Season One Marathon

Episode 101 The Road To Hell
 

Transmission Recording 101408072014MTZ Classified “STEM PROJECT”

Radio Newsman: "We are here today with Dr. Patcorn, head of the Stem Genetics Surgery and Science Lab in Denver, Colorado. Dr. Patcorn, we'll let you introduce the subject of today's discussion."

Dr. Patcorn: "Of course. As of yesterday, after for years of extensive research, we have completed a revolutionary product that will cure Alzheimer's, Cancer of the brain, and even paralysis."

Newsman: "How many tests on humans have been done?"

Dr. Patcorn: "4678,"

Newsman: "So how does this cure work, and how efficient is it?"

Dr. Patcorn: "Well, as you know, Stem Cells have the amazing ability to repair any tissue in the human body. We simply modified some stem cells to act like virus, affecting the area it is injected to by repairing tissue. We have only so far succeeded in producing a strain for creating nerve and brain cells, but within a decade we will have produced cures to all types of disease. The process is painless, and would take no more than a fifteen minute appointment to be cured. As for efficiency, all but three patients were cured of their ailments. The three who weren't cured had no other effects except a slight headache, and afterwards they were sent home."

Newsman: "This is the end of our brief interview of the miracle discovery made by Dr. Patcorn. Thank you for your time, doctor."

Dr. Patcorn: "Thank you for your interest."

· · · — — — · · ·

Day 1 of infection:

When he awoke, all Roger Torrens remembered was this: he and his brother had gone on a hiking trip in Rocky Mountain National Park, but both fell down a steep slope, Tyler was killed while he’d lain unconscious for two days. He’d spent the third day hiking back to the trail, and the fourth day getting back to their truck. He had only survived because of the snack food in his backpack and two water bottles. When he finally reached his truck he found the parking lot empty and no people around. He also saw that his truck had been attacked by a bear, however it still ran. Twenty miles out of the town Estes Park the truck died, and there was still no sign of humans. Roger decided to head on to town on foot.

Day 6 of Infection:

After sleeping in the old truck overnight, he woke to the loud calls of an elk herd in the gloomy woods just off the road. He grumbled as he sat up and rubbed dirt out of his eyes. It took him a moment to remember where he was and what had happened. He let out a cry of anguish at the realization that his brother was dead and he was over a day's walk from the nearest town. Why hasn’t somebody come to investigate? He thought.

He remembered the parking lot; completely empty except for his ugly truck, which appeared to have been shredded by a giant blade. Damn bear, he thought angrily. If only he had seen the creature and killed it. He groaned and stretched his muscles: sleeping in a truck with no way of keeping warm was extremely uncomfortable.

Roger Torrens was in his early forties, an experienced athletic man with fast legs and a strong swing with a bat. His lifelong baseball hobby had prepared him for lots of running and built up his strength and endurance, helping him to survive the long hike back to civilization after his accident. At six foot three Roger stood out and would not be an easy meal for the wildlife. He could and once did hold his ground against three men in a street fight.

Rubbing his eyes he peered over the dashboard at the empty highway that snaked across the valley floor and between two low mountains. He felt thick stubble on his cheeks and realized he had grown a short beard. He took a minute to study his features in the rearview mirror; his extremely dark brown hair was full of leaf scraps and dirt, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his new beard was tinted grey. He usually shaved daily and had never gotten a chance to see what it would look like. Roger thought it made him look slightly older.

Eventually he knew he needed to leave the dead vehicle behind hoof it the rest of the way to town. It took him almost an hour to make up his mind over what to bring, what to leave, and what route to take. He decided to stick to the road, and took only what he needed: food, water, and a gun. The gun was weak and cheap, but it would have to do. Finally he shrugged on the dirt-covered backpack he had with him and started down the highway. It was a good thing it was late spring, or else he would have frozen to death days ago. By noon his legs were aching and his neck was cramped from the night in the truck. Roger spotted an open, mostly flat meadow and lay down in the rough grass.

He was still surprised that nobody had gone searching for him; and by the fact that the highway was completely devoid cars. He judged he was only eight miles from Estes now. Roger could barely comprehend how far he’d gone already: a couple mile back to the trail, seven or more to the lot, around a dozen driving before the engine billowed smoke and the truck came to a halt; He did not want to remember how much of a struggle the past few days had been. What was worst, however, was that Roger could not remember how or why the accident had happened in the first place. He had simply woken up, stood and stumbled down the hill to where Tyler had been killed, and found a gory mush smashed between a log and a boulder. There was nothing left of his brother. So he walked, as if by instinct. He’d found and followed the trail, alone and weak, all the way to the truck; which happened to be destroyed. What did I do to deserve such a curse? He wondered.

He was too tired to continue walking, so he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds around him. He must have fallen asleep, because when he awoke he found the sky was much darker. It took him a moment to realize the sunlight was shining from the wrong direction for it to be evening. Quickly he checked his watch- it was 7:00 am- the next day.

Day 7of Infection:

"You are one lucky bastard," he told himself. It was nearly impossible that he had lasted this long without dying already.

"I should be dead" he muttered, as he jogged down the empty highway.

"Tyler is dead. I survived. Why?" He kept asking himself. Thankfully his extended nap and a bit of his food gave him a good energy boost. He reached the first group of houses by 2 o'clock. Finally, civilization.

He knew there was a medical center in town, and he'd already come this far. He made it to the valley 30 minutes later, and gaped in horror.

Cars were wrecked, papers were blowing in the wind, garbage was strewn everywhere. Most of the city was abandoned. Not that many people had lived there in the first place. Looking up at the Stanley he saw that the famous hotel was burning. Ironic, he though.

He trudged down the road, glancing around in confused fear; taking in every detail. He say bullet casings scattered randomly across the pavement, blood splattered on the walls of buildings. He held his rifle ready. This place looks like the aftermath of a war, he thought.

He passed a minivan in the middle of the street. Hoping to drive it he opened the door- and immediately closed it. Hundreds of flies were buzzing around something that smelled of death and decay; a rotting corpse he could hardly see under the black cloud of pests.

Roger continued up the street, passing a body lying face down in the gutter. Revolted he turned away. He was nearly half way through town, by an empty motel. It didn’t look quite as bad as some of the other buildings, so in desperation he called out:

“Is there anybody alive in there?” he waited for a minute but got no answer.

"What the hell happened here?" he yelled. He had to be dreaming. His yell was suddenly answered by a gurgling groaning noise close to him... He looked around cautiously, thinking there was a wild animal nearby. He didn’t see any in the parking lot or in the brush across the street, so he looked back the way he’d come. Then he discovered the source of the sound. The corpse he’d passed was climbing to its’feet and shuffling towards him.

He-or she….it was revolting, terrifying; it looked like a person that had been mauled not once but many times, then laid out in the hot sun for days. Its whole left side was covered in blood, the left cheek and eyeball missing. The only clothes remaining on its half-destroyed body were shredded jeans and a (no longer) white t-shirt, now permanently stained red.

Roger recoiled in fear, and jumped behind a van in the motel parking lot. He stared at it in horror and sadness. Its left leg appeared to be broken, but it gave the leg no notice as it limped towards the van, growling as it went.

What happened to that person? Roger thought as he bent down and started crawling around the van, staying on the opposite side. He then dashed to the motel doors, threw them open, and ran inside. Not even thinking about closing the doors he turned a corner into the main hallway, and right into the body of another creature. It let out a gurgling noise and fell backwards. Roger stared in disbelief as it rolled over and began crawling towards him. He backed away in shock, and suddenly felt a cold hand roughly grab his neck. Turning his head Roger saw it was the first creature, pulling his neck towards its mouth. Roger struggled and managed to elbow it in the forehead. It growled and stumbled back, dropping Roger on the floor. However, it quickly regained its senses and limped towards him again. Something tugged at his foot and Roger knew it was the second creature, and also knew he was going to die. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain to come when…

Bam! Shhk-shhk…Bam!

Roger opened his eyes in time to see the explosion of red, and the headless body of the first creature fall to the floor. The second was also mostly headless.

“Are you alright? Did you get bit?” yelled a voice from down the hallway. Roger heard the shhk-shhk of a shotgun cocking and climbed to his feet as a tan, balding middle-aged man walked over to him.

“You are one stupid man, you know that?” the man said. He and Roger both looked at the corpses, which were still moving. Even without a head, the creatures’ bodies were beginning to edge closer to the men.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, before more come. They can hear shots from miles away, and are attracted to sound like moths to a light.”

“Where can we go?” Roger asked. He was still in shock, watching the squirming corpses.

“The damn things don’t die. And they aren’t stupid, either.”

“Things?”

“Mockers, everyone calls ‘em, because they learn. By the way, what’s your name? I haven’t seen a living soul in two days.”

“Roger Torrens, what’s yours?”

“Mason Barres”

Cautiously Roger and Mason stepped out into the now empty motel parking lot. Roger got out his rifle and Mason held ready his shotgun. The air was still, eerily still, with no sounds.

They crept across the street as silently as possible, but every footfall sounded like a boom. It sucks how loud you seem to become when you try to be quiet, Roger thought, then said, “You still haven’t mentioned where we’re going.”

“Keep quiet! They’ll hear us!” Mason snapped, pointing down the hill- to a large group of Mockers.

Mason pulled Roger into a clump of bushes and pines beside the road, and Roger stared in awe at the group of living dead. Even from two thousand feet away he could swear he was hearing raspy breathing and groans. The sound suddenly got louder, and sounded much closer.

“More are coming the other way, hurry! Follow me!” Mason exclaimed. Roger didn’t need to be told twice. The two men bolted, with five Mockers on their tails. Shit, they run fast for corpses, Roger thought as he struggled to keep up with Mason. He decided his rifle was quiet enough and turned around to shoot one.

Bam! He missed, and started running again. The Mockers were mere yards behind.

“Up there, quickly!” Mason yelled, pointing to a large house just up the hill. You’re almost there. You’ll make it. You cannot die now! Roger thought, willing his legs to run just a bit farther. He was twenty yards away from the house when Mason reached it and climbed upstairs to a deck.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Four Mockers fell, their heads blown open. Even though only three shots were fired one round took two out at once. Roger aimed his rifle at the last one and fired straight into its right eye-a place the weak .22 round was guaranteed to puncture. He then charged the creature and bashed its head open with the butt of his gun.

After a moment of pride Roger felt his legs give out and he collapsed.

“Roger! Are you alright?” Mason asked as he ran over, wielding an axe.

“Yeah, I’ve just done a lot of running lately.” Roger replied weakly. He moved himself into a more comfortable position and looked up at the smoke filled sky, and listened to the sickening crunching sounds as Mason chopped the creatures to bits with the axe.

Crunch! A zombies’ head was split in half with the blade of a shovel. The creature, formerly a soldier, was missing its left leg and hand. The shovel’s holder-a large dark man, began searching the soldier corpses’ pockets for anything of use, but to his dismay found nothing. Wiping sweat off his forehead he strolled up the road to a blue Prius. The small clean car stood out in the massacred neighborhood. He opened the door and squeezed into the tight interior. There was a single passenger: a middle-age woman with long ginger hair.

“I am too big for your pipsqueak car, Mary,” he complained.

“Sorry that my car was the only one left in running condition,” Mary apologized, large hazel eyes rolling. The man started up the engine and pressed down on the gas, lurching the car forward.

“Carlos,” she continued as he slowed close to a corner, where another soldier-zombie was walking aimlessly in a well-trimmed front lawn. “Do we have to stop and search every single soldier we pass?”

“No, but there could be some good stuff on them,” Carlos defended. He lowered the window and raised a pistol. “Waste of a bullet,” Mary muttered as he fired at the things’ head. The Prius took off before the body hit the turf.

They passed several other Mockers as they drove out of the neighborhood. Mary turned her head away when she saw one chasing a Chihuahua out of a back yard. The little dog barked wildly and ran as swiftly as its tiny legs could go, but the zombie caught up, knocking the animal onto its back with a strong swing. Before the dog could stand up the Mocker tore its stomach open. She grimaced when she heard the dying pet yelp.

“There’s a police station around here somewhere…” Carlos muttered as he turned sharply around a corner, suddenly swerving to avoid hitting a pair of Mockers. He hit the brakes hard and spun around 90 degrees, slamming the side of the Prius into the creatures, which were knocked down and crushed under the car. Carlos floored the gas, leaving behind a bloody mush spread across the street.

“Nobody’s going to be there!” Mary insisted. “For God’s sake, the militarycouldn’t hold the damn things off!”

It’s just across those tracks,”Carlos told her, pointing ahead at an overpass. “If I remember correctly, it’s down the street up there.”

The Prius reached the overpass, and from the top looking north Mary saw a wrecked train, the containers scattered over a mile of track. Farther up the track, half-hidden by smog, was the Denver skyline. As they turned south on the Avenue and rode towards the police department they heard several shots ring out, and saw a police cruiser lurch out of a parking lot and hit a group of Mockers. The driver must have seen them, becuase they blared the sirens and turned to face them.

“Well goddamn,” Mary whispered. “Somebody IS alive.”

“Where would we go?” Roger asked in a whisper. It was past 11:00, and they had been in the house basement quietly debating what they would do the next day. The only light came from a small candle. They were trying to stay as well-hidden as possible, because the Mocker horde they’d seen that afternoon had climbed up the hill an hour before. Thankfully they passed the dark house without conflict.

“Denver, I guess. It’s closest.” Mason shrugged.

Roger shook his head. “You said it was overrun, and the place where it started!”

“Well, maybe the military has the upper hand now?” Mason said hopefully, and then added, “And I heard the guy responsible, Dr. Pot-horn or whoever, locked himself in that lab of his. He may be alive, and could help everyone.”

Roger agreed it was possible that the doctor could fix it, but then again he did lock out the world.

“I heard it was the three failures that started it, a few weeks ago. The ‘cure’ thing mutated and spread but didn’t affect anyone until seven days ago. It’s amazing you didn’t have to live through it all. I lost my wife, my daughter, and my brother to the Mockers, two nights ago. Crazy how quickly the world changes, isn’t it? You get stuck in the Rockies and return to find…this.”

Roger nodded, only now realizing how much the world had changed.

“You don’t have a family, do you? It’d be awful if you did, because- and I’m only pointing out the truth- they are probably dead.” Mason asked, though hardly showing concern.

“No, I’m divorced,” Roger replied, lying down on a dirty mattress Mason had provided. “Glad to hear it. You know, because now I don’t have to worry about emotional problems from you or anything.”

Roger laughed weakly, and then fell into a deep sleep.

Day 8 of Infection:

“Hopefully this one will make it,”Mason said. It was early in the morning, and they had found a car in one of the nearby driveways that had keys in the ignition. The driver’s door was open and the window broken, but the engine ran and there was a half-tank of gas left.

“I’m sure it will,” Roger replied as he shoved the last of their supplies into the trunk. They were bringing food and water for a week, plus their guns, 2 tents and sleeping bags, and a medical kit.

“It really is a good thing I saved you yesterday. I was going to kill myself last night if hadn’t.” Mason said, giving Roger a thankful look.

“Can I do the driving?” Roger asked.

“Nope! You can have shotgun, though,”Mason said humorously. He dashed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Roger laughed and got in….

. -. -..

Episode 102 You Can Cry Now
 

A single tear rolled down Private Paul Marshall’s cheek as he grabbed an M16 Assault rifle off the gun rack and continued down the line. At least three hundred soldiers were solemnly grabbing any supplies they needed from the long tent in the middle of the runway. Anything from guns and ammunition to grenades or MREs were available. Everything was first come-first serve. Nobody cared what you took with you, as long as you could help destroy the undead.

They heard the roar of jet engines above. On Paul’s back was a field pack containing an emergency radio. A voice crackled over it, and through loudspeakers all around the airport:

“Attention all personnel,” it began,“This is your Commander speaking. Today we take back this city, or we lose it forever. We cannot allow this infection spread, so we must destroy it at its source. For the security of our great nation, we fight today!”

“Hoorah!” everybody hollered. All the soldiers remaining at the Denver front line base were preparing to re-enter the city- which now belonged to the dead.

Paul did not share the excitement that some of the others did. They didn’t have to go through what he had; they came mostly from Colorado Springs, whereas He’d had to fight his way out of Denver just to be thrown back in at the will of his friend.

“Don’t start bawling now,” a familiar voice said from behind him. It was Paul’s best bud, Richard Daley. Richie had disappeared into the crowd earlier, only now catching up. They left the tent, blinking in the bright spring morning light. Several choppers were lifting off, and flying towards the skyscrapers in the southwest.

“There will be plenty of tear-time later. I’m real sorry about your parents, but it’s time to fight right now.” He clapped Paul on the shoulder, then hoisted his pack and strolled ahead. Paul composed himself as best he could, and nervously followed his friend to the closest waiting helicopter…..

· · · — — — · · ·

The road was empty, at least traffic wise. There were a few wrecks here and there, and the occasional Mocker. The only running car on the highway sped right past all the scenery, on its way to the nearest town.

“Lyons is just a mile ahead-we should stop for gas,” said Mason, who was now in the passenger seat. Roger had complained that Mason’s driving was too extreme for him and had taken the wheel.

“We haven’t even used a gallon yet.”

“We don’t want the car to make it only to Denver. We want it to last longer than that,” Mason pleaded.

“You have to use the bathroom, don’t you?”Roger asked, rolling his eyes.

“I do not!” Mason exclaimed defiantly, and then glumly added, “Yeah, I do.”

“Why didn’t you go back in Estes?”Roger inquired shutting the car door and opening the trunk. They had stopped at the cleaner looking of Lyon’s two gas stations, assuming that the best-looking would be in the best condition. A sign read U-Pump-It. The other station looked too full of vehicles for them to use the pump.

“As children say, I didn’t have to go then,” Mason answered, taking his axe. Roger was glad to find his assumption was correct. The station appeared to still have power. He paid for the half–tank with his visa card and impatiently waited for the tank to fill. Meanwhile, Mason cautiously entered the convenience store. He stood in the doorway scanning the room, and then swore. The goddamn place was empty. The shelves had been cleared of all food, and everything else was scattered on the floor. Glass from the freezers was shattered on the floor as well. There was no blood, no rotting bodies, and no stench of decay. He lowered his axe and went to the first bathroom door.

He paused suddenly, and listened intently. He could hear, barely, some scratching and growling from down the short hallway. He carefully approached the last doorway, marked Employees Only. Written over the sign were two underlined words: STAY OUT!

Suddenly the growling got louder and banging came through the metal. Mason stepped away, gave the door one last look, and then went back to the bathroom.

“The whole town looks abandoned,”Roger replied when Mason had returned to the car. The tank was full and both men were ready to continue.

“Of course it does- everyone is dead!”Mason said matter-of-factly as he closed the trunk. Roger shook his head, looking at the surrounding buildings. There’s hardly any damage at all, in fact if you hadn’t known the world had ended you’d have thought the town looked perfectly normal-except for the convenience store,Roger though.

“No, I mean the place looks like it was actually abandoned—like the people all left here before they got hit. They might be alive and safe somewhere.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” said Mason, who was impatiently leaning against the car, “There are Mockers in there, locked up.” He nodded towards the convenience store.

Roger quickly opened the trunk and brought out his rifle. He watched the building alertly.

“How many?” He asked, now serious.

“Hell if I know, probably just a few. They’re locked in some employee closet.”

“Oh,” said Roger, “They aren’t worth it then. Let’s go.” He placed his rifle back in the trunk.

“Can I drive now? We’re almost out of the mountains,” Mason asked.

Roger sighed. “As long as you don’t try to kill us.”

“Grenade!” Richie yelled as he tossed one into the small horde. He, along with Paul, and another soldier nick-named Grill (for his welding skills) was on the run. Their helicopter had dropped them off at the city zoo parking lot, only to be surrounded in minutes. It seemed the zoo had been a great buffet for the undead. The loud rotors attracted them like dogs to a dinner bell. The explosion knocked aside four zombies, but also set off many car alarms.

“Damn it!” Grill yelled, whipping out a SCAR-H Mk 17 and spraying lead into the approaching, growing throng. The unlucky trio sprinted east on 23^rdAvenue.

“Why can’t we hide in the golf course!?” Paul yelled between deep breaths.

“We’d be going the wrong way! Our objective is just up the street!” Richie answered, speeding ahead.

Paul shook his head in ignorance, running as fast as he could.

“They should have known there’d be seekers galore in there!” Grill cursed, stopping for a breath. Paul caught up, panting. Richie went on ahead for a few seconds before realizing his partners had stopped.

“Come on!” he hollered. The group of Seekers was still following.

Grill fired a few shots then took off again, with Paul close behind. Another five hundred feet of running, and his lungs were burning, legs aching, and heart throbbing. Even at 23, Paul wasn’t very fit. He’d barely scraped by in basic training, with plenty of help from Richie, who was only a year older but had a greater physical build.

“Come on guys, run!” Richie yelled. He looked over his shoulder, seeing the throng of Seekers getting closer. A few were dashing ahead of the rest; he stopped to shoot them down with his M1911. To his dismay the creatures actually dodgedthe bullets: where they should have taken head shots they raised their arm in defense. The others jumped out of the way.

“Mockers!” Richie hollered, running to catch up with Paul and Grill, who had almost made it to the stoplight ahead. Downtown loomed ominously just a couple miles ahead.

“The hospital’s a few blocks that way!” Grill announced, pointing southwest.

Two F-16s suddenly flew overhead, launching missiles in the direction of-

“That’s not the hospital, is it?”Richie exclaimed, hearing the thundering booms of many explosions. A large black cloud rose up from the approximate area. Grill turned his head in dismay, looking at their surroundings.

“Into that church!” he ordered, pointing across the intersection at an older cathedral-like building.

“Let’s see how far this one flies!” Mason joked as he raised his axe, hanging halfway out the driver’s window as they sped along highway 93, one hand on the wheel and the other tensed to swing at the closest Mocker.

For the past half-hour the two men had played ‘Behead the dead pedestrian’ as Mason had evilly called it, knocking off the heads of every Mocker they passed.

The next victim was a thick-haired scumbag, its lower jaw bloody and a chunk of shoulder missing, wearing baggy jeans and a wife beater, and dog tags around his neck. Mason held the axe steady and held onto the steering wheel firmly as he closed in on the creature. The axe blade cut clean through the Adam’s apple; the carotid artery spurting blood upwards several feet. The severed head kept up with the car for a second as it spun wildly through the air, spraying the road with red rain until it bounced and rolled to a halt. Mason cackled, watching his rearview mirror.

Roger couldn’t really understand how this ‘game’ made Mason happy, but then again he hadn’t gone through what Mason had. The man seemed to hate the creatures with a passion. How can we do this? Roger had though a few times as they approached their next target. But his answer was simple: These“people” died days ago. They’re just bodies, controlled by a virus. They aren’t‘alive’. They don’t have feelings-do they? He couldn’t quite decide whether the Mockers could ‘feel’ or not, since Mason said they had the ability to learn and maybe even reason.

He studied the map lain out on his lap. “Looks like this road merges with highway 6 in about a mile,” he informed his friend.

“Yeah, I’ve taken this road before”he replied, still smiling. His smile faded as he came around a bend, and saw what a short hill had hidden: a large road block made of cars, concrete barriers, and barbed wire.

“What the hell?” Mason whispered. He noticed a military truck just beyond the barricade, which extended off the sides of the highway by thirty or more feet, meeting the roadside fences.

“They must have done this when trying to seal off the city from outsiders,” Roger observed. Mason slowed the car to a halt a few yards from the barriers and got out. Roger quickly got his gun from the trunk and joined him.

“Somebody else passed through here,”Mason commented, peering over the wall of cars. There were remains, brown dried chunks of human flesh scattered across the ground. There were no complete bodies, only the chopped up, mutilated pieces.

“They were soldiers,” Roger noted. The two men climbed over the cars, careful to land on clean ground. They cautiously approached the truck. As Roger reached the cab he heard a muffled cough and raised his rifle.

“There’s somebody here?” Mason wondered. Roger started towards the back of the vehicle, and then heard Mason grunt behind him. He looked back in time to see Mason unconscious on the pavement, and a short dark person swing a metal bat at his face.

 

"East High School," Grill spoke sadly. “I used to go there.” He, Paul, and Richie were trudging across the green lawn of the old buildings.

“Used to be a grand place,” Richie reminisced.

“I just can’t wait for the airlift to arrive,” Paul reminded them. A half-hour earlier, while hunkered-down in the cathedral a few blocks to the north, Paul had used his radio to send a distress message. Their objective had been to rescue any survivors in Saint Luke’s hospital; due to reports that nurses had locked many patients in the wards to keep them alive. Apparently the military decided to destroy the place the infection had started in after all.

“What if there were survivors in there?” Richie wondered.

“They certainly are in a better place at least,” Grill replied.

Paul looked around in fear, at the paper-strewn sidewalk, the hundreds of black pillars rising all around them, listened to the ongoing distant thunder of seemingly endless bombing. And over that he heard a sound that filled him with hope: riding on a whirlwind of flying papers and debris was the helicopter.

"It's here!" he exclaimed in joy.

Grill shot a few celebratory rounds in the air and Richie cheered. The whirlybird came over the school and descended over the grounds, coming to a halt hovering feet over the huge red E monument.

“Let’s go!” Grill ordered, dashing towards their rescuers.

Carlos cautiously edged the Prius closer to the police car. The driver got out, waving their arms and jumping up and down excitedly. He was a young mexican, wearing a police uniform that didn't look to be his for it was way too large for his short thin figure.

"Hey!" he exclaimed as they drove up. "You guys are alive!"

They suddenly heard gunshots nearby. The young man looked desperately at them.

"You've got to help," he pleaded. "I can't leave her there, no matter what her orders were!"

"You left a friend at the station?" Mary asked.

He shook his head. "She told me to go. Please, we need to save her. All the other cops turned, she's the last one left!"

Carlos reluctantly nodded. "What are you waiting for?" he asked, starting the hybrid. The young man gave them a thankful nod and dashed back to the cruiser.

As they approached the police station Carlos and Mary gasped: surrounding the front doors was a large mob of Seekers, perhaps forty or more. This was no surprise to them now; what shocked them more was the person in the midst of the throng: an Asian police woman was holding her ground, alone; firing an M16 in one hand and decapitating zombies with a katana in the other.

Carlos forced the Prius over the curb into the parking lot. He swung the door open and started firing his pistol. The woman’s machine gun must have ran out of bullets, because she threw the gun at one of the Seekers and picked another off the ground. The police car pulled up alongside the Prius, and the driver dashed out holding a baton in each hand. Carlos charged as well, punching the closest Seeker and shooting five more in the head. Most of the living corpses were crawling on the ground now, only seven were left standing, and the policewoman:

She kicked a one-armed male in the groin, shoved the barrel of her second M16 down the throat of an old female with a torn stomach, blowing the torso to bit from the inside; then cut off the legs of the third and stabbed a fourth in its forehead while her friend beat down the fifth. Carlos punched the sixth in the chest, shot it in the temple, then spun around and unloaded three rounds into the torso of the last.

He panted, looking at the body-covered ground. Many of them were moving, trying to grab at the people’s legs.

“Who the hell are you?” the woman demanded. Carlos raised his hand in shock.

“We just saved you!” he exclaimed.

“I didn’t need saving,” she said in denial. She then turned angrily at the young Mexican. “And YOU!” she bellowed, “Miguel, I told you to go! I said we’d meet at the safe-zone!”

“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?"

"Your job is to reach Stem Genetics and find Patcorn." the helicopter pilot ordered. Two hundred feet below was a massive horde of Mockers, maybe three thousand. Paul Marshall was currently at the left door-gun and Richie at the other. They both yelled excitedly as they sprayed the horde with bullets.

"Eat lead, you bastards!" Richie shouted. Somehow he was having the time of his life.

“We’re moving on,” the pilot told them, “Your drop-off site is half a click ahead. Be ready!” Both soldiers groaned, and the three others, Grill included, laughed. Everyone had been enjoying the Mocker-killing. If killing is what you could call it.

The rescue was only a quick stop for the pilot, who had other orders. Luckily he had heard Paul’s distress call, for as they took off they saw a horde of equal size to the one they’d just passed, close to the high school. There seemed to be many groups like this, all the Seekers banding together in large undead armies.

“I hope the Air Force targets these gatherings,” Grill remarked, peering out at the suburban landscape.

“There will be plenty at the landing site, I’m sure,” said Richie, who had an enormous grin on his face. If there is anyone who would actually ENJOY a zombie apocalypse, its Richie, Paul thought. They were flying low over Columbine, now nearing an empty parking lot. Half a mile away, across highway 470, was the Stem Genetics Surgery and Science Lab building. Out in an open field, with its four floors of windows closed in metal shutters, it looked like a looming fortress. The place had a powerful security system, including cameras around the fenced-in perimeter, bullet-proof windows; thick, reinforced walls, and now (since the infection began): automatic sentry guns. To get any closer to the place safely, they were going to land in the Kohl’s parking lot and cross the highway on foot.

Far behind them was downtown Denver, burning and crumbling. The only reason the city hadn’t been completely leveled was because of the evacuation-the military estimated there might be up to ten thousand survivors-and to find Patcorn, and hopefully a cure.

Paul knew better. These ‘people’ are dead, all of them. Mom, Dad-they fought those things for a week, with guns and fire and everything else, and they still didn’t make it out alive. We were so close…

“Patcorn is probably dead,” he said to Richie, who nodded.

“But we’ll have to go in anyways; anything we find in the damn place might be worth it.” Richie told him. All five soldiers looked nervously ahead.

Suddenly gunshots rang through the air, coming from behind and below the helicopter. Several bullets ripped through the floor. One of the soldiers let out an “ungh…” and fell backwards out of the doorway. Paul tried to catch him but was too slow. He knew the soldier was dead anyways- for there was a bloody hole in his jaw.

“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.

Grill fired his machine gun randomly at the ground, and then collapsed to the metal floor, holding both hands tightly over his stomach.

“You’re going live!” Richie roared over the gunfire. Grill struggled to his feet, coughing blood, but nodded and grabbed the door-gun.

Suddenly the chopper was hit by a strong gust of wind, knocking the other soldier off balance. Richie reached out to steady him, but it was too late. Another lurched sent the man out the side of the helicopter, plummeting four hundred feet to the pavement. Grill held tightly onto the seat straps

“We’re trapped!” Paul cried-and everyone knew it was true. They could no longer land in the parking lot, and the next best place was farther back, or in the field next to Patcorn’s lab.

“I’ll try the field, hold on!” the pilot yelled. They zoomed over the highway and descended quickly. The next moments went by so fast; Paul could only recall a few details later on:

One of the metal shutters on the Stem Genetics building opened up, and a projectile zoomed out in their direction. Behind it trailed white gas.

“Missile incoming!” Someone yelled. The helicopter changed direction as fast as it could, but the missile followed. Boom! The cabin was spinning, the tail blown free by the blast. Beep Beep Beep went the alarm. Paul threw up. They were over water now. Paul decided to jump. He was falling, alongside the burning wreckage….30 feet, 20, 10- splash. All his senses were lost.

“Did you see that?” Mason yelled. Roger looked up from the map he was reading just in time to see the diminishing fireball and the falling wreckage of a helicopter no more than two miles ahead. Roger thought he could see water below it, and wondered if anyone was still alive onboard. At least they won’t have such a hard landing, he thought with relief.

Then he saw the helicopter wreckage splash into a lake, so close to the Stem Genetics building. The helicopter looked military in origin, which made him wonder what its goal had been.

“Think anyone survived that fall?”Mason asked.

“Even if nobody did, we should still check it out; it’s just down the road from the lab.” Roger answered.

“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?”

Paul sputtered and gasped as he pulled himself ashore. He could hardly go further, he was too shocked, and tired, and in pain. He groaned as he finally pulled himself completely out of the water. It took him a moment to realize he was alone.

“Richie! Grill!” He cried out. How did this happen? Everything had gone to plan until those gangsters showed up!

“Richie!” He called out again. He saw the pilot’s body drifting in the oil that leaked from the wreck.

“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.

“Hope I don’t have too strong a smell…” Richie laughed. Paul stared at him quizzically, thinking He’s losing it. I have to find help, fast.

“Mockers smell blood, remember?”Richie added, and Paul suddenly understood. If there were any Mockers nearby, they would be attracted to them like moths to a light.

“We need to reach the lab, Patcorn might help us,” said Paul, but he was too tired to stand, and Richie wasn’t going anywhere soon either.

“Carry me?” Richie joked weakly. Paul laughed and said, “I wish I could…”

Suddenly he heard the crunching of tires on dirt and gravel. Looking up he saw a tan car, still in decent condition, speeding towards them. Oh no… Paul thought, thinking it was the gangsters from before.

But it wasn’t- instead it was two worried looking men: one with grey hair and a short beard, and another who was balding and looked slightly hawk-like. And they were carrying a medical kit.

“Thank god!” Paul said, “Richie, we’re gonna make it.”

“I think you’re lucky, soldier. We were headed to the lab when we saw the crash. We only have a few medical supplies, but we’ll make it work,” The older man told him.

“What’s your name, soldier?” the other inquired.

“Private Paul Marshall, sir,” Paul answered, struggling to stand.

“Mason Barres. Nice to meet you.” The younger man helped Paul up while the other tended to Richie’s wound. Without looking up he replied, “My name’s Roger Torrens.”

. -. -..

 

Episode 103 All I Never Wanted

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.

. -. -..

Episode 104 It Will Rain Fire 

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 dumbones 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.

. -. -..

 

Episode 105 Mile High Down

 

“Think we can climb around?”Tyler asked his brother, studying the rocks on the cliff trail ahead. An avalanche must have recently occurred, for there was a massive boulder he judged to be over ten feet tall blocking the path. The dirt trail was very narrow, only five feet wide with a very steep slope to either side. ATVs and dirt bikes could use the path, but Tyler and Roger Torrens preferred climbing on foot.

“Looks like there’s about a foot at the edge”, Roger answered. He was used to tough obstacles during hiking, and this provided no challenge for him. Going first, Roger carefully held himself close to the boulder. Step by step he went around the rock with Tyler following closely behind. It was bigger than he expected, over twenty feet wide, but he made it to the other side in less than two minutes. Once his brother joined him they continued up the trail, chatting about their plans for camp.

· · · — — — · · ·

“I can’t believe they nuked it,”Paul muttered for what seemed like the fortieth time in the past hour. He was referring to, of course, the military’s sudden use of a thermonuclear weapon on the city of Denver Colorado.

”Probably killed thousands of mockers though” Mason remarked.

“When we heard the plan we left”said the AWOL soldier Rudolph accompanied by the pilot of the helicopter and their four passengers Paul, Richie, Roger, and Mason. Everyone on board had felt slightly nauseated the past hour, and it had nothing to do with the Seeker virus. Although they were well out of reach of the primary blast wave, all six men on the copter had likely received a non-lethal dose of radiation. The pilot made sure to stay upwind of the toxic air, and they got out of the danger zone before the fallout began. It was lucky that they made it out of city limits during the first minutes of the blast, because an EMP wave from the warhead temporarily knocked out the helicopter’s electronic systems. Not only that, but everyone was almost completely blind for several minutes. The only shape that they could make out through their blurred vision was the ominous mushroom cloud hovering on the horizon.

Both Richie and Mason both agreed that it was for the best, because more soldiers would have died if they had kept fighting. Denver had been overrun. Roger and the pilot, Rick Dawson, both remained neutral in opinion. They did not join because they understood the reasons, the cost of lives taken and the cost of lives saved. Rudolph himself was a nice and talkative guy, and had openly admitted that he had been bit. He reassured them that when the time came he would dispose of himself. He had both a pistol and a grenade ready for when the moment came. To his relief and total surprise Roger gave him a syringe filled with Patcorn’s new “cure”. Before they could explain the risks to him he had already injected himself with the syringe. He told them that he would rather die by the side effects of the syringe than to die and be reanimated as “one of those flesh eaters.”

Rudolph had been telling them stories about people jumping off of buildings just to keep from being eaten alive. How the Mockers had slowly learned how to open the doors of a vehicle and even to break into tanks. The creepiest thing of all was that those that died with guns in their hands reanimated knowing how to shoot it.

“They couldn’t aim or anything, but when you hear gunshots ring and you think that your prayers for help have been fulfilled only to find that it’s death laughing in your face, it’s terrifying.”

“Yeah, we had a little run-in with those kind a couple days ago,” Mason told him.

“Frightening, right?” said Rudolph.

“Creepy,”Roger replied. “I don’t remember seeing that in the movies…”

Richie cackled, clapping Roger on the shoulder. “Man, this isn’t a movie! This is real shit, so get used to it.”

“Ever seen Day of the Dead?” Paul inquired. Richie nodded. “The zombies could shoot in that one,” he noted.

“But this virus isn’t like what you see in the movies,” Roger explained. “In fact, it’s hardly a ‘virus’ at all. Dr. Patcorn said—“

“Nobody cares what the madman said,” Mason growled. “He tried to kill us, multiple times. He didn’t even warn—“

“James saved my life!” Richie angrily reminded him.

“Yeah, well we had to risk our asses to get you into the place, you little—“

“Mason!”Roger intervened.

After another half-hour of flying and arguing they had finally reached Colorado Springs. It looked almost like Denver except on a smaller scale: burning buildings, wrecked vehicles filling the streets, the occasional unmoving tank, trash bags strewn all over, and not surprisingly, more Mockers. They weren’t moving in huge hordes like in Denver, here they were more spread out. The pilot kept the helicopter at two hundred feet high enough for them to be well out of danger but low enough for them to survey their surroundings and formulate a plan based on their observations.

“We’re looking for any fortified places flying a white flag,” Rick reminded them. As they had approached the city ten minutes ago, he had explained the ‘flag code’ for ‘safe-zones’ within Colorado. Any survivors remaining in the state were to head for one of these areas if they wanted to live. A place flying a white flag with a red S was unsafe but had supplies available, a yellow S was for a short-term shelter, a place to hide for a few hours but not meant for staying in. A green S marked a survivor camp that was fortified enough to protect its inhabitants. One of these places was likely to have many survivors (unless it was overrun) and be closer to the outskirts if in the city at all. It was one of these safe zones they were desperately searching for.

After another fifteen minutes of flying, they found a flag with a green S stuck on a telephone pole near a church in Cimarron Hills. A ten-foot high fence had been built around it; to the north was a neighborhood, to the south an apartment complex and a large field was east of it. However, using binoculars, Rudolph could see a sign out front that read “Flag is a lie. Area is not safe”.

“There’s smoke around back!” Roger observed. He pointed at a thin gray column rising behind the building. He pointed it out to Rick, who maneuvered the helicopter around the church for a better view. As they came around they saw a few tents set up, a couples tables, and a running grill. Smoke was steadily streaming out, carrying along with it the delicious scent of—

“Does anyone else smell hotdogs?” Mason wondered aloud.

“I sure do,” Richie answered.

“I think there are people down there,” Rudolph gasped. “Hey, Rick; why don’t you take us down? Let us explore for a minute?”

“Why not?” the pilot decided. The chopper descended loudly towards the street, kicking up a dust devil in the process. With a slight jolt they touched down. Roger and Rudolph immediately hit the ground running, holding their machine guns ready. They sprinted to the gate, knowing it was a matter of minutes before Seekers started arriving in droves.

From what they’d seen from above, the fence had three layers: wood, vinyl, and chain. Wrapped along the top and base was a lot of barbed wire. There was no gate. Instead, hanging in a break in the barbed wire was a rolled up rope ladder. Rudolph untied the wire knot holding it together while the rest of the group caught up.

“Didn’t have the decency to provide a proper escape route?” Mason complained when he saw the ladder.

“You can hop the fence without it,” Paul remarked. True; the barrier that was supposed to keep those inside alive was only seven feet; any agile person could easily climb over. And so could some zombies, Paul thought with a shudder.

One by one they dropped over the other side, and spread out defensively. First thing they did was head around back, to the welcoming smell of cooking food.

“Hell yeah,” Richie commented when he lifted the grill lid.

“Eight juicy weenies,” Mason joked.

Plates were laid out on one of the wooden tables; Roger walked over to grab a few, but hesitated.

“Where are all the people?” he asked, “Someone has to be here—this food is still fresh.”

“You’re right,” Mason said, taking a giant bite from one of the dogs he plucked directly off the grill. “Somebody cooked these at just the right time for us.”

“Not another bite!” a voice suddenly sounded, coming from the tents. Out stepped and old man, stooped and tan with a short brown beard, holding a shotgun.

“Whoa, now…” Roger began, trying to keep calm. “We’re looking for other survivors, not trouble.”

“Survivors? Ha!” the hermit cackled, stepping closer, his gun still raised. “Won’t find any here,” he explained. “And nobody’s gonna find you either!”

BAM! The gunshot surprised everyone, making them jump. It took them a moment to realize it was not the hermit’s shotgun; the old man swayed for a moment, looking down at the clean hole in the center of his chest, before his legs gave out and he fell to the dirt. They stared in shock at the body, and then heard Rick’s voice:

“Good for nothing scum.” They turned around and saw him holding a pistol firmly, aimed at the hermit’s dead body.

“I’m still hungry,” Richie reminded them. Roger handed out plates, watching Rick nervously. There were enough hotdogs for all of them to have their own; the last two were each split in three. They ate them bun-less, since the bag on the table was growing mold. Once finished the started searching through the tents.

“Good lord,” Rudolph muttered.

“That guy was a sick, twisted son of a bitch,” Mason observed. In every tent, seven total, there were bodies. Mutilated, torn apart, surrounded in pools of blood; the gore piles were completely unrecognizable.

“There were children, too,”Richie told the others. “I saw…a head…just resting on a pillow…Her eyes were closed, and a blanket pulled up to the neck…she could’ve been sleeping, but I pulled away the blanket and—“

“I think we should leave, Roger decided.

Suddenly they heard a growling noise behind them, and in surprise and fear they watched the hermit’s corpse struggle to its feet. It took a step forward and:

BAM! The hermit’s head became a bloody doughnut, a three-inch hole was blown right through the center of its face. Mason lowered the shotgun and watched the rest of the skull cave in while the body hit the ground a second time. Roger looked at the corpse in awe.

“He was infected?” he asked.

“Must’ve been.” Mason answered.

“Ok, I think we really ought to leave,” Paul announced.

“Yeah, in a minute,” Richie replied. “we still have the church to investigate.”

Paul shook his head, pointing towards the front. “That will have to wait.”

“Ah, shit,” Mason cursed. Maybe twenty, or more, Seekers were trudging around the building towards them.

“Again?” Mary asked. Pierall was once again sitting in a lawn chair by the pond, a fishing pole in his hand. The old man smiled.

“It’s relaxing,” the old man defended. Pierall was in his early sixties, a slender, rather tall guy with curly white hair and long snowy beard; yet he was still pretty fit for his age, having always exercised to stay healthy. Unlike some of the others at the camp, like fat Carter, a complete slob who weighed well over three hundred pounds even though he was in his thirties and 5’ 5”.

“Shouldn’t somebody go out hunting or something?” Mary began. She would have simply asked some of the guys to go, but Pierall was looked upon as their surrogate leader. In her mind, the secretive master hiding behind that giant guard of his uphill from the camp really had no control.

“We have plenty of food right now, Mary,” Pierall explained. “Look around. This is a farm, for Pete’s sake.”Mary sighed. True, there was plenty of space to grow crops, and tiny valley had a beautiful view. The pond, situated beside a ranch and wedged in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, was peaceful. Birds chirped high in the evergreens, and a calm breeze blew past.

“Ok, what about survivors? I bet loads of folks are still going to NORAD. Or passing us by, like that group this morning—“

“Mary, Nobody else is out there.”

“Please. Just check. The path to NORAD is mostly outside the city, it shouldn’t be too dangerous.”

“Alright, say I do go? Who’s coming with me? And don’t even think about volunteering!” he said seeing the look on her face.

“Come on,” she groaned. “Fine. Take Carlos. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a vacation.

“Get in!” Rick yelled over the rotors. Thankfully the Seekers only came from one side of the church, allowing the group to sprint around the other side and to the ladder. They noticed the building’s French doors were hanging barely on broken hinges. Not even bothering to use the ladder they pulled themselves over the fence. Richie had to give Paul a boost, but they made it out of the place safely and ran to the helicopter. There were, of course, Seekers roaming in the street. The pilot didn’t bother killing any, wanting only to get back in the air. They all did, and in seconds the chopper was rising back into the sky, what seemed to be the only safe haven left. Glumly they flew on, towards the southwest.

“Why can’t we just fly east to Kansas or something?” Paul asked after a few speechless minutes, “There is no infection outside Colorado is there?”

“Not yet I think. Not last night, anyway. It’s spreading fast, though.” The pilot replied, while Rudolph and Mason continued to stare out with their binoculars.

“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” Rick 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.”

“They wouldn’t!” Paul exclaimed.“They wanted to evacuate!”

“Sure, five days ago. Not anymore, though.” The pilot muttered, then said to Rudolph and Mason: “See any flags yet?”

“Two red ones, four yellows. Nothing else!” Rudolph answered.

“Flag is a lie, area not safe,”Mason muttered. “Should’ve heeded the sign.”

“Those were good hotdogs though,”Richie reminded him.

After flying over the municipal airport, and seeing the wreckage of several military vehicles including a crashed F-16, Rick made an announcement:

“I’m taking us towards Cheyenne Mountain; I heard there’s a good-sized camp there.”

“I thought they sealed NORAD,”Richie remarked. “Why would anyone head there? It’s pointless, nobody’s getting in. I heard it’s worse than Patcorn’s lock-down.”

“Well, people went there, that’s for sure. Who wouldn’t try?” Rudolph said.

“And what if that area’s overrun as well?” Mason retorted.

“The military probably left some form of instructions there,” Paul mentioned, “like a map marking nearby camps or something.”

“Yeah, right. Don’t get your hopes up, kid.” Mason snorted.

As the helicopter neared the mountain, they all sat impatiently in their seats, not knowing what to expect.

They soon found out what they wanted, and didn’t want; to know. Scanning ahead with his binoculars Rudolph could make out the parking lot next to the entrance to the North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD). A twenty-foot fence made of logs, chain-link and barbed wire encompassed an acre. Within it was a cluster of twenty or so lean-tos, multiple fire pits; some still smoking, and over thirty cars and trucks that looked to be in good condition. And the biggest shock was:

“Where’s the entrance?” Rudolph exclaimed. “It’s gone! I can’t see it anywhere, but it’s supposed to be right there.” He pointed to a large dirt hill.

“Looks like they buried it,” Rick observed.

“NO!” the other three soldiers cried.

“That’s what they meant by sealing,” Richie decided.

“There still might be people here,” Roger told them. “There is a camp down there.”

There was not, however, any sign of life. Even as they got closer Rudolph couldn’t see anybody in the encampment. Nobody was running out to the open, nobody waving their hands signaling for help. Just silence, until-

A car horn rang out from almost directly below, making everyone onboard the helicopter jump and causing Rudolph to almost drop his binoculars. He, Richie and Paul looked out their side while the others looked out the left, trying to find the source. Rick began turning the chopper and descending for a better view. The honking came again, persistent blasts of sound desperately calling for attention.

“What are they trying to do, attract all the undead of Colorado Springs?” Mason yelled, spotting the vehicle. It was a green jeep, with two passengers. It was speeding down the winding road that led to the camp, but heading east, away from the shelter. The jeep slowed to a halt and the passengers got out.

“Hold on, I’m going to try landing.” Rick announced.

“Do we have enough room?” Mason asked, “Because it looks like they have nowhere to go. They probably want a ride.”

“I’ll see what we can do.” Rick answered.

A minute later they touched down forty feet up the road from the jeep. Rick, Roger, and Richie Jumped out and walked over to the jeep, while Mason, Rudolph, and Paul waited in the helicopter (Roger had actually ordered Mason to stay put- saying he was ‘too aggressive’).

The jeep driver, an older man in sixties from the look of him, met them halfway between the vehicles.

“Looking for a camp? ‘Cause NORAD is not the way to go.” He 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 NORAD was buried, and anybody remaining her with even a shred of hope ended up leaving as well.”

“Two days ago…Did they know the state is closed?” Rick asked, concerned. “All citizens attempting to leave Colorado are to be shot on sight. No tolerance for infection.”

“Sure they did,” the man shrugged, “we all know that. But some seemed to think it was worth the risk to try.”

“Not safe to hang around long,”the other man informed them. “If you need a safe place to stay just follow us, if you want.” He was a tall, buff African-American, bruised a little but otherwise unharmed. He looked warily down the road, at the highway. They could see scattered Seekers wandering down the road.

“There’s an occupied safe-zone near here?” Roger questioned. “We haven’t seen any.”

“It’s not in the city, its south of here some miles,” the older man said.

“How many survivors?” Richie asked, hoping for a high number.

“Forty to sixty or so,” the second man replied. Richie’s excited look vanished.

“Do you have room for six more?”Rick asked.

“There were a few hundred staying there just days ago, of course we have room. There’s a whole ranch, an RV park, and it’s all next to the mountains.” The older man explained.

“What were you doing up at NORAD?” Richie suddenly questioned, confused.

“Looking for stragglers who thought the place was safe. Where’d you come from, by the way, and what are your names?”

Richie did the introductions: Roger, Himself, Rick; and pointed out Rudolph, Mason, and Paul, who were now walking around the helicopter, stretching their legs as well as keeping watch over the area. The old man introduced himself as Pierall, and his friend as Carlos. Roger saw Pierall raise an eyebrow when he heard his last name.

“We just flew down from Denver, looking for the rumored safe-zones here.” Roger quickly described their visit with Patcorn and their lucky escape from the Stem Genetics Lab.

“The madman finally kicked it then,” Pierall muttered under his breath.

“Hey, that man saved my life!”Richie exclaimed, raising his left fist. “He helped us. We killed him, only because he was infected.”

“Sorry, I meant no offense to you!” Pierall apologized, holding his hands to shield himself. Richie took a minute to calm down while Roger resumed the conversation;

“The military was bombing all morning, until about two hours ago…”

Pierall smirked. “The place got too far overrun, and the military gave up, right?”

“Not exactly…” Roger said, and then continued, “I guess they decided to let the place go-so they nuked it.”

“What!?” Carlos exclaimed. Pierall was too shocked to speak.

“Who the hell is stupid enough to drop an atom bomb on one of their own cities? Is the military out of their mind?” Carlos went on. He banged his fist on the hood of the jeep, then opened the left door and slid into the passenger seat.

“We have to tell the others,” he told Pierall,”We have to warn them, if there’s a chance they’ll destroy this place too. Camp’s too close to avoid a nuclear blast, or radiation. The fallout would have us dead in hours!”

“Calm down,” Rick said in an assuring tone, ”They aren’t going to nuke Colorado Springs-not enough of a threat.”

“Not enough of a threat?” Pierall inquired.

“There were three and a half million Mockers in the Denver area. The napalm bombing plus the nuclear explosion likely wiped out over half of that. The Colorado Springs estimated Seeker count only reaches a sixth of that, if even.” Rick explained.

“Carlos is right though,” Pierall said after a minute of thinking and comprehending. “We should be getting back now. Your vehicle can make a few more miles, I hope?” he said pointing at the helicopter.

“Indeed.” Rick nodded.

“Then just follow our lead.”Carlos yelled as he started up the jeep’s rumbling engine.

“What’s the deal?” Mason inquired as Richie, Rick, and Roger walked back to the helicopter.

“We’re following them, there’s a camp south of here!” Richie announced. Paul jumped into the helicopter and quickly strapped himself into the seat furthest right, impatient and excited. The others quickly got in as well, and Rick retook the controls.

Following the jeep was easy; as soon as the helicopter took off the jeep sped down the rest of the road and got onto the freeway. From there it wound its way around the scattered wrecks until it reached open road, where it went to top speed, racing down the highway. The helicopter, of course, kept up easily, and Rick could not help but show off, bringing the flying vehicle down to ten feet above the road, directly behind the jeep; its engine roaring loudly enough they could hear it over the helicopter’s swift rotors.

It took less than ten minutes to reach the camp; as Pierall had described it was an RV park next to a small ranch wedged between two foot hills on the west side of the highway. On the east side was an open expanse of wild fields. There were lots of short trees, providing some cover to the camp, which was comprised of seventeen RVs, a cluster of maybe thirty tents, six fire pits, and a make-shift grave yard in a small clearing. As the helicopter came in for a landing on the highway asphalt next to the entry road dozens of people, worried and excited, came out of the camp to greet them.

Introductions were short: Pierall told his group the names of all the new comers, then the both groups of survivors mingled and headed up into the camp. They were safe, for now.

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 stood, alive and well, not five yards away, his ex-wife. Mary.

. -. -..

Episode 106 Fateful Meetings

He stood alone, in silence, staring at the three graves before him. Poorly dug and poorly covered, they were the best he could do in the time he had. He was the last one left; he knew it. After the first two days, where all the folks in town seemed to rush to the hospital at once, after almost all of them died and then came back to life as mindless-No, they had a mind-intelligent killing machines, ripping apart those who remained alive; even past the fourth day, where the whole town was overrun, his family had survived. They took shelter in one the houses up the hill in the woods, hiding in the basement until they ran out of food on the fifth day. They had to go find food, and had hoped the infection had past, that they could risk going into town. They were, sadly and extremely, wrong.

They were ambushed just as they reached the main road; the creatures surrounding them. Swinging axe and firing shotgun saved him from the horde, but only because of the pain and fury that welled up in him as he watched his wife, daughter, and twenty-seven year old brother get slaughtered in a wave of undead.

So here he was, now walking away from the two-day old dirt mounds he made for the remains of his loved ones. He had to chop them to bits, to prevent them from reanimating again, had to finish the damage started by the things he hated so much. And as he walked away, he looked out over the town, and suddenly stopped. For down the main road, carrying a gun and backpack and moving in crouch that proved he was obviously not a zombie, was one man. He immediately decided to help the person, to provide shelter, for if he did not he would still be all alone.

· · · — — —· · ·

“She was 19, my daughter.” Mason told the group that was sitting around him: five girls and three boys out of the camp’s forty-one residents that were actually interested in the newcomers’stories. Mason was enjoying their attention, which he recognized as deep interest in what he had to say. It was about 2:00 in the afternoon now; he’d just finished explaining the infection event in Estes, and he felt it was time for a break. He stood up and stretched, saying; “I need a moment to relax. I’ll continue my long and boring tale in a while.”

His audience, comprising of the younger survivors, grumbled and pleaded for more. They enjoyed hearing Mason’s story, because it was the only form of entertainment they had left. Well, not really. In the RVs were working televisions and one had multiple connected to gaming systems. It was the teenage guy’s ‘Grave Club’. That explained why most of his small but intrigued audience was female.

The camp formation was quite simple: the elders and children got the RVs and the adults slept in the tents. Including the newcomers; there were forty seven survivors at the Keeton Safe Camp. Four, including Pierall, were old-timers; they each had an RV to themselves, while the fifteen children shared the other ones. The oldest was Ms. Irene; she was in her seventies but somehow escaped death’s waiting arms and fled south the safe camp. All the other women (nine in all, including Mary) looked up to her. She, and only she, was able to control the rioting Grave Club boys, who wanted nothing less than revenge on the Seekers. Plenty of times they plotted to return to the city, but she kept them from going, even after Carlos and Pierall had tried to persuade them against it.

She wasn’t, however, liked by all the camp residents, especially the mysterious overlord staying in the big tent far up the hill. The reason for his power was the juggernaut of a body guard who stood outside the tent, watching over the camp with a sniper rifle.

“He never sleeps, it seems. He’s always standing there, every time I look uphill.” Carlos had whispered to Rick when he first noticed the heavily armored and armed behemoth (the guy was 6’8”).Pierall had (quickly and quietly, of course) apologized and explained the situation he had just placed the newcomers in: the camp was ruled by the man in the tent up the hill. He had eight Rules, none much more important than the other:

-All weapons had to be turned in to the guard at the gate. Nobody could keep or use a weapon without his permission

-5% of all food and water collected goes directly to him; the rest can be split throughout the camp as the residents pleased.

-Men and women sleep in separate tents (he claimed it was for safety: a zombie apocalypse was no time to give birth to something that would carelessly cause lots of noise and attract numbers of Mockers, etc.)

-Anyone ordered on a scavenging mission or related activity had to follow his orders directly; if they returned without fulfilling his request they would be forced to leave camp.

- (somewhat related to the above rule) any forced entry by any attacker or outcast, any assassination attempt, or any person refusing to obey orders or rules a certain amount of times could result in immediate termination.

- Nobody speaks directly to him. Any and all interactions towards him go through the Guard.

-No fires after 30 past sundown. It could attract Seekers or thugs.

-Keep the noise level down. You don’t have to whisper, but don’t yell. If the Guard can hear you clearly, you are being too loud.

Secretly, it was rumored, the boss up the hill had two other rules:

-the rules are stricter for those over fifty; they are unnecessary mouths to feed and cannot provide sufficient defense to the camp

-the rules have an exception for the Grave Club.

“You’re kidding! A gang of teenagers can do whatever they want? You’re joking.” Rick had said in disbelief. “I guess I can live with these rules, but the prejudice…jeez.”

“He seems to like the kids-especially when they give their awful photos to him.” Carlos muttered, shaking his head. The three of them where sitting at one of the six plastic tables that were arranged around the largest fire pit in the center of the camp.

“What kind of photos?” Rick asked.

“Seekers. Humiliated ones-Seekers that people killed then dressed up or put in ‘funny’ positions, or even…well, you get the point.” Peirall told him.

“Didn’t they try to leave?”

“Yeah, last night. The lot of them even got their weapons from the boss,” he shook his head in disgust, “But Ms. Irene changed their minds last minute.”

“She’s almost the secondary leader, then?”

“No, not at all. She’s just old and still survived the apocalypse. Makes her quite respectable. I think, no-worry that boss-man up the hill wants her dead for disobeying the rules.”

“What? How did she break any rules?” Rick exclaimed a little too loudly, drawing attention from a nearby woman who joined them.

“Talking about Irene?” she whispered. “She’s really nice and all, but our ‘all-powerful master’ thinks she’s too looked-up-to.” Rick looked at her, astonished bold outspoken opinion and sarcasm. He looked around at his surroundings; seeing unfamiliar faces but none of his new friends, until Roger walked into view from between two of the RVs. The lady who had just sat down next to him followed his gaze, her eyes falling on the approaching Roger. Suddenly she stood, muttering, “Would you excuse me for a minute?”, then dashed off into the tent cluster.

“Can you tell me what that was about?” Rick asked, confused.

“Nope. Haven’t seen Mary act like this before,” Carlos sighed. She was my neighbor before…before this place went to hell.”

As this conversation continued, Roger walked right past Rick’s table and into the first row of tents.

He’d been so close. And now he’d lost sight of her again. For whatever reason, he wanted to speak with her, badly. It’d been nearly ten years since he’d last seen her. Sure, he was the one who filed the divorce, but it was her fault it ended that way…

Roger and Mary Torrens had married at the age of 24-a decent age to do so, if you asked anyone in his family. Mary, however had been in several previous engagements before him, breaking them off last-minute when she’d find a new guy who was better-looking or richer. Then her parents force her to go to college, and that’s where she met Roger.

In his twenties Roger Torrens was quite handsome, and being a minor league baseball player added to his popularity. So it was no surprise that Mary went after him first, coaxing him quickly into marriage. At the time, Roger didn’t really care what happened. He had a hot girlfriend-turned-wife and was about to get a good job. He would later regret rushing into things (he hadn’t taken much time to really get to know her), especially with her of all people.

It turns out; Roger and Mary were never compatible. He always seemed indifferent to her doings, and she took advantage of his lack of acknowledgement of caring to fabricate a cumulative pyramid of lies. Since he was always out at baseball games (watching or playing) or working, she had time for a multitude of affairs. When he did find out about her covert life style seven years later (though he’d suspected for five) she demurred, and tried to palliate their marriage. However, their anger towards each other only intensified due to their inability to cope. Roger’s views on life were chimerical, whilst Mary kept hers recondite; for Roger would have left her immediately if he knew why she’d married him in the first place. Eventually the connubial stress between them proved too much, and Roger filed the divorce. He had been single ever since.

He just wanted to talk to her, to give himself proof she was really there. Life keeps throwing crap in my face, ever since that accident... he thought.

In the two hours since they’d arrived at the Keeton safe camp, Roger had approached her twelve times. Each time she noticed him Mary swiftly walked away, trying not to catch attention and put distance between him and her at the same time. The first time, she slipped into the crowd that had earlier surrounded the newcomers. Other times she ducked into the maze of tents, like this time. He had seen her do this enough times to know how to find her.

He didn’t even know what he would say-there was so much going through his mind-and after ten years…

Did she remarry? How did she get here? Thoughts like these kept crossing his mind. Carefully, so as not to disturb the tent-occupants around him, he made his way to the end of the first row, and turned to go down the second. And found himself face-to-face with Mary.

“What could you possibly say to me now that you couldn’t have a decade ago?” She snapped, looking at him with hatred. Roger fumbled for words in his mind, and without meaning to said; “How many last names have you gone through since I left?” Both of them were taken aback by each other’s words. Roger stared at her for a moment, his eyes betraying no emotion. Mary, however, was having difficulty hiding an old sadness.

“None. It’s still Torrens.”

This shocked Roger-not only the fact that she hadn’t remarried and that, by either still caring or laziness, she had kept his last name.

“I...um...I’m glad to see you made it.” She mumbled. Roger could help but feel sorry, looking at her thin form, weak and starved yet still beautiful; with smooth pale skin and dark flowing hair, a sweet smile that forces you grin back….NO! He had to stay stoic, he couldn’t risk falling for her again, even for a second. He tore the thought of her beauty away from his mind by thinking about the Seekers. Mary’s looks were definitely NOT the reason for divorce.

“Yeah, you too.” He answered, and thought back to his night in Estes Park:

“You don’t have a family, do you? It’d be awful if you did, because- and I’m only pointing out the truth- they are probably dead.” Mason had asked, though hardly showing concern.

“No, I’m divorced,” Roger had replied.

“Glad to hear it. You know, because now I don’t have to worry about emotional problems from you or anything.”

His mind returned to Mary when he heard her say his brother’s name suddenly.

“Say again?” He muttered, shaking his head.

“What happened to Tyler? Did he make it out before the border closed?” she repeated, showing a hint of concern.

Roger blinked a couple times, trying to put her words together. She doesn’t know what happed…what should I tell her?

After a moment he answered, “No, he’s dead.” Mary nodded solemnly. Then, remembering she was mad at him, she asked, “Why have you been following me all damn afternoon? It’s like I’m some animal you’re hunting.”

“Why have you been avoiding me?”he shot back, a bit humorously. She’d always hated his smart remarks.

“Because…”she stammered, on the verge of anger and tears, “because I’m your ex-wife, and I haven’t seen or heard from you in ten years, and now my whole life has gone to shit…” She took another pained look at him then stomped off down the aisle of tents, ducking into the third one and zipping it closed before he could reach her.

“Just go away. This was not the impression I wanted to give the first time I saw you again.”

“You think I thought I’d see you again in some run-down survivor’s camp, hiding from zombies?” he said to her, kneeling next to the tent.

“I avoided you earlier because I…I still care, but I don’t want to and I shouldn’t but I do. I only had three boyfriends after you left me. I’ve been single for eight long years. Eight years. Me!” Roger rolled his eyes, but continued to listen. She unzipped the inner flap so he could see her.

“I doubt that,” said Roger, “We both know how you are, you can’t stand not having somebody to love for one week and then leave forever, for no reason-“

“SHUT UP!” she yelled. “You don’t know me anymore-people change in a decade!”

“I haven’t. Tyler didn’t. We lived the same lives with or without you.”

“You only say that because you were never around. I was always alone. Alone, Roger.”

He laughed dryly. “I not being home eight hours a day is not an excuse for a succession of affairs.” He couldn’t believe he was having this argument again. Mary hung her head feeling ashamed.

“Look at us now. We argue-we always did. But what’s the point? The world has ended. Can’t we start over?”She said, looking at him with a longing sorrow.

“We’ll see,” Roger assured. He stood up, about to walk away, with no particular plan; needing a moment to process everything. Mary never remarried. She might even still love me…sure, like that’s possible…but still…And what the hell is she doing here?! What are the odds that, after all this goddamn time, after all this…shit in the past weeks, that I’d find her here?

Too busy with his thoughts he ran right into a big teenager.

“Watch it, asshole,” the kid muttered, trotting off to the GRAVE Club RV.

“Kids these days,” he heard Mary say behind him.

“So now you’re following me?” Roger asked, turning to face her.

“I just wondered if you’d like to go on a quick walk. Catch up on our lives and stuff, you know?” she shrugged.

Roger took a deep breath. He smirked, an expression he knew she hated, and replied; “Um…No.” Mary promptly punched him in the arm.

“Ow!” he feigned doubling over in pain, laughing.

“Still a jerk, I see.” She commented. She managed a smile.

“Still abusive, I see,” Roger joked. She looked incredulous.

“What?! I was never—”

Roger was having a laughing fit.“Let’s just go on that walk,” he told her, “If only for the views.”

As the day progressed clouds formed over the craggy peaks, and flowed down over the open plains. By 6 PM the sky was covered in a fluffy blanket of grey. Roger and Mary were returning from their walk through the valley; having caught up with each other’s lives: Mary had gone to college and worked as a nurse, while Roger had quit baseball to work in a small logging company. She described the first days of the outbreak to him, some of the details truly horrific.

As they neared the camp it starting to rain lightly, the misty canopy finally dropping its burden on the thirsty soil; and they heard a commotion going on. Screaming was mixed with yelling and…cheering.

“What’s going on?” Mary screeched with concern, taking off towards the tents. Roger ran after her, and discovered upon reaching the tents what was happening:

A fight. An all-out, bare knuckles brawl, between two teenagers. A circle of campers cheered and hollered, mostly men and the rest of the club kids.

“Teach him, Jericho!”

“Watch out, Tom!”

Roger assumed those were the kids’ names. He smirked as he watched the bigger one, Jericho, punch Tom in the cheekbone. Tom staggered, but delivered a sharp kick to his opponent’s groin. Jericho feigned pain, then sneered, roundhouse kicking Tom in the same place. The kid collapsed in pain, grimacing and curling up on the dirt.

“Wear a cup next time, Smartness.” Jericho spat. There was a lot of laughter, then Mary pushed her way through the circle.

“Jericho, no more!” She ordered.

“Fine, Fine,” he replied cruelly.“I’ll leave this weak wimp alone. But, just so you know, Mary: he started it. This was club business.”

Mary watched him furiously as he strolled back to his RV. She pulled Tom to his feet, saying; “Come with me, we need to get you patched up.” To her surprise the teenager refused.

“Nah, I’ve already made myself look bad. I challenged his leadership, that’s all.” He groaned as he stumbled to the RV.

The campers dispersed back to…wherever. Roger didn’t really care what anyone was doing. He noticed Mason sitting at one of the tables, carving pointless lines in the wood with a knife.

“Sorry they took your axe away,”Roger apologized.

“I feel so vulnerable here,” his friend grunted.

“Yeah, I think we all do. At least the camp’s far enough from the city.”

“I doubt it. The little stinkers love to roam, remember?”

“Then the sniper—“ he pointed up the hill, where the giant of a man was relaxing in a camping chair; “—would see and kill them.”

Mason just stabbed the table.“We’ll see,” he replied.

Roger awoke to snapping twigs. It was dark, but still early in the night. He was in his tent, close to the edge of the clearing. He closed his eyes, thinking that the sound must've been a bird. He heard more snapping, and soft footfalls. Then he heard breathing.

He could tell the difference instantly, and practicaly sprang out of his sleeping bag. He grabbed the knife he'd saved from dinner, knowing it was better as a utensil than a weapon, he thought it will have to do. The raspy breathing and the slow shuffling of feet was very close to his tent. As silently as possible he unzipped the flap and leapt out. And stopped, suddenly and with better agility than he ever though he could, standing half-in and half-outside his tent.

Out of the shadows Roger could see them, limping or stumbling, moaning and growling. They practically flowed out of the forest, without warning. He slipped back into the tent, wondering what he could possibly do without a gun. Maybe I can just wait this out, he thought desperately. And then people started screaming.

. -. -..

Episode 107 Ours Is His

Paul Marshall was still surrounded, after the groups had mingled. His excitement was still fresh, the feeling of freedom, no longer needing to fear, swelled inside him. However, his joy began to fade when he realized his situation. Those around him looked no older than eighteen, except maybe the big buff one. The others, muscular dangerous-looking teenage boys, were looking at him with evil grins.

“Name’s Jericho, I’m head of the Grave Club.” The big one said, forcing out a welcoming hand. “How old are you, and how many zombies have you killed?” he went on as Paul nervously shook his rough hand.

“Twenty-three, and about three hundred. I was a chopper-gunner,” he answered. “What’s the Grave Club?”

“Us,” one of the guys answered.“And many more.”

“This is just a chapter of a growing group,” Jericho explained. “The young will adapt to this new era, and triumph over the old and the dead!” he chanted. He looked Paul over.

“You’re a bit older than I thought, but I guess you can still join. If you can pass initiation.”

“What kind of initiation?” Paul asked, suspicious.

“Oh, not a hard one-you just have to kill a zombie without any weapons.” One of the other boys said. He gave Paul a reassuring smile. “And get this: the master up the hill actually likes us, so we get to keep our weapons and everything. We’re gonna go zombie hunting tonight!” Jericho gave the boy a dark look, a you-better-shut-up look.

“Our…schedule is full at the moment, but we should be ready tomorrow. Can’t have initiation without a zombie, you know.”

Paul nodded nervously, wondering whether the club would be worth it. This was his first opportunity to be part of a group, to many friends. Jericho waited a moment, then said;

“So, are you in?”

· · · — — — · · ·

He saw flailing arms between tents a few rows over, and dashed over to help. A Seeker was tearing open the large belly of an enormous man, yanking out coils of intestine and trying to shove it all in its bloody jaws. Roger clutched the knife in his hand tightly and brought it down on the monster’s bare, bony spine. It let out an eerie screeched and fell into the mushy mass of its meal. Roger knew the man was dead. He heard a low growl behind him and spun on the spot, in time to see a shovel blade severe a bearded zombie’s arm. The wielder, to Roger’s delight, was Mason. He watched his friend tear the digging tool into the thing’s rib cage, and kicked it roughly to the ground. Roger gave him a thumbs-up before running towards Mary’s tent, where another two Seekers were limping.

The sound of shots finally burst from up the hill. Finally! Roger thought in relief as he drove his knife through the ear of a Seeker. He saw Miguel beating at a fat one with the police batons he'd been allowed to keep, and yelled when he noticed one sneak up on the Mexican and take a chunk out of his arm from behind.

Roger watched sadly as Miguel took one last swing before, to his shock, the young man’s head exploded into shards of bone and bits of flesh. He could frightfully up the hill, at the sniper. The guard had murdered and ally.

“No!”he heard multiple people exclaim. Mary clambered out of her tent, looking scared out of her mind.

“What are they doing here? How is this possible?” She asked.

Shots continued for several seconds, Seekers were killed one by one. The stench of death hung in the air through the camp. People were running in all directions, some with make-shift weapons, the rest just wanting to avoid death. Roger couldn’t believe how weak the security was. Standing in the middle of the clearing he had a view of all the carnage; the bodies of Seekers and friends, multiple shredded tents, unrecognizable gore spread on the ground…

He closed his eyes, wanting to block it all out, for the nightmare to end. He thought back to his hike, seeing Tyler’s…guts splattered on that rock…He couldn’t take it anymore. I should have died to.

He heard soft wheezing behind him, and turned to throw his hardest punch—then stopped. It was a child, a little girl probably no older than five. She wore a tattered skirt and a graphic tee, and held a stuffed bear in one hand. He looked around, seeing Mason beating one of the creatures to a second death with his bare hands, saw Carlos swinging a pipe around, noticed Pierall clubbing an armless old hag with a large tree branch; Everyone capable of fighting trying to take down the remaining Seekers, and others chopping up the bodies before they reanimated again.

The child stepped closer, hardly a yard away. Roger knew it was dead; in fact it wasn’t even a child. Whoever this girl once was is gone. This is only a shell, filled with the foulest of evils, seeking only to feed and infect.

Still, he could not bring himself to do it. You’re weak, he thought to himself. You think this camp needs better security, but you can’t defend it yourself.His face twisted in fury, and he swung his knife at the thing’s head. But before he could put the creature out of its misery, a bullet did the job for him.

Day Eleven of Infection:

Roger could hardly sleep the rest of the night. Mary’s tent had been ripped open in the back, and when she half-heartedly asked if she stay whit him for the night he agreed without question. They were both to shocked from the attack to care about their past. Roger hoped that the camp rules could have an exception for a while. Around five in the morning, after waking up every half hour and constantly imagining he heard more Seekers, he got up and went for a stroll, leaving Mary sleeping alone.

He walked around the perimeter of the clearing, making sure there wasn’t another impending attack. Across the highway the pile of Seeker matter still smoked heavily. It had taken longer to clean up after the battle than it had taken to kill the monsters.

I hope that smoke isn’t a beacon for zombie food, he thought.

He heard people chatting within the clearing and decided to join them. Sitting at one table, speaking urgently, were Mary, Pierall, and Rick. The pilot took a swig of Coors and said loudly, “We could build a barrier, put up a fence or something.”

“What we need is our weapons,” Carlos said gruffly.

“I agree with both, but those aren’t possible at the moment. We know the rules, and the consequences as well.”

“He killed Miguel,” Mary muttered sadly, staring at the giant up the hill.

“He was dead anyways,” a new voice pitched in. Roger noticed Mason approaching. Nobody had even noticed Roger was there.

“Hey bud, you look awful. No sleep, huh?” Mason commented.

“Yeah,”Roger replied. He sat down next to Mary, and his friend dropped onto the bench across.

“So will there be like, a revolution or something today?” Mason asked.

“Shh!”they all said at once. Mason laughed. “Okay, sorry. I’m all ears...”

Roger leaned forward to listen, but Mary nudged him, standing up and motioning away from the table. He sighed and followed her back to his tent.

“Look, about last night—” he began, but she threw herself into his arms and kissed him. He was startled, and pulled back in surprise.

"Roger, I...don't really know how else to say it, but...I never stopped loving you." Mary whispered.

He stammered, at a loss for words. Before he could say anything, however, he heard a familiar voice, screaming. He suddenly stood up, along with all the other campers. The source of Paul’s loud yelling was coming, of all places, from the black-and-gray RV with the red words The Grave Club.

Back at the table the others heard the scream as well. “Of all the mistakes your friend could make today, he had to associate with them,” Pierall growled at Rick. Mason reached the Grave Clubs’ vehicle first and twisted the door handle, only to find it was locked. Before any of the other men could reach him, Mason kicked open the door, knocking it clear off its hinges. He took no hesitation, jumping the steps into the cabin, where he, followed by Pierall, Carlos, Rick, and Roger; beheld a gruesome sight:

Paul was against the wall, an oozing bite wound on his shoulder and his arms tied behind, struggling against a Seeker that was missing its arms. “Kill it!” He yelled. Pierall took a knife from his belt; the only weapon in the room, and lunged at the Seeker, driving the blade deep into its skull.

The Seeker hit the floor with a gross thud, its blood flowing from the stab wound in its forehead. Pierall yanked the knife out of the corpse’s head and shook Paul, who was leaning against the wall in shock, staring at the body on the ground.

“It’s alright, it won’t hurt you now.” Pierall told him. However, as if to contradict his statement, the Seeker started to move again, reaching its head towards Paul’s legs. Mason stepped forward and stomped his boot hard into its face, grimacing as they heard a sickening crunch. He then kicked it across the floor, while Carlos searched the RV’s cupboards for something to use as a weapon.

Mason continued to furiously kick the Seeker into the bathroom while Pierall hustled Paul to the exit. Carlos pulled one of the kitchen drawers open and gleefully brought out a pistol.

“I knew they kept their guns! He exclaimed. He joined Mason in the bathroom, planning to shoot the Seeker to pieces, when Pierall shouted “No! Keep it hidden!”

Carlos nodded, and slipped the gun into his pocket. He then proceeded to help Mason kick the life out of the growling, undying creature.

Meanwhile, Roger and Pierall carried Paul outside, laying him softly on a patch of bare dirt. “Get medical supplies!” Roger yelled at the group of campers surrounding them. Paul was struggling for breath, his skin becoming a ghastly white. A pool of blood was already forming around his shoulder. Richie ran right through the crowd, shoving everyone aside and then kneeling next to his dying friend.

“Paul!” he yelled, ripping his own shirt and tying the cloth around Paul’s arm. “What the hell happened to him?” he screamed at Pierall. Mary ran over with a first aid kit. Feeling selfish, Roger took it from her and opened it himself, bringing out a tube of Neosporin.

Shaking his head sadly and pouring through the kit’s contents (Band-Aids, hydrogen peroxide, gauze, a bottle of Benadryl, tweezers, and an ice pack) and said; “none of this will work. Even if we could stop the bleeding, he’s still infected.”

“What?” Richie yelled, his head snapping up (he’d been looking at the wound and mopping up the blood), “You mean he got bit!?” He looked down at his friend, who was gasping for breath, and nearly drained of color. “How could you do this?” he whispered. “Why did you let it bite you?” Richie suddenly stood up, exclaiming “James!” under his breath, and took off toward the other side of camp.

“Hey, what are you doing?”Pierall yelled after him. He then brought is attention back to Paul, and grabbed the hydrogen peroxide from the first-aid kit. “This is going to sting like hell, but it might save you.” He told Paul, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

Unwrapping Richie’s shirt-tourniquet, Pierall opened the bottle and dumped it directly onto the wound. Paul screamed, reaching his other arm to his shoulder, which was already bubbling thick with the white foam from the peroxide. Roger grabbed Paul’s arm, saying “I know it stings, but don’t touch it.” Paul clenched his teeth together. He was surprised at how much it hurt- he hadn’t felt much pain from the bite itself because he’d been in shock.

Pierall gently dabbed away the foam with the torn piece of shirt, then opened the tube of Neosporin while Roger held the ice-pack to the open flesh. Paul winced as the cold plastic came in contact with his torn flesh. The blood was still flowing, but less persistently. Pierall was about to pour the pain-reliever over the bite, but Roger stopped him, saying;

“That won’t help. It’s too big a wound, and too deep.” Just then Richie returned, panting and carrying a metal container covered in biohazard signs.

“Thank god James gave this to us…” he gasped. He unlatched the lid and took out one of the syringes Dr. Patcorn had given them.

“What the hell is that?” Pierall asked.

“A cure, we think,” Roger asked.

“Come on, friend, you’re going to make it now!” Richie yelled, holding the syringe above Paul’s shoulder. He was about to inject it when Paul shook his head weakly.

“No,” he wheezed, “It’s alright…I’m dead anyways.” Richie looked like he’d been punched in the face. A tear dropped down his cheek.

“Don’t do this to me,” he cried,“don’t you dare leave me here alone!” his hand twitched, lowering the syringe closer to Paul’s shoulder.

“Don’t start bawling now;” Paul said between sharp air intakes, “There will be plenty of tear-time later.” He laughed weakly. Richie only cried harder, remembering that he’d said those exact same words to Paul yesterday morning. Paul closed his eyes, taking a deep, raspy breath. Richie sniffled, and felt his friend’s arm for a pulse. After a few moments he found one, barely able to feel it. Then he waited, not at all anticipating the moment that was sure to come; when the pulse would be lost and Paul would die and be gone forever.

Yet that moment never came. Most of the group who had been watching had left after twenty minutes or so, and after forty the only people left by Paul were Richie (still sobbing lightly); Roger, Rick, Rudolph, and Mason; who had joined them after finishing his“zombie business” as he said. Paul was still silent and unmoving, except for the occasional twitch and grimace that told everyone he was still alive. Richie continued to check his pulse every few minutes.

“I swear it’s getting stronger!”he said with a smile at one point.

“I think he’ll make it,” Roger whispered in a comforting tone, trying to calm Richie, who replied:

“But he’s only got a day at most; he’s still infected!”

Roger thought carefully for a minute, and then said, “It’s his choice.” Richie nodded, but still held the Modified-HIV syringe tightly in his good hand.

Mary came over, accompanied by an elderly woman, whom Roger assumed was Ms. Irene. She was frail and tired in appearance, but she had a look of concern and knowing that gave her a wise aura.

“Is he feeling better?” the old woman asked kindly. Mary’s face was grave. As if to answer Ms. Irene’s question, suddenly, Paul gave a long, loud snore.

“I guess that answers that question!” Richie exclaimed, giving a whoop of delight. He was grateful and relieved that his friend’s condition was improving. “Now we’re even,” he whispered. At the same time, Pierall struck up a new and more concerning conversation:

“I always knew those boys were trouble,” he growled.

“They had a pet Seeker,” Mason muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “They must’ve captured it last night. We beat it to pieces, but what do we do with the remains?”

Roger stood up, an expression of fury on his face. “We light ‘im up.”

Mason pulled a lighter out of his pocket, and evil grin spreading over his weary face.

“Where did it come from?” Richie asked.

“There was a wooden crate half-under the bed,” Mason told him as he got to his feet, “So they probably kept it locked up in it the whole goddamn time.” He trotted back towards the Grave Club RV, flicking the lighter on and off.

“Where did those boys go? They’ve been gone for nearly an hour, though I’d daresay they don’t want to return now.” Roger said, turning his attention back to Paul.

“I think I saw them going up to the ranch earlier,” Ms. Irene replied. “You should get that poor boy inside,”She continued, “There’s room for a spare mattress in my-“ Out of nowhere they heard a rapid-fire gun go off, and Roger saw four holes appear in Ms. Irene’s abdomen. There was a loud commotion near the camp entrance, followed by many screams and campers running everywhere. Pierall rushed to help Mary lower the flailing body of Ms. Irene, which had four fountains of dark blood spurting from it.

Mason dashed out of the club RV and sprinted, soon followed by Roger, to the source of all the chaos.

The teenagers; Jericho and Thomas and four others, were boarding a large red truck, packs on their backs and guns in hand. Before Mason could get within yards of them the truck roared to life; kicked up a blinding cloud of dirt and gravel, and sped off up the road. All anyone could do was watch the vehicle race down the highway, and listen to their celebratory cheers.

“They’re going towards the city?”Richie asked as he caught up to Mason, who kicked the ground in fury.

“Those idiots will be back,” He growled, “and when they return, I’ll kill them all!” He then ran through the throng of frightened onlookers, and ducked into his tent, bringing out the backpack Dr. Patcorn had given him.

He brought it over to Roger, Rudolph, and Rick, who were carrying Paul towards Ms. Irene’s yellow RV.“Remember how when we learned the stupid ‘rules’ I said I would take our guns up to him?” he said in a maniacal joy. Roger nodded, already knowing what Mason was saying.

“Well, I’m damn glad I am such a liar. I snuck away all those pistols Patty gave us, and now you are going to help me use them. We need real weapons, and boss-man will kill us before he sees us lay a finger on them.” He opened his pack, handing a pistol each to Roger, Rudolph, and Rick.

“Why didn’t you tell us last night?!” Pierall exclaimed. We could have saved a few people, there would’ve been less damage—do you know how damn hard those things are to kill?”

Mason hung his head. “Look, I admit I totally forgot about the guns at the time. But at least your ‘ruler’still doesn’t know we have these,” he defended.

Pierall nodded solemnly and took the last one, saying: “I’ve wanted big guy-“he nodded towards the tent up the hill, where, to his sudden surprise, he noticed the guard was missing;”-dead for so long. You go up there and distract him, and I’ll get him from behind. Don’t worry; I’m a pretty good shot.”

Quickly, before the guard returned and saw what was happening, Pierall called all the campers into a huddle.

“We’re taking down the big guy tonight,” he explained. This caused a bunch of cheers that were hurriedly silenced.

“I want all the women and children to get inside or somewhere safe,” he went on, bring a bunch of groans and murmured complaints.

“Now, act normal, and start heading into shelter a person at a time. The RVs are your best bet, but if we run out of room take cover in the tents. Snipey won’t have such an easy time seeing you there.” His joke brought a few giggles from the children but all the adults understood this was not a happy moment. They nodded in agreement to the plan then spread out, returning to their normal activities. Twenty minutes went by, with nothing happening to cause suspicion.

“Who’ll be leader after this one’s gone?” Roger casually asked Mary. She shrugged.

“Likely Peirall, since a lot of us look up to him.”

“People look up to you,” Roger reminded her.

“Yeah, and I would suck as leader. You on the other hand, mister captain-of-the-baseball-team and…” Their conversation continued as the headed towards Pierall’s RV. Meanwhile Mason started up the hill, while Pierall snuck through the trees and overgrown brush. Once he reached the tent: a green and white over-sized ten-person camp dwelling; he took in a panoramic view of the landscape. Below was the camp, which seemed small even from just a football field’s distance away. He could see the flat grassland spreading east before him, the city up north, and the hills to the south. It’s a nice view you’ve got up here, boss-man, he thought. He spotted Pierall crawling in the grass about twenty feet away, almost level with him. He then took a breath, turned around, and found himself face-to-face with the giant.

“Jesus, you scare the hell out of me!” he cried out. The juggernaut just smiled. “I have a frightening appearance, don’t I?” he said with a laugh. He pulled out a cigar and lit it, and after a puff grabbed his sniper rifle off his back-holster, then replied,“I know what you want, and you can’t have them. If those boys return I personally will have a chat with them.” He took a look through his scope, then added; “The red head will have to die, by the way. Zero tolerance for infe-“

Mason never let the man finish his sentence: While the giant was peering down his scope Mason seized the moment and brought his fist up to the man’s face; the only part of the guy’s body that was not concealed in armor, and hit him square in the jaw. He flinched but swung his rifle at Mason, who dropped backwards onto the ground, delivering a hard kick to the juggernaut’s groin. Once again, the giant barely seemed to feel it. He raised his rifle high in the air, ready to pound Mason into the ground with it, when Mason heard a clang! : A bullet bounced of his thick armor. Mason only had a second to see Rick climbing the hill, firing his pistol. He rolled away before the guard could react further, and just in time it seemed, because all four men down the hill who had pistols (Carlos included) let loose a barrage of bullets; most so poorly aimed they tore into the tent or hit the dirt. The guard, somewhat calmly, raised his rifle’s scope to his eyes.

“Duck!” Mason yelled as loud as he could, climbing to his feet and launching himself, not at the guard, but at the rifle itself. He was too late. “Bang!” the sniper muttered while simultaneously pulling the trigger, the gun emitting a similar but far louder sound.

Mason slammed into the rifle at approximately the same moment as the .50 caliber round sliced through Rick Dawson’s stomach.

He heard the man yell “Score!” in a voice of dark humor.

Somehow, Mason’s weight and momentum was not enough to knock the rifle out of the giant’s hand’s, and he hit the ground again, hard. In the next few seconds he saw many things happen, fantastic and horrible at the same time: Rick collapsed as the others downhill swiftly ducked into the grass, the guard brought his foot down on his stomach, and Pierall stepped out from behind the tent, aimed carefully at the juggernaut’s unprotected head, and fired, point-blank, three times in a row.

The first bullet went straight through one cheek and out the other, taking several teeth with it. The second slashed clean across his nose, leaving a semicircle open just below the bridge. The guard stumbled, almost falling on Mason; spitting blood. Mason rolled further down the slope to escape the falling mass of the incapacitated man. Before the guard even hit the ground, the last shot flew into his skull at the temple, snapping his head sideways with a sickening crack.

Then everything went silent. The men below clambered up the slope as the juggernaut hit the ground, dead at last.

Mason stood up, wiping dirt off his hands, and then grabbed the knife Pierall had left in the RV Seeker’s head from his pocket and cautiously approached the zipped tent flap. After a minute of waiting for the others to catch up, and listening carefully for any sign of danger within the tent, Mason raised his knife and slashed. He whacked the flap to shreds, then stared, dumbfounded, at the interior: stacks and piles of clothes, food, weapons and ammo, all cluttered up around the edge with another tent in the middle. They entered and heard a quiet laugh, followed by an eerie voice:

“I’ve heard my old boss finally kicked it. Patcorn was an intelligent man, but he made one fatal mistake: ME.”

. -. -..

Episode 108 I Say You Say

They came to a halt for the second time on the trail that day. Before them this time was the rest of the avalanche debris, a high mound of dirt and rocks; and a large dead tree. Tyler dashed across the debris and leapt into the air, clearing the old trunk by several inches, even though it was a yard high. Roger shook his head in annoyed jealousy: his younger brother was far more agile than him and loved to show it off.

“Wait for me,” he said, “I have to climb over.” He hoisted his backpack over the tree trunk and started to clamber over, barely noticing when the log began to slip, the surrounding debris gently rolling off the trail edge and down the mountainside to the forest below. Roger was on top the log when it suddenly jerked downward, causing him to cry out and momentarily loose his balance. Tyler noticed and came back down the trail. He could feel the tree trunk slipping now, and hurriedly dropped off the other side. His feet did not hit solid ground, however. Instead they got sucked into a current of loose dirt that was moving towards the trail’s edge. Tyler reached him and pulled him back, but at that moment the battle between gravity and inertia around the log was decided, and the old tree jerked forward, its few remaining braches sweeping Roger and Tyler in its path.

And so it was that; on the very first day of the infection, Roger and Tyler Torrens fell, rolled, and slid down a four-hundred foot section of bare mountain, towards the end of their lives: or so Roger had thought. His flailing body came to a halt just feet away from a looming pine, but his brother, still caught in the wave of sediment, was smashed between the tree and a protrusion of limestone. Though barely conscious, Roger had to witness the life of his brother get squashed out forever.

· · · — — — · · ·

They all stood in a sort of trance, listening to the echoing, eerie voice that emanated from the tent they had surrounded. It sounded like multiple voices speaking the same words simultaneously.

“I have listened to your stories, your ideas, and I know you have much to ask. It was, indeed, the three reported‘failures’ that began this whole catastrophe. I say this because I happen to be one of them.”

Mason gave Roger a fearful look, and the others continued to look at the little tent, conveniently placed in the middle of a stockpile of all sorts of supplies inside another, larger tent, with worried eyes.

“I went home after testing that day, with just a headache. When I returned to my boss the next day, I had something more. He considered me a failure and scheduled a chemo therapy session. I believe he also had plans to terminate me.”

Roger, bound by the powerful, purposeful voice, continued to listen, unable to will his body to move.

After a brief pause, he continued to speak: “both in revenge and in scientific pursuit, I sought to make myself stronger; more powerful. The Stem virus changed me, but the Limit virus, it did so much more. Patcorn might have defeated injury, but I have defeated death itself.”

“You created them,” Mason hissed through gritted teeth, but still seemed unable to move. A dry laugh filled the air.

“Yes…my early…subjects did not so readily receive my virus. Either I am just a special case or the effects only work properly when the Stem and Limit viruses are joined. Apparently I did not dispose of the bodies correctly.”

“Patcorn thought it had mutated!”Roger blurted out.

“You son of a bitch, you killed my family!” Mason roared.

“You brought about over five million deaths, the nuking of Denver; all these horrors and nightmares-“Pierall growled.

“Yes, indeed I did. But I believe it’s the next step in a great cycle: evolution.”

Mason started giggling deeply, and suddenly asked; “Tell me, oh great one, have you eaten recently, by chance?”

The voice wavered for a moment, then said, “I do not see how your question is relevant to the situa-“his voice broke off when Mason shouted; “Because I’d like to watch you burn!”

Suddenly the trance broke, and everyone regained the ability to move. Mason grabbed two beer bottles from a cluster of six-packs and smashed them together over the little tent, then brought out his lighter. Roger looked at Mason and then at the stacked boxes of ammunition, and shouted, “NO!” but it was already too late:

The tent burst into bright, blue flames. Almost immediately the fabric started to collapse, and the surrounding air quickly heated, forcing everyone to stand back. Realizing his huge mistake Mason began shoving the ammunition boxes towards the exit.

Suddenly a loud clap like thunder burst from the flaming tent, a shockwave ripping through the air and knocking everyone to the floor. The fire went out with a last failing flicker, and smoke that filled the little space started to clear, revealing:

“Oh my god…” Roger breathed. Standing in the middle of the swirling gray smoke stood the source of the voice, but to call it a man would be an understatement. Most of his body looked pretty normal; maybe a bit starved, and where skin was visible Roger could see that his veins were green. His long hair was a deep green as well, and at first concealed the most prominent feature of the guy: his skull was swollen at the back, extending several inches further back and higher than a normal human’s. His eyes also were creepy: horizontal snake pupils, and a light green glow inside. He wore a simple lab coat, torn and tattered; and denim jeans. There was nothing special about his dress, but his head already caught enough attention. Roger noticed a name tag still clipped to the coat that read: Otis C. Graham, Ph.D.

Otis stood over them, with a humorous complexion of silent laughter.

“I had no intention of killing any of you; I no longer have a purpose here. But now it seems worth it to destroy you, rid this planet of aggressive idiots like you.” He gave a dark look on Mason, who shuddered but yelled, “you and what army?” childishly. Otis smiled confidently and replied, “I should ask you the same.”

Before their eyes could register what was happening, Otis was over Mason, yanking him off the ground and tossing him like a doll into the ammo pile. Pierall stumbled to his feet at the other end of the tent and raised his pistol. Before he could even blink, Otis was standing next to him. Pierall turned to shoot, but the pistol was knocked out of his hands. Carlos picked a rifle from the stack of taken weapons and fired a round as Otis pushed Pierall aside and approached him. The bullet dug right into his stomach, but Otis barely grimaced and continued to strut towards Carlos, who was reloading the rifle feverishly.

Mason crawled across the tent floor, moaning from the pain in his back. Otis grabbed the barrel of Carlos’s rifle and bent it with ease so that the barrel twisted back to Carlos, who yanked the gun back and tried to swing it. Otis moved away however, because Roger and Pierall were firing their Browning handguns. Otis did a back flip through the air, avoiding the .22 rounds that flew past him. As soon as his feet touched floor he did a limbo move as Pierall let loose a second clip. Roger, however, had dropped his Browning in favor of M16 that he grabbed from the pile of weapons. Otis saw the muzzle flash rapidly and did a move that looked something like ‘the worm’ vertically, and watched the 5.56mm bullets fly by, some missing his face by inches.

Then in a blur he side stepped in a zigzag pattern to Roger, faster than the carbine could fire. He grabbed Roger by the shoulder and flung him over his head onto Mason, who was inches away and brandishing the combat knife. Mason grunted and rolled the unconscious Roger off his back and drove the blade deep into Otis’s shin. He then received a sharp kick in the jaw. Shaking, he stared up and saw Otis’s eyes were glowing bright green. The monster of a man smiled evilly, pulling the knife out of his leg and, with extreme precision, threw it at Richie, who had just entered the tent. The blade struck the cast on his right arm, and he collapsed, screaming and holding his twice-wounded appendage.

Pierall stumbled to his feet and raised a fist to attack Otis from behind, but suddenly found himself on the ground again with an extreme pain in his stomach-Otis had turned around in a blur and delivered a round-house kick; and watched hopelessly as Carlos charged with Mason’s axe, and swung it with all his strength, only to find that Otis had already ducked.

Rudolph entered finally at that moment and, having very little time to register the scene before him: Pierall laying on a pile of food, burnt fabric on the ground, Richie trying to pull a knife out of his arm, Mason and Roger unconscious at the feet of…something inhuman. In all the chaos Rudolph saw an M16 carbine lying next to Roger’s body. He made a lunge but was knocked aside by the flailing body of Carlos.

“I believe you’re ignoring an important detail about the Limit virus,” Otis replied, speaking to all of them,“I cannot die.”

Suddenly he winced, and then spat a glob of green liquid. He then grinned when he saw the machete blade poking out of his chest. Rudolph watched in awe as Otis reached behind him and lifted Pierall off the ground, swinging him onto the floor before him. Pierall looked directly into the glowing eyes.

“Go to hell,” he hissed. Otis laughed. “They already kicked me out. “

He reached behind him again and yanked the sword out of his chest, bringing it around to kill Pierall, who was defenseless.

“No!” Rudolph exclaimed, lunging again for the M16. Otis merely kicked it away. Keeping the-Could you call him a mutant? Rudolph thought-keeping Otis’s attention became his top priority. He tripped over Mason but managed to swing his fist at the mutant, both keeping his balance and hitting Otis where it hurts most. This move bought enough time for Pierall to grab a pistol off the ground near him, and also for Carlos to jump on Otis’s back, putting the large-brained freak in a choke-hold. Even with his strong muscles Carlos only maintained the hold for five seconds before getting his arms pried apart and two elbows to the ribs. Rudolph though he could hear a bone or two cracking. Pierall had just enough time to put his pistol to Otis’s temple.

“Go ahead, fire,” Otis said, almost in a bored tone. Even though he knew it wouldn’t do anything, Pierall pulled the trigger. The recoil forced him to take a step back, and he sadly watched as the hole the bullet had created sealed itself up, clean and scar-less.

Otis cracked his neck and kicked Pierall, sending him flying out of the tent and a short ways down the hill. Rudolph at last picked up the machine gun, but could only fire two bullets before the carbine was knocked aside. Otis did not notice Roger regaining consciousness, or Mason’s fingers twist. He grabbed Rudolph forcefully by the throat, lifting him several feet off the ground. Rudolph, choking, attempted to kick the (man?), but Otis showed no sign of pain. Instead he gave Rudolph a look of deep disappointment, saying, more to himself; “People never learn, do they?” He then slammed Rudolph into the ground.

Otis took a moment to view his surroundings; the bodies of all his attackers lying around him, unable to fight anymore. He was not happy, felt no pride in his victory over the weak, but neither did he feel any regret for his actions. Richie, tears running from his eyes and blood dripping from his reopened wound, gave him a look of extreme fear. Otis gave no expression and felt no emotion as he knelt and picked up Pierall’s dropped pistol, and fired point-blank at the young soldier’s head. Richie’s lifeless body slumped against the tent wall.

Otis looked out over the camp, over the fields, at the city in the distance, and took a deep breath. Then, hearing movement and groaning from in the tent, he went back in. Roger was starting to crawl towards him.

“What are you?” Roger stuttered, spitting blood. Otis smiled wryly, and knelt beside him. “I ought to kill you all, yet it seems fate has another way of death planned for you,” he whispered. He put two fingers on Roger’s neck, and for a moment nothing happened. Suddenly Roger screamed-a burning sensation was spreading from his neck. Mason, lying many feet away, looked up and saw Otis approaching, and Roger collapse behind him, his eye-glowing green.

“Sleep now, you’ll need to be well-rested for the nightmare that is coming,” Otis whispered. Next thing Mason saw was Otis’s foot coming down on his face.

“Roger! Pierall! Oh my god, what happened?” cried a woman’s voice out of the deep fog. Mason tried to sit up but every fiber in his being screamed in protest.

“Let me sleep,” he grumbled. Blinking in the darkness (darkness!) he saw a blurred person lifting a big object. A few more blinks, and he could make out the object as a body, and after a moment of slow focusing he could see the body was Roger’s. The woman helping him to his feet was Mary.

Mason groaned as he got to his knees, wiped the dry blood off his hands, and then almost lost his balance. His vision swam and he felt nauseous, until the head rush wore off seconds later. Pierall entered the tent, rubbing his back. Again he almost barfed when he saw Richie’s face.

Mary and Pierall woke up Carlos, who was snoring loudly.

“Wha- where’d e go?” Carlos sputtered. He glanced at the flotsam and jetsam around him: two bodies, scattered food, guns, ammo and other supplies; Mary, and three Seekers.

“Holy sh-look out!” he shouted, swinging at Mason dumbly.

“Watch it!” Mason exclaimed, jumping back.

“Damn, I thought you dead,”Carlos said, confused.

Mason helped Carlos to his feet.“Mary, what the hell hit us?”

“You were the one up here, you tell me,” Mary answered. They all picked up some of the supplies and left the tent.

“What about Rudolph?” Roger asked. Mary hung her head. “Rudolph’s dead,” she answered mournfully.

As they tripped and stumbled and clambered down the hillside, Mary spilled a huge bucket of questions on them:

“Who was he?”

“Dr. Otis Graham, former assistant of James Patcorn. He was the real starter of the virus. Called it Limit or something. It’s a whole other thing, separate from the Stem virus we’ve been blaming,” Roger explained.

“How did he beat you-five grown men-so easily?” Mary inquired.

“He’s untouchable,” Pierall told her; “I shot him point-blank in the face and it just healed right up. And his eyes…they like, glowed and then he would do these crazy moves…”

“So fast…” Mason grunted, “One moment he’s yards away, then in a blink he punches you.” The three of them described the battle while they continued down to the camp.

“So much loss,” Mary muttered as they reached the tent cluster. “Rudolph, Ms. Irene, Rick, Richard- what will Paul think when he wakes up?”

Mason frowned. “That kid’s still living?” he wondered.

“Yeah,” Mary answered, “He’s sleeping in Irene’s RV.”

The camp was silent and empty still, but once they had set down the supplies they were carrying and sat at one of the tables, a commotion began as forty worried campers came out of the tents and recreational vehicles. Fifteen minutes of wild and random chatter ensued, mostly concerning the battle on the hill.

One woman, a friendly blonde in her mid-twenties, told Roger what she had witnessed from her RV window:

“I saw blue light coming from the interior, the suddenly it went out and the whole tent bulged for a moment, as if something exploded inside-“

“Mason set the place on fire and Otis sort of…clapped and it went out.” Roger interrupted.

“Okay...” The young woman continued, “Then a couple seconds later the gunshots began. We heard lots of yelling and shooting, then everything went quiet. We saw the …man…come out of the tent, and he just gazed around for almost five minutes before going back in. When he came back out he seemed in a hurry, for he...” she paused, trying to find the correct word to describe Otis’s action.

“He did what?” Pierall asked, joining the conversation.

“He…ran away…” the woman answered, “but it was more like sprint; no wait, that’s too slow. It was like-he took a step then became a blurred figure that just sped away.”

“Will he return?” someone in the crowd asked.

“It’s been over two hours,”another voice replied. Somewhere in the throng the familiar unhappy tone of Mason yelling reached Roger’s ears: “You damn kept us up there, knocked out and alone and injured? You didn’t even bother to poke your stupid little faces out the door to see if we were still alive? You selfish sons of-“his cursing was lost somewhere in the giant group of frantic survivors, all of whom needed answers: who (or what) was Otis Graham, and was he going to return to murder each and every one of them?

“It hasn’t been two hours,” Mary assured Roger.

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“Maybe fifty minutes,” she told him, “We wanted to be sure it was safe to come out, and know that he wasn’t hiding in wait, ready to slaughter everyone. The other women-“she blushed,“-forced me to go up there. They said I was the bravest person here.”

Roger raised an eyebrow humorously. She smirked. “As in the camp at that moment. Last time I heard you and the others were lying unconscious up there...” her voice trailed off, as if she regretted that last sentence.

“I’m grateful you’re here, by the way. I take back everything I said-well, yelled I guess-earlier back.”

Roger looked at her: starved and weary, dirty from not having bathed for a couple days, but still there was an inkling of the old Mary, the good part he had wed, and in that moment ten years of his life vanished.

Mason was the first to notice; he grinned when he saw his new friend in the arms of that woman, who he’d heard was Roger’s ex-wife. Without even thinking he blew a loud cat-call. He nudged Pierall in the elbow, but the old man glared at him. “Don’t be rude,” he said. Mason just frowned, and then remembered something he’d asked Roger the night they’d met:

“You don’t have a family, do you? It’d be awful if you did, because- and I’m only pointing out the truth- they are probably dead.” He had asked.

“No, I’m divorced,” Roger had replied.

“Glad to hear it. You know, because now I don’t have to worry about emotional problems from you or anything.”

An hour went by, then two, and plenty of work occurred during this time. The men gathered all the supplies from Otis’s tent: 33 guns, close to a hundred rounds of ammunition for each; four days’ worth of food for the entire camp, and nine frag grenades. The women (at least, those who could stomach it- meaning only Mary and the blonde woman Roger had spoken with earlier) cleaned the bodies and took them down the hill to the small makeshift graveyard by the ranch. Pierall and Mason buried the bodies of Richard Daley, Rick Dawson, and Rudolph.

“Never even learned the guy’s last name,” Mason muttered as he shoveled the last few scoops of dirt over Rudolph’s grave. The sky was darkening; the sun already set minutes before. The last colorful rays spread over the cloudy sky, creating a false feeling of peace and beauty across the open land.

“Not much you can learn about a person in six hours,” Pierall said, finishing Richie’s grave.

Mason, now finished, rested his aching chin on his shovel’s end. “What about the kid? Richie was his best pal, I think. Paul begged Pot horn to save him.”

“You almost killed us all up there,” Pierall reminded him, speaking in a sincere, almost threatening voice.“You heard what he said. Otis had no intention of hurting us. It wasn’t worth it to him.”

“Practically called us weak…’Mason diverted.

“That’s not my point. Don’t you remember trying to blow up the place?”

“Not really, no.’ Mason retorted.

“An aggressive arrogant bastard, that’s what you are.” Pierall growled, standing straight so he loomed over Mason.

“Whoa, are you threatening me?”Mason exclaimed, raising his shovel.

“Don’t start brawling!” A woman yelled from the cluster of trees. She stepped out of the shade and strutted briskly towards them. She was a short, blonde, youthful girl, no longer a teenager but not quite a grown woman in Mason’s perspective.

“Dinner’s almost ready. Hot dogs or burgers, and how many?”

“Two burgers, well done,” Pierall answered, stepping away from Mason but not taking his eyes off him.

“Five dogs, I’m freakin’starving. I could eat a dog,” Mason told her grinning. Pierall followed her back through the trees, and Mason could have sworn he heard the old man mutter;“You ARE one.”

Nobody ate dinner that night. The reason: a large red truck roared down the road just as the meal was about to begin, and the vehicle’s rebellious passengers dropped a fleshy object onto the bare asphalt just outside the camp.

“Grave clubbers!” Pierall roared, heading for the highway. He and Roger reached the road first; and by then they could only see the red taillights disappearing in the darkness.

He looked at the thrown-out object lying in the road. By size and shape it looked like a Seeker, but the ugly thing was curling up into a fetal position, breathing deeply. The horrid wheezing carried through the air, its’ shoulders visibly rising and falling between inhales and exhales.

“Go tell your wicked friend to fetch his axe,” Pierall ordered. Roger sprinted into camp, catching the attention of forty or so fearful campers. He scanned the crowd and saw Mason sitting at the end of the farthest table.

“Mason!” Roger shouted. Mason looked tiredly, “Come on, we need you. Bring your axe.”

Mason rolled his eyes and lazily got up. “Hurry!” Roger told him impatiently. Carlos stood and pushed Mason towards Roger, and nearly got a fist in the ribs.

“Listen to yer friend, get going,” Carlos rumbled. The three of them walked out of the camp and rejoined Pierall by the highway.

“So strange,” Pierall said, “it’s just sitting there…” Carlos scrutinized it, searching for any sign of incapacitation.

“Oh hell, just die already,”Mason muttered as he stalked over to the creature. He lifted his axe for the decapitation but paused, hearing the thing suddenly growl.

“Shut up,” he told it. The Seeker raised its head a little, and Mason heard words leave its mouth: “awwaay...g...oh...away...”

Mason stepped back involuntarily, shocked at the vocalization.

Carlos stared at it, a hint of recognition on his swollen face. “Mace, get back! It’s a screamer!”

“Then I hope it screams nice and loud!” Mason roared furiously, swinging the axe down towards the creature’s neck.

“GO AWAY!!” the screamer shrieked, suddenly standing and grabbing the axe’s handle, trying to force it out of Mason’s hands.

“Shit!” Carlos cursed, charging at the screamer, which let out a long, high-pitched note, forcing Carlos to cover his ears. It tugged against Mason, and he let it go. The blade sliced right through the screamer’s jaw. A detail he had not noticed before but, unknown to him but recognized by Carlos, defined a screamer and made it unique: the cheeks were missing entirely, replaced by a pink stretchy muscle cord on each side. Carlos would later explain that screamers were infected host that specifically had their mouth area eaten or otherwise badly damaged before turning.

The screamer fell back on the asphalt. Mason tore his axe out of zombie’s esophagus and proceeded to chop the viral body to bits, the metal blade clanging loudly whenever it hit the bare road. Once he’d chopped to his heart’s desire he kicked the remains across the highway into the grassy fields.

During that time Pierall had retrieved his binoculars, and was now watching the point where the southbound highway curved around a short foothill. If the Grave clubbers drove back up the road, he would know. After Mason’s minutes of butchering he glanced up the road, at the city. He could hardly believe it had changed so much in only nine days. He turned to speak with Carlos, and then spotted something out of the corner of his eye: there was a larger moving mass moving towards them, only a few hundred yards away. Although the sun had fallen and the sky was almost a navy blue, he could see what it was.

“Guys,” he stammered, pointing a finger north towards the movement up the road. “We’ve got a horde incoming.”

Mason ran up to Pierall and glanced where Pierall was pointing. He took one glance and cursed, then sprinted back into camp, followed by the hobbling Carlos.

“Get the guns!” He shouted, himself heading for the tent where the firearms were stored.

There was a lot of chaos: screaming and rushing into the RVs, Carlos shouting instructions to everyone who could fight while the children were herded indoors. The youthful blonde woman refused insisting that they let her fight. “I can handle myself!” she told Mary, who was unsuccessful in persuading her not to fight. “I’ve got my weapon. I’m not a child, so stop treating me like one.” Mary, who was holding her arm, let go.

“I’m sorry, Gloria.” She apologized, and then added, “Just be careful.” Gloria grinned in excitement and ran through the throng to her blue Honda civic. She threw open the trunk and grabbed her weapon.

Shots ripped through the still night air like Independence Day fireworks. Seven survivors stood spread out over the highway, shooting at the closest Seekers. They were now within easy firing range, and for the moment dropping like flies. Mason had the M16, Roger had a shotgun, firing slug rounds he’d found in the ammo stash. Carlos wielded Mason’s axe, Pierall had the sniper rifle Otis’s guard had used, a cowboy-looking man had a large revolver, and Gloria-

“What the hell is that?” Mason thundered, staring blankly at the object in her hands.

“Weed whacker,” she shouted back. It took him a moment to recognize it, for she had removed the shield and extended the wire a foot out.

There had must have been over a hundred Seekers, because wave after wave got closer to the human barricade. Somewhere in the camp someone was playing ACDC’s highway to hell loudly. Bullets sprayed against the oncoming army of undead. Shout of joy sprang every few moments. One of the men (it might have been Carlos) tossed a grenade, which illuminated the mass of moving corpses for a moment. The Seekers growled, and began to charge.

“Keep your ground!” Mason ordered. Then he bull rushed the Seekers, hitting one in the face with his carbine, tripping another, and spraying rounds into the rest. Now only fifty were left standing.

“Charge!” he yelled, half-jokingly.

The others cried out and ran at the remaining Seekers, shooting gun and swinging axe (and tearing weed-whacker). Within two minutes they had brought down all but five.

“I’ve got this one!” Gloria announced, shoving the whacker, which she called ‘flesh-ripper’ into the zombie’s face. The wire tore through the skin and splashed blood everywhere. The last Seekers collapsed after taking slug shots to the brain.

They cheered, grateful to all be alive.

“What do we do now?” Roger wondered aloud. He looked at the mess around him: two hundred destroyed bodies that were beginning to squirm again already. Carlos beat his axe into the head of one that was already standing up.

“Fire,” Mason answered. He strolled, deliberately, back towards the gravel lot where all the cars were parked. He returned several minutes later with two five gallon tanks of gas, one of which he handed to Roger. Gloria was busy ‘flesh-ripping’ some of the Seekers that were regaining their strength.

“They’re like cockroaches,” Mason told them, spilling fuel over the awful corpses. “You can step on them, stab em’ tear them limb-from-limb, but they stay alive. But even the toughest-“he kicked a nearby Seeker in the stomach, “-can’t survive being charred to ashes.”

Once both gas cans were emptied thoroughly over the area of massacre Mason pulled a fistful of dry grass from the road side and used his lighter. The others stood back, watching him drop the burning brush onto the oil-dampened highway. In awe they saw the fire leap up and race across the asphalt, lighting up every Seeker in its reach. They could hear crackling and groaning, and even some screaming from within the inferno.

Mary came out and joined them; standing at Roger’s side and gazing into the hot flames. She did not turn away when one came out of the fire, collapsing at Mason’s feet. Nor did she show any remorse for the Seekers-although it was now obvious that they could feel pain, they were NOT human. Not anymore. Roger was thinking this too, remembering what Otis had said about them: they were just the next step in evolution. Now they’re on the endangered species list, he thought.

He looked at Mary, who was still peering wonderingly into the dying fire. She looked back at him, for a moment, then suddenly they kissed, thankful for being together again, and alive, and for the moment, safe.

“We’ll have to leave soon,” he told her after they broke apart. “More will come, eventually. I’m sure of it.”They embraced, and looked on at the burning corpses, most of which had fallen and were unmoving.

“Death is limited by life itself,” Pierall muttered to himself, turning away from the burning road and heading for his RV, where he could be at peace, at least for a while.

. -. -..