Still Dying

Select Scenes From Dying Days

Still Dying

Select Scenes From Dying Days

Armand Rosamilia

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without expressed written consent of the author and/or artists

This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living, dead or undead, is entirely coincidental.

“Still Dying: Select Scenes From Dying Days” copyright 2012 by Armand Rosamilia

“Dying Days: Origins” excerpt copyright 2012 by Armand Rosamilia

Cover Illustration copyright 2011 by Ash Arceneaux www.asharceneaux.deviantart.com

eBook Edition September 2012

armandrosamilia@gmail.com

This one goes to

The Extreme Zombie Readers…

Jeff Beesler, M.J. O’Neill and Robert Clark

I couldn’t have done this one without you Undead Three… Yet Again

Jeff Beesler

Russ 'Madman' Meyer

David Monsour

Michael Ross

Steve 'The Breeze' Brack

Noah Stern

M.J. O'Neill

Brenda Ellis

Morris Chambers

Tosha Shorb

The Conner family

Geneva Archer

Armand Rosamilia

Author Notes

Dying Days: Origins Preview

Jeff Beesler

The alarm clock woke him from a nightmare, like most days. Jeff blinked to the daily grind nightmare his life had become and sighed. He deftly rolled out of bed like he did every day, not disturbing his wife, Jenny, and went through the motions. Pee, wash face, brush teeth, comb receding hair (a little less up top again today, he thought), deodorant, dress in his fast-food manager uniform, grab keys and wallet as he hit the door… and repeat for infinity until he died, buried in his ugly faded off-blue wrinkled shirt and royal navy Dockers with scuffed dress shoes.

The ride was even longer since they'd promoted him to the new, bigger restaurant near the Northwest Washington college campus. It was twice the distance of his old store. He'd opened that one as well, fifteen long, long years ago.

Fifteen years of this, he thought for the millionth time as he drove. He'd been eighteen years old and still holding his high school diploma when he saw the billboard announcing the store, only two blocks from his parent's house. Jeff had been undecided about college and decided to work for the summer and then go to school. He'd started as a part-time cashier and within six months was an assistant manager. Within another six he was promoted to manager when his boss, Johnny something or other, or maybe it was Jimmy… anyway, the guy quit and the district manager decided to promote from within (after weeks of searching for a candidate) and making Jeff the manager.

And it had been pretty much the same routine each and every day. Jenny understood his pain (working a dead-end retail job for the last twelve years), and they would nightly congregate at the dinner table and swap war stories about bad customers, bad employees and their shattered dreams of getting out.

In his mid-thirties, Jeff Beesler was already old and burnt out and washed up, feeling like a discarded cheeseburger wrapper. He idly wondered how many cheeseburger wrappers he'd handed out in the last fifteen years.

It was still dark (had to be at work by five in the morning to open up and get the morning crew making breakfast burritos and hotcakes and strong coffee) as he exited the highway and came upon the college campus.

He sighed loudly like he did every single day as he stared at the great lawn leading to the main hall, imagining his life if he'd come here instead, relaxed on the lawn and studied, took philosophy classes and tried for an English Major. Where would he be? Who would he be?

The college was closed, with only the walkway lights on. Empty. But by the time Jeff was driving home from work it would be bustling with people taking night classes, older people who got a late start (that could be me), or younger people thinking they had a bright future ahead of them. He knew of at least three new hires who went to school here and he'd had to juggle his schedule when classes began this semester.

It no longer mattered. Workers would come and go in an endless stream, putting in their time until school ended, they got enough money for rent, or until they grew bored of working or mad having to do something other than play videogames and watch MTV. Was that channel still on?

Jeff pulled into the parking lot and his designated spot and shut the headlights off. He checked his watch: 4:58 a.m. Right on time, as per the usual. The only thing unusual was the fact he was alone.

On weekdays (and today was Tuesday) he was always greeted by Johanna, his morning crew lead. She'd followed him over from the old store and had been in the company just as long, although she was ten years Jeff's senior. Her beat-up Toyota was supposed to be occupying the parking space to his left.

He pulled out his cell phone and checked for messages. Johanna never called out sick. Heck, in fifteen years he couldn't think of one time she'd not come to work. There were no messages. He dialed her number but it went right to voicemail.

Jeff went to the front door, opened up by himself, and had the lights on and the kitchen ready to go by the time the sleepy workers started staggering in. Well, some of them.

"Where's Rory?" Jeff asked Imelda, who was eternally three minutes late and usually rolling in with Rory. They swore they weren't a couple, but Jeff wasn't stupid. As long as they did their jobs and never showed any affection at work he didn't care.

Imelda shrugged. "He didn't answer his doorbell. It was weird. I think he lost power, because his whole block was dark. I banged on the door but no one answered. That's why I'm late."

Jeff checked his watch again. He always opened with six crew members, but there was only Imelda and Sophie, one of the new hires. Half the team to start the day. Had a mutiny happened since yesterday? "Where is everyone?" he asked Imelda.

She shrugged as she started preparing for the morning rush. They had less than an hour until they opened the drive-thru window and started dishing out coffees, bagel sandwiches and sausage muffins.

The only thing to do was pull up his sleeves and move at double speed. He got the grills ready, prepared the fryers and was starting the two coffee machines when the sirens approached, three police cars with flashing lights and sirens zipping by.

"Something bad is going on somewhere," Sophie said. She looked bored. She was only nineteen, but she was proving to be a good worker so far. The front end counter space was almost ready, with extra items like ketchup and sugar packets ready to be dispensed.

Within minutes another police car went by, lights and sirens on.

Imelda's cell phone rang in her pocket and she looked at Jeff.

"No cell phones on the floor, you know the rules."

"I didn't have time to put it in the back." Imelda looked at the phone as she pulled it out. "It's my mom."

Jeff wanted to take it away, but he was short-staffed and the worst thing would be to piss her off and have her slow down or, worse, leave altogether. "Hurry up."

Sophie stacked the empty coffee cups in their spinners and smiled at Jeff. "Some weird morning so far."

"Yeah, half the staff seems to have quit. I'm thankful you came to work today." Jeff returned her smile. "It shows a good work ethic and loyalty. I really do appreciate it." Jeff had no idea what else to say to her and realized he was babbling. He turned away. "Imelda?"

Imelda was leaning against the counter staring blankly at her phone.

"Is everything alright?" Shit, Jeff didn't need her to leave now, but he could see something was definitely wrong with her. He was already short-staffed and knew once the drive thru window was open and the line formed they'd quickly get behind.

"Yes… no… I don't know." Imelda looked at him and started to cry. "My dad bit my mother."

"What?" Jeff and Sophie both asked at the same time.

"I can't understand everything she's saying because she's hysterical."

"Did she call the police?"

"Yes, but there isn't an answer. That doesn't make sense. How does 911 not answer the phone?" Imelda started to cry again. "She locked herself in the bathroom with the phone. She said he was crazy, out of control, and wasn't talking. That's not my dad. He's nice to my mother, and to me."

Sophie comforted her. "Call 911 for her."

"Great idea." Jeff checked his watch. They were running out of time to prepare for the morning.

Imelda dialed her cell phone and put it to her ear, wiping tears from her cheeks.

"Everything is going to be fine," Sophie comforted her.

Jeff ran and started prepping as many things as he could. They'd be open in moments and there was no food prepared, the money wasn't out of the safe and into the registers, the outside parking lot hadn't been cleaned, and more product brought from the walk-in freezer. Jeff stopped. "Where's Julio?"

Julio was one of the driver's for the company, and this morning was bread delivery. Promptly at 5:30 the truck would pull into the parking lot and to the back door. Jeff would help unload the buns and other bread products for the next four days. The entire delivery took all of five minutes, but it was the routine. Jeff went to the backdoor and peered through the peephole. No truck. He already knew there wasn't, because Julio always hit his high-beams into the restaurant when he first pulled in, letting them know he was here. He'd light up the place.

"I have to leave," Imelda said to Jeff as he started getting the hash browns ready.

"What did the police say?" Jeff asked, trying not to panic. He couldn't run the restaurant with two of them.

"They didn't answer. No one is answering their phone."

Another round of police cars drove down the highway, going in the other direction.

Jeff tried to remain calm and professional. "I'm sure everything is fine. If you need to leave I understand, but I will ask if you'd keep trying to call first before rushing out. Did you try your mother back? Maybe the police are there and it's a big misunderstanding." Jeff knew he was getting close to the line and didn't want to cross it. He cared for the girl and genuinely hoped everything was fine. He didn't want to seem like he was denying her the ability to leave during a family emergency.

Imelda nodded and started dialing again.

Jeff went into his office. He needed to call Lance, his district manager, and tell him what was going on. He'd be chewed out for this. Anytime a store didn't open on time the manager was ripped a new one. Jeff had never been on the receiving end of a tongue lashing from Lance, but he'd seen and heard enough of them to know what was coming.

Maybe he could call another store and get some workers, or call someone from the night crew back in? Jeff decided to call from his roster first and not involve anyone else if possible.

Jeff started going down the phone list, but no one was answering.

Sophie came into the office. "There's a fire."

"Where?"

Jeff followed her to the front of the store. Across the street, through the glass windows of the restaurant, they could see a fireball shoot into the sky in the distance. The buildings on the other side of the highway - the tire store, dollar store and rival fast food chain - were all on fire.

"We need to call 911," Jeff instinctively said.

"It doesn’t work." Imelda was crying again. "I'm leaving. I need to get to my family."

"Go," Jeff said, not taking his eyes off the fires. What was going on this morning?

"Can I leave?" Sophie asked.

"Why?"

"Sir, it's after six and we haven't gotten a car pulling in yet. Look outside. Besides the cops there hasn't been a car on the road. Something fucked up is happening and I'd rather be home with my family than here. Nothing personal."

"Go." Jeff knew there was no way the store was going to open today, especially with the block on fire. He let both girls out, bid them good luck, and locked the door again. He kept the outside lights off.

Back in the office he called the nearest restaurant, but the phone rang fifteen times before he hung up. He started going down that list and wasn't surprised when no one answered.

Reluctantly, he found Lance's cell phone number and called him. Lance answered on the first ring. "Allison?"

"Um, no, Mister Summers, it's Jeff Beesler from store three two five four. We have a situation here."

"No shit. The world is coming to an end."

"Sir?"

"Put the news on, Jim. Dead people are rising up and eating the living, like in a Ving Rhames movie."

Jeff wanted to correct him about getting his name wrong for some reason, the rest of the conversation not registering. He'd worked for this company for fifteen years, and the district manager couldn't get his name right?

"Run to the hills, buddy. We'll all be dead soon."

Jeff hung up the phone and went back into the lobby, watching as the fire raged.

There were people moving around on the highway, a procession of people shuffling along, maybe from the college.

Jeff went outside, locking the door behind him. As he stepped to the road he could see the college itself was also on fire, and the people were staggering away from it.

"Excuse me," he said loudly, trying to get the attention of someone and ask what was going on.

At least thirty people stopped moving and turned to him, almost at the same exact moment.

Jeff saw the dead, vacant looks in their eyes, the blood and ripped clothing, and the sudden smell of rot and death hit him.

They turned and began moving toward the fast food manager.

Russ "Madman" Meyer

"Why are we in Daytona Beach?" Janke asked, placing his backpack on the seat of the nearly empty airport lobby. He pulled out his cell phone and frowned. "I got no bars. None. How is that possible?"

"I don't know." Russ walked up to the security guard, who was sitting behind a desk and watching a television monitor. "Excuse me."

The guard kept staring at the screen, eyes wide.

Russ circled around behind him and saw what he was looking at: some cheesy zombie B movie, a 'live' shot of people getting ripped apart.

Janke came over and leaned across the security counter and smiled at Russ. The two had been en route to New York from Germany when the plane got shifted south several times. When they landed in Virginia it was only to refuel, the passengers told nothing about their final destination.

"Daytona Beach? I've never been here. Is it spring break?" Janke asked. He was the lead on this latest computer programming deal, his last shot at glory before he'd be pushed aside and someone else - like Russ Meyer - would take over.

The two men were friends, but they knew there was always a professional rivalry when two equals went on a major job.

"Can you help me, buddy?" Russ asked the security guard.

The guy turned slowly and Russ could see he was actually crying. This must be some fucking movie, Russ thought. One of those new super-violent zombie movies the kids were watching these days. Utter crap. Russ remembered the great horror movies he'd grown up on, not like this reality-like garbage, with one camera chasing a supposed attack and people screaming and blood everywhere.

As if on cue, the screen went dead.

"Shit." Janke slapped his hands on the counter. "The power went out."

The guard stood, wiped his eyes, and walked away from the two men without a word.

"What's that guy's problem? Mad because he can't see the end of his movie? Isn't he working?" Russ asked.

Janke laughed. "Now what?"

"The crew said we'd be stuck here for twenty-four hours. I guess we find a hotel room. We can update the program and maybe get a jump on the next presentation."

"Which will be yours, most likely," Janke said and picked up his backpack.

Russ knew it was very likely but genuinely liked Janke. The German-born programmer was his age, had a great sense of humor, was a family man, and grew up in the same kind of family and with the same values as Russ did, despite growing up in Germany and being half a world apart. "Let's go find the rental cars."

The lobby of the terminal was pretty small, just a long narrow corridor with a handful of ticket counters, roped off lines and a single luggage carousel at the end next to a car rental counter, currently unmanned.

"Hello?" Janke said in his thick accent as they approached. "Can you believe the day we're having?"

Russ shook his head. He just wanted to get to New York. He was born and raised in New Jersey and hadn't been home to see his parents or sister in three years. His job took him all over the world but he was based in Germany. The narrow window he thought he would have to complete the job and get a home cooked meal from mom was now out the window. He didn't think they'd make the meeting at all.

Janke was ringing the little bell on top of the counter but no one was coming out from the closed office door. "Now what?"

"Maybe they're all rented." Russ turned back to the sparse crowd of passengers milling about, sitting on their luggage or trying to find a remote corner to relax. He noticed two women using their carry-on bags as pillows while they used the floor as a couch and read from their Kindle e-readers.

Janke obviously saw what Russ was looking at. "I'm not going to sleep on the floor. Let's get out of here and find a hotel. There has to be one within walking distance. I know the race track is close, so we might get lucky and be able to hike it."

"What about our luggage?" Russ asked. He had his important items like his laptop and backpack, but his clothing and personal hygiene items were still likely in the cargo hold of the plane.

Janke shrugged. "I don't want to hang out here. It's up to you, stay or go." Janke smiled. "I mean, you're the boss now."

Russ ignored the comment. He went to the ticket counter but there was no one there, either. With the power out and the sun behind the building, it was getting dark inside the lobby. Russ didn’t like this at all. Where was everyone in charge?

"I'm going back to the terminal. There has to be someone up there. Are you coming?"

Janke followed. They got to the entry and walked right through the dead metal detectors and past the empty roped-off areas and back onto the main terminal area.

There were a few people curled up and sleeping on chairs, but for the most part it was empty. Russ assumed this wasn't usually a busy airport, but this was ridiculous. The food kiosk gates were still open even though no one was manning them.

They walked the length of the terminal, checking in at all twenty desks, but there was no one who worked in the airport around. Russ counted six planes docked. He tried to enter one of the doors to the steps leading to the plane but they were locked.

"Hey, there's a plane coming in," Janke said.

They could hear it now as it taxied down the runway and aimed to the terminal.

"We'll figure out where they are stopping and greet them. Maybe the pilot or attendants can help us. I need my luggage."

Janke laughed. "I need to get out of here. Want a candy bar?"

"What? No. The power is out. You can't pay for it."

Janke nodded and he ran across the aisle and grabbed two Kit Kats, dropping a couple of singles on the deserted counter. "I'm hungry."

"It's still stealing."

"Where's the proof? The camera system is out, the workers have fled."

Russ watched as the airplane began pulling toward one of the terminal docks. "Let's go greet them. Maybe they know something."

"Maybe they're flying somewhere closer to New York. We'll hitch a ride."

Russ watched as the plane slowed and glided to the farthest terminal entrance. They needed to figure out what they were going to do before it got dark. He didn't want to be trapped in a dark airport. "Why don't they have backup generators? You'd think an airport would have emergency lights."

Janke shrugged, eating the last Kit Kat he'd taken. "This is some tiny little place."

"Yes, but we're right between a major racetrack and a hospital. We have to be on a main grid for the power, right? I would think secondary power would be on."

"No idea. I guess that's why you're the boss."

Russ turned on him as he loosened his tie. "Look, I didn't ask for all this. I just wanted to get to New York, do what I had to do, and get some of my mother's cooking in my gut before we flew back to Germany and I had to suffer through another six months of horrible food and warm beer."

Janke laughed. "Cold beer is disgusting. You've never had my mother's family recipe sausage. We still make it ourselves."

"I've never been invited to eat at your family's house."

"Then as soon as we get back I'll ring my mother and we'll throw you a proper feast," Janke said.

"Perfect. But I'm not inviting you to dinner at my parents, so don't ask." Russ laughed. "Here they come."

"Should we greet them down the hallway?"

"We're not allowed to go down there. It's for airport employees only," Russ said.

Janke looked around. "Funny, I don't see anyone left who works here. In fact, we might be the last two people in the airport." He walked to the door and opened it, kicking the door lock in place. "Being helpful."

Russ sat down just across the hall, in a chair overlooking the now-open door. He was tired, getting hungry, and disappointed. This trip was going to end up being a complete waste. They'd probably miss the meeting, his boss would see this as a career setback for Russ, and someone else would be moving their stuff into his nice cozy office.

His stomach growled and he stood, figuring they had a few minutes until the doors of the plane were open and the passengers and flight crew came out. Russ walked to the candy and pulled three singles from his pant pocket and put them on the counter. He picked up two Snickers bars. "You want something? My treat," he said and turned back to Janke just as the first passengers were getting off the plane.

Only they were running off the plane, two men no older than twenty, blood covering their shirts and bloody footprints on the pristine carpet left in their wake.

Janke laughed as they ran past him, throwing up his hands in the air. He looked at Russ, standing at the candy counter. "What the fuck was that? Are we on Candid Camera? On some MTV show?" He looked up at the ceiling, obviously searching for a camera, a smile still on his face.

Russ took a step toward him when the rest of the passengers started coming down the hall… slowly. There was something wrong. The first woman was covered in blood but her eyes were vacant. There was no fear like the two guys had, there was only an emptiness. "Janke…"

The woman wrapped her arms around Janke's shoulders. His look of amusement turned to confusion, and when she clamped her dirty teeth onto his neck and bit deep into his skin, it turned to astonishment and pain.

"Holy shit," Russ said and took two steps to help Janke, but a wave of people broke around Janke as he fell to his knees, driven down by the woman. They all had sightless eyes on Russ.

He turned and ran, aware his life depended on it. Russ was out of the main terminal, taking the unmoving escalator steps three at a time, and straight out the lobby and into the Daytona Beach heat despite it being nearly dark.

Where do I go? There were several hotels within walking distance, he could see the huge racing track to his left, and it looked like a mall was out on the main drag. All the power was out and he saw people milling about everywhere. Russ took a second to catch his breath and try to figure out what his next move was.

Screams behind him turned him around, in time to see people running for their lives. Those passengers who'd been lounging and sleeping in the lobby were being attacked but some had escaped. They spread out in different directions.

He didn't see any of the… of the what? Dead people walking? Bloody deformed humans biting and eating the living? That was ridiculous, and he knew it. None of this made sense. Was Janke in on the hidden camera joke? Was Ashton Kutcher going to jump out from behind a bush at any moment with a camera crew, and they'd all have a laugh at his expense?

The first couple of the things walked out into the sunlight and Russ couldn't help but watch. He had the stupid notion they'd explode when the direct sunlight touched them, even though he knew they weren't vampires. Zombies. He'd seen many movies and read enough horror stories to know what they were, but it didn't make any sense. Were there going to be werewolves on the next flight? A horde of mummies in the next plane? How do you escape from them? How do you kill them?

Russ decided he didn't need answers right now, he just needed to escape. He saw how slow they moved, so keeping ahead of them wouldn't be a problem. Maybe a quick dash across the street to the mall would be smart. Find a stockroom to hide in until this was over. Unlike what happened in movies and books, he was sure the government had a plan in place and could easily eradicate this handful before the monsters spread too far.

As he moved across International Speedway Boulevard, dodging crazy drivers who took no street lights to mean they could drive as fast or erratic as they wanted, he saw many people in the mall parking lot. That was a good sign, right?

They all looked alive, getting into cars or wandering off and crowding near the bus stop. Russ was hungry and decided to see if he could get some food in the food court of the mall before it completely shut down. You never knew when your next meal was coming in a crisis.

The JC Penney exploded, doors shattering and throwing glass and debris across the parking lot in all directions. Someone, on fire, rushed out of the building before collapsing to the asphalt.

Russ instinctively moved to help. There were people closer and they beat at the flames with shirts and pocketbooks just as Russ got there.

The next people coming from the destroyed doors were already dead. And they looked hungry.

"Run!" Russ yelled as he moved away, but everyone around was too busy helping the burnt man on the ground. He tried to pull someone with him but they pushed away. The zombies (Russ had no other name for them, although it was crazy to even think they were) tore into people before screams alerted everyone in the area.

They weren't just on the plane, they were everywhere.

In movies, the hero was dressed in comfortable clothes and wearing sneakers, armed with a rifle and pockets filled with ammunition. Russ was wearing a suit and black uncomfortable dress shoes, and his pockets were empty.

He tried to stop a Hyundai as it pulled out of the lot, but the driver was scared and she refused to stop, almost running him over. Russ kept backing up, watching in horror as dozens of zombies flowed from the mall. Most people were being trapped in their cars, windows shattered as they were pulled back out to the ground, where they were being attacked. And molested? Russ turned away as a zombie actually took his engorged phallus and…

The sound of a racing motor was a nice reprieve from the insanity. Russ watched as a guy on a Harley tried to barrel his way through the horde gathering in the parking lot. He was quickly subdued by sheer numbers and pulled off his bike.

The Harley spun out of control for thirty feet before dropping to the ground. Russ moved with caution, trying to keep his distance from any undead. He looped behind cars, ignoring the screams and the blood seeming to be everywhere.

Russ ran across an open gap between cars. As he moved three zombies locked dead eyes on him and began shuffling in his direction.

"Shit." He got to the Harley but it was heavy. As a kid he'd driven trikes and dirt bikes in the empty fields behind his house, but nothing this big. He'd owned a smaller motorcycle in Germany but quickly abandoned it. No sense in dying in a foreign country. "Move your ass or you'll be dying in your own," he murmured to himself.

Just as he lifted the bike into position he felt his jacket getting tugged from behind.

Russ turned to see a zombie right behind him, with three more coming up slowly. Russ slammed a knee into its gut but it only pushed it back a foot or two.

"Head shot," Russ cried, but he didn't have a weapon. At some point he'd lost his laptop and backpack and just realized it now. He had nothing to fight off the monster, so he used the motorcycle like a shield and got on the other side of it. It wasn't a great barrier as the thing just reached across and grabbed him by the shirt, but at least it was putting enough distance it couldn't bite him.

But his friends were getting closer to Russ and within minutes he'd be surrounded. Russ panicked and began throwing punches with his right hand while keeping the bike steady with his left, three quick jabs that broke the undead nose. It kept trying to grab him.

Just as the other three came up Russ shoved the motorcycle at them and shuffled backward, keeping them in his sight. They stumbled over the fallen bike, one falling and breaking its neck. It stopped moving but the others kept coming at him.

Lucky for him there were no other zombies in this part of the parking lot. Russ remembered all the heroic moves people did in monster movies, killing them with ordinary household weapons or objects conveniently lying around. They'd overcome their fears and save the day or sacrifice themselves so others could survive and spread the word about how heroic they were.

Russ, scared shitless, danced around, bobbing and weaving and taunting the undead, until he got them far enough away from the motorcycle he had time to simply run back to it, lift it off the ground, and start it.

The motorcycle roared to life. Russ began gliding away from the zombies but saw the sudden noise had gotten the attention of many more.

As he drove out of the parking lot, the JC Penney still ablaze behind him, he saw the confusion out on International Speedway Boulevard. In the movies the hero would get on the Harley and simply ride off to safety.

Russ tried to relax and stop thinking these stupid thoughts as he weaved in and out of the traffic. There were several accidents and the next intersection was blocked so he jumped the curb onto the median, squeezed the Harley between two cars, and then worked in and out slowly.

People yelled at him as he passed, but he wasn't too worried about them. He had the horrific thought they'd all be dead soon. Women and children were sitting in their cars in traffic, wasting gas and crawling a foot forward every minute or so.

He slowed at the next intersection and had to drive through a Hooters parking lot and circle the building in order to keep moving west. Russ needed a main highway and he wanted to head north. All he saw before him was an endless line of stopped cars going east and west, traffic lights that no longer worked, and people like sitting ducks in their cars, with no idea of the monstrosities behind him.

Russ moved about a half mile ahead, slowly but surely, until he came to another intersection and was about to push through it when a Home Depot on his left exploded in a fireball and he could see a swarm of zombies coming from that direction.

"Get out of your cars and run," he shouted to those around him, but they just stared at him like he was nuts. A younger guy in a pickup truck openly laughed at Russ and gave him the finger, oblivious to the wave of death heading his way.

Russ turned north with the Harley and began weaving in and out as fast as he could, glad the noise of the motorcycle was going to drown out the screams behind him.

He wondered if he'd ever get out of this alive.

David Monsour

Cheryl jumped at the slamming of the front door, immediately sliding out of bed and gripping the Colt .45 on her end table. David wasn't in bed next to her and she tried not to panic. They'd been over this a hundred times, and it always ended in something stupid like David being too loud or a wandering animal setting off a perimeter alarm.

Someone was coming up the steps. Cheryl got into her shooting stance, dropping next to the bed to give as small a target as possible and ready to shoot.

"Cheryl, I'm walking," she heard David call.

She relaxed. I'm walking was their code for everything being alright. If he'd said I'm coming up she would have killed anyone coming into the room. It was as simple as that.

When he entered the room he wasn't smiling. He wore his Army fatigues and his own Colt .45 was in hand. "It's happening."

*   *   *   *   *

David had the Ford F-150 SVT Raptor already loaded. He tossed their bug out bags in the front seat. "Is everything locked up?"

"Of course." Cheryl slid into the passenger seat. "Your parents are already on the move." She loaded the coordinates on the GPS and turned on the other devices mounted to the dashboard. "I'm tracking them now."

"Your parents?"

Cheryl looked distraught. "They aren't answering their SpecPhone."

David shook his head. "They probably never bothered to keep it charged and change the batteries." He started the Raptor. "Is their car moving?" David had installed a tracking device on their car last Thanksgiving even after they'd told the couple not to. Cheryl's parents didn't buy into the apocalypse prepping and thought David was kind of strange, but he treated their daughter well and that was all they cared about, according to Cheryl.

His Army training (he was an M.P.) had carried with him even after his tours had ended, and a stint as security police in the Air Force finished off his career but not his need to get ready for the end.

"It's really here?" Cheryl said through clenched teeth.

"Yes. I'd been monitoring the police bands this morning while watching SportsCenter. It all happened so quickly, like a tidal wave across Canada and the U.S."

"Canada?"

David glanced at her as he drove through quiet side streets. "We should be safe. I didn't hear anything about Thunder Bay." The couple had built an underground bunker over the border in Canada two years ago, and spent the last two summers prepping and training. They had enough room for them and their parents and enough food and supplies to last for a year. It was a six hour ride in normal conditions, but David knew it would take much longer if the problem had spread even more. "We need to tune into the police and military bands."

Cheryl went to work, trying to find information.

"You didn't even bother asking what was going on," David asked her as she tuned into the Hastings police radio band and heard nothing.

"Something bad," she said with a humorless laugh. "We've trained for this and what's the biggest thing? Not losing your head and keeping calm."

"Zombies."

"No shit?" Cheryl found another band, this one emanating from Canada. "Thank God we learned French."

David's SpecPhone rang and he used the BlueTooth to answer it. "Hey, dad. We're monitoring you and should hookup within the next ten minutes." David frowned. "Already?" He turned to Cheryl. "There are attacks in the area already. This is spreading pretty quickly. My parents aren't able to head north. The roads are already closing." They picked a secondary meeting spot, further west.

"I think we're in trouble, too. According to the Mountie band, all roads into Canada are being shut off. They're trying to contain it and keep it from jumping the border, but it might be too late." Cheryl shook her head.

David gripped the steering wheel and sighed. This is all happening too quickly. All of my projections were wrong. "I somehow thought I'd be ahead of this."

"How could you know?"

David shrugged. "I've been waiting for this my entire adult life. Hell, I thought about this as a kid. We're prepared and it took all of an hour to get mobile and get the truck loaded."

"It would've been quicker if you'd have woken me up earlier," Cheryl said with a hint of annoyance.

"You looked so peaceful," David said and smiled at her. She didn't return it.

"We've planned and planned this."

"I know. But we already had all the cases in the garage ready to go and it would've taken longer to come upstairs, wake you and then get back into the garage. From the time I heard the news until we left it was really forty-nine minutes." David slowed down at an intersection backed up with cars. He stopped and backed up, shooting down a side street. "I had the truck done in under ten minutes."

"Together we did it in eight." Cheryl looked at the GPS system. "You're heading down a dead end."

"There's a park up ahead. I can cut through and get onto another road." David turned to her again. "Sorry."

Cheryl laughed. "Don't be sorry. Just get us out of the city and hook up with our parents." She took the SpecPhone from her husband and dialed her parents. "No answer," she said after a minute.

David pulled into the parking lot of the small park and jumped the curb. He cruised past the empty swing sets and slide. "I just wanted another excuse to go off-road."

Cheryl held up her cell phone. "No signal already."

The Ford Raptor bounced the curb and they were on a quiet side street. At the next intersection David steered onto the sidewalk and went around stopped traffic.

"The power is out." David didn't want to panic but he was close. By his worst estimate they should've been out of Hastings already. Instead they were still moving street to street. In every scenario they'd gone through getting a jump on traffic and getting out of town and north was the easy part. Now they were heading west, away from their ultimate destination, and into the unknown.

Cheryl looked frantic as she went back to the SpecPhone. "Their car hasn't moved. What does that mean?"

David knew what it probably meant. "Call my parents back and see where they are." He didn't want to waste any more time but knew leaving Minnesota without their four parents wasn't an option. "We'll swing over to your parents and grab them. It's actually almost on the way." It was about twenty miles out of the way but David bit his tongue.

*   *   *   *   *

The Ford Raptor was the perfect vehicle as David ate up the miles slowly, driving over lawns, crashing through a couple of fences, and pushing an abandoned car slowly out of the way. But it was taking too long and Cheryl was getting antsy.

"Call them again," he said as he backed up and rode the sidewalk at the next intersection and the latest traffic jam. The main roads were clogged and the side streets were now packed with parked cars.

"They aren't answering," Cheryl said with a hitch in her voice. Her parent's car hadn't moved and David's parent's car seemed to be moving steadily away from them, according to the GPS tracking devices. "I'm going to plug the TV in."

"Good idea." The police bands were either silent or a cacophony of screaming people, neither of which was helpful. David was driving over more front lawns and through more gates than asphalt. They needed to come up with another plan, but he was blank.

Cheryl had climbed into the backseat and fed him the power cord to the portable television. He plugged it into the cigarette lighter.

So far they'd only encounter living people but for all David knew, they might be heading into a horde of the dead. He felt like he was simply driving randomly and wasting their gas.

"Wow. Pull over," Cheryl said quietly. "You have to see Minneapolis."

David backed into someone's driveway and cut the engine to save fuel, using the auxiliary power to keep the TV on. He helped her move it to the front and Cheryl slid back into the passenger seat.

The small eighteen inch screen showed a city ablaze, a shot from a news helicopter. When they went in for a tighter shot on the ground there were dozens of bloody and ragged people stumbling down a road in pursuit of running people.

"They seem to be slow, which is in our favor. As long as a large group doesn't surround us we should be able to get away if need be. We'll conserve our ammo and use the machetes whenever we need to."

Cheryl began crying.

David put a hand on her shoulder. "Baby, we're prepared. We can get through this."

Cheryl turned to him and frowned. "Get through this? It is the end of the world, David. Our plans were for nothing. We can't get into Canada. Our parents aren't here with us like we practiced. So far we're driving around aimlessly. There is no way we can go west or north and you know it."

Before David could respond the SpecPhone rang.

"Hello?" Cheryl answered and closed her eyes. She was listening for a minute before handing the phone to David. "It's your dad. He wants to talk to you now."

David took the phone and put it to his ear with dread. "Dad? Are you and mom alright?"

"Listen son, like I just told Cheryl: we love you two."

"I'm coming to get you."

"David, you're as stubborn as your mother. We're heading southwest right now. It's the only open way to go. There's talk on the radio about people heading to Texas and Florida."

"These things are everywhere, dad. You need to stop somewhere and let me find you. We can double back and head into Canada."

"There is no more Canada. We stopped to help a couple heading south about twenty minutes ago."

"Dad, I told you to stay away from people."

"It was your mother, you know how she is. The people were coming from Canada, the borders collapsed already. It looks like the entire population of our northern neighbors is infected and heading our way."

"Where are you now? I'll head your way and we can meet up."

"Son… head south. We'll meet in a southern State."

David didn't want to hear this. They had a plan, and it wasn't working. Nothing was going the way it was supposed to.

"No, I'm coming your way. I have your car on my GPS." David started the Ford Raptor and pulled out of the driveway.

"I'm telling you to forget about us."

David punched the steering wheel in frustration. "Dad, I'm trying to save you."

"It's too late for us. Your mother… she was bitten. She doesn't look too good."

Shit. "You need to get away from her…" Shit. "Bind her up so she can't bite you."

"And then what? Live what's left of this life without her? I can't do it, and you know it. Take Cheryl to safety. Drive south. It's the only chance you have. I'm going to find somewhere pretty and quiet and spend my last few minutes with your mother."

"Dad, don’t do this," David said and fought back the tears.

"I loaded the Colt .45 you gave me, and you know I can use it. Heck, I taught you how to shoot. I love you, son."

"I love, too, dad."

"Give Cheryl a kiss for me and your mother. David… survive this."

The SpecPhone disconnected.

At the same moment Cheryl began to scream, pointing at the television. "My parents are gone! The military just bombed Rosemount."

*   *   *   *   *

South, and away from everything they owned, everyone they loved and everything they'd known. It was almost daybreak and David knew he had to pull over soon. They were running through dirt trails and farmland and doing a great job keeping off the main roads. From the news on the television, there was nowhere safe. Despite the military dropping bombs, blowing up bridges and setting up kill zones, the undead were multiplying while the living were being eaten… and worse.

David looked at his wife, finally sleeping fitfully in the passenger seat, and sighed. He'd failed her. By now they should've been hunkered down in the shelter with their parents, playing a game of Yatzee and listening to the world die around them.

They were somewhere in Iowa and heading south, cutting through fields and across property lines with abandon. When David saw a housing development he decided to stop. The Raptor was almost on empty and now would be a good time to load up on extra supplies. He still had five gallons of gas as backup but you never knew when it would get scarce.

He pulled into the farthest driveway, which had two newer Buicks parked, and turned off the engine. Cheryl was immediately alert, reaching for her Colt .45.

"It's alright. We need to siphon some gas again and see if we can find some more food and water." David got out, weapon drawn, and his wife followed suit. "Keep watch." He glanced at the house, a well-kept ranch house with a Big Wheel parked on the grass. "I doubt anyone is home, but if they are they might shoot us."

As Cheryl climbed onto the first car and scanned the neighborhood for movement, David pulled a small length of hose from the rear of the Ford Raptor and began pulling gas from the first car into theirs. He peered into the window. "This one is full. We might get lucky here."

David emptied as much as he could from the first tank and started on the second car, which was three-quarters full. "This is taking too long. Anything?"

"It's a ghost town. I don't see fires, bodies, damage to any of the houses… nothing unusual. Just another sunny day."

David packed the hose in the truck and sighed. "Should we go inside?"

Cheryl hesitated. "Do we need to?"

"I'm not sure how bad this is going to get. The military might have contained it, but from the radio conversations I've been listening to, it broke through and Minnesota is pretty much gone. We're only in Iowa. We have a long run ahead of us. We have enough food for a month, but if it keeps going to hell we might wish we'd stopped more often."

Cheryl nodded. "Let's do this quickly. I don't like it."

When they reached the walk they stopped. The front door was ajar.

"Hello?" David called, getting into a defensive stance and using the corner of the garage for a shield. "Anyone inside?"

"What are you doing?" Cheryl whispered behind him.

Without looking back he spoke quietly. "The door is open but I don’t see any signs of a struggle. Either they left, which is more than possible, or they are trying to trap us. I think we need to be cautious with living or dead people from this point forward."

"Hello?" he repeated.

"You're wearing fatigues. Tell them you're military."

David smiled. "That's why I married you." He stepped out cautiously but still trained the Colt .45 on the door, eyes glancing at the windows. "I'm United States military. We're searching for survivors. This area is going to fall soon."

He heard something inside, a small shuffling noise. "Someone is inside."

"Hopefully not something."

David raised his voice again. "Last chance before we move on."

He counted to twenty and then took a step forward, ready to rush in and do what he had to do. He imagined the house filled with zombies, although the news accounts so far were talking about them being mindless and hungry like popular movies and fiction always assumed. You nailed that one, Romero.

"Don't shoot, please don't shoot!"

David checked his weapon. "Come out slowly."

A middle aged man stepped outside, squinting with his arms raised. "This is my home."

David nodded. "Who else is inside?"

"My family."

"Tell them to come out slowly." David still held the Colt .45 and now Cheryl joined him.

The man looked confused. "I thought you said you were the military. Where are the tanks and big guns?"

David shook his head. "We're not the military. Not anymore. I'm David Monsour and this is my wife Cheryl. We're trying to escape."

A pretty older woman and two young daughters stepped outside.

"Are we being evacuated?" the youngest girl asked.

"I don't know, sweetheart." The man put his hands down. "I'm Chris Everson, and this is my wife Judy and our girls, Allie and Edy."

David didn’t want this to go bad and he felt sorry for rattling the family. But better safe than getting bitten or shot at by a homeowner. "Do you have any weapons to defend yourself with?"

The man shook his head. "We've just been hiding in the garage."

"Come with me," David said. When the man didn't move, David smiled. "We're not the bad guys, but they'll be here soon. Trust me."

He followed David to the back of the Ford Raptor. "Nice wheels," he said. "Where did you find this?"

"I actually bought it a year ago. I've kept it in the garage ready to go. It had less than three hundred miles on it when we started running. I guess I won’t have to worry about another car payment on it." David opened the back and pulled out a small box. "Ever fire a gun before?"

The man grinned. "I'm from Iowa. We're born with a rifle in our hands."

"Good. This is for you. Protect those girls."

"Mister, I can't take this from you. What if you need it for your family?"

"We have enough firepower to get us where we're going."

The man opened the box. "Wow," he finally said.

"It's a Sig Sauer 1911 Nitron with two full magazines, which only gives you sixteen shots, so use them wisely."

"Why are you helping a stranger?"

"I've worked this scenario in my head and on paper for years. No matter what disaster struck, I had a plan. Now that we're in the damn thing nothing is working the way I wanted it to. But I'm not going to lose who I am. Chris, prepare yourself because there are going to be some messed up individuals in your path from this point out, people who want what you have, and will take those females from you."

"Why did you stop here?"

"I siphoned your gas from the two cars, and we'd planned on raiding your home for food and supplies if it was unoccupied."

Chris nodded. "Fair enough. I'm glad you aren't some of the men I know will eventually come. I didn’t want to go with the others."

"What others?"

Chris pointed down the empty road. "The rec center at the end of the block. All the other neighbors took the sick and the kids down there and barricaded it in."

"Why didn’t you go?"

"I really never liked too many of my neighbors. And I've seen enough zombie movies to know you abandon the sick or everyone will be infected. And shoot them in the head."

*   *   *   *   *

Chris and his family decided it was time to leave as well. After sheepishly apologizing again for stealing their gas, he helped Chris refill the newer car. They jammed the trunk and backseat with only essentials: food, water and camping supplies.

David and Chris broke into the next home over and raided the pantry, finding a ton of canned goods and bottled water. Most of David's supply was in the bunker in Thunder Bay. If they could get there it would feed all of them for a year.

Satisfied that they couldn't carry anything else in the two vehicles, they stood in the driveway and got ready to depart.

On a whim, David gave Chris directions to the bunker in Canada and the pass code to get inside, in the event they were separated. They all knew what an absolute long-shot it would be to head into enemy territory (as everything north of them was) and find a way to the safety of the bunker, but it made David feel better.

"It's time to go," David said.

"Are we going to the rec center?" Chris asked.

"We have to. If they are still alive we need to warn them about what's going on." Cheryl had monitored the various bands all morning and the barriers set in place had all fallen, the military pulling back and scattering. The zombies were marching through Iowa like a locust horde.

They drove to the end of the road and pulled into the parking lot of the rec center. The windows were boarded from inside and someone with intelligence had parked cars leading up to the front door and side exit to create a killing zone and a maze.

David kept the Raptor engine running and followed the car maze, weapon drawn. He got to the door and hesitated, listening for noise.

Nothing.

Chris was at his side. "Maybe they heard us pull up and are scared? Telling everyone to be quiet?"

"How many people again?"

"Probably fifty."

David knocked on the door. "This is the United States military. I need to speak to whoever is in charge."

The door shook as something (or several somethings) slammed against it from the other side. It almost creaked off its hinges.

"Is anyone alive in there?" Chris asked, tears in his eyes.

The pounding was nonstop and the door would burst soon. "Time to leave," David said.

"They weren't bad neighbors." Chris jumped into his car.

"Time to go," David said and put the Ford Raptor in drive just as the door of the rec center collapsed.

Cheryl raised her Colt .45 but David was already driving away. "Save your bullets."

David watched in the rearview mirror as the Everson family followed them, dozens of zombies shuffling from the rec center.

Michael Ross

He was out of gas, and kicking the pump wasn't helping. Mike Ross didn't care. He stomped back into the gas station, in the middle of nowhere, and checked behind the counter for the third time. The power was definitely out, and without it the pumps were useless.

"Hello?" he shouted, his anger echoing off the walls. He was tired, hungry and just wanted to get out of here. He glanced out the window to his Harley and pounded his fists on the counter in exasperation. "Last chance before I burn this fucking place down. Come out come out, wherever you are."

No answer, which he already knew. "I'm eating all the food." Mike picked up a Snickers bar and a Kit Kat and ate, waving the empty wrappers at the dead surveillance camera mounted in the corner. He went to the freezers and touched the glass, smiling when he felt them a bit colder than the room temperature.

"I'm stealing drinks as well," she shouted, knowing how stupid he sounded, but knowing no one could mock him. He grabbed a twenty ounce Coke and an aluminum can of Bud Light from out of a box.

He thought about walking east and meeting I-95 and flagging someone down, but it was at least ten miles. He didn't want to walk that far in the Florida sun. Maybe there was a town nearby. It was unlikely they'd dropped a gas station on some hillbilly road in the middle of nothing for no reason. Maybe this was an alternate trucker route or the farmers drove their John Deere tractors up to the pump.

Mike decided he'd go to the bathroom and when he came out, if the store hadn't suddenly filled with people, he'd pack a bag of food and water (and another beer or three) and pull the Harley around back. No use leaving it out front for some asshole to mess with. Then he'd begin his walk back to civilization, whatever that meant here in Florida.

"Some fucking vacation," he murmured, selecting two NASCAR magazines from the shelf before heading to the bathroom.

*   *   *   *   *

Behind the gas station was a beat-to-Hell pickup truck, paint flecking off and a crack in the windshield. Mike set his Harley between the garbage cans and the back wall, confident it wouldn't be seen unless someone came right up on it. He loved his bike, but if he could find the keys to the truck he could fill it up with food and beer and take a ride.

He'd eventually come back, since his Harley was here.

The door was open and Mike found the keys still in the ignition. "Bingo," he said and sat down on the cracked seat. It was hot and stuffy, dust swirling around him. "Moment of truth." Mike turned the key and it hesitated before starting, the engine loud and mean.

He drove around to the front, expecting to see another person at the pump or the owner of the place with a shotgun pointed at his head. It was just as he'd left it.

Not really having a game plan, Mike filled up bags with cookies, bags of chips and pretzels, and stacked cases of beer in the bed of the truck, wedging it in with a case of overpriced motor oil and five cases of bottled water.

The front seat was packed with food items and any candy that hadn't yet melted. Mike put sixteen large bags of Twizzlers on the dashboard for his driving snack.

"Now I'm ready," he said to the empty gas station. With a wave he drove away. He regretted leaving his bike there but needed to be smart. The man on the radio, before he screamed and went off the air, had babbled about the end of the world and the dead coming back to life. Mike had seen enough horror movies in his day to know it was either some fucked up joke, or he was truly fucked.

Either way, he would rather die choking on too many Twizzlers than being eaten alive.

*   *   *   *   *

The smoke from the fire could be seen for miles. As Mike drew closer, heading in an eastern direction whenever the dusty side roads would allow, he smelled the burning meat. He knew it wasn't a barbeque place. His wheels kicked rocks onto a paved highway and he gunned the engine and headed north, figuring he'd find a turn-off up ahead and he could keep his easterly pace, all the while heading toward the fire. In the barren landscape that was presently Florida, with a ribbon of road before and behind, and stunted trees to either side, at least he had a destination in sight.

The fire was further than he thought. Fifteen miles north, after passing several exits, he came upon the ground zero spot: a strip-mall had been torched, only a hulking charred mess remaining. Mike went to pull off the exit and investigate further when movement below the overpass he was stopped near caught his eye.

He stopped and got out, running to look over the side. "Holy shit," he murmured. Below him were hundreds of people, all walking slowly east. He went to call down to them, to ask if they were heading for a safe place, when he stopped and kept staring. No one was talking, no one was looking anywhere but straight ahead, and as he looked closer he put a hand to his mouth. He'd noticed a few wounded but now realized they were almost all hurt in some way. A man right below him had no arms, blood like jelly coating his torso and legs. A woman, legless, was pulling herself inch by inch with fingerless stumped hands in the median.

Mike ran to the other side of the bridge and watched as they approached, a horde of sightless eyes and body parts sloughing off the dead. He was about to walk away when he noticed a tall man, one side of his head a burnt mess, look up at him with white-yellow pus eyes and stop. All around the man others stopped and looked up, staring at Mike.

Without waiting around, he ran back to the pickup, started the engine, and drove north. He was a good distance away when he looked back and saw some of them now onto the highway itself. "Fuck," he said and grabbed another Twizzler off the dash.

*   *   *   *   *

Mike, tired and with it getting dark knowing it was stupid to continue, pulled over behind another abandoned gas station, parked the pickup as close to the wall and dumpster as he could get, rolled up the windows despite the heat, locked the doors, and scrunched uncomfortably on the passenger side onto the floor. Despite everything, he was asleep in minutes.

The movement woke him with a start, his neck twisted and throbbing from his awkward position. He popped his head up and looked over the empty Twizzlers wrappers but quickly ducked down.

"Shit," he cursed. He was surrounded by dead people, wandering aimlessly behind the store. He wanted to get up early and explore the gas station for more food and water, and maybe a weapon. Now there was no time.

Still in a sitting position halfway on the floor, he put the key in the ignition and started the truck. As soon as the engine revved to life he felt a thud against the front of the pickup. No time to lose, he slid up and into the driver's seat, put it in drive, and stomped on the gas.

He flattened two of them as he moved, with no fear or looks of astonishment in their dead eyes. They were simply standing in front of him one second and then they were gone, speed bumps bouncing underneath as he gained speed. Mike had to plow into two more as he shot out of the parking lot, clipping a third as he aimed back for the I-95 on-ramp.

As soon as he saw the throngs of dead pouring down from the main highway, he threw it in reverse, backed up and hit another two or three, and sped east and away from the mob.

Farther away they thinned out, and he was able to navigate around them as he moved. He still had food and some water, but wanted a weapon, something to fight with. Something manly to use, like a sawed-off shotgun or a machete or even a Samurai sword. Instead, he had nothing.

He nicked another dead man standing in front of him and smiled as he watched him slam to the pavement in the rearview mirror.

Another mile up the road, with no dead in sight, he pulled over. Mike grabbed two warm beers from the back, a bag of melting chocolate donuts, and a water, and climbed back in.

As a dead woman suddenly appeared in front of the pickup, a quarter mile down the road, it hit Mike. He wanted a weapon, something to kill these bastards with.

He took a sip of warm beer before putting the pickup truck into drive, and aimed his weapon at the dead woman.

Steve 'The Breeze' Brack

"How long until Daytona?" he mumbled from the comfort of his bed. His head was pounding and he knew why: last night was blonde twins and a bottle of cold gin.

He refused to open his eyes, knowing the sunlight streaming through any crack in the curtains would pierce his skull and fry him like a fucking vampire.

"Diesel, I'm hungry," he yelled. The tour bus was stopped, he was sure it was. That meant Diesel, his driver and part of his pit crew, would be either fixing the bus, getting gasoline, or making food.

Steve 'The Breeze' Brack needed some pancakes and bacon. "Is there a Cracker Barrel up here?" he shouted. Each morning they'd stop at a Cracker Barrel (especially when home in Florida, since it seemed there was one off every exit), and Diesel would order food. Steve would sit at his table and eat while a small racing crowd would gather outside and chant his name. The best way to have breakfast. If he wasn't too hung over he'd open the side door, wearing one of his new black Number 75 T-shirts, and sign autographs. The prettiest woman would literally get the shirt off his back.

Usually he'd hear the massive driver stalking down the hallway and banging a meaty fist on the door. "I guess you're outside. Damn."

Steve pulled himself to a sitting position but his head swam and he saw spots. "Fuck that," he whispered and put his head back down on the pillow and closed his eyes.

*   *   *   *   *

It was nighttime. Steve was now fully awake and covered in sweat. The tour bus was still parked and he didn't know if he'd slept through the day while they drove or if they'd been in this spot for hours. And the air conditioning was off.

Diesel would get an earful for sure. Steve, feeling better than the last time he'd sat up, found his underwear and shorts, and opened his bedroom door. The rest of the bus was dark. Usually at least the overhead stove light was on.

Steve went to the bathroom before his bladder exploded. Hour after hour of drinking and fucking will do that to a man, even one in such great shape. He stared at himself in the mirror and grinned, his perfect white teeth of movie star quality. Maybe after his racing career was over, he'd get into film.

But first he hoped he was in Daytona. There was a great Hooters as well as a Kerr's WingHouse on this strip of road, and he was in the mood for wings, beer and titties.

"Diesel?" he called as he stumbled down the dark hallway. In the kitchen he turned on the light. The place was empty. He opened the side door and shook his head.

The good news: there was a Cracker Barrel on the other side of the parking lot. Bad news? It was currently aflame. "What the fuck?"

Steve stepped down onto the hot pavement and looked around. At this distance and with the only light the fire itself, he couldn't tell if there were people inside.

He needed his shoes, so he went back in, put on socks, his old pair of Nike runners he always stashed in the closet, and one of his Steve 'The Breeze' Brack Number 75 T-shirts with his catchphrase 'Don't You Know Who I Am?' on the back. Most of the time, before night's end, he'd be trading shorts with some barrel-chested bimbo, signing this one, and burying his face in her ample cleavage. He loved being a star. Most of those other racing car drivers were ruined by fancy advertising budgets, corporate sponsors and people who knew nothing about the thrill of hitting two hundred-thirty on a straight-away.

Steve was born to do this, and his good looks, daredevil attitude and inherited money assured him he'd always do it his way. Let the idiots worry about where the next paycheck was coming from. Steve was worried about where the next race was and how many women he could fuck between here and there.

Right now he was wondering where his driver was, so he could get the hell out of here. "Diesel?" he yelled as he stepped back outside.

Steve wondered what his driver's real name was. Everyone called him Diesel, and he just assumed it had something to do with driving trucks or tour buses. The guy had worked for the Earnhardt and Petty teams over the years and was a great worker.

It was the little things he did without question. Steve remembered asking him on his first day of work if he had a problem getting him cocaine.

Diesel had shrugged his big shoulders. "Never have before. I guess I can figure that out."

And he'd done well over the three years he'd worked for the Breeze Crew, joining the team in the pit as an alternate. He also had an instinct for grade A pussy, and never dipped in, despite Steve telling him he could. The man was all business, even though he looked like a pro wrestler and a biker gang had birthed him.

The Cracker Barrel wasn't completely gone. The left side, which was the dining area, had collapsed, but now the flames were smaller.

Steve walked toward it, through the parking lot and past empty cars, and stood on the wooden porch as far away from the collapsed area as possible. He peeked inside but didn't see anyone moving, although there was so much smoke he couldn't see more than ten feet.

No one would ever accuse him of being a hero. "Fuck it," he said. Steve decided to go back to the tour bus, make himself a drink and a sandwich, and watch through the window until the cops and fire trucks showed up. Or Diesel did and they could drive out of here.

As he walked back he noticed I-95, which ran behind and above the tour bus, was empty. He stopped and stared, but no cars were moving. Even at this late hour the main road through Florida should have some traffic. Where the fuck was everyone?

Steve climbed back on the bus, locked the door behind him, and sat down at the table. He didn't know what to do. Driving the tour bus away from here was not an option. Even though he was a world class driver on the track, the truth was in the real world he was a mess, with a suspended license after his second DUI. Hell, except on the track every weekend, he never drove anywhere.

Even in the off-season he had a slew of handlers. His entourage drove him wherever he needed to go, his accountants and money-people took care of that part of his life, bodyguards shadowed him in the Miami clubs, and his agent was busy signing him to commercials, product endorsements, and better sponsorships.

Steve 'The Breeze' Brack, the money juggernaut who was the winner in the number 75 car, poured himself a healthy shot of Jack Daniels and peeked back out the window.

The Cracker Barrel fire had burned itself out. There were no hordes of fire fighters battling the blaze. It was as if it just got bored and petered out.

Steve went into his bedroom, found his cell phone, and tried to call Karl, his agent. The phone wouldn't connect to the number so he tried another. And another, but it wouldn't connect. "Worthless," he said and tossed the phone on the bed.

He was hungry, so he tried to settle down, stop wondering what was going on, and made himself a huge sandwich.

Steve poured another shot of whiskey and grabbed a cold beer chaser. He decided to wait this out, safe in the tour bus. It was getting hot, so as soon as he was done with his food, the air conditioning would be on.

He scooped the whiskey bottle from the counter, turned the air on full-blast, and turned the widescreen television mounted in the corner on with the remote control. There was static on ESPN, where it was always tuned. Confused, he switched the channel but most other stations had breaking news about some riots somewhere. He didn't care about fighting overseas or stupid people burning their own cities. He turned it off, the start of a headache coming on.

"Hair of the dog," he said and tipped the whiskey again, filling his glass. He took both to his bedroom, set them on the end table, and did another check of the doors and windows to make sure everything was locked. Diesel had keys so he could get back in.

"Fuck. Keys." Steve went to the front of the tour bus and checked but the keys weren't in the ignition. "Fuck." Without the keys he couldn't drive the tour bus anyway.

Steve remembered Diesel had placed an extra set somewhere under the bus or on top of the bus… he wasn't listening and now wished for once he had. There were keys somewhere, but he wasn't about to go out there tonight and rummage around underneath looking for them.

Tomorrow was another day. Steve found a box of wheat crackers in the cabinet, a block of sharp cheddar in the fridge, and took the biggest knife he could find to cut it. He retired to his bedroom.

*   *   *   *   *

The Jack Daniels bottle slipped off the bed and bounced on the floor, sounding like a gunshot to Steve. He slid out of bed and sat up. "How long until Daytona?" he shouted to Diesel.

His legs felt like rubber and his head was pounding as he stumbled to the bedroom door and opened it, sunlight streaming in from up front. "Diesel, I had a fucked up dream last night. And you were nowhere to be found! I should dock your pay for that, even though it was a dream."

Steve went to the bathroom, ignoring himself in the mirror as he did his business. He knew he'd look like shit. He was hungry and hoped the Cracker Barrel in his nightmare was outside but not burned to the ground.

He went to the kitchen area. Diesel wasn't around. Steve went back into the bedroom, put on some underwear and shorts, and went back and opened the side door.

The lingering smoke hit him first. The Cracker Barrel was destroyed, a pile of rubble and small fires still burning.

Steve stepped down onto the warm pavement and glanced back at I-95, which now had some fast-moving traffic on it but not nearly as much as normal. He saw clouds of smoke in all directions and thought he heard a gunshot in the distance.

"What the fuck is going on?"

He thought about going back in and getting his sneakers but, with his head pounding, it felt like too much work. Instead, he started walking slowly across the parking lot.

When he hit the first row of cars he stopped. There had been only a few customers last night but it didn't look like any of the cars had left. He wondered where the people were but decided he probably didn't want to know.

A shuffling sound to his right turned him around.

"Holy shit," he swore as a burn victim came slowly toward him, the man's face burnt, his clothes gone and his body red and black with sores and running flesh.

Steve turned and threw up his late night snack of crackers, cheese and Jack.

"Are you alright, buddy?"

The man kept moving and when Steve, uncomfortable, shifted to his left, the man changed direction and still kept up his slow pace.

"Can you speak?" Steve didn't know how to help this guy or first aid or any such shit. He had people do things for other people. He cursed Diesel again. Diesel would be able to figure out what the guy needed and leave Steve to make breakfast.

The man got to within ten feet and Steve got a chill. He had no eyes left, only ruined holes where his eyes and nose used to be, the skin dripping off his face.

Steve took three steps back and to the right.

The man slowly changed direction, not stopping his stride.

"Can you see me?"

No answer, although it looked like his charred vocal chords were sticking out of the side of his neck.

Steve ran back to the tour bus, intending to lock himself in and try to raise help. He thought there was a CB radio in the bus. He'd figure out how to use it.

The sound of screeching tires halted him. Steve turned and saw an old pickup truck on the far side of the lot, just visible through the smoke.

"Hey, hey!" Steve called.

The man kept coming, right at Steve in his plodding pace.

Steve jumped up and down and waved his arms. He definitely needed help or he'd be stuck here.

The pickup disappeared behind the Cracker Barrel.

"Shit." Steve didn't know what to do. He was halfway back to the tour bus, the man was still coming slowly at him, but he wanted to get the attention of the pickup truck before it sped off and left him here.

Two more slow-moving people appeared from around the building and he knew it was more trouble.

Steve moved to his far right, away from his pursuer and his two new friends, and in the direction the truck went.

It appeared from around the Cracker Barrel. Steve watched in amazement as the pickup truck slammed into one of the newer people, driving over the body before stopping.

"Crazy bastard," Steve said as he watched.

The pickup reversed and bashed into the other person, then jerked forward and ran them over again.

Steve began jumping up and down again and yelling.

The pickup truck was stopped, still running, but it was too far away for Steve to get a good look at the driver. He hoped he saw him, but just in case Steve began hollering again and jumping around.

The dead man (Steve was quite sure he was dead but didn't dwell on that maddening fact just yet) was within five feet so Steve scooted back to his left and put some distance between them, not surprised when he changed direction as well.

Steve was tired, the sunrays were like daggers driving into his whiskey-soaked brain, and he wanted to throw up again.

Just when he was about to give up and head back to the tour bus the pickup truck revved and shot straight towards him.

It was moving fast and Steve now wondered if it was friend or foe. What if it was a looter, looking for a quick score at the burning Cracker Barrel? With it destroyed he'd be looking for another target.

Steve glanced at the tour bus. Everything he owned of importance was in there, and it was pretty much his entire life.

Steve started run, his bare feet scraping on the asphalt. He could hear the truck as it tore across the parking lot.

A thunk forced Steve to turn. The pickup had run over the dead man and backed over him. Steve was still too far to outrun a pickup truck so decided to stay where he was and face the music.

As the pickup drove over, slowly, a man leaned out of the window and smiled. He parked a few feet from Steve and got out.

He wore a biker's outfit, with black leather chaps and a Harley bandanna on his head. He smiled easily, his goatee flapping in the light breeze.

"Nice to finally meet another living person out here," he said and extended a hand covered in a fingerless leather biker glove. "Mike Ross."

"I don't know what's going on," Steve said. "I'm -"

"Steve 'The Breeze' Brack," Mike said with a laugh. He pointed at the tour bus. "If it wasn't for this baby I would've missed you." He stood back and raised his hands. "I cannot believe it's the end of the world, and I'm here with my idol. What are the odds?"

"End of the world?"

Mike nodded. "Shit yeah. People are biting and raping other people, dead people, and they're making more dead people. It's fucked up."

"No idea what you're talking about." Steve just wanted to get back inside and sleep off his hangover.

"Where ya headed?"

Steve considered the question. Where was he going at this point? "South and home."

Mike shook his head. "From the few radio reports I heard, south is screwed. These things are everywhere and spreading quickly. People are heading north and the main roads and back roads are packed. They closed off I-95 just south of Melbourne."

"Then I'll head north," Steve said.

The two just stood there staring at one another.

Steve finally nodded and glanced at the dead man under the pickup truck. "Thanks for, uh, hitting that thing."

"No problem." Mike shrugged. "I'm heading north as well. The pickup is out of gas, anyway."

Steve opened the side door and stopped. He turned and smiled, flashing his movie star teeth. "Can you drive this thing, Mike?"

Mike grinned. "Of course I can."

"Then you're my new driver. We need to find the extra set of keys first."

"Can you say it first?" Mike asked.

"Say what?" Steve said but he knew. They always asked him to say it, like he did in the car insurance commercial last summer. He'd made a pretty penny for standing there, smiling, and saying his line. "Do you know who I am?" he said.

Mike laughed and went in search of the extra keys.

Noah Stern

It was time for a new tire iron. Noah tossed the bent, bloody one in his hands over the counter and walked out of the Cracker Barrel with his finds in six plastic shopping bags.

The parking lot was filled with cars besides the police cruiser he'd used to get here. He wasn't a cop, but he loved driving like one.

Noah was also partial to the police-issue shotgun each car had. Eighteen of them were neatly stacked in the trunk right now, but he needed a new tire iron.

Tabitha was sleeping in the backseat with the windows cracked, wrapped up in a thin blanket and nothing else.

When he opened the door and put the bags on the floor near her she stirred, stretched her arms and smiled at him.

"Put some clothes on," he muttered.

"Why? You don't seem interested."

"What if we get attacked? I killed three of them things in the restaurant. What if more were out here?"

She shrugged and wrapped herself in the sheet. "I don't know if I'd really care at this point."

"Well, decide if you want to live or die before I start the car."

Tabitha grinned. "Why?"

"I could use the room for food and stuff."

"I could just kiss you, Noah. Kiss you all over," she said and fumbled for her shirt on the seat. "Did you bring me anything?"

"Don't I always?" It was part of the game: he'd find a new place to raid and make sure he found something unique inside for her.

"Is it a fairy?"

Noah frowned. "I told you the last time, I won't take fairies with me. They freak me out."

"How about beer?"

"Booze is usually the first stuff people take, before clothes and eating utensils. Gotta have their liquor." Noah got in and started the car. "Where to?"

"I say we keep driving north." She struggled to pull herself into a sitting position between the front seats, holding onto the headrests for support. "Get anything good?"

"Not much. The bags are right there." He watched her in the rearview mirror hesitate as she looked at them.

"I'll look later."

"Suit yourself." He pulled onto the deserted highway and accelerated to fifty miles an hour. "We need to find someplace to hole up before dark."

"How about a nice hotel near the beach? We can listen to the waves and the seagulls."

"And get us a couple of seafood platters from room service and a bucket of cold beer," Noah said and glanced at her again.

She fell back against the seat, arms folded, and her lower lip trembling. "That was mean to say."

He knew he'd hurt her feelings. Shit, he always hurt her feelings. All she did was pout like a child, even though she'd said she was twenty. She acted half her age.

They drove in silence for an hour, Noah weaving in and out of car pileups and doing his best to steer clear of undead as they stumbled across the highway.

"Hungry?" he finally said, more to break the tension than to actually ask her.

Tabitha refused to look at him in the mirror as he watched her. "Nope," she finally said.

"Can you get me something to eat? There's stuff in the closest bag to you on the floor."

"I guess."

Noah sped past an overturned Ford Focus, a legless zombie pulling itself through the shattered windshield. The road ahead was relatively empty and he decided to stomp on the gas and get some miles into this journey. And get away from the freak.

"Wow, oh wow!"

He smiled when he looked back and saw her face.

Tabitha held a wooden figure in her hand. "You know I love these things! Remember the one a few days ago that was cracked? These are perfect. How many did you get?"

"Six or seven. They were on a shelf in the stockroom. My guess is no one saw them. I figured you'd like them, and they are all different."

"I love them. I love you, Noah. The next time we stop I'm going to kiss you and hug you, so be ready. Don't fight me off this time. I mean it, I owe you."

Noah felt his face go red. "There's no need for all that, and you know it. Let's just get along and find a hiding place, alright? Fair enough?"

Tabitha laughed. "Whatever you say, honey."

Noah scrunched his face when a glance in the rearview mirror showed him what he'd been dreading all day: she was putting on her gaudy red lipstick and staring at him.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy her company. He did, he really did. But she was…a little different from what he was used to. That's all. Simple as that.

They'd run into each other in Savannah. Well, he'd run into her…

"I think I'll name this one Sissy. That's what we called my cousin Stella when she was a kid. She was godawful ugly but so much fun. Do you think I'm godawful ugly, Noah?"

He didn't need to look to know she was staring at him. "Of course I don't."

"You don't sound particularly convincing. Everyone has beauty, even if it's inside them. Do you believe that?"

Noah was forced to take the next exit because of a burning tractor trailer in the road. Out of habit he slowed at the first intersection, even though there was no one else around and the lights didn't work.

"Well?" she asked again, her voice cracking.

"I don't think you're ugly," he finally said.

He swung the police car around a twisted pickup truck and jumped the median. Straight ahead up the ramp he gained speed and was doing fifty again and cruising back on the highway.

"I don't believe you."

Noah was about to reply when a shadow swooped down on him to his left. He instinctively took his foot off the gas and almost screamed.

It was a huge tour bus, barreling down the fast lane and nearly clipping him.

"That's a race car driver, I've seen him on the television," Tabitha said excitedly. "The boys used to root for him. Billy always promised he'd take me to Daytona Beach to meet him. You think he's in there?"

"Who?" Noah said as he watched the bus disappear in the distance.

"Steve 'The Breeze' Brack, driving the number 75 car. That was his bus."

"No idea." Noah calmed down and sped up, trying to at least keep pace with the tour bus. He didn't know who was driving it, but most people he'd come across were selfish and didn't care about anyone else. He didn't want to find out who was driving, but he could use them like his rabbit and keep pace. Let them hit the next pileup or looters or undead. "It's probably not him."

"Why not?"

"We're driving a police car. I'm not a cop and you're not a cop. I bet it's someone who found his tour bus. It's not him."

"I think it is. Maybe at the next stop we can get his autograph? I'm a big fan. He's a good-looking guy, too. Not married, no kids, just a big smile for his fans. You know what his catchphrase is?"

Noah didn't care about racing. He was from Pittsburgh, and the only thing you followed there was the mighty Steelers, and sometimes the Pirates. The Penguins weren't half bad.

"Guess," she said. Tabitha wasn't going to give up this conversation so he sighed and decided to play along. What else did he have to do?

"Guess what?"

"His catchphrase, silly. Need a hint?"

"Sure."

"It's about him."

Noah laughed. "That could mean anything." He looked back at her and his smile dropped. "Oh shit."

Behind them, coming up fast, was a Dodge Ram pickup truck, with at least three men standing on the bed holding rifles.

"Where'd they come from?" she asked, straining to turn around and look.

"Maybe they saw us when I had to get off the highway, or they're following the bus. Either way, we're in trouble. You might need to grab this shotgun." Noah wished he'd brought a couple more from the trunk at the last stop, but how was he to know? They hadn't run into anyone in days.

"Just outrun them."

"I intend to, but just in case." He glanced down at the gas gauge and shook his head. Less than a quarter tank. Noah cursed himself for not stopping in the last day for gas instead of stupid wooden dolls. He did the only thing he could and put the proverbial pedal to the metal. This was an older cop car and didn't seem to have the engine or the power he thought it would.

Tabitha moved behind the passenger seat and twisted around to see. "They're fading back."

Noah was clenching his teeth as he watched them start to slowly gain ground. If they were friendly they'd back off and see he wasn't interested in communicating. There was no exit coming up, only the highway and trees to either side.

"Here they come," Tabitha said.

Noah decided he had two options: keep running or slow down and see what they wanted. Stopping was not an option.

"What are you going to do?" Tabitha asked.

They were gaining and if they'd been smart enough to fill their tank in the last day Noah knew he was screwed.

Noah saw the tour bus, a speck on the horizon, and decided to catch up. Maybe there was help there. Worst case scenario: out of the frying pan and into the fire, with another bunch of bastards with guns. If anyone from the NRA was still alive they'd be in their glory, since all the gun laws had been repealed and everybody carried half a dozen guns at all times.

The pickup truck was on their bumper now and the driver was beeping his horn.

Noah had buried the needle but the steering wheel was shaking in his grip. There was clear highway ahead of him, which was not to his advantage. He had visions of doing what they did in all those cheesy movies and cop shows during pursuits and cutting the wheel at the last second and watching the pickup truck hit a stalled car, flying through the air in slow motion, and crashing down before bursting into a fireball.

Instead, there was open road, and the tour bus seemed to be doing over a hundred miles an hour as well, because he wasn't closing the gap.

"Get down," Noah said to Tabitha. He looked back and saw her pressed against the back window, staring as the pickup came up along side them.

Noah was glad they were in a cop car, because Tabitha might have done something stupid like opened the window otherwise.

The driver, a bearded man with a bald head, was waving at Noah as they pulled up neck and neck at one hundred and twenty miles an hour.

Reluctantly, Noah rolled the window down on the passenger side. There were three men cramped in the front seat and three in the back holding rifles. "What?" he yelled.

"Pull over. Wanna trade or something?"

Noah waved at him. "No thanks."

He took his foot off the gas and slowed to under a hundred but the pickup kept pace. He prayed there was an exit coming up, especially on the other side of the highway. If he could just cut across the median and get away before they could correct…

"Buddy, I'm not really asking you. I'm telling you," the driver shouted. "We'll trade you food and water for your baby-girl there."

Noah looked over and frowned. The bearded guy was looking right at Tabitha, and a glance back showed Noah she was smiling and returning it.

"What the heck are you doing?" he asked her, incredulous. "They'll kill you, after they rape you."

"Maybe they want to trade."

"Maybe they'll kill me and use you up and throw you away."

Tabitha sighed loudly. "There's not much left of me to use thanks to you."

Noah ignored her and gave the police cruiser gas. He was quickly running out and needed to do something soon.

"Last chance, buddy. We're trying to be fair and nice about this. What do you say? Baby-girl, you want a beer? We got beer and pot with us. We could have a party if you want."

"Don't talk to her," Noah shouted. "Just leave us alone."

"Noah, pull over. I want to go with them."

"What? You can't be serious. If I pull over they'll kill me."

"No they won't." Tabitha pulled herself forward, sticking her head between the seats and gripping Noah by his shoulder for support.

"I should've kept the divider in," Noah mumbled.

Tabitha ignored him and strained to see the driver from this angle. "Promise you won't hurt him!" she yelled.

"Shut up," Noah said.

"I promise. Scouts honor."

Noah glanced over to see the driver laughing.

"Please pull over," Tabitha said in his ear. "You owe me that."

"I don't owe you my life. I'm not stopping and that's final."

Tabitha lunged forward and grabbed the steering wheel, jerking it to the right. The police car spun across the path of the pickup truck, its rear passenger side struck, and they shot off into the tree line.

The front end slammed into a tree and Noah felt the windshield crumble around his face before he passed out.

*   *   *   *   *

The pain was unbearable. Noah opened his eyes and stared into the bright sun pinned behind half a dozen smiling faces, rifles pointed at him.

"Help him up, boys."

Two of the men picked him up and placed him on the back of the ruined police car's trunk. Noah leaned on his elbows and assessed the damage: he was sure his right kneecap was shattered and his left ankle broken. Otherwise he'd emerged unscathed.

"How ya feeling, buddy?" the driver of the pickup asked.

"I think my leg is broken," Noah managed.

"Your leg is broken? Ain't that a bitch. Bring me my new baby-girl, let her have a look."

Tabitha was carried by two men forward. Noah looked away from her ruined body, cauterized stumps where the legs used to be.

"What do you think of that, baby-girl? His legs hurt."

"I wish mine hurt. That sonofabitch ran my legs over."

Noah looked her in the eye. "I'm sorry. It was an accident, I told you. You were lying in the middle of the road, how was I to know you were still alive?"

"You did this to me," Tabitha said and spit at him.

"I saved you. I could've left you there with all the zombies around, but instead I helped you. I fixed you up, I fed you, I did everything I could to make it better."

Tabitha laughed. "Give me a gun."

The men all laughed.

"But get his sorry ass off the back of the car. There are loaded shotguns in the trunk."

"Please, don't do this. Just let me go, let me live," Noah said and began to cry.

"Oh, I'm going to let you live," Tabitha said.

Two men dropped him to the grass.

Before he could plead with her again Tabitha had a rifle in hand and shot him in the thigh.

Noah screamed in pain, his cried mixed with the men laughing. She shot him in the other leg.

"I'm done with you. Noah, you had your chance with me so many times to make this better, and you never did. You hated me, thought I was godawful ugly, and pushed away my advances. Now it'll be your turn to survive without any legs."

Noah's head was swimming. "Please, kill me…"

Tabitha smiled at him. "Boys, move me to the truck. I'm tired. Oh, there's a bag of wooden figurines in the backseat. Can someone get them for me?"

M.J. O'Neill

When M.J. was six years old his parents took him to the circus, where he gorged himself on cotton candy (and threw it up in the parking lot), got close to the elephants (and realized he was allergic to hay), and saw the clowns.

The evil, evil clowns.

Coulrophobia was nothing to laugh at. M.J. still refused to go to the circus, watch any TV show as much as hinting at clowns, and was uneasy at Halloween, kid's birthday parties and grand opening events. Just in case.

He remembered when Peter had brought home a clown bank from a business trip to St. Augustine. He didn't know. They'd only been dating for two months, and fear of clowns never comes up in casual conversation, now does it?

M.J. had politely informed Peter his fear of clowns, and knew he'd found a soul-mate when, without a snicker, a joking comment or a bit of teasing, Peter simply nodded, put the satanic figurine back in its box, walked calmly to the curb, and buried it in this week's garbage.

He'd felt bad, he really had. Peter would never tell him what it had cost, only being kind and understanding. He was so precious, always the rock, always the one who could calm M.J. down during a crisis.

Right now he needed Peter more than any other day in his life.

There were two dozen zombie clowns between him and freedom.

*   *   *   *   *

They were everywhere: behind him two were trying to bust through the door from the hallway to get him, and six were in his immediate view in the main room. He was hiding behind an overlarge prop cannon and trying to figure out a route either behind or over the left bleachers without being seen.

Of all the places to break into, M.J. thought. Who knew Daytona Beach had a clown college?

Yet, here he was, trapped inside with so many his hands were shaking. Most of them stumbled in random directions in silence, smacking into the walls, the closed doors on the far wall, or falling onto the bleachers.

The small two-ring area in the center of the room was jammed with props, a small car M.J. was sure clowns could pile in, and an empty cage for (he guessed) lions.

There was nothing near him he could use as a weapon. The 9mm in his waistband was empty. He could use it as a club if it came to that, but he didn't want to get any closer to the zombie clowns than he had to.

He had the insane thought of jumping up with the gun and pulling the trigger and a flag popping out saying BANG.

I'm losing it, he thought. I'm going to die in here with a mess of clowns. And no one will know. Peter will wonder where I went off to.

If he could just get to the doors, or there was some way for the zombies to get out and leave him alone. But M.J. doubted either option was realistic.

The door behind him splintered on its hinges, drawing the attention of three undead nearby. They shuffled slowly across the floor. M.J. tried to fade into the cannon, holding his breath. Any moment one of them would see him and he'd be in trouble.

M.J. was normally a man of action, something Peter always loved about him. Where was that M.J. when he was really needed?

He decided right then he'd rather go down fighting than die hiding like a coward.

The empty pistol would have to do until he could find a more useful weapon.

The first zombie turned toward him just as the door was knocked off its hinges, crashing against the zombie and driving him to the floor.

M.J. took that as his sign to move, starting with jumping on the door and crushing the zombie underneath and hopefully doing some damage. A swipe with the pistol into the closest zombies head knocked him down.

Before he could take another swing the sound of gunfire startled him and he fell instinctively onto the door, further pinning the zombie.

His ears ringing, the sound of bodies dropping around him, M.J. could only stay still as the zombie underneath him squirmed and gnashed its teeth, pieces of its tongue dropping back into its throat.

He wondered if it was male or female. The face was so emaciated and skeletal he couldn't tell, especially without hair and ears. It was mere inches from him, snapping like a rabid dog.

M.J. didn't know if rising would allow it to move, but he didn't want to be bitten on the ass by one of its friends, so he rolled off the door and went to one knee, pistol in hand.

The room was empty of moving zombies, sunlight streaming in through the destroyed main doors. Six of the undead had been shot in the head, their bodies and body parts everywhere. Spent bullet shells littered the doorway.

M.J. was about to yell out but realized how stupid that would be on so many levels. He hadn't spoken to another living person in, what? Six days? A week? Two or three? He didn't remember.

Maybe it was Peter come to save him. He always seemed to get there just in the nick of time, swooping in like a superhero and saving the day. M.J. remembered when they'd first begun dating and his rent check bounced. Peter paid it in full without letting on. Or the time his car had died and Peter found a good mechanic in the neighborhood and paid for the repairs without M.J. knowing until that afternoon when he picked him up for work.

Peter needed to save him now, because he was losing his mind. He needed to leave this crazy room, with clown murals, tiny cars and dead clowns everywhere. "Help!" he screamed as loud as he could.

"One last time, be my guardian angel." M.J. walked quickly to the open doors and peered out, pistol pointing at the sky. He looked but didn't feel like James Bond.

The scene outside stunned him.

A horde of undead crammed into the street to his right, trying to crawl over the wall of dead before them. There must have been a hundred bodies piled like sandbags, from one end of the street to the other.

One corpse catching his attention was a huge, bloated clown, resplendent in the typical garb: overlarge red clown shoes, bulbous red clown nose, a bright checkered shirt with a yellow flower pinned to it, striped blue and green pants, and dyed orange hair that was ripped out in clumps and on the ground nearby.

Had he died beforehand and come back as a zombie, ending up in the pile as a walking body, or was he still alive and fighting in this gaudy outfit when he fell here?

In the distance, maybe even the next block over, the rapid pop of gunfire broke the silence. Someone was screaming commands but M.J. couldn't make out what they were saying.

He was sandbagged in, piles of the dead surrounding him like a flesh jail. His only escape would be to go back into the clown college and find the exit. He glanced back inside and didn't want to.

At certain parts of the wall it was low enough he could see the hungry undead, watching him as they tried in vain to push past and reach him. With so many M.J. knew it was only a matter of time before one section collapsed and they'd stumble silently toward him.

He needed something to defend himself with. M.J. got as close to the wall as he could, in a spot where it was piled high, and looked for anything to use.

There were two small handguns, cold fingers wrapped around them, sticking from the pile. He gingerly pulled them away and smiled. They were both loaded.

While the fighting grew distant around him, the shouting too far away, and the gunshots fading, M.J. made a methodical search of the bodies he could reach without putting himself in danger or threatening to pull the wall down on top of him.

A headless military man had three grenades as well as a rifle and a bag filled with shells, and M.J. had more guns than he could carry now. He wondered if he had enough ammo.

He walked calmly up to one of the low points and began shooting the zombies point-blank in the face, one at a time, until he was out of ammo. Then he switched to the next gun, discarding the old in a neat pile in the center of the street, until he was completely empty.

A dent was made and more bodies added to the pile, but still they came, new undead attracted to the sound of gunfire.

M.J. continued his search for more weapons, finding a machete, more rifles and pistols, ammo, grenades and a box of hollow point bullets in an old woman's clawed lifeless hands.

He decided to see how powerful a grenade really was. Sure, he'd watched many war movies as a kid and knew what they supposedly did, but he wanted to see in real life.

Choosing a spot down the block where a group of zombies were kneeling and ripping the flesh from someone, he pulled the pin and threw with all his might. The grenade hit the pavement and bounced to the left before settling next to a building.

It felt like minutes passed and M.J. remembered, in those war movies, when the guy would pull the pin, count to five or ten or something, and then throw it. He decided he'd rather wait like this than get his hand blown off.

The blast knocked him back, not from the actual explosion but just from the scare when it suddenly went off. Only one of the zombies close enough was ripped apart and the rest continued to feast.

"Grenades are good," he said aloud and kept searching for weapons, smiling for the first time all day.

He picked up an automatic weapon, checked the clip and saw it was full, and went back to the low spot and began shooting, marveling at the many headshots he was getting. He was getting much better at this.

Still they came, stepping on and over the ones on the ground. M.J. knew if he wasn't careful he'd be building a natural ramp for them to climb on and get over.

Another half an hour of searching for weapons brought him a veritable pile of them, including makeshift sharpened sticks, knives, a sword, guns and ammo, and a nasty-looking scythe.

M.J. took the scythe to another low spot and began swinging, but he needed more room to actually make a dent in them and put it back in the pile. He used the automatic to drop the front five. He switched weapons, doing a quick grab across his body, and trying to fire in one motion.

He needed to work on that move. His first shot went in the air. He opened a hole in the ranks but there must've been another two score coming up the road.

"Time for a grenade," he said and threw another one. When it exploded, showering the area with body parts, he didn't flinch. Still they came.

M.J. was getting tired. His arms hurt and he was sweating from the work of pulling bodies around, shooting guns and tossing grenades under this Florida sun and the stress of the situation.

He decided to take a break but didn't want to go back inside the clown college despite the sunburn he was surely getting. With the sun moving above, the doorway was now in shadows. He sat down on the warm pavement and cupped his head in his hands, closing his eyes. A quick nap would suffice before he could continue his assault. Hopefully by then some of the zombies would grow bored and move off. He wondered if they actually grew bored, and what was keeping them where they were.

*   *   *   *   *

It was dark when he opened his eyes with a start, remembering where he was. His exposed skin was on fire thanks to sleeping in the sun, hot to the touch. He stood on shaking legs, using a rifle as a crutch, and surveyed his predicament.

They were still there, dozens of them, all surrounding his position. While he'd slept some of the bodies on top had been pushed or fallen into his 'safe zone'. He decided to build it back up, and even thought about body sandbagging the door to the clown college, since he'd never enter there again willingly.

M.J. didn't hear fighting, shouting or gunfire anymore and wondered when it tapered off. Perhaps everything had moved away from here and the undead would thin out and leave him alone.

He decided to not shoot any of them. Instead, he pulled some bodies off a section, made sure he had enough room to swing, and began attacking with the machete. It was slow work, and it took three or four swings to cleave through some of the necks.

Heads dropped around him as bodies fell, to be stomped on by the next in line.

Still they came, a wave of shuffling feet and extended arms.

"I'm done," M.J. said and put his heavy arms down, the machete feeling like a hundred pounds. He didn't make a dent in them. Since the wall was now twice as thick in this spot, he piled up more bodies and climbed up to get a better look.

They were stacked to the horizon, the zombies facing him and pushing forward as they moved. Slowly but surely.

Eventually the sheer weight of them, crushing into the wall like at a concert, would push the bodies down and forward, and he'd be reached.

M.J. decided to make his escape before he was boxed in.

He did a careful inventory of the ammo left, shoved loaded pistols in his waistband and in his socks, grabbed two rifles and slung them over his back, and began pulling the pins of grenades and tossing them in varying distances.

As they began exploding, he shot the closest undead in the face with a pistol until the clip was empty before dropping it and cycling to a rifle. He was up and over the wall, shooting and moving as he went. He threw his last two grenades and ran through the smoke, knocking over a zombie that appeared from nowhere.

He'd gotten almost a city block before he was stopped by the moving wall of the undead. He began taking slow steps back, firing as he went, and realizing too late what an awful plan this was.

There were zombies between him and the safety of the wall and he concentrated on shooting them, but even with all the weapons he was running out of bullets. There was smoke everywhere and it was hard to see where he was stepping and how close some of them were.

M.J. stopped when two heads appeared on the safe side of the wall and they were joined by another five men armed with rifles. They began shooting in his direction, zombies falling apart.

He felt relief as he moved, now out of bullets, but dodging and trying not to get bitten or pulled down.

The living men were coming from the clown college, a slew of military warriors armed to the teeth. He tried to yell but there was so much shooting he was drowned out.

He glanced back to see dozens of undead moving behind him, dead eyes fixed on him.

When the grenade bounced at his feet M.J. stared at it blankly before trying to run. Too late. As the grenade went off he decided (too late) that he should've gotten over his fear of clowns and gone back inside.

Brenda Ellis

The sharpened wooden broomstick plunged into Diane's face with a sickening squish. Brenda waited until she was sure her former assistant manager was dead before turning and puking onto the cleaning product aisle's floor.

"Cleanup in aisle nine," Brenda said to herself to keep from passing out at the horror she'd witnessed firsthand. She'd just killed someone. "She was already dead, girl," she murmured in her thick Texan accent. "Can't kill someone's already a goner, now can ya?"

"I'm not cleaning that up," her third key Bruce said and shook his head.

"I'm not asking you to do it," she said with irritation. "We have other things to worry about." Brenda turned her back and went to the store shelf, pulling a roll of paper towels down. The cheap brand. You never used the expensive stuff for store-use.

Before Bruce could say anything she turned back to him and waved the roll. "We ran out last night. Will you add this to the store-use list?"

"What's the point?"

Brenda closed her eyes and sighed. "Because, when this all blows over, we'll need to have a list so we can take this out of the inventory."

Bruce opened his mouth to speak but waved at her instead. "I'll go write it down." He stepped over Diane's body. "I'm not cleaning that up, either."

"I might need your help."

He didn't bother answering, disappearing around an end-cap toward the front of the store.

Brenda and Bruce were now the last two left. She'd warned Diane not to sneak out the backdoor and see if any of the other stores in the strip-mall were open or if anyone had any news. Instead, she got bitten by the jerk next door at the packing store, a big chunk of her arm taken out.

Despite what the news was saying - before the radio went silent - Brenda didn't believe in people dying and coming back to life. That was fiction, and good ol' Texas gals didn't believe in what they couldn't see. Except, of course, the Almighty God Above.

She'd read a story once about zombies she didn't care for, but it was written by a friend and former store manager. He'd gone on to writing a few of those horrible books as well as making a movie out of one of them. She wondered what he was doing now, and supposed he might be starring in films. He was definitely good-looking and had the charisma.

"We can put her in the freezer units," Bruce said as he returned.

"They're not working." Nothing was working but luckily they had plenty of candles for sale. She'd store-used several each day, since they nailed wooden shelves over the doors and the windows above the front of the store.

"Well, I'm not going outside and tossing her in the dumpster. I heard things out there again, smacking against the walls."

Brenda heard scratching last night while they slept huddled behind the front counter. She wondered if it was twenty or twenty-one days since they'd locked the doors for good and boarded them up. It probably didn't matter at this point.

"Fine. Grab her and we'll put her in with the rotten meat and melted ice cream."

Bruce pushed past Brenda. "I'm getting her feet. I'm not going anywhere near her head."

"Of course not. Some gentleman you are."

Bruce laughed harshly. "I never said I was. And since I haven't gotten a paycheck in weeks, I'm assuming I've been fired and I'm technically a looter. I'm done marking off food that I took from the shelf."

"We have to keep order," she said. "When we get rescued…"

Another laugh escaped his mouth. "We might be the only people alive, like the Charlton Heston movie."

"I'm sure the military is doing sweeps but haven't gotten to us yet. My daughter, Krystle, is stationed overseas, but she was scheduled to return soon."

"You think she'll burst in and rescue her mommy?" he said snidely.

They placed Diane in the freezer, moving the once-frozen pizza and Hot Pockets and bending her legs to get her in and close the door. Brenda stared at her through the glass. Diane had been her assistant manager for three years, and in that time they'd been close. They knew one another's secrets, their peaks and valleys in life. When you work with someone day in and day out, and rely on them to keep the store rolling, you get comfortable.

Now Brenda had technically buried her and their friendship. All that was left was her memories. And Bruce.

"Hungry? I'm going to eat some Lucky Charms. I guess I can toss my diet in the garbage, since we'll probably be dead in a day or two."

"That's not funny," Brenda said, not taking her eyes from her friend.

"Not meant to be funny, but it's true. Once the monsters realize we're in here they’ll crack this baby like a sardine can and suck us out."

"I'm ignoring you."

"That's not something a boss should say to an employee. I might tell Human Resources on you." Bruce grabbed a box of cereal off the shelf. "I guess this makes me the new assistant manager, right?"

*   *   *   *   *

She could see three of them milling about in the parking lot through the crack between the nailed shelves. Brenda wondered what they were thinking about, if anything.

"You've been standing there for three hours," Bruce said, finishing off another three-dollar paperback book and tossing it behind the counter.

"They don't make any sounds."

"So?" Bruce said and slowly opened the wrapper of a melted candy bar.

"In the movies they grunt and groan."

"They moan about brains," Bruce said. He stood and put his arms out, cocking his head to his shoulder. "Brrraaaiiinnnnssss," he moaned.

"Under the circumstance, that ain't funny." Brenda went back to staring out the crack. "No cars come back, neither. What if we were the last people alive?"

"I'm not procreating humanity with you."

Brenda didn't bother with an answer. If Bruce was the last man alive, and she was the last woman, the human race would end right here. Besides feeling too damn old to have another baby, it was physically impossible. She didn't know why she was letting Bruce get into her head, anyway.

She pulled herself from the door and went to the snack aisle, picking out a can of cashews.

"Make sure you add that to your store-use list that will never be seen by another living person." Bruce disappeared down the main aisle again, most likely going to raid the paperback spinner for another title.

Brenda went into her dark and stuffy office, lit two candles on her desk, and glanced out the tiny one-way mirror to make sure Bruce wasn't looking. Satisfied he wasn't, she dutifully added the nuts to her list of items she'd need to pay for once this was over.

"Once this is over," she whispered.

Bruce came into the break room, which adjoined the office. He was carrying two paperbacks and a small flashlight as well as a pack of batteries. "I'm stealing all these items. My eyes are too old for these damn candles."

Brenda wanted to close her door but it was already too stuffy. She watched as he added batteries to the flashlight, smiled, and propped his feet up on the break table and sat in a folding chair, opening the first book.

"Whatcha reading?" she asked, figuring to start a conversation with him. If she had to be stuck with just the two of them now she might as well be civil. And hope it rubbed off and he was nice.

"A romance book," he said and waved it at her. "I ran out of the non-fiction and the fantasy."

"So romance is the next choice?"

"I thought under the circumstance, reading a horror book or a thriller with people getting killed was in poor taste." Bruce leaned back. "Besides, I'll just skip to the sex parts."

Brenda was about to answer when she jumped out of her seat. "I never cleaned up the aisle."

Bruce snorted. "What if the District Manager came walking in here? He'd fire you."

"Not funny."

"Of course, at this point, if he came in, you'd have to jam a sharpened broom handle into his head as well."

*   *   *   *   *

Glass shattering woke her and Bruce up from their spot behind the counter.

"Get your broom handle," Bruce said and turned on the flashlight, hiding the beam in his hand.

Something slammed against the wooden shelves with a crack.

"Whatever it is, the door won't hold for long." Bruce hefted a hammer and went to the door, standing off to the side. He motioned for Brenda to join him.

She couldn't move. When the makeshift wall was hit again she shuddered, her knuckles white gripping the broom stick.

"I need you to come here and help me," he said.

Brenda was frozen.

The shelves, nailed together, cracked and separated. The frame of the doors was warped, the glass smashed on the floor, catching the first rays of the rising sun.

Brenda thought it looked so beautiful. She'd been trapped inside in the dark for so long and wanted to watch the sun rise and smell the grass outside, hear the birds singing.

The first zombie coming through the door was smashed in the face by Bruce, who took a step back and kicked it back out. "Help!"

Brenda turned her head slightly and smiled when the light bounced and shimmered on the floor, casting a rainbow of colors across the threshold.

Two more zombies attacked at once and Bruce managed to shove one to the ground but when he shattered its nose with the hammer the second zombie locked teeth into his shoulder. Bruce screamed, blood flying.

Brenda finally broke free of her trance, jamming the spear into the zombies face just above where he was biting Bruce. If Bruce died she'd be alone, as much as he annoyed her. She was afraid to be left alone.

Another zombie stepped over the threshold, glass crunching under its bare feet. It was a woman and Brenda recognized her as a regular customer who came in off the bus on Tuesday.

The broomstick made a sickening slurping noise as Brenda pulled it from the zombies face. As the newest threat took a step, Brenda drove the weapon with all her might into her former customer's left eye. The broomstick cracked.

"Help," Bruce said, trying in vain to stop his wound from gushing blood. "It bit me, I've been bitten. I'm going to die."

"You're not going to die," Brenda said, knowing her words weren't true. Bruce grimaced. His look told her he knew the truth as well.

"Lock yourself in the office and I'll stall them."

"I can't let you do that," she said.

"I only have a few minutes to live. We both know it. Let me help you."

Brenda laughed. "You, help someone else? You must be dying."

"It only took a zombie to bite me to realize what a life I've wasted. See you on the other side." Bruce winked. "If you're heading to Hell with me."

"I'll see you in Heaven, friend."

Brenda ran to the broom aisle, grabbed another two as well as some bleach and a new pack of paper towels. You always needed extra cleaning supplies.

She could see the undead shuffling in through the devastated door.

Brenda dropped off the supplies in her office, ran back out and away from the door, clapping her hands as she went. "Over here, customers. We have a special today on iodine, for all those nasty bite wounds."

She smiled when she saw four of them shuffling at her. She easily dodged up and down aisles with a small hand basket, adding food, water and medical items to it.

There were at least a dozen of them in the store as she ran into the break room, closed the door and propped the chair against it.

Her office door was closed and her desk pushed in front. Through the small one-way window she could see at least twenty of them.

Brenda lit another candle and began adding her new items to the store-use list.

Morris Chambers

"Let's do this," Morris said to his best friend Daniel, shaking the shotgun for effect. "It's time to rock and roll."

Daniel, the bigger of the two by far, wheezed and put his mom's station wagon into park. "What does that really mean?"

Morris laughed. "It means we're about to hook up with some great shit, man."

"Got it." Daniel opened the door but then stopped. "Should I bring the shotgun?"

"Uh, yeah. Do you want to get eaten?"

"No, but you have yours. I haven't used mine yet, and to be honest I don't want to."

Morris loved the guy to death, but even he had limits. "You're starting to annoy me again." Morris got out and waited for his partner.

"What if everything goes back to normal? I don't want someone's death on my conscience. I have enough hovering around that part of my brain."

"This is the new world, Daniel. We are the new generation, the living generation. Don't you get it?" He pointed at the strip mall they'd parked in front of. "And inside that store is the reason we live, the reason we're not dead."

Daniel was sweating, which was common for him. He wiped his large brow and shook his head, the sweat flying from his shaggy hair.

"Stop. What are you, a dog?"

Daniel laughed like the big doofus he was. Morris didn't know why he was friends with the guy sometimes. He was so un-cool, his hygiene was a mess, and he dressed like such a dork. Morris was sure his friend had never kissed a girl. He hadn't either, but he was sure he'd come closer.

This was the fifth place within a hundred miles they'd been to. The plan was simple: get in, get the loot and get out. The drive back to Daniel's house was always the trickiest part because the farther they traveled the harder it was to get back safely.

The strip-mall was quiet as the sun dropped. There was a damaged liquor store, a pizza place and a couple of other stores that didn't mean anything to them. Other than the black Trans Am in the parking lot it was deserted.

The hobby store in front of them was the reason they'd come all this way. They were down to their last three gas cans of extra fuel, although Morris always laughed at Daniel when he used the hose to siphon gas and made those faces.

"Shotguns ready. We don't want another Hobby Masters scene, got it? Follow my lead," Morris said and approached the store. At the Hobby Masters store, they'd run right into the owner, who took shots at them with his gun. They'd just assumed these places had been ignored by common folk looking for food, water and gas. From that point, they made sure they were locked and loaded.

The front door had been smashed but it was easy to see the store hadn't been emptied. Morris knew the bulk of the looting was at gas stations, convenience stores, supermarkets and restaurants. The only time anyone bothered to raid a sports card or comic book store was for the cash register, not as if money meant much anymore.

The only thing that mattered was collecting, and with the end of the world upon them, they could both finally complete their collections.

"Comic books to the left, sports cards to the right," Morris said as he stepped over the threshold and shined his flashlight on the collectables. The inside hadn't been touched.

Morris was completely into comic books and usually ignored the sports cards, but Daniel collected cards thanks to his dad's love for them.

The first store they'd hit, right after the apocalypse began, was their local store. They'd cleaned it out thanks to Daniel having the station wagon when the word came down that things had changed. They simply walked into an abandoned store and began piling boxes of comic books and sports cards into the car without incident.

It was only when they got back to his apartment, unloaded their latest finds, and spread them on the small living room floor that Morris realized he hadn't taken the box with the Fantastic Four comics in it, which was his absolute favorite, followed by Iron Man, Spider-Man, Alpha Flight and Captain America. He wasn't too big on the Avengers and the Incredible Hulk was boring to him, although he did have issue number one-eighty with the first appearance of Wolverine.

He'd calmed down after the initial adrenaline rush of now owning all of these classics and completing his collection, and went to task finding the special boxes holding Marvel Comics.

The other thing Morris always did was to pull out the DC Comics and leave them on the tables for someone else - someone who appreciated Batman and Superman - to collect. He wasn't a fan. Make mine Marvel, he'd say.

Behind the counter, usually behind protection and running up the wall to the ceiling, were the great books, the early X-Men issues or that elusive Conan the Barbarian #1 that wasn't off-center. The fun was never knowing what you'd find when you walked in.

"Holy crap, look at the Mantle cards in this case," Daniel said in a hushed tone. "And they have a block of Pujols rookies. Pay-dirt."

"Whoopie," Morris said and went to look at the wall when the familiar logo of the Fantastic Four caught his eye. He needed exactly sixteen issues of the entire series, including the first eight issues. At the last stop they'd had a beautiful run of issues nine through twenty-six, all near-mint. Morris had a very good issue of Fantastic Four #6 but wanted to upgrade it to a better copy.

Morris blinked when he got closer to the issue and shone the flashlight on it. Twelve-cent cover price, the heroes battling the masked villain that would define them for decades to come, July of 1962… Morris knew the cover well. He even had it as a screen saver on his laptop, although he'd only read the issue in reprint.

"Fantastic Four #5… first appearance of Doctor Doom," Morris whispered. "Doctor Doom."

He took it lightly from its resting place and held it in trembling fingers. For pure value it paled in comparison to issue 1, but that didn't matter to Morris. While the first book went for upwards of one hundred thirty thousand dollars, this issue with Doctor Doom could be had in mint for a paltry twenty-five grand. Not that Morris ever had anything close to that amount or in his wildest dreams would ever think of holding a copy, let alone possessing it.

"Stupid idiots, putting it on the wall next to a thirty dollar Batman and a forty-five dollar Aquaman. Who ran this place, a child?"

"Are you going to help?" Daniel asked, pulling 5,000-count card boxes from the wall. "I'm ready to go."

"You're going to willy-nilly grab boxes instead of going through them?" Morris asked.

"Yep. The fun is going through them tonight."

"Whatever. We'll put your boxes in first, but then I need time to sort through the comics." Morris first put his newest prized possession onto the front seat of the car.

They began the worst part of the job: lugging heavy boxes to the station wagon, piling them in so they could maximize the room, and once they got home they'd have to take them all out and lug them up two flights to the apartment. It was still better than paying for them, though.

"You know what we need to do? We need to find out where one of the distribution centers for Marvel is, or one for Topps for my cards. Then we clean them out," Daniel said.

"That is a good idea." Morris slipped a box of cards gently into the back seat. "Better yet, instead of doing that and just getting this year's comic books, we find one of the huge sellers we used to buy from and wipe them out. Then this nickel and dime stuff will be over."

Of course, this nickel and dime stuff had quickly doubled a lifetime of collecting and they would run out of room within a week at this rate.

Tired already, they went back inside for another round.

"We need to secure a warehouse, fill it with food and water, and then clean it up so we can put our collections in it. Something really big," Morris said. His goal, realistic or not, was to own at least one copy of every Marvel Comic there was.

"Did you hear that?" Daniel said.

"What?" Morris asked, fingers dancing through a box of comic books while he rested.

"A car."

They both ran to the front of the store in time to see the Trans Am's tail lights as it sped out of the parking lot.

"Shit, check the car," Morris said. He had the sinking feeling that he'd go to the car, throw open the door, and find his new copy of Fantastic Four #5, the first appearance of Doctor Doom, was lost to him forever. When he saw it still in its place on the seat he nearly wept.

"I wonder who that was?" Daniel asked.

"Well, unless the zombies suddenly learned how to drive, I think it was someone alive." Morris went back inside.

"Where were they hiding?"

"How should I know? Help me with these boxes here." Morris pulled some DC Comics from a box and added some Marvels from the next one.

"Maybe there are more people somewhere," Daniel said.

Morris put his hand on his shotgun close by. "Then we shoot them if they mess with us."

"I don't want to kill anyone."

"You think I do? I just want to finish and get back. My arms are killing me and it's too dark in here."

"I'm getting creeped out, too."

What a moron. "I didn't say I was creeped out, I just don't want to fall when I'm walking and ruin a box of comics."

Morris wasn't too concerned. So far the only living people they'd encountered were those looking for food and supplies in convenience stores. Morris had a fully stocked apartment thanks to his mom being a bit 'off' and being one of those insane extreme coupon nutcases. There was more food than they could ever eat, with an entire bedroom taken up with sorted cans of food, cases and cases of water and energy drinks, and enough boxes of Fruit Loops to kill you.

His mother was probably out right now collecting food instead of being safely home. At least he hoped she was. She hadn't been seen since the beginning of all this, although Morris made sure to leave her a note on the fridge before they left each time, letting her know where they'd be and when he'd be home.

Of course, they'd have to either weed out the crap they weren't going to eat and use the space for more comic books and cards, or go with the plan to find a bigger place.

"What about a hotel?" Morris asked.

"What about a hotel?" Daniel repeated, which he did way too often to Morris. His friend would often yell at him for repeating a question with the same question.

"We find a nice hotel, secure it, and fill the rooms with our collections."

Daniel stared dumbly at his partner for a second before smiling. "That sounds cool."

"Think about it," Morris said as he pulled Justice League comic books from the boxes and put them on the table, "we each get a floor or two. We clear out all the furniture, put tables up, and pile our collections like in a store. I'd have an entire room for just Fantastic Four comics."

"I could build shelves for the 5,000-count boxes and then put the completed sets in the middle of the rooms. Maybe each year gets its own room," Daniel said excitedly.

"A big hotel has to have tables for us to use. I wonder how many comic books I can fit inside a standard hotel room."

"We'd need to move an awful lot of beds and dressers and chairs."

"We toss them out the window," Morris said.

"Like rock stars."

"Exactly." Morris closed the box once he'd fit a group of Mighty Thor comic books into it and carried it to the car. "We don't have to worry about having too many books and cards. We can fill thousands of square feet and also have our own rooms and a full kitchen as well."

"And a swimming pool."

"Do you know how to swim?"

"Of course. Do you?" Daniel asked.

Morris put the box in the car and figured they had room for another eight. "Let's get this done and get back home."

*   *   *   *   *

They found the hotel, six stories, just outside of town and adjacent to the main highway. The area around it was rubble, burning buildings and torched cars.

"Perfect," Morris said when they pulled into the parking lot. "It has a fence around it. We just need to close the gate and make sure there aren't any breaches."

"We'll build a moat if we have to," Daniel happily chimed in.

Morris wanted to punch him but instead pulled up his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes. "Grab your shotgun."

"I hope we don't have to use them."

"We've been lucky the last three weeks, haven't we?"

Since finding the Fantastic Four #5 they'd had a string of fortune. Six more comic book stores were found and cleaned out, but the apartment was now overflowing with boxes.

Daniel had kicked in Miss Stansky's door across the hall and they were using her living room and kitchen for storage.

Two days ago, while searching for Coliseum Comics, they'd passed this hotel. It was only a two hour drive from the apartment and they could make several trips a day until everything was brought here. What else did they have to do?

Right now the car was loaded with food and bottled water, the front seat between them stacked with enough ammo to kill a small army.

"You ready?" Morris asked and Daniel nodded.

"You think they have arcade games or a hot tub?"

"There's no power, genius. How will you run them?" Morris said with disgust. "We're not here to sunbathe, get high score on Ms. Pac-man or order room service. We're here to save the last great comic book collection in the world."

"And sports cards."

"Whatever." Morris got out and put the shotgun on his shoulder.

They approached the main entrance but slowed when they were thirty feet away.

"The doors are open," Daniel said.

No kidding, Morris thought. Nothing gets past you, doofus. "I see that."

"What do we do now?"

"We give up and go home," Morris said sarcastically, but it was lost on Daniel.

"Really? Alright."

"No, you… no, we go inside and make sure it's safe."

"What if it isn't?"

"Then we make it safe," Morris said and tapped the shotgun for emphasis.

"I don't want to use it."

"You will eventually have no choice. It's either shoot them or they eat you, or do worse."

"Worse?"

Morris shook his head. "Weren't you watching the same news I was watching? Those things were raping people."

Daniel just shook his head and stared down at his clammy hands. The shotgun was slick with his sweat.

"Let's move before it gets too late. We need to make at least one more trip today before it gets too dark." Morris took a step and stopped. "Did you hear that?"

The first three zombies appeared in the doorway of the hotel. They were followed by another four.

Morris backed up and fired, watching as one of the zombie's heads exploded. "Back to the station wagon."

"Are we leaving?" Daniel asked, hope clearly in his voice.

"No, we need the rest of the ammo."

Another seven zombies stepped into the parking lot from the lobby and shuffled toward the pair, dozens and dozens clamoring inside to get to them.

Tosha Shorb

She heard them talking about her but didn't really care. She'd heard it all since showing up at the Gate of Lions and demanding entrance.

Her commanding officer, David Monsour, was busy explaining what was expected of her once she left the safety of St. Augustine. That included not getting bitten, not getting raped and not attracting attention.

He looked at Tosha and grinned. "I heard you held your own at Scarlet's bar last night."

"Just a guy with too many hands. He won't be grabbing asses with a broken finger," she said and smiled. She was a slight thing, with flowing curly strawberry blonde hair down past her shoulders, bright green eyes and freckled pale skin. A couple of inches above five foot, she weighed a hundred and a quarter and was curvy. Tosha knew she was attractive, and as one of the new women in the camp, she was constantly watched by the men. And the women.

After last night she didn't suppose many would be as forward as that drunken idiot. Still, they kept staring. She knew that wearing her comfy black boots, tight blue jeans that accentuated her tight ass and her ever-present concert T-shirt (her favorite band, Lizzy Borden, a theatrical Heavy Metal group from Los Angeles) wasn't fair, but she didn't care.

"One more thing," Monsour said. "How old are you?"

Tosha laughed. She was twenty-seven but looked much younger, which was also a problem around these horny guys. The guy last night had tried to be cute by remarking that they didn't allow teens in the bar drinking. She looked seventeen and knew it was a turn-on for most guys.

When she told him her age he raised an eyebrow.

"Do you want to see my ID, officer?" she said with a laugh.

"Actually, I do." David held out his hand.

"Seriously?"

"You brought it up."

She fished her driver's license - one of the few items she still possessed - and handed it over. "Was I speeding, officer?"

David laughed and stared at her ID. "Hershey, Pennsylvania? What are you doing in Florida?"

"Trying not to get fucked by zombies. How about you?"

"About the same."

"I traveled all over the world."

"For what? As a tourist?" he asked.

Tosha laughed and pointed at her shirt. "I followed the band."

"They like the Grateful Dead?"

"No." Tosha smiled. "They're good."

*   *   *   *   *

"On my signal," she whispered to the two men flanking her. She knew they were pissed at having to take orders from her, especially someone who looked like their teenage daughter and dressed like a stripper at times. She loved the attention and played it up, licking her lips when the bald one, Bobby, glanced at her chest.

"See something nice, Bobby?" she purred. She snickered when he looked away. She turned to his partner, Jimmy, and pointed at a burning car in the road. "I'm going to run to that spot and I want you to cover me, but don't shoot unless they see me and I don't see them. No use having a dozen of these fuckers on my ass."

For emphasis Tosha stood and patted her rounded butt, grinning in satisfaction when both men looked away. God, she loved being a tease.

Jimmy cleared his throat. "We'd best get this done and over with. I'm getting thirsty."

"Then stop talking and follow my lead," Tosha snapped. She wanted to smile when they both winced at her attitude. She actually had nothing against either of them, but she was getting bored with this sneaking around shit and wanted to shoot something in the head.

Bobby started to wander away. Simpletons, Tosha thought. "Before you walk off and get yourself killed, we need to stick to the plan."

Both men nodded.

"I'm thirsty, too. There's nothing better than cashing in after a completed mission, getting something to barter for a cold beer. I plan on finishing this and putting my sexy ass on a barstool."

Both men nodded again and this time smiled.

She figured they were picturing her ass on the chair, pushed out and thong showing. Simpletons. "Focus, boys."

The Lion's Bridge heading into the rest of St. Augustine was barricaded, but it was easy to climb around using the catwalk. They were still in sight of the bridge and could see the multitude of construction signs placed a half mile up the road to signify the furthest point the houses, businesses and cars had been picked clean of supplies, fuel and weapons.

New survivors had told of a caravan of cars, laden with supplies, that got stalled on Route 16 heading west just past the river. Tosha and her men were assigned the simple task of seeing if it still existed and how many it would take to bring it back.

They skirted from torched cars to the sides of abandoned buildings in a serpentine pattern as they moved. It wasn't just the zombies they had to contend with out here.

Groups of roving looters still haunted the side streets, looking for food and wanting to kill anyone they came in contact with and take what they had instead of playing nice.

Tosha had seen enough of these animals in her journey, and wondered how she was still alive and how she hadn't been raped. She tapped her pistol at her side and shook her machete. This is how I didn't die, she thought.

Each building they passed had a spray-painted X on the door.

"What's that for?" Jimmy asked.

"Ever heard of Moses and Egypt?" Tosha asked him.

Jimmy looked confused as they ran across the street to avoid a flaming car. "Yeah, I guess."

"Lamb blood painted door, I shall pass," Tosha sang.

"What does that mean?" Jimmy asked, dropping next to her before they ran across a long, empty stretch of highway.

"Nothing. It just reminds me of a Metallica lyric."

Bobby laughed. "Dummy, the places we've already stripped clean get a mark so we don't waste time hitting them again."

Jimmy looked at Tosha. "Were you making fun of me?"

Tosha grinned. "No, I was reciting a line from the song Creeping Death." She stood and looked down the road. A strip mall to their left was nothing more than a pile of rubble. Past that and as far as the eye could see to the right were woods.

"I don't see anything matching the description." Jimmy wiped the sweat off his brow.

"It might be further than we thought," Bobby said.

"Or it's already gone." Tosha shook her head. "Let's jog up as far as that next bend in the road, and if we don't see it, we call this a bust."

They stuck to the middle of the road, weapons drawn, the men trying to keep up with Tosha as she moved.

She'd gotten almost thirty feet ahead when she suddenly veered off to her left into the trees. Bobby and Jimmy wisely followed her.

"I see the van up ahead, but it's wide open."

"Shit." Jimmy said.

"One of us is going to scout ahead," Tosha said. She stared at Jimmy.

When neither man said a word she sighed. "That means one of you." Tosha pointed at Jimmy. "Go find out if there's anything left."

"Shit," Jimmy repeated but ran off.

Bobby edged closer to Tosha, who was leaning against a tree and watching both ways down the road. He put a hand on the tree just above her head and smiled.

She glanced at him and frowned. "You're in my space."

"Sorry." He didn't move. "I figured, since we had some time to kill…"

Tosha grinned and put her machete near his groin. "Kill, such a friendly word," she sang in a growl.

"More lyrics?" he asked and backed up.

"Yes. Your buddy better return in ten minutes or I'll leave him here. Got it?"

"Got it." Bobby sat down in the grass. "I'm getting hungry."

*   *   *   *   *

"Are you serious?" Tosha said, disgusted at Bobby. He was snoring, curled up in the grass. It had been exactly ten minutes since Jimmy had left.

She pulled her boot back for a swift kick to the head but decided against it. This idiot would only go down there and get lost.

Tosha skirted the tree-line, running past the van when she saw Jimmy wasn't near it. Where did he go?

A dirt road led to the right, and a crushed box of spaghetti had exploded there. She moved along, following many footprints and dropped food items. Was he suddenly stupid enough to try this on his own? Unless he thought he'd find a stash for himself, she thought.

The road ended in a house, door on its hinge and a zombie wandering in the yard.

Tosha moved slowly but didn't see any movement in the house. It was simple to step up to the zombie, plant her feet and take its head off with a single swing.

Another zombie stepped out from the house.

"Now we play," Tosha purred. She stretched her legs and flexed her fingers, hoping there'd be a dozen inside to kill.

The newest one was quickly dispatched and she ran into the house, ready to sever heads and limbs with abandon.

Instead, body parts littered the living room.

She moved down a blood-streaked hallway into the kitchen. A rotting headless zombie was splattered against the refrigerator. Stacks of water and canned food were neatly arranged on the counters.

Tosha moved from room to room, but they were empty of people, living or otherwise.

As she turned to leave she heard a low thump from the living room closet.

Machete in hand, she put her hand on the knob. She wasn't nervous. She was very calm, and another Metallica tune was playing in her head as she yanked open the door.

"Blood will follow blood…"

Jimmy, arm bloody, tears running down his dirty face, put his hands up.

"…Dying time is here…"

Tosha, on instinct, chopped down and took a chunk of his shoulder with the blade.

"I'm not bitten," Jimmy screamed.

"…Damage, Incorporated," she sang and finished him off. If he hadn't been bit he'd be dead soon enough.

Tosha found some blankets in the bedroom, covered the supplies, propped up the front door as best as she could, and carved an X in the door.

When she got back to Bobby she sighed. He was still sleeping.

"Wake up, dumb-ass," she said and kicked him.

Bobby rolled over, rubbing his eyes. "Where's Jimmy?"

"Dead."

"What?"

"He's gone. Zombies got him. We need to head back, I need a beer."

"Any food?"

Tosha cleaned the machete blade on the grass, aware he was staring at her ass again. "Nothing."

The Conner Family

Amanda Conner smiled at her husband, hoping he didn't notice her shaking hands on the steering wheel of the Dodge Ram. She glanced in the rearview mirror. "Kids are finally asleep."

Brian nodded, staring out the mud-streaked window and gripping the shotgun.

"It'll be dark soon," she said. "We should find a place to stop so the kids can sleep properly. Catherine always gets that cramp in her neck when she passes out in the car."

He nodded again and leaned forward, eyes squinting. "Stop."

She slid the car to the side of the dirt road and went to put the headlights on, but Brian put his hand gently on hers. "Leave them off. No use in giving our position away. And we don't need them yet."

Amanda knew he was right. Ever since before all of this happened, he'd always been right about the apocalypse. The neighbors had laughed at him, spending his weekends adding steel plates and bullet-proof windows to this old pickup truck, buying the most expensive and damage-proof wheels he could find.

While the neighbors threw barbeques and mowed their lawns, Brian worked from Friday evening when he came home from work until Sunday night when he went to bed, getting the truck prepared, supplied, and the family outfitted for the coming war.

Brian slid out of the passenger side without a sound. Amanda knew his military training was kicking in, tours of Iraq and Afghanistan hardening him into a soldier. He never spoke of those months but he'd come back changed. On the surface he was still the loving, God-fearing man she'd fallen in love with ten years ago, but she could see the darkness behind his eyes. He'd seen something, knew something, that wasn't right.

Now, while their neighbors and friends were dead - or worse - Brian was in control, guiding them and the kids safely out of Fort Knox, Kentucky.

Amanda thought running away from Fort Knox was ironic. Wasn't it supposedly the safest, most secure place in the world? Brian laughed as well, but told her they needed to get as far away from a big city as possible. Besides, Fort Knox itself wasn't going to let just anyone in there.

Aiden, her little one at only a year old, shuffled in his car seat. She turned and smiled at all three of her children, all snoring softly. Bradley, a year older than Aiden, snuggled his blanket in his Big Boy Chair, refusing to sit in a baby seat even though the law said otherwise.

"What law?" Amanda whispered. Catherine was slumped against the door, two years older than Bradley but seeming like a teenager the way she spoke. Amanda wondered what kind of world her kids had to look forward to growing up in.

Brian tapped on her window and scared her nearly to death. "There's a bridge up ahead but I see a few of them shuffling around it. I think we can make it."

"Get in," Amanda said. "And don't do that to me again."

"Sorry," Brian said sheepishly. She wanted to kiss him just then but decided to wait until they were safely over the bridge.

They still had enough natural light that she didn't need to put on the car headlights, but the road was filled with potholes and large rocks, so she went slowly. She just wanted so badly to turn them on, like a nightlight when she was a child.

As she pulled around a bend a shambling silhouette pulled itself from the weeds to their left. Amanda gasped, even though she'd seen countless undead in the last few weeks. She swerved to avoid it, which wasn't hard. She was only going about ten miles an hour but still much faster than the enemy.

"Speed up but not too fast. No use in kicking rocks and letting the world know our position," Brian said. "The shotgun is the last resort." He pulled out his knife from its sheath on his right leg and leaned forward. "When I yell stop you slam on the breaks and I'll bail."

"I'll wake the kids."

"Shit." Brian closed his eyes. "When I put my arm up you slow down and stop the truck so I can get out."

"Then what do I do?" Amanda hated being without him so close, and always feared for the kid's lives when he did things like this. She knew in her heart he was doing it for a reason and it always worked out. But one day, Lord Above, my man isn't jumping back in this pickup truck… I just know it. She felt foolish even thinking this, feeling like she was betraying Brian and all he'd done for them since coming back from the war.

"I'll use the hand signals. You remember the hand signals, like we practiced?"

"Yes, of course. Even the kids know them."

The way ahead was getting too dark now, the weeds and dirt road melding into grays and blacks. Amanda corrected the wheel when she felt the front end hit the slight embankment on the right. "This is getting too dangerous for me to drive. Why don't you?"

"I need to jump out and clear the road, baby. Slow down if you have to but I don't want to be swarmed like in Breeding."

Amanda gripped the wheel and eased off the gas. Breeding had been a disaster. They were part of a convoy of six vehicles and nearly thirty people but when they'd stopped to clear a burning car from the road the undead came from everywhere. Brian managed to clear a path with his driving but Amanda was useless with the shotgun. She still remembered the horrible sound of them raking dirty, broken fingernails on the sides of the truck and the crunch when Brian ran them over.

No one else from the convoy had survived.

"Stop," Brian said, pulling her back into the present and forcing her to focus. She eased off the gas and hit the brake, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure the kid's were still asleep.

"Don't scare me again," she said but he was already out the door, closing it silently. He was instantly dragged into the dark shadows and she put a hand instinctively on the light switch but knew better. "What good are hand signals when I can't see you?"

A thin, red light appeared in front of the truck, spinning. It was Brian using the pen pointer, which was actually Catherine's from a school report presentation.

Amanda had no idea what it actually meant and put her hands up, as if he could see her.

He stepped around the car to her window and she rolled it down. "Sorry, baby, but I don't know what 'spinning light' means. I can't drive anymore without being able to see. It's dangerous."

"I know." Brian wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "The mosquitoes are eating me alive. Wish these damn walking dead would eat them instead." He looked around. "There were only a couple ahead of us, but I took care of them. Turn the lights on. I can hear the river up around the next bend. Once we cross the bridge we should be alright."

"We need to find a safe place." Amanda turned the headlights on, expecting a thousand monsters to be packing the road. Instead, only the multitude of bugs swarmed in the glow. "Get back in?"

Brian nodded and ran around. As he got in he leaned over and kissed her cheek.

"What's that for?"

"Just because." Brian smiled. "Let's get out of here."

Amanda drove around the bend. So many bugs slammed into the windshield she had to use the wipers, bloody streaks covering the glass.

She smiled when she saw the warning sign about the bridge being one lane only. "Here we go."

But as the headlights lit up the entrance to the old steel bridge she let her foot off the gas and coasted. A wooden barricade had been erected, blocking the entrance. "What now?" she said.

"Let me go check it out," Brian said and was out the door before she could respond.

Once again she glanced in the rearview for the kids, but something else caught her eye in the red glow of the brake lights. Movement.

She started to roll the window down to yell to Brian when a bloody hand slammed into her door, rattling her. One minute it was dark and quiet, the next she could feel bodies pushing against the pickup on both sides.

Two stepped in front of the headlights, shambling toward Brian. He was still moving quickly to the blockade.

Amanda wanted to scream. If he hesitated at all they'd catch him. She couldn't stand the thought of losing her husband and watching him ripped apart by these things.

She beeped the horn, once, and Brian turned. He fired the shotgun, the blast ringing even with the windows closed, and waking the kids.

"Drive," he said and pointed at the barricade. "Now." Brian shot again but there were so many of them.

She jammed her foot on the gas pedal and the pickup caught in the loose dirt for a moment, sliding sideways and knocking a zombie down. She gained traction - was it the body she just climbed over? - and drove toward the bridge.

Brian was swinging the shotgun in a wide arc, keeping them at bay.

Amanda slammed on the brakes next to him.

"What are you doing?" Brian said as he got into the truck.

"You think you're getting away from me that easily?"

He laughed. "I guess not. You need to back up, though, if you want to hit that wall with enough force."

Amanda put the truck in reverse, hitting undead as she backed up.

"There are so many. They must've been just over the hill or something. I think the noise of the engine or the headlights got them riled up." Brian loaded the shotgun.

"Here goes nothing," Amanda said and put the truck in drive.

"Try to keep it straight, because once you're through that wall you might skid in either direction. Hit it as cleanly as you can."

Three zombies were between her and the bridge. Amanda gave it more gas and watched with satisfaction as they were thrown like leaves on the wind.

She held the wheel tightly. A glance in the rearview at all three kids, crying and scared, made her want to cry. "Get down on the floor, babies, like we practiced."

The pickup truck, reinforced with metal plates, coverings over the tires, and a wedged steel grill added to the front, slammed into the wooden fence at thirty miles an hour, ripping and splintering it into fragments.

"Holy Mother of God," Amanda whispered.

The pickup went another ten feet, running over the horde of undead crowding the bridge on the other side. They rose up as the bodies began to catch underneath, pinning the right side of the truck against the thin railing and forcing them to stop.

Bodies, bloody and drooling, punched at the car and the bullet-proof windows.

The children began to scream and Amanda reached back and tried to comfort them, even though she was crying herself.

"I can't get out of my side," Brian said.

Amanda looked at her door but it was shoulder to shoulder zombies, all crowding and attempting to get to them. "There's no way I'll be able to open this door."

"They can't shatter the glass and the sides will hold. We need to hide, keep out of sight, and maybe they'll get bored and move on," Brian said. "Move over, kids, we're coming back there to join you."

"I'm scared, daddy," Catherine said.

"We're going to be alright. They'll leave us alone if we keep quiet and hide."

He pulled two blankets and handed one to Amanda. "This will be like camping, only in the truck. It'll be fun."

Amanda smiled and put the kids back down on the seats, covering them as she sat on the floor behind the driver's seat and put the blanket over her head. Despite the raging slams against the truck and the shaking with so many pressed against it, the kids were fast asleep within minutes.

"You're a great dad," Amanda said.

"And you're a great mom."

"If we get out of here…"

"You mean when we get out of here," Brian said.

Amanda composed herself and wiped the tears from her eyes. "I love you."

Before Brian could answer the truck pitched to the right violently.

"What's going on?" Amanda said, keeping her voice down. Despite the movement the kids hadn't woken.

"I think we're being tipped," Brian said. He got out from under the blanket with his shotgun and pulled himself back into the front seat. "This is going to be loud."

Amanda covered the children with both blankets, knowing it wouldn't do much. "Please be careful. God, please protect us."

She heard the driver's side window cranking down and then the shotgun blast.

All three kids screamed. Amanda's ears were ringing and she didn't know if she was also screaming, blinded by fear and tears.

The pickup truck tipped again to the right and she heard Brian curse and another shotgun blast. They hung at a forty-five degree angle for a few seconds before banging back down to the bridge road.

Brian suddenly pulled part of the blanket away and stared at Amanda. "They're getting under the truck. They're trying to tip us into the water."

"What? How?" Amanda shrieked.

"I'm going to jump out and let them follow me so you and the kids can escape."

"No, you're not."

"Yes. It's the only way you'll survive." Brian looked at the kids and then closed his eyes. "Daddy loves you."

"Brian, don't leave me."

Before he could answer the truck went to the right again, this time twice as far. They all slid to the passenger side, piled up against the door. The truck didn't tip back the other way.

Amanda could hear the undead pounding on the truck's under-carriage. She could see the night sky and stars through the bullet-proof window, now directly above her.

"Baby, are you and the kids alright?"

"Yes, just squished. Are we on our side?"

"I guess so. I'm going to climb out and see if I can distract them. Stay quiet."

"Please don't," Amanda whispered.

"I have to. Eventually they'll rip the truck apart." Brian unlocked the door overhead and opened it, forcing himself out. He knelt on the pickup and looked back down. "I love you," he said before closing the door.

Amanda could do nothing but sob, holding the children as close as the cramped space would allow. She closed her eyes and once again prayed to God to protect her family.

Bradley screamed first when the pickup began to slide to the right, his brother, sister and mother joining in the chorus.

The pickup suddenly stopped and Amanda prayed harder.

She felt it moving again to the right, another foot, another foot.

Was that a shotgun blast? She couldn't tell with the noise of the pickup's side tearing as it sluiced across the asphalt. The floor - the passenger side door in the back - was actually getting hot under her feet and she didn't know if it was a fire or the friction from sliding.

"Mama, I scared," Bradley said.

"I know, honey, but it's going to be fine."

Before Amanda could say another word the pickup truck slid again, several feet, shaking them about the interior.

The kids screamed again and Amanda's breath caught in her throat. She remembered as a child going to Six Flags with her family and getting sick on the Log Flume ride. The sensation of dropping through the air only lasted seconds but it was enough to scare her.

Her head was slammed into the seat when the truck slammed into the water and she threw up. For a second her world went black and she fought to stay conscious.

"Mama, my shoes are getting wet."

Amanda willed herself to move, getting the kids up above the water seeping into the truck. She grabbed Catherine. "Honey, I need to lift you up to the door. You need to open it and climb out. Then I can hand you your brothers. Can you do that?"

Catherine looked petrified but she nodded.

Amanda handed Catherine up, steadying her on her shoulder. "Got it?"

She heard Catherine trying to get the door opened.

Already, Amanda's feet were soaked. Waterproof was never an option or a thought when Brian was outfitting the truck.

She heard the door pop above her. "Catherine, I need you to climb out and grab Aiden."

"Okay, mama."

Her daughter's weight was lifted off of her and Amanda looked up to see her beautiful little girl kneeling on the side of the pickup, hands outstretched.

Amanda reached down and grabbed Aiden, who was being held above water by Bradley. The river was almost two feet deep already in the interior. She hefted her son and handed him to his sister, who struggled to pull him free.

"Bradley is next," Amanda said and plunked him from the water, where he was splashing around. "What's going on up there?" she yelled.

"I see daddy," Catherine said excitedly. "He's swimming to us." Catherine screamed. "The dead people are in the water and they're all around the truck."

As if in response she heard another shotgun blast.

"Take your brother." Amanda handed Bradley up and Catherine lifted him on put him on the car, where he clung and cried.

Amanda was now up to her neck in water. She started to climb but the seat gave way underneath her and her mouth was suddenly filled with water as she went under.

Before she could recover the truck slid and tipped, the water black and enveloping. Amanda lost all senses of up and down, struggling to right herself in the cramped quarters as her air ran out.

She stopped struggling and gave herself to God. Take care of my babies and my husband, Dear Lord, and keep them safe, she thought before she drowned.

*   *   *   *   *

Brian stood on the bank in the false dawn light and stroked Catherine's wet hair. All around him the living worked, eradicating the undead as they crossed the river.

The pickup truck was gone, pulled away in the fast-moving current.

"Sir, we have food and clothing for you and your children. The safe zone is just ahead," a man with a hunting rifle said with a smile.

Brian wrangled the kids together, stared another moment at the swirling water, filled with body parts and blood, and turned away with a sob.

Geneva Archer

The dead were too far below to hear Janis Joplin wail through Piece of My Heart, but Geneva had the stereo set on two just in case. No use drawing attention.

On a clear day the portable stereo could be heard for miles, it seemed, and the monsters would gather three stories down on the street and stare up at her. It was all quite unnerving.

But as long as she had her CD's, her diet soda, and her bags of stale chips, she'd be fine. Food was not an issue.

With twenty-four apartments in the building, she'd neatly organized all the food, drink and supplies into certain rooms on the top-most level: all of the perishables were in Mister Munson's living room while the canned goods were neatly stacked in his kitchen, vegetables on the table and everything else in the cabinets and the counter.

The Cordero's apartment across the hall now had all the drinks, and Geneva's favorites (pretty much anything diet since she didn't want the diabetes to take control again, especially without doctors and a depleting pill horde) were right inside the open doorway. She'd cleared the non-diet, sweet tea and juices into the back bedrooms once Warren left…

She had enough Band-Aids and Advil to fix a third world country, all in neat rows in the Dunston apartment. The Publix down the street (before someone or something torched it) had yielded so many carts of supplies, medicine, health drinks, toilet paper, napkins, feminine products and toothpaste. There were still six shopping carts in the foyer downstairs she needed to get to.

Only Geneva had no desire to put things away where her OCD said they belonged, not anymore. Instead, she sat on her lounge chair, here on the roof, sipped warm diet Mountain Dew, listened to her Joplin, Zeppelin, Cream, Bad Company, and Sabbath tunes and ignored the dying world around her.

It was better this way. Better than feeling the way she felt and never getting the same feelings back from a man. Damn Warren…

At first, he'd done everything he was supposed to: he listened to her stories, he held the door for her, he bought her roses and cards, he wrote her poetry, they saw the movie she wanted to see and ate at the restaurants she wanted to eat at.

But after six months Warren became distant, sometimes not leaving his apartment for days unless she forced him. Even then he stumbled through the night like a zombie.

Geneva laughed at her little joke even though she didn't find much amusing these days. She sipped from her soda can, repositioned the giant umbrella to block the sun, and kicked her feet up. She'd spent more and more hours up here on the roof since it began, but her Irish complexion wasn't conducive to ten hours of sunbathing a day.

"With my luck I'll get skin cancer," she said. Geneva only had herself to talk to now, ever since Warren left…

She decided to make pizza tonight on the grill. She had three grills, which had been a bitch to lug up the stairs from the common yard. Luckily, most of the tenants on the first floor had charcoal or propane tanks, so she could cook. Not that she had any meat left, but a nice veggie pizza would be good.

There was a smoker down there in the yard but it looked too heavy to lift. Besides, what did she have for it? Nothing.

Geneva went to the front of the building and looked down below at the street, filled with the dead, all trying to get into the place.

As she circled the roof again to get back to her comfy chair she noticed the side road was empty. Where Halifax and Elm crossed behind them were eight-foot tall fences, the road nothing more than a glorified alley where trucks could cut through to get to the docks.

This was the way Warren used to leave. He'd scoot down the fire escape, lower himself down to the dumpster and run the two blocks to the strip mall. When the shit hit the fan, he broke into the pharmacy and grabbed candy, soda (nothing diet) and bags of chips.

"Nothing for me?" Geneva had said the first time he'd come back on his own. She realized now she had abandonment issues (she was the typical kid that daddy had walked out on) and their forages to the stores had been together, piling shopping carts with stuff they both liked.

There'd been an argument, her doing most of the screaming, accusing him of cheating, insinuating that he was going to leave her here to die.

And he had, in the end.

Geneva was sweating without the umbrella to shield her and could feel her skin frying. She'd need lotion tonight before bed.

The alley remained empty for the next hour while Geneva stood there and streamed through the good times and bad times of her life.

Even though she was in her middle forties, and had known Warren for about a year in total, most of her memories centered on him. The time he took her to meet his sickly mother in the nursing home, and the pleasant lunch afterward they had in the park. The fight they had at the mall when he looked at that slut's ass. Their first movie together, a romantic comedy starring Jennifer Aniston. Their last movie, a horrible bloody action film starring Jason Statham.

Now she was alone, abandoned by yet another man in her life. Would she ever find true happiness, the Prince Charming she'd sought since she was a little girl reading fairy tales?

*   *   *   *   *

It was high noon, the sun obscured by low clouds, but Geneva could feel the harmful rays frying her exposed skin. She decided she'd rather die from skin cancer than a bite from a zombie. Geneva wondered if zombies got skin cancer or if they tanned.

She took the last sip of her chicken noodle soup and walked to the edge of the roof. Below at least thirty zombies stumbled into one another, like a slow motion mosh-pit. When Geneva was in her late teens the Ramones, Sex Pistols, the Damned and the Cramps had been popular with her outcast friends, and they'd get drunk and crash into one another in the parking lot.

She was always the hippy chick, listening to Hendrix and the Doors, and smoking a bit of pot when someone offered.

The fires had burned out, smoke fading on the light breeze, but she could still smell charred wood and other things. She decided to concentrate on the wood smell.

A walk to the alley side of the roof was next, figuring she'd glance down and then go back inside for a nap. There were two romance novels she'd found in Miss Klooney's apartment and she wanted to dive into one of them while there was still plenty of natural light.

Something moved behind the dumpster. She didn't hear it, but she could see a shadow moving around. It might be a dog or a cat.

Geneva wanted a pet. As a child she had hamsters, fish and an iguana. Never a cat or dog because her mother was allergic. At least that was always the standard answer. She figured her mother just didn't want to be bothered.

A moan escaped from behind the dumpster. The zombies didn't moan, like in the movies. They were deathly quiet.

"Hello?" she called out and regretted it as soon as it left her lips. If it was someone alive but hurt, she'd just rung the dinner bell.

Geneva ran to the front of the building and looked down. Shit.

The zombies were shuffling toward the alley en masse.

Geneva grabbed the portable stereo, cranked the volume to ten, and placed it at the farthest corner of the roof, but they ignored it.

"Hey!" she yelled, and tossed the radio over the side, where Queen stopped singing the praises of girls with big asses in a shower of metallic pieces.

They stopped as one and shuffled slowly back. Geneva sighed.

*   *   *   *   *

Geneva got four steps down the fire escape before stopping. She was only five foot six and there was no way she'd be able to reach the bottom rung of the fire escape once she got down onto the dumpster.

"Hello?" she tried to whisper but she knew it was too soft. The dumpster underneath her was at least twenty feet away from where she'd seen the man.

Seen the man? Now she was fantasizing that a man was back there, hurt and alone, and needing her help. She imagined he was bare-chested with tight blue jeans, incredibly piercing blue eyes and thick, curly brown hair. Despite his pain he would smile at her, his dimples melting her as he reached out with his hand and gently touched her breast…

"Fucksake, get over yourself," she whispered. She was acting like a fifteen year old, getting all wet thinking about someone hiding behind a dumpster. Pathetic. And she knew she still loved Warren, despite him leaving. He was the only man for her and she needed to stop kidding herself.

But if the person was alive, he'd need her help. He'd need to be bandaged up and fed and he'd need water. Maybe he was dehydrated.

Or maybe it was a woman who needed help, or a stray dog, or the Easter Bunny. Just focus on helping whoever is there, in need of rescue.

Geneva didn't want to leave the safety of the roof and drop into the alley. She didn't know if she could even reach back up and grasp the bottom of the fire escape ladder once she was on the ground. She got her foot onto the bottom rung of the ladder, straining to see who was back there. But the dumpster was angled away from her and too far away for her to get a good look. Since it wasn't directly under the building she couldn't get a good view from the roof, either.

Maybe I can get a glimpse from one of the apartment windows on that side of the building? Geneva knew she was stalling. If she jumped down she might not find something to stand on. She might be trapped, locked out of the building. Since Warren had left her there was no use in leaving and nothing out there she needed.

Geneva looked back up to the safety of the roof. Tomorrow I'll come down, after I find a weapon and figure out a way to get back up. There's no use…

Her hand slipped, her elbow slammed into the metal rung, and she clawed in the air to grip the ladder. Her fingers brushed against the warm metal and for a split second she thought she'd managed to hold on. Geneva landed on her ass, her head hitting the ground with enough force to make her see stars. She rolled over and was finally glad she had a fat ass. It had taken most of the blow, and she was able to stand and hadn't broken any bones.

She'd have a bruise on her ass and thighs but it was better than a busted leg or ankle. Geneva tried to reach up to the ladder but she was a half foot too short, even with a jump. She knew she was wasting her time, but now she was scared to see who (or what) was actually behind the dumpster.

Now that she was down on the ground she was scared. Her heart was beating a mile a minute. Her palms were sweaty, and Geneva's mind raced through every cliché she could think of right now. Her feet were sunk in cement. She was paralyzed with fear. Anything to keep her from actually moving her body.

She heard a low knock from the back of the dumpster, or had she imagined it? She decided to simply stand there, rooted in place, until she died. It was easier than taking action.

There was movement at the end of the alley. Geneva turned her brain off and ran as fast as her hurt butt would let her, because there was definitely a zombie in the alley with her now, but she didn't think she'd been spotted.

Geneva squatted down, one hand on the dumpster and the other hand on the ground to keep her from tipping over. She was shaking. If the zombie saw her it would be shambling down the alley to get her. If it had any friends around, they'd be joining him and she'd be the day's feast.

People aren't just being bitten, they're being raped… Geneva needed to see where it was before it snuck up on her. She lifted her head an inch at a time but it felt like forever before her eyes broke the plane and she could see over the dumpster.

The alley was empty. Thank you, Jesus.

Was that a moan from the other side of the dumpster?

Geneva knew it was now or never. The alley wouldn't stay abandoned for too long, especially with noises coming from it. She took two steps at got to the side away from the building and stopped, looking down at her empty hands. She was weaponless. What if it attacked her? What if there was a horde of squatting zombies on the other side, ready to rape her?

"What if, what if…" she whispered with anger. Daylight was wasting, she was hot and getting sun poisoning every second she stood here, and she was starting to get hungry. And she had to pee.

Geneva came around the dumpster as quietly as she could and stopped short when the person came into view. And it was a person, a woman, bleeding and unconscious. She was still alive because Geneva could see her chest moving up and down.

Now what?

Careful not to touch any of the blood spots on her, Geneva touched the woman's neck. "Hello?"

The woman's clear blue eyes opened and she smiled. "Am I in Heaven yet?" she whispered through parched lips.

"You're still alive." Geneva stepped back and knelt next to the woman. "I don't know how, but you're breathing. Have you been bitten, or… anything else?"

"I don't think so." The woman tried to stand but ended up leaning against the dumpster instead. "What day is it?"

Geneva shrugged as she helped the woman upright. "I have no idea."

"Where am I? I got separated from a group of survivors holed up near the Publix. I was attacked but I wasn't bitten." She patted herself down and tried to wipe dried blood off her arms. "I'm still alive."

Geneva smiled. "I haven't had someone to talk to since Warren left."

"Warren?" the woman asked and averted her eyes.

"You know him? He's still alive?" Geneva got excited. "Is he with your group?"

The woman closed her eyes. "You must be the woman he kept talking about."

"Yes. I'm Geneva. Did he mention me by name? Is he coming back?" She gripped the women's shoulders as she spoke excitedly. "What did he say about me? Does he miss me?"

The woman shrugged off Geneva's grip and rolled her neck. "We need to get out of this alley. Please tell me you have shelter and something to eat or drink."

Geneva smiled, elated to hear about Warren. Maybe this woman was the key to getting him back. She'd feed her, let her heal, clean her up a bit, and then she'll say nice things to Warren to get him to come home. "I live in this building."

The woman nodded. "How many of you are there?"

"Just me… and Warren. He'll come back for me. I know he will."

"Before we get inside, do we need to scavenge for food or water?"

Geneva laughed. "Heck no. I have enough supplies for the three of us to last months. Food, water, soda, batteries, music, first aid supplies, feminine hygiene stuff for us ladies, and whatever else we need."

The woman seemed focused now as she danced from foot to foot. "How do we get inside?"

Geneva hesitated. "Shouldn't you go get Warren first?"

A dark cloud past over the woman's face before she smiled. "Honey, I need to rest and eat for a couple of hours first. The Publix isn't that close and there are hundreds of those things between here and there."

"Fair enough." Geneva walked to the overhead ladder and pointed. "That's the way in."

The woman was taller than Geneva but strained to reach the bottom rung on a jump. "How were you planning on getting back up there?"

Geneva looked away embarrassed. "I didn't think about getting back up. I saw you down here in trouble and knew I needed to save you."

"And I thank you for that. Now, give me a boost."

"Why not give me a boost?" Geneva asked.

The woman laughed. "Honey, nothing personal, but I weigh about a buck twenty wet. You've been eating well. In my condition I hope I have the strength to pull myself up. Once I get up there I'll hang down so you can grip my ankles and we'll climb up."

Geneva knew this woman was her link to Warren. "Then we'll eat and go get Warren?"

"Of course." The woman looked back up. "I just need a little boost and then I'll pull myself up the ladder." She turned back to Geneva. "Do you have any rope?"

"Coils of different kinds. Warren raided a hardware store, but they are on the second floor in the Galvin apartment."

"Excellent. You have a veritable fortress filled with food and supplies. This is going to be fun for a change." The woman got into position. "Help me up."

When Geneva hesitated the woman looked her in the eye. "We're wasting time, and that's time you could be sharing with Warren."

Geneva helped the woman up and she managed to grip the bottom rung and pull herself onto the ladder, her feet hooking into the last step. She teetered, looking like she was going to fall, but managed to stay on the ladder and was standing within seconds.

"You did it," Geneva said and clapped quietly. "Now hang down so I can get up."

The woman began to climb, getting onto the first landing of the fire escape.

"Are you going to get the rope?" Geneva asked.

"Not likely."

Geneva was confused before the sad truth dawned on her. "You had no intention of helping me."

The woman grinned and peered down the alley. "This is a dog eat dog world, honey. You just let me into the doghouse and I got plenty of dog chow to keep me alive. Nothing personal."

"We can work together. You'll get lonely. You need me," Geneva said, trying to figure out a way to get back inside. Warren had nailed the bottom floor windows and doors up and there was no entrance except the fire escape.

The woman started to climb the fire escape. "I only need myself."

"What about Warren?"

The woman stopped. "Who?"

"You lied to me," Geneva spat.

"Dog eat dog. I'd go find another hiding place because when I get to the roof I might just call some dead friends over to meet you. I can't have you hanging around and trying to kill me or steal my stuff."

"Where's Warren?"

"How should I know? Everyone I've met so far I've killed or stolen from. Good luck finding him." The woman reached the roof and swung over. "Nice place you got here." She laughed. "Nice place I've got. Good luck finding Warren."

Geneva tried to jump and catch the bottom rung but missed again and again.

Armand Rosamilia

It was all falling into place, his dreams coming to fruition. He stared at the screen of his laptop and slowly read the first few words over and over aloud, savoring the sound…

Congratulations! We love your zombie new novel. In fact, we love it so much we're prepared to offer you a six-figure deal and we want to offer the same for the next three books in the series. We'll be sending a stretch limo in one week's time to whisk you to the airport so we can get you up here to New York and sign some contracts, wine and dine you, rave about your writing… Oprah has decided to do a personal interview with you. Live on the air, before Barbara Walters gets her claws in you… ever had a Cuban cigar? Three supermodels have sex in front of you? Eaten endangered animals for dinner? We also took the liberty of giving Alyssa Milano your home number. She thinks you are cute…

Maybe it didn’t actually say those exact words, but Armand Rosamilia, author, could read between the lines. This was his break, his time. Two failed marriages, dozens of relationships thrown by the wayside, three kids who hardly talked to him, and an ass which could barely squeeze through the front door anymore had all been worth it.

He'd show them all. With the millions he'd be raking in soon he'd get a personal trainer (he was quite fond of that hot chick from The Biggest Loser) and spend for some of that fat-sucking magic as well. Armand wasn't about to give up eating M&M's but he'd do anything else to get in shape and look good for his many appearances and TV interviews he'd be doing.

The bathroom mirror showed a monster, but when he looked closer trough his dirty eye contacts he realized it was only his own sad reflection: his balding (fine, he was bald) head was unshaven and he looked like Friar Tuck meets Bozo the Clown. His long, straggly gray goatee was shadowed by his unkempt beard (also gray) that circled his bulging necks. He counted at least three.

None of it mattered. It would all be gone soon. He'd lose a hundred pounds, gain some definition in his flabby arms and lose the M&M gut, much larger than a beer gut. He'd shave his head and face, dye the goatee and buy nice clothes. His current wardrobe consisted of several zombie-themed T-shirts, most with holes and stains on them, and ratty gym shorts. He had sneakers and shoes somewhere in a closet, but preferred his old man slippers to glide around the house.

Armand was about to call out to one of his kids to get him another bag of M&M's from the cabinet but realized they were gone. Everyone was gone. He vaguely remembered a woman living here with him, yelling about how he never listened or something along those lines… he couldn't be bothered. He'd show her, and those bratty kids of his. Wherever they were.

His usual afternoon routine consisted of taking a quick power nap (two to three hours) right after finishing his second pot of coffee and another half a bag of plain M&M's. He went into the kitchen and pulled the bag of candy from the cabinet and was dismayed to see this was his third to last bag of M&M's. He'd need to make a trip to Publix after his nap, which would involve a long walk in the heat of Florida.

Since he never used his car any more, he'd let his driver's license, car insurance and car registration expire. He still had the car (a rusting piece of shit Kia) in the driveway but he hadn't turned it over in months. It had cobwebs underneath.

Cursing, he poured the last cup of coffee and went into the living room. Since his acceptance to the Big Time of Authordom he decided he didn't need to write about any more zombies or horror crap until he met with his new publisher. Why waste time writing unless he needed to? He didn't need to waste time submitting to anthologies and magazines again, and he'd shut down the blog soon enough. He'd stop obsessively adding friends to Twitter and Facebook and let the fans find him now. All those award winning and NYT best selling authors with fifty thousand followers who only followed twenty people would now try to be his friend.

He turned the television on while he sipped his coffee, scanning for baseball news or a show about sharks or serial killers. He was also quite fond of food shows, even though he ate M&M's at least two meals a day.

"What is this shit?" he asked. Most of the channels were following various live news feeds. He figured it was a political speech or some shit he didn’t need to know about, or maybe a school shooting.

When he stopped at CNN and the words Zombies In Boston flashed on the bottom of the screen he laughed. Was it April Fools Day? Yet another one of those zombie walks that were so popular? But if it was, these idiots were going way too far with the theatrics. Armand loved to see pictures from these zombie walks, if only to see hot chicks dressed up in skimpy nurse outfits, covered in blood and showing off their cleavage or big asses.

He loved big asses…

He switched the channel to local news and there was more of the same. "Am I missing something?"

Armand grabbed his house phone (it was still on, only because he had it bundled with the internet and cable TV and he was too lazy to figure out how to cancel it) and dialed a fellow zombie author, Mark Tufo. He lived in Boston and would know what was going on.

"Dude, the zombies are real! This is wicked scary. Protect yourself and your loved ones," Mark said in his thick New England accent before the phone went dead.

A call to Portland Oregon and zombie author Todd Brown yielded the same bizarre conversation. "Portland is now overrun! Denise and I started our zombie apocalypse plans. Good luck! And, Armand… I always thought you were a bit gruff."

His third and final call went out to author Bryan Hall, who didn’t write about zombies but was a good guy nonetheless. North Carolina was apparently also under attack. "They're everywhere. I'm prepared, so it's no big deal. I stocked up on microbrews and ammo. I'll just relax and wait it out. Any news on the book deal?" Bryan asked. Armand hung up on him.

This was bad. Really bad. He went through a list in his head of other authors he could contact: Billie, Stacey, Allison, Vix, Jaime (two of them), Caren, Kat, Suzi, Doree, Susan… but he couldn't remember which ones had blocked him on Facebook and he knew at least one of them had a restraining order against him… better to put the phone down and figure out a game plan.

He'd need a machete, months of food and drink, a first aid kit, batteries and a radio, and plenty of toilet paper. He stood on his bulbous ankles (kankles?) and went to find his boat shoes. Armand could slip those on and begin his walk to the nearest Publix with his shopping list.

He went outside, the sun slamming into his pasty skin like a fireball. He hated being out of the house, unless it was to get the mail. Even then it was a bitch.

The top of the block looked a million miles away. Is this even worth it? How long can I possibly live on my own without the internet and good food?

No more M&M's? Fuck that.

Armand went back inside, leaving the front door open as a welcome invitation to any nearby zombies, took out all the M&M's bags and poured them into a mixing bowl. He sat on the couch, muted the TV volume and put some Slayer on his tinny computer speakers.

He put his feet up on the coffee table, watched the world die, gorged on mouthfuls of M&M's and hummed along to "Dead Skin Mask" until the first shadow in the doorway moved.

Author Notes

Thirteen short stories set in the Dying Days world, and some friends old and new.

I realized after I finished Dying Days 2 that there were some great stories that needed to be told featuring some of the characters created just for that book. I decided to write a few short stories and worry about what I was going to do with them later.

Readers of the series so far will recognize Michael Ross, Russ 'Madman' Meyer, Steve 'The Breeze' Brack, David Monsour and Tosha Shorb. I've created a few new characters I hope you will enjoy, and won't be surprised to see some of them in future stories.

You'll also be happy to know that a Dying Days 3 is already in the works, and will be out in early 2013.

But fear not! There will be two novellas released beforehand, great prequel stories of two characters first featured in Dying Days 2 and appearing in this collection: David Monsour and Tosha Shorb, both starring in the spin-off Dying Days: Origins books.

In fact, what follows is a raw preview of the first in the series, featuring the beginnings of Tosha Shorb. This is the unedited first draft, but I wanted to share it with you.

Look for it in Fall 2012.

As always, I thank you for reading my work and I am truly honored you spent your money on me. I hope to keep writing work you deem necessary to read.

Armand Rosamilia

Dying Days: Origins

Chapter One: Notorious

The apartment was cramped, smoky and the radio way too loud for the neighbors. Tosha Shorb tried to get to the window to open it despite the cold night, but several drunks were in her way.

"Excuse me," she asked the guy in front of her. He ignored her.

She was tired - she'd worked a double today - and, despite three shots was still sober. And now she was sweating because forty people were crammed into this shitty apartment.

"Excuse me," she said louder, trying to talk over the inane pop music blasting. When he glanced down at her and smirked, putting his beer can to his lips, she lost it. Before she could think she'd swung around and smashed him in the face, the can crushing on his face and beer exploding in all directions.

"What the fuck?" he managed, and took a defensive position even as blood and beer streamed down his face and chest. He cocked his fist to punch but stopped, staring at his attacker.

Tosha was a slight redhead with piercing eyes, which were now filled with rage. She looked much younger than her twenty-seven years, which wasn't a good thing when you worked in a hospital and patients never took you seriously when you came for blood-work.

She put her hands on her hips, aware the music had been turned down and all eyes on her. As usual. Glad her twin sister wasn't here to give her the motherly look, she tried to remain calm. "I asked you to move."

The guy laughed. "Are you even allowed in here, little girl? What are you, twelve?"

There were a few snickers from those guests that didn't know Tosha. To her friends and those aware of her reputation, they knew what was coming and took two steps back.

The rage was building. She had two choices: turn and walk out and go home, or take action.

She put her right foot back a step at the same time he wiped his face and winked at her. Tosha tipped her weight forward with her hard leather boot swinging, catching him squarely in the groin.

As he doubled over, dropping to one knee, she leaned over and got in his face. "I'm allowed wherever the fuck I want, you fat piece of shit." Tosha winked at him as people grabbed her by the arms and pulled her away.

"I think you need to leave," someone said to her.

"Of course. You can't have some little girl in here kicking dude's asses, can you?" Tosha shrugged off their grip and gave them the finger as she left.

Chapter Two: Flesh Eater

It was cold but her rage kept her more than warm. Her Lizzy Borden concert shirt - she'd picked it up in Allentown during their last U.S. tour - was sticking to her chest and her tight blue jeans were starting to bother her. Her toes still felt numb after kicking the guy in the balls, and the thought of it made her laugh.

The streets of Harrisburg were empty, as usual. "Should've listened to Trista and stayed in." Her sister was the introverted one, preferring to sit home after work and play videogames online with her imaginary friends instead of going out into the actual world and talking to actual people.

She even preferred to be called by her stupid online name, Mathyu. Tosha didn't know if that was the dumb part, or the fact that she'd started addressing her sister by the name.

In order to get to her apartment she cut through an alley between the McDonalds and the Harrisburg Laundromat. It always smelled bad down here, but it was much worse during the summer, when the garbage heated up, rotten food and dead rats stinking. The bums loved this alley because the fast food garbage was tossed in the dumpster, and they'd rip the bags apart and feast.

Tosha decided to sleep in tomorrow, burying herself in her pillows and stuffed animals on her bed, curtains drawn, and threaten her sister to not wake her unless the world was ending.

She was so focused on her thoughts she stumbled into the bum, standing in the dark in the middle of the alley.

"Watch where you're going," she said loudly. Usually when you shouted or acted crazier than they did, the bums would leave you alone.

He didn't move.

When she tried to sidestep him he grabbed her left arm. He leaned into her and his breath was like rotting meat and bile. Tosha nearly gagged, but knew she had to get away from this crack-head or drunk and escape before she was raped.

"Back off, dickhead," she said and pushed him away. He simply reached for her again. Tosha easily moved around him and ran down to the other end of the alley. When she looked back he was walking slowly toward her. "Fuck you, asshole. Maybe I'll call the cops."

He kept coming with that staggered, insanely slow stutter step. What the fuck was wrong with this guy? Was he fucking with me, trying to freak me out? Playing some game?

As he got closer she tried to see his face, but it was too dark. Was he smiling, laughing, stoned? Tosha had all kinds of overdoses in the hospital, and she'd seen too many drug addicts with faraway stares or looks like they wanted to kill you.

She walked backwards to the other side of the street, aware she was alone. A quick glance north and south confirmed her fear. There wasn't a person out this time of night. No cars went by on the cross streets, she didn't hear traffic, not even a train rumbling by.

It felt like an hour but he finally made it to the end of the alley and stepped out onto the sidewalk and under the street light.

Tosha gasped. He was covered in blood, his mouth dripping with it.

"Is this some fucking joke, asshole? It's not funny. Did you come from that lame party, and think you can fuck with me?"

She puffed out her chest and planted her feet. She was headstrong and didn't run away from a challenge, even if it was a dumb idea. Her past was littered with dumb ideas, and she thought this was about to be another one.

"Last chance to leave me alone," she said. He took another three steps forward, within ten feet, when she gasped.

Something wet and bloody fell from his mouth and to the pavement. His eyes were glazed over and dead, his mouth slowly moving like he was biting the air. His arms were bent forward, straining at her.

"Fuck this," she muttered and turned and ran.

Chapter Three: No Time To Lose

Tosha, out of breath, slammed the apartment door behind her and locked it, even the security chain. "Mathyu?" she called, hating that she'd used the nickname.

"In here."

Tosha went into the living room and wasn't surprised to see her sister, in her sweatpants and matching sweatshirt, spread out on the couch. Her fingers worked a videogame controller, a bag of chips at her feet.

"I hit level sixty just now."

"I need to talk to you." Tosha sat down on the arm of the couch.

Her sister ignored her as she played.

"Something happened tonight."

"Did you get into a fight again?"

Tosha laughed. Her twin knew her too well. They didn't have that Twilight Zone mind-link or anything psychic, but they knew the other one better than anyone. "Well, yeah, I got into a fight. But that's not what I'm talking about."

"No one was on tonight."

"Huh?" Tosha said.

Mathyu pointed at the television and then picked up her headphones, sitting next to her on the couch. "There are only a few people playing tonight."

"Normal people are out drinking, dancing, actually talking to real people."

Her sister shook her head. "You don't understand. Even on a slow night I have a choice of talking or playing with seventy different players, mostly in the hundreds." Mathyu dug a hand into the potato chip bag. "Tonight there are four others online, and no one I deal with. It's weird."

"Can you pause that for a second? I had a really weird night, and I need to tell you about it."

"Yeah, I'm going to turn it off anyway. It's boring tonight."

"There was this weird guy in the alley."

"Which one?"

Which guy or which alley?" Tosha asked. Her sister had an annoying habit of interrupting stories to ask questions, like she was a detective. "Can I tell the story?"

Mathyu shrugged with a grin. "It's your story." She logged off of her game.

"Anyway, I tried to walk past him but he reached out and grabbed my shoulder."

"Did you punch him out? Sorry, go ahead."

"I pushed him away and ran."

"Great story." Mathyu said and switched on the television.

"You don't understand." Tosha stood up. "He was, I can't explain it, he was bloody and had strange eyes. There was something fucked up about him. His eyes were… dead. I know that sounds weird."

"Actually, not really." Mathyu pointed at the television and turned up the volume. "What's going on, Tosh?"

The scene on the TV was chaos, with a news chopper flying overhead and getting staggered shots of a large riot in downtown Pittsburgh.

As the camera zoomed in closer at least three people, covered in gore, were biting into the limbs of a small child.

"What the fuck is going on?" Tosha said and stared at the screen, unable to believe what she was seeing.

Her sister pointed to the top right of the screen. "What are they doing to that guy?"

Tosha felt like throwing up. "They're… it looks like…"

"Are they raping him?"

"Yes," Tosha said quietly. "I could've been raped tonight."

When the power suddenly went out both girls screamed, the darkness absolute, especially with it being a cloudy night.

"Where did you put the flashlights?" Mathyu asked.

"I didn't touch them. Do we have candles?"

The two collided in the dark and something cracked.

"That better not be my game system," Mathyu said.

Tosha struggled through their apartment's clutter to the window and pulled the blinds up, but it only offered a bit of light. Even the streetlight was out.

Mathyu turned on a flashlight and handed one to Tosha.

"What do we do now?" Tosha asked. She pulled out her cell phone. "Who do we even call at this point?"

"The police, I would think."

Tosha laughed. "Like no one else thought of calling the cops about this?"

Mathyu shrugged and found her cell phone and sat on the couch.

"What are you doing?" Tosha asked.

"Angry Birds."

"Are you serious? We need to do something."

Mathyu shrugged. "Do what? We can't go anywhere, there's no one to call, and it's really cold outside. It will probably start snowing heavily in the next hour. I say we put on some warm clothes, chill on the couch, and play games until morning. Have you seen my GameBoy?"

"Seriously? You're going to crash on the couch like nothing is going on and play videogames?"

Mathyu seemed to think about it for a moment. "Yes. We need more candles."

"Unreal." Tosha was starting to get cold and decided to strip out of her 'sexy going-out clothes' and into something warm and comfy. It was going to be a long night.

As her sister found her handheld gaming system, Tosha decided to grab something to eat from the refrigerator. "Want anything before I open this? No idea how long the power will be out and everything will go bad."

"A yogurt would be cool, and maybe some of the avocado dip."

"Yuck." Tosha picked out two cold beers, a plate of cold pizza and some turkey, ham and Swiss cheese to make a sandwich. Her side of the fridge was filled with meats, cake, pizza, beer, candy bars and enough junk food to kill someone. Mathyu was a vegetarian, with the three crisper drawers packed with green vegetables and fruit, a stack of yogurt, mineral water, natural juices and weird-looking and -smelling dips for her wheat crackers.

Tosha left her items on the counter to get to room temperature while she went to her chaotic bedroom. When she opened the door piles of her clothes littered the ground, although she had a system (she thought): clothes in the closet were clean, those just outside the closet relatively clean, and then her kinda-dirty clothes near the bed and the shit that stunk near the door. Once the smell was overpowering she'd pick up the last stack and wash them.

Her Muhlenberg College sweatshirt (an old boyfriend had gone there and bought it for her, right before he cheated on her) and gray sweatpants were thrown on. She decided against bra and underwear, getting comfortable. She grabbed her pillows and her comforter from the bed and decided her and her sister would make this into a sleepover and have some fun before they froze to death.

They spent the next two hours talking about their childhood, making fun of each other, and bonding like they were six again. Wrapped in every blanket they had in the apartment, they drank and ate and fell asleep on the living room floor, the candles burning out and the world just outside their window going to Hell.

Chapter Four: Love Kills

"The building across the street is on fire," Mathyu said, rubbing her eyes. The sky was overcast but the promise of snow hadn't been met yet.

"I'm freezing my ass off," Tosha said.

"It's surely big enough," Mathyu chided her, pointing at her own ass, nearly identical. "Not skinny like mine."

"Whatever." Tosha, still wrapped in her comforter, joined her sister at the window. "The power must still be out everywhere. I don't see any lights."

"I don't see many cars, either." The street was empty as far as they could see.

"Wish we had a battery-operated radio," Tosha said.

"Maybe that old lady on the first floor has one."

"Why, because she's old?"

Mathyu shrugged. "Yeah."

Tosha thought about it. "Fuck it, let's go check. What else do we have to do? Get your shoes on."

They opened the door to their apartment but neither moved. One look and they began to laugh. "Chicken-shit, go first," Tosha said.

"No way. You go first, I'm not getting killed."

"Loser." Tosha made a big show of pushing past her sister.

"Wait." Mathyu disappeared back into the cold apartment, and Tosha didn't mind the wait. She didn't want to go downstairs, through the dark stairway and anywhere near the street. Whatever was really happening was fucked up and she wanted no part of it.

Her sister returned with a flashlight and a baseball bat, chipped and well-worn. They'd found it on the vacant lot behind the house months ago and Mathyu took it 'for protection'. Since then it had been taking up space in the closet.

Tosha took the bat. "Shine the light over my shoulder, but keep it out of my eyes." They were on the third floor, with four apartments on each. "Do we have neighbors?"

Mathyu shrugged. "I know the guy across from us is in jail. Oh, I forgot to tell you that! A couple of days ago the cops showed up and tossed his apartment and led him away in handcuffs. The Rasta Dude was watching and laughing."

The Rasta Dude was the guy who lived next door to them. They didn't know his name. He smiled at them whenever they passed in the hall or on the stairs, and he always slyly checked them out, but he never said a word. The guy across the hall - they called him Bald Guy - used to complain about the reggae music blasting and the smell of sweet leaf filling the hall. Tosha guessed Rasta Dude had gotten even.

The other apartment on their floor was empty and had been for months, ever since the grow room was found. They didn't live in the nicest neighborhood, but the rent was cheap.

The door to Bald Guy's apartment opened a crack.

"Hello?" Tosha took a step to the door but it closed and they heard the lock and the deadbolt engage. Tosha gave the door the finger. "Let's go down. Gotta love these helpful neighbors. I guess Bald Guy got out of jail in time for the world to end."

"The world isn't ending," Mathyu said and gave a halting laugh before dropping her smile. "Is it?"

"I hope not." Tosha tapped the baseball bat. "We need to go downstairs and see the old lady with the radio."

"If she has a radio."

"Whatever." Tosha started walking down the steps and was glad her sister was doing a good job keeping the light over her shoulder so she could see. Without the hall lights it was dark, and every step creaked like a gunshot. Tosha gripped the bat tightly in her hands, squeezing the wood.

The second floor landing was quiet. They stopped and listened but no sound emanated from the four apartments on this level.

"Do you know anyone that lives here?" Mathyu asked.

"I think that Devil Beard dude lives on this floor."

"No, he lives on the first floor, across from the old lady."

"Shit. Then I don't."

"Me, neither." Mathyu shined the light down the stairs and they continued moving.

Tosha got to the bottom and realized she was holding her breath, waiting for something to happen, but she didn't know what.

"Hear that?" Mathyu asked.

They stopped in front of the old ladies door. A static noise was coming from inside and the sister's smiled. "Told you," Tosha said. "Radio."

Through the dirty frosted front doors a shadow moved by slowly and both girls automatically ducked. When it passed they stood and Tosha tapped lightly on the old woman's door.

There was no answer, only the static.

"Now what?" Mathyu asked. "Maybe she left the radio on but left."

"Maybe." Tosha knocked again, a little harder. She didn't like being in the dark hallway and felt exposed. The front door, while closed, didn't have a working lock on it. Anyone coming by could easily get in.

Tosha tried to turn the old woman's doorknob but it was locked, which she knew it would be. You never left a door unlocked in this part of town unless you were doing something illegal.

"We should force it open," Mathyu said. "Ram it with your fat butt."

Tosha smiled. "Idiot. I'm not going to break down her door. That's trespassing."

"Good, then she'll call the cops and we'll have some police protection."

Tosha hesitated. What if things were as bad as she thought they were? Would kicking down the door of a neighbor be right? Ever?

Mathyu made the decision for her, with a swift kick to the thin wooden door. It pulled from the doorjamb with a crack that sounded like a shotgun blast in the silent hallway. It was still shut but just barely.

Tosha laughed. She was usually - alright, always - the one making in-the-moment decisions like that. "Nice kick, Chuck Norris."

"Well, thank you. I've been playing the Wii fighting games the last few days. That's my move in the kickboxing game."

"Why do you play kickboxing?"

"You never know when you need to kick down the door of an old lady, right? The training comes in handy. If I see Nazi soldiers I think I can kill them from the top of the building. I'm set."

"After you?" Tosha asked with a laugh.

"Age before beauty," her sister said and pointed.

"Whatever." Tosha hefted the baseball bat. "You ready?"

"Born ready," Mathyu said with a smile.

"Thank God you got all the fucking dork genes." Tosha pushed against the door with the baseball bat and it swung open. The cold hit them immediately. "It looks like she left the windows open."

Tosha stepped into the living room. Both of the windows weren't just open, they were shattered, the frame of one a twisted piece on the floor. Someone broke in.

The kitchen was empty but the bedroom and bathroom doors were all closed. It was the same setup as the girl's apartment.

Tosha stepped into the hallway and held her breath, listening for tell-tale noises. She looked at her sister for some help but she just shrugged. Finally, Tosha decided to open the room on the left that was her room upstairs.

It smelled like an old person lived here, she thought with a chuckle. Like mothballs, Ben Gay and Vicks. Through the gloom Tosha could see the old furniture, the room neat and tidy. "She's not in here."

Mathyu, over her shoulder, went to the other bedroom door. "Hello?"

"Wait," Tosha said as her sister opened the door.

The old woman, blood covering her upper body, fell onto Mathyu and drove her to the floor. She made no sound as she buried her face into Mathyu's shoulder.

"Get the fuck off her," Tosha screamed and swung the baseball bat, connecting with the old woman's head. Mathyu buckled underneath her the blow was so hard.

Tosha stepped to the other side of the two, spreading her feet and bending her legs slightly. She remembered being a tomboy as a kid and playing baseball and football with the boys in the neighborhood. She was one of the best hitters. She used the years and memories now as she connected with the side of the old woman's head, forcing her off of her sister.

The old woman, eyes white and mouth foaming blood and spittle, rolled onto her side and clawed at Mathyu. Tosha's sister wasn't moving, blood pumping from her shoulder and neck.

Tosha jumped onto the woman's back, the tight hallway keeping her from falling over. She used the close walls as leverage as she began jumping up and down on the old woman's back, kicking her in the head and pinning her to the floor.

The old woman kept trying to move forward, never making a sound other than her ruined body dragged inch by inch.

"Fuck me, die already!" Tosha screamed. She stepped back, behind her, and pummeled the old woman's head over and over with the baseball bat, coating the walls with blood and chunks of brain and skull.

Tosha didn't know when the old woman finally stopped moving, but she didn't stop until her head was pulp. Tosha puked all over herself and the body, crying as she did.

"Mathyu? Fuck. Sis, are you alright?" Tosha asked but knew the answer. She took her shirt off and wrapped it around her sister's neck to staunch the blood flow. "Say something, please. I love you. Please let me know you'll be alright."

Tosha knew she was babbling.

Mathyu blinked her eyes and her lips curled in a slight smile. "Any excuse to take your shirt off," she croaked.

"Bitch." Tosha smiled warmly but knew her sister was going to die, and soon. "I need to move you."

"You can't. I'm gone. I can feel it burning inside me. You need to kill me."

"I'll get you to the hospital. You'll be fine."

Mathyu clutched her sister's arm but the touch was so weak, so light. "If you don't bash my brains in I will come back and try to bite you."

"No, that's stupid." Tosha looked at the old woman, who she'd inflicted such bodily harm to without any effect until she bashed her head in. "This isn't real. I'm asleep right now."

"You're half naked and freezing in this shitty apartment. Please," Mathyu said and her eyes pleaded before rolling back into her head.

"I'll get you to the hospital." Tosha lifted her sister and carried her into the building's hallway. She put her sister down gently in the old woman's doorway and reached to open the front door.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Tosha turned to see Rasta Dude one flight up, holding a fire axe.

"I need to get her to the hospital before she dies."

"She's already dead, and she'll turn soon enough. Get away from her."

"Fuck you."

Rasta Dude took three steps down. "Don't open the door. Look outside. The streets are filled with dead people. And they're all pretty pissed off and biting everyone. If you open the door you'll kill us all."

Tosha knew he was right, but she needed to save her sister before she died.

Rasta Dude came down the rest of the steps and stood next to her, staring at Mathyu. As if reading her thoughts he simply said "She's already dead. We need to move away from her before she rises."

"Are you an expert on this shit? Are you some voodoo priest who has all the answers?"

He laughed humorlessly. "I was born in Jamaica."

Mathyu began to stir. He pushed Tosha away and hefted the axe. "Jamaica in Queens. New York."

Tosha started to smile when she saw Mathyu try to get up, but she knew the look in her sister's eyes, the vacant stare, the blood no longer flowing and her mouth moving to bite.

"I'll meet you upstairs," Tosha said quietly. She didn't want to be the one to do it. That was her sister. She wondered if they were alone whether or not she could chop her head off, or if she would let Mathyu bite her.

She got to the second landing when she heard her sister's body hit the floor. Tosha passed out.

Chapter Five: Me Against The World

He was standing over her, holding out a can of Diet Pepsi.

"What, you think I'm fat?" she asked, coming off the couch quickly. She was in his apartment. She scanned the room and was surprised to see the place was so nice. So different from her shabby apartment.

He laughed. "I only have diet drinks. If I'd known dead people were going to start eating people I would've stocked up on better snacks, a few bottles of Hennessy, ingredients for my amazing bean dip, and something mellow to burn."

"Sounds good." Tosha was getting antsy and wanted to go find her sister… then she remembered what just happened. Before she broke down, she smiled at him. "I'm Tosha."

"Tosha Shorb."

She narrowed her eyes.

He laughed. "I kept getting your mail when you first moved in. I'm Kevin, but friends call me Chico."

"Why Chico?"

"Don't I look like a Chico?"

Tosha stared at the dark-skinned man with long brown dreadlocks tucked under a Rasta tam. His over-sized Bob Marley tie-dye finished the ensemble. "No, you look like Rasta Dude. That's what we always called you."

He seemed to think about that for a minute before smiling. "I like that. I've been called much worse."

"I've heard you talking with a very thick Jamaican accent to the landlord and Bald Guy across the hall. What's up with that?"

He grinned. "See, mon, I's feelin' a bit o' the sweetest leaf known ter man, mon, and I's plays da part."

"No idea what you just said."

"Exactly."

"I guess you put Bald Guy in jail last week?"

"Nope. I actually had nothing to do with that asshole, but I was glad when they took him away in handcuffs. That dude was always complaining about the scent of me burning one but he was just mad because I didn't buy from him."

Tosha laughed. "Seriously? What a hypocrite."

"They took out sixteen plants he was growing in the spare bedroom. It looked and smelled pretty weak, too. Not like the stuff I get in Reading."

"Used to get in Reading."

He stopped smiling. "Yeah, true enough. I guess we need to figure out what we're going to do?"

"We?" Tosha walked to the front door. "I'm going to hole up in my apartment, make pretend my sister is still alive, and wait for this shit to blow over."

"I think we need to come up with a better game plan than that, Red."

"Red?"

"Yeah. You have red hair and I would always call you Red to myself."

"That's rude. I have a name."

He grinned. "You call me Rasta Dude."

"That's different. I'm allowed to do whatever I want. I'll see you around."

"If you decide to leave, or just get bored, I'll be here. Knock three times, like our secret knock or something."

Tosha nodded. "Will do." She opened the door but stopped. "Does Bald Guy know it wasn't you that called the cops?"

"I doubt it. Why?"

"Just be careful. With all this shit going down, he might seek some revenge on your black ass."

Rasta Dude reached under the coffee table and pulled out a rifle out. "This is the U.S. M1 Carbine, chambered for the .30 Carbine cartridge. Stoked with hollow point or soft point expanding bullets weighing 90-110 grains."

"No idea what you just said," Tosha admitted.

"Me, neither. My old roommate, Lenny, used to show it off to the ladies whenever we had company. I heard him say that shit so many times it stuck, but I've never actually fired it. He forgot it when he moved out last year and I left it under the couch."

"Is it loaded?"

Rasta Dude shrugged. "I hope so. It's got bullets or ammo or whatever you call them in a box under there, too."

"Great. I feel much safer. I'll see you later. I need to find warmer clothes."

"I know something that will get you warm."

Tosha laughed. "Nice try. Just because the world is ending, that doesn't mean I'm suddenly an easy fuck. See you around."

Rasta Dude pulled out rolling papers from his pocket. "Suit yourself, Red. I'll burn one on my own."

Tosha closed the door. If the world was coming to an end, she might as well have some fun before it did. "Move over, and keep your hands to yourself."

Chapter Six: Shock

Tosha could smell her sister rotting, even from her closed apartment. For two days she'd kept busy, cleaning out the refrigerator before the food all spoiled, and finding every last blanket and thick piece of clothing in both her and Mathyu's closet.

Since her sister was organized and her clothes were actually clan, Tosha now wore two pairs of her sweatpants and three pairs of socks with two long-sleeve shirts and her sweatshirt over them.

There was a quiet three-knock at her door. Tosha undid the chain and let Rasta Dude in. "Any word?"

He nodded and put two plastic grocery bags on her coffee table, looking around. "You actually cleaned up. Impressive."

"I had to make the place presentable for my new guest." Because her apartment overlooked the main street and his overlooked a closed alley, they decided they would set up their base camp in her living room. "It was easier to stay busy cleaning than to see new footprints in front of the building."

"Things are getting crazy out there."

Tosha sat down on the couch and went through the bags, separating the canned goods from the bags of chips and candy. "What did you do, knock over a convenience store?"

"Gas station on Williamson. This was all that was left, though. I went pretty far. People have looted everything. Like animals."

"My sister is starting to smell," Tosha said as she took the canned items and put them in the cabinet. "We need to move her and the old woman before we attract more attention."

"I think Kurt is dead, as well."

"Who?"

"He lives across the hall from the old lady on one."

"Oh, you mean Devil Beard."

Rasta Dude laughed. "I guess you have a nickname for everyone in the building?"

"Everyone in Pennsylvania. Any noise from Bald Guy?"

"Nothing." Rasta Dude went to the window and carefully pulled two blinds apart. "It's snowing again. It feels like a big snowstorm will be rolling in soon. It's too cold in here."

"We can't build a fire."

"Why not? If it drops below freezing again we could die." He smiled. "Me being such a gentleman, I will once again offer to share body heat with you."

"No thanks." Tosha smiled.

"Is it because I'm black?"

"Nope. It's because you're not my type, and I'm not going to fuck you."

"Who said anything about making love?"

Tosha laughed at him. "Making love? Who the fuck says that?" She put her hands up in the air and started gyrating her hips. "I'm talking about fucking, grinding against me as you grab my ass and squeeze."

"Damn you." Rasta Dude walked to the door. "I'm going to get more of my things and bring them over."

"You can move them into her room," Tosha said and stopped, plopping down on the chair. "Are we going to bring the furniture, too?"

He shook his head. "I don't have much stuff worth moving, and I'd rather crash on your couch in case we're attacked or looters show up."

"We're wasting time."

"There's nowhere to go. Without any news, we'd be walking in a snowstorm blindly until we froze to death."

Tosha stood up. "Duh."

"What?"

"We went into the old woman's apartment because she had a radio. We need to get it, and clean up the dead bodies as well. I don't know how you keep walking past them each day when you leave." Since her sister's death, Tosha had refused to venture out for supplies, using the excuse about getting the apartment organized for them. She didn't want to see her sister's mutilated corpse.

"I'm afraid if I drag them into the street, it will attract more attention. And I can't move them alone."

"Tomorrow I'll help you with them."

"We need the radio and whatever else she has down there. Put a pair of shoes on, if you can fit them over fifteen pairs of socks."

"It's only three pair. I'll grab the bleach and garbage bags. And a bandanna to cover my face. I think I have gloves here, too."

"And a hat?"

"Good thinking."

"That was a joke," he said.

"I don't want my hair getting in my face. I haven't washed it in too long and it gets all frizzy and unmanageable. On your next looting session, try to find me some shampoo."

"Before all this, you ran out of shampoo?"

"I have this cheap shit Mathyu keeps buying. I want real stuff, but we can never afford it. I let her handle the money things, since I'm so bad at it. She's the only reason the apartment looks halfway decent. She spends her morning cleaning up after me so she can spend her afternoon on her computer, doing her job. Then she has her nights free to play stupid videogames."

Rasta Dude stared at her.

Tosha turned away and went to the window, shoving her face between two blinds and hr nose touching the cold glass. She tried to fight the tears. "I wanted to go first into the other bedroom. I had the baseball bat. I'm the aggressive one, the bitch who picked fights and beat on people. Not Mathyu. She talked her way out of confrontations, making friends with people. She was always the better person, and I was the street thug who tagged along and never learned a fucking thing."

"You can't blame yourself."

Tosha turned to him. "Why not? It really is my fault. Even with all this shit going on, she was still smiling and still having a fun time. She thought her life was a fucking videogame, and this was another level to complete. I should have opened that door."

"I'm sure she wants you to live. The only way to do that is to stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something about it. Weren't you just saying how much you jump into things, take charge, and act instead of react?"

"I don't remember those words," Tosha joked but she knew what he was getting at. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I guess it's time to stop the crying and get on with my life. Shit, even if I wanted to give her a proper burial, it's so damn cold outside we couldn't dig her a grave."

"What if we wrapped her in blankets and hid her in the alley until this all blew over? Then we can bury her remains."

Tosha thought about it. She didn't want to toss her sister away like garbage. But she knew Rasta Dude was kidding himself if he thought this was magically going to end on a good note. "I'll get some of my blankets. Hers are the only ones that are actually clean."

He picked up the hand axe and nodded. "Don't forget your baseball bat."

Tosha went into her room and stripped her bed of the sheets and blanket and willed herself to be strong and not cry when they got downstairs. Mathyu would want her to get her shit together and stop being a crybaby.

"Let's do this," she said, her words sounding big and bold but her mind reeling at what they had to do.

Armand Rosamilia is a native New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he waits impatiently for the zombie apocalypse and watches the Boston Red Sox devoutly. When not writing horror, reading horror, listening to Heavy Metal or sleeping, he is doing something completely different.

He loves fan mail or people wanting to talk about Manowar and Slayer.

armandrosamilia@gmail.com and at www.facebook.com/armand.rosamilia

http://armandrosamilia.com

Dying Days series

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