Wake Up Dead - an Undead Anthology
Author: Suzanne Robb; Chantal Boudreau; Guy James; Mia Darien; Douglas Vance Castagna; Rebecca Snow; Caitlin Gunn; R.d Teun
Date: 2011-12-10 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Anthologies
Description: Welcome to an all new anthology of undead tales, penned by the bloody quills of some of the best writers in the genre. If you think you know zombies and vampires, think again. You are about to read some of the most fantastical undead stories ever imagined.
Publisher: Crowded Quarantine Publications

Copyright © Crowded Quarantine Publications 2011

All Rights Reserved

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978-0-9571033-2-0

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

WAKE

UP

DEAD

CONTENTS

SEE YOU NEXT YEAR – Suzanne Robb 7

EUTHANASIA – Chantal Boudreau 60

SUGAR SKULLS – Rebecca Snow 83

RANDY'S NIGHT OUT – Douglas Vance Castagna 101

VOODOO CHILD – Caitlin Gunn 122

SUICIDE SOLUTION – R.D.Teun 134

OUTBREAK ON THE COMMONS – Guy James 183

ANNIVERSARY – Mia Darien 197

FLORENCE'S DIARY – Adam Millard 209

SEE YOU NEXT YEAR

Suzanne Robb

Clare Jones worked a double shift at a local restaurant to help pay her tuition and rent. Tired and ready for a break, she felt her heart stop when she walked in, the girl of her dreams beautiful with perfect breasts. Dana, she overheard it while eavesdropping, her smile made Clare weak in the knees.

As usual Dana sat in Clare’s section with some girl. Dana came in at least three times a week that Clare knew of, and always sat in her section. She wondered if perhaps this was some sort of torture.

She braced herself as she walked towards the table to give them their menus. Their fingers grazed one another and all thought left Clare’s head, she was fairly certain she was going to pass out.

“Hi, my name’s, Clare, and I’ll be your waitress. Can I start you with something to drink?”

“I’ll have my usual. You remember what it is right?” Dana laughed sweetly, and Clare didn’t even care she was laughing at her.

She was about to walk away and get Dana’s order when the other girl cleared her throat.

“I’ll take a strawberry milkshake.”

Clare hated her immediately. Who likes strawberry milkshakes? She thought to herself.

“I’ll be right back with those.” Walking away from the table Clare headed for the back room.

Clare took several deep breaths in the safety of the supply closet. After a moment she left the room and prepared for what was to come.

“Here you go ladies.” She placed their drinks on the table. “Our specials today are pea soup and glazed chicken breasts with garlic sauce.”

Dana looked at Clare and smiled. “Are the breasts good?”

Clare knew she was doomed to say something stupid if she opened her mouth, but couldn’t help herself.

“Your breasts are fantastic…I mean the chicken breasts are good. Yes, they’re tasty, you’ll like them.”

“We’ll get the special then,” Dana said.

“Great, I’ll be back with your breasts in a few minutes.”

What is wrong with me? Am I terminally stupid in the presence of Dana?

Clare walked away from the table begging God to strike her down, send in a team of commando lesbians to revoke her dating card. Anything so she didn’t have to show her face at the table again.

Clare decided to ask Lisa, the other waitress if she would switch tables with her.

“Lisa, you need to help me.”

“Let me guess, she’s, here, you said something stupid and want to switch tables.”

Apparently this happened a lot more than Clare realized.

“Yes.”
“Nope, last time she got all huffy when I refused to let her talk to you.”

“She wanted to talk to me? Why didn’t you tell me?” Clare got flustered at the news.

“Of course not, you make a fool of yourself when you get within ten feet of her.”

“Right, point taken.”

Clare needed to bring them their food at some point. She couldn’t toss it, or slide it to them in order to stay out of the ten foot idiot zone. She would have to do it herself. Clare needed to be a waitress.

A ringing bell roused Clare from her musings, their order ready. Grabbing the two plates Clare walked to their table as if she was about to face a firing squad. Eyes focused on the food, she placed the plates on the table. She began to turn around when she felt a hand on her arm forcing her to turn around.

Looking at the hand Clare realized it was Dana, and almost tripped in her haste to turn and face her. Dana wore a hopeful, but slightly guarded expression on her face.

“Hi, for the last few of months I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to talk to you, so I’m just going to put it out there and ask if you would like to go out sometime.”

Clare almost laughed, sure it was a joke. Dana couldn’t really be asking her out. Then again, she came in here with a different girl each week. Perhaps Clare was the only one left she hadn’t tried, and if that was the case she was totally okay with it.

“Hello…would you like to go out?”

Clare nodded, remembering if she spoke within ten feet of Dana it was bad. She watched Dana write something on a piece of paper and hand it to her. Looking down Clare saw a number, it even consisted of seven numbers. Clare smiled, walked into the kitchen and fell to her knees pumping her fists in the air, “Yes!”

On the second pump she realized a date meant conversation, which was bad, Clare was doomed.

*

“Go check on the bodies, we’ll stay here in the observation room, just in case,” Colonel Ryan Myers said. “Wouldn’t want a repeat of what happened last year.”

Doctor Henry Theodore nodded, and then turned to exit the room. He entered a large chamber with armed guards manning the exit. In the center of the room were ten gurneys, on top of them were ten men, more specifically ten dead men.

They volunteered for the mission by avoiding a death row sentence. They were filled in on the probability of death, after all the proper forms were signed, in triplicate.

Doctor Theodore approached the bodies step by step. When he reached the first one, he looked down and lifted its hand to check for a pulse. He noticed his own hand shook, and hoped those in the observation room didn’t see it.

All the monitors had gone flat three hours ago, the volunteers were clinically dead. Though the first body he examined had no pulse, no heartbeat, no brain waves, he thrashed around. Doctor Theodore stared the body in front of him as it broke free of its restraints and sat up. Henry began to yell to the others watching him.

“We’ve done it, he’s alive.”

A moment later he felt his neck being ripped out and warm blood was pouring down his chest. He looked into the eyes of the test subject; they were devoid of all color. Henry caught a glimpse of hell in those eyes, and knew where he would be going for what he’d created.

“Lock it down, dump enough cement to bury this place.”

“But, Sir, what about the others?” Private Frank Williams asked.

Colonel Myers looked at him. “That’s an order Private, not a question.”

As the private ran out of the room to do as ordered the colonel used a key to open a hidden panel. He jabbed a stubby thumb into a red button. Lights started to flash, and sirens sounded. As he watched doors shut, he made his way out of the underground compound.

This had been their second attempt, and it would not be their last. All the data had been backed up in an off site server. There was a lab ready to start examining the results from here, and begin a new phase of testing within a few years.

He would create a serum for his soldiers; there would be no more loss of life on his watch. Come hell or high water, the serum would work.

*

Clare and Dana were sprawled out on their bed relaxing, when Clare’s head perked up.

“Hey, Dana, can you turn up the volume on the television? Looks like something’s going on,” Clare asked.

“According to military scientists, the recent outbreaks are due to some sort of virus. They, along with the Center of Disease Control have created a list of things for people to watch out for. The infected appear dead and attack unprovoked. Avoid contact with any fluids, since this is how the infection spreads.”

Images were flashing on the screen behind the reporter as he spoke. Places like Florida, Alabama, Louisiana, and a multitude of other states were reporting problems. The military was trying to calm people, but the utter chaos was shocking to see. Clare developed a bad feeling as the newscast continued.

“If you are infected, you are to turn yourself into a military outpost immediately for treatment. That is all we have for now, we’ll leave you with the horrific footage that has come in from over twelve different states thus far. Be warned, the images are quite graphic.”

Clare watched the screen in morbid fascination. Images of people covered in blood ran to and fro. Bodies were strewn about, and the so-called infected seemed to be feasting on them. When she heard Dana make a shocked noise at a rather graphic image of a child holding a teddy bear in one hand, while gnawing on a hand it held with the other, she turned the television off.

“Do you think we’re safe?” Dana asked.

Clare didn’t know how to answer. She’d never lied to her and had no intention of starting now.

“I don’t know. I bet the military will have it under control soon.”

She could feel some of the tension leave the body next to her, but it wasn’t enough. Clare laid her head on Dana’s chest, needing to feel close to her, and also in an effort to try and reassure her.

“Dana, are you okay?”

“I’m fine why?” Dana readjusted herself to look at Clare.

“What, I can’t ask my wife who is eight and half month’s pregnant if she’s okay?”

“Yes, but you ask every twenty minutes.”

“But your stomach just made a noise.” Clare pointed at the protruding belly to prove her point.

“Stomachs do that on occasion.” Dana pretended to be exasperated, but in reality Clare knew she loved her playful nature, and it was a welcome distraction from the scenes they’d just watched.

Clare disappeared under the covers and started talking to Dana’s belly. Lifting the covers Dana raised an eyebrow.

“Excuse me, I’m having an important talk with our future daughter, Sydney, about what your stomach is up to.”

Dana laughed and threw down the covers.

“We’re not calling her that. Her name is going to be Lily.”

Clare lifted the covers and pouted.

“Sydney, doesn’t like that name at all, and naming your kid after a flower is not cool anymore. The sixties are gone my friend.”

“Ugh, I can never win with you.” Dana slowly removed the t-shirt she was wearing.

Clare watched every move.

“Would you mind rubbing my back, it’s killing me,” Dana said as seductively as possible.

“I know what this is, you think by being all naked and sexy I’ll give in and let you name our child Thistle or Root berry, but it isn’t going to work.”

Dana turned over so her bare breasts were exposed to Clare. All rational thought left her mind as she stared down at them.

“If I remember right, you’re a breast girl.”

“Yes, your breasts are fantastic; in fact at times I think they have super powers.”

“Hmm they do, now come here and kiss me.”

Clare leaned in, and with a hand gently placed on her wife’s belly, she started to kiss her.

*

Clare almost fell out of bed by the sound of blaring alarms, flashing lights, and screams of people outside. She ran to the window to see what was going on. The street lights were off, police cruisers were everywhere, and people were running around. She realized people were chasing others, and when they caught them, it ended with the pursuer gorging on their prey

“What is it?” Dana asked.

The people, the infected Clare thought, moved with purpose. The urgency of sirens and emergency lights only added to the bizarre nature of the situation. Clare tried to make out more details, but the strobe effect of the lights was making it difficult for her to focus.

“I’m not sure.”

Clare felt Dana behind her and reached back for her hand. At that moment, a figure appeared in the window, both women screamed. The thing raised a hand pounded on the window, a trail of blood left behind. Clare looked into the milky eyes and felt a chill take hold of her soul. She forced Dana to back up as the glass cracked.

Clare stood frozen in fear, the flesh on the things face fell off in large bits. The worst was the blood and gore around its mouth. She swore she saw a bit of skin stuck in its teeth, and a strand of what might have been intestine hung out of the left side of its mouth.

“Dana, get dressed.”

“I’m calling nine-one-one.”

Clare turned away from the window.

“We don’t have time, that thing is breaking through the window, and I don’t think we want to be here when it comes in.”

The window shattered and with a speed belying its corpse like appearance it rushed towards Clare. The thing tackled her, knocking her to the ground. In the background somewhere she heard Dana scream.

The thing pinned her down and snapped at her face, spittle flying all over the place. Instinctively, she turned her face away. She used every bit of strength she possessed to flip them over; once she was no longer pinned she jumped to her feet and looked for a weapon.

“Dana, get the hell out of here!” she yelled.

The thing was on its feet and ran towards her once again; she picked up a pair of scissors from the vanity and stabbed it in the stomach. Clare watched in morbid fascination as nothing happened, in fact it appeared as if the wound started to heal itself.

“Go for the head, you always have to go for the head,” Dana yelled.

Clare flashed an annoyed look at Dana, then grabbed a statue from the dresser and whacked it across the face of the infected thing. Unfazed, it continued to come at her. In the corner she saw a baseball bat, and leapt for it. She hefted it, and as soon as the thing was within swinging distance she struck it in the head.

The blow stopped it for a moment, and Clare took advantage of its disorientation. She lifted the bat above her head and swung down, hitting it in the direct center of its skull. The force of the impact ran all the way up her arms and into her shoulders.

Christ, what the hell are these things made of?

As the infected fell to the ground Clare looked over and saw Dana. With an irritated glare she pounded the thing’s head into a dark pulpy mess.

Clare watched more things break windows on other houses. Neighbours who went outside were swarmed, their screams for help went unanswered. A few cars tore out of their drive ways, and Clare knew she needed to get them the hell out of there.

“Dana, we need to get the hell out of here now.”

“Already on it.”

Clare looked and saw Dana holding a change of clothes and boots for the both of them. As another one of the infected approached their window, Clare ushered them out of the room.

Dana let out a scream and Clare saw another one pounding on the front door, the hinges coming loose from the wall.

Clare got behind Dana and led her to the garage door grabbing the car keys from the hook on the way out. She led Dana to the passenger side and handed her the keys.

“Wait for me in the car.”

“But--”

“Just go, I’ll be right back,” Clare insisted.

Looking into sleepy eyes so trusting and full of love, Clare leaned in and gave her a sweet kiss on the lips.

“Love you.”

Tilting her head, Dana looked at her and replied. “Love you too.”

Clare, went into the kitchen and grabbed anything and everything, shoving it into a bag. The sound of multiple windows shattering made her move quicker.

She ran back into the garage, closing the door behind her. She pulled a small workbench over to block the door, to at least try and buy them some time.

In the car she tossed the bag into the back.

“What do you say we blow this pop stand?” Clare tried to sound hopeful, but her heart pounded with fear.

“What about the garage door?” Dana asked.

“Damn, power's out, I need to open it manually.”

“Have you lost your mind? Do you know what’s out there?” Dana exclaimed.

“Things, they’re in the house now too. Start the car as soon as I get the door up.”

Clare got out of the car and opened the garage door. The noises of metal protesting would attract the things, but she had to do it.

She felt something grab her leg, as she looked down to see on of the infected crawling on the ground, its lower half missing. It leaned in to take a bite.

“To hell with this, damn door is open enough.”

Running to the car she got in, shut the door, and peeled out of the garage.

People covered in blood milled around, others ran. To Clare it was like watching a child learn to walk. Hundreds of bodies littered the ground, and she knew they would rise, it was a matter of when. Groups of people knelt over fallen bodies, eating them, tearing them apart.

Zombies weren’t real; it was much easier to call them things. The joke about the zombie apocalypse was here, and she didn’t think it was funny anymore. Her job now was to get her and Dana the hell out of here.

She sped down the streets, trying not to hit people. She knew in her head they weren’t people, they were zombies. The knowledge didn’t want to sink in, and as a result she tried to avoid hitting as many people, things, or zombies as she could.

Out of nowhere one of the zombies stood directly in front of the car, Clare couldn’t avoid it. Within seconds its body rolled up onto the hood of their SUV causing the windshield to splinter. Clare stood on the breaks and the body rolled off, a lone eyeball eerily looked in before rolling away.

She turned down a dead-end alley to avoid an accident with another vehicle, and wanted to yell in frustration.

Stopping the car, she was about to put it in reverse when she saw zombies running towards them.

As much as she wanted to mow them down she couldn’t, she was still having a hard time accepting what was happening.

Driving forward, she reached the end of the alley and examined her options.

A fire escape ladder to the left, but Dana wouldn’t make it in her condition. The only other choice was a door to the side, hopefully unlocked. Clare grabbed the bags, opened her door and ran to Dana’s side of the car.

“Wait in there!” Dana gave her a dirty look, Clare could live with that.

The door looked promising, but didn’t budge. She kicked, punched, and resorted to screaming at it in order to open it.

Looking down the alley at least a dozen zombies were closing in. Clare was about to get back in the car when the door opened.

Clare reached behind her and opened Dana’s side of the truck. Clare forced Dana inside, Clare close behind her. Almost in the clear, a mangled hand reached out and grabbed Clare. She turned to try and fight her way free. When she saw what stood in front of her, she screamed.

Her doubts about them being zombies were gone. The entire front part of the zombie was torn open, entrails hanging out. The lower part of its jaw was shattered, hanging by threads of rotting flesh. She tried to push it away when she saw a blade come down and sever the zombie’s arm from its body. A strong hand grabbed her and pulled her inside the door.

“Shut the door, and block it you morons!”

A male voice, to Clare he sounded angry.

She could tell someone was trying to talk to her. She could hear a door being slammed, something large being dragged. Clare could feel someone rubbing her hands, slowly she came back to her senses. She saw Dana, and started to calm instantly.

“You okay?” Clare heard the concern in Dana’s voice and forced herself to pull it together.

“Yeah, I’m okay physically, but if you mean in reference to the situation out there, then I would have to go with hell no.”

A short man with a piece of pipe looked at them with apprehension.

“I need to look you two over in case you were bit.”

The man was awkward at best as he looked them over. Clare could see the fear written across his face. He was just as scared as they were.

“Okay, you two seem fine, follow me.”

They followed the man to the center of some sort of warehouse. Entering the main area they saw at least three dozen survivors. Most of them wore expressions of disbelief or loss, with one exception.

He sat off in the corner, and every few minutes would look up and a look of guilt would spread across his face.

He wore a pair of faded camouflage pants, and spit-shined black boots. Clare recognized ex-military when she saw it. She noticed he was cleaning off a knife, and realized he’d been the one to save her and Dana.

“Hey, honey, wait here. I’m going to go and talk to that guy over there. See if he knows anything.”

Clare walked over to the man. He sat next to a motorcycle, and upon closer inspection the tattoos and apparel made him look more like a biker. A cigarette hung from his mouth.

“Hey, I just want to say thanks for saving our butts back there.”

“Whatever, doesn’t matter. We’re all going to die, you can’t stop the Reaper.”

“Okay, I just wanted to say thanks.”

He looked at her, and then looked back down at his knife. Clare walked away.

“How did it go, he didn’t look too happy to be talking to you.”

“It went fine, are you hungry? You should probably eat something.” Clare rummaged in the bag.

“Not right now, come here.” Dana patted a spot on the box next to her.

A loud crash was heard and a man from one of the upper levels screamed.

One of the survivors convulsed on the floor, as others moved away from him. Clare stood in front of Dana protectively. She looked around for something to beat his head in, since the others were trying to hide. The survivor, now the infected, stood on shaky legs. His eyes scanned the area methodically, zeroing in on the weakest link.

As he began to run for the person closest to him, Clare heard a shot. The biker she’d been talking to earlier stood there, a smoking pistol in his hand. The infected fell to the ground, a small hole above his left eye.

“No one touch it, get some tarps to wrap it in, and some sort of protective gear if you can. We need to get a fire going too,” the biker ordered.

Clare wondered how he knew what to do, but let the question float to the back of her head as she went to work helping clean up the mess. No way would she let Dana, or their child be exposed to something like this rancid mess.

The remaining survivors made quick work of the body, tossing him out one of the upper windows of the old warehouse.

When they were back on the main floor Clare made sure Dana was settled, before heading over to the biker.

*

Frank Williams saw her coming and knew she would want to talk. Ask him how he knew what to do to the infected guy. He sighed and shut his eyes as she sat on a crate next to him.

“Hi there, got a few questions for you. I’ll start with something easy, like your name.”

Frank looked up and half-smiled. “Frank Williams.”

“Frank, it’s nice to meet you. Now want to tell me how the hell you knew what to do with that…that…zombie?”

How much should he tell her? How much would she believe?

“I can tell you, but when I’m done you’ll wish I hadn’t,” Frank said in a serious tone.

“I want to know, the woman I love and my future child are in here. I want to know anything that will better equip me to protect them.”

Frank nodded. “It started years ago in an underground military lab. They wanted to develop a super soldier, make a serum that would essentially cause them to regenerate any injury suffered on the battlefield,” Frank paused. “The lab coats developed some sort of virus instead, but that isn’t what I remember. I only recall the altered ones. Those were the poor bastards that they experimented on. They’re the ones who died, only to come back as cannibalistic monsters. They’re the ones outside.”

Clare interrupted. “You mean to tell me the government created this? Why the hell would they let it loose on their own people?”

“Five years ago, I worked in one of the facilities. As was expected, the experiment failed and the place was filled in. I tried to talk to people, get them to stop. But no one listened, I left. Been on the run waiting for this day to come. The government didn’t do it on purpose, but what do you think happens when people try to play God?” Frank raised his voice towards the end of his speech.

“That’s great and all, but it doesn’t tell me crap. How do we kill them? Why did that guy randomly alter into one of the infected?”

Frank tossed his knife on the ground and looked at Clare.

“The infection is spread by fluid on fluid contact, so most likely a bite.”

Clare shivered, but from the look on her face he knew she wanted to know it all.

“If you’re infected you can alter within seconds, or hours. So that guy, most likely had an injury he didn’t tell anyone about, and as a result put us all in danger.”

Clare shook her head. “We were examined before we got in here. How could you miss an injury that led to the poor guys death?”

“Could have been internal, hell he was here before me. For all I know he was the first one in here and no one ever looked him over.”

“Christ, so what do we do? Can we fight them? I took one on and the thing was strong as hell.”

“The only way to take them down is with a head shot, stop all brain activity. When the numbers are high enough, they’ll be able to break down the doors. That’s is all I know. Oh, there is one more thing - there’s no cure.”

*

Clare sat in silence trying to stay calm after everything Frank just told her. How was she going to protect her family?

“Damn, they’ve breached the North section of the yard,” one of the survivors yelled out.

Clare searched to find something to protect Dana with. A rusted piece of pipe was the only thing she found. There were two exits; the one to the alley which she knew was full of zombies, and the other next to loading bay doors.

They were boxed in by the damn zombies. Clare realized the lower level wasn’t going to be safe for long; she needed to get Dana upstairs.

“Come on, we’re going upstairs. It’ll be safer there.” Clare grabbed the bags and helped Dana to her feet.

Clare found a corner for Dana to settle into, and then headed over to the window to see what they were dealing with.

Sure enough a group of at least thirty zombies breached a section of the exterior wall, and more were coming. Looking down she saw they still needed to break through the bay doors, but it was only a matter of time. They had to do something now or they were going to be overrun.

“What’s the plan?” she asked out loud.

Everyone turned to look at Clare. A man in his forties with a beer belly and receding hairline spoke up.

“Plan? There is no plan. This outbreak happened too fast. Law enforcement was the first to go down, then military. You can see it only took moments. We’re doomed.”

“Before we go with the doomed scenario, what can we do to protect ourselves, what kind of weapons do we have, and is there any way to find out what is going on in other places?” Clare would be damned if she gave up on her family so easy.

A skinny looking teenager with acne and bad hair stepped forward. He took off his earphones and placed a radio on the table, it was broadcasting the news.

“It looks as if most of the Southeastern part of the country has been hit hard, with outbreaks also occurring in the Southwestern states. There are military strongholds left in the Midwest and West coast areas. As far as we know this is an outbreak of pandemic proportions. The government has issued curfews, and Marshall Law has been enacted.”

Static broke up the message for a moment.

“Infection spreads easily via contamination with bodily fluids. The CDC stated that the virus cannot live for more than a minute outside of the host depending on the atmospheric conditions, the more moisture in the air, the longer it can survive. The government is working with the CDC on a cure, and all those who have been infected are urged to seek military help. Those still alive to take refuge find a safe place to wait for reinforcements.”

The teenager turned off the radio. Walking away he stood in a corner with a blank look on his face as he stared into the loading area.

Clare spoke up. “Okay, all we need to do is hold them off until they send help.”

Frank started laughing, everybody turned to look at him.

“Excuse me, but are you really that stupid? Do you actually think they’re going to rescue us in time?”

“Not if the rest of the military is like you, good thing you deserted. You’re pathetic, it’s like you want to die. If you aren’t going to help, shut the hell up.”

Looking down towards the loading area she saw more and more zombies, close to fifty now. Looking around the yard to see what they had to work with she spotted a fuel tank, wooden crates, and a dumpster.

“Would it be possible to blow them up somehow using the fuel tank?”

“Sure, if you want to blow us up too.” Frank stood next to her staring into the yard.

“What if we just ruptured the fuel tank enough to ignite them, burning them to a crisp? The wooden boxes would keep things going for a bit too.” Clare threw out ideas desperately.

“What do you plan on doing when the building catches fire?”

“We use these,” she said holding up a fire extinguisher, “and when they’re empty we use our feet or hands. We do what it takes.”

Frank nodded in agreement, but Clare saw a shadow in his eyes. His emotions were all over the place, but pain showed through the clearest.

The teenager stepped forward. “I bet I could rig a pressure hose to spray the fuel onto the zombies. It would cut risk of the building catching fire, but there’s no way I’m going to go and do it with fifty of those things trying to eat me.”

“What’s your name?” Clare asked.

“Thomas.”

“Okay, Thomas, I’m Clare. Frank and I will help you, so will the others.”

“Who put you in charge? What makes you think we even want to do anything? We’re safe for now,” a stout woman said as she held her a small child close to her.

Clare, irritated with their lack of survival instinct, had enough.

“Look, I know you think we can hide in here forever, or perhaps by some miracle the military will parachute in and save us. The truth is, unless you start thinking about this second, this very moment, we’re going to die. Do you understand?”

The people looked at one another, some unsure of what to say, others too terrified to speak.

“We could just toss flaming rags at them from here for now, once they catch on fire I don’t think they’ll be smart enough to put themselves out,” a woman suggested.

“We could drop some stuff from up here and create a mini barricade so when they catch fire they aren’t close to the building, buying us some time,” a man from the back spoke up

Clare nodded. They were all good ideas, they just had to pick one and go with it. She glanced at Dana, she looked scared.

Looking down below in the main warehouse area, she saw Frank and wondered what he was doing. Turning her head she stared out the window, praying.

She tried to open one, but paint and rust sealed them shut years ago. Using her pipe she began to break them.

“What are you doing?” The man with receding hair and a beer belly yelled at her.

“What does it look like? I’m being proactive in saving my life. You might want to give it a try,” Clare said harsher than she intended.

Other people stepped forward and broke windows, while some gathered large items and worked together to toss them out to create some sort of barricade between the zombies and the large delivery doors.

Clare was about to move to another window when Frank stopped her. Looking at him, she noticed he wasn’t looking at her with disdain, she thought there might even be some respect. A second later he glanced away, his face blank once more.

He held a half-empty bottle of vodka with a rag wedged in the top of it. He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit it. Waiting a few seconds he finally tossed it out the window. Everybody crowded the window, wanting to see what happened when the cannibalistic monsters were lit up.

The bottle cracked open on top of one of the zombies heads. The fire spread to several surrounding it, and then within moments at least a dozen were on fire.

The smell of burning flesh horrid, but what was truly eerie about the sight was how they kept moving around, trying to break in. The fact they were on fire and slowly melting until they were nothing but smoking piles of charred remains, went ignored. Clare noticed they still moved their ashen bodies if the head was intact.

Perhaps fifteen of the zombies were lamed, but fifty remained and the number was going up as they poured into the yard. The scent of the survivors was drawing them in.

Clare watched in horror as the new arrivals feasted on the bodies of the burned ones. Others broke off into packs and took down some of the weaker ones ripping them apart, eating greedily.

They needed to move the dumpster to block the hole, and take out the ones in the loading area before they could consider themselves safe, even if it was only for a little while.

How was she supposed to protect her wife in this situation? The others went back to dropping items, and Frank went back to sharpening his knife. Clare went to Dana.

“Hey you, how are you feeling?”

“How bad is it?” Clare squatted next to Dana and brushed some hair out of her eyes, she noticed she was sweating.

“Not too bad, we can handle it. Are you okay?” Clare started to panic, did Dana get bit?

“Good, do you want the good news or the bad news then?” Clare didn’t want either.

“Can it wait?”

“Nope,” Dana exhaled loudly.

Clare watched as a flash of pain crossed Dana's face.

“What is it? Is it the baby?” Dana reached out and grabbed Clare’s hand as she let out a pained scream.

“Yeah, she’s ready to come out.”

“Okay, is that the good news or bad news?” Clare asked in a panic.

Dana gave her a dirty look.

“Right, that’s the good news, of course it is. So the bad news is?”

“Unless your psychology training included a class on birthing a baby during a zombie apocalypse, I think we have a problem.”

“I skipped that day.” Dana squeezed her hand once again followed by an agonized grunt.

“Funny…” Dana’s breath was short and labored.

“Trust me honey, let’s get you comfortable, then I’ll find someone who can help.”

Clare began to manoeuvre Dana.

Standing, she yelled. “Is anyone here a doctor? If not I’ll settle for a veterinarian, anyone who has been through the birth of a child, or seen a video.”

The warehouse went silent, enough of an answer for her.

“Okay, I can do this,” she thought to herself.

Clare kneeled next to Dana.

“I need to boil some water, get some newspapers, something sharp to cut the cord...”

Dana looked at Clare with a raised eyebrow. “Really, that’s your plan?”

“Yes, it’ll work. I saw it on a television show. I’ll be right back.”

Looking around she found some newspapers, and nothing else. With no way to boil water she could think of, bottled water at room temperature would have to work. As for the umbilical cord, she would chew through it if need be. For God’s sake women had been doing this for thousands of years.

Walking back to Dana she took a calming breath when she saw Frank talking to her. When she got within hearing distance she noticed he was being nice.

“Okay, Dana, I’m Frank. How long have you been having the pain?”

“Every five minutes or so,” she panted.
“Okay, that’s good, the baby’s going to be here soon, are you ready?”

“Yeah, where’s Clare?”

“I’m right here.”

Placing the papers and bottled water on the ground, she watched as the rough and tough biker turned into a nice guy with a soothing voice and calm demeanour. He led Clare and Dana through the breathing exercises, told Dana when to push, and then all of a sudden he was holding their baby girl.

He held her at an angle, cleared her throat and waited for her to let out a cry before handing her to Dana. The two women looked down at their daughter in pure awe.

Frank took out his pocket knife and focused on sterilizing it with his lighter. He looked up cut the cord, tied it off and pressed Dana’s belly so the rest of the placenta would come out.

Clare looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I was a medic in the army, that’s why strategy isn’t my strong point.”

Clare looked away, not caring at the moment; she looked down at her daughter.

“Sydney,” she said.

“We’re not calling her that.”

Clare just smiled as she wiped down the baby with one of the shirts from their bag. Then she took off her coat and wrapped the baby in it.

“We have a family now.” Clare stroked the head of the infant.

“Yeah we do.” Dana smiled.

Clare sighed, she loved that smile.

A banging at the delivery doors on the main floor got their attention. The zombies were breaking through.

“Dana, let me go see what’s happening, I’ll be right back.”

Dana didn’t look happy, but nodded.

Clare stood next to Frank looking out the window. The barricade worked to a degree, it stopped more zombies from approaching the delivery doors, but there were now over a dozen trapped between the barricade and the doors to the warehouse.

Dana sat in the corner looking at her new baby. Clare pulled out her cell phone, even though there was no reception, the camera still worked. She took a picture of the sweet moment. Then in a moment of impulse she went over and took a picture of the three of them and shoved the phone into Dana’s bag.

Something told her it was important to commemorate the moment. Clare pushed away the bad feeling to get back to the matter at hand, protecting her family.

“You know we’re going to have to go out there and fight them to get at the fuel tank, and push the dumpster.” Frank stood there and looked at her as he spoke.

Clare glanced to her side and was shocked to see Frank. She didn’t think he cared one way or the other.

“Thanks for helping. I didn’t get a chan-”

He waved her off. “Whatever, we still need weapons and a plan. I only have two shots left in my gun, and I’d rather save it for later in case we have any other people getting ready to alter among us.”

Clare thought for a minute then an idea came to her.

“We’re in a warehouse full of boxes and crates. Create a barrier in here, block access to the upper level, then open the doors and let the zombies in. As they enter, Thomas can sneak out with protection and rig the fuel tank to spray the other zombies with gas behind the barricade. Then we light them up, easy.”

“Assuming he agrees to do it and doesn’t wuss out.”

“He won’t, another group needs to push the dumpster at the same time so it blocks any other zombies from entering the loading area. Those left will be responsible for doing whatever they can to kill the infected that enter the warehouse, we use the chains to trip them , piping to hit them, anything we can to get them down and crush their heads.”

“Might work, but you’re assuming a lot about these people, not all of them are going to be willing to get their hands dirty, let alone risk their lives.”

Clare knew he was right. She hoped the others here wanted to survive as much as she did.

“I need to talk to Dana then I’ll talk to them. I have a feeling they’ll be more receptive to me than you.”

Clare sat next to Dana and put an arm around her, using her other hand to touch the cheek of their little girl.

“How is baby, Sydney?”

“We’re not calling her that, Thistle is fine.”

“You’ll give in, but I need to do something so we’re safe.”

“I don’t like it, whatever it is I say no. I won’t lose you,” Dana said in a soft voice.

“Honey, I need to do this. Those loading doors aren’t going to hold. I have a plan, and Frank’s going to help. It should buy us enough time until reinforcements arrive.”

Dana looked at her wife of four years.

“Clare, I love you more than anything, and understand you need to do this, but promise you’ll come back to me.”

Clare looked into the eyes of her wife, partner, and soul mate. The woman who’d given her life meaning and purpose. She’d never lied to her, and this situation was no different.

“Dana, I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you and our baby safe. I love you.”

Leaning over she gave Dana a passionate kiss. Then looked down at their daughter and kissed her on the forehead.

Clare spoke to the baby in Dana’s arms. “Sydney watch, she’ll give in.”

Dana smirked. “Can you say mama, Rootberry?”

Clare snorted, and then was up and walking down the stairs before Dana could stop her. She found Frank with his bike, a haunted look on his face.

“You okay?” Frank, the only one who knew how to use a gun, couldn’t get a case of the nerves now.

“Fine.”

“I’m going to get everyone together and go over the plan.”

Clare gathered the majority of the group downstairs and went over the plan. She made it voluntary; happy to see only five went back upstairs.

They set up as much of an interior barricade as possible, and blocked off the stairs to the upper level. Everyone was armed with some sort of weapon, it was time.

*

Clare nodded and Frank lifted the handle releasing the delivery doors. As the zombies swarmed inside, the first wave tripped on the chains and bits of debris laid out. One of the survivors swung their length of pipe with deadly accuracy. Heads were cracked, and in one case lobbed across the room.

Crates from above were dropped and crushed some of the incoming horde. Those still moving were taken care of with pieces of lumber, and boot covered feet. As the chaos expanded in the warehouse, the rest of the survivors moved out into the loading area to do their job.

Thomas ran outside with Frank and a couple of the others. The teenager worked at rigging the fuel tank to expel the fuel in a specific direction using some hose and other bits he picked up.

The others moved the dumpster and took out a few zombies while they were at it. The hole had been blocked, but the zombies trapped by the barricade now attacked them.

“Hurry up kid, we have to go,” Frank yelled.
“Just a second.”

Frank hacked at the zombies, the others fought alongside him swinging bats and pipes, trying to get in as many blows to the head as they could. Frank brought his knife down on a zombie splitting its head open. Brain matter oozed out as the body fell limply to the ground. A man next to him used a board to smack the face of a woman, teeth and bone flew everywhere.

Another volunteer used a broken pipe piece on the head of one of the zombies. Nothing happened, the zombie still stood, looking at the man. Within seconds he was swarmed, screaming as they tore his arms off and dug into his stomach eating him as he watched.

The ground covered in bloody bits and gore; various internal organs caused people to slip. In a rush of rage one of the members of the group ran towards the zombies and jammed a shard of glass in its head. The surrounding zombies took him down immediately. A good distraction Frank used to his advantage.

Using his knife, he severed the heads of two zombies and lopped off a few arms. Rancid liquid sprayed everywhere, but missed Frank. He turned when one of the survivors went down screaming, zombies tearing him apart, his stomach torn open by hungry mouths, blood flowing freely in a large pool beneath the body.

Finally, Thomas yelled to them, it was ready. Frank held off the zombies as the others made their way inside.

*

Clare surveyed the inside. All the zombies were dead. Brain matter and large puddles of rancid smelling black ooze were everywhere. People did their best to avoid stepping in it.

She saw Frank outside, severely outnumbered.

Running to him, she started to help fight the zombies. “Time to go in, Frank.”

“I’m not going in, get the hell out of here.”

Clare felt a searing pain in her arm as she opened her mouth to respond. Looking over she saw a zombie biting her. She brought down the pipe on its head weakly. The zombie tore a large chunk of her forearm off and began to chew greedily.

“Frank, you need to go in.”

Frank looked over at Clare, she saw him focus on the bite.

“Why the hell did you come out here for me dammit?” his voice strained.

Clare knew there were precious moments left before they would all die.

“Frank, protect my family. I trust you to do that. Tell Dana I’m sorry, and I love her.” Clare was already sweating.

“No, I’m not--”

“Get out of here, I’m going to take some of these bastards with me.” Clare tried to smile, but it didn’t hide the pain.

“I’ll take care of them. I promise.” he said.

*

Frank handed her his knife, then turned away with tears in his eyes. He looked up and thankfully did not see Dana in the window above. As fast as he could, he ran back into the warehouse, hit the lever to shut the door, and felt the explosion as the fuel tank started to spew the ignited gas. He let out a howl of rage.

Even with all the heat outside the doors, Frank felt nothing but cold. A roar went up from the people in the warehouse, they’d been successful. No more zombies could enter the loading area, the ones out there were crispy critters, and the ones which entered the warehouse were taken care of.

Frank looked up and saw Dana standing at the top of the stairs. Tears streamed down her face.

*

Dana sat on the porch; it was a beautiful day out. On the table next to her was a bouquet of roses. She heard the soft patter of feet and knew her daughter was coming.

“Mommy, when is Uncle Frank going to get here? Isn’t today movie day then pizza night?”

“Yes it is, and he’ll be here soon, Sydney, don’t worry.” As soon as she spoke the words a car pulled up.

A tall man dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt got out. Grabbing something from the back of the car he walked up to the house.

“Hi, Frank.” Dana watched as her daughter launched herself at him like a rocket.

“Oomph, hi, Sydney, Dana. How are you two beautiful girls doing?”

“Are we going to watch a movie?”

“Of course,” Frank said as he smiled at the little girl.

Both adults chuckled as Sydney ran inside. Frank sat in the chair next to Dana and handed her a bouquet of carnations.

“From me, you know what to say when you see her.” Dana nodded her head and watched as Frank stood and entered the house.

*

Frank saw the little girl sitting on the couch and smiled.

“Popcorn?” Sydney nodded her head enthusiastically.

Walking down the hallway into the kitchen he saw pictures of Clare and Dana before everything happened, they were truly happy. The last picture was one of them in the warehouse after Sydney was born. After that, only pictures of Dana and Sydney, with Frank included occasionally. A few tears fell as he prepared the bag of popcorn.

He still blamed himself, it was sad it took a near apocalypse for him to remember how to be human again. He would never forgive himself for Clare’s death, but he would keep his promise.

*

Dana waited until she heard them start the movie before she left. Grabbing both bouquets of flowers she got into the car and headed to Pleasant Valley Cemetery.

Sitting in front of the gravestone, Dana felt the hole in her heart. Looking down she read what Clare requested be put on her gravestone, “I’m still a breast woman.”, and she let out a half laugh half cry.

Kneeling she put the flowers on top of the gravestone and traced Clare’s name with her fingers.

“Frank says hi, and wants you to know he’s keeping his promise. He’s even starting to enjoy life again, though he’ll never admit it.” Dana cleared a bit of dirt away. “Sydney’s five now, and stop grinning, you knew I was going to give in.” Dana let the tears fall freely.

“I used to be mad at you. This date is the best and worst day of my life. Sydney was born, but you died. I know you were protecting us, but it still hurts.”

Dana looked around at other mourners. Many people came here on this day; thousands of lives lost to the virus.

“I miss you, and think of you all the time.”

Standing up Dana cleared up some debris from the top of the gravestone, leaving her hand on it for a moment longer. With the tears at a minimum, she spoke one last time.

“Love you, see you next year.”

EUTHANASIA

Chantal Boudreau

When Skye stepped out of her front door early that morning, she was met by the irritated gaze of her next-door neighbour. Skye knew what that was all about. She had confronted Mrs. Blanchford’s eldest son the night before when she had caught him taking pot-shots at raccoons with his BB gun in the backyard, and the older woman was not happy about that.

That was one of the problems with living in a subdivision – shared backyards. Skye often found herself at odds with her neighbours over the presence of her own animals. They objected to the fact that she kept as many as she did; four cats, two dogs, a rabbit and a snake, not to mention the occasional creature that she would foster for Strays to Stay, the no-kill shelter where she worked. Well, “worked” was an understatement. Skye was obsessed with the shelter’s cause and she was prone to go much farther than the regular demands of her job. She nurtured their charges in every way and championed their cause, but it was all done out of love. She could not bear to see an animal homeless or suffering. That was why she had lit into the neighbour’s son, concerned that he would do real harm to the raccoons.

“He was just trying to scare them off, Ms. Henshaw. Those nasty things were into the garbage and spreading their filth. It’s not safe to have them scavenging in the backyard. Some of them carry rabies you know. Besides, it wasn’t as if Shaun were shooting at them with real bullets,” the shrewish woman said, somewhat shrilly.

Skye shook her head and sighed.

“Those creatures have as much of a right to exist here and attempt to survive as we do. The pellets may not kill the raccoons the way that a bullet would, but it’s still cruel. He could have put one of their eyes out, or embedded a pellet under their skin, causing infection and slow death. If he wanted to chase them off, all he needed to do was make a lot of noise and shine some light wherever they were. They would’ve scattered.”

Mrs. Blanchford scowled.

“I somehow doubt a little light would’ve done any good. Those little monsters don’t scare easy; they’re brazen. And as for noise, it was after eleven and the Schusters would have already put their little ones to bed. I swear, Ms. Henshaw, that you care more about those wretched animals than the people who live around you,” she sniped, and with that, she turned on her heel and stomped back into her house.

“Maybe that’s because the wretched animals deserve it,” Skye mumbled, pushing her frizzy strawberry blond hair out of her face.

None of the inhabitants in the neighbourhood were without their flaws. Mrs. Blanchford was a gossip who had her nose in everyone’s business. The Schusters were the negligent type who never sorted the compost or recycling out of their garbage and let their children run amuck. Skye could name a point of contention for everyone who lived in the near hereabouts, and she was sure that they all took issue with her as well.

Muttering unhappy thoughts under her breath, she continued on her path to her car. She was the only one in a five block radius who owned a compact hybrid, and she had been forced to make several personal sacrifices because of the upfront costs involved. Of course, the majority of her neighbours owned minivans or SUVs – horrible wasteful gas-guzzlers. Skye never heard the end of complaints about the rising price of gas. Serves them right, she would think, for their destructive status-based indulgences.

As she opened the car door, Skye glanced up at the sky overhead. Not a cloud in sight, and she was running low on sunscreen. She had light hair, pale blue eyes and the fair skin that burned and freckled easily to match. Summer was rapidly approaching, and she would have to protect that skin, or pay the price. It would mean a trip to the drugstore at some point during the day.

She slid behind the steering wheel and dropped her woven-hemp purse on the passenger seat beside her. Before pulling out of her driveway, she turned on the radio to listen to the morning news. The announcer was in mid-story.

“...This is the third body found in Capstick Park in as many months. Each are believed to have been stored elsewhere before dumping, because of their desiccated appearance. Forensic experts suggest that it must have been somewhere hot and dry to result in that level of dehydration. The current victim has been identified as Marguerite Crawley, known to her friends as ‘Mags’. Police have confirmed that she did have a record for solicitation, similar to the first two victims, and authorities are concerned that the city may have a serial killer to contend with...”

That last statement in the news made Skye’s mind drift away from the sounds coming from the radio, as she happened to pass the Green Street Animal Clinic.

“Now that,” she thought, “Is an example of a where you would find a serial killer.”

The clinic was a twenty-four hour affair, the only veterinarian’s office in the city offering emergency services during off hours. That, Skye believed, was the only reason she did not lose it and torch the place. There was some real value presented by the clinic in that aspect and even she had been forced to rely on their night-time assistance for one of her pets in the past. Her main fracas with the facility, however, had nothing to do with their regular care and all to do with the murderous Dr. Taurian.

Because there were often times with little activity during the middle of the night, the head vet on staff, a Dr. Odin Taurian, offered euthanasia free of charge to the city run shelter, a monstrous organization who slaughtered strays by the hundreds every year. Since they could avail themselves of his services on a regular basis, the city shelter had cut back on the wait period for the animals it housed. When Skye had originally started working at Strays to Stay, there was a six month amnesty period for animals at the public pound, partially because they lacked the funding required, the availability of someone qualified to euthanize the animals and a means of appropriately disposing the bodies. It meant that the animals were a little over-crowded and the large shelter was often in jeopardy of depleting its food stores for the creatures it housed, but at least they were alive.

Enter Dr. Taurian into the picture, and suddenly the period of amnesty shrank from six months to four. Not only was he a capable professional who offered to do the dirty work for free, he agreed to dispose of the corpses in the clinic crematorium, also without charge. The thought irked Skye. The man riled her even more.

She had only had the misfortune of meeting him once, but that was once more than she considered acceptable. She had been in the process of saving her oldest cat, Ozymandeus, from sure death at that point. She had rescued him from the city pound just in the nick of time. Poor Ozzy never would have had a hope of being adopted, had Skye not come along. He was a scrawny old disinterested tom, with balding patches in his gray fur, a weepy eye and a wheezy meow that was painful to hear. The average person wanted a kitten, or at least a cat who was cute, or loving, or playful. Ozzy liked to lie around all day, hacking up the occasional fur ball and peeing in the corner. He did not have the charm or presence to win over a potential master. All he could count on was possibly a sympathy vote.

He found the sense of pity that he had needed for his salvation in Skye, and she had taken him in, adding him to her menagerie – much to her neighbours’ disgust. Three days after she had first brought him home, his little wheeze had worsened into major breathing problems. Skye awoke to him gasping and rattling, and had rushed him over to the Green St. Clinic.

Skye had been one of only two people waiting and the clinic saw patients primarily on the basis of severity, as opposed to first come, first serve. Dr. Taurian had emerged from his office and after gauging the urgency of the ailing before him, he had escorted Skye and Ozzy into the examination area. Skye was hoping that she would never have to repeat that situation, under any circumstances.

As Skye turned into the worst of rush hour traffic, she considered the doctor with distaste. He had moved to the city a few months ago, in response to the clinic’s search for a veterinarian willing to take on the night shift. He was a handsome broad-shouldered man, with a Scandinavian look to him, pale skin and blond hair. His eyes were surprisingly dark, in comparison, and he spoke with an accent that supported the suggestion of a European origin. That and a first name like Odin. Skye shook her head. Who named their children after Norse gods nowadays?

He had been gentle with Ozzy, it was true, and had remedied his breathing issues, but that alone had not won Skye over. The doctor had been flirtatious in a subdued way, and Skye might have taken an interest in his subtle advances, drawn in by his inviting smile and suggestive gaze, until she had been reminded of his heinous activities by a late night delivery of animals to be euthanized by the city shelter. Ozzy had originally been scheduled to be included in that run. The taste in Skye’s mouth had suddenly soured and she had hurried Ozzy out of the clinic, with no plans on ever returning. She had not seen Dr. Taurian since, much to her relief.

While traffic inched forward in one of the innumerable morning snarls, Skye returned her attention to the radio. The weather was now on, and there was a high UV warning for the weekend. She really did have to replenish her supply of sunscreen, but it would have to wait until the trip home. She would be preoccupied with hosting a luncheon for a couple of Strays to Stay’s major benefactors and she would not have the time to step out around the noon hour. The other option would be to stay in all weekend, and that just would not be fair to her canine companions, Toby and Fred.

Skye pulled into her parking spot and then started towards the building that housed just over three dozen lost or abandoned animals. It was a small shelter, compared to the city pound, but the animals were safe here until they found a home. The receptionist, Marina, waved at Skye as she approached the door.

“Mr. Anderson called to confirm that he and Mr. Conroy will be here at 11:45,” she informed Skye.

“What about Mrs. Fuller?” Skye asked. She was their primary donor, and they were heavily dependent upon her funding.

Marina paled a little, and swallowed nervously before she spoke. Skye knew that did not bode well for her or the shelter.

“She called as well, but she sent her regrets. She said that she realizes we rely on her help, but apparently, she plans on contributing towards an expansion of the city shelter this year.” The receptionist’s voice cracked.

“What? No! That can’t be right. She objects to euthanizing animals. She was whole-heartedly no-kill!” Skye realized the pitch of her voice had risen - a sign of her current desperation.

“I’m sorry, Skye. It seems that someone else convinced her otherwise. Maybe you should phone her and find out more for yourself. She wasn’t prepared to give me any specifics.”

Skye nodded, and gritting her teeth, she headed into her office. She contacted Ms. Fuller, the aged widow of a local industrialist, immediately.

“Hannah, Marina tells me that you won’t be supporting us this year for the sake of the city pound. Is this true? Please tell me she misinterpreted what you told her.”

The older woman at the other end of the line sounded somewhat sorry yet decided.

“I know it’s not something you wanted to hear, Skye my dear, but the fact is that while your shelter is idealistic, it is not realistic. The number of strays in the city is multiplying, and shelters like yours truly cannot accommodate them all. While I’m not fond of euthanasia as a solution, it really is the only practical way to bring their population under control, and we aren’t making best use of our resources with the way things stand. Dr. Taurian says...”

“Dr. Taurian?” Skye interrupted, practically frothing at the mouth at the mention of his name. “That murderer? He’s the one that convinced you to do this? I’m begging you to reconsider, Hannah. He plays at caring about the animals, but he slaughters them heartlessly. Think about it, please. You got your Smitty here. He was housed at our shelter for almost seven months before you adopted him. If he were at the city pound, they would have killed him long before that.”

“I’m well aware of that, my dear, but the fact is that if he had been put down, I would have simply opened my home to some other unfortunate furry soul, one that was equally deserving. There’s no lack of animals needing homes, and not enough people out there wanting pets. I do feel bad about leaving you with a gap in your funding, but my mind is made up. I want the most effective results from my charity dollars. Dr. Taurian has convinced me that this is a humane solution and the best for all involved.”

Dr. Taurian, Skye thought bitterly, more like the Dr. Kevorkian of the animal world. The man was more than just a thorn in her side – he was the entire thorn bush, drawing blood from multiple wounds.

She spent almost an hour on the phone with Mrs. Fuller, but did not succeed in changing her mind. Dr. Taurian had bewitched her and clearly had her under his thumb. Why he felt inclined to encourage this expansion, Skye just could not understand. How exactly would it benefit him? Was he some sort of sadist who got an extra kick out of playing volunteer executioner?

She was absolutely drained, as far as her psyche was concerned, when it came time to play hostess at the luncheon for their remaining two benefactors. She put on a happy face, and a gracious smile, and gave it her best. Thankfully, Skye was able to secure their support for another year, and she at least had that to cling to when they finally left. That prevented things from going from bad to worse, but it did not resolve the biggest of her problems. Skye would have to scramble to fill that funding gap left by Mrs. Fuller and Dr. Taurian’s interference as quickly as possible, if at all.

With that idea in mind, she ended up staying at the office long past her regular work hours, phoning every prior donor in the books and appealing to them to back the shelter again. She met with some success, but not enough to make up for the loss of Mrs. Fuller by a significant stretch. Skye realized that she would have to repeat this process for many a night if there would be any hope of making ends meet, not to mention coming up with novel ideas for fundraisers on the weekends. She would be suffering for Dr. Taurian’s meddling, as would be her somewhat neglected pets if she were to put in the additional time that would be required.

It was early evening, just after sunset when Skye finally dragged her tired body back out to her hybrid again. She was so fatigued that she almost forgot to pick up the sunscreen that she had been nagging herself to get. She was already part of the way home when she finally remembered and she had to double back to the pharmacy on Green Street, the last one en route to her house. As she reached for her usual brand and SPF, she heard a voice that made her blood turn to ice in her veins.

Despite only having met him once, Skye would know that velvety tone and enchanting chuckle anywhere. Dr. Taurian – Odin, was making a pre-shift purchase, and chatting up the store clerk while he was there. Skye turned to look and saw him leaning casually up against the counter, sucking the girl in with his winning smile and flirtatious banter. It was shameful, really. The clerk was giggly, and her cheeks were flushed, responding positively to his charms. She was much too young for him, likely jail bait. Skye guessed the girl was seventeen at most.

Skye tried to control her temper as she watched the man wrap the clerk around his little finger and tease her mercilessly, but Skye’s rage boiled and surfaced and she was red-faced and breathing heavily by the time he departed for the clinic. He had probably used similar tactics and flattery to win Hannah over and steal her away. He had exercised his suave charms to take advantage of a lonely old woman, perhaps making her feel a little younger again in the process.

Skye wanted to give him a serious piece of her mind. Better yet, beyond just confronting him, she wanted to spy on him and maybe get some idea why he felt compelled to encourage support for the city shelter in the first place. Most veterinarians despised euthanasia, using it only when an animal was terminally ill or in severe pain. Why was Odin so willing to volunteer his services?

Her exhaustion fell away to adrenaline when she advanced upon the counter to pay for her sunscreen. The clerk’s cheeks were still rosier than normal and the girl still seemed a little flustered as she rang Skye’s purchase through. Tucking the plastic tube away in her purse, Skye headed out onto the sidewalk.

She knew that she should have made her way back to her car, and continued on home to tend to her animals and then fall into bed, but the notion of finding out exactly what Dr. Taurian was up to niggled at her brain and would not let her leave well enough alone. She found herself walking away from her car instead, and towards the clinic.

The place where they incinerated the bodies of the animals lay behind the clinic, carefully constructed to code for medical wastes and located on Green Street specifically for zoning purposes. Skye was suddenly possessed by the idea that if something unusual were going on, evidence would be found waiting for incineration. She approached their crematorium with the intention of playing investigator, but as she reached the rear of the building, she heard the back exit begin to open and she was forced to hide, taking cover next to the incinerator behind a dumpster there.

The door opened, and in the dim glow illuminating the space by the crematorium, Skye could just barely make out the form of Dr. Taurian as he stepped out. He walked a couple of paces forward so then she could see his face from her hiding place and he paused, looking a little perplexed, with his brow creasing and his eyes narrowing as if sensing something in the air. With the slightest of shrugs, he continued, striding over to what appeared to be a basement door, unlocking and opening it, and then descending out of sight.

Skye did not dare move, not knowing how long he would be down there and waited instead for his return. He emerged a few moments later with a box, which he carried over to the incinerator and placed upon the ground, just within her view. There were small shapes within it, flattened and shrivelled, and Skye only barely managed to suppress a cry when she realized that they were dead animals, more than should have easily fit within the box. They did not look the way a euthanized creature should look, but instead appeared to have been drained of all fluid. These bone dry corpses would burn quickly and easily, incinerating in a flash.

Her hand over her mouth, Skye watched as Dr. Taurian tossed the withered little bodies one by one into the crematorium. He then ignited it and flinging the empty box aside, he re-entered the clinic through the back door. Once he was gone, she stepped out and glanced around. There was no way of preserving the evidence that he had discarded in the incinerator, probably fully ablaze by this point, but Skye noted that he had left the basement door unlocked. Perhaps, she thought to herself, she would find more examples of his strange practices there. She crept over to the basement door, and pulled it open.

It was dark inside, the faint light from the back of the clinic extending only a few stairs in. Skye had no idea where the inside light switch would be and she started to descend very slowly and carefully, feeling around at the walls as she went.

Without warning, there was suddenly a painful blow to the small of her back that propelled her forward, like someone landing their foot there with a full force kick. Flailing her arms out in an unsuccessful attempt to grab at an unseen railing, or anything that might be extending out from the wall, she found herself plummeting. When she finally collided with hard cement floor in the blackness, she felt bones crack and break, and excruciating pain. In the shock of the moment, the world faded away.

Skye came around a few moments later, still in complete darkness and horrible agony. She tried to call for help out, but found that she could barely draw in a breath, and her scream came out only as a whimper. She heard quiet footsteps on the stairs behind her, as someone descended into the basement with her.

“Help me,” she pleaded, with her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m badly hurt. I’m sure that I’ve broken something, maybe even my back. Please, you have to help me.”

Skye heard the person approach her and kneel beside her on the floor. Her potential saviour leaned over her, and she felt the person’s breath on her face. It was not warm as she was expecting, however – it was icy cold.

“So, this is how it has to be, Ms. Henshaw. You could not leave well enough alone.”

She recognized that voice, with its velvety tone. Skye flinched at the sound of it, and yelped as the sudden movement launched another searing pain through her body.

“What are you going to do to me?” she whispered hoarsely.

“I never wanted to hurt anyone, understand, just live my life in peace. I fed when I had to, and then this beautiful solution was presented to me, an optimal situation considering my background and skill-set. But you had to meddle didn’t you? And now look at how things stand. Pity – I liked you, and more than just because you smelled so...delicious,” Dr. Taurian’s mouth was next to her ear now and Skye could hear him inhaling. Terrified, her heart pounded in her chest and her mouth had gone dry.

“What?” she gasped, little more than a squeak.

“They weren’t enough, you know. I was always so hungry. I needed more, or I might slip again. I didn’t want to slip again. I was hoping the expansion at the city shelter was the answer, but you wouldn’t let it rest, and now you know my secret.”

He paused and she felt a tongue flick out and lick at her ear.

“Ahhh – you’re bleeding,” he moaned, ravenously . It was a deep guttural sound and it made Skye shiver.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Don’t do this...let me go. I won’t tell. I won’t tell.”

“No, you won’t; I’ll see to that. You made this more convenient by coming here. I won’t have to drag you out to Capstick Park . You’ll be much easier to dispose of.”

When Dr. Taurian spoke, his lips brushed her ear, as well as the points of his fangs. Skye cringed, trying to squirm away from him, and again she could barely move without being wracked by pain. She squealed in response, which extended into her first truly audible shriek as he grabbed her and yanked her towards him, nuzzling at her neck and panting.

“A caterwaul,” he insisted. “There are animals screaming down here all the time. They’ll chock it up to nothing but a caterwaul.”

Her tormentor sighed as he lapped at her jaw-line, pressing his body against her. Skye trembled from the hurt and shook from her great gasping sobs.

“Don’t worry,” Dr. Taurian whispered. “I realize that you are suffering terribly. I’m very humane. I’m an expert in euthanasia. It will only sting briefly, while I put you out of your misery...”

SUGAR SKULLS

Rebecca Snow

The crickets screeched like fingers down a blackboard as Jesse stopped outside the locked iron gate. Darkness soaked though the cemetery like the tears he’d cried into his father’s handkerchief seven years ago when the old woman had died. The chirping insects silenced as a figure stumbled close to where Jesse stood. The council laws stated that as long as he stayed a few steps away from the bars, he was safe. The extra chains looped around the entrance gate kept the walkers at bay but did nothing for the festive atmosphere the evening used to hold.

The hike to the graveyard on this late October evening had taken longer than he’d remembered. He wasn’t surprised because he didn’t often take the trip at night, and the wakeful hoots of owls and scuffling of possums made him stop at random intervals to listen for the shuffling step of the dead. After the three years of a sort of siege, the council proclaimed that the town was safe enough with the walking corpses isolated in the boneyards. Jesse wondered what happened when someone died in his sleep or was killed in an accident. They couldn’t keep everyone under lock and key twenty-four hours a day. It was safer to be careful, so Jesse took his time.

Reaching into the paper sack he carried, the teenager fumbled open a damp book of matches. His trembling fingers fumbled several times as he tried to find a match that would catch fire and then several more to ignite the wick in his lantern. When he’d closed the globe around the flame, his gaze returned to the bars. Arms stretched to their limits trying to grasp any part of his living form. Skin peeling like onions flaked from the underlying tissue. Bones jutted in odd angles having punctured through the surrounding flesh.

The lamplight flickered across the dead faces. Their mouths hung open as they hissed and moaned for him to come closer. Jesse’s feet remained rooted to the spot where he stood. He lifted the lamp higher to illuminate the crowding corpses. Deceased friends and neighbors swayed in the dancing shadows. Old Mr. Barstow’s good Sunday suit hung from his emaciated frame. Dirt from his dig to the surface crusted the edges of his wedding band. Jesse remembered how Mrs. Barstow had howled at the funeral. Two weeks later, she’d walked in front of a bus. Scanning the small crowd, Jesse didn’t see her. She’d had a closed casket service, so there was a good chance that she was stuck eight feet under without enough motor control to tunnel through the soil. His second grade math teacher thrashed at the bars as if remembering the snake he’d put in her desk drawer. The entire library staff huddled in a pack ready to pick apart any unwary live patron who happened to intrude. Jesse found it strange that the dead still collected in the groups they’d formed in life. A guard passed, tipping his hat to the boy.

“Evening, sir,” Jesse said.

The man’s eyes twinkled. He flashed Jesse a quick grin before continuing on his circuit around the barricade.

A familiar floral pattern fluttered at the back of the crowd. Jesse took a few sideways hopping steps before he could make out any part of the body shrouded by the blossomy, moth-eaten cotton. He bounced, bobbing and weaving, as he tried to catch a glimpse of the clambering cadaver.

Finally, it broke free of the shuffling stiffs and dragged itself toward the fence. Leathery, cracked skin was drawn close to the bones as the arms shot through the bars. Skeletal fingers opened and closed as if attempting to revive a lifeless heart. The jaw hung slack, showcasing several empty spaces. The dentures had been lost long ago. Even so, a mummified smile lingered.

“Gramma,” Jesse whispered. “Gramma, it’s me, Jesse.”

The brittle hand continued to squeeze and release, squeeze and release. A hiss rattled from the gaping mouth. The lantern’s flame sliced the dead woman’s face with shadow bars from the wrought iron rods. Dried soil crumbled from beneath her ragged nails. Her clouded eyes flicked in their sockets in a mad search for the young man’s voice. A second guard’s footsteps trickled past.

Jesse spread a patterned blue blanket on the ground just out of reach of the decaying fingers. Squatting next to the thick wool, he felt around in the crinkling bag and removed a small potted marigold. He peeled off the price sticker and set the container on an uneven patch of ground. When it toppled, a bit of dark soil confettied the lighter dirt. Jesse righted the wobbling plant. With the toe of his boot, he scooted the green plastic pot toward the bars. His hand disappeared again into the open sack and removed a few small wreaths of the orange flowers. He rose to his feet.

“Sandy made these for you,” Jesse said. “You remember Sandy. My little sister.” He smiled into his grandmother’s dead eyes and draped the flower rings around her wrists. “She wanted to come, too, but you know Mom.” Jesse lowered his eyes to survey a clump of dry grass. Strands of his dark hair curtained his forehead. “She doesn’t know I’m here.”

The corpse moaned and seemed to wag a finger at his downcast face.

“I know, I should do what she tells me to,” Jesse said. “But she’s been impossible since Dad joined the recovery crew. She worries so much about if he’ll make it back in one piece. They’re starting to expand the borders into the mountains.” Jesse’s eyes brightened until he remembered he was talking about his mother. “Anyway, she’s so scared that she coddles us like we were three years old.”

Jesse dropped onto the blanket and rested his arms over his crossed legs. A breeze rustled a mantle of leaves across the path he’d followed to the graveyard. His frown faded to a yielding smile.

“How about we forget that for now and get this picnic started?” Jesse rubbed his hands together as if to warm them.

Feeling around in the bag, he withdrew a cellophane-wrapped package containing two chocolate, cream-filled cupcakes. Jesse tore the plastic with his teeth, removed the cakes, and placed them side-by-side on a floppy paper plate. One of the white swirls stuck to the wrapper. He ran his tongue across the wayward icing, savoring its grainy sweetness. The dead woman at the fence groaned.

“Sorry, Gramma. This was the best I could do. The bakery was out of the pan de muerto you liked, and Mom refused to make me any.”

He lifted himself to his knees and inched toward the reaching hand. As he approached, she flailed an arm, sending one of his floral offerings sailing into the darkness. Her claw-like fingers dug into the soft flesh of one of the frosted treats. Crumbs toppled to the ground as the cream core oozed between her clenched fist. Pulling her sticky hand back to her face, she crammed the offering between her missing teeth. After one taste, her arm shot through the bars toward Jesse. Bits of cupcake clung to her lips and cheek. Each time she reopened her hand, clumps of chocolate mush dropped to the dirt. The cadaver uttered a guttural groan and shoved her shoulder through the small opening.

“I know it isn’t sweet bread, but it’s all I could get.”

Jesse sighed. Sitting back cross-legged on the blanket, he pressed his thumb into a pile of crumbs on the white plate and lifted them to his mouth. He eyed the remaining cupcake.

“Do you mind if I eat this one?”

A hum sounded from the old woman’s throat. Peeling the solid sheet of icing from atop the rejected gift, he dropped it into his mouth like a frat boy eating a goldfish. The chocolate dissolved on his tongue as he watched the remains of his grandmother strain against the barrier between them.

A woman’s scream further along the fence pierced the hum of insects. Jesse placed the unfinished dessert back on the plate and scanned the darkness as his grandmother wandered toward the sounds of struggling life. A few other glimmering dots speckled the landscape. From where he sat, Jesse could see someone flailing by the bars. The guard that had raised his cap to Jesse sprinted by without a glance. In a moment, the shrieking quieted to a dull whimper.

“Were you bitten?” a deep voice asked. Jesse assumed the words belonged to the guard.

A sniffling hiss of affirmation followed a moment of silence.

“You have time to write a note to your family before you make your choice,” the guard’s disembodied voice said.

Jesse edged closer to the exchange. A female form waved a hand toward the teeming cemetery. The skin on her wrist was torn and hung in ragged strips. A dark line of blood led to her elbow and seeped into the sleeve of her shirt.

“This is my family,” she said. “They’re all I’ve got left.”

Jesse guessed the woman’s eyes brimmed with tears or the spreading infection as they glinted in the guard’s light beam.

“Have you made your choice?” the guard asked.

The woman nodded and looked at her hands. Picking up a flap of skin, she pressed it to her oozing flesh.

“I want to be with my family,” she said.

The guard’s lips drew into a thin line and he exhaled a long breath. The dead at the bars strained to reach the injured woman. One of the faces displayed the same discoloration as the woman’s arm. The second guard arrived, winded from his sprint from the opposite side of the graveyard.

“What’s up, Martin?” he asked, casting a glance toward the seated woman.

“She was bitten and has decided to breach the boundary,” Martin said, wiping a day’s worth of stubble with a calloused palm.

“Excuse me, miss,” the second guard said as he dug through a pocket and removed a small notebook. A pencil attached with a tattered shoestring hung from the spiral wire. “I’ll need you to print your name and address. Write down the manner of the incident and your decision. Then sign and date the bottom of the page.” He handed the pad to her and stepped back to stand next to Martin. “What happened?”

“My best guess is that she got too close and was bitten. I’m not sure it matters at this point if it was on purpose or by accident.” Martin lifted his hat and ran his hand through his hair. He glanced up at the stars before returning to stare at the scribbling woman. “We just do our job and move on, Carlos.”

The woman coughed and spit into the grass. As she passed the small book back to Carlos, she convulsed.

Carlos flipped to the page she’d inscribed and read the details to himself before replacing the pad in his pocket.

“Eva, do you understand what’s going to happen?” he asked.

The woman nodded. The three figures waited in silence as the night air chilled. Jesse watched his grandmother teeter on the periphery of the crowd gathered behind the fence. To him, she didn’t seem interested in the dying woman, only drawn by the commotion the screaming had caused as if she were just a concerned citizen and not one of the hungry dead.

Twenty minutes passed before Eva’s head drooped and her torso flopped onto the grass. The walkers that had been drawn by her flowing blood drifted back to wander between the untended tombstones. Martin and Carlos, having donned heavy leather gloves, picked up the lifeless body and carried it to a bench. Stepping up, the two men heaved the dead weight over the iron bars. As the corpse fell, its skirt snagged on a spike and tore halfway up its thigh revealing an expanse of pasty flesh. The landing resembled a dropped sack of flour without the accompanying white puff. Martin whispered a few words Jesse couldn’t hear. The guard tapped his head his chest and his shoulders before turning away from the fence.

“I guess that’s it then,” Martin said, touching the brim of his hat and continuing his route around the cemetery wall.

Carlos squatted next to three lit candles. Cupping his hand close to the flames, he blew out the small dancing fires. He rose to his feet and patted the sides of his arms for warmth. After the wax had cooled, he glanced over his shoulder before pocketing the trio of extinguished pillars.

Jesse opened his mouth to protest but changed his mind. The comment lingered on his tongue, but the silence prevailed. Maybe it was protocol to take unattended candles. He didn’t think it was, but he had decided to mind his own business.

Carlos disappeared around a corner of the fence just as the body he’d dumped quivered. First, its feet and hands twitched as if it were dreaming and not dead. Jesse had never witnessed a return, so he inched as close as he dared while still staying in the shadows. A moan rumbled from its chest and Jesse flinched. The cadaver sounded as though it were in pain, nothing like the resigned groans of the long dead. The clouded eyes rolled in their sockets as the torso attempted to lean on floppy elbows. One arm slid on a tuft of grass as the lifeless skull crashed to the ground.

“That’s gotta hurt,” Jesse mumbled more to himself than to what was left of Eva.

Managing to sit, it tried to bend its knees. They splayed sideways in a suggestive pose looking more like a puppet discarded by a mad puppeteer than a once attractive young woman mourning her family. The body continued its struggle to stand as Jesse stared without embarrassment. He was certain his mother would be horrified if she saw him, but he was beyond caring.

The walker was on its knees. Pressing its palms into the dry earth, it wobbled to a standing position. It reminded Jesse of his little sister as she learned to walk. Every step unsure as she learned to balance on her own. The thing that was Eva trundled into the darkness.

Making his way back to his glowing lantern, Jesse scanned the fence line for his grandmother. He knew she couldn’t have gone far. The old woman who babysat him when he was small dragged past before he spotted the thrashing flowered dress. Her shuffling feet seemed to be snagged in a hole.

Jesse clapped his hands, and his grandmother shifted her direction. Her feet came free, and she stumbled back to the fence. Sitting on the blanket, Jesse shoved the rest of the small cake into his mouth and ground his teeth through it until it was digestible. He swallowed and almost choked.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” Jesse said after he’d regained his composure. He tilted his head to look up at the dead body of the smartest woman he’d ever known. “How can your soul come back to visit on Dia de los Muertos if your body is still stuck here?” He frowned before continuing. “Mom says it doesn’t. She says you’re just a shell and that we shouldn’t bother communing with the dead anymore.” Jesse pounded the dirt with a clenched fist. “She says it’s pointless.”

His grandmother swayed at the bars. He imagined she blinked.

“Well, I think she’s wrong. I don’t think we should forget you.” Jesse wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I don’t think we should forget any of you. And I certainly don’t think it’s pointless.”

The dead woman leaned her head against the bars.

“I think she wants to pretend you never existed. She’s even taken down most of the family photographs.”

She paced a few steps before turning back to face the fence.

Jesse tilted his head and pulled a clump of grass up by its roots.

“But if your body is still down here walking around, where did your soul go?” he asked.

She let out a swine-like snort and swiped her hand to her chest.

“Why can’t you move on?”

A shrill cry rose from the rotting corpse as she swung her arm in a wild arc and slumped to the grass. Her hand stretched toward her grandson, her fingers still flexing. Her clouded eyes gazed through him.

Jesse sighed. After reaching inside the bag again, he crumpled the paper and tossed it beside him on the blanket. Scooting across the rough wool, he held out his last tribute in his flattened palm. The sugar skull was positioned as if it were staring straight into the reanimated woman’s eyes. Its colorful sugar paste lines and curls stood out against the stark white of the pressed granulated sugar glistening in the lamp’s flame. The deceased woman’s grasping hand stilled as Jesse drew closer, a thin sheen of mashed cake peeling from the base of her thumb. A delicate sigh seeped from her chest when her flaking fingers brushed the calavera de azúcar. As her hand closed around the crystallized form, small flakes of sugar escaped through cracks in her flesh. Her grip tightened, and the delicacy shattered, littering the patchy weeds with candy shards. She pressed her fist to her lips for the length of time it took Jesse’s heart to beat four times before she moaned and opened her hand to reach for him once more. The remaining cracked skull fluttered to his feet.

Letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, he stood. He noticed even more lanterns flickering around the cemetery’s iron bars as he gathered his belongings. Hushed words from muted conversations filtered through the cooling breeze.

“Goodnight, Gramma,” he said.

The dead woman grunted.

Jesse extinguished his lantern and trudged home through the pre-dawn light. His feet crunched the fluttering leaves.

RANDY'S NIGHT OUT

Douglas Vance Castagna

Randy lifted a gnarled hand to his mouth. His gums were oozing small amounts of blackened blood. He felt his teeth. His right incisor was cracked and broken off.

He remembered the good old days, when he'd been invincible. He only had his memories of those times:

The freedom of the night air. The terror he'd struck into the hearts of men when they found out who he was. What he was. The strength and power he'd felt after feeding, and, of course, the glory of the chase. All of these things were gone.

He wondered how a Vampire could be infected. He thought his immune system had been totally capable of dealing with anything.

Often he would speak aloud to himself.

"Why did I pick up that prostitute? She was the one, I know it was her. But I shouldn't have gone to her."

In the back of his mind he knew that it might have not been her who infected him. He could have contracted the virus from any one of his countless victims, but he felt the need to blame someone for his pain and suffering.

"Why don't mortals take care of themselves?" he would often cry with tears of pity and anger. He wished that someone would put a stake through his heart and end it already. However, he had no such luck. He was a Vampire and therefore immortal. Which meant that his suffering would be never-ending.

He began to choke violently and coughed up bits of yellow and green phlegm. His mouth was filled with the taste of rotten eggs, as he tried to repress a second choking fit.

Examining his body as he dressed, he failed to notice that the sores were spreading. The collar of his shirt no longer hid the open sores that were growing up his neck and onto his face. Nor did his sleeves hide the sores on his hands.

A mortal would have died five times over. He'd never been able to imagine the pain that they felt. The ones who suffered with it now should think themselves lucky to die, go so quickly. His pain was far greater than theirs, and he did not have the endless sleep they were finally blessed with.

Suddenly, he doubled over with a stabbing pain in his stomach. The hunger was back and needed to be satisfied. Last night, he'd feasted on the blood of an alley cat. It was too bitter and too little for him. He hadn't had human blood in months and craved it more than anything now.

In his condition, people walked away from him. They even chased him. He thought of the times when he could charm anyone. They would be in his power and beg him to do his bidding. That was a lifetime ago. He'd begun to lose most of his charismatic charms back in the late eighties, when he no longer was able to hide the symptoms.

He needed some air so he pulled the duct tape off the black window shades and opened the window.

Leaning against the window sill of his motel room, he looked out. The pink neon of the Vacancy sign was a beacon of Judgement Day to him.

The end of the Millennium was months away he thought. Half the country was infected and dying or already dead. The other half was fighting over what would be left when the afflicted all had died. When the button is pushed I'll still be here, being eaten away from the inside.

He began to laugh, as tears ran down his face. Now I'm going crazy, he thought.

Another sharp pain stabbed at his stomach. He needed sustenance, and it had to be from a human tonight.

He put on his tattered coat and limped to the door.

The weather was cold, and he felt the chill deep in his bones. He remembered one winter he'd spent in Maine. It had been at least ten below zero, and he'd gone out to feed in a jogging suit. Climate had never bothered him. Now everything did.

Looking the way he did, and the condition he was in, he could not get into any bars or clubs. Instead, he searched the alleyways for a sleeping drunk or a homeless person. They were easy enough to find.

Not long after he'd begun his search, he found his prey. An old man with a yellowed beard, reeking from Ripple and urine, was sleeping in a doorway of an apartment house.

The wino had on tattered layers of rotted, filthy clothes. Bits of newspaper peeked out through the many holes in his outfit.

The heat was on high in the building, and the man was lucky enough to get this spot where he could keep warm.

Randy knelt besides him. "I am truly sorry my friend."

The Vampire was about to sink his rotted teeth into the man's exposed throat when a bottle crashed against his skull.

"Get the hell away from me! This is my spot. Get away. Find your own place to sleep!"

Randy was already running down the block when the wino started shouting. After running only a half a block he was winded. He paused to compose himself and then continued up the avenue.

The streets seemed deserted to him. Walking along the silent streets, he noticed that nothing stirred except for the steam rising from the sidewalk grates. He felt somewhat powerful. It was as though the people of the city knew that Randolph Blazedale roamed the streets once again. He fancied them cowering in their
homes behind barricaded doors. There was a time that he could have had that effect on any city. Now he couldn't even feed on a drunk.

He was beginning to feel sorry for himself again when he saw an unaccompanied woman crossing the street along the deserted avenue.

He rushed to the corner to meet her as she crossed. His plan was to ask her directions and then grab her and drag her off behind the dumpster on the side of Burger King.

She was walking briskly, her eyes darting in every direction. She was holding her pocketbook in front of her and under her arm. She was definitely aware of her surroundings. Streetwise, he thought. He would have to act swiftly.

She began to veer to the left, away from him. He quickly moved after her.

"Excuse me ma'am," he said. His voice was still soothing. The woman stopped and decided to hear what he had to say.

He took a few steps towards her and stopped under the streetlight. "I was wondering if you could..."

He was interrupted by her scream. She sprayed his eyes with mace, and then he screamed. He crumpled to the floor as she ran away.

Moments later, when the burning had somewhat subsided he stood up. What made her scream?, he thought. Then lifted his twisted right hand to his face and felt the horror that the woman had seen.

His face was covered with large, oozing sores. I probably look like a monster, he thought. He would never himself be able to see the horror of what he looked like. He even began to forget what he had looked like before he became a Vampire. In fact, it had been well over two hundred years since he had seen his own reflection.

Slowly, his sight began to return to him, and he could see the woman on the next block. She was telling her story to big man in a stained tee-shirt, standing in front of a pizzeria. The man looked in Randy's direction and disappeared inside the pizzeria. Moments later, three men came out, followed by the big man. They all piled into a battered Duster and started it up.

In some other life, Randy could have, would have, torn an army to shreds. Now, he had been defeated by a wino and a petite little woman. He felt hopeless.

He knew those men would hurt him. Any injuries would not be fatal, but they would not heal. His leg still never fully healed after he'd been beaten by a runny-nosed kid with a baseball bat, over six months ago. The kid hadn't liked the way Randy had looked at him.

All things considered Randy decided that it would be in his best interest to flee.

He turned, ran down the avenue, and crossed the street. When he turned the corner, he ducked down behind the overflowing garbage cans between a six-family house and a gutted building.

The car skidded and turned down the block where he hid. It did not stop but continued down the narrow street.

He thought of going inside the building to hide out for a while. However, he knew that if he rested, even for a moment, he might fall asleep. Randy could not remember the last time he had done all of this walking and running.

After waiting several minutes, to be sure they were gone, he got up from his spot behind the garbage cans. He heard his bones crack with the strain of movement as he stood and stretched.

He took a laborious step and then another one. Suddenly, he heard a slight noise, and he was bathed in light.

Slowly, he turned, shielding his eyes from the glare with a hand covered with angry red, puckering sores.

That was when he noticed that the disease had spread. He brought a hand up to his face and felt them - large and warm, secreting puss.

He turned away from the glaring lights. He tried to run, but came up against a wall of immovable flesh.

The big man in the greasy tee-shirt stood in front of him with a baseball bat in his hand and a smile on his face.

The lights got brighter as the Duster crept up the alley where the two figures stood.

The three men got out of the car. A tall thin man, who didn't look much like a man as he did a pimply-faced kid, resembled the baseball fan. He was carrying a tire iron. Another short, stocky man wearing a black tee-shirt with a white peace sign held nothing.

The third man from the car, actually the fourth man in all, stood by the car, reluctant to join his friends. He was behind the headlights' glare, and Randy could not see his face.

Three men circled Randy. There was silence for a brief moment when the men were sizing him up. They figured that he wasn't armed or he would have pulled out his weapon already. Assuming that they had the upper hand, the big man spoke.

"What are you doing, walking the streets?"

"Yeah what are ya doin'?" the tall kid echoed.

"Just what is that shit all over your face, anyway?" the big man continued.

The peace man chimed in, "That's that disease, the one that's all over the news."

"Shit, I never seen anybody that far gone," said the big man.

"Isn't this that faggot disease?"

"That's right, it is. We got ourselves a faggot. Tell me, faggot, what were you doing with that woman?" said the big man, pointing at Randy with his bat.

"Yeah, what were you doing?" parroted the kid.

Randy looked at them, his eyes brimming over with ageless hatred. Nevertheless, he tried nothing hoping they would leave him alone. Actually, he hoped the big man would sharpen the bat and drive it through his heart.

"Aw look, the little girl is going to cry," said the peace man. Looking over his shoulder he called to his friend.

"C'mon, let's teach this homo a lesson."

"Teach him a lesson," the kid repeated.

The man standing by the car shook his head. "Leave him alone. You said you wanted to scare him. You did, let's go."

"Finished?" asked the big man. "Not by a long shot. I don't want no diseased faggot touching the neighborhood women."

The big man raised the bat and swung.

Randy raised his arm, trying to ward off the blow.

"No, you don't understand," was what Randy was beginning to say when the bat shattered his right forearm and dislocated his shoulder.

He fell to the ground, knocking over the garbage cans.

He looked helpless, flailing his legs in the rotting debris.

"Please, please, leave me alone," he begged.

"Look at him whine. Should I give him another?" asked the big man.

"He's had enough. Leave him alone, damn it," said the man by the car, advancing a step.

"Give him another, said the kid, offering him the tire iron.

"No thanks, Joey I got something better in mind."

He grinned at his friends. Several teeth were missing from his mouth, the ones that remained were stained brown from tobacco.

He threw the bat to the floor and looked at the peace man.

"Give me the knife, Billy," demanded the big man.

"Sure thing," Billy said.

Billy reached into his pocket and pulled out the switchblade. Before handing it over he said, "Be careful Al. It's very sharp."

"The sharper the better," said Al.

"Watch it Al. You might get his blood on you," warned Billy.

"Don't worry about me," Al said. He pulled a stained handkerchief from his back pocket and wrapped it around his hand. "I'm only gonna stab him once. Right in his fag heart."

The man who had been standing by the car had joined the group now.

He was a black man in his thirties. His face was strong and badly scarred.

"This has gone far enough. Give me the knife," he said.

"What are you? In love with this fag?" asked Al.

By this time, Randy had managed to stand up, being ever so careful not to move his ruined arm.

Joey saw him standing there and swung the tire iron.

It missed its mark, striking the brick wall behind Randy.

The noise distracted Al, and the black man made his move. He swung his foot in an arc, connecting with Billy's face. Billy crumpled instantly. The black man delivered an elbow to Al's solar plexus. Al doubled over, dropping the knife.

Joey advanced, swinging the tire iron wildly. "You're dead you fucking nigger," screamed Joey, as he brought the weapon down with blinding speed and force.

Again, Joey missed his mark. The black man had dived to the ground and rolled. As he got up, he grabbed a garbage can lid and threw it like a frisbee at Joey. It hit Joey's knee, and Joey fell down. The weapon was wrenched from his hand and he was kicked to the ground.

The black man then walked over to Randy.

"Are you all right?" he said offering his hand.

Randy took it with his good hand and pulled himself up.

"Barely. How can I repay you?"

"By letting me take you to a hospital. My name is Barry."

"Well, Barry my name is Randy. As much as I would like to, I can't go to the hospital. There is nothing they can do for me anymore."

"I know what you mean. My brother had the same thing. Near the end all we could do was try and make him comfortable."

Randy looked into Barry's eyes; they appeared to have seen much pain.

"Comfortable. I have passed that stage ages ago."

In a blinding rush of movement Al pushed Randy back to the ground and swung the bat at Barry. It connected with his head. There was a sickening sound. It sounded like a melon breaking open when dropped to the floor.

While Barry was lying on the ground helpless, Al hit him with the bat again and again and again.

The smell of blood sent the stabbing pangs of hunger back inside Randy. The hunger was unbearable. It felt as if a hand had reached inside his body and gripped his stomach in a vise.

Slowly Al stopped hitting Barry, who'd died shortly after the first blow. He turned and looked at Randy.

Al took a few steps and stooped to pick up the knife, and then continued until he was inches from where Randy lay.

From behind him, Al heard Billy stirring.

"What the hell happened?" he asked.

"Take a look," replied Al.

Billy walked over to where Barry's body lay. He looked down, and an expression of nausea washed over his face.

"Aw, man. Why did you have to kill him?"

"Just go see about Joey, you friggin quiff."

Billy obeyed and helped Joey. Joey was limping and complained about his leg until he saw Barry. Joey didn't say anything. He just looked at Barry's dead body.

"Now that I taught the nigger a lesson, I'm gonna teach that fag boy a lesson."

"No, c'mon. Let's just get the hell outta here," pleaded Joey.

"Yeah, Al. Let's get out of here fast," Billy said, putting his hand on Al's shoulder.

Al shrugged it off and said, "Nothing doing. He's dead."

Al pressed the little silver button on the side of the switchblade.

Billy started, "Be care..."

"Son of a bitch!" said Al.

Randy saw the thin, tiny stream of blood from the wound on Al's finger. The stabbing pain did not return, but a little strength did. Randy gripped Al's wrist with his left hand and Al screamed.

Pulling himself up, Randy applied more pressure.

Al dropped the knife, stunned at the resistance more than the pain. He drew back his left arm to deliver a blow when Randy sank his teeth into Al's wrist.

The arterial blood squirted out like a geyser before Randy began to feed.

Al was screaming for help, but his friends were shocked.

A few seconds went by before Billy grabbed the tire iron and tried to save Al.

"You crazy son of a bitch!" said Billy.

Randy was enraptured by his feeding, and his mouth was pressed to Al's wrist like a leech. Only the second blow from the tire iron dislodged him from Al.

Once he was freed, Joey tied a bandanna around Al's wrist.

Billy continued to strike Randy, who was already unconscious from the blows to the head.

"Billy, come on. We got to get Al to the Emergency Room."

Billy threw the weapon down and ran toward the back of the alley and into the car.

Driving out, they made sure that they ran Randy over, which they did, over both of his legs.

***

Randy was lost in a myriad of images. In them, he was his old self again, and nothing hurt. Nothing. However, he eventually woke up several hours later.

It was five-fifteen a.m., and the city was still dark.

The euphoria of his feeding began wearing off, and the pain was all that he felt. The right side of his face was caved in, and he could not see out of that eye. His whole left side was smashed and broken. Part of the bone stuck out through the skin. His legs, however, were worse. They had been driven over. Every inch of them was splintered and shattered. The pain was unbearable. He did not know what to do.

Looking up at the roof he saw the sky was betting lighter. He was scared. He knew he could not get back home in time.

He tried to move, but the slightest fraction of movement sent bolts of pain throughout his ruined body.

Then he knew what was going to happen, and smiled. He hadn't seen the sun in over two hundred years. Today he would see it again.

Looking over at Barry's dead body, which was already attracting flies, he said "We're off to a better place, my friend."

At five-thirty-two Randy saw the sun rise. At five-thirty-four he died for the second, and the last time.

VOODOO CHILD

Caitlin Gunn

Adisa walked slowly back to the camp, knowing that the night would be long and painful. Before morning, though, she would hold her child for the first time, and that was enough to settle her mind and ease the terrible aches from within her belly. She had spoken with Acua'ba – the Goddess of fertility – and had been told that the birth would be horrifying; she would wish herself dead, according to the great Goddess. Yet, she knew that all would eventually be well, and her child would be the most beautiful she could ever wish for. It was that mentality that would get her through.

She hoped that Acua'ba was wrong, somehow. Her pain was already intolerable, which was one of the reasons why she had not ventured far from the camp.

'Adisa!' a voice called out. She turned to find Nkechi, her brother, looking more than a little concerned. 'Where have you been? You shouldn't be walking around in your state. You have given father a headache with your mindless wandering.'

Adisa smiled. If she hadn't been in so much pain, she would have laughed aloud. 'Father has a headache because he drank too much,' she said. 'I needed to walk. I can't just wait.'

'But you must,' Nkechi said, leading her back to the camp with a hand on her shoulder. 'No harm must come to you, or the child. You know how important it is.'

She did, but she couldn't help thinking too much was being made of her fertilization. Her husband was the reason, or had been before he had been executed. If Aloozo had been normal, there would have been no such fuss made; Adisa would have been seen as nothing more than another pregnant girl in a world full of them.

'I will be grateful when she is born,' Adisa said, accepting Nkechi's help crossing a particularly rickety bridge.

'She?' Nkechi said, confused. 'You didn't ask the Goddess of the sex?'

Adisa did laugh, now, but it hurt too much and she cut it off. 'Of course not,' she said. 'It is forbidden, and I will find out soon enough. I just know, Nkechi. It is a girl.'

'How can you know?' Nkechi asked. 'Aloozo came from a long line of men; he only had brothers. The chances of you birthing a girl are little.'

'That might be true,' she said. 'But I can feel her, and I can hear her thoughts inside of me. That is enough, Nkechi, for me to know.'

He shook his head, not accepting her ridiculous theory. 'It will be a boy,' he said. 'Like Aloozo, only hopefully not like Aloozo.'

She shuddered at the thought. Things had not been right with her husband, right up until his beheading at the centre of the camp. It had not always been like that, of course. When she married him, he had been relatively normal, one of the best warriors in the tribe, but something happened, something that made him lose his senses.

He had tried to kill her in the dark of the night, like some maniacal assassin. Yet, as he snapped for her with those fierce teeth and glassy eyes, she had seen that he was not well, that something had afflicted him.

Stricken.

With a plague.

'My daughter will be nothing like Alooza,' Adisa finally said, forcing herself from the nightmarish reverie that had momentarily returned to taunt her. 'She will be strong, stronger than even Alooza had been before...before...'

She couldn't finish; she had no idea how to.

He had been a good man, and yet he had raped her, taken her like a savage beast, and then tried to bite her. His anger was such that the mere thought of it made hackles rise on the nape of Adisa's neck.

Nkechi shook his head. 'The only good thing that man ever did was give you this child,' he said. 'He paid for his betrayal with death, and now you must forget about him and focus only on tonight.'

They reached the camp and Nkechi escorted her to the tent in which she was to give birth. Small, cramped with people who were to assist, she felt claustrophobic almost as soon as she lay down.

'How are the pains?' the midwife asked. Juralem was beautiful, without actually having notable features. Her nondescript face possessed something that couldn't be explained, something preternatural.

Adesi pushed herself up onto her elbows; the makeshift bed creaked beneath her bloated frame. 'I feel like she will be here soon,' she said. 'I am suffering every twenty minutes, now.'

To her, that meant that the baby was imminent. To Juralem, who sighed, that meant nothing.

'Just try to relax,' the midwife said. 'Think of something nice to take your mind off the pain.'

Adesi closed her eyes and tried to conjure up pleasant memories, a time before the madness had infected Aloozo, a time when she had been truly happy. It was difficult, too difficult, and she found herself instead thinking of the future, a bright future with her daughter. It was a utopian vision, one that she looked forward to with every inch of her soul.

As a new contraction racked her body, she clenched the bedclothes, gasping, practically begging Juralem to somehow magic the pain away. The midwife simply smiled, as was her wont, and tried to settle her down onto the bed. She hadn't realised but she had been arching her back to an extent that only her head and feet were making contact with the sweaty sheets.

'Is she close,' a voice asked. Adesi didn't need to open her eyes to recognise her father's voice.

'Not long, now,' Juralem replied. 'Try to relax; she will be fine.'

She opened her eyes just in time to see her father shaking his head and looking on with a concerned expression. The contraction had passed, and she could finally speak once again.

'I am fine, Father,' she said, unsure of how much truth she spoke. 'She will be with us soon, and she will be the most beautiful child ever to grace the world.'

Her father smiled, yet there was still an element of apprehension upon his face. 'I know that you speak the truth,' he said, trying to fight back tears. 'I just need to make sure.'

Adesi didn't know how to respond to that. Make sure of what? What were her father's concerns?

Before she had time to push further, he turned and headed off out of the tent, leaving Juralem staring down at her with that beautiful smile of hers.

'He is just worried about his daughter,' the midwife said in a feeble attempt to comfort Adesi. 'You will find, one day, when your own daughter is lying on this bed that you will feel exactly the same.'

She nodded, relaxed a little and awaited the next contraction.

When it arrived, Adesi could only think of her father and what he had said. The pain coursed through her, curling her toes so violently that she was almost certain to have broken them. I just need to make sure...

Somebody – one of the assistants, she guessed – placed a wooden stick between her lips and instructed her to bite down. She duly obeyed, and broke one of her back teeth in the process, but it did help, a little, and as the agony faded she lowered herself back down onto the bed once again, the boiling-hot sweat puddling beneath her suddenly very uncomfortable.

Adesi didn't dare to open here eyes, but she could feel Juralem trying to work the baby free using as many fingers as she had on both hands. Once the midwife was certain of the cessation of the contraction, she stopped and whispered something to one of her aides.

'What?' Adesi asked, suddenly panicked by the silence that had fallen over the tent. 'What is the problem?'

'There is nothing wrong,' Juralem said, wiping sweat away from Adesi's brow using her own sleeve. 'We are almost done here. I just need you to really push with the next one; don't stop until I tell you to. Do you understand.'

Adesi nodded. She understood just fine, though she didn't like what she was hearing very much. When Acua'ba had told her that she would pray for death, she had taken it with a pinch of salt, for wasn't that what all post-natal women say. The Goddess had spoken the truth, though, and the last three contractions had caused her to welcome death with open arms, though it never arrived.

'I can feel it,' Adesi gasped. A tear rolled down her cheek. 'Oh, please, I can feel it coming...'

'Puuuuush!' Juralem cried. 'Don't stop, remember. Keep going until I tell you to stop.'

Adesi pushed, gave it everything that she had, and prayed for death at the same time. She could feel blood trickling out of her, oozing down her legs. How much blood was she losing?

How much more?

She panted, screamed, and pushed, and Juralem shouted at her. She bit down so hard on the wooden stick that it splintered her tongue before snapping into three. She pushed. And then she heard the crying, though it wasn't the screech of a baby that she heard.

It was something else.

She opened her eyes, and wished that she hadn't. Juralem was staring down at the thing lying between her legs, her expression was one of utter revulsion, and then she ran out of the tent, screaming at the top of her lungs. It all happened so fast that Adesi didn't have time to comprehend. She could feel it squirming around between her bloodied thighs, could feel it scratching at the inside of her legs, and as the tent emptied, she knew that Acua'ba had meant it literally: You will pray for death.

She hadn't meant during the birth.

She had meant after.

Her father appeared in the opening; just behind him was Nkechi, who was holding something in his hand, something that terrified Adesi.

'My poor, poor girl,' her father sobbed as he stepped into the tent. 'This is what I had prepared for. This is what I had prayed against for nine months.'

Adesi still couldn't see the thing between her open legs, but she felt every move as it began to tear away at her flesh. She was certain that it bit her, too, and that was when she prayed for death, for if it had teeth then it was not of this world, nor should it be.

'Nkechi,' he father said, beckoning him into the room. 'We have no choice.'

Adesi pushed herself up onto her elbows. The sweaty bedclothes clung to her like a second skin. 'What is it Father?' she cried. 'Please, tell me what it is?'

Her father stepped aside and glanced down into Adesi's swollen eyes. Already they were turning – she was turning – and he knew that there was nothing more to be done for either of them.

'Please,' she begged. 'Please, tell me what's happening.' Her eyes glazed over, yellowed as if she had all of a sudden become jaundiced. She threw herself back down onto the bed as the pain enveloped her.

'I love you,' her father said, taking a cautious step backwards. He turned to Nkechi. 'The baby first,' he said, jabbing a finger towards the monstrosity between her thighs.

Nkechi stepped up and, wielding the machete like a pro-baseball player, sliced the air. There was an audible whoosh, a hellish scream, and then only Adesi's sobs.

'Pleeeeease!' she cried, the agony making the cords on her neck stand out. 'Pleeeeease, what have you done?!'

Nkechi handed the machete to his father and apologised. 'I will see her forever in my nightmares,' he said, a solitary tear making its way down his cheek. 'I can't do it.'

Her father pointed him towards the tent exit. 'You will be thought no less of in this camp,' he said. 'Now go. I have to do this now, before she is completely taken.'

Nkechi left the tent sobbing.

Adesi's screams lasted but a second longer.

SUICIDE SOLUTION

R.D.Teun

Quinn walked slowly past the houses that sat quietly beneath the shelter of night. Not one curtain flickered; there was no news to be heard just yet. However, come tomorrow, those curtains would flicker. The neighbours that had been strangers for years would greet each other to discuss the mystery of the night before. It would be the tale that lovers used as justification to cling together, when the cold was of no available excuse. Cold-hearted murderers would lay awake at night, clutching their sheets and left to watch the windows for strange faces. Lost in the deep pool of his own thought as he entered the field just beyond the houses, Quinn wondered why this place was chosen: Why here? Where it was open and wide. Why not somewhere quiet and secluded? The grass crunched softly beneath his feet as he walked to the edge of the lake. Despite his reservations of chosen location, he could barely contain his excitement; here he was taking what could be his last breaths as a mortal. It was tonight, soon he would be inducted…No. He was to transcend into
the upper echelons of a new existence. To live forever, to live a thousand lifetimes. Never knowing the cruel grace of old age, never knowing sickness. He felt the last feelings of regret slowly ebb away. His family would never know of him again. A once in a lifetime chance. If confronted with the moral dilemma that he was given, he was sure they would have made the same choice. Not that it mattered anymore; they had refused him their loving embrace for some time now. He was fathered by a man who never wanted him in the first place. All Quinn was ever told was that he was a product of a one-night stand; he was never part of that particular deal, as he was constantly reminded during his adolescence. He had spent his entire life not belonging. Now he was old enough to be responsible for himself, he was shown the door never to darken it again with his shadow. All that was left was the world to be explored. Around him the crickets sang. The animals of the night made their quiet way through the surrounding trees as they swayed as lightly as feathers caught in a breeze, and the night welcomed the end of the day. Quinn hoped this would be the last of his suffering. Life had not been kind to him; it had seemed to be against him at every corner. Maybe in his death and rebirth the pain would falter, perhaps fade away completely. Maybe, for the first time in his life he would finally be a piece of a puzzle that fitted.

‘There have been men who have lost countless years watching their own reflection.’

The voice caused Quinn to nearly leap from the very skin he inhabited. Quinn turned around to face the owner of the familiar voice.

‘Is this gonna be the last night?’ said Quinn with a nervous smile. He had every right to be nervous. All the knowledge he had was from what he had seen from every vampire film. The little time he had spent with a real vampire was very different from what he had seen on the silver screen. Maybe it was the Hollywood appeal to the masses, in which the monsters had to have that certain approachability, White males, who were always athletic and always with or ahead of fashion. The silver-screen vampires had a feminine handsomeness. Lastly, they were always perfect boyfriend material, complete and utter gentlemen. Quinn only had one of these qualities. He was not particularly handsome nor was he unfortunate. How new vampires were chosen was a concept beyond him. Whatever qualities he had… they had caught the attention of the eternal.

Quinn repeated ‘Will it be my last?’

‘The last night as a human? Yes it will be. In fact the only thing left for you, is to die.’

The nervous smile upon Quinn’s face turned like sour milk.

‘Don’t look so worried; dying is all part of the process of the turning.’

Vampire. The word still lacked reality, despite all tangible proof in the world right in front of him. If it all were indeed to be a dream, he would gladly fall into it completely. Quinn looked down at his distorted reflection in the lake as it rippled away, never again to find a pleasing form within this life, as he knew it. He wished he had more time, maybe a little more time to get his figure the way he wanted. A little more time to get some money together. Still this was it, now and forever, no turning back. Looking into his maker's eyes, he felt lost within them. His worries faded as if a distant and worn memory. The last remnants of his existence lost to the memory of the lake. He felt the excitement build slowly like a good orgasm. For Quinn, he felt as though he was on the cusp of becoming a celebrity. To be immortal, to go anywhere, be anyone. To travel from one destination to the next without responsibility or time to dictate how long he spent in places. Some of the most wonderful views in the world were viewed by moonlight and her loving glow.

‘There are consequences for this life.’ said the maker.

‘What? How did you know what I was thinking?’

‘I know your every thought. Your every impulse. Your blood is in my veins. You want to know why I chose you. In time, you may understand my motives. Time is also growing short for us.’

‘Time?’ asked Quinn. For us? came the afterthought.

‘Time was a lost concept for me, well, until now. I cannot stress enough. We must not exist to the outside world. It is one that I have…well, I have broken. That Is why I chose you…You're the one who is going to kill me.’ said the maker.

‘Why? How can you expect me to kill you?’ asked Quinn.

‘Murder, the cost of my existence. I have taken life after life; for me to live longer than what is allowed. You should get used to killing, you and Death will be intimate friends.’

‘No. I can’t kill you, I won’t.’ said Quinn. He continued, ‘Isn’t it a little too late for regrets?’

Quinn’s maker gave a bitter laugh; there was no real telling as to what his age was before he was turned.

If pushed to an educated guess, Quinn would have said around thirty. Still, irrelevant now; his maker's interior clock was far older despite appearances.

‘Do you know my name? No, of course you don’t. I never want to be remembered as a murderer. I tried to feed off those who deserved to die, but then who am I to
judge? That is left to god…maybe he may just forgive me…’

‘But why? Isn’t it in your nature to feed off the blood the living? Who did you kill that caused such attention?’ said Quinn. He hoped to change his maker’s mind.

‘The less you know the better. So live for a few more decades, grow old and grey then die in an undignified state in an old peoples' home…Or will you take the chance to live forever?’

Quinn turned his back for a moment, it was not a move made to be impolite. He needed to think about this
without eyes upon him. To live forever, cheating death…?

‘There are rules. No, think of them as laws as they come with punishments if broken. We vampires do not, cannot, be found to be thought of as existing. I just cannot stress that enough. I do not want you to make the same mistakes I have made. Therefore, here comes my other reason for wanting to be killed: I cannot face my punishments. I got careless; I forgot the rules in my blood lust. I want to die on my own terms. Aside from that you must think of us as the Mafia. We are not there, yet we are. As much as we need to feed, we must do our best not to kill. If we do, we must be careful to hide the evidence.’

Quinn wanted to drink in what he could; he could kill if it meant surviving. After all he would have centuries ahead of him to get over his crimes. He ate meat as a living man, which involved the death of a living creature. So what difference would it make if he was a walking dead man? Quinn felt that all this information was hurried; his maker was running from his own existence. Despite this, his maker walked with the confident gait he was used too. Even in the face of true eternal death, he was defiant. Proud. Having only been courted for as an apprentice for six months, Quinn felt honoured to be chosen in such a short time. As Quinn understood it, such apprenticeships took no less then two years. To give the gift of eternity was not to be given away like a drunken one night stand; it was to be saved for one that would treasure such a gift.

‘Why do you want to die?’

‘Have you not been listening? My killing, I have had enough! I have lived for hundreds of years; I have watched people I have grown to love wither away into death. Above all, I am tired… I just want to rest. There has got to be more to life than blood and the night sky. I want to be dead to the world.’ replied his maker.

‘Wel-’

Before another question left the lips of Quinn, he felt the cold hands of his maker holding his head straight. He could feel his makers teeth scrape against his warm skin, and then came the pain. The needle-like teeth did not pierce his skin; they instead tore into his flesh. From the corner of his eye, Quinn watched his blood spurt onto the grass. He wanted to pull his maker away from his neck. There would be no point.

Collapsing to his knees, Quinn held his neck. The blood ran between his fingertips like sand. Before he could catch his breath, Quinn felt the powerful hands of his maker beneath his armpits. From there he felt himself hoisted to his feet.

‘Here, take this.’ said the maker, wiping the blood from his mouth onto his sleeve. Before he was even aware, Quinn felt something hard and heavy drop into his palm. Before he could react, he once again felt the gentle kiss of his maker upon his throat. Quinn could feel his flesh knit together, almost as if the sinew and muscle were dancing until it became one blanket of skin.

‘What is it?’ asked Quinn, who was not even aware that his maker’s nails had penetrated his skin. It had once again become the uniform of skin that it once was.

Quinn thought that if only man could have known of the healing properties of vampire blood, maybe then they could have been accepted into society of equals.

‘Never mistake the living as equals; humanity is greedy by nature.’

Quinn hated the privacy of his thoughts being invaded like that, he craved some privacy in his own mind.

The maker's nails tapped against the sharp stake.

‘It is my saviour; remember what I said…they will be here in moments.’

Quinn’s lip quivered as he spoke, his voice trembled.

‘I don’t want to do this, I won’t…’

‘ You must, you will, I don’t want to found by the other vampires. I have exposed them. At least this way…they cannot get to me, or you. Quick, they are getting closer!’

What could his maker see that he could not? In the deep darkness where the moon ruled with its light. Who were they? Who was he, other then his maker? If only he could read him so openly as his maker could read Quinn.

Before another question could form on his lips, Quinn felt the hands of his maker upon his own hands. He felt the hard and heavy object swivel within his palm, he felt something sharp brush against his skin. Quinn felt as though he was a puppet; his maker was pulling his strings. Before his eyes, his hands drove the object into the chest of his maker. A look of pained relief struck his maker's face. A scream from his maker pierced the night, Quinn’s head followed the howl into the sky. He expected for that one moment which went as quick as it came, for the very stars themselves to fall once the sound reached them. His maker's body made its last sound as it hit the ground with an empty thump. Quinn looked down at his hands, covered in red guilt. The stake, once silver. Now covered in warm red liquid from the walking cold body. Quinn watched the lifeless body heaped upon the floor, just how much had those eyes seen? From the birth of the world's first car to the birth of modern technology. Could he have been older then that? Could his maker have seen the birth of an empire to its inevitable fall? Quinn wished he had taken the time to find out; hindsight was a beautiful thing.

Quinn loomed over the body of his maker, his mentor who never taught him enough. How much was there to learn? All Quinn had was the little he was told and the vampire films he had grown up with. An ache within his jaw, more precisely in his teeth. He could feel his fingernails pushing, growing at a snail's pace. Tears began to fall, the closest thing to love he had ever known was now a lifeless heap upon the floor. He had lost a father for the second time in his life.

‘Put your hands up and drop your weapon!’ Screamed a voice behind him. Quinn was too numb to respond straight away. He wondered how many lives had been lost so his maker could live his. He wondered if he would ever recover from his loss. Quinn could hear the
footprints treading closer behind him. The commanding voice repeated its original demand. Quinn felt as though he was in a haze; he had envisioned a more powerful, maybe even a romantic start to his journey into his second life. Every moment passed as though time had stood still, well almost. Quinn held up his hands, letting the instrument of death drop to the ground. He put up no resistance as he felt the steel cuffs hug his wrists. They felt tight, its grip closing in on his freedom.

‘Hey, Alan, come throw this loon in the back of the car…Don’t worry ’bout his head when you duck him in the back.’ A cruel chuckle followed. Quinn’s mind worked at light speed, his mouth made not the slightest motion. It was as still as the body before him.

Quinn never made one complaint, his rights were read, and the offer of a lawyer stood. Quinn felt like a pawn in his maker’s game. He quickly concluded that it was his maker who called the cops to his own murder. If his maker was to be dead to the world, why did it have to be like this? He left Quinn feeling used. Where would he go from here without a mentor, a father figure to guide him? Quinn wanted the roller-coaster of emotions to slow down, but he wondered if they ever would. The body of his maker remained motionless upon the floor. Was he not supposed to turn into ash or burst into flames when he died? Yet Quinn had only known this from the movies and the drunken ramblings of an Irish writer. The fantasy was a far cry from the reality that he now knew.

‘Hey, Alan, it’s only nine o’clock and the moon howlers are out already! Get it? Moon howlers, those ready for the rubber hotel!’ Frank chuckled at his own brand of humour, followed by a false cackle from Alan. They were probably the only two men in the world who would laugh at that joke, and what a lonely world they both lived in. The blue lights of the patrol car tried to outshine the stars; they would never be as beautiful, no
matter how much those lights shined. Quinn felt his head bounce off the metal as he was placed on the back seat; not one word passed his lips. He would have the last laugh, he would make sure of it. It was as guaranteed as those very same stars appearing every night. Would the blood in his veins make good on that promise? Maybe it would, maybe it would not.

Quinn knew the clock was against him, even with the blood of the eternal in his veins. It was only a matter of time before the effects of that would expire.

He would have to find a way to die in order to live forever.

*

Quinn was not looking for excuses as he sat quietly in the interview room, as the coffee in front of him grew cold. His thirst was not lost to the arrest or the thought of his freedom being taken away. It was lost to the blood and hunger for it within him. The yearnings were quiet, yet they made their presence known. Meanwhile, Alan and Frank readied themselves for the play ahead; this is what they trained for, not for what they were taught to do. They did everything by the book, for the most part. As with any play, its interpretation was down to the actors. Quinn had refused any representation; he knew he did not need it. After tonight was a hopeful glimmer of eternity. Both Alan and Frank sat their steaming coffees down onto the table. Frank placed his pack of cigarettes down next to his coffee. The window to the left of the room echoed every movement made. Quinn wondered why they even bothered with the two-sided glass nowadays; he knew every movement they made was being recorded like some cheap porno. He wondered if they all got together after their shifts and watched the tapes of what really happened to people in their custody. The tapes that never made it to court, the sneaky tricks, the spitefulness that they would use like little school bullies.

‘So, what do you think we have here?’ asked Frank as he handed Alan a cigarette, placing one in front of Quinn. He wanted to reach out and grab the cigarette. Was he going to have too worry about lung disease…? Not fucking likely.

Quinn reached out for the cigarette, and Frank's hand hovered over it like a territorial dog. His fingers ready to bite into Quinn’s hand.

‘Not yet…You gotta give, before you receive. You're gonna learn that, especially when your ass hits the showers in Sing-Sing when you bend over,’ said Frank, his eyes danced with spiteful delight. Quinn quickly concluded that Frank was one of those cops who thought you as guilty, even when you were innocent.

Quinn had felt Frank's handcuffs, which were all the proof Frank needed. Alan chimed in before Frank had the chance to continue.

‘What he means to say is, tell us your name and you get treated better. It's better all round that you just cooperate. I’m not going to refer to you as John Doe all night, so tell me, What’s your name?’

For the first time that night, Quinn smiled. It was a weird and unsettling smile. Quinn showed his pearly white teeth. How proud he was going to be when he
reached the puberty of his vampirism, when he really
could finally use them.

‘What is your name, you pissing moon howler?’

‘Isn’t this where you’re supposed to lull me into a false sense of security? Isn’t this where you’re supposed to convince me that you’re my friend?’ smirked Quinn.

Frank slammed his meaty hand onto the table; the metal vibrated and echoed painfully around the interview room. Alan flinched. He had felt that fist before.

‘Us friends? I ain’t your friend. We caught you red-handed! We got you at the crime-scene, blood on your hands, with a stake in the poor bastard's chest. What did he do? Was it revenge? Did he bang your wife? Did he rob you? On the other hand, did he just come around and piss up your kids Christmas tree? C’mon, boy, tell me, what in the hell possessed you kill him?’

Quinn continued to smile, that strange all knowing little grin.

‘Alan, take over for a moment.’ said Frank between gritted Teeth, bringing his coffee to his lips.

Frank walked around the table, taking a seat against the wall. From there he sat, Alan’s back turned to him. Quinn’s shit-eating grin watching him and his every move. How that grin annoyed Frank. He looked forward to wiping it from his face.

‘So, what is your name? You could be innocent…. If you are then tell us a name. What have you got to lose?’ Despite the deep scratchy quality of Alan’s voice, he had managed somehow to make it soothing, light.

‘My name's Quinn.’

Quinn allowed them to have their paper-thin, good-cop, bad-cop routine. If it made them happy, let them have it. Why kick a sleeping dog? Alan gave a victorious smile, the pride of making a little ground, spread across his weather beaten face.

‘Finally we’re getting somewhere.’ Frank looked at his watch as he spoke. It read: 9.45 P.M.

Its digital glow lost within the sea of the overhead strip light. Before Frank could continue, a knock came from the door. Frank strained his bulky frame out of his chair, to answer the door. Quinn saw Frank's lips move, yet heard nothing. He was more interested in what the person behind the door was saying. He could not wait to be dead. As a vampire, his hearing would be better. At least then he could listen instead of just hearing. Frank uttered a few words, unheard by the interview room. Shutting the door behind him, Frank fell against the door. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, blowing the blue smoke towards the ceiling.

Alan looked onward at Frank.

‘What’s the latest Frank?’

Quinn’s hands recoiled like a snake as he hid them beneath the table. He hoped his movements had gone unnoticed; his nails were growing. Quinn peered downwards at his hands beneath the table. His nails had grown into short sharp points, almost like spearheads. They looked as sharp as a cut-throat razor. What the hell was going on with his body? He had not died, he was not due to turn. Not yet. He still had to die before the sunrise if he wanted to live forever. What prison would he be facing; the one where the bars shadowed the sunlight or the sweet prison of the eternal night? Quinn knew which one he wanted. Hell. The one he needed.

‘Heh, look at me boy.’ said Frank.

Quinn looked upwards at Frank, his breath held. For the first time that night, Quinn looked anxious. Frank continued.

‘Finally sinking in is it…? Shame that. They would have loved you in prison. Got bitch written all
over you.’ Frank's voice had a deep scratchiness. The tobacco-tinted rasp that only years of smoking could bring.

‘Wha-’

‘Shut up moon-howler. I got news for you…you’re not a killer. Not yet anyway.’

Quinn opened his mouth then shut it again. It seemed Alan had the same question burning in his mind as well.

‘What’s going on Frank?’

Taking a deep breath and a pull on his cigarette. Frank looked at his feet, the steps that had been taken. The beats that had been stomped, the teeth they had kicked in. Frank raised his head ready to address everyone.

‘How can I put this? The body, the victim was on the slab ready to go, and well...the coroner left the room because he needed something, a sandwich, knowing that fat shit. When he got back the body was gone. Just like that he'd gone, as if he was never there in the first place.’ Frank looked as though he was still trying to process what he was told.

Alan’s eyebrows furrowed, his cigarette had been out for some time now. Reaching into his pocket, Alan pulled out his lighter and relit his cigarette.

‘So any idea where this guy has gone? What the hell is going on?’

Quinn sat silently, his hands placed upon the table. His fingers interlocked, trying to hide his newly-grown
nails. He wanted to admire them, marvel at the blood that they could spill. Another tool in his box of fear.

Not death, just fear. He had already played his part in the attempted killing of another of his future kin. Either way he would stand trial as a killer, or at the very least an attempted killer of his kin. Quinn was woken from his quiet admiration of his nails as Frank placed a heavy palm upon his shoulder. Frank's fingers gripped into Quinn’s shoulder. Quinn refused to give any sign, not one note of pain, as Frank's fingers dug in deeper. He looked upwards, watching the muscles twitch in Frank's flushed face.

‘Don’t think for one second you're getting away with this. People like you make me sick. Even if he does turn up alive, you’re still looking at an attempted murder charge. There will be a body somewhere. So don’t look so damn happy.’

Alan picked up on the growing, violent vibe that was emanating from Frank.

‘Hey, Frank, fancy some coffee?’

‘Screw the coffee, Alan, look at this freak,’ said Frank as he reached over and took hold of Quinn’s hand, turning it so this his palms were facing down.

‘His nails; look at them. Who does he think he is? That shit-eating grin. The way he thinks that nearly killing a guy is okay? I see knuckleheads like this all day, every day. They make me sick.’ Spittle ran down the corner of his mouth, Frank quickly ran his sleeve across his face, wiping away the offending saliva.

‘I’m getting some coffee. I’m getting too old for this.’ said Alan as he left Quinn alone with Frank. It was almost like leaving a Christian to a lion. The door shut behind him along with any hopes of fair justice being provided. Quinn looked upwards at Frank; he saw the sadistic glee ignite within his eyes. Quinn imagined it would be the same look that a pyromaniac would have with a book of matches. Quinn brought his hands from beneath the table, his nails scraping against the metal. From there he held his hands together in the form of a chapel roof just below his chin.

‘We’re not so different, me and you.’ said Quinn, his voice held a confidence that mystified Frank.

‘Really? Well I do an honest day's work, go home, have a beer. Then I start the whole process of protecting the world from little fuck-nuggets like you. So how are we the same?’

Frank stood back with his arms across his chest as he spoke, the cigarette was nearing its end. All that was left was the long worm of ash waiting to fall. The room now filled with smoke like a Vegas magician's show. Frank didn't have a wife to go home to; she had left him some years ago. The final straw for Frank’s wife, Annette, was when the illusion of the good cop faded. The true nature of Frank’s extra cash was not the result of holding a good position within the force, it was from those who he was supposed to be protecting. The old Chinese man who was left with broken fingers for not coughing up the cash, the prostitute left for dead after her pimp “kept her in line” just that one time too many. The list of his misdeeds was long and ever-growing. His cash roll of kickbacks growing even more. How else would he keep up the lifestyle he had grown to love? The power that came with corruption he lapped up like a thirsty dog.

‘The greatest trick the devil ever performed was to convince the world he did not exist…So when you go home, to your wife, does she look at you as a hero, as opposed to the abuser of power that you truly are?’

Quinn recoiled as Frank bolted forward, his hands wrapping around Quinn’s face. Pain flowed around every muscle within Quinn’s features as Frank squeezed his head like a Florida orange. Quinn’s hands met with

Frank's, with strength he did not know he possessed. His nails dug into the skin of Franks hands. Quinn watched Frank pull his hands away, his skin pulled taut as if caught on a rusty nail. He watched on in fascination as the blood fell from the cuts made by his nails.

Frank tore at his shirt, not caring how it looked. He quickly wrapped his hands in the shirt to stop the blood-flow. Quinn watched the hypnotic blood dance down Frank's hand.

‘You mother…’ Frank shook his head. ‘You're gonna fucking pay for that!’ he screeched, his head leering forward. At that same moment, Alan entered with the coffee. The moment he caught sight of the chaos
before him, the coffee cups fell to the ground where they landed with an empty echo. Alan rushed the few steps needed to reach his partner. Frank was hurt. Nothing life-threatening, Quinn sat there with all the innocence of a child. The serene look upon his face unsettled Alan. Frank continued to scream obscenities around the room while clutching the shirt that covered his hands. The blood continued to flow. What began as a crisp white shirt was now a sopping red mess.

‘What the hell is going on?’ Asked Alan, a perplexed look upon his face. He had only been gone for a matter of minutes.

Alan cupped Frank’s hands to see the extent of the damage, but before he could lift the shirt away from Frank’s hands, Frank threw his hands down. The shirt fell onto the floor where it mingled with the spilt coffee. Before Alan could react, Frank was already in front of Quinn, his hands fumbling to get a grip of Quinn’s face.. A finger on one cheek, a thumb on the other. The fingers pressed in hard, until Quinn’s lips puckered and his teeth gritted. Alan didn't have time to act. Frank raised his bloody hand and struck Quinn in the face. Quinn’s head snapped back as the blow connected. It was difficult to tell whose blood had been spilt.

‘C’mon now, Frank, that’s enough! How we going to explain that?’

‘That’s easy, Alan…He tripped and fell into the table.’

‘The tape, Frank. This is not how we police!’

‘We can edit. Anyway, this moon-howler is gonna pay one way or another…and I have just the thing.’

Frank rubbed his bloodied knuckles, he bent down to pick up the shirt. As he looked at his hand, it burned.

Quinn snapped his head forward, wiping the blood from his mouth. He hoped that his teeth were still intact. Before he could grasp his bearings, he felt Frank's shovel-like hands upon the back of his collar.

‘This interview is over.’ said Frank as he picked Quinn up like a rag-doll.

‘Whoa, whoa Frank! Try to be at least a little gentle. Where are you taking him?’

As the tips of his shoes scraped against the floor, Quinn allowed himself a secret smile. He kept his mouth shut; there was no point catching another beating.

‘Where are you taking him, Frank?’ Alan asked again.

‘Well, Alan, remember our old friend, the biker?’ said Frank, with a cold flat tone.

‘Crazy-Eight? No, not him…’ Alan wanted to stop him, to halt him from his own madness. Alan knew deep down he was no physical match for a man of Frank's size.

‘No such luck, but we got one of his crew behind bars.’

‘We can’t put Quinn in with one of them. Those bikers should be behind rubber walls, not iron bars.’

‘Maybe Quinn might just learn not to screw with the law, more importantly, not to screw with me,’ hissed Frank.

Alan took hold of Quinn’s arm firmly, not enough to cause discomfort. He looked Quinn up and down,
noticing he was still wearing a belt. His eyes opened as if they were jack in the boxes.

‘Now who’s the killer, Frank?’ Alan dropped his head downward, almost as if the solution was written upon the floor somewhere. ‘I want nothing to do with this. This is going too far. He’s just a kid, nobody deserves to be treated like this. It’s inhumane, Frank.’

He let go of Quinn’s arm patted him on the back. ‘Sorry kid. Let's hope you make it to the morning. I wish I could have been of more help.’ Alan’s voice was full of remorse, that same emotion was echoed across his rugged features. Alan gave Quinn one more look. There was no more he could do, Frank had the luck of the devil. His career was veiled in Teflon when it came to bending and breaking rules. He had seen others try to bring Frank down, only for them to leave in his place. Some were never heard from again. In Alan’s view of the world, it was a cruel place where even the innocent got punished.

‘Alan,’ said Frank, grabbing Quinn's arm.

‘We catch killers, not help to kill. I want nothing to do with this. I’ve turned a bind eye to a lot things over the past, not this though. I want no part of this…’ interrupted Alan.

A pained look stretched across Frank's face. ‘I’ll write the report the way that will keep us clean.’

Alan shook his head in disappointment, taking a deep look into Franks eyes. He could not look into them for long. He never wanted to be this cop. A little hard, he had to be. Too much kindness was taken as a weakness.

Once Alan was partnered with Frank, little innocent Alan fell down the rabbit hole into Frank’s dark world. Truth was, Alan feared his partner.

Alan turned his back, his feet carried him along not aware his was even moving, the final nerve had snapped. Frank called out. Alan ignored him. He walked away as if a he was a ghost wandering away into the crowds of faceless criminals and forgotten justice. Frank knew deep down that Alan would return to the fold; men like him always did. It was a shame, though. Frank thought his efforts to groom an apprentice had been working. Frank took comfort in the fact there was no dramatic handing in of the gun and badge, or maybe that was worse? Maybe he would go home and dwell upon it, only to discover a detailed report on the desk in the morning.

Regardless of this, Frank planned a way of covering his tracks. He held tight to his quarry.

‘So are you going to show me to my room Francis?’ asked Quinn.

Frank chuckled, his eyes narrowed. The little crows' feet crinkled at the corners of his eyes.

‘Room? I look forward to finding your corpse in the morning. I’ve got somebody I want you to meet. You know what? I’ll leave it a couple of days before I notify your relatives.’ Frank continued to chuckle as if entertained by his own threatening wit. Quinn gave no resistance as Frank led him out of the room, down the narrow hallways. Past the ladies of the night who felt there was nothing wrong in cash for companionship, their underwear looser then their morals.

Quinn wondered as to just how much time he had left; he could already feel that supernatural strength lent to him by his maker begin to fade. The quiet urges in his gut had fallen beneath a melody of near silence. The only true answer to his question could be found within his own death.

Suicide or being murdered, whichever came first there would be a solution to his miserable existence as he knew it. Quinn ignored all the wild and inventive threats uttered by Frank. He closed his eyes in tiny intervals, imagining a life after tonight. The cell was as barren as the great deserts of Egypt, with all the charm of an abattoir. Quinn wished he had asked more questions, just something more to prepare him. Yet again, the eternal enemy of time was apparent. Maybe if he was lucky it would be his friend, then he could watch it pass without the worry of leaving the beauty of this world.

In the corner of this grey concrete hell sat his bunk-buddy for the duration. He spoke through gritted teeth, the rotten yellow tombstones of his mouth disgusted Quinn.

‘You mother-, I’m gonna suck out ya’ eyeballs and skull-fuck you.' The spittle sprayed as the man spoke, little drops of venom in every word. Frank allowed himself a wider smile then before. His dry thin lips stretched over his teeth. His tobacco burnt breath offended Quinn’s sense of smell. Quinn pulled his head to one side to avoid the scent of Frank’s putrid breath.

‘Play nice now,’ replied Frank as he grabbed Quinn’s arm tighter, until he was sure that it would leave a nice spiteful bruise. He pinched at the soft skin of Quinn’s underarm, nipping at the flesh between thumb
and forefinger. Much to Frank’s dissatisfaction, Quinn
gave no response, not even a small recoil of his arm.

Frank shoved Quinn into the cell, closing the door behind him. The door shut with an empty clang, denying the freedom of those within for another night. Frank had to take comfort in the fact that, while he did not leave the nasty bruise as he wanted,. he was at least the catalyst of a night of suffering for Quinn.

Quinn stood silently before the door, his nails no longer growing. The cogs of his brain were turning uncomfortably, and all that remained was the strong urge to die and the means to do so.

With the door now firmly shut, down the hall away from the confinement of the cells and shouts of abuse the cops of the day-shift clocked off for the night, exchanging tired greetings in the forms of nods and grunts with the night-shift cops. Frank was amongst those cops; a tiring night he had endured. The comfort of his one bedroom apartment beckoned. It would only be a matter of time before he could retire properly to the Florida Keys. The home of which was paid for by kickbacks, broken fingers and turning the odd blind eye for the right government official. Shit truly ran downhill, from the top of the pyramid to the reeking gutters.

*

Frank had only made a couple of stops on his way home. Another visit to the old Chinese man who complained of the pain in his fingers and how it had cost him work. Frank offered no sympathy, leaving the old man with a cold warning about keeping up such payments. There were, after all, worse people out there. They would not offer the protection he would. His last visit was to the ladies of the night who stalked the kerbs to make a living, but even then he could not rid his thoughts of Alan.

More to the point, he was concerned about the self-righteous rant he would get from Alan. If only Alan would have listened, there was money to be made. You never saw a rich cop, yet you always saw a rich criminal. It had been some time since he had left the police station, and his cellphone had not rung once. There was some comfort in that thought. A pang of regret struck the bell within his soul, it did not chime for the inhumanity of leaving a man in the prison cell with a maniac. It was the fear of Alan reporting him for his decision. Was he culpable for the pain that Quinn would inevitably suffer? Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't.

Frank tossed the thought over in his mind; he could not be there all the time to keep the peace. He could not be held responsible for others' actions. He had gotten away with everything so far. At least now, for the moment, he could rest easy. Frank felt once his head eventually hit the pillow, his problems would disappear momentarily.

For Frank, this was the most wonderful thing since the dirty green cash first began to fall into his hands. Traffic was heavy tonight; rain began to make its gentle pitter-patters upon his window screen. The windscreen wipers kicked lazily into action, and the gentle rubber squeaking relaxed him. There was a kind of peace between the rain and the road, a stark contrast to the other motorists honking their horns in anger in a hurry to get home.

Taking his hands off the wheel, Frank reached into the glove compartment. He took off his beaten and scratched digital watch and exchanged it for another. He watched the stuck traffic for signs of movement as he put the new watch on. He brought his wrist up to his chest. The Rolex glimmered in the soft glow of rear lights of those ahead.

He would be home soon.

He placed his hand back on the wheel, his foot ready to hit the gas as the traffic moved finally forward. The traffic slowly became less congested, the cars now free to run to their respective destinations. The honks of frustrated drivers drifted into silence, only to be replaced by the gentle rumbles of engines. Frank put his foot down on the gas. He watched the store-fronts and tenement buildings as he passed. All was quiet on the western front. People milling round their daily business. Safe, happy. This would not do, Frank felt a call was needed to shake things up. The proprietors needed to realise why they paid him so much. Just as they, he had a business to run. Frank had vandals and strong-arms to keep them in line, and to keep them blackmailed was a full time job in itself. They got to keep their freedom and got to make a little money for themselves. It was winners all round. At a small cost, of course.

After a couple of miles passed, he finally reached his destination. He pulled into the car-park of his tenement building.

Home at last.

He twisted the key in the ignition; the engine fell silent. Frank sat for a moment, head tucked into his chest. Taking a deep breath, he ejected his seatbelt. He opened the car door and heaved himself out.

The rain still pattered lightly with threats of getting heavier. Pulling his cell from his pocket, Frank noticed he had missed a couple of calls from both the station and Alan.

Too late now; he was home. Whatever was wanted from him would have to wait until the morning. For now, the warmth and comfort of his bed beckoned him, maybe a little whiskey would make the night just that little nicer, a little easier.

Just then, his phone vibrated. Looking down at his cell Frank muttered, ‘Geez, Alan, you're gonna have to wait like a good boy.’

Frank was too tired now to worry about the concerns of his partner. Perhaps Alan changed his mind. Maybe he'd realised that he could not fuck with the infinite. After all, it was just balance, karmic in nature almost. Frank was just making sure it worked in his favour.

The clean air made him realise just how tired he was; two jobs would do that to a man. He dragged his body upwards to his sparsely furnished apartment, his feet felt heavy and ached. Frank unlocked his front door and flung it shut after he entered. He threw his keys onto the stand by the door. Frank tossed himself into his big tattered chair. He reached over to the coffee table to grab his whiskey bottle and poured himself a glass. As the glass touched his lips, Frank’s cell phone rang Again. He cussed and sighed as he flicked the phone open.

‘What now? Can’t you boys take a piss without needing me?’

‘Alan’s tried to ring you, we’ve tried to ring you. Frank you're needed here now.’ replied the firm voice.

‘Why?’ asked Frank as he tried to keep his voice as casual as possible. His mind was burning with excitement, maybe the biker had done his job after all.

‘Your attention is needed regarding two of the people you brought in tonight.’

Frank gave a heavy sigh before giving a reply.

‘Why? What is so bad, that I am needed down there? I’ve just sat down after an eighteen-hour shift. My feet are killing me. I’m tired, I―’

‘Your prisoners. Alan went down there to check on them. He found the biker and the other guy…dead. Alan’s not happy, It’s a mess down there.’

Frank brought the glass to his lips, the amber liquid warmed his throat as it travelled down. Frank wiped his lips with the back of his hand before he spoke.

‘Okay, okay. Tell me what happened so I know what to expect.’

‘You really should be down here seeing for yourself. Forensics cannot make a move until you are here. But seeing as Alan’s on his way he can tell you.’

‘Tell me now!’ barked Frank.

‘Okay, okay. From how it looks, it seems that the biker has been beaten to death. I mean he was almost beyond recognition, I don’t think even god would have recognised him. The only way we could identify him was by his gang tattoos. An―’

‘The biker's dead?’ Frank could not believe what he was hearing. Weren’t bikers supposed to be big and tough? Frank thought bikers punched out teeth for a living.

‘Yep. Not just that, the other guy has hung himself from the bars by his belt. He’s swinging like damn piñata, there must have been one helluva fight. Quinn had long deep lacerations to his face and hands. We can’t cut him down for further examination till you get here. Somebody really dropped the ball. Get down here as soon as, Frank, we nee―’

Frank closed the phone before the conversation could run any further. The cogs in his turned into over gear. How was he going to explain this one? Who could he pitch the blame on? He should have just let it go. His hatred for Quinn was a mystery to even him. He had to get a grip of himself. Things were slipping. He might as well have been greased up and sent down a steep hill. That was how fast he felt things were slipping. Frank paced the small apartment from one end to the other. Never before had he had a prisoner die like this, let alone two. In the past people had caught beatings, in Frank's mind everyone took a beating at some time. Some even ended up on the back of milk cartons. They decided to live that criminal life, it came with the territory.

All he had wanted was his piece of the action. He was in the tightest spot he had ever encountered in his career and there had been some real tight ones. Before, if somebody ever had to disappear, he took a vacation to Vegas where the desert had no memory. Nobody ever pulled over a cop.

He walked back over to the table on which the whiskey sat, and poured himself another glass. The whiskey flowed into the glass, swirling around as it hit the bottom. Before it had any real chance to settle, Frank shot his arm upwards, glass in hand, down the hatch it went. Then another and another. With enough whiskey in his body to settle his nerves, he took a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. A knock at the door reported around the room as he tried to light his cigarette.

‘Hang on, I’ll be there in a second.’ shouted Frank.

He wondered who the hell it was; there were only two or three people who came to his door nowadays. None of them were welcome at this point, if they ever were in the first place. The knock came again.

‘Hang on, I’m putting on some pants.’ he lied.

He made sure he had everything he needed. Gun, badge and a collective of well thought through plans and
excuses. If they mentioned the smell of alcohol, he
would reply; I was at home, relaxing. Why? How do you
relax after your shift? No, you're right. It is none of my business. So why ask me? There was no way they were going to plant his drinking as the cause of all of this.

The knocking came again.

‘Fuckin wait will ya!’

Frank approached the fish-eye lens of his door. It was like looking through a drunken telescope. At first there was a flicker of a shadow; there was movement somewhere out there.

‘Who is it?’

No reply came, just the whistle of the wind and patter of rain.

‘Who is it? You’ve been knocking on my door long enough.’

Before he could walk away and get back in his seat, Alan came into view. His entire body was out of proportion in the fish eye lens, little head and large body. Frank's shoulders slumped, heavy sigh followed. Great. Here he was to wax lyrical in his self-righteous way about the evils of corruption. Frank considered himself lucky that Alan had not ratted on him. So at least Frank could invite him in, give him a drink and explain everything. Well, everything with a few lies intertwined with nuggets of truth.

He opened the door. Alan stood there, face sullen. Rain dripped off his coat onto the floor by the door. Frank would have greeted him with a used car salesman’s smile, but now was not the time to act pleased.

‘Don’t stand there all day, come in for a minute. I need to talk to you before we shoot off.’

‘Okay.’ Alan muttered grimly as he shook the rainwater from his umbrella. Frank took a step back, allowing Alan to pass. Frank popped his head out of the door to see if there was anyone else out there. Bringing his head and body back in, he closed the door. He turned to Alan, who was still standing, awaiting further instruction.

‘For the love of… Alan, take a seat please.’

Alan hoisted his coat to the sides before he sat, he steadied himself slowly into the chair. His every move delicate, as if Frank was to be treat like a dangerous explosive.

‘Alan, just relax. Now we’ve got a lot of ground to cover. I’m telling you now, I never meant for Quinn or that biker to die. It’s tragic. I only wanted for that shit-eating grin of his to be wiped off. I only wanted him to catch a beating. To be taught a lesson. I’ve done a lot of bad things, I know, maybe this is a wake up call. Just back me up on this, one time and I’ll go straight. Promise.’ said Frank, trying to appeal to the humanitarian side of Alan. It had a nasty habit of showing, so it would not be difficult to get him on board. Frank moved to the opposite side of the room where the whiskey sat. Alan’s eyes followed him. Frank could just feel the judgemental look bore into his soul.

He bent down to the whiskey bottle and grabbed another glass.

‘Want a drink Alan?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Geez, you’re cranky. Have a drink, relax, we're on the same page now.’ The words slurred a little from Frank's lips. He turned his back, taking his time to fill both glasses with whiskey. Frank knew half the battle was over; Alan was sat in the chair, his hand soon to be filled with a drink. Now all that was left was to seal the deal. Frank muttered about mounting debts, the stress of the job as he filled the glasses. Frank turned back to Alan, then walked over to hand the man his drink.

Frank walked back over to his own chair, his cogs turning quickly. He made himself comfortable, taking a sip from his drink. He looked Alan in the eyes. It took a moment or two to get his vision right; the alcohol had hit his system harder then he had realised.

‘You’ve cost me a lot Frank; my entire life is now gone because of you.’ Alan said sternly.

Frank took a deep breath, and then said, ‘Don’t worry, Alan, you’ll still have a job. You’ve just gotta trust me okay? I’ll make things right, I’ll make it so that none of this ever gets back to us. Now, where can I begin...?’

‘You can begin to tell me what makes you and me so different?’ asked Alan.

‘Uh?’ Grunted Frank.

Alan leaned forward in his chair, placing his drink on the table before he continued. ‘You know the greatest trick the devil ever performed was convincing the world he never existed…’

‘What the hell are you on about…?’

It left Frank dumbfounded; he looked closer at Alan. A grin spread across Alan’s face. It was a shit-eating grin. Quinn’s shit eating grin.

‘No, no, no! It’s not possible…’

Alan raised his hand, took hold of his face, and removed it from his very skull. It peeled away like a band-aid. Alan’s face fell to the floor. All Frank could see was a grinning, skinless mound of contorting muscle and bloody gristle.

‘Oh yes, Frank, It is.’

‘Where..’ Frank tried to catch a fleeting breath, his breathing came in short, quick stabs.

‘What, where the hell is Alan!?’

The faceless corpse retorted with an evil, delicious tone. ‘Oh, they’ll find Alan hanging around…forgive the pun.’

Frank’s drink dropped to the ground with an empty thud; the whiskey shot out of the glass onto the floor. If Frank had neighbours, they would have heard his screams pierce the night. If they had came round to his
apartment to see what was wrong, they would have witnessed the greatest trick every performed.

Frank was never seen ever again, much to the joy of those he had oppressed. The old Chinese man would wait to make his weekly payments for a bully who would never return. After a while, the money he put to one side paid for a comfortable retirement.

Alan was given a fitting funeral service. He would be remembered as a good cop, a hero to the downtrodden. The police never could keep those nights' events contained for long. The papers, once they caught wind of the story, went into a feeding-frenzy of theories. Not one story even got close to the real truth.

As for Quinn, he would hunt. He would watch through the windows of his intended prey, with Frank’s dirty money to help fund his new life. Unaware his maker was watching him begin a journey into the land of the eternal.

They were both dead to the world now.

OUTBREAK ON THE COMMONS

Guy James

Matt Sarelson parked his Toyota Highlander behind Charlottesville’s Downtown Mall.

It was still dark.

His head began to nod, and he took another sip of his tepid coffee.

As part of his weekday routine, Matt made himself coffee every morning before he left for work. That morning, Matt had made himself a cup of strong Kona, but departing from his meticulous coffee-making practice, he had committed what he deemed a coffee preparation atrocity.

Matt’s coffeemaker had self-destructed a week earlier, and while he waited for its replacement to arrive, Matt used his trusty French press in the broken coffeemaker’s stead.

On that unfortunate morning, Matt was especially groggy when he forced himself out of bed at ten minutes past four. The grogginess led to an exceptional bout of clumsiness in the kitchen: the French press slipped out of his fumbling hands as he carried it from the sink, and though he juggled the press for a few turns, his circus skills did not save it from shattering on the kitchen floor.

Broken French press or not, Matt had to have his coffee, so he got out a small saucepan, in which he boiled some water. To the boiling water he added ground Kona, and he let the mixture simmer for a few minutes while he stirred it, distastefully, with a wooden spoon. Then he poured off the top layer of the mixture, striving to keep the grounds out of his cup.

But grounds had come, and now, as he sat in the parking lot in his Highlander, he felt the demonic grounds poking around his mouth, mocking him. He wondered how people had done it back in the day before coffeemakers. The thought made him shudder.

Matt swallowed the tinged mouthful and sighed a coffee breath sigh. Imperfectly prepared coffee was just another in the series of sacrifices he made for his job. Letting grounds run rampant in his coffee was bad, it was true, as was the broken French press, but today—getting in early today—was worth all of that.

He opened the car door, got out, and ducked back in over the driver’s seat. He retrieved his coffee mug and tucked his stack of marked-up deal documents under his arm. Matt kicked the door shut with a loafer-clad foot, took a deep breath, and crossed the empty lot.

At the entrance of the dark alley that connected the parking lot and mall commons, Matt paused. It was a creepy shortcut during the day—lined on either side with dim, cavernous recesses—and was even more troubling at night, especially with one of the two overhead lights having burned out. Matt wondered if someone was going to replace that light any time soon. Didn’t anyone work anymore?

Matt took long, tired strides through the alley, and then abruptly stopped in the middle. He had heard something…something that sounded too much like a scream. He couldn’t tell where the sound had come from, so he looked behind him, and, seeing nothing, turned back around and started for the mall again, quickening his pace.

By the time Matt stepped out onto the mall commons, he had put the sound out of his mind. He was too tired to concentrate both on that and on what he had to accomplish at work that day.

The mall commons were empty, save for a smattering of the sleeping homeless, and they were still dead to the world. The place was still.

As Matt walked past the familiar shops, he felt a sting of resentment. All of the shops’ owners and employees were in bed, and he should have been too—not with them but in his own bed—if it wasn’t for that lazy, no good—

He heard a cry, and spun around to face the direction from which the noise had come.

He peered into the distance.

Nothing.

No one.

The mall was empty.

Matt decided it had been a particularly disharmonious bird, or, even if it had been a person, it didn’t concern him. He had extremely important things to do that day.

He resumed his walk and stopped in front of the building, looking up at it. Bremmer Title Associates, it said to him—to everyone that passed.

But not forever, Matt thought, gripping his coffee mug tighter, one day, it’ll say Sarelson Title Company. It shouldn’t say “Associates” anyway. That was stupid—remarkably stupid. It was a company, and it should announce that fact to all of the potential clients that passed by it.

There were three residential mortgage closings on Matt’s desk that day, and he was coming in early because in his quite correct opinion, he was the only Bremmer Title Associates’ employee that could get anything done. Today was the day, Matt knew, that he would make Mr. Bremmer notice. Today was the day that Mr. Bremmer would finally see how talented Matt was, and how incompetent and worthless that suck-up Jon was. God, how Matt hated the two of them—Bremmer and Jon—always gushing over each other and following each other around while Matt got stuck with all the work. And to add insult to injury, Jon was Matt’s junior! But Jon’s father was a fancy so-and-so and la-di-da and—well, that wasn’t going to matter anymore, not after today.

Each of the three closings was to take place when Jon was out of the office on one of his usual three-hour workout and golf sessions—Matt had seen to that bit of timing. Jon would be dropping the ball—not the golf ball of course, the work ball—and Matt would rise up to save the day. And he would make damn sure that Bremmer noticed.

Matt took another sip of his lousy coffee, which was no longer even lukewarm, unlocked the title company’s door, and walked in. He locked the door behind him, flicked on the lights, and walked past the empty receptionist’s desk toward his own office.

He was beginning to replay one of his favorite fantasies in his head—the one where he beat Jon senseless with the lazy suckup’s own nine iron—when he saw a light coming from the back of the office hallway. He walked closer, and was startled to find that it was coming from Jon’s office.

Jon’s office was tucked away in the back of the floor, and Jon had had the privilege of picking it out because Mr. Bremmer loved him so much—so very, very, nauseatingly much. The position of Jon’s office let the lazy bum sneak in and out unnoticed, avoiding work and leaving Matt to run the business under Mr. Bremmer’s uninvolved and increasingly ungrateful glare.

God, how stupid they all are, Matt thought. That idiot Jon can’t even turn his damn light off.

Sighing in frustration, Matt put his coffee and documents down at his own office’s closed door, then crossed the length of the hall to Jon’s door.

Just as Matt reached his hand in to flick off the lights, he was overcome by a stench so overpowering that it felt like a punch to the gut. His head began to swim, and the shapes around him got fuzzy. He almost retched, but managed to keep his coffee—grinds and all—in his stomach.

So now Jon was keeping rotten food in his office?

That’s exactly something Jon would do, Matt thought.

It wasn’t even five in the morning yet and already Matt felt livid with anger. He clamped his fingers over his nose and resolved to dispose of whatever decaying matter he found within Jon’s office and get right to work. Even if no one else at Bremmer Title Associates did anything, Matt had a responsibility to the clients, and he was going to see it through. The work mattered.

Matt walked into Jon’s office, facing the divider that Jon had rigged up so that no one could see his desk from the hallway. When Matt came around the divider, he almost gasped. But the caffeine had started to do its trick and he remembered not to breathe in. Stifling his surprise-fueled want of a breath, Matt looked down, and had to revise his theory as to the source of the odor.

Jon was slumped face down on his desk. Looking at the pale-yellow, viscous fluid that was collecting at the left side of Jon’s head, Matt determined that the smell was vomit.

Great, he thought, now I have to waste my precious time cleaning up after this idiot.

Matt’s eyes darted to the corner of Jon’s office, where a letter opener stood, peeking out of a pencil stand. The letter opener seemed to wink at him, and he considered it for a moment. Wouldn’t that be nice? I could just stab him in the back of the head and end his misery.

Then Matt’s eyes shifted to the golf-bag propped up against the wall. Or, I could grab that nine iron sticking out of the bag, bring it up, and…

That was the better way to do it, he decided, flavorfully ironic.

Matt quickly walked out of the office, unclamped his nose, and took two deep breaths. Then he put his hand back over his nose and went back inside.

“Hey!” Matt yelled with his nose still clamped. “Wake up, it stinks in here.”

Jon moaned, but didn’t move.

“Come on, I have work to do and your stink is distracting. Jon! Jon, come on wake up you can’t do this in here.”

Jon moaned again, softer this time, and his head wobbled a little, then settled back into place. The puddle of pale-yellow fluid was spreading outward, making its way to the edge of the desk.

Then it’ll drip on the floor, Matt thought, and I am not going to be the one to clean it up. I am not.

Matt looked at the clock in Jon’s office and realized he needed to get started on his work. He couldn’t waste any more time trying to deal with Jon. Matt felt himself growing angrier, and the bit of stench that managed to seep past his fingers and into his nose was making him light-headed. He walked to the corner, picked the nine iron out of the bag, and not-so-gently prodded Jon’s shoulder with it.

Jon stirred, moaned, and in an apparent attempt to raise his head, fell off his chair, hit his head on the side of the desk, and landed in an awkward position on his back, with his arms folded together and in front of him, like he had fallen backward into a too-small coffin.

Matt had to stifle a laugh. Maybe Jon was now dead. Maybe his head impacting on the side of the desk had broken his neck. The vomit-laden fiasco may turn out to have a silver lining…no, a golden one.

After taking a shallow breath through his mouth, Matt poked Jon again, in the sternum this time, and hard.

That did the trick.

That did the trick in a way that Matt never expected, and in a way that he never intended.

Jon’s eyes shot open, and Matt stumbled backward, knocking something over and almost falling before coming to rest against the wall behind him. Jon’s eyes…they were...they were completely black, even where the whites should have been. It was a dull black, and it made Matt’s stomach drop to look into it, like he was looking into pure, unabashed evil.

Matt’s mind scrambled, trying to think of something to say or do, anything that might make those eyes look away from him, but no thoughts came. He began to feel a muddiness in his brain, and realized that the only thing he wanted to do was to get out of there, close the door behind him, and go back home. He could make some more bad coffee for himself and look for a whole new job—a different one. He decided that he didn’t like title work all that much anyway, the clients were arrogant and insatiable, and—

Before Matt could complete his thought, Jon’s mouth fell open, and a thick yellowish liquid poured out of it, splattering Jon’s button-down. It was a vile thing to see, and then Jon was trying to sit up, and Matt was trying not to breathe.

But he had been holding his breath for too long then, and he had to, he had to take a breath—a full one this time. The hand unclamped from his nose.

Matt inhaled. The smell had gotten so much worse, unspeakably worse.

The office began to spin around him, and a strange numbness began to nip at Matt’s skin, as if trying to find a way in. He continued to hold the golf club in front of him, pressing it against Jon, trying to keep Jon down.

“Don’t get up,” Matt said. “Please don’t get up, I’ll get someone, some help.”

Then Jon grabbed the end of the golf club and pulled, and then—everything was getting fuzzy and that smell—Jon gripped Matt’s elbow, and his grip was so strong, pulling Matt in.

It wasn’t just a numbness now, it was a debilitating, creeping paralysis. In spite of the relative lack of sensation, Matt felt something in his shoulder give way and pop, sending a terrible shooting pain across his collar bone and down the side of his body.

Damn you, Matt thought, damn you and your working out and—

Jon’s straining forearm stuck out of a rolled-up shirt sleeve. The skin of the forearm looked dry as paper, like it was crackling. Lines were forming lengthwise up the forearm, as if the skin was conforming to the muscle strands underneath. Then one of the lines of skin tore inward, and Matt could see muscle fibers ripping over paper-thin skin and—

Matt’s failing mind tried to think of something, something nasty, about how he hated Jon, but he couldn’t quite form the thought with the cotton ball fuzz that was now proliferating in his brain. And what about the forearm, hadn’t it just—

He blinked, and his eyes focused on Jon’s—Jon’s stale black eyes. That was when Matt knew, even through the fuzziness in his brain, that death was only another moment away.

Matt’s eyes were closing again as his dulled sense of touch felt the bite. They tried to reopen in shock, in pain, in anything…but they didn’t.

ANNIVERSARY

Mia Darien

New World Magazine

15 July 2021

Lynn Morris, Correspondent

Ten Years Later: Where Are We Now?

"When a mommy zombie and a daddy zombie love each other very much, the two go out and eat brains together. This, believe it or not, was the cause of 99% of the zombie outbreaks in the world.

First, the daddy puts his you-know-what, you-know-where. Then the mommy zombie puts her hands on the you-should-know-what. Then the pair twist, and the brains are ready for eating. The only detractor to this is that the you-know-what likes to scream and shout and try to knock your head off, or worse, has a shotgun. This makes their decapitation and consumption of their organs difficult.

What, you didn't think they had sex, did you?"

- 'Understanding our Reanimated Brethren' by Andrew Walters, PhD (Anthropology)

Irreverent and often light-hearted, Andrew Walters, long time Zombie activist and current spokesman for ZAPT (Zombies Are People Too), takes an in depth look at the present state of zombie affairs in the United States. Having been considered obsessive and extreme in his research during the 1990s, those traits seem to serve him well in his new pro-zombie position, where extreme emotions and actions are commonplace. While he has many followers, there remains a large population in this country who are strictly against the ever-growing rights of zombies in the U.S.

I had the chance to meet and speak with people from both sides for this exclusive 'anniversary' retrospective. For two days, I met with Walters at his research camp outside containment zone forty-nine, which was the city of Seattle until six years ago, after the last human survivors were evacuated and it was declared a Zombie Zone by the then new zombie legislation. His camp currently consists of several trailers and a lot of equipment, not all of which is he willing to explain to me, citing that "results are more important than technique."

"As a country, we are blessed with many enlightened, compassionate people," Walters told me while we sat in his trailer. "People who are able to look past the present into what the future of science can be." He was reviewing the latest tracking from the Seattle zone, trying to see if there was any discernible pattern to zombie movements. As he reveals in his book, each containment area shows different patterns, leading to the idea that there is an environmental influence on the zombie population. Walters' current research seeks to prove that hypothesis and, if able to do so, try to find causes behind it.

"It is possible to contain the threat without killing, with a little effort and compassion," Walters says. "It is sad to see that so many people lose sight of the fact that these zombies are our friends, our co-workers, and our loved ones. We shouldn't be looking for ways to kill them, but for ways to help and understand them."

I immediately questioned him regarding the concerns of the anti-zombie groups, who say that zombies are too big a threat to safely contain.

Walters is fervent in his beliefs. When I asked the question, he banged his fist on his desk and laughed. "That is precisely what I'm saying, though!" he went on. "The threat can be controlled, so long as we contain the areas and act wisely. We've found ways to do that. There is no reason to execute the poor creatures when we can learn more about them."

I asked him if it was the belief of ZAPT that we could possibly bring them back; make them the way they were. He smiles sadly. "No, we don't believe that," he says. "But just because we cannot have them back as they were does not mean that they deserve to die a second time. They are simply a new species." His eyes light up with excitement. "Think about it. When those two pilots didn't alert the ground at LAX before landing about the situation in their plane, they were bringing in the next scientific advancement: a new species!"

I pointed out that it also caused years worth of mayhem and devastation. He waves a hand at this. "Mayhem and devastation have been happening for years, but it's never before brought a new species."

After our conversation, I was permitted the rare chance of going to the observation posts that Walters and his team have in place around the containment area. These structures are only ten feet off the ground, but the entrances into them are secure and thorough.

From the post, it's possible to see into the containment area. I was able to see several clumps of zombies as they dredged slowly through the zone, often colliding with one another and then moving on without having noticed.

To see into the center of the area, the watch posts that surround the perimeter connect to surveillance cameras deeper inside.

"Occasionally we do lose a camera," Walters answers my question. "But we have a trained team that works with a helicopter that ZAPT owns. We have to use it sparingly because of the fuel shortages following the 2016 outbreaks in the Middle East, but our team is highly trained and able to work with record time. Cameras have been positioned high enough to do this in relative safety, despite the appetite of the subjects on the ground. It's just like observing any sort of wild animal in its natural habitat."

"But that natural habitat used to be peoples' homes," I point out. Walters just shrugs and smiles. "Sacrifices sometimes have to be made to do something important, and I think the study of a new species, and preventing the further death of our loved ones, are noble causes."

Three days later, I had the chance to meet with Jim Colton, one of the most vocal anti-zombie proponents. Colton's military expertise was called upon frequently during the early outbreaks. Despite the pro-zombie legislation of the past few years, he continues to develop new and more effective methods of killing zombies. He is based near Houston, Texas, which along with the rest of the state remains a zombie-free zone.

"Damn hippies," Colton mutters as he fires one of his personally modified handguns at a target on the other side of the lawn. "Those creatures aren't anything to us anymore but a threat. I don't care what Mister Doctor Idiot says, they are not like anything. They are adverse to nature and are simply a threat to all of us with no purpose for anything; a plague. They should be put down, all of them." He fires another shot, as if putting a period on his statement.

I pointed out Walters' primary point about the proof that these zombies are the reanimated bodies of our loved ones. Colton snorts. "That's just the damn point," he mutters as he reloads. "The reanimated bodies of these people; they're just the bodies. They don't have the souls in there; just a damned hunger." He holds up a bullet to show me. "Fifty caliber hollow point," he says. "The key is always to hit the head. You have to destroy brain tissue to put the thing down." He sighs, taking sight again. "At least the law hasn't moved into our properties and we can still kill them if they come after us. I think they should make those containment areas into hunting fields, but the bleeding hearts got their claws in the law-makers over the wandering corpses and we're kept out of those 'preserves'... 'preserve' my ass. It's a disaster waiting to happen, again."

After several more rounds, we walk into the house of the massive, sprawling compound that Colton and a large group of like-minded people have built. It's as much a fortress as a home, with cement walls surrounding the property and only a single entrance, which is barred by tall steel fences. A defensible guard house sits right outside the gates, which requires an 'infection inspection' of all incoming guests.

This hundred acre compound is also working farm and produces almost all of the residents' food and the water comes from several wells on the property, which is treated on site before consumption.

"To look at this the way Walters does," Colton goes on, "is to be very short sighted about it all. Yes, I know that it's been proven about these being the reanimated bodies of people we once knew, but that's all they are and they won't stay in these... containment areas forever. These creatures are mindless and soulless. They have only one thing in mind and that's to feed. Most wild animals that you can cage the way Walters cages these zombies have drives other than to eat: they want to live, they play, they sleep, they breed. If you electrify a fence, they'll stay away from it. That's not the case with zombies. They'll shamble into it over and over, or just plain stick to it, like a fly on fly paper... getting zapped like bugs on a bug zapper, but they don't care, and they do nothing but wander and eat. There's just not anything there any more."

I ask him about the idea of scientific value of zombie study. His snort is derisive. "I don't get that, I really don't. To what end? The only sort of research should be about how to kill them and find a better way to protect ourselves! Is this Walters researching anything about the outbreak itself, or how to keep it from happening again? The day will come when these zombies break out and everyone like Walters, who hasn't really protected himself, is going to end up inside his own damn research. You can count on that." He pauses. "Think about it. Damn near half of this country is now made up of containment zones; half of the country!" Pausing, he shakes his head. When I point out that the containment areas have worked so far and we've seen no new break outs since early 2020, he snorts again. "It won't last. It can't possibly."

He looks out the window. "I wonder if those two pilots coming into LAX hadn't been such damn cowards and had told the ground, let themselves be shot down and the zombies inside incinerated, if we could have avoided all of this."

Ten years later and the country is strictly divided into two extremes. Half the country remains firmly with Colton's opinion and is passionately against the control ZAPT has over the new congress in Maryland (following the outbreak on the Senate floor in 2014). They maintain their defenses by any means they have. Meanwhile, the other half gives in to what Colton calls "ignorant sentimentality" and what Walters calls "enlightened compassion" and align with ZAPT.

With Mexico over-run and Canada having closed its borders to us because of the pro-zombie legislation, we remain on our own. Whether the country will ever unite under one line of thought will only be seen in time. For now, the United States seems to be maintaining the status quo and allowing at least half of its people to recover, although no one can still conclusively state the source of the illness or poison that started and perpetuates the zombie affliction. Walters' book does not address this, instead focusing on ways to live with zombies today, rather than be tied to the past. Neither side seems ready to bend on their opinions of zombies, or of each other. It seems that only time will tell what will come of the next ten years.

"One thing you may not have thought of," Colton points out towards the end of our interview and of my tour, "is the number of zombies in these containment areas. If you read the reports that come out of the scientific groups that work with Walters but not for him, the few that there are, you will see some interesting things." At my uncertain look, he smirks. "Yes, I read the reports and I read that book of his, and I notice things. You know where zombies come from. So how do you think Walters keeps his zombie numbers so high - even going up at times, or at least not going down from their cannibalism? Think about that."

Lynn Morris has been writing for New World magazine since 2017, when the television station she worked at became part of the New York City containment area.

FLORENCE'S DIARY

Adam Millard

Today was a good day. I went to the end of the farm for the very first time, which was really nice as Robbie chased me. He's a good dog, and my best friend in the whole world. I think he enjoyed it almost as much as I did. I had no idea that there were cherry-trees at the bottom, by the old shed. I ate one. It was tasty; not too sweet, but not bitter either. I might take a basket tomorrow and gather some more. I don't think Daddy will mind.

After playing at the bottom of the farm, Mommy took me into town. We went to Old Sam's for some bread, and then Mommy said she needed to get Daddy a present for his birthday, which is in six days time. I waited outside the store where she bought Daddy's present from. “It's for grown-ups only,' she told me out on the street. “I'll be a few minutes. Don't go off wand'ring.”

I didn't. I stood outside like a good girl, watching the horses go by. I love to watch the horses. Daddy says that when I'm a little bit bigger he'll teach me how to ride one. I can't wait until I'm a bit bigger. I will have my own horse, and my own shop where I'll sell sweets. I'm going to call it Florence's Fancies. I think that is a really good name for a shop.

When Mommy came out of the shop, she was carrying Daddy's present, but it was already wrapped in paper so I couldn't see what it was. When I asked her, she told me that it was something that Daddy had wanted for a very long time. I wonder if it's a new shovel.

For tea today I had chicken stew and the bread that we got from Old Sam's. It was really nice. I hope there is some bread left over for tomorrow. Well, that is all I need to write today. I'm going to bed now. Robbie looks sleepy, too.

Goodnight.

Daddy is taking me to work today. He told me to be on my best behaviour because Mr McGregor will be watching him, although I don't know why. Maybe Mr McGregor is going to give Daddy a pay-rise. I hope so; we could have fresh bread every night. I am wearing my old clothes today because Daddy told me that it gets really dirty down at the mineshaft. I can't wait; I love to get dirty.

Oh, I have to go now. Daddy is calling me. Be back later.

*

Had a great day with Daddy at the mine today. Mr McGregor was watching my Daddy again. I am almost certain that he will get more money soon. When we got home, Mommy had made a cake. The kitchen smelled beautiful. I love that smell. For dinner we had beef and potatoes, and some of the cake. I am so full I think I'm going to explode.

Mommy says that if I am a good girl tomorrow, she will take me and Robbie to the fair. It's only on for two more days, so I had better behave myself. If we go to the fair, I want to win a goldfish. I will love him, but not as much as Robbie.

I'm going to sleep now. My eyes keep closing.

Goodnight.

Guess what? I was really good this morning so I got to go to the fair, just like Mommy promised. It was amazing. I won a dolly on the hook-a-duck, but I didn't get a goldfish. It's a good job really. Robbie would have got really jealous.

I had some cotton-candy, which was pink, and it tasted really nice. Mommy only let me have a little bit, though. She said, “If you eat all of that you'll be up all night.” I won't be up all night, will I? I would be too tired. After eating some of the cotton-candy, Mommy took me on the Dark Ride. It was really scary. Robbie was really lucky that he wasn't allowed on; it would have scared him too. We tied him to a tree while we went on the ride; he looked really disappointed. Poor Robbie.

There were lots of shows on at the fair. Even Sheriff Colman was there with his wife, and they were both on horses. I want a horse so much now. It will be the best present ever. The Sheriff's wife is beautiful. She has long red hair, all the way down her back, and when she smiles she looks like a princess. When I am older, I want to marry a Sheriff. I am only nine and a half at the moment, though, so I have to wait a little bit longer before I am allowed to get married. Daddy says that it will be over his dead body; I'm not sure what that means.

While we were at the fair, a man bit another man on the shoulder. I couldn't believe it. I've never seen anything like it. It happened right next to the freak show tent – which I thought was funny but Mommy said was disgusting. The man was just walking past when the other man jumped on his back and bit him. I think he must have been angry for some reason; maybe he owed the man some money. Daddy says that if he did, he was lucky to get away with a bite.

After that, we came home. I played with Robbie at the bottom of the farm for a while. He seems happy; glad he isn't too upset with me for tying him to that tree.

For tea we had vegetable soup. It was nice, but a bit runny. Mommy said it was meant to be like that, but Daddy said he pisses thicker.

I'm in bed writing this, and I can hear Mommy and Daddy talking about the man who got bit at the fair. I'm going to sleep now. It's been a really good day.

I have home-school today with Mrs Drewery. She's quite nice, but her breath smells a bit strange, the way Daddy's does when he's been to the Saloon. I couldn't imagine Mrs Drewery in the Saloon, so it must be from something else.

I hope she doesn't try to teach me numbers again; I'm really good at them, it's just that sometimes she goes on and on and I just want to tell her to shut up. I can't, though. That would make her angry, and she would tell Mommy and Daddy that I was rude to her.

Mrs Drewery doesn't have a horse; she comes to the farm on a bicycle, which doesn't suit her at all. Sometimes, when I watch her coming down the path, I laugh because she's all over the place. I would laugh even more if she fell off. Hah, right into the chicken-poo.

Anyway, I'm going to get ready for lessons. Mommy says that people who are late should be hanged in the square like the rest of the outlaws, which I think is a bit harsh.

Mrs Drewery has gone now, on her bicycle as usual. She seemed to smell even worse today. I asked her if she had been eating anything funny and she just gave me a funny look. I think that means yes.

After lesson, she went into the kitchen to talk to my Mommy. I listened because I thought she was going to tell Mommy that I had been rude asking her about her breath, but she didn't. She said to Mommy, “Eight people now, all of them are at the jail. I think they just went crazy.” I don't know what she's talking about, but it sounds really interesting. Mommy told her that it was probably just something going around, or something in the water, but I don't think Mrs Drewery believed her.

After she left, I asked Mommy what was happening in town, and she told me to mind my own business. I think that she looked a little bit worried, though. I can always tell when Mommy is worried; her eyebrows tremble ever so slightly.

Anyway, I am going to play for a while. Daddy will be home soon. Maybe he will tell me what is going on in town.

I hurt my knee playing. It really stings now. Mommy says that it doesn't look infected, but it does to me. There was a lot of blood, and still Mommy said it was just a scratch. Sometimes I think grown-ups like to put a brave spin on everything. If it was Mommy's knee I bet she would feel differently.

What happened was, I fell off the rope-swing. I've never fallen off anything before; I'm usually really good at climbing. Daddy calls me the “Spidergirl”, which I think is the perfect name. Sometimes, at night, I dream of having eight legs and twelve eyes, climbing up onto the roof of the farm. It is a really funny dream. I always remember it when I wake up, and it makes me laugh.

My knee feels a bit better now. Mommy put some special cream on it, which sounds tastier than it actually is. Euerghhh.

I'm looking out of the window now, waiting for Daddy to come riding up the path. Can't wait to hug him. He smells sweaty when he's been at work.

Daddy was not in a good mood when he got home. I ran to hug him, but he told me to go back inside and get washed up for dinner. I could tell he was in a mood because he didn't even kiss Mommy on the lips like he normally did; he just walked past her into the house. Maybe he didn't get his wage-rise again; that Mr McGregor has a lot to answer for.

At dinner, Daddy was really quiet. Mommy said grace, which wasn't the same as when Daddy does it. I don't think Mommy knows what to be thankful for, so she just rambled on about trees and birds for what seemed like forever. I was starving by the time she finished.

By the time I went to bed, Daddy was drunk. Mommy shouted at him. “It's not your fault Eddie died,' she said, although I've never heard of him. Mommy told Daddy to stop drinking because he was going to be sick. I don't think I've ever seen Daddy be sick because of the drink. I think he's quite used to it, to be honest.

I'm in bed now, writing this. Robbie is looking at me with those big eyes of his. I'd love to know what he's thinking; if he's like me, he's trying to figure out what killed Eddie Smith.

Hope it's not catching.

Goodnight Diary.

Dear Diary, something is very wrong in town. Mrs Drewery was late for lessons this morning. Usually I wouldn't care, especially because it was History, and I sometimes struggle to remember what I had for breakfast. What worries me, though, is Mrs Drewery is never late. The only time I remember her not turning up was about a year ago, when her daughter gave birth, which I think is a pretty reasonable excuse to skip a lesson.

Maybe her daughter is with child again?

I don't know. Mommy told me not to worry too much, and that I should come to my room and study on my own. Well, here I am, and I suppose you could call this study. I'm writing, aren't I?

Anyway, I think that Daddy felt a bit sick this morning. Mommy told him, “You should have listened to me, you old fool,' but I don't think he paid her much heed. He went to work in a bad mood; I hope that Mr McGregor doesn't get on Daddy's nerves too much today, or he might end up fighting. Would he lose his job if he punched Mr McGregor? I don't know, but I don't think that Daddy would care too much at the moment.

It's raining outside, so I have to stay in all day. I can see outside the window, and there's a man standing at the bottom of the farm, on the other side of the fence. I've been watching him most of the morning, but he doesn't seem to be doing a lot; just walking up and down, up and down. If Daddy were here I'm pretty sure he would go out and say something, but Mommy said that the man is not trespassing so there's nothing she can do.

I'm going to keep an eye on him, though. As soon as he comes through that fence, I'm going to tell Mommy.

The man is still there, only now there is another one. I think it's a lady; it's hard to tell from this distance. Why are they walking around in the rain. I'll bet they're freezing cold, and soaked to the bone. I've told Mommy about the new one, and she just locked the door. “They're doing nobody any harm all the way over there,' she said, but I don't think that's true; they're doing harm to themselves walking around in the freezing cold rain. I think they might have been drinking; I saw the man stumble and fall over. It took him ages to get back up, and guess what? The woman didn't help him. She walked straight over him, as if he wasn't there.

It made me laugh, but also a little sad for the drunken man on the floor. Maybe they're married, and they decided to get up this morning and start drinking. Daddy says that marriage can do that to a person.

I can hear the man now. I think he is crying, but I can't be sure. I have to open the window.

Okay, he's not speaking words, but he seems to be groaning. I think it's a safe bet; they're as pissed as Daddy was last night. The woman just growled at the man, and tried to scratch his face. This is getting really exciting now. I hope Mommy is watching from the other window.

Oh, Daddy, where are you? The drunken couple climbed over the fence and are now walking up and down the farm. Mommy has made sure that all of the doors and windows are secure, but she's pacing around as if she's got a snake in her breeches. Daddy should be back real soon, though, and Lord help those fools when he is. I've seen him shoot; he can blow the leg off a fly from a thousand yards. It's true, I've seen him do it.

Mommy and Daddy are talking in the kitchen. Daddy had to shoot the drunken couple in the head. Mommy asked him why he had to shoot them, and he told her that the Sheriff says to make sure that you get them in the head, as it's the only way to kill them.

Surely a shot to the heart would do it? That always did it. In fact, I know a boy who died from being shot in the finger.

Daddy says that he's not going to work tomorrow because of the infection. I bet he's talking about what killed Eddie Smith. I came to bed before Daddy started drinking. He scares me sometimes, and I think he scares Mommy.

Well, I hope this infection goes away real soon, and I'm going to say a prayer now for the drunken couple who Daddy had to shoot in the head.

Goodnight.

There are lots of drunken people on the farm now. Daddy shot two of them this morning because they got too close to the pigs. One of them was already eating one of Daddy's cows; he shot that one a lot. I don't know why they are doing this, but I'm scared, and I can tell that I am not the only one.

Where are they all coming from? Why are they on our farm?

What made things even worse, though, was Mrs Drewery; she was one of them, wandering up and down the field. I tried to call at her out of the window, but Daddy told me not to because it would attract more of them. He says that she is infected, and that she will probably never be able to give me another lesson. I'm not too sad about that, but I will be sad if Daddy has to shoot her in the head like he did to the cow-eater and the drunken couple.

As I am writing this, I can see Daddy out of the window. He is carrying an axe. I hope he doesn't get too close to the wanderers, just in case he catches whatever it is that they have. He told me this morning that he wouldn't catch it as long as he didn't get bit by one of them. I don't think Mrs Drewery will bite him. One of the others might, though, because I don't know who they are and they could be crazy in the head for all I know.

Daddy has just chopped the head off a man. I didn't know him, and if Daddy did then I'm not sure he liked him much. He kicked the head away, and it landed somewhere down the bottom of the field. My Daddy is strong.

Mommy is calling me now. I don't think she wants me looking out of the window anymore. I'll be back later, though, when she is in bed, although I don't think we will be doing much sleeping tonight.

Mommy didn't bother making dinner tonight. “What's the point in eating?” she said. “We're probably going to die soon, anyway.” Daddy slapped her across the face and told her to pull herself together. I don't like it when Daddy hits Mommy, but I don't think he had much of a choice this time. She was screaming and crying, and Daddy didn't want any of those people outside to hear her, so he just slapped her a good one upside the head. I don't think she's talking to him now, which Daddy says is a good thing because if she's not talking, then they can't hear her.

I ate stale bread with no butter on, and to be quite honest it wasn't that bad. I wouldn't eat it every day, but I don't see the problem once in a blue moon. Daddy didn't eat anything; he just stared out of the window with the axe in his hand. He hasn't put it down for hours. I think it's like his safety-blanket.

Robbie looks as if he knows something is wrong. I can see in his eyes that he senses evil just outside the door. He barked for a little while earlier, but that was because he could see a small boy pacing past the window. I don't know who the boy was, but he was my age, maybe a little younger. The top of his head was missing, which was strange, and there was a hole in his head where his eye used to be. I would have thought it would have killed him, but he didn't look dead as he roamed around outside, mumbling to himself. I hope his Mommy and Daddy know that he is still alive. Maybe they can get his head fixed when all of this blows over. I don't know whether Doc Sawyer will be able to put him a new eye in, but I reckon that with a few stitches, the top of his head will be right as rain.

Mommy fell asleep in her rocker; I put a blanket over her, carefully. Daddy told me not to wake her up because she was apt to go crazy again, so I took extra care whilst tucking her in.

It's dark outside now, and I think most of the wanderers have gone off some place else – or at least I hope they have. Mrs Drewery would probably head on back to the schoolyard, where she works when she's not here teaching me. I can imagine her there now, roaming the yard, picking up toys that children have left lying around. I hope she's okay, and that the infection is getting better. I'm sure it will; these things always tend to blow over. For the ones that Daddy shot, though, and the man whose head Daddy chopped off with the axe, I will say a short prayer before bedtime.

I'll try to get Daddy to join in, but I doubt he will.

Goodnight Diary.

God Bless.

Robbie got out in the night! Oh, please Lord bring him back safe. I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to my Robbie. He is my bestest friend in the whole wide world.

Daddy said that it was an accident, that he heard some noise coming from the barn and went to take a look. He said that there were three of them in there, wanderers, all just walking around, clattering into things. Daddy fought them, chopping of their heads. He's getting really good with that axe, and I still don't think he's put it down. It was while he was killing the three wanderers that Robbie made a dash for it. I don't know why he would have run off. Maybe he went to fetch help? I've heard of dogs being able to do that. A friend of mine, Isabel Tate – although I like to call her Izzie, and I don't think she minds – well, she fell down a well over on the Savannah farm, and nobody knew that she was down there until her dog, Potter, ran straight to the Sheriff's office and dragged him out there. It was a good job, too, because I heard that she would have only lived for another couple of hours. She was very thirsty when they pulled her out, and I've never seen anyone eat like it since.

Yes, perhaps Robbie has gone to get help, and he'll be back in a while with a whole posse of men to save us.

I hope so, because I don't think we are going to last here much longer. Daddy is starting to look tired, and Mommy is still asleep in the rocker. Every now and then I check her to make sure that she is still breathing. You never know, do you?

My stomach is starting to hurt a little bit now. I think this is what it feels like to starve. I mean, I've been hungry before, and my belly has rumbled, but this is something else. It hurts. My mouth is dry, too, and we can't get to the well to draw any water, at least not at the moment. There are too many wanderers out there. Daddy says that he will give it until noon and then he'll make a run for it, but I don't want him to. I'm thirsty, but what good will it be if he gets bitten by one of them and catches whatever plague it is that they have?

We'd all die from it.

But I know that soon we will run out of options; the sheriff is nowhere to be seen and we are in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if the people over at Redrock are infected. I know it is almost twenty miles away, but Daddy says he wouldn't be surprised if the whole of America have it. I like the way that Daddy doesn't try to sugar-coat things like Mommy; I fear that we would already be dead if Daddy wasn't here.

I am going to stare out the back window now. Hopefully Robbie will have enough sense to return through the rear fence.

I hope so.

Sheriff Colman is standing just outside the back door. Daddy says not to worry, that if he tries to get in, he will find an axe buried deep in his ceranium, whatever a cer-ay-nium is. I wonder whether the sheriff's wife is dead; the blood all over his jeans, and the strange sausage hanging around his neck make me think she is.

He's hitting the door now, and groaning in that terrible way that they all seem to. I hate that noise now. It makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck; it even makes my teeth vibrate, which is odd.

Daddy has just told me to go into the other room. I think it's the end for Sheriff Colman. I'll say a prayer for both him and his wife tonight.

I wonder who will be sheriff next? If it goes to a vote, I'm going to elect my Daddy; he would be the bestest sheriff there ever was.

Just heard the door swing open, and Daddy tell Sheriff Colman to, “Back the fuck off!” I think fuck is a bad word, so I won't say it too much. Daddy will tan my hide if ever he reads this.

There's a scuffle in the kitchen. I want to go take a look, but Daddy told me that whatever happens, I'm to stay in here. Besides, I am sure he will take care of the sheriff. From what I can see, Colman's not in the greatest shape of his life, moving around like a drunkard, bumping into things. Daddy will finish him easily.

Something's just crashed against the kitchen door. Oh, great! Mommy is awake now.

I have to go. She looks worried.

Daddy killed Sheriff Colman and set fire to him out the back. For some reason, Daddy says it is only right to set fire to the bodies. I don't know why; they stink, and even though the windows are all boarded up it burns my nostrils. I don't think I'll ever be able to smell normal things again.

Mommy has calmed down. She even said sorry to Daddy for being a pain in the ass, and Daddy kissed her and told her that she wasn't a pain in the ass. I think they are back together now, which is good because I need a Mommy and a Daddy, especially with what's going on outside.

Daddy says that he is definitely going to get help tomorrow, or at least find us some food and water. I hope so; we've just sat down to a meal of rice and more rice, which is okay for the first few bites but gets very boring very quickly. Daddy says that it was the last of the rice, which I am not too upset about, but I'll probably wish we had more of it come tomorrow night if Daddy comes back empty-handed.

What if he doesn't come back at all? What if, like Robbie, he just goes missing? I can't take the thought of him leaving us all alone in this prison, with those things outside scratching at the doors, trying to clamber through the windows. I think I may go crazy if ever that happens.

Mommy says that she is going to blow out the candle now, so I am going to try to sleep. Please let me have nice dreams tonight, because the days are filled with nightmares.

Goodnight Diary.

God Bless.

Daddy left early this morning. There were only three wanderers outside, and he managed to dodge them pretty easily. I watched until he disappeared over the fence, and then it dawned on me that I might never see him again. I know that is a terrible thing to be thinking, and I told myself, “Of course you will, Florence. He'll be fine, and he'll come back with enough food to last us the year,” but it didn't help much. I am scared; for my Daddy, and for us.

Mommy is getting some clothes together, just like Daddy told her to. I think we are going to move soon, provided Daddy comes home. Mommy said that we had nowhere else to go, and that we would die as soon as we walked out of the door, but Daddy was having none of it. “Woman, I promise that I will keep us alive,” Daddy said, and I believed him, though I'm not sure Mommy did.

I told Mommy that I didn't need many clothes, that I will wear what I have on now for weeks if it lightens the load, and she told me that I would be filthy dirty by the end of the week and would probably die of something called Dissentree. I wished I knew what all of these long words mean, but from the sounds of it, it's not a very nice thing to die of.

I can hear Mommy crying as she's packing, which I don't think is a very good thing. If one of the wanderers hears her, they'll try to get in, and without Daddy here to fight them off, I don't think we'll have much of a chance.

I think Mommy has gone crazy in the head. I want to hug her, to tell her that everything is going to be okay, but she won't let me anywhere near her. Maybe she's scared of catching the infection, and she's not taking any chances, not even with her own daughter.

I don't blame her.

She's stopped crying now, and she's singing the song about stars that she used to sing to me when I was a little girl. I loved that song, but Mommy is not singing it right. She's adding curse words into it, words that I am not going to write down just in case Daddy ever reads this. I don't like being here alone with Mommy at the moment.

Please, Daddy, return home safe.

Mrs Drewery is outside again, and she looks really terrible. Her teeth are sticking out of her face, which seems to have been chewed off on the right hand side. I wonder who did that to her? Maybe she got attacked by more wanderers. Maybe she got into a fight over food. Whatever it was, she looks like something straight from the bowels of Hell.

She's bumbling around by the old barn, now. I can hear her through the windows, even though they are well boarded up; Daddy left a couple of gaps so that we could see what was happening. “We need to know when the coast is clear,” he said, “otherwise we'd just be running out into them like fools.” He was right; we'd be dead in a few minutes if that happened.

Mrs Drewery – how I wish you were normal and still my teacher – has just tripped up over some chicken-wire, and is struggling to get back to her feet. It looks funny, but I feel like crying. I hate what is happening out there, whatever it is, and I know that things are never going to get back to normal.

Daddy is still gone! It's been almost eight hours now, and I'm awful scared for him. Please Lord, if you do one thing for me, please make sure that my Daddy is okay.

Mommy is asleep in the rocker again. I don't know how she can sleep while those things walk around outside, although she has been drinking today; I saw her at the kitchen table with a big bottle of something. She didn't see me, which is good because I think she would have shouted at me for staring.

Mrs Drewery is up again, and I think she is looking straight at me. I might have to move away from the window in a moment; I don't want to draw any of them towards us. I like Mrs Drewery – or at least I did before half of her face was missing and she looked so ghastly – but I'm scared of her now. She's got what they've got, and what they've got is bad.

If I get it, I think I'd rather be dead, and I don't mean dead like the wanderers, I mean dead like the kind that stops you from walking around.

Yes, Mrs Drewery is walking towards the window now. I have to climb down from the chair and hide. At least Mommy won't be screaming this time.

Oh, Daddy, please come home!

Daddy came home, and he had food and water. I was starving so I ate four pieces of bread and two apples. The funny thing is: I hate apples. The skin always gets stuck in my teeth and I spend hours trying to get it out.

Mommy and Daddy are in the kitchen talking about what Daddy saw while he was gone. I heard Daddy tell Mommy that between our farm and town, he only saw two people alive. Peter Carson was one of them; Daddy said that Peter was in a bad state, but would survive, and that he was awfully upset because the wanderers had managed to get into his house and eat his family. That is terrible, and I will say a prayer for Peter Carson before I go to sleep tonight. The other person that Daddy saw was Molly Westacre, but he said that she would be dead by now as she was missing a leg, and it had already “gone green” whatever that means.

Daddy just told Mommy that the only good thing about what was happening was that he didn't have to pay for any of the things that he brought home. Mommy is laughing now; I think they are both getting drunk. I saw Daddy bring two bottles in with him, which were the same as the one Mommy was drinking from earlier.

Maybe Daddy is just trying to make sure that Mommy sleeps again tonight. Things are better when she is asleep.

Daddy said that he didn't see Robbie while he was gone, which makes me think that my bestest friend is dead after all. I'm sad about that, but I promised myself that I wouldn't cry because it would upset Daddy.

I'm just sitting here now, listening to the talking in the kitchen, and I don't know why I am still writing. What good are the ramblings of a nine year-old girl when there might be nobody left to read them? Not that I ever want anybody to read my nonsense. I think I am keeping this diary, though, for myself; for me to look back on in years to come and laugh out loud at how worried I was, and for no good reason, because in that future – the one where I can read my diary and laugh out loud – everything turns out to be okay.

I'll pray for that tonight, and for Robbie, and for Peter Carson and Molly Westacre.

And for us.

Goodnight Diary.

I woke up this morning to find that Daddy is not feeling too good. I think he might have drank too much, but he says that it is just a fever, and that we should continue to prepare because this afternoon we are going to make a run for it.

I think we are trying to get to Redrock, which seems like an awfully long way to run. I've never run that far before; I hope I don't just keel over and die.

Outside the window I can see only two wanderers, and neither of them are Mrs Drewery. The men are in the middle of the field, looking at each other, and then looking at the sky. To me, it looks as if they have only just noticed the sky, which is really strange because it has always been there. Perhaps the infection has made them forget it, the way it made Mrs Drewery forget that she was supposed to be teaching me how to stitch yesterday when she was by the barn. If it is a forgetful disease, then I definitely don't want to catch it, although I would like to forget the last few days if that was possible.

Mommy is stood at the back door, just staring out. I think she's really scared today. Going out of the farm for the first time since the wanderers arrived is a terrifying thought, but we don't have much of a choice, and Mommy will just have to pull herself together.

Daddy has just told me to make sure that I have everything packed that I need, but I don't really need anything other than him and Mommy.

I am ready to go.

Something is wrong with Daddy. I knew it this morning, but he has gotten worse. His face is white, and he is having trouble breathing. I can tell by his eyes that he is scared, and that scares me.

“I'm just tired,” was his excuse, but Daddy never gets tired. He's having a lie down on the bed now, and I am sitting in the chair next to him. He is sweating, and his hands are shaking, but he is fast asleep. He looks like Robbie does when he is having a bad dream.

Poor Robbie.

I don't think we we'll be going off the farm today after all, and Mommy looks a lot calmer now. “If your Daddy is not well, then he is no good to anybody out there,” she told me as she pointed through the wooden boards on the window. “We're safe in here; they can't get in, and if we're really quiet they'll never find us.”

I know that she's right, but my belly has started to rumble again, and I drank all of the water that Daddy came home with last night. If we stay much longer I think we're all going to die. I think I've already lost weight, and I can hardly lift up my arm now because I'm weak.

Daddy has just been sick on his chin. It's not normal sick, though; it looks dark and sticky. I'm going to wipe it off before it makes a mess all over the bed, not that it matters. I don't think we are taking the bed with us when we make a run for Redrock.

Oh my God! Daddy has the infection. I am in my room, and have pushed my dresser across so that he can't get in. I think he wants to hurt me, the way that he just hurt Mommy.

She's dead! I know that she is, because he bit her nose off and she was bleeding all over the place. She didn't even scream when he did it. I think she was in shock.

Oh, please God, this is wrong! This is all wrong! My Daddy is trying to kill me now. I don't know how much more of this I can take, but I know that if I kill myself then I will not get into Heaven, so I have to try to live.

Daddy is slamming against the door now, but I know that it isn't really my Daddy; he has the forgetful disease, like the sky-starers, and he wouldn't be trying to hurt me if he remembered how much he loved me.

Oh please make it stop! Please!

I found Daddy's present under my bed. I forgot all about it, and it was still wrapped up. When I opened it, I found a gun and some bullets. Daddy would have loved it so much; he could have used it when he went out for water instead of that silly axe. He must have got bit then, and kept it from us because he thought that we would stop loving him if we found out.

Well, I would have still loved him.

I figured out how to put the bullets in. Daddy had shown me how last year. “Hopefully, you will never have to fire one of these, Flo,” he'd said, “but it's for the best if you at least know how.”

After putting the bullets in and aiming the gun at the door – it's a heavy gun; I need both hands to lift it up – I waited for a while. The banging had stopped, and I haven't heard anything from Daddy for some time now.

I'll give it a few minutes and then I'll go take a look. I'm heading for Redrock on my own now, and if God let's me, I'll make it.

I killed Daddy but only because I had to. He was coming at me, and his teeth were all covered with blood and black sick. I didn't want to, but I shot him once in the belly. He didn't fall over when I shot him; he just looked at me funny, as if he suddenly remembered that I was his little Florence, but then he came again, and I shot him in the head.

He fell over that time, and he didn't get back up. When he fell over, he landed on Mommy. I'm glad he landed on her like that, because her belly was wide open and I could see all of her insides. Daddy covered all of that up for me; a parting gift for his beautiful daughter.

I can see no wanderers outside, but that doesn't mean that they aren't there. I have Daddy's gun now, and a pocketful of bullets. If I can get to Redrock, then maybe everything will be fine.

Hey, I may even bump into Robbie on the way.

I'm going now, while it is quiet, and I'm leaving this diary behind because I know I will never want to read it again. The future, the one where I am laughing at my silliness, it's gone now.

Goodbye Diary.

God Bless.

Maybe I'll bump into Mrs Drewery, and I can teach her a lesson or two with Daddy's present.

AFTERWORD

Think back, if you will, to a time when the undead were the most feared creatures imaginable, a time when the mere thought of somebody you love returning from beyond the grave would cover you with gooseflesh and send you running for the hills. A time before zombies could run quicker than Usain Bolt, and vampires had the propensity to sparkle whenever they decided to get a tan. The Golden Age of the Undead, or as I like to call it, anytime before 1990. The stories contained within this anthology, I hope, have terrified you the way the original Night Of The Living Dead terrified a whole generation when it was released back in 1968.

I would like to thank each and every one of the authors who contributed to this book, and to you, the fans of the undead, for reading this book and continuing to support the authors contained within its blood-soaked pages.

Without you, we are nothing but worm-food waiting to expire.

But we all know, that death is just the beginning...

ADAM MILLARD

WWW.CROWDEDQUARANTINE.CO.UK

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