looked at Lt. Dan’s military jacket and then to his shaggy hair and several weeks old beard. “You’re military huh?” Israel asked with a raised eyebrow.

“You gotta keen eye mister.” He said through a crooked smile. “Do I pass your rigorous standards? If so we should mosey before Rich knocks out that window or remembers how to use door handles.”

Israel took a glance at the black Dodge pickup he shared the parking lot with, it rocked back and forth, as its inhabitant (Rich?) battered the driver side window.

“We should probably get going then.” Israel said. The two men stared at each other until Rich finally succeeded in breaking through door glass that kept him caged. He screamed in triumph as he forced his blood-soaked body through the broken glass.

And that decided it.
Israel put the Crown Vic into gear and hammered on the gas. His tires sprayed gravel and rubber across the pavement as Rich ran at a full sprint in their direction.

“Sorry Rich.” Lt. Dan whispered as he watched the man shrink through the taxi’s back window. In a matter of minutes, Rich was just a speck on the highway, although Lt. Dan thought he was most likely still running. He might run until he stumbles on something else to destroy, or maybe his heart will just give out and he’ll die in the middle of the road like a deer or raccoon. Hell, maybe this evil spell will be broken someday and everyone will be able to go back to their lives. Yeah . . . sure.

“What’s your name?” Lt. Dan asked when he came back to reality.

Israel smiled as he glanced up to the rear view mirror and made eye contact with his passenger. “Israel. Israel Escudero.”

Lt. Dan nodded and thought to himself for a moment. “You drive this boat all the way from Cali, Israel?” He asked having seen the license plates.

“Yup.”

Lt. Dan nodded and again went quiet. “Where you goin’?” Lt. Dan asked, although he believed he already knew the answer.

Israel glanced back up to the rear view mirror and made eye contact with his new passenger, he wore no smile this time. “Well Lt. Dan, I . . . don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, sorry friend. “I think I knew once, but . . .” His last sentence trailed off. “The last few days, I’ve just been driving . . . driving and waiting.”

Waiting for what was the obvious question that lingered in the taxicab. Israel answered the unasked question with a shake of his head.

“Are you open to suggestions?” Lt. Dan asked from the backseat.

Israel looked at him as he drove a timid 35 mph east on highway 385. “Uh . . . yeah, I would.” He said with a voice that belied his words.

“On your left, just past that farm, if you take that road you’ll find a place you can rest. You look like you could use it.” Lt. Dan said.

“Is it your house?”

“Naw,” he said as he turned to look at the bean field rolling by to the south. “It’s a church. Some of us went there a few days back when this all started to get real bad . . . it seemed like a good idea.”

“But?” Israel asked as he stared intently at his passenger.

“But nothing!” he said with unnecessary harshness. “It’s a safe place to sleep and eat and those places are in short order these days.”

Israel began to slow the old Ford as they came up to an abandoned farmhouse. Giant hay bales littered the neglected yard as the bloody fingers of dawn spread out to the east. Israel stared at the house as he veered the car north on county road 169 and shivered.

“How much further to the church?” Israel asked while he took one more look at the fading farmhouse in his side mirror.

“Four miles on your right . . . you can’t miss it.”

Israel exhaled loudly and nodded his head. The poorly maintained dirt road sent the Crown Vic swaying as the tires fought for purchase on the ruts and loose gravel. He dropped the speed from fifty mph to thirty, acknowledging the mean streets of San Luis Obispo County haven’t prepared him for these treacherous dirt roads. He sped across a one-lane bridge that spanned what was little more than a dry gully. Dead Man’s Creek, the sign read. How Charming.

“What’s in the bag?” He asked as he noticed Lt. Dan’s duffel bag for the first time.

“Supplies . . . food mostly. That’s why we were in town.” He said.

Israel raised an eyebrow. “Who’s we?”

“Huh, oh . . . me and Rich.” He said.

“The guy from the gas station . . . in the black truck?” Israel said with genuine shock in his voice.

“Yea, it was his dad’s church. Well he was the preacher anyway.”

“Where is he? Rich’s Dad I mean?” Israel asked.

“He’s still there, at the church.”

Israel was beginning to regret his decision to return to church. “Does he know about his son? What became of him, I mean?”

Lt. Dan shook his head.

“Who else is there, at the church?” Israel asked finally.

“Survivors,” Lt. Dan said. “Like you.”

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 28

2011-12-26T22:49:00.003-06:00

On The Road

Extra bar tables and old P.A speakers littered the room that sprouted from the 8^th Street Underground’s stage. After assuring themselves the room was clear, the two men slid an old Dig Dug arcade game in front of the broken door.

“I fucked up bad this time.” Willis said, “I’m sorry.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He continued to search the room without making eye contact.

“The girls . . .” Willis muttered, his voice cracking with emotion. “They’re all alone.”

Harry stopped his random search and glared at Willis. “Quit whining and help me find a way out of this hell-hole before it’s too late and something happens to ‘em.”

Willis wiped the tears from his face; his soot-covered hands left black smudges all over his cheeks. A small laugh burst from Harry’s mouth without warning before he was able stuff it back down.

“What? What’s so funny?” Willis asked. The shame and embarrassment practically dripped from his words.

“Nothing,” Harry said quietly. “Nothing at all.”

Harry wanted to continue yelling at Willis, say something that would really sting but he knew that wouldn’t get them anywhere. It certainly wouldn’t get them out of that basement. He could understand Willis missing his loved ones. He thought briefly of his wife Susan and the familiar sting, like a knife to the heart, racked is body.

“Son of a bitch!” Willis said as fumbled with what looked like a pair of large, metal locker doors. “It’s an elevator.” He said and shot a look towards Harry.

Harry’s eyes grew wide and he moved in for a closer look. “The power’s out,” he said defeated. “It’ll do us no good without power.”

Willis put the flashlight in his mouth and began prying the rust colored elevator doors open, ignoring Harry’s pessimism. “Hold this fucking thing.” Willis said and stuck the flashlight in Harry’s face with mounting frustration. Harry took the light and shined it on Willis as he worked on the Elevator doors. They were stubborn and more than once left Willis cussing in pain and anger with bloody knuckles, but eventually they slid open.

The flashlight beam darted throughout the small elevator. It was dusty and the air had a wet, sour smell that, while not altogether horrible, begged for a good Lysol bath. Willis extended his open hand until Harry filled it with the flashlight.

“There!” Harry said and pointed to a hatch in the ceiling. A 3 by 3 panel, hinged on one side swung open with little effort, but even with the light pointed inside there was nothing but darkness.

“We need something to stand on,” Willis said. They slid an ancient Peavey speaker cabinet into the elevator, which Willis used to poke his head through the opening. The swath of light washed the dirty gray walls in light briefly, but the utter blackness of the elevator shaft seemed to swallow the glow of the led beams. Even in the suffocating darkness of the elevator shaft, Willis could see it would not be easy to climb to safety.

“I can’t see shit.” Willis said.

“It has to lead somewhere. Let me see!” Harry said with ever-mounting frustration.

“No, I see it. I see it. It’s a single wood door, like an old garage door.” Willis said as he poked his head back through the hatch to look Harry in the eyes. “If we both can fit up there, you could boost me up and I could pry open the door. We got this door open; we can get that one too.”

Harry wasn’t convinced, but it was the best they had. “Ok,” Harry said, “Let’s do it. Get up there.”

With that, the two men squeezed through the access door and stood precariously on top of the elevator. The large metal cables ran three stories up but the grease that coated them eliminated them as a means for escape. The grease-splattered walls were white at one time, but now wore a sickly yellow hue. The streaks of grease that had flung from the cables have attracted enough dust to resemble hair, and in the darkness, one could almost convince themselves that what they were looking at wasn’t dusty clumps of grease, but slithering alien life forms poised to attack.

The two men worked silently as Willis stepped into Harry’s two-handed grip. With a grunt of effort, Harry hoisted the lanky singer up until he could grip the small ledge at the base of the main floor elevator entrance. Through the crack in the elevator door, he could feel the cold night air on his face. Willis eventually positioned his feet on Harry’s shoulders and went to work on opening the doors to light and safety.

“It’s moving,” Willis muttered during a quick respite from the prying. “I think it’s gonna open to the alley.”

“Good. Keep . . . going.” Harry said through clinched teeth; Willis’s feet dug into his shoulders painfully with each movement.

A few minutes passed and finally Willis was able to raise the elevator door high enough to allow their escape. Willis pulled himself up through the opening; then with surprising strength, pulled Harry up and onto the concrete alleyway. The moon was high and bright as the two of them tried to gather their bearings; they looked around the alley frantically.

“It’s this way . . . I think,” Harry said. The two men made eye contact but said no more. They raced to the south end of the moonlit alley. It appeared to be empty and the only sound came from the two men’s sneakers as they ran past a row of trash dumpsters, towards Q Street. Harry felt certain he parked his truck just around the corner and as soon as he began to pray that the girls would be there waiting for them, the familiar sound of a worn starter motor filled the air. His starter motor.

They rounded the corner of the alley and there was his old Ford. Two shadowy figures occupied the cab as the engine continued to crank over without firing. Harry could sense more movement around them as they raced for his old truck.

“Scoot over!” Harry shouted as he approached the driver-side door. Anna had the door open for him and he slid in and began cranking on the engine with a look of hope and fear in equal measure on his face. Willis crammed in and maneuvered Holly onto his lap; she had regained some of her former self but remained silent.

Harry’s left hand gripped the old Ford’s steering wheel as the engine cranked over weakly. He turned the key and gave two pumps on the gas in the tried and true routine the two of them had established over their long relationship. The pickup’s 48-hour hibernation was not helping as the engine just popped and sputtered in a slow grind that weakened with each passing second. Harry rested his forehead on the steering wheel and quietly begged her to start; tears of frustration began to well up. The trucks grinding starter was an announcement to all infected within earshot, but Harry knew it was unavoidable—the truck would start and they would live a little bit longer, or it wouldn’t and they would die, packed in the cab of a piece of shit ’87 F150.

“Hurry!” Anna screamed as swarms of infected raced towards the commotion. She had both hands clamped to the dashboard in a death grip.

A puff of smoked escaped the exhaust and Harry knew it was just a matter of seconds now. The first wave of infected reached the truck from the rear. A young woman wearing a filthy gray shirt (that was almost certainly white at some point) was the first to approach. She wore no pants and her legs were an ashy gray, marred by cuts and abrasions. She jumped into the bed of the truck and clawed at the back window with pure hatred in her eyes. Harry hunched over the steering wheel as he continued cranking on the overworked Detroit relic. Anna tried to squirm away from the feral woman but there was nowhere to go as she was sandwiched between Harry on her left and Willis on her right, while Holly began to sob on her lap.

“Come on you bitch!” Harry screamed at his truck, while more infected began their hellish approach.

The engine fired, sputtered, and then caught. The idle was rough, but as black smoke poured from the exhaust, Harry thought it sounded beautiful.

“Thank God,” he said without realizing it and slammed the truck into gear. The infected woman in the truck-bed fell back with a look of shocked outrage on her face. Surprisingly, she had enough sense left to use the tailgate to brace herself as Harry drove recklessly toward Q Street.

“She’s still fucking back there!” Willis screamed, while the woman let go of the tailgate and began crawling towards the cab.

“I can see that!” Harry said with venom.

Although Seventh Street was a one-way going north, as soon as Harry could be sure it was clear, he turned south sharp enough to throw them all violently against the passenger side door. Willis screamed as the mass of bodies began to crush him. He could feel the truck’s tires as they began to lose their grip on the concrete and grew certain they were about to flip the truck and be left broken and bloodied in the street. Remarkably, Harry managed to keep the truck upright but the infected woman with no pants in the truck bed was not as lucky. The horrible sound of the woman’s head exploding on the cement curb was audible even over the sound of Willis’s screaming.

. . . but they were finally on the road.

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 27

2011-12-18T14:03:00.004-06:00

Nebraska . . . the
good life

Israel was no farmer, but he could tell these crops were past harvest. The cornfields that surrounded him (they stretched out in all directions and continued, seemingly into eternity) would never go to reap. They were doomed to rot and eventually, like everything else, turn to dust. This thought brought a sense of sadness Israel didn’t quite understand. Eventually he just held his head in his hands and wept.

The deer that had stood frozen in fear at the sight of the yellow ford with California plates scampered off the blacktop unharmed and disappeared into the corn. The taxicab veered off the road, missing the sign welcoming it to Nebraska by the grace of God—it actually slid right between the signposts like a game winning field goal. The scoreboard read triple zeroes he thought, and he was still alive, so he considered that a win. He suddenly felt the urge to point toward the heavens like an NFL placekicker after a successful field goal attempt and the ridiculousness of this turned his sobs into laughter. The tears that streamed down his brown face were born in pain and sorrow but continued through his hysterical fit. Anyone within earshot of those cackles would have assumed insanity, but he was in the middle of nowhere, straddling the border between Colorado and Nebraska. Only the deer that danced across the street and hid in the corn stalks heard him, and even it skittered off in fear.

When his laughter fit tapered off to a more manageable level, Israel walked around the taxi, stomping down dying corn stalks to give him a solid view of his canary yellow chariot. Aside from long brown ears of corn that sprung from the grille, the Crown Vic looked no worse for wear, which was a relief considering Israel didn’t know a carburetor from a radiator. He collapsed into the driver seat and tried to grip the keys with shaky fingers. He wondered briefly and with regret when his laughter had morphed back into sobs.

He was afraid of what would happen (or wouldn’t happen) when he turned the key. God hates a coward he thought to himself as he inserted the key and gave it a twist. The starter engaged with a groan and a flock of sparrows squawked their protest as they took to flight. Their protests went ignored as the V-8 burst to life. Israel let out the breath he was holding and gave the dash a loving pat. He noticed the engine had developed a bit of a wheeze but was too grateful to worry about it.

“Thank you Lord.” He whispered. His hands were still shaking so he gripped the steering wheel to give them something to do. “Thank you Lord for the path that’s laid out in front of me, and thank you for the strength to walk that path.”

The taxi pulled free from the cornfield with little effort, he guided it back onto the blacktop and for better or worse, continued through the Nebraska panhandle.

Israel slowed down to read a sign, it said: Sidney 60 miles, Chaplin Hills 29 miles. Neither meant anything to him; he glanced at the gas gauge and shrugged. “Chaplin Hills it is.”

He drove through the darkness afraid to exceed forty miles per hour (his mind sprouted dancing deer on the side of the road every few miles) and thought about the end of times. Good men are no doubt capable of evil things . . . but are evil men capable of good? Israel contemplated this as he crept up on Chaplin Hills.

He dismissed the philosophy as he squinted at the towering grain elevators that were a staple of all towns in this part of the country. Even in the dark, he could see the large American flag that dominated the south side of the elevators. For no reason at all he thought of the tax dollars that must go into the beautification of small towns in the middle of fly-over country.

The Crown Vic slowed as Israel eased it onto the shoulder and took it out of gear. He smelled the smoke before he saw it. On the northeast corner of town, a dirty gray cloud billowed from what looked like a small-town high school, while bright orange flames burst from the windows. The 300 foot flag on his left and the burning school on the right offered unique bookends to Chaplin Hills and reaffirmed his position on avoiding towns—especially towns on fire.

About a mile south of town, an overpass crossed some railroad tracks as it led its way into town. Although it was dark, the moon was full and the town’s streetlights were still working, and of course, there was the fire. Israel rolled slowly down the gravel shoulder as he took stock of the town. He glanced down at his fuel gauge and sighed. There’s no avoiding Chaplin Hills it appears, he thought.

Just south of the overpass on the west side of the road was a small KOA campground. An old-fashioned set of gas pumps stood in front of the office, but Israel knew those wouldn’t be in working order. Although the campground appeared empty without even a single camper, there was a late model Dodge pickup truck and a state trooper’s squad car parked haphazardly in the paved parking lot. Israel flicked off his headlights and slowly approached the campground. If he could fuel up here, and avoid the town on the other side of that overpass, he would consider that another win.

The taxicab’s tires sounded amplified as they crawled down the gravel side-road that led to the campground. As he pulled into the parking lot, he stared intently at the two abandoned vehicles. The pickup’s cab was completely dark thanks to the tinted windows but the cruiser appeared empty, and in fact, the driver side door stood open. The hair stood up on Israel’s neck as he put the pieces together.

“The dome light’s out . . .,” Israel mumbled as he crept up on the scene. The door’s open, but the light’s out . . . the battery must be dead, the thought, that door must have been open awhile. That’s a good thing . . . everyone should be gone. “Should be gone, right?” He whispered to himself as he glanced at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. He shrugged noncommittally as he slipped the Crown Vic into park. He left the engine running, it purred quietly, wheezing ever so slightly, almost as if it had picked up X7.

Israel remained silent as could be as he snuck across the parking lot. He approached the police cruiser and tried to look everywhere at once. It was indeed empty, he saw the keys hanging from the ignition and reached in to check his hypothesis. He turned the key one notch but the cruiser was completely dead. He pulled his head out of the patrol car and quickly scanned the parking lot again; his nerves were on high alert.

One more glance at the black Dodge with the tinted windows and Israel decided to take his chances with the cruiser. He slowly pulled the taxi as close to the abandoned vehicle as he dared and slung the long, plastic hose from an old dishwasher, (one of the treasures he scavenged from a junkyard outside of Big Springs Colorado) over his shoulder and began stuffing it into the cruiser’s gas tank.

Israel sucked on the end of the hose until his mouth filled with the acrid taste of 89 octane. He spat the fuel to the ground and quickly stuck the other end of the hose into the taxi’s tank. It was a long process that took several mouthfuls of fuel to finish but in the end, the taxi had almost three quarters of a tank. That would get him far away from Chaplin Hills, and for Israel Escudero, that was all he needed.

He wrapped up his hose, tucked it away into the trunk, and crept back toward his open driver side door. He took one more glance at the black Dodge and the deserted office beyond it with a shudder. The moonlight cast it all in an ominous glow and night air was growing increasingly bitter. Israel slid behind the wheel of the Crown Vic and quietly shut the door. The engine remained running during the fueling process, so he shifted it into drive and began to roll across the parking lot.

This place will look good in the rear view mirror, he thought as he shifted his eyes to the mirror. What he saw in his backseat confused him for a moment. Israel saw it but his mind refused to understand.
Then he screamed.

Chapter 26

2011-12-10T22:43:00.003-06:00

The Cure

Dr. Marty Caulfield paced his office, formerly the late Dr. Shin’s office, and sighed. The cure for stage one of Exuvium7 was good news, but what did it mean really? Stage 2 was the real question, the bottom-line. He and Dr. Shin had gone back and forth on that subject ad nauseam and now the good doctor was dead, leaving the perpetually underachieving Dr. Caulfield as the top dog. The decisions were now his to make but he knew now that meant a whole lot of nothing. Being promoted because you killed your superior takes a little of the charm out of it.

The armed guards stationed to protect the facility were all dead. Marty’s stomach turned as he thought of those young men. The staff inside (those who hadn’t abandoned their work, taken their own life or succumbed to X7) watched the soldier’s last stand on the surveillance cameras. When the doctor closed his eyes he saw those young men, boys really, armed to the hilt and with a defend by any means necessary order. He and his colleagues watched in horror as wave after wave of infected overwhelmed the soldiers, eventually dragging the young men away and devouring them in broad daylight.

The sheer scope of helplessness was overwhelming. It turned out those guards died in vain; the infected didn’t care what they were doing in here and had no desire to break in and halt the research. The final stages of X7 gave victims the mental capacity of a starving caveman. A kill or be killed mentality that took centuries of existence to stamp out (if you believed it was ever stamped out to begin with) brought back almost overnight by, as far as they could tell, a bad batch of the flu vaccine.

Dr. Shin’s vaccine for stage 1 X7 is a bona fide, one-hundred percent scientific miracle and yet it’s still as worthless as tit’s on a boar. What good was the vaccine—or him for that matter—locked in a secured lab with more dead bodies than he cared to count? At least X7 doesn’t reanimate corpses he thought with a nervous chuckle.

Dr. Caulfield suddenly spoke to the empty office. “I should figure out how to operate that incinerator.” Just in case, he thought but didn’t say. He shot a nervous glance towards the room where Dr. Shin was currently strapped to a table and decomposing. The lights in the office flickered briefly breaking the doctor’s trance; he looked to his feet and put Dr. Shin out of his mind.

“It works. The vaccine works.” He reminded himself as he collapsed into the well-worn office chair.

Dr. Shin’s vaccine did work. It had cured countless animal test subjects and the good doctor himself, but it was completely useless against stage two of Exuvium 7. Stage two, for lack of a better phrase, wipes the slate clean, mentally speaking anyway. Once Dr. Shin had been convinced of the vaccine’s effectiveness on stage one, everyone was hopeful it would also prove effective on the more aggressive stage two.

By the time Dr. Shin’s vaccine had been ready for testing, the test subjects were in short supply. The monkeys, mice, frogs and beagles were running dry as the virus ran its course and unfortunately, new shipments would not be a top priority while the world continued its freefall. The small vertebrate animals tested with Exuvium 7 were not strong enough to survive the change from stage 1 to stage 2, which left only Maxine, a Peruvian squirrel monkey in the final violent stage of Exuvium 7, for testing. Maxine had a natural immunity to the airborne strain so they had injected her with stage 2. After a very short incubation period, Maxine had succumbed to the illness cementing the view that even those immune to the airborne strain were not safe from tainted bodily fluids. Maxine had killed her roommate Billie, a Rhesus Macaque, shortly after the test. She had eaten Billie.

Maxine had been growing weak from days of carrying the violent stage of X7 and both doctors thought the stress of the disease was killing her. They administered Shin’s discovery into Maxine’s blood stream at 1800 hundred hours last Sunday and when Dr. Caulfield woke early the next morning, Maxine was dead.

“What happened?” He had asked Dr. Shin.

“She’s gone.” The doctor said and Marty knew instantly, he had not slept.

They were both silent for a while. Finally, Dr. Caulfield said, “Was it . . . your vaccine?”

Shin didn’t answer and they both stood in silence. Marty Caulfield wondered (and not the first time) if the good doctor was losing his mind.

“No. She was too sick. Maxine was too sick . . . I took too long.” The doctor looked to his colleague. “It works Marty.” Dr. Shin said. His eyes were tired and sad. They were also crazy.

Caulfield was naturally immune to the airborne strain but Dr. Shin was not. He had tested positive for the disease while his vaccine, which had shown remarkable promise, was still in the infant stage. Everyone well enough to work slaved tirelessly on the vaccine and Dr. Shin had administered it to himself without a second thought. He suffered flu like symptoms for six to eight hours before he finally made a miraculous recovery. Even as men of science, they considered Shin’s discovery a miracle. The morning of Maxine’s death, Dr. Shin would ask for another miracle.

“You’re going to strap me on the test table and infect me with Stage two. I must prove to you it works.”

Caulfield stood silent but hardly surprised. He could see it in the doctor’s eyes.

“That’s a needless risk . . . and I won’t do it. No.”

“I’m not asking for permission Marty. Besides it’s going to work and we’re going to save the world.” He said, his lips smiled but his face was cold and hard.

“I don’t think it’s going to work.” Marty blurted out. “Maxine’s dead. You’ll be dead, and I’ll be here alone!”

Dr. Shin was a good man. He wanted to save the world from this grave mistake, or terrorist attack or whatever had brought Exuvium 7 to their door. He wasn’t interested in fame or fortune; he just wanted to save the world. He wanted to save his ex-wife, his two sons and six grand children that were scattered all over the country. He just wanted the world to continue.

Dr. Shin was a good man, but he was stubborn.

Eight hours later, Dr. Shin thrashed relentlessly against the binds that tied him to the test table. He spit blood in high arcs across the room as the screams of pain morphed into growls of rage.

The vaccine didn’t work.

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 25

2011-12-03T22:15:00.003-06:00

One night only

Suddenly, the 8^th Street Underground filled with the sound of breaking glass. Harry watched as the flashlight came to a stop on the floor, its light casting a bright swath across the narrow room. The beam of light reflected off the full-length mirror that made up the west-side wall. Harry and Willis watched in horror as a young man, a boy really, smashed his reflection in the mirror with insane ferocity. His blood poured down the spider-web-like cracks in the giant mirror until the boy had succeeded in destroying enough of it to eliminate his own likeness.

Willis sprung forward to grab the flashlight off the floor and without a second thought, grabbed the pool cue he had knocked over that was lying next to it. He shined the light in the face of the infected man that stood directly in front of him. Steven Robb, his fun loving former bass player. Willis remembered flipping him shit over his name back in their school days. Never trust a man with two first names they would say and laugh. Willis had known him since junior high, which would have made it the summer of ’98 or ‘99. He had recruited Steven to play bass, not because he was a good musician (Steve didn’t even play an instrument) but because he had cool hair. Steve wore his hair short now and as he fumbled his way to his feet, they saw his blond hair was now dirty, gray and clumped with dust and blood.

Harry stood with his back against the wall, his pistol held out in front of him in a shaky, two handed grip. He watched Willis point the flashlight at Steve with his left hand, while he held the pool cue in his right. For one absurd moment he was sure Willis was about to spin the pool cue ala the staff of a Shaolin Monk. He didn’t spin the cue but he did take a second to pan the flashlight around the room, more infected began to stir and with sickening awe, they saw other young concertgoer’s crawling to their feet. Were they sleeping? Harry wondered as he watched a half a dozen infected crawl off the dirty bar floor.

“Oh fuck,” Willis whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re gonna get outa here,” Harry responded quietly. He didn’t believe that and wasn’t sure why he bothered to say it, but he knew they wouldn’t quit without a fight. He leveled the pistol at Willis’s old band-mate.

Steve hobbled ever forward. His severed achilles tendon appeared to turn his ankle a dreadful black and yellow. He looked weak. He looked like he was dying.

“I’m sorry Stevie. I shoulda came sooner.” Willis sobbed with real regret.

Before Harry could pull the trigger, Willis swung the cue one-handed while he gripped the flashlight. As the cue arched through the air, his natural momentum caused the flashlight beam to dive towards the floor and then backwards. It was a strange sensation; to fight for your life while blind, with a light flashing through the air like a macabre version of cirque du soleil.

A sharp thwack noise echoed in the dark followed almost instantly by the crack of broken wood. A painful, tingly sensation reverberated through Willis’s right arm and shoulder. He shook out his arm in an attempt to revive feeling as he brought the flashlight back up and confirmed what he already knew. The pool cue severed itself over Steve’s shoulder but not before it sent the infected bass player collapsing to the floor.

Harry grabbed Willis’s shoulder and began pulling him back towards the exit. The flashlight panned across the room, illuminating mounds of dead bodies. God, they’re just kids! Harry thought and shuddered. In the back of the bar, more infected leaked out of the bathroom, successfully blocking the steps that led up to the street.

“There has to be another way outa here!” Harry said.

Willis didn’t answer; he just swung the flashlight about the room with an increasingly shaky hand.

“Hold it still!” Harry begged. “Wait . . . over there,” he pointed towards the stage. “What’s back there?”

“I don’t know!” Willis cried. “I don’t remember.”

“There has to be an exit back there. It’s a damn bar! City code . . . or something.”

“We have no fucking choice now! Let’s go!” Willis agreed.

They raced along the same wall they had been using as a guide towards the back of the club. More infected staggered out from behind the bar to see what the commotion was about. Steve the bass player had given up trying to walk and now crawled towards the two trespassers. These infected were different from those they had witnessed outside; they were less aware, less . . . alive.

As the two of them hurdled onto the stage, they frantically searched for a doorway. Harry reached the back corner of the stage and turned away in disgust. A man, who appeared to be in his mid twenties, lay dead, in a massive pool of blood. Handprints marred the congealed blood and were all around the dead man as if someone had been crawling through his viscera.

“Oh Christ . . .” Willis moaned, his voice cracking. “Oh Jesus . . . Riles. I’m so—”

Harry looked away as comprehension began to set in. Dear God, he knows that person, Harry thought with horror.

The dance floor began to flutter with movement. Harry watched the infected stammer about in a dazed stupor, as if they were just waking up from a deep sleep. He could only see four of them through the smoky darkness but he knew there was more. He could hear them.

Willis wanted to go to his dead friend, but stopped just short as he approached the moat-like pool of blood. Riley’s eyes were open and even in the dark, the fear and confusion was still there. Like Riley’s eyes, his throat was a red, gaping maw and similar chunks of flesh were missing from the inside of his left arm. Harry thought briefly of the red stains that marred Steve the bass players face and shuddered.

“We gotta get moving.” Harry said as his stomach turned from the carnage that surrounded them.

Willis didn’t answer; he just continued staring at his friend. He wanted to reach out and close those horrible, staring eyes but didn’t have the nerve. The shame he felt was painful, but it wasn’t enough to get him to step in that pool of blood and reach out across that dead face—over that gaping red hole.

Riley Wharton, drummer for Willis’s band, died just a week past his twenty-third birthday. Willis thought of Riley’s pregnant girlfriend Jessica and began to cry. On the dance floor, through the smoke like a rock concert, Steve continued to crawl towards the stage with a rage-fueled determination. Three-fourths of the band back together Willis thought with heart-breaking sadness. One nightmare after another.

Harry ran his hands along the curtain that hung along the back of the stage. “Will, a door!” Harry hollered. With great effort, Willis rose to his feet.

“Christ, it’s locked!” Harry said as he yanked on the unmoving doorknob.

A feral howl filled the small club and both of them jumped at the evil sound. It seemed the infected were finally rising from their slumber in the dark, smoky tomb.

“Shit, we gotta get this fucker open!” Willis yelled as he helped Harry pull on the door. He gave up tugging as the fire extinguisher that hung on the wall caught his eye. He dashed over to yank it off the wall when he saw her coming. A young girl came bellowing through the smoke at a jog. “Shoot this bitch!” Willis yelled.

Harry let go of the knob and saw the girl’s kamikaze approach. He pulled the pistol from his pants and tried not to calculate how old she was (or wasn’t). “God forgive me,” he whispered and fired as she reached the stage. The round caught her in the neck (he aimed for the chest) and the momentum spun her to the floor. She tried to get to her feet, but the blood and the life poured out of her in rivers. Harry stood in shock and watched her writhe. It didn’t last long.

Harry spun around at the sound of a metal on metal clang. He saw Willis swinging the fire extinguisher down on the doorknob repeatedly. He flinched on each impact and nearly cried with joy as the knob snapped off with a clang. Thank God he though as he took one last glance at the horde that approached from dance floor portion of the club. “Shit,” he mumbled as the fire extinguisher zipped by his head and bounced off the stage with a clang. It skittered across the dance floor as the infected teenaged zombies made their approach.

“Shoot that fucking thing!” Willis yelled.

Harry stared at him, the confusion etched across his face.

“The fire extinguisher!” Willis said. Suddenly Harry’s eyes widened with comprehension. Harry spun around and raised his pistol towards the charging group of teenaged cannibals. He took a deep breath and fired. The shot skipped off the hard floor, missing its mark. He exhaled slowly and fired a second shot; this one hit the fire extinguisher dead center. It erupted into scraps of metal and a thick white cloud. The two of them escaped into the back room under the cover of a cloud of smoke.

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 24

2011-11-27T22:03:00.002-06:00

In the midst
of a gross
darkness . . .

A second armored vehicle rolled south down 8^th street through the dust and spent shells from the first convoy. Holly was silent, but Willis could feel her crying as he lay on top of her. He was afraid she would attempt to join Demetri, who lay in an unmoving heap on the cold concrete. The humvee’s .50 caliber let loose an ungodly roar as the soldier operating it picked off targets in all directions. Buildings on both sides of the street, including Stuart’s, cratered under the impact of the deadly weapon.

The soldiers marched along the convoy (looking sinister in their Chem Gear) providing point and firing their rifles at any living souls that advanced. The ROE (rules of engagement) were in place from above, and each one dealt with it in their own way. These men were young and terrified; firing on American civilians as their first live action, was something they would all deal with later, if they were lucky enough to live through this.

“Ssh, just stay down . . . and quiet.” Willis whispered to Holly who struggled underneath him. She fought against Willis’s weight, but she did so without strong intent. She saw what happened. She knows the truth. Holly wanted nothing more than for this to end, to wake up from this horrible dream. Never have the daily machinations of life sounded so wonderful and yet so unattainable. She would never be able to sleep through another early morning class at the University, or slack off through a day at her part-time job at the mall, selling overpriced trendy clothes to others just like her. Worst of all, she would never see her boyfriend alive again.

“They’re almost gone.” Willis whispered in Holly’s ear as he watched the humvee roll slowly into the night. Eventually it disappeared into the fading light leaving only a trail of smoke and dead bodies. Holly remained quiet; he felt her chest lurch in uneven gallops as they pretended to be just another pile of dead bodies. He was afraid they wouldn’t be pretending if they didn’t start moving soon.

Over his shoulder, Willis watched Harry and Anna race toward an Old Home bread delivery truck that stood half on the sidewalk and half on the street. It leaned at an awkward angle as a No Left Turn street sign seemed to be growing out of its boxy front end. Harry unlocked and slid open the rear door, allowing Anna to crawl inside and disappear into the darkness. Harry joined her and motioned in Willis’s direction.

Willis wanted to feel sorry for Holly and Demetri but there wasn’t time. That would come later. “Get up girl.” He said as he made it to his feet. Holly remained motionless, taking her ‘dead body’ impersonation to the next level. While he waited impatiently for Holly to respond, he quickly surveyed the surroundings. The 8^th Street Underground sign caught his eye and filled him with a deep, unsuspected sense of loss.

“Come on Goddamnit!” Willis sneered as he grabbed her under the arms. She stood on her own but stared vacantly into Willis’s face. “Holly . . . get to the damn bread truck,” he said and pointed in the vicinity. Harry stood on the rear bumper and waved his right hand in a 'hurry up' gesture.
“Go!” He gave her a slight shove in the back and she finally began to move. Willis took two steps in that direction and then stopped cold in his tracks. After a second’s hesitation, he turned and ran for the building that once housed the 8^th Street Underground.

“What the hell are you doing?” Harry screamed. Willis was already out of earshot or was choosing not to answer. “Christ!” Harry uttered in disgust as he raced after him. “Stay there! We’ll be right back!” He hollered at Anna over his shoulder. She helped Holly climb into the bread truck and they slid the door down, leaving about a foot of clearance so they could keep an eye on the chaos.

Willis reached the entrance of the former club and began to scale the SUV that filled the doorway. The foyer was dark but he could see a lump in the floor; the memory of the woman with her eyes poked out filled his head. He hesitated for a moment but climbed onto the Jeep’s hood and began to slide in. He screamed in surprise as he felt fingernails scrape down his neck. Willis reached for something to brace himself as he felt the clawing fingers grab a handful of his shirt. He found nothing to support him as he fell violently to the concrete.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? What are you doing?” Harry asked louder than he intended as he towered over the former singer. Willis lay on his back and looked up at the dark silhouette of his friend.

“My friends were down there . . . they might still be down there!”

“You better hope not, ‘cause if they are . . . they’re dead Willis. Jesus man, look in there, its pitch fucking black . . . were you gonna just wander down there in the dark?” Harry asked and motioned to the dark opening as he loomed over Willis on the concrete.

“They were my friends!” Willis screamed as he scrambled to his feet. “They are my friends—”

“We have to get the hell outa here! It’s dark, there’s nothing we can do now. We gotta—”

“I left them!” Willis screamed with tears welling up. “I was too busy playing fucking house in that stupid building . . . I left them!”

“You didn’t leave anybody! You were unconscious in the street. We pulled you up there . . . we had no choice. You were gonna die out here.”

“Well, I’m here now and I’m gonna go get my friends . . . Gray’s been my best friend since fucking grade-school.” Willis struggled to maintain eye contact. “He’d come for me.”

They stood on the concrete amidst the broken glass and the burnt motor oil. “If he’s still down there, he’s dead . . . and you know it.”

Willis stared at him beaten. Broken.

Harry glanced back towards the wrecked bread truck. The large overhead door hung open a few feet and Harry could see two pair of eyes looking his way. Even from thirty yards away, Harry could sense their fear.

While Harry was distracted with the girls in the delivery truck, Willis saw his opportunity. He climbed back on the SUV’s hood and slid into the building. Harry sensed the movement before he saw it. He swung his head back around in time to see Willis dart his way into the building.

“Willis! No!” Harry stood frozen at the building’s opening in frustration as he watched his friend disappear into the darkness. Suddenly a light flickered and then a beam cut through the darkness like a razor. A flashlight. Anna’s flashlight, Harry thought.

Harry was thankful he recovered the revolver as he followed Willis into the darkness. “Wait up.” Harry said, trying not to make too much noise. The beam of light flashed around the foyer like a strobe light, illuminating the dead woman with the black holes where her eyes should have been. It was otherwise as it should be, dusty and filled with soot and glass from the fire and explosion. The light suddenly disappeared down the steps into the 8^th Street Underground.

Harry caught up with Willis as he reached the bottom of the stairs. They both stopped at the entrance, their eyes followed the beam of light as it scanned the underground nightclub.

“Breath through your shirt.” Harry offered. Smoke and soot filled the room; the flashlight cut through the darkness but did little to help with the smoke.

“I can’t see shit.” Willis whispered.

“Let’s go while we still can.” Harry said. Willis didn’t respond.

“We left ‘em back there.” Willis said as he pointed toward the stage. “I gotta check.”

Harry sighed loudly but followed his friend into the smoky darkness.

Beer signs and bar stools were their only hindrances as they shuffled along the east wall. The acrid smoke swirled in the flashlight beam, making visibility come and go with each cloud of smoke. “It’s a wonder this shit-hole hasn’t burnt down yet.” Willis whispered. Harry didn’t answer as they continued their way deeper into the (tomb) bar.

Willis kept the flashlight beam steady as they continued; Harry gripped his revolver tightly. Although the power in Stu’s building had still been operational when they left, it appeared the power to the 8^th Street Underground was currently in need of repair—repairs it would most likely never see. The shuffling of their feet and what sounded like dripping water was the only sound in the room.

“What’s that noise—” Willis began to say when his foot bumped into something. He saw the pool cue dive past his field of vision but it was gone before he could react. He flinched as it slammed off the hard linoleum floor. The both froze as the silence was shattered.

“Shit, sorry ‘bout—” Willis said but stopped as another set of shuffling footsteps mixed with theirs. Willis panned his flashlight about the room but the smoke was frustratingly thick. “Gray?” Willis asked meekly, "Is that you?" This brought about a gurgling growl to go along with the sounds of the footsteps. The sound of Willis’s voice seemed to bring a sense of urgency to the stranger in the room. “Gray? Riley? Are you here?” Willis rambled as he flashed the light around the room searching for the origin of the sound.

“There! Over there!” Harry said as he pointed across the bar. Something was moving through the smoke, around the tables with steady determination. Willis pointed the light in the direction Harry indicated and gasped when his old friend drug himself through the smoke and into the light.

“Steve,” Willis muttered under his breath, “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner . . . I’m so sorry.” Dried blood stained his face from his eyes to the unrecognizable concert shirt Steve had been wearing. He dragged his damaged foot behind him, creating a wet, scraping sound across the floor that sounded like a raw steak slapping against the counter.

“He’s one of them Will.” Harry said, on the edge of hysteria. Willis ignored him.

“Steve, Where is Riles and Gray? Come on bud, you can tell me.”

Steve answered by trying to run towards them with his damaged foot. He lost his balance and crashed to the floor, knocking over a large bar table sending in careening into another. The crash was ear shattering in the quiet room and the sound of more movement began to fill the room.

“Fucking hell!” Willis said as the flashlight suddenly began to flicker. He thumped it against his thigh and the light went out entirely. He slammed it even harder against his palm in a panic until the light slipped from his grasp. It bounced off the dingy bar floor once, then twice and then filled the cave with light as it spun a semi circle through the dust.

Chapter 24

2011-11-27T21:19:00.012-06:00

In the midst of
gross darkness . . .

A second armored vehicle rolled south down 8^th street through the dust and spent shells from the first convoy. Holly was silent, but Willis could feel her crying as he lay on top of her. He was afraid she would attempt to join Demetri, who lay in an unmoving heap on the cold concrete. The humvee’s .50 caliber let loose an ungodly roar as the soldier operating it picked off targets in all directions. Buildings on both sides of the street, including Stuart’s, cratered under the impact of the deadly weapon.

The soldiers marched along the convoy (looking even more sinister in their Chem Gear) providing point as they fired their rifles at any living souls that advanced. The ROE (rules of engagement) were in place from above, and each one dealt with it in their own way. These men were young and terrified; firing on American civilians as their first live action, was something they would all deal with later, if they were lucky enough to live through this.

Over his shoulder, Willis watched Harry and Anna race toward an Old Home bread delivery truck that stood half on the sidewalk and half on the street. It leaned at an awkward angle as a No Left Turn street sign seemed to be growing out of its boxy front end. Harry unlatched and slid open the rear door, allowing Anna to crawl inside and disappear into the darkness. Harry joined her and motioned in Willis’s direction.

“Go!” He gave her a slight shove in the back and she finally began to move. Willis took two steps in that direction and then stopped cold. After a second’s hesitation, he turned and ran for the building that once housed the 8^th Street Underground.

“What the hell are you doing?” Harry screamed. Willis was already out of earshot or was choosing not to answer. “Christ!” Harry uttered in disgust as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his truck keys. “Anna,” he said as he pressed the keys into her palm, “It’s parked just down the street and around the corner . . . to the west. Brown ford pickup,” he hesitated for a second, “We’ll meet you there, if we’re not there in ten minutes ...” He left the rest unsaid and raced after his friend.

Anna helped Holly climb into the bread truck; they slid the door down, leaving about a foot of clearance so they could keep an eye on the chaos.

Willis reached the entrance of the former club and began to scale the SUV that filled the former doorway. The foyer was dark but he could see a lump in the floor; the memory of the woman with her eyes poked out filled his head. He hesitated for a moment but climbed onto the Jeep’s hood and began to slide in. He screamed in surprise as he felt fingernails scrape down his neck. Willis reached for something to brace himself as he felt the clawing fingers grab a handful of his shirt. He found nothing to support him as he fell violently to the concrete.

“My friends were down there . . . they might still be down there!”

“They were my friends!” Willis screamed as he scrambled to his feet. “They are my friends—”

“We have to get the hell outa here! It’s dark, there’s nothing we can do now. We gotta—”

“I left them!” Willis screamed with tears welling up. “I was too busy playing fucking house in that stupid building . . . I left them!”

“You didn’t leave anybody! You were unconscious in the street. We pulled you up there . . . we had no choice. You were gonna die out here.”

“Well, I’m here now and I’m gonna go get my friends . . . Gray’s been my best friend since fucking grade-school.” Willis struggled to maintain eye contact. “He’d come for me.”

They stood on the concrete amidst the broken glass and the burnt motor oil. “If he’s still down there, he’s dead . . . and you know it.”

Willis stared at him beaten. Broken.

Harry caught up with Willis as he reached the bottom of the stairs. They both stopped at the entrance, their eyes followed the beam of light as it scanned the underground nightclub.

“Breath through your shirt.” Harry offered. Smoke and soot filled the room; the flashlight cut through the darkness but did little to help with the smoke.

“I can’t see shit.” Willis whispered.

“Let’s go while we still can.” Harry said. Willis didn’t respond.

“We left ‘em back there.” Willis said as he pointed toward the stage. “I gotta check.”

Harry sighed loudly but followed his friend into the smoky darkness.

“Shit, sorry ‘bout—” Willis said but stopped as another set of shuffling footsteps mixed with theirs. Willis panned his flashlight about the room but the smoke was frustratingly thick. “Gray?” Willis asked meekly. This brought about a gurgling growl to go along with the sounds of the footsteps. The sound of Willis’s voice seemed to bring a sense of urgency to the stranger in the room. “Gray? Riley? Is that you?” Willis rambled as he flashed the light around the room searching for the origin of the sound.

“There! Over there!” Harry said as he pointed across the bar. Something was moving through the smoke and around the tables with steady determination. Willis pointed the light in the direction Harry indicated and gasped when his old friend drug himself through the smoke and into the light.

“He’s one of them Will.” Harry said, on the edge of hysteria. Willis ignored him.

“Steve, Where is Riles and Gray? Come on bud, you can tell me.”

Steve answered by trying to run towards them with his damaged foot. He lost his balance and crashed to the floor, knocking over a large bar table sending it careening into another. The crash was ear shattering in the quiet room and the sound of more movement began to fill the room.

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 23

2011-11-19T16:58:00.005-06:00

The Devil's Highway

Israel Escudero’s mind wandered as his taxicab chewed up and spit out the miles. The chameleon like view outside his window changed from palm trees to high rises, to deserts to mountains, to the cornfield that now stretched out on both sides of the road. The throbbing shoulder wound he picked up in Parkston Nevada was the only thing keeping him grounded in reality. Israel drove his yellow Crown Victoria like a man with nowhere to go. He just kept driving.

He abandoned what he called home, a modest apartment in San Luis Obispo, in the infant stages of the virus, before the shit had completely hit the fan. Ahead of the curve for a change, he thought sardonically. He took the 101 to the 58 on his way to Bakersfield, traffic as usual, was a bitch. The Vic was a beast but it had large gas tank, so he blew through Bakersfield without bothering to fuel up. That plan nearly backfired as by the time Flagstaff popped up in his windshield, the abnormally high number of motorist’s had all but choked off Interstate 40 completely.

Twelve hours into his trip, interstate travel he learned, had become an exercise in futility. He got off the interstate at the Parkston Arizona exit and stopped at Mac’s Gas ‘n Get, where he filled his near empty gas tank the old fashioned way (at a pump with a credit card) for the last time. Israel paid for his gas at the pump and against his better judgment, went inside for some caffeine. The only gas station still open for business in Parkston was desolate save for the old man at the counter, Mac, Israel assumed. The clerk’s western style button-up shirt dripped a sickly sweat and a few days’ worth of white stubble poked out around a breathing mask. The man stared across the small store with a dreamy disconnected look in his eyes, while thick yellow mucus soaked through his mask. A little late for the mask, Israel thought.

“You all right old timer?” He asked although the answer to that question was painfully obvious.

The cashier clumsily pulled a pump action shotgun from under the counter and pointed it in the traveling patron’s direction. “You’ll be paying for that G’damn mountain dew. They’ll be no lootin’ in my store . . .” The cantankerous old man finished his proclamation with a racial slur that sounded like ‘wetback’, but through the man’s breathing apparatus and oozing phlegm, Israel couldn’t be sure.

“Whoa!” Israel said, instinctively raising his two twenty ounce bottles of Mountain Dew in the air. “I’m not stealing nothing friend. Already paid for the gas . . . just grabbing a drink for the road . . . got cash right here.” As he reached for his wallet, he could literally see the old man’s arm tense up. I don’t even like Mountain Dew, he thought regretfully as a muzzle flash lit up the dim convenient store like a lightning strike.

What felt almost like a bee sting to Israel’s left shoulder, paled in comparison to the blinding flash of light and the thunderous explosion that filled Mac’s Gas ‘n Get. The display of two-liter bottles of soda (two for $2.50) on his left disintegrated into a shower of plastic and high-fructose corn syrup. The shooter tumbled from his seat as the surprise recoil of the Mossberg caught the elderly cashier off guard. He regained his footing, pumped the shotgun and scanned the store for the looting bastard. The problem for Mac was his fever-scrambled brain had turned one looting asshole into three. He took aim at the closest one and prepared to fire.

Israel slipped in the growing pool of sticky soda and even though his ears were ringing, the unmistakable sound of a pump-action shotgun ejecting one shell while chambering another cut through the din like a razor. Israel stumbled to his feet and desperately searched the store for the hip-firing cashier, while fully expecting each new second to be his last.

The meager lighting in the store flashed sporadically, casting the firefight in an orange glow with shadows that danced like marionettes. Israel scrambled to his feet in time to see the elderly clerk had come from behind the counter and was holding the gun at the firing position, his finger on the trigger. The old man fired the weapon blinding them both and blowing the head off a cardboard cutout of Dale Jr. The blast sent Mac tumbling to the wet linoleum, severing his arthritic grip on his weapon; it clanged inharmoniously off the unforgiving floor. With only a moment’s hesitation (and without a thought of retrieving the shotgun), Israel ran for the small store’s exit.

His shoulder exploded in white-hot pain as he burst through the glass doors into the warm Arizona night. He clutched at his forgotten wound and raced for his getaway vehicle. The Crown Vic sat at the pumps; its yellow paint reflecting light from the overhead lamps like a beacon—a safe harbor. He resisted the urge to slide over the hood as if it was the General Lee and instead lumbered around the massive front end, hunched over and waiting for more gunshots. As he fumbled with the door handle, Israel noticed the store had gone dark. He flinched as several more gunshots went off, the muzzle flashes offered a quick, eerie glimpse of the stores interior.

A sigh of relief escaped his lungs as he sunk into the Vic’s well-worn seat. The V-8 roared to life and the tires literally screamed as he threw the car into drive and slammed on the gas. His head snapped back sending another fresh jolt of pain through his shoulder, but he had escaped Mac’s Gas ‘n Get—and for that, he was thankful.

The dark streets of Parkston were eerily empty and the sounds of his screeching tires were an affront to the sleepy little hamlet. Israel felt at home in the hustle and bustle of California and always felt a bit unnerved at the thought of small towns after dark. The seclusion and dead silence of towns like Parkston always felt like a trick, a careful ruse by the townsfolk to keep the evil in the dark, until it was time to unleash it on some unsuspecting outsider. Israel was an outsider, and wanted to remain that way. Each block he put between himself and that gas station brought a small amount of relief, as hollow as that relief may have been.

The interstate was out of the question, the slow crawl of traffic was all too similar to that of images made popular in post-apocalyptic fiction, where means of mass transit become nothing more than winding concrete graveyards, a place where scared citizens spent their last few hours—as if they were commuting to hell. As Israel exited Parkston via a northbound two-lane blacktop, He looked to the passenger seat and saw the two bottles of soda he had tried to purchase. I looted the store after all, he thought ironically. If only my parole officer could see me now.

* * * * *

Israel’s thoughts swam back slowly from the memory of his standoff at Mac’s Gas ‘n’ Get. He had spent most of the two days since that ordeal behind the wheel of his taxicab, driving north out of Arizona. Although he doesn’t remember it, he slept an hour and a half in his car off the side of a one-lane dirt road somewhere in New Mexico. He awoke in a cold sweat, with a nightmare that danced on the edge of his consciousness, yet remained just out of reach. He drove on in the dark, still dead tired but knowing more sleep was out of the question.

The state of Colorado brought the first real signs of the nation’s nightmare. Highway 160 was Israel’s guide through the horror, the crumbling of society measured one mile at a time. What was formerly Route 666, or what the locals call the ‘devil’s highway’, was littered with wrecked and abandoned vehicles. Expensive European and Detroit status symbols left behind and forgotten like the hulks of metal they truly where. He was able to keep a decent pace as most of the vehicles were to the side of the road and fellow travelers were few and far between.

In the town of Durango Colorado, Israel witnessed the first murder since his days incarcerated at the California Men’s Colony. It started on the sidewalk that lined Main Street, directly across from the Post Office. What looked like a minor disagreement escalated quickly into a full on brawl, as a middle-aged man wearing a sweat stained Coors Light baseball cap quickly gained the upper hand as he landed one vicious blow after another to the head of a shaggy haired teenager. The teenager flopped in unison with the impact of the older man’s cowboy boots as he brought them down on the boy’s head and ribcage. Israel slowed the Crown Vic as he avoided the traffic and the citizens of Durango as they ran about in panic and fear. He didn’t stop to offer help and he noticed nobody else did either. Israel took one last look at Durango in his rear view mirror and decided it would be wise to take a wide berth of all towns from now on.

Old Route 666 ended and left Israel no choice but to attempt interstate 25. Southbound traffic was extra heavy as a mass exodus of Denver was in full swing. The current circumstance filled Israel with a sense of impending doom as he drove north towards an area everyone seemed to be fleeing. Hi ignored his internal dialogue and continued on, although as he approached Castle Rock Colorado, he decided that was as close to Denver as he wanted to be. He exited the interstate and drove east in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains.

The last memory he had of Colorado was watching a flock of geese flying south through the taxi’s windshield. He imagined the geese migration due not to the frigid months that lay ahead, but instead to escape something far more sinister than the coming snow. Turn around and fly south Israel . . . while you still can, he thought to himself. The thought was so powerful he spent the next few miles looking for a solid place to turn around. Eventually he dismissed the idea, he felt something larger than free will pulling him along his current path—the hand of God he assumed. He was contemplating the path laid out in front of him when two floating silver globes caught his eye. Seconds later, his headlights illuminated a deer that stood frozen in the center of the two-lane road. He swerved and slammed on his brakes. The Crown Victoria’s tires lost their grip as they hit the loose gravel of the road’s shoulder and Israel begrudgingly accepted that the yellow taxi was no longer under his control. As the large Ford careened forward, directly in front of him, a Nebraska . . . the good life billboard filled the night’s sky.

The Story Continues Here . . .

Chapter 22

2011-11-11T13:19:00.010-06:00

Something Cold and Dark

A painful and wet cough racked Emy's lungs. She spit the pink tinged phlegm onto the dusty garage floor, and instantly dismissed the obvious ramifications of her illness. Emy was always good at compartmentalizing her feelings; she could thank Ollie Montage for that skill. Thanks to him she was good at stuffing all the most horrible things deep down inside. She thought of Ollie all too frequently since their unnatural relationship (especially her nightmares), and she thought of him now. Emy pulled her mom's gun, a compact Smith and Wesson .40 pistol, out of her waistband and set it on the seat as she slid behind the wheel. Those things were pounding on the garage door with equal parts rage and determination—it seemed they never tired.

Emy straightened her leg and reached into her pocket for her dad's keychain. One by one, she thumbed through the set of keys and for one horrible moment was certain she grabbed the wrong set. A deep, steady breath filled her lungs and remained until she stumbled upon the familiar key. A silent prayer filled her head as she slid the key into the ignition and engaged the starter. The Suburban's engine roared to life sending the things surrounding the garage into a frenzy. She pulled her seatbelt tight and shifted her dad's Suburban into drive, with her foot on the brake she slowly began to give the engine gas. The massive vehicle bucked back and forth, as it protested the gas and brake at the same time. The garage began to fill with smoke and the smell of burning rubber, Emy knew it was now or never. She closed her eyes just as she pushed the gas pedal to the floor and released the brake. The tires gripped immediately, throwing the Suburban forward. The SUV blew through the garage door like a football team running through a cheerleader's paper banner.

Emy felt the impact with the door and her stomach turned as she felt, with sickening clarity, the Suburban roll over those things that were either too slow or too stupid to get out of her way. Her eyes flew open just in time to see the neighbors parked Honda flash by mere inches from the lumbering battering ram she piloted. The Suburban barreled into the neighbor's yard and was on a collision course with the giant picture window that dominated her neighbor's abandoned two-story home. Without thinking, Emy instinctively jerked hard right on the SUV's steering wheel, turning Mrs. Van Leeuwen prized rose bushes into maroon and green road-kill. Be it sheer luck or the grace of God, but Emy was able to steer the oversized SUV back onto the road; she realized the screaming was coming from her as she ran through the stop sign on the corner. A look in the rear view mirror showed dozens of them pouring out of every nook and cranny of the neighborhood to give chase. She gave the Suburban more gas and breathed a sigh of relief as the fiends began to shrink in her mirror.

I'm coming Ollie. After all these years.

I'm coming for you.

******

Emy approached the corner of 35^th and Sumter and stared cold at the rundown building that marred an otherwise quaint neighborhood. Ollie's store, Montage Gun and Pawn, hulked over the fellow businesses and homes in the area, much like Ollie himself did to those unfortunate enough to strike his fancy. The two-story building hid behind faded grey stucco, the dingy second story windows, sans curtains, stared back at Emy with morbid curiosity. She knew he'd be here, not upstairs in his living quarters and not in the store on the lower level, but back in his storage room—the one with the padlock.

The Suburban idled smoothly, awaiting further orders at the end of the block like a good soldier; Emy slipped it into park and after a few moments, relieved it of duty. With the Chevy's engine dead, the silence was unnerving; she grabbed her mother's gun (her gun now) but felt confident she wouldn't need it.

Without looking, the young orphan casually walked across the street. She cinched the hood of her red sweatshirt tight against the crisp Nebraska wind, as she stalked her own big bad wolf.

It was unusually dark for midday as the sun fought a losing battle for traction with the gloomy October clouds, Halloween has come early Emy thought and frowned. It was silent but for the shuffling of Emy's sneakers on the sidewalk and the breeze that danced through the trees.

She approached the front door of Ollie's shop and saw the large window to the left of the door was broken, she had expected that. After a deep breath, Emy gripped her pistol tightly and stuck her head through the opening. It was quiet and appeared to be empty. She climbed through the window and took caution to avoid the glass on the floor. The smell and sight of blood had become commonplace over the last week and she was thankful she didn't see or smell any here.

Emy saw that someone had smashed the cash register into the glass display case that doubled as a counter. The register was empty and all but a few handguns were gone from the case. Another good sign, only the normal people wanted guns and money—the others didn't need guns.

Emy quietly searched Ollie's small pawnshop until she was convinced it was clear. It was time to finish her business she felt, but paused as her eyes fell upon a notebook leaning against an Albert Pujols bobble head in Ollie's office. She took a seat in his desk chair and thumbed through the chicken scratch handwriting until she found some blank pages. She didn't understand why exactly, but she wanted to explain herself, so she told her story. For the first time ever, Emy Whiteside told her story; she let the light shine on her dark secret for the first time and showered in the warmth. She looked at the ugly words on the page and marveled at the sense of peace that washed over her. Good enough she thought as she set the notebook, opened to her story, on the front counter by the shop's entrance. After a second thought, she pulled the gun from her pants and set it on top of the notebook. A drop of blood splashed onto the page, Emy touched her nose and felt the blood coming. It's time.

She opened the door marked employees only and grew cold as she looked down the dark hallway towards the door of her nightmares. She could see the light from Ollie's backroom under the door and knew he was there, cowering in his den of perversion, waiting to die. Too afraid to defend his own store, how could I have been so afraid of this cowardly piece of shit Emy thought? She stood in the mouth of that dark hallway for the first time in four years, not with fear this time, but with something else—something cold and dark.

"Ollie?" She called. "Are you there?" Total silence, but Emy could feel him.

"It's Emy, Emy Whiteside. You used to . . . play games with me. My family is dead, all of them. I have nowhere to go."

"Emy, is it really you?" Ollie whispered.

"Yea . . . yea Mr. Montage, it's me"

"Oh how I've missed you little girl, it's like a . . . miracle."

"It is a miracle Mr. Montage, are you gonna save me?" If Ollie could have seen her face, he wouldn't have let her in.

Emy heard Ollie unlocking the door and smiled.

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 21

2011-11-05T14:30:00.004-05:00

Bury your Dead

Kyle Chambers stood in the shadows of his backyard, a look of grim resolve etched across his face. At his feet, three shallow graves scarred the once perfectly manicured landscape. Mom loved her yard he thought as he wept into his dirty, blister-covered hands. He sobbed silently as he leaned on his father's shovel. It took him three days to muster the courage to leave his house, but now with the task completed—his family laid to rest—he almost forgot about the cosmic pile of shit the world had stepped in.

Although it had been awhile, Kyle stumbled through what he remembered of the Lord's Prayer at the head of his father's grave. He knelt in the dirt and sat with his family one last time, the weight of his sadness and loss outweighing the fear for the first time in days. Under the oak tree that would now shelter his mother, father, and his little brother Michael, he spilled his heart onto the fresh dirt. He told them everything, things a fifteen year old could never have told them, had they still been alive. That is a bitter lesson to learn at any age, but he learned it well.

The sun was beginning to set and Kyle didn't want to leave his families side, but he knew his neighbors were sick; he had seen them and other Crazies, (that was the word Kyle used for those infected) wandering about the neighborhood, blood caked from forehead to ribcage. He decided he didn't want to die just yet; at least not like that. He opened the door to the garage where the familiar smell of oil, gas and dust brought a sad form of comfort. On the right, next to a sheet of pegboard that was home to various hand tools his father would never teach him to use, was the hook for the shovel. He hung the shovel, and after a second thought, grabbed the old baseball bat that leaned against the wall underneath a calendar filled with muscle cars and half-naked women. He tried unsuccessfully to forget all the times he had told his dad he was too busy to play ball, and that brought fresh tears and the kind of deep, painful sobs that make it hard to breath.

Kyle wept in the dirty garage until the sun was just an orange sliver on the horizon. He noticed too late that the last of the sun was showing the outline of three people through the opaque overhead garage door. His heart jumped into his throat, and he found himself frozen to the floor. The door used an automatic opener, so Kyle knew they couldn't get in from that side, but if they thought someone might be in here—he wouldn't be able to keep them out for long. Kyle took a quick glance over his shoulder at the walk-through door. Through that door he figured, was a sixty feet stretch to the back door of his house. He took one silent step in that direction and tried to picture himself running through his back yard with those things chasing him, but he couldn't do it; the fear was overwhelming—paralyzing.

Keep walking, please just keep walking, Kyle thought. The three ominous outlines in the alley were not moving on however, and finally one of them took a few steps toward the garage door until its face would have been only about six inches away from it. Kyle held his breath until his head began to swim. He stared at the three silhouettes for what seemed like an eternity, as he tried to convince himself that they might be fellow survivors like him. The growling and grunting started so low it almost seemed to be coming from somewhere else. Horrible memory fragments of the last evening his family were alive flash across his subconscious, the violence, the anger, the blood—but mostly the growling.

Kyle forgot he was carrying the baseball bat until he bumped it into a shelving unit causing a can of lubricant to totter off the shelf. Kyle watched it sway, he tried to catch it on the way down but of course, he missed. It let out a quick spray as it landed on the nozzle and then loudly rolled off where it came to a rest against a bag of grass fertilizer. The thing closest to the overhead door slammed its fists into the fiberglass, breaking Kyle's paralysis. He grasped the doorknob and tried to push open the door before he finally realized he was going the wrong way. Even after losing those precious seconds, Kyle had a good 25-foot head start and even took a second to glance over his shoulder as he jumped onto the deck. All three of the Crazies were in pursuit including Ethan, his friend from school. I slept over at Ethan's house just a month ago, Kyle thought randomly. He reached the screen door and threw it open, tearing the spring off the door jam. The door bounced off the side of the house, swung back and actually latched itself. The kitchen was dark as he stumbled in, kicking the main door shut just seconds before Ethan and the two strangers crashed into the screen door. Kyle threw the deadbolt and scampered through the kitchen as he heard the glass from the screen door shatter.

The carpeted stairs disappeared two at a time under his feet as he raced for his second story sanctuary. The window in his bedroom offered a panoramic view of the backyard and much of the neighborhood. Ethan and the other two stalkers were out of sight as they battered the Chamber's house, intent on smashing their way in and destroying their prey, even if their diseased brains didn't know why it wanted such destruction. More Crazies filtered out from the bushes to the west while another dozen converged on the house from the alley to the south. It wasn't long before Kyle's yard looked like a battlefield as wave after wave of Crazies stormed casa de Chambers. They assaulted his house with a tireless zeal that left him feeling utterly hopeless. He cringed as he heard a window break on the main floor and wondered casually how long before they could pound their way in.

Kyle drug himself across the hallway to his parents' bedroom. He wanted a shower but settled for washing his hands and face; he stared at the mirror but only saw his father's reflection. Thankfully, he had no tears left, he grabbed his baseball bat and headed to his parents closet—the only place he had felt safe—to fall asleep.

The pounding in his head and on his house continued and seemed to come from everywhere. Suddenly the sound of pots and pans being tossed about exploded from downstairs causing Kyle to jump. What sounded like a hundred footsteps came from below as the creatures defiled his belongings. He clutched himself tight as he lay in the fetal position, tucked in the back of his parent's dark closet. The fever that ran through his body was unmistakable now as the warm, metallic taste of blood filled his dry mouth. Footfalls echoed from the steps as the door to his parent's bedroom exploded inward. He stifled a sneeze and grew cold at the last thought that crept through his sleep-deprived mind.

Who is going to bury me?

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 20

2011-10-30T19:41:00.006-05:00

The Tip of the Spear

The room spun around slowly while barely human shrieks and moans came at them from all directions. Wood cracked and splintered as doors caved in and fell. Glass cracked and exploded as hands, feet and heads smashed through them. Hundreds of angry footfalls called out, although no one was listening. For a few short minutes, time slowed to a crawl for the five breathing souls in apartment 3f, but for the two that lay in growing pools of crimson, time had come to an abrupt and final halt.

Demetri used the kitchen counter to keep himself upright as he resisted the sudden urge to vomit over the already unrecognizable apartment they had called home the last 36 hours. He stared blankly as the others huddled loosely around Stu; he could hear Anna weeping as she continued to administer chest compressions to the dead man on the floor—the man who had taken them all in.

"Stop it!" Holly shrieked. "He's dead! Stop it!"

Oblivious, Anna continued her futile efforts. Harry grabbed her fists and held her tight.

"We have to go . . . we have to get outa here." Harry whispered into Anna's ear. She began to slow her thrashing as she eased into Harry's embrace. She buried her face into Harry's chest, adding tear streaks to the sweat and grime that coated his estranged wife's favorite shirt.

The sound of broken glass followed by the feral growl of one of the infected assaulted them from the balcony. Willis swung open the glass door and peered over the edge. "Shit." He said under his breath. Two infected women thrashed about on the second floor balcony directly below them. One of them sporting short, curly brown hair spotted someone in the distance and inexplicably leaped over the balcony ledge. The overweight woman caught her foot on the railing and fell the 15 feet headfirst, breaking her neck in a final and violent snap.

One less fuck-wad to worry about, Willis thought wickedly just as another infected—a teenage boy wearing a 'Shoot the Glass' t-shirt—wandered onto the balcony below them. Willis frowned and turned away. "I got an idea," Willis muttered as he raced off to Stu's bedroom. Moments later, he reemerged dragging a bed sheet behind him. "Come on . . . 3d, we gotta get to 3d." He deftly hurdled the remains of the apartment's ruined front door without bothering to confirm the others were following him, he knew they would.

The others shared a confused look but one by one, they followed the brash front man down the hall. As Harry trailed the others, he took a second to glance at the barricaded door that led down to the second floor. Long, pale fingers clawed and grasped around the door, as it would only move a few inches inward until it met the bulk of the three refrigerators they had stacked against it. He thought it would hold up against one infected, but if one became two—or three?

"What are you doing?" Demetri asked as they piled in apartment 3d and locked the door behind them.

"We're getting the fuck outa here, and we gotta do it fast. Come on." Willis said. He sprinted to the balcony, threw open the glass door and looked over the edge. "It's clear," he said with relief as he began tying the expensive looking top sheet he stole from Stu's bed to the metal railing that secured the third floor balcony.

"You gotta be kidding me!" Demetri bellowed, clasping his head in his hands with exaggerated shock. "That's the best we got? We're gonna escape using a rope made of sheets. This ain't the
three stooges."

"We just gotta drop to the balcony on the second floor . . . we'll only be 15 feet or so from the ground from there." Willis said with a look on his face that said this should all be obvious. He turned back to continue tying the knot like the conversation should be over, which as far as Willis was concerned, it was.

Harry was using the peephole when the hallway suddenly began to fill with shadows. His eyes grew wide as a line of infected shambled by.

"Ssh. They're through." Harry whispered. He maneuvered himself as quietly as he could to the others as they stood at the glass door to the balcony.

Demetri looked at Harry accusingly as he pointed at Willis and his sheet. "We gonna do this?"

"We've got no choice." Harry said gravely. "They're here." He glanced over his shoulder at the piece of wood that separated them from the evil in the hallway. "Is it tight?" He asked Willis, his eyes locked on the bed sheet that hung over the ledge.

"Fuck yea it's tight," Willis said, "my brother showed me." He added.

"What if that apartment is full of those goddamn things?" Holly asked.

"I'll go first . . . and hope the blinds are pulled." Willis said and shrugged. "It'll have to be good enough."

"What do we do when we get down? Where we gonna go?" Anna asked.

"My truck is just down the street, I parked around the corner from that bar." Harry said. "We can take it and get the hell outa here." He said with a jingle of his truck keys.

No one said a word; Willis took that as confirmation and climbed over the rail. His don't feed the zombies sign still hung there, but somehow didn't seem to be funny anymore. He wrapped his fists around the sheet and began to slide down. The tendons and muscles in his forearms strained as he gripped the sheet until his feet touched the railing on the second floor balcony. He shot a nervous glance at the balcony door and gave a thumbs-up to the survivors as they all peered over the edge with a look of relief on his face.

"All right, ladies next. Come on." Harry said.

Anna extended her hand, palm up in an after you gesture to Holly, who only shook her head. "Ok." Anna said and gracefully mounted the railing. Demetri and Harry stood next to her nervously, trying to help but not finding much to do. Anna adroitly scaled the rail and gripped the sheet with both hands, deeming it worthy with a quick tug. She grimaced as her feet left the rail, putting her full weight on Stuart's 1,000 thread count sheets. She shimmied down the cotton rope and welcomed Willis hands as he grabbed her thighs and pulled her safely onto the second floor terrace.

"You're next babe, I'll hold you . . . you'll be alright." Demetri said as Holly shifted her weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to psych herself up. He put his arms out to help her up and she nodded her approval. He picked her up effortlessly and hoisted her onto the other side of the barrier and safely on the ledge. "Grip it tight as you can and don't let go till he has you on the ground," he said to his girlfriend. "Be ready." Demetri shot down to Willis who nodded with a look of determination etched crossed his features.

She put a scare into them all as she slid much too fast down the sheet. Willis groped for her frantically and caught her at the knees, burying his face into her stomach as Anna helped secure them both to safety.

The look of fear on Demetri's face morphed into relief as Holly's feet landed safely on solid ground. Harry's heart ached for a moment in jealousy forcing him to dismiss it in shame. Multiple fists pounding on the door to the apartment shot a bolt of panic through the last two survivors that remained on the third floor. Demetri gave a quick glance towards Harry, but shot over the ledge and slid down in one fluid motion. Harry waited until Demetri's was free from the sheet and climbed over the rail. He was facing the front door to the apartment when it finally succumbed to the beating it was taking from the infected creatures on the other side. Harry saw a group of them stumble over themselves as they flooded into the apartment, he dropped over the ledge and slid down the sheet hoping they hadn't spotted him.

"I'm gonna jump from here," Willis said and pointed at Demetri, "you can hang whoever needs help over the edge and I can help catch at the bottom, Ok?"

"Okay, but do it now!" Harry said.

Willis crawled over the ledge, gripped the lowest metal rod on the railing and dropped the fifteen feet to the concrete below. They used the same order from earlier and Willis's plan went off without a hitch.

A rolling smoke clouded the survivors view from the street as the last sliver of sunlight hid behind a row of buildings. The bodies of both infected and uninfected littered the street and sidewalk. The group huddled behind a delivery truck and looked for clear route in the direction of Harry's truck. Pockets of those infected huddled together at both ends of the block with stragglers wandering about in between.

"They're fucking everywhere!" Demetri cried.

"Were gonna have to make a run for it," Willis said with a shaky voice.

Sporadic gunfire had become commonplace recently but the steady rumble of approaching automatic weapons stunned the survivors. The hoard of infected on the north end of 8^th street let out a collective scream of anger (or hunger) but began to fall as an ungodly roar of gunfire began to tear them to shreds. The survivors dove for cover as bullets skipped by them in a thunderous cacophony of rage.

Within seconds, the infected that blocked their exit lay dead, literally torn to shreds by the volley of bullets that tore through the haze. Third platoon, marching in diamond formation, emerged from the smoke wearing olive drab camo and NBC suits to protect them from breathing the potentially hazardous air. A few paces behind the soldiers, a humvee rolled along menacingly. The mounted .50 caliber machine gun swung around slowly as the soldier behind it scanned for hostiles.

"Thank God!" Holly yelled with her ears ringing.

Anna began crawling to her feet when Harry pulled her to his hiding spot at the rear of the delivery truck.

With a look of relief and pure joy, Demetri ran for the soldiers, "Help, we're over here!"

"No! Get back . . . stay down!" Harry yelled but Demetri couldn't hear him. The soldier on point raised his weapon at the sight of the large black man that approached him. LCpl. Johnson had time to see the civilian speaking, which he knew the infected couldn't do, but he understood the new rules of engagement and put a three round burst to the man's chest, just as he had been trained.

"No!" Holly screamed as Demetri fell to the street unmoving. She tried to get to her feet but Willis threw himself on top of her and held her mouth tight as the rolling thunder continued down the street, shooting anything that moved.

Part II of A Devil in God's Country starts here . . .

Chapter 19

2011-10-23T16:15:00.007-05:00

The Tower Crumbles

    Donald stood awkwardly in the doorway, his hair stuck to his face in bloody, greasy clumps giving him at least a passing resemblance to Cousin It. The battered and bloody remains of one set of pink handcuffs dangled from his left wrist while his right hand hung limp, twisted and useless; the handcuffs from this hand were gone.

The survivors were stunned silent as Donald jerked his head from one corner of the room to the other as if he were using a keen sense of smell to hunt his prey. The sound of multiple footfalls running through the halls above and below them wasn't the only sound in the room—but it was the only sound that mattered. They realized at once the security and safety they felt in Stu's building was a facade.

Stu raised his hand to his mouth without even realizing it. Donald sensed the move and responded with an ear shattering feral growl that morphed into a moan of pain. He threw himself forward as the survivors scattered.

* * * * *

Harry leaned over the side of the balcony as the smoke and dust crept its way toward them. Anna gasped as she saw people leaping from the windows of the 16-story building with little regard to the deadly impact that awaited them. She stood behind Harry, hands clamped tightly to his waist as she watched the disaster over his shoulder.

"God . . ." was the only word Anna could muster as she removed her death grip from Harry's waist and pointed toward a mob of infected as they raced toward their building. Harry didn't respond, he just watched, as dozens of figures seemed to spit out of every building and alley as far as he could see. Some of them weren't sick and those stood little chance. The infected pounced quickly and devoured those who had yet to succumb to the virus.

Dozens quickly became hundreds as man, woman and child darted back and forth through the streets of downtown Lincoln, their bloodstained features barely visible from the third floor balcony. The bodies of dead and dying infected littered the streets mixed with the corpses of former survivors who had been hiding about; no doubt hoping beyond hope this was just a nightmare and they would soon wake up.

They both watched as roughly a dozen infected disappeared at the base of their building, "That's the lobby . . . we gotta move!" Harry said as he pulled Anna through apartment 3d with his left hand while he gripped the .38 revolver in his right. He may have looked like an action-movie-hero as he held the pistol out, but he felt like a fraud. He hadn't fired a gun since grade school, and that was only a pellet gun. Ironically, Anna was the only one in the group who had ever fired a real gun before and hers was stuck forgotten in her waistband.

They approached the door slowly as Harry tried to listen for movement in the hallway. He thought briefly of the piss-poor barricade they put up at the entrance to the third floor and shuddered. They wouldn't be alone for long.

"We're gonna have to leave the building aren't we?" Anna asked, but she already knew the answer.

"Come on." Harry said. He opened the door and was relieved to see the hallway empty. They scrambled toward Stu's apartment when Anna stopped and nearly pulled Harry on his ass in the process.

"Look." She said. Harry looked towards the room where they had been holding Donald; the door was open. Anna bolted through with the homeless man's name on the tip of her tongue, but the words stuck in her throat. She was suddenly certain he was waiting for her, waiting to strike at the sound of her voice. As she reached her failed holding cell, she saw he wasn't waiting for her to speak because he wasn't there. The bed frame was on its side and the blood-streaked mattress lay awkwardly on top of an overturned bedside table. One set of pink handcuffs hung from the mangled headboard.

"Oh Christ!" Harry said and scrambled through—what was until yesterday—someone's home. As he entered the hallway, his heart sank at the sight of Stu's front door. It was marred with streaks of gore and hung askew; the top hinge pulled free from the doorframe leaving nothing but gaping screw holes. Harry stormed through the doorway with Anna on his heels and abruptly lost his footing as he stepped in something wet and slippery. His arms flailed wildly as he tried and failed to keep his balance. The room was a bastion of chaos as Harry landed hard on the floor. Holly's scream cut through the pandemonium like an angry drill sergeant's bark.

* * * * *

    As what was left of Donald sprang forward at the first sight of movement, the survivors scattered in all directions. Demetri steered Holly towards the bedroom while Willis moved toward the kitchen. Stu's first instinct was to follow Willis but hesitated for a fraction of a second as he noticed Holly and Demetri going the opposite direction. His indecisiveness left him frozen.

    Donald was hemorrhaging blood from his nose and mouth, leaving puddles of gore all over the apartment. He swung the hair out of his face displaying a bloody, gruesome visage as he leaped toward Willis and the kitchen. Willis stared for a second at the horrifying face of the drug-addled trespasser but continued toward his destination when he realized Donald was coming for him. As he reached the kitchen island that separated it from the dining room, he reached for the bread knife Stu had been using for lunch. Willis swung around with the knife in hand, just as Donald approached. Willis swiped the knife at Donald's reaching, clawing hands as the lone set of handcuffs swung wildly. The knife severed two fingers, sending a spray of infected blood cascading across the room, before it lodged itself into Donald's ring finger and came free from Willis's grasp. The knife clanged off the counter top and landed on the blood-spattered tile of Stu's kitchen.

    Demetri spotted the scuffle and after a nanoseconds hesitation, gave Holly a hard shove toward the bedroom, "go!" He shouted as he turned to throw himself into the fight. Meanwhile, Stu remained frozen in fear and indecision.

    Willis lunged for the knife, knowing it was probably too late but fearing it was his only option. As he rolled across the tile floor and reached for the weapon, he felt Donald's warm, greasy three-fingered grip on his neck. His eyes grew wide as he strained himself reaching for the knife; panic surged through him as he realized he wouldn't be able to reach it.

    Demetri approached the two as they scuffled on the kitchen floor. He saw Willis's outstretched hand groping franticly for the bread knife as he tried to claw a few inches closer. He's not gonna make it, Demetri thought as he watched Donald attempt to sink his teeth into Willis's skinny tattooed arm. Demetri screamed in fear and anger as he reached down and grabbed a handful of Donald's filthy hair. The infected bastard snapped his mouth shut, just missing the flesh it had targeted and growled in rage. While gripping the handful of hair, Demetri grabbed Donald's tattered shirt and lifted him up, and with a grunt, threw him over the kitchen island.

    Donald landed hard on the floor but was already on his feet before Demetri could pick Willis off the floor. "Dem, watch out!" Holly screamed as she huddled in the doorway to Stu's bedroom. Stu was still silent and unmoving; watching the nightmare from what he hoped was a safe distance. Donald turned his attention to Holly before the words had finished coming out of her mouth. She saw the thing coming at her but could hardly believe it was real.

    "No!" Demetri screamed as he watched Donald explode towards his girlfriend.

Stuart watched as the horror erupted in front of him. Before he knew what was happening he jumped out and tackled the frothing, infected creature he had helped handcuff to a headboard. His tackle drove Donald to the ground but he realized too late, he didn't know what to do from there. The bloody creature bucked underneath him with surprising ferocity, turning the tables on Stu with horrifying quickness. Donald's gore-soaked beard dripped into Stu's face as he screamed in fear. His vision clouded over as he tried to blink the infected blood away. Stuart's scream turned to a bubbly gargle as Donald sunk his rotten teeth into Stu's throat. He ripped his head back violently sending a crimson spray in all directions.

    Harry stumbled through the doorway seconds later and promptly fell to the bloody carpet, his revolver slipped from his grip as he cemented his status as non-action movie worthy. Holly let loose an ear-splitting scream that simultaneously stunned and woke up the remaining survivors. Anna instinctively pulled her dead roommate's 9mm from her waistband and leveled it at the man who had begged her to kill him just a few hours ago. Better late than never, she thought as she pulled the trigger sending a round through the back of Donald's head. He slumped forward and fell on top of Stuart with a wet plop.

    Harry clawed himself to his feet and stumbled towards the mound of limp bodies. Donald's dead body twitched as shorted neurons fired from his wrecked brain. Harry shoved it aside while the others crowded around. Stuart looked up at them with wide terrified eyes, his mouth moved slightly, probably involuntary as blood seeped from his neck and between his lips.

    "I'm sorry." Harry said, but Stuart was already dead.

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 18

2011-10-14T21:51:00.005-05:00

Please don't feed the zombies!

Although Stu had helped the others clear the third floor and—after Donald showed up at their door—also barricade the entrance from the second and fourth floor, he still didn't like to be in the hall by himself, so after he dropped off Anna's sandwich he scurried quickly back to his apartment. It seemed the meeting had started without him. Harry and Willis were setting at the dining room table while Demetri paced back and forth in the main room.

"What choice do we have?" Harry asked as he stared fiercely in Demetri's direction.

"I don't know, but we can't just kill him. He's tied up . . . you wanna kill him while he's fucking tied down?" Demetri clenched and unclenched his fists in the pockets of his loose fitting jeans.

"We don't know he's one of them yet." Holly reminded them. "We're not gonna kill anyone if we don't have to."

"We don't have to kill anyone!" Demetri said as the frustration threatened to boil over. "You're on your own with that job dude. I ain't gonna have nothing to do with that."

"Fair enough." Harry said and meant it. He wasn't going to delegate that job to anyone, but if he felt it needed to happen, he wouldn't ignore it.

"Sweet! Anna found some cards," Willis said and looked at the others hopefully. "Let's play some fucking cards!"

Harry smiled, he appreciated Willis's skill at keeping everyone light, even if he didn't realize he was doing it.

"I'm down." Holly said from her corner of the dining room. That caught them all by surprise.

"Me too." Stu said with smile.

Harry looked at Demetri and motioned towards the table where Willis was shuffling the newly found deck of cards. Demetri hesitated but eventually pulled up a chair next to his girlfriend and before long, the game was underway.

* * * * *

Anna was scared silent. She stared at Donald as he thrashed wildly in the bed that was also his cage.

"It fucking burns . . . Help me!" He wanted to scream but his throat was closing off and could only manage a weak croak.

"You lied to us didn't you? You're sick." Anna asked finally. Donald didn't answer. He didn't have to.

"Oh Jesus! I don't wanna go like this . . . it's not fair. Please help me lady. Please!"

"I'm here for you Donald! Just calm down, I can't help with you thrashing around." She was crying and doing her best to comfort him, although she had no idea what to do.

Donald kicked his legs violently as his muscles cramped and convulsed. The blood vessels in his eyes were bursting and his wrists bled profusely from the handcuffs that dug in as he pulled at them desperately.

Eventually the pain of Donald's transformation subsided. He laid there broken and exhausted—and changed.

"Kill me."

Anna shook her head. "I'm gonna take care of you . . . I promise." The nursing student whispered. She stood next to Donald's bed, but not too close.

"You chain me up like a fuckin' anim—" Donald puked up bloody bile on his chest and shook his head in disgust and anger that he couldn't finish his rant. He spit off to his right side and cast a frigid stare at Anna on his left. "If you wanna take care of me, you'll kill me . . . I'm already dead." His words were cold but his voice was sad and weak. He made one more effort to get what he wanted. "If you don't, I will get outa these," he glanced at his wrists, "and . . . God help us all." He emphasized this with a yank on both shackles. He intended the gesture to be intimidating but Donald appeared completely broken and could barely muster enough strength to lift his head.

"Lie still Donald, just relax." Anna said softly, trying to keep him calm. She noticed blood dripping from is right ear. This scared her.

He found his eyes were growing very heavy. He struggled to keep them open but eventually gave in. "Please . . . don't let me wake up." He managed to say before unconsciousness stole him away.

* * * * *

"Deuces?" Willis said with a look of disbelief. "You called 200 dollars with deuces!"

"Well, did I win?" Holly asked.

"Yea, you won . . . again." Harry said with a laugh.

"I don't know why you're laughing dude, that's your damn money in their too!"

"Hey genius, you know it's not real money right, and even if it was, money ain't worth shit?" Demetri asked with a smirk.

"That's not the damn point man," Willis said. He pushed the pot to Holly's side of the table, "Deuces! You're killing me Blondie."

Holly scooped up her winnings. "You're gonna have to raise more than double the big blind to scare anyone off . . . dumb ass. Gotta protect my blind ya know?"

    Willis looked at her incredulously. "A goddamn rounder," he said with a chuckle. "Someone's been watching Celebrity Poker."

    She ignored his ribbing and doled out some of her own. "I'm sorry it's taking me so long to stack up all my money, there's just so
much of it!" Holly said with a smile and wink to Harry.

    Willis looked around the table and rolled his eyes. "Shut the fuck up and deal."

    "Hey! You said you'd clean it up," Holly reminded him. Willis shrugged.

    "And I think the saying is shuffle up and deal." Harry said.

    "That's what I said."

    It was Harry's deal; they were playing Texas hold 'em as it was the only poker game they all knew. He dealt everyone two cards and saw Willis throw his into the muck without looking at them.

    "Did you just fold without even looking at your cards?" Harry asked.

    "I never play the next hand after I get robbed," he said.

    Harry shook his head and looked at his cards, pocket kings. His heartbeat ratcheted up a notch. He took Holly's advice and raised three times the big blind.

    "Look out." Holly said, "Someone's gotta big hand."

    Harry smiled nervously and showed off the worst poker face ever.

    Stu contemplated Harry's raise while he looked at his own measly chip stack. "You're a bully Harry Sterling." He muttered and shoved his cards away.

    "Alright Harry, it's just you and me," Holly said with confidence. "I'm gonna call."

    "Good." Harry said but wasn't sure if he meant it. He took one more glance at his two kings and then dealt the flop, the six of clubs, four of clubs and finally the ace of spades. He took a third look at his kings; they looked remarkably small with that ace on the table. Holly could tell he didn't like the flop, was he scared of the clubs or the ace, she wondered. Probably the ace she thought, he's probably setting on jacks or queens.

    "I'm all in," Holly said nonchalantly and she slid her neatly stacked mountain of chips to the middle of the table.

    "Shit!" Harry said and leaned back in his chair. "I had you . . . goddamn ace." He pondered it for a while but eventually slid his cards face down across the table.

    "Good lay down Harry, good lay down." She said as she flipped over her seven and eight of hearts.

    "Oh my god, I laid down kings! I can't believe you bluffed me." He watched her scoop up another pile of chips with a shake of his head. "Alright," he said, "I'm gonna cash out while I still got the clothes on my back."

"Hell yes . . . strip poker, why didn't I think of that." Willis said.

"Not happening." Holly said with a smile.

Harry pushed away from the table. "I think I'm gonna check on Anna and what's-his-face. Maybe check the 3-d balcony, get a little air."

"Ok." Willis said while the others just nodded. "Oh, and thank her for the cards, but tell her a charger for my IPod is the new priority number one."

"Yea, I'll get right on that," Harry said. "I'll be in 3-d if anyone needs me." He grabbed the binoculars from the kitchen counter and the .36 revolver they found in appt 3-h on his way out. He shut the door to Stu's apartment and decided he would check on Anna after a quick scan of their surroundings from the balcony they had quickly deemed their lookout.

He walked the short distance down the hallway to apartment 3-d and swung open the apartment door. It was an awkward feeling to walk freely through a stranger's home, it felt . . . dirty. Harry tried to remember the story of its former occupant; he was a Greek guy named Linus, Linus something or other he remembered, like the kid from Charlie Brown. Harry had personally searched the apartment on the first of their scavenger missions and as a result, felt as if he knew the man—on some level at least. He enjoyed coming to Linus's place for some unknown reason, after they had lost Marilyn, he found Linus's balcony had a soothing quality that was hard to find amidst the violence and death that surrounded them. Not to mention the balcony in 3-d had the best view in the building.

Harry slid the glass door to the balcony open and chuckled. "Hilarious," he said quietly to himself and rolled his eyes. On a large piece of cardboard, someone had painted a sign and attached it to the balconies railing. It read: Please! Don't feed the Zombies!

They had fed the zombies once and wouldn't make that mistake again. He looked over the ledge. Jim's corpse was gone; the rug they used to rap him up was lying in the street, tattered and torn. He thought back to the night they had dumped Jim's body off the balcony, and the feeding frenzy that followed. Harry heard the door creak; he spun around, his heart lodged in his throat.

"Sorry," Anna said with a look of reproach on her face. "Can I come in?"

"Yea, of course," Harry said as he waved off her concerns.

Anna entered the room and wrinkled her nose. "What's that smell?" She asked.

"Ethnic food . . . I think he was a chef or something." Harry surmised. He sat down on one of the two chairs on the balcony and dusted off the other one as he awaited Anna's arrival.

"It must have been health food, the dude was ripped." Anna said as she looked at the man's photos on the wall.

"I know, right?" Harry said. "I feel like doing some pushups every time I come over here . . . the guy's giving me a complex." She chuckled.

Anna joined him on the balcony and saw the cardboard sign for the first time. "Fucking Willis," she said with a smile. Harry chuckled in agreement. He noticed she didn't look over the edge to see if Jim was still there and was glad. He didn't want to talk about it. She took a seat next to him and stretched out her legs. She came right out with it, "Donald woke up. He's infected." They stared at each other while Harry decided what to say.

"Great . . . is he secure?" He asked finally.

Anna shrugged her shoulders. "I think so."

Harry grunted his response as they fell back into silence.

Anna stretched out and leaned back in her chair, her stomach rumbled. "Oh geez," she said as she pulled her jacket tight around her midsection. Harry pretended he didn't see her blushing.

"You hungry? Lemme find you somethi—"

"No, I'm fine. It's not that . . . it does that when I'm nervous." Anna said.

They looked at each other in the fading sunlight for a few moments until she looked up to the sky. They enjoyed some comfortable silence, the occasional pop of a firearm in the distance notwithstanding.

Harry was fumbling with Marilyn's keychain and it caught Anna's eye. She saw the silver band on his finger. "What happened to your wife?"

He looked at her but didn't really know what to say.

"I'm sorry . . . it's not my—"

"No. It's ok." Harry looked at her and smiled warmly. "It's just . . . I don't know what happened to her." They looked at one another; she wanted him to continue but she didn't know if he was ready. Harry shook his head and looked at his feet, he found a rock on the balcony and he kicked it over the side. "We're separated . . . I guess." He said finally.

"I see." She said with what she hoped was the right amount of reverence.

Harry felt that familiar sting in the pit of his stomach at the mention of his wife. He hadn't thought of her too much in the last few days, which was a nice change from thinking about her every minute of every day.

"I think she's with someone else." He winced just as the words left his mouth. "That's hard to say out loud . . . doesn't seem right. It doesn't seem fair." He was tired of holding it in and pretending it wasn't there.

Anna's eyes welled up at the sight of his rugged face so weak, the brown and grey stubble that peppered his cheeks collected his tears like a chain link fence collecting leaves on windy autumn day. She reached out and took his hand in hers. They smiled weakly at one another as they felt the other's heartbeats in their fingertips.

The next thing they noticed, the sun seemed to disappear for a moment and then the world filled with the sound of a thousand screaming devils. They both jumped to their feet and crowded against the railing where they looked to the sky. What started as confusion quickly turned to horror as they saw a commercial airliner fly just a few hundred feet over their building. The plane banked right, the port side engine severed the cell tower on top of the Holliday Inn and continued its rapid descent. The plane disappeared behind the hotel, but they could still hear the engines screaming.

Suddenly the apartment shook and they all screamed as a fireball erupted behind the Holiday Inn. A mushroom cloud rose out of the smoke and fire. They could feel the heat from the balcony.


* * * * *

While Harry and Anna watched from the other end of the third floor, the others stood on Stu's balcony in a complete state of panic and denial. "I cannot fucking believe that just happened." Willis said under his breath.

Smoke engulfed the 16-story hotel and the burning jet fuel began to sting their nostrils. Another smaller explosion went off behind the Holiday Inn, no mushroom cloud this time but it was clear the building was on fire.

"Oh my God!" Holly said as she pointed at the burning hotel. Infected were jumping from balconies and through glass windows. Some got up and wandered off but most lay twisted and broken. Some of them bounced.

"The crash . . . it's drawing 'em out." Demetri said as he noticed infected stream out of the buildings around them. "Shit, some of them are coming this way."

"It's the end . . . isn't it?" Stu asked

Donald answered that question as he knocked down Stu's door.

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 17

2011-10-07T20:26:00.005-05:00

Crucified

"The dude is even lighter than he looks," Demetri said as he and Willis carried the man across the threshold of the apartment across the hall. Demetri had a hold of the man under his arms while Willis carried the man's legs.

    "Well maybe that's 'cause you have tree trunks where your arms should be," Willis said and laughed. Anna followed them as they maneuvered their way through the stranger's apartment. The previous tenant wasn't a tidy person but they didn't think Donald was going to mind. They laid him on the unmade bed and Anna removed the handcuffs from her waistband.

    "My boy Stu with the fluffy pink hand cuffs!" Willis said, "Didn't see that one coming. Wonder what other kinda surprises he's hiding in that den of perversion he calls a bedroom?"

    "Come on guys, help me out," Anna said, but she couldn't conceal her smile.

    The three of them laid Donald out on the bed; Anna carefully clasped the handcuffs to his wrists and secured the other end to the wooden posts that made up the headboard. His arms stretched out as they dangled from the shackles and his head lolled off his left shoulder. His long greasy hair was sticking in his beard, she reached out to brush it from his face. Anna stared at the comatose man as he lay in a stranger's bed; his crucifixion pose was not lost on her. She couldn't help but feel she was losing a part of herself—one of the good parts—and would never get it back.

    "What do we do now?" Demetri asked.

    Anna didn't answer because she didn't have one. The three of them stood around Donald's new bed in silence. The air in the room was stagnant and smelled vaguely like onions going bad.

    "It's kinda creepy in here." Willis said without taking his eyes off Donald.

Demetri nodded absently, "We should get back to Stu's."

    "You two go ahead, I'm gonna stay with Donald for just a bit," Anna said. "Thanks guys . . . for helping me. I'll be along pretty quick."

    "Ok." Willis said. Demetri looked at her questionably but only nodded his head. The two of them headed off but left the door open. Willis poked his head back in. "Harry's gonna worry about you ya know?"

    "Yea," Anna said and smiled half-heartedly. "You tell him I'm good, and I won't be long."

    Willis nodded and disappeared.

    "Well Donald, we're finally alone." She said to herself and drew in a deep, troubled breath. She took two steps forward and resisted the urge to reach out and comfort him.

"Oh Jesus, I hope I'm doing the right thing . . . you know what Donald, I think you'de be better off if you didn't wake up." She ran her fingers through her hair and thought randomly that she should get used to infrequent showers. She sighed, and pulled her hair back with a tie she kept in her pocket.

"My brother's dead and I miss him . . . my dad's in a home with Alzheimer's. He might be the lucky one." She chuckled humorlessly. "Can you imagine being trapped in a retirement home right now? With a body—hell, and a mind—that don't work the way they're supposed to?" She took another look at Donald's shackles, "Yea, I guess you probably can." She turned away feeling a bit ashamed.

Anna approached the dresser drawer next to the bed and looked over the previous owner's knickknacks. She picked up a black and white photograph of a man in his late forties or early fifties; he had a little girl on his shoulders and they both wore large smiles. Her hand was shaking so she sat the picture down quickly. She rubbed her hands obsessively, as if that would stop the shaking.

"So, I wonder what your story is Donald." Anna said absently. She gave him a look over her shoulder as she investigated his new bedroom, (my very own holding cell she thought with a shiver.) "I don't see a wedding ring," she wandered back towards the bed and sat on the corner, "and I know you don't live in the building, that story was definitely bullshit. Afraid to die alone . . . wasn't that what you said?"

Across the hall, she heard Willis utter an obscenity and laugh obnoxiously. She smiled. "We are alone aren't we?" Her smile disappeared as quickly as it arrived. "I mean . . . my family's gone, and I'm never gonna see them again." She realized her voice was raising an octave or two and quickly brought it back down. "I'm glad Stu's ok; he was a good neighbor and all, and Harry and the others seem to be good people, it's just . . . I don't know them! I've never felt so alone Donald."

The two of them sat quietly, with only the sound of Anna's nervous foot tapping and their steady breathing. Donald's breathing seemed to be getting stronger, and she found herself thinking he might actually pull through this. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I do hope you wake up Donald. So many people have died . . . I can hardly even comprehend it. You deserve a shot . . . we all do."

Anna continued fumbling through the previous owner's things searching for supplies but her heart wasn't in it. She did manage to scrounge a led flashlight, a fairly descent multi-tool complete with several blades, scissors, both straight and Phillips screwdrivers and bottle opener. In a decorative bowl, under some loose change and some wooden Oktoberfest tokens, she found a deck of cards with the letters WSOP emblazoned across the top; she left the coins but grabbed the cards.

A rosary hung from the corner of the man's mirror, she grabbed the cross without removing it and studied it for a moment. Although she wasn't Catholic, she thought of her mother. "My mom was my Sunday school teacher." She said absently. "I bet she was good at it . . . she died when I was six, so I don't remember it too well. We were Lutheran's, not that that means anything . . . I guess. We went a few times after mom died, but I think it was too hard on dad." She was looking at Donald but in her mind's eye, she saw the Lutheran church of her childhood. "We never really talked about it . . . so maybe I don't know what I'm saying. Things a kid will make up in her head when nobody tells her any different. It's funny how people start thinking about God when the world's about to end huh?" She went silent for a while, her mind jumped randomly from her family to Donald and back again in a frenetic whirlwind.

"You're a good listener Donald." Anna said.

"Hello?" The voice came from doorway behind her, but for one terrible moment she was certain it came from Donald.

"Oh!" Anna yelled as she jumped off the corner of the bed.

"I'm so sorry!" Stu said. "Oh honey, I'm truly sorry. I can be so stupid, please forgive me."

"No . . . no you're fine," Anna said and patted her chest as if she needed a jumpstart. "I'm just a little jumpy I guess. You caught me talking to myself." She said a little embarrassed.

"Don't blame ya; he looks like a good listener," Stu said as he shot a glance toward Donald. "We're all pretty jumpy," he added, "even more reason for me to know better. I just wanted you to get something to eat, it's almost noon." Stu reminded her. "I wanted to make my famous chicken fricassee with tarragon," he said with a ridiculous French accent that made Anna brighten a bit, "but Harry thought it would be wiser to keep it simple. Use up some perishable's while the power still on. Practical I guess . . . but not nearly as delicious. Sadly, it's just roast beef, Swiss cheese and spinach on rye." He sounded embarrassed to serve his guests such meager offerings.

"I'm hungry and that sounds delicious," she said sincerely, "I think I'll eat with Donald though, if that's okay with you?"

"Uh, yeah . . . sure, I can make one for you and bring it over if you'de like?"

"Well yeah, if it's not too much trouble, that would be great."

"No problem at all, honey. I'll be right back."

"Oh Stu, could you carry back some of this gear I scavenged—you know what, I'm just gonna go back with you. I can carry my own stuff."

"Nonsense," he reached for the multi-tool and the flashlight, "here, give me your things, I'll haul it over and get your sandwich whipped up in just a minute." Stu said. He was clearly not taking no for an answer.

"Thanks Stu." She said and moved in for a quick hug. Stu winced as his shoulder wound gave a slight protest. "Oh shit! I forgot about your shoulder."

"No worries hon, I think I'm gonna live."

"I hope so." Anna said with a smile.

Stu laughed. "One sandwich coming up," he said over his shoulder as he turned and headed across the hall to his own apartment.

A few minutes later Stu returned with her sandwich and a tall glass of orange juice. "Oh, that looks delicious!" Anna said.

Stu didn't look convinced. "Thank you dear. Listen, things are getting a little deep over there," he glanced back towards his own apartment, "Harry would like to have a, uh group meeting I guess . . . we would like you to be there, obviously."

"Yea . . . ok." She said nervously.

"Eat your lunch and come on over when you're ready." Stu said simply.

"Thanks again neighbor," Anna said.

He waved a hand, "forget it hon. We'll see ya soon." Stu turned and headed back across the hall. Later, after it was too late, Stu would convince himself that he saw Donald and those pink handcuffs moving on his way out.

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 16

2011-09-30T10:01:00.004-05:00

Fluffy Pink Handcuffs

The sun was rising on a brand new day, but it was still chaos outside. Smoke rolled down the street like fog, ruining visibility. Fires were burning all over Lincoln and yet they hadn't heard a siren in hours. An occasional car alarm and the chatter of gunfire was their constant background noise, and a reminder of just how grave their situation was.

"This is obviously a colossal cluster fuck!" Willis said as he panned the room and looked each of them in the eyes. His stare lingered on Harry.

    "Yea," Harry admitted. "We all need to understand that this is what it's gonna take to get through this." He pointed at the rug that covered Jim's corpse. "We can—"

    "What makes you two the experts on this?" Demetri interrupted. "You guys ain't been here any longer than me!" He rose up from Stu's bullet riddled recliner and intentionally or not, puffed out his chest.

"Dude, what the fuck is your problem? Are you really gonna do this now?" Willis asked as he took a step forward and looked up into Demetri's face.

"I'm not in the business of taking orders from a tattooed dirt bag and some dude with a farmer's tan." Demetri said.

"You're free to get the fuck outa—"

"All right, all right, let's take it down a notch." Harry spoke slowly and carefully stepped between the two men. He looked up to Demetri, "You're right, we're not experts. I don't mean to tell anyone what to do, but we're gonna have to learn to work together or were—"

"Or we're gonna die alone." Demetri interrupted. "Yea I've heard that speech before . . . it's ringing a little hollow this morning. I think it's time—"

"They're right," Anna said from her spot on the floor. Her back was to the wall and she was hugging her knees. "I don't know what's happening here, but . . . these things aren't our loved ones any more. There's no reasoning with these things." her voice cracked and became inaudible for a moment. She forced herself to maintain eye contact with them, "he wasn't gonna stop . . . I didn't wanna shoo—" She cut herself off and dropped her eyes to the floor. The tears were coming now; she wiped them away fiercely as if they were hurting her. "We need each other, were gonna have to work together."

    Demetri sat back down and looked off at nothing.

    "I wanna go home," Holly muttered through sobs. "I wanna see my mom."

    Nobody said anything. They all had loved ones somewhere out there and for most of them, they hadn't thought of anything but survival since this ordeal started. Each one of them in their own way entertained the idea that everyone they loved was dead . . . or worse.

    The Emergency Alert System broke in with its grating tone. Everyone jumped at the sound of it, with nothing but the blue screen; they had forgotten the TV was even on. Everyone gathered around the TV and waited for the message. A synthesized female voice instructed them it wasn't a test.

"No shit!" Willis said.

The rest of the message was in print form: THIS IN NOT A TEST . . . PLEASE STAY INDOORS . . . ISOLATE ALL INFECTED . . . PLEASE KEEP PHONELINES FREE FOR EMERGENCY PERSONNEL . . . STAY CALM, STAY INDOORS AND STAY TUNED FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTION.

The message scrolled repeatedly, they watched it in silence.

A knock on Stuart's front door shattered the silence. Holly screamed but the sound of her hand slapping her face as she covered her mouth was just as loud. Anna carefully pulled her 9mm from her waistband and slowly slid the safety to the off position. Demetri grabbed Holly and they both slipped in behind Stu's leather couch, Demetri held her tight as he peaked over the cushions. Harry motioned for Anna to move in behind the door, while he and Willis moved to brace the barricade that was reinforcing the door.

"C'mon . . . I know you're in there. I live on the first floor . . . you can trust me." The man pleaded.

Harry looked at Willis and shook his head. He knew it would do no good to ignore him. "What do you want?"

"I want to be in there with you guys . . . I don't wanna be alone anymore," the man said.

"What's your name?" Stu interjected.

"Donald . . . uh, Donald Mead," the man muttered.

Stu mouthed the man's name a few times and looked to the floor in frustration as if he were struggling with a riddle. He looked up at Anna who shrugged her shoulders. "I don't remember the name." Stu whispered. He clutched his kitchen knife fervently.

"Listen, uh Donald right?" Harry asked.

"Yea."

"Ok Donald—are you sick?"

"No, no I'm good—"

"Trust me Donald, you do not want to lie to us," Harry let that statement sink in. "Have you been sick?"

Donald was quiet as he thought about the question. "I'm fine . . . please let me in."

They stood pensive, looking at one another—no one wanting to make the decision on the man's fate.

"Are you armed?" Harry asked finally. He and Willis reluctantly began to slide their make shift barricade to the side.

"No . . . nothing, I got nothing," Donald said as he squirmed uncomfortably on the other side of the door.

"Hands up," Harry demanded.

"Yea, yea . . . you got it . . . whatever you say."

Harry left the door chain on and quickly opened the door until there was no longer any slack.

Donald danced nervously in the hallway as he tried to avoid eye contact. His long sleeve button up shirt hung too low as if it were a couple sizes too big and his work boots clashed noticeably with his grey slacks. He had long brown hair that stuck together in greasy strands and the unkempt beard of a homeless man. "Oh thank you, thank you," he mumbled repeatedly.

"Relax," Harry said. "I'm unhooking the chain . . . just hold on."

Harry glanced at Anna and slowly released the chain. Anna stayed concealed behind the door while Harry and Willis slowly stepped back allowing Donald the opportunity to step in.

"Fucking hands up!" Willis reminded him when the man's arms began to go limp.

"Sorry man, sorry . . . my pants are falling down." Donald said as he snapped his arms up with exaggeration.

"Next time steal someone's pants that fit," Willis said.

"I didn't steal nothing," Donald said with mock defensiveness.

"Donald," Harry said calmly, trying to keep him relaxed. "I need you to lift your shirt up . . . we need to make sure you're not hiding anything."

"Aw man, I swear I'm not holding . . . I just don't wanna die alone."

"Just say yes, and lift your shirt," Harry said. "Anything else just makes me nervous . . . I don't want anything bad to happen to you Donald."

"All right, all right . . . Christ, you guys are up tight."

"You're not making this easy on us Donald." Harry said.

"Yea," Willis said. "You remind me of my bass player's girlfriend . . . you on crack Don?"

"No sir. Straight as an arrow, clean as a whistle." He said. His arms were still above his head but they were going lax again. He clawed through his long greasy air and scratched his head incessantly. "I told you, I live downstairs . . . everyone's fucking dead down there . . . or gone, and I'm tired of being alone." It came out in one garbled sentence; he only paused to lick his lips.

"Watch your mouth." Willis said with a straight face.

"What's your apartment number?" Stu asked.

Donald finally quit talking and turned in Stu's direction. Beads of sweat seemed to appear out of nowhere on his temple and forhead. He looked confused, his eyes were wide and dilated and he seemed incapable of blinking. "What?" He asked. Suddenly his eyes rolled into the back of his head, he dropped his hands and his knees buckled. He collapsed onto the carpet, partially obscuring the still wet stain from where Jim bled out only six hours ago.

    "Jesus Christ—is he dead . . . did he just die?" Willis rambled.

    "Oh shit, move back guys," Anna said as she sidestepped Stu. She kneeled next to the man and tried to ignore his horrible body odor.

    "Is he infected?" Holly wondered. "Careful Anna!"

    The man was unresponsive. Anna tilted his head to clear his airway, and watched his chest for movement as she listened for breath. She couldn't see his chest moving but she could feel a faint, albeit steady breath on her cheek. She said a silent prayer that she would not have to resuscitate the man—at least not yet. "He's breathing!" Anna said as she held the man's head in her hands.

    "Is he safe . . . do you think?" Stu reiterated Holly's question.

"I think he's drug addict, he OD'd . . . I think." Anna said. She looked back to the Donald and turned him on his side for fear of him suffocating on his own vomit.

"What if he's not? What if he wakes up and tries to fuck us up?" Willis asked.

"Oh Jesus!" Holly says as Donald's possible infection begins to register in her mind.

"He definitely doesn't live here," Stu said. "I know just about everyone in the building."

Although Anna is only a nurse's aide, she has been thinking like a nurse for years and she knows it's her duty to care for the sick man. Anna's instinct and her duty take a back seat to the reality of the nightmare they're living.

"You're right," Anna said. "I think he's an addict . . . but I don't know for sure." She didn't like it but it was true. "We can't take that risk."

    Harry kneeled next to Anna as she checked his arms for needle marks. They were clean. "What do we do now?" He asked.

    She kneeled on the bloody carpet and took in ragged breaths that reeked of blood, sweat and smoke. "I don't know," she said. "I just don't know."

     "We could lock him in one of the apartment's bathrooms," Harry suggested. "Windows are too small and we're three floors up . . . should be pretty secure."

    "That's no good. I gotta be able to check on 'em . . . to help him if he needs it." Anna said.

    "You'll have to tie him down." Stu said. They both looked up at him as he stood at Donald's feet. "I've got a couple sets of sturdy handcuffs. We could secure him to one of the beds."

    "Yeah . . . that's probably the best idea," Anna said. She wasn't happy about it but she needed to know her and her new friends would be safe.

    "I'll go grab 'em." Stu said and disappeared into his bedroom.

    "Hey Stu, what do you have handcuffs for?" Willis asked and instantly regretted it as Stu re-emerged from the back room carrying two sets of steel handcuffs adorned with fluffy pink feathers around the cuff's jaw. "Oh . . . never mind."

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 15

2011-09-23T21:07:00.003-05:00

It's in the Blood

Willis closed his eye and pulled away in disgust, he used his shirtsleeve to wipe the blood off his eyelid. "What the fuck!" He cried in disgust.

From the bleeding hole in the ceiling came a whisper. "Is everyone alive down there?"

No one answered at first, finally Stu managed through obvious pain. "Anna, is that you? Is Jim ok?"

Whoever it was ignored the question, "Is everyone . . . ok?" It was apparent she had other questions but left it at that.

"Were fine down here, who the fuck are you?" Willis asked. Everyone was quiet, waiting for a response.

"Stuart, are you down there?" The person upstairs asked. The survivors all looked to Stu who was sitting on the floor against the wall, Harry was attempting to clean Stu's wound.

"Yea, I'm here . . . I've been shot, it's not too bad I guess, but it—"

"Did anyone get any blood on them?" The person asked, ". . . it's in the blood."

What's in the blood, Willis wondered as an ice-cold chill ran up his spine. The survivors were all silent waiting for Willis to explain the drop of blood.

"Yea," Holly said when it became obvious Willis wasn't offering the information. "It got in Willis' eye." She shot him a shrug.

"It didn't get in my fucking eye!" Willis said and hated the fear he heard in his voice. "I shut my eye . . . it didn't get in!" Everyone was looking at him; he looked to the floor and fought the urge to rub his eyes.

"I'm coming down," Said the voice in the hole. She didn't wait for a response.

"What's going on?" Holly asked, she was crying again.

"Our new friend upstairs thinks Willis is about to start grunting and develop a taste for a flesh," Demetri said with a touch of sarcasm, but Willis noticed he was holding his knife with white knuckles.

"That's fucking bullshit! It missed my eye. I told you . . . I'm fine." He looked around the room and met their stares. "I swear—it didn't get in."

A knock came at the door and they all jumped. "My name's Anna," she said from the other side of the door. "Let me in . . . please."

"How do we know she's ok?" Willis asked as he scanned the others for approval. "It sounded like she blew someone's head off up there!"

"Help me up," Stu grunted as he tried to get to his feet. "She's my neighbor, I'm letting her in."

Demetri and Harry slid the bookcase aside as Willis instinctively stepped back. With the door chain still attached, Stu cracked open the door.

"Stu, I'm fine, I swear . . . let me in." She pleaded.

"What happened up there?" Stu asked as he fumbled with the door chain, finally getting it unlatched.

She stormed past Stu without a thank you and had her pistol out before anyone knew what happened. "Who got the blood in their eye?" She yelled. "Who was it Goddamnit?" She added when they didn't answer immediately.

"I fucking told you lady. It didn't get in my eye."

Anna swung toward Willis and pointed her pistol in his face. "Does it burn?" She asked. She was practically whispering, her finger on the trigger. Willis didn't answer; he raised his knife, apparently not caring he brought a knife to a gunfight.

"Talk to me or I'll kill you, I swear to God!" Anna put a couple extra pounds of pressure on the trigger.

"I already fucking told you . . . I'm fine. It didn't get in my fucking eye!" Willis said.

"You say fuck too much." Anna said.

Remarkably, a smile started to surface on Willis' face. "Fuck you!" He said.

Anna wore no smile; she kept the pressure on the trigger. "If it got in your eye, you'll end up like them. You'll try to kill us all." Anna said. "I've seen it . . . I have to be sure."

The growling started so low, was so guttural, no one knew what it was. Anna still pointing the gun in Willis' face saw his eyes grow wide.

"Jim?" Stu muttered.

At once Anna understood what was happening. She spun around and saw her roommate standing in the doorway. She fired two shots, one blew a hole in Stu's leather recliner, and the other blew a hole in Jim's stomach. It slowed him but didn't stop him. He screamed in surprise—or anger—as she put another round in his chest. Jim writhed on the floor; then began crawling through the growing pool of his own blood toward Anna. Anna could here Holly screaming but it sounded like it was coming from a hundred miles away.

"Get back!" Harry yelled and motioned everyone to move away from the stinking, squirming thing on Stu's carpet. Jim was still advancing toward Anna but it reached and clawed at the others as they spread out.

"Shoot him!" Willis pleaded.

With the gunshot still ringing in her ears and the smell of feces and blood in her nose, Anna put a bullet in Jim's head. Blood, brains and bone fragments left a gruesome trail across the floor. Holly quit screaming long enough to vomit in the trashcan.

* * * *

"You saved our lives." Harry said. "Thank you."

"I almost killed you all . . . especially you," she pointed to Willis.

"Yea . . . you probably will eventually." Willis said with a smile.

"It's in the blood you said?" Harry asked her.

"That's what my brother said."

"Where's he?" Willis asked.

"He's dead."

"Sorry . . ." Harry said.

She didn't say anything.

"Fuck, I'm lucky that didn't get in my eye." Willis whispered.

"I'll still be watching you." Anna said.

He fixed her with a cold stare. She met it until he gave in and looked away.

The story continues here . . .

Chapter 14

2011-09-17T22:32:00.006-05:00

This is goodbye

    "I'm scared Chris." Anna whispered into her phone. "I don't know what to do; I don't think I can—"

    "Anna, please calm down. I need you to be calm . . . and listen to me." Chris spoke into the phone with a newfound hope and optimism, even thought he knew he was dying—or worse.

    He abandoned his family once and still carried the scars from it. He didn't know how to deal with his mother's death; it had cast a dark shadow over his whole family. Chris grew up, like most young boys, idolizing his father, but the death of his wife left him a shell of his former self. It was unbearable to see his dad so broken, so weak. Eventually, he graduated and ran, leaving Anna the responsibility of family caretaker. Believing his own life was about to slip away, Christopher actually took great comfort in believing he might be able to save his sister. If only he could get her to listen.

    "Oh Chris, something awful happened down there." Anna said as she looked out of her apartment window to the street below. "There's been an accident, there's a car crashed into the building across the street, it's on fire . . . there's glass everywhere!" Anna held the blinds open that gave her a view of the 8^th Street Underground and the smoke that was pouring out of the crumbling doorway. She was trembling as panic's teeth began to gnaw on her nerves. "I should be down there . . . someone might be hur—oh my God Chris, there's a body down there!"

    Chris closed his eyes tightly as he listened to his baby sister ramble, panic threatening to push her further over the edge. He thought back to their childhood on the farm in Blanchard, his sister and him jumping from one of the limbs that sprouted from the mighty oak tree that extended over a pond on their farm, Anna's pigtails trailing behind her as she leaped fearlessly into the water. He remembered the fear he felt when he stood in that tree and looked down at the water below, doing his best to make sure his baby sister didn't see his fear. He also remembered Anna practically flying up that tree and leaping from the highest branch she could reach without even a second's hesitation. He had been secretly in awe of and a little jealous of her daring. He hadn't thought of that in decades.

He gripped the phone tight and opened his eyes as the tears streaked down his face. He wiped them away and looked into the dead, empty eyes of his fiancé as she lay peacefully in the bed the two of them shared.

* * * * *

Those eyes weren't so peaceful six hours ago, they were dripping blood and full of rage, that was until Chris choked the life out of them. Chris had stayed home from work to look after Amber, who had been severely sick with this new flu strain when her fever had finally broken. Chris sat on the corner of their bed, as Amber was relaxing with a hot bath in the next room. He couldn't get Maury's warning out of his head; if they get sick, pray they don't recover . . .

The bathroom was silent. How long had it been since she had made a sound in there, he thought. He sat on the edge of the bed; the only sound was the constant lifeless hum of the air conditioner. He looked at the clock and did the math in his head. Her fever broke an hour ago and she had been relaxing in the bathtub for over 20 minutes. The water should be cold by now and why can't I at least hear some goddamn water splashing? Chris thought with mounting frustration.

With every minute that went by the fear and frustration grew. Chris got up from the corner of the bed as quietly as he could and tiptoed towards the bathroom door. He pressed his ear to the door but could hear nothing. He reached down and gripped the doorknob; he could hardly believe the scope of his fear that prevented him from turning it. Chris finally found the courage to turn the knob and he opened the door as slowly as he could. He looked toward the bathtub and was confused to see it full of water but no Amber. There was water on the floor that Chris traced to the bathroom mirror. Amber stood completely naked, facing the fogged over mirror. Her soaking wet red hair clung to her pale skin as suds dripped from her hair down her back, partially obscuring a tattoo of a red peony just above the right side of her behind.

She looked unbelievably sexy but Chris knew something was wrong. "You okay honey?" He asked instinctively.

Amber made a horrible, inhuman noise that Chris couldn't imagine could come from the woman he loved, and smashed the mirror with her left fist. Chris screamed at the unexpected outburst and stumbled backwards. Amber spun around and locked eyes with Chris as he backpedaled. He tripped over the corner of the bed and collapsed onto it just as Amber flew through the bedroom door. She pulled back her lips exposing her teeth; her left eye was partially closed, glassy, and dripping blood like tears—tears of rage.

Without any more hesitation, Amber continued her assault. She leaped onto him as he tried desperately to fight her off. He was stronger than Amber, and he used his strength to keep her gnashing teeth from his face and neck, but she was relentless. The pain was intense as she bit into his hands while he tried to fend her off.

"Chris!" His sister's voice brought him back from his horrible memory. "Chris! Are you there?"

"Yea . . . yea I am. Listen sis, it's in the blood . . ."

"What do you mean?"

"This disease, virus, whatever it is . . . I think it's in the blood." Anna was silent. "You need to find something to protect yourself with. He will come for you if he's changed. This is no bullshit! Do you hear me?"

"Jim's gotta gun. . ." Anna whispered.

"If you can get it, good . . . you're gonna need it." Chris said flatly.

"Stay with me ok? I'll see if I can find the gun."

"I'm here kiddo, you can do this . . . but you gotta hurry." Chris said.

Anna slowly opened her bedroom door and looked down the dark hallway. She realized she could smell smoke, and knew that was a bad sign. When she got home Jim was sleeping on the couch in the living room, she was counting on him still being there. He stored his gun in his underwear drawer; she snuck down the hallway and opened Jim's door as quietly as she could. His small bedside lamp was the only light but she could see well enough to see the room was empty. "His room's empty," Anna whispered into the phone. She pulled opened Jim's underwear drawer and fished through it, nothing but socks, underwear and porn.

"Looking for this?"

Anna screamed and spun around to see Jim pointing his pistol at her. "You were hiding in the closet?" Anna asked as if he had disrespected her.

"What were you gonna do with my gun?" Jim asked.

Anna realized the situation she was in and took a moment to decide her course of action. "I'm scared Jim . . . I didn't know what to do," Anna said as she started to cry.

"I'm scared too, Anna. That's why I didn't check on you . . . I was afraid you were one of them. You didn't even make a sound when that car exploded downstairs." Jim still wasn't convinced she was safe, and he didn't lower the pistol.

"I had my headphones on," Anna said as she realized she was still on trial. "I was studying," she added.

Jim noticed she had her phone open in her left hand. "Are you on the phone?" He asked angrily.

She didn't know why the phone was making him angry but she knew anger and fear were a dangerous mix, especially when there was a gun involved. Jim took a more aggressive stance as he raised his left hand for a two handed grip. Even with both hands on the gun he looked shaky, I hope he has the safety on, she thought. "It's my brother," Anna said. "Jesus Jim, put the gun down."

"I don't believe you . . . you never told me about no brother." He said.

"Why would I lie, it's a phone . . . you're the one with a gun. Now just put the gun down before someone gets hurt."

"What's happening, what's wrong with me?" Jim asked as he wiped a tear from his eye.

"You're fine Jim. Were gonna be ok, just listen to me. I gotta say goodbye to my brother." Anna calmly raised the phone to her ear but kept her eyes on Jim. When she decided he wasn't going to shoot her, she turned away to try to speak with some privacy.

"Chris?" Anna whispered.

"Kill him Anna . . . you have no choice." Chris said. "It's already happening . . . you don't have much time."

"Oh Chris, why is this happening? I don't think I can do this."

"Yes you can. Anna, listen to me," Chris said. "You can do this, but you're gonna have to do this alone."

"What? No, why . . . I'm calling you right back," Anna said as she started to cry. "I don't know what to do yet. I need you." She pleaded.

"I was engaged Anna, her name was Amber. She was so beautiful. We loved each other very much . . . you would have liked her." Anna didn't respond; she didn't know what to say. "I'm not gonna let it happen to me Anna, I'm sorry. If I don't end it now . . . I won't be able to. I don't wanna hurt anyone . . . and I wanna see Amber . . . and mom."

"Oh Chris . . . please stay with me . . . please!" Anna sobbed into the phone, she had forgotten about Jim completely.

"I love you Anna, but this is goodbye."

"No, no, no, Chris please—" Anna kept pleading even after she heard the dial tone.

"Shut up," Jim said. "You're gonna get us killed."

Anna turned back to Jim and without thinking, projected all her fear, anger and grief onto him. "Fuck you!" She screamed as she threw her phone at him. It smashed into the wall behind Jims head, he recoiled in fear and surprise and accidently pulled the trigger on his HK 9mm. The recoil was a surprise; the gun tumbled from his hand, bounced off the corner of the bed and landed on the floor in the middle of the room. The report was deafening in the small room. The bullet exploded the lamp, two feet from Anna, and left the room pitch black. They both hit the floor when the gun went off. The two of them were lying on the bedroom floor—ears ringing—trying desperately to adjust to the darkness when suddenly they heard the front door splintering.

Jim crawled toward the bedroom door and clawed franticly on the wall looking for the light switch. He found the switch and the room lit up brilliantly. Jim stuck his head into the hallway, and immediately his legs gave out in fear. He screamed as he collapsed back into the bedroom. Mr. Rivers, the old man across the hall, filled the doorway and stood over Jim as he lay screaming. Jim didn't attempt to defend himself, he sat on the floor with his mouth agape, propping himself up with his arms as he watched the crazy old man spit blood and bile.

Anna saw Jim's gun but was too afraid to move. Mr. Rivers was fixated on the screaming man-child on the floor and was afraid she would freeze completely if he turned his mad gaze on her.

You can do this. She remembered her brother's words and was finally able to move her body. She lunged for the pistol and saw her movements did attract Mr. River's attention. She grabbed the gun and pointed it at the old man. There was blood and pus coming from every opening in the man's head and Anna thought there was no way he could see through those eyes. To prove her wrong Mr. Rivers looked them both over and began growling like a wild animal.

Anna held the pistol firm and noticed immediately the pistol was much nicer than the guns she had shot with her brother and father in her youth. When the old man began to advance, she quickly learned shooting a handgun still came naturally after all these years as she put one round in his chest. The impact knocked Mr. Rivers to the floor where he writhed in a growing pool of blood. Anna inched closer to the man and when she saw he was trying to get back to his feet, she pointed the gun in the man's face. She turned away and fired two shots. The old man finally went still.

The story continues here . . .