Gardermoen International Airport, Oslo, Norway

Doctor Nils Plassen walked into the passenger area of Oslo’s Gardermoen Airport and sat in the first seat he could find. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his puffy face, his heart thumping hard in his chest. He had just carried a highly classified viral agent through airport security. Nils composed himself, trying to look casual, as he got up to find his gate. He walked slowly, barely aware of the people around him. Nils was not interested in them, only in getting to Germany, and handing over the vial he carried. As Head of Viral Research at one of Norway’s top labs, he had been approached by a mysterious group of men who had asked him to secure this certain vial. He had agonized over the decision for days, finally deciding that the obscene amount of the payment was worth it. In a few weeks, Nils would be sitting in his new luxury home on a lake in Northern Norway, with a drink in his hand, and a stack of good books. He would never have to work again. 

Nils was still sweating and his heart rate was not coming down. Nervousness was one thing, but this was not normal. He found the gate for his Air Berlin flight and sat near the counter, setting his carry-on bag on the next seat. He was beginning to feel dizzy, out of sorts. He took deep breaths and willed himself to relax, to no avail. He looked out the big windows at the planes. He blinked, once, twice. The colors were somehow muted, darker. Something was happening to his vision. His heart beat even faster. He thought, finally, that he could not do this. He couldn’t hand something so deadly over to God-knows-who. He would get up and make his way out of the airport, back to his car, back to his life. He had lived for years in misery, drudgery, but at the moment his old boring life seemed very comforting. 

He was about to get up when the first drops of blood hit his coat. He held the handkerchief to his nose. Even with his head back, he could see the ticket agent watching him, asking if he was okay. Nils waved and tried to be casual, like all of this was an everyday occurrence. His vision was troubling: colors were flatter, the light somehow different. How long could his heart beat like this? Of course, the thought of it made his heart pound even harder. It was a vicious cycle which Nils could not stop. He began to feel a stabbing pain in his elbows and knees. Things were out of control. He had to admit, then, that he had made a mistake. Actually several mistakes. One was agreeing to this scheme in the first place, but worse than that, Nils now realized that he must have, accidentally, exposed himself to the virus. It was the only answer. This wasn’t nerves, or stress. Nils was dying, and he was carrying enough deadly virus to infect everyone in the airport. If the infected people managed to board planes, they would be all over Europe in a few hours.

He could not take back what he had done, could not turn back time, but Nils could do one right thing before he died. He had to alert the authorities. He reached for his bag, feeling a squeezing, fiery pressure wrapping around his chest. He felt around for the vial. It was in a small box, disguised as cologne, a two ounce sample in a thick glass vial. 

It was hard to breathe, hard to see, and Nils had to keep his handkerchief to his nose, but eventually his hand closed on the small box. The ticket agent was standing a few feet in front of him now, saying something about him being unable to fly. His heart was squeezing in on itself, constricting. It would shrink to a black hole, a singularity, then explode, Nils was sure. The ticket agent was a dark shape against the bright windows. Nils managed to pull the vial out of the box, his breath coming in gasps.

“I am Doctor … ,” Nils said. “Plassen … Head of Viral Research …” He stopped, tried to take a deep breath. “I have a viral agent … kill … everyone here.”

Nils heard the commotion, but could no longer see. Vague shapes rushed around him. He held up the vial.

“Bio hazard team …call. Please. Call.”

He heard screaming, then the chair seemed to slide out from under him. Nils was dead when he hit the floor.

 

 

There was chaos at the gate. One of the people who had heard Nils’ plea was running from the gate, shouting to warn others. That set off a wave of people running toward the terminal. Others ran too, though they didn’t know why. Some stood by, unsure of what to do or what was going on. There were collisions, shouts. Someone was screaming.

At the gate, a small crowd gathered around Nils’s body. He was lying on his back, his complexion grey and waxy. One of the ticket agents approached him to start CPR, then thought better of it. The dead man had been ranting about bio hazards. Besides, he was obviously dead. The ticket agent covered the corpse with someone’s abandoned coat, and asked the small crowd to step back. She looked down at the body, and a shiver went down her spine. She took a few steps away from the dead man and waited for help to arrive.

Ten minutes later, Nils sat up. His skin was pale and cold, and rivulets of blood streamed out of his nose. He looked around with dead, dark eyes. His nostrils flared. Nils lunged sideways and bit the ticket agent on the calf. People screamed and began to run. The zombie apocalypse had begun.

2: Dead Drop

Andreas Madsen stepped out of the airport restroom, leading his small son by the hand. He noticed a crowd of people at the waiting area for the nearest gate. They seemed to be crowded around someone lying on the floor. Andreas looked up and down the terminal. There was a commotion back at the security area, and he could see several members of airport security trying to calm people down. Andreas saw a woman come out of the nearby waiting area, hurrying in his direction. Her face was pale and pinched.

“Excuse me. What’s happened?” Andreas asked.

“A man’s died,” the woman said. She lowered her head and kept walking.

Men and women in official airline uniforms were headed toward the dead man in the waiting area, and people from airport security were also headed toward that gate. Andreas glanced at his watch and sighed. I don’t have time for this.

He led his son over to the nearest row of seats and set down his briefcase. Luckily, the crowd of people prevented his son from seeing the dead man on the other side of the chairs.

“Hold on to Daddy. I need to find our boarding passes,” Andreas said.

Andreas let go of the boy’s hand and felt his son grab onto his pant leg, just as he’d asked. Andreas opened his case and began looking for the boarding passes. While he did, the small boy noticed something on the floor near the chairs. He reached down and picked up a small vial of brownish liquid. The boy picked up the little vial. He turned it upside down and saw a tiny air bubble come up to the surface. Then he turned it the other way but the air bubble didn’t stay where it was, it just came back up to the surface again. He turned it one way, then the other watching the little bubble go back and forth. Neat. The boy heard his father’s briefcase click shut and he looked up, closing his tiny fist around the vial.

“Okay, let’s go,” Andreas said, taking the boy by the hand. “Our plane’s already boarding.”

Andreas hurried down the hallway with the small boy in tow. They were four gates away when Nils Plassen sat up and bit the ticket agent. They heard a scream and people yelling, but Andreas didn’t slow down. As it was, he and his son got to the gate just as the ticket agent was about to close the jetway doors. Andreas and his son were still fastening their seat belts when the plane pushed back from the gate. Andreas let out a sigh of relief and pushed his briefcase under the seat ahead of him, while his son looked out the window. In one of his little fists, the boy clutched Nils Plassen’s small, deadly vial.

 

Andreas and his son walked out of the jetway and into the Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. The young boy looked around at another huge room divided into little places with rows of plastic chairs. To him it looked just like the other airport and the one before that. It made him sad and tired and he wanted to lie down on the floor and just be done with it, but his dad held his hand and was walking fast. The little boy watched the row of chairs go by. Then he remembered the little toy he had found under the chairs in the other airport. He reached into the pocket on the front of his shirt and pulled out the toy. He looked at the little container of brown liquid, turning it so the air bubble went one way, then the other. Boring.

His dad was pulling him gently by the hand, guiding him through the stupid airport. There were too many people and he was tired and the toy wasn’t fun anymore. The boy felt his face getting warmer, and his lip was starting to quiver. A tear rolled down his face. The boy took one last look at the little vial and threw it on the ground. He stiffened his legs and leaned back, so his dad had to drag him. That would get his attention, but just to be sure, the little boy started crying. Loud. 

Andreas stopped when his son stopped walking. The boy leaned back against the cold tile floor and started to wail. Andreas scooped him up, talking to him gently. He looked around apologetically at the river of people who were going past. He shifted the boy onto his hip and kept walking.

 

The vial of deadly toxin sat on the floor of the Charles de Gaulle Airport, one of the world’s busiest. Someone unknowingly kicked it and the vial rolled several feet. Charles de Gaulle was a sea of people, serving over sixty one million people per year. Dozens of these people were now walking right over the vial, their shoes missing it by inches or less. Then along came Thomas.

Thomas Heller was a businessman from Germany on his way to holiday in the south of France. He was a large man, six feet tall and over two hundred and fifty pounds. He wore shorts and sandals with black socks and wheeled a large suitcase behind him. He was walking slowly, looking for his gate, when one of his size twelve sandals came down on the vial. It broke with a crunch, though Thomas didn’t notice. There was a tiny brown puddle on the tiles amid some small pieces of glass. If anyone had bothered to look closely, they would notice the subtle bubbling of the brown liquid. The world’s deadliest virus looked, for all intents and purposes, like someone had spilled a soft drink.

Approximately one hundred eighty thousand people passed through the Paris airport each day, and hundreds of people were now walking through an invisible viral cloud. Some may have noticed a slight odor that smelled like a combination of ammonia and burning metal. Most were too focused on their cell phones and travel plans to notice. They boarded planes with destinations all over Europe, Africa, The United States, and the Middle East.

 

The incubation period, that’s what really screwed us. It’s the time from when a person is exposed to the virus until they start to exhibit symptoms. People were getting on planes, zooming all over the place, and nobody knew they were sick. Within four hours, infected people were landing in Germany, Spain, the U.K., and even Moscow, Russia. Those who were sick didn’t start showing symptoms for six or seven hours. By that time, they were on trains and busses, riding crowded subway cars, walking the streets of London, Zurich, and Amsterdam. 

Six to seven hours after the virus was released, people were starting to show symptoms: severe headaches, tiredness, irritability. There were minor flu-like symptoms, but those were just the virus’s way of spreading itself. By now people on flights from Paris were landing in places as far away as Nigeria, Saudi Arabia, and Afghanistan. In the next hour, flights full of infected passengers were arriving in Boston, New York, Montreal, and New Delhi, India. Symptoms were getting worse as the virus attacked its victims. Headaches and irritability gave way to minor memory loss, compromised reasoning, and unpredictable behavior. Some people had trouble speaking, others were struggling with basic motor skills. The virus was attacking people’s brains, turning off whole areas as it went. Hospitals from Philadelphia to New Delhi were beginning to fill up with patients. The problem was that the symptoms were so varied. Some patients mostly complained of the flu, others appeared to have had strokes or head injuries. Some patients were impossible to diagnose; a patient whose brain is compromised often can’t tell what’s wrong, let alone express it to a medical professional. Nurses and doctors were fighting an uphill battle with patients who weren’t thinking clearly. As the symptoms progressed, patients became irrational, even aggressive. Some had vision problems, nosebleeds, or were unable to remember friends and family. Paranoia was common and a lack of higher brain functions was widespread. Along with the decline in brain functions was a decline in coordination and motor skills, though these were often overlooked. 

Ten to twelve hours after contact with the initial virus, patients began to die. Within an hour after death, the corpses got up again. They were aggressive, uncoordinated, and hungry.

3: Pandemonium

Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia

Mercy Hospital was turning into a nightmare, and Head Nurse Ellen Hall’s patience was wearing thin. The number of virus victims had started as a trickle, then became a river. Now it was a full on flood. They were using every available bed and gurney, but the sick just kept showing up. There was no way the staff could evaluate all of them, let alone treat them. Not that they knew how. There was such a variety of symptoms that it was hard to know exactly what they were supposed to treat. One of the doctors was on the phone with the Center for Disease Control, the others were doing their best to guess what it was they were dealing with.

Nurse Hall was a large woman - big-boned was the term people used - and she had a reputation for being tough on her staff. What they saw as mean and picky was, in Nurse Hall’s eyes, a matter of high standards. Nurses were going to be held accountable when Nurse Hall was around, by God. Normally she played a supervisory role, but at the moment there was too much to do. The virus patients were getting worse. Some were combative, others confused, some forgot where or who they were. A few were hemorrhaging from the nose or mouth. Nurse Hall was simultaneously giving orders to her nurses and handling as many patients as possible. 

Suddenly a voice came over the paging system: “Code Blue, Floor 3, Room 3015”. Nurse Hall could already see members of the Code team rushing down the hall. She took a deep breath. The sick were getting worse, and quickly. Two had died in the last ten minutes.

A few minutes later Doctor Peter Wallens came down the hall. He was the leader of the Code team, the unit that handled the patients that needed immediate resuscitation or lifesaving measures. He looked at Nurse Hall and shook his head slowly. She turned and watched him walk down the hall. This virus, or whatever it was, was making her feel frustrated, and angry. She adjusted her mask - all the staff had them on today - and started down the hall. There were a lot more patients to deal with, and she didn’t have time to stand around being mad. As she was striding down the hallway, another nurse came up behind her.

“Nurse Hall, we have a problem,” the other nurse said.

Nurse Hall stopped, her jaw clenched. 

“What now?”

“One of the patients just bit one of the orderlies, then ran off,” the nurse said.

Nurse Hall crossed her arms. Isn’t there anyone here who can do their job without me?

“Which patient?” Nurse Hall asked, impatient.

“Uh, Jameson, Richard, 3022,” the young nurse said, looking down at her notes.

“Jameson? He is deceased, dear, the first one to die of the virus. You’d better get your patients straight,” Nurse Hall said, starting to walk away.

“Um, yes, the orderly was wheeling him toward the elevators, going to the morgue, and he bit him,” the nurse said, eyebrows going up as her eyes went toward the floor.

Nurse Hall took one step, then stopped abruptly.

“Are you telling me that a dead man just bit one of our staff?” Nurse Hall said.

The other nurse nodded, her lower lip trembling slightly.

“Well I’d better get to the bottom of this. When I find your screw up, it’s going to be a very bad day for you, Missy.”

 

Nurse Hall found the bitten orderly in a hallway near the East Elevator. A doctor was looking over a ragged bite mark on his hand. 

“Are you Lopez?” Nurse Hall asked.

The orderly nodded. He was a young man, short and thin, with short, dark hair and dark eyes.

“Which patient were you transporting?” Nurse Hall asked. “The one that bit you.”

“Oh. Uh, James. No, Jameson. From 3022,” the orderly said. “Jameson.”

“Lopez, listen. That man was pronounced dead. Obviously you had the wrong guy,” Nurse Hall said.

She was a few inches taller and several pounds heavier than the orderly. She crossed her arms and glowered at him.

“I checked, double-checked, before I rolled him out. It was Jameson. Richard Jameson. I pulled a sheet over him. He was cold.”

 

Nurse Hall stood over a computer monitor, her eyes scanning the screen. Someone had made a mistake. Records had gotten switched, or patients, and she was going to get to the bottom of it. She refused to believe that a dead man had bitten an orderly. 

There was noise down the hall. Shouting, and a door slamming. Nurse Hall hurried toward the commotion. She found a nurse outside one of the patient rooms, on her knees in the hallway. She was on her knees, holding onto the doorknob, holding on for dear life. The nurse looked up at Nurse Hall. They heard the sound of glass breaking in the room. Something heavy hit the floor. The nurse held the door shut with all her might.

“He attacked me! He …”

Her voice trailed off. Nurse Hall picked up a chart the nurse had dropped on the floor. She flipped a few pages and began to read, the chart held out in front of her at arm’s length. Nurse Hall looked down at the other nurse who was shaking noticeably, still clinging to the doorknob. Another deceased patient had just come back to life.

 

When a second nurse was bitten, Nurse Hall had had enough. She set down a stack of papers with a loud thump and set off down the brightly lit hallway. She returned to the nurses station with a laundry cart full of cloth straps and clean sheets. She gathered the first two nurses she saw and pushed the cart toward them.

“Take the straps and strap down every patient who has the virus. Floor by floor. When you run out, tear up sheets and use them for straps. Put the rest in closed rooms and make sure they can’t get out.”

“Are we even allowed to do that?” one of the nurses asked.

“If anyone has a problem with it, have them come see me,” Nurse Hall said, turning on her heel. “I will not have any more of my nurses attacked.”

 

More patients were dying. Doctors and nurses rushed about frantically. A disoriented patient staggered into a hallway and was tackled by hospital security. Orderlies and nurses in colorful scrubs were strapping patients to their beds, to gurneys, to anything. In the lobby, some people were tired of waiting and walked out. Other patients had forgotten where they were and just wandered off. Another was wrestling with a security officer. At one of the nurses’ stations, Doctor Wallen and Nurse Hall were speaking to each other in increasingly loud tones.

“You cannot strap down that many patients! Do you have any idea what would happen if word of this - .”

Nurse Hall interrupted.

“I don’t care how this looks. I am going to ensure the safety of my nurses. When this is all over you can fire me, but right now I’m going to make sure no more dead people bite the staff!”

Doctor Wallen wiped one hand on his pale blue scrubs. He looked at Nurse Hall who had both fists resting on her hips. She was not a person who backed down easily, and he doubted that he would change her mind.

“This is your decision, not mine. I just want everyone to be clear on that,” the doctor said. 

He walked away shaking his head.

 

Forty five minutes later, most of the patients were restrained, one way or another, but there were still a few dead biters stalking the hallways. One of the security guards was attacked. There was grunting and roaring and the man’s neck was torn open as his screams filled the hallway. Nurses and staff were running through the halls. Somewhere in the distance there was a woman who wouldn’t stop screaming. The normally bright and sterile halls of Richmond Mercy were messy and chaotic. Patients were still dying but now they just groaned and roared and thrashed helplessly agains their restraints. Some of the staff had slipped out of the hospital and just left. Not just staff, but a few doctors, too. Some of the remaining doctors and nurses were too shellshocked to do much. The chaos, the horror. It was all too much. 

Nurse Hall was well aware that the hospital’s chain of command had several broken links. If she didn’t take charge, things would only get worse. The lower three floors of the hospital were like a madhouse and she could envision the bedlam spreading to the rest of the hospital. Nurse Hall did not tolerate disorder very well. She gathered the remaining staff from the first three floors and retreated to the fourth floor. They used whatever they could to barricade the stairs. There hadn’t been any reports of violence above the third floor, and all the patients had been strapped. Once on the fourth floor, she went to the nurses’ station and started contacting any staff she could reach on the upper floors. She ordered them to make sure all the virus patients were strapped down, or locked in rooms. When they were done, she ordered staff, nurses, and even doctors to gather in each floor’s conference rooms and lock themselves in. Most had seen, or at least heard about, enough craziness and gore to go eagerly. 

A few of the staff members were too stupid, or too stubborn, to retreat to the safety of the conference rooms. There was nothing  Nurse Hall could do about them. She was ushering all the staff she had gathered from the first three floors into the fourth floor conference room. At least they would be safe (she hoped). 

Nurse Hall had one more phone call to make.

4: Hall of Horrors

The SWAT truck drove up onto the sidewalk and parked near the Command RV. The RV was a big, dark vehicle with various antennae protruding from the roof. A man stood next to it watching the hospital through binoculars. Team leader Reggie Logan climbed out of the SWAT truck followed by five other heavily armed officers all dressed in black.They wore body armor and black helmets and carried a variety of weapons. The other men instinctively fanned out, watching their perimeter, as Reggie approached the Command RV. The Incident Commander lowered the binoculars as Reggie approached.

“What’ve we got?” Reggie Logan asked.

“I can see four, maybe five people in there by the check-in desk. They look like they’re standing in line. Hard to tell from here, plus everybody’s backlit. Two more on gurneys back by the doors, but I can’t see them very well,” the commander said.

“You said we have three or four patients need to be subdued?” Reggie asked.

“Yeah. We’ve confirmed that. I guess this virus is making some patients pretty violent, aggressive. From what I hear, they’re pretty disconnected from reality. One of them bit a security guy. Did a lot of damage,” the commander said. “The nurse I talked to said, more patients would go off like this when they got sicker, just a matter of time.”

The two men stood looking toward the entrance to the emergency room, silent.

“With this virus thing affecting so many, shouldn’t there be more people in the waiting room? I’d think the place would be packed,” Reggie said.

“Yeah, I guess it was pretty frantic earlier. The staff sounded overwhelmed, plus there were the crazies running around. When we came up there were a bunch of people running across the parking lot. I don’t know what that was about.”

“So, why call in SWAT for a handful of unruly patients?” Reggie said.

“Well, let’s just say the Head Nurse got me on the phone and she was not a woman who takes no for an answer,” the commander said. “Besides, she said one thing that made a lot of sense.”

“What was that?” Reggie asked.

“She said ‘with a deadly virus sweeping the city, name one place more important than a hospital’. I couldn’t.”

 

The six SWAT officers adjusted masks and goggles and checked their radios. The masks were usually for situations where there was tear gas or pepper spray used, but they wore them now in hopes of avoiding the virus.

“Okay. We’re looking for five or more patients that are aggressive and dangerous. There’s already been a few incidents of violence. These people will be violent and non-compliant. We’re going to shout out our commands and everyone who doesn’t comply gets taken down, fast. No pepper spray. This is a damn hospital, for God’s sake. We’re ordered non-lethal. Everybody got that?”

The men in the masks all nodded. 

“Let’s form up.”

One man stepped forward, a large clear riot shield held in front of him. The others formed a line behind him. They held tasers and other weapons, many mounted with powerful lights. Each man had a carbine rifle or shotgun slung across their body, though they didn’t expect to use them.

They approached the glass doors of the ER, eyes scanning the waiting room inside. Reggie Logan saw the group of five people standing near the check-in desk, and the gurneys toward the back of the room. Something looked wrong. The people at the desk didn’t appear to be waiting in line, they just stood in a small, ragged group, almost randomly. Also, there was no staff anywhere. If the news could be believed, they were in the midst of the worst viral outbreak in the city’s history and the emergency room looked calm. Quiet even.

One of the men hurried up to the first set of glass doors and pulled one open. The man with the shield stepped through, moving fluidly, knees slightly bent and the rest of the men followed. Someone hurried forward and pulled open one of the inner glass doors. As the man with the shield stepped through, everything went to Hell. The figures near the desk turned almost in unison. A few of the team members began to shout for everyone to get on the ground. Only half of the men were through the doors when the people from the lobby started toward them. They rushed toward the SWAT team, reaching and grunting. The people from the lobby were crazed, unafraid as they attacked the officers. Aggressive was an understatement. One of the officers shouted, and there was a crackling sound as a taser went off. The man with the shield Shoved forward, toppling two men like bowling pins. One of the patients was trying to bite Reggie Logan. Suddenly the SWAT team was in a hand to hand brawl. There was the crackling of tasers as men shouted orders and information. Reggie put a wrist lock on the nearest man. A wrist lock was so painful that it almost always brought a person to their knees, but the patient in front of Reggie acted like it was nothing. One officer fell back, as a biting, sick looking patient bit down on his gloved hand. Thank God for kevlar gloves. Another officer had to resort to bashing one of his attackers with the butt of his shotgun. Two of the men managed to zip tie one of the attackers. Another was tackled to the ground. Zzzt. Another taser. They managed to zip tie another one, but the attackers just kept getting up. It was like they didn’t feel any pain. It was like fighting a whole gang of men on angel dust. Garcia, the man with the shield, managed to pin one of the attackers to the ground under his shield, but another jumped on his back. One of the other officers managed to grab that attacker and pin his arms long enough for someone else to get cuffs on him. The men had managed to cuff all of the attackers except one, who was still struggling with two officers. The ones who were already cuffed were trying to get to their feet and bite whoever they could reach.

“Get ‘em down. Tie their feet,” Reggie Logan yelled over the radio.

In moments, all of the people from the lobby were hog tied, bound ankles and wrists zip tied together behind their backs. They still snarled and struggled.

“Jesus, that virus is some serious shit,” one of the men said. “It’s like they’re on PCP, totally out of their heads.”

“No brain, no pain,” said another voice over the radio. With the masks on and all communication coming through the little earpieces, it was sometimes hard to tell who was talking.

The men were shaken. One had been bitten in the forearm, another had a nasty scratch on one leg. Behind their goggles and masks, Reggie Logan could see fear in their eyes

Reggie Logan just shook his head.

“Franks, Vincent, cover the stairs and the elevator. Drummond and Johnson watch the ER doors. I’m gonna get some answers.”

 

Reggie Logan radioed the commander who was monitoring the situation from the RV. 

“We were attacked by five people who seem to be totally out of their heads. No pain, no awareness, no fear. Like they were all on PCP or something, and that’s just the five people who were standing by the desk. One of the patients on the gurney is strapped down, but she’s fighting like a wildcat to get loose. The person on the other gurney appears to be dead. Look, just what the hell are we dealing with here?”

“Look,” the commander said. “The nurse I talked to, she said patients were dying, then they were coming back to life, attacking people. I assumed she was under a lot of stress, definitely exaggerating.”

There was silence over the radio, then Reggie Logan spoke again.

“Are you telling me we’re dealing with frickin’ zombies? Is that what you’re telling me!”

“Logan, listen,” the commander said. “The staff tried to tie down as many patients as they could. The ones that are still up, you take them down. I’m authorizing you guys to go lethal but, Goddamn, be careful. My ass is on the line just for authorizing this.”

 

Moments later Reggie Logan stood in front of his team and explained that the dead had risen, and they were pissed, and now it was their job to take them out. They were fighting the undead.

“Zombies! I knew it,” Vincent said.

He was the youngest of the team and he was into some of that horror movie stuff. The rest of the team just stood in mild shock.

“I thought they had, like, rotting flesh and ripped up clothes,” Garcia said.

“Not at first. That comes later,” Vincent said.

“Okay, zombie boy, exactly how do we fight these things?” Reggie Logan said.

“Ah. Well, you destroy their brains. Head shots, or you hit them in the skull with something very heavy or very sharp. Oh, and don’t let them bite you or …” He looked over at Drummond who had been bitten on the arm. “Oh man. Oh, Drummond. Look, shit, I only know what I seen in movies. That doesn’t mean …”

Drummond was shaking his head.

“I didn’t sign up for this crap.” He turned and started walking towards the door. “I didn’t sign up for zombies and this horror shit. If y’all want to fire me, or shoot me, or whatever, y’all go ahead. I’m outta here.”

Drummond walked out of the hospital.

“Anyone else feel like quitting?” Reggie Logan said, trying to make eye contact with the remainder of his team.

Nobody else did.

 

The team gathered over a floor plan of the hospital for a brief meeting on strategy. As they did, the world outside took a turn for the worse. There were more and more reports of crazy people wandering the streets, of violence, of shambling gangs roaming the city. A decision was made to move the Command Center into the ER lobby. The Incident Commander, the Assistant Commander, and the Communications Officer came in from the RV and set up the comm. equipment, then everyone pitched in to barricade the glass doors. The team adjusted their equipment, checked their weapons, and set off to clear the rest of the hospital. 

They went through the examination and operating rooms and found dozens of patients strapped to beds and tables, even chairs. Some were obviously sick from the virus, but still human. These ones begged and pleaded for medical help or to be let loose. Others were further along. Either they were deep into the virus, but still alive or they had died and come back. Either way their minds were pretty compromised. They were confused, or agitated, or they had murder in their eyes. Others had died and not yet turned, lying still in their beds, the only ones with a short respite of peace. There were carts overturned, gurneys left wherever they stopped rolling, and medical supplies strewn about.

The team moved on, though it was tough not to be horrified. They could feel the tension. It was like the squad was a rubber band stretched tight and ready to snap. A single zombie stumbled out of a side hallway fifteen feet in front of the team and they opened fire. There was a booming roar, a spray of blood, and the dead thing twisted and fell. Two men watched the side hallways while Reggie Logan stepped up to look at the zombie. It had three bullet holes in its chest and parts of its skull were missing. Blood was running out of its head making a sticky, dark mess on the floor.

 “Okay, two things. One, we don’t all have to shoot at every target,” Reggie said, pointing one toe at the corpse. “Second, If there’s only one, maybe we could use a taser?”

There was a brief discussion about modifying tactics and they set off again. Garcia led with the riot shield and Franks carried his taser at the ready while Logan, Vincent, and Johnson carried their M4a1 carbines at the ready. There were three zombies near the front entrance. One was a woman with a flower print dress, the other two were child-sized. Seeing them as people, in the clothes from their regular lives, that was the creepy thing. The team opened fire, taking down the woman but missing the smaller ones. Shooting a jerky, unpredictable, moving zombie in the head while it was coming at you to kill you was much harder than it looked on television. Vincent had to smash one on the head with the butt of his pistol, it was that close. One of the others shot the last child-zombie from close range. It was nerve wracking when the living dead got so close. They found two more zombies in one of the administrative offices. One had blood all over its shirt and tie, the other was missing part of one cheek. There was a brief struggle in the small room, but the zombies were killed. No one was bitten. 

More zombies were coming down the stairs, attracted by the sounds of gunfire. Eight zombies came after the team, who began to select targets and fire for the head. Three zombies went down, the others were getting too close, and Logan ordered everybody to retreat down the hallway. The team ran back a safe distance, regrouped, and started shooting again. Four more zombies went down and the last one managed to get to Garcia and grab his shield. He managed to keep it at arm’s length and shoot over his shield, putting a bullet into the thing’s face. 

The team checked the rest of the rooms and offices. All clear except for some rambunctious zombies that were locked in an exam room. The team could see them through a thick glass window, but it didn’t look like they could get out, so the team left them in there. No sense using up ammunition if they didn’t need to. The SWAT team barricaded the doors of the main entrance and headed for the stairs.

5: Secured

The second floor was even worse than the first. It was darker here, and eerily quiet. There were stretchers and gurneys strewn about the hallways. Many of the lights were off, others were broken, fluorescent covers hanging open and glass scattered on the floor. The team moved slowly, each member scanning their surroundings, weapons constantly moving. They stayed in line, following Garcia and his riot shield. Halfway down the first hallway, they had to pick their way through the broken glass and skewed stretchers. The patients on them were apparently dead. 

Then one suddenly reached over and grabbed Franks by the arm.

“Jesus!” Franks shouted, jumping back and banging into a cart full of equipment. There was a clatter as medical supplies hit the floor. Franks swung his gun toward the patient who was now leaning toward him, mouth open. Instinctively, he fired two shots into its torso. The zombie bucked and jerked against its restraints. Vincent stepped up and put the muzzle of his rifle near the thing’s face and fired. 

Officer Franks sat on his haunches, both hands on his helmet.

“Shit, man, shit,” Franks said. 

“You want to stop and change your underwear?” one of the others said.

“Screw you,” Franks said, still focused on the floor. 

Reggie Logan stepped in to the middle of the group.

“Okay, I know this is tough going, but it’s no better out there than it is in here. At least in here, some of  ‘em are strapped down. Out on the streets, things are gonna get out of hand, but fast,” Reggie said.

Franks got to his feet. He held his hand out in front of himself, and looked at them. They shook slightly, and he grabbed his weapon in both hands, hoping nobody would notice.

“Bastard just surprised me, is all,” Franks said.

They moved out, slowly. There were violent, thrashing zombies tied to beds in some rooms. Some rooms had their doors closed, and the team called out for any survivors to identify themselves. They heard only snarls and groans, so they moved on. They found a person screaming to be untied. The man was small, dark-skinned and he had a small stream of blood running out of his nose. He was still human, obviously sick, but what could they do? They ignored him and moved on. 

The team came around a corner and saw four zombies down the hall. As soon as they began to fire, the dead came at them. More zombies came up behind them. A roar of gunfire echoed off the hallways. Zombies grunted and snapped their jaws as they attacked. Reggie Logan had to pull out his pistol, one zombie was so close. It grabbed at his clothes and pulled him close. He used his body weight to turn the creature so that he wouldn’t be firing toward one of his teammates, then he put his pistol next to the thing’s head and fired. The zombie lunged again to bite him, but now it was missing much of its lower jaw. Reggie and the zombie got their feet tangled and reggie started to go over backwards. He aimed for the thing’s head and fired. Once. Twice. He landed on his back with the zombie on top of him. It wasn’t moving, but he felt its blood dripping down on him. He pushed it aside and scrambled to his feet. Garcia had a zombie on his back, trying to pull his helmet off. Reggie Logan blew the top of its head off.

The team stood in the midst of a half dozen dead zombies. Reggie Logan was covered with blood. Johnson’s mask was covered by a slight spray of blood and tiny pieces of bone and brain. Everybody had some blood or gore on them.

“Everyone okay?” Reggie said.

“Yep. We should check if anyone’s been bitten,” Vincent said.

Everybody looked themselves over.

“I had one trying to bite my forearm. He didn’t get through, though,” Garcia said, studying his arm.

“Garcia, don’t block their bites with your forearm! Man, you got Kevlar gloves on. Bite proof.” Vincent said, shaking his head.

They heard a noise. A thump, then something dragging. Thump. Swish. Thump. Swish. They went down the hallway until they saw it: a zombie dragging itself along the hallway. Just past it they could see the stairway and the elevators. 

“I got this one. First shot. Who wants to bet me?” Franks said.

“Just do it,” another voice said.

Franks stepped to the front of the group and got into his shooting stance. He stood there aiming at the approaching zombie. It limped toward them, dragging one mangled leg. Thump. Swish. Thump. Swish.

“Shoot it.”

“Shoot.”

Franks fired and the zombie’s head snapped back. It collapsed in a heap.

“Nice shot,” a voice said.

“Form up. Let’s keep moving,” Reggie Logan’s voice said over the radio.

They had taken only a few steps when they heard another sound. A distant growl, a low roar. 

“More incoming,” 

“A lot of them.”

The sound grew. It was coming from the stairs. Suddenly they saw a mass of zombies coming down the stairs from the third floor. They wore hospital scrubs, suits, and casual clothes. They stumbled and shambled and poured into the hallway. There were probably fifteen of them.

“Oh shit.”

The team hesitated. There were too many zombies. Logan called for everyone to start backing up, back to the last hallway. The men were suddenly wondering if they would have to run.

“I go. I go,” Vincent said.

The rest of the team passed him on their retreat. They hesitated, looking back at him. What the hell was he doing?

Vincent dropped to his stomach and took aim down the hallway.

“Vincent!” Reggie Logan said.

Fifteen zombies were headed toward the man lying flat on his stomach and aiming down the hallway. The zombies were about thirty yards away, and moving as fast as their compromised neuromuscular systems would let them.

Vincent started to fire, and he was not aiming at their heads. Instead he fired a steady stream of bullets toward the knee caps of the oncoming mob. He swept his M4 back and forth. Zombies began to fall. Others stumbled over the fallen ones. Vincent kept firing. More zombies fell. When his rifle clicked on empty, he got up and ran back towards the rest of the team. Reggie Logan was standing by the corner of the hallway. As Vincent approached, Logan dropped to his stomach. He started firing as soon as Vincent passed him. A second later, Logan came around the corner and waved everyone back. The team regrouped and prepared for the zombies to round the corner. 

Five zombies appeared around the corner and the men opened fire. A bullet went through the last zombie’s brain when it was just two feet in front of the group.

 

Zombies were crawling toward them from the area of the stairs. Their shredded knees and bullet-riddled legs trailed behind them as they pulled themselves along the floor. They left crimson trails like huge bloody snails. 

“Garcia, Johnson, take out the rest of them. Franks watch our six,” Reggie Logan said.

Garcia and Johnson took a few steps down the hallway and began firing at the dead crawling their way. The team leader turned to Vincent.

“Don’t know how you thought of taking out their knees, slowing ‘em down, but that may have saved our tails,” Logan said.

Vincent just shrugged. 

Within minutes the rest of the zombies had been dispatched and the team headed for the stairs. They had to step over and around all the dead zombies, taking care not to slip in the little pools and streams of blood.

 

On the third floor, the team took out more scattered zombies. They were working more as a team now: coordinated, communicating, efficient. They were getting over their initial horror and disbelief. Each man had to detach himself from all that and do his job. It wasn’t easy, but they were trained for that. Each man fought for the team now, for the men around him.

Most of the lights were still on up here. It looked like the staff had just walked away. As if they would be back at any minute and everything would go back to normal. It was creepy. 

The team found a lot of closed doors with someone, or something, bumping repeatedly against the inside. Thud, thud, thud. The sound echoed around the empty halls - all those creatures rhythmically throwing themselves against the insides of the doors. The team called out for anyone still alive, but they only heard the thumping grow faster and more frantic. They found a few roaming undead and took them out.

In the last hallway they found a security guard sprawled on his back in a pool of blood, chunks of flesh had been torn off of his face and torso.

Garcia stopped, his pistol covering the corpse while he peered over his riot shield.

“I go,” Johnson said.

He stepped past the others and approached the corpse, carbine trained on its head.

“Aw shit, this guy was on the job. I worked with him a few years ago. Damn,” Johnson said.

The dead man’s eyes fluttered open.

“He’s alive. He’s still alive,” Johnson said.

The man on the floor let out a low moan.

“Franks, do it,” Reggie Logan said.

Franks started forward, but Johnson put a hand on his chest stopping him.

“We can get a doctor. We can …”

Franks tried to get past Johnson, who shoved him backwards. The man on the floor struggled onto his side. It looked at the armed men standing nearby with eyes that were dead and empty. 

“We’re going up to that conference room and we’re going to find a doctor …” Johnson was saying.

Behind him, the man on the floor sat up. Garcia stepped to his right and began firing with his pistol. Johnson threw himself at Garcia’s shield and shoved him into the far wall. Garcia’s last few shots went wildly down the hallway.

Reggie Logan grabbed Johnson’s arm, bending his wrist painfully toward his forearm. He put out one leg and pulled Johnson over it, sending the big man sprawling toward the floor. He and Garcia were on Johnson’s back as soon as he hit the ground.

“Franks, shoot,” Logan yelled.

Franks took aim and fired two bursts into the dead man’s head.

Logan and Garcia got off of Johnson and let him up off the floor. Nothing was said, but Johnson was quiet after that, and wouldn’t look the rest of them in the eyes.

The team searched the last hallway. Other than a lot of raving zombies strapped in their beds, the place was clear. 

 

They proceeded to the stairs and found a tangle of heavy furniture blocking the access up to the next floor. Two of them stood guard while the others moved enough furniture so that they each could squeeze past the barricade and up to the fourth floor. They prowled the fourth floor, finding that it was deserted except for zombies tied to beds. Their growling and thrashing was getting tiresome, but the team didn’t have the ammunition to put them all out of their misery. They found Nurse Hall and the others huddled in one of the conference rooms. The fourth floor was clear.

Reggie Logan checked in with the commander. Outside the hospital, the city was going crazy. Violence and chaos was escalating out of control.

“Well, now what?” Garcia asked. “We barricaded ourselves in. We’re trapped in this building.”

“Yeah, we’re trapped in a building full of medical supplies, and down in the cafeteria I bet there’s enough food to feed us all for a week,” Vincent said.

6: Unprepared

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

Jack McAffrey never expected an apocalypse. He didn’t go in for all that zombie stuff, and he thought those doomsday prepper types were a little crazy. 

On the last morning of his life, Jack pulled out of his hotel north of Harrisburg and merged onto highway 22. He  checked his rearview mirror as he entered the highway. There was nobody on the highway behind him. That’s when he realized there were no cars heading south. He was the only one. Jack got a strange, prickly feeling that something was wrong. He glanced at the clock on his dashboard. It was ten minutes to six. Jack had been selling copy machines in Central Pennsylvania for eight years. He had been to Harrisburg dozens of times. Even at this hour there should be commuters heading toward downtown. Harrisburg was the state capitol, an industrial hub. Where was everyone? 

Jack tapped his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. When he saw himself doing it, he reached for his coffee in the center console. At least the coffee mug kept one hand occupied. Driving on an empty freeway was weird, really weird. Jack wished he had listened to the news last night. Instead he had worked on his presentation until well past eleven, then he had gone to bed. 

Jack looked over at the Susquehanna River, which ran parallel to the highway on his right. In the early morning darkness the river was a somber, black ribbon winding between small, scrubby islands. The highway crested a small rise, and Jack glanced at the northbound lanes. He saw a solid mass of cars, then looked more closely. A pile up of several cars, with more stretching out behind them as far as he could see. He instinctively hit the brake, slowing for a better look. As he did, his eyes flitted up to the rearview mirror, but there was nobody behind him. It was just a habit, an automatic thing that people did when they tapped their brakes, but seeing the empty highway in his rearview mirror was unsettling. 

The accident in the northbound lane involved several cars. They were strewn haphazardly amid a sea of glittering, broken glass and curling smoke. Where were the police? The EMTs? The cars lined up behind the accident were abandoned, and that was a concept that Jack almost couldn’t handle. What in the world could have happened to cause that? As the question went through Jack’s head, he realized that he might not want to know the answer. 

Jack looked forward. There were cars up ahead, but he didn’t see any taillights. As he got closer, he could tell they were stopped. Abandoned. 

He slowed his car to a stop about fifty yards behind the stationary cars. Some had doors open, a few were still running. A cold chill ran down the back of Jack’s neck. He felt like he was the last person on Earth.

His nervous hands fumbled with the window controls until his window went down. He leaned out and sniffed the air, ready to run the window back up if he smelled some deadly gas or something. The air smelled of exhaust fumes, nothing more. 

Jack sat for a moment wondering what he should do. Both lanes were blocked and so was the shoulder. Concrete pillars and steel guardrails made the median inaccessible. There was a grassy strip just past the shoulder on the right side of the road, but there were abandoned cars even there. Going forward was not an option. As for going back, that would mean turning around and driving the wrong way back up the highway. If a car came over that last hill before he got to the top, he would be a dead man. Besides, driving the wrong way on a deserted highway, that just seemed so wrong. Stay with your vehicle, that’s what they always said. Stay with your vehicle in case of an emergency. Wait until help arrives. But it was pretty obvious that help was not on the way. Jack thought of what he had in his trunk in case of an emergency. He assumed the spare tire was good, but it’s not like he ever checked it. He should have blankets, or flares, or something, but he didn’t have any of that. He had a pair of tennis shoes and probably not much else.

The door opened with a creak and Jack stepped out cautiously. He stood there between the open door and the car, looking at the cars and listening. In the distance there was a siren blaring, and further up the road he could see red and blue flashing lights. He could see a police car up there, but there was nobody around it. 

“Hello? Hello? Anyone out there?” Jack called out.

There was no answer.

Jack reached into his car and honked the car horn. Nothing. He leaned on the horn, eyes scanning the road ahead. Nothing moved, and his slim hopes of finding help evaporated. Jack walked to the front of his car, his eyes never leaving the twin rows of abandoned cars extending out ahead of him. He walked between the columns of cars, his dress shoes shuffling on the concrete. He wasn’t exactly dressed for climbing or walking, his shirt and tie made him feel stiff and awkward. 

He could hear the thumping of a car stereo but he couldn’t tell which car it was coming from. The driver’s door was open on the car just ahead of him. Jack walked up and peered warily inside. The car wasn’t running, but the keys were still in the ignition. Weird. He stood up and scanned the cars. Then he saw it: movement. There was someone in one of the cars. He could see a person’s head bobbing forward and back. Headbanging, wasn’t that what the kids called it? He didn’t hear the music. The person must have headphones on. That explains why they didn’t hear him honking. Jack walked toward the car. Just knowing he wasn’t alone made him feel much better. 

He walked along the side of the car and stepped up next to the driver’s window. The head bobbed back and forth, unaware that he was standing there. Jack knocked on the window. The person in the car turned and glared at Jack with a look that made him reel backwards. He bounced off another car and almost fell. The person had looked at him with a look that was … inhuman. Jack could hear the person pounding on the inside of the driver’s side window as he backed away. His heart hammered in his chest. That wasn’t a person he had seen in the car, it was a thing, like some sort of animal wearing a person’s skin. He backed up some more, wondering how strong the glass was in that window, when he saw movement up ahead. 

Someone was walking between the cars, coming his way. The person was too far to make out clearly in the predawn darkness, but something about the shadowy figure was all wrong. The way they walked: a stumbling, awkward gait, and one arm banged against the cars’ mirrors as it progressed. 

“Hey … ,” Jack yelled, but he had no idea what to say after that.

Jack was a large man, though more and more of his weight was gathering around his mid-section these days. He didn’t exactly have time to work out much, and he had never particularly been a fighter. Jack decided to head back toward his car. He could lock himself in. That was the safest move. He kept his eyes on the figure coming at him and he backed toward his car, heart still pounding.

When the approaching figure was about forty yards away, it finally stepped into the light. Jack saw the thing’s face, and the panic began to rise inside him. It was a person - but it wasn’t. The staggering thing’s face was curled into a snarl, and Jack could see blood on its chin. The look in its eyes was pure evil. Jack turned and began to run. He ran around the back of the nearest car and turned left, toward the shoulder of the road and the grassy strip beyond it. He glanced back and saw that the thing was moving faster, not quite running, but shambling along as fast as it could move. 

Jack reached the grass and saw a chain link fence beyond it. The fence was probably about eight feet high. Past that were a few streets and buildings and then the river. Jack was out of breath by the time he reached the fence. His heart felt like it would pound its way out of his ribcage. He grabbed onto the fence and began to climb, an overweight salesman totally out of his element. His necktie snagged on the top of the fence. As he worked to tug it loose, he could hear the thing that was chasing him. A low, deep angry growl was coming out of the thing. It was a sound that no human should be able to make. Jack tried to get one leg over the top of the fence. He wasn’t the most flexible guy, and for a moment he just hung up there as he tried to get over the top. He couldn’t catch his breath. He thought about being pulled down, unable to breathe, unable to fight. Somehow he got over the fence and started down the other side. His good shoes slipped against the smooth chain links. Then the thing hit the fence, arms reaching for him, but grabbing only chain links. Their faces were just a few inches apart. Zombies, Jack thought, there really are zombies. The creature leaned in and tried to bite him, but got the fence instead. He felt its hot, stinking breath, the flecks of spit flying from its jaws. Jack heard the thing growl, heard its jaws clack together and its teeth grind against the metal links. 

Jack let go of the fence and fell backwards. He hit the ground hard, turned, and headed for the nearest building, across the street. He saw more of the zombie-things off to his left. Their skin was grey and rotting. Lesions had begun to claim the near one’s face.

The zombies saw him running and started to chase. Jack started across the street with the zombies in pursuit. He was having trouble getting a breath. It felt like one of those huge South American snakes was coiled around his chest, squeezing him. 

Halfway across the street, Jack was stumbling more than running. He couldn’t get a breath, and the pain in his chest was growing, expanding. He managed to reach the sidewalk. There was a steel door on the side of the building. Jack reeled toward it. He could hear the zombies close behind him. He hit the steel door with a thump, but everything was going grey and the pain inside him was unbearable. He raised his hand to knock on the door just as something grabbed him from behind. Jack’s world began to spin and he fell to the ground. Dead.

 

7: Starting Over

South Dakota

Seven people huddled in the little visitor center at Bad River National Grasslands. They peered through the windows at the ravenous dead things wandering around out in the dirt parking lot. Sixteen year old Johnny Redhawk and his little brother Levi crouched near the others, trying to stay quiet and out of sight. When everyone started getting sick, their uncle had shown up at their place. He had helped the two boys pack up the old backpacks they used for camping. He had given them the cash in his wallet, and had loaned them his car. Johnny and his brother knew where to go. Bad River was a wide open place with streams and buttes and little patches of trees. There were damn few people there, even in the tourist season. Their Uncle had taken them there when they were younger: camping, hiking, and sleeping out under the stars. He had always said it was Indian Country, land that should rightfully be theirs. Now, Johnny and the others hid in the visitor center while the hungry dead roamed just outside.

Johnny looked at the other people clustered around the room. There was a man and a woman, a white couple, toward the front window. They were crouched behind one of the displays, keeping it between them and the window. There was an older woman, a native like him, with a daughter about eighteen. They were behind the big information desk on the other side of the room. Then there was an older man probably in his sixties, hiding behind the post right next to the front door. His name was Ben Spotted Bear; Johnny knew him from the Reservation. He knew that Ben volunteered here at the National Grasslands, just a few miles off the Cheyenne River Reservation that Johnny called home. Ben had a radio on his belt and held a heavy crowbar in his hands. He was the only one armed.

“Ben, can’t you call someone?” Johnny asked, nodding toward the radio on his belt.

Ben turned toward Johnny and his brother. 

“My boss is one of those,” Ben said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

    

Outside, about a dozen zombies stood scattered around the parking lot, their feet shuffling in the hot dust. The nearest was probably twenty yards, and a few had wandered toward the far part of the lot, about forty yards away. One had a green ranger’s uniform, the rest had shorts and t-shirts. One still carried a canvas grocery store bag with a pair of flip flops sticking out the top. That was creepy. 

Johnny and his brother were the farthest from the parking lot, on the other side of the room, using a stairwell for cover. From the shadow of the stairwell Johnny could see most of the zombies, including one that had fresh blood smeared on its chin and a t-shirt that said “Phish”. It had wide, staring eyes that made his skin crawl. The zombies just stood there, drooling and sniffing at the hot summer air. 

Inside, everyone knew that any sound would bring the dead things after them. It was a standoff, and the zombies had time on their side. They could stand there seemingly forever, waiting, while the humans inside could only stay silent, stay still, for so long.

The woman behind the desk sniffed quietly through her tears. The clock above the desk ticked loudly. The tension in the room was thick. They hoped the zombies would go away, though they knew they were just waiting to die.

 

Johnny whispered to his brother and then stepped out from the stairwell. He saw Ben’s eyes go wide as the older man watched him. The look Ben threw at the younger man was clear. What are you doing? You’ll get us all killed!

Johnny slid open one of the display cases and pulled out something that looked like a stick about two feet long. He walked to the front door. Ben had left the key in the lock when he had locked the doors, and now Johnny turned the key and stepped outside. Someone gasped. Someone else let out a small whimper. Johnny was out there, with the dead things. Ben reached up, pulled the door shut, and locked it.

 

The door closed with a click and several zombies turned toward Johnny. For a split second, no one moved. The zombies looked at Johnny with a mixture of malice and hunger. Then, suddenly, zombies were lurching toward him. Johnny sprang into action, carrying the old stick. He raced toward the nearest zombie and tapped it on the head, then he juked to his right, avoiding a pair of dead, bloody arms, and tapped another one. He managed to rush around another groaning, grinning zombie and tap the stick on its shoulder.

“What the hell is he doing?” 

Johnny was a blur of motion. Rushing, spinning, faking one way, then going the other. He ran from one zombie to another, touching each one with the old stick. There were only a few he hadn’t tapped, the ones that had been at the far end of the lot, but they were closing in fast. He approached one, head-faked left, then stepped right. The zombie grabbed his wrist, it’s broken teeth clacking together and blood seeping from its mouth. For a moment, there was a stalemate as the zombie pulled one way and Johnny pulled the other, trying to free his hand. He whapped the zombie on the head with his stick; the zombie tried to bite it. Johnny used the distraction to turn, wrist still in the grasp of the monster, and kick the zombie behind the knee. The thing sank to the ground as Johnny pulled his wrist free. Another zombie was on him, but Johnny managed to duck under its outstretched arms and touch the thing’s skull with his stick. 

“That kid is crazy. He’s going to get himself -“ the white man in the visitor center said. He realized what he had said and looked toward Johnny’s brother, Levi. “Sorry.”

Johnny dashed and spun like a running back avoiding tacklers. There was only one more that Johnny hadn’t tapped, and now he had to rush through the crowd of them to complete his set. One of the zombies managed to grab his shirt, but he twisted free, pushed another to the ground, and grabbed a third zombie by both wrists. He shoved hard, knocking the zombie back into the others, and toppling three of them like bowling pins. The last one came at him fast, but Johnny sidestepped, trailing his stick along the dead thing’s decaying face as it went past. 

 

In the Visitor Center, Levi Redhawk stood at the glass door and watched his brother. He told himself he wouldn’t cry, and so he stood there battling tears while his brother raced through the crowd of  hungry dead outside. As he watched, Levi saw his brother separate from the mob of zombies and start to run away from the building. He took off into the distance, and Levi didn’t know where. Tears started to stream down his cheeks as Ben Spotted Bear pulled him down behind the post. 

 

Johnny ran across the road and headed up a grassy hill on the other side. Several of the zombies took off after him, though a few stopped near the road, looking back at the Visitor Center. Johnny made a big loop and ran back past the stragglers, shouting as he went. As the last of the zombies gave chase, Johnny accelerated in a wide arc, heading across the road again. By now, every zombie was after him. He sprinted up the hill and headed for a deep ravine lined with trees and shrubs. He disappeared into the ravine with nearly a dozen hungry zombies close behind.

 

It was quiet in the Visitor Center. Everybody came out of their hiding places and stood near the front windows, looking out at the suddenly empty landscape around them. 

“What the hell was that kid doing?” the white man asked.

“Counting coup,” Ben said. “In the old times, our bravest warriors would use a stick, or something, to touch an armed opponent. If you could do it, and get away with it, it was considered really brave. If another warrior could confirm it, someone might give you eagle feathers for each coup. You see the top warriors, with the feather headdresses, that’s where they come from,” Ben said, pointing to a nearby display.

The white man peered through thick glasses, first at Ben, then at the display. His wife stood next to him, looking confused, her mouth slightly open.

“Well, what now?” the Native American woman asked, holding her daughter close to her.

Most of them had the urge to run for their cars, to speed out of there, but nobody wanted to be the kind of calloused, selfish jerks who abandoned the others at the first opportunity. Levi wiped his nose on his sleeve and made little chuffing sounds. What about the kid? The rest of them couldn’t just run for their cars and leave him here, alone. 

“Even if we did get to our cars, where would we go?” the white woman said.

“From what I heard, every town, every city is in real bad shape. Traffic jams, problems, lots of zombies,” Ben said.

There was silence as everyone stared out the window, wondering what to do next. Nobody said anything about Johnny, as if he was already dead and to speak of him would be somehow disrespectful. 

Levi had wiped away the tears. He was looking out the window with the others, trying to keep his head up. Ben turned to him.

“Hey, you feel like a soda? I’m gonna get me one. Machine’s under the stairs there,” Ben said.

Levi nodded, and Ben went to the front door and removed the key. He held the ring of keys at arm’s length, studying them, then chose the key to the vending machine.

“Anyone else? They’re on me,” Ben said.

 

They stood there sipping on their carbonated beverages. All around them were big plexiglass cases containing signs and displays about native plants, about geology, about local history. None of it seemed relevant now. The zombies hadn’t come back, which was a bad sign for Johnny, but a good sign for the rest of them. The simple, familiar act of having a can of soda seemed to help, as if there was still something normal left in the world.

“Well, we should figure out where to go … ,” the white man said.

“I’m not sure if we should go anywhere,” the native woman said. “We’re safe here, and this man has a radio.”

“I have a sister in Pierre.” The other woman said, hopefully.

She looked toward Ben, who just shook his head slightly. The news out of Pierre hadn’t been good.

“We have some crackers, and a cooler with some  -.” 

Just then something hit one of the windows and everybody jumped. Somebody screamed and the young girl dove down below the level of the windows. There was a rhythmic banging on one of windows. Levi looked up to the second floor landing, above the stairwell. Johnny Redhawk stood on the balcony outside, knocking on the wide glass door. Levi ran up the stairs and opened the door for his brother.

 

Johnny started down the stairs with his brother close behind. 

“The zombies, where are they?” someone asked.

“They’re probably a mile up that ravine by now. They probably think I’m still running that way,” Johnny said. 

He came down the stairs and everyone gathered around him, still holding the coup stick.

“You musta counted, what, a dozen of them things?” Ben said.

“Eleven,” the other man said.

“Yeah, eleven,” Johnny said, handing the stick to Ben.

“Wish I had some eagle feathers for you,” Ben said. Instead he handed Johnny the crowbar.

Everybody stood looking at Johnny, waiting for whatever was next.

“Well, me and my brother, we got backpacks with food and other stuff. We’re going up onto Heart Butte. We got bows for hunting and there’s lots of deer around there. Plus there’s only one trail goin’ up there, and if any zombies came it would be real easy to defend.”

Everybody stood there, weighing various potential futures in their minds.

“No people over there, so probably not many zombies, if any,” Ben said. “I’d go, if you’re offering.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “We could all be safe there. Make a new start.”

“Is it far? I’m not in the best shape for hiking,” the native woman said, holding her daughter’s hand.

“A couple miles. We’ll go slow. It’s not too tough.”

The woman nodded and looked at her daughter. They were in. All eyes turned toward the white couple who looked awkward, unsure of what to do, or whether they even fit in.

“Are you in? There’s plenty of room up there,” Johnny said.

“Uh, yes,” the man said, reaching out to shake Johnny’s hand, “thank you.”

 

Johnny Pulled his uncle’s rusty old Monte Carlo out of the parking lot and stopped on the road, waiting for the others. 

“We’re going to be okay,” Johnny said to his brother.

“Hell yeah,” Levi replied. He gave his big brother a sidelong glance. “We got this.”

A small foreign car pulled into the road behind them, followed by a shiny SUV. A few moments later Ben Spotted bear turned his faded red pickup truck into the road, bringing up the rear. Everyone was ready. Johnny led them through the park roads to a sketchy dirt road that turned off the main route. They all followed Johnny and his dust cloud up the dirt road a short distance and stopped at an old, orange gate that closed the road to further travel. Everyone gathered whatever they could use from their cars: food, blankets, water. Johnny slid around the gate and the others followed. 

Off in the distance they could see Heart Butte. It looked like a mountain with its top torn off. The top was flat and green, an island protruding from a sea of native grass and clumps of silver sage brush. If it wasn’t safe up there, then no place was. They followed the road for a few hundred yards before turning off on a thin trail that headed off into the tall grass. 

 

An hour later they entered a stand of tall trees near the base of the butte. Johnny turned and scanned the grasslands. He saw nobody, living or dead, as far as he could see. It was quiet except for the occasional grasshopper landing on the dry stalks of grass. Some of the grassy stalks had gone brown in the summer heat, but a lot were still green. He could still see a few of the thin,  colorful native flowers that had managed to survive the heat and drought. Tough, bright things that survived on almost nothing. He turned and followed the others, the crowbar stuck in his belt.

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

    

    

 

 

8: Omar

City of Juba, Republic of South Sudan

When the sickness got bad, Omar Ansala gathered up his things and left. He had been sharing a room with four other people in a house in downtown Juba. He didn’t mind the crowded space, for that was life in Juba, but the sickness was another thing. Two of his roommates were very sick, one ranted loudly and incoherently, the other confused and violent. Both were sweating, pale, miserable. Some said that people were dying of the sickness. Omar was not about to to catch it, whatever it was. He stuffed his meager possessions into his battered suitcase and walked out.

Omar was no longer a young man. His short curly hair was nearly white, and he stooped slightly when he walked. He stood on the narrow sidewalk, studying the city around him. The stores all had their security gates pulled down and locked.Everything was closed, but the city was far from quiet. Cars roared past, and a man hurried by him carrying a small television. In the distance he heard horns honking and … something else. He paused to listen. He heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

Omar wondered if everyone had gone crazy. Clearly, the city was not a safe place for an old man like him. He at the aging shops and ramshackle businesses as more cars rushed down the street. Omar knew where to go.

 

The garbage dump was empty and quiet, just as Omar had expected. He squatted on a mound of old junk and refuse, his handkerchief tied around his face. Omar considered this his place, and he knew it like the back of his hand. Nearly two years ago he had lost his job at the warehouse. Too old, they said. Too feeble, they said. The only job Omar could find was collecting aluminum at the dump. Day after day, he dug through the piles, looking for foil and other aluminum containers. When he had enough, he would bundle it with twine and put it all together. Most days, a man with an old truck would come and collect Omar’s bundles. The man didn’t pay much, but it was something. If the man didn’t come, Omar had to haul the grimy bundles to the house he shared, bringing it all back the next day. The man didn’t pay much, but Omar was very committed to his new job, and he searched diligently.

Omar spent the whole day there, gathering his shiny metal and watching the artificial terrain around him. Birds pecked at assorted pieces of garbage and the occasional rat scurried between piles, but there were no people. Even the other collectors were missing. The smells of rotting food and dirty junk hovered all around him. Omar had the peace he had been looking for, but now the peace and quiet were making him uncomfortable. As the day went on, he looked around more and more often. There was more and more gunfire coming from the direction of town. 

Late in the day, Omar stopped to rest, the sweat plastering the shirt to his thin back. In the distance, something shifted. He heard the clatter of cans, then voices. Omar was suddenly nervous, though he didn’t know why. He looked around for a weapon, but could find only a wooden spoon. It would have to do. Omar crouched low, looking toward the sounds he had heard.

Two small boys came over a nearby hill. Omar relaxed; the boys were pickers, like him. He stood and waved. 

The boys, Musa and Gante, tromped down the far hill and then up the hill where Omar waited, the garbage crunching and shifting beneath their feet. They were of the Dinka tribe, like Omar, very dark-skinned and thin. One of the boys, Musa was nearly ten, a few inches taller than the other. He had short black hair and large, sad eyes. Gante was smaller and skinny with long, bony arms. His head looked big on such a small body.

“Ahh. I am glad to see you both looking healthy. You don’t work today?” Omar said.

“No. The town has gone wild. Everything has turned bad and dangerous,” the taller one, Musa said.

“We thought the dead would not be able to smell us here,” the other boy said.

Omar stared at the boy, then at the other one. A jumble of smells swirled around them as the wind shifted.

“What do you mean, the dead won’t find you here? You mean the sickness?” Omar asked.

“No, the dead men. When they die they do not lie down, they get up and walk,” Musa said.

Omar crouched down and held Musa by the shoulders, their faces close.

“Who told you this?” Omar said, shaking Musa slightly.

“No one. We have seen them. We have been running all day, hiding. Then we thought to come here, where they cannot smell us,” Musa said.

“We will wait here until the soldiers shoot them all,” the smaller boy said.

As if to prove the boy’s point, gunfire rang out in the distance. Omar stood up, looking toward town. He pulled his handkerchief down and listened. A long string of small explosions went off, echoing off the nearby buildings. Omar turned to the two boys.

“Let’s get to work, boys. Busy hands make the time pass, Idle minds just make more trouble.”

 

The three of them worked for over an hour, Omar looking over his shoulder frequently. In the distance he heard something: the sound of footsteps approaching. Omar tapped each boy on the shoulder, holding his finger to his lips in a gesture of quiet. The three of them huddled behind a high mound, waiting. 

Moments later, one of the dead men stepped into view. It walked unevenly, a few fast, reeling steps then some short shuffling steps to regain its balance. Then it would lurch several steps, looking like it might fall over.

Omar was frightened, overwhelmed by the sight of the dead man. It was as if everything he knew about the world was suddenly wrong. He ducked behind cover and said a quiet prayer, for the boys, and for himself. Another dead thing wandered into view, this one a woman. She had a line of bloody bullet holes across the front of her blouse, and one of her eyes was missing. Omar had never imagined anything so horrible. He turned and ran blindly, followed a split second later by the two boys. They ran away from the zombies, west, leaving the garbage dump behind. 

Omar ran as fast as his rickety old legs would carry him, the two small boys running slightly ahead of him. After about a half mile, Omar stopped, panting. He turned and looked back, hands on his hips. None of the dead were in sight. Omar sat down behind a sturdy shrub, his hand on his heaving chest. Musa and Gante walked back to stand near him. Omar eventually caught his breath and stood, watching the landscape of garbage hills behind them.

“I think we lost them,” Omar said.

It was beginning to dawn on Omar that this was all part of God’s plan. Somehow the evil had been punished, and the rest had survived.

God had spared him and the boys as well. They had so much ahead of them, and he had so little. He knew that Gante’s parents had died in the war with the Arabs, up north. Musa’s father had disappeared during the fighting with another tribe.

“Musa, where is your mother?” Omar asked.

Gante shook his head quickly, as if wanting to stop the question from happening.

Musa crossed his arms over his chest, then turned his back to Omar. Omar tried to put a hand on the child’s shoulder, but Musa pulled away. Omar felt sad. He had seen wars over religion, wars over territory, wars between tribes. Now there was war with the dead. These boys had lost so much already, and now this.

“Where will we go? What will we do?”

Gante looked up at Omar.

Omar looked around. They were past the outskirts of town, in an area of low shrubs and sprawling trees. Then things became clear to Omar. God’s plan was clear, if only people would see it.

“Bosa. We go to Bosa. It’s only a few kilometers, there’s a church there.”

 

The tiny village of Bosa was hot, dry, and dusty.  Omar and his small friends crouched in the low shrubs and studied the town. 

“If anything happens, I want you boys to run fast and far. Run into the woods and hide from the dead men. Don’t worry about me, just go,” Omar said.

The two boys looked at him with their big, dark eyes. They nodded slightly.

The three of them stepped out of the bush and entered the town. They moved quickly, quietly. One block. Two. They came upon a woman huddled in a doorway, her eyes wide, her body shaking. Omar tried to talk to her, but the woman just nodded. He reached out to hug her and the woman flinched. Omar took her by the hand and led the little group along the street.

At the end of the third block, a zombie suddenly stepped into their path. Its eyes were full of rage as it reached for Omar, taking hold of his shirt. Omar grabbed its wrists. For a moment, the two creatures were locked in a stiff and violent dance. One of the boys stepped up, pummeling the dead thing’s arm with his little fists. Omar yelled at the boys to run. He and the dead thing swung each other in a tight circle. Living and dead together in a dance of death. The dead man leaned in, teeth dripping with rotting saliva. Omar twisted his arms and pushed with all his might. The dead thing stumbled and fell.

“Run!” Omar cried.

He and the two boys began to run, his arthritic knees wobbling slightly. Omar glanced over his shoulder. The woman stood rooted to the spot back in the street, several yards behind him. 

“Run,” Omar shouted.

As Omar looked on, one of the zombies tackled the woman to the ground, its teeth ripping into her neck. Blood spurted into the air in a sickening fountain. Omar, turned and ran, his heart heavy in his chest.

 

Two more zombies stepped into the street. Omar kept running, one of the things grabbing his shirt as he went past. He saw one of the boys duck past the other dead man’s outstretched arms. Omar pulled free from the thing’s grasp and kept running. More zombies were joining the chase. Omar made sure both boys were still with him as he headed for the church. He had lost the woman, but he was not going to lose the boys. 

“The church! Run to the church! Get inside!” Omar yelled.

The two boys sped past him, headed for the tall, whitewashed structure ahead.

Omar ran, hoping that he was faster than the dead men. 

 

The zombies caught up to Omar on the church steps. He felt rough hands and sharp fingernails and then he was being pulled back. He swung his arms in a panic, lashing out as he felt himself being dragged down the steps. Just then a man rushed out of the church holding a long-handled garden spade. The man swung the spade, hitting one of the dead men across the face. The spade swung a second time and suddenly Omar was free. He ran up the steps as a slight young woman stepped out, shovel in hand. Omar ran past her into the church. Seconds later, the man and the woman stepped back into the church, slamming the door behind them.

 

 

 

 

9: Losing It

Suburbs of Amarillo, Texas

 

Dealing with zombies was more about hiding than fighting, when it came right down to it. That’s why Sark was crouched behind a dumpster, watching the alley. Her real name was Stephanie Sarkisian, but people had been calling her Sark since she was in high school.

Sark had just turned twenty. She was about five nine, with dark eyes and black hair about nape length. Black boots, black gloves, and a black leather jacket completed her outfit. She wore a dark colored backpack. On her belt she wore a foot-long knife on her left side and a solid steel viking-style sword on the other. 

Sark watched the alley, making sure that no zombies had been alerted by the closing of the heavy steel door behind her. She was about to stand up when a door across the street suddenly swung open. Sark tucked herself further behind the dumpster and watched as two men came out. One wore camouflage pants and an olive drab shirt. He may have been mistaken for a soldier except that his pants were brand new, clean, and creased from being fresh out of a box. Sark knew that nothing stayed clean and new in this world for very long. The other man wore jeans and a dark shirt with long sleeves. The faux soldier had a pistol on his belt, while the other man had some sort of sword strapped to his back.

The men scanned the street and then started walking down the middle. They passed several yards in front of Sark, but never saw her. She let them go past, staying in her hiding spot. Sark could take care of herself; she didn’t particularly need company. As they went down the street, she studied the sword on the one man’s back. Some sort of katana. She wondered if he knew how to use it. She also noticed that neither man wore gloves, or anything to protect their heads. Newbies, she thought, they won’t last long.

The men were only about twenty five yards away when the zombies attacked. First there were only two, but then two more stepped out of the alley. 

One of the men pulled his pistol, while the other unsheathed his sword. The man with the pistol began to fire. The zombies charged. The man with the sword flailed around with it. Sark noticed that his grip was all wrong and he was swinging it like a baseball bat. Shots rang out until the pistol went empty. The men were backing toward Sark, moving fast.

Damn it, Sark thought. She knew she couldn’t just sit by and watch. She got to her feet, pulling a motorcycle helmet from behind the dumpster and sliding it over her head. In another step she was out in the street, sword in hand. She charged forward, grabbing the pistol guy with her left hand and pulling him back out of the reach of a surprised zombie. She turned, stuck out one foot, and tripped him as she pulled. The man went sprawling to the street. Her sword leapt forward and sunk deep into the first zombie’s face. As that one fell, another zombie was coming forward. Sark used the flat of her sword to knock its hands down and out of the way. Her backswing sliced through its skull from temple to temple. 

The man with the sword was face to face with another zombie. It was a mean one, stinking and gangrenous, grabbing the man’s arms and trying to bite his face. The man had his hands on the zombie’s throat, trying to keep its teeth from his face. Dark, sickly blood pumped out of a slashed vein on the zombie’ s arm, covering the man’s chest. Sark stabbed the zombie in the side of the head. In almost the same motion, she turned toward the last zombie who was reaching its greenish, dirty hands toward her. She grabbed one of its arms, turned it and pushed; the zombie was now facing away from her. Sark stepped on the back of the thing’s knee, collapsing its leg with a crunching pop. The zombie fell face first to the ground, and Sark buried the tip of her sword in the base of its brain.

“Hey. We had this under control,” the nearest man said.

He sat on the pavement, holding the stump of his broken sword. The other man was trying to reload his pistol. He glared at Sark, but his hands were shaking so badly he was having trouble with the task. He couldn’t exactly shoot his mouth off, as scared as he obviously was, though his look said he wanted to.

“Yeah. I can see that,” Sark said, pulling an oily rag from her back pocket. “Where’d you get that sword?” She wiped the blood and brains off her sword, then studied the rag. After a moment of thought, she dropped the rag in the street and slid her sword back in its sheath.

“The internet. It’s an authentic japanese katana. It’s a good sword,” the man said.

“Yep. I can see that,” Sark said, looking around her in a quick one eighty. “First your buddy opens fire, making all the zombies rush right at you. Then you start swatting them with that … thing. You cut one on the wrist, showering yourself with infected blood, and then almost got your face bitten off,” Sark said.

The man with the pistol had finally reloaded and put the gun away. He stood with his arms across his chest glaring at Sark, who was already backing away. Sword guy was getting to his feet as Sark started to walk away.

“Wait. We could team up, you know strength in numbers,” the pretend ninja said.

“Your buddy’s shooting just rang the dinner bell for every zombie within six blocks. When they get here, I plan to be gone. You should, too,” Sark turned and broke into a run.

 

* * * 

 

Sark was working her way through the suburbs, getting further away from the zombie crowds of downtown. Concrete and tall buildings became green lawns and quiet streets. 

Life had narrowed down to whatever she could see at any given time. If she ever forgot that, she took the risk of being overwhelmed, surrounded, of getting into a deadly situation. Sark was always stopping, surveying one street or one block before moving on. She tended to be a perfectionist by nature, but this was survival. There was no room for error.

Sark had always been a bit of a loner, but now she avoided the few people she did see. She didn’t want her survival to depend on people who didn’t know what they were doing, and she didn’t want to be responsible for people who couldn’t defend themselves. Besides, not all people were friendly these days.

She was moving down a narrow alley, stopping to watch each house, listening for any sound. A lot of the houses had doors standing open, or windows broken. It looked like looters had beaten her to this neighborhood. 

Halfway down the block she heard shuffling feet and the low groaning of zombies. It seemed like the noise was coming from behind a high wooden fence. Sark crept to the fence and listened. The zombies started snarling and scrabbling against the fence. They could smell her. She could see two zombies through the gaps in the fence. If there were more, they would have come running by now. Sark dragged a garbage bin up against the fence. The zombies were throwing themselves against the other side, frantic to get at her. She climbed up on the garbage bin and looked down at the two hungry dead things that clawed at the fence, snapping their jaws like angry dogs. The house looked secure: no open doors or windows. Maybe looters had  passed up this house.

The zombies stood below her, gnashing their teeth and grabbing at the fence. It was easy for Sark to stab her knife right through their eye sockets and twist it into their brains. After the zombies were dispatched, Sark climbed the fence and dropped into the yard. She broke a window and went into the house, moving slowly and cautiously. She checked out the whole house and found it empty. A more thorough search of the shelves and cupboards found food and a few cans of soda. Sark stuffed her backpack and moved on. She thought she’d found a real treasure in an upstairs closet, but the gun she found was some sort of civil war pistol that didn’t even fire. In the basement she found a fully stocked bar: beer, vodka, and whiskey. She left it all and went back up the stairs; she couldn’t afford the luxury of being impaired.

 

Sark checked through the pockets of the zombies in the yard finding keys, wallets, and a cell phone. She took the phone and punched in her parents’ number. She put the phone to her ear, hopeful but bracing for disappointment. She listened to a recorded announcement, something about how all the lines were busy. She hadn’t been able to get through since the crisis started, and she was worried about her parents who had retired to Arizona. Over the years, she and her parents had had their differences. In truth they had never seen things the same, but with all that had happened, she wanted to know that they were safe. She tossed the phone into a neighbor’s yard and clambered over the fence. That was when she heard the high whine of motorized vehicles. A four-wheeled ATV turned into the alley ahead of her, then another. She turned to run, but another one came into the alley behind her. Damn, she thought, I should have heard them coming. If I hadn’t been concentrating on the phone … 

Two men got off the ATVs in front of her. Any hope she had that they would be friendly evaporated when they produced guns and aimed at her. Another ATV stopped several yards behind her. Sark held her hands up and away from her body. The two men approached.

“Well, whatta we got here?” one of the men said. He held an assault rifle pointed at Sark.

“Looks like a girl, a cute one,” the second one said, holding a shotgun. “Good body, nice little rack. She’d be fun to party with, I bet.”

The first man made Sark hand over her pack. He glanced through it, then set it on the rack of his ATV.

“Undo your belt,” the first man said.

Sark’s heart was beating like a rabbit’s. She carefully undid her belt, and raised her hands again.

“Keep her covered,” the first man said, setting his rifle behind him.

He walked up and grabbed Sark’s sword, then pulled her belt free. He set the sword and scabbard on his ATV then retrieved her knife. Another ATV pulled up behind the two men and eased to a stop.

“We could take her back with us, have us a little fun,” the second man said.

“An end of the world party,” the first man said, grinning.

The person who had just arrived on the last ATV walked up. The helmet came off to reveal a woman who looked to be in her forties, with short blonde hair and dark eyes.

“You boys best behave yourselves,” the woman said. “What’d you find?”

The first man motioned toward the sword and backpack.

“Why can’t we take her back. I’ll keep an eye on her,” the second man said. “She won’t be no trouble.”

“We are looking for food and fuel, not someone to polish your knob. Besides, we don’t need another mouth to feed.”

The woman walked up to Sark, studying her.

“You find anything else valuable, darlin’? Maybe something you didn’t need, like gasoline or bullets?” the woman said.

Sark had a plan forming in her head.

“No,” Sark said. Her eyes swung over toward the house she’d just left, then back again. It happened so fast that the woman might not have even noticed. “Just what’s in the pack.”

The woman had seen Sark look toward the house. She knew Sark was lying.

“Really? Nothing?” the woman said.

“Uh, no,” Sark said, feigning confusion. “I mean, you wouldn’t be interested.”

“What did you find?” the first man said, stepping forward.

Sark tried to look small and scared.

“Nothing, just some alcohol …”

“I knew you was hiding something,” the woman looked at Sark and smiled. “You boys wanted a party, go find that alcohol. I think we could all use a little partying, after all that’s happened.”

“That mean we can take the girl?” the second man said.

The woman turned on him.

“No, it don’t mean we can take the girl. She’s not gonna be your little plaything. Pig.”

 

A few minutes later, the four ATVs started up and drove off, leaving Sark standing in the alley. She was unarmed, with no food or water. After a few blocks, the ATVs turned right and disappeared from view. Sark ran to the end of the block and turned, trying to shadow them. After a few blocks, there was a main road and she could see the ATVs on it, disappearing into the distance. She sped up to a jogging pace and followed.

 

She found the ATVs and their riders at a city park just up the road. They were sitting at a picnic table, drinking cans of beer. Sark hid in the trees until they pulled back onto the main road, then she followed again. Wherever they were holed up, it couldn’t be too far. 

Sark followed the road, looking for clues, but finding nothing. She listened for the sound of engines, but didn’t hear any. She kept walking. 

A half mile down the road she saw two beer cans littering the side of the road. They were the right brand. 

Past a certain point, there wasn’t much along the road except trees and the occasional house. Sark stayed near the edge of the trees in case she had to hide fast. The road narrowed, and turned to dirt. There wasn’t much out here but scrubland and some low hills. She came to a rundown farmhouse with a four foot fence. Sark snuck up and looked carefully, but didn’t see any ATVs, no sign of people. The next farmhouse was another quarter of a mile. One of its doors was hanging off the hinges and junk and old clothing was strewn in the yard. Sark was starting to get discouraged.

Then she saw the fence, a six foot chain link fence in a place surrounded by trees. It was exactly what a person might look for in a zombie-proof property. She followed the fence, making sure not to step on any branches or make noise. She used the trees for cover until she got to a place where she could see the property. Inside the fence there was a small ranch style house and, in front, four ATVs.

10: Nils Returns

The creature that used to be Nils moved through Oslo in a fast, jerky walk. He walked in a slight crouch, knees bent, arms out at his sides. The creatures were hiding, but Nils could smell them. Eventually he would find them. When they ran, he chased. Predator and prey, ancient instincts automatic in his brain, no thought involved. He caught one of the things, leapt on its back, bit it in the neck. He bit deep, shaking his head slightly, flesh and blood yielding to his teeth. He swallowed both, the blood warm and coppery. He leaned over the thing for several minutes, biting and tearing, trying to fill the emptiness inside him. He stood, still hungry. More things were running, making their high-pitched noises. He began to chase again, a hunger inside him that could never be satisfied.

The street was nearly empty as Nils chased the last few prey things. One of the things he had bitten had gotten up, blood flowing from its neck. Nils saw it begin to stumble along on uncertain legs. He turned his attention back to looking for prey.

 The terminal was all bright lights and eery emptiness. Colorful signs hung above the shops and restaurants, the little windows full of shimmering objects in a dazzling array of colors. Somewhere, soft music played. The thing-that-had been-Nils ignored all of it, his vision dim and vague. He could smell the prey thing, a big one, probably twice his size, running down the street. He ran after it. The thing reached a wall, where a door opened. Nils dove forward, grabbing the back of the thing’s clothes. His prey squealed and charged through the door, dragging Nils with it. The wide, shiny door slammed on Nils, trapping him halfway in and halfway out. The big, heavy animal was still pulling. Nils leaned forward to bite it. All at once there was a ripping sound and his prey pulled away. Nils roared in frustration. Something was pounding on him, pushing him out the door. Nils toppled backwards into the street. The door slammed shut.

The Nils creature stood up, staring at the door. A string of drool slid down his chin and hit the pavement below him. From the corner of his eye, he saw movement. He turned suddenly, nose crinkling. Creatures were walking past, but they didn’t smell like prey. They went past in a slow wave, a spasmodic, creeping wave of convulsive, reeling dead things walking past in mass. 

Nils stepped off the curb and joined them.

 

* * *

 

Zombie Nils stayed with the pack as it roamed the streets of Oslo. He heard a grunt, a fellow zombie hissing as it found prey, and he ran toward the sound. The other zombie dragged the prey to the ground, screaming and flailing. Zombie Nils rushed in, tan overcoat bloody, his necktie stained. He crouched down, grabbing whatever body part he could reach, and began to feast. 

A few minutes later the pack was on the move again. Nils’s fingernails were coming loose, falling off, and his jaw cracked and popped when he chewed, but he wasn’t aware of any of that. He followed the others through the streets attacking anything that moved, anything that smelled like food. 

 

Two days later, there were hundreds of zombies walking the streets. The air reeked of smoke and death. Diseases were running rampant. Zombie Nils was starting to deteriorate, wounds festering, tendons stretching and starting to tear. He caught the scent of something. Prey. He saw movement and began to shuffle toward it. 

The Norwegian Home Guard soldier heard the low growl and turned. A zombie was coming at him, thirty meters away. It was one of the rotting ones, trying to move fast but its body too ravaged to cooperate. The most it could manage was a fast, awkward shamble. The soldier raised his H&K assault rifle to his shoulder, aimed for the thing’s head, and fired two quick shots. Thut. Thut. One round went through the zombie’s face, the other hit high on its forehead. The zombie crumpled to the ground. 

For the second time in a week, Nils Plassen, esteemed scientist and former Head of Viral Research at one of Norway’s top labs, was dead.

11: Moving Forward

Reggie Logan was wired and tired at the same time. That’s what he always felt like just after a tense mission, exhausted from the effort, but full of adrenaline. It was a bad combination. He couldn’t relax, but he was too tired to do much. Judging by the body language of his teammates, the others felt the same. They were wondering what to do next when Nurse Hall approached them. She took one look at their bloodstained uniforms and stopped.

“Before you take off your masks or goggles, we need to decontaminate you,” she said. “Come with me.”

Reggie sat waiting, watching the other men from his team. They looked shellshocked, overwhelmed. They had that far away look in their eyes. He realized that probably none of them would ever be the same again, not after what they had just been through. They were all changed and, as leader, it was his fault.

 

Every other member of the team went through the decontamination process before Reggie stepped into the little room. Before taking off the mask and goggles, Nurse Hall sprayed his face and head with some sort of antibacterial solution, then wiped it with a clean towel.

“We don’t want anything running into your eyes or mouth when you’re taking that stuff off,” she said. “Here wipe down your gloves. And get those boots.”

She checked over the rest of his uniform, wiping what she could with an antiseptic wipe the size of a small towel.

“You guys are a mess,” the nurse said.

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” Reggie said. “Whoever thought to strap down all the infected patients was a dang genius. If it hadn’t been for that, we never would have survived down there.”

Nurse Hall kept to her work, not mentioning that strapping down the patients was her doing.

“We all appreciate what you boys did down there. You’re the real heroes,” Nurse Hall said. She stepped back to survey her work. “Those uniforms concern me. You don’t have extras, do you?”

Reggie shook his head. There was no such thing as ‘extra’ anymore.

The nurse looked him over, frowning. She dropped the antiseptic towel into a bin marked with a biohazard symbol. Then she rolled up one of Reggie’s sleeves and drew a small amount of blood.

“Is my team going to get sick, I mean from those things? The blood and all?”

Nurse Hall shook her head.

“We’re taking every precaution, but we just don’t know. None of you were bitten, and it looks like the masks and goggles protected the major entry points on your face,” the nurse said, handing him a surgical mask. “A few people from the top floors are showing symptoms and we’ve quarantined them, but we just don’t know enough about this virus yet.” She took several hospital masks and handed them to Reggie. “Here, wear one of these until we can be sure what we’re dealing with.”

As the nurse finished up, Reggie thought about his family, his team, and a world that had suddenly gone crazy.

Nurse Hall headed toward the door, stopping in the doorway.

“Officer Logan?”

Reggie looked up.

“Thank you for what you did, you and your whole team,”

 

Reggie looked around the bright, sterile room. Clean countertops, white walls, fluorescent lights. The only decoration in the room was a poster that showed a human figure stripped of its skin, each red, thick muscle exposed and labelled. For some reason, the poster made him shudder. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket. Calls weren’t getting through, but he punched in a text message to his wife: U SAFE?

A few seconds later she replied that she and their little daughter were locked in the master bedroom, safe and sound with all the food they could gather. 

“Good girl,” Reggie said, out loud.

He had installed a steel door for their bedroom. It was their designated safe room if anything were to happen. With all the bad characters he had gone up against, Reggie believed in being prepared. His wife was a strong woman, and smart. It didn’t surprise him that she had gone there at the first sign of a crisis. There was a video monitor where she could see the front door, and two loaded guns locked in a safe in the closet.

LOVE YOU, he texted.

LOVE YOU was the reply STAY SAFE.

 

After that, Reggie was busy. He checked in with the Incident Commander down at the temporary SWAT communication center on the first floor. The news over the radio was bad. Police officers all over the city were being overwhelmed, surrounded by hordes of the undead. A nearby precinct was under siege. The commander, assistant commander and radio officer had decided to have the hospital’s MedFlight helicopter fly them there and try to help. As far as a police presence was concerned, that would leave Reggie in charge of the small team at the hospital. 

Reggie had brief meetings with various administrators and doctors. It seemed that everyone wanted something different and nobody was really in charge. There was a lot of squabbling and hospital bigwigs trying to protect their turf, but things were pretty disorderly on the whole. It was finally decided that Reggie and his team would have to go down and kill the zombies left on the first three floors. Reggie and his team had left the zombies who were solidly restrained; they didn’t have the ammunition to kill them all. Now they had to be cleared out because the cafeteria was in a wing off of the first floor and they couldn’t take the chance of people going back and forth and a zombie getting loose. Reggie’s problem was still a lack of ammunition. They had to find some type of heavy melee weapon to kill the zombies.

 

It was Nurse Hall who solved his problem. After he told her he was looking for a heavy tool or weapon to dispatch zombies, she found five old fire axes in the back of a storage closet. Reggie took three, gave one to the orderly who was making the next trip to the cafeteria, and gave the last one to Nurse Hall. He felt bad for any zombie who tangled with her.

Reggie gathered his team and handed out the three axes. They were down to five men now, three carried axes, but they all had their guns, just in case.

On the first three floors, the zombies were still tied down, still struggling, still crazy with rage and hunger. Reggie and his team had to kill every last one of them.

They approached the first one, an emaciated, raving fiend with grey skin as thin and rough as parchment. It had wisps of patchy hair sticking up in all directions. When the team stepped into the room it twisted and thrashed and bit at the air. There was a look of animal intensity in its eyes. It wanted to get free, but more than anything, it wanted to kill them.

“Okay, so we just walk up and brain the bitch?” Vincent said.

The men made a half circle around the foot of the bed, well out of reach of the hissing, snapping zombie.

“I got an idea,” Garcia said. He took a sheet from the other, empty bed. “Grab the other end.”

Garcia and Vincent stretched the sheet over the zombie’s face and held it down tight, pinning the zombie to its pillow.

“Okay, go,” Garcia said.

Officer Franks stepped up with the axe. He rocked it forward and back, slightly. Then he sent it crashing down on the zombie’s skull. There was a sickening splat. The creature stopped struggling.

“Ugh. That’s disgusting,” Garcia said.

“Yeah. This is what we’re reduced to, murdering patients in their beds,” Johnson said.

“Give it a rest, Johnson,” Reggie Logan said. “It’s not like we got a choice.”

They went room to room and hallway to hallway, two men handling the sheet, and one wielding the axe. The sheet helped keep a zombie in place and also kept blood from spattering the walls. It was horrifying, depressing work, but the team got the job done. When they were finished, every zombie on the first three floors was dead, finally and eternally dead.

 

Reggie managed a brief, fitful nap on a couch in one of the upstairs offices. He kept jerking awake, then he would look around the dark office and remember where he was. After about forty minutes, he gave up on trying to sleep.

He found a television where he could watch the news. The only footage came from a traffic copter that hovered over the city, showing streets full of walking, rushing, stumbling zombies attacking anyone unfortunate enough to be on the streets. Bright lights strobed in yellow, red, and blue, but there were no police around, no ambulance crews in sight. Mobs of the dead ruled the streets.

Reggie sent another text to his wife, who was still holed up in the bedroom. He promised to come home as soon as he could, but even he didn’t know when that might be. 

 

 

Just after daylight, Reggie sat in a large conference room with wood panelling and a large table made of smooth, dark wood. The chairs were wingbacks covered in soft, maroon leather. 

Around the table sat two doctors, three men in dress shirts and neck ties, and Nurse Hall. He recognized one of the doctors and one of the administrators. He introduced himself to the others.

One of the administrators wanted to know who had authorized someone to kill patients. An argument flared up quickly. There were moral considerations, one of the neck ties said, not to mention huge publicity issues. One of the other men piped up about legal issues. There was a matter of liability. The argument devolved into a heated discussion of whether or not a zombie could legally be considered a living person. Words were exchanged. Reggie finally reached his limit.

“Okay, okay. That’s enough,” Reggie said.

At least one of the men in ties looked at him, shocked at the outburst.

“People, this talk of liability, bureaucratic rules, hospital policy, it’s all a waste of time. I can’t believe we’re all sitting here debating this bullshit.”

Reggie saw one doctor’s mouth drop open.

“We have an epidemic here, a crisis. People are dying out there, National Guard units getting overrun, police overwhelmed. Thousands of zombies run wild in the streets, and you people are worried about hospital policy? Liability? We need to be talking about survival. Food. Water. Power. About staying alive,” Reggie said.

He paused, trying to think of what to say next.

“Officer Logan is absolutely right. The time to worry about all that administrative crap is past. We need to discuss our survival and what each of us will do to make it happen,” Nurse Hall said, rising from her chair. She walked around the table to a dry erase board and picked up a red marker. She wrote the word “Survival” at the top of the board, then she wrote “Food”, “Water” “Medical” and “Power” in a list. After the last word she wrote a question mark. “Okay. Let’s get to work.”

 

As it turned out, the manager of the cafeteria and the head of the maintenance department were two important people that should have been in the meeting. Together they oversaw food and water, electricity and lights. They were quickly called to the meeting. The two administrators and the other man, a hospital lawyer, were given new, more useful tasks. People were finally organizing, moving in the right direction at least. The doctors outlined a plan to try and find out more about the virus. Nurse Hall was in charge of current patients as well as monitoring everyone else for new symptoms. Reggie and his team would be in charge of security in the hospital and, using the hospital helicopter, rescuing any survivors they could find in the city. That meant more mouths to feed, but everyone agreed it was a necessary thing to do.

When the meeting broke up, Reggie immediately started thinking about finding survivors and bringing them to the hospital. Nurse Hall would make sure anyone in the hospital with new symptoms was restrained, which would buy him time. He could deal with those infected later. The next problem was what to do next, who to save. The city was huge, with thousands of zombies on the loose and widespread power outages. He needed to find a situation where he wouldn’t put his men in quite so much danger.

He pulled out his cell phone and looked at the screen. There was a new text from his wife. Reggie had found his first rescue.

12: Scavengers

Bad River National Grasslands, South Dakota

 

Ben Spotted Bear stirred his instant coffee and sat on an old log. It was his habit to get his coffee and get out of the way when everyone was up and going in the morning. He sat and watched the group that had become his family since the apocalypse. Margaret Otherday was their little mother. She was a small woman in her late forties with wire-framed glasses and her hair pulled back into a tight knot. She was always making sure that everyone had enough to eat, taking care of everyone. As usual, she was occupying the little makeshift cooking area, serving up instant oatmeal. Margaret’s daughter, Trish, sat nearby staring into space. Trisha was about eighteen, with long raven-colored hair and dark, pretty eyes. She was shy and quiet, but Ben liked her right off. She was an interesting kid when he finally got her to open up. 

The white couple, Harold and Dawn, sat next to each other a few feet away. Ben thought they were nice people and meant well, despite their craziness. Harold was nearly six feet tall, with a prominent nose and a black baseball cap perpetually perched on his head. He was a person who seemed to always be slightly out of sorts, nervous, a natural worrier, though he didn’t talk much. Dawn had long reddish hair, with pale, freckled skin. She was more outgoing than her husband, but also more emotional. She cried often, and complained frequently of a lack of sleep. The current apocalypse and their new living conditions were a constant source of anxiety for both of them.

Everyone sat in a rough little circle around the remains of last night’s fire, exchanging greetings and making small talk. They were halfway through breakfast when Johnny Redhawk and his little brother Levi made their appearance. Like most teenagers, it was hard to get them up for breakfast, but hunger eventually drove them toward the smell of oatmeal cooking. Johnny dished himself some oatmeal and then made another bowl and gave it to his little brother. It was great how the two kids were adapting to everything, Ben thought. It was like they had never had much, so they hadn’t lost much. Johnny had told Ben, optimistically, that the whole apocalypse was like everyone was starting over at the same level.

As he turned, Johnny saw Ben and gave him a little nod and a smile. Ben liked Johnny, everyone did. It was no coincidence that Johnny had become their leader. He was a good kid who was always looking out for everyone. Johnny didn’t have any hidden agenda. He wasn’t a schemer or a liar, like a lot of leaders Ben had known over the years. He just wanted everyone to be safe and have the stuff they needed to get by. He said what was on his mind, even if sometimes it was inappropriate or immature, but you always knew where he was coming from. That’s what everyone liked about Johnny. 

But there was one thing people weren’t liking so much, and that was about to come up.

“So, Johnny, are you going off on one of your little raids today?” Margaret asked.

“Ah, yeah,” Johnny said. “I was going to take Harold so he could, you know, help out with scrounging when we need him to.”

“Well that’s nice,” Margaret said. “A few of us have been talking and we need to point out one teensy little thing.”

“Uh, Okay.”

“You see Johnny, you eat like a teenager. Sugar, snacks, salty treats, and whatever else you can get your hands on. Some of us-“

“Most of us,” Dawn chimed in.

“Some of us need a bit more nutrition. A vegetable every once in a while, even if it comes from a can. Maybe some fruit,” Margaret said. “Some of us think you’d scrounge a little better if you had a list, like a shopping list.”

“We’re not criticizing, it’s just that teenage boys, well, they don’t seem to care what they eat,” Dawn added.

Johnny shrugged.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

 

Johnny and Harold crouched in the bushes and watched the front of Mel’s Tallgrass General Store. There was one zombie inside and one outside. The outside one was wearing a t-shirt and baggie shorts. It stood motionless, staring toward the building. One of its arms was twisted at a sickening angle, and it leaned slightly to one side. The one inside moved faster; they could see it going back and forth inside the store, knocking over displays and growling. 

“So, why are some so slow and some can almost move like humans? I mean, living humans,” Harold asked.

“I’m not sure. I think the ones that had the virus, they got really sick and their bodies were all degraded by the time they died, but people who got bitten, they were never sick. They just fell over dead, then got up again a few minutes later. Their bodies would still be pretty fresh. That’s what I was thinking, anyway.”

Harold nodded, thinking.

“So what’s our strategy?” Harold asked. He struggled to keep his voice even. “How are we going to do this?”

“Just follow me. If one comes after you, smash him in the head.”

Johnny pulled a bandana over his face and waited while Harold did the same. The two bandits looked at each other. Johnny nodded and stood up. They started walking toward the little store, both men wearing shorts, gloves, and long sleeved shirts with arms reinforced with lots of duct tape. Johnny carried a crow bar, Harold had a long metal pry bar. As they approached, the outside zombie turned slowly toward them. As it did, Johnny accelerated, raising his weapon. He pounded the dead thing on the head as he passed. The zombie whirled slowly and landed in the dust. Johnny ran to the doorway and waited just outside. The zombie inside was already heading for the door, charging straight over a set of shelves as it went. It reached the open door and stepped through. Johnny swung the crow bar like a baseball bat hitting the thing just below the neck. The zombie stumbled back and fell among a clatter of cans and boxes. Johnny took another swing as the thing tried to get up, snarling and clawing at the air. His swing missed and the zombie dove for him. The two of them disappeared into the store as more shelves crashed to the floor. Harold ran to the doorway and found Johnny struggling with the zombie. It was lying on top of Johnny, grasping him with its stiff fingers and trying to bite Johnny’s face. Johnny had wedged the handle of the crowbar between the zombie’s jaws. The thing roared and bellowed, saliva dripping on Johnny’s shirt. Harold closed his eyes and swung toward the zombie’s head. The zombie rolled off Johnny, its sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling as it landed on its back. Blood began to pool under the zombie as Johnny got to his feet. He looked at Harold, whose eyes were fixed on the zombie.

“That the first one you killed?” Johnny asked.

“Yeah,” Harold said.

They were silent for a moment. Johnny scanned the parking lot.

“You feel bad?” Johnny asked.

“No. I thought I would, but no.”

 

They found Claire and Sierra Loud Crow hiding in the kitchen. Johnny had only been in the store a few times, but he recognized Sierra. She was in her mid-twenties, tall and thin, with high leather boots and form fitting blue jeans. Yes, Johnny remembered her. Until they introduced themselves, though, he didn’t know her grandmother, Claire. Claire was built short and wide with plenty of wrinkles and two teeth missing in the front. They talked a little bit and Johnny told them about their camp up on the butte. The two women thought it sounded better than nothing, which was what they had now. Their only other option was to hide in the old store with no electricity and no phone, and wait for zombies to get them. Claire and Sierra decided to go with Johnny and Harold. 

Harold and Claire went to the store room to pack up some food, leaving Sierra and Johnny in the store.  It was dim in the little store, the lighting limited to the daylight coming in through the big front windows. A light breeze came in through the door, bringing the smell of dead zombie with it.

“How old are you?” Sierra asked.

“Sixteen, but I’ll be seventeen in a month.”

“Hmm. Cute.”

Johnny blushed, stuffing some cans into his pack.

“So who’s in charge up there?” Sierra asked.

“I am, I guess,” Johnny said, glancing her way.

Sierra’s eyebrows went up. 

“Really,” she said. Her long, dark eyelashes fluttered. “Interesting.”

Johnny went to a display case containing several elaborate knives and some beaded pouches.

“Can you open this?” 

“Yeah.”

Sierra produced a key, unlocked the case, and slid the glass door open. She lifted out the knives.

“I guess if we don’t take this stuff, someone will just come and steal it,” Sierra said, making eye contact with Johnny.

Johnny picked up one of the knives and pulled it from its handmade leather sheath. It was a long, sturdy blade with a beautiful elk horn handle. 

“That’s the nicest one,” Sierra said. “Most expensive, anyway.”

Johnny nodded and stuffed the knife into his pack.

“Keeping that for yourself. Good choice,” Sierra said.

“It’s for my brother,” Johnny said, glancing at her.

He took one of the other knives and attached its sheath to his belt, then set one aside for Harold.

Johnny was passing the bookshelf when he noticed a book about the war chief Crazy Horse and another one about an Oglala Lakota named Red Cloud. He put them in his pack and then grabbed a book about edible plants. Harold and Claire came out from the back and they all started collecting the other things they needed: matches, bottled water, an aluminum pot, flashlights, toilet paper. They took the “authentic indian blankets” (made in Taiwan), and some beaded belts that said “Wolf” “Bear” and “Eagle” on them in multicolored beads.  When they had what they needed, they went out the front door into the glaring August sun. Johnny wanted to check out some of the big newer houses south of the park, but it was a long walk and they wouldn’t have time to do that if they wanted to get back by dark. They decided to take Sierra’s car to cover more ground faster. 

As they walked to the car, Sierra tossed Johnny the keys.

“You drive,” she said, putting a hand on Johnny’s arm. “You’re the man.’

 

They drove around a bend in the road and Johnny stomped on the brakes. On the road ahead of them, dozens of ravens and crows lifted into the air, so many they darkened the sky. They flapped and fluttered, inky shadows filling the air. Johnny had never seen so many birds. Then he saw why. There were several zombies, or parts of zombies, spread out on the road. Dark, bloody splashes and random body parts littered the pavement. It looked like at least one zombie had been hit by a car and dragged. Further up the road, there was a pickup truck just off the edge of the road. Johnny pulled out his bandana and tied it over his mouth and nose. The others followed his example.

“Oh my God. My God,” Claire kept repeating. She put her hands over her eyes and her head down.

Some of the birds were already landing, others wheeled in big, dark circles overhead. The birds squawked and croaked and cackled. Gangs of them stood on bloody heaps, tearing chunks of meat off the carcasses. Johnny drove very slowly, weaving among the ebony flocks amid the rotting lumps on the road. The smell of death and decay hung heavy in the air. There was part of an arm on the edge of the road. A big raven stood atop it, staring at the car as they rolled past, its eyes as dark as black holes. 

When they got next to the abandoned pickup, they could see that it had hit a post, folding the front end like an accordion. The windshield was shattered, the driver wedged up against the steering wheel, dead. Something had torn off pieces of his skin. Johnny put Sierra’s car in park. He walked out into a churning, moving sea of black birds and headed toward the pickup. A few crows hopped aside on stiff black legs. A shiver went up Johnny’s spine. His grandma had always said you got that feeling when a goose walked over your grave. The thought of a bird on his grave made Johnny shiver again.

He leaned into the cab of the truck. Blood and shattered glass littered the floor. Johnny poked the driver with his crowbar, expecting the body to come alive and attack, but it didn’t move. The driver wore a black pistol on his belt. Johnny decided to deal with that later. There was a rifle in the rack behind the driver’s head, so Johnny carefully pulled it out of the rack and set it on the truck’s roof. He noticed boxes of ammunition on the seat and put them up next to the rifle. He looked around, scanning the area around the truck. Were the birds closing in? It seemed like they were closer.

Johnny wanted the pistol but he had a problem; it was in a holster on the dead man’s belt. The driver was crushed against the steering wheel and Johnny wasn’t about to try and get the man’s belt undone. He had killed zombies and seen all kinds of horrors lately, but he drew the line at trying to undo a dead man’s belt. He had one of the new gift shop knives on his belt, and used it to cut through the man’s belt and pull the holster loose. He saw a box of pistol ammo on the floor between the dead man’s feet. He reached in carefully and grabbed the box, all the time expecting the dead man to suddenly come alive; he didn’t.

Johnny came back to the car carrying the rifle, the pistol, a broom, and a mop. He handed them to Harold in the back seat.

“What’s with the mop? You planning on doing some housework?” Sierra asked.

“They were in the back of the truck. I’m gonna use the handles. Make spears,” Johnny said, getting behind the wheel and slamming the door.

Sierra just rolled her eyes.

“Are you gonna be one of those native pride types?” Sierra asked.

“Well, if you think about it, the white man’s ways, the culture of buying shit and relying on all the technology, that’s over. People who can relearn the old ways, the traditional things, they’re the ones that are gonna survive.”

Johnny put the car in gear and eased slowly up the road. A black cloud of birds hovered over the car, moving in a lazy circle. From nearby trees, more dark crows stared as they rolled past. Still more birds stood in malicious little groups, fighting over scraps or pecking at the dirt.

“I just realized that a group of crows is called a murder. A murder of crows,” Harold said.

For a moment, nobody said anything.

“Maybe we should skip the rest of the looting and just head back?” Johnny asked.

Nobody argued.

13: Bats in The Belfry

Bosa Village, Republic of South Sudan

 

Omar was not handling things well. Once he was in the church he had run, screaming, back and forth. He had shouted about God and rapture and the dead ones until somebody had tackled him and sat on him. He raved and babbled for several minutes until the man finally slapped him, hard. After that he had gone quiet for a while, but he was still terrified. He paced back and forth, muttering about the dead walking the earth, until finally he knelt in front of the church’s altar and began to pray.

There were three other adults in the church, a man and woman of about forty, and a girl in her late teens. Musa and Gante, Omar’s two little friends, stood around wondering what to do as the dead gathered outside and began pounding on the big church doors. More gathered, and soon every door had dead fists beating on it. Every window had the twisted, leering faces of zombies against the glass. They pushed on the windows, punched them, threw their weight against them, and soon windows began to break. The three adults, not including Omar, began to move the pews, stacking them against the windows. The windows were secure, but the pounding on the doors never slowed, never ceased. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Time stretched from minutes to hours but the hammering at the door didn’t decrease. The zombies were focused on one thing. They never tired and never quit.

The people stuffed their ears with tissue, buried their heads in their hands. Nothing could drown out the noise. Thump, thump, thump, thump. The younger woman cried silently. The man stomped back and forth. Omar felt like he was going crazy.

“Stop them. Can’t you stop them?” Omar pleaded to the man.

“What do you want me to do?” the man shouted.

Everyone was angry, edgy. Thump, thump, thump, thump. 

Omar tried to block it out by praying loudly. The others didn’t appreciate it. The two small boys looked on, saying very little.

Thump, thump, thump, thump. 

For hours the pounding went on. Then Omar got up.

“We must call the others! The chosen ones. We must call them,” Omar shouted as he ran out of the main part of the church.

“Where’s he going?” the older woman asked.

“Who cares? He’s a pain in the ass,” the man said.

“He’s under a lot of stress, scared out of his wits,” the woman said.

“We all are.”

 

Omar ran up the stairs to the balcony, then opened a small trapdoor in the ceiling. He was still muttering about chosen ones and God’s plan when he disappeared up a thin ladder.

A few seconds later, Omar was in the belfry. In his mind, it was time to call all of God’s chosen ones. He would gather God’s army and they would triumph over the army of the dead. He began to ring the big church bell.

 

“What is he doing,” the woman said, looking at the ceiling. 

They all could hear the church bell ringing.

‘That idiot!” 

Outside, every zombie in the area was headed toward the church.

 

Omar watched as more of the dead approached the church. There was a woman covered head to foot, as was the Muslim custom. Her eyes were dark, malicious, rimmed with bright blood. A dead man in sandals and shorts moved quickly through the little plaza below. His missing lower jaw revealed jagged teeth dripping saliva. Another man dragged himself forward on his hands and one knee, his other leg missing below the knee. Others shuffled, stumbled, and shambled over from all parts of the city. Omar was waiting for the good people to show up, the army of God’s chosen ones wielding clubs and tools. Unfortunately only dead, diseased, evil creatures came. 

Omar couldn’t watch anymore. The dead things sickened him, made him want to scream and run. Instead he curled up in one corner of the bell tower and waited. 

Omar waited through the heat of the day, peeking out over the little railing every so often. He still expected to see armed men, good Christians like himself, coming down the street to save him. He knew God had a plan, but apparently he wasn’t meant to understand it just yet. He sat rocking back and forth on his heals and praying. The sun began to sink behind the town, and at some point one of the small boys brought him a small piece of flat bread. Omar stayed in the bell tower, fearing that if he left, the chosen ones would not come. He had to believe, for it was his belief that would drive the others to save him. Faith. He rocked and prayed, his voice dry and raspy. As the temperature dropped, he hugged his knees, checking the ground below every hour or so.

As morning dawned, Omar was shivering and hungry. He was beginning to wonder about God’s plan. He had spent all night awake, with plenty of time to examine every decision he had ever made. Perhaps he had it all wrong. What if the chosen ones had all ascended to God’s Kingdom? What if he and the others were the ones left behind, left to suffer in this living hell? Omar examined his life. Had he done something so bad that he would not be saved? 

In the daylight, he was full of doubt. He sat up and rang the bell again, watching for the loyal ones to arrive. Again he was disappointed. 

God was testing his faith, that was it. God testing him.

The boy snuck him another piece of bread and then left again. It was getting hot again. Omar looked down and watched the zombies banging on the doors and windows. Fortunately he couldn’t hear them from up in his tower. As he watched, one of the dead ones, a teenaged boy with no shirt, looked up at him. One of its eyes was bulging out of the socket, part of the bone around it jagged and gaping. The thing snarled up at him. Omar gasped and sank back into his corner.

As the day wore on, Omar got hotter, his mouth drier. He smelled of dust and sweat and fear. His head ached from the heat and glare. He began to see things. Birds and flying shapes that weren’t really there. Small sparkles drifted through his field of view, disappearing as soon as he noticed them. More than once he heard the men arrive, the men carrying heavy tools and sharp weapons, the ones who would save him and anyone else who believed. More than once he stood up to look, but the sounds of the approaching mob always dissolved before he could see them. Omar didn’t know what to believe anymore.

The man from down in the church came up.

“Omar, we are going to escape. We have a plan. We have discussed it.”

The man handed Omar a bottle of water.

“We need you, Omar. We need you with us.”

Omar drank deeply. He nodded at the other man.

 

They all huddled near the small side door. The man walked over to the big main doors and began to beat on them. The zombies attacked the other side with renewed rage. More than one zombie thrashed its full weight against the door. It sounded like every zombie out there was now slamming its dead fists into the wide doors at the front of the church. The doors shook in their frame as the man walked back and joined the others near the side door.

“Okay. Omar, you first. The rest of us will be right behind you. We run to the town hall, yes?”

Omar nodded. The man and the older woman exchanged glances, then the man swung the door open.

Omar ran for his life. 

Most of the dead things had moved to the main doors, but a few still lingered near the side of the church. As Omar ran out, they turned and followed. Omar could hear growling and groaning. Dead men chased him as fast as their decrepit legs could carry them. Omar didn’t hear the church door bang shut behind him.

Zombies from the front door saw the movement and joined the mob of dead chasing the old man. Zombies followed other zombies, intent on finding prey. They all went after Omar.

At first Omar was faster than the dead, but his legs were old and he tired quickly. After only forty yards, the dead had caught him. Toxic claws ripped his skin and rough hands grabbed his limbs. Omar was screaming, thrashing, trying to force his way forward. He managed a few yards, then one of the rotten things tackled him from behind. Omar shrieked as he fell, face forward, into the dirt. He felt a sharp pain in one ankle as flesh tore and tendons snapped. Rotting teeth sunk into his right side. Two of the things were pulling him in opposite directions. Omar’s screams were high and shrill. He could hear grunts and hisses as dead things fought over his body. He felt like he would be pulled apart.

From the corner of one eye, Omar saw one of the dead abominations bite into his wrist. When it pulled away, it took a chunk of his flesh. Omar saw the blood spurt from his wrist, a scarlet spray spreading through the air in slow motion, arcing toward the dirt.

 

The three adults stepped rapidly between the remaining pews and headed for the main doors. They could hear Omar’s screams outside, drawing the zombies away from the building. The man swung the doors open and they all ran into the street. He bashed one stray zombie with his shovel and then they were all running. Within the first several yards, the adults had outdistanced the two small boys, running fast and not looking back.

Musa realized the adults were too fast and all the zombies would chase him and Gante. He turned right and sprinted toward the nearest alley, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Gante was behind him. The two boys had run from shop owners, soldiers, even the police. They knew there were places where adults could not follow them.

The two boys went down an alley that was barely wider than their shoulders, zombies several yards behind. Musa stopped at a  narrow window, pulled himself up and into a house, then reached down to help Gante. The two boys disappeared into the house.

A few zombies were just getting to the windows. They stopped, reaching through the window, one of them trying to squeeze its head into the small opening. Behind these first few, more zombies were collecting in the alley.

 

On the other side of the house, the boys climbed out another window and dropped to the ground below. Their bare feet thumped in the dirt as they disappeared around the next corner.

 

 

 

 

14: Revenge

Outskirts of Amarillo, Texas

 

Sark followed the fence, being careful to stay quiet, keeping plenty of trees and brush between her and the house. When she got around to the side of the house, she could see the people. Three men and a woman, just like she had seen earlier. Right off she recognized the two men who had robbed her. They were standing  near a big stump, chopping wood with her sword. Sark’s blood boiled. Having her sword stolen had been a huge loss, they might as well have taken her right arm as her sword. Now, to see it used to chop wood, that pissed her off. It wasn’t a curiosity, a toy to be played with. Sark had to rein in her anger. After all, she was unarmed and the men had guns, plus her weapons. She would wait for her chance, but she was going to get her sword back. She would wait.

 

Sark was curled up among the low shrubs and ground cover plants near the fence. It was dark now, and she could hear the people near the house, drinking and shouting and laughing. She knew they’d get drunk. When they were robbing her, they had struck her as selfish idiots without much self-control. If they got drunk enough, she just might be able to get her stuff back.

She lay there, waiting and listening. It was a hot night, typical West Texas dry heat. From time to time, she got up and watched the people. The three men, plus the woman, drunken shadows sitting around a big fire. Everybody stayed outside, enjoying the clear summer night. Nearby, a radio played southern rock. Must be on battery power, she thought. It seemed like a big waste of batteries just to listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd. 

From her perspective, the people sounded pretty hammered. Louder and more obnoxious. Once in a while one of the men would get up and walk away from the fire to pee. Later one of the men decided to pull out his pistol and shoot at a squirrel running along the top of the fence. Luckily it was nowhere near Sark’s hiding spot. 

She woke up some time later. It was pitch dark except for the low glow of the dwindling fire. Two of the men were arguing. She could see them swaying and stumbling, slurred threats going back and forth. Finally, the woman stepped in and shouted them down. The two men separated, yelling garbled parting shots. One went back to the fire to swig from a bottle, the other joined the woman on the house’s porch. After that, everyone got quieter. When she didn’t hear any noise for a while, Sark got up again and peered through the fence. The man and woman were huddled in a thin sleeping bag on the roofless front porch. The men by the fire look like they had finally passed out. Nobody moved, and there was no sound except somebody’s low snoring. As a test, Sark found a small stone, stood up and threw it toward the house. The rock clunked off the siding. None of the drunks stirred.

 

Sark walked along the fence until she found the right tree, then she started to climb. She went up the tree and out onto a stout branch. She swung down and dropped to the ground. She was inside the fence.

A nervous energy settled in her stomach. Sark was thinking this might be a bad idea. If anyone woke up before she found her weapons, the whole thing could be very bad. She stood silently, listening to the faint snoring, making sure nobody moved. Thank God for alcohol. She stepped slowly through the darkness along the fence. Sark liked the darkness. There was a certain anonymity in it. A certain security. She walked carefully, making sure not to step on anything that would give her away.

Sark headed for the stump that she had seen used as a chopping block. She had to navigate a sea of beer cans and some other junk; tonight wasn’t the group’s first drinking binge. She reached the chopping block and saw her sword lying next to it. The idiots hadn’t even cleaned the blade. They had just left it there. On the block she saw big chunks of watermelon. She picked up her sword in one hand and her sheath in the other. She gently touched the blade. It was all sticky. Assholes, she thought, people who treated a sword like that didn’t deserve to use one. There was an old bookcase nearby and Sark stepped over to it to find a clean rag. She found a stack of fast food napkins and used a few to wipe off her sword. She held the sword up to the moonlight, studying the edge. In the darkness she couldn’t see any nicks, but the light wasn’t very good. She slid her sword into the sheath and then stopped to listen again. No new sounds. No movement. The sound of her heart was as loud as anything. 

On the old bookcase she found her knife, still in its sheath. She attached her knife and sword to her belt. The bookcase held an assortment of tools, bottles of oil, lighter fluid, and a container of gas. On another shelf she found matches and a few cans of food sandwiched between stale, empty beer cans. She found her backpack a few feet away. The top was open and the contents were scattered all over the ground. Crap. She gathered up what she could, trying to be as quiet as possible. Judging by the weight, some things were missing, but she didn’t have enough light, or enough time, to look now. She zipped the pack and slung it on her back, fastening the chest strap in front of her. 

She headed away from the house. There were bags of garbage, and piles of discarded stuff. More beer cans.  

Beyond the garbage, she saw the ATVs silhouetted in the driveway. She stepped carefully over to the dusty machines. She looked them over, running her hand along the sleek metal. Their precious machines. She crouched down and looked closer, saw what she was looking for. The ATVs key dangled from the ignition. She pulled out the key, then went to the other machines and took their keys. She stood silently, thinking. A slight breeze rustled the leaves in the nearby trees. Sark suddenly turned and threw the keys over the fence, scattering them in the forest. It made her feel a little bit better.

She took one last look toward the fire, at the sleeping forms there. She wanted to do something to punish them, something that let them all know that she had been there. The guns were over there, by the fire. If she could steal their guns, they would really be pissed … No. It was too risky. Fighting zombies was one thing, but fighting people, that was different. In her mind it was a line she didn’t want to cross.

She stepped back over to the bookcase and took the big, red plastic container of gas. She spun the cap off, looking over her shoulder to see if anyone stirred. Sark poured the gas gently over the sea of garbage. When it was empty, she set down the container looking for a way over the fence. She went back to the stump, pushed it quietly onto its side, and rolled it next to the fence. She set it upright and went back to the shelves. Sark grabbed a match from the box, struck it and threw it onto the soaking garbage. Flames formed and began creeping across the pile. Sark walked over to the stump, climbed onto it, and pulled herself to the top of the fence. She scraped over the top, dropped down the other side, and jogged into the woods, never looking back.

15: Rescue

Richmond, Virginia

 

Reggie and Tony Franks sat in the back of the MedFlight helicopter, weapons at the ready. The pilot’s seat was in the right, front part of the aircraft. Next to him on the left was a stretcher where patients could ride. Then Reggie and Franks rode in the back seats, facing forward. There were tubes hanging down and all sorts of technical equipment lining the walls. Reggie sat still in his seat, holding his M4 rifle and trying not to touch anything. He kept his eyes on the floor, avoiding looking out the windows.

He felt slightly guilty that he was rescuing his wife before anyone else, but he felt it was the safest mission with the best chance of success. For one, he knew the layout of the yard and the house. He knew just where the people were located. And he had a key to the place. SWAT operated on the concept of having the best intel possible before attempting any mission, and this was the most info they would ever have.

A voice came through his headset: the pilot.

“Hey, you know we’re going to have to set down, right? I’m not trained for any of those fancy helicopter rescues,” the pilot said.

“That’s okay, neither are we,” Reggie said. “Our team doesn’t even have a helicopter. Never used one.” 

The sound of the helicopter filled the air as Reggie sat still, trying not to think about flying so high above his neighborhood. It wasn’t heights he was afraid of, it was falling from them.

 

Reggie’s wife Aliesha heard the helicopter as it began to descend into their yard. She was hopeful, but also scared. What was a helicopter doing here? Why her house and no one else’s? She watched through the window as the helicopter landed. Two men wearing all black and carrying guns got out and ran, hunched over, toward the house. A knot began to tighten in her stomach. Her first thought was that they were some sort of terrorists. Then she saw writing on one man’s vest: “Police”. Her heart felt like it swelled a little. Her three year old daughter ran to the window to see what the noise was.

“Who’s that, Mommy? Who’s that?”

Aliesha turned toward the little monitor on one wall. A face suddenly filled the screen.

“Honey, It’s me. It’s Reggie,” the man said, though with his mask and goggles on she could barely tell.

“Hi, Reg,” was all she could think to say.

Happiness and relief and a thousand other emotions seemed to wash over her. 

“Honey, get a bandanna or a cloth to put over you face and one for Dana. Is she okay?”

Dana ran to the monitor and started shouting and jumping up and down.

“We’re okay. We’re okay,” Aliesha said. 

 

Reggie opened the front door and Franks went through, barrel first. Reggie was about to step in behind him when he saw the zombies coming down the street. There were four or five of them,headed for the sound of the helicopter.

“I’m going to draw them away,” the pilot said in his ear. “Let me know when you’re about to come out.”

The helicopter began to rise. Reggie’s good mood was replaced by a feeling of dread as he watched the chopper fly away. It was their only lifeline to freedom.

“First floor’s clear,” Franks said.

The two of them took the stairs two at a time. They checked the three bedrooms and the bathroom. No zombies. When Reggie turned back to the master bedroom, the door was just swinging open. His wife stood in the doorway, a scarf over her face. She held a heavy silver revolver in her hand, pointed at the ceiling.

Reggie smiled and hugged her. Dana attached herself to their legs. Reggie stepped back and looked at his wife.

“You look like Pancho Villa,” he said.

His wife was shoving ammunition, batteries, and granola bars into the pockets of her big coat.

“It’s August, you’re gonna roast in that coat,” Reggie said, stepping past her into the bedroom.

“I needed the pockets.”

 

Moments later Reggie and his family stood with Tony at the bottom of the stairs.

“We’re at the front door,” Reggie told the pilot. 

He could still hear the helicopter, though it sounded like it was a few blocks away.

“Okay, give me about one minute. Every zombie in the neighborhood is heading my way, and I want to wait till they gather here. Then I’m heading your way and landing fast. Be ready.”

“Will do,” Reggie said.

The seconds ticked by ever so slowly as Reggie watched out the peep hole on his front door. He couldn’t see the helicopter, but he didn’t see any zombies either.

“Okay, here I come. Let’s do this quick,” the pilot said.

Reggie opened the door and saw the helicopter about a block away. Below it was a teeming, writhing mass of the walking dead. The helicopter was heading for his house at a high rate of speed. They wouldn’t have much time to get in the helicopter before the zombies caught up to it. 

“Aliesha, you grab Dana and get on the stretcher, up front, next to the pilot. There’s not a lot of room in there,”

The helicopter flared, then landed. Aliesha dashed toward the helicopter, ducking low. She had a shotgun and a duffel bag pinned against her chest with one arm. Her other hand held Dana’s little one. Tony Franks ran alongside, watching the mass of approaching zombies. Reggie pulled the door shut and began to follow, then he saw something out of the corner of his eye, zombies coming around the corner of the house. Damn. He turned, adjusted his stance, and began to fire. One zombie fell, two more came at him, slow and jerky. He took aim and shot one in the face, then blew part of the other’s head off. Two more zombies came around the corner. These ones were fresher, faster. They were moving almost at a run.

“Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go.” The pilot said in his ear.

Reggie turned and began to run. He was faster than the zombies, but it was only about ten yards to the helicopter. 

The helicopter was already leaving the ground when Reggie got to it. He put a foot up on the skid and dove forward. One hand hit the hard floor of the helicopter, grabbed the metal base that the stretcher was mounted on. He felt a jerk on the back of his vest and then he was being pulled backwards. He held on with one hand, the other flailing to find anything to grab onto. The helicopter was rising fast. His left foot was kicking out into thin air, and something was grabbing onto his right, pulling. He felt himself sliding back, out of the helicopter toward thin air. Franks grabbed his right wrist. He stopped sliding. Someone inside the helicopter was screaming. Reggie assumed it was his wife, then he realized it was his own voice he was hearing. He felt a jolt of pain go up his right hip as the zombie pulled on his right leg. Judging by the amount of weight pulling on him, two zombies must have a hold of him. He slid toward the door again, just for one frightening moment, then he felt Franks grabbing the back of his vest. He felt Franks pull. The top half of his body was in the helicopter now, two zombies hanging off his lower half.

 

Tony Franks had one foot jammed between the seats, the other braced against the back of the pilot’s seat. He had Reggie by one wrist and by a loop on the back of his vest. He wasn’t strong enough to pull him fully inside the chopper, but he sure wasn’t going to let him be dragged out. The helicopter suddenly dipped and banked and he almost lost his grip. Franks’ arms were starting to shake. He wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer. He looked over Reggie’s back and saw one Zombie chewing on Reggie’s right boot, holding his ankle with its cold, dead hands. The other zombie hung from one arm, its hand locked around Reggie’s belt. He and Reggie couldn’t hold against that weight, not for very long. Tony Franks had to make a risky move. He let go of Reggie’s wrist long enough to grab the front of his vest. He clamped Reggie’s wrist with his armpit. He hoped it was a good enough hold, because it would have to do. He let go of the back of Reggie’s vest with his other hand. Immediately, Reggie began to slip. Oh shit, Tony thought. He grabbed the vest again and braced one leg near the door so he could use his legs for leverage. He let go of the back of Reggie’s vest again. This time, there was no slide. Tony reached down, pulled his pistol, and aimed over Reggie’s back. The zombie that had hold of Reggie’s right foot had its teeth clamped down hard on the thick black leather, both bony, decaying hands wrapped around Reggie’s ankle. Tony Franks knew he couldn’t shoot it without hitting Reggie, but he might not have a choice. People were yelling. The helicopter dipped and shook. The zombie lost its grip with one hand. Tony saw it swinging in the thin air, hanging off Reggie’s leg, then the zombie’s other hand came loose. The zombie’s hideous, leering face disappeared into the distance as it fell. 

The other zombie still hung on, its hand clamped onto Reggie’s belt. Tony could see the thing’s grinning face, it’s thin, bloody lips, the scabrous, rotting skin on its arm. He aimed the gun at the thing’s head. As long as Reggie didn’t move … Reggie kicked his legs, trying to pull himself further into the helicopter, just as Franks fired two shots. There was a spray of blood and part of the zombie’s skull went missing. The thing went limp, spinning slowly, its clawed fingers still clutching Reggie’s belt. Just then, there was a crunching pop and the zombie fell away. Reggie was clawing his way forward. Tony pulled.

 

Reggie scrambled forward with all his might. He felt Tony pull. Reggie managed to grab the leg of one seat. He felt his legs clear the door, then he was diving forward, pulling himself in. He dragged himself up to the nearest seat and sat, panting. He tried to catch his breath, managing a weak smile toward his wife.

“Uh, someone want to close that door?” the pilot said over his headset.

Reggie started to get up when Tony put a hand on his shoulder. Reggie just looked up, momentarily confused.

“One sec,” Tony said. 

He reached behind Reggie, who felt a tug at his belt. Then something came loose. Tony held up the last zombie’s bloody hand, still connected to the ragged stumps of its arm bones. Its skin was torn and gangrenous, the jagged ends of its bones sticking out at ruinous angles. 

Tony tossed the appendage out the door. Reggie watched it spin off into the sky and disappear.

16: Trust

Bad River National Grasslands, South Dakota

 

Levi knelt by the fire ring, holding a small nest of dried grass. He held it up, carefully, as if it was very fragile. A small trail of smoke wafted up, then a tiny orange light bloomed deep in the center of the mass. 

“Nice. Nice. Give it some air,” Johnny said.

He was standing near Levi, shirtless, his dark hair hanging loose nearly to his shoulders.

The ball of grass smoked and flamed as Levi blew on it.

“Good. Now put it in the pyramid.”

Levi gently set the smoldering mass of grass under a small pyramid of twigs which was built on top of a pile of small branches. 

“”Give it some air. Careful,” Johnny said.

The bundle of grass was full of flame, and within seconds the little pyramid of twigs had caught fire.

“Okay, cool. It’s going good. Now you just have to keep feeding it.”

Levi turned to look at his big brother.

“I did it. I built a fire!”

“Yeah, bro, you did it.”

 

Johnny stood and watched Levi tend to his new creation. Johnny was lean and muscular, not trying to show off, but the two younger women noticed. They always noticed.

“Johnny, we’ve got water boiling. Come get some oatmeal,” Trisha said from near the kitchen. “I saved you a packet of apple cinnamon.”

“Oh. Instant oatmeal. You’re an awesome cook,” Sierra said. 

“Shut up! Why are you so mean to me?” Trisha said.

The two of them started to shout at each other.

“Stop. Stop, both of you. I won’t have any fighting in my kitchen,” Margaret said. “Johnny, come get some breakfast, and put a shirt on at mealtime.”

Johnny pulled on a t-shirt and the two girls retreated to opposite sides of the fire pit where they glared at each other over their oatmeal. 

The topic of conversation over breakfast was the same as it had been for the past few days. It started out as “There’s nothing to do out here” and ended up being “Who’s going to the creek to get water, who’s going to help clean up, who’s going to collect fire wood, and who’s going to go out and scavenge?” Living off the land was harder than anyone thought it would be. Just getting enough water and wood were almost full-time jobs, and their only shelter consisted of tarps hung from trees.

It was decided that Ben and Johnny would go out to scavenge and the rest would divide up the chores around camp. Another day started for Johnny and his little band.

 

An hour later, Johnny and Ben reached the little parking area where they had left the vehicles. Johnny brought his bow and a quiver of arrows, plus the pistol he had found on the man in the crashed truck a few days before. Ben had the rifle he’d also found in the truck. Hopefully they wouldn’t have to use it. 

They climbed into Ben’s faded red pickup truck and started it up.

“She still starts,” Ben said. “Try to see if you can get anything on the radio.”

They rattled over the dry washboard road. Already the day was over eighty degrees, and not a cloud in the sky. August on the plains. Johnny slowly turned the knob on the old car radio, but he got nothing but the occasional buzz of distant static. Even that was rare, most stations having gone off the air completely by then. He tried the whole AM dial, then the FM. 

“Nothing.”

Johnny straightened up and watched the ribbon of brown dust in front of the truck. 

“Hey Ben, if we get a deer can you teach me to, like, tan the hide and all that. I want to learn all that stuff,” Johnny said.

There was silence as the truck jolted over a bad section of road.

“Tan hides? I don’t know how to do that,” Ben said, giving Johnny a sidelong glance.

“I … I want to learn the old ways. You know, how our people used to live off the land and make stuff from deer hides.”

“Johnny, how old do you think I am? We quit doing most of that a long time before I was born.”

Johnny looked out the window, watching the blur of grass and shrubs go by.

Ben felt bad. Johnny was a good kid, but he was unrealistic. He didn’t think things through, because that’s just the way teenagers were, but now Ben had shot him down and he felt bad about it.

“Look, bring your bow. If we get a deer I can show you how to dress it out,” Ben said. “I know I can still do that.”

Johnny nodded. 

A few minutes later, Ben pulled the truck to the side of the road and parked.

“Old habit, pulling over. I guess I could leave it in the middle of the road, as much difference as it makes.”

The two of them got out. Ben took the rifle from the rack by the truck’s back window. Johnny had his new pistol on his hip and the crowbar in one hand. He reached into the back of the truck and retrieved his bow and the leather pouch full of arrows. He looked at the fletching, the red and white feathers on the bow. They were powerful colors, he knew, though he wasn’t sure what they meant. He thought of asking Ben, but Ben didn’t seem to want to be real helpful just now. 

Johnny hung the bow and the quiver of arrows over his shoulders. Then he noticed a little glob of black grease stuck to the side of Ben’s truck. He ran one finger through the grease, then traced horizontal stripes down his left cheekbone. When he was done, he saw Ben watching him.

“How’s it look?” Johnny asked.

Ben paused, considering his words carefully.

“Looks like you’re ready to kill some zombies.”

Johnny checked his reflection in the side mirror.

“Let’s go,” Johnny said.

 

Johnny and Ben were heading for some big trophy houses a few miles past the grasslands boundary. They walked through low, dry shrubs and little stands of tall trees. The sun beat down on them, the August heat relentless. Ben plodded along. He wasn’t fast, but he was steady and kept moving. Johnny’s style was to move faster. They were like the tortoise and the hare, except that Johnny usually kept to Ben’s slower pace. The old way, the tribal way, was to respect your elders, and Johnny tried to keep to that. 

Johnny carried the hefty crowbar in one hand, his shirt tied around his waist. They climbed through a barbed wire fence and headed into some dense trees. After a few miles, they could see the upper story of a large log house higher up a hill. When they reached it, they banged on the door, not expecting anyone to answer but wondering if any zombies were inside. Nothing stirred inside the house.

“Windows are still intact. I doubt if looters have been in yet,” Ben said.

“Yeah.”

All the doors were locked, so they broke a window and Johnny climbed in. He went to the front door and let Ben inside. 

The two men moved through the house slowly and carefully, stopping often to listen for the distant thumping of zombies. 

The house was quiet, so they kept moving. 

There were two levels, including a huge living room with a fireplace and high ceilings. It was all made of giant logs. Even some of the furniture was made of smaller logs. There was a chandelier made of elk antlers, and lots of bold, western-style paintings of landscapes, flowers, and horses. There were bronze statues of grizzly bears and cowboys roping horses. 

“For rich people, they sure don’t have much of anything that’s useful,” Johnny said.

“Yep. Mosta this stuff isn’t much use anymore. Not in the world we live in now.”

They found some heavy blankets and some old camping gear in one of the closets, but Johnny had been right, there wasn’t much in the big house that was useful anymore. They took the few canned goods they found in the pantry, some utensils and matches from the kitchen, and made their way out. 

 

They were nearly a mile away, climbing toward another log house on a hill, when they heard the first groans. Sounds trailing through the trees. A grunt from the woods, a raspy growl from deep in the forest. 

Johnny gripped the crowbar tight, and Ben followed him past a small stand of pine trees. They stepped into a small clearing just as someone appeared out of the trees on the other side. Johnny was already starting forward when he realized they weren’t zombies. He froze in mid-stride.

Several feet away, there were four men holding long blades. For a second, everyone stopped. Ben brought his rifle up and aimed it at the men. One of the men reached for the gun on his belt.

“Don’t. Don’t reach!” Ben said. “Keep your hands out.”

For a moment everyone just looked at each other. Johnny pulled out the boxy black pistol but kept it pointed it at the ground.

“Are you guys robbin’ us?” one of the men said.

Two of the men were tall and blonde, with bushy hair and short, trimmed beards. They both wore black leather jackets and dirty jeans. Another man was short and his hair was shaved close on the sides in a little almost-mohawk. He wore a green army jacket with blue jeans. He held a long knife in one hand, and had a gun on one hip. The last man was a little over six feet tall with a long, scraggly black beard and unruly hair that stuck out in different directions. He wore a black and green flannel shirt with silver sleeves and carried a dull black machete. Johnny realized that the silver on the man’s sleeves was actually duct tape.

“We’re not robbing you and we’re not going to let you rob us,” Ben said.

“Hey man, we’re not out to rob anyone or to hurt anyone, we’re just looking to survive like y’all are,” the one with the black beard said in a slight drawl.

Nobody knew what to do. There was a low, throaty noise off in the trees, like a very old man clearing his throat. Suddenly two zombies stepped out of the forest behind the four men. Two more came out between the two groups, stumbling and hissing. 

Johnny rushed toward the two closest zombies, raising his crowbar high over his head. The other four men turned to fight the zombies behind them. There was a flash of blades as the strangers brutally dispatched the zombies. In a few seconds, all four zombies fell. Two more were coming through the trees. Johnny dashed at them and smashed their heads in, one after the other. 

“Man, you can really fight!” black beard said in Johnny’s direction.

“You guys, too. You want to join our group?” Johnny said. “We could use some more guys.”

“Johnny!” Ben said.

Johnny looked at Ben, confused, and Ben called him over. The two of them stepped back a few paces and then Ben spoke quietly into Johnny’s ear.

“Johnny, we don’t know these guys. They could kill us all in our sleep.”

Johnny looked over at the four strangers. Two were now searching the zombies’ pockets while the other watched for more zombies. 

“We gotta trust somebody,” Johnny said.

 

The six men headed for Ben’s pickup truck a few hours later, tired and spattered with blood. The four newcomers were pretty rough looking, with their long blades and guns. They looked grimy and worn, like they had been on the road a long time. Ben wasn’t sure if they could be trusted; he was still worried about what they might do if they had the chance.

“So what’s with the duct tape sleeves?” Ben asked the man in the flannel shirt.

“Oh, well, just a little zombie proofing. They can’t bite through duct tape.”

Ben nodded. Long sleeves and duct tape weren’t a bad idea. He wished Johnny weren’t so reckless sometimes, but then again teenagers always felt like they were invincible. 

“You got stripes on your face,” the shorter man said to Johnny.

“A little warpaint, for battling the undead,” Johnny said. 

“Yeah, that’s cool,” the stranger said. “Everybody’s got to have their own style.”

They walked in silence. The shorter one seemed to do most of the talking for the new strangers.

“So it’s all right if we camp with you guys? We don’t want to cause any trouble,” the man said.

“No, it’s all right. It can be like a trial basis,” Johnny said, looking at Ben. “What do you call it?”

“A probationary period.” Ben said.

“Yeah, well trial basis. That sounds better.”

Ben and Johnny climbed into the cab of the pickup while the other men piled into the back. Ben glanced back at the men who were laughing and grinning in the bed of the truck. Something about the strangers made him nervous. 

He steered the old truck onto the road and headed for camp.

 

 

17: Sark Heads West

Author’s Note:  2/17 - This will probably be my only chapter posted this week. I will be working on publishing my other novel, Strange Hunting, to Amazon by the end of the week (kindle version). If anyone wants information on that novel, please PM me.

 

North of Hereford, Texas

 

Sark had been walking for hours, through open fields and past pastures full of cows, most of them dead and bloating in the hot sun. She had avoided going down into Hereford because she knew about all the huge feedlots there, but even several miles north she found mostly abandoned cattle ranches. She tugged her bandana back up over her nose and kept moving. There was a small wooded area and she decided to cut through. It would be a break from the cows at least, if only a small one.

It was densely wooded with large trees and lots of underbrush. Sark had to shove her way through the mass of greenery, pushing aside branches and ducking low limbs. Twigs snapped and plants crunched as she made her way through. There must be water here, she thought. Her water bottles had been empty for a few hours and she had decided to avoid the cattle troughs. She would drink out of a cow trough if she got really desperate, not now.

Sark stopped to listen. Sometimes the forest threw her own sounds back at her, changed and foreign sounding. More than once she stopped, thinking she heard things, but there was no one around but her. 

This time was different. She heard a low, throaty sound. Zombie. She cocked her head. No, not a zombie. Zombies. There was a soft groaning sound that mixed with the other sound. Leaves rustled. The sounds were getting closer.

Sark looked for a place to fight, a clear spot big enough that she could swing her sword and maneuver without tripping. Behind her and to the left there was a little open spot. She backed up and dashed into the little meadow. The ground was rough, uneven. Keep your feet under you, Sark thought to herself. Footwork was everything especially against a whole group of nasty biters. She didn’t even know yet, how many there were. Oh well, the terrain works against them, too

Sark heard them coming through the trees. She slipped out of her pack and set it near the base of a tree. She stood there holding her hemet, listening to the approaching zombies, trying to learn whatever she could. It was no use. All she knew was that more than one zombie was coming after her. She pulled on her helmet and unleashed her sword.

When the zombies reached the edge of the trees, they forgot everything else and rushed toward Sark. One stumbled, ran into a small tree, and fell awkwardly. The one behind it tripped over its sprawled body. Two others were heading toward her with outstretched arms and slavering jaws. One had a western shirt and cowboy boots. Its hair was still matted down like it had recently been wearing a cowboy hat. Other than that, it looked completely inhuman. Dead, glaring eyes, and blood dripping from its mouth. It was fresher than the other zombie, faster, and it led the other one by about ten yards. As the hideous thing reached Sark, she feinted left, then stepped right. In the instant before the zombie could react, she bashed the zombie’s left elbow with the flat of her sword, knocking its hands out of the way. Her backswing sliced a thin section off the top of the zombie’s skull. She turned the momentum of that swing into a quick figure eight, stepping forward and bringing the sword around and down on top of the next zombie’s skull. Its eyes went blank and it fell to its knees before toppling face first into the tall grass. 

The other two zombies were scratching and clawing at each other to get to their feet. The one on top, stepped on the other zombie’s back, gained its feet, and charged Sark. She set her feet and drove the point of her heavy sword between the creature’s outstretched hands and straight into its face. The zombie’s head jerked back and for a split second the zombie stood there, head thrown back, blood flowing from its ruined face. It clutched at the air in front of its face. Like a person swatting at invisible mosquitos. Then Sark sunk her sword into the side of its head.

The last zombie was nearly on her then. She threw one forearm up to block it, then she twisted her body and shoved. The zombie’s momentum carried it past her. As Sark readied for her next swing, there was a sickening crunching sound and the zombie jerked and fell to the ground. It turned, ready to charge again, but its left leg folded and it fell face first to the ground. 

“Broke something didn’t you, you disgusting bag of crap?” Sark said

She hadn’t meant to say that out loud, and the sound of her own voice surprised her a little.

The zombie crawled toward her, pulling itself along the ground hand over hand. The zombie shook with rage as it glared up at Sark. Its teeth clacked together, open and shut, open and shut as if it was already biting into her. 

Sark stepped back a few paces and watched as the thing pulled itself toward her. She bounced slightly on the balls of her feet, anticipating her next swing. That’s when she noticed the zombie was a woman. She had short, spiky hair and was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and cowboy boots. Her skin hung off her and she smelled like rotten meat, but her shape was definitely female. Not that it mattered. If a dead, ravenous thing was trying to kill you, it didn’t matter if they were young, old, male, female. Sark treated them all the same. 

The thing grasped at the dirt and grass, hauling its shaking body forward one hand at a time. It had its hands full, but its jaws were free to clack menacingly at Sark. Sark stepped next to the raving zombie, raised her sword, and brought it down on the back of the thing’s head. Dark blood and pink bits of crud splattered on the grass. Sark levered the sword out of the zombie’s skull, stopping again to listen to the woods around her. For the moment, everything was quiet. 

Sark stuck the toe of her boot under the zombie woman’s ribcage and rolled her onto her side. The woman wore a blue t-shirt that said “Hereford, Texas, Beef Capitol of the World”. Sark shook her head and stepped away. It was best not to think about the zombies, about the people they used to be. That just messed with your head. Instead she checked their pockets, finding a small folding knife, some dollar bills, and a condom. Sark shrugged and slipped the condom into her pocket. If she used it, it would be to carry water or to use as a little water proof pouch.

Sark took off her helmet and set it near a tree and listened to the woods again. She thought of a time not too long ago when you didn’t have to stop and listen all the time, when you didn’t have to worry about things lurking behind every tree, every garbage can, every house. Being alert all the time was exhausting. She studied the blade of her sword, noticing the flecks of flesh and bone and small rivulets of blood that marred its surface. Sark wiped the worst of the gore on the trunk of a nearby tree, and pulled a scrap of cloth from her back pocket. She carefully wiped off the blade, stopping often to study the forest around her. 

She thought about the day she had bought the sword. She had found a website for a company called BlackViper Blades. They made swords, real, usable steel swords. They had a video where someone used one of their swords to cut mats and break cinder blocks. These blades were serious. She had wanted one right away, and the viking sword, the one called Odin’s Guard, had called to her from the beginning. She started researching swords, steel, blade makers. She did her research, and she kept coming back to the sword called Odin’s Guard. High carbon steel, balanced, solid, awesome. She finally bought it, using the flimsy reasoning that she needed one in case of some sort of apocalypse. She never thought anything like this would actually happen.

When her sword was clean, she took a little container of oil from her pack and wiped it along the blade. As she did, she looked for nicks in the blade, or any long term damage. It looked okay. She slid the blade back into its sheath and pulled a small piece of paper and a stubby pencil from her pack. She crossed out the number “35” that was written there, then wrote “39” underneath it. She looked at all the old crossed-off numbers on the page for a minute, then folded it up and put it away.

 

A few hundred yards away, Sark found an abandoned campsite on a tiny lake. Everything was turned over and thrown around, but Sark managed to find a bowie knife, a shotgun, and several packets of freeze dried food. She found a small sewing kit. Sark had never been one to sew, but it could some in handy for repairs. She also found safety pins, a roll of duct tape, and a tube of crazy glue. The rest of the things she found were things she already had, so she left them. Space in her pack was too limited to carry too many duplicate items. She filled her water bottles from a big jug and moved on.

 

Sark walked past lots of big, fenced pastures and some open, flat land full of brown withered crops. At one point she saw several longhorn cattle running loose. Later, she saw a big cattle ranch with the fence all smashed and falling down. She avoided the main road, walking through the fields or keeping to the meager patches of trees and brush in between. She passed a sheep farm. Most of the sheep were dead in the pasture but a few scraggly ones were wandering around. She found a gate and swung it open. If no one was around to feed them, at least let them go and try to find food. 

Later, she crossed an old, dirt road and saw that it led to a small farm house. She was standing there looking toward the house, wondering if she should try looking for some more food there. A figure appeared at one of the windows. Sark was beginning to wave when the first shots rang out. She dove for the ditch then gently crawled into the undergrowth. There were a few more shots, but Sark stayed low and kept crawling. She didn’t think the shooter could see where she had gone. There was another shot, but now, she was pretty sure, the shooter was just guessing. Sark crawled another hundred yards on her belly, keeping her head down. When her cover ran out, she stood up and ran for the nearest trees. There were no more shots.

 

By nightfall, Sark was in vast orchard with apples and pears on the trees. She pulled some of the best ones off the trees and ate them while she walked. Afterwards she picked more apples and stuffed them in her pack. There was a small, dark farmhouse surrounded by trees. She crept toward it in the dark and watched it. There were no lights on and nothing moved. She didn’t hear any sound. Just to be safe, she picked up some small rocks and threw them at the faded old wood siding. There was no reaction from inside, so she threw a stone almost the size of her fist. It pounded off the side of the house, the noise echoing in the night air. Nothing stirred. 

Sark managed to pry open a window and squeeze through. She closed the window behind her and sat, listening to the loud, rhythmic ticking of  an old clock in the kitchen. She checked the whole house. When she found it empty, she finally relaxed. She suddenly realized how exhausted she was. If she slept here and people showed up, she could be in trouble. She decided to risk it.

She climbed up the stairs and found a bedroom that looked out over the garage roof. Perfect. One of Sark’s cardinal rules was never to sleep in a place with only one way out. Here, she could go out the window and off the garage roof, if she needed to.

There was a small side table in the hallway and sark pushed it to the top of the stairs. She found a small desk in one room and she pushed it out, sweating and struggling, until it was next to the other table. Then she stacked the desk chair on top. She went room to room and found enough to add to the pile to make a pretty good barricade.

Sark went to her little room and sat on the bed. There was a white, flowery comforter on the bed and fancy pillows with lace around the edges. There were plush little animals on the shelves and a poster on the wall of white horses on a green hillside. It was a very girly little room, the kind of room that Sark hadn’t tolerated since she was about ten. Horsies and lace just weren’t her thing.

A thought occurred to Sark then and she got up and went into the bathroom. She turned on the faucet in the shower and let the water run over her hand. Yes! She remembered that the family’s water had quit working once when she was a little girl. Her dad had said that there was enough water “in the tank” to get another shower and to fill up some containers. Sark didn’t know where this “tank” was, but she thanked the gods that it still had water in it. She was hot, sweaty, and stinking. The heavy, thick clothes that kept zombies from biting you were not meant to be worn in West Texas in August. Plus, she had wandered through a landscape of dirt, smoke, and hot, dead cows. It hadn’t been a good day.

No, she corrected herself, any day you survive is a good day.

She stood, struggled out of her boots, and stood up, shutting the door out of force of habit. She pulled off her black t-shirt and wriggled out of her sports bra, then she lowered her black jeans. She stopped to look at her dark eyes in the mirror over the sink. She looked older, tired. It seemed hard to believe that just a few weeks ago the world was running along normally and people thought it would just go on like that forever.

Sark pulled off her underwear and kicked it toward the rest of her clothes. She stepped into the shower and adjusted the water.

 

When Sark stepped out of the shower, she felt like a new person. She hadn’t showered in several days and she barely recognized the girl who had emerged from under all that grime. She reached for her clothes. They seemed to smell a lot worse, now that she was clean and they weren’t. She went into the different bedrooms, hoping that one of the past residents was her size. One bedroom belonged to a boy, a teenager by the looks of things. She borrowed a t-shirt and some boxer shorts. Both were slightly big on her, but not bad. At least the layer next to her body was clean. She went back to the bathroom and put on her jeans and boots. She took her necklace off the doorknob and hung it around her neck, then she toweled off her hair and went back into the bedroom she was using. 

Sark made sure her helmet and jacket were with her backpack. If she had to bug out in the middle of the night, she wouldn’t have time to fumble around. She found her belt and attached her knife and sword. It was uncomfortable sleeping with them on her hips, but better than waking up, defenseless, to a rabid zombie about to eat you. Sark took off the comforter and blanket and piled them on the floor, then she crawled under the sheet. After a few minutes of lying there listening to the old house creak and settle, Sark reached up and pulled her necklace over her head. She looked at it in the darkness, a single piece of turquoise stone in the outline of a bear attached to a long, thin loop of black leather. It was her good luck charm. She wrapped the leather loop around her wrist until all the slack was gone, then tucked the stone into the palm of one hand. She closed her hand around the pendant and drifted off to sleep.

 

 

 

18: Bitten

Reggie Logan sat on the edge of his mattress, trying to summon the energy to get up and start another day. There was a slight draft here, so close to the floor, where he and his wife and daughter shared two mattresses. He got up and walked over to a nearby chair, retrieved his pants, and found a shirt that wasn’t too dirty. He stretched one shoulder, slowly, then rotated it in a slow arc. He felt old, like he’d aged twenty years in the last few weeks. He had been on fourteen rescue missions in the past ten days. Being sore and tired was a normal state now. 

He was pulling his black tactical shirt over the t-shirt when his wife, Aliesha, walked in.

“Oh honey, don’t tell me you’re going out again,” his wife said. 

“I have to. People out there are stranded, starving, and I’m supposed to just say ‘sorry I’m taking the day off’?”

“There are other guys who can go. Those officers came over from that precinct … “

“They’re not trained for this. Hell, some of them were riding desks at the precinct. Not just anyone can do this, you know,” Reggie answered.

He pulled his helmet, his vest, and some other gear from the closet. 

“You’re not doing anyone any good if you work yourself to death,” Aliesha said.

Reggie turned, slamming the closet door. “I have a job to do. Do you understand that? If I don’t do it, people will die. Maybe you can live with that, but I can’t.”

Reggie stormed out of the little office-turned-bedroom, the door banging shut behind him.

 

Reggie found Vincent and Garcia waiting for him in the small top floor office that they used as their SWAT headquarters. Vincent was wiping his M4 with a rag. Garcia was lying on the floor, feet up on a couch, dressed to go except for his helmet. 

Reggie nodded to Vincent and looked over at Garcia.

“What the hell, Garcia? You need some nap time?” Reggie asked.

“Nah. Just stretching my back. Hurting like a mother these past few days.”

Reggie sighed, shaking his head. He yanked open the storage locker.

“Hey, who peed in your cornflakes?” Vincent asked in Reggie’s direction.

Reggie looked up. Things were pissing him off, but he didn’t know what, exactly. Come to think of it, he’d been in a bad mood since he woke up.

“Who me? Sorry. Just a lot of shit piling up. My wife thinks I’m working too much. Plus, the more people we rescue, the worse things get here. Crowding, lines for the bathrooms, people fighting.” Reggie pulled out his duty belt. “They even found some graffiti on four. Captain Jessup says he’s gonna have to start regular patrols here in the hospital.” 

“Not us SWAT guys?”

“No. The new officers that were rescued from the precinct a few days ago, Jessup’s guys, they’ll do patrols and we’ll still be doing the rescues, for now.”

There was silence. Reggie attached some things to his belt. It was already too heavy, but he needed what he needed. Garcia was on his feet, fiddling with the little speaker in his ear.

“So why three of us today? We usually go on rescue with two,” Vincent asked.

“Okay,” Reggie said, his gear finally squared away. “Food’s running low in the cafeteria. We need to make a supply run. A grocery warehouse over in Montrose. We don’t know exactly what the situation is like there, as far as zombies. We all gotta be sharp today.”

“Whose idea was that? Jessup?”

“Yeah. I guess him and the admin guys. Since he came over, he’s our boss, so I didn’t get any say.”

“Figures,” Garcia said.

The three men picked up their guns and filed out of the room.

 

The MedFlight helicopter floated over the city, the pilot’s eyes scanning the instruments. Logan and Garcia rode in the two seats in back while Vincent sat on the stretcher, hunched over to avoid hitting his head. It was a tight squeeze, but it would be worse when they stacked boxes of food in every available gap for the return trip.

Reggie looked down as the city passed below. Just a few days ago, he couldn’t even look out the windows when they were airborne, but after spending most of the last week and a half in and out of the thing, he was getting over it. In the streets he could make out big mobs of zombies milling around amid abandoned vehicles. Even from high in the sky, he could see the roads littered with broken glass and trash. On one street, a truck had taken out a fire hydrant and zombies stood, oblivious to the knee deep, dirty water. Every street had scores of zombies. He estimated dozens, hundreds. He quit trying to keep track when he guessed he’d seen a thousand. A packs of stray dogs fought over a corpse. The sight of it made him sad, and a little bit angry.

 

They arrived over the warehouse and did a slow circle to scout things out before setting down. The lot was fenced and the fence was still in one piece, so that was something. There was one big building with a slanted metal roof over cinder block walls. Beyond that was a large parking area about half full of cars. 

They set down in the open parking area and Reggie and the others climbed off and walked away in a quick, low duck walk, eyes scanning in every direction. 

The three of them stood in a little clump, Reggie in the middle with his M4 at the ready and his pistol on his belt. Vincent, on his left, had the same weapons. Garcia had a shotgun and pistol.

The three of them waited for any sign of zombies. If any were nearby, the sound of the helicopter would rile them up and they would probably be heading toward where the sound had been. After several seconds, no zombies showed up.

“Anyone see anything?” Reggie asked.

“No.”

“Negative.”

“Okay, let’s head out. Garcia, watch that blind spot by the cars there.”

“Got it.”

They moved slowly and carefully, watching their surroundings at every step. There was no sound and nothing moved. The tension stretched their nerves. They expected ravenous dead things to appear from around every car. Glass crunched underfoot. The lot was eerily quiet.

They reached the building and looked for a way in. There were only two doors, a wide, metal garage door and a smaller steel door nearby. Both were locked tight. They went to the side of the building where there was a wide window about five feet off the ground.

“I guess that’s our way in,” Garcia said. “I can take out the glass with the shotgun.”

Reggie paused, thinking to himself.

“I guess there’s no way to do this quietly. I’ll cover anything coming at us from the left, Vincent you watch right.”

“Gotcha, covering right,” Vincent said.

Reggie faced one way, Vincent the other, guns aimed along the side of the building. If any curious zombies came around either corner, they would get a big surprise. Garcia stepped up to the window.

There was a boom and the tinkling of glass. Reggie waited for any curious biters to come around the corner. He turned back and saw Garcia’s legs disappearing into the hole where the window had been. 

“Garcia wait, I -“ Reggie started to say. He hurried toward the window. 

“I’m in,” Garcia’s voice came over the earpiece in Reggie’s ear.

“Vincent, let’s go,” Reggie said. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled the collapsible baton from his belt. He extended the baton and used it to sweep the shards of glass from the lower part of the window, then he began to climb through the gap.

As he did, he heard Garcia’s shotgun going off. Once. Twice. Another.

Reggie stepped off the window frame and landed on a huge stack of boxes. Garcia was reloading his shotgun, standing on the top edge of the stacked boxes, his eyes flicking from his task to something on the floor below. Reggie could hear the groans and the low, throaty roars of the zombies below them. He stepped forward for a better look as Garcia took aim again and fired. Reggie saw dark, moving forms on the floor below. The building smelled like the devil’s toilet. Vincent stepped through the window onto the top of the stacked boxes. 

Suddenly there was movement to Reggie’s left. The box that Garcia stood on wobbled, shifted, slid. Garcia rode it over the edge and crashed to the floor below. Reggie rushed to the edge, being careful not to stand on the outer row of boxes. Below him he saw Garcia disappear beneath a group of raging zombies.

Reggie and Vincent began to fire down at the creatures’ heads. Their rifles spit out short, angry bursts and two zombies, fell, then another. Garcia was on his back, one hand held up to ward off a dead thing in blue coveralls. The coverall zombie had its teeth clamped onto Garcia’s glove and was shaking its head like a dog with a stuffed toy. It was in a frenzy biting and grabbing. Another zombie had a hold of Garcia’s helmet and was trying to pull it off his head. There were other zombies, raging and roaring, hungry for blood. Reggie fired, and fired again. Another zombie fell, but yet another was struggling to its feet, blood running from a hole in its neck. Reggie swung his rifle toward it, but the vile thing’s head exploded in a spray of blood. 

“Got it,” Vincent said.

The last two zombies, the ones that had a hold of Garcia, were too close to shoot. Not without hitting him by accident. Reggie lowered himself over the edge and Vincent followed. Once on the ground, Reggie had a clear shot of the zombie that was struggling to pull Garcia’s helmet off. He paused. There was a fine line between hurrying to save his friend and not taking enough time to get an accurate head shot. He lined up his shot. Fired. The zombie let go of Garcia, stumbled backward all jittery and awkward, and then fell over sideways. Vincent was stepping forward, tazer in hand. He fired it right into the last zombie’s spine. The ghastly undead thing went rigid, its nervous system temporarily overwhelmed. Its body shook and then locked up. A deep scream came from the zombie and it fell to the ground. As the thing lay writhing on the ground, a gurgling roar coming from its throat, Reggie stepped up and shot it in the face.

The sound of gunfire receded and the only sound that remained was Garcia, screaming. One zombie had managed to yank off his glove and bite deep into his hand and wrist. Blood pulsed from Garcia’s wrist and there was a crimson pool forming next to him. Reggie knelt at his side.

“Covering,” Vincent said, maneuvering into a position where he could see the whole room.

Vincent covered the room with his rifle while Reggie began to check his wounds. There was blood, so much blood. A thousand thoughts tried to go through Reggie’s mind, but he pushed them all out except one: stop the bleeding. He put pressure on Garcia’s wounds and looked around for anything made of clean cloth. 

“Get me something to cover this wound!”

Vincent headed toward the other end of the warehouse while Reggie hurriedly cut one of Garcia’s sleeves off and held it tight over the wound with both hands. 

“Hang on, big G, you’re gonna be okay,” Reggie said.

Garcia had gone quiet and was staring up at the ceiling. Maybe going into shock, Reggie thought. Blood was seeping through the impromptu bandage.

Vincent came running back, carrying two dish towels, white with little yellow flowers, and a bright orange first aid kit.

“There’s a little break room at the other end,” Vincent said, kneeling next to Garcia. 

Reggie pulled the ragged bit of sleeve off of Garcia’s wound; blood was already soaking through in places. He replaced it with one of the towels, and began to quickly wrap gauze around Garcia’s arm to keep it in place. 

“Call the helicopter. We gotta get him out of here,” Reggie said. 

Vincent walked away, hand to one ear, trying to raise the helicopter pilot on the radio. 

Reggie hurriedly wound tape over his makeshift bandages to hold everything in place. Even if we do save him, what then? Garcia had been bitten, infected. What could they do about that? Reggie didn’t want to think about that.

“Helicopter’s on its way,” Vincent said.

The two men lifted, dragged and pushed Garcia up onto the stack of boxes, then managed to haul him out the window. Reggie lifted Garcia and put him onto his back, arms linked around his neck. Reggie spread his feet, readjusted Garcia’s bulk on his back.

“Moving,” Reggie said.

“Covering,” Vincent said, scanning the area ahead with his rifle barrel.

The team headed into the parking lot, moving as fast as Reggie could go with a two-hundred pound man on his back. A voice crackled in Reggie’s ear.

“Logan this is MedFlight. We can evac you and Vincent, but you’re going to have to leave Garcia behind.”

Reggie was breathing hard, straining under the weight.

“The hell you say! This is one of my men and he will not be left behind,” Reggie managed to say.

“Logan, he was bitten. You know where this thing is headed. There’s nothing we can do,” the helo pilot said.

“I’ll tell you what you can do, you son of a bitch, … you can get your ass over here … and take us to the hospital,” Reggie said, panting.

There was silence on the radio for a moment.

“Okay, I’ll be there.”

 

They flew back fast, dodging up and over obstacles. Reggie didn’t bother to look out the window. Garcia had been bitten and there was nothing else he could do. Maybe nothing that anyone could do, but Reggie was hoping somebody could do something.

When they landed, hospital personnel were waiting for them. They rushed Garcia straight into the building as the helicopter powered down. The pilot sat in his seat, looking over a clipboard. Vincent sat watching Reggie, who stared at the cold, metal floor.

 “You did all you could,” Vincent said.

“I knew this day would come. One of us getting bit,” was all Reggie said.

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

When Reggie and Vincent climbed out of the helicopter, one of the doctors was waiting in the doorway.

“Logan, you’re bringing an infected man into the hospital? What are we supposed to do when he turns? You’re putting everyone at risk here.”

Reggie walked right up to the man. At first he didn’t respond, didn’t say a word, he just looked at the the smaller man in the blue scrubs and the white coat.

“What are you supposed to do?” Reggie asked. “What are you supposed to do? Give him one of your wonder drugs, or a blood transfusion. Hell, you’re the so-called experts. Do your job and save the man!”

Reggie’s face was inches from the doctor’s. The doctor blinked but didn’t back up. Vincent could see Reggie’s nostrils flaring.

“Come on Reggie, let’s get inside,” Vincent said, gently pulling Reggie back a few inches.

Reggie shook off Vincent’s hand, turned, and strode into the building. The door slammed shut behind him.

“I don’t want this to sound negative or vindictive or anything, but that guy has some issues,” the doctor said to Vincent.

“Well, we deal with hungry, frickin’ dead things all day. Creatures that try to kill us. We’re out there in the shit and garbage that used to be the world, trying to save lives. We put our lives on the line every day and one of our friends just got bitten so, yeah, maybe he’s feeling a little stressed,” Vincent said.

“That’s not a little stress he’s showing. I think that guy has something a lot more serious. That guy’s showing signs of PTSD.”