Dead Tide
Author: Stephen A. North
Date: 2008-10-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Zombies; Horror; Fiction
Description: THE WORLD IS ENDING. BUT THERE ARE SURVIVORS. Nick Talaski is a hard-bitten, angry cop. Graham is a newly divorced cab driver. Bronte is a Gulf War veteran hunting his brother's killer. Janicea is a woman consumed by unflinching hate. Trish is a gentleman's club dancer. Morgan is a morgue janitor. THERE ARE NO CONTINGENCY PLANS FOR THIS. The dead have risen and the citizens of St. Petersburg and Pinellas Park are trapped. The survivors are scattered, and options are few. And not all monsters are created by a bite. Some still have a mind of their own...
Publisher: Permuted Press

A PERMUTED PRESS book

Published at Smashwords

ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-2-840

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-2-857

Dead Tide Surge copyright © 2014
by Stephen A. North

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by Roy Migabon

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Table of Contents

In Memory Of…

Prologue

1. Mathers

2. Clive

3. Johnny

4. Trish

5. Jacobs

6. Julie

7. Daric

8. Talaski

9. Ray

10. Foster

11. Natalie

12. Janicea

13. Booth

14. Trish

15. Jacobs

16. Julie

17. Daric

18. Talaski

19. Bronte

20. Johnny

21. Clive

22. Natalie

23. Booth

24. Janicea

25. Jacobs

26. Julie

27. Daric

28. Keller

29. Bronte

30. Kincaid

31. Johnny

32. Clive

33. Natalie

34. Tracks

35. Booth

36. Mills

37. Trish

38. Jacobs

39. Julie

40. Janicea

41. Keller

42. Johnny

43. Clive

44. Booth

45. Talaski

46. Jacobs

47. Foster

48. Julie

49. Janicea

50. Natalie

51. Johnny

52. Clive

53. Booth

54. Talaski

55. Trish

56. Jacobs

57. Kincaid

58. Foster

59. Julie

60. Bronte

61. Johnny

62. Clive

63. Lassiter

64. Talaski

65. Jacobs

66. Kincaid

67. Julie / Booth

68. Bronte / Daric / Janicea

69. Johnny

70. Clive

71. Hicks

72. Julie

73. Sid

74. Keller

75. Trish

76. Kincaid

77. Lassiter

78. Bronte

79. Natalie

80. Johnny

81. Clive

82. Hicks

83. Keller / Amy

84. Jacobs

85. Bronte / Kincaid

86. Natalie

87. Clive

88. Julie / Lassiter / Booth

89. Jacobs / Natalie / Troy

90. Trish / Mills / Keller / Amy / Ben

91. Bronte / Janicea / Daric / Beth

92. Johnny / Marcel / Anna / Ike

93. Clive

94. Hicks

In Memory Of…

Keith Laumer, who spent two hours of his life on the phone talking to a much younger version of me when I cold called him one afternoon almost thirty years ago; and my uncle, Malcolm Wells, who bled all over two of my short stories with red ink.

Prologue

He waited with the patience of someone who has no hope or expectations.

Something stirred in the night, beyond his vision. He felt it evolving, growing. He sensed the coming storm; the hairs on his forearms stood on end. Dread circled at the edge of his awareness like a carrion bird.

While he waited, he stood on the balcony and stared out over the white-capped waves of Tampa Bay. In the background a radio played, and a singer asked, “Where have you been all my life?”

Somewhere out there—in the inky darkness across the black expanse of open water—was Tampa. Off to the left, he had a good view of the inverted pyramid shape of one of the city of St. Petersburg's most iconic landmarks: The Pier, a five-story building and its lighted causeway approach.

Finally, he heard the bathroom door open and turned around.

In the dim light of a flickering candle, he watched her undo the buttons of her beige knee-length dress, one by one. The dress slid to the terrazzo floor and pooled at her feet. She stepped carefully toward him, naked except for a pair of black stiletto heels.

Gilbert Kincaid was a tall, heavily built, brown-haired man with a jowl and an expanding waist. His pressed gray suit was cut well, and emphasized his broad shoulders while minimizing his gut.

She was a tiny thing, but strong. Beautiful. Foreign. A woman like her from the States would never notice him. She had a pixie's face: a small pert nose and a rosebud mouth. Her eyes were almond-shaped, and her hair a rich mahogany brown that fell past her naked shoulders in a lustrous wave. She was tan all over, with small, firm breasts, wide hips, and a nice ass. She wouldn't look at him, and he thought it gave her a demure, sexy demeanor. Hadn't said a word since entering the room either. She seemed to understand English though, when he said, “Come here.”

He waited impatiently as she knelt at his feet and removed his shoes then pulled his socks off. Felt her fingers behind his knees, tugging him forward. He ran his fingers through her hair, and even rubbed her head with some affection as she reached for his zipper and pushed him back on the bed.

Lightning flickered, visible through the open window, and just like that it was raining again and almost pitch-black outside. Her fingers gave him a brief teasing squeeze, and then her mouth covered his. Thunder rumbled, distant and ominous. She kissed his chest, reached for and grasped his right wrist. He grinned when he felt her slide a loop of rope around his wrist and pull it tight.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice full of laughter.

She didn't answer, but grabbed his left wrist and tied it down also.

“Hey...can I trust you?” he asked, and wondered whether he'd made the biggest mistake of his life. She wasn't the first woman he'd picked up in a bar on the way home, but she did represent his first venture, or first overture, toward his former life in which he had indulged.

Her eyes met his at last. She smiled. In perfect, unaccented English she said, “No, you can't trust me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it's like this,” she said, and paused as someone opened the bedroom door. Two men entered. One wore a lab coat, gloves, a mask, and held a syringe. The second was an immense bald man wearing sunglasses, boots, old olive drab fatigues, and a holstered pistol.

The syringe was all he could focus on. This had to be a nightmare.

“Do you remember a little incident a few months back, Senor Kincaid?” The naked woman asked.

Kincaid didn't answer. She probably knew everything. He felt somewhat surprised that it had taken this long for word to get out.

He knew exactly what she was referring to.

He remembered leaning against a door, trying to catch his breath and fighting a panic attack. Reliving the nightmare was too easy, and he slipped right back into it. He recalled the klaxons and the red strobe lights were making him more than a little crazy. He remembered thinking: If only someone would turn them off, as he finished putting on the protective mask. He'd gripped the hypodermic syringe while staring at the three-tiered bank of twenty four-foot monitor screens before him. Each monitor screen was currently showing shifting scenes of the breached facility. And the bodies. Dead people—hundreds of bodies littered the grounds—both inside and out.

So far, none were moving.

He hesitated with the injection. All he had to do was jam it in his thigh, but he had always been afraid of needles. Worse yet, he had thick skin. No sign of veins anywhere on him except on his feet and at his wrists.

On camera seven he saw soldiers in bio-hazard suits at the perimeter fence, standing outside the locked down gate, but for the moment, the only things moving were tree branches swaying in the wind and, visible on the second tier, Camera Four.

The plume, nearly invisible to the human eye, was carried on the breeze. No escaping it: an airborne, motive virus.

God only knew whether the disaster was recoverable.

The end of the world— all it had taken was one prick. Well, and the wind.

The prick was the bureaucrat, Randy Francis, the guy three monitors over from the left. He had a face like a puffer fish—pale, puckered lips, flushed cheeks, with the skin tightened and tensed. The flush was the only color in his face. His crew-cut hair was gray and he radiated cold, too, like a tiled floor on a wintry day. No warmth in that thin-lipped smile or in his faded blue eyes.

Even now, when nothing mattered anymore, Francis droned on.

“I want to know why you didn't hold people accountable, Kincaid. The facts were all there, and you failed to react. The president has authorized the No Live order for a fifty-mile radius. You included.”

He wondered how the inhabitants of this South American country would feel about that.

That isn't close to far enough. Maybe nothing was.

Kincaid lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. He wanted to protest his innocence, but there was no point. The guy's mind was made up.

My life is over. I'm going to be blamed for this, even though I warned them. Why bother with an injection?

The troubling thing was that he hadn't had a life for a long time anyway. This project had been everything. His marriage was all but over. His wife, Jeanette, was cheating on him, and that wasn't okay. He still didn't know what to do about that. All he had was the kids, Ray and Cora, and they were adults now.

“Anything to say for yourself?” Francis asked.

Kincaid gave an elaborate shrug.

You may think our little conversation is over, but it isn't.

He looked up at the monitor, and at the businessman sitting somewhere in a skyscraper in Tampa. The guy finished off a powdered donut, then took a casual sip of coffee.

“You won't outlive me for long, Mr. Francis. Not long at all.”

Francis smiled faintly. “Don't count on that, Kincaid.”

Kincaid rolled up his shirtsleeve and readied the shot. The long needle reminded him of a lance.

“What is that you have there?” Francis asked.

Kincaid didn't answer, but he continued to stare at the syringe.

Should have drunk more water. Brings the veins right to the surface. The nurse who took his blood sample every four months always told him to drink a lot of water.

“Is that an antidote, Kincaid?”

Kincaid found a vein, feeling the faint pulse of blood in the crook of his left arm. Nausea nearly overwhelmed him as he slid the needle in and injected himself.

“So what if it is, Francis? I'm dead, right?”

In the uppermost monitor on the right, soldiers in black uniforms were rappelling out of a helicopter.

“Is it the antidote? Tell me now, and I'll let you live.”

Kincaid couldn't hold back, and found himself shouting, “Too bad about all those workers and, ultimately, all the people of South America, eh, Francis? They aren't going to live! This place is about to become the Land of the Dead. Your fault, not mine! Your fault!”

Francis showed him his teeth in what he probably thought was a smile.

Kincaid smiled right back and whispered, “We're all in this big fishbowl together. The wind's blowing, motherfucker, and Tampa isn't far enough away. No place is.”

Francis was absolutely still, his smile long gone.

“I will spare you and your family, Kincaid, but I want that antidote,” he said.

Kincaid closed his eyes, and thought it over. “Put me on the next flight out, and you have a deal.”

“Smart man,” Francis said.

When Kincaid opened his eyes again, he was looking into the barrel of an assault rifle held by one of the soldiers in bio-gear.

Privately, he agreed. He was pretty sure he'd never make it out of the country alive. There was really only one choice.

Now here he was, tied down, and about to be injected with God-knew what. He thought about wheels within wheels and how he'd ended up in this woman's room and the long chain of events that had to occur to get him here.

The woman smiled at him and pressed the needle against and into his skin, then depressed the plunger. For a moment, the pain was little more than a stinging sensation, but it quickly blossomed into something so large and encompassing that he couldn't get his mind around it.

One thing he was sure of was that they weren't giving him another antidote.

“You scared?” the big bald guy with the gun on his hip asked.

“No, should I be?” Kincaid asked, trying to bluff it out.

The man took his sunglasses off, revealing the eyes of a remorseless killer. “I'd be scared if I were you,” he answered. “You have no idea what's running through your veins now.”

“And so,” Kincaid replied, “I have lost control of the situation. That ends any lingering worry. Why should I worry about things that are beyond my control? Also wrecks any leverage you have over me.”

The masked guy in the lab coat spoke up. “You’ll start to exhibit symptoms that’ll be disturbing within days. Use this phone if you change your mind before it’s too late. There’s only one number in the memory. I recommend you call it soon.” He held the phone out to Kincaid.

Kincaid shrugged. “My hands are still tied.”

The bald man smiled at him. “We—that is, Mr. Francis and I— know where your children are, Kincaid. We've given you two solid reasons to do as we say. You can still save yourself and your children. You have roughly two days. Think hard. People are dying here. The plague is spreading quickly. It seems that many people, perhaps as many as one in three, simply succumb within moments of being infected.”

Kincaid could only stare at the man. The worst-case scenario was playing out.

The woman untied his hands and stepped back. Kincaid rubbed his wrists and examined his arm where the needle went in. He climbed back to his feet, straightened his clothing.

The guy in the coat still held the phone. Kincaid took it and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“You do realize that threatening my children was a mistake, right? Tell Francis that,” Kincaid said, while looking at the bald man.

The man didn't answer. Just glared at him.

“I'll be on my way, then,” Kincaid said. He crossed the room to the door and went out into the corridor beyond. Other doors stretched away to either side, and about fifteen feet away to the right was an overturned garbage can. A sour, rotten smell wafted to him, and he gagged and coughed. The elevator was ten feet down the corridor. He pushed the down button. While waiting, he could feel cold sweat forming at his temples and wondered whether he was feeling whatever they’d injected him with.

A bell dinged; the door slid to the side. Kincaid stepped in and pressed the button for the first floor. There was only a vague sensation of movement. Moments later, the car arrived at the first floor, and he exited into a lobby with a gleaming white marble floor. On the way out, he passed a gray-faced man sprawled on the floor.

He had the passing thought that the guy might be dead, but Kincaid didn't care at the moment. Odds were, on a normal day it wouldn't faze him either.

One of his shoes hit the man's outstretched leg on the way past. The man didn't react, and Kincaid reached the glass lobby doors and pushed out into the humid night. Not far away, the lights of the Baywalk Movie and Restaurant Complex glittered, and he could hear Barry White music coming from a nearby taxi where a guy sat behind the wheel tapping his fingers to the beat.

Kincaid felt for his wallet. It was gone. Probably still up in that penthouse.

He needed that car, but didn't have the money to pay for the ride. The driver looked big, but Kincaid figured with surprise on his side, he could take him. All he had to do was get the guy out of the taxi. What method would work best? he wondered.

A moment later, Kincaid staggered around to the other side of the car and rapped on the back seat passenger window with the ring on his finger, trying to appear drunk. He really wasn't feeling well, so it wasn't too much of a stretch.

Almost before he knew it, the taxi driver was out and coming around the car to assist him. Kincaid waited until he was within range, and pounced. The driver was so startled that he didn't have a chance. When they hit the ground, Kincaid had his hands wrapped around the guy's throat and the driver's head hit the pavement.

Kincaid grabbed the car keys and dragged the cab driver around the corner and into a nearby alley. He thought the driver was still alive.

Not that it mattered.

1. Mathers

My last broadcast.

It certainly wasn't going to be the sign off he'd imagined. He didn’t even know if there was anyone out there to watch it.

Lance Mathers took a last, long drag on his cigarette and tossed it away. He looked at himself in a small hand mirror and rubbed at the dirt smudged on his cheek. Not much could be done about his hair, but it wasn't too bad. His suit looked clean, and the viewers wouldn't have a clue that his deodorant had failed. He turned to his cameraman and asked, “You get a good shot of the choppers coming back, Ritchie?”

The small, disheveled young man nodded. “Yeah, I got the setting sun as a backdrop and everything. Even got some footage of them shooting down a couple of guys who got bit. That what you wanted, Lance?”

Mathers gave him a rueful smile. “That sounds great. Try to get the smoke and fire from that burning town in the next shot. This is probably our last broadcast. Might not even be anyone watching anymore.”

“Whenever you're ready, Lance.”

Mathers looked into the camera and let himself slip into character: the tireless, suave newsman with the golden voice.

“Good evening! Lance Mathers here, on a hillside in North Carolina, outside the presidential bunker with some final thoughts. All governmental structure appears to have collapsed. There was gunfire in the bunker not long ago. Ritchie and I will go in and investigate shortly, but I think this is the end. The latest report I saw on our overseas forces is that the majority of them escaped and are on their way home. But home to what? How many of them will come home to nothing? Our government has failed to protect us. I fear that this isn't just the end of our country but the end of humanity.”

Mathers paused, and turned his back to the camera. He gestured at the wooded hills and the pall of smoke, then pivoted slowly back around.

“Is this the future, my fellow Americans? A return to the wilderness? Back to a cave in a hillside? Those of us who survive, that is, while mockeries of what we once were parade around the ruins of our cities, hunting us...no, consuming us! Lends new meaning to the word, consumerism, I suppose.”

Mathers dropped his chin and fell silent.

After a moment or two, the cameraman coughed, and asked, “That all you got, Lance?”

“I think so, Ritchie. I'm done.”

“What now, then? Do we go back in there?”

Mathers paused, thinking. “What did Bob Dylan have to say about too much of nothing?”

The other man looked off into the distance, as if pondering. “Something about the waters of oblivion?”

“Exactly,” Mathers replied. “If you still have that gun, maybe we can chance one last venture into the bunker to liberate some booze, and then we can get oblivious in style.”

“So, that’s your plan?” Ritchie asked.

Mathers nodded.

“Better than mine. Let's go.”

2. Clive

In the dream, Secret Service Agent Clive Collier relived being too slow, over and over, feeling useless and lost as he was shot repeatedly. He couldn't believe those soldiers had gotten the drop on him. Of course, how could he have anticipated anything that had happened in the last week? Were there contingency plans for riots and chemical warfare? Sure, but reanimated corpses hungering for flesh?

He woke, lying in a pool of his own blood. Blinked slowly. Felt detached. Stared for several moments at the twin fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Watched as the light flickered, then steadied. He had the vague thought that something must have caused a fluctuation in the power. Problem with the generators?

Hard to think.

He closed his eyes, tried to piece together what happened. He remembered sitting with that army lieutenant. What was his name? Green? They both were looking at a photo pinned to the wall over a map of the United States. The photo was a beautiful picture of blue water, islands with lush jungle, and a mountain rising in the distance.

Green had said something like, “That's where I need to be. Find a nice island girl. Build a house right there at the edge of the water and at the foot of that mountain.”

Clive was about to reply when he heard shouts and went to investigate. Speaker of the House Candace Fiore was arguing with the survivors of the failed rescue mission. He didn't quite catch what she’d said, but all of a sudden the soldiers surged forward, killed all three secret service agents with her, and then threw her on a pool table.

He couldn't just stand there.

Trying to intervene was a mistake. My first loyalty should have been the president’s safety.

The only other option would have been killing the soldiers. It would have been a simple thing to step into the room behind them and blaze away with his pistol.

Next time, he vowed to himself.

He felt so weak that it was good to lie down and stay still. That soldier named Reedy had shot him at least three times in the chest. Thank God it was with a 9mm pistol! A bulletproof vest was probably the only reason Clive was still breathing.

As for the others, from the corner of his left eye, he could see bodies. All of them were his friends, and were the only other secret service agents left: Khalid, Andrews, and Hale.

He couldn’t believe it. Why? Why are we still killing each other, when every day there are fewer of us, and more of them?

He lifted his head, couldn't see any other bodies. Wonder what happened to Green, and the speaker of the house?

Clive was sure they were dead, but not sure they were going to stay that way.

His left wrist was throbbing. He may have landed on it when he fell. The right arm was okay and he used that one to lever himself up. Once sitting upright, the ache in his chest woke up, and he couldn't get his breath.

Halfway there. Next tough assignment: standing up.

He was exhausted.

Something made him look up. The Speaker was sitting up on the pool table, and she was looking at him. Her legs were still splayed apart and she still wore her spiked-heeled shoes. Her trench coat was open and the red sheath dress beneath was bunched around her waist. He had a clear view of everything. For a moment, he gaped, drinking in the view.

It's been so long for me, but why is she doing this?

She slid off the table, and her dress slipped back into place. She stood awkwardly, as if unused to wearing heels. With the view gone, the spell was broken. He looked at her face. Her expression could be mistaken for lust: lips parted and eyes half open.

Her color seems a bit off...

Is she one of them?

She said, “Help me.”

He spotted movement behind her.

“Oh Jesus,” he said out loud.

Andrews was sitting up now too.

Clive reached under his arm, underneath his jacket, and pulled out his pistol with his right hand.

The Speaker was lurching toward him, somehow staying on her feet. Andrews was right behind her.

He flicked the safety off and sighted down the barrel, waiting for a clear shot. He worried that there wouldn't be one, but the woman stumbled, barely staying upright by grabbing onto a chair.

He squeezed the trigger. Andrew's upper body jerked with the impact, blood sprayed, and his body staggered back a step or two.

Clive aimed more carefully at what remained of one of his best friends. Fired. The bullet plowed into Andrews’ mouth. Andrews still didn't stop. Hands shaking, Clive aimed again, this time between Andrews’ eyes. He saw Hale and Khalid standing up, and other people crowding in behind them. He couldn’t aim the gun from his position. He’d have to get up or slide backwards. He had to make a choice, and soon. In a moment or two, it wouldn't matter. He couldn't steady his hand enough to aim properly. With only five feet between them, Clive put his good arm down, shifted his knee sideways to the floor, and got to his feet. Andrews grabbed his arms and leaned down.

Andrews was ready to bite.

Adrenaline enabled Clive to bend his knees and then drive his arms up and out, breaking the hold. Andrews staggered backward. Clive followed, shoving the gun against the other man's nose and firing. The body dropped.

Hale and Khalid were within ten feet. Clive shoved the security room table into them and knocked them down. He snarled, “Candace, kick your shoes off!”

The woman looked puzzled, but obeyed. He grabbed her right hand in his left, and although he couldn't run, he reeled through the doorway and into the break room. Three undead soldiers staggered toward them from the exit to the main entrance to his left. To the right was the passage to the president’s quarters.

There wasn't time for debate—simply get out or do his duty.

He took the right turn, pulled the Speaker along with him, and didn't look back.

3. Johnny

He thought getting up would be the hard part. With cold rain pounding down, a stiff breeze blowing, and his back screaming in pain, finding the courage to move was hard.

The back pain was no joke.

A woman screamed in agony. He assumed it was the woman in the turquoise dress. The need to hurry down from the mast no longer seemed as urgent.

Getting down was bad too, and he was probably too late to save the woman.

He was hunched over, breathing hard, when he heard another scream. The woman's voice was quickly drowned out by a volley of gunfire. He drew up at the bottom of the steps, almost to the next deck.

He didn't want to face whatever had happened to the woman. He was right in the middle of trouble ahead and trouble behind.

Johnny took the final step and walked in the direction of the scream and gunfire.

“Who are you?” someone asked from behind him. The voice didn't come from the stairs, so it was from the deck he was on now. He turned around slowly, trying to minimize the chance of another back spasm. He saw a white woman in her late forties standing behind him with her finger curled around the trigger of a small handgun. She wore skintight blue jeans, a long-sleeved green pullover, and boots. Her hard-eyed expression conveyed fierce determination, and her long brown hair was a tangled, sweaty mess. Overall, she was fit, and fairly attractive, but her deodorant had failed.

“You going to answer me, or am I going to shoot you?” she asked with a sneer.

Johnny pointed at the name badge still clipped to his shirt and tried to smile.

The woman squinted and leaned over a little to read his name.

“Ha, ha, are you a funny man? You may have noticed that I'm not laughing.” She wasn't smiling either.

Johnny shrugged, and smiled. He knew she was thinking over what to make of him. Perhaps deciding whether to kill him or not. The gun didn't waver an inch. Her eyes were still squinted.

“You either can't speak, or won't. Do you want to live?”

Johnny nodded enthusiastically.

“Follow me, then! Don't make me regret not killing you.”

Following her wasn't too much to ask, even with his back injury. Making her not regret killing him might be a taller order. So many people didn't understand him. Somehow he managed to annoy people and couldn't figure out how most of the time. Too much of what motivated people was beyond him. From his perspective, life was fairly simple: don't covet anything, expect nothing from people, and appreciate what you do have. It worked most of the time. At least it used to.

The woman's walk was provocative. Whether her hip sway was calculated or not was debatable, but as usual he pushed such thoughts aside.

Expect nothing. Don't anticipate! Live in the moment.

There was nothing else.

Nothing at all.

He followed her through a doorway and into a fairly wide passageway lined with doors on either side. The doors were all spaced widely, probably pricier cabins on this level.

A corpse wearing a black suit, white shirt, a scarlet cumber bun, and a bow tie was sprawled not far from an open door on the right. He'd been shot through the head. Before Johnny could look away, he saw white bone, tattered gray flesh, and matted greasy hair. Blood and what looked like brain matter were sprayed across the brown carpet a few feet away.

Could be me soon. The thought skittered across his mind, and the image stayed.

The woman didn't even break stride. She strutted right by, and stopped briefly to peer through the open door. He saw a ‘6’ on the door above a peephole and heard a man's voice greet the woman.

“Come in, Gretch.”

She entered, and waved for Johnny to follow.

The room beyond was large. There was ample room for a king-size bed, two dressers, a TV stand, a bookcase, and some tasteful watercolor paintings on the walls. French doors led out to a balcony on the far side of the room, and there was a walk-in closet, and what appeared to be a large bathroom. A small, dapper man was seated at a desk inside the doorway to the right. A big handgun sat on the desk next to a writing pad and a phone.

“You found someone new, Gretchen?” the man asked. His eyes were hooded, half-open, giving the guy a look of calculation. The skin of the man's face was a little droopy with bruised bags of flesh beneath his eyes, a dew flap hanging beneath his weak chin, and a saggy neck.

“Yes I did, Gary. I think he must've fell off the bridge or something. I think people were jumping off. What are the odds of him timing it right?”

Gary laughed. “With only one eye, there must have been some luck involved.”

Inwardly Johnny shook his head. I'm not even human. Not even with real monsters out there.

The woman was smiling, but it was mirthless.

If Death Incarnate could smile would she look like this woman?

Gretchen's smile faded. “He doesn't speak, either. Not sure what to make of him.”

Gary appeared to be thinking this over. He laid his fingertips alongside his temples and with a musing tone said, “Perhaps he could be of use? He looks strong. There’s a glimmer of intelligence behind those eyes. What do you say, Gretch?”

“He fell from the sky, Gary. He hurt his back or something, but why not give God's gift a try? Like that? I rhymed it.”

“Well, we can't rely on the Navy anymore. Take God's gift with you and go get him hooked up with Billy Ray down in sick bay. Get him some pain pills or something. If nothing else, we can use him to get rid of some of these stinking corpses.”

“Come on then, Big Boy,” Gretchen said, and waved the pistol.

Johnny followed her back out into the passage.

He guessed they couldn't read a name badge. They weren’t too concerned about his injury either.

4. Trish

The temperature of the water was warm on her skin as she floated on her back in the pool. All she could hear was her breath as she inhaled and exhaled, and in the background, muted by the water covering her ears, the sound of rain on the metal roof of the screened enclosure. The patter of rain always made her want to sleep.

As tired as Trish was, the memory of losing her last three friends prevented her from sleeping and kept her mind racing. Each of them had died horribly right in front of her, while she’d lived to escape. It was so hard to believe that her past and everything that had meant anything to her from before was over. How could she accept that life as she knew it was changed forever? Why wouldn't she give up?

I should've died with Anton. I wouldn't be here all alone now. Living alone was a fact of her life, though. She’d been alone in her one-bedroom condo, and she'd liked it that way. People cluttered and complicated things.

She swam to the edge of the pool and climbed the ladder to get out, then padded over to her clothes and shoes. She looked around. A hose with a sprayer attachment wasn't far from the sliding glass doors into the house. She turned the faucet handle and it worked. She rinsed her clothes and shoes thoroughly, thinking it was best to get the salt out of them now before they dried. There was no one around to care if she was bare-ass. It had never mattered before either.

When she was satisfied that everything was clean, she spread the clothes out on a lounge chair near the pool. She noticed off to the side, near a screened patio door, there was a sink and cutting table arrangement, probably for scaling fish. A still-strong dead fish smell hung in the air, and dried blood and scales were in the sink. Two knives sat on the edge of the sink. One was an old butter knife, and the other some kind of folding knife with a six-inch blade.

She picked up the folding knife and opened it with a flick of her wrist. The blade looked razor sharp.

She took one last look around the backyard, the dock, and across the canal. Nothing moved in the downpour. For a moment she watched the sky and the nearly solid sheet of rain pounding down and then, with knife in hand, she walked over to the glass patio doors and peered into the house through open venetian blinds. A big dining room and tables were visible and the outline of a doorway. She shifted the knife to her left hand and grabbed the handle of the door. It slid open at a tug. Her bare feet sunk into plush carpet as she stepped inside and paused, listening while pulling the door closed behind her.

Hot in here.

All she could hear was the rain thundering on the metal frame of the screen enclosure. A pile of newspapers were stacked on the table, and all the chairs had been pushed in. Through the doorway across from her, she could see a living room, and a second doorway to her left led into a kitchen. Both rooms were dark. The curtains were all pulled closed in the living room. Anything could be waiting for her in there. Her heart raced, but freezing up or panicking wasn't an option. She decided to look for a flashlight in the kitchen. At least she could see in there.

She walked around the table to the left and peered into the kitchen from the doorway into a large room with a skylight, wooden-framed fluorescent lighting and mahogany cabinets. The refrigerator, dishwasher and oven were chrome, and a large prep island was in the center. A countertop ran beneath the cabinets and wrapped around the room. She didn't see any doors, or a way out. Through a window she saw the hedge separating this house from the next.

The room was clear.

Despite her hunger, she was determined to make sure the house was safe before relaxing.

There were a number of drawers beneath the countertop. Three were between the sink and the right hand wall. She decided to try them first, starting from right to left.

On the first try she found a blocky six-volt flashlight. She pushed the switch and the light revealed blood all over the sink and some dishes piled there. There was more blood on the terrazzo floor. Not a lot, but it was there.

Something was inside with her.

She walked back into the dining room, her bare feet sinking into a deep shag rug, and stopped by the entrance to the living room. She played the light beam over a recliner, and a big screen TV. She took a step and felt something crusty matting the carpet beneath her right foot.

Dried blood.

She quickly panned the light around the rest of the room. Saw a glass coffee table piled with magazines, and a large black leather couch. A short hallway led to the front door, not too far right of the recliner, and another hallway deeper into the house. A door was in the wall on the far side of the room to her left.

Trish decided to try the door first.

Did I just hear a thud?

The skin on her arms broke out in goose flesh. She clicked off the flashlight. Her hand was on the knob when it turned.

The door flew open.

She took a step sideways.

A massive figure barreled through the doorway past her and into the living room.

Trish flattened her back to the wall.

The man stopped a few feet away but was turned in the opposite direction. He was sobbing. Each time his chest hitched, she heard little wails.

She didn't think he’d seen her, but all he had to do was turn his head slightly to the left.

Every nerve was screaming to her to run, hide, or fight. Any action right then would be better than watching a tall, obviously distraught man, wearing only a pair of dirty tan slacks stand and cry.

She didn't see any bites, but there was blood on him: on his hands, his arms, the back of his head, and on his feet. His whole naked torso racked with sobs, and some sort of pistol was held loosely in his left hand.

What to do?

A little voice in her head, answered: Nothing isn't working. Any moment, he will turn my way, and then what? Things get ugly for me, is what.

The guy's back was a wedge-shape that had probably once been carefully sculpted muscle, marred now by age. Sweat rolled off his body, and his gray, spiky, crew cut was damp with perspiration. It was hard to guess his age from behind. He could be as young as sixty, but he might be well preserved and much older.

She inhaled slowly, half expecting to smell him, but didn't. She exhaled, feeling the tension build as sweat sluiced down her body. Surely he would pick up on her fear? It seemed incredible that he could stand there, sobbing or not, and have no idea someone was behind him.

Trish couldn't stand it. One way or the other, she had to do something. Her palms were damp with sweat and the knife was getting slippery. She hesitated only a moment more, and said softly, “Hello.”

The man straightened up, and turned toward her. Now the gun was aimed at her belly.

“Who are you?” he asked, his gravelly voice breaking a bit. His eyes were in shadow, and there was no chance to read his expression. Even in the near darkness, she knew he must be able to see that she was completely naked. Her only clue as to his reaction was the adolescent squeak he made when his voice broke.

She fought the urge to switch the flashlight back on.

What happened to my composure? It wasn’t like she hadn't confronted a nut holding a gun before, and it wasn't the first time she’d been naked when it happened. She couldn't control the quiver in her voice when she answered.

“Name's Trish. My clothes were wet. I came in hoping to find something to eat, and some dry clothes. Thought I should check the house first to make sure none of them were in here.”

“So, you come into my house, and just think you can help yourself?”

She shrugged.

“Nothing to say then?” he asked, taking a step in her direction and lowering his gun. He wasn't crying anymore, and there was a menacing tone to his words.

His age was closer to the high end of the scale. Probably over seventy. She could see a slight jowl beneath his chin and lines around his mouth and forehead.

Pretty good muscle tone for an old guy, though.

He took a deliberate step forward, planting the foot firmly, then took another.

Will he get into stabbing range? She gathered her courage.

“Nothing to say, then?” he repeated.

“Ask me something worth answering, and we'll see,” she replied.

“This some kind of joke? What kind of woman enters a strange house completely naked, brandishing a knife? You the Naked Intruder or something?”

He laughed briefly and took another step.

“Stop. Don't come any closer!”

Her voice was shrill, and she held the knife in both hands in front of her.

He stopped and shuffled forward an inch or so until the point gouged into his left pectoral muscle. A bead of blood appeared and rolled down his chest, painting a black line across the mostly smooth, hairless alabaster skin.

“I just had to kill my family, lady. You think I care if you shove that fucking knife into my heart?” He still held the gun limply at his side as if he’d forgotten it was there.

“Probably not,” she said. She couldn't meet his eyes.

“That's right! Just killed my little girl, my grandson, and my wife.”

“Were they changed or still dead?”

She cursed herself inwardly. Dumb ass question. What does it matter?

His smile was gradual. Like something that has to be built. First he raised one side of his mouth, then the other...

“Ah, that, my naked little beauty, is a good question.”

What the fuck? Naked little beauty?

He lifted his free arm and wrapped his fingers around her hands. His hand was enormous, and engulfed hers.

“Don't,” she said, feeling truly helpless and not understanding why.

“Either stab me, or give me the knife,” he rasped.

She let him take the knife, then lowered her arms to her sides, making no attempt to cover herself. She trembled. Caught herself looking up into his face, searching his eyes, and made a connection at last. Moonlight shone through the front windows now, and she saw him looking at her body. Both of his hands were at his sides. The gun barrel and the knife blade were pointed toward the ground.

Trish took a deep breath, saw his chest rise and fall. She looked downward. There was a big lump at the front of his pants.

Nothing new there. More often than not men got erections around her. A lot of them were drunk or high on something—sometimes both at the same time. She looked back up. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“They were all about to come back,” he said, nearly whispering the words. “I shot them in the head, one at a time.”

When? I didn't hear any shots.

She couldn't decide whether the guy was a freak or a victim.

She was leaning toward freak. Still, what should she do? This still may get ugly and she had to be careful, very careful. Trish nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He stepped forward, wrapping both arms around her body, and settled his hands at the top of her ass. Hugged her close. She wrapped her fingers tighter around the flashlight. Her posture remained stiff but he didn't seem to notice.

A voice in her head whispered: He probably doesn't care, Trish.

She stood there in the dark, waiting for something to happen. Told herself to disconnect. It was time to check out and be detached. Observant, but detached. Wait for the right moment.

His fingers slid lower, roughly caressing her buttocks.

Let go. Drift. He can't touch me. Not the real me.

Neither of them said anything for a long time.

5. Jacobs

Her eyes were cloudy and blue. Like one of his marbles when he was a kid. Not at all like one of his favorites, the kind that were clear down to the center. Mesmerizing all the same, though, but for a different reason.

The girl zombie was near enough to touch, close enough to embrace. The hunger in her expression was undeniable. She wanted him for one thing.

This is as honest as it gets, Jacobs thought.

The dog, Sussu, was whining and cringing away.

Indecision gripped him. He held the pistol near the dog's head, and was surprised at how upset he was. He even considered shooting the dog.

The dog wanted to live.

Should he shoot the dog and himself, or choose to live?

It was a hard choice.

Jacobs backed up and grabbed the dog's collar, dragging her with him. The girl followed, and he got a whiff of rot and excrement as the dead girl closed in.

The urge to put the gun to his own head was almost unbearable.

Her hand clutched his left shoulder and yanked. His strength was such that he barely moved. He raised the pistol, aimed briefly, and shot her in the head above her cloudy left eye. She pirouetted a half step backward and fell to the floor.

She didn't move.

Sussu whimpered.

“Good girl,” he said, caressing behind her ear. “Good girl.”

If someone asked, he wouldn't be sure whether he was praising the dog or the dead girl.

He knelt down, feeling infinitely tired, and beat-up. The dog put a paw on his leg and he hugged her.

“Let's get out of here,” he said into her ear.

He stood back up and gathered his equipment, leaving only the pile of expended brass. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and holstered the pistol, carefully cradling the dog in his arms. Then he began the distasteful, laborious process of stepping on, or sliding over the dead.

He figured it was the only way he could get her downstairs.

The dog was truly well behaved. Other than some whining, she didn't voice a protest or try to break free. When they reached the bottom, he set her down and took the rifle back into his hands. Better not to take any chances.

Nothing moved, but the smell was awful.

He wondered where the old man kept her leash. He had to have one, right?

He checked by the front door and in the kitchen and found nothing. In the closet under the stairs he found several. He selected a sturdy one that was about six feet long and attached it to her collar.

The dog looked up at him with her ears perked up, wagging her hips and tail in apparent eagerness.

He smiled with genuine pleasure.

“You up for a walk, girl? Let's go find another place to sleep.”

He decided the back door was the way to go. They walked back past the corpse of the old man, and he paused a moment to look out the back window to see if anyone was there. All he could see was a battered old pickup truck and wondered if the keys were in it.

He wasn't even sure it would be worth taking. Where would they go?

They stepped outside together, and the yard was empty. The only light he could see came from the moon, the stars, and the glow of fires in the distance. He kept the dog close to his side by choking up on the leash, and walked out into the alley behind the house.

He turned right, or to the west, walking carefully along the rutted asphalt surface. Each house had a driveway. He could see a couple of detached garages, but carports were more common on this block. The yards to either side of the alley were fenced, creating a six-foot, mostly wooden, wall along either side, broken only by the driveways. A lot of weeds were growing up against the fences, and huge black plastic trashcans were behind every other house on his left.

Drawing even with the first house on his left, he glanced down the driveway and saw an empty carport. The dog wanted to sniff a palmetto bush. Jacobs gave her a gentle tug and they kept walking.

He had no idea what he was looking for.

He was a killer. He’d killed kids. Who was going to judge him now?

I'll do it again if someone gets in my way. His eyes were welling, but he wouldn't cry.

Nobody's crying for me.

The dog whined softly and put her paws up on his thigh.

He rubbed her head. “Let's go girl. We need a new place to stay.”

He glanced again at the carport. It wasn't quite empty. He turned down the driveway, feet crunching on small chunks of asphalt. Something smaller than a car was covered by an oil-stained canvas tarp.

Sussu sniffed at the tarp as they drew near. Jacobs grabbed the tarp and lifted it up and away. He drew in a breath.

Well, I'll be damned, Sussu! Looks like you and I are going to travel in style.”

The dog perked up her ears with mild interest and appeared to grin.

Jacobs was standing before a large, luxury cruiser-type motorcycle with a sidecar.

6. Julie

There was something funny about her mouth. Funny strange.

The female Coast Guard officer said her name was Matthews before helping Julie into the olive drab flight suit. She pursed her lips and frowned. She had an under bite, and clamped her teeth whenever she spoke.

“Afraid this is the best I can do for you, ma'am.”

Julie smiled. The suit fit her like a second skin, and when combined with the combat boots, a knife, and a holstered pistol, she felt tough. It was a strange feeling to have when she'd never felt that way before in her life. Well, she'd tried to be tough, once, but that was as a teen, years ago.

“This will do, Ensign Matthews. I'm happy.”

“Very good, ma'am. If you go through this door and climb the ladder to the right, you'll be on the pad.”

Julie thanked her and followed her instructions. When she arrived on the small helipad, two sailors were busy putting equipment and supplies into the helicopter. A group of men standing off to the side were waiting for her. The helicopter's engine was still turned off.

All the men facing her were grim of face. There were the same two pilots, the crew chief, and the two soldiers that had rescued her. A sixth man was a grizzled looking army officer. Julie recognized the eagle rank emblem on his collar as that of a colonel. His pale face was blotchy, and he talked out of the side of his mouth.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but we have lost contact with the president's bunker.”

Julie listened to the words, but felt disconnected.

“So what are you saying, Colonel?”

“I don't know a different way to say it, ma'am. Your husband may be dead. Trying to get back to him could be a fool's errand, and anything could happen. Why not stay here where you and your child are safe?”

She closed her eyes. The tears were there, ready to spill out. She inhaled sharply, exhaled slowly, and turned away.

The silence stretched out.

“Ma'am?” a voice asked. Probably the army officer. “My name is Colonel Jerome Bolger, and I’ll accompany you to your husband.”

Julie opened her eyes and turned toward the man. The colonel leaned forward, his expression one of disapproval. “We will do this, but only if you are willing to trust in us and listen to what you are told to do.”

She kept her voice pitched low, and answered, “Thank you, Colonel Bolger. My son George and I will be grateful for whatever help can be provided.”

The colonel nodded curtly. “Let's get moving then!”

Julie picked up George and crossed over to the helicopter. She paused a moment near the door when the crew chief reached out to help her son aboard. She saw his name on his flight suit: Lassiter. “I'll take him, ma'am,” the chief said.

“Thanks, Chief Lassiter,” she replied with a smile.

“You can sit by me, George,” Lassiter said. He set the boy down and buckled him in, while Julie took her seat on George's other side. Colonel Bolger took the seat near the window beside the chief.

“Is that your gun?” George asked Lassiter, pointing at a wicked-looking machine gun on a swivel mount.

“Sure is, son!”

George smiled brightly. “Can I shoot it?”

Julie watched Lassiter closely. He showed no visible reaction to the boy's question. A heartbeat or two went by. Was he waiting for her to answer the question?

“Hopefully we won't have to, honey. We're just taking a little trip,” she said.

“Where, Mommy? Where are we going?”

Julie had to work hard not to frown. This isn't the right time! “We're going to find, Daddy, George.”

George beamed.

The engine turned over, and the rotors began to rotate. Julie found herself watching closely.

The two soldiers were sitting across from them, behind the pilots. Both of them buckled in quickly and looked bored. The one she thought of as the leader was eating cookies from a resealable container, while the second guy wiped down his unassembled pistol with a dirty rag.

“Here's a head set for you and ear plugs for your boy, ma'am,” the crew chief said.

Julie nodded, knowing she was distracted and unfocused, but trying her best.

George whined a bit, but didn't give her much trouble as she put the plugs in his ears. He looked sleepy. “Okay, honey,” she said, “we'll be on our way any minute!”

She ran her fingers through his curls. Kissed his forehead. Tried not to think about her daughter. Most of the lights were out in the cabin, and it was hard to see.

When they took off, George was fast asleep.

The helicopter banked around and she quickly lost her sense of direction. She knew they should be on a northeasterly heading, but couldn't see much.

She heard the pilot say, “Looks like Thompson found some survivors over on that fishing pier. Somebody spotted a flare.”

Lassiter leaned forward and spoke into his mike. “They have instructions for us, Captain?”

“Yeah, that Navy captain, Fletcher, wants us to rescue them,” The pilot said flatly.

Julie held her breath.

“What do you think, Colonel?” the pilot asked.

“I think we tell those survivors to sit tight,” Colonel Bolger answered, “and we let the Coasties send a boat for them.”

Julie exhaled, and took air in slowly.

“You got it, Colonel! I'll get on the horn and tell them that, and then we’re on our way.”

The colonel was looking at Julie. “Good plan, Captain! Do that and let's get out of here!”

Some of the tension went out of Julie's shoulders and she breathed out. She heard someone, probably the captain, talking over a loudspeaker, but couldn't hear what he said.

She eased her head back. The motion and sound of the helicopter blades was soothing to her.

Each minute that goes by brings me that much closer to my husband. Which is what I want, right?

Some doubts could never be voiced.

7. Daric

Night fell as the sound of the jet ski's engine faded away. Daric let the gun fall from his hand, closed his eyes, and dropped to his knees in the sand beside Beth. Grief welled up in his throat, and he heard someone sob.

What if she’s dead?

Without a doubt, the dog was.

Peripherally, he was aware that Janicea and Sinclair were behind him somewhere over near Nast and Ozzie.

He placed his left hand on Beth’s back, and to his joy, discovered she was the one who was crying. He cradled her in his arms.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Her cheeks were moist and caked with sand and blood. She kept her eyes closed and answered, “No, nothing is okay, Daric.”

“It’ll all be alright, Beth. You have to help me believe that.”

She didn't answer.

Behind him, Sinclair said, “He's gone, Janicea. They're both dead.”

“Better be ready,” Janicea replied. “They'll be coming back soon. Should we shoot them now?”

Daric shut his eyes and buried his nose in Beth's hair, trying to shut out the voices.

A shot rang out, and a moment later, another.

“What about him?” Sinclair asked, referring to the killer that got left behind.

Janicea answered after a long pause. “Save him. Let Bronte decide.”

“We need to find out what he knows,” Daric said, “and whether there are more people like him.”

“Good thinking, Daric,” Sinclair said.

“Are you okay?” Janicea asked, while putting her arms around him and pulling him upright into a hug. The hug felt good, even though he still wanted to cry.

Beth sat up and joined in the hug.

Sinclair didn't notice. Daric could see her looking off in the direction where Bronte had gone.

He heard a boat engine, then saw a light sweep toward them. The boat came in close, and the silhouettes of two men leapt out and waded ashore.

Bronte and Tracks were revealed in the boat's light. Beth, Janicea and Sinclair all ran to meet them.

Daric couldn't move. His gaze fell on the corpse of the little dog. He realized that, although there may be moments of joy or relief, there would never be happiness in this world. Not now.

Maybe not ever.

He picked up the gun, mentally reminding himself to clean it later as he slipped it back into his pants.

8. Talaski

For a moment, no zombie was left standing—at least within range of their guns.

Keller and Amy shared a brief embrace. It saddened Talaski to see love bloom for his friend when no hope was left. Keller had a big goofy smile on his face, but it faded when Amy started to cry. Talaski turned away and strode over to the rail behind them, trying to give them privacy.

His thoughts drifted back to his own last effort to find love, an effort that lasted over twenty years only to end in failure. He’d quit trying, and then stayed too long after he knew it was over. If only one person was trying...

He rested the barrel of his shotgun on the railing and looked down at the dark water below him. Rain pattered off his head and shoulders. The moon was visible and reflected off the water as daylight faded from the sky.

Mills lit another flare and waved it, hoping the people in the helicopter would notice.

Talaski's thoughts turned to something he'd been avoiding, but known for some time now: All I'm living for is to help Keller. Not before all this happened, but now...

Was there anything else motivating him?

He had known for a long time that his life was aimless, but tried to ignore it. This disaster merely emphasized the point.

What was the point of surviving if there was nothing to live for?

With zero interest, he watched a helicopter take off from one of the ships out in the bay. It climbed about four hundred feet or so above the water and banked in their direction. He didn't believe it was coming to pick them up.

Blackhawk. Looks like one of helicopters that was strafing people not long ago.

If he had a weapon with range, he would be tempted to take a potshot or two.

The heavy beat of the rotors echoed over the water, and a searchlight flicked on as the helicopter slowed to a hover almost overhead. Keller, Amy, and Mills stood next to him at the rail now. The beam of light centered right on them, then panned in the direction of the fire truck.

An amplified voice said, “Sit tight, help is coming.”

Talaski shook his head. No one is coming.

“I can't wait,” Mills said. “Can you imagine hot food, a shower and then sleeping in a bed?”

“We may find some of that,” Keller replied, “but don't get too worked up.”

Amy stirred in Keller's arms. “I hope we do find all those things, Matt. It would be nice to feel safe again.”

“Maybe so,” Keller said.

“What do you think, Ski...er, I mean Nick?” Mills asked.

Talaski ignored the question.

“Something eating you?” Mills asked, stepping closer. Talaski could hear aggression in the guy's voice.

Talaski's rage was a sudden, all-consuming thing, but somehow he controlled the urge to butt-stroke the guy with the stock of his shotgun. Instead, through gritted teeth, he hissed, “Don't call me Ski. You listening to me? I warned you!”

Mills stepped back. Hard to say whether it was fear or simply for propriety. He could tell that Keller and Amy were watching now also.

“So you did,” Mills said.

Talaski stared into his eyes without flinching.

Mills held a hand palm out, and backed away. “Listen, man, I'm just asking questions. Keep your thoughts to yourself, if you want.”

“What I think, Mills,” Talaski answered, “is that we need to get out of here.”

Mills turned to Amy and Keller, and asked, “You two agree with him?”

“Long as we stick together, I don't care where we go,” Amy said. Keller nodded.

“We'll wait a bit longer for a boat,” Talaski said.

For a moment, there was silence. Far away, one of the Coast Guard ships was lowering a boat to the water—the ship illuminated by lights—and they could watch the whole process.

“That has to be for us,” Amy murmured.

“I'm not waiting for it,” Mills said.

Talaski turned back toward him. “What's that?”

“I've helped you all get here to be rescued, now I figure I can do more good back there,” Mills answered, pointing with a gloved hand at St. Petersburg. “There have to be other survivors. I'll find them and bring them here. It's what I should be doing, or at least my chance to do the most good.”

“What makes you so sure they don't need you just as bad on a ship?” Keller asked.

Mills shrugged. “I'm sure people need me in the city. Out there on a boat? Maybe. I'll stay with the sure thing.”

Talaski watched him, but said nothing. He thought there was another angle here, but he didn't care enough to find out. Simply the truth. Overall, he thought Mills was a good guy, but he wasn't someone who meant anything to him.

The small rubber boat was powering toward them, leaving a white phosphorescent wake. Mills was already walking away.

Amy called out, “You can't go by yourself!”

Mills didn't answer. Keller and Amy were looking at him and each other.

“I can't believe he’s going to go back out there alone,” Amy said.

Talaski thought he knew what the other man was thinking.

All of us are alone, just some of us haven't caught on yet.

9. Ray

“That fucking bitch is going to pay.”

He mumbled the words, but meant every one of them. A promise made in the dark. The sun was gone, and darkness enveloped the world. His world.

Raymond Kincaid, or Ray, eased the throttle down and let the jet ski slow to a stop. He couldn't help it. Going home and telling the women what happened, or at least a version of it, wasn't going to be easy. He drew his lips back, baring his teeth, threw his head back and howled. His rage was all consuming, almost blinding. Ray wasn't comfortable with anxiety or fear, or anything really. He'd never had to worry about any of that until a few days ago. Having a trust fund and influential parents had saved him from the mundane cares of the average person.

Tears coursed down his face. He had to leave Chris and Ralph back there. He pounded a fist on his thigh.

Two friends gone! Then that fucking kid shot me in the back! I'm still bleeding.

The blood was soaking the back of his cut-off jean shorts.

The water was rougher than when he, Chris and Ralph left earlier in the day, and the moonlight was too feeble through the clouds to give him anything to steer by.

His hand was on the switch to turn the light on when he heard another engine fire up, and then light flared as someone turned the running lights on in a small motorboat, catching him in the beam. The rumble of the other boat's powerful engine ramped up, and it headed right for him. There wasn't much time to think it over. He held the throttle down and zipped past the bigger craft with ease. The bridge wasn't far away, and he steered beneath it and into the canal beyond.

The people on the boat must have seen him or heard him, but his mind was far away, thoughts a jumbled mess, all centered on revenge.

When the boat didn't follow, he slowed down.

It was dark out. Fear edged out some of the rage, and he was forced to turn his own light on to continue. In the darkness, paralysis would overtake him. Real monsters roamed the earth now. They moved in the dark, or the light, without fear.

With the light on he could see about twenty feet ahead. The canal was narrow, about thirty feet wide at best. Docks were behind almost every house, but only a few boats. Most of the boats were the size of canoes or an occasional john boat. No sign of any yachts. The engine’s noise echoed off the water and the houses as he picked up speed.

Ten houses down, on the island side, he cut the jet ski's engine and glided in toward a dock behind the eleventh house. Ray turned off the headlight and was amazed at how dark it was. The moon was behind a cloud or something. He saw distant lightning flare and light up the horizon to the north. Heat lightning, he knew. He didn't hear any thunder.

Now that his hearing was returning, he realized how quiet it was. No shots, no screams, no explosions.

No one came out to greet him either.

Ray tied up the jet ski to a piling and hoped for the best. He shouldn't leave it in the water, but there was nothing he could do now.

He reached out for the stepladder and hoisted himself up onto the dock. The pain in the middle of his back wasn't much more than an annoying throb, but it was distracting. He didn't think the bullet went through. He wasn’t going to be able to remove it by himself. Couldn’t even reach it.

Will Cora do it?

He grinned despite himself.

Someone should have challenged or greeted him. His shoes were soaking wet and made a squelching noise every time he took a step. He kicked his shoes off and pulled the pistol from the waistband of his jeans.

The wood of the dock was rough beneath his bare feet. He hoped he didn’t get a splinter.

A moment later he stepped onto the top of the concrete seawall, and onto the two-by-two foot paving stones of a sidewalk that curved across the yard to an open lanai behind the house. There was a wrought iron table, two matching chairs, and a propane BBQ grill near the patio doors.

Still no lights.

One of the patio doors was open. He could see a curtain blowing in and out through the opening. His gut tensed.

He knew the island hadn't been cleared yet. There hadn’t been enough time. He knew he probably should've stayed and not gone on the joyride, but the temptation was too much. His apocalyptic dream had finally come true, and some hell-raising was required.

All the impulses he'd resisted most of his life were finally possible. It was good to have his friends around him also to share the dream.

He wanted to call out, but couldn't. The zombies might hear him.

There was definitely a downside to the apocalypse.

Someone was in the doorway. He couldn't tell who it was in the dim light.

“Who's there?” Ray asked.

The figure didn't answer, stepped out onto the lanai, stumbled a bit, and one of the chairs fell over with a clatter.

“Who's there?” Ray asked again.

No response. He realized then that he'd whispered the second time.

“Who are you?” he said loudly, and raised the pistol. What if everyone was dead on the island? Panic seized him.

The person, a large fat man, kept coming and didn't answer.

Ray felt an almost uncontrollable urge to urinate.

“Stop!” he shouted.

Two more figures appeared from the side of the house, coming from the front yard.

The large man stopped mere feet away, turned sideways, and raised both hands. Flame blazed forth several times as the man fired a gun at the two others. It took at least four shots to put them down. Ray watched his apparent savior step closer to them and put a bullet into each of their heads.

“Dirty fuckers,” the man murmured. His voice sounded muted, but after several shots from what was probably a .357, he could be screaming.

“That you, Dad?” Ray asked. The two men were close enough now that Ray could see that the man had a comb-over and was wearing a dirty business suit.

How could I not recognize my own father?

The other man exhaled noisily and scratched his nose. As always, the big, gaudy ring he wore drew attention to his large hands and long fingers. “Yeah Ray, it's me. ‘Bout time you came back. Everything's gone to hell.”

Ray bit back a bitter remark, catching himself in time, and settled for replying with: “You think so?”

His father didn't answer, but instead began to reload the revolver. He pulled loose cartridges out of a greasy handkerchief. His face went stony. “I heard your engine, Ray, if you are wondering. Been hiding out with most of the women over at the Clark house. Raiders killed all the others. Not sure why they didn't make sure I was dead. I don't think they saw me. They just took off all of a sudden...”

Ray took a step back. “What did you say?”

His father put the handkerchief full of bullets back in his pocket. “I said that a bunch of dirty bastards ambushed us. I wasn't even looking and these guys started blasting away at us. Left us for dead, and except for me, we all were.”

Ray didn't know what to say.

“Where were you guys, anyway?” his father asked.

“Where we all are, Dad...Hell. Just a different part.”

“And your friends? Where are they? Did you leave them?”

“They're dead, Dad. Might even be by friends of the ones who tried to kill you.”

“Katrina's going to take that badly, son. Are you sure?”

Katrina was Ralph's wife. Ray nodded. “Yeah.”

“As it is, your sister took a shotgun and is hiding out in the house waiting for the killers to come back. Two of the other widows are with her.”

“Cora is what?”

“You deaf or something, son? I couldn't stop her. She's waiting to ambush the killers if they come back. She's over in the Turner house.”

“We have to go get her, Dad. Those people will be after me for sure!”

His father was silent.

“They will be coming back, Dad!”

His father put his hand on his shoulder, and Ray tried not to wince.

“Well, son, we better be ready for them, then. I need to borrow your jet ski, first, though.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling good enough to go anywhere? Where you going, anyway?” Ray asked, not for the first time, concerned about his father's unhealthy pallor.

“I have some unfinished business to take care of. I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?”

“It can't wait? We are really in danger here.”

His father looked at his watch and said, “No, this is something I have to do now. Take care of everyone.”

He climbed aboard the jet ski and fired it up. His old man was still agile. What surprised him was that his dad didn't go southwest on the course Ray had taken. He steered instead around to the northeast. What lay in that direction was a mystery.

10. Foster

President Foster emerged from the bunker exit into the golden halo of the setting sun backlighting the tree-shrouded slopes of a valley. Lieutenant Green was right on his heels. The ground was spongy underfoot with a thick layer of pine needles. Some of the tree trunks had some sort of fungus growing along one side. He could hear a few birdsongs, but nothing else other than Green's footfalls as he hurried to join him.

“Where can we go, Green?” Foster asked.

Green's expression was grim. “There isn't anywhere nearby to go. We're in the middle of nowhere.”

“What about Fiore's compound?” Foster asked. “Can't we go there?”

“It is a long walk, Mr. President. We could go to...”

Foster held a finger to his lips and pulled Green to the side of the doorway. They both knelt down behind an ancient oak tree. Foster felt his knees get wet on the swampy ground. More of the white, fuzzy fungus was growing on the base of the trunk.

A moment later he heard the sound of voices and clattering boots echo up from the depths.

Foster drew his pistol, motioning for Green to follow suit. He pushed a button on the side of the pistol that ejected the pistol's magazine and inserted a fresh one from the ammo pouch on his belt.

Green looked green. Sweat broke out at his temples and upper lip. Still, he was man enough to draw his own pistol and cock it.

“No time to run, Lieutenant,” Foster whispered. “We'll make a stand here.”

A distinct voice floated up. “They went this way!”

“Wait until I shoot,” Foster said quietly. “We need to kill as many as we can.”

Green nodded. Not long ago, the thought of having to shoot a fellow American would have been unfathomable. Beyond conception.

Not now.

The first soldier was a Marine, who nearly stumbled in his eagerness to exit the tunnel and catch them. The soldier right behind him, an army MP, reached out a hand and steadied him. Both men looked around with their carbines held ready as a third guy emerged. This one was tall, skinny and shirtless. He had a shock of red hair on the top of his head, and a big revolver held in both hands.

“See anything, guys?” the redhead asked.

“Not yet,” replied the first guy, a short thin Hispanic. “We shoulda just killed that bastard and rescued our families from the beginning. Keeping him alive didn't save anybody.”

The first two men had their backs to Foster and Green, but the redhead was swiveling around, searching, pointing where he looked with the gun barrel. Foster was watching when the guy spotted them.

Foster stood up and shot the redhead three times: once in the stomach, then the chest, then the neck. The guy toppled, falling backwards, and sprawled near the door. Foster advanced, and shot the second guy in the back twice. The first guy ran, dodging into the close-set trees.

For a few seconds, Foster debated chasing and shooting him, too. The thought lost appeal quickly when the man disappeared among the trunks, and he knew there was no way he would catch him.

Foster turned back to Green. “Think we got them all, Lieutenant? Well, except for that one, right?”

Green looked shocked and didn't respond.

“I'm going back in. There's nothing for us out here. You coming?”

Green nodded.

“Close and lock the door behind us.”

Foster paused a moment on the steps, waiting while Green closed the door.

“Door's locked. Never would have pegged you for a stone cold killer, sir,” Green said.

Foster's mouth was set in a grim line. “Keep an open mind, Lieutenant. Sometimes, I even surprise myself.”

11. Natalie

Natalie's sleep was restless. In her dream, she kept seeing Liz's face. They were in Tyrone Mall just before everything happened. At that precise moment, things were crazy and getting out of hand. Sam was down at that video game store near Dillards. She could never remember the name of it. Gamestop, or something like that. It should have been the perfect opportunity for hashing things out with Liz.

She remembered the two of them standing in front of the Dairy Queen, not far from the entrance to Penney's. Both of them were wearing their cheerleader uniforms, and somewhere behind them, an old Middle-Eastern guy was having a heart attack or something.

Liz flipped her long blond hair and looked over her shoulder. “Think that guy is okay?” she asked.

Natalie paused a moment. The guy was heavy, with an enormous bowling ball gut. He was leaning over, gasping, and his face was turning purple. His right arm was around the shoulders of a small, dark-skinned woman with henna in her hair. Natalie thought the woman was holding him up.

Someone in line behind them jostled Natalie's arm and instantly her patience was over for distractions.

“So, are you going to dump Sam, or what?”

The question appeared to jolt Liz. She widened her eyes. Natalie knew then that any pretense of them being friends was over.

“You are unbelievable,” Liz told her. “Stay the fuck away from me and Sam!”

Natalie glared at her and clenched her fists. “So, I guess that answers my question,” she said.

Liz waved her away with a dismissive gesture of her hand.

A woman shrieked behind them in abject misery, “He's dead! He's dead!”

Natalie was still staring at Liz, but the other girl wouldn't meet her eyes. She turned away and stepped up to the counter. A familiar, pimply-faced kid smiled at the two of them.

“Can I help you?” he asked Liz, and let his eyes fall to her chest. He didn't seem to realize how obvious his stare was, or he just didn't care. Probably had a stiffy too.

“I'll have a large twist cone, Harry,” Liz said.

She didn't even seem to notice the pervert kid's stare. That bitch is always nice to everyone, no matter how deserving, Natalie thought.

“Right away, Liz,” Harry replied.

“Somebody call the paramedics!” a voice shouted. Someone else said, “Make room, everybody!

Natalie refused to look around. What could she do? No one else seemed to be doing anything either. There was a big crowd around the dead guy, but no one was helping him. The woman who was still screaming was cradling him in her arms, rocking.

Harry took Liz's money and a girl behind the counter handed her the ice cream.

“Keep eating like that, Liz, and you'll be big as a house,” Natalie said with a nasty smile.

“Fuck off, bitch,” Liz said.

Several people gasped behind them, and a kid screamed.

“He's not dead!” someone shrieked. Natalie couldn't tell if it was a man or woman.

“Jesus, look at him,” said another voice, this one roughened by cigarettes and booze.

“Watch out!”

It was like watching one of those horror movies. The big dead guy was biting the red-haired woman's neck, spraying blood everywhere. Natalie remembered thinking Did that guy eat bath salts or something?

Two people, one a security guard, and the other a burly weightlifter, were struggling with the dead man. They'd managed to pull him off, but not without the security guard getting bitten, also. He was yelling into his walkie-talkie while the weightlifter tried to pin the guy down.

Natalie remembered Liz screaming. She was pretty sure that the dumb blonde's mind had snapped, then realized that the henna-haired woman was up and was busy tearing the weightlifter's ear off with her teeth! How was she standing up? Her throat was torn out, leaving a gaping hole. So much blood covered the woman's front that there was no way she could be moving, no way she could be alive.

It couldn't be real.

The weightlifter had to let the fat guy go. He spun around and back-fisted the woman, knocking her back to the ground several feet away. A small girl, probably around six or seven years old, ran forward shouting “Daddy, she hurt you!”

The fat guy got to his feet. The weightlifter didn't see him as his daughter ran into his arms.

Liz shouted, “Watch out!” and rushed forward, pushing the two people out of the way. She was the portrait of athleticism, beauty and grace; her smooth limbs coordinated as she dodged away from the big, dead guy, when he changed his focus onto her.

People were running everywhere. It was pandemonium.

How easy it would be to shove her from behind into the guy's arms! Natalie thought wickedly.

The thought came, Natalie shoved, and the deed was done. The big man fell on top of Liz, and as they fell, the back of Liz's head hit the floor. She offered no resistance when the guy brought one of her slim, tanned thighs up and chomped down.

Liz's scream was awful, and it went on and on.

The weightlifter ran into the crowd clutching his little girl to his chest, blood pouring down his neck.

Natalie stood paralyzed, horrified, but exhilarated. She turned to run...and woke, knowing that only a few hours had passed. The sounds of the world outside were strange. From a great distance, she heard the rumble of a chain of full-bodied explosions, one almost on top of the other. Closer, the wail of a siren. She couldn't tell the difference, if there was any, between a police car, fire truck, or ambulance siren. Nearer still, there was a feminine scream.

The scream was what got to her, echoing the scream.

She couldn't close her eyes, and there was no question of further sleep. Could she ignore it? Live with it? Like before? Should she throw her life away for a stranger?

She hefted the pistol, slung the bag, and took out the car keys. She wiggled out of the hollow between the banyan trunks and stood up, feeling old as the wind rustled the leaves and a light rain fell.

The scream came again, then a man's hoarse shout. It had come from down near the lake.

She couldn't see anyone, zombie or otherwise, but there were trees between her and the lake. She stopped by the car as she hurried forward and put the bag in the back seat, pocketed the keys, and then with gun in hand, she jogged in the direction of the scream.

The ground was mostly level and the grass wet beneath her sneakers. She splashed through some puddles. A branch snagged the left sleeve of her shirt, almost turning her sideways before springing free. She saw the moon reflected in the lake; then she heard someone breathing heavily and stumbling.

Natalie waited, holding the gun ready, but pointed at the ground. Someone was running her way! A vague, slim shape appeared from the dark, out of breath, and jerked to a stop mere feet away. It was a tall young Asian woman, probably her age, with long, straight brown or nearly black hair. Was that the girl she heard scream? She looked familiar too...

“Get out of my way!” the girl shrieked, and pushed past her.

The gun must not have scared her.

A man's voice shouted, “She went this way!”

The voice was close. With no time to think it over, Natalie ducked behind a big oak tree trunk. She held her breath, her heart pounding.

A moment later, a man appeared, running hard. He paused, breathing labored, and turned on a battery-powered lantern.

Natalie flinched back, worried that she would be spotted. She felt her left shoe sink into and squelch in the muddy ground.

The sudden flare of light revealed more details. He was a middle-aged Asian guy with a hard face, short buzz-cut hair, wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, and boots. Maybe mean was a better description than hard-faced. Is there a difference? The axe in his left hand emphasized that appraisal. The t-shirt was torn, and a long gash at his shoulder covered his arm with blood down to his fingers.

She wasn't sure why she was assuming he was bad, but in her gut she knew.

He was looking at the ground.

“Turn that fucking lantern off, dumbass!” another man shouted, skidding to a stop beside the first. This guy was younger, also Asian, with a wispy beard, but in better shape than the first man. He was dressed almost the same, but had a wooden baseball bat clenched in his fists.

Buzz Cut snarled right back, “I'm looking for her footprints!”

“And now neither of us can see a fucking thing without a light!” Beard replied.

Buzz Cut said, “It's almost dawn anyway.”

“You're right,” Beard agreed.

Natalie closed her eyes, a moment, then made herself look back at the two men. She wasn't sure why the men were chasing the girl, but it didn't sound good.

“Maybe we should give up?” Buzz Cut suggested.

Beard shook his head. “You think Sid will go for that? Do you, Jimmy?”

Jimmy's face looked, if anything, angrier for a moment, then softened into something like remorse.

Beard answered his own question.”No. No he won't. We're fucked. And I don't see any tracks, do you?”

“Better get on the walkie and tell him.”

Beard shook his head. “Are you fucking crazy? We have to find her!”

“Okay, then, Troy,” Jimmy said, “let's split up. Call me on channel six if you see her, and I'll come running. I'll go right toward Fourth Street. You head toward Seventh Avenue.”

Troy, the bearded guy, said, “She's gone I bet. We're not going to find her. What are the odds, really?”

“The odds are good. She's tired. She can't have got very far.”

The two stood there a moment more, as if listening, then both took off at a jog in different directions.

Natalie stood up but had to brace herself with a hand on the oak's trunk. Her legs trembled. She had to fight the urge to close her eyes as fatigue set in. With gun still in hand, she walked back toward the car. Within moments she spotted it in the darkness, still parked where she left it. The woman, whoever she was, was about to try the door handle of the left passenger door.

Natalie stopped, realizing that either the woman didn't see her, or she was ignoring her.

“That's my car,” Natalie said, “and I have the keys.”

The woman turned around fast, face twisted with rage, and took a step toward her. Natalie backpedaled a step and aimed the gun at her face. “Go ahead, bitch,” she said, “try me.”

12. Janicea

The darkness was all around her, but it didn't soothe her. It just was. She was part of it, and it was part of her. It would be so easy to let it rule her again. Too easy. Janicea’s eyes were closed, but what had happened kept replaying in her mind. She wanted to lean against something, but there was nothing.

Ralls flicked on a flashlight. Bronte and Tracks were lifting the bodies of their friends onto the deck of the Sea Hummer. She needed comfort, but the others didn't know her well enough. The others might not even know what had happened.

Right now she was numb. She could feel the outrage pent up inside her, building. It was below the surface, but she knew that sometime soon it would boil out.

“That guy on the jet ski...” she heard Ralls say. He was standing nearby, and she knew he was talking to her, but he trailed off. The grief on his face was hard to look upon.

Janicea nodded. “He was one of the killers. Daric may have shot him.”

She wanted to add: and he tried to rape me! but couldn't bring herself to admit it. Other people had paid a higher price than she did today. Unspoken, too, was the idea that somehow she deserved everything bad that happened to her now.

The voice in her head said: Hate begets hate. Giving in to hate hadn't brought her any peace, of either the mental or spiritual varieties.

Ralls said something else but she let his voice fade into the background. She walked to the edge of the sand and stared back through the dark toward the island the men had just left.

When will this end? she thought. When will people stop killing each other over nothing?

Stupid, senseless killing.

Janicea watched Tracks enter the surf a foot or so away to the left. Someone's shoe floated in the water. It probably belonged to one of the killers. Tracks picked it up, along with the cast net Ozzie or Nast was using when all this began.

Mustn't allow myself to think. Time will go by. We will find someplace safe to live.

“We going back?” Tracks asked, looking at Bronte.

“To the island? I don't know,” Bronte answered. “We have some hard decisions to make.”

Tracks frowned, or was it a smile? It was hard to tell. He didn't smile often, and when Janicea thought about it, she couldn't remember him ever laughing or making a joke.

“Nowhere to go, Bronte,” Tracks said.

“True, my friend. There is nowhere better. At least no place that I know of.”

Tracks made a strangled sound that ended in a cough. “So, we going back?”

“Yes,” Bronte said, with a face like stone. Janicea had no idea what he was thinking. She wondered whether or not she should tell him everything that had happened. Not here though. Not now. She knew he was looking at her. His eyes were moving up and down her body. Normally, this would give her butterflies.

“More of us will die,” Ralls said.

“Well,” Bronte replied, “that may be so, but we'll find out what this prisoner knows before we go.” He gestured toward Sinclair and the man sitting in front of her.

Sinclair was still holding a gun on the prisoner, but she stepped to the side when Bronte came near.

The prisoner, a bald guy with a goatee, looked up when Bronte stopped and stood over him. He sat cross-legged on the sand, his left eye puffed up, bruised, and weeping. His expression was fierce, though, and he didn't look away when Bronte stopped a few feet short of him.

“You have anything to say?” Bronte asked.

The guy smirked. “Get fucked, nigger.”

Bronte's face remained expressionless. “Last chance,” he said.

The prisoner made a hocking noise, and spit on Bronte's shoe.

Janicea saw a faint, almost sad smile come and go on Bronte's lips as he pulled his pistol out from the small of his back. “So if I kill you, now, I'm reacting to your racist remark and hateful gestures?”

“You think?” the guy asked.

Bronte sighted down the pistol, focusing his aim between the guy's eyes.

“You're no better than me!”

Bronte squeezed the trigger. The guy fell backward with the bullet's impact. Janicea watched without feeling anything as the corpse twitched once then relaxed.

“So be it,” Bronte said, and holstered the gun.

Janicea stepped over to him and wrapped an arm around his waist. He slid the gun back into the waistband of his pants and hugged her. For a moment, nothing else mattered.

13. Booth

He wished they would shut up, but they wouldn't.

The co-pilot, Lot, said, “Rescue is staging, Mrs. Foster, we don't have room to take those people with us.”

“I understand, Lieutenant. You are saying someone else is coming to get them,” she replied.

“That's right, ma'am,” the other pilot, Duncan, answered.

Booth closed his eyes and waited for the Tylenol to work. Seemingly in time with the rotors, pain streaked and throbbed through his head. He felt nauseous. Headphones were over his ears, and they helped with the noise, but nothing was helping his hangover.

Lot said, “We are continuing on to our first objective.”

Lassiter turned the overhead light on, and was looking in a backpack. Booth could feel his mood getting out of hand. He wasn't usually short-tempered, but as the helicopter made a slow turn, thinking about what he had allowed himself to be drafted into began to piss him off. The hangover wasn't helping. Here he was still part of a machine, even though it was dead. Only all the parts didn't realize it yet. How long, he wondered, until those ship crews mutinied and they all went their separate ways in the hopes of finding their families? He was amazed that it hadn't happened yet.

He forced those thoughts to the back of his mind. It wasn't productive to worry about what might happen. It was good to have contingency plans in case circumstances changed, but he needed to think about what was coming in the next few minutes now.

The plan was to top the chopper's fuel off and add long distance tanks if possible, over at the St. Pete/Clearwater Airport. The Coast Guard guys thought some were stored there.

He heard a faint, strange noise over the headphones and felt Hicks’ head on his shoulder. He realized that the other surviving member of his team was asleep.

Fucker is snoring!

He elbowed his friend in the ribs. Hicks sat up straight and muttered something. He wore mirrored sunglasses, so it was impossible to tell whether his eyes were open or not.

Booth noticed that the first lady’s kid was watching them. The little rug rat had a shy smile on his face. It was sort of unreal to think that he was the president’s son. Just a kid, like any other kid. The first lady wasn't any different. She looked like a frazzled soccer mom.

What made these people so special anymore? If they ever were? Why all this effort? He wondered what Hicks's excuse would be. It might amount to nothing more than having nothing else to do. His squad mate and friend wasn't an overly deep thinker.

The engine changed pitch as they moved onto what he knew was a northwesterly heading. He could see Tierra Verde below them, out the window to the left. One of the large condominiums was on fire.

Good joke that, the island's name! Not much green earth on that island, unless you count the golf course.

It was mostly high rise condos and mansions down there. Booth remembered being in ROTC many years ago and doing a ten mile road march from a 7-Eleven somewhere down there, all the way out to the tip of Ft. Desoto. Was it really ten miles? Certainly felt like it all those years ago. Ten miles was nothing for him now.

He turned his attention back into the cabin. The kid was asleep. The first lady was stroking his hair. Her face was haggard. She looked exhausted and he was willing to bet she hadn't slept recently.

Her eyes met his, and she nodded at him. When he didn't react, she flushed and looked away.

She wasn’t half bad looking, depending on what you liked...or how desperate you were. She was attractive in a way. Had a nice body.

Booth knew he should have smiled or nodded back, but the headache was making him angry. He was slightly pissed off about being asked to be a hero, too, and decided he might do a quick fade once they landed at the airport. Jacobs may have been the smart one by walking away. Booth didn’t owe these people anything now that all bets were off.

Moments later, as he was drowsing off, the crew chief, Lassiter, commented, “Good Lord, those things are everywhere.”

Booth didn't even open his eyes. Lassiter was merely stating the obvious.

Nothing to see here.

Move right along.

14. Trish

“Are you going to let me go?”

The guy laughed.

“Which do you mean? Let you go, or let you go? Here, I'll let you go, right now.”

He broke the embrace he'd been holding her in for several long minutes, and stepped back a pace.

“There, how is that?” he asked. The gun and the knife were still in his hands.

Trish didn't answer, but began to back away toward the dining room. “I'm leaving now. Please don't try to stop me.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get my clothes.” Her unspoken answer was: and get the fuck out of here!

She felt her back touch one of the dining room chairs.

“Why bother now?” he asked. “No need for modesty. I've seen you at your best, haven't I?”

Trish’s skin was crawling. It was taking everything she had not to let fear and disgust manifest itself in her expression. It was bad enough to put up with this behavior working in a bar, but now? She edged her way around the table with him following her.

The expression on his face was unreadable. She wasn't about to wait to find out what he was thinking. If she had a gun right now, she'd just shoot him. She didn’t ever have to put up with this bullshit again.

Creepy old fucker.

The table was between them now. So far he hadn't raised the gun, but her eyes kept drifting down to where he held it against his leg. Her back brushed against the glass door. His eyes were riveted between her legs. That answered the question in her mind as to his intent. He wasn't even pretending to look elsewhere. Somehow, he made her feel dirty, despite several years of other men doing the same thing. Men complained about being a paycheck. Was that worse than being treated as an object?

None of them had ever looked at her like this. Wait…was that true? Maybe it was knowing that no one was coming to help her. Just her alone with a creep. She could feel anger overtaking her fear now that she was so close to getting away.

“Want me to wait while you go get a camera?” she asked.

He blinked, then raised his eyes slowly up and over her body before stopping at her eyes.

“You've got a smart mouth,” he said and came around the table in a rush.

Trish pulled the handle, relieved that it slid open without much resistance, and darted out onto the pool deck. The old guy followed her, but he stopped beside the door. He raised the gun when she reached her clothing and began to gather it up.

“Drop the stuff, and raise your hands, bitch!” he snarled.

Trish straightened up, but kept her clothes, shoes, and the flashlight in her hands.

“You won't shoot me,” she said.

“Looks like you plan to find out,” he replied, and she could tell he was winded.

She pulled her still-wet clothes on, panties first, then shirt and shorts.

He didn't react.

She sat down to put her shoes on.

Still nothing, so she quit watching him and focused on tying her shoes.

The gun was hanging down by his side again when she stood.

“Where will you go?” he wanted to know.

She shrugged. Her clothes were wet, but at least they weren't stiff with salt now.

Her only thought was to get away from him. She opened the screen door, and plunged outside at a run. Morning light was bathing the sky to the east in a rosy glow as she ran around the side of the house. She passed a large portable grill, a big black trashcan, and finally crossed onto the front yard of the house. There was an immense oak with a trunk about four feet thick, and a lot of golf-course quality grass.

For a moment she stopped there in a patch of sunlight and stared at what almost looked like a peaceful neighborhood.

It was peaceful if you could ignore the dead bodies laying scattered in the street and in the yards, and if you could pretend not to see the animated corpses wandering the neighborhood.

Trish just stood there, looking at the zombies. Disgust welled up. They were mockeries of real humans, and she remembered what had probably been her first encounter with one.

Dead fucks and perverts, was that all that was left in the world?

While she still had time, she looked carefully around. There was an RV, a big one, in the driveway of the house she’d just left. Parked across the street in front of a three-story house with a half circle drive and a fountain was a Mazda 3 and what was probably an Acura. She sniffed, smelling something burning, but tried not to let it distract her. There was a body lying face down near the Mazda and she wondered if there was any chance that person would have the car keys.

Two zombies were heading her way down a sidewalk that passed in front of the yard she was standing in now. The other two were further down the street to the left, and were stumbling around aimlessly. It didn't appear as if the two headed her way had seen her. No purpose was motivating them that she could see. That didn’t mean that they wouldn't spot her or smell her soon. She contemplated her next move, wondering what the odds were that they wouldn't see her.

Trish waited a moment more, then sprinted across the street. She heard the old freak shout. So he was following her after all. She didn't even break stride.

Her still sodden shoes were squelching with each footfall, and she hated the sound and the nasty feeling. Hunger pangs picked that particular moment to strike, and she slowed to a quick walk, feeling queasy and weak as she neared the Mazda and the corpse of a young woman lying beside it.

She flinched when a loud gunshot blasted somewhere behind her, followed by another. Then another.

Was the old man shooting the nearby zombies for her, or was he shooting at her? Trish decided she was not waiting around to find out.

The young dead woman was a brunette wearing a light blue mini-dress. She was sprawled face down on the grass with her left arm outstretched, her right still clutching a purse. The back of her dress was stained nearly black with dried blood, and it looked like she was starting to bloat in the heat. Trish gagged— the stench was awful.

She really had to get out of here. She went for the purse and tried to yank it free while still walking, sort of like a thief trying to snatch a purse and keep going. She grabbed the strap, took a step, and pulled the purse toward her, up and off an arm that was slick or greasy or...

The corpse screamed!

Trish stumbled and nearly fell in shock, but the purse was free.

The woman isn't dead?

The woman looked up at her and said something that sounded like “Bitch!” It was hard to tell for sure, though, because she still shrieked in pain.

Trish leaned her back against the car. She could see the old man crossing the street toward her, and began to panic. He was still shirtless, and the gun and knife were in his hands. She opened the purse and dug through the various items, but it was taking too long. In desperation, she turned the purse over and emptied the whole thing onto the driveway.

The keys, the keys, where were they?

She knelt down, scrambled frantically through a jumbled mess of tissue, tampons, a checkbook, gum, a brush and finally found a small key ring with a key fob and several keys. She grasped the fob in her left hand, and frantically pushed the unlock button, saw the signal lights flash at the front of the Mazda, and grabbed the driver's door handle.

She heard the old creep wheeze behind her.

“For Christ's sake, she's still alive! Look what you've done!”

Trish was sliding into the driver's seat. She didn’t know that woman, and judging by the amount of blood on her dress, she was a goner for sure.

“You gonna just leave her like this?” the old man shouted, leaning over and staring at her through the window glass.

She pushed the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine cranked up smoothly, and she was loving the car.

“You can't just leave her like this!” the creep shouted.

Trish looked over and saw him put the pistol to the girl's head and pull the trigger.

She shifted into drive and floored the small car straight for about fifteen feet, then took a sharp right turn onto the street. In the rear view mirror, the old guy was standing there and pointing the gun after her, but nothing happened. He ran for the Acura and she hoped that it wasn't his.

The Mazda's engine roared and she thought: Zoom Zoom! Trish was laughing, but wasn't aware that she was doing it. Moments later she powered out of the neighborhood and back toward the boat basin, hoping that the street was no longer clogged with the dead.

15. Jacobs

Jacobs lowered the tarp back over the motorcycle and approached the back door to the house. It was at the end of the carport on his right. Straight ahead was a door to what was probably a laundry room. On a whim, he tried that door first, and found it unlocked. Inside, he saw what he expected: a washer and dryer, a water heater, shelves built into the wall loaded with detergent and cleaning supplies, and some clothes on hangers.

When he closed the door, he heard car engines turning over and revving, followed by two gunshots or backfires. Someone shouted. Another shot rang out. Probably a pistol. His best guess was a 9mm. He decided to wait and see if the vehicle headed his way. He walked around the left side of the house toward the front yard. A neglected hedge-type bush gave him some cover with a view of the street. He knelt down, just in case. No need to become a target.

He didn't see anything moving. Two bodies were visible. One was slumped over in the driver's seat of a red Chevy Impala parked on the street, and the other facedown beside the car. One house across the street was burning, and the roof had collapsed, leaving only the concrete block shell. The front door to another house was hanging wide open. Debris was everywhere.

The dog licked his cheek, and he put his left arm around her. The engine noise grew louder—at least two vehicles.

A couple of minutes passed before he saw two trucks driving slowly down the street: a burgundy Dodge Ram, and an older, gray Ford Ranger. He heard laughter and another shout. Men or, more likely, teenaged boys were walking alongside the trucks armed with shovels, axes, baseball bats and guns.

Jacobs' stomach gurgled.

The dog perked her ears, then looked up at him.

“I'm hungry. Bet you are too.”

A youthful voice yelled, “Hey Leo, there's one coming out of Old Lady Hatcher’s place!”

Jacobs identified the speaker as a weightlifter-type white kid wearing a green football jersey on the back of the first truck. A typical jock with a buzz-cut and a lantern jaw. He was standing behind the cab, pointing a brawny arm at the house with the open door.

Sure enough, an old lady staggered through the doorway. Her blue dress was about three sizes too big for her, and her spindly legs were a stark white in contrast. Her long gray hair was unbound and hanging over her face.

She stepped off the porch and fell face first into the grass.

Raucous laughter erupted from the kids in and around the trucks.

Jacobs' mouth turned down in a grimace, although he didn't realize it. Bastards!

The unthinking cruelty of youth was no surprise to him, but it was always disappointing. He'd witnessed it from one extreme to another all over the world. Teenage kids or younger with no respect for life. Stone killers at ten years old. The woman was probably someone's grandmother.

Leo, another big guy in a green jersey, sauntered her way from the other side of the first truck. His jersey number—53—and his name— Franzetti—were printed on the back, and he was wearing his football helmet. He swung the baseball bat in his hands around a few times as he approached the fallen woman.

She struggled to her knees as the teenager got closer. Her mouth was open wide in what looked like a toothy snarl.

Leo braced his legs, stood before her, and swung the bat directly over her head. A strand of her hair lifted and blew in the backdraft.

More laughter from the onlookers.

Someone shouted, “Strike one!”

Jacobs had time to wonder briefly whether the woman was a zombie or not before the kid switched his stance, swung from the hip and connected the bat to her head with a solid thwack. She dropped back to the grass and didn't move.

“One old bitch is out!” Leo shouted.

Jacobs fingered the safety on his rifle, debating what to do. Flicked it off. Charged the handle. A round was ready in the chamber. He had the fleeting thought that he should forget about safeties now. It was probably best to always have a round ready.

He stood up, squeezed in between the hedge and house, and walked into the front yard.

A skinny kid wearing jeans, army boots, and a blue plaid shirt noticed him immediately, and said, “Heads up, Kyle! We got a soldier or something over here!” The skinny kid then raised the shovel in his hands to the on guard position as if he thought it could block a bullet.

The burly kid on the truck who must be Kyle turned his way. His jersey number was 55.

“Who are you?” Kyle shouted.

Jacobs didn't answer, but continued walking toward them. The skinny kid backed away, eyes huge behind a pair of cheap, bottle-thick glasses. Jacobs could feel the eyes of all the kids on him as he passed the truck and walked up to Leo.

Leo faced him with the bat held in his right hand. Blood and gore dripped from the bat, smearing the wood. Behind the helmet's face mask, there was a smile on the kid's face, and black grease paint under his eyes. If he was afraid, Jacobs couldn't tell.

“Should I have played, baseball, you think?” the kid asked. “That was a home run for sure!”

Jacobs stared at the kid, finally aware that he was frowning. His face didn't alter expression when he asked in a soft voice, “Was she dead, kid?”

Leo looked at him with a now blank expression.

“You hear me, kid?”

“I heard you, mister. She wanted to bite me.”

“That so? Show me a bite on her.”

The kid looked over Jacobs' shoulder, probably at Kyle.

Jacobs pointed the rifle at the kid's belly. “Start checking.”

The kid's legs were trembling now, but he knelt down and began to examine the old woman. Jacobs stepped to the side and half turned so that he could see the other teens and the trucks.

Leo placed the bat on the grass and then lifted each of the woman's emaciated arms, looking over each with obvious distaste. He paused a moment, and raised his hand to his face.

“Keep looking,” Jacobs said.

The kid shifted position on his knees to get closer to the woman's legs. He pulled her dress up, exposing her birdlike limbs in all their pale, blue-veined, knobby glory. One leg was covered with dried, flaky blood. There were no marks on her feet or calves, but there was the smell of urine, and excrement. The smell was nothing new to Jacobs, but Leo gagged and retched a little, then gamely pulled the dress up further.

There, high up on her thigh, was a festering, blackened wound from a bite. The stringy meat of her thigh appeared chewed.

Leo looked up at Jacobs and let the dress fall back over the corpse.

“Okay kid, you did the right thing.”

The teen picked up his bat and stood up. “What would you have done if I did kill an uninfected person?”

Jacobs gave him a dead-eyed stare.

“You would have killed me?”

Jacobs didn't reply. He turned away and with the dog in tow, walked back toward the house with the hedge.

“Will you help us, mister?”

The question was asked in a desperate tone, and Jacobs thought that, now, the kid looked scared. Alone, how much chance did that bunch of kids have? It would be easier to have a dog to worry about. No question of their loyalty.

“What are you trying to do, Leo?” Jacobs asked. He knew it was equivalent to a tentative yes.

“We just want to find someplace safe and take care of each other. Can you help us?”

Jacobs looked past him and back at the people gathered around the trucks. “How many of you are there, boys and girls?”

“There's thirteen guys about my age, or a little younger. I'm a senior at Northeast High. And there's...ten girls, one mom and six little kids. We only have two guns so far. None of us are good shots. That's why we're mostly using bats and shovels.”

“Where were you headed?”

“Somebody told us they were evacuating the city and that we could get on a boat to get out of here.”

Jacobs shook his head. “I think that's over now. Those ships will be leaving soon. Probably be better to find an apartment building you can secure.”

The kid's eyes were wide, and apparently he was taking him seriously.

“Guess you are right, sir.”

Jacobs realized something. “You are the leader, aren't you? Not Kyle.”

Leo laughed. “Yeah, he's my best friend, but I'm the boss.”

“Am I going to have a problem with your people listening to me, Leo? Are you going to listen and obey me without question?”

“Yes, sir! You have my word!”

Jacobs smiled, for what felt like the first time in days. “Then get your people out of those trucks, and come help me find some keys.”

Leo's smile was a mile wide. “Thank you, so much, sir! Right away!”

16. Julie

She was miserable. This was hardly the way she was accustomed to flying. Being packed in with a bunch of sweaty soldiers wasn't something Julie ever imagined could happen in her life.

Hell, she hadn’t even flown in anything less than first class in the last ten years. And when was the last time she had driven a car? She was completely dependent on these people.

Those thoughts shamed her into keeping silent about any discomfort, but she was fidgety. She glanced around the cabin and noticed that soldier named Hicks picking his nose. She wasn't sure if it was filth or camouflage paint masking his face. Probably filth. There was a crust around his nostrils...

The realization that these men may not have been able to get a shower before being asked to help her again was hard to take. Humbling.

Well, it was too late now. Anyway, she told herself, it was their job. She closed her eyes briefly, then focused on the flight chief. What she needed was something to take the edge off. Something to distance things, so to speak.

“Excuse me, Chief...Lassiter is it?”

The older man leaned over and said, “Yes ma'am?”

“Do we have anything to drink?”

“I have some water.”

She smiled faintly, feeling her patience ebbing. “I meant anything alcoholic, Chief.”

“I have something, ma'am,” said the other soldier. She had the presence of mind to look at his name tag. It was the same name as Lincoln's killer—Booth.

He held up a six pack of beer. The chief started to speak, and his face was reddening when Booth held up his free hand.

“Care for a beer, First Lady?” he asked.

She couldn't help smiling. “Don't mind if I do...is it Sergeant Booth?”

He smiled back. A very nice smile. The thought went further, and she imagined what those lips would feel like on her skin, then blinked the thought away. Where did that come from? He was everything that other soldier was not; even everything that her husband was not.

Stop it Julie!

“Call me whatever you want, ma'am, and I'll answer.”

He held her gaze. Earlier she'd thought him cold and distant. Was he looking at her as a woman now, not the first lady? Whatever the case, his smile seemed warm and genuine now.

“Are they cold, Sergeant Booth?”

“They sure are,” he answered and handed her one. “And very smooth. Goes down real easy.”

Was he using innuendo or just plain speaking? she wondered. She decided not to think too much and read the beer's label: Yuengling. She’d never heard of it. At least it was cold. There was even a chunk of ice near the pull tab. She popped it open, brought the can to her lips and tilted the contents into her mouth. Her first beer since...well, since she and Burt were dating. She’d only had mixed drinks or wine for years now. She’d almost forgotten what beer tasted like.

The soldier was staring, lips wearing a little smile. He raised an eyebrow when she noticed.

She guzzled the rest of the beer down, then handed the empty can back.

There were a lot of things she’d almost forgotten about...one of them would be the attention of a capable, younger man. Burt's well publicized indiscretions were never far from her mind. She’d resisted temptation for so long. Why was that? What had she missed?

“Like another one?” Booth asked, holding another can out to her.

Her fingers brushed his when she took it. She felt her cheeks flush. “I'm just getting started, soldier.”

17. Daric

Sinclair, the friendly red-haired woman, handed the pistol back to him.

“All clean and oiled. Do you feel comfortable on how to reload it, now, Daric?”

“Yes ma'am,” he answered, head down and eyes on the gun.

“You have ten more bullets left in here,” she said, handing him the almost empty ammo box and a full magazine. “Aim carefully. You may need every shot you have.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Will you help me keep an eye on Beth when we reach the island?” she asked after he had reloaded the gun.

“I will.”

The ship captain, Ralls, was steering their boat. The other two boats were ahead of them, and tying up on docks jutting out from the island's concrete seawall.

He could see Bronte loading a rifle, and Tracks wrapping ammo belts over his chest, then hefting the machine gun. Janicea was off the dock, standing near the left side of the house with a pistol in her hand.

“Are they making us stay behind?” Daric asked.

Sinclair nodded. “Yeah, that’s why I need you to help me protect Beth.”

He looked at her directly. “We’d be safer if we all stuck together.”

“That may be true, Daric, but Beth’s been through a lot. She needs her rest, and won't get it if we’re running around with the others. We're going to stay in the house with the dock. That way we can run back to the boats quickly, if we have to.”

“What about the captain? Does he get to go? He's hurt.”

“I think he's staying with us.”

The boat drew steadily closer, and a moment later, Sinclair went forward and helped Ralls tie their boat to a dock behind the neighboring house to the right. When they finished, Beth stepped up beside him and asked what was going on.

“We're at the other island,” he answered.

Sinclair waved at them. “Come on kids!” she said.

Daric slipped the little gun into his front pocket and Beth took his hand in hers. Ralls was opening a gate between the yards. When all four of them were together, they joined Bronte, Tracks, and Janicea beside the pool of the other house.

Bronte squatted down in front of them. “Listen kids, we’re gonna go out and make sure this place is safe. There’s a possibility we’ll be gone all day. I don't want you to give Lieutenant Sinclair any trouble. Can I count on you?”

Beth answered yes, and Daric nodded.

“If something bad happens, just listen to her, and do as she says.”

He looked them both in the eye and gave them a hug. Tracks smiled at them.

Daric noticed that Janicea seemed distracted. She didn't smile, or even look at them.

“What about Captain Ralls?” Daric asked. “Is he staying with us?

Bronte looked up and over at Ralls without saying anything.

“I assumed I was coming with you,” Ralls said.

Bronte nodded. “I’d like that, but it’d be better to have two adults here with the kids. You’re hampered by your arm, anyway.”

Ralls grimaced, but said, “I'll stay.”

Bronte stood up. “We'll be back soon.”

Daric watched them go around the side of the house. Sinclair followed them, and was gone for a couple of minutes. When she returned, she said to Ralls, “I waited till I saw them round the corner. I think it's okay to go now.”

“Alrighty then! Come on, kids, we're going in the house,” Ralls said.”They went around the house in case someone sees them, people won't realize we're here.”

Ralls opened the patio door and was stepping inside when there was a tremendous boom. Daric saw blood and gore explode through his shirt as an apparent shotgun blast threw him onto his back on the patio tile.

All three of them—Sinclair, Beth, and Daric—stood still for a moment in shock. Ralls body spasmed, his feet kicked, and he blinked his eyes a few times with his mouth opened wide. The hole in his chest was so big…Daric knew Ralls was dying.

Somewhere far away, Beth screamed. It seemed to go on and on, and Daric was paralyzed.

Sinclair grabbed them both by the hands and pulled them along as she sprinted toward the still open gate between the houses. Behind them, a stranger’s voice shouted. There was no time to look back.

Another shot, this one sharper, more of a bark.

Daric stumbled in the gateway, but Sinclair pulled him up and practically yanked him through before he could regain his footing. Sinclair urged them to run faster.

“We have to hurry!” she said, voice panicked.

Daric wanted to run faster. He knew he'd been shot. He wasn't sure that Sinclair knew, though. His right leg was on fire, and he wanted to kill whoever had shot Ralls. He could hear Beth sobbing as they ran. Sinclair stopped briefly when they went through the gate. He figured she was probably debating whether to go into the house or around it to get away. But that didn't make sense. Her hesitation was brief, and a moment later they were running toward another chain link gate.

In truth, Sinclair and Beth were running, and he was being carried.

A bullet whizzed by Daric's head.

Someone shouted. The big gun boomed again, and a tree behind them exploded, throwing splinters everywhere.

“Take Beth and keep running,” Sinclair said in his ear, and pushed him onward. She dropped to a knee and leveled her rifle at the gate. “Go!” she shouted, looking back at him with the tenderness of a mother.

Daric limped, giving his best, but now he was the one pulling Beth along with him.

18. Talaski

He was hungry. It almost always happened when he was around the dead. Something about being grateful to still be alive, he thought. Trips to the medical examiner, no matter how much cutting was involved, would always leave him ravenous. It wasn’t something he'd ever share with just anyone, but the truth was often stark.

Mills was driving again, and taking the turn back onto the Interstate a little too quickly for his taste.

“Ease up a bit,” he said.

The other man lifted the side of his lip in a sneer, and otherwise ignored the remark.

Keller and Amy were in the back seat. He purposely didn't look back there. Amy was still upset. They were so quiet now he thought they both may be sleeping. It was probably for the best.

“So, Nick,” Mills asked, “where we headed? Any suggestions?”

Talaski was quiet a moment, thinking it over.

Mills didn't wait for an answer, and asked, “What do you think of the beaches? Tierra Verde?”

“Any particular reason you’re suggesting that area aside from it being an island?”

Mills shrugged. “Not really. Just figured if we banded together with other survivors, it’d be easier to defend.”

“I guess it’s as good as any. Isn't there a Publix on Thirty-Fourth Street, not far from the next off ramp? We could see about getting supplies there first.”

“I know where it is. Not too far away, either.”

Mills clipped a light truck and a few compact cars on the way back up the ramp. Several zombies also fell beneath the roaring engine's wheels.

“You hungry or something?” he asked.

Talaski could tell the guy was actually trying to be friendly. He nodded.

“I knew it!” Mills said. “I am too. Makes me feel like one of those ghouls, but I can't help it. I always get this way around the dead. Not sure why.”

“Trips to the ME would always affect me that way,” Talaski replied. “This isn't all that different.”

“Undead cannibals are a lot different to me, Nick. You have any theories on what’s making these things get back up after death?”

“All I know is what puts them back down.”

Talaski was facing forward, and his headache wasn't getting any better. He could feel the other man's eyes on him. He wondered what was making him so chatty all of a sudden. He wasn’t up to conversation right now.

Mills grunted.

Did I say that out loud?

“All you had to say, man,” Mills said, replying to what Talaski thought was only a mental response.

“I will go this far,” Talaski said. “I think we created them—the zombies. It’s something we did.”

“Not some divine judgment?” Mills asked.

“No, and not voodoo either. This is something from a lab that got out of hand, or was a weapon that was used on us.”

Mills waved his right hand in the air. “Maybe so, Nick. Any particular reason you feel that way?”

“I quit believing in God long ago.”

Mills shook his head. “I agree that this disaster is probably manmade, but I still believe in God. I can't accept that this is all there is.”

At that moment, Amy's head appeared between the seats. “Did I hear you guys mention food?”

“Yes we did,” Talaski answered.

Her grin was impish. “Well, can we pick up the pace a bit, then?”

“Right away, ma'am,” Mills answered. Talaski rolled his window down and let the breeze blow across his face. For the moment, the morning appeared to be the beginning of a nice day. But there were still lingering smudges of smoke rising in the sky in various parts of town that revealed the truth: there weren't going to be any more nice days. The numerous corpses wandering everywhere also dispelled hope.

The grass in the wide median between the north and south bound lanes looked even higher since yesterday, but he knew that it wasn't. He noted that it already looked unkempt.

As they drew even with the spot where that Amadeo guy and his group abandoned them, Mills slowed down. The off ramp was coming up on the right, along with the checkpoint. For the moment, not many zombies were near, but there was a stench, faint at first, but growing stronger as they pulled even with the sandbags.

“Jesus,” Talaski muttered.

“Wonder if we made a mistake not waiting for that boat to come get us?” Keller asked.

Mills shook his head. “If we'd done that, we'd just be part of a group, and have to answer to people who think they know what’s best for everyone.”

“He's right,” Amy said. “We're better off on our own.”

Mills slowed down even more to negotiate the ramp down from the interstate.

“Can we ever run far enough away from a bureaucracy?” he asked.

19. Bronte

The growing humidity and heat were almost liquid on his skin. Just walking around almost felt like swimming.

Almost.

Bronte caught himself thinking about Janicea— something he couldn't stop doing lately. He wondered specifically what kind of happiness they would be able to have in this new, savage world. The one thing he was sure of was that, with her, happiness might still be possible.

It was hard to believe that they’d wasted so many years on meaningless hate. She was consumed by bigotry, and he with revenge. Too bad they didn't find a way to realize and hold onto what was most important: their mutual affection for each other.

He couldn't help pondering what could have been. Children of their own? The only consolation was that there was something now, even if the world was dying around them.

And there was Daric and Beth.

He closed his eyes briefly, and allowed himself the luxury of imagining what might yet be. All he needed was in her eyes, her smile. Maybe right here, on this island, they could make a safe haven.

With little effort, he managed to shift focus, and his thoughts wandered back to patrolling in Iraq. There was no humidity to speak of there, but the heat could bake you all the same. He’d also had to contend with the sand by wearing goggles and a scarf over the mouth and nose. And watch out for IUDs. Get careless walking along and your life could be over just like that. He had to stay vigilant.

Very faint and far away, he heard a scream and several gunshots. Janicea's eyes met his. She looked concerned. Bronte shook his head, and she visibly relaxed.

Tracks was walking about twenty feet ahead, on the other side of the street, when he heard a shotgun blast somewhere nearby. Someone shouted, followed by a smaller gunshot. Janicea stood frozen, bent over from the waist, tying her shoe, her rifle on the street. Bronte realized the sound came from back where they came from...where the kids were!

Tracks ran back toward him.

Janicea stood up, rifle in her hands.

A sallow-faced woman with long, wavy brown hair stepped up from behind a hedge and pointed a pistol at Janicea. Before Bronte could react, the woman pulled the trigger.

The shot must have missed. Recoil jerked the woman's aim skyward. In seeming slow motion, the woman lowered the gun, aiming again, face contorted with rage and determination.

Janicea's rifle barrel was pointed at the woman's stomach. She seemed paralyzed, whether by the close call, or simple shock, it was hard to say.

Unfortunately, the woman's pistol was pointed at her face.

Bronte fired from the hip, squeezing off a short burst from his rifle. The woman jerked spastically as the bullets struck, fell backward, and didn't move.

Janicea looked sick. Her head slowly swiveled in his direction, and her eyes widened.

“Watch out!” she shouted.

Gunfire erupted close by, and Bronte dove for the ground, rolling behind a car. Bullets ricocheted off the road and nearby cars. Tracks was slow and got caught in the open. He was firing back, but he was struck at least once, bad enough to make him drop the machine gun, and fall to his knees.

Bronte edged around the car, spotted another woman, the one who shot Tracks. She was calmly reloading a revolver from a handful of bullets in her hand. He aimed briefly and squeezed off another burst. The gun and bullets flew from her hands as she pivoted in a grotesque, bloody twirl before collapsing face-first onto the pavement.

He forced himself to focus. Don't think about Tracks now. Look around. Two more women were sprawled on the nearby lawn—one still moving. Both bathed in blood. Tracks was sitting down now, wiping at what was probably a superficial cut on his forehead. His other hand clutched his stomach.

Bronte and Janicea were unharmed.

More shots echoed from the direction of the boats.

“Are you okay, Tracks?” Janicea asked.

“Bullet creased my ribs. Bleeding, but okay,” Tracks answered.

“What do we do, Bronte?” Janicea asked. He heard her voice, but it came from a distance. His heart was pounding, and he was breathing hard. Probably hyperventilating. Not so long ago there was hope, but now...he didn't believe for a moment that Tracks' ribs were creased. Blood pooled beneath him as they spoke.

Tracks said, voice hoarser than usual, “Save the kids!”

His eyes were pleading. The pool of blood was spreading on the asphalt. A trickle meandered into the gutter.

“Tracks, you lied!” Janicea sobbed.

Something clicked. He realized that Janicea had clicked her safety off on her rifle. She would have been dead if he hadn’t attempted that hip shot. Now, she was running—back to the house in front of the boats. He was still paralyzed, watching his one and only friend. Torn about what to do.

“Help her,” Tracks rasped. “Save those kids!”

Bronte nodded, but Tracks didn't see.

Heart in his mouth, Bronte turned away and followed Janicea. She was almost out of sight, and he picked up his pace, running as if they were his own kids, desperate to save them.

And the woman he loved.

Tears ran like a river down his face as he grieved for his friend.

20. Johnny

The pill bottle they gave him was labeled: Flexeril.

He still had the bottle clutched in his hand. Some guy said that it would stop his back spasms. He knew what that meant; the medicine would only cover up the pain, not fix it. It would probably make it hard to concentrate, too. Johnny’s mind was far away, wondering what had happened to the people he worked with, and worrying that the decision to leave wasn't the right one, if he should try to go back.

It wasn’t like there was anything for him here. The few friends he had were all back in St. Pete at work. At least if they were still alive that was. No one here would even think twice about him. He could feel himself losing patience. He had a plan now.

Nothing ever stopped him once his mind was made up. He just had to be patient and wait. The opportunity would arise.

“Stand over there, swabbie,” said the wiry older man with a gruff voice.

Johnny didn't point out that he wasn't in the Navy or a swabbie either, whatever that was.

As usual, he said nothing. It was easier to listen and obey than rebel and stand out.

Johnny joined the end of the line of people, dead last.

The man waited a moment with a sour look on his face and then said, “Listen up everybody! My name is Mr. Huff! You will address me with respect and do as I say, or you’ll find yourself in a bad place.”

Huff paused another second, as if waiting for that message to sink in.

“We’re going ashore to empty a warehouse of stuff we need. You all have been selected to load and unload. That may mean you are too dumb for another job, or maybe you just look strong. Whatever the reason, you will work hard, understand me?”

Several people near Johnny answered, “Yes, sir,” in a near chorus.

The man stepped in front of Johnny and had to look up. “Do you understand me?” Huff asked.

Johnny smiled and nodded. He knew he wouldn't be lifting anything, but figured there was no point in trying to explain that to this guy.

Huff looked like he wanted to say more, but after the silence drew out and Johnny didn't flinch away, he said, “Follow me.”

The line he and the other people were in dissolved, and in a ragtag bunch, all of them trailed along behind Huff, up a staircase to the next deck, and then through a door and outside. One of the big lifeboats was ready and waiting for them to board. Johnny noticed that it had an enclosed cabin and that there was an engine on the back.

“Find a seat, everybody!” Huff said.

Johnny squeezed in, trying not to scream in pain, beside an overweight black kid whose ass was hanging out of the back of his pants. The kid had a big, moon-shaped face and a sad smile.

“Hi, my name is Marcel,” he said, pushing nerdy, black-framed glasses back up his nose.

Johnny wondered if he was French or something with a name like that. He didn't hear a French accent, though. He smiled back.

“Don't you speak?” Marcel asked.

Johnny shook his head.

“That's okay, you don't have to. Your name is Johnny, right?” Marcel pointed at Johnny's nametag.

Johnny smiled.

“Okay, Johnny, we'll stick together, and I'll look out for you. Just cover my back. Sound good?”

Johnny almost answered. Marcel was so nice that it was disarming.

“Pipe down, and listen up!” shouted Huff. The boat was nearly full, and Johnny could tell they were being lowered down to the water. “Just before we reach the docks, we are going to issue some of you weapons. Nothing special, just bats, knives and axes, but I expect them to be returned later! Don't lose your weapon! Are we clear?”

Most the guys sitting around Johnny shouted out a “Yes,” including Marcel.

The boat struck the water hard enough to jostle everyone. And make Johnny scream.

21. Clive

Both of them were breathing hard once he finally allowed them to stop and rest.

“Who are you?” Candace asked him, as they crouched behind an immense pile of boxes. Clive paused a moment and read the label. Saw the acronym: MRE. Meals Ready To Eat. He was well familiar with these meals, but his memory of them was from the late eighties. It seemed like a long time ago. Most likely these weren't that old. At least he hoped not. They were probably still good, even then, though.

“I'm Clive. Secret Service.”

“I thought I recognized you but wasn't sure if you were a diplomat, or an agent,” Candace replied, giving him a warm smile. “Thanks for rescuing me back there. I’m pretty sure I'd be lunch right now otherwise.”

“Part of the job, ma'am.”

“I think you've earned the right to call me Candace.”

The suggestion puzzled him, then he remembered shouting at her to kick her shoes off.

“Ah, I remember now. Very well, Candace. Do you want to stay here while I try to locate the president?”

“Absolutely not! Please take me with you!”

“Just wanted to give you the choice. I'm glad you want to come along. I'm not handling this very well. Are you?”

“Not really, Clive. What I'd like to do is find a place to hide, and just stay there. Every time we go through a door, I keep expecting something awful to happen. Tell me that you have a lot of bullets left!”

“I do, Candace, but I'm not sure that there’ll be enough. If we get into a gunfight with our own people, I could use up what I have quickly.”

She blinked her eyes slowly, mouth set in a grim line, eyes big and a bit shiny. He hoped she wasn't about to cry.

“I can't believe we can turn against one another in this type of situation. People are shocking me now that the lights are going out. It's like there was just a paper-thin veneer of civilization covering caveman savagery. All ripped away now...”

“I think it was always this way, Candace. We've just been living in a Disney Land. Our real world was never real.”

She looked blank but nodded.

He stood up and pulled her up with him. An air conditioner return was rattling nearby, but that was all he heard.

“Follow me, then,” he said, then blushed a bit when she didn't let go of his hand.

“Do you mind, Clive?”

It was his injured hand, but it was more comforting than painful. “Not at all, Candace. Don't let go.”

He thought she was blushing, but he couldn't be sure. His stomach certainly was buzzing, and when they stepped back into the corridor, he could feel a goofy grin on his face.

“Are you amused by something, Clive?” she asked.

He shrugged. “No, not amused. Grateful, I think, not to be alone, and that it’s with someone like you.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

22. Natalie

Dawn was breaking, chasing away the darkness.

Natalie gestured with the gun. “Step away from my car!” she snarled.

The sneer on the girl's face didn't waver. “What are you gonna do— shoot me?”

Natalie smiled. “Probably not, but I could call those guys who are chasing you...”

The sneer faded to something verging on pathetic. “Please,” she said. “Please don't! Take me with you. I won't cause trouble.”

“Why should I? If I'd left the keys in the car, I'd be standing here alone right now.”

“I'm just scared. I didn't mean to offend you.”

Natalie looked away, thinking it over. Do I really need this? The girl looked sincere. Having a friend would be nice...I wouldn't be alone.

Natalie reached into her pocket, fished out the keys, and came around to the driver's side. “Once I'm in, you can get in the passenger seat,” she told her, then opened the driver's door and slid in. She quickly put the keys in the ignition and placed the gun in her lap. She turned the key as the girl opened the passenger door and sat down next to her. The sound of their doors slamming was loud, and Natalie wasted no time turning the engine and headlights on. She shifted into drive and steered around the Banyan and north toward 22nd Avenue.

“What's your name?” Natalie asked her.

“I'm Nella,” the girl answered.

At the edge of the park, over near 5th Street, Natalie saw one of the girl's pursuers running in their direction. He wasn't even close when she gave the pedal some gas and careened into a right turn onto 22nd. She could tell that he was shouting something, but couldn't make out what.

In a moment, he was a shadow diminishing in the distance, and they rocketed toward the intersection of 4th Street. There were a bunch of cars locked together in the middle of the intersection, so Natalie broke hard and steered to the left onto 4th at close to forty miles per hour.

They clipped the side of a red Hyundai and sent it flying with a loud bang. Natalie barely kept control, and only narrowly missed hitting a Land Rover. They were also travelling north in the southbound lanes, but Natalie wasn't overly concerned. They were the only moving car on the road.

At the intersection of 30th Avenue North, Natalie slowed down because an ambulance, a tow truck and two police cars were still parked in and across part of the southbound and northbound lanes. One wrecked car was up on the tow truck ramp and another was still wrapped around a light pole in the median. Glass and debris littered the road. Only one lane, the outside, was clear on either side, and orange cones were lined up along both sides.

The dead were everywhere, and most of them were still walking around. Several noticed the sound of the approaching car and turned their way. Natalie spotted at least one police uniform among them.

The car's speed was down to twenty when several of the dead walked into the clear lane on the southbound side. Natalie was considering whether to just run them over when Nella suggested, “Drive up on the sidewalk!”

With about five seconds to make a decision, Natalie drove up over the curb, knocked over a sign that read “Truman List for Mayor” and ran over more debris from the wrecked cars. Both girls winced even though the wheels took the obstructions with no apparent trouble. Natalie goosed their speed up to thirty and blew right past five zombies as they were tripping over the curb. There was a thump as the back right wheel ran over one of them, and then Natalie took them back onto the road. They were past the emergency vehicles and for several blocks it appeared that both sides of the road were clear.

A block or so short of the intersection of 38th Avenue North and 4th Street North, Natalie hit the brake and fought the wheel, trying to prevent a roll, or worse...

She pulled to a stop and sighed. The whole intersection was a mass of fallen power poles, and the twisted, burned wrecks of cars. It was obvious that several people had tried to plow their way through the wreckage with big SUVs only to fail and become part of what must have been an inferno. The smell of burned flesh was still strong.

She closed her eyes for a moment and rested her head on the steering wheel.

Nella placed her hand on her shoulder, and gave her a shake. “Come on, we have to go! We don't have time for giving up!”

“If you knew what I've been through, you'd understand, but I guess we've all been through a lot,” Natalie said, while looking around. The dead were approaching from all directions.

“Which way are we going to go?” Nella asked nervously.

“This way.” Natalie floored the gas pedal while turning sharply to the left—west—in between a line of store fronts. A crowd was closing in on them from every direction except that way.

The avenue they turned onto was narrow due to an almost solid line of cars parked along the right side of the road against the curb. Most of these houses didn't have a driveway, or even a car pad.

A tall, beefy guy in a grimy t-shirt and cut-off shorts was in the middle of the road, standing beside an immense pick-up truck. His white, hairy, over-large belly peeked from beneath a green t-shirt. He lunged toward the car as they passed him, and was unable to hold on. Natalie grimaced when he stumbled and the car rolled right over him. She didn't allow herself to think about it or be distracted.

“Was he one of them?” Nella asked.

Natalie shrugged. “Beats me. I didn't want to stop and get to know him.”

Nella burst out laughing. “That's harsh!”

There was a cross street up ahead. Probably 5th Street. On the other side, the road was paved with brick cobbles. Natalie knew they'd left the creatures behind them, but still kept her speed up. The ride got rough, enough so that she was forced to slow down or shake every tooth in their heads loose.

A line of garbage cans were overturned into the street and their path was full of trash. Several bags had burst and they were going slow enough to smell the stench.

The houses were much nicer here. The yards were well maintained and watered. Lots of trees. Many of the houses were two-story. That first block, the houses were mostly small, probably two bedrooms on small parcels. Here, they were sometimes on more than one lot.

“Where to now?” Natalie asked.

“We need to hide,” Nella replied. “We keep driving around like this, we'll probably run into more of them.”

“How about here?”

They were close to Martin Luther King Street. There was a beautiful park and a creek on their left, and the line of houses continued to their right. Natalie pointed at a mansion on their right. She steered onto the house's driveway and parked right in front of a short, wide flight of stairs to the front door. She exited the car quickly with the gun in hand. Nella joined her, and grabbed her by the arm.

“Keep going around to the back,” she said.

The house had a six foot wooden fence surrounding the backyard. The gate was hanging open.

“God, I hope the house is empty,” Nella said.

Around back, the door to the attached two car garage was also open. With a sigh, she hefted the pistol. “Might be better to have low expectations.”

23. Booth

Although he could feel her eyes upon him, Booth forced himself not to acknowledge or meet her gaze. What was she hoping for? Or what was he? He was part of a group of people who were trying to get her back to her husband. Basically, a servant.

There was no room for anything else. He told himself that maybe he’d read her wrong. He sure didn’t need any entanglements, especially those that include children.

The pilot, Duncan, said over the headphones, “We'll be landing in just a couple minutes.”

Booth checked his rifle once more. The safety was off, and there was a round in the chamber. The airport was coming up on their right.

The child, George, asked Lassiter something. Booth heard him answer, “About twelve hundred feet up, son.”

Booth leaned over, and looked out. Ulmerton Road was below them, cluttered with cars all along its length and verges. At this height people were visible, but were only obvious when clustered in groups. There were several groups, but none of them appeared to be of the still living variety.

Just north of the road were some woods. Booth saw, what was probably, a bike trail and a bright red rectangle that might be someone's tent and then a big, barren area of burned, uprooted trees and scattered wreckage. Shortly after, they passed over the airport's perimeter and off to the right a runway marked with a big numeral four. The helicopter banked to the left, following the path of the road. The airport's cluster of terminal buildings were next, but their airspeed and altitude was dropping off. Booth noticed that their course was taking them close to the control tower. They were about three hundred feet above the ground when they drew even and hovered about fifty feet away from the slender structure.

Hicks remarked, “Must be checking the tower before touching down.”

Booth nodded. He was sure that was what Duncan and Lot were doing. He just didn't understand why. There was nothing to see. The tower's windows were solar-coated and reflected like mirrors. Several moments passed, then they resumed the northerly heading.

An access road beyond the tower was clogged with stalled cars, and three parking lots close to the large and nearby terminal building were full. The Coast Guard's Air Station was coming up next. People were wandering all over, like it was normal behavior to roam around flight lines and restricted areas. The helicopter was low enough now to see several of them look up and raise their arms.

Booth didn't think they were signaling for help.

They rapidly lost height. Booth estimated that they were about two hundred feet up when just ahead he saw two large Coast Guard planes in front of several huge aircraft hangars. The pilots changed course again, bearing more to the left. With the planes about a hundred yards away, the helicopter hovered, then descended in a slow spiral.

The colonel cleared his throat. He cradled a short, stubby MP-5 submachine gun. “I want you two to head into the hangar with Lassiter here and look for those external tanks. If you find them, bring 'em on back. Either way, we need to fuel up also, but I think the pilots got that covered. Any questions?”

Booth and Hicks both answered, “No, sir.”

The helicopter set down on the edge of the pad, near the grass. Quite a mess covered most of the pad. Two wrecked helicopters were there, and looked as if one may have crashed into the other. Both were surrounded by debris and the concrete itself looked scorched all around them in a wide area.

“Get a move on!” the colonel ordered. The two soldiers were up immediately, and Lassiter wasn't far behind. All three exited the chopper, staying stooped over, and hustled away from the wash. Booth turned back briefly once they were clear and saw the colonel follow them out, but stop.

Booth suspected he was taking guard duty.

None of them stuck around to see what happened next, and Booth took point. He motioned to Hicks to take the left flank, Lassiter to take the right, and then they moved out in a wedge formation with Booth at the point.

The grass was getting high, probably due to be mowed when everything went to hell. Going through it was quicker than trying to stick to the tarmac, though. Booth spotted a body almost immediately, curled up in the fetal position. It may have been a man, but the corpse was burned to a crisp, one foot still wearing an intact military style boot.

“Nothing moving around here, thank God,” Lassiter remarked. Booth noticed that he looked jumpy, and his eyes were bloodshot. He'd rather have the guy in front of him, where he could keep an eye on him, but he didn't trust him to do a good job on point.

“Be sure that something isn't lurking around here,” Hicks replied. “There's a helluva lot of cars over in the parking lot. Hope they’re all cooped up over at the airport concourse.”

Booth was skeptical. Something bad was going to happen. He was sure of it.

24. Janicea

Janicea sprinted around to the back and saw Ralls on his back with a big hole in his chest. While she stood there, his left hand twitched, then his head moved.

He was dead.

But not really.

She stepped past him, glanced briefly into the house through the doorway, then ran toward the neighboring house and the gate that hung open.

She spotted another body, a woman's— not Sinclair—stepped over it, and ran straight into the arms of a large woman in sweat pants, a sleeveless t-shirt, and sneakers.

“Gotcha,” she said, while pulling Janicea tighter into her embrace.

She twisted frantically, trying to free herself. She lifted her leg, stomped down on the woman's left foot, and was suddenly free. She finally got a good look at her. She was big, tall, and her stomach was peeking out from under her too small shirt. Her brutish, square-jawed face was flushed, and she was reaching out to grab her again. Janicea backpedaled and tried to point the rifle at her. The barrel was still pointed at the ground when her finger found the trigger and jerked it. The barrel climbed as bullets spewed, working their way up and across the woman's body. The woman fell backward, arms wind milling, and Janicea realized that the gun must be empty. She felt along the weapon near the ammo clip or whatever it was called, found the release button, and pushed it. The clip fell with a clatter to the ground. I should save that, she thought randomly, but was already feeling for another one in a pouch hanging from her belt. She had only two clips left.

The big woman was making blood bubbles as she sucked wind, and Janicea thought she’d taken a round through the lungs, or something.

Janicea took a deep breath, and smelt something awful, evacuating bowels maybe. She shoved the oblong ammo clip up into the well and slapped it home, then released the bolt, just as Bronte had showed her. She was ready now.

The dying woman's eyes followed Janicea as she edged around her. No aggression was left in her expression now, just fear.

Janicea ignored her and resumed running for the open gate hanging in the side yard of the house. The gate creaked and swung closed with a gust of wind. She slowed, cursing to herself, and grabbed the gate latch. She almost kicked the door open in her haste, and stumbled on a sprinkler donut when she entered the front yard of the house.

She saw two women and a man running down the road to her right, disappearing around a curb as she heaved for breath. Was that the way Sinclair and the kids went?

Had to be, she told herself, and followed them.

25. Jacobs

“So, do you have a plan, mister?” Leo asked.

Jacobs didn't answer right away. He finished lifting Sussu into the motorcycle's sidecar, first. She sat there and panted, appearing happy, anyway. He rubbed her right ear and her tail wagged.

“No plan, son. Not yet. Just ideas.”

“I figure us joining you changed your plan, eh?”

Jacobs grinned at him. “You might say that.”

The truth was, he didn't have an idea of what to do. What was he going to do with a bunch of untrained kids? It was foolish of him to even try helping them. He had no idea what they were capable of. Would all of them listen to him? They were still alive at this point though, so maybe they weren't a bunch of dumbasses.

Of course that incident with the old lady didn't impress him at all. It was immature and cruel.

Jacobs gave the kid the once over, trying to gauge his character. “Listen, Leo, can I trust you?”

Leo nodded again. “I want to help. I know Kyle does too.”

“That's great, son, but what about the rest of them? Do you know everyone well?”

“Most of them are too scared to do anything else. We were in school when things got really crazy. We all lost our parents. We've been doing okay, but three people got killed yesterday. They know you give us a better chance. You know stuff we have no clue about.”

“That's good, Leo, because if any of them are trouble, I'd be better off on my own. They need to know that I don't have time for bullshit. Tomorrow we could all be dead. Understand what I'm saying, boy?”

He looked Leo in the eyes, and held the stare until the younger man looked away.

“I understand, sir. Like I said, they’ll do as you say.”

Jacobs grinned. “That's good. People who cross me don't have happy endings.”

“I believe you.”

Jacobs felt the boy was telling the truth, but that didn't mean that he trusted him. Until he knew what this teenager was capable of, it would be smarter to reveal his plans piecemeal.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Jacobs said, “let's discuss the next step. We need to establish a safe haven and then gather supplies. All this needs to be done while maintaining as low a profile as we can. I'm okay with taking in other survivors, but we have to be careful. Other groups are competition if they won't join with us. There’s only so much food and water to go around. Ultimately we'll need clear land and a fresh water supply. Probably would be best if we establish a base and then plan where we go afterwards. You with me on this, son?”

“Sounds great, sir. We thought of some of this, but it felt like I was treading water.”

Jacobs winked. “Our biggest worry isn't the zombies. It's other survivors and disease. If we stay here very long, we’ll have serious problems.”

The boy was rapt. Jacobs thought he might have found his right hand man. “I want you to park all the vehicles right here on the sidewalk in front of old lady whatshername's house, and I want everyone to go in there and be quiet. I want you to stay there, and take charge. I'll take your friend Kyle with me and see what he's made of. We're gonna do a recon of the area. I wanna see what we're facing, and find out what’s nearby. Any questions?”

Leo grimaced. “I probably have a million of them, but I just need to use my brain and figure it out.”

Jacobs clapped him on the back. “Good thinking! Send Kyle to me, and take my dog with you, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

The motorcycle cranked right up. A moment later, Kyle climbed into the sidecar. Thankfully the muffler noise was minimal. The two of them could go almost anywhere, and if necessary, the sidecar could be ditched, quickly and easily.

Jacobs steered them down the driveway and took them into the alley in a cloud of dust. They drove out onto 9th Avenue North and turned east. The interstate overpass wasn't far away. He didn't have a specific destination but wanted to get an idea how bad it was.

They drew near to what used to be Edward White Hospital, and Jacobs realized quickly that he had made a mistake. Hospitals were focal points. It would be better to find something with a wall.

He turned abruptly in the face of hundreds of the things, and went south.

26. Julie

She was more than a little drunk. It smoothed over some of the aches and pains from the crash. It wasn't doing anything for her mood to listen to a whiny child, though.

“I want to go outside, Mom!” George said, and finally he wore her down.

The two pilots were talking to each other over by an open hangar entrance about a hundred yards away, and the colonel was walking around with his gun slung across his chest, his finger on the trigger. He had a cigar in his mouth, but it apparently wasn't relaxing him. He paced back and forth, and was the most obviously alert sentry she'd ever seen.

The engine was still on and the rotors were still moving, although slow enough to be readily visible.

Julie had no idea which way Booth, Lassiter and that other soldier went. That bothered her, more than she cared to admit. The colonel also made her uneasy. He was jittery and on edge about something.

Was he on something? That thought startled her.

She was so sure that his sole motivation on this trip was to kiss ass. Or more specifically, kiss her husband's ass. A colonel looking for a star. She wasn't sure now.

One thing was sure. So far, she wasn't impressed. By him, anyway.

Now, that soldier, Booth...well, that was a different story. He was good at his job and courageous. He seemed friendly enough. She could probably count on him and Lassiter if something went wrong. Hicks was okay, but catching him picking his nose didn't build her confidence in how stable he was. Odds were that he was flaking out.

She caught herself yawning, and covered her mouth. She needed time in a nice, comfortable bed. Preferably with her hot-bodied bodyguard, Booth.

It had to be the alcohol loosening her up. Maybe she needed something to take her mind off the grief of losing her child. Fear hovered at the edge of everything now. What new horror would overtake her next?

“Mommy!”

Julie jumped. George pulled her hand. She realized that she'd stopped just beyond the rotors’ sweep and stood in the knee-high grass staring toward the hangars. She was facing the direction that Booth and the two other men had gone. At least, she thought so.

“I need to go to the bathroom, Mom,” George said.

“Okay, honey, just go ahead and pee right here.”

“Not pee, Mom. I have to poop!”

“Really?” she asked, before she could stop herself. It was a dumb question. George never lied about things like that. It made sense for him to go now, anyway. God knew when he'd have a chance again, once they were airborne.

George pulled her hand again.

“Okay, honey, just let me tell the colonel where we’re going.”

“We need to hurry, Mom!” George said, and pulled her toward the soldier.

The colonel looked at them immediately. “Need to stretch your legs, ma'am?” he asked, not quite yelling, but his voice was loud enough to be heard over the helicopter.

“He needs to go to the bathroom. Do you think there’s one in that hangar over there by the pilots?”

“I'm sure there is, but can't he just go in the grass...” The expression on her face clued him in. “I understand,” he said. “Just make sure one of the pilots go with you, okay?”

Julie frowned, but he was looking away. Obviously, he wasn't going with them. So much for all his brave words. Was she just a free ride back to D.C. for him?

She turned away and pulled George with her. He was all too willing to go.

27. Daric

Sinclair was forced to carry Beth. The bad thing about that was it slowed them down, almost as much as Daric's wounded leg, but not quite. They were running down the center of a two-lane road that looped around the island, and there were still dead people wandering around. The island wasn't safe, even if those people quit chasing them.

“Shouldn't we hide?” Beth asked. She was whining, and Daric was sure she wasn't realizing how serious the situation was. Sinclair murmured something to her. Almost baby talk.

Daric wanted the chance to shoot at the people following them. At the moment though, they had a head start and appeared to be getting away.

Up ahead, Daric spotted a road branching off, probably leading back south to the island's bridge. The other road appeared to go straight for at least another block. They were running past one well-kept rich person's house after another on either side of the road. Not many trees, other than palms, but nice yards, nice cars, and nice houses.

Daric heard a shout and looked back. A bullet plowed into the road a few feet away. Two women and a man were shouting at them, and shooting.

“This way, Daric!” Sinclair said, and he plunged off the road and behind an SUV parked in a driveway to their left. She crouched down and put Beth back on her feet; Beth was still crying.

“Come take her hand, Daric,” said Sinclair. “Go around to the back of that house and see if you can find the way back to the boats, or find Bronte or Tracks. Try to stay in backyards if you can. The others were coming this way.”

Daric didn't want to leave Sinclair, but Beth needed him to be brave. He didn't let himself think about it. He grabbed her hand and told her to run with him. The moment they appeared around the other side of the SUV's rear, more bullets whizzed by and struck the nearby house, shattering a window.

Daric ran toward the side of the house, hoping there wasn't a locked fence. The driveway was made of reddish-brown paving stones in triangle shapes, and a sidewalk of the same design bordered by flower beds to the left led around to the back of the house.

The two of them trampled right through the flower beds. When they turned the corner, Daric saw that there was a fence and a gate, but it was chain link and only about four feet high. The only problem was that he couldn't see back there. A tall, thick hedge grew right up against the links, and the whole backyard looked like a jungle beyond it.

“Open the gate, Beth,” Daric told her, and let go of her hand.

Fortunately, she didn't argue, and he was able to pull his pistol out and double back to the edge of the house to see what had happened to Sinclair. Bullets flew by and struck the house, but he didn't let that stop him.

Sinclair was on her belly beneath the SUV shooting her rifle. He couldn't see the people who were chasing them.

“Come on, Daric!” Beth hissed at him.

He forced himself to turn away, and went back to Beth. She was waiting at the gate and looked scared and angry. She took his left hand in her right, and led the way.

“We have to find somewhere to hide!” she said.

“Yeah.”

Four zombies stood at the other side of the house, pressed up against the fence, probably trying to get out. He heard them moaning as they thrashed and pressed against the gate. Obviously, they didn't know how to open a latch.

“Good thing we didn't go that way,” Beth whispered. “What do we do now?”

He looked around the house for a back door or another gate. There wasn't a back gate. Lush trees and foliage grew along the length of the fence, and he could see water beyond it but no gate. They had to pick the one house, probably on the whole island, that didn't have a dock and a boat. As to a door to the house, he could see shattered glass all over the small patio approximately halfway behind the house, likely from a sliding glass door.

“What do we do, Daric?”

Beth was verging on panic. He was too. He knew that unless he kept it together, like he used to when his dad would go on a binge, they were going to get hurt, or even killed.

“I don't hear any more shots, Daric. Do you think they killed her? We better go back.”

The zombies were still trying to get out. If anything, they seemed more frantic about it. He was sure someone was still out there. A little voice in his head screamed at him to make a decision.

“We'll sneak into the house, Beth. We can't go back now. Sinclair would call for us if she killed them.”

“But the zombies can get in there, Daric!”

“There's an upstairs. We'll sneak up there and lock the door. They'll never know we’re there.”

“I can't. They'll get us.”

“I'm with you, Beth. I won't let them.”

“Promise me, Daric.”

“I promise,” he said, and squeezed her hand.

She was so solemn. “Okay, but we have to real quiet. Watch where you put your feet. Stay away from leaves or sticks.”

Once again she led the way and they crept slowly through the mass of glass glittering in the sunlight. When they reached the doorway, they heard a male voice from the front of the house shout, “Got the bitch!”

Those words gave him an idea. He didn’t consider whether it would work or not; there was too much he didn't know. He had to do it and hope for the best.

And that was familiar. His only option used to be hiding in the attic and hoping for the best. This time, at least, he wasn't alone, and he had a gun. He wished he had time to tell Beth.

“Run, Beth!” he shouted.

She was startled but didn't argue. The zombies turned their way almost immediately and shambled toward them. Daric's and Beth's feet crunched on the glass, and he knew that they never would have made it without being heard anyway. He said a quick prayer in the hope that there were no zombies inside the house, too, but it wasn’t like he could do anything if there were.

The room beyond was a dining room with a wood floor, a big table and chairs. Nothing separated it from the living room beyond. As they ran stumbling through, he caught a fleeting impression of antique furniture and a huge painting. Daric pulled Beth along, looking for the front door. Beth didn't protest, and that was a relief.

They entered a carpeted hallway with more paintings and family pictures, old black and white photos of severe-looking white people. Ahead and to their left was the front door. To the right was a big staircase, and a doorway that led back into the house. Daric threw himself at the door and tried the handle. Locked! Beth leaned against the wall beside him.

“Why?” she asked, but he was too busy to answer. There were three locks on the door— two on the door itself and one in the knob.

Behind them, not far away, he heard the zombies following them.

At last, he unlocked the door. “Run upstairs when I open the door. I'll be right behind you.”

“Okay, Daric,” she said, and he opened the door.

He had no idea what to expect, but seeing that creep from the beach with his foot on Sinclair's body like she was a dead deer or something was too much.

He almost forgot his plan.

The guy seemed as surprised as he was. A tall, attractive blonde woman was standing beside him. Both were laughing, but stopped when they saw Daric framed in the doorway.

It would have been the perfect time to raise his gun and start shooting, but he was too afraid that he'd miss. Instead, he kept to his inner, probably flawed, script and stood there just long enough to see them both run at him. He darted back inside the house. He heard them both shout, but he couldn’t make out what they said. He saw no sign of the zombies yet, but he still had the gun. Took the stairs two at a time. No sign of Beth. He noticed a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, high overhead, crocheted art with sticks on the walls of the landing. Someone's baby doll was on the top step of the second floor. He scooped it up on the run, and found Beth waiting for him next to an open door.

“I’m coming to get you, little fuck!” came from below, accompanied by loud footsteps on the stairs.

He took Beth's hand again and pulled her into the bedroom, stopping long enough to kick the door closed behind them and lock it.

They were in the master bedroom. It was flowery with pastel bed coverings, mauve paint on the walls, fake flowers in vases, and a mirror over the bed. Straight ahead were closed doors to a balcony, to the left a closed door to a bathroom, and an open sliding closet door.

Daric had to make a quick decision: hide in the bathroom, balcony, or closet?

“Get under the bed,” he told Beth.

She complied, Daric ran for the closet.

Bare seconds later, someone kicked the door in.

Daric crouched in the closet, the pistol in his right hand, and his left on the door.

“Where are you, little fucker?” the man's voice asked. He must be standing just inside the room.

“Do we really have to kill the kid, Ray?” the woman's voice asked. She had a nasal voice, and sounded like she was still in the hall. He needed them both in here. He was going to have to get close with this little gun. Too bad it wasn't one of those big ones that could shoot through walls. Maybe he could shoot through the door, but what good would that do if he couldn't see who he was shooting?

“He's the one who shot me, Cora! I'm killing his ass for that!”

“Ray, did you hear that? I think someone's downstairs.”

“He ran up here.”

“Doesn't mean someone couldn't be down—”

“For fuck's sake, go check it out then!”

“But I've only got one bullet left for my shotgun.”

Daric heard the door to the bathroom open.

“Guess that means you wait for me then, eh, Cora?” Ray asked.

“I hear footsteps on the stairs, Ray!”

“It's probably just Lou, but be ready. You think that little fuck is hiding under the bed?”

Daric couldn't wait any longer. He couldn't let the creep get Beth. He slid the door into the wall, and almost stumbled into the room. His leg was getting stiff, but somehow he kept his feet. Ray was on hands and knees, bent over. One hand lifted the comforter, and Cora was standing close to her husband, facing the door out to the hall. She spun toward Daric and he brought the little gun up and fired three times, the sound surprisingly loud in the enclosed space. He wasn't sure how many bullets hit her, but she did jerk a little, and fold over as if something invisible had gut-punched her. Her face was gray when she dropped the shotgun and fell to her hands and knees on the carpet. The creep was shouting and was back on his feet. Daric realized that he wasn't going to be fast enough, but started to swing his gun hand around anyway.

Something crashed into the bedroom door frame. He didn't bother to look, but Ray did. He froze. Daric heard the zombie moan when it fell on Cora, but forced himself to ignore it and aim at Ray.

Ray looked horrified. His gun was still aimed at Daric, but his gaze was on the woman.

Daric aimed at the guy's torso. ‘Center mass’ was what he’d heard it called. He squeezed the trigger, took a step, fired again, took a step. He fired until the gun clicked on an empty chamber and locked open.

Ray stayed up for the first five shots, but fell back on the bed for the rest. His gun fell to the carpet. Daric wasn't sure whether he was dead or alive, but his eyes were closed. He could see small blossoming spots of red all over Ray's chest.

Beth scuttled out from under the bed and picked the gun up. She had to use both hands, and Daric could tell it was too heavy for her. Her arms were thin, and the thing was huge.

More moans came from the doorway, and Daric turned back to look while backing toward Beth.

A male zombie was on top of Cora, an older white guy in a tennis outfit. One of his arms was mostly bone and sinew. All the meat from the elbow down was shredded. Cora was sprawled facedown with the thing on top of her but wasn't moving. It chewed on the back of her neck. Another zombie, this one a white teenage female, dropped to her knees beside the old zombie and bit into the back of Cora's thigh.

Neither of the zombies appeared to notice him or Beth yet.

Daric pulled Beth behind the bed and whispered to her to keep an eye on the zombies while he reloaded his pistol.

“Okay,” she said, “but couldn't you just use this gun, and we'll shoot our way out now?”

“Yeah, but what if we run out of bullets for it?”

“I didn't think of that. Can I use that gun? This one is too big for me. I think I'd only be able to shoot one in the foot.”

Daric almost giggled at that, but controlled himself. “Sure,” he answered, “but just be careful where you point it, okay?”

“I know that! I'm not a child. We're almost the same age, Daric!”

He had the magazine out and was feeding bullets into it as fast as he could.

“Ewww, this is so gross. Please, let's get out of here, Daric!”

“Almost done,” he answered. “There, now let's switch guns.”

The whole bed moved, and the two of them froze. Heavy footsteps started in their direction. Beth whimpered. A large, muscular, long-haired zombie stood over them.

Ray was back.

28. Keller

A flock of birds rose in a dark cloud when Mills pulled the fire truck in front of the grocery store's entrance. The birds’ retreat revealed the remains of twenty or more human carcasses littering the parking lot. Several vehicles were still there also.

The smell was awful, every bit equal to the carnage before them. Blood, viscera, and gleaming bone were all on display, scattered across the pavement. Keller was checking his flashlight when Mills said to Talaski, “One crime scene after another, all over town, eh, Nick?”

Talaski barked a short, bitter-sounding laugh. “That is business as usual, Adam. How many flashlights do we have?”

“I got one,” Mills answered.

“Me too,” Amy said.

“Guess Amy and I will share one until we find more,” Keller said.

“Right!” Amy said. “I'll light 'em up, and you mow 'em down!”

Keller laughed.

“We'll check the register area and the service desk first if that sounds good to everyone?” Talaski suggested.

“But before that, do you want to try to park this bastard up against the doors?” Mills asked, motioning toward the fire engine.

“I don't think you can get any closer and still leave us a way in,” Keller said.

“That's true,” Mills replied. “That means at least one of us needs to stand guard out here.”

“Better to stay in pairs. Why don't you and I go in, Adam, while Matt and Amy watch the doors and truck?”

Keller shrugged. Amy said, “Looks spooky in there, but I'd like to see what we can get.”

“Guess it’s settled then. Adam and I stand guard, and you two go in and stock up.”

Mills said, “Canned goods are probably the only thing still edible. And some of the produce, like tomatoes.”

Amy smiled,” You’re forgetting lots of stuff. Chips and bread too! We can make sandwiches or something. Chips and salsa. I'm hungry.”

Keller smiled. Amy was such a breath of fresh air. He wished he could have met her long ago, before their world was destroyed. Still, meeting her now would still be sweet if they could find or create somewhere safe to live.

“Here, just in case, take my flashlight,” Talaski said, handing his to Keller.

“Okay, Amy, let's get a cart and go.”

“Be careful in there!” Talaski called after them.

Keller looked up. Talaski was smiling and giving him a thumbs up. He knew his friend was struggling just as much as he was over allowing Amy to go in. The reality was, though, if this was the way the world was now, then the sooner she gained confidence and learned what to do, the better. Sheltering and babying her was not only impractical, but impossible. Each member of their little tribe needed to contribute.

Amy flicked her flashlight on as they entered through the shattered doors of the store's vestibule. There were still quite a few shopping carts inside. “Get a good one,” she told him. “Some of them have bad wheels.”

“Good thinking,” he replied. The first one he tried rolled fine, and Amy preceded him into the store. He heard her gasp and didn't need a flashlight to see why. The light was still good enough and fell far enough inside for them to see dead bodies. Keller stopped a moment, giving the grotesque tableau some thought.

“These people were probably zombies when they were shot. See the bites? Someone searched their bodies afterwards too,” he said, pointing at turned out pockets and personal items scattered here and there beside bodies.

“What would anyone want from them?” Amy asked. “Surely not money. Car keys?”

Keller smiled at her, again. “Exactly! That makes sense.”

“I hope they killed all the zombies in here for us. Think they’re still here?”

“Might be. We need to be careful. I'm sure not everyone who survived is good.”

The little grin she wore faded. “Takes a lot of the fun out of grocery shopping. Still, you’re with me, and we do have guns.”

He had to check, but there was still a twinkle in her eyes.

“These are some good points,” he said, and when he leaned toward her for a kiss, she smiled. Their lips met, and he thought about how good it was. Amy pressed her body against his, and for a moment, both of them unleashed everything they'd held pent up. The kiss stretched out, her hunger every bit a match for his.

“Later,” Keller promised.

“Oh yes, count on it,” she replied, looking at him with such affection that he didn't want to let her go.

“Sure hope so.” He squeezed her hand. “We better get moving...”

“Okay,” she replied, still smiling.

“Where to first?”

She panned her flashlight around and walked past a table filled with pastries. Many of them were on the floor, but there were several undamaged boxes. “Do you like chocolate chip cookies with frosting?”

“Cookie cakes? Sure, but—”

“We have worse things to worry about that how big our waists are, Mister! We have our first purchase.” She put the big cookie box in the cart. “See, and it even says Happy Birthday! Congratulations!”

“Ha! It's not my birthday, but okay.”

“It's a new world. This is our first birthday, together. We can be twenty-five forever now. Who's gonna keep track of the date?”

“Makes sense.”

He realized that they were making a lot of noise, but figured that it was better to go ahead and alert the zombies and get it over with. If there were bad people, well then, something bad was going to happen anyway.

“Canned goods are next,” Amy said. “You do realize that we could spend hours in here getting everything we need, right? I'm sure there’s a pharmacy.”

Keller hadn't thought that far yet, but was glad she did.

“We probably should go there first, but food is important,” she added.

She kept the flashlight constantly panning around. They passed a big display of sports drinks. Amy grabbed several six packs in various flavors and added them to the cart.

A lot of cans were on the floor.

“Clean up on aisle four,” he said. He couldn't tell whether Amy laughed.

“Why don't you take your flashlight out and stand guard while I load up. I'll make sure to get plenty of canned meat for you guys.”

“Sounds good,” he said.

He gave her the cart and followed her into the aisle, flashlight in one hand, shotgun in the other.

“What are you humming?” he asked.

“I know it's weird, but I'm creeped out right now and am trying to pretend that it’s normal for you and I to be grocery shopping in a building full of dead people.”

“Okay, but what song is that?”

“Night Fever, by the Bee Gees. My favorite song if we're talking about the seventies.”

“Really? I should have recognized it. I love the Bee Gees. Do you sing, or just hum?”

Her eyes were dancing. “I sing, but not unless I'm alone or drunk.”

He laughed. “One stop at the booze aisle coming up!”

“You want me to sing?”

“Why not? How bad could you be?”

She grabbed cans of peas, then some mixed vegetables. “Not so bad, I guess,” she answered. “Do you like tuna?”

“Ah, changing the subject, are we? Yes, I like tuna. The chicken is pretty good, also.”

“You got it.”

“You’re pretty agreeable, do you know that?”

“Well, you are pretty easy on the eyes, you know.”

“Are you flirting with me, ma'am?”

“Not if you call me that!” She wrinkled her nose. “You don't eat Vienna Sausages, do you?”

“If I said yes, would it be a deal breaker?”

A clatter came from the back of the store. Both of them stood still, listening, flashlights playing each way down the aisle. Keller took a step toward the noise and whispered, “I’d better check it out. Someone’s in here.”

“I'm coming with you,” Amy whispered back. “If there’s a lot of them, we run, right?”

“Yeah,” he answered.

Another crash came from the back of the store—this one sounding like a whole display of cans falling.

“We could just go,” she said, “and I'll still respect you.”

“Hush, and stick close to me.”

A can rolled across the aisle from the right and came to a stop against the counter's end on their left. Looked like a Campbell's Soup can. Amy's flashlight followed its progress.

Something made a grunting noise as Keller edged around the corner and looked right. Two zombies were stumbling through the cans, one of them on hands and knees. The one on its feet was a mixed race guy of about twenty, with a chunk of his cheek missing and a big hole in his chest. The one on the ground was a wiry, teenaged, Middle-Eastern girl missing her right hand, and most of her nose.

Keller raised the shotgun smoothly to his shoulder, put the barrel almost in the face of the guy, and squeezed the trigger. The blast was loud, and the nearly headless corpse fell to the tiled floor.

Before he could switch targets, Amy stepped up beside him and squeezed off a shot of her own. The female zombie slumped to the floor

“Nice shot,” he remarked.

“What do we do when we run out of bullets? We better find some back-up weapons soon. I think I'd want a bat or something. Stabbing people is icky.”

“Can't argue with that.”

“Are you laughing at me? I'm serious.”

“No, stabbing someone, undead cannibal or not, is up close and personal. Just try to remind yourself that you'll be one of them if they bite you.”

“I remember. Think there are more of them? Should we go check, or keep shopping?”

“I say we finish shopping. Nick and Adam will be wondering about the gunfire, so be careful if you hear someone coming.”

“Let's grab some of those canned hams and some soups, and move on then.”

He looked down at the bloody mess at their feet. “Not this soup.”

She shook her head. “No, not any of these soups.”

29. Bronte

With every step he ran, Bronte sobbed. He'd seen people with similar wounds. His friend Tracks, the best friend he'd ever had, was going to die. Even if he'd stayed, it would take a skilled surgeon to save him.

There weren't any medevac’s to call. No paramedics. No emergency rooms. All of that was gone now.

What was left were friends and loved ones. And it seemed as if every day, he had a smaller circle of people he cared about that made life worth living. Hell, he wasn’t even forty, and he’d lost almost everything that made life good.

The sound of renewed gunfire shook him out of near incapacitating grief. Janicea appeared before him, running from the backyard of the house where they’d docked the boats.

“They went that way, Bronte!” she shouted, pointing to his left and panting for breath.

He heard near continuous gunfire now, and shouts.

“Stick with me,” he said, “we'll save the kids.”

“Ralls is dead!”

Bronte let the words go by him. She didn't mention Sinclair or the kids, so hope continued to live within him. If they were dead, though, that would be a different story. Having their group whittled down to the two of them might be too much to bear.

A stray bullet whizzed nearby, but it didn't slow either one of them. Then the shots stopped. He was about three houses from turning the corner where he thought the firefight was going on when all fire ceased.

“Oh dear lord, Bronte...” Janicea said, but he didn't stop or wait to see what was going on. He rounded the corner at full speed, sprinting too fast for Janicea to keep up. She would have to take care of herself and follow him. He couldn't let any more of their people die.

He saw a house on the right with a woman's body sprawled beside an SUV, and a man standing over her. The door to the house was open.

The woman's hair was long and red.

No! I've led everyone to their deaths! There was no denying it. Bronte was calling the shots.

Without realizing it, he was screaming the word, “No!” as he ran toward his fallen friend. The man looked up, raised his own rifle, then spun in the direction of the open door of the house. Two of the walking dead stumbled from the front porch; one of them knocked the man sprawling onto his back.

Bronte strained to run faster, knowing he was leaving Janicea behind, but he had no choice.

Sinclair still wasn't moving. Bronte was closer. The man's arm was in the zombie's mouth. Half a block remained. Bronte's breath rasped in and out as he subconsciously counted cadence in his head, trying his best to keep his wind. Too many nights of sitting around, drinking margaritas.

One hundred feet. The second zombie was chewing on the man's other arm, and he was screaming to God.

A mantra played through Bronte's mind, One, two, three, exhale. Inhale, one, two, three...

Mere feet separated them now. Bronte drew to a stop, raised the rifle, and shot the man through the head. He shifted aim, used one more shot each on the two zombies. He stood still, listening even as their bodies slowly slumped to the grass. Janicea's footsteps approached. His own breathing. A heartbeat later, a little girl screamed from inside the house.

Bronte was off, running across a short stretch of lawn, across the walkway, onto the porch and into the house. Once inside, he knocked over a table and an umbrella stand, and collided with a tall, wiry, athletic white man wearing glasses. As they fell, he got an up close view of the man's pocked skin and the raw pulpy flesh of his face and neck. Bronte was on top of the other man at the foot of a staircase. The thing— it was impossible to think of it as human— opened its mouth and with jaws opened wide, leaned up to bite him. Bronte threw himself backward with the thing's hands scrabbling to hold onto him. He rolled free and back onto his knees, his shirt ripped all the way to his navel.

The little girl screamed again, and a pistol fired three times.

He had to save the kids. Tracks’ death couldn't be for nothing.

He looked around for his rifle. He’d lost it when he fell. He spotted it right next to the thing as it climbed to its feet. He felt an umbrella underneath his fingertips. He decided not to bother with his pistol, and grasped the umbrella. He wanted to aim for an eye, but the thing was still wearing glasses, so he settled for thrusting it point first right into the thing's mouth and releasing the catch. The result may have been funny to someone who didn't know what was at stake.

Bronte stood up the rest of the way as the thing flailed at the umbrella, and pulled his pistol. He fired twice through the umbrella, into the thing’s head, then dashed up the stairs, nearly tripping on a bloody sneaker. Two more shots echoed through the house, one of them passing through a bedroom wall and past his right ear.

Bronte reached the landing and ran to the bedroom. The room was full of bodies. Beth and Daric stood across the room, with three bodies literally at their feet. Neither of the children reacted as he crossed the room and swept them into his arms.

A moment later Janicea joined them and they had a group hug.

Bronte's eyes met Janicea's over the kids' heads. He mouthed the word, “Sinclair.”

Janicea shook her head, and a tear rolled down her cheek. He bowed his head, and closed his eyes.

“I have to go to Tracks,” he said. “Take the kids back to the house where the boats are. I'll be there soon.”

“Okay, Bronte.”

When he turned to go, Daric asked, “Did something happen to Tracks?”

Bronte didn't answer. He couldn't answer that question.

He was nearly blind with tears as he went down the stairs.

30. Kincaid

Kincaid rode the jet ski out of the canal, following it out into the bay. The vehicle's headlight illuminated a fairly wide swath of darkness to either side and out about twenty feet ahead of him. The ride was choppy, and that made the light do crazy things at times. Not every sandbar around there had mangroves to reveal it. That fact forced him to keep his speed down. There was no one to rescue him if he ran aground.

Just ahead, he made out the shape of a small sailboat. He thought it was anchored, but didn't have time to look closely. It didn't appear as if anyone was on board, but to be safe, he swerved around it in a wide circle that took him further into the bay.

Across the bay, there was the faint glow of lights, but whether it was from fires or a still functioning power grid he had no idea. St. Petersburg's shoreline, which around here was mostly mangrove trees, was dark. Put him in a canoe or a rowboat, and the Pinellas County peninsula might have returned to pristine wilderness.

Make that savage wilderness, Kincaid thought, feeling the edges of his mouth turn down in a frown. He kept his speed uniform and stayed alert. The only sound was that of the engine of the watercraft as it sped across the waves. He thought about the manila envelope taped around his chest. Would it be enough to buy him and his family peace?

There was nothing to do but try and hope for the best.

Moments later, he saw a sudden flare of light about a hundred yards in front of him. It came from a fishing trawler. He could make out a man before another light stabbed toward him—a searchlight!

He kept on course, steering directly for the boat. It was the agreed upon signal, and the right kind of boat. As he got closer, he realized that the man was the big guy with sunglasses. He was still wearing them, and still had a holstered gun at his waist.

Kincaid almost smiled.

I've got a gun this time also, fucker!

The man was smiling.

He wouldn't be smiling for long.

31. Johnny

Marcel wouldn't stop talking, but that was okay, as long as he didn't expect Johnny to answer. They were good for each other. Marcel was one of the first people Johnny had met in a long time who wasn't bothered by his silence. His appearance didn't seem to bother him either.

“You got an eye under there?” Marcel asked.

Johnny shrugged and grinned.

“Not going to tell me, huh? That's okay. I shouldn't have asked about your personal business. Maybe you are an alien hiding a bug eye under there!”

Johnny couldn't help but smile. The joke amused Marcel so much, he couldn't be angry. He realized that the kid was just curious, and that he might be a bit off.

The boat got under way. The motion wasn't rough. Johnny knew that, most of the time, Tampa Bay was sheltered and calm. The only time to worry was when there were high winds, or a storm coming.

Most of the bay was shallow. At least that was what his mom used to tell him. Before they dredged the channel, you could almost walk the whole way across from St. Pete to Tampa. He never knew whether that was true or not.

“Do you know Tampa?” Marcel asked. “I haven't been there much. Went to a few Buc games over at Raymond James, but that's it.”

Johnny shrugged and lifted an eyebrow. He knew it fairly well, he supposed. Over the years he'd been there quite a bit. He knew his way around Interstate 275, Interstate 4, the airport, Bush Gardens, and all along Dale Mabry Highway.

“What I don't get is what kind of ship or boat we’re loading,” Marcel said, with his brow furrowed. The crease in his forehead was deep. Sweat glistened at his temples. Johnny watched him mop his face with a dirty shirt sleeve.

Johnny wondered too what this was all about. He'd heard someone else saying that there was a whole cargo ship moored near their ship that was full of food.

“I have a theory about what we're really doing, Johnny, but I'll keep it to myself for now.”

Before Johnny could give any serious consideration to what they were going to do, Marcel launched onto another tangent.

“You think the whole world is like this?”

Johnny nodded. He was willing to bet that much of the world was worse, actually.

The rest of the ride went much in this vein, with Marcel asking questions, most of which Johnny answered with a simple nod or shake of the head, but some that went unanswered when they required actual words.

It was hard to gauge how long it took. The boat wasn't going fast, and Johnny didn't have a watch or a cell phone.

Of course, he could have asked someone, but that wasn't going to happen.

When they finally reached a dock, Johnny and Marcel let the others crowd each other in their eagerness to get off. They waited until almost everyone was gone then joined the line, with only one person behind them. The boat was almost empty.

“Wait,” the last person said.

Johnny and Marcel turned around. A pale, brown-haired girl with a ponytail, and a small baby in one of those chest harnesses stood behind them.

“Do you guys mind if I hang with you? I'm scared, and I don't know who to trust. You seem like nice guys...”

Johnny smiled at her. She was about average in looks, pretty, but nothing exotic. Girl next door. He doubted that he looked all that nice. Marcel looked kind, but he had no doubt about what most people thought of his appearance.

Marcel looked at Johnny briefly then turned back to her. “Sounds great! My name's Marcel, and my silent friend here is Johnny. He doesn't talk, but he's nice anyway. The only thing you should know if you hang out with us is that we might not go back. Johnny and I might sneak off. I'm pretty sure we aren't here for food supplies.”

“That would be fine with me. Where would we go?”

“I want to go back to St. Pete. I want to check on my cousin. She's a St. Pete cop. I kept waiting for her, and she never showed. Her husband's crazy, so who knows what happened. I'm not sure what Johnny wants to do.”

“I'm in. I want to go back to St. Pete, too!” she said.

Johnny didn't know what to say, even if he wanted to speak. He didn't remember Marcel mentioning anything about leaving the group, but he wasn't going to argue. Getting away from the ship was gaining appeal.

Marcel said, “What's your name?”

“I'm Anna, pleased to meet you.”

She shook hands with both of them.

Both she and Marcel almost immediately launched into a conversation. Johnny thought Anna would be a good addition. Marcel would have someone to talk to that wanted to answer him.

32. Clive

Hand in hand, Clive led Candace down the shadowed corridor.

“You sure you are alright with this?” she asked.

“I'm sure,” Clive answered. “When does my obligation to him end? No one is paying me anymore.”

“Well, I'm grateful that you’re helping me.”

The sign on the door read: Storeroom.

He tried the handle, and it opened. Candace was still holding his hand. He pulled her in behind him. The room was huge. It should read Warehouse, he thought randomly. There was room for forty pallets, although he could see only ten to fifteen full ones. They were lined up one by one on the left side of the room. On the right side was a cardboard baling machine, stacks of empty pallets, and two with bales of cardboard. At the far side of the room, starting from the left, was an industrial service elevator, a small invoicing desk with two chairs, and then a door that had an emergency exit sign. A big orange plastic Thermos-type cooler was sitting on the desk, along with a sleeve of disposable plastic cups, a clipboard, rolodex, and an old style wall phone. Under the desk was a small metal trashcan.

“Our dinner table awaits,” he said, and they walked toward the desk and chairs.

“I'm still not going to be able to relax, but this is better, thanks.”

They both took seats, and he ripped open an MRE for her. She removed the various packages and opened the entree first.

“What did you get?” he asked, unable to resist giving her a small, probably sadistic smile.

“I'm not sure, but it says dehydrated pork patty,” she replied, while holding up a small unappetizing lump that fit in her fist.

He laughed. These were old MREs. Of course, they were one of the few things still made to last. He decided that it was better not to share too many details about MREs with her. One detail that would probably upset her was that she was probably in high school or college when these were made.

“You have to put it in that little plastic bag with water and shake it up. Here let me get you some water.”

She handed it over in the bag.

“Have you ever tried one?” she asked.

“Yeah. Definitely don't eat one dry. If you do, it will expand in your stomach. Not a pleasant experience.”

So much for keeping details to himself.

“But did you like it?”

“No, I didn't.”

Clive handed the baggie back over to her after shaking it thoroughly.

She looked at him, then the bag. “Want me to trade you or get you another one?” he asked.

“No, I'll man-up,” she answered. She used the fork to break off a piece while it was still in the bag. The fork quivered in mid-air.

“That sure is a dubious expression,” he said. “I've never used that word before.”

“I'll bet if you had a piece of this on the end of your fork, you'd hesitate too.”

“Probably so.”

Candace put the hunk of meat into her mouth and chewed. He watched to see if her face changed expression.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

Candace shook her head. “Not very much, Clive, but it's food. Sure beats some of the foreign food I've had to eat overseas.

He laughed. “No doubt.”

“So, what do you have?”

“Meatballs in barbeque sauce.”

She tossed her baggie, patty included, underhanded into the trashcan.

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She shrugged. “It will be more romantic if we share.”

Then, the lights went out. Absolute silence surrounded them. It was funny how you never missed the sound of a generator until it was gone.

The only light left in the room came from the dim red exit light.

“That wasn't what I had in mind,” she said.

33. Natalie

Nella stepped into the garage, and stopped by some tools in a corner right near the door. When she turned around, she had an axe. It was long-handled and had two heads. She held it up to show Natalie. It looked wickedly sharp.

“I could split some heads with this!”

Natalie thought so too.

“Better than nothing, till I can get a gun, right?” Nella said.

“That's true.”

Natalie turned away and looked around the garage. There was light from windows on the side and in the back wall. One of the cars parked inside was a Mercedes convertible painted a fire engine red. The other was a large pickup truck. She couldn't see the make from here, but it looked new. There were also quite a few boxes stacked along the back wall, along with a water heater and a washer and dryer. Quite a few clothes hung on a rack also, a bunch of men's shirts.

Natalie spotted a door near the washer and dryer. She went over to it, and tried the handle. It opened.

“There's little drops of blood on the floor,” Nella said, pointing them out.

“I see that.”

“You still wanna go in?”

“Why not? I do have a gun. What do I have to be paranoid about?”

“Are you good with it?”

Natalie rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“Shooting is an acquired skill, not just something you’re born knowing how to do!”

“I know how to shoot one. Just because I'm lonely for human companionship doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing.”

“Fine. I see a teenage girl, who probably isn't out of high school, and was skeptical that she knows how to shoot. Is it such a surprise that I would wonder?”

Natalie knew the girl was right, but wasn't going to admit it.

“We have to go somewhere, Nella. This place is as good as any, right?”

“Don't mind me, Natalie. Let's go in. At least I have this axe now, too.”

Natalie opened the door and stepped in with her gun leading the way.

They saw more blood. A lot more, spattered on a beige tile floor and left to dry. There was more in the kitchen, to the right down a short stretch of hall. Nella gasped behind her, but Natalie didn't look back. She stepped inside and looked to the left. Just a closet. The door was partway open and she saw cleaning supplies and a Swiffer.

She headed for the kitchen with Nella close behind her.

From the doorway, she could see part of a countertop and a breakfast nook with table and chairs. The blood trail led that way. Further in, she could see a large window with gauzy white curtains swaying gently in a breeze, and the countertop that wrapped around like a bar.

Someone must have tried to clean their wounds at the sink and didn't bother to clean up afterwards. Bloodied towels, a big knife, and first aid supplies were scattered across the counter.

“This is bad,” Nella said.

“It is,” Natalie agreed, “but beneath it all, there’s still beauty, too.” In truth, the kitchen was beautiful. The countertops were marble and the cabinets cherry wood. She saw two sinks, refrigerator, an oven, a large dishwasher, a work island behind the counter, and pots and pans hanging on hooks over the island. All the appliances had a silvered finish. A door on the far wall near the refrigerator stood open revealing a pantry.

“Are you kidding? This place looks like a murder scene,” Nella said.

Natalie's stomach was growling. She imagined that opening the refrigerator would be a mistake after nearly three days with no power. She stepped further into the room.

No bodies were on the floor behind the counter. To the left was a doorway, and another expanse of bar countertop, exposing a large dining room beyond. Three bar stools were lined up on the other side of the bar.

“Aren't you scared?” Nella asked. She was looking at the trail of blood that continued into the dining room.

“Nope.”

Natalie went into the dining room. Seating for eight around a cherry wood table. The end chairs had armrests. There was a large glassed cabinet with dishes and beer glasses. The kind you drank Guinness out of. Somebody had left dirty dishes for two on the table. Two glasses, two plates, silverware, and various covered bowls were scattered, their contents spilling across the wood. A meal interrupted.

“My mom would have loved having a dining room like this,” Natalie commented.

“Too antiquey for me,” Nella replied.

“It is sort of dark...”

Nella frowned. “’Course it is! There's hardly any light in here.” Her back was to the kitchen doorway when a man appeared behind her.

“Watch out!' Natalie yelled.

The man made no move, but was holding an axe in hand.

Nella whirled, gasped. “Jimmy?”

He was one of Nella's pursuers. The Asian guy, the one with the buzz cut hair.

“You know what, Nella?” he said. “You caused me a lot of trouble. Too much really.”

“I can't go back to him! I just can't! You know how controlling he is.”

Jimmy shrugged, and winced as if in pain. “That's the least of your worries now, bitch.”

“What do you mean?” Nella asked.

Natalie had a bad feeling. She still had the gun in her hand, but wasn't confident that she could hit anything with it. And the axe was scaring her.

“Well, you see, it's like this, Nella,” he said. “I'm dead because of you. Dead in a bad way.”

Nella laughed. It was a brief, joyless sound. “What do you mean?”

Jimmy's eyes bugged out, and he screamed, “Means I fucking got bit, bitch! I'm not going to get to go back to my sugar daddy's yacht, or get to lounge around in the sun drinking cocktails!”

“Is that what you are running away from?” Natalie asked incredulously.

Nella ignored her. “Please, Jimmy, I just wanted to be free. Can't you understand that?”

“All I know is that you’re one stupid bitch, and you’re about to die.”

Nella dropped to her knees, her own axe slipping to the floor. “Please, Jimmy, he's my stepfather, and you know what he did to me!”

“None of that matters, especially not once I got bit chasing your crazy ass down.”

“What about me?” Natalie asked.

Jimmy's eyes flicked toward her, and he noticed the gun. “You helped her get away.”

“So, whether I knew what was going on our not, you are going to kill me too?”

“Sounds about right,” Jimmy answered, with a tight-lipped grin.

“Just because she hitched a ride in my car?”

“You think that's the only reason I want to kill you? She's just another bitch, just like you. Neither one of you would even talk to me, or pay attention to me in the old world.”

Natalie couldn't hold back any longer after that pronouncement. She laughed. “I'm sure you’re right. I'd never talk to a nutcase like you.” Then she pulled the trigger. The gunshot blast was terrible in the enclosed room, and plaster behind Jimmy puffed and exploded, and then she fired it again. She must have missed. Jimmy was moving fast, the axe raised, and swinging toward Nella. The blade appeared to miss her, and Nella dodged back, knocking over a chair. Jimmy reversed his grip and resumed his single-minded rush forward. It was almost as if he didn't care if Natalie shot him.

For a moment, Nella seemed frozen in place. She sighed, staggered backwards a step, and with her back against the wall, slid to the floor, clutching her stomach. Natalie aimed carefully, sighting along the barrel. Jimmy raised the axe high overhead. Natalie fired.

The bullet's impact jerked his right arm sideways, and sprayed blood across the floor. Jimmy turned to her, still holding the axe in his left hand. She caught a glimpse of his haunted eyes burning into hers before she pulled the trigger again. The axe dropped from his hand and he swayed as if the ground was bubbling beneath his feet. Blood jetted from a hole in his neck as he fell backwards.

Natalie felt nauseous and sat in one of the dining room chairs before her legs gave out. She realized that she was maxed out, and that her mind was overloaded. Too much had happened. She was removed, observing, but distant. Was she going into shock?

Nothing seemed real. Nella was making a mewling noise and looking at the red smeared all over her hand. One of Jimmy's feet was twitching while blood pooled around his body. Natalie could hear footsteps in the hall from the garage also. None of it fazed her. Something banged on the window outside. Faces and bodies were pressed up against the glass.

“Help me,” Nella said, but Natalie wasn't listening. She was looking at the gun, wondering how many bullets were left.

She’d never reloaded it. She didn’t know how.

“How do I reload this thing, Nella?” she asked, looking over at the other woman.

Nella didn't answer, and Natalie wondered if she had passed out.

Natalie heard shuffling feet. Someone or something bumped into a wall. They were coming for her, whoever or whatever they were. And then, in the doorway she hadn't tried yet, a hulking shape appeared. A ragged outline of a man so torn and bloody that he barely resembled a human. One eye focused on her, and his teeth clicked.

Nella was screaming.

Natalie backed up a step, and felt the back of her thighs brush the chair. There was nowhere to go, and the sudden realization: No more bullets! I left everything in the car!

More shambling shapes, some as nightmarish as the man before her, entered the room via the kitchen doorway.

No way there were enough bullets left.

She climbed up on the table. Choked on acid from her throat. Was there at least one bullet left for her? She raised the pistol's barrel up to her temple as she'd seen so many people do in movies, and whispered a prayer as one of the things fell on Nella, fastening its teeth on one of her long legs.

Natalie hesitated a moment more. There was a small chance she could dodge the big, chewed up guy coming from the living room. Having to make the decision to try to escape versus just ending all the misery was paralyzing her. Everyone around her kept dying. What hope was there in continuing?

With nothing to lose, she took the gun from her mouth and put the barrel in the face of the big zombie as he lurched at her. Several of the creatures were gnawing on Nella now, and the girl's struggles and screams were growing weaker. Grotesque visual overload. Natalie pulled the trigger, squinting and flinching as the gun boomed and blood and flesh spattered. The zombie fell with a big hole, slightly left of center, in its forehead. Natalie pushed past. Still clutching the now empty gun, she felt fingers snatch at her shirt but broke free and found herself in the living room.

Much of the large room was dark and cluttered with big, bulky furniture. She spotted an arched doorway at the room's far side and ran through it.

34. Tracks

He didn't want to move. At that moment, his senses were overwhelmed by physical sensation: ears still ringing from the gunfire; massive pain radiating from his chest from being shot; and burning heat scalding his palms from the hot street.

With the last of his strength, Tracks crawled, then dragged his body over the pavement. He felt small relief as he crossed over the curb, pulled himself through some lush turf grass, and finally leaned his back against a large oak tree. He knew he was dying; it felt like he couldn't get enough air. He also knew that nobody could, or was, going to save him.

It seemed pointless to go on trying to keep his eyes open after Bronte and Janicea left to try to save the kids. He wished that he could help, but everything was coming to a close now. No more watching out for Bronte, or Daric. Sunlight dappled the grass here and there in front of him. He closed his eyes, felt every bump of the uneven surface of the tree's trunk against the back of his head. The sun was bright, even through his eyelids. A slight breeze was blowing. The underlying stink of blood, sweat, and urine was still present, but now the salt-tinged air of the bay was stronger.

He had the thought that he'd better be ready to shoot himself soon. No way did he want Bronte or one of the others to have to do it. He felt the lump of his pistol, still shoved into his pants, in the middle of his back. He almost passed out trying to pull it free, but at last, did so. There was no need to even open his eyes. It was an old .45 auto, a gun he knew intimately from his time in the army. He released the safety, pulled the pistol's slide back, and released it. The gun was now ready to fire.

He heard the muffled sound of gunfire close by, probably within a block. He knew it only sounded muffled because his ears were still ringing.

Seven shots. All he needed was one, and he wouldn't be getting back up.

Someone moaned.

Too close! He opened his eyes. Right in front of him, almost every one of the corpses were getting to their feet. One headed for him.

He was bleeding out. Fading away. Not much time left for anything. Tracks wasn't even sure he had the strength to hold the gun up long or aim to shoot them all. It was better to be practical. Was he really going to kill four of them with seven bullets? Not a chance. Within moments they were going to be eating him.

The one thing he could control was whether he was alive when they took that first bite.

The one in the front had a bad complexion. Her skin was oily and yellow. She had her teeth bared in what he could only term fierce hunger.

He put the pistol's barrel in his mouth.

She was close now. Her teeth were large, tinged with brown, and he could see plaque between each tooth. Was this the last thing he was ever going to see?

He lifted his free hand, trying to block out the awful sight, and she bit down, clamping her teeth together over one of his large fingers, and began to chew. He didn't have the energy to fight her off, and everything was getting dark anyway.

As his vision dimmed down and his breath rattled in his throat, Tracks’ finger jerked on the trigger.

35. Booth

Booth looked back briefly and saw the two pilots walking toward another hangar. Neither of them had a gun out, and they could have been on a Sunday stroll at the park.

Lassiter said, “Maybe they’ll check that one out for us.”

Hicks snorted. “Not fucking likely. Those two haven't impressed me much.”

“You're talking about leaving those people on the roof, right?” Lassiter asked.

“You got it. I don't know how you stand it.”

“Back off, Hicks,” Booth said. “Jacobs was one of ours, and he was no prize either. Better to know where you stand with people, right?”

“True,” Hicks agreed.

Booth gave Lassiter a once over and decided that he liked him for the most part. “I like you, Lassiter. You seem like a straight up guy. When and if the time comes, remember that. Got me?”

Lassiter nodded. He looked like a man making a grave decision. “I'm with you. Not convinced that they’d leave us, but who knows now, when all bets are off.”

“Damn straight,” Hicks said.

“So, how about we check the hangar to the right. It’s closer to the helipads.”

“Sure thing, Chief,” Booth said. “Hicks, take point.”

Hicks didn't reply, but he did turn in that direction and start walking, waiting to see if they followed. Booth drifted off to the right of Hicks, about twenty paces to the side, and the same back. Lassiter mirrored Booth on Hicks’ left.

The glare of the sun off the bleached concrete was bright enough to make Booth squint.

Hicks called over his shoulder, “Hey, Lassiter, you still on Safe?”

Booth was curious, and he waited to see what Lassiter would do.

Lassiter didn't check his weapon and didn't even break stride. “No, it's not,” he answered without looking. “I'm ready for whatever, Hicks, are you?”

Hicks laughed. “That's the spirit!”

Maybe Hicks was getting himself back together. That little exchange broke the tension that was steadily building. Booth raised his opinion of Lassiter also, unless he was bluffing.

The hangar they picked had one large bay door open, and what looked like a pile of rags lying nearby. As they drew closer, Booth could smell rotting flesh, and determined by smell alone that the rags were what remained of a body. A seagull took flight from the pile when they were within ten feet.

Lassiter stopped in the open doorway and pulled a small, tubular flashlight in camouflage green off his harness and clicked it on. Hicks passed him by and entered the immense space beyond. Booth followed, but he stopped in the doorway and turned back to face the helicopter.

“Go ahead and go in with him, Hicks. I'll stay here, and keep watch. Call me if you need me.”

“Sure thing,” Hicks answered. Both men then entered and began to explore the gloomy interior. All Booth could see was a midsize Coast Guard plane about fifty feet further in to the left. A ramp was extended from the door near the cockpit. Tools and parts lay scattered on an oilcloth nearby. Something that looked like hydraulic fluid was pooled underneath an engine on the nearest wing.

Booth glanced back at the helicopter. The two pilots were strolling toward the aircraft, while the army officer paced around. Booth had reservations about all three of them. Duncan and Day were both opportunists without a doubt, and Colonel Bolger had some sort of self-serving agenda.

Bolger, for one, was baggage. Weighty baggage. He was a pogue of some sort. Booth was sure he knew his way with weapons, but he lacked composure, which was a problem. Panicked people made poor choices. Even the president's wife was holding it together better than Bolger was. It would probably be best to ditch Bolger right here. Nip this problem in the bud right now. The only thing left to resolve was how to get rid of him. What would be more effective at keeping the pilots in line—an accident or an example? An accident might not make a strong enough statement to the pilots. An example would eliminate all doubt on whether Booth was going to put up with bullshit or not.

Of course, there was still the chance, no matter what happened, that it would be misunderstood. That wasn't acceptable. Booth wasn't one for wasted effort. You needed to do it right, make sure you were clear, and emphasize that what was expected wasn't up for debate.

Bolger was about to die. Booth was sure Hicks would side with him. He was sure that Lassiter knew the score, too.

“We found the tanks, Booth,” Hicks said.

“Good,” Booth replied, his eyes still on Bolger.

Hope you enjoy that last cigar, Colonel.

36. Mills

“I should've asked them to get some beer or wine,” Mills said, while staring at the cars scattered all over U.S. 19. Since their arrival, two or three zombies appeared among the wrecks, and wandered. A couple of minutes ago, he saw a big black dog out there.

“You drink beer warm?” Talaski asked.

“Sure. Like it better cold, though. You?”

Talaski was facing the grocery store's entrance. “Not really. Drink mixed drinks mostly. Sangria's nice.”

“You know what's strange to me?” Mills asked.

“What's that?”

“To hear gunfire, or see smoke from a fire, and just stand here. One of those downtown skyscrapers is still burning, and over there, somewhere near 54th Avenue, something else is burning like a torch.”

Talaski looked like he was thinking that one over. “It is bizarre. I don't feel the pull, anymore. We need to find someplace safe to retreat to first, I think, before we just go around poking our necks into trouble. We'll be lucky if we get out of here with nothing going wrong. “

“So, you don't feel the obligation, anymore?”

“We were always fighting a losing battle. I never acknowledged it, but I'm not much different than one of those things. Dead and still walking around. And, here they come.”

Mills looked back toward 34th Street, and saw a mass of the undead, a hundred strong or more, coming out from the cars and heading their way.

Then they heard an engine roar, and a little green Mazda appeared on 34th Street, heading northbound in the southbound lanes. The brakes squealed and the tires smoked as the car made a left hand turn toward the parking lot and clipped three or four of the things.

Mills was running at the approaching car, and the horde coming behind it. A second car, an Acura was hard on the heels of the first, but it took the turn better. The Acura was following so close, Mills first thought was that it was chasing the other car.

A moment later, the Mazda braked hard, jumped a curb, and sped across the parking lot, passing almost in front of Mills and Talaski. Mills caught a glimpse of a frantic attractive blonde behind the wheel, and then the Acura followed, hard on her bumper.

Mills said, “Trish?”

37. Trish

When her car careened around the corner like a rocket, Trish was hoping for an empty road.

What she got were hundreds of zombies coming her way, apparently attracted by the gunshots and the engine noise. She tapped the brakes and cut the wheel hard to the left, and at thirty miles an hour, just missed a clump of ten or so shambling down the middle of the road. Before she could straighten out, the car clipped a mailbox and took her driver’s side mirror right off.

Trish kept her foot on the gas pedal, pressing it against the floor. She straightened out the wheel, weaving in and out through a growing crowd until she saw the marina appear on her right. She took the next curve and saw Anton's wheelchair still lying in the road. No sign of him, though.

Thank God. She didn't want to remember him like that. People were all over the road. She could feel panic overtaking her as she was forced to slow down. She still hit several of the dead things in the process, but did not damage the car.

The thumps horrified her even so, and she was forced to run over several of them, feeling the car jounce over their bodies. The survivor in her refused to cave in. Her whole life had prepared her to endure horrible things.

She spotted their original escape vehicle, the delivery van, and burned rubber, braking enough to make the turn toward it and the road that led back to 54th Avenue South. A small part of her gloried in how well the car was handling. It sure beat the hell out of her old Mercury Cougar with a failing transmission.

The car broke past the last wandering groups, and she happened to glance in her rearview mirror. A car was back there. It had to be the old man. The next few minutes were a steadily escalating nightmare as she turned left down one street, then right, and finally right onto 54th Avenue South heading west. There was an enormous overpass she would have to merge onto if she planned to continue in that direction, which led to the beach and the Don Cesar Hotel, or alternatively, Tierra Verde Island and Fort Desoto.

It was too bad it wasn't a real army fort. It had been a fort, but long ago. Now it was a historical park with a beautiful beach. No soldiers to protect her there.

None of that mattered anyway. The road before her was completely blocked by a massive pileup of cars. The morning sun glinted off twisted metal and broken glass where cars, going both directions on a one-way entranceway, had collided and jammed solid. Dead people were once again walking around.

She braked hard and turned the car into a tight spin. The only good thing was that she might have lost the old man. It was bad thinking about him trapping her here. For the moment, the way back was clear.

With no real purpose, or direction, she floored the gas pedal and took off like a shot back the way she came. The intersection of 54th Avenue and Thirty-Fourth Street was only two blocks away when she passed the old man in the car idling at a stop sign, as if waiting for her. There was no time to react. If he planned to ram her car with his, it was going to happen. She glanced briefly at her speedometer, saw the needle hovering at seventy miles an hour, braced herself for impact, and—was surprised when she passed him unscathed. Trish hit the brakes again, pumping them, so she could make a left onto Thirty-Fourth.

The old man followed her.

She saw the awful wrecks littering the road on either side. A scene from Hell described it pretty well. She slowed again, not knowing why, and turned back into the Publix Shopping Center where they were left stranded. She couldn't avoid the three zombies standing in the entryway and ran them over.

A fire truck was parked in front of the Publix, and it looked like the same one that firefighter had been driving. In fact, there were two guys standing near it, one wearing a firefighter's outfit, and the other a cop. Could it be? she wondered. She floored the gas, heart beating rapidly, trying hard not to hope.

She didn't have time to stop to be sure. Maybe Mills, if it was him, would follow. Stranger things had happened lately. Either way, on the chance it wasn't him, she had to get away.

She drove over a curb and across a median, into a nearby parking lot. Her car went airborne briefly, slammed the ground with a jolt that caused her to hit her head on the ceiling, and then landed with her foot pressing the gas pedal to the floor.

She kept control and prayed that it was Mills back there.

You saw me, and are coming to rescue me. That thought consumed her.

38. Jacobs

The motorcycle's engine turned over and rumbled quietly. “Never rode in one of these before,” Kyle remarked while easing himself into the motorcycle's sidecar.

“No?”

“Not even on a motorcycle. Just got my driver's license a few months ago.”

Jacobs gave the kid a second look. He was big, and there was intelligence in his eyes, but he really was just a big kid. “Should I let you drive, then?”

Kyle grinned. “No that's okay, sir. Riding along works for me.”

“Okay, then. Well remember, we’re looking for survivors, and for someplace we can hold up.”

“Got it.”

Jacobs throttled up and eased forward until they hit twenty-five miles per hour. The engine was in great shape, and the tires were good. He figured they'd have no trouble escaping or evading. People were walking around, but none of them still living. Some houses were little more than ruins.

Jacobs slowed to a near stop at the intersection of Twenty-Second Avenue and Sixteenth. A sign across the street said that this was the Woodlawn neighborhood. Nothing held his interest. There was a business on three of the four corners of the intersection, and lots of houses nearby— all with lots of windows.

“Nothing coming to mind, kid?”

“Not much around here except houses. That what you’re looking for?” Kyle asked him.

“Ideally, I'd like something with a solid wall or fence. Something sturdy. A place with security shutters would work.”

“Better keep looking then, sir. One of the mansions over in Woodlawn to the right there could work.”

Jacobs saw movement at the corner of his eye, to the left. A middle-aged white guy with gray skin wearing a red t-shirt, black shorts with a stripe down the leg, and grungy sneakers was approaching them across the intersection. He was probably fleshy and well-fed once. Didn't look that way now.

“I never liked most people before,” Kyle remarked. “I like them even less now.”

“So cynical already?” Jacobs asked, but wasn't really surprised.

Kyle shrugged. “Some of them don't even look much different. How long until they all just rot away, do you think?”

Jacobs gave the still coasting motorcycle a little gas, and they pulled away from the zombie. “Hard to say, kid. In this heat, a few weeks for most of them? I don't know.”

“Take a right at the next light. I have an idea where we’re going.”

“Sure thing,” Jacobs answered.

They were in the midst of a residential neighborhood. Lots of old houses from the fifties, occasional apartment buildings, more death and destruction. There was no sign whatsoever of living people. Some blocks literally looked like a scene from a World War II war zone.

Martin Luther King Street was coming up.

“Jackpot,” Jacobs said.

“What do you mean?” Kyle asked, but then fell silent. Directly across from them was a supermarket, and slightly north of that was a house that resembled a small Alamo with a six foot white stucco wall that looked like it went all the way around the property.

It may not have been such a good idea, but it was all he had.

“Good job, Kyle,” Jacobs said. “I didn't think we'd find anything this good.”

“Thank you, sir. I've seen this house a lot over the years, and just wanted to make sure it’s safe before getting our hopes up.”

Jacobs knew this would work on a temporary basis. To survive they wouldn't be able to stay in the city, but this would do until they left. “This is the best I could hope for, son. Let's go scout the premises.”

“Really?” Kyle asked. “Are we just gonna walk up there?”

“Yes we are. We need to know what we are facing.”

39. Julie

Julie didn't like the way the two pilots were looking at her when she walked up to them.

The taller one, Duncan, sounded sincere when he asked, “How can we help you, ma'am?” but he looked irritated.

“My son needs to use the bathroom. Is there one around here?”

“Sure is. Just go right through that door, and it's in the back to the left.”

The door was still hanging open, but it was almost pitch black in there. The building was an immense hangar. One of the massive aircraft doors further down was open too. There was plenty of light down there, but not on this end.

“Could one of you escort us?”

“You'll be fine,” Duncan said. “We checked it out just a couple minutes ago. Here, take my flashlight.”

Julie blushed and accepted the flashlight. No one had openly patronized her in quite some time. She hesitated a moment longer, debating her options, then George settled it for her.

“I have to go, Mommy.”

Julie held the man's gaze a moment longer, then said, “Okay, sweetheart, let's go.”

“Bitch.”

The word almost stopped her in her tracks but she forced herself to keep walking, fear coiling in her stomach. What if the pilots hated her? That thought was almost scarier than going into an immense darkened building without a gun.

“Did that man say a bad word, Mommy?”

She hated to lie to her son; she didn’t know what to say to comfort him either.

“He did, George, but don't worry. Some people aren't nice.”

“It’s really dark in here, Mommy.”

“Don't worry, George, I'm with you,” she said, but didn't convince herself with that one.

“Turn on the lights, Mommy!”

She flicked the switch on the flashlight. It was the big 6 volt type and even had a carry handle. “This is all the light we have, sweetheart.”

The light revealed a line of barrels with some sort of hazardous symbol on each one. Looked like a skull and crossbones. She wondered what they were, but didn’t stop to check it out. She wanted out of here.

There were warehouse racks full of all kinds of stuff on the back wall, none of it recognizable as anything that made sense to her. She panned the flashlight from right to left, and at last saw a door almost all the way over to the left. “I think I found the bathroom, George.”

Julie hurried them toward it and stopped with her hand on the pull handle. That was a bit of a clue as to what type of room lay beyond, but not a definitive one. There wasn't a sign on the door. She forced herself into action, let go of George's hand, and opened the door. She heard the drip of water echo off the walls. Felt for the light switch on the wall to the right, but all it did was click, of course. She played the flashlight around. The room stretched away to their right, with rows of lockers on either side, with benches in front of the lockers, and a door in the far wall to her right. The floor was concrete and had a pebbled surface, probably for traction. Some of the locker doors were open but nothing was in them.

The door wasn't shut all the way.

In the next room there were two stalls to the left, sinks and mirrors on the wall to the right, some lockers and two shower stalls to the rear. There was a pile of towels, and a dirty flight suit on the floor near the showers.

Judging by the smell, Julie guessed that someone hadn't flushed the toilet.

“Come on, honey,” she said, stepping inside. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

Julie pushed open the first stall door and looked inside before letting George go in. No one was in there, and the lid was up. It must be the other stall that wasn't flushed.

“I gotta go, Mom!”

“Okay, honey. This one is okay,” she replied.

George stepped inside and unzipped all on his own.

40. Janicea

The sound of renewed gunfire and someone howling in grief spurred Janicea into action. Right or wrong, she took the kids with her. The thought that she should have stayed with them was foremost in her mind. She never wanted to leave them again. Both Daric and Beth clung to her waist, weeping anew when they caught sight of Bronte on his knees, cradling a bloody body that looked like Tracks in his arms.

Bronte never raised his head. If the body was Tracks’, he looked dead. So much blood… and he'd been chewed. Torn apart and chewed, to be exact.

Several bodies were scattered nearby. Janicea hoped he was dead before the dead people got to him.

She frowned, trying to remember what had happened when those women attacked them earlier. They probably had all reanimated, and Tracks was left alone.

Janicea wanted to run to Bronte, but stopped nearby, still holding the kids tight.

The wind blew, soft and steady, rustling through the fronds of nearby palm trees, and Bronte held Tracks tight to his chest.

After a time, Bronte said, “I have to bury my friend.”

None of them said anything. Janicea didn't know what to say. She watched what she could see of Bronte's downturned face. Tears ran down his cheeks and dripped onto his friend's ravaged features. It was hard to see him this way. One of Tracks’ arms was gnawed to bone, leaving exposed sinew and fat visible.

“Will you all stay here with him while I check these houses for a shovel?” Bronte asked.

“We will,” Daric answered.

Janicea didn't trust herself enough to speak. She felt a renewed surge of affection for the boy. It was clear that they were all in this together, and Daric and Beth were growing up quickly and adapting. One of the fears she had was that they couldn't mature quickly enough to realize what the right decision would be.

Bronte set his massive friend's body gently on the ground. He got up and walked up the driveway of the nearest house without looking back.

Both of the kids were crying. How could she console them? Worse yet, was wondering how much more they could endure.

“My dad was a bad man,” Beth said, voicing an apparently random thought.

Janicea didn't know how to respond to that. She wondered too what the little white girl thought about being alone with black people. Beth appeared to be only upset about other things, like the death of friends, and the evil her dad did, for instance. Her innocence was inspiring.

“I saw my dad kill a man and a woman once. He didn't know I was there,” Beth said. “Tracks died for us, didn't he?”

Still unsure of what to say, Janicea settled for hugging Beth tight.

“Everyone is dying,” Daric declared. “How many more bad people can there be?”

“Everything will be alright,” Janicea whispered. “Bronte and I will keep you safe.”

Bronte was coming back from the side of the house with a shovel in his hands.

“Can we make him a tombstone?” Beth asked.

Bronte stopped nearby and started digging. He looked up at her, the shovel's blade full of rich turned earth and grass. “We’ll make one for all our loved ones,” he answered. “Just have to wait till things calm down.”

“So we’ll never forget them, right?” Beth asked.

Bronte nodded, but his eyes were looking into Janicea's when he answered, “Yes, so we will never forget.”

Janicea wondered whether he left them off on purpose. As in: We will never forget them. Or had his words addressed something else? There was no telling. When they were young, he couldn't hide anything from her. She'd made a life out of hating, and not long ago, for different reasons, he'd been about to join her.

They stood there and watched him work, with only the sound of the shovel turning and shifting the earth, the wind in the palms, and the lonely, keening cry of a seagull to break the immense silence.

41. Keller

One of the cart's wheels was off kilter and it kept pulling to the left.

“I'm surprised that we haven't seen Talaski or Mills, yet,” Keller said as he and Amy made their way through the store.

The cart was nearly full, and they were headed back to the front of the store when they heard Talaski shout, “Matt, Amy, where are you?”

Amy kept the light focused to either side from left to right and back again and they started jogging.

“We're coming,” Keller called out. Within moments they saw Talaski standing near the front door.

“Mills just took off with the truck!” Talaski told them. “He thinks he saw Trish in a car being chased by another car and went after her. We need to go out the back door with the cart. Hundreds of zombies are headed this way. Do you have water in there?”

“Yes, let's go,” Keller answered. Trish was someone they knew; she had been with them at the police station. She was attractive, but with a hard edge beneath her soft, natural sexiness. Not someone to underestimate. How she arrived outside this grocery store would be a mystery to ferret out later, assuming they ever saw Mills again.

“I'll take point,” Talaski said.

Keller and Amy nodded. The steering of the cart was off with all the weight in it. It was seriously beginning to annoy him, but there was nothing to do about that now. Talaski quickly led the way down an aisle with candy of all kinds on one side and ethnic foods on the other.

Long before they reached the back doors, a strong chemical reek reached their noses. Talaski coughed and slowed to a dead stop, Keller and Amy stopping behind him.

“Smells like bleach back here. Probably a spill. I'm not sure whether we can go back there.”

“We don't want to get trapped back there,” Keller said. “A minute in there might make us sick...”

“Okay, then,” Talaski replied, “we’ll hold our breath and run. Everyone ready?”

Keller took a deep breath, and for a moment considered how easily they worked together. He glanced over at Talaski, saw him wink, and realized he was almost certainly thinking along the same lines.

“Let's go,” Talaski said.

They took off at close to a dead sprint through the back room doors and into the warehouse room beyond them. The smell assaulted them immediately. The three flashlights revealed more corpses, wall racks full of merchandise, and palletized items. They slowed to avoid slipping in the pool of bleach, and Keller got a good look at several of the corpses. He was shocked to see that little maintenance guy, Blake, lying dead nearby.

Talaski took them past more pallets, a big hulking machine of some sort, then he was at the back door. All of them were choking now, but not for long. The door swung open, revealing a short concrete landing and a railed ramp leading down; to the right were two wells for semi-trailers to unload into the store. There were several more corpses there, which Keller steered carefully around.

Once they all were clear of the door, they stood breathing deeply. Amy wrapped her left arm around him, leaned against his side, and clicked her flashlight off. He turned and kissed her. When he saw her eyes widen in surprise, he said, “You needed that.”

She smiled, and wiggled her body closer to his. “What now?” she asked.

“We could circle back around. Maybe all the zombies are in the store, now,” Keller answered.

“I don't like that idea,” Talaski said. “We've lost the truck, and it’s time to find new transportation.”

“Well,” Amy said, “we better agree on a plan soon.”

42. Johnny

Their boat was tied off to a massive wooden dock, and a handful of people were crossing from this boat to the pier after they stepped out and onto the deck. About forty feet away, a few people in the quasi-naval uniforms of the cruise ship were handing out makeshift weapons to certain people as they lined up. Not everyone received a weapon, and Johnny thought there were not enough to go around. He also noticed that only the people in uniform had guns— pistols in holsters at their waists. Everyone else was being given baseball bats, axes, and shovels.

No one gave Johnny or his friends weapons. In their group, though, an older biker-type guy with a big build and a short, husky kid with long sideburns both got bats.

Those who received their weapons were being formed up into four groups, each group with a crewman or two. They were then sent in different directions out toward rows of warehouses. A crewman directed Johnny and Marcel into the last group. Gretchen was part of their group. She still had a sidearm with a military style combat harness, complete with a large sheathed knife.

She smiled at Johnny when she saw him but didn't comment. The smile wasn't friendly. Johnny always thought it strange how people could do that— smile and not mean it. The only good thing was that she was at least out in the open about her feelings.

“Okay,” Gretchen said, “if you got a weapon, you’re a guard. If you didn't, you’re either loading or unloading. Understood?”

A lot of people nodded.

“Good. Now remember, keep close together so we can protect you. Any of you wander off without asking me, you’re on your own. We need to work together, and we'll all get back on the boat, and get out of here. Last thing, if I tell you something, I expect you to do it. Don't fuck with me, or I'll shoot you myself.”

Johnny had no doubt she meant what she said.

Gretchen looked at each one of them in turn. “Let's see, who is going to be our point man? Any volunteers?” When no one answered, she laughed briefly. “I knew you all were all gutless wonders. “How about you?” she asked, making eye contact with Johnny. “Our very own fallen angel can guide us through Hell. Head for that big warehouse over there with the eight painted on it.”

Marcel started to protest, but Johnny put his hand on the other man's arm and shook his head. Johnny smiled at Gretchen. No sense arguing with someone holding a gun. He started walking toward the distant warehouse. It was about two blocks away with a big semi in front of it.

Marcel and Anna were right on his heels, and everyone else fell in behind, more or less in a group. The two men with bats were to either side, and Gretchen took the rear.

Johnny thought about the various reasons they could be here. He wondered also how much stuff they were supposed to bring back with them. There wasn't much free space on the ride here. Whatever they were after wasn't big or bulky. What they were looking for was most likely small and would need a lot of people looking to find it quickly.

He could hear Marcel and Anna whispering behind him as they walked, but he couldn't tell what they said.

“Be alert people, so we all get back in one piece,” Gretchen said.

Johnny could see one group gathered in front of the nearest warehouse. One of the men was hacking into a small door beside the larger loading bay doors. Another one was sitting on a forklift. Someone shouted, and the guy with the axe stood to the side. The guy on the forklift elevated the forks and drove them against the door. The forklift slewed sideways to the left, and part of the door collapsed. He backed and drove forward again. What remained of the door fell inwards.

Not long after, that whole group began to file into the building, and Johnny's attention returned to their assigned building. It was much like the other warehouses, a big steel structure without windows, two-stories in height with two immense roll-up doors. It looked old. The paint was fading, and rust-streaks were on the closed loading doors. A lot of trash blew around

Sweat formed at Johnny’s temples and upper lip. The humidity was bad. He imagined what it would be like in that warehouse. With about a block to go, he would find out soon. The forklift's engine sounded closer, and Johnny turned. Apparently the guy driving it was coming over to help them. As a group, Johnny and the others stepped to the side so the forklift could pass. The guy drove by at almost twenty miles an hour. Johnny recognized the driver's sour face. Huff.

43. Clive

They waited in near-total darkness with only the red emergency light for several minutes before either of them spoke further. Clive even finished eating. Neither of them could see the other, let alone their food or drink.

“You’re remarkably calm,” Candace said at last.

Clive grunted. “No point getting worked up. A lot depends on what we decide to do next.”

“And what do you suggest we do?”

Clive took a deep breath. He'd been considering their options since they escaped, and the only one that gave them much of a chance, or made any sense, was leaving the bunker. “We could stay here, or leave. It gets more complicated after that.”

“I'm afraid to do either,” Candace whispered.

“Me too,” he answered. “No sense denying it. There are no guarantees of safety no matter what we do.”

“Is there some kind of radio room around here? We could call for help. My family is at the Greenhouse Bunker.”

Clive nodded. The Greenhouse Bunker was a more rustic, less-finished shelter about twenty miles away that was to have been an alternative to the bunker they were in now: Clockworks Haven. He knew her family consisted of her eighty-year old mother and two adult children. She'd been through a messy divorce earlier in the year when her husband got caught cheating with underage hookers. Clive was pretty sure that the ex-husband hadn't made it to the safety of the Greenhouse Bunker.

“Think you’re up for a trip through the dark to get to the radio room?” he asked. “I'm talking about the one up top, outside in the hotel.”

He felt her fingers touch his arm but couldn't see her face. She kept them there until he took her small hand in his own.

“I can be brave,” she answered, “as long as you’re with me.”

“Okay, then, shall we go?” She squeezed his hand. “Sure, and I'm glad we are we’re getting out of here. I just hope none of those things are up there.”

“Only one way to find out,” he replied and helped her to her feet. “Let's take the stairs.”

She didn't object, trailing along slightly behind him as he approached the emergency door.

“I wonder if the alarm will sound?” he said, but didn't expect her to know the answer.

“Only one way to find out,” she replied with a giggle.

Clive laughed briefly, partly due to her joke, but also at the absurdity of their situation. He would never have guessed that one day he'd be alone in the dark with the speaker of the house making jokes while the world ended around them.

He pushed the bar, and the alarm sounded. Lights flashed, and the noise was deafening.

There was no trace of a smile on either of their faces as they dashed together, hand-in-hand, up the shallow steps.

44. Booth

“Hang on, Booth, we'll be done in a moment,” Hicks said as he pushed a four-wheeled cart over to the fuel tanks. Lassiter was holding the flashlight and stood off to the side near a massive section of shelves mounted on the hangar's back wall.

Booth heard them, but what they said didn't register.

Several hundred of the dead were crossing the field toward the helicopter. The two pilots were talking with the colonel. Both looked upset, and one gesticulated wildly in the direction of the approaching horde. Were they about to leave the first lady and her child alone? Leave all of them?

Both pilots climbed into their seats. The co-pilot, Lot, turned and extended his arm back out of the cockpit. Booth spotted a gun in his hand. The colonel raised his submachine gun and Lot shot him several times. As the colonel collapsed, the engine noise increased and the rotor speed picked up.

“They're bugging out!” Booth shouted, and ran a few steps. He wasn't anywhere near close enough. There were only moments left to do anything and no one to stop them. The helicopter took off at about a thirty degree angle, sending debris flying. Booth knelt on one knee with his rifle raised. He waited.

He guessed the helicopter was about a hundred yards away and a hundred feet up when he started firing single, aimed shots. He fired four times before he saw evidence that he was hitting it, then a trail of haze began to spew smoke and flame. It accomplished nothing really. Still, when the helicopter's engine began to seize up and it started auto-rotating back to the ground, he felt that he'd avenged the colonel and punished the pilots. It looked as though they were going to be forced to land not far from the horde. Certainly not in a safe spot.

Hicks and Lassiter joined him as he stood up.

“Let's go, quickly! We need to get the first lady out of here. Those dead fucks are getting close!”

Neither of the men argued or had anything to say. Both simply followed him to the other hangar where he'd seen her go in.

45. Talaski

Talaski descended the loading ramp with his shotgun leading the way. Amy and Keller followed with the shopping cart. They walked around several dead bodies. A cloud of flies stirred as they passed, and a rotten stench rose around them. Keller eased the cart down the slope from the door and onto a large concrete pad, where various flatbed carts were stored when not in use. There were also several tall stacks of empty pallets, a couple of large green dumpsters, and a forklift.

“No vehicles here,” Amy said.

“We aren't having any luck,” Keller agreed.

Talaski looked around. Directly behind the store was a ten-foot concrete wall. They probably could scale it, but would have to leave the cart. He crossed that idea off their list of options. To the right, the store stretched for a couple hundred feet, and then the road turned a corner that would lead them back to the front. To the left was a long chain of smaller stores, each with a dumpster. He could see at least two cars in that direction, along with several more shopping carts. It would take a lot longer to get back to the front of the store if they went that way.

“I say we follow behind the store,” Keller said. “It won't take as long, and if we have to, we just scale the wall and leave the cart.”

Talaski nodded. “Let's do that, and maybe Mills will be waiting when we get there.”

Talaski once again took the lead, followed by Amy and Keller with the cart.

“Feels like a cattle chute,” Keller remarked.

Talaski thought it was an apt comparison. He wished they'd had time to eat something. He was feeling weak and thirsty, but knew that it was more important to keep moving. It looked like they had a good group here. No random elements. He still wasn't convinced that there was any point trying to survive, but as long as Keller had hope, he wouldn't give up.

They passed more bodies, gray-skinned, stinking piles of rotting flesh that were finished with this game.

More dead people, something Talaski saw several times a week. He was merely an observer now. The only real emotion he felt with intensity anymore was rage. There was a certain peace that came with the death of desire and hope. He pushed the thought away. Self diagnosis wasn't going to change his situation or his life outlook.

Keller held hands with Amy while they pushed the cart.

Keller was easier to understand, at least if you knew him. Talaski would hesitate to use the term desperate to describe his friend, but privately it was what he thought. Until recently, Keller had been too self-effacing, too nice as they say. Most women weren't going to respect that. Talaski knew from experience that they wanted someone with confidence and that many wanted to be dominated. Keller was just getting used to that concept. His confidence was on the upswing, and he definitely felt better about himself.

Talaski had no such expectation for himself. He was sure that Keller had his back, but other than a certain paralegal, he wasn't interested in anyone. He felt bad that he hadn't found a way to check on her. The only way would be to go by her house and see.

He was more than a little surprised to find that he actually cared and wanted to know whether she was okay.

Talaski peered around the corner, pausing only a moment before proceeding. Keller steered the cart around a large pothole. Talaski glanced behind them once more before rounding the corner himself. There still wasn't anyone behind them.

A large, overturned cardboard box leaned against the grocery store's wall, not far ahead. Pieces of concrete block were stacked around it, along with other debris, with the apparent intent of creating a hideaway. It had to be the work of a transient. Assuming anyone was in there.

Keller and Amy stepped it up. It seemed crazy to him. Why weren’t they being more careful? Maybe both of them were tired. He knew they all, himself included, needed sleep. It might even be better to walk around the cardboard fort.

He was about to speak up, when Keller beat him to it.

“Go around it, Amy,” Keller instructed. “Let's not look for trouble. Just walk around.”

Amy nodded. She looked a little worn, and her blonde hair was sweaty and tangled. There was no doubt about her sexual appeal, even if she was tired. It seemed too natural to be calculated, but Talaski didn't underestimate women. What if there is a kid in there?

Why couldn't he shut it off? Observe and evaluate. Serve and protect. So many catch phrases that were all part of him, apparently forever.

“Anyone in there?” he asked, raising his voice and using an authoritative edge.

For the span of a heartbeat or two, nothing happened, then a hand and arm appeared from under the box, filthy fingernails, dried blood on the arm, then the box turned over. It looked like a guy who could be anywhere from fifty to seventy or so. His face was bright red, and his eyes unfocused. He looked around, and jumped when he saw them standing there looking at him.

“Don't hurt me! I'm not panhandling. Just needed to get some sleep.”

Talaski was already past him. Amy and Keller had stopped, considering what he said.

“Just keep going,” Talaski said. “Everyone, keep going.”

Amy and Keller stared at the old man, but neither hesitated to follow Talaski’s lead.

“Why aren't we talking to him?” Amy asked.

Talaski frowned. “Do I need to give a reason? Are you really asking me that?”

Neither of them answered, and a moment later, they resumed pushing the cart.

Behind them, the guy asked, “Anybody got a cigarette?”

46. Jacobs

They left the motorcycle two blocks away and looped around to the house behind the Alamo house. At the moment, they were both crouched behind a large bush beside the property's garage.

“We should wait for dark to scout this place,” Jacobs said, “but we really can’t wait. I want you to stay right here, and keep out of sight, Kyle. If I'm not back inside an hour, then I want you to go back to the others, on foot if you have to, and keep them away from this place. Don't engage in a war. Just get out of the city. Do you understand?”

The younger man's face was flushed and smeared with dirt. “Yes,” he answered, looking a little edgy. “Be careful, okay?”

Ten feet away was the back wall of the Alamo. Up close it was a white-washed, six foot high, concrete block wall complete with flaking paint and the black flecked stain of fungus. Weeds and grass grew high in a flowerbed that wrapped around.

Nothing moved. No birds sang nearby, although there was the background metallic buzz of cicadas, rising and falling. A brown lizard scaled the wall. Something rustled through the thick leaves layering the ground behind them near the garage door.

With his rifle slung and pistol in hand, Jacobs lifted himself to his feet and quietly edged up to the wall. He hoisted himself up and over and dropped to the ground on the other side. He squatted on a well-trimmed swatch of lawn, and paused only long enough to look around. Directly ahead of him was the three-story house. It wasn't pretty by any stretch of the imagination. Painted white, with beige trim at the windows and roof eaves, likely built in the fifties. It was sort of a wedding cake design, with the bottom floor being large, and the next two stories becoming gradually smaller. The windows were spaced evenly, each about ten feet apart, complete with safety shutters running the perimeter of the entire circle-shaped bottom floor. The windows looked old but well made, and he could see himself reflected in the mirrored tint of the nearest one. Two stairs led to a screened back door slightly to his left.

A detached garage was further to his left. A concrete driveway stretched from the garage, passed in between him and the house, and swept around the property to the closed steel and reinforced gate in the wall about sixty feet away. A blue Trooper SUV and a yellow VW bug were parked near the gate. The trunk of the VW was open, and a few engine parts lay on the driveway nearby.

He couldn't see anyone, or hear anything that hinted at a human presence.

So far, so good. Someone had been working on that car; it was a question of how long ago.

Jacobs stood, and with only a slight limp, crossed to the screen door and tried the handle. It turned and he pulled the door open. He braced it with his back and turned the inner door's handle. It was also unlocked.

“Come in,” someone inside said, and he froze. The voice had a faint accent that he couldn't place. He should have acted one way or the other—by going inside or retreating.

“Please, compose yourself and come in,” the male voice repeated. Jacobs thought the accent might be Asian.

He holstered his pistol and opened the door. A tall, slender, middle-aged man stood in the kitchen beyond. The man wore a long-sleeved, checkered shirt, jeans and what looked like army boots. His dark brown hair was long and swept back, and the shape of his eyes indeed hinted at an Asian background. He stood behind the table and nodded toward a chair across from him. A small handgun lay on the table, alongside a hardback book. There was also a tea service, and two cups. He had been expected.

Jacobs crossed the floor and sat on the chair.

“I am Sid,” the man said with great seriousness.

Like El Cid? Jacobs thought, and nearly smiled. “I'm Sergeant Jacobs.”

Sid picked up the small tea pitcher. Steam rose as he poured a cup. “Would you care for some tea, Sergeant?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Help yourself to the milk or sugar.”

Jacobs took the proffered cup and spooned some sugar into his tea.

“So, what can I do for you, Sergeant?”

Jacobs thought it over, deciding honesty was best. “I'm looking for a safe haven for a bunch of kids. Your house looked promising. I didn't know anyone was here.”

Sid lifted his cup to his lips, and with a small satisfied smile, took a swallow. He placed the cup back on the table, and said, “Few places are safe without a lot of work these days. How many children are there?”

“Twenty or so, most of them teens. Are you willing to help?”

“What would you do, if I said no, Sergeant?”

Jacobs let the wall come down over his emotions. He sensed that this guy loved to play games. With the coldest look he could muster, he replied, “Well, Sid, I am a direct man...a man of action, you might say. I've never had much use for selfish people, and under the present circumstances, no patience with them. If your answer is no, I'd like to know why, but I can't say that it’ll change how I react. So, what do you say?”

The other man looked up at him, and met his eyes unflinchingly. “I don't share what’s mine, Sergeant. People do what I say. I’m a cultured man living in a savage world. This requires me to come down hard first. I’m proactive in my lifestyle.”

Jacobs held Sid's gaze. “So, I have your answer then?”

“Before you decide to do anything hasty, Sergeant Jacobs, you should know that we have your young friend...” Sid put a finger to his ear, and Jacobs realized that the man was wearing an earpiece, probably to a walkie-talkie. “Kyle? Yes, we have Kyle in custody. And to answer your question, I will consider sheltering these children, but on my terms.”

Jacobs kept his face expressionless, and made himself sit still as Sid picked up the pistol and pointed it at him. Sid's smile was more of a sneer.

“Looks like I have no choice but to accept those terms, Sid. Anything else on your mind?”

Sid raised an eyebrow, dropped the smile and said, “Enjoy your tea, Sergeant. Kyle is leading my men to your people now. They will bring them here, and we will proceed from there.”

“We could’ve discussed this without threats,” Jacobs said.

“Why would I do that from a position of strength? Really, Sergeant, I didn't take you for a dullard.”

“It’d be better for you not to make any assumption about me, Sid,” Jacobs replied.

“Is that right? I’ll remember. In the meantime, what say you stand up very slowly?”

“You’re sure this is how you want to play this, Sid? It isn't too late for you to apologize and for us to start over.”

“I have few regrets, Sergeant, and this would qualify as the least of them.”

“Suit yourself,” Jacobs answered, and stood up slowly.

“Turn around, Sergeant.”

Jacobs had a bad feeling, like none he'd ever known, not even in that stinking South American jungle when their native guide led them into an ambush, or in Mexico when Booth set off a booby trap, and they both were chased for days in the mountains by American mercs hired by a drug cartel.

“Kneel down,” Sid said, in a hoarse whisper.

Jacobs couldn't be sure how close the other man was behind him, but went with the only idea he had. He dropped down into a squat with his hands out and on the ground to either side, and then, thrust out behind himself with his legs. His booted right foot made contact with Sid's knee, and then Jacobs was rolling to his feet, right hand drawing his pistol.

A door swung closed, and Sid was gone.

47. Foster

One moment they were walking along side by side, and the next they were plunged into total darkness.

“They cut the power,” Green said.

“Guess so,” Foster answered. “What's their angle? They think they're going to scare me?”

“Maybe no one turned it off, sir. The generators could just be out of gas.”

“That leaves us with a number of choices, Lieutenant. One, we get the hell out of here. Two, we go to the generator room and see if they need gas, or whether someone just turned them off. There are other options, but I'm not sure that any of them are productive. I'm leaning toward checking the generator. Any opinion?”

“There is a chance that we killed them all, sir. If we left without checking, we'd probably regret it more.”

Foster wasn't used to being scared. He didn't like it one bit. Being blind in the depths of a bunker complex, knowing people wanted to kill you, wasn't pleasant either. He wished he could see Green's face as he said, “I’m going to find the generator and turn it back on. You don't have to come. I should've asked you a long time ago whether you wanted to go. I’m the president of nothing now. I'm just a guy, and I'm getting old. Not much use to anyone anymore.”

Green was quiet a moment, while probably thinking things over. The silence drew out.

“Honestly, sir, I’m scared, and I'm not a Ranger, or Special Ops guy. My primary MOS was Supply. I got transferred over to the MPs last year, but I'm no Rambo. I think I'm going to try retracing our way back to the exit, and out of here. I don't want to die down here in the dark.”

Foster's resolve was crumbling. “Where would you go?”

“I don't know, sir. I just don't want to be here. If you order me to stay, though, I will.”

“It's harder to be brave in the dark, isn't it? I make all these decisions that affect millions of people, and have still, for the most part, slept like a baby.”

“I couldn't do that, sir.”

“No, how can you be so sure, son?

“Just a feeling.”

“Tell me again, how do I reach the generator room from here?”

'Follow this tunnel for about two hundred yards. Keep your hand on the left wall, and when it opens out, you turn left. You'll come to a door marked Generator Room. Go in there.”

Foster smiled in the darkness. “Thank you, Green. Now get out of here.”

The other man took his leave. For several minutes, Foster heard Green fumbling around in the dark, and talking to himself occasionally, steadily getting farther away.

He was making too much noise though.

As if to prove that theory, someone, presumably Green, made a strangled cough, and a death rattle.

Foster bit down the urge to call out. Green was a good companion, and he was sorry if the young man had been murdered, but what could he do? People make choices. Whispered voices hurried him down the corridor, trailing a hand along the wall. Foster was fighting to keep his composure, but was terrified, no matter how hard he tried not to be. He was all alone now.

Up ahead, he saw the red glow of emergency lighting. It seemed hard to believe that someone hadn't filled a gas reservoir. It had to be by design. People were still trying to kill him.

If they had night vision, there was no hope. One could be behind him right now, toying with him as he felt his way along like a mole in...well, a hole.

Some minutes later, he caught himself holding his breath. If he didn't calm down, the game was going to be over. He stopped and inhaled deeply. Let out a long exhale. Didn't worry about how much noise he was making. He'd taken up yoga in the second year of his first term, trying to find a way to manage the stress that was literally stealing away years of his life. Ideally, he'd like to find a small room and get centered, but that wasn't possible. He took another long breath while counting slowly to six, then expelled it loudly.

He listened.

Absolute silence.

He took another breath and finally felt some of the tension go. He hoped it was enough.

He resumed walking, still trailing his hand along the wall and trying not to think about the almost certain fact that he was lost. He wasn't familiar with the layout of this place, and Green hadn’t had a chance to brief him fully. Go straight ahead two hundred yards… What kind of bullshit was that? Was this how Bilbo—no, was it Frodo?—felt in Moria? He was glad, no matter what, that men were chasing him, not orcs, or Gollum.

He laughed, thinking, And don't forget the undead virus!

He heard voices. Female voices. He slowed down, trying to follow them to their source. When he came to a tunnel crossroads, he stopped and listened closely again.

The voices were coming from the passage to his right. He caught a fragment of echoed conversation: “...just can't take much more, April. People trying to kill each other, even with all this other craziness going on! What for? I don't blame the president. He doesn't know everything.”

Then, another female voice, “That's right, Barb. General Kyler is doing all kinds of things, and not reporting to anyone! I’m surprised he's been getting away with it, but maybe I shouldn't be. I've been talking to Kevin over at the Comm Center, and he says everything is falling apart.”

Foster walked toward them, once again trailing his hand along the wall, and the other hand was on his gun.

“...understand why...mutinied...but shouldn't we be...”

He was close now. There was a faint, whitish glow coming from a doorway about ten feet ahead on the right. Apparently these women weren't worried that anyone would kill them. He felt a small measure of relief that the women hadn't quite spoken out against him.

Just in case, he stopped a few feet from the open door. “Hello, ladies. May I join you?”

“Who is that?” the one called Barb, asked, “Is it you, Mr. President?”

“Yes. May I come in?”

“You have to ask?” the other one, April, asked. “Please do, we're all alone.”

“I just didn't want to startle you,” Foster replied, and stepped into the room, into the light.

The secretary he knew as Barb, a middle-aged brunette with a good figure, sat behind a desk just inside. April, an attractive, but mousy blonde twenty-something, was sitting next to her.

Both of them were pointing handguns at him. April waved toward an empty chair on his side of the big metal desk.

“Have a seat, Burt,” April said. “Good to see you, again.”

Foster tasted bile and tried to swallow it back. He sat down. “Can't say the same, April, sorry to say. At least with you two pointing guns at me.”

“All the same, Burt, I know some people who've been looking for you. So nice of you to join us.”

Foster was pretty sure she couldn't see his waist when he sat down. It was below the level of the desk. Both women were watching him. He noticed that Barb was staring at him with an almost hungry intensity. She winked, realizing that he'd noticed. She licked her lips.

He barely knew either woman, but knew they'd been closely screened for loyalty. Of course, everyone around him had sworn an oath at one time or another, but now all bets were off, he supposed. He couldn't afford to find out if they were still loyal, but he could be patient and wait for the right moment. His fingers were on the grip of his gun, but both women still had their guns pointed at him. He wished he knew whether they’d learned how to use them and what Barb's smile meant. Was she an ally?

“You know they’re trying to kill me, right?” he asked.

April raised an eyebrow. “You always stated the obvious too much, Burt. Hell, I'd like to kill you. Your health care policies killed my parents. My husband lost his job. I'm sitting here, trying to convince myself that I have to keep you alive. Think twice before you speak. My tolerance for your bullshit is at an all-time low.”

Foster glanced at Barb. Her smile looked a bit strained now.

“I'm sorry to hear that, April,” he said, pouring compassion into the words. Some people compared his voice to James Earl Jones’. He stared into the faded blue eyes of the blonde woman and didn't flinch away.

April's smile morphed into a resigned expression. “Please don't waste your time and mine patronizing me, Burt. I've always wanted to believe your bullshit, but I'm blonde, not blind, or deaf. Think long and hard before you speak again. My finger is getting tired of resting on this trigger. Just one squeeze, and blam, you're gone.”

Foster's hand was now wrapped around the gun. He was pretty sure that the barrel was pointed in her direction under the table. He even had his finger on the trigger, but wasn't sure that the safety was off. He also worried that the bullet would deflect on the metal desk, and not punch through.

“You ever kill someone, April?” he asked. “I'm betting the answer is no.”

April looked startled a moment, but she recovered quickly and smirked. “No, Burt, I never killed anyone, but you don't count! You are some kind of lizard, a chameleon who can be whatever he needs to be...” Her brow furrowed as she struggled to finish the thought. “You blend right into the jungle.”

Truth was, she was pretty close to the mark.

He glanced at Barb. Her smile was fading. It could be that she was a decent person who didn't want to kill anyone, or see it happen. There had to be a way out of this.

“April, while all you say is true, you must realize that I have advisors. I listened to them, and tried to make the best of bad situations. Our country went down a one-way, dark road long before I was sworn in. I'm not blameless or innocent, but I always tried to make the best choice— the choice that was the best.”

April's eyes were flinty, reminiscent of the rough, rocky wall behind her head. She either wasn't buying it or wasn't listening. Foster’s finger tightened on the pistol's trigger. It was better to go out in a blaze fighting for his life than to die on his knees, but he decided to try one more time.

“I've killed quite a few of them, you know,” he said, locking eyes with her. He saw her blink, and bite her lip.

“Is that so?”

“With this gun on my hip. I intend to live, ladies. Whether you believe me or not, you have to ask yourself, why would professional soldiers resort to cutting the power unless they were desperate or afraid? I'm sure you've heard the gunfire. I’m a resourceful man. Not just a leader, but a survivor. Think it over, April. Your friend is. Don't take too long, though. I'm getting impatient enough to pull this gun and end things one way or the other.”

April laughed.

Barb's lips were parted. He caught a glimpse of her teeth. She raised a hand to her temple and brushed a stray lock of hair away from her eyes. She turned to her friend. “What do you think, April? Do we trust him?”

“Are you really considering it, Barb?” April asked.

“I like him,” Barb answered, “always have. I want to see how this plays out. “

Foster had to fight the urge to grin, and kept his poker face. His finger loosened a fraction on the trigger. The barrel of April's gun dropped, and she rested the weapon on the table.

April lowered her head a fraction and looked up at him with a small smile. “Okay, prove to us how much of a man you are, and get us all out of this mess.”

Foster stood up. “Follow me.”

48. Julie

Her thoughts drifted far from the gloomy darkness that surrounded them. She remembered happier days, images that spooled out like a roll of film, most of them back in college, before the White House days. She and Burt Foster had met in a British Literature class. One night he’d read Marvell's To His Coy Mistress to her; she’d been anything but coy in her response. The memory was so good...

George was finishing on the toilet when Julie heard the helicopter engine’s tempo increase. She knew that couldn't be good. “Hurry, George, they're going to leave us!”

She pulled him out of the stall despite his protests, yanked his pants up, and hefted him onto her hip. She ran blindly out of the bathroom, struggling to hold him and steer with the flashlight. The engine noise drowned out any other sound as they burst back into the hangar. The crack of gunshots almost made her stumble, and when the helicopter lifted, she saw the colonel's body sprawled on the ground. Julie ran, heart in her mouth, knowing it was too late, and emerged back into the sunlight. She saw the long, straggling line of walking dead people coming across the grassy field from the direction of the terminal, and then heard more firing. Booth was shooting at the helicopter as it flew away, taking careful, deliberate shots. She wondered whether he could hit it since it was moving pretty fast. Then, there was a gout of flame, and oily smoke trailed behind it. She was shocked to see such a little gun do damage to such a large machine. George slid almost unnoticed down her hip and landed on his feet. He clung to Julie’s leg, and she held him tight with her right hand.

“First Lady!” Booth shouted, and she looked up. He was running toward her, followed by Lassiter and Hicks.

The meaning of what had just happened was sinking in. There wasn't going to be any reunion with Burt. This nightmare world was real, and a hardscrabble struggle to survive was beginning for them.

Julie turned away from the approaching men and watched the helicopter crash. Pieces of the rotor splintered and flew everywhere, while fuel spewed out from the wreckage and the flame bloomed. A moment after, she spied the figures of the two pilots stagger free, one of them burning. His companion, probably Duncan, knocked him to the ground and made him roll in an effort to extinguish the flames. Both were oblivious to the living dead that were closing in.

Booth and the others stopped next to her. Lassiter raised his rifle, and Hicks knocked it down. “Leave them be. Save your bullets for something more worthy than those two fuck-ups. They just stranded us here.”

Julie didn't even look up. She was too busy focusing on the drama unfolding in front of her. She'd never hated anyone so much in her life, and she was glad they were about to die.

“Let's go,” Booth said. “They'll be coming for us too.”

“Where are we going to go?” Julie asked.

Booth gave her a crooked smile. “Away from here! Sorry to say, I'm not sure yet, ma'am. We'll find someplace safe first, then figure it out.”

She nodded and felt another tear slide down her cheek. “Thank you, Sergeant. I know you are doing your best.”

“Let me carry George for a while. We need to boogie.”

Julie didn't argue, and fell in right behind Booth, followed by the others.

Somewhere, not far away, there came a scream and a gunshot.

Julie didn't look back.

49. Janicea

Twice, while Bronte dug the hole, Janicea was forced to shoot the dead. The first was Ralls. It was harder than she imagined it would be. It took three shots, mostly due to her shaking hand.

She hated this new world and accepted, at last, that hating had been the focus of her life. Without it, she may not have the strength or will to continue. This was a world for those who could be ruthless, not for the meek or timid.

Or regretful.

There was no room for sentiment or love.

Her relationship with Bronte was unsettling. She couldn't protect or shelter it. Beth and Daric were a further complication. It was so much easier if you lived without love or expectation. There were too many things to break the heart, but she would fight to the death to save them. What else was left?

Bronte finished digging Tracks' grave not long after she put down Ralls. He leaned on the shovel. “I’m exhausted. Let's lock ourselves into one of these houses, get cleaned up, and rest. Tomorrow, I'll make sure the island is secure, and then I’ll bury Ralls and Sinclair. God help me, I can't do it today.”

Janicea led the kids over to him, and they shared a long hug. He laid the shovel on top of Tracks' grave and headed for the nearest house: a single story with an attached garage, a towering tree in the front yard, and a yard sale sign in the tree for Saturday and Sunday from 9 to 4. Bronte walked to the porch and screen door. He held a pistol at his side and reached for the door handle.

It opened when he turned it, revealing a stretch of aqua-green ceramic floor tile and a water color painting on the right wall. There was a doorway to either side, about ten feet in, and a dining room straight ahead.

Bronte glanced cautiously through each doorway before proceeding. To the left was a living room; to the right was a closet. The closet was full of coats and had a shelf full of candles. The scent of vanilla wafted from the closet when she stepped into the living room after Bronte. The kids trailed along behind them, hand in hand.

The living room also had a big screen TV, close to seventy inches, on the far wall, a large picture window facing the front yard, and toward the rear, a line of barstools, a bar counter, and a view of the inside of the kitchen.

Janicea loved it.

The kitchen was bright and cheery. The cabinets were a honey oak color, and the appliances looked new. Pots, books, and various knickknacks sat atop the cabinets most of the way around the room. Another door led to the dining room and a table for eight. More lightly stained wood and polished steel.

“I like this house,” Beth said.

“It is nice, isn't it?” Janicea replied.

Bronte kept moving. There were two more doors: one to the garage, and the other exited into a passage that led back to the bedrooms.

“I think we can be safe here. All of you wait right here while I check the rest. Janicea, please check that the house is locked.”

The kids followed her while she tried the doors.

The three of them were sitting on a comfortable couch when Bronte rejoined them. The two kids snored. Janicea stroked their hair.

“They’re good kids, aren't they?” Bronte asked.

“The best we could ask for,” Janicea replied.

“That is true. It's going to be a struggle giving them a safe home, but I know we can do it,” Bronte said.

Janicea smiled at him. “As long as you’re with me, I'm pretty sure I can do that, and be everything you need me to be.”

“We gotta be very careful then,” Bronte replied. “I'm sure this’ll be a good place, but I do worry about disease, or if one of us gets hurt. There’s no hospital near here.”

“I can bear it with you, Bronte.”

“We’re together, Janicea. That is all I need to know.”

“So...are we just going to live here?”

“Until we come up with a better idea,” he said, “or unless you know of someplace better, that’s my plan.”

“I sure hope we aren't the only survivors. There have to be other good people out there, right? I have to believe that.”

“I'm sure there are. We have boats. We can explore the coast and be safe. Might even find a better place that way, too.”

Bronte took her into his arms and kissed her tenderly on the forehead, her nose, and her lips. She kissed him back, and pressed her body against his. She let out a gasp. His eyes, looking into hers, were startled for a moment, but then he caressed her shoulders and picked her up, kissed her neck.

“Where you taking me?” she asked.

He carried her back down the hallway without comment. When they entered the master bedroom and she saw the king sized bed, she murmured, “Oh.”

That was the end of the conversation.

50. Natalie

The doorway opened into an entryway. There was a lot of glass overhead, filling the room with sunlight that fell on a gleaming wood floor. The front doors were to her left, large wooden monstrosities with stained glass. Another arched doorway, directly across from her, led to a sitting room, and a wooden staircase was to her right.

Natalie threw herself at the front door, grasping the handle of the one on the left. It was locked. She grabbed the deadbolt and turned it to the left, grasped the smaller locking switch on the door handle, and turned it too. A lean teenaged guy, missing the right side of his face, crashed into her.

The two of them stumbled away from the door in an awkward dance and her back crashed against the wall beside the sitting room's entrance. The guy's teeth were visible—both from his open lips and a hole in his face. The latter revealing more teeth and even gums. He wrapped her in an intimate embrace and leaned in.

His teeth snapped at her face.

The loose, stubbly skin of his cheek flapped.

A panicked inhalation brought to her nose the mingled scents of Axe, excrement, and sweat. Natalie gripped his shoulders. She tried to hold him back—a losing battle. His nose brushed hers. She threw herself to the side. Without the wall behind her, she stumbled backwards and into the sitting room. She used the momentum to pivot and sling him away from her. He lost his grip.

I’m free!

He tumbled to the floor, his back on an oriental rug.

Natalie spun around, heart pounding, breathing raspy, and found herself nearly face-to-face with a tottering grandmother baring her teeth. She swatted the woman down with a clenched fist. It felt like she’d hit a Styrofoam figure. No substance to the woman at all, and she stayed down. Natalie stepped over her.

More zombies were coming!

None were close enough to stop her from opening the door and dashing outside. But there were more of them outside. Several turned their heads in her direction when she stopped onto the stoop outside the door.

What to do? Should she try to get back to the car or run?

Dead people closed in from all directions. She forced herself to run to the left, dodging shrubs, trees, and uncoordinated people. Someone grabbed her arm. She broke free, stumbled, felt her ankle twist. She fell to her knees sobbing. She raised her head. The circle of corpses drew closer still. She forced herself back to her feet and ran, trying to ignore the pain. She pumped her arms as she ran, brushing by people who reached out to her like worshipful fans, hungry for her.

The avenue was made of red bricks, lined on either side by tall oaks. She ran beneath their shadows, and small patches of blue sky peeked through gaps in the canopy. She ran back into the sunlight and saw huge, puffy clouds floating serenely overhead. It was safe up there.

Natalie’s chest heaved, and her breath came in gasps. She slowed down, almost to a walk. Up ahead was a small park with a creek. There was a little bridge, benches, and lots of tall, majestic trees. It was an old neighborhood with large, well-maintained houses, and beautiful lawns.

She was still being followed, but at a distance now.

She had no idea where she was going, or what to do. She’d keep walking until they cornered her.

Without any forethought, she turned left again when she reached Martin Luther King Street. She saw a car wrapped around a pole. There were downed power lines but no sparks. There were a few dead people lying in the street, trash, downed branches everywhere, leaves, broken glass, cars abandoned with doors open.

The only sounds were the wind in the branches, rustling leaves and trash, her footsteps, and her breathing as it gradually returned to normal. She was still hungry and thirsty, and a headache pulsed behind her eyes.

The corpse of a middle-aged black woman lay flat on its back in the gutter, eyes staring up at the sky, a gory, cratered hole in its forehead. Flies flittered around the wound and the woman's open mouth.

Natalie wondered how long she'd been dead. The blood didn't look dry.

A moment later the dead woman was forgotten as a car pulled up alongside of her. The driver's side window was down and she heard what sounded like the squawk of a walkie-talkie as the car slowed to match her pace.

The driver was a lean young Asian guy with a wispy beard. She could see a baseball bat in the passenger seat.

Troy.

He was one of the guys who'd been chasing Nella .

“Where is she?” he asked. No beating around the bush with these guys.

There was no sense pretending that she didn't know who he meant. “She's dead and so is your friend.”

“Don't lie to me, bitch,” he said.

She wasn't impressed. Not many threats could get a rise out of her now.

“Fuck off,” she said, and kept walking.

He followed her, with one hand on the wheel and an elbow on the window frame. “So, you just expect me to take your word?”

She stopped and leaned over, almost into the car. “What does it matter, Troy? That is your name, right? Are you really going to care about anything I say? It's the fucking end of the world and here you are chasing after some other man's woman! Don't you have a life to live? You have nothing better to do than that?”

“Is Jimmy dead, too, then?” he asked after they stared at each other for a minute.

“Yes.”

“You got somewhere to go?”

She shook her head. “No, do you?”

“Not if Nella is dead. Sid will kill me for failing.”

“Should you kill him first?” she suggested.

He grinned. “You willing to help?”

“I have lots of time and no agenda. How hard could it be?”

“Depends on how many of us are left.”

“You sure about that, Troy? Why don't we just take your car and run?”

“How do you know my name, anyway? Did she tell you?”

She shook her head. “I heard you and Jimmy arguing. He said your name.”

“What's your name?”

“Natalie.”

“Okay then, Natalie, Sid is a vengeful fuck. If he found out that I ran off with you, he'd have us hunted down. He's a prick like that.”

“So why don't we kill him first, then? Aren't you a man?”

The young man's eyes blazed. She studied him carefully, wondering if she'd pushed too hard.

“I am a man,” he declared, spitting each word out. “Don't doubt it. The question is though, are you enough of a woman for me?”

She smiled. “Let's go kill Sid and find out. I need a man, Troy.”

51. Johnny

Huff drove the forklift right into the warehouse's door and almost knocked it right off its hinges on the first try. Johnny stood off to the side with Marcel and Anna. The big biker shouted something, and Huff had better luck the second time. The door was a shattered mess.

Johnny wondered what could possibly be so important.

“You,” Gretchen said, pointing at the husky kid with a bat, “stay out here with Huff. Keep a lookout, and come get me if anything happens. The rest of you come with me. We're looking for five pallets labeled as hazardous waste. Spread out when we enter, and search everywhere. We won't leave until I know for sure that the pallets aren't here.”

She stepped over the remains of the door and entered the shadowed interior. A moment later, Johnny followed her, trailed by Marcel, Anna and the rest.

The room beyond was huge, and pallets filled the vast space. Two pathways, slightly larger than the pallets, led deeper into the building. Every pallet visible to Johnny was filled with cardboard boxes, most of a uniform size. Gretchen directed him, Marcel, Anna, and the biker to take the right hand pathways. “Start at the back and work your way forward,” she instructed. “Come get me immediately if you find anything.”

Johnny nodded, and Gretchen frowned at him. He figured his silence was getting on her nerves.

Marcel answered, “We will, ma'am. Count on it.”

Gretchen shook her head at that. “Get going, kiss-ass.”

Johnny looked at the older biker and waited to see if the man would take the lead. He had an impassive, stoic air. He wore jeans, heavy motorcycle boots, and a threadbare dark blue button up shirt open to the waist that exposed a muscular but gray haired chest. The hair on his head was buzzed to the scalp, and he had a neatly trimmed, pure white mustache.

“Take the lead, mutie,” the biker told him. There wasn't any venom in his voice. He might as well have been saying, “Nice day.”

Johnny shrugged and took the lead, glancing down each aisle as they walked to the back. He estimated that each aisle was over a hundred feet long, and that it was twice that length to get to the rear of the building. Marcel had a flashlight and was reading something printed on the floor in front of each aisle. Johnny noticed this too late to read what the first two aisles read, but the third advertised, “Automotive.”

He heard the other group moving along but couldn't see them. Some sort of shelving divided the warehouse in two. It looked like there was stuff stored on the shelves also.

“What's your name?” Marcel asked, and Johnny turned and saw he was talking to the biker.

“I'm Ike, now buzz off, fat boy,” the man answered.

Marcel shrugged and turned toward Johnny. “Wish I knew what we’re looking for, Johnny,” Marcel said. “I have a really bad feeling. At first I thought it was drugs, but now I'm not sure. Don't imagine you know, do you?”

Johnny saw his friend looking at him in the gloom. He could feel and smell fear coming from the other man. He wanted to ask him what he was afraid of but pushed the question away. The price he paid whenever he attempted to communicate was never commensurate with the effort required to get a direct answer.

He resisted constructing elaborate stories in his head. It was all too easy to do when you weren't able to communicate in a normal fashion. He knew he was insightful enough sometimes to be right about what someone was thinking, but not always. He didn't know Marcel at all and didn't know what made him tick. Anna was even more of an enigma.

He reached the end of the aisle and turned right, looking carefully at each pallet. What he saw were pallets of cheap appliances: coffee makers, toaster ovens, and can openers for the most part.

He turned back the way they came, and the next aisle was full of cheap electronics, like boom boxes and generic home theaters.

Anna's baby picked that moment to start crying. Johnny was surprised that it hadn't happened sooner.

Ike said, “Shut that fucking kid up, bitch.” There still wasn't any passion or heat to his tone, but the message was rude. Johnny was sure he'd shut the child up if Anna didn't.

Marcel turned to the man and said, “Don't talk to her that way.”

The biker laughed. “You got some spunk, fat boy, and I admire that, but you better help your girlfriend keep that brat quiet, or else.”

Johnny wondered what he meant by or else. There was only so much he'd be willing to take from this guy before it would be time to...do something.

That was when Marcel saw the pallet and the hazardous materials symbol they were looking for.

52. Clive

Rungs were inset in the block wall, ending about fifteen feet up a small tunnel to a hatch in the ceiling. A ladder. Clive reached up and spun the locking wheel until he heard a click. He pushed up on the hatch and felt some resistance. He pushed up again sharply and felt something give. Dirt cascaded down onto his face, and he spat as the door opened all the way and struck the ground.

Candace sneezed.

“Bless you,” Clive whispered. He poked his head up and raised himself out of the tunnel. Placing a knee in the stiff, dead grass, he stood, then leaned down and helped Candace climb out.

They stood in a stand of shortleaf pine trees near the bottom of two hills. The trees were close to a hundred feet tall, with yellow trunks, and dark green needles. A few cones littered the spongy ground.

“Which way do we go?” Candace asked.

“I'm not sure where we are. You see any sign of the resort?”

“I see an antenna over there,” she said, pointing over his shoulder. Clive turned around, and had to look close, but he did see some sort of cell tower poking up above the trees on a hill about a mile away.

“Okay, well, we'll go that way so we can find the road. They may have some maps in the lobby or something. Maybe we can even find a car,” he said, and looked at her bare feet. “We aren't equipped to just start traipsing through the woods as we are.”

Candace smiled at him. Her hand found his, and they began to make their way through the close-set tree trunks. It wasn't easy going, and quite often he lifted or carried her to avoid rocks or fallen branches. Rather than try to climb the hill, he led her around it. He wore sturdy, comfortable shoes that cost over $150 dollars, but they weren't made for hiking, either.

About twenty minutes later they exited the trees and stood in the parking lot overlooking the three-story hotel where it perched on the far side at the edge of a gorge. One car and four SUVs were in the lot but no sign of any people.

He was sweaty, but Candace was leaning against him anyway. It made him feel good, until he looked down at her feet and legs. They were scraped and dirty.

“Your poor feet,” he said. She didn't protest when he turned to the side, leaned over a bit, got his left arm under her knees, and hoisted her up in his arms. He was exhausted and his chest was killing him, but he couldn't let her know that. He wasn't sure what was motivating his tenderness toward her, beyond his innate courtly manner with women. It wasn't pity, although he did feel sorry for her when he thought about what she'd been through and survived.

“You don't have to carry me, you know,” she said.

“Should've carried you the whole way,” he replied. “We need to find you some shoes.”

“Didn't they shoot you?”

“They missed,” he said. His breath was a bit short.

“Like hell they did. Put me down, Clive.”

“When we reach the sidewalk, Candace. Just a few more feet.”

“Stubborn man! Now!”

He set her down gently on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Candace was still holding his hand. He gave the hotel and its grounds a closer look.

There was a knee-high hedge that ran around the sidewalk and parking lot's perimeter and eventually led to the hotel entrance. Massive maple trees were spaced at twenty foot intervals behind the hedge, and all of them overtopped the hotel's roof. The hotel itself appeared to have a Spanish or Mediterranean influence with white-washed walls, a red barrel-tile roof, and a gated courtyard. The arched gate was made of upright steel bars.

Clive pointed at the SUV that was closest to the hotel's entrance. “See that Trooper over there? It's a secret service vehicle. Probably a waste of time, but we could find the keys inside.”

She put a hand on his arm. “It's okay, Clive. I'm just grateful to be alive and out of that hole. When I think about what could’ve happened...I owe you my life.”

“It's what I do. Actually, in the end I failed. Who knows? You could be the president now.”

She smiled brightly. “Perhaps. I’m pretty sure, however, that means nothing at this point.”

“Well, let's see if we can get you outfitted properly, and get the hell out of here. Sound good?”

“We have to be brave all the time now, don't we? It isn't so bad with you. Let's get moving.”

53. Booth

Booth led them at a slow jog around the hangar building and onto the landing strip behind it. They had an unobstructed view of mangroves and Tampa Bay to the east, and the airport's main concourse, terminal, and several large airplanes to the south. He thought it would be best to hug the shoreline and the airport's fringes in order to escape the horde behind them wandering around the terminal.

They were sweating within minutes as they crossed the stretch of concrete runway, bleached white by the sun, and made their way to the grass beyond.

Booth mopped his forehead with a bandanna.

Julie said something he didn't quite catch as he skirted the edge of the mangroves and followed them to the south.

“What did you say?” he asked her.

“I'd love to go swimming,” she answered.

The water was beautiful and the sun was bright. It wasn’t a day when anyone should die. The mangroves had a tangled mass of roots that rose above the water—water which was shallow and clear enough to see to the light brown, muddy bottom. It wasn't a sandy bottom. Booth knew it would be slimy and mucky on his feet.

It was better to skirt the edge, and avoid it if possible. The roots would make for hard going, even if they didn't have George with them.

It was a long, thirsty walk, and he wasn't sure where they were going. On the far side of the mangroves, he could make out, what looked like, several rows of buildings. That made him uneasy. More people. As they walked, he mulled over what to do. Only a couple of options appealed to him. They drew even with a road that led to a boat ramp. He could lead them down it, to the water, and they could wade around the buildings if they had to. The second option would be to walk around the buildings, end up at the center of the airport, and make their way from there.

Five minutes later, they turned the corner of the forest's edge, and Booth realized that the buildings were hangars for small airplanes. He let go a pent up breath. Odds were good that not many of the dead would be wandering near there. There were at least four rows of the white buildings that he could see. Each had ten small driveways and a garage-style door that was big enough for small propeller driven planes. All the doors were closed on the outermost row.

“Neither of you know how to fly, do you?” Julie asked.

Booth shook his head, and Hicks said, “No ma'am.”

“I wish one of us did,” Julie said. “There are planes all over the place around here.”

Booth didn't bother to answer. Where did she think they'd go, anyway? It was better to focus on what they could and should do. He thought again about the difficulties involved in taking George out into the water, knowing it would probably tack a couple of hours onto their trek.

A moment later, he led them out in the open, and hoped nothing would go wrong. The building was at least a hundred and fifty yards away. He hadn't seen a zombie who could sprint yet, so he felt fairly secure with the decision. The distance to the terminal was even longer, but he could see milling shapes over there.

They crossed back over onto a runway. A small, almost nonexistent breeze blew, but wasn't enough to cool any of them off. Booth estimated they only had about a third of a mile between them and the fence that separated them from a golf course.

“Stick close to me,” Booth said to Julie, “in case we have to run.”

“I will.”

One of the dead must have spotted them. He was about a hundred feet away. A mechanic or something, wearing a yellow jumpsuit.

Booth dismissed him. He was too far away to matter.

The boy was whining. His mother shushed him. Booth tuned him out.

Five more minutes of walking led them to a tall, chain link fence at the airport's perimeter. Hicks didn't wait to be told. He took out a pair of wire clippers to cut a hole through the fence links. A field full of knee high palmetto bushes was on the other side, with some scattered stands of palm and pine trees. Beyond that, he saw the golf course. He set George down, and the boy went and stood by his mother.

“Any idea where we should go, yet?” Lassiter asked, not addressing anyone in particular. He raised a hand to his brow and squinted toward the golf links.

Hicks had a blank look on his face, and Julie and George weren't paying attention. “Really not sure, yet,” Booth answered. He slapped at a mosquito buzzing his neck. “How about you?”

Lassiter shrugged. “There's some warehouses we could hide in over by Roosevelt. We do need to rest and eat.”

“Sounds better than wandering around a golf course,” Booth replied. “I’m pretty sure all there is beyond the links are bayous and then the bay.”

“There's a lot of nothing out here,” Hicks agreed. “If we don't find a vehicle, some of us are going to have some sore legs tomorrow.”

Booth knew that Hicks was referring to Lassiter, Julie, and boy. He and Hicks could walk for days.

“May as well cut our way out now,” Booth said.

Hicks was already cutting the links. Within minutes, he had a man-sized opening. Booth went out first. Julie and George came through next, followed by Lassiter and Hicks.

Booth considered the terrain before them. He intended to take them to the southwest for now. That was where Roosevelt Boulevard was, and a built-up area of warehouses, small factories, a strip that included restaurants, nightclubs, and gas stations. To get there, they would have to pass across the field of palmetto bushes that would be waist high on George, then part of the golf course. Beyond that was the strip. Tactics demanded that he stick to cover as often as possible and avoid open spaces. Of course, that was what traditional tactics demanded if time permitted.

“We'll move out using the V formation. What that means,” he said, looking at Julie, “is that I will take point, Hicks and the chief here will be to the left and right at either side, and you and George can trail behind me about twenty feet. If we move that way, we have the best chance to react to whatever we run into. I need you and George to pay attention, and try not to make a lot of noise.”

Julie nodded. “I understand, Sergeant.”

“Everyone else, good?” Booth asked.

The other two men nodded.

“Odds are,” Hicks said, “we won't run into anyone anyway.”

“Anybody need water before we go?” Lassiter asked.

Julie and George both nodded. He unslung a big, cowboy style canteen and handed it to George, who started chugging it down.

“Whoa,” Julie said, “that's enough, honey.”

“I was thirsty, Mom,” he said.

Booth caught himself smiling along with the others. The boy was lifting them all up with his spirit. He was glad the boy wasn't aware of the situation. From the defeated slump of Julie's shoulders, he could guess her state of mind. Better to keep moving, now, while they all still could.

“Let's go,” Booth said, over his shoulder. Inspiration drew him up short. He looked back at the boy and said, “Hop up on my back, George. You can ride on my shoulders.”

“Can I, Mom?” George asked his mother.

“Sure you can, son,” Julie replied.

Booth caught Julie smiling at him as he lifted the boy into place. It made him wish he knew what he was doing here. Odds were that this woman and child were never going to see the president again, let alone leave Florida. He was sure that the old world had a few last gasps, but it would soon be a memory. No one was going to rescue them.

“Help me keep an eye out for bad guys, George,” he said and patted the boy's knee.

George laughed. “Got my eye out, sir!”

Booth settled his rifle and set out at a brisk pace, high stepping through the palmettos.

The late afternoon sun was bright, and Booth could feel sweat beading in his hair and at his temples. His forearms were slick with it. Walking through the palmettos only took a few minutes, and then they stepped onto a golf green. There was no sign of anything, living or otherwise.

They walked up a small, manmade hill. At the top, the once living, moving river of metal over on Roosevelt Boulevard was now visible, motionless and glittering with reflected light; an asphalt river littered with life-size matchbox cars and trucks. There was movement over there. Mockeries of human life walked between the stalled vehicles.

There were so many of them, Booth wondered how they would ever make it across. “We may have to wait for night to make it across that road.”

“Why don't we go there, instead?” Lassiter asked, pointing to a building a couple hundred yards to the east. “Wouldn't the clubhouse be perfect?

Booth had to agree. It did have good, clear avenues of fire, although there were a few trees. There would likely be some food and drinks in there and lots of booze. The thought had more appeal than he cared to admit. As long as they didn't make much noise and stayed out of sight, they should be safe.

“It’s a good choice,” Booth admitted. “You know anything about clearing a building, Chief Lassiter?”

“Not much,” Lassiter answered.

“Well then, I want you to stay here with the first lady and George, and Hicks and I will clear the building and come back for you. Stay alert.”

Lassiter nodded. Booth looked over at the first lady. “You'll be okay, ma'am. One step at a time, alright?”

She nodded too. “Thank you...Sergeant?”

Booth grinned at her. “It doesn't matter, ma'am, but Sergeant works for me.”

A quick confused look came and went on her face, replaced a moment later with the almost serene, girl next door smile she was famous for. There was something in her eyes, though. In the way she held his gaze and kept the smile. A lot was being said without words.

He realized she was probably his for the taking. No doubt about that. He thought she knew as well that there wasn't going to be any tearful reunion with her husband, no miracle trip against all odds with a happy ending.

He gave her a wink, and turned away. It was the best he could do in the moment.

The decisions were easy once he settled on a plan.

54. Talaski

“You hear me, Mills?”

Keller was trying his walkie-talkie again, even as Talaski led them at a quick walk out of the parking lot, wincing every time the shopping cart rattled on the asphalt. It didn't matter. More than a hundred of the dead followed them out into the side street. They never would have made it back to the fire truck, even if Mills hadn't taken it.

“Can you hear me, Mills? Does anyone?” Keller asked.

The only response was dead air, occasional static.

“It's no use, Matt,” Talaski said. “Mine is dead. I must not have left it on the charger long enough. It happens. I bet Mills never had a chance to recharge his either.”

They walked along quietly for several minutes.

“We are going to abandon that cart if we don't lose them soon,” Talaski said.

Keller was pushing, and Amy was beside him, jogging at a good clip. The potholes and debris in the road were rough on the cart's wheels.

Talaski couldn't help but think that they weren't that far from where this whole nightmare began for them. He wondered what ever happened to that little boy, Daric. Had he made it? He knew he'd never know.

Sadly, it was probably better if the boy was dead.

He pushed these thoughts aside and attempted to focus on the here and now, and finding a way out. The three of them were jogging down a small road with houses on either side of the road. No sign of any live people. Just signs of their last moments, or worse yet, more of the living dead. The street was full of trash, abandoned cars, and both varieties of human corpses.

Except for the dead, the scene could be that of a post-hurricane neighborhood.

Talaski pulled his pistol rather than use the shotgun to shoot any of the dead that got too close.

“Think we can pick up the pace, at least to a jog?” Talaski asked them.

“I can,” Keller answered.

Amy smirked. “I've been holding back. I was ready to run a long time ago. Just didn't want to leave you two behind.”

Talaski stepped his pace up until all three of them were jogging at a fairly good clip. He wasn't sure how long they could keep it up, but hoped that they could put a few blocks between them and the dead and find a place to hide.

Keller was still pushing the cart when they rounded a corner and turned onto another street. Talaski couldn't tell which one because the sign was underneath a UPS truck. The dead were still everywhere. An old black man with a salt and pepper afro wearing a blue terrycloth robe was too close to avoid. Talaski clubbed him with the stock of his shotgun, and the three of them ran around him.

They kept running right down the middle of the road. Along either side of the street were some old houses, many with trash in the yards, and all were mostly rundown and neglected.

“This place was a warzone before all this happened, wasn't it, Nick?” Amy asked.

“Night or day, it wasn't a good place,” Talaski replied.

“Not even when I was a kid,” Keller added.

Keller was a St. Pete native, while Talaski was nearly so. They'd both been roaming these streets together since they were teens. They usually only ended up in a place like this if Keller was driving, though; he was always making wrong turns. The thought brought a brief smile that lessened, if only for a moment, the grim lines nearly cast in stone on Talaski's face.

“Why don't we turn in there?” Amy suggested, pointing at a large, completely out of place mansion two houses up on their right. There were immense oaks in the yard, a short concrete block fence around the perimeter, and a group of teenagers stumbling toward them through the gate. For a moment, Talaski wondered if they were still living, but that doubt evaporated like a desert mirage when he got a good look at them. They were physical wrecks, and had fought and died hard, judging by their condition, but reanimated all the same.

They were spreading out in front of them. Talaski stepped it up and ran ahead of his companions. At a distance of ten feet, he stopped, braced himself, and opened fire on the leaders. The assault shotgun belched flame and boomed, shredding and rendering the undead things back into oblivion with the precision only long practice imparted. The bodies jerked and fell each time he squeezed the trigger. A pile of the dead grew.

Talaski's weapon clicked empty. With every nerve screaming, he forced himself to push the magazine release and begin the reloading process. More were coming from straight ahead and at the sides.

Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Amy gasp.

“Nick, they're coming from everywhere,” Keller said.

Talaski shoved the empty magazine into his belt and pulled out a new one— the last loaded one, chastising himself. He should have reloaded earlier. A wry grin came and went this time as he thought about the definition of futility: Should have and if.

And too late. Couldn't forget that one.

He remembered the phone number that was still written on a scrap of paper in his wallet. Her name was Stacy. He wondered if he should have called her. He never even tried when all of this went down. It was too late now. Too late for anything.

They were supposed to have a date tonight.

“Nick, you have to hurry man,” Keller said somewhere nearby.

Talaski blinked his eyes, finished shoving the magazine home, and pulled the charging handle back. He was reloaded.

Keller and Amy stood beside him. Amy raised her carbine and fired a single shot. Talaski took a quick look around them. The dead were closing in from all sides. Ten here, thirty there, and nowhere to go with the cart. If he and Keller carried it over the people he'd shot, they could hold up in the house.

It was no good. He knew they would end up trapped, and they didn’t have enough ammo to break free again.

“Leave the cart, Matt,” he told Keller. “Follow me, both of you.”

Talaski didn't wait or look back to see if they followed. He stepped over the bodies, one of which was still twitching, and entered the yard beyond the fence. He had to hope that there was a way out on the other side of the house.

Every one of the things within miles would be converging on this area soon.

The fence along the side of the house was about three feet tall. There was a hedge at the side with a vine-covered arch halfway to the backyard. A withered orange tree, ringed with two pieces of half circle edging stones, was visible a few feet behind, just inside the backyard. He could see an old shed further away.

They all ran.

When they came even with the hedge, Talaski happened to look in a window on the side of the house. A child's startled face gaped back at him through some curtains. A glimpse. It would be so easy to pretend he hadn’t seen it. Keller and Amy obviously didn't, as they nearly collided with him when he drew up short and looked again.

The child was gone.

“What's going on?” Amy asked.

“Saw a kid in the window.”

Talaski felt relief at the immediate concern on both her face and Keller's. Until now, he wasn't sure how good a person Amy was, but this dispelled any lingering doubts.

Keller said, “Got any ideas, Nick?”

“Let's try the back door. I can't leave that kid there. Worst thing is we have to break in. We don't have much of a start on those things.”

“Let's do it,” Amy said.

Talaski led the way. He saw that the fence was the same height all the way around. There was no obstacle to escaping that way. An alleyway was right there with none of the things barring the way.

Then he saw a group of them clustered at the house's back patio doors, massed and pressing against the glass.

With a shout, he ran toward them, firing from the hip...

55. Trish

She couldn't believe it— road rage at the end of everything. Well, it wasn't really. The guy was a freak to begin with, but why did she have to run into these people?

There was a clear stretch that lasted for a block or so, and she floored the accelerator. She wished that it could have stayed that way, but all too soon, her focus narrowed to the road and what obstructed it. Wrecks, trash, debris of all kinds, mobile and immobile dead people. She could feel her awareness fraying as her body shut down due to near complete exhaustion. If only she'd had time to rest.

At one intersection, Twenty-Second Avenue South, she thought, there was an immense field of broken glass, scorched plastic, and twisted metal—the apparent aftermath of a terrible pileup. A wrecker truck was still present, pulled off to the right side of the road, and police and emergency vehicles blocked the southbound lanes. The remains of three cars and a big pickup were lined up at the curb behind the wrecker. Two police officers stood roughly in the center of the intersection, as if still ready to guide her around and through the mess. She slowed, they noticed her car, and enough detail was revealed to make it plain that they were permanently off duty.

The cop on the left was missing his right arm from the elbow down, and the legs of the one on the right were a bloody, shredded mess. How she was standing was a mystery.

Trish gritted her teeth, slowed but didn't stop, and felt the whole car shudder with the impact when the female officer went down beneath the wheels. The car rolled onto her. Trish winced. She remembered running over the pervert and crashing. She was horrified that this impact would lead to something similar, and she braced herself for the worst as the tires bounced off the creature she had hit, then Trish felt almost ecstatic with relief when the car righted itself, apparently unharmed.

She heard a fire engine siren somewhere behind. She wondered about it for a moment before pushing it to the back of her mind. She had to stay focused and find a way out of this mess. One little misstep and it could be her last. There weren't going to be any heroes to rescue her.

Something about that siren… it nagged at her.

She glanced in her rearview mirror, saw the freak's car a block or so back, head-lights on, and behind it saw the flicker of emergency lights.

The vehicle was bigger than a cop car. She flicked her gaze back to the road ahead, and narrowly missed an open manhole in the street. Only a last second swerve saved her. She corrected her steering and ran over a corpse that thumped beneath the wheels, scraped another car, and lost the right rear view mirror with a loud crash. She fought the wheel but managed to straighten out, then risked another backward glance and saw it was a fire truck barreling along, crashing through what it couldn't dodge.

Could it be Mills back there?

If it was, he probably wasn't going to be able to keep up. That truck was too big to overcome all the pileups.

She forced herself to look away and pushed down the surge of hope that even the thought of the handsome firefighter could awaken in her. She didn't need anyone to fix her problems or help her out of messes. If you didn’t need anyone, you wouldn't be disappointed. It was bullshit she fed to herself every day, because the alternative would be admitting how empty and lonely her life was. She had to force that thought away too, and focus on now.

Little more than a block ahead, people were all over the road. She could see them walking toward her. They were everywhere, piling up against one another, forming a wall of maimed, rotting flesh, the details of which painted a hellishly perverted scene. There was no choice but to hit the brakes. Trish could smell the tires burning as the wheels skidded, and the car spun around, somehow still staying centered and not flipping.

She could almost feel them closing in around the back of her car when she completed her hundred and eighty degree turn. Hands were slapping on the trunk as she floored the accelerator and burned rubber again. Her face blanched with fear when the car chasing her headed straight for her. The freak's eyes grew large, and he swerved at the last minute and shot past her, back where she’d come from. She had a moment to wonder why he didn't slow down before his car sped past and plowed right into the packed crowd behind her, parting it like the prow of a ship before vanishing into and beneath the human wave.

Trish slowed, watching and waiting for the car to back out, but it never did. Meanwhile, the fire engine continued in her direction, siren blaring and lights flashing. There was time to wonder briefly why it was following, but not time to stick around. The things were in pursuit again and already pounding on the back of her car.

Trish decided to roll the dice and take a chance. Instead of trying to escape, she drove toward the approaching emergency vehicle. She could see at least one person in the cab, hunched over the wheel. The siren still blared, and the lights still flashed as the truck rolled to a stop in front of her. She realized she knew the driver when he threw open his door and jumped to the ground. The yellow bunker suit confirmed it—Mills, the good-looking firefighter from the police station. She opened her own door and ran to meet him, exulting inside, but still aware of the danger surrounding them. The crowd was closing in, and it was bad enough that she worried there would be no running away this time.

He swept her into his arms; she was the one to keep her head.

“Adam, we have to go!” she cried, pulling away and tugging his hand. He followed, obviously not as worried, and they ran together to the fire truck. A tall, thin guy with long, hairy, spidery arms reached out and snagged her shirt sleeve. Mills yanked her free with only the loss of most of her sleeve from the shoulder down. He took Trish's hand in his and pulled her along.

Another zombie, middle-aged, with a roll of muffin-top fat, and clad only in yellow short shorts, stumbled in between them and the truck. The woman's breasts had little sag for their size, and Trish realized they weren't real when she saw a large bite in the right tit. The wound revealed a gel pack hanging partway from the gouge. Whoever had been chewing on her must have latched on. Mills stiff-armed the woman, stepped to the side, and nearly entangled both of them with yet another middle-aged woman. This one had a frizzy hairdo and caked make-up. Trish narrowly avoided her grasping fingers and ducked to the side.

Mills pulled his pistol and shot the frizzy-haired woman in the head. He turned, and shot Spider Man next. The horde was closing so fast he didn't have time—or enough bullets—to shoot them all. There were three pursuers between them and the driver's side of the truck, on the passenger side there were two, and countless more were closing in, with the furthest only ten feet away.

It was going to be close. Mills dropped her hand.

“Follow me,” he said, and ran toward the two undead approaching them from the passenger side of the truck. Mills never slowed, and was nearly sprinting when he crashed into the two zombies and fell to the ground with them. Trish followed closely, and forced herself to mount the side of the truck, open the door, and climb inside.

For a moment, she froze up, unable to believe that she had made it while below her, Mills was struggling with one of the things. The first was trying to sit up, and the second, a middle-aged guy with a bushy beard and a big build, was grappling with the smaller but burly firefighter. The zombie couldn't get a grip on his bunker suit, but Mills couldn't stand because he was tangled up with the dead guy. Trish looked around the truck's cab for any kind of weapon. She spotted his big fire axe and shotgun right away. She knew she had to make a decision quickly. To use the axe, she'd have to leave the truck, while with the shotgun she could wreak devastation from the cab. She reached down and hefted the big gun, nearly despairing at the weight. It was like lifting a small dog, and she guessed it was over ten pounds. Panic was overtaking her, because she knew when she turned back to the window, even as she did so, that the zombies would probably be on top of Mills.

They were! The image of them, so close, as she poked the barrel through the still open door, was horrifying. She didn't even try to aim, and pulled the trigger, half-expecting it to be locked and still on safe. The resulting roar, recoil, and the graphic, devastating damage she wrought was gratifying. She fired from left to right, unaware of the savage smile on her lips, or the tears coursing down her cheek. Some shots seemed to do nothing, and she figured that those were when she failed to lower the barrel enough. The gun seemed to have unending ammo, and each shot did tremendous damage, so she forced herself to aim, and stay focused.

Only when it clicked on empty and the sound of the siren was noticeable again did she allow herself to look down. Mills was sitting with his back to the truck with the two zombies dead at his side. One still had an arm stretched across his splayed legs. His gun was in his lap, and he was holding a knife in one hand, and what looked like a chewed ear in the other. His chest hitched, and she thought she heard him sob.

She dropped down to the ground beside him. He didn't react. Probably in shock, she thought. “Please Adam,” she said, “you have to get up.”

“Run, Trish,” he answered. “I cut off the rest from the base, but probably not soon enough. I think I have a concussion, too. Hit the back of my head when I fell. Real dizzy.”

“Get up. You’ll be okay...please, I need you,” she said, acknowledging the pleading tone of her voice but unable to stop or change it.

She knew more of the dead were coming, but forced herself to take the hand holding the ear in hers. “Throw it away, Adam.”

His eyes were glassy. There was no question that he was going into shock.

“Snap out of it!” she shouted, and slapped his face. He dropped the ear, looked up at her. He kept his eyes on hers as he climbed to his feet on shaky legs.

“Sorry, Trish,” he said. “I lost track of what I'm doing.”

“Never mind that, just get in the truck, please, before it’s too late!”

He nodded, still dazed. He climbed the steps and swung himself into the cab. She followed, still not able to look up, and shut the door.

Mills was sitting behind the wheel and shifting into reverse. Blood poured down from a ragged wound on the right side of his head where his ear used to be.

“You have to pay attention,” he said as the truck turned to the right and began to crush the bodies that lay in its path. “When I turn, you have to shoot me.”

Trish turned away. The look in his eyes was too intense to bear.

“Promise me, Trish. Be hard. Survive this.”

She couldn't answer, but she always found a way. One day, she knew, there might not be a way, but until then, she would always try.

She would die trying. Her parents had been survivors, and so was she.

“Don't sweat it, pal,” she said, mustering a grin from somewhere. “If you need shooting, I'm your girl.”

He laughed. “I noticed that a few minutes ago. I wonder what the odds are that the virus, or whatever it is... Maybe the thing clamped down on it ripped it off with its teeth, I don't know...”

She was desperate to change the subject, and she could hear something. “I hear a voice. You have a cell phone or something?”

“Wha...?”

He pushed aside a towel and a shirt that were piled on the center console between them. The voice was familiar.

Mills pulled a walkie-talkie from under the pile. “Keller, is that you?”

Now she could place the voice. It was the big guy at the police station. The cop's sidekick.

Mills floored the gas pedal. They sped along, back the way they came, going south.

56. Jacobs

There were two choices, as Jacobs saw it. Follow the guy, or try to rescue Kyle. It wasn't much of a choice. The better course would be to simply write him off and go back to the others. Only problem with that was that the kid trusted him. In effect, Jacobs was coming to accept these kids as his responsibility. Committing. The other part of the problem—if Sid was telling the truth—Kyle was already gone.

Only one choice then. Unless he was selfish.

Part of him wanted to run away. Forget about them. They weren't family or anyone he knew. What made him care? He knew he wasn't a good man. A good man doesn’t murder a woman and her kids. Who was he kidding?

He was reminded of something his friend Booth told him long ago. The two of them had been sitting in a bar, drinking all night, and both were plastered. He never could get drunk enough, but Booth's advice had simply been, “Be your best, amigo. Doesn't have to be the best. Just your best.”

He missed the guy. Of all his soldiers, Booth was the steadiest and most reliable. Good listener, too.

“I'm doing my best, amigo,” Jacobs said as he ran through the door that Sid had disappeared through. He wasn’t ever going to be perfect, but those kids deserved his best.

On the other side of the door was a staircase, a hallway, several doors to either side, and an entry door still creaking in the breeze. Jacobs had to assume Sid had gone that way, and he pushed the door open and stepped outside. He saw Sid's back disappear, rounding the corner of the wall where a gate stood open.

Jacobs ran, feeling the weakness still present in his ankle with every step, but he was used to ignoring pain and pushing through. One other thing was aggravating all his problems right now—exhaustion. The few hours’ rest he’d snatched weren't near enough to make up for the sleep debt he'd built up in the last few days. He knew it was affecting him, and that he was going to make some costly, if not terminal, mistakes unless he slept soon. He didn't even slow going through the open door, where he saw a big, lean man right in front of him. Jacobs tried to bring his carbine around, but the other man was already stepping to the side. The man threw a punch that Jacobs walked right into. The punch rocked him, and Jacobs’ vision blurred as he stumbled backward off balance.

Jacobs was easy meat.

Being helpless was the image that Jacobs wished to portray. The other man drew a knife, made a grab for Jacobs' shoulder, and swung the knife upward, intending to gut him. Jacobs deftly blocked both the grab and the stab. He followed up with closed fist strikes, one striking the man in the jaw, and the other in the throat. The first blow dazed the guy, and the second sent him to the ground choking. Jacobs palmed the knife and cut the man's throat with the ease of long practice...and without flinching.

Blood sprayed when the razor sharp blade sliced through and pulled free with only a last gentle tug. The man's feet drummed on the driveway, his whole body stiffened, and then relaxed. Just to be sure, Jacobs leaned over the body and plunged the knife into the guy's eye to the hilt. Covered in the other man's blood and weary beyond words, the soldier climbed to his feet and scanned the area for more threats, and for Sid.

Sid was gone. Jacobs didn't expect him to stick around. The henchman was supposed to delay him. He’d served that purpose well, but the game wasn't over yet.

Jacobs set off in a fast but lopsided run toward the wheeled gate and exited onto the road outside in time to hear a car door slam, see the car rocket away, and find himself face to face with another of Sid's henchmen.

The other man must have heard him coming and looked back. He turned with pistol in hand, fired once, then twice more, while Jacobs threw himself to the side and fell to the grass.

The henchman, a guy with his left arm in a sling, wasn't through. He assumed a shooter's stance, feet apart, gun hand cupped in the other hand, and aimed. From the ground, Jacobs fired a quick burst from his carbine. The man jerked, ducked around through the driveway entrance gate, and disappeared around the wall.

Jacobs thought he’d winged him but he was like a cockroach slipping into a dark crack. Jacobs raced after him. Kyle was as good as dead if he didn't catch Sid. He spotted movement to his right; a second henchman, or, if he was counting the dead guy, a third henchman, stuck his head around the other side of the driveway gate. Jacobs had the brief impression of a black man with paint or something on his face, aiming a revolver. Jacobs reacted immediately, and shot from the hip, the sound of it harsh and too loud in the afternoon stillness. Jacobs’ aim was sure, the result of years of training. Most of the short burst took the guy in the face.

At least that one wouldn't be getting back up. Just one of the things he did best. He neared the gate and another man, a tall, skinny Asian with a long ponytail, appeared in his sights. Another short burst fired without hesitation or doubt. Another quick, easy kill. Jacobs stepped outside and looked left. The guy with the sling was there, reloading his gun.

“No!” the man exclaimed, and Jacobs shot him through the head with a single squeeze of the carbine's trigger.

Jacobs was in his groove. “Grim Reaper, baby,” he murmured, and stalked down the street, his shadow stretched before him. The shadow, long and distorted, seemed a fitting companion on this errand of death. Maybe the Grim Reaper was with him, personified in the shadow.

It was then that he saw the horde of undead within half a block of him, heading his way. Hundreds of them, maybe more.

“Pied Piper is more like it, Jacobs, my man,” he said to himself.

He retreated back to the Alamo's gate. It would be better to wait for Sid and company to come back. He could plan a little surprise or two in the meantime.

First, he had to secure the gate.

57. Kincaid

Kincaid climbed aboard the larger boat by using a ladder built onto the back, heaving his bulk up and over the transom. Not a silent entrance. He found himself face to face with a short, squat man in a dark suit with a red tie. He was probably a little over five and half feet tall on a good day, and his brown hair was buzzed close to his skull. The man's neck was so thick that the top button of his shirt wasn't buttoned. He looks really strong, Kincaid thought, but lighter than me. He could take him like he’d taken that big cabbie. One cheap shot was all he needed. It was all Kincaid ever needed. His punch was legendary, but he didn’t have the stuff to make it to the highest level of boxing, a sport that required more than a big punch.

It made him think of that Hawaiian Punch guy on the commercial from his childhood.

“You're Kincaid?” the man asked.

Kincaid nodded, with a slight smile.

“About time you got here,” the man said crossly.

“You and your boss in a hurry?” Kincaid replied.

“You know we are, you bastard,” the short man muttered.

“Yes, I know,” Kincaid said. He almost added, And that's angry, vengeful bastard to you, but thought better of it. No sense provoking these people.

“Follow me,” the man said, and turned away. He walked toward the small deckhouse, which was festooned with nets, life jackets, and a life preserver. A long metal gaff and an axe were beside the open doorway. The man stepped over the transom and into the cabin.

“What's your name?” Kincaid asked.

“I'm Joseph. What's it matter to you?”

“Everything matters,” Kincaid answered.

There was a narrow stair with worn, wooden steps. Dark tongue and groove paneling lined the short passage down and extended into the kitchen galley room beyond. There was a stove, a refrigerator, and a booth-type table with benches. Light came from a small hexagon lamp made of glass. This was mounted on the ceiling. Francis was there, sitting at the table, pale-skinned. He was puffed up at the moment—face, chest, and arms.. Another weightlifter type like his pal, Joseph.

“Scared yet, Francis?” Kincaid asked, while Joseph leaned against the wall beside the door with his arms crossed.

Francis scowled. “You shouldn't fuck with me, Kincaid. I told you that before.”

“I'm the one being fucked with. Now do you want the antidote or not?” Kincaid asked.

“Yes, but I know you didn't bring it all with you on that jet ski,” Francis said.

Kincaid smiled. “I have people securing it now. I have enough with me for three people.”

“I have a wife, and two kids, Kincaid.”

Kincaid held the smile, kept eye contact, and said, “Guess you better be real careful in your dealings with me then, Francis.”

“You promised me I'd get it, too, boss,” Joseph said with a snarl.

Francis nodded. “So I did, Joe. Guess you and I are going to have to wait for Mr. Kincaid's delivery.”

Joseph blanched. Loyalty only went so far with most people.

“This wasn't the deal, Mr. Kincaid,” Francis said, and without looking at his face, Kincaid knew he wasn't smiling.

Nor was he.

“Well, here’s what you get, for now, Francis,” Kincaid said, stepping deeper into the room and setting the small box on the table in front of the other man.

“And with that, you think we will just let you walk out of here?” Francis demanded.

Kincaid felt Joseph behind him. He knew the other man was close. He had a moment's doubt as to whether he should stick to his plan or not, but then kicked backwards, pivoted a little awkwardly, a hundred and eighty degrees, and threw everything he had into a punch at the shorter man's face. He felt the shock of impact travel from his hand and wrist all the way up his arm as his fist struck the man in the mouth and part of the nose.

Joseph fell backward, mouth bloodied, and spat out teeth. He coughed, choked and slammed against the wall beside the stair.

Kincaid spun toward Francis in time to block a punch to his head with his right forearm, and follow up with a right jab. The jab went past Francis' head, and Kincaid stepped inside Francis’ guard. He followed with a left uppercut to Francis’ jaw.

Francis went down, hard, and sprawled across the galley table. He didn't move.

Still got it, Kincaid thought, looking back at Joseph, who was slumped beside the stair with his legs sprawled out in front of him, blood pouring from his mouth and nose.

Now all he had to do was check with Sid and find out if Gretchen's expedition to Tampa was successful or not.

Well, that, and the small matter of whether to let his two sleeping pals wake up again or not.

58. Foster

The darkness was near total until he turned on the flashlight. The two women stayed at his back, Barb with her fingers laced through a belt loop. He could sense her arousal, or was he imagining it? He'd always been confident, and self-assured. Barb was his, ripe for the taking, and if he could, he'd take her up against the wall right now.

Even facing death, he was aroused and hard, almost throbbing at the thought of taking what he wanted. The signals were there. She was likely unaware she was sending them.

What a mess, he thought. Here I am, like some caveman from a million years ago, fighting to secure my right as chieftain. He certainly was in a cave, and with the way things were breaking down, he may want to stake his claim on these two women soon.

They were certainly suitable companions for surviving the end of the world. If he could trust them.

He wasn't sure if this was a tunnel he'd been down before. He didn't want to voice doubt to the women, and he had no idea how big the complex was. He sure could use Green now. A steady, slightly moist breeze wafted over them from behind. The flashlight revealed rough rock walls and a smooth concrete path. There was also a large, eight inch conduit pipe running at knee height along the length of the wall on the right side and a vinyl gutter beneath it on the floor. The water in the gutter looked clean; the floor sloped downward.

Foster smelled something bad. The smell of death. Something was behind them.

Barb whimpered. “I smell them. They're behind us.”

Foster knew then what it was to be a preyed upon animal when it caught scent of the hunter. Only these hunters carried the smell of death, excrement, and carrion. Scavenger was a better description for them. He'd read somewhere how filthy a lion's teeth and claws were from eating rotting meat. They were opportunists that would even steal a hyena's kill.

Something nearby moaned, and he heard shuffling feet. More than one pursuer.

“We have to keep going,” Foster said, and he resumed walking with Barb trailing him, fingers still looped around his belt.

April said, “Faster!”

Foster didn't want to look back. He picked up the pace. He noticed that the conduit vanished into the wall beside a door to the right, and then the passage opened into an immense cavern. They stood on the rocky shore of a vast underground lake that stretched into the darkness farther than his flashlight could reach. The water rippled where the vinyl gutter drained into the lake like the sound of a faucet pouring into a sink. The small roar of it echoed.

There was no visible sign that gave purpose to this lake, but it was probably a reservoir that supplied the complex.

“I'm not swimming in that,” April declared.

“Me either,” said Barb.

“I wonder where that door led to?” April asked. “You think it’s a way out?”

Now moans of the pursuing dead echoed through the cavern, competing with the sound of falling water.

“What do we do, Burt?” Barb asked.

Thinking of Monty Hall, Foster answered, “I'll take the door, Barb. Let's go, before it's too late.”

The two women pressed close to him as they retraced their last few steps back to the door, and came face to face with the dead. The stench was overwhelming at close range. Dead soldiers, none of whom he recognized by name, were walking straight toward them.

April yanked on the door, and when it didn't open, she screeched like a dying, panicked animal. The sound brought to mind a fiery chamber in Hell full of tortured souls.

Foster grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her to the side. He knew the dead soldiers were too close. He felt April claw his arm and try to force her way past him as he put his shoulder to the door. Her fingernails gouged into his flesh, and with a powerful, adrenaline-fueled shrug, he tried to fling her away.

Barb was screaming, “No, no, no!” somewhere in the background. A few seconds later, the screams turned into shrieks of pain. A gun went off, then three shots more right after the first with quick flashes of terrible light and noise. Something tore through Foster's right arm even as he struggled with the little crazed blonde. Pain. The crazy bitch shot him. He turned and clubbed April with the flashlight right across the temple. The soldiers were right on top of them, too many to fight and kill. The blond crumpled right into their arms. Foster put his back against the door. He saw Barb put her own gun in her mouth beside him and pull the trigger, then watched the dead close around him and the dying women. He fumbled for his own gun, tried to aim, but then his flashlight died. Bodies pinned him to the floor, his limbs spread-eagled.

In the dark, he felt hands grip him and mouths close on his flesh in multiple places. He fired the gun until the slide locked back, then screamed and screamed as they tore his clothes and flesh. Agony reached a volcanic peak from which he couldn't come down.

Then he knew no more.

59. Julie

Julie sat cross-legged in the shade of an immense oak, George asleep with his head in her lap. Lassiter stood guard and was leaning against the gnarled trunk of the huge oak tree. He was lost in his own world, far from her, so she turned back to her boy.

Julie ran her fingers through her son's hair. Life was so hard, and it was going to get much harder from now on. She knew now that her husband, Burt, might as well be on the dark side of the moon. Her practical side was in control now. She'd been in tight spots before and hadn't been sheltered her entire life.

Just most of it.

Fifteen year old runaways quickly learn what it takes to survive. That was what she'd been once, a rich, pampered daughter of a Boca Raton socialite who ran away and ended up hooking on the streets of Tampa. No one knew, of course. A private detective hired by her stepfather found her within a month or so of being on her own, but not before she got a taste of the seedier side of life.

She still remembered it all in vivid detail, being hungry and scared, abandoned by her boyfriend on Interstate 275 at the Fowler Avenue Exit. She was a tall, willowy blonde with a black eye, wearing a mini-dress and three-inch heels at two in the morning. She didn't even have her purse. She thought she knew it all, until that moment. Her forty-two year old boyfriend was going to take care of her. Always.

Until they got into the argument.

She wasn't going home, even if she'd had her cell phone. Her mother ignored a lot. Pretended to be oblivious to what her stepfather did at night. Her mother was a submissive drunk with no backbone. No one was coming to rescue her.

Julie raised her eyes and pushed the memories aside when she heard muffled shots from the clubhouse. Booth and Hicks were in there making it safe.

George stirred at the shots, groaned, and opened his eyes. “When are we going home, Mommy?” His sleepy look was angelic as he squinted up at her.

It was better to be honest, she thought, as much as possible.

“We're going to find a new home, George,” she answered.

“Can we get a dog, too?”

“I don't know, honey. We'll have to see.”

“What about Daddy? Is he coming too?”

“Not now, he isn't. We have to find somewhere safe first, sweetheart.”

“We're going to hide from the bad people?”

She felt a tear slide down her cheek. “Yes, George, we have to hide for a while.”

“You won't let them get me and eat me up, will you, Mommy?”

Julie felt herself choke up.

“Will you, Mommy?”

“No, George, no one is ever going to eat you. Mommy promises.”

“Okay,” he said, and closed his eyes. He shifted his head in her lap. She could hear cicadas singing in the branches nearby. A little breeze blew across them, a temporary reprieve.

“I think they’re coming back,” Lassiter said, nodding at the clubhouse. Julie looked up and saw Booth striding toward them. He was looking down at her as he walked up.

Julie twirled a finger in her hair and looked into his eyes. He had an impish look to him. Ornery was a better description. Hungry too.

What woman didn't like a little challenge?

She caught his eye and smiled.

Lassiter spoke up, “Is it what we hoped for?”

“And more,” Booth answered, and still looking into her eyes, added, “Here, let me carry the boy.” He stooped down and lifted George into his arms.

“Thank you,” she said in his ear as he rose up.

“Food, drink, and more are waiting for us. Let's go,” Booth replied.

Lassiter was walking toward the clubhouse out of earshot.

“I'm ready for more,” she said, with downcast eyes.

“Me too,” he replied and she felt butterflies in her stomach.

The butterflies stayed with her as she walked close to him and they traveled across the vivid green of the lawn. They stepped onto a clay paver sidewalk that was flanked by elaborate flowerbeds and led to the club's entrance. Booth held open the sturdy glass-paneled door for her, and she entered a white marble-tiled foyer. She could see double doors set in each of the walls to her left and right, and bloodstains on the tile in front of the staircase behind the reservation desk. A skylight provided light, and the room had a welcoming feel.

If you ignored the bloodstains.

Hicks had likely dragged a body away from there, she figured.

“How many were in here?” Lassiter asked.

“Two,” Booth answered. “Wish we could’ve used knives to dispatch them, but there wasn't time.”

“The shots weren't that loud,” Lassiter replied, “but let me go lock those doors, just in case.”

“We had to break the lock. We'll have to put the desk in front of them, or something,” Booth said.

“That’s unfortunate, but never mind, I'll do it,” Lassiter offered. “Why don't you two go get cleaned up and put the boy down for a rest?”

Julie didn't look at him, but she could feel a flush on her chest, neck, and cheeks. Lassiter wasn't dumb. He'd guessed what was going on.

“Thanks,” she heard Booth say as she followed him up the stairs. She admired the breadth of his shoulders, his narrow hips, and the tight ass in front of her.

60. Bronte

Bronte fell asleep spooning Janicea. The two of them were drunk and exhausted. The barrier between conscious and unconscious was paper thin, and she might have been asleep before he finished. It was something he'd laugh about if it was just another day, but he was sure that regular days were a thing of the past.

Bright sunlight lanced through the bedroom's window, and he knew it must be at least nine in the morning. They’d survived another day. He sat up in the bed, and Janicea didn't stir. The long, beautiful chocolate curves of her body were visible from her knees up. He planted a kiss on the smooth skin of her shoulder and pulled the light blanket up and over her body, then slid carefully out of the bed. He pulled on his boxer shorts and jeans, and picked up his shirt, socks, and shoes. He saw that there were two dressers in the room, and decided to see if men's clothes were in either of them. The taller of the two dressers was filled with men's clothes. He found clean socks in the top drawer, and a plain extra-large, t-shirt in the second drawer. With these in hand, he tossed his old shirt and socks into a trash can sitting beside the dresser and left the room. He checked on the kids and saw that they were curled up together on the couch, still asleep. He figured he should let them all sleep as long as they wanted.

He walked outside, closing the door carefully behind him. The shovel was still on the mound of dirt over Tracks' grave. Dead bodies were still sprawled nearby. One of them was Ralls’. Bronte felt bad that he'd been too tired to bury him and Sinclair yesterday, but as someone once told him, You can only do what you can do.

“Guess I will bury you first, my friend, then our lady friend,” Bronte said. Throwing dirt in a friend's face wasn’t something he ever imagined doing. He wished that he'd found a sheet or something, but it was too late now. The afterglow from making love to Janicea was fading fast in the humid heat. So was his will to do this.

He walked a few paces to the right of Tracks' grave, and started to dig. Ten minutes in, he took off his shirt. Sweat poured off him in a steady stream. The going was a bit easier, although he was still sore from yesterday's trials. He was a foot or two down when he heard Janicea say behind him softly, “I've got sheets to wrap them in, baby.”

He turned long enough to smile and say, “Thank you,” then he set back to work. About a half hour later, Janicea brought him some warm lemonade and a towel. She wiped the sweat from his face and chest.

“I think it's deep enough,” he said to her.

She nodded. “Let me spread the sheet out and I'll help you wrap him up.”

Ralls had died facedown with his arms pinned beneath his body. Rigor mortis had stiffened his body to the point that he didn't sag when they lifted him. His face was also purple with settled blood, but at least they wouldn't have to break anything to fit him into the hole. Bronte wasn't about to wait for him to decompose before burying him. Rigor only left dead muscle tissue when rot set in. Thinking about this made him wonder what position Sinclair had been in when she died.

Just thinking about all the dead bodies scattered around the island, all needing to be either burned or buried, was daunting. Did he really feel like cleaning all that up, mostly by himself? Janicea wasn't looking for a shovel, and he was too proud to ask her.

It was better to suck it up. Man up. At least she wasn't ignoring his discomfort or leaving him alone to the job.

“How are the kids?” he asked.

“They found some comic books in a kid's room,” Janicea answered. “When I left them, they were still reading.”

“Good that they have something to do. You better go check on them, and I'll go take care of Sinclair.”

She nodded, handed him the towel, and said, “I love you.”

He looked into her eyes. “I love you, too, Janicea.”

61. Johnny

Johnny found a pallet jack near the end of the aisle and shoved the forks up and under the pallet with the hazardous waste symbol. He pushed the lever to engage the pump and elevate the pallet so he could pull it. It was a good jack, not like some of the pieces of junk he had to use at work. Once it was elevated, he began to pull it toward the front of the warehouse.

Gretchen appeared at his side and told him to pull it up front and outside where Huff could use the forklift.

Johnny nodded.

Gretchen made an exasperated noise. She led the way up front, and Johnny caught himself watching the sway of her hips as he followed behind her. The others, Marcel, Anna, and Ike trailed behind the pallet jack.

Was he attracted to this woman? It was funny how you could have one without the other. She was attractive, but he didn't like her. Johnny had always wanted both if he was going to commit to someone. He only ever got one or the other, but never both. It was a haunting revelation, one he tried not to dwell on for long. None of the women he met stayed interested in him for long. Once they figured out that he didn't like to talk, well, that was a deal breaker. Maybe a deaf woman could love him.

It was funny how that had never occurred to him until now, when it was too late for anything really.

One of the front unloading bay doors was open when they reached the front of the warehouse. It was a good thing, because Johnny was sure the pallet wouldn't have fit through the smaller door, even with it knocked off its hinges.

He dropped the pallet right at the edge on the doorway, pulled the lever to lower the jack, and pulled it free. Huff drove around and, with the forklift, lifted the whole pallet and backed up clear out of the loading bay.

Gretchen hopped up beside Huff on the forklift and he drove away.

There was silence for a moment, and then Ike asked, “What the fuck just happened?”

The forklift was moving at a good clip. Johnny was incredulous. What was going on? They wouldn't leave like that. Would they?

“Johnny, are they leaving us?” Marcel asked.

Johnny met his eyes, thought about shrugging, but nodded instead. He was sure that was what they were doing.

“Should we run?” Anna asked. “We could still catch them.”

Johnny wasn't running. He had a feeling that it was better to be away from these people. Something bad was going to happen.

“I'm running,” Ike said. “Those fuckers aren't leaving me here.”

All the other people, except for Johnny, Anna, and Marcel, began to sprint back the way they came. The high school kid was actually whimpering in fear. Some tough guy. He even dropped his bat.

Johnny picked it up. It was made of good, solid wood. He wasn't sure what kind of wood, but it sure seemed solid when he swung it into his palm.

“Should we follow them?” Marcel asked, looking at Johnny. Anna seemed unperturbed that he only asked Johnny, and she stood next to Marcel and looked his way.

“Yes,” Johnny said with a croak. It felt, and sounded like someone pulling a rusty nail out of rotted wood.

Marcel and Anna looked startled. Johnny started running after the quickly disappearing forklift. He was trying to hold back and rein in his fear. Tampa was scary, and these docks and warehouses weren't a happy place.

He felt bad because he knew neither of his friends were going to be able to keep up with him, but they were trying. He'd have to hope that they didn't get lost. He picked up the pace and soon caught up to Ike and the others. He kept the bat ready just in case, but it was unnecessary. The other people were ignoring him, and all seemed in terror of being left behind.

The boat was still there, as was the forklift. Huff, Gretchen, and a couple of other people were unloading the pallet into the motorized lifeboat.

The question kept repeating itself in Johnny's mind: Why did they want to abandon everyone?

The question was clarified, if not answered, a moment later when Huff and Gretchen opened fire on people as they drew near the boat. Huff had an assault rifle. No one slowed, even when the two started shooting. Panic and fear of a worse fate drove all of them. Huff and Gretchen weren't the best shots, but people were going down. Some dropped, dead on the spot when shot, others fell screaming. Johnny kept pushing, and found himself running side by side with Ike. They were down to only twenty feet or so between them and the boat, and Huff was having trouble reloading. A wiry woman with long black hair crashed into Huff and went for him with her fingers, clawing at his face as he fell to his back with her on top. Gretchen turned and calmly shot the woman through the head while the other two people kept loading boxes into the boat. This all happened even as Johnny and Ike covered the last few steps, and then the two of them were there. Gretchen pushed past the two loaders and into the boat, while Huff struggled to his feet from beneath the dead woman. Ike swung once, twice, and then a third and fourth time. His bat spattered the two loaders’ blood everywhere as Johnny engaged Huff. Johnny's first swing connected with the man's rifle and knocked it out of his hands. Huff backed away, reaching down to his hip, where he had a holstered pistol. Johnny reversed his swing and, with a sickening crunch, connected with Huff's forearm, then his head, and Huff was no longer in the way.

Voicing a harsh, hellish cry, Johnny boarded the lifeboat ahead of Ike, and he found Gretchen in the cabin trying to reload her gun. She looked up with panicked, glazed eyes, and backed away from him, her hands shaking too much to load the weapon.

Johnny's rage knew no bounds. The leash was off.

“Wait!” Gretchen cried. She fell to her knees, eyes streaming, and let the gun drop.

The bat was heading straight for her, when Johnny checked himself and stopped. He stared at her, chest heaving, dragging in deep breaths, and shook his head while she fumbled for more bullets. With her eyes never leaving his face, Gretchen cupped two bullets in one hand and felt around for the fallen gun with the other.

Did she think he was paralyzed or something? That he'd stand there, let her reload, and then let her shoot him?

She flicked the cylinder open on her revolver and dumped the spent casings. They tinkled as they hit the floor, bouncing everywhere. He didn't know what Ike was doing now, but he was aware that people were streaming onto the boat. People were picking up the boxes and trying to figure out what was in them and why this was so important. What could be so valuable that Gretchen and Huff would let them all die?

Johnny was pretty sure Huff wasn't going to be able to explain. Gretchen…perhaps.

She fed the first bullet into the cylinder, and missed on the first try with the second bullet. Her eyes were still on his, almost as if she knew he would make the decision on whether she lived or died.

“What is your story?” Gretchen asked. “Why aren't you shooting me?”

Johnny looked at her and smiled.

“Dumb fucker, I know you can talk,” she muttered. She lowered her head, but he thought he saw a little amused smile on her face, and that left him even more confused about women than before. He should be the one asking her those same questions, but without pen and paper, he wasn't about to.

Gretchen snapped the cylinder closed, cocked the hammer, and with a dark-eyed, solemn look on her face, aimed the pistol right at his head.

He couldn't remember ever hitting a woman, let alone killing one. It was too late to change or modify his behavior now. This was it.

Gretchen smiled faintly. “The stuff in the boxes isn't a cure, but it is an immunization. It works most of the time. If we deliver this stuff, we're supposed to be rescued. There’s a prepared bunker complex for just this sort of disaster. Everything we need is there.”

“But not for all of us, right?” he asked. His voice was so thick and stupid sounding that he wanted to cringe.

Gretchen didn't blink an eye.

“Right,” she answered. “Plenty of the immunization shots, but not enough room for more than ten of us in the shelter.”

Johnny looked around. There were at least twenty-five people on the boat. Most were slumped over or sitting down; all looked exhausted.

From a distance, Johnny heard someone shout, “Our dead are getting back up! We have to get out of here!”

“I guess there’ll be more than they expected,” Johnny said.

Gretchen lowered the gun and sighed. “Yeah.”

Her eyes held something in them that he couldn't figure out. She gave him a slow wink, and that left him even more confused.

“Talk to me whenever you need to,” she said.

He nodded slowly, kept his eyes cast downward, and smiled.

62. Clive

The front door opened inward when Clive tried the handle, revealing a short stretch of decorative tile flooring and a marquee stand. Everything else was in shadow.

“Is it really worth going in there just to get me some shoes?” Candace asked.

“You have to protect your feet, Candace. You might be miserable for days, even if we do find some shoes for you. I hope you didn't hurt ‘em too much.”

“Some camper I am,” she said.

He put on a hand on her back and she didn't shrink away. “We need to see if we can find any of the keys for the cars, too. I think I have enough bullets for whatever we run into.”

There were two corpses sitting on a couch in the waiting room across from the check in desk. To her credit, Candace didn't flinch. Clive figured she'd seen enough death now to not overreact.

“Looks like a suicide,” she remarked.

Something made Clive go ahead and look. He told himself that he needed to make sure the two people were dead, but he knew it was simple: morbid curiosity. The woman's head was in the man's lap, and his right hand was in her hair. His head was slumped against the back of the couch. Both had gunshot wounds to the temple. A revolver was still clutched in the man's left hand. Murder-suicide?

The next thought he had was hardly surprising. He substituted himself and Candace for the two on the couch. Suicide would save them both a lot of grief. He shrugged the thought away; giving up wasn't his way, and probably wasn't hers, either.

The question he asked next couldn't be held back. “Think you could wear a dead woman's shoes?”

There was silence, and he couldn't bring himself to look up. While he waited for an answer, he undid the knots of the sneaker on the dead woman's right foot. The shoes were almost new, still a bright white.

He heard Candace move around the couch to join him.

“I guess I have no choice,” she said.

He looked up at her at last and grinned. “Put on your big girl panties and deal with it.”

“Why would I want to do that? They might get stuck too far up my ass, and then I'd be too uptight like you.”

“Ouch,” he said, and added, “At least she was wearing socks.”

Candace stood next to him, very close, when she knelt down and pushed him aside. With a glare on her face, she removed the dead woman's shoes.

“I've got this, Mister Man,” she said. “And no jokes about dead man shoes, either!” She sat down on her butt with both legs bent, exposing quite an expanse of flawless thigh as she slipped into the shoes and knotted the laces.

He wasn’t sure what he had done wrong, and he shook his head. “No worries, ma'am. I think we should—”

They heard the echo of shuffling feet, moaning, and both of them looked up.

“I don't care about finding the keys,” she said. Her eyes were wide now.

“Me either. If you’re up to the walk, I think a town is close,” he said.

Candace led the way outside. Clive pulled the door closed behind him. Neither looked back as they jogged down the winding driveway to the highway about fifty feet below. Across the two-lane road, bathed in the mid-morning sunlight, a green sign read: Novak 4 miles.

Candace walked alongside him, not limping too much as they traversed the downward slope of yet another hill. The sneakers fit her fairly well. Woods grew up close on either side of the road, with most of the trunks only inches apart. There was nowhere to run or duck off the road quickly if they needed to. The thought nagged at him.

“It’s like we're in a tunnel, isn't it?” Candace remarked, as if reading his thoughts. Some tree branches overhung the road, and that was where the occasional oak grew. The undergrowth beneath the oaks was sparse, and provided the only spots where it was possible to get off the road quickly.

The shade beneath the trees was deep enough to drop the temperature a few degrees also. Until now, the two of them had been trudging along the road in almost blindingly bright sunlight. Clive had been ready for a shower an hour or so ago.

“How are your feet holding up?” he asked.

She smiled ruefully up at him. “Just fine, thanks to you.” Clive thought that she did truly look grateful; she wasn't acting.

“I think I hear an engine…” he said, cupping his hand to his ear. They stopped walking and listened.

“Coming fast from behind us, I think,” Candace replied.

Sure enough, one of the SUVs they'd left behind in the parking lot was slowing down.

As the vehicle got close, Clive saw the news channel logo on the hood and the doors. The last thing he needed right now was to deal with a newsman.

There was no nearby place to get off the road, but he pulled Candace to him, trying to get out of the way. The SUV was slowing down, but all Clive could think about was the woman who was almost leaning against his chest and groin.

The SUV slowed to a complete stop right next to them. The tinted window came down, and Clive almost snorted. It was that damn news anchor, Lance Mathers or something like that. Seeing a celebrity here with them at the end of the world felt strange. Of course, Speaker of the House Candace Fiore was almost as famous, so maybe he did need to get over it. He was slightly curious what the guy would say.

Mathers was smoking, and he wasn't exactly his normal suave self. Disheveled didn't really cover it, either. His hair was a mess. The front of his shirt beneath his suit coat looked stained, and he had a serious five o'clock shadow. The cigar dangling from his lips was more trailer park, Roger Miller's King of the Road, than James Bond.

Clive knew Mathers casually from his interviews and encounters with the president, and he couldn't resist asking, “You switch to stogies, Lance?”

Mathers grinned, showing off his mouth full of pearly whites. “I smoke whatever I can find, Clive. Always liked a nice cigar anyway. You want one?”

Clive glanced at Candace, and asked her, “Do you mind?”

“Only if I can have one, too,” she answered with a saucy grin.

Both men laughed. Mathers didn't wait to be officially asked, and he simply handed them both a cigar.

“Those are Tampa's finest,” Mathers said. “Need a light?”

“What we need, Lance,” said Candace, “is a ride. Where you guys headed?”

Mathers’ calm, cool persona faded. “Is that you, Madam Speaker? I didn't realize. Been a tough day, hasn't it? I have some news for you, and Clive.” Clive could see that Candace had no idea what the man was about to say, and neither did he.

“What is it, Lance?” Candace asked, beating Clive to the punch.

“I have news concerning the president, but let me settle something for you first. Vice President Edwards is missing, right?”

“As far as we know, he never made it out of Washington.”

Mathers nodded. “That's what I thought. Well, you should know that the president is dead back there. Ritchie and I went in the bunker, hoping for one last interview with him, and found him chewed up and walking around with the people. I know it sounds like I'm trying to be funny, but I'm not. Ritchie got a few pictures of him, and we got the hell out of there.”

“So you're trying to tell me that I'm the president now, right, Lance?” Candace asked.

“That's what I'm saying, Madame President. All you need is a swearing in to make it official. I'm not sure who can do the deed for you, but congratulations on making history!”

Clive could see that Candace was struggling to make sense of this. A few hours ago, she was a refugee like any other American, and just like that, she was now the first female president.

One thing Clive knew was that he was glad it was her and not him. Also, he approved of her in the job more than either of the other choices. If there was a government left, she might be the one best suited to guide the country out of this disaster.

“The next thing we need to do is get you to a secure facility where you can take control of whatever assets are left and see if we can avert complete disaster,” Clive said.

“I concur, for what it’s worth,” Mathers said.

“Me too,” said Ritchie.

“I guess it's settled then,” Candace said.

63. Lassiter

Lassiter entered the clubhouse's bar and found the soldier, Hicks, standing behind the bar top. It was a large room with booths, tables, and a long line of stools. There was a large square-cut glass already on the bar, about half full, sitting next to bottles of Pepsi and rum. Rum and Pepsi. One of those would suit Lassiter just fine, he was no Coke fan.

“Drink?” Hicks asked. Without waiting for Lassiter to answer, he selected another glass and began to pour from the bottle of rum. When the glass was nearly full, he added a splash of Pepsi.

Lassiter reached out gratefully and took a nice long pull. It was warm, but still went down well. Hicks lifted his own glass and drained it, then grinned, and began to make another drink.

“Too bad there aren't enough women to go around, eh?” Hicks commented.

When Lassiter looked up, the other man was leaning on the bar and staring into space. It made Lassiter wonder if Hicks was jealous of Booth, or was he simply looking for some sympathy? Since he wasn't sure of the other's man's intent, he thought it best to play it safe.

“I'm sure we’ll find other survivors, Private Hicks,” Lassiter replied.

“What if they're all men?” Hicks said. His persistence was bordering on creepy. “Why worry?” Lassiter answered, and drained his own glass. Hicks refilled it and handed it back.

“Good point,” Hicks said. “No shortage of booze at least.”

Lassiter allowed himself to smile at that comment and took another big swallow. He could feel warmth spreading throughout his body. He was actually relaxing for the first time since this whole mess started.

“You ever think about...” Hicks started to say, but Lassiter cut him off.

“No, never have, and never will. Thanks for the drink,” Lassiter said with all the authority that over fifteen years as a senior NCO could muster.

Hicks' expression didn't change; he sat there, like he was shut off. His face was dirty, unshaven for days, and he stunk. It was hard to guess his age, but he was probably in his late twenties. Beneath the dirt, Lassiter was startled to notice a long, bloody scab on the other man's neck.

“You really that cold?” Hicks asked. “You aren't even gonna let me finish the question?”

Lassiter forced a small smile. “Yeah, I'm not interested. Thanks for the drink.” He could guess what Hicks had been about to ask. He'd never been comfortable discussing women as objects, and he wasn't about to have a discussion about homosexual activity with a guy who'd just mentioned that there were no women around. It scared him to think where it would lead and how it might end.

“I could kill you right now, and no one would care,” Hicks said. “I'm drunk, my filter is gone as they say, and I'm just trying to have a conversation.”

“I'd rather die then, Private Hicks. Make a move.” Lassiter knew his own face was as empty as the other man's.

Hicks smile finally appeared. It was more like the leer of a predator that has cornered its game. “Good one, old man,” he said.

Lassiter stood from the stool, kept his glass in hand, and walked out of the room. He managed to get through the door and out of sight before the shakes hit him. He had to put the glass down and hug himself.

Close call.

He wasn't ever going to be able to trust that guy; that was sure. He wondered if Booth knew what his friend was. It wouldn't be a problem if Hicks wasn't so creepy. Lassiter could have brushed everything away, but Lassiter thought Hicks had crossed the line.

What if he hadn't though? Had he overreacted? God knew he was an old man, and he wasn't open-minded at all. Hell, just watching Booth and the president's wife flirt had nauseated him. Infidelity was a line Lassiter would never cross, but he didn't need to worry. He was a childless widower putting in time until he could retire.

He wondered what he'd do if he had to live here.

It was another subject to avoid. Best for everyone.

The trembling was finally abating. Lassiter picked the glass back up and took two quick swallows. It burned all the way down his gullet and he closed his eyes, savoring the sting. It was a sensation that was becoming an obsession. No use denying it. It wasn't like anyone was going to complain. He was still getting the job done, so why worry? There’s plenty of time to worry when you're dead.

64. Talaski

Survivors weighed the odds, and made hard choices when they had to. Sometimes that meant someone was going to die, especially if the continued survival of the group would be threatened.

Talaski knew, even if the others didn't, that this was probably his swan song. The child was going to die, and so was he, but he had to try to rescue the kid. There wasn't time to consider what Amy and Keller thought. All three adults could take care of themselves. A child couldn't.

He got as close as he could, aimed chest high, and squeezed the trigger. The way he was firing the shotgun was wasteful beyond measure, but all he could think about was clearing them from the door. The noise was mind-numbing as he fired away. The cluster of people parted and staggered. He was literally blowing them to bits, scattering blobs of flesh—arms, legs, and shattered heads—in a gory spray all over the porch. The glass patio doors were gone too. None of the corpses were moving when he fired the last round. He'd laid them to rest. They were sleeping on a bed of glass. That made him think about lead paint, or painting with lead. This type of lead-based paint would kill you for sure! More gallows humor. He was laughing and didn't know it. Until he stopped.

Amy and Keller never fired a shot.

Talaski stepped over the door's lintel and into the house, his feet crunching over broken glass and slipping on gore covering the vinyl tiled floor. He was in a small kitchen, and in front of him was a dividing wall, to his right a dinette table with four chairs. He brushed past the table and entered a good-sized living room. Still no more people in the house, but people were outside. They hammered fists on the front door and windows, pressing hideous, hungry mouths against the glass. He had to force himself to ignore them.

The layout of the house reminded him too much of his old house, and his own long-lost daughter.

He saw his face reflected in a mirror by the front door and didn't recognize himself. He looked ten years older, and his eyes were haunted. That isn't me. He heard the voice of his daughter call to him across the years. Daddy.

He choked back a sob. He knew he was breaking. The adrenaline high was fading, too. Fatigue turned his legs into stone, and he felt every bruise and ache come awake, but he kept going. He turned to the right, in the direction where he'd seen the girl's face at the window. He entered a family room, and saw a closed door to the right. He tried the handle and found it locked.

He kicked the door in, a master bedroom with a queen size bed. On the other side of the room, Talaski saw the girl standing by the window. He knelt down, putting his empty weapon on the floor.

The girl, about eight years old, turned toward him, face in shadow, framed by the light in the window. Would she even let him get near her? Where was he going to take her to make her safe? He’d failed before—and in a much less dangerous world than this one.

“Come with me, honey,” he said. “I'll help you.”

She came to him, shuffling with wooden steps. She had to be in shock and was likely terrified.

Daddy. Not her voice, but hers, his daughter.

He held out his arms, and she came to him. Close, in a sudden rush. Too close. Her teeth closed on his neck, and he couldn't react. Not in time. Talaski felt his skin rip, and he jerked away too late. He fell backwards, no longer embracing her.

He heard Keller shout a drawn out, “Nooooooo!” Then, a crescendo of blazing light and terrible noise. The girl was gone. Talaski felt his life surging out, draining away like a tide retreating. The last movement before he drowned.

The pain crested and, as his awareness faded, all feeling dwindled to a distraction. He closed his eyes and relaxed.

Feels like floating, Matt! he wanted to shout. I'm floating, and free. It's so beautiful.

Don't let me come back.

65. Jacobs

Closing the gate was bad. Three more of them were inside, but they weren't a threat to him. Three live people wouldn't be much of a threat either, but they were near the gate.

The problem made him pause a moment. Did it matter if they got in at this point? It might be better to hide somewhere nearby and let Sid take care of the problem.

Jacobs couldn't find a flaw in that argument. He set off at a near sprint, taking a shortcut across the street, not worried that it would be a problem.

He ran, passing a beat-up Chevy Malibu. He was almost up to his normal gait when he felt the blow. A bullet smacked into his right thigh and punched out the back. Jacobs staggered another step and fell, plowing face first into the pavement. The carbine clattered beneath the Malibu, and he was too stunned to move. His self-protective urge was screaming at him to do something, but he had no idea what would be better: moving or lying where he was.

The right side of his face, he suspected, was hamburger, scraped raw. He didn't even want to move. At the very least, his forehead and his right cheekbone were abraded and bleeding. He decided it was better to lay there, take stock of his condition, and play dead for now. Jacobs poked a finger into the wound in the back of his thigh. Bad, but in and out. Not mortal if he acted soon. His right eye wouldn't open, and he was probably blind in that eye, if only temporarily, by blood. Finally, there was an assortment of cuts on his forehead, cheek and chin. He wasn't healed from his crash through the hedge. Patchwork man.

He was also making mistakes due to exhaustion. Why had he assumed that all Sid's henchmen were gone? There was nothing to suggest that. One more mistake like that was probably going to be his last, provided he survived this one.

Slowly, carefully, he rolled over, and felt around in the front pocket of his pants for his med kit. He took some minutes using an antiseptic spray, bandages for both sides of the wound, and his belt for a tourniquet before he was ready to try anything.

He knew the gunman could be coming for him right now, but he was past caring. After closing his eyes, he thought about—of all things—the two people who'd always loved him: his parents. He remembered his last time with them, how he'd seen them still cuddling together that night, holding hands. More often than not, his dad would be asleep with his head in his mom's lap, snoring.

The memory of them and how much he missed them brought tears from his eyes, warm and wet on his cheeks. Why couldn't he find that kind of love? Was there too much blood on his hands? Too much death? These thoughts circled him back around to being the Grim Reaper.

There was a sound. Something about it alarmed him, but he was too far out of it to react or recognize the source quickly. Then he had it. Shuffling feet, not the gunman.

He propped himself up with his left hand and wished he could open his right eye. Three dead people were nearly on top of him. He had no time to grab the carbine, especially with a wounded leg. He'd have to leave the weapon behind.

Jacobs had to get up. One of the freaks was falling to its knees beside him. He pulled his pistol. Sighted down the barrel at a grinning ghoul whose mouth was twisted into a permanent sneer. It was probably the expression he’d died wearing, and it had stayed with him, like a burned-in afterimage on a plasma TV. His teeth were yellow and jagged, and he was snapping them together, irrespective of whether his tongue was in the way or not; a good inch of it was flapping, nearly severed. Jacobs aimed, using his left eye, and squeezed the trigger. The thing stopped, and toppled over with a ponderous, almost majestic slide toward the street, landing with a thud.

The other two were women, one large, one small, both dressed in some type of uniform, likely nurses. He took aim at the smaller of the two. She walked funny, and he noticed that she was missing some of her thigh. When she stepped off the curb, he was squeezing the trigger. His shot missed, and she fell on top of him. His left arm gave out, and his back hit the ground. And the thing was still on top of him.

Jacobs felt something go, almost like a rubber band stretched too far. He was screaming, and she was biting. The gun went off. He wasn't going to die like this! His scream was a vocalized, incoherent denial.

The bigger one joined the smaller one, and suddenly he was running out of options. Both were biting him whenever they could. This was mostly on his uniform where their teeth couldn't penetrate, but some bites were getting through.

He could have, probably should have, given up then, but he didn't. Instead, he fought harder and focused on not losing the gun, no matter what.

The other zombies had to be almost on top of them. He forced the gun up between the arms of the smaller woman and was bitten again by the larger one. But he got the barrel up under the little one's chin and pulled the trigger. All the fight and life went out of her. She collapsed onto his chest. He shifted aim, put the gun against the bigger one's nose, and pulled the trigger.

He was covered with gore as the second one also settled onto his chest.

Hey, he thought, finally got two girls at a time!

66. Kincaid

When he had both men tied up securely, Kincaid allowed himself to consider his next move. Dragging both of them upstairs was quite an ordeal, almost not worth the revenge he planned. He was standing over the two prone shapes, gun in hand, when he heard a woman gasp, and say, “Run, children, run!”

Kincaid looked behind him and saw a woman standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was elegant looking, a bit heavy, fiftyish, with long, silky brown hair. At a glance he took in the fact that she was wearing a short, orange-colored, kimono-type robe and thong sandals. A lot of prime, tanned flesh was on display. He wondered where she had been all this time. Sleeping in one of the cabins? Maybe she was drunk.

She didn't look particularly afraid. Curious thing, that she wasn't afraid.

Her hands were empty, and she didn't flinch away when he looked her in the eye. There were no signs of any children; they must have listened to her.

“You the wife?” he asked.

She nodded. “Name’s Velicity. Are you the guy who's supposed to have the antidote?” she asked.

“I'm the guy,” Kincaid said, “but I'm not here to share the antidote.”

“Francis probably double-crossed you, right?”

Kincaid laughed. “What he did to me is nothing. His crimes to others, including yourself, far surpass anything he's done to me.”

She looked away. “So is there a cure, or is that a cruel joke?”

“It worked for me.”

That was a lie. He didn't know for sure that he was immune now.

Her face turned toward him, and her blue-eyed gaze met his. She didn't speak and, after a moment, he realized she was waiting. Waiting for whatever.

Killing a woman and two kids was never in his plan. She was probably imagining all sorts of things and steeling herself to react.

He thought quickly. “I'll give the immunization to you and your two kids, but not the men.”

“So, they aren't dead yet?”

Kincaid shook his head.

“The children are ten and fourteen,” she declared. There was an unspoken plea in that sentence. She was obviously hoping he'd spare the men.

“Deal or no deal?” he asked.

“Deal,” she replied, “but will you take us with you?”

Kincaid waited a beat, but he didn't think over his answer. “No.”

Her expression didn't change, but he thought her eyes were glistening. She was trying to be strong and probably knew begging wasn't going to save either man. What would he do with two kids? What would his wife think? He didn't want to know.

He hesitated long enough, or too long.

“We'll take it,” she said.

“Better go below. Best to keep the kids away. Wait down there until I get you, and I'll take the boat into shore and let you decide where you want to go. It’s the least I can do.”

She paused a moment, and he knew she was thinking about him taking away the only protection she had. He steeled himself to shoot her, knowing he might have to.

“He's not all bad, you know,” she said. A tear finally broke free and slid down her cheek.

Kincaid smiled. “I'm sure you're right. Just bad enough. And soon, he won't even be a bad memory.”

She turned away then, but not before he saw absolute despair crumple her features into something terrible. It was the most ugly, heart-wrenching grief he'd ever witnessed. She made a choked, wretched cry and vanished down the stairs.

He waited a moment, then crossed over to the wheelhouse. He took the axe and walked slowly, with deliberate steps, back to the two men. He thought about where to cut them, and how. What would be best to ensure they continued to bleed when they hit the water? There was a thin line to walk.

He hefted the axe.

He wanted them awake when the sharks arrived.

67. Julie/Booth

Julie knew George was completely exhausted. Nothing short of a slap on the face would stir him before morning. He was sprawled on a couch with his face turned inward, sleeping.

“The water is still on,” Booth said. “Cold water, but the shower still works.”

She didn't turn around, and started to undress. She unbuckled the gun belt and let it slide with a thump to the floor. Then she bent over at the waist and untied her boots, letting him see how flexible she still was. The flight suit was tight, and she knew her ass was good. He'd notice.

If he was looking.

She kicked her boots off, one at a time.

He was silent behind her as she unzipped the suit. Julie could feel his eyes on her.

She pulled her arms out of the sleeves and let the top half of the suit drop to her waist, wiggled her way out of the legs, and left the suit pooled at her feet. She stepped free, wearing only her boy short panties, socks, no bra. She hadn't cared to with the heat.

Booth was so quiet behind her, she wondered briefly if he might have fallen asleep. That thought caused her to spin on her feet to look at him.

Booth was completely nude and gazing at her with a hunger that set her stomach fluttering. He was tan all over except from the waist to about six inches down his thigh; that area was startling white. His hips were narrow, and his torso rippled with lean muscle below wide shoulders. Her eyes drifted downward, and she couldn't contain her grin.

“I didn't know you were a heavy weapons specialist, Sergeant,” she said.

He smirked, stepped close to her and said, “Top secret, ma’am. Normally I'd keep it hidden, but being the president’s wife, I figured you have clearance and a need to know.”

Julie hadn't had this much fun in years. Her hand trembled more than she'd care to admit as she reached down and wrapped her fingers around him. She whispered, “Well, let's get cleaned up, and you can brief me on its operation and capabilities.”

Booth leaned down, got one arm beneath her legs, and the other across her back, and carried her to an open door. It was dark in there, but she could make out a tiled floor. She was still holding on to him.

He put his lips to her ear. “Just be careful, ma’am. It’s locked and loaded.”

68. Bronte/Daric/Janicea

Bronte was holding his rifle in a death grip, but he didn't realize it. Even the amount of death he’d witnessed and dealt out in Iraq didn't compare to this. The island was like a village. He couldn't be sure how many houses there were, but quite a few people lived here once. He was getting depressed thinking about how many people needed to be buried.

There were bodies everywhere. He did notice a house with ten crosses in its front yard, the markers placed before a mound.. A mass grave. At least these people had started the job.

He wondered if there were any still alive. There'd been no time to check last night. They'd basically taken a big chance going to sleep like that. Had he even locked the door?

This realization made him give second thoughts to his plan. Perhaps he needed to go door-to-door on the island and make sure no one else— living or otherwise— was still walking around.

He had to check on Sinclair first. No way was he going to leave a friend out here to rot.

The house where he'd left her was across the street. He could still see the front door hanging open, and bodies...but no Sinclair.

Was she walking around?

He belched, and then choked when stomach acid burbled up. It was one of the most miserable things that afflicted him, and his stress was only going to make it worse.

He'd better warn Janicea and kids and tell them to stay inside with the doors locked. He felt twin streams of sweat pour down his face as he turned back the way he came.

How was he ever going to feel safe again, let alone keep anyone else safe?

He ran down the middle of the street, and focused on doing just that. Don't fall. Place each step precisely. He couldn't afford a mistake now. Couldn't afford not to plan, either. They should have all stuck together.

It was only a block or so, but that was more than enough distance for fear to distort his thinking and cause him to panic.

Bronte couldn't stand the thought of losing anyone else that mattered to him. He ran as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels.

69. Johnny

Huff was at the lifeboat's steering wheel, taking them away from land. The sun was bright on the wide expanse of Tampa Bay. There were quite a few gray-bellied clouds floating overhead, but the water was almost flat, and they were leaving a wide wake behind them. Gretchen had one of the cases open and was handing out vials and hypodermics. Johnny, Marcel, Ike, Anna, and several others were lined up to get theirs.

“Not everyone needs to go to the shelter,” Johnny said, carefully pronouncing each word, and trying not to think about how dumb he thought he sounded.

Gretchen was gaping at him. “Wonder why I didn't think of that?” she said after a moment.

“Wonder what this shit is?” Ike asked, holding up the small vial filled with what looked like turquoise liquid.

“It's the immunization serum, fool,” Huff said.

“No, I mean what's in it?” Ike said, giving the smaller man an icy sidelong glance.

Huff shrugged. “Who gives a shit? Long as it works, I'm happy.”

“Gotta get bit to find out,” Ike said.

Marcel was standing to Johnny's left. He leaned over and whispered, “I'm not sure I want to chance that stuff.”

“I know I don't…” Anna said. “What if it’s toxic to children or something? We don't know whether it’s safe.”

“Think about being bitten. Would you rather die?” Gretchen asked.

That silenced everyone.

Gretchen looked each of them in the eye. “Be glad that it’s being shared with you. At least a bite or scratch isn't going to necessarily be a death sentence anymore.”

“If it works,” Ike said. “For all we know this may be fucking Kool-Aid.”

Gretchen shrugged. “Believe or don't believe. I don't care what you do.”

Johnny had counted how many people were in the boat. There were twenty-nine. If only ten of them could go to this shelter, there were going to be quite a few angry passengers.

Gretchen handed Johnny two hypodermics. “One for you and your friend.” She nodded toward Marcel. What about Anna? he wondered.

“I need two more,” Johnny said, and nodded to Anna and her child.

Gretchen shook her head. “No.” An evil smile played on her lips.

“What do you mean, no?” he said, feeling his temper ramp up.

“No, means no,” she replied, looking into his eyes.

What was the word? Capricious? That was it! It meant impulsive or something like that. This was something more, though, the fucking bitch was trying to get a rise out of him!

He forced himself to pause and calm down. “Give me two more,” he said.

Her smile morphed into a pout. “Or what?”

“Or I'll get them myself.”

“Boring. Just when I was starting to find you interesting.”

Johnny stared at her, and at last her eyes fell. She handed him two more of the hypodermics.

Ike stood nearby. He wasn't wasting time and was already injecting himself. He seemed practiced, and Johnny was a little nauseous just watching him.

“Wish this was an eight-ball,” Ike said as he emptied the needle into a vein in the crook of his arm.

“What's an eight-ball?” Anna whispered.

“Cocaine,” Johnny answered. He was already regretting speaking. There were a lot of things that he had no desire to talk about. Drugs topped the list. Having drug addicted parents had a lot to do with that.

“We aren't going back to the ship,” Marcel said. “Looks like we are going back to St. Pete.”

Johnny looked and had to agree. He wanted to know what the plan was, but that meant that he'd have to ask. He closed his eyes.

“What are we gonna do?” Anna asked. “I want to be back on land. There has to be someplace we can be safe.”

“Here’s your shots,” Johnny said, opening his eyes. He nudged Marcel, although both he and Anna were looking at him. Neither of them could get used to the idea of him actually speaking.

Marcel grimaced but took the hypodermic. Anna was still looking at hers.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” she said.

“Me either,” Marcel chimed in. “What about you, Johnny?”

“Yeah,” Anna added.

They were looking at Johnny, now. Johnny looked back and shrugged.

“Where's yours?” Anna asked.

Johnny thought he'd wait and see how it worked for others. He was taking a chance, but living life was a risk now. “I'm going to wait.”

“Me too,” Marcel said.

“We'll all wait, together, then,” Anna said.

70. Clive

Candace was clinging to Clive's arm in the back seat. They were packed in next to the camera and sound equipment. She leaned against him, and he liked that, but he'd had enough.

Ritchie was a reckless driver. There was no doubt about that. He drove with a lead foot and only one hand on the wheel. The only good thing about it was that he was also a good driver. He had the reflexes of a fighter pilot. He was drinking raspberry flavored rum straight from the bottle, and smoking cigars with the reporter, Mathers, who was either used to his driving or too drunk to care.

In the last half hour, Clive and Candace had gotten a firsthand demonstration of Ritchie's driving talent. He swerved around stalled cars and wrecks, took hairpin turns far too fast for Clive's taste, and there might be more luck involved with their continued survival than skill.

“I've had enough, Ritchie,” Clive said, and drew his gun.

“Relax, Secret Agent Man,” Ritchie replied, “we're almost there.”

“I don't like to repeat myself, Ritchie. Pull over.”

“Don't distract the man when he's driving,” Mathers interjected.

“He's already distracted,” Candace said. “Christ, he's drinking and smoking and going much too fast for these roads!”

Mathers turned around in his seat to face the both of them. Other than his flushed cheeks, he came across as sober and in control. “Calm down; the man's a pro. He used to drive for the paparazzi!”

“I don't care if he was an ambulance chaser!” Clive shouted. “I want him to stop this car now.”

Mathers’ face darkened, and Clive couldn't help himself. “Pull over!”

“We didn't have to give you a ride!” Mathers shouted back.

Clive sat back in his seat and pointed the gun at the newsman's mouth.

“That’s not the first gun I've had pointed at me, Clive.”

“No,” said Clive, “I don't suppose it is. Only difference, just so you know, is that I will kill you.”

“You'll kill me because he's driving too fast?”

“Better than letting your friend kill me, Lance,” Clive answered.

Ritchie pulled over to the left side of the road. He turned around in the driver's seat to face them. “Listen, I don't want trouble. I was driving like an idiot. Lance knows it. I'll let you drive, if that’s what you want, Clive.”

Clive gave them his best hard-eyed, no-nonsense stare. “You’re both drunk. If you want to die, just go over to the railing there and toss yourself over into that ravine. Otherwise, get in the back, and I'll drive.”

Both of them nodded.

“Leave the engine running,” Clive said.

“Okay, man, okay,” Ritchie said, “just don't shoot.”

“Better get your heads on straight both of you. Get drunk on your time, not mine.”

Candace raised an eyebrow at him as they both slid into the front seats. Ritchie staggered a bit climbing in, and almost fell on his ass. Mathers walked over to the railing and unzipped. He wasn't looking debonair at the moment as he urinated. He looked more like a disheveled, hung over James Bond. When he finished and turned around, a five o'clock shadow was visible on his cheeks, and his shirt beneath his coat was undone to his navel. There were dried sweat streaks on his dress shirt. TMZ would have liked to catch him like this.

Clive didn't miss the fact that Candace watched, apparently unperturbed.

“You forgot to zip back up, Lance,” Candace remarked when he climbed in behind her and next to Ritchie in the back seat.

Mathers frowned, fumbled at his crotch, but otherwise made no comment.

“No more booze for either of you until we're all safe. Are we clear on that?” Clive asked. He looked at both men in the rear view mirror.

“Sure thing,” Ritchie answered. “I won't cause you any more trouble.”

Mathers had no comment. His sullen silence was comment enough, Clive supposed. Prima donna. He probably had to have all kinds of special perks to be able to work every day.

“You get flowers delivered to your dressing room every day, Lance?” Clive asked.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Mathers demanded, full of bluster.

“It means I'm asking you if you’re a man or a diva,” Clive replied.

The inside of the SUV was quiet, save for the whistle of the wind, the hum of the tires, and the engine noise.

“Might surprise you what I am,” Mathers said in a restrained voice. “I've been in some of the tightest places in the worst hellholes on this planet, and if you want a piece of me, I'm ready whenever you are.”

Clive grinned. “Okay, good to know. Can we get moving now?”

Mathers shrugged. Clive started the engine, and as they moved off, he could feel Mathers’ eyes boring into the back of his head.

71. Hicks

He didn't usually start drinking before noon, but this was a special circumstance.

It wasn’t every day he stuck his neck out and revealed a piece of himself. Especially not to someone who wasn't receptive. He thought for sure that he had Lassiter pegged as at least a latent homosexual. He was late forties, no ring, uptight or uncaring about the lack of women for everyone.

Turned out Lassiter was just fucked up in the head. Hicks laughed, but even he could hear the harsh, bitter edge to it. He drained the glass, and thought about what he'd drink next. Maybe a Long Island Iced Tea. Well, without the ice. Too bad about that, but the job would get done. Yes, sir! Sergeant Scott Hicks (Yes, in reality he was a sergeant) was about to pass the merely drunk stage. He was well on his way to trashed. There was a big difference.

At the trashed stage, Hicks lost the inhibitions or niceties that normally kept him in check. He was capable of anything at this point. At heart, he was a tormented soul. He’d never been married, never committed to anyone. Mostly he floated from one relationship to another. Other people's relationships, that was. He was the third. He provided the spice. He was the rough, tough alpha male for more married couples than he could remember. He wasn't sure if he had a sexual preference other than being in charge. He liked to control people and push them beyond their limits, make them go places they would never have gone alone. It segued well with his military background. He was accustomed to having his way, being the boss, telling people what he wanted them to do.

Booth was an obstacle though. He was one person who could scare Hicks. They were friends, but he took things to another level. Plus, he was shrewder. If Hicks wasn't careful, Booth would see what he really was. That couldn't happen; there was too much uncertainty about the outcome.

If he had to, Hicks could kill all of them without a flicker of remorse, but only if he had to. Truth was, though, Hicks liked and needed people. He didn't like to be alone. Or drink alone. But he could be alone, if he had to. There were ways to compensate.

Hicks lined up all the bottles he needed: gin; vodka; triple sec; rum. What else was there? Wasn't it seven liquors, or was it five? He did need sour mix. And soda. What was he forgetting?

He felt the twinge of a headache. That never was a good sign. Headaches were bad. He'd been known to go over the edge if a headache was bad enough. Right over the fucking edge!

He searched through the bottles, hoping for inspiration. What was he forgetting? Not fucking Lassiter, that was for sure. He’s better watch out! For that matter, Booth, the first lady and that kid better watch their step too.

Hicks didn't give second chances.

He made the drink with the ingredients at hand. Took a swallow. It was too strong, and it needed more soda and sour mix to make it smoother, but that wasn't the priority here. He needed to take the edge off. He lifted the glass, and drained it. Thought about having another.

He shook his head. He had to get out of this place. He was ready to go back out. He knew a place within five miles of here where companionship could be had.

Perfect nonjudgmental companionship.

He could hardly wait to get there.

72. Julie

“Oh my God!” Julie cried out, as if the sentence were one word. “Ohmygod!” she said again, blending the words as Booth merged and became one with her. He held her up against the tiled shower wall, her hands pinned over her head, and they were both pelted with water.

They both held onto the moment, as if afraid to let go. Finally, Booth said, “My legs are trembling. Let me put you down.” He let go of her thighs, gently lowering her feet to the floor.

“That was so good,” she murmured into his ear.

He broke their embrace and went to get them towels. Once again, Julie found herself admiring his near perfect physique. He wasn't overly bulky, but he made Burt look bad. This guy was in the prime of his life. This fact made her wonder whether she could keep someone like him happy. She hadn't been enough for Burt.

She pushed these thoughts away when Booth handed her a plush yellow bath towel. She was getting cold now.

“You sure have taken good care of yourself,” he remarked.

“For an old lady?” she asked, pointedly not looking at him while she dried her hair.

He made an exasperated noise.

“What are you, maybe twenty-eight?” she asked, turning back to look at him. He was drying his legs, not looking at her.

“I'm thirty,” he answered, letting some annoyance into his tone.

“So very young, still. Seen it all, though, I imagine.”

“I've seen a lot, lady. Not enough of you, though.”

Julie laughed. “I'm glad. Got any more practical plans for us?”

“Like what? Do you mean where we should go, or what we should do to survive and be safe?” He was all seriousness now.

There was no harm in telling him what she was sure he already knew. “Exactly! I know we won't ever make it to North Carolina.”

Booth nodded. “Without a helicopter, I'm pretty sure we won't make it out of the city. I could be wrong, but—”

“No, you’re right, I'm sure, Sergeant. There has to be someplace we can go, isn't there?”

“For now, we make a bed out of a bunch of these towels, and we bunk down right here. Maybe over the next few days, Hicks and I can scout out something better, and find some of the supplies we need.”

“Thank you,” Julie said. She knew that she and her son were alive because of the efforts and sacrifices of other people, probably more deserving people. Some gratitude needed to be expressed.

He didn't answer. He was still standing before her, completely, and quite gloriously, naked.

Julie let the towel drop and demurely stepped closer to him. “Let me thank you some more,” she whispered.

73. Sid

“They're in that house, right there,” the boy said, pointing his finger toward a ramshackle two-story house across the street.

Maybe ramshackle wasn't the right word. It looked sturdy enough, but the exterior had an air of neglect. The windows were boarded over, and corpses littered the grass around it. Perhaps ten of the dead were milling around the front yard now. It looked like those inside had fought off some of the things while they boarded up the place.

Sid liked to think he had a good imagination. He was usually right. How much of his intuition was real or luck? He had no idea. He just knew that usually he was right about people and their motivations.

“Thank you, Kyle. You have been most cooperative, and best of all, you may have saved your friends’ lives.”

“What about Sergeant Jacobs?” he asked. “You said he’s dead, but didn't say how.”

“When my men found him, he'd been bitten repeatedly. He told them where you were, and he asked us to save you, son. Now, we're just taking it a step further and trying to rescue as many people as we can.”

Tears glistened in the boy's eyes. “Thank you, so much, sir! Before the sergeant came we didn't have a clue what to do or where to go.”

Sid put his hand on the teenager's shoulder. “No trouble, we're just doing what we can. Now, why don't you go get them? Take Chato with you.”

“Chato?”

Chato stepped forward. He was a short Hispanic with a lightning bolt carved into the hairline of his crew-cut, right on the edge of his forehead. He had a droopy-eyed look, and a hooked nose. His arms and legs were muscular but stubby, and his torso overly long. He was Sid's most reliable henchman.

“Go ahead, boy,” Sid said. “Chato will protect you.”

The teenager outweighed Chato by about fifty pounds, but he was a child. Sid could see how scared the boy was; he’d have to either become a man or die.

“Just the two of us are going to fight ten of them?” the boy asked.

Sid nodded, and Chato drew a big hunting knife and started walking toward the milling crowd of zombies. Some were on the porch pounding on the door, and four of them stood watching from the lawn like they were unplugged.

Kyle noticed that Chato was leaving without him, and his cheeks got red. He ran after the other man with both hands wrapped around the haft of the bat that Sid let him keep.

Sid saw one of the zombies spin to confront Chato when the man got within five feet of him. Sunlight flashed on Chato's knife when he swung the blade high and plunged it into the head of the nearest creature. Sludgy bits of gore flew while the thing toppled to its back on the grass. Chato yanked the blade free, spun on his heels to his left, and nearly severed the forearm of a decrepit lady in a green housecoat. Another slash sliced right through her neck, and she collapsed at his feet.

Sid was amused. Chato didn't need the boy's help. Part of him wished he had someone to wager with. He wondered if the boy would even try to help the older man or let him do it all. Chato wasn't waiting around, that was sure.

The dead were slow to react, but there were enough that by the time Chato killed two more the remaining six were advancing on him. Chato backpedalled with his left hand raised as if to fend them off, and his right, with the knife, also raised and ready.

Kyle stepped up beside the smaller man, bat raised. He was trembling, but Sid sensed that he would die before backing off.

The dead approached them in a long, ragged line, almost abreast. Sid thought that might be bad. It would have been better if they were staggered and packed together.

Things happened fast. Kyle swung his bat in a wide arc, clipping two of the things in the head, and staggering another. The second one appeared to shake it off, stepped close to the teen, and managed to tangle arms with him. Chato was dancing away from the pack, leaving two more of the dead in his trail. He was too far away to help Kyle. Even as he watched, the teen was bitten, and two more of the things piled onto him and took him to the ground.

Of course, Sid could have helped, but why? That's what servants were for.

74. Keller

In the army he thought he'd seen the last of his friends die under horrible circumstances. No one else was supposed to die like this. Keller wasn't ready, even though at the back of his mind he knew that all of this would end badly. He'd also known Talaski well enough to know that his friend wasn't living for himself anymore. He was living to help others. That was something they had in common, but they'd taken different paths to do so.

Amy's hands were wrapped around him, hugging him, and she was speaking to him in a singsong voice. The words probably had meaning, but at that moment, he wasn't processing anything. Her presence was helping, but he was checked out and only dimly aware of what was occurring in the world at real world speed.

“Matt, come back to me, please...”

His eyes were on his friend. Talaski was sprawled out, lying in a pool of blood, arms and legs splayed, and his eyes staring up, as if trying to see through the roof. The ugly wound at his neck ceased pumping, even as he watched.

His friend was dead.

Someone else's voice was speaking. Not Amy. She was quiet now, holding Talaski's walkie-talkie. The other voice was coming from the walkie-talkie: “State your approximate location, I repeat...”

Keller was listening, but not listening. Here but not here. Once again helpless as someone he loved passed from this world to the next.

Amy answered, “I don't know! We need help! Officer Talaski is dead, and Keller is freaked out. Those things have us trapped!”

Keller realized the voice was of that firefighter, Mills.

They had to get out of here. He didn't want to leave his friend, even if it was only his body. He realized that there was no choice.

There were voices and muffled footsteps and the crash of people falling. The things were in the house with them!

He placed his hand on Amy's shoulder.

“Listen, Amy,” he said, locking eyes with her. She was weeping, but not panicked. “I need your help, or we won't get out of here alive.”

“Yes, whatever you need, just please don't leave me again, Matt!”

For a moment, he was at a loss. When had he left her? Then he realized she meant leaving her mentally. He'd just lost his friend, so what did she expect? She was probably terrified.

“I won't leave you, Amy. Now get all Talaski's guns and ammo for me while I cover the door. Then pray with me that we can reload and fire enough to kill so many of these things!”

“Okay, Matt, I will. Just please don't let them get me.”

“I won't!”

“You promise?”

“I promise, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” she said, pressing her lips to his.

The kiss didn't last long, but it was time they couldn't afford to lose. A wiry, middle-aged black guy with half a face was at the bedroom door, with a crowd of dead people right behind him.

Keller was struck by how hellish it still was to see these animated corpses coming after him. It couldn't be real; yet it was. He rose up to his knees, hefted the shotgun, aimed upward from the hip, and pulled the trigger. Most of the top of thing's head disappeared, taking the brunt of the shotgun blast. The corpse bounced into those behind it and then crumpled to the floor. From this range Keller couldn't miss, and he fired again and again into the packed mass of waxen-faced horrors. Some of the bodies merely slumped to the floor. Others were trampled under the advancing hungry horde. Keller fired single shots until the drum magazine was empty. Twenty-five twelve gauge rounds did a lot of damage. Even when he missed, he hit something. The family room was a charnel house.

Beyond the family room, the living room was filling up as the dead kept coming in a resolute gray-fleshed, glassy-eyed wave. A wave of dead freaks.

He pushed the release button and dropped the empty drum magazine into his hand, then slipped it back into the top of his backpack. Amy handed him a loaded replacement. He fitted it into the shotgun's well and tapped the bottom to make sure it was seated properly. He released the bolt and was once again ready for action.

“That’s the last loaded one,” Amy said. “I did find a couple boxes of shells. Want me to check his pack for more?”

His. She meant Talaski.

“Yes, check it,” he answered, “and then be ready for anything. Are your weapons loaded?”

“Yes, and I took Talaski's pistol and ammo. Is that okay?”

“Are you kidding?” he asked, wiping sweat off his forehead. “I'm proud of you. You want to live and are taking the steps to stay that way.”

“I do want to live, Matt.”

He looked down at his dead friend one more time. “Well then, let's get the fuck out of here.”

Two of the dead were trying to push their way into the bedroom through the open door. One of them, a morbidly obese woman, trampled the other, a small teen-aged boy. Keller raised the shotgun and laughed a little, thinking about the words morbidly obese. The little guy she'd stepped on certainly wasn't moving anymore.

He could hear Amy rummaging through Talaski's stuff behind him while he watched the woman move with ponderous grace into the room. She was about five feet away when he centered the shotgun's sight on her forehead and squeezed the trigger. The roar was barely audible over the ringing in his ears, and he didn't even pause as she collapsed. He advanced across the room, skirted around her still twitching corpse, and fired another round into the trampled boy.

More people were coming. He could hear them moaning and grunting from the back of the house.

“Amy, can you gather the stuff up and follow me?” he asked.

“Almost ready,” she said.

He didn't have time to respond, because in the next moment, several more people entered his field of vision. He hefted the shotgun and braced himself. Amy's fingers grabbed his shoulder, and when he turned, she handed him the walkie-talkie.

“Call Mills.”

Her voice was loud and clear.

He keyed the mic.

75. Trish

She kept watching him, and looking at the raw, torn flesh where Mills’ ear used to be. He was going to die on her.

“Are you sure they bit your ear off?” she asked.

He looked at her, and she thought he was gritting his teeth. “I have no idea, Trish, but you better be ready to shoot me. Who knows, maybe one of them just yanked it off. In all that mess, I don't know what happened. Never mind any of that now. We need to figure out where Talaski and the others are.”

Trish didn't want to voice the thought, but it sounded like they were trapped to her. The shopping center where she'd left Morgan was coming up on their right. She wondered how far from there Talaski's group was.

“Mills, this is Keller, over?” a voice said from the walkie-talkie.

“Keller?” Mills answered with a question. “Where are you, man?”

When they learned of one another’s locations to a degree, Keller said, “Go right through the parking lot and into the neighborhood beyond. Hopefully Amy and I will be able to get out of this house.”

“Any idea of landmarks to look for?”

“Listen for shots! That's all I can think of.” Trish turned the siren off while Mills slowed way down and took the right turn into the parking lot. A zombie went down under the wheels. There was no steering around them, and they had no instinct for self preservation.

Trish wondered if keeping the siren on would have been better, so Keller could go to them. The truck was so loud, she doubted whether they would be able to hear any shots, but kept the thought to herself.

The trip across the grocery store's parking lot was brief, and Mills steered them toward an exit into the neighborhood to the north. More of the undead things collapsed under the truck's wheels, and then they were on the neighborhood street.

Mills remarked, “We need gas sometime soon.”

Trish didn't know what to say about that. With no power, she didn't know how to get gas out of the dead pumps for a car, let alone a fire truck. Mills’ declaration was like some immutable fact that she had no power over. Before long, she knew, they'd be walking.

The scene outside her window was appalling. People had fought hard to resist this plague or whatever it was, and had died hard. Bodies were everywhere. Some houses were burned to the foundation. Others were almost perfect. Lawns immaculate, except for the usual convenience store drink cups or plastic bags discarded by kids or bums.

She saw a group of teens standing in a circle in one driveway, smoking. None of them even looked up when the truck roared past. It looked like one of them was giving them the finger, though.

Mills slowed down a bit. They drove down the street, looking and listening. Dead people were coming out of the neighborhood in droves, probably attracted by the sound of their engine and the squeal of their brakes.

They travelled down two more blocks of houses in what was once a relatively nice neighborhood. They crossed over an intersection, and at about the same time, Trish and Mills noticed a yellow sign that read Dead End.

The walking dead inhabitants were everywhere, as if the fire truck were an ice cream truck, summoning them with the sound of its engine. They slowed to a stop.

At that moment, Trish allowed herself to accept what her head had been screaming: they weren't going to find Keller and that girl. And now they had driven into a dead end in a big truck with no room to turn around.

She looked over at Mills. He was pale, so pale, and his head was back on the headrest, with his mouth open. His eyes were closed. Blood trickled down his neck.

She couldn't tell if he was breathing or not. Maybe he was in shock?

Something slapped hard against her door. A hand appeared at the bottom of the window with half moons of dried blood in the jagged, untrimmed fingernails. There were more thuds, and Trish tasted blood when she bit her own lip.

Too much...too much...

She grabbed Mills’ shoulder, and screamed in his ear, “Wake up! Please wake up!”

76. Kincaid

In the distance Kincaid could see a medium-sized boat approaching. It had to be Gretchen with the shipment. He hadn't told them he'd be on a boat, but she'd be careful. The plan was to meet at the island. He was about as close as he could get in the shrimp boat. He'd use the jet ski to get the rest of the way.

He still couldn't decide what to do with the woman and her kids. Here he was, with Tanglewood Island in sight, and no plan. No plan for that, anyway. He was in the wheelhouse, steering, trying to keep the boat in deep enough water by glancing at the depth finder, when he heard steps behind him, coming up from below deck.

The person, whoever it was, stopped right behind him.

“I didn't kill them, you know,” he said.

Someone took a deep breath.

“Both of them should still be alive.”

“Should?” the woman asked. “What did you do to them?”

“I just did what was right, justice for what they did,” he answered.

“Where are they?”

“I'll show you in a minute. I'm about to drop anchor near that island,” Kincaid said and glanced over his shoulder.

The wife had found a gun somewhere and was pointing it at him. She was still wearing that kimono, too. Her face looked ravaged and her eyes were red and weepy.

He grinned at her. “Go ahead, shoot me.”

No one was more surprised than he when she did a second later.

He saw his blood spray the cabin's windscreen and control panel in front of him. A moment later, he was slouching, wincing at the pain radiating from his right shoulder, and cowering at the thought that she might do it again.

“Oops,” she said.

“Oops?” he shouted. “What the fuck? Think you can just shoot me and say oops, goddamnit?”

“It doesn't matter what I think,” she said, sweetly, “I already did it.”

“Fuck!”

She smiled widely, probably hoping to be charming, but all he saw was a little girl trying too hard. “Pulling the trigger wasn't that hard, either. Now drop the anchor, or whatever, before I shoot you again.”

He'd come too far and done too much to let some woman kill him. Gretchen should be arriving with the antidote anytime now. Everything was still in reach, and all could still end fairly well.

“Now look here,” he said. “Your husband is no angel, and I owed him some payback. I'm sure you know what he does.”

“All I know,” she answered, “is that he does right by me, and he takes care of the kids and his responsibilities. So take me to him, and make it quick. Remember, I'd rather shoot you than talk to you.”

Kincaid laughed. “I'm beginning to hope you'll shoot me again, rather than make me talk to you.”

“Funny man. Now take me to my husband.”

“You aren't going to like it.”

“No? Then you better hurry.”

Kincaid was going to pay the price for his bleeding heart.

77. Lassiter

Sleep didn't come easily, and it was restless. The anxiety was always there, just under the surface. It didn't matter that Lassiter had been divorced over ten years. He still wasn't ready. Especially once he realized what the dating world was like for fifty-year old men. All he needed was confidence...and Viagra. Women in their forties were a surprise. A few months ago, he'd decided to try one of those dating services, Sunset Singles, or something like that. All he knew for sure was that the name alluded to people past their prime. That fit him to a tee. He was fit, but fading in his last year before retirement.

A whole new world opened up for him, and it sure beat picking up a hooker.

The funny thing was, so many of these women were after one thing, and many of them weren't willing to wait for a second date to get it. Some of them were easily his match, kink for kink. There was no need to ever consider anything truly deviant. In fact, he wasn't sure he wasn't better off single.

He was in the middle of reliving a wild night in Vegas with a drunken, inventive woman when he woke with a start, not realizing where he was. It felt like every muscle in his body had been twisted. He was lying on a couch in someone's office. There was a big skylight in the ceiling, and it still looked pitch black up there. He heard someone out in the hall. He wondered who it was and whether those dead things had found a way in.

A fraction of a second before he could reach the door of his room, he heard another door close in the hallway. By the time he pulled his pistol and crossed to the door, whoever was out there was gone. He was sure that it was Hicks, but what if it wasn't? If he waited to put his boots on and get all his gear, he'd probably miss whoever it was.

Lassiter stepped barefoot into the hallway wearing only his flight suit and walked the short distance in the dark to the front door. All the stuff they'd piled in front of the doors was pushed to the side and the doors were unlocked. Whoever had done it didn't care whether they died or not.

With the pistol held at his side, Lassiter approached the unsecured doors. It was too dark outside to see anything. Anxiety nearly paralyzed him. He had to force himself to look out. There was a light on the eastern horizon that heralded the coming day, but all else remained in deep shadow. Whoever had just exited the building was gone, leaving no visible clue as to what direction they’d taken.

He toyed with the idea of shouting Hicks’ name to see if the man would answer, but knew he probably wouldn't respond anyway. It was better to simply close the door and rebuild the barricade for now, then go find out who had left.

With a deep sigh, Lassiter set about resecuring the door, and tried not to think about how flimsy the barricade really was.

78. Bronte

When he slowed to a fast walk in front of the house where he'd left Janicea and the kids, Bronte didn't see anything different. He could, however, hear something different: the rumble of a big diesel engine echoing off the water.

He had mixed emotions. Engine noise implied fellow living, breathing humans. What it didn't guarantee was what kind of people they were. He didn't want any more surprises.

Janicea met him at the front door, her right hand held like a visor over her eyes, as if the sun were up at full strength. '“What's that noise?”

“Boat engine,” Bronte replied. “I wanted to make sure everybody was awake and okay before I investigate it.”

“Kids are getting dressed. I was making them breakfast. There's cereal or some slightly stale donuts if you—”

Bronte grimaced, not even trying to hide his annoyance. “Not now, woman! Just stay in the house and be ready for whatever. We might have to run for our boats if this is bad.”

Janicea blinked. “Sorry, Bronte. We'll be ready.”

He didn't bother to reply, and soon he was running toward the north end of the island. He was about fifty yards from a bend in the road and the line of houses that bordered the island's outer edge when the heavy, throbbing engine noise grew louder, then ceased. He didn't slack up on his pace, at all. At the moment, he'd taken for granted how good he felt after a good night's rest. His head was clear, and he was sharp.

The morning air was heavy with humidity. He had a light sweat before he'd started running, and now he could feel it blossoming all over. His shirt stuck to his chest and back, and his jeans to his legs. He ran past four cars parked in the middle of the street. The doors were open on two of the cars. What might be dried blood was on the asphalt and the concrete gutter at the side of the road nearby. No bodies.

He hadn't explored this side of the island at all. He passed overturned trash cans, and then several bodies. He angled to his right a bit as he ran, picking out a house without a fence that overlooked the water.

Far away, but getting nearer, came the sound of another boat engine. It wasn't as heavy. The sky turned gloomy. The sun was hidden behind a massive thunderhead, but all was quiet up in heaven for the moment. A cool breeze blew softly over him, drying some of the sweat.

The house was shaped like an L, with a cluster of three palm trees bearing immense fanlike fronds. He ran up the half-circle, red brick driveway, and went around the left side of the house. The lawn's grass was getting high. Whoever lived here must have skipped mowing the previous week. It would be a bitch to mow now, considering how thick and lush it was, if, that was, anyone was to ever mow it again.

There was no fence, just some lush plants set in a bed of cedar mulch along the side of the house, and a big air conditioner on a pedestal. He could see a large screened porch, and there was the water.

About a hundred feet away was an anchored boat with large winches and nets. Shrimp boat, was his guess, but Tracks would know for sure. That thought dragged him right back down.

As much as he treasured his reunion with Janicea, he missed his friend. The loss of his brother had been bad, but that wound wasn't as fresh. Tracks was here just hours ago.

Movement on the boat pulled him back into the present. He saw two people standing at the back: a big, beefy white man, almost the same size as Tracks, and a white woman in what looked like a kimono. The man was pulling on a rope that went down into the water.

Bronte knelt in some shrubs at the back of the house. He was pretty sure the people couldn't see him. He wondered what they were doing. Then he noticed two men in life jackets floating about thirty feet behind the boat. They were attached to the rope by their jackets, and were being reeled in.

Were they rescuing those men? Neither of the men were moving. Bronte wished he had binoculars.

The two people on the boat were arguing. Their angry voices echoed out over the water, but weren't decipherable. The woman gestured, and sunlight glinted on something in her hand. Bronte wasn't sure if it was a gun, but the man backed away a few paces while holding onto the rope. Meanwhile, the two men in the water were floating about twenty feet away but were making no effort to close the distance, and that more than anything made Bronte think they were unconscious or dead.

The engine noise was getting louder; a boat was approaching from the east, which meant the Tampa side. He couldn't see it yet, but he knew it was close.

Bronte checked his rifle. He ejected the magazine, saw it was full, and reinserted it, making sure the selector was set to fire.

In that short span, something must have happened on the boat, because the woman started screaming. Bronte looked up in time to see the man punch her. She dropped out of sight, below the level of the deck railing. The man stood over her, and it looked like his chest was heaving, but whether it was from exertion or emotion, Bronte couldn't say.

To his surprise, the man took one look toward the other, as yet unseen boat, leapt overboard and started swimming for the island. Moments passed, and the man swam closer, laboring with a clumsy basic crawl. It looked like one of his arms wasn't working right. He even rolled over on his back, as if he needed to rest. Bronte thought whoever was on the approaching boat would surely spot him.

At that moment, the other boat appeared from Bronte's right, and the engine noise fell off almost to nothing as it idled closer to the shrimp boat. It was a big motor yacht, close to a fifty footer. Most of the upper structure was enclosed cabin with mirrored, solar-coated windows, and in the back was a large open deck. A man in a white uniform stood at the prow with rope in hand. When only a couple of feet separated the two watercrafts, he leapt aboard the shrimp boat and tied off the line.

Three women in bikinis were sunning themselves on the yacht's open rear deck. They were all breathtaking, but Bronte forced his attention back to the deckhand. The man was lifting the fallen woman to her feet. He put one of her arms around his neck, got one of his arms beneath her legs at the knee, the other around her back, and lifted her.

Two more people appeared on the deck of the yacht. The bigger of the two was a soldier with a bald head wearing a pressed tan uniform. The other man wore high-waisted dove gray slacks, a snow-white long-sleeved shirt, and a straw hat.

The deckhand handed the woman over the rail to the soldier. They didn't appear to be paying any attention to the swimming man. The guy in the straw hat barked an order, and the soldier set the woman down in a chair and climbed onto the shrimp boat, joining the deckhand. Both men then went to the back of the boat and began hauling on the rope that secured the two unconscious or dead men.

The swimmer reached the dock of the neighboring house directly to Bronte's left and hauled himself out of the water. He'd been wearing a suit when he jumped in the water, but his jacket and shoes were missing now. He lay prostrate on the wood planks, and didn't move for several minutes.

During that time, the soldier and deckhand pulled the first of the two men aboard the shrimp boat. Bronte still couldn't tell whether the man was alive or not. He looked back at the dock and saw the swimmer grab the dock's railing and pull himself to his feet. He was still wearing his socks. He looked like an overweight, over-aged, bedraggled nerd.

Over a three foot hedge and chain link fence that separated one property from the next, Bronte watched him cross the yard and open a gate less than five feet from where he hid. He seemed completely oblivious to Bronte's presence. He wasn't moving fast, and walked as though he were beat up and sore. His breathing was irregular, like he still couldn't catch his breath, but that didn't stop his progress from the side yard to the front of the house. Only Bronte's voice did that.

“Where are you going?”

The man stopped, holding his arms out away from his body.

“You hear me, old man?” Bronte asked.

“I'm looking for my family,” the man answered. “It's been a long day, and I just want to go home.”

“Home can wait,” Bronte said. “Why did you punch that woman?”

The man turned around. His voice was bitter. “Does it matter? You a cop or something? In case you haven't noticed, the world is over.”

The man's attitude was getting on Bronte's nerves. “Yeah, I noticed, but what you don't seem to understand is that I'm the one with a gun in this conversation. Now, what is your name?”

The man's face lost expression, but finally, he answered. “At his point, I don't care if you have a gun or not. My name is Gilbert Kincaid, and if you want to shoot me, then do it.”

“Well, Mr. Kincaid, why don't we go visit your family and see if they’re okay? Seems the least I can do for you, especially since you don't have a gun.”

Kincaid's face gave nothing away, but Bronte knew he was thinking hard.

For a moment, Bronte considered shooting him. It was the simplest solution, after all. He remembered a Stalin quote: Death solves all problems. No man, no problem. Made a lot of sense. All that stayed Bronte's finger on the trigger was a desire to find out whether other people were on the island that he wasn't aware of.

Kincaid still wasn't speaking. Bronte's patience reached its limit. He gestured with the rifle.

“Let's go, or I'll leave you here for good.”

Kincaid shrugged. “Don't I know you? You look familiar.”

“I don't think so, Kincaid. I've never see you before.”

“I was hiding. You were one of the ones who killed people the other day, here on the island!”

Bronte's mouth was dry. He fought back the urge to swallow. He could feel his finger caressing the rifle's trigger.

“Maybe so. We had good reason. Turns out, real good reason. Some people from around here killed all my friends. Two on Googe Island and three more here.”

“You lost three people here? When, yesterday?”

“Yeah. Probably killed the rest of your people too. I haven't checked all the houses, but a lot of people were killed.”

Kincaid lowered his head and stood motionless, then began to shake. Bronte waited.

“Let's go see,” Kincaid said, at last. “Are the bodies still where you left ‘em?”

“Yes.”

“My house is across the street. That one,” Kincaid said, pointing at a beige two-story. His eyes were locked on Bronte's and his expression was stony.

It was strange to know that less than three days ago this man had been his countryman. Not a friend, but someone he might be able to connect with. Certainly not a mortal enemy, or someone he was about to execute.

“If your people stayed home, then they are alive,” Bronte said. “We never made it to this side of the island.”

“We'll go to my home first, then, if you don't mind?”

“Smarter to start there,” Bronte agreed, “and get this over with.”

The other man didn't answer, but his expression was now that of a condemned man on his way to judgment. Bronte realized then that condemnation was the more common bond between them. No mercy would be granted to either.

Then he heard the sound of another boat engine.

79. Natalie

“I don't have any weapons to kill with, in case you haven't noticed,” Natalie said, sliding into the car and feeling the air conditioning flow across her sweaty face. A lock of her hair was plastered to her cheek and forehead. The cool air felt wonderful.

“Depends on what type of killing you mean,” Troy replied with a smart-ass grin. His eyes didn't leave her face, but he might as well have leered at her chest.

She grinned back, and wiggled a little in her seat. “Well, Troy, I'm no femme fatale, but I'm in training. Want to help me practice?”

“Best offer I've had all day, baby,” he laughed, and pulled away from the curb. The car was facing south, and he steered them into the center of the road. For some distance, the road looked clear. There were wrecks or abandoned vehicles, but they wouldn't have to leave the car behind.

They drove a block or so, and Troy said, “The house is just past those trees on the left. See it? The one with the wall surrounding it.”

“Oh shit,” Natalie said when she got a good look at the house. The gate, that was large enough for a car, was hanging wide open. Zombies were inside the enclosed area.

“I wonder if they got in the house,” Troy said. “Sid's probably dead if it's open like this.”

The dead were noticing them, and beginning to head toward their idling car. Natalie could hear them moan, whether in yearning for them or some sort of pain, she didn't know. Then she heard, quite clearly, gunfire.

“I think anyone in that house is dead,” she said, “but someone is still alive somewhere not too far away.”

Troy gave the car a little gas, and they started to pull away. Someone shouted at them across the street from the house they were watching. Natalie turned and saw a mustached, middle-aged black man in a khaki uniform emerge from an overgrown yard. He had an assault rifle with a scope and was still shouting. Troy braked and the car drifted to a stop.

“Troy!” the man yelled. “Wait!”

“Gabe?” Troy responded.

The man was running at the car, but he stopped near the edge of the street, still standing in the knee-high undergrowth.

“Pull around the block, on the other side this house, and I'll meet you there. Quick, before the stiffs catch up!”

Troy obeyed, flooring the gas and screeching the tires. The car's tires went up and over the curb, across part of the yard, and into the street beyond, rather than around the corner. Within ten feet, dense trees and a hedge concealed them from the following dead. Troy cut the engine, pocketed the car keys, and opened his car door.

“Come on,” he said, but Natalie was already opening her door.

Gabe was standing at an open gate through the hedge waiting for them. As soon as they were through the gate, Gabe shut it. They were standing in an unkempt yard with several towering trees and a thick bed of leaves carpeting the ground. The gate was part of a wrought iron fence that bordered the hedge on this side of the property. In the center was a dilapidated two-story house with walls of rough-mortared stone and a gray-tiled roof.

“Is everybody dead?” Troy asked.

“No, Sid, Chato and some kid went to pick up more survivors. Sid must have pissed off this soldier that was with the kid. I was left as a rear guard, while Sid got away. I’m not sure whether he really went to rescue people or not. All I know is that the soldier was killing everyone when I got him.”

“You killed the soldier?”

“I shot him in the leg, I think,” Gabe said. “I’m pretty sure the stiffs got him after that. He never came out from behind a car, and the stiffs swarmed around it when I dropped him. I was still waiting for another shot when you two showed up.” He glanced at Natalie. “Who's the bitch?” he asked, looking Natalie up and down, as if sizing up a piece of meat. His mustache and the little soul patch below his bottom lip gave him a sinister appearance.

Strike one, and strike two, Natalie thought. Aloud, she said, “This bitch knows how to handle a gun, and you better respect that.”

Gabe's face darkened, and he took a step toward her but Troy intervened.

“Back off, Gabe, she's with me,” he said.

“Then you better keep her bitchy mouth shut, or I'll put something in it.”

Troy's hand tightened on hers, and Natalie forced herself to remain quiet. The guy was obviously an asshole.

“I won't ask again, Gabe,” Troy said. Natalie wondered which of the two would win if there was a fight. Gabe was taller and lankier, but so many Asians seemed to know how to fight. Thinking about the two men squaring off made her nervous.

Gabe shrugged. “Suit yourself. Sid will probably take her from you anyway. Let's go back inside. I got a good spot up on the roof where you can see everything around here.”

Sid will probably take me? Natalie wanted to ask. What the hell did that mean? No point in worrying about it now. For the moment she was safe. She'd ask Troy later what Gabe meant. She had to trust that Troy meant what he said earlier about killing Sid. She was pretty sure that Troy was on her side. Guys lied to her as often as they did to other women, but he seemed sincere. Still, she'd much rather be with Sam. Her eyes began to fill when she thought about him, and what she'd lost before even having a chance. The soldier, Mark, had been a nice guy, too, but Sam was all she'd thought about for two years.

One thing that was sure? She didn't want to depend on anyone else to be safe. She needed to change, and it needed to start right now. This new world was uglier than the old one, but she was a survivor. She'd come out alive and well from things that would cripple or kill other people.

Gabe walked up a sidewalk that connected the gate to the house's front door. Two waist high clay planters with dead bushes stood on either side of a two-step stair landing outside the front door. The door itself was made of wood and banded with iron. It made her think of a castle door. It was standing open when they arrived. She figured Gabe must have left it that way when he came to get them since he didn't appear surprised to find it open.

It was cooler inside. There was a long stretch of almost white terrazzo floor with a big Middle Eastern rug and old paintings of people on the walls. There were two closed doors, one on either side, and about ten feet down the passage opened into a living room with lots of bookcases.

Natalie loved the house already.

The living room had a twelve-foot cathedral ceiling, and to the right was a large expanse of more books, couches, recliners and a small, ancient TV. Straight ahead was another hallway, and to the left, a staircase with maroon carpet fanned open like a river delta near the floor and narrowed down as it climbed to a landing about eight feet up, and then it split to the left and right. Centered in between the turnings, highlighted by a skylight, was a decrepit, well-used set of armor with helm, sword, and shield.

“That's sick!” Natalie said.

Gabe grunted something, and led them across the room to the stairs. Troy turned back and smiled briefly.

“Looks like crusader armor,” he said. “My family is descended from Spanish nobility. One of my ancestors was a crusader.”

Gabe said, “Bullshit, man, I never read about any Asian crusaders.”

“I am half Japanese and half Puerto Rican,” Troy said proudly.

“Named Troy?” Gabe snorted. “I never heard of any Jap or Puerto Rican crusaders either!”

Natalie saw color bloom high on Troy's cheeks, and she knew he was angry. She was glad that all she'd done was listen. Troy didn't respond, but Natalie knew he wasn't going to forget Gabe's comments.

Looking at Gabe's back as he passed the armor, Natalie thought to herself, Strike three, motherfucker!

80. Johnny

Johnny stood up on the lifeboat's deck and faced forward, curious about where they were going. In the distance, the St. Petersburg shoreline was growing closer. He guessed that they were looking at the Shore Acres neighborhood. Weedon Isle wasn't far away, and the towering smoke stacks of the power plant were visible over the mangroves.

Two boats were anchored near a piece of land that looked like it was separated from the mainland by a canal. Johnny thought it might be an island, but it was covered with houses. Several more islands were visible further south, all still natural, mangrove islands with a few scattered palm trees. Those islands were probably glorified sandbars at high tide.

The two distant boats were different types. One was a huge yacht, and the other a shrimp boat. Johnny figured that was where they were going.

Marcel and Anna were both standing next to him. Gretchen, Ike, and Huff were down below.

Marcel remarked, “Nice boat.”

“I was on one like that for spring break a year and a half ago,” Anna said. “That’s how I got pregnant.”

“No shit?” Marcel exclaimed. “Didn't picture you as a party girl.”

“I was hanging with the wrong crowd. Got drunk. I wish I could remember more of what happened before I passed out, but remembering the before is enough. Now I have this little guy as a constant reminder of my life-changing night.”

“Where's the father?” Marcel asked in what came across as a blunt tone to Johnny. Crass too. Johnny figured he didn't realize how he sounded.

Anna lowered her eyes, and in a small voice, answered, “I don't know.”

“Oh,” Marcel replied. He sounded embarrassed now.

“It's okay. I made a decision and now I have to live with it.”

“Listen up, everyone!” Huff shouted. “This is where we part ways. Those of you who are going to the shelter, just relax for a few more minutes. We are about to transfer you to the yacht. The rest of you need to gather your belongings. We will put you ashore at the Mariner's Pass Condominiums shortly.”

“Where is that?” Marcel asked.

“I remember where we are,” Anna said. “Those condos are there!” She pointed off to the right. Sure enough there were quite a few two-story buildings behind some houses inshore, about a half mile away. “Shore Acres Elementary School is across the street, and Mangrove Bay Golf Course is on the other side. Those houses to our left are part of Tanglewood Island, and to our front they are part of the Tanglewood Neighborhood...”

Her voice trailed off, and Johnny almost missed the last part.

“Probably a lot of zombies out there.”

The lifeboat was down to a slow drift, almost without any forward headway, when Huff tossed a line to a guy on the yacht. The two boats slowly came toward one another, but before they did, Huff and Gretchen separated them with big rubber fenders. The chosen people began to transfer over to the yacht. Within moments, nine people, one of them Gretchen, boarded the other boat. Twenty people, one of them Huff, were still aboard the lifeboat. Two of the yacht's crewmen cast off the lines, and pushed the lifeboat away.

“Okay people, I'll take you ashore now. In case any of you get any ideas, take a look over at the yacht.”'

Huff was pointing toward the yacht's rear deck. The same two crewmen were standing there, one holding an M-16 assault rifle, and the other some sort of machine gun.

Johnny looked at his fellow survivors. Ike was the only one who looked like he'd get any ideas. He looked pretty pissed off, but he wasn't saying anything.

“Got me?” Huff asked. No one said anything. “Okay then,” he said, walking back into the lifeboat's cabin. The engine chugged back to life, and the boat began a long, looping curve to the right. Everyone was quiet. The houses drew steadily closer, and Johnny saw a few people looking at them from the backyards of houses bordering the water. A few minutes passed, and once again the boat began to slow.

“This is as close as I can get you. Everyone just slip over the side right here, and you can almost wade ashore.”

A wail went up from the survivors. Someone shouted, “I can't swim!”

“If any of you get any ideas about killing me and coming back here with this boat, the guys on the yacht will shoot to kill. This is where we part ways. Now get off my boat!”

Johnny stepped to the side, and grabbed life vests from a pile near the seats. He handed one to Anna, one to Marcel, and then he put his own on.

“We better do this quickly,” Johnny said. “I'll go over first, and then, Anna, you hand me the baby, and both of you come after. We'll stick together.”

The other two people looked scared, and Anna's baby was crying.

“Nobody's going anywhere,” Ike said.

Huff had his hand on his gun, but it was in his waist band, leaving him no time to react when Ike swung his bat. The wooden shaft connected with his head. A solid sickening smack and Huff went down and didn't even twitch.

Ike bent over and retrieved the gun.

“Now, everybody listen up, this is what we're gonna do...”

81. Clive

A long, mostly uneventful hour passed, during which Clive thought about Chinese food and how much he was going to miss it. This train of thought wasn't productive. It was sure to lead to a long list of other luxuries of civilization that he was going to miss.

“This is it,” Candace said, pointing toward an unmarked two-lane road to their left. They were in the middle of what must be miles of forested hills and mountains. A swollen creek ran alongside the left edge of the road, with only a few feet of rock-strewn median in between. It was hard to judge from the car how deep it was, but it was moving fast. The water came right up to the bottom of the concrete of the bridge, and was overlapping the road in places on the approach. Clive slowed down, turned cautiously onto the turn-off, and drove onto the bridge. The tree branches were growing together from either side of the road, and the shadows were deep.

“It’s like a leafy tunnel,” Ritchie said from the backseat.

“We're close to a guard post if I remember correctly,” Candace said, looking at the right side of the road where it widened. There were places to pull off, wide enough for a big truck, on either side. A sawhorse barrier was astride the road, along with some spiked wheel traps. Two soldiers wearing MP brassards on their arms stepped out of the trees. One of them pointed his rifle at them, while the second soldier motioned for them to stop.

“This is a restricted area,” the second soldier said. His name tag read Collins, his rank tab was that of a private, and his helmet was pushed back away from his long, thin face. He looked sweaty and miserable. He also looked too young to be a soldier.

Clive held up his badge. “I'm Secret Service, and this is Speaker of the House Candace Fiore. The two guys in the back are press corps.”

Collins didn't look impressed with Clive, but he straightened up immediately when he looked at Candace's badge and saw that she was the real deal.

“Let 'em through, Patrick,” he said to the soldier behind him.

Patrick grumbled, but slung his rifle quickly enough and moved aside the barriers.

“Welcome back, ma'am,” Collins said, as they drove past.

Candace smiled at him.

The road sloped upward and wound through the trees. Two minutes later, they saw a large bay door in the mountainside, open and waiting for them.

Clive drove in, and they entered a lighted, oversized tunnel, large enough for two vehicles to pass. The tunnel was level and straight, and shortly thereafter they entered a cavernous room that had a long line of military and civilian vehicles. Another soldier with a slung rifle guided them into a parking space at that end where a man and woman stood. A short distance behind them, there were two staff officers with side arms.

The man was about 5'9”, and looked trim and fit in his battle dress uniform. There was a holstered pistol on his belt and five stars on his collar. Clive recognized him as General Kyler. The woman was attractive in a girl next door fashion, with shoulder length blonde hair streaked with brown and a nice figure. She wore a lab coat and slacks. Clive had no idea who she was.

Candace got out of the car after Clive turned the engine off. Kyler strode forward with his hand outstretched, and Candace shook it.

“Good to see you again, Madam Speaker,” he said.

No one greeted him, or for that matter, Mathers or Ritchie, either. Candace didn't bother to introduce him or the others. He realized it was time for him to fade into the background. That never bothered him before, but then again he hadn't allowed himself to care about anyone in decades.

Clive wondered where the crowd of politicians and soldiers were that should be getting their turn now. And didn't Candace have two kids? Would her ex-husband be here?

“There's been a lot going on, Madam Speaker,” Kyler said.

Mathers was standing right behind them, while Ritchie filmed the whole thing. He couldn't resist, or wanted to catch their reactions, and spoke up, “That's Madame President, General! The president is dead.”

Kyler's aging, but still dignified, face went gray. “Is this true, Madame Speaker?”

“He claims to have footage and pictures, General,” Candace answered. “I haven't seen it.”

“Well, Lance,” Kyler said, “I don't like your tactics on this, but let's get into the conference room and get to the bottom of this.”

Candace didn't look happy. “I'm so glad to have you with me at this time, General, but where are my husband and children? I'd rather see them first.”

“Captain Porlock and Major Powell will escort you all to the room, and I will bring your husband and the children there to meet you,” Kyler replied.

Candace looked unsure, but she followed Porlock and Powell when they motioned toward an elevator door. Porlock was a tall, nearly skeletal white guy, and Powell was a big, powerful-looking black man.

Clive trailed along behind, feeling put out and useless. Mathers had his revenge, unwitting or not. None of the people there appeared to notice him, but he imagined there would be questions later, maybe even an interrogation. He sighed and let his shoulders slump.

Clive was alive, and the person he'd sworn to protect was not.

82. Hicks

He waited for the sun to go down and night to fall. He was relaxed and felt good. A lot of his fatigue fell away. How long this second—or was it third?—wind would last was anyone's guess.

When it came to his private life, Hicks was more than a little secretive. He'd never been particularly outgoing, and he and Booth had never been close. Jacobs and Booth got along well, but he had been friendlier with Watson, Lepski, and Shell. That was just the way things were. Of course, they all knew what made each other tick. They had to. If one of them was neurotic or phobic about something, the others had to know.

What they didn't have to know was that his uncle had a house roughly three miles from the golf course clubhouse that was as isolated as a house could be around here, and that it overlooked Tampa Bay and the Bayside Bridge. That uncle was also a rich, lifelong bachelor who owned several houses, and Hicks was his favorite nephew.

Hicks had somewhere to go, and he also knew the area intimately. He figured now was the best time to find out whether that house was an option. He doubted he would come back, but if he wanted, he still had walkie-talkie communication with Booth.

He could call for help, or call to help. For now, though, a little one-man reconnaissance seemed like a good idea. No simpering woman, squalling kid, or over-the-hill crew chiefs to get on his nerves.

He set off at a fast walk across the golf course, his rifle cradled in his left arm. These dead things weren't Russian commandos. They weren't even as alert as a civilian security guard, and none of them could run or fire a gun. He'd only be in trouble if they cornered him.

If Hicks admitted the truth to himself, he'd acknowledge how arrogant he was growing about his own ability. His now dead companions were only dead due to ill chance or misfortune. None were dead because these things outsmarted them. He was certain that he'd survive unless fate or mischance intervened.

His path was taking him closer to the highway, where he knew hundreds of the dead were congregated, and to the small woods they passed over earlier that bordered the airport. The woods were his intended course. The highway wasn't safe, even for him. It would require patience he didn't have to navigate.

The moon was out, and that was both a boon and a curse. He could see them, but the reverse was also true. He decided to try travelling behind the businesses that bordered Roosevelt Boulevard; going through the airport sounded more dangerous.

The booze kept him relatively mellow until he made it to the back of a big restaurant. His eyes were adjusted to the darkness at that point, and the light of the moon was overhead. Even so, it was dark behind the building where he crouched behind a hedge and listened, hoping that sense would help him more. What he really needed were some night vision goggles.

Something made a thumping noise somewhere not far from him. His imagination conjured all kinds of things, but he clamped down, cleared his mind, and took a deep breath. Patience and observation would see him through this. There was no further noise, but long moments passed before his blood stopped racing.

The sound of shuffling feet cost him another five minutes, but he put the delay to good use by using camouflage paint on his face, neck and hands from a small tin that reminded him of finger paint. Technically, he supposed, that’s what it was, just thicker and heavier.

The shuffling feet were going somewhere, because he couldn't hear them anymore. Or did that mean that the thing stopped? He smiled to himself and stood up.

A hundred feet away, moonlight gleamed in the distance. He couldn't say for sure that it was from cars. Doubt was beginning to creep in. No matter how good he was, he was nearly blind in this level of darkness. Of course, that meant the dead things were blind too. He forced himself into motion and stepped out into the parking lot. He unclipped his flashlight from his combat harness and held his finger ready on the button in case he needed light. He also had a small headlamp, but didn't feel like taking the time to dig it out of the right cargo pocket on his pants leg.

He increased his pace, eyes straining, and tried to alternate his focus between smelling and hearing. He passed a parked car, but couldn't make out enough detail to identify it, stepped up and over a curb, trampled a flower bed, and stepped back onto another parking lot. He saw the dim outline of an overpass looming not too far away to his left, and he knew it was the one coming from Clearwater, toward Tampa or St. Pete. He wondered how bad it was up there. He knew from their flyby earlier yesterday that there were a lot of cars up there. He couldn't remember how many of the walking dead he had seen, though.

Off to his right was a single-storied building that he remembered held several businesses, one of them a Chinese restaurant, and maybe a craft store of some kind, he wasn't sure.

He felt the hair on his neck and arms rise. Dead people were walking all around him! One brushed his arm. He could smell old sweat and rot. The thing didn't seem to realize he was there.

Hicks froze in place. His pulse rate was out of control again, and every nerve screamed at him to run. He had to control his fear or he wasn't going to make it through this. He'd snap, and that would be it.

The rancid smell strengthened. Hicks didn't wait to see if the thing was coming back, and resumed his fast walk. He angled himself on a parallel path with the storefronts.

He let the rifle dangle from its strap and pulled his knife from its sheath. It was a curved Kukri blade, over twelve inches long. Hicks knew the British Gurka soldiers used them, and he was always curious himself whether it was a good choice.

With unlit flashlight in hand, his knife in the other, Hicks kept walking. He made it halfway across the lot when someone grabbed his shoulder and tried to bite his neck. Hicks flicked the flashlight on and spun, breaking the hold, and sliced the hand right off. He ran full bore out onto the highway and saw that hundreds of zombies were coming toward him from seemingly everywhere except the overpass.

It was as good a place to go as any, he figured.

Shrieks and moans rose up as if these things could tell that he was different now. Somehow they knew he wasn't one of them. But how? What did he do to reveal himself? He felt fingers grasp at him from two sets of hands. Hicks turned, and replayed his violent twist move with his torso, using his arms to break the hold. With two slashes of the knife's curved blade, he freed himself.

He ran, stiff-arming several of the dead, shambling things, running as if he had the ball and was on a football field again with the end zone in sight. The only problem was that there wasn't a safe zone anywhere nearby, and these players were playing for keeps. Get tackled here, and he'd lose more than the ball.

The base of the overpass's ramp was right in front of him. The overturned bulk of a large SUV blocked all but the edges of the exit, but Hicks was able to squeeze between the back tires and the wall. He hoped that would slow down his pursuers. What concerned him more, however, was the strong smell of gasoline all around him as he ran upwards, past seemingly unending coils of cars, all locked together like some metallic-snake. He flicked off the flashlight.

Lightning forked across the sky almost directly overhead, followed within seconds by a big rumble. For a moment, everything was lit up like day.

A wall of people were coming toward him, some only feet away. Then the light faded. He plunged back into darkness and doubt. How long could he push forward through that before they brought him down? What about if he turned around? Right now, if he jumped over the side wall, he'd fall ten to fifteen feet. No telling what was down there.

He might be able to run over the tops of the cars...if it was broad daylight, but he was no James Bond. Something bad was about to happen to him, no matter what choice he made. He knew it and spent a moment longer factoring the odds, and then he took three steps to his right, lifted one leg, then the other, over the overpass wall and jumped.

He landed in a soggy, marshy mess but wasn't hurt. He crouched in the darkness, tried to control his breathing and calm down. That brief moment of indecision worked him up, and blood was pounding in his ears. He forced himself to listen before moving. He thought he heard a distant moan from the overpass above him but nothing more.

Then, rain began to patter down. He stood and kept moving forward, paralleling the feeder road below the overpass, his boots splashing in knee deep water now.

Two adult and two child-sized zombies passed him not ten feet away, trudging in the muddy grass on the verge of the road above him. They didn't seem to know he was there. He saw that the road was choked with vehicles nose to bumper.

He knew the airport wasn't much further up on his right, and there were some large warehouse businesses on the left. His boots finally crossed over onto firm ground, and he increased his pace to a jog, still keeping the flashlight in one hand and the kukri knife in the other.

The far side of the overpass sloped down and ended in a long line of safety barrier poles on his left, then a wide, grassy median. The road was still clogged with vehicles in both directions. Dead people were everywhere, and the stench was becoming overpowering enough to make Hicks consider turning back.

It was funny how that, more than the danger, was dissuading him. Perhaps he had reached his limit. The truth was he fed on adrenaline. Sudden death or narrow escape, the possibility of either made him feel more alive than anything else. Most of his squad mates were of the same ilk— thrill seekers. He'd rappelled headfirst as soon as they'd let him. He'd done far worse things than confidence courses as a kid, many involving the risk of death or severe bodily harm. It was better, he thought, to go into risky situations with confidence, and onward he went.

83. Keller/Amy

For the moment, nothing was moving.

Keller paused to exchange an empty pistol for a loaded one with Amy when they both heard the sound of a fire engine siren not far away. It had to be Trish and Mills. If they kept the siren on, he and Amy could find them that way.

So would every dead thing within miles.

“You think it's Trish and Adam?” Amy asked. He hadn't had time to look at her, but now he could see the sorrow and hopelessness that gripped her also.

“I think it is, Amy.”

She put a hand on his chest. “Get me out of here then, Matt. Let's go!”

He took her hand in his and resumed walking. They'd nearly made it to the back porch and were literally walking on bodies.

How many had he killed? His stomach was empty and his throat burned from vomit and stomach acid. He'd thrown up more than once, but now all he could do was dry heave. There was nothing left. The problem was that the dry heaves doubled him over. A couple of times Amy had to save him because he'd been nearly incapacitated. Blood, brains and gore were splashed everywhere. He figured that it must be a few thousand pounds of dead human flesh littering the halls and rooms of this house.

They stepped carefully over the broken glass scattered across the kitchen floor and the back porch. Outside, it was clear. No sign of any moving dead.

The siren noise came from somewhere not far from the direction they’d traveled. Maybe a block east of where they were now.

Amy paused a moment, let go of his hand, and reloaded the pistol she held. The shotgun was slung over his chest and another full magazine for it was shoved in his shirt, held in place by the pistol belt and harness he wore.

Keller looked around once more, and decided the alley would be the best way to go for now. He shifted the pistol to his left hand, took Amy's hand in his right, and walked toward the alley. There was an opening in the backyard wall, and they took it. The alley was dirt and full of potholes and weeds. Every couple of houses, there was a huge black plastic trashcan. Almost every house's yard was fenced.

They were running now. At the end of the alley, he pulled up short, and with Amy trailing him, edged around the corner. The next street was full of the dead, far too many to shoot. Hundreds, maybe more, and all of them heading in the direction of what had to be Mills' fire truck. He could see it now, emergency lights beaconing, a block down to the right. The truck was stalled or stopped near the end of a dead end street, quickly being surrounding by a crowd.

None of the zombies were looking their way, so he motioned Amy forward so she could see.

“Call them on the walkie-talkie,” Amy said and handed the radio to him.

Keller took it, and keyed the mic. “Trish, or Adam?” he said. “We can see the truck.”

A couple of seconds passed, the siren quieted, and the lights shut off. They heard Trish's voice.

“Oh thank God! They're all around us and Adam passed out or something. He might be infected.”

Keller's mind was racing. What could they do to help? The dead were pressed up against the truck several bodies deep now. Not evenly on all the sides, though. The truck would still move.

“Is the engine still running, Trish?” Keller asked.

“Yes, the engine is still on, but the fuel gauge is almost on empty,” Trish answered worriedly.

“Can you wake up Mills?”

“I'll try.”

Dead air, then…”He's awake but seems delirious.”

“Well you guys have to do something. Amy and I can't get to you. See if you can get him to get that thing moving and reverse out of there.”

“Okay, I'll try,” Trish answered.

They waited, but Trish didn't say anything more. With the siren off, the dead that were further away from the truck were beginning to wander aimlessly. Thinking that they might be spotted at any moment, Keller backed up and pulled Amy into a crouch beside him. Their backs were against a wood fence. Her face was very close to his and she was looking directly into his eyes.

“We'll find a way to do this,” he said, loving the look she was giving him. This was a strong person beside him. She wasn't a quitter. Amy smiled and put her hand on his face. The smile was contagious, and he found himself smiling back.

“And when we find somewhere safe, we'll get drunk, right?” she asked

He laughed and blushed a little, thinking about what they might do together if they were ever alone and safe in a less conflicted time.

“We'll get drunk, screw ourselves silly, and hide away from all this, sweetheart,” he replied. “I promise.”

Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she said, “I'm gonna hold you to that, mister!”

The fire truck engine revved, then roared. Keller looked back around the corner of the fence and saw several people go down beneath the wheels as the truck accelerated backwards and knocked down a wooden power pole.

The people surrounding the truck surged like a fleshy tide across the momentarily empty space and then the truck turned hard to the right. Several went airborne when the truck's bumper struck them, and then the truck was picking up speed, coming in their direction.

“Where are you?” Trish's voice said from the radio. “We're coming!”

“Look to your left,” Keller said, holding the walkie-talkie near his mouth. “We're coming out now!”

Keller stood, pulled Amy up beside him, and they both ran out into the street. The closest monsters were about fifteen feet away and not so concentrated together as they were near the truck. The two of them ran, dodging through the gaps, trying not to stop. Then the truck was there, and Keller boosted Amy up to the rear left door of the raised cab. He scrambled up after her, and Mills floored the accelerator before Keller could finish shutting the door.

“We're on E!” Mills shouted, and turned a hard left onto the next cross street.

Trish gave them a brief smile from the front seat. “Be ready! We have no idea when the engine will die!”

Amy squeezed Keller's hand. For the moment, they were safe.

“No idea where we're going…any suggestions?”

Keller thought about it while Mills drove them back onto 34th Street South and turned right.

“It was bad north of here,” Mills said, offering a partial explanation for the right turn.

“Well, it's either a left or a right on Fifty Fourth Avenue South, or head back for the Skyway,” Amy said. “The Skyway is out for me.”

“I say we take the right on Fifty Fourth,” Mills said. “The beaches are out that way, and we can swim if we have to.”

The intersection of Thirty Fourth and Fifty Fourth was coming up quick. Mills turned right and cut across a parking lot to avoid the pileup of cars that was there. The engine chugged once and died in the parking lot. They were coasting past some sort of multi-storied office building, and were close to a CVS.

“I passed this way not long ago,” Trish said, as they drifted to a stop. “We would have had to walk anyway a few blocks down.”

When they climbed down from the truck, Keller noticed how pale Mills was, but he decided not to comment on it. There were people walking around over at the intersection, but incredibly none of them were nearby. They might actually be able to find a hiding place without being observed.

Mills said, “Why don't we try that CVS?”

“We could get something for your ear there,” Trish said to Mills.

“Grab anything you think we need,” Keller said.

Trish led the way, moving at a brisk pace. There were a few cars scattered around in between the office building and the store, none occupied. In front of the store was another matter. Keller counted at least twenty cars parked near the entrance and a lot of motionless bodies on the ground.

They were ten feet from the entrance when a bunch of teenage kids poured out of the front doors. The kids were loaded down with bags and beer. One scrawny boy wearing jeans and an overlarge white t-shirt was even chugging his beer.

Both groups stopped and stared at each other.

Trish spoke first. “You're those kids I saw over in Maximo not long ago, aren't you?”

A slender brunette girl answered with a sneer, “Yeah, and you were going to put out a fire somewhere, right?”

Trish frowned.

“I'm the one who flicked you off,” the girl added.

“I remember,” Trish said.

“You guys sure have a lot of guns,” the boy drinking the beer interjected. Keller noticed that although he was scrawny, the kid had some big arms. His hair was buzzed so short it left only a black shadow on his head.

Trish shrugged. “We have guns, and I'll bet you guys have cars,” she said.

The brunette's sneer faltered a bit. “That mean you're gonna take them from us?”

“No,” Trish answered, “it means maybe we can help one another.”

“No thanks, lady,” the brunette said. “We've had enough of old people bossing us around.”

Keller spoke up, “We're not looking to boss you around.”

“What do you want then, mister?” a medium-sized black kid said. “All adults do is boss us around. We're on our own now, and we don't need you!”

“So what's your plan then?” Trish wanted to know.

“We have some friends that called us,” the brunette said. “We're heading for north St. Pete to some place called the Alamo. It's really just a house with a wall around it, but my friend says it's like a little fort.”

“Maybe we can help you get there?” Mills suggested.

“We got our own guns, mister,” the brunette said.

“Not many, though, Doreen,” said the black kid.

“Shut up, Lester!” Doreen snapped, obviously irritated.

“I say they come with us,” said the kid with the beer.

“You going to boss us around?” Doreen asked, giving Trish what she probably thought was a hard look.

“No, we won't,” Keller said, knowing he was lying, but not overly concerned about it right now.

“Okay, then,” Doreen said. “You guys can ride with Ben, since he seems to like you so much.”

Keller noticed that most of the kids at one point or another were looking at the blood on Mill's head and neck. It was hard not to notice that he was missing an ear. None of them commented on it, though. Ben was looking at Mill's head when he grinned, and said, “I have that Volvo station wagon over there. Maybe one of you should drive though. I'm a bit intoxicated.”

“Let's go then,” Trish said. “I’ll drive.”

“You sure we want to throw in with a bunch of teenagers?” Mills said to Trish, but Keller overheard. He wondered if Ben heard the question too.

Trish wasn't amused, judging by the scathing look she gave the firefighter. “They have somewhere to go, and the means to get there. I'm fresh out of alternative ideas. You have a better idea, I'm listening.”

Keller loved her no-nonsense attitude, and he found himself thinking about what kind of life she had before. Mills’ cheeks reddened, but he didn't say anything.

Ben said, “Maybe we can help each other. It's a different world now.”

“It sure is, Ben, never mind me,” Mills answered, stepping forward. “I'm Adam Mills. Call me Adam.”

The others introduced themselves as Ben handed the car keys to Trish.

“Pleased to meet you all,” Ben replied.

The station wagon's doors were unlocked. Ben slid into the front passenger seat, while Amy sat in the back between Keller and Mills. It was a little cramped in the backseat with everyone's equipment, but none of them were willing to part with anything for comfort's sake, even though the cargo space in the rear only had a few boxes in it.

“Hope it isn't too tight a fit back there,” Ben said.

Amy smiled at him. “We're fine. Thanks for the ride.”

Keller ignored the rest of the conversation, and looked to see what the others were doing. There were three other cars in addition to Ben's Volvo, a black Nissan Altima, a bright orange Chevy Nova, and a faded red Ford Ranger.

Keller watched Doreen climb into the driver's seat of the Altima with a long-haired blonde girl wearing skin tight jeans, a black t-shirt, and black low-heeled boots. The blonde had a holstered pistol on each hip. She paused only long enough to sling a backpack and two plastic grocery bags into the car's backseat.

The black kid, Lester, was driving the Ranger. A heavy-set, possibly Hispanic, girl was in the passenger seat, and two boys that might be her brothers were in the truck's bed, along with a stack of boxes.

Two more boys, one black and one white, were riding in the Nova. Both were muscular and fit, and the driver might be twenty-one or so. The two boys wore jeans and muscle shirts that read Woodlawn Hitting Club.

It was quite a menagerie of people, but then any group could be, Keller thought.

Trish started the engine, and they were on their way.

Amy's hand found Keller's, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. “I'm glad Trish is driving,” she said.

Keller wasn't sure he agreed, but he smiled and squeezed her hand.

84. Jacobs

He was under the Chevy Malibu, and feeling delirious. He still couldn't open his right eye, and the bites were itching like hell. He kept drifting in and out, reliving memories of the last month, sitting in the briefing. The officer in front of them, in the appropriated classroom, had been a tall, slender, hawk-faced colonel. He couldn't remember the man's name.

“This has to be contained! Have no doubts, gentlemen,” he said, and Jacobs had been amused by that one. “Have no doubt that if we fail, the human race fails. All we have is an immunization shot that hasn't been thoroughly tested, and that we have no hope of getting to everyone in time.”

He paused, and looked around the room.

Jacobs was sitting with the other senior NCOs in his unit and three other units. This officer had their complete attention. Minutes before, they’d seen the videos about what had happened to South America.

“You will have to be ruthless! There’s no room for pity or mercy. This virus will kill us all. Does everyone here understand me?”

“Yes, sir!”

Jacobs thought that most of them answered.

“Directly after this meeting, you all will take the immunization shot, and a few others for good measure. Then you will see to it that each of your squads gets it. Make no mistake this thing is a game ender. We pledged to protect the Constitution from all enemies, foreign and domestic. Here's another one for you...”

Jacobs woke, covered in sweat, and moaning. He was still lying on his back underneath a car and in pain, not so much from the eye, but from the bullet wound in his right leg, and from the cuts and abrasions all over his body. However, he wasn't incapacitated. Quite the reverse. The dream-memory of the colonel's diatribe went on from there, and much of it stuck with him, almost as if imprinted on his brain. The colonel's voice haunted Jacobs whether he was dreaming or awake. Jacobs had tried to impart how important their task was to his own men, but some of them didn't have the stomach for it. They'd had no problem shooting the undead, but shooting civilians had fucked with their heads. Their morale plummeted.

He wondered whether any of them were still alive.

He wondered why he was still alive and aware. How many times had he been bitten? One was too many. Apparently that immunization shot had worked for him. He wondered how bad his wounds were, and this thought drove him to climb out from under the car. Right now, if he was careful, he could turn his head to either side. Of course, looking straight up all he could see was the mud-caked undercarriage of the car above him. To his right was a curb with weeds growing in the cracks, and to the left several feet were visible. He counted four sets of feet. Not moving. Were they waiting for him to come out? Odds were they didn't know he was there. He never would have woken up if they did.

His one-eyed vision was making him crazy. He needed some water or something to loosen up the dried, caked blood. The skin pulled every time he frowned, and he was frowning often at the moment.

There wasn't room to scoot out from underneath the car on the other side. He had to come out on the side with the people.

It was funny how quiet they were. Like they were shut off and waiting to come back to life with that murderous intensity of theirs.

His pistol was still clenched in his hand; he should have at least ten shots left. More than enough for him to shoot four people, even with one useless eye. He didn't want to move, but it was hot under the car and he knew he was dehydrated. He had no idea how long he'd been there before waking.

He put his left hand up, grasped a pipe under the car, and pulled. His body slid fractionally, and he could feel little pebbles beneath his head. He stopped and listened. Watched the feet. The closest was wearing badly scuffed boots. One of the boots moved. He pulled himself closer. Saw a line of ants swarming over something not far from the booted feet. Road kill of some kind.

One more pull should do it, he thought, and did so. His head and left arm were now visible to whoever owned the boots. He quickly switched the pistol from his right hand to the left, while looking up. The man-thing wearing the boots looked like road kill and probably was. It wore tattered, scorched coveralls and a motorcycle helmet. The exposed face was burned badly, and had only one eye, no nose or lips. It hadn't heard him.

Jacobs forced himself to breathe and steady his shaking hand. He aimed, and squeezed. The shot struck the man in the throat. The thing swayed, then turned and looked at him. One eye to one eye, Jacobs thought, and fired again. The thing's head jerked as the one eye exploded gore. Jacobs was scrabbling out from under the car even as the zombie fell. He got to one knee, the good one, and lined up the pistol's sights on the next closest zombie.

His aim was better this time, and the pale, obese, middle-aged man wearing only jockey shorts dropped with one head shot, falling slowly to his knees, then to his face, in slow motion.

Two to go, he thought, as the Malibu's sideview mirror exploded behind him, followed by the sound of a rifle shot. Jacobs rolled sideways to his right and crouched back between the Malibu and a car in front of it. The other two zombies were coming after him, oblivious to the sniper that was still trying to kill him. Now, he wished he could grab the carbine. Judging by the sound, he figured the sniper was somewhere behind him, maybe fifty yards away.

There was a lot of open ground around him and nowhere to hide except right where he was. He considered his options. He wasn't moving when the sniper missed with the last shot, and that was a plus. He might not be able to hit him if he was sprinting. Of course, he wasn't going to be doing any of that with a leg that could barely hold him up. If he could get inside one of the cars, he might be able to put it in neutral and then use it for rolling cover. Too many ifs on that one. Maybe he could use one of the dead bodies as a mobile sandbag? Too much change involved once again.

He was going to have to wait for night.

With that decision made, he let the remaining two zombies get within about five feet of him, then he shot them both through the head and let himself relax. His next problem was retrieving his carbine, but with the zombies dead, he could reach it now. It was only a foot or so under the car, and he grabbed it without trouble.

The sun beat down on him, and his thoughts wandered from being thirsty to hungry and finally to wondering what items of interest the corpses around him might possess.

The sun was making him sleepy, although his thirst was raging. The idea of sleep was becoming all-powerful, and he closed his eyes.

Just for a moment.

He heard a bird whistling nearby. Gunfire rattled far away. He blinked. Something huge exploded, and smoke and flame rose toward the sky. He watched until his eyes began to close once again. Car engines raced.

Jacobs passed out.

85. Bronte/Kincaid

Kincaid's right arm was going numb. He might not be bleeding from the bullet wound in his shoulder anymore, but it was stiffening up on him. Being one-armed, even if he had a knock-out punch, was going to seriously hurt his chances of living through this.

The tall black man was watching him closely, all through the big empty house. Kincaid contained himself, but he knew the house was empty when they walked in the front door. This man and his friends had killed his whole family.

The only thing he could come up with was revenge. He would bide his time and get that revenge. His greatest advantage was that there was nothing left to make him weak or make him worry. Nothing could touch him, now.

Kincaid turned back to face the other man.

“They're not here,” he said.

“You sure?” Bronte asked.

Kincaid realized that the man probably regretted what happened, but was as powerless to change anything as he was. Dead was dead, even if they came back and tried to eat you after death.

“Maybe they’re hiding somewhere else on the island,” Bronte suggested.

Was this guy concerned for his feelings? That thought brought bitter laughter to Kincaid's lips that he bit back. No, he and all his people on this island had to die. Blood cried out for blood.

“You and I both know that isn't true,” Kincaid said. “There’s no doubt now. My son, my wife, and my daughter are gone.”

Bronte lifted the gun and pointed it at him. Kincaid could feel his emotions rocketing out of control. His mask was slipping, and hot tears poured down his face. They were all dead. Nothing had gone right, and even now, the bad guys were getting the antidote. And this guy wasn't going to make a mistake. He hadn't pulled the trigger yet, and maybe that was the only mistake he'd make.

“Just settle down,” Bronte said.

Kincaid shifted his feet. He could see the other man analyzing his stance. Two steps forward, and he could launch his haymaker. He thought his left was stronger than his right, but not better.

“You trying to commit suicide?” Bronte asked.

“Is there another option, really?” Kincaid countered.

The other man's eyes were hard as flint. If there was compassion in there, Kincaid couldn't see it.

Bronte said, “Your people were bad. I don't think they fell too far from the tree.”

Kincaid took the first step, raising his fist. He felt a sharp, terrible pain rip through his chest, and he collapsed to his knees trying to take the second step. Tendrils of smoke curled from the barrel of Bronte's gun while the sound of the shot still rang in his ears. He looked down the barrel, all the strength draining out of his body.

There was a flash, and all that remained of Gilbert Kincaid collapsed to the grass, not far from his own front door, and stayed there.

86. Natalie

Gabe left no doubt that he was still pissed that he’d missed shooting the soldier. He'd cussed a blue streak when the man scrambled back into cover.

“Troy, I need you to go down there and finish him off,” Gabe said. “I’ll cover you.” The soldier stayed in his hiding place. “And you need to hurry, before the sun goes down.”

“No way, man,” Troy said. “Why should I risk my ass for you? Why aren't you waiting till Sid gets back?”

“You know him, Troy. He tells you to do something, you do it. He's supposed to be meeting Gretchen and the others at Tanglewood Island, right about now. Not sure why he decided to fuck around with a bunch of kids instead.”

“He ever tell you what the meeting with Gretchen is about?” Troy asked.

Gabe frowned. “Something about immunity. I heard him on the phone before the power went out. What is that? Diplomatic immunity or something?”

Troy looked disgusted. “Diplomatic immunity? What the fuck? Maybe he meant a cure.”

“What do I know?” Gabe replied. “I'm busy trying to kill that soldier, and you're talking bullshit with me. Now go down there, and shoot his ass.”

Natalie could tell Troy was going to cave in and do as Gabe said. He was nervous, and he didn't want to do it. She didn't blame him. She was used to witnessing the power games people played. Some were bluffing and some weren't, and only a few people were crazy or brave enough to call bluffs. Apparently Troy wasn't one.

She knew he wasn't going to be her one either. He wasn't the man she needed.

“Give me a gun,” she said, holding her hand out to Gabe. “ I'll do it.”

“Bitch please,” Gabe replied. “You should be down in the kitchen making me some supper.”

“Give me a gun, and I'll take care of it,” Natalie said, making sure she didn't flinch while looking him in the eye.

Gabe stared at her, and after a moment or two, he smiled, showing her big, yellowed teeth. “Okay, white girl, you convinced me. Take it.”

He reached behind his waist and pulled out a short-barreled revolver. He handed it to her and said, “I'll be watching from up here. You probably need to be close to have a chance of hitting him with that.”

“I know how to shoot,” she said. She cradled the gun in her palm and looked at it. The word Taurus was engraved on the short stubby barrel. It was compact but heavy, with a ribbed grip, and most of it was black except the cylinder where the bullets were; that was silver. She opened the cylinder and saw five fat bullets. Each bullet had .45 ACP printed on it. She flicked the cylinder closed.

“We'll see,” Gabe said. “Can't believe your boyfriend here is going to let you do this alone.”

Natalie pointed the gun at him, saw his eyes go wide and his mouth drop.

Troy said, “No, Natalie!”

She stepped as close to Gabe as she could. He backpedaled, and Natalie pulled the trigger more than five times. The sound of it was terribly loud, each trigger pull sounding like a detonation. She loved how shocked Gabe looked as he died.

It was over too soon. She was still pulling the trigger and the hammer was falling on empty chambers. Gabe lay on his back, spread-eagled, mouth open, eyes open and unblinking. His chest was a mass of red.

“Underestimate me, will you?” Natalie said. “Didn't see that coming, did you? I know it wasn't because you trusted me! It was because you thought I was weak!”

Troy's face was no less shocked when her eyes briefly turned his way.

“I couldn't wait for you to do it,” she explained. She knelt beside Gabe's corpse and felt around his pockets for extra bullets and whatever else might be useful.

“I'm just surprised you did that,” Troy said.

Natalie found a box of bullets, opened the cylinder, dumped the brass casings out, and began to reload the gun. After completing that task, she turned to Troy. “Why? You think we're playing a game? He said that soldier killed a bunch of Sid's men. To me, the soldier's a potential friend.”

With a look of amazement, Troy asked, “You thought out all of that?”

Natalie had to make an effort not to show how much that remark offended her. Her temper was up, and if she let it go completely, she'd probably have to shoot him too.

“I not only thought of all that,” she replied, “but I did something about it. Now, if you're going to help me, get his guns and ammo. I'm going down to check on that soldier.”

She winced inwardly when she uttered those last words, sure that he'd chicken out and back out of the half-assed friendship they had.

“I'll get his stuff. Be careful,” Troy said.

She wanted to say, Sometimes women have to do what men won't, or no one will. It was nothing Troy didn't know anyway. Like most men, he was probably lazy, and she was pretty sure that his expectations in life didn't mirror hers. Natalie was beginning to understand the dynamics of this new world and to comprehend how to exploit things to her advantage. She knew how cold-blooded that sounded, but all she needed was the right man, or men. Troy could be manipulated, but he had limited usefulness. This soldier might be a different story.

Natalie made her way down the stairs and outside the house.

87. Clive

“Through this door,” the cadaverous Major Porlock said. He held the door open, and Clive knew by the smell of pine sap that they were going back outside.

Unless he was going to draw his gun and challenge the man, Clive knew he had to obey. Candace didn't hesitate, and neither did Mathers or Ritchie. They walked right through the doorway. He was surprised and appalled that they were so trusting.

Major Powell was already inside. He'd gone in first. This left him alone with Porlock.

“So, Major, why not go ahead and tell me what the plan is?” Clive asked.

“All will be explained,” Porlock said with his eyes squinted, as if the light was too bright.

Clive drew his gun and pointed it at the army officer. “I don't want to wait, Major.”

Porlock's expression didn't change, but he did hold up his right hand, palm out. “Hey, please don't point that at me.”

“Speak up, quickly then. The others are going to get suspicious.”

Porlock looked calm, but Clive knew the guy was coming unraveled. “Kyler's taken command. He can't have the Speaker usurp him. She has to die. Probably the newsman and his cameraman too.”

“But you were going to let me live, right? Right?”

Porlock didn't have an answer for that.

Which was unfortunate.

88. Julie/Lassiter/Booth

“He's gone,” Lassiter said.

Julie and Booth, led by an exuberant George, were coming down the stairs into the lobby.

“You mean Hicks?” Booth asked.

“Yeah, he left a few hours ago. He didn't say goodbye.”

Booth looked thoughtful. “I overheard him saying once that he knew this area well, but at the time I wasn't curious enough to ask him about it.”

“Think he'd leave us for good?” Julie asked.

Booth answered with a question of his own, directed at Lassiter, “Did he leave a note?”

Lassiter thought that one over. “I didn't see anything on the exit door, but he was in the bar and—”

“He was in the bar?” Booth cut in, sounding exasperated.

“Yes, and he was drinking the hard stuff. I had one drink with him, and when he turned argumentative, I left.”

“I can just imagine what you argued about if he was drunk enough.”

Lassiter shrugged. Julie looked intrigued, but she didn't say anything. George was dancing around the lobby, filled with energy, and oblivious to the conversation.

“He's not coming back,” Booth announced.

“Are we staying here, then?” Julie asked.

“Maybe we should wait for a while,” Lassiter suggested, “and see if he comes back.”

“Let's see if he left a note. That will decide it for me,” Julie said.

“I agree,” Booth said. “And while we wait, I’ll climb up on the roof and see what's going on around here.”

89. Jacobs/Natalie/Troy

Jacobs woke to a woman's voice crooning something to him. It made him think of his mom, and being a sick little boy. Then he realized that he was lying flat on his back in the street, and that the beautiful teenaged girl leaning over him looked nothing like his mother. She was very easy on the eyes, a Mediterranean beauty with wavy, dark brown hair, an oval face, and piercing green eyes.

And a gun. She wasn't pointing it at him, exactly. It looked like one of those Taurus revolvers that were easy to conceal. Fired a .45 round, or a .410 shotgun shell, either one of which would end his sojourn here on Earth quickly.

“Who are you?” Jacobs asked.

“I'm Natalie,” she answered. “Are you okay?”

He considered his answer. To admit to being bitten would probably get him shot. “I'm very beat up, and I've been shot.”

“Maybe my friend and I can help you out.”

“I'd be grateful,” he said.

“Can you get up, or do you need help?” she asked, extending her hand.

“To be honest, I could use some help,” Jacobs said with a smile, and took her hand, surprised when she brought him quickly to his feet without letting him do most of the work.

“You're stronger than you look,” he said and meant it.

“I was a cheerleader, and I spend a lot of time in the gym.”

Her body was spectacular, and he was trying hard not to be obviously appreciative. He settled for saying, “Well, thank you. All that exercise paid off. I'm not sure what happened, but someone was trying to kill me.”

She knelt down and examined his injured leg. Her expression turned serious. “Looks like he nearly succeeded,” she said, “but trust me he won't be bothering you anymore.”

“How do you know?”

“I just killed him, that's why.”

Jacobs didn't reply to that, and instead watched a young Asian man emerge from the yard of the house across the street. The man was walking his way carrying a scoped rifle and a few other things.

Natalie introduced the two men and then said, “We heard you killed a lot of Sid's men.”

Jacobs blinked but otherwise made no acknowledgement of what she’d said.

“And you were trying to kill him,” Troy added.

“If you know this, why are you asking me about it?” Jacobs asked.

“Because we want to help you,” Natalie said. “He’s off recruiting more followers, but we expect him back here soon. We intend to kill him.”

“It’s probably going to be hard. I’m pretty sure he has a few henchmen left, and I'm not at my best right now.”

Natalie nodded. “I'm sure you’re right. It would be easier just to walk away.”

Jacobs raised an eyebrow. “I didn't say no,” he said. “I just said it would be hard. If you’re good with that, then let's do this.”

“Any ideas where we should go or how to do this?”

“Yeah, show me where the sniper was,” Jacobs answered.

90. Trish/Mills/Keller/Amy/Ben

The kid, Ben, wouldn't shut up. He reminded Trish of her long-lost younger brother, down to the buzz-cut hair, and something about his attitude. She'd always been able to shut him out, and she found that she could shut Ben out too.

Her awareness narrowed down to the road, and she following the cars in front of her. These kids seemed to know every back road and shortcut.

“Doreen dated a drug dealer. She drove for him. If she was trying to lose us, we'd be lost,” Ben said, and Trish tuned back in.

When her husband, Dennis, died, Trish drifted into quite a few diverse jobs. Getaway driver had been one of them. In truth, it had been over ten years, so Trish was probably losing her driving edge. The thought of surrendering the wheel was repugnant, even if driving in the city was no longer fun. There were wrecks and debris everywhere to avoid. And the dead, both mobile and static.

Trish needed to feel in control of something. Something to hold onto that wasn't going to slip through her fingers. She knew that there were no guarantees, but that point was being pressed home upon her so often and so forcefully that she was near a panic attack. How much could even a lifelong survivor cope with?

“How you feeling, champ?” Keller asked, talking to Mills.

She could see Mills out of the corner of her eye but couldn't watch him. It looked like he was pressing something against what remained of his wounded ear.

“I feel fuzzy. Might be shock, but I'm not focusing real well,” Mills answered.

Trish could only drive as fast as the cars in front of her, and they didn't appear to be in a hurry. It was amazing—careful teen drivers?

“Your friends are pretty cautious behind the wheel for teenagers,” Trish said to Ben, glancing sideways at him.

Ben reached over and turned the air conditioning down. “Hot in here,” he said, “and, yes, we’re all cautious now. We lost four friends last night when they took a turn too fast. Wasn't even because zombies were chasing us. I was in the car and my friend Evan was driving. When we wrecked, I was the only survivor. I was trapped, upside down, held in place by my seatbelt, when the others revived.”

Trish could see him reliving the grief and terror each time she glanced his way. The silence drew out.

“The guy sitting behind me was named Tommy. He wasn't wearing his seatbelt. He came after me, and I had to shoot him. Had to shoot all of them.”

The line of cars was bunching up. Doreen's car turned left into the southbound lanes, and then slowed to a stop. They were about even with the 3600 block south of U.S.19 and it looked like the road was jammed on either side. A large Wal-Mart was on the left. The parking lot was full of cars and zombies. As the cars idled, Trish heard shots from the direction of the parking lot.

“Anyone over there is dead,” Amy remarked.

“Damn place is always busy,” Mills added.

They all laughed. “There must be some drop dead deals, today. Save more and live better, right?” Trish said.

She laughed along with the others, but she wondered who was fighting for their life over there. There was nothing they could do to help. Doreen drove back over the center median. The other cars, including Trish, followed.

Keller said, “There's someone on the roof of that Wal-Mart shooting down at the crowd!”

“We'd never make it through all that, and whoever it is, is probably trapped up there,” Ben said.

Trish flinched when their front left bumper clipped a fat white man who was naked except for a Rays baseball cap. The leg gave out, and for a moment, the man's bloated, blackened torso sprawled on their hood before sliding off and being left behind.

“Guess they get sun burned after death,” Amy said.

“I see a helicopter!” Mills said. “Look!”

Trish craned her head, and saw that, indeed, a black helicopter was approaching the Wal-Mart's roof. It reminded her of the helicopters she'd seen that were killing everyone before. Her foot eased off the gas, and they coasted while she slowed to watch the chopper.

Two people staggered toward them and almost fell on the hood. One look was enough for her to realize that they didn't need help: both were walking monstrosities.

Mills seemed to snap. “For God's sake Trish, floor it!” he shouted.

He reached for the wheel, and she had to slap his hand away. The whole convoy had slowed to a crawl, and if she listened to him, she would have rear-ended the Ranger.

Doreen must have finally had enough. Her car tires squealed, and the Altima shot forward and braked hard around a pileup of wrecked vehicles. The Nova and Ranger followed, and Trish brought up the rear.

The next hour was a nightmare of dead-ends and blocked roads, all caused by panicked or desperate drivers. There were massive pileups, downed electrical poles and trees. At least twice, they saw buildings that had been reduced to rubble, and were big enough to block intersections. They saw no one living, but Trish imagined that there were survivors out there, people too afraid to trust someone else or maybe even too paralyzed with fear to come out of their hiding places.

When they finally reached Martin Luther King Street, Trish was weary and struggling to stay awake.

“About a block to go,” Ben said beside her.

“Looks like other survivors are here too,” Keller said.

Trish looked, and saw another small convoy pulling in front of theirs from a side street.

Twenty or thirty people were standing around outside of vehicles. It was the biggest gathering of living people she'd seen in the last few days. The other three cars in the convoy were stopped, and the passengers were already mingling with the other survivors.

A tall Asian man was talking to Doreen and her friend.

“I think that’s Sid,” Ben said. “Let's go meet him.”

Trish held back and watched the others. For some reason she had the feeling of being watched and of impending doom.

The others reached the edge of the crowd, and Mills struck up a conversation with a Hispanic guy who stayed near the man Ben called Sid.

The crowd was starting to break up, and Sid was leading them toward a house with a six foot concrete fence surrounding it. People were disappearing into the enclosure fast, and Trish finally decided to join them.

“Wait!” a female voice called.

Trish turned to see a pretty young brunette in her late teens, who was standing with one hand on her hip, and the other holding a gun.

“Who are you?” Trish asked.

“I'm Natalie,” the younger woman answered.

Trish smiled and replied, “I'm Trish. Pleasure to meet you.”

91. Bronte/Janicea/Daric/Beth

Bronte was thirsty, but he had nothing to drink. The sun was broiling him.

“They looked like a bunch of people on vacation with bodyguards,” Daric said.

Bronte agreed. A lot of relaxed people were now standing near the seawall. All of them were being transported from the yacht to the dock by a small motorboat. Many of them had drinks in hand.

Bronte sighted in the rifle, his finger hovering over the safety. Janicea was doing the same, albeit with less confidence.

“Are we going to kill these people too?” Daric asked.

“I hope not,” Bronte answered, “but to keep you all safe, I will if need be.”

A big man wearing a white uniform was leading the way up from the dock. He had a big machinegun hanging from a strap across his chest, but at the moment he was only carrying a pistol. Another yacht crewman, this guy smaller but in better shape, had his rifle slung from his shoulder and was carrying luggage.

These people were coming to stay on the island.

Bronte gathered his nerve. He couldn't let these people take the island from them. The worst part of it was that he had no idea of their intent. All he knew was that they were probably enemies of the guy he’d just killed.

The woman in the orange kimono was there, behind the men, with two children holding onto her hands.

“I can't do it, Janicea. I have no idea if they’re good people or not, but I can't just shoot them.”

Janicea was smiling at him. “I understand, my love,” she said. She looked completely at peace. “Do the right thing.”

Bronte loved her more at that moment than ever before. Their separate journeys and the mutually shared misery since this disaster began had brought them together and made their bond stronger. This was all the woman and partner he'd ever need.

“I will stand up and talk to them. I want you to stay here with the kids, and be ready. If things go badly, just run for the boats and never look back.”

She nodded. He could see tears brimming in her eyes, but her eyes were steady on his, and her smile never faltered.

He handed his rifle to Daric, and stood up with his hands in the air. With a smile, he stepped out from behind the hedge and stood in full view of the approaching people. His hands were palm out, raised in the air as if surrendering.

“Hello,” he said. “I mean no harm.”

The big guy reacted almost immediately, raising the pistol. The second sailor dropped the luggage and reached for his rifle. The woman in the kimono screamed. The rest of the people following came to a halt and stared at him.

“Who are you?” the man asked. He wore a blue bandanna on his head, and as far as Bronte could tell, he was probably bald under the bandanna. The man raised his arm up aiming the pistol right at him.

“My name's Bronte. Who are you, and what are your intentions?”

The hand holding the pistol didn't lower or waver. “I'm Paul, and we intend to live here.”

“Well, Paul, my group has just cleared this island of the dead, and we intend to live here.”

Paul had a boyish face, but his expression was as grim as death as he told Bronte, “I'm afraid that isn't going to work for us.”

Bronte wanted to ask why, but he wasn't going to beg. He said without humor, “It won't take you long to get back on those boats then, will it, Paul?”

“That's not in the cards, Bronte. It’s you and your people who’ll be leaving. And you’re the one with a gun in your face.”

“What makes you so sure you have the upper hand?”

Paul nodded with his chin, eyes on something behind Bronte. Bronte turned and looked to the spot where he’d left the only people in the world he cared about.

Two men stood behind Janicea and the kids. One was the soldier he'd seen earlier with the bald head and pressed tan uniform. The other was the man who wore high-waisted slacks of dove gray, a snow-white long-sleeved shirt, and a straw hat.

Janicea and the kids had their hands up; their guns were on the ground.

“I'm sorry, honey,” Janicea said. “We never heard them coming.”

Bronte shrugged.

“If they are all your people, you were going to lose anyway,” Paul remarked.

Bronte looked back his way, and saw the smirk on his face. For a moment, he actually thought the guy was sympathetic.

“You gonna kill us, then?” Bronte asked.

“If you swear not to come back or trouble us, you’ll all be free to go. Just unfasten that equipment harness you're wearing.”

“You're taking our weapons, too?”

Paul nodded. “But we're letting you live.”

Those words hit home. It was more mercy than he'd given to Kincaid and his family, but that had been a fight to the death. Blood had been spilled, and there was no way to go back.

“I can see that you’re too proud to ask why we won't let you stay,” Paul said. “Am I right?” Bronte bit back the bitter words that rose within him. This man and the people with him didn't care. Paul was right. He was too proud to beg, or ask why.

“The truth is,” Paul continued, “we don't need any more servants, or any more mouths to feed.”

Bronte closed his eyes and clenched his fists. There was no answer to such a callous admission. It made him wonder why the other man had even bothered.

92. Johnny/Marcel/Anna/Ike

“Ike is nuts, Johnny,” Marcel said. “Can't we just go somewhere else?”

Johnny didn't answer, and Marcel was getting used to that. He kept talking anyway.

“I mean, I know Ike just wants us to stay below, but all we have is one gun, and he has it!”

Johnny was focusing on Ike. Before anyone could react, he'd bashed Huff a few more times in the head. There was no question that Huff was dead, and he wasn't coming back. The other survivors looked like they were in shock. None of them appeared athletic or particularly capable of defending themselves. Only Ike, Marcel, Anna, and Johnny seemed capable of defending themselves.

The others were game. Johnny dismissed them, for now. Ike was the current problem or opportunity.

Ike tied the boat up to a wooden dock.

“Hey, Ike!” Marcel called.

Ike held up a hand. “Give it a rest, kid. Listen up, everyone!”

Johnny hadn't really been aware of it, but the other people had been talking. They quieted now.

“As you know,” Ike went on, “I discussed going after Gretchen and her friends for exiling us. I'm not sure that’s gonna be possible, but we have some alternatives.”

Everyone was quiet. Johnny looked at their faces. He saw a lot of downcast expressions but more hopeful eyes than he suspected.

“There’s a fresh water lake, actually more than one, about a half mile from here,” Ike said, “and there is all the land we need over on the golf course. So we have fresh water, land for crops, and plenty of houses to loot for supplies.”

“Assuming we don't have competition from the island group,” Anna said.

“Let's worry about that later,” Ike replied. “For now, let's find a place to rest up in one of these condos. Why don't you lead the way, Johnny?”

Johnny nodded, and waved his hand for people to follow. There was the dock itself, a stretch of good grass, and then the condominiums, each of which had three foot high, dark-brown fences around their back porches. Johnny led them to a corner unit. There was a patio door, a short concrete pad with an outdoor table and two chairs, and inside the fence there was a small sandy area. This particular house had tomato plants and rows of what looked like cabbage.

“I'm scared, Johnny, but I'm trying not to let anyone know,” Marcel said in Johnny's ear.

“You’re safe, Marcel,” Johnny said and tried the patio door. It slid open a couple feet and jerked to a stop.

“Probably off the track or something,” Marcel told Johnny.

“You two, go in there and make sure it's safe. We'll wait out here,” Ike said.

The sound of a boat engine stopped everyone. It drew closer, and they spotted a fancy motorboat approaching. It had two white uniformed people in the front, one driving, and one facing backwards.

Johnny realized that the one who wasn't driving was holding a gun on the people in the back of the boat. Three of those people were black, and one was white. The boat steered in against the dock that their boat was tied to.

“Where's Huff?” the boat's driver shouted.

Johnny shook his head.

The driver shrugged. “Never liked the bastard anyway. Here's four more people for your group.”

The four people left the boat and stood huddled together on the dock. One of them was a tall black man. He detached himself from the others, and approached Johnny without fear.

“I'm Bronte,” he said, and offered his hand.

Johnny smiled, nodded, and shook hands. He was glad to have the people that Gretchen's group rejected. He saw a mixture of emotions on their faces: sadness; anger; despair; but sensed their desire to survive. That would make a difference.

“Pleased to meet you,” Johnny said. “I'm Johnny, this is Marcel, and...”

93. Clive

Clive grimaced, knowing he had to pull the trigger but wishing that there was an alternative. Porlock was only following an order, he was sure, but it was an unlawful order. Only an unscrupulous person sure of success would do it.

“Listen, Major, you and I know what’s right, and killing the Speaker isn't.”

“This isn't about what’s right,” the soldier said. “It's about what’s best. General Kyler is. Not some stupid broad who does her best work on her knees.”

Clive lost it on that one and pistol-whipped the other man.

Porlock recovered quickly, and before Clive could stop him, he chopped the gun out of his hand and followed up with a jab to the ribs. Clive stumbled backwards, off-balance and struggling to breathe. Another blow grazed his cheek before he could back up and defend himself.

Porlock attacked with the long, lanky-armed swiftness of a praying mantis. Clive blocked each blow, but wished he still had the gun so he could end it with one shot. That was a joke. Porlock was going to kill him within moments if he didn't find a way to turn the tables.

There was a shot and Porlock paused, fists ready to continue the beating.

The door opened behind Porlock and he spun on his heels. His mouth dropped. Candace stood there holding a gun and looking like a Bond girl.

“You picked the workhorse, Major,” she said, and aimed carefully. Porlock moaned in terror. Candace shot him once in the right arm, but she missed with the second and third shots. The fourth bullet got him in the throat, and the fifth struck him in the chest, leaving a snail's trail of blood on the wall behind him as he slid to the floor.

“Powell tried to kill me, Mathers, and Ritchie,” Candace said. She seemed entranced by the blood pooling around Porlock's body.

“Kyler's orders,” Clive said. “They were supposed to kill all of us.”

“Won't he be surprised when he finds out they failed,” Mathers said as he entered the room.

“I'm thinking he'll be more disappointed than anything,” Clive added.

Ritchie was rolling the dead officer over. He produced a knife with a flick of his wrist and shoved the blade into the man's eye. “Just to be sure,” he said, and then he proceeded to strip the man of his gun, gun belt, and anything in his pockets.

Clive must have had a shocked look on his face. Ritchie said, “No different than gutting a trout, man. Only difference is sometimes I enjoy doing humans.”

94. Hicks

Hicks knocked the man to the ground and stepped on his chest. He felt ribs snap beneath his boots before he managed to spring away. He sprinted surefootedly through the darkness alongside the highway. Of course, he was living on the edge, playing a life or death game. He couldn't see the ground well enough to know where a hole was, or spot anything that might trip him. After ten feet or so, he lost his nerve and changed course. He was running on the highway now, and that seemed safer.

The cars were still packed together and it was far worse now than it ever got at rush hour. A traffic jam to end all pileups. He wasn't able to run consistently on the ground or the highway. There were too many vehicles. Lightning flashed, arcing jaggedly across the sky, and he saw a horde of the dead advancing toward him between the cars.

There were at least three paths he could take, and each was being used by the dead coming his way. They were behind him as well.

Hicks clipped his flashlight back onto the right strap of his harness and left it on, fished in his pocket for the headlamp, turned it on, and then fitted it over his head. Next, he sheathed the knife and settled his rifle into his shoulder. A voice inside was screaming at him that he was going too slow, but he closed his mind to it, took a deep breath, and held it for five seconds.

He expelled the air loudly, and then took another breath while flicking on the rifle's laser sight. He set the rifle's selector switch to single shot, and settled the red dot on the forehead of the nearest abomination. Squeezed the trigger. The sound was loud, but he still heard the expended brass tinkle when it struck the road. He shifted aim, even before the man he'd shot sank to the ground. The rain still fell. He squeezed off another shot and saw a child-sized shape slump forward. Then he watched the lumbering form of a big blocky woman trample over the corpse.

Hicks cursed softly, angry with himself over the momentary distraction, and took aim at the big woman, missing when she stumbled forward while trampling the child. He got her right between the eyes on the second shot. Her corpse fell and wedged itself between two cars, closing off that avenue of approach. He panned left and saw a hand reach for him. Hick’s fired instinctively, while throwing himself backwards. He couldn't see whether the bullet hit anything, but he managed stand without falling. He glimpsed the thing as it grabbed his rifle's barrel and pulled. Now, he found himself wrestling for possession of the rifle with an immense bearded man who had arms like tree trunks. Hicks knew he'd have to let go of the rifle, but the strap was around his neck. His hand was still wrapped around the pistol grip, and his finger was on the trigger, but he couldn't get the barrel aimed at the man's face. With a tremendous yank, Hicks was lifted off his feet as the man got a grip on his shirt. Hicks fumbled to draw the knife while his shirt began to rip. The man shook him like a doll.

Hicks could barely think, and he knew more of the things were coming. With his thumb, he managed to flick the rifle's selector switch to burst and pulled the trigger. There was no noticeable result, but for lack of any other option, he held the trigger down, and suddenly he and the dead thing were falling. The two of them collapsed on the road with Hicks on top. He had some freedom of movement now and he pulled the sling over his head, letting the giant have the damn rifle. He threw himself backwards, keeping his feet as his shoulders slammed against the rear doors of a delivery truck. Dozens of the creatures were almost on him.

He contemplated hopping on top of cars and leaving the rifle, but he needed it. He drew his pistol, flicked the safety off, aimed, and shot the zombie on the ground through the head. He walked toward the nearest group of the dead standing in the light of the headlamp and shot each one, using another four shots. He turned back and shot two more who were trying to climb over a Mercury Sable. Many more were coming, but he had time to retrieve his rifle now. He was glad that he hadn't panicked. Losing the rifle would have been bad.

He paused long enough to reload both weapons, and then slithered over the hood of the Sable. The rain was starting to come down harder, and the sound of it pounding on all the cars was loud enough to drown out anything short of gunfire. He slid to the road on the other side of the station wagon, and seeing that he was alone for the moment, he switched off both flashlights.

There was room for one or two people for quite a distance between the cars around him, and he took off, crouched over at a fast walk with his feet splashing in ankle deep water. He slipped the rifle's sling over his head again, and carried the kukri knife in his right hand, pistol in the other.

More lightning painted the sky, and for a moment it looked as if the fabric of heaven was being rent apart.

Hicks ran. For better than a half hour he was forced to dodge across cars and cross from one side of the road to the other, but at last, he reached the turnoff he was seeking: Roosevelt Boulevard. The unending ribbon of stalled cars continued on and split, one mass of metal going up the ramp that was the approach to the Bayside Bridge, and the other onto Roosevelt. He took the latter and passed under a large overpass, and an off ramp. A block or so down on the right, on the north side of the road, was a large copse of woods and a two-lane road called Lightwave Drive. He knew that there was a business of some sort at the end of Lightwave, and then a huge trailer park. If he went through the woods, he'd have to cut through a large subdivision before reaching his uncle's house.

He slowed to a walk and considered which path to take. Either way, he might be facing a lot of zombies.

He chose the woods. Near the road, there was a lot of undergrowth, and the going was slow. It was also hot. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a chocolate energy bar, devoured it in a few bites, and then took a long draught from his canteen. The chocolate made him wish for a large glass of milk, but he had to settle for warm water.

He began to relax and even slowed his pace. The rain still fell, but under the trees it was a soft patter that he could barely hear after all the gunfire. He wished he knew whether he'd made the right choice.

About a hundred feet farther, the undergrowth became serious as palmetto bushes cropped up. Fatigue overcame him and his pace slowed even more. There was plenty of time for regret, but he was able to push that away easier than the fatigue.

Hicks spotted two camouflaged tents about fifty feet to his right, but he couldn't detect any signs of life. He didn't want to meet anyone anyway. This journey was private and not meant to be shared.

Twenty minutes later, he saw the subdivision. It wasn't how he remembered it. Backyard fences were down. Some houses were burned or appeared vandalized. One car protruded from the front wall of another house. Trash was everywhere. Corpses too, mobile and immobile.

Hicks had to use the knife on two of the dead. He didn't bother to kill them. He just cut down on their mobility, so to speak. Both would have to crawl on their bellies now to move.

No one appeared to be following him. He managed to walk the rest of the way without seeing anyone, and he found the chain still up across his uncle's secluded driveway. Just the thought that the house hadn't been discovered lifted his spirits. It was crazy to hope, but everything was crazy now.

He stepped over the chain and walked up the single lane concrete drive. There were cracks, but no sign of weeds. Trees grew close together along either side of the driveway. Even though the light of dawn was only minutes below the horizon, it was growing darker under the trees.

The driveway went around two curves, both built around immense oaks that his uncle hadn't been willing to cut down, and then ran a short distance to a detached garage and carport.

A convertible Mercedes was parked under the carport, and both of the garage doors were closed. The house was connected to the garage by a beautiful tiled pathway, and a branch of the pathway went to the bay and a dock that was barely visible from here. The house itself had two stories.

The flickering light of a solar-powered lamppost illuminated a small statue of Buddha crouched beside the pathway near the front door. The house's walls were salmon pink and the front door was wood with beautifully etched glass panels. Not the most secure house, he thought. That opinion was reinforced when the first potted plant Hicks checked contained the front door key.

He sheathed his knife, took the key in his left hand, and kept the pistol in his right. He opened the door and stepped into a short tiled foyer.

“Hello! Anybody home?”

No answer.

“Hello! Hello!” he called out.

A living room was to his right, and he decided to go that way. There was a lot of bulky furniture draped in shadows. The house felt dead. Hicks crossed the room and was about to enter the dining room when something made him look to his right to a high-backed couch facing a big screen TV. Lying on that couch was the nude, pale, lovely body of a woman. She had long black hair and looked like she was sleeping.

Hicks was more than a little freaked out. The ambience in the room was off. The woman had to be dead or sleeping. He touched her cheek, which was dimly limned by the moon through the curtains. Her hair looked jet black, and her face was beyond compare. Stunning, even. She wasn't warm though, and something coated his finger when he ran it along her cheek.

Dried makeup? He was curious enough to turn on his head lamp.

He frowned. Dust. There was more of it on the end table next to the couch. A light dust coated everything.

In the harsh light of the lamp he realized two things: she wasn't alive, and never had she been…

He was looking at a lifelike love doll.

Hicks smiled in the darkness.

To be continued…

Table of Contents

In Memory Of…
Prologue
1. Mathers
2. Clive
3. Johnny
4. Trish
5. Jacobs
6. Julie
7. Daric
8. Talaski
9. Ray
10. Foster
11. Natalie
12. Janicea
13. Booth
14. Trish
15. Jacobs
16. Julie
17. Daric
18. Talaski
19. Bronte
20. Johnny
21. Clive
22. Natalie
23. Booth
24. Janicea
25. Jacobs
26. Julie
27. Daric
28. Keller
29. Bronte
30. Kincaid
31. Johnny
32. Clive
33. Natalie
34. Tracks
35. Booth
36. Mills
37. Trish
38. Jacobs
39. Julie
40. Janicea
41. Keller
42. Johnny
43. Clive
44. Booth
45. Talaski
46. Jacobs
47. Foster
48. Julie
49. Janicea
50. Natalie
51. Johnny
52. Clive
53. Booth
54. Talaski
55. Trish
56. Jacobs
57. Kincaid
58. Foster
59. Julie
60. Bronte
61. Johnny
62. Clive
63. Lassiter
64. Talaski
65. Jacobs
66. Kincaid
67. Julie / Booth
68. Bronte / Daric / Janicea
69. Johnny
70. Clive
71. Hicks
72. Julie
73. Sid
74. Keller
75. Trish
76. Kincaid
77. Lassiter
78. Bronte
79. Natalie
80. Johnny
81. Clive
82. Hicks
83. Keller / Amy
84. Jacobs
85. Bronte / Kincaid
86. Natalie
87. Clive
88. Julie / Lassiter / Booth
89. Jacobs / Natalie / Troy
90. Trish / Mills / Keller / Amy / Ben
91. Bronte / Janicea / Daric / Beth
92. Johnny / Marcel / Anna / Ike
93. Clive
94. Hicks