Dead Tide: Rising

By Stephen A. North

Published by Library of the Living Dead

Also by Stephen North

Beneath the Mask
Dead Tide
Barren Earth (with Eric S. Brown)

A Library of the Living Dead Book

Published by arrangement with the author.

Dead Tide: Rising

By Stephen A. North

Copyright 2010. All Rights reserved

ISBN10 - 1453731423

ISBN13 - 9781453731420

Cover art by Dan Galli

Interior formatting by Kody Boye (with special thanks to Travis Adkins)

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of both the copyright owner and "Library of the Living Dead Press," except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situation are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

This one is for my dear friend, Dr. Michael West. (also known as Dr. Pus)

Many people have helped me along with my writing career. Here, I'd like to thank a few of them by name: My wife Lisa, and daughter Lindsey; Tom and CeCe Boyles; Sheri Gambino; Nancy Alloy; Ray Hinst; Patrick D'Orazio; Cece Sawyer; David Wawrzynski; Bob and Judy Wawrzynski; David and Diane Lynch; Tim Long; Rhiannon Frater; Robert and Laura Best; David Dunwoody; Robert Adams; Pam Briar; Mac Wells; Zombie Zak; Zombie Farmer; The Funky Werepig Podcast; Lee "Goatboy" Hartnup; Martha Cantor; Sue Edgerly; Aaron Alper; Dan Galli; Kody Boye; Steve Stodden; Colleen Wanglund; Scott Johnson; Erik Smith; Bob Hutson; Scott C. Clough; Dale Spalding; Raven Corwin; Siobahnn Allen; Susanna Parish; the associates and shoppers of Store 1536; Mike and Jennifer Rebane; Leon and Arlene Faust; and last but certainly not least, my parents David and Joyce, and my in-laws Judy and Ron.

Prologue

How old is he? Two? Three maybe?

At least two front teeth are missing, as the child looks up at him with his chin masked in a bloody froth. The shopping cart is on its side and groceries are everywhere.

Where are the parents?

"You fucking monster! Get away from my child!"

The man's voice has a drunken slur, and there is no doubting the tone or unspoken context of the message. It comes from his blind side: the right. Fear, loathing, ignorance are all there and maybe rightly so.

Johnny, whether he wants to or not, looks the part.

For a moment, he closes his eye. The wave of self-hate and pity that follows is almost unbearable, even after countless repetition.

Something jabs him, and he blinks.

The drunken father is in front of him now, poking a finger into his chest, still ranting, but now his pale face is flushed. Probably about to stroke out. A toothpick dangles from his lips.

"Get away from my boy."

Johnny wants to answer, but it would only make things worse. So instead, he stands there, hands at his sides, wearing his bright yellow safety vest and name badge that says: "Hi, I'm Johnny. How can I help you?"

Have to shut down. Can't take much more from this guy. Not my fault the boy fell out of the shopping cart seat.

The father must have been an aisle or two over, when the son decided he wanted out of the shopping cart. The kid fell long before Johnny could even think to catch him.

Now, here he stands trying to endure the tirade, wondering why the father finds it more important to chew him out over nothing, than attending to his child.

Shift the guilt. Blame me.

"Why don't you speak?" The man squints up at him. In addition to his flushed cheeks, Johnny notices the top of the man's face and neck are a flushed. He also has some sort of faded tattoo visible beneath the thinning hair on his head. Johnny gives the man his best smile, but knows it appears lopsided, and maybe insincere. Maybe dopey.

"You some sort of retard, or something?" the man asks.

Johnny shrugs, and holds onto the smile. Focuses on the toothpick.

"Gonna have your job, dumbass, just keep smiling at me like that!"

Johnny is aware that people are gathering. A young brunette woman, wearing blue jeans and a black t-shirt, approaches the still squalling kid, and cradles him. "Aren't you going to do something for your son?" the woman wants to know. She has her hair in a ponytail that bobs with each indignant shake of her head.

"Piss off lady. He'll calm down."

"His teeth are knocked out!"

The man turns away from Johnny, grabs the woman by the throat with his left hand, and goes for a knife in a sheath at his waist with the other.

Chaos ensues. The woman screams and Johnny steps forward and grabs the hand holding the knife. One-eyed or not, Johnny is fast and strong. He twists the man's arm down and behind his back, then presses it up, forcing him up on his toes, then slams him headlong to the floor. Something gives, the knife drops, and the man screams beneath him. The scream is tortured, and no resistance is offered as the arm goes limp and lifeless.

"What's going on here?"

Johnny looks up, as full awareness returns, and realizes he is straddling the man's back and holding an arm that has been pulled free of the socket.

The hoarse voice of his boss, "Jesus Johnny, what have you done?"

A large circle of people surround him, all gaping, some slack-jawed with shock. Blood is spattered on the floor, smeared on his skin, and the scent of copper in the air.

How to answer the questions?

He gapes at his boss, Harry Ferrell, a small-hearted weasel of a man with gray-streaked hair and an enormous ego.

"What the hell are you doing, Johnny?" Ferrell shouts. "Get off that man, right now!"

Johnny lets the man's arm go, and gets to his feet on trembling legs. The injured man rolls over, and sits up, still screaming, and tries to cradle his arm. "I'm going to sue you! You people saw it all! That one-eyed freak broke my arm! Hurt my kid and broke my arm!"

Have to get out of here! Get away from the shouting. Away from the words.

Johnny pushes Ferrell out of his way, and lurches toward the front of the store.

Behind him, a chorus of shouts and exclamations cause him to pause and look back.

The woman with the ponytail is chewing out Ferrell as he stands over her, looking shocked. Maybe ten other customers are just watching. "That man saved my life. This asshole wasn't watching his kid."

Johnny steps on something. A little plastic figurine. Was this why the kid tried to climb out of the cart?

More people are coming. Johnny steps to the side, letting the security guy and the store manager brush past him. He continues toward the front of the store and the exit. Get away and go do my job. Let them sort this out.

Almost against his will, Johnny looks back once again. A lot more people are heading toward the scene. The security guy, Rick, has the drunk guy standing up, while Ernie, the store manager asks questions. Johnny shakes his head. Better not to know anymore. He turns away and glances over at the shopping car corral. It is nearly empty. The other stockman, Bill, is probably taking another smoke break. Bill is in his fifties and thinks he's entitled to frequent smoke breaks.

"I've been here almost twenty years," he'd often say, "the bastards owe me."

Nothing for it, but to get to work: Johnny walks outside into the sunshine.

The heat beats down on the asphalt parking lot and blankets everyone daring to move in a layer of perspiration. Johnny feels sweat roll down his face, gather at his armpits, and soak his underwear. He holds the remote control and pushes the forward button. The cart pusher machine mashes the two line of shopping carts together, and another wedge of twenty-five is ready. While holding down the button with one hand, and the first, front most cart with the other, he begins walking back toward the front of the store.

The parking lot is full. Probably three hundred cars, at least. Also out by the edge, there is a blood mobile set up advertising free restaurant coupons for a donation. Not many people go in, but Johnny is thinking about it. There is air conditioning, and they will give you whatever you want to drink, and maybe even some fruit. Then, there is the coupon. Will it be for Chick-fil-a? That is his favorite. I'll give blood today for sure!

This time of day, probably thirty people are scattered around walking in or out of the store at any given time. Sometimes a pan handler. The newest swindle they use on people is "My car ran out of gas, can you help me out?" He pays attention. It isn't good to be surprised by people out here. Better to be alert.

Five minutes later, a police car pulls up to the front of the door and parks, lights still flashing. A tall, female St. Pete police officer wearing their light green uniform shirt and dark pants climbs out. She pauses a moment to shift her gun belt then heads right in through the exit doors.

Johnny is now near the pond and the exit road that goes to Thirty Eighth Avenue North. Ducks are everywhere. For the moment, he is in the shade and glad for it. Roughly a hundred feet away he watches a derelict come up out of the ditch bordering the Pinellas Trail, and cross over to the Blood Mobile bus. The guy looks like he is wearing a burlap sack for a shirt, and khaki shorts. Johnny squints. Looks like maroon stains on the shirt and shorts.

A well-dressed brunette, in a black suit and high heels, starts to exit the bus, but she spots the bum and steps back inside. The derelict bangs on the bus's door, and pries at the edges. Is he too drunk to pull the handle? They don't ever lock people out.

A moment or two passes while the man continues to pound on the bus. Johnny begins to drift closer, grabbing carts as he goes. Suddenly the door opens, and clips the derelict guy, and sends him sprawling onto his back.

Johnny grabs another cart, but struggles with this one due to a bad wheel. A tall, clean-cut black man steps out of the bus and shouts something. Johnny can't make out what. The derelict is slow to get back up.

Someone else is climbing out of the ditch to the concrete path of the Trail. Looks like a young woman in a pale yellow jogging outfit, a t-top and shorts. One of her long tanned legs is streaked with blood, and her blonde hair is loose and tangled. Normally, Johnny would have a hard time not watching a woman like her, but even from a distance, he can tell something is wrong. Maybe how she is favoring the bloody leg?

The tall black man, probably a nurse, is helping the derelict to his feet. Johnny grabs another cart---This one full of empty quarts of oil and a beer can or two. Watches the nurse fall backwards as the other man claws at his face.

Both collapse against the bus, and as Johnny watches, the woman joins the derelict man in assaulting the fallen nurse.

Someone screams and Johnny looks back toward the front of the store and the police car. Several people are struggling not far from the entrance. He hears a gunshot. Sees a man holding a pistol in two hands, and sighting it toward a teenager with blood on his face. The man fires five more shots, then turns and runs. The teenager seems unaffected. Maybe the man missed?

Turns back toward the bus. The nurse is almost stripped bare and the two people are sitting next to him---Eating! The woman digs into his intestinal cavity and pulls outs something that flops in her hand.

Johnny can't look. He runs toward the bike rack in front of the store. Never makes it. More people are fighting all around the entrance. Little kids are running and screaming. He feels the adrenalin kick in, and for lack of anything better to do, he runs toward the pond and 38th Ave N beyond. Home is that way. Where else can he go?

Juliet

The earplugs help with the noise, but there is nothing to do about the ride. She can feel sweat at her temples and someone's deodorant has failed. Her once pristine white pantsuit is dirty and rumpled. I've never wanted a shower more in my life.

"Mom, where's Daddy? Why is it taking so long?"

Beside her, sitting on either side, the children cling to her waist, and cry. The bench seating is uncomfortable and soldiers are wedged in all around them. There is nothing she can do to comfort the children beyond a hug. The motion of the helicopter's twin rotors is rough. For the last three minutes since take-off, she's felt a tension headache building. Might even be a migraine.

The soldier sitting behind her grunts, "Is something burning?"

Before anyone can reply, the engine whines, coughs then dies. The craft begins to spin.

"Hold on ma'am," the man behind her says.

The children are screaming.

Then everything blurs...

Ralls

He awakens to sirens and smoke. Other less savory smells lie underneath the smoke. How long have I been out? Glances at his watch. Ten minutes at least. And we are hard aground. Must've drifted out of the channel when the missile hit.

The cruise ship's bridge is full of smoke. Shattered glass litters the floor. Yeoman Banks is sprawled against the far wall, gray-faced and motionless. Might be dead. Schroder, the helmsman, is definitely dead. Still sitting at his station, but with two or three inches of the top of his skull missing.

"Wonder what happened to the Colonel?" he asks, raising a hand to his cheek. I'm bleeding. Just some cuts. Notices he has bled quite a bit on his white uniform, too.

His vision blurs a moment as he stands up, but it passes. Walks over toward the starboard, or right side of the room. A little breeze plays across his skin from the broken windows. He hits the switch that kills the emergency siren, and feels better.

Got a big bump on my head too.

Guess the Government was serious when they quarantined the city. He almost smiles at this inanity, but the sight that awaits him out on the exposed decks squashes any humor.

The deck has been literally chewed by bullets and the dead are all over. Soldiers lay in clumps, mixed in with civilians. The words wholesale slaughter come to mind. Someone high up in government panicked on this one. Just imagining this happening all around the country is tough to take.

I better get a section report before I do another thing.

He grabs the microphone to the ship's intercom and keys to talk.

"Chief Nast, this is Captain Ralls, I need a sitrep for engineering. Are we completely dead? Over?"

"Crewman Bailov here, Captain. The Chief is fighting the fires. Almost all of engine crew personnel are dead or severely wounded. We need help down here, sir. Over!"

"Affirmative Bailov! I'll see what I can do. Out!"

Someone moans behind him. He wants to turn and confront whoever or whatever is behind him, but his terror is so great that he stands paralyzed. The moan comes again, and his bladder lets go adding the reek of his urine to the other smells.

Think man. Do something!

Nothing in the last twenty years has prepared him for this.

Am I going to abandon my bridge?

Weapons aren't far away. In his duty cabin, just feet away, he has his personal sidearm in a safe. Maybe enough ammunition to get him to the arms room below.

He spins around. Yeoman Banks is even now climbing to his feet. Not a scratch on him that he can see, but he looks dead. Ludicrous! The dead don't come back to life. Still can't believe it.

Dead or not, Yeoman Banks doesn't look to be in a conversational mood. He is moaning, and as he stands up, he appears to notice Ralls for the first time. He snarls and shambles toward him.

"Stay back Banks," Ralls says. Just behind the man is the door to his duty cabin. Too far. I could run around the outside of the bridge on the catwalk... Might work, but others may notice.

Banks steps closer, gathering momentum, and clumsy or not, the man has some long arms. Ralls swings a fist that connects with Banks? nose. The man staggers with the impact, but comes on. Ralls ducks under his arms and comes out behind him. Banks slips on the broken glass, crashes into the wall, and slides toward the floor.

Ralls jumps on his back and grabs Banks by the hair and ears. Pulls with all his might. Feels the hair coming free, and then an awful crack.

The body beneath him goes limp.

But the head still groans.

How can the head still be alive? Oh, sweet Lord, what did I do? I'm in hell.

Jacobs

He runs, feeling every pound of his equipment holding him back, slowing him down. His M-4 rifle is slung around his neck and held at port arms as he runs down the sidewalk of a three lane road. Two and three story buildings line the road on either side. He hugs the buildings on the right side. The chopper is hovering in an intersection a half block away.

His men are climbing aboard even now, as he watches. Everybody makes it back, except for Watson. Poor Watson. Bastards ran him over twice. Booth, Hicks and Lepski wave to him from the rear seats of the Blackhawk. The crew chief, Lassiter, is leaning out, with one foot on the runner, and waving at him to hurry.

With thirty feet to go, three of the things stumble out of a doorway practically on top of him. He tries to shift the rifle to the right, but is too slow. A hand grabs his chinstrap and yanks with a strength that surprises him. His helmet actually comes right off, as he stumbles to his knees on the road. There went the radio. Even as he draws his pistol, his attacker, a very large man, wearing a baseball cap backwards, is reaching for him, mouth open wide. The guy's lower lip bulges, as if he still might have some chew in there.

Jacobs aims and squeezes the trigger. Once.

The bullet enters the guy's mouth and blows the cap off the top of his head. The body stumbles backwards and slumps to the ground, taking one of the others down with him, but the third, a wiry black teenager, lunges at him.

Jacobs falls over backwards with the kid on top of him, feels intense pain from his right ankle as it twists...

"Fuck!" he shouts, trying to keep the snapping teeth off of him. His gloved left hand is beneath the kid's chin, and his right still holds the pistol, but for the moment it is pinned between their bodies.

Don't panic! Inhuman strength or not, Jacobs outweighs the kid. He bucks his hips and rolls. His gun hand is free and he fires once, twice and the head explodes blood and bits of gore everywhere.

Jacobs rises to his knees, screaming as his right ankle gives out. The third zombie, another teenager is almost on top of him. He aims, and fires. The boy's shoulder jerks, but he keeps coming. Fires again. A black hole appears just above the eyebrow, and a burst of gore explodes from the back of his head. The corpse starts to fall, and then Booth and Lepski are there, helping him up. Carrying him at a run toward the chopper.

"We're outta here, Sarge," says Lepski, "just hang in there."

"The hell we are," he snarls back. He looks at each of his men, and doesn't like what he sees there. All three look tired and beaten down. None of them apparently share his rage over Watson's fate.

I've lost them.

Doesn't matter. I won't quit.

Lepski and Lassiter help him into a chair and buckle him in. The rest of Jacobs' men pile in and get settled. Jacobs grabs Lassiter by the collar. "Get me a fucking headset!" Meanwhile, he can feel the chopper climbing, as his stomach gives a lurch.

Lassiter scowls at him, but hands him the headphones that connect the crew together. The moment he puts it on, Jacobs snaps, "Duncan, I want you to fire your rockets into the Cop Shop."

There is silence for a moment, as if the pilot, Captain Pete Duncan, is considering the request.

Finally, the man answers, "What the hell, Jacobs? You lost your mind?" "Just do it and I'll explain later."

"I'll put forward your request soldier. Sit tight."

"Goddamn it, sir! That fucking place is loaded with ghouls! Just do it!"

"Take the headset from him, Chief. I don't want to listen to anymore of his shit."

Jacobs stares at Lassiter. The guy is pushing fifty and has a fucking jowl under his chin. Might have been something ten years ago, but he's going soft now.

Watson is going to be avenged. They took his body.

Jacobs raises the pistol still cradled in his hand. "Fire the rockets, sir, or I'll put a hole in Chief Lassiter."

Natalie

She wakes, shivering.

I'm soaked.

Cracks an eye open.

At first, what she sees doesn't register, but details emerge: a short, slightly sloping piece of metal is right below her cheek. Further up she can see a car's glass window.

I'm lying on a car's trunk. Something is burning.

Don't move. Just listen. Think things over.

The inner voice is her Mom. She was always telling her to think things over, and be careful.

She shivers, and this triggers another immediate realization: I'm naked! Why? What happened to me?

She was in the car with Sam. They were fooling around. He was finally mine!

All it took was a little strip show. Well, to be honest, putting her bare foot onto his crotch put the poor guy over the edge. And his bitch girlfriend was out of the picture!

Someone attacked us! The Goths! Now, the whole scene comes back to her.

Sam was knocked out immediately. They just left him behind the wheel, while they dragged her from the car, kicking and screaming. The worst part was that the two Goth girls were helping.

She closes her eyes, and pushes away the memory. Focus!

Very carefully, she slides an arm beneath her chest and pushes up.

The sun is rising on a scene from hell.

Sam's car is gone. Several bodies lay close by. One of them is Tim the Goth, dead, and best of all, not moving. She raises up a bit, and looks to her left, toward the mall. Monk is there, sprawled face down. The t-shirt and wild mop of hair give him away. He also looks dead. A single plume of smoke rises beyond him, from the mall, probably the entrance by Sears.

No sign of the Goth girls.

The fire engine is gone.

Either, they all left her, or they are dead.

She passes a hand through her hair, and brushes away a tear.

Why'd you leave me, Sam?

Anton

The power flickers, then resumes. Anton reaches out and hits the seek button on the radio. The warning tone for an emergency sounds as the next station locks in. "Standby for a live update from the Emergency Broadcast System. This is not a test..."

"Might have something here, people!" Anton says.

The first one over is that overstuffed weight-lifter named Keller. "What do you have there, sir?"

"Use that walkie and get a hold of Talaski, will you? I think we're about to hear a message from the Feds."

"Sure."

Keller walks off to the side.

Anton looks around. "Where are the others? I think everyone would like to hear an update."

Amy is right at his elbow talking to Debbie. She speaks up, "I saw that janitor guy leave, and then Trish followed him. I think they went to the roof. Talaski and the guy who looks like Freddie Mercury said something about getting more weapons."

The only other people are that trashy-looking woman named Suzy, and the fireman named Mills. He can see the two of them talking over near the windows that look over Tropicana Field.

"Who's Freddie Mercury, oh never mind, I'll record the message just in case then," Anton says.

Keller comes back. "Talaski needs me to help carry guns and ammo up. Anybody else want to help?"

"I'll go," says Amy, "but I'm not very strong."

"Me too," says Mills.

"Count me in," says Suzy.

Anton grunts, "Well hurry back. That message may be important. We may need to make a decision fast."

Debbie comes over and stands behind him. He feels her hand on his shoulder. "I'll stay here with you Anton."

At that moment, they hear: "This is not a test. The 'No Live' order has been rescinded. All government personnel have instructions to help all uninfected citizens to a safe area. The following are all current safe zones for the Tampa Bay Area: The Skyway Bridge; Coquina Key Island; Tierra Verde Island; Weedon Isle; Egmont Key; the St Pete-Clearwater Airport; Venetian Isles. This message will repeat and update every hour."

Hadley

There is just a light chop on the water. Hadley stands at the rail and stares over at the still burning rear area of the cruise ship. They call it the stern or something. Lionel's kid was so sure his Dad was over there. Course, I beat the odds again. Still alive. Lucky like that.

How the hell am I still alive? Somebody is playing a joke on me Marge. Like that day I beat the odds in Nam.

He closes his eyes. Can still see and feel the sun through his lids. Just like that day.

"What do you see out there, Jube? Why did you stop?" asked his friend, Sergeant TJ 'Hazy' Harriman. Guy's breath always smelled of that gook fish sauce. Nuoc Mam or something like that.

Hadley let out a pent up breath. "I don't see 'em, Hazy, but I can hear 'em. Fifty or so feet on the far side of that hammock. Two or three of them at least."

Hazy raised a bushy eyebrow and mouthed the word, "Gooks?"

"What do you think? Jesus man, it's a wonder we're all still alive!"

"You're the charm, Jube. We haven't got hit with you walking point yet."

"Yet, is the key word, Hazy. I'll fuck up sooner or later."

"Let's back off then, and I'll call in an airstrike."

"Sounds good, I'm..."

Twenty or thirty feet away, someone yelled in Vietnamese. Right after, at least ten AK-47 assault rifles fired nearly as one. A grenade went off. Men screamed. The AKs continued to fire. The voice of a guy named Yodges begged for mercy. The men that were with him and Harriman were being slaughtered. Yodges voice cut off. Did they kill him? Hadley never knew.

Ten guys to two guys in a few seconds.

Could anybody be alive on that ship?

Minute by minute, the odds are shrinking.

The cab driver, Graham steps up beside him. He looks a little better than he did. The boat actually has a shower and he must have used it. His hair is still wet, and he's now wearing some jeans, a light blue t-shirt and sneakers.

"Everybody's ready for the meeting, Jubal. You ready?"

"Yeah! Our asses are hanging out here. Those choppers come back and we are meat for the grinder."

"Ozzie is keeping a look-out."

"Good."

Hadley follows the younger man into the boay's cabin. Tracks, Bronte and Janicea are all sitting on the couch, while Graham sits on a folding chair. The two kids and the dog are in one of the bedrooms.

Hadley decides to take the blunt approach, and says, "Let me lay this out for you people. We don't have much in the way of fire power. Graham has a rifle, and a bunch of pistols. Tracks has a shotgun. Bronte, Ozzie Janice, and I have pistols. Ammo for all the guns is ok, but not ideal."

He has their attention. The cards are down and they all know it.

"We have some food, but not enough."

No one argues.

"I figure we have three choices. One, we go ashore and try to get to the police station. Two, we head for Weedon Island to the Power Plant and hope we find all we need there. Three, we check out the cruise ship and take what we need from there, then we head for one of the two places I mentioned."

Tracks is the first to speak up. "May be survivors on the ship."

"Maybe," says Janicea, "but I bet it's mostly dead people."

Graham stands up, "If there are survivors, and we help them clear the ship, we may have a good safe place to operate from. We are going to need a doctor at some point. Who knows, we might find some real good people on board."

"Anything to say, Bronte?" Hadley asks.

Bronte nods, "I say we grab some guns and food and get the hell off that ship as quick as we can."

"Be a death trap," says Tracks.

"So, if we go, who is going?" asks Graham. "Someone needs to stay with the kids."

Tracks cuts in, "Ozzie and Janicea stay. Maybe the Chief too."

"Because I'm old?" Hadley asks.

"Something like that. Face facts."

Janicea turns to Tracks. "And the woman watches the kids, right?"

"Right!" says Bronte.

"What about that supply convoy that got ambushed near the store, Bronte?" asks Janicea. "Near Thrill Hill."

Bronte raises a bottle of water to his lips, and drinks about half of it.

"Ozzie's boat might make it up that canal. I'd like to hear what everyone else thinks, but that might be an excellent place to get supplies."

"The ship is right here," Hadley says.

Tracks leans forward in his chair, "Death waiting on it."

Talaski

He has all the food and ammo they can carry lined up and ready, stowed in backpacks. Beside each backpack is a holstered pistol with a belt, and a bigger gun.

Mitch opens the door and steps inside. He pulls a pack of cigarettes and lighter from his shirt pocket and proceeds to light up. "What's wrong officer? I don't see any pleasure police around here."

Can I let this guy live? He knows he is frowning, and knows that the guy doesn't understand why. Sometimes silence works best. Makes worms like Mitch crazy.

"Maybe it'd be easier to just loot one of the vans?" the guy, Mitch says. He turns back to Talaski with the panorama of the armory behind him.

"What did you take?"

Mitch frowns. "Twenty M-16s maybe? Couple of MP-5s. Bunch of pistols. Ammo for all of them."

"What else is in the vans?"

"Food, water and booze. Thank god we didn't have the propane loaded in them yet."

"So, let's put everything in perspective here. You cut a deal with Dodd, killed two or three cops, took what you wanted, then left everyone else here to die. Did I miss anything?"

The guy grins, shrugs and his eyes make contact with Talaski's. "I wouldn't have cut Dodd out, but he left Carlos to die. I couldn't let that pass."

Probably the truth.

"Why'd you come back?"

"The truth is, at first, I thought Dodd double-crossed us. When I ran over that guy..." Mitch still meets his gaze. Might actually be telling the truth on this one, too.

"What guy?"

"Turns out he was some kind of soldier. But then, all I knew was here's a guy running in the street. I could've swerved, I guess, but I said afuck-it? and ran over him. A second or two later the whole world opens fire on us."

"What's all this got to do with coming back?"

"Revenge at first. I thought Dodd set up an ambush. When I found out later that I ran over a soldier then I knew it wasn't something Dodd cooked up. Suzy and I ran into Sparky and the Angel and decided to join you."

"Sparky and the Angel?"

"The firefighter and the little blonde." Mitch trails off, as they both turn toward the sound of footsteps and echoed voices. "Speaking of that, here they all come officer."

Talaski grins, "I want to know what's motivating you. Think long and hard about your answer." He draws and points his Glock at Mitch.

"Yeah, sure officer..." Mitch turns back toward him, and gives a start.

"Got a special deal for you here. Judge and jury all wrapped into one bullet."

"Listen, I swear, seriously, I swear I'm committed to helping and being part of the team. Give me a chance officer."

"Okay, let's see some ID, then. If I can trust you, we'll know real soon, Mister Fallon. Running you through the computer ought to give me a good picture of who you are, assuming you haven't been lying, right Mitch?"

"I haven't lied, officer."

"Maybe not, but I still want your ID anyway."

Mitch is shrinking, compressing himself, and his eyes are downcast. Making less of a target? "I don't have my ID on me."

"No? I don't believe you. What do you think of that?"

Mitch smiles politely, but says nothing.

"Put your hands up against the wall. Now!"

Foster

Lieutenant Green's face is haggard, and his shoulders are slumped. "Lance Mathers wants his interview with you, Mr. President. What do I tell him?"

"You tell him to cool his heels. Any word on where Edwards is?"

"We think he got caught in the riots near Baltimore, sir. Not sure if he is trapped or dead."

"What about the mess at the Pentagon?"

"No word sir. We evacuated the Joint Chiefs and their families, but everyone else got left behind. We've put as many of our ships back to sea as possible, and we are in the process of consolidating as many ground combat forces as we can. We've lost a lot of National Guard units already, due to being spread too thin."

"Are the Joint Chiefs in route to here, then?"

"Yes sir, if nothing goes wrong."

Keep focused. Be a man. "You got a list of secured areas?"

"Right here, sir."

Foster draws a breath, not even glancing at the list, "What's the situation in Florida?"

He can see the lieutenant hesitate, knowing where this is going. "Below the line we established from St. Marks to Jacksonville, all is chaos. Managed to get an Army Reserve MP company based in Tampa activated and sent them to MacDill Air Force Base. The Army Reserve Units in St. Petersburg may need to be written off. A special operations unit has been operating in St. Pete, from MacDill, but it looks bad sir. They have been busy trying to enforce the No Live order, but we canceled that hours ago. Hopefully it got through to the Spec Ops unit."

"So there is no word on my wife and children then."

"No certain word, no. Just two unsubstantiated rumors. One, her chopper went down somewhere near Weedon Island, not far from the Gandy Bridge, and another that places them further south not far from the Skyway."

He can't help himself, and tears form. I am a man first. Husband. Father. President is just what I do.

"Is there any other assets we could put on this?"

"Couple of Coast Guard Cutters are guarding the Skyway and the shipping channel into Tampa Bay. They have set up a little base on some barges under the bridge, and they have quite a collection of ships they have boarded and impounded. One's an oil tanker. Got another cruise ship, and that's another headache according to this report. The people on board want to be released. At least two outbound freighters loaded with foodstuffs also."

"Those men have their hands full. We can't use them."

"I'll check into it, Mr. President. Perhaps there are some surviving units we can locate."

"Good work, Green. Now get to it."

"And what do I tell Mr. Mathers?"

"When I have something to say, he'll know."

Hold on Juliet, my love.

Trish

Once he starts talking, the little man won't stop.

"I'll be your friend, Morgan, and that's more than I'll say to most of the others."

She watches that one sink in. He lowers his eyes, and she can almost see hope dying in them, and then his features settle into a resigned frown. He is old enough that the lines in his face give her the idea that this is his typical expression. Is he just unhappy, or maybe a little disturbed also?

"I think we should head in. We need to find out what kind of plan we need. Get Talaski moving on this."

Crushed another heart, Trish. Good move.

"Sure Morgan. Let's see what's up."

Just then, the sound of a helicopter's rotors and motor echoes toward them. The steady thump gets closer, and then they see it.

"That's one of those Blackhawks," Morgan says.

Trish ducks behind a vent of some sort. If they see me wearing this armored shirt, they might guess I took it from their buddy. Christ I'm getting paranoid. "Get down Morgan. Those guys kill everybody!"

Morgan drops down beside her with a groan. "Sorry, I'm pretty beat up."

"I noticed."

"Something isn't right about the way it's just sitting there."

"Yeah, I think we better go tell the others." Trish gets to her feet and darts toward the door to the stairwell. She can hear Morgan right on her heels. Behind them, the chopper comes closer.

What if...

Just inside the door, Trish turns back, puts a hand on Morgan's chest. "You don't think they are coming to rescue us, do you?

"I didn't think of that, but maybe."

Blake looks back around at the helicopter.

Juliet

She wakes to enormous pain, her clothes wet, with mud caking her hands and face. Several pungent smells fill her head, at least one of them, a bad smell. The bad one is aircraft fuel---Helicopter fuel. Someone is crying. Who? One of the kids? What happened?

"Mommy!"

George's voice. Her oldest.

She claws her way up out of the darkness, and opens her eyes. Tries to move, but her whole body aches, especially her back.

"Mommy, wake up!"

"I'm awake, George, I'm awake."

George is sitting in her lap, hugging her. They're lying on the ground outside the helicopter. Lying in mud and salt water actually, with several knotty mangrove roots poking her in the back.

"Where is your sister, George?"

"She's still sleeping in the copter."

"Sleeping?" Feels terror spike through her veins.

"You always tell me to let her take her naps."

She puts her left hand on his head and strokes his hair. "That's a good boy. My sweet boy."

"A bunch of the guards are sleeping too, Mommy. Agent Costas told me to stay out here with you. He's hurt bad and couldn't get out."

"You were a good boy to listen to him George. Are you hurt?" He shakes his head, his famous curly red hair plastered to his scalp. My little angel.

"Do you think you can help your Mommy up?"

"Sure Mom, just let me put Nosy down." She watches him place his beloved worn-out stuffed dog into the branches of a mangrove. Grabs her arm with both of his sturdy, not so small anymore arms, and yanks, even as she fights her way up and to her knees in the muck.

She bites back the scream, and takes a breath or two. "Thanks Sweetie Pie. Don't forget to grab Nosy." As he bends over to retrieve his friend, she grabs a nearby mature mangrove and uses both arms to pull herself the rest of the way up.

I don't really want to know what's happened in the helicopter. My heart can't take it, Burt. I need you here with me. Oh please...

The helicopter crashed more or less upright, but the tail section is canted upwards toward the front. The fuselage is split into two jagged halves with the back portion almost buried in the mud and mangrove bushes. Water laps at the more level front half and the body of Agent Costas is lying against one of the bench seats. He doesn't appear to be conscious, but she can see he's still breathing. A pistol is still clutched in his hand on his chest. Several bodies litter the ground, face-up and face-down in the water, all of them either soldiers or agents that shared the helicopter with them. As she steps closer, something scrabbles frantically to be free of tangled seat belts and wreckage in a seat not far from Costas.

She takes a reluctant step closer, hobbling more than walking. Sees the small shape, teeth bared and snarling, still trapped inside. 35

"Stay behind me, George!" she shrieks, "Don't look! Oh God, don't look, honey."

"Ok Mommy," George says, "Got my eyes closed."

Agent Costas stirs, rubs his eyes with his free hand, "I'm sorry, ma'am, I couldn't bear to do it. If she broke free, yes, but she isn't going anywhere."

That thing is not my daughter.

She gathers her composure. "Can you take care of the problem for me, Agent Costas?"

"Yes ma'am, and then we'll see about getting you and your son out of here." Lassiter is sweating. His hands are up, as if he can ward off a bullet.

"You gonna fire the rockets or not, Captain?"

The captain, Duncan clears his throat, "There are living people on top of that building Sergeant! We just got word that the aNo Live? order is rescinded. All we have to do now is put down the re-animates. Killing healthy people is not going to help."

Jacobs sights down the barrel, "It's so simple, Captain. Fire the rockets or I'll shoot Lassiter."

"Sergeant!" says Booth, "It's not worth it. Just put the gun down and we'll get out of here."

"I'm not going to argue with you Booth, so shut your pie hole!"

"Safeties off. Rockets are now live," Duncan says.

"Acquiring target," says the copilot, Lot.

"Now firing."

On either side of the chopper there is a rippling roar as the rockets launch. Seconds later, the chopper shifts to the right, and Jacobs sees multiple explosions tear a gaping hole into the Police Station. The whole southern face of the building is wreathed in flame. Burning debris falls to the ground as the smoke billows up and out.

"Satisfied, Sergeant?" asks Duncan in a monotone.

Jacobs can feel the lunatic grin on his face, but doesn't care. "Set me down on the roof of that building east of the station, and you are done with me."

"Roger that!"

The helicopter banks to the right.

"What's your plan, Sarge?" asks Lepski.

"Gonna make sure I got them all. After that, who the fuck knows?"

"You change your mind, we'll come and get you," says Booth.

Jacobs nods. "Just do as you're told and keep together. Maybe you guys will make it through this."

"You going to quit pointing that thing at me?" shouts Lassiter.

"Sure Chief, sorry about that," Jacobs says with a grin, and lowers the pistol to his lap. With his free hand, he takes off the headset and tosses it at Lassiter.

The Chief stares at him hard, but keeps his mouth closed.

"Don't annoy me Chief. Just hold it in. Cry about it later. You say something now, and you might tempt me too much, get me?"

"I get you, Jacobs. Just get off my bird."

Jacobs looks around at his men. "Any of you coming?"

Booth shakes his head, "Not this time, Sarge."

"You're on your own," says Lepski.

Hicks looks like he's about to cry. "Sitting this one out, Sergeant." 37 Jacobs nods. The helicopter is descending. They can all feel the skids make contact with the roof. Jacobs unsnaps his safety belt and slides out of the chopper.

Ankle is still throbbing.

He waves goodbye to his men, as the chopper lifts off and banks back toward the east, toward Tampa. Unslings his M-4 carbine, and looks around. Two big air conditioners, couple of chairs and a small building that must be the stairwell is all that he can see. He quick steps with a limp over to the door.

Anton

Something explodes. The whole building shudders, and from outside, he sees a sheet of flame envelope the windows. An explosion? Probably from a couple floors down.

Debbie is screaming.

What happened?

The fire spreads quickly.

Debbie runs out of the room and into the corridor.

She leaving me? Face it man, you're nothing but a burden.

He turns on his chair. Uses the toggle control to steer his way after Debbie. The chair is actually fast with good maneuverability, but he can't keep up with someone who is sprinting.

And let's face it, Debbie doesn't sprint. She doesn't even walk very fast, but it is breathtaking to watch. A lot of motion.

As he pushes past the door, Debbie yells, "Elevator's out. I'll check the stairs. Just stay here a moment, Anton!"

Ain't no way, then. No way can I crawl down the stairs.

Trish barrels into the corridor from the roof stairwell, catches sight of him.

"Anton, haul ass. There's a helicopter out there wanting to lift us out of here!"

Despite his misgivings, he turns her way full throttle, hand mashing down on the control. "I don't want to die, Trish!"

"Morgan's with me, Anton. We'll help you!"

He skids to a stop just outside the stairwell. "Do you two really think you can get me up those stairs? My legs are completely dead."

"Shut up Anton," says Morgan and kneels down to get his left arm around his neck. Trish takes his right. Good thing they both are about the same height, but I won't say it.

"On three we lift him and haul ass up those stairs. Got it, Morgan?" Trish asks.

"On three, yes ma'am."

"Here we go, one, two, three!" Both of them heave him up and out of the chair and stagger up three steps before collapsing. Anton chokes off a scream as his nose flattens and bursts with blood, leaving him dazed.

"Again!" Trish shouts, and they heave again. This time they make it to the landing before collapsing again.

Debbie appears behind them. "The fire is in the stair down, too. Oh, let me help you'all. Maybe if I get up front and take his legs?"

"Go for it," says Morgan, gasping.

"Three!" Trish shouts and they heave him up, staggering once into the wall, but keeping their grip all the way to the top. A soldier is there, all in black. A name tag over his right shirt pocket reads: aLepski.? "Here ladies," Lepski says, "let me take him. Get on the chopper!"

"What about his chair?" asks Morgan. Anton isn't sure, but that ladies remark probably didn't go over too well with Morgan. The small man is hunched over and breathing heavy. Now his face is flushed.

"No time," Lepski says. "Go, go, go!"

Lepski slings his rifle over his back and kneels down. He takes a grip on Anton's upper arm and heaves him up onto his shoulder, while standing up.

"Okay, sir, I'll get you out of here now."

"Thanks son."

The man is running, long strides that carry him closer to the waiting seats.

Natalie

She finds her clothes beside the car she woke up on. The top is ok. Dirty but ok. The short skirt is also in fair shape, but her bra and panties have been cut with a knife. For a moment, she tries to remember the scene: the two girls holding her down on the hood, while the guy, Monk, stripped her...Monk, slapping her once backhanded. After that, things got hazy. Any idea of fighting slipped away. Looking down, watching a big knife slide beneath her bra, in-between her breasts. Monk's lip raised in a little sadistic sneer while jerking the blade up and slicing right thru the flimsy material. The padded cups fell away to either side. My nipples were stiff. Remembering that was a bit startling. Was I turned on? The two girls were laughing. Was it because my bra was padded or because of my nipples?

Well, I wasn't turned on. Getting slapped pisses me off.

Anyway, Monk was in a hurry. The knife slipped down and under the string of her panties over her left thigh. One of the girls, what was her name? Heidi or something like that. Whatever her name was, she leaned over and kissed her, while the knife ripped through the cloth. Then Monk pushed both girls away, and told them to get lost.

Her uppermost thought was: better to be unconscious than to have to remember this. Piss him off. Worst case I end up dead. Hopefully, I just wake up later and don't remember. In the old world I might have not had the courage to do this, but now? Now, I may want to be dead for real.

When the girls let her arms go, and stepped back, she swung a fist with all her might straight at his nose. Somehow he dodged it and slapped her hand away. He then swatted her into oblivion with the back of his hand. After that the lights stayed out for a long time.

So now, here I am, bare ass under my skirt, in a parking lot full of dead people. My shoes must still be in Sam's car. Wherever that is.

Shoes, weapons and a place to hide. Everything else is secondary. Maybe food and water belong on the list.

She stands up, but crouches to hide her silhouette behind the car. Looks around carefully. Figures stagger around hundreds of feet away, but out here on the edge of the parking lot, all appears quiet for the moment. She peers through the back window. The driver's side window is open. Maybe this is their, Tim or Monk's, car.

She edges around, wishing she had a bat, a knife---Anything to defend herself.

The driver's side door is unlocked. The front seat is huge and it looks like genuine black leather upholstery. And right there, in between the seats, is a big silver revolver and a beige-colored bag. In the back seat are what look like full grocery bags.

Oh God, if only the keys are in the ignition! She opens the door and slides in. Feels for the keys beneath the shifter.

No dice.

Probably on one of the bodies.

Got a gun now, I don't care! But oh God, please let one of them have the keys!

Maybe I can even make it home.

Haven't even thought of Mom through all of this.

With good reason: Mom might have slept through all of this. Black out drunks do that.

Talaski

The explosion is so unexpected, that Talaski nearly falls. A quick grab at a rifle rack, bolted to the floor, saves him. The others enter the room, and stand in a gaggle watching him point his gun at Mitch.

Mitch looks like he wants to run, but the unwavering barrel must be scaring him.

He spits his cigarette onto the floor.

"What the hell was that?" Mills asks.

"Sounded like rockets," answers Keller. "Probably helicopter rockets. Guess the military must have decided to shut us down."

"Why? Hell, I just want to help people."

"Not sure, probably just a fuck-up. Bet they think this place has been taken over by the dead."

Mitch clears his throat. His hand rests on the pistol grip, holstered at the right side of his waist. "Just let Suzy and I go man," he says to Talaski. "This is a different world. We are willing to team up with you, no harm, no foul. We can be good team players, can't we Suze?"

"Sure we can, Mitch," Suzy says, stepping away from the group and stopping beside Mitch. "I like you all."

The funny thing is, her smile seems genuine.

Talaski scowls, "You mean you thought we were people you could use, right?"

"Listen, officer, I don't like guns being pointed at me, and I didn't like the sound of those explosions. Either make a move, or let's get the hell out of here, ok?"

Talaski glances at Keller. Keller raises and eyebrow and shrugs.

"Ok, everyone, we are going to have to do this quick. Matt can you and Mr. Personality here go see what's going on, while I get people equipped?"

Keller nods. "Can do, you ready Mitch?"

"Yeah, let's go."

"Hey Mills, try to get a hold of Anton while They're doing it. Use the walkie."

"Sure thing, Ski," Mills says.

Ski. The use of that particular diminutive practically guarantees a bad response, but he lets it slide for now. Time to address it later. Keller leads the way back up the stairs.

Ralls

The sheer horror of it is too much. The contrast of a motionless body with the still animated head fills him with loathing. I need to make it stop.

But how?

Standing here looking at it isn't accomplishing anything.

He forces himself into motion, side-stepping around the corpse. Reaches for the door handle to his watch cabin and goes in quick. Hits the light switch. He spends far more time here, than in his much larger quarters below. The room is roughly eight by eight feet. Room enough for a wall-mounted cot, a chair, desk and closet. An olive drab, army-style pistol belt hangs in the closet, complete with his 1911, .45 caliber Colt pistol. He grabs it and straps it on, and reaches for his two spare magazines and the box of ammo. First he ejects the magazine in the pistol and loads two more bullets into it. Next he loads the other two magazines. He slides them into a pouch on the belt. Twenty one rounds ready. He slaps the first magazine home, then pulls back and releases the slide. Locked and loaded now. He puts the pistol back into the holster. I still have twenty nine rounds left. Gonna need those for sure, but what do I do with them. Fuckers are heavy. Pull my goddamned pants off if I just put them in my pants pocket.

Just wondering what to do with with the bullets, makes him remember the still wet stain down the front of his otherwise white slacks. Fuck it, they'll dry.

Guess I'll just put half in each front pocket and pray for the best. He divides the bullets into two, more or less, equal handfuls and slips them into each pocket on the front of his white slacks. The weight is noticeable and annoying, but his belt holds.

That does that.

He turns to the wall above his desk. Two swords hang on brackets there. One of them is a souvenir and the other an antique that his grandfather carried. He reaches for the first, the souvenir, a reproduction of a twenty-eight inch naval cutlass. Never thought I'd wear or use this damn thing. The truly strange part was that he'd developed the habit of taking care of both blades. Both have scabbards and are razor sharp. His Dad always told him, if you have a weapon, take care of it. Might save your life someday.

He hooks the scabbard to his belt and draws the sword.

"Now, Yeoman Banks, let's see about giving you peace."

Jacobs

Made me drop a little high. He can feel the impact on his knees and ankles. In fact, his right ankle isn't up to the challenge, and buckles beneath him. Only his left hand, grabbing onto a nearby vent, keeps him from dropping to his knees.

The rotor wash falls away quickly. Fuckers couldn't wait to dump me. The small shed sized building is nearby, near the roof's edge. He limps over to it and tries the handle. The door opens onto a narrow wooden stair, leading to a landing ten steps below. Dark down there. Tries a switch just inside on the wall, but nothing happens.

He gives one last look back at the ascending chopper, then reaches for his flashlight. The door closes behind him as he turns the flashlight on, and draws his pistol. The cone of light reveals penciled graffiti all over the walls. The stairs creak beneath his feet.

No door at the bottom. The stairs just open out into a hall, lit by a skylight. How tall was this place, maybe ten stories? There is a door immediately to his left. Probably more stairs. Down the hall, there are doors on the left, right and an elevator door at the end. The floor is wood and there are a couple of paintings on the walls. He thinks they might be done in watercolors. Scenes with lots of oaks draped in Spanish moss and women in hoop dresses.

I should just take the stairs down. What am I doing fucking around looking at art? Or clearing rooms?

His left hand is on the left hand door's knob. The flashlight is hooked back on his belt. The pistol is in his right hand, and pointed at the door. He tries the knob and it turns. His boots on the wood floor probably made more noise than opening the door did.

Four shots left. I never re-loaded. The Smith and Wesson SW99 holds nine rounds.

The room is dark, but not overly so. On the far wall, vertical blinds shift with the vagaries of a breeze. To the right is a living room with a sofa, two recliners, a coffee table, a big screen TV, and another doorway. To the left is a kitchen behind a long marble counter and barstools. Another doorway that way also.

My heart is pounding.

Why? More than likely the whole floor is empty. Maybe even the whole building.

Now, That's wishful thinking!

He moves off toward the living room doorway first. And fuck it, I am going to re-load. Right now!

He thumbs the almost empty clip out of the pistol and takes a full one from the pouch on his waist belt. Puts the almost empty into the left cargo pocket on his pants. He pulls the pistol's slide back, inserts the fresh clip into the well, and lets the slide go.

A round is now in the chamber.

The doorway used to have a door. The hinges and pieces of splintered wood are still attached to the door frame, but the door itself lies in the room beyond. The master bedroom apparently. Something, or things, clawed and pounded the way in.

The room is darker than the living room, but he can still see a dresser against the wall to his left, and to the right, a king-sized bed, another TV mounted on the wall, and another doorway. That door is broken down, too.

"Anybody here?" he asks, probably too softly, and pauses.

No answer. He can't smell anything, but his heart is sure beating fast.

"Hello?" this said a little louder.

Nothing.

Another pause, this time just outside what is probably a bathroom.

He darts around, gun aimed everywhere, questing for a target. Sees a closet to the right, a double sink further in, and a shower at the end.

Some towels are in a pile beside a bathroom rug outside the shower.

Something touches his shoulder.

Tracks

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Bronte shift in the chair just to his left. A .357 revolver is in his lap and he is wiping the cylinder down with an oily rag. He then replaces the six cartridges, one by one fitting them into the cylinder.

Bronte asks, "Where you know him from, Tracks? Never knew you were friends with any cops."

Tracks grunts. Just looking at the man can take him back---Back across more than thirty years, back to the first day he saw Jubal Hadley.

"This your son, Reggie?" the big white man asked. Even then, Tracks was tall, taller than this stranger, and wider too, but something about Jubal Hadley scared him. Probably his washed-out eyes. He always stood ramrod straight, kept his hair buzz-cut, and looked you in the eye when he spoke to you.

"Yeah Jube, this is my little man, my boxer." His father, Reggie, was a big man too, but with just a fringe of salt and pepper hair circling the back of his head. He was a Vietnam Vet also, just like Jubal Hadley. They even served in the same unit and came back from the war and joined the St. Pete Police together.

The man extended his big right hand attached to a pale, hairy arm toward Tracks. Tracks didn't allow himself to blink, or even change expression, but shook the man's hand with a solemn look on his face. His mother didn't quite hate Jubal Hadley, but her opinion wasn't warm, and she made only a minimum effort to be civil to the man.

She wouldn't tell him why.

"Good to meet you," Hadley said, looking him the eyes, "I heard you can throw a punch."

"Yes sir," Tracks replied. "Course, take one too."

"Better to avoid it son."

"Like them close, sir. Nice and close, and then punch them out of the ring."

"Mostly," his dad answered.

Tracks remembered the brief, hot flush of anger that one word brought, but his dad was right. Two weeks later, his father would be dead, and although Tracks would pursue a boxing career for a few more years, that dream died too.

And now, all these years later, only Bronte, and the boy, Daric matter.

Already sweating. The sun is barely up, and his upper lip and the back of his head are wet with sweat. Hadley and Graham brush past him, and Bronte stands and all four of them are at the front of the little Sea Hummer.

Gut is gurgling. This is crazy.

Ozzie edges the small boat closer until Tracks can reach out and touch the metal behemoth's side. The bulk of the cruise ship looms over them, blindingly white in most places, but scorched black in others. "Guess the only way in is through that door we saw," Hadley says.

"Look like it," Tracks replies.

"Good thing it's high tide, too," Graham says, "otherwise we'd need a ladder or something."

The whole ship is canted to the left just enough to be noticeable. This brings the open door to within a foot or so of the water.

Graham joins Tracks as they get close and says, "If I remember right, we won't have to go far once we get in there. The stairwell isn't too far."

The moment they draw even, Tracks grabs a line and ties it to a cleat beside the door. Graham climbs in, and stands in the doorway a moment, catching his breath. Dude's in pretty bad shape. Bet that gut is killing him.

"You ok, Graham?" Hadley asks.

"Yeah, just need a moment to catch my breath. Come on up!" He extends a big hand and pulls Hadley up. Not a weakling though. Bronte goes next, following Hadley past Graham and down the passage. Tracks says, "Ozzie, remember the plan."

Ozzie replies, "Gotcha. Don't worry. Just come back safe."

"We be ok, Ozzie. Be right back."

Be right; please be right.

Out of sight, but just around a corner he hears Hadley say, "Oh shit!"

Hadley

Can't see. He stands in the doorway a moment, revolver in hand, and reaches into his pants pocket for the cheap flashlight. Sees what look like storage lockers and a desk in the dim light from the passage behind him, but the rest is in shadow.

He glances down to flick the flashlight on when something slams into him from the darkness. "Shit!" he yells, dropping the flashlight, as the thing latches onto his arm and bites down. "Holy shit! Oh dear God!" A middle-aged guy in a quasi-naval type uniform has just taken a large, hairy chunk out of his left arm! Panicking, he tries to put the pistol against the thing's head, but loses patience. The fucking thing is eating his flesh. He pulls the trigger again and again, as blood and brains spatter everywhere. Stumbles backwards into someone as the grip on his arm loosens.

"I got you," Bronte says in his ear. "Just sit down over here, Chief." Hadley looks at his forearm, incredulous over the blood and how big the missing chunk is. A vein is actually spurting blood. He holds the arm away from his body, instead of stemming the blood. Tracks is bending over him now, holding a medical kit.

"No, Alan, don't waste time. I'm a dead man. Let's just get what we came for and we'll worry about me later."

"Let me wrap it, Chief. Stop the bleeding."

"I've had worse. Just help me up."

Tracks wraps his arm, puts the kit back into a backpack, and pulls him to his feet.

Hadley shifts the pistol to his left hand and opens the cylinder. "Gotta re-load," he says. The only problem is he's shaking too much. Shock must be setting in.

He pulls a box of ammo out of his pocket, but Tracks take both gun and ammo from him.

"Let me, Chief," he says, and sounds almost tender. He opens the cylinder shakes out the spent casings and replaces them from the handful that Hadley gave him. "Better get you another gun quick. Only five shells left." He extends the gun butt first back to him, and hands over the extra bullets.

"Thanks. Don't get funny on me now. We may all be dead in a few minutes."

Hard to stand the pitying looks. "Everybody's gotta die sometime. Let me keep leading the way."

Graham says, "This way then. It's the closest stairway that will take us up."

Ralls

One stab is all it takes. The damned Yeoman's head quiets immediately. Course, trying to yank the sword out isn't fun, but the trip below to help the Engineering Chief won't be a party for anyone, either. Just the beginning.

One last look around the bridge and he opens the starboard door and steps into bright sunshine. Many of the formerly prone figures are now up and about. In fact, there is a snarl as he turns right and toward the stair that descends a deck. The missing Army Reserve Colonel is standing awkwardly in a pool of dried blood. Several bodies lay around him, along with a lot of spent shell casings.

He's still holding a carbine, but the magazine is missing. And That's not all That's missing folks! Several bloody bandages cover what must be terrible bites, judging by the amount of blood. The colonel turns toward him, snarling louder as he lurches forward, stretching his arms out as if to embrace him.

Ralls steps forward too, raises the cutlass up and slashes down over the barrel of the carbine. The razor-sharp, heavy blade slices into the colonel's neck and jars to a stop partway thru. Must have hit his spine or something! The man's body falls backward, and the blade pulls free. No time to finish the job, just push past him! Press on!

Feels a gust of wind rustle his shirt and pants legs. The stair below is clear. With one hand on the rail, he jumps over the body and it's thrashing, but apparently uncontrolled limbs. His black oxford shoes clatter on the steel steps. Everywhere he looks, people are looking up at him and heading his way. He shivers. Like a bunch of soulless puppets following me.

What now? Do I go below now? Should've told that crewman to evacuate everyone and meet me on deck!

He leaves the stairs, and heads back toward the stern, or rear of the ship, passing the funnel. Several gaping holes have been punched in it, probably from that damn chopper's mini-gun. The mini-gun killed almost everyone on deck.

The next stair down is fifty feet away. Chairs, small tables and sun lounges are all around him now. To his right is the Crow's Nest Bar. Several bodies over there, and one, a tall, long-legged redhead, still upright. He recognizes her. Lieutenant Sinclair? Was that it?

She spots him and raises a glass. "Top of the morning to you Captain. Join me in a drink?"

"Good God, Lieutenant, are you kidding?"

"No sir, my questions are always sincere. Just thought you might enjoy a drink. Shooting people you know is thirsty work."

Careful, she might be off her rocker.

He doesn't reply, but is standing there from a distance of ten feet or so, just staring. There are four corpses laying at her feet. All look like they've been shot thru the head. All soldiers.

"I'm not nuts, Captain. We've just traded one hell for another. Might as well enjoy yourself when you have the chance."

"I have to rescue my crew." She puts the drink down. Something green in a tall, fluted glass. "Want some help?"

"I could sure use it. They're in the Engine Room." She reaches down and plucks her soft cap off the bar top, settles it onto her head, The brass rectangle of a second lieutenant is aligned perfectly above her nose on the cap. "All my men are dead. Might as well try to save yours."

"Thanks."

"Nice sword," she says while picking up an assault rifle. It too, was on the bar top.

The wind gusts again and he watches blood spread across the gleaming white deck. "Yeah, it's nice enough," he says, "but it's fucking heavy. Wish I'd practiced with it instead of just keeping it sharp."

"I wish I'd gone home and stayed with my family. Don't know why I'm even trying to stay alive."

He was about to lead the way, but that remark pulls him up short. "Think They're dead?"

"I think we're all dead and some of us just don't know it yet."

He shakes his head. "No, do you think they are dead?"

"I talked them into coming down to the Pier. My folks and my little sister." She looks over his shoulder, toward the inverted Pyramid at the end of the causeway, known as the Pier. "I hope They're dead."

"I'm sorry Lieutenant."

"Never mind, sir. I don't even know if they ever got here. That is a mystery for another time."

He nods, and waves her to follow him. Both cross through and around the deck furniture, and stop beside the covered entrance to the stairs. The red glow of an emergency light can be seen about a flight down.

Both stand stock still as the sound of five or six shots echoes up from the water and below.

Keller

Three floors up the air is smoky and there is a chemical reek of some kind. Cleaning chemicals, maybe? Only bad shit smells this bad.

"It's hopeless big man," says Mitch from behind him on the stairs.

Keller grunts, voice muffled by the shirt he has pulled up over his mouth and nose. His eyes are watery, and his nose is running.

"You can go on if you want, but I'm done. You know and I know that they would be down here by now if they could."

Keller turns around. Mitch coughs.

"Giving up that easy?"

"Yep. Sediment will kill you."

"You mean sentiment."

"Fuck off. I don't care how big you are."

"You should care. I've killed weasels like you before."

"That so?" Mitch puts his hand on the revolver in the holster on his right hip. He draws the weapon with his eyes wide, and his gun hand trembling.

Got to him with that, but he still drew anyway.

Keller takes a step toward him. "You are going to put that gun away, be a team player and a man. You will do as Nick or I tell you. Are we clear?"

The man's hand shifts and now the barrel is aimed at Keller's chest. He shuffles backwards. "Sure. Just give me and Suzy a chance. You'll be glad, I promise. We all need each other now."

Might be easier to just break his neck right here and tell the others that something fell on him. Could I really murder someone like that? To protect people I care about, I'd do worse than that. What else is there now?

Keller takes another step toward him.

"Ok, Mitch..."

The gun bucks in Mitch's hand. The sound of the shot is lost among the roar of the flames. Keller feels his knees buckle, no pain though. Did he miss? Someone shouts from below. Sound of footsteps in the stairwell. "Keller, Mitch, come on back! The others are safe. An army chopper got them! Keller!"

The voice of that firefighter, Mills. Mitch shouts back, "We hear you! We're coming down."

Keller reaches out, grabs Mitch's gun hand, and with the other hand, fingers stiff, jabs him in the eyes. Mitch screams as one of his eyeballs bursts. Blood and gore all over. Falls to his knees, pulling Mitch with him. The gun clatters to the floor. Keller wraps both of his hands around the man's head. Twists violently. The screaming stops, Keller keeps falling. The cool tile of the floor feels good on his cheek.

Got to get up. Get out of here. He pushes himself away from Mitch's body, gets to his knees, then feet. Holds out a hand, as if to shake, "Are we cool?"

Mitch doesn't answer. At the moment, although his body is face up, his face is turned the wrong way, far beyond what is normal, or survivable.

"All choked up, eh buddy? Don't worry, it will pass."

Keller heads back the way they came.

Natalie

She doesn't want to look, but has to. Monk isn't exactly squashed, but bones are protruding through the wife-beater t-shirt he's wearing. His head has an odd shape. Somebody ran him over. Sam maybe? Hope so. Looks like he and that other guy, Tim, both got smushed.

Monk is lying in a pool of drying blood. She doesn't really want to step in it. If he has the keys, she will have to roll him over.

Roll him over or stand here forever.

She bends over to put the gun on the ground, near the edge of the puddle. Feels a gust of wind lift the back of her skirt. If only Sam could see that, bet he'd cream his jeans. Oh God! Without hesitating further, she steps close to the corpse, squats and reaches under his torso with both hands. His skin isn't cold, but just touching him makes her want to scream . Lifts with a grunt and pushes forward.

The body rolls over and his arms have apparently started to stiffen: they remain bent at the elbow, splayed out from his body, and don't relax. Rigor Mortis, she thinks.

Must've been dead a while. She really has no idea, though. He Ain't fresh.

Don't look at his face. Don't.

Looks like a fright mask of blood. His eyes are open and staring, and his nose is flattened. Little pebbles are imbedded in his skin. Worst of all, his mouth is open, and his whole lower jaw and chin are off kilter, almost ripped off.

Look away. He isn't going to wake up.

She sees a lump in his right pants pocket, and digs in. Pulls out a large key ring with a big piece of pointed metal attached to it. It's all worth it, if these are the keys.

The wind whips across the parking lot, and a newspaper flies past and lands in the blood. She stands up and backs away from the body. Grabs the pistol. Hears something wail.

On the far side of the car, five people are shambling in her direction.

Oh God, let these be the keys!

She runs on her bare, bloody feet back to the car's passenger side. The things are too close to try for the driver's door. Which key? Has to be this one: a big silver key with a circle around three shields, and the word 'Buick' beneath.

The key fits and she unlocks the door. She slides in, feeling the skirt ruck up, and pulls the door closed behind her. One of the things is close. Maybe ten feet away. Looks like a teen in a fast food outfit, maybe McDonald's. He looks burned. The skin of his arms is all black and crackly looking. Face too! Pieces of him are flaking off as he opens his mouth, growling something.

She slides behind the wheel, shifting the gun to her left hand, and keys to the right. Reaches down and puts the key in the ignition. The kid is reaching for her. She tries to aim, while turning the ignition. The engine turns over and starts. She floors the gas. The engine roars, but the car doesn't move.

Not going anywhere! Why?

She pulls the trigger, and the kick of it causes her to drop the gun. It bounces off the door and down in-between the seat and door.

The shot knocked the kid back a step, but he's still coming.

Why?

The car isn't in drive you idiot!

Fingers brush her cheek.

She grabs the lever, shifts into reverse and the car careens backwards across the parking lot. Remembers the brake just in time to miss a tree planter, and then shifts into drive. Steers straight for the exit out onto Tyrone Boulevard.

Gotta go home! I'm coming Mom!

Morgan

How long do I have when the last pill is gone? The pain is bad.

The bottle in his hands is almost empty, just three pills left. He palms one, while considering asking one of the soldiers for a drink to help swallow it.

Trish is squeezed right up against him. Her shoulders are pressed back against the wall of the helicopter and her left breast is pressed hard against his arm. Looking down, he can see the smooth, flawless skin of her belly and her toned legs.

He closes his eyes for a moment, picturing himself on his knees in front of her.

"What's that?" Trish asks, trying to shout over the engine noise and rotors. She is watching him screw the cap back on the bottle. Nosy bitch.

He grins at her. "You really want to know?"

She smiles back, "Yes Morgan, I really want to know."

"Vitamin, why?"

Will she see the lie?

"I noticed the bottle was almost empty. Just worried it might be something you need to stay healthy. Sorry if I'm being too nosy."

"I'm more tired than anything else. Wish I had something to jack me up. I haven't slept in almost two days."

She puts her hand on his thigh and gives it a squeeze. "Hang in there. I think we are being taken to safety."

Is this what she calls just friends?

Oh man, her fingers are so close, less than a hand's width and she could own me.

"Stop it!" he says out loud before he can stop himself.

"Stop what, Morgan?"

There is time to look deep in her eyes for a moment, time to linger at her lips and beautiful white teeth. She is smiling, and that might be a genuinely warm expression. First woman in a long time to even give a damn if I say something. Maybe I should be satisfied with that. With having a friend.

"Nothing important, Trish, but thanks for asking. I think out loud sometimes." I know you don't really want to know.

"Me too! Hope they have hot showers and food wherever they are taking us."

"I hope so, Trish."

Mills

The tension is tearing him apart. Every nerve is screaming at him to bust down the door and get outside. None of them, except for Talaski, seem to have any clue how much danger they are in. He can already smell smoke, and the whole building could come down any moment.

"You people need to hurry!" he shouts, looking back down the stairs as the slender figure of the clerk, Amy, steps into line behind the Suzy. "Where's the others?" he asks, not looking at either woman, but behind them.

Amy answers, "Don't know where Mitch is, but Talaski was giving more weapons and stuff to Keller when I left. They should be right here soon.

A moment later, Talaski appears, shrugging a backpack onto his shoulders over the gym bag already slung over his body. What looks like an assault rifle rests on top of the gym bag. Keller is right behind him, carrying a rifle similar to Talaski's slung over shoulder and also carrying a slung gym bag, in addition to the pistol holstered at his waist.

"Where's Mitch, Keller? You were with him last."

"He didn't make it."

"What do you mean, he didn't make it?" shouts Suzy.

Mills can see the emotion on Keller's face, raw and ugly. "He tried to kill me. Shot me in the chest. Bullet ricocheted off my harness and I broke his fucking neck."

Suzy screams, and launches herself toward Keller.

At that moment, Talaski does something completely unexpected. He lashes out with the back of his right fist and connects with Suzy's jaw. She drops like a lead weight.

"Had to," Talaski says. "Take this."

Mills reaches out and takes the rifle, as Talaski kneels down and lifts the woman over his left shoulder. Mills looks closer. The rifle is a goddamned street sweeper! When the woman is secure on his shoulder, Talaski takes the shotgun back. "I'll take the rear," he says.

"Ok Amy," Mills says to the petite woman right behind him, "When I open this door, you are taking a left, going through one more door and then you are in the lobby. Not sure how many of those things are still out there. No one is to stop. You ready?"

Amy nods.

Mills opens the door and steps into a hallway. There are snarls, and grunts from both directions, but he turns to the right. Feels Amy brush past him, going the other way. The hallway is jammed with ghouls. He fires his shotgun from the hip at a tall, spidery man in a bloody Escape the Fate t-shirt. The blast throws the guy backwards a step or two, and blows a big, gory hole in his chest. A tattered-looking bum is next, and he tries to step around the still staggering first guy. Mills pumps the action, aims, and blows the bum's head clean off. The torso doesn't fall, but is propped up by those behind him. The press pushes the body forward and down, causing several more in the front to fall and begin crawling toward him. Mills pumps and shoots as fast as he can aim, painting the walls and floor with gouts of flesh, bone and blood. Behind him, he hears gunfire and shouts. His last shot drops a fat guy whose bulk, when added to the others, seriously blocks the way.

Reload or switch weapons?

He pulls the axe out from the loops of the backpack.

Amy shouts, "Come on Adam! We're clear!"

Then Talaski is pushing him. "Go! Go!"

Jacobs

Act, don't react.

Expecting the worst, Jacobs spins free of the hand on his shoulder, and stops with his back to the wall. He raises his pistol to shoulder height as his back comes to rest against a window. A beautiful young brunette dressed in a blue t-shirt is standing there and reaching for him again. Twenty-five tops, I bet.

The woman's eyes get real wide at the sight of a gun against her nose. "What are..." Her voice trails off, and she looks down. At first, he stares stupidly, wondering why she's looking at her legs. They are long, shapely and nicely-tanned.

Then he notices a wet stain at the front of the shirt.

He lowers the gun from the woman's face. "Sorry about that lady. You should've said something first before grabbing me. I could've killed you."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm hunting some murderers."

"Here?" she asks. "That's a job for the police---You're a soldier."

"Some looters killed one of my men. I'm hunting them down."

"Why are you on your lonesome?"

"Enough with the questions, lady. Just stay out of my way."

"You can't just barge in here and boss me around. I own this place! The whole building!"

He looks at her, square in the eyes. Really?

"I don't have time for this. Now step aside or I may have to hurt you, ma'am."

The young woman tries to stare him down, but after only a second or two, her eyes slide to the side. A moment later, she steps out of the way, also.

Jacobs puts the pistol back into its holster and pulls his M-4 from over his shoulder. He steps up to a window that faces west. A pall of smoke obscures any view he might have had of the neighboring police station. "Damn it!" he exclaims.

"No point in shooting at anything from here," the woman says. "That fire is making a lot of smoke."

"I noticed."

"What are you gonna do now?"

Jacobs manages a grin, "Get out of your hair."

"Oh good. I thought you were here to rescue me and my daughter. You leave now, maybe I won't have to worry about it."

"I'll be on my way, then, lady. You take it easy."

The woman grins, showing off her white teeth, "Guess you didn't hear me, huh Hero? Yeah, you take it easy too, soldier boy. The exit's just out in the hallway here."

"I can find my way."

"I insist."

Jacobs follows her back through the apartment and out into the hall. He catches himself looking at the hem of her shirt. It isn't long enough to hide her ass cheeks. Is she swaying her hips deliberately? She's pretty calm for a girl who just pissed her panties; if she's even wearing panties. Have to get my mind off this! It's been too long, and I have needs. Maybe she wants me?

Right.

He forces himself to say something, but can't get his mind off the possibilities.

"It's an easy choice lady. The elevator's not working, so the other door must be the way down."

"Elevator is working, just doesn't go all the way down. The stairway behind the other door does go all the way."

"You got a generator, eh?"

The girl's eyes are hooded. Why tell me something like that, then clam up? Bitch's hiding something. Or maybe she's just got dementia.

"I think I'll try the stairs, then."

Was that a faint smile on the girl's lips? Think so.

Whatever she's thinking, she's friendly enough. She opens the door and steps to the side to let Jacobs enter. The door is one of those heavy duty steel doors, and is even painted steel gray. What does she need a metal security door for? Must be paranoid about her neighbors.

"First door through is the stairwell. Second is the Clements place."

Something sweeps over him. "You sure you want me to leave?"

He watches her eyes. "I asked you to help my daughter and me," she answers, and runs the tip of her tongue across her lips. Her back is up against the wall, and her chest...

Steps close to her, feels the soft, yet firm press of her breasts against him. Lifts a hand to her face, and she flinches a little, closes her eyes. Her cheek is soft. His lips are close to hers, when she says, very softly, "No."

"Really?" he asks.

"Please go."

Jacobs steps over the threshold, sees mostly darkness, a short passage and two doors. He takes a step or two, then turns, "Are you sure..." he starts to ask. The girl shuts the door. And locks it.

"Won't be going back that way, I guess," he says to himself.

Trish

She can feel their eyes on her. Every man in the back of the chopper is staring, except for Anton. Openly whenever they think she isn't looking. My nipples must be hard. That always makes them crazy. She's caught more than one glare from the other woman. What's her name? Debbie? Was that it? Poor thing. Why do people judge me? She's pretty in her own way, just heavy. I just want to be comfortable in the heat, and who cares if men look. Never minded them looking. Natural thing. Wonder what most of them look like under those masks? Funny how that sergeant didn't wear one, but they still are.

The man they call Lassiter looks annoyed. He's holding a hand to his headphones. In the past moment, his face has gone beet red. He shouts into his microphone, "You shitting me, sir? We can't do that! Five more minutes and we could be putting them down safely!"

The conversation goes on for another thirty seconds, before Lassiter looks around and says, "Everybody get ready to land. Make sure you are holding onto anything you care about."

Morgan leans toward her, nose in her hair, and shouts in her ear, "This is about to get bad. I didn't like the sound of his side of the conversation." Did his lips touch my ear? Why am I all of a sudden so squeamish? It must be fear. I could always go home before. Shifts over, no more ass grabbing, no more free show!

Sorry Morgan, for you it never would have been free.

The chopper slowly spirals as it settles toward a strip store building on the west side of U.S. 19, or 34th Street South as the locals call it. She can see people walking around down there, 68 and a mound of burning wrecks not far away at the intersection of 19 and 54th Avenue South. She can also see the overpasses that lead to either the beaches and Fort Desoto, or to the Skyway Bridge.

Lassiter turns toward her and Morgan. Anton is sprawled on the floor at their feet. He probably can't hear anything. Debbie's on Lassiter's other side and definitely can't hear anything. Lassiter shouts, "You folks are going to have to get off here. The Captain says we'll come back for you if we can, but we've just been given a high priority mission. You aren't real far from the bridge. We were taking you to a refugee area set up near the Skyway. If you can get there, I think you should. If you can just make it to the Skyway toll booths you'll be home free."

He looks down at Anton, then back to Trish.

"I'm sorry ma'am."

"What is this shit?" asks Morgan. "We can't go anywhere lugging a paraplegic around!"

"You may have to make a hard decision, sir. Now everyone out! Help them, Booth, Lepski!"

The two soldiers heft Anton, holding his legs and shoulders, lift him out of the chopper and settle him to the pebbled surface of the roof. I think we're on top of a grocery store. Trish steps out, followed by Morgan and Debbie.

Can't believe they are actually going to do this.

She watches the two soldiers climb back aboard and sit down. The whole time, the crew chief, Lassiter, sits there, eyes tragic, but saying nothing.

As they lift off, he waves.

She doesn't wave back.

<CENTER

Daric

Beth doesn't stir, even when the sound of shots echoes out over the water. The little dog is looking at him, but it seems content to lie next to her.

The death of her brother right after the death of her parents had to be tough.

I know. At least her parents didn't end up trying to eat people. They didn't try to eat their own son. Can't believe my own dad... The pain of the thought was much worse than the reality of what happened. Even Tracks doesn't want to know, or believe... but the truth is there. Still doesn't hurt, but every now and then, he can smell something. Something that might be hidden, but is nasty. Like a dead rat rotting in your attic.

Even now, hours later, it still doesn't hurt. He wants to touch the spot on his leg, but he can't. Knows what it looks like though. Looks like a puncture wound. Like the hole a nail would make if your not so good friend, Warren, hit you on the back of the calf with a board that still had nails embedded in it. Not a bite like that Doctor thought. I wonder if it's worse? Tracks never looked. Couldn't be worse.

Just an infection. That's what my mom said. Just as soon as I feel better baby, I'll take you to the clinic. For now we'll just put some alcohol and antiseptic on it.

The little white dog squirms free of her arms, and bounds toward him. He stops short and whines, sniffing the air. Across the small cabin, Beth watches his every move, but says nothing. Maybe she wasn't asleep, just like she's half dead or something. I didn't mean for your brother to die. You know that. Can't say that again. She either believes me or she doesn't.

Tears glisten in her eyes. Such beautiful, long lashes.

He crosses over to a desk, and opens a drawer that Tracks closed not long ago. Pulls out a pistol. Frank's pistol. Beth's brother.

"You can't Daric! It'll be just like Frank!" Beth shrieks.

He slides the gun into his pocket and rushes over to her. Takes her hand. "Quiet, Beth, please! Ozzie and Janicea won't help Tracks, but I will. I heard some shooting not long ago. What if they need me?"

She looks at him. "You're a little kid, Daric. Just like me. What are you gonna do?"

"I know Karate," he says, "and I know how to use this." He points at the bulge the gun makes in his front pocket. "I shot guns before."

"You have?" she asks.

"Bunch a times with my friends. Just never shot one at somebody."

"You better stay here. They'll all be mad if you go. Bronte, Tracks, the Chief, even Janice, I bet."

"I'm not going anywhere, yet. Just want to be ready."

The dog yaps, and nips at Daric's shoelaces. Someone opens the door to the cabin. Janicea's voice asks, "You kids hungry? There's donuts..."

Trish

She closes her eyes for a moment and just stands there, analyzing what her senses tell her. The sound of the helicopter rotors faded over ten minutes ago. A dog barks somewhere far away, but close up all she can hear is the wavery metallic-sounding hum of insects. Funny how that sound was almost always there, but so easily blocked out. Some kind of grasshopper, Cicadas maybe, pretty sure that's what you call them.

What else? A small breeze plays over her skin, but not cool enough to counter the sweat breaking out all over. The sun is blazing hot already. Got to get everyone off this roof soon. Takes a deep breath, smells something bad: Gas Station restroom bad.

Morgan stands next to her near the edge of the roof, and looks down. "I wonder if any of them are in the store?"

She doesn't answer.

"If any of them are in there, I wonder how many there are, and can we lock the doors? Hell, maybe those soldiers did us a favor. Don't all these grocery stores supply wheel chairs for their customers?"

"Now you're onto something, Morgan," she says. "We can't just leave him to die."

"Biggest problem, assuming there is a wheelchair, and assuming we can lock up the store will be getting Anton down."

"Any ideas?"

"Nothing beyond going ahead and checking things out. If the place isn't looted at least we can get something to eat and drink also."

"Let me explain to them," she says, and turns back toward Debbie and Anton.

She can tell Debbie is about to break down. The woman is sitting next to Anton, crying hysterically.

"We don't even have a gun, do we?" Debbie wants to know.

"I have one," says Morgan. "Even got four extra clips for it. I took them off Dodd when I killed him."

"Their called magazines," says Anton.

"I call 'em clips."

"Suit yourself. What do I care if you sound like an asshole."

"Shut up Anton!" Trish snaps. "Morgan and I are going to go down there. See if it's safe. There might even be a wheelchair for you Anton."

Debbie sniffs and wipes her nose with a tissue, "Guess you want to leave me behind with him, right? I mean, I understand, but you just didn't mention me, so..."

"We'll be back."

Trish turns away. The roof is nearly featureless, except for the bulky shapes of six air conditioners. She walks toward them. None of them are working. She'd known but still hoped that somehow the power was still on here.

A door is set into the roof, just feet from the A/C units. Couldn't be lucky enough for it to be a stairway.

Morgan beats her to it, and grabs the handle, "Goddamn thing is locked!"

What are the odds?

"Should we try shooting it?" she asks.

"No. Let me look over the back wall, and see if there is a fire escape ladder. There has to be one, but let me check."

"I'm still coming with you."

"Whatever," he replies, already turned away and walking.

The ladder is there. They both stop and look over the edge. There is a good thirty feet or so of pavement between the store's back wall and a wall that separates them from a subdivision behind the store. Off to the left she can see a large piece of machinery connected to the building, and the low 73 concrete wall of one of the loading bays. Even further away in that direction are two green-painted trash containers and a double stacked row of cardboard bales on pallets. To the right she can see a fire exit from the building with a railed handi-capped ramp and what looks like two corpses. Neither of them are moving.

"Looks clear," Trish says.

"I'll go down, first. Sure you don't want to stay here?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

She almost laughs in his face, but manages to contain herself. He has no idea what I've been through so far. Course, he thinks he's being a gentleman. There is a lot to like about him. He tries real hard to be a good guy.

"I'll wait for you to tell me it's clear."

He nods, grasps the ladder handles, and levers himself over the edge and onto the ladder. Not quite a two-story drop. He reaches the bottom of the ladder but is still roughly ten feet from the bottom. "It has an extension. Hold on," he says, not quite loud enough to be a shout.

A minute or two goes by, then she hears a metallic clang, and the ladder extends down. He drops a foot or so to the ground, and almost collapses when his feet hit the ground. "That hurt!"

I'll bet it did.

He pulls the gun, and limps toward the bodies. The pistol looks big in his hand, but he seems to have no trouble with its weight.

"Somebody shot them! Head shots!"

She lifts her right leg over the roof's lip, steps onto the first rung, then swings her other leg over. A moment or so later she drops to the ground and joins him by the three dead people.

Found the source of the dirty bathroom smell.

"What do you think we should do next?" she asks.

A brief surprised look crosses his face, then disappears. She can almost see feel his self-confidence grow. "Let's check 74 that fire door. If it's locked, the loading dock isn't far away. Lot closer than going around front."

"And less visible."

He smiles. "That too. Follow me."

Just that one question, that one respectful question was all it took. He'd die for me right now. So easy to build him up, he must have no confidence at all. God thing I'm not an evil manipulative bitch like some of my co-workers. They'd suck this guy dry and toss him aside in a heartbeat.

The fire door is locked. A crowbar might get them in. They turn back the other way and draw close to the big piece of machinery. "What is this thing, do you know, Morgan?"

"Compactor. Smell that? These stores throw everything in them."

The smell is bad. Far worse than a rotten food smell. They pass it by and presently come to the low stone wall where it meets the back wall of the store. Around the corner are two recessed loading bays. One of the bays has a trailer and truck backed into it. They stop for a minute, but don't see anyone, live or dead.

"Let's see what's on the other side of the truck," Morgan says.

He leads the way, and carefully peers under and around the truck. They then walk a little bit further and can see a ramp leading up to a short landing and a set of double doors set into the building's wall just to the right of another short wall. After that, there is a small patch of grass, and then the rear walls of other stores in the strip mall.

Four people are standing around near the back double doors. A Frito-Lay truck is parked not far behind the people, and its rear doors are still open, almost as if a delivery was still being made.

"We go in this way, we'll make a lot of noise," he says in a whisper.

Trish nods. "And we don't know how many are inside."

"Think we should go around front?"

She raises her shirt front up and wipes sweat out of her eyes, then lets the shirt drop back into place. When she looks back up, his face is flushed, but he is looking at the zombies. "They're just tits, Morgan. I think we should go around front. All the wheelchairs will be up there anyway."

He sighs. "Okay."

Bronte

The sign above the doors says, 'Parade,' followed by the numeral six. Hadley stops and holds up a closed fist. Graham and Tracks stop behind him, while Bronte turns half way around to keep watch back down the stairwell.

"Hear some voices outside," Hadley says.

"As good a place as any to go out," Graham replies.

The stocky police chief nods, "Ok, I'll go first." He reaches out and turns the door handle, pushes the door open and goes out. Bronte follows the other two.

The others are standing in a lobby. There are stairs up and down mirroring theirs straight across from them and to the left a bank of elevators on both sides of the wall. Four strangers share the room with them. A man wearing a blood-smeared white uniform and carrying a sword and a woman in military fatigues stand in a doorway between the elevators and stairs on the far wall. In the center of the room are two sailors, one a grizzled old black man, and the other a young Asian man with burns on his arms.

"Who are you?" asks the guy with the sword.

"I'm Chief Hadley, St. Petersburg P.D. and these men are my friends. Who're you?"

"I'm Captain Ralls, and this is Lieutenant Sinclair, Chief Nast and..."

The young Asian says, "I'm Crewman Bailov."

"You've been wounded Mr. Hadley?" Ralls asks.

"What off it? I'm not dead yet. I can still do some good. And That's Chief to you Captain."

Tracks steps between the two men, towering over both by close to a foot. "Listen, we here for a reason. We need guns and ammo. If you've been bit, you are a danger to us all, Chief. You gonna help?"

"If you've been bit, you are a danger to us all, Chief."

ason. We need guns and ammo. You gonna help?"

The captain's cheeks turn red, "Are you here to loot the ship?"

"Dead soldiers don't need guns," Hadley says.

The woman speaks up, "Maybe we can make a deal?"

"Maybe we can," Hadley answers.

"And maybe we can't," says the captain. "I don't deal with thieves."

Bronte can't help it. This guy is pushing him too far. "We are survivors, Captain. People you were going to leave behind."

The man frowns, appearing to consider this. "Touch. Follow me, back down the stairs. There are guns, ammo and food all boxed up and ready right near the door you came in through. If you try to take them from the dead soldiers, you'll be fighting a long time."

"Lead on," Hadley says.

For block after block, all there are, on either side of the four lane avenue, are houses, mostly one story. None of them are mansions, and only a few are so neglected that she'd label them dumps.

She slows to pass two wrecked trailer trucks and notices a big concrete marker that reads 'Harshaw Estates.' She gets a good look at it, because she is driving up onto someone's lawn to get around the traffic pile-up. Within twenty feet she is able to pull back onto 22nd Ave N. The car powers up and over curbs with no problem.

Wonder if Mom's slept through all of this? My Mom could sleep through the apocalypse! She's slept through gunfire, why not this?

Couple of years ago a gang attacked the family living two doors down from their house. Something gang related. Nobody died but a car got fire-bombed. Fully automatic weapons were fired, but did her mom wake? A slap wouldn't do it. She'd tried. A bucket of cold water could be used if you were willing to accept the consequences. Problem was, not much could justify angering her mother.

The stop lights are all out. No power anywhere that she can tell. No other cars on the road either. Seems like some people would still be driving, but maybe not. A lot of zombies are out, cruising around though.

A kid, maybe ten or twelve darts out from her right, hopping a hedge and dashing into the path of her car. She hits the brakes, and squeals to a stop just a foot shy of flattening him. He looks up at her briefly from under a mop of red curls, then keeps running. Four or five zombies shamble out from over the same hedge and she floors the gas leaving them all behind.

She turns the radio on, while blocks ahead, up at the intersection of U.S. 19 and 22nd she can see flashing lights and what might be flames. Over it all, a pall of smoke rises and fans out, barely moving in the muggy air.

"Al Connors here, live from the top of the Skyway Bridge. Should have that Lance Mathers interview with the President in just a few minutes, but right now, I want to encourage you, wherever you are, if you can, get to the Skyway. We have food, water, and a safe place for you. The Coast Guard has established a Safe Haven beginning at the Toll booths on either side of the bridge. Skip tell us your situation on the west end of the bridge near St. Pete."

"Thanks Al, This is Skip Bachman, and I'm actually way past the toll plaza on the St. Pete side, along with a squad of military police at a marina. Hundreds of people are here trying to steal boats. Many of these people have guns. One recent shootout left eight people dead and twenty wounded. We are trying to steer survivors toward the bridge, but too many people won't listen..."

She turns the radio off, and takes her foot off the gas pedal. The car drifts to a stop, as she looks at the carnage before her in the intersection. People are walking around everywhere. Bet they aren't people anymore.

Maybe if I cut over and take my next right, I'll find a way around. No sense wasting time---Just do it! The next right turn is only one lane each way, but looks clear.

At the end of the block is a four-way intersection. To the right is a small lake that takes up most of the next block, while on every other side there are more houses. She stops right in the middle of the intersection and looks left, which is the way she is trying to go.

She shakes her head. A woman carrying a child exits a vehicle another block down, leaves the car in the middle of the road, and runs. Roughly ten people follow her, most of them staggering with poor coordination. Straight ahead looks clear for blocks, while a right turn would lead her smack into hundreds of people.

She cuts the wheel and turns left. The wheels shriek and she catches a whiff of burning rubber. Ooops, too much gas! She swoops down on the abandoned car fast, steers left of it, to avoid the zombies and goes up and over the left curb. Something scraps on the bottom of the car before she can pull back onto 21st Avenue N but she floors the gas again and bounces free. Within seconds she travels the remaining two blocks, then careens out onto U.S. 19. There are people all over the street, some standing, some prone, but she only hits one crossing the highway's six lanes. The person might have been a hooker once, but the glimpse she got gave a jumbled picture of a black woman in a hot pink mini-dress and pumps covered with blood flying through the air, then her car plunged back onto another side road. On the left is a shopping plaza, and to the right is a pawn shop. The whole front of the pawn shop is caved-in, and she can see people inside. An enormous pick-up truck is parked in the rubble.

No stopping for anything. Got to get home.

The road bears to the left ahead, leaving no other choice of direction. Good thing that is the way I'm going. A chain link fence surrounds an enormous area covered with weeds. Further in are a few derelict buildings. She glances that way with mild interest, but then turns her attention back to the road as it curves to the left. 22nd Avenue North is in sight, and appears clear barely a block further up. Several semis are parked behind the shopping plaza, but she doesn't see anyone near them.

Her right tires bounce over the curb and she takes out the stop sign while making a right turn onto 22nd Avenue. My nerves are shot. Can't believe I'm almost home!

Looking ahead she sees another terrible pile-up. She can feel hope evaporate like rain on hot pavement. The car isn't going to make it beneath the overpass for Interstate 275. Both entry and exit ramps to the interstate are blocked with cars and wandering figures, and a fierce fire is raging underneath the overpass.

About two blocks from the mess, she brakes and stops the car. A Lowe's is to her left and a Home Depot to the right. The next closest road going east is 38th Avenue N, sixteen blocks north of here. Straight ahead, if the way were open, she is roughly four blocks from her house.

I'm going to have to leave most of this stuff. The thought kills her inside. Park over at Home Depot, lock it up, and hope for the best.

When no better idea appears, she does exactly that. The parking lot is almost full. Most of the cars might even have been left with the same plan in mind as hers. She pulls into a space on the edge of the parking lot, and turns the engine off. I can carry this bag and the gun, and not much more. Need a backpack or something. Don't even know what's in the bag. She opens the bag and begins to rummage through it. Let's see: bag of Doritos; bottle of water; box of bullets; some candy bars; a Penthouse magazine; cigarettes; sunglasses and 81 a bottle of Ibuprophen. Not exactly the treasure of El Dorado, but some good stuff.

She stuffs the car keys and gun in the bag, opens the car door, and steps carefully out onto the parking lot. Doesn't see any glass. The concrete is hot, but not unbearable yet, on her bare feet. Slings the bag over her shoulder and the strap is long enough that she can easily reach in for the gun. The shopping bags in the back seat nag at her. What's in them? Might matter to me later.

No one appears to be nearby. She manages to shut the front door without making a lot of noise. Looks around, and sees no one near. Gets the back door open and quickly leans over to check the bags. There are two-liter bottles of soda, gallon jugs of water, and several bags full of can goods, along with three cases of Budweiser. She lifts one of the water jugs, opens the lid and drinks as much as she can, feeling excess water soak her shirt.

That one little bottle of water isn't going to cut it pretty soon. Too hot out. I'll take this one with me and just toss it away if I have to run.

The jug is still more than two-thirds full when she straightens back up and shuts the door. With the jug in one hand and the bag slung under the other, she checks to make sure the doors are locked, and then quickly turns away. She hot foots it, the jug sloshing, over to a section of grass bordering the parking lot. The grass feels much better underfoot.

On this side, the west side, of the overpass, the cars are backed up about ten deep on either side, many of them locked together, almost as if the drivers tried to push their way through. Flames and a lot of smoke obscure any clear view of the passage under the interstate. She realizes it's probably better to try to go over, than under, even though the trip will take twice as long or more.

If only I had some socks, even.

Please be there Mom. I'm coming.

There is a sidewalk that parallels the road, but she plans to stay on the grass as long as possible, hopefully all the way to the interstate ramp. She runs again, feeling the water cool on her chest, and trying to be leery of her footing or any surprises that might pop up.

As she draws near to the southbound ramp the smoke eddies and she catches a glimpse underneath the overpass. Sees burned vehicles: cars; trucks and mini-vans. Charred corpses are all over, walking around, lying prone, or feasting. This last almost stops her in her tracks, but her determination to find her mother drives her on and she leaves the last of the grass and sprints up the ramp.

Two people are walking almost side by side just ahead of her. She darts around them and hears their moans as she pulls away. Her breathing is uneven, terror preventing her from finding the natural rhythm that would normally keep her going for miles.

My feet are burning! And oh God the smell! The smell of a lot of dead, rotting flesh! She gags, even as she draws level with the roadway above. She only manages a glance at what is probably over a hundred dead people all milling about, then she is vomiting all over, while still trying to run.

Must be like an oven cooking the dead! Oh the horrible smell.

Still, the sights before her are worse.

Someone must have got angry or desperate in a Semi. Cars, vans and SUVs are flipped, on their sides or crushed, all over this particular stretch of interstate. Maybe some guy panicked when he realized that the traffic jam was never going to clear up?

She passes a child's pink sneaker, then a few feet farther on a pathetic ripped apart thing with curly black hair, wearing a pink dress. She sobs, and swings the water jug at a guy in a brown business suit. The jug connects on the guy's jaw and he spins halfway around, staggering, with one arm pin-wheeling and other arm, barely attached by splintered bone 83 and sinew falling with a thud to the ground. One more swing knocks him flat on his back. She lets the now mangled jug drop from her fingers.

Cars are all over the grass median between the highways. The things are everywhere she looks.

I'm not going to make it Mom.

With that thought in her head, she hears a helicopter's rotors. She wants to look up, but the one-armed thing is getting back to his feet.

Got to find another way home. That helicopter will probably fly right over me.

She turns back the way she came, making a wide circuit around the couple staggering toward her.

Jacob

Jacobs stands in the dark and listens. His right hand is on the pistol grip of his M-4 rifle, and his left holds a flashlight with his thumb on the on-switch.

The only choice really, is to go down the stairs. Going into the neighbor's apartment won't really help anything, just delay his departure.

Unless there is a fire escape! The bitch back there has one. I'll bet you! Must be too tired. I'm not thinking clearly at all.

He clicks the flash light switch, taking a step backward just in case. Moans echo up to him.

Swings the flashlight over toward the Clements door. Gotta try that way first. Three steps take him over to the door. A wireless door bell button is on the door itself not too far below a peep hole. Bitch MaryBeth used to call ours a peek hole. Remembers hearing her drunken bitchy voice: "I can see you out there Paul, through the peekhole! I called the cops already!"

He pushes the button.

Bitch locked me out of my own house. Changed the locks while I was in the field. Top it off, she was fucking some college kid that mowed the yard. Fucker thought he was bad ass because he played offensive guard and could bench four or five hundred pounds. Must've weighed over two fifty, crew cut hair, tanned, perfect teeth and a physique straight out-of Muscle and Fitness. All of it didn't mean shit. Settled his fucking hash.

Marybeth's too. Neither one of them were in good shape when he was through with them. Neither one reported him either. Not that time.

Pushes the button again and holds it down.

Nothing happens. The bell portion is plugged into electricity. The battery powered button can send the signal all day, but nothing is going to happen on the other end. The landlady must be the only one with power.

Knocks on the door with the padded end of his flashlight. The door is wood, not steel like the other one.

The moans sound like they are closer.

He clips the flashlight onto his rifle, with the light still on. Tries the doorknob and it turns. The door swings open revealing a short hallway and a living room beyond. Wind stirs the curtains in the room. Windows must be open. He can smell something burning, and something dead.

Four corpses are lined up on the floor in front of the living room couch. Each of them has been shot through the head. He looks around, but doesn't see a gun anywhere. They've been dragged here anyway.

The whole setup looks much the same as the other penthouse apartment. He glances out the window, but can't see a fire escape. There is a very nice view of the south side of St. Pete.

He steps around the bodies, three elderly women and a middle aged woman in a nurses outfit. There is a doorway in the southwest corner. The kitchen and dining room are the other way.

The doorway opens on another hallway. Three doors on the left and one on the far right end. The first door is open and blood is pooled all over an old parquet floor. He sweeps the room, left to right. Sees a double bed, two dressers, a book shelf and an open closet. Clothes wrapped in plastic hang in the closet. An open window is centered in the west wall, and a slight breeze is shifting the vanes of a Venetian blind.

A fire escape is visible through the window.

The voice of the pilot in his ears, "You hear me Private Booth?"

Booth nods, then catches himself, "Yes sir, I've got Jacobs headset on."

"We're passing over Interstate 275 now. About eight minutes we'll be at the Gandy Bridge approaches. Should be real close to the crash site of the President's wife's chopper."

"Yes sir."

"I'm going to have to go in fast Private. I want you and your men off asap. We're running low on fuel and I'm going to leave you there to go gas up. You understand?"

"We'll be on our own for a while."

"Exactly. Probably an hour at least. We should be a priority though."

"Just come back for us. Any word on whether she's even alive?"

"Nothing."

Booth turns back to the other two men. Hicks has a water bottle attached to his mask and is drinking. Lepski is retying a boot lace.

"You guys ready?"

"Sure thing," says Hicks.

Lepski nods, "Wish the Sarge were still with us."

"Might be better that he isn't," says Hicks.

"Least he gives a shit about something Hicks!" Lepski roars. "He Ain't all wrapped up in worrying about stuff that don't matter like Booth here."

"That's enough Private!" shouts Lassiter. "Lock it up."

"It's okay, Chief," says Booth, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "Like it or not Lepski, Jacobs was over the edge. This isn't like Iraq. We can't haul dead bodies around. Jacobs didn't accept that."

The lenses of Lepski mask are fogged over, "None of us were supposed to die, Booth. We should have gone with him."

"Who're you kidding Lepski?" asks Lassiter, "We're all going to die."

Johnny

The last corpse twitches a final time, and is still. He drops the now useless shovel in the dirt. The blood-drenched, gore-flecked head is snapped off from the haft. He crouches in the shadow of an old oak tree, and peers cautiously in all directions. Sweat is rolling off him in rivers, and his shirt is literally soaked and salt-rimed. The yellow safety vest is long gone, but his name badge is still there.

Fucking crazy, hateful people. His massive chest heaves, as he tries to pull in enough air, and to settle down.

Not everyone has their own personalized theme music, but Johnny Dead Eye Kruger does. For thirty years now the a cappella lines still resonate in his mind.

"What's the name of that guy: Dead Eye, Dead Eye, Dead Eye!"

Clear as day, Johnny can still hear the three kids who used to torment him, still hear the harmony and dedication that they would pour into the song.

Even if he could forget, there are always people out there just waiting for their chance to put him down---To de-humanize him, mistaking him for the monster they want him to be.

Always the voices: "Better behave, or I'll let that man over there get you!" That one was the classic, never-to-be-forgot chart topper. The frustrated mother trying to quiet a distraught child, pointing a finger at him, and threatening her child with him---As if he were some monster without feelings of his own, to be pointed at without regard.

People could never see past his fright mask of a face. Add his six and a half foot frame to the picture and he either frightened or amused people. Whether he liked it or not, he would always be noticed. There was a choice. He could either mystify people by wearing an eye patch or horrify them with his blind, milky white, right eye. Most of the time, he simply kept the eye closed.

A woman bursts through the front door of a office building a mere ten feet to his left. Her blouse is torn, and she is screaming. Two men follow close behind her, one of them laughing, as the other shouts, "Run bitch, but we're going to catch you!"

Johnny reaches up and pulls the eye patch off, then shoves it into his pants pocket.

Becoming a monster might be his best option right now. He stands up, and all three people stop.

"Whoa Torenz, who's this?" the smaller, younger man asks. Both men are big, but not as big as Johnny. Torenz is black, with enormous shoulders, wearing a sleeveless black t-shirt, jeans and boots. There are gold chains around his neck and on each wrist. Although in good shape, there is the beginnings of a jowl beneath his chin. The other guy is short, white and stocky with seemingly no neck. He's wearing jeans with the fly undone, and sneakers. Mirrored sunglasses cover his eyes, and a goatee gives him a sinister air. A portrait of Joseph Stalin is tattooed over most of his muscled chest. As for the woman, Johnny notices only that she is black, with long braided hair, and wearing a yellow, flowered dress and sandals.

"Not sure what we got here, Rodney. Looks like a big dummy."

Johnny opens his right eye. The woman gasps, backs up a step or two, then almost falls on her ass. The two men seem frozen.

"Fuck, what's wrong with his eye, Torenz? Is he one of them?"

Johnny starts toward them and pulls a hammer from his belt.

The woman rolls out of the way, and gets to her feet. Johnny ignores her.

"You gonna say anything, dummy?" Rodney asks.

Johnny grins, steps forward with his left foot and swings the hammer.

Rodney ducks beneath the swing, but is too slow as Johnny's right foot comes forward and he reverses the hammer into a backswing. The steel head hits Rodney behind his right ear, punching through lank hair, then oily pocked skin before lodging deep into his skull. Rodney crashes to the ground, yanking the hammer from Johnny's hand.

Something makes Johnny look up.

Torenz is pointing a big revolver right at him. He's smiling.

Johnny's grin is still in place.

Torenz shifts the pistol's barrel to the woman.

The grin slips, and before he can speak, the weapon fires. The woman's head jerks and she collapses to the ground. Johnny doesn't look, just rushes toward the other man. Torenz aims toward him, and squeezes off two shots.

One shot hits Johnny in the left foot and he falls face first in the dirt.

Torenz doesn't stick around. Johnny watches him run south into the stalled traffic on Thirty Fourth Street.

The reporter's always dignified, calm mien is in place. Slim, debonair Lance Mathers, beloved and trusted by the people, is everything that Foster is not.

He isn't even sweating. Guy has me up against the ropes with one question. No teleprompter, no aides standing by, just the unblinking eye of the camera with its 'Live' light on. The stack of notes and reports in front of him are almost all out of date, and complete useless. He clears his throat. Dry as a piece of cotton. "Get us some water will you, Lieutenant?" he asks. The young soldier, with the old face, nods, and heads for the kitchen in the back of the room.

"Back to the question, if I may, Mr. President?"

Foster turns his attention away from the vast empty cafeteria They're sitting in, and tries to gather his thoughts.

"The answer is yes, Lance. The vice president, the speaker, and almost anybody else you can think of are missing or dead. My cabinet never made it out of the capitol. I've been told that most of the Senate and Congress got out. Right now, no word whether they survived after escaping. There are other shelters such as this one. Still no definitive word on the Joint Chiefs."

Lieutenant Green comes back with a plastic pitcher of water and two glasses. A sheen of condensation glistens on the pitcher. Green fills both glasses and sets them before the two men.

"Thank you Lieutenant," Foster says. Mathers is silent.

Green nods and backs away.

Foster can see big chunks of ice, as he lifts the glass to his lips and swallows gratefully. Slow down, There's ice in the water. A moment later, the glass is empty. He reaches for the pitcher.

"What about the First Lady and your children, Mr. President?"

Hand on the handle, Foster pauses, meets the other man's eyes and forces himself not to answer immediately. He looks human, but...All the instincts of a shark or tiger. Remorseless.

Somehow, despite the grief and outrage coursing through him, Foster answers in a steady voice, "Like most everyone out there, Lance, I have my own personal grief and loss. They've been missing for hours."

"I'm sorry, Mr. President, I didn't know."

Foster raises an eyebrow, "No, perhaps you didn't, Lance, but the public should know that we all are firmly mired in this disaster. I have a stake in seeing this through also. Yes, I am safe in a bunker, but my wife and children are not. Whether we like it or not, once any of us dares to love someone we open ourselves up to be hurt. The whole world faces this situation."

Mathers face has gone beet red. "Mr. President.."

"Let me finish Lance. What I'm trying to say here is this: No single country is at stake here, but the human race is. If we don't buckle down and trust each other, all is lost. My fellow Americans, we are recalling every oversea asset we have. We will persevere in this endeavor, and then our troops will be home to help. In the meantime, take care of each other. Hold on, and be strong. God bless."

Foster stands up and walks away. Behind him, he can picture the flustered look on Mathers face. Hears the cameraman say, "Guess That's a rap, Mr. Mathers?"

Talaski

"Put me down, you bastard! Put me down!"

Talaski stops running and sets her down. Suzy leans against his chest, sobbing and breathing hard. Amy puts an arm around her. Mills stops just behind both of them, and looks around for zombies or any other threat.

"Can't believe he's dead," Suzy says, "I can't believe he left me."

Keller speaks up. "He wasn't thinking about you at all."

"We don't have time for this," Mills says. "A block more and we'll be there." Talaski wraps Suzy in his arms. "Take a deep breath and calm down," he whispers in her ear.

Mills says, "We need to get to the truck. Can everyone calm down long enough to do that?"

"You calm?" Talaski whispers again in Suzy's ear.

"Yes! Let's just get out of here, okay?" she asks.

"Follow me," Mills says, and lets her arms go. All four of them set off at an easy jog.

Things never change. We're still killing each other. Guess we'll be pitiable petty creatures down to the end. Fucking Mitch!

Talaski lets the thoughts slide away, and focuses. Shoves the barrel of his shotgun right into the face of one of the monsters, and pulls the trigger. The thing's head and a large portion of its upper torso are obliterated in the blast, spraying a wide area behind in blood and gibbets in flesh.

They all run, firing into the growing crowd, and only when they actually see the truck, does he allow any hope to re-gain a foothold.

Tracks

The makeshift armory is full. There isn't a wide selection, but there is a lot of what there is. There are racks of rifles, machine guns and pistols and boxes of ammo and grenades. Nothing exotic, but all of it deadly.

"Take all the ammo you can carry," Hadley says. "Extra weapons for others is great, but the ammo is what we'll need later."

Bronte is standing next to Tracks. He whispers, "Soon now, Tracks. We need to be ready."

Tracks nods, and feels his eyes tear up, "He putting up a good show, but he Ain't accepting it yet."

"No, he isn't, and he's looking worse."

"True." Hadley is even paler than before, and the shirt he's wearing is splotched with sweat and blood. Behind him, Chief Nast and the sailor, Bailov are stacking two dolly carts with ammo crates.

"Good thing one of the boats is big," Graham says to Ralls. "The little Sea Hummer we have would never take this much weight with everyone on it."

"I'd really like to take one of our motorized lifeboats. They are stocked and ready with food and water," Ralls says.

Graham picks up several M-4 rifles and slings them over each shoulder. He keeps one in his hands ready. "Maybe we can, Captain."

"To tell you the truth, I think it will. We only have to go up two decks."

"Excuse me, gentlemen," says Bronte, "the problem with your idea is that we have people waiting for us to come back the same way."

Tracks picks up an M-4 complete with a grenade launcher, and takes two belts of grenades, slinging each belt over a different shoulder. He places a grenade in the launcher and loads a full magazine into the rifle. There is no hesitation in any of his actions.

"I'll take one of those rifles too, Alan," says Hadley. "I don't think we'll get out of here, as easy as we got in."

Tracks loads and hands over one of the rifles.

"Not too far removed from the M-16A1," Hadley says, looking it over.

"Not too much," Tracks agrees with a nod.

Bronte takes two rifles, buckles an LBE complete with a pistol around his waist, then picks up a SAW, otherwise known as the Squad Automatic Weapon. "You got ammo for this on the dollies?" he asks, while fitting a drum magazine into the weapon's well. He then picks up two more and shoves them into a backpack.

"Sure," says Nast. "Looks like you boys know what you're doing."

"We all soldiers," answers Tracks. "At least used to be. Hard to forget."

"So," says the attractive red-haired woman, "are we taking the motorized lifeboat or not?"

Ralls looks Bronte in the eyes. "I say we do it. We got the firepower."

"The elevators are working," says Nast. "We just put all the extra stuff and the dolly carts on the elevators, hit the Leto Deck button, and follow them up on the stairs. Simple."

"I will ride up in one," says Hadley. "I don't think I'll make it up or down anymore stairs. Maybe I can take some of them with me."

Bronte nods slowly at Ralls. "Me, Tracks, Hadley and the woman, will cover for you while you get the lifeboat ready."

"Sounds good to me," Ralls replies.

"I am not the woman," says the redhead, "I am Lieutenant Sinclair, and I am taking as many chances as you are."

"Yes ma'am, I'll remember that."

Jacobs

Most of the fire escape is missing. Only this floor remains. The rest lies in a pile of twisted metal on the ground.

Only way out of here is that stairwell. I do have forty feet of rope in my backpack, but that is useless from this high up.

"What are you doing in here boy?"

The voice is male, low and menacing, some sort of Spanish accent. Jacobs very carefully levers himself back into the building.

"Ain't no way out, 'cept like the ladies out there."

"Why is that?" Jacobs asks, still refusing to look at the other man, only a moment later he reaches his feet and stands up.

"Cause I said so," the man says.

Jacobs is within two quick steps of the other guy, a hunched over, barrel-chested guy wearing a pair of faded cut-off Levi's, a white, short-sleeved Guayabera shirt, and a pair of lime-green Croc sandals. He is holding an old K-Bar bayonet. A drop of blood drips off the point drips onto the floor.

"You Mr. Clements?"

"Clemente."

"Oh, the lady next door..."

"That bitch, she never pronounces my name properly."

"Well, Mister Clemente, I was just looking for an easy way down. Looks like your fire escape is gone. So I'll just head on down the stairs."

The man stares him in the eyes for a moment, then looks down. The knife twirls in his hand. Must practice fucking around with the damn thing.

"Take me with you."

For a second or two, Jacobs toys with the idea. Guy might go psycho on me if I say no. Just have to put some stink on him then. "No can do. I'm on a special assignment. Now if you want to follow me down, then leave about twenty minutes after me. I catch you creeping up on me, though, and I'll waste you."

"That your final answer?" the man asks. "Not very friendly are you?"

Jacobs shifts the M-4 around, sees the red dot of the laser slide across the man's face and stops it just above the nose. Squeezes the trigger.

"No I'm not."

The echo of the shot is still in his ears as the body falls and sprawls backward in the doorway.

Natalie

She stops in the grass off to the side at the bottom of the entrance ramp and looks across the piled up cars. Maybe if I try the exit ramp?

The ramp is full as far as she can see on it. Probably a lot of things there too, but maybe not. Something behind her tries to moan, but manages only a disgusting choking rattle, reminding her that she has no time to stand around debating what to do.

Oh God, my feet Mom, my feet hurt bad!

Halfway across 22nd Avenue, she sees forty or fifty zombies coming down the ramp. There is no way to run past them. Hears herself blubbering, but doesn't stop. Runs back toward the car.

Nothing stops her, or slows her down on the way back. She just can't believe how hard it is to get home. The interstate runs the length of St. Petersburg. If every underpass is blocked...She forces that thought away. I will get home. There has to be a way.

She turns the key, and the engine starts right up. Puts her foot on the brake and shifts into reverse. Glances behind and sees a short, plump woman wearing an orange apron standing right behind the trunk. Part of the woman's face has been chewed, and the sight pushes Natalie over the edge. She floors the gas and the woman disappears so fast beneath the car that she is only able to stop after running her over completely.

The wheels roll over the corpse again as Natalie shifts into drive, and heads for the exit. She can smell burning rubber as she peels back out onto 22nd Avenue North and turns left away from the Interstate.

I'll try 38th Avenue North. Might make it taking back roads.

Morgan

Trish kneels down and peers around the corner of the building. Morgan stops beside her and kneels down too. Not sure how much good the kneeling is doing us, but I'll go along.

The smell hits him before he can even take in the scene that awaits them. Dead meat rotting in the sun. Corpses are all over the parking lot. Over a hundred. A major battle of some type was fought here. There are several vehicles, but all of them are shot up.

Some of the corpses still have guns in their hands.

"Whatever happened here probably isn't over," Trish says. "I think people came expecting to loot the place and someone inside fought them off."

"I think you're right."

"We have to have a wheelchair. So, I'm going in," she says.

"I'm going with you, like it or not."

She looks at him, and doesn't conceal her admiration. "You are a good man, Morgan. Don't let anyone tell you different."

He blushes. "I wish that were so, Trish, but thanks for saying it."

Her hand is on his back as she stands up. She looks around the corner of the building. The doors have been smashed open. More corpses lie among the glass and twisted metal. "Hello!" she shouts. "Hello in there! Anybody home?"

No one answers.

Trish steps around the corner, heads toward the nearest corpse holding a gun. It's a dead woman laying face down: A very large dead woman actually. Several flies rise out of the bloody corn-rowed hair on top of her head. He imagines her trying not to look too close. There is a semi-automatic pistol in the woman's hand. Not a big gun. Something a woman could handle no problem. She grabs the gun by the barrel and tries to twist it out of the woman's grip. The fingers appear stiff, but she seems determined. A few seconds later the gun comes free.

He can't help but watch every move she makes. Something a little bit icy about her, something that almost reminds him of his lost love, Doctor Bastrov. Trish pauses a moment more, looking for the magazine release on the pistol. Finds it on the left side just behind the trigger, and pushes it. The magazine drops an inch or two and she pulls it free. She knows her business. There are little windows in the magazine to show how many bullets are left. "I got five bullets," she says and then replaces the magazine. Probably one still in the chamber, too. Better than nothing. I'll go first anyway. She may know about guns, but can she shoot?

Morgan comes out from around the corner, with his gun pointing toward the entrance. Not a single front window is still intact. Shattered glass is all over the ground, as are some more bodies that got closer than the others.

He lets out a low whistle.

A short very dark-skinned, black man staggers just inside the entrance doors. Behind him are five or six people. His hair is shorn almost down to the scalp and he is wearing jeans, a green t-shirt and boots. Three big bloody holes show in the t-shirt.

"So, all you want is a wheelchair?" Morgan asks.

"I'd like to get some food and water, but the wheelchair is what we really need."

"I'll shoot first until I run out, then you cover me, ok?"

"Sure Morgan, just remember I only have five or six rounds in this thing."

The short guy is getting very close. Morgan aims for the nose and fires. The guy jerks to a stop and drops. Morgan shifts his aim. A tall, but average-sized guy in a green apron shuffles closer, almost on top of the first one. The gun fires and jerks up in Morgan's hand. Fuck! Too nervous. The guy continues forward, only now he's reaching out, way too close. Missed completely.

Trish waits beside him, hopefully trying to soak up details of the store. Morgan can see shopping carts are to the left, and a huge scale for people is on the right. A second set of automatic doors are also smashed.

Morgan fires again and the guy in the apron twists to the left, then falls forward with a nice hole drilled in his forehead.

Five more shots take down the remaining four corpses.

His ears are ringing and for the moment the smell of gunpowder overpowers the smell of rot and death.

"Re-load while you can," Trish says.

"Yeah, and then let's go shopping."

She grins. "You are getting better at focusing on what is important."

He puts the almost empty magazine in his left front pants pocket and pulls a new one out of his right. Three more full magazines left. While re-loading, he watches Trish from the corner of his eye. She steps gingerly over the newly put down corpses and stops by the rows of carts. "Here's our wheelchair!" she exclaims, pulling a folded shape on wheels free.

"If we have to push him around in that very far, we're all dead," he says.

Trish lets out a sigh. "We have to get him off the roof first. Then we'll worry about finding a car or something, okay?"

"All righty."

"You ready yet?"

"I forgot my coupons, but..."

She pushes the chair through the broken doors and into the store proper. Morgan follows her in, gun in hand. Toward the back of the store, its almost pitch black inside.

"I can't see, Morgan. We need flashlights."

"Let me try over by the registers. You can usually find flashlights there; you know, in case of storms and the power fails."

"I'm right behind you."

They skirt a large, mounded display of Pepsi products and the closest register is about ten feet away. The light is better because they are close to a second set of doors.

Morgan squats down behind the register counter and starts rummaging around. Comes up with a flashlight almost immediately. He hands it to Trish.

"Now, we'll find one for me, and we should be in business," he says.

"I wonder if we could make it through the whole store to the receiving dock area and go out that way?" Trish asks.

"I think we'd be pushing our luck. Be better for us to just grab some snacks and drinks, get the hell out, and be happy with what we have."

Morgan can see a dreamy look on Trish's face. Maybe she has a good idea.

Her next sentence confirms his hope.

"Be even better if one of the corpses has car keys that match a car out front."

Booth

"I'm taking my mask off," Booth says. "I'd rather be able to see better, than wear the goddamned thing any longer."

Lassiter shrugs at him. Without further ado, Booth puts his helmet in his lap and pulls the mask off. The air cycling through the open cabin provides immediate relief, and quickly dries the sweat. Lepski and Hicks follow his lead and take theirs off too.

"Ah, that air feels good," says Hicks.

The land beneath the chopper has given way to large swathes of mangroves. There are roads cutting through the greenery like grey scars, occasional buildings, but the dominating feature is the massive power plant on the edge of the bay. Three colossal smoke stacks tower into the sky surrounded by more buildings.

The helicopter banks right, and on a mangrove island not far from the Plant, a plume of smoke rises. The tail rotors of another helicopter are visible rising from the jungle-like vegetation.

Booth puts his helmet back on, and plugs the headset back in. A moment or two later, Captain Duncan's voice says, "We'll set down just outside the perimeter fence. It is just a short jog from there to the water's edge and the water is shallow all the way to the wreck site island."

"Roger that," Booth says.

"Get ready. We're going in."

Lassiter swivels around and grabs hold of an M-60 machine gun mounted in the doorway. Booth disconnects from the headset and gets ready, watching for Lassiter's signal.

The helicopter hovers a couple of feet above a wide expanse of grass, when Lepski, Hicks and finally Booth drop the short distance and kneel, each facing a different direction. Moments later the chopper rises up and then swivels around and flies away on a southerly heading.

"Anybody see anything?" Booth asks over his helmet mic.

"Clear," both men answer. The fence is at their back roughly thirty feet away, and the mangroves begin about twenty feet in front of them.

"I'll take point," Booth says.

"I'll take rear guard," says Hicks.

The three men cross the grass quickly, and begin to wend their way through the tangled roots of the mangrove trees. The ground is soft, mucky and riddled with the holes made by hordes of fiddler crabs. The waves coming in are gentle, and they walk quite a distance before it even comes to their waists.

"At least we can see a fucking shark coming," says Hicks.

"I'm surprised how clear it is," Lepski replies. "Look at all the fish!"

Booth clears his throat. "Knock it off guys. Concentrate."

"How many hours we been at this straight, Booth?" asks Hicks. "Over twenty. And whether you are willing to admit it or not, we're still playing a game while the rest of the world falls apart or does whatever the fuck they want."

"Doesn't matter. None of that shit matters. What's important is doing what we trained to do most of our lives. The rest of the world can go to hell, but we will take care of business."

Hicks face is very red. Even worse, he stops and is striding toward Booth. For the first time, Booth gets a scary thought. What if Hicks has been drinking, or worse? His nose is an angry red with bright visible veins. Can almost imagine them pulsing with blood.

"I hate to tell you this now, Booth, but what the fuck are we risking our lives for? The President's wife and kids?"

Booth stops, almost hip deep now in the warm water. "You got someplace better to be Hicks? Somebody waiting for you at home?" Both of those were cheap shots and both scored. Hicks is blinking his eyes rapidly, but too late, tears are running down his cheeks.

"You goddamn bastard Booth, you goddamned fucking bastard," Hicks says, but his voice is broken and all the outrage drained away.

The three men resume wading, and within a few strides the water level drops again. "I can smell AV gas," says Lepski. Booth's boots are now splashing in ankle deep water.

A large chunk of the downed chopper is visible.

A woman stands up in the wreckage, a pistol held in both hands, but the barrel is pointing down.

"First Lady?" Booth asks, out loud.

The woman nods, and sobs, "Oh thank God!"

Anton

He lies on his back on the immense pebbled roof, and bakes in the sun like a sickly whale cast up on shore, too weak, and too apathetic to fight any longer. Through slitted eyes, he watches a slowly drifting cloud, hoping it will block out the sun, if only for a moment or two. The sweat pouring from his body provides some comfort when the breeze picks up.

Wish I had my sunglasses and hat.

A fly buzzes him, and he swats at it half-heartedly.

Come get me my lord. I'm ready.

The voice, usually so comforting and friendly, has taken on a whining quality that grates on his nerves.

"I wonder where they are Anton? We heard all those shots. Think they are dead?"

He watches her pace, fingers knotted in her dress, revealing long relatively well-formed legs. From somewhere, he finds the grace to answer kindly, "They're ok, Debbie. Just relax. Those two are survivors."

"I was mean to Morgan, you know."

"Oh?"

Hope she doesn't chatter too much longer. My throat and mouth are parched.

"We all were actually," she says, and walks back near him. Her shadow falls over his face and he almost thanks her. "Nobody thanked him for what he did to help us. I was worried he was getting goofy over me, and I just didn't want him to expect a reward or something. I'm still grieving over Larry."

"He might have a big dick Debs," he hears himself say and laughs. Debbie blushes, and half turns away, choking back a laugh. The sun is back to blasting down on him.

"You and your filthy mind, Anton, too bad you can't..."

He laughs again. "Yeah, I have the filthy mind, Debbie, but even when it worked, my dick was never large."

For some reason, this admission must have triggered something. The next thing he knows, she is sitting beside him with his head cradled in her lap. Her shadow falls over him. A tear falls, hitting his cheek.

"I wonder if they'll be back soon..."

Daric

The Sea Hummer and catamaran float together in a light chop of water the color of weak tea. Sunlight reflecting off the water and the gleaming white side of the grounded cruise ship makes it hard to open his eyes more than a squint. With a pair of binoculars, he slowly scans the ship's upper decks, hoping for a glimpse of Bronte or Tracks.

Ozzie stands beside him with an arm over his shoulders. "I'm ready, when they appear, son. "I got the Hummer all set. All I have to do is cast off one line and I can zip right over."

Daric looks up at the old, lean, grizzled white man. The man's skin is nearly as dark as his own, but has a mahogany tint. Might be an Indian or something. The man's shaggy white hair and eyebrows are the only things to wreck that image. Never seen an Indian with white hair.

"I need to go help them, Ozzie," Daric says.

Ozzie looks down at him, "Think you are ready?"

"Yes sir."

"Can you untie a knot real quick, if I show you?"

"Yes sir."

Ozzie kneels down beside him. "Watch closely son. First you pull here, then..."

Lassiter

"Whiskey Three Two Zero, are we clear to land, over?"

Lassiter listens with half an ear to the pilot negotiating where to land, while taking in what there is to see. Apparently a barge directly below them is the agreed upon spot, because they are already descending. The Skyway Bridge is the major feature in the area, but the line of ships anchored in the shipping channel is of more interest. He spots three large Coast Guard Cutters, a cruise ship, an oil tanker and a freighter. Even further out he notices the sleek shape of what looks like a submarine. The target barge is one of six, all lashed together and anchored just south of the eastbound span of the Skyway. Two tugboats are tied up with the barges.

The pilot, Duncan, sets them down gently, while his co-pilot, Lot is already giving Lassiter orders: "Listen Chief," he says with a faint Carolina accent, "we need coffee and some snacks, anything you can get a hold off. Notice any problems with our bird from your end?"

"Negative Lieutenant to problems."

Lassiter looks up to see a whole team of blue-uniformed, Coast Guard mechanics are converging on the chopper. Best of all, a petite woman hurries forward, hunched over beneath the still turning rotors carrying two bags. With a smile she holds up the first bag, and he sees the word coffee scrawled on it. The second bag says donuts. She hands them both over.

He holds both bags for a moment and watches two guardsmen hook them up to a fuel hose. When he's sure they know what They're doing, he steps over to the cockpit and hands the bags through to Lot.

"Hey! This is great Chief!" exclaims Duncan. "There's a coffee in here for you to and plenty of donuts. This day might get better yet."

Duncan passes the coffee bag back to him. Lassiter waves off the bag a donuts, sits down and opens the bag. Reaches in and closes his hand around a large Styrofoam cup. Creamers and sugar are in the bag too, but black sounds real good right now. He takes off the lid and takes a careful sip. Just the right temperature. Closes his eyes, takes a large swallow and has a thought: This is probably as good a time as it's ever going to get again.

I just need to see this through and then we'll see about tomorrow.

"You ready Chief?" comes through the headset. "We've got full tanks."

See it through.

The guardsmen are disconnecting the hose. "Wait one!" he says, watching for all of them to get clear. "We're clear, sir!"

Natalie

One lane on Thirty Eighth Avenue, under the Interstate 275 overpass, is clear. Newspapers float and flutter everywhere in the tangled mess of cars and sprawled dead bodies.

Somebody must've unblocked it.

The car has drifted to a complete stop and she is sitting there, foot now on the brake, gathering her courage. No zombies or people around. Just bodies.

The pistol is in her lap. Just in case. The whole thing might be a trap.

I can't sit here forever.

Nothing moving up on the interstate, that she can see.

I don't think I could go through there slow. No way. Like a rocket is the only way. And the longer I sit here, the less likely I'll ever go.

Her foot eases onto the gas and floors it. The car leaps forward, tires squealing, and engine roaring as she fights to keep aimed at the opening. The way through narrows and for a second or two she is sure she'll sure the car won't fit---But then the car is in the clear, back in the sunshine with not a single car in front of her at least until 16th Street North, several blocks away.

Off to the right side, she drives right past two blurred figures, standing beside a tow truck. There is a muffled shout, and then she is fifty yards away, and already beginning to stand on the brakes a bit in order to make the turn safely onto 16th Street North. Things shift in the seat beside her and in the midst of the right turn the gun slides from her lap and falls down between her legs.

Sixteenth Street North looks clear all the way south into the downtown area, and the police station. The only problem is the Allendale neighborhood east, to Natalie's left, is full of burning houses. Smoke is drifting west across the road, but is dispersing fast.

Bodies are in the street sprawled in puddles of blood. Some have been driven over. Road kill. Human road kill. Who could ever imagine this? Good Lord is that someone's leg on that car's roof? And the blood...

She weaves in and out, and is pretty sure her tires only rolled over two of the bodies. Even that left her shuddering.

The stoplights are all out. The streets are deserted. Lines are down, and some of them must have been hot. Around one downed line alone, she spots five blackened corpses. More houses are either burning or still smoldering.

At the intersection of 22nd Avenue North and 16th Street North, she sees two army vehicles: a Humvee with a big gun on its roof, and a big six-wheeled truck. Sunlight glints off countless spent brass cartridges lying on the street. More bodies sprawl with abandon, but many of these are missing wholes chunks of flesh. Probably victims of the big gun. She laughs. Not victims. Anything but.

She catches herself slowing down. Her nerves are on a razor's edge, and the big menacing gun is intimidating. No reason to be afraid. The wheels of her car are jolting and rolling over bodies now. Too many to avoid. With each one, she can hear herself moaning and crying at the horror. Trying not to hear the morbid sounds of bodies and limbs being run over.

No one appears to be in the vehicles. The car is almost down to a crawl. Her eyes are still drawn to the gun. The barrel is long and full of holes. A belt of immense bullets ribbons out from a box to a slot in the side of the gun.

Movement behind the vehicle draws her attention as she draws even with it. A lean, young guy in an army uniform is sitting on the ground, leaning against the driver's door. His hair is a sandy brown, and he has a reddish five o'clock growth on his cheeks.

She actually puts her foot on the brake, and the car rocks briefly then stops.

"You ok?" she asks.

The guy looks up, and she sees his eyes are a steely blue. For a moment, she was worried they'd be milky white. That he'd be one of them.

He shakes his head. "The last attack...all my friends are dead. Nobody answers down at the command post near the Pier."

She debates in her head. "Want to come with me?" The words are out before she can stop them.

"I'm supposed to stay here, but I'm all alone. Sergeant Creek took the rest of the platoon and left me here with my friend, Frances and Corporal Hunt. Corporal Hunt is dead over by the Deuce and a half, and Frances..."

"What's your name?" she asks softly, realizing that he has been crying.

"I'm Mark Leonard. Private First Class Leonard."

"Well, Mark, I could really use your help. I doubt your sergeant would mind."

"If he comes back and I'm gone, he probably would raise hell if he knew the truth. For all he knows, though I'm missing and dead. We haven't heard from them in hours."

"So you'll help me then?"

"What are we doing?"

"Going to check on my mom. I'm not too good with guns. Maybe you wouldn't mind protecting me while we go to my house?"

He stands up, grabbing a helmet and his rifle while doing so. "If you'll feed me when we get there, you have a deal," he says, giving her a little grin.

"You have a deal, Mark."

"What's your name?"

"I'm Natalie."

Jacobs

Jacobs plants both feet, inhales deeply, and puts his first bullet right between an older man's eyes. The man falls backwards. Another is coming. Shift aim. Fire again. The corpse tumbles back down the stairs.

More of them are pressing forward, up the stairs, out of the darkness. He takes a grenade from one of the loops alongside his ammo pouch. Pulls the pin, counts to three and tosses it into the stairwell. Hears it hit the floor over the moans, then a second or two later it goes off. The explosion is loud. The things on the stairs stumble and lose their balance. Three of them press on.

Laser right between the eyes. Easy squeeze. The head disappears in a gout of blood and tissue matter. Shift aim again. Forehead just above a tattooed eyebrow. Close enough. Fires. Shift aim. This one getting too close. Inadvertently, he squeezes off a short burst. The bullets stitch the corpse from neck to cheek to temple, and slam into the wall behind. Deep breath. Magazine is more than half full. Advance a step or two.

Pans with the flashlight, from left to right. Bodies jumbled together at the landing below. None moving. Advance further, stepping over twisted limbs, spilled guts, staring eyes...Stops briefly on the landing. Making sure all are truly dead. Thinks, at least there is no patience or cunning to these things.

One more turning and the dark will be total. The light is very faint. The next landing is just visible. There is a door, and the stairs continue downward.

He stands completely still, but keeps his knees flexed, and just listens.

Nothing.

A carpet runner runs down the middle of the stairs. In the light of the flashlight it looks slick and slimy with something. The urge to just hurtle down the steps is almost overwhelming. Get away from the stench of death and shit. What I wouldn't do for fresh air, right now.

He forces his right boot down the next step. Pauses. What if more of them are just waiting behind the door? Shakes his head. Lifts his left leg and lowers himself another step. The laser jiggles, then steadies in the center of the door. His right hand holds the pistol grip of his rifle, and the left holds the flashlight with a strap around his wrist.

Surely the gunfire and the grenade would have drawn any of the things lurking down here?

Takes another step, and nearly slips.

Hears his own heavy breathing. Getting too worked up. Worst thing happens is that I die here. And wouldn't that just be a bitch? He forces himself into stillness once again, waiting until his breathing evens out and his pulse goes down.

The last steps go by while he tries to hold back against the urge to panic. There is blood on this landing too, but it is dry and flaky.

Without testing the door, he continues downward.

Hadley

One last time Marge. I'm a dead man now for sure. Cheated death too many times. Just let me help these good people.

He holds the M-4 carbine up, marveling that the U.S. Army could still be using a variant of the M-16. This particular model even has the grenade launcher attachment. As the elevator ascends, he figures out how to load a grenade. The whole thing now is whether he'll have to use it when the elevator reaches the top deck.

There is a slight jerk as the elevator comes to a halt. A moment later, the doors slide open. Mother of God... Four of the dead are standing in the doorway. A dozen or more stand in front of the other bank of elevators.

His finger jerks on the grenade trigger and the round shoots just over the head of a small, bald Asian man. The grenade hits the other elevators and explodes. While bodies fly in the background, the four creatures in front of him are unfazed and turn toward him immediately. Panicking a bit, he hoses all four until the magazine runs dry. Three of the things are down, but the fourth is untouched. It, what used to be a hulking soldier, only has to shamble forward a step or two to be on top of him, and yank the rifle right out of his hands. Hadley is still a big, strong man, and he steps forward and hammers the thing with a combination of left and right jabs. The rifle clatters to the floor and spins away.

Time is catching up to me Marge. Time was I'd knock this bastard on his ass, zombie or not. Hadley bends over wheezing, reaching for the pistol holstered on his belt.

The pistol comes free, but the dead soldier is right back on top of him, a hand at his throat and the other grappling with Hadley's free hand. The fingers contract remorselessly and everything begins to go dark around the edges. The snarling face comes forward, teeth bared, and Hadley feels the things teeth close over his nose and into his flesh, tearing...

Blood sprays as the thing tears with clenched teeth. The pain is unbelievable, but some shred of Hadley refuses to simply give in. He shifts his body and is able to get the revolver up under the thing's chin. Pulls the trigger once, twice.

The two big men stand together for a moment more, until one let's go of the other.

Tracks

They can all hear the explosion and shots while still in the stairwell.

Tracks takes the stairs right behind Bronte. "Should've rode with him," he says, breath huffing.

"Let it be, Tracks. He knew what he was doing."

Bronte crashes through the door without stopping, betraying his concern for the old police chief. Tracks is on his heels, followed closely by the others.

Hadley's corpse is already being consumed by four or five of the things. More are coming through a doorway off to the right. Bronte aims his rifle and begins to fire single shots. Tracks runs past him lugging the machine gun. The safety is already off and ready. He fires short bursts from the hip into the creatures coming through the doorway. The bodies jerk with the impacts in a macabre dance, while any that aren't hit in the head remain upright, or climb back to their feet. The redheaded woman, Sinclair stops beside him, picking her targets, knocking zombies down for good by aiming with her rifle's laser sight.

To his left, Tracks can see the opposite bank of elevators has been destroyed, two of the three, anyway. Probably the large explosion they heard. A small fire still smolders among the twisted metal doors and body parts.

"Cover me, while I re-load," Sinclair shouts in his ear. He nods, still a bit winded from running up the stairs. Bodies continue to twist and fall with each squeeze of the trigger. The tide of them is slowing, and he takes more time to try for head shots.

The machine gun runs dry, and Tracks hurries to re-load. Sinclair is back up alongside him, but she only fires twice. "Got them all for the moment," she says.

The others are already busy pulling the dolly carts out of the elevator. "Right this way," yells Chief Nast. He and the crewman are pulling the dollies, and the captain is standing nearby covering them. Bronte is looking back down the stairwell.

"What happened to Graham?" Bronte asks.

"Don't know," says Sinclair, while moving toward the captain's group.

"Hurry!" shouts the captain. "We need to hurry!"

"We can't leave him, Tracks," Bronte says, waving him over.

"He dead, Bronte."

Bronte watches his eyes, searching his face, wondering whether to believe, or disbelieve. Hard to tell if he preferred one to the other.

Gunfire erupts behind them, and so the decision is made.

Both men turn away from the stairs and run to join the others.

Daric

"Don't go Daric, please."

The look on her face is so heartrendingly sad that his resolve nearly crumbles.

"I'll be back Beth." he says, and shuts the door in her face, leaving her with the little dog.

She might have said something else, but he is already moving away. No sign of Ozzie or Janicea. They must be over on the smaller boat.

He doesn't allow himself to stop. Stopping will give him too much time to think about what he's doing. As it is, he can feel himself shaking. I'm not the best swimmer in the world.

The catamaran is swaying a bit with the waves. He sits down on the transom at the rear of the boat, slides his sneaker into the water, then swings his other leg over. Still holding on with both arms, he turns around and lets the warm water close over his chest. He holds a small plastic cooler and pushes himself away from the boat. The cooler keeps a good portion of him out of the water and allows him to kick his way toward the cruise ship.

Can't swim very good, but I'm good as long as I don't panic. At the back of his mind, just out of sight, a small fear niggles at him. No. Don't go there. Can't think about it, all control will be lost. Still, can't be ignored. A lot of dead people in the water and a lot of blood.

Sharks are out there. Probably all around.

Just can't see them.

He holds onto the cooler and keeps kicking, aiming for the doorway. Feels something brush his right thigh. Almost a 122 tugging sensation. Keeps kicking, but he can hear himself sob. What else could it be but a shark?

Please Jesus, let me make it and help my friend.

"Daric, you come back here!" shouts a voice. Janicea.

Keeps kicking without looking back.

"You heard me, I said come back this instant!"

"Daric!" this, the voice of Beth.

He pushes the cooler up and onto the edge of the doorway. The sound of the waves slapping against the ship's hull echo in the space beyond. He slings his leg over the edge and hauls himself aboard. There is a long tear in his pants. The skin looks abraded, almost stippled with tiny cuts. Looks like he brushed up against something abrasive. The pain is little more than a sting, so he pushes the thought from his mind.

"Gotta find Tracks," he says, and bends over slightly to open the cooler. The pistol is high and dry inside. Right next to it is a knife that must be for scaling fish or something. It has a hooked point and one side is serrated.

He pulls both weapons out along with one last item: a boxy, 6-cell flashlight. The knife has a clip-on sheath that he hooks to his belt on the left side. Holding the flashlight in his left hand, and the pistol in his right, he advances into the shadowy room beyond the doorway.

Graham

He hears himself sigh in the dark. The pain radiating across his chest and his left arm is enormous and it is all that he can do to stay upright on his knees. He draws a shallow breath, and feels very weak.

Running anywhere is out of the question.

I can kneel here in the dark for a while. I think this is it. Everything ends here. I failed at everything. Now, I'm going to die alone in the dark.

Tears come to his eyes. Using the rifle with one hand, and the other on the railing, he manages to rise to his feet.

Can't believe none of them have come for me. No friends or zombies. Course, calling them friends might be stretching the truth. They barely know me.

His balance isn't good.

Maybe I can make my way back to the exit. I only made it up one flight of stairs. Just down, and then twenty steps maybe, and I'm in the doorway. Fire a shot if I have too to get Ozzie's attention.

The pain is doubling him over. He can almost feel it magnifying. He takes a step down, and his legs nearly buckle. Takes another, then another, almost stumbling downstairs, knowing he is out of control. At the last moment, he reaches over with his left hand and manages to stop his plunge. Both legs are trembling, and the pain keeps coming in waves.

I'm about to fall. No strength left. He can hear his own breathing, heavy and labored. Coughs. Feels his fingers let go. Brief sensation of falling. A dark wave overtakes him, rending and tearing. A tether snaps, the pain ends. He soars.

Graham's lifeless body falls headfirst and is still.

Foster

He sits in front of the computer screen, trying to concentrate on the report in front of him. Finally pushed myself too far. No amount of coffee is going to keep me awake now. The report is entitled, "Overseas Assets and the Status of Our Allies."

Three or four smudges mar the computer screen, and the keyboard is filthy. Long way from home Burt.

He licks his lips. Thirsty. A nice big Scotch would probably hit the spot right now.

No contact with South Korea, Japan and Philippines. Australia under martial law, but much of the continent in upheaval. The words mean nothing. His eyelids droop. He lays his head on the desk, slips away without even knowing it. Remembers stepping outside, feeling the brisk wind on his face, the drift of fallen leaves rustling, tumbling images of the last day in the White House.

He remembers grubby hands reaching through the fence bars and a man's pale face, mouth open and gasping like a fish out of water, and his fingers with their half-circles of grime beneath the nails.

Images of burning vehicles and buildings, barely coherent sounds, a short burst of gunfire. "Mr. President," shouted from thirty voices. The brilliant, perfectly coiffed grass of the lawn beneath his feet. Bloody bullet-riddled corpses sprawled around a helicopter. Smoke pouring from the White House's upper windows.

"Run sir, for God's sake, run!" shouted one of his agents, one of the two of his secret servicemen about to be left behind. They stood side by side shooting into a horde of the things.

He turned away, refusing to see the servicemen die for him. Leaned his head back in the headrest, mumbling to himself.

"What's that sir?" asked Clive, the head of his detail. Foster wondered. So far, the dream has re-played the whole incident.

What did I say?

It wasn't good. Clive kept his face neutral, but he blinked. It wasn't a Kodak moment.

Then it comes, just a few muttered words, but once said...

"They're dirty. They're all so fucking dirty. Why is that Clive?"

Clive took him seriously, "Because They're beasts? sir, nothing more."

Keller

"What is wrong with you?" Amy asks, leaning toward him.

He closes his eyes briefly, forcing himself to compose an answer, rather than just blurt out something crazy. Feels her hand, cool on his cheek, apparently unmindful of the two-day stubble.

Seemingly in the background, he hears Mills say, "That's it, I'm through with fucking around. We're going to try 34th Street."

Talaski replies, "Like hell! Let's talk this through. We made it beneath the interstate. We got a four lane road for several miles now."

He opens his eyes, and finds a concerned look on her face, only inches from his own. "Guess I was close to the edge there. Wasn't thinking."

"You're not alone, Matt."

"This mean you'll go out with me?"

A smile flickers at the edge of her mouth. "What do you think, silly man? Haven't you noticed how close my lips are to yours? And nobody is even looking."

Keller grins, leans forward and kisses her. He raises a hand to the back of her neck, but is otherwise completely lost in the moment.

Trish

She tries to think about all the sweaty, stinky men she's encountered in the last couple years. None of them ever got closer than a lap dance, but she does feel a bit of shame, remembering. "This is really horrible," she says, without thinking.

Morgan looks up, "Just let me do it Trish. I've been around corpses and shit all my adult life."

"You were a janitor or something, weren't you?" she asks, looking at the burned and bloody coveralls he's wearing.

"Something like that," he replies. "I worked for the Coroner's office, and I was a janitor. It was a dirty fucking job, but I only had a few assholes to deal with."

"Funny, your job doesn't sound much different than mine."

He laughs, "Oh? Never did hear what you did before..."

"Well, I could say I was a featured entertainer, but really I was a nude dancer."

He's actually blushing. So red! You'd think I said something explicit. Guess the words took him right there.

He doesn't say anything, but rolls a corpse over and fishes in the guy's front right pocket. He pulls out a roll of money and a bunch of keys.

"Did I surprise you?" she asks.

"I'm not sure," he answers, keeping his head down. He crawls on his knees over to a woman's body, sprawled with her dress around her waist, and reaches for her purse. The dress is a shell white, and her thong is pink. Both colors contrast nicely with her creamy chocolate skin. She can't tell whether Morgan is staring at the woman or not.

"You a prude?" she asks.

"Does it matter, Trish? You already told me you weren't interested."

"It matters if it's a problem for you. Am I a slut now?"

He doesn't answer, but empties the woman's purse onto the floor. Change clatters, along with lipstick and a cell phone. A big wallet also falls out.

"Look Morgan, I really don't need this shit. Tell me what your problem is, or I'm out of here."

"My mom was a dancer too. Mostly a hooker, but she'd try to tell me all she did was dance. I didn't even know where. I grew up with my grandma for the most part. Mom was never home. God knows who my dad was. The two of them, my grandma and my mom, would argue about who my dad was, but I never found out. Somehow, hearing that you did the same thing is just a little too much."

"I never hooked Morgan."

"Go tell it to someone who cares, Trish. Let's just get a wheelchair, find some keys and get the hell out of here, ok?"

She stops and makes herself take a deep breath. Change the subject. Nothing more needs to be said.

"Wait, why don't we make this easy?" she asks.

"How?"

"Let's look for employees and get their keys. All their cars should be far out on the lot right? They park out there, so the customers can park up close. That way, we won't spend as much time looking? We'll have fewer sets of keys."

"Ok," he says, but doesn't sound convinced.

Booth

"We couldn't get him free, and I didn't know it but he was bleeding to death."

Booth looks into her eyes, and what he sees makes him want to look away. "It's okay, ma'am. We're here now. Sorry it took so long."

"He died and came back, just like my little girl." The woman's face is tough to look at, bruised and one eye is nearly scarlet with blood. She must still be able to see.

"Who ma'am?" he asks, not really wanting to know.

"The agent, I had to kill him. I had to kill them all. They all came back. I think I'm out of bullets, too."

Why can't Jacobs be here, dealing with this?

"That must have been tough, but we're here with you now. All we have to do is take you back to the LZ and wait for the chopper to come back."

"Thank God you are here," she says and presses her body against his, hugging him. The move is so unexpected; it takes him a moment to put his gloved hand on her back.

I'm hugging the president's wife.

Her other child, a boy comes over and hugs his mother's leg.

Never hear the end of this from Hicks. Still, it is probably the best thing I've done in days.

"You ready to leave ma'am?" he asks.

"Oh Dear God!" she shrieks.

"What the..." he says, angry that she shouted in his ear. He turns to see what is behind him.

"Fuck me!" shouts Hicks.

Hundreds of people are pouring out of the tangle of mangroves---Straight toward them. "Where the hell they coming from?"

"Probably was a big night over at Derby Lane last night. It Ain't far away," says Lepski. "Bunch of subdivisions close by too. They probably heard all the shooting before we got here."

"Water's shallow a long way out," Booth says, letting go, and almost shaking himself loose of the president's wife. "Maybe we can go around them and get back into the power plant compound."

He can see the woman giving him a dirty look, but she doesn't say anything. She just scoops her son into her arms.

If we all go together, it will be damn close. They might cut us off.

Lepski steps up beside him. "I'll stay here and play sniper. The shooting will probably draw them toward me, and I'll just wait until I see you make it, then I'll shuck everything and swim for it."

"Nah. That's what I'll do. Get a move on."

Lepski gives him his serious hangdog look. "I'm expendable Booth. You know I don't have anybody. Besides Hicks will never listen to me. Now get out of here."

Booth allows himself to hesitate, and That's all it takes. Lepski slings his rifle and swings himself up and onto the wreckage of the helicopter. "Better get going," is all he says.

The woman is looking at him, holding her son pressed to her chest. "Okay lady, lets get out of here. This way! Hicks on me!"

Booth stays close to the woman, while Hicks ranges out ahead. The sound of the first shot wakes the boy up. He almost jerks free of his mother's arms. More shots follow. Normally, he would count them, but already small details are distracting him. All three of them wade back out, but this time the water doesn't come up as far.

The tide is going out.

Those things will be able to go faster.

"Hurry lady!"

Natalie

She watches him out of the corner of her eye. He sits next to her in the passenger seat, with the window down, and the barrel of his rifle pointed outside. He seems to be keeping an eye on their surroundings. At least once she caught him keeping an eye on her thighs. Poor boy, and if he only knew. I'm taking a long, hot shower when I get home. Get him some food first, but then I'm getting cleaned up.

"So you're a cheerleader, huh?"

"Ah, yes I am, Mister Leonard. St. Pete High," she says, while turning left into an alleyway. There's only room for one car, and the alley itself is made of badly pitted asphalt. Puddles from last night still fill most of the holes.

"I went to Northeast, and call me Mark. Just graduated last year."

"I won't hold it against you," she says. His eyes are back on her legs. Despite all that has happened, she still feels a little tingle. I'm made of tough stuff.

"Why are you smiling?" he asks.

"No reason." She cuts the wheel hard to the right and they turn onto a short concrete driveway. A detached two-story, two car garage apartment stands just to their left with one door open. Oh-oh, mom's car isn't there. She shuts off the engine.

"My mom's car is gone."

"You got a cell phone to call her?" he asks.

"I lost it with my purse at the mall."

"I'd offer you mine, but it needs a charge."

She lets her forehead rest on the steering wheel. "Doesn't matter."

"No?"

"No, she doesn't have a cell phone. If she isn't at home, then God knows where she is."

"Could she be out looking for you?"

"No."

"Well, why don't we go inside and see if she's there first. No sense panicking until we know."

"I'm not panicking, but I was hoping."

He opens the door on his side and steps out. "Let's go." She can see the barrel of his rifle swinging around. Just in case, she picks up the big revolver and opens her door.

"I wonder if our renter, Odin is home?" she says have to herself, looking up at the apartment above the garage.

"Odin huh? Some name..."

"Let's check for my mom first. If she really is gone, then we'll check with him."

"Good plan," he says over his shoulder. He steps in front of her and goes up the two steps to the porch on the back of the house. Curtains in the back door window shift in a freshening breeze. She feels the back of her skirt fly up around her waist, and her cheeks go hot, thinking about Mark. Good thing he took the lead.

"Can't see anyone inside," he says, and with his left hand, he tries the door knob. The door opens out and he steps slightly to the side and slips in, once again with the barrel first. She follows right on his heels.

They stand in the laundry room. The peel and stick tile on the floor isn't anymore stained than usual, and the dirty clothes hamper looks full.

Mark passes through quickly, and considering he's wearing combat boots, she is surprised how quietly he moves.

Her mom is lying facedown on the kitchen floor with a broken bottle of vodka clutched in her right hand. Her nightgown is a shredded bloody ruin and a pool of red surrounds the body. One of the kitchenette chairs is knocked over and some newspapers are scattered around the room. Someone is standing at the sink.

Mark puts his arm in front of her, right across her chest. One handed, he swings the rifle around, his finger already on the trigger. The figure turns---Odin, their tenant, gives them a bloody grin. He is a huge, hulking older man from Norway or Sweden, she can't remember. One of his ears, the left one, is missing, and his throat looks chewed.

His accent always sounded singsong, but his voice was deep. He'd say, "Call me Odin, little girl," and then he would squint one eye closed and laugh.

Bastard killed my mom.

"Let's just try to back out of here, without..."

Odin lunges at that very moment, and his feet cross the floor in one or two giant strides. Mark's rifle spits fire in what amounts to a very loud burp. The big man jerks with the first two or three bullets, but most of the rest go over his shoulder and up into the ceiling.

Firing a rifle one-handed apparently isn't a good idea. Odin's huge hands grab Mark by his shirt and left arm, as the barrel of his rifle clatters off his huge square teeth and on deeper into his mouth. Mark screams a string of obscenities, but somehow manages to hold onto the rifle, while Natalie stumbles backwards, trying to aim her pistol.

Natalie can hear the thing actually trying to bite the metal barrel.

She aims for his left eye, holding the gun with both hands.

Mark pulls the trigger again. Odin's body jerks, while bloody bits of brain and bone spray across the oven and countertop. He stumbles back against the oven and then slides to the floor, mouth still gaping open.

Mark leans back against the doorway, and takes a long ragged breath, "Holy shit, that almost got real ugly."

Natalie sinks to her knees and lowers the gun to the floor.

Her voice catches, but the words come spilling out of her. "I tried so hard to get home. I just couldn't get here. I'm sorry." No tears Mom. I'm all cried out, but I'm really sorry.

Mark's hands touch her shoulders, and she lets him pull her up and into his arms. "Sorry we didn't get here in time," he murmurs into her ear.

"It was too late a long time ago, Mark." She hugs him tighter.

They stand there for several minutes, until she looks up into his eyes.

He holds her a bit closer, rubbing her back, and asks, "How long have you been running around without shoes?"

Lassiter

Need to stay awake, and focused. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and instantly falls asleep. Wakes a moment or two later with a jerk. Just to the right, he can see the cruise boat below. A barge full of dead bodies is tied up to the immense ship, with a tug boat hovering nearby. Must've had an outbreak onboard or something. So many bodies.

Lotta bodies and wreckage in the water too. Nobody is safe anywhere.

"Comet Two inbound to target. Estimate arrival time in six minutes."

Jacobs

Stomach pain nearly doubles him over. Where is that coming from? Know I haven't ate, but I'm used to that. The floor creaks as he pauses a moment and leans on the stair rail.

They are down there, more zombies, right on the next level. Sounds like lots of them. Dead people like roaches skittering around in the dark. He grabs the other grenade. Hopefully this will thin them out. Pulls the pin, counts to two and bounces it right off the wall below and onto the next landing. The explosion is huge and a cloud of dust swirls up, filling the air with smoke.

He takes the first step down and a door bursts open behind him, unleashing a flood of people. Dead, awkward people who shouldn't be upright. He nearly stumbles down several stairs, only just stopping on the landing. The laser pauses on a woman's temple and he squeezes the rifle's trigger. Flicker of the red dot across arms and grasping hands and just between someone's eyes. Another trigger squeeze, but they are closing in from above and below. The dot centers on the white of an eye and he fires. Someone grabs his sleeve. He lashes out with the butt of the rifle and momentarily he is free, but now his back is against the wall. Several of the things are closing in on him, with more behind.

Sweet Jesus, don't let me die this way!

The ones coming up the stairs aren't the trouble. It's the ones coming down. They could bury him with sheer weight of numbers if they just fell down the stairs.

Gotta keep pushing forward and down.

Three quick shots to the creatures in the rear at the top of the stairs causes a mad tangled jumble of bodies to fall toward the landing. Barely in time, he scuttles to his left and kicks a guy in a hospital gown in the head. On the way down he shoots and stomps his way through. All the years of training serve him well, and within minutes he exits the stairs through a shattered door and steps out into the ground level. Sunlight fills the room, revealing a waiting room full of shabby furniture, and a small enclosed office area off to the left side of the entrance.

The front doors are standing open.

Two of the things are standing in the doorway. One's a stocky guy in nurse's whites, and the other is an old woman in a bathrobe. On a normal day, they might be conversing about the weather, or whatever. Today, they both have blood and pale gobbets of flesh smearing their faces and their clothes. Almost like they dipped their fucking heads in a pig trough.

Re-load or shoot them?

Pretty sure I'm down to two or three rounds.

The nurse turns his way and snarls. He has a mouth full of twisted, yellow teeth. The laser beam centers just to the right of a bushy eyebrow, right over the temple.

He holds his breath, aims again, and squeezes. The head jerks, spraying blood, and the guy drops to his knees and then falls face forward. Meanwhile, completely oblivious to her companion's demise, the old lady still stands motionless.

Probably deaf, and she might even be blind. Human flaws must carry over. He almost laughs.

This building must have been some sort of nursing home. "Might as well put you out of your misery, eh lady?" he says, raising the rifle.

Before he finishes the motion, the old lady's head shatters, and the sound of the shot is from behind him. Ears ringing, he spins on his heels, and finds himself facing the woman from upstairs.

She grins at him, "Sorry about shooting past your ear, but that old bitch had it coming for years. I couldn't let you shoot her first."

He watches two small children appear from the darkness of the stair and stand next to her. He lowers his rifle.

"Thanks for cleaning things out for me. The elevator doesn't work. I never would have made it out with the kids if not for you."

He shrugs, and turns back toward the door out.

"That it? Nothing to say?"

"Nope," he answers. "I thought you just had a daughter."

"The boy is my nephew. You really just going to leave me and two kids all alone?"

He stands there and can't say anything. His mouth is working, but nothing is coming out. Finally, he manages to say, "She left me. I didn't leave her. She kicked me out and took my children away."

"Well, I'm not her, Mister. I'm not helpless. I can help. The children are well-behaved. They listen."

He can't look her in the eyes. "I got nothing lady. You hear me? Nothing. I'm just another one of these dead things walking around."

I don't know anything about that. It's all bullshit now. You can help someone. You can make a difference."

He feels a tear slide down his face. "Don't you understand lady?"

"Hell yes, I understand! Just get me and my kids to the Skyway Bridge, and then you can go do whatever you were doing."

A kid's voice says, "Please help us mister."

He forces himself to look the woman in the eyes, "I don't suppose you happen to have a car, do you?"

Tracks

His breath wheezes in and out, and he coughs. The white guy, Ralls is shooting a pistol into a crowd of camouflage-clad soldiers exiting a stair onto the deck. Judging by their continued advance, he must not being getting the headshots required to stop them.

Bronte and Sinclair stop next to him, on either side, while Tracks levels the machine gun on them, and sends the dead sprawling, and falling before a hail of bullets.

The engineering chief, and Bailov, are already busy readying one of the motor-powered launches. Only a sliver of deck encircles the enclosed cabin, leaving little outdoor freeboard, and the orange painted roof is a stark contrast to the white of its hull.

Bailov pulls on some heavy duty gloves from a tool locker.

"Can you two load the boat while Sinclair and I cover you?" asks Ralls, looking toward Bronte and Tracks.

"Sure thing," says Bronte, already climbing on board through a hatch in the middle of the boat. He tosses his rifle onto a bench, and takes the first crate from Tracks.

The two work together, quickly unloading the boxes up and into the inside of the boat. Meanwhile the moans and cries of the dead mount, as more of them head their way.

In a matter of moments, the boxes are aboard, and all but Bailov scrambles after them. The sailor, stands by the winch controls, already lowering the craft toward the water far below. Sinclair screams at him, but the man either doesn't hear or isn't listening.

"Jump man!" yells Nast, as the boat rushes downward, almost falling.

A sea of people appear behind the man, grasping at his clothes, pulling, tearing, and finally the man leaps, or tries to anyway. Two of things have him, and for a moment, the sailor dangles with two people fighting to drag him back. The boat plunges into the water, throwing all of its loose contents around, as seawater pours in through the open hatch. Ralls cries out as his arm breaks with an audible snapping, and cold water swirls around him, but then the boat surges back to the surface.

Tracks struggles back to the doorway just in time to watch as the sailor falls, headfirst, dragging two soldiers overboard with him.

It is a long fall.

Talaski

"What are we stopping for?" Talaski asks.

"Look for yourself," replies Mills, pointing several blocks up, toward a crowd of burning people. Not all of them are burning. Even as they sit there, more emerge around the corner, apparently pursuing a hunched over man with a limp, and several other figures, some in army uniforms, and some in hospital whites.

"What are we going to do?" asks Amy.

"They can either climb on top of the engine or hold on to the sides," says Mills.

"We could just take that street right there," says Suzy, pointing at a two lane brick road, just a few feet up on the right. "And avoid the whole mess."

"Or we could just help them," say Mills, sounding angry.

"You don't know anything about them," Suzy retorts. "They still might be killing everyone."

Talaski sits still, saying nothing. He can see Keller doing the same. Anything they do will entail risk. Too much is out of their hands---Almost everything really.

"You're a fucking loon, you know that lady?" Mills? face is suffused with red, from his scalp down to the red blotches at his cheeks.

Suzy turns on him, any trace of beauty gone from her face, "I don't trust any of you government pricks. You're all part of the system that started this whole thing."

Talaski pictures shooting her, knowing what her face would look like as the bullet punched through her forehead. The easy solution. Instead, he says, "We help them."

"Right on," says Mills, giving the engine enough gas to start and creep forward at about five miles an hour. Suzy sits back in her seat, and faces forward, ignoring him.

"Get us about a block closer, Adam," Talaski says to Mills. "Keller and I will dismount and go help them."

The sound of the fire truck's engine is loud as it echoes off the nearby one and two story storefronts that surround them on either side. Even so, Talaski catches a fragment of Amy saying something to Keller about "being safe."

Keller has a big, happy smile on his face. Haven't seen many of those in the last few years, my friend. Not nearly enough. It'll be nice to see my friend have some happiness.

Talaski waits a heartbeat or two, as Keller gets a quick kiss, and then reaches for the door handle and says, "Let's go Matt!"

"Be safe," Mills yells as they jump from the truck.

Talaski raises a hand, and falls in beside Keller. They are running, but Keller's flat out sprint is several gears below Talaski's top speed. They pass several corpses sprawled in the street. One of them is still tangled in a bicycle.

Probably got hit by a car.

Several people in hospital whites run toward them, while about a half block distant, more people stop, turn around, and fire toward still unseen pursuers. Talaski starts to count.

"I count ten of them total, Nick," says Keller.

"Yes. You stay with them and get them aboard the truck. I'm going on ahead."

Keller nods, but doesn't look happy.

The man in the lead slows to a stop in front of them. Tall, geeky looking white guy with long, brown sideburns and thick, black-framed glasses. Talaski focuses on the nameplate on the man's white coat: Dr. Hull.

"Officer?" the doctor says, but Talaski brushes by him, picking up speed now that he doesn't have to hold back for Keller.

"Talk to the man with me," he says, over his shoulder.

Two more people in white try to stop him, one a black guy with a name plate that says Watkins, and the other a thirtyish blond woman named Tate. Both, probably nurses, are blood-spattered. Watkins had a fire-axe and Tate was carrying a small pistol.

Not too far now. Just ahead, seven people are either shooting or re-loading various weapons. Three civilians, three soldiers and a cop.

The firing trails off, just as Talaski comes to a stop.

The big guy with the flamethrower turns around, while pulling a red bandana from his shirt pocket. He's the guy with the limp. He uses the bandanna to wipe his face, then looks at Talaski. The guy is very tan, with short, black curly hair, and with a build to match Keller's. He gives a big smile, full of white teeth, "We're looking for the shuttle bus officer. Think you could help us out?"

Talaski grins back, "Sorry we were late. By all means, please join us."

Daric

He stands near the base of a stairway, and listens. The ship itself is making noises: groans and creaks. The flashlight is set for a wide beam, and he can see a lot.

The body of Graham lies before him, just beside the last stair.

He'd swear the man isn't breathing.

Hears Tracks voice in his head: He dead boy.

"Don't be one of them, Mister Graham," he whispers. A rifle is lying beside the big man's body.

From seemingly far away, he can still hear Beth and Janicea screaming for him to come back, but at the moment an engine noise drowns them out. He takes a step toward the rifle, and toward the body. "I better leave it Mister Graham."

He can hears voices again, over the engine sound. Voices shouting his name.

"Daric, you better come back here!"

Bronte?

"Daric, where are you?"

"I'm here Bronte! I'm here!" he answers, running back the way he came.

Bronte stands framed in the doorway with a strange boat behind him. Daric runs and Bronte gathers him into his arms, hugging him tight.

"Thank God, boy. You gave us all a fright. What were you doing?"

"I was looking for you and Tracks, but I found Mister Graham instead."

Bronte looks concerned, "Oh, is he trapped back there or something? Where is the boy?"

"I think he's dead, sir."

Bronte nods, and turns back around, toward the doorway. Tracks is right there, a foot or two away, standing in the open hatch of one of the ship's lifeboats. Bronte hands him over and Tracks gives him a big hug.

"Take the boy, and I'll check on Graham. Be right back."

Tracks rumbles, "Okay Bronte."

Foster

Someone is shaking his shoulder. He opens his eyes, lifts his head from the table, and feels a wet spot on his cheek. I was fucking drooling. An almost empty bottle of bourbon is sitting near the pile of reports he was reading earlier.

Lieutenant Green is standing nearby, face averted, as if that saves him any embarrassment. Guy doesn't look much better than I feel.

"How long since you've slept Lieutenant?"

"The Speaker is in route, sir."

"Did you hear my question, boy?"

Green's face colors, but his expression doesn't change. "Three days, sir."

"What about the rest of the House? They coming with her?"

"They are being housed at a separate facility, sir. We don't have the transport capability to bring them all here at once. Most of them brought their families too. I can show you where they are on the map if it is important?"

Foster laughs. "Doesn't really matter where they are if all their constituents are dead, now, does it? Who the hell are they representing now? The majority in America right now are just a bunch of mindless, hungry wretches! How's that for a reality check?"

"Several states are almost untouched sir! We are a long shot from losing, and we might be able to contain this thing!"

"Think so, Lieutenant? One of those reports is suggesting we use neutron bombs on overrun areas."

The younger man grimaces at the emphasis on his rank. "General Kyler has always been a reactionary, sir! We don't even know whether anything short of a firestorm will kill them."

"I'm afraid we will have to test that out soon," Foster says, while holding up a hand to forestall any reply from Green. "Now, I'm going to get cleaned up. Escort the Speaker to me when she arrives, and then go get some sleep. Send me Clive, to take your place. He should be able to handle it."

"Your secret service guy?"

"Yes."

"Right away sir."

Trish

"So what's that fireman got?" Morgan asks, while pushing the wheel chair. He's also holding a baseball cap full of keys, and watching her bend over. "I mean aside from good looks and smooth lines."

"I've had enough of this conversation, Morgan," she replies over her shoulder. Somehow, she ended up having to check each corpse in the store for keys. So far, she's checked close to twenty bodies. At least we haven't run into anymore living dead.

Morgan sighs, loudly.

"Watching me bend over isn't enough for you?"

"What makes you think That's what I'm doing?"

She stops in mid-stride, and looks back at him, letting some of her anger show.

"I can feel your eyes burning a hole through my shorts."

"So what if they are?"

"I used to think you were a nice guy, but you're no different than the rest.

He laughs. "And I thought you were a nice girl."

"Guess we were both wrong," she mutters to herself. They are getting close to the back of the store. She stops for a moment and cocks her head, hopefully cluing him in that she is listening for company. He doesn't say anything, but she can see him playing his flashlight over a row of open-topped refrigerator cases. Things are beginning to get smelly. No telling how long the power's been out in here or whether the place had a back-up generator.

To their right, about ten feet away, she can see a pair of metal doors. A little bit further to the right is a loaded grocery stocking cart. Close to twenty cases of various food stuffs are on it.

Trish walks over to the doors and pushes them open. They are the swinging type with a window in each one. Heavy duty metal racks of canned goods, paper towels and cleaning supplies fill the wall to her right almost to the ceiling. To the left is a bulletin board with schedules tacked to it. A little further down is another hallway that turns left. Straight ahead of her, just past the hallway is a cardboard baling machine and a pull-down receiving door. Boxes are spilling out of it, and a lot of trash covers the floor.

"Maintenance man must have called out," Morgan says from behind her. He doesn't wait for a response, and pushes the wheelchair past her. He puts the hat in the seat, and while holding his flashlight, he starts to turn down the hallway.

She doesn't even smile. Fuck him. I've done a lot worse jobs than dance naked for money.

"I smell something bad---How about you?" Morgan asks.

She sniffs.

Something lunges out of the hallway and crashes into the wheelchair.

Trish catches a glimpse of what might be a teenager wearing one of the grocery store's green vests. His hair is long and greasy, and he continues forward and almost into Morgan's arms.

It all happens so fast. Morgan loses his flashlight, and doesn't even try for the holstered pistol at his waist. The struggle is too immediate and dire to do more than grapple. The teenager is snarling, and snapping his teeth, while Morgan tries to hold him off.

"Shoot him Trish!" Morgan shouts. "For god's sake, please!"

Trish keeps trying to aim, while holding her flashlight on the two, but the fight must be an even match. The two are stumbling and crashing all over the room.

Suddenly they both crash to the floor, and she hears Morgan wail, "It hurts! Triiisssh! Help me! It hurts!"

She manages to get closer without falling, and in the beam of her light she sees the teen look up at her. The things face is a mask of blood, and in its teeth is a long piece of gory flesh. She squeezes the trigger of her pistol. Most of the thing's right ear vanishes in a mist, and it doesn't even stop chewing. Sobbing, she steps closer, and shoots again. The thing's head snaps back and it goes limp, falling back on top of Morgan.

Aside from her own distressed gasps, all is quiet. She takes a step closer. Plays the light over the faces in front of her. Sees the teen has slid partway off Morgan, and that it now has a gory weeping hole where its left eye used to be. As for Morgan, a good portion of his throat is missing. His face is a mask of agony, and his eyes are still open wide.

"Oh God, Morgan. Fuck! I really don't need this now."

How long before he comes back? I must have four bullets left because one was in the chamber. Didn't think of that when I checked the magazine, but the thought was there.

"Gonna have to give you a preemptive shot, Morgan. Don't have time to wait. Sorry things ended this way."

To be sure, she puts the barrel up close to his left temple and fires. His head flops to the side, and once again silence falls around her as her breathing levels out.

She kneels beside the corpses, and pushes the teen the rest of the way off Morgan's body. Her gaze settles on his waist, looks briefly at the small bulge beneath the gun belt, "Too bad you thought more with that, than with your brain."

She is reaching for the buckle of his gun belt when four more zombies stumble against the wheelchair and into the room. There is no time to get the gun. No place to go. She looks behind her, specifically at the metal racks.

A husky man wearing slacks, shirt and tie, falls at her feet as she backs away, and turns toward the racks. There is time to leap onto a pallet of dog food, then up to the rack itself. A small woman with tattooed arms almost catches her on the rack, but is slightly too short. Her fingertips brush the bottom of Trish's right sneaker, but fail to find a hold.

Trish stops for a breather on the second level of the rack, about ten feet up. The four creatures stare up at her, snarling and trying to reach her.

She looks at her gun, still in hand.

Three bullets left.

Booth

Smoke trails away, dissipating into the pale blue of the sky over the wrecked helicopter. Lepski is still in his perch, firing away at an ever increasing amount of the dead wading out into the water. There must be several hundred of them. Twenty or thirty weren't walking anymore, giving evidence to Lepski's marksmanship. Best of all, none of them appeared to be following Booth and his companions.

Booth's thighs are burning. Fortunately, the President's wife is in good shape, at least physically. She is moving with a purpose and hasn't uttered the first complaint. Food and water are uppermost in his mind, other than finding a sheltered spot from their pursuers.

Hicks is already stepping onto the soft, thin strip of beige sand that leads to an opening in the mangroves. The bushy looking plants grow high, and obscure any view, short of the smoke stacks and main building, of the immense complex that lies behind them.

"Missus President," he says, and she stops and turns back toward him.

"Call me Julie, or Juliet, if you please, Private."

"Yes ma'am. We'll find some place to hold up, and I have extra water and food in my pack, okay?"

He hurries the rest of the way out of the water, closing the distance between them to about five feet apart.

At the edge of the mangroves, Hicks stops, kneels in the nearly dry sand near a mangrove tree. He motions for them to do the same, waving his hand down. Booth brushes past Juliet and kneels beside Hicks.

The paved clearing surrounding the fence is filled with stumbling, shambling dead people.

"I count twenty-seven of them, sir," Hicks murmurs.

"Probably more in the wood line," replies Booth.

"Ok sir, what's the plan? We going inside the fence or waiting here where they dropped us off?"

Guy looks more like a derelict than ever. His nose is still red, his cheeks are sprouting the beginning of a serious five o'clock shadow, and his eyes are bloodshot.

"Drop the sir bullshit right now," Booth says, knowing he has a sour look on his face. "We don't have any clippers for the fence, do we?"

"Lepski has them," Hicks answers.

"How much longer do we have to wait?" Julie asks.

Both men are silent a moment. Over the increasing number of shots, they hear the thump of rotors.

"Not long to wait, but this isn't safe," Booth says.

Hicks takes a swig of his canteen and offers it to Juliet. She takes it with a smile.

The boy takes it next and chugs what is left.

Booth slaps at a mosquito, and says, "I say drop as many as we can, pop smoke and climb on board."

Hicks shrugs.

Juliet says, "You gentlemen know what is best."

Natalie

Mark stands at the outside the upstairs bathroom in the hallway. She isn't sure whether she wanted him to, or not, but felt disappointment when he didn't follow her in. "Ok, the house is clear," he says, "I'll just go make sure we are locked up tight and you can go ahead and find out if There's any hot water left."

She tries to grin. "I'm hoping the power hasn't been out long."

"Alright, I'll be waiting downstairs," he says, but the questioning look is there.

Her grin slides away. "I'd rather you came back up and joined me, Mark. I don't think I can stand being alone."

His solemn nod in response, surprises her. He took the remark seriously and didn't make some adolescent horn dog remark. "I'll be right there."

Without waiting to see whether he left or not, she pulls her top over her head. In the mirror over the sink, she examines her tanned, lean body. No visible rape damage.

Nice hot shower and I'll be good as new.

She shakes her head, knowing a lie when she hears one. Forces herself to focus on the task at hand. Get clean! The tub is right behind her. She turns around, leans past the shower curtain, and turns the hot water knob far to the right. Water immediately begins to jet out of the spout, and she stays bent over to make sure it heats up. Within seconds she feels the water heat up, adjusts the cold knob to get the right temperature, and then turns on the shower head knob. Shimmying out of her skirt is easily accomplished, and now, completely naked, she steps into the tub and lets the spray blast her. She is reaching for her washcloth and the soap when she hears Mark's voice from the hallway, sounding awkward: "You sure you want company? I completely understand either way."

"Just come in here with me. I need someone to be with me."

"I'm hurrying. It's unlacing these damn boots that takes so long."

A moment later, his large muscular body slips between the curtain and the wall.

She trembles, unable to control herself.

He pulls her to him, takes the wash cloth and soap, and begins to wash her body. She leans her head against his chest.

Her sobs are barely audible over the trickle and patter of the water.

Lassiter

"I got green smoke at three o'clock," Lassiter shouts into his headset. "You guys got audio, Captain?"

Captain Duncan replies, "Roger on the green smoke. We got audio, Chief. Be ready on the door gun. They're trying to clear the apron now, but odds are we'll have some unauthorized passengers trying to board."

"Yes sir! I'm ready."

"Going in."

The chopper descends rapidly. On a small mangrove island, Lassiter spots the wrecked chopper and sees an incredible amount of people surrounding it and in the water nearby. The power plant is very close with the drifting green smoke he spotted a moment before. There is a fringe of mangroves, then the concrete apron and a chain link fence. Three or four people are standing, and most of the rest litter the ground nearby in smears of red.

The skids barely touch the ground. Lassiter holds onto the machine gun's pistol grip as the three adults and a kid run toward the chopper. If anything, the two soldiers look more haggard than before, and the woman looks like she's been to hell and back. The kid is a little boy holding tightly to the woman's hand. The soldiers assist the woman and child aboard, then pile on behind. One of them, with Booth on his name tag leans close to Lassiter and shouts, "We left one of my men near the wreck!"

Lassiter nods, "I'll let the captain know."

Booth nods and goes to help the woman get settled in while the helicopter is already lifting off.

"Captain, one guy stayed with the wreck. We have a request to extract him." Lassiter dreads the answer for a variety of reasons, but chiefly the odds are long that anyone is still alive back there.

Duncan surprises him with, "We'll take a nice long look, Chief, but I got to get Mrs. Foster out of here."

"I told the man I'd ask, Captain."

"I don't want a repeat of that Jacobs fiasco, so keep your sidearm ready."

"Roger that sir."

Booth is sitting, looking directly at him as the conversation ends. Lassiter gives Booth a thumbs up and a grin. There's no way, I can draw my gun that they won't notice. I'm just going to have to hope for the best.

The helicopter passes low, about thirty feet up, over the mangroves, and only the pilots can see what is ahead of them. To the side, Lassiter has a great view of a swarm of people exiting the mangroves and wading through the water. Many of them look skyward and reach with their arms. Then Duncan banks the chopper to the left, and all of them can see the wreck. There are a lot of bodies, lying motionless either in the water or on the small island, but many more massed around the metal hulk, literally pushing on it, and fighting to get inside.

"I don't see any survivors," says Duncan.

"Me either," says the co-pilot, Day.

None of them hear it, but they are all watching when an explosion blooms inside the downed chopper and a cloud of smoke and flame pours through every window and hole in the fuselage. A secondary larger explosion follows a few seconds later.

Lassiter looks over at Booth and the other soldier. Booth has his eyes closed, and the other guy, Hicks, is weeping uncontrollably.

The little boy says something to the woman, but Lassiter can't hear it. She gives him a hug.

Wish I could hug someone, right now.

Jacobs

"I see you found some pants," Jacobs says.

She gives him a lopsided grin, "Yes, and I've got a backpack full of food and water, too."

"I still don't like this."

"You don't have to like it, but please for the sake of the kids, at least, please help me."

He reaches over and grips her shoulder. She glances at his hand, but then looks directly in his eyes. "I expect you to follow me close, obey whatever I say, and to keep those kids under control. Nod if you understand me."

She nods, and says "I understand you."

"I have to be ruthless if one of us gets bit---You understand what that means?"

Her eyes widen a bit, "We've been stuck in that building for two days. I'm scared to death now, but there is no choice. We would never have got out but for you."

"My motives were bad. I still wish there was some way to know who killed my teammate, but there is no way to know. I just have to find a way to move on. At least you are giving me a purpose. So, where is this parking lot, anyway?"

"Just across First Avenue North, about half a block east. You can probably see it from here."

Jacobs leans out from the wall, and looks around the corner. Four or five of the dead things are standing around not far from the parking lot in front of a pawn shop. There are several cars in the parking lot, including a big crew cab truck. "Your truck is the electric blue one with the crew cab?" he asks.

"Yes, my daughter calls it Big Blue."

"It's big alright, and you have the keys?"

She pats the pocket of the skintight blue jeans she is wearing now. "Right here."

"Ok, I say we just make a beeline for it, going as fast as we can with the kids. I'll carry one and you carry the other."

"Anybody got a name?" he asks.

"I was wondering when you'd get around to asking that," she says.

"I'm Sergeant Jacobs," he replies, "and you are?"

"I'm Sara Downes, and my daughter is Abby, and the little guy is Tucker."

"Well, Sara, Abby and Tucker, are you ready?"

For a moment the two kids look up at him, little stern-faced cherubs no older than five or six each of them, and then both nod solemnly.

"I got to carry you Tucker," he says. "That okay with you?"

The boy looks over at his aunt, then back to Jacobs. "Yes sir."

"Hoorah son. Just hold on tight." Jacobs says and lifts the boy high and up into the crook of his left arm. "Hold my rifle, That's it. I'm going to have to use my pistol for this."

The boy gives him another serious nod while Sara lifts her daughter up. Jacobs can see the truck keys clenched tight in her right fist.

Sara winks at him, and he takes off at a moderate jog, trying not to favor his ankle, but lurching somewhat anyway. Sara is right on his heels, and for the moment that is all that matters. Having something to do is important.

He makes twenty some-odd steps before firing the first shot. The first of two men wearing a suit goes down, falling backwards off balance with a hole just above his left eye.

The next closest of the undead looks like a UPS guy and is dressed in a brown jumpsuit. Most of his left arm is missing, and his face has three deep gouges from left temple to just under the right side of his jaw. Jacobs side kicks the guy's kneecap with everything he has. The kneecap shatters and the man falls face first onto the pavement.

Jacobs waits for Sara to run around him, then they both run straight for the truck. The other three dead things are too far away to bother with.

Sara fumbles with the keys a bit, but finds the button on the key fob and clicks once. She then lifts Abby into the truck, followed by Tucker as Jacobs hands him over.

"I'll get in on the other side," he says.

The engine turns over and rumbles to life as he runs around the back to the other side. He reaches for the handle and it's still locked. Looks up with exasperation through the window.

Sara isn't looking at him. In the back seat, the two kids are buckling themselves into child seats. The engine revves, and he watches as the truck careens backwards running right over two of the dead things. The truck comes to a stop, facing west on First Avenue North, as she shifts. The last standing creature is ten feet in front of her. The engine roars. The truck clips the thing, sending it flying, and is about to leave Jacobs behind.

You fucking bitch! Not again!

Without really thinking about it, Jacobs takes three quick steps and manages to grab the back of the truck. His feet drag the pavement, and then he manages to swing himself into the truck's bed. He lands on his right arm and side and reaches out with his left hand to grip the tool box mounted against the rear of the cab.

The truck's rear window is tinted, and all he can really see are the backs of the kids heads. The truck picks up speed. She must know I'm back here! Probably going to try to shake me off. Not today Whore! All bets are off.

He fires the pistol through the window. The glass shatters, the kids scream, and the Sara cuts the wheel far too hard to the left in an attempt to turn onto Sixteenth Street North. The truck overbalances, rides briefly on the right wheels and rolls.

Jacobs flies free, soaring briefly, before crashing into something that gives, tugs, takes and gives way at last.

His body rolls twice more, bruised, bloody, broken, and unconscious.

Tracks

The day is turning dark. Tracks looks up at the sky, and the clouds towering over them painted in angry tones of slate and gray. "More rain coming," he murmurs, mostly to himself. The army woman, Sinclair is beside him, she may not have heard him.

"No sign of that guy," says Sinclair, her long red hair blowing free in the breeze, while leaning out of the hatch. "He wouldn't just sink to the bottom?"

From within the cabin, the chief engineer Nast, answers, "He should have surfaced minutes ago. God knows what happened to the poor bastard."

"It was either him or the boy. You made the right choice," says Ralls, sitting on one of the bench seats, holding his broken arm. "Hate to admit it, but sometimes crewman can't swim as well as their record file says they can.

"The zombies sure sank like rocks," Sinclair adds.

"How is your arm?" Bronte asks Ralls, while sitting down next to him.

"I'm sure it is broken," Ralls answers. "I can see a bone moving under the skin."

"You right handed?"

Ralls gives a rueful smile, "Of course."

"Where we going Bronte?" Tracks asks.

"Are we giving up the search?" Bronte asks in return, looking at the ship captain.

"He's gone. I'd say lets join the rest of your people and give this problem some thought and discussion. The obvious choice is going to the Skyway Bridge to the Coast Guard. Not sure it is the best choice, though."

"Okay, let's get back," Bronte agrees.

Nast goes back to the bridge controls, and within moments the engine purrs to life and he steers them toward the other two small craft.

Talaski

"Hang on everyone," shouts Mills. Most of the people crammed into the fire engine's cab groan in response.

The sky is clouded over and grey, and rain is falling as the truck plows through two SUVs with their bumpers locked. They part with relative ease, and are not a serious obstacle for the fire engine.

"About a mile up, there is a fire station. Maybe we could hold up there, until tomorrow?" asks the guy with the flamethrower.

"What is your name?" Talaski asks.

"I'm Amedeo, Sergeant Amedeo De Roma. Third Platoon, and the chain-smoking hang-dog guy over there is Sergeant Creek. We're remnants of the local Military Police Company. Pretty sure we are all that is left.

Creek perks up for a moment, "Don't forget Private O'Reilly."

De Roma nods, then continues, "Our platoon's squads got scattered all over hell's creation. One squad was not enough to contain the situation over at St. Anthony's Hospital."

Creek interrupts again, "They pulled me and six of my guys to help at the hospital. I'm the only one left. For all I know though, the three left behind might still be alive."

Talaski shrugs. "God knows."

Mills has the windshield wipers going. The rain is really starting to pound down. Too bad for the people hanging on outside.

"You know where the station I mentioned is?" De Roma asks Mills.

"Yep, I worked out of there three years ago. We'll stop there, it isn't much farther, about three more blocks."

"I'm not sure whether we will stay," says Talaski.

"Oh?" says De Roma, "I was thinking we should stay together. Might have a better chance to make it to the Skyway."

"We'll find more supplies at the station," says Mills, "unless someone looted it."

"Guess we'll know in a moment or two," Talaski answers.

Foster

"Smoke if you wish," Foster says, while spreading some cheese on a cracker.

"I'm conserving my supply, sir, but thank you."

"I don't really want to talk to the bitch, Clive."

Clive's face is impassive, as usual, but thankfully, he is always ready with an opinion. "Things are different, Mr. President, especially considering the unique situation we are facing."

"What are you suggesting?"

"What's left of her branch of the government is all isolated with their families. None of the power structure passes their way---Yet. Maybe never again. You and the Joint Chiefs are in command, now. I see too, that we succeeded in withdrawing most of our forces from Europe, Asia and the Middle-East before the situation became untenable."

Foster nods, "Yes, you even have the politically correct wording down pat. Untenable, a terrible joke, but, we left most of our heavy weaponry behind. When those forces arrive we will have to re-acquire the heavy stuff from quite a few overrun areas."

"How many of those troops are going to be willing to do anything but go try to rescue their own families, sir? The morale of the troops that are guarding us now is terrible. Just imagine how they feel about the leadership that is supposed to protect them saving their own families, while leaving theirs at the mercy of the undead? Our position is grave, sir. You yourself have made the same sacrifice, so they've stuck by you, but the Speaker? I think even her staff's families were rescued. Friends of the family. You name it. Unless we can 167 do the same for everyone, what kind of message are we sending?" The agent's words strike him like physical blows. What if word gets out that I'm trying to rescue my own family? If only Green knows...

"How many soldiers, and staff are here, Clive?"

Clive sits down, finally, while appearing to ponder the question. "Only three members of your detail, other than me, a platoon of marines, four or five secretaries and clerks, and then the emergency garrison consisting of Lieutenant Green and his platoon of MPs."

Foster takes a sip of wine. Have to consider very carefully how to let things play out. One misstep and even Clive here might decide to leave me or worse. "I'd like a list compiled of our personnel and how many have families still out there. Some effort needs to be made on their behalf."

The burly agent's face reddens. "Sir, given your example, nobody is daring to complain. It is a wonderful gesture..."

"It is more than a gesture, Clive. I need the hearts and minds of my people. I need commitment and dedication. Morale must be upheld."

Is that a glimmer of tears in the other man's eyes?

For some reason, this reaction makes him think of Ronald Reagan.

Maybe a president can become an actor? Not just the reverse.

Trish

For about a half hour, the four monsters forgot about her. With fresh meat, Morgan, readily at hand, they crouched around him and began to feast. The sounds they made! Trish couldn't bear to watch, so she sat in the darkness, trying to ignore them and figure out what to do. She turned her flashlight onto the freight on the racks, but her mind remained focused on her dilemma.

Sooner or later, more of them would find their way inside. As it is, I could probably jump down and run out of here. They'd never catch me!

But that meant abandoning Morgan's gun and the wheelchair. Even worse, all the keys!

The receiving bay doors are so close. God knows what Debbie and Anton must be thinking. Did they hear the shots? What if the helicopter came back right now?

The helicopter isn't coming back. That is one thing she is sure of.

Boxes of Clorox are the first thing she comes across. Big gallon size plastic bottles, three to a case. She imagines what it must be like to stock them. I can lift it, but I wouldn't want to do that everyday. The thought stops her dead as she pictures a whole case of the stuff toppling down on a dumb ass zombie. Might work as good or better than bullets.

She turns the flashlight back toward the floor and there, right below her, caught in the beam is the woman with sleeve tattoos. Her arms are extended up, almost in a yearning fashion, with bloody fingers and a red ruin of a mouth opened wide. "How about a case right in the chops?" Trish asks, "Would you like that?"

The woman staggers a step in her eagerness.

Trish tears at the plastic wrap sealing the boxes on the pallet together, then works one loose. She pauses a moment with it half free, while checking her aim. "Bombs away!" she whispers, and pushes the case off. It falls, twisting from end to end once, strikes the woman's arm, then head with tremendous force. The woman's legs give way and she crumples to the ground, motionless.

Someone laughs. That's me! That was beautiful, if I don't say so myself.

The other three stand and shuffle over, stepping on the body and tripping over the box in their own eagerness to get her.

Trish lines up another box, then lets it go. The box hits another woman, this one larger, with a mass of curly brown hair right in the face, dropping her flat on her back immediately. The smell of bleach fills the air. One or more of the bottles must have broken on that one. This woman doesn't move again either.

Two to go. One of them is the guy with the tie. The other is a badly-mauled older man. Course, just because his stomach cavity is empty, doesn't mean he is slow.

The guy with the tie is still standing near the pallet she jumped on to climb the rack. The old man is shuffling around the pallet. For an old guy, he does appear to have some big arms. His forearms are almost ridiculously huge, and in the light of her flashlight she can that they are sheathed in Morgan's blood.

She tracks the old guy's progress all the way to just below her. He walks right into the pool of bleach and reaches for the nearest support post for the rack.

Oh shit!

Next thing she knows, he begins to yank on the steel post with all his might, straining and tugging. The metal structure creaks and groans, but his strength isn't enough to damage the rack. Cans and smaller loose items topple from the shelves. She grabs onto the next nearest post and holds on, 170 momentarily losing sight of him, when the flashlight beam illuminates the far wall.

Time for another bomb---If I can keep him from shaking me loose!

Anton

In the dream he is seven again and hiding in the bushes. He tries to clench down on his bowels, but they are roiling.

"Gonna get you Antman! I know you're around here somewhere..."

Can't hide much longer. Have to find a bathroom.

"When I find you, I'm going to hurt you bad. The longer I have to look, the worse it's going to be for you."

The bushes rustle nearby and he jumps to his feet, adrenalin pumping and runs. Something grabs his shoulder and...

"They aren't coming. We're trapped."

The voice startles him, and jerks him awake. Her voice is beginning to piss him off. No matter how much it would suck to be abandoned and alone up here, he wonders if it might not be worth it.

"They aren't coming."

"Give it a rest, will you Debbie?" he asks.

"You heard the shots, Anton. Swear I even heard a scream. Both of them are probably dead."

"What good is it doing either of us, if you are right? Bitching going to make it better? It's not making me happier!"

She glares at him. "You think this is fun for me, sitting up here with you? Do you?"

Nice one. Got me! Time to apologize for being a fat-assed paraplegic.

He doesn't say anything. Just closes his eyes, and lowers his head back against the air conditioner.

"Sorry about that, Anton. I didn't mean it."

"Look Debbie, just leave me here. I'll never get down anyway."

"Don't say that. Trish and Morgan are getting you a wheelchair. They'll bring food and something to drink too! That helicopter might even be on the way back, right now."

Anton laughs briefly, then goes into a coughing jag. "Survival of the fittest, Debbie. Assuming anyone wants to now. What kind of world is left out there? Not one where I got a shot at life. You picture trying to push me in a wheelchair? Really? Ain't happening. How long before I get you killed too?"

He looks at her, trying to gauge how well he's getting his point across.

Tears shimmer in her eyes, "Shut up! Shut the hell up! We didn't get this far to leave you now."

"Nah, Debbie, you just missed the sign: Anton's end of the road."

She stands up, and walks away from him.

He closes his eyes again, and tries not to think about being hungry, thirsty, or worst of all, the uproar churning through his gut and bowels.

Juliet

"Where are we going?" Juliet asks, looking at Lassiter. The man's broad face has a drawn, haggard look to it. Probably hasn't slept in days.

"Captain Duncan says we are heading for Coast Guard Cutter, Wolcott. From there, ma'am, I have no idea what happens, but I'm sure something is being arranged to get you back to the President."

She nods, looks out the open doorway to her left. They must be circling in to land on the back of a huge white ship in the distance. It is dwarfed by the nearby cruise ship, and freighters, but still big to her.

The two soldiers who rescued her are dozing. They too, look exhausted and at the end of their rope. She looks at their nametags: Booth and Hicks. Have to remember to do something nice for them. The people who died for her and her son so that they could live is weighing on her conscience: Agent Costas; that other soldier, Lepski.

"Is my husband still in Washington, do you know?" she asks Lassiter.

"I doubt it ma'am. Washington was overrun hours ago. I think they tried to quarantine it, as a matter of fact."

She shakes her head. "This is too much!"

"Well, you should be safe now. Hold on tight, we're about to land."

She hears the rotors change pitch as they begin to drop toward the ship below. The whole process is so similar to the crash, she closes her eyes and holds tightly to her son.

"We'll see Daddy soon, I promise Sweetie."

Her boy buries his head against her side, and holds on very tight.

Natalie

With a shovel from the garage, Mark is digging a hole big enough for Odin and her mom in the backyard. Both bodies lay nearby, wrapped in blankets, waiting. The oak her dad planted years ago is about ten feet away, but more than once, Mark needs an axe to clear away roots that have spread everywhere.

He looks up at her briefly, while leaning on the axe. Sweat is pouring down his face, arms and chest. You could never tell that he'd just had a shower.

"Even though he killed her, my Mom wouldn't mind being buried with him," Natalie says.

"No? They sweet on each other?"

"More like drinking buddies, but I'm sure whenever I wasn't around, he probably got all he wanted."

"What makes you say that?"

"The hungry way they'd look at each other."

He nods, and begins to hack away at another root. She allows herself to look at him while he is occupied, and admires his brawny arms, wide shoulders and his sculpted chest muscles. Just a light dusting of hair covers his chest and stomach. He's wearing a pair of her dad's sweat pants, socks and sneakers. The sweat pants don't leave much to the imagination. Think straight. What do I say? Am I going to tell him that she was a black-out drunk? Or how about finding her passed out on the dining room floor with her skirt around her waist? That was a good one! Somehow I have to get a grip and let it all go. Remember the good.

Finally, words that she can live with come, "She was a sad, confused person when my dad died. Odin did bring back some joy to her life. He never beat her. They enjoyed the same things. Probably was better than being alone."

She still had me.

"I've seen worse relationships," he says.

"There's always worse, isn't there? Anyway, don't you have family to look for? Someone worrying about you?"

"My parents are on vacation in Europe. Last call I got they were trying to get a flight home from Paris. That was two days ago."

"So, what do you think we should do?"

He scoops and flings the dirt in a steady rhythm that reveals his familiarity with the chore, and maybe a desire to finish the job. Finally, he slows, and looks up at her. "I say we take whatever food we have here in the house, load your car up and head for my parents? house out on Snell Isle, or their condo on Tierra Verde. Maybe we could even stop by my checkpoint and trade this car for a Hummer and get the rest of the guns and ammo. The house has security shutters, a generator, food and water."

"I think you sold me. Let's go to Snell Isle---It really isn't that far anyway."

Jacobs

He can still feel his fingers wrapped around the pistol in his right hand. Good! Kid kept my rifle.

But where am I?

His body is one big ache. His skin feels tight where blood has caked and dried, and his muscles feel stiff and heavy from exhaustion. He rolls onto his back, opens his eyes, and with an empty feeling, looks up at the sky. Even the clouds look confused: Mottled billowing shapes of white, gray, and black. A raindrop hits him in the face.

Maybe I'm a monster too.

He sits up. Bits of leaves, twigs and even a branch come with him. Must've crashed through that hedge over there. Wonder how long I was out?

Climbs to his feet. He is standing in an empty parking lot surrounded on three sides by hedges. The right sleeve of his shirt, and the right leg of his pants are shredded. The skin beneath is abraded and crusted over with scabs. He can feel another cut high on his right cheek pull every time he frowns or squints.

He hobbles over to the hedge, and peers out.

More monsters are headed this way from the east, from downtown. He looks to the left and right. To the left, or north, even more are on the way. To the right, or south, the truck lies upside down up on the sidewalk in what looks like a pool of gas.

Fucking whore. Fuck me over will ya?

Not this time!

He pushes his way back through the hole in the bushes, and steps onto the sidewalk. The things are still far away.

Walks over to the truck's driver side. Sara is hanging upside down by her seat belt. The windshield is smashed, and glass is everywhere. Only one seat is occupied in the back. In the other, the belt hangs unclipped. He looks forward, through the windshield. A small, ragged, bloody lump lies in the street, about twenty feet away. He can't tell which of the kids it is.

Shrugs. Through the shattered glass of the window he reaches in and unlocks her door. It opens with a terrible rasp. First he grabs his rifle, then he backs away and looks at her through the window, while on his knees.

She doesn't stir.

He settles back on his ass, knees before him and waits.

The wind gusts, and he can smell gas that must be leaking from the truck.

Five minutes go by and he hears a moan. "Help me," he hears her say.

He reaches into his pocket,

"Help me please!" She's looking at him.

"Help you?" he asks.

"Yes!"

"Help you? I'll help you, lady." His fingers close around the small, cylinder shape in his pocket.

"Oh thank you! Thank you!"

"I'll help you burn!"

He flicks the flame to life on the lighter and tosses it toward a growing puddle under the truck.

There is a rapid roar and a shriek. He backs away fast, and hears himself laughing.

Bronte

The girl, Beth, sits beside Daric, and holds his hand. The boy's face is serious, and his free hand is trembling. The image reminds him so much of his own younger brother, years ago, that he can feel his heart lurch.

"What happened to Mister Graham?" Daric asks.

"I think he had a heart attack, and fell down the stairs."

"I wonder why he wasn't up and walking around? Maybe he was still alive?"

Tracks stands up, and places a hand on the boy's shoulder. "He dead, Daric."

"You sure you checked Bronte? He might still be alive!"

Bronte can't quite hide the sudden blaze of anger, but he can direct it, "That's bullshit boy, and you know it! He died trying to help us. So did Chief Hadley, and the sailor. Thanks to them, we have at least two weeks worth of water, and probably three weeks worth of food."

"And guns," says Tracks.

"He still might be alive," the boy says, while stubbornly staring into his eyes.

"Stay out of trouble and behave."

"You're being crazy, Daric---Just like my brother, thinking my dad was still alive. Bronte wouldn't have left Mister Graham, and you know it."

Daric closes his eyes, and lowers his head. "I just don't want anyone else to die."

Bronte puts his arm around the boy, "We're safe here on the boats, Daric. I'll do my best."

"Yes sir."

"Now, both of you, go down to the galley and see if Janicea needs any help with dinner."

The two men watch the children enter the door to the main cabin of the catamaran. A white, fluffy dart follows close on their heels, barking.

"What you thinking, Bronte?" Tracks broad face is tired. His left eye is bloodshot.

Bronte looks down at a map they found in a locker on the bridge. "I keep picturing an island. Something remote where they can't get us."

"Coquina Key, or Fort Desoto maybe?"

"There's a little island over in Shore Acres. Not even sure it has a name. Has seawalls all around and only one bridge. See it here---At the end of Tanglewood Drive?"

"I know it. Nice place. Never been flooded either. Be some docks we could use too. Probably food in the houses."

"Sounds good Tracks. At least so long as no one is there."

"I tell the Captain and the others?"

"Yes, any problems send them to me."

Mills

Mills' mind is still on the burned out remains of the fire station they'd all hoped to find refuge in. What a downer to find it in that condition. There was nothing left to salvage. He really didn't know how to handle it. His cherished memories of St. Pete were being destroyed piece by piece and one by one.

He barely reacts, when a sports car whips around him at more than fifty miles an hour, but he doesn't let it bother him too much. Some guy in a Corvette with a droopy mustache and a head full of wavy brown hair.

A moment or two later, Mills swerves around a Dodge Caravan, parked in the middle of the street with the engine still running, the doors wide open, and a flat right front tire. Even though he drives up over the curb the truck still takes the right passenger door right off.

There is a road block ahead. The Corvette is idling roughly fifty feet in front of the on-ramp to Interstate 275. A big, olive-drab National Guard deuce and a half truck blocks the road. To either side are sand-bagged machine gun emplacements. Several hundred bodies litter the ground in-between the sports car and the sand bags.

Mills slows to a stop right behind the Corvette, and puts the engine in park. The car has Massachusetts plates.

The guy turns around toward them. He's wearing a light brown suit, with the shirt underneath undone to his navel. His long hair is blowing in the light breeze as rain starts to fall and 180 spatter on the ground. Mills notices a long-barreled revolver in the guy's left hand.

"What are we doing, Nick?" Mills asks, looking over at Talaski.

"I'd say we're all getting out. Looks like the soldiers guarding this entrance are dead or gone."

"I'll talk to this guy, while you figure things out."

"Sure thing Adam, you do that."

Mills shuts the engine off, but leaves the keys in the ignition, then grabs his shotgun, pack and the axe. The rain is coming down harder, and slanting almost sideways in the wind, as he shuts the door and steps to the ground. He shrugs the pack over his shoulders, makes sure he can reach the axe, and carries the shotgun barrel down while approaching the Corvette's driver.

"Never pays to be in a hurry, does it?" Mills asks, unable to resist messing with the guy.

The man smiles, "Fuck you Jake," he says with a strong New England accent.

"Ah, a true New England native, I see."

"What calling you Jake? You are a firefighter aren't you?"

Mills nods. "I lived up there for a while, out on the Cape. I suppose I'm a good Jake."

"Any ideas around this?" the guy asks, pointing at the army truck.

"Let's have a look and see if any occur to me."

Mills walks past the guy and starts to wend his way through the bodies. The falling rain is working on the dried pools of blood, washing the stains away.

The guy is following him. "Lot of dead, stinking meat around here."

Too true. The smell is awful, and many of the corpses are horribly mutilated or disfigured. Most look like they died twice---Make that, died badly twice. All of humanity, young, old seems to be represented, and the way the corpses are piled hints at an Alamo-type stand that must have taken place here.

The bodies are even closer together as they near the edge of the left emplacement. Expended brass from a machine gun covers the ground and some bodies. A lot more of the creatures kept going than those that died---At least that must be true judging by how much ammo was fired compared to bodies. Mills pauses a moment to pull on his gloves.

No way am I touching any of them. Not unless I fucking have to.

The rain is making things slippery. Mills tries to place his boots carefully, and not to imagine what is squishing, or sucking beneath them. Beside him, the guy makes a disgusted sound, and Mills gets a whiff of something really rancid.

"Goddamn it!" the guy snarls. "Almost lost my shoe in that mess, that broad was so messed up. Stuck my fucking foot right through her stomach!"

Mills doesn't look. He's close enough to grab the top of the nearest sandbag wall.

Feels grit, even through the gloves, as he pulls himself over. More of the brass bullet casings cover the ground, along with a pile of trash: food wrappers, soda, and beer cans. No dead soldier though.

The guy follows him over the wall.

"That really sucked, man. Got blood and guts all over me."

"Not yours."

"True."

"You want to check the other emplacement, while I check the truck?" the guy asks.

Mills shrugs, looks back at the others. Talaski has most of them out and in a loose perimeter around the fire truck. The guy boosts himself up and grabs the door handle to the cab, which happens to be the driver's side. Meanwhile Mills walks over to the other emplacement.

"The same story over here..." Mills manages to say, and then sees the guy falling backwards with a soldier on top of him. The two crash to the ground with the soldier on top.

"Get him off me! Jesus, get him off me...."

Mills steps up and clubs the soldier with the shotgun, putting everything behind it. The stock hits the soldier in the back of the head, and something crunches. The soldier's body goes limp, and the guy curses, and pushes the body from on top of him. "Can't believe the bastard didn't bite me."

Wait a heartbeat or two. The guy is hyped.

"What is your name, anyway?" Mills asks, while extending a hand to help the guy up. He notices the guy still has the revolver clenched in his left hand.

"Dmitri Chaikov. Thanks for helping me." Dmitri takes Mills hand and shakes it. "Guess you're right about being in a hurry."

Mills grunts. "Others will be here soon. Why don't you finish checking the truck and I'll look around the back?"

Dmitri nods. Mills walks toward the back of the truck, while checking the load on his shotgun. Damn, I never re-loaded. Didn't have time. He quickly begins to feed cartridges into the action.

He can hear Keller's booming voice, as the others approach, even over the rain.

Sure hope we can use this truck. We'll all fit anyway! One more step takes him clear of the back of the truck and he can see the long half circle of the ramp and realizes that this is the on ramp for northbound traffic. A large grassy bowl is in the middle surrounding a pond half-obscured by a film of green algae.

Of much more interest are the scattered figures of the undead, standing in the water or on the sloped side of the ramp.

Real pond scum.

More of them are up on the interstate itself, and Mills begins to worry in earnest.

"The damn thing won't even turn over!" Dmitri shouts. Louder than Keller. A few of the unwashed turn their way.

Talaski stops beside him, taking in the view.

Mills says, "I think the soldiers left us."

"I'm used to that," is all the other man says.

Foster

Clive stands by the door, as Lieutenant Green ushers the tall, slim soldier into the room. Green and the soldier stop about ten feet from his desk, and says, "Mister President, this is Sergeant First Class Nathan Preston. He is the senior NCO of the rescue operation."

Foster stands, and extends his hand across the desk. The sergeant steps forward and shakes briefly, face expressionless, but his grip clammy. Foster doesn't miss the Ranger Tab the man is wearing on his shoulder.

"Good to meet you Sergeant! Do you have your plans drawn up?"

"Yes sir! We're cocked and locked, er...I mean, we are ready sir. Most of our families are or were still in the base apartments. The hope is that the base is still secure and all we have to do is evacuate them." Foster nods, giving the sergeant his best smile. "We have two Chinooks on standby and we should be able to get everybody. We'll bring your team in on Blackhawks."

"Very good sir. The satellite photos the Lieutenant got me have helped. We can see a few corpses here and there, both inside and outside the post gates, but no large groupings."

"Wish they were up to the minute photos, Sergeant. Things may have changed."

"We'll deal with that, sir."

"Very good, Sergeant! Good luck and God speed!"

"Appreciate this sir, especially given your own situation."

"It is the right thing to do. Now, jump to it, and get our people back here safely."

The sergeant salutes, and Foster rises from his desk to return the salute. When Foster drops his hand, the man does an about face and marches out the door.

"Send the Speaker in next Clive. The sooner I'm done with her, the better."

Clive smiles faintly, and then turns to the door.

Foster sits back down. What to do? What to do?

Trish

The guy won't stop shaking the rack. Makes it hard to hold on, and try to drop a case of chemicals on their head at the same time. In desperation, she finally crawls between pallets and gets her body braced against the wall. Then, with her legs and feet, she starts pushing against the cardboard cases.

She hears, more than feels, another case fall. Did it hit him? She can't see. Just in case, she pushes some more, but this time she must have pushed too hard or something. The whole front facing of the pallet plummets to the floor. The ensuing reek is horrible. Too much! She begins to cough, choking on the smell.

Have to get out of here!

She squeezes her body back between the pallets and looks down, aiming the flashlight. Four or five cases must have fallen. The gutless guy has rejoined his truly dead brethren. He's lying face down, with his head crushed between the pallet and the closest shelf on the rack.

Now, the guy with the tie!

Trish levers her feet to the next lower shelf rack. She watches the last creature as she does. It's almost as if he is waiting for her, as he continues to stand on the far side of the pallet.

She could actually step on the pallet at this point. I want to make these shots count. She checks her balance, then aims the flashlight, and the pistol at the man's head.

The first shot misses him completely. Who knows where it went? It did ricochet around the room a bit. The second shot plows through his cheek and teeth. The third is about dead center on the wide expanse of wrinkled skin on his forehead.

The body drops to the floor.

Trish doesn't waste time, and scrambles the rest of the way down and over to Morgan's corpse. Steels herself, at the sight of his violated flesh. She strips the gun belt from him, buckles it around her own waist, then grabs the gun. She fishes in his pockets for the extra magazines. Moment by moment, she is feeling better. Less afraid.

That last guy. Probably a manager. She notices a badge still clipped to his shirt pocket. It reads: Bob Best, Assistant Store Manager.

Managers have keys!

Something pounds on the receiving doors. The noise grows in volume. There was more than one of them outside.

A keychain is hooked to one of his belt loops. She unclips it, and adds it to the pile in the hat that is still in the wheelchair's seat.

The big question is: Do I open the receiving doors and fight the zombies out there, or go find a car first?

Damn it Morgan---Why did you have to go and die on me?

The biggest problem in her mind is getting Anton off the roof. They never really had a plan for that at all. Getting the food, water and a wheelchair were all, well, not easy, but easier. Even with Morgan she has no idea how they could get him down.

Not true, Patricia. There is one idea: Far-fetched, maybe a little cruel, but an idea that might work even without Morgan.

No way is Debbie going to go for it, but Anton might. It all really boils down to how bad do you want to live? And you better answer with some enthusiasm or its all for nothing.

"I'll make sure I have the key first. Then we'll go with the flow."

Something makes her point the flashlight down the hall, first.

The remains of two bodies are there, mostly in pieces, scattered all over. Blood and flesh cover the walls and the concrete floor. Great big splashes of red and pallid white accompanied by the now almost familiar smells of copper, excrement and urine.

Two office doors stand open, one on either side, and at the end a ladder is mounted on the wall with a security or safety grating around it, all the way to the ceiling.

Another way to the roof! First open the receiving doors. Kill the zombies out there, and fill the others in on what's happened.

The pounding is really getting on her nerves. She walks to the door, while pushing the wheelchair. Stops in front of the doors and begins to try keys from the manager's key ring. The lock is actually in a funny little box with a pop up lid. She finally matches a key to the lock, but the racket outside almost unnerves her. How many could be out there now?

I hate to leave this door open, while I go get a car.

She slides the key ring into the front of her shorts, hefts the gun in her right hand, and gives the door a violent kick. Someone on the other side grunts and staggers down the ramp, falling backwards.

Trish sets the flashlight down quick beside the door, and then plows through the door on her own, pistol held in both hands.

A tall, busty woman wearing a UPS uniform is the first to reach for her. Her left shoulder is a massive ulcerated mess, raw and weeping, and most of her shirt is in shreds.

She reaches out with her right hand, and pushes the door further open. Trish backpedals a step or two.

She cups her left hand beneath the right, which holds the pistol. From roughly a three foot distance, she aims for the woman's left eye, squeezes the trigger, and watches gore and gunk fly from the top of her head. The woman staggers a step or two towards the door, and slides downward. With the sound of the shot still ringing in her ears, Trish steps past the woman and from point blank range shoots a Potato Chip vendor just above and through his ear. The bullet goes straight through and exits on the other side in a sludgy burst.

There were at least two more! Where are they?

Trish looks down the ramp. To her right is a docking bay. Two vendor trucks are still parked back here, and the Tractor and its trailer are still backed into the dock.

"Ah, there is one," she murmurs to herself.

She takes a step or two out the door.

"Watch out!" someone yells from above her.

Trish spins on her heals, looks up, around and into the eyes of an immense, but short woman staggering toward her.

The woman crashes into her, stumbles, but pushes Trish just hard enough to knock her over the rail and down into the tractor-trailer well. The fall is brief, but still knocks her senseless when her head hits the pavement.

Lying sprawled on her back, she moans once or twice and then slips away.

Booth

Off in the distance, to the west, Booth can see rain pouring down from one edge of the horizon to the other. As they disembark, following the First Lady and her son, drops of rain are already falling here too.

The First Lady is met by a contingent of Coast Guard officers in their dress blue uniforms accompanied by a few political types in suits. Booth also spots one Naval officer in the group.

"Ahoy, popinjays everywhere around here, matey," Hicks mutters, walking beside him as they exit the helicopter. Lassiter waves goodbye and goes off toward the pilots as the helicopter shuts down.

"Five of us, just two days ago. And did she even say Goodbye?"

"I didn't hear anything Booth, but we are just peons. Don't let it get you down. The high and mighty tend to take people like us for granted."

Hicks appears to ponder this while slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "Wonder if there is anyplace to get drunk around here?"

Despite the banter, Booth is getting more irritated as the conversation goes on. "I'm loving the reception we get man. Fucking rescue the First Lady, and they don't even tell us where to go to relax."

A gruff looking Coast Guard sailor approaches them, and steps to the side without speaking to go around them.

"Wait a minute, Coastie! Got a moment for a couple of tired heroes?" Hicks says.

The sailor's dour expression doesn't change, but he does stop and give them a once over, then a nod.

"Got a place for guests on board? We need a few beers, something to eat, maybe a shower..."

"You guys special ops or something?" With a pure Carolina accent, the sailor asks. Booth notices the smell of beer on the guy's breath, and that his eyes are bloodshot.

He also might have slurred his words a bit. Not real noticeable, unless you were the observant type. Like me.

"Or something," Hicks responds, "Can you help us out?"

"Sure, just follow me. Chief Segar will know what to do."

Lassiter

"Captain! Captain Duncan, hold on!" Lassiter nearly shouts.

"Yeah, Chief? I'm beat, can you make it fast?" The pilot and co-pilot stop, and stand waiting for him. Both are wearing khaki flight suits with pistols strapped under their arms, and soft caps on their heads. The flight helmets are all still in the chopper.

Lassiter almost rolls his eyes. Is it worth it? Probably should just forget about it, like the rest of them have. Can't just switch off like that. Never could.

"Did you forget about the people we left on the roof?"

"You really going to bust my balls on that, Chief? We can't save everybody. Besides, did you hear, the whole fleet is about to weigh anchor. They were just waiting for us to rescue the First Lady. Now we can all get the fuck out."

"I just feel like shit that we dumped them like that, Captain. Christ, the big guy was a paraplegic. One of the women looked at me like I was a piece of shit."

"Chief, that is nothing but bullshit. You can't let people make you do anything. You allow them to. Fuck them. You think they would have even tried to rescue you if the circumstances were reversed?"

"So that is your answer, Captain?"

Duncan eyes him, almost as if appraising him. "That is my final answer, Chief. Now, if you'll forgive me, I'm going to stand down and get some chow. If you are smart, you will drop this subject and join us. What do you say?"

I'm on thin ice. One more wrong word, and I'll be looking for another crew chief job.

"Maybe I could eat something with you guys.

Natalie

"Want a beer or something?" Natalie asks. Her fingers are sticky with blood. She has to fight the urge to wipe them on her jeans or blouse.

Not my blood. Mom's or Odin's.

Both bodies are in the hole, and she and Mark are both breathing heavy. Neither of the older people were small. Trying to drag or carry them out here was a chore.

"Sounds good. Won't take long now."

She nods, "Probably for the best. Rain's coming. I'll be back."

"Wait Nat, don't go back in there."

Turns back to him with an eyebrow raised.

Can't watch dirt thrown in my mom's face. I can do without that.

"I can't stay out here and watch this part, Mark."

"That's not what I mean. Let's see what Odin has in his apartment. Might be better to stay out of your house.

A tear streaks down her face, as she replies, "It's the new way of things Mark. I better get used to it."

She walks to the still open back door, and goes in. Blood is smeared across the floor and on the lower parts of the walls. The sight stops her a moment, but she continues on into the kitchen. The scenery doesn't improve. Blood is spattered and pooled everywhere. Stops at the sink and turns on the water. Hot. Scrubs at the stains. Her hands are almost glowing pink when she is done, and turns the water off.

Water is leaking from the fridge. Using a dish towel, she grabs the handle and opens it. The light doesn't come on.

Course not! The power is out. A six pack of Yuengling sit on a shelf next to a wedge of cheddar cheese. She grabs the beer and the cheese, then pauses a moment to open a cabinet. Whole box of Ritz crackers. Her last stop is to grab a knife out of the drawer below. The revolver is on the counter where she apparently left it earlier, also.

She organizes it all into a couple of cloth sacks, except for the gun, and leaves everything, for a moment, on the counter. Noise from out front of the house draws her into the living room.

Jacobs

The massive pillared bulk of Interstate 275 looms before him. First Avenue South goes right under it. He is tempted to pause and hide in its shadowed underbelly, but forces himself to go on.

About three blocks west of the fire, he stops beside a boarded over two story office building. The plywood is old and warped. Not recent. This part of town looks pretty rough.

He laughs. I'm rough and tough myself. And I don't take shit from nobody.

Even with all my aches and pains.

Women and children fear me.

"No bitch is going to leave me like that again," he says.

Between the rain and sweat, he closes one eye and concentrates on where to go. Three blocks west of here is the edge of a neighborhood of older houses. Just need to secure one. Should be able to find food and water easy then.

What am I going to do? Good question! What am I going to do without the bitch?

Find another!

The minutes crawl by, and he moves at a steady pace, not quite a jog and a little more than a fast walk. He can see the houses and he can see that the closest one is some sort of bungalow. Should be all he needs.

Debbie

The words: "Watch out!" are barely past her lips after she sees an obese woman with a bad leg appear from the shadows behind the receiving doors below her. She watches Trish get knocked down and fall over the rail in the same terrible instant.

The obese woman, one of the things, has a bad leg. It looks so terribly mauled that it must have given out on her. She isn't getting back to her feet, just wiggling mindlessly near the open door. Meanwhile, a second one is ascending the ramp to join the obese one.

"What do I do Anton?" she shouts.

From a distance, she can hear him bellowing an answer, but she is too caught up in what is unfolding before her to listen.

The second zombie, a large man with broad shoulders is stumbling his way up the ramp toward the wiggling zombie. The man is wearing a black leather coat, zipped up, what look like brown corduroy pants and brown work boots. He even has gloves on. Blood is spattered all over the gloves and pants. If it is on the coat it must be either dried or dripped off. No stain stands out on the black.

"Stay away from her you monster! You hear me? Stay the fuck away from her?"

The man is only fifteen feet below her at most. She watches him rock back on his heels, while standing over the wiggling body of the female zombie. He looks up at her and the left eye is rolled up revealing the white, and the other is brown and focused on her.

"That's right ugly! Come get me! Forget her!"

To her horror, the zombie does exactly the opposite. He looks over the railing at Trish.

Then he stomps on the head of the zombie inching toward him.

Debbie runs out of things to say.

Talaski

The rain comes fast and hard from an unforgiving sky. Some of the drops hit hard enough to make him wish for a hat. The world has lost its luster.

Don't look too deep. Take too close a look at what's going on, and the few reasons to keep struggling to live might disappear.

He takes a moment to look down at himself. There is a long tear at the right knee of his dark green uniform slacks, and the left one isn't much better. His knees still ache from diving to the ground yesterday, but when added to all his other aches and pains, they fade into the background.

A hand claps on him on the shoulder. "You okay Nick?"

Keller.

Talaski purses his lips and nods. "You?" he replies.

Amy is there holding Keller's hand. Keller is better than okay, obviously.

"I'm good," Keller says, smiling. "Better get moving brother."

The others are passing their little group on both sides. Talaski falls into step with them. "I don't like this checkpoint being abandoned."

"Looks bad to me too," says Amy. "Think we're doing the right thing going this way, Nick?"

Talaski steps over the first of the bodies. It is a little girl. She looks trampled. Not many people stepped over her. It is hard to focus on any one face or body. There are too many. Here: a grandmother with long wispy hair. There: a teenage girl with a tramp stamp half visible above her jeans. Both are riddled with bullet holes.

"My plans consisted of getting us to this point. Haven't had time to consider anything much beyond that."

"I agree," Keller says. "And I'll go a bit further. We are a long way from the bridge. We really going to walk that far?"

Amy is nodding. "Why don't we just drag these bodies out of the way, push that truck out of the way, and keep our fire truck?"

"Great idea, Amy," Talaski says. "We try to walk all the way to the bridge and we're dead.

We're probably dead anyway.

He can tell by the grim look on Keller's face that he is thinking the same thing.

As if to mock everything they just discussed, the rain falls harder, with the wind carrying it in sheets.

Amy says something, hard to hear, but it sounded like: "I wish I was a princess in a castle right now."

Dead Eye

He swings over the rail, and drops beside the small, blonde woman. Picks up her gun, and then carefully gets both arms under her and hefts the dead weight onto his left shoulder. She doesn't stir as he turns and heads for the potato chip truck.

The driver's door is already open, so without much trouble he manages to drop her into the seat and buckle her in. He puts the pistol in her lap and pulls the door closed.

One problem down.

The other woman is still yelling at him. He turns back to face her.

"What are you doing, dummy?" she asks. He's been tuning her out.

How do I get up there?

One way would be to climb up on top of the tractor trailer and then pull myself up onto the roof. Must be a better way.

He walks around the trailer and toward the back of the store. Sees the ladder right away.

The magpie overhead follows him, still questioning. He tunes her out again and makes for the ladder. He ascends quickly and drops to the roof.

"Why don't you speak?" the magpie wants to know. Up close, she is anything but birdlike. Probably too heavy for some men's taste. Just about perfect to him, though, even disheveled. He keeps his eyes, without trouble, on hers.

She doesn't look afraid, but she backs away a step or two.

He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a pen and pad of paper. Scrawls a message and hands it to her:

"Talk hurts, little bird. I want to help you."

She reads it aloud, then asks, "So you are a mute?"

He shakes his head, mouths the word: "No."

She looks confused for a moment. "You will help us?"

He nods, and puts the pad and pen away.

"We're trapped up here. We can't get our friend down on the roof. He's a paraplegic."

He nods again and looks around. A man is peering around the corner of an air conditioning unit about thirty feet away. He can see one of the man's legs and his face.

"That's him, Mister," the woman says.

He fishes in his pocket again. This time he pulls a badge out and clips in onto his jacket.

She reads:, "Hi I'm Johnny. How can I help you?"

He grins at her, and she smiles back. "Pleased to meet you Johnny. I'm Debbie, and that guy over there is my friend Anton. We're real glad you came along."

He makes a brushing away motion with his hand, and starts walking toward Anton. He can feel the blush on his cheeks.

Foster

"Have a seat, Candy," Foster says, without looking up. His eyes are on a computer monitor on his desk. At the moment, he is sharing Sergeant Preston's view from Preston's helmet cam. He can see buildings about fifty feet below, and a few people milling about outside a gate. Preston is talking to one of his squad leaders, when Foster mutes the sound feed.

The Speaker is a woman of medium height, with carefully coiffed brown, shoulder-length hair, and a pleasant agirl next door? face. She is wearing a trench coat, and what looks like some nice spiked boots. He catches a whiff of her perfume as she sits in the chair across the desk from him.

"I prefer Candace, Mr. President."

Foster looks up into her eyes briefly and replies, "I know."

"Then you also know, Burt, how ruthless I can be when I want something?"

He winks at her, "Yes I know that, Candy."

Her smile is frosty. "Then I don't have to tell you my opinion of my current accommodations versus your set-up here?"

He lets out a long sigh, "Listen to me closely...Candace. I don't really give a shit about what your opinion is on anything. You biggest problem right now is not appreciating your true value."

Her mask slips a bit, and the smile fades away.

"I really don't think..."

"You're right Candace---You really don't think. How loyal do you think the people who rescued you and the others are when their own families are either long dead or in jeopardy?"

He watches her take this in. For the most part, she maintains a stony expression, but once she might have blinked back a tear. A moment or two goes by when he finishes talking.

"So, what is your message, Burt? I get the threat, loud and clear, but what do you want me to do?"

Foster steeples his fingers on the desk blotter. He looks into her eyes, and lets his gaze wander down to her full, ripe lips and linger. Cherry red lipstick. Can't believe I'm even having this thought. Looks back into her eyes.

Message received. What will her response be?

"Really, Burt?" she asks. The look on her face is hard to read. If she is angry she is hiding it well.

He closes his eyes, pictures his wife and children, weighing it all against taking crude revenge on this woman.

"I'll get back with you, Candace."

She is on her feet and coming around the desk. He starts to stand, but she pushes him back down. Her lips find his and her hair is a fragrant tumble. Feels her hands at the zipper of his trousers. Her cool fingers find his shaft and he says, "No," in a whisper, without conviction.

"Too late Burt," she says, a little half smile on her face, "No more time for thinking."

Her fingers stroke him, pulling, caressing, and he gasps. Then she is lowering herself between his thighs, sucking his shaft with a vigor and tenderness that shreds any awareness or restraint. The lips pull away. Her fist strokes up and then down, twisting, sliding. Her eyes are on him as she kisses the head, then sucks him back into her mouth. He arches his back, and gives in, moaning and completely forgetting the drama playing out on the monitor on his desk.

Trish

In the dream, she fell. Her husband, Dennis, screamed, "Run, Patty, run."

But there was nowhere to run.

The three men surrounded them in broad daylight on Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Married for less than a day, and already tragedy was about to overtake her.

The leader of the three men stopped in front of them and demanded forty dollars.

Dennis, big, good-natured and maybe just a little naive realized that these three men weren't shining their sneakers as some kind of joke. She could see the realization of the trouble they were in dawn in his eyes as he looked at the three and struggled to think of a way out.

The sun, blazing hot and pitiless had all five of them running with sweat. Not a trace of a breeze

"I don't have forty dollars," Dennis said.

"Two sets of shoes costs you twenty each," the leader declared. He was tall, and lean---Ropey with muscle. Eyes of a killer.

Trish, or Patty, didn't say anything. She sensed one wrong word or move, and things would go wrong. Badly wrong.

Dennis wasn't afraid for himself. Just her. Just pay them!

Too much damn pride, or something.

He gave her one last, sweet grin, and reached for his wallet with his right hand. Trish felt herself tense up. No Dennis, please no!

She watched him bend his knees with his chin dropped, and knew without a doubt what was coming. His left hand rubbed his neck while the right fished for the wallet. An instant later, he threw a left jab, thrusting his shoulder into it and caught the leader square on the chin. He followed it with a right cross, and then the guy behind him stabbed him in the lower back. Looked like a stiletto knife.

Dennis arched up on his toes and screamed. Sank to his knees. "Run, Patty run!" he said, but she just stood there. She stood there and watched as the man stabbed her husband again, then again. So much blood. Someone, probably the third guy ripped her purse from her shoulder and pushed her down. She didn't resist.

Trish landed on the bloody asphalt, and found herself face to face, and eye to eye with her husband.

Like looking into two green marbles. Dead glass.

"NOooo..."

She wakes with her face mashed against the driver's window of a potato chip delivery van.

Someone strapped her in. The gun is in her lap.

Who? And why did they leave me here?

Keys are in the van's ignition. She turns the ignition on, the engine turns over smoothly with a blare of death metal music. She turns the ignition off, and looks around the inside of the van.

The passenger seat is empty except for a clipboard, a box of Fudge Rounds, and a bottle of Zephyrhills water. There is a doorway directly behind and between the seats up front. A lot of potato chips are back there.

Get Anton down, grab his wheelchair and some supplies, and the three of them were home free. Should be easy.

Just rest a bit longer. She closes her eyes.

Falls back down into the dark.

Booth

Hicks drains his third beer, crushes the can, and tosses it toward the small garbage can in the corner of their two-man cabin. "Ah, Michelob sure hits the spot after a day of death and darkness."

"I'm only drinking this shit hoping to blind myself," Booth answers.

"You mean that?"

Booth looks at other man over his can and says, "I don't even like beer. It is just a means to an end."

"Well, the Coasties sure were generous with the happy juice, eh?" Hicks gestures toward the cooler full of beer sitting on the table. "We'll be unconscious or happy soon."

Someone knocks on the door. Before they can answer, a short Coast Guard officer opens the door and enters the room. His hair is cut to regulation, but completely gray. Deep lines furrow his forehead and at the sides of his mouth, and a big mole perches just above his upper lip. The guy looks awfully old for a junior grade lieutenant, but Booth lets it ride.

"What can we do for you, sir?" he asks with only a hint of rancor.

"The First Lady has personally requested a meeting with you two."

"Is that right, Lieutenant..." Hicks asks, peering near-sightedly as the man's nametag.

"Lieutenant Graves, soldier."

Hicks asks, "She say what she wants us for, sir?"

"Not sure, but bring all your gear. I don't think you'll be coming back here."

"We take the beer with us, L. T. ?" asks Hicks. 205

"Actually, I have two men outside who will transfer all your gear for you, including the beer. If you two will just follow me, we'll get everything settled and be done with it."

"Lead on, sir," says Booth.

Natalie

She can hear rain on the front porch's roof, and glances out the window. Clouds must be obscuring the sun, because it is visibly darker out there. There is a rumble of thunder, but no visible lightning. People are out on the street and in her lawn. One of them lurches up the sidewalk, straight for the front door.

Must be either a Jehovah's witness or a zombie. The thought almost makes her smile. This guy definitely isn't the former---Not anymore if he was. He looks like he may have been well to do, and is wearing a tattered slate gray suit, a dirty white shirt and a pale green tie. His face is as pale, his cheeks bloody, and his right ear is almost severed, and hangs only by shredded flesh.

His footsteps are loud on the porch. He crashes into one of the porch supports, and then just stands there.

Does he know we are here?

Whether he does or not, just standing within feet of him is freaking her out. All he has to do is look a little to his right and he'll probably notice her. Her legs are locked at the knee. She wants to run, but can't. The curtains are wide open, and he might hear her if she tries to run.

From the backyard, someone, probably Mark, screams her name. There is a long burst of gunfire. Mark shouts her name again. Yet, she remains paralyzed. The zombie on the porch is looking straight at her. His jaw is twitching and she hears him moan. Apart from the moaning, she really can't be sure that he has spotted her. Can't just stand here though!

Something tells her, check on Mark. It has only been a couple minutes, but the shout and gunfire worry her.

More shots. Something crashes into the back door, and it crashes open. Mark shouts her name, "Natalie! Oh god, where are you?"

Before she can reply the thing outside begins to pound on the front door. No need for silence anymore.

"I'm here Mark, I'm coming."

She runs back to the kitchen, and starts to grab the supplies. We have to leave now!

Mark is standing there, still shirtless, taking deep panicked breaths. Red is smeared all over one massive shoulder and running down his chest. A terribly sad look is on his face.

"No!" she shouts, drawing the word out into a keening shriek. "No!"

"Have to get you out of here, Natalie. Come on. I just killed three of them."

She closes her eyes.

And they killed you too.

Jacobs

He turns his face away from the slanting rain and looks back the way he came.

The interstate is growing distant, but that isn't what draws his attention. He is being pursued. The rain doesn't slow them. Twenty or thirty of the dead things are following him. "Got a fan club," he mutters to himself. Laughs briefly. "Imagine that!"

The first bungalow was crawling with things. Almost didn't get away that time.

When he kicked in the front door, they almost fell out in their eagerness to get to him. Goddamned place was stuffed full of pasty white human maggots.

"Got myself a real shit pot load of them now. All of them eager for some Jacobs sushi."

He is walking on a sidewalk on the south side of some neighborhood street, travelling west. Must be an old sidewalk. Immense oak trees growing along the sidewalk's edge have buckled the concrete for long stretches. Cars are parked or abandoned all over the street.

People are everywhere too, but so far, all of them of the mindless, dead variety.

None of them have cut him off, but the number of them following him is growing.

"Where is the Neighborhood Watch when I need them?" he asks, turning his face to the sky.

A guy pinned beneath a car reaches out for him, moaning. A young housewife in an open bathrobe staggers from a brick-paved alleyway. She is still wearing pink slippers and wispy high cut panties, but both of her arms end in stumps. Two 208 kids, probably ten or so stand up behind a manicured hedge and get trapped trying to grab him. Both of them look like they've been chewed on all over.

Jacobs keeps moving, limping slightly, trying to ignore the pain radiating from his ankle. Feels a hunger pang. He hasn't eaten anything in hours, and isn't even sure what's in his pack.

Most of the houses he is passing are small and rundown. Probably shacks built in the late forties or fifties for retiring veterans, or maybe someone's idea of a vacation home. Nothing fancy. Most of them probably have two bedrooms and one bath. Maybe a carport or a detached garage.

Something is burning...probably a car.

Wonder if they can smell me? Rain might help prevent that.

The sky is getting darker. He cuts across a yard, running past an immense cactus and a fire hydrant. The grass is spongy beneath his feet. His ankle twists and he yelps in pain and surprise, barely keeping his balance. Just around the corner to his left or south, a Mercedes sedan is on fire and surrounded by the dead. Most of them are standing but a few are lying in the street. The fire is flickering and almost out.

Not that way!

He lunges to his right and back onto his original course. Probably should've tried the Interstate, he thinks. His breath is still even, but the idea of food and a place to pass out is very appealing.

The next block up he can see four or five three story houses in a row. They aren't in much better shape than the previous homes, but the second one has a five foot high cinder block wall around it. The top of the wall even has spikes. He tries not to get excited. Something will be wrong.

He pours on a bit more speed, heedless of pain now.

There is no garage in the front. Just a driveway and a gate in the wall. No cars visible. Garage is probably in the back.

The wall extends around the back.

He stops at the gate and lifts the handle. Looks back once. There are shapes in the downpour, but they have no definition. Probably can't see me.

He steps inside quickly and shuts the gate behind him. Go through the front door or try the back?

The grass is brown and dead. A hose lies uncoiled beside some ragged rose bushes. The house itself has a Spanish flair or flavor to it. Looks sort of like a fort. Not pretty. The windows are small, narrow and have half circle arches at the top. The front porch is up two stairs, and two chairs are there. The front doors are massive and a small sign on the left one says: No solicitors are allowed.

His boots churn up mud as he decides to run around the house to the back. The exterior wall does, in fact, attach to a detached two-story garage in the back. An old brown pickup truck is parked beneath a huge oak tree right outside the back door of the house. Just as he steps around the truck a wet, stinking yellow shape hurls itself into his arms. Smells bad breath as something wet lashes his face.

"Down boy, down," he says in a harsh whisper, not having any idea whether the big Labrador Retriever is male or female.

The dog immediately sits and looks up at him. He notices that there is a collar and tag.

He holds out a hand, and the dog sniffs, then licks him again.

Something begins to unravel within him. Oh God, keep it together, he tells himself. A big goofy dog may be the last thing he needs.

The dog's eyes are big brown pools, and as it sits there panting, or smiling, he finds himself slipping to his knees and hugging it. The name tag says: Sussu.

"Sussu, eh?" The dog continues to grin and holds up a paw. He takes it, muddy and stinky and shakes.

"Pleased to meet a sweet girl like you."

Sussu whines low, and he realizes that he is still very much in danger. He looks from the garage to the house, trying to decide between the two. Picks the house and gets to his feet.

The back door has a doggie door. If the door is locked, he might be able to squeeze through...

The handle turns and he steps inside the dark house and out of the rain. The dog brushes past him and he closes the door.

Trish

Trish wakes to rain pounding a metal roof somewhere overhead. Sounds like a tropical downpour. Just awake enough to realize that the pillow beneath her head isn't her usual big fluffy one, and that her bed is as hard as a floor.

She reaches a hand out from beneath her blanket and touches cold metal. I'm not home! The thought crushes her. Everything comes back to her. All the horror and terrible events must be real.

"She's waking up," a voice says. The voice is familiar---Anton is his name

There isn't any light, but she hears a click and then there is. Debbie stands a few feet away, framed in a narrow doorway, holding a flashlight. "You okay, Trish-honey?"

Hearing the other woman use an endearment with her name is a bit of a shock, but maybe she isn't so bad.

"Have a headache. What happened?" She can see all kinds of boxes to either side of Debbie. Boxes with chip labels on them.

Anton answers, "You fell and hit your head. This guy came along and saved you. Saved us all actually. We're in a Snack truck behind the grocery store."

"I remember the truck, and a UPS truck, too, I think. Where is this guy who helped us?"

"Gone," Debbie says. "He helped me get Anton off the roof, and then left us."

Trish lays her head back down. "He helped get Anton down and left."

"That was a helluva thing, too, Trish," Anton says. "He got the chair, the flashlights and all the keys."

"He's not coming back?"

Anton shrugs, or tries to anyway. "He doesn't talk much. Just sort-of waved and walked away."

"He didn't talk at all. Might've been mute or something," Debbie adds. "He was smarter than he looked."

Anton coughs, and says, "He was wearing a Wal-Mart badge."

"You one of those Wal-Mart haters, Anton?" Debbie asks.

"What do you think, Debbie? I look like someone who shops at Target?" he says, sticking his tongue out, and leering like Gene Simmons. He pronounces Target like it is a French word.

Trish finds herself laughing right along with Debbie. Anton does have a sense of humor at least.

"So, do you guys have a plan?" Trish asks.

"I'd say go for more supplies, but it might be better to wait till tomorrow now. I'm sure you could use the rest, couldn't you?" Debbie asks.

"As more of a burden, I will go along with anything you two want," says Anton. "I think rest is a good idea. Who knows when we'll be safe again."

They are silent. Debbie turns off the flashlight and settles back onto the floor. Lightning flickers through the cab windows up front. Wind gusts rock the whole truck as the rain comes down even harder.

"I'm sorry about Morgan. I couldn't save him," Trish says.

She is beginning to wonder whether they heard her, when Anton says, "We're all living on borrowed time, Trish. We know you did the best you could."

The rain is lulling her to sleep. Staying awake is a worthy ideal, but one she can no longer live up to.

She drifts off.

Bronte

The better part of the afternoon passes as they turn the boats north and try to stay in the channel. Only Ozzie, Nast and Captain Ralls know their way around a boat. Tracks has spent some time on small fishing boats, but mostly as a passenger or fisherman.

Captain Ralls is steering the catamaran while Bronte stands beside him. Several rain squalls have come and gone, and for the moment, three to five foot waves are causing more trouble than the rain.

"Your friend that sure about this island?" Ralls asks.

Bronte shrugs. "Who knows? He grew up here. All I know is that neighborhood is Lily White.

Ralls chokes or laughs, hard to say which. "Lily White, eh? I didn't have you pegged as racist."

"I'm not racist. Just stating facts as they were told to me. You have a problem with that?"

The other man meets his stare. "No, no problem. Free speech, right? Just found it interesting that the demographic of people living there mattered."

"All that matters now is the living---Doesn't matter what color they are to me."

Bronte watches the other man nod, but knows that somehow he's crossed a line, and the other man didn't like it. I don't really know these people at all, and I may have to depend on them. That thought scares him more than whatever what may await them back on land.

Houses line the shore. Mansions on tiny lots. Almost every house has a dock. A lot still have boats---That surprises him. Did they run out of time, or just have no plan? Quite a few dead faces watch as they pass. A large number even try to follow them, either walking blindly off seawalls or struggling to climb fences.

"Some fancy tombs, over there," mutters Ralls.

"Whole place is a tomb," Bronte replies. "A dead trap."

"I wonder what would have happened if I'd managed to get my ship out of the bay? From what I hear, guess the Coast Guard would have stopped us anyway short of the Skyway."

Bronte watches water droplets merge and run down the windshield glass.

"You might have been fine. Some of these army guys may have taken their orders too seriously. A few months ago, I probably would have pulled the trigger right along with them. Maybe even up to the night this all started. I was ready to kill anyone connected with my brother's death."

"Someone murder your brother?"

Bronte looks up, and answers in a flat tone, "Somebody murdered my brother."

"You find out who did it?"

"I was sure. Little fuck named Devlin. Tracked him to a crack house. Tracks and I were standing outside the house when this whole thing went down."

"You were going to kill him?"

"Yes."

"So something happened, and you lost your chance?"

Bronte nods.

"It went against everything I've believed in, but all I wanted was revenge."

The boat slows down, and Ralls says, "Something ahead of us in the water. Looks like people in life vests." Bronte looks behind, and notices that the other two boats are slowing and making to pull up alongside theirs. He steps out onto the deck and keeps a hand on the railing as he makes his way forward.

There are twelve dead people in the water. He can see that some, if not all, have been shot. Kids, adults, old people---None were exempted. Never know who did this either.

Janicea steps up beside him holding a fishing gaff.

"Ralls told me you might need this," she says. He looks into her eyes, and sees how remote she is. He takes the pole with the hook at the end from her hands.

"You don't have the stomach for death at all, do you?" he asks.

"I thought I did, Bronte. I really did. When I killed and...caused the deaths of a whole busload of people, I kept seeing their faces. I still do."

Bronte hugs her with his left arm, holding the gaff in his right hand. "I'll try to help you forget. Maybe we can make this island we're going to a safe place."

"I hope so Bronte. I really do."

Talaski

He can tell that Amy is almost exhausted. She is too proud to complain, but the evidence is there in her deep breathing, and the slow, leaden motion of her arms and legs as they carry another body to the side of the road and watch it tumble down the grassy slope.

"Wish the others would have stayed to help," Suzy says.

Keller snorts, "They'll wish they had when we pass them in the truck."

"I'm sort-of surprised you stayed, Suzy," says Mills.

Suzy tosses her hair as she kneels to pick up the feet of another corpse. Dmitri grabs the torso. "I'm not walking to the bridge," she replies.

"Long as you behave, you're not," Mills answers.

"Fuck you Sparky! I've had about enough of your shit!" She reaches for her holstered pistol.

"Now wait," snaps Dmitri, dropping his end. The corpse falls, makes a splash and lays face up. "Why are you people arguing?"

"No time to explain," says Talaski. "We do need to put our disagreements aside until we find a safe place or get to the evacuation point at the bridge."

Gunfire interrupts anything more that might have been said. Sergeant De Roma's group of soldiers and hospital staff are engaging the nearest walking dead up on the interstate.

Close to thirty zombies are approaching them up the ramp, also, but they aren't moving quickly. More have closed the gap between De Roma and them.

"Let's get back to work then," says Keller.

Fortunately no one else appears to have anything else to say, so work resumes. Within ten minutes they have cleared enough bodies to pass through without clogging the wheels or undercarriage of the fire truck.

Talaski notices that the undead are almost upon them. "Everyone get ready. Any moment now."

"I'll put the deuce and a half in neutral, then we can all push it out of the way," Dmitri says.

"Wait! Oh, never mind." Talaski can hear the resignation in his voice, but they will either survive this or they won't. Simple enough. He runs toward a knot of the undead, not far away. Flips the safety off, and manages to arrive just as the first few make it past the fire truck and fan out.

Somewhere behind him, metal screeches and a few moments later the sound of a crash. Mills shouts, "Hurry!"

Talaski kneels to steady his aim. Waits for one to draw within ten feet. Tall black guy, mid-forties wearing an Atlanta Braves team shirt with a chunk missing out of his neck. Just behind him is an obese white guy in a dirty t-shirt and jeans. Talaski aims carefully, while aware that three more are coming up on his right.

Pulls the trigger. The blast takes both men down. Shifts aim to the right. Fires three more times. Five zombies down. Stands back up as someone comes up behind him---Amy and Keller.

"Where's Mills?" he asks.

"He's coming," Amy answers, "but Suzy is getting into that stranger's car."

Talaski nods, "Good. Something bad was going to happen if we didn't part ways."

Foster

The woman has been gone for over an hour, but he can't get her out of his mind. The ice in his glass is long since melted, but That's okay. He takes a long swallow. Her scent is still on his fingers. Thinks about how he pushed her face down over this very desk.

She left him dazed, unable to think clearly. I'm in over my head. He replays the scene in his mind. Realizes his pants are still unzipped and around his ankles. Never do to let Green or Clive see him like this. He stands up, pulls on his pants and zips up.

When he sits back down, he happens to look at the TV monitor. The screen is still on, and currently shows a picture of a long expanse of tiled floor. The name aPreston? is flashing at the bottom of the screen.

Oh Shit! I missed the whole thing! A TiVo recorder is next to the monitor. He activates the onscreen menu and sees that Preston's cam is still working, so he is seeing a live feed.

He decides it will be better to see what happened from the beginning.

Preston's helicopter descends toward a relatively open area between the enlisted housing buildings. There are some trees, but the pilot manages to squeeze in without too much trouble and set down.

Something is missing. I turned the sound off! No wonder I forgot...

Foster finds the button, and hears Preston shouting, "Go, go, go!" as men pile out of the helicopters. As soon as they are clear, the helicopters lift off.

Preston's men are the marines. Wonder how much they like having an army sergeant over them? Never did ask him why? Any family he has shouldn't be quartered anywhere near the marine family housing.

Preston barks orders. The group splits in two. Half the marines go with Preston toward Building A and the other half follow a lowly corporal to Building C.

Zombies are visible in all directions, each time Preston looks around. Not enough to pose a threat yet, but odds are there are a lot more nearby.

Preston's men move out in a v-shaped formation until they reach Building A's south entrance. From there, they form a half circle around the entrance facing out, with Preston and three other soldiers going for the door.

"Door's open Sergeant," says the first man to reach it.

"We're going in. Remember your orders. Clear your floor, secure any survivors, and meet down here in front of this door as soon as your floor is clear." The men in front of Preston are all grim-faced. None of them reply.

"Private Perez, lead the way," Preston snaps. Just inside the doorway is a foyer complete with an elevator, a door to a fire stair, a door to the quarters on this level. Perez heads straight for the door to the fire stair door, and other teams follow them in.

Preston's men go all the way to the top---The fourth floor. There is another foyer with the same layout. Only difference is the elevator door are open. Plus there is a terrible smell.

Perez looks in the elevator, gags and almost immediately bends over and vomits.

Preston doesn't look. Nor do any the others. They know what is in there. Another marine, a guy named Brown, opens the door to the living quarters. Preston looks this time.

He sees a long tiled hallway with doors on either side. At the other end, it looks like there is some sort of communal living room complete with large windows.

Probably a good view, Foster thinks, then notices one of the windows is broken.

Gunfire and screams come from below. Preston mutters something. All three marines are looking at him. "Focus on the job, gentlemen! Move out!"

Perez shakes his head, but enters the hallway, followed by the others, with Preston in the rear. Perez pounds on the first door. "This is Grossman's place," he says, "he deserted just before we evacuated the White House."

Nobody answers. Perez steps to the side, holding his rifle ready. Brown steps up, blasts the door lock with his shotgun, then kicks the door in. Preston orders the third marine, a black guy named Reedy to cover the hallway and their backs.

Perez advances down a short hallway into a living room. Brown checks a door in the hallway. "Closet," he says. Preston enters the living room, and looks around. Immediately to the right is a bar counter, stools and behind that a kitchen. Straight ahead is a dining table with six chairs, and behind that, patio doors to a balcony. Up to the right, past the kitchen, is a doorway.

The white, filmy curtains near the patio door are billowing in a steady breeze through shattered doors. A dismembered torso lies in the glass without a head or arms. What is left is still wearing a housecoat and slippers.

Perez backs away from the corpse. His face has been pale since the elevator. An immense shape emerges from the doorway and grabs him by the shoulders. "Fuck!" Perez shouts, while trying to break free. The giant is another marine, still in uniform. He thrusts his face just under the edge of Perez's helmet, grunting as his teeth close over the smaller marine's neck.

Perez is screaming in agony. Preston isn't moving. Probably pissing himself. Only Brown reacts. His shotgun is just visible from the corner of Preston's field of view when he opens fire. He doesn't attempt to discriminate with his aim, but simply hoses both men with a all eight rounds. In a cloud 221 of blood and gibbets of flesh, Perez spins free of the giant's grip as both fall backward and into the open doorway.

In the ensuing silence, Brown feeds more rounds into the shotgun. In the background, Foster thinks he can still hear distant gunfire.

Preston remains frozen. Brown turns toward him and shouts, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He steps right up into Preston's face.

Preston shakes his head.

"You freeze up again, and I'll fucking kill you!" He grabs the front of Preston's shirt and shakes him.

"Grossman was my brother-in-law," Preston says.

Brown's face is red and angry. His eyes are blazing hate. Comprehension dawns on his face. "That was Grossman..."

The sergeant doesn't reply.

"And the woman is your sister."

"Yes."

Brown turns away. "Get your head on straight, and we'll clear the rest of this floor," he says.

Preston stays there for a moment. Foster thinks he hears a sniffling noise.

Another scream, then a prolonged burst of machine gun fire.

Preston takes a pack of cigarettes from the top left pocket of his shirt. Places one between his lips and lights up. Foster can hear him breath in, then exhale. A plume of smoke appears, then dissipates.

"Hurry the fuck up, Preston."

The voice sounds like Reedy's.

The sergeant puts the pack back in his pocket, turns, walks out of the room, and joins the other two men in the hallway.

"Got one for me?" Brown asks.

"No," Preston answers.

He leads the way further down the hall, past a pool of dried blood and a woman's purse. The next door is open. Preston steps inside.

"Hey wait," Brown shouts, "you fool!"

The room setup is simply reversed.

Outside in the hallway, a new voice: "We're trapped. Everyone's dead. Help me Reedy!"

Preston pauses in the living room. Foster thinks he can hear a metallic clicking noise. Preston's playing with his safety!

"Oh Jesus Reedy, here they come!"

Brown's voice, "Calm down Berry! We're here, man! Oh shit!"

Preston turns and runs back into the hallway. Sees the other three men, backing toward him. Moans echo from the stair.

"Get to the roof man! Run! Call the choppers!" Foster finds himself shouting at the monitor.

Instead Preston turns away from the others and starts to run blindly the other way---Right into a massive group of people in front of him. Too late, he looks up and sees several open doors. Fingers claw at him. He loses his rifle. His helmet flies off. Someone steps on it, another one kicks it.

In the end, it careens down the hallway and settles in the center of the floor.

A long expanse of tiled floor is all that is visible.

Natalie

"Take these," he tells her. "Addresses for both my parents places are in the wallet, and the keys to both are on the ring."

"No! You're coming with me!" She can feel tears running down her face.

"No, I'm not, Natalie. I'm going to be one of them!"

They both are in the kitchen, and there is a terrible pounding going on at the front door. A window shatters and something tumbles inside.

"Go now, for Christ's sake!" he shouts.

Her eyes are streaming tears.

He pushes her backwards. "Don't be a fool. Now go!"

Heart pounding, her whole being in an emotional uproar, she runs into the kitchen. She stops long enough to grab the gun and then goes to the back door. Several of the things are laying on the ground, and several more are wandering in from the alley into the yard. If she doesn't act now, odds are she won't make it to the car.

The urge to just give up is strong.

She steels her nerve, opens the door and burst outside. One of the things makes a grab for her and misses. Another one, a young woman with only half a face, crashes into the trunk of the car, and continues around toward the driver's side. Natalie makes it to the driver's door and yanks it open. She scoots inside just as Half-Face slams into the door, forcing it open farther. The thing wheezes as it starts to lean down and open its mouth wide.

Something happens and bits of the woman's head shower her lap as she hears the shot. The woman falls backwards and Natalie yanks the door closed. Only then does she look up and see Mark standing on the small porch with his rifle in hand. She fumbles with the car keys. If she stops now, she might chicken out. Turns the key, and the engine turns right over with a small rumble.

Mark fires twice more, then lifts a hand. He drops the rifle to the ground and reaches for the pistol shoved in his waist band.

She is backing out. The car rolls over two large lumps.

Her sobs are racking her whole torso. The tears are almost blinding.

He sits down on the porch, still waving with his left hand.

There is a small, rueful smile on his face.

She loses sight of him for a moment as she backs around the hedge and into the alley. He's still waving and smiling as she pulls back even with the driveway.

She makes herself look away and pushes the gas a little too fast and Odin's house blocks her view.

Somewhere near the end of the block, she hears one more shot.

Jacobs

The room he finds himself in is a kitchen, probably ten by ten feet. The cabinetry, counters and appliances all appear to be from the sixties. The refrigerator is an old side by side. The counters all wrap around the right side of the room, and the appliances are squeezed in beside them. There is a small table and two chairs on the left side of the room, and a door directly across from the backdoor. Newspapers litter the table.

The house is very dark. With the power out, a rainy day, and small windows, he isn't surprised by this. Still even with lights, he'd put money down that this kitchen was never a cheery place.

Something slams into a wall in whatever room is beyond the kitchen. The dog whines again, and edges backwards toward the doggie door.

He reaches for his flashlight where it should be clipped to his belt. Gone. Probably lost it when the truck crashed. He shrugs and fishes in a side pocket on his pants. Comes out with a smaller light that would be more suitable for reading a map than exploring a house.

"Better than nothing," he murmurs to himself.

The dog gives a low bark, then a long growl.

Something slams into the door, and it shakes in its frame. Won't take much more of that.

He pulls his knife. Just in case those things outside don't know he is here. A shot would announce it to them all.

Nails scrabble on the wood. Another pound.

Jacobs takes the handle in his left hand, and the big knife in the other. The point and edge are razor sharp. He has used it to shave before.

The door opens the knob turning in his hand by whoever is on the other side. Jacobs doesn't fight it, and simply steps to the side, sees the human shape and thrusts with the knife.

The point glances off a cheekbone and slides right into the person's eye. Hears a gasp as he steps forward and shoves harder. The person falls over backwards and lands on their back, feet drumming the terrazzo floor. He drops to his knees alongside the body, knife ready to plunge again, but the feet are slowing, and the person, a man, lets out a long rattling sigh, then is still.

Just killed a live person. The dead ones don't breathe.

He doesn't want to turn the flashlight on.

The dog whines.

"It's okay, Sussu girl. Good girl."

He wipes the blade off on the man's nightshirt. Stands up, and clicks the flashlight on: Dead old guy in his pajamas. Could have killed him with a punch.

Boxes and old newspaper are piled high in the space to his left. Magazines and books also. The space was probably the dining room. Further in is a big living room, complete with an old recliner, a sofa, and an old style twenty inch analog TV with a converter box sitting on top of it beside rabbit ears.

A staircase climbs the wall to his right, with the steps facing the front door.

What do I do? See if I can find the old guy's keys to the truck outside and get the hell out of here? Or hope the zombies pass this place by?

He settles into the old man's recliner. Just for a moment to think.

Sussu settles at his feet, still whining occasionally.

The moment stretches out.

Jacobs falls asleep.

Juliet

The captain's office is without character. Just a plain, somewhat scarred desk, two chairs, several filing cabinets and a map of the world on the wall.

The man has no charm, whatsoever. He also has a big nose that is hard not to notice or stare at. His teeth are yellow. Probably smells like a cigarette.

"Captain Marsh, is there a plan to re-unite me with my husband, or not?"

"No ma'am, there isn't. We don't have an aircraft capable of getting you there without refueling. If you can just wait till the Evac fleet returns from Europe..."

"What about the helicopters?"

Marsh is a poor actor. She watches him close his eyes and apparently count silently to ten.

"Well?" she asks, unable to wait.

"It is completely irresponsible of me to accede to this, ma'am. It isn't just your life, but that of whoever is willing to take you."

"I'd like the crew and soldiers who rescued me."

"I can't order them to ma'am. All I can do is ask for volunteers."

"Then do that. I'd like to see them all in the next fifteen minutes."

His expression sours, "They are already waiting outside. Ensign Friese, send in Captain Duncan and the others."

A moment later, the men begin to file in and stand against the wall in front of the filing cabinets. Juliet looks them over one by one.

The two pilots, Duncan and Day, have the hotshot image down pat. Both men have cocky postures and mirrored sunglasses. Day is taller with a heavier build. The crew chief, Lassiter is middle-aged and not quite as fit as his crewmates, but has an air of maturity and intelligence lacking in the other two. The last two men, her rescuers, black-uniformed soldiers of some kind, look alert enough, but their expressions give nothing away as to what they are thinking.

Marsh steps around his desk and stands next to her. A faint odor of cologne wafts from him. "Gentlemen," he says, "The First Lady has a proposal for you, but it is merely a request. Any or all of you may refuse her request."

Juliet feels her blood pressure soar. How dare this man try to undermine her like this! She manages to mask her outrage, and strangle the reprimand on her tongue. Her sole concession is to clear her throat before speaking.

"First of all, I would like to thank each one of you for your sacrifices while trying to rescue me and my children. I'd be dead without you. However, that being said, I would like you to consider taking me to the President."

She pauses.

The pilot speaks up, "Ma'am, I'm not sure where the President is right now, but our helicopter only has an operational range of 360 miles or so. Unless Captain Marsh, here, has a set of external tanks? If that is the case, we can take a nice long trip without having to refuel."

"He's in North Carolina," Marsh says. "And no, we don't have the tanks."

Day speaks up, "Assuming we made a side trip to St. Pete-Clearwater airport, we might find the external tanks there."

"Each time we land somewhere we run the risk of disaster," Duncan replies.

"I'm in," says the soldier named Booth.

"Me too," says the other soldier, Hicks.

Lassiter raises a hand, "Count me in."

Everyone turns toward the two pilots.

"Be sure," says Marsh. His face is tomato red. Probably stroking out thinking he will be blamed if we die.

"We'll do it, ma'am," says Duncan, and Day nods in agreement.

She wants to hug them, but settles for saying, "Thank you so much! I have every confidence in you all that we will make it."

Trish

The rain stops.

She adjusts the seat, shifting it far forward, then fastens her safety belt. Anton is strapped in the passenger seat, while Debbie holds on to a rack while standing up in the back.

"There is no way it is worth going back in there, right?" Trish asks.

"No way! There's a cooler full of Gatorade and water back here too," Debbie replies.

"So we have food, drinks..."

Anton interrupts her, "And plenty of toilet paper."

The three of them laugh. "We'll get out of this. It's not that far to the bridge from here."

Both of her friends nod.

"Here Anton, you take Morgan's pistol. I can't shoot when I'm driving."

He takes it from her carefully, and even checks the safety.

The other gun is shoved into a small pack at her feet, along with the extra magazines for Morgan's pistol. With only one shot left in her gun, it is basically just something to club someone with.

The engine turns over smoothly. She takes a quick look in the rearview mirrors, sees all is clear, then shifts into Drive.

"Never drove anything this big before," she says.

"No?" Anton asks. "Me either. What about you Debbie?"

"Nope, never even drove a pick-up. Don't have a clue about shifting."

"Thank God this thing has an automatic transmission," Trish says.

She steers them past two large dumpsters, then takes a right turn, following the building. Five or six zombies are heading for the front of the store, right in front of them.

At fifteen miles an hour she plows into and over them, then turns left to the exit to Fiftieth Avenue South. Takes another left heading into a neighborhood, rather than a right onto U.S. 19. Hundreds more zombies are wandering in a massive traffic jam on the highway.

Wouldn't make it far that way.

They pass a big bank on the right, and see a roundabout up ahead. What's wrong with four way stops? She turns left driving the wrong way and onto the first road exiting the roundabout, Thirty Seventh Street South. They are now passing behind the Publix shopping center, which is on their left, and a row of nice, newer homes on their right.

"Lots of trees in this neighborhood," Debbie says.

Anton rolls down his window halfway, "I love the oaks. Those trees have to be a hundred years old or more."

A half block ahead on the left, Trish can see a CVS on the corner of Thirty Seventh and Fifty Fourth Ave South. She can also see the Interstate ramp that goes to Tierra Verde and St. Pete Beach. Beyond the ramp is a large waste treatment plant.

"Do we still believe the army is rescuing us if we make it to the Skyway Bridge or Tierra Verde?" Trish asks, while braking at the stop sign.

"I'm terrified of either choice," Debbie says.

"And I'm along for the ride, Trish," Anton adds.

Trish flips them both the bird and says, "You both need to grow a pair. I like sailors, so I guess we're heading for the Skyway."

When no one says anything, she tries once more.

"A bunch of rich people live around here. We could just try holding up in a house, maybe on the water...maybe find a boat?"

"Sounds less chancey, to me," Anton answers.

Debbie shrugs.

Trish takes her foot off the brake, and makes a wide looping turn. They turn back the way they came.

A terrible burned smell grows stronger as they travel north along Thirty Seventh Street South. On the right are condos and apartment complexes, and on the left are covered moorings. Trees and sidewalks are on both sides of the street.

"Is it something that burned in the neighborhood, or is it the truck?" Debbie asks.

"Not sure," says Trish. At that moment, the gas pedal goes mushy and the engine seizes up and dies. Trish shifts into neutral, letting the truck coast, and tries the starter.

Nothing.

Again and again it is the same. Despairing, she pumps the gas pedal while turning the ignition. The truck comes to a stop in the middle of the road.

"Oh my God," says Anton, "look at all those people."

Trish looks over. People are wandering from all over toward them from a nearby condo building.

"Might be a hundred of them," Debbie says.

"We have to run. Can't count on the truck starting back up. Debbie get Anton's wheelchair!"

"Just leave me."

Debbie opens the truck's backdoor and exits the truck. She pulls the chair out with her. Meanwhile, Trish runs around the corner, joining her, while slinging a gym bag over her shoulder. The two women unfold the chair and run with it around to Anton's already open door.

His seatbelt is undone, and he is lowering himself, mostly through the strength of his arms, out of the cab. Debbie gets the chair in position and Trish helps ease him into it.

"Thanks," he says.

The leading group of dead people is less than thirty feet away. At least ten of them.

"Follow me," Trish says, glancing around and continuing to go north as they were in the truck. Ahead are two buildings extending into the water, connected by slender walkways to the land.

One of the buildings is burned to the waterline, and little more than rubble remains. Probably part of the smell. The second building has people on the walkways.

Deathtraps!

"Can either of you swim?" Trish asks.

"I used to," Anton answers, "but God knows now."

Debbie shakes her head, "Never learned."

"Stay with me," she says, jogging slowly, breathing easy.

Debbie already sounds winded, but Anton is rolling right along, deftly avoiding garbage and potholes in the street.

A hundred yards ahead, Thirty Seventh joins Forty Sixth Avenue South. Trish is trying to overcome the panic that is screaming at her to just run away, anywhere, and forget the others. She knows that a turn to the left and the housing developments on the two finger peninsulas that way is probably the safer choice.

She turns them left when they draw even, and her already aching knees hurt more.

Debbie gives up. "I had to force myself to run to this corner, Trish. I'm sorry, but I don't have anything left."

"You giving up? Please Debbie don't quit. We'll find safety soon."

Debbie stops and bends over, hands on her knees, with her breath wheezing in and out.

Two zombies are within twenty feet.

"One of you, please, just shoot me," Debbie says, voice choked. She looks up at them. Trish thinks of a deer, crippled and helpless. She reaches into her bag.

Anton shoots her. A drop of blood or two splatters Trish's shoes. Debbie falls over onto her back, blood pouring from a hole in her temple. Anton shoots again.

"Just making sure."

Trish doesn't trust herself to say anything. She just nods, and follows him as he tucks the gun between his left thigh and the chair side. Anton is pushing hard, and for another fifty or so yards, she actually has to apply herself to keep up.

After that, he slows down a lot, but he doesn't quit. They manage to keep a pace that doesn't let the zombies get any closer.

"I'm good Trish, don't worry," he says, smiling, but barely breathing. "Too much time getting spoiled by those motorized chairs."

Bronte

A misty rain is falling on the southern tip of Googe Island as they anchor the catamaran and the life boat. The island is little more than mangroves, sand and some pines inland. At low tide it is connected to Weedon Island further north.

Janicea, Sinclair, the kids, Nast and Ozzie go ashore, carrying cast nets, fishing poles and buckets. All the adults have rifles slung over their shoulders.

From the cockpit bridge of the Sea Hummer, Ralls leans out the door and says, "Hopefully they will be okay. Shouldn't be any zombies out here."

"They should be okay," Bronte replies. "We'll just check out the bridge and do a bit of scouting. Make sure this is the place we want to call home."

Tracks stands a few feet away, taking a swig out of a small jug-type cooler. Sweat is standing out at his temples.

He offers the jug to Bronte, while using his sleeve to wipe his mouth: A cranberry-colored stain marks the spot on his t-shirt sleeve. "Like drinking juice, Bronte."

Ralls laughs, "Sangria goes down easy, but don't drink too much or it'll hit you."

Bronte takes a pull, "Definitely drinkable."

"That's Tanglewood Island," Tracks says, pointing north.

A canal divides the land as they approach closer. The shore to their right is all sea-walled with houses of varying sizes and degrees of grandeur. Almost every house has a dock. They spot only a few boats, and most of those are canoes or small johnboats. The big stuff has all disappeared.

Ralls starts angling to the left, and soon after a small two lane bridge about thirty feet long appears, connecting the mainland to the island.

A fence has already been constructed across the mainland side. Cars, chain link fence and stakes have all been used to render the structure impassable to even an agile person. No one is visibly guarding it, however.

"Shall we try the big dock over to the right of the bridge, a couple houses?" asks Ralls.

Bronte nods, "Sounds good."

Tracks makes his way forward, as they angle in toward a huge dock. There is an empty slip for a yacht fifty feet or more in length, and several smaller spots for boats larger than the Hummer. Ralls cuts the motor, and as they drift in, Tracks steps off onto the dock and expertly ties them off. Bronte does the same, albeit with less skill at the stern as they drift closer. Ralls tosses some bumpers over the side to protect the boat.

Moments later, Tracks is slinging two belts of ammunition over his shoulders in a criss-cross pattern like a hulking Pancho Villa. He then picks up his machine gun like it is a toy and strides across the dock. Bronte has an M-16, and a pistol.

He checks the rifle to make sure he is locked and loaded, then slips the safety off.

Ralls has his sword slung over his back, a pistol in a holster at his waist, and an M-16.

We should be ready for anything. But Ralls isn't much of a soldier. Probably should have left him with the others.

Bronte fits his sunglasses over his eyes, watching the pool go from a brilliant blue to a turquoise green. It looks so inviting, but he controls himself. There is an in-water bar, complete with Tiki hut, marble bar top and in-water stools to sit on. An inflatable lounge floats in the pool, along with a chlorinator. There is no hum of a pump motor though, and everything is too quiet.

Not even any birds around. The sun has broken through a small space in the clouds, but raindrops are already falling again. A gust of wind rattles through a stand of palms in the yard.

One of the sliding glass doors is open. There are at least four sets of the doors, but the others are all closed. The vertical blinds are all closed, except where the door is open.

Ralls steps inside, without waiting for Tracks or Bronte to catch up. Bronte feels an immediate rush of anger at the man's stupidity. He can feel it add to the flush he can already feel in his face from the sangria.

When Bronte follows the other two men inside, he sees that someone has bled all over most of the living room, and that the front door is open.

Tracks and Ralls stand on either side of the door, and then suddenly Tracks is running full bore out of the living room and out the door.

Ralls follows a moment later, and Bronte is on his heels.

The front patio has huge orange red tiles, wicker chairs, and fluted black metal railings. The lawn is lush and overhung by a huge oak.

Two bodies wrapped in sheets wait at the foot of the driveway. Tracks stands beside a metallic blue SUV drinking from a canteen. Ralls isn't far away, crouched behind a hedge, rifle held ready.

Bronte takes a careful look down both sides of the street. More bodies, wrapped in sheets, are piled outside several houses, both to their left and right. He moves up beside Tracks and motions for him to kneel behind the SUV.

"People already cleaning the place up," Tracks says.

"We need to find out, what kind of people they are."

Ralls joins them. "Won't be hard."

Bronte raises an eyebrow.

"A bunch of people are coming this way. They're loading the bodies on the back of a pick-up truck."

Talaski

The Corvette peels out, accelerating up the ramp at a speed that causes Keller to comment: "Wouldn't want to be in that car." They watch the car reach the interstate and take a hard left turn, nearly spinning out on the wet road.

Mills catches up to them, and they all, Keller, Amy and Talaski climb up into the truck's cab. The dead are crowding up along either side as Mills turns the key, already in the ignition, and shifts into Drive. They aren't moving fast, but still plow over one or two of the creatures as they pass between the sandbagged emplacements.

They are in fact going up the ramp meant for northbound traffic, but as long as the way is clear, none of them care. They reach the top without a problem and make the same hard left turn, but take it at about twenty miles an hour. The interstate is three lanes wide at this point, and Mills manages to make it without going into the median.

Mills turns the wipers and lights on as the rain comes down harder.

Up ahead, a double row of orange cones appears, angling off to the right, while straight ahead a massive tangle of wrecked vehicles and corpses emerges. "Follow the cones!" Amy snaps, grabbing Mills arm and leaning close from the backseat.

Mills obeys without comment, and sees the cones cut directly across all three traffic lanes and down into the median. "Might get stuck, but here goes," he says, giving some more gas. The truck crosses the highway and leaves the road onto a muddy, rutted path through the grassy median.

A zombie appears in the headlights, turns toward them, snarling and goes down under the bumper. Mills corrects their path by steering more to the left and the wheels slip a moment as they pass back onto the southbound lanes. The cones end, and with the exception of a large group of people over by the interstate's border fence, for at least a mile or more the highway looks clear.

The group is far enough away from the truck, that Mills actually slows as they draw even. "Here Ski," he says, "take this and let's see what they are up to."

Talaski takes the big flashlight without comment, rolls down his window and shines it over the people.

"Guess De Roma's group didn't get far," Mills says.

"Talk about roadside picnics," says Keller.

No one laughs.

Talaski shuts the light off, and Mills accelerates away.

Foster

He is passed out, drunk on his cot, when Green shakes him awake.

"Mister President, sir, wake up!"

He comes to only partially, and a splitting headache causes him to snap out with: "What is it, goddamn it! Can't you see I'm trying to sleep!"

"Sir, the choppers from the rescue mission are back, and the men..."

Foster sits, up, rubbing at his gummed over eyelids.

"The survivors..."

"The survivors what, Lieutenant?"

"There aren't many, sir, and they are angry."

"What does this have to do with anything?"

"All of my men and the survivors have mutinied sir---That is what it means! They gang-raped The Speaker, and killed all three of your agents! I barely got away!"

Foster comes fully awake, enraged by his headache, but terrified by the lieutenant's words. He notices that Green is wearing a pistol belt, flak jacket, ammo pouches, a helmet and has a rifle.

"For god's sake, why wasn't I told before it got this bad?"

Green doesn't flinch away for once. "It was the woman, the Speaker. I think she was trying to replace you, but things backfired on her. The mission was a total failure.

When one of the marines grabbed her, your man Clive, tried to intervene. A marine named Reedy killed shot all three of them. They threw the Speaker on a pool table after that, and I ran."

Foster closes his eyes a moment, while thinking things over.

"Is there a back way out of here?"

"Yes sir! I think it is our only option."

Foster puts his shoes on, and thinks: Too bad they aren't running shoes.

Green crosses over to the locker he's never used. "Put these on, sir," he says, handing over a bulky bullet proof vest, and a Kevlar helmet. "And take this too."

The last item is a pistol belt with a canteen and ammo pouches.

"Make sure the gun is loaded, sir."

Janicea

She sits by Sinclair on a towel, and watches the men and children fish. Both women are wearing their pants, but are far enough away from the men to have only their bras on.

The sun isn't out, and rain is still falling, but the humidity is horrible. Sinclair mops her face with a wet hand towel. "The rain almost feels good."

Sinclair is very pale, but her nose has a sprinkling of freckles. With her red hair she is quite striking. Janicea picks up a brown Coppertone bottle and nudges the other woman with it.

"You should use this suntan lotion, or you will burn despite the clouds."

"Thanks."

While the other woman gets busy with the lotion, Janicea lets her gaze drift back to the men and children. They are about fifty feet away. Ozzie is in the middle of tossing a cast net in the shallows, while Daric watches. Nast is sitting in a fold-out chair and reeling in something that is bending his rod considerably. Beth is chasing fiddler crabs.

The sound of a racing boat engine echoes of the water.

"Sounds like it's coming from the bayside," says Sinclair, nodding to their east.

The sound grows in intensity. Something is without doubt coming toward them, but their sight is blocked by mangroves.

"Might be more than one engine. Sort-of sounds like...what do you call those things? Waverunners?" Sinclair asks.

"Jetskis, I think."

Moments later, a man appears from behind the screen of mangroves, on a jetski. Shortly after, a second one follows, but this one, with two people. Something about the first man's approach bothers Janicea. He steers right in, not twenty feet from Beth, who has forgotten the crabs and is staring at the man.

He throws an anchor up on shore and starts to pull his vehicle out of the water---All without a word of greeting.

The second jetski comes close also, ignoring its proximity to Nast's fishing line.

Janicea reaches for her rifle, but isn't really sure you can hit anything five feet away, let alone roughly a hundred feet away.

The first man finally straightens up, looks over and waves.

All her attention is on him, when suddenly someone on the second jetski opens fire on the others. The sound, horrifically loud as it is, is nothing compared to what her eyes witness.

One quick burst lays open Nast's chest and flattens him. The second catches Ozzie in the legs. He drops the cast net and falls into the water. The beach sand all around Daric explodes as he runs for the nearby mangroves.

Beside her, Sinclair fumbles to grab her rifle, as shots begin to kick up the sand ten yards short of them. Janicea is already on her knees clicking the safety off, and trying to aim. The voices in her head are screaming at her to bring her knee up to steady her aim, to get the children, and to run.

Rather than just hold the trigger down, Janicea squeezes the trigger three times quickly. She has no idea where the bullets go after the first hits the water two or three feet to the right of the second jetski.

She can see Ozzie crawling toward his and Nast's weapons, as she tries again to line the sights up on the man who is shooting everyone. He is now stepping up on shore, shooting Nast again, then turning toward Ozzie...

She holds her breath and squeezes the trigger.

A puff of flesh, and probably blood, appears on the man's naked chest as he abruptly drops to his knees, one hand going to cover an expanding red stain.

I can do this!

Sinclair is up on her feet now, but is running after Daric.

Janicea searches for the other two men. One, the driver of the second jetski is screaming, and has pulled a pistol. The first guy is slinging Beth over his shoulder.

She hesitates. Who do I shoot? Who?

Something hits her in the right shoulder, and the shock of it, literally tosses her tall, but light-weight body backwards onto the sand.

Got sand in my mouth.

Can't move my arm.

Oh dear Lord!

Someone says: "Gotcha bitch!"

Hot breath on the skin of her neck.

She realizes her eyes are closed. A big sun-bronzed man is yanking her pants off. His long, brown hair is windblown and bleached blonde in places. Probably by the sun.

He has a nice smile, but his eyes---Something wrong there. He reaches down with both hands and grabs her breasts.

She feels paralyzed. No fight left. Don't hurt me.

He slaps her hard enough that she tastes blood.

He stares down at her, pinching her nipples now.

"Love the look baby, keep looking at me. Just like that."

Natalie

She sits in the car at the end of the alley crying. Can I really make it to either of Mark's parents' places? By myself?

The gun is right there.

One shot, and all the questions are over.

I need you Mom!

She can't stop crying, but turns right onto Seventeenth Avenue North, then pauses only a moment before turning right again.

I'm a lot closer to Venetian Isles than to Tierra Verde.

Seems strange to see all the traffic lights out.

She turns on the radio, wind shield wipers, and lights. Floors the pedal some, and blows by the zombies crowding around the front of her house. Sails right through the Sixteenth Street North intersection, and is already looking at the cars stacked up around the Ninth Street light.

"Oops, Martin Luther King light, I mean," she says and giggles. The tears keep coming, though.

An ambulance and a fire truck block most of her two lanes up ahead. Medians with curbs keep her from just swerving into the west bound lanes to get around it. She turns down a side street, Tenth, and sees more large groups of people wandering. The block is short, so she cuts across somebody's yard, to get away from the people, and turns onto Twenty First Avenue. Martin Luther King Street is straight ahead. Once again, seeing a clear stretch, she floors the gas pedal and rockets straight through the stop sign, the four lanes of MLK and onto the red brick road on the other side.

Forty miles an hour is much too fast for bricks. She hits the brakes, and slows down to twenty.

Some seriously nice houses here.

Even now it is hard for her not to dream about which one could be hers. Almost any of them can be if everyone keeps dying, at least for a while. Till they find and catch me.

She passes over Eighth Street and sees the green grass and trees of Crescent Lake Park straight ahead of her. One of her favorite places. Remembers taking walks with her grandfather and his dog there. They'd feed the squirrels and blue jays peanuts.

More tears.

I'm all alone.

She drives across Seventh Street and up over the curb onto the grass of the park. There is a large grassy opening without trees in front of her and she steers right through, then turns to the right, heading for the playground by the lake.

Who cares if I drive on the grass?

She parks beneath a bunch of old trees, mostly oaks. Gets out, grabs the pistol the carry bag and a blanket off the seat. Shuts the door quietly. Notices parts of the ground are almost dry under here. One of the trees is a Banyan tree, huge, probably every bit as old as the oaks, and multi-trunked. So many hiding places, and nooks: A wonderful place to play as a child.

She heads for the favorite place of her childhood. There must be close to fifteen immense trunks, all the branches intertwined covering an area of about thirty square feet. She clambers over a huge root, and enters a hollow that delves between three of the trunks.

The ground is completely dry. She unfolds the blanket partway and sits down.

If I'm not safe here, so be it.

She listens carefully for twenty minutes, and hears nothing but the wind, and the rain pattering on the leaves. Pulls out a bottled water and crackers from the bag.

Within in an hour, she is sleeping peacefully on the blanket, remembering her grandfather's little, fluffy white dog.

Jacobs

Jacobs doesn't sleep long. Sussu wakes him by licking his face. She has both paws in his lap, and is panting, giving him that big doggie grin of hers.

Fell asleep with the rifle in my arms, my backpack still on, and a dead guy on the floor behind me.

Guy I murdered

It was an accident.

He looks at his watch: Five till five in the afternoon. Hard to tell what time it is in this tomb. All the curtains are drawn, and he can still hear rain falling outside.

Apparently the zombies don't know he is in here.

Or they can't get over the fence.

"They would've been pounding on the doors already, if they got over the fence, eh girl?"

Sussu grins some more.

He gives her a scratch behind the ears, then straightens up and heads for the door he never checked last night. Typical lightweight, hollow core interior door. One good kick or shoulder block would take it right off the hinges. The door opens outwards and he finds himself in a library---The room is probably twelve by twenty, and there is a window in each of the three walls.

With large windows.

Bookshelves line each wall, filled with books. A desk and a nice padded easy chair are in the center of the room. He steps further into the room, and sees there are no curtains over the windows. At each one window, the dead things are pressed up against the glass. Sussu sees them and barks.

They begin to press and pound on the glass. Jacobs backs out, shooing the dog ahead of him, and shutting the door.

The noise is horrible. Glass shatters. He stands at the foot of the staircase and debates what to do. No point pondering on how they got through the gate. He has to act now. Going up the stairs is suicide. Probably.

Might have enough ammo.

Back door or upstairs---Decide!

Never found the old guy's truck keys.

The dog tips the balance.

Jacobs climbs the stairs as best he can, on the bad ankle, calling to the dog to follow him. "Come on Girl!"

At the top there is a landing with a loft over the living room, and a bedroom and bathroom over the kitchen and dining room. In the loft's ceiling is a pull cord for a stair to the third floor.

The windows up here are all large like in the library downstairs.

So I jump out the window with the dog, or we retreat up the stairs.

One last choice.

Jacobs pulls an old stereo cabinet and analog TV combination over in front of the stairs. The things will have to climb that to get to him. Might buy him a few moments if there is an emergency. He pulls three thirty round magazines from his left ammo pouch and puts them on the cabinet, along with his pistol and four magazines for it.

Unless the whole neighborhood comes, that should be more than enough ammo. Course, it will require a lot of patience to get one headshot per bullet, but he is up for it.

He looks down at his feet and Sussu is there, looking nervous, but staying by him.

The door bursts open below. A chorus of moans, groans and the sound of shuffling feet become clear.

"Be good SussuGirl, I'll protect you," he says in her ear, and gives her a hug. She rewards him with a kiss on the nose.

He doesn't wipe it off, but simply tucks the rifle butt into his shoulder and aims at the head of a zombie in the library doorway. Quit breathing, aim, and squeeze the trigger. A gout of blood, brain and bone strikes the wall. The zombie slides to the floor.

Shift aim, wait, wait, squeeze. Another headshot.

Breathe.

Two stumble through, stepping on the others. Aim. Wait for it. Squeeze. The bullet catches the closer one in the forehead at the fourth step. No time. Shift aim. A child of eight takes the steps even quicker, and is on the eighth step when Jacobs shoots him twice, once through the neck, then a moment or two later through the head.

Two more, closely followed by a third appear in the doorway and climb or push their way through.

Activate the laser, idiot! Can't miss then!

Wish I still had grenades.

Aim, settle the red dot, squeeze. Another corpse back down!

Sweat rolls down his face, some beetling on his brow. Ignore it. Shift the dot, hold breath, squeeze the trigger. Woman's eye bursts and her corpse tumbles down.

Shift, aim, squeeze...

Trish

They make another block, and the road splits. Both branches lead to finger peninsulas that have houses on each side of the street.

"Not going to win this race, Trish," Anton says, while letting go of the wheels of the wheelchair. "Keep going, you can do it!"

"No, don't do it Anton, no," she says, slowing her pace to his.

The wheel chair hits something---A hole, a rock, she isn't sure what, but he almost tips over. Their pace slows considerably.

The ghouls are coming from every direction. At this moment, they are actually heading toward a larger group than the one behind them. There is a small chance of reaching a gap and escaping through them, however. Behind and to the north side, there is no such choice.

Jumping into the water of the canal is the last choice.

I can help him swim.

They slow some more. In desperation, Trish gets behind him and starts pushing---All hundred and five pounds of her.

The gap disappears.

They slow to a crawl---Anton has given up.

"Run Trish," he says, wheezing. "I'm sorry."

They have just passed a long line of boat slips with a roof.

The walking, shambling, lurching dead people are closing in, the closest less than twenty feet away.

Anton aims the pistol at one of them. The sound of the shot echoes off the water and surrounding buildings. He fires again, and she can smell the gunpowder. Doesn't really matter whether he hits any of them---There are too many.

Another shot, and one falls, almost at his feet.

"Leave me Trish! Live for another day!"

They are within arms' reach.

I could push him over the seawall.

Too late for that.

Three sets of hands settle on him, while another person reaches for her. No telling how deep the murky water is. She runs three steps and leaps, arms arrowed together over her head and cuts cleanly into the water.

Stops after a stroke or two, and turns back. The water is deep enough for her to have to tread water. The bag is weighing her down, though. She lets it go. Hears more shots, and Anton screaming in agony. People are tearing pieces of him away with teeth and clawed fingers.

Two zombies stumble over the seawall's edge after her.

Time to go---Past time actually.

She kicks her feet and shifts into the crawl and starts swimming toward the exit canal that has rows of houses along each side. Another row of covered docks protrude into the water on this side, and she has to swim further out to get around them.

She keeps her eyes open, having no idea whether there are sharks in here or not. Probably good odds that there are. Hopefully they will be drawn to the two zombies thrashing around in the shallow water near the seawall.

Over where the feast is over too quickly despite the size of the prize. Most of the hunters soon after revert to near mindless wandering.

Forcing the morbid images out of her mind isn't easy with his scream still ringing in her head, but she focuses on swimming. Ten minutes later she swims into the canal, and then sets her sights on a dock with a ladder about a football field and half away, on the left side.

Trish has been in the water for close to a half hour when her fingers close around the ladder rungs. She floats, exhausted, but poised for flight, and looks around. No boat is on this dock. It isn't very large. Someone has left three fishing rods laying on a bench though, and a nasty looking cooler. She pulls herself up and out with her sneakers squishing on the rungs, and her soaking wet clothes hanging off her.

She pulls off her soaking wet shirt, careless of who might see her bare chest, and squeezes the excess water out. A huge screen enclosure covers the backyard of the house with a lot of lush plants, and a pool. The pool itself is tiled, and the concrete around it is coated with river rock.

She glances out to the west, toward Boca Ciega Bay. The sun is going down, mostly masked by rain clouds. The rain has stopped again.

The screen door is unlocked. She enters and pulls it closed behind her, locking it. Crosses over to the pool, and strips off everything. Leaves the clothes and shoes in a pile by the edge. She can see herself reflected in the patio doors of the house as she lowers herself into the water.

The water on her body is the perfect temperature, not as warm as the canal, but almost invigorating in comparison. She floats face up on her back, closes her eyes and drifts.

Goodbye Debbie, Anton.

What am I being saved for?

Daric

Shame makes him stop running. He isn't more than forty feet into the mangroves before he stops, and kneels. Out of sight, but not out of hearing range.

He still has the gun. Bronte didn't notice when he rescued him on the ship. Probably too busy being mad. He kneels beside a mangrove tree and its large fan-like mass of roots. Almost immediately, he hears Sinclair come crashing through the trees after him.

A few last shots are fired, and then they hear: "Gotcha Bitch!"

"They shot Janicea," Sinclair whispers in his ear. She has her rifle, but is missing her shirt. Her bra is frilly, bright red, and almost transparent. She doesn't seem to notice.

They are close enough to hear the guy say something else, and start to grunt and groan. Janicea is grunting also, but it sounds like pain.

"Bastards are raping her," Sinclair mutters. "I can't just let that happen, Daric, I'm sorry. If I don't come back for you, hide and wait for Bronte and the others to come back. Don't let these men catch you."

"No ma'am."

"I'll be right back if I can." Her lips tremble a bit, but there is a determined look in her eyes and the set of her jaw. An adult who is being serious. He knows the look.

He nods.

She stands up, and moving slowly, and almost silently she returns the way she came.

The man and Janicea are still doing something.

Sinclair must have re-appeared. Daric hears her give a couple of short commands.

The man laughs and says, "Maybe when I'm done honey. Just have a seat---There'll be plenty for you when it's your turn."

"Fuck off!" Sinclair says, then a moment later she swears again, "Gonna pay for that Soldier Girl!"

"The hell with that!" Sinclair says.

A moment later someone punches someone else. He thinks he hears Sinclair moan in pain.

Twenty minutes go by. He retreats further away, deeper into the island.

She never comes.

Bronte

The three of them are about to confront the people picking up the bodies, when the gunfire begins.

The other group apparently misses the first burst or two before someone hears it and commands the others to be quiet.

"Sounds like gunfire over near Googe Island, Mikel. You reckon Ray found some more?"

"Maybe so. Been a lot of people around here in boats."

"Maybe he'll find some prime ass this time?"

"Maybe Charlie, we'll see."

"Might be too late for you, Charlie," Bronte says, and steps around the SUV with his rifle ready.

He sees five men walking next to an idling Ford Ranger truck. Two of the men are just dumping a body in the bed.

"Now wait a minute, fella," says the guy called Charlie. The other men step away from him.

"Stop where you are!" Bronte shouts. Ralls and Tracks have stepped out from the other side of the SUV, the hood side.

"Sounds like to me," says Ralls, "that these guys are talking about our people, Bronte. Sure hope that isn't true."

"If it is," Bronte says, while looking into the eyes of a guy he assumes is Mikel, "they are all dead men.

"I kill them Bronte, then we go back."

Tracks is serious.

"Go ahead."

Tracks doesn't even hesitate. The machine gun chatters, and most of the men don't even get a chance to scream. Two of them manage to die with their backs turned, trying to run. The pick-up truck is riddled. The driver slumps over, with one arm dangling out the window. Blood runs down the corpse's arm and drips from the fingertips.

All of them had guns, but no chance to use them.

"We need to get back to the island now!" Bronte says. He doesn't wait for them to answer, but simply turns and runs back the way they came.

The front door to the house is still open, and they run through the house and out onto the patio. Googe Island is visible from here, but they can't see around the mangroves to where the catamaran and lifeboat are anchored.

Bronte and Tracks untie the moorings, while Ralls fires up the engine. They swing away from the dock in an artful, skilled loop to the right. Ralls is no amateur.

They almost bounce across the waves, throwing a large wake.

Talaski

Once past the massacre, they encounter no trouble until they get close to the toll booths. The wrecked or abandoned vehicles have all been pushed to the sides of the highway, and the only obstacles are the wandering dead themselves. A few are making a pilgrimage to the summit.

"We should turn back," says Mills. If the army were still here, none of these dead people would be cruising around like this."

"Look, a ship is about to pass under the bridge now," says Keller. "We're too late."

"Anybody see that Corvette?" Talaski asks.

"You serious, Ski?"

"Don't call me that again."

Mills looks at him.

"I'm serious," Talaski says.

"Take the turn-off for the Pier," Amy says, leaning over the seat once again to talk in Mills ear. "Maybe one of the ships will come get us?"

Mills maintains his staring contest with Talaski.

"Well?" he asks, after a moment or two.

Talaski shrugs. "There's nothing else."

"Never been down there, anyway," Mills replies. "Except when it was part of the old bridge."

They turn off on a side road next to the toll booths. The road leads into a rest area, and there are quite a few cars parked here, along with some tractor trailers.

There's even some sort of amphibious tank or something pulled up just short of the toll booth station that blocks the road to the Pier. A hand-painted sign says: "THIS WAY TO EVACUATION POINT. No one is in the toll booth. Chain link fenced has been strung from the water's edge on the Gulf side to the water's edge on the Bay side. A guard arm is dropped across the road.

Mills drives through the arm, and it snaps easily.

Keller says, "They must have drove that tank up through the bay or something. The treads would've torn the road to pieces."

Apparently no one has anything to add to that. They all seem to be absorbed in other things. Like a bunch of scavenger birds that takes wing, leaving a line of bodies partially picked clean of flesh.

"Are they vultures?" Amy asks.

"Probably," Keller answers.

Suitcases, clothes, and all sorts of personal items are strewn all over. And of course, a few of the walking variety of dead are around too. Mills isn't driving fast, and a large group is starting to follow them. A few wear the uniforms of police and soldiers.

Talaski can see a large building up ahead, and the end of the Pier. Quite a few vehicles are jammed together up there.

"This is crazy, Nick," Keller says. You think anybody's really going to come over here and rescue us?"

Talaski shrugs, asks, "Got any flares in here, Mills?"

Mills actually seems to come to life. "Check under your seat---Should be road flares, and I'll check the tool drawers in back."

"We have company out there, guys," Amy says.

"They are all over out there, Amy," Mills agrees, "As it is, we'll have to see if there is a ladder down to the water."

"Might have to jump in, if there isn't a ladder," Keller says.

Talaski frowns, "Nobody jumps in if the tide is running out."

"Why?" Keller asks.

"God knows where the current will take you," Talaski answers.

Mills cuts the engine and lets the truck coast to a stop. They are about twenty feet from the building housing a snack bar and bait shop. "Maybe one of you could cover me, while I look in the tool drawers on the side of the truck."

"Sure thing," Amy says.

Mills leaves the keys in the ignition.

Talaski reaches under the seat and finds a bundle of road flares, and reflective cones. He takes the flares and leaves the cones where they are.

All four of them climb down from the truck, and fan out. Talaski shoves the flares into his belt for now.

The wind is stiff and steady, pressing against them almost continuously. Talaski smells salt, fish and the stink of death. They are downwind from the approaching zombies.

"Look for those flares, Adam," Keller says. "We'll cover you."

Mills nods, but Keller probably doesn't see it.

The dead are approaching with some distance between most of them. Not much chance for a single shotgun blast to drop more than one. On the other hand, they are more dangerous when in mass.

Keller and Amy kneel next to each other. She starts firing before he does. Her little carbine has better range. Talaski holds himself in reserve and watches their rear and the building. No telling how many of the things might be in there.

Two minutes go by, and ten zombies are down. Amy and Keller are patient, and waiting for their shots.

"No flare gun," says Mills.

The sun is going down. Talaski can see it almost touching the horizon, a fiery red ball highlighting the smudges that are more storm clouds.

"I don't see a ladder anywhere," says Keller.

"We'll try the Bait House," says Talaski.

Amy and Keller stand up and all four head for a door on the back side of the building. From here they can see that metallic, rolling shutters are down over the service windows.

The door isn't locked. Mills has his pistol in his right hand, and a flashlight in his left, when he opens the door. Talaski follows him in, and steps around Mills.

He sees bait tanks and supplies on one side of the room, and a long service counter with snacks, a soda fountain, and a grill on the other. The snacks are all gone, and the bait tanks are empty. There is a door to his left. He steps over to it, hearing the others come in behind him.

Mills tries the door. "It's unlocked to," he says. Inside is a small room just big enough for a hatch in the floor. "And here is our way down."

"At least there is a way down, if they do send a boat for us," Amy says.

"Wish they'd left us something to eat," says Keller, opening cabinets behind the counter. "We better start signally now. If the fleet is pulling out, we're running out of time," Mills says.

Talaski leads the way, shotgun ready as the door swings in. A man is standing right there, and he pulls the trigger. Most of the man's head, neck and shoulders vaporizes. And as the body falls, Talaski is already pushing out past it, firing twice more at a group of three. There is still enough light to see, but the shadows are lengthening, and soon it will be pitch black.

The others file out behind him. Mills swings his flashlight around, apparently making sure the way to the pier wall is clear. The shape of another big ship is approaching the bay side of the bridge. Talaski breaks out the pack of road flares and hands them out as they jog toward the wall.

The stone wall is only waist high. About a twenty foot drop to the water.

The tide is going out.

Keller has his flare lit and he waves it. Amy joins him.

Talaski palms one flare, shoves the rest of them into his belt, and turns back to keep watch. Mills joins him. "Sorry about calling you Ski."

"Temper's short. Don't sweat it."

The dead are approaching. Talaski can see the movement if not the entirety of their shapes. He activates the flare and tosses it about fifteen feet away from them.

"Jesus," mutters Mills. At least twenty people are shuffling toward them.

"Got about two hours of light," Talaski says, "before we need another one."

Mills laughs. "If we're still here then...

"If," agrees Talaski.

"Looks like a helicopter is taking off from that last ship," Amy says. "Do you think?"

Talaski wants to believe---He really does.

But inside There's nothing.

Nothing.

Foster

Lieutenant Green opens the door and a Marine and an MP are outside.

"Step aside Green," says the Marine, a big, black guy. "We're arresting the President."

"Reedy!" Foster says.

"You know me?" the man asks.

"Not well," Foster replies, and raises the pistol.

Reedy flinches, tries to back away and raise his own weapon.

Foster shoots him three times. Turns and shoots the MP too.

Both men fall to the floor and blood rapidly pools on the bare concrete.

"Get a move on Green. I don't know where we are going."

Green gives him a shocked look.

Foster grabs him by the collar and pulls him close, "Listen man, we aren't playing games here. It was us or them. I'm well versed on the importance of that. Save talking for later."

"This way, sir," Green says and points at a door thirty feet down a narrow side passage full of pipes and pumps from floor to ceiling.

The passage never turns or widens, but it does start to rise gradually after almost half a mile. They come to an open doorway with the sign above the lintel: Waste Reclamation and Treatment. They stop for a moment, and Foster tries to catch his breath.

"Not enough time for the treadmill lately," he says, a faint smile on his lips.

Green isn't winded. Not even sweating.

Somewhere behind them, they hear shouts, and pounding boots.

"The chase is on," Foster says, "We better get a move on."

Green leads the way across a room filled with machinery, gauges, some computers over against the far wall to a hermitically sealed door. He punches a sequence of numbers into the keypad.

The door hisses as it opens. They both step inside, and the door closes behind them. The room is big enough for maybe five men. Green steps over to another keypad, and enters a five digit code. Foster catches that much, this time.

"Three Two Three, and what is the rest, Lieutenant?"

The other man chuckles. "Very good, sir, the rest is: Eight Five. My birthday."

The next door opens. A metal staircase is cut in the living rock.

"After you, Mister President."

Foster doesn't hesitate, but starts taking the steps two at a time. "I'm better with steps," he offers, with a wry smile.

Janicea

The man above her, lifts her right leg, puts pressure on her shoulder, and keeps thrusting. Her scream doesn't even slow him. His friend stands over them. She can see him over the guy's shoulder.

Sinclair's voice says, "Get off her, now!"

She feels the man stiffen, he then relaxes, moaning. He thrusts a couple more times, then rests his face beside hers. Like he didn't even hear the command!

"One last time," Sinclair says, "Get off of her."

Sinclair hears the other man laugh.

The man on top of Janicea, lifts himself up, and slides out of her, "Maybe when I'm done honey. Just have a seat---There'll be plenty for you when it's your turn."

Janicea sees Sinclair step forward and put the rifle barrel against the man's head.

"Fuck off," she says and pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens.

Must've jammed. All this sand!

"Fuck!"

The other man grabs Sinclair arms from the rear, and says, "Gonna pay for that SoldierGirl."

The man rolls off Janicea, as Sinclair raises her boot and drives it down on the foot of the man behind her. The man is wearing sandals, and he roars in pain, losing his grip on her. She then snaps her head backwards into the man's face.

Daric appears, a small gun clenched in his fist.

The long haired man, apparently weaponless, gives up and starts running back toward the jetskis. Meanwhile his companion is being beat to a pulp.

Daric runs after the long haired man.

Janicea somehow gets to her feet and begins to run after them.

Ozzie tries to trip him on the way, rising up from the sand, but the guy sidesteps and kicks him in the face.

Daric screams, "No!" He stops running, and clasps the gun in both hands. The guy is climbing aboard the still running jetski.

The range is long for a .22, but Daric doesn't know this. He starts shooting, the gun barely kicking in his small hands.

One time the guy jerks, as if in pain, and another time a bullet twangs off the jetski's metal hide. To Janicea, the gun's ammo seems endless. The man is speeding away, and the boy is still shooting at him.

She stops next to Daric, and the little gun's slide locks back.

"Thanks," she says.

Daric looks up at her briefly, eyes dull and dead, then seems to remember something. He turns away toward the other jetski. Beth lies motionless in the sand not far away from it. Daric runs, calling her name.

"Beth! Beth!" His voice cracks, and the despair in it rends her heart.

Janicea follows behind, in too much pain to run more, and afraid of what may have happened.

Daric drops to his knees by the small body of his friend.

As she draws near, she can see the still form of the little white fluffy dog, still cradled in her arms.

Jacobs

The rifle's bolt locks to the rear. He presses the magazine release button, and places the empty on the cabinet. He selects a full one and slides it into the magazine well. Releases the bolt, and taps the forward assist.

Might have taken ten seconds. Only one more zombie has appeared. Roughly thirty people are piled up all over the staircase and the landing in front of the front door.

Dead again.

The smells of gunpowder, rot, blood and shit are heavy in the air.

Got to get out of here. The smell is making him gag.

The zombie is closer. It is a teenage girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Probably Latino. She wears a black t-shirt with "Led Zeppelin" on it, a skimpy blue jean mini-skirt, and boots. Her right arm has a bite wound on it.

She is crawling on her hands and knees over the bodies. Her shirt is torn and he can see a gold necklace dangling in front of some serious cleavage. He closes his eyes, but can still see the hunger in her eyes, the almost hateful desire to consume him that is driving her.

He puts the rifle down, and lifts his pistol. Flicks the safety off. A round is in the chamber.

"You want me bitch? He opens his shirt, points at his chest over his heart.

"You want to tear my heart out don't you?"

She hisses, and he can't help but think about the sexual aspect of her on all fours.

Her long hair falling over one eye.

Meets her eyes as she gets close to the cabinet.

Puts the gun barrel up under his chin, with one hand, and strokes the dogs ear with the other.

The girl reaches out for him.

Sussu kisses his hand.

Johnny

It is very hard to judge distance with only one eye. Add fatigue, fear of heights, and not being able to swim into the equation, and the situation seems hopeless.

"Must be these thunderstorms in the area making it so windy," says the guy who just climbed out of a Corvette. The woman with him, a good-looking, but trashy blond, nods, but doesn't say anything.

Johnny doesn't reply. He's busy watching the approaching cruise ship and trying to gather his nerve.

"You thinking of jumping, Mister?" the woman asks. Not far away, he can hear the moans of the undead, coming from both directions of the bridge. Johnny has already killed ten of them just to give himself enough time to decide whether to jump from the bridge to the ship or not. When it passes under, there is only a drop of about twelve feet. Or was it seventeen feet? He can't remember. Just remembers reading it somewhere.

The wind is something he didn't think about, but should have. It might blow hard enough to make him miss the ship's superstructure when, or if he goes for it.

"Beautiful sunset, isn't it?" the woman asks. She's standing beside him now, her long hair whipping in the wind. "You don't talk much do you?"

He shakes his head.

"Look at that sunset---It's incredible isn't it?"

Johnny takes a moment to look around. He can hear sea gulls crying, and the wind. Off to the west, the view is breathtaking. The sun is moments from disappearing over the horizon, seemingly about to sink into the waters of the Gulf, and the clouds are bathed in a rosy glow. Elsewhere, a few of St. Petersburg's skyscrapers are on fire, lending more of an air of menace, than of beauty.

A rain drop hits him on the hand.

He looks back at the ship. So close now, and moving fast.

"He's really going to do it, eh Suzy?" the man asks. Johnny can see a pistol in the man's hand.

"Yeah, I think so."

Johnny braces himself on the wall. It isn't very high. Doesn't seem high enough to stop even a small car from barreling over the edge into space, really. More important to think you are safe, maybe.

An overwhelming number of zombies is within thirty feet of them on the bridge's north end, while on the south, it is closer to fifteen feet.

"Not long now, Suzy. You still want me to shoot you?" The man is close by now, although the gun is still pointing down, and resting against the guy's thigh.

Johnny shakes his head, wishing he could skip out of this conversation.

"Maybe we could jump like Frankenstein here, Dmitri?"

"I'm done, Suzy. You got maybe a minute to decide."

Thirty seconds if you are going to jump.

Johnny can see the ship's bow through the grating now.

The woman laughs. "Oh God," she says, "I don't want to die."

The ship's bridge is visible, and the bow is poking out from under the bridge. The wind is exerting steady pressure that is making him lean. He steps up on the wall, and holds onto a light pole with his left hand, and extends his other hand toward the woman.

The gun goes off.

"They are getting too close Suzy---Decide!" the man shouts.

The woman looks into Johnny's eyes, and she mouths the words, "I can't."

He jumps.