

The Zombies of Lancaster

by Jason Scimitar

The Psycho Novel Series

Dogtown Publications

6937 Bruno Avenue

Saint Louis, Missouri 63139

CHAPTER ONE

Sheriff Wilson's Family

Sheriff Robert Wilson got up early as usual and jogged through town. Old Lancaster had a charm that tourists loved. Robert loved it also. He returned after his three mile run, showered, and donned his official uniform. He loved being sheriff of Lancaster County. He also loved his family.

His wife, Beth, was an elementary school teacher. She loved her job also. She was perfectly matched as a teacher, because Beth loved children, and the school as well as her family were her entire reason for existing. She was mother to Wilson's son, Aiden, who at eighteen years was the star quarterback of the high school team and to Lisa, his sister, who at nineteen years was a freshman at the local junior college and who, like her mother, Beth, was interested in becoming an elementary teacher. They were good kids, and Sheriff Wilson spent as much time with them as he could, despite an extremely heavy schedule of duties which being a sheriff was required of him.

"How is football practice going, son?" Sheriff Wilson asked Aiden.

"Quite good," Aiden said.

"No problems?"

"None that I know of. One of the guys is pissed at the coach, because I'm the quarterback, and he isn't. You know how it is. I have to expect that."

"Of course. I have the same problems. Every man in town thinks he can be a better sheriff."

Aiden laughed. "It's all about you, dad," he chortled.

The sheriff laughed.

"I just can't put one over on this kid, mom. What did I do wrong?"

"Same old, same old," Beth said. "But your father is truly the best man for the sheriff job. So are you, Aiden, for the school's quarterback. You are all winners in my book, guys."

"Thanks, mom."

The sheriff smiled. "How much did we have to pay her for that comment, Aiden?"

"Ten bucks, as I recall, dad. Maybe less. She still works cheap."

They chuckled a bit at that.

"I wish," Beth said.

"You'd be a millionaire if we paid you for being positive," the sheriff said. "And Aiden's right. Moms always work cheap. They also work hard." He leaned over and gave Beth a light kiss. "I love you, Beth. Besides, you do work cheap. That's why I married you."

"How's college going, Lisa?" Beth asked her daughter.

"Fine. I'm okay with it. I'm acing everything. There's not much academic prowess in my classes. Most of the kids are just going there, because their parents forced them."

"I have to go to the office," Sheriff Wilson said. "Duty calls."

He patted his kids on the head and kissed Beth and skittered out the door and was gone.

"I don't like being patted on the head like that," Aiden told his mom. "I'm becoming an adult."

"Well, Aiden," his mom said, "That's just the way it goes. In the back of our minds, dear, you are always going to be three months old even if you are a great jock. Get over it."

"Okay. But remember. You have to treat me like the child you say I am whenever I screw up. How does that sound?"

"Not good," Sheriff Wilson said. "But there is some hint of brilliance to your argument, son."

"He's getting uppity, sheriff," Lisa said, "Maybe he needs a visit out behind the shed."

#

The sheriff started his Crown Victoria and slowly meandered down the street. The Vic was his only perk of note, and he loved it. Several neighbors waved to him as he passed. It was great to be sheriff, unless he had to evict a family, which was the last thing he ever wanted to do to anyone.

Robert Wilson had been the sheriff of Lancaster for twelve years. He was cognizant of all of the seasonal needs of his small city. Lancaster was unusual, because tourists came to Lancaster to gawk at the Amish who populated its environs.

The Amish had lived here peacefully for one hundred and fifty years. Some claimed the Amish had been here even longer, but the exact date of settlement was uncertain and changed depending on each person's conjecture. The old Amish fathers would sit in chairs around the parlor stove in Jensen's Hardware and discuss Amish history, town lore, and how "the English," as the Amish called typical Americans had been pushing them toward their cultural annihilation. The sheriff stepped into Jensen's and found very few Amish there today. He wondered why.

"Where'd the Amish go?" Sheriff Wilson asked Jonathan Whitley.

"Hell if I know. I ain't their keeper, you know."

"This can't be good for the tourists," Sheriff Wilson said.

"Right," Jonathan Whitley agreed. Jonathan was both owner and hardware clerk. "But I expect they'll be showing up soon. Either today or tomorrow. This just isn't like them not to be here."

The sheriff turned to leave.

"I best be getting out there now, Jonathan," the sheriff said. "If I'm not strutting for the tourists' cameras with my sheriff's hat, golden badge, and full uniform, then I'm not doing my job, you know."

Whitley nodded. He knew full well. In many ways the people of Lancaster who weren't Amish themselves, were asked to be local docents. Many of them would explain the Amish ways to the many tourists who came into the stores to shop and to receive information conducive to their cultural immersion into this new social order of mostly unwashed Amish whose bodies smelled a bit sweet from their habit of living more naturally than most Pennsylvanians. In short, many Amish had practiced a penchant for infrequent bathing. The whiff of their natural body odor was one of the gifts given to the tourists which kept them coming for more and more of this good stuff.

Sheriff Wilson had to laugh at the general sleaziness of life in Lancaster. It was lucky for the few residents of this small tourist town that the local color was still a good draw for vacationing families. The city council had made up tourist brochures asking the vacationing families to give the Amish the respect of not bothering them with questions. Rather, their brochures told them to try not to stare nor to discuss these Amish citizens right in front of them, but to give them a bit of privacy and to discuss their observations of this strange group of people only from a respectful distance where their conversations couldn't be heard. It was only right to give them enough distance to allow them to live their own lives without having to be dissected by so many common vacationers who came merely to gawk and whose petty talk right in front of the Germans, as the towns people referred to the Amish, tended to upset the Amish greatly even though most of them tried to be good sports among the English. The tourists kept a kind distance and tried to take pictures without using flash bulbs as their tourist brochures instructed them. All in all, the stand off was fairly good for all concerned, for it gave the tourists a chance to watch and to give the Amish just enough distance to keep them coming to the town without which the tourist trade would cease.

CHAPTER TWO

I Don't Feel Good

Ruth Schwartz had been living in New York City with her Lancaster County friends. She was "running wild" as the Amish say, feeling her youthful Amish oats. Like other Amish young people, Ruth had been intimately discovering how the non-Amish world lived.

A few days before, she had slept with a nice boy she had met at a party. His name was Ricky Schmalz. Ricky asked her to his crash pad, and she had gone with him. After awhile, they had sex. It was her first sexual encounter and the best wilding experience she'd ever had. Now, she wanted more. The only trouble was that somewhere between her partying and her innocent little sin with Ricky Schmalz, she had caught a cold. It was an unfair bummer for Ruth who wanted to discover more young men in the very near future, because she liked what she and Ricky had done in Rick's bachelor pad and wanted a lot more. Her cold had put her dreams in that regard on delay. For several days, her mind was foggy. She found getting out of her bed painful. Her joints ached. She had a fever. Her sweat that night had caused her to soak her sheets. Droplets of feverish sweat still beaded across her forehead. They created little streams of salt water that traveled with the wantonness of general nonchalance into her eyes. Ruth didn't like her persistent squinting caused by the salt's discomfort. In addition, Rick had bitten her twice and drawn blood, causing her to scream. He said he didn't understand why he had done that and had apologized.

Her eyes seemed strange as well, and she had a sudden desire to eat her meals half-baked which was not like her. The taste of munching on uncooked meat suddenly seemed to have a sudden appeal to her. She even found herself thawing hamburger in the microwave and eating it while it was totally red. In fact, she had suddenly discovered that raw meat was actually one of the most delicious foods she had ever eaten. She wondered to herself just why hadn't she known this desire for redness in meats all along? Why had this sudden new culinary discovery appeared? She figured it was because she was sick.

Ruth wanted to meet her new boyfriend, but he wasn't answering her phone calls. She figured correctly that he was as sick as she was. Maybe, she thought, he might need someone to talk to or to bring him some meals. She was bored in her apartment. So, as tired as she was, she craved stimulation. Her friends always said sex was good for a fever. Maybe she needed to check that out. She called a taxi.

#

As Ruth Schwarz approached Rick Schmalz's apartment door, she noticed that her body seemed to be operating a bit erratically. She was stumbling. She had to struggle just to walk across the street, because the fever had caused Ruth to lose control of herself. It was not like her to be this way. Ruth was not really with it at all today. The Amish girl figured it was another symptom of her fever. She wondered if Rick was having the same problem. Her arms reached out in front of her in a rather strange way, almost like a Hollywood zombie, and her thoughts were foggy at best. She knocked, but no one answered. So, she tried the door knob. It was unlocked.

"Ricky?" she called. Still there was no answer. She opened the door and stepped in. Ricky was not there, so she went inside to see if her youthful and very handsome paramour was in another room. She tried his bedroom. Sure enough. There he was, sleeping. She got on his bed and leaned down against his side and kissed him. His face seemed odd at best. His flesh was cold. He stirred. But it was only slightly.

"Rick?" she asked. Again, Rick did not answer her. "Are you all right, Rick?"

Ruth thought that Rick moved a bit, but she couldn't be sure. She looked at his arms, and noticed what looked like bed sores here and there. That was new. She hadn't noticed that the night they made love. Curious, she checked herself for sores. Yes, there were similar sores on her arms and neck.

"What the heck is happening to us?" she wondered.

"Rick?"

Rick sat up. His hands lunged for Ruth's throat. He was growling, and, as his eyes opened, she noticed how his whites were golden and his irises were suddenly bright red, almost like those of a mountain wild cat. Was she imagining things or was he changed in some way? She knew that an illness could be a sensitive thing that could easily affect the eyes and minds of its victims. Ruth had seen that happen with Amish patients whom she had cared for as a hospital aide when their temperatures passed one hundred and two degrees.

Rick grabbed at her. She felt his hands closing around her throat, choking off her airway. He bit her shoulder and tore out a chunk of her flesh. He was growling.

"Rick? You're hurting me, Ricky. Stop it!"

She pushed Rick's hands away. Were they claws?

Things had suddenly gone wrong.

Her boy friend leaned forward, grabbed Ruth's arm and bit hard, breaking her skin. Rick's teeth ripped out some of Ruth's muscle, drawing even more blood than he had done before.

What the heck was going on? Was he so ill that he didn't realize exactly what he was doing? She pushed him away and noticed how his facial features looked almost deadly, as though he had passed away and was starting to decay. Parts of his skin were missing. Little chunks of him had fallen away. In addition, his skin was no longer white. It had changed. Now, it had turned as blue as Roka cheese at a sleazy dairy counter. Rick's teeth had also protruded slightly. They had been straight before. Now, they bucked forward enough that he could probably eat hamburgers through a wire fence. These were the same teeth he had bit her with.

As he fell back in the bed, she noticed that he had a ghastly look. She turned her head and saw herself in the mirror by the bed. She, too, had taken on a similar and deadly specter.

It was time to go. But some crazed notion suddenly gnawed at her. She wanted to get back at him, so she lunged like Rick had done and bit him, tearing out some of his muscle. He screamed, then cut her with his claws.

She attempted to block him, got up, and ran to the door. She slammed it closed on the way out and ran down the hall.

She wondered why she had bitten him. It had felt wonderful to do that. "What has gotten into me that I would bite him like that?" she asked herself, but she had no answer suitable to the question.

Once outside, she went straight to the train station to purchase a one-way ticket back home to Lancaster County. She needed her mommy. Ruth wanted no more of running wild in New York City for awhile. She was sick. She felt miserable. She needed her family's gentle arms holding her. Why were people staring at her so strangely all of a sudden? She went to the bathroom and noticed that she had that same look that Rick had. In addition, blood ran down her chin from where she had bitten him. There was also a large blood stain where he had ripped into her muscles and tore some of it away with his teeth. She had a hole there where he'd bitten out a mouth-sized chunk from her. Suddenly, Ruth felt even more feverish. Had she contracted a deadly disease from love making with Rick? As unlikely as it might otherwise seem, Ruth was truly terrified of what was happening to Rick as well as to herself. It was just plain odd. She wanted to be in her home bed where mom could look after her and make her well again like she had done many times before. Amish moms had that special medicinal manner with their children, and, if anyone could help her, it was mom.

#

Ruth Schwarz had always marveled at the interior of the train station. It was lavish in its carvings. The walls were nestled with Rococo style moldings, giving it a resemblance to the Vatican in Rome. She guessed it was an adaptation and that the architect had a hand in the decisions concerning just how to decorate it.

One thing for sure, Ruth thought. This hall does not beg for accessories the way most Amish Farms might. Every detail was arranged for maximum impact, lending the entire scene a surreal combination of recent and medieval grace.

She almost fell over waiting in the long line for her ticket.

"How can I help you, mam?" the ticket taker asked Ruth.

"I need a single ticket to Lancaster, Pennsylvania," Ruth told the dark skinned attendant whom she assumed might be from Jamaica from her clothing and hairdo which contained a myriad of corn rolls all laced at the ends with intricate gold caps. "By the way," Ruth said, "I hope it's all right for me to say that I love your hair. It is very lovely."

The attendant smiled.

"Why, thank you," she said. "That's very nice of you."

"You are most welcome," Ruth said. "And I really mean it. I just love how it looks on you."

They both smiled.

"Well, I guess I'd best be on my way. I hope to see you here again some day soon," Ruth said.

The lady smiled. She wasn't used to New Yorkers telling her nice things about herself. Usually, all she got were complaints about late trains, badly timed connections, and stories concerning a shocking death in the family as the reason for the customer's trip. Ruth had been a real delight. People like her made the ticket taker's day gallop along far more smoothly.

#

As the train rolled incessantly toward Pennsylvania and her home town of Lancaster, Ruth Schwarz had been feeling steadily worse. Her fever had increased, and her control over her body became even more erratic. Now, she could barely grip anything in her hands. Even hand rails were difficult to hold, because her fingers moved like balloons and were practically useless.

The train slowly pulled out of the station into the brazen carcass of New York City. It's buildings were filthy as a pig stye, as usual. The windowed boxes of apartments and office structures loomed like stationary Godzillas along the track bed.

"How are you doing, Miss?" a man asked.

"Oh, you are referring to me?"

"Yes, mam. Is everything going well?"

"Yes. Well, not really."

"I need to punch your ticket, please."

She reached into her purse and found it. The man, whom she figured was either a ticket taker or conductor, attacked the ticket fiercely with his punch. She noticed how his hand tightened like an angry snake against the ticket's corner edge, and a well defined hole appeared where the conductor's small metallic chomping tooth had been resting which was just the right spot.

"Many thanks. You have a nice trip, mam."

"I appreciate that."

The sweat poured from her temples and forehead, and her stomach was weak and full of acid.

Soon, the city had disappeared, and fields sped by as the train made its solitary snake-like way toward her home town of Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

Surely, mom would get her well...

#

After Ruth arrived home, her mom, Hannah Schwarz, immediately tucked her into bed. Her father, Jacob Schwarz, had to help his wife get their daughter up the stairs, because Ruth's body stumbled this way and that. The stairs were difficult for her to maneuver. It was as though Ruth simply couldn't control herself.

Ruth's mom was convinced the devil had gotten a hold of her in New York City.

"The sin of wilding has come down upon her," her mother said to Jacob. "I told you this tradition of letting them run wild in the city would produce nothing worthwhile. They are becoming hoodlums. All of them."

"We all did it," her husband reminded her. "You and I spent one year in the city, and we enjoyed it a great deal. Just remember that."

"I never liked it much. I missed the farms and the Amish food. Twinkies weren't nearly as good as mom's blueberry pie. And I never liked the crowds. I had to fight for every inch of space."

"I liked it."

"Dreadful place."

"Well, we went, and Ruth went. Just get over it."

"I'm worried about her."

"You are always worried. She'll be all right when the fever drops. Best to make her some chicken soup and get her well again."

Hannah kissed Jacob. "We'll get her well soon enough, but I'll tell you right now, she'll just get up and go back to New York City to finish her running wild experiences."

"It's all right," Jacob said. "Let's remember, she has a right to discover other ways outside of Lancaster's little close-knit community like all the other children. If she doesn't find out what its like out there amongst the English, she'll think she's missed something in her life. Best to get her curiosity fully amused when she's young. That's the way we settle them down as real Germans on our farms, you know. She'll settle, Hannah, but she'll do it only after she gets some of that young craziness out."

Hannah closed her eyes a moment and prayed quietly to herself. "Lord, help Ruth to get well. May she settle, marry a nice Amish boy, and be as happy as Jacob and I are..."

#

The next day when they went to wake Ruth, she was no longer in bed. Now, they'd have to find her.

Jacob walked outside to look for his daughter. Hannah, his wife, was right behind him. "Ruth!" Hannah called. "Where are you, dear girl?" Jacob looked this way and that.

"It's the darnedest thing when people get sick," the old man said. "They can get so feverish they just get up and start staggering around. The fever takes and them does the dangedest things to them."

"Ruth!" Hannah called. "It's your mom, Ruth. I need to get you back in bed, baby girl!" Hannah Schwarz was not used to having her daughter take off so rudely when she was under her care. This just wasn't like her.

"What do you think is going on here, mamma?" Jacob asked his wife. "We gotta find her before she gets sicker and sicker."

"I don't like the looks of it. I'm really worried."

They checked the barn. The animals had been set loose, except for a pony that sprawled atop the floor. It was red with blood oozing from what looked like an animal bite.

"Oh, my god, Hannah! Look at the colt!"

"A wolf must have gotten in!"

They felt the animal. It was still warm, so it hadn't been bitten long ago. Jacob grabbed a pitchfork and a hoe which he gave to Hannah. "It's best to be armed, honey. That wolf may be right here ready to spring on us."

They checked each stall as well as the feed bins. No wolf. No daughter.

"I hope Ruth hasn't been attacked like that poor colt."

They walked to the end of the barn and looked out over the corrals and fields. In front of them was the wolf, and it had been eaten as well. A hole in its neck still gushed blood.

Not only that but the sixteen additional head of cattle and other livestock were lying about half eaten same as the wolf and the colt.

"Oh, God have mercy!" Hannah said.

A group of half-dead people stumbled in the fields. They seemed covered in blood from head to toe.

"What hath Jehovah wrought here?" Jacob muttered.

A person suddenly appeared behind them. It was their daughter, Ruth. She was also completely covered in blood like all the other people staggering in the fields just outside their barn. The gaze in her eyes seem deadly blank. The whites had turned orange with red centers inside the iris.

"Ruth, what's wrong, honey? Did that wolf get you, too? Come here to momma. I'll take care of you."

"She can hardly walk," Jacob said.

In an instant she was on them, tearing their throats, ripping open their intestinal walls, and pulling their guts from them. She stuffed them into her wickedly smiling mouth and chewed on them perversely as her parents screamed in horror and agony.

"We finally found our little girl, Jacob," were the last words either of them uttered.

Ruth knelt and ate from her parents. Then, she went from animal to animal and fed from them. Several hours later, her parents resurrected as the living dead. They stumbled alongside their daughter towards their neighbors' farms, seeking their delicious human blood and flesh to still their newly discovered hunger for living human matter. Their hands grasped at the air. They reached forward searching for nothing in particular. Their reunited family had been suddenly caught inside the angry jaws of a resurrected death. The Schwartz's and twenty other people walking alongside and covered in blood shambled through the fields, staggering this way and that, barely able to walk at all. On the way, Hannah noticed a small robin on the ground. She bent down and pushed it into her mouth and tasted its delicious warm blood flow within her ripping teeth and across her tongue as she chewed into its tenderness. Its blood ran down across her chin and onto her dress, but Hannah never noticed, nor did Jacob or Ruth. They just gazed ahead at the farm belonging to their Nephew, his wife, and kids. With any luck they'd make an excellent meal. Their farmhouse was straight ahead. It bobbed up and down in front of them as they approached. The house was centered inside their outstretched hands.

Their relatives saw them coming and unlocked the door.

"Hello, Hannah," Elizabeth said. "Nice to see you."

It was her final statement. Hannah and Ruth were upon her, tearing away her throat. Her husband Abram also fell to the floor. Their screams filled the house, arousing their son whose throat was immediately ripped apart just as soon as he ran into their room.

An hour or so later, they were partly gutted. Nonetheless, they suddenly awakened. They stood up in mechanized jerks with their hands outstretched and extended directly forward. They were very thirsty and hungry for both blood and flesh. Together with Jacob, Hannah, and Ruth, Abram, and Elizabeth Schwarz, they shambled forward toward the next farm where a few more of their Amish relatives had settled. They lived just around the bend in the corn field. As they walked through the corn, their hands grabbed the giant grasshoppers that nibbled on the corn day and night. They shoved their crunchy green grasshopper bodies into their mouths and swallowed them.

They tasted fresh and juicy.

Not as good as their relatives on the next farm just around the bend in the corn field would soon taste.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next....

Their arms reached forward in a rather crudely erratic ecstasy as they stumbled in a deadly old man's gait toward their goal. Their hands reached blindly forward as they walked.
CHAPTER THREE

Festival

Aiden checked out the pie tasting booths. He went for the samples first. The peanut was old stuff to him, so he opted for the newest fruity flavors, selecting Strawberry Mary, Blueberry Billie, and Caramel Nun. They were pretty good. Their tastes were amplified. As he nibbled each piece their tastes overwhelmed his buds.

"Really good shit!" Aiden said.

"What did you say, young man?" the booth lady asked.

"Sorry, Mam. It was just so good, I guess I got carried away. I'll try to act nicer next time around."

The lady smiled.

"You are that nice sheriff's son, aren't you?"

"Yes, mam, I am."

"He is so handsome. Tell you what, I won't report you, because I know he'd put you in jail for that," she joked, "but I need something from you in return to keep my mouth shut."

"What's that?" Aiden asked.

"I want you to promise to let me know if your mom and dad split, so that I can have first dibbies on him as my husband!" The woman cackled and slapped her hips.

"My, your daddy is just so super fine, son. Let me tell you! Now, I'm just kidding. I know they'll never split up in a thousand years! So, you get on and enjoy yourself. What's your name?"

"Aiden."

"Well, I have a nephew with that name. You are a fine young man, and I've watched you play football, baseball, and basketball. It's been a pleasure to have met you. There's no charge for the samples. In fact, pick any Whoopie pie I've got here, and it's yours for free. Which one do you want?"

"The Strawberry Mary."

"I knew you were girl crazy, Aiden," she laughed. "Here you go. A Strawberry Mary it is."

"Thank you, mam. I appreciate you supporting me in sports. In a way, sports are my whole life."

"You are quite welcome, Aiden. It's a pleasure to see the way you play so hard for the team. Now get along and find yourself a nice girl to play with out there. I know you can have your pick of all of them."

Aiden blushed. "Well, it may seem easy, but I'm pretty new at this, you know. I'm still picking my way down the beach inspecting the shells, so to speak."

The lady laughed. "Know what you mean. I was young once. I know it doesn't show. Where the years went, I just don't know, but when I was your age I was hunting for a handsome boy just like you to settle down with. But you just weren't around. Why is life so unfair?"

"How's that?"

"How's what?"

"It being unfair?"

"Well, now that you are here, I'm your mom's age. You can see full well that's not going to work out for either of us."

Aiden smiled. "Thanks for the pie," he said. "And you still look darn good. In fact, I may be back for a date later."

"Pshaw!" she cackled. "Ain't you the sly little devil! Now, you get going, before you sweet talk me into compromising myself at this here fair, you little whipper snapper!"

Aiden bent over and kissed her on the check.

"I mean it. You are still beautiful, mam. Don't let anyone tell you differently. I'll see you later."

It always felt good to make a woman feel pretty. It was the least he could do for her. If a woman had a truly good soul, a guy had a responsibility to respect her. Old age was enough of a hassle, and Aiden knew from his grandpa that he'd be there someday himself, and he'd want to be flirted with by a beautiful girl at that time. Kissing her was was his first installment on an insurance plan. He'd made a deposit in the hope that it would pay off big time in the distant future.

#

Brayton Bormann was Lisa's boyfriend. His family included some young drug dealers. They were just small timers. Nothing big. They dealt with their friends only. But it still made Brayton persona non gratis with the sheriff. Too bad for her old man that Lisa loved Brayton Bormann. Brayton escorted Lisa Wilson through the Fair Grounds. The two were staying clear of the treats in order to keep their weight under control. Both had outstanding bodies, and they were determined to keep them that way until the day they died.

"Your dad doesn't like me, still," Brayton said.

"He'll give in."

"It's not fair. My relatives may be in the dope business, but I'm not."

"He's a law man, Brayton. It's what they do."

Brayton smelled the air. It was fresh and clean.

"Life is so good here," Brayton said. "I'm glad we have this time together."

He pulled her close to him and looked into her eyes.

"You know I love you, Lisa."

She looked down at her feet.

"I know."

"Look at me," he said.

She lifted her eyes.

"I'll never let you down," Brayton said. "Do you know that?"

"I guess so," Lisa said.

"There's no guess so about it, Lisa. If a bullet came at you, I'd step in front of it and take the hit to save you. I'm not lying. I love you that much."

"It's not going to happen."

"You never know. Life has many dark shadows. That's what my grandma says."

"Life will be good to you," Lisa said. "Besides, you are a good football player."

"What does that mean?"

"It means everyone is going to love you all the time. That's what happens to high school jocks. You can't lose, Brayton. Ever."

She kissed his delicious lips. She had always loved the way his mouth felt next to hers. He was something special, and she wanted him to know it.

"Do you love me?" Brayton asked.

"Sure."

"How come?"

"Because you are an athlete and a gorgeous jock. That's reason enough, I think."

He pushed at her.

"You are a nut!" he said, laughing. "You are really something!"

She kissed him again.

"We are both something. Each of us is worth more than gold in this world. We must never forget that."

"I still love you," Brayton said. "You need to know that."

"Okay. So, I do."

"Do what, Lisa?"

"I know you love me," Lisa said. "That's what you want isn't it?"

"Well, sort of. But it's more than just a yes or a no answer, Lisa."

"What is it then?"

"It's marriage, a good job, a house, and kids," Brayton said. "That's what it is. I'm going to make you happy, and your dad is going to trust me and love me same as Aiden. I'll be just as good a son to him. I promise."

It was the nicest thing he'd ever said. She didn't understand how he could have been this sensitive about it. Boys were rarely that perceptive.

"You are so special," Lisa said. "You've made it impossible for me not to love you."

They kissed, then turned and walked into the woods where they could be alone. The fair was not a good place for would be lovers. It was just a place for kids and their parents. What the two of them needed was privacy.

#

Brayton Bormann sat in the forest alongside Lisa Wilson.

Her hand fondled his fingers one by one as though she were counting them over and over again. It felt so good just to be here with Brayton. They were used to being interrupted by well wishers everywhere they went in town. Out here in the woods it was different.

"It's very pleasant just to be alone with you," she told him. "In Lancaster, it's difficult. There's no place just to get lost, and we need to get lost."

"You call this 'getting lost,' do you?" Brayton asked.

"Sure. No one sees us up here."

"So?"

"Privacy has its positive aspects. Families live in private houses for a good reason."

"And that reason is what?"

"To be alone. People have to be alone in order to experience being a real family. It's the same with us. We can't be a couple when we are always in public. It doesn't work that way, and you know it."

"Sure. I know it."

Lisa kissed Brayton's arm.

"That feels good," he said.

"Tastes good."

"How nice for you."

They laughed and rolled in the grass under the trees.

The birds fluttered overhead as though something sinister had disturbed them. They seemed to be fleeing from some unknown monster which never existed and never would. The birds, as usual, were just plain skittish.

"The birds are fearful about something," Lisa said.

"Looks that way. Probably a deer."

"I wonder if people are walking back there."

Brayton kissed her mouth. She tasted sweet.

"You kissed me," Lisa said. "Out of the blue. How come?"

"Just for insurance. If we never get to be alone again, we will at least have this one moment together. It's something we can remember on a dark day when the rain keeps coming in."

"Pshaw!" she yelled laughing at his surreal humor.

#

While Beth prepared a picnic area for the family, she spoke with her best friend, Judith Hadlock. Her husband was busy refereeing an argument between Aneim Munch and a vendor from out of town.

"What's your name, and what's the nature of your complaint?" the sheriff asked.

"I'm Patten Lasko, and this guy is giving me trouble," the vendor answered.

"Are you giving Mr. Lasko trouble, Aneim?" Sheriff Wilson asked.

"Not at all. I was just standing here."

"He doesn't want to pay for his food," the man who owned the vending table said.

"What did he eat?" the sheriff asked.

"He ate two pies."

"How much are these pies?"

"Two bucks apiece."

"Have you got four bucks, Aneim?" the sheriff asked.

"No. But he never said he was going to charge me nothing for them. He just asked if I wanted to try a couple of 'em. So, I did."

"He didn't tell you they cost two bucks?"

"No, sir. He didn't say nothing about no money. He just asked me, Did I want to try them. So, I did. Now he wants to stick me for four bucks."

"Okay, Aneim. You go on about your business."

"Thank you, sheriff." Aneim Munch turned and hobbled his old man's walk in the opposite direction.

"I'll pay for it, Mr. Lasko. The old man is on his last legs. He gets drunk a little, but he's honest. And Anseim doesn't have the money for anything except cheap booze. He's like a town poor boy. He lives on nothing and doesn't bother us usually."

The sheriff handed Patten Lasko a five dollar bill. The man took it, then handed it back to the sheriff.

"I'm sorry sheriff. If he's that poor, he can have the stuff."

"Are you sure, Patten? I'm willing to buy what he ate."

"It's just a misunderstanding, sheriff. Let the old guy have it."

"Sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. And here's another one. Just give it to him as my gift."

The man handed the sheriff an Apple Danish Pie for Aneim. "And here's another one for you, sheriff. Have a nice day."

"That's mighty nice of you, sir. I'll give it to him."

Patten watched the sheriff hand the pie to Anseim, who seemed surprised. Then Anseim turned around and smiled, waving like a homeless crazy to the vendor. Anseim bit into the cold food gift as though it were a treasure of gold. Patten waved back and smiled. Sometimes it paid to be an angel, even in a world in which profit was nearly everything to most people, and that said a lot, since Patten rarely gave anything away to anyone, since he was not rich himself and had to work hard just to survive.

CHAPTER FOUR

Smiths Killed

Robin and David Smith signed into the motel along with their two children, Bobby and Gracie, at 10am. They showered. Then, they dressed in casual clothing and left, hoping to catch glimpses of the Amish in Lancaster.

"We're going to see the Amish, kids!" Robin said. She smiled at the little ones. Lancaster would be an educational vacation for both of them. It was almost like visiting the Bronx Zoo in New York City where they lived.

"What are the Amish?" Gracie asked.

"They are strange dudes with big hairy faces," David Smith told her.

"Hairy faces? What's that?" Gracie asked.

"Remember Santa Claus last Christmas?" Robin asked Gracie.

"Sure."

"It's Santa Claus," her mommy said. "That's a hairy face. They have beards, and they don't drive cars. They drive horse driven carriages. Like little boxes on wheels, dear," Robin said. She looked at her husband, David. "You are scaring her, dear. Little kids have to be carefully told things."

"Okay," David said. "I forgot. She's sensitive."

#

The Smith Family piled into the car which they had rented for the outing. Living in New York City, the Smiths really had no need for an automobile. Just parking one in town cost a fortune. Besides New York buses and trains were the best cheap transportation in the world.

They passed quaint century homes and businesses and saw a few Amish men sitting in their carriages and discussing the day's events, then headed into the farm lands where the big barns and even older homes were plastered here and there. They were headed toward a small park surrounded by woods where they would have a picnic of ham sandwiches, French fries, and cookies.

Robin spread the picnic cloth on the ground, and they all settled in for their family meal in the great outdoors. For people from the city, this was a real treat. They saw several Amish taxis go by, pulled by ponies. Many of the men driving them were young and handsome. Two of them waved.

"It seems very pastoral," David said.

"Yes. I like it. This is a great place to visit."

"It's boring," Bobby said. "I'd rather be at school."

"Wow," David said. "You must really dislike it here, because that's the first time you chose school over anything else. That's very impressive."

"Yea," Bobby said. He wasn't much of a talker. TV, video games, and computers were most of his lifestyle. Everything else to him was an imposition.

"Here comes an Amish taxi now," Robin said. "Let's see what he does."

The taxi turned into the park. They peered at it, hoping to see a bearded man holding the reins, but it looked like the horse was driving the carriage without a man telling it where to go. The taxi veered off the road and parked in the grass about eighty feet away from them.

"Get ready for fun," Daddy said.

"Yea. Great fun," Bobby replied.

"Watch your lip, son," his dad told him. "We came here for you. Remember that."

"Always," Bobby said. "I'll never forget this."

"We spawned a smart ass, Robin," Mr. Smith said.

"At least he has all five fingers. Look on the bright side, dear."

The cart moved as people inside shuffled about. Then four people emerged out of the front and slowly dipped down to the ground. They seemed drunken. They were hobbling and making strange noises.

The Smiths watched them stumbling about in a small circle making unusual sounds.

"They speak German, remember," Robin said. "We won't be able to understand them."

The stumbling Amish men seemed to be sleep walking. They held their arms straight ahead like hypnotized actors in Hollywood mummy films.

"I think they are drunk," Bobby said.

David picked up the camera and took a few videos of the men. The Smiths were so focused on the Amish taxi and its drunks that they never saw the ten or so crazy looking Amish biters approaching them from the woods with their arms outstretched. Nor did they have time to see a ghastly specter in their red eyes that were surrounded by golden whites...

The strange Amish who were about to attack them were none other than Ruth Schwarz and her parents, Hannah and Jacob, who grabbed the Smiths and tore out their throats with their teeth. When their two children came to their aid, Ruth and her family did the same to them, biting open their throats. Blood exploded from them as they dropped to the ground. The Schwartz's tore open their stomachs, pulled their intestines out, and began stuffing their faces with the Smith family's innards. By the time they were finished, the Schwartz's were covered with blood from head to toe. They staggered back into the woods and disappeared. No one was the wiser.

The people beside the Amish taxi moved incessantly back and forth as they watched the Smiths being killed. As soon as the Schwartz's left, they staggered forward and began eating from the tourists themselves picking up pieces of intestines from the grass. Reaching inside their corpses, they pulled out their livers and ate them. Soon, they were covered with blood from head to toe just like the Schwartz's. Their Amish beards glistened with red bodily fluids. They stared straight ahead, then followed the original eaters, the Schwartz's, who had disappeared into the woods. Their arms reached forward to balance their movements. Their legs moved in a slow wobble revealing how difficult it was for them to maintain their balance and to navigate their way forward and to turn to the sides or spin one hundred and eighty degrees when they wanted to turn around and go back where they had come from.

Everywhere they went, they stumbled. Their movements were, at best, erratic. Their blood covered faces had a corpse-like appearance as though they were dead. Even so, they were still able to ambulate pretty much where they needed to be and wanted to be. It just took a little longer to get there. In addition, their vision was dimmer than it had been before they got sick, and it was almost impossible to stop their desire to eat flesh from living people. Eating human blood and flesh was their main focus and why they paced the woods. They were looking for more people, and they knew what they were going to do when they found them. Along the way, they stumbled onto a nest of baby rabbits. They grabbed the helpless bunnies and stuffed their heads into their mouths and tore them apart. Blood poured from their torn necks. They crunched down on their heads and crushed them, then swallowed it all, brains, eyes, and every other part. They sucked out the blood and gore from the bunnies' necks, then reached in with their fingers and spooned out the stomach, lungs and intestines which disappeared into their mouths along with the rest of it. When they were done only a few hind feet remained of the bunnies. They had let them fall from their fingers. The paws dropped to the forest floor when the walkers had turned to continue on their journey for more fresh victims. They preferred humans.

#

Sheriff Wilson was the first officer called to the scene. He grabbed his camera and began photographing everything. He had learned over the years that photography was instrumental in solving crimes. The picture never forgets, even if officers do. In the past, his early forensic pictures had often become the only real whodunit solution.

These tourists had been torn to shreds. Wilson suspected a wolf or a large dog, maybe a pack of dogs, or a mountain lion.

The family's mother, Robin Smith, was close to the little girl whose name was Gracie. sheriff Robert Wilson figured that the mother had tried to protect her children during the attack. She had probably covered Gracie and Bobby. Either that or she had kicked and attacked the animals that did this. Parents are known to become vicious defenders of their children and spouses when attacked. In the past, many a parent had taken a terrible knife wound for their children and continued to fight on until collapsing to the floor when they had bled out. These things happened over and over in crime investigations. Parental protection of families was a no brainer. It was what Wilson expected in such circumstances.

Deputy Drimylos Schoenholtz made his appearance a few minutes later.

"Hi, Drimmie," the sheriff said. Try not to walk all over the crime scene. I think there's shoe prints out there.

Drimmie followed Wilson like his proverbial shadow, except for the mandatory moments when he turned away to vomit in the grass. He tried not to disturb the crime scene when he unloaded his bodily juices. Drimylos was a young man. He had been a college whiz, 23 years old, with a B.S. Criminal Justice degree which everyone in law enforcement considered to be a useless turd. Graduates like Drimmie were as useless as teats on a boar hog at a crime scene. Drimylos fit that prototype to a tee. He had proven himself in the sheriff's office to be sort of stupid, naive, and a young horn dog. Of course, the sheriff tried to be accepting of Drimmie. He pandered vociferously to the youth's needs, saying, "Don't worry about the barfing, son. We all do it." It was just another lackluster lie that he wasn't very good at. Sheriffs and Police Chiefs always tell their green horns it is okay to get sick at a horrific crime scene. It was just a convenient and politically correct cover to keep things running smoothly when the department was impaled on a treble hook.

"What I don't understand," Robert told Deputy Drimylos, "is just why these people are so chewed up. Look at these scars. It looks like a bear or a wild cat got a hold of them, but there's nothing here to indicate anything but human involvement."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because a bear or a wild cat would leave traces. There's no paw prints, no indication of an animal. But why would a human being kill people with their hands and tear out their guts and parts of their body like this?"

The kid nodded. He didn't now what to say. He also didn't know what questions he should ask his boss. The entire scene had rattled him. The red splatter of blood, the ripped stomachs with organs hanging out as though the perps had purposely gutted them. Then, there was the problem of teeth marks, tears, and rips in their skin as though the perps tore into them with knives or with their teeth.

"This is disgusting, sir," the kid muttered.

"It ain't what I'd call a really nice Christmas dinner, Dimmie," the sheriff said. Dimmie was what the sheriff and everyone else called the Deputy because his real name was too fucked up for most people to remember it. So most laid back Americans in Lancaster County called him either 'Dimmie' or 'the Deputy'. Dimwit was considered but he protested.

For the next few hours, the scene was worked by Sheriff Wilson, Deputy Schoenholtz, and the coroner, Davin Bieneck, whose breath already smelled of whiskey. That was typical of the coroner who was a well educated town alcoholic by profession. The sheriff expected nothing less from him.

After two hours, the flies were everywhere, so the sheriff declared the crime scene off limits and said, "Let's bag up the evidence and make ourselves scarce. I'm closing the park for the next several days, and I'm going to take a look everywhere for evidence including the parking areas, the taxi, and the woods. There's got to be something here for starters. This entire scene makes zero sense to me right now."

"I agree," the coroner said. "This entire park sucks."

They bagged the evidence along with the Smiths' bodies, then chained off the park's entrance, placed several official warning signs, saying "Police Scene, Keep Out" and drove off.

CHAPTER FIVE

Coroner's Office

Coroner Davin Dieneck opened his case of scalpels and selected just the right one. "There you go, beautiful," the coroner said to his favorite scalpel. Beautiful had always been the blade he loved to use most. Beautiful was nearly always his favorite scalpel. The coroner kept Beautiful meticulously clean and sterilized to the hilt to insure that no anomalous materials would contaminate the subjects he was about to investigate during his surgeries. He cut the first subject from the breast bone down to the pelvic area. With a few incisions to the sides, he spread the skin and surveyed what little was left of a very disturbed intestinal cluster. Each victim's thorax had been ripped out. Their interiors nearly creaked when he pulled back the skin to investigate. What he saw in each case looked to him like a sociopath's toy box. The first subject was Mr. Smith. Davin knew he was the father and husband. His wallet and the Hertz rental papers in the car itself told him that the Smiths were from New York.

The coroner noted on paper that Mr. Smith had suffered multiple tears and lacerations. "Subject seems to have lost one half of his intestines," Dr. Dieneck said to his Sony recording device. He repeated his observations and he investigated with surgical precision and noted that claw marks and chewing with teeth had occurred at the time his guts had been opened and parts of them had been eaten. "Several parts of the intestines as well as the stomach and lungs are missing as well as his other organs including the heart and portions of his liver. Since these parts were not left at the crime scene it seems prudent to speculate that they were either harvested and placed in a container or were ingested by an animal on the spot or a few moments after the original attack."

Deep inside the man's corpse, the coroner discovered several pieces of flesh attached to someone's fingers. They were not Mr. Smith's fingers, because all of his appendages were still intact. Since Mr. Smith's family was not missing any fingers either, coroner Dieneck noted that these fingers inside the corpse were left inside the thorax and most likely came from another person outside the crime scene. Were these the fingers of an assailant or had they been planted there as a message to law enforcement? Upon closer consideration, the fingers seem to have been dead prior to the crime in question, because they exhibited necrotic sores and stains consistent with bodily decay of more than three days, possibly a longer period of time. This case was becoming more interesting the more he investigated. His notes might become quite lengthy, if these discoveries continued. "This is a multiple homicide," Dr. Dieneck said into the recorder.

The coroner picked up the cell phone and dialed the sheriff.

"Where are you?" Dienick asked.

"Out on the road investigating this mess," Wilson said. "It just doesn't make sense."

"I know."

"What did you find?"

The marks both inside and outside of the victims' bodies indicate an animal attack, but there's a monkey of some sort in the wood pile."

"I appreciate your attempt at political correctness, Davin. Why don't you just say that some thing's badly fucked and stop the reckless banter. These calls are being recorded, you know, coroner, and I'd like to keep my job if you don't mind. If I'm not mistaken, you'd like to keep yours, too."

"Now, don't get so feisty, sheriff. The thing is this. I've found someone else's dead fingers deep inside several of the bodies, fingers that have been lifeless for quite a while."

"Fingers?"

"That's exactly right. Fingers."

"Whose fingers?"

"I'd hope they are the killer's fingers, sheriff. I've sent digital pictures of them to your office. I need computer comparison ID's for matching prints if you can locate any, and you are the only man who can find them for me."

"If the fingers were dead quite awhile, who put them inside those bodies, my friend? And why? Is the killer sending a message? What's your hunch? Do you think it is a revenge killing?"

"I don't think anything. All I'm saying is the fingers that were previously dead were placed inside these bodies. Obviously, they cannot be the killer's fingers, or he'd have been dead a long time in which case he would not have been available to kill them. Either that or he cut off his fingers weeks ago, kept them on the dresser to suck on when he was bored, and took them to the crime scene to plant inside the bodies."

"Everything turns to crap when there's a murder. Did you ever notice that about these cases?"

"Murder is not delicious, sheriff. It's a nasty business, and murderers never cook up a good dinner. The recipe is always screwed up one way or the other."

"I'll get back with you."

"I know."

#

The coroner's autopsy room was quiet as death.

The Smith's lay atop their metal tables assuming room temperature. They were being mum for now. As quiet as church mice.

Sometime later that evening, after the coroner had put them to sleep, Bobby Smith's little finger moved. Then, it moved again. His sister's little finger followed suit. Next the father and mother moved their little fingers. After a bit more time had elapsed, Mr. Smith sat up. His eyes were purplish in the low light of the cold autopsy room. His hands came up pointing out forward. He looked at his dead arms with an air of disbelief.

The rest of the family somehow resurrected themselves just as he had done, lifted their arms out front like mesmerized puppets, and staggered from the room, through the door. They found benches in the next room. They sat and rested on them. Then they stood up, left the building, reached ahead with their arms, and staggered toward the town center where they slowly donned ill fitting clothes.

Since most people were asleep, only a few saw them that night before they left town and entered the fields and woods that surrounded the village. One who saw them was a jogger whose body was found half eaten, his guts torn out across the sidewalk.

#

Sheriff Wilson was having breakfast the next morning. His son, Aiden, was reciting an ongoing exposition on the perfections of his girl friend, a brunette named Marlaina Kreuz, who had lived three houses down and had been Aiden's constant companion ever since they were both born. The sheriff and his wife almost considered her to be a second daughter.

"She's a gorgeous, hot cheerleader, if that's a plus," Aiden told his mom. "Cheerleaders are prime, mom. You need to know that."

"Not as prime as high school quarterbacks," Robert Wilson teased. "She's picking up points also in this arrangement. You are nothing to sneeze at in high school popularity contests, you know. Besides, we already approve of you seeing Marlaina. Your mother and I love her like a daughter. You know that. Besides, we've all known Marlaina for years. She lives three houses down and watches TV with us, for chrissakes."

"Whatever. In any case, she's very hot, dad."

Robert Wilson laughed. "Very well put, son. I'm glad you've noticed the obvious. I guess that's the end of the discussion then."

"Not really. She has a mind also, dad. A sheriff's son is not attracted to dummies."

Sheriff Wilson nodded to his son. "I'll keep that in my mental Rolodex, Aiden. You never know when that might come in handy."

"Aw, dad."

"Well, she is a nice girl," Beth Wilson said. "As your mother, Aiden, I fully approve of her, and I always have. She's a lovely girl."

"I guess that's it, then," the sheriff said. "There you go, Aiden. The very beautiful Marlaina is in. Mom is the decision-maker, you know. I'm just a minor bread winner."

"Dads are okay," Lisa said, "but that's only because they are always doting on their daughters more than their sons. That makes you Number One with me, dad. And it makes Aiden Number Two."

Lisa stuck her tongue out at her brother who responded by giving her his index finger.

"Why, thank you, Lisa. I appreciate that vote of confidence."

"For sure."

"Whatever," Aiden said. "Whatever any of you say, just remember, Marlaina is hot."

"As long as Aiden likes her and she's not a dope head, I'm all for her," the sheriff said. "At least, it kicks the can down the road where my son will eventually be arrested for smoking marijuana at the Baptist picnic."

"I don't do dope, dad."

"I know. At least, I think I do. But I do worry about you all the time, son."

"She's hot, dad."

"Okay. I got that."

Aiden smiled. "Hot."

The sheriff's phone rang. Robert checked the window.

"I have to take this."

"There's a cold one on the street downtown, sheriff," the voice said. "Better get down there."

"Who?"

"A jogger. You know him. It's Billie Weston."

"You're kidding? Billie Weston?"

"Yeppers."

"Christ."

The caller was Dolly Kaleston. She was the night clerk at City Hall. She worked from home at night, because the phone calls went to a special cell phone she took home each evening. From her bed, she kept watch on things that didn't need immediate response and called the mayor and the sheriff when there was an emergency like this.

"The mayor wants to talk to you about these murders."

"I bet he does. I'll meet him as soon as I work the scene," the sheriff said.

He hung up.

"Gotta go. There's another stiff lying in the street downtown. He's a jogger name Billie Weston. We all know Billie. He's half eaten like the ones in the park."

"What do you think it means?" Aiden asked his dad.

"Well, son, I think it means this is going to be one really shitty day...."

The sheriff turned, grabbed his gun, and ran out the door. It clanged shut with its typical loud bang.

"I've got to fix that," the sheriff said to himself.

#

Billie Weston was an addicted runner. Billie had been a good looking kid until something ate one-fifth of his body mass in the middle of his nightly jog. The sheriff noted that he had been chewed up on all sides, and from the four blood stains on the ground around Billie it looked like four perps at been chewing on Mr. Weston at the same time.

"What the heck!" the sheriff said. He didn't like the looks of this. Things were getting complicated and fast.

The town reporter came over and said hello.

"Not now, Payton," the sheriff said. "Do you have any photos of this?"

"Yes," Payton Bryde replied.

"Do me a favor. Do not print them."

"I have to."

The sheriff grabbed his friend by the hand.

"Listen, Payton. We can't have people seeing pictures of a half eaten corpse in downtown Lancaster. Imagine the bad publicity. Think of the business owners. It will destroy the tourist trade, and that means the motels, restaurants, and shops won't have the money to pay for your newspaper's ads. Now, you might not care about the tourist trade in Lancaster, but your creditors want to be paid, and I know you need cash all the time to keep your little tabloids afloat, Payton. So, play these murders close to your face."

"You are right about needing ads," Payton said. "That's a good enough reason for me. What should I say?"

"As little as possible. You know what to do. Report it as a suspicious death, origin unknown. The coroner is going to perform an autopsy. Interview Payton's mom, girlfriend, sister, and others to do background. But don't mention that four people seem to have eaten the poor screaming bastard alive. Got it? That might fuck things up."

"I got it," Payton said.

"So, I can count on you?"

"Of course. We've known each other for years. I know what's best for me on this."

"Good. I'll let the mayor know you are on board also, if that's okay."

"I'll call him myself, sheriff. When it comes to selling out, I think it's best to do it in person."

Robert laughed and gave Payton a hug.

"You are the best, Payton."

"Or the worst, you mean."

"Love ya, man. Make it good."

He turned to the crime scene and started clicking off pictures.

"Keep the citizens off the sidewalks and at least five blocks away from here. I don't want this shit going on You Tube and Drudge in the next five minutes. I need complete control over the media on this or there will be hell to pay from Mayor McDonald."

When he turned around, Mayor Carson McDonald was smiling at him.

"Do we have this under control, sheriff?" the mayor asked, ignoring the fact that he just heard what he had heard.

"I'm not sure."

"I can see that! Do you think I'm blind?"

"This is most likely related to the park crime that took place last night."

"Same pattern?"

"Yes."

"Which is what?"

"All the victims were chewed and their guts tossed about in the air. As far as copy cat perps go, the similarity of both of these crime scenes seems a bit conclusive, don't you think?"

"Indeed. Anyway, I may be dull brained, sheriff, but remember it's just a political stance. Everyone wants to seem smarter than the mayor, you know. So, even though you think I'm dumber than snake shit, I'd like you to remain fully cognizant in that higher brain of yours that its just a ruse, because I'm fully capable of rapidly seeing the overall pattern that is emerging here."

"But?"

"But this is very dangerous stuff."

"Dangerous stuff? Five people are dead in less that twenty hours. Yea, I call that dangerous. In fact, it's very dangerous, Mr. Mayor."

"Listen, sheriff. Lancaster is a tourist Mecca."

"You aren't telling me something I don't know, Mr. Mayor."

"Anyway, Sheriff Wilson, our stores, restaurants, bus tours, car rentals, and hotels make a lot of money off the families who come here to gawk at the Amish, and I think that they are going to stay away if they think that their little kids are going to be eaten as truffles. So, we can't let them know that their children might just be consumed as sweet meats by some weirdo who snacks on them right here on the main drag in Lancaster, Pennsylvania which they are about to visit! That's not good for business in Lancaster, if you get my drift."

"You are right, Mr. McDonald. But on the other hand, if it gets out, think how much money we could get from the goth, heavy metal, and ghoul fans. They might increase Lancaster's revenue streams even more."

"Don't give me any gruff on this, sheriff. I run a good town here, and we've never seen anything this graphic as long as I've lived here, and I want it covered up, buried, and silent as a warm summer heat wave. Got it?"

"Got it, sir."

"Good. Take care of it."

As soon as he turned around, he was talking with Payton Bryde, the newspaper editor and reporter. That was good. Maybe Payton's cooperation would cover over the horror that this town was being subjected to and that in turn might help keep the mayor off the sheriff's backside.

"Payton, we need to keep a leash on this. I can't have people all over the east coast thinking that Lancaster is dangerous, because if that happens, this place will be like the World Trade Center's death hole. The stores will close, the FOR RENT signs will go up, and people without money to pay rent will move to another town where they can find a real job."

"So, you want me to lie, mayor?"

"No. Not that all all."

"What do you want from me, Mr. Mayor?" Payton asked.

Mayor McDonald looked at Payton and put his arm around him. "Listen, son," the mayor said. "We are all in this boat together. We sink or swim on the same tide. When a ship as big as Lancaster sinks, Payton, we all die at the same time. We have to insure that the ship stays afloat, that Lancaster thrives. Otherwise, we all starve, and our power to survive diminishes. The world exists for the wise, Payton. You and I are just small bubbles in that larger sea of magnificent froth in which the rich control everything, and the poor remain convinced that they are in control. You and I are the poor, Payton, and it is always our duty to tell everyone that we are not poor but are middle class and happier than hell with our lot even if we know better. So, if you understand this and know that the rich aren't going to bail us out if we go down, then you will write your stories to make Lancaster the safest tourist destination in the universe. And it is. It is far safer and less hostile than the Moon, Mars, and Mercury where we'd all die instantly from exposure. You see, son, it is all a matter of perspective. In the larger picture, Lancaster is the safest of all towns in this wonderful cosmos in which we are just a tiny part."

Payton turned away. "The mayor thinks I'm a damned idiot," Payton thought. He walked the length of main street and looked back at the sheriff. He was talking with the mayor about how to salvage the tourist season. Some horrible people were eating Lancaster's citizens, including their precious tourists, just for the fun of it. If he reported it honestly, the town would dry up. "What am I going to write about this?" Payton asked himself. He wasn't sure, but it'd just have to be another fluff piece designed to keep the lid on Lancaster. It wouldn't gain him a Pulitzer Prize, but small towns had different needs. What was popular in New York City was a form of anathema to the locals in Lancaster County. "I'll figure out something," he thought. He always did.

#

Coroner Davin Dieneck sailed through the crime scene like a snowy white egret scarfing up little schools of evidence minnows from the shallows. He bent down, snapped photos, placed samples inside zip lock crime bags, spoke into a recorder where his observations could be archived point-by-point, and kept others as far away from the crime as he could.

The scene was still practically virgin, and he worked fast, wanting to get Weston's corpse into the morgue next to the four half-eaten victims whom he had already carved up with his expert surgical mannerisms. He could practically feel the cutlery in his hands carving up Mr. Weston as he worked the street.

The blood spray indicated splatter from all four sides of the victim, which was unusual, since most victims were cut either in the back or front, but not everywhere at once. This seemed at first glance to be either a group effort or a situation in which the perp was so active that he couldn't feed from just one spot but felt the need to circulate from each angle, making new tears into the victim's flesh from all sides in order to enjoy the feast even more. If that were true, he might have wanted to humiliate the victim. This could mean that the perp knew the victim and had a grudge. It would have been a big one. The guy was going to suffer big time if the perp had anything to say about it.

The coroner placed the victim into a body bag and lifted it into the medical ambulance.

"Here we go, Billie Weston."

From here it was just a matter of coasting over to the morgue for Dr. Dieneck's autopsy. Lancaster was becoming a busy place for the coroner, and with the extra work, he'd be putting in for overtime pay which meant he could afford better booze, something that hadn't materialized here in several years. He could use the extra pay.

#

Coroner Davin Dieneck pulled up to the coroner's building. What seemed strange to him was the way the door was standing partly open. Had he forgotten to lock it? Glass littered the area, and, as he approached the entrance, he noticed that the lock which had always been very old and flimsy at best had been broken open from the inside. The wind could not have done that.

Dieneck phoned the sheriff.

"Yea," Robert answered. "Found anything of interest?"

"Yea."

"Give."

"The door to the morgue is standing open. I'd like you to come and investigate."

"Good idea. I'll be right there."

Three minutes later, Sheriff Wilson pulled up. He got out of the car and surveyed the door. As he did so, Deputy Drimylos Schoenholtz pulled up. "Cover the front door, Dimmie. Look's like someone may be inside."

The deputy ran around to the back and assumed the position with his pistol.

"I'm ready!" he yelled.

Sheriff Wilson looked at the coroner. "Why did he have to yell just then?" he asked the coroner.

"I dunno, sheriff. He's young and I guess you just can't fix stupid," the coroner said.

"Well, you are certainly correct there!"

The sheriff opened the front door to the morgue. It creaked loudly. "Seems to be unhinged a bit, Davin," he said. "Better get that attended to, today."

The sheriff entered with gun drawn, swaying right and left. He passed the reception area and went through the door to the autopsy room. Inside, he noticed that the tables and sheets were all askew, pushed this way and that as though some teenagers had vandalized the place just to piss off the city. He cleared the building, and told his deputy to bring the coroner inside. In a minute he was there, standing next to the sheriff.

"Holy shit!"

"Want to explain?"

"Give me a minute."

The coroner checked the cold slabs where he stored the bodies. They were clean.

"So where are the Smiths?" Coroner Dieneck asked. "They were here in my autopsy guest room happily pushing up their proverbial little corpse daises and passing gas on their ice cold slabs. What did I do wrong? Do you think I gave them too much respect?"

"Maybe they needed some exercise," Sheriff Wilson said. "Just because they were city folks doesn't mean they don't like to work out some."

"Very true, and also very funny. But that doesn't explain what clowns picked them up and took them outside."

Deputy Drimylos Schoenholtz was a bit confused. "It's taking a kid's prank a wee bit too far to kidnap cadavers, coroner."

"They must have a terrific sense of humor, Davin, the sheriff said. "That's for darn sure. I hope my son doesn't have anything to do with this, because I'd hate to hurt the back of my hand whipping his young ass."

"You think it's him?" Deputy Drimylos Schoenholtz asked.

"I always think it's him," Robert said. "I have nightmares. I'm a worried father. If he wasn't spanking clean this morning at breakfast, I'd have checked him out for using the jogger for an evening snack. That's the way we fathers are, you know." He looked at the coroner and nodded. "We are always suspicious of our children. Isn't that right, coroner?"

"Well, yes. It is that way."

"Look at it this way, Davin. I know in the back of my suspicious dad-mind that my son, Aiden, is always up to no good. The only trouble is the sheriff has a lot of trouble pinning anything criminal on Aiden and making it stick. That little devil been so clever even his bumbling sheriff of a father has been unable to nail him."

"Well, I'll be darned," Deputy Schoenholtz said. "I had no idea Aiden was that way. He seemed like a nice well behaved boy to me, sheriff."

The sheriff winked at Coroner Dieneck, then turned to Dimmie and said, "You'll learn these things after you have kids of your own, Dimmie. Then, you'll be as confused as the coroner and I am about how to keep a handle on them. Raising kids is a tender and erratic call."

"If you say so, sir."

The sheriff and the coroner had carried the joke far enough. They both laughed. The sheriff patted Dimmie on the back. "We're lying," he said. "Aiden doesn't do stuff like this. The only trouble is figuring out where the bodies have been taken. Last night the high school kids probably set them up like dead puppets around town. I suspect they did it at the high school. We need to find those bodies and we need to get it done before the town finds them."

"A sheriff that cannot protect corpses is a sheriff that doesn't last very long," the coroner reminded Dimmie.

"There's only one thing wrong with that statement," the sheriff said.

"And what would that be, sheriff?"

"You signed for them. So, you are the responsible party. Not me."

The sheriff called the town carpenter and told him to fix the doors to the morgue first thing and to keep his mouth shut about it.

They helped the coroner move the jogger into the morgue. Instead of putting him on a table, they placed him atop one of the cold slabs and pushed him into the morgue's refrigerator, but first the coroner took his internal body temperature at several spots to ascertain the time of death. He wrote it down.

He sat and waited for the carpenter to fix the door, making certain no one else entered the morgue before he investigated it for evidence of vandalism including fingerprints, boot marks, and anything else his investigation might turn up.

"I'll pursue these little bastards, if it's the last thing I do," The sheriff whined. "I hate it when this happens."

Losing four corpses was not going to look good in the newspaper, and he'd have to talk with the editor about keeping this under wraps. How he was going to do that he wasn't exactly sure.

"Maybe bribery might be the answer. Besides, reporters work cheap. Maybe a free coffee at the restaurant might do it for Payton," he said to himself. "I wonder what this is going to cost me."

CHAPTER SIX

Cadaver Hunt

Wilson and his deputy leaned against the side of the high school. They had feverishly checked the campus inside and out. No dead bodies.

"We are in deep enough shit with the park murders and now the jogger," Sheriff Wilson told Dimmie. "We have to find these bodies before it gets out that someone snatched them away right under our noses."

"How do we do that?" Dimmie asked him.

"First, we will drive around starting at the morgue where they were last seen. Then, we will drive farther and farther out in circles, checking as best we can from the car, even walking behind houses until we find them. Hopefully, they left them in full sight of the town and not in someone's bed as a joke. If that's what they did, we are sunk. Some poor soul will find them, freak out, and call my office, crying and screaming. The story will spread like wildfire. Every small town woman is a natural rumor bitch. The phones will be abuzz like never before."

"Gotcha, sheriff."

"Let's get going. It's going to be a rough day, Dimmie."

#

Deputy Drimylos Schoenholtz drove his official car through the neighborhood, stopping to speak with everyone he could find outside. He passed hundreds of houses, turned dozens of corners. Nothing. No bodies. No blood. Not even a band-aid.

One of his girlfriends, Betty Holman, was walking down to the street to get her newspaper. She stopped and waved him down.

"What's up, Betty?" he asked. "Seen anything unusual this morning?"

"No, Dimmie. I ain't seen nothing at all. Want to come inside for some coffee?"

That was normally a real hit with the deputy, but Dimmie needed to finish his investigation of the missing corpses before the shit hit the fan and the coroner looked like a town idiot, so he figured he'd test the waters and just ask Betty for a rain check. Betty was quite sweet on Dimmie. She was a nice lay, and she was already quite partial to sleeping with Dimmie whenever the chance came around.

"I'm really sorry, Betty. It's not that I don't want to. Don't get me wrong. I'll need a rain check, Betty, because the sheriff and I have got big things going on, today."

"Like what?"

"Well, I'd tell you, but if I did I'd have to kill you. So, it might be best not to go there."

Betty laughed. "Well, I'm always here, deputy."

"Oh, don't I know, honey. I'll get back as soon as I can. I'm hoping it will be in a few hours."

The deputy continued driving along, stopping, looking in backyards, and going about his police business. He tried to be an upstanding cop, because he liked his job, and it not only gave him an income, but it also gave him a sense of prestige. The community in Lancaster was close knit, and everyone generally knew everyone else's business, which is about normal in a small town.

He spent half the day looking for the bodies, but nothing ever came of it.

#

Several hours passed and no bodies of the Smith family had shown up yet. The sheriff, the mayor, and the coroner were getting frantic. Dimmie was due his break. He called in and okayed a thirty minute rest from Dolly Kaleston. They jaw-boned a minute, then he got her permission and headed for Betty Holman's sweet little bedroom.

Inside, Dimmie helped Betty explore nature's gateways, then plunged into deep heaven making the beast with two backs until the two of them reached completion.

"I gotta go, honey. You know how this damn job is always tying up our sweet love time."

"Don't I though."

"How'd I do?"

"How'd you do? Honey, you was just fine. That's how you did. Just fine, as always."

Dimmie smiled. "I love you, baby."

"I know."

"It doesn't hurt to remind you, lest you forget."

"I won't forget, Dimmie. You know that."

"I'll still keep reminding you. A girl needs to know when a man loves her. My daddy taught me that."

"You had a pretty nice daddy, then. And he was right."

She kissed him.

"What's that for?"

"For you, Dimmie. Getting a little retarded in your old age, are you?"

Dimmie laughed. "Aw, I'm not retarded. I don't plan on ever being forgetful as long as I live. Can't be a cop and forget things."

"That's good to hear."

"I might bring some beer and pizza over tonight," Dimmie said. "That's if you want me to come by."

"I'd like you to come by."

"Well, then, we'll do it."

"Sounds good."

He stood up and fastened his button, zipper, and belt. Then, he fixed his shirt and tie, and attended to his shoes. "Gotta go to work in the salt mines again, dearie."

"You ain't never worked in a salt mine in your life. I know you, Dimmie. If the job don't have no desk and no free car, you ain't going there."

"Pshaw." He was out the door and on his way.

#

Dimmie drove seventy-five blocks, stopping now and then to mark his progress on a map. He turned past a single family house. Suddenly, Dimmie saw four people bent over on the lawn. As he parked the police car, he noticed they were covered with blood and seemed to be tossing someone's guts into the air along with splatters of blood. "What the fuck!" He turned on his siren and pulled onto the property's lawn with his gun raised. The four of them stood up and stumbled toward the police car, crawling atop the hood and moving their bloody hands across the glass. Their eyes were discolored, and parts of their body were hanging lose. He recognized them as the Smith family.

"Holy shit!"

He rolled up the windows and locked the doors.

"Hello, sheriff," he said on the phone.

"Yea, Dimmie. What do you have."

"Found the Smiths."

"Where?"

"On a lawn."

"So, tell me more."

"You aren't going to believe this, sheriff."

"Well, try me. I'm always in for new surprises, Dimmie."

"They are alive, sir."

"Repeat that. I must not have heard it correctly."

"You heard it right."

"But they are dead."

"Yes. They are dead. But they are also moving, sir. They don't seem quite right in the head, either. There's something really wrong with them. Right now they are blood covered and crawling all over my vehicle trying to get in and kill me."

"Every girl in town wants you, son. Why would the Smiths be any different just because they are dead?"

"Well, that isn't totally true. There's probably one or two that don't. But the Smiths want me in the most sinister way, sheriff. What do I do?"

"Shit," the sheriff said.

"Did you say shit. sir?"

"Yes I did say that. By the way, Dimmie, you haven't been drinking, have you?"

"No. But as soon as I'm off duty, you can believe I'll be tying on a big one on account of all this bullshit I'm experiencing, sheriff."

"Stay there. I'm coming."

"Hurry, or, like you said, I will shit."

"Out..."

Dimmie watched the crazed dead eyes of the Smith family as they clawed as his window to get in and wondered how the tourist trade was going to handle this. Would the trade die off out of fear, or would heavy metal bands book the park's band stands, and drag thousands of vampire fans, gothics, and black lace metros to Lancaster like the sheriff said? He watched their zombie hands smearing erratic blood-stained finger paintings across his windows and listened intently to the growls and coughs coming from their mouths.

After awhile, he heard the siren announce the arrival of Sheriff Wilson.

#

"Holy shit!" the sheriff yelled. He pulled the Smith's father off the car and handcuffed him to the house porch. All the while, the guy was trying his best to bite him. Next, he did the same with the other three. They were frantic biters as well. He was afraid he'd be bitten. That would be very bad news. He was careful not to be bitten, because the droolers were snapping at him. From the looks of the partially eaten people on the ground, the family had been having lunch when they were jumped by the Smiths. The sheriff looked at the four Smith crazies he'd handcuffed to the porch. The little New York bastards were looking in his direction and biting at him as fast as they could move their choppers up and down even though he was twenty feet away. What a bunch of crap. The bullshit just never seemed to stop once it started, did it?

"Want to eat me, do you, you little bastards?" the sheriff yelled at them. "It ain't going to happen! Got it?"

This was certainly becoming a bigger and bigger crock of shit. The Smiths were dead, yet they were alive at the same time. Now, the little assholes were covered with blood from head to toe, and their mouths still continued biting at him without let up. The world was totally nut-covered, and it seemed to be getting nuttier every minute.

The sheriff went back to Dimmie's police car. It was so blood covered, he couldn't see inside even. He took out his handkerchief and cleared a tiny keyhole spot in Dimmie's window. He bent down and peered inside. Looking back at him less than an inch from the sheriff's own eye was Dimmie's eye. The sheriff was startled at its glare. It was wide open, because Dimmie was obviously scared to death.

"Are you going to be okay, Dimmie?" the sheriff asked.

"Yes," Dimmie stuttered.

"The coast is clear, son. No need to be afraid any longer, Dimmie. I have them secured out here. They are handcuffed to the front porch. Don't go near them, or they'll bite you. They seem a little hungry."

The door opened. Dimmie emerged. "It smells like five day old rotten chicken out here, sir. It's those day old bodies, isn't it?"

"Indeed, Dimmie. It certainly does, and they are a day old now."

"I told you."

"I know. Forgive me for thinking you were nuts. The really good thing is this. Now, we are both nuts."

"The mayor is not going to like this one bit, sir."

"No. He's not. He's going to have his little pink panties in a bunch, son. That's for sure."

"I think we should transport them to the hospital."

"Good idea. That way, we won't have to look at them anymore. They are certainly the ugliest dudes I've ever laid my eyes upon."

"You got that right," Dimmie said.

"Were you scared in the car?" the sheriff asked him?

"Want the truth or a lie, sir?"

"Well, let's see. Just to put you in the best light, why don't you just lie to me about it."

"Well, I guess I'll do that. Let's see. Okay. Here goes, sir. To be honest, sheriff, I thought it was pretty darned cool."

The sheriff smiled from ear to ear like a Cheshire Cat.

"Ah. Very good. Very good, indeed, Dimmie. I like that answer a lot."

#

The Lancaster Hospital's emergency room had never seen anything like this. The prisoners were in restraints which kept them pinned to their beds. As the physicians worked on them with rubber gloves, the Smiths chopped their mouths at the staff as though they were attempting to bite them."

"Hungry little bastards," Doctor Philips noted. "Doesn't the police department ever feed you?" he called to them.

"I fed them," the sheriff said.

"What do they eat?"

"You."

Doctor Philips looked at the sheriff. "You have a lot of nerve bringing these things here. Hey, this isn't a joke, is it?"

"Nope. Not a joke. This is my deputy, Dimmie," the sheriff said. "Dimmie, Dr. Philips. They kept Dimmie penned inside his police car for almost a half hour, Doc."

"Sweet."

"So, what's the prognosis?" Dimmie asked.

"They are dead," Dr. Philips answered him. "All I need to do is fill out the death certificate or allow the coroner to do it, and they are free to go."

"But they are still alive," the sheriff said.

"Technically, they are dead. Their bodies are cold, their organs are either shut down or the coroner removed them and sewed them back up inside. That's what it looks like."

"They are moving, hungry, and aggressive," Sheriff Wilson said.

"Yes, that's true. But they are dead, and since I'm not a licensed mortician, I'm going to give them to the coroner for disposal."

"He can't contain them, Doc. They broke out of the morgue last night. Since then, they seem to have killed quite a few of our citizens."

"That, sheriff, is your problem. It's not mine." He signed all four of the death certificates, copied them at the duplicating machine, and handed the copies to the sheriff. "These are yours. I'm done with them. Now, if you don't mind, I have a hospital to run."

An hour later, the Smiths were sitting in their jail cells, banging their heads against all of the walls, chewing on their beds, and staggering back and forth across the cell's floor erratically.

The coroner took samples from them and headed for the lab.

"Do you want them back?"

"I think not, sheriff."

"So, what do I do with them? Any suggestions?"

"Yes. A bunch of suggestions."

"Like?"

"Get rid of them before they kill us all."

"Any others, coroner?"

"One."

"And what might that be?" He had to hear this one. He was certain it would be choice.

"Enjoy."

The coroner was gone in a flash, leaving the sheriff to admire his new prison population.

By the time, the sheriff got back to the crime site where the Smiths had eaten a family in their own side yard, the victims were gone, and more corpses were showing up half eaten all around town. Others were themselves disappearing and stumbling through the town. Later that day, several Amish showed up drooling and eating the town's people, and that was just the beginning.

This was the worst day the sheriff had ever experienced.

"What should we do?" Dimmie asked.

"I say we should make another pot of coffee while the shit hits the fan some more," the sheriff said. "Then, we'll know better how things are developing."

"Good idea. Let the photograph resolve in solution, so to speak."

"Exactly. I figure in a few more days, if any of us are still alive, we will know what's going on here better. Right now, I'm just wondering why it is that I have a sudden and overwhelming desire to gnaw your face off as a snack."

"Nothing like father time," Dimmie said, sipping his cup of coffee and ignoring the sheriff's last comment entirely.

"Exactly. Good old father time. He does his work well." Wilson tipped his coffee cup at Dimmie. "Enjoy."

Dimmie tipped his back at the sheriff and touched their cups together.

"Indeedy, sheriff," Dimmie said, smiling through his teeth.

#

"Our prisoners seem restless," the sheriff said.

"Indeed they do, sir," Dimmie agreed.

"What should we do with them?"

"Shoot them."

"Might be illegal."

"Any other suggestions?"

"Let's donate them."

"Donate them? Are you serious?"

"Call the Penn State Medical Center. I bet they'd give their eye teeth for these guys."

He was right.

Later that day, Penn State sent four ambulances for the specimens.

"You sure you can handle these?" the sheriff asked. "They might have killed quite a few people, you know."

"We'll keep them restrained, sheriff."

As they disappeared into the parking lot, the sheriff heard one of them talking.

"These guys remind me of my worst girl friend," one of the techs said.

"Oh. So, you dated her, too."

"Yea. I did. What of it?"

"I didn't think you were that stupid."

"Well, you didn't warn me."
CHAPTER SEVEN

Restaurant

When Darrell got off the bus in downtown Lancaster, he staggered over to the restaurant. The smells of food were everywhere. Food made Darrell sick. What he wanted was flesh and blood. It was the new hot cuisine of his crave. He could smell both humans and infected zombies and detect the difference. What he needed was a fresh human, because the dead ones tasted like shit.

A woman came by and stood for a moment in front of him. He was sitting at a small table trying to hide his dead face, because he looked even stranger when he was standing.

"Look what the cat drug in," she said. "Honey, you must have had one good fucking night. That's all I can say."

Darrell lunged. She was caught off guard. His jagged teeth dug into her tee shirt, slicing deeply into her splitting guts. His jaws clamped down and pulled until the shirt let go in a series of rips, and her stomach exploded in a gusher of bloody intestines. This was the most delicious blood flow he'd ever tasted. He reached inside her with his trembling hands and began ladling her steamy guts into his hungry mouth. It was a sensation. People on all sides of the restaurant's aisles began screaming and running outside where they transmitted cellphone pictures of the scene to their friends, but Darrell didn't care about them right now. All he wanted was her fantastic innards.

#

The girl's name had been Teresa Quinley. The last thing she remembered was a strange black man named Darrell biting her in the restaurant where she was a waitress. Teresa awakened on the floor. She could hardly get up. Once she did, Teresa staggered from the restaurant's back door into the narrow alleyway. Miss Quinley found it difficult to keep her bearings, much less to walk. Her gait was suddenly frail like that of an old woman. She lurched down the alley. Crossing the street was difficult in her new condition. Once on the other side, she entered the little drug store with her hands stretched out in front. Inside, by the cosmetics, she grabbed a cute young man named Danny Griswold by his shirt. Then Teresa bit through his stomach tearing an eight-by-eight-inch hole into it which was just big enough for her hands to reach inside and pull out his guts. He sighed, and collapsed as she tore at his innards and swallowed as much of him as she could. His wallet contained his name and pictures of his girl friend. He had been called Danny Griswold when he was alive. Now, he had no name at all.

#

Danny Griswold woke up a few minutes later and stumbled to the back of the drug store. He vaguely remembered Teresa Quinley gobbling his intestines as he screamed. What a sick bitch! Now, he felt sick himself. No one was left inside, and he could hardly remember who he was much less what had happened except the pain of it. Then the darkness. When he reawakened, Danny was disoriented. His eyesight was dim. It looked like little more than a fog around him in which nothing was in focus. That's why he reached forward with his arms and shambled from side to side. He had no balance, no vision to speak of, and nowhere to go even if he could even move. Everything was difficult. He was a child again taking his first steps, but his mind was so blanked he didn't even know what being a child was.

He went through the front door, grabbed the first person walking by who happened to be a mother of four on her way to the store. He pulled her inside and buried his face in her stomach, pulling her guts out of her intestinal wall and feeding hungrily from them. He was famished, and no matter how much he ate, he wanted more and more of her.

He bit into her throat and noticed the fountain of blood pulsing from her neck which he stopped with his mouth. Danny forced her fluids into his aching stomach that was so in need of food that it immediately stopped hurting as soon as her fresh red claret entered it and covered its walls, dissolving the acid and bringing his stomach into conformity.

The pain left immediately, giving Danny a great deal of relief.

Now, Danny supped more slowly from her, ripping off her clothes and tasting whatever pieces of the woman that he could rip out of her with his teeth. She was delectable. He had never tasted anything so delicious. The odor of freshness was exuded from her body, because she was an uninfected human, which was exactly what zombies like Danny wanted to smell, taste, and ingest. She was wonderful. The name in her wallet read Janet Polsen, but Danny had no idea what the letters were or meant. All he wanted was flesh, and the woman's wallet neither tasted nor felt like flesh, so he discarded it as soon as he realized his mistake. He corrected it by tearing off a large and delicious mouthful of Janet's hind quarter.

Um. It was so pleasant to feed.

#

Janet Polsen awoke, if she could call it being awake. She had forgotten who she was, why she was there, and how to stand up. It was difficult to do anything. Her arms were flailing about as were her legs. It seemed to take her forever just to stand up the first time.

She ambled down the hall and out into the street, when a car hit her. The driver's name was Maurice Winters. He emerged, asking Janet, "Are you all right?"

Janet lifted her hand toward him, and as he reached down to help her up, she lunged and bit him tearing out a huge triangle of skin and muscle from his groin. The material hung from Janet's mouth like the red insides of a dead cat.

Um. It was so good.

She bit him in more places, pulling him apart from many angles. He was delicious no matter where she bit into him, and she considered him a national culinary treasure, even though no words appeared in her mind, and all she felt was the joy of his bloody tastes. This was just what Janet wanted, and she tore into him from a number of angles, each bite tasting better than the other.

#

Maurice Winters staggered down the street. He had been torn and eaten in several places by the newly infected mother of four named Janet Polsen. Maurice had never been so hungry in his life, nor had he ever felt this sick. His stomach was about to barf. It was filled with an irritating liquid, probably acidosis or bile, and, as it belched, the odor that emerged was horrific. Maurice only knew one thing and this was that he must eat something, and soon.

Lacey Tarleson entered the store, and ran into Maurice whose mouth awaited whatever came its way. She felt herself collapse into darkness as his teeth tore into her. The last thing she saw before she woke up a changed person was her blood flying out of her where Maurice Wilson had first bitten into her stomach.

It hurt so painfully that Lacey Tarleson couldn't even scream. As she lost consciousness, she heard Maurice Winters growling as he consumed the pieces of her that he had been gathering inside his mouth. His head jerked here and there inside her bleeding thorax causing pieces of her flesh to take off to the left and right right where he was holding the biggest parts of her intestines between his painfully eager teeth.

"Oh, God," Lacey thought. "So this is how it feels to die." She had no intention of surviving even for a moment. All she wanted was death and dying so that she could be free of this.

She got death all right. She woke up in under an hour as a resurrected zombie newbie from the Amish infection that now ran through her. Suddenly, she realized she was dead. Eternally dead. When her eyes opened onto her brave new world, she had no way of knowing whether or not the pain would leave her in peace. Maurice Winters continued chewing on parts of her. "Get over it, bitch," he half-thought in a kind of strange zombie sing song, but no sounds issued from his dead lips. These words were probably the last ones he would ever have in his dying brain, because Maurice Winters had already lost whatever meaning language had held for him.

#

When Lacey Tarleson awoke, she hobbled back to her automobile where she'd left her children and mother-in-law. She tore the door off its hinges before they got a look at the horrible new mother Lacey Tarleson had become in her new zombie incarnation. Her flashing teeth tore into them, ripping pieces of them away. The bites were so primal, she never knew she even had children much less that these were them. She only knew an overwhelming hunger for their sweet human flesh.

She saw several persons looking at her, as she stumbled toward them with blood, drool, and flesh hanging from her face.

"Did you see what she did to them kids?" Mrs. Gracy Lassiter said. "I'm going to call Family Services on you, Lacey Tarleson!" Lacey grabbed Mrs. Lassiter and tore out her throat before she ever said another word. Next, the tore a chunk out of her husband, Arnie Lassiter, who had stepped forward in an attempt to protect her. Arnie saw his vision blur into blackness as Lacey Tarleson tore away his side and ripped out his intestines. "Is Lacey Tarleson really eating my guts?" his fading mind asked as he rolled in the street and screamed for someone to help him.

No one came. They were too busy being attacked and chewed by other drooling zombies who suddenly seemed to be more numerous than normal people. No sooner was one person bitten and harvested, than they awoke feeling a great hunger for the blood and flesh of drifting scores of humans who had not yet been infected with whatever virus this was that had hit Lancaster County with a vengeance.

Mr. and Mrs. Vernon and Betsy Lassiter had finally found the answer of how they were going to spend their retirement and how it would be paid for. They staggered to and fro grabbing for their neighbors. "I've never tasted anything this delicious," each of them thought. Their senses were non-verbal. Just those wonderful perceptions of fresh delicious blood rolling in across their dead tongues. Whatever concepts they perceived, if they were conscious ideas or not, the words were deadly silent and as non-existent as their dying minds as the darkness opened before them. Only the perception of taste and absolute hunger sailed through their deadened and resurrected brains.

#

Soon, Vernon and Betsy Lassiter staggered into the Whoopie Pie Festival where the sheriff and his family were enjoying the sumptuous over-reach of their various sugar highs. The orchestra was playing German Dance Music for the citizens and Amish farmers of the town when commotions here and there broke out, which was not unusual when there was a large crowd. People would yell and laugh and tussle themselves. That was just normal human behavior. Two blocks from the festival, the Lassiters ate out the throat and intestines of a little girl on the sidewalk. They could not remember anything about their old life. All they wanted from now on was blood and guts.

The Lassiters were covered with that same blood when they stumbled into their Pentecostal Church and trapped the worshipers in the big hall. Soon, people were screaming for Jesus and speaking in strange tongues as the Lassiter's tore into them along with the twenty other harbingers of Christ's return who had dragged themselves zombie-like through the streets right behind them like a herd of madcow dumbly following whatever leader was up ahead of them. Soon, the congregation was still, and Vernon Lassiter stood at the podium, posing like a minister in blood drag, raising his hands above his head as the first minister had done when he was torn to shreds.

After they left, and broke down doors into other homes for continued feedings, the dead in the church were resurrected in the perfect Christian bodies they had been promised. Now, they were alive again, young forever with pieces of their intestines hanging from their thoraxes. The countless saved moved like vague spiritual shadows of themselves, pouring like oatmeal into the street in search of sweet tasting flesh from uninfected humans. They had come for prayer, confession, and renewal. This single time they had found it. They shambled through Lancaster pulling the frightened Amish from their taxis and eating not only them but their horses, until everything and everyone was either running away, dying, or coming into eternal zombie heaven when they resurrected right there where they had been eaten alive. What was left of them rose up and walked. They extended their hands forward, reaching for what none of them understood, but aiming what was left of their bodies and eyes forward. Their legs hobbled beneath them, barely able to keep them upright. The restlessness was everywhere as the zombie horde moved constantly forward, backward, right, left, turning, arms akimbo, and always reaching for the next throats that might still be filled with warm delicious vitality.
CHAPTER EIGHT

Zombie High School

Aiden and his friends were in history class when the first zombie entered their room. The first thing they noticed was the splattering of red blood trailing from his face, chest, and pants all the way down to his feet.

"May I be of help to you?" their teacher, Miss Mary Sheldon asked. The creature stared right through her.

"He doesn't seem right, Miss Sheldon," Gary Evans told her.

"No, he doesn't." She looked at the intruder. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave this room, sir," she told him.

Instead, he staggered into the middle of the students and grabbed Lucy Xavier by the neck and lifted her toward him. She screamed as his bloodied mouth bit into her neck and then into her stomach. Her escaping blood exploded high into the air from her wounds. The strange creature pulled her bloody intestines from her shuddering body as she lapsed into a final coma of painful regrets.

"Do something, Miss Sheldon!" Gary Evans yelled. "He's killing her!"

"Stop it!" the teacher yelled. "Leave that girl alone!"

It was to no avail. He continued chewing on her flesh. The blood continued to drain from her, some of it still spewing into the air and across the students' faces. Many of them were now screaming and moving away.

Aiden had seen enough. He jumped the man, and wrestled him to the floor. At that, the man's mouth began biting at Aiden who was careful to stay clear of his teeth. Aiden held him down and spread eagled so he couldn't use his arms. There was also no way he could hurt Aiden with his legs.

"Listen, fucker!" Aiden yelled into his zombie captive's deathly ill face. "Stop your shit."

The girl was already dead, and Miss Shelton was talking to the Principal's secretary on her phone saying, "Get the police over here right way. One of my girls is dead, and if it weren't for the sheriff's son, Aiden, holding him down, he'd be killing the others in here. No, I'm not joking. This is darned serious."

One of the students produced some rope that they used to tie the man up with. They tied his hands to a window separator so that he couldn't move more than a few inches from the wall. The ghastly looking freak continued biting at the air, and the stench of death from his breath was starting to sicken the students.

The door suddenly opened again and three more zombies entered the room and grabbed hold of a boy in the front and bit clear through his throat. His blood gushed out and hit most of the students in the front three rows. No matter where they were, the strong bursts of his hot blood reached out and splashed them. They screamed and tried to get away, but the room was so small there was no escaping the pellets of blood that sailed their way like bad dreams as all three zombies drank from the frothing arterial rupture in his torn neck.

"Run!" Miss Shelton screamed. "Get out! Save yourselves! Now!"

The class bolted into the hallway only to find more zombies staggering toward them with their arms outstretched like bad robots, their mouths biting and human blood covering their blood-stained clothes. The first three out the door met their fates immediately as they were grabbed, ripped open, and taken down to the floor where the zombies reached into their youthful thoraxes and pulled out their guts and organs and stuffed torn segments of their flesh into their mouths.

Aiden ran to his locker as did his friends, where they grabbed their baseball bats and returned, beating back the walking dead who showed them their blood stained chins and shirts. The sounds of breaking bones filled the emptiness in between the screams, but it didn't stop the fiends from doing their thing. In desperation, the students began crushing their skulls with their bats and instantly discovered that was actually the only way to kill them. Aiden was the first to notice this.

"Crush their skulls!" Aiden yelled. "It kills them!"

So, the jocks with the bats went about the crazy business of dispatching the zombies with head strokes, when the principal, Mr. Bailey, showed up, he told them to stop. The principal tried interfering in the batting mayhem, thinking that the zombies were living beings, when they were actually merely hungry, animated corpses. For his efforts, a zombie grabbed the principal and took him to the ground, bit into his neck, and pulled out his arteries and voice box. The antics of the principal were ended, and the boys continued flailing at the zombies' heads, felling them like broken statues onto the hallway floors.

By now, students were running into the classes and hauling out many of their classroom desks to dam up the hallway and stop the approaching mass of zombies, several of whom were their own fellow students who had resurrected and were walking through the halls with dead eyes, holding their grasping hands forward as they dragged their imperfectly operating legs down the hallway in search of food stuffs, mostly the torn intestines of other high school students. A virtual wall of desks was building up trapping both the walking dead and the screaming students caught inside their deadly march. There was nothing to be done to rescue them. They were already trapped and could not be reached without endangering their would-be rescuers.

They began to notice that some of the dead students suddenly opened their eyes and came to life. They were lost in the hordes of zombies where they, too, stumbled about looking for living humans to kill and consume.

"This is not good," Aiden said. His friend Ricky agreed.

"They are resurrecting," Rick said. "So, what do we do now?"

"Let me think," Aiden said. "I'm not sure."

"Maybe we need to crush the skulls of everyone the dead ones bit. It must be an infection passing from the dead ones to their victims," Ricky said.

"What if we are wrong?" Aiden said, "And we kill a student for no reason."

"I saw several of them get up and start after us, even after their guts were ripped out. So, we know they were dead. That has to be the answer. The dead ones wake up and become like them."

At that exact moment three or four dead students inside the pack of zombies awakened and stood up.

"Did you see them get up like that?" Rick said.

"Sure did," Aiden replied.

"So?"

"We need to stomp their heads if they are dead?" Aiden asked.

"Yes."

"I can't do that," Aiden said.

"What would change your mind?"

"A few more," he answered. "Another ten dead students walking about biting at us. Then, I'll think about doing it. I still don't know if I can do that."

"Me, either."

Very shortly, they counted more than fifty additional students who were freshly killed who had arisen and were trying to kill others. They told their fellow students and teachers who were manning the halls and pointed to the faces of the dead students who were now walking about trying to kill others.

"Look! These students were dead a few minutes ago!" Aiden yelled. "Now, they have come back as the walking dead, and they are trying to kill us, too! I think that we have to agree to kill them before they wake up and come after us! Let's vote on this now!"

They took the vote. The students agreed by raising their hands that they needed to silence the dead by crushing their skulls to protect themselves and all others. They all agreed this was a life or death situation.

However, none of them was as yet brave enough to become the first one to smash a bitten student's skull. Soon, it was so desperate that they had to take really drastic action to save themselves. The students began clubbing the skulls of the reawakened dead all of whom were fellow students, but it was already too late to matter. Nothing could turn the tide as hundreds of students stumbled about with torn intestines and rushed at them, feeding from their throats. The battle in the hallways had become a hopeless horror scene from a bad movie so that they knew the school would have to be evacuated or they would be overrun.

"We have to do it," Aiden said.

"Yes," Rick agreed. "I'm ready."

"Let's do it then."

That was the moment when almost all students began bashing in the heads of every zombie. Even those who had been their closest friends and were now just more of the walking dead.

#

Word came to the students that fifteen or more bleeders had followed some fleeing girls into the girl's rest room in another hallway and were killing them. Several of the football players swung into action.

In the back of the rest room, girls were all alone, fending off the zombies who were pushing against their toilet stalls trying to get to them. Three girls already lay dead and mutilated on the floor, their stomachs torn open. Their fresh blood trailed across the floors and into the stalls where girls were still trying to keep from being bitten. Each dead girl had been viciously assaulted.

One biter was standing on top of the toilet in a stall adjacent to three girls who screamed nearly in unison and crouched just below his struggling reach. His blood covered hands grabbed down at them inside their crowded stall. The flimsy metal wall wobbled precariously but still held as it barely protected the girls. When the boys entered, the entire stall was showing signs of giving way.

"Get that mean looking bastard!" Sher Kennedy screamed. "He's pulling my goddam hair! Stop him!"

The dead goons had all reached down over the stalls, pulling hair from the girls' heads whenever they could grab some strands. The girls were crying and yelling, trying to attract attention from outside the room, but so far all their screams had been doing was agitating their zombie stalkers. The louder their protests, the more the zombies pushed against their frail cubicle walls where they sought refuge. Things were aggravated even further when several zombies dropped to the floor and began crawling upside down into their stall. Their zombie mouths chewed back and forth in the air and their arms grabbed for the girl's legs. Two of the girls began screaming and stomping on the zombies' faces, until one of them crushed a chewer's head, and he stopped moving entirely. "Stomp their heads! I just killed one! I stomped his head until it cracked apart. Now, the bastard is not moving at all. Kill them all!"

One of the killers was under Brenda Lewis' feet. She stomped as hard as she could. On the fifth boot stomp, the drooler's face imploded as though it had literally crawled inside his ugly face. His skull cracked into small fragments from several additional kicks. A cracking sound ensued. Then the zombie stopped moving instantly. "I killed the bastard!" Brenda Lewis cried in relief. She jumped up and down clapping her hands. She was hysterical and shook violently out of fear for her life. Meanwhile, the other droolers were making headway on destroying the very same toilet stall.

"Help us, God! Please!"

"We are going to die! I know we are!"

"I want to be home!"

When the door to the girl's john crashed open and several blood covered jocks entered, they were already wielding well used glistening red baseball bats. The zombies turned away from the trapped girls and stared at the door where the noise had attracted them.

"Come on, chicken shits!" one of the football players yelled. "Come on! Pick on somebody your own mother fucking size, bitches!" He moved forward flailing his bat at their arms and heads. Cracking sounds ran through the room as the zombies' bones gave way to the crushing blows the boys were inflicting upon them. The sound of collapsing skulls ensued soon there after, and the droolers entered a new world of true death in which they were no longer animated but lay still as a midnight school's abandoned parking lot.

"I got them!" Rick Jones yelled. "Any still alive!"

"None here!"

"Are we clear?"

"Clear."

"Clear."

"All right! We got them. You can come out now, girls. The room is cleared. They are frigging dead!"

The cries from the stall were faint. The girls were so frightened from what had happened, it took them a minute just to open the door. Finally, they peeked about the girl's rest room. Finding the room safe, they slowly poured forth from their cramped hide-away and hugged one boy after the other. The guys couldn't avoid the familiar wet tears rolling across the girls' faces.

"Step over the corpses, girls. We're going home."

After they left, Rick Jones raced back in and cracked open the brains of the three dead girls who had been bitten and whose guts had been eaten by the zombies.

"Sorry, fuckers. No new meals for you after you wake up today! It ain't going to happen!"

Nancy was one of them. Ricky had grown up with her. He looked at Nancy Sparn and wondered if he could do this to her. She had been beautiful before the zombies ripped into her and ate her innards. Even with a crushed skull, she wasn't too bad looking, at least considering what had occurred.

"I like your hair, Nancy. Looks good..."

He turned and exited the door, having bashed in her head. He threw up in the hallway, still holding the same wet bat he had used on her in his hands. He couldn't stop crying for her. Tears came in a flood of regrets suddenly released from a dam. He had always admired the girl. In a few minutes, he was calmer and was ready for more combat. Ricky hadn't liked bashing Nancy's skull. Now, he had to finish the rest of them off as well. Tears still trickled down the side of his face. Fuck the tears. He didn't care. These were nice girls. He'd known and admired them all of his life. They were very close friends of his. But Ricky had to do what he had to do. He opened the rest room door again. Staring at him and reaching for his throat were the two dead girls he hadn't yet bashed. They were already resurrected and hunting for him. He screamed and began bashing their skulls. He cried as tears filled his eyes. Nonetheless, he did all of the right things. He crushed their heads in, then stomped them into the floor to make certain they were dead. Then he cried even more for himself and for the girls. How could the world be this terrible all of a sudden. Finally, his sobs stopped. He touched the girl's lifeless bodies. "I'm so sorry," he told them. Then he got up and ran out of the rest room. He had done them a favor. Now they were at peace. They would never endure the horror and pain of an eternal death as a walker and a destroyer of human souls, a death that forced them into enough hunger to hunt, kill, and eat their high school friends.

He wiped the tears from his face, but not before his friends saw them and turned their heads away to give him some space.

"What did you do in there," his friends asked him.

"You don't want to know," he said in an other worldly and very painful voice.

It was true, because they'd already endured enough pain and horror themselves for one day, and some of them had been forced to kill other friends in the halls who were trying to kill them as well.

In this new world, their lives were permanently changed for the worse. Everything had changed for them in a matter of minutes. No one discussed it.

Sometimes, they figured it was just best to let dead dogs lie.

#

Aiden and his friends reached the boy's gym. Noise and screams crept from its dual doorway. They decided to go inside and check it out. Aiden pushed it open slowly. The running back named Lance Ridley was inside. He was bent over eating from the legs and intestines of a kid named Bentley. Bentley was the water boy for the football team. Bentley was a good kid, always friendly, so much so that many considered he was possibly gay and told him so. It always brought him to tears. Aiden had protected Bentley from that whenever he could. Aiden was completely against bullying at the school or anywhere else.

"I'll not have you doing that," Aiden told Dennis Mack, a budding bully. Dennis was the worst of the lot. "I'll beat the shit out of you anytime I see or hear of you doing this to the kid."

"You wouldn't dare," Dennis Mack said. "I know you wouldn't. They'd kick you out of football, and you know it."

"Think so, do you?"

At that point, Aiden hit Dennis Mack right in the nose. It bled the rest of the day.

"I didn't do that," Aiden said. "Like you just said, 'You wouldn't dare.'"

"Bastard. You had no right to hit me."

"Damn right," Aiden told him. "I'll tell you another thing."

"What's that?"

Aiden pulled Dennis right to his face. He showed his teeth. "I can't stand a chickenshit bully like you. I will darn well hit you harder than you will ever hit a little defenseless kid like Bentley. I can close both of your eyes so tight for you, that you'll need fifteen dollars worth of steak just to put over them for the night."

"Bullshit, you say!"

"I gave you one sample. Now, you are saying you want the real thing! Is that what you want?"

Aiden placed his fist against Dennis Mack's face.

"Your nose looks like shit. Want to try for the eyes next, Mr. Pussy Boy?"

"I reckon not, Aiden. What if I told the Principal what you just did?"

"Sure. Go ahead. I'll tell him why. Then you can leave school for two full weeks. I'll get one day maybe two, and I'll still be the quarterback, bitch boy. You just don't know the way things work here yet. You'll figure it out. Whoever you hit later on, whether in school or off campus somewhere, know that I'm coming for your eyes and making them swell shut all night long for you. So, your days of hitting little kids like Bentley are over for good starting right now."

Dennis Mack looked at the blood on his hands. He didn't like this, but there was nothing he was going to do about it.

"I'll make you wish you were still born."

"He's a faggot," Mack said.

He was testing the water.

Aiden hit him right above the nose bridge this time. Dennis Mack went down like a ton of bricks. Aiden bent down into Dennis' face.

"Need more?"

"No. I'm okay," he said.

"If you think you need more sensitivity training from my fists, then let's get it on right now."

"I don't want any trouble."

"Good. But if I ever hear you changed your mind, I'll be hunting you down."

That was a year ago. Now, Bentley was dead, and one of Aiden's best friends, Lance Ridley, was chewing him up like hamburger. Bentley's blood soaked face and shirt dripped with Bentley's remains. Lance looked at Aiden. A smile was written across his face. He held up a handful of Bentley's flesh, then placed it in his mouth, chewed, and bent down for another rip at the kid's fresh remains. Aiden's baseball bat found its mark. Lance's brain oozed from his instantly crushed skull. His personal horror was ended, and Aiden could sleep knowing that Lance would not have to spend eternity killing more and more harmless kids like Bentley.

Aiden patted Lance on the back.

"Good-bye, my friend," he said.

He knew what he had to do. Bentley's head assumed a deadly shape as the baseball bat again went down and pummeled deep into his brain. The reddening ooze let Aiden know he had done his last act of friendship the right way. Bentley's horror was over for good.

"I loved you, Bentley, even if others never liked you." He patted Bentley's shoulder. "Welcome to the team, kid. Thanks for everything you did for me and the guys out there." Aiden nodded toward the football field.

How many are dead already?

Aiden wondered how many of his football buddies would survive tonight. Many of them were already spread out inside the gym along with other kids from the school. The dark night might become even worse. Far worse. This could be just a down payment for even more horrible things to come.

He turned around. The other guys with bats looked at him. The zombie kids were bent over eating many of their friends. The crazy thing was that the zombies themselves had been their friends. This infection's craziness had turned them into mindless, hungry monsters. They were the walking dead.

"You know what to do," Aiden said.

The boys swung their bats as hard as they could, smashing skulls of both the zombies and their victims, making sure that the madness would not go forth from this room.

When it was over, Paul Schwimmer stood with his back to everyone. He was trembling. Aiden knew he was crying. There had been a lot of that today. Aiden put his arm around Paul. "I know. It's hard. Most of the other guys are crying, also." Aiden turned Paul toward him. "I'm proud of you," Aiden said. "You know you did the right thing. For you as well as for them. No one can hurt them ever again."

Paul cried even more.

"Now each of them is a little kid again," Aiden said.

They dispatched fifty youthful corpses stacked together inside the showers where they had run to escape their deadly fates. Each corpse was in a varied state of awakening as a zombie. Now, they, too, were little kids once more with nothing to disturb their peacefulness. As Aiden looked back, he saw their blood flowing across the floor from the shower room.

#

The boys cleaned out the girl's gym. The scene was the same. Girls cut open by the sharp teeth and fingernails of their drooler friends were being fed upon by their girlfriends, lovers, and even by a few general strangers who had simply staggered blindly onto the campus that day.

As the football jocks clobbered their heads into the ground, Aiden and Ricky noticed that Billy Edwards had found his sister, Mary Anne, chewing on another girl. He had not hesitated to re-kill her already damaged brain matter with his descending baseball bat. Her brain had shattered like a watermelon which was becoming a very familiar sight. Billy did not even pause. He brought the bat down on the head of the girl that his sister had killed, silencing her forever as well, which was the right thing to do, saving her from the horror of becoming another zombie in the army of resuscitated and very dangerous walking dead.

Aiden and the other batters were clubbing half-naked girls all over the gymnasium. Not one of them were aroused by the sight. This was simply a clean up action. Sex was the farthest thing from their minds. There would be time for love between the sexes for young adults later, but only if their world were cleaned of the infection. The dream of sleeping with a girl who later awakened to kill you was flashing like a You Tube Movie inside their minds as a distinct possibility. It was one thing that they'd never allow to happen after this deadly day of mayhem and terror. Mere survival amid the horror of the infection was the only goal they had.

Love was as far away as forever after. It wasn't even considered. That's how much their idealism had faded in the midst of their first need which was that of survival.

"We need to do another walk through the gym," Aiden said. "Let's get this done. Leave no one alive, guys."

A few clubs made their mark on those that had been forgotten on the first pass. As each club smacked into a skull, the boy doing the batting yelled, "Clear!"

It was visceral and surreal. Aiden would never forget this day. The sight of beautiful girls lying dead, cut open and used as mere food for the walking dead confronted their systems. Fluids oozed across their shirts and onto the floors. Their once beautiful bodies had produced these final ghastly images that would haunt Aiden and all of the others forever.

Inside the showers, the clubbing went on with the yells of "Clear! Clear! Clear!" as each crushed head was verified as completely shattered before the next one was approached and smashed.

"Clear."

"Clear."

"Clear."

#

Aiden took all the high school kids who had not been bitten to the cafeteria next. He had hoped he'd find more of the students alive, locked up in there, and waiting to be rescued. If so, they'd be safe from the biters. On the way, they killed a number of droolers, mostly little kids from the high school, people they grew up with. They stooped over bodies of people they had murdered. They were so busy eating teachers and high school freshmen on the bloodied floors that they just ignored Aiden and the others and continued chewing. It seemed absurd that most of these high school zombies as well as the corpses they were eating had been friends just that morning. The zombie kids were totally familiar with their victims, because they'd gone to school together for years. In only a few hours all of that had changed. Now, the recent past seemed like it had been a dream and that it had never really existed. They were just waking up. Now, everything they had been taught about human goodness was a big fucking lie like all the others in their lives.

"I wish I were never born right now," Aiden said.

"Me, too," Ralph Abrams confessed. "This is just pure bull shit."

"I want my mom," Jennifer Kramer said. "I want to go home right now."

"It's not going to happen," Aiden said, "unless you want to walk there all alone."

"That's crazy! I'd never make it."

"Smart girl, Jennifer. You stick with us. There's power in numbers. Otherwise, there's not a chance of a snowball in Lancaster that you'll still be alive tomorrow morning."

Jennifer's eyes became watery.

"This is sickening," Jennifer said. "It's like a horror movie."

"And we are all seconds," Aiden said. "We're underpaid and unwanted." It was melodramatic, but it was honest.

"That's for sure, Jennie said.

"We only have meaning to ourselves if we can stay healthy and avoid becoming infected," Aiden explained. "We only do that if we stick together. Even so, many of us are going to die tonight. There's nothing we can do about it, but try our best to stay clean. Hopefully, we can all make it. But we have to live smart all of the time from now on. The way we used to be is dead now."

"The school was not smart," Ralph said. "That's for sure. They should have protected us."

"Well, they didn't know it was coming," Aiden reasoned. "It took them unaware. Not long ago everything was normal. Now, look at it. Normal is half the town dead and many of them are right now resurrecting to hunt us down and kill the rest of us."

"It's crazy," Ralph said.

"Of course, it's crazy. Zombies were always going to be crazier than bat shit if they existed at all. Well, now they do. Of course, they are crazy. That's what they are."

"That's so true," said Bob Ravens. Bob was a football tackle.

Jennifer leaned against Bob. His body was strong, and it should have made her feel safe, but it didn't. Not any more. She'd never feel safe again, not as long as she lived.

"I'm going to be sick," she said.

"Did they bite you? Tell me they didn't bite you," Bob Ravens said.

"I'm not bit," she said. "Here. Check me over. I'm clean."

Bob looked at every exposed inch of her body and then some.

"He's getting himself horny for free," Ralph said. "What a lech, Ravens. I bet you fuck cows at midnight."

"Actually, I fuck cows in the morning when I milk them. My fingers on their udders makes them love me."

"You damn farm boys."

"Luck of the draw," Bob said. "We were just born in the country to become the lucky boys. We got lots more things to do than you town folks ever dreamed of in those dirty little brains of yours."

"How's that?"

"We was nasty even before Internet porno. In fact, we filmed it in the stalls."

"I bet you did."

"They don't say farm boys have more fun for nothing," Bob joked. He grinned. He chuckled under his breath. He loved bullshitting the city kids. They were always total suckers for his fantastic lies.

"He doesn't fuck cows, Ralph. He's just shooting you a big crap load. Don't let him rile you."

"Maybe I like being riled," Ralph said. "Yea. Maybe I love it."

"It's better than what happened in Lancaster today," Aiden said. "I was all ready for the big game this weekend. Now, that's not important. It's not even a part of the horizon anymore."

"Why not?" Ralph asked.

"Because there is no horizon," Aiden said. "Football games are over forever. Killing zombies and staying alive is the only game now. Don't you get it? And we'll never make state this year, because there is no state anymore. Pennsylvania is probably lying dead all around us."

They were almost to the cafeteria. Aiden told them to wait until he checked it out, then come with the baseball bats and clubs and whatever else they had once he signaled them it was okay.

"If they are all dead, we'll just bash in their heads. That way they won't wake up and come for us later today."

"What if they are alive?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On if they are infected. How will we know for sure?"

"We won't. We just need to be double certain they aren't."

"How?"

"We'll strip them like we did all the others and like we've done to ourselves. If they don't like it, tough shit. We have to be sure if we want to live."

"If they are bit, we will kill them right here and now. No waiting. If they are still alive and unbit we will allow them to march downtown with us. There's got to be adults down there with guns and equipment who can help protect us. We can help the adults as well. This is our chance to show our stuff."

"What if we are not sure if they are infected?"

"How do you mean?"

"Let's say they look bit but say they aren't."

"Then kill them. If we are wrong, God will take care of them."

"And if we are right?"

"Then God will deal with that, too. Whatever. We can't leave future droolers behind without dispatching them. Otherwise, we'll have to kill them later, and later we might not have the upper hand."

Aiden was the first of the rescuers to enter the cafeteria. At first, he stood back and looked. The scene was reminiscent of Dante's Inferno which Ralph and Aiden had both studied in their world literature classes just a month ago. Droolers all over the place, casually eating what was left of their fellow students. Each zombie kneeled down all coated in blood from head to foot. They also seemed mesmerized by the deliciousness of the human dinners they were stuffing themselves with. None of them noticed any of the football students with clubs and bats.

The high school athletes fanned out through the room, and on the hand signal from Ralph they started bashing zombie brains, or what was left of them. The bats and clubs fanned upward then downward in rapid succession as they destroyed their skulls. The cracking bones and screams of the dead ones filled the large room. Blood splatter flew through the air. The pellets of red soiled the already splattered batters who had been doing the same thing in other parts of the high school in their desperate fight to escape from their entrapment alive. In twenty minutes, they were mopping up, poking at what was left of the brains and bodies that seeped across the cafeteria floor. The gore had spread itself everywhere. The floor looked like a pond of red vomit that had poured from a humongous dinosaur that had bled out during its last moments.

As they poked into the remains and smashed the skulls of the dead to insure they would stay that way, they stumbled through what was left of many of their friends and classmates.

Each time they stomped or bashed a skull, they yelled the word, "Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear! Clear! Clear!"

"Clear!" they shouted one by one.

Finally, the cafeteria stood silent. All of the bitten were now dead forever. None of them would ever attack living people again.

CHAPTER NINE

The Highway Patrol

The sheriff made the call to the Pennsylvania Highway Patrol.

"I've got a real mess on my hands," he told Chief Byron Masters, who headed the Pennsylvania State Highway Patrol.

"What kind of mess, sheriff?"

"A big fucking mess. That's what kind."

"What happened? Did you spill your coffee on your uniform at the donut shop, Robert?"

"Very funny. I've got people killing each other all over town. The place has gone nuts, Byron. I need help here. I can't handle something this big."

"People are killing each other, you say? Listen, this isn't some Amish joke, is it?"

"It's no joke. And it's even worse."

"Worse?"

"Yep."

"How so, Robert?"

"After they are dead, they come back to life, stagger around, then start killing other people."

" Are you taking your meds, sheriff?"

"I don't take meds. Listen to me, Chief, this is an emergency. I'm not kidding or messing around. In fact, I'm afraid for my life and my family's life."

"Are they armed?"

"Their arms are lifted sort of. They keep them in front, almost like they are sleep walking."

"Bullshit! If you are on drugs, I'm going to arrest you myself, sheriff."

"No. No. I'm not on drugs. Wait a minute. Here's my deputy, Dimmie. Tell the Highway Patrol Chief I'm not high, and this is no joke."

"Chief?" Dimmie asked over the phone.

"Yep. Your boss is on drugs, son. You need to disarm him."

"No. He's not on drugs. People are killing each other. Not only that but they are creating mayhem on each other."

"Mayhem?"

"They are tearing open their bodies and pulling out their guts and eating them, sir."

"Bull crap. If this is a joke, you'll never serve in a law position again."

"Fuck serving, sir. And this isn't a goddam joke. You better get some state trooper's asses down here stat. And you better be accompanied by the goddam national guard, FBI, and CDC, or I'm going to be literally a slab of fucking meat to eat here, sir! I'm not shitting you. Lancaster has a pretty little shit happening here and we are going to all be dead!"

Dimmie sent Chief Masters half a dozen digital pictures of zombies eating the guts of Lancaster citizens.

"Holy shit!"

"Convinced?"

"Yes. But if you've Photoshopped this bullshit, your nuts are mine, Dimmie."

"What's your decision, Chief Masters? We cannot hold this town if we don't get help right away."

"I'm calling the Governor, Dimmie. Let me have the sheriff."

"Hello, Byron?"

"I believe you. I'm calling everyone including the Governor. I'll cut all access to the town and bring every trooper and National Guardsman to you that the Governor authorizes. And if it's a joke, your fucking careers are history, and you'll be incarcerated the rest of your born days if I have anything to say about it. In fact, if you are lying here, I promise I will personally claw your eyes out all by myself."

"I wish," Sheriff Wilson said. "I really wish. But it's the damned honest truth, sir."

"I'm on it. I'll be there myself in one hour."

"Thanks, Byron."

"Save me a donut, sheriff."

"Very fucking funny."

The Chief laughed. If this was a joke, he'd skin the man with his own hands.

#

It seemed like hours, but it was only thirty-five minutes when three Pennsylvania Highway Patrol cars marked with the letters P.H.P. rolled into town with their sirens blaring. The sheriff met them at the town's entrance.

"What's this all about, sheriff?"

"It's about the end of the damn world," the sheriff said.

"That bad?"

"Worse."

"What can we do?"

"Try to save as many as we can," he said. "I think half the town is infected with this."

"A disease?"

"The Amish virus," Sheriff Wilson said.

"Never heard of it."

"I made the name up myself. We had to call it something. I discovered it first, so I get to name it. Got that?"

"Right on, son."

"Yea, well it's bullshit. That's what it is. If it gets out of the county and into Philadelphia or State College, it'll fan out worldwide in a matter of hours. This thing is traveling through town fast. Within an hour, anyone infected is dead, then the corpse comes back to life as an angry fucking crazy who wants to kill everything in front of it."

"You ain't on dope?"

"Tell you what. Follow me in your car. You'll see exactly what I mean. Whatever you do, don't leave your car. If a drooler tries to block your vehicle, run him down. He's already dead. What you are seeing is not human. Each zombie is only an ambulating corpse hunting for someone to kill and eat."

"Can these things be killed?"

"The only way to kill them is to totally destroy their heads. Shooting them right in the middle of the forehead seems to work. Or take a billy club and crush their skulls in. But you have to hit them hard enough to crack their skull and completely smash it in. Later, if you get a chance, make certain by stomping their skull into the ground with your boot. Otherwise, they are likely to wake up, come back and attack again."

"Show me when we get there. I want to see this, before I'm going to be doing that to anyone myself. I want to see you doing it to at least one of them, before I'll even consider it."

"You got it. Now, let's proceed downtown to the big show, guys."

Their cars followed him into town. Along the way they saw droolers mulling about, staggering this way and that across the streets, looking for anyone alive they could either see or smell.

"They are hunting," the sheriff said, over his radio. "Looking for fresh meat to kill."

"Right on, big brother."

They came onto a group of three strollers, bent over and tearing a corpse's stomach open, eating his intestines.

"Lunch time!" the sheriff said. "Now watch what I do, and don't get yourself bit. You can push them backwards with a pole or a shotgun. They have very little force in them. They are nearly dead is what they are. Now watch me."

He got out of the car and approached the three feeders. On his walkie talkie he said, "Now, I'm going to kill them. First, the baton." He raised his baton and brought it down through the skull of a zombie, crushing its bones. "There. That one's dead for good. He's silenced. The others are still feeding. They are not very observant. Now, I'll use the shotgun butt."

He cracked the skull of the next zombie in line. "See. The skull shatters and he's finished. Now, I'm going to shoot the last one. I have to destroy the part of its brain that's not quite alive. That means anywhere I shoot as long as it's in the main part of the skull, and he's terminated. Especially if I stomp his skull into the ground to prevent him from coming back forever.

The sheriff walked up to the feeder and placed his gun barrel against the corpse's skull. The corpse paid no attention. He pulled the weapon's trigger, and the skull exploded. The blood flew out of the other side where the exit wound gushed open. Blood pellets sprayed from his brain. Down he went.

"That's all there is to it. Easy as pie. If there's too many for bullets, use a baseball bat or a two-by-four to smash their skull. They are slower than you, so you have an advantage. The only way they get you is if they surprise you. If you are bitten, I'll have to kill you, and I will. Otherwise, in less than an hour you'll be resurrected and become one of them trying to eat the rest of us."

"You are shitting me."

"Do I look like I'm enjoying this?"

"No. Only, it's the damnedest thing I've ever seen."

"Okay, then."

"There is this one thing more, however."

"What is that?"

"We can't be picky. If you think they are infected, just kill them. Otherwise, they will overrun us."

He went to his cell phone and called the Chief of the Patrol.

"Chief? The bastard is right. He ain't lying. Get the fucking National Guard out here, stat. Lancaster looks like Zombieville, Chief. Yea. That's what I said. Zombieville, sir. No. I'm not shitting you. Now, when you get here, you stay in your car or they will kill your ass, sir. Be careful when you get here. Yes, I'm serious! Now, move it!"

#

Chief Byron Masters had never heard so much tripe in his thirty-seven years in law enforcement. He'd never heard of people going crazy and biting each other, much less ripping out their family's and best friend's guts and eating them. What had this world come to? This is exactly what TV and Hollywood movies had done to mankind. He told them this would happen. Well, almost. Even the Chief had never gone this far in his predictions. He might have predicted general social riots, but had not envisioned an entire town going ape shit like this one evidently had.

He came in at about sixty miles per hour with his lights flashing. It paid to make a dramatic entrance if you were the last man on the spot like he was. He piled up his burnt rubber on the pavement just in front of the small gathering of forces whom he had called into this little hell hole, and by God this had better be exactly what was going on or his own ass was going up before the Governor's personal firing squad. That would be the end of his thirty-seven years of service to an ungrateful and poorly paying state government.

"This better be damned good, guys! That's all I've got to say!"

Sheriff Wilson extended his hand, and the Chief shook it.

"Where's all this bullshit you've described?" Chief Masters asked him.

"Follow me. The freak show is just a minute away. Bring your best guns, sir."

The Chief exited his Crown Victoria and balanced his riot gun in the crick of his elbow. "I've just got to see this!" he said. It would be the gift of a lifetime of service to have a town where everyone had gone totally zombie. He'd finally have something to tell his wife and kids if that was what was going on, which he seriously doubted. The whole idea reeked of madness. Then, they'd listen to him. Not that he gave a shit, anymore. After being rejected by his family for more than three decades, he was used to whatever insolence they could dish out. He figured, even for this, his rejection by his family wouldn't stop.

"Wait here, Chief Masters," the sheriff said. "And for Christ's sake be as fucking quiet as you can be. No use in riling them up any more than necessary. It's easier to pop them when they are unaware of us coming."

"What the shit," Masters said.

The sheriff disappeared around the corner. What he saw going on down the block was more than enough of a zombie showboat to convince the Chief that he hadn't been chewing on drugs.

Sheriff Wilson came back and motioned for the Chief to follow him along with his retinue of enforcement agents.

"Now be quiet," he said, "and whatever you do, don't let these fuckers bite you or you'll become one of them and I'll have to kill you. If you have to, shoot only into their heads. If they get close, kick or push them away. They don't have enough balance to fight you in hand-to-hand combat, and the only chance for them to bite you is for them to sneak up behind you before you see them. And remember. If they bite you, you are infected. I'll have no choice then. I will kill your ass on the spot. No offense meant but this is a true emergency. It's everyone for himself. If a drooler bites your ass, sir, your dead, and I mean business on that."

"You are an insolent fuck. Do you know that?"

"Just warning you, Chief. I don't want to off you. It's to save you, sir."

The sheriff turned the corner and motioned for them to follow.

What they saw turned their stomachs. Blood was all over the street. At least twenty zombies were feeding from corpses. All of them were blood splattered from head to toe.

"Sorry. I couldn't clean them up for you."

An officer threw up in the street. The intensive splattering sounds of fighting echoed off the old brick walls.

"You have to shatter the skull to kill them," the sheriff whispered. "All we can do is kill them to clear the problem. They are beyond reasoning with. Besides, they are already dead. There only seems to be their motor skills that are still animated. They aren't people any more. That's for sure. In fifteen minutes, you'll figure everything out, but remember, you have to survive those first fifteen minutes, no matter what. So, heads up."

He walked up slowly behind a small circle of feeders who were busy gobbling a woman's ripped torso, stuffing her bright red guts into their mouths. She was still alive and screaming. Their eyes were blank and dead as though they could not see what they were doing, and their movements were erratic and filled with muscular ticks, hesitations, and a kind of quirkiness than was almost indescribable. They were definitely not all there.

Sheriff Wilson shotgun butted the back of a zombie's head. It caved in offering an explosion of dead brain matter and reddish nectar that filled the air with floating blood pellets. The zombie collapsed like a dropped coat that missed its closet hanger. He did the same with the next eater. The zombie's head caved in and exuded the same mixture of brain and blood pellets in the air for about a foot from his skull as he caved and went down.

"Easy as pie," the sheriff explained, "but be forceful enough to cave their heads in totally, and you'll have no problem. Just don't get bitten. Again, if they bite you, I'll have to kill you. I'll have zero choice, because you are infected and don't want to become like them. We'll all be your enforcer. It has to be done."

"Holy cow," the Chief said, then he added absent-mindedly, "I'll just be dipped in shit. This is really happening!" The Chief moved forward and bashed in the skulls of three walkers. They went down like road runner cartoons. No resistance.

"You were right, sheriff," Chief Byron Masters said. Now that he was convinced that the sheriff wasn't totally insane, he was more than happy to have a piece of the action.

"I told you."

"I'm a believer now. It just sucks beyond compare. And look at this blood all over me. We are all going to be a mess in a few minutes, aren't we?"

"Yeppers. Soon, you'll look like the rest of us. And like them, too. You won't know the difference, except you won't be staggering around like they are."

"Jesus. Kill them, boys! Let none of them survive!. That's an order!" He had never seen people eating other's intestines, especially when the victim still lived. The sooner they ended their sojourns, the better off the citizens of Pennsylvania would be.

The small force fanned out into the street and began administering the deadly coups de gras. The animated dead went down without even moaning, as though a crushed head was their forte, if not what they sought. As they ended them, the small group wondered what it must be like to be so dead and still animated and desire to kill innocent people and eat them like this. It was absolutely the most disgusting thing any of them had ever imagined in their law enforcement careers.

As they were almost finished, a huge mass of one hundred new ones came around the corner. Their arms were extended like Frankensteins, and their dead faces and eyes let the policemen know that no quarter could be given, because these dead fuckers were already so over the top and covered with their neighbor's blood and guts that no matter what, the police themselves were going to be the next generation of zombies unless they dispatched them into hell in the next minute. Except for that, it would be their own guts hanging from these god awful faces of death.

"Come here, my pretty," the Chief said, as he smashed in the face of a zombie boy. The kid fell like a hamper of bricks on a hod carrier's slab. He hit the earth and assumed total immobility. "He won't be moving again," the Chief said. "Thank god for that." He then dispatched two more and pushed three of them backward with the tip of his shotgun.

The officers went about their business quietly and efficiently. The sheriff had taught them well, and the scene of mayhem that surrounded them left no uncertainty that they were next on the menu if they didn't get down to business and kill them all before they were overrun and decimated inside the approaching horror they now found themselves caught up in.

Just as the core of the zombie army seemed about finished, fifty more came around the corner covered in citizen blood and guts. The tragedy of painful death hung from their mouths and spawned a surreal abstract in blood across their bodies. The police had become a mean team, all of a sudden, ready to kill at a moment's notice. Their steel weapons swirled high above their heads as they crushed the skulls of the biters, sending them into a place of final death. Their crushed skulls spelled the end of their deadly resurrections.

A little girl was carried by its mother who was eating her flesh away. She staggered toward the cops. The mother was not even aware of her impending destruction. The girl in her arms was already zombie-like as her mother chewed on her intestines as though she were enjoying them greatly. "These fuckers are something else!" the Chief said to himself as he smashed the little girl's brain, then dispatched her mother. Both of them fell like broken trees onto the blood ravished pavement and merged inside the collection of irregular flesh below their stomping boots.

"Smash the heads of the victims, boys, or they will be rising up and attacking us in short order. They are infected and are becoming like their killers at this very moment. Use your boots on them."

"Some of them haven't done anything to us yet," one of the officers protested.

"So, you want to give them the first bite? Don't be an idiot. Even the living who are bitten are done for, and in a few minutes, when they fall and then wake up, they will be walking all over Lancaster looking for victims. Don't let that happen to them. It's easier on them to smash their heads and make an end to them. You wouldn't want to awaken as a killer, either. So, just do your jobs, and maybe we may still go home to a nice warm bed tonight instead of lying here dead in the street. It's your choice, guys. Do your job, because you already know what their job it is. Theirs is to kill and eat you. Yours is to stop them before that happens."

Another squadron of droolers marched upon the cops with staggering swiftness. They came around the corner and calmly faced the reddened shotgun butts and batons, offering their easily cracked skulls to the impending mayhem. So far, the score was police victims, 0, and immobilized zombies, more than 400 dead and gone. The officers continued to do their jobs until their arms began to ache from the bashing of heads, but the zombies continued to round the corners and headed directly into the fighting force of policemen. The zombie's numbers grew exponentially minute-by-minute, and it soon became obvious they'd need more forces to do the necessary job of containment and mopping up of these attacking dead men who were marching straight into them through the awaiting streets.

As they continued their work, the sheriff saw a contingent of newbies who were coming to help the police in the form of the high school football team. He was surprised to see them led by his son, Aiden. They had been busy, because they were blood-stained from head to foot.

"I figured you'd be here, dad. We came to help, and we brought baseball bats with us from the gym."

I can tell from their bloody tips, you already know how to kill them, son.

"Crush the head," Aiden said.

"My boy isn't dumb, Chief. He'll make good army cannon fodder for the feds, sir," the sheriff said, "but if he signs with the recruiter, I'll have to kill him, sir."

The Chief laughed. "Indeed, we both shall have to kill him if he's that stupid."

"I'm not," Aiden said. "Not to worry about me joining some cannon fodder squad. Now, let's get these bastards. They've killed enough of my friends already, and we are determined to end them here and now."

"Nice to meet you, Aiden, the Chief said, "but please don't get bitten."

"They won't be biting me, sir. I already know how to stay alive in this game."

The kids ran up to the zombie force and began doing their job of clubbing them into the pavement. The police stood back and watched them work. They took a welcome break for a few moments, admiring the dedication and love the football team had for their new jobs as citizen enforcers. Their young strong arms swung their bats with a mighty force which was more than enough to crush skulls and not take names.

"Kill them all! Let God sort them out!" one of the kids yelled as he smashed into their skulls with his baseball bat.

That seemed to be the name of their game. The chaos of war in Iraq had made its mark on them as they took the place of their fathers who manned the death filled turf wars in Baghdad and Kabul. Now, it was their turn to show their stuff.

A dog ran through the crowd of zombies. Their hands reached for him, but he bit back and was too snippy and fast for their flailing grips to take hold of him. He easily slipped their grasp and nipped at their ankles, holding onto their pants legs, and pulling one or two of them to the ground, growling and barking as he made his play against them. The dog obviously smelled the death on their legs and knew not to attack the living whose scent was entirely different, so they let their new canine supporter do his thing since he was certainly no threat to them. Besides, right now, they needed all the help they could muster.

An Amish zombie emerged from the struggling force of the living dead as the football team bashed them back. He was still inside his Amish taxi, and his horse was pulling the two wheeled contraption forward. The Amish taxi driver was obviously dead as told by the tell tale trails of blood that flowed down from his chin and onto his white Amish shirt. The fucker had been feeding on his cousins whose wounded bodies were exposed in lurid flashes of sunlight inside the hidden parts of the carriage, and their crazed zombie uncle was now planning on the football team members as his next meal. He was mistaken if he thought he'd bleed them for their intestines, because they were terrific fighters. The jocks focused on him as their next prey, and they were quick as snot about getting to his perch and pulling him off his stool and into the fray. When they bashed him, his head opened like that of a dropped watermelon. His red Amish zombie brains hit the air and spewed fresh blood pellets for a foot in circumference. "Die, you fuckers!" Aiden shouted as the next several platoons of blood soaked zombies drooled their way around around the corner with their stupid arms stretched out to grab the next unwary human.

Aiden soon discovered that pulling them forward caused them to lose their balance and come crashing to the ground where his foot could be slammed into their skulls as another weapon he could use to crush their pretty faces as flat as a cookie sheet. It was just as effective as his baseball bat, and it offered even more immediate space in which to work.

Aiden and his team mates killed one batch after the next, being careful not to allow themselves to be bitten. They had seen at their high school what happened to those who were bitten, and some of their high school friends appeared around the corner in each army of zombie hordes who had unwittingly staggered into their swinging baseball bats. The interesting thing was the way the zombies refused to learn any decent attack strategies. In addition, if someone turned up a car radio in their vicinity, they'd walk right toward it, no longer aware of the people close to them and almost begging for the humans to bash their heads with their swinging baseball bats from behind them where they had no protection at all. They were stupid to the max, almost like the urban legends of a school slut who just couldn't get enough of the jocks on the football team. There weren't too many girls like that, but all of a sudden there were plenty of zombies who wanted to be bashed into total inanimate death and didn't care if fighters against them carried a weapon or not. They were still coming to get them and didn't care what their opponents did to them. Only the crushed skull stopped these guys and no amount of broken legs or ribs would cease their mindless activities if they were bent on killing humans. But crushing their brittle skulls was an easy key to stopping them dead in their tracks. Fortunately, it worked every time.

CHAPTER TEN

National Guard

The Pennsylvania National Guard was a proud organization whose men and women were trained in a variety of military support objectives from aircraft support to ground reinforcement. When the call came to the commander's office from the Governor of Pennsylvania, units close to Lancaster were called up and ordered to meet. The general in charge was Grayson Andrews. He was a thick set general with a confidence that could easily radiate enough recklessness into soldiers to get them to impale themselves upon an enemies' roasting pike without even questioning the sanity of their orders. Over the years, many a man and boy had died under the excellence of his military tutelage. Trucks, armaments, fuel, and other assets were rapidly assembled from warehouses, garages, and armories so that in less than two hours a force of 350 men had assembled and received debriefing on one of the most surreal episodes since the Civil War when Gettysburg blew the hat off of both the Union and Confederate Forces. Everything General Grayson Andrews ordered appeared instantly and without question. His hold over his men was like that of a prophet who could deftly convince the most ancient Pharaoh in Egypt to build a fourth and fifth pyramid. If ever the earth had a quake left in it, this general's voice might easily unleash it.

"We have reports of an epidemic in Lancaster which is a tourist town. The Amish farmers are the big draw. The only trouble, men, is that many of these Amish are now infected with what is being called 'Amish virus' for lack of a more sensitive term. For now, this is the exact phrase we will use to identify it. It passes from person to person from bites. Once it enters the body the person dies but is reanimated as a walking corpse in search of human flesh to eat. They get their energy from killing and eating people."

Rumbles of laughter rolled forward from the back of the room.

"Attention back there, if you don't mind. This is seriously dangerous. I have reports from the Governor, Highway Patrol, and citizen calls in that town that more than half of the population is dead and either reanimated or about to be reanimated. This is not Jesus Christ's work, gentlemen. This is a deadly situation, and Lancaster is right now an expendable city."

A hand went up.

"Yes, soldier."

"Ram Olderson, sir. I was raised in Lancaster. I was wondering how many are walking around like that, sir?"

"We just don't know. We'll find out more when we set up our perimeter, then approach the area in groups. Our plan is to isolate Lancaster. We will not let anyone in or out, infected or not infected. The orders are to kill all infected persons on the spot, before proceeding to the next. If they are not killed, they will continue to attack and infect others. They can only be killed by destroying the brain. You can shoot them, break their bones, cut off limbs, and they'll still keep coming at you. The fact is, they are dead, but for some reason their brain is still working just enough to allow them to stagger all over the landscape and to bite others in their paths and thereby spread the infection."

The men mumbled.

"I know. I know. We don't want to kill anyone, but these victims may move, but they are not alive. And, in any case, they are deadly."

"What if we make a mistake and kill someone who is uninfected, sir? Are we going to be tried in a military court for murder?"

"No. Our orders are to kill on sight. It is up to us to determine as best we can if the persons we kill are infected. You will be allowed to make a mistake. Every kill you make out there is a judgment call for which you will never be held responsible. However, it is your job to be responsible and to try your best to save people who are just running away. Some innocents are going to die at your hands, and you are going to have to live the rest of your lives. The fact is this. If you don't stop them here, they will continue to spread the disease until everyone in America is infected and running around trying to bite other people including your families. So, if you err in your clean up, that's to be overlooked. We are not doctors."

"How do we tell a dead person from a living one?"

"We are not sure. But the dead ones have bites. Those are the areas where they got infected. Everyone with a bite is to be considered a dead walker. You are expected and ordered here and now to kill everyone who was bitten whether they are still alive, resurrected, walking strangely, or whatever. Make no excuses. I don't care if its a little girl or your own daughter or son. If its bitten, you kill it. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"I cannot hear you!"

"Yes, sir!"

"All right, then. Bring your gear, and good hunting to you!"

#

Eliott Blakely and Orren Lasswell were first year corporals. They had trained together and undergone summer camp. Now, they were driving a Hummer filled with high grade munitions and well trained men to what might be their deaths.

"This is a crock of shit, ain't it?" Eliott said.

"Sure is," Orren said. "I'd sure rather be at home with Norma drinking beers and watching TV."

"Me, too, buddy."

"How do you think we'll do?"

"Dunno. Never killed anything but rabbits, deer, and squirrels. I don't want to be killing little girls, but orders are orders."

"Do you think it's true?"

"What do you mean?"

"This could be a test, Eliott. They try to pull tests on guardsmen to sort out the crazies from the half-crazies."

"What's the difference?"

"My dad told me the crazies get promoted. Those men who have scruples are passed over. They aren't trusted to do their job and to watch the guys' backs in a fire fight."

Suddenly, a walker and two dead kids stumbled onto the road.

"What the fuck!"

Eliott hit the breaks.

"First blood!" he yelled.

He jumped out of the hummer and aimed on the father first. The man had most of his stomach and throat missing. He stared straight ahead like an angel of death. His eyes were darkly inset, almost hidden in the way they were seemingly pushed into his brain-fucked skull too far. The entire zombie family gawked into Eliott's rifle barrel and were not the least afraid of it. Eliott proceeded. He squeezed off a shot between the man's eyes as he had been instructed to do. He missed. He heard the rifle automatically reloading its chamber and aimed again. This time he scored, and the father fell backwards and stopped moving. Next, he crushed the little girl's skull with his rifle and did the same to the little boy. As their skulls broke they fell backward.

"You did it!" Orren yelled. "You fucker!"

Eliott nudged them with his boot. They were not moving. Liquids in their ruined skulls seeped out to the pavement. Behind him, he heard the guys in their hummers whistling and applauding. "All right, Mr. Bad Ass!"

Eliott didn't look back. He pounded their heads into the ground with his boots exactly as they had been instructed. Besides, they were already dead, weren't they?

"Help me drag them off the road," Eliott ordered.

Orren, who had frozen, bent down. They grabbed hands and feet and pulled them into the culvert on the side of the road. The man was the hardest, but the kids were like feathers. They were not as heavy as Eliott figured. They seemed slightly dried out and even somewhat desiccated as though their fluids had left them. He figured maybe this was why they craved blood from living humans. Perhaps the dead were dry, and they were really suffering mostly from thirst.

"Let's get moving," Eliott said.

He jumped back in the hummer. The engine was still running, He shifted and started up. It bucked as it usually did, then straightened up and flew down the road toward what Eliott knew would be Hell Town. "Oh, well," he thought. "I killed three people including the guy's family."

"How was it, Eliott?"

"I'm okay," he said. "I'm okay."

"Good."

"You froze out there, Orren."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes. You did. It's all right. In an hour, you'll be killing them along with me. I know you will."

Orren was silent. Could he kill people the way Eliott had? It was a question that was unanswered but soon would be. The worst that could happen if he choked up again was that he'd be ordered to the back for more training.

"I gotta shoot them, Eliott."

"Yes, you do. If you don't, they are going to kill us, and, if one bites me, you have to kill me, too, Orren. Promise me you'll do that for me. I don't want to come back as a killer like that."

"I'll kill you. I promise."

Eliott reached over and patted Orren's shoulder.

"I trust you. Kill me. I don't want to be a fucking zombie with no brains."

"I'll kill you, Eliott. You can count on it."

"Good."

Eliott wondered if Orren was lying and if he had it in him to kill him the way he was ordered to kill anyone and everyone who had been bitten. To do so without fail.

If I die, kill me. Don't let me be a walker.

#

After several subsequent kills along the way, the National Guard finally rolled into Lancaster where they witnessed absolute mayhem. Living citizens were knifing, shooting, and hitting each other with bats. Evidently, they knew what they were doing, but to the Guard it didn't make sense. All of them were just about as bloody as the next. There were a few differences. For one thing, the living ones seemed to work faster. They had the upper hand in combat. However, if one of them was bitten, their buddy would turn without even thinking and crush his skull with a bat. Most were kids wearing tee shirts and faded blue jeans. They were bloodied all over from head to toe. The girls were fighting alongside the boys. Some seemed really good at what they were doing.

"Kill that one! He's too close!"

The girl lifted the bat over its head then came down hard, crushing the drooler's skull and sending him to the ground. The boy next to her did the same to a shambling high school girl, smashing her head into smithereens and sending her to the street.

"Not bad for a boy," she said, smiling at him.

"Fuck you, bitch," he said smiling back.

She immediately got down to business smashing one approaching head after the other. Thousands of shamblers were pushing toward them.

"Come on, men," Eliott yelled. "Let's give them something to remember."

The guys jumped to the ground with their rifles fully loaded and began entering the fray.

"Fight hard! Don't let them bite you!" Orren yelled.

Eliott watched Orren. The kid headed straight for a shambler and opened his skull with a single shot. Brains flew from the other side of the drooler's head and he fell backward and didn't move an inch.

"Got you!" Orren yelled. Then he did it to the next and the next. He didn't stop. They were coming at him fast and furious. He stood his ground, but he wasn't stupid about it. When he needed to move away he either ran to the side or withdrew for better advantage then attacked and killed the offending stumbler.

"Way to go, Orren!"

"Right. I'm okay, Eliott. Lost my cherry. I'm ready to go now."

All three hundred soldiers joined with what was left of the high school and the other citizens including the police and a few Amish who had joined the attack. The Amish were generally passive when it came to killing, but evidently these Amish were more than savvy. They were fighting for their way of life and their families. They had been pushed to the wall and had seen enough killing to understand that it was time to do the necessary thing whether or not it seemed right in the eyes of God or of the devil in hell himself. Besides, these beasts were dead. They were only men in form and not in soul. They were deceased. They had no life at all inside them. Bam! The Amish beat them back. Being farmers, they were muscular and strong, brave to the extreme, but cunningly adept in stepping aside to keep from being bitten.

Orren and Eliott fought on the outskirts of the approaching army of what was rapidly becoming thousands and thousands of zombies. People who had been killed and bitten were awakening all hungry and needing to instantly feed themselves on human blood and gore. That is why they were surging forward. They needed to sustain themselves, and this could only be done on the blood and flesh of the living. The dead were of no interest. The dead smelled different. Dead, sort of. But the living had a fragrance that attracted the zombies, because the living had the perfumes of life that a hungry zombie craving sweet human blood and flesh could smell nearly a mile away, then come hunting for them.

Orren snuffed two small boys who were ambling toward him, arms outstretched like he'd seen in a hundred "Revenge of the Mummy" type movies. He smashed their brains in order. Bam! Bam! Then aimed his rifle at a fat lady who came at him with devilish love in her eyes. He squeezed off a fresh bullet into her exploding skull and watched her brains emerging in red pellets from the backside of her head. "Trips to the refrigerator are over, you pig!" Orren yelled into her receding face, "and I ain't going to be your chips and dip, bitch." He laughed out loud and feared he was getting crazier and crazier all the while he was killing these things. All the woman ever wanted probably was to be alone and to stuff her face with goodies. Now, she had died trying to do just that. "Not a bad way to go," Orren thought quietly as he continued to kill others as they staggered into his narrow kill zone. "Not bad at all. She might have died happy, even," he murmured.

Eliott moved toward a group of nine. His rifle was fully loaded as was his personal semi-pistol. He placed the rifle and pistol on their foreheads simultaneously, squeezing them both off and sending them into pellet sized brain spray. He pushed the next two zombies down to the street which was already bathed in blood and stomped their heads into pie plates. Then he placed his gun barrels to the heads of two others. In less than a minute, he had killed all nine of them. He withdrew to reload in a spot where he couldn't be bitten, then ran forward to continue the fight.

Orren and Eliott believed what their guardsman commander had said. This was a fight for survival. What they did here would determine the fate of mankind. Living humans would either kill out all zombies around the world or perish from the infection they carried. Whatever happened, they were all fighting to the death. Neither side was going to stop until they were whipped. As long as they were either alive, as they now were, or were killed in battle and resurrected as hungry killer zombies, they would do their best to kill their enemies. Anyway they looked at it, this kill zone was going to be the toughest assignment they'd ever had. Guns blared, bats cracked, and dead men's teeth tore intestines from the unlucky ones who soon re-emerged as resurrected killers. The trick was to engage, kill, then jump clear to avoid the coming bites.

#

Jensen's Hardware was dead. In fact, it was filled with zombies. They staggered back and forth, their arms always pointing forward for balance. They paced nervously searching for a door through which they might leave to find more humans to kill and eat. They were hungry as could be. They had already eaten all of the people in the store. A few had awakened to join the group. They, too, paced endlessly between the displays of farming and construction tools as though inspecting the goods for a purchase.

Orren and Eliott saw them through the huge plate glass window facing the main drag through town.

"Look, Eliott. There's a bunch of droolers stuck inside."

"We'd better kill them right now while they are contained," Eliott said.

Orren agreed. Bunched up inside the store, they were sitting ducks. In addition, as soon as the two guardsmen entered the store, they figured the zombies would move forward, almost asking to be brain clubbed by the pair.

Eliott opened the door, and the two of them stepped inside. A few zombies moved toward them, and they were instantly dispatched with hammer blows to their skulls. They fell without a whimper. Others took their place, and soon the quarters were getting rather tight, so the soldiers were having a bit of trouble taking their swings. Orren moved to the side wall and began yelling to get the attention of the droolers who immediately turned and began stumbling in his direction. They turned their backs on Orren who immediately began bashing in the back of their heads, immobilizing them forever. Bam. Bam. Bam.

"Clear! Clear! Clear!"

He was clearing the room with each blow. In only a few minutes, the fifty walkers had been decimated to less than twenty zombies, but now they were surrounding Orren, so Eliott took his turn at making noises, banging his rifle on the floor. He stomped, yelled, and got them to instantly turn away from Orren, saving him from being crowded out and severely bitten. Now, it was Orren's turn. He bashed their unprotected heads from the rear same as Eliott had done.

"Clear! Clear! Clear!"

Within a matter of minutes the shamblers were all down.

"Clear!" he called.

Both soldiers slowly walked through the store and poked their way through the dead bodies. A few zombies still contained a modicum of animation, and the men stomped in their fragile heads with boots until their skulls opened like bursting watermelons.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

Soon, the floor was red with the blood of their opened skulls. The store had been cleared of the dead zombies completely. They went to the door, opened it, then carefully closed it to insure no more zombies could wander inside to start the process over again.

"Easy as pie," Orren said.

"You did a good job, soldier," Eliott replied.

Orren had passed his test as a soldier. He had found his stomach for war. He was changed forever. Never again would he freeze in a battle against the zombies in Amish town or anywhere else. It didn't matter if the person were a child. If he was infected, he was a dead monkey. Orren would dispatch him rapidly and with total guardsman and military distinction. General Grayson Andrews would be proud. Orren could see himself wearing a distinguished service medal already. It was only a matter of time before his skills in this area were duly noticed and rewarded. He was on his way now. That was for sure.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lancaster Lost

Soon it became obvious that Lancaster was too big to be sustained. Sheriff Wilson and his son, Aiden, spoke together as the mass of zombies continued to overwhelm the high schoolers, volunteers, local police, highway patrol, and national guard. The student militia had done its best to contain and wipe out the menace that had destroyed their school and their lives, but the numbers had now swollen so large that it was obvious the town was going to fall. Even the Amish had been turned into zombies, and the bearded ones appeared in more and more numbers along with their children. A new problem was the massing of zombie mad cows, horses, and goats from Amish farms. Dogs and cats were now staggering about and biting whatever moved. They, too, had been bitten and zombified. That meant the plague had even jumped from men into animals. It also jumped from these beasts back into men, because every man bitten by them soon turned into a zombie himself.

"This is going to get even scarier," Sheriff Wilson said to the National Guard.

"We agree," said Eliott and Orren said

The surviving military understood only too well.

"The battle has turned against us," one of their remaining Lieutenants said.

"Aiden, what do your students suggest?" the sheriff asked his son.

"We need to get what's left of the people, including our families, and head for higher ground. If we disperse, the droolers will have less of a chance to find us. If they do, we will have more room to swing our bats at them and bring them down. Here, they are bunching us up, making it more difficult. Hell, we can't even walk on the street now, because so many bodies are under foot."

"Right," the sheriff said. "As the law man in charge here, I'm going to call for a general and immediate evacuation of Lancaster. We will try to protect those who can't leave, but, if necessary, they should be abandoned to the walking dead, because I don't think we can possibly save the sick and infirm. They are lost already as things now stand. In fact, we will be lucky to get out of here ourselves."

The men voted by verbal assent. The sheriff went to his car and pulled out a police horn. He turned it on. It crackled.

"Testing. Testing."

The sheriff now had their attention. Even the zombies paused. The loudspeaker's volume had mesmerized them.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Sheriff Wilson. I am declaring our city unlivable. This is a mandatory evacuation. Everyone is ordered to leave the City of Lancaster. We have done our best, but the numbers of our enemies is increasing so exponentially that all of us are in danger of being entrapped, bitten and infected by them. Some of us need to survive to keep our town and way of life alive. I suggest citizens begin leaving now by moving down the highway and dispersing into the woods and fields. We are faster than the zombies and have the advantage in open land. If you can make it to your homes without being overtaken, I suggest you go there, grab whatever weapons you or your neighbors have and leave the area with them. Take food. Clean out the stores. In a general emergency, which I have just declared you are empowered to take whatever you need from any and all stores. Please be orderly and do not panic. Move out in groups of twenty people to give yourselves some mass for fighting. That way you will be less likely to be overrun. You have been brave in your fight to save Lancaster from these beasts, but there is nothing left to do but stay and die or to evacuate. Dying is not a viable option. It is your duty to do everything you can to survive. We must live on in the hope that we can return here and start our lives again. Now, leave the area as rapidly as you can and disappear into the woods and hills. Find farmhouses in which you can take shelter and fight your enemies. Protect yourselves against all of those who wish you harm. Kill any of you who has been bitten less they reawaken and attack you. Thank you for your service. I am leaving now, and so is the national guard. Good luck, and God speed to you. God save Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I love you all."

The speaker clicked four times and went dead.

The national guard set up automatic weapons and fired into the massive push of the zombie hordes as they emerged upon the area from all directions, mowing down hundreds of them with bullets. The people began to move away rapidly, some grabbing food, ammunition, and supplies from the stores. They said their good byes and formed groups of twenty or more persons as they proceeded through the streets, knocking on doors and telling the people to abandon the city and run. Many did. More didn't. Some of them were too old or too infirm to evacuate. They could only hunker down with their guns and pets and accept whatever fate the zombies would dish out.

#

Aiden and Sheriff Wilson left in the police car. They took as many stragglers as they could place inside the car and on the fenders. They traveled slowly so as to help those sitting on the hood, trunk, and ceiling of the Crown Victoria from falling off. Most of the fellow travelers were kids. They stopped along the way to check out their homes. Some found their families, but others found notes telling them where they had gone and wishing them well.

A half an hour later, leaving many dead shamblers along the way the car reached the sheriff's home. Fifty people had assembled there. The police car and its entourage of additional vehicles had collected an assembly of over one hundred citizens, mostly families and neighbors with enough stones left to run for better cover. Lisa and Beth, upon seeing their father and Aiden were still alive and covered with blood from head to toe, came out and hugged them.

"God, look at the blood!" Lisa said. "How gross!"

"There are others not as lucky to be so gross back there," the sheriff told them. "We left them bitten with crushed heads in the streets and schools where they fell trying to fight or get away."

Beth Wilson hugged her son. "You were very brave to fight them, son," she said. "I am proud of you. I'm sure you have saved many of your buddies and fellow students."

Aiden tried to suppress the tears that had started to flow from his eyes.

"Go inside and shower up," his mother said. "We'll have our last sandwich in our home, then leave with the others. We need some distance between us and the town before nightfall."

"We will head for my brother's house," the sheriff said. His brother was John Wilson. He was a surveyor who loved the wild. Hunting and fishing were his favorite past times. He had always told the sheriff and his family that, if the shit hit the fan, they had a place waiting on his little plot of ground. "After we get there, who knows? It depends. We'll just play it out as it materializes. Maybe the walkers will stay right here in town and not spread out."

"We couldn't be that lucky," said Aiden as he ran through the house and prepared for his last shower at home."

"Who knows? Maybe we are due a miracle. I think we have one coming to be honest," the sheriff said.

At the table, Mrs. Wilson said a prayer. "May the Lord look down upon us with a firm countenance and protect us," she prayed. "May our family survive this plague. May we return here and recover our lives in the future. Amen."

The smell of fires came and went as houses all over the town started to burn. Some of the survivors had set them aflame stuffed with corpses from the block to bury their dead in the ashes. They did not want to leave their crushed heads to the hundreds of maddened, crazed, and infected zombie dogs that were starting to roam the town where they stirred about in hungry packs which stumbled erratically down the sidewalks. Fortunately, they were barely able to move and presented little problem for those with the clubs to kill them.

#

Sheriff Wilson drove his group of twenty citizens to his family's farm twenty miles distant. The procession had grown into a flotilla of seven cars with people, gasoline, and other supplies. This was the sum total of whatever was left of their civilization. The mood was somber. The survivors were uncertain.

"We must fight to survive from now on," the sheriff said to his wife and children. "We must all do our best and see what happens."

"I feel clean again," Aiden said. "Nothing like fresh clothes on my body." His arms were tired from the fighting. His legs were also tired. The bat swingers in his group had walked a good twelve miles all together during the first day's battle against their dead friends and neighbors.

"It seems so desperate," Lisa said. "Who would have guessed how rapidly things could deteriorate."

"True, Lisa," Beth said. "It's like an army swept in and killed half of us."

"An army did invade," the sheriff said, "but it was made up of our dead friends who suddenly wanted all of us dead as well. It's every man and woman for themselves now. I guess that's the end of law and order."

"I disagree, dad," Aiden said. "It's really just the beginning of law and order. All of us are deputized now. We are standing against them. All of us. That means you have friends all around you. Dad, mom, sister. We are surrounded by close associates. All of us desperate and afraid. All of us willing to fight to the last person for our right to persist on earth."

"That's elegant, son," his father said. "I didn't know you had it in you."

"I had help, dad. I took most of it from your speech back there. You were great. You rose to the occasion. Everyone who heard it would have done whatever you said back there. As much as I generically hate you as every teenager worth his salt should sometimes hate his parents as a matter of growing up and emerging as an adult, I was proud of you."

"You read that somewhere, didn't you?" Lisa said.

"No. I got it from a movie, actually."

"Which one?"

"Don't remember. But I liked it a great deal."

Beth smiled. She leaned over and kissed her husband. "We made some super kids," she said. "We did something right with them."

"That's for sure. We are proud of you kids," he said.

"Look on the bright side," Aiden said.

"The bright side?" his father asked.

"Now you don't have to put us through Penn State at $50,000 a year."

They were silenced by that. Penn State was an icon that had disappeared overnight. Its staff and student body had been dismissed as the emergency approached its sacred home city of State College, Pennsylvania. The unthinkable had occurred. It was like the feeling that God himself had died and been buried and that his previous creation disappeared. In fact, the entire world as everyone had known it had been summarily canceled.

#

John Wilson came to the front door to greet his brother's family. "I'm glad to have you here. How many did you salvage?"

"Beth, Aiden, and Lisa. Plus, I have eighteen others. They have nowhere else to go."

"They are welcome here. But we'll have to work hard here to keep them fed. It'll mean a lot of farming, hunting, and fishing."

"We can handle that, I'm sure. And they have agreed to pay their way and to fight off any droolers who show up at your door. Two of them are well-trained strays from the national guard. They are young. Green peas. But they have proven themselves as brave in fire fights with us and able to follow orders in our battle with the hordes of vicious zombies in Lancaster."

"We haven't seen stumblers here," John said. "Are you sure none of these are infected?"

"I'm sure. I've checked them for bites. They are as pristine as it gets. They are good."

"Great. Come on in. Have them bring their things inside. It's going to be crowded. I'll share whatever I have but this one chair and the master bedroom are mine."

"It's a deal. I'll make sure they know the terms."

"You got to do what you got to do," John said. "If I was running for my life like them, I'd want someone to welcome me in."

"What goes around, comes around, John," Beth Wilson said. "How's it going for you, my favorite little brother by marriage."

"Your only brother by marriage, you mean, Beth." John Wilson hugged her and gave her a little nip on her cheek.

"Oops. I bit you. Now, we'll have to mash your head in, I suppose."

"Very funny. Too much of that stuff is going around, you know."

"You guys can teach me how to defend against them," John Wilson said. "I want to survive this, and I want to be a tactical genius like you."

"Twenty people," the sheriff said. "That's the optimum number for a good defense. It's sustainable up to a point, plus its an already trained battle group that can exert a good defense and can move rapidly in a retreat. In addition, they can squeeze into a house like yours and hunker down. It may be a squeeze, but its a better fit than fifty of them."

"You are right there, brother. What's mine is theirs except for..."

"The master bedroom and the special general's chair?" Aiden said.

"He's learning, Robert! I like him already."

#

Their first day as refugees came early. John Wilson rang the bottom of the pan with a big metal spoon, yelling, "Time to get up! Get up! Get up! As long as you are alive, you got to work to earn your keep! Get up! Get up!"

The guests got up slowly. They were towns people. They had never gotten up before the sunlight. This was going to take a lot of learning. John Wilson knew he was pushing them hard, but he also knew that he'd have to keep them working or they'd become slackers. He knew from his time in the army that slackers were the ruination of soldiering. John was not going to have any of that.

He assembled them outside and ordered them to follow him in calisthenics.

"If you don't follow me, you don't eat breakfast. If you keep that up, you leave." John Wilson pointed to the road. "That road is empty now, but soon enough, the droolers who want you in their fangs will be coming down that road, and, if you aren't ready for them, they will kill you." He put the emphasis on the last two words. "It is my job to protect you. I protect you by making you strong. In the end, you may hate me for getting you ready to fight whomever you have to fight. I am an ex-army puke, and I will live off of your hate. You will also learn to live off of your hate for me. If you survive the next ten skirmishes, it will only be because of me. It will be from the muscle and grit I shall place inside you. I will build you up, so when the zombies come to eat you, they will find that they cannot have you! You are mine! Not theirs! I will eat you every day for them and to see that they don't get a chance to bite you and turn you into the devils they have become, devils only interested in eating your heart and ripping out your souls. I am old school, but this new world you are stuck in requires old school. You will worship the day you met me. You will worship everything I did for you. When you respect me, your hate for what I did to train you will remain. I will see to it that it will keep you warm and alive, that you will fight for yourselves and for this unit of men and women you came here with. Now, if you don't agree with me on this, that's tough." He pointed at the street. "There's the road. It's your choice. If you live in my house, you are mine, and I shall train you to survive. So, here's the choice. This is your way out. Stay here and be trained and face the hard times I give you. This is the chance to live, to survive, to remain a warm, loving human being. That road is the chance to loaf, to do whatever you want in the life you have left. It is also the chance to die. Because that road leads straight to death for you. So, if you want out, go now. Take the road to death. I'm going away for five minutes. Leave if you want. Those who stay will do exactly what I say."

John Wilson turned and went into the house. The door slammed shut on its own. Bewildered and disgusted, several of the people complained.

"We don't need this shit. Let's leave. We'll find somewhere else."

"I'm not going out there," another one said. "I'm staying right here and do what he tells me."

Sheriff Wilson stood up. "You heard him. He's my brother. He's tough. He's hard on you. However, he can lead you and train you. He's also a good man. He has experienced battles overseas. A lot of them. He knows desperate times. He knows strategy. He knows military ways. You don't. But you need to, because that's all that can save you. As for me, I'm going to do whatever he tells me to, because I want to live. I want you to live as well. It's going to be tough no matter what we choose. But I am going to choose hard times and life. I know already, from what we just got away from out of sheer luck, that we need a man like him if we are to survive this. Half of my friends and yours are already dead. John is telling us the truth. Out there is death. If John can give me life, that's what I want. Because no matter if I stay here or go out there, it's going to be just as hard. There is no free ride in this new world. We are all fucked, and I say it's time to just suck it up and get on with finding out how to survive."

Five minutes later a few had left, but before they were out of sight several droolers came over the hill. That ended the cake walk. They returned to John's house, resigned to do whatever was necessary to survive.

John came out. He counted heads. All of them were still there. He saw the droolers approaching. "sheriff," he ordered, "take several of your best fighters and destroy those biters out there so we can get started."

Orren, Eliott, Aiden, and Sheriff Wilson started down the road with baseball bats and rifles. There were nine zombies coming. In three minutes, they were dead. Their skulls were smashed, and they were dragged around the corner where their bodies were disposed of. The four of them returned to the house.

"Ready!" John said. "Follow what I do. He dropped to the ground and completed twenty push ups. "One! Two! Three!" He counted out each and every push up. Everyone of the twenty new recruits completed them.

"Good start!"

They completed squats, jumps, kicks, and other calisthenics.

"Get ready to follow me," he yelled, "and see that you stay with me."

John lead them on a three mile run. When they were finished, he said, "At ease. Rest time."

He led them behind the house where there was a shower made from a hose. They were told to wash up and get ready for breakfast.

They had pancakes, eggs, and a piece of ham.

Then, he addressed them. "Now, I know this is going to be tough, but it is not nearly as tough as dying out there somewhere for no reason at all when you could have lived. I am going make you into cohesive and strong fighting units. Each unit will be interchangeable. Each will be capable of fighting for extended engagements. This is what will protect you. It is not an easy road, but the lazy road is far more difficult, because when the bite hits your neck and your guts are pulled out while you are screaming your asses off and crying for your mommas you will know the truly more difficult journey is not the one which I offer you. It's the journey where you left this safe house and died out there all alone. I'm talking about the journey when you left and were killed and were resurrected as the dead and came back right here as one of them and tried to kill us all, only we were so well trained, that we killed you."

#

The displaced people of Lancaster spent the rest of the day in the garden. John Wilson was a survivalist. He had gotten into it as a hobby. His brother, Robert, as sheriff, thought that John was a bit strange for delving into various end of the age scenarios including governmental collapse, asteroid hits, economic dislocations, dead seeds, worldwide starvation, and a thousand other wing nut options. They were all related to John's paranoia which Robert figured was due to his war time assignments overseas where God only knew what had happened to John Wilson and the men he was responsible for. Had they all died? Or mostly died? Had he been a hero to them? The sheriff never knew for sure but he was determined never to ask, figuring that his brother deserved privacy. As a County sheriff, Robert understood that the best thing a law officer could do to keep the peace was to keep his nose out of the hidden side of every person's blue jeans. Not knowing what was inside of them seemed to almost always be the best way to go.

The citizens were given a debriefing for the third time in the same day.

"I know you are sick of listening to me, but I'm going to have to give you some more training. We are out here alone, so we have to raise our food ourselves. No one who is a zombie is trainable to do this, and you can bet your skinny ass that the stores are already denuded of their vegetables, meats, and canned goods. I have stock of these things, but even better, I have heritage seeds that have been used by farmers in Pennsylvania for several hundred years to produce hundreds of vegetable crops. These are not only proven seeds, but their produce is visually interesting and very tasteful. In addition, they produce the nutrients all of us are going to need in the years ahead. So, we are going to start right now to plant our garden and to protect it from animals, robbers, zombies, and drought. In this way we will insure that we will be able to survive. We will not go the way of the pilgrims starving at Plymouth, Massachusetts."

John Wilson gave them a hands on demonstration of each thing he expected them to do. He demonstrated until they all had gotten the idea, then gave them the shovels and hoes to continue each step of the process. He already told them that they would be spending three hours a day on the garden, devoting themselves to planting, aerating, weeding, and fencing the produce off from deer, rabbits, squirrels, and other predators. "This is difficult," he told them, "but starvation is one hell of a lot more difficult, and I don't intend for my troop of soldiers to ever endure that hardship. The main thing that defeats an army is lack of food, and there's no way around it, either we eat well or we will be defeated by our inability to feed ourselves and stay healthy. We are on our own out here. We have to farm successfully or we will indeed starve. It's a tough new world we live in, and the Sarah Lee dessert sections of the local supermarket is a thing of the past. Even by gardening, hunting, caring for chickens and cattle, we are going to be very lean by comparison to where we started, because the right food produces the right bodies. We have all been eating the wrong foods and have become somewhat fat and decadent. That will never again happen. Within a year we will all be very lean and spry, because of our new ways of eating, training, and exercising which are a part of the new way we have to live in order to survive. Our first exercise daily will be gardening."

Aiden and his girlfriend, Marlaina Kreuz, worked together in the rows of dirt. His sister's boy friend Brayton Bormann worked right along with them.

"You know, this might help impress my dad, Brayton," Aiden said. "Your status before now never set very well with him."

"Your dad is a typical fascist prude," Brayton Bormann told him. "I don't do dope any more than you. I shouldn't be judged by what my brothers did, because I personally don't do it. Besides, all they did was sell a little pot. It's not like they were Mexican mafia."

"Are you telling me to not smoke pot?"

"No, I don't smoke pot, but I admit my brothers smoked it. You know, I bet most of the men in this brigade have smoked the stuff. Your dad's reign of pot terror for whatever reason has ended. There's no government left now. We are on our own, so he really has nothing to enforce."

"He's still the sheriff," Aiden said.

"No, he's not. There's no Lancaster County. Besides this place isn't even in Lancaster County, so to be honest, your dad's jurisdiction does not cover this place."

"I never thought of that."

"Check it out," Brayton laughed. "I should have been a frigging lawyer. You know that?"

"You speak enough bullshit to test out. That's for sure," Aiden quipped.

All three of them laughed on that one.

"Did you ever smoke any marijuana?" Brayton asked Aiden.

"Do you want a lie or the truth?"

"Truth, of course."

"Yes."

"Did you like it?"

"It was okay. It made my toenails more interesting, you might say."

"My brothers would say that it makes everything more interesting. That's why its recreational. But I'm being honest. I never smoked pot in my life. In all of Lancaster, I'm probably the odd man out as far as that goes."

"By the way, tell my dad that I confessed to smoking pot, Brayton, and I'd have to deny it. I'd break his heart if he ever found out I did."

"I know. You know what else?"

"What?"

"Your dad's not stupid. He already knows you've smoked it."

"How would he know, smart ass?"

"He was the sheriff. They have ways of getting information about kids that you are I aren't even privy to. So, he knows. But neither I nor Marlaina nor you will ever tell him. And do you know what else?"

"What is that?" Aiden said, as he dug another foot of top soil and turned it just the way his uncle instructed them to do.

"He doesn't want you to admit it, either."

"Why not?"

"That's easy. He wants to deny it," Brayton Bormann told him. "You dad wants to deny it. To himself. To your mom. To everyone. It puts him in a good place."

Bormann was right. Ways in small towns are almost never private. Everyone's nose is sniffing inquisitively inside everyone else's bunched panties. You couldn't fart in a high school, church, or restaurant without the entire town knowing it by morning.

Halfway through the first lesson on planting, nine droolers came out of the woods and began threatening the entire Wilson crew.

"Shamblers!" the sheriff yelled. "Don't get bit!"

Brayton grabbed the shovel from Aiden and ran toward the one that seemed to be approaching his sister, Marlaina. He raised the blade in the air and cut a neat slice through the zombie's head, from side to side. Blood gushed in an arc from his broken skull, and he fell to the ground. Brayton went for another close zombie, ripping up his head from the top down. Then he handed the shovel back.

"How did I do?" Brayton asked.

"Very well. My dad is already reconsidering your social worth to all of us."

"Just call me the killer," he laughed.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm okay. I'm okay. Yea."

"Did it upset you?"

"Yes and No. I've had to kill tons of them, Aiden. I've been watching everyone's back since this started, but I still find it upsetting."

Several other walkers staggered onto the scene.

"They seem to trail each other, moving like cattle," someone observed. "Poor brainless bastards that they are."

The sheriff killed two of them as they staggered toward the group of newbie gardeners. As he struck each one of them dead, he shouted out, "Clear!"

"Clear, huh?"

"Yea," Aiden said. "It lets everyone know the job's been done right. No mop up required. Otherwise, we'd have to go back and check. Actually, we'd check anyway, because we just can't let them resurrect. Then, they could bite us and someone would have to kill us."

"It's grisly business," Brayton Bormann said.

"Indeed. This is just the beginning of it. Half of America is infected or will be in a month. There's three hundred and twenty million Americans. Half of them either are or soon will become the walking dead."

"Zombie America," Marlaina said.

"It has a ring to it," Aiden said.

They laughed and continued preparing the garden for a crop of fresh beans. There was a lot of work to do and a lot of zombie killing. It would not be boring, and all of them would be athletes before the first year passed.

"I'm hot now," Aiden thought. "But by this time next year I'll be even hotter. The chicks will certainly want me." He smiled. Small favors often begin with hard work and the persistence to prevail. Aiden had always done both. He would measure up to the task. All of them would. If they didn't, most of them would die soon. It was time to root hog or die in the ancient Pennsylvania hillsides.

#

John Wilson and his brother worked with a crew to build a large bonfire. After eating dinner outside, a ceremony began in which they were serenaded by two performers who sang blue grass music. The fire was lit and the flames soon engulfed the stack of kindling. As it reached a huge high point, John and his brother, Robert, carried the zombies and tossed them on. They were dry and kindled far brighter than the wood had. The audience was amazed. The bodies sparkled in a lively manner, almost like fireworks. They were extremely combustible, having dried out rapidly in the hot Pennsylvania air.

John told horror stories about murders inside the forests surrounding his home. Everyone was amazed at the force of his theatrical prowess. He was deep, interesting, and forthright in his deliveries. It was obvious, as a commander of forces in battle, he had been called upon to narrate to the troops at bonfires, as he was doing for them now. John was far more talented than they had realized. He was a force to reckon with, a man to follow and to trust. His voice was motivating for all of them.

They were beginning to like the man. Sure, he was a kind of dictator over them, but they were like delicate little green peas in this new garden from hell that fortune had cast them inside of, and they needed someone to lead them and teach them the ropes before they died at the hands of the deadly menace that was all over Pennsylvania and might be moving directly toward them with malevolence in its heart.

It was bizarre to be hearing about Indians crawling upon the early settlers and killing them. The connection between the early natives with their arrows who were merely defending their lands from the white invaders was closely tied to the present situation in which the zombies took the place of the Indians and the refugees to John Wilson's safe house had now become the new unwelcome visitors. Actually, everyone was unwelcome, because the world had become a rapid study of a deadly and unwanted new horror show building itself from the ground up and preparing itself for Broadway and the lights of New York. The lights had already gone out over there in the cities, and the only brightness in the night air were the stars and planets as the world danced backward to 1835 where candles, wood, and fire hearths took the place of electric lights, ipods, and gas stoves. The clock had turned backwards nearly two hundred years. The ways they used to know would soon be identified with the moniker of the old days which were gone forever. The new days they now lived in were new to them, but as old as the hills, even trailing back into history with the early Greek democracies and the fascism of the Roman Empire when the only light at night was from tiny oil lamps that people held in their hands as they made their nightly rounds inside their Roman stucco homes.

"The murderers were upon them in an instant!" John Wilson said. "Even though they were strong and trained in combat, since they were half asleep in the night, the Indians slaughtered and carried away their light skinned babies and women to their villages. Some of the men, those whom the Mohawks captured alive would scream during their last moments of life burning atop cruel funeral pyres. The Indians meant these painful deaths by fire as a punishment for them having invaded their sacred Indian lands and burial places. So, tonight as you sleep, I want all of you to keep your hands on your guns and your clubs to fend off the zombies who are close by out there in the woods watching even as you sleep for more zombies like them whom we just burned inside our bonfires."

The audience loved it. They were frightened a bit, but their theatrical juices were now totally alive. They stood and applauded for John Wilson's dramatic performance as an entertainer, because his theatrical ways of speaking were hypnotic and carried them into a better place.

"Let's get some sleep," John said. "I have already set the watches for the night. I can assure you that all of us, including myself, the sheriff, and his family will all stand our turn each evening to make sure that we can sleep safely and not be overrun in our moment of greatest danger which is always when we are sleeping soundly."

"Thank you."

"Lights out and no talking after thirty minutes. Sleep tight, my friends. Remember, I have more fun for you tomorrow!"

They booed knowing he would be working them to death again, but they also understood that it was work they needed to perform in order to insure their survival in a new and deadly world.
CHAPTER TWELVE

Deer Hunt

John Wilson led Orren Lasswell and Eliott Blakely from the truck to the narrow winding pass leading down to a small river bank. The forest was luscious. Large green oaks interspersed with pine, eastern red cedar, and northern spruce rose in a cushy green umbrella overhead. Birds fluttered inside the branches nursing their babies in small, well constructed nests of twigs and whatever else their parents had scrounged up for their needs. Here and there a small garden snake or a five line neon skink slithered across the ground's brittle carpet of dead leaves before plunging beneath the cluster of tree bark and leaves to hide in the dark coolness below.

"It's a verdant forest, for sure," Eliott said. "Reminds me of the scenes in the big movie, Last of the Mohicans. I hope it's true that Magua was killed. He was such a vicious bastard, trying to kill General Munro and his daughters. Not that I cared about the General. He was not only an old angry red coat but a real prick."

"Shut the fuck up," John Wilson cautioned. "We sound like a goddamn army of noise the way it is."

Eliott smirked. There was always some fucking school teacher trying to shut people up so he could bore them with his crummy lectures. The world was full of these types. It reminded him of his dad slamming the table, demanding peace and quiet or else. Everyone wanted to play Hitler wherever there was fun to be had.

"Sorry, sir. I'll be quiet."

Wilson figured it was just like a green horn who'd never been deer hunting to bust his chops with needless conversation. What did they think? That deer wanted to hear people discussing politics and religion in the woods? That bucks and does were that bored? Wilson wondered if the Indians three hundred years ago discussed tribal bullshit incessantly the way white people did. No wonder the Revolution occurred. Americans were never satisfied. They were always tearing down their representatives, senators, and presidents. Not that these people ever represented anyone but the rich. It seemed that whether a democrat or a republican won, they still asked the rich which laws they should author and exactly how they wanted them written, because they were the only ones who would ever be represented. There should have been a law making conversation with the pathetically rich people a capital crime. Ropes should be displayed in the senate and congress and those that spoke with the rich would hang from them as the sessions took hold. The fact those ropes were never displayed there revealed just how corrupt the world of government had always been.

What the heck. Everything that ever touched the Earth was distorted by the experience.

John Wilson held up his fist, meaning stop. Be still. Something big is about to happen. The forest was as still as sin. No noise. Not the sound of a leaf falling against branches. Even the birds were quiet. Suddenly a cracking sound up ahead, then louder. Hooves against stone and leaf broke the silence as something big approached them at breakneck speed. Something had spooked a deer. Wilson motioned for Orren and Eliott to hug the ground and keep their guns aimed in the direction of the noise. Their M-14's glistened like well oiled death fetishes beneath the trees, each of them aimed forward in the promise of an impending fuselage of death and destruction of whatever was coming. Suddenly a doe scrambled from the trees, running for her life. Wilson's arm pointed forward, and he aimed his rifle in her direction. So did his corporals. Orren fired first, and the doe's legs instantly ceased their gallop as she sailed another thirty feet in their direction and fell dead on the forest floor. In less than a second three figures emerged a hundred feet from her, running as fast as they could. Droolers had been spooking the doe, causing her to bolt toward Wilson's little hunting platoon. John aimed at the brain of the farthest one, figuring the military boys with him could hit the other two more easily as they were closer to the ground and he was halfway above it. The shambler's head exploded in a spray of red claret that hit the trees to either side of him, coloring them brightly with his escaping pellets of destruction as he fell to the ground and slid forward another fifty feet before assuming his final sleeping position. Orren saw the nearest one, and squeezed off with the gun sight kissing the sweet spot in the center of his forehead which caved the moment his trigger sent the deadly shot into his collapsing skull. The blood spewed outward in a globalist spray of wild red colors coating the bushes and trees with his brain's cluttered and ruined innards. The second one plummeted ground ward at the same time. He, too, sprayed the woods creating an instant Jackson Pollard canvas against the surreal greenery.

John Wilson returned his arm and fist to the caution position. "Keep your eyes aimed straight at them, boys. There might be more on the way." Sure enough. The runners had been fast for droolers, slow for people, but the ones coming next were typical shamblers, moving in slow motion, staggering their walk like people in the last throes of mad cow. Fourteen of them stumbled from the trees with their hands reaching forward in a cliche of zombie vogue. They had the death look about them, the hint that something was not right with them that zombies always had. The only difference was that most of them seemed to reek of Amish or Quaker inheritance. Their clothes had that low farm boy look of poverty and hard work that they were used to seeing in the old days. Those days had occurred before the world had changed into the present configuration in which the distortion of plague and thousands of stumblers roamed the woods. Wilson's arm cut through the air ahead of him in the signal to commence firing. Blood pellets sprang from the droolers' expanding craniums as their bones sprang loose into the air in a spray of brains. The woods around them received a final red coat as they went down and assumed the gentility of dead men sprawling on the ground. Five minutes of silence, then a third round of spoilers staggered out of the woods. This group had fifteen walkers. Their dead faces contained the typical rapture of lostness that living human breathers had begun to associate with them. The men followed Wilson. They moved forward, smashing zombie heads in with their gun butts, feeling their dry hollow skulls give way to the force of their impelling thrusts. Stepping over them to reach the next load of stragglers the men raised their rifles again to apply another coups de gras into the zombie force. They went down one-by-one. Then, it was over. After fifteen minutes, John Wilson declared the coast was clear by shouting, "Clear!", as the blood from the deer and the walkers oozed across the forest floor in testament to the cruelty in which they were now called to live or die.

"Let's drain this bitch and get home with her," John said.

He tossed his hunting rope over a branch, tied it to the back legs of the animal, then used it to haul the doe's two hundred pound carcass into the air. Then, he cut her throat to bleed her out. Next, he opened her stomach to the air and pulled out her steaming guts. Working with the gross efficiency of an outdoor butcher shop, he soon had his arms seeping with the doe's blood. He gathered up her useful organs including her liver and kidneys so that nothing useful went to waste. He placed them in a plastic bag along with the intestines which would be used as sausage casings for some of the meat which he planned to grind along with pork and spices for a tasty treat. Once the doe was clean, John jumped down into the icy stream and cleansed off his arms and face which were covered in zombie blood. "Cleanliness is next to Godliness," John chuckled. It was an old bromide, but Orren and Eliott chortled when they heard it. Wilson knew they would, but he'd never know if they laughed because it was funny or because they just wanted to be on his good side. That was the way of leadership. It cut through the edges of pure bullshit through which the world always plunged stupidly ahead in its futile madness.

They checked the zombies to insure their skulls were crushed enough to silence them forever. Their boots stomped the zombie heads into the ground as they yelled out "Clear!" through the verdant forest.

"Clear!"

"Clear! Clear!"

#

John Wilson found a straight branch and hacked it down to size. He carefully cut off the twigs along the sides to insure that there would not be any way they would hang up as the team carried the doe back to the road. It was miles away from where they had hiked. Next, Wilson, who was now called either commander, boss, or general depending on the occasion, secured the doe to the stick by crossing its hooves over the pole and securing it with pieces of rope. The total weight with the carcass was about one hundred and forty pounds give or take ten pounds, so each soldier had to support seventy pounds.

They started off down the trail the way they came with John Wilson running point to ward off any zombies who might have come this way by picking up their scent along the path. Wilson placed himself twenty-five feet ahead. He not only watched the forward position but gazed back at his hunters and eyeballed the sides and the narrow opening behind them for fear that more droolers might come down that way and attack them from behind where they were most vulnerable. In addition, because of the stick with the deer, they couldn't see behind, so Wilson's eyes were necessary for their total security. However, in the woods where droolers could be propped up behind rocks and trees, there was never anything that would be secure for them, because that is the nature of outdoor activities. A thousand hidden positions came by as they made their way toward their truck with the meat that would keep their party filled with nutritious proteins. At least three pounds of meat for each of the twenty-three adventurers was contained in this package of men and prey.

After a mile, Wilson traded places with Eliott, taking on the dangerous rear position. He had promised his men that he would work with them, take on the exact duties he assigned them, and would expose himself to the same dangers, to which they were exposed. The general seemed to thrive on exposure to crises. He had survived wars, fire fights, and several wives. He was bone hard, mentally resilient, and expected his men to follow him into dangerous times without doubt or flinching. "I am an ace in the hole in battles," he told them, "or I would be useless, and I don't intend to be useless. I will earn your trust and respect, and each of you will do the same for me or I'll be burrowing into your ass like maggots feeding inside a dead pig." They had no desire to find out exactly what that meant, but they knew it was going to be bad news, and that was enough.

Eliott took his point position seriously. First, he was afraid of being bitten unawares, and the point and rear were the most dangerous positions in the field. Eliott was also a good sport who felt that his responsibility to his team was of paramount importance. "You never want to let your men down," Grayson Andrews told his platoon. "When you are under the authority or the watch of another man, you are as vulnerable as he decides to make you. Never do that to a man whose back you are watching. If I catch you doing such a thing, I will personally cut your nuts off." Eliott figured his nuts would stay in tact, but whatever the general planned in terms of punishment for shirked duties, he didn't want to find out. Besides, his daddy had never been slow in wasting the belt when one of his sons deserved it. A good whipping is something a boy never forgets, and it has been used effectively to change many a wastrel lad into an enthusiastic and loyal son, eager to do his father's will and escape the horror of his anger. Eliott's dad had hammered him with his belt so hard the second time he whipped him that he was lame on one side for a week and had to stay home so the school wouldn't know what his dad had done to him. He had told his dad, "You'll never beat me again," and his dad said he would certainly do so, and in a heart beat. "No, you won't," Eliott said, "because I ain't never going to do a thing to make you want to beat me like that." His dad had smiled and said, "Son, I never wanted to beat you in the first place, and I certainly didn't mean to beat you that hard, and I ask that you forgive me." He had hugged Eliott tenderly. "I love you, boy. Know that." So, Eliott had straightened himself out then and there. His dad loved him, but he was dangerous, and Eliott knew it. He looked out through the forest on all sides, front, back, left, right. No one was going to die on his watch if he could help it. Eliott would walk the point with total cunning. Wilson and Lasswell would reach the truck unscathed or Eliott himself would take the bite and die for having done it right.

Turning the corner of a crick in the path three zombies suddenly appeared coming from behind the hump in the wall of stone and trees to the left. Eliott lifted his rifle and crushed the first one's skull, then shot the second and third zombies in their heads. He saw their blood fly out from the opposite sides of their entry wounds as they fell to the side of the path. He turned, shouting, "Clear!," and the two men with the meat saw the blood splatter on Eliott's face and army shirt. He had a close call, and they knew the droolers were on top of him the moment he turned that corner. He had taken the attack that they would have had if he had not been their point man. "Good work, son!" General Wilson yelled. "They were right on you and you never flinched a second, because at that range you never had a second to waste. You reacted perfectly and without hesitation. Way to go!" The boy looked at his new commander. "Thank you, general," Eliott said. "It was nothing. I just did my duty."

The general smiled quietly and looked behind at Orren, tossing him a knowing nod. "Your buddy is okay, son." Orren smiled. "Yes, sir. He's covered my back. He does all right."

Eliott motioned for them to come forward. "The coast is clear," he said. He stomped the skulls of the three new zombie corpses, listening with satisfaction to their bones cracking. "Clear! Clear! Clear!" He wanted everyone on the hunting team to be totally comfortable in knowing they were dead. If not, they'd leap up and bite his buddies and he wasn't going to allow that to happen if he could help it. If Orren was bit, he'd have to shoot him, and Orren's death would haunt him the rest of his life, the same way killing child zombies was already giving him nightmares and flashbacks. The karma he already carried on his back was such that one more twisted memory might become the wicked straw that pushed him over the edge and carried him into insanity. He knew intuitively that would come anyway. There was no way he was going to the grave without breakdowns, depression, and possible suicide attempts. He lived on the edge, and there was no way out of that, unless time contained some sort of healing elixir that would cover him in its warm healing balm. If that happened, it would be nice, but Eliott had discovered in his young life that the future would surely fling more curves filled with horrors beyond his imagining. If nothing else, the ending of the world as he knew it had shown him that even the worst could become even more sinister and might even make previous horrors seem like good times by comparison. Out of nowhere, two zombies jumped him from the trees. He barely saw their shadows move against the leafy forest floor as they dropped down from above. Being quick, Eliott jumped to the side, slammed his rifle into the nearest skull, then recovered and shot the second straggler in the head. He stomped their already shattered skulls, crushing the bone to achieve his kills' certainty.

"Clear! Clear!" he shouted.

He had done his job.

Wilson called him off point, assigning the next point to Orren Lassell. "You were commendable, Eliott. Good work." Eliott saluted. "Thank you." Wilson moved to the front of the pole, and Eliott Blakely took the back. "Ready," he said as he lifted the meat off the ground. They continued forward, following the winding trails that reflected millions of years of forest and mountain erosion and growth. Each turn revealed another set of hazards in a world beset by the walking dead who haunted all of Pennsylvania in their staggering gait. Orren watched all sides as well as the back and front of the trail they were navigating. He saw several droolers moving rapidly up ahead. They might have seen him, and they might not. Only stumbling upon them unaware would tell the tale of what lay ahead. You could never be totally sure of anything. Hopefully, they were so dead, their eyes had missed seeing him. Many zombies were almost blind from their dried and darkened eye balls which barely kept them walking straight ahead much less performing complex movements. Something moved up ahead, and it became a dead man walking only five feet away and out of nowhere. Orren crushed his face with the rifle tip, then crushed his skull with his boot. "Clear!" The son of a bitch had been cunning. Either that or it was asleep and Orren's approach had frightened him. Either way, Orren survived. He no longer felt frightened in combat. He was at ease in killing these monsters and no longer flinched from danger. That was unthinkable and would never happen, not ever again. No matter what, Orren would be ready. He didn't even have to think about what to do. His mind subconsciously performed all of the decisions, allowing him to concentrate on the emerging tasks he had to perform, all of which ended in avoiding the deadly bite of the plague-ridden corpses as they meandered forward or attacked him from all angles as he turned and leveled his gun at their heads and shattered their bones with bullets, rifle butts, and boots that permanently crushed their skulls for assurance they would never again be hungry for human flesh.

An hour later, they secured the doe and jumped into the truck. They were heading for home. Each soldier was happy to have secured enough meat for several days. Their unit would be pleased. None of them would starve now. Their stomachs would be filled. Nothing was more delicious than venison well prepared. The doe was less than three years old, and she would be tender and thoroughly tasty. She was void of all zombie bites, so she was safe for them to consume. She had done her job escaping the droolers who had hunted her day and night, and they had done theirs in bringing her down and felling the zombies who had been tracking her for so many weeks.

At the meal, John Wilson, cut the first piece of cooked meat from the hindquarter. The blade cut away the morsel which the "general" held in his hand. "Clear!" he shouted, and everyone smiled. He tossed the first cut into the group to see who would luck out and thereby benefit from a very lucky grab. They would eat well for the next few days. What came after that no one was sure. They only knew they would endure it, whatever would be their near and distant future. By now, they were prepared for whatever zombies, the weather, or the planet itself threw at them. They were convinced they could make it.

#

The round up started in the vicinity of John Wilson's safe house. Too many drooling stragglers were walking into the camp at night. Some biters were also entering the garden where they would sleep and attack people coming to weed and pick vegetable crops. The watch guards were unable to detect all of them due to various light and weather conditions. Today, regular patrols would clear the immediate area to insure it was safe from attacks. The troops moved out in a circular motion two and a half miles from the house. The units performed a constraining movement in which their enclosing circle tightened around the zombies. Meanwhile, the safe house set up guards atop several towers, each with bows, arrows, and rifles. Music blared from loudspeakers at one hundred or more decibels. It was loud enough to be heard miles away, and every opus acted like a zombie lure. The walking dead always perked up and moved in the direction of loud sounds in their sinister hypnotic trance, their arms pointing in the direction of the disturbance. Noise was a major means of finding food for the zombies, their eyesight being dim, but their hearing and sense of smell were magnified as a form of evolutionary adaptation found in most blind species of mammals worldwide.

Aiden, Orren, and Lisa patrolled in the southwestern quadrant. They moved along a spiral pattern which insured that all shamblers inside the quadrant would be either seen and killed or eliminated by not even being there. This insured a one hundred percent round up ratio from their efforts. No zombie would be left behind, unless they were hidden or lying down unseen. Usually, movements close to zombies created enough noise to awaken them. Once awakened they would move toward the noise and make their presence known.

Aiden heard the music coming from the safe house. The lyrics of "American Woman" ricocheted through the air, bouncing off trees and rocks and animating many within the approaching zombie hordes. This method had been designed by his father who was an avid hunter himself. Robert had discovered early on the effect that noises had upon the walking dead, causing them to hone in on the source in hope of targeting victims to bite. A corpse stumbled into Aiden's vision. Its arms reached straight ahead as it stumbled directly toward him from out of the leaf strewn woods. Aiden ran forward, yelled, and raised his rifle high above his head and waited for its man hunting corpse to approach within three feet. At this point, Aiden's trained arms sprang into action as he smashed the zombie's skull with his rifle butt. A few seconds later, his boots followed up by going into action and massively crushing the biter's skull so that what was left of his brain oozed from its head and onto the leafy forest floor.

"Clear!"

Lisa smiled. Her brother had become quite the little man that his father must have hoped would emerge from years of mentor-ship as a father and a law enforcement specialist. As his son observed the sheriff's actions at home and in town, Aiden had emerged from his dad's many leadership examples to become his father's image of a maturing boy who had grown into a man's shoes.

"He's becoming a young man," Sheriff Wilson told her, "but this is just between you and me. Let's not use this to fan his ego. Let him measure himself. Youths don't take well to outside opinions from family members."

"Does that count for daughters as well?" she asked.

"Yes it does."

"I guess I need to compare notes with Aiden to find how you view me then," she said.

"That would be up to you. Such treachery by daughters and sons is not unknown in these parts."

She laughed.

As she made noises on the forest floor with her feet, biters awakened and moved toward her and toward her fellow hunters. Predictably, they came right at her, drawn by the noise her feet had made, just as she had planned for them to do, and she used her rifle butt to dispatch them with the same aplomb as had Aiden and trooper Orren Lasswell. Lisa had become a good fighter, strong of heart, brave, and not afraid to step forward and to do her part against their deadliest enemies. Her rifle butt hits could kill with impunity, same as those of the men, and she worked out every day to increase her strength. She lined up for her turn at the weights in Wilson's workout gym and pressed a good one hundred and seventy-five pounds on a daily basis building the reserve strength to save lives in battle including her own. Lisa and the other women on the team were serious about survival and covering the backs of the guys. There were no slackers whether male or female in the unit that John Wilson had trained. Biters beware. The next zombie she attracted made his moves toward her. He had not been subtle. He was easy to spot. The noise of his walk was so incredibly loud atop the crackling floor of the woody forest that he had no ability to surprise her, nor was he aware enough of his situation to even try. She heard him coming way before she saw him, but he had no way of knowing that. No zombie ever knew these things. As he emerged from the jungle growth of vines and branches, the leafy venue parted around his half-dead body with its hideously bony face and dark gaping hole in his stomach where his intestines had been gobbled up months before by the zombie horde that had fed so intensely upon him in his final screams. His arms hovered in front of him like a car driver reaching for a hidden wheel. She grabbed one of the seven sharpened spikes she carried in a quiver suspended from her back and tossed it at him. The spike sailed forty feet to his head and entered his brain. Down he went. Lisa cautiously approached the zombie. She retrieved her spike from his brain then crushed his skull with a strong boot slam. She saw his brain's crushed innards oozing onto the forest floor.

"Clear!"

Three miles southwest, Sheriff Wilson, his wife Beth, and Aiden's girlfriend Marlaina Kreuz walked along another radius of the encircling zombie hunt designed to contain and entrap walkers in the vicinity of Wilson's home. Marlaina was the first to score with three droolers whom she came upon. They heard her footsteps. They were already following the music from Wilson's home. The high decibel songs drifted a full three miles, attracting an interest in the stumblers who were pacing the woods presumably in search of food. All three were children. Their dead eyes and sunken face were pathetic reminders of the universal impact the Amish plague had taken upon Lancaster and its environs. Marlaina was heart broken at the sight of them, but she immediately determined they were stalking her, having turned toward her from the sound of her walk which she had made sure would be loud enough to awaken the attention of the living dead. She called to them to gain even more of their attention. They came toward her with open arms pointing straight at her, so she raised her rifle butt and used extreme pressure to insure that she was instantly crushing their skulls. Each went down easily. She administered the coups de gras with her boot, smashing their heads into the ground until she saw their bloody crowns were opening to the air and what was left of their brains oozed red fluids onto the forest leaves.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

Her compatriots noted the three kills and continued their search and destroy campaign against the useless eaters who threatened themselves and their compatriots. Each success meant an increase in safety for their friends. The Wilson safe house and its gardens and roads would soon be cleared of many more of these ex-human hazards to their existence. Ruth Wilson was soon accosted by two biters who stumbled down the hill towards her, staggering this way and that as they fought to keep their precarious balance on the radically slanting hillside. Their arms reached for her throat, but her fast and sure rifle butts terminated them instantly and with great force. She cleared the area with boot stomps to their skulls.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

Their had heads cracked easily, being fragile to pressure, and the telltale red fluids poured out through broken head plates onto the leafy forest floor. "Sorry guys," Ruth said. "Wish we could have met under better circumstances, but we seem to have waited a bit too long for a date, bitches!" She had no regrets. Deadly threats needed to be killed, and she had done right by doing so.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

The fuckers were dead to the world. Nothing could be better. She got three more that day, stomping out their lives as they lay on the ground.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

She heard her husband, Robert, shouting the clear sign many times. He had killed seven of them so far according to her count. There would be more very soon.

As the music grew louder, the zombie hunters had squeezed their enemies into a tighter and tighter space so that she saw more and more of them. At the safe house, the situation had developed rapidly as the beasts approached the loudspeakers that were blaring pop music into the forest, luring the biters closer to the center where many of them had clustered together to avoid as much danger as possible. Now, they were luring these groups of dead biters into the fray so they could surround and kill them all and give themselves sanctuary from their daily incursions. Herds of the stumbling devils were soon staggering from among the vines and trees into the open areas where the soldiers were hitting them with baseball bats and stomping out their oozing skulls as rapidly as possible. A series of fenced corrals forced the moving zombies into a confining overflow area which served as a safety net. This protected the soldiers from being overrun by the approaching monsters. This was when the greatest danger of receiving a deadly bite was most severe.

General Grayson Andrews was doing his part along with other national guardsmen and highway patrol officers who had shown up for this occasion. In this way, the culling of the zombies proceeded almost effortlessly. The zombies that missed the target and were too mentally out of it to even find the source of the music were pursued from the rear and either clubbed or shot in the head with pistols at close range.

"Clear! Clear!" rang through the woods as more and more of the deadly creatures were terminated. Aiden could hear the sounds of music and the calls of "Clear!" just around the hill from where he was. Orren and Lisa were nearing his position and they were now close enough to yell warnings and instruction as need might arise which was sooner rather than later as the dead began to gang together in their rush to kill the living for food. Between the shouts of the hunters and the loudness of the music, the zombies were staggering this way and that faster and faster. They were agitated and alert, hunting for meals, and drawn in several directions at once by the chaos and smell of living humans standing so close to where they had approached them. Men on the towers shot arrows at the erratic walkers as they emerged from the trees. Their aim was steady and sure. When lulls happened, people ran out, jumped into the corrals, and pulled arrows from shattered skulls which they crushed even farther against the ground with their boots, and yelled, "Clear!" for each one they insured was forever lost. They jumped out of the corrals with the retrieved arrows which they soon placed in a rearming basket and lifted up into the towers for reuse by the archers. As a result, their fuselage of arrows continued to pour down upon the emerging zombies and no one had to climb the tower again and again to get them there. The efficiency was primitive but brilliant.

Sheriff Wilson's crew had to pull back to keep zombies from escaping the surrounding web of hunters who were pushing them into the killing field ahead. Those zombies who turned to attack the soldiers were being eliminated one-by-one. More and more of the stumblers wanted the soldiers as their food. They headed toward them in the woods as well as in the open areas where the loudspeakers called to them and drew them from their wooded sanctuaries into confining corrals where the soldiers summarily surrounded and killed them.

"Clear! Clear! Clear!"

Shouts of successful zombie kills resounded from all sides of the house as the hunters coordinated their press toward the center, trapping the walking dead inside the enclosing vice grip of their persistently narrowing round up. The places for the zombies to hide were becoming severely scarce and more so as every moment that went by. The living humans were more than willing to step forward and use their bats and rifles to brain bash the zombies, sending them down against the forest floor. The woods were becoming a kind of writhing horror at an increasing speed as the hunters dispatched their quarry and shouted out, "Clear! Clear!," over and over in the imploding and thickening horde of zombies. The walking dead were thus being pushed and lured toward their awaiting kill areas that ensnared them behind the cleverly construction fenced corrals in the open areas just beyond the woods where their human executioners awaited them.

Lisa and Robert Wilson and Aiden Wilson's girl friend, Marlaina Kreuz, pushed forward clubbing the disoriented zombies who staggered this way and that, now heading toward the hunters, now turning and staggering toward the loudspeakers, finding themselves variously baited as they were randomly lured here and there. The zombies were distracted, confused, and easily jumped by hunters with their swinging bats. When the zombies lunged toward them the humans were able to push them back with their arms, legs, poles, bats, and rifles. Most of it was done without resorting to the wasting of bullets. The zombies, if treated correctly, could not approach humans effectively unless their numbers were so overwhelming that the intended victims could no longer find the room to swing their bats at their would be killers or touch them with their rifles and push them back that way. Only in cases of extreme pressure were gunshots ever required to protect persons who were still in the prime of good health.

By now, only the infirm and those trapped in close spaces required guns to protect themselves, and there were none of those here. People would always be mentally and physically quicker than zombies. Even when jumped, a person could normally push away an attacking zombie due to superior agility, strength, and quickness. People who were killed by the walking dead were either trapped in close quarters or were so unsure of themselves that they either did not know how to act in self defense or were too frightened to do so. A few in the beginning of the plague had succumbed mostly through their own ignorance of what to do. Some, however, possessed a self imposed paralysis and sudden fear when under attack. These were eliminated quickly from the human gene pool so that the humans who remained were faster to fight back and more likely to survive in subsequent battles.

#

As the rope tightened around the necks of the zombies who stupidly made their way into the confines of the safe house, the people with their clubs, bats, and rifles rose to the occasion insuring themselves of victory.

General Grayson Andrews used a Rambo knife and a pistol to stab into zombie skulls, to shoot their brains into stillness, and to overcome the approaching corpses as they tried to reach the safe house grounds. When there were too many of them for General Andrews to use the usual methods, he kicked them to the ground first and stomped their heads into the soil. No one could ask more from a man of his age, intellect, and fighting spirit.

"Get back, you beasts!" the general shouted.

He had just stabbed another zombie in the center of his forehead, causing him to crash to the ground. His rifle butt hit the one behind him. "Clear! Clear!" He shouted triumphantly. Others came up behind him, stomping the brains out of those he was laying low upon the ground and calling out, "Clear!" each time they crushed their heads with their boots and bats to insure they would not come back as threats to human life.

John Wilson and his party beat back the zombies. The congested walking dead herd had once again turned toward his group as the other military units from the safe house moved closer. The merging hunters continued to distract the horde of walking dead marauders as the loud speakers pulled them like a magnet toward the safe house and its carefully constructed kill areas.

The assembling biters had become quite nervous. They struck out erratically at the hunters as the circle of dead approached the living along the changing edges of their narrowing encirclement.

Zombies reached out in vain to kill as many people as they could grab with their hands and then tear apart with their teeth. But the humans jumped away. The hunters skillfully avoided their bites.

John Wilson's trained forces were far more savvy as to the ways of the zombies. Wilson effectively instructed them on how to frustrate rabid zombie attacks on living beings. Instead of blindly standing their ground, the hunters made moves that kept the zombies from grabbing them. The humans also pushed back against them with their armories of rifles and bats.

They smashed their brittle skulls using both their bullets and strong bashing blows by their baseball bats against the zombies' fragile and bony heads. The deadly bashing cracked them wide open. Each time one of the zombies fell the soldiers stomped their heads into the ground making absolutely certain their craniums were completely crushed and their brains damaged beyond any point where the Amish zombie virus might be able to rejuvenate them. The Wilson militia hefted their bats and rifle butts again and again. The zombies' agitation had become extreme. All of the activities and sounds going on in their near vicinity were so distracting that most of the walking dead became nearly paralyzed in deciding which direction to stumble. As the circle of death closed around the zombie nation, John, Beth, and Marlaina bashed their way forward into the compressed force of their animated bodies. The confused zombies had nowhere else to go. They ganged up into closer and more compact groups like lambs led to the slaughter.

Soon the staggering corpse hordes poured into the corrals near the house in droves. Their nearly paralyzed arms reached straight out in front of them as they walked forward until stopped by the fences. The archers easily shot arrows into their heads from the three guard towers hovering high above, shooting their well aimed missiles from bows from the absolute safety of their positions. "Hit! Hit!" the archers yelled, followed by similar calls from those on the ground.

The soldiers in the yard below pulled arrows from the skulls of the downed droolers. Others stomped their skulls. Both groups yelled the all too familiar "Clear!" signal to the archers. This indicated they had finalized each kill with their stomping boots and stepped back so the archers could shoot the next line of zombies with their fusillades of retrieved arrows. while at the same time, their feathered projectiles never threatened the men working the battle fields below.

The guard tower's archery carriers came by and retrieved the bloody arrows from the ground where the soldiers tossed them, then carefully secured them inside the awaiting baskets and hauled them up to landings on the towers.

Paul Lester and his wife, Kelly Lester, worked their hunting bows in Wilson's guard tower number three. Both were bow hunters and members of McCaskey High School's varsity archery team when they had been students in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

They had married as soon as they reached John Wilson's safe house, figuring they might as well let the rest of the kids understand that they were hitched and not available for dating. "Hit!" Kelly yelled.

Paul and Kelly were a great team. Their accuracy was envied in towers one and two. "You bastards are too damned good for the rest of us!" Dotty Jackson had complained. "No, we aren't," Paul told them. "You are just starting out. In a month you'll be even better than me!"

Paul and Kelly were not going to fall into the trap of being stupidly competitive with others, except in sports, but being as good as they were, they had always been humble winners of archery awards.

"How come you are so friendly with us? We are your competitors," Dotty said.

"No," Paul Lester told her. "We are fighting for the continued existence of mankind. If you win, we win.

"Hit! Hit!"

The arrows soon became slightly heavier with several coatings of blood, so the carriers were requested to clean them first. Soon, the arrows returned to the precise weight, so most of their shots were perfect kills.

"Hit! Hit!"

The twang of the bows was heard all the way into the forest and was certainly heard on the ground. The yells of "Hit!" and "Clear!" resounded across all parts of the battle field, and the largest kill numbers were appearing inside the fenced zombie corrals near the safe house where the arrows always found their closely clustered targets. The men and women in the woods were on their own, because arrows from above were useless inside the cover of branches where they would have been deflected along their way.

At the periphery, the fighters were approaching the safe house and were about to emerge from the woods. Still, there was an occasional breakout of zombies past them, which they carefully took care of while their compatriots filled the gap in the line as they chased after and killed the animated dead with their weapons no matter where they attempted a breakout. All of the hunters were completely covered with blood from their hair to their shoes, all of it zombie blood, as they smashed open their heads and destroyed their ability to rise back up and attack them.

"These droolers are reaching their limit," Sheriff Wilson told Aiden's girl friend, Marlaina Kreuz.

"Yep," Marlaina said, "They've reached the end of their trail. We got them. That's for sure." Marlaina hugged Aiden's mom, Beth Wilson.

"You do all right as a soldier," Marlaina told Beth Wilson. "Who says a house wife is nothing but a man's toy. You do all right, Beth."

The sheriff smiled. His wife was certainly not his toy. She had always done her part. She could be trusted. She worked, mothered, and wifed full time to make their marriage work.

"Ruth's a good wife and mother," the sheriff said. "I think I'll keep her."

Just then, a drooler broke through the woods and came within ten feet of the three of them. Ruth aimed her rifle and caved his skull in as he grabbed at the three of them.

"Goofy bastards," she said.

All of them laughed. Goofy all right. Deadly goofy. The sooner they were dead the better for all of them.

Closer to the house, General Andrews shot one zombie after the other. He rallied many of the fighters from the roof top where he stood and fought, and the National Guardsmen appreciated the way he stood with them and barked them orders.

"Don't let too many of those bastards push against the fences in the corrals! The fences will break and you'll soon be overwhelmed by them. Get them as soon as they are corralled, boys! Or die trying."

He should have added, that they'd die if they didn't, and Grayson knew that sounded more like the truth. However, his men knew that as well. It wouldn't help to emphasize the already obvious. They had enough to do. "I love killing these chimps," Grayson thought. He chuckled. "Get them! Kill them all! Let God sort 'em out, boys!" He loved that phrase as did many of his trained fighters over the years in whom he had ingrained it.

Grayson had been a military puke since he was born, and his dad was a Vietnam Vet from way back and long before these metro-sexual men started emerging like effeminate male swans from their high schools. What did they teach them there these days, anyway? How to be a girl? Grayson just couldn't figure it out. Things were not the way they were way back in the old days. "Everywhere you go," Grayson mumbled, "Mostly you find guys without balls." It gave Grayson the mental shits just thinking about the recruits he had to train. He had to start with teaching them to be men and training the women to let them be men as well without snipping their male stones away with some crazy politically correct feminist anti-guy statements that corporate women tossed into their faces day and night.

Both men and women needed exactly the right set or they'd fail in combat. This was Grayson's biggest challenge: Helping both sexes to grow a set and still respect each other. "Aw," Grayson thought, as he squeezed his trigger and dropped one zombie after the other, "The world has certainly gone to hell, and this plague is our gift for letting it get this far in the first place. I know that God's punishing us for snipping his nuts off in those new goofy little churches."

Aiden's group had nearly cleared the lawn's edge. They were pushing the biters past the trees and into the confining corrals, listening to the sweet sounds of their own hammer blows to their heads. The zombies were beset from all sides now. They were trapped inside the closing noose, falling dead from oncoming bullets, arrows, and baseball bats.

"We got them!" he cried.

There was a warm feeling of relief, because none of them were ever totally certain how any campaign would turn out, and they didn't have the firepower or manpower to make any mistakes.

Soon, people were going to be scarcer than hen's teeth, if things continued the way they had since day one when the plague jumped them unaware and took so many of them away before they knew what was happening.

Orren smiled.

"How old are you, Aiden?" he asked.

"Not old enough," Aiden said. "My childhood is totally on hold, Orren. Same as yours."

"You sure make a fine soldier," Orren said. "Your dad is so proud of you. I want you to know that. I wish I had a dad like yours."

Aiden put his hand on Orren's shoulder. "We are all each others dads and sons now," Aiden said. "This little family we are in here belongs to all of us, Orren. You, me, Eliott. If we don't make it together, mankind doesn't survive. So, we need to hunker down and stick together. You know what the old timers told you. 'Blood is thicker than water.' It's true. But now there's so few of us left, we are all family. You and I are the same blood.

"My dad is now your dad, too, Orren. And I'm proud of that. I see you as my older brother I never had until the shit began to fly and people starting dropping all over the place. However, just remember. If we ever get in a personal fist fight, I'll pop your ass, brother to brother. That's how families of brothers are." Orren hugged him. Aiden was an all right kid. He was young, strong, and had a great personality. "If I had a son, I'd want him to be you, Aiden. I want you to know that."

"You'll have sons," Aiden said. "You'd better have them."

"Why?"

"Because we are fighting to survive. If we don't have kids, we are going to be like the dinosaurs. If each of us has kids, we have a chance. If not, we are toast. Gone the ways of the mastodons. They were all over Pennsylvania fifteen thousand years ago. I've seen their bones in museums. We were the mastodon's zombies. We showed up and wiped them out. You'll have kids, Orren. You have to. I have to also."

Orren had never had time nor inclination to think that far ahead. He respected Aiden a great deal for his ability to think things out like this.

"I appreciate you," Orren told him. "I'll be your friend if you'll let me."

"We are friends. We've killed zombies together. We've watched our backs out here and elsewhere."

Orren smiled. He needed friends. Orren was all alone. That's how he got into the Pennsylvania National Guard. He had no one to love him, no one to care. He was hopeless out there. Alone. Abandoned. Scared.

"I ain't got a real family."

"Now you do. I'm your family. Mankind's very future is your family."

The hordes of zombies pushed at the men from all directions. They reached out for their throats, but found themselves being batted, rifle butted, arrowed, and shot to death at near point blank range. The arrows poured down upon the hundreds of surging biters who were rushing in their usual slow motion toward the soldiers in Wilson's army. Everywhere they turned, people were onto them like dogs onto shit. The constant bats and true sailing arrows kept killing them. Piles of their bodies built up and the new zombies had to climb up over them to get at the soldiers. But that wasn't working out too well. Walking was hard enough for a zombie, but climbing masses of dead zombies was even harder. The zombies had to use both hands and feet now to get over their own bodies, so they had nothing left to protect themselves. The rifle butts made short work of their fragile skulls. They generally cracked as easily as oyster shells opening atop a steam tray.

When it was all but over, the people embraced and waited to hear if more zombies were coming. They weren't coming. The battle was won. Then, at Sheriff Wilson's orders, they inspected each corpse and crushed its head, if necessary, to insure it was finished forever.

The soldiers slept well that night as guards stood watch. Several walkers stumbled into the site and were instantly jumped and killed. Now and then a zombie began to stir, but only a few. Practically all of them were totally dead.

The ritual of stomping their heads to make certain was working well for the surviving humans. They would always use it to insure they were not going to be attacked from awakening zombies. Those older days of not crushing their skulls were in the past and would not be repeated. Smashed walker heads had become persistent battle trophies of great beauty to the human race.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Pilgrims

The Fredrick Schneidholst Family were vintage Amish. They had lived in Lancaster County for more than one hundred years. Fredrick's father had taught him all of the Amish ways, but a horde of zombies put him down as he milked his cows in the barn on his last morning. Later, Fredrick was accosted by his father's zombie corpse, and as his father's zombie corpse reached for his throat, his son, Fredrick, put him out of his misery by impaling him with his own pitch fork. Fredrick stabbed him in the head, then stomped his skull until it burst open on the ground.

Now, he was running away in order to survive. He drove his mother, Bertha, and his wife, Donna, and his sons, Sigurd and Johannes, and his daughter, Hilda, to a safer place. The family farm had been robbed by Lancaster townsmen just trying to find enough food to survive. The cattle had been killed and partially eaten by the zombies, and its chickens were taken and consumed as well. There was nothing left for the family to do but to leave for safer quarters before they were completely surrounded.

Fredrick stole a car from a parking lot in Lancaster, one of thousands abandoned there by people who had abandoned them for greener pastures. Zombies paced between the cars, so Fredrick Schneidholst had to take a pistol and a bat with him. He found a car with a key under the floor mat. It started. He picked up his family and headed down the road leading them outside of Lancaster.

"Daddy, remember, we are Amish, and we aren't allowed to drive cars," Sigurd reminded him.

"I know, son, but they'd kill us in our little Amish taxi, and you know God doesn't want that to happen to us. So, we are driving from now on just for our safety or until this emergency has ended."

"Whatever," Bertha said.

She was his mother. Anything Fredrick thought was right, she'd accept and even support, because in her mind, blood was thicker than water. Besides, now that her husband was dead and Fredrick had killed him, Bertha was bound and determined to support her son no matter what.

"It's against God's will to drive a mechanical automobile," Sigurd lamented. "You're going to hell for this, dad. You know that, don't you?"

"No, I don't know that, son. Now, you may be going to hell, but not me. At least not today, because the droolers can't get into this car and kill us today, son," his father told him.

"Better dead than damned," Sigurd told him.

"Better a pink butt than a red one," Fredrick said, "and you are begging to be spanked, little boy. Just one more word, and you will be."

Sigurd figured he was too old for a spanking. He was eighteen now and had dreamed of leaving home and wilding with his friends. He wanted so badly to try out the English world, probably in New York or Pittsburgh. He had planned to get into a lot of trouble, because later he'd have to go home and be a good German Amish man again, and his wild oats were to be tolerated only for his short time of wilding and never again.

"Can I go wilding?" he asked.

"No."

"I have a right to wilding."

"No, you do not. The past is over for good. The zombies would kill you."

"I don't care."

"Your mother does. Besides, everyone in New York City has been killed. There's nothing left there but zombies. You'd have no one there you could be friends with, anyway."

Up ahead, there was an overturned car. A beautiful girl was standing beside it waving for help.

Fredrick stopped the car.

"We need help," she said. "My father is hurt."

Fredrick got out and walked to her wrecked car. Her father looked dead. His head contained a single bullet hole. Blood seeped from the wound. Suddenly, the girl reached for him and pulled him back. Her face was suddenly menacing, and she snapped at his neck. Behind her, a family of zombies staggered forward, pushing Fredrick against the car. Quickly, he reached for his pistol and shot her in the head. Blood splatted onto his face and shirt and all over her relatives who were trying to reach him. He kicked all seven of them away, then raced to his car. He pulled his bat and began attacking them. The first two were easy. Their heads shattered like peanut brittle, spraying blood in all directions. Three more were pushing into him, and he went for the pistol, firing into the head of the leader. His brain went out when his skull exploded in all directions. Suddenly, Fredrick's face was covered even more grossly with a second coat of zombie blood. He wiped himself off and stepped back. Then he smashed the brains of the two closest zombies with his club. The next three went down easily. Then several others appeared. Fredrick beat their skulls in, then carefully stomped each of the zombie heads into the ground as well. Then he hauled them off the road and into the ditch.

"Give me a towel," he demanded. Sigurd was impressed. He handed his dad a towel.

"You look like shit, dad," he said.

"I look better than you will if I have to haul off on you, son."

His dad smiled at him and got back into the car.

"You do look pretty bad, dear," his wife told him.

He looked in the mirror.

"Survival has become a lot dirtier these days, Donna," he said. "This might the new look. Nothing we can do about it."

Johannes and Hilda looked at each other as though their father was crazy.

"Best to stop somewhere and change clothes and wash up a bit, dad," Hilda said.

"Yea, dad," Johannes said.

Fredrick smiled at his wife. "I guess I'm pretty grisly, eh?"

"Yep. God awful, Fredrick. You look like fresh liver."

He laughed. "Better than a corpse," he said. "I won't stop next time. My inner good Samaritan has left me, and he's not returning. I promise. Live and learn, I guess."

He drove carefully. He didn't want a mishap. He had plenty of gasoline, and there were cans filled with more of the stuff in the trunk. They were traveling lean and mean. Wherever they ended up, they'd find new furniture in abandoned homes and farms. The future was unknown, but there were positives in the vast number of free living choices they now had.

After a hundred miles, they came by a sign that said, JESUS SAVES. It was reassuring. Maybe people were settling in and building a better life for themselves. A town appeared with a series of crosses to the sides of the road which ran up to a road block. Men with rifles pointed at them ordered them to stop. Each guard wore a large cross around his neck. The sign at the town's entrance read, JESUS TOWN.

"We need to inspect you," The main guard said. "Do you have any infected with you?"

"No."

"Get out. We have to check you for bites. We ain't taking no more chances. We've been bit and gutted before, and it ain't happening again. I hope you understand."

"Who are you?"

"Christians," the man said.

"So are we. Let us through."

"I can't do that. Now, get out! I'm not warning you again. Get out or I'll shoot you all."

"Guess we are leaving the car," Fredrick announced. "Do whatever the man says."

The guards spread eagled them all and patted them down, crotches and all. The Amish were not used to this much closeness, but they were under the gun, so they just figured under the grim circumstance that it was best to do what these men ordered.

"Have you been bitten? Ever?"

"No."

"Is that right?" the guard asked. "About you, son? What's your name?"

"Sigurd."

"Been bitten, son?"

"Nope. Never been bitten."

"Well, you only get one bite. Then we kill you."

"Understood, sir."

"What's your name, son?" he asked Sigurd's brother.

"Johannes."

"Hey, we got us a nest of krauts here!" the guard yelled. "Been bitten?"

"No, sir. I've never been bitten."

"Okay, son." The guard fluffed the boy's hair. He smiled at Fredrick. "Nice set of boys, Fred," he said.

"I think so."

"Of course you do. You should."

He turned to the girl.

"How about you, pretty girl. Been bitten ever."

"Five years ago my cat bit me."

"Anything else bite you?"

"Nope."

"Mam, what about you?"

"Never been bit," Bertha said.

"Scouts honor, mam?" the guard asked.

"Yep."

"Good. You look healthy."

"How about you,?" he asked Fred's wife.

"Nope. No bites."

He checked her over.

"They are okay!" he yelled. "Let them pass!"

The men opened the wood gate.

Fred started the car again. He waved to the guards and slowly drove into the town.

#

Once inside Jesus Town, the Schneidholsts proceeded toward the town's center. People here seemed a bit below the mental average.

"Are these guys retarded, Fred?" Bertha asked.

"I dunno, mom. They do seem a bit on the dull side, though." Fred said.

"Dull?" Hilda said. "They are fucking retards!"

"Now, Hilda, don't be like that."

"Like what? Like truthful? Just how politically correct do I have to stoop not to offend people who are this ignorant looking? Do you want me to crawl and lick their boots for my behavior to be acceptable?"

"Yea," Sigurd said. "I want you to crawl, princess."

"Ain't happening, Sigurd," she said. "No frigging way. Look! They are inbred genetic freaks! Probably grew up in a small town screwing their brothers and uncles!"

The Jesus Town cultists were less than good looking. Their eyes betrayed their genetic meagerness. There was something definitely strange that ran through most of them. They were the type of people you could only find on the Sons of Anarchy television series. They wore a combination of farm and motorcycle club clothes. Boots were the footwear of the day for most of them. They had a nasty body odor about them. Obviously, they didn't bathe a whole hell of a lot.

"Let's get out of this place!" Johannes said, "before they stop us and ask Sigurd and me for a date."

Fred laughed.

"They are not that bad," he said. "We'll be all right."

"Hopefully," his wife Donna said. "Either that or we will be dead before long. I really don't like this place. I can second what the kids say."

"I say the same thing," Bertha said. "I just happen to be the grand matriarch here, and I say let's skedaddle out of here fast."

Donna chuckled and winked at her. Her confession was pure Bertha.

Fred was of a like mind. This town was an anti-American cult. It seemed more than a bit creepy just being here. If these retards were all these so-called Christians were able to attract as their body of worshipers, then the religion didn't hold much promise.

Up ahead, signs trailing across the street announced "Save the White Aryan Race!" and "Nigger Beware!" and "You Ain't Wanted!"

Fred stopped at a store for supplies, and the family poured into the building, afraid to stay alone in the car. The tiny Aryan store handled typical supplies, but most of the shelves were fairly empty.

"Got any more stock for your shelves?" Bertha asked.

The young man at the counter wore the typical JESUS TOWN RULES! tee shirt that seemed super popular.

"We have trouble finding more stuff," he explained. "I guess the world is less now that the zombies have come. You know how it is. Say, want to come to the preaching tonight?"

Fred shrugged.

"Nope. I think we need to get out of town before dark, son. We don't feel comfortable here."

"Say! I bet you folks are Jews running into the woods. Am I right?"

"Nope. We aren't Jews." Hilda said. "I don't even know a frigging Jew. Why would you even ask us that?"

Donna looked at Fred. These people were a little more backwoods than they had originally figured.

"Because you don't want to attend a Christian service," the young man said, "so I figured you weren't Christians, and then I got the idea that maybe you were Jews. Just because it came to me doesn't mean it's true. Get my drift?"

"My daddy always told me not to discuss religion or politics in public. I'm beginning to see how that might be a good idea," Bertha said.

The boy behind the counter smiled.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. My name's Al. I'm pretty young, so if what I say isn't right, it's because I'm not trained very well, but I'll do my best. How can I help you?"

"We need some chips, cheese, bread, and stuff like that."

"Over there," the boy said. "By the way, I just volunteer to work here three days a week. Its a family store. I know it isn't much, but things were a lot nicer here back in the day before the world went all to hell from the devil virus."

"It's okay. I never figured any less of your town because of the store's lack of products. Why don't you help us find some things? Then, we can pay you and get out of your hair."

"Good idea," Al said.

Al escorted them to the store's small food sections which amounted to two aisles.

"This is about all we have right now," Al told them. "Sometimes the truck comes. Sometimes it don't. A lot of people here are broke so they just eat free at the town center. No one's working now, so they don't like have any money to eat on, you know."

They picked up some dry milk, bread, flour, oil, and some canned meat and fish. The bill was higher than before the plague hit, but they knew it would be. They paid and left the store. Next, they drove to the service station. A bunch of good old boy Christians with prison tattoos flowing across their arms stood in various poses, eying them suspiciously. They acted as slovenly as they could.

"Where are you boys and girls from?" one of them asked. "I'm Wesley."

"We are from Lancaster," Donna said.

"Amish."

"Sort of Amish. Not anymore. They are all dead now. But we had Amish relatives there before the plague hit. Most of them got bit."

"We are all Christians and whites here."

"Amish are Christians. We are also Europeans," Hilda told him. "We don't really look like niggers after all, do we?"

"I guess you do look sort of white. But, you don't have a nigger in your trunk, do you?" Wesley asked. "We don't cotton to niggers. They's the devil's children, you know."

"Well, I'll be. We just didn't know that until right now," Bertha said. "Funny, how I learn new things the older I get."

Wesley looked at the Schneidholst Family. The girls were kind of pretty, and he'd been looking for one a long time.

"We seem to have us some nigger lovers, boys," he said. "Now, you folks just step out of the car."

Fred reached under the seat and raised his gun at them.

"We're not getting out," he said. "Now, son, you just fill our tank right here and now, before I pop you in the head with this here gun of mine."

Wesley raised his hands.

"You don't have to get so touchy about it. I didn't mean nothing."

"Yes. You did mean nothing," Fred said, "And get that damned gasoline in my car right now, or I'm going to DEFCON 5, and you don't want that to happen, I can assure you."

Wesley looked over his shoulder at his brother.

"Bill, you start the generator, so I can fill this gentleman's car."

"Right, Wesley. I'll get right on that."

The man disappeared into the filling station. They heard the pull cord, and the generator started up.

"Fill it, Wesley. Right now."

"Yes, sir."

Wesley put the nozzle in the tank opening and the gas flowed into Fred's car.

"No need to get testy here, sir."

It took three minutes. They heard the nozzle shut off at the fill mark.

"That'll be $48.34, sir."

Fred gave him a fifty.

"Hey, I need a dollar and sixty-six in change. I know as a Christian you wouldn't want to short change your customers, Wesley."

Another man disappeared and reappeared with the change.

"Here you go, sir. Now, I hope you enjoyed Jesus Town. Come back any time you feel the need."

Wesley gave Fred a faked salute.

Fred didn't even look at the change. He started the car and took off down the road. At the edge of the town, they were stopped once more. One of the Christians wearing a "Jesus Rules Jesus Town" tee shirt lifted the wooden bar across the road, and let them pass.

"Whew," Donna said. "I consider us lucky."

"I hate those fuckers, dad." Hilda said.

"You watch your potty mouth, girl. I'm of a mind that you are edging very close to a much deserved whipping or at the least a finely soaped pie hole where that cuss word came, young lady."

"Jeez!" she said. "I can't do anything around here."

#

The Schneidholst's stopped ten miles out of town. They pulled off onto a side road and disappeared over the hill. From the highway, they could not be seen, so they figured they'd be safe there.

The kids helped erect two small tents, one for the women and one for the men. As they did so, Fred, Donna, and Bertha put together some vittles for their evening meals. Mostly it was three pieces of white bread for each person, one Vienna sausage, half a cup of warmed peas and carrots, and some canned peaches. It wasn't much, but it was enough considering how rare foods were on the shelves. They'd have to make do like the rest of the lucky who survived. Sooner or later more foods might be arriving at the stores, or at least they told themselves that was true and tried to believe it as best as they could.

They sat by a campfire and sang a few old songs, then a few horror stories about people lost in the woods until the kids were scared enough to let them inside their tents for that night's peaceful nightmares.

"Why do you tell those stories?" Donna asked her husband. "You know it scares them to death, don't you?"

"Yes. I know that."

"Why then?"

"Because my dad told them to me, that's why."

"Totally unreal," she said. "We don't have enough trouble with these animated corpses walking around trying to infect us. Now you have to scare us all."

"It's fun," he said. "Do you remember fun, Donna?"

"I remember fun," she said. "Fun was TV, electric lights, hot showers, and stores filled with fresh food. Not what's left in this racist Christian nightmare called Jesus Town. I mean, what a lot of nerve using religion for some ex-inmates' ideas of skinning black people alive and fucking whatever women they can capture on a roadside."

"They haven't done that yet," Fred said. "Let's just wait and see."

#

Wesley and his brother Bill organized a posse to hunt down the family they gave the gasoline to. They wanted to kill the men and take the three women for themselves. Women were as scarce as hen's teeth around here and the white race needed them to reproduce. So, they searched the side roads for the Schneidholst's car. Other Jesus Town scouts were also prowling for stragglers who had passed through Jesus Town and gotten away Scot free. They also set up roadside traps away from town so they could do their thing in secret. Like Wesley and his little brother, they were especially interested in finding beautiful white women and children to seed their movement with Aryans who could be counted upon to insure that their Christian heritage would increase in size and power. The more people they could place under their control, the better their chances were going to be of prevailing in this brave new world where the zombie plague had torn away the anti-White government and offered the purity of the White Race the dream they might once again control the continent as they had done so well from 1725 until the Jews had undermined them with the Anti-White Immigration Act of 1965.

Wesley Reynolds was interested in re-establishing white Christian rule over the entire North American continent by removing all non-whites including blacks, Hispanics, Jews, and other Satan spawned subversive races. The night before, the leaders of Jesus Town's White Aryan Councils of Christ preached long into the evening hours inside their spiritual tent, telling everyone who would listen that, "The laws of God and Jesus are the laws of White supremacy. We are admonished in the Bible itself to keep our race safe and sound, and by that God meant not to commit the sin of adultery which is the sin of adulterating our racial heritage. God didn't want us to marry niggers and spics who are Satan's children. Those inferior races were born from the rape of Eve by the Devil at the beginning of the world, people who we must hang in the name of our lord and savior, Jesus Christ, lest we be damned by him for not following his will and avenging Eve's rape!"

"We shall find them, brother," Wesley said. "And you and I are going to marry the mother and the daughter ourselves! I don't care who gets the old lady, but she might still be genetically productive for the right man living in Jesus Town."

Bill smiled. He was already sexually excited just thinking about it, and he'd gladly have either of them for his new clan.

"I'll protect them, Wesley. You can be sure of that!"

"I know it, my brother. And I can't believe that the lord would allow us to go through life without a white woman in which to plant our seed into the New World. So, I know we are going to find them."

A few hours later, they smelled what was left of a campfire which then led them off the road onto a lumpy dirt lumber trail which soon brought them to the very car that the white family they now hunted had forced them to fill at their own filling station.

Wesley looked inside both tents. One was a man's tent, and the other was for women. He pointed to the men's tent and whispered, "I'll take that one. You take the women's tent. Make sure not one of them escapes."

Wesley tore open the men's tent and turned on his flashlight, yelling, "Not one move or I'll kill you all!" The three males used their hands to fend off the blinding light in his hand. Soon, they were secured with plastic tie-offs and herded into the trunks of both of their cars which were slammed shut on them.

Wesley and Billie disassembled their base camp and tossed the guns and equipment into the trunk of a friend's car. Then, they proceeded down the road with the women, radioing Jesus Town that they had accomplished their part of the white church's mission.

"I got all six of them," Wesley said. The men are secured in my trunk, and I'm proceeding back to the town to jail them."

"Ten four, good buddy. I read that. Come on home."

"On the way."

"Any breeders?"

"Three. I got dibs on all them, but my brother gets one of them. There's an old lady also. She can still be a producer for the white cause. All she needs is the proper man to sire her children with her."

"Good work, Wesley."

"Ten four, Wesley said.

"Don't forget me," Billie said through the radio. "I got one of them. I'm ready and willing to serve Jesus Christ as a productive and fertile Christian male as the lord has commanded of me. Same as my brother."

"Ten four, my brother. It'll all go before the council, but you found them first and captured them, so you are going get them. I can assure you of that."

In the back seat, the women were crying.

"When in the world is all of this madness going to end?" Donna asked. "I'm wondering what's next."

"They are going to rape us," Bertha said. "That's what's next. I know men like them. Love is never a part of their vocabulary."

"Can I get back to sleep now?" Hilda asked.

"Sure. You sleep. Your mom and grandma are going to talk some. You just need some deep sleep, so go for it."

In the trunk, Sigurd was concerned about his mom and sister.

"What are they going to do with us?" he asked his father.

"Nothing," Fred told him. "Just go back to sleep."

"Fuck sleep," Johannes said. "I'm going to kill these bastards with my bare hands."

"You have my permission. Go for it. But make it happen, because if you just piss them off, its going to go very badlyF for you, I'm afraid."

#

The brothers, Bill and Wesley, sat across from the Council of White Christians. Their chained captives sat between them on secured chairs. The bill before the Council was exactly how the disposition of the captives should be decided and whether or not the two young men would be given all or part of them for their own use. The Council of White Christians could do what it wanted, and it often did.

The Council itself contained not a single man or woman in a suit. Its eight members sat on the dais, a crudely raised platform. Their clothing was basically lower working class. Most of the men wore work pants and shirts, mostly covered with dirt and oil as though they had not been cleaned in at least several days. As a democracy, the Council thus seemed quite naturally to appeal to the very lower class Christians who had founded and controlled the reactionary city government apparatus. Whereas in the previous setting of America and the capitol in Washington, DC, most governmental offices were controlled for, by, and with the very rich elites. The representatives, senators, and president dressed in eight hundred dollar Armani suits reflecting the clothing of investors and bankers, thus betraying their own official betrayal of the far poorer American people themselves.

The Council was different. It proved its closeness to the very people it represented by its working man's clothing. The people witnessing the Council must have felt secure in their new government, seeing as its clothing was exactly like their own. Thus, the Council was seen as being there only for the people in the working class and not for the rich and elite, at least not in Jesus Town.

The Council called for a description of the goods in question which meant the entire Schneidholst family, i.e., Fredrick, Donna, Sigurd, Johannes, Hilda, and Bertha. Each was introduced by name and were told to stand when each was called and identified by the Council.

"We are here to decide the fate of these captives in accordance with our laws," Council Member David Crawford stated. "Our reports have ascertained that Bill and Wesley Reynolds have captured these people and surrendered them to us for their final disposition and assignment. Wesley Reynolds has asked that Hilda, the youngest female, be assigned to him for breeding purposes including a totally Christian marriage so that his children themselves will be raised in accordance with Jesus Town's religious values and expectations. Billie Reynolds has asked the same for the middle aged woman. Are there any comments, observations, or objections?"

At that, Fredrick raised his hand and was recognized.

"I am the father of Sigurd, Johannes, and Hilda," he testified. I am also the legal husband of my wife Donna who is the mother of my three legal children. Bertha is my legal mother. I appeal under the laws of man and God that all of these persons be remanded to me under these sacred laws of God and man both and that we be allowed to continue on our journey outside of Jesus Town."

Council Member David Crawford repeated the question and asked for comments.

Bill Reynolds stood and was recognized.

"The laws of Jesus Town and its white Christian government, state that anyone capturing or procuring breeders of white European background are entitled to own and marry them for purposes of procreating our race, religion, and posterity. Since there are not enough women in our nation for all of us to have one, and since I have legally captured and own these women along with my brother, Wesley, I asked that my rights to these people, including my right to marry them be respected."

"Are there any questions or objections?"

Fredrick stood again and repeated that he was legally married and that their vows repeated an often used phrase, "until death do us part," so that "anyone intruding on our relationship intrudes also upon the word of God and that such persons are in conflict with God and his laws and cannot enter into the gates of Heaven. So, I implore you abstain from interrupting our marriage which is sanctified by the law of God himself."

"The husband has objected on the basis of human and divine laws. Are there any people with information on this matter?" David Crawford asked.

"Does anyone else wish to speak?"

"I do. My name is Hilda. Fredrick is my father, and Donna is my mother. May I speak?"

"You may speak," David Crawford answered.

"I love my parents. If you take them from me, my life will be ruined. So will my two brothers' lives be ruined."

"Anyone else?"

"My life would be ruined as my sister just said," Sigurd offered.

"Mine, too," Johannes said.

"Are there any more discussions on this matter?"

"I have something to say," Council Member Richard Persons said.

"You may speak," David Crawford said.

"There is a method to correct these needs of both parties which would allow the laws of God and man to still be followed," Richard testified. "What needs to be done is for Fredrick to be executed as a threat to our society and our way of life. That way he will no longer be married to Donna. In addition, whoever is married to her will be able to adopt and assign these children to whomever he wishes, even for marriage."

A gasp from the children and the audience ensued, causing the Council to demand silence. The room slowly calmed down.

"Are there any other matters to be discussed before we vote?"

No one stood. The children hugged their father and mother and tears streamed down their faces.

"Is there a motion on this method?"

"The motion has been made."

Grant Henson seconded the motion.

"All those in favor of execution of Fredrick Schneidholst please raise their hands."

All eight members of the Council raised their hands.

"How about those in the audience who are here and witnessing these proceedings. Raise your hand if you are in favor of the execution."

Almost all hands in the audience were raised.

"Will the bailiffs carry out the instructions of the Council Members?"

Four bailiffs came forward and removed Fredrick from the center of the building. His family cried, pleaded for reconsideration of the sentence, begged them for mercy, and tried whatever they could think of to intervene. Their effort was to no avail. Fredrick rose and walked with the bailiffs. He calmly turned and told his family to do whatever they had to do in order to stay alive and that he loved them. Then, he proceeded to leave the building bravely and with great dignity, as much as anyone so condemned could ever hope to muster. He stepped outside, and a minute later, a single shot was fired.

#

More than twenty townsmen gathered in town square for Donna's wedding. Her husband to be was Bill Reynolds. He was attended by his brother Wesley Reynolds his best man. Both were dressed in their typical slovenly work clothes.

"Do you take Bill Reynolds to be your lawfully wedded husband to have and to hold until death do you part?" the White Power Minister asked Donna Schneidholst. She closed her eyes. So, it had come to this. The poor woman had no options, except to go through with the charade as Jesus Town's justice system had commanded her.

"Yes," Donna said.

"And do you, Bill Reynolds, swear to take Donna Schneidholst as your lawfully wedded wife to have and to hold until death do you part?"

"I do," Bill said.

"Then I pronounce the two of you as husband and wife. What God and nature hath joined together let no one break asunder for as long as they live. You may now kiss the bride."

Bill smiled. He felt his lips kiss Donna. He had longed for a wife in which to place his white children, and Donna was perfect. She had proven herself to be a fertile woman who could and would bear him his white children. The town could thereby be preserved by this marriage as could the white race.

That night in his trailer park, a party ensued. Other residents were jealous of Bill Reynolds, because most of the women had been slaughtered in the first stages of the Amish infection when no one even knew what was happening. Many were killed in the first hours when zombies showed up and began biting them. It took several days for people to even realize what had begun to happen to the new zombie world in which everything and everyone was either dead or running away and hiding.

Donna had been heart broken. Her husband was dead, her children were placed in separate white racist homes, and all of them, Donna and Bertha included, were expected to convert to Jesus Town's version of Christianity which was the way almost all religious cults acted including Catholicism and Islam. Donna had to admit that Bill was not the worst human being in the world, but he was certainly not what Donna would have chosen as a life mate. He was politically incorrect, filled with rage against people who were non-white, and capable of committing great acts of evil. In fact, this marriage was just another menage of evil that Bill Reynolds and people like him had painted across parts of the facade of the world. It dirtied everything it touched. Bill was her husband. So Donna couldn't stop him as he entered her bed and performed his duties to aid the white race in its survival. His efforts at love making were tolerated but not appreciated, but she had to admit that he wasn't bad in the way he had done it. At least he was somewhat in shape. It could have been a lot worse.

She woke up in the morning, bathed, cooked Bill's breakfast, and cleaned the entire house trailer top to bottom like a good little wife. Then, she got Bill's permission to leave and visit her children. They were having breakfast together in another trailer. The children were assigned to three adults in separate living areas, anything to bust up their family and realign their loyalties. Once a day, they spent an hour in religious and racialist discussions, and they were expected to be cooperative. If they weren't they feared things would not go well for them. They had wised up rapidly. What they'd witnessed when their father was killed by the Council had also done it's thing. Whatever the town and its leaders wanted, Fred's family would either do or pretend they would do. They simply wanted to survive, because their father told them to do that, but mostly because they could never forget that gunshot outside the courthouse which took his life.

"How's it going, Johannes?" Donna asked. "I hope that you are being a good son to your new adopted parents." The idea sickened her. However, she desperately wanted to protect them. "Are you?"

"Yes, momma."

Donna smiled and kissed him.

"How about you, Sigurd?"

"Yes, mama. I'm doing everything they ask of me. Almost to a fault, if you will."

She hugged him.

"You were always a good boy."

"Not always," he said.

She smiled.

"That's for sure. But you were still good. You were always all right by me, son."

He kissed her.

"I still love you. You can be sure of that."

"Oh, I am!"

She laughed.

"We've had so many good times together, and we will again. We have breakfast together at least. That's better than nothing."

Hilda smiled.

"I am glad we get to do this in the mornings. My new mom says I can see my brothers in town whenever I'm out and about," Hilda told Donna.

"Are you worried about Wesley? Don't be," Donna told her. "Do whatever he wants."

"I know. It's just the way it is. After what they did to dad..."

The room became quiet. She stopped dead to rights.

"Sorry."

After a few seconds, Donna tried to get the conversation positive again.

"So what plans do you have today?"

"I have to do some farm work," Sigurd said. "It's really hard."

"I know. Times have changed. If we don't raise food, Sigurd, we'll all start starving soon. It has to be done. Don't resent it. Food is very necessary."

"I miss Big Macs," Hilda said.

"Me, too," Johannes said. "What I'd give for one right now."

"With fries," Sigurd said.

The kids were in their late teens, but each one still exhibited the mind of child in many ways, because their parents, being fairly backward in their own right, preferred to treat them like kids and not like young adults.

It was ten o'clock. Their visitation time had expired.

"Come and hug me," Donna said. "I love you all."

They came by for a final squeeze, then skipped down the stairs and back to the homes where they now lived.

Donna looked at Bertha.

"How's it going, mom?" she asked.

"About as good as to be expected."

Bertha was not enamored of the new arrangement. Her son was dead. The family was scattered. The new religion was busy indoctrinating her grandchildren with racist nonsense, and the people in the town were far below the station she and the rest of the family would have chosen to live with.

"It sucks," Donna said.

She washed the dishes and left the trailer. She knew she had better get back home. Bill wanted to lay her down and place his sperm in her again. He said it felt good to him, and she figured from his facial features that it probably did. In addition, he wanted white babies. White babies were okay with Donna. It was one of the few things she had to look forward to, and she agreed that the world needed new kids to replace so many that were lost.

She skipped through the downtown. Low class racists leaned against walls and trees smoking cigarettes and watching Donna's legs as she walked through Jesus Town. For a religious city, the men seemed overly interested in her body. She guessed that was just the way most men were whether in Lancaster, New York City, or here. Religion was just an excuse for people who enjoyed worshiping their dead zombie god named Jesus. It was no more unreal than many other lives in Pennsylvania had become. People were monkeys whether or not they were godly or agnostic. All men cared about was where their next lay was coming from.

"Remember," Donna thought. "You are a married lady."

Sure, it was disgusting, but the entire world had become as big a non-entity as Donna herself had become. Her heart was torn from the loss of her husband, her house, and her children, all of it coming nearly at once. These were difficult times to bear.

"I have to remain calm and clear," Donna reminded herself. Her own survival and that of her children depended on it. "We are all slaves to these crazies," she thought. "Life is lower than in ancient Rome here," and Rome was about as low as a civilization got with its gladiators who were trained to kill each other. Her husband, Fred, had died just to entertain this city of white racist Christians. It was total nonsense. She had loved him so much, and now he was gone. The least she could do is carry out his final wish. "Do whatever you have to in order to survive." She had promised him in her mind that she would carry out his orders in that regard. Besides, his murder had unnerved her. These religious freaks were crazy enough to kill the rest of her family for any number of reasons. It didn't matter what, because they were a bunch of crazies.

Up ahead, Donna heard a loud commotion. A herd of zombies surged here and there in jerky moves inside the streets. They had broken through somehow and were surging through the town. A siren started to wail. People went for their weapons. Out came the clubs, bats, and guns. The men with their Jesus Town tee shirts started to drift out into the street. On the backs of each of their redneck shirts was a cross with a halo over the left arm of the crucifix. It was lopsided, but the halo represented hope as well as despair.

Huge loudspeakers on the lamp posts clicked on. A voice began to drone loudly over and over again in their ears:

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are under martial law. The enemy is again inside our gates. Please arm yourselves and fight them with distinction, as I am sure you shall do. The future of our race depends on us winning each and every skirmish. Remember this. To the victor goeth the spoils. Give them hell, ladies and gentlemen! Give them hell!" The message repeated itself endlessly.

The zombies continued ambling toward the Christian soldiers. Each zombie moved with its arms extended. Their deadly eyes looked straight forward from their ghostlike faces. Each zombie's deadly despair was enough to cause a slight panic in the eyes of the living. As the zombies neared them, the soldiers lifted their bats and began busting them against their skulls to kill them.

"Clear! Clear!" they yelled as they dispatched them.

Blood and chunks popped from the zombies. Many of them fell during the first few swings. After that, more went down. The soldiers were followed up by children, also yelling, "Clear!," as they finished them off with baseball bats. Some of these kids belonged to the families of the original defenders who had bashed the zombies in the head. The men appreciated their enthusiasm as the kids cleaned up the mayhem by stomping the brains of the zombies into the ground. Their young voices sounded proudly and triumphantly exhilarated as they yelled out the word, "Clear!" one by one as they moved forward past the damage they had inflicted on the helpless zombies. Even though a slave, Donna did her part. She had grabbed a two by four about three and a half feet long and punched out one zombie after the other with a certain mastery that she had learned in the chaos in what had once passed itself off as Lancaster, Pennsylvania but was now likely as not a partially burned out and ash strewn wreckage of its own deadly carcass dotted here and there with a few remaining wrecks of buildings atop the weeds. Soon, some of the men noted her prowess against the zombies.

"Them zombie boys don't have a chance with that woman hitting on them," one of the soldiers said. "We need girls like her on our team, for sure. If those zombies had soldiers as good as her, we'd all be overrun in a minute!"

"God bless her! And to think we killed her husband."

The Christian racists continued bashing the brains of the zombies, as their offspring followed up by smashing their skulls with their own bats behind them and yelling, "Clear! Clear!" Within minutes, the raging cultists were covered with blood from head to toe.

"Come here, you bastards!" Donna yelled.

She affixed her club to their heads one by one as she shattered their skulls with total abandon.

"Clear!"

She struck again.

"Clear!"

No one needed to tell her what to do. The decadent Christian racists were her new family. When it came to people versus the dead, Donna knew instinctively whom she must protect. Her personal survival goal was completely self-evident, and one look at the alternative was more than enough to reinforce it in Donna's mind.

A small boy stepped into the fray. A zombie bit him, and his father dragged him away and clubbed the boy's head until it was flattened like a pancake.

"I told you they'd bite you, boy! You didn't listen!" the man told him as his child body continued to emit tiny flickers of motion from his arms and legs as death settled in across his relaxing nerves. Angry as the father was at what his son had done, the man was in tears over his needless death. He picked him up and hugged him.

Donna beat a zombie whose mouth was less than three inches from her face. "Where'd you come from, bitch?" she yelled. Donna pushed her back. A minute later that same fallen zombie, still animated, had crawled out from the boots that were stomping the ground. Then, a man doing cleanup at the back of the pack clubbed her zombie head a second time and sent her into a new hell which he guessed was some sort of post zombie land. "That's the way it goes," Donna mused. "Just inches from escaping the battle. Now, that zombie is dead forever." Then, she remembered what happened to Fredrick, her poor dead husband and what a nice husband and father he had been. You just never knew. Your time could end in a heart beat. And, besides, who would ever have dreamed up a nightmare like Jesus Town and the Aryan redneck creeps who had piled into the place and ruled it like some insane angels posing from behind hell's doorway. Life was so surreal in this new world of hurt and death that Donna wondered why she had not yet tipped toward insanity and suicide like so many seemed to be doing these days. By now, Donna was blood splattered along with everyone else. She looked out over the battle. The racists were all bunched up and clubbing the zombies. She approached the deadly cluster and clubbed two more emerging zombies. Donna shouted, "Clear! Clear!" then stomped their heads. "Clear! Clear!" she repeated. How had so many broken through the walls of the town, she wondered? She figured someone let them in, maybe someone bitten who turned and opened the flood to the hellions of droolers who were so set on removing so many familiar life forms from the earth.

"Fuck it!" she yelled. Despite herself she succumbed to the town's most urgent Jesus fervor and yelled, "Kill them for Jesus!" Her club swung fast and furious. Her training in the Jesus Town conversion meetings was evidently working. She found herself loving Jesus and hating black people. In Donna's redneck cultist vision, the entire world had become a frigging racist conspiracy, and the government had really designed zombies but the experiment got away from them. Now, the world had to die at their racist Christian hands in a place called Jesus Town. "Only Jesus can save us!" she screamed, and her racist compatriots grunted in agreement and fought even harder. Things were falling into place, and the insanity was becoming as real as brain surgery to her and just as effective. In a world this insane, Jesus Town seemed normal. She found herself energized more and more even as her arms began to tire of wiping out the hordes of zombies flooding past her from all sides in the streets with their zombie arms pointing straight ahead into some unseen, freaky, and anti-sacred hell that the zombies evidently thought they were seeing in their final days.

"Fight for Christ!" she yelled.

She made her loudest noises on the subject over and over as she shouted out their stock phrases knowing it would inflame the white Christian militia and insure their best chance of survival against the zombie onslaught. They were clubbing the zombies alongside her in a frenzy of fear. What was left of the little bands of humans in Jesus Town fought fiercely for survival amid this deadly straggling surge of zombie predation and madness. The trails of biting and surging zombies never seemed to end but kept coming at them with their reaching arms of death and despair.

Hours later, the mop up continued unabated. She was forced to work in several of their Ford-F150 pickup truck's by a local militia that had drafted her on the spot. She was alternately driving and heaving brain smashed zombies into her assigned redneck pickup bed. The zombies rested in the pickup bays with their lifeless arms and legs hanging over the truck bed walls waving in unison atop the bumpy roads like lackadaisical death flowers. Their arrangement seemed quite haphazard. Most of them were still dripping. Drool, blood, and body parts clung to her small truck as well as to her clothes and coated her face from the earlier fire fight. She proceeded down the road to places where smoke poured forth. These glowing beads of orange inside the woods and toward which she drove the bodies were the bonfires that served as flaming repositories for fallen zombies and people alike. With so many deaths on occasions like this which seemed to occur with greater and greater regularity, all society could come up with were fire holes to contain the horror and prevent even more plagues from rotting out even more bodies. Hundreds of lost zombie parts were left behind. These parts already generously sprinkled the streets, lawns, sidewalks, and highways.

Donna saw no end to the reeking gore, because the madness of death stalked the earth amid these sordid hordes. These had been the dead ones who were willing to walk for decades and never die. To humans like Donna, it appeared as though endless zombies continuously stumbled ahead in their drunken madness as though it was the only thing the zombies found worth doing. Donna knew these deadly killers were the perfect vehicles for man's endless dying. Stumbling forward with raised arms was for them as natural and American as apple pie, Christmas trees, and doughnuts. As Donna watched her final load of zombies burning in the pits, she marveled how their fingers moved rhythmically like dark erratic spider legs within the flames. Their flickering orange pyres engulfed their spastic appendages. Their faces burst into flames and entered into the air like ghostly spirits moving in shadows of dust that flowed in tiny spirals within the glowing heat.

#

When they were ordered to go home, Bill was also covered in blood. They stepped into the shower. The water was ice cold as usual, and the gore relinquished its grip upon their flesh with great reluctance. Like glue in a child's art class, the blood clung to their bodies and refused to let go without a great amount of water and moving bristle brushes all of which were designed to insure that the zombie coating eventually relinquished its hold.

"It was one of the worst breakouts I've ever seen, Bill! It was even worse than Lancaster!" Donna mumbled into his ears as she rested inside her husband's bed. "I just grabbed a piece of lumber and did my thing with the rest of them. There were so many bitten today! So many! One was just a boy, and his father smashed his head and yelled at him for trying to help. He cried because it was a useless waste of a beautiful kid's life, especially since that little boy was simply a tiny Christian Aryan just like us. I tell you it broke my heart to see it, Billie."

Billie Reynolds hugged her close as he kissed her lips. He had learned to love her. His family had been exterminated by the plague. Only Billie and his brother remained in a larger clan of eighteen people. In fact, most of his friends had to be smashed once they were bitten or had resurrected and morphed into the familiar faces of the walking dead that he had seen too much of.

"The lord was with us today," Billie said.

"Yes. He was. He stood beside us."

"I love you," he told her.

It was true. Billie loved her in the deepest part his soul. She was the completion of his life. He would die for her in a heart beat.

She smiled. Over the weeks of pain and propaganda sessions, she had come around. She had been unable to sustain her hatred for Billie and his brother forever. Life was too precious and too sad to live it in bitterness. Even what happened to her family and her husband, as bad as it was, had paled even more by comparison to the millions who had no children, parents, or distant relatives left at all. Most of their recent history had been washed away inside a wickedly fluid past in which death and struggle was all that they remembered.

She had learned to love Bill Reynolds and was okay with loving him as her husband. Sure, he was ignorant beyond compare. No one like him had ever appeared in her past. That had been a place where people like Billie would have been cast aside in a New York instant. But in Jesus Town, Billie was mainstream. Racial hatred, belief in God, and beer fighting all the time with half drunk men and women as well as with zombies was the average daily fare, so much so that it passed as normal. In fact, the total abnormality of life in this cowardly new world of drinking, running, preaching, fighting for survival, and brushing with what had once been and still was absolute human trash like Billie and Wesley Reynolds was the new normal in which she was now forever entwined. She would never leave. She had forgotten so much about that other world she had lived in where normal people were the rule that Jesus Town's racist rants had become all the rage for her. Whatever history had been before Jesus Town had become just a vague memory lost in a wavering miasma of darkness.

"I love you, also, Billie Reynolds," she said.

Billie moved atop her, feeding his seed inside her day after day. It was reassuring to have him wanting her. His friendly mounting had become familiar and loving. Fredrick had become just a rapidly fading moment in her life. What she loved most about Billie and Wesley and all the other guys in the white Christian racist church was the way the men wanted children from their women. They had placed all women on a pedestal constructed out of their own self-deceptions. Even Bertha had been married off to one of them, old as she was, and her far younger redneck husband was handsome and fine. He prayed for her to produce white children for him whom he could endlessly train to recite those ancient Christian stories that meant so much to everyone in Jesus Town.

She prayed fervently that her children would survive and produce more white babies like themselves with which to bless Jesus Town's pure racial inhabitants, all of whom were Teutonic gods with pale skin, blond hair and flashing murderous soldier eyes wielding swords and arrows in their muscular hands and wanting to wipe out all non-whites in their wars of religious bigotry. She had learned how this was a good thing. Racist rants were simply the game of the day, and if you didn't fit in right to this scheme, then, like Fredrick Schneidholst, you might also be taken behind your house and shot dead. Better to play along, even to believe in the madness than to offer yourself as another victim of their seedy and wanton illegalities based on their wickedly shaky interpretations of the Bible.

Someone outside thumped against her trailer in the middle of the night causing Donna to awaken. Her handsome new husband, Billie, as she called him was sound asleep, so she got up and cracked the door. Seeing no one there, she went outside. This night was quiet and beautiful. The stars shone high above, making Donna remember what a wonderful planet the Earth was, even with the malfunctioning evolution which had spawned the deadly Amish virus that had infected almost all of Lancaster, Pennsylvania and turned it into a living and dying hell hole of flames and zombie deaths. She breathed the air in deeply. It was so fresh. With no motors polluting the atmosphere in this new world of zombies and hunted down humans anywhere in sight, the sky seemed more beautiful and clearer than ever. A few dogs barked across Jesus Town, reminding Donna that people used to have pets whom they loved like children before the zombies started grabbing them off the streets and eating them. While she was thinking these thoughts, someone grabbed her from behind and tossed her to the ground. Donna screamed. She turned to see three zombies peering down upon her. She saw their outstretched arms hovering like strangely distorted angel wings as they reached down toward her throat with claw-like hands. Drool oozed down upon her in a wet string from their lips, and a glow of vileness flickered inside their darkly sunken eyes.

"Oh my God!" she yelled. "Billie! Zombies! Help me for Christ's sake!"

Donna scrambled to her feet. The closest zombie had grabbed her robes, and she had to struggle to free herself by slipping out of it. She was naked, but at least she was free of them. She ran for her life. The zombies followed her. She could hear their footfalls clomping against the dirt, tearing up the grass. When she glanced back, they were still only fifteen feet away. Their zombie hands reached straight ahead. Their fingers writhed in the darkness and pointed in her direction as they grabbed at her. They wanted to pull her down to the ground, then bite her throat, tear open her jugular, sip her splattering blood, rip her open and pull her entrails out, toss them into the air, and eat them.

"Help! Wake up! Zombies!"

"Help me!"

Lights began to come on in the trailers. Doors opened. Rednecks with guns had jumped from beds scantily dressed or totally naked looking out over the trailer court's tiny lawns watching vigilantly with bats and rifles in their hands. Several aimed and fired at the horde of twenty-five animated corpses reaching ahead for Donna and anyone else they hoped they might grab to bite. Guns began firing everywhere. Donna heard the zombies' corpses hitting the ground in loud thumps behind her. Young men and women ran to her rescue, and she heard Billie shouting behind her. He had awakened and was firing away trying to save her! "Thank God," she thought, "that Billie and his friends have the stones and sense of importance as white people to roust themselves to save people like Donna herself whom they hardly knew. It was enough to them that she was white, European, and Christian. They were totally willing to give their lives if necessary to save hers in the hope that their beloved race might survive the raging infection. The plague was threatening the only part of the human race that these rednecks respected, their own part, for they would never lift a finger to save those whom they considered to be non-humans and whom they derided with the belittling terms of "stupid fucks," "niggers," "spics," and "orientals." She tripped and fell to the ground having lost her footing and felt vampires laying their icy hands upon her. She jumped up quickly and ran up the stairs to the nearest trailer porch where a family was firing guns at her zombie pursuers and found them hurrying her into their trailer home and safety.

Outside, guns blared through the cold night vapors. The woman of the house, who was a redneck about sixty years old and had produced six or more kids for her husband, was named Ruby. After a quick introduction, Ruby held Donna to her heart and told her that her clan would take care of her tormentors and that Donna no longer had to worry about being bitten. Ruby then examined her naked body and told one of her children, a boy named Arnie, to run to her closet and bring Ruby's best sleeping robe, which he did immediately.

"We are going to save you, dear. You poor thing, being chased by those half living pieces of non-human shit out there. If it'd been me I would have died from fright!"

"I'm almost dead of fright, to be honest!" Donna said. Her words hardly came out, because she was fighting to breathe. "Those unearthly creatures are so vile! I am just shaking in fear from having been nearly infected! I am so happy you saved me."

A ruckus ensued on the deck outside, then a knock at the door. It flew open and Billie Reynolds came into the room loaded with guns and embraced her.

"Did they bite you?" he asked.

"No."

"I need to check you!"

"My name's Ruby," the redneck Christian lady said, "and she's just been checked. She ain't been bit. That's for certain."

"Oh, thank God!" Billie said. "My prayers have been answered!"

"This here is Ruby," Donna said. "Ruby, this is my husband, Billie Reynolds, and we live on the next street in this trailer court."

"Better get your family together, Ruby," Billie told her. "We may have to make a run for it, because there's hundreds of them out there, and it looks like a thousand more pushing in from the roads right behind the trailer court."

"I figure we are in a real pretty shit, then," Ruby said.

The door opened, and one of her sons yelled for them to come out to the pickup and be prepared to haul ass.

"We can't stop them! Get your asses to the truck, and let's be gone from here and right now! I mean it!"

They got clothes and shoes for themselves and Donna, Billie, and those out on the porch with the guns. They grabbed their ammunition also.

"Move ass, kids, and be careful not to fall or get bit!" Ruby yelled.

The door flew open and they stepped out onto the porch and into the bed of the pickup truck which someone had backed up right to the porch. In a second, all of them were inside. The truck rolled through a mass of zombies as it mowed them down in search of whatever escape route they could find. Meanwhile, Billie, Ruby, and her kids were firing rifles and pistols into the heads of the biters and kicking at the heads of the other zombies clinging to the truck's sides until they eventually fell off into the street. Eventually, the clingers were overcome, losing their grips. No one cared one shit about what happened to them later but hoped their skulls would be suitably crushed by others so that the world would be cleared of them. As for now, they could see that the fallen zombies were being stomped into the ground by the runaway herd of their own kind who streamed along beside them and behind the pickup, reaching for the people inside, until they were felled by the pounding of bats and clubs. Donna held her own, pumping shells into zombies one by one, then clubbing their heads when she was out of ammunition. So did the older kids who seemed to be very close to the age of men, including Billie who was doing his best to kill every single one of them.

However you criticized and demeaned racist Christian rednecks, Donna told herself, she had found they were the fiercest fighters in the world. There was no way they'd desert you in battle, and they'd go down to hell with a club and a gun and never stop trying to protect your exposed backside as long as they could still breathe.

Heading directly into the center of town where they hoped to find a perfected last stand, they turned into a street filling with zombies. Hundreds of dead faces turned in their direction. Their eyes blazed red in the truck's headlights. Opening their mouths in what must have been their inhuman attempt to feed, the animated dead rushed at the truck with their arms outstretched in their signature zombie stagger. The driver slammed the truck into reverse and peeled rubber until it reached the corner and spun sideways before he again slammed it back into forward and breezed on toward downtown followed closely by the zombie herd. The road was cluttered with the broken bodies of friends and zombies alike. The truck moved up and down over the corpses in an erratic race to out pace the thousands of zombies racing to eat them. Turning the final corner, the artificial lights of downtown opened up before them. Cars with their motors running and lights on pointed the way through as people and walking dead fought with each other. Hordes of new zombies pressed toward the scene. The redneck Christian racists stopped the truck and jumped out to attack the hundreds of newly appearing zombies coming in from the sides. Blood splattered over all of them, coating them from head to foot. People who succumbed to the attacks screamed as the droolers tore open their stomachs and pulled their organs and intestines from their red gaping wounds. They pushed these body parts into their hungry faces, stuffing themselves with the delicious innards that they craved. At times, intestines flew through the air as zombies fought for the best parts. Meanwhile people fought and screamed trying to end their feedings, but the zombies persisted. They had been filing into the town's streets and sidewalks as thousands of them advanced from Lancaster, Philadelphia, and Allentown. After stumbling for more than one hundred miles with very little food to eat, they were starving. All of them were intensely focused on filling their stomachs with the freshest human vittles they would ever again come across. Donna's people had arrived at Jesus Town's last moment. Loud speakers crackled. Over the speakers, the townspeople were ordered to get into their cars and evacuate. At this point, Donna's group climbed back into their truck which peeled off, leaving the walking dead on the ground, pulling intestines from hundreds of screaming Christians.

That night, the train of cars and trucks slowly made its way to the next stop. It was a filling station with the half burned wreckage of what had once been a truck stop and restaurant. The survivors poured in and found the best spots on the floor to sleep. Exhausted, they closed their eyes and fell into the darkest slumber of their lives. Having escaped near death so many times in a twenty-four hour period they could not sleep completely. Out of fear, survival instinct, and the sickness that so many near death calls brought them, their minds kept tuned for another zombie attack which they were now certain would soon reach them again before dawn.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lazy Days

The John Wilson safe house spent three days cleaning up which included clearing the land of bodies and searching the woods for more of the walking dead. They seemed to be marching their way from the cities and towns which these zombie creatures had already pretty much demolished with their persistent desire to feed from humans. The bonfires in these cities stank of burning flesh. Their smoke had reached many miles to the safe house, having drifted across the land and through the trees for a hundred miles.

"It's an obnoxious odor," Marlaina told Aiden.

"It's not pretty. That's for sure," Aiden said. "You, on the other hand, are beautiful in the extreme."

They embraced deep in the forest where they had performed search and destroy for the remnants of the Amish zombies who had been persecuting people in the area more and more.

Aiden's and Marlaina's lips pressed against each other.

"Do you really love me?" Marlaina asked.

"Of course. You know that," Aiden said. "I've loved you since our first grade class."

They huddled against each other on the blanket that Marlaina kept in her back pack. She never knew when they might find a rare chance to be alone. The safe house was not such a place. Everyone inside that wonderful haven was beset by others at all times. The trouble with being alone, however, was the danger of a group of biters could happen upon them if they weren't paying attention. This might actually happen more and more as biters left the towns and cities in droves to find people they could attack and feed from.

"I dreamed I had been bitten last night, Aiden," Marlaina told him. "You had to shoot me in the head. You did it because you loved me and you wanted to keep me from awakening as a zombie."

"I think that's one of my biggest fears," Aiden told her. "That either you or I are bitten, and the other one has to step forward and pull the trigger."

"Would you do it?"

"Of course. How about you?"

"Yes. I wouldn't let you become one of those things."

Having to bludgeon a lover or family member was a constant nightmare for survivors with spouses and lovers. It was usually dreamed in nightmarish sleep. Aiden would awaken, covered in sweat, nearly in tears, and splattered with Marlaina's cranial drippings. In his worst and darkest nightmares, her glistening blood covered him from head to toe.

Aiden dug a shallow pit and filled it with dead wood for a funeral pyre. With the zombie family resting atop it, they lit the blaze and watched the hollow and very volatile bodies burst into a fire which soon consumed them entirely. When it ceased to burn, they covered it with the exhumed dirt so it would not start the woods afire. Then they headed toward the safe house.

#

General Grayson Andrews started off the festivities three days after the great zombie round up. Everything was again clean. Blood splatter on leaves, plants, grass, stones, siding, and elsewhere were washed away.

A loudspeaker played a variety of hit tunes as people gathered around the smorgasbord and took their food to a blanket on the grass or in the woods where they ate what they had gathered that day and enjoyed themselves. To ensure security, the people took turns patrolling the perimeter, roads, and woods. No one wanted a stupid repetition of zombies wandering onto the property with their arms pointed straight ahead, grabbing at throats, and sending the party into a riot of runaway people seeking to reach safety in a house. Such would not be the case this time. Everything was secure. People could stay relaxed all night, since every avenue of approach was being watched. Vampires drawn by the music were caught far away from the party. They were taken out down in the woods and on the highway that ran in front of the safe house long before anyone there could be bothered. The droolers died where no one would ever see them.

Aiden, Marlaina, Lisa, Beth, and Sheriff Wilson sat on several blankets they had placed on the ground for their family's comfort.

"We lucked out this week," Sheriff Wilson said. "It could have gone bad at any time, but it didn't."

"It was good," Beth said. "A little scary, though, if you ask me. Too many close brushes. People were close to being bitten all to often."

"But they weren't," Aiden said. "Because they were alert and ready for anything. That's the entire point of a roundup. No one is supposed to get hurt. Most of the surprise element is gone."

Marlaina leaned against Aiden. She was madly in love with him. She nudged Aiden, and he gently kissed her.

"Shall I let them know now?"

"Yes," she said.

"We have an announcement," Aiden said. "I asked Marlaina to marry me, and she has accepted my proposal. Of course, we want your blessings. You can decide later, if you wish."

"That's great!" Lisa said. "You've known each other since first grade! You have my approval! Congratulations, Marlaina. Aiden and you are a perfect match."

Robert and Beth Wilson smiled at each other.

"What do you think, Beth? Can we trust this kid's future to the likes of Marlaina Kreuz?"

"I think we need to interview her to find out what type of a person she is, don't you agree, sheriff?"

"Where are you from, Marlaina?" the sheriff asked her. A wise smile reclined like a gentle and inquisitive fox across his face.

"Come on, sheriff. I grew up three houses from you."

"Seems like a far piece," Beth said. "I usually travel no farther than ten feet from my front door. Just far enough to reach the newspaper with a cup of coffee in my hand."

"Hmmph." Marlaina said. A smile also played across her face. She was more than willing to play the sly fox along with Aiden's parents. "Not too far to bring you my mom's pies when she was alive. That's for sure. You liked me then, I bet."

"I'll tell you what, Aiden," his father said, "considering we've known this girl for her entire life, and since we adore her as much as our son does, let's just say we approve."

He looked at Beth.

"Let's take a chance. What do you say, Beth?"

Beth walked over and hugged Marlaina.

"Of course you have our blessing, Marlaina. You have been a member of our family for years. We love you dearly."

"I agree," the sheriff said. "But mom is the real decision maker here. We all know that."

"Oh, Robert!" she said. She hugged her son. "We love her, Aiden. We were just jesting with the two of you. Of course, we'll approve. When's the wedding?"

"How about right now," Aiden said. "We've got no rings, and there's no churches left to have a wedding in. Obviously, both of us are perfectly prepared."

John Wilson chuckled. He came forward and called everyone to order.

"We are going to have a wedding, my friends. It's a wedding between Aiden and Marlaina. I cannot say this is a surprise. I've known them both for their entire lives, and they've been in love since I can remember. I'm not a minister, but everything is so screwed up, I'll be happy to serve in that capacity. So, if the two families will line up in front of me I will officiate this joyous occasion. I hope that they will have many children. God knows we need them to keep our society alive for the future."

Once they were lined up properly, John Wilson stated the familiar lines.

"Who gives this girl away?"

Beth Wilson came forward. "Since her family has been lost, Mr. Wilson, and since Marlaina just asked me if I would do this, if it please you, I will give the bride away on their behalf, and I know for certain Marlaina's sorely missed parents will approve of this marriage wherever they may be at this time. As a matter of fact, I'll bet you they are looking down on us right now from up there."

Beth reached up with both arms pointed at heaven.

John Wilson looked at the beautiful girl. She was the best prize in all of the county.

"We are gathered together on this humble occasion to bless the marriage of these two members of our community in holy matrimony. I hope I said that right. Do you accept Aiden Wilson as your husband?" he asked her.

"Yes, I do."

"And Aiden, do you accept Marlaina Kreuz as your bride?"

"I do."

"You may place the ring on the bride's finger."

"I don't have one, sir."

"You do now." His mother placed her wedding ring in Aiden's hand. "Go ahead, son."

Aiden placed the ring on Marlaina's finger. He looked in her eyes. She was everything he'd ever wanted, and now it was official.

"And Marlaina, you may now place the ring on the husband's finger."

She was at a loss.

"Here it is," the sheriff said. "If I can get it off my finger. There. It is yours."

Marlaina kissed him.

"Thank you, dad," she said. She placed the ring on Aiden's finger.

"Is there anyone here who knows of any reason why these two should not be married. If so speak now or forever hold your tongue."

Silence.

"There being no objections, I pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss the bride."

The two embraced for several minutes. The crowd applauded. Several women were in tears as always happens at weddings. The town had never before seen a wedding quite like this one although there had been notable exceptions in the past which people still chortled about.

John Wilson called them aside.

"I'll order guard tower number two decorated inside and out for you to use as your wedding suite. Unless there's some sort of emergency, you can have it as long as you need it. At least a week. But you can probably have it a month or longer. I hope you enjoy it. I'm so happy for the two of you, that I could ball up and cry myself. May I kiss the bride, Aiden?"

"Of course, Uncle John."

When her sweet lips touched his, John was reminded of his glory days in high school when girls like Marlaina dated him and accompanied him to dances, church meetings, and to swimming holes where the kids would congregate and play in the water all day and all night.

"You are a very lovely girl," he said. "Welcome to our family."

"Thank you."

"Thanks for the wedding suite in the tower," Aiden said. "I had no idea where we'd spend our wedding night."

Aiden looked at the tower. Whatever his Uncle John was able to do to make it suitable for them would be appreciated. He and Marlaina circulated around the safe home's grounds so that everyone could kiss her, shake Aiden's hand, and wish them well.

"Thanks for the rings," Marlaina told the Wilsons. "If you wish, we can exchange them for new ones later and give them back to you. I know you are attached to them. I hope this offer doesn't offend you, because I don't mean it that way. I just feel guilty taking your wedding rings from you."

"Our loves go way past our wedding rings, dear," Beth Wilson told her new daughter. "I wouldn't mind having them back if that's what you want, because to be honest I feel a little naked without it. But you don't have to. We could also find another set for ourselves. There's a ton of wedding rings in the towns right now. But if you are attached to them, don't feel like we need them. They can be yours. Remember, its your love and not the rings that matters. We'll just get another pair for ourselves. Your happiness is all we want. I want you to know how much we love you. I mean, really...."

Marlaina teared up.

"Thank you, mom," she said. "You and dad are the best. We have always been so close."

About that time several biters ran from the woods, chased by the security guards who yelled to warn everyone. There just seemed no way to stop them from intruding no matter how many were wiped out. Twenty guards would never be enough to insure that breakouts like this would never occur. Marlaina took the bat hanging from her backpack and slammed it into both of them, crushing their skulls.

"Clear! Clear!"

Then, she stomped their heads flat with her boots.

"Clear! Clear!" she yelled once again.

She was bloodied from head to toe, yet somehow it seemed appropriate. That was how strange their world had become. The crowd returned to their partying as Aiden and Marlaina dragged the zombies down to the closest burning pyre and left them. Then, she washed up. Someone else would soon bring the wood for the final cremation of the dead at the end of the day. Already there were twelve of the dead resting quietly at the burning pyre's edge. Others offered to carry them for the couple, but Aiden and Marlaina were too proud to ask others to do their dirty work for them, wedding day or no wedding day. As far as they were concerned, just getting married was more than enough recognition of their true happiness and love for each other. It was also a recognition of them being grown up and ready to birth children for the community, something that was needed beyond measure if the human race was to survive.

They stood next to the pyre covered with the brain sludge that their bats had sprayed over everyone in the vicinity when they killed these zombie intruders. As far as they were concerned, it was their wedding, so safety of the guests was their responsibility also. Often youth, who are always taught to remember their responsibility to others, over participate in helping a community due to a trained sense of identity for doing what is best for the common good. Idealism and active service by the young has always been a mainstay of most human groups. They educated their youth to step forward and openly help others. This is a necessary thing if societies are to survive, since the older people become too fatigued over the years to do these things adequately. Fresh volunteers to replace them are a constant requirement as those of a previous "Jurassic Generation" begin to hobble toward their places of physical degeneration and eventual death. Eventually, it became the next generation's turn. They always gladly stepped up to man the castle walls of their people.

"I love you," Marlaina said.

"Don't I know it."

They went back to the party, said their good byes, and climbed onto the beautifully flower strewn landing of their prepared wedding tower. He picked up his wife and carried her over the final threshold to catcalls from the crowd below. They disappeared inside, finding the room almost luxurious by current standards. It was beautiful. They came back out side of their door and smiled and waved to their friends and relatives, tossing them kisses. Marlaina tossed one of the flower combos below so that the women needing husbands could enjoy grabbing for it.

"I want to thank all of you for recognizing our love for each other," Aiden said.

"I do, too," Marlaina said.

They blew a few more kisses to the audience, heard the catcalls that were expected at such gatherings of the newly betrothed, and entered the bridal suite.

Fifteen minutes later, the candles in the room were blown out, leaving the newly married couple in the dark.

The audience below applauded the beginning of the marriage night, especially the men who had received a most respectful kiss from the very beautiful bride.

#

Aiden and Marlaina spent a full week of honeymoon bliss inside the bridal tower. Food was hauled up several times a day in the arming basket that was used mostly for arrows during safe house battles. The newly weds were fatigued as were most of the survivors at the safe house.

The entire community was resting up from killing so many of the walking dead inside the safe house's zombie containment corrals. Many of these terminated zombies were escapees from the bigger cities coming from as far away as Philly and New York. The New Jersey Shore also fathered many of the newest zombie visitors. They, too, walked hundreds of miles in search of human flesh.

"The safe house is under attack too much. We need a safer and more isolated refuge or we are going to eventually be wiped out in a single attack. The zombies are going to kill us here same as they did when they over ran Lancaster. We need to explore the lands far away from here for a better fortress than this. I want to survey the far away places in Pennsylvania. There's got to be a better and safer place for us in an area the zombies cannot reach." Marlaina told Aiden.

"Why?"

"For one thing, Aiden, this safe house is too close to the road, that's why. The zombies just follow the highway, and it takes them right here. We need a refuge that is difficult to reach, something that is at least several steep mountains and rivers from the roads. It should be a place where natural impediments keep every zombie from finding us and reaching us. Otherwise, we will be overrun daily just as we have been here. This has become a strategically bad place for us to be."

"I'll speak to my Uncle about it," Aiden said. "I know he loves this place, but I have hunch he has to have arrived at the same conclusion on his own already. He's a military person, you know. Strategic position has to be one of his strong points."

"Might be a tough sell."

"Might be."

"If we take out on our own, we can do a Lewis and Clark expedition for a hundred miles and more, take notes, and report back as to places that would hide us from the walking dead. It'd be nice not to have them just walking in on us every day of the week."

"Right."

"It's very tiring."

"Scares the shit out of me," Aiden said. "Zombies are nothing but a constant threat here. I have nightmares of being bitten as I sleep. These dark dreams sometimes involve you being bitten and how I have to club you to death. It's very disturbing. I don't want that. Moving might end our security issues once and for all."

"Imagine a place where they couldn't approach us. Just a simple river with some depth would stop them, steep mountains would block them. We could build traps set out to lure them and detain them. We could use fences that would funnel them into a small area where they would be naturally corralled with no means of escape until we could come out at our leisure and club them to death."

"We might gain on them that way. That's for sure."

"I don't want our children coming into a world like this," Marlaina said.

"I feel the same way. It is not safe for children here."

"Exactly. In fact, because of the burgeoning dangers of this place, I have conflicting thoughts about kids."

"Same with me. I have doubts, but I really do want children. We need a lot of kids for all mankind to have even a small chance to survive inside this wicked zombie hell we live in."

"Of course."

"The human race deserves to survive this plague," Aiden said. "I hate to be repetitive, but I plan on doing my part. But it's up to you. What part I play in having them is far less than what you will endure to make them happen."

"Any children we have will be beautiful, Mr. Wilson," Marlaina Wilson said. She liked the sound of it. She had always wanted to marry Aiden Wilson and take his name. She kissed him. "It's not gloom and doom," she told him. "The glass is half full. We are going to have those children, and we are going to give them a good life. No matter what, in time, these zombies will all die out. They can only reproduce by killing us to make more of them. We can stop that in a safer place where they can't even find us. If we find such a place, we will win. They will lose."

Aiden knew Marlaina was correct. They'd discussed this on many occasions. All they had to do was survive. That way the zombies would eventually disappear. All human survivors had to do was not let themselves become zombie meals, and if anyone did get bitten, to get rid of them immediately so they couldn't resurrect as mankind's greatest enemy, the walking dead.

"With a better position and plan, we are bound to win," Aiden said. "All we need to do is to keep them from biting any of us and being certain we kill all of those who get bitten anyway, despite our best planning and skill. We've already cut their inroads into our population a hundred times better than we did on that first day at school when they attacked us by surprise and killed so many of our friends. The problem then was we didn't even know who they were and what was happening. We didn't even know to make sure our dead were really dead and couldn't come back as zombies like them. We are way ahead in the game now from where we were the first few weeks."

They saw several zombies staggering out of the woods.

"Zombies!" Aiden screamed.

Marlaina grabbed one of several bows and shot an arrow into two of them.

"Hit!"

"Hit!"

Three others were still walking. Several citizens emerged from the house with bats and finished off the stumblers.

"Clear!"

"Clear! Clear!"

Soon, the excitement was over.

"We need a new place to live," Marlaina said. "That's all there is to it."

"We'll both talk to Uncle John about it."

"If he doesn't agree, we need to do it on our own. We can't survive long enough here."

"It's done," Aiden said.

They went back into the bridal suite and made love. After all, this was their moment. They needed to normalize it at least for the first week.

It might be the only chance they were ever going to have to be in love...
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Lewis & Clarking

Aiden and Marlaina walked along the highway, searching for better places to move the safe house. John Wilson liked the idea, but he didn't want to lose two of his best fighters.

"Only if you promise to return and not get your fool selves killed," John told them. "I need you. You know I am very close to you."

"We have survived so far," Marlaina said.

"I promise. We'll be back."

"Girl Scouts honor, Uncle John," she said. She winked at him.

He couldn't stand to lose anyone else. These two were like his own kids. He had lost too much in the way of human assets in the past. Even for a soldier, there was a limit to how much collateral damage a man could handle.

The couple proceeded along the road side by side, covering the points at front, back and sides, constantly vigilant of any potential zombies who might stumble upon them. Within several hours they had not been accosted even once. To Aiden and Marlaina that meant one thing. They were way overdue. Sure enough, in a few minutes fifteen walking dead appeared on their left. The droolers had been walking slowly through the woods looking for humans. Their familiar zombie stagger was unmistakable. Their zombie arms floated outstretched in front of them. Their disgusting zombie death stench rolled out of the woods toward them. This meant the wind was coming from the zombies, so they were not aware of Aiden and Marlaina walking close by.

"Let's cut them off up ahead, while they are still up wind from us," Marlaina told Aiden. "If we are lucky, they will pass us unawares, and we might be able to club them before they find out we are behind them."

Aiden knew a good military strategy when he heard it, and Marlaina's idea was a good one. So they walked rapidly ahead at twice the speed of the biters and hid themselves by a crook in the forest where they waited. They reached this point three minutes before the zombie's slower funeral march. They couldn't resist a few kisses while they waited. The biters stumbled past them, and the pair soon began dispatching them with their baseball bats. The back of their brittle zombie heads caved in one by one.

In two minutes, they were stomping their skulls into the ground and yelling the familiar strain of, "Clear! Clear!"

Then, it was over.

The entire little zombie cluster was dead. No resurrection was possible. Their heads were shattered beyond any point of return. The cluster was finished for good.

"Pretty darned nifty, dude!" Marlaina said.

They slapped hands in the air and laughed. It had been a piece of cake.

"We're good," Aiden said.

"Yes, we are."

They assembled a pyre in a safe spot. Working hand in hand, they carefully piled on the extremely combustible bodies of the dead who were as dry as kindling, and set them afire. Soon, they were totally burnt. They shoveled dirt to extinguish the pyre and prevent the fire from spreading into the woods. Then, they continued down the highway. A nearly grown puppy romped out of the woods in their direction. He had evidently been stalking the zombies as a means of keeping himself safe from them. He seemed inquisitive and harmless, but Aiden wasn't sure. He held his baseball bat at the ready just in case.

"Let me talk him in," Marlaina said. "If he doesn't respond to my voice we can assume he's infected. If he does respond then he's still unbitten and he's probably okay."

"Sounds logical."

"Come here, sweetie!" Marlaina coaxed the mutt. "Come on, puppy!"

The dog's ears relaxed totally, and he rolled over and showed his stomach.

"Come on, baby!"

The dog crawled toward her, whining and wagging it's tail.

"He's okay," Marlaina said. "He just needs a friend is all."

The dog made his way to her, and he allowed her to touch him. She petted his head. It was soft and smooth. He was a yellow retriever, probably the last of his brood.

"Want to be friends, little guy?"

He whimpered and showed her his stomach, which was universal dog talk for "I'm not going to bite. See, here's my stomach. You can kill me now, and I won't even defend my self."

"Nice little doggy!" she said.

"What are you doing?" Aiden asked. "We can't take a dog with us."

"Why not?"

"He'll give us away with his barking."

"Wrong," Marlaina said. "He won't bark. He's been hounded by zombies long enough to understand that being quiet is his best way to survive. Every time he barks, he knows they turn and come after him. He's got to know that. Otherwise, he'd have become softened zombie food long ago. Besides, he hasn't barked once. So, he's figured out being quiet is protective."

"He'll hold us back, Marlaina."

"Au contraire," she said. "He'll be the biggest help we've ever had."

"How do you figure?"

"His little doggy nose. He'll smell zombies miles away. He'll be able to trail them so we can kill them from behind. We just need to calm him down and train him to stay quiet, unless he barks to draw zombies away from us."

Aiden had never thought of this. Marlaina had developed in her mind a true revelation, which if it worked out, would be useful to herself and to all other groups of survivors. A group of dogs could be extremely valuable, increasing their security, allowing them to sleep without having one eye open all night long and surrounding and harassing the walkers, driving them to total distraction and extreme fatigue.

"I bet they can drive these guys nuts if they bark at them and pretend to attack them over and over."

"Collies can move sheep anywhere they want them to go. I think this guy and some of his friends might do exactly the same thing to these biters. They won't be able to grab him, because he'll know not to let them. He can smell how dead they are so he won't ever see them as food. That means he'll stay clear."

#

Marlaina was good with dogs. She knew how their little minds worked. She could gain their loyalty.

"I worked at a vet's place several summers. Remember?"

"Yes, but that was a few years ago."

"It's like riding bikes. You never forget."

She named the dog Yellow which seemed a bit stupid to them both, but it was easy, required no mental ingenuity, and it worked well. Yellow took to Marlaina like a duck takes to water. Soon, we was following hand signals and sitting, healing, retrieving, and remaining totally still and silent as death when ordered. Yellow was attentive, wanting to do exactly what she asked. "Dogs have a herd mentality," Marlaina told Aiden. "They will find a leader and follow him all the way into hell. That's what makes dogs so unique. Friends for life, buddy," she told him. "Just like you and me. He'll love us the same way, because he knows that's what we want from him. You'll see." She was right. Soon Yellow loved him as much as he did Marlaina. They were buds all the way. Aiden started loving Yellow in return. He was all right. Friendly, obedient, and charming. He'd die for both of them in a Lancaster minute.

One day, she trained him to herd zombies into a tight circle. Within minutes, Yellow had it all figured it out. Yellow barked at their feet and ran in circles until they were so afraid of him they bunched up and covered their faces. All Marlaina had to do was slam them with her clubs, crushing their brains apart. Then, when they fell unconscious on the forest floor, both Marlaina and Aiden stomped their skulls flat with their boots.

"You are right," Aiden said. "I had no idea about how helpful dogs could be to our survival efforts."

"I didn't either," she said. "But it came to me the moment I saw him. I figured he'd been tracking those walkers. He knew to stay away. I think they were walking away from him. They were most likely afraid of him, especially the way he badgered them. Besides, zombies have trouble bending down to the ground where this little guy lives and bites. They'd have almost no way of grabbing him with their awkward hands. He might have been barking at them earlier until they did what he wanted and walked away from him. He followed at a close distance and pretended to attack them to keep them walking away from him. That was when I knew how useful he could be to us."

"Sweet."

"It's a win. We are not exploiting him. If anything, he is training us in how to best use him, because he needs to have a living leader in order to feel like a real dog. He probably tried making friends with the walkers and soon discovered what a mistake that idea was. He's lucky they didn't break his neck, and eat him."

The thought of walkers killing domestic pets and eating them was repugnant to them both. Soon, they had several new dogs learning to help them round up and remove zombies from their area. In addition, the dogs helped to hunt up rabbits which they trapped and shot with arrows. Of course, they shared their meat with their dogs. Along the way, as they trained their dogs, they found farms littered with corpses of zombies and animals. Occasionally they found cattle including goats, sheep, horses, and Angus. Soon, they had learned to herd them along the street. Using saddles they found in barns, they began riding their abandoned horses, nearly all of whom were already broken for such. This increased their range of movement allowing them to explore more and more territory for a new and safer home for their people.

"I never knew the way humans used animals for their benefit like I do now," Aiden said.

"Me, neither. I never knew it. We have both learned something very valuable together. This is an entirely new and useful insight, Aiden."

Soon the dogs learned to bark in different ways to signal if an animal they were tracking was alive or was infected with the plague. Such a bark was extremely beneficial, because it allowed them to stand clear of the four-footed dead who carried the Amish infection to humans just as well as did the walkers. Along the way, they rounded up and killed more than four hundred of the walking dead according to the records they kept as they explored the area ahead in search of a new home for their people. They placed the number of the dead in their logs using the highway mile marker. This allowed them to see how populated each area was with these walking dead. They also found which areas were devoid of them, but since the zombies were travelers, these areas could change numbers at a moment's notice as more of them came and left. Later, they would be able to determine even more about their habits and use that knowledge to exterminate them once and for all. It was theoretically possible to kill out the plague by clubbing and cremating all of them so that none of the virus survived on the earth in future times. This was a pleasing and sobering thought. It might eventually make it possible to return the planet to sanity.

Eighty miles from the safe house they found a series of jagged walled mountains locked in behind deep valleys, streams, and hillsides. These mountains were so steep that no zombie would ever attempt to climb them. They carefully surveyed these locked in hideaways. Finding no walkers for miles, they soon determined that they had found a myriad of hidden places where they could find peace and safety from the zombie killers. The steep mountainsides which zombies could not climb had a abundance of wildlife as well as nuts, root plants, wild carrots, and other vegetables the people could eat. More than this, these lands would support tons of beets, carrots, and other rooted plants. If these wild species of human food could grow in the wild here, then it was logical that the larger and more productive heritage plants would thrive just as well if not better in the same soil. They soon built fences, barns, and cabins in the protected and more gentle hillsides using the primitive tools they had harvested from the hundreds of abandoned farms they had passed. In the future, when they returned here with their safe house families, they could cadaver barns and homes for lumber, nails, and hinges to build even grander structures. Soon, they had slowly and safely hauled their cattle up the mountains using horses and ropes to secure them from falling back down the steep sides and sequestered their animals safely on the land, making certain they would not get out. They split up the dogs and left six of them to attend the small herd and protect them. Then, they took off to hook up with their people and lead them to this safely sequestered place where they would never again see a single wandering zombie stumbling upon them.

#

They had traversed one half of the approximately one hundred miles from their new home to the one they had left. Their group contained trained dogs, some new cattle they had rescued along the way and a wagon pulled by a bull. They also had their own horses with saddles as well as ten other riding steeds. They carried a several dozen saddles in their wagon for the Wilson safe house people to use on the trek back. Along the way, they hunted game and killed walkers who stumbled onto their paths. The dogs herded the biters in several ways, depending on the terrain and the number of walkers in each herd. By the time they were approaching the original safe house, more than ten months had passed. They knew that most of the people there had probably figured they were either dead or had decided it was impossible for them to return. Finally, they reached an area that they knew was very close to their safe house. Then, they came upon a truck which seemed seemed to be slowly driving toward them and surveying their travels. Soon they noticed was driven by their father, sheriff Robert Wilson as well as their mother, Beth and their sister, Lisa.

Marlaina and Aiden waved from atop their horses. The truck stopped several hundred feet in front of them, and their family stepped forth.

"Aiden?" his mother said. "Is it really you?"

"Yes, mom. Me and Marlaina."

"Oh, my God!" Donna said. "I thought you were dead for sure."

"Stand back!" Marlaina yelled. "Don't move another inch!"

The family stopped. Marlaina approached them cautiously. "No fast moves!" she shouted. "Raise your hands." They did so. "Come on, dogs. Check them out!" Her trained dogs meandered toward Beth, Robert, and Lisa. Soon their barks identified them as living beings and not dead walkers. Marlaina and Aiden turned toward them and kissed.

"Thank God!" Aiden yelled. "You are still uninfected!"

Aiden and Marlaina walked forward lifting their shirts, and allowing their family an intimate view under their clothes to check them for bites.

"Any bites?" Aiden asked.

"No."

"Good."

Then, they put down their weapons and both groups hugged each other.

"I missed you so much," Marlaina said.

"Dad," Aiden said to his father. They shook hands and embraced.

"Son, I prayed every day for you."

"You don't even believe in God, dad," Aiden said.

"I still prayed, son. You can pray without God, you know."

"I wouldn't have thought so," Aiden told his father, "but if that's the way it works for you, I'm fine with that."

"Most of us made it," Beth said. "A few didn't."

"The walkers?"

"Seems there's more every day."

"How many people are left?"

"Twenty-Seven."

"That's more than before."

"We took in some strangers. We had to. We had lost four adults and three children by that time," his dad said. "The ones we accepted would have died out there."

"So, how did the expedition turn out, son? Any living folks out there."

"No. Not one," Aiden said. "We were surprised by that. I thought for sure there would be plenty of survivors. There weren't. One hundred percent wiped off the face of Pennsylvania in that direction, dad."

Aiden pointed in the direction out of which they had just traveled.

"Wow."

"I see you have brought animals. Including dogs. How can you find food for them?"

"They find food for us, dad. They also let us know whenever walkers are approaching. That allowed us to sleep safely each night. In addition, Marlaina trained them to bark so we know if people they have located are alive or walkers. It works whether they are people or rabbits or anything else. They are bark trained to identify whether dead or alive. We can't survive without these dogs."

The sheriff smiled.

"I'll be darned," he said. "You kids are certainly stronger and brighter than I imagined."

"We found a safe place," Marlaina said. It has fields, mountains, streams, and the walkers cannot reach it. It's secured behind rivers, steep mountainous sides they cannot climb, and sharp jagged bluffs on the other approaches, and we left cattle, goats, sheep, chickens, and ducks, there. We need to get our people up there as soon as we can to protect the cattle and start a better life for them. Right now there's six herd dogs we trained protecting them."

"Fantastic," Beth Wilson said. The safe house is four miles away. Want to drive with us?"

"We need to protect these animals," Aiden said. "They are in danger out here. Turn around and we will meet you there. For us on horseback with these cattle it's about two and a half hours before we can reach you, depending on whether or not the walkers try to head us off first. That would take a little while longer."

#

The people came out to meet them as they approached the John Wilson safe house. The dogs sniffed the people, letting out barks that identified them as living beings and not as dead walkers. The people marveled at the horses and cattle that Aiden and Marlaina had with them. The animals were herded into the yard for protection. A fence was immediately erected so these small flocks could not wander away and be infected by the walkers and also that stray zombies could not come in and bite them.

That noon, one of the sheep was slaughtered and roasted slowly on a spit. After many hours, the mutton was cut into steaks, roasts, and other familiar parts. The people ate them along with roasted carrots, celery, potatoes, mushrooms, and other vegetables raised in their gardens.

In the Wilson safe house, Aiden and Marlaina sat down with Aiden's uncle, John Wilson, and discussed what had been discovered during their exploration along the roads.

"We have discovered and mapped an empty territory stretching all of the way to the mountain passes where we hid most of our cattle which we discovered and herded with us along the way, built some buildings and barns, and insured that walkers cannot enter that area. They can't get in. We tested it. The land is such that they cannot reach it. So, as soon as we reach our new home, we will have a secure place to live, filled with our own farm animals, and with more than enough hidden land to accommodate several hundred people. As I said, the landscape itself works to keep zombies from ever entering or attacking us."

"Eighty miles from here to there?"

"Yes. Those are our best guesses, sir. Give or take ten or twenty miles either way. I'm not a certified navigator, you know."

"Understood. Nor am I. You are probably correct on these distances. I commend you on building shelters for your animals and for our people. The two of you are very dedicated to our cause. I appreciate all you have done. All of us do. I don't think anyone else would have done as much as you have."

"How's the marriage doing?" he asked.

"I'm good," Aiden said.

"How about you, Marlaina?"

"I'm good," Marlaina said. "Considering that we didn't find a single human being all of the way from here to there, I didn't have a whole lot of guys to even have sex with besides my husband, if you know what I mean."

They all laughed.

"What a magnificent test of a marriage," John said. He smiled at them both. "I knew you'd be great as a couple. I have faith in both of you."

"Thanks, Uncle John," Aiden said. "Marlaina and I have been close all our lives. Marriage hasn't changed things in any way except for the better."

"I don't think I need to ask what that means," John said. "Having been married at your age myself, I'm pretty sure what you had in mind when you got hitched. I was not born yesterday," he said. A catlike smile played across his lips. "I am certain everyone in camp has a good idea about that as well."

"So what do you think, Uncle John?"

"I think we should leave right away. We need to get there, build some more houses, and harvest as much lumber and tools from the abandoned farms between here and there as we can get. We should also take the kitchens, bathrooms, doors, windows, everything that would be of use to us. Obviously, the dead have no use for these things whatsoever, so we won't be harming any of our fellow men, will we?"

"True," Aiden said. "It seems our plan is one hundred percent acceptable then. I think that is a good thing. You won't be disappointed."

"I know I won't. You know, son, I allowed the two of you to go on this exploration for a good reason. First, you both know how to take care of yourself in this awful world we live in. If anyone can stay alive out there, it's people like you. You can fight, observe, and learn new things while you do it. Like those dogs you trained. I would never have approved of that because of the food supply problem. Obviously, your insight about dogs was better than mine. You have proven that dogs can protect people with skills of survival that we will never have. They can alert us of approaching dangers and can identify dead critters from live ones and alert us by their bark whether they are tracking the living or the dead. That's a tremendous advancement for our safety and food gathering. You have taught me once again that other people besides myself have a large place in rebuilding our world. This use of dogs may be one of the biggest advances we'll ever have. You are very clever to have implemented this as a part of your survival tools. I cannot tell you how exciting I find this. It is totally fantastic."

Aiden and Marlaina were given their original wedding suite again. Their adventure and what they had done in finding a suitable zombie free living area were appreciated. The couple was held in awe by everyone. They could not wait to vacate their safe house for the better location. If things were ready in time, they'd be leaving for New Wilson in four to five days.

That night, Aiden and Marlaina crashed in the tower where they had spent their first weeks as newly weds. John Wilson had fixed it up again, and, when they blew out the candles, they felt safe for the first time in weeks.

"When we get to New Wilson," Aiden said, "we will be just as safe as we are in this tower."

Marlaina agreed.

Soon they were asleep. After eighty miles on horseback watching for walkers and taking them out, the two lovers felt like the walking dead. Their energy stores were drained. To be first class again, Marlaina and Aiden would require several days of rejuvenation. They embraced and entered unconsciousness within minutes.

#

Aiden and Marlaina were given the position of riding point for the trek to New Wilson, because they were the only ones who knew where they were going. The line of twenty-seven compatriots trailed for several hundred yards, partly due to the cattle and the pickups hauling trailer loads of food, ammunition, and tools.

"Forward Ho!" Aiden yelled.

The reference to old films was appreciated. Several members of the team chuckled, explaining the reference to those who didn't get it.

John Wilson was one of more than eight persons who volunteered to ride the horses for the eighty miles they had to travel rather than use the trucks and cars which were loaded with tools and supplies. John loved the feeling of a horse beneath him. In his past, he and his brother rode horses together on a regular basis, because their relatives owned horse farms, and their barns were always open for the two brawling boys.

"This is like old times," John said to Robert.

"Indeed it is," his brother replied. "We are going to really enjoy this."

Up ahead a group of zombies stirred in the woods. Marlaina sicked the dogs upon them. They soon had the bad guys corralled by the roadside. Several men approached and beat them to the ground with baseball bats.

"Clear!"

"Clear! Clear! "

"Clear!"

The zombies fell like shattered bottles and were soon crushed into the ground where they belonged. Several men stayed behind to burn them. Later, they came forward on horseback and rejoined the happy procession.

In the first day, the team traveled twenty miles and could have gone forty, but they didn't want to push the cattle that far and fast for fear that they would lose weight. They camped by an abandoned farm which they cleared of corpses, burning them in the back fields. A blue pond at the edge of the barn provided a perfect spot for everyone to swim, cool down, and bathe which everyone was encouraged to do since hygiene was an important tool in their survival efforts. Cities like Rome had persevered mostly because their hygiene was better than that of their foes. Modern Europeans and Americans had increased in numbers by bathing regularly and keeping fleas and other pests off their bodies and out of their clothes which protected them from a number of pestilences that had destroyed one European city after the other during the Middle Ages when no one bathed, and the stench of human flesh was in the streets wherever people walked together. Bathing was one of the unspoken heroes of the Modern Post-Industrial Age when sales of bathing soaps sky rocketed and people built bathtubs and toilets into homes that were equipped with real running water and protected with chlorine to keep bacteria and virus from contaminating their water supplies.

"Love the pond!" Marlaina said to Aiden.

"Everyone does!" Aiden said. He jumped into the water, stroking the surface with his hands. It was chilled, but in the mountains and foothills that was always the way it was. He marveled at the little fishes and tadpoles swimming beneath his feet. If the times had been different, he would be fishing this pond and frying up a catch for his family. He smiled, realizing that he would soon be doing just that in the beautiful and protected Pennsylvanian paradise they had discovered up ahead.

At dawn, they were on the move again. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were being cooked at the camp. The food would be placed in storage boxes and driven to them within thirty minutes. They needed a head start to cover as much ground as possible during the daylight hours. Who knew what they would encounter along the way. People could get hurt. They might be attacked by animals or walkers and probably would be. They could even be attacked by an army of other survivors who wanted to kill them out and take their stuff. It was still a dangerous world and the possibility of isolated criminal nations out there lead by unscrupulous sociopaths lurked in the backs of their minds like veiled nightmares. If they went far enough, they'd run into at least one of them if not several, and the ensuing conflict could be devastating if not terminal for the Wilson militia.

Lisa and Brayton Bormann, her boyfriend, rode two of the horses. They were together all the time now. Soon they'd be getting married. They had gotten permission from Lisa's parents. His parents had been dead since the plague bit them. In these crazy times, all of them had been instructed that today's marriages needed to be made early in the lives of all of their children if enough people were going to be born to save the species. The human kill off was far higher than the birth rate which so far was exactly nil. Mankind was once again staring at an empty earth that was seriously devoid of mankind.

"Looks like a nice day, dad," Marlaina said to Sheriff Wilson.

"Yes, it does," the sheriff said.

He watched his son riding his horse next to his new wife. Aiden was as handsome as could be. He was a good man. His body had filled out in muscle. The sheriff always known his son to be fit. After all, Aiden was a strong and furtive athlete. He worked out, stressed his body, grew his muscles larger than average for a boy his age, and ran long distances just for the fun of it. Now that things had become nip to tuck, Aiden naturally rose to every occasion. He fought bravely against the walkers, never begging off, but moving forward and doing as much damage to them as he could. Even so, he was concerned about everyone in his unit, and he was focused on saving the human race against all of the odds they had endured. He had ventured forth alone with Marlaina and discovered a place deep inside Pennsylvania where his people were migrating under their direction to avoid all future contact with the zombies. Everyone would be safer soon, and it was all on account of Aiden and his wife. He had become an explorer of merit among them, a person who was not afraid of danger, one who would endure no matter what happened. His beautiful wife, Marlaina, was the same way. Wherever her husband had ventured, she stood by his side, and when push came to shove in a battle she fought just as hard as he did to protect all of them from the deadly advance of whatever enemy came near. He couldn't do better than a daughter and son like Aiden and Marlaina. As a father, Sheriff Wilson knew he had simply lucked out.

Up ahead a small group of people trudged through the woods. Aiden sicked the dogs on them. As they approached, the dogs acted differently. Their barks indicated these were living human beings. Aiden rode over to them.

The people wore a tee shirt with the words, "Jesus Town."

"Hello," he said. "How are you doing?"

"We're fine," the man who seemed to be in charge answered.

"My name is Aiden. Glad to meet you."

"Billie," he said. "This here's my wife, Donna, and her children, Sigurd, Johannes, and Hilda. We got overrun down at Jesus Town. Lots of us didn't make it."

"I never heard of Jesus Town," Aiden said. "Where's that?"

"Over that way."

The man pointed back where he came from.

"It's about fifty or sixty miles. It's not there anymore. We are lost. We aren't really sure anymore where it used to be. These valleys are so confusing, you know," He said. "You got any food you can share?"

The man wore a dirty shirt and trousers that identified him as a working man.

"Have any of you been bit?" Marlaina asked.

"Nope."

Marlaina pointed her gun right at Billie's head.

"We need to check you out for bites. That means all of you."

"I'm telling you we ain't been bit. That's all you need to know."

Marlaina smiled and touched his forehead with the gun.

"Either strip off those clothes so I can see if you are infected or I'll blow your brains to kingdom come. I mean it."

"Better do what my wife says," Aiden told him. "She doesn't mess around. You being infected or not means life or death to us. You are not worth the risk. Take everything off. We aim to take a look. If you are okay, you get to put everything right back on again and proceed on your way. If you are bit, you won't need to worry. We'll be killing you."

They obeyed his command and stripped. Marlaina and Aiden inspected them closely. Their bodies were covered with inflammatory tattoos, displaying intolerant and racist statements about White People. A cross floated on their front and a tattoo of Jesus on their backs. Their unwashed odor was not pleasant.

"When is the last time you folks bathed?" he asked.

"Long time ago. Probably three weeks at least."

"Get dressed," he told the kids. "You weren't bitten."

"I told you!" Billie said.

"Well, you told me," Aiden replied, "but I just didn't believe you. You see, I'm not paid to believe you. I'm here to protect my people. It's my job to inspect everyone we find out here. That's how I protect them. I don't know who you are or where you are from, Billie, but I'd be derelict not to inspect you for the Amish virus. If you were bitten and lied about it, then everyone here might be exposed to the infection again. No one gets near us without a full inspection. So, if being inspected pains you, I really don't care, because we were here first. However, it's not personal, and you shouldn't take it as such."

"We are out here alone. Think we might join your group for protection?" Billie asked.

"Nope. We don't take newbies. Especially racist pieces of shit like you. Now, what we'll do is give you some food to sustain you for three days, and then you will go on your way with our best wishes. But get this straight. Don't follow us. If you do, we'll kill you. Understand?"

"Yes," Billie said. "You sure ain't real friendly."

"It ain't a friendly world out here," Aiden answered. "Not one bit friendly, and you know it. With tattoos like you wear you don't seem friendly, anyway."

Aiden turned and headed toward the supply wagon. There he selected some food and put it in a bag. When he got back to where Billie and Donna were, he handed it to them.

"There's about three days of food here. That should see you on your way. We'll be watching you. If you turn back and follow us, it will be the last thing you ever do in your life. We will hunt you down and kill you. Now get away from us and forget you ever met us. If you come near us again, we will kill you. Make no mistake about that. We don't want to be friends with you. You have been duly warned."

The small group crossed the road and continued onward. Eventually, they disappeared over several crests in the land and were gone.

"We better not see them again," Aiden said.

"You are right. Strangers with racist ways are the last thing we need right now."

They continued their trek to the new settlement. The cattle moved elegantly down the road, their backs swaying ever so slowly back and forth. It was still a happy time for most of Aiden's friends, even with the shocking appearance of the white Christian racists from Jesus Town.

"Where do people like that get off?" Aiden asked his father.

"I'm not sure. But I know this. Whenever there's a breakdown in government, some people are susceptible to the most vicious forms of bullying and propaganda. Some of them start believing in cults and elevating themselves and their followers above everyone else. I'm afraid those are not the last of that type of thing we'll ever see in our situation," Sheriff Wilson said. "In fact, I'm sure of that."

"It's a sad commentary," Marlaina said.

"Yes, it is," the sheriff said. "But they are gone now, and hopefully it will be the last we will ever see of them. I doubt they will come back. You warned them. People of their ilk are chickenshits. Usually, they love to bully, but they fear a fight."

Aiden and Marlaina urged their steeds forward to the front of the line. They were approaching the thirty percent mark in getting to the new Wilson safe house. Everything looked familiar. The trees, ponds, fences, barns, and streams. This was where the land began to rise up from the high grassy mountainous range and rear its shoulders higher up toward the more massive mountains up ahead. Aiden loved the coolness and feel of the places they were traveling through. He watched as the dogs patrolled both sides of the road and made excursions farther out in search of walkers who might threaten the people and their cattle. They seemed to enjoy patrolling the environs for potential dangers, and Aiden loved his little pups for their loyalty, doggedness, and determination. One thing for certain, if you had a dog or two, you had friends who would always be there for you. A dog would fight to the death to protect his master.

"Come here, boy," Aiden yelled to the dog. It was their first, the puppy Marlaina had named Yellow. "That's a good boy." He ruffled the dog's ears and heard him growl ever so slightly in pleasure. Aiden found a stick on the ground and tossed it. Yellow jumped into action, grabbed it and ran back, dropping it at Aiden's feet. Aiden tossed it far and away again and again, and Yellow continued to bring it back to him. The dog would do this for just as long as Aiden wished.

On the sixth night, the stars shone bright in the sky. Aiden and Marlaina slept little. They were excited about reaching their new home and introducing the others to a sanctuary where the walking dead could never reach them due to the fortunate geography of hills, valleys, bluffs, and streams, all of which were impassable to the biters whose sense of balance was insufficient to allow them to ever enter such a difficult domain.

"We will be safe for the first time since our high school was overrun," Marlaina said. "That was the worst day of my life. I'd give anything to get back what we had before the world changed."

"I know. So many of our friends died there that day. They never had a chance. None of us even realized that such dark creatures would ever exist among us who would simply kill us as a matter of fact and as cool as a cucumber. We were sitting ducks. Ready for the kill."

Marlaina kissed him. She loved him so much. There was no way that words could even express her fondness for him and the increasing respect she had found for Aiden's bravery under fire. He was strong and polite, dashing even, and his muscled arms were always at the ready to protect her and all of their people from whatever the plague would ever throw at them.

"You are amazing, Aiden," she told him.

He smiled.

"You are pretty amazing, yourself, Marlaina," he said. "Did I tell you I love you, today? If not, I want to do that right now."

Her lips returned his kisses. There was no one else in the entire world who could ever take Aiden's place. She wanted him by her side no matter what. He was her constant companion, and he had been for years. If by some quirk of fate Aiden was ever taken away, she would wither inside and die. She would never survive his loss.

"I love you," she said. A tear fell from her eye.

"Why are you crying?" he asked.

"Because I'm so happy being with you. There's nothing else I want in this entire world. Just you."

They embraced and fell asleep.

That morning, as the sun came up, the dogs had been barking for seven minutes all along the perimeter, but they were so far out that not enough people had noticed and awakened in time. By the time Aiden and Marlaina were awake, people were screaming and running this way and that. Aiden grabbed his guns and bat and prepared for battle. What he saw was frightening. The encampment was in the process of being overrun by zombies, thousands of them, and what was more remarkable was that they were being driven into their camp by a larger group of white racist Christians belonging to the Jesus Town group they had met earlier. These cultists had driven the zombies into their midst as some sort of sadistic military strategy. It was very effective, because the unit was totally over whelmed as people reached for their weapons and did their best to kill the biters who were staggering through their midst.

Aiden was soon pounding the walkers right and left. Everywhere he struck, one went down but another appeared just as quickly and like clockwork. Men wearing Jesus Town shirts were pushing the zombies forward using prods against them, forcing them forward into the Wilson militia's camp. The struggle continued for more than an hour. Finally, the walkers began to thin, and the Jesus Town men and women realized their ploy had failed, so they turned and ran for cover over the nearest hills. Aiden searched for Marlaina. Had they gotten to her and infected her with their bites? Everything was so close quartered that he feared the worst.

"Marlaina?" he called, but he heard nothing. Not a sound. No replies. He grabbed a burning stick from the bonfire and walked through the camp asking his friends, "Have you seen my wife, Marlaina?" but none knew what had happened to Marlaina, until he came to his mother.

"She was grabbed by several of the white pride Christians, Aiden," his mother told him. "You father and I tried to get her back, but they fought us off. The last time we saw her she was being led over that hill as they retreated."

Aiden looked out into the cruel cold night. Without Marlaina standing by his side, the bitterness of its darkness poured out across the landscape in an evil flood of enormous proportions.

Aiden broke into tears. He sobbed and leaned into his mother and father's arms. "I can't go on," he said. "She's gone. I just can't believe it. Of everything that's happened, now this..."

"We'll get her back, son," his father said. "I promise. We will turn their entire world up side down if we have to. We will never stop until we find her and bring her back to us."

"I will kill everyone in Jesus Town," Aiden said. "I won't stop until I find them."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Search

Marlaina had been bludgeoned from behind. The last thing she remembered was pounding into the crowd of approaching zombies. Then, someone struck the back of her head, and she went down. As soon as she awakened, someone in the darkness put a knife to her throat and said, "You are ours now, so you can just forget how you got here. We own you, and the old days are gone forever."

"Let me go," she pleaded.

"Ain't going to happen. We need women more than anything. We got too many men and not enough ladies. You women are going to be put to good use here. Don't even think about escaping."

The words, "Jesus Town," floated over his tee shirt. All of the people in their Christian cult wore one. Those who were shirtless showed the same tattoos on their skin that she'd seen a few hours ago on the people they had detained and inspected. Their chests had the giant letters spelling out, "White Power" tattooed next to a Christian cross. Whenever one of them turned his back to her, she saw the face of Jesus and she read, "Come to Save Our White Race." It was frightening and disgusting. The world had been blown wide open on account of the zombie apocalypse. The chaos of changes had spawned this strange sect out of many others that were now peppered here and there all across what had again become the wilderness of America.

"I must keep myself calm," Marlaina thought. "No matter what happens, Aiden will come for me."

She determined that she would do everything necessary to survive. Her eventual rescue along with the two other women these fanatics had stolen from the militia would be avenged. The men would come, kill these monsters of Christian racism, and take her back home. Life would return to goodness. All she had to do was stay alive.

"What are your plans for us?" she asked.

"I'm not sure about the others," he said, "but you are mine. I captured you, so I got first rights."

"Rights?"

"The right to marry you and give you children," he said. His smile seemed sinister and dark. He had several cracked and missing teeth. It was obvious to her that his dental hygiene left a great deal to be desired.

"Come again?"

"You are mine," he said.

Who was this Neanderthal? Had he crawled out of a pit?

"Name's Leroy Tuddle," he told her.

A man came out of the shadows with a Bible in his hands.

"Is this your woman, Leroy?"

"Yes. This is mine."

The man introduced himself as a minister.

"I am here to perform your wedding, miss," he said.

"I don't want to get married to him," she said.

Leroy slapped her with his big rough hands.

"Shut up woman," he yelled. "No one asked you anything. So, keep your mouth shut. Understand me, woman?"

Marlaina looked at him with absolute hatred for what he was and what he stood for. She spit in his face. He slapped her so hard she almost lost consciousness.

"You will learn," he said. "And you will do whatever I say you do. Understand?"

She nodded that she did. In fact, Marlaina had had enough of resisting. From now on she'd do whatever he wanted of her. Her survival depended on her cooperating with him.

"Yes," she said, bowing her head. "I will learn, Leroy. If you will teach me."

"I shall," he told her. "It will be my pleasure and my duty."

His rough hand muzzled her cheek and fondled her hair.

"Please stand, miss," the minister said.

She stood next to Leroy.

"Do you take this man to be your fully wedded husband for better or for worse?"

She swallowed.

"I do," she lied.

"Do you, Leroy Tuttle, take this lady to be your fully wedded wife until death do you part?"

"Yes, I do, Minister."

The minister gave both of them a ring and instructed them to place them on their partner's finger.

"I pronounce both of you man and wife. You may kiss."

Leroy kissed her full upon the mouth, and that night he lay next to her as Aiden had done. He had filled her with his unwanted and evil seeds. She prayed it would not take inside of her. She had no intention of raising this redneck monster's racist child, much less, carry it to term and give it life.

He forced her to kiss the cross on his chest as well as the printed words that read, "White Power."

"Welcome to Jesus Town, my pretty wife," he said. "I promise you are going to like it here. Now, tell me you love me."

"I love you," she said.

"That's a good girl," he said. "See? You are learning. We are going to do just fine. I told you so."

"Yes, my husband. You were correct. You are always right," she said.

"How right you are, my love. How right you are." He smiled at her through his half rotted teeth.

"So you are my husband," she said to herself, then adding, in a near whisper, "And I'm going to kill you, too."

But all Leroy Tuttle heard coming from her lips was, "I love you, baby. Please don't hurt me."

#

Aiden took his father, mother, and sister ahead to show them how to reach and ascend into the sanctuary where walkers could never reach them. He was in panic over the loss of his wife. He had paused several times in the back along the road, hiding his head, so they could not witness his tears. Aiden's broken heart had given him such an upset stomach that he was now unable to eat anything at all. He knew he would lose all of his strength if this continued which would mean he wouldn't be able to rescue Marlaina at all. He was not going to let that happen. She was his wife. No matter what they forced her to do she would be his wife again and nothing that might be forced upon her by these Christian racists would ever enter his ears as long as she lived. He would simply forbid her to tell him or anyone else anything about it. It would be as if it had never happened which as far as he was concerned was the honest truth. It was also his form of forgiveness. She was his forever, period, end of story. Nothing else mattered but her love for him.

They ascended the hillside and saw for the first time the buildings Aiden and Marlaina had constructed for them. The animals were feeding from abundant grass. The dogs that were left to protect the cattle came running as soon as they saw Aiden. They whined and rolled onto their backs, attempting to get Aiden to pet them, which he did. "Good doggies," Aiden said. It was just what they wanted to hear. They jumped up on him and licked his face, then ran back to protect the small herd.

"You took good care of them," Aiden said. "Good for you."

"This is a beautiful place," Beth said.

"Stunning," his father said. "How did you find it?"

"I didn't find it," he said. "Marlaina and I forced ourselves to climb these massive hills to get up here, same as you did, and, as we did so, we understood from the angle of the incline and the degree of toughness in traversing it that no zombie could ever make it up here. The very difficulty of climbing up here convinced us that this place is beyond their reach. To be sure, we tested it, luring the zombies here. As we climbed they tried to follow us up here but soon fell off the mountainous incline. They really didn't get very far. But even as far as they got it was precariously dangerous for them. Most of them were badly hurt when they had to let go. They tumbled like cracking dolls all of the way back to the bottom and limped away. They knew they were beaten by the mountains. There was no way they could ever reach us again up here.

His mother kissed him. So did his sister.

"Marlaina's coming back, Aiden," his sister told him. "I won't have it any other way, and you won't either. Neither will she. Right now, I know that Marlaina is doing everything it takes to survive. She is definitely going to be together with you again, and that's final."

The two women hugged him. Tears hung in his eyes.

"I've got to have her with me," Aiden said. "I know she is thinking the same about me."

Aiden showed them around the place, then accompanied them to the road, so they could lead the others up to the safe place. He told them how to use the horses and ropes to drag cattle safely up the sides. Then, he turned, jumped into the saddle, adjusted his bow and quiver, his spears, his rifle, and his pistol. His saddle bags contained enough ammunition to get the job done right. He clicked the reigns of his horse whose name was Penn and started off in the direction of Jesus Town's Christian freak show.

"I'm going to kill you," he said as he started off in their direction.

"Be careful, son," his father told him.

"Careful has absolutely no place in my life at this moment, dad," Aiden said. "This is total war. Pure and simple. These guys have no idea what is coming their way. None at all."

As Aiden rode off, he mumbled to himself, "There's a world of hurt coming their way." He heard a bark. Behind him was Yellow and several other puppies. Lisa had sent them. They would be his only helpers. He felt better already.

#

Marlaina awoke that morning seeing herself surrounded by Christian freaks. They were washing themselves off. Most of them were shirtless, displaying their tribal colors complete with Jesus Christ's floating face on their backs announcing how he came for the white people, and, when they turned around how she saw the picture of the cross and the huge letters spelling "White Power." What a bunch of assholes, she thought. The very concept of their religion was such a complete and utter oxymoron, since Jesus had been open to all races and nations, or hadn't they heard? Obviously, the answer was No, they hadn't, because all of them were frigging idiots.

She already knew that Aiden was on his way. Women in this world had always possessed this sort of sixth sense about things like that. In her mind, Aiden was a sort of god who followed her about and protected her back while she protected her front and vice versa. Together, no one could beat her or him, although in the night's chaos they had accosted Marlaina. Her new husband, a man with few teeth whose name was Leroy Tuttle, had forced his way with her, hoping to replenish his seed inside her body whether or not she agreed to it, which she did by lying and saying she loved Leroy and wanted his children inside her. She already figured out if she stayed with Leroy for five years and had no babies that Leroy would marry another and put her right out of her misery with a gunshot to the back of her head. In Marlaina's mind at this moment, that might be the answer to her prayers. "Just kill me, for Christ's sake," she prayed. She certainly didn't want to carry the evil seed of Leroy in her stomach and feel the intense pain of his neo-satanic children being born into the white cultist's world of hate and pain.

She smelled breakfast cooking and decided it might increase her chances of survival if she could find where the women were cooking food. Soon, she was there, introducing herself to the women, many of whom were also captured, and telling them how she loved to cook. Marlaina began whipping scrambled eggs and bacon into cheese omelets. Men loved that sort of thing in a woman. The way into their hearts was through their stomachs. She cooked up a storm, doing so day and night, making herself smile and becoming familiar and loved by all. In this way, she hoped to stay alive so she could help in what she hoped would be racist Christianity's terminal madness in a battle where all of them died. She envisioned how Leroy Tuttle would look with his own blood dripping from her blade.

"How are you this morning, my fine husband?" she asked as Leroy came by for his meal. She filled his plate and kissed him. "You were so good last night!" she said. Of course it was a lie. It was all she could do not to wretch. No matter what she had to do to stay alive, she would, because the real goal was to live to be with her husband Aiden and have their babies together. It was a prize worth whatever she had to do to make it happen.

They broke camp and continued wandering over mountains and streams, probably in search of more and more women so the men could produce new Christian racists with white skin and prejudice against all but their own. These Christian cultists were pathetic. She was going to pretend she agreed with them no matter what. She wanted to escape, and her pretended cooperation was just one more payment that this priceless ticket known as her marriage to Aiden demanded.

Hate?

Oh yea, she could hate as good as anyone if it got her out of here and into Aiden's handsome loving arms. That was all that counted in Marlaina's mind, and she would have Aiden back no matter what she had to do.

#

Aiden slept with Yellow and his fine doggy friends in the Pennsylvania hills as evening tossed its stars like fireworks against the silvery flow of the Milky Way. Nature was beautiful at evening time.

"Hey, guys," he said as he fondled their ears. No matter how many times he scratched and massaged their warm furry ears, it was not enough. They lived on this stuff, and he wasn't against providing it. He leaned down and sniffed their canine hair which had a familiar scent to it. Each dog had its own odor, and most of them were quite pleasant. Otherwise humans would have ceased sleeping with them long ago.

The next day, he fed them scraps and jumped into the saddle and meandered through the fields, looking for clues to the whereabouts of Marlaina and her white Christian captors who, whether they knew it or not, were already on their way to hell once Aiden found them. He'd kill them all, making sure none would survive. Neither would their Satanic children. "I'm going to kill you," he said. Yellow heard him and barked. Did he understood what Aiden meant by that or was he just barking because Aiden was his master and had said anything at all?

It didn't matter. Whatever. Get it done.

The dogs sniffed the ground for zombies and people. Their world was filled with one or the other. Not as many as before. The battles were making fodder out of the dead whose arms and legs were dismembered.

"I'm coming for you guys," he said.

He dreamed he had rescued Marlaina and lay at her side nipping gently at her ear and cheek, all the while telling her just how much she meant to him. She would already know, because he had come for her.

The dogs picked up a scent. Was it the racists or was it the zombies. Both were pure assholes. Aiden thought that he preferred zombies stumbling forward for innocent human victims over white Christian racists who wanted to corrupt the kids and ruin the world for everyone including themselves. Nothing was so demoralizing than hatred of others, and Aiden didn't understand why people who loved their color, race, and nationality felt that they had to hate others who weren't like them. He knew they were wrong. As wrong as it gets. But you could bet your bottom dollar they'd keep it up just as long as they could breathe or rip a knife blade across a man's throat. He reached down and fingered his knives and swords. These were his friends. In battle they cut up the enemy, and that meant that the enemy could not cut him up. This was a good thing. Any soldier can tell you. If you had ever been in battle, then you had seen the craziness of imminent death haunting you amid the blood smells on all sides, until knife after knife flashed in the front of your face with the intent of ending your life. Only then you would know the holiness of a blade. When one came for you in battle, you would know how it was the impeccable strength all along its edge that gave you the force to persevere within the madness. It was that edge that protected you as you used it to slice out pieces of your foes in the hope of standing alone yet bloodied at battle's end, surveying the world you had silenced as your enemies blood glistened redly from your knife blade's edge. He pulled his favorite knife from its holster and sniffed its blade. This was his friend. Like his dogs and any men he trusted going into battle, Aiden would be wielding this metallic flange along its thickest edge. It glistened in his eyes. It seemed to stand gloriously tall and ready in his hand. Only with severe military discipline and reluctance had he brought himself to hide it inside its perfectly fitting holster for later use.

Day after day, scent marks picked up here and there by the dogs faded and went, then came back, then disappeared. The soft sounds of the dogs kept Aiden appraised of what they were sensing, human or walking dead, as they sprang into their work for the glory and deeds of their master. It was a responsibility to care for such loyal friends who worked for nothing and required nothing more than an occasional pat on the back or hugs at day's end. Even the loneliest man in the world can find himself heartened by the lapping tongue of his best friends, as Aiden had been finding. A good dog by his side wasn't his wife and the love of his life, but it was a truly loving being who appreciated him for what and who he was, and it was something good to have around when all things were said and done.

"We need to find Marlaina, guys," he said. "Let's get this done. I miss her, guys. Help me out here, please."

The dogs whined back at him, turning their beautiful heads, and scampering here and there, nose down, searching for just the right stuff.

Aiden jumped down off his horse. "Whoa, stay here, Penn." He didn't want to over work the animal. He'd need the beast for the long haul. It would be foolish to ignorantly over use a working stud then come up missing when a dangerous situation arose. He'd never be that thoughtless. Besides, survival meant planning. It required that every man be aware of the approaching conflict, cognizant to the extreme, and knowledgeable of all of the requirements for victory. Aiden intended to be that type of person who pursued the future with a stern focus. All his moves required a steady nature and the ability to overcome everything that fate tossed into his face. He would need every available faculty at his command, each in the right time and place, each ready for duty. Any mistake Aiden made in ignorance could become his terminal kill point. Foresight, not hindsight was all that mattered to Aiden. His mind pursued a deeply penetrating direction that focused him upon the task at hand.

Right now Aiden was in dangerous territory. The racist Christian hordes were out there. He knew nothing about them except that they were heartless and would do whatever was necessary to survive including the kidnapping of individuals like Marlaina. She had done nothing to entice them to take her. They had come on their own to get her. That required forethought, cunning, and total disrespect of her rights and those of her loved ones. He would have to be even more cunning than the Christian racist fringe or he would be falling inside their trap. Aiden knew he was fighting against time, events, numbers, and destiny. He did not even know if Marlaina was still alive or whether she was nearby or far away in some hidden place. There was no way of knowing. Only vigilance, hard work, and reading the clues the Jesus Town cult members left along their way could help him find her. It would either happen, or it wouldn't. There was no way of knowing the outcome. To the right, dogs were circling zombies, softly barking just the right way to tell him they were of the dead and not the living. Aiden wanted to leave them there, but he couldn't. They needed to be taken down. Every one of them needed to die and be burned to ashes on their brightly flaming funeral pyres. So he led his horse to the circled mass and began heaving his bat into their skulls.

"Clear!"

The habit of yelling that word was ingrained. It simply came with the turf.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

He counted twenty-one of them. They offered no resistance. The dogs had created such a ruckus that the zombies simply bunched up in a circle together where Aiden bashed them into zombie oblivion. He built a fire and torched them. Their volatile bodies burst into flames. They were so dry, they burned in no time. Aiden put out the fire and buried their ashes. He had peeled the grassy surface so he could roll it back over the pyre's remains and snuff the fire out completely. Soon, the place looked substantially like it had before he killed the animated corpses. No one would even suspect that twenty-one of them were buried here. No one needed to know. The least said about it the better. Wasn't that the way of the new world? What people saw could be used against them. The Christ freaks could learn from such a burial that someone else was in the area. Then they'd be vigilant. That would not be in Aiden Wilson's favor at all. Stealth was his only friend.

He mounted his horse. Penn was a good steed, and Aiden loved his name. Someone else had made it up. He could not remember who. He figured it was probably his father or his uncle. It was unimportant. His mind reeled with facts. There was too much going on for him to waste time on anything but the business at hand. Search and rescue. He was going to find his wife, Marlaina. His beautiful young sweetheart was out there in God only knows what kind of trouble. Aiden fully understood how each of these Aryan racists who kidnapped Marlaina and two other militia women were sociopaths at best. Their entire existence was based on false claims of white supremacy. What Aiden had seen of the white race, most of the world's problems had some way or another been created by whites. Hadn't they wiped out the Indian culture? Who then was to blame? The Indians or the Europeans who came two thousand miles across icy seas to slaughter them? He tried to put it out of his mind. He had to concentrate. He rode to the highest point he could find and searched in all directions. He reached into his saddle bag and took out the binoculars his father had given him. He raised them to his eyes and focused on the most distant ground. Then, he nudged Penn in a slow circle so he could see the entire horizon as he had done regularly several times each day. Aiden wanted to see it all. He had trudged a long way to get to each observation post. He wanted all of them to count. At first, he saw nothing. Then, a puff of smoke and some movement. They were to the north. He guessed there were fifty of them, but it might be double that or less than half. He'd have to get close to know for sure.

He placed the binoculars back in the bag, then prodded his horse forward at a slow gait. The dogs romped in front and back and to the sides as it suited them. Now and then, Aiden stopped and gently selected one of his dogs. Usually, he'd lift the lucky pup and carry it on his lap, allowing it to feel his closeness which helped to cement its loyalty and give it a more bountiful sense of self worth. As an occupation, searching and rescue so far seemed good to him. He liked the fact that he was moving closer to retrieving his wife from these bastards and that he would soon have her back with him. He looked forward to sleeping by her side and working in the safe house environs where zombies would be a thing of the past. However, the first thing he was going to do was to fortify it against armed human beings who were susceptible to false prophets such as the ones from Jesus Town. Mankind needed to rid itself of these criminals so that everyone in the future would be guaranteed true liberty and respect. The idea of kidnapping people and taking them into the country and hiding them was hideous and could not be allowed. These cults would have to be systematically hunted down and destroyed, until not a single vestige of their injustice remained. Only then, would mankind feel safe inside their communities, knowing that bigots and religious zealots would be contained and dealt with properly.

Three days later, Aiden had reached their camp. He watched from a safe distance and waited until nightfall to approach the Christian cult's position. Before he left, he painted his body and clothes in black ashes which rendered him totally invisible since no light could be reflected from him to give his presence away. He staked his horse and dogs so they could not follow him and give him away. He hated to do it for fear zombies would approach them, making them an easy kill. After total darkness settled in, he crawled and ran toward the camp, keeping his body in the darkest areas. He circled it, observing who was there and exactly where each one of them was located. He counted 34 persons before he found Marlaina. She was sitting with the man who had enslaved her and claimed his right of ownership and marriage to her. He was the person who had been breeding her for white children. Two other women from the Wilson safe house were also in there. They, too, were being bred by the rednecks who owned them. He was determined to rescue all of them alive. As the activities inside the encampment began to slow and people stretched out to sleep, he saw that his wife and Leroy Tuttle who now called himself her husband were side by side and Leroy was hugging her and kissing her lips. Marlaina was acting like she enjoyed it, but Aiden knew better. Leroy was a intolerant racist troll. No woman as fine as Marlaina would allow herself to become united with a loser like him unless she were under great duress including threats to her life. Other women were also being stroked by their men in the same manner. They had nowhere to hide from this sort of thing, so they had to perform whatever acts they felt obliged to perform in the open, except that the darkness pretty much hid them from one another and there didn't really seem to be any voyeurs taking advantage of the situation. This meant they might be a bit more sociable than Aiden figured. That could spell bad news, because the more ignorant they behaved as a group, the easier they would be to outwit and conquer.

On the other side of the encampment several filthy scumbags guarded the horses. They were smoking homemade cigarettes which seemed like a mixture of tobacco and sage of some type. They were exhausted from their day's work, so that when Aiden approached them, he was able to slice both of their throats with no effort at all. He slowly comforted the horses, most of whom still had their saddles on, loosened, but to the ready for quick getaways if needed. He took their reigns and slowly led them about one mile away from the camp, deeper into the field where he secured them next to a clump of trees for safe hiding.

Back at the camp, Leroy was doing to Marlaina what he had kidnapped and married her for. When Aiden placed his hand around the man's mouth and snapped his neck bones in the quick and deadly kill move that General Grayson Andrews had taught him, he bent down, and whispered, "I hope you found that satisfying, you son of a bitch!" By now his hand covered Marlaina's mouth. Her eyes stared at him in total fright. "Be quiet as a cockroach," he told her in a whisper. "I'll have you safely out of here and on the way back home in a second." He picked her up and carried her beyond the perimeter of the camp and didn't put her down until they reached the safety of the horses.

"I was so frightened," she told him. "They made me..."

He placed his hand over her mouth.

"You can never speak of this, ever," he told her. "As far as both of us are concerned this nightmare has never happened. Do you understand?" She nodded. He looked into her eyes. "I mean it. You are never to speak of this to me or my father or mother or anyone else. This is finished. Over. Kaput. We have our entire lives to live and this never occurred. Got it?"

"Yes, Aiden."

They kissed gently. Tears fell from both of their eyes.

"Know that I love you totally," Aiden told her. "There's nothing you will ever need to say about this."

She was so happy to see him. They had traveled many miles from where she had been taken from him. As he held her close, she felt her body shaking in his arms.

"I have to go back for the others," Aiden said. "Stay here and be totally quiet."

In the camp, he found both of the women from the safe house. The necks of their lovers were snapped effortlessly in the exact manner General Andrew had trained him. Easy as pie. He felt no remorse for them, because as far as he was concerned no one in this life deserved to live if they dedicated themselves to the low life missions of Jesus Town. He carried the women out of the camp one by one and walked the women to the horses where Marlaina was hiding. He tightened two of the saddles and placed them there.

"I will be back," he whispered.

He crawled into the camp hoping to shatter their will by killing more of them in the darkness. He came upon a cultist who was smoking some sort of weed he had concocted, slicing rapidly through his throat. Blood poured across the redneck's Jesus Town tee shirt. The dead man continued sitting and did not move an inch. Aiden rapidly went through the camp. Using his blades, he began slicing every male throat he could find and a few of the females if they seemed angered or alarmed at his presence. He stabbed one of the rednecks in the head as he slept, and the woman he was with whispered to him, "We are kidnapped. Please save me and my kids!" He placed his arm around the woman. She was Donna Schneidholst. He already knew her. She had been one of those who came through his lines. She pointed to her two sons, Sigurd and Johannes. "Wake them, he said. "Do it quietly if you want them out of here alive." She got them to the perimeter. Aiden, covered from arm to arm with blood, showed Donna's sons the indistinct forms where the horses and women were hiding. "Tighten your saddle before you use it but not tight enough to hurt your horse. If I don't get back, or if the racists try to attack, leave and take all the horses with you so they cannot follow you on horseback. Then, wait for me."

Aiden and Donna re-entered the camp. She found her daughter sleeping arm in arm with Wesley. As Aiden sliced Wesley's throat, Donna covered Hilda's mouth, and held her until she realized it was her mother. "We are getting out of here. Your husband is dead," she whispered. Hilda looked at Wesley for the last time. She spit into his face as the two women made it to the perimeter, prepared their horses, and waited for Aiden to return.

Aiden grabbed most of the rednecks' guns and weapons, tossing them into the fires. As they began to explode, he used two pistols to shoot every racist who jumped up from the ground. He tried not to shoot the children and women, but whoever attacked him received a fresh bullet as close to the center of their foreheads as possible and no matter their gender or their age. Carrying most of their remaining rifles and swords, he made it to the horses. Their encampment had been destroyed and their armory looted of weapons. Of the thirty-four racists staying there, he had killed sixteen and freed eight, leaving merely nine alive, some of them women and children. As a dangerous fighting force, Jesus Town had been greatly diminished. As far as everyone riding with Aiden was concerned it was good riddance.

#

In mid-morning, birds were singing. The dogs scampered back and forth amid people and horses, enjoying themselves in playfulness. They had paused next to a stream where they bathed. No one cared who was naked. They were only concerned with personal matters of hygiene. Each of them turned away from the others out of respect. Only Aiden and Marlaina stood together and watched themselves as they lent each other a hand in washing out the blood, ashes, and grime of the night before.

"They took..."

Aiden closed her mouth with his hand.

"I told you to never speak of this, Marlaina. You are simply my beautiful wife once again as you always will be. In my mind, nothing at all happened. It is done with."

Marlaina's tears welled up in her eyes. How had God created a man with such grace? How had she been selected to live her life by his side?

The newly rescued people washed themselves as well as the clothes they had on. As ordered by Aiden, they mounted their horses. He was sitting atop Penn and looking through his binoculars. He could see the camp. Smoke came from it. Evidently, the White Power Racists were burning their dead. Aiden saw that they had no horses at all. He had all them, and he intended to see to it that they never owned another horse in what he hoped would be their short remaining lives.

"What will you do with them?" Donna asked.

"Kill them."

"They are vile people," he said. He didn't really believe much in God. From what he'd seen of Christians, their absolute stupidity seemed to be one of their most obvious traits. It was enough to keep him far away from them for his entire life. He never explained what he meant by vile people. He didn't have to. Both of them already knew.

"What about the others?" Marlaina asked.

"Fine. All safe and well."

"They are safely inside the mountainous haven we made for them?" Marlaina asked.

"Exactly. The few minutes I had there with them before I left and came looking for you, they were happy and alive. I think that's also the way we will find them."

It was a five day trip back to the new settlement. He had personally led them to another place, far away from their eventual sanctuary. He did it, because he knew by his soldier's instinct that the Christians were most likely tracking them. They wanted revenge, and they wanted their horses and their women back. They needed them for breeding if they were going to complete their plan to rejuvenate their blessed white race.

That night, it rained. The horses and people alike were soaked. Aiden brushed down the tethered animals to cleanse them. He hugged each of their muzzles to let them know how much they were loved, and they responded as horses generally do with airy nostril sounds and swaying heads that demonstrated their happiness at how they were being treated. In the morning it had cleared. The doggies alerted them of intruders with soft barks to warn them of approaching trouble. Aiden's keen eyes soon located them. The stragglers from Jesus Town walked straight toward them, but at a very safe distance of two miles. He knew they could get away, but that would just leave them an easy to follow path right down the road to their new home. Once these cultists knew the exact whereabouts of their new settlement, they could come back at any time of their choosing and attack them. They could snipe at them from the steep mountainous ridge tops then disappear. After they got away free and clear, they could sneak upon them again and repeat their deadly sniping attacks, thus making their lives into a living hell. It was best to deal with them here and now. Aiden needed to finish it once and for all time by ending all of their lives. None of them could be allowed to get away.

A mile down the road, the remnants of an old farm stood like the guardians of the dead and dying. Aiden headed directly for them. The buildings were were still solid including the walls which were strong enough to either stop or slow down bullets and render them merely painful but no longer deadly. They sequestered their horses and dogs inside a large farmhouse they found in the back to deprive their racist enemies of any access to them.

"Here's what I want to do," Aiden said. "There's only a few of them left out there. Even though they are pissed as hell, I doubt if there's much fight left in them. They must be exhausted from hiking this way all night long while we slept using the dogs to warn us when they got near. Now, no matter what, I intend to end their entire little show here and now. It is too dangerous to allow any of them to escape from us."

"They'll fight," Donna said. "I know them."

"We will play it as it comes," Aiden said. "There's nine of them at best. Most are most likely women and children. Some of their women and children could fight, but it doesn't matter. We are behind walls in here. They are outside. There are no trees out there to give them cover, so they are going to rush us, and they will be firing. We have more rifles and ammunition than they have, so I'll bet on us winning this fight. They will be firing without aiming, but we won't fire back at them until they are only fifty feet out. That way we can't miss them, and their magazines will be almost spent, and ours will still be full. That should make the final show into an easy quail shoot."

"How many did you kill up there at the camp?" Donna asked.

"Ask me if I give a shit," Aiden told her. "They got everything they deserved. People like that need to be wiped from the face of this planet, Donna."

"I want to help," Sigurd offered. So did Hilda and Johannes.

"I hate those fuckers," Sigurd said. "They killed my dad."

The others agreed.

Aiden gave them fully loaded rifles and several fully stuffed magazines. He showed them how to aim and squeeze off at their targets. Soon, they were ready for the battle, as ready as they could possibly be. Everyone on both sides was armed to the teeth, but Aiden's group had all of the advantages.

"Here's how this will go down," Marlaina told the women. "Aiden and I are experienced. We will do the shooting. If we pull you back from the wall, stand aside so we can take a shot. Just back up and give us the position. You have ammunition, and you must use it carefully. Shoot only if they take down Marlaina and me. In that case, shooting them dead will be your last chance. Remember what I say. Take only one shot at a time. If you shoot bursts, you will waste most of your shots. Aim first, then pull. Do it slowly. Pull. Pull. Pull. Easy. Take time reloading. Otherwise, you will waste even more time. Just get it done right. Then go back to shooting them. Point directly at them first. Then pull. That's the best way. Don't let any of them escape."

"What's going to happen, do you think, Aiden?" Hilda asked. She held her rifle close, and after what Wesley had done to her she was ready to use it.

"I'm going to kill all of them," Aiden said. "That's what's going to happen. Every damn one of them."

"The kids?"

"Know this. If I kill them, it means they shot at me. Personally, I think those kids there are going to shoot me if they can. Their mothers, also. They seem like vicious little hoodlums to me."

"That's because they are ruthless," Johannes said. "I plan on taking down two of the women myself. I know just which ones I want."

Donna smirked. She also knew which ones. They were known by everyone as the bitches of Jesus Town. They were loud, hateful, patriotic as hell, and deadly when aroused. She'd aim right at them and hope to hit them between the eyes. Even a painful gut shot would be too good for the two of them.

"Are we going to die?" Sigurd asked.

"Yes. Some of us are going to die, but most of us are going to make it. Besides we are behind hard wood. Those slobs out there are on their own. There's nothing between them and our bullets. In addition, remember this. They are running. So, they can't take aim. All they can do is take slop shots, and slop shots almost always miss their targets, meaning you and me. We, on the other hand, can draw a direct bead on them and take them down. One at a time. I wouldn't trade places with them. Their attack will end them. It will all be over in a few minutes. Let me put it this way. I wouldn't want to be them. They are idiots. That's why they are going to attack. You just can't fix stupid."

"I shoot straight, and I have good reason to take them down," Marlaina said. "Trust me. I'm going to kill one of them each and every time I pull the trigger."

"They are charging," Aiden said from his window. "Everyone in position!"

The racists ran across the street, dodging this way and that. They kept their bodies low to the ground to minimize themselves as targets.

"Hold fire, until I fire!" Aiden said. Then fire only if you have a good shot, but aim well. Make your shots count. Mine will. Remember. One shot at a time and well aimed."

Like ants drawn to fresh honey, the small bank of killers proceeded toward the farm. Aiden's army saw their enemies' rifles twinkle in the dawn's early light, beyond the windows. The Aryans fired their rifles at the house repeatedly, emptying them of most of their bullets. Then, Aiden fired. The head of the closest redneck exploded emitting its deep red velvet liquor. He tumbled to the ground and was gone for good. Now, all of them took aim and fired. In minutes, it was all over.

Aiden and Marlaina, stepped outside. Using their pistols, they shot into the heads of each of the fallen racists to be certain they were dead.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

They proceeded body by body. Some were just youngsters. They had been proud to die for their people and their savior, Jesus Christ. Only one young boy who was about eight years old survived. He had not been shot. He was crying.

"Strip yourself of all clothing, son, or I'll kill you where you are," Aiden said. "Don't test me, or you are dead, son!"

The boy stripped off his shoes and socks, his pants, and his Jesus Town tee shirt. The kid was scared shitless. The tears rolled down his cheeks. On his chest was a cross and the same huge letters spelling, "White Power!" As he turned, the face of Jesus floated in tattoo blue with the words, "Come to Save my People!" The poor kid had been marked.

Aiden wanted to kill the punk.

"I hate your people!" Aiden screamed. "Do you hear me?"

The boy's legs went out from under him. He fell to his knees.

"I didn't do nothing!" the boy yelled. "Don't hurt me!"

"Fuck you!" Aiden yelled. He put his rifle up against the boy's head. The boy turned and looked him in the eye.

"Please don't."

"Do you deny your race forever?" Aiden asked in a loud voice.

"Yes."

"I can't hear you! Let me hear you, you little racist bigot!"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes. I deny my race forever!"

"Now we are getting somewhere."

"Do you deny Jesus Christ!"

"Yes!"

"Let me hear it!"

"I deny Jesus Christ!"

The boy was in tears and shaking.

Aiden bent down.

"The nightmare is over, son." Aiden picked him up and held him. It was a tight, fatherly hug. He kissed the boy's face. "I love you," he said. "I won't kill you. I promise." Tears poured from Aiden's eyes. "I love you. I love you."

Marlaina came over.

"You scared me," she said. "I was afraid you were going to kill the kid."

"I did, too. I could hardly keep from doing it when I saw those tattoos on him."

Tears continued to pour from Aiden's eyes. He hugged the boy even closer.

"I'm so sorry," he cried.

The people in the house stood and stared with disbelief at what had happened.

Aiden looked at Marlaina.

"Help me, Marlaina," he cried. "Please help me."

"Why, what do you mean, Aiden?" she asked him

"I want this boy, Marlaina. I want to raise him up the right way and pull all of that twistedness out of him. Will you agree to adopting him? Please?" Aiden asked her.

"Would you like a new dad and mother?" she asked the boy.

"Yes. I never had much of a family."

She picked him up in her arms.

"He'll make a good son," she told Aiden.

"Just one thing. Your blasphemous tats have to go. All of them," Marlaina said.

"Yes, mam."

#

Marlaina, Aiden, and their newly adopted son awakened. After several days of getting to know themselves and forming early family bonds, they neared the sanctuary. Their new son's name had been Peter, but they renamed him Cody, hoping that a whole new name would help him to unlearn his old, tainted ways. The boy needed a whole new identity if he was going to restart his life on the right track.

"Come on, son," Marlaina said. "It's a steep climb, so watch your step."

Zombies had been stalking them and their animals all day long and for several days. They had clubbed more than one hundred along the road. Now that the terrain had become steeper, the zombies retreated, falling away down the mountain side, dropping behind, then turning around, unable to operate on such radical hillsides. The zombies simply gave up and fell away, retreating from the Wilson family, faster and faster the higher up they climbed, until finally they were all gone. The three of them looked down at the scene below. All of the friends they had saved that week from the clutches of the Jesus Town racists were slightly below them on the hillside and hauling themselves upward and forward very carefully.

"Be careful, now," Aiden called to them. "We'll wait here for you."

"So, Cody," he said to his new son, "Do you like it up here?"

"It's beautiful, daddy," he said.

"No more zombies," Marlaina told him. "Do you like that?"

"Yes. The zombies are bad," Cody said.

The boy was cute. In five days he had already settled in as a close knit son to the two of them. He was easy going. They were glad to have him. Others might find a boy from Jesus Town an imposition, but not Aiden and Marlaina. They had enough love and compassion to accept others, especially an innocent kid like Cody. Now and then, Aiden watched the boy and wondered if he would really have killed him at the battle scene. Yes. He certainly could have, but for whatever reason, he pulled back from the edge. Aiden was not certain what stopped him. Cody was the last victim to survive the cult that had been such an issue for so many misguided persons. The saving grace was that he was still young enough to move past it. In mere days, he had shown few signs of his past ways. As the years rolled on, his new parents figured that he had merely been a passive observer of what went on around him. He was one of many desperate believers following cult figures who were making a lot of wrong assumptions and decisions. Cody was just a kid at the time. He didn't do anything. He simply watched. Now, he was observing a different group of people, and it was changing his frame of reference entirely.

The survivors of cult enslavement whom the Wilsonites had freed this week climbed up with Aiden toward the crests which separated their sanctuary from the land of zombies down below. Here, they'd all be safe. Their world would be much like it was before the dead people over ran society and killed out so many good ones who awakened in dead bodies that barely walked and stumbled after fresh living humans as their only food source.

The larger group walked atop the crest. Down below, the zombies continued to fall away. They moved out as soon as they stumbled into flatter more manageable lands where they fared so much better than on the treacherous mountainsides. This was a place they could never reach.

"Take a look, Cody," they said. "What do you think of this?"

Cody saw some children close to his age playing on the lawns under the watchful eyes of a loving community. He wanted to meet them. He hoped they would be nicer than the kids in Jesus Town who were seldom allowed to run off alone and just be kids for fear of an attack by the droolers who had murdered many a family child.

"Is it safe for them to play with me?" he asked his new family.

"Very safe, son," Aiden said. "Come on down. We'll get you introduced. By the way, never show them your chest and back until we fix it."

"How will you fix it?" Cody asked.

"I'm not sure, but we'll figure it out eventually."

Marlaina and Aiden shot their rifles in the air. Down below the people turned toward the crest where the people Aiden had rescued from the Jesus Town goons stood waving with them. Sheriff Wilson and his wife identified them through a pair of binoculars. They waved back to their son and daughter. It was good to have them back. Marlaina had been saved. Hours later, the group that Aiden and Marlaina led were introduced to the town.

"These people have suffered a great deal," Aiden said. "I want to ask all of you never to mention this event. Please do not ask anyone to speak about it. As long as they are home with us again, we have no need to know whatever it was that they had to endure. None of us should ever inquire about it. Nor should they tell us a thing about it. I want you to agree with me that this will be treated as though it never happened. I'm asking for a community vote on this, before we do anything else. If you agree we should not ask nor talk about what happened to them, please raise your hand."

The vote was unanimous. It was not to be mentioned. Forever. To all who lived here, it would be said that it never happened.

#

So, they went on with their lives, leaving much of the unwanted world behind them. This ensured them a more normal view of life than drudging up old tragedies might have allowed. They were freed of the recent past, of memories that could not die from lack of repetition in a thousand mouths. Instead, all of them had become innocent again.

The walking dead were a thing of the past. Over five to ten years, they would surely die out for lack of food. If not, hunters would decimate them, reducing them to final extinction. Besides, they had no way of replacing lost members.

"Someday," Aiden told his son, "we can return to our old homes, but I don't think we should do that. Already the homes that are left in Lancaster are grown up with vines. Trees are growing here and there in the streets and sidewalks. I think it's best we never go there again. I think this is the new world, and we should stay up here and never venture out."

"I agree," Cody said. "I have nothing to return to. Life in Jesus Town was no good if you know what I mean."

Marlaina missed high school and college, but in the new world such places were not necessary. Eventually, she and Aiden would go down there and salvage books from the libraries. They'd raid and pillage what was left of the over grown colleges and universities for text books, tools, and the paraphernalia of science. They could rescue some things they had lost. Eventually, knowledge would be reborn, and the lessons they had learned would be recorded.

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