Date: 2023-07-17 22:50:54+00:00
Keywords: Humor; Form; Parodies
Description: The world looks different a year after the dead rose from their graves. Survivors live in walled enclaves while the zombies roam freely in the wasteland. John, Chris and Erik have made their home in the enclave of Haven and earn their keep in town by scavenging for supplies outside the walls. These excursions bring them face-to-face with grubby urchins, deadly warlords and hordes of the undead. But not all threats lie beyond the walls. The dads are beginning to wonder if they can trust the people in charge. Things aren’t looking good and the longer the end of the world drags on, the more dange
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services LLC - Kdp
Rights: All rights reserved (#48530157886)

DADS VS. ZOMBIES: YEAR 2

BENJAMIN WALLACE

Contents

Night of the Grubby Urchin

Day of the Really, Really Dead

The Quick and the Not Quite Dead

Dead Locked

Dead Heading

Night of the Grubby Urchin

Night of the Grubby Urchin

Their town was called Haven because nobody ever listened to John. There was nothing wrong with the name, but if your town is surrounded by twenty-foot walls and there are people on top of those walls with guns pointed outwards, that town should be called Fort Badass. Or Fort Come Get Some. Fort anything. Even Fort Haven would have been begrudgingly acceptable, but no; the people in charge had decided that the citizens of Fort Badass did not need a constant reminder that there were dangers outside their walls. John had made the argument that calling it Haven, Home Base or Olly Olly Oxen Free had essentially the same impact as calling the town Camp Zombie Free Zone. It was at that point that he was thanked for his contribution and escorted from the council meeting.

“All I’m saying is that if you surround a place with walls, it’s a fort. I don’t care if those walls are wood, metal or couch cushions. It’s a fort!”

Chris was walking point and held up his hand. “Quiet, John.”

John stopped and looked around. The road was empty in both directions, and the trees in the easement had yet to encroach on the asphalt. There was little chance a zombie would surprise them here. John whispered ahead as his hand inched toward his gun. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Chris said. “I’m just tired of hearing you complain. They’re calling it Haven, okay. Just be thankful we get to stay.”

“You’re an ass, Chris.”

“He’s not wrong,” Erik said. “We should be happy to have a home.”

“Yeah, right.” John snorted. “I think we spend more time out here running errands than inside the walls we all helped build.”

“We helped build them, John,” Erik said. “You barely lent a hand.”

Erik smiled, Chris laughed, and John grunted and glanced at the stump that used to be his right arm. He stopped in the middle of the road. “So, we’re still doing this? Do you two have any idea how long we're going to be making all the one-armed jokes?”

Erik stopped as well and looked at Chris. “Until they’re not funny?”

Chris nodded his agreement. “Until they’re not funny.”

“I think that time has come,” John said.

“Okay,” Chris slung the rifle over his back. “We’ll take a vote. Whoever thinks we should stop with the one-armed jokes, raise both your hands.”

Erik raised his hands. Chris raised his hands.

“I hate you both." John resumed walking. “But I hate you the most, Chris,” he added as he took point for the rest of their trek.

When hordes of the undead weren’t attacking and people weren’t screaming as their flesh was being ripped from their living bodies, the zombie apocalypse was quite peaceful. Air traffic had waned considerably. There was an occasional military helicopter or light plane overhead, but the noise they made quickly ebbed and left the skies silent. Road traffic was gone. Even that general hum of transmission lines and transformers that used to live in the background of everyone's lives had been silenced, leaving only the sounds of nature and the men's footsteps on the asphalt to fill the rest of the walk to the neighboring town.

The town of Sanctuary was just as poorly named as Haven. It also looked the same. It was the walls. They were the same design at Sanctuary as they were at Haven, and at any number of survivor enclaves. An Army engineer had developed the plans not long after the dead started crawling out of their graves. The walls were easy to build and easy to defend, but their most important feature was that they could be constructed from materials found in almost any small town. The design spread across the country and soon every town began to look the same. If it wasn’t for the asshole standing in the watchtower, John would have sworn he was standing outside Haven.

The sentry spotted them and shouted to the group, “Well, if it isn’t the overly armed one-armed man. What did you do this time, John?”

“Hey, Rick,” John responded with a half-hearted wave. “How are you?”

Rick was built like the stereotypical dumb high-school football player and had the conversation skills to match. “What did you do?” The sentry asked again with a smug grin that John wished he could wipe from the man’s face but knew full well he couldn’t.

“I didn’t do anything.” John shouted back.

“Sure you didn’t,” Rick chuckled. “Every other town picks people at random. Or has them on a rotation. But Haven always sends you. Why do you think that is?”

“Maybe they just trust me to get the job done,” John said.

Rick laughed. So did Chris.

“Et tu, dickwads?” John asked the men.

Chris shrugged.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Rick shouted. “You know what I think?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know."

“I think someone wants you dead. That’s why they keep sending you. That’s what I think.”

“Well,” John said. “I think the fact that you’re thinking at all is a good sign.”

“Why do you have so many guns, John?” Rick asked. It was as if he was the only one in the conversation.

John looked down at himself. He did have a lot of weapons. He had a .45 on his hip and a 9mm under his shoulder. There was another 9mm behind his back. He had one on each thigh and another .45 tucked into his waist. Admittedly, it might have appeared a bit excessive. “There are these things called 'zombies', Rick.”

“You know you only have one arm, right?”

“Are you going to let us in or not?” John asked.

“Probably not,” Rick said. “And before you ask why, it’s because I don’t like you. What do you want?”

Erik stepped forward as if standing in front of the trio would make his voice louder. “The agreement between Haven and Sanctuary states that you must harbor travelers if—"

“I mean, I get that,” Rick said. “But you see, we’ve misplaced the key.”

“What do you mean you misplaced the key? For the gate?”

Rick nodded. “Damnedest thing.”

“They don’t have a key, dumb ass,” John said. “He’s lying to us. Just ask about the stuff. You got the list?”

Erik nodded and pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “We’re looking for a few things.”

“Oh, we don’t have those things,” Rick said.

Erik snorted and lowered the list.

“He’s lying, man,” John said. “Keep going.”

Erik continued. “We’re looking for old electronics. Anything from the 70's and 80’s really. Calculators, kids’ toys, cash registers…”

“Well, maybe not cash registers,” John said. “Those are going to be heavy.”

“Like you’ll be carrying anything.”

“Shut up, Chris.”

“We can pull the chips out,” Erik said. “We don’t have to take the whole thing.”

“What chips?” Rick asked.

John slapped Erik across the shoulder.

“Yeah, they’re old computer chips,” Chris said. “Could you see if you’ve got any of this stuff?”

“Oh, we are fresh out. You see there was another pack of nerds here not too long ago, and they cleaned us right out of old busted nerd stuff.”

“They can be in just about anything…old video games—”

“We don’t have any,” Rick said again.

John looked at the list in Erik’s hand, and then back to Rick. “They could be in a Simon for crying out loud.”

Rick shrugged. "Well, I don’t have a Simon, John. You know what I do have?” He waved his right hand and backed away out of sight.

The three men stared at the wall where the sentry had stood. After a moment of silence Erik spoke, “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Gee, Erik. Do ya think?” John picked up a rock and threw it at the walls of Sanctuary. He missed.

Chris looked at him and asked finally, “What did you do this time, John?”

“Shut up, Chris. It looks like we’re going to have to go to the mall.”

* * *

“You know what I hate most about that guy?” John asked as they trudged along the road.

“Everything?” Chris guessed.

“Freaking everything,” John confirmed.

“He was supposed to let us in,” Erik said. He was walking point and had been going on about the incident for a half-hour. “That’s what the contract says. And agreements like that matter. It’s all we have left of a civilized society. If we lose that, we’re no better than the undead.”

“Except we’d still be alive and not eating people,” Chris said.

“How would he like it if we didn’t let him into Haven?” Erik asked. “We should report him.”

“Look, Erik,” John said. “I agree with you that he’s a raging a-hole and his family probably faked their deaths during the outbreak just to get away from him.”

“I didn’t say any of that,” Erik said.

“But we can’t go to war with a neighboring town because one guy was a jerk to you.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s you he doesn’t like, John,” Chris said.

“Shut up, Chris. The point is yes, we could kick their asses, obviously. Sanctuarians are a bunch of wusses. But let’s not forget about the undead. It’s best to be friends with all the living we can find.”

Chris stopped and feigned surprise. “John, that’s surprisingly mature of you.”

“For now,” John finished. “That’s how we win that bastard’s confidence. And once we have that, he’s ours.”

“That’s more like it,” Chris said and resumed walking.

“It’s still not right,” Erik said.

“I’m sure they would have opened up if there were zombies about.”

Erik held up a clenched fist, and both men froze. John’s hand found the handle of an automatic he kept under his shoulder. He pulled the weapon free and watched Erik.

Erik stood still for a moment, then opened his fist several times before gesturing to the side of the road. A horde was coming.

The three men scrambled into the ditch and quickly surveyed their surroundings. Chris got their attention and pointed toward a storm drain fifty yards behind them. They nodded and made their way toward it. The concrete pipe ran through to the other side of the road, but the three men stopped about halfway and settled in.

In the early days they would have kept running. Anyone would have. But the survivors had learned a lot since the dead crawled out of the ground, and they now knew that running wasn’t always the answer. It was often easier and safer to stay put and let the storm blow over.

A grate in the road above him gave John a view of the afternoon sun. He kept the pistol in his hand but leaned against the curve of the pipe and relaxed. It was dark enough in the tunnel that they couldn’t be spotted from either end. And even if the undead spotted them through the grate above, they weren’t exactly masters at solving puzzles. If they were somehow spotted, the creatures would claw and scrape at the grate while the men casually strolled out one end of the pipe or the other.

Chris and Erik found a dry spot and sat down as well.

The horde arrived a few minutes later. The sound of the zombies dragging their feet created a scraping hum in the concrete tunnel. There was a haunting rhythm to the sound. Hordes seemed to adopt a pace and move as a unit. No one left alive could really explain the phenomenon.

“I hate that sound,” John said, and he fought off a shiver. He looked up as the zombies moved over the grate, creating a strobing effect with the light as they went on their way to wherever it was zombies went. As of yet, no one had been able to determine what drove them to move from one location to another.

“It’s not my favorite sound either,” Chris said as he laid his rifle across his lap, leaned back and closed his eyes.

“Another mission. Another horde.” Erik muttered. He kept the barrel of his shotgun pointed in the general direction of the grate. “Is this getting old to either one of you?”

“I honestly don’t mind it,” John said.

“Good,” Erik said. “Because Travis keeps sending us out on these things.”

“I wonder why,” John said.

“It’s because he hates you,” Chris said.

“Yeah, it’s because he hates you,” Erik agreed.

“He doesn’t hate me,” John said. “He just—”

“No, it’s definitely hate,” Erik said.

“Well, he must hate you guys, too, because he’s not sending me out here alone.”

Chris looked away, and Erik looked up through the grate.

“That’s what I thought. Besides, you guys should be thanking me. This sure beats being cooped up and forced to garden back in Haven.”

“You’re right, John…leaving the safety of our town and loved ones sure is fun.”

“Right?” John said. “This is way more exciting than asparagus.”

There was a thud above them as a member of the horde tripped over his own foot. Or someone else’s foot. Or maybe an arm that had fallen off another one of the zombies. It could have been anything, really, but regardless, the creature landed face down on the grate. Its cloudy gaze was aimed directly at the men.

John sighed and waited for the creature to regain its footing and lumber on.

“I hate being interrupted,” John said. “What was I saying? Oh yeah, you guys owe me.”

“How do you figure?” Chris asked.

“We could be stuck inside that stupid town following their stupid rules, but instead we’re out enjoying the fresh air.”

“John, we’re hiding in a sewer,” Erik said.

“Still beats everyone giving us dirty looks,” John said with a shrug.

“They only give you dirty looks, John,” Chris said. “They actually like us.”

“Yet here you are with me,” John said.

The other two men looked at each other for a brief moment.

“What?” John asked.

Erik put his hand against the pipe. Then he leaned against it and placed his ear on the wall.

The strobe effect of the passing horde had stopped, and the vibrations had started to fade. Erik stood and looked up through the grate. He circled around, trying to find new angles that might give him a better view.

“We clear?” John asked as he stood.

Erik shrugged, and the three men crept to the end of the tunnel. They could still hear the horde, but the groans were fading quickly.

John inched his way to the top of the ditch and looked around. He waved Chris and Erik to follow and put the pistol back. They weren’t far from the mall.

* * *

The Mulberry Antique Mall had never been known as the cool mall. Or the fashionable mall. Or the fun mall. It had been known as a K-Mart once. Then it was a garden center that seemed to think people needed a retail center that featured 40,000 square feet of nothing but earthenware. Once the Pottery Shoppe moved out, the antiques moved in and had been delighting middle-aged couples ever since.

The mall had been rifled through, but not to the extent other stores had been looted. Which was surprising. When the lights went out and produce sections ran dry, there actually were more useful items in an antique store than most other stores.

The Mulberry Mall had been picked clean of old farming instruments and hand tools. Even the coffee grinders had been cleared out and had their parts repurposed.

Old electronics had never been on the list of necessities, though. Neither had Pat Benatar albums, old baseball cards, elaborate hats or forgotten Happy Meal toys, so the mall still had lots to offer.

Most of the individual stalls were still in order, and the whole place smelled like grandma’s house.

“My wife used to love antiquing,” John said as he let out a breath.

“What did she collect?” Erik asked. “My wife was always looking for old Dr. Pepper stuff.”

John shook his head. “Nothing. She wasn’t looking for anything. She never bought anything. But, boy, all that nothing sure took up a lot of weekends.”

Erik walked into one of the stalls and picked up a massive felt hat with several plumes sticking out of the band. He put it on and smiled. “It never bothered me.”

“Of course it didn’t,” John said with a roll of his eyes. “I’m going to start looking for chips someplace where you aren’t putting stupid things on your head.”

Chris was peering into a display case filled with Zippos, spoons and busted watches. “We haven’t cleared the store yet.”

“I’ll be fine.” John waved off the comment and went to the left. The first few stalls were nothing more than old books and records. He flipped through a few of the albums but found little worth taking back to Haven. It was a surprising amount of Tito Puente records, and little else.

There were a handful of kids' books that he considered grabbing for the children in Haven, but he wasn’t sure how much they’d relate to Tom Mix or the '68 Dallas Cowboys. He decided to keep an eye out for superhero books and moved on.

The next booth was filled with old cameras—too old to contain any electronics, much less the chips they were looking for. He picked up an old cassette recorder and tossed it in a bag he found nearby. He was about to step away when he spotted a blue and black action figure sticking out of a plastic bucket. He pulled it out and turned it around.

“What the hell is this doing here?”

The figure had a silver snake logo on its chest.

“Hey…I had that guy.”

John spun. He probably would have hit Chris, but his arm was busy holding the toy. “I had this one, too. What the hell is it doing in an antique store?”

Chris smiled. “I’ve got bad news for you, old man.”

“No, this isn’t an antique. Antiques are moldy clothes and butter churns. Maybe some stupid dolls with one eye stuck shut or wooden toys you pull behind you. Not Cobra soldiers.”

“That’s a Cobra Officer,” Chris said. “Cobra soldiers had a red cobra on their chest. And the shoulder straps were a little different. Other than that, they’re very similar.”

John dropped the figure in the sack and picked it up by the strap. “You know, I used to like you a lot better when you were somewhere else and not here talking to me.”

“I know,” Chris said. “Me too.”

“My childhood toys are not antiques.”

“You’re an antique, John.”

“I’m only five years older than you.” John pushed him back out of the booth and pointed to the rest of the store. “Why don’t you go look somewhere else? I’ve got this part of the store covered.”

“We’re looking for computer chips, not toys.”

“I’ve got it, okay? Why don’t you leave me—”

A crash interrupted his thought. In a heartbeat, the bag was gone and an automatic was in John’s hand.

“Erik?” Chris called out into the store.

“Wasn’t me,” was Erik’s reply from across the store.

Chris pulled the rifle from his shoulder, and the two men started making their way toward the sound. “What do you think? Zombie or cat?”

“Don’t forget grubby urchin,” John said.

“Stop it, John,” Erik said as he came around the corner and joined the pair.

“What? It’s a grubby urchin almost as often as it is a cat.”

“Quit calling them that,” Erik said. “They’re children.”

“Grubby children,” John corrected him. “Almost always orphans. Usually full of spunk. They’d have to be to survive out here on their own. I can’t think of a more apt label than urchin. But I’m with you, they’re pretty annoying.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s not that I hate kids. I mean, I do. But with these kids, it’s mostly the whole mute act I can’t stand. They pretend they can’t talk, and it’s like pulling teeth. ‘What’s your name?’ Nothing. ‘Are you all alone?’ Nothing. So half the time you’re playing charades, which is annoying enough. But then, they don’t listen. And they always try to run away, and you have to chase after them because if your wife ever finds out you were the one that said, ‘To hell with it, let the kid go,’ you’ll never hear the end of the ‘what if it was our kid out there?’ routine. So you have to go after them, and they’re just going to lead you to a horde or a gang, and only after all that effort do they finally tell you their name, and they treat it like this big moment that should seem sweet and all, but by then you’re just too tired to give a damn, so you just stick to the nickname you gave them in the first place.”

John took a deep breath and let it out. He found that during his rant, his two companions had stopped, and he was now out in front of the group. He turned to make sure they were still there.

“You’re a monster,” Chris said.

“Yeah? Remember that one you called Newt? What’s Newt’s real name?”

Chris and Erik looked to each other for the answer but came up empty.

“That’s what I thought.”

There was another crash. They moved toward it. As they went, they checked the multitude of corners to ensure there wasn’t anything waiting for them inside a pile of old coats or behind a stack of old luggage.

“Too big to be a cat,” Chris commented.

“Could be a cat with an urchin,” John countered.

“Stop calling them that,” Erik said.

They heard a door shut and saw a dark oak wardrobe wobble.

John put the pistol back in the holster and pointed at the cabinet.

Erik gave him a puzzled look, so John explained. “Oh, please. It’s not a zombie. The last time a monster hid in a wardrobe it was the White Witch handing out candy to children.”

“John, did you actually read a book?” Erik asked.

“I read books all the time.”

“How do you turn the pages?”

“Shut up, Chris.” John pointed back to the wardrobe. “Let’s get on with this.”

Chris raised the barrel of his rifle to cover the door.

John put his hand on the end of the rifle and lowered it. He stepped up to the wardrobe and knocked lightly. “Hey in there. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re not zombies. We’re not bad guys. We just want to help. So, we’re going to open the door, and it would be really great if you didn’t scream or try to scare us at all, because that happens a lot. Oh—it would also be great if you could tell us your name. I get that you’re scared and might not want to talk, but if you don’t tell us your name, we’re going to give you a stupid nickname and trust me, it will stick.”

“I’m sure you’re really winning the kid over, John.”

There was a scuffling and a bumping from inside the wardrobe, and the door creaked open slowly. The little girl was about eight, and grubby was indeed the most accurate way to describe her look. In her arms was a black cat that began to hiss as soon as it saw John.

Erik lowered his shotgun. “A kid with a cat. You called it, John.”

“Yeah, but I was really hoping it was a zombie.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Chris asked.

“Dude!” Erik slapped John across the shoulder.

“What? It’s easier. A zombie, we kill it and be done with it. This,” he said as he pointed at the kid. “This is a chore.”

“It’s not a chore, it’s a child,” Erik insisted and turned to the girl.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Erik asked in his least threatening voice. It was the kind of voice reserved for children and animals that looked as if they were about to charge.

The little girl looked at Erik with wide eyes but didn’t say anything. The cat meowed as she squeezed it tighter.

“My name is Erik. This is Chris.”

“I already did this,” John said.

“With the door closed, dummy,” Chris said. “How would she know which face goes with which name?”

“Are you alone here?” Erik asked.

She shook her head.

John sighed heavily and let it transform into a groan.

“There’s someone else here?” Erik asked.

The young girl held up the cat in response to the question.

Erik smiled. “Are there any other people here?”

She clenched the cat tighter than the cat appreciated and shook her head again.

“How long have you been here?” Erik asked.

The little girl shrugged.

“Are you okay?” Erik continued in the gentle voice, and the girl shrugged again. “Do you want to come out of there?”

She shook her head and pulled the cat closer.

“See? Another mute. What a pain in the ass.”

The cat hissed at John once more.

“Even that cat knows you’re a monster,” Chris said.

“That cat is begging for its life,” John whispered back. “She’s going to squeeze its eyes out.”

“Would you like to come with us?” Erik asked. “We live in a town not far from here. There’s food.”

The young girl retreated further into the wardrobe and rocked her head back and forth.

“One syllable,” John said. “Sounds like: up yours.”

“Look, since you’re not helping here, why don’t you go get the stuff we came here for and let Erik talk to the kid.”

Erik pointed to the space next to her in the wardrobe. “Can I come in?”

The grubby little girl looked at him for a long moment before quietly shifting aside to make room for her new friend.

Erik sat on the shelf and pulled his knees up so they could close the wardrobe doors.

“Fine. You just sit there in your fort while Chris and I do all the work,” John snapped at the closed door. He grabbed his shopping bag and muttered under his breath, “Stupid grubby urchins.”

Any nostalgia John may have felt going through the store wore off as the shadows grew longer in the parking lot outside the antique mall.

His collection of electronics had grown beyond the bag, and he and Chris started to use an old baby buggy to stockpile their haul. Calculators, old video game systems, early computers like TI-99’s and Odysseys would provide a wealth of parts for the project, they hoped. The instructions hadn’t been too specific.

John was checking one last corner of the mall when an orange piece of plastic nostalgia caught his eye from under a pile of storybooks. He tossed a Little Golden Book edition of Heidi aside and held up the Speak & Spell. The toy brought back a flood of memories. Even the shape felt familiar. It was hardly a Gameboy or an iPad Pro, but this had been high-tech stuff back when he was a kid. This, and that stupid calculator with the mustache that made you do all the math.

It felt lighter than he remembered. How did he remember how much a Speak & Spell should weigh? He turned it over and pulled the battery cover off to find the compartment empty. He returned to the baby buggy and rifled through the items he and Chris had collected to find several C-cell batteries. After shuffling through several combinations of worn-out batteries, he found one that had enough juice to power it up.

John smiled as the toy from his childhood lit up. He tested the keys by entering a word and told the machine to speak.

“Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs,” it said.

John smiled. It worked just like he remembered. He tucked the toy under his arm and returned to the back of the mall.

The wardrobe was open now, and Erik and the grubby urchin were sitting on the floor, petting the cat. They looked up at him as he approached. The cat hissed.

“Has she said anything yet?” John asked, ignoring the cat’s unreasonable and uncalled for attitude.

Erik refused to drop the kind voice. “She says you’re a jerk.”

“She didn’t say that.”

“She didn’t say it, but I can tell. Everyone thinks you’re a jerk.”

The little girl smiled at this comment.

“Very funny. I found something that might help.” He showed the girl the toy.

“You’re a jerk,” Erik said.

But the young girl smiled and took the toy from John’s hand. She started pressing the buttons, but nothing happened.

“I can’t believe you,” Erik said. “A Speak & Spell? All because she won’t talk to you.”

“Oh, give me some credit. I thought she might want to play with it. I loved mine as a kid. The whole mute thing is just a coincidence.”

“What’s the story back here?” Chris said as he walked up.

“John gave the kid a Speak & Spell,” Erik said.

“You’re a jerk,” Chris said to John. “Just because she won’t—”

“What’s wrong with you two?” John interrupted. “I can’t do anything nice? I found a toy and thought the kid might like it. So sue me.”

“Why not just give her the action figure?”

“No,” John said. “That’s mine. Besides, she likes it. Look.”

The three men watched the young girl playing with the machine. Nothing was happening. The lights were dead; it was quiet. The little girl shook the toy, but still nothing happened.

“So generous of you.”

“Shut up, Chris. The batteries must have crapped out. Here let me see if I can fix it.” John reached for the toy and the young girl pulled it back from his reach. She tucked it into her chest and turned away.

“I’m just trying to fix it for you,” John explained.

“We don’t have time for this,” Chris said. “We need to get moving if we’re going to make it back before dark. Are we all set?”

“The baby buggy is loaded,” John said. “Is she coming with us?”

Erik bent back down to be at the child’s level. “What do you say? Do you want to come with us?”

The girl hesitated but finally looked up at Erik and nodded slowly.

“Sounds like: yes,” John said. “I love freaking charades.”

* * *

The sun wasn’t far off the horizon when they stepped into the parking lot. Erik walked with the girl. She clutched the cat in one arm and the Speak & Spell in the other. John insisted on pushing the baby buggy despite the difficulty he was having; the wheels squeaked and the springs creaked, but he couldn’t get it to go straight. It certainly wasn’t for a lack of swearing.

“I can push it,” Chris offered. “I don’t mind.”

“I’ve got it,” John said and shoved the carriage forward. It started to turn. He corrected and pushed again but ended up moving back and forth more than straight ahead. He stopped and swore for a solid minute. He finally sighed, “I can do it.”

Chris set a hand on John’s shoulder. “I know you can.”

John let out a deep breath and reluctantly stepped aside to let Chris take over.

John sighed. “It’s the wheels, they’re not turning at the same speed. Makes it hard to…it keeps wanting to turn.”

Chris pushed the buggy with relative ease but nodded to John. The wheels squeaked as he went. “No, you’re right. I can feel it pulling.”

John took point, and the group made their way back down the road that had brought them to the Mulberry Antique Mall. It only took an hour into the walk for the young girl to start getting antsy.

Chris noticed the cat gasping for breath as she tightened her grip on the animal. “What’s wrong with your new friend, Erik?”

“It’s getting dark,” Erik replied. “Kids don’t like the dark.”

“It’s not just the kids,” John said.

There was something about dusk that called for silence. It wasn’t that the undead were any more dangerous at night. But it certainly felt like it belonged to them more than the living.

The dark did make it easier for them to go unseen. Nowadays, most people that stumbled blindly upon a zombie did so in the dark. They were easy enough to avoid in the daylight. Night just called for more caution, and caution called for quiet. But that quiet could be unnerving.

The old stroller wasn’t aware of this cause-and-effect, and the wheels continued to squeak as it rolled along the road.

“I wish they’d stop that,” John mumbled to Chris. “That horde is out there somewhere, and I’d hate to get eaten for a squeaky wheel. If I had to meet my dad at the gates of heaven and explain to him that I died just because I didn’t have a can of WD-40, he wouldn’t let me in.”

They were a mile out from Haven when the sun finally fell beyond the horizon. A full moon took its place and lit the road ahead of them enough to walk safely. The world was quiet with the exception of a breeze that was growing into a wind. Five minutes later, it was howling through the trees.

John’s hand rested on the gun at his side as he walked. The howling of the wind and the moaning of a horde were similar enough to take precautions without looking jumpy.

Chris unslung the rifle from his back and laid it across the stroller’s handle in case he needed it.

Erik walked beside the young girl. Occasionally he tried to get her to talk, but he was more focused on keeping an ear open for trouble along the road.

They were only half a mile from Haven when the wind finally died down.

But the howling continued.

John pulled the pistol from his holster and thumbed off the safety. He crouched and turned to warn the others. They had heard it, too. It was out there. Somewhere. But saying exactly where was difficult. Zombies had once been people, and people were generally lazy and would take the path of least resistance. The horde had most likely continued shambling down the road. But, also like people, they were easily distracted, and anything could have caused them to deviate from their path. A deer. A dog.

But it only took one zombie to bring the rest.

The group pulled together in the middle of the road and began to whisper.

“That horde could be right between us and Haven,” Erik said.

“You're right,” John said. “We should probably start paying attention. That’s why I think it’s important for you to shut up. And, also, shut up.”

“That thought doesn’t concern you?” Chris asked.

“It was just a little horde,” John said. “What—maybe fifty at the most?”

Erik shrugged. “Sounds about right.”

“Do you have a 50-zombie horde plan?” Chris asked.

“Shoot ‘em,” John said.

“Interesting. It’s the same as your 25-zombie horde plan and your 100-zombie horde plan.”

“You want to hear something crazy?” John asked.

“It’s the same as your 500-zombie plan?”

“The beauty is in its simplicity,” John explained.

“It’s not a terrible plan,” Erik said.

“Don’t be on his side,” Chris said. “It’s a terrible plan. Especially if you only have one arm.”

“Hey,” John hissed. “That’s racist!”

“How is me saying a one-armed man has one arm racist?” Chris asked.

“Well,” John said, “it’s mean.”

“It’s also true,” Chris said. “You may have a dozen guns on you, John, but you’ve only got one trigger finger. We’re doing the Black Cats."

“There’s only fifty of them,” Erik said.

“We’re doing the Black Cats,” Chris said once more to end the conversation.

“Have it your way,” John said with a pout. “Erik, just make sure you keep that kid close. If I know grubby urchins, she’s going to bolt from the zombies or the noise or something. And we don’t need to go chasing after her in the dark.”

The child stiffened her lip.

Erik put an arm on her shoulder. “I’ll take care of the kid. Why don’t you just worry about you?”

“I am worried about me. She runs, and it endangers all of us. Of which I am one.”

They kept to the road and kept quiet. The later it got, the more they found themselves holding their breath and trying to distinguish the sounds of animals scurrying in the underbrush from the shuffling footsteps of the ravenous undead. There was a lot of stopping, listening, shaking of heads and moving on.

They were about a mile out from Haven when they finally encountered the horde. It was much larger than they had estimated.

Chris left the squeaky carriage in the road, and the group took cover behind an abandoned SUV.

“There’s no way that’s the same horde,” John said.

“What’s the matter, John?” Chris took off his backpack and reached into the bag. He pulled out a slingshot. Does your 250-zombie horde plan lose its efficacy on a 300-zombie horde?”

“Efficacy you, Chris.”

“That’s not what that means, John,” Erik said.

“Eff you, Erik.”

Chris pulled out a string of Black Cat firecrackers from the bag and removed the red wrapper. He taped a weighted shot to the middle of the bundle and cradled the pack of noise makers in the slingshot’s leather pouch. Erik leaned over, struck a lighter and lit the fuse. The black powder sparked to life, and the little girl bolted.

Chris and Erik watched her run.

“What did I say?” John snapped. “She’s going to run.”

“Was it the fire?” Erik asked.

Chris suddenly remembered what he was doing and stared at the burning fuse.

“Get rid of it!” Erik shouted in a whisper.

Chris shot upright and fired the Black Cats into the night.

The string of firecrackers started going off almost as soon as they had left the slingshot, and the horde took notice. All 300 of them turned toward the source of the noise and started moving toward the SUV.

“You really suck at this,” John said.

Chris dug in the bag for another string of firecrackers. He dug faster and faster but came up empty. “They only gave me one.”

“They? You let Travis pack your bag?”

Chris squirmed instead of answering.

“You really suck at this. You pack your own bag. It’s like a parachute.”

“I’ve got to find her,” Erik said.

“No.” John put his hand across the man’s chest and stopped him. “I’ll get her.”

“John, that’s…”

“You two stand a better chance of getting through to Haven. You make a break for it. I’ll find her and keep her safe until you come back with enough people to get rid of that horde.”

“John…” Erik said solemnly.

John didn’t want the pity that was about to follow, so he cut Erik off. “Look. All I have to do is find her and keep her quiet until you get back with the cavalry. And she’s a mute, so keeping her quiet won’t be a problem, will it?”

Erik looked at Chris for his thoughts. Chris nodded his agreement with John.

“Good. Now that it’s settled, if you two wouldn’t mind making some noise as you go, that would be great.”

Chris slipped the pack on his back and nodded at Erik. Both men sprinted across the road and slid down into the ditch.

John looked at the gun in his hand and took a deep breath. It was going to take some time for the other two to work their way past the horde, and the waiting was going to be rough.

The zombies were getting closer. Their moans were growing in intensity as they neared the source of the noise. Outrunning them wouldn’t be a problem. But they followed what ran, and the last thing he needed was 300 cannibals playing hide-and-seek with him while he was playing hide-and-seek with the girl.

The SUV rocked as the horde reached his cover. He could hear their nails scraping along the car’s body. Every part of the dad in him wanted to yell out for them to watch the paint, but he just closed his eyes and waited. He pictured his wife. She hated it when he had to leave Haven. And he hated leaving her and the kids. But the truth of the matter was, he was useless inside the walls. Everyone labored and toiled to make the most of what they had left. They worked hard, and everyone was fed and clothed and safe. Everyone pulled their weight. Everyone but him.

But out here, he could help. Outside the walls, he served a purpose that benefitted those back in Haven. Travis didn’t hate him. Okay…maybe Travis hated him. The guy was kind of a dick. But it wasn’t the only reason John pulled excursion duty more than most. He requested it.

John heard a zombie mount the hood of the car and start crawling along the roof.

He knew that Chris and Erik would come through. He had no doubt about it. Every time he pulled excursion duty, they volunteered to go with him. They didn’t have to do that. They would come through. He just wished they would hurry.

The two men started shouting a moment later, and not a moment too soon. He could hear their voices faintly over the moans of the horde. But it wasn’t until Erik started firing the shotgun that the horde stopped in their tracks and turned as one to go after the other two men.

John let out a deep breath and started counting. He needed to give the horde a minute or two to be fully engaged in their newest pursuit. He counted to one twenty-ish. When he finally stood, he could only see the slowest of the group moving up the road toward Chris, Erik and the gates of Haven.

John finally turned his attention away from the road and started looking for the most likely places an urchin would hide. There weren’t any wardrobes around, so he would have to start thinking outside that box.

The antique mall was too far. As much as any child would want to run home, he knew the young girl would find some place closer than there. They had passed a service station not far back. It was the last structure that he remembered seeing, and he felt it was as good a place as any to start.

The glass door was shattered. But then again, most of the world’s glass doors were shattered. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. It took a considerable horde to push through tempered glass, so it probably wasn’t the undead. It had to be survivors. A lot of it could be attributed to looting, but more likely a lot of people were wandering around with guns these days, and glass sounded pretty cool when it shattered.

The glass crunched under his feet as he stepped into the former convenience store. The shelves had been picked clean of everything, up to and including the pine tree air fresheners. Almost everything was useful in the apocalypse. This was proven by the baby buggy full of junk they had left on the highway. New stuff wasn’t being made. Old stuff would have to do.

There was a crash from the back of the store, and John spun to bring the pistol to bear on whatever it was. It wouldn’t be unusual for it to be a zombie. They weren’t all in hordes. There was no real understanding why, but individuals still wandered alone on a seemingly different agenda than the rest. John reasoned that’s how he’d be. Alive or dead, he still found people annoying and figured he wouldn’t want to be around them either way.

He inched his way to the end of a row of empty shelves. Once there, he found the source of the noise: the grubby urchin and her cat.

She looked up at him but made no move to run. Once she realized he wasn’t a zombie, she went right back to ignoring him and playing with the buttons on the dead Speak & Spell.

The cat hissed at him.

John made a quick sweep of the store to ensure they were alone, then returned to the young girl. “Do you mind if I sit next to you?” he asked.

She still wouldn’t look at him, but she moved over slightly to make room for him behind the shelf.

John lowered himself to the ground and tried to get comfortable. It was as good a place as any to catch his breath. He watched as she played with the non-functioning toy. It made him smile.

“You really like that thing, huh?”

She nodded and continued to tap the buttons.

“I had one of those when I was a kid. I liked it, too. That’s why I thought you’d like it. Really. Not because you’re pretending you can’t…never mind. I’m sorry it doesn’t work. I thought I had it fixed there for a minute, but I guess the batteries are truly dead.”

The young girl finally looked up at him. She offered him the Speak & Spell.

“No, sweetheart. You keep it. Okay? I have to keep my hands free anyway. Well, hand…it doesn’t matter.”

She went right back to playing with the broken toy.

John watched her for several minutes before he spoke again. “Listen, we need to get going. Chris and Erik got rid of all those zombies, and they went to get us some more help. But we need to start walking that way if you and your cat are feeling up to it.”

At first it was if she hadn't heard him. But she slowly started nodding and got to her feet. John struggled to his own but smiled at her when they were both standing.

She smiled back, and it warmed his heart. Her smile reminded him of his own daughter’s. It also reminded him to make sure to brush and floss properly. But they could get to all that once they got her safely back to Haven.

They walked to the front door. He reminded her to be careful on the broken glass while he pulled the door frame open. “Don’t worry. My friends have taken care of those bad guys by now.”

The girl stopped suddenly.

It was the smaller horde they had encountered earlier in the day. Fifty creatures roamed about in front of the service station as John tried to back away quietly into the store. The young girl was way ahead of him. She had returned to her spot at the end of the row of shelves.

John eased the frame closed and backed away slowly until he was back in the darkness. “We’re just going to wait here, okay?” he whispered.

She nodded and began nervously pressing at the buttons on the toy.

He took the Speak & Spell from her and sat it on the shelf behind him. Then he felt stupid for reminding the girl playing mute to be quiet. But it felt like it had to be said. “We’re just going to stay quiet and really still, okay?”

She nodded again and held the cat tighter.

John eased himself down to the ground and leaned his head back against the shelf. It was enough to cause the Speak & Spell to slide off the shelf. And hitting the floor was enough to reseat the batteries. The Speak & Spell came back to life. At full volume, no less.

“Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs.”

John winced. “We’re going to get out of this, okay?” he said. “And one day, I’ll introduce you to my family. And when you meet my wife, please remember to never tell her about this.”

The horde outside the store heard all the boobs and began to moan. The door frame crashed open, and the 50-zombie horde lumbered into the service station.

Beneath their feet, the machine kept talking like a perverted Stephen Hawking. “Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs.”

The girl looked terrified. Anyone in their right mind would have.

“Don’t worry,” John said. He tried to sound confident. “I have this plan.”

A zombie cleared the aisle and caught the first bullet.

The report sent the girl running further into the store. John risked a glance over his shoulder. Even the cooler doors had been shot out. Damn hooligans. He fired twice and dropped two more of the undead before he risked pointing to the cooler. “Get in there.”

It wasn’t perfect, but it might buy her some time if his "shoot ‘em" plan didn’t work out as well as he hoped. He shot at another zombie and caught it in the shoulder. A second shot passed through its eye, and it fell to the floor, motionless.

“Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs.”

John controlled his breathing. His plan would only work if his aim was true.

He saw the girl crawl through the cooler door and turned his full attention to the horde. John took a deep breath. He could do this. He had practiced this over and over again. Day and night, he had drilled. It was the only way he knew he could be of any use. He couldn’t plow. He couldn’t help with the wall. But he trained for this, and this he could do.

The bulk of the horde entered the store through the front window.

He let the breath out and stepped into the aisle.

The gun bucked three more times and killed three more zombies before the slide locked open. John thumbed the magazine release and let it slide to the floor before slamming the gun back into the holster at his side. He drew the gun from under his shoulder.

There were more targets to choose from as the horde filled the store. The larger magazine held 16 rounds, and he fired them all. Ten more zombies had fallen, and he vowed that, if he made it out, he would practice harder. The XD in his hand locked open, and once more he dropped the magazine and returned the gun to the holster.

“Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs.”

The moaning was intensifying.

He had three more guns, and by the time the last one was emptied, cleared of a magazine and back in its holster, he was surrounded. He had made his way into the center aisle, and they had come for him over the shelves and around the back. The 50-zombie horde was still 20 members strong at least, and John did his best to focus as 40 or so arms reached for him.

He went through the routine in his mind, and his hand began to dance across his body from belt to holster as he slapped fresh magazines into the waiting pistols. The .45 at his waist was back in his hand, and five more monsters dropped to the store’s floor. The XD got a loaded magazine, and he racked the slide as he drew it from his shoulder holster.

The fact that their numbers were shrinking didn’t stop their push, and the horde continued to close in.

That made them easier to hit, but more difficult to score a headshot.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t panic. He continued to reach for where he knew the magazines to be and placed them into the guns he knew were waiting. He could do it in the dark. He could do it with his eyes closed.

As long as he didn’t panic.

He reloaded. He drew. He fired at the targets all around him. Another empty gun fell another eight zombies, and there was room to breathe in the store once more.

He started backing toward the cooler as the last few creatures pushed toward him. The magazine slid into the Colt clean, and he pulled it from his waist one last time. Four measured shots made for four more kills, and the groaning finally came to an end.

There was no movement left in the store.

There was only him, the urchin and the Speak & Spell saying, “Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs.”

John heaved as the reality of the situation caught up to him. It had worked. His stupid plan had worked. A one-armed man with five guns eliminated a 50-zombie horde.

Chris and Erik could laugh all they wanted, but his plan had worked. He collapsed against the back wall of the store. He was no longer sure it would work with a 100-zombie horde, but for now he’d take the win.

The young girl poked her head out of the cooler door.

He smiled and tried to say everything was okay, but he was out of breath.

John almost cried as the batteries on the damn Speak & Spell finally died and the machine droned out one final “Boooobs.”

The young girl crawled through the shattered cooler door and ran over to his side. She smiled. The cat hissed. She leaned in close to him and whispered, “Thank you.”

And as much as he hated to admit it, it was sweet.

* * *

They were both pushing the stroller together when Erik and Chris met them on the road back to Haven with the strike team.

The young girl smiled when she saw Erik and let go of the stroller to walk with her new friend.

“What’s this?” Chris asked. “Did you and the urchin make friends?”

“Her name is Kara,” John told Chris. “And, you’re a monster.”

Chris smiled at this and put his hand on the buggy’s handle. “Here. I’ll take this side.”

“It’s okay,” John said and backed away. “It’s all yours.”

Day of the Really, Really Dead

Day of the Really, Really Dead

The trek back from the town of Sanctuary had been an uneventful one. Erik had been more talkative than normal, so John was eager to get the hike over with and part ways with the two men. He kept up a pace that was more akin to jogging so, naturally, it drew some attention from the others.

“What’s the rush, John?” Chris asked.

“I’m not rushing.”

“You’re trying to hurry without looking like you’re hurrying. You only move like this when you have to pee or there’s a communal birthday cake up for grabs in the commons.”

“I like getting a corner piece,” John said without slowing. “There’s more icing on the corners.”

“Seriously, what’s your hurry?” Erik asked with a stupid grin on his stupid face.

“I just want to get back home,” John said. “You know I hate crashing overnight in Sanctuary. And we seem to be doing it more and more. So, after another night with those jerks, I’m eager to get home.”

Erik chuckled. “Why do you hate them so much?”

John shrugged. “I dunno. You’ve got to hate someone.”

“Do you really though?” Chris asked.

“Sure you do,” John said. “If you don’t focus your hate somewhere, someone undeserving is going to get it and they don’t deserve that because of some other stupid jerk. And that’s just inconsiderate.”

“That is amazing logic,” Chris said. But he didn’t mean it. He never meant it. “That must have taken some serious pondering to come up with that.”

“Yeah, well ever since the world ended, there hasn’t been much worth watching on TV.”

“You’ve got to think of it like a business trip,” Erik said. He’d been smiling since they’d left home two days ago, and it bothered John. No one had that much right to happiness these days .

“I do think of it as a business trip, E. You see? I hated taking business trips. I don’t like sleeping in strange beds in strange towns with strange smells. I like to sleep in my own bed in my own town with my own smells. And with my own wife. I miss my family.”

Erik’s smile vanished. “I miss my family, too, John.” The man quickened his pace and moved ahead of the pair.

John called after him. “C’mon, Erik. That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“You’re just Captain Sensitive today, aren’t you, John?”

“Shut up, Chris. You know I didn’t mean to bring up the…. He took that and twisted it to…. Look, it got him moving quicker, didn’t it?”

“It sure did. And all you had to do was tread on his family’s graves. Nice work.”

“Don’t be insensitive, Chris. You know they’re not buried.”

“You’re right, John. Congratulations.” Chris quickened his pace to catch up with Erik, and John was left behind in blissful silence. He enjoyed it at first but soon recognized it as the same silence that always followed when he won an argument with his wife. He was going to regret it.

* * *

For lack of a better option, they called the walled city of Haven home. In a previous life, the town had been a slice of small-town America right down to a faded cola mural on a brick wall downtown. After the dead decided being dead was no longer for them, it became a fortified refuge to call home for many of the survivors.

The major cities were still overrun, and it was damn near impossible to grow a crop on concrete. Moving to the sticks meant having access to fertile land and a relative amount of quiet. Inside its walls, the leadership did everything they could to make things seem like the good old days. Fort Norman Rockwell, here, was as close to normal as they could expect.

“Welcome back, gentlemen.” The guard stood on top of the wall with a rifle slung over his back and a false sense of authority on his face. “Did you have fun gallivanting around while the rest of us stayed here and worked?”

“Gallivanting?” John scrunched up his face. “I wasn’t gallivanting. I was responsible for the traipsing. Shit. Chris, were we supposed to be gallivanting?”

“Not me. I was specifically instructed to handle the jaunting. Maybe it was Erik.”

“Nope, I was in charge of frolicking. Wouldn’t know the first thing about gallivanting. It isn’t even in my wheelhouse.”

John shrugged and turned back to the man on the gate. “I hate to say it, Larry, but it looks like there was no gallivanting done at all. Do you want us to head back out and try again?”

Lawrence Wills folded his arms across his chest. “Do you want me to open the gates, smartass?”

John gestured his apology. “We’re just having some fun. Besides, I brought something for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” John dug into his pocket and pulled out a middle finger. He wagged the finger at the guard. “It reminded me of you. Now open the stupid gate.”

The guard didn’t move for a moment. He stared down the men outside the wall and finally yelled, “Calvin, three for processing!”

“Thanks, Larry,” John mocked. “Hey, can you ask them to make sure their hands are warm this time?”

“No.”

“You’re all heart.”

Processing was just Wills’s way of making reentry into Haven sound cool. It entailed little more than saying hello to a bouncer-sized individual named Calvin and getting a going-over for bites.  It was a pretty thorough going-over, however. The process had evolved over time. At first it was just a take off your shirt and roll up your pants kind of thing because the thinking was, how could anyone get bit in the privates? Well, thank you, Ken Newton, for finding a way to get bit in the junk. Sadly, Ken had turned before anyone could get the full story, but everyone had their suspicions about how it happened. The pervert.

“Take off your pants.” The town screener said it with all the delicacy of a prison roommate.

A lesser man would have said, “Aren’t you at least going to buy me dinner first?” But Chris just said, “I didn’t get bit, Calvin.”

“Rules are rules, Chris. I don’t like looking at your ass any more than you like me looking at your ass.”

“We were together the entire time, Cal,” John said. “No one got bit.”

“You take off your pants, too.”

“Aren’t you at least going to buy me dinner first?” John asked.

“Hurry up. Drop trou.” Calvin had heard the joke before and ignored it. “There’s a town meeting and you’re going to make me late.”

“Why?” Erik asked while undoing his belt. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I can see why you’re so excited then,” John said. “I’ll hurry up so I can skip the meeting faster.”

“It’s a mandatory meeting, you ass.”

“Oh, those are my favorite kind of meetings to skip.”

“If you’re not there, I get to throw you out myself. Pants or no pants. My choice.” Calvin smiled.

John studied the man’s expression for a moment and then guessed, “No pants?”

The town screener nodded. “No pants.”

“You’re a sick man, Calvin.”

* * *

There was a park on Main Street that boasted a rusty playground and a rotted gazebo. The once-treasured greenspace was now a brown space with clumps of weeds amid patches of dirt. Most of the weed growth was kept at bay thanks to foot traffic, which had worn more than a few muddy spots into the once-manicured public space. Due to an early effort to convert most lawnmower blades into zombie-fighting weapons, lawn maintenance everywhere had suffered since The Rise. The new town council used the space for announcements because they believed that, traditionally, things sounded better coming from a gazebo. The announcements had been frequent at first. Any news from the outside world was a reason to gather in the town center. But as things wore on, the announcements dried up and the only reason the townsfolk gathered at the gazebo with any regularity was for the monthly mass birthday celebrations.

But new news always drew a crowd, and the park was already full when the three men arrived.

“There’s no place to sit,” John grumbled after surveying the crowd.

“Oh, poor John. I guess you’ll have to stand like the rest of us.” Glenn Wilcox was the town weatherman. He’d been an on-air personality for a while before the dead got back up, but John had never heard of him. All he knew about the guy was that he was as bad at sarcasm as he was at forecasting the weather.

“Shut up, Wilcox. We just walked back from Sanctuary.”

“I guess you should have walked faster. Then you would have had a seat.”

“Don’t you have some weather to mispredict or something?”

“It’s not an exact science.”

“That’s interesting you say that because you’re exactly wrong all the damn time.”

“Meteorology is making educated guesses based on—”

“Witch doctors have a better percentage than you.”

John liked to pretend he believed in diving rods and omens around Glenn just to upset the self-proclaimed “man of science.” Once, he’d caught a groundhog and presented him to the meteorologist as a sidekick. The witch doctor comment obviously frustrated the man, and he rolled his eyes.

“We don’t have the equipment we need, and I guess not all of us can do our job short-handed.” Wilcox smirked and walked away.

“Really?” John said with a quick glance at where his hand had once been. “One-handed jokes? You’re a small man, Wilcox.”

John turned back to Erik and Chris. “Let’s find a seat.”

“I’m sure it won’t be a long announcement,” Chris said.

“I don’t care how long it is, we’re getting a seat.” John wandered to the edge of the crowd and onto the playground. It was a rickety structure made of creosote-soaked logs and held together with tetanus. No parent in their right mind would let their kid play on it. The swings were broken and the slide had rusted through, but there was still a seat to be had if you looked hard enough.

“There you go,” John said. “I told you I’d find us a seat.”

“I’m not sitting on that,” Erik said.

“Suit yourself,” John said as he straddled the spring-mounted chicken. “A seat is a seat.”

It immediately pitched forward under his weight, and John wrapped an arm around the chicken’s neck to keep himself on the ride. The spring ride swung forward until John had to put his feet out to stop from falling off. The rusty squeak that accompanied the motion was loud enough to silence the crowd.

Chris and Erik stepped away as John struggled to sit upright once more. He overcorrected and the chicken swung backward and let out another squeak. Two more overcorrections, two more squeaks and one cussing-out of the chicken finally brought John upright, and he planted his feet firmly in the gravel.

He looked up to see half the crowd staring at him.

“What? You never seen someone ride a chicken?”

“Hello, good people of Haven. May I have your attention, please?” The chairman stood on the steps of the gazebo with the other members of the town council gathered around him. He raised both his hands like he was conducting an orchestra and repeated himself. “May I have your attention, please? This meeting of the town of Haven will come to order and be entered into the town charter as proclamation 416.”

The squeak of a rusty chicken stole the attention the chairman had worked so hard to attract.

The council and the crowd turned to stare at John, who had once again pitched forward on the playground toy and was struggling to right himself. The crowd stared in silence until the man found his balance.

John sat up and looked back at the crowd. He did his best to act nonchalant. But it was hard to look casual when you were straddling a chicken and losing. But standing up now would only be admitting defeat, so he placed an elbow on the chicken’s head and his hand under his chin, indicating that he was extra-paying-attention to whatever was going on. “Please proceed, Chairman.”

The chairman grimaced but continued. “We’ve heard from the capitol,” he said.

This sent a wave of excitement rolling through the crowd. It had been months since what remained of the authorities had reached out to the walled cities, and it stirred some excitement in the audience. It also, as always, prompted several questions.

“Is there a cure?”

“Is there a vaccine?”

“Can we go home?”

These were expected. They were the most common questions. These were usually followed by:

“Who’s in charge?”

“Where is the capitol?”

And “Are you shitting me? Who do those bastards think they are?”

Today was no exception, and the chairman called for silence after all of the questions had been voiced.

But the crowd grew louder.

The chairman didn’t get it. He never did. The audience always grew louder until he started banging on the gazebo and demanding order.

The chairman pulled out a gavel that he kept in his suit pocket for just such an occasion. He started hammering on the gazebo’s railing until a plank fell from overhead and knocked Mrs. Gimble in the head.

Stifled laughter filled the crowd because no one really liked Mrs. Gimble, and they enjoyed it when she got hit in the head. The only person who didn’t try to stifle their laughter was Mr. Gimble. No one laughed harder than he did.

The chairman kept on banging for silence while the town doctor helped Mrs. Gimble off the gazebo.

“We have important news,” the chairman said when the crowd finally settled. “It may strike us as sad news, but I like to look at it as an important step that will help all of us move forward.”

The chairman took a deep breath and put on his declaration voice to read from the note in his hand. “As of next Wednesday, any person who has succumbed to the zombie virus shall be henceforth declared legally deceased.”

John’s footing slipped and he tipped back on the spring chicken. The rusty squeak got the crowd’s attention.

He righted himself and saw everyone staring at him again. “Please continue, chairman. Something about the deceased.”

The chairman looked perturbed but went back to the proclamation. “Official time of death will be registered as the time they turned.”

“I told you,” John hissed at Chris and Erik.

The two men looked at each other and shrugged.

“Do you want to ask?” Chris asked.

“Not really,” Erik answered. “But you know he’s just going to keep at it until someone does.”

Chris sighed and nodded. Then he turned to John. “Told us what?”

“You said I murdered Austin. And all those other people. You tried to make me feel so guilty, but they were already dead when I killed them. At the very worst, I was desecrating corpses. Which, now that I say it out loud, sounds worse.”

“Are you serious with this?” Chris asked.

“You tried to make me feel guilty for months, but now it’s official. Everyone who went zombie was dead the moment it happened. D. E. A. D. And there’s no coming back from that.”

Erik fired a look at John that he had never seen. But it was cold, and before he could get an explanation, Erik turned away and walked off.

“You dumbass,” Chris said.

“What?”

Once John thought about it, Erik’s reaction made sense. And it wasn’t an uncommon one. Anyone who had been holding out for a cure began to wander out of the crowd with a sullen look on their face. The proclamation had denied anyone with undead family members their last bit of hope.

The chairman saw he was losing the crowd and started trying to spin the news into something other than the grim declaration that it was: the official passing of millions of people.

“Everyone, please! This is difficult to hear now. I know. Many of us were holding on to the idea that something could be done. But this is actually… it’s actually good news. This isn’t a time to be sad. It’s a time to stop mourning our loved ones’ undeaths and start celebrating.”

“Celebrate?” someone snapped. “Celebrate that everyone died?”

“No,” the chairman said. “No, of course not. We’ll celebrate that everyone truly lived.”

It wasn’t a bad line, John admitted. But Braveheart had done it better. Even so, the chairman had paused for a round of applause that never came and started fumbling with the words he needed to explain himself.

“It will be great,” he said. “We’ll have food and music and dancing. We’ll even do up some decorations.”

“So it’s a party,” another crowd member clarified. There was excitement in her tone.

“It’s a celebration of life!” The chairman was getting wrapped up in his own idea now, and his energy level was rising. “It will be great. We’ll call it the Day of the Dead.”

The crowd turned on him instantly and started booing.

“What?” the chairman asked.

Another council member stepped forward and whispered something in the chairman’s ear.

The chairman looked shocked and turned to the whisperer. “I wasn’t trying to appropriate anything.”

The council member whispered in his ear again.

“That’s what that is?” the chairman asked.

The whisperer nodded.

“I thought that was like their Halloween.”

The whisperer shook her head and said something else that upset the chairman.

“I am not being insensitive, I just didn’t know. So what’s with all of the skulls and stuff?”

The woman leaned in closer and gave a long explanation that lasted for a full minute and involved a lot of hand gestures.

“Well, obviously I wasn’t—” he stopped and turned back to the crowd. “Look, obviously I wasn’t trying to appropriate anything. So obviously we won’t call it the Day of the Dead. We’ll call ours the Day of the Undead.”

A hand went up in front and a voice rose with it. “But you just said that they are, in fact, dead. As of next Wednesday. So they really are not undead but dead-dead.”

The man next to him nodded and added, “And even before that, they were kind of dead anyway.”

“Okay,” the chairman said. “You’re right. So we’ll call it the Day of the Really… Really Dead. What do you think?”

There was a lot of shrugging from the crowd, but the booing had stopped. And that was good enough for the chairman. “So, it’s settled. Next Wednesday we will celebrate our first annual Day of the Really, Really Dead.” He paused and then added, “And you’re not going to want to miss it. It’s going to be really, really fun.”

* * *

The town’s council was so focused on making things seem normal that they overdid it just about every chance they got. By the time the Wednesday following the proclamation arrived, the center of town had been completely transformed.

Bold-colored banners hung between the buildings and spanned the width of Main Street. Freestanding murals had been erected all over the town square. And, not that it took any prompting, but Sandy Hudson and His Pack of Hornets were on the gazebo, limbering up their lips for a big brass-band style sendoff for the not-so-recently departed.

Part of it was thanks to Mrs. Gimble. She headed the Committee for Celebrations, Commemorations and Parties. Under her leadership, the CCCP controlled all of the building supplies in town and had access to all the paint, fabric and other supplies needed to transform the town of Haven into a party to remember. For all its shortcomings, the town sure knew how to throw a hell of a funeral.

Chris had made a point of meeting Erik before the party, and the two had spent the early morning sharing a silence that only old friends found comforting. After that got weird, they walked down Main Street toward the heart of the party.

“What do you think of all this?” Chris asked.

Erik cocked his head in response.

“That’s about what I figured. It’s not the council’s best idea. But I guess we should try to make the best of it. It’s the least we can do for Gimble’s band of idiots.”

The CCCP consisted of the town’s most outgoing and obnoxious individuals. Every morning person, pun lover and person who laughed at the phrase “Working hard or hardly working” had been collected in the library’s reading room and given authority over the cheerfulness of others.

Maybe it was a pent-up demand for a reason to celebrate, or maybe the banners that said “Do a Dance for the Dead” were getting to him, but Chris could feel the energy from the Day of the Really, Really Dead celebration getting to him more the closer they got.

The center of the activity was on Main, and the banner subcommittee had gone all out to cover the streets with platitudes for those in mourning and celebrate those who had passed. There had been some drama within the subcommittee as to who the intended target for the messaging really was. A faction of the subcommittee said it was for the living, but another said it was for the dead. So a decision was made to do both and alternate them. A sect within the faction of the subcommittee said it was only for survivors who had died, but Henry was quickly voted out of the group, and everyone was relieved that he had gone because he had always been a little off.

“Man, they really let old lady Gimble off the leash for this,” John said as he stumbled toward Chris and Erik. It was clear he’d been celebrating all morning. “And they really broke into the rations.”

“It’s just paint,” Erik said.

“Yes, but I asked for just a little bit of paint once and got turned down flat.”

“Is that when you decided that all the statues in town needed mustaches?” Chris asked.

“It was an art project.”

“You were drunk. Like now.”

John waved away the comment. “A coincidence.”

“It was a dumb idea.”

“It was not. It’s exactly how Van Gogh got his start.”

“Yeah, that’s not how you pronounce it.”

“Don’t make me hurt you on party day, Chris.” John took another drink and threw a nod toward Erik. “What’s with him?”

The man clearly wasn’t having any fun. You could see it on his face, and in his posture, and in the way he gave John the finger. But it wasn’t just Erik. Many of the faces in the crowd didn’t seem to appreciate all of the effort the ladies on the CCCP had put in.

John playfully bumped into Erik. “C’mon, E. Lighten up. Read the banners. We’re supposed to be having fun. I think. They weren’t really clear on that, and there’s some pretty mixed messaging. But you should cheer up nonetheless because it’s killing my buzz.”

“Really?” Erik asked.

“No, not really. I’m actually having a great time. I thought this was going to be a pretty lame party.  But I was wrong. I’ve never been to a funeral this fun before.” John held up a pastry wrapped in foil. “You’ve got to try this Day of the Really, Really Dead bread.”

“I think I’ll pass on the bread,” Erik said.

“But that’s the thing. You hear it’s bread and think, ‘No, I’ll pass on the bread.’ But to be honest it’s more like cake and I’m not sure why they’re calling it bread at all.”

“I don’t think he cares what it’s called, John.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” John said more loudly since he had now gotten agreement. “Bread, cake, cake, bread… who cares? It’s good. I can see an argument that bread rhymes with dead and if you’re going for a whole theme then I get it. But it should be cake. Because this is a party. And parties have cakes. And it tastes like cake.”

“You’re here for a party, John” Chris said. “Some people are here for closure.”

“So what? Closure can’t come with cake?”

Chris glared at John and gave a subtle nod toward Erik. John mirrored the movements. The motions got bigger and bigger until his alcohol-addled mind caught on that he was upsetting Erik.

“Dammit, E, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I know you’re grieving but, well, let’s just look on the bright side.”

“What would the bright side be, John?” Erik asked. “My wife, my kids. As of this very moment, they’re officially dead. The world is telling me there’s no hope that they can be saved. That they can be turned back. The world is giving up on them. That’s not from any scientist, mind you. It’s not a doctor saying there’s no cure. It’s some faceless authority we’ve never seen saying, ‘move on.’”

“Yeah, but you’re single again!”

“Dude!” Chris shouted and slapped John so hard that his Day of the Really, Really Dead bread shot out of his hand and into the air.

John bobbled the bread several times. He tried to catch it in his good hand but kept batting it higher up into the air. Every strike sent cake crumbs flying into the air to come raining down on both men. The last bat finally put the treat out of John’s reach and they both watched as it hit the ground. “Oh, that’s just great, Chris. They were very clear no one was getting seconds.”

“How can you say that?” Chris shouted.

“They said it, not me. I guess they want to make sure there’s enough to go around.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Don’t change the subject. You owe me your death cake, Chris.”

Chris sighed and nodded toward Erik.

John caught up to the conversation again. “No, that’s a good thing. Being single is an awesome thing.”

“It doesn’t feel that awesome, John,” Erik said.

“That’s because you’re in denial. It’s the first step in the griefing process.”

“I’m sorry, did you say ‘griefing process?’”

“Yeah, it’s like when guys get divorced. There’s denial that being single is awesome—that’s where you are. Then there’s anger, cool car, dating a stripper, being stalked by a stripper. And then, finally, acceptance.”

“I don’t want to be single,” Erik said.

“Of course you don’t think you do. But think of how awesome it’s going to be. Man, if I knew then what I know now.”

“Yeah? What do you know now that you didn’t know then?” Chris asked.

“A fair point,” John conceded. “But talk like that isn’t helping our friend Erik. I envy you, E.  You get to play the field. Be a man about the apocalypse. You get to date a stripper.”

“Get to, huh?” Erik asked.

“Have to,” John corrected himself. “I think it’s a rule. Man, you are going to have so much fun.”

“If being single sounds so great, why not leave your wife?” Erik asked.

“I couldn’t do that. Christine is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Erik threw up his arms and stomped off toward the festivities.

“Way to go, John,” Chris said. “You just took his worst day ever and made it worse than that.”

“Ah, he’ll be okay. This will be good for him. It’s like ripping off a band-aid. It needed to be done.”

“His family was turned into zombies a year ago. They’ve been dying every day ever since and he’s been powerless to do anything about it. This has been the slowest removing of a band-aid ever.”

“Yeah, but it’s the last part, where it’s pretty much just stuck to one arm hair and you have to take a deep breath and pull cause that hair is coming with it no matter what you do. It’s that part of ripping it off. Man, do I envy him.”

“Since you’re a moron, you may not realize that dating has probably changed since, one, you were a fair-haired lad, and, two, the dead rose from their graves and now walk the earth.”

“Of course I realize that. Dating in the apocalypse has to be easier than ever.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, there’s no back-and-forth about where to eat.”

Chris nodded. “Okay there is that.”

“She can’t stalk you online, if you call it off.”

“Was that a big problem for you?”

“Of course not, I’m just… you’re the one who asked.”

“You said dating was better in the apocalypse.”

“Easier. The standards are lower. You don’t have to worry about having a fancy job now that everyone is working at ‘survivor.’ Money doesn’t matter, since there isn’t any. All the superficial stuff has been ripped away and now it’s simply who you are as a person that matters.”

John often spoke without thinking, and Chris enjoyed watching as what he said caught up to him.

“I’m so lucky to be married,” John said.

“Me, too,” Chris agreed.

John went silent and then choked back something emotional. Then he snapped. “But don’t change the subject, you owe me your dead day cake. I’ll show you where it is.”

Against his better judgement, Chris followed John into the party.

* * *

It was technically true to say that every hangover John had experienced since the dead decided to rise from their graves and start causing trouble was, in fact, an apocalyptic hangover. But this one felt particularly world-ending.

His eyes hurt and they weren’t even open. He forced them shut tighter to prevent any light from getting in and making the pain worse.

His head was still swimming, and he started counting drinks from the night before to figure out where things went wrong. He only got a couple in before he realized he didn’t remember all that much from the night before at all.  There was definitely some kind of cake. And that meant there was probably some kind of cake fight, but beyond that it was a blur.

He grew tired of pinching his eyes shut and risked letting in a little bit of the day. It was a mistake, and he rolled over so the pillow could do the work and he could give his eyes a rest.

There was a pounding he didn’t like. It wasn’t the throbbing pulse of regret, but a literal pounding somewhere in the back of his mind.

Or it may have been on his door.

That was it. Someone was pounding on his door. It was just uncanny how it was in sync with the pain in his head. He waited in the hopes that someone else would answer it or the jerk doing the pounding would give up and go away.

But the pounding continued, and it slowly dawned on John that his wife and kids had already left for the day and that the person knocking was an asshole.

John rolled out of bed and made little effort to pull on a bathrobe. If the person at the door wanted to see him that badly, they would see him in his boxers.

They were still pounding when he reached the door. He opened it just to stop the noise.  Chris was mid-swing and almost caught John in the face.

“I’ve been knocking for five minutes,” he said.

John backed away from the door and Chris let himself in. “I’m surprised you’ve got that kind of stamina at your age.”

“Speaking of…. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” John said.

“You should be full of regret.”

“Meh,” John said with a shrug. “I wake up in pain one way or the other at this point. Why not enjoy the night before?”

“Erik isn’t here.”

“Are you asking me or telling me? Because I just got up and I’m not ready for quizzes. I’m ready for aspirin and water and more sleep.” He turned and moved to the kitchen, where he located all but the sleep. It hurt to swallow the expired pills.

“I’m telling you. Erik isn’t here.”

“Why would he be? This is my place.” John felt the countertop with his hand, found it to be cold, crawled up on top of it and lay down. It felt good. “Go pound on his door.”

“I mean he’s not at his place either. He’s nowhere in Haven.”

“Huh. Did you check his place?

“John, focus!”

John soaked in the countertop’s coolness and groaned, “You focus. I’m doing this right now.”

“He’s not answering his door. And I can’t find him anywhere else.”

“Why don’t you look there, then?”

“Where?” Chris asked.

With great effort, John rolled sideways and cocked an eye at Chris. “Anywhere else.”

“The last time I saw him was just before the party when you told him to date strippers.”

The party! The zombie day thing. It all came back to him. Well, everything before his sixth drink. He was going to make a proposal that the day after the Day of the Really, Really Dead should be a holiday.

He snapped at Chris, “I said he got to date strippers. Not that he had to date strippers.” That didn’t sound right. “Wait, maybe I did say he had to.”

“I’m worried about him.”

“Fine.” John made a big production of standing up so that Chris would appreciate how much effort it took and huffed. “I guess I’ll get some pants.”

* * *

Chris was giving Erik’s door the same treatment he’d given John’s. Every time his fist struck the door, John winced. After a minute, his head had had enough.

“Stop it,” John said. “Either he isn’t here and or he’s here and wants you to go away.”

“I’m not leaving till I know which it is,” Chris said.

“Then kick in the door,” John said.

“What?”

“Kick in the door.”

“I’m not going to kick in the—”

“What if he fell?” John asked.

“What do you mean what if he—”

“What if he fell?”

“He’s not 70. He’s—”

“Picture this,” John said. “He was upset. Probably because of something you said. And he drank too much. He stumbled home and then, on his way upstairs, he trips and falls. Now he’s a broken heap at the foot of the stairs. Unable to move. Unable to call for help. Just listening to you pound endlessly at his door. His salvation just feet away, powerless to do anything about it.”

“He’s not a powerless heap.”

“And you’re willing to let him die, alone, probably drooling and possibly having soiled himself, because you’re too much of a wuss to kick in a door when it obviously needs kicking in.”

“Fine.” Chris threw his shoulder into the door. It did very little.

“Harder, man. Your friend’s life is at stake!”

Chris ran into the door again harder and, per Newton, bounced off harder.

“That’s not how you kick in a door!” John shouted. “Erik’s dying. Maybe.”

Chris landed several kicks at various places on the door but did more damage to his ankle and groin than to the door itself. Exhausted, he bent over and rubbed the inside of his leg. “I… I can’t.”

“Yeah, it’s tough,” John agreed and waved the man aside. “Back up a minute.”

Chris scoffed at the idea of John succeeding where he had failed. He backed up and made a grand gesture, inviting John to have a go at the door.

John reached up and pulled a spare key off of the lamp by the door and slid it into the lock.

“You dick,” Chris said through shortened breaths.

“If it helps, I really believed in you.”

Chris pushed John aside and opened the door. He called Erik’s name and stepped inside. Their friend wasn’t at the bottom of the stairs in a broken, drooling heap. But wherever he was, he couldn’t have been feeling too good.

“Wow,” John said as they stepped into a living room full of empty bottles. “I can’t believe Erik had a party and didn’t invite us.”

“I don’t think it was a party.”

John picked up one of the many empty bottles and turned it on end to demonstrate just how empty it was. “No one man could drink this much alone. Well, maybe in college.”

Chris moved around to the couch and called for John to follow him. He pointed to a coffee table full of picture frames holding the precious memories of a man who couldn’t forget. His wife. His oldest son. His infant twins. His whole life. His family. All of whom had been declared legally dead during yesterday’s party.

“Erik!” John shouted despite the pain it caused and started racing through the house. Chris was right behind him, calling their friend’s name as they searched each room. Sometimes twice.

They regrouped by the front door and both shrugged.

“Where the hell could he be?” Chris asked.

“Do you think he hooked up with a stripper?”

Chris slapped him across the shoulder. “There aren’t any strippers in Haven!”

They were both quiet while John rubbed his shoulder. He suddenly stopped and offered up, “Do you think he’s still in Haven?”

* * *

“Well, if it isn’t Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumbass,” Lawrence said as the two men approached the gate.

“Wait,” John said. “Which one of us is Tweedle-Dumbass?”

“You are,” Chris said quickly.

“You are,” Lawrence said more definitively.

“Why am I Tweedle-Dumbass?”

“Are you seriously arguing to be Tweedle-Dee?” Chris asked.

“Well, I don’t want to be Tweedle-Dumbass.”

Chris turned back to Lawrence. “Have you seen Erik?”

Lawrence nodded. “You mean Tweedle-Dipshit?”

“Listen, Lawrence,” John said. “I’m not in the mood today. I am very hungover and deeply concerned about my friend’s wellbeing. Plus, there were only two of them in the book so you can’t just go making up a third Tweedle-Anything. You get two, that’s it.  Now, have you seen Erik?”

Lawrence was about to push his luck, but John twisted his head just enough to convey how pissed he’d be if he did.

“Yeah, I saw him,” Lawrence said. “He left outta here a couple of hours ago.”

“Where was he going?” Chris asked.

Lawrence just shrugged.

“You didn’t ask?” John asked.

“What, I’m supposed to ask everybody that comes and goes where they’re heading?”

John felt a vein in his head pop. “That is exactly what you’re supposed to do, Larry!”

“Look, I didn’t ask because your friend seemed pretty down, and I didn’t want to hear about it. But…” Lawrence looked around to make sure they were alone. He then leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “He had that look in his eye.”

“What look?” John asked in a matched tone.

“That Sally Whatshername look,” Lawrence said. “You know? That lady that walked out of here to get eaten by zombies. That suicided-by-zombie look.”

“That has a look?” John asked.

“Oh, believe me, it has a look. When you’ve seen it as much as I have, you know it has a look.”

“And you just let him go?” Chris asked.

“Hey, who am I to stop him? If someone wants to go throw themselves to the horde, that’s their God-given right. I’m just here to make sure they don’t bring the infection back with them.”

“Great, our town is being guarded by Dr, Kevorkian,” John said.

“You think you’re being funny, John, but the joke’s on you,” Lawrence said. “I don’t know who that is.”

“Yeah, you really showed me by not knowing things, Larry.”

“Enough.” Chris put a hand on John’s shoulder and pulled him out of the conversation. “We’ve got to do something.”

“You don’t think Erik would really kill himself?” John asked. He didn’t think that. Did he?  “Would he?”

Chris didn’t answer fast enough.

“Dude!” John couldn’t believe Chris’s lack of faith in their friend.

“He did seem pretty down yesterday,” Chris reasoned.

“I get that, but this is E we’re talking about,” John said. “He wouldn’t go through everything we’ve gone through just to end it now.”

Chris grimaced as he considered the alternative.

“No. He wouldn’t. He put up with the dead, and you, for over a year without wanting to end it all. So, what’s different now?” John asked.

“His family is dead,” Chris said as if John hadn’t been paying attention.

“His family was already dead.”

“Yeah, but thanks to the ‘authorities,’ now they’re really, really dead.”

“He still wouldn’t do it.” John said emphatically. Then he added, “And even if he was going to do it, he wouldn’t throw himself to the zombies. That much I know for sure. He hates those things.”

“It would be a horrible way to go,” Chris said. “If they didn’t kill you outright, knowing the turn was coming would drive you insane.”

John nodded. “Right, there are plenty of better ways to kill yourself. Hanging. Poisons. Or nibble on a shotgun barrel and tickle the trigger with your toes until it blows a hole out the back of your head and paints your suicide note on the wall behind you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I call it the Hemingway.”

“Dude!”

“Fine, the Cobain. Whatever. Forgive me for thinking you were the literary type.”

“Erik is not going to kill himself,” Chris said. But he was talking to himself as much as he was John.

“Right,” John agreed.

“Erik would never do that.”

“Of course not.”

“We have to go look for him,” Chris said.

“Yeah, we do.”

* * *

The world moved more slowly outside the walls of Haven. Not that it was moving a mile a minute inside the sleepy town, but out in the world, even less was happening. Yes, it was infested with zombies. It was just that a zombie infestation was a rather quiet event when you got right down to it, and not terribly exciting if there weren’t any around.

With the exception of the occasional zombie introvert, the monsters grouped together and moved in hordes. These made such a racket that they were easy enough to avoid as long as one was paying attention. Due to this, there was a strong case to be made for changing the collective noun from horde to a groaning of zombies.

You were almost more likely to run into a normal person than you were the undead. And it was just as likely to be an awkward meeting.

Survivor settlements weren’t uncommon, and every town sent out squads to search for supplies or communicate with the other communities. If you were going to encounter someone else, this was the most likely scenario. And since each settlement was fairly well supplied, it was often a cordial meeting. You’d share news and pleasantries, and watch each other carefully for signs of betrayal as you parted ways.

There were others, though. Some were just the lone-wolf type who felt that they could fare better on their own. Some weren’t willing to follow a town’s rules and were happy living a life of anarchy and to let others be. Some were alone because they were downright nuts. Most folks were harmless, but there were some you had to watch out for.

Some of the more unsavory types had formed gangs to prey on their neighbors. The towns were too well defended so they set ambushes along the developing trade routes between the redoubts. These didn’t last long, though. One thing the Havens, Sanctuarys and every other walled town agreed upon was that these threats should be put down as soon as they arose. Bandit gangs were dealt with swiftly and without mercy. Most people had learned their lessons.

Still. It didn’t hurt to be cautious.

The zombies, you heard coming.  Friendly folks announced themselves. It was those others that you had to keep an ear open for.

The weather wasn’t helping. It was damp and foggy, and the moisture in the air swallowed whispers an inch out of your mouth. It was overcast and the clouds were getting thicker and heavier as the day went on. None of this surprised Chris. Wilcox had predicted a sunny day. And he was never right. This was zombie weather. You had to pay extra attention.

Normally, Chris enjoyed the silence it demanded. Anything to keep John quiet. But this time he was alone with his thoughts, and his thinking was getting pretty dark. He could never understand exactly what Erik was going through, but his imagination was doing a decent job of filling in the holes. The man had lost his family in the early days of what people had taken to calling the Rise. His wife had brought it home and it had quickly spread through bite to his son and infant twins. Erik had locked them in the house on day one with the hopes of returning with a cure.

For all the grief the men gave one another, Chris knew Erik wasn’t a moron. And though they never talked about it, he believed that Erik knew from the beginning his family was gone. But reason, rationale and any kind of logic goes out the window when you hear that your family is dead once more and you’re forced to lose them all over again. It was enough to break a person. But he wanted to believe Erik was built of stronger stuff. He believed in his friend.

“He’s an idiot.” John had been mercifully quiet but most likely having the same dark thoughts. He’d just come to a different conclusion. “He shouldn’t have left town without us. You don’t go out alone. What was he thinking?”

“He probably just wanted some time to himself.”

“He had that at his house. There were a dozen places he could have had some time to himself without having to come out here and be alone with the zombies. Coming out here alone is just plain stupid and a little selfish if you ask me. Maybe he is trying to kill himself.”

Chris kicked a rock and sent it bouncing across the road and down into the ditch. “Why did they have to have that stupid party?”

“Hey, don’t blame the party, man.”

“Everyone was coping just fine, but the damn council had to put themselves in everyone’s business and it was just like losing our loved ones all over again.”

“Okay, blame the council, but it was still a pretty good party.”

“Dammit, John! How can you be so cavalier about all this? I lost loved ones. Erik lost everything. Just because you didn’t lose anything….”

John held up his left arm and waved the stump back and forth, scolding Chris. “Don’t do that. I lost things.”

Chris pointed at the arm. “That’s different. That’s—”

“I’m not talking about my arm. Which I lost saving your dumb ass. Just as long as we’re talking about it.” He lowered the arm. “I lost a sister. Did you know that?”

“No, you never—”

“And a brother,” John said. “An uncle I didn’t care for. But an aunt I liked quite a bit.”

“I didn’t—”

“And this may surprise you to hear, but you two morons aren’t my only friends. I lost a lot of those, too. Don’t think I didn’t lose people. And don’t think I don’t get what people are going through. I’m right there with them.”

Chris felt the guilt hit him. It felt even worse than usual. He didn’t mind being wrong. He just really didn’t like it when it meant John was right. The best he could do was turn it into anger and pin it back on John. “Well, how was I to know? You never said anything.”

“People grieve differently,” John said. “Some of us grieve in silence. Some people like to bitch and moan a lot. Like you. And you can grieve however you want, but quit telling me how I’m supposed to feel.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You guys think you have me figured out. But you don’t. You know? One of my favorite things about the end of the world is the sudden drop in opinions. I like no longer having to listen to all the people that enjoy telling other people how they should feel. Can you imagine being online right now? With this going on? Everyone telling everyone else how they’re supposed to feel during an unprecedented event like this? We are in uncharted waters right now, and no one’s going to tell me how I should react in a zombie apocalypse because there is no one out there that has ever lived through it before. You know what I—”

A thump from a nearby porta potty saved him from John’s rant.

Before Chris could even pinpoint the sound, John had a gun in his hand and was covering the plastic john’s door. You couldn’t blame anyone for accusing John of being lazy. The man’s whole demeanor gave off the vibe. But the truth was, he drilled harder than anyone else in town when it came to defense. Chris always thought it was John’s way of making up for the lost arm, but now he began to wonder if it didn’t have more to do with the loved ones he had lost.

John signaled for Chris to get low.

Chris crouched as he unslung the rifle from his back and leveled it at the door.

“What do you think it is?” John asked with a whisper.

“I don’t know. I heard a thump. It could be an animal.”

“You want to leave it?” John asked.

Chris shook his head. “I’d rather not have anything behind me.”

“Agreed,” John said and tucked his gun back in its holster.

“What are you doing?”

“Cover me,” he said. John raced across the road and threw himself at the plastic shack. He hit it hard enough to tip it toward the ditch. There was a groan from inside as the tiny building began to rock back to level. John put his hand on the wall and forced it over. It was still rolling down the hill when John drew his gun and chased after it.

Chris raced to the edge of the road and watched as the porta potty finally came to a rest.

That sound was muffled by the plastic walls, but the words were clear enough. “Sonovabitch!”

“Come out of there,” John said. “We’ve got you cover—”

The door fell open, revealing the man inside. He was filthy. But it wasn’t all thanks to his trip down the hill. His smile revealed to everyone that if there was no longer anyone around to tell him what to do, the first thing he would do was stop brushing. “I’m already covered, you sons a bitches.”

“Dammit,” John said and holstered his gun. “It’s Randy.”

“Hiya, boys,” Randy said with a wave.

“Hey, Randy,” Chris said, slinging the rifle back over his shoulder. “How goes your one-man war against the American Dental Association?”

“Eh, could be worse. I’ve got most of my health.” He stuck out a hand. “Give me a hand, would ya?”

“I’m not touching you,” said John.

“You think I’d ask the guy with one hand for a hand? I can’t believe you’d think I’m that insensitive. I was talking to the guy with two hands.” He looked at Chris and made grabby hands like a toddler.

“Nope,” Chris said. “You got yourself in there.”

“Sure, but when I got in, I didn’t know it was a ride.” Randy found this—and everything he said—amusing and cackled as he pulled himself from the filth-covered confines of the porta potty. The man had told them he chose to live on his own, but there was some question as to whether any town would take him if he decided otherwise. He was harmless enough, if not a little annoying.

He stood up and brushed himself off. The action resulted in less brushing and more smearing. “What are you boys doing out here this fine day? Did you do it? Did you finally cast off the shackles of that stupid town and join me out here in the free world?”

“No, we’re still living in Haven, Randy,” John told him.

“It’s all about control. You know that, right? They’re just conditioning you.”

“Conditioning us for what?” Chris asked.

“Compliance! It’s all about compliance. They need good little drones. First, they get you comfortable following orders.”

“And then what?” Chris pushed him. “What is step two in their sinister plot?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly. But don’t you make the mistake of thinking the only zombies are outside your walls, smart guy.”

“Why are you giving Randy such a hard time?” John asked Chris.

“I don’t…”

“Just because a man chooses to live out from under the thumb of government, you think he’s crazy?”

Randy looked hurt.

“I didn’t say crazy,” Chris insisted. He assured Randy, “I never said crazy.”

“I think Randy could teach us a thing or two about what living is really about.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Randy said.

“He’s covered from head to toe in shit, John.”

“Who are you to judge? Grun-tu-molani.”

“Grun-tu-what he said,” Randy said.

“Just ask him about Erik,” Chris said and turned away.

John smiled at the man. “Randy, we’re looking for Erik. Have you seen him?”

Randy looked confused. He wore the look well. “I thought… I thought this one was Erik,” he said pointing at Chris.

“Nah, that’s Chris.”

“So you’re… Tommy?” Randy asked.

“I’m John.”

“Then who’s Tommy?” Randy asked.

“How the hell should I know who’s Tommy?” John was getting upset, and Randy was already nuts when they’d gotten there. This wasn’t going well.

“There’s no need to get all pissy, Tommy. You see, that’s what living in that town with all those rules has done to you. ‘Civilization.’” Randy provided air quotes for the term. “It’s not good for any of us. Out here you can be free.”

“Have you seen Erik?” Chris asked.

“I don’t know who it was, but I saw one of you. The one of you that wasn’t either one of you.”

“Where?” John asked.

“He was headed out toward Sanctuary. I tried to say hi. But, I don’t know, it was like he didn’t even see me. He had that look in his eye. Kind of a crazy look.”

“Like yours?”

“Nah, a different kind of crazy. Like he’d been doing too much thinking.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely not your look,” Chris said.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, boys.” Randy bent down and righted the porta potty. “I was kind of in the middle of something when you came knocking.” He stepped back inside and pulled the door closed.

“There, he’s headed to Sanctuary,” John said. “I told you he was fine.”

“Yeah, with a crazy look in his eye,” Chris said.

“You don’t really think he’d off himself?” John says.

“Do you?”

“No. Absolutely not. But maybe we should walk a little faster.”

* * *

Sanctuary rose like a middle finger out of the mist. The town was Haven’s closest neighbor and therefore served double duty as a friendly rival. The original plan had been for all of the survivors in the area to settle in one place, but neither town had the capacity, so the group was split in two and now they hated each other because there was nothing better to do.

Despite this, the towns were allied in the struggle against the undead and the fight for survival in a world gone zombie. Agreements existed—both informal and written—that stated each town would aid the other in any way possible. First and foremost in these agreements was giving shelter to those on the road.

From the outside, Sanctuary looked much like Haven. The walls were built to the same specifications, including the watchtower where a town sentry was always on duty. The one at Sanctuary was empty.

“That’s odd,” John said. “Where’s the guard?”

“Maybe they saw you coming.”

“Shut up, Chris. They’re not supposed to leave their post. Something could be wrong.”  John put his hand to his mouth and shouted. “Sanctuary!”

There was no response. He’d expected a head to pop up or a call to come back. He looked to Chris, who had no answers.

John shouted again, “Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Sanct—”

“All right,” the town guard said and climbed up to his perch in the tower. It was Rick. John really hated Rick, and not in a friendly rivalry kind of way. He hated him because the man was a total ass. And on top of that, he was an ass on a power trip.

“That’s enough yelling,” Rick said. “The bet’s over.”

John looked at Chris to see if he was in on the joke. Chris looked just as confused as John felt.

John shouted up to Rick, “What bet?”

Rick leaned down on the tower’s safety railing and folded his hands. “I told the guys you did a killer Hunchback of Notre Dame impression. They didn’t believe me.”

“You son of—” John started.

“What do you want, Quasimodo?” Rick asked.

“I’ll tell you when we’re inside,” John said, tightening his fist. “Open the gate.”

“Oh… about that.”

“Open the gate, Rick,” John said again.

“Yeah, I can’t do that.”

“Why not this time?” Chris asked.

“I mean, I want to. I really do.  I enjoy your guys’ company so much. But we had an accident right there.” He pointed to no spot in particular in front of the gate. “Someone spilled a whole bucket—well, most of a whole bucket—of water and created what we in the business call a hazard. We’ve got to keep the gate closed until it’s cleaned up to make sure no one hurts themselves.”

“Really? How big a bucket was it?”

“It’s not really the size of the bucket that matters, John. It’s the slippage. And you can get that with any size bucket. There’s puddles everywhere.”

“Well, we’ll just walk around it, then,” Chris said.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. It’s for your own safety. And the safety of others.”

“We have a treaty, Rick,” Chris reminded him.

“I know and I feel just awful about it, but I’m not really sure there’s anything I can do. Safety first.”

“Screw it,” Chris said to John. “We don’t need in, we just need know if they saw Erik.”

“He’s supposed to let us in,” John insisted. “There’s a treaty. And I’m sick of his shit.”

“I know, and on any other day I’d care. But today, I’m more concerned about finding Erik.”

“How do we know he’s even in there?”

Chris shouted back at Rick, “Have you seen Erik?”

“Is he the third loser that’s usually with you guys?” Rick asked.

“Yes,” John said with a nod.

“No!” Chris slapped John. “We’re not losers… he’s not a… Have you seen him or not?”

“Why are you asking me? He’s usually with you guys. Oh. Did you lose him? That’s incredibly irresponsible of you. You’re bad friends.”

“We didn’t lose him,” John said. “He left without us.”

Rick considered this and nodded. “That’s certainly what I’d do. Maybe I’m not giving him enough credit.”

“Have you seen him or not?” John had a short temper to begin with, and he was running out of patience. “This is important.”

“He might have come by. It’s hard to say. I’ve been keeping a pretty close eye on this puddle.”

“You can keep an eye on me kicking your ass, Rick. Have you seen our friend?”

“Oh no, here comes big bad one-armed John to get me.” Rick’s fake cowering was well-practiced and extremely irritating.

John started looking for a way up the wall. Then he started wondering how bad it would really be if he shot the bastard. Who would really miss him?

A woman appeared behind Rick just about the time he was fake-begging for mercy. “Quit being such an asshole, Rick.”

Rick stood up to address whoever had startled him but mannered up when he saw the woman. “Amber? Why do you have to ruin my fun?”

Amber ignored his comment and moved to the front of the tower. She waved to the two outside. “Hey guys.”

The Rise had taken its toll on just about everyone. You could see it in their eyes and in their faces. Everyone had aged ten years overnight due to the stress, fear and uncertainty of it all. But not Amber. She was beautiful. She had suffered the same hardships as everyone else and come out the other side looking better than anyone deserved. Both of the men were smitten with the woman. And they hid it poorly.

“Hi Amber,” John and Chris answered as one.

“Erik did come by here,” she said with a sadness is her voice. “Earlier this morning.”

“Was he doing okay?” Chris asked.

“The proclamation hit him pretty hard,” John added.

The woman nodded gently.  “I know. He was… he didn’t stay long. And he wouldn’t say where he was going. He just said he wanted to be alone.”

“Which way did he go?” John said with more urgency than he intended.

Amber pointed west. “He headed west, toward Franklin.”

“Thank you, Amber,” both men sang in unison.

She offered a weak smile in response. “When you see him, please tell him to let me know if there’s anything I can do for him. I know he’s hurting.”

“We will, Amber.” Their infatuation was getting a little obvious with their chorus-like replies.

She smiled again and left the tower.

This left just Rick. The man stared at Chris and John but said nothing.

John finally snapped. “What now, asshole?”

Rick bit his lower lip for a long moment. “Tell your friend I’m sorry for his loss.” With that, Haven’s watchman turned his back on the men and refused to look at them.

John was startled that Rick could display emotions. Especially empathy. He stood staring at the town wall until Chris pulled him away and pointed him west. John’s thoughts returned to the present, and the two men walked together to find their friend.

“Toward Franklin?” Chris asked. “Where could he be going?”

“I don’t know. There’s nothing out that way but—”

“The Box!” Both men said it together.

“You don’t think he’d…” John started.

“You’ve got to stop asking me that.”

* * *

The Box wasn’t a box at all. It was a warehouse whose name was a testament to the fact that most of the clever people had been eaten during the Rise or cut off from the rest of the world when the zombies took over. No one knew what had been stored there before, but there was nothing in it now except zombies. A lot of zombies.

Sometime in the last year or so, a massive horde had become trapped inside the building.

No one knew for certain how the horde had found its way in. This had forced the men to come up with their own theories.

Chris preferred a heroic tale. He pictured a group of strangers that had come together at the onset of the Rise, beset by the horde. In order to save the pack of survivors, a man or woman had selflessly drawn the attention of the horde and led it on a daring chase that allowed the others to survive. Then, after an exhaustive chase, just before the hero or heroes gave up, they came upon the Box. Seeking refuge, they entered, but our heroes quickly realized they had an opportunity to take an entire horde out of the equation. Using themselves as bait, they drew the creatures inside and barred the doors shut.

Erik had always asked him if the heroes got out or if they were milling around within the still-contained horde. Chris never answered. Part of him wanted the tragic sacrifice for narrative purposes, but he’d rather not give the zombies a win. Even if it was just in his imagination.

John believed that people were morons in life and that being dead didn’t make them any smarter. He assumed the zombies had gotten themselves trapped in the Box without help from anyone. He imagined that one walked in and another followed until it was so full that one of the idiots accidentally bumped the door shut.

But who knew? Maybe there was one lone zombie in there to begin with, and a thousand morons stumbled into it over the months. It didn’t really matter how they got in there, as long as they never got out.

Getting into the Box wasn’t easy. Chris and John worked together to roll a panel van back up to a fire escape. From there it was up the escape and through a broken window. No one ever thought to break it all the way, so you had to be careful crawling in and out.

Once inside, the smell and the sound hit you. Both made you dizzy at first. The moaning of a horde that size was almost hypnotic. The worst part was, you couldn’t see it. You knew it was below you, but you had no view of the monsters under until you edged out over a catwalk. Only then did the scale of the horde hit you.

Scientists that had come to observe the group estimated its size at a thousand, so it wasn’t just wild speculation or hyperbole. It was scientific hyperbole. They had watched the horde for months, hoping to better understand the creatures. Was there any social order within the horde? Would they starve without access to people? Would they expire on their own? How did something that came back from the dead die again?

They had been watching them for a year and hadn’t learned a thing. Every time it looked like something was about to happen, some moron would fall in and reset the “Days Without Food” counter.

They still came by from time to time to check on the horde, but for the most part, they performed their studies on captured specimens at secure locations. Maybe. It’s what “the capitol” said. No one knew for sure.

The only people that came to the Box now came for the sport. Popping zombies was an excellent form of target practice and a great way to blow off steam. The three of them would head out every so often, shoot the shit and shoot some zombies. It was the new fishing.

A variety of games and challenges had developed in the time since its discovery. One was to identify zombies that looked like people from town and see if your friend could spot who you were talking about. A correct guess and a kill was a point. A miss or an incorrect kill was a penalty. Most points at the end of the day won.

But the ultimate trophy for the Box was Jimmy. Jimmy was the fish that always got away. The lunker every shooter was gunning for. Elusive. Wiley. He was crazy quick for a zombie and a head shorter than most. He wore what was once a white shirt with a red circle on it. The shirt had dirtied with age, but the target on Jimmy’s chest was as clear as ever.

Many said he was just a myth, but everyone had a story about Jimmy.

“I had him in my sights. Lined him up perfectly and fired. By the time the bullet reached him, Jimmy was gone, and I plugged this guy that looked like a young Cheech Marin.”

“I saw Jimmy once. I put five rounds in him and he still moved like lightning.”

Even John had claimed to put a round in Jimmy once. Neither Chris nor Erik had seen it, and they refused to believe him because everyone knew that Jimmy rattled before he surfaced. And they hadn’t heard anything.

“He doesn’t rattle,” John had argued.

“Everyone knows he rattles.”

“Like a snake,” Erik added.

Jimmy, if he was real, was impossible to catch. Sightings were scrawled on the wall naming the date and time he’d been spotted. But there hadn’t been any sightings in months now. Maybe he was still in there. Or maybe someone had finally scored a hit and had no idea what they’d done. Or maybe zombies did expire, and Jimmy was leading the way.

John eyed the horde for Jimmy. Unlike the other two, he believed. He also believed that he would be the one to finally bag that trophy. Unless Erik had come here to beat him to it.

The shooting perch was on the other side of the warehouse at the end of the catwalk, so he marched on.

John grew accustomed to the groans quickly. The smell always took more time. But the thing that unnerved him the most was the gunfire. He didn’t hear any.

“Chris, do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Nothing.”

“I hate your games, John.”

“No, I mean, there’s no shooting. If Erik came here to blow off some steam, we should hear something.”

“Maybe he’s taking a break,” Chris said.

“Unless he didn’t come here to shoot,” John said.

“Why else would he come here?”

“It’s the one place you know you’d be sure to find zombies.” John would never admit that his friend could be suicidal and stood by the notion that, even if he were, he’d never give a zombie the satisfaction. But now he was overcome with panic and started sprinting along the catwalk.

It wasn’t the best idea. Neither was screaming his friend’s name. But he did both because Erik was more important. The catwalk rattled under his feet and began to sway. The horde’s groans grew louder as they realized there was food moving above them.

He was near the end when a metal shriek rang in his ears and the catwalk tilted under his feet. John jumped for the shooters’ perch and fell short. He caught the edge of the platform with his hand and felt his body hit the wall. He clawed at the lip with his left arm but couldn’t get high enough to lock his elbow on the ledge. He really should talk to someone about a hook.

His hand slipped and he spun. The horde had begun to gather below him, bellowing for him to fall. They grabbed for his feet, which were thankfully out of reach, but he felt himself slipping. “Dammit, Chris help m— Hey, I think I see Jimmy down there.”

A pair of hands grabbed his wrist and started pulling him up.

John continued to scan the horde. He knew he’d seen Jimmy.

More hands grabbed his other arm and he looked up. Chris had him. And so did Erik.

John got a knee up on the ledge and helped pull himself up. He quickly got to his feet and tackled Erik with a hug. “You’re not dead. You’re not dead and you saved me.”

Erik pushed him away. “Why would I be dead?”

“Well, we thought you were going to kill yourself,” John said.

“Why would you think that?”

“It was Chris’s idea mostly,” John said. “We knew you were pretty upset after the party and his imagination gets away from him.”

Erik studied both of them. “No, I… I just needed to get out and clear my head.”

“That’s what I figured. But then you weren’t shooting and then Chris’s imagination got the best of me.” John pulled out one of the many guns he kept on him. “You want to play ZOMBIE? It’s like HORSE. But instead of spelling HORSE you spell ZOMBIE. And instead of shooting baskets, you shoot zombies.”

“No,” Erik said. “I don’t feel much like shooting today.”

“That’s not like you,” Chris said.

Erik looked over the horde. “Normally, I’d like to kill them all. But as much as they’re my enemy, I can’t ignore that they’re the victims, too. Yesterday kind of put all of that out there. I want revenge for my family, but it’s not their fault. To tell you the truth, I feel a little guilty now for all the times we’ve come out here. Every one we dropped in here was somebody’s loved one. It just seems mean spirited now.”

“So what are you saying?” John asked. “Now you’re a pacifist?”

“No. I won’t hesitate to shoot one in the wild. They’re still a threat. But not these ones.” Erik waved a hand over the horde. “They’re not a threat to anyone.”

“Can I still shoot them?” John asked.

“Dude,” Chris said. “Read the room.”

“I saw Jimmy!”

“Jimmy is a myth.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t think he’s real,” John snapped.

Chris swore under his breath. “You moron, that is the exact and only reason somebody would call something a myth!”

“Why are you yelling at me? We’re here for Erik, remember?” Before Chris could respond, John put his hand on Erik’s shoulder. “So you’re okay.”

“I’ve known for a long time that my family was gone. That I wouldn’t see my kids grow up. I knew there was no coming back from the undead. But yesterday… having it made official, even as stupid as that sounds….”

“It hurt all over again,” John said, surprised at how much compassion he managed to put into his voice. “We get it.”

“No, it was a relief,” Erik said.

“A relief?” Chris asked.

“Yeah.”

“So what was with the mopey act?” John asked.

“It still hurt,” Erik said. “Don’t get me wrong. But it was… I finally had permission to let them go. You know? And that was such a weight off my shoulders. It… it felt good. And feeling good made me feel terrible.”

“You are a very confusing man, E,” John said. “But we get it.”

“I should have been up front with you guys. Thanks for coming to check on me. It means a lot.”

“We’ll always be there for you,” Chris said.

“No matter how much we hate it,” John added.

“You’re all heart, John.”

“Well, it’s either be there for you or make new friends. I’m too old for new friends. So I gotta keep the ones I’ve got alive as long as possible.”

Something dawned on Chris and he lit up. “Speaking of new friends, though. Amber at Sanctuary says hi. She seemed really worried about you.”

“Yeah, she said to let her know if there’s anything she can do for you.” John stressed the ‘anything’ to insinuate the dirty stuff. “I don’t think she was talking about picking up your mail.”

“Amber, huh?” Erik said with the first smile they’d seen on him in days.

“Yeah, and Amber is totally a stripper’s name,” John said.

Erik rolled his eyes. “You know she’s a doctor, right?”

“It’s not quite a nurse, but I guess doctors could be strippers. Now on the main stage, please welcome Amber PhDamn she’s fine.”

“Stop it,” Erik said.

“Okay. But when you’re ready.”

Chris looked at his watch. “If we hurry, we can make it back to Sanctuary before dark.”

Erik nodded. “Let’s go.”

Over the groaning of the horde came a sound. The distinct rattling of metal chains.

“It’s Jimmy!” John shouted. “I told you I saw him down there.”

The rattling grew louder.

“Erik, I know you developed a conscience about him and all, but I didn’t. And… it’s Jimmy.”

The rattling intensified. You could almost follow it around the Box.

Erik smiled. “Be my guest, John.”

John drew and smiled. “I’m going to be a damn legend.” He walked to the edge of the shooters’ perch and studied the horde. He heard the rattle to his left and spotted the man with the red target on his chest. He fired.

Jimmy moved, and the round struck a slower man in an orange safety vest.

“Damn, he is quick!”

The rattling moved to the right and Jimmy surfaced once more.

John fired.

Jimmy ducked and a woman caught the round in her shoulder.

There was more rattling, but John wasn’t going to be drawn in this time. He let the zombie surface and dive.

More rattling.

He let it go.

By the third rattle, John was ready.

Jimmy surfaced near the outer wall and John opened up. He emptied the gun’s magazine, and all thirteen rounds missed their target and struck a pile of debris.

Jimmy dove back into the horde and disappeared.

The pile of debris toppled slowly. A board cracked, then a barrel fell. That tugged on a tarp, which dislodged a stack of boxes, which crashed into a lever that opened the door.

What was left of the daylight poured into the Box and the horde rushed out.

A thousand starving zombies flooded into the wild and the warehouse went quiet.

John holstered the gun and turned to his friends. “That was… that one’s on me.”

The Quick and the Not Quite Dead

The Quick and the Not Quite Dead

The sun rose beyond the walls of Haven, much to John’s relief. Night shift on the wall was always a bore because nothing ever happened, it was hard to see anything if it did and you had to “keep it down” because “people were sleeping” and that meant no harmonica practice.

At first, the early rays of light were lost in the powerful floodlights that illuminated the open field between Haven and the surrounding tree line. But it wasn’t long before the sun crested the horizon and overpowered the security lighting that lined the fortified walls. Once again, the night was over and absolutely nothing interesting had happened.

John lost a fight to a yawn and warmed his hand against his chest as he made his way to the staircase that led back to town. His relief was waiting at the top of the steps.

“The safety of Haven is now in your incompetent hands, Carol,” John said as he passed the woman on the catwalk.

“At least I’ve got a pair, John.”

“Ouch!” John rubbed the stump on his left arm with his hand as he walked heavily down the metal steps. “I thought we agreed you were going to back off the hand jokes.”

Carol leaned over the railing and shouted after him, “That’s not the pair I was talking about!”

By the time he had pieced together the insult and turned to respond, the woman was gone. He began to mutter a string of potential comebacks through a cloud of breath, but he was too tired to know what he was actually trying to say. These late-night shifts were killing his comeback game. They were miserable.

At least he didn’t have to suffer alone. Already relieved of their posts, Chris and Erik were waiting at the bottom of the stairs, leering at him as he came down the steps. This told him they planned to do some whining, so he decided to slow his descent and make them suffer in the cold a little longer.

Erik’s entire face was red, and Chris was crinkling his nose in an effort to keep everything up his nostril and off his lip.

“Long night, boys?” John asked when he finally reached the ground.

Erik kept his hands deep inside his pockets, so he pointed at John with his shoulder. “We’ve decided this is all your fault.”

“What are you talking about? Everyone has to take a night shift.”

Chris nodded slowly and sniffed hard. “Yes, but we’ve taken several in a row now and we can’t help thinking that you’re to blame.”

“Come on, guys, the night shift is exciting. You could see a zombie! Or a tree that looks like a zombie! One time, I heard a guy saw a tree that looked like a zombie climbing a tree. It was pretty exciting until they got the binoculars out and found out it was just a regular tree with no zombies in it. But it could have been a zombie in a tree. And that’s why we do what we do. Isn’t it?”

“That’s the problem.” Chris was losing the fight with his nose but he wasn’t about to give up. “People think they’re seeing things all the time now. So, we have increased watches. More night shifts. Why do you think that is, Erik?”

“That’s a good question, Chris. I think that it’s because, with John’s horde out there, people are jumpier than ever before.”

“Quit calling it my horde!” John shushed. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Carol was out of earshot. “You two need to keep it down.”

“Well, someone let that crowd of zombies out of that warehouse,” Erik said. “Who was that someone, Chris?”

“Well, I think that someone was John, Erik.”

“You two are just cranky.” John started walking home and the other two followed.

Chris sniffed. “Five nights on the wall will do that to a person.”

“Six,” Erik corrected him. “We’re back out here tonight. It’s really starting to throw my days off.”

“Six,” Chris confirmed. “I forgot about tonight. It’s supposed to be even colder tonight.”

John chuckled. “Are we getting the weather forecasts again?”

“Glenn told me he’s expecting a cold front to come through.”

“Then you guys should wear shorts. Wilcox is never right.”

Chris stepped in front of John and stopped him. “You mean we should wear shorts, right? All three of us.”

John couldn’t hide his delight. “Sorry, boys. You’ll have to freeze your bits off without me. I’m off the wall tomorrow.”

“How?”

“It’s my turn to man the radio.”

“Radio duty?” Chris asked.

John nodded and Chris backed away to let him pass. “Fine. As long as you’re miserable.”

“What do you mean, miserable?” John asked. “I don’t mind radio duty.”

“I’m with Chris,” Erik said. “I’d rather look at nothing than listen to nothing.”

“Listen to nothing? There’s a ton going on out there. Best of all, it’s Thursday.”

Chris stopped at the bottom of his street and turned to the other two men. “You don’t hear a lot of people say that about Thursday. You want to explain?”

“It’s the Dead Air broadcast tonight!”

“That sounds incredibly boring,” Chris said.

John grimaced. He shouldn’t have to elaborate. He needed better friends. “Dead Air! The Undertakers!”

“Oh, not this again.” Erik turned and stepped away from the group.

“What?”

Chris looked at both of them for an answer and both of them repeated, “The Undertakers.” John’s reply was enthusiastic, Erik’s wasn’t, so John took over the explanation.

“How have you not heard of The Undertakers? Five of the nation’s top zombie killers brought together to save people from the outlands, stomp zombies and deliver hope to survivors everywhere. Every week, the news updates us on their adventures.”

“So, it’s a radio show,” Chris said.

John wrestled with the term before saying, “I mean, it’s like the news.”

“It’s propaganda,” Erik said. “It’s not even real.”

“It’s real,” John said. “It’s really real.”

“Except it’s not real. It’s some lonely guy just like you making up stories on the radio to amuse himself.”

“It’s a pre-recorded broadcast, smart guy.”

“So, it is a radio show,” Chris said.

“Look, it’s a pre-recorded broadcast about real things that happened. Okay?” John watched his breath drift away in the cold. “It’s important.”

Chris didn’t seem convinced. “I thought radio duty was just a bunch of dorks talking to each other about what’s going on.”

“The Undertakers is what’s going on,” John said. “It’s got information about the enclaves, introduces new and exciting undead management techniques and they even feature other folks, regular folks. Every episode starts by reminding people that their heroes are everywhere. And all of the members of the Undertakers are real people. They have their problems. They’ve got things they’re going through just like us.”

Chris let him finish and then turned to Erik. “Good night, E. I’ll see you on the wall tonight while John is catching up on his stories.”

“Good night, Chris.” Erik turned and walked away.

“They’re not my stories,” John muttered, but Chris had already turned away as well, and he was just talking to himself again.

* * *

Haven’s radio room was located in the town’s police station and, even though he was guilty of nothing, John still took a deep breath every time he entered the building. Despite his enthusiasm for radio duty, John arrived late for his shift because that’s who he was as a person. Also, the five nights on the wall had thrown off his sleep schedule and he had slept until late evening before hurrying out of bed and rushing downtown.

He stormed into the room while shedding his coat and asking, “What did I miss? What did I miss?”

Walters was sleeping in the office chair with the radio set’s headphones clutched against his chest. The man shot upright and blinked as he looked at his watch. “Man, you’re late.”

“Did I miss anything?”

“No. All’s quiet on the undead front.” Walters stood and dropped the headphones on the desk.

John slipped by him and fell into the chair. He held the headset against his ear to make sure the broadcast hadn’t begun. Several operators were chatting but none possessed the distinct voice of Candace Simmons, the voice of the Undertakers.

“How cold is it out there?” Walters asked as he was pulling on his coat.

“What?” John pulled on the headset and adjusted the pads to make sure they were in place.

“Never mind.” Walters pulled the zipper on his jacket all the way to the top. “Enjoy your shift.”

John rolled himself closer to the desk and grabbed the mic as Walters left the room. He pressed the button and spoke. “This is Slinger. I didn’t miss anything, did I?”

“Slinger!” came the reply. It was a voice he knew only as Night Owl. “Nothing yet. How are things up near Haven?”

“Sleepy,” John said. “I’m pretty sure the dead hate the cold as much as we do.”

He released the button to receive the reply, but before Night Owl could respond, a burst of static and triumphant music filled the headphones. It was starting.

The music ebbed and Candace’s voice, calm and soothing, read the intro that preceded every show. “Since the rise of the dead, we have seen the decline of order. And beyond the walls of the enclaves, the world remains a dangerous place. For those in peril, there is still hope. These are the tales of the Undertakers, brave men and women who risk their lives to save others when they are unable to save themselves. Faller, along with his faithful axe, Johnny, leads the team into danger and back again. Boom Boom brings her explosive personality and knowledge of munitions on every mission. Guillotine, the man from Marseilles, collects heads for the team while the trick shot artist Deadeye sees everything and misses nothing. And the sultry Sizzle sets everything on fire.”

John loved the way Candace said sultry. It made something at the base of his ear tingle. He didn’t know exactly what part of the body it was, but he liked it.

“These are the tales of the Undertakers,” Candace concluded the intro, and the music came back up. It gave him chills every time he heard it.

The format was generally the same each week. The intro would wrap up and Candace would welcome the listeners to the broadcast before teasing what the week’s broadcast was going to be about. Before getting into the action, they would include the story of an average Joe performing some heroic deed. The segment was an attempt to say that we were all heroes like the Undertakers, or that we could be if we were just willing to act. In actuality, it was a great time to get coffee since the stories were always about a bunch of nobodies.

“Before we receive an update on the Undertakers’ latest mission into the outlands,” Candace began, “We’d like to salute the everyday heroes out there. Those that go above and beyond to protect others and make the world a better place.”

John eyed the coffee pot. Walters had left the heating plate on, but there wasn’t enough liquid left in the pot to warm. So not only did he have to make coffee, he was going to have to scrub the tar out of the bottom of the pot first. That didn’t leave him much time. He’d have to hurry.

He pulled the headphones off just as Candace was introducing this week’s nobody.

“Today our story comes out of Haven.”

“Haven?” John dove back for the headphones and held one of the pads to his ear.

“Not long ago, a resource party from Haven discovered a young girl living on her own outside the safety of enclave walls in an antique shop.”

“No way,” John said softly to himself. He pulled the headphones back over his head and sat back down. His heart was racing, blasting adrenaline through his body. He wanted to stand and pace but he had to sit and listen. “She’s talking about me. Candace is talking about me!”

“Against all odds, this sweet and resilient child had managed to survive beyond the safety of enclave walls. The men from Haven found her just in time as a 50-strong undead horde was headed her way. On their return trip to the safety of the enclave, the child was separated from the resource party. One member took it upon himself to find and protect the child while the others went for backup. He successfully located the child just as the horde came upon them. Alone and outnumbered 50-to-1, this brave soul drew his pistols and opened fire.”

Gunfire popped in his ears as the Undertakers’ foley artist filled the story with sound effects. The moaning of the dead could be heard beneath the fire. This continued for almost twenty seconds. The pace of the gunshots grew most frantic towards the end but eventually began to slow. A final shot was followed by silence. Even John found himself sitting on the edge of his seat, wanting to know how it had all turned out.

“When all was said and done,” Candace said, “this hero and the child emerged from the fray, untouched by the dead. For these actions, the Undertakers would like to recognize and salute John Matthews, the Hero of Haven.”

“The Hero of Haven,” John repeated softly and collapsed back in his seat. The nickname certainly had a nice ring to it.

“Oh my God!” Night Owl shouted in his ear over the shortwave. “It’s Slinger! Slinger is the Hero of Haven.”

There was always a break after the local story. It gave everyone a chance to celebrate and congratulate the enclaves on one of their own. John couldn’t remember a time any of the radio operators themselves were featured, and he wasn’t ready for the flood of accolades. Voice after voice jumped on the mic and congratulated, thanked or just plain whooped it up for him. He was still blushing when the Dead Air broadcast resumed.

Candace began to relay the latest report on the team. They had been sent into the outlands to rescue a group of survivors who had made the mistake of deciding to live outside of the enclaves. It was a standard mission for the team, really. People would get themselves into trouble, and Faller and the Undertakers would get them out. The end result was usually the same. The Undertakers would save the day, and those rescued would move into an enclave. There was even a segment at the end of the show where they did follow-up interviews with those who had been rescued and relocated. It gave them an opportunity to express their thanks to the team and update listeners on how much better their lives were.

John was only half listening to the broadcast. He was still riding a high from being mentioned in the opening. It didn’t matter what Faller and the others got up to this week, nothing could pull him from the euphoria. Or so he thought.

Candace introduced the story as she did every week. The format then included interviews with the Undertakers themselves to get their first-person account of the story. Faller’s voice came on the radio and, instantly, the tone of the broadcast changed.

“Good evening, everyone. As Undertakers, we’re prepared for just about everything.” His gruff voice was softer than normal. The man could cleave an undead head from its host’s shoulders with a single swing of his ash-handled axe, but his voice now sounded vulnerable. Almost as if he was on the verge of tears. “But you’re never truly prepared to lose one of your own.”

“What?” John sat forward in his chair and turned up the volume on the headphones.

“It is with great sadness that we must report the passing of Undertaker Guillotine.”

John winced. He had turned the volume up too far and he fumbled with the dial to turn it back down. But, still, he was riveted. He stared at the warm yellow light on the dial as the entire story unfolded. It was no one’s fault. It was just the nature of the job. But in the course of rescuing a group of outlanders, Guillotine was forced out onto a catwalk over a horde. The structure collapsed and the Man from Marseilles fell to the swarm. A true hero to the end, he took his own life rather than turn and be a burden to others.

John was gutted. From the heights of being mentioned in the show’s opening, he fell into despair as the story ended with the Undertakers once more triumphant but, for the first time, short one of its most beloved members.

The tribute ended with a final thought from Guillotine himself, a sound bite from the archives they treated with an airy touch of reverb. “The job, it is dangerous, yes. But I would not change it for the world. We are here to help people. No matter the cost.”

Somber music filled the airwaves, and John dug at a bit of dust that had found its way into his eye.

Candace returned to the broadcast for a final thought. “Guillotine’s passing is tragic. But it must serve as a reminder to all of us that even the most heroic among us can fall victim to the undead. Do not engage. Retreat and report hordes to your local enclave. And for those of you living in the outlands, know that you are always welcome within our walls. Until next week, keep living.”

* * *

John waited at the bottom of the staircase for them, just itching to gloat about something. They could see the coming boast on his face from the top of the wall.

“Look at him,” Chris said. “I don’t want to go down there.”

“I’m cold and I want off this wall.” Erik brushed by Chris and began his descent. “I’m just going to pretend I don’t see him.”

“What could he want?” Chris asked as he followed. “It’s far too early to be smug about anything.”

“That’s true, but you’re not wrong, that is definitely his smug look.”

“Good morning, boys,” John said when they hit the ground. “You look chilled.”

Erik grunted and brushed past him.

“Have you really just been waiting for us, out here in the cold, to point out that you didn’t have to spend last night in the cold?” Chris asked. “Seems kind of self-defeating.”

“Not at all. I’m just getting off my radio shift and wanted to say good morning to my friends.”

“Good morning,” Erik said and continued on his way. “Good night.”

Chris and John followed behind him.

“So, anything exciting happen on the wall last night?”

“Well, there was a shadow that kind of looked like your—”

“I was on the radio!” John broke in.

Erik stopped and turned around. “Yeah, we know you were. It was your turn to listen to your stories and you got to stay in a nice warm room all night. We get it.”

“No, I mean, I was on the radio. On the broadcast! I was… they talked about me. About the time I killed the fifty protecting the kid.”

A cloud of fog came out of Chris along with the exasperation. “Ugh, the fifty. The fifty. I am so sick of hearing about the fifty.”

“Well, it’s a big deal,” John said.

“It is not.” Erik rubbed his hands together to fight back the night’s cold.

“Obviously it is, or they wouldn’t haven’t mentioned me on the radio.”

“They just need to fill time. It’s like when they used to do stories about Girl Scouts selling cookies.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It is the same. Congratulations, you’re a Girl Scout.”

“A Girl Scout that killed fifty zombies all by her pretty self,” John said.

“No one cares,” Chris said. “Least of all me. I’m cold and I’m tired and I want to go home. We’ll hear about your daydreams later.”

“Hey, Slinger!”

The three men turned and saw Chapman waving from halfway up the stairs on his way to stand his shift. The kid was maybe in his early 20s and had barely said a word to any of them since Haven’s foundation.

John waved back. “Hey, Chapman!”

“I heard you on the radio last night, Slinger! Nice going!”

“Who’s Slinger?” Serena appeared at the top of the stairs. She quickly assessed the situation and pointed a finger at John. “John is Slinger?”

“He sure is,” Chapman said.

“No way.” Serena was obviously impressed and threw an awkward thumbs up from the stairs. “Good work, Slinger!”

“Thanks!” John turned back to Chris and Erik, wearing a smile that practically spelled out ‘I told you so’ with his teeth.

“Slinger?” Chris asked.

“It’s my radio handle. All of the operators have them.”

“Slinger?” Erik pressed.

“Yeah, like a gunslinger. Slinger. From the—”

“The fifty,” Chris finished. “Yeah, we get it.”

“Slinger,” Erik said to himself. “I don’t know if there’s ever been a more fitting nickname.”

“That’s right.” John held up a finger gun and pulled his thumb back like a hammer.

“You’re always slinging something,” Erik said.

“You guys are just jealous,” John said and started walking home.

They passed others as Haven woke and went to work. Many greeted ‘Slinger’ with a newfound enthusiasm.

“What in the hell is going on, Erik?” Chris asked after a group of teens rushed up to John and literally patted him on the back.

“People are respecting John.”

“How do we handle this?”

“I don’t know. It’s never happened before. I’m not sure how to react.”

“He was already insufferable. I’m not sure there’s even another rung on the smugness ladder.”

“I think it’s best we just ignore him.”

“I can hear you guys, you know,” John said, shaking a new fan’s hand.

“Yeah. We know.”

The town bell began to ring. It was awfully early for that kind of racket, and the small crowd that John had attracted began moving toward the town square where an announcement would follow the bells.

“What do you think is going on?” Erik asked.

“It’s too early to have anything planned,” Chris said as they started following the crowd. “It must be an emergency.”

A young boy ran past the group. Excitement carried him at great speed and the crowd started moving faster.

“What going on, kid?” John shouted after the child.

The kid turned to answer and started running backwards. “They’re here!”

“Who’s here?”

“Do you think it’s John’s horde?” Erik asked quietly.

“Stop calling it my horde!” John snapped back.

“The Undertakers!” the kid answered and then turned and ran full speed toward the center of town.

“The Undertakers?” John shouted. “Here!”

“I told you it was propaganda,” Erik said. “It’s a promotional tour. They’re probably doing a radio remote.”

By the time the three men arrived, the gazebo in the center of town was surrounded by the residents of Haven, and Mrs. Gimble was addressing the crowd. As the head of the Committee for Celebrations, Commemorations and Parties, she often presided over formal affairs in the town. As of late, she and the other ladies of the CCCP were heading more affairs than the council itself. It seemed that just about everything could be considered a celebration, a party, or something worth commemorating, and the ladies of the committee had no issue interjecting themselves into the proceedings.

“Oh my god.” John grabbed the front of Chris’s jacket and started to shake him. “It’s Deadeye!”

Chris pulled John’s hand off his coat. “And who is Deadeye?”

“That’s Deadeye,” John pointed to the man on the stage next to Mrs. Gimble. He was of average height and build and stood quietly while the old lady prattled on. He wore a pistol on each hip like a silver screen cowboy and had a lever action rifle slung across his back.

“He’s the Undertaker? A little small, isn’t he?”

A woman standing in front of them turned around and spoke. “He’s not all of the Undertakers. It’s just one of them. Deadeye. My favorite one. I can’t believe he’s here!”

“Right?” John said.

“Deadeye,” Erik said. “Why do they call him that, does he have a glass eye or something?”

“You’re such an ass, Erik. You’re always trying to make it about someone’s appearance. He’s the team’s sharpshooter. He was raised in the circus as a trick shot artist. He can shoot the nose ring out of a Gen Z Zombie.”

“Raised in the circus?” Chris was skeptical.

“That’s right.”

“Have you ever been to the circus, John?”

“Sure, when the kids were younger.”

“And how many trick shot artists did you see?”

“Well.”

“Forget that. Just how much shooting was going on at these circuses?”

“I remember the clowns. I think there were elephants because there were people outside protesting elephants. They did that Wheel of Death thing. Not the elephants.”

“I don’t think they were protesting the elephants themselves,” Erik said.

“I mean, all the signs had elephants on them,” John said. “I can’t imagine what anyone would have against elephants. They do the best headstands.”

Chris held up his hands to stop the conversation. “My point is, circuses don’t have trick shot artists and all of this is bullshit.”

“Fine, maybe some of his backstory has been embellished. But he’s still a hell of a shot.”

“That’s not my point. My point is—”

“Shhhhh and shut up,” John said. “They’re talking.”

“Good people of Haven.” Mrs. Gimble was completely incapable of speaking into a microphone without some form of feedback, and this time was no exception. Once the audio tech adjusted the levels, she tried again. “My friends. As head of the Committee for Celebrations, Commemorations and Parties, I have had the honor to stand before you many times. But I can honestly say that I’ve never been more excited to stand before you than I am right now. It is with great pleasure that I get to introduce to you a member of the Undertakers, Red Eye.”

Deadeye leaned closer to Mrs. Gimble and whispered in her ear.

“Deadeye,” Mrs. Gimble said into the microphone.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gimble,” Deadeye began. “It’s with—”

“It’s our pleasure to welcome you to Haven on behalf of myself and the CCCP.” Mrs. Gimble then backed away from the microphone stand and gestured for him to begin.

Deadeye stepped up to the mic and addressed the crowd. “Thank you, Mrs. Gimble. I’m sorry to spring this visit on you, but I can’t thank you enough for the hospitality that—”

Mrs. Gimble stepped forward and took the mic once more. “You are quite welcome. Myself and the other ladies of the CCCP work hard to make sure all visitors feel welcome here in Haven.”

“I’ll bet he’s imagining shooting her right now,” John said.

“Everyone is imagining him shooting her right now,” Chris said.

Deadeye had been given access to the mic once more. “Well, it is an honor to be here.”

She made another play for the mic but Deadeye pulled the microphone from the stand and stepped toward the crowd.

“One of the best parts of my job is that I get to visit other enclaves around the country, and I want to thank you all for this warm reception on a cold and early morning. And my heart could use some warming today. As many of you may know by now, the Undertakers have recently suffered a tragic loss. My friend, Guillotine, fell to the horde. He was a good man. A funny man. He didn’t tell a lot of jokes, really, but that accent was hilarious. He is going to be missed. And while he can never truly be replaced, we are currently looking to replace him. The Undertakers have always been a five-strong force for goodness and hope, and we need a new hero to step up and take Gustave’s place in our ranks. That’s the reason I’m in Haven today. I’m here to possibly recruit one of you for the Undertakers.”

A titter began in the crowd and rolled into full-blown excitement as everyone realized they could be, or at least could be standing next to, the newest Undertaker. Before the emotion could really grip the crowd, Mrs. Gimble had wrangled control of the microphone again.

“Oh my, that is exciting,” she said with little excitement in her voice. “I have no doubt that you will find your newest teammate here in Haven. We have no shortage of brave souls who would be willing to risk their lives for the good of others.”

There was a cheer from the crowd. People liked being called brave, so they applauded themselves. By the time the ruckus died down, Deadeye had pried the mic back from Mrs. Gimble’s hand.

“I’m sorry if I caused any confusion, Mrs. Gimble. I not here to recruit just anyone. I was sent here to find one man. A man they call Slinger.”

Chris punched John in the arm. “Holy shit.”

Erik punched John in the other arm. “Holy shit.”

John stood there and looked dumb. “Holy shit.”

“Who the hell is Slinger?” Mrs. Gimble asked from the stage.

John raised his hand as the crowd formed a hole around him.

“Holy shit,” said Mrs. Gimble.

* * *

They had the bar to themselves, but a crowd had gathered outside on the street. Most of the folks tried to act nonchalant, but a few others pressed against the window trying to hear what the Undertaker had to say.

“Is it like this wherever you go?” John asked, pointing to the window.

“You mean the throngs of adoring fans?” Deadeye turned his back to the street. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Wow,” John said and wished he was sharing a beer with Deadeye instead of a water. But the town had rules. Stupid rules.

Deadeye was pretty humble about the whole situation and shrugged off the celebrity as a matter of fact. “People are usually pretty excited to see us.”

“Of course, you’re basically movie stars.”

“Do you know what the biggest difference between us and movie stars is, John?”

“What’s that?” His mind had offered up many guesses, but he felt it better to appear ignorant than get the answer wrong.

“We’re still alive.”

He had delivered the line straight, but after a moment Deadeye smirked and John burst out laughing.

“Ha! Yeah, stupid dead famous people.” John sat up on the barstool. “Hey, remember that time the Undertakers went into that subway tunnel and got cornered by the horde?”

“Sure.”

“But then Sizzle repaired the generators and fired up the third rail and electrocuted about a hundred zombies in a second?”

“How could I forget?”

“Did that just smell awful?”

“So awful,” Deadeye said with a laugh. “We couldn’t get that smell out of our uniforms for weeks.”

“Remember that time that the Undertakers rescued that settlement at the water park and trapped the horde in the wave pool and then Boom Boom surfed over their heads and dropped charges into the water and used the compression waves to finish them off?”

“Of course. If you remember, I was up on a water slide, shooting the charges as she dropped them.”

“That’s right! That was awesome!” John’s mind was racing, replaying every adventure of the Undertakers over and in his head. He had so many questions. There was that time at the racetrack where Guillotine attached a cable to the top of a rally car and then drifted the entire track, decapitating an army of the undead as he went. There was also the time that everyone thought that Faller had been killed, and the rest of the team had to take shelter in a saferoom where the dead were banging on the door, but then it was really Faller chopping the door down because he had killed the horde by himself, and after he cut the hole in the door he said “Here’s Johnny” like Jack Nicholson said like he was acting like he was Ed McMahon.

Just remembering all the exciting adventures exhausted him. In the end he only had one question that he really wanted answered. “Were you ever scared?”

“No,” Deadeye said. “I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve been surrounded by a horde, and every time is as freaky as the first. But I was never worried. You know why?”

“Because of your trusty rifle, Hank?”

“No. It was because of my trusty friend, Gustave. And Teri. And Anderson and Tasha. It was because of my teammates. No matter what, I knew they always had my back. And I always had theirs. That’s how I knew I was going to get out of there.”

John stared at his glass. It really should have been a beer instead. These stories were best heard over beer.

“But, what about you, Slinger?” Deadeye slapped him on the back. “50? All by yourself?”

John shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I mean, I did get a tattoo. But…” John stood and pulled his shirt over his head. He turned to show the Undertaker a monochromatic tattoo on the back of his shoulder. It was the number fifty set between two smoking guns.

“Okay,” Deadeye said, and encouraged John to put his shirt back on. “But were you scared?”

“Yeah, sure. But not until after. When it was happening, I just kind of went into autopilot, you know? I spent so much time training that I just kind of zoned out until the job was done and the kid was safe.” John pulled his shirt back on, sat back on the barstool and looked deep into his water glass.

“What’s the matter?”

“I never really told anyone I was scared after.”

“That just means you’re human.” Deadeye looked around the empty room to make sure they were alone. “There’s another reason I said I wasn’t scared. You know what that was?”

John shrugged.

“The other 195 people that make up the Undertakers.”

“What?”

Deadeye nodded but also held a finger to his lips indicating it was a secret. “That’s right. We have a whole force of people working with us to make sure we get the job done.”

“But, the show… it’s fiction?”

“Nah. It’s real. But the show brings people hope. Sometimes that takes a little behind-the-scenes magic. When we go out on a mission, there are a lot of people that have our backs. But we really do go out and rescue people. All that is true.”

“Wow. I never suspected.”

“That makes what you did with the 50 so amazing. We always thought so and that was before…”

“Before what?”

Deadeye smirked. “I don’t know how to put this delicately.”

“You didn’t know about my hand.”

“Well, when heard you had killed 50 zombies, we were impressed. But to find out… did that happen since then?”

“No. This happened the week of the Rise.”

“How did the grapevine leave that little detail out?”

John pulled his left arm off the bar and let it hang out of sight. “It’s no big deal.”

“But it is. It’s a huge deal. We knew you killed the horde single-handedly. But we didn’t know you literally did it single-handedly.”

John laughed. “That’s terrible and insensitive and I’m stealing it.”

“It’s yours.” Deadeye pushed his glass away and hopped up on the bar. He spun around and dropped down to the other side. “John, do you know why we started the Undertakers?”

“Because badass birds of a feather flock together?”

“Not quite.” Deadeye bent down and came back up with two beers.

“They’ve got rules,” John said as he reached for a bottle opener.

“I’m sure they do.”

The two men popped the caps off their cold, early-morning beers and took a swig. Few things tasted better than a beer that was against the rules.

“We did it to give people hope. I don’t have to tell you that it’s scary out there. And plenty dangerous. Some people think we’re being reckless in going out into the infected lands to rescue people who, some think, shouldn’t have been there in the first place. And maybe they’re right. But we do it to show people that they don’t need to be afraid. Stories of bravery matter. Stories like yours. People need to know that there are still people out there willing to do what’s right, to risk everything to save others.”

John raised his bottle in a toast. “And look like a badass doing it.”

“I’m not going to argue with you about that.” Deadeye smiled and clinked his beer against John’s. “So, what do you say? We’re there to make sure people know that there is still a force for good. That humanity is still in control. Do you think you’ve got what it takes to join the Undertakers, Slinger?”

John set the beer down on the bar and spun the bottle around with his right hand while centering it with his left arm. “I’m not sure I’m 100% what you’re looking for.”

“Are you kidding? I got even more excited when I saw that.”

“Really?”

Deadeye hopped back over the bar and took his seat next to John. “We get around, John. We meet a lot of people and you’re not the only one that’s lost a limb to these freaks. To see you, kicking ass and doing good… you’d be twice the hero to those people.”

“I don’t know.”

“What if we made it part of your gimmick?”

“I figured my gimmick would be the quickdraw.”

“Ha, sorry, buddy,” Deadeye drew his pistol so fast it went whoosh. He spun the revolver forward, then back, and then slid the weapon back into his holster. “That spot’s taken.”

John whistled.

“How about we attach a knife on there or something?”

John winced and took another sip of his beer. “I tried that for a bit. The problem is, you forget it’s there and… well… I ended up getting myself.”

“Ouch,” Deadeye said with a chuckle. “I’ll bet that hurt.”

John dismissed the veracity of his ‘ouch.’ “Only a little. I’m just not…”

“Slow down, Slinger. I didn’t even get to the perks yet.”

“Perks?”

“Oh, you’d better believe there are perks.”

“Like what?”

“First of all, there are the fans. Like I said, throngs. Everywhere you go, you’re treated like a star. They put you up in the best rooms, feed you the best foods they have. You’re not going to find yourself eating out of a can of Alpo. I tell you, on the days when we’re not out there fighting the dead, being an Undertaker is the easiest life this side of the apocalypse.”

“That does sound pretty great.”

“But the best part? Dibs.”

“Dibs?”

“You’ve heard where they send us. We go to some pretty amazing places filled with some pretty neat shit. We get dibs.”

“Oh, that kind of dibs.”

Deadeye drew the pistol on his right hip and set it on the bar. John leaned forward and studied the revolver. It was a single-action .45. Deadeye was practically a modern-day cowboy, and the broadcast had always told listeners how he would fan the hammer like a gunslinger when facing a horde. But the gun itself had never been described in detail. There was a gold inlay running through the frame, and the grips were alabaster white with three initials inscribed. “Holy shit!” John said and grabbed the revolver from the bar. “Is that—”

“Patton’s revolver. I picked it up at Fort Knox.”

“Fort Knox!”

“Well, a museum near Fort Knox. No one is getting into that vault. Don’t think we didn’t try.”

John studied the grips. “That’s ivory, right?”

“Of course, it’s ivory. Only a pimp from a cheap New Orleans whorehouse would carry a pearl-handled pistol,” Deadeye said in his best George C. Scott impression.

John set the revolver back on the table. “That’s really something.”

“No, John,” Deadeye said, sweeping the gun back into his holster. “That’s nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say that when the time finally comes that things get back to normal, and things of value have actual value again, every member of the Undertakers will be sitting pretty. So, what do you say, Slinger?”

John looked at the beer he was drinking outside of drinking hours and thought about everything he’d just learned. It was a little startling to hear the truth behind the team. But it made sense. And they were still doing good. They were just being smart about it. And what was a little white lie as long it was giving people hope? As far as the stuff went, well, John had always liked stuff. And he wasn’t even sure it could be called looting at this point. Certainly not if you had permission. He finally smiled and answered.

“Well, if it will help people.”

“That’s my guy,” Deadeye said and slapped him on the back. “I’m getting us more beers. Today we celebrate and tomorrow we’ll do a trial run.”

“A trial run? I thought you were giving me the job.”

“Of course. But it’s still an interview, Slinger.” Deadeye hopped back over the bar. “I’ve just got to be sure you can cut it out there. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“But what about the 50?”

“Sure, I don’t doubt that happened. But we need proof it wasn’t just a story.”

“But the tattoo. Do you want to see it again?”

“I’m not sure a tattoo can be considered a legal document, John. But, hey, don’t sweat it. I believe you. I just have to see you in action.” Deadeye paused and held out a beer with his left hand. “Firsthand.”

John laughed as he took the beer. “Okay, that one did hurt a little.”

“I meant nothing by it. Look I’m sure you’ll do fine. And I don’t need to see you kill another 50. I just need to make sure you can handle yourself. I just need to make sure you get what being an Undertaker is all about.”

John raised his beer. “To tomorrow then.”

“To tomorrow,” Deadeye echoed.

* * *

Early the next morning, John stood at the edge of the shooting range practicing his draw. The range was closed at that time because no one appreciated being awoken by live-fire exercises before orange juice, but John didn’t need live ammo to drill. His aim was fine. It was his ability to draw and reload that gave him his edge. And, with a single hand, it was what concerned him most. So he ran drills almost daily, and a closed and empty firing range made for an ideal practice ground.

He got there early, before the town woke, and practiced his moves slowly and deliberately. He drew at a quarter speed from a dozen positions. He practiced dropping empty magazines to the ground and inserting new ones from the special harnesses he had designed. Some positioned magazines, others held the empty pistol and helped him work the slide. He would practice with them all repeatedly until he could find each harness with his eyes closed. Then he would do it again.

His dedication to the exercises was the only thing that had made surviving the 50 possible. When they cornered him and the kid in the convenience store, the training took over. He barely remembered the attack itself. It was ungodly loud. He remembered that. But he also remembered a strange silence enveloping him, and he knew that both couldn’t be true.

John stepped as he practiced his draw. He found it helpful to be in constant motion when facing the dead. Every movement put you one step closer to running away, and that was always his ultimate goal. But zombies also tended to lunge at their victims. It never made any sense to him but it seemed universal. They could walk or shuffle up to you pretty quietly, but the final step was always a grabbing lunge. If you were constantly moving, they often misjudged their lunge and ended up on the ground. And he found it much easier to shoot them in the back of the head than to shoot them in the face.

With the slow footwork and the exaggerated motions, John imagined he looked something like a shaolin monk practicing his katas. Slow. Measured. Silent.

“Now pirouette!” Chris shouted.

“Pliet! Pliet!” Erik added.

Even the chiding couldn’t break his concentration. John ignored the men and finished his final few movements, returning the pistol to its holster. He exhaled and walked over to a table at the back of the range.

“I wish I had a rose to throw you,” Erik said as Chris clapped softly for the performance.

John began pulling the magazines from the various apparatus on his body and set them on the table. He then set to the tedious task of loading each one. It was going to take forever. “Do you two want to actually help me here?”

Chris stepped up to the table and took the magazine out of John’s hand. “You’re not really doing this, are you?”

John found another and started loading. “Of course I am. Now load.”

Chris sighed and started feeding rounds into the magazine.

John tossed another empty to Erik.

He caught it easily. “Would you really leave us?”

“In a heartbeat.” John set the base of the magazine in a wooden vice and spun the mechanism closed. He started grabbing bullets three at a time and fed them in.

“I can’t believe that,” Erik said. “After all we’ve been through?”

“I would leave you in a heartbeat because of all we’ve been through,” John said and finished loading the first magazine. He loosened the vice and put a fresh one in. “It’s a better life. If it helps, I’ll forget about you both the moment I leave.”

“What does Jenny think of all this?” Chris finished the magazine he was loading and clapped for another one.

John tossed it to him. “There’s no need to tell her anything until there’s something to tell. This is still an interview and I don’t want to get her hopes up.”

“Get her hopes up?” Erik said. “You think she’ll be on board with you risking your life each week to make a radio show.”

“It’s not just a show. And I already told you, it’s not as dangerous as you think.”

“I’m pretty sure we only thought that because one of the guys just died.”

“Yeah, but because of a rusty catwalk, not because of the zombies.”

“But he fell into a horde of zombies.”

“Okay so it was a little bit of both, but it was mostly the catwalk. What are the chances of that happening twice?”

Chris finished another mag but stopped loading. He pushed aside the box of ammo. “Listen, in all seriousness, we’re not getting a good vibe from this guy.”

“You mean the guy that wants to make me famous and give me and my family a better life, that didn’t want to talk to you at all?” John asked. “That guy?”

“That’s the one.”

“You’re just jealous.”

Erik stopped loading. “Listen, even from what you told us, it seems like the powers that be are up to some pretty sketchy things.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that they’re not telling everyone the whole story about these Undertakers,” Chris said. “That’s like lying.”

“It makes a better story.”

“So that makes it okay?”

“Of course! These stories make people feel good. They’re giving people hope and that’s something we could use more of right now.”

“But it’s unsubstantiated hope.”

“It’s still hope,” John said.

“But if they’re lying about that, what else are they lying about?”

“Probably everything. So what?”

“What do you mean so what?”

“So what? I’ll be one of them and people will believe my lies and that will give them hope. The ends justify the means or whatever.”

Erik shook his head. “It’s not just that. There’s something really off here.”

“You’re just being paranoid. Now load.”

Chris took another magazine. “He doesn’t seem off to you?

“You guys just don’t understand what it’s like to be famous. It can go to your head if you let it.”

“You’ll let it. Won’t you?”

“You bet your ass. And don’t worry, I didn’t mean what I said about forgetting about you. I’ll be back to rub it in as much as I can.”

* * *

“That is a sweet ride,” John said as he rounded the bright orange car. “That’s a Judge.”

“A ’71 to be precise,” Deadeye said as he fished the keys out of his pocket. “I call this one the Executioner.”

“This has the 455 in it?” John was answered with a nod. “These are rare. Where did you
even find this?”

“That, Slinger, is the beauty of dibs.”

Deadeye tossed the keys over the hood and John snatched them out of the air.

He stared at the keys in his hands. “You’re kidding.”

“Just don’t put it in the ditch.” Deadeye walked around the front of the car to the passenger side and opened the door.

John all but skipped to the driver’s door and sat down. The interior was immaculate and he was almost afraid to put his hand on the wheel for fear of leaving prints. “This… this is something else.”

“You ever driven something like this?”

“I had a Mustang before the Rise. I spent hours under the hood, whole weekends cleaning it up. It never looked half as good as this.”

Deadeye nodded to the ignition. “It sounds even better.”

John looked at the set of keys in his hand. There were two silver keys attached to a cartoonish reaper keyring. The shorter one was most likely for the trunk and glovebox. The longer one was the magic maker. He slid the key into the ignition and took a quick breath before he cranked it over. The beast of an engine came to life like a sleeping lion that had just been goosed somewhere toward the back end. John feathered the throttle and the Executioner rocked back and forth as the hood tried to wrench free of its motor mounts.

It was impossible not to smile. “It’s not subtle, is it?”

“We’re here to deliver hope. Not subtlety. Now make sure and smoke the tires on the way out.”

John did as he was instructed and sped away from Haven, leaving a cloud of bluish-white smoke hanging in the air.

“Feel good?” Deadeye asked.

“So good,” John said, but there was a tinge of guilt with the joy. “I hope it doesn’t draw a crowd.”

“So what if it does? Everyone is safe inside, right?”

“Of course.”

“I can’t tell you how many waves we had to repel at Olympus,” Deadeye said. “How about you all?”

“Not… I wouldn’t call them waves.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, there’s been the odd group but nothing close to a horde. A couple of small groups have wandered close, but we’ve never been under siege.”

“That’s great. But don’t worry. Even if there was a horde, the enclave would hold. The folks that designed them knew what they were doing. That’s why we promote enclave life on all of our missions.”

“How much of this promoting does the group do versus actual missions? I really want to help save people.”

“I’ll be honest, John. The Undertakers are doing fewer and fewer rescue missions these days. The sad fact is there are fewer and fewer people to rescue in the outlands. And many of the ones that are left out there aren’t so easy to convince. So we’re doing a fair amount of PR, but it’s just as important. Getting people into the enclaves is the same as saving them from a horde. A life in the walls is a life saved. It’s the most important thing we do.”

“I guess I never thought of it that way.”

“We’ve saved hundreds of lives by direct action against the undead. But studies show that we have saved thousands by convincing people to move out of the outlands and into enclaves.”

“Hmm,” was all John could think to say.

“Pretty hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say. I didn’t think anyone was still doing studies.”

“You’re a funny guy, John. Maybe your wit could be your schtick.”

“Witschtick.” John let the word hang in the air.

“The truth is that people are getting restless. And if people start leaving the enclaves, there’ll be no stopping the spread. So it’s our job to remind them that things are going to get better. But the only way things are going to get better is if we band together in the enclaves. Only by working together can we take the world back from the dead.”

“Now that’s something I want to be a part of.”

“Stop the car,” Deadeye said with a gun suddenly in his hand.

John slowed the Executioner and pulled over to the side of the road. Deadeye was out of the car before it had come to a complete stop.

John put it in park and turned off the ignition. He stepped out of the car and joined Deadeye on the shoulder. He was staring off to the west at an abandoned construction site.

“What do you see, Deadeye?” John asked, just how a character in the show would ask. Deadeye wasn’t just an amazing shot, he had incredible eyesight. It was a trait he attributed to eating carrots. John now realized that tidbit was first brought up during a vegetable surplus in enclaves across the country. How much was real and how much was fiction spun for the sake of the common good?

John followed the sharpshooter’s gaze and nodded slowly. “I don’t see anything.”

“Hmmm,” Deadeye said and stuck out his hand to get the keys back. He unlocked the trunk and removed a large rifle.

“Oh my God,” John said to himself. “It’s Hank.”

Deadeye smiled at the recognition. Hank was a lever-action Henry rifle that looked like it belonged on the back of a lawman’s horse in the old West. Except for the scope. That was all 21st century. The Undertaker handed John the rifle and moved back to the road’s shoulder.

John stared at the weapon in his hand. While he predominantly relied on his pistols, Deadeye called on Hank for particularly dramatic shots. It was almost as famous as the team members themselves. He examined the walnut stock and then remembered to check the barrel. There they were, a series of notches cut into the blued steel. Each represented a bloodthirsty raider or other outlander the man had killed in defense of the defenseless. Each was a life taken. The dead didn’t get notches.

“Come on, Slinger.”

John followed until Deadeye stopped him and pointed into the distance.

“See that dumpster to the right of the construction site?”

John looked in that direction and squinted. He shook his head. “I see the dumpster but not—”

Deadeye pointed to the rifle’s scope and then back towards the construction site.

“Duh,” John said and seated the rifle against his shoulder while supporting the barrel with his left arm. He lined up the scope and found the dumpster in the sights. “Okay, I see the dumpster.”

“I saw some movement just to the right and up about 20 yards.”

John adjusted his aim and instantly found the motion that had caught the man’s eye. It wasn’t much at all, but somehow the Undertaker had caught it without the scope from a moving car.

“Was I right?” Deadeye asked.

“You were. There’s someone out there all right.”

“Is it undead?”

“I don’t think so.” The figure in the scope had its back to them, but the clothes were too clean to be hanging from a corpse.

“Then it looks like Hank may earn another notch today,” Deadeye said. “We’ll need to eliminate the threat.”

The figure in the scope turned. It wasn’t a zombie. “That’s no threat,” John said. “That’s Greg.”

“Who’s Greg?” Deadeye asked.

“Part hermit. Part lunatic.” John nodded and handed the rifle back to Deadeye.

Deadeye peered through the scope. “He’s one of yours from Haven?”

“No, he’s pretty much out here on his own. Just as well, if you ask me. He’d drive me nuts if he was in town.”

Deadeye studied the hermit through the scope. “That annoying, huh?”

“Oh yeah. Don’t get me started.”

“Then I’ll let you take him out.” Deadeye offered Hank back to John.

“What?”

“I’ll let you kill him,” Deadeye said slowly. Then he smiled. “I’ll even let you add a notch to Hank there.”

John pointed at the man in the distance. “But Greg is not a zombie.”

“But he is a threat.”

“Maybe to himself,” John said. “But not to anybody else.”

Deadeye sighed and backed away. “Listen, Slinger. Anyone who isn’t one of us is a threat. Get it?”

“I guess I don’t. I don’t see how some annoying crazy person picking through the trash can be considered dangerous.”

“It’s our job to reduce the spread. That’s what we do. Whether that means taking out zombies or vectors.”

“He’s not a vector,” John laughed. “He’s Greg.”

“Everyone that’s not in an enclave is a potential zombie.”

“Greg is slipperier than any of us. They’ll never get him.”

“He’s a danger to us all,” Deadeye said with a coldness John hadn’t picked up on before.

“He’s not dangerous.”

“John, the only way we’re going to beat this thing is if we’re honest with ourselves. He may be a harmless hermit today, but tomorrow he could be chewing on the gates of Haven, threatening everyone you care about.”

“But he’s not chewing on anything right now. He’s just got a different idea of how he wants to live his life. That’s all.”

“He is a threat to all of us that have chosen to abide. Now, take him out.” Deadeye pushed the rifle toward John.

John backed away.

Deadeye took a heavy breath and slung Hank over his shoulder. “A month ago, I lost one of my best friends to a zombie.”

“I know. Guillotine. I’m sorry.”

“Do you know why he died?”

“You were outnumbered and…”

“C’mon, John. I told you our team is an army. We’re never outnumbered. My friend died because we had to go into a part of the city that no one should have been in to begin with. Because a whole bunch of Gregs decided they had a different idea of how they wanted to live their lives. So they got to live their selfish dreams. And now my friend is dead. The zombie disease isn’t the only virus out there, John. These people that resist being saved are spreading something just as dangerous. It’s our job to keep people safe. Even if that means killing other people.”

“I’m not killing Greg. I’m not killing anything or anyone that hasn’t tried to kill me first.”

This made Deadeye smile. “I like you, John.”

“Well, I’m starting to like you less, Deadeye.”

Deadeye nodded. “I’m going to give you a head start.”

“A head what now?”

“You heard me,” Deadeye said. “Start running.”

Deadeye did little more than drop his shoulder, but Patton’s pistol was magically in his hand, and he fanned the hammer, sending all five rounds into the ground at John’s feet.

John stumbled backwards and fell over the guardrail that lined the road. He scrambled back to his feet, never taking his eyes off the Undertaker.

Deadeye stepped closer as his fingers methodically worked the ejector on the cylinder and casually reloaded Patton’s ivory-handled pistol.

“What do you think, Slinger?” Deadeye asked as he spun the gun around his finger and dropped it back into the holster at his side. “Do you think you’re fast enough to beat Ol’ Deadeye?”

“So, you’re fast, but how do I know you can hit anything? Those were probably all lies as well.”

John went for the gun on his right hip. By the time his hand reached the grip, the gun was gone and Patton’s revolver was smoking in Deadeye’s hand.

“Fair enough,” John said.

“You’d better start running, Slinger.”

* * *

“Greg! Run!” John screamed and waved his arms as he scrambled across the construction site rubble, the debris shifting beneath his feet and bullets nipping at his heels. Deadeye was still playing with him.

The hermit had taken shelter behind the dumpster when the gunfire began, and he peeked out now to see who was shooting at who. A bullet blanggged off the dumpster and forced him back behind cover.

A lot of what the Undertakers sold on the air had turned out to be the fiction the doubters claimed it was. That was all very disappointing, but the fact remained that the man hunting John was a crack shot and a serious killer. He tried to run in a serpentine manner. It made sense in the movies, but the metaphor fell apart when he tried to run like a snake.

John reached the top of a pile of gravel and dove behind it as he felt something strike his heel. He rolled to the bottom of the gravel pile and pulled all of his limbs in close, out of Deadeye’s line of sight. His ankle was bleeding, but it looked more like a ricochet than a direct hit. He tested it. It could still take his weight.

“Oh no!” John put a fair amount of his high school drama experience into a cry of pain. “He got me!”

“Nice try, Slinger!” Deadeye said with a laugh. “Look up!”

John glance skyward and found himself directly beneath the bucket of a front loader.

Another report sounded and there was a flash on the metal bucket as the bullet bounced off the machinery and landed only a foot away from where John was hiding.

John jumped back. “You know, this isn’t fun for me!”

“John? Is that you?” Greg stepped out from behind the dumpster and drew a shot from Hank. The bullet sparked against the side of the dumpster and Greg stumbled back behind cover. More shots peppered the side of the bin.

John got to his feet and started running again. He only made it two or three steps before the bullets began chasing him once more. He ran from one piece of construction equipment to another as Deadeye toyed with him from his perch up on the road. His ankle was holding, but he was starting to feel the wound.

Greg was back on his feet and waving for him to hurry to the relative safety of the dumpster.

John could feel the bullets getting closer to his feet as he ran. No matter what he thought of Deadeye, he had to admit the man knew how to build drama.

Greg was doing such a great job of cheering John on that he had almost stepped out of cover and into John’s path.

John waved frantically, trying to get Greg to step out of the way.

Greg waved frantically, convinced his own waving was helping.

John hit Greg square in the chest and the pair crashed to the ground with John on top. His nose wrinkled instantly. The smell was horrible, and he wasn’t sure that it was coming from the dumpster. He rolled off the hermit and got to his feet.

“I thought that was you, John,” Greg said. “That’s why I waved. I hope you didn’t think I was making fun of you.”

“What?”

“You know… the hand.”

“Don’t worry about it, Greg.” John inched closer to the edge of the dumpster and drew one of the pistols from his vest.

“I don’t want you to think I was showing off because I’ve got two hands and you only have the one.”

John started to peer around the corner of the dumpster but then thought better of sticking his head all the way out. “Dammit.”

“What’s going on, John? Why is that guy shooting at us?”

“Never meet your heroes, Greg.”

“Okay, but I think Tom Landry is already dead. I guess that doesn’t matter so much these days. Have you ever seen any famous zombies?”

“We’ve got to get out of here,” John said to himself. He studied the area, then pointed to the construction site. “There.”

“You don’t want to go in there.”

“Well, we can’t go out that way,” John pointed around the dumpster with his gun.

Deadeye fired and the gun fell from John’s hand. “Dammit, that’s two guns he’s shot!”

“Who is this guy, John?”

“His name is Deadeye.”

“I hate it when people give their kids weird names.”

“His parents didn’t name him that! It’s a nickname.”

“Oh. When I was in school, people called me Stinky. I think I would rather have been called Deadeye.”

“It doesn’t have to end this way, Slinger!” Deadeye shouted.

“Who’s Slinger?” Greg asked.

“Me.” John looked back at the construction site.

“That’s better than Stinky, too.”

“We’ve got to make a run for it, Stinky.” John pointed himself toward the half-built cement structure and started counting. Once he got to three, he took off.

The bullets began right away. He felt like Deadeye was actually trying to hit him this time, but the path afforded enough cover that fewer rounds found their way through. Still, it was motivation enough to run faster than he ever had until he crashed into the temporary door on the building’s foundation and tumbled through.

There were zombies inside. A lot of them.

It was on the small side, as far as hordes went. A hordette, possibly. Or a hordella. Regardless of the terminology, it was more than enough to kill him.

Greg arrived a moment later, panting and blasting halitosis everywhere. “Dammit, I just trapped them in there.”

The dead lunged for the two men.

John drew and dropped three of them as he pushed Greg back through the door.

John slammed the door shut, but his dramatic entrance had destroyed the latch and he couldn’t secure it. It bounced as the dead inside pushed to get out. He put his back into it and searched the area.

“That,” Greg said, pointing at the gun in John’s hand. “That was fast.”

“You think that was fast? Watch this!” John holstered the gun, grabbed a board that lay nearby, propped it against the door and ran.

Greg was quick to follow, and the pair made their way along the construction site’s cement wall. The angles and the terrain were on their side and gave them cover from Deadeye. It was the only thing that could explain that lack of bullets flying their way.

They moved quickly, but they weren’t able to get far before they heard the door crash open.

John took every left turn he could until he was skimming along the wall on the other side of the building, working his way toward another door. The two men reached it and ducked inside. The interior of the site was now empty, and John hurriedly shut the door behind them.

“Secure that other door, Greg.”

Greg hurried across the earthen floor of the construction site and shut the door the zombies had carelessly left open.

The two men were now trapped, but at least the zombies were on the outside. It wasn’t a solution, but it gave John time to think and he risked a brief sigh.

The respite was interrupted by sarcastic clapping coming from above. Deadeye stood on what was planned to be the second story wearing a cruel smile. “Nice work, Slinger. What are you going to do now?”

“How did you get up there?” John asked.

“Undertaker secret,” the man said.

“There’s scaffolding on the other side of the wall,” Greg whispered.

“No one asked you, Greg,” Deadeye snapped.

“Sorry.”

“So, what are you going to do now, John?” Deadeye asked again. “Or did you run in here without a plan?”

“I had a plan.”

“And what was that?”

“My plan was to get away from you and the zombies.”

“And how did that work out for you?”

“Half,” John said and made a dive for the door.

Deadeye drew Patton’s pistol and put a bullet in the ground in front of John before he could pull the handle.

“This is silly, John. I saw you drop those poor dead bastards at the door. You’re good. Hell, you’re almost as good as me. You’ve got what it takes to be on the team. Let’s just put a couple in old Greg here and we can be on our way to fame and fortune.”

“This is ridiculous!” John snapped. “There’s only two teams here. Us versus them! It should be all of the living against all of the dead.”

“Wrong, John!”

It was the first hint of frustration John had heard in the man’s disturbingly calm voice.

Deadeye began pacing the edge of the floor. “There are three groups. Citizens, the Dead and Vectors! Those that aren’t willing to live within our laws are already dead. They just don’t know it.”

“C’mon, man. Aren’t zombies enough? Now we have to have a team of dystopian assholes going around killing innocent people?”

“You think it’s just the Undertakers that think this? You moron. It’s how it is. You just weren’t worth telling. You know what? I take back what I said, John. You don’t have what it takes. And I doubt the story that brought me here was true.”

John narrowed his eyes. He could take him. He was faster. He knew it. “It’s true.”

Deadeye chuckled. “Prove it.”

John reached for one of his guns. It had just cleared the holster when Deadeye fired. Everything stopped.

“John.” Greg stepped toward him. “Are you shot?”

“I don’t feel shot.”

Deadeye laughed. “I wasn’t aiming for you, John.”

There was a second report as a two-by-four snapped. John and Greg turned toward the sound and watched the board fall to the ground. It was holding up a stack of steel pipes, which began to lean. Before either man could scream no and will it to stop, the poles fell and crashed through the door.

The horde rushed in.

John drew and started firing. Three of the dead fell instantly.

“It’s not quite fifty, Slinger. But let’s see what you can do.”

John fired twice more and dropped another two zombies. He emptied the magazine, reloaded and tossed the gun toward Greg.

“A little help, Greg!”

Deadeye shot the gun out of the air before it could reach Greg’s hand.

“Sorry, John. You did this single-handedly, remember.”

Another pistol was in John’s hand before Deadeye had finished his taunt. “Stay behind me, Greg.”

The horde continued flowing into the building. John focused on those coming in the door and tried to clog the entry way with corpses. It wouldn’t stop them, but it would slow them down. The plan was working. Somewhat. Unfortunately, it just gave Deadeye time for a monologue.

“Civilization is hanging by a thread, John. We’ve gone to extraordinary efforts to make sure it doesn’t disappear forever. And people like your buddy Greg are putting everything we’ve worked for at risk.”

John tried tossing another gun to Greg. Again, the man upstairs knocked it down with an impeccably placed bullet.

“No cheating, John.”

John tried to forget about the Undertaker. His ‘choke the doorway with the dead’ plan was coming undone. He had to deal with the monsters now. And he had to do it while keeping himself and Greg safe. Deadeye was Later-John’s problem. He let the training take over. The drills. The practice. The movements. All of it had served him well in that convenience store and it wouldn’t fail him now. He emptied a magazine and found its replacement waiting at his hip. When that weapon was spent, he dropped it to the ground. He repeated the process: fire, reload, fire, discard, draw another weapon. The longer the fight went on, the lighter he got and the faster he danced.

He drew a compact 9mm and fired 15 rounds from the double-stacked magazine. He emptied a second magazine and drew a 1911-style .45. He fired eight shots and dropped four zombies before replacing the magazine and repeating the tally. He dropped the automatic and pulled a Smith & Wesson Model 60 revolver, fired five shots and dropped it behind him.

What was the left of the horde came at him as one. He pulled the last automatic he had from its holster and began to fire. They got close. Closer than he would normally allow. It was a mass of bodies. He backed away as he fired, staying out of snapping range. He was firing point blank by the time the last zombie fell.

John instantly turned the gun on the second floor. Deadeye was gone.

“I didn’t believe it when they said you killed 50 all by yourself.”

John spun. Deadeye was behind him.

“I doubted it even more when I saw you only had the one hand. But I’ve gotta say, John… Slinger, after seeing you in action, the Undertakers would be lucky to have you.”

John lowered the gun. “This was a test?”

“Of course it was a test,” Deadeye said. “I told you this morning that it was a test.”

John sighed. “So, I don’t really have to kill Greg.”

“Oh, no. You have to kill Greg. That’s part of the test. Have you not been paying attention at all?”

“Then I don’t want to be on the team. I rescind my application.” John holstered the pistol. “You wouldn’t want to be the second-fastest gun on the squad anyway.”

“Second fastest?” This made the man chuckle. “You’re pretty full of yourself, John.”

“That’s what people say. But you saw what happened here.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. They weren’t shooting back. Your little affliction would make for good press, but no cripple will ever be faster than me.”

“You shouldn’t use the c-word,” Greg said.

“Cripple isn’t the c-word, Greg!” John snapped.

“But it starts with ‘C.’”

“Shut up, Greg!” Deadeye shouted.

“Sorry.”

Before they could move, Patton’s pistol was leveled at Greg.

Greg put his hands up. “He is fast.”

It took all he had, but John delivered his line slowly and with as little fear as possible. “Yeah, but I’m faster.”

“Like hell you are,” Deadeye said as he pulled back the hammer.

“Care to find out?”

This piqued the man’s interest. “You can’t be serious.”

“What do I have to lose?”

“All right.” Deadeye dropped the pistol back in the holster. “It’ll make a great story. But I’m afraid you’ll end up being the villain. Another notch on old Hank.”

“We’ll see.” John holstered the automatic at his hip and stepped to his right.

Deadeye mirrored his move and the two men circled, stepping over fallen zombies, until they were standing on opposite ends of the construction site.

“I hate to kill you, John.” Deadeye smirked. “Greg not so much. Hey, how much you want to bet I can kill both of you with the same bullet?”

John didn’t smile. He held his opponent’s gaze and let the silence answer for him.

Deadeye’s smirk faded. “What do we do now, cowboy? Stand here until high noon?”

“Why don’t you count us down?”

“Fine.” Deadeye shook his arms to loosen them and began counting. “Three…”

“Greg.”

The sixth bullet from the Model 60 blew a hole through Deadeye’s temple. The Undertaker collapsed amongst the scattered dead.

“I’ve got to admit, Greg. I wasn’t 100% sure you could count.”

“For a minute there I thought you couldn’t.” Greg tossed the revolver across the room.

John snatched it out of the air and tucked it back in place. He looked at the carnage surrounding them. There were 23 bodies including Deadeye.

“That was quite a thing. If I had friends, I’d be telling them all about it.” Greg bent over and pulled Patton’s revolver from Deadeye’s belt. “That is one pretty pistol.”

“Give it here, Greg.” It all hit John at once. They were out of danger for now, but he had to cover this up. The pistol would be a dead giveaway. “The rifle, too.”

“Oh, man. Don’t I get anything? I shot him.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“I sure did! You said ‘Greg!’ And then I said ‘Okay!’ Only, you didn’t hear it because I said it to myself. And then I shot him!”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean, you didn’t shoot him. I wasn’t here. None of this happened.” John started going through Deadeye’s pockets, removing anything that could be used to ID the state-sanctioned assassin.

“I’m pretty sure none of that’s true.”

“Read between the lines, Greg. This guy is going to be missed. And the people that miss him are going to be pissed at whoever killed him.”

“But he was going to kill us. It was self-defense.”

“They don’t care. They don’t care about you or me.”

“So, what do we do?”

John looked around the room and then at the keys in his hand. The character Reaper smiled back at him. “Can you take care of the bodies?”

“Yeah, there’s some diesel out there. I’ll light ’em up. What are you going to do?”

John bundled the rifle and the rest of Deadeye’s less-flammable items into a canvas tarp. “I’ve got a car to hide.”

* * *

Chris let out a guffaw that turned into a puff of smoke in the cold. He pointed to the figure in the distance. “Well, would you look at that?”

Erik walked down the wall and stood next to his friend. He followed the finger out into the field surrounding Haven. “That can’t be our über famous friend now, can it?”

John trudged through the cold for what seemed like an hour before he reached the base of the wall.

“Look at this, Chris. It’s a famous hero gracing us with his presence.”

“No, he doesn’t need us. He has his new friend.” Chris said and then made a big show of looking around. “I don’t see him, though. Say, John, where is your new friend?”

As soon as John looked up at them, the two men knew the joking was done. John was usually too dumb to be frightened. It was a frustratingly convenient quirk of his. But they both saw real fear in his eyes.

“We need to talk.”

Dead Locked

Dead Locked

John stood in the Haven town square sipping from a thermos full of what he suspected was decaf. This had happened before. The morons in the kitchen had opened a tin off the shelf without caring to read it first and brewed up whatever was inside. When questioned, they just told everyone it was the good stuff. The weak brown water had barely touched his lips when he leveled the decaf accusation at the woman manning the urn. He pushed the cup toward her as proof, but she told him that he was imagining things and that she was sure it was the genuine article. The growing headache behind his eyes told him differently, but John grunted and reluctantly continued sipping as he waited for the rest of his crew.

Erik hadn’t shut up about seeing Amber for over a week. In the past seven days, they had discovered that what was left of the government was trying to wipe out innocent people who chose to live outside of the sanctioned enclaves. John had secretly murdered a colorful radio personality and minor celebrity, their own people were probably lying to them about all of it and who knew what else, there were still, like, a gazillion zombies out there, and all the guy could think about was seeing his girlfriend.

John, Erik and Chris had been meeting in secret to discuss their predicament for some time. The first three meetings had been to determine whether it was actually a predicament that they had to confront or something entirely different that they could ignore. John had been all for ignoring it. Chris wanted to do something about it—he just couldn’t decide what the “something” should be. Erik couldn’t pick a side and just kept talking about Amber, who lived in the next enclave over.

The trip to Sanctuary was one they had made countless times before. Most errands outside the walls included a stop in Sanctuary. As Haven’s nearest neighbors, they were a source of trade and an ally in the fight against the dead. The town wasn’t much different from their own. The fortified walls were of the same design. The town inside was nearly identical in size and layout. Even the people of Sanctuary were like them in every imaginable way. John hated them.

“Hated” was a strong term. But it was an accurate term. There was a natural rivalry that arose from the proximity. It was good-spirited. Like mayors making stupid World Series bets with signature foods. But that was only for now. The truth was, a year into the Rise, supplies were still fairly plentiful. The enclaves had included agrarian plans to provide fresh crops, so food wasn’t an issue. But one bad season mixed with a little scarcity, and these cross-town rivals would become bitter enemies in a heartbeat. John didn’t see any reason to get too attached to the people living there.

Erik, on the other hand, was sleeping with some of them. Well, just one of them, as far as John knew. The widower had fallen hard for a beautiful doctor inside the walls of Sanctuary and pursued her like a dogged hunchback with a unibrow.

After one last predicament meeting, the three men decided that it would be easier to meet in secret if no one else was around and that a trip outside the walls could do them all some good.

No one was sure if zombies slept late or if they even slept at all, but all anecdotal evidence pointed to the fact that zombies weren’t early risers. Like the living, it seemed to take them a few hours in the morning to get up and going. Whether it was true or not, hitting the road early always seemed the safer bet, so the three men met in the town square as the sun rose over the wall.

John was not a zombie, but he was sympathetic to any monster that would rather sleep in and took a tug from the thermos to fight through the fog of morning.

“It’s decaf again,” Chris said as he approached.

John lowered the thermos and grunted, “I know.”

“So why bother?”

“Just in case I’m wrong.” John tipped the thermos again, more convinced than ever that the lady at the urn was lying.

Erik joined them a moment later.

“Oh, look. E has his overnight bag.” John put the lid back on the coffee and set the thermos on a nearby ledge. “You got your little toothbrush in there?”

Erik looked at the bag over his shoulder. “Yeah. It’s the first thing I put in an overnight bag. Do you not have a toothbrush in your bag?”

“No, of course I do. It’s just…”

“So why are you making fun of me for bringing a toothbrush?”

“Because…” John looked to Chris for help, but the man just folded his arms and let him flounder. John abandoned the insult. “It’s too early. Let’s get going.”

The three men packed up and started toward the gate. John grabbed the thermos from the ledge.

“You know that’s decaf, right?” Erik said.

“Shut up, E.”

* * *

The people of Haven were still in bed as they made their way to the main gate. What few people they did see were either too groggy to wave or too peppy to deserve a wave in return. In another hour, the streets would be filled as everyone went about their assigned tasks. It was no small feat keeping a zombie-proof enclave running. Everyone had a role to play, and those roles ran on schedules. Being a scavenging crew, the three men had a little more autonomy than most of the collective. John always considered it hazard pay for the dangerous work, but their freedom upset some of the others. And it upset no one more than the schlubs assigned to stand guard at the front gate.

Today’s drop of sunshine was named Lawrence. He was the worst. He stood guard on a personal power trip and wielded the “bite scans” like an offensive weapon. On top of the indignity, his hands were always cold. Even in the summer. His attitude was terrible, and his breath was even worse. And since he was roughly the size of the gate itself, he could get away with just about everything.

“Great. It’s Larry,” John said when he saw the guard.

“Let’s just be nice and get out of here,” Erik said.

“He’s going to hassle us. And he’s going to say ‘egress’ wrong. You know he will. He thinks it makes him sound smart but it doesn’t. Pretentious prick.”

“If we’re nice, he’ll be nice.” Erik didn’t sound confident, but it was said with enough optimism to annoy John.

“Fat chance. He’s got it out for us.”

“Have you ever tried it?” Chris asked. “Like, ever? In your entire life?”

“What? Being nice?” John asked.

Chris nodded.

“Of course. I can be nice, but it won’t make a bit of difference with this guy. Watch.”

John stepped to the front of the trio as they approached the gatekeeper.

Lawrence saw them coming and stood up.

“Good morning, Lawrence,” John said with a smile and what he thought kindness sounded like.

“Greetings, fellas. It is a good morning, isn’t it?”

John put out his arms and stopped their approach. He whispered, “Something’s wrong. He’s agreeable.”

“That’s what happens when you’re nice first,” Erik said.

“No, that can’t be it,” John muttered and then spoke up. “Are you feeling okay, Lawrence?”

“Man, I am feeling great today, John. Thank you for asking.”

John turned and dragged the other two men into a quick huddle. “Something is definitely wrong.”

“I’m with John,” Chris said. “That was a little too easy.”

“He’s trying to get us to bite,” John said.

Chris nodded. “Agreed.”

“I don’t want to give him the satisfaction,” John said. He rubbed the stubble under his chin as he considered their options. “Erik, you give him the satisfaction.”

“Why me?”

“Because we’re doing this for you,” John said.

“You’re doing this because you hate being here.”

“Both things can be true, E. Now, find out what’s wrong with the Jolly Mean Giant.”

“Fine.” They broke from the huddle and Erik waved at Lawrence. “Hey, Lawrence!”

“Hey, Erik! I’m so glad you guys came by today.”

“You seem to be in great spirits this morning.”

“I am.”

“All right, Larry. Can the crap,” John said. “Why are you so happy? It’s making Erik nervous.”

“I’m happy, John, because I get to be the one to tell you the news.”

“What news?”

Lawrence folded his arms and his smile broadened. “That you’re not going anywhere.”

“No.” Erik stepped forward and pointed to the gate. “We’re going to Haven.”

All cheer left Lawrence’s voice and he dropped it an octave or two. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Open the gate.” Erik shifted the pack on his back. “We’re heading out.”

Lawrence got up from his seat. It wasn’t something he normally liked doing, but he grinned as he rose to his full height and placed himself between Erik and the gate.

Erik stood his ground.

“You can’t do this,” Chris said. “You can’t decide who gets to come and go.”

“I’m the gatekeeper, Chris. That is literally what I do.”

“I was going to say that, Chris,” John said. “He’s a guard, it’s literally what he does.”

“He guards what comes in,” Chris said. “Not what goes out.”

“Oh, that’s a good point,” John said.

“No. I’m the town guard. Not the entry guard.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re not the guard of me.” Erik moved toward the gate with bold steps. He then fell backward, tripped and fell to the ground holding his nose.

“You punched him?” John shouted. “What the hell is wrong with you, Larry? We’re on the same team here!”

“That felt so good,” Lawrence said shaking the strike out of his fist. “John, you try next. And try and say something tough like Erik did. It makes it so much better.”

Chris and John helped Erik to his feet.

“You can’t do that!” Chris said.

“The hell I can’t. I’ve been given strict instructions and complete authority to keep these gates shut. They even let me punch people now. C’mon, John. Please try.”

“You bet I’ll try!” John threw down the thermos and slipped off his pack.

“Yes.” Lawrence did a few light stretches and then started shadowboxing.

“Help me gets these guns off, Chris,” John said as he started throwing down the various pistols he had holstered across his body.

“You think the weight is really going to make a difference?” Chris pulled a revolver from a holster and set it on the ground.

“No, I’m afraid I’ll be tempted to shoot him. Just get the guns off.”

John pulled the last gun from an ankle holster, handed it to Erik and made a fist. When he turned to strike, he almost hit a small man named Michael instead.

Michael shrieked, ducked and spilled his messenger bag. A stack of papers scattered all over the ground.

“Mike, I’m sorry. I was going to hit Larry… I’m sorry.” John and Chris bent over and started picking the papers up off the ground.

Chris read one of the pages. “Mike, what is this?”

“It’s a post. I’m supposed to put them up all over town.”

“What’s it say?” John asked and studied one of the papers he had picked up.

Chris read aloud, “Let it be known—”

“Let it be known?” John asked. “Who’s writing this crap? Harry Potter?”

“I didn’t write it,” Mike said, brushing himself off. “It’s from the council.”

Chris continued. “Let it be known that the town gates will remain locked until further notice. No ingress or egress shall occur.”

“C’mon, Mike, just say in and out like a normal person!” John said.

“It’s ‘egress,’” Lawrence said, pronouncing it like it had an egg in it.

“You absolute moron,” John said.

“I said I didn’t write it.” Mike snatched the stack of papers from John’s hand. “I’m just supposed to post it.”

“This is a shit post, Mike,” John said. “You’re a shitposter. Like the kids called it.”

Erik spoke up. “I don’t think that’s what the kids meant, John.”

Mike grabbed the papers from Chris and moved to the gate. “If you don’t like it, you can take it up with the council at the meeting.”

“What meeting?”

Michael pulled out a second post from his messenger bag and tacked it up on the wall. He pointed to the meeting time on the flyer and walked away.

* * *

The new stage stood in stark contrast to the other structures in town square. The Committee for Celebrations, Commemorations and Parties had spared no expense in its construction. The town council had been looking at repairing the dilapidated gazebo for some time and finally approached Mrs. Gimble to have the CCCP aid in its restoration. Once handed the reigns, Mrs. Gimble’s committee stated that the voice of authority needed a grander platform than a mere gazebo and set to work replacing the historical structure.

The new platform was massive. It could accommodate the council, every committee member and a full band should they ever find enough musicians to assemble one.

There was even a place for the town weatherman to announce the forecast.

“Look, it’s Wilcox,” John said as the three men found a place in the gathered crowd. “This is probably his doing. He wanted to get us all out of our warm beds and call us all together to tell us that there’s snow on the ground.”

The top of the structure rose to thirty feet. A professional lighting system pilfered from a nearby stadium had been installed in its heights, while massive banners created by the CCCP to promote upcoming events draped the stage. Currently the pair of three-story banners announced an upcoming winter celebration called the Faith Free Feast Fest. It was a firm belief of the CCCP that a lack of inventiveness could always be made up for with a little alliteration.

The crowd began to settle, and the council chairman and Mrs. Gimble climbed the staircase to the stage. The council chairman took the podium at center stage while the older woman took a seat to his right and stared out over the crowd.

Despite assurances that it was on, the chairman thumped the microphone several times and asked if everyone could hear him. “Is everyone here? Look, I hate to call you out on such a cold day, but…” The chairman paused and turned to Mrs. Gimble. The elderly woman nodded for him to continue and gestured back toward the audience.

The chairman continued. “We’ve called this emergency meeting because we have news out of the Capital that is of some concern. The nation’s top scientists—”

“Top scientists that didn’t turn into zombies!” shouted someone in the back.

“Okay,” the chairman said with some hesitation. “The nation’s top scientists that didn’t turn into zombies are concerned that the zombie virus has mutated.”

Just shy of a thousand people gasped at once. All chatter stopped as the crowd processed what they had just heard.

It was only a moment later that a bold question broke the silence. “What does it turn you into now?”

The chairman stammered, “That’s not what—”

“I’ll bet it’s a werewolf,” said a man from the center of the crowd.

A woman named Rita wasn’t ready to accept the werewolf answer. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

The man fired back. “Do you think zombies make sense, Rita?”

“Everyone, just hold on a moment,” a woman near the stage shouted before the arguing got out of hand. “Maybe the zombies turn you into something good now.”

“Like what?” Rita asked.

“I don’t know,” the woman said. “Maybe you get powers. Like a superhero.”

“That’s not how zombies work, Tina,” said Rita.

“Well excuse me for trying to bring a little optimism.”

The chairman thumped the microphone again and called for silence. “Listen, everyone. The zombies still turn us into zombies. But our top scientists—”

“Top scientists that aren’t zombies!” shouted someone in the back.

“Our top scientists that aren’t zombies believe that the zombie virus may now be airborne.”

This statement drew another collective gasp from the crowd.

“You mean zombies can fly now?!” Tina asked.

This caused more than a few people in the crowd to look overhead and sent another dozen or so seeking the cover of awnings.

“What? No!” the chairman shouted. “That’s not what airborne means.”

“We’re going to need taller walls!” screamed a young man.

“It doesn’t mean they can fly!” the chairman replied. “It just means that the virus can now be spread without contact.”

A hand went up in front, but the person did not wait to be called on. “You mean like a cold?”

“Exactly,” the chairman said.

“Mr. Chairman, are you really saying that being a zombie is like having a cold?” asked the chairman’s opponent in the upcoming election. “The zombie virus is nothing like a cold, and making that comparison is irresponsible. I’m calling for your immediate resignation!”

“You can’t get zombie like a cold!” the man standing next to John shouted. “Everyone knows they have to bite you.”

“Yeah,” John agreed. “I didn’t cut my hand off because it got sneezed on!”

After a fair amount of shouting and more mic thumping, the chairman regained control of the crowd. “We don’t know anything for sure. But, let’s be honest, we’ve noticed a dramatic increase in sightings around here.”

“You don’t think that could have anything to do with John’s horde, could it?” Chris asked quietly.

“Shut up, Chris. Stop calling it my horde.”

The chairman continued. “Until we’re certain about this new situation, we have to take precautions. So until then, we’re going to hunker down here. No outs and certainly no ins.”

“What do you mean?” Erik shouted.

“We’re locking everything down,” the chairman said.

“What about scavenger parties?” Erik asked. “We still need supplies.”

“They’ll just have to wait.”

Mrs. Gimble rose and tapped the chairman on the shoulder. She took the microphone and addressed Erik’s question. “My committee has done an inventory and we are happy to announce that we have plenty of stores for the near future. There will be no need for scavenging parties to take any unnecessary risks.”

The chairman took the mic back. “It’s just for a short time. Until we know more about the situation.”

“How short?” Erik asked.

The chairman opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. He looked to the rest of the council and received several shrugs. He then looked to Mrs. Gimble, who mouthed something.

“Two weeks?” said the chairman.

The crowd roared. “Two weeks!”

“Give or take. Two weeks-ish. Until we know more.”

There were many cries from the crowd consisting of various threats and curses, but they all amounted to “You can’t lock us in here like this!”

The chairman tried to answer back, but the shouters were winning. He had lost all control over the population of Haven.

Mrs. Gimble ushered him aside and took the microphone. She cleared her throat, and the crowd gave her a chance to be heard. “We all knew that living in a zombie apocalypse would come with some sacrifices. I think, in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t too much to ask. We will let you know when things can get back to normal. Until then, let’s make the most of it.”

She looked up into the stage’s superstructure and signaled to a crew of men positioned above each banner. They acknowledged the signal and cut the holiday banners loose. The thirty-foot tapestries declaring the Faith Free Feast Fest fluttered to the ground unceremoniously as two new banners unfurled. The banner on stage right read “Stay Here” while the one on stage left read “Stay Safe.”

Mrs. Gimble read each one aloud slowly, then killed the mic and left the stage.

* * *

Four weeks later, the three men stood on Haven’s wall, looking out over a field filled with precisely zero zombies. Their breath hung in the cold air as each sighed individually at the sheer boredom of the situation.

“This is ridiculous,” said Chris.

“This terrible,” said Erik.

“This is awesome!” said John.

Erik waved his arm over the empty space before them. “There’s nothing. There’s no reason for this whole lockdown. So, what the hell are you so excited about?”

“This whole lockdown,” John said. “It’s been great.”

“Great?” Chris spit over the wall. “I’m going nuts.”

“Nah, you’re just not looking at it the right way.”

“I can’t believe it,” Erik said. “You of all people. You hate being told what to do.”

“That is very true. But they aren’t telling me what to do, are they? They are telling me to do nothing. And I really like doing nothing. In fact, nothing is one of my favorite things to do. I could do nothing all day. And now, they’re making me do nothing all day.”

Chris hurled a rock he’d been juggling over the wall. “I’d rather be doing anything.”

“At least you have someone to talk to,” Erik said. “With this ongoing ‘crisis,’ they aren’t even letting me use the radio. ‘Just in case,’ they’re saying. I haven’t talked to Amber since before this all started.”

“You’ll see her soon,” John assured him. “This is just temporary.”

“That’s what they said a month ago,” Erik said. “They’ve extended the emergency order twice now, and there’s no end in sight.”

John shrugged it off. “It’s for our own protection.”

“Protection from what?” Erik reeled back and kicked the railing in front of him. The blow sent a rattle down the entire length of Haven’s wall. “We’re already living in a world filled with flesh-eating zombies and merciless warlords. What could be more dangerous than that?”

“Boy, E. You are wound too tight.” John put his hand on the rail and silenced the rattle. “You know, what you need is a hobby. Something to get your mind off the whole thing.”

Erik dropped his head. “I feel like we’re all just wasting time.”

“Not me,” John said. “I’m getting a ton of stuff done. I’ve been working out every day. I’ve been doing a lot of reading. Did you know almost no one uses the library here? And I’ve almost finished my play.”

Chris almost choked on his own laughter. “You’re writing a play?”

“Yeah. Well, it was going to be a movie, but I’m beginning to think that Spielberg may not be around to direct it. So, I figure, why not write it for the stage? When Hollywood comes back, they can just adapt it for the screen.”

“Okay,” Chris said as he leaned against the rail and resigned himself to the full pitch. “What’s the play about, Shakespeare?”

“Nope. No spoilers. You’ve got to wait till it’s finished. I’m thinking we’ll put it on in the spring.”

“Fair enough,” Chris said and turned back to the field.

“Fine,” John said. “I’ll tell, but you guys have to promise not to tell anyone. It’s about these three guys who have to work together to save their families at the start of the Rise.”

Erik looked at Chris and then back to John. “You’re kidding?”

“Two of them are complete idiots though, right? So things aren’t looking so good. But then there’s this other guy who can totally see what’s going on. At the beginning, everything is a complete mess because these two idiots don’t know what they’re doing. But, thankfully, the other guy is smart enough and charismatic enough to unite them and lead them on to safety.”

Erik shook his head. “I can’t believe he’s doing this.”

“No,” Chris said. “This is pretty much in character.”

John spent the next fifteen minutes running through the various scenes from his work of fiction. There was a part where the hero is mowing the grass and mowing down zombies to prove to the world that they don’t need to be afraid. Then the guys try to drive away, but one of the morons wrecks the getaway car… twice. The men are attacked by a pack of zombie Dobermans. There’s a train full of zombies and a marching band of the undead.

Chris and Erik just kept shaking their heads as John acted out several of the scenes.

It finally ended with the hero sacrificing himself to save the others. John’s death scene was both annoying and somehow satisfying. He collapsed to the ground, reached toward the sky, blissfully went quiet and fell still.

Sadly, it didn’t last. He sat up and took a deep breath. “I’m planning to star and direct.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Chris said.

“It’s pretty great, right? Let me know if you guys want to be in it. I’ve got the perfect parts picked out for each of you. Erik, you’re a zombie that gets kicked in the balls. And Chris, you’re a zombie that gets hit in the balls with a sledgehammer. What do you say?”

Erik snapped first. “Of course I don’t want to be in your stupid fever dream, you jerk! I don’t want to be here at all. I want to see Amber. I want to just get out there and put one foot on the other side of the wall to prove to everyone that there isn’t any difference between here and there. There isn’t an airborne zombie virus. And even if there was, what’s a stupid wall going to do to protect us? There’s a breeze right now. The wall isn’t stopping it. I want to run. Just tear out my hair and run like mad across this field.” Erik turned suddenly from the two men and pitched himself toward the edge of the wall. He grabbed the railing and rolled back like he was going to jump over. But he didn’t. He just stood there and shook the railing.

John pulled himself up from his death scene with no help from Chris and brushed himself off. He looked at his friend and then out into the field. His mind was made up. “You know what, E? I’m going to get you what you want. Well, not all of it. The thing with the hair was a little weird, but the rest of it, we’re going to make it happen.”

“What are you talking about?”

John slapped Erik on the back. “I’m making you my new lockdown project, E. Right after I finish my play, of course.”

“What are you talking about, John?” Chris asked.

“It’s simple,” John said. “We’re going to bust Erik out of this joint.”

* * *

John insisted they meet in his basement because he had pretzels.

But, outside of the pretzels, neither Chris nor Erik knew what to expect when they descended the stairs.

John’s house was near the center of Haven. It had been there for almost a hundred years and the basement was more root cellar than rumpus room. It was dark and so dank you could almost taste the soil in the air. The floor beneath them was concrete, but it had obviously been an afterthought as the surface was rough and uneven.

The lighting was right out of a horror movie as exposed bulbs hung from cords strung over exposed beams. One bulb swung in a light draft that caused the shadows to rock back and forth as if hiding something sinister that was preparing to pounce.

John was waiting for them in the far corner. He stepped out of the shadows and into the swaying light. “Welcome to our HQ.”

Chris studied the wall. “John, what the hell is all this?”

“HQ means headquarters,” John explained.

“I know what HQ is. But what is all this?” Chris turned slowly, indicating everything in the basement.

“I’ve appointed myself Big X,” John said.

“Big X?” Chris echoed back.

“If this is going to work, we all have to play our parts. I’m Big X. Erik, you’re the scrounger.”

“What’s a scrounger?”

“You’ll be in charge of getting the things we need.”

“I don’t want to do that,” Erik said.

“You don’t get a say. You’ll get us what we need, and right now I need you to hand me some pretzels.”

Erik pouted for a moment and then moved to a poorly constructed bar and grabbed a bowl of pretzels.

“Chris, you’re going to be our forger,” John said, munching on some pretzels.

“Will I have to actually forge anything?”

“Probably not.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

“I could be the forger,” Erik said.

“But I’m the forger,” Chris said. “You’re the scrounger. Get me some pretzels.”

“Now let me show you what I’ve been working on.” John spun a giant cork board around to reveal a hand-drawn layout of Haven. He grabbed a wooden pointer and snapped it across the board. “This is a map of the entire town.”

“It’s not a very good map,” Chris said and popped a handful of pretzels into his mouth.

“Yeah, you should at least add one of those ‘you are here’ stickers,” added Erik.

“Shut up. It’s not like I had an aerial view of the place. And it may not be to scale, but it will get the job done.”

“What are all those times?” Erik was asking about a series of numbers written along the side of the map.

“Those are the ferrets’ schedule,” John said. “I’ve been watching—”

“Ferrets?” Chris asked.

“Ferrets,” John said.

“What are ferrets?”

“The ferrets are the guards,” John said.

“Why not call them guards?”

John swung the pointer at Chris fast enough for the stick to make a swoosh. “Chris, have you not seen The Great Escape?”

“No.”

“Oh dude, Chris!” Erik said. “You’ve got to see it.”

“How have you never seen it?” John asked. “Steve McQueen breaking out of a German prison camp!”

“Oh, and when he jumps the bike at the end!” Erik said almost spilling the pretzels.

“Coburn was in it. He played an Aussie.”

“I haven’t seen it, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay,” John said. “It’s one of the best guy movies of all time! Bronson was in it. Garner.”

“It was the inspiration for Hogan’s Heroes,” Erik said.

“Kind of,” John said. “That was more Stalag 17. Another great movie.”

“Right?” Erik said. “I almost forgot about that one.”

“Get back to the plan,” Chris said.

John shook his head in disgust and got back to the plan. “Ferrets are what we call the guards. I’ve been watching them for a week, and I’ve figured out their schedules here.” John indicated the scheduled times with the pointer. “I’ve also gathered some other info on them. Some stuff we might find useful.” John tossed several manila folders onto the table and spilled some of the contents in the process.

Chris and Erik picked up the folders and flipped through the material inside.

John pointed to the folders. “Interests. Favorite treats. Secrets. Anything we can use to bribe or blackmail those bastards.”

“I didn’t know Edward was Canadian,” Erik said as he thumbed through one of the folders.

John spun a second board around. It had pictures of each of the guards tacked on it, and every one was connected by red string.

“What’s with the yarn?” Chris asked.

“That’s conspiracy yarn,” John said. “It’s the best kind of yarn.”

“What do all the connections mean?” asked Erik.

“Nothing. But it felt like the board was missing something. I think the yarn pulls it all together.”

“I must admit, you’ve done your research. I’m impressed.” Erik grabbed his own handful of pretzels. “So what’s the big plan, Big X?”

“Chris and I are going to create a distraction in front of the guards, and E is going to run out the front gate.”

“That’s it?” Chris asked.

“Yes, that’s it.”

Chris stood up and surveyed the room full of plans and folders and yarn. “All this for ‘let’s run out the front door’?”

“It’s so simple, they’ll never expect it. There’s no need to complicate things any more than is necessary.”

“But what about the schedules and the bios and your shitty map?”

“I didn’t want to half-ass it. You can’t half-ass an escape attempt, Chris. You’d know that if you’d seen The Great Escape.”

Chris turned away and went looking for more pretzels.

“When?” asked Erik.

“We launch our plan at dawn tomorrow. When the sun will be in their eyes.”

* * *

The next morning was overcast.

“‘We launch our plan at dawn.’” Chris’ impersonation of John wasn’t as accurate as it was biting. “‘When the sun will be in their eyes.’”

“Wilcox said it was supposed to be sunny,” John said. “But it doesn’t really matter, the sun part wasn’t really that important. You boys know the plan? Are you ready to do this?”

“What do I do again?” Chris asked.

“Nothing.”

“Then I’m ready.”

“Okay then.” John took a deep breath. “Operation: Squirrel is go.”

John began to stroll. Not walk—stroll. Walking would have looked normal. John’s idea of a stroll felt a little off. There was a wind-up, a pause and then a burst forward into the actual stroll like he was a cartoon character entering the stage.

“What the hell was that?” Chris asked.

“I think that was his idea of nonchalant,” Erik said.

The stroll became a little more natural as they moved through the town. John went out ahead while Chris and Erik held back, as was the plan. Operation: Squirrel wasn’t complex, but each component was crucial. John was adamant about that. Every part mattered. Except for the sun. That was nice to have but not a necessity.

“Do you think he knows he looks like that?” Erik asked.

“Self-awareness isn’t John’s strong suit.”

John stopped at the corner of a building and waved for Chris and Erik to join him.

“I thought we were supposed to hold back,” Chris said.

“Shut up,” John said. “Look, it’s Lawrence. Time to make him look stupid.”

John reeled back and lurched back into his stroll.

Chris and Erik watched and waited for the drama to unfold.

John walked around the corner and made a big production of waving to the guard, who happened to have looked the other way at the exact moment John began his fall. He tripped on nothing. But judging by John’s performance, he appeared to have tripped over a large dog or a small child that almost took the lower part of his leg off. He “stumbled” a few feet, spun around and fell to the ground. Once there, he started with the writhing.

Chris and Erik saw it, but John was so busy going for an Oscar that he didn’t realize he had fallen between the guard’s line of sight and a sizable bush. Larry couldn’t see a thing.

John pulled his knee to his chest and rolled around on his back.

Chris and Erik whisper-yelled and waved their hands, trying to get his attention, but John the moron had disappeared fully into the character of John the trippy wimp.

Erik gave up trying to get his attention. “I’ll say this—he’s committed.”

“He should be committed,” Chris said. “Throw something at him.”

Erik searched the ground for something to throw. “There’s nothing but rocks.”

“Get a big one.”

Erik tossed a stone, which bounced once and landed in John’s face.

“Oh shit, I hit his face.”

“Yeah. Good throw.”

John snapped out of his role and glared back at the men. There was a lot of wordless yelling as John tried to convey his anger and Chris tried to convey that John was an idiot and needed to come back.

John finally relented and began to stand.

In the most frantic game of charades ever, Chris indicated that the guard might see him and that he needed to stay low by crawling or crab-walking back to the wall, John’s choice.

John half crawled, half rolled back to the building.

Erik helped him up and they moved behind the building, where John complained and nursed his back.

“What the hell was that?” John asked. “You two are going to ruin the plan!”

“He didn’t see you, numb nuts,” Chris said.

“What?”

“He looked away as you fell, and the bush was in the way.” Erik pointed at the bush in question.

“You need to get farther out there and make sure he sees you this time,” Chris said.

John looked around the corner and studied the approach. “All right. Farther out. It’s just that I’m better at acting from a distance. But I can do this. I can get closer.” He brushed the dirt off from his previous fall and straightened himself out. “Get ready to move, Erik. You’re about to be free.”

John strolled around the corner and kept walking. He went well past the bush, walked right past the guard, waved, said “good morning” and just kept walking.

Chris and Erik watched until he was out of sight.

“What the hell was that?” Erik asked.

“He didn’t do it. He just kept walking.”

They watched for a few more minutes, expecting something to happen. But they weren’t sure what it was going to be.

“Where did he go?” Chris asked.

“I don’t… I can’t see him.”

“I panicked.”

John’s voice startled both of them, and they spun with a start.

“What the hell was that?” Erik asked.

“I don’t know. I choked. It was… I guess the pressure got to me. You’ve got the easy part, E. All you have to do is escape. If I don’t sell this performance, we’ve got nothing. There’s a lot riding on me.”

“It’s fine,” Chris said. “Just do it again.”

John nodded, straightened up and took a step forward.

Chris grabbed him and held him back.

“What are you doing?”

“You can’t go that way. He just saw you go the other way.”

‘That’s right,” Erik said. “You need to go back around and come from the other direction.”

“From the right?”

“Right,” Chris said.

“But I only practiced from the left!”

“You can do it, probably,” Erik said.

“That’s right.” Chris put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Someone, somewhere might believe in you.”

John pulled away and took a deep breath. “I can do this.” He turned to leave but kept turning and came back with a question. “Where would I be coming from?”

“What does it matter?” Chris asked.

“I’ve got to be coming from somewhere. He just saw me go that way for some reason. He’s going to be suspicious.”

“Maybe you were going for bread,” Erik suggested.

“Yeah, the bakery would be open. That could work.” John turned again but once again made a full rotation and came back with an argument. “I don’t have any bread. If I went to the bakery, I’d be coming back with bread.”

Erik shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t have any yet.”

“Larry isn’t going to buy that,” John said.

“You could tell him you were going to see the wizard to get some brains,” Chris offered.

Erik nodded. “He’d believe that.”

“Fine. I went for bread, and they had no bread.” John turned and went back the way he had come. This time, he didn’t stroll. It was more of a pouty shuffle.

Chris and Erik took up their positions at the corner of the building. John strolled faster than he pouted, and it took him longer to reappear than they expected. When he did reappear, it looked like he had stopped for coffee. He was all smiles and bright-eyed. He didn’t look like himself at all.

“Hey there, Lawrence. I just went to go get bread at the bakery and you’re not going to believe this but… no bread! Can you believe that? They had one job, right? Anyway, that’s where I was going, but I guess I’ll just have to go back later when they might have some bread. That way—”

To John’s credit, he didn’t actually say, “Whoops, I’ve tripped.” But he might as well have. He kicked the ground and pitched forward. This began a twenty-foot-long stumble in which his arms pinwheeled, he spun a few times in both directions, wobbled and then fell over a trash can before landing on his back with a sickening thud.

Erik winced. “I think he may have actually hurt himself.”

“Good.”

Covered in trash, John began to writhe.

“Can you even begin to imagine how terrible his play must be?” asked Chris.

“Oh my God! My back! I’ve… ugh! Arrgh! I think I pinched something.”

The guard was staring right at John the same way someone looked at soup.

“Larry!” John called with an outstretched hand. “I can’t get up. I’m like that lady that fell. And then couldn’t get up. Come help me, please.”

Lawrence looked away. Possibly in disgust.

“Larry. Lawrence. Come on. Fellow human being in trouble here.”

Lawrence moved to another position and took a seat in front of the town’s gate.

“What’s wrong with you, Larry? What are you, a sociopath? A person is hurting right in front of you!”

After a few more minutes and one more claim of a slipped disc, John stood up and brushed himself off. “I’m very disappointed in you, Lawrence.”

John turned to leave.

“John,” the guard said. “Pick up your mess.”

After the trash can had been righted and the garbage shoved back inside, John stomped back to the corner where Erik and Chris were waiting.

“So, how did that go?”

“Shut up, Chris.”

* * *

Back in the basement, John was drilling into a head that he had locked in a vice.

Chris and Erik stood at the foot of the stairs, watching and debating whether they should go in.

“Hey, guys,” John said when he saw them standing there. “Would one of you hand me that superglue?”

Erik moved to get the glue. “What are you doing to that head?”

John loosened the vice and picked up the head. He turned the face toward the two men and presented it to them without explanation.

“I give up,” Chris said.

“What do you mean? It’s me.” John held the fake head next to his own for comparison.

“It’s hideous,” Erik said.

“Erik’s right,” Chris said. “It looks just like you.”

“Shut up and give me the glue. I accidentally cut off an ear.”

Erik handed him the glue and held the head while John reattached the ear. “Why would you do something like this? One of you is enough.”

“It’s a dummy, stupid. I’m going to leave it under the covers so it looks like I’m in bed asleep instead of breaking you out of here.”

Chris had found the dummy’s arm and was using it to scratch his back. “I don’t think the ferrets are going to be performing bed checks, Captain Alcatraz.”

“I know that. It’s for my wife.” John got the ear settled into place and pulled his hand away. “She thinks I’ve been spending too much time in the basement.”

“So, instead, you want her to think that you’re spending too much time in bed?”

John took the head from Erik and set it on the workbench. “This isn’t about me, Chris. And it’s not about you. This is about our dear friend Erik. Do you want him to get out of here or not?”

“I—”

“Then let’s focus.” John moved across the cellar to the planning board. “Admittedly, Operation: Squirrel could have gone better. But we can’t be too hard on ourselves. It wasn’t for a lack of planning. Luck was just against us.”

Chris pulled up a rolling stool. “Maybe we should try it again with someone people actually like.”

“No, they’d see it coming now. We need a whole new plan. But first, I have something for you guys.” John opened the lid of a green toolbox on the bench and pulled out a set of brightly colored toys. He tossed one to each man.

“Walkie talkies?” Erik rolled the volume button on the toy’s side and hit the transmit button a couple of times.

“That’s right,” John said and held up his own.

Chris studied his for a moment. “John, why is my walkie talkie shaped like a dog wearing a police hat?”

“Because I wanted the fire dog.”

“What are they for?” Erik had the construction dog.

“For talking over great distances, E. Although, probably not too great. They’re just kids’ toys after all. And I found them in that antique mall where we found the kid, so I’m not sure how well they work.”

Chris pressed the dog’s nose and spoke into its mouth. “You’re an idiot.”

John’s fireman puppy and Erik’s construction dog echoed the statement.

Chris clipped the walkie-talkie doggie to his belt. “They work.”

“Good,” said John. “Keep them close. I don’t want you jackasses throwing rocks at my head anymore. With these, we can communicate in secret. Without throwing rocks. You idiots could have ruined the whole plan, you know.”

“The whole plan that didn’t work? Is that the plan you’re talking about?”

“Shut up, Chris.”

Erik spoke into his own radio. “John. Come in, John.”

John leapt across the basement and snatched the walkie from Erik’s hand. “Don’t use my name, E. No names on an open frequency.”

“What’s the matter?” Chris asked. “Do you think they’re listening in on a poodle?”

John gave Erik the walkie talkie back. “We’re going to need codenames.”

“I thought I was the Forger. And Erik was the Scrounger.”

“Forger is your role. It’s not a codename. I’m going to be Broadsword. Erik, you’re Danny Boy. And Chris, your codename will be Goldilocks.”

“I am not going to be Goldilocks.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No. I’m going to be the Bandit.”

“Oh, that’s much cooler,” Erik said. “I’m going to be the Snowman.”

“But those are road trip codenames. Not secret organization codenames. And now my codename doesn’t make any sense.”

“John, when was the last time anything made any sense?” Chris asked.

“We’ll call you Smokey,” offered Erik.

“No, you won’t,” John said. “You’ll call me Broadsword.”

“Are you sure? Because your wife says it isn’t that broad.”

“Shut up, Chris.”

“If you like swords, we could name you Needle.” Erik said. “That’s that little sword that the little girl used in—”

“Fine. Forget Broadsword. I’ll be Papa Bear if it will end the jokes.”

“Oh no, now I have all-new jokes,” Chris said.

“Let’s just focus. Or Erik is never getting out of here.” John walked over to a filing cabinet and pulled out a stack of manilla folders. He dropped the pile onto a card table in the middle of the room. “I have some new plans to go over.”

Chris wheeled the rolling stool over to the table. “I hope they’re better than Operation: Squirrel.”

“Oh, they’re all better. Operation: Squirrel was probably the worst of my original ideas.”

“So why did we start with that one?” Erik pulled up a seat as well.

“Because it involved the least amount of work. But don’t worry, I’ve got some other plans already drawn up.” John sifted through the pile of folders. He had written “Top Secret” across the front of each one because he couldn’t find a stamp. It had been hard enough to find actual manilla folders. He stopped and pulled one out from the stack. “Here’s a good one. Operation: Huckleberry. We fake Erik’s death. And the whole town will come to mourn poor E. But the wake is a distraction because we build a trapdoor into the coffin. So, while everyone is crying, Erik opens up the coffin and slips away.”

“Why wouldn’t it be an open casket?” Erik asked.

“Because you died from bees.”

“Bees?”

“A shit ton of bees. Your face is a mess.” John opened the folder and pulled a page from the plan. It was a crude drawing of a stick figure being attacked by bees.

“Why is my head inside the beehive?”

“I don’t know. You like honey?”

“He’s not Winnie the fucking Pooh, John.”

“Okay, I have a back-up plan.” John pulled another drawing from the file and presented it to the guys.

“What is that?” Erik asked.

“It’s a weasel,” John said.

Chris took the page to examine it more closely. “That’s a weasel?”

“Well, it’s supposed to be a weasel. I haven’t seen a weasel in a long time.”

“You’re saying I get killed by a weasel?”

“Right.”

“No one is going to believe that. I could totally beat up a weasel.”

“Not a rabid one.” John pointed to the page. “See? I drew some foam around the mouth.”

“Yes, I could beat up a rabid weasel. I’m not… we’re not doing this plan anyway because we cremate everyone now. Remember? Because zombies?”

John pulled the page with the rabid weasel back. “Oh right.” He put the rabid weasel diagram back into the folder and closed it. He began searching the pile. “It’s okay. I have more.”

“You think I could beat up a weasel, don’t you, Chris?”

“A rabid one?”

“Here’s one!” John opened another folder in the middle of the table. Operation: San Dimas High School Football Rules. We arrange a battle of the bands. Then we enter as the underdogs, scrappy but pure of heart. We have to overcome several challenges: a lack of funds, our singer gets laryngitis, Erik’s dad threatens to send him to military academy. But we overcome these hurdles and beat the rich kids in the ultimate showdown of rock.”

“How does this get Erik out?”

“During the encore, just before we sign the record deal, Erik sneaks out through a trapdoor behind the drum kit and into the arms of his beloved. I’ve got it all planned out. I’ve even designed the stage.” John presented the page with the stage blueprints. There was a surprising amount of pyrotechnics.

“Okay, Papa Bear,” Chris said. “I see a few problems with this one. First and foremost is that none of us can play an instrument.”

“I’ve accounted for that. I’ve worked several months into the schedule for us to learn how to play.” He pulled another page from the folder. “Besides, our set list is only three songs. So it shouldn’t be that hard.”

Erik pulled another page from the plan. “What is Harmegeddon?”

“That’s our band’s name. Here’s our logo.” John handed out another poor illustration of a stick figure riding a bomb like it was a bronco. “We’ll get matching jackets and patches. And tattoos, if you guys are down.”

“No,” said Chris.

“No to the tattoos or the whole plan?”

Erik closed the folder. “Several months, John?”

“I get that. I get that. It was just an idea.” John sorted through the pile on the table. “Oh here’s a good one. Operation: Sly Caine. We challenge the guards to a soccer match. We’re the plucky underdogs and—”

“John, there’s only three of us,” Chris said, pointing to each of them.

“So?”

“So, how many people are on a soccer team?”

“More than three?”

“More than three,” said Chris.

John dropped the folder and found another. Operation: Shakespeare.”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Erik said. “We are not putting on a play about three guys in the early days of zombies where I die and then use the funeral scene to escape from a trapdoor in the coffin during the final bows.”

John looked from Erik to the folder and back to Erik. “Fine.” He dropped another folder onto the table. “Operation: FWING! We build a giant catapult and—”

“No,” said Erik.

“Okay,” John said and pulled out another folder. “Operation: PTWANG! We build a giant slingshot and—”

“No.”

“Operation: FWOOSH! We build a giant Traybucket—”

“It’s trebuchet,” said Chris.

“Trebuchet? Are you sure.”

“Yes,” said Erik. “And no.”

John dropped the folder and shrugged. “Well, unless you guys know where we can get our hands on a giant rocket, I’m all out of ideas.”

Erik walked over to the workbench and picked up a second pile of folders. “What about these?”

“Nah, those are the stupid ideas,” John said.

Chris picked up the folders from the table.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to put these on the stupid pile.”

“Haha, very funny. But I don’t see you contributing any ideas. It’s easy to crap all over my ideas when you’re not putting yourself out there.”

“Fair enough,” Erik said. “Let’s brainstorm some ideas. What if we—”

“Hold that thought, E. I’ll get the wipe board.” John moved into another corner of the room and started moving junk around.

“The what?” Chris asked.

“The wipe board.” John wheeled it out of the corner and pulled the cap off of a marker.

“You mean the white board,” Erik said.

“No, E, it’s a wipe board. Because you can wipe things off of it.”

“It’s white board, because it’s white and it replaced the blackboard.”

“Look, whose wipe board is it?”

Erik shrugged and sat down.

“That’s what I thought. Now who wants to start?”

Chris leaned forward. “Well, let’s think about this simply. There are two things keeping Erik in here: the guards and the wall.”

John started pointing with the marker. “I can see where you’re going with this.” He turned and started scribbling on his wipe board with a furious number of squeaks.

Erik leaned toward Chris and mumbled, “This is the worst game of Pictionary ever.”

There was more squeaking before John stepped back to present his masterpiece to the room. “Voi-freaking-la!”

“What is it?” Chris asked.

“What do you mean, ‘what is it?’ It’s your idea.”

“My idea?”

“You were going to say that if we can’t go over the wall—because Erik is too much of a wuss to get into a slingshot—then we can go under it!” He turned and tapped the drawing with the marker. “That is our tunnel.”

“I was not going to suggest that.”

“How is that a tunnel?” Erik asked.

“Of course it’s a tunnel.” John explained the drawing. “This is the wall. This is our tunnel. This up here is Larry looking all stupid. And this is us in the tunnel. I’m the one giving Larry the finger.”

“But only Erik would be going through the tunnel.”

“Right,” John said and turned back to the board. “That’s not a problem. I’ll just draw myself up here giving Larry the finger.” He rubbed his finger over the character in the tunnel. Nothing happened. John wet his finger and tried to erase it again. He used his sleeve. But the finger-giving stick figure remained. “Well, dammit.”

“What’s wrong, John?”

“This is a Sharpie.”

Erik folded his arms and leaned back in his seat. “So, what you’re saying is you can’t, in fact, wipe it off?”

* * *

In hindsight, the tunnel was the obvious choice. Maybe John had dismissed it without thinking because it had been done before. It had seemed too obvious. But that was the real reason to embrace the idea, wasn’t it? The escape tunnel was a classic for a reason.

Approached properly, the entire operation could be conducted in secret. He could also do it from his own home, which was a plus. He had always been a fan of working from home.

John stood in his basement with a cup of coffee and studied the wipe board. He had cleverly covered the unerasable plan with another drawing to hide the evidence. Because he was a romantic, he had decided to draw a portrait of Rita Hayworth. Because he was a terrible artist and had no idea what Rita Hayworth looked like, he just drew a chick with big boobs.

He admired his work and sipped his coffee for a moment before firing up a portable stereo and rolling Rita aside. John strapped a headlamp on and stepped inside the tunnel before pulling the rolling wipe board back over the entrance.

There was something comforting about the tunnel, and he often lost himself in his work, chiseling away in the dark while the music covered the sounds of his labor. It was like meditation with a pickaxe. The work was rhythmic and freed his mind to think about other things. He figured if things ever got back to normal, he had something that could give the CrossFit craze a run for its money.

He had found solace in the dark. The earth had become his friend and he enjoyed spending time in its embrace. Time passed differently underground. Was it minutes, or hours? How long had he been chipping away at the bedrock and soil? It didn’t matter. He would work all day and emerge exhausted but somehow energized. He measured progress not in feet but in the bags of dirt that he would dispose of on his evening stroll about town. Despite his muscles aching at the end of the day, he looked forward to walks. They felt like progress.

The music stopped. One moment, Poison was demanding that he talk dirty to them, and then nothing. John stopped digging and listened. Someone was in the basement. He killed the headlamp and set the pick on the ground as quietly as possible.

Who was in his basement? Was it the ferrets? Were they onto him? They couldn’t be. He had been so careful. Was it the dirt? Had they seen him dropping the dirt? How could they have? His secret dirt pants were ingenious. He had invented them himself by copying them from The Great Escape. The dirt was dropped discreetly from the hem of his pants, where it would then blend into the native landscape.

There was a crash back toward the entrance of the tunnel, and John began to sweat. Actually, he had been sweating for most of the day. But this sweat was different. It ran cold down his face, and every drop that hit the dirt beneath his feet rang out like a shot in the silence.

Maybe they wouldn’t find him. But maybe they would find the entrance and just seal the tunnel. He would be buried alive like in that story about the barrel of Amaretto. John had never been claustrophobic, but he suddenly felt the weight of the world above him on his chest. His breathing became labored. He wanted giant gulps of air but feared that his desperate gasps would give his presence away. He tried to breathe slowly, but he couldn’t help panting. The air was getting heavier. Was it something the guards were doing? Were they pumping poison into the tunnel to flush out the perpetrators?

Suddenly, a noise came from behind him. It was a squeak and then a voice. John grabbed the walkie talkie off the back of his belt and listened. It was Chris.

“John, I mean Papa Bear—God that’s so dumb—Papa Bear, do you copy?”

“Copy,” John whispered.

“We are in the—I can’t believe I have to do this—we are in the bear’s den.”

“Oh, that’s you guys?” John’s breathing evened out. He kept sweating, but it was no longer cold. “I’ll be right out.”

John turned the headlamp back on and made his way back to the entrance of the tunnel. He rolled Rita aside and stepped out into the basement.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Erik asked.

“The tunnel,” John said.

“I told you, I’m not going through any tunnel,” Erik said. “Especially one you’ve built.”

“I know you said that, but I chose to ignore you. The tunnel is the answer.”

“Oh really? What’s the question? ‘What is the most horrible way to die?’”

“My tunnel is your best chance at getting out of here!”

“It’s the best chance I’ve got of getting buried alive.”

“The chances of that are… well, they’re not remote, but they are slim.”

“Slim?”

“It’s not ever never,” John admitted. “But my tunnel is totally safe. I’ve worked really hard on it.”

“I’m not getting into any dank, cramped hole in the earth. Especially one you dug.”

“Dank?! Are you kidding me?” John offered the men the headlamp and stepped aside. “See for yourself.”

Chris turned on the lamp and peered into the tunnel. “Is that drywall?”

“Of course, it’s drywall. You didn’t think I’d do some half-assed job, did you?”

“That’s exactly what we’d expect,” Erik said.

“Well, if you were using it just for an escape tunnel, I guess you would expect dirt walls and exposed rafters. But it seemed like a shame to do all this work to just use it once. So I’m building it to last.”

Chris waved Erik over to the tunnel. “Erik, you should see this. It doesn’t look half bad.”

“Half bad? It’s a thing of beauty. And it’s just the start. One day, I’ll have a whole network of tunnels under Haven. Pretty soon I’ll be able to go anywhere in town without having to set foot in the streets.”

“How have you done this?” Erik looked into the tunnel and ran his hand across the drywall. “Isn’t your wife still on you for spending too much time in the basement?”

“Actually, between all the digging and sweating and walking around town secretly distributing the dirt, I’ve accidentally gotten into the best shape of my life. She thinks I’m working out down here. She’s all for it.” John picked up a flashlight from the workbench and turned it on. “You guys want to see where I’m at?”

Erik backed away from the entrance. “I mean, it looks great, but…”

“E, I am offended. You really don’t trust my handiwork?”

This question was followed by a creak from deep inside the tunnel. Chris and Erik backed away from the entrance as John rushed toward it. He pointed the flashlight into the abyss just as a crash sounded from deep within the darkness. A massive plume of dust exploded from the tunnel into the basement. John turned his back on the hole, coughed up some topsoil and turned off the flashlight.

It took some time for the dust to settle.

Erik leaned against the workbench. “How do you never see it coming?”

“Shut up, Erik.”

* * *

The three men stood in a deserted part of Haven, staring up at the wall.

“So, what I didn’t know was that I had tunneled right under Agness Sitwell’s rumpus room, and she holds a weekly dance class for the town seniors. This week was Irish dancing.”

“So, your master engineering skills were outdone by a room full of retired Michael Flatley fans?” Chris asked.

“With their hands tied behind their backs,” Erik added.

“I don’t know if they’re actually tied there,” John said. “It just looks that way.”

“Thank God they weren’t sweating to the oldies,” Chris said. “You could have been killed.”

They fell back into silence. The setback with the tunnel had dampened all of their spirits. Erik’s most of all. John could tell he was losing patience with the escape committee by the way he stared longingly up at the top of the wall, and by the long conversation they’d had after the collapse of the tunnel where he’d stated that he was losing patience with the escape committee.

“What if I just made a break for it?” Erik asked quietly. “If I just ran for the door, I think I could make it.”

“No. No no no, E,” John said. “You’ve got to fight that urge. That’s what they call getting wire happy. It may seem like freedom, but it’s giving up. It’s letting them win. The one thing that we have on our side is the abominable spirit of man.”

“Indomitable,” Chris helped.

“Indomitable spirit of man. They can build their walls and their gates and post their guards. They can imprison our bodies but not our spirits. Inside, we are always free. And that’s the freedom that matters most. Unless we have to go somewhere. Then, literal freedom is probably better, now that I think about it.”

“What?” Erik asked.

“I was looking for ideas, so I watched Shawshank and Braveheart at the same time. It probably wasn’t the best idea. But the message is still an important one.”

“I’m so tired of this, John.” Erik shoved him. “You’re so full of it.”

“Yeah. I’m full of it. I’m full of gumption. I’m full of grit. And maybe a little piss and vinegar. Well, it’s a good thing one of us is, because you two haven’t been the biggest help. So you’d better be thankful that I’m full… wait a minute. That gives me an idea.”

“Of course it does,” Chris muttered.

“Hear me out. If we can’t go under the wall, then we can go over it.” John paused for effect, but it just stretched into silence.

“I’m not getting in your stupid catapult, John!”

“Not that. But, as a quick aside, you’re a wuss. I’m thinking about something else. There was a movie way back where these families escaped from the Soviet Union in a homemade hot air balloon.”

“East Germany,” said Chris.

“No, I don’t think they made it that far.”

“No, I remember the movie. They escaped from East Germany. Not the Soviet Union.”

“That actually makes more sense,” John said. “Because balloons run on hot air, and Russia is super cold. I bet balloons don’t even work over there.”

“Who taught you science?” Erik asked.

“Mr. Wizard.”

Chris sighed. “Could you please focus?”

“Right.” John looked back up at the wall.

“Well?”

“Well, that’s it.”

‘What’s it?” Erik asked.

“They made a hot air balloon and flew over the wall in Russia,” John said.

“East Germany.”

“The wall in East Germany. The family worked in secret. They figured out how to make the burner. They bought fabric under assumed pretenses and stitched them together to make the balloon. And then, one night when it was dark, they filled up the balloon and took to the skies… and freedom.”

“And they lived?” Erik asked.

“They must have. Disney made a movie about them. Characters don’t die in Disney movies.”

“I don’t know how to pilot a hot air balloon,” Erik said.

“Pilot? What’s to pilot? You go up, you go down. The wind does the rest.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“It’s physics. Physics and wind. You pull the thing that goes whoosh and you’re on your way to freedom and Amber’s loving embrace. What could go wrong?”

* * *

Operation: Boy Ant burned spectacularly, and all of Haven turned out to witness the spectacle. After three months of two-week lockdowns, it was the first real thing to break the monotony. The flames rose several stories at first but settled into a much more reasonable height as the crowd moved in with ghost stories and snacks.

It was great practice for the town’s fireteam. They responded promptly and fought the flames back from the perimeter, but once they saw the positive effect it was having on the town’s morale, they saw no reason to extinguish it fully. Toward the end of the evening, they were the ones adding fuel to the flames to keep the fire and the people’s spirits bright.

By the time it was a smoking ruin, there was no way to tell that the fire had ever been a balloon. More importantly, no one seemed to care. It had been a spontaneous combustion that turned into a spontaneous celebration, and no one wanted to throw water on the party.

Chris, John and Erik had eventually joined in the festivities. But they watched the pyre with a little less exuberance as Erik’s latest chance at freedom burned to ash in a bonfire.

* * *

The next night found the trio standing watch on the wall, staring into a field completely devoid of zombies. Chris and John said little. Erik said nothing and stared endlessly into the world beyond the wall.

“I can’t believe you didn’t put a hole in the bottom of the balloon,” Chris said.

“I thought if I did, the air would get out,” John said. “Live and learn. Right?”

“Somehow I doubt you’ll learn anything,” Chris said.

“You’re probably right.” John looked over his shoulder into the town. “But I’m not the only one.”

“What do you mean?”

John checked his surroundings to make sure they were alone and then leaned closer to Chris. “They’ve got us guarding the very walls we’re trying to escape from.”

“If that’s not irony, I don’t know what is,” said Chris.

“I don’t know what irony is,” John said. “I thought I used to, but it got to be that every time I called something ironic I got a ten-minute lecture and a story about Alanis Morissette. So I just stopped guessing.”

“This is irony,” Chris assured him.

“It’s insulting, is what it is. They must not consider us much of a flight risk if they have us on guard duty.”

“You know, John? I’m not sure they ever knew we were trying to escape.”

“We weren’t. I was trying. You guys didn’t really help all that much.”

Erik walked between the two of them without saying a word.

“Where are you going, E?”

Erik moved to the stairs and descended to the town below.

Chris and John watched as he disappeared around a street corner.

“I feel terrible for him,” John said.

“Me, too. I can’t even begin to think how he must feel.”

“Yeah. He loses his family to zombies. Then finds new love and loses her to brainless politicians.”

“I’m worried about him. He barely said a word last night at the fire. And I don’t think he’s spoken at all today.”

“Oh, he’ll be fine. He’s just disappointed. We were all certain the balloon was going to work.”

“Actually, I’m amazed you didn’t get somebody killed.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

They both stared out into the countryside for several minutes before John broke the silence. “Still, it would have been a hell of a ride.”

There was a clattering as someone climbed the steps behind them. They turned to see Erik top the stairs and turn toward them. He was wearing his pack and had something tucked under his arm.

“Hey, E,” John said with a wave. “I was just thinking. I could build another balloon, but this time I’ll research how they work. We’ll get you out of here.”

“That’s okay, John,” Erik said as he lashed a cable around the wall’s guardrail.

“But’s it no big deal,” John said. “I mean, what’s a little reading, right?”

Erik put his hand on John’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I really do appreciate all you tried to do for me. You, too, Chris. You guys have been the only family I’ve had for the last year and I’m thankful you were both there for me.”

Erik tossed the bundle over the wall and the stretch of fabric unfurled outside the town of Haven. He then pulled up some of the slack and wrapped it around himself.

“Oh, no,” John whispered to Chris. “E’s going to hang himself.”

Erik swung a leg over the top of the wall.

“Erik, don’t do it. Life is worth living.”

Erik’s shoulders sagged as he huffed, “Goodbye, John.”

“E, don’t do it!”

“Goodbye, Chris.”

“See you later, Erik.”

John rushed toward the wall as Erik rolled over the side. But he was too late. His friend had jumped. And then he had slid, using the friction of the CCCP’s banner to lower himself to the ground. Erik gave one more wave to the men on the wall and then ran off in the direction of Sanctuary.

They watched him go until the darkness swallowed him.

“Well, that was…” Chris trailed off.

“Uninspired,” John said.

“Totally uninspired,” Chris agreed.

“I mean, a rope. Or what was basically a rope. Where’s the romance in that?”

Chris leaned over the wall and began to laugh.

“What?”

Chris grabbed the banner and began to pull it back up the wall. He held it up for John to see that it was from the stage in town. Bold letters declared, “Stay Here!”

John began laughing as well. “Not bad, E.”

* * *

It was a few days later when John found himself in his basement once more. He and Chris had replaced the banner before it was missed, but they still had to account for Erik’s absence. They had been telling everyone that he wasn’t feeling well, but it was only a matter of time before someone did a bed check on him.

John was one step ahead of them as usual and planned to spend the day turning his John decoy into an Erik decoy. It shouldn’t take long. He just had to put a stupid grin on the thing’s face and then drop it in Erik’s bed.

He snapped the lights on and was overcome with a bittersweet feeling as light flooded their former HQ. Despite the setbacks and pitfalls and massive fires, the escape had been a great quarantine hobby. It had kept his mind off the lockdown for months. Now that Erik was free, he’d have to find something else to do since there was no end to the lockdown in sight.

John sighed as he flipped through several folders in the filing cabinet, regretting that he’d never know whether the plans inside would have been successful or not.

Operation: Jumpsuit. John was convinced the motorcycle would have cleared the wall.

Operation: Drag Strip. It would have been funny to see Erik dressed as a woman.

Operation: Cannonball. It would have been funny to see Erik as a cannonball.

He dropped the plans back into the filing cabinet and shut the drawer. Some of the plans had been really good. He just needed more willing escapees. It was best to keep them on file. If the lockdown never ended, he might have more takers.

Half an hour later, he was lost in concentration on the mannequin’s face when he heard a faint noise. It sounded like someone turning a tap on and off in another part of the house. John dismissed the noise at first and went back to work. A few moments later, it happened again.

He stopped working and focused on the sound. It wasn’t coming from the house upstairs. It was somewhere behind him. After wandering around the basement for a few minutes, he pinpointed the noise to the filing cabinet. He heard it again: a burst of static and a garbled voice.

John pulled open the drawer. The police dog and fire dog walkie talkies were inside. He grabbed the police dog radio and discovered that it had been left on. He thumbed the wheel and turned up the volume.

The static burst once more. “Papa Bear, this is the Snowman.”

It was Erik!

John hit the send button. “Go for Papa Bear!”

“There is no lockdown!” Erik said over the walkie talkie. “Repeat, the lockdown is a lie!”

Dead Heading

Dead Heading

Like Adam West scaling a Gotham City skyscraper, Erik displayed a fair amount of style climbing Haven’s perimeter wall. It was the dismount that was less than graceful. Getting to the top had been easy, but it took several tries before he was able to let go of the rope and grab Chris’s outstretched hand.

John offered moral support as the man was unceremoniously heaved over the top of the railing. Chris and Erik collapsed in a heap to the catwalk that ran along the interior of the wall.

The two friends untangled themselves from one another, sat up and worked to catch their breath.

While they recovered, John pulled up the rope behind Erik and wrestled it into a backpack before anyone from the town could happen along and start asking questions.

“Welcome back, E.” John closed the top of the backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “Now, tell us everything.”

Still gasping for breath, Erik nodded and started talking. “Once I finally escaped from here, I made my way to Sanctuary. The whole time I was heading there, I was trying to figure out how I would talk my way into the town. I was sure they were locked down like us. So how was I going to talk my way in? Maybe if I promised that I didn’t encounter any zombies on the way, they might let me in. Or maybe I’d tell them that I held my breath the whole way. I started to realize there were never going to let me in and all I had done by escaping was get myself stuck outside in the wasteland.”

Erik started to stand but then crouched back down behind the railing. “I guess I should probably stay out of sight.”

“Why?” John waved for him to stand back up.

Chris offered a hand and helped him to his feet. “You should be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Erik cast a glance into the town below. It was still empty at this early hour. “Am I not in trouble for escaping? Or for coming back?”

“Honestly, E,” John said with a shrug. “I’m not sure anyone knew you were gone.”

“That’s… well, that hurts.” Erik stood up and brushed the dirt off of his pants.

“Nah, don’t let it bother you. It’s just that we just told everyone you were under the weather and needed your rest. They just think you’ve been in bed getting better. Now, what happened when you got to Sanctuary?”

“Well, I finally decided I would just beg my way in. I knew I couldn’t come back here, so there was nowhere else to go. But when I finally got there, they just let me in. I walked through the front gates like nothing had changed. I mean, they were surprised to see me. They said they hadn’t heard from Haven in months, so they figured we’d been overrun.”

“Those losers!” John snapped. “They think we can be overrun? That’s an insult.”

“Don’t take it personally, John,” Chris said.

“No, they specifically said they thought it would be John’s fault.”

“Those bastards!” John’s hand tightened on the backpack’s shoulder strap. “I’ll overrun them.”

“Focus, John,” Chris said. “This is bigger than them thinking so little of you. What did they say when you told them about the lockdown, Erik?”

“They didn’t know anything about it. They hadn’t heard of the lockdown or an airborne virus or anything coming out of Olympus. As soon as I put it all together, I headed back here to let you know. I knew there wasn’t a moment to spare.”

“E.” John looked around to make sure no one else had walked into earshot. “You were gone for over a week.”

“Fine, I found a moment or two to spare. I hadn’t seen Amber in months, okay? And it’s not like you guys were going anywhere. You were all locked down and stuff.”

“I knew they were lying to us,” John said. “They’re always lying to us.”

“But why are they lying to us?” Chris asked. “Why are they trying to keep us here in town?”

“I don’t know,” Erik said. “Nothing out there seems any different. I mean, just your run of the mill zombie apocalypse as far as I can tell. No more dangerous than it was six months ago.”

Chris considered the new information for only a moment before declaring, “We have to get to the bottom of this!”

John considered Chris’s statement and asked, “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” Chris said. “They’re lying to us.”

“Okay. They’re lying to us. But they’re also feeding us and sheltering us, and right now I don’t have to do anything. Let them lie. It’s not that big a deal.”

“It is a big deal. Something sinister is going on, John: the Undertakers killing off innocent people, the lockdown order from quote unquote Olympus… We don’t even know who’s really in charge at this point. But we do know that they’re killing innocent people just for choosing to live outside the walls. What other secrets are they hiding?”

“Chris is right,” Erik said. “We have to do something.”

“Or,” John countered, “we could do nothing.”

Chris turned to Erik and lowered his voice. “You know what, Erik? If we’re going to do this, we should probably bring back the codenames.”

“We should.” Erik matched Chris hushed tone. “And we’re definitely going to need some secret plans.”

“Yeah, you will,” John said after working his way into the huddle. “What the hell? I needed a new quarantine project anyway. We’ll meet in the HQ later tonight.”

* * *

John had reduced the lighting in the basement to fit the mood. Getting Erik out was one thing, but going up against a secret group of conspirators raised the stakes, and the environment had to suit the mood. They met around an upended cable spool under a single naked bulb hanging from the basement ceiling.

John gave the bulb the tiniest of swings for good measure and leaned into the middle of the makeshift table before saying softly, “I’ve been thinking about this for the past couple of days, and I think it’s obvious that what we need is an uprising.”

John backed away from the table and spun the white board around to reveal a cork board full of crude drawings interconnected with blue yarn.

“What’s with the blue yarn?” Chris asked. “I thought conspiracy yarn was supposed to be red.”

“Yeah, well, I ran out of red yarn after all the escape planning,” John explained. “So now it’s blue. So sue me.”

“Why couldn’t you just reuse the red yarn?”

“That’s easy for you to say, E. Do you have any idea how hard that crap is to get back into a ball? Honestly, I don’t know how cats do it.”

“I don’t think that how—”

Chris put a hand on Erik’s arm to stop him. “Just let it go, Erik.”

“Fine.” Erik pointed to the board. “But isn’t an uprising a bit extreme? Maybe we could try something more like a silent coup.”

“Nope. Sorry, but the only way to defeat a secret conspiracy is complete and open revolution. It’s not enough to just end this threat. The conspirators must be made an example of so that this never happens again. The cherry tree of freedom must be fed the blood of tyrants.” John straightened up. “George Washington said that.”

Erik sighed. “Thomas Jefferson.”

“What?”

“Jefferson said, ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.’”

“That’s what I said.” John tapped the paper on the board that represented the town council. “The blood of tyrants. On the tree.”

“But you left out the patriots part.”

“See, that’s where my plan is better than Washington’s. I figure if we just use the blood of tyrants, less patriots get hurt. A little optimism never hurt anyone, E.”

“I’m with Erik,” Chris said. “I’m not sure going to war with the council is the right choice. We don’t know who all is involved. It could be half the town.”

John nodded slowly. “Look, I know it sounds scary. But I’ve given this revolution thing a lot of thought, and I really like the idea of being a forefather.”

Chris and Erik shared a laugh. “You? A forefather?”

“Yeah, me, a forefather. Why’s that so funny?”

“We’ll have to fix Mount Rushmore,” Erik said. “Jefferson! Washington! Moron!”

“Laugh all you want, but I was born for this. I’ve been a rebel my whole life. You guys didn’t know me when I was young. Before the kids. Before the wife. Before the nine-to-five. Before I lost my hair. You guys should have seen my hair. It was a movement all its own.”

Chris found a seat near John’s homemade bar. “It takes more than a shitty mullet to lead a rebellion, John.”

“Then let me hear your plans, if you’re so smart. Let’s see if you can top Project Swamp Fox Squirrel Rifle.”

“We could run against them in the next election,” Erik suggested.

“No way,” Chris said. “We’ve already proven we are terrible at elections.”

“Then we confront them.” Erik slapped the cable spool for effect and immediately checked for splinters. Finding his hand clear of any slivers, he continued. “We go to the council and tell them that we know they’re lying.”

“Do you really believe they won’t just knock us off?” John asked. “We already know that some folks at the top are willing to kill.”

Erik didn’t have an immediate answer, and Chris lost his thoughts in a bowl of pretzels. He idly put one in his mouth and then spit it out. “Are these the same—”

“Yes, they are,” John said. “Now, I don’t know that they will kill us, and I don’t know that they won’t. But I’d rather have an army standing beside me when we find out.”

“So an uprising it is,” Chris said solemnly.

“Viva la Revolución,” Erik muttered.

“Good. It’s settled.” John pushed the rolling board back against the wall. “First things first: security. Everything we do from this point forward has been punishable by death in every country throughout history. If they find out that we are conspiring against them, their retribution will be swift and probably cruel. We have to be diligent. We can’t afford a slip-up. It could mean our ends.”

“They’re downstairs, Bill.” Christine’s voice carried from the top of the basement stairs.

The three would-be forefathers froze. Bill was the town constable. The law of Haven. They hated Bill. Who becomes a narc in a world without laws?

“Thank you, Christine,” Bill said and set his heavy jackboot on the first step to John’s cellar. Each step landed with a thud and a creak. The cadence was painfully slow, and each step echoed through the basement as the three men watched the foot of the stairs.

John pulled the string on the light above the card table and bathed the cellar in darkness as the officer reached the bottom of the stairs.

There was the faint click of a switch, and the basement was flooded with light. The flashlight beam was blinding, and the three men raised their arms to shield their eyes.

“Hello there, boys. Would you mind coming with me?” Bill smiled behind the bright light. “The council would like a word.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you wrote them a ransom note,” Erik snipped quietly at John.

The note in question was on the table that separated the three men and the Haven town council. It was a mishmash of letters in various fonts pasted into a series of malicious accusations of tyranny, abuse of power and, because John really had written it, some rather vulgar things about their mothers.

John faced his accusers, five men and women who had been elected over a year ago when no one thought the end of the world could possibly last so long. Taken out of the apocalyptic setting, they could be the people from any town council. People who enjoyed doing the boring work on panels and councils that no one else thought worth doing. In short, your typical nerds. But with their draconian measures and tyrannical tendencies now evident, even the two women in pantsuits needed to be taken seriously.

Mrs. Gimble, the head of the Committee for Celebrations, Commemorations and Parties, was in attendance as well. She looked evil, as always.

John looked each individual member in the eye as he said, “I’ve never seen that letter before. Anyone could have put that together. All they’d need is a stack of magazines and a bottle of glue.”

Bill coughed for attention. “You spent Tuesday going door to door asking everybody if they had any magazines or a bottle of glue.”

“Is collage a crime now, Bill? Are you going to arrest me for misdemeanor crafting? A man can’t have a hobby anymore?”

“You also signed it on the back.”  One of the council members seated behind the table turned the letter over. There were more accusations, more threats and then it concluded with a giant letter J.

“That could be anyone’s J,” John said and looked to his friends for support. “Jamie. Jill. Jefferson. Jack. Jacob. Josh. Jane. Jubal. Jewel. Jamirouai.”

“Jubal?” Erik asked.

“I’m being framed,” John said. “Probably by Josh. Or Jeremiah. He never did like me.”

Chris backhanded John across the arm. “Why would you send them a letter?”

“I wanted to make them nervous! I figured if they were scared, they’d make a mistake.” John turned back to the council. “Be honest. When you got the letter, it made you nervous. Didn’t it?”

The council members remained silent, but one on the end eventually hung their head in what could only be shame.

“See?” John said and hit Chris back.

“The fact of the matter is, we’re glad you signed it,” the first councilman said.

“I’m sure you are,” John said with disgust. “But I’m not going to make it easy for you. I’m not going to just put my head in the noose. I won’t go down without a fight. Everyone will know what’s happening here. Before your goon squad showed up, I wrote down everything I know and mailed it to a reporter. If they don’t hear from me soon, everything goes public.”

“How did you mail anything?” Erik asked.

“Shut up, E. Are you trying to help them? If they want our silence, they’ll have to work for it. And they need to know that this doesn’t end with us. They can do what they want to you and Chris, but others will rise up and take my place!”

One of the councilwomen spoke up. “Settle down, Nathan Hale. We don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“You don’t?”

“Actually, John…” the second councilman stood up. “We want your help.”

“My help?” John asked.

“John’s help?” Chris asked.

“All of your help.” The councilman walked around the table and leaned against it. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

John gave Chris and Erik a confused look before responding. “Right about what?”

“Everything that’s in the letter.” The councilman held up the note. “The lockdown was a lie. And quite frankly, we’re relieved we don’t have to be alone in this anymore. We could use a fresh perspective on the whole situation. So, what do you think we should do?”

John looked to Chris and Erik for an answer but got nothing. He turned back to the council. “What should we do about what?”

“In the letter, you said you knew what was going on,” the first councilwoman said.

“Well, that was kind of a… I was trying to play on your guilt a little. But we do know that something is going on.”

“Yeah, we’re just not sure what,” Erik said.

“We do know that the lockdown is bullshit,” John said. “We know that the other enclaves aren’t locked down, so we know that the orders aren’t coming from Olympus like you said.”

“No orders are coming from Olympus,” the councilwoman said.

He had mastered the expression in middle school, but it never ceased to amaze John how often his ‘duh’ face came in handy. He certainly used it more than calculus. “That’s what I just said, lady.”

“No, what you’re saying is that the lockdown orders didn’t come from Olympus,” the first councilman explained. “What Cindy is saying is that no orders are coming from Olympus. There is nothing coming from Olympus. We’ve lost contact.”

“We’ve lost contact?” Mrs. Gimble stood up from her seat as she spoke. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?”

“My apologies, Mrs. Gimble,” the second councilman said as he turned to calm the older woman. “We felt that the fewer people who knew about it, the better.”

“This is outrageous!” The old woman literally clutched at her pearls. “I understand not telling normal people, but how could you keep this from me or the committee?”

“We haven’t heard anything for months,” he explained to the older woman and the three men before him. “Our last contact was just after that man came to recruit John for the Undertaker program.”

“Deadeye,” John said quietly to the others.

“They said he never returned. And Haven was his last known location. About two days later, everything went dead.” The councilman crossed his arms and fell silent.

“We didn’t know what to do,” said councilman number three. “We didn’t know if the city had fallen to zombies. Or if it had been taken by a larger raiding force. Olympus had expressed concern about some of the warlords becoming too powerful.”

“They figure it was a warlord that got your Undertaker friend,” Cindy said.

John chimed in quickly. “That’s probably what happened most likely for sure.”

“We didn’t know what to do,” councilman number three said. “We panicked and shut everything down with our virus story. We figured it would only be a matter of time before we learned what was going on. But it’s been months now. And we don’t know any more than we did the day the radio went dead.”

“What about Sanctuary and the other enclaves?” Erik asked.

“They know, of course, about losing communication. They haven’t heard anything, either. Each of us had to come up with our own plan. But we’re all keeping things as quiet as possible.”

“So what do you expect us to do about it?” Chris asked.

“We have a mission for you three,” Cindy said. “A secret mission.”

“You hear that, boys?” John grinned. “A secret mission.”

The first councilman stood and leaned over the table. “We need you to go to Olympus and find out what’s happening.”

Erik raised his hand. “I thought that no one knew where Olympus was.”

“Another lie, I’m afraid,” said the councilman. “The authorities thought it best that the central location not be known to everyone. They didn’t want the capital overwhelmed with survivors. Only a few know where it is.”

“You knew where it was all this time?” Mrs. Gimble shrieked. “What other truths has this council held from us?”

“Mrs. Gimble, please,” the councilman winced. “We’ve acted only in the best interests of the town. Some secrecy was unfortunately necessary.”

Mrs. Gimble approached the table and banged on it like she was holding a gavel. “I object. I object to all of this. I object to the secrets. I object to sending these morons to Olympus. I think it’s time to talk about new elections.”

“Bill.” Cindy raised her hand and caught the officer’s eye. “Would you please escort Mrs. Gimble home.”

The old woman spun in mid-rant and shot Cindy a look filled with evil intent. “How dare you!”

Bill had barely taken a step toward the old woman when Mrs. Gimble snapped, “You put one hand on me, William, and your children will never know another birthday party. I don’t need to be removed. I’m leaving.”

Mrs. Gimble tried to storm out of the room. However, she was using a cane, which made storming anywhere difficult, and it was an awkward minute before she had made it across the room. It then took her two or three tries to slam the door with any effect.

Once she was gone, the councilman continued. “Can you do it?”

“Why us?” John asked.

“As much as anyone here would hate to admit it, you three are the best salvage team we’ve got. And since you’re in on the secret, we can still keep the knowledge circle small.”

“We’re hoping it’s nothing,” the first councilwoman said. “It could be a radio malfunction on their end. Or something technical with the antenna.” She was trying to sound hopeful, but even she didn’t believe what she was saying. Olympus had been silent for too long.

“Would the three of you be willing to drive out there and find out what’s going on?” Councilwoman Cindy asked.

“Hell, yes!” John said.

“A word, John!” Chris grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back.

The pair joined Erik in a huddle and Chris whispered, “Are you really buying this?”

“I am,” John said. “It all sounds like something stupid they would do. Plus, if it pisses off Mrs. Gimble, it has to be the right thing to do.”

“I can’t argue with you there,” Chris said.

John continued to push the idea. “Look. It’s a secret mission. We get to be heroes. It upsets the old bat. I say we do it.”

“I thought you hated traveling,” Erik said.

“No, I hate walking. This is different. This is a road trip.”

* * *

They could only see his angry eyes through the slit in the door, but they could smell Rufus’s foul breath and that didn’t seem fair. The mechanic had a fondness for meat sticks and a reckless disregard for expiration dates. He called them “guidelines” and insisted that if the product in question was “sealed and salted” then they were safe to eat at any time. So far, he hadn’t been proven wrong, but the meat made his breath reek, and the salt flavored his personality.

“What the hell do you two idiots want?” he snapped from the other side of the motor pool door.

Erik leaned in closer to John and Chris so he could be seen. “There’s three of us.”

“Fair enough,” Rufus said. “What the hell do you three idiots want?”

“We’re here for some wheels,” John said.

Chris and Erik turned to look at him.

“What? I always wanted to say that.”

“Tough luck. No one’s going anywhere. Those are the rules.” Rufus started to close the slat.

“Hold on!” John dove for the door and put his hand in the opening before Rufus could close it. “You don’t understand.”

“Son, I don’t care if you do only have one hand left—if you don’t get your fingers out of my hole, I will cut them clean off.”

Chris put his hand in the opening as well, and the mechanic relaxed a bit. “Rufus, we were sent by the council.”

“Yeah, we’re on a secret mission.” Erik held up his loaded pack as some sort of proof.

“Oh really?” Rufus said, intrigued. “A secret mission, you say. Well, holy shit. That is different. Why don’t you just give me the codeword, then, and I’ll get you boys on your way.”

John started to speak but stopped when he realized he didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He turned to Chris. “Did they give us a codeword?”

“I don’t… they didn’t give me one,” Chris said quietly. There was no need to be quiet except that it felt appropriate when discussing secret codewords. His voice turned to a whisper. “Erik? Did they say anything to you about codewords?”

Erik shook his head. “Is it ‘please?’”

“That sounds like a guess,” John whispered.

“It is a guess,” Erik said. “But it’s a good guess. A lot of times the codeword is ‘please.’”

“‘Please’ is the magic word,” Chris corrected him. “Not a codeword.”

“Yeah. And I’m not telling this guy ‘please,’” John said.

“Just as I suspected. You boys don’t know the codeword at all.” The eyes and the breath disappeared with a clang as Rufus slammed the slat shut.

John leapt for the slat but was too late. He slammed a fist into the door. “Sonofabitch! Someone’s got to go get the codeword. Erik, run back to the council and get it.”

“Why me?”

“Because I don’t want to, and Chris said ‘not it’ before you did.”

“Not it,” said Chris.

“Not i—dammit!” Erik set his backpack on the ground. “Fine!”

“And hurry.” John dropped his own pack from his shoulders and set it against the wall. “I’m already getting bored.”

“Watch me fly,” Erik said and began moving in an overly slow motion.

“That’s not hurrying,” John said.

“Oh, I’m hurrying. Here comes my super speed.” Erik added the sound effects from The Six Million Dollar Man.

“You’re fake-hurrying! Real-hurry up! I’m serious.”

Erik refused to move any faster. If anything, he slowed even more.

“Fine. Play your games. If we end up on the road in the dark, it’s your fault because you chose to be childish instead of being a grown-up about going to get the secret codeword.”

There was clattering on the other side of the door as Rufus undid a variety of locks. He pushed open the door. “I talked to the council. Looks like you two idiots were telling the truth about your secret mission.”

Erik moved back into full speed, retrieved his bag and joined John and Chris at the door.

“Right,” Rufus said and pushed the door open farther. “Three idiots. Get in here.”

The town’s motor pool was in a warehouse on the edge of town. It had been a cabinetmaker’s shop before the Rise and still smelled of sawdust and cedar even though the woodwork had been moved out long ago. Now it was filled with service vehicles, tractors and all the equipment that it took to run a post-apocalyptic village. Vehicles were used sparingly. There was still fuel to be found at the corner stores, but it was starting to spoil. Most of what was in the town’s tank went to farm equipment and emergency vehicles.

There were several white trucks with cherry pickers along one long wall. Farm equipment lined the other. But in the back, there was a small collection of excursion vehicles for use in emergency situations—emergencies like a secret road trip to Olympus.

“Oh, yes!” John said as he hurried across the warehouse to the apocalypse-mobiles. “This is what I’m talking about!”

“Don’t touch anything!” Rufus shouted after him.

Each vehicle had been customized for the wasteland and specifically designed for travel outside the walls of Haven. And each and every one was awesome.

When he was a kid, John had spent hours gluing model parts onto Hot Wheels and preparing them for a race through a post-apocalyptic wasteland, equipped with saw blades, flamethrowers, machine guns and grenade launchers. It had seemed silly then, but Rufus had done it for real.

“I feel like a kid in a candy store,” John said as he approached the first car. “Except all the candy is poisoned and filled with razor blades. Awesome.”

Rufus stepped between John and the first car and put up a hand to stop him from getting too close. Once John stopped, Rufus turned the outstretched hand into a presentation gesture. “Dodge called it the Magnum. I call it the Meat Wagon.”

The car had been painted a matte black. A spiked brush guard on the front would plow its way through hordes of zombies and keep any severed limbs from piercing the fan. The original branding had been stripped from the body work and replaced with Meat Wagon badges. Rufus had, however, left the original Hemi badges in place as they promised an explosive ride.

“Over here, we have the Rampage,” Rufus said, moving on to a large pickup. “A Ram 3500 4x4. We lifted it so it will wade through deep pools of blood and offal. We added wire mesh on the windows to keep the dead out and heated seats to keep the living warm.”

“It’s beautiful,” John said.

“This is the Slap Chop,” Rufus said, indicating the next car in line.

John couldn’t tell what the Slap Chop had been. It was smaller than the rest. Perhaps it had been some sort of Subaru. Whatever it was, it was now covered in razor wire and even had spinning blades stemming from the hubcaps.

“The Slap Chop may be tiny, but what she lacks in size, she makes up for in cutting power. This razor wire is deadly at high speeds. Just point, go and cut.”

“How do you get in without cutting yourself?” Erik asked.

Rufus ignored him and moved on to the next car. It was a hot-pink Jeep with a .30 cal machine gun mounted on the roll bar. “It’s Braining Men. Tall, blonde, dark and lean, rough and tough and strong and mean… it kills them all.”

“Pass,” John said.

“The Civisector,” Rufus said as he stepped up next to an old Honda. “Armor plating. Spiked exterior. Spinning saw blades on all sides. It’s like a lawn mower for the undead.”

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Rufus. You actually made a Civic look badass.” John ran his hand over the fender.

Rufus slapped the Civisector’s roof, creating a bang that reverberated through the motor pool. “I told you not to touch anything!”

“No worries. We don’t want the Honda. We’ll be taking the F.U.Z.” John pointed to a black Escalade 4x4 fitted with beefy run-flat tires. The ride was protected with armored windows and a hidden flame thrower system that could project a ring of protection at the push of a button. Mortars allowed for the launching of fireworks or flares. An auxiliary fuel cell meant no stopping for gas, and it had a PlayStation in the back in case you got tired of roasting zombies.

Rufus put his arm around John and spoke softly as he led him to another car. “The F.U.Z. is my baby. I do not trust you with my baby. I do not want you anywhere near my baby. If you breathe on my baby, I will hurt you. Now, here are the keys to your car.” Rufus slapped the keys into John’s palm and walked away.

John studied the car Rufus had given them. “The freaking Scion?” John found himself next to the vehicle in question. It was a Scion. It was old. It was brown.

“This is the shittiest car you’ve got!” John said. “Get me the keys to the Caddy.”

“You just don’t appreciate the beauty of the Scion xB,” Rufus said. “You have an undercover mission. This is an undercover car. If you take the Meat Wagon or the F.U.Z., people here are going to notice it’s gone. And then people are going to start asking questions. You don’t want people asking question if you’re trying to keep secrets. Questions is how secrets get out. So you get the Scion. No one’s going to miss this piece of shit.”

“I’d rather walk,” John said.

Erik stepped up to the car and kicked a tire. “What are some of the special features?”

“It runs. It stops,” Rufus said. “What more do you need?”

Chris opened the door and looked inside. “The stereo has been ripped out.”

“Yeah,” Rufus said. “You don’t want that.”

“How can it be a road trip with no stereo?” asked John.

“You idiots don’t get it. That’s a safety feature. You don’t need to be driving down the road blasting Nickelback and attracting zombies.”

Chris slammed the door and glared at Rufus.

John’s hand hovered near one of his guns. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Look me in the eye and say I like Nickelback one more time.”

“What’s wrong with Nickelback?” Erik asked as he picked up the keys.

“Nickelback is what happens when you force an entire nation to listen to nothing but Rush, Bryan Adams and Anne Murray for a generation,” John said.

“No stereo,” Rufus said. “You don’t need to be making a racket.”

Erik sat in the driver’s seat and started the Scion. The sound from the little engine was deafening inside the metal building.

“There’s a hole in the muffler!” Chris shouted over the sound.

“No, there isn’t,” Rufus said, somewhat hurt. “Someone cut out the catalytic converter.”

“See, this is what I’d call a racket!” Chris shouted and signaled for Erik to kill the engine.

“Yeah, well, what are you going to do?” Rufus shrugged.

John and Chris refused to move.

“I want the Caddy,” John said.

“You’re not getting the Caddy. It’s this or nothing. And you’d better decide quick because I don’t care if you walk.”

“Fine.” Erik stepped out of the car and started gathering his gear. “Fine. Just fill it up and we’ll go.”

“It is full. I keep everything topped off.”

“The gauge says an eighth of tank,” Erik said.

“The gauge always says an eighth of a tank because the gauge is broken. I’d be more worried if it said anything else but an eighth of a tank.”

“Screw it.” John hopped up on the tiny SUV’s running board and pointed to the future. “Let’s ride this shit-brown Scion to Olympus and to glory!”

Erik didn’t say anything, while Chris sighed.

“You guys never want to make anything fun.” John opened the back door and got into the Scion.

* * *

If it weren’t for the zombies, the world outside the walls could be somewhat peaceful. In many places, nature was making a comeback. It had only been a year since the dead had risen from their graves, but in that time, wild grasses had begun taking back abandoned parking lots. Fires from desperate fights against the dead had ravaged many of the roadside buildings, clearing the way for plants and animals to move back in. Deer were a common sight along the side of the road, and rabbits scurried everywhere. In some places, the only sign that man had once owned the landscape was telephone poles.

John watched the poles fly by outside the Scion. They ticked off the miles just like every road trip he had ever been on as a kid. For a while, he rolled down the window and let his hand dance in the wind, but even that lost its charm after a few miles.

“I’m so bored!” He had to shout it. The roar of the Scion’s 2-liter engine was surprisingly deafening without a full emissions system. “Are we close?”

“We’ve barely gone twenty miles,” Erik said from behind the wheel.

“You’re the one that wanted a road trip,” Chris said.

“I didn’t think we’d be in this thing. I hate this car. I’ve had a dozen cars in my life, and any one of them would make a better apocalypse ride than this POS.”

“Like your Mustang?” Chris asked from the passenger seat.

“Shut up, Chris. You know that’s a sore spot. That was a beautiful car.”

“You’re not wrong there. It was beautiful, right up until you put it on its roof with us inside of it.”

“I’m not talking about the Mustang. I’m talking about other cars. My first car was an IROC-Z. It would have made a great zombie car. Because of the Z.”

“You had an IROC? How old are you?”

“Shut up. It was a great car. I had a Jeep for a while. That would have been helpful now.”

Erik kept his eyes on the road but said, “I don’t see you as a Jeep guy.”

“Yeah,” Chris agreed. “You’re not friendly enough. I can’t see you doing the wave.”

“What wave?” John asked.

“See? That’s what I thought.”

John rolled up his window. It did little to stop the noise. “Hell, even the minivan would have made a better apocalypse ride than this. That sound is killing me. Another twenty miles of this racket and I might actually prefer Nickelback.”

“Where the hell are we, anyway?” Chris asked.

“Don’t ask me,” Erik said. “I’m driving. John is navigating.”

John held up the sheet of paper with the handwritten instructions. “And I’m just following the directions they gave us.”

Chris took the sheet of paper from John and studied it. “Turn right at the big red barn? There are no roads on here. Only landmarks. Who wrote these instructions?”

“I guess it’s to keep things a secret,” Erik said.

“Kind of like a treasure map,” John added.

“Or a quest,” Erik added.

“You nerd.”

Chris studied the instructions. “John, hand me the road map.”

He unfolded the map and compared it to the council’s directions. “I think we’ve got a problem. Unless we get to the fallen water tower the instructions talk about in the next little bit, we’re going to end up in Lebanon.”

“So?”

“So, that’s the Violent Fog’s territory.”

“The Violent Fog?” Erik asked with some quavering in his voice.

“Would you two relax? I’m sure it’s no big deal,” John said.

“No big deal? John, he flays people.”

“Yeah. Sure he does. Look, we’ll be in one side and out the other before this fog guy even knows we’re there.”

The Scion droned on as they went. Each man kept an eye open for the next landmark. They saw no sign of the fallen water tower, but the evidence they were nearing warlord territory grew. Husks of burned-out vehicles lined the sides of the roads, de-limbed zombie corpses were staked out to moan as a warning to others, and posted signs said “Beware the Fog.”

The chilling situation did little to silence the Scion, but the men inside grew quiet for several miles.

Boredom eventually overcame fear, and John broke the silence. “Sometimes, I wish I had become a warlord.”

“What?” Chris asked.

“Yeah, you know, sometimes I wonder, what if things had turned out different? Like instead of letting myself get tangled up with the enclave, what would have happened if I'd put my roots down out here in the wastes instead?”

“You?” Erik scoffed. “A warlord?”

“Sure. Some of these guys have done pretty good for themselves. Some women, too, I’m sure. I’m not trying to take anything away from the warlordesses. Or, I guess, war ladies. I’m sure there are some pretty impressive women out here terrorizing and murdering people, too.”

“You spent the first two months of the Rise in the ICU,” Chris reminded him.

“I know. That’s what I’m saying. What if things had been different? You know, I’d get some land out here somewhere in the countryside. Maybe build a little compound. No council. No Mrs. Gimble. No guards. No lockdowns. No rules. Just come and go as you please. Do what you want. But I guess it’s too late for me now.”

“You think timing is what’s stopping you from becoming a warlord?”

“Oh yeah, the first few months of the Rise was prime time to establish yourself as a warlord.   There was the proper mix of confusion and desperation. It was a recipe for seizing territory. You’re never going to have that magic combination again. Doing it now, you’re going up against people that are better equipped and better established. Now it’s more about who you know. And I just know you guys.”

Chris laughed. “You don’t have what it takes to be a warlord. Not then and not now.”

“Sure I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What does it take, really?”

“You have to be a ruthless killer, for one. You’re less ruthless and more… well, there’s a list, but I’m going to just pick one and say lazy.”

“You don’t necessarily have to be ruthless,” John said.

“Sure you do. This Violent Fog guy flays people. That means he strips their skin off their bodies while they’re still alive.”

John shrugged. “Does he, though?”

“What?”

“It could just be a rumor. A rumor that he started. Which is smart thinking if you think about it. That’s warlord-level thinking there. You make up a colorful name, you spread some rumors about flaying and, boom, you’re a warlord. I mean, if worse came to worst, you’d only have to flay one or two people to sell the story. But no one would know you didn’t really care for flaying. They’d just think that flaying is your thing.”

“Your people would know,” Erik said.

“Yeah, but they’re in on the grift.” John turned his attention back out the window. “No one asks questions as long as they’re being fed.”

They rolled into Lebanon without having seen the fallen water tower. The small town appeared deserted like so many others, but its stillness was less of a comfort than they expected.

Erik slowed the Scion to a crawl in order to keep the noise down. It helped somewhat, but the slower pulse of the engine just added to the overall creepiness of the place. It grunted like a monster catching its breath.

The path took them through a town square devoid of people—living people, anyway. John winced as he spotted a body strapped to a park bench. The skin had been pulled from its back.

“I guess you really do have to flay people,” John said. “Who knew?”

“I don’t know about you guys,” Chris said, “but I’m all for risking a little noise if it means we get out of here a little quicker.”

“Seconded,” John said. “Get us out of here, E.”

Erik gunned the engine. The Scion roared and then died.

It lurched to a stop in the middle of town.

“What are you doing, E?”

“It’s not me,” Erik said as he tried to restart the car. “It’s not turning over.”

John and Chris stepped out of the car as Erik kept turning the key in the ignition. The town was quiet, aside from the whine of the Scion’s starter.

John cocked his head and listened intently. “I don’t hear any moaning or warlording.”

Chris nodded in agreement. “I’m worried about the car, but I’m not missing the noise.”

Erik finally gave up and stepped out of the car. “I don’t think it’s going to start.”

“Well, you did all you could. Which was practically nothing.”

“Shut up, John.”

Chris looked around. “At least the streets are quiet. Let’s get the gear and start walking.”

“I hate walking,” John grumbled and moved to the rear of the car.

Chris took the keys from Erik and opened the lift gate. He struggled to lift it open as the pistons had lost their pressure years ago. “John, come here and hold the gate.”

“Where to?” John asked as he grabbed the lift gate. “On to Olympus or back to Haven to kick the crap out of Rufus for giving us this POS SUV?”

Chris pulled back a tarp to reveal a canvas bag. Every excursion vehicle was equipped with a survival kit. Each kit was filled with supplies, arms and ammunition. They were heavy, but the gear inside increased the odds of survival. Chris lifted the bag with ease. “What the hell?”

“What’s wrong?” Erik asked.

Chris set the bag back in the Scion, unzipped it and pulled it open. “Oh no.”

There were no camping supplies, no rations, no weapons and no ammo. The bag was filled with several battered and tarnished trombones.

“What’s the deal?” Erik asked.

“Man, those are some sad-looking trombones,” John said just before everything clicked. “Those bastards! With a pun? They’re going to kill us with a bag full of puns?”

“Those bastards.” Chris shoved the useless bag of brass back into the car.

“What am I missing here?” Erik asked.

“Those sons-of-bitches lied to us,” John said. “They didn’t send us to Olympus. They sent us here… to die. Do you think it’s a coincidence the car crapped out here? Right in the middle of where no one wants to be with nothing but the guns we brought with us?”

“So do we head to Olympus?” Erik asked. “Tell them what’s going on? The water tower can’t be too far.”

“Erik, there is no water tower!” Chris shouted. “The directions aren’t real. We are exactly where they wanted us to be.”

“Well, then we have to head back to Haven,” Erik said.

“So they can kill us themselves,” John suggested. “I don’t think they’ll be too glad to see us.”

“We can play dumb,” Erik said. “Pretend the car ran out of gas before we got here.”

“Then what?” Chris asked. “Just pretend all of this never happened?”

Erik nodded. “Then we go to Sanctuary. Tell them. They’ll help us.”

“It’s not the worst plan,” Chris said after a moment.

John agreed. “But we need to be quiet. We’ve been lucky so far.” John walked away from the car.

The lift gate slammed shut and the rear window exploded.

“You utter moron!” Chris shouted in a whisper.

“It’s not my fault!” John snapped back. “Why didn’t you tell me the thingies didn’t work?”

“Why did you think I asked you to hold it?”

“Because… well, you still should have told me!”

Late at night on the wall, those on watch would pass the hours with pointless debates. One of the more popular was arguing which was scarier, the roar of a horde in the distance or the moan of a single zombie on the wind. There was no doubt that the idea of being run down by a hundred or more zombies was terrifying, so the pro-horde folks had numbers on their side. But the other side argued that once a full horde was involved, there was nowhere left to go on the fear meter. The terror simply started at eleven and stayed there.

But the moan of a single zombie began at somewhere around ominous on the creepy scale. Unlike the constant din of a horde, a single moan was sporadic and difficult to pinpoint. It could be coming from anywhere. It was infrequent and could sound closer and closer with no way to predict its direction. And then, it would attract more. A single groan would become two, then four, multiplying like some brain-sucking amoeba in a larger and louder mass. As the call went out, others would join from all directions, creating what could very well become a horde with you at its center and death converging from all points of the compass, the cacophony building from frightening to chilling to wet-yourself-worried-for-your-life; louder and louder as the volume and the threat grew to something you knew you could not outfight or outrun.

John had always taken the single-moan side of the nightmare. But when the gate slammed and the roar of a horde rose up, he admitted to himself that he could be swayed. It was in the distance now, somewhere beyond the square. But it was definitely in town.

“Hide,” Erik said.

“Hide?” John spun around and pointed at the flayed body on the bench. “We’re in Warlord Wonderland!”

“We need to get off the streets,” Erik said.

“We need to get out of here. I don’t want to hunker down to see who gets us first, the gangsters or the ghoulies.”

The moans grew louder.

“Quick! Before they see us,” Erik said and ran for one of the nearby storefronts.

Chris ran after him. “C’mon, John.”

“We’ll be cornered,” John said.

“They haven’t seen us yet. We’ll let them pass and get out of here before the gang returns.”

John swore and started running after the other two. Erik was holding open the door to a furniture store and waving frantically.

“Not in here!” John said when he arrived. He pointed to a building three storefronts down. “The restaurant is better.”

Erik actually stomped his foot like a mother on the front stoop telling her kids it was time for dinner. “Stop arguing and get in here.”

“That’s a better place for a last stand,” John said.

“I don’t plan on making a last stand.”

“That’s pretty obvious. What are you going to do? Throw couch cushions at them?”

Chris waved him in. “We could use the furniture to barricade the doors.”

“Yeah, and barricade us in.” John turned away from the door. “I’m going to the restaurant.”

Erik tried to grab John’s shirt and pull him back. “We don’t have time to—”

John broke free of the hold. “Hey! How many desperate last stands have you survived this year, Erik?”

“That doesn’t—”

“That’s what I thought. I’ve been in two, so I’ll be listening to me.” John started walking toward the restaurant.

Chris shrugged and they both started after John.

“I didn’t want to pull rank, E. Restaurants are just a strategically better option. There are plenty of knives for improvised weapons. Grease traps full of zombie napalm. And, if we’re lucky, a fully stocked bar for passing the time. We flip over some tables and we’ve got ourselves a zombie-proof fortress.” He pulled the restaurant door open and stepped inside.

The tables had been flipped over, there were improvised weapons stuck in the walls, it smelled like the grease trap had been emptied and there was blood everywhere. The restaurant had all the signs of a failed last stand.

John looked around the room and mumbled, “Dammit.”

Erik made for the door. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“It’s too late,” Chris said as he grabbed Erik by the shoulders and directed him toward the interior of the building. “They’re here.”

John looked out the window and saw the horde filling the street down by the furniture store. He ran to the back of the restaurant in search of a back door and found a set of stairs. “Up here!” He drew one of his many pistols and climbed the steps as Chris and John chased after him.

There was a closed door at the top of the stairs. It was covered in multiple layers of paint, but it looked sturdy and original to the old building. That meant it would have a solid core and could take a beating. The doorknob assembly was old as well and even had an old-fashioned keyhole in it that you could peek through if you were a private eye or a pervert.

John squinted and looked through. There was no movement in the room that he could see, but he proceeded with caution. He holstered the gun, gripped the knob and turned it slowly. He could feel the age in the metal, and the mechanism squeaked as it turned. John felt the latch bolt release, and he held the door in place as Chris and Erik reached the top of the stairs behind him.

John nodded to the men, pushed the door open slowly and stepped aside.

Chris and Erik entered the room gun barrels first. They swept the small apartment quickly and quietly. It had an eerie sense of normalcy to it. Like the occupants had not so much fled as simply left. John wondered what that meant. Probably that they had been out when the whole mess started and just never returned. If they had evacuated, there would be more disarray. Were they casualties? Or were they safe in some enclave, hoping to one day return to their picturesque little home?

He hoped it wasn’t the latter because he and the boys were about to mess this place up.

There was a crash in the restaurant below, and the moan of a zombie drifted up to the top of the stairs. John shut the door as fast as he could without slamming it and flicked the century-old deadbolt.

Chris and Erik each grabbed an arm of the couch and lifted. Chris dropped his end and it crashed loudly onto the hardwood floor.

“Dude!” whispered John.

“I didn’t know it was a sleeper!” Chris picked up his end of the heavy couch once more, and they dragged it to the door just as the first scratch sounded through the layers of paint.

John leapt onto the couch to add weight as the door gave a subtle shake. For the first time, he noticed a small yellow frame on the back of the door with a peephole at its center. So, he peeped.

There was only one zombie outside, but several others were moving up the stairs and into view. It wouldn’t be long before the whole mass of them were pushing against the door.

They didn’t slam into the door. They didn’t charge. They only scratched and pushed. Normally, a decent-sized crowd of the dead could generate enough force to shove a door in, but with the stairs leading right up to the entrance, John doubted they would be able to generate enough force to push it in.

But hope was not a plan, of course, and the men continued to grab furniture from around the apartment and piled it against the door.

John pulled the cushions from the couch just as Chris arrived with a table.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to build a fort,” John said as he threw the cushions across the room. “What do you think I’m doing? We’re going to need somewhere to sit this out, and I’m too old to be going all criss-cross applesauce on a hardwood floor.”

The scratching was getting louder as more undead hands joined in on the other side of the door.

John spotted a doorstop near the adjoining room. A quick search turned up another from deeper in the apartment and he took them both to the front door. He wedged each into the ample space on the latch side of the door, and any give the door had was stabilized.

Chris and Erik continued to pile furniture on the couch and around the door until they could no longer see the frame.

“Ah, the old ‘if we can’t see them, they can’t see us’ strategy,” John said approvingly of the barricade as he sat down on one of the couch cushions.

The others joined him and stared at the pile they had created. They could still hear the moans, but they were faint. The scratching had been muffled completely.

John backed away from the pile. “How many do you think there are?”

“It’s definitely a horde,” Chris said.

“Do you think it’s John’s horde?” Erik asked.

“Stop calling it my horde!” John snapped. “And no. It’s way too small.”

“Maybe it shrank since you let them out of the warehouse,” Erik suggested.

“You know as well as I do that hordes don’t get smaller,” John said. “This is barely even a horde. It may be a larger than average crush.”

“Oh, it’s a least a cram,” Erik said.

“Hardly. You need at least three throngs to make a cram.”

“It doesn’t matter what it is,” Chris said. “What matters is that even if we get out of here, we’re trapped. We have no place to go.”

“I say we go back to Haven, play dumb and go back to Plan A of starting a revolution.”

“They already tried to kill us once,” Chris said. “What would stop them from doing it again?”

“Let them try,” John said. “I’ll be ready for them this time. Besides, our families are still there.”

“I think they like our families,” Chris said. “They’ll probably just lie to them, too.

“Why wouldn’t they like us?” John asked.

“Well, it seems we’ve got the time, so why don’t we recount all the reasons they might not like us. There was the time you ruined the Haven Kindergarten graduation celebration.”

“You can’t crank out another participation trophy generation! The zombies would eat them alive!”

“How about the time you booed the school play?” Erik asked.

“I’m not going to just give my applause away, E. That kid was the least convincing sheep I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, how about when he ruined Memorial Day?” Chris asked.

“Right,” Erik said. “When he told everyone the cheeseburgers were made of rats?”

“It meant more burgers for the rest of us, didn’t it?”

“You killed that Undertaker,” Chris said.

“They don’t know about that.”

“You let out that horde,” Erik added.

“They don’t know about that, either! Now you guys are just being mean.”

“You break every rule and get on everyone’s last nerve,” Chris said.

Erik nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that.”

“You guys are out of your minds. I’m sure they don’t hold any of that stuff against me. I’m lovable. I’m a scamp.”

“Scamps don’t get sent on suicide missions.”

“Okay. But let’s not keep the focus on me,” John said. “They don’t like you guys either.”

“Because we’re your friends,” Chris said. “It looks like knowing you is enough to condemn a man.”

“Fine,” John said. “So we can’t go home. That means we just have to bust our families out of Haven, and then we head to Sanctuary.”

“Erik, you know them best.” Chris said. “Can we trust the leaders there?”

“I think so. But I can’t be certain. After all this, I don’t know who to trust.”

“What other choice do we have?” John asked. “We find another enclave and just pretend we’re someone else? New folks coming in from the wild?”

“You think they wouldn’t recognize the one-handed hero of Haven?”

“Yeah, they probably would.” John dropped onto one of the couch cushions and leaned against the wall. “You know being famous sucks sometimes.”

* * *

Hours passed, and the barricade at the door held. The faint sound of scraping had even subsided. Either the monsters had given up or their fingernails had worn away.

The others noticed the silence at about the same time.

“Do you think they’re gone?” Chris whispered.

Science had not yet answered the question “Do zombies get bored?” Common belief held that once they spotted food, they would persist along that path until they had eaten or had been destroyed. But zombies were also dumb, so it would make sense that after a while, they would forget what they were doing and just wander off.

Erik moved slowly from his position on the sofa cushion. His knees popped as he stood.

How long had they been sitting there? It had been long enough to debate and dismiss a list of possible destinations. It had been long enough for the panic to subside and turn into boredom. It had been most of the day. The sun had all but set and had been replaced by a mostly full moon and a clear sky.

Erik stood slowly and peeked out the window. If the zombies had started to wander off, he didn’t want to risk drawing them back by being spotted.

“Are they gone?” John asked.

Erik shook his head. “Actually, there are more. I think it could really be a full cram now.”

Chris and John both rose from their cushions, their knees protesting the sudden movement as well, and joined Erik at the window.

“I’m sick of sitting here,” John said. “We can take ’em.”

“What do you mean we can take them? There are hundreds of them.”

“Maybe. But only like two hundred at the most. We can’t just sit here. We have to get back and get our families.”

“If we wait, they’ll just move on.” Erik settled back into his seat on the cushion, put his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

John huffed but ultimately stayed put. He was still bored. “Did either of you ever think that zombies would be what killed you?”

“Considering the last year,” Chris said, “of course.”

“I mean before that.”

“Before we knew that zombies were real?” asked Erik.

“Yeah. Like when you were kids.”

“No,” Chris said. “How about you?”

“Nah.” John shifted on his cushion. “I was more afraid of quicksand than monsters. It seemed more likely.”

“Quicksand?” Chris asked.

“Yeah, I played a lot of Pitfall. But if I was afraid of any monster getting me, it would have been werewolves. They seemed the most plausible.”

Erik chuckled. “Plausible?”

“Well, I didn’t grow up around a lot of people with Transylvanian accents, but a coyote howling at night would get my little 8-year-old brain thinking a werewolf could be out there.”

“Okay, I have to give you that one,” Chris said. “It makes some sense. If I’m being honest, I was most afraid of ghosts as a kid.”

“Why ghosts?” Erik asked.

“You can stake a vampire or kick a werewolf in the nards, but you can’t punch a ghost.”

“Good point,” John said. “What about you, E?”

“Smokey Bear,” Erik muttered.

John sat up. “A polar bear?”

“Smokey Bear,” Erik said again, pulling his head off the wall. “You know, ‘Only you can prevent forest fires.’”

“But Smokey is our friend,” Chris said.

“We don’t know that. There’s a lot about that bear they’re not telling us.”

“He protects us from fires,” Chris said.

“Sure. But just because he hates fires doesn’t mean he loves people.”

“Of course he does. He—”

Erik interrupted him. “Where did he get the hat and pants?”

“I assume the forestry service gave him the hat. But now that you’re asking, I don’t know why they would give him pants.”

“But you think they gave him the hat?”

“Of course,” John said. “That’s so people know he’s a real ranger.”

Chris snapped his fingers. “That also explains the pants. I’m pretty sure if a ranger walked up to me with a hat and no pants, his authority would be a little suspect.”

“Where do you think he got the hat, E?” John asked.

“He took it. Obviously.”

“He took it?”

“I think he came across a lone camper at a fire. His rage got the best of him. He saw a shovel. Picked it up. And then did what he thought had to be done.”

“But the hat has his name on it!” Chris said, trying not to shout. “It says Smokey!”

“You don’t think there could be a Boy Scout nicknamed Smokey?” Erik said coldly. “‘Only you can prevent forest fires’ isn’t a warning. It’s a threat.”

“You were a dark and troubled child, E.”

One of the zombies outside the window began to howl.

All three men stood up, knees popping as they went to see what had drawn the monster’s attention.

They spotted the wailing creature in the moonlight and watched as it threw its head back and let loose another, louder moan. The sound grew into a sound like an alley cat in heat. The sound would be eerie enough coming out of a house pet, but it rose to a whole new level of creepy when it came out of a six-foot-tall, reanimated corpse.

Other zombies in the crowd turned their attention to the wailing creature.

The three men had heard the noise before but had never experienced it from a vantage point like this. The noise was always taken as a sign to flee because it preceded a zombie frenzy. But watching from the second story of the building gave them a whole new perspective on its purpose as they watched the cram reorient itself around the zombie that was making the noise.

“It’s kind of like watching a nature documentary,” Erik said, studying the mass of monsters below.

Chris pointed to the flow of zombies leaving the doorway beneath them. “Looks like our friends from the restaurant are clearing out, too.”

The dead flowed around the wailer and pushed ahead of him as if they were taking direction.

“What are they doing?” John asked. “They’re not thinking, are they? I don’t like the idea of a thinking monster.”

“I don’t think they’ll be putting up solid SAT scores any time soon,” Chris said. “But it looks like they’re following some kind of pack behavior.”

“Good,” Erik said. “Hopefully they’ve found something else to eat that is very far away from here.”

“That’s not the dinner bell,” John said. “They sound like that just before they swarm.”

Even once the group was moving, the wailing continued. Others from the front edge of the throng began to join in.

“I think there’s something else out there?” Erik squinted to see farther in the dark. “Out past the square.”

The chorus of shrieks from the cram below was suddenly accompanied by gunfire. Muzzle flashes popped like camera flashes in the square across the street. Gunfire from a hundred barrels blazed with precision from the unseen attackers.

Zombies began to fall. Like a row of awfully pungent dominoes, the front line began to drop, exposing the line behind it. They were being slaughtered, and it drove the rest into a rage. The screaming intensified as the monsters eyed their targets and the cram began moving, rushing toward the firing line.

A bullet cracked the windowpane in front of them. They couldn’t tell if it was a wildly bad shot or a near miss, but it forced all three of them to drop back to the ground.

The exchange of shrieks and gunfire continued for several minutes before it began to slow. The wail of the odd creature still pierced the night, but each was answered with the single report of a bullet until there was no more of either.

“Do you guys think we’re saved?” John asked. “Or do you guys think we’re screwed?”

“Hello out there in the darkness,” said a voice over a loudspeaker. “Welcome to the land of the Violent Fog. You’re not supposed to be here.”

* * *

“Who names themselves the Violent Fog?” Erik asked.

“He didn’t name himself that, E,” John said. “You don’t give yourself your own nickname. Someone else gives it to you. That’s how nicknames work.”

“Okay but who would name someone after fog? Why not a storm or a tornado? There are plenty of scary weather formations that would make more sense for a warlord than fog.”

“Maybe he’s a Mel Tormé fan,” John offered.

“That is just stupid,” Erik said.

“Do we know anything about him beside his musical taste?” Chris asked. “And that he flays people.”

John crawled closer to the other men. “From what I hear, he’s the worst of the worst. The guys used to talk about him on the radio all the time. There’s no shortage of warlords out here, that’s true. And all of them have some version of the same story. They were normal people. Insurance agents. Forklift operators. Some were in sales. I heard one guy was a pharmacist.

“You know how it was after the Rise. The times made them desperate. It made them question every principle they had. It turned good men bad. It made them mean, cold. Once the varnish of civilization was stripped away, it exposed many people for who they really were, monsters masquerading as forklift operators and pharmacists. But not this guy. From what I hear, this guy was a dick from day one.

“That’s why he was able to seize so much territory from the get-go. He didn’t have to reach a breaking point like the rest of them. He was already there. No soul-searching required. He was just waiting for a reason to turn on his fellow man.”

“But why the Violent Fog?”

John shrugged.

“I am the Violent Fog.” It was a new voice on the speaker. It was mellow and rich. The tenor was melodic and somehow comforting.

“Oh, wow,” Chris said.

“Damn,” John agreed.

“It’s so smooth,” Erik said.

“In another time, he’d have been a great voiceover guy,” John said. “Maybe not quite Morgan Freeman, but right up there.”

“Who has come to trespass in my lands?” the Violent Fog asked over the speaker.

“Wow,” John gasped.

“Powerful,” Chris agreed.

John held out his arm and pointed at it. “I’ve got literal goosebumps, guys.”

“These are sacred lands to me and my people. You desecrate them with your presence.”

“Maybe he’s just trying to scare us,” John said.

“It’s working,” Erik said.

“Think about it,” John said, settling back onto his sofa cushion. “He can’t know we’re out here.”

“I know you’re out there,” the Violent Fog said, his voice somehow soothing and terrifying at once.

“He’s bluffing,” John said. “How could he know?”

“Nothing happens on my lands that escapes my eye. No stone is disturbed without me knowing. No blade of grass is trod upon without my knowledge. And no one leaves a piece-of-shit Scion in my town without me taking notice.”

“Oh, right,” John hissed. “The car.”

“All of you little enclave bastards think the world belongs to you. You pillage and steal. But outside your walls, it belongs to me.”

He stopped talking.

The silence was ill-placed.

“I thought there would be more,” John said.

Samba music replaced the smooth sounds of the Violent Fog’s voice in the loudspeakers. A jazzy sax followed, and the Violent Fog began to sing.

“He is a Mel Tormé fan,” John said.

Gunfire joined the chorus as the gang outside opened up, and the window above them shattered. Bullets filled the apartment as the men flattened themselves against the floor and covered their heads. The building’s brick exterior kept them safe from the gunfire, but the glass exploded inward and crashed down on top of them.

“He sings when he kills people?” Erik shouted over the gunfire.

Chris shouted back. “I think I’d rather be flayed.”

“Do you hear me now, Haven?” the Violent Fog said during a vocal break.

“How does he know where we’re from?” Chris asked.

“You mark your cars like a mother marking her child’s underwear. But you’re all little mama’s boys, aren’t you? Crawling to your big daddy government. Or what’s left of her.” He paused for a long moment before shouting, “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

The three men each had their own way of expressing confusion. John shrugged. Chris shook his head. Erik squinted hard enough that his eyes disappeared.

Erik finally gave up and shouted back through the broken window. “I’m sorry, Mr. The Fog, we’re just a little confused.”

“Yeah,” John shouted. “If we are indeed mama’s boys, why would we be crawling to daddy? Are you saying our daddy is a ‘her?’”

The singing resumed, and the gunfire filled the apartment again. There was no glass left to be shattered, so the men just watched the bullets impact the walls around them until it stopped.

“You enclave pricks are the true blight on the new world. You hide like cowards behind your walls. You hoard everything. You send out armies to hunt us down just because we choose not to live under your thumbs.”

“In our defense,” Chris started, “we’re just now learning about that last part, and we’re not happy about it either.”

“Yeah,” John added. “And they’re trying to kill us now, too. So maybe we should team up and go kick their asses together. What do you say?”

The Violent Fog’s sultry voice boomed, “This is your last chance to surrender.”

“And you won’t kill us?” Erik asked.

There was no answer.

John picked up a piece of glass and angled it above the window. He couldn’t see anything because it wasn’t a mirror. He dropped the glass. “I think we can take them.”

“John, we are outnumbered and outgunned.”

“I’m with Erik,” Chris said. “I’d much rather be on their side than ours right now.”

“But we have the high ground,” John said as he slapped the floor.

There was more gunfire. But this time it came from behind the pile of crap they had stacked against the apartment door.

The three men returned fire, trying to place their shots where they knew the pile to be the weakest. Taking fire from both sides, the barricade quickly deteriorated and started to crumble.

The gunfire stopped, and everyone was still.

A chair fell from the top of the stack.

“What happened?” Chris asked.

John moved quietly across the room and stood on the couch. He looked through the newly exposed peephole and studied the scene. He turned back to the other two men. “Yeah, they’re dead.”

Erik lowered his rifle. “Uh oh.”

There was a lot of shouting on the other side of the door. They could hear the yelling move from the back of the restaurant, underneath them, out into the street and across the road to the courtyard as the message was relayed.

“Mr. The Fog,” Chris yelled toward the blown-out window. “We didn’t mean to kill your men. They startled us. They startled us and we just reacted. You know what it’s like out here.”

More men were rushing across the square toward the building.

“Screw this.” John ran out of the room into what could only be defined as a kitchenette.

“What are you doing?” Erik said, right on his heels.

“I’m getting out of here.”

“There’s nowhere to go.”

“Then I’m hiding in the closet until it’s all over.” John pulled open a door at the back of the kitchen that he assumed led to a pantry. There were mops, cleaning supplies, some canned food and another door. “What the hell? Who keeps another door behind their door?”

“Sweet.” Erik forced his way into the doorway. “A secret door!”

“It’s not a secret door,” John said. “A secret door doesn’t look anything like a door. This is just another stupid door.”

“What’s in it?” Chris squeezed in between the two men.

“If you idiots would move, I can tell you.”

The door was blocked by the items in the pantry. Chris started tossing the contents out. A broom, a mop and bucket and several bottles of cleaning supplies—drain cleaner, unlabeled spray bottles, roach spray and a half-dozen aerosol cans. The more he tossed out into the kitchenette, the farther he moved into the closet. He finally reached the door and twisted the knob. It didn’t open.

“Is it locked?” Erik asked

“No, I think it’s rusted.”

Erik started looking through the pile of cans they had just tossed aside. “Was any of that stuff you tossed WD-40?”

“You don’t need WD-40 for that,” Chris said.

“Sure you do. If it moves and it shouldn’t, use duct tape. If it doesn’t move and it should, use WD-40.”

“Normally, yeah. But, for something like this, you want Liquid Wrench.”

Erik was searching the pile of cans. “I’m not seeing either. We could use vinegar. I know that even lemon juice will work in a pinch.”

“Is there any baking soda?” Chris asked. “We could—”

Six shots from John’s revolver splintered the door around the century-old lock and sent the other two diving out of the closet while covering their heads.

“You asshole!” Erik shouted to be heard over the ringing in their ears.

“Forget the lemon. Lead works.” John holstered the Magnum and pulled on the door. It resisted as it scraped against several layers of linoleum on the pantry floor, but a few tugs gave him enough of a crack to stick his head through. “Jackpot!”

John pulled his head free and started tugging on the door to open it farther. “Give me a hand you two.”

“What is it?” Chris grabbed the door and added his weight to the effort.

The door opened wider, and John slipped through the gap. He put his shoulder into it from the other side and opened it widely enough to reveal the ladder to the others. “Roof access,” John said with a smile and started climbing.

Chris was right behind him. “Erik, close the pantry behind you.”

The hinges on the roof hatch had rusted as well, but not enough to need the .357 treatment. It creaked as John pushed it open and pulled himself onto the roof. He stayed low out of an abundance of caution, but they were far enough to the rear of the building that they shouldn’t be visible to the warlord’s army across the square.

Chris was right on his heels, and Erik was close behind him.

While they climbed, John surveyed the rooftops.

The buildings lining the square were all connected. There was some variation in the height of each, but not enough to make racing across the rooftops perilous.

John smiled and started running. The smile grew as he made his way from one rooftop to another.

“What the hell are you so happy about?” Chris asked as he caught John’s smile.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” John said as he dropped a couple of feet to the last rooftop on the block. “Just like Eastwood or McQueen.”

Erik dropped to the rooftop behind them and pointed to a hatch that looked almost identical to the one from the apartment. “There’s our way back in.”

He and Chris ran to the hatch and tried to open it. It wasn’t moving.

“Dammit!” Chris kicked the hatch for good measure. “It’s locked from the inside.”

“I can almost get my fingers under it,” Erik said with a grunt. “I should be able to pull it back.”

Chris started looking for something to pry open the hatch. “John, aren’t you going to help?”

John had moved to the back of the building and was looking across an open alleyway to another rooftop. “We need to go this way,” John said, pointing into the night.

“John, the hatch—”

“Forget the hatch! That will just put us back in the same spot. This is our way out.”

Chris joined him at the edge of the roof. “You’re out of your mind.”

“We can make it,” John said as he stared out over the alleyway to the neighboring building.

Erik joined them and instantly sided with Chris. “You’re an idiot, John. That’s gotta be twenty feet!”

“Yeah. But the roof is like fifteen feet lower, so it’s only like jumping five feet.”

“That is the worst math,” Chris said.

“You can’t make that, John.”

John nodded slowly and whispered, “Yes, we can.”

“We probably can,” Erik said to end the argument. “But you can’t.”

“Erik’s right, you’re going to kill yourself. Even if you clear the alley, you’ll break all sorts of bones.”

“I’ll roll.”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll roll,” John said again. “That’s how those kids in those videos do it. They jump something like this and they just roll. And everything is fine.”

“They’re kids, John. Kids are made of rubber. You’re made of poor decisions and gas station jerky.” Chris turned away from the alleyway. “This is nuts. There’s got to be another way.”

“Sure, there’s probably another way,” John said. “But when are you going to get a chance to do this again?”

“I don’t want to do this ever!” Chris started back for the hatch.

John backed up and stared intently at the edge of the building. “If we go back downstairs, they’ll find us. If we jump, we can sneak out the back while they tear the buildings apart looking for us.”

“I’m willing to take that—”

John took off. His feet scattered the gravel on the rooftop as he raced toward the edge. Without a thought, he reached the edge of the roof and leapt into the night.

Then he had thoughts. Second thoughts. Scary thoughts. Dark and morbid thoughts. It wasn’t until the world dropped away that he realized what a terrible mistake he had made. He had no business doing this. Jumping alleyways was a young man’s game. He wasn’t young. He had seen Return of the Jedi in the theater. He remembered analog phones and being blown away by graphics on the Amiga.

The world slowed as his feet relayed to his brain that there was nothing they could stand on. His brain started to apologize for getting his feet into this mess, but his stomach interrupted the conversation and told his brain that it was planning on throwing up.

Before he could fully commit to the vomit, John cleared the alley and his toes dragged across the adjacent rooftop. He had made it. Now he just had to roll. This was easier than he’d thought, as his body collapsed and started tumbling across the gravel roof without even trying. It was working. He was a natural one of whatever those kids on the internet were. He would be bruised from the rocks, but the roll was absorbing his momentum. Unfortunately, there was more momentum than there was roof, and he rolled right off the other side of the building.

John yelped and grabbed the lip of the building with his hand. He jerked to a stop with his legs dangling beneath him and his grip giving out.

His first thought was that this never happened to Clint Eastwood. Then he remembered that scene from In the Line of Fire where this exact same thing happened to Clint Eastwood. The only problem was that John Malkovich wasn’t here to save him.

There was a thud on the roof above him. Several rocks came sliding over the edge and bounced off his face.

Chris peered over the edge a moment later. “I’m impressed. I really didn’t think you’d make it.”

John tried to smile. “Honestly, I’d be disappointed if one of us didn’t end up dangling from the edge. But I was hoping it would be Erik.”

Another thud preceded more rocks in the face.

John tried to shield himself with his other arm. “Stop with the damn rocks!”

Erik joined them at the edge of the building and assessed John’s situation. “Real good plan, John.”

“Would you two stop joking around and pull me up? I’m losing my grip here, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve only got the one hand.”

Erik sat on the edge of the building and let his legs dangle next to John. “I say let him fall.”

“Guys, I’m really slipping!”

“Okay.” Chris knelt down and reached out. “Give me your other hand.”

“You bastards!” John could feel his knuckles weakening. The brick was digging into his skin. He wasn’t going to last much longer. “Quit playing around!”

That was it. His grip gave out and he lost the edge of the building. He felt his hold go and he screamed as he fell two whole feet to the fire escape.

The metal floor rattled as he fell on his ass. He looked up to see the other two doing a poor job of stifling laughter. “You dicks.”

Erik hopped off the edge of the building and landed beside him. He helped John to his feet as Chris lowered himself down to join them.

Staying silent while climbing down an old fire escape was all but impossible. The structure rattled and squeaked with every step while bolts fell from the masonry. It had the same unstable feel as old playground equipment: wobbly slides, unsecured swing sets and the merry-go-round-of-death that John and his childhood friends had called the Wheel of Misfortune. They were only safe because adults said so, and that had to be taken on a great deal of faith.

They reached the ground, probably with tetanus, and stepped into the street to get their bearings.

“They’re running out the back!” The alarm came from up the street and was immediately punctuated by several bullets.

The three men returned a few rounds of fire and drove the shooter into cover before running into the dark streets of Lebanon.

“Are they coming?” John asked after a few moments. He was already breathing heavy. He blamed the jump. It had to be the jump; his cardio had actually improved since the end of the world.

“Of course they’re coming,” Chris replied without breaking his stride. “Did you think they would just let us go?”

“I was hoping they were afraid of the dark.” John turned down a residential street that should take them back to the main waterway that ran through town.

Erik was following blindly. “Where are we going?”

“To the river,” John said.

“Why?”

“Because rivers always go somewhere.” It wasn’t often that John found himself in the lead, and he wished he had time to relish the moment. Instead, he jumped the white picket fence in front of one of the historical homes and raced to the backyard. He hoped to lose their pursuers in the dark, and the lack of gunshots gave him confidence that they had done just that.

He found what he was looking for in the home’s backyard—the river. John ran out onto a small dock and stared into the water. There wasn’t much of a current. In fact, there wasn’t much of a river. It was barely a stream. He had been hoping for a mighty current that would silently sweep them downstream, away from the town and on to safety. But the current wasn’t mighty. It wasn’t even formidable. John’s heart sank. His plan had revolved around a swift river. He dropped to one knee and punched the dock.

“John!” Chris’s whisper was harsh. “Get in the damn boat!”

John spun to find him in the dark. He was twenty feet up the riverbank, shoving an aluminum boat into the river.

Erik had already fallen into the stream, and water was flung from his pants as he kicked a leg over the boat’s gunwale to climb back in.

John ran along the bank and helped Chris push the boat into the river as Erik got settled inside. John hopped into the center, and Chris took the back seat as the boat drifted into the middle of the stream.

The gunfire started popping off water spouts before they even saw the Violent Fog’s gang round the corner into the yard.

Erik paddled fiercely from the front of the boat like a dog.

John dug into the water with his hand as Chris struggled to start the small outboard engine mounted at the back of the boat.

“Row faster!” Chris shouted as he pulled the starter cord.

“Start the engine faster,” Erik replied while throwing handfuls of water into the boat.

“You’re getting me wet,” John said and threw a handful of water back at Erik.

The outboard coughed several times and then started. Chris laughed and dropped the prop into the water. The boat lurched forward, and he twisted the throttle wide open.

John and Erik fell back into the boat as the bow raised up out of the water and they sped down the stream.

The gang members had reached the riverbank, but the boat would be all but invisible in the falling darkness. The gunfire stopped chasing them as the boat rounded a bend into a wider portion of the waterway. This was the river that made its way through downtown. This was where the current picked up. John settled into the center of the boat and allowed himself a deep breath. They were in the clear.

“You haven’t won, little Havenites.” The Violent Fog’s voice came through a megaphone and settled across the river like a, well, a fog. It was coming from everywhere all at once. It had them surrounded. “You haven’t escaped me. We leave in the morning. I’ll be waiting for you in Haven!”

* * *

The engine sputtered to a stop about an hour later as it burned through the last of its gasoline. Chris announced that they were out of fuel and pointed the boat’s nose toward shore. There was enough momentum left to beach it on the shoreline, where Erik leapt out, slipped on the wet grass and slid back into the water.

John laughed but offered his friend a hand as he struggled to stand. Erik took the hand and pulled John into the river with him.

Chris scolded both of them for “farting around” and kicked the front of the boat, sending it back into the stream where it caught the current and started drifting away.

“What are you doing?” John shouted and made a dive for the boat. He missed, and it drifted into the current before continuing its journey downriver.

John stormed out of the river and wiped the water out of his eyes. “What the hell are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that if they come across the boat, they’ll know where we are! Why, what are you thinking, John?”

“I was thinking we could find some gas and keep on boating!”

Chris looked at the boat drifting away in the river, realized John was right and had to think of another reason for stopping. “Well, that’s what they’d expect us to do. Besides, we have no idea where we are. If we’re going to make it back in time to warn Haven, we have to at least know where we are.”

“Warn Haven?” John stumbled out of the river and shook the water from his sleeves. “Screw Haven! I say we sneak back in, get our families out and leave Haven to the Violent Fog.”

Chris considered this for a moment. It would serve the council right. But only the council. He couldn’t believe more than a handful of the people there were behind the conspiracy to get them killed. He had made friends in Haven. His wife had made friends. His kids had made friends. As much as he hated to admit it, Haven was home. He couldn’t let it be wiped out. “No, we have to save them. We can deal with the assholes that sent us to die later.”

John started to argue but stopped himself and just said, “Fine. Fine, we’ll save their stupid lives and kill them later. I like this plan. This plan means we get to kill them instead of the warlord. So where to?”

Chris pointed into town. “Let’s find a place to hole up for a bit. So we can get some rest and you two can dry out.”

Chris began walking, and the other two sloshed along behind him, leaving a little bit of the river behind with every step.

Erik spotted a large Victorian home near the river and pointed to one of the upper floors. “Check that out. That’ll do perfect.”

The front door had been kicked open and the home had been looted, but Erik led the three men up the stairs and out onto a screened balcony.

“What is it?” John asked

“An old sleeping porch,” Erik said and started hanging up his gear to dry. “Before air conditioning, families would drag their beds out here during the hot months to sleep in the breeze. We’ll dry our clothes, stay cool and get some rest. It makes a great lookout and it’s not a bad view.”

Erik wasn’t wrong. The sleeping porch faced east over a wide avenue of historic homes. The sunrise should be something to see. They settled in and relaxed for the first time in hours.

“Do you think Olympus is really gone?” Erik asked.

“Are we sure Olympus was ever real?” Chris countered.

“Does it matter either way?” John dragged a mattress out the door and struggled his way down the porch. “They were just as corrupt as the council. Even more so.”

“But it was something,” Erik said. “Something to believe in, I guess. The last grasp humanity had on civilization. If that’s gone, what’s left? Or is this just going to be the way things are?”

Being the only dry one, Chris had already settled into bed on his own mattress. “Things are going to get better.”

“How? If people aren’t organized into anything more than gangs, how are we going to get anything done?”

“These are all really good questions, E.” John dropped the mattress and collapsed onto it. “They’re all really good questions for the morning.”

* * *

Shots woke them.

Not panic fire or a coordinated assault. Just the raucous, random gunfire of a gang that alerted anyone watching that they were an undisciplined sort whose disregard for range protocol and basic firearms safety meant they were a danger to themselves and others.

John rolled off of the mattress and worked his way to the edge of the sleeping porch, keeping low and as quiet as a middle-aged man can be while getting out of bed. The upper half of the wall was screened in to keep the bugs out and let the breeze in, but the lower half of the porch was solid wood. He stood slowly and peered through the screen.

The Violent Fog’s gang was in the streets below, which surprised John. The sun wasn’t even up yet. He knew if he was a warlord, he wouldn’t be doing anything before dawn. What was the point of being a bloodthirsty despot if you couldn’t sleep in?

Seeing their numbers made his blood run cold. Dawn may not have yet arrived, but the warming glow on the horizon gave him a better idea of what they were facing. The Violent Fog’s war party was hundreds strong. Even if they warned Haven in time, he wondered if they would be able to repel an attack from a gang that size.

“What are they doing here?” Erik had moved next to him and was examining the street below.

“This town must be on the way to Haven,” John said.

“We should move.” Erik started collecting everything he had hung up to dry and shoved it into his pack.

John got back into his still-damp clothes and started putting all his guns away while Chris kept watch out the window.

“You two had better hurry. Some of them are moving this way.”

“I’ve only got two hands, Chris!”

John holstered another gun and gave Erik the finger.

“Sorry, John, I wasn’t thinking.”

Chris dropped below the screen. “We have to go.” He helped John on with his pack and ushered the pair back into the house.

They hurried down the staircase, trying not jingle, clatter or make any steps creak as they made their way out the back door and into the predawn darkness. The three men worked their way down another block before crossing the street and moving deeper into the town.

Hoping to find a new ride, they surveyed every car or truck left parked on the streets. Most had been picked clean by scavengers. Batteries and other components were missing from engine compartments that had been left opened and exposed to the elements.

The men continued to whisper even though they had put nearly a mile between themselves and the warlord’s army.

“I can’t believe they’re already on the move,” Erik said.

Chris slammed the hood of another useless car. “We have to warn Haven.”

“We have to evacuate Haven,” John said. “Did you see the size of that army? It was massive. And he got them all up before dawn. That’s a frighteningly disciplined group of maniacs.”

“I’m not sure that even our walls can stop them.” Erik ran on to the next car. It had been stripped clean as well.

John rounded the corner to the next street, spun around and ran into Erik, who had been following close behind. The two men fell to the ground with John on top. He quickly got to his feet, grabbed the top of Erik’s pack and dragged him back behind the corner of the building.

Erik sprung to his feet. “What are you doing?”

John had a pistol in his hand. He was holding the barrel to his lips, demanding silence like an armed and very strict librarian who had taken just about enough of your shit. He pointed to the corner of the building.

Erik and Chris both stepped to the edge of the building and peered around the corner. They leaned back and swore in unison.

“It’s John’s horde,” Erik said.

“Quit calling it my horde!”

“Well, it’s definitely a horde,” Chris said and leaned back around the corner. “There’s gotta be a thousand of them.”

The mass of undead choked the street from curb to curb. They didn’t seem to be moving in any particular direction. There was no sense of urgency in the horde; they simply shambled around, waiting for a purpose.

“They haven’t seen us,” Erik said. “But south is definitely out.”

Chris pointed back toward the house. “Well, we can’t go back.”

“Here we go again.” John caught himself checking the many pistols strapped to his body. He had drilled endlessly with the weapons, and at this point even he wasn’t sure if it was muscle memory or a nervous tic that caused him to touch the grips of each weapon. All he knew for sure is that he would not become a meal empty-handed. “It looks like our choice. Warlord or walking dead?”

Erik pointed north. “Let’s head back north and then work our way west. Maybe they haven’t made it that far into town yet.”

They all nodded in agreement and started making their way north by northwest into the town.

They stayed low and silent, checking around corners for any zombies or warlords that might be lurking there. They crossed several blocks without incident and put a fair distance between themselves and the horde while possibly drawing closer to the Violent Fog’s men.

They soon ran out of residential streets and started encountering light industrial buildings. Open parking lots left them exposed, and rotting fences slowed their progress, but they pushed on until they found themselves at the foot of a railroad embankment. Climbing the loose scree was more tiring than perilous, but they were careful not to twist an ankle with misplaced footing. There were a lot of bad ways to go, but being run down by a zombie because you were nursing a sprain would be more than a little embarrassing.

The top of the rail line and the rising sun gave them a better view of the town. The downtown area was just ahead. Century-old buildings that had been converted to boutiques and coffee shops faced one another across a wide avenue paved with blacktop. Weather-worn decorations hung from iron lampposts, and sun-beaten signs in the store windows declared an upcoming town anniversary that may have never arrived.

John stared at a banner on one of the lampposts. The bottom bracket had come off, and it flapped in the wind. “Wait a minute. I think I know where we are.”

“How?” Chris asked.

“Follow me.” John scrambled down the other side, sliding more than walking, and hit the even ground running.

Chris and Erik followed him down the hill and rushed to keep up.

“He doesn’t usually move this fast,” Erik said as he jogged across the easement, up the side of the ditch and into another parking lot. John was already peeking around the corner of an old hardware store to make sure the street was clear.

“Not unless he smells donuts.”

John raced across the street before they could catch him. He only made it halfway before the gunfire started. John didn’t stop. He put his head down and charged across the street like he was playing a serious game of red rover. He dove the last few feet and landed behind a concrete planter box.

The bullets followed him there. The plants in the box had turned brown and brittle long ago, and detritus filled the air like less-colorful confetti.

John returned fire as he backed away from the planter and then jumped through a shattered window into the storefront.

The gang redirected the gunfire to focus on the corner of the building shielding Chris and Erik. The two men fell back from the corner and looked across the street.

John was standing in the window, shouting something and waving for them to cross the road.

“We can’t hear you, you moron!” Erik shouted across the street.

“Then he can’t hear us either, you moron!”

John took his eyes off his friends and glanced up the street. They could read the words on his lips this time, and he stopped waving for them to cross and started waving for them to run. He wasn’t waving for long before he ducked back and disappeared into the abandoned storefront.

Several of the Violent Fog’s men raced into view. Half turned to go after John. The other half came around the corner at Chris and Erik.

Both men shouldered their rifles and fired at the gang members. One fell to the ground dead. The others dropped and scrambled back for cover.

Chris and Erik backed toward the railway easement and dove over the edge for cover. The move bought them only a moment as they heard more of the warlord’s men arrive in the parking lot above them.

They fled, racing along the ditch until they arrived at a culvert that allowed a creek to run under the tracks. They sloshed quickly through the waist-deep water, chasing a school of minnows before them, frothing up the water with their own fear.

Chris reached the other end first and flopped onto dry land. He stood up and grabbed Erik’s hand as the other man struggled to step out of the soggy creek bank.

Shouts were coming from the other end of the culvert and from the railway above them. The Violent Fog’s men already had every advantage and were now seizing the high ground.

All the men could do was run and put as many obstacles between them and the bullets as they could.

Chris tried to run south, but Erik snapped at him. “The horde!”

Chris corrected his path. They had left the horde far behind, but the gunfire could be enough to pique their interest. They would be coming this way.

They ran for another two blocks, risking a few glances over their shoulders. They had put a little distance between themselves and the gang thanks to their smaller number and the adrenaline rush of being pursued. But it wasn’t enough. The bullets still nipped at their heels, and the hollers and shouts of the warlord’s men chased them down.

A dash across a broad street left them exposed to fire from behind and up the street. The gang was working to corner them, and the only refuge was behind a dumpster in a nearby alley. Bullets rang off the dumpsters as the two friends hit the ground.

After a few moments of not being dead, they looked up and examined the backside of the dumpster. It was covered in filth, but not holes.

“What’s in it?” Erik asked.

Chris looked around the alley. It looked like one of the buildings was being renovated. “Rubble?” he guessed.

“Finally, a break.” Erik got back to his feet. But it wasn’t much of a break. He looked for the end of the alley and saw that it was a dead end.

Chris had seen it, too. He stripped the bag from his back and opened the top. He pulled several ammo magazines to the top of the bag and set it on the ground. It wasn’t enough. Between the two of them, they carried a couple hundred rounds. The Violent Fog had more men than that. “Can you believe we’re going to die in some stupid alleyway?”

“I’m not ready to give up yet.” Erik leaned around the corner and returned fire.

Chris shoved the dumpster with his shoulder. It shifted. “This one rolls.” He looked at the other dumpsters lining the alleyway. “So do the others.”

“So?”

“You shoot, I’ll drive.”

Chris shoved and pulled and heaved the dumpster around. It was worse than a shopping cart. The casters were filled with gunk and rust, but he managed to move the dumpster into a position where it blocked a good portion of the entryway and they could fire from both sides.

Erik fired slowly and deliberately. The fire was enough to keep the gang members across the street but not so much that they would burn through their stockpile.

Chris shouldered another dumpster into place. This one took more effort than the first, but he managed to add another layer to their barricade before taking up his position on the opposite side.

“I really wish John was here,” he said as he laid out a row of magazines.

“He’s not that good of a shot,” Erik said. “I don’t care what he says.”

“I know that. I just don’t think it’s fair that we’re going to die, and he isn’t.”

Erik knew that John was just as dead as they were. But somehow, accusing their friend of getting away with something provided some comfort. He wanted to believe that John would make it. And would somehow stop being an idiot long enough to warn Haven. He and Erik would be the Alamo. John got to be Sam Houston. Something about that didn’t seem fair.

The gang members eventually grew more brazen. Or perhaps they got bored. Whatever their motivation, they began charging the redoubt. Erik and Chris picked off the attackers as they came, and several gang members fell in the street. Some were dead, but others screamed from their injuries.

Chris and Erik left the wounded to crawl back to their side of the firefight or writhe in agony. Bullets mattered more than mercy now, and their munitions were getting light.

Erik fired five times in succession. Each shot was more frantic than the last and accompanied by the word  “shit!” Then, the gun was empty. “I missed one, he’s—”

The gang member screamed as he came around Chris’s side of the dumpster and grabbed the barrel of his rifle. Chris wrestled for control of the weapon, but the gang member had complete control of the barrel’s direction. He pushed Chris back up against the dumpster and leaned forward like he was coming in for a kiss. His tongue waggled as he screamed. Before Chris could turn away in disgust, Erik clubbed the gang member in the side of the head with the butt of his rifle.

The gang member stumbled from the blow, releasing Chris’s barrel in the process.

Chris fired until the man’s tongue stopped waggling and quickly turned his attention back to the street. Several of the Violent Fog’s men had taken advantage of the lull in gunfire and were halfway across. Chris fired as Erik reloaded.

“Last one,” Erik said as he slammed one last magazine into his rifle.

Chris glanced at his bag. He was down to his last magazine as well. “Me too!”

Erik ran through the magazine quickly and let the rifle drop to the sling. He drew his pistol and put his back against the dumpster. “Some last stand, huh?”

“I really wish John was here. I hate that he’s missing this.”

It didn’t take long for the gang to realize that the bullets were only flying one way. The barrage of bullets against the dumpster slowed until a frightful silence took over.

The silence was replaced with the howl of feedback from a PA system. The squelch didn’t so much fade as mutate into a flute playing the opening bars of “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”

“Does he travel with that thing?” Chris asked.

The Violent Fog’s voice, smooth and fluid, crooned the opening of the song.

“If you’re blue, and you don’t know where to go to, why don’t you go where fashion sits? Puttin’ on the Ritz.”

They heard the footsteps of the rushing gang members and braced for the assault.

“Different types who wear a day coat, pants with stripes and cutaway coat, perfect fits. Puttin’ on the Ritz.”

They came from both sides of the dumpster. Some screamed. Some growled.

Chris and Erik fired their sidearms. They tried to control their breathing. They tried to be calm as they struggled to make each shot count. But the onslaught of men and the unnerving smoothness of the Violent Fog’s voice made it difficult, and more than one round was wasted in panic fire.

“Dressed up like a million-dollar trouper.”

A gang member screamed as he leapt from the top of the dumpster. He turned the assault into a flying elbow that took Chris to the ground.

“Trying hard to look like Gary Cooper.”

Erik kicked the man off Chris’ back and dragged his friend back to his feet just before another wave came at them from around the dumpster.

“Come, let’s mix where Rockefellers walk with sticks or umbrellas in their mitts.”

Chris and Erik fell back deeper into the alleyway and took cover behind the next line of dumpsters.

The Violent Fog took a rest as a trumpet solo played over the speakers.

They were in the Hot Gates now and would be able to hold the gang back from the position as long as their ammo held out.

Erik’s slide locked open as he fired the last round from his automatic.

Chris watched him drop the gun and draw a knife. They weren’t going to last another verse.

There was another low growl in the music. It sounded like the loudspeakers were protesting the Fog’s crooning as well.

It didn’t wane like the feedback. It grew into a roar. Panicked shouting joined the din and soon turned into screams. The dumpster at the entrance to the alley crashed back toward them and rolled into the wall, revealing the rear end of a black muscle car.

The driver’s door opened, and John leapt out. “Get in!”

Chris and Erik raced to the car as John stood and started doing that thing with all his guns. They had mocked him. They had teased him. But watching him now, they could no longer doubt him. His arm was a blur as he drew, fired, emptied and discarded pistol after pistol.

The Violent Fog’s men fell back on their heels, giving the men enough time to get into the car.

Broken bodies lay in the street from where the car had cleared a path to the alley. The windshield was cracked and riddled with bullet holes, but the engine was still beating.

“Where did you get this?” Chris said as he hit the back seat.

“I told you I knew where we were.” John pulled the door shut and slammed the Executioner into gear. The earth shook as he gunned the engine and the Pontiac burst from the alley. They left a trail of tire smoke as they turned down the street and sped out of the line of fire. John sped to the end of the street, hopped onto the sidewalk and stopped next to a building.

“What are you doing?” Chris shouted. “Drive!”

“Wait.” John turned around and nodded toward the back window. “I want you guys to see something.”

The gang had filled the streets to chase the getaway car. But they weren’t shooting after the men. They were screaming and starting to run in all directions.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner,” John said. “I needed to make sure they didn’t get lost.”

The horde had arrived. The dead poured from every street entrance and alleyway, wailing with bloodlust. They came from the buildings themselves, and the undead chased their next meal. The gang fired into the mass of the dead, but their numbers were too great. There were thousands of them, and they washed over the gang like water.

“This is horrible,” Erik said as he watched man after man fall to the terrible force of nature.

“It sure is,” John agreed.

Even over the demonic wails of the dead, screams of the dying men reached their ears.

Chris turned away from the scene. “John, let’s get out of here.”

“Just a minute,” John said. “Keep watching. I want you to see something.”

Erik turned away as well. “I think I’ve seen enough.”

“No, no. Wait.” John pointed out the back window. “There! Do you see it?”

Chris and Erik both looked back out the window. All they saw was horror.

“There!” John shouted again. “Right by that… one, two, third lamppost back.”

Chris shook his head. “I don’t see what…” Then he saw it. In amongst the chaos was a particular zombie. Smaller and quicker than most, it was wearing a dirty white shirt with a red circle on the chest. “Is that Jimmy?”

“It sure is,” John said proudly. “Jimmy from the box. That right there is my horde.”

“Way to go, John.” Chris slapped John on the back. “You realize you just made your horde, like, a thousand zombies stronger, right?”

“Don’t take this from me, Chris.”

Erik sighed and sank back into his seat. “Can we go now?”

* * *

By the time they reached the walls of Haven, the plan had become simple.

“They let us in, or we ram the gates,” John repeated to himself as they rolled up to the entry.

Calvin was at his watch on top of the wall. “Who goes there?”

John grumbled and pulled the door handle. “Would you get a load of this guy? Who talks like that?” John stepped from the car and drew a gun. Erik opened the passenger door and stepped out with his rifle.

Calvin nearly dropped his morning coffee over the side of the wall in his excitement. “John! Erik! Am I glad to see you guys!”

“Glad to see us?” Chris said from the car. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” John said quietly. “But he’s smiling like he’s genuinely happy.”

Calvin disappeared behind the wall, and a moment later, the gate started to swing open.

Larry and Calvin both ran out from Haven, smiling and cheering the men’s arrival.

“John, you slippery son of a bitch,” Larry the gate guard said and slapped John on the shoulder. “I knew they wouldn’t get you.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Lawrence?” John looked over and saw Calvin shaking Erik’s hand.

“The council,” Larry said. “We heard what they did. Mrs. Gimble told us all. She exposed the whole thing. But we just knew that you guys would beat the odds. Come on inside. Nice car, by the way.”

Moments later, they were rolling through the streets of Haven in a one-car parade. The whole town had emptied from their homes and filled the streets. They banged on the car and cheered the men. People were reaching through the open windows to pat them on the shoulder and try and shake their hands.

“This is more like it,” John said as the entire population cheered them on.

“So Mrs. Gimble spilled the beans and let us be the heroes?” Chris said. “I don’t buy it.”

“What’s to buy? They love us.”

The crowd grew as it led them through town toward the square, where John finally stopped the car in front of Mrs. Gimble’s new stage. A new banner hung across its massive span. The banner read “Traitors” in bright-red letters on black, and beneath it hung the members of the city council.

The crowd in front of the car thinned to reveal Mrs. Gimble standing before them. She smiled at the men in the car as she made her way to the driver’s side window.

Once there, she leaned in close and spoke quietly enough for only the occupants to hear. “I must admit, I am a little surprised to see you gentlemen again. Once I found out what the council had planned, I figured you’d had it.”

“What happened?” Erik asked.

“It’s quite simple. The council was found guilty of treason.”

“So who’s in charge?” John asked.

“I and my committee will take it from here.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“I wanted to thank you boys for all you’ve done for the good people of Haven.” Her tone was the most pleasant they had ever heard it. “You played no small part in exposing the conspirators’ plan. So, I want you to have your moment. Enjoy yourselves tonight. But know that, in the morning, your services will no longer be needed.”

“What do you mean?” Chris asked.

“I want you and your families to disappear,” she said with that same sick smile.

Bill the cop appeared at the passenger window.

“Or I will make you disappear. We still have plenty of rope left.” With this, Mrs. Gimble smiled and walked away from the window.

* * *

“Exiled.” Chris stood with Erik, looking at Haven in the distance.

“I guess we shouldn’t really be surprised,” Erik said. “With John around, it was bound to happen sooner or later. How is the family taking it?”

Chris turned to his wife. She and the kids were with John’s family by the Executioner, probably having the same discussion of disbelief. “I’m not sure it’s quite sunk in yet.”

Erik looked at his watch. It’s not like they were on a schedule, but he was sick of always waiting on John. “What’s keeping him? Did he tell you what he was up to?”

“No. He just said he forgot something and handed me this stupid walkie talkie.” Chris held up the toy communicator shaped like a police dog.

It made Erik laugh. And he hated himself for it.

The police dog popped with a burst of static.

Chris turned up the volume in time to hear half a sentence. He pushed the send button. “Is that you, John? Where are you?”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

“You’d better hurry if we’re going to get to Sanctuary by nighttime. It’s a long walk.”

“We’re not walking anywhere,” John replied. “Get everyone ready to go.”

Erik pointed into the distance. “There’s a car coming.”

“John, is that you?”

The car was coming fast and kicking up a trail of dust behind it.

“He didn’t,” Erik said as the vehicle drew closer.

“He did,” Chris said and motioned for his family to get into the car. “Let’s get ready to go!”

John’s wife, Christine, joined the two men with her kids close behind her. “What did he do?”

“He got us all another ride,” Erik said.

The F.U.Z. slid to a stop in front of the group, and John rolled down the Cadillac’s passenger window. “Like my new ride?”

“You know what?” Chris opened the front passenger door for John’s wife. “I’m not even going to bother. Let’s just get to Sanctuary.”

“No thanks,” John said. “I’ve had enough of the enclaves. You don’t know who to trust.”

“Where else is there to go?” Erik asked.

“I don’t know about you boys,” John said with a smile, “but I think it’s time we started our own city.”

THE END

Need more of these knuckleheads? Want to know why John, Chris & Erik hate each other? Check out the prequel Dads vs. The World now!

John, Chris and Erik are neighbors in the quaint subdivision of The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II. The three men happily live the typical suburban family life. But, it’s not all birthday parties and bounce houses.

These men struggle every day to fulfill their roles as fathers, friends and husbands. They face challenges like grocery shopping under pressure, learning to be the Tooth Fairy and competing for Halloween bragging rights. Throw in Santa and the HOA and it all adds up to a whole lot of crap.

This handsome volume includes:

Dad vs. The Grocery Store - John would rather sit and watch the game, but his wife needs some things at the store. Can he complete the list and get back in time to see the end of the game?

Dad vs. Halloween - Every Halloween, Chris has the scariest house on the block and gives out the best candy. But, this year, someone is showing him up and he'll stop at nothing to find out who.

Dad vs. Santa - Erik has planned the perfect Christmas for his family. The plan is foolproof, bulletproof and flame retardant. Nothing can undo the hours of planning and preparation. Nothing except maybe odd-shaped packages, ill-timed fruitcakes or an errant neighborhood Santa Claus.

Dad vs. The Tooth Fairy - Erik always has a plan and he's sure he would have figured out the whole Tooth Fairy thing eventually. But, when his three-year-old son takes a frisbee to the mouth, he's forced to speed things up. Between neighborhood kids with big mouths and unhelpful dentists he's going to need to improvise. Will he bend to the pressure of inflation? Will he get caught in the act? And, what do you do with those teeth anyway?

Dad vs. The HOA (A novella) - There comes a time in every man's life when he must stand for the things he believes in. John doesn't believe in bagging his grass. So, when a new allergy-prone neighbor gets the HOA to require it, there's only one thing he can do - run for President of The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II. John, Chris and Erik put aside most of their differences to run a campaign that they hope will see John elected as President and end the meddling of the rule-loving new kid on the block. Will they succeed? It's doubtful.

If you liked Benjamin Wallace’s zombie apocalypse, you should read his bestselling post-apocalyptic comedies, the Duck & Cover adventures.

Check out the whole Duck & Cover Adventures series here:

Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors

Knights of the Apocalypse

Pursuit of the Apocalypse

Revenge of the Apocalypse

Crossroads of the Apocalypse

Also by Benjamin Wallace

DUCK & COVER ADVENTURES

Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors

Knights of the Apocalypse

Pursuit of the Apocalypse

Revenge of the Apocalypse

Crossroads of the Apocalypse

SHATTERED ALLIANCE

Shattered Alliance

Send in the Clones

Alone on Altair

JUNKERS

Junkers

Junkers Season Two

DADS VS

Dads Vs The World

Dads Vs Zombies

THE BULLETPROOF ADVENTURES

OF DAMIAN STOCKWELL

Horror in Honduras

Terrors of Tesla

The Mechanical Menace

OTHER BOOKS

Tortugas Rising

SHORT STORIES

Commando Pandas & Other Odd Thoughts

UNCIVIL

UnCivil: The Immortal Engine

UnCivil: Vanderbilt’s Behemoth

About the Author

Benjamin Wallace lives in Texas where he complains about the heat. You can email him at: contact@benjaminwallacebooks.com To learn about the latest releases and giveaways, join his Readers’ Group. Click here to sign up.

If you enjoyed DADS VS. ZOMBIES : YEAR 2 please consider leaving a review. It would be very much appreciated and help more than you could know.

Thanks for reading, visiting, following and sharing.

-ben

Find me online here:

BenjaminWallaceBooks.com

Facebook

Twitter

Instagram

Copyright © 2023 by Benjamin Wallace.

All rights reserved.

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

Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Contents
- Night of the Grubby Urchin
- 1. Night of the Grubby Urchin
- Day of the Really, Really Dead
- 2. Day of the Really, Really Dead
- The Quick and the Not Quite Dead
- 3. The Quick and the Not Quite Dead
- Dead Locked
- 4. Dead Locked
- Dead Heading
- 5. Dead Heading
- Untitled
- Duck & Cover Series
- Also by Benjamin Wallace
- About the Author
- Copyright