ERIC S. BROWN

ZOMBIE ANTHOLOGY

CONTENTS

I - The Wa-ve

II - The Qu-e-en

ANTHOLOGY

- Flas-hes of De-ath

1 - Di-vi-ne Ori-gins

2 - Icy Ro-ads

3 - The De-vil's Ri-de

4 - To Be Born

5 - Fe-ars

6 - From He-aven, In-to Hell

7 - Fa-mily

8 - In-digs

9 - A La-te Night Din-ner at Ta-ra's Pla-ce

ZOMBIES SE-RI-ES
Book One

- The War Sto-ri-es

1 - Ri-sing

2 - Last Call

3 - Hungry

4 - Gra-ve Watc-hers, Inc.

5 - C-Zo-ne

6 - Un-na-tu-ral En-dings

Book Two

- In-hu-man

1 - Evo-lu-ti-on Li-ke Lig-h-t-ning

2 - In-hu-man

3 - Re-apers At The Do-or

4 - De-ad-li-er Co-untry

5 - Ghost

6 - De-ad-town

7 - Sun-day Watch

8 - With The End In Sight

I - The Wave

Jeremy li-ked be-ing out-si-de, bre-at-hing the fresh air and fe-eling the slightly co-ol bre-eze of the
warm Ca-ro-li-na night ca-ress him. He lay shirt-less, spraw-led out on the wo-od of his deck, lo-oking
up-wards at the night sky. The air smel-led of the freshly mo-wed grass of his yard be-low and the
por-tab-le ste-reo be-si-de him bel-ted out the cho-rus to Rush's “Wor-king Man".
He sup-po-sed he sho-uld be fe-eling sle-epy as la-te it was. He glan-ced at his watch, its bright
gre-en disp-lay sho-wing the num-bers 1:58. The witc-hing ho-ur was long go-ne but he didn't fe-el
ti-red at all. In fact, he felt pum-ped up and wi-de awa-ke. He le-aned over and hit the skip but-ton on
the ste-reo. “Fly by Night” rep-la-ced “Wor-king Man” and he smi-led.
His he-art po-un-ded in his chest. He co-uldn't exp-la-in it but for so-me re-ason he felt on ed-ge,
eager. He lay back down and lis-te-ned to the mu-sic.
Astronomy was not nor-mal-ly one of his in-te-rests but to-night the sky se-emed dif-fe-rent. The
stars pul-sed hot-ter bur-ning in the black-ness abo-ve. It wasn't so-met-hing he co-uld exp-la-in, it was
just a fe-eling that he co-uldn't sha-ke.
His hand re-ac-hed out in-to the dark-ness be-si-de the ste-reo and lif-ted his mug of swe-et tea to his
lips as he arc-hed his back up a bit to sip it. In that mo-ment, the world chan-ged. The dark-ness was
rep-la-ced by a pi-er-cing light, li-ke ligh-te-ning dan-cing ac-ross the sum-mer sky yet it mo-re than
that. The who-le sky se-emed to go whi-te. He drop-ped his tea, cur-sing as its co-ol-ness splas-hed
over his na-ked chest. The light hurt it his eyes and only se-emed to grow in in-ten-sity.
Si-mul-ta-ne-o-usly the alarm of his wrist-watch went off as the ste-reo erup-ted in-to a sho-wer sparks.
Geddy Lee's vo-ice shri-eked up-wards as the vo-lu-me so-ured and then went si-lent. Be-ne-ath the
deck, his car ca-me to li-fe. It horn hon-king ran-domly as its he-ad-lights lit up and blew out. The shards
of glass clin-king on-to the gra-vel of the dri-ve-way li-ke ra-in.
Jeremy scre-amed then and as ab-ruptly as it had co-me, the light was go-ne. Spots lin-ge-red
be-fo-re his eyes, purp-les and gre-ens swir-ling. His he-ad po-un-ded as if so-me-one had him with a
sled-ge-ham-mer. His temp-les throb-bed and his hand re-ac-hed out fumb-ling for the deck's ra-iling
un-til he ma-na-ged to grasp it and pull him-self to his fe-et. As his vi-si-on cle-ared, the world was black
aro-und him. The stars se-emed to ha-ve va-nis-hed from the sky. The lights everyw-he-re we-re
me-rely go-ne. His ne-igh-bors ho-uses on the dis-tant hills in-vi-sib-le in the dark-ness. Even the
nor-mal specks of mo-ving he-ad-lights on 1-40 still fart-her away be-low the mo-un-ta-ins we-re
mis-sing.
He stumb-led ac-ross the deck to the sli-ding glass do-or of his bed-ro-om and went in-si-de,
flip-ping on the light switch. Not-hing hap-pe-ned tho-ugh he flip-ped the switch twi-ce mo-re. Bum-ping
his way from the bed-ro-om to the kitc-hen, he ma-na-ged to re-ach to the re-ach the dra-wers of the
is-land in front of the sink. He yan-ked the top-dra-wer open, wrap-ped his fin-gers aro-und the plas-tic

of the emer-gency flash-light he kept the-re. His thumb pres-sed it on but the dark re-ma-ined. He
ang-rily bas-hed the light atop the is-land and sho-ok it but it didn't co-me on. He threw it asi-de and felt
his way along the is-land to whe-re the pho-ne hung on the wall. As he gu-es-sed, it was de-ad. His cell
was too.
An ir-rep-res-sib-le fe-ar be-gan to grow wit-hin him. Swe-at be-aded on his sticky skin mi-xing with
the rem-nants of the split tea. He stumb-led his way back to the bed-ro-om's lar-ge walk-in clo-sest and
en-te-red it. He pul-led his hun-ting rif-le down from a shelf as his kne-es ga-ve way and drop-ped on-to
the car-pe-ted flo-or. “Jesus, al-mighty,” he whis-pe-red, “what the Hell is go-ing on?"
He sho-ved a bul-let in-to the rif-le's wa-iting cham-ber and jer-ked the cham-ber clo-sed. Pul-ling his
legs clo-se to his chest, he sunk back aga-inst the clo-set's wall to wa-it for the dawn, his knuck-les
whi-te as he held the rif-le.

Pittsburgh "What the fuck is go-ing on?” Ho-ward ra-ged as he pus-hed his way in-to the crow-ded
cont-rol ro-om of the re-ac-tor plant. It se-emed as if the plant's who-le staff was gat-he-red he-re.
The-re we-re no alarm kla-xons and the red glow of the emer-gency lights was mis-sing. The only light
ca-me from a small fi-re that burnt in the me-tal trash can be-si-de Gib-bons’ con-so-le. The flic-ke-ring
light of the bla-ze se-emed ali-en and out of pla-ce in the he-art of the plant. A wa-ve of ple-ads,
qu-es-ti-ons, and fe-ar slam-med in-to Ho-ward as he en-te-red as if he had wal-ked in-to a wall of
so-und.
"Shut up!” he or-de-red, “Shut the fuck up!” The ca-cop-hony in the ro-om dam-pe-ned but did not
end. “Gib-bons,” Ho-ward bar-ked, po-in-ting at the pimply-fa-ced en-gi-ne-er. “What the Hell is
go-ing on? Twenty words or less. Now!"
Howard saw the yo-ung man's eyes go wi-de with ter-ror in the pa-le light.
"Everything has go-ne down, sir, bac-kups, out-si-de li-nes… everyt-hing. The co-re will bre-ach sir.
Wit-ho-ut the co-oling units func-ti-oning, it's just a mat-ter of ti-me."
Howard's mind ra-ced. Bac-kups? Everyt-hing? That was sup-po-sed to be im-pos-sib-le. This was
his damn plant. Things li-ke that didn't, co-uldn't hap-pen he-re.
"How long?” Ho-ward as-ked.
"There's no way to know sir. Ten se-conds, an ho-ur. Yo-ur gu-ess is as go-od as mi-ne."
Howard ope-ned his mo-uth to yell so-met-hing obs-ce-ne at Gib-bons as he felt the he-at wash over
him. His flesh mel-ted and bur-ned away to not-hing-ness as the re-ac-tor rup-tu-red. The melt-down
was vi-sib-le for mi-les aro-und as the night lit up li-ke an exp-lo-ding star for a se-cond ti-me as a
mush-ro-om clo-ud blos-so-med, re-ac-hing for the he-avens.

New York The fre-eway had be-co-me a war-zo-ne. Amy lay aga-inst her ste-ering whe-el
won-de-ring how she had ma-na-ged to sur-vi-ve. Even at this la-te ho-ur, the fre-eway had be-en
cram-med with traf-fic mo-ving both ways when the light had ca-me. A light brigh-ter than the sun it-self,
it se-emed li-ke. The shoc-ked tra-ve-lers fo-und them-sel-ves blin-ded by the sud-den ra-di-an-ce even
as the en-gi-nes of the-ir ve-hic-les di-ed and stal-led. Many lost cont-rol and the fre-eway tur-ned in-to
a cas-ca-de of de-ath as iner-tia to-ok its co-ur-se. Cars slam-med in-to trucks and each ot-her's.
Ve-hic-les hit the conc-re-te si-des of the fre-eway or the me-di-um over-tur-ning. Fla-mes bla-zed in
every di-rec-ti-on and exp-lo-si-ons rip-ped the night. Pe-op-le who we-re still ali-ve bol-ted from the-ir
cars, cre-ating furt-her ha-voc. Pe-op-le ran from the fre-eway as if for the-ir li-ves whi-le ot-hers tri-ed
to help tho-se trap-ped in-si-de the wrecks. Amy watc-hed as one dri-ver of an eigh-te-en whe-eler
ca-me te-aring out his cab, mad-ness in his eyes, ope-ning up on the crowd with so-me of sort of rif-le
un-til anot-her tra-ve-ler shot him in the fo-re-he-ad and his limp form crump-led to the asp-halt. It was
all in-sa-ne li-ke so-me sort of a li-ving night-ma-re. Amy did not le-ap out of her car to jo-in the crowd.
She sat in her se-at her body he-aving with sobs, too frigh-te-ned to mo-ve. Ir-ra-ti-onal-ly, she
won-de-red what her boss wo-uld say when she sho-wed up la-te at the hos-pi-tal. Her only inj-ury was
a scra-ped pla-ce on her hand from whe-re she re-ac-hed out to bra-ce her-self as her car had struck
the re-ar-end of the sil-ver Dod-ge Sha-dow in front in her as the cha-os be-gan.

She tri-ed to turn on the car ra-dio but not-hing hap-pe-ned. She tri-ed re-pe-atedly un-til the knob
bro-ke off in her hand. Fi-nal-ly, she sunk her he-ad back on-to the ste-ering whe-el and star-ted to the
mut-ter the words of a pra-yer un-der her bre-ath as pe-op-le scre-amed in-to the night ac-ross the
en-ti-re fre-eway.

Washington D.C. Pre-si-dent Clark sat at his desk shuf-fling thro-ugh the stacks of re-ports from
N.A.S.A. and ot-her or-ga-ni-za-ti-ons abo-ut the energy wa-ve that had just struck the Earth. Be-low
them on his desk, res-ted still mo-re re-ports from the mi-li-tary and co-unt-less law en-for-ce-ment and
go-vern-ment agen-ci-es abo-ut the af-ter-math of the wa-ve that had left the glo-be in cha-os. Things
did not lo-ok go-od for the hu-man ra-ce. Of co-ur-se, things we-re even much wor-se than what he
was he-aring abo-ut. Ni-nety per-cent of all com-mu-ni-ca-ti-ons wit-ho-ut the world out-si-de of the
city it-self had be-en lost and even in-si-de the city pro-per he was for-ced to news by “word of
mo-uth". All forms of tech-no-logy that re-qu-ired mo-re than simp-le ki-ne-tic energy or com-bus-ti-on
energy to ope-ra-te we-re es-sen-ti-al-ly use-less. The wa-ve had se-en to that. Even the back-up
systems and bat-te-ri-es we-re down tho-ugh al-re-ady so-me we-re co-ming back on-li-ne with the
work of the sci-en-ce staff ava-ilab-le.
It ap-pe-ared that the energy wa-ve's ef-fects on tech-no-logy we-re dis-si-pa-ting at an
ex-po-nen-ti-al ra-te but it wo-uld still ta-kes we-eks, per-haps months for the world's ad-van-ced tech
to be fully res-to-red. For-tu-na-tely, a few of the he-avily shi-el-ded mi-li-tary bun-kers li-ke the one
un-der-ne-ath the Whi-te Ho-use had sur-vi-ved the wa-ve's im-pact al-most fully ope-ra-ti-onal or his
know-led-ge of the out-si-de world wo-uld ha-ve go-ne from li-mi-ted to non-exis-tent.
General McMa-han kept in-sis-ting that he flee the city and he-ad for a mo-re se-cu-re bun-ker in
anot-her sta-te. The Ge-ne-ral was hard at work with his men and the sci-en-tists pre-pa-ring a
ma-kes-hift con-voy from the ve-hic-les, ci-vi-li-an and mi-li-tary ali-ke, that fil-led the bun-ker and the
Whi-te Ho-use's ga-ra-ges and par-king are-as. He in-sis-ted the city was not sa-fe tho-ugh he
re-aso-ned any kind of hos-ti-le nuc-le-ar act by the for-mer So-vi-et Uni-on or any ot-her na-ti-ons
we-re highly un-li-kely jud-ging from the sta-te the wa-ve had left the U.S.'s own ar-se-nal in.
Ho-we-ver, the num-bers of frigh-te-ned pe-op-le se-emed to co-me in dro-ves to the ga-tes of the
Whi-te Ho-use. Ple-ading for as-sis-tan-ce and lo-oking for ho-pe, they dis-tur-bed McMa-han and put
him on ed-ge. Yet even mo-re so, he was con-cer-ned abo-ut tho-se who we-re mad from so-me kind
of af-te-ref-fect the wa-ve had on the elect-ro-bi-olo-gi-cal ma-ke-up of the hu-man mind. Clark had
as-ked the sci-en-tists abo-ut that but the-ir ans-wers had be-en va-gue tho-ught they as-su-red him to it
wo-uld only wor-sen and that few, if any, wo-uld be im-mu-ne to the lin-ge-ring ra-di-ati-on left in the
wa-ve's wa-ke which se-emed to be ca-using the mad-ness. So-me may pro-ve mo-re re-sis-tant than
ot-hers, but in the end most of the world po-pu-la-ti-on wo-uld be tur-ned in-to to ne-arly mind-less,
vi-olent pre-da-tors as the days went on.
So far, Clark had re-fu-sed McMa-han's re-qu-ests to le-ave. He ho-ped by sta-ying that his
pre-sen-ce wo-uld help com-fort tho-se still sa-ne in the city and let them know that steps we-re be-ing
ta-ken to fa-ce this ca-tast-rop-he. The we-ight of the co-untry and the world lay he-avily upon on his
sho-ul-ders and he co-uld only ho-pe his best ef-forts and tho-se of his staff wo-uld be eno-ugh to at
le-ast en-su-re that hu-ma-nity, as a who-le didn't pe-rish.
He sat down the stacks of pa-pers and la-id his he-ad down on his arms. He clo-sed his eyes and
sa-id a si-lent to God for mercy on them all. **** Jeremy awo-ke as the first rays of the mor-ning sun
crept over the mo-un-ta-ins and spark-led thro-ugh the glass do-ors of his bed-ro-om. He stir-red
in-si-de the open walk-in clo-set and rub-bed at his neck. It hurt li-ke Hell from the way he had slept
le-aning aga-inst the clo-set wall. Lo-oking down at the rif-le res-ting in his lap, he felt li-ke a fo-ol. He
was for-ced to ad-mit his ner-ves had got-ten the bet-ter of him last night and he won-de-red what the
heck he'd be-en thin-king. He bet the po-wer was al-re-ady on aga-in. Ne-vert-he-less, what was that
stran-ge light in the sky? Had that be-en re-al or had he dre-amed the who-le thing? His me-mo-ri-es of
it se-emed un-be-li-evab-le and mo-re than a bit crazy.
As he wal-ked in-to the bed-ro-om, he pla-ced the rif-le on-to the bed and glan-ced at the di-gi-tal

alarm clock on his dres-ser. Its disp-lay was blank and un-lit. So much for the po-wer be-ing back on,
he la-ug-hed. He des-pe-ra-tely wan-ted a sho-wer but that was out of the qu-es-ti-on with the po-wer
still off so he chan-ged clot-hes don-ning a tat-te-red Rush T-shirt and fresh un-der-we-ar and je-ans.
Mo-ving in-to the kitc-hen, he snac-ked on a plas-tic war-ped muf-fin from the pantry as he tri-ed the
pho-ne aga-in. No luck the-re eit-her.
As he ate, a va-gue me-mory of so-met-hing hap-pe-ning to his car du-ring the stran-ge light
ha-un-ted him and de-ci-ded to ins-pect the da-ma-ge.
Glass shards from its exp-lo-ded he-ad-lights fil-led the dri-ve in front of the car. He ca-re-ful-ly
avo-ided the glass sin-ce he was still ba-re-fo-oted and ope-ned the do-or to plop in-to the dri-ver's
se-at. He cram-med the key in-to the star-ter and tur-ned the switch. Not-hing hap-pe-ned, not even a
sput-ter. Ang-rily he punc-hed the dash-bo-ard in frust-ra-ti-on. He sat the-re for a mo-ment
won-de-ring what he sho-uld do next. Lu-ke Thomp-son li-ved just up the ro-ad from him. The old man
was his ne-arest ne-igh-bor and a fri-end too so he de-ci-ded he wo-uld pay Lu-ke a vi-sit. Lu-ke was
inf-lic-ted with ter-rib-le he-alth prob-lems mostly from his age but his smo-king and cons-tant drin-king
didn't help eit-her. He might ne-ed a hand be-si-des Lu-ke's truck might be in bet-ter sha-pe than his
own car and the two of them co-uld he-ad in-to town to-get-her and may-be find out what was go-ing
on. At worst, he was su-re he wo-uld walk away with a smi-le and a free be-er.
Luke only li-ved abo-ut half a mi-le up the ro-ad from Jeremy's pla-ce so the walk was a short one.
He to-ok his ti-me with it, enj-oying the fi-elds of gre-en by the ro-ad-si-de. Sum-mer was truly he-re
and even the we-eds we-re vib-rant and be-a-uti-ful to Jeremy in a way. He didn't miss the big city in the
le-ast and was very glad he'd mo-ved down he-re a few ye-ars back. He was a bit di-sap-po-in-ted
when he star-ted up the small hill of Lu-ke's dri-ve and didn't see the old man sit-ting on the porch of tiny
shack that pas-sed for a ho-use.
It se-emed Lu-ke was al-ways the-re. The old man enj-oyed sit-ting on his porch and whit-tling,
wa-iting on pas-sers-by to ha-rass in his own go-od-na-tu-red way. It wor-ri-ed Jeremy a lit-tle. For him
not to no-ti-ce me-ant so-met-hing might be wrong. Jeremy pic-ked up the pa-ce of his walk, ne-arly
bre-aking in-to a run. He ho-ped the old man was all right. As he re-ac-hed the ho-use, he yel-led.
“Lu-ke! You in the-re? Lu-ke?” He co-uld see the front do-or to the ho-use was open li-ke al-ways but
the outer scre-en do-or was shut. Three we-at-he-red, crac-ked conc-re-te steps led up to the do-or.
Jeremy bol-ted up them. He swung the scre-en open and pe-eped in-si-de. The li-ving ro-om was a
mess. So-me things ne-ver chan-ged. He grin-ned as he sta-red at the dis-car-ded mic-ro-wa-vab-le
din-ner wrap-pers, empty be-er bot-tles, and crump-led ci-ga-ret-te packs that in-ter-ming-led with the
stacks of dirty clot-hes co-ve-ring the co-uch and flo-or. Jeremy step-ped in-si-de. “Lu-ke? You
he-re?” he as-ked aga-in.
He glan-ced aro-und and saw ins-tantly that Lu-ke's po-wer was off li-ke his own. He pic-ked up an
open pack of smo-kes which lay on the T.V. stand be-si-de an over-flo-wing asht-ray and hel-ped him
self to one. He hadn't smo-ked sin-ce high scho-ol but he fi-gu-red now was as go-od a ti-me as any to
start back. Ligh-ting up, he to-ok a de-ep drag and co-ug-hed li-ke a kid. He sho-ved the ci-ga-ret-te
in-to the asht-ray and gro-und it out, then he-aded to-wards Lu-ke's bed-ro-om. He pra-yed that old
man hadn't pas-sed away du-ring the night. Jeremy and Lu-ke we-ren't exactly clo-se. Lu-ke was too
old fas-hi-oned to let his fe-elings show with an-yo-ne, but Jeremy had got on well with him. He li-ked
the old man a lot. No one el-se co-uld ma-ke you smi-le in the way that he did. Jeremy knew he
co-uldn't ha-ve as-ked for a bet-ter ne-igh-bor.
Out of the cor-ner of his eye, Jeremy ca-ught a glimp-se of so-me-one or so-met-hing out-si-de,
mo-ving aro-und the ho-use. “Lu-ke?” he cal-led aga-in, pic-king up the asht-ray from the T.V. stand
and we-ig-hing it in his hand. Not his we-apon of cho-ice, but it was bet-ter than not-hing and he
ima-gi-ned it wo-uld hurt li-ke hell to ha-ve it smas-hed in-to yo-ur no-se. He wasn't ta-king any
chan-ces. The-re was too much stran-ge shit go-ing on. He he-ard the back do-or of the ho-use cre-ak
open and slam shut.
Suddenly, Lu-ke ca-me te-aring out of the bed-ro-om. He ma-de no so-und but his eyes we-re wi-de
and a snarl sme-ared it-self ac-ross his wrink-led fa-ce. He threw him-self at Jeremy in a des-pe-ra-te

ra-ge. Jeremy ba-rely ma-na-ged to dod-ge the old man. He'd ne-ver se-en mo-ve so fast.
Luke cras-hed in-to the T.V. stand and went down on-to his hands and kne-es on-to the flo-or with a
thud. “Lu-ke!” Jeremy sho-uted. “It's me! Jeremy!” Lu-ke's he-ad dar-ted aro-und and he sta-red up at
Jeremy with a blo-ods-hot, hungry ga-ze. Jeremy las-hed out, kic-king the old man from un-der-ne-ath,
stra-ight up in-to Lu-ke's sto-mach. Lu-ke let out a grunt, rol-ling over from the blow. Jeremy drop-ped
on him, pin-ning back his wit-he-red arms over his he-ad in an ef-fort to rest-ra-in him. “Lu-ke, ple-ase."
Luke ra-ised his he-ad up eno-ugh to snap at Jeremy with his te-eth li-ke a mad dog. Lu-ke was
inc-re-dibly strong so-me-how. Jeremy was for-ced to let go and rol-led away from the old man but not
qu-ickly eno-ugh to avo-id Lu-ke from ra-king a long gash in-to his arm be-ne-ath the sle-eve of his
Rush t-shirt with his fin-ger-na-ils. Jeremy win-ced at the pa-in, grit-ting his te-eth, then Lu-ke was on
him aga-in. Be-fo-re he even re-ali-zed what he was do-ing, Jeremy snatc-hed up the drop-ped asht-ray
and bro-ught it down on Lu-ke's skull. The crunch of bo-ne re-ver-be-ra-ted thro-ug-ho-ut the ro-om as
Lu-ke went limp and fell over.
Jeremy sto-od the-re in shock. He felt sick and his who-le body sho-ok with ad-re-na-lin and
dis-gust. Jeremy no-ti-ced the blo-od and gray ha-ir that clung to the si-de of the asht-ray and it slip-ped
from his grip, clat-te-ring to the flo-or be-si-de Lu-ke. The-re was no do-ubt that the old man was
de-ad. Blo-od po-ured from the ca-ved in in-den-ti-on on his scalp. Te-ars wel-led up in Jeremy's eyes
as he un-cons-ci-o-usly rub-bed at the wo-und on his own arm whe-re Lu-ke's na-ils had got-ten him.
Jeremy fell on-to the co-uch and sat the-re, sta-ring at the de-ad te-le-vi-si-on set, in a da-ze.
Hours la-ter, Jeremy pla-ced the be-er bot-tle he just emp-ti-ed on-to the T.V. tab-le be-si-de its
twins. The be-er had be-en warm but it was still go-od. You co-uld al-ways co-unt on old Lu-ke to
ha-ve the es-sen-ti-als stoc-ked up in the frid-ge. Thin-king of Lu-ke ca-used Jeremy to le-an over and
vo-mit in-to the flo-or in front of whe-re he sat on the co-uch. Lu-ke's body had la-id the sa-me pla-ce
not long ago. Jeremy had drag-ged the old man in-to the bed-ro-om and left him co-ve-red with a whi-te
she-et from Lu-ke's own bed. The ima-ge of the blo-od se-eping thro-ugh the thin cloth and so-aking
in-to it ma-de Jeremy wretch aga-in.
Jeremy sat the-re roc-king back and forth on the co-uch rep-la-ying everyt-hing in his mind. He'd
do-ne the only thing he co-uld, he told him-self. It had be-en kill or be kil-led, simp-le as that. Still, it
didn't se-em to fe-el that way.
He cur-sed him-self for be-ing so we-ak. Wha-te-ver had hap-pe-ned the night be-fo-re was wor-se
than a simp-le po-wer outa-ge. He re-ali-zed it now; the light hadn't be-en just a dre-am. So-met-hing
was ter-ribly fuc-ked up with the world and he was ca-ught in the mid-dle of it by simply be-ing ali-ve.
He cur-sed him-self too for his inac-ti-on. He sho-uldn't still be he-re. The day was half go-ne and
Lu-ke's truck sat in the back-yard still unt-ri-ed. If it ran, he co-uld ha-ve be-en in town by now, hun-ting
for help and may-be fin-ding out what HAD hap-pe-ned last night. Yet he sat he-re, ste-aling a de-ad
fri-end's be-er.
Luke hadn't be-en him-self. He had be-en mo-re li-ke an ani-mal. Jeremy qu-es-ti-oned if any part of
the old Lu-ke had be-en left in-si-de of him. He do-ub-ted it.
Fear was what kept him he-re, fe-ar of the unk-nown. What if the folks in town we-re li-ke Lu-ke?
What wo-uld he do? He knew he co-uldn't stay he-re tho-ugh and the-re se-emed no po-int in go-ing
ho-me. The-re was not-hing the-re for him. Af-ter a bri-ef se-arch, he fo-und the keys to the truck out
back han-ging in the kitc-hen but be-fo-re he star-ted to-wards town, the-re was one ot-her thing he
ne-eded to do.
He wal-ked to the bed-ro-om do-or and lo-oked at the corp-se snug-gled in-si-de the she-et.
In-wardly, he sa-id a fi-nal go-od-bye to the old man as he bu-ilt up the co-ura-ge to step aro-und him
and open the con-nec-ting do-or to Lu-ke's sto-ra-ge ro-om. Half a do-zen rif-les we-re disp-la-yed on
a han-ging rack mo-un-ted on the far wall of the ro-om and a glass ca-se be-low them con-ta-ined
Lu-ke's col-lec-ti-on of hand-guns. Not all of them we-re re-al of co-ur-se. So-me we-re just rep-li-cas
but asi-de from sit-ting on his porch, drin-king, and smo-king, they had be-en Lu-ke's only re-al
pas-si-on in li-fe.
Jeremy wrap-ped his hand in a cloth nap-kin bor-ro-wed from the kitc-hen and smas-hed open the

loc-ked ca-se. He ins-pec-ted each gun ca-re-ful-ly un-til he fo-und one that was both re-al and
lo-aded. He tuc-ked an old style.38 in-to the back of his pants be-fo-re re-ac-hing up to ta-ke a.30-06
from the rif-le rack. Un-li-ke the hand-guns, Jeremy knew whe-re Lu-ke kept the am-mo for the rif-les
and stop-ped to pick up a box of ro-unds be-fo-re he he-aded out back to the truck.
He slid in-to the cab of the an-ci-ent, be-at up ve-hic-le, and tur-ned the ig-ni-ti-on. The en-gi-ne
rol-led over on the first try and ro-ared to li-fe. Jeremy glan-ced back one mo-re ti-me at Lu-ke's ho-use
then bac-ked out of the dri-ve. The truck's ti-res squ-e-aled and spun out as he flo-ored the gas be-fo-re
the truck lurc-hed le-aving a clo-ud of dust in its wa-ke as it sped in-to the dis-tan-ce.
Amy pinc-hed the flesh of her arm, na-ils dig-ging de-ep eno-ugh in-to the skin to bring blo-od.
“Wa-ke up! Oh ple-ase god. Wa-ke up!” she yel-led in-si-de her own mind but the sce-ne abo-ut her
stub-bornly re-fu-sed to chan-ge.
She sat in the back of the van with her legs cur-led up be-ne-ath her. Ac-ross from her sat a boy of no
mo-re than twel-ve. Amy tho-ught his na-me might be Jake or Jack or so-met-hing li-ke that, but she
co-uldn't re-mem-ber. The last ho-urs of her li-fe we-re a blur of de-ath, run-ning, and the three pe-op-le
who sha-red this ri-de with her.
The van jol-ted as it hit so-met-hing in the stre-et. Amy pra-yed it was a pot-ho-le. Dan sat in the
dri-ver's se-at, his at-ten-ti-on fi-xed on the ro-ad ahe-ad. His black ha-ir was stre-aked with gray
tho-ugh he ap-pe-ared ot-her-wi-se to only be in his la-ter twen-ti-es or early thir-ti-es.
The van was si-lent ex-cept for the dull so-und of its en-gi-ne. Kat-he-ri-ne was in the pas-sen-ger's
se-at up front with Dan hol-ding a 12 ga-uge in her lap and watc-hing Amy and the boy in-tently. It was
cle-ar. She trus-ted no-ne of them. She'd kill any of them in an ins-tant if she ne-eded to in or-der to
sur-vi-ve her-self. Of this, Amy had no do-ubt.
There had be-en anot-her man with them early who went crazy. Kat-he-ri-ne's shot-gun had
splat-te-red his he-ad on-to the wall and she'd had Dan stop so she co-uld kick the body out of the van.
All day, they had dri-ven so-uth thro-ugh the city in se-arch of ot-hers who didn't ha-ve the
“sick-ness” and a sa-fe pla-ce to get help. That was what Dan cal-led it and it was as go-od of a na-me
as anyt-hing she co-uld ha-ve co-me up. The van they ro-de in was both a bles-sing and a cur-se. It
ga-ve them a me-ans of tra-vel and to run from any prob-lems they en-co-un-te-red but it al-so drew
prob-lems to them. The so-und of the en-gi-ne at-trac-ted the crazy pe-op-le who had co-me down with
the sick-ness. Kat-he-ri-ne and Dan had had to fight them off a half do-zen ti-mes al-re-ady to-day. It
al-so at-trac-ted the un-wan-ted of at-ten-ti-on of ot-her sur-vi-vors of the wrong kind who we-re
wil-ling to kill for the wor-king ve-hic-le. Thank God, they only met up with a bunch li-ke that on-ce and
had be-en ab-le to flee wit-ho-ut a re-al fight.
Amy didn't re-al-ly know whe-re Dan was trying to ta-ke them to. She ho-ped he knew him-self.
Af-ter all she had be-en thro-ugh, Amy won-de-red if the-re was even such a thing as a sa-fe pla-ce
any-mo-re. Her sto-mach grow-led with hun-ger.
There was fo-od to be had thro-ug-ho-ut the city in aban-do-ned es-tab-lish-ments and sto-res. The
tro-ub-le lay in stop-ping to get it. Sta-ying still for any length of ti-me with the van stop-ped only
in-vi-ted de-ath to co-me knoc-king. They le-ar-ned that qu-ickly and the hard way. The
hu-man-cre-atu-res who had the di-se-ase we-re go-od at hi-ding and se-emed to be everyw-he-re.
Amy fis-hed aro-und in the poc-kets of her jac-ket and pro-du-ced the re-ma-ining half of a candy
bar she had lo-oted her-self du-ring the one ti-me they had stop-ped ear-li-er in the day. The boy
watc-hed her with a hungry ga-ze but sa-id not-hing. She snap-ped the rem-nants of the candy in half
aga-in and of-fe-red a por-ti-on to the boy. He snatc-hed it from her hand and sat back che-wing it with
smac-king lips. Kat-he-ri-ne watc-hed the disp-lay but sho-wed no signs of ca-ring. “She must be
hungry too,” Amy tho-ught, “But she do-esn't show it li-ke we do."
"We'll be the-re so-on,” Dan mut-te-red, mo-re to him-self than his pas-sen-gers. “We'll get help.
You'll see. Everyt-hing will be fi-ne."
Amy ho-ped he was right. She knew Dan was on the ver-ge of col-lap-se, of a bre-ak-down, or
wha-te-ver you cal-led it but she ho-ped no-ne the less. **** Pre-si-dent Clark sto-od on the Whi-te
Ho-use lawn. He co-uld he-ar the howls of the po-or so-uls out-si-de the pe-ri-me-ter of the mas-si-ve

walls, which stretc-hed aro-und the yard. Spo-ra-dic gun-fi-re in-ter-ming-led with the-ir cri-es every
few mo-ments. Pe-op-le had be-gun to flock to the walls trying to se-ek ent-ran-ce and re-fu-ge early
last night. They ca-me in se-arch of help and we-re tur-ned away. They we-re all long de-ad or chan-ged
now. The things out-si-de the wall we-re no lon-ger hu-man at all, as he de-fi-ned the terms. The-ir
so-uls we-re go-ne. They we-re mons-ters, mind-less auto-ma-tons who wan-ted not-hing mo-re than to
get in-si-de so they co-uld rip his thro-at open with the-ir ba-re hands. He co-uld no lon-ger for-ce
him-self to fe-el pity for the-se cre-atu-res but he did mo-urn for the pe-op-le they on-ce we-re, now
go-ne fo-re-ver. They had be-en his pe-op-le af-ter all; his na-ti-on and they had trus-ted him. This is
whe-re he had led them.
He had re-fu-sed Wig-gins’ ple-as to le-ave the night be-fo-re ho-ping that if word got out of his
sta-ying it wo-uld gi-ve the pe-op-le in this city at le-ast ho-pe and help calm the ri-oting and lo-oting. He
saw how wrong he was now. His pre-sen-ce he-re was po-int-less. The city was de-ad. He won-de-red
if he had wa-ited too long to ta-ke Wig-gins’ ad-vi-ce in ti-me. The cre-atu-res sur-ro-un-ded the
Whi-te Ho-use walls, even now, the-ir ranks we-re stac-ked six or se-ven rows de-ep aga-inst the wall,
pus-hing and cla-wing to get in-si-de. He co-uldn't re-mo-tely gu-ess at how many of the-ir num-ber had
be-en crus-hed by tho-se be-hind them and tramp-led over as new mem-bers of the hor-de to-ok the-ir
pla-ce. The-re se-emed to be no end to the mons-ters. It was as if all of Was-hing-ton was out the-re.
Wiggins’ sol-di-ers li-ned the wall, sho-oting any of the things that we-re smart eno-ugh to de-vi-se a
way over to the lawn. Mo-re of Wig-gins’ men still wor-ked aro-und the clock con-ver-ting the
ve-hic-les in-si-de in-te-ri-or par-king area in-to an ar-mo-red mo-tor-ca-de, a con-voy ca-pab-le of
pi-er-cing the ranks out-si-de the wall and ma-king it to sa-fety.
Wiggins’ in-ten-ded to he-ad for the Def-con ins-tal-la-ti-on IV. It was the clo-sest of the still
func-ti-onal ba-se that we-re ori-gi-nal bu-ilt to sur-vi-ve a nuc-le-ar ho-lo-ca-ust. It was lo-ca-ted
de-ep in the mo-un-ta-ins of North Ca-ro-li-na and the-re he wo-uld be sa-fe. Per-haps the-re they
co-uld find the ans-wers to this mess and end the night-ma-re. With luck, they co-uld bu-ild a new start
for the world.
Clark jum-ped as he felt a firm hand grasp his sho-ul-der. He spun aro-und to see Ge-ne-ral
Wig-gins. “Everyt-hing's re-ady, sir. We're just wa-iting for you,” Wig-gins in-for-med him.
Clark nod-ded ab-sently. “What the hell are we go-ing to do Ge-ne-ral?"
"Survive, Mr. Pre-si-dent. My job is to get you out of he-re to Def-Con 4 and I'm go-ing to do it."
Wiggins led Clark to whe-re the con-voy had as-semb-led just in-si-de the so-ut-hern ga-te. Fi-ve
cars and two trucks comp-ri-sed it, non-mi-li-tary but co-ve-red in ma-kes-hift ar-mor. Three of the cars
no lon-ger had ro-ofs. They had be-en cut off so that lar-ge M-60 emp-la-ce-ments co-uld be ad-ded to
the ve-hic-les, the kind one nor-mal-ly saw in the re-ar of an army je-ep equ-ip-ped for fi-eld duty. Both
trucks pos-ses-sed bulky wed-ges of ste-el wel-ded to the-ir ho-ods sha-ped li-ke bat-te-ring rams. The
who-le con-voy lo-oked li-ke so-met-hing out that early Mel Gib-son sci-fi flick abo-ut pe-op-le
figh-ting for gas in the de-sert af-ter the world had en-ded. Clark didn't know whet-her to bre-ak in-to to
te-ars or la-ugh un-til he was rol-ling in the grass of the lawn at the know-led-ge of just how far
hu-ma-nity had fal-len. Wig-gins es-cor-ted him to the se-cond truck in the li-ne and ope-ned the do-or
for him.
"You re-ady, sir? It co-uld get a bit ha-iry out the-re."
"I am as re-ady as I will ever be Ge-ne-ral."
"Then let's get the show on the ro-ad,” Wig-gins la-ug-hed and wal-ked to-wards the le-ad truck.
As Clark watc-hed Wig-gins walk away he co-uldn't help but re-call his last dis-cus-si-on with Dr.
Buc-ha-nan. What he'd le-ar-ned from it was as bad, may-be wor-se, than what the con-voy was su-re
to fa-ce on the ro-ad ahe-ad if they ma-de it out of the city.
Buchanan cla-imed the energy fi-eld trap-ped in the Earth's at-mosp-he-re was chan-ging. So-on he
cla-imed the as-pects of the energy, which ac-ted li-ke so-me kind of gi-ant dam-pe-ning fi-eld crip-pling
hu-ma-nity's tech-no-logy, wo-uld pass. “Two to fo-ur days, tops,” Buc-ha-nan as-su-red him. It me-ant
hu-ma-nity still sto-od a chan-ce and that was the only go-od news. The energy fi-eld whi-le re-len-ting
in that re-gard was sho-wing no ot-hers signs of de-cay. Buc-ha-nan's gu-ess of the energy be-ing

per-ma-nent or clo-se eno-ugh not to mat-ter was cor-rect. The sci-en-tist's new da-ta sho-wed it li-kely
that only eight per-cent of the world po-pu-la-ti-on was im-mu-ne to the bi-olo-gi-cal ef-fects of the
fi-eld. When Clark as-ked why most of tho-se he-re at the Whi-te Ho-use we-re as yet unaf-fec-ted,
Buc-ha-nan me-rely ans-we-red by sa-ying that so-me pe-op-le pos-ses-sed a gre-ater to-le-ran-ce
than ot-hers and the bulk of the Whi-te Ho-use per-so-nal had be-en in-si-de and shel-te-red as the
energy wa-ve had col-li-ded with the Earth. For a ti-me at le-ast, Buc-ha-nan gu-es-sed, they wo-uld be
nor-mal un-til they we-re out-si-de long eno-ugh to ab-sorb eno-ugh of the energy's ra-di-ati-on in-to
the-ir bo-di-es to ca-use the bre-ak-down that tho-se who had be-en openly ex-po-sed to the light that
night suf-fe-red wit-hin ho-urs.
Buchanan him-self and most of the ci-vi-li-an staff we-re sta-ying be-hind. The con-voy co-uld only
hold so many pe-op-le and Wig-gins had al-lot-ted most the con-voy's spa-ce to mi-li-tary and
se-cu-rity per-so-nal for Clark's own pro-tec-ti-on. Clark al-most tho-ught that Buc-ha-nan pre-fer-red
be-ing left be-hind. The man sel-dom ca-me out the un-derg-ro-und bun-ker and he knew why. The
go-od doc-tor didn't want to find out whet-her or not he him-self was im-mu-ne. He just wan-ted to stay
sa-ne for as long as he pos-sibly co-uld.
Clark grit-ted his te-eth in an-ger at Wig-gins je-opar-di-zing so many li-ves just to pro-tect him but
he un-ders-to-od Wig-gins re-aso-ning. To Wig-gins and his men, it was the-ir duty. The Uni-ted Sta-tes
li-ved on as long as the pre-si-dent was ali-ve and in a way, Clark was for-ced to ad-mit that they we-re
right.
Clark watc-hed from in-si-de the se-cond truck of the con-voy as Wig-gins’ men who still man-ned
the walls ope-ned fi-re in-to the cre-atu-re be-low, out-si-de the so-ut-hern ga-te. The things out-si-de
drop-ped in wa-ves but ot-hers mo-ved up to ta-ke the-ir pla-ces. Wig-gins men we-re to su-re to run
out of am-mo be-fo-re the city ran out of cre-atu-res but Wig-gins wo-uld've known this too and
plan-ned for it. Su-rely eno-ugh, wit-hin se-conds, Clark he-ard the thum-ping so-und of gre-na-de
la-unc-hers be-ing fi-red from the lawn. Exp-lo-si-ons so-un-ded from out-si-de the ga-te as the le-ad
truck shot for-ward and cras-hed its way out-si-de in-to the mob, plo-wing thro-ugh the crowd. It to-re
thro-ugh the cre-atu-res’ ranks crunc-hing so-me un-der its whe-els and flin-ging ot-hers asi-de as they
bo-un-ced off its ar-mo-red pla-ting.
Then the who-le con-voy was mo-ving out-si-de the ga-tes. The M-60s mo-un-ted in the open cars
bla-zed and the chat-ter of small arms fi-re crack-led over the ca-cop-hony of the how-ling cre-atu-res.
He felt his own truck bo-un-ce as the dri-ver tur-ned out of the yard too qu-ickly, hit-ting the curb, as the
truck swung aro-und to fol-low the ve-hic-les le-ading it.
Inside the cab of the le-ad truck, Wig-gins smi-led with sa-tis-fac-ti-on. Everyt-hing was go-ing just as
he had plan-ned it. The con-voy cle-ared the mass of the hor-de and the open ro-ad lay be-fo-re them.
"Sir, what's that?” his dri-ver as-ked ner-vo-usly.
Wiggins squ-in-ted in-to the dis-tant stre-et. A lo-ne cre-atu-re had wal-ked out of a bu-il-ding and
in-to the ro-ad ahe-ad of them. It se-emed to cro-uch in the mid-dle of the ro-ad as if wa-iting on them
to get clo-ser. Then Wig-gins saw it cle-arer as the truck ro-ared to-wards it. His skin went cold as he
sta-red in dis-be-li-ef. The damn thing had a roc-ket la-unc-her held firmly aga-inst its sho-ul-der. “Oh
Shit!” Wig-gins scre-amed re-ac-hing over to claw at the whe-el as the dri-ver saw the we-apon too and
was stun-ned be-yond the abi-lity to re-act in ti-me. Light flas-hed from the la-unc-her's bar-rel and the
roc-ket stre-aked in-to the cab of the truck whe-re Wig-gins sat.
Clark he-ard the exp-lo-si-on as he watc-hed the le-ad truck erupt in-to a ball of fi-re. Ad-re-na-li-ne
sur-ged thro-ugh Clark's body and his knuck-les went whi-te from his grip on the truck's arm-rest. The
first of the cars fol-lo-wing Wig-gins’ truck cras-hed in-to the fla-ming wrec-ka-ge at far too high a
spe-ed and over-tur-ned. Li-ke a cha-in of fal-ling do-mi-nos the con-voy grin-ded to a halt. The
cre-atu-res be-hind them we-re catc-hing up and mo-re po-ured out to over-run the con-voy from the
si-de stre-ets and al-leys. The things we-re everyw-he-re.
The chat-te-ring we-apons of the con-voy had al-re-ady grown fe-wer in num-ber. One so-li-der
man-ning an M-60 in the car be-hind Clark's truck was torn in half as a do-zen of tho-se things
at-temp-ted to pull him from the ve-hic-le. His in-tes-ti-nes dang-led lo-osely le-aving a tra-il of red on

the car's pa-int as the up-per half of his tor-so was yan-ked free. Qu-ickly, he di-sap-pe-ared in-to the
angry hor-de.
"Mr. Pre-si-dent!” the so-li-der be-si-de him sho-uted as a gro-tes-que, dro-oling fa-ce pres-sed
it-self aga-inst the win-dow by Clark's se-at. “Jesus!” Clark wa-iled and threw his arm aga-inst the
in-si-de of the glass to lend it ext-ra sup-port and ho-ping it wo-uld hold. “Ta-ke us back! Ta-ke us
back now!” Clark or-de-red.
The dri-ver threw the truck in-to re-ver-se and gun-ned the en-gi-ne. The lar-ge ve-hic-le shot
back-wards stra-ight in-to the brick wall of an apart-ment bu-il-ding. Clark was thrown for-ward from
the im-pact as his win-dow shat-te-red. Hands pul-led him ro-ughly thro-ugh the small ope-ning in-to the
stre-et, dirty, blo-ody hands with jag-ged fin-ger-na-ils. He swam in a sea of bi-ting te-eth as his flesh
was rip-ped and shred. In the dis-tan-ce, black smo-ke ro-se from be-hind the Whi-te Ho-use's open
ga-tes.
As Jeremy dro-ve thro-ugh the stre-ets of Can-ton, he lo-oked aro-und in shock at what he say. The
who-le town lo-oked as if a war had be-en fo-ught he-re. The Pi-ge-on Cen-ter Mar-ket was a mess.
Its do-ors we-re bro-ken open and glass shards lay all over the pla-ce in front of the bu-il-ding. Ot-hers
pla-ces we-re burnt to he-aps of black rumb-le. He-re and the-re, we-re cars left stran-ded in the ro-ad,
so-me wrec-ked, ot-hers aban-do-ned with the-ir do-ors left open as pe-op-le had fled from them in
ter-ror as if trying to get away from so-met-hing sin-ce the cars no lon-ger wor-ked. The worst tho-ugh
was the bo-di-es. The-re we-ren't many of them. Jeremy co-uld go for mi-nu-tes at a ti-me wit-ho-ut
spot-ting one, but when he did, he al-ways lo-oked away. The bo-di-es we-re all hor-ribly mu-ti-la-ted,
torn or hac-ked to pi-eces. So-me even ap-pe-ared as if they we-re par-ti-al-ly eaten by so-me pack of
ani-mals.
Jeremy had only se-en three pe-op-le sin-ce he'd ma-de it in-to to town. Two of tho-se had be-en
crazy li-ke old Lu-ke and he'd avo-ided them as best he co-uld. The third, he tho-ught, may ha-ve be-en
nor-mal as he was but as his truck had ap-pro-ac-hed the man ran, and di-sap-pe-ared in-to the depths
of the town's pa-per mill. Jeremy had got-ten out and cal-led af-ter him but hadn't da-red to go in-to the
plant's dark and win-ding cor-ri-dors alo-ne even with the rif-le and hand-gun.
The Ford's ra-dio was bro-ken and the po-wer re-ma-ined off everyw-he-re Jeremy re-ac-hed so far.
He knew lit-tle mo-re abo-ut what was go-ing on than he had when left Lu-ke's.
Jeremy pul-led the truck to a stop be-si-de the pumps of the Ex-xon sta-ti-on on the ed-ge of town
and kil-led the en-gi-ne. The sun was set-ting and long sha-dows stretc-hed ac-ross the pa-ve-ment from
the pumps. He clim-bed out of the Ford, le-aving the.30-.06 in the se-at but he pul-led out the.38 and
held it openly and re-ady. He knew bet-ter than to try the pumps them-sel-ves and wal-ked to-wards the
sta-ti-on. The pla-ce was eerily si-lent. Li-ke the Cen-ter Pi-ge-on Mar-ket, its do-ors we-re shat-te-red
and Jeremy's bo-ots crunc-hed on glass as he en-te-red. The smell of rot-ten me-at was strong he-re and
ma-de him gag. The cas-hi-er lay in front of the first is-le with a ga-ping ho-le in her chest that lo-oked as
if so-me-one had shot her po-int blank with a shot-gun. Red tin-ted uri-ne po-oled in the flo-or aro-und
her corp-se and the sum-mer in-sects buz-zed abo-ut her, la-ying the-ir eggs in her gray flesh.
Jeremy's left hand co-ve-red his mo-uth as he mo-ved de-eper in-si-de the sta-ti-on. Disp-lays we-re
over-tur-ned, co-olers left open or shat-te-red, the is-les ran-sac-ked, and abo-ut the only thing left
un-to-uc-hed was the cash re-gis-ter. Mo-ney had be-ca-me just gre-en pa-per aga-in and use-less.
From what he'd se-en in town so far, pe-op-le to-ok what they wan-ted now or di-ed trying.
Jeremy se-arc-hed the sto-re and lo-aded a bag with everyt-hing use-ful he co-uld find. He wal-ked
away with a sack con-ta-ining a jar of pe-anut but-ter, a ligh-ter, a few warm be-ers and so-me bot-tled
wa-ter, and a crus-hed lo-af of bre-ad. The-re wasn't much left in the sto-re and it to-ok a lot of ef-fort
to even find tho-se few things. He al-so had ma-na-ged to find the sto-re's first aid kit that had la-in
bu-ri-ed un-der a pi-le of junk be-hind the ma-in chec-ko-ut co-un-ter. Ove-rall, he con-si-de-red
him-self very bles-sed. He un-lo-aded his tre-asu-re in-to the truck and went back to the sto-ra-ge shed
be-hind the sta-ti-on. He shot the lock off the do-or and to-ok a jug and a sip-hon cab-le from the sheds
dark con-fi-nes. May-be he co-uldn't get gas from the pumps but the-re we-re mo-re than eno-ugh
ve-hic-les wa-iting out the-re that for now, it wo-uldn't be a prob-lem.

As he re-tur-ned to the truck this ti-me, he saw them co-ming down the ro-ad; fi-ve men and three
wo-men in tat-te-red and torn clot-hing. The-ir eyes se-emed to glow yel-low in the fa-ding light of the
sun. Jeremy threw the sip-hon, jug in-to the truck's bed, and le-apt in-si-de. As he loc-ked his do-or and
cran-ked the en-gi-ne, they bro-ke in-to a run to-wards him. He flo-ored the gas and squ-e-aled out of
the par-king lot wit-ho-ut lo-oking back. He dro-ve for over ten mi-les be-fo-re he stop-ped to get the
gas he ne-eded so badly from a Bu-ick that lay stuck in a ditch by the ro-ad-si-de.
As he wa-ited for the jug to fill with gas he won-de-red whe-re he wo-uld go. If Can-ton was li-ke
this, he co-uldn't ima-gi-ne what Sylva must be li-ke, much less As-he-vil-le. He tho-ught hard abo-ut
whe-re he might be ab-le to find help. Whe-re the Hell was a pla-ce clo-se eno-ugh for him to re-ach
that might still be nor-mal? He slum-ped aga-inst the si-de of the Bu-ick in de-fe-at, watc-hing the ro-ad
and tree li-ne both for any sign of mo-ve-ment. It pop-ped in-to his then li-ke a bomb go-ing off. All his
li-fe in Can-ton, he he-ard sto-ri-es abo-ut a mi-li-tary ba-se up in the mo-un-ta-ins. For the li-fe of him,
he co-uldn't re-mem-ber what it was cal-led. Hell, he didn't even know if it was re-al but he knew
ro-ughly whe-re it was sup-po-sed to be and if an-yo-ne co-uld get thro-ugh this mess okay it wo-uld be
the army.
He snatc-hed up the jug and yan-ked the sip-hon cab-le free of the Bu-ick, run-ning for the truck.
New York was a dis-tan-ce me-mory as if it was so-met-hing from a pre-vi-o-us li-fe-ti-me. Amy
sho-ok her he-ad at-temp-ting to cle-ar her tho-ughts. She clutc-hed a M-16 rif-le sto-len she's ta-ken
what se-emed li-ke fo-re-ver a go from a long de-ad lo-oter in her swe-aty palms and hid be-hind a
stack of cra-tes on the dock.
Dan, God rest his so-ul, dro-ve them thro-ugh the worst of it be-fo-re he had fi-nal-ly flip-ped out and
Kat-he-ri-ne put a bul-let in his skull. The boy, Jake, had di-ed too. Ap-pa-rently, he suf-fe-red from
so-me kind of asth-ma and wit-ho-ut his meds; ne-it-her she nor Kat-he-ri-ne was ab-le to help him.
Ne-vert-he-less, all of that was the past now, clo-uded and murky li-ke a fa-ding dre-am.
Right this se-cond, she had ot-her things to worry abo-ut. Amy glan-ce over at Kat-he-ri-ne,
cro-uc-hed se-ve-ral fe-et away. The-re was no qu-es-ti-on of who led the-ir un-li-kely pa-ir.
Kat-he-ri-ne, Amy had dis-co-ve-red, was an ex-cop and she was go-od at what she did.
On the ot-her si-de of the docks from them, a pack of hu-man-cre-atu-res mil-led abo-ut, snif-fing at
the air, oc-ca-si-onal-ly tur-ning on each ot-her even as they stal-ked the-ir prey.
Coming to the docks had be-en Kat-he-ri-ne's idea when they no-ti-ced them from the in-ters-ta-te.
Kat-he-ri-ne sug-ges-ted that they co-uld find a bo-at and set out to sea, may-be find an is-land free of
the “things” and start over, just the two of them. Even with the-ir li-mi-ted sup-pli-es, it so-un-ded li-ke a
gre-at idea. Tra-ve-ling by sea was much sa-fer than tra-ve-ling any ro-ad on the ma-in-land in the van.
Out the-re, the-re was no way the cre-atu-res co-uld re-ach them.
Of co-ur-se, ne-it-her of them plan-ned on run-ning in-to the cre-atu-res they fa-ced. The-ir ra-ce
to-wards the-ir new ho-pe had blin-ded them and ma-de them ca-re-less. They we-re trap-ped now, cut
off from both the van and the bo-ats ali-ke by the pack of cre-atu-res that ap-pa-rently cal-led the-se
docks ho-me.
She and Kat-he-ri-ne wo-uld ha-ve just kil-led them and be-en do-ne with it. They we-re both well
ar-med with ge-ar they'd fo-und or luc-ked in-to along the way to this pla-ce but the pack was over two
do-zen strong and this was the-ir hun-ting the-ir hun-ting gro-unds. Lord only knew how many still
lur-ked in the sur-ro-un-ding bu-il-dings. Hi-ding had be-ca-me the-ir only op-ti-on and even that had
ma-de things wor-se, gi-ving ti-me for even mo-re of the cre-atu-res to show up as the pa-ir had wa-ited
on the first ones to le-ave or wan-der off.
Amy co-uld see the stra-in on Kat-he-ri-ne's fa-ce. She co-uldn't re-call when eit-her of them had last
slept. Swe-at glis-te-ned on Kat-he-ri-ne's tan-ned skin and Kat-he-ri-ne's glan-ce told her that was it. It
was all over for both of them. All that re-ma-ined was de-ci-ding how they wo-uld die, hi-ding he-re and
pra-ying or go-ing out figh-ting trying to re-ach the van. Amy al-re-ady knew how Kat-he-ri-ne wo-uld
cho-se even as the ex-cop sto-od up sho-wing her-self to the pack of cre-atu-res and blo-wing a ho-le
in the ne-arest one's chest with her shot-gun.
Amy wan-ted to le-ap to her fe-et as well and help her fri-end but she just co-uldn't bring her-self to

be-li-eve that all the hell they'd be-en thro-ugh and en-du-red was for not-hing. De-ep down, Amy
wan-ted to li-ve and she was for-ced to ad-mit that Kat-he-ri-ne's way of go-ing out figh-ting in a
po-int-less bat-tle was not her own. It was just mac-ho bul-lshit. Amy watc-hed the cre-atu-res
char-ging to-wards the-ir po-si-ti-on still hid-den be-hind a stack of cra-tes as Kat-he-ri-ne pum-ped
anot-her ro-und in-to her we-apon's cham-ber and drop-ped anot-her of them with a shot to its
sto-mach that sent its in-tes-ti-nes po-uring on-to the dock as it fell. Des-pi-te her bul-ging musc-les,
Kat-he-ri-ne ap-pe-ared help-less in the fa-ce of the hor-de clo-sing aro-und her. With te-ars in her
eyes, Amy tur-ned away from the sce-ne as the things re-ac-hed Kat-he-ri-ne te-aring at the wo-man
with the-ir na-ils and te-eth. Kat-he-ri-ne was scre-aming and beg-ging for her help. Amy pre-ten-ded
not to her Kat-he-ri-ne as she crept back to-wards the ed-ge of the docks and eased her-self in-to the
wa-ter be-low. Amy let the wa-ter carry her in-to the dark be-ne-ath the wo-od abo-ve her ho-ping the
things wo-uld be too oc-cu-pi-ed with Kat-he-ri-ne to se-arch for an-yo-ne el-se ali-ve. As far as she
knew, they had not se-en her. She lis-te-ned as Kat-he-ri-ne's scre-ams fell si-lent and be-gan to we-ep.
Hours la-ter, when the sun had set and the docks had grown still on-ce mo-re, Amy ha-uled her self
up out of the wa-ter. The-re we-re no-ne of the cre-atu-res left aro-und to be se-en. Even Kat-he-ri-ne's
body was go-ne from the blo-od-sme-ared pla-ce whe-re she'd fal-len. Amy stumb-led drip-ping wet
and wrink-led to the van her musc-les ac-hing from the ho-urs spent sta-ying af-lo-at. She ca-re-ful-ly
chec-ked the ve-hic-le to ma-ke su-re not-hing was wa-iting for her in-si-de of it then slid in-to the
dri-ver's se-at. She cla-wed the ext-ra set of keys out of its glo-ve box and sho-ved them in-to the
ig-ni-ti-on. The mo-ment the en-gi-ne ro-ared to li-fe she knew the cre-atu-res wo-uld co-me po-uring
out from whe-re-ver they had di-sap-pe-ared to if they we-re still in the area. She tur-ned the key and
her he-art fro-ze in her chest as the en-gi-ne sput-te-red lo-udly wit-ho-ut catc-hing. She fran-ti-cal-ly
tri-ed aga-in as she no-ti-ced mo-ve-ment on the docks in the sha-dows of the bu-il-dings and the night
ca-me ali-ve with the so-und of hungry howls. This ti-me the en-gi-ne tur-ned over and she pe-eled out
as the van dar-ted ac-ross the lot to-wards the ma-in ro-ad. La-ug-hing hyste-ri-cal-ly, Amy dro-ve
away in-to the night. The van lurc-hed as she ran over a spe-ed bump be-fo-re the van hit the
in-ters-ta-te. Des-pi-te the wrec-ka-ge and aban-do-ned cars lit-te-ring the ro-ad-way, Amy fo-und her
fo-ot get-ting he-avi-er and he-avi-er on the ac-ce-le-ra-tor. Ad-re-na-li-ne rus-hed thro-ugh her
ex-ha-us-ted body as she swer-ved the van this way and that dod-ging the obs-tac-les in its path. She
felt free as if she was lo-sing her mind and it was okay. How easy it wo-uld be to just ke-ep go-ing
fas-ter and fas-ter un-til her ref-le-xes co-uldn't ke-ep up and she di-ed in a fi-ery car crash. It wo-uld
be a bet-ter de-ath than be-ing rip-ped apart li-ke Kat-he-ri-ne. She re-ac-hed to click on the ra-dio
tho-ugh she knew she wo-uld only find sta-tic ac-ross the di-al as her eyes ca-ught a flic-ke-ring light in
the re-ar-vi-ew mir-ror. The van al-most col-li-ded with what was left of an over-tur-ned
eigh-te-en-whe-eler as she jer-ked up-right in her se-at. She slo-wed the van sta-ring at the po-li-ce car
that had co-me up an exit ramp be-hind her and was gi-ving cha-se.
"What the hell?” she mut-te-red alo-ud. She knew it wasn't pos-sib-le. Ever-yo-ne in the world was
eit-her crazy from the ef-fects of the wa-ve, de-ad, or on the run li-ke she was. Yet se-e-ing the car's
flas-hing si-rens bro-ught back fe-elings of ho-pe in-si-de her. May-be her flight was over and the
of-fi-cers in the car wo-uld lo-ok out for her and ta-ke her so-mew-he-re sa-fe. May-be so-me-how in
this city pe-op-le had sur-vi-ved and got-ten or-ga-ni-zed. She bro-ught the van to a stop as the po-li-ce
car pul-led up be-si-de her. Amy was in the pro-cess of rol-ling down the van's win-dow as she glan-ced
ac-ross in-to the car. A man in a tat-te-red uni-form with yel-low tin-ted eyes and snar-ling fa-ce sta-red
back at her. “Oh God,” Amy scre-amed as the man stuck a.38 out his win-dow aiming for her he-ad.
She snap-ped aro-und to the ste-ering whe-el and ram-med the gas pe-tal to the flo-or. The van to-ok
off, the of-fi-cer's shot slam-ming in its si-de just be-hind Amy's do-or as the van mo-ved.
"Oh God, oh God,” Amy chan-ted as the car cha-sed af-ter her. “They're not sup-po-sed to be ab-le
to dri-ve,” she swo-re to her self. In the re-ar-vi-ew, she saw the thing in the pas-sen-ger's si-de of the
car trying to le-an out its win-dow with its gun aimed at her van. “He's go-ing to sho-ot out my ti-res,”
Amy tho-ught in a pa-nic. The-re was no way she co-uld out-run them, not in this van, not with the
ro-ads the way they we-re. The cre-atu-res co-uld die. They we-re just pe-op-le dri-ven crazy by the

wa-ve that had struck the Earth so she did the only thing she co-uld think of. Ma-king su-re her
se-at-belt was on and fas-te-ned, she sho-ved the bra-kes to the flo-or. Ti-res squ-e-aled as the van
ca-me to a halt. With the so-und of ben-ding me-tal, the po-li-ce car smas-hed in-to its re-ar. Des-pi-te
her se-at-belt, Amy was thrown for-ward by the te-eth-rat-tling for-ce of the im-pact. Her fo-re-he-ad
struck the ste-ering whe-el and her world fa-ded to black.
Amy ca-me to with a start. So-met-hing wet was trick-ling down her fa-ce. She wi-ped at it. Her hand
ca-me away a warm, wet red. Her he-ad was po-un-ding but ot-her-wi-se she se-emed okay. She
re-ac-hed over, dug a.45 from the glo-ve box, and uns-nap-ped her se-at-belt. Ope-ning her do-or, she
fell out on-to the ro-ad, spraw-ling, unab-le to ke-ep her ba-lan-ce. The po-li-ce car was still the-re, a
mang-led mass of bro-ken me-tal wed-ged in-to the van's re-ar. The car's dri-ver was cle-arly de-ad.
Pi-eces of winds-hi-eld glass jut-ted out from the flesh of his fa-ce and his he-ad dang-led at an
un-na-tu-ral ang-le. She pul-led her-self to her fe-et and stumb-led clo-ser with her pis-tol held re-ady
trying to find out the fa-te of the ot-her of-fi-cer. When she got clo-se eno-ugh to see in-si-de the car,
she saw the man's bot-tom half res-ting in the blo-od so-aked pas-sen-ger se-at. The top half of his body
was now-he-re to be se-en. Amy slum-ped to the gro-und be-si-de the car. It was only a mat-ter of
ti-me un-til mo-re of the cre-atu-res ca-me out of the night aro-und her but both the van and the car
we-re to-ta-led. She ne-eded a plan. She co-uldn't just sit he-re and wa-it to die re-gard-less of how
much she hurt or how ti-red she was. Her eyes we-re he-avy with sle-ep and it fo-ught to cla-im her in its
emb-ra-ce. She sho-ok her-self awa-ke, her he-ad throb-bing from a fresh burst of pa-in from her
mo-ve-ments. She lo-oked aro-und at her sur-ro-un-dings. Her only chan-ce was to find a car that was
both still func-ti-onal and had its keys in it. She got to her fe-et on-ce mo-re and wal-ked down the
in-ters-ta-te to start her se-arch.
Geoff lay back aga-inst the tree trunk. The mid-dle fin-ger of his left hand mas-sa-ged the cor-ners of
his ti-red eyes. His mo-ve-ment bet-ra-yed no sign of worry abo-ut the dis-tan-ce bet-we-en him-self
and the gro-und far be-low. An un-lit ci-ga-ret-te dang-led from his lips as he perc-hed on the nar-row
limb. He watc-hed the kid mo-ving slowly up the mo-un-ta-in tra-il. Nor-mal-ly he wo-uld've ra-di-o-ed
the ba-se to let them know abo-ut the kid and get or-ders on what to do. Fuck that, nor-mal-ly he
wo-uldn't even ha-ve be-en out he-re ris-king his li-fe to do the job the ba-se's ex-ter-nal sen-sors on-ce
had. He ho-is-ted his rif-le to his sho-ul-der and got a be-ad on the kid. Thro-ugh the sco-pe, he saw the
yo-ung man cle-arly for the first ti-me. The kid was in his la-ter twen-ti-es and wo-re punk style clot-hes,
a t-shirt of so-me stu-pid rock band and ratty je-ans. Ge-off co-uld've drop-ped him then, prob-lem
sol-ved, but so-met-hing kept his fin-ger away from the rif-le's trig-ger. The last few days hadn't be-en a
ca-ke walk, even for him. He won-de-red how the punk kid had ma-na-ged to sur-vi-ve much less find
co-me so clo-se to fin-ding the ba-se out he-re. May-be he'd se-en eno-ugh de-ath over the last few
days or may-be he was just get-ting old, eit-her way, the kid got to ke-ep bre-at-hing. He ca-re-ful-ly
to-ok the ci-ga-ret-te from his lips and slip-ped it back in-si-de the pack, stuf-fing the who-le thing in-to
his jac-ket poc-ket. “Ah… Shit,” he whis-pe-red to him-self and star-ted down from the tree.
The birds we-re sin-ging in the fo-rest and the sky abo-ve was a bright blue fil-led with sun-light. The
world went on as nor-mal ob-li-vi-o-us to the Hell hu-ma-nity was go-ing thro-ugh. Ge-off fo-und that
funny. He re-ac-hed the bot-tom of the tree and va-nis-hed in-to the wo-ods wit-ho-ut a tra-ce.
Jeremy pa-used on his way up the tra-il. He shrug-ged off his back-pack and ope-ned it, hun-ting for
the map he'd pic-ked up on the way he-re from the re-ma-ins of a lo-cal to-urist trap. He knew that even
if the ba-se did exist, it wo-uldn't be on the map but he wan-ted to check the ot-her land-marks to
ma-ke su-re he was still he-aded in the di-rec-ti-on he tho-ught the ba-se must be in. He didn't he-ar the
fi-gu-re step on-to the path be-hind him un-til an arm sna-ked abo-ut his neck. Jeremy cho-ked and
fo-ught aga-inst his at-tac-ker's grip in a des-pe-ra-te pa-nic un-til he he-ard the so-und of a gun be-ing
coc-ked be-si-de his ear.
"Stop it, kid, if you want to li-ve to see the sun set,” a gruff vo-ice or-de-red. Jeremy stop-ped
squ-ir-ming.
"Look, mis-ter…"
"Shut up, kid.” The man re-le-ased his hold and sho-ved Jeremy away from him. Jeremy whir-led

aro-und to get a lo-ok at him and al-most bro-ke in-to a smi-le when the man's ca-mo-uf-la-ge-gre-en
uni-form.
"I'd tell you,” the man con-ti-nu-ed, “to go ho-me, but I gu-ess no-ne of us re-al-ly ha-ve one
any-mo-re…"
Jeremy sta-red, be-wil-de-red, at Ge-off. Ge-off was in la-ter fif-ti-es with gray ha-ir co-ve-ring his
he-ad. His eyes we-re blo-ods-hot and it lo-oked as if he hadn't sha-ved in se-ve-ral days. Yet bul-ging
musc-les rip-pled be-ne-ath his uni-form as he mo-ved with cat li-ke gra-ce, sco-oping up Jeremy's
back-pack and slip-ping it on-to his own sho-ul-der.
"…So I sup-po-se I am go-ing to ha-ve to ta-ke you back with me."
"To the ba-se?"
"To what's left of it any-way, kid."
As they ma-de the-ir way to-get-her thro-ugh the wo-ods, Jeremy lis-te-ned to what Ge-off knew
abo-ut what was go-ing on and abo-ut what had hap-pe-ned at the ba-se Ge-off re-fer-red to as
Def-Con IV.
Days ago, the stran-ge light Jeremy ex-pe-ri-en-ced had be-en a wa-ve of energy stri-king the Earth.
No one knew whe-re it ca-me from but its ori-gins ca-me from so-mew-he-re far be-yond the so-lar
system and the spa-ce known to hu-man-kind. The best gu-ess was that the energy was so-me kind of
shock-wa-ve from so-mew-he-re out the-re in the unk-nown. Per-haps it was from so-me dis-tant
bat-tle in an in-ters-tel-lar war or an ali-en spe-ci-es mes-sing aro-und with dark mat-ter that had got-ten
far mo-re than they bar-ga-ined for. It didn't re-al-ly mat-ter much whe-re it ca-me from. When it struck
the Earth the light was me-rely a si-de-effect of it en-te-ring our at-mosp-he-re and re-ac-ting with the
mat-ter it fo-und wit-hin it. A por-ti-on of the energy wa-ve's ma-in body had bro-ken off be-co-ming
trap-ped by tho-se sa-me gas-ses. Li-ke a su-per and per-pe-tu-al EMP on a glo-bal sca-le, the wa-ve
and its lin-ge-ring rem-nants ca-used tech-no-lo-gi-cal fa-ilu-res thro-ug-ho-ut the world as most forms
of known energy used by man had simply ce-ased to be, dam-pe-ned or dis-rup-ted to the po-int of
use-les-sness. Only ba-sic things wor-ked now, elect-ri-city, nuc-le-ar energy, etc. we-re out of the
qu-es-ti-on un-til the fi-eld left be-hind dis-per-sed. The ali-en energy fi-eld left in the Earth's
at-mosp-he-re al-so pro-du-ced a type of am-bi-ent ra-di-ati-on which sci-en-tists be-li-eve wo-uld still
be he-re in a tho-usand ye-ars un-less so-me-way was fo-und to de-al with it. This ra-di-ati-on was
what ca-used the “pla-gue” of mad-ness which ran ram-pant everyw-he-re. It bro-ke down the ne-ural
path-ways of the hu-man to the-ir very most ba-sic co-re and le-aving empty hu-man shells full of only
ins-tinct and vi-olen-ce in tho-se who not im-mu-ne and very few pe-op-le in the world we-re.
At first, Def-Con IV re-ta-ined con-tact with a hand-ful of ot-her ba-se li-ke it-self both he-re in the
Uni-ted Sta-tes and in the Uni-ted King-dom, for the first day they had even be-en in to-uch with the
Pre-si-dent and the Whi-te Ho-use. Tho-ugh the energy hadn't grown in strength and was ac-tu-al-ly
lo-sing its abi-lity to in-ter-fe-re with long dis-tant com-mu-ni-ca-ti-ons, they'd lost con-tact with ot-her
ba-ses one by one as the vic-tims of the ra-di-ati-on pla-gue and ot-her prob-lems to-ok the-ir toll un-til
Def-Don IV be-ca-me comp-le-tely cut off. For all Ge-off knew, Def-Con IV co-uld very well be the
last hu-ma-nity left in the world.
During the first few ho-urs of the cha-os when the wa-ve had first re-ac-hed the Earth, the ba-se had
ope-ned its do-ors to the lo-cal pe-op-le who ca-me se-eking shel-ter in the wa-ve's fal-lo-ut un-til
Def-Con IV was overf-lo-wing and fil-led be-yond the ca-pa-city it was de-sig-ned for. Very qu-ickly,
the staff of the ba-se le-ar-ned first hand of the se-con-dary, bi-olo-gi-cal ef-fects of the wa-ve as tho-se
sa-me lo-cals suc-cum-bed to the ra-di-ati-on hit they'd ta-ken tur-ning in-to to hu-man-mons-ters li-ke
Lu-ke had be-ca-me.
A mi-ni-war bro-ke out in-si-de the com-po-und bet-we-en tho-se still sa-ne and tho-se who
chan-ged in-to so-met-hing less than hu-man. It was a hard fight but in the end, Def-Con IV's staff
pre-va-iled tho-ugh not wit-ho-ut he-avy los-ses. Only Ge-off and se-ven mem-bers of the ba-se's staff
sur-vi-ved the in-ter-nal strug-gle for do-mi-nan-ce and of them, two we-re badly inj-ured, one in a
co-ma, the ot-her whe-el cha-ir bo-und but he-aling. Ge-off in-for-med Jeremy that if he ca-me lo-oking
for sal-va-ti-on and ho-pe; he'd ca-me to the wrong pla-ce. **** Ge-off led Jeremy thro-ugh the high

bar-bed wi-re fen-ce that sur-ro-un-ded the Def-Con comp-lex. Abo-ve gro-und, the-re wasn't re-al-ly
much to see. The ba-se had used be-ing an ag-ri-cul-tu-re re-se-arch fa-ci-lity as its co-ver be-fo-re the
wa-ve. In-si-de the fen-ce, the-re we-re only three bu-il-dings. Two of them we-re the si-ze of to-ol
sheds, but the third was lar-ge and ci-vi-li-an in its na-tu-re. Blo-oming gar-dens stretc-hed as far as
Jeremy co-uld see be-yond the bu-il-dings with flo-wers plan-ted aro-und the-ir ed-ges and the re-ar
fen-ce was far be-yond eyes-hot.
"Pretty ama-zing, isn't it?” Ge-off as-ked as they pa-used whi-le Jeremy sto-od ta-king in everyt-hing
aro-und him.
"What?” Jeremy as-ked as if snap-ping out of a dre-am.
"That the gar-dens sur-vi-ved,” Ge-off exp-la-ined. “Li-ke I sa-id, when the wa-ve first hit, pe-op-le
we-re flo-oding up he-re in dro-ves ba-sed on ru-mors and des-pe-ra-te ho-pes. Of co-ur-se, all they
re-al-ly ca-red abo-ut was fin-ding the ba-se and get-ting in-si-de. I don't think many of them at all
he-aded out in-to the fi-elds. Most of them po-ured stra-ight in-to the ga-ra-ge.” Ge-off po-in-ted at the
lar-ger bu-il-ding. “I gu-ess they tho-ught it had to be the ba-se sin-ce it's the only re-al bu-il-ding up
he-re. It's in pretty bad sha-pe now. Most of ve-hic-les we-re sto-len or da-ma-ged by the mob when
stop-ped let-ting pe-op-le in-to the re-al ba-se be-low."
"How do you get in-si-de?"
Geoff la-ug-hed and led him to-wards the mo-re bat-te-red of the two sheds. Its do-or was new and
a sharp cont-rast to the aged and be-aten wo-od aro-und it. Ge-off co-uldn't hi-de the hint of pri-de
which crept in-to his vo-ice as he sa-id, “I had a hell of a ti-me fi-xing this back,” as he ope-ned the
do-or. “Car-pentry's a lot har-der than kil-ling pe-op-le kid."
The shed it-self was comp-le-tely empty ex-cept for a lar-ge me-tal pla-te in the mid-dle of its
un-fi-nis-hed flo-or. Ge-off squ-at-ted by the pla-te and ran his fin-ger-tips ac-ross its sur-fa-ce un-til his
fin-gers felt the cre-ase he was se-arc-hing for and pop-ped open a small por-ti-on of the pla-te's top to
re-ve-al a nu-me-ri-cal key-pad. He typed in an eight-di-git co-de as Jeremy watc-hed. So-mew-he-re
be-low the pla-ting, a mo-tor ca-me to li-fe and the pla-te ro-se up li-ke a til-ted man-ho-le co-ver.
Ge-off mo-ti-oned to the ho-le. “After you." **** Jeremy slid down in-to a me-tal tun-nel. Its ce-iling
was six fe-et abo-ve its flo-or and it was wi-de eno-ugh for two pe-op-le to walk com-for-tably down it
si-de by si-de to-wards the lar-ge va-ult li-ke do-or-way at its end. When they re-ac-hed the end,
Ge-off aga-in typed a co-de in-to anot-her key-pad on the wall of the tun-nel be-si-de the va-ult do-or
and the do-or se-emed to bre-ak apart in its cen-ter to di-la-te open be-fo-re them in-to anot-her
se-ri-es of cor-ri-dors. “Wel-co-me to yo-ur new ho-me kid. You can call me Ge-off. I don't think I
ca-ught yo-ur na-me."
"It's Jeremy, Jeremy Da-vis."
"You li-ve aro-und he-re Jeremy Da-vis?” Ge-off grin-ned.
"Not re-al-ly… Well, I gu-ess I kind of did."
"Didn't we all,” Ge-off shrug-ged, “Well, I gu-ess it's ti-me you met yo-ur new fa-mily"
Geoff led Jeremy de-eper in-to the ba-se.
Nathanial Ric-hards punc-hed a but-ton on the cont-rol pa-nel in front of him aga-in and watc-hed as
the test re-ran it-self. An ima-ge of a trans-lu-cent wa-ve struck the Earth on-ce mo-re on the gi-gan-tic
scre-en on the wall ac-ross the ro-om from whe-re he sat.
Troy rec-li-ned ne-arby with his fe-et prop-ped up on the top of a con-so-le who-se systems we-re
no lon-ger func-ti-onal. He shif-ted in his cha-ir ha-ving no idea what the disp-lay he was watc-hing
me-ant but he co-uld tell that it was not-hing go-od from the way Dr. Le-igh frow-ned from her
whe-elc-ha-ir with her eyes glu-ed to the scre-en and the grim lo-ok on Nat-ha-ni-al's fa-ce.
The wa-ve shat-te-red as it struck the Earth, slo-wing from the spe-ed of light to a de-ad crawl in
spa-ce, as its frag-ments scat-te-red, each ta-king a dif-fe-rent tra-j-ec-tory. Then the scre-en went
black.
"Run it aga-in,” She-ena or-de-red coldly from her whe-elc-ha-ir.
Nathanial sho-ok his he-ad. “We've ran it over three do-zen ti-mes to-day alo-ne, She-ena. The-re's
just no way to know whe-re the pi-eces are he-aded. May-be if we wa-ited un-til the wa-ves af-ter

ef-fects in the at-mosp-he-re dis-si-pa-ted a bit mo-re we co-uld link up to one of the sa-tel-li-tes up
the-re. Su-rely at le-ast one of them had to sur-vi-ve. We co-uld…"
"No,” She-ena cut off his pro-test. “I sa-id, run it aga-in."
Nathanial got up from his se-at as Ge-off and Jeremy en-te-red the ro-om. “You run it aga-in! I'm
thro-ugh for to-day. We're just was-ting ti-me he-re. The-re's not any-mo-re we can le-arn wit-ho-ut
mo-re da-ta."
"Ahem,” Troy cle-ared his thro-at, po-in-ting over Nat-ha-ni-al's sho-ul-der at the new-co-mers.
Nathanial tur-ned to fa-ce them, his fe-atu-res red with an-ger and frust-ra-ti-on. “Who the hell are
you?” he snap-ped at Jeremy.
"His na-me is Jeremy,” Ge-off res-pon-ded with an ed-ge of thre-at in his to-ne. “He's not in-fec-ted
by the ra-di-ati-on so you might as well just go ahe-ad and wel-co-me him on-bo-ard."
"I ho-pe to God he knows so-met-hing abo-ut ast-rophy-sics and com-pu-ters be-ca-use I fuc-kin’
qu-it!” Nat-ha-ni-al sho-uted and stor-med out of the ro-om thro-ugh an op-po-si-te ent-ran-ce-way.
"That's Nat-ha-ni-al. You get used to him,” Ge-off in-for-med Jeremy. “That guy over the-re slac-king
off is Troy. He's mi-li-tary li-ke me."
Sheena rol-led her cha-ir up to them. It was cle-ar from the way her arms stra-ined as she pus-hed the
whe-els that she was not yet ac-cus-to-med to her di-sa-bi-lity. “Do you, Jeremy?” she as-ked, “Do you
know com-pu-ters?"
Jeremy sta-red at her. Even whe-elc-ha-ir bo-und, this tiny wo-man with fla-kes of gray in her pin-ned
up black ha-ir se-emed to-ug-her than Ge-off did. She met his sta-re un-wa-ve-ring thro-ugh the thick
lens of her he-avy glas-ses. “Well?” she ur-ged.
"Um… No, ma'am, I don't."
"What did you do be-fo-re…?” she let her sen-ten-ce tra-il off.
"I was an ar-tist."
Sheena cack-led. “You su-re know how to pick them Ge-off. What use is he go-ing to be and who's
go-ing to gi-ve up the-ir sha-re of the fo-od we ha-ve left to fe-ed him?"
Troy hop-ped to his fe-et and mo-ved bet-we-en the doc-tor and Jeremy, stic-king out his hand.
“Glad to ha-ve you along for the ri-de. I pro-mi-se not all of us are as crazy as we se-em."
Jeremy to-ok Troy's hand and sho-ok it firmly.
"Bring him to the lab la-ter,” She-ena or-de-red. “We ne-ed to ma-ke su-re he's cle-an.” With that
sa-id, she lo-oked up at Troy. Troy win-ked at Jeremy, “Got-ta go. Duty calls.” Then to-ok the back of
the doc-tor's cha-ir and rol-led her out of the ro-om di-sap-pe-aring down a cor-ri-dor.
"Who was that?” Jeremy as-ked when he jud-ged the pa-ir to be out of ears-hot.
"That's our doc-tor and sci-en-ce whiz, She-ena. She was in char-ge he-re be-fo-re things went to
shit. She still thinks she is most of the ti-me."
A pa-le man dres-sed in black and only slightly ol-der than Jeremy wan-de-red in-to the cont-rol
ro-om. He wo-re thin, sle-ek glas-ses and car-ri-ed him-self with a fla-re of style. He stop-ped in his
tracks when he no-ti-ced the two of them.
Jeremy he-ard Ge-off mut-ter, “Oh God, not Ian,” as the man ap-pro-ac-hed them.
"Good af-ter-no-on, Ge-off, and who might this be ac-com-pan-ying you to-day?” The man spo-ke in
a soft, light vo-ice in a Bri-tish ac-cent and then smi-led. “You don't ac-tu-al-ly ha-ve to ans-wer that. I
co-uldn't help but over he-ar yo-ur en-co-un-ter with our re-si-dent witch doc-tor. She's rat-her nar-row
min-ded the-se days, ob-ses-sed with de-ath you might say."
"Death?” Jeremy as-ked.
Ian nod-ded wa-ving his hand in a very fe-mi-ni-ne ges-tu-re as if dis-mis-sing Jeremy's con-cern.
“You've he-ard abo-ut the wa-ve, I'm su-re. It bro-ke apart when it hit the Earth you see and our go-od
doc-tor is wor-ri-ed that a pi-ece of it will hit the sun. If it did, it co-uld dis-rupt the fu-si-on re-ac-ti-ons
in-si-de the star li-ke it did the energy so-ur-ces he-re and start a cha-in re-ac-ti-on le-ading to a big
Ka-bo-om! It wo-uld be the end of our so-lar system. The sun wo-uld simply exp-lo-de go-ing no-va
pre-ma-tu-rely and ta-king everyt-hing el-se with it. Of co-ur-se, gi-ven our li-mi-ted re-so-ur-ces at the
mo-ment, it's im-pos-sib-le to know whe-re the frag-ments of the wa-ve are he-aded."

Jeremy blin-ked, stun-ned to si-len-ce. Ian re-ac-hed out and la-id a hand on his sho-ul-der. “Car-pe
Di-am, yo-ung man. Don't worry abo-ut the fu-tu-re, only be con-cer-ned with the ti-me you ha-ve
now."
"What brings you out of yo-ur pri-va-te cof-fin Ian?” Ge-off snor-ted.
"Coffee, my go-od man, Cof-fee. I was just on my way to the mess to brew a pot whi-le we still ha-ve
so-me left. Wo-uld you two ca-re to jo-in me?"
"I think we'll pass,” Ge-off sa-id wit-ho-ut gi-ving Jeremy a chan-ce to res-pond.
"Have it yo-ur way then,” Ian ans-we-red che-er-ful-ly and con-ti-nu-ed along on his qu-est.
Geoff li-te-ral-ly pul-led Jeremy out of the cont-rol ro-om. “Co-me on, kid. Let me show you to yo-ur
bunk."
Geoff to-ok Jeremy to a ne-arby lift and they ro-de it down to the mi-li-tary li-ving qu-ar-ters. A row
of twenty-fo-ur ro-oms spre-ad out be-fo-re them on both si-des of the cor-ri-dor that the lift ope-ned
on-to. Ac-cor-ding to Ge-off, only three of the ba-se's sur-vi-vors li-ved down he-re, him-self, Troy and
the ba-se's re-pa-ir tech, a man na-med Wa-de. Dr. Le-igh (She-ena), when she co-uld be pri-ed away
from her pro-j-ects, Nat-ha-ni-al, and a wo-man na-med To-ni who was the ba-se's
com-mu-ni-ca-ti-ons of-fi-cer sta-yed on anot-her le-vel in the ci-vi-li-an sec-ti-on whi-le Ian ma-de his
ho-me in ma-kes-hift qu-ar-ters he'd set up in-si-de the ar-mory des-pi-te all the ava-ilab-le spa-ce. Ian
had be-en the C.I.A li-a-ison and was in Ge-off's opi-ni-on the only comp-le-te psycho-path left in the
comp-lex. The-re was al-so a wo-man na-med Lex who Ge-off exp-la-ined was in co-ma. She was
kept in the me-di-cal labs so She-ena co-uld ke-ep a clo-se eye her and her con-di-ti-on not kno-wing if
she wo-uld wa-ke up nor-mal or in-fec-ted by the di-se-ase ca-used from the ra-di-ati-on of the wa-ve.
But for the ti-me be-ing, Ge-off as-su-red him, Jeremy co-uld stay with the “nor-mal” pe-op-le in the
mi-li-tary qu-ar-ters.
The ro-om Ge-off ga-ve him was rat-her Spar-tan. It con-ta-ined only a bunk, a small bath-ro-om,
and a sing-le tab-le with a com-pu-ter ti-ed in-to the ba-se's ma-inf-ra-me on it.
"It's not much,” Ge-off sa-id, “But it's a hell of a lot sa-fer than li-ving up the-re,” Ge-off po-in-ted at
the ce-iling, “Out the-re with tho-se things."
A me-mory of Lu-ke's de-ran-ged, hungry fa-ce flas-hed thro-ugh Jeremy's mind and he shud-de-red.
"The cre-atu-res don't co-me aro-und he-re much. It's rat-her sec-lu-ded and very few pe-op-le
knew the-re was even anyt-hing up he-re in the mo-un-ta-ins. We get a few wan-ders now and aga-in
tho-ugh. Not-hing we can't de-al with so far. Be-si-des, even if the things floc-ked up he-re in dro-ves,
the-re's no way they co-uld get in-si-de the comp-lex pro-per."
Jeremy nod-ded as he shrug-ged off his back-pack and pla-ced it on the bunk. Ge-off he-aded for the
do-or. “You lo-ok li-ke you co-uld use so-me rest so I'll le-ave you to it. We'll worry abo-ut fin-ding
you a job to-mor-row. Every-body he-re cont-ri-bu-tes so-me-how for the go-od of us all ex-cept
may-be Ian. We ha-ve to work to-get-her, if we want to stay ali-ve."
As the do-or slid clo-sed be-hind Ge-off, Jeremy slum-ped in-to the cha-ir at the tab-le and res-ted
his he-ad in hands. It was true, he felt sa-fer he-re than he had in days but he won-de-red if co-ming
he-re had re-al-ly be-en the right thing to do. Still it was go-od to see pe-op-le aga-in no mat-ter who
they we-re.
Jeremy awo-ke to a po-un-ding on the do-ors of his qu-ar-ters. He we-arily rub-bed his eyes and
clim-bed out of the bunk as a short, hi-de-o-usly over musc-led man en-te-red the ro-om. The bald
scalp of the man's he-ad gle-amed from the light shin-ning thro-ugh the open do-or-way be-hind him.
“It's ti-me to go new boy,” he or-de-red gruffly. “We've got work to do."
"Who… Who are you?"
"Name's Wa-de. I ke-ep things wor-king aro-und he-re but to-day I'm go-ing in-to town and you're
go-ing with me."
"What? I just got he-re. Why me?"
"You're not that den-se are you?” Wa-de wal-ked over and rap-ped his knuck-les on Jeremy's skull.
“Hel-lo in the-re."
Jeremy bac-ked away from the as-sa-ult.

Wade gla-red at him. “No-ne of us ot-her than Ge-off ha-ve re-al-ly left the comp-lex sin-ce the
wa-ve. Hell, you li-ved thro-ugh the shit out the-re. I ne-ed a gu-ide, Jerm, and you're it."
"But I don't know anyt-hing you don't,” Jeremy ar-gu-ed fin-ding the tho-ught of go-ing back in-to
town ext-re-mely dis-tur-bing.
"Daylight's bur-ning, new boy. Get yo-ur shit to-get-her or get out."
Jeremy had slept in his pants so he pul-led on his t-shirt and star-ted to re-ach for his.38. Wa-de saw
him, “Le-ave that pi-ece of crap. He-re,” Wa-de sa-id sho-ving a.45 auto-ma-tic in-to Jeremy's hand.
“We'll stop and get you a re-al we-apon on the way out too."
Minutes la-ter, Jeremy sat in-si-de the ga-ra-ge with Troy, Ge-off, and Wa-de. He held an UZI in his
tremb-ling hands and watc-hed as Wa-de wor-ked un-der-ne-ath the ho-od of an army is-sue je-ep that
had se-en bet-ter days. Troy held an M-16 in one hand and to-ok con-ti-nu-o-us drags off a ci-ga-ret-te
with the ot-her. “I still don't un-ders-tand why you ha-ve to do this Wa-de,” Troy com-men-ted
bet-we-en puffs.
"You want to ke-ep bre-at-hing?” Wa-de's muf-fled vo-ice shot back from whe-re he wor-ked. “If I
don't get the parts to fix the ven-ti-la-ti-on systems from whe-re you idi-ots shot it up, we're all go-ing to
be he-aded out of he-re and I su-re ain't trus-tin’ you to bring back the right ge-ar."
"Next ti-me a bunch of flesh-eating cra-zi-es get lo-ose in the ba-se, Wa-de, may-be you sho-uld
ha-ve a talk with'em, huh? Tell them not to get ne-ar anyt-hing im-por-tant as we blow the-ir fre-akin’
bra-ins out.” Troy joked.
Wade pop-ped his he-ad out from un-der the ho-od. “Fuck you. You think I want to go out the-re
in-to Hell?"
"Look Wa-de,” Ge-off mo-ved clo-ser to the je-ep, “Troy and I co-uld do it. Just tell us what you
ne-ed. You don't ha-ve to go."
"Yes, I do,” Wa-de sa-id de-fi-ni-ti-vely, “Jeremy he-re'll be all the help I ne-ed be-si-des the boy
ne-eds to cont-ri-bu-te so-me-how. Why not this way?"
Geoff ra-ised his hands, palms open, in a ges-tu-re of sur-ren-der.
Wade tos-sed Jeremy the keys to the je-ep. “Get in and crank her up."
Jeremy did as he was told and the je-ep cran-ked on the first try, its en-gi-ne ro-aring to li-fe. Troy
tos-sed asi-de his smo-ke and mo-ved to push the ma-in do-or open for them.
"Catch you la-ter guys,” Wa-de sa-id, “We got so-me shop-ping to do.” Then he mo-ti-oned for
Jeremy to get on with it and Jeremy dro-ve the je-ep out of the comp-lex and down the gra-vel ro-ad
to-wards Can-ton.
As they ro-de, Wa-de as-ked, “So just how bad is it out the-re, re-al-ly?"
Jeremy glan-ced over at the burly, lit-tle man be-si-de him. “Ever-yo-ne I saw on my way he-re was
de-ad, crazy, or both. The po-wer's off everyw-he-re."
"No shit, Sher-lock,” Wa-de chi-ded him abo-ut the po-wer. Wa-de tur-ned his ga-ze away to the
ro-ad-si-de for a mo-ment as if col-lec-ting his tho-ughts then lo-oked back at Jeremy. “The-re used to
be one of tho-se lar-ge, cha-in hard-wa-re/elect-ro-nics sto-res just on the ot-her si-de of town. Did you
see it on yo-ur way up he-re?"
"No,” Jeremy ans-we-red ho-nestly, “but I know whe-re you're tal-king abo-ut."
"You think we can get in and out of it wit-ho-ut get-ting our as-ses che-wed off?"
"I don't know. Tho-se cre-atu-res… so-me of them are pretty fast. If they're in-si-de the sto-re…"
Wade pic-ked up the twel-ve-ga-uge that res-ted on the se-at bet-we-en them and pum-ped a ro-und
in-to the cham-ber. “Shit,” he cur-sed, “Just anot-her day in pa-ra-di-se, huh, Jerm?"
On the-ir way thro-ugh town, Jeremy had to “flo-or it” twi-ce as the cre-atu-res who had ta-ken up
re-si-den-ce in the ru-ins of the bu-il-dings and shops po-ured out in-to the stre-ets at the so-und of the
pas-sing je-ep but he and Wa-de ma-na-ged get by wit-ho-ut any re-al clo-se calls. When they
re-ac-hed the lar-ge par-king lot of the sto-re they we-re af-ter, the-re we-re only two cre-atu-res
mil-ling abo-ut as they pul-led in. Jeremy par-ked the je-ep di-rectly in front of the sto-re's ple-xi-glass
ent-ran-ce and grab-bed his UZI. He star-ted to open fi-re on the cre-atu-res but Wa-de's hand
smac-ked his we-apon down, ca-using him to lo-wer it.

"Don't do it. You saw how the ones in town re-ac-ted to the je-ep. The no-ise will just bring mo-re of
them.” Wa-de pul-led a pis-tol out of the jury-rig-ged hols-ter on his to-ol belt and scre-wed a si-len-cer
on-to its bar-rel as the cre-atu-res ca-me snar-ling to-wards them. Wa-de drop-ped each of them with a
sing-le shot to the-ir skulls. “Ge-off ta-ught me a few things,” he exp-la-ined, tuc-king away the gun.
Together they sho-ved open the sto-re's he-avy do-ors and step-ped in-to the dark-ness of its
in-te-ri-or. “I'll just be a mi-nu-te,” Wa-de sa-id re-ac-hing for a buggy. “You stay he-re. Only sho-ot
the fuc-kers if they get too clo-se and you ha-ve to, okay?"
Wade coc-ked his he-ad to the si-de. “And ke-ep the damn je-ep run-ning."
An eter-nity se-emed to pass be-fo-re he re-tur-ned with a buggy full of cir-cu-it bo-ards that lo-oked
as if they had be-en rip-ped out of PCs and ot-her odds and ends that Jeremy co-uldn't even be-gin to
gu-ess as to the-ir func-ti-on. Abo-ut a se-ven or eight of the cre-atu-res we-re in lot but they se-emed
to be han-ging back rat-her than char-ging the pa-ir's po-si-ti-on. It was re-al-ly cre-eping Jeremy out,
al-most as if they we-re wa-iting for so-met-hing. Wa-de tos-sed the last of his “shop-ping” in-to the
back of the je-ep and hop-ped in. “Let's get the Hell out of he-re be-fo-re they de-ci-de they're hungry."
"No ar-gu-ment he-re,” Jeremy sa-id switc-hing the je-ep in-to dri-ve. He pe-eled out and tri-ed to
avo-id the cre-atu-res as he ma-de for the ro-ad. As the je-ep ne-ared the exit to the in-ters-ta-te, a
se-cond pack of cre-atu-res ca-me bo-un-ding out the wo-ods to the-ir right, ma-king stra-ight for the
je-ep. They we-re much clo-ser than the first gro-up. Wa-de cur-sed and snatc-hed Jeremy's UZI up
from the se-at ope-ning fi-re in-to them. Se-ve-ral of the at-tac-kers fell from the ra-in of bul-lets but the
ot-her cre-atu-res we-re now char-ging ac-ross the lot at them too from the ot-her si-de as if trying to
block them in. “Fuck!” Jeremy yel-led thrus-ting the gas pe-dal all the way down with his fo-ot. “Hold
on!” The je-ep struck the curb and bo-un-ced out of the lot on-to the ro-ad. Wa-de lo-oked back
be-hind them at the shrin-king fi-gu-res still gi-ving cha-se. “That was too fuc-king clo-se,” he
mut-te-red.
Amy ope-ned her eyes. She didn't fe-el comp-le-tely res-ted but so-me sle-ep was bet-ter than
no-ne. Eigh-te-en ho-urs had pas-sed sin-ce her flight from the docks. She sat up in the back-se-at of
the To-yo-ta she'd fi-nal-ly fo-und af-ter an ho-ur of se-arc-hing and one nasty en-co-un-ter with a
cre-atu-re on the in-ters-ta-te. She had used the car to flee the city pro-per. Now she was in what
se-emed li-ke the mid-dle of now-he-re. She'd dri-ven for ho-urs un-til she had fo-und this pla-ce.
The-re was not-hing aro-und but the ro-ad and its sur-ro-un-ding tre-es for mi-les and mi-les. When she
ar-ri-ved he-re, she had loc-ked the cars do-ors up tight and stretc-hed out to get so-me rest ho-ping the
so-und of any cre-atu-res who stumb-led ac-ross her trying to get in-to the car wo-uld wa-ke her in
ti-me to de-al with them. It had be-en worth the risk. She felt much bet-ter physi-cal-ly but she was
ha-un-ted by the hor-ror of her si-tu-ati-on. She was alo-ne. The car was ne-arly out of fu-el and she
was down to only fi-ve ro-unds left in her.45. She mis-sed Kat-he-ri-ne. Hell, she mis-sed the world.
The worst of it all was that she still had no long-term plan of how she was go-ing to sur-vi-ve on her own
or whe-re she was he-aded. Her flight had ta-ken her so-uth but she didn't know how far, Vir-gi-nia
may-be? She wasn't su-re. Amy fi-gu-red it didn't mat-ter. One sta-te was just as de-ad as the next one.
She ne-eded to find ot-hers li-ke her-self who'd ma-de it thro-ugh the night of the wa-ve wit-ho-ut
be-ing dri-ven crazy. She won-de-red tho-ugh if she we-re the last sa-ne wo-man left on Earth. The
tho-ught ter-ri-fi-ed her. And the cre-atu-res… If the cops who'd al-most kil-led her we-re any
in-di-ca-ti-on, so-me of tho-se things out the-re we-re get-ting smart. Not nor-mal but thin-king. They'd
eat you ali-ve in the-ir ra-ge, in-tel-li-gent or not. The fact ma-de them a hund-red ti-mes mo-re
dan-ge-ro-us. It was one thing to out-run or hi-de from a pack of mind-less mons-ters and anot-her
al-to-get-her when they star-ted sho-oting back and dri-ving cars. What el-se we-re the things ca-pab-le
of now? Amy shud-de-red and pus-hed the tho-ught from her mind. She re-ac-hed up and ten-derly
to-uc-hed the wo-und on her fo-re-he-ad. It wasn't se-ri-o-us but she was wor-ri-ed abo-ut in-fec-ti-on.
She had no wa-ter or fo-od much less me-di-cal sup-pli-es and dri-ving in-to a city or town to try to
lo-ca-te so-me was out of the qu-es-ti-on. Even if she'd be-en well ar-med, she wo-uldn't ha-ve tri-ed it
on her own. The big qu-es-ti-on sat be-fo-re her unans-we-red: What do I do now? Using the car was
dan-ge-ro-us. It at-trac-ted the mind-less cre-atu-res li-ke a light draws moths and it ma-de her mo-re

no-ti-ce-ab-le to tho-se of them that co-uld think as well. Go-ing it on fo-ot se-emed li-ke a bad idea as
well tho-ugh. On fo-ot, she had no way to out-run the cre-atu-res and she cer-ta-inly co-uldn't stand her
gro-und and fight. What the hell was she go-ing to do?
She un-loc-ked one of the car's do-ors and got out le-aving it be-hind. Wa-ter had be-en the
de-ci-ding fac-tor in her cho-ice. Using the car wo-uld ha-ve gi-ven her no way to find the things she
re-qu-ired so badly to stay ali-ve ot-her than stop-ping at a gas sta-ti-on or so-met-hing of the sort as
she dro-ve. The way she re-aso-ned it, on fo-ot, she might be ab-le to find a stre-am or so-me kind of
ber-ri-es or so-met-hing gro-wing in the wild amongst the tre-es. She wal-ked off the ro-ad and he-aded
in-to the wo-ods fe-eling her way ca-re-ful-ly in the newly fal-len night.
Geoff met Jeremy and Wa-de on the ro-ad ho-me abo-ut two mi-les out-si-de the comp-lex. “You
do-ne go-od kid,” he told Jeremy when he saw they we-re ali-ve and had re-tur-ned with the parts they
had go-ne af-ter. He us-he-red them on to-wards the ba-se. He was sta-ying be-hind to ta-ke ca-re of
any of the cre-atu-res that might ha-ve fol-lo-wed them back. He pro-mi-sed to me-et up with them
la-ter in the mess and then di-sap-pe-ared in-to the tre-es se-eming to be-co-me a part of the wo-ods
them-sel-ves.
The in-ha-bi-tants of Def-Con all sat in the me-eting ro-om. Cur-rently Wa-de sto-od at in the cen-ter
of the ro-om in-for-ming ever-yo-ne that the ba-se's air system prob-lems we-re fully re-pa-ired and
up-da-ting the gro-up on the li-fe ex-pec-tancy of the ba-se's po-wer co-re. She-ena had al-re-ady
be-en al-lo-wed her rant on how im-por-tant it was to de-ter-mi-ne the va-ri-o-us tra-j-ec-to-ri-es of
the wa-ve's frag-ments be-fo-re it was too la-te, not that Def Con had the re-so-ur-ces to chan-ge
anyt-hing sho-uld it be dis-co-ve-red that a pi-ece of the wa-ve was in-de-ed aimed for the sun.
Fi-nal-ly, Wa-de fi-nis-hed and To-ni to-ok over the me-eting. Jeremy had not for-mal-ly met the
com-mu-ni-ca-ti-ons of-fi-cer yet so he watc-hed her in-tently. She was tall and thin, in her la-ter
twen-ti-es, may-be early thir-ti-es, he gu-es-sed from her ap-pe-aran-ce. Her eyes we-re a bright gre-en
and brown ha-ir to-uc-hed the tops of her sho-ul-ders. She spo-ke softly in a cont-rol-led tho-ugh
al-most shy vo-ice. Her ef-forts to re-ach an-yo-ne el-se in the go-vern-ment, mi-li-tary, or even on
ci-vi-li-an chan-nels and the small band fre-qu-en-ci-es con-ti-nu-ed to me-et with fa-ilu-re. To-ni had
no ans-wer as to whet-her that me-ant they we-re truly alo-ne in the world or if the af-ter ef-fects of the
wa-ve to-uc-hing the at-mosp-he-re simply hadn't cle-ared eno-ugh yet to get out a go-od sig-nal.
Geoff was the last mem-ber of the staff to spe-ak. Des-pi-te the ble-ak-ness of the ot-hers’ re-ports,
his was the most un-set-tling. The num-ber of in-fec-ted, for lack of a bet-ter term for the po-or so-uls
tur-ned in-to mind-less, hungry mons-ters by the wa-ve's se-con-dary ra-di-ati-on, who we-re
wan-de-ring clo-se the ba-se was ste-adily inc-re-asing at an alar-ming ra-te. Ge-off hadn't re-ali-zed
just how much un-til to-day. No one bla-med Jeremy's ar-ri-val or Wa-de's “shop-ping” trip yet it was
cle-ar that Ge-off tho-ught the-re fac-tors cont-ri-bu-ted to the prob-lem. Ge-off was not con-cer-ned
abo-ut run-ning out of am-mo in the ne-ar fu-tu-re or the cre-atu-res pe-net-ra-ting the comp-lex, his
wor-ri-es ca-me from the fact that the num-bers of the in-fec-ted co-uld po-ten-ti-al re-ach a po-int
whe-re the-re wo-uld be no way out of Def Con wit-ho-ut a blo-ody fight thro-ugh the mob gat-he-ring
aro-und its fen-cing. Ge-off did not sug-gest aban-do-ning the comp-lex as no one pre-sent knew of
anyw-he-re re-mo-tely sa-fe to set out for yet he ma-de su-re that ever-yo-ne un-ders-to-od the thre-at
of be-ing trap-ped he-re for the rest of the-ir li-ves.
When the me-eting was over, ever-yo-ne bro-ke up in-to the-ir own lit-tle clus-ters to con-ti-nue
pri-va-te ar-gu-ments over what sho-uld be be-ing do-ne or to sha-re in ot-her ways of co-ping. Jeremy
fo-und him-self pul-led along with Ge-off and Troy, so-on fin-ding him-self on his way out-si-de to the
ga-ra-ge. The night sky was cle-ar and the stars spark-led in the black-ness abo-ve. The-re we-re two
of the cre-atu-res stra-ining aga-inst the fen-ce. They how-led and fo-ught har-der to get in-si-de, when
they saw the trio, shred-ding and slas-hing the-ir flesh on the bar-bed wi-re.
"Didn't you just tell ever-yo-ne to li-mit the-ir trips up he-re?” Jeremy whis-pe-red.
"Yeah, but the-re are ti-mes and the-re are ti-mes,” Ge-off sa-id wal-king to the fen-ce as he drew his
pis-tol.
"Come on,” Troy slid the he-avy ga-ra-ge do-or open and led Jeremy in-si-de. “For-get abo-ut them.

They're not why we're up he-re.” Jeremy he-ard two fa-int pop-ping no-ises in the dark-ness be-hind
him. When Ge-off ca-ught up with them, Troy clo-sed the do-or and hit the in-te-ri-or lights. He wa-ved
his arm aro-und li-ke a ga-me show host sho-wing off a pri-ze. “Wel-co-me to pa-ra-di-se."
"The ga-ra-ge?” Jeremy sa-id flatly.
"It's not the pla-ce but what's in it, kid,” Ge-off ad-ded trying to rub so-met-hing red and wet off the
front of his uni-form. Jeremy pre-ten-ded not to no-ti-ce.
"T-dah!” Troy sho-uted re-tur-ning from the re-ar of the ga-ra-ge with a lar-ge jug in his hand. “This is
Wa-de's spe-ci-al ho-me brew."
"It'll knock you on yo-ur ass that's for su-re,” Ge-off grun-ted.
"But you co-uld drink in the comp-lex. Why co-me up he-re?"
"There's not-hing li-ke this down the-re,” Troy tur-ned up the jug to his lips and to-ok a long swig,
co-ug-hing as it bur-ned down his thro-at li-ke li-qu-id fi-re. “And hell, Ge-off he-re wo-uld go crazy if
he co-uldn't see the stars. Man-kind wasn't ma-de to li-ve in the Earth."
"What he me-ans is…” Ge-off grab-bed the jug from Troy's hands, “is that we'd go crazy if we we-re
co-oped up with tho-se su-its much lon-ger. All of them ex-cept Wa-de are edu-ca-ted pe-op-le. Me
and Troy he-re are the last of the grunts if you ta-ke my me-aning. No-ne of them ta-ke him se-ri-o-usly
at all and they only lis-ten to me be-ca-use I sa-ved the-ir as-ses when the shit went down in the-re and
they know I am the only one who can do it aga-in if the things get in."
Geoff of-fe-red Jeremy the jug. “No thanks,” Jeremy wa-ved it asi-de, “Isn't get-ting was-ted up
he-re dan-ge-ro-us?"
Geoff la-ug-hed. “Isn't bre-at-hing dan-ge-ro-us the-se days kid?"
Jeremy didn't ans-wer.
Many, many fe-et be-low them, She-ena rol-led her cha-ir clo-ser to Lex's bed and re-ac-hed out to
ta-ke the wo-man's wrist in her hand. Lex's pul-se still ap-pe-ared ste-ady if so-mew-hat we-ak. The-re
had be-en no chan-ge in her con-di-ti-on for days. She-ena lo-oked Lex over and win-ced. On-ce,
she'd be-en a vib-rant thirty three ye-ar old wo-man who-se charm and la-ugh-ter lit up the dark,
ar-ti-fi-ci-al cor-ri-dors of Def Con. Now her skin was a sickly pa-le co-lor and her long blon-de ha-ir
had lost its lus-ter. So-me-ti-mes She-ena fo-und it hard to be-li-eve she was lo-oking at the sa-me
per-son who'd be-en her as-sis-tant, fri-end, and… lo-ver for the last fi-ve ye-ars. She-ena le-aned
for-ward in her whe-elc-ha-ir and res-ted her he-ad on Lex's chest. Te-ars stre-amed, glis-te-ning down
her che-eks as sobs sho-ok her bro-ken body. She lif-ted her he-ad and her hand crept to the li-fe
sup-port system's ma-in po-wer cord and yan-ked it out of the wall. “I'm sorry,” She-ena sa-id no
lo-uder than a bre-ath. A sharp pi-er-cing to-ne fil-led the ro-om as Lex's vi-tal signs flat-li-ned. She-ena
si-len-ced the alarm with the flip of a but-ton and tur-ned out the lights. She whe-eled her-self out of the
dark ro-om wit-ho-ut lo-oking back.
"Amazing gra-ce, how swe-et the so-und,” Troy sang as the staff of Def Con sto-od gat-he-red
be-fo-re the gra-ve, bu-ri-ed in the flo-wers at the ed-ge of the ba-se's lar-ge gar-dens. Black-eyed
Su-sans blo-omed aro-und the freshly dug dirt, the-ir yel-low pe-tals stra-ining to to-uch the sun. To
Jeremy, Troy's vo-ice so-un-ded li-ke that of a we-eping an-gel. He tri-ed hard to block out the ra-ging
and thras-hing of the cre-atu-res that to-re and pul-led at the fen-ce ne-arby. Troy's vo-ice to-uc-hed
them too tho-ugh in a dif-fe-rent way and cal-led to them stir-ring the-ir hun-ger and hat-red to new
le-vels. The-re we-re mo-re of them to-day than sin-ce the early days af-ter the wa-ve when the ho-ards
of re-fu-ge-es from the town had ca-me se-eking shel-ter. They num-be-red in the do-zens and Jeremy
no-ti-ced Ge-off's une-ase as the ce-re-mony con-ti-nu-ed. Ge-off was ar-med to the te-eth and
clutc-hing a re-ady fully lo-aded AK-47 in his hands. Ever-yo-ne el-se se-emed fo-cus on sa-ying
go-odb-ye to Lex even Ian tho-ugh the C.I.A. man didn't lo-ok well. A she-en of swe-at co-ve-red his
snow whi-te skin and he fid-ge-ted with his hand-kerc-hi-ef ner-vo-usly. When Troy's song en-ded, they
all sto-od to-get-her watc-hing the blo-odt-hirsty hor-de out-si-de the fen-ce's ga-tes un-til fi-nal-ly
Ge-off bar-ked the words, “Okay! Every-body back in-si-de. Now!” Jeremy won-de-red as he went if
this wo-uld be one the last ti-mes he wo-uld fe-el the sun's rays on his skin.
Sheena kept to her-self the na-tu-re of Lex's de-ath. No one conf-ron-ted her abo-ut it. So-me

sus-pec-ted what she'd do-ne, ot-hers didn't ca-re but Lex's de-ath af-fec-ted them all inc-lu-ding
Jeremy tho-ugh he'd ne-ver even met the wo-man. A som-ber air fell over the Def Con comp-lex.
Ge-off, Troy, and Wa-de wa-ged a qu-i-et war on the sur-fa-ce aga-inst the gro-wing ti-de of the
in-fec-ted. Ian kept mo-re to him-self than ever ra-rely le-aving his ma-ke-shift qu-ar-ters in the ar-mory
for any re-ason. Only Nat-ha-ni-al se-emed to ha-ve ac-tu-al-ly imp-ro-ved sin-ce She-ena had
sud-denly stop-ped ri-ding him abo-ut get-ting mo-re da-ta on the rem-nants of the wa-ve in spa-ce
des-pi-te the iro-nic fact that the at-mosp-he-re was fi-nal-ly cle-aring it-self comp-le-tely of the stran-ge
energy-dam-pe-ning fi-eld. Jeremy at last fo-und the ti-me to int-ro-du-ce him-self to To-ni and the two
spent ho-urs each day wor-king with the ba-se's com-mu-ni-ca-ti-ons ge-ar trying to en-han-ce it and
ex-tend its ran-ge and the po-wer of its sig-nal. Jeremy had ta-ken an ins-tant li-king to To-ni from the
very mo-ment he'd se-en her at the me-eting shortly af-ter his ar-ri-val at Def Con. She was a very kind
and warm per-son, Jeremy dis-co-ve-red, on-ce you wor-med yo-ur way aro-und her de-fen-si-ve
la-yer of shyness.
"Pass me the screwd-ri-ver,” To-ni cal-led from whe-re she lay spraw-led out in the flo-or be-ne-ath
the cont-rol ro-om's ma-in com-mu-ni-ca-ti-ons con-so-le. Jeremy se-lec-ted a Phil-lips he-ad
ca-re-ful-ly from the open to-ol-box he car-ri-ed and pas-sed it over. He he-ard To-ni work for a
mo-ment with the to-ol be-fo-re she slid out and smi-led at him. “I think that do-es it. The system's
ni-nety per-cent on-li-ne aga-in and as twe-aked as it's go-ing to be. An-yo-ne on this si-de of the
co-untry with so much as a hand-set sho-uld be ab-le to he-ar us now."
Jeremy grin-ned back at her and po-in-ted at the top of the con-so-le. “So this lit-tle red light is
sup-po-sed to be on and flic-ke-ring this way?"
"What?” To-ni pul-led her-self up. Her smi-le va-nis-hed to be rep-la-ced by she-er shock. Jeremy
watc-hed as she lo-oked at the light in dis-be-li-ef. Her who-le body ten-sed up and she ba-rely
se-emed to be bre-at-hing any-mo-re.
"Was it so-met-hing I sa-id? I'm sorry if…"
She whir-led on him and threw her arms abo-ut his neck as Jeremy sto-od the-re to-tal-ly
dumb-fo-un-ded. “So-me-one out the-re is trying to re-ach us!” she half gig-gled, half scre-amed,
slam-ming a fin-ger down to put the in-co-ming trans-mis-si-on on the ro-om's spe-akers. The words
we-re garb-led by ter-rib-le sta-tic and in-ter-fe-ren-ce but they ma-na-ged to un-ders-tand a few
words of what was be-ing sa-id, “This… Fre-edom Sta-ti-on… An-yo-ne… us?"
Toni held a hand over her mo-uth.
"Freedom Sta-ti-on,” Jeremy re-pe-ated alo-ud then it hit him. “Holy shit,” he mut-te-red.
Toni had al-re-ady ope-ned the chan-nel and was res-pon-ding. “We copy that Fre-edom. This is Def
Con and you ha-ve no idea how happy we are to he-ar you."
"Repeat… Co-uldn't…” the vo-ice rep-li-ed.
"Go tell the ot-hers!” To-ni wa-iled at Jeremy. “I'll try to cle-an this up so-me and ke-ep the chan-nel
open."
Jeremy drop-ped his to-ol-box and dar-ted off, yel-ling, thro-ugh the ba-se's cor-ri-dors.
The wo-ods we-re qu-i-et and a gent-le ra-in be-gan to fall as Amy ma-de her way up the
mo-un-ta-in-si-de. The night had gi-ven way to a gray sky full of clo-uds. The ra-in was a warm one
ho-we-ver and she wel-co-med it. She fis-hed aro-und in her poc-kets for the last of the ber-ri-es she
had fo-und du-ring the night, plop-ping the who-le hand-ful in-to her mo-uth at on-ce. They we-re
won-der-ful li-ke the fo-od of the gods but she lon-ged for mo-re and ho-ped she wo-uld co-me ac-ross
anot-her patch so-on. She wasn't a na-tu-re per-son ha-ving grown up in New York so she had to be
very se-lec-ti-ve in what she pic-ked. She knew so-me ber-ri-es we-re po-iso-no-us so she had to be
ca-re-ful. She con-si-de-red bri-efly the no-ti-on of trying to sho-ot or catch one of the rab-bits that
ap-pe-ared to be ram-pant in the wo-ods but she had no idea how to hunt them. If it ca-me down to it,
she swo-re she wo-uld eat grass rat-her than was-te the last fi-ve ro-unds in her we-apon. She co-uldn't
risk be-ing de-fen-se-less if one or mo-re of the cre-atu-res cros-sed her path.
Amy re-ac-hed the top of the lar-ge hill, which in her city thin-king she la-be-led a mo-un-ta-in and
lo-oked down at the town be-low. The ins-tant she saw it she doc-ked in-to the fo-li-age out of ins-tinct.

She cur-sed her-self for be-ing fo-olish. It was mi-les away. The-re was no way any of the cre-atu-res
that might be in it co-uld see her… un-less they we-re the thin-king kind and ke-eping out a watch with
bi-no-cu-lars, she tho-ught darkly. The-re didn't ap-pe-ar to be any kind of ro-ad or tra-il le-ading from
whe-re she was to the town. It lo-oked as if the fo-rest stretc-hed all the way to the ed-ge of the town.
The town's pro-xi-mity me-ant she was much mo-re li-kely to co-me ac-ross the cre-atu-res than she
had tho-ught ear-li-er even if she kept to the wo-ods and tri-ed to cut aro-und it. She to-ok a mo-ment
and ste-eled her-self be-fo-re she sto-od up and star-ted wal-king stra-ight for the town. She was go-ing
down the-re and was go-ing to find the things she ne-eded. May-be, she ho-ped, if it was mostly
de-ser-ted, she co-uld find a ho-me or so-me kind of bu-il-ding to hold up in and fi-nal-ly get so-me
re-al rest.
As the sun be-gan to sink from the sky, she ma-de it to the ed-ge of the town. She hadn't bum-ped
in-to any cre-atu-res on the way down and that was a go-od sign. She didn't see any now eit-her as she
pe-ered out from the tre-es in-to the par-king lot of the gas sta-ti-on. It was the town's most out lying
bu-il-ding. It was da-ma-ged a bit on the out-si-de but not ran-sac-ked from what she co-uld tell from
whe-re she sto-od. It cal-led out to her with the pro-mi-se of fo-od and ot-her won-ders. She sta-yed
whe-re she was at watc-hing for any sign of tro-ub-le or mo-ve-ment for over forty mi-nu-tes be-fo-re
she fi-nal-ly crept slowly out of the tre-es. The so-und of her own fo-ot-fal-ls on the lot's pa-ve-ment
un-ner-ved her. She glan-ced aro-und everyw-he-re ma-king su-re she was still alo-ne. Amy
ap-pro-ac-hed the sta-ti-on's glass do-ors and bre-at-hed a sigh of re-li-ef. Not only did the-re ap-pe-ar
to be no one in-si-de but its ais-les hadn't be-en tras-hed. They we-re se-ve-ral shat-te-red win-dows
and a few bul-let ho-les in its outer walls but ot-her-wi-se it was un-to-uc-hed. She star-ted to open the
do-or to step in-si-de as she he-ard the click of a gun's ham-mer be-ing pul-led back be-hind her.
"You can put yo-ur gun down now ma'am,” a he-avily ac-cen-ted so-ut-hern vo-ice or-de-red her.
She drop-ped the.45 to the pa-ve-ment and tur-ned aro-und to see a very lar-ge gun po-in-ted at her
fa-ce. She gu-es-sed it might be a mag-num li-ke Dirty Harry used in the mo-vi-es but wasn't su-re. The
man who held it was yo-ung, much yo-un-ger than her. He ba-rely lo-oked out of his te-ens. Thick
blon-de ha-ir co-ve-red the top of his he-ad in a dis-he-ve-led mass. He wo-re a pa-ir of filthy sta-ined
ove-ral-ls over a whi-te t-shirt which had se-en bet-ter days. His ap-pe-aran-ce wo-uld ha-ve be-en
co-mi-cal if not for the way his de-ep blue eyes watc-hed her with such de-ad se-ri-o-us-ness.
"I rec-kon you ain't one of them,” he sa-id, “but you su-re as heck ain't from aro-und he-re ne-it-her.
Every-body he-re is de-ad or crazy. I ain't se-en any one el-se ali-ve for a whi-le now so just whe-re did
you co-me from? Who in the heck are you lady?"
"Amy. My na-me is Amy… I'm from New York,” she ad-ded has-tily. The man la-ug-hed.
"New York? You're a long way from ho-me.” He lo-we-red the hu-ge pis-tol in his hand and then
nod-ded as if to him-self. “Wel-co-me to Vir-gi-nia, Amy. We'd best get in-si-de. Most of them things
are go-ne from ‘ro-und he-re but the-re are still a few strag-glers left I think. Best not to ta-ke chan-ces
ya know?"
He re-ac-hed by her and ope-ned the sta-ti-on's glass do-or for her. She star-ted to he-ad in-si-de
aga-in but he stop-ped her. “Don't for-get yo-ur gun,” he grin-ned po-in-ting at the we-apon she'd
drop-ped. “You may ne-ed it."
She ret-ri-eved the pis-tol and fol-lo-wed him in-si-de. He led her to the back of the sta-ti-on and
un-loc-ked a mas-si-ve me-tal do-or. He us-he-red her in-si-de and clo-sed it be-hind her.
"Place used to be a res-ta-urant or so-met-hing. When Pop and I bo-ught the pla-ce, we tur-ned the
fre-ezer in-to a back-ro-om of sorts. We kept the do-or tho-ugh. It's so-lid ste-el. Ni-ce pla-ce for an
of-fi-ce if you get rob-bed or the world sud-denly go-es F-ing ba-na-nas."
Amy didn't la-ugh at his joke. She was busy eying the ro-om. It was small with a sin-gu-lar desk, what
ap-pe-ared to be a ma-kes-hift bunk, and fo-od and ot-her sup-pli-es we-re stac-ked all aro-und the
ro-om and in its cor-ners.
"You've be-en li-ving he-re… Sin-ce the wa-ve I me-an?” she as-ked in shock.
"Yeah. No pla-ce el-se to go.” He sat on the bunk and sta-red at her. “Gu-ess we ha-ve a lot to talk
abo-ut huh Amy?"

Hundreds of qu-es-ti-ons flo-oded Amy's he-ad but the first one she as-ked was “You sa-id most of
the cre-atu-res are go-ne from this town. Whe-re did they go?"
"You me-an the crazy pe-op-le? Don't know. A gro-up of guys dro-ve in-to to town and ro-un-ded
them up only the guys we-ren't nor-mal eit-her. The cra-zi-es didn't at-tack them. It was pretty mes-sed
up. I hid and sta-yed out of the-ir way. Didn't see much. All I can tell you is that went so-uth,
al-to-get-her in one big gro-up with the we-ird guys le-ading them."
"What's yo-ur na-me?” Amy sud-denly blur-ted out as it sunk in that she was sa-fe at le-ast for the
mo-ment and in the com-pany of anot-her re-al, li-ve hu-man be-ing.
"You can call me Joe. My re-al na-me's Joseph Hun-ter but I pre-fer Joe,” he sto-od up from the
bunk and mo-ved to one of the bo-xes that lit-te-red the ro-om pro-du-cing a bot-tle of wa-ter and
of-fe-red it to her. “I'm sorry, Amy. I bet you're aw-ful-ly hungry and ti-red from the lo-ok of you. Why
don't you help yo-ur-self to so-me fo-od and get so-me sle-ep. I'll ke-ep watch out-si-de. I ha-ve so-me
things to tend to any-way. We can talk la-ter, okay?"
Amy ac-cep-ted the of-fe-red wa-ter and drank most of it in a sing-le gulp. “Thank you, Joe,” she
sa-id as he left the ro-om. He nod-ded and shut the hu-ge do-or on his way out.
Amy ate a me-al of Vi-en-na sa-usa-ges, Pring-les, and crac-ker then stretc-hed out on the bunk. A
smi-le lin-ge-red on her lips even as she slept.
As the days pas-sed, Joe told her the story of the town of Blo-oming-ton. Li-ke everyw-he-re el-se, it
had be-en plun-ged in-to dark-ness and cha-os the night the wa-ve had struck the Earth. Joe told her
abo-ut how he and his Pop ma-de the-ir way to the church that night with ever-yo-ne el-se in the town
that hadn't ins-tantly be-en dri-ven in-sa-ne by the stran-ge light in the sky that night. The church hadn't
of-fe-red them any pro-tec-ti-on. The cra-zi-es out-si-de at-tac-ked it ti-me and ti-me aga-in whit-tling
down it's the num-ber of its de-fen-ders and the-ir stock-pi-le of am-mu-ni-ti-on. He told her how the
pas-tor or-de-red tho-se in-si-de who “chan-ged” shot and abo-ut how fi-nal-ly he and his Pop got of
the church whi-le they still co-uld and ma-de it he-re to the-ir pla-ce of bu-si-ness. As far as they knew,
by that ti-me, the en-ti-re town was crazy ex-cept for them. He and his Pop had to-ok shel-ter he-re in
this back-ro-om lis-te-ning to the so-und of tho-se out-si-de who'd chan-ged po-un-ding on the me-tal
of the do-or and how-ling for the-ir blo-od. Even-tu-al-ly the cra-zi-es must ha-ve re-ali-zed they
co-uldn't get in-si-de and left the sta-ti-on. Af-ter that, the-re had be-en a few clo-se calls, a few
fi-re-fights with the mind-less va-ri-ety of things which co-uldn't sho-ot back, and the prob-lem of
ven-tu-ring in-to the town for things that we-ren't kept on hand. But they ma-na-ged, Joe in-for-med her.
When Amy as-ked whe-re his Pop was now, Joe lo-we-red his fa-ce in-to his hands and qu-i-etly told
her that the things hadn't kil-led his Pop, he'd do-ne that him-self. When his Pop had chan-ged, he shot
the old man with his own shot-gun and bu-ri-ed him out be-hind the sta-ti-on. It was the har-dest thing
Joe ever did in his li-fe and it tro-ub-led him still.
Joe ima-gi-ned be-fo-re he met Amy that he too wo-uld go in-sa-ne him-self, it was just a mat-ter of
ti-me and if not from the wa-ve's ef-fects then from just the pa-in of be-ing alo-ne. He'd be-en
ext-re-mely happy to find Amy on his do-ors-tep. He be-li-eved she sa-ved his li-fe by sho-wing up
when she did.
Amy was happy in this pla-ce too. In a mat-ter of days, Joe had mo-ved from sle-eping on the flo-or
to sha-ring the bunk with her at her re-qu-est. They ne-eded each ot-her des-pe-ra-tely to fe-el ali-ve
and for the ho-pe, they fo-und in each ot-her's eyes. Joe's arms wrap-ped aro-und her, af-ter they
ma-de lo-ve at night, ga-ve Amy a fe-eling of sa-fety and al-lo-wed her to think that things wo-uld
re-al-ly be okay aga-in so-me-day.
What Joe had sa-id abo-ut most of the cre-atu-res le-aving the town had pro-ved true as well. As
long as they we-re ca-re-ful, she and Joe co-uld ven-tu-re just abo-ut anyw-he-re they wan-ted to go in
the town for sup-pli-es or just to get out-si-de. They ne-ver en-co-un-te-red mo-re of the things than the
two of them well ar-med co-uldn't hand-le. Each ot-her was all they ne-eded to re-bu-ild a lit-tle pi-ece
of the world they had lost to the wa-ve.
The con-ver-sa-ti-on with the Fre-edom had be-en bri-ef be-fo-re its or-bit had ta-ken it out of
ran-ge but the sur-vi-vors of Def Con had le-ar-ned a lot du-ring the bri-ef com-mu-ni-ca-ti-on. It wasn't

the re-al Fre-edom Sta-ti-on they we-re spe-aking to, at le-ast not the one known to the pub-lic. The
sta-ti-on iden-ti-fi-ed it-self as the Fre-edom II, a mi-li-tary ori-en-ted, pro-toty-pe ba-sed on the
ori-gi-nal Fre-edom's de-sign that had still be-en un-der const-ruc-ti-on as the wa-ve hit. Hank, the
ast-ro-na-ut they spo-ke with, exp-la-ined that the ori-gi-nal Fre-edom had be-en dest-ro-yed by the
wa-ve and that only the Fre-edom II's ex-pe-ri-men-tal shi-el-ding had kept it func-ti-oning eno-ugh to
sa-ve his crew and al-low them the ti-me they ne-eded to ma-ke re-pa-irs. Still only him-self and one
ot-her mem-ber of the sta-ti-on's eight-man crew we-re left ali-ve tho-ugh they we-re qu-ickly run-ning
out of sup-pli-es and we-re down to one qu-ar-ter po-wer. Hank and To-ni ar-ran-ged a ti-me to talk
aga-in when the sta-ti-on's or-bit bro-ught it back in-to ran-ge and tra-ded down-lo-ads of
in-for-ma-ti-on on what they knew of the post-wa-ve world.
Sheena was be-si-de her-self. Now she co-uld fi-nal-ly get the da-ta she ne-eded first hand to see if
the wa-ve's worst da-ma-ge was over with. Nat-ha-ni-al, Ge-off, Wa-de, and Troy we-re how-ling for a
ce-leb-ra-ti-on. Only Ian se-emed re-ser-ved.
"It's a lie,” he in-for-med the crowd gat-he-red in the cont-rol ro-om. “The-re is no Fre-edom II.” His
words cut the air of ex-ci-te-ment and joy li-ke a kni-fe.
"How co-uld you know that?” She-ena de-man-ded as Nat-ha-ni-al clinc-hed his fists and al-most
star-ted to char-ge Ian at the so-und of the cru-el words the C.I.A. man had spo-ken.
"Lies and co-ver-ups used to be how I ma-de a li-ving on a day to day ba-sis my de-ar or ha-ve you
for-got-ten? I know mo-re truth abo-ut what Ame-ri-ca has and hasn't do-ne in the last fi-ve ye-ars than
all of you put to-get-her. Trust me. The-re is no Fre-edom II nor will the-re ever be."
"You'll ha-ve to ex-cu-se me Ian if I don't ta-ke the word of a self-pro-fes-sed li-ar over what my
own ears just he-ard,” Ge-off re-mar-ked.
"I'm inc-li-ned to ag-ree with Ge-off,” Nat-ha-ni-al ra-ged, “If Hank isn't on the Fre-edom II, whe-re
is he? Who is he? It just do-esn't ma-ke sen-se for it not to be true, Ian."
Ian sig-hed as if conf-ron-ting a gro-up of scho-olc-hild-ren. “He's one of them, the in-fec-ted."
"Oh, now that's just bul-lshit!” Troy ro-ared, “Tho-se cre-atu-res up the-re can't tell the-ir as-ses from
a ho-le in the gro-und. Ha-ve you ever se-en one, just one of them, try to climb the fen-ce? They co-uld
you know if they co-uld think to do it."
"Before we lost D.C., I re-ce-ived a pac-ket of down-lo-aded da-ta on the in-fec-ted from a doc-tor
na-med Buc-ha-nan. Per-haps you ha-ve he-ard of him. He was the chi-ef sci-en-ce ad-vi-sor to the
pre-si-dent. His re-ports in the pac-ket dis-pu-ted his ear-li-er conc-lu-si-ons abo-ut the ra-di-ati-on
and its ef-fects. Yes, it turns so-me pe-op-le in-to mons-ters, the ma-j-ority ac-tu-al-ly, whi-le so-me
li-ke us for wha-te-ver re-ason or re-asons re-ma-in sa-ne. Buc-ha-nan be-li-eved the pos-si-bi-lity of a
third gro-up to emer-ge, a thin-king, re-aso-ning bre-ed of tho-se snar-ling kil-lers up the-re,” Ian
po-in-ted at the ce-iling.
"Fuck off, Ian,” Wa-de war-ned him. Ian ig-no-red the mec-ha-nic and ad-ded, “You're all blin-ded
by what you want to ha-ve he-ard just now, not what you ac-tu-al-ly did. Ho-pe can be a po-wer-ful
we-apon if wi-el-ded cor-rectly."
"Get out of he-re, Ian. Go back to yo-ur damn cof-fin in the ar-mory!” She-ena or-de-red.
"Just pro-mi-se me one thing,” Ian sa-id as he wal-ked to-wards the cont-rol ro-om's exit. “Do not
gi-ve them our lo-ca-ti-on un-til you've had mo-re ti-me to study the trans-mis-si-on and its ori-gins."
"You're too la-te on that one Ian,” To-ni cal-led af-ter him. “I al-re-ady did."
Ian kept wal-king wit-ho-ut ack-now-led-ging what To-ni had sa-id. He di-sap-pe-ared aro-und the
cor-ner of the cor-ri-dor.
"What if he's right?” Jeremy sa-id and sud-denly felt ever-yo-ne's eyes on him. “I me-an it. He's damn
we-ird, I'll gi-ve you that but he was C.I.A. To-ni, can't we tra-ce the so-ur-ce of the trans-mis-si-on?
Find out whe-re it ca-me from?"
"Yeah,” she ans-we-red qu-i-etly, “We can but it'll ta-ke a lot of work."
"It wo-uld go a lot fas-ter if we had yo-ur help Nat-ha-ni-al,” Jeremy glan-ced at the com-pu-ter tech.
Nat-ha-ni-al shrug-ged. “Su-re. Okay."
"In the me-an-ti-me, I think all the rest of us ha-ve stuff to be wor-king on, right?” Ge-off sug-ges-ted.

“Dr. Le-igh why don't you con-ti-nue yo-ur study of the wa-ve, the rest of you, su-it up. We're go-ing up
top. The-re are abo-ut forty mo-re of tho-se things at the fen-ce aga-in and I for one want them go-ne."
Troy shi-el-ded his eyes as he step-ped out of the shed on-to the ma-in gro-unds of the ba-se. The
ca-cop-hony of the mad-de-ned cre-atu-res was-hed over him li-ke a ti-de. “Je-ez, Ge-off, whe-re the
hell did you le-arn how to co-unt?"
Geoff step-ped out be-hind him and fol-lo-wed Troy's ga-ze. The-re we-ren't forty cre-atu-res
out-si-de the fen-ce. They num-be-red clo-ser to a hund-red or mo-re. The he-avy re-in-for-ced po-les
that held the fen-ce in pla-ce swa-yed un-der the for-ce of the-ir strug-gle to get in-si-de.
"Got so-me gas no one se-ems to be usin’ over in the ga-ra-ge,” Wa-de of-fe-red.
Within mi-nu-tes, Wa-de had a jury-rig-ged ho-se set up run-ning from the lar-ge fu-el tanks in-si-de
the ga-ra-ge. Troy and Ge-off hel-ped him drag it out and cut it on.
"Wee-freakin'-Hah!” Troy bel-lo-wed as he held the ho-se's noz-zle, spra-ying down the rows of
pac-ked cre-atu-res and the fen-ce ali-ke. “Anybody got a match?"
Wade sho-ok his he-ad hol-ding a sil-ver Zip-po in his hand. He lo-oked at it sadly. “This was my
fa-vo-ri-te ligh-ter,” he sa-id then flic-ked it lit, tos-sing it at the fen-ce. Howls and scre-ams ro-se up as
a wa-ve of blue fla-me burst in-to exis-ten-ce and swept thro-ugh the ranks of the in-fec-ted. Ge-off had
shut off the ho-se and the three of them sto-od in si-len-ce. Black smo-ke drif-ted up-wards in-to the
he-avens and it was all Troy co-uld do not to vo-mit from the overw-hel-ming odor of bur-ning flesh.
"I don't be-li-eve it,” Nat-ha-ni-al slum-ped over his com-pu-ter scre-en. “What the hell do-es it
me-an?"
He and To-ni had be-en ab-le to tra-ce the so-ur-ce of the Fre-edom II's mes-sa-ge. It hadn't co-me
from or-bit at all but rat-her so-mew-he-re in So-uth Ca-ro-li-na only a few hund-red mi-les away from
the comp-lex.
"It me-ans Ian was right.” Jeremy he-ard To-ni sob-bing. “Oh God,” she cri-ed, “I am so sorry."
Jeremy to-ok her in his arms. “So-me-one out the-re whet-her it's tho-se cre-atu-res or not knows
we're he-re now. They know we're ali-ve and sa-ne. Wor-se, they know how many of us the-re are."
Toni nest-led her fa-ce de-eper in-to his sho-ul-der and wept openly. Strings of te-ars and spit wet
Jeremy's shirt un-der her.
"What do we do now?” Nat-ha-ni-al as-ked.
"We get re-ady,” Jeremy grit-ted his te-eth. “We get re-ady for who-ever or wha-te-ver's co-ming."
Jeremy saw To-ni to her qu-ar-ters and got her set-tled, ur-ging her to get so-me rest and calm down.
Then it was ti-me, he de-ci-ded, to pay a vi-sit to Ian's “cof-fin". **** The do-ors of the lift ope-ned
on-to the ar-mory le-vel. Jeremy had ne-ver be-en to this part of the ba-se be-fo-re and was ta-ken
aback by the con-di-ti-on of the hal-lway. Un-li-ke the rest of Def Con, this part of the comp-lex hadn't
be-en re-pa-ired sin-ce the bat-tle fo-ught he-re in the days af-ter the wa-ve. The ligh-ting was po-or as
many of the lights we-re shot out or flic-ke-red badly cas-ting eerie stro-bes along the me-tal walls. The
walls them-sel-ves we-re scar-red by so-me kind of exp-lo-si-on as if so-me-one had set off a
gre-na-de in the pas-sa-ge-way. Spent shell ca-sings lit-te-red the flo-or as Jeremy ma-de his way to the
end of the hall. The ent-ran-ce to the ar-mory was open. Ian emer-ged from an un-no-ti-ced si-de
cor-ri-dor be-hind Jeremy.
"How the mighty ha-ve fal-len,” Ian sa-id ca-using Jeremy to whirl aro-und at the so-und of his vo-ice.
“Calm down, yo-ung man. I’ not so-me mons-ter co-me to end yo-ur li-fe."
"Ian you we-re right abo-ut the Fre-edom II."
"I know,” Ian wal-ked past Jeremy in-to the ar-mory pro-per. “Wo-uld you ca-re for so-me mu-sic? I
find Wag-ner par-ti-cu-larly re-la-xing in ti-mes li-ke the-se."
"Ian, how did you know so qu-ickly abo-ut the Fre-edom I me-an?"
The for-mer C.I.A. agent to-ok a se-at in a set up fol-ding cha-ir bet-we-en the racks we-apons that
li-ned the walls of the va-ult li-ke ro-om. “The-ir shi-el-ding,” Ian pic-ked up a cold cup of tea sit-ting
be-si-de the cha-ir and sip-ped at it. “The-re was a pro-j-ect li-ke what they desc-ri-bed but it ne-ver
got off the gro-und. The energy ex-pen-di-tu-re to ge-ne-ra-te the kind of fi-eld they men-ti-oned was
im-pos-sib-le. The pro-j-ect was scar-ped be-ca-use of it."

Jeremy to-ok a se-at on the flo-or in front of Ian. “Why do you stay down he-re so much?"
Ian la-ug-hed. “I'm not im-mu-ne to the ra-di-ati-on li-ke the rest of you se-em to be, Jeremy."
Jeremy's mo-uth drop-ped open.
"This is the most shi-el-ded part of the comp-lex. I cho-ose to stay he-re be-ca-use I va-lue my li-fe.
Even so, I am fin-ding it har-der each day to re-sist the ur-ges ri-sing in-si-de of me. Very so-on I think
you may find yo-ur-self in a po-si-ti-on whe-re my dis-po-sal will be-co-me vi-tal to yo-ur own
sur-vi-val.” Ian no-ti-ced Jeremy shift un-com-for-tably. “I as-su-re you, you will ha-ve to do it. No-ne
of the ot-hers, not even our go-od doc-tor, even sus-pect that I am not well."
Ian pa-used and sat down his tea. “I don't ha-ve any ma-gi-cal ans-wers abo-ut who the pe-op-le
cla-iming to be on-bo-ard the Fre-edom II might be. I'm not God, Jeremy. But whet-her they are
lo-oters, sur-vi-vors li-ke us, or re-aso-ning ver-si-ons of the cre-atu-res out-si-de, they will be co-ming.
Will they bring de-ath or ho-pe? I don't know. Per-so-nal-ly, I be-li-eve ho-pe di-ed the se-cond the
wa-ve to-uc-hed our world."
"Will you help us get re-ady for them?” Jeremy as-ked.
"There's not-hing I can do Jeremy. I'm cer-ta-inly not abo-ut to go up top aga-in and I don't think can
re-al-ly ask that of me. Ge-off is the mi-li-tary ex-pert. He can hand-le it."
"And that's it? That's all you ha-ve to of-fer?” Jeremy sho-ok his he-ad. “Don't you ca-re abo-ut
an-yo-ne?"
"Yes,” Ian ans-we-red, “I ca-re abo-ut me and eit-her way, I am dying."
Ian dis-mis-sed Jeremy with a curt “Go-od day” and pic-ked up a bo-ok he had be-en re-ading
ope-ning a chap-ter mar-ked with pi-ece of rib-bon. Jeremy didn't ar-gue. He got to his fe-et and went
in se-arch of Ge-off. So-met-hing had to be do-ne and it lo-oked li-ke it was up to them to do it. His
li-fe and the world he knew had be-en ta-ken from him on-ce; he wasn't go-ing to gi-ve up this pla-ce
too wit-ho-ut a fight.
"It can't be do-ne,” Ge-off slur-red drop-ping the empty jug to the ga-ra-ge's flo-or. “This ba-se was
ne-ver de-sig-ned to be a de-fen-sib-le po-si-ti-on out he-re. It's a damn bomb shel-ter kid, a re-al-ly
high tech one, but still just a shel-ter."
Jeremy grab-bed Ge-off by the front his uni-form and tri-ed to yank him to his fe-et. As drunk as
Ge-off was he still easily shif-ted Jeremy's arm fol-ding it pa-in-ful-ly be-hind the yo-un-ger man's back
as he sto-od up. “Kid, it's all open spa-ce and fi-elds up he-re. The fen-ce is the only re-al obs-tac-le to
an-yo-ne who wants on-to the gro-unds. If the-se things show up with the wi-el-ding torc-hes to burn
thro-ugh the outer se-al in the shed on-ce they're in-si-de the pe-ri-me-ter then may-be they de-ser-ve to
ha-ve us for din-ner.” Ge-off re-le-ased his hold on Jeremy and stag-ge-red out in-to the sun-light.
“Jesus, kid, I just ro-as-ted a mob of pe-op-le ali-ve to sa-ve yo-ur ass. What mo-re do you want from
me?"
"Where are Troy and Wa-de? May-be they'll lis-ten to re-ason."
"Reason!” Ge-off spun aro-und to fa-ce Jeremy. “The-re ain't no re-ason left any-mo-re kid. Just
de-ath, de-ath and the dying."
Jeremy drew the.45 from the hols-ter on his belt and le-ve-led it at Ge-off. “Do you want to die so
badly Ge-off,” he sho-ok the gun, “I can ma-ke it hap-pen, right he-re, right now."
Geoff's eyes nar-ro-wed. “Okay,” he nod-ded, “We'll play it yo-ur way, Jeremy. We might as well go
out figh-ting.” Ge-off stumb-led over to him and threw an arm aro-und Jeremy's sho-ul-ders. “I just
ho-pe to God you or Wa-de can co-me up with a way to ma-ke a stand up he-re. I'm shit out of ide-as."
Outside the fen-ce, three new in-fec-ted knelt, gna-wing on the char-red re-ma-ins of the-ir less
for-tu-na-te breth-ren.
Nathanial Ric-hards was not a man gi-ven to worry. Born to the C.E.O. of one of Ame-ri-ca's
le-ading phar-ma-ce-uti-cal cor-po-ra-ti-ons and mot-her who's li-fe re-vol-ved aro-und him due to the
of-ten ab-sen-ce of his fat-her from the-ir ho-me, he con-si-de-red him-self bles-sed. Nat-ha-ni-al
ne-ver wan-ted for anyt-hing. Even in col-le-ge, when the po-li-ce ra-ided his dorm ro-om fin-ding his
stash of nar-co-tics his fat-her swept in and ma-de it all go away. What was a petty pos-ses-si-on
char-ge to a man who car-ri-ed bo-ught and pa-id for se-na-tors in his poc-ket? He owed his pa-rents

for all that he was ne-ver do-ub-ting for a mo-ment that they wo-uld be the-re to sa-ve him. Li-ke most
of the rest of the world, he knew they we-re de-ad now. Po-li-ti-cal po-wer and mo-ney me-ant
not-hing the-se days. They we-re things of the past. The only true fri-ends out-si-de his fa-mily
Nat-ha-ni-al had ever known we-re com-pu-ters. From the ti-me his fin-gers co-uld type, they we-re a
part of him and his li-fe. They ga-ve him his own po-wer and fe-eling of cont-rol but the wa-ve had
ta-ken even them from him. Oh su-re, the-re we-re com-pu-ters all over Def Con but the web and
cybers-pa-ce no lon-ger exis-ted. He'd lost everyt-hing. Nat-ha-ni-al was alo-ne and de-ath was
co-ming for him. The trans-mis-si-on from the Fre-edom II fi-red his ho-pes of the old world re-tur-ning
only to crush them flat. He knew de-ep in his he-art who-ever was pas-sing, as the Fre-edom's crew
was evil in-car-na-te and he wasn't go-ing to let them ta-ke his so-ul too.
Nathanial sat alo-ne in the cont-rol ro-om. He lo-oked at his watch. It was two ho-urs un-til the next
mes-sa-ge from the Fre-edom was due. It was far mo-re than eno-ugh ti-me for what he had in mind.
His fin-gers dan-ced over the keys of his com-pu-ter and the comp-lex was his. We-eks ago, he had
be-en for-ced to di-sab-le the ba-se's self-dest-ruct system to sa-ve his own li-fe and all tho-se trap-ped
with him. The co-des we-re easy to bre-ak for so-me-one li-ke him then and easi-er to ma-ni-pu-la-te
now. Def Con it-self wo-uld be his shi-eld when the dark-ness ca-me, a shi-eld of fi-re and
ret-ri-bu-ti-on.
Wade fi-nis-hed co-ve-ring over the last mi-ne yet anot-her one of the in-fec-ted emer-ged from the
tre-es. He didn't was-te the ti-me or the am-mo to dis-po-se of it. Ins-te-ad, he bro-ke in-to a run for
the ga-tes. As he pas-sed thro-ugh, Troy and Jeremy slam-med them shut be-hind him. The in-fec-ted
threw it-self aga-inst the bar-bed wi-re, cla-wing at the fen-ce with pink fo-am bub-bling from its wa-iling
mo-uth and ra-ge in its eyes.
"That do-es it,” Wa-de col-lap-sed to the earth out of bre-ath. “We're as re-ady as we're go-ing to
be."
Troy, Jeremy, and him-self had spent the last few ho-urs lit-te-ring the area out-si-de of the fen-ce and
clo-sest part of the gra-vel ro-ad which led up to it with mi-nes and bar-ri-ca-ding up the do-ors of the
ga-ra-ge as Ge-off drank cup af-ter of cup of black cof-fee trying to so-ber up and watc-hing on as
the-ir ad-vi-sor. “As long as tho-se things out the-re don't trip all the mi-nes be-fo-re our com-pany
shows, we sho-uld at le-ast ha-ve a chan-ce,” Ge-off ag-re-ed.
"Don't worry,” Troy sa-id pat-ting the.30-.06 he car-ri-ed with a sni-per sco-pe mo-un-ted on it, “My
fri-end he-re and I won't let them."
"Guess all we can do is wa-it,” Jeremy com-men-ted as Troy left the gro-up and be-gan to climb to
his po-si-ti-on on top of the ga-ra-ge. “It's al-most ti-me for the Fre-edom II to ma-ke con-tact aga-in."
"You go on and be the-re with the rest of them when it hap-pens,” Ge-off ur-ged, “Us three pretty
much got things co-ve-red up he-re."
Jeremy nod-ded and he-aded for the shed and the outer se-al that led in-to the comp-lex. **** To-ni
was the first to jo-in Nat-ha-ni-al in the cont-rol ro-om. He lo-oked hag-gard and as if he'd ne-ver left
his sta-ti-on sin-ce the Fre-edom's trans-mis-si-on. Jeremy and She-ena ca-me in mi-nu-tes la-ter. No
one as-ked whe-re Ian was and Jeremy was thank-ful for it. He still hadn't de-ci-ded what to do abo-ut
the for-mer C.I.A. agent and didn't see any re-ason at this po-int to add the worry of his con-di-ti-on to
the rest of the Def Con staff's col-lec-ti-ve wo-es. “Everyt-hing re-ady?” he as-ked.
"We're set up to tra-ce them the se-cond they ma-ke con-tact,” Nat-ha-ni-al as-su-red him. They all
watc-hed the com-mu-ni-ca-ti-ons con-so-le as the fi-gu-res on the di-gi-tal ti-me disp-lay flas-hed and
chan-ge to the ap-po-in-ted ho-ur.
"Come in Def Con. This is Fre-edom II. Do you copy us? Over."
"Go!” Jeremy sho-uted at Nat-ha-ni-al and the com-pu-ter en-gi-ne-er be-gan the tra-ce. To-ni
he-si-tantly ope-ned a res-pon-se chan-nel. “This is Def Con. We copy you Fre-edom II."
Seconds tic-ked by in si-len-ce. No reply ca-me. Nat-ha-ni-al in-di-ca-ted he'd ma-na-ged to get a
fix on the trans-mis-si-ons ori-gins. All the co-lor had bled from his fa-ce as he sa-id, “The
trans-mis-si-on is co-ming from a po-int just two mi-les so-uth of he-re and clo-sing slowly… “Swe-et
Jesus,” he mut-te-red. “They re-al-ly are co-ming for us."

Troy saw the con-voy first from his spot atop the ga-ra-ge. A mi-xed li-ne of pick-ups, fo-ur whe-el
dri-ves, and je-eps bo-un-ced the-ir way up the win-ding gra-vel gro-wing ever clo-ser. Troy co-un-ted
thir-te-en ve-hic-les in all and nu-me-ro-us men and wo-men on fo-ot jog-ged along at the-ir si-des. The
thing that bot-he-red him tho-ugh was the lack of in-te-rest by the in-fec-ted. He knew for a fact that
we-re packs of the cre-atu-res still out the-re in the wo-ods but for wha-te-ver re-ason, they we-re not
at-tac-king the con-voy. It co-uld only me-an one of two things. Eit-her the-se pe-op-le knew a way to
cont-rol or ward off the cre-atu-res or they them-sel-ves we-re so po-iso-ned by the ra-di-ati-on in the
at-mosp-he-re that the in-fec-ted didn't re-cog-ni-ze them as hu-man.
Troy sig-ned what he saw to Ge-off and Wa-de who we-re con-ce-aled in the re-ma-ining bus-hes
just in-si-de the fen-ce then sa-id a pra-yer for them all as he chec-ked the cham-ber of his rif-le to
ma-ke su-re it was re-ady.
"Come in, Fre-edom II. Co-me in.” To-ni cal-led aga-in over the open fre-qu-ency.
"Give it up,” Nat-ha-ni-al sug-ges-ted. “They got what they wan-ted, a de-fi-ni-ti-ve fix on our exact
po-si-ti-on. They're do-ne tal-king now."
Toni's sho-ul-ders sag-ged with de-fe-at. Her fe-ars we-re con-fir-med, in that mo-ment, and she
knew she was the one who had cal-led down this new ter-ror upon them. She tur-ned to lo-ok for
Jeremy but he was al-re-ady go-ne from the cont-rol ro-om.
It was one of the jog-gers rat-her than the ve-hic-les who stumb-led on-to the most out la-ying mi-ne.
The no-ise of the exp-lo-si-on and the ra-in of pulpy and char-red flesh, which fol-lo-wed, bro-ught the
con-voy to a halt. Pe-op-le be-gan to po-ur out of the ve-hic-les and le-ave them be-hind. Troy swo-re
un-der his bre-ath. Who-ever was le-ading the mob knew what they we-re do-ing. The wor-king trucks
we-re li-kely too va-lu-ab-le to chan-ce lo-sing and by ap-pro-ac-hing the ba-se on fo-ot it wo-uld cut
down the da-ma-ge the mi-nes co-uld do the mob be-fo-re they re-ac-hed the comp-lex. The.30-.06
prop-ped aga-inst his sho-ul-der had a go-od ran-ge. He sigh-ted one of the jog-gers and to-ok aim as
the mo-ving mass of at-tac-kers be-gan to pick up the-ir pa-ce. Troy put a ro-und thro-ugh his tar-get's
thro-at just as the mob re-ac-hed the ma-in sec-ti-on of the mi-ne-fi-eld. Exp-lo-si-on af-ter
exp-lo-si-on tos-sed dirt and body parts in-to the air but the pe-op-le just kept co-ming, pres-sing
for-ward, wit-ho-ut even pa-using to tend to the-ir wo-un-ded.
Wade to-ok a de-ep bre-ath and ma-de his pe-ace with God. The fas-test of the jog-gers we-re
al-re-ady at the fen-ce. He saw one of them toss so-met-hing at the bar-bed wi-re and then his world
went whi-te.
Troy watc-hed in hor-ror as a lar-ge sec-ti-on of the fen-ce blew apart ne-ar whe-re Wa-de had
be-en hi-ding. The at-tac-kers flo-wed thro-ugh li-ke ants. He fi-red off a last shot with rif-le drop-ping
anot-her of the-ir num-ber then tos-sed the we-apon asi-de, trying to scurry down from the ga-ra-ge's
ro-of.
Geoff re-ma-ined hid-den the who-le ti-me. He wa-ited in the bus-hes as the at-tac-kers ran pas-sed
his po-si-ti-on on both si-des. They mo-ved li-ke men but they we-ren't re-al-ly hu-man any-mo-re.
The-ir bat-tles cri-es we-re mo-re the snarls of mad-den dogs and the-ir skin was tin-ted yel-low with
sick-ness. He ca-ught a glimp-se of one's eyes. The-re we-re no whi-tes left in them just a sic-ke-ningly
red, blo-ods-hot mass. Fi-nal-ly, Ge-off ma-de his mo-ve. He sto-od up spra-ying the backs of the
fif-te-en or so that had ma-de it by him with his AK-47 on full auto. They crump-led li-ke we-eds
be-fo-re a scythe. A rif-le crac-ked and bul-let rip-ped thro-ugh the back of Ge-off's sho-ul-der. He
whir-led aro-und and met the mob he-ad on in a char-ge his rif-le bla-zing and spit-ting emp-ti-ed shell
ca-sings. He ma-de it a few steps be-fo-re his bul-let rid-den corp-se top-pled to the gro-und rol-ling
from its mo-men-tum.
Troy met Jeremy as the yo-ung man was ope-ning the se-al to co-me out-si-de and sho-ved him back
be-low it. “Lock it!” Troy yel-led.
"But Ge-off…"
"He's de-ad. Wa-de too.” Troy pus-hed him asi-de and typed the co-de him-self. No so-oner had the
se-al shut than so-met-hing thum-ped hard aga-inst its top. A gun chat-te-red and bul-lets pin-ged off the
se-al's me-tal. Both Jeremy and Troy duc-ked ins-tinc-ti-vely des-pi-te the fo-olish-ness of the ges-tu-re.

“Shit,” Troy grab-bed Jeremy and tug-ged him along af-ter him. “If they've got the ge-ar with them to cut
thro-ugh, bet-we-en the outer se-al and the in-ner lock, we've got an ho-ur, may-be two tops."
"How many are up the-re?” Jeremy as-ked. The lo-ok on Troy's fa-ce told him all he ne-eded to
know.
Deep in the bo-wels of Def Con, Ian threw down the bo-ok he was re-ading and scre-amed. Spit
flew from his open mo-uth as his he-ad sho-ok un-cont-rol-lably in a kind of spasm. He le-apt up from
his cha-ir and ran at the ar-mory's do-or. His shoe snag-ged a ne-arly in-vi-sib-le trip wi-re he'd sat in
pla-ce the day be-fo-re and the ar-mory's lights tur-ned red as its hu-ge do-or slam-med shut in front of
him. The thing that was on-ce Ian po-un-ded its fists aga-inst it un-til the bo-nes of its hands we-re
shat-te-red and it star-ted to use its he-ad ins-te-ad.
Troy and Jeremy burst in-to the cont-rol ro-om ne-arly sca-ring To-ni to de-ath. “What the Hell?”
Nat-ha-ni-al bel-lo-wed.
"They're cut-ting thro-ugh the outer se-al. The ot-hers are de-ad,” Jeremy pan-ted, out of bre-ath.
"Nat, are any of the ex-te-ri-or ca-me-ras still wor-king?” Troy de-man-ded as he clo-sed on the
en-gi-ne-er.
"A few… not the one in the shed."
"Bring ‘em on-li-ne. I ha-ve a bad fe-eling our fri-ends up the-re aren't just go-ing to be sit-ting on
the-ir as-ses in the ti-me it ta-kes them to cut the-ir way in he-re."
"Okay, I've got two ca-me-ras re-por-ting ope-ra-ti-onal. Both of them are a go-od bit away from the
ga-tes tho-ugh."
"Put the clo-sest onsc-re-en."
The hu-ge wall disp-lay flas-hed to li-fe. An ima-ge of a small gro-up of the at-tac-kers who
ap-pe-ared to be re-lo-ading the-ir we-apons fil-led the scre-en. Ot-her at-tac-kers in the backg-ro-und
be-hind them sto-od watc-hing so-met-hing be-yond the ca-me-ra's fi-eld of vi-si-on.
"Can you pan aro-und and see what tho-se ot-hers are so in-te-res-ted in?"
"I can try,” Nat-ha-ni-al wor-ked at his key-bo-ard. The ima-ge flic-ke-red and bo-un-ced as the
ca-me-ra slowly tur-ned. Three of the at-tac-kers sto-od out-si-de the fen-ce in the mid-dle of a pack of
in-fec-ted. The cre-atu-res ap-pe-ared do-ci-le, co-we-ring aro-und them li-ke pets be-fo-re the-ir
mas-ters.
Troy rub-bed at his fo-re-he-ad. “I don't be-li-eve it. Damn tho-se fuc-kers are smart."
"Huh?” Nat-ha-ni-al in-qu-ired. “I don't get it."
"They're ro-un-ding up the in-fec-ted in the wo-ods. When they cut thro-ugh the se-al, they're not just
go-ing to rush in he-re. The-re's no sen-se in them ris-king the-ir li-ves. They'll let the mind-less ones in
first ho-ping they'll eit-her over-run us or at le-ast we-aken our de-fen-ses."
"Aren't they all in-fec-ted?” To-ni as-ked.
Nathanial ans-we-red be-fo-re Troy had a chan-ce to. “Yes but they're not the sa-me. The-se new
ones aren't at all li-ke the ones we've had to de-al with in the past. They're much mo-re ad-van-ced
ob-vi-o-usly se-em to be evol-ving back in-to so-met-hing much clo-ser to what we are, just not as ni-ce
and cer-ta-inly not abo-ve using the-ir les-ser breth-ren as we-apons or can-non fod-der, wha-te-ver
you want to call it."
"Somebody sho-uld get Ian. We're go-ing to ne-ed all the help we can get,” She-ena sa-id.
"No,” Jeremy war-ned, “Ian's fi-ne whe-re he's at."
"We sho-uld at le-ast warn him,” To-ni ad-ded.
"Ian's fi-ne,” Jeremy mo-ved to ta-ke hold of To-ni, “Trust me. He's whe-re he wants to be."
"Jeremy,” Troy mo-ti-oned him over to a tab-le in the cont-rol ro-om. Troy rip-ped a map off the wall
and spre-ad it ac-ross the tab-le-top. “You don't ha-ve to die he-re. No-ne of us do. The-re's a back
way out."
"That's im-pos-sib-le!” She-ena snap-ped, “If the-re was anot-her ent-ran-ce I wo-uld know abo-ut
it."
Troy ig-no-red her and con-ti-nu-ed. “The-re's a tun-nel in-si-de the ven-ti-la-ti-on system he-re,” he
po-in-ted at a spot on the map, “Wa-de fo-und it a few days ago. It's se-aled up with an iron gra-te but I

think you can get thro-ugh it. It opens in-to the back of the ga-ra-ge."
"The ga-ra-ge?” Tho-se things are all over the pla-ce up the-re,” Nat-ha-ni-al po-in-ted out.
"They're spre-ad out pretty go-od tho-ugh and most of them will pro-bably fol-low the nor-mal
in-fec-ted in he-re on-ce they get thro-ugh the in-ner do-or. If you wa-it un-til they get in-to the ba-se,
by the ti-me you get up the-re you'll at le-ast ha-ve a chan-ce."
"What's with all the “you” stuff?"
"Jeremy, so-me-one has to stay he-re to slow them down and ma-ke them work for every inch of the
ba-se they ta-ke. That's me. I'm the only re-al sol-di-er left."
"Troy…” Jeremy star-ted but Nat-ha-ni-al in-ter-rup-ted him. “I'm sta-ying too. So is She-ena. I'm
not run-ning Jeremy and She-ena can't. She'd just slow you down and get you kil-led.” She-ena nod-ded
her ag-re-ement. “You and To-ni go on,” She or-de-red. “Ma-ke su-re you ta-ke the ti-me to gat-her up
the things you'll ne-ed to sur-vi-ve up the-re if you get past tho-se things."
"No,” To-ni cri-ed squ-at-ting be-si-de She-ena's cha-ir to emb-ra-ce her.
Sheena didn't re-turn the hug. “Go on, To-ni, you've only got one chan-ce at this and ti-me's run-ning
out."
Jeremy pul-led To-ni to her fe-et and lo-oked back at Troy. The-re was so much he wan-ted to say
but the words wo-uldn't co-me. Troy smi-led and shot him a mock sa-lu-te. Jeremy la-ug-hed in spi-te
of the te-ars bur-ning in his eyes and led To-ni out to gat-her up what they wo-uld ne-ed.
The outer se-al clan-ged as it drop-ped in-si-de the cor-ri-dor be-low and mi-nu-tes la-ter a
well-pla-ced char-ge blew the in-ner do-or off its hin-ges. The mind-less ones ca-me in its wa-ke. They
flo-oded down the pas-sa-ge way and in-to the ba-se. Troy wa-ited for them in the only unb-loc-ked
pas-sa-ge to the cont-rol ro-om. A man dres-sed in the tat-te-red rags of what on-ce had be-en a
tu-xe-do ca-me te-aring aro-und the cor-ner, pink sa-li-va flying from his mo-uth as he saw Troy and
how-led madly. Troy ra-ised the auto-ma-tic shot-gun in his hands and fi-red cut-ting the man in two at
the wa-ist. A wo-man in a blo-od sta-ined jog-ging su-it was next and Troy splat-te-red her bra-ins
on-to the cor-ri-dor's walls. When the shot-gun clic-ked empty he snatc-hed up his M-16 and
ret-re-ated to-wards the cont-rol ro-om fi-ring in-to the inc-re-asing ti-de of in-fec-ted on full auto as he
went.
Nathanial and She-ena lis-te-ned to the bat-tle be-ing wa-ged in the hal-lway. She-ena strug-gled
clum-sily to re-ady the hand-gun Troy had gi-ven her.
"You're not go-ing to ne-ed that,” Nat-ha-ni-al told her as the gun-fi-re on the ot-her si-de of the
do-or fell qu-i-et and tur-ned in-to the so-und of Troy scre-aming. She-ena lo-oked up at Nat-ha-ni-al
and un-ders-to-od. Fi-nal-ly, the do-or burst open and a wo-man with mat-ted gray ha-ir and an open
ble-eding ho-le in her left che-ek led the cre-atu-res in-si-de. Nat-ha-ni-al stab-bed at his key-bo-ard
one fi-nal ti-me.
Jeremy kic-ked the gra-te lo-ose and le-apt down in-to the ga-ra-ge as it thud-ded to the flo-or. A
qu-ick glan-ce told him no-ne of the in-fec-ted of eit-her kind was ne-arby. He tur-ned and hel-ped
To-ni climb out of the vent. The-re we-re only a co-up-le of ve-hic-les left. Only one that he knew for
su-re still ran. He tos-sed his pack in-to the je-ep. “Get in,” he told To-ni, “and hold on.” Ap-pa-rently,
one of the thin-king in-fec-ted had he-ard the no-ise co-ming from in-si-de the ga-ra-ge and was now
ope-ning the lar-ge do-or-way to check it out. Jeremy ran him down as the je-ep's whe-els scre-amed
and it to-re out in-to the dying rays of the set-ting sun.
The few of the ba-se's at-tac-kers who'd sta-yed up top we-re ca-ught comp-le-tely off gu-ard.
Jeremy plo-wed thro-ugh them ta-king ad-van-ta-ge of the-ir con-fu-si-on. He spun the je-ep's ste-ering
whe-el ma-king a sharp turn and he-aded out in-to the gar-dens to-wards the comp-lex's re-ar fen-ce.
He was al-re-ady de-ep in the fi-elds when the first shots be-gan to ping off the ta-il of the je-ep. He
re-ac-hed over and sho-ved To-ni down in her se-at. “Hold on!” he yel-led aga-in as the je-ep stre-aked
to-wards the fen-ce. He duc-ked un-der the dash-bo-ard him-self as best he co-uld, le-aning over in his
se-at, at the last se-cond. The je-ep to-re thro-ugh the bar-bed wi-re drag-ging a sec-ti-on of the fen-ce
with it as it ma-de it cle-ar. The je-ep's ti-re blew out but the je-ep con-ti-nu-ed ro-aring for-ward un-til
it cras-hed he-ad-long in-to a tree out-si-de the comp-lex. Jeremy rol-led out of the dri-ver's se-at. His

back felt li-ke it was rip-ped to shreds and blo-od le-aked from bet-we-en lar-ge gas-hes the bar-bed
wi-re had cut in his t-shirt. He lo-oked over his sho-ul-der to see the at-tac-kers gi-ving cha-se. “To-ni,
are you al-right? We ha-ve to mo-ve!” he cal-led as re-ali-zed she was no lon-ger in the je-ep. The
bar-bed wi-re had ca-ught her and yan-ked her from the je-ep whi-le it was still in mo-ti-on. Her
mang-led corp-se lay se-ve-ral yards back tang-led ho-pe-les-sly in the fen-cing the je-ep had car-ri-ed
with it on its way thro-ugh. Her flesh was a mess of red tis-sue and Jeremy knew she was de-ad from a
sing-le glan-ce at her. He grab-bed up his pack from the re-ar of the je-ep and slung it on-to his
sho-ul-der as the at-tac-kers ope-ned fi-re aga-in. Sud-denly the Earth it-self he-aved un-der his fe-et
and threw him in-to the wo-ods as fi-re blos-so-med in a gi-ant clo-ud from whe-re Def Con had la-id
be-low it.

Epilogue When Jeremy ca-me to night had fal-len in ear-nest and the set-ting sun had va-nis-hed from
the sky. The-re was no sign of the mob or any of the in-fec-ted ot-her than a scat-te-red corp-se he-re
and the-re. Slowly dying fla-mes co-uld be se-en in-si-de the re-min-der of the fen-ce aro-und the Def
Con comp-lex. Jeremy co-ug-hed and spat blo-od on-to the grass be-si-de him. He lo-oked up at the
full mo-on. A vi-sib-le sha-dow stretc-hed ac-ross its sur-fa-ce, dam-pe-ning its glow. Jeremy wasn't a
physi-cist but he knew so-met-hing wasn't right abo-ut it. His mind gro-ped for an exp-la-na-ti-on of the
stran-ge sha-dow un-til he re-mem-be-red an old epi-so-de of the Outer Li-mits he'd se-en and
re-cal-led She-ena's war-nings abo-ut the frag-ments of the wa-ve. He knew one of them must ha-ve
ma-de con-tact with the sun ca-using it to go no-va mil-li-ons if not bil-li-ons of ye-ars early as the pi-ece
of the wa-ve dis-rup-ted its con-ti-nu-al-ly fu-si-on re-ac-ti-ons. The si-de of the Earth fa-cing the sun
must be go-ne now, a bla-zing in-fer-no of de-ath, and even as he sat he-re watc-hing the mo-on a ti-de
of fi-re was cre-eping its way to-wards him as the Earth tur-ned. He had only ho-urs left to li-ve but he
knew his de-ath wo-uld be qu-ick and he to-ok com-fort in that fact. He re-mo-ved bot-tled wa-ter
from his pack and twis-ted off its lid. The night was so be-a-uti-ful and sin-ce the-re was no whe-re to
run, he de-ci-ded to ma-ke the most of it.

Amy and Joe sat on the sta-ti-on's ro-of. The ro-of was a sa-fe pla-ce to be out-si-de at night
wit-ho-ut re-al-ly ha-ving to worry abo-ut the cre-atu-res. Joe spre-ad out the pic-nic blan-ket as Amy
got the fo-od re-ady. Joe's co-oked up so-me rab-bit me-at du-ring the day and Amy, tho-ugh still
le-ar-ning, had ma-de so-met-hing clo-se to be-ing fresh ba-ked bre-ad. Joe sat on the blan-ket and
pop-ped open a bot-tle of wi-ne. He smi-led, fil-ling a glass for Amy, and pas-sed it to her. She to-ok
the wi-ne and sat it down be-si-de her. She co-uldn't drink it but pre-ten-ded to be thank-ful for Joe's
sa-ke. He sip-ped at his wi-ne, as she lo-oked him over. She was ner-vo-us abo-ut tel-ling him. She had
mi-xed fe-elings on the mat-ter her-self. Part of her was thril-led and ove-rj-oyed whi-le her ra-ti-onal
mind qu-es-ti-oned brin-ging a child in-to the night-ma-re the world had be-co-me. She had to tell him
tho-ugh. It wasn't as if she was go-ing to be ab-le to hi-de it from him for much lon-ger and he
de-ser-ved to know. Amy fi-gu-red she was ne-ver go-ing to get a chan-ce to do it mo-re per-fectly
than to-night. She re-ac-hed for his hand. He was glan-cing up at the stars. The sky was odd this
eve-ning, the stars dif-fe-rent so-me-how. Amy pla-ced a palm on his che-ek and gently tur-ned his
fa-ce to-wards her own. She lo-oked de-ep in-to his eyes. “Joe, I ha-ve so-met-hing to tell you…"

THE END

II - The Queen

Introduction

I grant that so-me of you al-re-ady know what to ex-pect from an Eric S. Brown story. It is, af-ter all,
the re-ason you purc-ha-sed this bo-ok. For lucky new-co-mers, The Qu-e-en is a fi-ne int-ro-duc-ti-on

to this aut-hor's work and the be-gin-ning of a pul-se-grin-ding ad-dic-ti-on to Eric S. Brown's
sha-dowy and fer-ti-le ima-gi-na-ti-on.
From the start, I will tell you, I ha-te zom-bi-es. They ter-rify me. It is the stuff of night-ma-res, the
ol-dest and most he-ino-us of night-ma-res, to en-co-un-ter a trus-ted lo-ved one: fri-end, wi-fe,
hus-band child or me-re stran-ger, only to find that per-son go-ne, va-ca-ted from the hu-man body and
what has mo-ved in is uns-pe-akably evil, in-tent on pas-sing on the di-se-ase so that you are the next to
fall un-der the pup-pe-te-er's dan-ce.
I be-li-eve the idea of zom-bi-es es-pe-ci-al-ly frigh-te-ning when our world har-bors its own forms of
zom-bi-ism. Alz-he-imer's Di-se-ase, Se-ni-lity, In-som-nia and In-sa-nity are just a few inf-lic-ti-ons
that rob is of who we are. The zom-bie is a me-tap-hor for all that we fe-ar to lo-se of our-sel-ves
whet-her it be me-mo-ri-es or free-will. Whi-le re-ading a well-writ-ten zom-bie ta-le, we crin-ge,
hol-ding one eye clo-sed whi-le we squ-int at the text with the ot-her, unab-le to fully lo-ok away from
what mes-me-ri-zes us as it fre-ezes our blo-od.
One can hardly exp-lo-re the idea wit-ho-ut shud-de-ring with dre-ad. The dan-ger of lo-sing so-me
por-ti-on of our-sel-ves is re-al. Every-day we fight to re-ta-in who we are, et-hi-cal-ly, mo-ral-ly,
physi-cal-ly and men-tal-ly, so that wit-hin our li-te-ra-tu-re the emo-ti-onal en-ve-lo-pe must be
pus-hed to the li-mit of what we can be-ar. And li-ke the mas-ters of the craft, Eric S. Brown go-es
be-yond the simp-le pro-be; he dis-sects and stu-di-es and, li-ke a mo-dern day Dr. Fran-kens-te-in,
brings it to li-fe.
That is what ma-kes the zom-bie story so fright-ful-ly aut-hen-tic. So-me aut-hors just ma-ke it mo-re
aut-hen-tic than ot-hers. The evi-den-ce is in yo-ur hands.
Enjoy.
-Susanne S. Bryden-ba-ugh
October 2005

1

The air stank of filth and hu-man was-te. The sum-mer he-at he-igh-te-ned the smell but Scott had
long grown ac-cus-to-med to the stench. Swe-at glis-te-ned on his sun burnt, ba-re chest and
sho-ul-ders. He re-ac-hed up run-ning his fin-gers thro-ugh his short brown ha-ir. They ca-me away wet
and co-ve-red in gri-me. He co-uldn't re-mem-ber for the li-fe of him when he'd last be-en al-lo-wed to
bat-he. The-re was a lar-ge tu-be of wa-ter in the cen-ter of the pen whe-re the pri-so-ners we-re kept.
Scott eyed it not yet so thirsty that he was wil-ling to ex-po-se him-self to the germs and bac-te-ria it
con-ta-ined.
Eleven ot-her men sha-red the small fen-ced in pen with him. Most of them sat aro-und lost in the-ir
own tho-ughts li-ke he was. Buck and Hank pla-yed cards with a tat-te-red deck they'd be-en ab-le to
bri-be the gu-ards for. Hank had tra-ded a sec-ti-on of the flesh from his left thigh in or-der to get it. The
ban-da-ge he wo-re was yel-lo-wed and Scott gu-es-sed that so-on Hank wo-uld suc-cumb to
in-fec-ti-on from the wo-und and die. Scott had se-en a lot of men die over the three we-eks he'd be-en
trap-ped he-re. The gu-ards didn't se-em to ca-re, as long as they had one or two he-althy ma-les it
wo-uld be eno-ugh for the-ir pur-po-ses.
The wo-men that had be-en ta-ken ali-ve we-re tre-ated much bet-ter than the men. Scott had ne-ver
be-en in-si-de the-ir ac-tu-al qu-ar-ters but he knew that it was in-si-de the com-po-und of the
bre-eding cen-ter and out of the sun. It had plum-bing, and was kept cle-an and free of di-se-ase.
Un-li-ke the pig slop the men we-re fed, the wo-men al-so we-re gi-ven re-al fo-od. It all ma-de sen-se
in a sick kind of way. The men we-re dis-po-sab-le in a fas-hi-on whe-re as the de-ad gu-ards ne-eded
the wo-men to ma-ke ba-bi-es. Each wo-man co-uld gi-ve birth to nu-me-ro-us mo-re “cat-tle” for the
pens and the de-ad's fo-od supply whe-re as you only ne-eded one man to knock them all up.
Of all the men in the pen with Scott only Da-vid sto-od at the fen-ce, pe-ering thro-ugh it at the hills
be-yond the com-po-und. He was a new-co-mer to the bre-eding cen-ter and still ho-ped that

so-me-one wo-uld co-me to res-cue them. He dre-amed of es-ca-pe. It was a dan-ge-ro-us thing.
The-re was no way out ot-her than de-ath, Scott knew, it was just a qu-es-ti-on of how one di-ed and
en-ded up on the ot-her si-de of the fen-ce.
If so-me-one di-ed in the pen whi-le the gu-ards we-ren't aro-und, Scott and the ot-her pri-so-ners
ma-de damn su-re they didn't get back up even if it me-ant re-pe-atedly bas-hing the corp-se's he-ad
with a sto-ne un-til they we-re co-ve-red in blo-od. The newly ri-sen de-ad we-ren't al-ways as
evol-ved as the gu-ards and of-ten went on a fe-eding frenzy among the men. Stop-ping that from
hap-pe-ning was worth the las-hing the per-son who did it re-ce-ived. All the men to-ok turns so that no
one per-son was overly pu-nis-hed or out-right put to de-ath for the de-ed. It was Scott's turn now and
he fi-gu-red it wo-uld be Hank's skull he was bas-hing open when the ti-me ca-me.
The gu-ards mostly sta-yed in-si-de the com-po-und pro-per. Wha-te-ver for-ce had ra-ised them
from the de-ad al-so gre-atly re-du-ced the-ir ra-te of de-cay but not to the po-int whe-re it stop-ped it.
Be-ing out-si-de in the ni-nety-deg-ree plus he-at of the sum-mer was un-he-althy for them in the long
run. Scott watc-hed as “Ho-le in his neck” pe-eked out the com-po-und do-or for the ho-urly check of
the pen. The de-ad man had got-ten his na-me from the way his thro-at was torn open and his rot-ting
wind-pi-pe dang-led out of it. “Ho-le in his neck” was one of the few gu-ards who co-uldn't still spe-ak
but he held a high rank among the de-ad and was easy eno-ugh to get along with along if you sta-yed out
of his way and didn't ca-use tro-ub-le in the pen. The de-ad man lo-oked over the pen, his ga-ze
lin-ge-ring only for a mo-ment on Da-vid who still sto-od at the fen-ce ob-vi-o-usly dis-con-tent with the
way things we-re, then he pop-ped back in-si-de clo-sing the do-or to the air-con-di-ti-oned
com-po-und be-hind him.
Tired, Scott pus-hed him-self to his fe-et, wi-ping his hands on what was left of the pa-ir of tat-te-red
black je-ans he wo-re, and he-aded over to whe-re Da-vid sto-od. Da-vid didn't no-ti-ce his
ap-pro-ach.
"You've got to stop do-ing this,” Scott war-ned.
David jum-ped at the so-und of his vo-ice. His blo-ods-hot eyes sta-red at Scott in shock. “Do-ing
what?"
"Hoping,” Scott ans-we-red with a sing-le word. Then he ad-ded, “If you don't, they'll li-kely ha-ve
you for din-ner so-on. It ma-kes them ner-vo-us when one of us shows any bit of spi-rit left. Just be
thank-ful you're not one of them al-re-ady and get over it."
David star-ted to res-pond but Scott had al-re-ady tur-ned his back to the new-co-mer to the pen
and was he-aded to-wards his spot to sit for a whi-le lon-ger and wa-it on the co-ol of the night.

2

The de-ad we-re get-ting clo-ser. Ri-ley duc-ked fart-her down in the brush on the hill abo-ve the
gra-vel ro-ad be-low. Two je-eps, flan-ked by a num-ber of cre-atu-res on fo-ot, crept the-ir way up
the mo-un-ta-in-si-de. The who-le sce-ne was very tro-ub-ling to Ri-ley. Just how des-pe-ra-te we-re
the de-ad get-ting for fo-od if they we-re sen-ding hun-ting par-ti-es this far out and did it me-an that all
the ci-ti-es had fal-len at last? The hun-ting party se-emed to be stic-king to the ro-ad so far and he
do-ub-ted that they wo-uld stray in-to the wo-ods as yet but his ca-bin was only a few mi-les north of
the ro-ad. The-ir pre-sen-ce he-re put him on ed-ge. He co-un-ted eight of the things al-to-get-her
co-un-ting the dri-vers, all he-avily ar-med. The-re we-re simply too many of them for him to fa-ce
alo-ne and even if he so-me-how mi-ra-cu-lo-usly to-ok them all out mo-re wo-uld co-me in se-arch of
the-ir breth-ren. They wo-uld su-rely find his pla-ce then and li-kely in even gre-ater num-bers. Ri-ley
kept still and wa-ited on them to pass by. When they we-re well out of ears-hot, he be-gan to ma-ke his
way qu-i-etly back the way he'd co-me.
Little Bran-don was pla-ying in the tall grass of the ca-bin's lawn as Ri-ley re-ac-hed ho-me and
emer-ged from the tre-es. Bran-don's fa-ce lit up at the sight of his fat-her. He drop-ped the stick he'd
be-en hac-king at the wild flo-wers with and ran to-wards Ri-ley with his tiny arms open. Des-pi-te his

wor-ri-es, Ri-ley co-uldn't help but smi-le as he swept Bran-don up from the gro-und, clutc-hing him
tight to his chest.
"Where's Mom?” Ri-ley as-ked cut-ting off his son's li-tany of qu-es-ti-ons abo-ut his sco-uting trip.
Crest-fal-len, Bran-don mo-ti-oned to-wards the ca-bin whi-le ke-eping one arm prop-ped on his
fat-her's wi-de sho-ul-ders. “She's get-ting re-ady to co-ok din-ner."
Riley frow-ned and pla-ced Bran-don back on the gro-und do-ub-ling his pa-ce for the ca-bin. The
last thing they ne-eded was a clo-ud of black smo-ke po-uring out of the ca-bin's chim-ney to-day. The
de-ad we-re too clo-se by and might no-ti-ce it.
Brandon fol-lo-wed as Ri-ley wal-ked up on-to the porch and stuck his he-ad in-si-de the kitc-hen
thro-ugh the ca-bin's open front do-or. “Hi ho-ney, I'm ho-me,” he cal-led out trying not to let his
con-cerns show in front of Bran-don. Han-nah lo-oked up from the ve-ge-tab-les she was chop-ping to
gre-et Ri-ley with a smi-le that di-ed on her lips as she saw the fe-ar in his eyes. “It's ti-me isn't it?” she
as-ked.
Riley nod-ded. “We both knew this day wo-uld co-me so-oner or la-ter."
"How long do we ha-ve?” She sa-id mo-ving to Bran-don's hand in her own.
"I don't know. An ho-ur, a we-ek, the-re's just no way to know. They may ne-ver find this pla-ce but
they're clo-se eno-ugh now for us to be bet-ter sa-fe than sorry."
Hannah le-aned down and kis-sed her child on his fo-re-he-ad. “Bran-don, ho-ney, wo-uld you
ple-ase go play in yo-ur ro-om for a few mi-nu-tes? Mommy and Daddy ne-ed to talk, okay?"
As Bran-don marc-hed off de-eper in-to the ca-bin, Han-nah got back to her fe-et and tur-ned to
fa-ce Ri-ley. “Whe-re are we go-ing to go?"
Riley shrug-ged his sho-ul-ders. He had no idea.

3

It had be-en a to-ugh de-ci-si-on but ul-ti-ma-tely Ri-ley had cho-sen not to ta-ke the truck. It was in
gre-at sha-pe, per-fect for off ro-ad tra-vel, and the-re was eno-ugh fu-el sto-red for it to fill up its tank
twi-ce out on the ro-ad. The prob-lem with the truck was not the ve-hic-le it-self or its abi-lity to
func-ti-on but rat-her the at-ten-ti-on it wo-uld at-tract. The de-ad cont-rol-led the ro-ads everyw-he-re
now and it was too risky to even use the truck out he-re in the iso-la-ted wil-der-ness. It was bet-ter,
Ri-ley knew, to set out on fo-ot. The-ir ra-te of tra-vel wo-uld be slo-wer and it wo-uld gre-atly les-sen
what they co-uld carry with them but it wo-uld be far sa-fer. On fo-ot, they co-uld stick to the tre-es,
stay cle-ar of the ro-ads en-ti-rely, and they wo-uld be now-he-re ne-ar as no-ti-ce-ab-le sho-uld they
co-me ac-ross a gro-up of the de-ad.
Hannah pre-pa-red them so-me ra-ti-ons and the fa-mily di-vi-ded the lo-ad of fo-od and wa-ter
bet-we-en them-sel-ves with even lit-tle Bran-don car-rying a can-te-en of his own. Ri-ley al-so let
Bran-don carry a hun-ting kni-fe tho-ugh Han-nah had pro-tes-ted it. The kni-fe wo-uld be of no use
aga-inst the de-ad as Bran-don didn't ha-ve the strength or the skill to dri-ve it in-to so-me-one's skull
but it ma-de the boy fe-el sa-fer and that was what mat-te-red to Ri-ley.
Hannah car-ri-ed an old-fas-hi-oned .30-.06 rif-le that on-ce be-lon-ged to her fat-her and a .38
re-vol-ver strap-ped to her hip. Ri-ley, him-self, wo-re two hols-te-red .45 auto-ma-tics, an M-16 he'd
bo-ught il-le-gal-ly be-fo-re the world fell apart, and nu-me-ro-us spa-re clips for all three we-apons in
his back-pack.
Leaving this pla-ce wasn't easy for any of them. They'd be-en up he-re alo-ne for the full three months
which had pas-sed sin-ce the de-ad first be-gan to ri-se. In a lot of ways, it'd felt mo-re li-ke ho-me than
the ho-use they'd li-ved in for ye-ars and left be-hind when they'd fled for the high co-untry.
Riley watc-hed a te-ar sli-de down Han-nah's che-ek as she lo-oked back at the ca-bin be-hind them
as they ma-de the-ir way in-to the wo-ods. It cut in-to his he-art li-ke a bla-de. They still had no idea of
whe-re they we-re he-aded. The-re was no lo-gi-cal pla-ce to he-ad for so Ri-ley and Han-nah had
me-rely de-ci-ded to set out east for the co-ast and ho-pe for the best. If not-hing el-se, may-be

Bran-don co-uld see the oce-an on-ce be-fo-re the de-ad fo-und them and they all di-ed. Ri-ley swo-re
to him-self the de-ad wo-uld ne-ver ta-ke his fa-mily ali-ve even if he had to kill them him-self.

4

It was fe-eding ti-me in the pen. The sun had long sunk be-ne-ath the sur-ro-un-ding mo-un-ta-ins.
Two of the de-ad gu-ards emer-ged from wit-hin the com-po-und car-rying a lar-ge buc-ket fil-led with
slop that had the con-sis-tency of runny cre-am corn. With the help of a third gu-ard, the buc-ket was
emp-ti-ed over the fen-ce on-to the gro-und of the pen. The hu-man pri-so-ners do-ve on-to it li-ke
hun-ger-mad-de-ned ani-mals, scra-ping it up from the dirt with the-ir ba-re hands. Scott and Da-vid
we-re not among the ot-hers figh-ting for the-ir sha-re of the eve-ning me-al. Da-vid re-ma-ined at the
pen's far si-de sta-ring at the ro-ad-way that led up in-to the bre-eding cen-ter. Scott sat In-di-an style
on the gro-und with his arms ac-ross his legs; palms open fa-cing up to-wards the star fil-led sky. His
eyes we-re clo-sed and his bre-at-hing slow and ste-ady. Scott wo-uld find fo-od la-ter so-me-how,
whet-her it was lef-to-vers or by figh-ting with the flock at the mor-ning me-al. He do-ub-ted if Da-vid
had any tho-ughts in his he-ad abo-ut fo-od and he didn't ca-re. Let the new-co-mer star-ve if he
wan-ted to. The-re we-re wor-se ways to die.
All that mat-te-red to Scott at the mo-ment was fin-ding a shred of pe-ace. Me-di-ta-ti-on co-uld
ta-ke him away from this pla-ce and the hor-rors it con-ta-ined. Ear-li-er in the day, he'd told Da-vid to
stop ho-ping. That it was a lost ca-use. But now he won-de-red, was he him-self not do-ing the sa-me
thing by le-aving the pen if only in his mind? He sig-hed and ope-ned his eyes. The gu-ards we-re
al-re-ady he-aded back in-si-de the bre-eding cen-ter and the frenzy among the men for the slop was
dying down. Scott slowly got to his fe-et ig-no-ring the ta-unts of his fel-low in-ma-tes that he'd mis-sed
the me-al and ma-de his way to Da-vid on-ce mo-re.
This ti-me, Da-vid saw him co-ming. An-ger bla-zed in the yo-ung, blon-de man's glan-ce at Scott
be-fo-re he tur-ned back to fa-ce the fen-ce aga-in. As Scott re-ac-hed his si-de, Da-vid spo-ke, “How
da-re you tell me to stop ho-ping?” he whis-pe-red. “Ho-pe is all that's left to any of us now.
Scott ac-cep-ted the stin-ging words as if he de-ser-ved them. Scott nod-ded to-wards the ro-ad
le-ading out of the com-po-und. “What exactly is out the-re that you want so badly? The-re's no pla-ce
left to go. The de-ad are everyw-he-re. In he-re, we know we're not go-ing to cut open and che-wed
on."
"What's the po-int of be-ing ali-ve if you can't li-ve?” Da-vid shot back.
"Hank and Buck, tho-se two red-necks over the-re, wo-uld ar-gue with you that we are li-ving. They
get fed, ha-ve the-ir fri-ends-hip, and on-ce every co-up-le of days they get to ha-ve the orgy of the-ir
wet dre-ams with the la-di-es the de-ad ha-ve loc-ked up in-si-de."
"But wo-uld you ar-gue with me?” Da-vid po-in-ted out.
"No,” Scott ans-we-red, “No, I wo-uldn't."
"Then what are we go-ing to do abo-ut that?” Da-vid grin-ned.
Scott of-fe-red Da-vid his hand. “I'm Scott. Scott Bur-gess."
David to-ok the of-fe-red hand and sho-ok it. “You can call me Da-vid."
"I know,” Scott la-ug-hed, “Well, Da-vid, it lo-oks as if we ha-ve a lot to talk abo-ut."

5

Steven pla-ced the half full bot-tle of whis-key atop his desk. It cal-led to him as if re-ac-hing out for
his very so-ul. All he wan-ted in the world was the fe-el its fi-ery emb-ra-ce as the whis-key slid down
his thro-at but he co-uldn't bring him-self to open the bot-tle. Too many pe-op-le we-re de-pen-ding on
him. He hadn't as-ked for this job but The Qu-e-en was his ship. She was all he ever lo-ved in his li-fe
and when the ti-me ca-me he'd go down with her. He knew every inch of her li-ke the back of his hand

and yet she'd chan-ged so much over the last months he ba-rely re-cog-ni-zed her. On-ce upon a ti-me,
she'd be-en a gle-aming be-a-uty of mag-ni-fi-cent whi-te hulls, a flo-ating pa-ra-di-se, whe-re dre-ams
of lo-ve and ad-ven-tu-re thri-ved. Now her hull was spot-ted with ma-kes-hift pla-tes of ar-mor and the
scars of bat-tle. Gun emp-la-ce-ments li-ned the length of ma-in deck on all si-des. Whe-re on-ce, she'd
held hund-reds of va-ca-ti-oners she con-ta-ined a band of ba-rely one hund-red ti-red, frigh-te-ned,
and des-pe-ra-te re-fu-ge-es.
A knock so-un-ded out-si-de the open do-or of the cap-ta-in's qu-ar-ters and Ste-ven no-ti-ced
O'Ne-il stan-ding out-si-de in the hal-lway. O'Ne-il shif-ted un-com-for-tably. “Sorry to dis-turb you
sir,” he sa-id in a stra-ined vo-ice, “but I ha-ve the comp-le-ted in-ven-tory of our sup-pli-es that you
as-ked for."
In one flu-id mo-ti-on, Ste-ven swept the bot-tle off the top of his desk and pla-ced it back in its
dra-wer whe-re it be-lon-ged. He mo-ti-oned for O'Ne-il to ta-ke a se-at ac-ross the desk from him.
“And how do things lo-ok? From the re-port, I me-an?"
O'Neil slum-ped in-to the of-fe-red cha-ir. “Not as bad as we tho-ught. The last dock we ra-ided
ga-ve us eno-ugh fu-el for anot-her two we-eks or mo-re."
"And it only cost us the li-ves of six men,” Ste-ven ad-ded bit-terly.
O'Neil con-ti-nu-ed with the re-port, “Our am-mu-ni-ti-on stock pi-les for small arms are hol-ding up
re-mar-kably well and Lu-ke as-su-res me that the new tor-pe-do tu-bes he set up on the for-ward hull
will work if we ne-ed them. Our only re-al pres-sing con-cern is fo-od. Even with the re-du-ced num-ber
of pas-sen-gers and crew on-bo-ard, with a ra-ti-oning system in pla-ce, we'll be out aga-in in less than a
we-ek. The pri-ority of the last ra-id was fu-el for The Qu-e-en so we didn't ha-ve the ti-me to stock up
li-ke we ne-eded."
"They ca-me craw-ling out of the wo-od-work,” Ste-ven chuck-led.
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"The de-ad, Mr. O'Ne-il, re-gard-less of whe-re we put in-to port; they're al-ways the-re, wa-iting.
We ne-ver ha-ve eno-ugh ti-me."
"Yes, sir,” O'Ne-il ag-re-ed, “I don't li-ke the tho-ught of to-uc-hing land aga-in any-ti-me so-on."
Silence lin-ge-red in the ro-om for a mo-ment be-fo-re O'Ne-il fi-nal-ly promp-ted, “Well, sir, what
are we go-ing to do?"
"Pray,” Ste-ven ans-we-red, “pray our lit-tle he-arts out ... And whi-le we're at it, be-ing me a map of
the area we're in now. Go-ing back as-ho-re is re-al-ly our only op-ti-on isn't it, sin-ce the damn fish are
just as de-ad as the rest of the world. Be-si-des, you know that even if they we-ren't, we co-uldn't catch
eno-ugh to fe-ed ever-yo-ne on-bo-ard this ship. It's just not pos-sib-le with our li-mi-ted equ-ip-ment
and re-so-ur-ces."
O'Neil left in se-arch of a map le-aving Ste-ven alo-ne in the dark-ness of the ro-om just as he'd
be-en be-fo-re.

6

There we-re no stars in the sky. Thick, dark clo-uds let lo-ose what se-emed a ne-ver-ending
sho-wer of ra-in. Bran-don slept pe-ace-ful-ly un-der the small tarp Ri-ley had set up for him. Han-nah
res-ted aga-inst a tree drenc-hed to the bo-ne. Her long red ha-ir clung he-avily to her neck and
sho-ul-ders. Ri-ley le-aned over and put his arm aro-und her. To him, she was be-a-uti-ful no mat-ter
what the cir-cums-tan-ces.
"How far do you think we ma-de it to-day?” she whis-pe-red, trying not to wa-ke Bran-don.
"A pretty go-od dis-tan-ce des-pi-te the we-at-her,” he as-su-red her. “We're sa-fe he-re for the night
I think."
Hannah's .30-.06 res-ted be-si-de her, prop-ped aga-inst the sa-me tree. “Ri-ley, do you think
the-re's an-yo-ne el-se left?"
"Sure, ho-ney. Su-re. The-re has to be. If we've ma-de it this long, it just ma-kes sen-se so-me-body

el-se, so-mew-he-re, has too."
"It's not fa-ir,” she mut-te-red with a fresh wet-ness sli-ding down her che-eks. “Bran-don do-esn't
de-ser-ve this. He sho-uld be in scho-ol or pla-ying vi-deo ga-mes. Think of all the things we to-ok for
gran-ted Ri-ley, things that Bran-don will ne-ver know ex-cept from our sto-ri-es. If the-re are ot-her
pe-op-le out the-re, we ha-ve to find them for his sa-ke and start over so-me-how."
Riley lis-te-ned to the ra-in as it bo-un-ced off the le-aves of the tre-es aro-und them. “Han-nah,” he
sa-id softly, “I'm sorry.” “Sorry, Ri-ley? It's not yo-ur fa-ult that the de-ad wo-ke up or that we're li-ving
thro-ugh the end of the world. If it we-ren't for you, Bran-don and I wo-uld be de-ad. I'm gra-te-ful for
the ti-me had in the ca-bin. How many ot-her pe-op-le even had a chan-ce li-ke that? To pre-tend things
we-re go-ing to be okay? Tho-se months we-re li-ke he-aven. It's just ... It's just Bran-don.” She wept.
She nest-led her fa-ce in-to Ri-ley's chest and sob-bed hard aga-inst the musc-les she fo-und the-re.
Ri-ley's arms en-circ-led her. “I swe-ar Han-nah, if the-re is a pla-ce to start aga-in, we'll find it or die
trying. We just ha-ve to hold it to-get-her for a whi-le lon-ger. Ra-in or no ra-in, we'll start mo-ving
aga-in in the mor-ning.” Ri-ley shut his eyes and tho-ught only of his wi-fe's body pres-sed aga-inst his
un-til the dawn.
The clo-uds bro-ke as the sun ro-se. Ri-ley chec-ked over the-ir we-apons to ma-ke su-re the
damp-ness hadn't da-ma-ged them as Han-nah ma-de a ga-me of pac-king up and pre-pa-ring to get on
the mo-ve on-ce mo-re with Bran-don. The three sha-red sta-le gra-no-la bars for a qu-ick bre-ak-fast
with wa-ter from the-ir can-te-ens then set out in the di-rec-ti-on of the sun.

7

Scott didn't li-ke Da-vid's plan. In fact, he lo-at-hed it, thin-king it was in-sa-ne. He had not-hing
bet-ter to of-fer in terms of ide-as ho-we-ver so he went along with it. They'd ca-re-ful-ly se-lec-ted
which gu-ard to ma-ke the-ir of-fer to and the chan-ce to do it had ar-ri-ved. The gu-ards we-re out in
full for-ce to-day as it was ti-me for the pri-so-ners to be ro-un-ded up for a bre-eding ses-si-on. “Ho-le
in his neck” was in com-mand flan-ked by six mo-re of the de-ad. Each car-ri-ed so-me type of
auto-ma-tic, mi-li-tary we-apon sho-uld the pri-so-ners get out of cont-rol. The ga-te to the pen was
ope-ned and the men led out of the-ir fen-ced in area by his su-bor-di-na-tes.
Scott ha-ving be-en a cap-ti-ve long for we-eks knew how things wor-ked. He ga-ve “Ho-le in his
neck” the sign that he wan-ted to ma-ke a tra-de. “Ho-le in his neck” stu-di-ed Scott then mo-ti-oned
for his men to le-ave Scott be-hind for the two of them to talk. When the ot-hers we-re all out-si-de of
the pen, “Ho-le in his neck” step-ped in-si-de alo-ne with Scott and wa-ited for the hu-man to ma-ke his
of-fer. Scott co-uld swe-ar he saw the hun-ger bur-ning in the de-ad man's eyes.
"Screw it,” Scott mumb-led, he ho-ped too qu-i-etly for “Ho-le in his neck” to he-ar. He cle-ared his
thro-at and sa-id, “Da-vid and I don't want to go in-si-de to-day."
A lo-ok of ut-ter con-fu-si-on set-tled on “Ho-le in his neck's” fe-atu-res. A hu-man ma-le who did
not want to get la-id was be-yond his un-ders-tan-ding.
Scott saw the lo-ok and mis-re-ad it. “Da-vid's the new guy. The one you just bro-ught in."
"Hole in his neck” sig-ned the qu-es-ti-on “Why?” Cle-arly he tho-ught Scott had lost his mind and
was to-ying with the tho-ught of dis-patc-hing the hu-man then and the-re. He ne-eded mo-re help on the
in-si-de ten-ding to the wo-men's ne-eds any-way. A new de-ad body wal-king aro-und wo-uld help
with a lot of things with his duty ros-ter.
Scott grit-ted his te-eth ste-eling him-self for what he was abo-ut to say. “Lo-ok. We're gay okay. We
just want to be by our-sel-ves for an ho-ur to bre-ed in our own way. Just this one ti-me,” he ad-ded
has-tily.
"Hole in his neck” smi-led. A sick wet so-und ca-me from what was left of his wind-pi-pe as he tri-ed
to la-ugh. He sho-ok his he-ad “no” and grab-bed Scott, sho-ving him to-wards the pen's ga-te.
"Wait!” Scott ur-ged. “You ha-ven't even he-ard what I'm of-fe-ring in re-turn."
"Hole in his neck” pa-used. It was not per-mit-ted to fe-ed on the pri-so-ners un-less they bro-ke the

ru-les or of-fe-red non-cru-ci-al pi-eces of the-ir me-at fre-ely. Scott had be-en anyt-hing but a nor-mal
pri-so-ner and Scott co-uld see that “Ho-le in his neck” enj-oyed the way he was beg-ging for such an
un-na-tu-ral and sha-me-ful thing for a hu-man ma-le to ask for.
"You co-uld send of yo-ur pe-op-le with us, to ma-ke su-re we don't es-ca-pe. I'm only as-king for
an ho-ur."
The de-ad man ges-tu-red as-king what he wo-uld get in re-turn and in-di-ca-ting that it'd bet-ter be
worth such an af-front to the ru-les.
"My legs,” Scott sa-id firmly. “Both of them. All yo-urs. I don't ne-ed them to bre-ed and if I die from
you ta-king them, you can stick me out he-re so you'll ha-ve a per-ma-nent watch dog over the ot-hers
un-til I rot away to not-hing from the he-at."
"Hole in his neck” held up his fin-gers sa-ying two gu-ards wo-uld go with them, not one. Then he
ad-ded in hand spe-ech that this wo-uld be the only ti-me, one way or anot-her.
Scott bre-at-hed a sigh of re-li-ef as the com-man-der of the watch went to fetch Da-vid and the
gu-ards who wo-uld ta-ke them to the wo-ods. May-be, just may-be, this was go-ing to work af-ter all,
Scott tho-ught.

8

Bullets spar-ked and pin-ged off the asp-halt as Ri-ley ran for co-ver. He half fell, half rol-led be-hind
the car-cass of an aban-do-ned truck. The spray of bul-lets fol-lo-wed him thud-ding in-to the me-tal of
the truck's fra-me. Han-nah and Bran-don we-re now-he-re to be se-en. Ri-ley had be-en cut off from
them when the je-ep full of de-ad sol-di-ers ap-pe-ared, catc-hing him off gu-ard. Ri-ley cur-sed
him-self for le-ading his fa-mily he-re. No mat-ter how sa-fe it had se-emed they sho-uld ha-ve kept to
the tre-es, but the ro-ad it-self was a mystery. The-re sho-uldn't ha-ve be-en a ro-ad he-re at all, not this
far out in the co-untry, much less a re-al one lit-te-red with the ru-ins of cars and trucks which had
ap-pa-rently be-en left he-re sin-ce the first days of the de-ad pla-gue. Ri-ley didn't ha-ve the fa-in-test
idea whe-re it co-uld le-ad to. The only things that sho-uld be up he-re we-re tre-es and dirt tra-ils. He
hadn't felt li-ke they'd had the ti-me to fol-low the ro-ad and may-be cut aro-und it so-me-how and he
was pa-ying the pri-ce for that cho-ice.
He he-ard the crack of Han-nah's .30-.06 so-mew-he-re in the dis-tan-ce to his left. “Damn the
wo-man!” he tho-ught. If she and Bran-don had re-ac-hed the tre-es, they sho-uld've just kept go-ing
not stop and try to sa-ve him. Left with no al-ter-na-ti-ve, he le-aned aro-und the end of the truck trying
to see what was hap-pe-ning on the ro-ad. One of the de-ad sto-od se-ve-ral yards away, its
at-ten-ti-on and AK-47 now fo-cu-sed at the tree-li-ne. Ri-ley's mi-li-tary tra-ining to-ok over and
se-ized the chan-ce the mo-ment pro-vi-ded. His M-16 ope-ned up sen-ding a stre-am of ro-unds in-to
the de-ad thing's chest which wor-ked the-ir way up its tor-so un-til with a wet pop-ping so-und the
thing's rot-ting he-ad burst li-ke a me-lon sen-ding bra-in mat-ter spe-wing on-to the ro-ad be-low its
fe-et from the un-re-len-ting gun-fi-re. Its body spun, he-ad-less, and drop-ped. Ri-ley was on his fe-et
run-ning to-wards it se-eking a bet-ter van-ta-ge po-int be-fo-re the corp-se hit the gro-und. The-re
we-re just three of things that he'd se-en and he fi-gu-red he co-uld hand-le them as long as he knew
Han-nah and Bran-don we-re sa-fe. But that was the prob-lem wasn't it?
Riley felt fi-re te-ar its way in-to his sho-ul-der as he was knoc-ked from his fo-oting by the im-pact.
His rif-le went skid-ding away from him as he tumb-led. Out of the cor-ner of his vi-si-on, he saw the
de-ad man who'd fi-red the shot. The thing had its rif-le lo-we-red and was char-ging to-wards his fal-len
form with so-me kind of bla-de at-tac-hed to the end of the we-apon. Ri-ley didn't mo-ve or ma-ke any
at-tempt to dod-ge the at-tack. He wa-ited to the fi-nal pos-sib-le se-cond and grab-bed for the
we-apon as the thing tri-ed to spe-ar him with it.
Close com-bat with the de-ad was ext-re-mely dan-ge-ro-us. A bi-te, so-me-ti-mes just a scratch
from the-ir na-ils, was eno-ugh to in-fect a per-son with the let-hal vi-rus or spi-rit or wha-te-ver it was
that ga-ve the de-ad li-fe.

His mo-ve to-ok the cre-atu-re by surp-ri-se as he rip-ped the we-apon from its hands and sent the
cre-atu-re spraw-ling on-to the pa-ve-ment be-si-de him. It rol-led at him, its hungry mo-uth open and
hands cla-wing for his flesh. Ri-ley was fas-ter tho-ugh. The thing ne-ver saw him draw the .45
auto-ma-tic that blew it bra-ins out the back of its he-ad with a sing-le shot.
"Hannah!” Ri-ley scre-amed pra-ying for an ans-wer. Ins-te-ad he he-ard the je-ep the things had
rid-den in on ro-ar to li-fe. He tur-ned to see it stre-aking away back the in the di-rec-ti-on it had ca-me
with the last of the de-ad sol-di-ers at its whe-el. Ot-her-wi-se, the ro-ad was si-lent. Blo-od stra-ined
the front of his shirt le-aking from the wo-und on his sho-ul-der but he didn't fe-el it. He bol-ted, his legs
po-un-ding be-ne-ath him, to whe-re he'd he-ard the shot from Han-nah's rif-le mo-ments be-fo-re. He
skid-ded to a halt as he re-ac-hed the tree-li-ne. Han-nah was in the dirt kne-eling over Bran-don.
Ri-ley's he-art felt li-ke it stop-ped be-ating in-si-de of him as Han-nah lo-oked up at him with te-ars
stre-aming down her che-eks and her hands wet with blo-od. A pud-dle of red was gro-wing aro-und
Bran-don's fra-gi-le form whe-re it lay. Spots ap-pe-ared in Ri-ley's vi-si-on, which grew in-to
dark-ness as Han-nah watc-hed him col-lap-se.

9

Scott and Da-vid put on a show for the two gu-ards ac-com-pan-ying them out-si-de the bre-eding
cen-ter. They held hands and ac-ted eager to re-ach a pla-ce in the hills whe-re they co-uld be
to-get-her in-ti-ma-tely. The gu-ards led them abo-ut a mi-le and a half from the com-po-und pro-per
be-fo-re the gro-up stop-ped and one of the de-ad men pul-led out a stop-watch from its poc-ket. “This
is as far as we're go-ing,” the gu-ard in-for-med them and star-ted the watch. “You bet-ter get to it if
you're go-ing to. The clock is tic-king."
"You're go-ing to watch us?” Da-vid sa-id hor-ri-fi-ed. “That wasn't part of the de-al."
"Tough,” the ot-her gu-ard grun-ted. “Get to jer-king each ot-her or wha-te-ver so we can get back."
"What's the mat-ter?” Scott la-ug-hed. “Are you horny too? Wan-na jo-in us?"
The gu-ard blin-ked his sing-le eye-lid whi-le the ot-her la-ug-hed at his stun-ned com-ra-de to whom
the of-fer had be-en ma-de. Scott sprang for-ward stri-king out with the flat of his palm. His blow dro-ve
the la-ug-hing gu-ard's no-se bo-ne up in-to its bra-in kil-ling the cre-atu-re ins-tantly. The re-ma-ining
gu-ard swung up the bar-rel of his we-apon at Scott to try to get a shot but Da-vid was the-re. He threw
him-self on-to the gu-ard and they went down in a mess tang-led limbs as the gu-ard's rif-le bla-zed
away.
Scott ins-tinc-ti-vely duc-ked out of the path of the awk-ward gun-fi-re snatc-hing up the rif-le of the
gu-ard he'd kil-led. He whir-led to see Da-vid la-ying atop the gu-ard the yo-ung man had tack-led with
his in-tes-ti-nes scat-te-red abo-ut everyw-he-re. The burst from the thing's we-apon must ha-ve gut-ted
Da-vid as the pa-ir had fal-len. Scott's fin-ger squ-e-ezed the trig-ger of his rif-le and held it empt-ying
the clip in-to Da-vid's corp-se and the gu-ard. Scott tos-sed the rif-le asi-de. Ne-it-her Da-vid nor the
gu-ard wo-uld be get-ting up aga-in. He felt a pang of loss and gu-ilt over Da-vid's sac-ri-fi-ce but didn't
ha-ve the ti-me to re-al-ly think abo-ut it. The who-le com-po-und he knew must ha-ve he-ard the bri-ef
bat-tle. Scott sprin-ted away from the sce-ne in-to the tre-es wit-ho-ut lo-oking back.

10

O'Neil and Cap-ta-in Ste-ven stu-di-ed the map spre-ad out on the tab-le be-fo-re them. Ste-ven
stab-bed at a po-int on the map with his fin-ger. “We'll put in he-re."
"South Ca-ro-li-na?” O'Ne-il as-ked.
"Why not? This port he-re is out of the way in terms of the old com-mer-ci-al traf-fic ro-utes and it's
clo-se eno-ugh for us to re-ach it wit-hin two days."
"It'll still be gu-ar-ded. If not-hing el-se the-re'll be tho-se things all over the docks,” O'Ne-il

com-men-ted. “I don't li-ke the idea of ta-king The Qu-e-en that clo-se to land aga-in."
Steven smi-led. “We're not. Not this ti-me. We'll sa-il in just clo-se eno-ugh for the li-fe-bo-ats to
ma-ke it as-ho-re."
O'Neil lo-oked at the Cap-ta-in comp-le-tely baf-fled.
"Stealth, Mr. O'Ne-il. It's so-met-hing we ha-ven't tri-ed be-fo-re. If we go in at night ins-te-ad of all
guns bla-zing, The Qu-e-en her-self may still fa-ce an at-tack but the de-ad may not no-ti-ce our smal-ler
bo-ats un-til they've had ti-me to do everyt-hing they ne-ed for on-ce.” Ste-ven saw the way O'Ne-il
was gla-ring at him. “Yes, it's mo-re of a risk to the ra-iding party if they do no-ti-ce them and it'll me-an
less sup-pli-es bro-ught back ove-rall be-ca-use we won't be lo-ading stra-ight on-to The Qu-e-en. But
I'm wil-ling to ta-ke the gamb-le in ho-pes that it will sa-ve us so-me li-ves. If it works, it'll gi-ve the
ra-iding party a bet-ter ed-ge than they've ever had be-fo-re and well, if The Qu-e-en do-es be-co-me
en-ga-ged I think she can hand-le her-self. We ha-ve be-fo-re and will do so many mo-re ti-mes
be-fo-re we're do-ne I'm su-re."
"Sir, I think you sho-uld know most of the crew and the pe-op-le on-bo-ard still just want us to ta-ke
so-me lit-tle is-land, put down so-me ro-ots, and fi-nal-ly get off the wa-ves.” O'Ne-il in-for-med him.
Steven grin-ned. “No,” he or-de-red flatly, “Our mo-bi-lity is what's ke-eping us ali-ve, Mr. O'Ne-il.
Per-haps you sho-uld re-mind the-se pe-op-le that if we lo-se it, we've lost the war."
O'Neil chan-ged the su-bj-ect, avo-iding an ar-gu-ment. “How many men will be ne-eded for the
li-fe-bo-ats in this plan of yo-urs?"
"I was thin-king abo-ut six-te-en, to-tal. That sho-uld gi-ve them the fi-re-po-wer and the free hands
they'll ne-ed."
"But who's go-ing to le-ad them?” O'Ne-il as-ked.

11

Scott hadn't stop-ped mo-ving for ne-arly twel-ve ho-urs. His un-der-fed and ex-ha-us-ted body was
be-ing pus-hed far be-yond its li-mits. He ne-arly fell in-to a tree, grab-bing hold of its bark to ke-ep his
ba-lan-ce. His he-ad swam and he felt sick. He drop-ped to his kne-es vo-mi-ting on-to the wet grass.
So far, he'd se-en no signs that his pur-su-ers we-re catc-hing up with him. When he'd first star-ted
run-ning, it'd be-en li-ke so-met-hing out of a night-ma-re. Je-eps full of the de-ad had ca-me ro-aring
out of the bre-eding cen-ter comp-lex. The first two ho-urs of the cha-se had be-en the ro-ug-hest,
duc-king in and out of the tre-es, zig-zag-ging his path, and pra-ying as he elu-ded both tho-se cha-sing
him and the nor-mal pat-rols the de-ad kept pos-ted in the area. He hadn't se-en or he-ard a je-ep or
de-ad man in the past se-ven ho-urs tho-ugh and he co-uldn't for-ce him-self to go any-mo-re at this
po-int any-way. He ne-eded rest des-pe-ra-tely.
Scott wi-ped the vo-mit from his lips with the back of his hand and rol-led over on-to the gro-und,
stretc-hing out. The no-ise of a bul-let be-ing cham-be-red in-si-de a rif-le snap-ped Scott out of his
tho-ughts. A wo-man sto-od over him with the bar-rel of a .30-.06 aimed at his chest. She was
co-ve-red in blo-od not her own. She ap-pe-ared he-althy and well fed but every inch just as tri-ed as he
felt. Long red ha-ir was mat-ted to her fa-ce and sho-ul-ders by swe-at, blo-od, and dirt.
"Hello?” Scott gre-eted her we-akly.
"Are you a doc-tor?” She as-ked in a vo-ice fil-led with both bre-wing an-ger and a de-ep sad-ness.
Scott's mind ra-ced. What the hell was he sup-po-sed to say? “I know a lit-tle,” he ans-we-red
qu-ickly lying very still so that the wo-man didn't fe-el thre-ate-ned.
She to-ok a step away from him and or-de-red, “On yo-ur fe-et. My hus-band and son are hurt. They
ne-ed help."
"Okay,” Scott pus-hed him-self des-pi-te how much his who-le body ac-hed. The wo-man led him
abo-ut two tenths of a mi-le to the east. Scott knew ins-tantly so-met-hing wasn't right even be-fo-re
they en-te-red her ma-kes-hift camp-si-te. He co-uld see a small form ti-ed to a tree stra-ining aga-inst
the ro-pes knot-ted aro-und its body and the body of a man lay stretc-hed out ne-arby. Scott

won-de-red if the wo-man had kid-nap-ped the child that was ti-ed up un-til he saw the mas-si-ve
guns-hot wo-und on the child's chest and be-gan to re-ali-ze just how much tro-ub-le he was in. Thank
the lord the wo-man ap-pe-ared to ha-ve had the sen-se to gag the child thing. Scott for-ced him-self not
to sta-re at it as it twis-ted it-self un-der the ro-pes te-aring its flesh as it tri-ed to get free and tur-ned his
at-ten-ti-on to the man. He knelt down be-si-de him. The man was ali-ve, just ba-rely.
"Can you help them?” The wo-man ple-aded, the bar-rel of her rif-le still aimed at Scott.
He do-ub-ted very much he co-uld fo-ol the wo-man in-to let-ting her gu-ard down. She was too on
ed-ge. “Why did you gag the boy?” He as-ked ho-ping to le-ad her mind back to the truth of the things
in front of her.
Fresh te-ars rol-led down the wo-man's red-den che-eks. It was cle-ar the-re was no way she co-uld
ra-ti-ona-li-ze do-ing it and con-ti-nue to be-li-eve her son was ali-ve. “He ... He was just gib-be-ring.
Sa-ying hor-rib-le things. I co-uldn't ta-ke it any-mo-re."
"Was he re-al-ly yo-ur son?"
"Yes,” she ans-we-red not bot-he-ring to cor-rect the word “was".
"And this is?” Scott as-ked pla-cing a hand on the man's arm.
"Riley. He's my hus-band, Ri-ley."
"He's go-ing to die just li-ke yo-ur son did,” Scott sa-id bra-vely, sta-ring down the mad-ness in her
eyes. “He's lost too much blo-od. The-re's not-hing we can do for him out he-re."
"Liar!” the wo-man how-led, her fin-ger tigh-te-ning on the trig-ger as she sho-ved the bar-rel of her
.30-.06 clo-ser to Scott's fa-ce.
"Whoa! Ca-re-ful the-re!” Scott beg-ged, his hands held high in the air. “I'm sorry lady. I just call them
as I see them."
The wo-man he-si-ta-ted lo-we-ring the rif-le's bar-rel slightly. Scott ma-de his mo-ve grab-bing for
the we-apon. Too bad for him, Han-nah was fas-ter.

12

Hannah spun the rif-le in her hands and smas-hed its butt in-to the man's fa-ce as he snatc-hed at it.
He fell back-wards, cur-sing and ble-eding from his no-se. The things he'd sa-id had cut her li-ke a
ra-zor. So-met-hing in-si-de of her wo-ke up and re-ali-zed her son was de-ad and her hus-band was
dying. She'd be dam-ned if this filthy punk was go-ing to ta-ke her dad's rif-le too. Snap-ped the rif-le's
butt back up aga-inst her sho-ul-der and bra-ced it. The we-apon bar-ked as the shot smas-hed open
the skull of the thing that had on-ce be-en her son.
The man was eying her as if she we-re mo-re dan-ge-ro-us than ever. He ra-ised a hand co-ver in
blo-od from his no-se at her. “Ple-ase,” was the word he sa-id.
"What's yo-ur na-me?” Han-nah as-ked.
"Scott,” he ans-we-red then ad-ded, “Ma'am, I don't me-an any dis-res-pect but yo-ur hus-band just
qu-it bre-at-hing. I don't sup-po-se you'd be kind eno-ugh to sho-ot him too?"
"Riley!” Han-nah wa-iled and flung her-self down be-si-de Scott, thro-wing her-self over Ri-ley's
corp-se. Watc-hing her gri-ef, Scott co-uldn't bring him-self to ta-ke her we-apon tho-ugh she'd cast it
asi-de. Ins-te-ad, he mo-ved to sa-ve her li-ve pul-ling her off her hus-band's body be-fo-re it co-uld
re-ani-ma-te. Scott sho-ved Han-nah asi-de as Ri-ley's eyes ope-ned. Scott pul-led a .45 from the
corp-se's own hols-ter and put an end to it. The shot se-emed to ec-ho in the air.
Hannah tur-ned her fa-ce away from the go-re, sob-bing tho-ugh she had no te-ars left to cry. Scott
ma-de no mo-ve com-fort her as he pop-ped the clip out of the hand-gun and to-ok stock of the
num-ber of ro-unds left in the clip. When he was do-ne he snap-ped the clip back in-si-de the gun. He
pic-ked up a back-pack that ap-pe-ared to ha-ve be-lon-ged to the child and be-gan to sort thro-ugh it.
Who-ever this wo-man was, her fa-mily had ob-vi-o-usly be-en well sup-pli-ed. He ope-ned a gra-no-la
bar from the pack and to-re in-to it unab-le to cont-rol him-self. Scott co-uldn't re-mem-ber the last
ti-me he'd had any kind of re-al fo-od and it tas-ted li-ke he-aven, sta-le or not. “Whe-re are you from?”

he mumb-led thro-ugh the nuts in his full mo-uth.
Hannah ig-no-red him. Scott fi-nis-hed the bar in a se-cond bi-te. “How ha-ve you ma-na-ged to stay
ali-ve this long?” He as-ked trying to re-ach Han-nah aga-in.
"What do-es it mat-ter?"
"Well for one thing, you ha-ve fo-od. You're well ar-med. Hell, I even saw so-me an-ti-bi-otics in this
pack. If you're from so-me kind of set-tle-ment or shel-ter that sur-vi-ved I'd su-re as hell li-ke to know
abo-ut it."
"Where are you from?” Han-nah shot back.
"Trust me lady, you don't want to know,” Scott snic-ke-red rip-ping in-to anot-her ra-ti-on bar. “I've
be-en loc-ked up by the de-ad in a camp stra-ight out of hell."
"A camp?” Han-nah was stun-ned. “Why didn't they kill you?"
"Where ha-ve you be-en, sis-ter? How do you think the de-ad get the-ir fo-od the-se days? The-re
aren't eno-ugh of us left out the-re for them to just ro-und up and sla-ugh-ter for din-ner any-mo-re.
They're trying to bre-ed us li-ke cat-tle, li-ves-tock, so that they'll al-ways ha-ve fo-od."
Hannah sta-red at Scott in hor-ror.
"Yeah,” Scott nod-ded, “It's all that and wor-se. I still want to know whe-re you ca-me from. You
su-re as hell we-ren't in a camp."
"My hus-band and child are de-ad."
"I'm sorry,” Scott twis-ted the top off of a can-te-en hel-ping him-self to the wa-ter it con-ta-ined.
“Se-en a lot of pe-op-le die. One of my fri-ends di-ed just so that I co-uld ma-ke it out of the-re. It
lo-oks li-ke yo-ur hus-band di-ed trying to ta-ke you so-mew-he-re bet-ter too. Bet-ter get used to it,
pe-op-le dying. That's how things are with the de-ad ru-ling the world. Spe-aking of which...” Scott
clo-sed the can-te-en. “We ne-ed to get mo-ving. Sta-ying in a sing-le spot for a whi-le can be su-ici-de.
Who knows who or what he-ard tho-se shots."

13

Luke was anyt-hing but yo-ur typi-cal en-gi-ne-er. Long black ha-ir with spots of gray hung over the
purp-le flan-nel shirt he wo-re. He sat cro-uc-hed on the kne-es of his worn blue je-ans fid-dling with a
ho-me-ma-de tor-pe-do ca-sing. He he-ard O'Ne-il en-ter his works-hop but ma-de no mo-ve to stop
fi-ne-tu-ning his cur-rent pro-j-ect. Ins-te-ad, he sa-id, “I'll ha-ve two mo-re li-ve ones by to-mor-row
mor-ning."
O'Neil sat on Lu-ke's unu-sed work-bench. “Why do you al-ways work in the flo-or?"
Luke smi-led. “The fre-edom,” he ans-we-red simply, “It helps me think."
O'Neil grun-ted. “Wha-te-ver works I sup-po-se, as long as you don't blow a ho-le in the bot-tom of
the ship."
"You didn't co-me he-re to talk abo-ut my work ha-bits, Mr. O'Ne-il. What's up?"
"The Cap-ta-in's plan-ning to ra-id a port in So-uth Ca-ro-li-na to-mor-row night. I've got the usu-al
crew re-ady and I'll be in com-mand of the ope-ra-ti-on. I tho-ught I'd stop by and see if you'd co-me
up with anyt-hing new."
Luke cur-ved his he-ad aro-und to glan-ce at O'Ne-il be-hind him. “If you're tal-king abo-ut
un-ders-tan-ding the dyna-mics of what ma-kes the de-ad get back on the-ir fe-et with hungry
sto-machs,” Lu-ke used his po-in-ted fin-ger to press his glas-ses up from whe-re they'd slid down on
his no-se, “No, I ha-ven't. That's Doc Gal-len-ger's area, not mi-ne."
"I tho-ught you we-re hel-ping him."
"Sure when I ha-ve the ti-me. You might ha-ve no-ti-ced I ha-ve be-en rat-her busy la-tely what with
ke-eping this old girl run-ning and de-sig-ning the-se new toys for the Cap-ta-in."
"It's not that I don't trust Gal-len-ger's do-ing his best Lu-ke, I just tho-ught..."
"What? That ha-ving ni-ne deg-re-es in everyt-hing from pat-ho-logy to physics ma-kes me
su-per-hu-man? That I am sup-po-sed to be ab-le to wa-ve a ma-gic wand and sa-ve yo-ur ass? I

wish,” Lu-ke shrug-ged. “I ain't God, ya know."
"I didn't say that you we-re. God has a so-ci-al li-fe.” O'Ne-il te-ased the ra-il thin sci-en-tist.
"You want me to go with you to-mor-row?"
"Hell no!” O'Ne-il pro-tes-ted. “Ste-ven wo-uld ha-ve me shot if I let you off The Qu-e-en. You're
the only re-al bra-in we've got."
"So you say,” Lu-ke chal-len-ged. “The-re are plenty of pe-op-le on the bo-at who co-uld do what I
do aro-und he-re."
"Maybe. But not one of them co-uld do it all,” O'Ne-il got up from the bench. “Just pro-mi-se me
you'll get to hel-ping Gal-len-ger okay? We ne-ed a way to stop the de-ad mo-re than we ne-ed the
we-apons to ke-ep run-ning."
As O'Ne-il tur-ned to le-ave, Lu-ke mut-te-red, “Be ca-re-ful out the-re you idi-ot."
"I al-ways am,” O'Ne-il res-pon-ded with a flash of his te-eth, then he was go-ne.

14

Scott fi-gu-red Han-nah was whac-ko af-ter what she'd en-du-red, with every right to be, so he left
her to her bro-oding as they wal-ked. The wo-man in-sis-ted on tra-ve-ling east to the co-ast, so they
we-re. Scott had ma-na-ged to ob-ta-in a few ho-urs of bles-sed sle-ep un-der her watch, co-un-ting
him-self lucky she hadn't kil-led him whi-le he slept. But when he'd wo-ken up she'd just be-en sit-ting
the-re ad-rift in her own mind li-ke she'd be-en when he first zon-ked out. It'd be-en im-pos-sib-le to get
her to mo-ve ear-li-er short of car-rying her when he'd sa-id they ne-eded to get on the mo-ve aga-in but
af-ter his nap, she'd be-en up on her fe-et and re-ady to go fas-ter than he was. Her only re-qu-ests
we-re that they bury the bo-di-es of her fa-mily and that they set out in this di-rec-ti-on.
"What the heck is that?” Scott as-ked sud-denly as he no-ti-ced a bu-il-ding up ahe-ad of them.
Han-nah pa-used be-si-de him. “It's a ca-bin,” she sa-id and then con-ti-nu-ed on to-wards it.
"Whoa. What are you do-ing?” Scott grab-bed her by the arm. “We don't know if an-yo-ne's in
the-re."
"There's not, not ali-ve any-way."
"How can you be so su-re?"
Hannah po-in-ted thro-ugh the tre-es. “The do-or's be-en bus-ted open. The win-dows are
shat-te-red. And that ap-pe-ars to be dri-ed blo-od sme-ared all over the outer walls."
Given lit-tle cho-ice, Scott fol-lo-wed Han-nah on in-to the cle-aring in front of the ca-bin. Se-ve-ral
bo-di-es, all de-ad from he-ad wo-unds, lit-te-red the grass aro-und the pla-ce.
"Looks li-ke so-me-body put up a go-od fight,” Scott com-men-ted as Han-nah he-aded stra-ight for
the ma-in do-or wit-ho-ut slo-wing. It dang-led ba-rely at-tac-hed to its hin-ges. Han-nah step-ped by it
and in-to the bu-il-ding. A par-ti-al-ly de-vo-ured body mis-sing its legs and arms watc-hed her en-ter.
Old blo-od sta-ined the area abo-ut its mo-uth and chin. Han-nah was su-re its ton-gue had be-en cut or
bit-ten out ot-her-wi-se the thing wo-uld ha-ve be-en scre-aming obs-ce-ni-ti-es at her. Its eyes bur-ned
in-to her as she glan-ced abo-ut the re-ma-ins of the simp-le ro-om. So-me-one had ta-ken shel-ter in
this pla-ce se-eking sa-fety in the wil-der-ness just li-ke her own fa-mily had do-ne; only the-se po-or
pe-op-le must ha-ve be-en dis-co-ve-red be-fo-re they co-uld run.
Hannah jum-ped as a guns-hot split the air sen-ding the limb-less mons-ter on its way to hell on-ce
mo-re. Scott shrug-ged as she gla-red at him. “It was cre-eping me out, okay?” He of-fe-red in way of
apo-logy.
The pa-ir ca-re-ful-ly se-arc-hed the pla-ce over for ot-hers of the de-ad or an-yo-ne
mi-ra-cu-lo-usly left ali-ve to find they we-re alo-ne. They met back in the ca-bin's ma-in ro-om.
"We'll ta-ke what we can. Fo-od, am-mo, wha-te-ver but we're not sta-ying,” Han-nah in-for-med
Scott.
Scott was too de-ligh-ted to be put off by her air of su-pe-ri-ority. “You're not go-ing to be-li-eve
what I fo-und out be-hind this dump!” He smi-led. “Co-me on, I'll show you!"

15

The ca-bin had be-en a god-send. Scott co-uldn't be-li-eve the-ir luck. With the-ir stock of
rep-le-nis-hed and sto-machs hap-pily full of dri-ed to-ma-to-es and corn from among the cans they'd
lo-oted, they star-ted the jo-ur-ney east aga-in much ric-her. Han-nah still car-ri-ed her .30-.06
re-fu-sing to let it go but she al-so now car-ri-ed a func-ti-onal AK-47 as-sa-ult rif-le. Scott had ad-ded
a pump ac-ti-on twel-ve ga-uge to his ar-se-nal. The-ir best find ho-we-ver had be-en the bi-ke. It
al-lo-wed them to con-ti-nue tra-ve-ling off ro-ad whi-le gi-ving them a much fas-ter ra-te of tra-vel and
mo-bi-lity.
Scott held on-to Han-nah's wa-ist as she kept the gas flo-wing hard to the small bi-ke's en-gi-ne. She
jer-ked the hand-le-bars from si-de to si-de dod-ging tre-es as they bo-un-ced over the fo-rest flo-or at
over forty mi-les an ho-ur. Scott wasn't su-re but he tho-ught for the first ti-me sin-ce they'd met he saw
the sligh-test hint of a smi-le on Han-nah's lips.
"If you don't mind if I ask,” he yel-led over the bi-ke's ro-ar, “Why the hell are you so set on go-ing
east?"
Much to his surp-ri-se, Han-nah ans-we-red him. “I want to see the oce-an one last ti-me be-fo-re I
die!"
Scott mul-led over this re-ve-la-ti-on for a se-cond. “Works for me!” he sho-uted as the gro-und
slo-ped ahe-ad of them and Han-nah to-ok them char-ging down the tiny hill.

16

The Qu-e-en sat in the har-bor mo-ti-on-less and far from the docks. No or-ga-ni-zed at-tack had
be-en la-unc-hed aga-inst her yet. Henry O'Ne-il ad-mi-red her as the li-fe-bo-at he sat in drif-ted
to-ward the sho-re. The-re we-re fo-ur bo-ats each car-rying an equ-al num-ber of mem-bers of the
ra-iding party. O'Ne-il's he-art po-un-ded in his chest. A long ti-me had pa-used sin-ce he'd be-en in the
“he-at” of things on sho-re. Su-re he'd fo-ught nu-me-ro-us bat-tles abo-ard The Qu-e-en or ven-tu-ring
on-to a dock to help hold back the hor-des of de-ad as she set sa-il af-ter a ra-id but this was
dif-fe-rent. He was both ex-ci-ted and sca-red shit-less at the sa-me ti-me. An Af-ri-can Ame-ri-can
man na-med Roy sat ac-ross from him lo-ading a shot-gun. O'Ne-il didn't know Roy well, but he knew
him to be a ve-te-ran of ra-ids li-ke this one.
The plan was simp-le. Land on the be-ach ne-ar the wa-re-ho-uses along the dock, hit the sho-re
run-ning, and stock up on wha-te-ver non-pe-ris-hab-le fo-ods-tuf-fs they co-uld get the-ir hands on,
then ste-al so-me me-ans of trans-por-ting both it and them-sel-ves back to The Qu-e-en from the
bo-ats that li-ned the port. This ope-ra-ti-on wo-uld cost them the most of what re-ma-ined of The
Qu-e-en's li-fe-bo-ats but if they co-uld ste-al so-me de-cent mo-tor bo-ats that still wor-ked, it wo-uld
be mo-re than a fa-ir tra-de.
Jennifer and Jason al-so sha-red his li-fe-bo-at. The twins we-re in-se-pa-rab-le. Jen-ni-fer was the
war-ri-or of the pa-ir. Musc-les bul-ged from un-der-ne-ath the jump su-it she wo-re. In ad-di-ti-on to
the rif-le and si-de-arm she car-ri-ed, she hef-ted a mac-he-te. She was so-met-hing of a le-gend among
The Qu-e-en's “ra-iders". Just lo-oking at her con-fi-den-ce, ma-de O'Ne-il fe-el sa-fer. Jason by
cont-rast, tho-ugh he sha-red his twin's fra-me, was not well musc-led. He was the party's me-dic and
ser-ved as an as-sis-tant to Dr. Gal-len-ger on-bo-ard The Qu-e-en. The yo-ung man's brow was
cre-ased in tho-ught as he chec-ked over the med. kit he car-ri-ed. O'Ne-il was su-re the yo-ung man
ho-ped he wo-uldn't ne-ed it or any of its con-tents to-night.
O'Neil held no of-fi-ci-al rank ha-ving co-me abo-ard The Qu-e-en af-ter the pla-gue star-ted and the
world be-gin its des-cent in-to the hel-lish night-ma-re it had be-co-me. Yet ever-yo-ne knew he was
se-cond only to Cap-ta-in Ste-ven and tre-ated him with an air of res-pect. He ho-ped he li-ved up to it

out he-re whe-re it mat-te-red the most.
The li-fe-bo-ats re-ac-hed the sand of the sho-re-li-ne. O'Ne-il scre-wed a si-len-cer on-to the
bar-rel of his pis-tol and step-ped off the wa-ves. His land legs we-re clumsy ini-ti-al-ly but he so-on got
the hang of it as he ra-ced af-ter the ot-hers to-wards the docks. The party split up, each he-ading out
for a dif-fe-rent sec-ti-on of the wa-re-ho-uses to lo-ot ex-pect one gro-up who went off in se-arch of
the-ir much ne-eded me-ans of es-ca-pe and trans-port back to The Qu-e-en. The-re was no sign of the
de-ad but O'Ne-il knew it wo-uldn't be long.
Within mi-nu-tes, su-itab-le trans-port for the re-turn vo-ya-ge was lo-ca-ted. Al-re-ady cra-tes of
fre-eze-dri-ed and can-ned fo-ods we-re be-ing lo-aded on-to to the pa-ir of small mo-tor bo-ats, which
we-re the only ones aro-und that ap-pe-ared still func-ti-onal. That's when the shit hit the fan. One of the
ra-iders na-med Gary scre-amed, “They're co-ming!” Be-fo-re O'Ne-il co-uld open his mo-uth to sho-ut
or-ders the docks we-re ab-la-ze with gun-fi-re and the de-ad we-re ra-cing at the ra-iding party from
the town be-yond.

17

The wo-uld-be ra-iders qu-ickly fo-und them-sel-ves pin-ned down and out-num-be-red. “It's a
trap!” so-me-one sho-uted. O'Ne-il cur-sed who-ever it was for be-ing an idi-ot. The de-ad hadn't had
any-way of kno-wing they'd be he-re, the-re we-re just that many of the cre-atu-res everyw-he-re the-se
days. Jen-ni-fer sho-ved O'Ne-il from his fe-et as a bul-let whiz-zed thro-ugh the spa-ce he'd be-en
stan-ding in. “Bet-ter ke-ep yo-ur mind on the fight, sir!” she ad-vi-sed him, ra-ising her M-16 and
hol-ding the trig-ger squ-e-ezed as she swept her li-ne of fi-re ac-ross the ranks of the char-ging de-ad.
O'Neil ha-ted the de-ad. Why co-uldn't the de-ad be unt-hin-king, slow mo-ving auto-ma-tons
dri-ven pu-rely by ins-tinct alo-ne li-ke in the mo-vi-es he'd se-en as a kid, he won-de-red. Li-fe
fre-akin’ sucks he tho-ught as he pus-hed him-self up and to-ok aim at a cre-atu-re run-ning at the te-am
of ra-iders with a ho-le thro-ugh its ribs and a butc-her kni-fe ra-ised abo-ve its he-ad re-ady to stri-ke.
With a sing-le shot from his pis-tol he drop-ped the de-ad thing per-ma-nently to the gro-und.
The de-ad we-re at-temp-ting to push aro-und the ra-iding party, to flank them and cut them off from
the docks whe-re the half lo-aded mo-tor bo-ats wa-ited. O'Ne-il knew if that hap-pe-ned they we-re
all scre-wed. He bol-ted, run-ning for the te-am's only way out as he saw Jen-ni-fer wrest-ling with a
de-ad wo-man who'd ma-de it past the-ir wall of fi-re. Jen-ni-fer's rif-le was go-ne and she strug-gled to
bring her mac-he-te in-to play aga-inst the wo-man. She ne-ver got the chan-ce. The wo-man las-hed
out with so-met-hing that lo-oked li-ke a stra-ight ra-zor. Jen-ni-fer's thro-at ope-ned, spra-ying blo-od.
As O'Ne-il re-ac-hed the bo-ats, Roy was the-re wa-iting for him.
"We've got to get the fo-od back to the ship!” O'Ne-il sho-uted. Jim nod-ded. Most of the-ir party
was al-re-ady de-ad or dying and they co-uldn't risk trying to sa-ve the ot-hers. Too many pe-op-le on
The Qu-e-en we-re de-pen-ding on them. If they fa-iled a lot mo-re wo-uld die than just tho-se he-re on
the docks.
"What the hell is that?” Jim yel-led, po-in-ting at so-met-hing be-hind O'Ne-il. O'Ne-il tur-ned to see
a dirt bi-ke zig-ging and zag-ging its way to-wards them thro-ugh the midst of the bat-tle. Two hu-man
sha-pes ro-de it, one cle-arly a wo-man at the hand-le-bars. “Fuck that,” O'Ne-il swo-re brin-ging up
his pis-tol to ta-ke a shot at her. If the de-ad tho-ught they co-uld send a su-ici-de bom-ber on a damn
dirt bi-ke cras-hing in-to the mo-tor bo-ats they had anot-her thing co-ming.
Jim struck O'Ne-il's arm, knoc-king his pis-tol's bar-rel down-ward to fi-re in-to the wo-od of the
dock as he pul-led the trig-ger. “Why the...” O'Ne-il star-ted but Jim cut him off. “Tho-se ain't de-ad
folk,” the ol-der man snar-led.
O'Neil glan-ced at the bi-ke aga-in as Jim le-apt off the docks in-to the mo-re he-avily lo-aded of the
two bo-ats and fi-red it up. The bi-ke skid-ded to a halt a few yards away from O'Ne-il. A hag-gard
lo-oking yo-ung man with las-hing scars co-ve-ring his na-ked back jum-ped off the re-ar of the bi-ke
and sa-id, “Go-ing our way?"

O'Neil felt his bre-ath le-ave him, ig-no-ring the yo-ung man's joke, as he ga-zed in-to the gre-en eyes
of the wo-man who sto-od be-fo-re him. “Get in!” Jim scre-amed from the bo-at be-low and O'Ne-il
sto-od watc-hing this wo-man, this an-gel, dart by him and le-ap off the docks in-to the bo-at. The
shirt-less man sho-ved O'Ne-il off the dock as he mo-ved for the bo-at him-self. “I think he me-ans you
too!” The yo-ung man la-ug-hed as they cras-hed in-to the bo-at ne-ar Jim to-get-her. Jim kic-ked the
bo-at in-to high ge-ar and left a tra-il of wa-ves in the-ir wa-ke. The docks and the night-ma-re of it all
fa-ded in-to the dis-tan-ce be-hind them as a few des-pe-ra-tely shot ro-unds thud-ded in-to the si-des
of the bo-at and the de-ad how-led in va-in at the-ir es-ca-ping prey.

18

"Who are you pe-op-le?” Scott as-ked, “And what was all that back the-re abo-ut?"
The tal-ler, red-neck lo-oking black man ans-we-red, “I'm Jim and this is Mr. O'Ne-il. We're from
The Qu-e-en."
The man iden-ti-fi-ed as O'Ne-il just kept sta-ring at Han-nah as she as-ked, “What's The Qu-e-en?"
"That,” Jim po-in-ted out in-to the wa-ter in the di-rec-ti-on they we-re spe-eding for.
"Holy shit,” Scott mut-te-red. The Qu-e-en was a ship and a damn big one from the lo-oks of her.
She was as long as a bat-tles-hip but cer-ta-inly not mi-li-tary in na-tu-re or at le-ast, she hadn't star-ted
out that way. Her ove-rall hull was a tar-nis-hed whi-te spot-ted by the odd pi-ece or pla-te of wi-el-ded
on ar-mor. Jury rig-ged gun emp-la-ce-ments ran the length of her decks from port to stern. She'd
de-fi-ni-tely se-en bet-ter days but even with the tiny amo-unt Scott knew abo-ut ships he co-uld tell she
had a lot of po-wer left in her yet.
Jim pi-lo-ted the mo-tor bo-at right up to her si-de. He-avily ar-med men and wo-men threw down
cab-les from her deck to ha-ul up the cra-tes of sup-pli-es the ra-iders had re-tur-ned with. “Too bad
we can't ke-ep this baby,” Jim sa-id mo-urn-ful-ly to no one in par-ti-cu-lar, “She's a fi-ne lit-tle bo-at in
own right."
"We're ke-eping her fu-el,” O'Ne-il or-de-red as he fi-nal-ly snap-ped out of the stun-ned ha-ze he'd
be-en in. “Ma-ke su-re you dra-in her tanks be-fo-re you go up.” Then O'Ne-il tur-ned to Scott and
Han-nah. He ca-ught one of the ro-pes that we-re ra-ining down aro-und them and han-ded it to
Han-nah. “Wel-co-me abo-ard, ma'am,” he sa-id with a sin-ce-re smi-le that lit up his fa-ce.
Scott and Han-nah scur-ri-ed up the ro-pe in-to the crowd of pe-op-le on The Qu-e-en's ma-in deck.
Both we-re overw-hel-med by the-ir wel-co-me. Han-nah co-uldn't re-mem-ber the last ti-me she'd
se-en so many re-al, li-ving, bre-at-hing pe-op-le. O'Ne-il pul-led him-self up be-hind them and was
bar-king or-ders at the crowd be-fo-re his fe-et even hit the deck pro-per.
"Let's get lo-aded up qu-ickly pe-op-le,” he yel-led at the top of his lungs over the cha-os, “We ne-ed
get out of he-re be-fo-re the de-ad get it to-get-her and co-me sa-iling af-ter us."

19

A ye-oman na-med Pe-te led Scott and Han-nah to the-ir qu-ar-ters. Two Spar-tan bunk-ro-oms
si-de by si-de on the sa-me hall. “I know it's not much,” Pe-te apo-lo-gi-zed, “but he-re you're go-ing to
be sa-fe."
Scott was still trying to ab-sorb it all. “You me-an you guys ha-ve re-al-ly be-en sa-iling abo-ut out
he-re sin-ce it all star-ted?"
Pete nod-ded. “The Qu-e-en was at sea when the de-ad wo-ke up. We ha-ven't put to port yet
ex-cept to ra-id pla-ces for fo-od or sup-pli-es yet. The Cap-ta-in fi-gu-res we're sa-fer on the wa-ves."
"Have you he-ard from an-yo-ne el-se, ot-her sur-vi-vors li-ke yo-ur-sel-ves?” Han-nah as-ked.
"I ha-te to say it, ma'am, but ... well, no. Ben-son, our com-mu-ni-ca-ti-ons ex-pert, stays at it
aro-und the clock tho-ugh. We've ne-ver ca-me ac-ross mo-re than few li-ke yo-ur-sel-ves at a ti-me.

We're al-ways glad to see new fa-ces and I'm su-re you'll fit right in among the crew. Eit-her of you
ha-ve ex-pe-ri-en-ce sa-iling or know anyt-hing ships?"
Together Han-nah and Scott sho-ok the-ir he-ads in the ne-ga-ti-ve. Pe-te wa-ved a hand
dis-mis-si-vely. “No wor-ri-es, I know we'll co-me up with so-met-hing for you to do. We try to pull our
we-ight on this ship.” Pe-te lo-oked them over aga-in and stop-ped. “You ne-ed to get so-me rest. I'm
sorry. I'll le-ave you to it. The cap-ta-in will want to me-et you to-night. He li-kes to wel-co-me
ever-yo-ne to the ship per-so-nal-ly and see if you know anyt-hing abo-ut what's left out the-re that we
don't. You'll be ha-ving din-ner with him in abo-ut fi-ve ho-urs. I'll be back to get you and show you
aro-und un-til you know how to na-vi-ga-te The Qu-e-en yo-ur-sel-ves
Pete sho-ok Scott's hand aga-in and bo-wed to Han-nah. Then he was go-ne, va-nis-hing aro-und the
cor-ner of the cor-ri-dor. Han-nah and Scott lo-oked at each ot-her as if each we-re as-king the ot-her
if they re-al-ly wan-ted to be alo-ne. Si-len-ce lin-ge-red in the air un-til Scott fi-nal-ly ma-de a mo-ve.
“See you at din-ner then,” he sa-id step-ping in-to the ro-om he'd be-en as-sig-ned and shut-ting the
do-or be-hind him. Scott plop-ped on-to his bunk and fell ins-tantly in-to a de-ep sle-ep. His dre-ams
we-re dark but his ex-ha-us-ted body didn't ca-re.

20

Steven sho-ok his he-ad in dis-gust. “We lost fo-ur-te-en hands and ga-ined two. We can't ke-ep up
this ra-te of at-tri-ti-on. Per-haps you're cor-rect, Mr. O'Ne-il. May-be we sho-uld think of fin-ding an
is-land and star-ting over."
O'Neil co-uldn't be-li-eve what he was he-aring. Cap-ta-in Ste-ven was ag-re-e-ing with him af-ter
months re-fu-sing to even con-si-der the pos-si-bi-lity of such a ven-tu-re, let alo-ne, ac-ting on it.
"There is an is-land not far from he-re, sir, that one I've told you abo-ut. I think it was cal-led Cob-ble
or so-met-hing li-ke that. It was just a to-urist trap be-fo-re the pla-gue. You co-uld only re-ach it by
bo-at or he-li-cop-ter. I do-ubt we'd find much re-sis-tan-ce the-re and it's in a tem-pe-ra-te zo-ne so
we co-uld grow a wi-de as-sort-ment of fo-od stock bet-we-en the win-ters.” O'Ne-il was get-ting
ex-ci-ted as let out all the de-ta-ils he'd be-en plot-ting, “I bet the-re's even a fu-el de-pot the-re, at
le-ast for the smal-ler bo-ats. We co-uld le-ave The Qu-e-en just off sho-re and she'd be well wit-hin
re-ach if we ne-eded her aga-in."
Steven smi-led at O'Ne-il's pas-si-on over the idea. “So-unds li-ke you've re-al-ly tho-ught this out.
Al-right, Mr. O'Ne-il. We'll try it yo-ur way. Plot us a co-ur-se for this is-land as so-on as we can be
su-re tho-se cre-atu-res from the docks aren't pur-su-ing us and ha-ve tho-se two new folk bro-ught up
he-re. I'm eager to he-ar news of the ma-in-land."
"I think you'll find the new wo-man rat-her cap-ti-va-ting sir,” O'Ne-il com-men-ted.
Steven pul-led a ci-gar from his desk and lit it up with an old fas-hi-oned wo-oden match. “Do I
de-tect a bit of per-so-nal at-tach-ment in yo-ur vo-ice Henry?"
The yo-un-ger man blin-ked. The Cap-ta-in ra-rely cal-led him by his first na-me. Most pe-op-le
didn't. It put him on ed-ge tho-ugh he knew the Cap-ta-in was only te-asing, trying to pro-vo-ke a
res-pon-se. “No sir. I just ... I tho-ught you'd li-ke to be pre-pa-red is all."
"Oh,” Ste-ven snic-ke-red, “I see."
Hannah lay on her bunk sta-ring at the ce-iling. She'd tri-ed to get so-me sle-ep but she co-uldn't stop
thin-king abo-ut Ri-ley and Bran-don. Bran-don wo-uld ha-ve be-en so happy on this ship. The Qu-e-en
wo-uld've be-en li-ke a pa-ra-di-se to him, the ad-ven-tu-re of the high sea and child-ren his age to
sha-re it with. It wo-uld ha-ve be-en li-ke so-met-hing out of a story bo-ok. And Ri-ley ... She mis-sed
Ri-ley so much. Wit-ho-ut him, she felt hol-low, in-comp-le-te. A pi-ece of her so-ul had di-ed with
them back in the mo-un-ta-ins just li-ke the world had di-ed long ago. She'd adj-us-ted to the world's
dest-ruc-ti-on but the pa-in of loss for her fa-mily was fresh and it stung at her he-art.
Someone knoc-ked on the do-or of her qu-ar-ters. For-get-ting her-self, she re-ac-hed for her rif-le,
sli-ding a shell in-to its cham-ber as the do-or ope-ned. Pe-te sto-od in the do-or-way with a hor-ri-fi-ed

lo-ok on his fa-ce as he ga-zed down the bar-rel of the .30-.06 at her. “It's okay,” Pe-te sa-id slowly,
ta-king a step back. Han-nah lo-we-red the rif-le. “I'm sorry,” she shrug-ged. “Old ha-bits die hard."
"Better them than me,” Pe-te joked un-com-for-tably. “The Cap-ta-in is wa-iting for you to jo-in him
for din-ner."
Hannah fol-lo-wed Pe-te out in-to the hall whe-re Scott was wa-iting. Scott was cle-an-sha-ven and
had got-ten new clot-hes from so-mew-he-re. His who-le ap-pe-aran-ce was dif-fe-rent on many
le-vels. He ac-tu-al-ly lo-oked hand-so-me and if pos-sib-le, even smug-ger than he usu-al-ly was.
“Abo-ut ti-me you got up, sle-epy he-ad,” he te-ased her as the trio ma-de the-ir way along the
cor-ri-dor and up to the Cap-ta-in's qu-ar-ters on the le-vel abo-ve.
Captain Ste-ven and O'Ne-il gre-eted Han-nah and Scott as they en-te-red. Han-nah lo-oked the
Cap-ta-in over. He was in his la-ter for-ti-es, his ha-ir mostly gray, yet the-re was no mis-ta-king the
strength he car-ri-ed in not only his cha-rac-ter but al-so in his short, burly fra-me. He lo-oked li-ke a
man who'd se-en hell first hand and be-aten it back by the she-er for-ce of his will. The ne-ces-sary
int-ro-duc-ti-ons we-re ma-de, and then Pe-te and O'Ne-il se-ated ever-yo-ne at the tab-le. “Will the-re
be anyt-hing el-se sir?” O'Ne-il as-ked.
"No thank you,” Ste-ven re-ac-hed for a nap-kin to dra-pe ac-ross his lap. “That will be all."
O'Neil and Pe-te left the qu-ar-ters clo-sing the ent-ran-ce be-hind them.
The tab-le was set with re-al chi-na dis-hes and ex-pen-si-ve, re-gal lo-oking sil-ver-wa-re but it was
the fo-od that held Han-nah and Scott's at-ten-ti-on. The-re was gla-zed sal-mon, fresh ba-ked bre-ad,
a spicy brown ri-ce of so-me type, stuf-fed crabs, and bowl full of red ap-ples pla-ced along si-de a
sa-lad of cab-ba-ge and chop-ped car-rots. The Cap-ta-in must ha-ve no-ti-ced the-ir hun-ger.
“Ple-ase, help yo-ur-sel-ves,” he of-fe-red. Scott was-ted no ti-me in lo-ading down his pla-te with
everyt-hing in re-ach and a do-ub-le por-ti-on of the stuf-fed crabs.
"I as-su-re you, we don't eat li-ke this all ti-me,” Cap-ta-in Ste-ven in-for-med them. “We can't
af-ford to. Most of our me-als are of much simp-ler fa-re but to-night it se-emed fit-ting to ha-ve this
fe-ast not only to wel-co-me you but ce-leb-ra-te a much ne-eded chan-ge in The Qu-e-en's plans for
the fu-tu-re."
"The fu-tu-re?” Scott mumb-led thro-ugh a mo-uth full of fish and bre-ad.
"Yes,” Ste-ven con-ti-nu-ed. “The fu-tu-re. We can't go on li-ving as we ha-ve up un-til this po-int. I
re-fu-se to con-ti-nue to sac-ri-fi-ce the li-ves of my crew and tho-se un-der my pro-tec-ti-on to ke-ep
us on the sea. It's ti-me we fo-und a new ho-me and try to rec-la-im so-me of what man-kind has lost to
the de-ad."
"Do you re-al-ly think that's pos-sib-le?” Han-nah but-ted in. “The de-ad are everyw-he-re. No
mat-ter whe-re you go, they will find you even-tu-al-ly."
"But the-ir num-bers are dwind-ling too,” Ste-ven exp-la-ined. “The-ir bo-di-es rot. Ti-me ta-kes its
due. We ha-ve only to last a co-up-le of ye-ars per-haps be-fo-re we may out-num-ber them on-ce
mo-re. Then we can truly re-ta-ke the world as our own, as it was me-ant to be."
"How can you know the de-ad are dying? Ha-ve you dis-co-ve-red what bro-ught them to li-fe to
be-gin with?” Han-nah ar-gu-ed.
"Our crew may be ma-de of re-fu-ge-es, Han-nah, but so-me are rat-her ext-ra-or-di-nary pe-op-le.
We ha-ve two me-di-cal doc-tors on this ship and one re-al sci-en-tist who've be-en stud-ying the
pla-gue of the de-ad sin-ce the mo-ment they ca-me on-bo-ard. We still don't know the na-tu-re of the
for-ce or wha-te-ver it is which re-ani-ma-tes the tis-su-es of tho-se who die but we do know that it
do-es not stop the de-cay of the-ir flesh, it me-rely slows it. So in ti-me, na-tu-re it-self will dest-roy the
ranks of the de-ad for us.” Ste-ven chan-ged the su-bj-ect, “but eno-ugh of this. I want to know abo-ut
you two. Who are you? What did you do be-fo-re the de-ad wal-ked?"
"Do you re-al-ly want to know?” Scott as-ked, sud-denly for-get-ting abo-ut the fo-od. Ste-ven
nod-ded.
"I was a pro-fes-si-onal kil-ler.” The tab-le fell si-lent at Scott's disc-lo-su-re. “I kil-led an-yo-ne for
the right pri-ce. I wor-ked for the go-vern-ment when I star-ted out, then went fre-elan-ce. I co-uldn't
gu-ess at how many pe-op-le I put bul-lets in be-fo-re the CIA ca-ught me. When the pla-gue star-ted, I

was rot-ting away in a fe-de-ral pri-son cell and that's whe-re the de-ad fo-und me, alo-ne, unar-med,
and loc-ked up be-hind bars. Ob-vi-o-usly, they didn't kill me. May-be I was so star-ved by then I
didn't ha-ve eno-ugh me-at on my bo-nes to be worth the-ir tro-ub-le, who knows, so they me-rely
to-ok me to a new kind of pri-son that they had cre-ated. It was cal-led a “bre-eding cen-ter". It was a
pla-ce whe-re they her-ded us to-get-her li-ke cat-tle and bre-ed us for fo-od."
Hannah's mo-uth still hung open from Scott's an-no-un-ce-ment of his old job and Ste-ven ap-pe-ared
bot-he-red by it as well, tho-ugh not as much as he was by the con-cept of the “bre-eding cen-ter".
"Well,” Ste-ven ven-tu-red, “I don't sup-po-se it mat-ters now what you did in tho-se days. You're
one of us now and I ho-pe you will ma-ke the most of this fresh start.” Ste-ven tur-ned his body in his
cha-ir to ad-dress Han-nah. “And what of you?” he as-ked her.
"I...” Han-nah be-gan and her vo-ice crac-ked, “I was a mot-her."

21

As the days past abo-ard The Qu-e-en, Han-nah fo-und work in the ship's day-ca-re. The-re we-re a
co-up-le of in-fants as well as ne-arly a do-zen child-ren that the ship had pic-ked up over the last few
months who eit-her had no pa-rents at all or who's pa-rents held jobs abo-ard the ship which
oc-cu-pi-ed much of the-ir ti-me. The day-ca-re ser-ved the ne-eds of tho-se child-ren and Han-nah
fo-und hap-pi-ness in her work with the kids. Jes-si-ca, a yo-ung wo-man ba-rely out of her te-ens was
the so-le ot-her adult wor-ker, and whi-le Han-nah li-ked her as a per-son, Han-nah didn't know how
Jes-si-ca had hand-led the child-ren by her-self be-fo-re she had co-me along. Jes-si-ca was a hard
wor-ker but she lac-ked the emo-ti-onal con-nec-ti-on with her wards that Han-nah de-ve-lo-ped
ins-tantly. Jes-si-ca, wit-ho-ut re-sent-ment, let Han-nah le-ad in how the child-ren we-re hand-led.
Things chan-ged a gre-at de-al as the child-ren to-ok to Han-nah's new les-sons in crafts and
edu-ca-ti-onal pro-j-ects with ze-al. Han-nah, des-pi-te her-self, be-gan to let go of her past and
emb-ra-ce her fu-tu-re. The me-mo-ri-es of Ri-ley and Bran-don wo-uld al-ways be with her but she felt
ho-pe swel-ling in her aga-in. The-se child-ren ne-eded her and the-re was so much she co-uld of-fer
them be-yond just ke-eping them busy and out of the way.
Scott, on the ot-her hand, was as-sig-ned to the ne-arly dep-le-ted gro-up of the Qu-e-en's ra-iders
and de-fen-ders. He wor-ked clo-sely with O'Ne-il whom he grew to ha-te mo-re and mo-re with each
pas-sing day. O'Ne-il to-ok a mo-re mi-li-tary ap-pro-ach to or-ga-ni-za-ti-on and tra-ining whe-re as
Scott ta-ught the man the “dirty” tricks he tho-ught they ne-eded to know to stay ali-ve in the new world
of the de-ad, dis-cip-li-ne be dam-ned. It wasn't long un-til Scott met Lu-ke thro-ugh his work with
O'Ne-il. The ec-cent-ric ge-ni-us and the oc-ca-si-onal-ly psycho-tic for-mer hit-man be-ca-me fast
fri-ends. They'd at-ten-ded so-me of the sa-me scho-ols in the old world and both had do-ne work for
the go-vern-ments on black-op pro-j-ects tho-ugh Lu-ke's in-vol-ve-ment was pu-rely from a re-se-arch
and de-ve-lop-ment stand po-int. Scott wasn't anyw-he-re ne-ar Lu-ke's le-vel, but he was sharp and a
fast eno-ugh le-ar-ner to ke-ep up with Lu-ke when he dro-ned on abo-ut his the-ori-es of this and that.
As the sun sank be-ne-ath the wa-ves, Scott and Lu-ke re-la-xed atop the hig-hest po-int of The
Qu-e-en abo-ve the com-mand cen-ter in matc-hing lawn cha-irs. Scott sip-ped at the glass in his hand
ad-mi-ring the po-tency of the drink Lu-ke had whip-ped up for them this eve-ning. It had the punch of
whis-key wit-ho-ut the burn.
"What was it li-ke?” Lu-ke in-qu-ired.
"What?"
"To kill pe-op-le for mo-ney, man. How did you co-pe with it?"
"To be ho-nest, I just ne-ver tho-ught abo-ut it. A job's a job, ya know? Be-si-des it's not that much
dif-fe-rent than things are to-day. Every-body has had to kill so-me-body to stay ali-ve and ke-ep
bre-at-hing; whet-her it was by a bul-let thro-ugh the bra-in or watc-hing so-me-one you ca-re abo-ut
throw away the-ir li-fe so that you co-uld get away."
Luke le-aned for-ward and sat up on his cha-ir. “So what do you think abo-ut Cap-ta-in Ste-ven's

new plan?"
"I don't think it mat-ters, Lu-ke. We're all li-ving on bor-ro-wed ti-me. Whet-her we die out he-re on
the wa-ves or set-tle down and wa-it for the de-ad to co-me to us, they will get us even-tu-al-ly. We lost
the war the mo-ment they star-ted thin-king li-ke we do.” Scott sat up too lo-oking over the ed-ge of the
ra-iling at the wa-ter be-low. “You're the re-si-dent ge-ni-us. You tell me, ha-ve you ever fi-gu-red out
what bro-ught the de-ad back to li-fe?"
Luke shrug-ged. “Not re-al-ly. It su-re wasn't ra-di-ati-on or a vi-rus as we know them li-ke
so-met-hing out of tho-se old B mo-vi-es abo-ut the wal-king de-ad tho-ugh the-ir bi-tes are
in-fec-ti-o-us just li-ke in tho-se films. Not-hing abo-ut the de-ad ma-kes sen-se. They sho-uldn't be
ab-le to mo-ve let alo-ne re-ason li-ke they do. So-me-ti-mes a body will re-ani-ma-te with par-ti-al
me-mo-ri-es of its li-fe be-fo-re de-ath and ot-her ti-mes it's li-ke the-re's a who-le new en-tity in the
host body. They're all hungry for us tho-ugh me-mo-ri-es or not. It do-esn't mat-ter if they know yo-ur
na-me and who you are be-ca-use they'll eat you any-way."
"So whe-re do-es that le-ave you sin-ce sci-en-ce has fa-iled and can't exp-la-in it?"
Luke's fa-ce flus-hed. “Sci-en-ce hasn't fa-iled, Scott. Just be-ca-use I don't ha-ve an ans-wer to-day
do-esn't me-an the-re isn't a pla-usib-le, qu-an-ti-fi-ab-le exp-la-na-ti-on to all this. It just me-ans I
ha-ven't fo-und it yet. I don't be-li-eve in spi-rits or judg-ment day. The-re is a sa-ne re-ason for the
pla-gue and I will find it one day. I'm su-re."
"And you'll just ke-ep se-arc-hing for it, huh?"
"Damn right I will,” Lu-ke la-ug-hed. “As long as I ha-ve to."

22

Steven bol-ted on-to the brid-ge of the ship. The who-le area was a mass of ac-ti-vity. His crew
dar-ted abo-ut do-ub-le-chec-king the da-ta they'd just got-ten. O'Ne-il spot-ted the Cap-ta-in and
ma-de his way to Ste-ven. “It's true then?” Ste-ven de-man-ded as O'Ne-il ap-pro-ac-hed him.
"I'm af-ra-id so, sir,” O'Ne-il sa-id grimly. “The-re are fi-ve ves-sels clo-sing in on our cur-rent
lo-ca-ti-on as if trying to sur-ro-und us."
"Jesus,” Ste-ven flip-ped thro-ugh the stack of re-ports O'Ne-il han-ded him scan-ning the-ir
con-tents. “Lo-ok at the si-ze of them."
O'Neil nod-ded in ag-re-ement. “So-me of them are mi-li-tary in na-tu-re for su-re. This one has to
be,” O'Ne-il po-in-ted at a blip on a ne-arby ra-dar scre-en. “We think it's an airc-raft car-ri-er and the
two flan-king it from the east and west are most li-kely dest-ro-yers. It lo-oks li-ke they've fi-nal-ly got
us whe-re they want us."
"Nonsense, Mr. O'Ne-il,” Ste-ven cor-rec-ted him. “We've be-en in tight spots be-fo-re. We'll get
thro-ugh this one too.” Ste-ven we-ig-hed the-ir op-ti-ons in his he-ad be-fo-re he con-ti-nu-ed. “Can
we out ma-ne-uver them and ma-ke a run for it?"
"We can try. I don't think the lar-gest one can match our spe-ed but I don't know anyt-hing abo-ut the
two smal-lest ones. Ho-we-ver if the two flan-king the lar-ge ship are dest-ro-yers, they'll be ab-le
over-ta-ke us even at our top spe-ed."
"Change co-ur-se and burn the en-gi-nes at the-ir ma-xi-mum.” Ste-ven or-de-red. “And in the
me-an-ti-me, so-und the alarm. I want to be re-ady if we do ha-ve a fight on our hands."
"Aye, sir,” O'Ne-il rep-li-ed and punc-hed a but-ton which sat si-rens squ-e-aling thro-ug-ho-ut The
Qu-e-en.
A sta-te of pa-nic bro-ke out on the ship. The Qu-e-en's ra-iders who we-re al-so its de-fen-ders
rus-hed to the-ir bat-tle sta-ti-ons, Scott among them. Pe-op-le and fa-mi-li-es ran for the-ir qu-ar-ters
loc-king the he-avy do-ors of the-ir ro-oms aga-inst the gro-wing ter-ror out-si-de. The day-ca-re was
in cha-os. Han-nah and Jes-si-ca tri-ed to calm the child-ren and as-su-re them everyt-hing wo-uld be
fi-ne whi-le at the sa-me ti-me at-temp-ting to de-al with frigh-te-ned pa-rents who sho-wed up
de-man-ding the-ir child-ren. Han-nah had left her .30-.06 in her qu-ar-ters but she car-ri-ed a

con-ce-aled .38 re-vol-ver she'd lo-oted from the ship's ar-mory thanks to Scott in the poc-ket of her
jac-ket. We-apons we-ren't per-mit-ted in the day-ca-re cen-ter but right now Han-nah was damn glad
she'd be-en bre-aking the ru-les. She'd watc-hed her own child die help-les-sly and swo-re in-wardly
that the-se child-ren un-der her ca-re wo-uld not sha-re his fa-te.
Dr. Gal-len-ger pre-pa-red the sick-bay for the wo-un-ded to start ar-ri-ving in ca-se the co-ming
bat-tle co-uldn't be avo-ided. Lu-ke dar-ted thro-ugh the cor-ri-dors of The Qu-e-en at-temp-ting to
re-ach the ma-in decks with a short, black, me-tal tu-be grip-ped tightly in his arms.
O'Neil and Cap-ta-in Ste-ven watc-hed from the brid-ge as the dest-ro-yers cros-sed the ho-ri-zon
and ca-me in-to vi-ew. The oce-an it-self se-emed to sha-ke as the dest-ro-yer co-ming in from the east
fi-red its ma-in guns at The Qu-e-en.

23

The shot from the enemy ship im-pac-ted with the wa-ter off the Qu-e-en's port si-de sen-ding
wa-ves cras-hing aga-inst the si-de of ship tho-ugh it didn't stri-ke so clo-se as to do ac-tu-al da-ma-ge.
The Qu-e-en lac-ked any sort of truly long-ran-ge we-apon to re-turn fi-re ex-cept for her jury-rig-ged
tor-pe-do la-unc-hers which at the mo-ment we-re fa-cing away from the clo-sing enemy ves-sels.
Cap-ta-in Ste-ven knew he had to do so-met-hing. The dest-ro-yers we-re too fast to out-run and at
pre-sent, The Qu-e-en was a sit-ting tar-get for the-ir guns even pus-hing her be-yond the-ir li-mits of
en-du-ran-ce. Clo-sing with the two enemy ships for di-rect com-bat was a ne-ar su-ici-dal op-ti-on but
it was al-so the only one left ava-ilab-le to him if the-re was to be any ho-pe of The Qu-e-en's sur-vi-val.
"Bring us abo-ut!” he sho-uted. “Get us bet-we-en them. May-be they aren't stu-pid eno-ugh to ta-ke
the chan-ce of hit-ting each ot-her with the-ir ma-in guns!” Ste-ven tur-ned to O'Ne-il. “As so-on as you
get a shot with one of the la-unc-hers, ta-ke it!"
Scott and The Qu-e-en's de-fen-ders sto-od help-les-sly at the-ir mac-hi-ne-gun emp-la-ce-ments as
The Qu-e-en ve-ered to en-ga-ge the enemy. The dest-ro-yers we-re still not in ran-ge of The Qu-e-en's
he-avi-est guns but from the lo-oks of things, they wo-uld be so-on. Scott re-adi-ed the mas-si-ve
we-apon in front of him, sho-ving a belt of am-mo in-to its si-de, and be-gan to pick a tar-get for when
the ti-me ca-me.
"Fire one!” O'Ne-il or-de-red. A tor-pe-do fla-red to li-fe, drop-ping in-to the wa-ter. It ra-ced
to-wards the le-ad dest-ro-yer as O'Ne-il or-de-red the re-ma-ining tor-pe-do la-unc-hed in its wa-ke.
Mo-ments la-ter, the tor-pe-do struck the dest-ro-yer just be-low the wa-ter li-ne with the so-und of
shred-ding me-tal sen-ding wa-ves of fi-re and wa-ter up on-to the mi-li-tary ves-sel's decks. The
se-cond tor-pe-do got lucky. The-re was no bet-ter term for what hap-pe-ned. Wha-te-ver it col-li-ded
with in the dest-ro-yer did far mo-re da-ma-ge tur-ning the ship in-to a bla-zing wreck drif-ting on the
oce-an as se-con-dary exp-lo-si-ons to-re the ves-sel apart.
Cheers went up on the decks of The Qu-e-en and on the brid-ge ali-ke as The Qu-e-en shif-ted
co-ur-se aga-in slightly ang-ling to-wards the re-ma-ining enemy ship. The se-cond dest-ro-yer's guns
fi-red. This ti-me The Qu-e-en was hit de-ad on. The blast rip-ped a ho-le in her si-de kil-ling many of
her de-fen-ders ins-tantly and ca-using da-ma-ge to The Qu-e-en in-ter-nal-ly as well.
"Damage re-port!” Ste-ven snap-ped, kno-wing The Qu-e-en wo-uld be fa-cing a new prob-lem now
and not just the da-ma-ge to the ship. Tho-se kil-led by the blast or mor-tal-ly wo-un-ded wo-uld so-on
re-ani-ma-te, gi-ving the de-ad sol-di-ers on The Qu-e-en as su-rely as if she had be-en bo-ar-ded. “No
da-ma-ge to the en-gi-nes!” O'Ne-il re-por-ted. “The hull bre-ach is be-ing con-ta-ined. We're not
ta-king on wa-ter!"
Luke re-ac-hed the deck of The Qu-e-en and po-si-ti-oned him-self to get a shot at the enemy ship.
He ex-ten-ded the black, me-tal tu-be li-ke de-vi-ce he was car-rying and slas-hed out a sec-ti-on of
po-wer cab-les on the wall ne-ar him ho-oking the we-apon in-to it. He knew what he was abo-ut to do
was go-ing to li-te-ral-ly crip-ple The Qu-e-en in so-me res-pects and he cer-ta-inly wo-uldn't sur-vi-ve
this co-ur-se of ac-ti-on but the way things we-re go-ing it was worth the risk. With the po-wer ho-oked

up to the in-ven-ti-on he'd spent the last few months re-fi-ning in his free ti-me he aimed at the tu-be at
the dest-ro-yer. As he pul-led the trig-ger a bunch of things hap-pe-ned at the sa-me ti-me; a be-am of
energy le-apt from his we-apon stri-king the dest-ro-yer's am-mo sto-ra-ge com-part-ment whe-re the
shells of the ship's ma-in guns we-re kept. The energy mel-ted thro-ugh the dest-ro-yer's pro-tec-ti-ve
ar-mor as if it we-ren't the-re and re-du-ced the enemy ship to a ball of fla-mes which lit up the sea even
un-der the mid-day rays of the sun. Lu-ke, his we-apon, and a lar-ge chunk of The Qu-e-en aro-und
whe-re he sto-od we-re va-po-ri-zed from the energy we-apon's back-wash. Pe-op-le scre-amed both
in-si-de and on the deck of The Qu-e-en as her en-gi-nes blew from the stra-in the we-apon had put on
her.
"What in the Hell was that?” Ste-ven cri-ed.
"I don't know!” O'Ne-il yel-led back over the cha-os on the brid-ge. “We've lost ma-in po-wer and
the en-gi-nes are burnt out. Po-wer is out everyw-he-re on the ship. The bac-kup ge-ne-ra-tors are
ke-eping the in-ter-nal comm. system and the emer-gency lights wor-king but that's abo-ut it. We're
de-ad in the wa-ter, sir!"
"Shit!” Ste-ven whir-led abo-ut to the of-fi-cer at the ra-dar sta-ti-on. “What abo-ut the ot-her three
de-ad ships?"
"I ... I don't know sir,” the of-fi-cer stam-me-red. “It lo-oked as if the big one was ke-eping back,
may-be even chan-ging co-ur-se away from us be-fo-re the scre-en went de-ad. The two smal-ler ones
we-re still on an in-ter-cept he-ading. They sho-uld be on us in the next few mi-nu-tes, tops."
"Somebody tell Lu-ke, I want tho-se fuc-king en-gi-nes back on-li-ne now!” Ste-ven ra-ged.

24

Dr. Gal-len-ger got to his fe-et, or at le-ast tri-ed to. As he at-temp-ted to stand up the frac-tu-red
bo-ne of his left leg to-re thro-ugh his flesh, buck-ling un-der his we-ight, and he hit the flo-or hard. He
felt no pa-in as he exa-mi-ned the rest of his body and saw the pi-ece of shrap-nel prot-ru-ding from the
right si-de of his chest. He had to get up. He co-uld sen-se that his breth-ren wo-uld be he-re so-on and
he was hungry, hung-ri-er than he'd ever be-en. He de-emed the shrap-nel ir-re-le-vant and snap-ped his
bro-ken leg back in-to pla-ce. He used the ma-te-ri-als scat-te-red abo-ut the de-mo-lis-hed sick-bay
to fas-hi-on a splint for it. Then he did get up. He hob-bled ac-ross the ro-om to check on Nur-se Jones
and fo-und her lying in a po-ol of blo-od. Til-ting his he-ad li-ke an ani-mal wo-uld as he ob-ser-ved her,
he watc-hed her newly ope-ned eyes flut-ter, dar-ting this way and that, as she re-ali-zed she co-uldn't
mo-ve. A hu-ge me-di-cal ca-bi-net lay on top of her bro-ken body. Ap-pa-rently her neck had be-en
snap-ped as it had fal-len on her and bas-hed her in-to the flo-or. Ta-king pity on her, he pic-ked up a
pi-ece of deb-ris and smas-hed in her skull. “What po-int was the-re in even un-li-fe if it bro-ught you
not-hing but pa-in?” he mu-sed. Gal-len-ger fo-und the re-ma-ins of his desk and the .45 he'd kept in its
dra-wer. Fe-eling su-itab-le ar-med he left the sick-bay. So-on he wo-uld tas-te flesh for the first ti-me.
Everyone on The Qu-e-en had be-en tos-sed abo-ut as the dest-ro-yer's shell had ham-me-red in-to
its hull. Han-nah was sent spraw-ling and struck her he-ad aga-inst one of the child-ren's loc-kers in the
day-ca-re cen-ter. She awo-ke with blo-od in her eyes and her skull po-un-ding. As her vi-si-on
fo-cu-sed, she be-ca-me awa-re that she was still ali-ve. She hurt too much to be de-ad. Jes-si-ca, her
fel-low ca-re-ta-ker of the child-ren, must ha-ve ta-ken them and fled for so-mew-he-re sa-fer in the
ship. Han-nah felt a twin-ge of an-ger at Jes-si-ca for le-aving her for de-ad but then re-ali-zed she
wo-uld've do-ne the sa-me. It was the kids that mat-te-red, not them. Han-nah's hand dug in-si-de her
jac-ket and pro-du-ced her .38. She had no idea how the fight out-si-de was go-ing but she knew
Jes-si-ca wo-uld ne-ed help. Jes-si-ca, li-ke the old sa-ying sa-id, was not the shar-pest to-ol in the
shed. Han-nah didn't trust her to see the child-ren thro-ugh this bat-tle. Han-nah pul-led her-self up and
he-aded out of the day-ca-re, run-ning down the cor-ri-dors. “Jes-si-ca!” she scre-amed ho-ping the
wo-man was still in ears-hot.
Hannah ro-un-ded the cor-ner of the pas-sa-ge-way co-ming fa-ce to fa-ce with a de-ad man

drag-ging his in-si-des be-hind him on the flo-or. He lun-ged at her, grun-ting. She nar-rowly
si-des-tep-ped his at-tack and sho-ved him as he went by her. He top-pled to the deck and twis-ted
abo-ut, al-re-ady trying to get up and co-me af-ter her aga-in. She pop-ped off three ro-unds in-to his
fo-re-he-ad spra-ying his bra-ins out the back of his he-ad on-to the wall. Han-nah sto-od a mo-ment,
her bre-ath co-ming in rag-ged gasps, as she tri-ed to col-lect her-self and calm down. She co-uld he-ar
The Qu-e-en's mac-hi-ne guns chat-te-ring abo-ve so she knew the fight hadn't be-en lost yet. She to-ok
a de-ep bre-ath cal-ming her fran-tic bre-at-hing and set out in se-arch of Jes-si-ca tho-ugh much mo-re
ca-uti-o-usly.
The two yachts had swept in qu-ickly ma-na-ging to sur-vi-ve and mostly eva-de the fi-re from The
Qu-e-en's de-fen-ders as they clo-sed with her. Both of them ca-me up along her port si-de, flo-ating
clo-se eno-ugh for the de-ad to at-tempt to sca-le The Qu-e-en's hull as they tra-ded small arms fi-re
with tho-se left ali-ve on her decks. The Qu-e-en's gun emp-la-ce-ments we-re use-less with the yachts
so clo-se. They co-uldn't be ang-led down-ward to en-ga-ge the de-ad so Scott had aban-do-ned his
post spra-ying the clim-bing de-ad men and wo-men with AK-47 ins-te-ad. One, a mid-dle-aged man
co-ve-red in burns, lost his hold and plum-me-ted in-to the wa-ter as Scott's ro-unds pep-pe-red the
man's back. A cre-atu-re ha-uled it-self on-to The Qu-e-en's deck be-si-de Scott as Jim's
twel-ve-ga-uge thun-de-red and sent it ca-re-ening over the si-de of the ship. Scott mo-ti-oned his
thanks to Jim then re-tur-ned his at-ten-ti-on to the de-ad as he lo-aded a fresh clip in-to his we-apon.

25

The strug-gle for cont-rol of The Qu-e-en ra-ged on. Her en-ti-re ex-te-ri-or deck was a war zo-ne
and smal-ler bat-tles fil-led her cor-ri-dors. Cap-ta-in Ste-ven to-ok it all in from his van-ta-ge po-int on
the brid-ge. If the-re was ho-pe left of ma-king it out of this conf-ron-ta-ti-on, it was fa-ding qu-ickly.
“Sir,” O'Ne-il sa-id trying to draw the Cap-ta-in's at-ten-ti-on away from the car-na-ge be-low them.
“Cap-ta-in, we can't hold her. The Qu-e-en is lost. We ne-ed to gi-ve the or-der to aban-don ship."
O'Neil's words jar-red the Cap-ta-in out his own tho-ughts. Aban-don The Qu-e-en? Had O'Ne-il
go-ne in-sa-ne? He tur-ned to ar-gue as the do-or to the brid-ge ope-ned and Doc Gal-len-ger ca-me
stag-ge-ring in-si-de. Be-fo-re an-yo-ne had ti-me to re-act, the go-od doc-tor's corp-se ra-ised the .45
in its blo-od-sme-ared hand. The first shot slam-med in-to Ste-ven's sho-ul-der. The se-cond and third
shots bu-ri-ed them-sel-ves in his chest knoc-king him back to sli-de down the brid-ge's wall in-to a
he-ap on the flo-or. Ben-son, the com-mu-ni-ca-ti-ons of-fi-cer, to-ok a ro-und to his thro-at be-fo-re
O'Ne-il ma-na-ged to draw his own si-de-arm and send the doc-tor to the hell he'd craw-led out of with
a ca-re-ful-ly aimed shot to his fa-ce. O'Ne-il rus-hed to Ste-ven's si-de, squ-at-ting be-si-de him.
Ste-ven co-ug-hed blo-od up on-to his lips as he spo-ke. “Le-ave me,” he or-de-red. “I'm sta-ying with
The Qu-e-en."
The ot-her com-mand per-so-nal we-re fle-e-ing the brid-ge as O'Ne-il sto-od up. Most of The
Qu-e-en's li-fe-bo-ats we-re go-ne. Fin-ding a way off the ship was go-ing to be dif-fi-cult but not as
dif-fi-cult as sur-vi-ving af-ter-wards. The de-ad wo-uld be wa-iting.
Scott and Jim we-re ho-led up in a cor-ner of the Qu-e-en's port si-de ma-in deck. They'd ta-ken
shel-ter be-hind one of The Qu-e-en's lar-ge, me-tal co-oling pi-pes and we-re run-ning out of am-mo
fast. “Jim, you're a go-od man,” Scott sa-id, “but how wo-uld you fe-el abo-ut le-aving all this and not
lo-oking back?"
Jim co-uld see the gle-am of an idea in Scott's eyes. “I rec-kon,” he ans-we-red, “What's got-ta be is
got-ta be. I'm gu-es-sin’ you ha-ve so-met-hing in mind to sa-ve our as-ses."
Scott grin-ned. “You co-uld say that. Co-me on!” Scott yel-led char-ging ac-ross the deck thro-ugh
the ranks of the de-ad and the few hu-mans left ali-ve ali-ke. Scott re-ac-hed the si-de of The Qu-e-en's
deck and didn't stop. He hur-led him-self over the si-de lan-ding on the yacht be-low to the ut-ter
be-wil-der-ment of the fi-ve corp-ses still abo-ard it. He ho-sed them with his AK-47 on full auto
cut-ting them whe-re they sto-od.

Jim fol-lo-wed Scott but skid-ded to a halt at the ra-iling on the si-de of The Qu-e-en's deck. “Crazy
mot-her fuc-ker!” he sho-uted and to-ok the le-ap over to the Yacht on the wa-ves be-low. He lan-ded
with the so-und of snap-ping bo-nes.
O'Neil dis-patc-hed a corp-se bloc-king his way in the cor-ri-dor. He fi-gu-red he had three ro-unds
left in his pis-tol if he'd co-un-ted his shots right. It was be-gin-ning to sink in that was ro-yal-ly
scre-wed. He jer-ked open the hatch to the ex-te-ri-or deck as so-me-one cal-led his na-me. Han-nah
ca-me run-ning up to him. She threw her-self in-to him wrap-ping her arms aro-und his body. He
hug-ged her back tightly then for-ced him-self to push her away des-pi-te how much he wan-ted to hold
on-to to her fo-re-ver. He knew she didn't fe-el the sa-me abo-ut him; they ba-rely knew each ot-her yet
she'd won him over the night he'd met her on the docks gi-ving him mo-re pur-po-se to his li-fe than
an-yo-ne or anyt-hing ever had. “The Cap-ta-in's de-ad,” he in-for-med her. “We've got get off the ship
if we want to stay ali-ve."
A de-ad wo-man ca-me dar-ting to-wards them thro-ugh the open hatch-way, a ra-ised pi-ece of
glass held li-ke a kni-fe in her rot-ting hand. O'Ne-il tri-ed to get a shot but Han-nah was fas-ter. She
emp-ti-ed the re-ma-ining ro-unds in her .38 in-to the wo-man's neck and fa-ce. O'Ne-il mo-ved to
le-ad them out-si-de on-to the deck but Han-nah grab-bed his arm and held him back. “Wa-it! What's
that no-ise?"
"Oh God no,” O'Ne-il stuck his he-ad out-si-de and lo-oked up at the sky. “It can't be.” Ho-we-ver,
is was. An F-16 figh-ter ro-ared over The Qu-e-en. Its wings we-re wobbly and who-ever was flying it
was cer-ta-inly not an ex-pe-ri-en-ced pi-lot. O'Ne-il and Han-nah step-ped out-si-de to watch as the
jet tur-ned and stre-aked back at The Qu-e-en on a col-li-si-on co-ur-se.
"Would this be a bad ti-me to tell you that I lo-ve you?” O'Ne-il as-ked as they watc-hed the pla-ne
ra-cing clo-ser.
"No, I don't sup-po-se it wo-uld,” Han-nah tri-ed to smi-le we-akly as she to-ok his hand in hers.

26

Scott co-uld still re-mem-ber the de-ath thro-es of The Qu-e-en af-ter the jet had plo-wed in-to her.
The way the fla-mes had dan-ced over her fra-me as she sank in-to the wa-ves. The ima-ge ha-un-ted
his dre-ams at night. He re-mem-be-red Jim as well. The black so-ut-her-ner had be-en as to-ugh as
they ca-me but with two badly bro-ken legs and the me-ager amo-unt of worm-infes-ted fo-od they'd
fo-und on the yacht, Scott had no cho-ice but kill him. Jim had be-en ali-ve when Scott had shot him in
the sto-mach with his own shot-gun and dum-ped him over-bo-ard be-fo-re he co-uld re-ani-ma-te and
be-co-me one of the de-ad.
Only a we-ek had pas-sed sin-ce the-ir flight from The Qu-e-en, but it felt li-ke months to Scott. He
lay stretc-hed out on the top of the yacht's ca-bin and sta-red up at the stars. The yacht's en-gi-nes
we-re shot and he was thirsty. Swe-at glis-te-ned on his ba-re chest in spi-te of the co-ol-ness of the
night air. He knew he was sick whet-her it was from the rot-ting fo-od he had be-en eating or just the
fact that his body had fi-nal-ly suf-fe-red all it co-uld ta-ke and gi-ven out. If he co-uld ma-ke it to land,
he might be ab-le to pull thro-ugh. Pro-per fo-od, so-me me-di-ci-ne, so-me rest, and he might be his
old self but tho-se things he ne-eded se-emed li-ke pi-pe dre-ams in the fa-ce of what the world had
be-co-me. He felt his eyes clo-se then for-ced them open to glan-ce at the shot-gun prop-ped up on the
deck ne-ar him. Scott star-ted to con-si-der all his op-ti-ons aga-in as a gent-le ra-in be-gan to fall and
the he-avens wept.

THE END

III - Flashes of Death

1 - Divine Origins

On Earth, may-be things wo-uld ha-ve be-en dif-fe-rent. Per-haps the go-vern-ment's ta-me
“Pre-Cogs” wo-uld ha-ve se-en the who-le thing co-ming and put a stop to it. At the very le-ast, shock
tro-ops from the “aut-ho-rity” wo-uld ha-ve shown up to help con-ta-in the mess. But out he-re, abo-ard
Ga-reth, the-re had be-en only the sta-ti-on's crew to hand-le things.
Ben slum-ped aga-inst the wall of the com-mu-ni-ca-ti-ons ro-om sta-ring blankly at the use-less
con-so-les sur-ro-un-ding him. The dim, red lights flic-ked cas-ting eerie sha-dows out-si-de the
do-or-way, down the cor-ri-dors that led to-wards both en-gi-ne-ering and the re-se-arch labs. The
whi-ning, spur-ting no-ise of the li-fe-sup-port systems as they fo-ught to stay ac-ti-ve des-pi-te the
po-wer fluc-tu-ati-ons re-ver-be-ra-ted thro-ugh the air. Ot-her-wi-se the sta-ti-on was si-lent ex-cept
for the so-und of his la-bo-red bre-at-hing.
His tremb-ling hand lif-ted an il-le-gal ci-ga-ret-te to his lips as he to-ok a hit off it. “Smo-kes”
we-ren't al-lo-wed in spa-ce even when the sta-ti-on's po-wer co-re wasn't on the ver-ge of imp-lo-ding
upon it-self. Whet-her the po-wer co-re did col-lap-se or the li-fe sup-port systems fi-nal-ly ga-ve out,
eit-her way, he was de-ad and he knew it. Just now, he wasn't too con-cer-ned with sta-ti-on
re-gu-la-ti-ons. He didn't gi-ve a crap. It wasn't as if the-re was an-yo-ne el-se left on bo-ard to re-port
him smo-king an-y-way.
He was all that re-ma-ined of the Ga-reth sta-ti-on's over two hund-red mem-ber staff and crew. No
one had bot-he-red to try to exp-la-in to him what was hap-pe-ning. As a 2nd rank tech-ni-ci-an, no-ne
of it had be-en his prob-lem to de-al with out-si-de cle-aning up the mess and trying to ke-ep the
sta-ti-on's systems func-ti-onal du-ring the cri-sis. He'd spent the last thirty six ho-urs of his li-fe run-ning
from one sec-ti-on of the sta-ti-on to anot-her, rep-la-cing po-wer co-ils and ma-king re-pa-irs, just
trying to hold things to-get-her. He was ex-ha-us-ted and on the ver-ge of ta-king a walk to the ne-arest
we-apons loc-ker and blo-wing his own bra-ins out. He tho-ught that might be the best co-ur-se of
ac-ti-on gi-ven what was go-ing on but just didn't ha-ve the ner-ve in-si-de him to do it. He'd se-en what
was hap-pe-ning and it sca-red the shit out of him. So-oner or la-ter, it was bo-und to hap-pen to him
too. The who-le sta-ti-on was con-ta-mi-na-ted. He ima-gi-ned what it wo-uld fe-el li-ke when his own
skin be-gan to melt away and his bo-nes bend and stretch, res-ha-ping them-sel-ves in-to a new form
that was not-hing ne-ar hu-man as he tran-s-for-med.
He'd be-en on the brid-ge when se-cu-rity chi-ef Tan-kard had chan-ged. He re-mem-be-red the way
the man how-led, his fin-gers trying to catch and hold the flesh that ran from his fa-ce in tiny ri-vers li-ke
hot wax. He'd se-en the man's te-eth for-ced from his mo-uth as jag-ged, sharp fangs grew in rows to
rep-la-ce them and drop-lets of blo-od splat-te-red un-to the me-tal flo-oring be-ne-ath him. Then it had
me-rely be-en over as Tan-kard sto-od up re-born. His for-ked ton-gue dar-ting in and out of what
pas-sed for his new mo-uth and his red glo-wing eyes scan-ned the ro-om and tho-se aro-und him. No
one had tri-ed to stop him as Tan-kard had fle-xed his new ske-le-tal wings which now prot-ru-ded from
his back and his claws dug thro-ugh the outer bulk-he-ad ope-ning a way in-to the vo-id. Had Ben not
had eno-ugh luck to be ne-ar to the brid-ge's exit, he too wo-uld ha-ve be-en swept out-si-de in-to the
va-cu-um. The ima-ge of Of-fi-cer Da-vis trying to cling to the brid-ge's ra-iling be-fo-re her grip
slip-ped, with the so-und of bre-aking fin-gers, and she fol-lo-wed Tan-kard in-to the drkness
scre-aming si-lently still bur-ned in his mind's eye.
Ben shi-ve-red and drop-ped his half-fi-nis-hed ci-ga-ret-te, not even bot-he-ring to grind it out. The
mo-re he tho-ught abo-ut it, the mo-re he knew that the stran-ge bio-energy re-le-ased by the-se
trans-for-ma-ti-ons was what had dis-rup-ted the fi-nely tu-ned ba-lan-ce of the po-wer co-re's
re-ac-ti-ons.
Until now, Ben had ne-ver qu-es-ti-oned what type of re-se-arch was go-ing on on-bo-ard the
Ga-reth sta-ti-on. It's hadn't be-en his job. Now that qu-es-ti-on ha-un-ted him tho-ugh. What lit-tle he
had he-ard se-cond hand from ot-her mem-bers of the staff hin-ted at the fact that the re-se-arch staff
had be-en do-ing so-me kind of ge-ne-tic tin-ke-ring in ho-pes of de-ter-mi-ning the true ori-gins of
hu-ma-nity to ga-in a bet-ter un-ders-tan-ding how our ra-ce wo-uld evol-ve in the eons to co-me.

He re-ac-hed up pla-cing a hand on a ne-arby con-so-le and used it to pull him-self to his fe-et.
The-re was no way to re-ach Earth. The sta-ti-on was lit-te-red with hull bre-ac-hes from whe-re the
“re-born” had fled its con-fi-nes and emer-gency bulk-he-ads se-aled off all the pos-sib-le ro-utes to the
sta-ti-on's doc-king area and the ships kept the-re. The-re was al-so no whe-re ne-ar eno-ugh po-wer
left in the uns-tab-le co-re to open the small worm-ho-le ne-eded to send a “re-al” ti-me, co-he-rent
dist-ress call back ho-me. So, de-ter-mi-ned at le-ast to know why he was go-ing to die, he set out
stag-ge-ring to-wards the ma-in labs.
Doctor Jan-sen had be-en the pro-j-ect di-rec-tor so it was with his works-ta-ti-on that Ben star-ted
his se-arch for ans-wers. It wasn't func-ti-onal now of co-ur-se, so many things abo-ard Ga-reth we-re
not, but af-ter so-me mi-nor tin-ke-ring, he ma-na-ged to res-to-re just eno-ugh po-wer to bring the
ter-mi-nal on-li-ne. The doc had be-en wor-king right up un-til his de-ath when one of his newly,
trans-for-med aides had se-en it fit to te-ar the Doc's he-ad from his sho-ul-ders and toss it asi-de in a fit
of ra-ge. Dri-ed blo-od ca-ked the ter-mi-nal's scre-en and the Doc's corp-se lay only a few fe-et from
Ben as he wor-ked and po-ured thro-ugh the Doc's open fi-les. As he re-ad, a pi-le of ci-ga-ret-te butts
grew on the flo-or ne-ar him un-til his ma-kes-hift pack was empty and lay crump-led up on the desk
be-fo-re him. As he re-ad the Doc's last entry he re-ali-zed what had hap-pe-ned abo-ard Ga-reth. He
tri-ed to stand up but his tremb-ling legs ga-ve way un-der-ne-ath him and he top-pled over. Te-ars
stre-amed from his eyes as they ran down his che-eks.
The Doc's the-ory was crazy. It re-min-ded him of his mot-her and her “old world” ways. She'd tri-ed
her best to ra-ise a son who still be-li-eved in the “Di-vi-ne” des-pi-te the tech-no-lo-gi-cal world he
grew up in whe-re sci-en-ce was the only fa-ith. It se-emed iro-nic in a way to Ben for that very
sci-en-ce had pro-ved his mot-her's be-li-ef in the fact that God and An-gels we-re re-al to be cor-rect.
The Doc had fo-und what he had be-en lo-oking for, the mis-sing link bet-we-en ape and man, the
sec-ret of that evo-lu-ti-onary qu-an-tum le-ap. He'd dis-co-ve-red what he had tho-ught to be the
blo-od of An-gels la-ying dor-mant in-si-de of man-kind. The Doc had de-sig-ned a ca-talyst to
awa-ken that spark and for-ce man in-to the next sta-ge of evo-lu-ti-on by re-ver-ting back to the
be-gin-ning of spe-ci-es. Only the Doc had be-en wrong. It had in-de-ed be-en the blo-od of An-gels
but not the kind the Doc and his staff nor Ben's mot-her had en-vi-si-oned. No, the spark was not of the
light. It was the re-si-due of the An-gels of the Mor-nings-tar who had be-en ba-nis-hed to the Earth
with him as he fell. They had ma-ted with the apes and bro-ught abo-ut a new li-fe-form cal-led “man".
All the gre-ed, lust, hat-red, and wars of his-tory we-re exp-la-ined away in the simp-le un-ders-tan-ding
of a sing-le speck of a DNA strand.
Ben re-ac-hed up to wi-pe at his te-ars and his hand ca-me away wet with oozing flesh as body was
wrac-ked with mind-bre-aking pa-in. In the si-len-ce of the Ga-reth sta-ti-on, his in-sa-ne la-ugh-ter
ec-ho-ed thro-ug-ho-ut the va-cant cor-ri-dors.

2 - Icy Roads

"The De-ad Walk". That was all pe-op-le tal-ked abo-ut any-mo-re sin-ce the first pa-per to ba-re
the he-ad-li-ne hit the stands a few we-eks back, tho-ugh no one re-al-ly knew what to say. It was a
Tu-es-day in the small North Ca-ro-li-na whe-re Jen-ni-fer wor-ked and li-ved, and she had ot-her
prob-lems. Fo-re-most on her mind was the we-at-her. She ne-eded to be at work by 7 AM to do her
mor-ning pa-per-work for the sto-re. She'd only re-cently be-en pro-mo-ted to ma-na-ger and al-ways
wor-ri-ed abo-ut ha-ving it in on ti-me to her boss at the re-gi-onal of-fi-ce. She craw-led out of bed and
ma-de her way downs-ta-irs, flic-king on the ra-dio as she went abo-ut grab-bing so-me cold pop tarts
for bre-ak-fast.
School clo-sings we-re the top news of the mor-ning. Only one scho-ol over in Bo-one so-mew-he-re
had be-en clo-sed be-ca-use of the de-ad pla-gue, the rest be-ca-use of the he-avy whi-te fla-kes that
po-ured from the he-avens out-si-de her win-dow. Jen-ni-fer was de-athly af-ra-id of dri-ving in bad
we-at-her and sat down at the kitc-hen tab-le sta-ring at the mess out-si-de. She sip-ped cold cof-fee

left over from last night and won-de-red if she sho-uld even try to ma-ke it in or call so-me-one el-se
who li-ved clo-ser. She had a gre-at staff and knew Lo-is co-uld hand-le it if she didn't show, yet she felt
she had to be the-re. She sto-od up and got her co-at off the back of the cha-ir she was sit-ting in and
shrug-ged it on-to her sho-ul-ders, he-ading out-si-de in-to the storm. The mor-ning air stung her
ex-po-sed flesh as she ra-ced over to her car and fi-red it up. She he-aded back in-to the ho-use to get
re-ady whi-le the car's he-ater wor-ked on the la-yer of ice over its win-d-s-hi-eld.
A few mi-nu-tes la-ter she slid in-to to the now warm car, a ci-ga-ret-te dang-ling from her lips, and
ca-re-ful-ly bac-ked down her dri-ve. The car slip-ped a bit at the end of the dri-ve as it lurc-hed on-to
the ma-in ro-ad but she kept it un-der cont-rol. Set-ting out a pa-in-ful-ly slow crawl, she dro-ve
to-wards town. Fe-ar of wrec-king was the only thing that kept her fo-ot off the ac-ce-le-ra-tor. As she
re-ac-hed the ma-in in-ters-ta-te bet-we-en her ho-me and the sto-re, she no-ti-ced a man wal-king
to-wards her car thro-ugh the snow as she sat at the stop sign. At first she felt sorry for the po-or man
and tho-ught of of-fe-ring him a ri-de in-to town but as he drew ne-arer she re-ali-zed the-re was
so-met-hing not right abo-ut the way he was wal-king. As he lum-be-red un-der-ne-ath the glow of the
stre-et-lights, she got a cle-ar lo-ok at him. Blo-od ca-ked the ed-ges of his lips and his fa-ce was pa-le,
enc-rus-ted with ice. His eyes we-re rol-led back in his he-ad sho-wing only whi-te. The three pi-ece
su-it he wo-re was dirty and co-ve-red in mud and so-met-hing red. Qu-ickly she hit he auto lock
but-ton se-aling the car tight as he shuf-fled still even clo-ser to her car. She lo-oked aro-und
fran-ti-cal-ly se-arc-hing for so-me el-se but the in-ters-ta-te was qu-i-et and the-re was no sign of any
ot-her car anyw-he-re. “Oh God,” she tho-ught. “Was he de-ad?” She had ne-ver se-en one of the
de-ad up clo-se, only in the pa-pers and on TV. She felt her he-art po-un-ding in her chest, thre-ate-ning
to burst. Jen-ni-fer flo-ored the pe-dal and ro-ared out on-to the ro-ad. She watc-hed the fi-gu-re
gro-wing smal-ler in her re-ar-vi-ew and shud-de-red. She'd be-en lucky the-re was only one of them
and she had be-en in her car.
Suddenly her car ve-ered to the left as she hit a patch of ice. It spun out of cont-rol as she scre-amed,
drop-ping her ci-ga-ret-te to the flo-or bo-ards. She wrest-led with the whe-el stra-ining to re-ga-in
cont-rol as the car went off the ro-ad. She was flung for-ward in her se-at as the car smas-hed in-to the
tree li-ne and the en-gi-ne went de-ad to the sic-ke-ning crunch of bo-ne and me-tal. Jen-ni-fer's
blur-red vi-si-on lo-oked out at the flat-te-ned ho-od of the car and te-ars wel-led up in her eyes. Her
right leg felt li-ke Hell. Blo-od was le-aking thro-ugh her dress pants whe-re the whi-te of her bo-ne
jab-bed out-wards. She wrenc-hed open her do-or and le-aned out, vo-mi-ting on-to the pa-ve-ment.
Her hand fo-und the se-at-belt re-le-ase but-ton and she tumb-led out of the car on-to the ro-ad, yel-ling
as her leg felt it was be-ing torn off. She fo-ught not to black out and star-ted scre-aming for help.
Sud-denly she re-mem-be-red the fla-res in her trunk and star-ted to drag her body to-wards the back
of the car.
She saw him aga-in then. The de-ad man still wor-king his way down the ro-ad to-wards her. Pa-nic
rip-ped thro-ugh her ve-ins. She jer-ked her-self to her fe-et using the car to pull her-self up, watc-hing
him grow ever clo-ser. She felt the bi-le ri-sing in her thro-at aga-in but had no ti-me to be sick aga-in.
She aban-do-ned the fla-res and the car and to-ok off lim-ping down the ro-ad away from the man.
The-re was a rest area not too far ahe-ad. Su-rely so-me-one wo-uld be the-re.
She ma-de it a few steps be-fo-re a se-cond fi-gu-re ca-me bo-un-ding out of the tre-es ahe-ad of
her. This one a wo-man, yo-ung li-ke her-self and so freshly de-ad that red li-qu-id still po-ured and
ste-amed from the che-wed out ho-les of her thro-at. Jen-ni-fer tri-ed to sho-ve the wo-man away as
she grab-bed at her fa-ce. Too long na-ils ma-na-ging to slash Jen-ni-fer's che-ek all the sa-me.
Jennifer twis-ted her leg, how-ling, as she fell to the gro-und. The wo-man threw her-self on-to
Jen-ni-fer, rip-ping and bi-ting at her. The wo-man's te-eth sunk in-to Jen-ni-fer's sho-ul-der as the man
fi-nal-ly ar-ri-ved. The last thing Jen-ni-fer saw as her world went black was his open mo-uth of yel-low
te-eth drop-ping to-wards to her thro-at.

3 - The Devil's Ride

Blue lights ref-lec-ted in the re-ar-vi-ew mir-ror. Jack cur-sed, slam-ming his hands on the si-des of
the ste-ering whe-el, as he chec-ked his spe-ed. The odo-me-ter re-ad 85 mph. For a se-cond, Jack
con-si-de-red flo-oring the pe-tal but he re-ali-zed run-ning wo-uld only ma-ke things wor-se. The last
thing he ne-eded was mo-re cops af-ter him to-night and the-re was a much easi-er and fun way to de-al
with the in-ter-lo-per. He slo-wed his spe-ed and pul-led off on-to the ro-ad-si-de. The high-way was
empty to the ho-ri-zon in both di-rec-ti-ons ex-cept for the tro-oper's car which pul-led off be-hind him
and the pa-le star-light of the de-sert night.
Jack re-ac-hed for the ci-ga-ret-te dang-ling from the ed-ge of the car's asht-ray and to-ok a long
drag as he watc-hed the tro-oper step out of his ve-hic-le. He was a yo-un-ger man, tho-ugh not a
stu-pid one. Jack co-uld tell from the way he ap-pro-ac-hed that knew what he was do-ing. The
tro-oper shi-ned his flash-light over Jack's hands on the whe-els.
Jack lo-oked up smi-ling.
"Can I help you, of-fi-cer?"
"License and re-gist-ra-ti-on,” the tro-oper or-de-red.
Jack la-ug-hed and flic-ked his ci-ga-ret-te thro-ugh the air at the man's fa-ce. Ca-ught off gu-ard,
stumb-led as Jack slam-med open his do-or, knoc-king him from his fe-et. In a blur, Jack was over him,
pin-ning him to the gro-und. The tro-oper strug-gled, well-to-ned musc-les rip-pling un-der his uni-form,
but Jack's grip was li-ke ste-el.
Jack's ton-gue shot out. Im-pos-sibly long and rib-bed with flecks of bo-ne mat-ter that se-emed to
grow out from in-si-de the tis-sue, it to-re in-to the yo-ung man's neck. Blo-od spra-yed over Jack as
the of-fi-cer con-vul-sed and spas-med be-low him. Jack sho-ok his he-ad and his ton-gue rip-ped free.
Black pus oozed from its entry po-int. Jack lic-ked his lips un-na-tu-ral-ly as his ton-gue fol-ded back
in-to his mo-uth.
When the of-fi-cer lay still, Jack pic-ked up his corp-se ef-fort-les-sly and car-ri-ed him aro-und to
the trunk. He pop-ped it open and tos-sed the tro-oper in-si-de on top of his ear-li-er prey, two
un-for-tu-na-te pe-op-le wor-king at a la-te night ro-ad-si-de di-ner from fifty mi-les back. Wit-ho-ut a
se-cond tho-ught, Jack clo-sed the trunk and got back in the car. He lit anot-her smo-ke and cran-ked
up the ra-dio as he pe-eled out and shot back on-to the ro-ad. The so-und of “Sympathy for the De-vil”
by the Sto-nes bla-red in-to the night and Me-xi-co was only mi-les away.

4 - To Be Born

I can still he-ar his bre-at-hing be-hind me, a wet sput-te-ring no-ise. It ta-kes me a mo-ment to turn
aro-und tho-ugh I can't say why. Red bub-bles pul-sa-te as he tri-es to sit up and re-ach for the gun
ne-ar his mang-led form. I ra-ise my own hand as thun-der flo-ods the ro-om with a flash. His he-ad
snaps back as the bul-let shreds his bra-in. The-re's a dull thud, then the ro-om is si-lent. I lo-ok aro-und
at the bo-di-es of his gu-ards. One lays bro-ken in half ne-ar the do-or, two in pud-dles of red rid-dled
with entry wo-unds from my 9mm ro-unds, and the last be-si-de him, arms stretc-hed out and la-ying
fa-ce down sho-wing the ho-le in the back of his he-ad whe-re my hand en-te-red his flesh.
Smoke lin-gers aro-und the bar-rel of my we-apon and I watch it drift away in-to the air. Figh-ting
down the de-si-res in-si-de of myself to flee and just run away, I walk calmly, step-ping over the de-ad,
out of his of-fi-ce on-to the stre-et. Si-rens bla-re in the dis-tan-ce but they ha-ve no me-aning to me. I
am abo-ve the law or so I am told.
Sometimes I won-der what it is li-ke to die. I ima-gi-ne that is na-tu-ral gi-ven my re-la-ti-ons-hip with
de-ath. What con-cerns me is that I ha-ve be-gun to won-der what it is li-ke to be born.
I ha-ve ne-ver se-en the sun ri-se. I ha-ve ne-ver ma-de lo-ve to a wo-man nor felt the com-for-ting
hand of a fri-end. My brot-hers and I do not talk. We are not al-lo-wed to. I lis-ten to the tech-ni-ci-ans
tho-ugh as they tuck me in-to my vat at the end of each night. I lis-ten to the-ir wor-ri-es, small talk, and
li-ves, and won-der what it must be li-ke to be them. They ne-ver spe-ak to me. They cle-an away the

blo-od, ma-ke ne-eded re-pa-irs in my tis-sue, and pla-ce me in-si-de my ho-me. The sus-pen-ding
flu-ids po-ur in and the black-ness co-mes. I won-der if that sen-sa-ti-on is what de-ath is li-ke, to find
yo-ur-self alo-ne in the vo-id with only yo-ur tho-ughts ec-ho-ing in the em-p-ti-ness.
I ha-ve ne-ver spo-ken a word that “they” did not gi-ve me but I long to. I wish to ask Tech,
de-sig-na-te: Carl, abo-ut his child-ren and how lit-tle Mic-ha-el is do-ing with his “cold". To ask Tech,
de-sig-na-te: Terry, abo-ut her kitc-hen and see if she has re-pa-ired the “gre-ase-fi-re” da-ma-ge. But I
do not. I ha-ve se-en what hap-pens to and even eli-mi-na-ted my brot-hers who show “tho-ught".
Per-haps so-on my brot-hers will ha-ve to “de-al” with me.
I stand in the al-ley and watch the black van pull in, its do-or al-re-ady sli-ding open. Agent,
de-sig-na-te: Jason, mo-ti-ons me in-si-de. I climb in and sit mo-ti-on-less, eyes sta-ring for-ward,
se-e-ing not-hing as we dri-ve away. He and his part-ner, agent, de-sig-na-te: John, will ta-ke me ho-me
to the lab now. I lo-ok for-ward to the vat and the vo-id for per-haps the black-ness will amend the-se
fe-elings. If I awa-ke aga-in, they will ha-ve no chan-ce aga-inst me when I re-fu-se to re-turn then. They
we-re “born” and I was ma-de. Ma-de to kill for my co-untry, tho-ugh I am not su-re I know what that
is

5 - Fears

Lisa was get-ting re-ady to lock up for the night as a last car pul-led in-to the vi-deo sto-re's par-king
lot. She cur-sed un-der her bre-ath, le-aving the do-ors open and he-aded back to the co-un-ter.
A lo-ne man got out of the car. He was yo-ung, pro-bably in his mid-twen-ti-es, and wo-re a black
je-ans and a matc-hing jac-ket. Long dark ha-ir spil-led over his sho-ul-ders. He ma-de his way in-si-de
and he-aded stra-ight to-wards her. Wit-ho-ut bot-he-ring to say hel-lo, he as-ked, “Do you ha-ve any
Ful-ci?"
Lisa's ti-red mind fo-ught to ma-ke sen-se of the qu-es-ti-on as she sta-red in-to his blue eyes.
“Excu-se me?” she sa-id.
"Fulci, the Ita-li-an di-rec-tor,” the man sa-id in an ir-ri-ta-ted to-ne.
"I don't think so,” Li-sa an-s-we-red.
The man pul-led a .38 re-vol-ver from his jac-ket poc-ket and po-in-ted it at her fa-ce. Li-sa blin-ked
as her mo-uth went sud-denly dry.
"That's too bad,” the man pur-red. “I gu-ess I'll just ha-ve to find anot-her way to amu-se myself
to-night."
Lisa's he-art thun-de-red in her chest and a slight la-yer of swe-at be-gan to form on her brow.
"Tell me,” he as-ked le-aning clo-ser, “What are you af-ra-id of?"
Lisa was so ter-ri-fi-ed that she told the truth. “The dumps-ters ... The dumps-ter out back. I can't
stand to ta-ke the night trash out by myself. The-re's so-met-hing in-si-de of it. I don't know how, but it's
al-ways the-re, watc-hing me, wa-iting for me to get too clo-se."
"Really.” The man grin-ned fe-eding on her fe-ar. “Show me."
"No!” Li-sa squ-e-aled, “I can't..."
The man pul-led back the re-vol-ver's ham-mer, clic-king a ro-und in-to pla-ce, and sho-ved the
bar-rel aga-inst her fo-re-he-ad. “I sa-id, show me,” he or-de-red.
Lisa led him out back to the dumps-ters, ma-king su-re to gi-ve them a wi-de berth. As the man
exa-mi-ned them so-met-hing thum-ped in-si-de the lar-gest dum-p-s-ter.
"Ah.” He smi-led, drag-ging a cra-te of trash over to its si-de. “Let's ta-ke a lo-ok at yo-ur fe-ar."
The man clim-bed on-to the cra-te and pe-ered down in-to the dumps-ter. In a blur of mo-ve-ment
al-most too fast for the hu-man eye to fol-low, a lar-ge furry hand mat-ted with blo-od and fe-ces
grab-bed the front of his jac-ket and pul-led him in-si-de.
Lisa scre-amed as she he-ard the sic-ke-ning snap of bo-nes that ec-ho-ed in the dumps-ter. She ran
thro-ugh the sto-re's re-ar ent-ran-ce, slam-ming the do-or be-hind her, and fell to her kne-es. Te-ars
bur-ned in her eyes as she re-ali-zed the thing of her fe-ars was re-al. The last thing Li-sa he-ard

be-fo-re the black-ness ca-me was an ani-mal li-ke ro-ar as so-met-hing to-re the do-or from its hin-ges
and en-te-red the sto-re.

6 - From Heaven, Into Hell

It was both the best and worst day of Jere-mi-ah's li-fe. The go-od news was he'd just ma-de the find
of a li-fe-ti-me. The-re wo-uld be no mo-re end-less days spent bac-king his back to pan a few nug-gets
now and then out of Top-her ri-ver. No mo-re end-less me-als of dri-ed be-ans and sta-le bre-ad. The
Lord had fi-nal-ly gi-ven him his due in the form of a sho-oting star that had bla-zed its way thro-ugh the
clo-uds, brigh-ter than the no-on day sun. Su-re it had blown the tar-na-ti-on out of his old shack and
ma-de one hell of a ho-le to bo-ot, but he didn't ca-re be-ca-use the orb from the he-avens lo-oked li-ke
it we-ig-hed over thirty po-unds and glim-me-red li-ke gold. Jere-mi-ah knew in his he-art that it was the
pu-rest gold he'd ever se-en.
The bad news was that was now la-ying in the dirt, ble-eding to de-ath. Af-ter three long, hard ho-urs
of car-rying wa-ter from the ri-ver to co-ol the thing down, he'd no-ti-ced that old Lu-cas was ri-ding up
the mo-un-ta-in to his pros-pect. He knew Lu-cas must've se-en the thing as it fell too and was co-ming
to see what it was. No mat-ter how much mo-ney he owed the old bas-tard, he wasn't abo-ut to let
Lu-cas ta-ke what was his. Jere-mi-ah's rif-le had be-en in his shack when the Lord had bles-sed him
tho-ugh. He had no idea whe-re it was now, tho-ugh he ima-gi-ned the spot of mel-ted me-tal on the
cra-ters right ed-ge was most li-kely it. Wasn't gon-na do him no go-od in a sha-pe li-ke that. So he'd
cro-uc-hed down in the cra-ter and pra-yed that Lu-cas wo-uld just go on by. Jere-mi-ah had ne-ver
be-en known for his qu-ick thin-king.
Lucas ro-de up to the ed-ge and cal-led out to him. “Shit,” Jere-mi-ah tho-ught and pul-led his
hun-ting kni-fe. It was all he had but he wasn't abo-ut to gi-ve up the Lord's gift wit-ho-ut a fight. He
yel-led at the top of lungs and ran up the slo-pe to-wards Lu-cas. The old man sta-red at him in
dis-be-li-ef un-til it sunk in that Jere-mi-ah me-ant bu-si-ness. He drew his .36 re-vol-ver and pop-ped
Jere-mi-ah twi-ce in the chest. Jere-mi-ah top-pled and rol-led down in-to the cra-ter to whe-re he lay
now, watc-hing the old man ma-ke his way uns-te-adily down to-wards the orb. The mo-ment he had
se-en it, all tho-ughts of Jere-mi-ah had fled his mind. The bas-tard was prac-ti-cal-ly dro-oling over the
gold.
Then the unt-hin-kab-le hap-pe-ned. The gold shat-te-red, hatc-hing li-ke an egg. A first, Jere-mi-ah
tho-ught the Lord had dest-ro-yed the be-a-uty of the orb to pre-vent it from fal-ling in-to hands that it
wasn't me-ant for un-til the first of them got clo-se eno-ugh for him to see. Tiny me-tal de-mons, mo-ving
in swarm li-ke fi-re ants ac-ross the dirt to-wards him. Each had eight legs and a sing-le glo-wing dot
whe-re the-ir eyes sho-uld be.
Lucas's at-ten-ti-on snap-ped back to Jere-mi-ah as the man how-led and craw-led to-wards the
ed-ge of the pit, slap-ping at his own body with his hands. Lu-cas didn't know what to ma-ke of it and he
su-re wasn't abo-ut to ta-ke chan-ces with no crazy man. He ra-ised his .36 and shot Jere-mi-ah
stra-ight bet-we-en the eyes. Jere-mi-ah's body thras-hed a se-cond lon-ger then lay still. Lu-cas
shrug-ged and pic-ked up a pi-ece of the bro-ken orb, bi-ting in-to to it with his te-eth. A wi-de grin
stretc-hed on his fa-ce. He cram-med the pi-ece in-to his poc-ket and le-aned over to fish up mo-re.
"Lucas Mar-tin of Sol Three,” a vo-ice bo-omed from be-hind him. He whir-led aro-und to see
Jere-mi-ah back on his fe-et. Jere-mi-ah's eyes now glo-wing a de-ep sha-de of un-na-tu-ral gre-en. His
shirt was sta-ined red and a trick-le of blo-od oozed from the ho-le in his fo-re-he-ad, but the-re he
sto-od pla-in as day.
"Jesus!” Lu-cas wa-iled. He emp-ti-ed his colt's last ro-und in-to Jere-mi-ah's sto-mach but the man
didn't even flinch. He be-gan to walk to-wards Lu-cas with his hands out-stretc-hed. “Lu-cas Mar-tin of
Sol Three,” the thing cro-aked aga-in in a hol-low vo-ice de-vo-id of emo-ti-on.
Lucas didn't was-te any mo-re ti-me. He ran as fast as co-uld for his hor-se and hop-ped in the
sad-dle, kic-king it with all his might. The be-ast grun-ted and to-ok off gal-lo-ping away from the

cra-ter.
The thing that had be-en Jere-mi-ah watc-hed him flee then tur-ned its fa-ce to-wards the he-avens.
From its mo-uth erup-ted a chat-te-ring se-ri-es of high pitc-hed clic-king so-unds. Con-tact had fa-iled.
The do-mi-nant spe-ci-es of Sol Three was too pri-mi-ti-ve at this sta-ge of its de-ve-lop-ment; it
in-for-med the ship in or-bit aro-und the Earth. It ca-uti-oned aga-inst anot-her at-tempt at con-tact for
at le-ast se-ve-ral mo-re de-ca-des. It fi-nis-hed its com-mu-ni-on with the ot-hers abo-ard the ship with
last sad clic-king no-ise that ec-ho-ed in the host body's thro-at.
Jeremiah's body erup-ted in-to blue fla-mes and fell to the dust to burn away in not-hing-ness be-si-de
the rem-nants of the gol-den orb

7 - Family

RJ sat in the pas-sen-ger se-at grin-ning li-ke the de-vil. He held an AK-47 crad-led in his lap. Le-per
had as-ked him se-ve-ral ti-mes whe-re he'd got-ten it but RJ wasn't tal-king.
Leper sat in the back of the car with Dra-ke, who still lo-oked pis-sed that he wasn't ri-ding shot-gun
on this lit-tle ven-tu-re. Dra-ke had his win-dow rol-led down but still the in-si-de of the car bo-iled with
se-cond hand smo-ke from the co-unt-less ci-ga-ret-tes he'd smo-ked al-re-ady. He tos-sed anot-her
butt out of the car and lit up aga-in in-s-tantly.
Hal didn't mind be-ing the dri-ver. So-me-how it ma-de him fe-el li-ke the-re was less blo-od on his
hands that way. He to-ok the exit ramp down Ble-aker Stre-et and gu-ided the ve-hic-le on to-wards
Char-les-ton dri-ve.
"You think they'll re-al-ly be the-re?” Le-per as-ked le-aning up bet-we-en Hal and RJ. His bre-ath
stunk li-ke a de-ca-ying corp-se. “I su-re as Hell wo-uldn't be if I was them!"
"Shut the f-k up” RJ snap-ped sho-ving Le-per back on-to his se-at.
"He has a po-int, RJ,” Hal sa-id wit-ho-ut ta-king his eyes off the ro-ad.
"They'll be the-re,” Dra-ke ans-we-red aro-und the ci-ga-ret-te dang-ling bet-we-en his lips as he
slip-ped his own 9mm from his jac-ket poc-ket and chec-ked the clip. “They al-ways are."
Hal ro-un-ded the cor-ner of Ble-aker and Char-les-ton, and su-re eno-ugh they we-re. Mar-tin and
his cro-ni-es we-re spraw-led out on the steps of the-ir apart-ment bu-il-ding, smo-king and yap-ping it
up with one anot-her. Mar-tin no-ti-ced the-ir car as so-on as it ca-me in-to vi-ew. He star-ted sho-uting
and trying to pull his fri-ends to the-ir fe-et. RJ le-aned out the win-dow and let lo-ose on full-auto. Hal's
ears hurt as the we-apon bar-ked and spat de-ath on-to the si-de-walk. Mar-tin ca-ught the brunt of
RJ's first burst de-ad on. Hal watc-hed as his body twitc-hed and le-apt as the ro-unds to-re in-to his
flesh and knoc-ked him to the gro-und. Dra-ke drop-ped his ci-ga-ret-te on-to the flo-or bo-ards
pop-ping off a few ro-unds with his 9mm as Hal's fo-ot stom-ped on the ac-ce-le-ra-tor.
In the re-ar-vi-ew, Hal co-uld see the bo-di-es la-ying on the pa-ve-ment in gro-wing po-ols of red as
he sped away for the bu-il-ding. It didn't lo-ok li-ke any of them had be-en lucky eno-ugh to get away in
ti-me.
"Shit, man!” RJ how-led with joy, slap-ping the dash-bo-ard of the old car so hard it crac-ked.
Dra-ke and Le-per we-re sho-uting too. Hal whir-led the car down an al-ley and cut ac-ross to anot-her
ro-ad le-ading away from the sce-ne be-hind them.
"We smo-ked tho-se bas-tards!” RJ la-ug-hed.
"Hey, Dra-ke...” Hal sa-id.
"What man?” Dra-ke ans-we-red still high on blo-od-lust and ad-re-na-li-ne.
"Would you mind get-ting yo-ur ci-ga-ret-te the hell off my flo-or?"
Drake blin-ked. “Shit man, sorry.” Dra-ke pic-ked up the butt and tos-sed it out the win-dow. He wet
his fin-gers with spit and tri-ed to wi-pe at the burnt pla-ce in the flo-or mat.
Hal had shat-te-red the-ir ce-leb-ra-ti-on tho-ugh and now the car was qu-i-et aga-in. RJ tur-ned to
glan-ce at Hal. “What ya do-in’ la-ter to-night man? Ya wan-na catch that new fuck flick over at Joe's?"
Hal sho-ok his he-ad. “Naw, I'll pass."

"Hal don't ne-ed no flick man, he's get-tin’ eno-ugh from Sa-rah!” Le-per who-oped.
Drake la-ug-hed but RJ whir-led on them. “Le-ave the f-er alo-ne! You fre-aks ever even be-en with
a wo-man?"
No one in the back an-s-we-red.
"Look, I got-ta get go-in',” Hal sa-id, “Whe-re sho-uld I drop you guys at?"
"Right he-re will be fi-ne.” RJ or-de-red as Hal dro-ve by Ri-ker's Pub. Hal pul-led up to the curb and
stop-ped the car, le-aving the en-gi-ne run-ning. Dra-ke and Le-per hop-ped out but RJ lin-ge-red in his
se-at, tuc-king his rif-le in-si-de the depths of his long co-at. “You ok, Hal?"
"Yeah, su-re man. Fi-ne."
RJ nod-ded and got out slam-ming the do-or be-hind him. He le-aned back in-to the car thro-ugh the
open pas-sen-ger win-dow. “You'll catch up with us la-ter, right?"
"Yeah man, if I can,” Hal sa-id then pul-led back out on-to the ro-ad. With the ot-hers go-ne he
flip-ped on the ra-dio. Hot te-ars bur-ned in his eyes. He'd had eno-ugh of this shit. May-be he was just
too old for it now or may-be he was just be-co-ming hu-man aga-in. He knew RJ wo-uld kill him if he
tri-ed to le-ave so he'd plan-ned everyt-hing so ca-re-ful-ly. Sa-rah wo-uld be wa-iting him with the-ir
bags re-ady. They'd le-ave the city to-night be-fo-re RJ even re-ali-zed they we-re go-ne. Hal hum-med
with the mu-sic as he dro-ve on to-wards Sa-rah and his new li-fe.
Hal par-ked his car ac-ross the stre-et from the-ir ho-me and wal-ked up the steps. The-re was still a
bit of day-light spil-ling over the tops of the bu-il-dings aro-und him. He won-de-red if Sa-rah wo-uld be
re-ady yet. As he clim-bed the steps to the do-or to the bu-il-ding, he he-ard a vo-ice from be-hind him.
"Goin’ so-mew-he-re, Hal?” RJ as-ked. Hal whir-led aro-und to see his fri-ends stan-ding on the
stre-et be-low the steps. RJ's co-at bul-ged with the rif-le he still car-ri-ed. Dra-ke and Le-per had the
“lo-ok” in the-ir eyes. They we-re ex-pec-ting blo-od.
"What's it to you?” Hal shot back kno-wing he sho-uldn't ha-ve.
"You're mi-ne Hal!” RJ ro-ared. “You're a mem-ber of this fa-mily and you ha-ve
res-pon-si-bi-li-ti-es to us! I am not go-ing to let you go run-ning off with that lit-tle who-re!"
Hal had no we-apon. His eyes dar-ted aro-und se-eking anyt-hing he co-uld use to de-fend him-self
with. No luck. He tur-ned and ran for the bu-il-ding's do-or.
Leper gig-gled as he drew the .38 from his pants poc-ket and na-iled Hal right bet-we-en the
sho-ul-ders with a sing-le ro-und. RJ hit Le-per so hard the lit-tle guy fell over on-to the stre-et spit-ting
te-eth. “You lit-tle shit. That's Hal you just shot. He may be fuc-ked up but he's still fa-mily!"
"Sorry,” Le-per tri-ed to say as blo-od po-ured from his bro-ken mo-uth.
Hal lay on the steps still trying to crawl to-wards the do-or. RJ wal-ked over to him and pla-ced a
fo-ot on Hal's back. Hal scre-amed at the pa-in of RJ pres-sing down on his wo-und. “Hal, Hal, Hal,
what am I go-ing to do with you?"
At that mo-ment, the do-or ope-ned and Sa-rah step-ped out in-to the glow of the stre-et-lights.
Le-per and Dra-ke burst in-to la-ugh-ter from the dark-ness be-low as she saw Hal's crump-led form
with RJ stan-ding over him. RJ lo-oked up at her. “Go away Sa-rah, this is fa-mily bu-si-ness."
Without ans-we-ring, she le-apt at RJ her fin-ger-na-ils stre-aking to-wards his fa-ce. RJ tri-ed to
dod-ge but the thun-der of a 9mm disc-har-ging ma-de him cur-ve his at-tempt so that he went down on
his kne-es. The bul-let struck Sa-rah in the thro-at and she fell over him ma-king a hor-rib-le garg-ling
so-und. RJ sho-ved off her cold corp-se and jum-ped up wi-ping at the red sta-in on his co-at. “Jesus,”
he mut-te-red, sho-oting a lo-ok at Dra-ke. “Be a lit-tle mo-re ca-re-ful next ti-me."
"There won't be a next ti-me,” a hol-low, whe-ezing vo-ice sa-id as Sa-rah sto-od up. “Yo-ur ti-me is
over RJ."
RJ sta-red at her in dis-be-li-ef, his ga-ze lin-ge-ring on the ho-le in her thro-at. She grab-bed him
lif-ting him from his fe-et ef-fort-les-sly with a sing-le hand. Dra-ke and Le-per watc-hed in hor-ror as
she simply rip-ped him in-to. RJ's in-tes-ti-nes and or-gans spilt on-to the steps as she dis-car-ded his
lo-wer half and wa-ved his tor-so at the pa-ir.
Drake and Le-per tur-ned run-ning in-to the dark-ness. Sa-rah's la-ugh-ter ec-ho-ed in the dark-ness
of the sur-ro-un-ding al-leys. She le-aned down be-si-de Hal who was now un-cons-ci-o-us from the

blo-od loss. “I hadn't plan-ned to ta-ke you so so-on,” she whis-pe-red, “but yo-ur fri-ends ha-ve left
me no cho-ice. Don't worry; you'll ha-ve the new li-fe you so-ught. It will be glo-ri-o-us and wond-ro-us
in ways you ne-ver ima-gi-ned. And it shall be eter-nal!” She pres-sed her long fangs in-to his neck and
Hal's world chan-ged fo-re-ver.

8 - Indigs

Nobody ever told me it was go-ing to be li-ke this,” Greg sa-id as he ste-ered the tank in-to the
rem-nants of the vil-la-ge.
"What did you ex-pect, Kid?” Har-ri-son la-ug-hed over the tank's in-ter-nal Com. system.
Har-ri-son was the tank's gun-ner and a long ti-me ve-te-ran of mis-si-ons such as this one. “We swe-ep
thro-ugh and cle-an out the na-ti-ves so that the co-lo-ni-za-ti-on fle-et do-esn't ha-ve any prob-lems
when it ar-ri-ves. It's a go-od job, not much of a chan-ce of get-ting yo-ur ass shot off on a world li-ke
this."
Greg dro-ve the tank thro-ugh a hut of mud and wo-od, its tre-ads grin-ding the bo-di-es of the de-ad
in-to the so-il.
"It just do-esn't se-em right,” Greg sa-id. “The-se pe-op-le don't ha-ve any way of even trying to fight
back."
"The day I start fe-eling sorry for a bunch of blue skin-ned pri-mi-ti-ves, kid, is the day I'll re-sign my
com-mis-si-on. Re-mem-ber we're do-ing this for Earth and the Al-li-an-ce. Just li-ke Ro-me, the
Al-li-an-ce will die if it ever stops ex-pan-ding. Worlds li-ke this are easy to ta-ke and we ne-ed them."
Something mo-ved among the burnt out rub-ble of the vil-la-ge to the tank's left. Greg star-ted to
sho-ut a war-ning but Har-ri-son was al-re-ady brin-ging the tank's an-ti-per-son-nel guns to be-ar on
the po-si-ti-on.
A blue skin-ned na-ti-ve hop-ped up from his hi-ding pla-ce. Long sil-ver ha-ir spil-led over his
na-ked sho-ul-ders. He wo-re only lo-ose ani-mal hi-des abo-ut his lo-wer body and ra-ised a spe-ar
aga-inst the hul-king me-tal mons-ter he fa-ced. Har-ri-son fi-red a qu-ick, sing-le burst ne-arly
va-po-ri-zing the man's tor-so. Greg ima-gi-ned the smi-le on the ve-te-ran's fa-ce as Har-ri-son
sho-uted, “See! Easy, kid. Easy."
Greg lo-oked out his vi-ew port, ta-king in the dest-ruc-ti-on sur-ro-un-ding them. “I don't know,”
Greg sa-id, “I think I'd rat-her be fa-cing so-me-one who co-uld at le-ast sho-ot back."
In the gun-ner's com-part-ment, Har-ri-son frow-ned whi-le scan-ning the vil-la-ge for mo-re tar-gets.
Amrin watc-hed the mons-ter from the co-ver of the tre-es. Swe-at glis-te-ned on his skin which was
tin-ted a light sha-de of gre-en as the hot blo-od of an-ger bo-iled in-si-de his ve-ins. Ame-li-an sto-od
be-hind him and pla-ced a hand on-to his sho-ul-der. “Now is not the ti-me,” she sa-id qu-i-etly.
Amrin whir-led aro-und, slap-ping her hand away. “When will the ti-me co-me, pri-es-tess?” he spat.
He glan-ced aro-und at his war-ri-ors. They sto-od tall and pro-ud, unaf-ra-id of the mons-ter which
now sat mo-ti-on-less in the cen-ter of the vil-la-ge. “We are re-ady to die if ne-ed be. Tell us how to
stop that thing and it shall not kill aga-in."
Amelian felt her he-art crumb-le in-si-de her chest as he con-ti-nu-ed to ra-ge.
"You are the vo-ice of God, pri-es-tess! Su-rely, he has told you how to slay the be-ast. It can not be
his will we all pe-rish as the pink skins and the-ir mons-ters ta-ke our world from us. Tell us pri-es-tess
and let us carry out God's will."
Amelian lo-oked away from the war chi-ef, tur-ning her eyes down-ward to-wards the gro-und.
“The-re is a way,” she sa-id in no mo-re than a whis-per, “but it is not per-mit-ted."
Amrin snar-led grab-bing the front of the black ro-bes she wo-re and pul-led her to him. He jer-ked
her fa-ce up to-wards his own. “We are dying, Ame-li-an. All of us."
He re-le-ased her so qu-ickly, she stag-ge-red a step back-wards. “If the-re is a way, you must tell us
be-fo-re it is too la-te."
Everyone gat-he-red in the fo-rest wa-ited for her to spe-ak. The hud-dled mas-ses of wo-men and

child-ren scat-te-red among the ranks of Am-rin's men watc-hed her with ex-pec-tant fa-ces. Te-ars
for-med in Ame-li-an's eyes, run-ning down her che-eks. “We are not re-ady for the way,” she sa-id
fi-nal-ly.
Amrin struck her, a sharp back-han-ded blow which knoc-ked her from her fe-et. He squ-at-ted
be-si-de her spraw-ling form, dra-wing his kni-fe. The bla-de was speck-led with the dri-ed red fla-kes
of pink skin blo-od. He le-aned over her, pres-sing the bla-de's po-int aga-inst her thro-at. “I am sorry,
Ame-li-an, but I don't ha-ve ti-me to be-co-me en-ligh-te-ned eno-ugh for yo-ur li-king. I ne-ed to know
now. I will not stand by and watch our ra-ce fa-de in-to the eter-nal night.
"The sto-nes!” Ame-li-an cri-ed. “The sto-nes are our only ho-pe!"
Amrin withd-rew the kni-fe, a lo-ok of con-fu-si-on and shock upon his fa-ce. “What?"
Amelian rub-bed at her thro-at. “Yes, the sto-nes."
Amrin roc-ked with la-ugh-ter, a de-ep mad-ness in his eyes. “The sto-nes bring the ra-ins and ke-ep
the de-sert from our val-ley. Do you plan to drown the be-asts?"
"No,” Ame-li-an ans-we-red get-ting to her fe-et. “The sto-nes are much mo-re. They we-re left
be-hind when God de-par-ted from this world. They we-re the to-ols he used du-ring the sha-ping.” She
wa-ved her arm aro-und, ges-tu-ring to-wards the tre-es. “They cre-ated all that we ha-ve, but they can
be used for un-ma-king things as well. They hold the po-wer of the stars in-si-de them."
Amrin grin-ned, “Then le-ad me to them, Pri-es-tess."
Amelian lo-ose-ned her ro-bes and let them drop from her body. Im-bed-ded in her skin bet-we-en
the mo-unds of her bre-asts was a gem of de-ep purp-le hu-es which se-emed to pul-sa-te with a dim
glow in ti-me with the be-ating of her he-art. “Each of the eigh-te-en mem-bers of my or-der car-ri-es
one, one for each of our vil-la-ges. When we pass on, it is cut from our flesh and gi-ven to our cho-sen
suc-ces-sor to be-co-me one with them as it was with us. It is a part of the Al-mighty and ali-ve in-si-de
our bo-di-es.” Ame-li-an's fin-gers stro-ked its sur-fa-ce. Energy from wit-hin the gem le-apt to me-et
her fin-ger-tips, crack-ling in its in-ten-sity. “You ha-ve but to slay me, Am-rin, and it will be yo-urs."
"Forgive me,” Am-rin whis-pe-red as sli-de his bla-de in-to her belly. Warm, gre-en blo-od rus-hed
out over his hand. “I do.” Ame-li-an sa-id as he twis-ted the kni-fe, cut-ting up-wards to-wards her
he-art and the gem.
The fo-rest was si-lent as Am-rin hac-ked away the flesh sur-ro-un-ding the gem.
Harrison slam-med his fist in-to the gun-nery cont-rols, frust-ra-ted and dis-gus-ted by the lack of
tar-gets. The sen-sors had swept the vil-la-ge a do-zen ti-mes to re-ve-al not-hing mo-re.
"Sir, it lo-oks li-ke our job he-re is do-ne,” Greg sa-id, “And Alp-ha pla-to-on is re-qu-es-ting
sup-port for the-ir ra-id on the vil-la-ge to the north. Are you re-ady to mo-ve out?"
"I know so-me-body's still he-re.” Har-ri-son grun-ted. “I can fe-el it, but the sen-sor swe-eps ke-ep
co-ming up cle-an."
Suddenly, Har-ri-son's scre-en sur-ged with an energy re-ading so po-wer-ful it over-lo-aded the
ar-ray and the scre-en went de-ad. “Damn it!” Har-ri-son yel-led al-re-ady trying to switch to the back
up cir-cu-its.
"What the hell was that?” Greg's vo-ice sho-uted over the in-ter-com.
"Don't know,” Har-ri-son mumb-led as the sen-sors be-gan to co-me on-li-ne aga-in. The scre-en
was full of li-fe sig-na-tu-res, over three do-zen spil-ling out of the dis-tant tree li-ne and clo-sing on the
tank's po-si-ti-on.
Blue skin-ned war-ri-ors ran ac-ross the open fi-eld bet-we-en the fo-rest and the vil-la-ge, wa-ving
we-apons ma-de of bo-ne and wo-od. The le-ad war-ri-or didn't re-ad as a nor-mal blip on the scre-en.
Ins-te-ad the tank's li-mi-ted AI re-cog-ni-zed him as a tank de-pic-ting an energy re-ado-ut gre-ater
than the ve-hic-le's own fu-si-on dri-ve.
Harrison ma-ne-uve-red the tur-ret to to-wards the new tar-gets as Greg rev-ved the tank in-to
mo-ti-on and sped to-wards the war-ri-ors. Har-ri-son smir-ked as bro-ught the ma-in gun in-to
ac-ti-on. The tank sho-ok as it fi-red. The fi-eld exp-lo-ded in-to a bla-ze of fi-re and light. Greg co-uld
he-ar the scre-ams of the dying na-ti-ves over the ro-ar of the tank's en-gi-ne. Be-fo-re the ini-ti-al blast
had fa-ded, Har-ri-son star-ted swe-eping the area with the an-ti-per-son-nel guns. They chat-te-red

spit-ting de-ath in-to the sea of fla-me and smo-ke.
A lo-ne man, ble-eding and bat-te-red, still sto-od sur-ro-un-ded by the twis-ted and smo-king forms
of his com-pa-ni-ons.
"Oh, God,” Greg mut-te-red, fe-eling pity for the man.
Harrison sigh-ted the an-ti-per-son-nel guns on-to the-ir re-ma-ining tar-get. “That bas-tard's go-ing
down this ti-me!"
The man wob-bled and ne-arly fell but so-me-how, des-pi-te his ga-ping wo-unds, re-ma-ined on his
fe-et. He outst-retc-hed a hand to-wards the tank. Har-ri-son he-si-ta-ted, his fin-ger on the trig-ger,
“What is that F-er do-ing?"
A bolt of purp-le energy shot from the man's fin-ger-tips, sli-cing thro-ugh the air. It struck the tank's
ar-mor and mel-ted thro-ugh it as if it we-re not-hing, stri-king the tank's fu-el cell. The en-ti-re vil-la-ge
lit up as the tank ex-p-lo-ded.
The man fell to his kne-es. Wo-men, child-ren, and the few re-ma-ining war-ri-ors left wit-hin the
tre-es emer-ged from the-ir pla-ce of hi-ding and ran to-wards him. The-ir tri-ump-hant cri-es rang in the
air. When they re-ac-hed Am-rin, they saw that he was de-ad, his body an empty and wit-he-red shell.
One of the war-ri-ors pus-hed Am-rin's corp-se to the gro-und and be-gan sa-wing at the flesh
sur-ro-un-ding the gem im-bed-ded in Am-rin's flesh. The war-ri-or to-re his pri-ze free and held it high
in-to the sun's rays. “Now, we ha-ve a way to fight!” he scre-amed, sha-king the gem at the he-avens.
Ap-pla-use and che-ers so-un-ded all aro-und him.

9 - A Late Night Dinner at Tara's Place

Mark rec-li-ned com-for-tably on Ta-ra's co-uch his eyes glu-ed to the TV. Um-ber-to Len-zi's
Zom-bie Ho-lo-ca-ust pla-yed on the scre-en. Mark pri-ded him-self on his know-led-ge and lo-ve of
Ita-li-an hor-ror and on nights li-ke this he al-ways bro-ught along so-me ta-pes from his ex-ten-si-ve
col-lec-ti-on to enj-oy as he ate.
Tara had in-vi-ted him over to me-et her pa-rents and the months of Hell he'd en-du-red get-ting her
to bring him to her ho-me had pa-id off. He'd met Ta-ra at the town's only vi-deo sto-re not long af-ter
he'd mo-ved to Sylva. She sha-red his tas-te in films and they had hit it off ins-tantly. She was not
at-trac-ti-ve in the nor-mal way. Her pa-le fa-ce was co-ve-red in pimp-les, her glas-ses too lar-ge for
her ro-und fa-ce, and she we-ig-hed ne-arly two hund-red po-unds. But for Mark, it had be-en lo-ve at
first sight, his mo-uth wa-te-ring at the tho-ught of her tas-te. He'd ma-de su-re he was aro-und the
sto-re when she drop-ped by on Tu-es-days for the rent two for a dol-lar spe-ci-al and tal-ked to her
of-ten. She se-emed to fall ins-tantly in lo-ve with him tho-ugh he gu-es-sed she wo-uld ha-ve do-ne the
sa-me for any ma-le that sho-wed a bit of in-te-rest. The-ir da-tes we-re dull and the sex wor-se. Mark
shud-de-red when he tho-ught abo-ut her rolls of fat sha-king abo-ve him on his bed. To-night, tho-ugh,
had ma-de it all worth whi-le. He'd known even-tu-al-ly she'd wan-ted him to eet her pa-rents. He
wo-uld get three for the pri-ce of one.
Tara and her pa-rents had put up lit-tle re-sis-tan-ce. All of them easy kills. A mo-ment of scre-aming
and so-me well pla-ced stro-kes of his stra-ight ed-ged ra-zor and it re-al-ly was din-ner-ti-me. Mark
co-uldn't help but smi-le as he re-ac-hed over to Ta-ra's body which he'd po-si-ti-oned on the co-uch
be-si-de him and pul-led a long string of in-tes-ti-ne from the ne-atly car-ved ho-le in her sto-mach. It
was still warm and lub-ri-ca-ted with blo-od that had not yet con-ge-aled. He rub-bed it ac-ross his
fa-ce sa-vo-ring the fresh-ness of the me-at be-fo-re pop-ping it in-to his mo-uth. He che-wed the cord
and the hot fe-ces in-si-de.
The bo-di-es of Ta-ra's pa-rents lay on the flo-or in front of him. Long gas-hes stretc-hed ac-ross
the-ir thro-ats and ot-her parts of the-ir flesh. The ro-om was co-ve-red in red stic-ki-ness and lo-oking
aro-und now, Mark had to ad-mit he'd go-ne a bit wild. It was so ra-re that he got to in-dul-ge him-self,
may-be two or three ti-mes a ye-ar at best. He was al-ways on the mo-ve and oh, so ca-re-ful ne-ver to
be ca-ught. He got up from the co-uch, step-ping over the bo-di-es and ej-ec-ted “Zom-bie

Ho-lo-ca-ust” from the VCR and pop-ped in a copy of “Hell of the Li-ving De-ad". As its ope-ning
cre-dits star-ted up, he slum-ped back on the co-uch be-si-de Ta-ra pres-sing his blo-od sme-ared lips
aga-inst her cold skin. He pul-led out his ra-zor and ca-re-ful-ly slid it in-to her left eye, sli-cing the soft
tis-sue sur-ro-un-ding the orb un-til he co-uld ease it out in-to his wa-iting palm. He rol-led it aro-und in
his hand then wrap-ped it gently in a nap-kin and stuf-fed it in-to his back-pack. He tri-ed to al-ways
ke-ep a tad of so-met-hing to ha-ve at ho-me on the mor-ning af-ter.
Doing so ma-de him glan-ce at the clock which sat on the fi-rep-la-ce ne-arby. It was go-ing on two
o'clock now and the ti-me to le-ave was dra-wing ne-ar. His he-art ne-arly le-apt from his chest as the
do-or-bell rang. He jum-ped up from his se-at re-ady to run trying to grab his vi-deo ta-pes and
back-pack only to spill them on-to the flo-or with a lo-ud clat-ter.
"Open up! Po-li-ce!” A de-ep vo-ice sho-uted from out-si-de. Mark sto-od fro-zen with shock as the
do-or flew in-ward. A tall of-fi-cer who lo-oked to be comp-le-te musc-le from he-ad to toe for-ced his
way in-si-de, a stan-dard is-sue .38 held re-ady in his hand. Mark bro-ke out of his stu-por, le-aping at
the man. He swung his bla-de wildly but so-me-how still ma-na-ged to hit his tar-get. Hot red li-qu-id
spra-yed from the of-fi-cer's thro-at as he gurg-led trying to sho-ut aga-inst the pres-su-re of his own
blo-od fil-ling his wind-pi-pe. Mark knoc-ked the gun from the man's hand and sho-ved him to the
flo-or, fal-ling to his own kne-es to lap at the warm flu-ids as the man spas-med in de-ath.
A se-cond of-fi-cer rus-hed in be-hind him. Mark tur-ned to see the man ra-ising his gun and the flash
as the first shot left the bar-rel. The thun-der of the shot ec-ho-ed in Mark's ears as he felt the ro-und
te-ar in-to his sho-ul-der. His ra-zor left his hand, flying ac-ross the slick flo-or to va-nish in the
dark-ness of the adj-acent kitc-hen. Mark's eyes bur-ned with te-ars as he le-apt up how-ling. The
of-fi-cer re-co-iled in hor-ror from him as Mark's te-eth snap-ped on empty on air. Mark whir-led
run-ning for the li-ving ro-om win-dow. It was past ti-me to go. He ne-ver felt the bul-let which en-te-red
the back of his skull and sta-ined the whi-te cur-ta-ins with his bra-in mat-ter as his body top-pled to the
car-pet of the li-ving ro-om flo-or. The thing he saw in this li-fe was the ima-ge of a tiny rat gna-wing its
way out of an el-derly grand-mot-her's sto-mach on the TV scre-en as Hell of the Li-ving De-ad
con-ti-nu-ed to play.

THE END

IV - Zombies I - The War Stories

1 - Rising

It all be-gan with the pla-gue. The de-ad ro-se from the-ir tombs spre-ading pes-ti-len-ce ac-ross the
glo-be. I fo-ught in the last bat-tle to hold New York, watc-hing the-ir gray-skin-ned le-gi-ons shamb-le
mind-les-sly for-ward to-wards our li-nes. Mag-gots swam in the-ir rot-ting flesh and as the-ir ranks
stretc-hed as far as the eye co-uld see blur-ring in-to the ho-ri-zon. Auto-ma-tons tho-ugh they we-re
they out-num-be-red us twenty to one even then in tho-se early days. The dull, hor-rib-le so-und of the-ir
mo-aning so gre-at it co-uld be he-ard over the ca-cop-hony of bla-zing we-apons and the exp-lo-si-ons
of gre-na-des la-unc-hed in-to the midst as they pus-hed thro-ugh our bar-ri-ca-des and bro-ke free of
the city pro-per.
The So-uth fa-red no bet-ter for down the-re in the mo-un-ta-ins of North Ca-ro-li-na anot-her evil
stir-red and the wol-ves ro-se up on two legs to jo-in the fight aga-inst man-kind. What ru-mors we
he-ard of Alas-ka and the An-tarc-tic bro-ught us an even gre-ater fe-ar of the dark-ness. In tho-se
pla-ces it was sa-id the de-ad we-re far from mind-less. They we-re fast, cun-ning, and strong eno-ugh
to rip thro-ugh the ste-el walls of ba-ses the-re with ba-re hands, red fangs glis-te-ning in the emer-gency
lights.
No lon-ger was hu-ma-nity se-pa-ra-ted by such petty things as po-li-tics and fa-ith. We sto-od
to-get-her in an at-tempt to sur-vi-ve the new age daw-ning upon us. A cho-ice was ma-de to use the

world's nuc-le-ar ar-se-nals and the gre-at ci-ti-es li-ke New York, Mos-cow, Lon-don, Ber-lin, and
mo-re we-re the first to be scorc-hed to not-hing but ra-di-o-ac-ti-ve dust. Ato-mic fi-re swept the-ir
stre-ets of the wal-king de-ad and li-ving ali-ke as mil-li-ons pe-ris-hed.
From the bot-tom of the oce-an a new land ro-se abo-ve the ti-des and upon its sho-res dwel-led a
ra-ce far ol-der than our own. It was le-ar-ned from the few ma-ri-ners who sur-vi-ved the hor-rors the
sea now held that upon this land the “De-ep Ones” as they cal-led them-sel-ves per-for-med the last
ri-tu-als to se-cu-re our de-mi-se and awa-ken the-ir long slum-be-ring mas-ter who was al-re-ady
stir-ring be-ne-ath the wa-ves.
But all that is past now as hu-ma-nity so-on shall be. I re-si-de in-si-de the conc-re-te walls of this
mighty bun-ker bu-ri-ed wit-hin the Earth it-self along with sol-di-ers li-ke myself gu-ar-ding the le-ader
of a de-moc-racy that is no mo-re. We spend our ti-me re-ma-ining lis-te-ning to the scra-ping of
ta-lon-ed hands on the shel-ter's outer do-ors or trying to tu-ne in a ra-dio fre-qu-ency of anot-her ba-se
li-ke our own. We ha-ve yet to find anot-her as the air-wa-ves are over-po-we-red with the cro-aking
and chat-te-ring of things from out-si-de of ti-me as we know it. Even-tu-al-ly de-ath will co-me for us
but for to-day we still pray, ho-pe the do-ors hold, and fight on.

THE END

2 - Last Call

Owen don-ned his Kev-lar vest and won-de-red why he bot-he-red. It wasn't as if the enemy shot
back the-se days. Usu-al-ly if his unit ma-de it to the sce-ne of the dis-tur-ban-ce at all, all that was left
we-re the de-ad lum-be-ring aro-und with dro-oling mo-uths and eying the S.W.A.T. van li-ke a me-at
wa-gon as it pul-led up.
During the first few days, be-fo-re the de-ad we-re everyw-he-re and mar-ti-al law had be-en
dec-la-red, Owen had kept track of the num-ber of “de-ad-he-ads” he'd put back in the-ir gra-ves. It'd
ma-de him fe-el li-ke he was ma-king a dif-fe-ren-ce ho-we-ver small but af-ter his fifty se-cond kill he
had gi-ven up co-un-ting. The world was go-ing to shit any-way.
Two days ago, Owen had fi-nal-ly be-en for-ced to mo-ve in-to the sta-ti-on. The sub-ways we-re
clo-sed down and the stre-ets we-re li-ke a war zo-ne. It was dif-fi-cult to get anyw-he-re in the city.
Aban-do-ned and wrec-ked cars clut-te-red the ro-ads. Packs of lo-oters and vi-gi-lan-tes prow-led the
al-ley ways and dark cor-ners as eager to “pop” any ot-her “bre-at-her” they ca-me ac-ross for a pro-fit
just as they kil-led the “de-ad-he-ads” for sport.
Owen ope-ned his loc-ker and strap-ped on his hols-ters. He'd long sin-ce stop-ped using stan-dard
is-sue ge-ar even that of a S.W.A.T. unit li-ke his own and slid two, twin Mark XIX De-sert Eag-les in
to the-ir ho-mes. As he re-adi-ed his new Mi-ni-Beryl as-sa-ult rif-le, Ser-ge-ant Rigby wal-ked in-to
the loc-ker ro-om. The Sar-ge was al-re-ady su-ited up and car-ri-ed a sa-wed off twel-ve ga-uge in his
hand.
"Walter bot-her to show up to-day?” he grun-ted, le-aning on a loc-ker next to Owen's. It was a
ti-red joke that had lost its ze-al days ago but the Sar-ge still se-emed to find it amu-sing. Wal-ter had
be-en a mem-ber of the unit that had be-en shot by so-me lo-oters and his body had ne-ver be-en
fo-und. It was as-su-med he had re-ani-ma-ted and ma-de off be-fo-re the fi-re-fight was over with and
that one day his corp-se wo-uld co-me wal-king in-to the sta-ti-on, just li-ke he did when he was ali-ve,
to he-ad out on the day's run with them.
Owen sho-ok his he-ad in the ne-ga-ti-ve.
"Hell, lo-oks li-ke it's just us and Josh then,” the Sar-ge la-ug-hed, “Best get to it."
Owen nod-ded snap-ping a ma-ga-zi-ne in-to his rif-le and fol-lo-wed the Sar-ge out to the par-king
area.
Their first call the nor-mal kind of “BS", two idi-ots ho-led in-si-de a bank they ma-na-ged to screw
up rob-bing. Three “Blue Boys", as Owen cal-led the be-at cops, had the pla-ced sur-ro-un-ded as best

they co-uld. The who-le de-part-ment was hur-ting for man-po-wer and ever-yo-ne was stretc-hed thin
not just Owen's unit. From the la-yo-ut of the bank, it lo-oked as if it was go-ing to be a bitch to get the
pa-ir of wo-uld-be rob-bers out of the-re.
The Sar-ge sto-od tal-king plans with the ran-king “Blue Boy” as Owen he-aded off to find a go-od
snip-ping po-si-ti-on ac-ross the stre-et. He ne-ver ma-de it the-re ho-we-ver. Josh sol-ved the
prob-lem of the si-tu-ati-on very easily by put-ting an an-ti-tank roc-ket stra-ight thro-ugh the bank's
ma-in win-dow. The bu-il-ding erup-ted in-to a sho-wer of shrap-nel and fla-mes knoc-king Owen to
the gro-und.
When the Sar-ge as-ked Josh what the Hell he was thin-king in front of the be-wil-de-red “Blue
Boys", Josh's ans-wer was simp-le. “Frag it Sar-ge, the-re wasn't anyt-hing in the-re any-way but pa-per
and scum bags."
Later as Owen's unit of three dro-ve to-wards the wa-re-ho-use dist-rict whe-re a lar-ge mass of
“de-ad-he-ads” had be-en re-por-ted on the mo-ve, Owen fo-und him-self still la-ug-hing at Josh's
res-pon-se. If he didn't la-ugh then he wo-uld be for-ced to think abo-ut what ac-tu-al-ly hap-pe-ned
and the sick ab-sur-dity of it all. Mo-ney was a thing of the past yet tho-se two lo-sers had di-ed trying
to ma-ke off with bags of it tho-ugh Owen had no idea why. He gu-es-sed old ha-bits di-ed hard.
As they re-ac-hed the cor-ner of 8th and Ma-in, he no-ti-ced red lights flas-hing from a si-de stre-et
as the van dro-ve ne-arer to it. “Josh, slow down, man,” he or-de-red.
The S.W.A.T. van ca-me to a crawl as Owen pe-ered out its pus sta-ined win-dow. The win-dow
was al-ways a mess. The te-am co-uldn't ke-ep it cle-an. Josh had a ten-dency to run down any
“de-ad-he-ads” he co-uld if pos-sib-le and of-ten he didn't ha-ve a cho-ice. The things we-re eit-her too
slow or stu-pid to get out of the van's way when it ca-me te-aring down an ave-nue.
"Is that an am-bu-lan-ce?” Josh as-ked, his own ga-ze fol-lo-wing Owen's.
"Think it is,” Owen ag-re-ed, “Sho-uld we call it in Sar-ge?"
The Sar-ge le-aned up from the back to get a lo-ok as Josh bro-ught the van to a comp-le-te stop.
“What the Hell is it do-ing just sit-ting the-re?"
"Jeez, Sar-ge, you don't ha-ve to be a smart ass abo-ut it,” Josh snap-ped. It was cle-ar the
am-bu-lan-ce had be-en over-run by “de-ad-he-ad".
The Sar-ge grin-ned sho-wing off yel-low to-bac-co sta-ined te-eth.
"I tho-ught all emer-gency ve-hic-les we-re sup-po-sed to ha-ve a “Blue Boy” es-cort now.” Owen
com-men-ted.
"Well, I gu-ess this one didn't. Too bad for them,” the Sar-ge la-ug-hed.
"So do we call it in or not?” Josh as-ked aga-in eager to be back on the mo-ve. If you we-re smart,
you didn't stay in any one pla-ce too long, not even if you we-re as he-avily ar-med as they we-re.
The Sar-ge se-emed to think it over for a mo-ment. “Be-lay that shit. We're he-re, we'll check it out."
Josh shot an angry glan-ce at Owen as if bla-ming him for no-ti-cing the thing to be-gin with. Owen
tur-ned away sa-ying “Sar-ge says check it out, we check it."
Owen kic-ked open his pas-sen-ger se-at do-or and step-ped out on-to the stre-et with his
Mi-ni-Beryl held re-ady. Josh fol-lo-wed re-luc-tantly clutc-hing his UZI in whi-te knuck-led hands. The
Sar-ge got out too but sta-yed by the van with its en-gi-ne still run-ning.
Owen wal-ked to-wards the am-bu-lan-ce as its light con-ti-nu-ed to spin sli-cing the night with its red
be-am. “We've got an of-fi-cer down,” he cal-led back at the Sar-ge.
Owen gently sat his Beryl down on the stre-et and drew one of his De-sert Eag-les. It wo-uld work
much bet-ter at po-int blank if the of-fi-cer tur-ned out to be a “de-ad-he-ad". He squ-at-ted over the
of-fi-cer's body. She was yo-ung and pro-bably in twen-ti-es from the lo-oks of her. It lo-oked as if she
had put up a go-od fight too, trying to pro-tect the res-cue wor-kers to the end. Se-ve-ral
“de-ad-he-ads” lay rot-ting aro-und her. Owen rol-led her over to lo-ok at her fa-ce and bad-ge. Lar-ge
chunks of flesh and uni-form we-re mis-sing from her sho-ul-ders and her thro-at had be-en gna-wed
open, her long blon-de ha-ir lay be-si-de her fa-ce in a blo-od mat-ted pony-ta-il. Even as he re-ad the
na-me on her bad-ge he he-ard the Sar-ge who had mo-ved up be-hind him whis-per “Lo-ret-ta."
The Sar-ge drop-ped to his kne-es be-si-de Owen and the body. His eyes glis-te-ned in the pa-le

glow of the stre-et lights.
"You knew her?” Owen as-ked.
"She's my grand-da-ugh-ter,” the Sar-ge mut-te-red we-akly.
"God ... I'm sorry."
"She's abo-ut to be a f-ing “de-ad-he-ad.” Josh war-ned.
Owen knew for ex-pe-ri-en-ce what was abo-ut to go down. He'd se-en it too many ti-mes be-fo-re.
"Josh, go and check the damn am-bu-lan-ce,” the Sar-ge or-de-red. “Owen and I will hand-le this.”
The Sar-ge lo-oked in-to Owen's eyes with a ple-ading sta-re.
"I'm sorry,” Owen of-fe-red aga-in, “but Josh is right.” He pres-sed the bar-rel of his De-sert Eag-le
to Lo-ret-ta's fo-re-he-ad and pul-led the trig-ger be-fo-re the Sar-ge had ti-me to mo-ve. The shot
ec-ho-ed in the empty stre-ets.
"Owen!” The Sar-ge yel-led. He swung his sa-wed off shot-gun up to be le-vel with Owen's fa-ce
even as Josh ope-ned up with his UZI. Owen rol-led to the si-de as the Sar-ge's shot-gun thun-de-red its
burst nar-rowly mis-sing him. He watc-hed the red blos-soms spro-uting ac-ross the Sar-ge's chest as he
stag-ge-red and top-pled over.
The am-bu-lan-ce do-or swung open be-hind Josh and a wo-man in a hos-pi-tal gown lun-ged out.
An oxy-gen mask dang-led abo-ut the wrink-led, gray skin of her neck. Her eyes we-re gla-zed but
fil-led with hun-ger. She was co-ve-red with lar-ge open so-res which le-aked a type of in-fec-ted, black
ooze in pla-ce of blo-od. She grab-bed Josh and the pa-ir when down hit-ting the pa-ve-ment hard. Josh
struck out at her punc-hing her in the fa-ce. Her no-se shat-te-red and ca-ved in-to her he-ad but she still
ma-na-ged to get her te-eth on-to Josh's che-ek and when her he-ad ro-se back up Josh's blo-od
drip-ped from her mo-uth. Josh how-led at the pa-in from the ho-le in fa-ce and threw her off him. He
le-apt over her and bas-hed his Uzi aga-in and aga-in in her he-ad un-til her skull crac-ked and red-dish
pulp po-ured out over and splas-hed on-to his hands.
Owen sto-od watc-hing it all in hor-ror. He sigh-ted his Eag-le ca-re-ful-ly and put a mercy ro-und
thro-ugh Josh's temp-le.
A soft mo-aning ro-se in the dis-tan-ce all aro-und him se-eming to co-me from everyw-he-re. Owen
wis-hed he co-uld con-vin-ce him-self it was just the wind but he knew bet-ter. The lo-cal
“de-ad-he-ads” had he-ard the shots and we-re on the-ir way for a la-te night snack if it co-uld be
fo-und.
Owen ma-de his way back the van and clim-bed in-to the dri-ver's se-at. He he-ard the dis-patc-her
yel-ling at him over the van's ra-dio. They had fa-iled to re-port in to the sta-ti-on on ti-me. He didn't
re-ach for the ra-dio tho-ugh. The first of the “de-ad-he-ads” we-re in sight now spil-ling down the
stre-et in front of the van as they lum-be-red to-wards him. He put the van in ge-ar and rev-ved the
en-gi-ne. The city was de-ad but he fi-gu-red he'd he-ad so-uth. Per-haps down the-re, in the sticks,
may-be hu-ma-nity still sto-od a chan-ce. He in-ten-ded to find out. He flo-ored the pe-dal and the van
ro-ared to me-et the mob.

THE END

3 - Hungry

Lucas lay in the ditch sta-ring with dis-be-li-ef at the me-tal spi-ke which pi-er-ced his lo-wer leg. At
le-ast he had ma-na-ged to stop scre-aming but the pa-in was al-most un-be-arab-le. Swe-at glis-te-ned
on skin des-pi-te the cold of the night. He knew he had to do so-met-hing. They we-re co-ming of that
he had no do-ubt. They didn't se-em to ha-ve ears but he knew they he-ard him all the sa-me. He
lo-oked aro-und for his 9mm and saw it la-ying a few fe-et away out of re-ach. He'd drop-ped it when
he'd stumb-led in-to the ditch.
He he-ard them run-ning thro-ugh the brush of the wo-ods to-wards him. He jer-ked his body in the
di-rec-ti-on of the gun. His fin-gers clo-sed abo-ut its grip as felt the spi-ke twist and te-ar free from his

flesh. He how-led from the pa-in aga-in and ne-arly blac-ked out as the big one's fa-ce pop-ped over the
si-de of the ditch. He lo-oked up in-to its gle-aming red eyes and purp-le slick, smo-oth skin. The
sphinc-ter of its mo-uth di-la-ted open re-ve-aling rows of ra-zor te-eth which se-emed to stretch all the
way down its thro-at as it his-sed at him.
Lucas lif-ted the pis-tol and put a shot bet-we-en its eyes. Shri-eking it eit-her pul-led or fell back
away from the ed-ge of the ditch. He do-ub-ted very much that the thing was de-ad. When Lu-cas had
be-en for-ced to ba-il out he'd had no idea he'd be pa-rac-hu-ting in-to Hell nor did he ha-ve any idea
what the fuck the-se things we-re but he knew one thing for su-re, they we-ren't na-tu-ral to the Earth.
At le-ast, not any part of the Earth he knew. He won-de-red if they we-re the re-ason for the “no fly”
zo-ne the Rus-si-ans had set up over this area that had got-ten his pla-ne shot down. May-be they we-re
so-me kind of “Red” ex-pe-ri-ment in bi-olo-gi-cal war-fa-re, but if so they we-re a mas-ter-pi-ece,
strong, fast, and de-adly.
A garg-led hiss ec-ho-ed in the night as the one he'd shot le-aned back over the ed-ge of the ditch
grin-ning at him. Then sud-denly the-re we-re three mo-re, le-aping down aro-und him whe-re he lay.
They car-ri-ed pri-mi-ti-ve spe-ars and rus-ted saw bla-des as we-apons in the-ir fo-ur fin-ge-red
mis-sha-pen hands.
Lucas crac-ked off three shots in the clo-sest one's chest sen-ding it re-eling back-wards le-aking
black pus and then they we-re on him. He felt the sto-ne tip of the se-cond one's spe-ar punch thro-ugh
his ster-num and lo-oked in-to the third's hungry eyes abo-ve the dro-oling ori-fi-ce on its fa-ce.
With the last of his strength, Lu-cas sho-ved his 9mm in-to his mo-uth and pul-led the trig-ger. The
bul-let exi-ted the back of his skull spra-ying the snow co-ve-red grass with bra-in-mat-ter.
The cre-atu-res his-sed and dan-ced abo-ut his corp-se. To-night they wo-uld be eating Ame-ri-can
fo-od for the first ti-me.

THE END

4 - Grave Watchers, Inc.

Steve ga-zed at the shot-gun res-ting in his lap, a ner-vo-us une-ase eating away at him. He had
ne-ver ca-red very much for fi-re-arms of any kind. He saw him-self as a thin-ker not a figh-ter. He ran a
fin-ger down the cold me-tal of the sa-wed-off bar-rel. The-re was no way out now, ha-ving ca-me this
far.
"Don't let the wa-iting get to you,” Chris sa-id flatly, his lar-ge ro-tund form perc-hed on a ne-arby
tombs-to-ne which ba-rely sup-por-ted his we-ight. He wo-re a hor-ribly out of fas-hi-on shirt with
co-lors so bright that they hurt Ste-ve's eyes. His black je-ans we-re splat-te-red with mud and his ha-ir
was black with a hint of gray, so oily it glis-te-ned in the rays of the set-ting sun.
Steve lo-oked aro-und at the gra-ve mar-kers so worn by ti-me that few still pos-ses-sed any
re-adab-le mar-kings. “Ye-ah,” Ste-ve ans-we-red, pus-hing his glas-ses back in-to pla-ce with a sing-le
thin fin-ger. The things had a bad ha-bit of sli-ding down his fa-ce but he didn't ha-ve the cash to get a
new pa-ir. His own ha-ir was a dis-he-ve-led mess of blond atop his he-ad and wo-re an old ratty Ali-en
Sex Fi-end T-shirt. Al-ways self-cons-ci-o-us, he tug-ged at its back un-com-for-tably.
"The old Fa-ir-vi-ew ce-me-tery,” was what pe-op-le cal-led this pla-ce. It had be-en fil-led be-yond
its li-mits and aban-do-ned ye-ars ago. Still, even back-wo-ods pla-ces li-ke this ne-eded to be
gu-ar-ded if the town was to avo-id the pla-gue cla-iming the world as its own.
"How did you get in-to this li-ne of work?” Ste-ve as-ked.
Chris sho-ok his M-16 at Ste-ve and as-ked, “You me-an this?"
Steve nod-ded.
"I fo-un-ded Gra-ve Watc-hers, son, three we-eks ago with a fri-end of mi-ne na-med John.
Re-mem-ber when the first re-ports of what was hap-pe-ning up north be-gan to show up on every
sta-ti-on and the shit re-al-ly hit the fan? The lo-cal news-cas-ters not re-al-ly be-li-eving the re-ports

they we-re re-ading?"
Again Ste-ve nod-ded, wis-hing Chris wo-uld get to the po-int.
"Well, when John and I saw tho-se re-ports, we we-re sit-ting on the co-uch in my li-ving ro-om,
bul-lshit-ting and be-ing pis-sed off abo-ut the Sun-day ga-me be-ing in-ter-rup-ted. We got a drunk.”
Chris la-ug-hed, the mo-unds of his flesh rol-ling with the mo-ve-ment.
"We star-ted as-king our-sel-ves if what was hap-pe-ning up the-re co-uld hap-pen down he-re in the
so-uth too. At first, we we-re sca-red shit-less, but then we star-ted thin-king. May-be, just may-be,
down he-re it co-uld be stop-ped be-fo-re it star-ted ... If so-me-one we-re to watch the gra-ve-yards,
the mor-gu-es, and put tho-se bas-tards back down in-to Hell be-fo-re they got lo-ose. John and me,
well, we we-re both ex-mi-li-tary so we ran an ad in the pa-pers to do just that. We got mo-re
res-pon-ses from ma-yors and city of-fi-ci-als than we knew what to do with so the com-pany was born.
Our fe-es we-re monst-ro-us, but this is a monst-ro-us job. We hi-red on ext-ra help, had to, from job
to job, and a few per-ma-nents.
Now we're co-ve-ring mo-re than six co-un-ti-es, kid. You're go-ing to be re-al happy with yo-ur
payc-heck when we get out of he-re if you hand-le yo-ur-self well eno-ugh and don't get ca-re-less."
"Has ... Has an-yo-ne ever be-en kil-led do-ing this?” Ste-ve stam-me-red, lo-oking away from
Chris's sta-re.
"Sure. It hap-pens in al-most every job kid,” Chris chuck-led when he saw Ste-ve's tremb-ling hands,
the knuck-les gro-wing whi-te from the grip he had on his rif-le. “Only the stu-pid and un-lucky get ate or
in-fec-ted, kid. Tho-se who set up for the job in the wrong pla-ce whe-re so-me of tho-se things co-uld
flank'em or bra-va-do fil-led punks with balls too big for the-ir own go-od. They're the ones that die.”
Chris wa-ved a hand thro-ugh the air in a ges-tu-re of con-fi-den-ce. “We ain't got not-hin’ to worry
abo-ut he-re. Fa-ir-vi-ew's so old I do-ubt any of ‘em will even be in-tact eno-ugh to wa-ke up."
Chris sta-red at Ste-ve who se-emed to be figh-ting so-me kind of in-ner bat-tle with him-self,
blin-king when Ste-ve's 12-gu-age was thrust wit-hin an inch of his fo-re-he-ad. He lo-oked up the
bar-rel in dis-be-li-ef as Ste-ve sto-od abo-ve him.
"Which kind of punk was my fat-her?” Ste-ve as-ked his vo-ice fil-led with a an-ger and hard
de-ter-mi-na-ti-on.
"Damn, I tho-ught you lo-oked kind of fa-mi-li-ar kid. “He was on that job up in Can-ton, wasn't he?
We lost of a lot of go-od men up the-re."
Steve pum-ped a ro-und in-to the cham-ber. “What hap-pe-ned?"
"We we-ren't pre-pa-red. It was one of our first big jobs, ya see? I don't think a lot of pe-op-le to-ok
it se-ri-o-usly. So-me-ti-mes ya can't be-li-eve so-met-hing li-ke this wit-ho-ut se-e-ing it with yo-ur
own eyes. Hund-reds and hund-reds of tho-se things dug them-sel-ves up all aro-und us, wa-ve af-ter
wa-ve. Every-body pa-nic-ked. We all got se-pa-ra-ted in the cha-os. If it hadn't be-en for John's
ra-dio, no-ne of us wo-uld ha-ve got-ten out of the-re ali-ve. As it was, we we-re ba-rely ab-le to hold
the things long eno-ugh for the Na-ti-onal Gu-ard to show and help out."
"Good ans-wer,” Ste-ve grin-ned, let-ting the gun drop a bit. “But you still let it hap-pen.” He sa-id,
jer-king the gun back up and squ-e-ezing the trig-ger. Chris's fa-ce was torn to shreds by the
scat-ters-hot we-apon, bits of blo-od and bo-ne ra-ining on-to the gro-und aro-und the tombs-to-ne he
sat on. His al-most he-ad-less corp-se tot-te-red of a se-cond, then fell with a lo-ud thump to the dirt.
Steve fell to his kne-es, sme-aring the blo-od that had spat-te-red on his fa-ce with the back of his
swe-aty hand. Te-ars bur-ned in his eyes. “Bas-tard,” Ste-ve sob-bed, “You lo-usy bas-tard, you
sho-uldn't ha-ve let it hap-pen."
In that mo-ment, he did not he-ar the low so-und of muf-fled mo-aning aro-und him. He pa-id no
at-ten-ti-on to the first hand as it to-re thro-ugh the dirt not fi-ve fe-et from whe-re he sat, its de-ca-ying
fin-gers gras-ping at the air. Still Ste-ve ne-ver mo-ved, he only wept. He cri-ed and cri-ed and
scre-amed.

THE END

5 - C-Zone

The storm was fi-er-ce. Ligh-te-ning cras-hed in the air ne-ar the he-li-cop-ter. The pi-lot was
strug-gling des-pe-ra-tely to ke-ep the bird aloft and mo-ving in the ga-le for-ce winds.
"Will you lo-ok at that!” John exc-la-imed from his se-at by the open si-de do-or of the chop-per.
"What the hell is it?” Gary as-ked, pe-ering out thro-ugh the ra-in.
John grab-bed the yo-ung man's sho-ul-der and po-in-ted down-wards. “Do you see him?” John
yel-led over the ro-ar of the bla-des.
"Who?"
"There. Right the-re,” John po-in-ted aga-in. Gary squ-in-ted and su-re eno-ugh, he saw it. A Char-lie
so-li-der perc-hed on a high tree limb li-ke an ape. The man held no we-apon and ma-de no mo-ve to
try to con-ce-al him-self from the Ame-ri-can he-li-cop-ter. He sta-red up at them with yel-low eyes
which se-emed to glow in the dark-ness of the storm.
"Jesus, is he fuc-king crazy or so-met-hing?” Gary as-ked.
John star-ted to ans-wer but Cap-ta-in Pe-ter Ste-vens shot him a lo-ok from whe-re he sat on the
ot-her si-de of the chop-per's car-go spa-ce.
"You co-uld say that,” John shrug-ged and chan-ged the su-bj-ect. “You ever be-en out this far
be-fo-re?"
"No! Hell, no,” Gary la-ug-hed, “I just ship-ped in a co-up-le of days ago.” The yo-ung so-li-der
glan-ced back in-to the dis-tan-ce, se-arc-hing for the man in the tree, who was now no mo-re than a
speck on the ho-ri-zon. “Are they all li-ke that?” he as-ked John.
John sho-ok his he-ad si-lently.
"Captain!” the pi-lot cal-led. Cap-ta-in Ste-vens mo-ved up front, ta-king a se-at be-si-de the
flus-te-red flyboy. “The winds are too strong, sir. I'm go-ing to ha-ve to set her down!"
"No!” Ste-vens scre-amed, “That is not an op-ti-on, so-li-der. Ke-ep this bird he-aded so-uth!"
"I can't do that!” the pi-lot ans-we-red, “We eit-her set her down or the wind will set her down for us.
It's all I can do to just ke-ep her up, sir!"
"Damn it!” Ste-vens snap-ped and tur-ned to fa-ce John. “You think we can hand-le it down the-re,
Ser-ge-ant?"
"Don't know!” John sho-uted, “But it's pro-bably bet-ter than be-ing splat-te-red all over the jung-le
flo-or!"
Stevens tur-ned back to the pi-lot. “Okay, ta-ke us down,” he or-de-red.
The he-li-cop-ter buc-ked aga-inst the wind as it star-ted its des-cent, tos-sing its oc-cu-pants
aro-und. John and Gary fo-ught not to sli-de out the open si-de.
The he-li-cop-ter was sud-denly sho-ved to the right by a po-wer-ful blast of wind. Its bla-des struck
a ne-arby tree. The pi-lot scre-amed as the bird ca-re-ened out of cont-rol.
The gro-und met them fast. The he-li-cop-ter thum-ped in-to the muddy so-il, flip-ped on-to its si-de
rol-ling over and over aga-in.
When it ca-me to a stop, John fo-und him-self surp-ri-sed to be ali-ve. He'd suf-fe-red so-me cuts
and bru-ises but was ot-her-wi-se in-tact. Gary lay ne-ar him and lo-oked to be in much the sa-me
sha-pe. John righ-ted him-self trying to stand. “Is every-body okay?"
Gary mo-aned a yes, but ne-it-her the cap-ta-in nor the pi-lot ans-we-red. John hel-ped Gary up, he
lo-oked in-to the pi-lot com-part-ment of the chop-per. The cap-ta-in lay on the me-tal flo-or, his left leg
bent at an odd ang-le. He was ali-ve tho-ugh, John co-uld see the ever so slight ri-se and fall of his chest
as he bre-at-hed. The pi-lot, ho-we-ver, was not so lucky. A pi-ece of the tree the bla-des had ma-uled
jut-ted thro-ugh the for-ward win-dow and in-to his fa-ce. His hel-met was pus-hed back by the wo-od
and blo-od po-ured from the ins-tantly fa-tal wo-und.
"Help me with the Cap-ta-in!” John ur-ged. To-get-her he and Gary clim-bed out of the wrec-ka-ge
drag-ging Ste-vens with them. When they we-re a sa-fe dis-tan-ce away, John stop-ped. “Wa-it he-re,”
he or-de-red, le-aving the yo-ung so-li-der with the Cap-ta-in in his arms.

John ran back to the he-li-cop-ter and clim-bed in-si-de. He grab-bed everyt-hing he co-uld carry, a
ra-dio kit, a few rif-les, a first aid kit, and fi-eld ra-ti-ons. He sho-ved the sup-pli-es in-to car-rying
packs and to-ok one last lo-ok at the pi-lot's gro-tes-que still twitc-hing corp-se, and bol-ted from the
wreck.
He tos-sed Gary so-me of the sal-va-ge as he ap-pro-ac-hed. Gary ca-ught it gra-ce-ful-ly, slin-ging
the packs on-to his sho-ul-ders.
John chec-ked the clip in the M-16 he car-ri-ed and re-adi-ed the we-apon. “Best be pre-pa-red,
son, it only gets wor-se from he-re."
"Are we be-hind enemy li-nes?” Gary as-ked, mo-ving to lift the Cap-ta-in aga-in. John grab-bed the
Cap-ta-in's ot-her si-de tos-sing one of the man's limp arms up and aro-und his own neck. “Wor-se, kid.
We're in a C-Zo-ne."
"A what?” Gary blin-ked.
"I'll exp-la-in la-ter. Get it to-get-her so-li-der! We got-ta mo-ve!” John ur-ged.
Something how-led ne-arby in the night.
"They must ha-ve se-en us go down! We've got to find a de-fen-sib-le po-si-ti-on be-fo-re they find
us!” John con-ti-nu-ed.
John and Gary ran wit-ho-ut stop-ping for ne-arly a full ho-ur be-fo-re they stumb-led upon the old
mi-ne. Its on-ce grand ent-ran-ce now re-semb-led lit-tle mo-re than the mo-uth of a ca-ve.
As they stop-ped at its ent-ran-ce, John's he-ad per-ked up. “Get re-ady, Gary,” he ca-uti-oned,
re-le-asing his grip on the Cap-ta-in. “He-re they co-me,” he sa-id al-most too calmly.
A wo-man le-apt from the den-se fo-li-age of the jung-le to Gary's right. Ne-it-her John nor Gary had
ex-pec-ted an at-tac-ker to be so clo-se. She wo-re only a few filthy scraps of rag. They we-re all that
re-ma-ined of her clot-hes.
The na-ils of her fin-gers we-re un-na-tu-ral-ly long and ri-gid. They slas-hed at Gary's thro-at. The
yo-ung so-li-der nar-rowly duc-ked un-der her swing. She his-sed and spat as fo-aming whi-te sa-li-va
bub-bled from her open lips. Then Gary no-ti-ced her eyes and fro-ze whe-re he sto-od in ter-ror. Her
eyes glo-wed li-ke a cat's, fe-ral and hungry. She scre-amed as if in pa-in and hur-led her-self at him
aga-in.
John fi-red po-int blank, his M-16 chat-te-ring, ne-arly cut-ting the wo-man in half. “Get the Cap-ta-in
in-to the ca-ve,” he yel-led and tur-ned to-wards the jung-le.
Gary he-ard John's gre-na-de la-unc-her thum-ping be-hind him as he pul-led the Cap-ta-in in-si-de.
The exp-lo-si-ons lit the night, as things not al-to-get-her hu-man cri-ed out in the fla-mes. Everyt-hing
se-emed to be hap-pe-ning so fast that by dawn, Gary was a mess of ner-ves.
The Cap-ta-in awo-ke as the sun ro-se over the jung-le. John hel-ped him set his bro-ken leg and
sho-wed him the da-ma-ged ra-dio equ-ip-ment lo-oted from the wrec-ka-ge of the crash. Gary sat by
the ca-ve's ent-ran-ce la-ug-hing as te-ars ran down his che-eks. John ho-ped the kid wo-uld hold
to-get-her, tho-ugh the kid was be-gin-ning to try his ner-ves.
The ca-ve was at-tac-ked twi-ce mo-re be-fo-re night-fall. Each ti-me Gary won-de-red why the
enemy ne-ver re-tur-ned fi-re, then he wo-uld re-mem-ber the wo-man and shud-der. The enemy didn't
ne-ed guns.
As night fell, Gary still sat ne-ar the mo-uth of the ca-ve, watc-hing for mo-ve-ment in the sha-dows
out-si-de. “Hey, John,” He yel-led, “Wo-uld you pass me a clip?"
John le-aned aga-inst the ca-ve wall se-ve-ral fe-et de-eper in-si-de, watc-hing the Cap-ta-in, Pe-ter
Ste-vens, work fran-ti-cal-ly on the squ-ad's ra-dio. He felt the ten-si-on of the past twenty-fo-ur ho-urs
we-ig-hing on him he-avily. “Get it yo-ur-self, as-sho-le,” he grun-ted at Gary.
Peter lo-oked up from his work, an-no-yed by the pa-ir's bic-ke-ring. He tos-sed Gary a clip from his
own belt. “He-re,” he sa-id flatly.
"Thanks,” Gary la-ug-hed pop-ping the clip in-to his M-16. “It's go-od to know so-me-one ca-res
abo-ut us ma-king it out of he-re ali-ve."
John grit-ted his te-eth and pic-ked up his own rif-le. As he star-ted to jo-in Gary at the ca-ve's
mo-uth, Pe-ter grab-bed his leg. John lo-oked down at the we-ary of-fi-cer.

"Gary fe-els it too,” Pe-ter as-su-red him, “He just has a dif-fe-rent way of co-ping than we do. Try
not to kill each ot-her, okay?” John nod-ded and con-ti-nu-ed on. He wal-ked over to Gary and to-ok a
se-at by the yo-un-ger so-li-der. “Lo-ok...” He star-ted to say, but out-si-de a de-mo-nic howl went up
in-to the night.
"Shit!” Gary scre-amed as the first cre-atu-re ca-me char-ging out of the jung-le. It wo-re the
tat-te-red uni-form of a Char-lie in-fantry-man. Whi-te fo-am bub-bled from its mo-uth and its yel-low
eyes glo-wed in the pa-le star-light.
Gary ope-ned up, put-ting a do-zen ro-unds in-to its chest. The in-hu-man thing spun with the im-pact
and lan-ded, un-mo-ving, with its fa-ce in the dirt. Se-ve-ral ot-her cre-atu-res ca-me bo-un-ding
to-wards the ca-ve. So-me wo-re the rags of Vi-et-na-me-se ci-vi-li-ans, ot-hers wo-re US army
fa-ti-gu-es, and so-me wo-re not-hing at all.
"Jesus,” John he-ard him-self ple-ad. Gary ope-ned fi-re aga-in at the mass of men, wo-men, and
child-ren on full auto.
"What are you wa-itin’ for, Pops? Sho-ot the damn things!"
John bra-ced his rif-le aga-inst his sho-ul-der and to-ok aim at a mid-dle-aged ma-le who wo-re the
blo-odi-ed and so-iled tu-nic of a far-mer. He pul-led the trig-ger and pla-ced a ro-und in the mid-dle of
the thing's fo-re-he-ad. The ot-hers we-re clo-ser to the ca-ve now, so clo-se, John co-uld smell the-ir
put-rid bre-ath. They ran with lo-ping stri-des li-ke ani-mals.
Gary pop-ped his spent clip. It clat-te-red on the ca-ve flo-or as he slap-ped anot-her ho-me. No
ti-me to aim, John swept the cle-aring in front the ca-ve with hot le-ad as Gary fol-lo-wed su-it.
The most dis-tur-bing part of the ex-pe-ri-en-ce was the way the things how-led and cri-ed out in
pa-in un-til they we-re mor-tal-ly wo-un-ded. Then they wo-uld fall si-lent with an al-most se-re-ne
lo-ok on the-ir fe-atu-res as they met de-ath.
It was over as qu-ickly as it be-gan. Ele-ven fresh bo-di-es lay atop the al-re-ady cold and de-ca-ying
pi-le of corp-ses out-si-de and it was only a mat-ter of ti-me un-til still mo-re wo-uld co-me.
"That was too fuc-king clo-se,” Gary bab-bled, wi-ping swe-at from his brow with the back of his
hand. “Way too clo-se."
Peter lim-ped over, figh-ting with his bro-ken leg, and fell aga-inst the wall ne-ar the pa-ir. They both
eyed him in-tently. He sho-ok his he-ad in si-len-ce. The ra-dio was be-yond re-pa-ir.
John fo-und him-self wis-hing they'd all di-ed in the crash, may-be they wo-uld've be-en luc-ki-er that
way. To go down be-hind enemy li-nes was bad, but it was not-hing com-pa-red to the hor-rors of a
con-ta-mi-na-ti-on zo-ne, he was fin-ding out. He cur-sed the big boys back ho-me for ever sin-king to
bio-che-mi-cal war-fa-re.
"Shit, man. Are you su-re you can't fix it?” Gary snap-ped at Pe-ter.
"Even if I'd be-en ab-le to, do you re-al-ly think they'd let us out of he-re. Hell, we're pro-bably
al-re-ady car-rying the vi-rus in our systems,” Pe-ter ans-we-red grimly.
Gary lo-oked as if wan-ted to gun down Pe-ter right then and the-re, but ins-te-ad he slam-med his
fist in-to the jag-ged rock of the ca-ve wall. Tra-ces of blo-od glit-te-red on the rock whe-re his hand
had struck.
"What do we do now?” John as-ked to no one in par-ti-cu-lar. “We can't stay he-re. Even-tu-al-ly,
we're go-ing to run out of am-mo.” Pe-ter's blo-ods-hot eyes met John's and in that ins-tant, John co-uld
tell the man was al-re-ady de-ad in-si-de. Ho-pe-les-sness can do that to a man, even the best man.
"We can't go out the-re,” Gary sa-id ges-tu-ring to-wards the jung-le. “Tho-se things are too fast ...
And the-re are so many of them."
"I don't think we ha-ve a cho-ice,” John sig-hed, al-re-ady ta-king com-mand.
"Sure,” Pe-ter nod-ded, only half lis-te-ning to the pa-ir talk. His ga-ze tur-ned back to the bro-ken
ra-dio and lin-ge-red the-re. “You guys go on. I'll catch up.” Pe-ter han-ded John the last of his M-16
am-mo. “You'll ne-ed all the fi-re-po-wer you can get,” he sa-id pres-sing the belt of clips in-to John's
hand. John to-ok the am-mo and got to his fe-et.
"C'mon, Gary. Let's get mo-ving be-fo-re the next wa-ve co-mes."
The yo-un-ger man lo-oked at Pe-ter then at John, and got to his fe-et. He wasn't as stu-pid as he

so-me-ti-mes ac-ted.
"Let's get mo-vin’ then,” he sa-id and sprin-ted in-to the night. John fol-lo-wed. Mi-nu-tes la-ter, they
he-ard the bark of a 9mm si-de-arm ec-ho-ing be-hind them in the dis-tant ca-ve. John felt te-ars well up
in his eyes, but sa-id not-hing. Gary pre-ten-ded not to no-ti-ce as they ma-de the-ir way thro-ugh the
tre-es.
"Big shots back ho-me don't ha-ve a fuc-kin’ clue what they're do-in'. If this shit gets out of one of the
zo-nes, the who-le world's do-ne for, man. The worst part is they don't ca-re,” John ans-we-red, “The
pre-si-dent's de-ter-mi-ned not to lo-se fa-ce. We're the fre-akin’ USA! He ain't abo-ut to let so-me
lit-tle red third world na-ti-on kick our ass, no mat-ter what it costs. So what do-es he do? He has the
lab boys co-ok up this damn vi-rus. It's spre-ad thro-ugh bo-dily flu-ids, swe-at, blo-od, sa-li-va,
wha-te-ver; if even so much as a drop of it gets in-to yo-ur system, you're fuc-ked. It mes-ses with yo-ur
ner-ves ca-using a sta-te of cons-tant pa-in un-til you go in-sa-ne and lash out at an-yo-ne who hap-pens
to be ne-ar you, ho-ping that they'll kill you in self-de-fen-se be-fo-re you kill them. It's nasty so-me shit,
man."
"How the hell do-es a grunt li-ke you know abo-ut it?” Gary as-ked.
"Peter told me abo-ut it. He had cle-aran-ce and knew we wo-uld be pas-sing over a zo-ne on this
trip.” John ans-we-red, “A lot of go-od kno-wing did us, eh?"
Something mo-ved in the jung-le up ahe-ad. Both John and Gary to-ok co-ver, blen-ding in-to to
the-ir sur-ro-un-dings. A dog stag-ge-red down the tra-il to-wards them. It qu-ite ob-vi-o-usly car-ri-ed
the vi-rus. Red li-qu-id le-aked from its eyes and no-se, as it snor-ted in pa-in. It ma-de it a few mo-re
steps to-wards them then fell over on its si-de whim-pe-ring.
"Oh, God,” Gary cri-ed, then threw up in the dirt.
John wal-ked over to the ani-mal and pres-sed the bar-rel of his rif-le to its he-ad. The dog's he-ad
splat-te-red from the qu-ick burst spra-ying John with fur and bo-ne.
"Oh, God. John, I can't do this,” Gary wa-iled.
"It's okay, Gary, you don't ha-ve to,” John sa-id tur-ning the rif-le on the yo-un-ger man and mo-wed
him down whe-re he sto-od. “You can thank me in the next li-fe,” John whis-pe-red.
The jung-le erup-ted to li-fe with the howls of the cur-sed. They'd he-ard the gun-fi-re and fo-und
John's tra-il. He cros-sed him-self, then set off at a run to-wards US li-nes. His thro-at felt dry and a
trick-le of fo-am emer-ged from the ed-ges of his mo-uth. He smi-led and ran on, his rif-le in hands, as
he how-led.

THE END

6 - Unnatural Endings

The jung-le night was hot and muggy. Nor-mal-ly, Jack wo-uld ne-ver ha-ve ris-ked his li-fe by
ligh-ting up whi-le on watch in the fi-eld but a lot of things had chan-ged re-cently. His ligh-ter fla-red
le-aving the oran-ge glow of his ci-ga-ret-te as he in-ha-led in its wa-ke. He co-uldn't tas-te the smo-ke
any-mo-re and it to-ok a lot of ef-fort to bre-ath but old ha-bits die hard. He lo-oked down at the
tat-te-red and blo-ods-ta-ined uni-form co-ve-ring the bul-let ho-les in his chest. It se-emed a lot of
things di-ed hard the-se days.
Before it had hap-pe-ned to him-self and Nick, Jack tho-ught the ru-mors we-re just a lo-ad of
bul-lshit li-ke every sol-di-er he-ars in the fi-eld. Crap ma-de up to frigh-ten the “new-bi-es", but he-re
he was: the wal-king de-ad.
Nick lay in the fox-ho-le with him, outst-retc-hed and spraw-led on his back. Nick's gray skin
glis-te-ned in the mo-on-light and smel-led li-ke rot-ten me-at. At le-ast Jack ima-gi-ned that it did. His
fa-ce was a mess from whe-re shrap-nel from the mi-ne that had kil-led him had struck him in the
mo-uth. His che-eks we-re puf-fed out mas-ses of jag-ged flesh and his lips and te-eth we-re al-most
comp-le-tely go-ne le-aving only a ga-ping ho-le. In-sects buz-zed abo-ut him, la-ying the-ir eggs in the

wo-unds. Nick ope-ned his eyes and set up. He grun-ted an unin-tel-li-gib-le so-und trying to spe-ak
which ca-used black, put-rid pus to spray the ho-le in fa-ce. It dang-led li-ke dro-ol from his chin as
Jack met his rep-ro-ach-ful ga-ze.
"Oh, shut up. The smo-king can't kill me now,” Jack la-ug-hed.
Nick shrug-ged, ad-mit-ting de-fe-at on this po-int and la-id back down to lo-ok up at the stars.
Anot-her muf-fled garg-ling no-ise erup-ted from his ho-le.
Jack sho-ok his he-ad. “No, I don't ha-ve any new ide-as. I think it may be the only way man."
Jack and Nick knew they co-uldn't go back to ba-se camp. If the ru-mors abo-ut the wal-king de-ad
we-re true of which they we-re un-li-ving pro-of, then the sto-ri-es abo-ut the co-ver up wo-uld be true
too. If they marc-hed in-to ba-se camp, they wo-uldn't be of-fe-red an ho-no-rab-le disc-har-ge and
ship-ped off on the next chop-per ho-me. No, the spe-ci-al ops wo-uld des-cend on them li-ke fli-es
and most li-kely turn them in-to a ni-ce ga-so-li-ne co-ve-red bon-fi-re. The army wasn't ta-king any
chan-ces. If word got back ho-me that the new re-ge-ne-ra-ti-ve na-no-vi-ru-ses now stan-dard is-sue
for all front li-ne fi-eld tro-ops we-re ca-using to Ame-ri-can sol-di-ers to be-co-me wal-king
night-ma-res stra-ight out of Night of the Li-ving De-ad, the Ame-ri-can pub-lic wo-uld go ape and the
big boys of the army wo-uld be in hot wa-ter to say the le-ast. No, Jack and Nick we-re stuck out he-re
be-hind enemy li-nes. The-ir only op-ti-ons we-re to find a way to die or stay on the run figh-ting the
enemy un-til eit-her the-ir bo-di-es we-re shot to pi-eces or they fi-nal-ly rot-ted too much to mo-ve.
Jack won-de-red if even then they wo-uld con-ti-nue to think and li-ve, if you co-uld call it that, li-ke
they we-re now.
Jack tos-sed asi-de the butt of his smo-ke and lit up anot-her. “Nick, it's the only way man."
Nick sat up aga-in, a whe-ezing so-und garg-ling in his thro-at and lo-oked at Jack. Jack nod-ded.
“Let's do it then man and get it over with."
Jack ope-ned up the-ir packs and dug aro-und in them un-til he fo-und the C-4 they car-ri-ed for
knoc-king out brid-ges. He re-ac-hed down and pul-led his kni-fe from his bo-ot and went to work on
Nick first. Nick mo-aned and squ-ir-med as Jack sli-ced open his chest and crac-ked open Nick's ribs.
Nick's or-gans slid out slightly as Jack wor-ked but Jack pus-hed them back in-si-de as he cram-med in
the exp-lo-si-ves. When he was do-ne, Nick did the sa-me for him. They set the de-to-na-tors to go off
si-mul-ta-ne-o-usly. Ten mi-nu-tes on each. Ti-me eno-ugh for go-odb-yes, pra-yers, and a last smo-ke.
Jack lit what he ho-ped wo-uld in-de-ed be his last smo-ke. To-get-her they watc-hed the ti-mers tick
down as Jack smo-ked. Just be-fo-re the ti-mers clic-ked ze-ro, Nick lo-oked in-to Jack's eyes as
bub-bles fo-amed in his ho-le of a mo-uth and a string of pus flew out.
"I ho-pe it works too buddy,” Jack whis-pe-red be-fo-re the fox-ho-le was fil-led with a se-aring
he-at and whi-te light. The jung-le sho-ok with thun-der to be rep-la-ced by si-len-ce. The only so-und
the buz-zing of in-sects in the dawn. Not-hing mo-ved in the fox-ho-le as the sun be-gan to climb abo-ve
the sur-ro-un-ding mo-un-ta-ins.

THE END

V- Zombies II - Inhuman

1 - Evolution Like Lightning

Michael blin-ked and lo-oked aro-und. They we-re go-ne. The pack of de-ad cre-atu-res which had
ne-arly ma-na-ged to sur-ro-und him in-tent on ma-king him the-ir next me-al was now-he-re to be
se-en. His he-art was thun-de-ring in his chest and he re-ac-hed up to to-uch the fresh swe-at drip-ping
from his ha-ir as it be-gan to sink in. The de-ad we-ren't the only thing that was mis-sing. Everyt-hing
aro-und him had chan-ged.
He'd be-en stan-ding on his front porch trying des-pe-ra-tely to get back in-si-de his own
bar-ri-ca-ded ho-use with the sup-pli-es he'd lo-oted from what re-ma-ined of the lo-cal gro-cery

sto-re. The de-ad had fol-lo-wed him ho-me and had be-en clo-sing in. All he co-uld re-mem-ber was
thin-king he'd ne-ver get the locks un-do-ne in ti-me and that he ne-eded to just drop everyt-hing and
run. Now he sto-od in the mid-dle of a city stre-et as bar-ren and de-ad as the ones in his ho-me-town
with skyscra-pers lo-oming abo-ve him.
A wo-man's scre-am rip-ped him from his con-fu-si-on as she ro-un-ded the stre-et cor-ner and
ca-me run-ning in-to vi-ew. Her clot-hes we-re rag-ged and it was cle-ar the end of hu-ma-nity hadn't
be-en as kind to her as it had to him. He-re in the city, or whe-re-ver the hell this was, it must be har-der
to sur-vi-ve than just be-ing bo-ar-ded up in yo-ur own ho-use alo-ne. Fi-ve of the de-ad cre-atu-res,
two wo-men and three men, ca-me bo-un-ding aro-und the cor-ner af-ter her. Blo-od and dro-ol flew
from the-ir snar-ling mo-uths as they clo-sed in on the wo-man.
Michael had no we-apon. He'd drop-ped his .38 on his porch along with everyt-hing el-se as he'd fled
still he co-uldn't just stand by and watch her die. He scre-amed what he ho-ped so-un-ded li-ke a bat-tle
cry and char-ged the de-ad things, punc-hing the le-ad cre-atu-re in the fa-ce.
As his fist ma-de con-tact, two things se-emed to hap-pen at on-ce. The cre-atu-re's he-ad
exp-lo-ded in a burst of bo-ne and bra-in mat-ter and ti-me se-emed to slow down. Mic-ha-el watc-hed
in awe and hor-ror as the blo-od ap-pe-ared to flo-at in the air un-til it fi-nal-ly be-gan to fe-el gra-vity
pul-ling it to the stre-et. The ot-her cre-atu-res and the wo-man we-re ba-rely mo-ving. Mic-ha-el knew
he must be go-ing mad but sta-yed fo-cu-sed on the task at hand. By wha-te-ver mi-rac-le the le-ad
cre-atu-re was de-ad but the-re we-re still fo-ur mo-re and only one of him. He spot-ted a ti-re rod lying
amidst the lit-ter co-ve-ring the stre-et and ran for it.
Snatching it up, he re-tur-ned to the cre-atu-res. No-ne had mo-ved mo-re than a few inc-hes at best.
Dri-ven by an ins-tinct to stay ali-ve and a gro-wing frust-ra-ti-on at not un-ders-tan-ding what was
go-ing on, he to-re in-to them, po-un-ding each in turn un-til the things we-re ba-rely not-hing mo-re than
stan-ding pi-les of blo-ody pulp. When he stop-ped mo-ving all fi-ve col-lap-sed to the gro-und. The
wo-man didn't lo-ok re-li-eved tho-ugh.
She sta-red at him as if he we-re a de-mon who had ap-pe-ared out of thin air and scre-amed aga-in.
"Its okay I am not go-ing to hurt you,” he sa-id as he tri-ed to calm her down.
"What the hell are you?” she gas-ped.
"My na-me is Mic-ha-el,” he whis-pe-red mo-ving clo-ser to her. She sto-od the-re sob-bing as she
con-ti-nu-ed to sta-re at him. He to-ok her in his arms both to com-fort her and him-self. It'd be-en so
long sin-ce he'd se-en anot-her li-ving per-son. He didn't fe-el her kni-fe sli-de up thro-ugh his ribs un-til
it was too la-te. He lo-oked down at the gro-wing red sta-in on the front of his t-shirt. He he-ard her
scre-am so-met-hing li-ke “die you fre-aking mons-ter!” in slow mo-ti-on for what felt li-ke an eter-nity
as she twis-ted the kni-fe bla-de de-eper and de-eper un-til he fell and the dark-ness emb-ra-ced him.

THE END

2 - Inhuman

Something thum-ped in the dark-ness of the wa-re-ho-use. Thor-ne awo-ke with a start his hand
grab-bing up the .38 which lay ne-ar his sle-eping bag. Ins-tinc-ti-vely he clo-sed his eyes on-ce mo-re
and re-ac-hed out with his mind scan-ning the bu-il-ding for the tho-ughts of ot-hers. A cold shud-der
ran thro-ugh him and he gri-ma-ced with dis-gust as he felt the Ho-les. Thor-ne had la-be-led the De-ad
“ho-les” af-ter the first ti-me he'd scan-ned one of them. The-ir minds we-re just ac-ti-ve eno-ugh for him
to fe-el but bar-ren of tho-ught and ter-rib-le to to-uch as the emp-ti-ness in them se-emed to go on
fo-re-ver. The-re we-re three of them clo-se by and mo-ving in his di-rec-ti-on from whe-re the
wa-re-ho-use's ma-in do-ors led out on-to the docks.
Thorne bre-at-hed a sigh of re-li-ef. He co-uld de-al with three of them if it ca-me to that but the
wa-re-ho-use was a hu-ge pla-ce with mo-re than one way out. With luck, he'd be ab-le to dod-ge them
al-to-get-her. He got up and qu-i-etly gat-he-red as much of his ge-ar as he co-uld with the ho-pe of

slip-ping away long be-fo-re the de-ad stumb-led on-to him.
A burst of wind blew by him so po-wer-ful it ne-arly threw him from his fe-et. Thor-ne sto-od in the
sha-dows won-de-ring what had just hap-pe-ned. Wind didn't blow in-do-ors. He re-ac-hed out aga-in
to dis-co-ver the mind of so-me-one el-se very much ali-ve. It was full of ra-ge at the ho-les yet the-re
was an un-derl-ying sen-se of ple-asu-re in its tho-ughts.
Somehow the mind had just ap-pe-ared ne-ar the ho-les. Wa-it ... Now the-re we-re only two ho-les
... No, all the ho-les had va-nis-hed. Thor-ne felt a gust of wind on his fa-ce and in front of him sto-od a
yo-ung man dres-sed in stre-et clot-hes hol-ding a mac-he-te which drip-ped blo-od on-to the wo-oden
flo-or. The man smi-led of-fe-ring him a hand. “Hi, I'm Na-te.
Couldn't help but no-ti-ce you on my way in. I tho-ught may-be you co-uld use so-me help."
Thorne lo-oked Na-te in the eye and spo-ke a sing-le word, “Sle-ep."
Nate col-lap-sed tumb-ling over as if struck by an in-vi-sib-le blow to the he-ad. Yan-king so-me
ro-pe out of his back-pack, Thor-ne knelt by Na-te and hur-ri-edly ti-ed the man's hands and fe-et. It
was a dan-ge-ro-us chan-ce to ta-ke. Mo-re of the de-ad wo-uld su-rely be co-ming if the ones Na-te
had sla-ugh-te-red co-uld find this pla-ce yet Thor-ne didn't see any ot-her op-ti-on. If he simply left
Na-te be-hind, the yo-ung man co-uld pro-ve far mo-re de-adly to him the shamb-ling flesh-eaters if
what Thor-ne sus-pec-ted abo-ut him we-re even par-ti-al-ly true. This man had to be
dealt with now. The-re was no way aro-und it.
Nate wo-ke up and Thor-ne co-uld tell wit-ho-ut even to-uc-hing his mind that the yo-ung man was
trying to mo-ve. “Don't bot-her,” he whis-pe-red, “I've shut down se-lec-ted por-ti-ons of yo-ur bra-in.
You're not go-ing anyw-he-re so-on. Oh and you're al-so ti-ed up,” Thor-ne ad-ded al-most as an
af-tert-ho-ught.
"What the hell are you?” Na-te as-ked.
"I was just abo-ut to ask you the sa-me thing,” Thor-ne la-ug-hed. “Are you a spe-eds-ter?"
"A what?"
Thorne sig-hed. “That's what they used to call cha-rac-ters in co-mic bo-oks that had su-per-hu-man
spe-ed. Are you li-ke that? Is that how you got in he-re, kil-led the three de-ad, and got back to me so
fast?"
"If I say yes, are you go-ing to let me go?"
Nate's eyes went wi-de. “What the hell are you do-ing man? I can fe-el you in-si-de my he-ad!"
"Getting re-ady to let you go,” Thor-ne told him.
Suddenly Na-te co-uld mo-ve. He sped up his atoms and vib-ra-ted thro-ugh the ro-pes which held
his hands and fe-et, snatc-hed the bla-de he'd drop-ped, and fro-ze in pla-ce as he swung it at Thor-ne.
The bla-de stop-ped inc-hes from Thor-ne's thro-at. Na-te co-uldn't ma-ke him-self fi-nish the swing.
He to-ok a step back and gla-red at Thor-ne.
"I wo-uldn't try to run off just yet eit-her,” Thor-ne smi-led. “I'd ha-te to see what hap-pens to
so-me-one when they trip if they mo-ve as fast as you do."
"What do you want?” Na-te de-man-ded.
"Other than yo-ur word that you're ho-nestly not go-ing to try to kill me aga-in? Let's start with how
you fo-und me. Just what exactly are you do-ing he-re?"
"I li-ke to get out and ha-ve so-me fun okay?” Na-te wa-ved the mac-he-te thro-ugh the air fin-ding
he co-uld mo-ve fre-ely as long as he wasn't thin-king of har-ming Thor-ne. “Lo-ok du-de, I just want to
go ho-me al-right?
Let me go and I swe-ar I won't chop off yo-ur he-ad or co-me af-ter you."
"You li-ve aro-und he-re?” Thor-ne as-ked shoc-ked that an-yo-ne co-uld ac-tu-al-ly still ha-ve a
ho-me in the city.
"It ain't the Ritz but we get by."
"We?"
"Yeah, we, man. What did you think you we-re the last one left and all that crap?” Na-te moc-ked
him. “The-re are fo-ur of us. We to-ok over one of the lo-cal hos-pi-tals. We li-ve on the tops flo-ors,
ma-de it whe-re the de-aders can't get up. It's abo-ut as sa-fe as anyw-he-re can be the-se days."

Thorne ca-ught a glimp-se of Na-te's tho-ughts. “The pe-op-le you're sta-ying with, they're li-ke us?"
"You me-an fre-aks? Su-re man, how the hell el-se do you think we've sur-vi-ved?"
Thorne felt mo-re ho-les or de-aders as Na-te had cal-led them ma-king the-ir way in-to the
wa-re-ho-use. “How far is this hos-pi-tal?"
"Couple a mi-les north of he-re, de-eper in the city. I can ta-ke you the-re if you think you can ma-ke
it."
"How? The city is over-run with tho-se things. The-re's no way we can ma-ke it by them all."
"Speak for yo-ur-self. I can get by them easy. As for you, I spot-ted a na-ti-onal gu-ard APC
aban-do-ned just a bit down the ro-ad. I bet it still works."
"Fine,” Thor-ne ans-we-red. “Let's mo-ve. You ta-ke the le-ad but don't even think abo-ut dar-ting
off wit-ho-ut me, un-ders-to-od?"
Thorne and Na-te crept out of the wa-re-ho-use thro-ugh one of its stre-et ent-ran-ces. They sto-od
in the sha-dow of the bu-il-ding with the sun ri-sing be-hind them as Thor-ne to-ok in the sce-ne. The
de-ad mil-led abo-ut. He co-uld see the APC set-ting in the mid-dle of the ro-ad. The-re we-re at le-ast
three do-zen of the de-ad bet-we-en him and it and he knew the-re wo-uld be a lot mo-re as so-on as
they saw Na-te and him-self.
"Hang tight.” Na-te told him. With a who-osh no-ise and gust of wind, Na-te was go-ne. Thor-ne
he-ard the APC crank up. Its en-gi-ne ro-ared to li-fe and its mas-si-ve whe-els rol-led over one of the
de-ad as it bac-ked its way in-to a po-si-ti-on to get tur-ned to-ward the wa-re-ho-use. Na-te must
ha-ve kic-ked it in-to ge-ar be-ca-use the ve-hic-le ro-ared its way stra-ight at whe-re Thor-ne sto-od
wa-iting.
The de-ad we-re be-co-ming ex-ci-ted. Do-zens upon do-zens mo-re of them ca-me out of the
sur-ro-un-ding bu-il-dings and al-ley-ways po-uring in-to the stre-et. Thor-ne to-ok aim and dow-ned
one of the clo-ser ones with a he-ad shot from his re-vol-ver as the APC pul-led up to him. Na-te
le-aned out and wa-ved him over. Thor-ne dar-ted for the co-ver of the ve-hic-le slam-ming its he-avy
me-tal do-or in-to the fa-ce of the cre-atu-res as he jum-ped in-si-de. Na-te ope-ned up with the
an-ti-per-so-nal mac-hi-ne gun on its tur-ret cut-ting down the de-aders aro-und them. “Stop pla-ying
aro-und, damn it!” Thor-ne yel-led at him.
"Ain't no ca-use to get ri-led man,” Na-te joked. “Just hit it al-re-ady."
Thorne slid in-to the dri-ver's se-at and the APC plo-wed thro-ugh and over the de-ad as it he-aded
north.
Thorne cut the en-gi-ne as they pul-led up to the hos-pi-tal Na-te cla-imed was his ho-me. The-re
we-re tho-usands of de-aders in the stre-ets.
The APC roc-ked from the po-un-ding of fists aga-inst its ar-mo-red hi-de.
"Now what?” Thor-ne as-ked.
"Dude, a lit-tle fa-ith ple-ase,” Na-te re-mar-ked. “Climb out on top of this thing and I'll get you in.
Trust me."
Thorne had no cho-ice. He clim-bed up thro-ugh the gun tur-ret out on-to the APC's ro-of lo-oking
down in-to the sea of hungry fa-ces aro-und him. He knew the things we-re go-ing to flip the APC at any
mo-ment.
Wind blew over him and he felt Na-te's arms aro-und him. The world be-ca-me a blur as he was
hur-led up-wards. Na-te had dar-ted out of the APC run-ning down the stre-et, dod-ging the de-ad as
he bu-ilt up spe-ed then he-aded back li-ke a stre-ak of light-ning ta-king Thor-ne in his arms.
He car-ri-ed him up the si-de of the hos-pi-tal and in thro-ugh a win-dow on the eighth flo-or. The
next thing Thor-ne knew he was bo-un-cing ac-ross the hos-pi-tal's ti-le flo-or as Na-te drop-ped him
and fell to his own kne-es pan-ting. Na-te ap-pe-ared on the ver-ge of pas-sing out. Swe-at drip-ped
from his black ha-ir and he gla-red at Thor-ne. “You we-igh a fre-akin’ ton du-de,” he com-men-ted.
"One hund-red and se-venty po-unds ac-tu-al-ly,” Thor-ne rep-li-ed as he star-ted to get to his fe-et
as a hand fell on-to his sho-ul-der. He lo-oked up in-to the fa-ce of a stun-ningly be-a-uti-ful yo-ung
wo-man. She had short brown ha-ir cut well abo-ve her sho-ul-ders and wo-re a gre-en dress that was
bre-ath-ta-king. She smi-led at him as elect-ri-city shot thro-ugh his body and his world went black.

Thorne awo-ke in a hos-pi-tal bed. His hands and fe-et we-re bo-und to the bed by le-at-her
rest-ra-ints. The yo-ung wo-man sat next to him with her hand pla-ced open pal-med on his chest.
“Na-te told us what you do.
Even think abo-ut get-ting in-to my he-ad and I'll fry you to a crisp,” she war-ned him. Na-te sto-od
off in a cor-ner of the ro-om. A tall blon-de man sto-od at the fo-ot of the bed lo-oking down at
Thor-ne.
"Welcome to our ho-me,” he sa-id in a vo-ice which was anyt-hing but fri-endly. “I am sorry abo-ut
the rest-ra-ints but even such as us can't ta-ke chan-ces the-se days. You've met Na-te. The yo-ung lady
be-si-de you go-es by the na-me of Arc. You may call me Vic-tor."
"I tho-ught the-re we-re sup-po-sed to be fo-ur of you,” Thor-ne com-men-ted.
"There are,” Vic-tor as-su-red him as the ima-ge of a man ap-pe-ared in the ro-om. His body was
trans-pa-rent and shim-me-red as it flo-ated abo-ve Vic-tor. The ghost-thing wa-ved hel-lo and
va-nis-hed in-to the air as qu-ickly as it had ma-ni-fes-ted.
"Yes,” Vic-tor nod-ded, “As cliché as it is, his na-me is Ap-pa-ri-ti-on. He is only with us
so-me-ti-mes. As I un-ders-tand it, he was on-ce li-ke you Thor-ne but upon his de-ath he evol-ved so
to spe-ak. It's hard for us to com-mu-ni-ca-te with him but I be-li-eve he cla-ims his body is still out
the-re on the stre-ets so-mew-he-re, per-haps one of the cre-atu-res out-si-de this very hos-pi-tal. We
do not know for su-re nor do-es it mat-ter. Ob-vi-o-usly the sta-te he exists in ke-eps him from hel-ping
out much. But what of you Thor-ne? What you ha-ve be-co-me su-rely is rat-her po-int-less in a world
fil-led with the de-ad."
"I ma-ke do,” Thor-ne in-for-med him coldly.
"Do yo-ur gifts work on the de-ad?” Vic-tor as-ked. “Or are they truly mind-less?"
Thorne re-ma-ined si-lent. The girl cal-led Arc glan-ced up at Vic-tor.
"Let me fry him. He's too dan-ge-ro-us to ke-ep aro-und."
Thorne sta-red at her. How co-uld so-me-one so be-a-uti-ful be so cold?
How co-uld she think so lit-tle of li-fe in a world whe-re it was so ra-re?
Victor ra-ised his hand. “You ha-ve two cho-ices Mr. Thor-ne. You're eit-her one of us or you're
de-ad. Can you be of use to us? Do yo-ur po-wers work on the de-ad?"
Thorne frow-ned. “Kind of, I can sen-se the de-ad as well as I can sen-se the li-ving. Kno-wing
whe-re and how many of them the-re are aro-und me is what's kept me ali-ve."
"Hmm ... Li-ke a ra-dar sen-se for so-uls. In-te-res-ting,” Vic-tor mumb-led.
"And they are pretty much mind-less. I can't bend the-ir wills and ma-ke them eat them-sel-ves or
anyt-hing if that's what you're won-de-ring.
There simply isn't eno-ugh left in them to work with that way. I ha-ve tho-ugh on oc-ca-si-on with
gre-at ef-fort be-en ab-le to shut off the sen-ses of one or two of them just eno-ugh for me to slip by
un-no-ti-ced but its li-ke trying to dri-ve a car with yo-ur hands ti-ed."
"I see,” Vic-tor an-no-un-ced. “You are bet-ter than the norms. You may stay with us if you li-ke as
long as you un-ders-tand that if you to-uch our tho-ughts or scan us even pas-si-vely wit-ho-ut our
di-rect con-sent I will per-so-nal-ly rip you to shreds and fe-ed you to the mons-ters in the stre-ets
be-low."
"Fair eno-ugh,” Thor-ne ag-re-ed won-de-ring how Vic-tor was go-ing to know if he used his
po-wers but he was not stu-pid eno-ugh to ask.
"Unshackle him Na-te,” Vic-tor or-de-red. “Our new brot-her ne-eds to see his ho-me."
Arc led Thor-ne thro-ugh the hos-pi-tal's cor-ri-dors. It was cle-ar she di-sag-re-ed with Vic-tor's
cho-ice to let him stay. Thor-ne co-uld he-ar the ve-iled an-ger in her vo-ice as she sho-wed him
aro-und. “As you can see we've ma-de this pla-ce li-vab-le. We grow our own fo-od both on the ro-of
and in se-ve-ral in-te-ri-or gar-dens as well. Not that we ne-ed to. Na-te can ac-qu-ire al-most
anyt-hing that we ne-ed wit-hin a hund-red mi-le ra-di-us or so. We've a well stoc-ked ar-mory that we
ha-ve put to-get-her sho-uld we ever ne-ed it and a lar-ge cac-he of me-di-cal sup-pli-es from the
hos-pi-tal it-self. The en-ti-re top three flo-ors of this bu-il-ding are ours and comp-le-tely cut off from
the rest of the bu-il-ding. If you're not Na-te or a ghost li-ke Ap-pa-ri-ti-on, the only way in or out is a

long climb. Our li-ving qu-ar-ters are lo-ca-ted he-re on the top flo-or. You, Na-te, and I ha-ve ro-oms
on this si-de of the bu-il-ding. The ot-her si-de be-longs to Vic-tor."
"We get ro-oms and he gets a wing. Se-ems fa-ir,” Thor-ne joked.
"Victor ne-eds the spa-ce,” Arc grow-led. She pa-used in front of a gre-en do-or. “This one's
yo-urs."
Thorne glan-ced in-si-de. The ro-om lo-oked mo-re li-ke a mad sci-en-tist's lab than a pla-ce to
sle-ep. The-re we-re com-pu-ters, re-ams of pa-per, no-te-bo-oks and to-ols everyw-he-re. He
spot-ted at le-ast three de-vi-ces that ap-pe-ared to be mic-ros-co-pes of so-me sort. “Copy,” he
mut-te-red.
"Look,” Arc war-ned him. “You can cle-an out the junk. Sa-mu-el's go-ne. The bas-tard de-fec-ted.
It's not li-ke you're go-ing to ha-ve tro-ub-le fin-ding a bed in this pla-ce to drag in he-re."
"Who's Sa-mu-el?"
"I'd rat-her not talk abo-ut that okay? Ask Vic-tor if you want to know."
"What do you me-an de-fec-ted?"
"Switched si-des, sold us out, bet-ra-yed us-ta-ke yo-ur pick. We're at war Thor-ne and you've just
jo-ined the win-ning si-de. Be thank-ful for it.” Arc wal-ked off wit-ho-ut anot-her word le-aving
Thor-ne stan-ding alo-ne out-si-de his new ro-om.
Thorne spent the next few ho-urs get-ting used to the hos-pi-tal and se-lec-ting a bed for his ro-om. It
was work get-ting the bed drag-ged in-to the ro-om and a spa-ce cle-ared out for it. He fo-und him-self
won-de-ring how Sa-mu-el had slept in this ro-om much less li-ved he-re. He ma-na-ged to stack all of
Sa-mu-el's no-tes and things in-to a sing-le cor-ner vo-wing to ta-ke a lo-ok at what they we-re be-fo-re
he dis-car-ded them but now it had be-en a day and he ne-eded sle-ep. It had be-en a whi-le sin-ce he'd
slept in a re-al bed and he was lo-oking for-ward to it. He stretc-hed out and felt his eyes al-re-ady
be-gin-ning to clo-se from ex-ha-us-ti-on. Sle-ep ca-me easily to him but it was far from pe-ace-ful. He
dre-amt of the de-ad wa-iting on the stre-ets be-low. Yel-lo-wed te-eth, slick with so-met-hing red and
warm, gna-wed at him as rag-ged fin-ger-na-ils dug in-to his flesh.
A knock that so-un-ded li-ke mac-hi-ne gun fi-re to-re him out of his night-ma-re. As he awo-ke he
re-ali-zed Ap-pa-ri-ti-on had be-en with him in his dre-am. The man had scre-amed three words over
and over aga-in as the de-ad rip-ped Thor-ne apart and the ghost watc-hed on. “Vic-tor... The end.
Vic-tor ... The end."
Thorne pul-led him-self out of bed as the knock be-ca-me even fas-ter.
"Hey man, you de-ad in the-re or what?” he he-ard Na-te yell.
Thorne ope-ned the do-or. Na-te sto-od in the hall with a pla-te of fo-od. “Fi-gu-red you'd want
bre-ak-fast ami-go. Vic-tor wants to talk with you pron-to so I didn't think you'd ha-ve ti-me to hit the
kitc-hen."
Thorne eyed the pla-te, his mo-uth wa-te-ring. “Are tho-se re-al eggs?"
"You bet,” Na-te ans-we-red. “Snag-ged them from a farm just out-si-de of the city."
Thorne to-ok the pla-te sit-ting down at one of the ro-om's work-tab-les.
He sho-ved a com-pu-ter to the si-de and star-ted sho-ve-ling the eggs in his mo-uth.
"Take it easy man. You're not go-ing to be star-ving any-mo-re li-ke you we-re out the-re."
Thorne lo-oked up at Na-te to say thanks but Na-te was long go-ne.
He to-ok a bi-te out of a pi-ece of to-ast and won-de-red what Vic-tor re-al-ly wan-ted from him. He
lon-ged to ta-ke a lo-ok in-to Vic-tor's mind but he'd pro-mi-sed he wo-uldn't and his li-fe de-pen-ded
on that pro-mi-se if Vic-tor re-al-ly had a way to know when he used his gift.
Thorne fo-und Vic-tor wa-iting for him on the ro-of. The tall blon-de man sto-od li-ke a king on top of
the hos-pi-tal lo-oking out at the ho-ri-zon.
He pa-id no at-ten-ti-on to the tho-usands of de-ad who wan-de-red abo-ut be-low. “I trust you slept
well,” Vic-tor sta-ted not even bot-he-ring to glan-ce at Thor-ne.
Thorne mo-ved to stand be-si-de him. “It was cer-ta-inly a chan-ge from be-ing down the-re."
"Thorne, I am not go-ing to lie to you. The ro-om you are sta-ying in be-lon-ged to my fat-her,
Sa-mu-el. He hurt us all badly."

"Samuel,” Thor-ne ans-we-red. “Arc men-ti-oned him yes-ter-day. She sa-id he bet-ra-yed you,
switc-hed si-des."
"It's true. The world may be de-ad but we're still at war Thor-ne.
I'm not tal-king abo-ut the de-ad. They are sel-dom a re-al thre-at to such as we. It's the norms that
are the dan-ger and it's them that my fat-her left us for."
"You me-an pe-op-le? The-re are still pe-op-le left ali-ve out the-re?"
"Yes. The last gre-at hol-do-ut of man-kind li-es just be-yond this city.
When we first to-ok shel-ter he-re my fat-her ap-pro-ac-hed them and so-ught an al-li-an-ce with
them. He tho-ught that to-get-her we co-uld start over, bring the world back from its kne-es rat-her than
me-rely watch it sli-de slowly in-to de-ath's wa-iting arms as it is now. But can you gu-ess how they
re-ac-ted?"
Thorne sho-ok his he-ad.
"They ca-me for us Thor-ne li-ke a mob hun-ting down Fran-kens-te-in's mons-ter. They cal-led us
fre-aks. They fe-ared us mo-re than they did the de-ad. So-me of them even bla-med us for the de-ad
te-aring the-ir way out of the gro-und. They sent a gro-up of he-avily ar-med kil-lers in pla-ce of a
dip-lo-ma-tic party to eli-mi-na-te our thre-at to the-ir exis-ten-ce on-ce and for all. They bro-ke in-to
our ho-me, wo-un-ded Na-te and Arc be-fo-re I co-uld in-ter-ve-ne and wo-uld've kil-led us in cold
blo-od if they had be-en ab-le. I fed them to the de-ad in pi-eces. It was cle-ar to me then Thor-ne that if
the world is to be re-born it must be pe-op-le li-ke us who ta-ke char-ge. My fat-her di-sag-re-ed. Even
then he co-uldn't be ma-de to un-ders-tand the truth. We held a me-eting and the ot-her fo-ur of us of
ag-re-ed that we wo-uld ta-ke the norms sanc-tu-ary by for-ce. They wo-uld be ma-de to see that we
we-re not a thre-at. They wo-uld ser-ve us and help us be-gin aga-in. My fat-her wo-uld ha-ve not-hing
of it. Out-vo-ted tho-ugh, he had lit-tle cho-ice but to go along with our plans. When the day ca-me, he
tur-ned on us. You see Thor-ne; my fat-her is a te-le-mec-ha-nic and a ge-ni-us. He un-ders-tands
mac-hi-nes in way no one can. Even in this bar-ren world I ha-ve se-en him cre-ate tech-no-lo-gi-cal
mar-vels be-yond anyt-hing man-kind ever ac-hi-eved in all its glory."
"So how did he stop you? I me-an the-re are three of you and Na-te alo-ne is li-ke an army. It
do-esn't so-und li-ke his gift was ag-gres-si-ve eno-ugh to hand-le you guys."
"Oh, my fat-her didn't use any po-wers aga-inst us. As you say, his gift was not of that li-ne of
abi-li-ti-es. He had bu-ilt ways to stop us, fa-il-sa-fes if you will to ke-ep us in li-ne. He saw us as the
gre-at bet-ra-yers of man-kind not him-self. He to-ok out Na-te first with a net ac-tu-al-ly ab-le to
con-ta-in him. He used the hos-pi-tal's sprink-ler system aga-inst Arc. It was bru-tal. She to-ok days to
re-co-ver. He even hurt me."
"Hurt you? Are you in-vul-ne-rab-le? Is that yo-ur gift?"
"I am many things,” Vic-tor tur-ned to fa-ce Thor-ne sta-ring in-to him.
"He's bu-il-ding them an ark."
"An ark? I don't get it."
"He's bu-il-ding an ark to le-ave this world be-hind for the stars. He must be stop-ped be-fo-re they
al-low him to le-ad them in-to the vo-id.
Nothing awa-its man-kind up the-re but de-ath as su-rely as if they sta-yed he-re wit-ho-ut our hands
to gu-ide them and ke-ep them sa-fe. Will you help me sa-ve the hu-man ra-ce Thor-ne?"
"How? I'm just one per-son Vic-tor."
"Samuel do-esn't know you exist. It's un-li-kely he has de-vi-sed a way to co-un-ter yo-ur po-wer.
You can kill him with a tho-ught Thor-ne and af-ter-wards yo-ur gift will ma-ke you the per-fect
watch-man to help ke-ep the norms in check un-til they see the truth of things. You wo-uld ha-ve a
chan-ce to cre-ate a pa-ra-di-se with me un-li-ke any this world has ever known. Even-tu-al-ly I
be-li-eve we'd even be ab-le to rec-la-im this en-ti-re pla-net from the rot-ting grasp which holds it
now.” Vic-tor watc-hed
Thorne thin-king over his words.
"I'll do it,” Thor-ne ag-re-ed but even as he spo-ke the words he re-ac-hed out subtly trying to to-uch
Vic-tor's mind. He had to know if

Victor was sin-ce-re in his de-si-re to start over and re-bu-ild or he if was just a mad-man bent on
ga-ining po-wer for him-self. He felt an un-na-tu-ral wall aro-und Vic-tor's mind and knew he had ma-de
a mis-ta-ke.
Victor's eyes glo-wed red with an-ger. He grab-bed Thor-ne by the thro-at with a sing-le hand lif-ting
him in-to the air and dang-led him abo-ve the hor-de of de-ad be-low. Thor-ne fo-ught aga-inst Vic-tor's
hold on him but the man's grip was li-ke ste-el and his flesh felt mo-re li-ke me-tal than skin. Thor-ne
stra-ined to re-ach in-to Vic-tor's mind. His eyes went wi-de as he re-ali-zed why he co-uldn't. “You ...
You're not ali-ve,"
Thorne gas-ped.
"I am sorry you fe-el that way,” Vic-tor sa-id calmly. “Things wo-uld ha-ve be-en far easi-er for us all
if you did not.” Blo-od sta-ined Vic-tor's fin-gers as they dug in-to Thor-ne's neck. “My fat-her felt the
sa-me af-ter he fi-nis-hed me but I am mo-re ali-ve than any of you will ever be. This is my world now
Thor-ne. Go-odb-ye.” Vic-tor whis-pe-red sadly and re-le-ased Thor-ne.
Thorne scre-amed lo-oking up at the thing that cal-led it-self a man as he fell to the stre-ets be-low.
The de-ad fo-ught over his splat-te-red re-ma-ins in a frenzy as Vic-tor wi-ped off his hands and be-gan
plan-ning how to de-fe-at Sa-mu-el on his own on-ce mo-re. The bat-tle to co-me wo-uld be blo-odi-er
now but it was a small pri-ce to pay to ma-ke his vi-si-ons re-al.

THE END

3 - Reapers At The Door

Scott was torn from sle-ep by the bla-ring of alarm kla-xons. His worst night-ma-re had sud-denly
be-co-me very re-al. The alarm co-uld only me-an one thing; the war had re-ac-hed the Ta-lon VI-II
sta-ti-on at last. He rol-led out of bed, drag-ging on his uni-form, as he clum-sily tri-ed to open a
com-link to the brid-ge. No one up the-re was eit-her ab-le or had ti-me to ans-wer his ha-il tho-ugh he
gu-es-sed as the at-tempt fa-iled.
Visions of “Re-aper” war-pods at-tac-hing them-sel-ves all over the sta-ti-on's hull and spil-ling the-ir
car-go of mo-ving, vi-olent, rot-ting flesh in-to the cor-ri-dors fil-led his he-ad. The “Re-apers” didn't
fight spa-ce bat-tles.
Their ships drop-ped out of net-her-spa-ce al-re-ady bre-aking up, spe-wing tho-usands upon
tho-usands of bo-ar-ding pods at the enemy tar-get they en-ga-ged. Nor did the “Re-apers” be-li-eve in
com-bat them-sel-ves.
Only one out of a hund-red such pods ac-tu-al-ly con-ta-ined a "Re-aper” shock-tro-op. The rest
we-re cram-med full of de-ad hu-mans who-se bo-di-es the “Re-apers” had ac-qu-ired at the start of
the war by using bi-olo-gi-cal we-apons wit-ho-ut war-ning aga-inst the outer co-lo-ni-es.
They pos-ses-sed Bil-li-ons of hu-man corp-ses which thanks to the-ir bio-ma-ni-pu-la-ti-on of the
de-ad had be-co-me the per-fect fo-ot-sol-di-ers for them in the war. The re-ani-ma-ted de-ad
at-tac-ked anyt-hing ali-ve which wasn't a mem-ber of the “Re-aper” ra-ce.
Scott know the Ta-lon's de-fen-si-ve systems wo-uld ha-ve thin-ned out the num-ber of pods
be-fo-re they re-ac-hed the sta-ti-on but Ta-lon VI-II was a
"New Earth” era sta-ti-on and was mostly auto-ma-ted. Co-un-ting him-self the-re we-re only twenty
three mem-bers on its crew. He knew him-self and the ot-hers we-re as go-od as de-ad from the
se-cond he had he-ard the alarm. The “Re-apers” ne-ver sent less than fi-ve tho-usand bo-ar-ders
re-gard-less of the-ir tar-get and its strength. They firmly did be-li-eve in over-kill rat-her than ta-king
chan-ces. Be-si-des the de-ad we-re ex-pen-dab-le and we-re easy to rep-la-ce or to re-ani-ma-te
aga-in.
Scott dar-ted from his qu-ar-ter and he-aded stra-ight for the ar-mory.
Call it a hu-man thing to do, but he didn't in-tend to just sit aro-und and wa-it on de-ath to co-me to
him. As he ro-un-ded the cor-ner of the cor-ri-dor which led to the lifts to the lo-wer le-vel, a sec-ti-on

of the cor-ri-dor wall mel-ted away in front of him ope-ning up in-to a “Re-aper” bat-tle-pod.
Men and wo-men who stunk li-ke spo-iled me-at ca-me po-uring out in-to his path. The-ir rot-ting
flesh was a pa-le gra-yish co-lor but the-ir eyes glo-wed oran-ge and loc-ked on-to him with a fe-ral
ra-ge.
He cur-sed lo-udly spin-ning aro-und to he-ad back the way he had ca-me with the shamb-ling de-ad
gi-ving cha-se be-hind him. Scott ne-arly ran he-ad on in-to the Ta-lon's se-cu-rity chi-ef, He-at-her.
Her bat-tle ar-mor was tat-te-red and blo-od le-aked openly from claw and bi-te marks co-ve-ring her
body. “Get out of he-re!” she yel-led at him. “Every-body el-se is eit-her de-ad or cut off.” She sho-ved
a pul-se rif-le in-to his hands as he sta-red at her ama-zed that she co-uld even be stan-ding let alo-ne
bar-king or-ders. She mo-ved past him ope-ning fi-re with her own at the ap-pro-ac-hing hor-de which
how-led for the tas-te of his flesh. Scott snap-ped out his shock as she scre-amed back at him. “Blow
the damn co-re!” Then she va-nis-hed from sight as the wa-ve of the de-ad was-hed over her.
Scott star-ted run-ning aga-in grip-ping the we-apon she'd gi-ven him in whi-te knuck-led hands, his
bo-ots po-un-ding on the me-tal flo-or of the pas-sa-ge way. A smi-le be-gan to cre-ep on-to his fa-ce.
“Of co-ur-se,” he tho-ught, “The co-re.” He and his crew-ma-tes may be des-ti-ned to die out he-re in
the vo-id abo-ard the Ta-lon VI-II as it was over-run but at le-ast he co-uld ta-ke so-me of the
“Re-apers” and all of the-ir dro-nes he-re with him.
Scott skid-ded to a halt out-si-de the blast do-ors which led to the ma-in co-re. His fin-gers dan-ced
over the keys of the lock en-te-ring the ac-cess co-de. The hu-ge do-ors di-la-ted open and Scott
fo-und him-self fa-ce to fa-ce with a re-al li-ving, bre-at-hing “Re-aper". The thing sto-od ne-arly ni-ne
fe-et tall and was all yel-low sca-les and musc-les. It his-sed spra-ying ve-nom over his fa-ce and eyes.
Scott cri-ed out as he felt his eyes mel-ting in-si-de the-ir soc-kets and his skin smo-ked whe-re
drop-lets of the sa-li-va had ma-de con-tact. A hu-ge two fin-ge-red hand and thumb clo-sed abo-ut his
neck lif-ting him from the flo-or with the so-und of crac-king bo-ne. The "Reaper” drop-ped Scott's form
to the flo-or and step-ped back as the de-ad ap-pro-ac-hed. The “Re-aper” flic-ked its for-ked ton-gue
thro-ugh the air.
Things had go-ne very well and its pets de-ser-ved a tre-at. It ma-de no mo-ve to stop the de-ad as
the con-ver-ged on Scott and to-re and rip-ped at his flesh with hungry te-eth.

THE END

4 - Deadlier Country

Elijah la-ug-hed bit-terly at the hand fa-te had de-alt him. When the de-ad had be-gun to ri-se, he'd
le-apt in-to ac-ti-on. Eli-j-ah had al-ways be-en a lo-ner. The-re we-re no lo-ved ones or fri-ends in his
li-fe to hold him back and pre-vent him from fle-e-ing the city as qu-ickly as pos-sib-le. He was one of
the first lo-oters in the stre-ets as the cha-os erup-ted. He'd syste-ma-ti-cal-ly so-ught out the sup-pli-es
he wo-uld ne-ed from a .22 rif-le with se-ve-ral bo-xes of shells to a shot-gun for stop-ping po-wer and
a si-de-arm, to a lar-ge hi-king pack which he fil-led with can-ned fo-ods, bot-tled wa-ter, and cam-ping
ge-ar. So-me of it, he bo-ught from shops that we-re still open des-pi-te the hell aro-und them and the
rest he sto-le. He than-ked God he hadn't had to kill an-yo-ne tho-ugh he had had a brawl with a gun
shop ow-ner who was trying to clo-se up and lock down as he'd en-te-red.
Elijah had cram-med all his stuff in-to a SUV he hot-wi-red and sped out of the city wit-ho-ut lo-oking
back. The in-ters-ta-te had be-en co-ve-red with aban-do-ned and wrec-ked cars so he co-uldn't
tra-vel as fast as he'd ho-ped he co-uld. The-re had even al-re-ady be-en packs of the de-ad
wan-de-ring the ro-ad-way but no-ne that he hadn't be-en ab-le to avo-id. He'd tho-ught his lo-gic had
be-en so-und. Get away from the city to the far less po-pu-la-ted co-untry-si-de and he wo-uld stand a
much bet-ter chan-ce of sur-vi-ving to carry on long af-ter the ci-ti-es had bur-ned and be-en over-run
by the le-gi-ons of newly ri-sen de-ad.
Elijah dro-ve for ho-urs stra-ight in-to the mid-dle of now-he-re. Only when the ro-ad tur-ned to

gra-vel, the ho-use he'd se-en was a co-up-le of mi-les be-hind him, and the tre-es sur-ro-un-ded him on
all si-des did he stop.
He ditc-hed the SUV, car-rying all he co-uld on fo-ot, and he-aded out even de-eper in-to the
wo-ods. His plan had be-en so per-fect, well tho-ught out and exe-cu-ted wit-ho-ut a snag. We-igh-ted
down by his sup-pli-es he'd hi-ked as far as he co-uld be-fo-re he'd ma-de camp, still pat-ting him-self
on the back for ma-king it out he-re with so lit-tle tro-ub-le. It wasn't un-til the first of the cre-atu-res
ca-me bo-un-ding out of the tre-es at him with sa-li-va and blo-od drip-ping from its hungry mo-uth that
he re-ali-zed just how hu-ge of a mis-ta-ke he'd ma-de. Eli-j-ah ba-rely ma-na-ged to get his lo-aded
shot-gun up and re-ady in ti-me to de-fend him-self. He squ-e-ezed the trig-ger with the cre-atu-re so
clo-se that when the shot-gun's blast blew its de-ca-ying form apart, its blo-od and in-tes-ti-nes
splat-te-red over him. He lum-be-red over to its twitc-hing body and smas-hed its skull in with the
shot-gun's butt. He fo-ught down the ur-ge to vo-mit as ta-king the ti-me to do so co-uld cost him his
li-fe. He he-ard mo-ve-ment in the brush and knew the thing hadn't be-en alo-ne. Snatc-hing up what he
co-uld from the ge-ar he'd la-id out, he to-ok off sprin-ting away as fast as his legs wo-uld carry him. His
bre-ath ca-me in rag-ged gasps and his who-le body burnt from the ef-fort as he for-ced him-self to
ke-ep go-ing. The ho-uses he'd qu-ickly dri-ven by not long be-fo-re we-re now his only ho-pe. He
ma-de a po-int to cut thro-ugh a small cre-ek ho-ping the mo-ving wa-ter wo-uld ca-use the cre-atu-res
to lo-se his scent. The ima-ge of the one he'd shot lin-ge-red in his mind. Its body had be-en torn to
pi-eces on the gro-und be-fo-re him but its he-ad had re-ma-ined in-tact, twis-ting in the dirt of the
fo-rest flo-or as its te-eth con-ti-nu-ed to snap hung-rily un-til he'd fi-nis-hed it.
At last, Eli-j-ah saw a ho-use in the dis-tan-ce. Truth be told, it was mo-re of a shack which
ap-pe-ared to ha-ve be-en aban-do-ned for ye-ars but he didn't ca-re. It had walls and a do-or and that
was eno-ugh for his pur-po-ses. He re-ac-hed in-si-de him-self and fo-und the energy for one mo-re
burst of spe-ed li-ke a run-ner who se-es the fi-nish li-ne in sight. He didn't try to open the do-or or see if
it was loc-ked. He bar-re-led in-to it thro-wing his we-ight aga-inst its wo-oden fra-me. The ca-bin's
do-or slam-med in-ward and he went top-pling ac-ross the flo-or of its sing-le ro-om. He jum-ped to his
fe-et dis-car-ding the me-ager sup-pli-es he'd be-en ab-le to sal-va-ge and with his shot-gun still in hand
ra-ced back to the do-or and slam-med it shut. Its hin-ges had be-en da-ma-ged but it still wor-ked well
eno-ugh from him to get it clo-sed. His eyes scan-ned the ro-om des-pe-ra-tely se-arc-hing for anyt-hing
he co-uld use to bra-ce the do-or with. The ca-bin was cle-arly de-ser-ted. Ot-her than a sing-le cha-ir,
a desk, and a small stack of wo-od be-si-de its fi-rep-la-ce, its so-le ro-om was empty. He won-de-red
if it we-re so-me kind of “way sta-ti-on” for hi-kers who ne-eded a res-pi-te from the ele-ments but
didn't ha-ve ti-me to dwell on the qu-es-ti-on of the ca-bin. He pus-hed the he-avy desk aga-inst the
do-or and slid to the flo-or le-aning his him-self on it. Only then did he al-low him-self a mo-ment to
bre-ath.
A wolf how-led so-mew-he-re in the night out-si-de. It was an un-na-tu-ral cry of sic-ke-ning pa-in
which en-ded in a garg-ling whe-eze. The howl didn't surp-ri-se Eli-j-ah. The wolf he'd fa-ced off with
had had half its up-per back ex-po-sed with both its fur and flesh torn cle-an from its body.
In the flash of his shot-gun, he'd se-en the whi-te bo-ne of its spi-ne be-fo-re the we-apon's blast had
struck the cre-atu-re. He fi-gu-red if the de-ad hu-mans for-med packs to hunt the li-ving, wol-ves
cer-ta-inly wo-uld as hun-ting packs we-re al-re-ady part of the-ir ins-tinc-tu-al na-tu-re. That's why he
had run from his camp. The-re was no way that wolf co-uld ha-ve be-en alo-ne and the howl pro-ved it.
The-re was no tel-ling how many of the dam-ned, rot-ting ani-mals we-re out the-re circ-ling the ca-bin.
His eyes we-re drawn to the fi-rep-la-ce. He ha-uled him-self up and went over to it fis-hing aro-und
in his poc-ket for a ligh-ter. He qu-ickly got a fi-re go-ing and then hur-ri-ed on-ce mo-re to add his
we-ight to that of the desk aga-inst the do-or-way. Not ha-ving a fi-re had not be-en an op-ti-on.
If wol-ves co-uld co-me back to li-fe too li-ke pe-op-le then the last thing he ne-eded was an
un-de-ad squ-ir-rel craw-ling down the chim-ney to rip his fa-ce off.
"Why in the hell had he tho-ught only hu-mans wo-uld co-me back?"
He cur-sed him-self.
The ca-bin's only win-dow exp-lo-ded in a sho-wer of glass as the first wolf le-apt thro-ugh it. Eli-j-ah

jer-ked up his shot-gun, pum-ping a ro-und in-to its cham-ber, as the thing lan-ded gra-ce-ful-ly on the
flo-or ac-ross from him. It tri-ed to growl at him tho-ugh its thro-at had be-en torn out. A wet, flop-ping
so-und fil-led the ro-om as its wind-pi-pe vib-ra-ted whe-re it dang-led from the thing's open neck. It
ten-sed up to po-un-ce at him as Eli-j-ah pul-led the trig-ger and to-ok his shot. This ti-me his aim was
true and the shot-gun's blast burst the wolf's he-ad li-ke an over ri-pe me-lon.
Elijah felt his ma-kes-hift bar-ri-ca-de buck-le aga-inst his back as the scratc-hing aga-inst the do-or
be-gan. He held his po-si-ti-on hol-ding the do-or clo-sed by sho-ving his back-si-de in-to it as two
mo-re wol-ves ca-me thro-ugh the win-dow. Cur-sing he tos-sed his shot-gun asi-de and drew the
pis-tol hols-te-red on his hip. The fight was over be-fo-re it truly star-ted.
Elijah fi-red get-ting off a trio of shots. Two of them struck the le-ad wolf sen-ding it spraw-ling but his
third shot went wild as the se-cond wolf grab-bed his gun arm in its te-eth and rip-ped at his skin with its
paws. The first wolf got up and char-ged him go-ing stra-ight for his thro-at, cut-ting thro-ugh his jugu-lar
and wind-pi-pe ali-ke as its mas-si-ve jaws clo-sed aro-und his neck. Eli-j-ah's body twis-ted and
fo-ught aga-inst his fur co-ve-red at-tac-kers as his blo-od flo-wed out on-to the wo-oden flo-or.
His body rol-led away from the do-or-way no lon-ger hol-ding the desk in pla-ce. The do-or slid
open un-der the for-ce of the paws pus-hing aga-inst it out-si-de and still mo-re wol-ves en-te-red
jo-ining the-ir brot-hers in a fe-ast of warm, on-ce li-ving flesh un-til all that re-ma-ined of Eli-j-ah was
bo-ne and scat-te-red pi-eces of clot-hing.

THE END

5 - Ghost

The po-un-ding on the walls of the bun-ker ne-ver stop-ped. Night or day, it was al-ways the-re.
Bur-ke won-de-red if the hor-des of cre-atu-res out-si-de to-ok turns. Su-rely it co-uldn't still be the
sa-me ones who had first star-ted the damn no-ise. By now, wo-uld tho-se first cre-atu-res even ha-ve
anyt-hing left of the-ir hands? A vi-si-on of rot-ting bo-di-es with the whi-te of bo-ne prot-ru-ding from
bat-te-red and crus-hed wrists, slam-ming them re-pe-atedly aga-inst the me-tal of the only do-or to the
bun-ker ca-me ali-ve in his he-ad. He shud-de-red and tri-ed to con-ti-nue ope-ning his lunch, pus-hing
the men-tal ima-ge out of his mind. He was down to the last dregs of the bun-ker's sup-pli-es and the can
of me-at his was ope-ning, he knew from ex-pe-ri-en-ce, ma-de the tho-ught of cold, gre-asy Spam
even so-und ap-pe-aling in its pla-ce.
Burke ha-ted his vi-si-ons. He'd be-en born with the abi-lity to see things that ot-hers co-uldn't.
So-me-ti-mes, he co-uld watch far away pla-ces thro-ugh his mind's eye li-ke a ga-zing thro-ugh a
crystal ball. He co-uld al-so re-ach in-to anot-her per-son's mind and re-ad the-ir tho-ughts as if they
we-re his own. And on his most cle-ar of days, he co-uld so-me-ti-mes even catch glimp-ses of the
fu-tu-re. It had be-en hell gro-wing up with his "gifts". He'd spent most of his 30 odd ye-ars of li-fe
bo-un-cing in and out of va-ri-o-us asy-lums. He'd had his first vi-si-ons of the end when he was only
fo-ur ye-ars old. His pa-rents had tho-ught it was just a night-ma-re in-du-ced from his lo-ve of hor-ror
films but the vi-si-ons kept co-ming and so-on they we-re frigh-te-ned by the ima-ges he'd desc-ri-bed
of men eating men, wo-men be-ing rip-ped apart, and rot-ting de-ad things that didn't stay de-ad.
When he'd fi-nal-ly got-ten free of the last ins-ti-tu-ti-on, Bur-ke had felt it in his bo-nes that the end
he'd be-en se-e-ing for man-kind was ne-ar.
Using his gifts, he'd con-ned and for-ged his way in-to the mi-li-tary.
Burke had no wish to die and the way he saw it, the mi-li-tary wo-uld hold out lon-ger than an-yo-ne
el-se in a world des-ti-ned to be over-run and eaten by the de-ad. Of co-ur-se, things hadn't exactly
wor-ked out as he had plan-ned.
His unit had be-en as-sig-ned the duty of trying to hold the con-ta-in-ment li-ne aro-und Rich-mond.
The bat-tle had be-en ra-ging for days when he and his fel-low tro-ops ar-ri-ved to of-fer
re-in-for-ce-ments to the po-or so-uls who had held it du-ring the early days when hu-mans still

emer-ged from the city in-ter-ming-led with the de-ad as they tri-ed to flee. The army was fully dug in
aro-und the city figh-ting a po-int-less war. The con-ta-in-ment li-nes aro-und New York and many
ot-her pla-ces had fal-len.
There we-re ru-mors of nuc-le-ar stri-kes on Ame-ri-can so-il in pla-ces whe-re the li-nes had fa-iled
to ret-ra-in the de-ad but no one be-li-eved them and he-aring or se-e-ing ac-tu-al news was a thing of
the past. Most ci-vi-li-ans we-re too busy just trying to ke-ep bre-at-hing, jo-ur-na-lists inc-lu-ded.
Bur-ke fo-ught with his unit two days be-fo-re things be-gan to fall apart. They we-re ta-king he-avi-er
los-ses each day as the-ir arms stock-pi-les grew smal-ler and the de-ad pus-hed clo-ser with each
wa-ve of rot-ting flesh le-aving the city in se-arch of new me-at. Pe-op-le be-gan to de-sert the li-ne in
dro-ves, he-ading off in se-arch of the-ir own fa-mi-li-es, whet-her to say go-odb-ye or to try to start
over, Bur-ke had no idea. He sta-yed to the end un-til only he and the com-man-ding of-fi-cer Ge-ne-ral
Stark we-re left.
They enc-lo-sed them-sel-ves in the for-ti-fi-ed walls of the com-mand bun-ker and to-ok pop shots
at the de-ad still flo-wing from the city out in-to the world be-yond. Stark's tho-ughts of glo-om and
ho-pe-les-sness cut in-to Bur-ke li-ke a ra-zor mo-re and mo-re with each pas-sing ho-ur. The-re was
no way he co-uld shi-eld his mind from them trap-ped in such clo-se pro-xi-mity. He had no cho-ice but
re-li-eve the Ge-ne-ral. He'd blown the man's bra-ins out with a po-int blank shot from his si-de-arm. He
felt no gu-ilt over it. He knew it was what Stark wan-ted and wo-uld ha-ve do-ne him-self if he'd be-en
ab-le to gi-ve him the ti-me to.
Burke had ne-ver be-en a long ran-ge te-le-path but he tri-ed now. He spent his ti-me at-temp-ting to
un-ders-tand his gifts and for-ce them to grow. He wo-uld sit per-fectly mo-ti-on-less with his eyes
clo-sed and re-ach out in-to the world se-eking so-me-one el-se ali-ve. He al-ways saw de-ath in his
vi-si-ons and ne-ver he-ard a sing-le ot-her tho-ught which wasn't his own. In fact, all he co-uld fe-el in
the world was a cold-ness which se-eped in-to him and ma-de him con-si-der fol-lo-wing Stark on to
the next li-fe every ti-me he awo-ke from one of his tran-ces. To-day was no dif-fe-rent.
His men-tal se-arc-hing left him hol-low and the fo-od he was ope-ning tur-ned his sto-mach. He
lis-te-ned to the po-un-ding out-si-de for a mo-ment on-ce mo-re and then let go, simply wil-ling his
he-art to stop. Bur-ke blin-ked or wo-uld ha-ve if he'd still had eye lids in a nor-mal sen-se. He lo-oked
down at his body on the flo-or of the bun-ker as shock flo-oded his mind. What the hell had he
be-co-me? A ghost? He didn't know but he was su-re this wasn't what de-ath was sup-po-sed to be
li-ke. He re-ac-hed for his we-apon but his fin-gers gli-ded thro-ugh it as if the me-tal wasn't the-re. It
be-gan to sink in that he was no lon-ger part of this pla-ne of exis-ten-ce tho-ugh he co-uld see it. He
la-ug-hed si-lently at the mad-ness of it all. De-ci-ding he wo-uld ma-ke the most of God's lit-tle joke on
him, he wal-ked out of the bun-ker and li-te-ral-ly thro-ugh the hor-de of mind-less de-ad out-si-de to
ba-re wit-ness to the last days of the hu-man spe-ci-es. He ho-ped de-ep down that may-be he'd me-et
anot-her ghost li-ke him-self.

THE END

6 - Deadtown

The scent of the corp-ses lit-te-ring the gro-und stank to high he-avens.
The fla-ming sum-mer sun ba-king the-ir rot-ting flesh and us as we sto-od the-re didn't help mat-ters
no-ne. I can sympat-hi-ze with Pe-ter. He didn't ask for this job li-ke I did. He's just the she-riff, not a
pro-fes-si-onal kil-ler.
I can tell from the slight glint of te-ars in his eyes he wants this all to be over with. That this mas-sac-re
is all it will ta-ke to right the world on-ce mo-re. But it's not. The-se po-or bas-tards we-re just the
be-gin-ning.
Others will smell the blo-od he-re or sen-se the li-fe in Spring-town in the val-ley be-low and they will
co-me aga-in. Next ti-me it li-kely won't be a few do-zen eit-her. It ne-ver is af-ter they find you. It will

be hund-reds, may-be tho-usands. I ha-ve be-en on the run from them for a whi-le now sin-ce I saw the
first ones wal-king aro-und in Me-xi-co. I mo-ve north from pla-ce to pla-ce al-ways war-ning the folk
of what's co-ming in my wa-ke and of-fe-ring them my ser-vi-ces. Ne-ver fo-und a town that's held
aga-inst them yet even my guns ad-ded to the-irs. But Hell, the mo-ney's go-od and I ain't de-ad yet.
I spit in-to the fa-ce of the clo-sest corp-se at my fe-et as Pe-ter fi-nal-ly gets it to-get-her and starts
bar-king or-ders. Dil-lon and his brot-her, Jack, are the only two ot-hers left ali-ve in our lit-tle hun-ting
party. Pe-ter tells them gat-her up the bo-di-es and burn them. I don't bot-her to help. No one says a
word to me abo-ut it. Tho-se de-ad things are scary but pe-op-le li-ke me are sca-ri-er and that's why
we'll be the last to die be-si-des I know the who-le thing is a was-te of ti-me, se-en it do-ne be-fo-re,
but if Pe-ter wants to try to cle-an up our tracks and lo-wer the odds of mo-re of the de-ad things
co-ming down out of the hills, who am I to crush his ho-pe.
I think de-ep down Pe-ter knows the truth too on so-me le-vel tho-ugh he wo-uld ne-ver ad-mit it to
the folk in his town or even to him-self. Pe-ter watc-hes the fi-re as the “brot-hers dim” get our hor-ses
and the sun falls from the sky then we're all in the sad-dle on our way back to Spring-town. Too bad for
us, they ha-ve be-aten us the-re. I can smell the de-ad be-fo-re our hor-ses crest the hills aro-und the
town and we see the fi-res bur-ning. On-ce glan-ce at the mess be-low wo-uld be eno-ugh to tell any
sa-ne per-son to get the hell out of dod-ge and ma-ke dust in anot-her di-rec-ti-on, any di-rec-ti-on but
down the-re, only Pe-ter ain't sa-ne when it co-mes to his town. He's got to try to sa-ve them. He kicks
his hor-se's si-des, char-ging down the hill, so fast it surp-ri-ses even me.
The brot-hers fol-low him. I pa-use for a se-cond, ta-king the ti-me to light up a smo-ke, we-ig-hing
my op-ti-ons. The town's al-re-ady pa-id up, no re-ason for me to go down the-re but I de-ci-de to play
the go-od guy any-way and do them all a fa-vor. I he-ar the so-und of me-tal scra-ping le-at-her as my
re-vol-ver co-mes free of its hols-ter. My first shot splat-ters Pe-ter's skull open be-fo-re an-yo-ne so
much as he-ars the shot. The brot-hers are stun-ned, too con-fu-sed by my ac-ti-ons to go for the-ir on
we-apons on ins-tinct. I ta-ke out Jack next be-ca-use he's the smar-ter and fas-ter of the pa-ir of
idi-ots. I put a bul-let in his fa-ce and watch him top-ple off his hor-se then I get sloppy. Don't know
why, bad luck, the gla-re of the stars, who knows? It ta-kes me three ro-unds to drop Dil-lon for go-od.
I fe-el a bit bad abo-ut the gut shot, ne-ver sho-uld ha-ve hap-pe-ned but the third one I put in his eye
me-ans he won't be get-ting up la-ter so it's not li-ke he'll be up-set abo-ut it.
I sta-re at Dil-lon's body still tel-ling myself I to-ok the high ro-ad. Pe-ter ne-ver had the chan-ce to
see his de-ad wi-fe co-ming scre-aming at him with red sme-ared lips wa-iling for the tas-te of his flesh.
And for the brot-hers, my sloppy work was at le-ast cle-aner than be-ing rip-ped apart and eaten.
I turn my hor-se away from Spring-town's ru-ins to try to find so-mew-he-re el-se to bre-at-he a
whi-le lon-ger but I know even the last to die has to die so-me-ti-me. Tho-ugh I won't see Hell to-night,
ot-her than the one on this earth now, I'm still just the wal-king de-ad myself. The-re's a set of yel-low
te-eth or a bul-let out the-re so-mew-he-re wa-iting for me to find it. And so-me-how, with the way the
world is dying, I think it will be so-oner rat-her than la-ter.

THE END

7 - Sunday Watch

The ci-ti-es we-re de-ad. At le-ast that's the way Tra-vis fi-gu-red it.
Most folk he-re in Jack-son di-ed that first night when all hell bro-ke lo-ose. It'd ta-ken every of-fi-cer
in the de-part-ment and every ab-le bo-di-ed man she-riff Mor-gan co-uld en-list to cle-ar out the town
and bring back so-me semb-lan-ce of or-der. Tra-vis knew Mor-gan was do-ing all he co-uld.
Hell, ever-yo-ne in town was but he still ha-ted sit-ting out he-re in the fi-eld by the in-ters-ta-te on a
Sun-day af-ter-no-on. He'd rat-her ha-ve be-en ho-me watc-hing the ra-ces ex-cept the-re we-ren't any
ra-ces any-mo-re.
Travis gu-es-sed the NAS-CAR dri-vers we-re de-ad too. He ha-ted to ima-gi-ne Da-le Jr.

stumb-ling aro-und in the pit at so-me track so-mew-he-re, his rot-ting flesh stin-king to high he-avens
be-ca-use the po-or bas-tard was too mind-less to get out of the sun.
Travis pic-ked up the AK-47 from the pas-sen-ger se-at and ope-ned the pat-rol car's do-or to
stretch his legs. Ti-me pas-sed slowly the-se days whet-her you we-re sit-ting on yo-ur ass in a fi-eld
ke-eping an eye out for the wan-de-ring de-ad or sit-ting in the bar with yo-ur bud-di-es, it didn't
mat-ter. It al-ways felt li-ke you we-re just wa-iting to die.
The on-ce high grass crunc-hed un-der Tra-vis's bo-ots as he got out of the car. Even the damn de-ad
get-ting back on the-ir fe-et and eating the li-ving hadn't en-ded the dro-ught he-re in Jack-son.
Everyt-hing gre-en was drying up and dying li-ke the rest of the world. He ca-ught the sight of
so-met-hing mo-ving on the in-ters-ta-te from out of the cor-ner of his eye and tur-ned to see a de-ad
man dres-sed in Na-ti-onal Gu-ard com-bat fa-ti-gu-es ma-king his way down the in-ters-ta-te's exit
ramp to the ro-ad be-si-de the fi-eld. Tra-vis chec-ked the si-len-cer at-tac-hed to the bar-rel of his
rif-le and sig-hed won-de-ring how many of the de-ad he'd sent to hell over the last few we-eks. Had to
be go-ing on a hund-red, he was su-re.
He le-aned over the ho-od of the car and to-ok aim, only squ-e-ezing the trig-ger when he was su-re
of his shot. The bul-let struck the man's he-ad snap-ping it back-wards be-fo-re the man's body
stop-ped in its tracks and top-pled to the asp-halt.
"Head shot,” Tra-vis mut-te-red and smi-led. “That fuc-ker is sta-ying down."
He wal-ked out of the fi-eld, sho-ul-de-ring his we-apon as he went.
This was the part of his job he ha-ted the most. Now that the thing was de-ad aga-in, he had to drag
its body out of sight so that any ot-her corp-ses which stra-yed by wo-uldn't see it and co-me to
in-ves-ti-ga-te in ho-pes that the body was still fresh eno-ugh to fe-ed on.
The man was Tra-vis's third kill of the af-ter-no-on. The things we-re sho-wing up mo-re and mo-re
with each pas-sing day. If the-ir num-bers didn't le-vel out so-on, Tra-vis wo-uld ha-ve to start wal-king
out to the fi-elds be-ca-use Mor-gan wo-uld con-vin-ce the town that it was the no-ise of the pat-rol
cars in an ot-her-wi-se si-lent word which was at-trac-ting the de-ad. Tra-vis ad-mit-ted that Mor-gan
might be on to so-met-hing with that the-ory but so-oner or la-ter a go-od por-ti-on of the de-ad from
As-he-vil-le and the ot-her clo-se ci-ti-es wo-uld wan-der the-ir way in-to Jack-son re-gard-less. It was
just cold and simp-le lo-gic that the cre-atu-res wo-uld spre-ad out in se-arch of fo-od and the-re we-re
so many of them that it was a sta-tis-ti-cal cer-ta-inty that eno-ugh of them wo-uld even-tu-al-ly ma-ke it
to the town to wi-pe it off the fa-ce of the Earth.
Travis re-ac-hed body of the man and sto-od over it. He tho-ught he re-cog-ni-zed him in spi-te of the
mag-gots which swam over the man's flesh and the gap-ping ho-le in his skull. Yep, it was Billy Clay-ton
al-right. The-re was no do-ub-ting it. Billy's unit had be-en cal-led up by the go-ver-nor to help con-ta-in
the outb-re-ak of de-ad in the ci-ti-es when the shit first hit the fan. Tra-vis re-mem-be-red dri-ving out
to Billy's ho-use with Mor-gan the day be-fo-re Billy had left. Mor-gan had do-ne all he co-uld to
con-vin-ce Billy not to le-ave the town but Billy was yo-ung and stub-born. He bet Billy wis-hed he'd
lis-te-ned to Mor-gan now.
Travis squ-at-ted down and pul-led Billy's mi-li-tary is-sue si-de-arm from its hols-ter and ins-pec-ted
it. He pop-ped the clip and chec-ked the fi-ring mec-ha-nism be-fo-re he slid the gun in-to his own belt.
A go-od we-apon and am-mo we-re not things you left to go to was-te no mat-ter who the-ir ow-ner
had be-en. Tra-vis pic-ked up Billy's body with his hands un-der Billy's arms and star-ted to ha-ul his
re-ma-ins over to the ditch be-si-de the ro-ad. The so-und of so-me-one mo-aning ca-used Tra-vis to
jerk his he-ad up. Billy's body thum-ped to the ro-ad as Tra-vis let go of it. “Oh, holy... ” Tra-vis
bre-at-hed. He co-uldn't be-li-eve what he was se-e-ing. Hund-reds of bo-di-es we-re he-ading down
the in-ters-ta-te's exit ramp to-wards him, po-uring on-to the ro-ad li-ke ants from a hill, only they
we-ren't just co-ming from the in-ters-ta-te. They we-re co-ming out of the dam-ned tre-es all aro-und
the fi-eld too.
Travis ra-ced back to his car. The cre-atu-res we-re al-re-ady dan-ge-ro-usly clo-se as he slid in-to
the ve-hic-le's dri-ver se-at and grab-bed up the ra-dio. “Mor-gan! Ans-wer me damn it! They're
co-ming! Hund-reds of them!” The ra-dio crack-led but re-ma-ined si-lent ot-her-wi-se. No res-pon-se

ca-me.
Travis fis-hed aro-und in his poc-ket for the keys. He had to stand up and get out of the car be-fo-re
he co-uld dig them out ke-eping his eyes loc-ked on-to the ap-pro-ac-hing hor-de of de-ca-ying
bas-tards. In his hurry, he drop-ped the keys as he yan-ked them out. He whir-led aro-und to pick them
up from whe-re they'd lan-ded be-hind him to co-me fa-ce to fa-ce with Mor-gan him-self, only it wasn't
Mor-gan. Dull, gla-zed over eyes sta-red in-to his own abo-ve the blo-od sta-ined uni-form Mor-gan
wo-re. They told the ta-le of the town's fa-te. The de-ad must be po-uring in from everyw-he-re,
Travis tho-ught. He scre-amed as Mor-gan's cold hands grab-bed his sho-ul-ders and held him in
pla-ce as the she-riff's te-eth sank in-to his thro-at. Tra-vis's scre-am be-ca-me a sic-ke-ning garg-ling
no-ise as his blo-od wel-led up in-si-de him and le-aked out from his mo-uth as Mor-gan che-wed. He
fell to the gro-und with Mor-gan on top of him still te-aring in-to his flesh. A few of the de-ad stop-ped
to jo-in Mor-gan in his fe-ast but the rest wal-ked on to-wards the town of Jack-son to see if an-yo-ne
el-se was left ali-ve.

THE END

8 - With The End In Sight

"Hurricanes ca-me and went do-ing un-told amo-unts of da-ma-ge to the eas-tern co-asts of the U.S.
Earth-qu-akes ra-va-ged the mo-un-ta-ins of the Ap-pa-lac-hi-ans and tsu-na-mis bro-ught the oce-an
to the stre-ets of Ca-li-for-nia. The sum-mers grew cold and the win-ters be-ca-me a ra-in drenc-hed
spring. Elect-ro-mag-ne-tic ligh-te-ning dan-ced in the ski-es.
Humanity was help-less, po-wer-less to chan-ge the co-ur-se of na-tu-re. As our world crump-led
aro-und us did we re-ach out for one anot-her, to try to sal-va-ge what re-ma-ined? I'm af-ra-id you
won't li-ke the ans-wer. We tur-ned upon our-sel-ves li-ke dogs dri-ven mad with fe-ar and
frust-ra-ti-on.
Nuclear fi-re scorc-hed the land and bio-we-apons of the dar-kest ori-gins fil-led the air. Pe-op-le
bled from the-ir eyes. Sto-machs swel-led not with li-fe but with mu-ta-ted abo-mi-na-ti-ons. They
rip-ped out of our shells from men, wo-men, and child-ren ali-ke to walk the land. In the end, the
mons-ters we-re cal-led “De-mons". They we-re not ali-ve but they we-re hungry...” Ben stop-ped as
the do-or to his qu-ar-ters slid open. “End oral his-tory log se-ven-te-en,” he sa-id to the shel-ter's A.I.
and spun aro-und in his cha-ir to fa-ce Mar-cus who sto-od in the open do-or-way.
Marcus lo-oked at him with so-met-hing that stunk of pity. “Why do you do it, Ben?” he as-ked.
“The-re's not go-ing to be an-yo-ne left to play back yo-ur logs and le-arn from what you're
re-cor-ding."
Ben didn't ans-wer ins-te-ad he as-ked, “How bad is it to-day?"
The yo-un-ger man la-ug-hed. “Hell is still at our do-or."
Ben got up from his se-at. “Then let's go ha-ve a lo-ok at it."
The pa-ir ma-de the-ir way to the shel-ter's hig-hest po-int whe-re its com-mu-ni-ca-ti-on spi-re
ac-tu-al-ly prot-ru-ded from the crac-ked earth. The do-me was the only part of the shel-ter that was
abo-ve gro-und. “Cle-ar,"
Marcus or-de-red to the for-ce bar-ri-ers which ser-ved as both the do-me's walls and win-dows.
The who-le top of the spi-re be-ca-me trans-pa-rent and the two men lo-oked out in-to a sea of
de-mons and de-mon-se-ed . Most of the things sur-ro-un-ding them we-re the tra-di-ti-onal lot, de-ad
men and wo-men with glo-wing yel-low eyes de-vo-id of anyt-hing which co-uld be cal-led a so-ul with
a mons-ter gro-wing in-si-de the-ir re-ani-ma-ted corp-ses but among the-ir ranks the num-ber of true
de-mons had grown. So-me we-re be-asts, co-ve-red in blo-od and fur, which sto-od on two legs and
cla-wed at the for-ce bar-ri-er with a frenzy that was be-yond the-ir se-ed who's mind-less po-un-ding
con-ti-nu-ed on wit-ho-ut ever stop-ping. Ben watc-hed as a de-mon with a pig's fa-ce slam-med its
he-ad re-pe-atedly in-to the bar-ri-er le-aving a sme-ar of sa-li-va and yel-low li-qu-id. He felt sorry for

the mag-gots which craw-led lo-ose from in-si-de the thing's skull just in ti-me to be smas-hed as its
he-ad ma-de con-tact aga-in.
Marcus star-ted to or-der the bar-ri-er opa-que but Ben stop-ped him.
"How much lon-ger Mar-cus? How much lon-ger must we en-du-re this un-til the shi-eld fa-ils?"
Marcus smi-led. “That's what I ca-me to tell you. The shel-ter's po-wer le-vels are al-most
dep-le-ted. We ha-ve a few ho-urs left on the high si-de."
"Good,” Ben nod-ded. “Then at last we'll ha-ve do-ne our duty and held back the night as long as we
co-uld."
"If you say so sir."
Ben to-re his eyes from the sce-ne out-si-de. “I ne-ed to go fi-nish my logs be-fo-re the po-wer fa-ils.
How are you go-ing to spend hu-ma-nity's last ho-urs on Earth?"
Marcus held up a small cylin-der. Ben re-cog-ni-zed its symbol as that of a po-wer-ful ne-uro-to-xin.
“I'm go-ing to get drun-ker than hell sir and sho-ot myself up with this as the shi-eld col-lap-ses. By the
ti-me tho-se things find me, I'll be long go-ne."
"It's a fit-ting end to our ti-me he-re,” Ben sho-ok his he-ad. “Why sho-uldn't you me-et de-ath
hap-pily?"
"I sup-po-se so,” Mar-cus ag-re-ed.
"Goodbye Mar-cus,” Ben sa-id and left the spi-re he-ading back to his qu-ar-ters. He stop-ped only
long eno-ugh to col-lect an auto-ma-tic shot-gun from the shel-ter's ar-mory for he too wo-uld ne-ed a
way out when his work was do-ne and the hor-de ca-me spil-ling in.

THE END

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20/11/2008