Mid-Season Break

Thankfully, there isn't one. However, you have reached the half-way point. There are a few topics that need to be covered:

Interaction: this story does have a Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/DeadLimit

Episode dates:

105- 11/30
106- 12/7
107- 12/14
108- 12/21 (Season Finale)

The story itself: I am open to ideas, so send anything you have to ourfinalrevelation@gmail.com. Although the main storyline is planned to the middle of Season 2 already, there can always be side-stories or 'minisodes'. No idea is stupid until I decide it is. As long as your entry is well writen and relates to the series I will consider posting it for you, and provide credit as needed.

Popularity Advancement: Please, if you like this series, tell your friends. Spread the word. Like the Facebook page. Make Dead Limit the NBT in zombie literature!

Episode 104 It Will Rain Fire

On the last Episode of Dead Limit:

 “Do you know how to kill them?” Roger asked.

“Not yet, that’s why I asked for the sample.”

 

             “We got your Mocker, in good condition!” Mason yelled.

The gunmen were dead. The Mockers were holding guns, and firing them. They even had some aim, because all the bullets came close to the car.

“What’s the plan?” Roger yelled over the noise. Mason laughed. Roger just looked at him, confused. With a broad smile Mason explained; “They’ll be out of ammo in seconds. I doubt they know how to reload.”

             To prove his point Mason stood up, waving his arms around wildly. “Hey, fuglies! It’s dinner time!” He saw one of the Mockers lift its gun, and he ducked as another barrage of bullets flew over his head

=====

There was shouting and screaming from all directions. A mass of hundreds of people were banging relentlessly on the perimeter fence of the Stem Genetics facility. Dr. Patcorn himself had just finished setting up the remote sentry guns by the front gate. Even with the threat of being shot, everyone in the crowd continued to plea for entry.

“Oh my god!” someone yelled from the back, “Those things are coming!”

Patcorn could only watch in horror; once he reached the front doors, as over twenty of the terrible creatures attacked the crowd, spraying blood everywhere. A few people tried to rescue the ones being killed, but got bit in the process. A chainsaw roared to life somewhere in the midst of the crowd. He couldn’t watch any longer, and with regret closed and locked the doors. He then used a remote to automate the sentries, allowing them to shoot anything that moves on-sight. Rapid fire shots and horrific screams came through the doors, walls, everywhere; and all Dr. James Patcorn could do is lean against the door, slide to the floor, then helplessly listen to the nightmare he had created…

 · · · — — — · · ·

Day 9 of infection:

Roger awoke to sirens, blaring from all directions, coming from outside. He heard distant booms, and far away jet engines roaring. It’s a total warzone out there, he thought. Opening the blinds of his small window, letting in the mid-morning light fill the cramped bedroom, he beheld a horrific view. Planes were flying high above the city, dropping bomb after bomb. Massive fireballs flared, huge clouds of dust and concrete erupted…and the bomb sirens continued to wail, nonstop, as tools of destruction fell from the sky…

 

They sat eating in silence, savoring every bite as if it was the last food they would ever taste. After watching the military pound the streets of Denver for two hours, they decided to take a quick break- and eat breakfast. It seemed as if the military was taking a break too; for it had been quite for almost fifteen minutes.

“Probably restocking on bombs,” Richie noted. They continued eating their breakfast: waffles, eggs, bacon, and pastries; until they heard a sharp knock at the lounge door. Roger got up and answered it.

“Good morning,” said Dr. Patcorn, who looked incredibly tired. Dark circles encompassed his slightly bloodshot eyes, and he appeared to have difficulty standing straight. “I thought you four were still sleeping; I couldn’t hear you at all.”

“We’ve just been busy enjoying the show,” Mason joked. After taking a big gulp of orange juice he added, “What have you been doing-drinking?”

              Patcorn forced a smile. “Actually, no. After my conversation with Mr. Torrens, I spent the whole night studying the specimen you brought me. I’m truly grateful you did that, because I discovered a lot about it.”

“How could you concentrate with all the explosions?” Paul complained, whining more about the bombs than asking a question.

“I told the military to let the area go. I called a few hours ago, and informed them that napalm would work best. Fire should wipe out the infected, or at least do more than anything else we’ve tried.”

“But the infection has spread past Denver!” Mason exclaimed, “What’s the point in wasting time and ammunition here when-"

“Denver’s at least a start,” Richie intervened. He gave Patcorn a reassuring nod; only he and Roger really understood the man.

“Listen,” Patcorn began, “I know you went through a lot to get here, and just settled in, but-“

“Please,” Roger interrupted, “Let us stay. At least one more night. We did what you asked, and nearly died in the process. It’s not safe out there.”

“Well, I…” the doctor stammered, then nodded. “Alright, fine. One more night…”  Everyone sighed in relief, “If…”

“If what?” Mason demanded. “Giving us another death mission, are you?”

“A few more specimens would help,” Patcorn replied, “It could help with my research.”

“If you want to catch Mockers so bad why don’t you do it yourself.” Everyone except Roger gave Mason a funny look. “What?!” He exclaimed when he noticed. Richie burst out laughing. “You are such a moron,” he told Mason, who looked completely confused.

“The undead are called ‘Seekers’, Mr. Barres.” Paul informed him. Roger looked at them, just as confused, remembering what Mason had told him:

“Their called Mockers, because they learn.”

He looked at Dr. Patcorn, who was leaning against the fridge and listening intently.

“Nobody ever told me that,” Mason defended.” In my town the name caught on. So what?”

Richie shook his head. “Listen, Seekers are the normal ones. The dumb ones that wander and eat and attack. Mockers mimic sounds and actions that they either see or just retain in memory. There are more kinds too; I can’t remember all the names.”

“Different breeds; mutations,” Patcorn muttered. They looked at him, expecting a longer explaination. He sigh, “My team took a sort of census based on the rumors and intel we got when there were still people around to report to us. At day four there was an infected population of over one-point-seven million. Of that number around two hundred thousand had considerable intelligence—the ones you call ‘Mockers.’ That’s one in every ten reanimates. Another five thousand had extreme mutations.”

“Zombie warriors,” Tyrone pitched in as a joke.

The numbers shocked Roger-he hadn’t been around to witness the spreading of the infection, and couldn’t believe what he was hearing. At least four million Mockers. Of course, out of seven billion the number seemed extremely small. But he, along with all the survivors in Colorado, knew that if the infection escaped the state, it could easily spread to the rest of the world.

There was a moment of silence, which Roger used to an advantage. Standing up he said, “We only just got comfortable. Please, don’t send us back out there. Not yet, even to gather more of those things for your research.”

Dr. Patcorn took a deep breath, then said; “I need two more before dusk. You can get the job over with now or wait until later, but it must be done today, or this day is wasted.” He left the room briskly, leaving Roger feeling hopeless.

“Nice try, buddy,” Mason comforted. “It shouldn’t be that hard anyways, right? We’ve done it once—“

“We can’t do it again,” Roger sighed. Paul and Richie looked at them expectantly; and Tyrone peered out the window. “Hey, guys…” he said in a worried tone, “If capturing’s what you got to do I don’t think you have to go very far…”

Richie shot out of his seat and dashed to the window. “They sure get around, don’t they?” he wondered aloud. Roger approached the window, and gasped. On the other side of the high chain-link fence, like water building up behind a dam, were hundreds of the undead.

Mason glanced at the sentry guns. “Security’s down,” he observed.

“If they break through…” Paul began.

“They will not,” Patcorn said behind them. They looked at the remote in his hand. “As soon as you get out there I will open the gates. Take the first two you reach, I don’t care about the condition. I won’t keep the gate open long, but I’ll have control of the crows so they shoot the infected. Whenever you feel ready—“

“What the hell are we waiting for?” Mason demanded. He went into his room and returned with his axe. “Get that gun you salvaged from the wreck,” he told Roger. For a second Roger forgot what Mason was talking about. “What g—oh…” now remembered- among the debris floating near the shore after the helicopter crash had been an automatic rifle. He got up to go fetch it. Tyrone remained at the window. Richie cracked his knuckles, muttering under his breath. Paul noticed and shook his head. “Don’t go out there,” he told his friend. “You… still injured…” he wanted to avoid using the word ‘weak’, knowing it would offend Richie. He knew that his friend wanted nothing more than to go outside and slaughter all the undead. They both knew that was impossible.

“I’ll be fine,” Richie assured him, rubbing his cast, “I still have one good arm.”

Tyrone looked at him like he was insane. “You think you can take fifty at once? ‘Cause there’s at least that many just at the gate!” They heard the dorm door close down the hall.

“Those guys are doomed. It’s a trap,” Tyrone went on.

“It’s not a trap,” Richie snapped. “It’s just a death sentence, that’s all…” He and Paul burst out laughing. Tyrone rolled his eyes and watched as the Roger and Mason walked down the sidewalk path to the gate. As they reached it the gate slid open a few feet. The infected burst single-file through the opening. Mason ran at them, brandishing his axe and yelling. Roger stood back, shooting at the ones coming through the gate while Mason knocked three to the ground. He began dragging the flailing corpses to the door.

Paul noticed the gate was still open as Mason and roger pulled the creatures into the building, one of them leaving a trail of red on the white sidewalk.

“Its not closing!” he pointed out. All three of them held their breath when they saw the creatures pull the gate open further.

“Oh, crap!” Tyrone yelled. Suddenly the sentry guns revved up, swiveled on their bases, and opened fire. A line of bullets sliced across the courtyard, mowing down everthing that moved. bodies exploded everywhere, sending up a cloud of red. Paul and Richie cheered, throwing high-fives and whooping in joy. Tyrone sighed in relief. "I'm going back to bed," he umbled.

 

Day Ten of Infection:

“I took the liberty of preparing ‘survival packs’ for you,” Patcorn was saying, “each contains two weeks’ worth of MREs, some medical supplies, a switchblade, a water filter-bottle, a 10 millimeter pistol with 40 rounds, and cigarette lighters.”

“Lighters?” Paul questioned, “But aren’t those things attracted to fire?”

“Just so you know, none of us smoke,” Mason added. The evening had gone buy with few events; after he and Roger dragged three struggling Seekers into Dr. Patcorn's lab they'd returned to the dorm to rest. Nobody felt like doing anything that day. Now their time was up, Dr. Patcorn was kicking them out. Mason knew Roger wanted to stay longer, but he didn't trust the place, or the doctor. He wanted to leave.

“Well, we could start campfires and stuff with them…” Richie defended.

“That’s one use,” Patcorn explained, “but last night I tried a little…test and found out those things are flammable, literally. They burn more readily than oil. Or at least the subjects you gave me did. No assurances for the rest, but you can take the lighters as a precaution or just for convenience if you like.”

“How do they burn? So easily, I mean?” Paul asked.

“I think it’s some kind of secretion from their pores, maybe the same stuff they use to identify each other as infected hosts.” Patcorn shrugged.

“Burnable sweat,” Mason joked.

“More like waste that is liquefied and expelled from the skin.” Patcorn replied.

“Gross,” Paul muttered. However it did sort of make sense- he’d seen Mockers eating person after person but not growing much. He had wondered where the zombies’ food went.

“It is, I believe, the quickest, cleanest, and easiest way of destroying them.”

“You’re probably right!” Mason suddenly exclaimed, with a look of sudden realization... He understood exactly what Patcorn meant. The only way he knew how to ‘permanently’ disable a Mocker was to cut off its arms and legs, leaving it immobile and defenseless. Since the virus grew into a sort of second ‘brain’ and nervous system, and spread throughout the host body. Each part, once cut off, actually had a still-working ‘mind’ of its’ own. The Mockers could live without a head, but burning the creatures would kill the virus and destroy the host body completely!

“Man, if your fire-theory is right, I’ll take back everything I said about you yesterday,” Mason said excitedly. He looked impatiently at the nearest window. From across the table, Roger could practically see burning zombies in Mason’s eyes.

“Come to my lab when you’re done eating, so you can get your packs. I also made a….gift for you. Not much of an apology, but I hope it was worth making.”

Roger took a last swig of orange juice and got up. “I’ll come now, if you’d like.” Paul and Richie got up as well, but Mason remained at the table, saying, “I’d like to finish what might be my last meal, thank you.”

The three men followed the doctor down the hallway, around a corner, and entered the first door, marked Genetics Research.

Patcorn took an employee ID card out and swiped the scanner. The door unlocked and they excitedly entered. Bright lights instantly turned on, giving them a good look at the lab. A counter with a sink and many cupboards containing who knew what, stretching around three sides of the 400 square-foot space, was covered in a clutter of bottles and boxes and other containers. In the center of the room was blackened gurney, with the ashes, bones, and burned flesh remains of the Mocker they had brought in last night.

Patcorn walked across the messy room to a big cupboard on the far side. He opened it and brought out four backpacks, and a small metal container covered in various warning signs. Roger and Paul each took two, and Richie took the container.

“What is this?” Richie asked.

“My gift- You guys were right. I should have been looking harder for a cure. That-“(he pointed at the metal box) “-is as close as I could get. I think I modified it so it will only attack the virus, but I can’t be sure. There are only eight syringes, so use them wisely. And if I were you, I wouldn’t use it unless you truly need it, because it will cost you.”

“What’s it made from?” Roger asked, slightly suspicious. Tyrone leaned against a counter, looking intently at the container.

Patcorn sighed. “Modified HIV virus, designed to attack the stem cells instead of T-blood cells. It’s the best I could think of, and there’s no guarantee it will work."

"Aw, man," Tyrone shook his head. Paul hung his head in dissapointment.

“It’s the thought that counts.” Richie mumbled. Roger, however, had a different opinion.

“HIV? That’s it? So we have to like with-a life with either one virus, or the other?”

"You trying to make us sick?" Tyrone exclaimed.

“Human Immunodeficiency Virus takes years to take effect. If, by chance, the HIV strain reverts to normal form, you would at least stay alive a lot longer than you would with the alternative.” Patcorn suddenly winced and grabbed his left arm, for just a second, then continued,  “You should leave soon. I scheduled a military lift to pick you up in thirty minutes.”

            He went over to the door and reopened it with his ID, just as Mason burst in.

“I thought you guys were in here!’ He gasped. “I’ve been running down every hall trying to find you but these walls are freaking sound-proof!”

“Sorry about that,” Patcorn replied, then rubbed his arm.

“We thought you were stuffing your face.” Richie retorted. Tyrone luaghed.

“Yeah, well, I got full.” Mason snapped.

“Time for you to go,” Patcorn reminded them. Mason stepped forward and took one of the backpacks. “What’s in the box?” he asked, seeing the container in Richie’s arms. Paul heard Tyrone whisper something like "STD". he looked at the teenager and held a finger to his lips.

“A cure, maybe.” Roger answered, then to Patcorn he asked, “Could you unlock the door for us, again?”

“Sorry about that,” Patcorn replied, and again rubbed his arm. He winced for a moment and stepped towards the door. “The outer doors open from my computer, so…” he seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment. Looking confused he looked at the others, who were now watching him intently.

“Time for you to go,” Patcorn mumbled. He took a swipe at the door lock, but missed. Paul’s eyes suddenly widened, and Mason gave Patcorn a look of strong hate.

“Time…for… you… to…,” Patcorn stuttered. His face was pale and he was starting to sweat. Before he could swipe his ID again, Mason lunged, grabbing the doctor and throwing him to the floor. Paul jumped out of Mason’s way as he bent over to deliver a punch.

“What the hell are you doing?“ Roger exclaimed.

“He’s infected! This damn murderer is infected!” Mason yelled, punching Patcorn right in the ribs. The doctor winced but did not cry out. Roger managed to pull the fuming Mason away from Patcorn, who was wheezing on the floor.

“Goddamn it, Mason, we need him, so he can unlock the door!”

“Oops,” Mason grunted, not taking his eyes off Patcorn.

“There’s no escaping it…” Patcorn whispered, “The military will level this building in about five minutes. Even if you make it out, they will get you, like they got me.” He laughed for a moment, then gave them a sorrowful look. “No...Escape…” A memory flashed through his mind, over and over: the creature he had just set on fire, waking up and lunging, biting his arm and then releasing him as the rest of its’ neck burned away…

Mason moved forward to hit the dying doctor again, but Roger stopped him, unzipping his backpack and bringing out a pistol. To Mason’s delight it was loaded, and he tried to grab it. Roger pushed him aside and aimed carefully at the doctor’s head. Patcorn’s eyes, no longer bloodshot, widened. “I’m coming, Nora,” he muttered. Richie stared in shock at his savior, dying before him. He looked at Roger, then at the gun. Roger understood and handed the weapon over.

            Taking aim, Richie said sadly; “Humanity forgives you,” and fired.

 

“Who’s Nora?” Tyrone asked after a few minutes of shocked silence. Mason stood sulking by the door, having wanted to be the one to make the shot.

“His wife- She died of brain cancer a few years ago.” Roger explained.

“Not to upset you or anything, but I think I heard the man mention something about this place being leveled.” Mason said impatiently.

“How do we get out? The outer doors will still be locked!” Paul cried.

“The computer isn’t logged in; we’ll have to break out.” Roger replied. He walked over to the far corner, where a monitor sat waiting. A loud boom suddenly caught their attention, sounding near.

“Military’s at it again.” Mason muttered.

Roger was at the computer, trying to remember any keywords Patcorn might have mentioned.

“Try Nora,” Paul told him.

Roger typed NoraPatcorn in the password bar. He thanked the doctor for not requiring a username.

Another, louder boom sounded through the room.

“They’re getting closer!” Mason shouted.

 

They made it out with seconds to spare. After succeeding in unlocking the exterior doors and shutting down the sentry turrets, they used Patcorn’s ID to open the lab door. Taking their backpack, the ‘cure’ container, and retrieving their guns (and mason’s axe) from their bedrooms, they ran to and out the front doors. Just in time. After throwing open the front gate and dashing to the car, they turned and watched as and F-35 approached and launched a missile directly at the Stem Genetics building.

Time seemed to slow down for a moment, as their eyes followed the rocketing explosive into the side of the building, which burst apart. No fireball. Not, at least, until after the structure had been blown into millions of pieces. As fast as they could, Roger, Mason, Paul, Tyrone and Richie ducked behind the car, which nearly tipped on its’ side in the oncoming shockwave. Following the pressure blast was a wave of heat, then nothing. Debris fell from high in the air.

“No afterlife for you,” Mason whispered with a smile.

They stared at the burning remains of the infamous lab for a minute, and then solemnly got in the car after placing most of their supplies in the trunk. Roger was glad he’d left the tents in the car.

“Here comes our ride!” Richie announced, pointing towards the freeway. A helicopter was descending towards the shopping lot.

 

Four minutes later, tires screeching on asphalt, Mason brought the car to a stop forty feet from the chopper. A bleeding soldier approached them, holding an M16. There were several Seekers closing in around him.

“You Patcorn’s survivors?” he shouted over the spinning blades as the four men got out.

“Yes,” Roger answered while getting the supplies out of the trunk.

Mason eyed the soldier suspiciously, but helped Roger with the tents and weapons.

“Who are you, sir?” Paul asked as he and the others followed the soldier to the waiting helicopter.

 “Sergeant Rudolph. Former Sergeant, I mean. The pilot and I have gone AWOL. Hope you don’t mind flying to Colorado Springs.”

They boarded the helicopter, which began lift off. Suddenly one of the Seekers below jumped, eight feet straight up, somehow grabbing Tyrone's leg. "Shit!" he screamed as he tried to kick the creature away. Rudolph aimed his gun, but Tyrone lost balance and fell in the way of the first bullet, which peirced his shoulder. He screamed as he was pulled out of the rising helicopter, hitting the pavement head-first with a sickening splat. The Seeker that fell with him, along with several others close by, began tearing the teenager's back into fleshy shreds.

They looked away in disgust as one of the monsters tore open the rib cage and pulled out Tyrone's heart.

Once they reached a hundred feet the pilot accelerated forward, flying south as quickly as he could. Everyone strapped into the row of seats except Rudolph, who due to no room had to stand and hold on to the cabin frame.

"Where are we going?" Richie hollered over the wind and rotors. "I thought you'd be taking us back to base!"

"Can't," Rudolph told him,"they evacuated last night. Should see why any minute now. Just watch!"
Richie looked back at downtown. A B-2 was flying four miles above. As they reached the edge of the urban sprawl, everyone watched as the B-2 dropped a large object (small to their eyes). Another minute later, they covered their faces as a bright flash all but blinded them. A sound like ampliefied thunder hit their ears, a deafening blast that drowned out the other noise. They could only watch in horror as a mushroom cloud rose up from the no longer existing area that was downtown Denver.

. -. -..

On the Next Episode:

“I can’t believe they nuked it,” Paul muttered.

”Probably killed thousands of mockers though” Mason remarked.

 

“We’re looking for any fortified places flying a white flag,” the pilot reminded them.

“Why are we looking for people here? Why can’t we just fly as far away as possible?”

“Because the military isn’t allowing anyone else to cross the state border, that’s why” the pilot snapped. “They’ll shoot us down on sight. No chance that infection can escape, they said. Right. That’s why they ended up nuking Denver. Stupid politics.”

“Looking for a camp? ‘Cause NORAD is not the way to go.” the old man told them.

“We assumed so, but we thought there’d at least be people outside and in the area.”

“Not since Tuesday. They left in a hurry, most of the folks still alive in the city did. Headed for the border.”

 

 

Then Roger noticed someone in the crowd, recognized immediately the woman’s face. He stopped walking, and stared, in awe and disbelief, wondering what evil force had twisted his luck this far. For there she stood, alive and well, not five yards away...

Episode 103 All I Never Wanted

On the last Episode of Dead Limit:

            “Evasive maneuvers!” Richie hollered to the pilot. The helicopter moved swiftly up and right, towards the southwest. The pilot increased their speed. Looking down at the parking lot where they should have landed, Richie saw the shooters: eight survivors who were obviously territorial.

“It’s some gang down there” Richie informed Paul.

“Paul, I’m over here!” He heard Richie answer, and saw him few yards out in the water. Paul smiled in relief as he watched his best friend swim up to the shore, but then gulped when he saw the state of Richie’s right arm.

There was a ten inch-long gash bleeding heavily. Immediately Paul went over to his friend and helped him up to dry ground. He then tore a strip off his own uniform and wrapped up the wound as best he could. It had to be over an inch deep, and still had bits of metal in it. Paul knew the metal might cause an infection, but at the moment stopping the bleeding was more important. Richie was already palling.

“Safe-zone?” Mary asked, stepping out of the car. She eyed the crawling corpses with worry. Miguel noticed too, and said; “I don’t think that’s our biggest issue right now, Angela.”

She glanced around and sighed, looking at Carlos and Mary with distrust.

“We’re heading south for NORAD. You two are welcome to follow if you like.” She sheathed her katana and grabbed Miguel forcefully by the shoulder, leading him to the car.

“I guess we follow?"

“What will we do about our new ‘friend?” Mason asked, looking at the backseat, where a teenager was bound in duct tape. The kid, the person who’d attacked them earlier, had apologized greatly for his mistake, claiming he’d done it in self-defense. Roger had interrogated the kid, named Tyrone, who pleaded to accompany them. Mason had been tempted to leave the kid tied up in the truck, but Roger made a deal: Tyrone could come with them, but he would remain restrained until they reached the lab.

“Keep him for now. He’s not a threat.” Roger told him quietly. Tyrone groaned in the back, but at least wasn’t putting up a struggle. Roger decided to take a risk, and tore the tape off Tyrone’s mouth. The teenager took a deep breath the blurted: “We’re going to help those folks, right?”

 

 =====

            The road up to Cheyenne Mountain was clogged with cars heading east; the wrong direction, according to Mary. All the survivors camping at the entrance to the bunker were leaving, packing up their possessions and heading out for who knows where. A hundred or more vehicles came down the road, passing the police cruiser and Prius that were stopped on the side. Angela was scanning a huge map laid out on the hood of her car, while Miguel and Carlos tried to get attention from the leaving survivors.

“Where do they think they can go? Out of state?” Mary asked as she approached the policewoman.

“They might think they can, but I doubt they will get far. I heard rumors that the military is imposing a state-wide quarantine, and nobody gets in…or out.”

“Oh god…” Mary thought aloud. They heard a loud honking as a jeep pulled off the side of the road. An older man got out and started chatting with Carlos. Mary walked over to hear what they were saying.

“We got to get out of here, the place is going to blow!” the man was saying.

“What?!” Carlos exclaimed.

“Listen, I know where some other camps are around here,” he told them.

Mary looked back at the police car, waiting for Angela to join the conversation. To her shock and dismay she saw the cruiser turn around, spraying dirt, and speed down the street, fleeing along with all the other survivors.

“Wait!” Miguel screamed, “Hey!” the young man sprinted after the car for several yards but soon quit, knowing there was no way to keep up. “Why? You can’t just leave me here!” he cried.

They heard muffled blasts coming from the mountain, and looked up at it. Clouds of dirt erupted everywhere above the concrete entrance.

Mary gasped and stared at the mountainside. Everyone watched as a landslide poured down over the end of the tunnel, sealing the bunker permanently. Rocks and soil and weeds washed over most of the large shanty town that had been built in the parking lot at the foot of the slope. Mary looked on, feeling hopeless. Tears fell from her brilliant blue eyes.

· · · — — — · · ·

            “Let us in, Goddamn it!” Mason yelled at the gate camera. It was nearing seven o’clock, and Richard Daley was close to death. He’d lost consciousness two hours ago but still had a pulse. He’d only survived this long due to the medical experience Mason had, and how they had cleaned the wound early. After re-wrapping Paul’s uniform over the gash in Richie’s arm they had carefully placed him in the backseat of the car and driven up to the lab’s front gate. And for four hours they’d argued with Patcorn, begging for entry. They knew he was alive at least, for Patcorn was watching them through the cameras and speaking, rarely, over the intercom.

He used excuses such as “I will not allow military personnel in my building” and “I’ve kept out thousands before you, you are not ANY different.”

            “Please, Richie will die!” Paul screamed for the hundredth time.

Tyrone took a step back and leaped up onto the fence and started to climb. “We’re getting in there one way or another,” he grunted, trying to keep a grip on the chain links.

“Kid, get down from there,” Mason ordered. He still didn’t trust the teenager, but he didn’t want to witness another death any time soon.

“Please, for your own safety, do not do that,” Patcorn warned. Roger noticed the turrets swiveling to aim at Tyrone. The teen reluctantly jumped back down.

“That fence is high, man,” he replied. He looked angrily at one of the cameras. “These are good folks, man!” he yelled. “They saved me, and these soldier dudes! All we want is a place to stay and-“

“Shut up,” Mason hollered. Paul continued to plead in his mind, too scared to speak out. After all we’ve been through, please help us.

 “I cannot let you in. I am sorry. As for the infection-and I’m sure you’re wondering- There is no cure.”

They stood there for a moment, starring at each other, and at the cameras; trying to comprehend what they just heard. There is no cure. Patcorn himself had said it. Paul and Richie had known, somewhere in the back of their minds, that it was true. However Roger and Mason had greatly hoped that Patcorn was working on one. Tyrone just shook his head.

Mason was first to speak, shouting, “Then what are we doing here in the first place!?” He took his axe and angrily swung it at the fence, beating at the chain links several times before giving up.

“We have a young man dying out here! We are NOT infected!” he yelled, breathing deeply and raising his axe for another swing, “We came hoping you were finding a cure for this thing!” He swung the axe hard, and it actually broke apart a few links. He then stood back, panting. “We should just go, we aren’t getting in,” he said.

“What? We’re giving up?!” Tyrone questioned.

“No! We have to help Richie, or he’ll die!” Paul refused.

Mason was almost across the parking lot, near the car when he turned and told Paul,

 “That son of a bit-“

 “Is going to let you in, on one condition….” Patcorn said over the intercom. Everyone paused and stared at the gate camera.

“Name it,” Roger warily replied. After four hours of begging, they were getting a chance to go in.

“Bring me an infected body, in good condition.”

“How do we kill it without causing major damage?” Paul asked, relieved that they would gain entry but confused by how.

“You don’t. I want a live specimen.”

“Shit,” Mason cursed, shaking his head and twirling his axe. “This is just a kind way of saying ‘go get yourselves killed.’”

“I will watch over your friend and see that no harm comes to him,” Patcorn offered. They heard a whir as the sentry guns swiveled on their stands, just beyond the fence.

“You guys can go, but I’m staying with Richie,” Paul told them. Roger nodded, but Mason continued to stare coldly at the camera.

“Let’s just get it over with,” Roger whispered to Mason, “We’ll find a way to bring one back.

“Fine, but we aren’t going far. We’ll get the best-looking one we find in that shopping center over there-“ he pointed across the highway to the shopping center “-then come right back.”

“I’ll go with you!” Tyrone volunteered. Mason shook his head. “You stay here, make sure the good doctor does tyr anything.”

Tyrone looked back at the building fearfully. “This place is sketchy, man! Why can’t we all just go?”

Paul stood up and confronted the teenager. “Richie is in no condition to be moved right now. I hate to admit it, but he would be a burden to take him anywhere with us. He needs to rest.”

Roger gave him a look of approval. Paul smiled, feeling, for once, important. All his life Paul Marshall had been a nobody, the scrawny kid everybody picked on, the little guy. It felt good to stand up for someone for once.

Tyrone looked mad, but kept his mouth shut.

“Be back soon!” Paul hollered as Roger and Mason strolled to the car. They were both trying to think of a plan, wondering where they would find a Mocker that wasn’t in some way mutilated. Carefully they carried Richie out of the car and brought him to the gate, where they set him down. Richie was still unconscious, but he was breathing regularly and Mason could feel a steady pulse. “He’ll make it,” Mason whispered to Paul, who was kneeling beside him. Paul nodded and whispered back, “Please hurry. I don’t want to be alone out here”

“It’ll only take a minute.” Mason promised. “And you’ve got him,” he nodded to Tyrone, “to keep you company.”

“I don’t trust him,” Paul whispered.

“Me neither,” Mason replied.

He then got up and went back to the car, where Roger was already waiting in the passenger seat.

“You drive ‘crazy’ better than me.” Roger said. Mason decided to take that as a compliment and got in. They turned out of the parking lot and back onto the road, heading east towards Lake Chatfield, where the helicopter had crashed. Before they got halfway though, they turned onto another street leading to the highway overpass. They stopped for a moment, lowering the windows and listening for any nearby sounds. They didn’t see any Mockers under or beyond the overpass, so they drove through. Then Mason hit the brakes, hard.

            They had barely reached the other side of the overpass when they both saw them: hundreds, no-thousands of Mockers, all slowly moving across the store parking lots. They made no noise except for the shuffling of their dead feet on the asphalt.

            That can’t be right, Roger thought, they’re silent! No groaning or growling or whatever zombies do in movies. Mason immediately turned off the engine. “God, I hope we haven’t been noticed yet,” he whispered to Roger.

“If they do, we’re doomed,” Roger whispered back. They sat completely still, trying to be as unnoticeable as possible. After about five minutes the undead crowd had moved on, beyond the shops and into a neighborhood.

Cautiously, for they could still see parts of the horde and there were plenty of stragglers, Mason restarted the engine. They didn’t go very far; in fact Mason crept the car into a cluster of trees next to a golf course across the street.

Still attempting to keep quiet, they both got out and went around to the back of the car. Roger opened the trunk and started unloading their supplies, Mason transferring it all to the backseat except for his axe. Once the trunk was empty, Mason slammed the side door. The sound was like thunder in the eerie silence.

“Why’d you do that?” Roger hissed.

“Because now all we have to do is sit here and wait,” Mason replied.

“So they’ll come to us…” said Roger, sort of understanding Mason’s plan. But what if there’s too many for us to handle? He thought worriedly.

It didn’t take long for some of the stragglers to approach them. Once the Mockers saw, or smelled, the two men they began running towards them.

Swish went Mason’s axe as he beheaded the first to reach him. With a big, bloody, torn-up hole in its chest Mason guessed it wouldn’t meet Patcorn’s requirement. Seconds later, he also brought down as second and third, both of which were badly mangled.

The fourth, however, was nearly perfect. The clothes it was wearing were untouched and clean: a blue graphic tee, denim jeans, and silver tennis shoes. The Mocker’s skin was unmarked. The only damage was a bite mark on its left cheek. The bite was the only part of the body-which they could easily tell had been a teenage boy-that was covered in blood.

This one took its time approaching the car, growling as it came. Mason set his axe on the ground and cracked his knuckles.

“We’ll have to act quickly when it reaches us,” he said impatiently waiting by the open trunk. “It’s taking its sweet time,” he added.

“As if it knows what we plan to do,” Roger commented. He stared at the Mocker, studying the way it moved. It wasn’t limping, but it wasn’t exactly walking either. It looked to Roger like it struggled to take each step, like each movement required a strong will. It’s the virus, trying to control the body, Roger thought. For a moment he felt sorry for the thing. He looked at its’ eyes, and noticed something…odd about them. As it got closer no more than ten feet away, Roger realized what it was: the eyes were not bloodshot, or pearly, or rotten-looking. In fact, the eyes looked completely normal. In all the zombie movies Roger had seen, zombie eyes always had something wrong about them. But this creature’s eyes looked knowing and, creepily, human.

Roger felt a pang of guilt as he heard Mason mutter:

“Come on, just a bit closer…so I can shove your zombie ass in the trunk…”

The reason they didn’t just take the few steps forward to capture the Mocker was that it would be much quicker and easier if they let it come to them, and then just push it into the trunk. And that’s exactly what happened, at first.

It gave another growl and, with unexpected speed, lunged forward at Mason, who quickly stepped aside and allowed it to hit its’ head on the open trunk lid. Before the Mocker could react Mason shoved it head-first into the small space. Roger tried to grab its’ flailing legs, but got kicked hard in the stomach. It nearly knocked the air out of him, but together he and Mason finally got the lid shut, the Mocker trapped inside.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Mason said. Roger agreed; the other Mockers were closing in. He heard a twig snap behind him and saw a Mocker, half-hidden behind one of the pines. It noticed that it was visible, and ducked as Mason charged it. Roger realized his friend may need help and searched the car for his rifle. Meanwhile, Mason was struggling against the zombie, which had grabbed and thrown aside his axe and pinned him on the ground, arms groping at his shirt. With a powerful heave he managed to shove the creature aside, and rolled towards where his axe lay a few feet away. Then he felt a tug on his shoe; he kicked hard and stood up. The Mocker climbed to its feet and lunged.

Bam! A bullet tore through the zombie’s esophagus, and it fell face-first onto the turf. Mason looked thankfully at Roger, who was holding the weak rifle.

He glanced around and cursed. “There’s more than we thought!” he said loudly. Then he heard gunshots, not from Roger, but out in the shopping center.

From Stem Genetics, Paul could hear the gunshots too. He and Tyrone looked at the overpass.

“Sounded close to where the guys went,” Paul observed.

“Yeah, but they don’t have autos. I think there’s someone else.” Tyrone said.

“Oh god,” Paul remembered, “a few gangsters attacked us when we flew over that area earlier.”

Tyrone looked at him like he was crazy. “Are you SERIOUS?!” he thundered, “You knew that and still sent them out there? Man, I swear…” his voice trailed off. Nervously he looked at the cameras.

“That creep is watching us, man.” He muttered. They heard more gunshots, rapid blasts of sound still loud even from a distance.

“What sort of trick from hell is this?” Mason wondered aloud. He and Roger had ducked behind their car when the shooting began. Several things made their situation a death trap: first, there were more Mockers hiding in the trees, Roger had shot four he’d been lucky to notice. It seemed the thing waited to be seen before attacking, which Roger found extremely strange. He only had seconds to kill them when he spotted them; they’d snuck up so close. Second; there were five shooters-but that was hardly an issue alone, Roger was confident he could win a firefight. What was disturbing was that the gunmen were dead. The Mockers were holding guns, and firing them. They even had some aim, because all the bullets came close to the car.

“What’s the plan?” Roger yelled over the noise. Mason laughed. Roger just looked at him, confused. With a broad smile Mason explained; “They’ll be out of ammo in seconds. I doubt they know how to reload.”

To prove his point Mason stood up, waving his arms around wildly. “Hey, fuglies! It’s dinner time!” He saw one of the Mockers lift its gun, and he ducked as another barrage of bullets flew over his head until-

“Ha!” Mason snorted. “You hear that clicking sound, boys? You just wasted your last bullets. Time to fight like a normal zombie, dirt heads!” He jumped on top of the car a leapt at the closet Mocker, swinging his axe at the perfect angle to knock the creature’s head clean off. The others charged at him, and he chopped off the left leg of one and drove the heavy blade into another’s heart. Roger heard the crunching of all the ribs breaking. The thing wheezed in- was that a sign of pain? Roger wondered when it clutched its chest. He was so stunned by Mason’s performance he forgot, for a second, that they were in danger. He took aim with his rifle and shot at the furthest of the gun carriers. He missed, and pulled the trigger again. He heard a click and cursed. He was out of ammo. To make matters worse, something hissed behind him. He spun around and stabbed the barrel of his gun down the thing’s throat, not stopping until it tore out its back, between the shoulder blades. He decided he no longer needed the weapon and left it in the convulsing body.

He sighed in relief when he saw Mason slice the arms of the last Mocker.

“Let’s get out of here before more find us,” Mason growled when he reached the car.

“We got your Mocker, in good condition!” Mason yelled when they got back to the Stem Genetics building. He was holding the Mocker’s arms forcibly behind its’ back and pushing it forward to the gate.

            “I see it, very good! Thank you. Now, to keep my end of the bargain….” There was a lot of clanking as the chain-link gate swung open. A few moments later the front doors opened just a crack. They heard a phht as a dart flew out. It hit the Mocker Mason was restraining directly in the forehead. It went still, and Mason let it fall to the ground. Roger and Paul carefully lifted up Richie. While carrying the sleeping soldier to the lab’s doors Roger told Paul about the enormous horde.

“We saw it too!” Paul exclaimed, “We flew over them earlier!” He did not bother to mention that the helicopter had probably drawn the horde nearer in the first place.

Dr. Patcorn was not what Roger had expected. He was the opposite of what he did not expect. He’d thought the man would be big, important-like, or something like that. Instead, Patcorn was short, really skinny, wore glasses and a lab coat, etcetera. Overall, to Roger at least, Patcorn looked a lot like a nerd.

            The scientist was very polite, however. He showed them to a place where they could stay: an overnight rest-lounge complete with bedrooms, bathrooms, and a small kitchen. He told them they could eat what they want and use all the hot water they needed. Then he put Richie on a gurney, with Paul’s help, and wheeled him out. Then Patcorn promptly looked them in.

            “I’ll need some privacy for the operation. I’ll let you free when I’m done,” Patcorn assured them.

Three long hours went by. Paul lay crying on his bed, not talking to Roger or Mason. He especially wanted to avoid Tyrone. Paul didn't trust the guy.

 He was finally having time for emotion: his parents, friends, everyone was dead, except for Richie. And if Patcorn couldn’t heal him, the Paul would…He didn’t want to think about it.

“Don’t start bawling now,” said Richie’s voice in his memories. Paul couldn’t believe it had been only fourteen hours or so since his friend had told him that.

Suddenly he heard a commotion outside his room. He heard Patcorn saying something to the others, and another familiar voice.

“Richie!” he exclaimed as he burst out of his room.

“Hey, buddy!” Richard Daley answered. “James here fixed me up, see? Turns out I’m going to live after all.” Richie had a broad grin on his face, but he also looked tired. Paul looked at his arm and saw it was clean and in a proper cast.

“I managed to get all the metal out and sew the wound closed. Thankfully the bleeding stopped hours ago,” said Patcorn.

“Thank you, for saving me,” Richie said, not to Patcorn, but to Mason and Roger. “If you hadn’t helped as much as James says you did, then I-“His voice trailed off. It took a minute for Paul to realize ‘James’ must be Patcorn’s first name.

“He’ll be fine now, except for one thing…” James Patcorn explained, “I think he got some nerve damage, and if that’s so, he might not be able to move his arm well anymore.”

The whole room went silent. Richie cast his eyes at the floor. Paul could tell his friend had already been told this, and that he also felt ashamed about it.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Paul said trying to comfort his friend. He then started giving Richie a tour of the living space.

While that was going on, Roger asked Patcorn;

“Can I have a word with you out in the hallway?” Patcorn nervously agreed.

 “First of all, thank you for saving that soldier. We owe you one.” Patcorn shook his head.

 “No. I owe you, and pretty much all of humanity. You were right, I should have been searching for a cure. A cure to the cure, really. It was an awesome dream of mine. My wife died of brain cancer twelve years ago. She was only 22. I thought I could make something that could save people from things like that.”

“So you invented a virus?”

“Yes and no. It’s stem cells really, designed to find damaged cells, invade and duplicate them, and heal any damage. I just added a bit more- I made it…aggressive, you could say. I meant for it to spread, from person to person, and heal anyone of anything. The strain I created was meant for brain cells and nervous tissue, but they are stem cells, they can be anything. So I made it a contact-spreading heal-all virus.”

“You mean you didn’t know what you were making?” Roger exclaimed angrily.

 “It mutated, after it spread. It was beyond my control…” Dr. Patcorn stammered. “I never meant for this to happen. Once it came in contact with multiple people, somewhere down the line it changed, and became what it is now. It’s like a cancer; it kills your real brain and takes over. The cells long for growth, that’ why they feed on humans, and just about anything else. It’s also why they’re so smart.”

 “Do you know how to kill them?” Roger asked.

“Not yet, that’s why I asked for the sample.”

“What happened to the others who worked here?”

Patcorn paused. “They didn’t do well in the research. Our early samples got loose and…had to be dealt with.”

“So you killed them all?” Roger yelled, enraged.

Patcorn’s face was white. “They threatened to destroy everything-all our work, our progress…Can you imagine what this place would be like, if we’d let hundreds of scared people into this building? It would be a mad house! But that’s what they threatened to do! You see the logic in my actions, don’t you?”

“That’s why you shot down the helicopter?” Roger inquired, trying to piece everything together.

“I thought the military wanted to kill me.”

“They do now, I bet.”

“I probably deserve it.”

Roger kept talking with Dr. Patcorn; eventually exchanging their past-stories. By the end of their conversation, at almost 11:00 PM, Roger was no longer angry. He still didn’t like the doctor’s actions, but he was able to understand most of his reasons.

When he finally re-entered the overnight lounge everyone else was already sleeping. He lay on his bed, not bothering to change his clothes or get under the covers, and within the minute he fell into the best sleep he’d had in nine days. 

                                                                 . -. -..

On the next Episode:

“What is this?” Richie asked.

“My gift- You guys were right. I should have been looking harder for a cure. That-“(he pointed at the metal box) “-is as close as I could get. I think I modified it so it will only attack the virus, but I can’t be sure. There are only eight syringes, so use them wisely. And if I were you, I wouldn’t use it unless you truly need it, because it will cost you.”

“Time…for… you… to…,” Patcorn stuttered. His face was pale and he was starting to sweat. Before he could swipe his ID again, Mason lunged, grabbing the doctor and throwing him to the floor. Paul jumped out of Mason’s way as he bent over to deliver a punch.

“What the hell are you doing?“ Roger exclaimed. 

“There’s no escaping it…” Patcorn whispered 

Time seemed to slow down for a moment, as their eyes followed the rocketing explosive into the side of the building, which burst apart. No fireball. Not, at least, until after the structure had been blown into millions of pieces. As fast as they could, Roger, Mason, Paul and Richie ducked behind the car, which nearly tipped on its’ side in the oncoming shockwave. Following the pressure blast was a wave of heat, then nothing. Debris fell from high in the air.

“No afterlife for you,” Mason whispered with a smile.