 
ZOMBIE INVASION

By

R.G. Richards

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

R.G. Richards on Smashwords

Zombie Invasion

Copyright © 2012 by R.G. Richards

Thank You for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with friends. This book may not be copied or reproduced without permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is coincidental and unintended. This is a production of the author's imagination.

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Many thanks to all those kind enough to help me finish this book.

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ZOMBIE INVASION

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A NOTE ON CHRONOLOGY

The Zora Baker series contains four books. Zombie Invasion is written in a different style to deliver background information needed for the final book. Characters are sometimes hundreds of miles from one another. Some chapters cover a day, some only hours; others might span days with gaps between. With such a structure, the narrative cannot be strictly sequential; sometimes important things are happening simultaneously at different locations. Eventually, major characters will travel to Camp Vix. These are the stories that happen prior to the adventures of Zombie Zora.

R.G. Richards

Chapter One: April

April Dushell, a beautician at Rita's Glamoria, lives the slogan, "Blonds have more fun." The high point of her life — Homecoming Queen for University of Missouri at St. Louis due to massive illness from food infection while holding the title of Queen of the Festival at her very own Stinwic's Beauty College. Before that, she won several small contests, including Little Miss America, Miss Missouri Teen, and Miss St. Louis Teen. Before that, she won several small contests, including Little Miss America, Miss Missouri Teen, and Miss St. Louis. Her largest cash reward was for $5,000 as a finalist in the state's Miss Missouri contest. She was hoping to win and move on to the Miss America contest, but that dream ended with her loss.

April took her prize money and opened a beauty parlor with four other women from her college. Each pledged $5,000 and the shop was up and running. April still had a penchant for the pageant circuit and from time to time she left her duties to chase her dream at a nearby event. Unfortunately, her string of successes ended and she faced the fact that this was her life and it would not get any better.

After five long years, life took a turn for the worse. April was in debt and about to lose everything. Time away from work cost her money, so she resorted to selling pieces of her share of the shop to fund her failed trips. She told herself it would be all right, she would win the next one and live the good life. It was all for naught. She had no money and several problems to boot. The more she thought of her problems the more she drank. When booze wasn't handy, drugs filled the bill. April didn't discriminate; anything she could swallow, inhale, or shoot into her body gave her relief from her tragic life.

To add insult to injury, today happens to be another Monday, a workday. The day was cold. She wore a patched coat she got from Goodwill. Her once golden locks now lay pressed under a wool hat. She didn't have time to fix her hair and planned to wear her stocking cap all day long. It matched her tracksuit and she could claim it was the latest style from her magazines.

"April?"

"Damn," April said under her breath. She barely made it through the door when Mary stopped her.

"Did you say something?" asked Mary.

"No, Mary, I didn't say a word." April gave a pleasant smile. "How are you today, Mary?"

"I'm just wonderful. How 'bout yourself?"

April wondered how this mealy-mouth woman gained the upper hand over her. They had all put in equal amounts of money to start the shop, yet somehow the others deferred to her and elected her queen. She was the only queen in the shop—the best looking, most athletic, and most desired.

Since they began cutting men's hair, the men had lined up to sit in April's chair. She knew how to pamper men, yet women refused to recognize her dominance. Her partners somehow preferred to elect the shop's troll over her and the troll never let her forget it. How 'bout yourself? You bitch!

"I'm wonderful, Mary, life is a peach."

April gave her best smile. Through clenched teeth she radiated a glow to mask her loathing for the woman.

"Your rent is due by the end of the week," said Mary. "We can't take any more excuses. I hope that's not a problem for you."

April chuckled. "No problem, Mary."

Mary waddled off and April went to her station. Her steady stream of customers had dwindled with time. Secretly she suspected Mary, Sonya, and Elizabeth of stealing them away. It's very odd that she lost most of her clients after events beyond her control, for instance, the time her doctor put her on bed rest for a week because of a bleeding ulcer. Never again would she take drinks from strangers or make the rounds to every open bar on Ladies Night. Then there was the time she went on the pageant circuit, only to return to clients who had made mysterious changes to their personal schedules, no longer free to sit in her chair.

Life had become a rat race and Mary was the chief rat.

April picked up her towel and dusted her chair, hopefully she would have a customer soon.

"I would have hit that old goat in the gap between her two front teeth."

April looked up. It was the only partner still friendly to her, Deidre Spire. She looked at the woman in Deidre's chair. She came over and stood next to her. "Hey, Dee, what's up?"

"Not a thang girl. Why you keep letting that wanch talk to you like that?" Dee put her hand on her hip, waiting for an answer.

"You know she wants to kick me out. She is just biding her time, waiting until Friday to lower the boom."

"How much have you saved, girl?"

"Maybe half." She took in a shaky breath. "It's been slow."

"What are you going to do 'bout the rent?"

"I don't know. She won't take half and she won't give me more time. Why did you guys put her in charge anyway?"

"It wasn't me, girl. I hate that cow. She is the only one who took accounting classes and can keep the books. I think she blackmailed the others into voting for her. Enough 'bout her, what the hell you gonna do come Friday?"

April sighed. "I wish I knew."

"Well here, you can take one of these off my hands."

Two of Dee's waiting customers read newspapers. She motioned for the first to go and sit in April's chair.

"Thanks, girl."

"No problem."

The woman for April's chair wore a fur coat. She was a medium-sized woman who wore jewelry everywhere the eye could see: a pearl necklace, diamond earrings, a brooch on her dress, and the hat she removed had a golden bird on its side. April helped her out of her coat and noticed three rings on each hand. How easy it would be to take one, they must be worth a fortune.

April put the sheet around the woman and began trimming her hair. Minutes later, April got a pleasant surprise when the door opened. In came her five-year-old daughter, Brittany. The little girl wore a coat and carried a Barbie lunch box. She reached high in an effort to hang her coat on the tall coatrack but fell short of accomplishing her task. Mary walked by and took the coat and hung it up. She patted the little girl on her head and turned and smirked at April.

April shivered. The uneasy feeling filtered down her body and produced a slight shaking in her hand. From experience, it would take a minute to go away. She smiled at Mary and went back to clipping her customer's hair. Though she worked on her customer, her eyes stayed on the little feet coming toward her.

"Momma?"

April saw matching golden locks and blue eyes. The upturned face was all aglow. Eyes wide as saucers took in her mother's form. Her neatly-pressed, little, white dress displayed a blue bow on the right side. Her little black shoes shined and she wore her best white ankle socks.

"Hey, baby, you ready for school?"

"Yes, momma."

"Have a seat, honey. Your bus will be out front in thirty minutes. Open your coloring book and color while you wait, okay?"

"Okay, momma."

Little Brittany opened the drawer on the small desk her mother bought for her and took out her Princess coloring book and box of sixty-four crayons. She sat behind her desk. The small desk faced the door so she could look up and see her bus coming. Brittany chose a Princess with a wand to color.

"Is that your daughter?" asked the woman April worked on.

"Yes, that's my little Britt Britt."

"How old is she?"

"Five."

"She is quite lovely."

"Thank you."

"You know what? I am on my way to Kansas City to attend a children's pageant. I bet your daughter could win. Of course, she would need the right clothes and hair. Does she have a talent?"

"You are talking about a beauty pageant?"

"Yes, there is one this Thursday night that I'm going to."

"She is way too young for those things. I know. I won several a few years back."

"Well, your loss, the winner gets $5,000."

April finished the woman's hair. She pulled off the cover and the woman stood. She opened her purse and paid April and walked toward the door. She stopped and appraised Brittany for a second. "Pity."

"Wait," said April. She came alongside the woman to whisper to keep the others from hearing. She hated how the shop folk stayed in her private business. "What age-group are you talking about?"

"She is a year behind the others. Her age-group is four to six in the Little Miss Precious Pageant."

"Does it lead to a bigger contest?"

The woman opened her purse. She handed April a card. "She can win easily. She will need the right clothes and a talent. Why don't you call me sometime next week and we can talk. I have to get going or I'll be late."

"What? What about this pageant? You said she could win." April's mouth went dry.

The woman appraised her willing victim with a treacherous grin. Finally, she made her offer. "I will loan you what she needs, but you will pay me back whether she wins or not. Is that understood?"

"Fine. I want in on this pageant. We could use the money."

April hated she said that last bit. Those words have always gotten her into trouble. Don't show vulnerability, she thought. Too late. She gave a nervous smile and hoped the woman would be a friend and not take advantage of her like the troll.

The woman looked at Brittany coloring. April saw a glint that gave her pause. What if the woman sensed desperation and was reeling her in? She watched the woman click her tongue.

"I'm staying at the Empire, room 614. Be there by nine o'clock tonight and you can ride to Kansas City with me. Don't be late."

The woman left. April stared at the business card. Mildred Threeton, pageant consultant. April smiled. This Mildred was the answer to her prayers.

That night, April rode in a cab that dropped her and Brittany off at the Empire hotel. She rarely went to this part of town. There was no need, this section was for tourists and travelers staying overnight in St. Louis. She had spent a night in one of these fancy hotels, long ago. An old boyfriend brought her to this very hotel after graduation. It's possible she conceived Brittany during that visit.

Brittany held her mother's hand as they walked into the hotel. April was out of time and this would be her Hail Mary pass. Their futures depended on Brittany winning a beauty pageant, and why shouldn't she? She was the daughter of a beauty queen.

April rode the elevator up to the sixth floor. They exited and looked for the correct room number. There was no turning back from this adventure. With a heavy heart, she knocked on the door.

"Hey, you made it. Come on in." Mildred opened the door wide.

"Thank you," said April. After the door closed, she brought her daughter forward. "This is my little sunshine, Brittany. Brittany, can you say hello to the nice lady?"

"Hello," said a squeaky voice.

Mildred bent and spoke lovingly to the small child.

"Well, hello dear. My name is Mildred. Do you know what a beauty pageant is?"

"Yes," said Brittany, her smile bright.

"Oh, you're going to love it. You get to wear pretty dresses and wear crowns that only a princess wears. Do you like that?"

"Yes."

"Very good. My car is downstairs. Let's get going, we have a ways to go to get there."

Mildred opened the door and they left. April's heart filled with equal amounts of joy and fear. The trepidation of starting a new life weighed on her. She took care of all her business after Brittany left for school. The mail had been stopped. Dee took what few customers she had for the rest of the week. She notified the school Brittany would be out for the rest of the week due to personal business, and she managed to duck the landlord. As she climbed into the car beside Mildred, she hoped she had done the right thing and prayed for a happy outcome. The car started and they were off.

Chapter Two: Brittany

The whole car ride to the pageant, Brittany thought of how valuable she was and how important she was to her family. April told her she was beautiful and because she existed, April existed. As long as Brittany was alive in the world, so was her mother. April told the little girl that to be remembered, she had to be like her. She had to win contests and then have a beautiful daughter to pass her good looks down to. Only then would she be remembered forever and ever. Though the young girl couldn't fully understand, she knew she looked like her mother. Maybe when she was old like her, she could be mistaken for her. Was that what she was trying to say? Brittany hated when her mother talked like that, it was usually when she had been drinking her nasty drinks.

Brittany readied for her pageant debut. Her mother stayed with her, but left her in the care of two other women. April sat on the couch, watching. Mildred sent a man in with a tray of donuts and cookies. He sat the tray on the table in front of April, bowed and left. The cookies fascinated Brittany. She had never seen cookies of this type—people shaped cookies. When she looked closer, she inferred they were pageant contestants like her. Each cookie wore a dress of candies with an icing sash and a crown of sugar. To bite one of the richly decorated cookies would be heaven. Brittany broke away from the pawing women to have one.

"Brittany! No! No sweets. You will pick up fifty pounds eating one of these." April scolded with a cookie in her thin hand. "No eating until after you win. And if you lose, you get nothing. Get back over there and let them make you beautiful."

"Okay, momma," she begrudgingly said. The words crushed her little soul. One cookie couldn't do all that, could it? Her mother was beautiful so she should know, she thought. She reluctantly went with the women, but eyed the cookies all the more. Just one, if I could only have a small bite of just one. That wouldn't hurt me, would it?

April bit into her cookie. Brittany watched. She was correct, it was heaven.

If not for the pawing women who pulled at her clothes, it would be her devouring that cookie. Instead, fueled by her anger and hunger, Brittany resisted the women and fought. She screamed, "stop it!" it was hard to fight against them, they were tall and strong and when they grabbed her arms it hurt.

"Brittany!" April yelled, "you stop it right now before I come over there and tan your hide!"

"They're taking my clothes, mommy. Make them stop!"

April rose from the couch with fire in her eyes. She went over and slapped Brittany across her face. The little girl sniffled.

"Don't you dare cry and embarrass me," said April through gritted teeth. Cookie crumbs dripped from the corner of her mouth. Delicious cookie crumbs. "You stand there and you let them make you beautiful so you can win. You hear me? You stand there and be quiet."

Brittany started to speak. She stopped when April's hand went high in the air above her small head. She looked at the hand and cringed. She held her tongue. All that she could do was nod.

"About time," said April.

April marched back to her seat and picked up another of the delicious cookies. She leaned back and let the great taste wash over her. Moments later, the man returned and this time he carried a platter with two tiny glasses. I know them, thought Brittany. Mommy calls them shotty glasses. He placed the tray in front of her mother, next to the cookies. He bowed and left. April downed both in succession. She picked up another cookie and gave an evil eye to her daughter to make sure she behaved.

Now that they had Brittany out of her clothes, all save her underwear, one held her arm out while the other sprayed her with chemicals from a contraption she held in her hand. It was sticky and twice the little girl tried pulling away in revolt. One look from her mother and she stopped. They sprayed her with a spray-on tan. When finished, not only was her little skin covered with a bronze sheen, but so was the top and bottom part of her panties. If not for the cap they placed upon her, her hair would have received the same rich sheen.

Next, Brittany dressed in a large bath towel and sat in a tall chair. She dangled her feet, reflecting how they didn't touch the floor. She was happy to sit after standing for what felt like days in front of a smelly fan. One woman came to her and looked her up and down. Brittany didn't like the way she stared at her. Finally, the woman took the cap off her hair and a new woman came in, clicking her tongue.

"I think I will go big and curly," said the woman. "Yes, those cutsie blond curls will give you an advantage over the other girls. But first, we better get you in your dress. I don't want my good work messed up later. Bonnie?"

"Yeah," said the woman who sprayed Brittany.

"Put her in her dress before I start. She's dry enough. Get her a bathrobe to cover the dress."

"All right," said Bonnie.

Bonnie left. She returned to the room carrying a black bag. She unzipped it and took out a beautiful white dress. The others gathered, blocking April's view. They hurried and put the dress on the little girl. They then brought in a bathrobe and put it on top of the dress. When they moved, April got a brief look at her daughter's dress.

April came closer and saw the designer label. "I was Homecoming Queen, two years running," she proudly gave the women her credentials. "In all my pageant days I never wore a designer label, especially a Versace." She smiled at her daughter.

"Have a seat," said Bonnie. "It will be another hour before Sandy finishes."

April devoured three more of the delicious cookies.

Brittany stood and removed her robe.

"Wow," said April, overcome with joy, "I couldn't see while you dressed her, but now, that is the most . . ."

"It's an original," said Bonnie. "We are going for a 'Pretty Woman' theme."

"Oh, that sounds nice," said April. "She will be sensational. I wish it could be me."

They put a larger size robe on their creation.

Sandy went to work on Brittany's long blond hair. She clipped the ends that ran midway down the girl's back and then pushed them up. She pushed Brittany's hair high and used an assortment of pins, spray, and gel to hold it in place. It felt heavy to Brittany. She wondered how it would feel when she touched it. It took hours to put the curls in place. When finished, the hairdo resembled a beehive in the back with curls running down all sides. The front and sides were straight and ran down the side of her face, ending in large curls.

Sandy left and a new woman came in with a makeup box. She held Brittany's chin and tilted her head. Brittany hated the pulling, but kept her mouth shut so as not to anger her. The woman was big with a strong manly grip and foul breath. The best solution was to think of winning the contest and picturing herself with the crown, then the delicious cookies. She did just that while the woman decided on a style and jerked her head around. Finally, the woman opened her giant makeup box and went to work. Makeup took half an hour and Brittany was happy to see her leave.

Brittany sat in the chair alone. All the women left. The fairy princess scenario lost its luster. It was too much work. She was not having any fun and wanted to go home.

April rose with the smell of whiskey on her breath. She stumbled to her daughter.

"What's the matter, baby?"

"I wanna go home, momma."

She sat in her tall chair, tugging at her dress.

"Stand up, baby."

Brittany stood and April took the robe off to get a full look at the designer dress. The dress was spectacular. The top was sleeveless, tight fitting with lace and clung to Brittany's upper body. The lower half spread out like an elegant gown.

April carefully wiped a stray tear forming in Brittany's right eye. She had to be extra careful so as not to ruin the perfect makeup job the woman had given her. Brittany's lips were ruby red. Makeup made her rosy cheeks even rosier. The eyeliner gave the young girl too much of an adult look. Still, when she closed her blue painted eyelids, she became a little angel again.

April led Brittany to a full-length mirror and stood behind her. "You are beautiful, baby. You are a vision. We came here to make money. If we leave now, we won't have a home to go back to. We have to stay, baby. This contest will make us rich and all you have to do is be yourself, baby. Just be beautiful in this beautiful dress. You are helping your family, baby. I want you to walk out on stage in a few minutes and smile. That's all you have to do to win."

"Okay, momma."

"Come on, baby, it won't be long."

Guiding her by her hand, April led her daughter through a door. They were on the backstage with curtains in front of them. All around them were the sounds of the pageant. Above them lights flickered on and off and they heard cheering. Peeking through the curtains, they saw a girl walking back and forth on the main stage. Brittany's little stomach churned.

"You see her, honey?" April whispered in her daughter's ear. "You walk out like her and walk back and forth across the stage. Then you come back here to me and it will all be over, okay?"

"Okay, momma."

Mildred found them peeking through the curtain. "Hey, you two. You're up in ten minutes. Come on, get in line."

Mildred pinned a number on Brittany and lined her up behind another girl. The numbers looked upside down and Brittany couldn't count that high. She stared at the numbers until a hand tugged her along.

April waved and gave a big smile.

"Will she win?"

"Yes," said Mildred. "She is a lock. The new talent always has the edge and Brittany is the freshest little thing you would ever want to meet."

"Yes, she is."

"Seriously. Come here." Mildred pointed to a man behind the table. He was an older man of fifty-five years. "That is James, one of the judges. He assures me that Brittany will win the $5,000 prize and can possibly win more if you are interested."

"Yeah, how?" asked April. The thought of making more money thrilled her.

Brittany was close and heard their words up to that point. A roar from the crowd startled her. She would win, she thought. That would save mommy. Her heart soared on the news. She tried listening again through the noise, but only heard bits she didn't understand.

"Well, he likes taking pictures of the winner for his private collection."

April gasped.

"Oh, it's not like that. He's a good guy, he just likes to take pictures of girls wearing their sashes and crowns. It's quite innocent."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"But—"

"Shhh," said Mildred, "she's coming out."

A lady gave her a shove from behind and little Brittany walked out onto the stage. A glaring light struck her in the face, nearly blinding her. She focused and saw through the lights. The crowd cheered. She walked forward and more cheering came. Brittany found that with every step she took the roar of the crowd grew louder. It was as if she was a real come-to-life princess and her subjects loved her. Automatically her hand rose to match the wave she admired from television princesses. Her smile grew bright, electrifying the audience, producing more applause. They were hers and she would never let them go. Loud music played. She heard the song the women said was her theme. She waved more.

Brave legs began a slow march forward across the stage, while a confident head lifted to the roar of the crowd. Nothing could stop her, she was a vision. Brittany marched forward with hips swinging, sashaying to applause, in step with her music. Pretty woman, yes, she was that. She went forward to the end of the small stage and turned around, waved to all sides, then walked back. The little princess would have turned around and marched back if not for the busybody raining on her parade. The awful woman stood between the curtains and beckoned her toward her to the exit. Reluctantly, Brittany went but she filled her head with the applause knowing she was better than the glittered girls who stood around her with their squawking parents.

April Dushell was there to greet her. They hugged and the strong embrace told her she had done well. She saved her family. Those depressing nights with only her television and beauty pageants to keep her company paid off. "You killed them, honey."

"They liked me, mommy, I heard them. They liked me."

"Of course they did, baby. You are an angel and gave them no choice."

April gave the dolled up girl another hug. Brittany couldn't tell who shook more.

"Ahem." Mildred cleared her throat.

Looking up, they saw a strange look on her face.

"I need you to come with me, Miss Dushell. I have something to show you."

April broke her hug and kissed her angel on her rosy cheek. "I'll be back, baby. You wait right her, okay?"

"Okay, mommy."

Brittany's bright eyes kept her occupied. They darted from competitor to competitor, evaluating her competition to confirm she was the winner. She was sure of it. She turned back to peek between the curtains and view the last of her competition as the girl paraded down the catwalk. The girl was awful, she thought. She didn't have enough glitter and her hair had no extensions. She wore a wrinkled blue dress and flats instead of heels. Brittany touched one of her extensions and smiled. That poor girl would have one destiny—go home and cry tonight.

"Britt?"

Turning around, Brittany recognized her mother's voice. She left the curtain and the sad girl who wouldn't win.

"Line up here, Brittany," said Mildred.

"Okay."

Brittany stood behind twenty-four anxious girls. The last girl received a hug from her mother and came to the line. Brittany refused to look at her as she passed. Her eyes remained fixed on the curtain in front of her. A woman's garbled voice came to her over a loudspeaker. A small degree of uncertainty flooded her, forcing her small knees to knock.

The curtains opened and applause made its way to her. In an instant, she found strength.

Mildred stood before them. "Stay in line, ladies. Let's go."

Mildred led the way and they followed. One by one the line moved and at her turn, Brittany marched with more confidence. Into the bright lights she marched to thunderous applause, applause she knew was just for her. She went slower to put a small amount of distance between her and the girl before her. She had seen it done on her television shows as a method of gaining favor. An added wave and smile came next. They halted and turned.

"Third prize goes to . . . Emily Hunter." Applause followed Mildred's announcement. A girl in a yellow gown two people in front of her stepped forward and waved. Brittany noticed her smile wasn't as bright as it could have been. A man placed a sash around her neck. The girl waved again and stepped back.

Mildred consulted the card given her. "Second prize and runner up . . . Trista Carter. The lead girl took a step forward and waved. Instead of a gown to her feet like Emily Hunter, she wore a golden mini-skirt with black top and high heels. Brittany liked her look, she saw similar outfits on television and it attracted handsome boys to the girls that wore them. After she received her sash and an added bouquet of flowers, Brittany tensed, it was her turn. She knew it.

"And finally," croaked Mildred, "our grand prize winner. First place and winner of the Little Miss Precious contest . . . Brittany Dushell."

Thunderous applause erupted. Over the pounding of her heart, the noisy falling confetti, the cheers from the gallery, and congratulations from the two nearest girls, Brittany heard her mother's familiar whistle and catcall. It centered her, reminding her of where she was and what came next. Proudly she stepped forward, arm raised in the traditional princess victory wave. She thrust her chest out and watched the man put the golden sash around her neck. A girl, not much older than she, came forward with a tiara on her head and identical sash. The girl took the tiara off her head and placed it on Brittany's.

With a kiss to each cheek, the girl left. No one needed to tell Brittany what came next, she knew. Gallantly she strutted forward to the front of the stage amidst applause. She waved at all her loyal subjects before turning to make her way back.

April jumped up and down with applause, nearly falling out of her tank top. A nearby man whistled and turned a camera on her. She didn't care that she gave the audience more than what they had bargained for. She leaped for her baby. By the grace of god, she remained halfway in her loose top and with a quick adjustment, attention returned to her daughter, the star attraction.

Brittany didn't know that part of the applause was for her attractive, voluptuous mother who happened to show up on a monitor. If she had known, she wouldn't care, she had seen her goods on many occasions. She kept waving and when next to the other girls, she received a new prize, the red roses she should have walked with. No matter, she was happy to take the walk again. This time she noticed the giant television screen to her right. She was on it and waving. She waved harder and smiled brighter as cameras flashed in her small face. She was a princess.

* * *

After a photo op and celebrations, they went across the hall to the banquet room. As she walked to the room, Brittany thought about everything she experienced. Life was a whirlwind. The many congratulations, hugs, and good wishes she received thrilled her. Her nightly fantasies paled compared with reality. She had no idea the winners felt this way. The overpowering joy she felt excited her. She knew little about life, but if this feeling was what grownups felt, she couldn't wait to grow up. She didn't want the feeling to ever leave her.

Dozens of cloth covered tables filled the banquet room. Red chairs fit for queens and kings stood around each white table with gold trim. Brittany panted. Never before had she seen such a room. Five is not old, but with all her TV watching, she felt like she was a knowledgeable fifteen-year-old adult.

The decorated ballrooms from her wedding shows and sweet sixteen shows were no match for this room. Brittany gawked at the golden chandeliers and knew it to be true. Her mind stored away snapshots that she would be sure to revisit.

"My, my, my, don't we look the princess," said a man she didn't know.

"An enchanted angel if ever I saw one," said another.

"Stop fawning over her boys, she's spoken for," said Mildred.

While the little girl pondered the meaning of those words, she listened as Mildred chuckled with the men and ushered her and her mother forward. With every step Brittany took, her sash moved, announcing her presence. She loved it. The sound her sash made and the crown on her head erased years of isolation and depression. It was much better to be the center of attention than the lonely girl whose mother worked and left her with a television for a baby-sitter. Life was good.

Brittany eyed their table. It was the most magnificent table she had ever seen, enshrining her fantasy desserts. She stared at the plate of dark and white chocolate dipped strawberries. Next to it stood a milk chocolate fountain with a silver oval tray containing strawberries, banana halves, and long toothpicks. Oh, the joy of dipping a strawberry in that fountain of chocolate, it made her gush. Brittany could hardly wait for the opportunity.

"This is your table," said Mildred. "Only the princess gets her own fountain."

"You hear that, baby?" asked April.

"Yes, momma."

Brittany's eyes never left the fountain. Her head filled with dreams of plunging into the fountain. Perhaps she could coat her tiara with a layer of the sweet mixture. How great it would be to wear such a crown.

"Sit down, baby."

They all sat. Brittany paid no attention to her neatly wrapped silverware or the plate set before her. The chocolate fountain stole her heart and would not give it back.

Champagne poured, dinner was served, and toasts made. April's heaven overwhelmed her and captured her heart just as Brittany's heaven had. Each remained in their separate world and relished every second.

At the end of the night, they entered a new room, a dance hall. Brittany watched as adults danced. She didn't know how and with the absence of boys her age, had no wish to dance. She walked around watching. Contestants and their parents sat or danced. Brittany held her head higher so they could all envy her. She was the star, not them.

April danced with several men. Between dances, she chugged a golden soda from a tall thin glass. Brittany found the shape of the glass interesting. Every time the scantily clad servers passed, she reached her hand out for a glass. The servers gave her a compassionate look but never gave her a glass. She harbored a deep resentment toward them.

As Brittany waited for her mother to finish another dance, fright came over her. She saw her fantasy life transform into a nightmare. A man in a dark suit sat, staring at her. The way he stared gave her no joy. It was a new feeling, well, not quite so new. An old teacher of hers gave her a similar look. The other teachers say that he is in the pokey for being a bad man. The only other thing she knows is the girl who complained about him staring at her is no longer at the school. Her mother came to school one day and after yelling at everyone, left with her daughter and said she would slue them all.

That eerie feeling was back.

Brittany searched for her mother. In her exchange with the man, she lost track of April. Terror struck. The emotion was alarming. Going out under the bright lights of the stage was easy compared to this. She searched with passion but found her mother nowhere. Afraid to give up, she began anew and this time found success.

April sat on a couch across from the man she didn't like. Brittany went to her. Long gone was the thrill of her sash and tiara. Mother would help her, she knew it. April took a long drink from the towering glass she held. Brittany walked up.

"Momma, that man keeps staring at me." The little girl brazenly pointed at the old man across from them.

"No, he's not, baby."

"Yes, he is momma. He is staring at me and smiling, momma."

"Look at me, baby."

"Okay."

"Am I your momma?"

"Yes."

"I love you?"

"Yes."

"You love me?"

"Yes."

"Does momma ever lie to you?"

"No."

"Well then, you listen to momma when momma says that man and all the others are looking at you because you are pretty."

"Okay." Her response more mouse than lion.

"You do believe you are pretty don't you?"

She searched her mother's eyes for confirmation. Her mother's pleading look told her to answer in the affirmative. "Yes, momma."

"Good, baby. Now the nice man wants to take pictures of you in your tiara. He is going to recommend more pageants for you to compete in. You are going to win lots of pageants."

The girl gave the man a second look. She didn't like his smile. If it meant more contests, she could ignore him. Winning was fun.

"Okay, momma."

"Fabulous!"

April rose with care and guided her daughter to a door next to the man. Brittany held her mother's hand tightly as they passed. The door opened and they went inside. Moments later the man joined them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a camera.

"Let's get started, Beautiful."

April sat on a couch, leaving Brittany standing before the man. The man put the camera to his face and clicked the shutter button. Emotions flooded the little girl. Joy came from the pushing of the button and the flashing of the light. She felt like royalty. Fear came as she watched the man lick his lips and wink at her.

The pageant took place in an old school building. A janitor came in to clean. The man with the camera was furious and argued but the tall black man would not leave. He said he would not disturb them, but he had a job to do or he would get fired. The photographer relented and went back to taking pictures. Every so often he would attempt to touch Brittany to move her into a pose he wanted. The janitor would make a loud sound as if clearing his throat and the man would stop. He did more grunting than sweeping. Eventually, the man snapped his last photograph in frustration and left, muttering under his breath, threatening to have the janitor fired.

The old janitor took it all in and when the man left, he turned and winked at the little girl. She felt happy, wonderful. She waved at the man before her mother dragged her out. April mumbled something about privacy and manners that the little girl didn't understand.

Chapter Three: Zora

Zora Baker rose from her bed. She would like to say that she woke naturally; however, the screaming baby next to her would disprove that. She yawned and stretched. The crib next to her bed held her baby brother, Simon. Simon screamed and screamed, a newborn, barely six months old. His lungs are huge.

The young girl sighed. She looked at him with disdain. Another dream smashed to pieces by this little whiner. She should get up, but she didn't. Instead, she stared at him while he yelled. A blank expression shone on her face. The screaming attracted a teenager wearing an apron. She looked at the screaming child and then over at the stone-faced girl.

"Zoraphena! Hey! Dumbo! Turd face! Snap out of it!" Beth Ann shook her younger sister at her shoulder.

"What?" Zora asked.

"You zoned out again. Quiet him down before he wakes up everybody."

"Whatever," said Zora.

Zora got up in her pajamas. She rocked the crib slowly. Simon continued to cry. She yawned and rocked faster and faster, his little body bounced from side to side. Before long, he quieted.

"About time."

Zora's bureau held clothes for her and little Simon. She made her selections and placed them on her bed. First, she would need to change him. Lord knows what surprises she would find in his diaper, the crankier he became the nastier the surprise. Once, she opened his diaper to find what looked to be liquid cow patties. The green-filled diaper chaffed his skin and had her worried she might get blamed and receive a spanking. She spent the entire day in a nervous bind.

Quickly, she changed Simon and prayed to god for no surprises this time. He didn't hear her prayer. Zora stared down at the lumps of coal stranded together by creepy red goo, she cringed. Though nothing moved, if she were asked, she would swear it did. Her face turned into a mope. "My god, Simon. Why today? Why me?" This would be the first of eight diapers she would change today. Looking at the mess didn't bode well for the rest of her day.

Zora cleaned her brother and readied herself. Next stop, breakfast in the kitchen. Simon's little hands waved about as his sister wheeled him and his stroller into the kitchen. Instead of pulling out her chair, she wheeled him beside her chair and put a pacifier in his mouth. If only she could sit and eat. There was no time.

"Where have you been?" barked Beth Ann.

"Changing Simon," said Zora. "You keep feeding him that crap and you will be the one changing his diapers."

Beth Ann laughed. "Yeah, turd face."

Teasing Zora came naturally for Beth Ann. Every older sister teases the younger. Having ten years on the child added to the pleasure. Each day Beth Ann made it her mission to torture Zora. Usually she chose a new and better demeaning name, but as of late, the big-nosed girl had been sticking with a relatively short list. Zora found her best defense was to not engage. If she did, it would get three times worse. She chose to ignore her, though her blood rose tenfold.

"I mean it," Zora stomped her foot and tried looking menacing.

"You are such a baby. Look normal or I'll fix your face that way permanently." Beth Ann laughed. "What's the big deal anyway? They all did it to me when you were a baby. I'm just returning the favor." She gave a coy smile. "You should have seen the mess in your diapers."

Zora blushed.

"Oh yeah," teased Beth Ann. "Johnny and Sammy were the worse. They fed you this stuff they made behind the barn and the next morning . . . whew! You stunk up the whole house."

Zora took offense at her laughing. "I was a baby, I wasn't responsible. You should have been mad at them, not me."

"Oh, shut up." Beth Ann shoved a loaf of bread in the young girl's chest. "Start making toast and don't let the sausages burn while I'm in the bathroom."

"How many?"

"I don't know. Figure it out and stop bothering me, pee brain."

Beth Ann stormed off for the bathroom. Zora looked at Simon to make sure he was all right and then set the loaf of bread on the counter. She took the toaster from beneath the island counter and sat a silver tray next to it. She opened the loaf of bread and counted out four pieces. Zora placed them in the four slots and pushed down a lever on the toaster's side. It was now time to count.

"All right, Simon can't eat so that leaves him out. Okay, Anna, Abigail, me, big-nose Beth Ann, momma and daddy. That's six. Two pieces each makes twelve."

Zora counted out eight more pieces and put the tie back on the rest of the loaf. She put it in the bread box and went to the refrigerator. She scanned intently. Whatever Beth Ann fed Simon was there. She would find it and destroy it. She finished her sweep and began another. This time she moved items about to find her elusive prize. There, in the bottom tray, she found a dark bottle of liquid with no label. That had to be it, it was well hidden. She grinned. She opened it and put some on her finger for a taste. Her face contorted into a scorn, Castor oil. That could be it. That or something similar.

Unsure and afraid, she would keep an eye on it throughout the day. With a pencil from her pocket, she drew a line at the level of the contents and placed it back where she found it. If Beth Ann used the bottle, she would know.

"What are you doing, troll?" asked Beth Ann.

Zora quickly shut the door. "Nothing."

"Well get your little 'nothing' behind over her and finish the toast."

The four pieces of toast popped up as she trudged back to the counter. Zora placed them on the tray and put four new pieces in the toaster. She watched her sister watching her. Before long, Beth Ann turned back to the stove and tended to her sausages. Zora stared at her sister's back, wishing her eyeballs were lasers.

Simon cried.

Zora let him cry while she put in her last pieces of bread.

"Turd face," said Beth Ann, "shut him up before he wakes Mom. I've got enough to deal with. Make the table when you're done." Beth Ann pulled out a carton of eggs and cracked them into a large bowl.

The phone rang while Zora rocked Simon. She listened to the quiet mumblings of Beth Ann. Her tone gave her away, it wasn't good news. After placing the receiver back on the hook, Beth Ann's anxious expression said more.

"That was Kelly, schools out; they will be here by lunchtime."

Beth Ann went back to work. Kelly was the middle child of a set of triplets. Like her and Beth Ann, the triplets never got along with each other and ended up going to different colleges. Kelly had a car and she would pick up the others and they would be home soon. Kelly was both fast and reckless behind the wheel. That combination might get them to the house faster if it didn't get them killed first.

Zora dreaded their arrival. They teased her nonstop. She considered calling her older brothers and having them come to the house; they loved her and would defend her against the Sirens of Hell. It paid to have older brothers. She stared at the phone contemplating the phone call. Who should she call first? Thomas loved her best, but Paul was closer. Sammy and Johnny are the eldest of her brothers and sisters, born a year apart though they acted like competitive twins. They lived the farthest away with each trying to outproduce the other by way of family. Johnny, the eldest, had four children to date and broke the news last week that Zora may be an auntie again. While Sammy it seems, on purpose, sought out the companionship of a twin sister. They married and right out the gates had a set of twins. Sammy said they plan to have a set of twins every year. And now, Emily, Sammy's wife, is two months pregnant and showing. Clearly she will have another litter soon.

To invite them for dinner meant inviting their broods. Their dining-room table was huge. Ten chairs were around the table. That would do for breakfast and lunch, but for dinner, it would be her responsibility to get more chairs and set up a children's table. She debated whether to call. She needed them, but extra work would fall on her narrow shoulders. Her caretaker duties were exhausting. Mother says it will make her a woman. She only felt tired day and night and grew to hate children. Should she make the call? She stared at the phone against the wall. Picking it up felt right. Still....

"Turd face! Dumbo!" Beth Ann shook her.

"What?"

"Snap out of it and get the table ready. You better be done when I get back with the others."

Zora wondered how twelve pieces of toast were now on her tray. No time to think about it, she rushed to set the dining room table.

Beth Ann and Zora worked their system for breakfast. Beth Ann was seventeen and next year would be off to Somoa to assist the poor before returning for college. Zora would take over the cooking duties. This summer she will train under Beth Ann's tutelage on basic meal preparation. Her mother would cook for dinner and leave her with breakfast and lunch. Thank god for a family of five eaters, she thought. She could handle that small number. Already she made toast, boiled eggs, made sandwiches for lunch, and planned on a hefty amount of cereal for breakfast. She could do it, that is, if the others stayed away.

Zora ran a hand through her long dark hair, smiling at her plan. She stood next to Beth Ann and passed her a plate. Beth Ann placed eggs, sausage, and toast on the plate and passed it to her right to Abigail, the sister directly under Zora. The plate passed from Abigail to Anna, her younger sister. The next two plates went to empty places reserved for Zora and Beth Ann. Finally, John and Rebecca Baker came into the room. Zora carried a plate to her giant father while Beth Ann carried a plate to their distraught mother.

No one told Zora what it truly meant, she heard whispered words like distraught, manic depressive, postpartum syndrome and others tossed about. All she knew is that her mother was too weak to stand for long periods and it fell to her and the siblings before her to care for the younger. Sometimes to care for their mother, who never left her bedroom for long periods. Zora didn't look forward to that or to her yard work with the livestock later today. Chasing chickens and goats was not a fun job. She watched her mother, unsure how she truly felt.

Rebecca stood next to her husband, a somber look on her face. Her husband held a strong arm around her for support while she led them in prayer. Rebecca's hair wasn't combed nor was her face washed. She closed her bathrobe. "Heavenly Father, thank you for this day. Thank you for the food that's been prepared for our use. Please bless it to strengthen and nourish our bodies and do us the good that we need. Bless that we'll go about our travels in safety. Bless that John, Samuel, Rebecca Karen, Paul and Thomas will do well in their new lives and their families will grow up strong in you. Bless that Becky, Kelly, Jessie, our triplets of joy, will continue to be successful at college and will make their way back home to Eden to live in peace. Bless that we provide training for all our helpers that they may love you and abide in you. We ask for all these things in the name of Jesus. Thank God for mercy. Thank God for grace. Thank God for our good health. Thank God for our family. Amen." She quickly sat.

Everyone said Amen and sat. While they began eating, Zora looked around the huge half-empty table. Soon it would be overflowing with family. She wondered if Karen would come, she didn't know her oldest sister. Karen left home and never returned. They no longer count her as family, that is, none except for their mother in prayer. Zora thought of the crowds that would gather and it made her uneasy. She dreaded the afternoon and her future. She had to do something, but what?

Later that day, Zora walked down the road. A man, her father, took the strand of straw out of his mouth and watched her slow steady pace away from the big house toward him. John Baker looked up at the slow sinking sun and squinted before wiping his brow. It seemed to get hotter a lot earlier these days. He pulled off his hat and slapped it against his thigh before replacing it over his short crew cut. He hadn't shaved in a week, the farm kept him too busy for small pleasantries. He put the straw back in his mouth, grinned, then shook his head.

The girl pulled a suitcase behind her. It wasn't an ordinary suitcase, it was one of those carry-on types with handle. The only time the case had ever been used was when one of her sisters flew to Chicago.

Zora's little fingers gripped the handle and she pulled with a scowl on her face. Over her shoulder she gripped a smaller pack. Shoulder-length brown hair dangled beneath her Cardinals' cap.

She wore her best sneakers and completed her look with a tracksuit for her long journey. She was ready for whatever challenge awaited. Her mind was abuzz with different scenarios for where she would go and what she would do. She thought of her skills and how to let people know she was a hard worker. She could be on time, her proof, she hadn't missed a day of school since Head Start. Always present and on-time, employers would like that, not to mention she could cook and clean. She tugged and walked with confidence, nodding her head at every positive scenario. She could do it.

"Zoraphena!"

She stopped. A chill came over her. She knew the voice. She turned to face him. "Daddy."

John Baker pulled the straw from his mouth. His honey-brown eyes found hers. She quickly looked down. "What are you doing, Sweetheart?"

He sounded softer, she thought. He didn't know. How could he not? She had a suitcase and was walking away from the house. "I'm leaving you, Daddy."

"Is that right?" John stood in the doorway of the barn, leaning on a rake. "Come here and tell me all about it."

Zora tugged her suitcase from the road to him while he watched her. She didn't want to look at him, he frightened her. She had a plan and would stick to it. He was reasonable, much more so than mother. Daddy will let you talk, not mom, she would lower the boom and say because I'm your mother and I say so. She stopped in front of him, still looking at her feet.

John reached down. The strong hand that gripped her chin alarmed her. He was a big man, stout. The cold hand lifted her face. She dared to search his eyes for a clue.

"So. You're leaving me?"

She nodded quickly, a scowl beneath her nose.

He put his hands on his hips and looked even bigger. "Can I ask why?"

Zora didn't expect that. The soft voice, the non-condemning face, he wasn't mad. The dryness left her mouth and she could speak. "Well, it's too much," the young girl said.

"That's it?"

"I'm moving to the big city and working for a rich family. They will give me my own room and I won't have to take care of babies or animals ever again. I refuse to change another diaper for the rest of my life. I hate kids and I'm leaving." She sniffled.

"All right," said John, "tell me where you are going so we can send you your mail if you get any."

Her eyes grew three times larger. She didn't expect him to be calm. Where was the rage? She was so busy running through her arguments she hadn't given thought to the simplest of questions. "What?"

She needed time to think.

"Is that all you are taking with you? That little case and pack? What about your bed and your furniture and the rest of the clothes in your closet? Why, I bet you don't even have your new snow boots do you?"

"No." She hung her head down in defeat. She hadn't prepared as well as she thought.

"How about your toys and games, did you pack them?"

"No."

"Well, it seems to me that you would be leaving a lot of things behind. We can't have that. I guess I am going to have to go with you and help you move. That way you don't have to come back here ever again."

Zora thought about it. It made sense, though she had never heard of someone running away from home and their father helping them move. Was that even possible? She gave it more thought and eyed him. He might be tricking me, she thought. She looked around for her mother, thinking she was coming up behind her and they would catch her in their death grip. Thank god she wasn't there. She cleared her throat. "Well . . . I guess that would be alright." She looked up at him, waiting, hoping.

John Baker stared down at his young daughter. His face showed no hint of what he was thinking. "Columbia Missouri isn't a bad place to live, but if you want to leave, I won't stop you. So, Zoraphena," he said with his strong authoritative voice, "I'd be happy to help you move. Where would you like to go?"

"Umm . . . I don't know," she admitted. "Anywhere but here. I hate this place!"

"Very well," he said calmly.

She hated when he became calm, it meant she would lose her argument. She frowned.

"Pick a place."

His grin gave him away, she thought. She wasn't going to let him win, not this time. She had packed and everything. "Chicago," she blurted.

"Three million people and all of them armed to the teeth. They even have metal detectors in school to keep the kids from cutting your throat while you're reading in the library or using the bathroom." He ran his finger across his throat to indicate slashing.

"I don't believe that."

"Where do you think Al Capone and organized crime came from? You open up a shop and somebody will knock on your door demanding payment just to exist. You don't want to go there. No, not there!"

Determination fueled her. "Los Angeles."

"Gang capital of the world."

She puffed up with more determination. "New York."

"Ah, that's a good one," he said. "If the beggars don't beg you out of every dime, the carjackers will get you. The highest crime wave is in the northeast, little lady."

She puffed up again. "Seattle."

"Ah, rain capital of the world. It rains every day and night. Their saying, 'if you don't like the weather then wait five minutes, it's bound to change.'"

She saw a smirk. It angered her and drove her to search for the perfect place. She clutched her suitcase handle tightly. "Dallas."

"Redneck cowboys with no common sense. Bulls run wild in the streets. They even have a statue of them downtown."

"San Francisco."

He smiled and then chuckled.

"Fine, I'll find me a place and then I'm gone!"

There, she had done it! She put her foot down. Zora was happy with herself. That is, until she looked at him and saw something menacing in his dark eyes. The inviting honey-brown color was no longer present.

"You will leave this house when you turn eighteen and not a day before, like your brothers and sisters before you." He was tough now, playtime was over. Every word from the booming voice shook her.

"No!" Somehow she found strength. He wasn't going to win.

He shook his head. "You're seven years old. You want to leave, fine, you go stay with one of your brothers or sisters. Otherwise, you don't leave this house until you turn eighteen."

"I'm not staying with them." Her eyes burned with fire. "They have a ton of kids and I'm not taking care of anymore kids!" she thundered.

"Then how in the world are you going to get a job with your rich family?"

"I can do other things. I can cook, I can clean—"

"According to the law," he broke in, this time calmer. "You can only get paid for one job at your age and that is babysitting. When you turn sixteen, you can work at a fast food restaurant, but not before your sixteenth birthday. You didn't know that did you?"

Zora sniffled and then fumed. Her little nose squished into a sneer.

"Now how many years do you have to wait to do something other than babysitting?" His voice was softer, more understanding. She liked him like this. She lowered her head and he could see her counting on her fingers. She didn't like the results.

"I forgot my snow boots," she said. "I might need them if I go somewhere cold. I'm going to need a bigger suitcase anyway."

"I know, baby, I know. Come on, let me walk you back to the house and help you unpack. One day next week, you and I will sit down with that big catalog your mother loves and find out how much those big suitcases cost. What do you think? You think they cost a lot?"

"Maybe."

John picked up her suitcase and put an arm around her shoulder. They walked back to the blue two-story house she had come from moments ago.

"I'm still leaving."

"I know, Honey."

"I can do it."

"I know. But, before you 'do it,' let an old man give you a small piece of advice. Honey, this is your family. Family loves you no matter what. Those people out there, they will spit on you, try to kill you, steal from you, and anything else you can think of. They are not family. You have blood ties here and that blood bonds you to us. Your family can't hurt you sweetheart, not like the world. Do what the Bible says and cling to family and home."

"Okay, Daddy."

Zora got the most attention from her father, though it wasn't much. She was one of many children and both parents relied on the older children to care for the younger. She was fifth from the bottom with a heavy cross to bear. She took his free hand and they walked the road to their house.

"I'm still leaving."

Chapter Four: April

Thursday night was Ladies Night. That meant free drinks for the ladies and any man with enough gumption to don lady wears. April had her fill at her favorite watering hole, Pandemonium. She struck out all night with the guys, but found the drinks an acceptable compromise.

"Last call," shouted the bartender.

April rose and had no choice but to leave with the disgustingly looking, gapped-tooth man next to her. She sighed, "fifty bucks."

The man shook his head, "twenty."

"Fine, asshole! Let's go!"

April got up in a huff. The man smiled and followed. The bartender stood at the door and held it open for his last stubborn clients. April wondered if the bartender's grin was for her or her friend. The man shook his head as they passed and then slammed the door shut.

Her friend walked to a black Oldsmobile sedan. He aimed his keys at the car and it beeped. Instead of getting in the driver's seat, the man climbed into the back. April got into the back seat on the other side.

As she undressed, she thought of her daughter and how beautiful she had become. Once, she was that beautiful and desired by all. Mother Nature played cruel tricks; she gave you the body but no common sense. If only she had known to use them to her advantage earlier in life. She would be tons richer by now. Married to a millionaire and laying out by a swimming pool.

April remembered her youth and her beauty, items long lost to her. She had to get ahead in the world and give her daughter a better life. Her mother never gave her help and she was determined to be better than her mother. If she still had her looks maybe she could enter a contest herself and spare her daughter. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. Beauty is fleeting, she thought.

How quickly life turns. Two years ago she and Brittany were in heaven. She had prize money, interviews, and memorabilia. Their rise to the top was fast and furious, but like the discarded sections of a rocket that fell off mid-flight, they crashed and burned. Their high living ended and they returned to the doldrums of debt and obscurity. She was right to take a break from the pageants, she thought. Brittany complained about the photography sessions and deep down, so did she. There were other methods of succeeding and she would try them.

April sold her last share of her business. She kept her chair and worked as a beautician though she had fewer and fewer customers. With Dee on maternity leave and restricted to bed rest, no one gave her their spare customers. The selling of the business was not enough to cover her overdue and ever-present bills. She was in debt to Mildred and another pageant coordinator for services. April was forced to sell Brittany's college savings bonds for half their value, still, her debt was too great. She hated what became of her life and what she was forced to resort to in order for them to survive.

In a drunken stupor, she completed her task. She kept her mind focused on her youth and how men vied for her affections by giving her gifts for the opportunity to date her. Life was grand in those days. She redressed, exited the car, and crept through an alley. Stumbling in the dark, April crossed a deserted street and fell halfway through the next alley. Her head cracked against the hard pavement and blackness overtook her.

April opened her eyes to the morning light. She didn't bother figuring out how long she had been there. It happened so often it was no surprise. She made a quick check and breathed a sigh of relief; her money hadn't been taken from her. April got to her feet, walked to the end of the alley, and came to the conclusion she was close to home. She sped up and made it to her front door and went inside.

"Hey."

Her head lifted, she found it hard to focus. She struggled to put the chain on the door and lock it. "Hey, baby."

Brittany smiled from across their kitchen table. She got up and helped her mother to the couch. They narrowly missed a tumble to the floor—April's feet had a mind of their own and decided to go in different directions. With great effort, Brittany got her to the couch where she collapsed.

Next, Brittany brought a pan of water and a towel. She washed her mother's face while the woman twisted and turned as if the water were scalding.

"Be still, momma."

"No, that hurts."

"I'm almost done, be still."

April stopped resisting. Brittany helped her sit straight, then tapped her. Automatically, April's arms went in the air. Her half-conscious state made no difference, her body responded to its normal routine. Brittany lifted the blouse over her mother's head and threw it in an empty chair. She took off her skirt and helped her to her feet.

"Come on, momma, it's shower time."

"Help me, baby."

Brittany helped her into the bathroom.

"Turn on the water, honey and then get my clothes out."

"Okay, momma." Brittany checked the water temperature in the shower. "Hurry so you won't be late." She left to get her mother's clothes out. On her way, the doorbell rang.

Brittany left the chain on the door, opening it enough to look the person in the eye.

"Yes?"

"Hello, Brittany, is your mother home?"

Brittany looked at the smiling woman. The smile was a lie. Brittany eyed the woman. "How much?"

"Forty."

"Wait here."

Brittany shut the door. She picked up her mother's skirt and checked the pockets. She found three twenty-dollar bills. She put one in her pocket and gave the other two to the smiling woman.

"Such a darling child. Tell your mother if she is late again, the two of you will be out on the streets before dark. Have a nice day." The woman gave an ambiguous grin.

"Okay." Brittany watched the landlady count the money while walking away, as if expecting more to appear. She closed the door slowly.

Back to the kitchen she went. She had learned how to make coffee and brewed a cup before her mother showed up. She put in two cubes of sugar and a spoonful of cream. She stirred the cup and blew on it.

April walked by in a towel and waved before going into her bedroom. Brittany stirred the cup and blew on it again. After a quick taste, it was ready. She took it in to her mother. "Here, momma."

"Just a second, baby." April dressed. She then pulled a bottle of pills from her dresser and tossed three of the white capsules down her throat. "All right, baby, hand it here." April took the cup and downed it in one take. "Whooo! Pretty good, baby."

"Thanks. That was your new hazelnut. Did you like it?"

"Aainn, not bad." April handed her the empty cup. "You wait for the bus and be good, you hear me?"

"Okay, momma."

Brittany received a peck on her cheek for her trouble. April walked through the door and took off at a brisk pace. Down the street she went, yawning.

It took another ten minutes to reach the door. She gave it a shove and walked through. Mary gave her a hateful stare. Elizabeth gave her the same. She ignored them and went to her station. The three of them would work the day together. Each lady worked on a customer and had another waiting. Once again, her station was empty. April set up supplies, pretending everything was normal. She kept it up until she felt no eyes on her.

A woman walked through the door. She was tall and thin and wore a scarf over her hair. She looked around and then walked over to April's empty chair. April's heart beat faster, a rich customer who didn't know her. "Are you free?"

"Yes, have a seat." April helped her to the chair and wrapped a sheet around her. "What can I do for you?"

"I need my hair dyed. I brought a picture of what I want." The woman pulled out a sheet torn from a magazine.

"Okay," said April. She looked at the woman in the picture. It was a woman with a two-tone, dirty-blond hairstyle. April looked sharper. "Those are extensions. You want a dye job and the extensions?" she hoped the woman would say yes. She would make a lot of money and kill a lot of time with one customer.

"No," said the woman, deflating her. "My hair is long enough. Skip the extensions. I have to be on a plane in six hours. Is that enough time for my hair coloring?"

"Yes, ma'am."

April leaned the chair back. This customer would take her to lunchtime. She gave the footrest a couple of pumps. Took the scarf off and went to work untangling the mass before her.

An hour later, April had aluminum strips all over the woman's shoulder length hair. She worked at a fever pitch and kept track of the time while calculating how much she would make off the woman.

When done, a rest was needed. April stepped out the back door to have a smoke. She moved to the storage door a few feet away and sat. The space felt good, cold and hard, yet comfortable. She wished she could say the same for her fingers, they bothered her. She flexed them constantly, moving the cigarette from hand to hand. April tried thinking of how long she had been asleep and how long she had slept before that time. She lost track of time and eventually lost consciousness.

"April!"

Someone shook her. Her eyes were slow to open.

"April!"

"What?"

April fell to the side and hit her head. Mary shook her again. The look on her face, hateful. "What the hell happened to you?"

"What?"

"Your customer! Her hair is blue! How long have you been out here sleeping?"

"I wasn't sleeping," she lied. "I was resting."

"Well," the troll put her hands on her hips, "you can rest forever, you're fired."

"What?"

"That woman sits on the city council. You're fired, get out!"

"You can't fire me. I own this place."

"You sold out, remember? You are fired and I want you out of here. Right now, April! You get your shit and you get out of my shop. I see you again and I will call the cops. I'm not getting sued over you. Get out!"

The woman stormed off, slamming the back door. April sat dumbfounded. How could this be? She looked up to gauge the time. The sun was directly overhead. It can't be! It can't be noon, not yet. April rose and walked back inside. The shop held no customers. That was a relief. She could do her Walk of Shame without witnesses. April braved a look at Mary and Elizabeth, both shunned her. She collected her supplies—so nice of them to provide an empty box. She packed in silence and left without another word.

April hurried home with one thought in her head. She needed to use her rented computer before they came and took it away. She turned it on, good, it still worked. Brittany will hate it, but they have to go back to the circuit to survive. She typed in the search field: teen pageants, St. Louis, Missouri. She waited for the results and scanned them. It took time to weed through the unimportant contests, but she found it toward the bottom of the screen, a huge cash prize. She smiled. Thank god.

AMM - American Miss Missouri Pageants

A pageant for "Today's Girl!" It's Your Time to Shine . . . at American Miss! Three Age Divisions: (ages 4-6, 7-9, and 10-12), American Miss has grown to be the state's largest pageant system. First-place winners receive $10,000 and qualify for our National Pageant. Nationals are held in Los Angeles; with activities in Hollywood and Disneyland. New Ford Mustang Convertible awarded at Nationals with ten prizes from $5,000-50,000.

Request Information or Apply on line.

April read through the advertisement again. She clicked on the link and filled out the application. Brittany won a lot of contests and held great honors; she would be a sure win. With nothing to do but wait, she made a sandwich and debated whether to tell her daughter she lost her job.

* * *

April waited backstage, wiping the sweat from her hands.

"Our next contestant," said the announcer, "number eighteen, Adorable Brittany."

April peeked out at the crowd. The applause gave her hope. Brittany strolled down the catwalk in one of Mildred's high-priced gowns. April contributed by creating a masterpiece on her daughter's head. And last-minute bartering gave her daughter access to tanning equipment, eyelashes, and proper shoes. Brittany will win, she thought. She has to win.

The song Pretty Woman played. Brittany used the slow sexy walk they practiced for the last two days. The little girl waved at the crowd and taunted the judges like mother told her. She was a marvel.

April crossed her fingers and prayed. If they didn't win, she had no idea what they would do. She did the math in her head: I owe $800 for the dress, $200 for makeup and incidentals, and $300 for miscellaneous and officials who aided her. She deducted the prize money she hadn't won and decided she would have close to $3000 after paying off everyone. That would get them a new place, they couldn't go back. A text message gave her the bad news, they lost their apartment. She kept silent, no reason to upset her daughter, winning took priority over everything.

She watched Brittany with anticipation, mumbling figures to herself. She had hope. The crowd went wild for Brittany, she amazed them all. The young girl came back through the curtain to thunderous applause. April was first to greet her. She hugged her daughter. There was no need to pray, the crowd told her the good news.

"You won, baby."

"I did!"

"Of course you did, baby. I was Homecoming Queen, two years in a row. You come from good stock. No one is better looking than my baby."

April had time to give her another hug before the girls lined up to go back out onto the stage. She sent her daughter forward with a kiss to her temple.

Brittany moved to the end of the line. She kept her eyes forward and marched in line back into the bright lights. Cheers went up from the crowd. A band played and the host sang a song as they marched.

April peeked out after the curtain closed. She saw her daughter fiddling with the small circular card with her number on it. She panicked, hoping the girl didn't tear it from the dress. She relaxed when Brittany stopped and hoped she would find a way to upstage the others. April's hands shook and she felt weak in her knees. Her throat dried and she found it hard to breathe. She remembered all her pageants and wished it were her out on the stage. How she would twirl and smile and outshine them all. She regretted not giving all her trade secrets to her daughter. There was still time. She dismissed the thought and turned her gaze to the officials to await the results.

Mildred was there. She stood in front of a microphone clapping for all the contestants. A card was in her hand. She waited until the applause died to look at the card. Her face was placid and gave no indication of the winners.

April's heart fluttered. She studied Mildred further.

A woman rolled out a cart with three crowns. April gasped. Each crown she gazed on was bigger than the next. She imagined them on her head. She imagined them on her daughter's head. Excitement overwhelmed her to the point of fainting. Deep breaths allowed her to relax and remain focused. She listened intently.

Mildred picked up the smallest crown and approached the microphone. "Third-place winner and title of Princess in Training, winning a prize of $500 is . . . Trista Carter."

Trista raised her arm, waved, and walked forward. Mildred put the crown on her head and the young girl smiled. Her mother was a large woman. She clapped generously, jumped up and down and received congratulations from those around her. April heard the name and shock hit her. She thought she was having deja vu and it worried her. She then remembered the pageant circuit was a circuit of familiar faces. She relaxed. Her daughter beat them last time and she would beat them this time.

Mildred consulted her card. "Second prize of $1,000 and winner for Princess in Waiting goes to . . . Juanna Alvarez. The end girl took a step forward, raised her arm and waved. Juanna received a larger crown with more beads. Her crown shimmered as she furiously waved. Hoots and hollers went up from the right side of the crowd. Nearly everyone stood and applauded, alarming April. The young girl had a twin sister next to her. If she won second place, surely they would give first place to the identical twin. April held her breath.

"First-place winner," said a flushed Mildred, "and Queen of the Mideast, winner of the grand prize of $10,000 goes to . . . Brittany Dushell."

Cheers erupted from the audience. Everyone stood and clapped for her. Brittany waved as hard as she could. Her crown was the largest. This time she waited and received a sash, crown, and flowers. She walked forward under the bright lights, smiling and waving to every face she saw. Her song played. On her way back, she saw her mother. April was clapping and crying. Brittany moved faster and rushed back. She dropped her flowers and rushed into the arms of her mother.

"Are you okay, momma?"

"I'm fine, baby. Momma is fine. I'm so happy, so proud, so happy, baby."

"I won, momma. I won!"

"You sure did baby, you beat them all."

"Did you win like me, momma?"

"I sure did, baby. I was just like you and I beat them. Every last one of them."

April broke their hug and kissed her daughter's forehead. Her tears flowed and she kissed her forehead again before hugging her more. Brittany clung to her mother.

"I did it for you, momma. I won for you and we have $10,000."

"Thank you, baby." April gave another hug and all sound faded as she reveled in the moment.

Later that night, they attended a banquet in Brittany's honor. The room was setup similar to those of the past. Treats covered the head table. Brittany invited the other two winners to join her. They took pictures, signed autographs, gave interviews, and took turns at the chocolate fountain before sitting to eat.

While the children ate, April and Mildred were off in a corner. They talked in hushed voices. After which, they joined those at the head table. Brittany noticed Mildred and the man looking at her. She went to her mother's side.

"Momma," she tugged at the woman and whispered. "That man is watching me. I don't like him, make him stop."

"Shhh," said April. She gulped down a glass of wine and motioned for another. "How many times have I told you? You are pretty and that's that. Go back and eat, we have an appointment with that nice man later. Eat up."

Brittany walked back to her seat. She watched the man as she went, glaring at him. He smiled at her and began eating. She didn't smile back. She sat and barely ate. Her eyes went to the man time and time again.

After dinner, they entered a large room with more food. April and Brittany gazed at the spread of sweet treats with delight. A silver-plated tray contained over-sized cookies. They saw oatmeal cookies, double chocolate chip chunk cookies, peanut butter cookies, and lemon cookies. A tray of brownies mixed with squares of white and chocolate fudge lay next to the cookies. And by it, three bowls of potato chips. April picked up a soda and gave it to Brittany. "Don't make a mess."

Brittany eagerly took a sip of her soda. A woman gave her a small plate and napkin. She picked up a square of fudge, a brownie, and one of the giant double chocolate chip cookies. Without hesitation, she bit into the cookie and moaned. "That's good."

April walked her daughter to a small table with chairs. "Stay here and eat and don't make a mess. I'll be back."

"Okay, momma."

The little girl took another bite of her giant cookie. A woman came by and gave her a matching giant lollipop. She took a couple licks and then went back to her cookie. Brittany watched her mother leave through another door. The door stayed open long enough for her to see Mildred and the man who stared at her.

Minutes later, April came back through the door, smiling. She grabbed a cookie off the tray and caressed her daughter's face before going to the couch with her giant cookie.

A woman came by with a tray full of glasses of champagne. April drank one and put the empty glass back on the tray and then downed another. Before the woman could leave, she grabbed yet another. It didn't take long for April to be overwhelmed by the amount of alcohol she imbibed. From time to time the woman would return with more drinks to ply her. April drank like she was on a mission, downing drink after drink. She finished the two drinks the woman left for her and looked around for the woman again. Her hands shook and she felt unsteady. She needed another drink. Where was the woman? She was about to yell when the woman came through the door with another tray. "About damn time!"

The woman left quickly, a sour look on her face.

April kept drinking. She rubbed her hands, tension mounted. It wasn't working. Oh god! What do I do now? She drank all the drinks before her as fast as she could. "This will save us. It will save us." She repeated the words to convince herself of their validity.

The alcohol was working. Her head felt heavy, yet light. She lay on the long couch in a semi-sleep state, yet she held onto an empty glass of champagne. A man entered the room with a large camera or perhaps recording device, April couldn't tell which. Through her haze she knew he was one of the judges.

"As we agreed," said the man. He handed her an envelope.

"You have a few minutes and then we are out of here." April put the envelope in her purse.

"Well," the man said.

"Take it easy," she said in a rushed soft voice. "You will scare her if you are impatient. You have to be delicate, like this fine glass." April picked up her empty glass and rubbed it. She longed for another drink. Anything to keep her pain at bay.

"Well," the man repeated, breaking her trance.

Irritated, April rose and went to her daughter.

"Brittany, baby."

Brittany put her cookie down. April saw the look in her eye and didn't like it. She was a mother and felt her daughter's distress. She smiled brightly to ease her fears. She stroked her angel's hair.

"Momma?"

"Baby, this nice man wants to take your picture. You smile real pretty for the cameras and show momma you are a big girl."

"Do I have to?"

"This is saving us, baby. You are saving your family. Doesn't that make you feel like a big girl?"

"Okay," her timid response.

It killed April. There was no choice, she told herself. She would do it if she could. That was the god's honest truth. She had done worse already.

"Be strong for momma. We need this, baby."

April kept smiling to reassure the young girl. She left her in the center of the room and sat on the couch. Thank god a woman came into the room with a new tray of drinks. "Faster, okay?" April took her medicine and reclined on the couch to watch. Brittany looked at her smiling mother while the man adjusted her crown, sash, and body for poses. The shutter clicked and the light flashed continuously.

After a while, the man got bolder with his poses and touches. Brittany looked at her mother for strength. April was passed out on the couch, her last glass of champagne lay spilled on the floor next to her.

Chapter Five: Pipi

Mike Jones and his grandfather, Pipi, went on a trip to the Florida Everglades. They had made minor trips to the area to engage in camping and hunting. This time, they were heading deep into the territory to find trees and make camp. Pipi had a surprise for his young grandson. Mike knew little of his roots on his father's side. His mother was not fond of Indian heritage and discouraged all efforts in the household.

Pipi was full-blooded Seminole. His wife, Osceola, was part Seminole. They longed to pass on their knowledge to the next generation. Their problem was that out of four children, only one survived to adulthood, Josiah, Mike's father. Josiah could pass for white and took full advantage to infiltrate White America. He abandoned his heritage and embraced Westerners.

Bonnie was old money, transplanted from Connecticut. She and Josiah married and she miscarried three times in their first year of marriage. They decided to wait a year and were successful. During the birth of Michael, a near-death experience forced her to give up hope for more children. Her doctor tied her tubes the instant Michael came into the world. Bitterness overtook her and she blamed Indian charms and chants for her misfortune. She vowed the voodoo of the backward Indians would never touch her son. A vow she would keep as the center piece of her existence.

As a result, Pipi spent most of his time away from his grandchild. However, on one particular day, luck befell him. Bonnie took Josiah to a retreat in Connecticut. Michael would stay with next door neighbors. The old man made sure to keep out of sight to prevent her from changing her mind and taking the boy with her. With the parents gone, Pipi had a week to teach Seminole ways to a lost son.

"How far are we going, Grandfather?" asked Mike.

"We are nearly there, Matthew."

"You know I hate that name, Grandfather."

"Sorry." Pipi indulged the youth, he had a preferred name himself. He wanted to say, "Call me Shadow when we are alone." He didn't. The boy would not understand. The devil had poisoned him against their ways. He pondered how much to say to the child.

"Do you know I have a spirit name?"

"A spirit name?"

"Yes, I have a spirit name. When we travel among our kind we don't speak the white man's name to one another. You will visit our people in the camp tomorrow and learn our true names."

Mike nodded and kept walking. "What about me?"

"What?"

"What is my spirit name, Grandfather? I have one don't I?"

A wry smile crossed Pipi's lips. That was the reaction he wanted. He hated that it took eight years to get him interested, but he would take it none of the less.

"Tonight will begin your learning. You will have a spiritual name as well as a spiritual animal."

"Animal?"

"Yes. Your animal is your spiritual guide through this life. You are unaware of it now, but it is with you now, guiding your steps. You make no move without your guide there to help you."

"That sounds . . . interesting."

Pipi felt as if he walked on eggshells. His fists tightened. How could the boy not know? The boy wasn't mocking him and his ways was he? He resisted the urge to shake the boy as he wanted. He needed to be delicate. Calm down, it will work out, he told himself. He thought of how to proceed and came up with one reply.

"It is, my son."

"What is your animal guide, Grandfather?"

"That, I cannot say. To say means to betray all that I hold dear and would put me on a path without my guide. No, my son. Your spirit guide listens as well as guides. Should you reveal information about it to another, it will become angry and leave you. Without your guide, you will blunder into traps set by the enemy."

Mike laughed as they walked through thick underbrush. Pipi smiled. He knew the young boy was skeptical, his hateful witch of a mother lied to him his entire life. It will be hard to undone the damage that devil did. He would try. No! He would succeed. Destiny demanded that he succeed. He clutched his breast pocket to feel the note. It was still there, he smiled.

For a while, they walked in silence. The only sound available was that of Pipi slashing at weeds and undergrowth. Mike had a look on his face. His look was intense as if in deep thought. The old man stopped to see what the matter was.

"Grandfather?"

"Son?"

"Grandfather, why is my last name, Jones?"

Pipi chuckled. He turned and slashed his way through an opening and made it to a clearing. "Our family name is Jonnelarso." Ahead of them was a log and a pile of ashes from a long-ago campfire. "Sit, my son."

"Tell me, Grandfather."

Pipi took a drink from his canteen. He passed it to the young boy and sat beside him on the log.

"When Josiah left the camp, he left behind all that made him Seminole. He left his clothing and possessions. When I say he left his clothing, I mean he literally left his clothing. He was eighteen and headstrong. In the middle of our tent, he stood up and took off every stitch of clothing. Right there in front of me and his mother. He was a bold one, that father of yours. He said he hated Indians and everything Indian. He would not have any of it in his life and he stormed out naked as the day he was born. Your grandmother and I were furious. Josiah ran off with your mother. She bewitched him. Sending him to that private school was a mistake."

Pipi sighed. He hate he had fallen for the trick. One day a government man came to their hut and offered his son a full scholarship to an elite school. Pipi thought it was the answer to a prayer, a way to educate his son so the young man would return and uplift his people. That dream would never come true.

"Is that true?" asked Mike.

"The wind knows the words of the truth."

"Huh? What does that mean?"

"I would not lie to you, my son. I tried to keep you on the reservation with us, but they wouldn't allow it. It got so bad that they refused to allow us to see you for two years. Don't abandon your heritage like they have, my son. You must know who you are. Our people have a destiny and we have done great things. This I can say, my spirit guide showed me this. Our people are the future and you must embrace your people."

"I embrace everything."

"Everything that you know of, my son. That leaves a lot out. Tonight, we begin."

Pipi tapped him on his thigh and they rose. This would be their home for the night. They unpacked and prepared their large tent. The tent was capable of holding several campers. They would have plenty of room to roam about within its confines.

Mike gathered wood while Pipi fashioned spears from tree limbs. He brought bows, but intentionally left the arrows at home. This hunting experience the young boy will remember. The area held game and will give valuable lessons not taught in schoolbooks. His young son would soon be a man and needed to be treated as such.

After setting up their tent and having their wood in place for the campfire, they strode through tall trees in silence. The old man took the lead with the boy trailing, bow in hand, anxious. They stopped. Pipi gave the signal and they crouched low. Ahead of them, a rabbit stopped to nibble a blade of grace. Pipi smiled. Mike had no way of knowing, but this was the old man's spirit guide. They were on the right track.

The spirit guide told the old man this was their meal for the night. With hand movements, he separated from his grandson so they could shoot at the animal from different angles. Pipi motioned for him to aim his bow as he taught him long ago. Pride filled him as his young grandson took to hunting as he knew he would. The boy was a natural. Both aimed and on Pipi's signal, they launched their arrows. Each arrow found its target and the long-eared rabbit fell over.

"Got him!" Mike gave a fist pump in victory.

"Whoo Eee!" Pipi shouted to the young hunter. The devil can't teach him that.

They came out of hiding to claim their prize. The grandfather congratulated his grandson and together they walked back to their camp. Mike watched and listened intently as Pipi showed him how to properly gut and clean the animal.

"Where are you going to throw the guts, Grandfather?"

"The entrails are important, my son. They teach us where this brave soul has lived and what he ate. We will use them as we reach out into the underworld to gain favor and bring your animal guide into focus for you."

"Grandfather? Come on, the underworld?"

The boy was ignorant of his history. Pipi thought to shake the ignorance out of him. He calmed himself again. It's not his fault. A demon raised the boy in ignorance, out of spite. He centered himself so his words came out soft. He couldn't talk about the devil and upset his son.

"This is not the world of the white man, no, this is our world. We come from there and we live there. When we die, we pass through there to be judged and receive our rewards."

"Okay, if you say so."

The boy's sarcasm was not appreciated. I have a lot to teach him, thought Pipi. First things first, he spread out the entrails on the ground in front of their fire. Mike watched as his grandfather said a few words in a strange language and piece by piece, the old man placed the entrails on the burning wood.

The singed color was unusual. Mike's face grew into shock. Pipi knew the boy was having trouble figuring out why the entrails changed color as they shriveled and burned. He and his grandson witnessed one piece of entrails burn and a white smoke rose from it. Another produced a red smoke and another, a green. In all, five different smokes rose from the animal's guts as they shifted in color.

"Wow!"

Pipi hid his face from the boy. He didn't want the boy to see his smile. With a lowered head, the old man spoke more of his Creek dialect. They sat on the log and watched the smoke rise. Pipi took the cap off a canteen. He hesitated. He said a prayer and drank. He smiled at his grandson and passed him the canteen.

"Whoo!" said Mike. "Man, what is that?"

"Juju drink. Take more. Drink it deeply, my son."

Mike did as told. He ignored the stench and downed the brew. He took three gulps before he stopped. The boy shook his head violently. His head swayed.

"Look into the flames, my son. There you will find your spirit guide in the form of an animal. Follow the flames high into the sky and let them reveal their secrets to you."

Mike looked in the fire with a glazed expression. After a while, he tilted his head and followed the various colors into the night sky.

"There," Mike pointed, "there, I see something. I think it is a—"

"No! Matthew, you must not say it! Never tell anyone your spirit guide. It is forbidden and your guide will leave you."

"Okay, Grandfather. Is it really just for me?"

"Yes."

"No, I mean the animal. Are they just for me, all of them? I mean, if I see one of these animals, how will I know it is for me and not for someone else? Seriously, Grandfather, with all the people in the world, they can't be just for me."

"What you see is your guide. When it chooses, it will make itself known to you and give you instructions. Until then, it is another animal."

"If you say so, Grandfather."

The boy continued looking up, following the smoke. Sorrow shone on his face. Pipi knew the look. He had told him long ago never to keep secrets from him and yet here he was asking him to keep a secret.

Pipi thought of his own animal and how he and his father came to this same area to find his spirit guide. Every time he saw a rabbit, he assumed it was his guide talking to him. Once, he debated whether the rabbit he saw taking a dump on a log meant anything. Was the rabbit telling him something? It took time for him and he knew it would take time for his grandson.

Later that night, Pipi doused the fire with water and they got into sleeping bags. In the darkness he told his grandson a story he hadn't heard before. The boy fell asleep next to him. Pipi remained awake a few moments thinking. Tomorrow he would take his grandson to the tribal chief and through a series of tests his grandson would find his spirit name. Before drifting off to sleep, Pipi thought of his best friend and the man's granddaughter. Perhaps he could arrange a marriage between the children. Yes. That would bring the young warrior back into the fold. He needed a Seminole woman to ground him. Yes! My son will live the Seminole life and fulfill his destiny. Pipi closed his eyes, contented.

Chapter Six: Mike

They made their way to the other side of the woods. They walked for hours to make it there. Pipi stopped many times, telling stories of mistreated Indians removed from their homeland. Mike read stories in his schoolbooks and wondered if his grandfather referred to something called the Trail of Tears. He wanted to ask, but had more pressing problems. Mike's feet were killing him. If the long march was anything like this, he wanted no part of it.

For the last mile, they stopped to change into traditional Seminole dress. Mike hated that more than the endless sad stories and marching. His aching feet felt the hard Earth through the moccasins. Every pebble felt like a knife plunged into his spine. Surprisingly, he was happy his grandfather talked, it provided a much-needed distraction. It helped greatly.

Along the way, Pipi pointed out and named different trees. He went on to name bushes, grass, and others. Each had three Indian names. Mike listened to keep his thoughts off his painful feet. Ahead, he saw the camp and gained confidence seeing his journey's end. He sped to his grandfather, determined to walk the last few feet at his side. With his first kill, he was a man and wanted them all to know. His chest puffed out as he approached a group of men surrounding a campfire. They were all dark skinned like his grandfather.

Three men rose to greet them. All dressed in similar outfits. They wore Native American moccasins on their feet with light-brown shirt and pants. The first to greet them stood six feet tall. The man's wardrobe was similar to the others, only the color wasn't the same. The man wore a distinctive shirt with reds, blues, and whites. Mike looked at the huge hand the man extended. It was a mesh of calluses and cuts. To shake that hand might be a messy proposition; he had a cut around his pinky that bled.

"Shadow," said the big man.

"Dancing Bear," said Pipi, shaking the man's hand.

Mike put his head down like his mother taught him. She said dignified people didn't laugh at the unfortunate names mothers gave their young.

"Who is this?" asked Dancing Bear.

"This is my grandson. Are the spirits talking tonight?"

"Yes," said Dancing Bear. "Sit with us."

Pipi motioned for Mike to sit next to him with the others. They shook hands and all gazed into the flames in silence. Mike found it strange, but did as the others. He had no idea what he was looking for and felt strange at the nonsense of these old men. He was glad to rest his feet and hoped they gazed long enough to bring massive release to his joints.

Mike stole a drink from his canteen while the others chanted around the campfire.

Before long, Dancing Bear stopped. He took a swig from a canteen and passed it to Pipi. Mike sat next to his grandfather and smelled the concoction. Oh no, it was the stuff he forced down last night. Not again!

"The rest is for you, my son. Drink it all," said Pipi.

Mike put the canteen to his lips and forced down half.

"Drink it all."

It took great effort to comply. Juju drink, yeah right, more than likely, that is the hard stuff. Mike could be wrong and allowed for it. Being a curious youngster, more than once he found his father's secret stash and with a friend, he smoked marijuana and swallowed whiskey. This home-brewed version was strong. Mike braced and with a long gulp, he swallowed the rest and passed the empty canteen to Pipi.

After the men chanted more, dizziness set in.

Mike didn't like the way he felt. His head hurt. His vision blurred and for a time he swore he saw Dancing Bear throwing a white powder at him and the fire. Through a haze he saw blue flames dance above red ones. He saw a squirrel dancing on top of the highest flame. Mike had followed his grandfather's orders and not revealed that his so-called animal spirit was a pudgy little squirrel.

How could he be sure of that? How could he be sure of anything he saw? Mike saw drunks passed out on the beach and sleeping on the streets of Miami. He laughed at the funny things they said and saw. Was he one now? If they saw nothing then how could he? Mike came to the conclusion they were illusions. Illusions from the powder thrown into the flames.

"Shadow," said Dancing Bear. "Bring him forward."

Bring me? I can walk. Mike tried to stand, but found his legs locked. Pipi and the man called Racing Wind helped him stand before Dancing Bear.

Racing Wind and Rising Tide painted his face with black-and-white pinstripes. Mike thought it strange and tried resisting. For some reason, he couldn't move. Fearing bewitchment by their chants, he desperately tried moving to no avail. Instead of feeling panic, he felt heavy, as if he could fall asleep for a week. Was something wrong? When the men finished, Dancing Bear sprinkled water over his head.

"Look into the flames and learn your spirit name," said Dancing Bear.

The men chanted and moved around the flames in a circle. Mike thought it funny, like in the old Westerns he would sneak and watch before his mother came and changed the channel. He hadn't seen one since he was six, but he remembered them and best he could tell they saw them as well.

Mike looked into the flames. His haze weakened, still he didn't believe. What name would this old man give him? He went over their names: Dancing Bear, Racing Wind, Rising Tide. God, please don't let them give me one of their crazy Indian names. Please, please, please, please, please!

"I see it!" Dancing Bear scared him by stopping in front of him.

Mike craned his head to look pass him into the flames, searching desperately.

"You shall be called . . ." Dancing Bear danced to the far side of the campfire and then stopped to stare at the little boy.

Please, please, please, please, please!

Dancing Bear stretched arms to Heaven.

"Baton of Justice!

"What?" he thought it strange. "What did he say, Grandfather?"

"Baton of Justice, my son. That shall be your name."

"All that? How can I be called all that?" he whispered. "That's crazy. Batton, what the hell is a batton?"

"Baton, my son, not Batton. You shall be called Baton, it is a hammer. A hammer is an important tool, one that you cannot build without. It means your destiny is to nail down that which might fly away and be lost forever."

"Truly?"

"Yes, my son. Fate wrote your destiny long ago. We will count on you to do good things for your people."

Mike smiled, though he knew his grandfather was pulling his leg. How can a kid do all that?

Chapter Seven: Arrival

From the emptiness of space came a soft hum. The hum grew steadily louder. After hovering for several hours, waiting for the cover of night to begin its descent, a giant cylindrical object pierced the Earth's atmosphere and sped toward the Appalachian Mountains in the eastern portion of the United States.

The object traveled along the mountain range, zigzagging as if searching for something. From north to south the object went, finally, stopping in North Carolina. It chose a location near Burnsville in Yancey County. It was a mountain, Mount Mitchell, located in the Pisgah National Forest.

The cylindrical object was a spaceship. It dove down along the base of the mountain and hovered a minute. A beam shot out of the top of the ship, a scanning beam. As the ship rose, a blue beam traveled the mountainside. The ship stopped halfway. The blue beam faded and instantly a red beam appeared.

Under the cover of night, the beam increased its intensity. Chunks of rock flew from the area the beam struck. The penetrating laser beam pulsed like a jackhammer. More chunks of rock rose with a steady stream of smoke. Seconds later, the ship flew into the hole it created. A yellow beam shot from the rear of the craft, sealing it inside the mountain.

When the dust and debris finally settled, no trace of the ship existed. Only a small hole shone in the side of the mountain. The ship sat in a cavern with a small hole at the entrance it created. From the ground, the hole was invisible.

The next morning began as usual. Not only were the people of the United States not aware of the significant episode that had taken place last night, but neither were the people of the world. No alarms sounded. No national defense warnings or intrusions of airspace occurred. Nothing out of the ordinary gave away the landing of a spaceship within the borders of the United States of America.

Those who had chosen this particular day to go camping and hiking in Mount Mitchell State Park had a small clue, that is, if they bothered to pay attention to the trivial. In a small stream that flowed at the base of Mount Mitchell, unusual rocks of various sizes and characteristics lay about. One knowledgeable about rock formations could attest to the mountainous nature of the rocks. A hiker, on the other hand, might look up and believe the rocks came from a rockslide. Maybe they would take a souvenir or two. They would think nothing more of the episode.

That night, a smaller craft flew through the narrow opening. It went down the mountain and moved off to the right, over the land. Before long, it stopped and hovered. Beneath it, a green tent shimmered. The soft sounds of snoring came from within the structure. A light shone from the craft and centered over the tent. The light pulsed. Moments later it ceased. A second light with a greenish glow appeared on the center of the tent.

The front of the tent held a long zipper from its top to the ground. The zipper shook and then began moving down the front of the tent. Out crawled a man with a tattoo of barbed wire on his right upper arm. A woman followed. Both were in underwear. They stood. Both held a blank look on their faces as if in a trance. They walked forward away from the tent to a clearing. The light traveled with them and stopped when they stopped. The light pulsed. Moments later they rose into an opening in the bottom of the craft.

The craft sped back to its mothership in the side of the mountain.

Chapter Eight: Connors

Months Later, The White House

President James Wendell Connors sat in his comfortable, black, executive chair behind his desk in the Oval Office. He wore a black pinstripe suit and adjusted his gold-trimmed reading glasses before taking another sip of a new tea he discovered on one of his foreign trips. His Presidential speech needed fine-tuning. It had to be just right before he gave it to the World Trade Union. Mexico had agreed to give up its peso in favor of the American dollar. With Canada suspending its Canadian dollar in favor of an overall American dollar set by the United States, his speech had to strike the right tone. If all went well, the dollar would become the only legal tender for North America. Nothing was more important than approving this deal and setting his legacy in stone as a premier President. Never again would there be such a president as transformational as he.

The phone rang and broke his concentration.

"President Connors."

"Pres-i-dent-Con-nors," said a slow robotic voice.

"Yes? Who is this?"

President Connors checked the caller id, it read unknown number.

"My-nam-e-is-Nor-man," the robotic voice spoke slow and melodic. "I-am-con-tact-ing you-to-a-rrange-a-mee-ting-be-tween-our-peo-ples-"

Without listening further, he slammed the phone back on the receiver, annoyed. He ran through the names on the caller id screen in an attempt to find the person crazy enough to get past security and bother him. "Miriam! Miriam!" He shouted into the next room. "Get in here."

"Yes, sir, Mr. President," said Miriam.

"Miriam, did you hear my phone ring?"

"Your private phone, sir?"

"Yes, damn it! My private phone."

"N-N-No, sir."

"Well, I must be hearing things because clearly it rang and I answered it. It sounded like one of those goddamn pushy robocalls. How in the hell did they get my number?"

Miriam stood, dumbfounded. Her eyes moved rapidly as she searched for an explanation. Finally, she looked at him. "I don't know, sir. Shall I have the call traced?"

"I think that would be wise."

"Yes, sir."

Miriam hurried out of the room. She returned to her desk to make the appropriate phone calls.

Thirty minutes later the phone on the president's desk rang again. The president kept rewriting his speech. The phone rang again. This time he absentmindedly picked it up.

"President Connors."

The robotic voice spoke. "Pre-si-dent Connors, this-is Norman. I-re-present the peo-ple of Isdale. Being the-"

Connors face distorted. Though the voice came in faster and clearer, it frustrated him. His fist closed tightly and his heart rate increased. Enough blood filled his face to pop a blood vessel.

"Who the hell is this? How the hell did you get this number?"

"PresidentConnors, thisisNorman. Irepresentthe peopleofIsdale. Beingthe-" the voice had sped up to become an unintelligible blurb.

Connors couldn't take the loud, shrill voice. He pushed the receiver from his ear, frowning.

"Look here, asshole! You call this number one more time and by god I will have every agent at my disposal hunting you. Don't test me!"

"Pres-"

Connors slammed the phone down again. "Miriam! Get in here!"

Miriam hurried into his office. She adjusted her blue dress before smiling. "Yes, sir?"

"I just got hit with another robocall. Track it down. The next time that phone rings I want tracking in place, you hear me? Get to it and get Walter Fanmer on the phone."

"Yes, sir."

Miriam hurried back to her desk. She had to remember to call the man Fawnmer, he was so picky about people pronouncing his name wrong. She picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Security."

"Yes, Albert, this is Miriam."

"Hey, Mrs. Roster, how are you today?"

"Not good, Albert. President Connors received another robocall. I need you to trace the line and get back to me quickly. He has a bee in his bonnet and won't sit still until he swats it."

"All right, Mrs. Roster. I'll have something for you in a few minutes."

"Thank you, Albert."

Miriam Roster pushed the button to hang up the phone to dial a second number.

"Secret Service."

"President Connors for Walter Fanmer, please," said Miriam.

"Fanmer."

"Hey, Walter, how are you?"

"Good, Miriam. What can I do for you?"

"Hold for the President."

Miriam pressed her intercom button.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Fawnmer for you, sir," she stressed as a reminder, "line two."

"About time," the President released the intercom and picked up his phone. He pressed the button for line two. "Fanmer?"

"Yes, Mr. President?"

"Walter, I have had the misfortune of being queried with two robocalls on my private line in the space of an hour. Do you have an explanation for this odd behavior?"

"Sorry, sir. I don't. I'm on it."

"Take those bastards out. I've got too much going on for nonsense like this."

"Yes, sir. I'll make some calls."

"Good."

President Connors hung up the phone. He cleared his head and stood to rehearse his speech. He held the papers in his left hand and began motioning with his right while mumbling. He went on in this manner for some time. Then, the phone rang and broke his concentration. Connors immediately thought of the robocaller and smiled. He would keep him on the line and catch him this time. This threat to his peace would come to a swift end. He picked up the phone.

"Hello."

"Pres-i-dent Con-nors," chimed the robotic voice. The voice sped up to normal speak. It sounded like a man of Connors age and background. "President Connors, this is Norman. I represent the people of Isdale."

Connors chuckled. He was happy to finally understand the voice and even happier to know the caller had no way of knowing of his imminent doom. "Is that a fact now?"

"Yes, President Connors."

"And just where is this, what you call it, Isdale?"

"Isdale is our home planet in the constellation Virgo."

He chuckled again. "Home planet you say."

"We are from what you term outer space, President Connors. We wish to communicate with you."

"Of course, of course, of course." Connors looked at his wristwatch to gauge how much time had passed. He pushed his intercom button. Put his hand over the phone and said in a low voice, "they're on the phone now, trace this call."

A crackling sounded followed by a, "yes, sir."

"So . . . you call yourself Norman do you?"

"May we speak with you, President Connors?"

"Why is that?"

"You are the only sentient life-form we have come across. It would be an honor to meet you, President Connors."

"Oh, and it would be an honor to meet you as well. Why don't you come on over and introduce yourself in person?"

"That would require time and preparation. We have not acclimated to your environment. We need two days for the process to complete. After that, I have been assured we shall be able to converse in greater detail. I'm calling to inform you of our presence and to make introductions."

Before Connors could respond, a man walked into the room with Miriam. She directed him to the sofa and he waved at the President before sitting.

"Well, thanks for the introduction, we will talk very soon."

Connors hung up the phone. He walked over with a bright smile and shook hands with a man wearing a black suit and a white earpiece around his left ear.

"Sir, we got him."

"All right, Fanmer, good deal. What?" Both Fanmer and Miriam hung their heads at the butchering of the man's name. "Never mind," Connors continued before losing his train of thought, "find this turd and bring him here. I'm going to teach him about accessing my private line."

"It will take some time," said Fanmer. "We tracked the signal to the Appalachian mountains of North Carolina. He might be dug in pretty good there."

"I don't want excuses or delays. Find him and get him here, Fanmer. Get going and keep me up to date."

"My team is outside and ready to go, sir."

Connors shook his hand with gusto. Another problem eliminated. He saw the man out and returned to his speech. He walked the floors and rehearsed with a little extra umph in his step. Two days my ass, thought Connors, I will find those bastards today and skin them alive.

* * *

Later that day, a lone helicopter sped toward Mount Mitchell. The chopper came from the eastern side directly from a warship off the coast of North Carolina. A group of three soldiers maneuvered the chopper through a ravine up the east side of the mountain. The pilot navigated to the top of the mountain while his copilot worked instruments trying to pinpoint the source of the mysterious call.

"I'm not getting anything, Burke."

"All right, Jake, I'll go up and over to the other side," said Burke, the pilot.

His copilot, Jake, turned to the man sitting behind them in the back seat. "You got anything, Ray?"

Ray stared at a small beeping screen in his hand. "Faint traces but nothing specific. Maybe we will do better on the other side."

"I hear you," said Jake.

"All right fellas," said Burke, "here we go. Holler if you get anything."

The chopper descended the west side of Mount Mitchell. Jake Strom and Ray Williams watched the flashing lights and listened intently to the intermittent beeps from their instruments. As they went lower, the beeps grew further apart. After a few more feet of descending, they altogether stopped.

"Hold it, Burke," said Jake, "I lost the signal."

"Me too," said Ray.

"All right, hang on."

Burke shifted the cyclic stick in his hand and the helicopter swung around to the right and pulling back, the chopper rose. They were now going back up the mountain from the north. Both machines sprang to life. Jake turned to Ray and each smiled and nodded.

"We got it!" Jake's enthusiasm rose.

Burke nodded and listened to the steady stream of beeps. He let the sound guide him. As he went higher, the beeps came stronger and faster. A steady stream of beeps became a continuous loud tone. Looking through the windshield, Burke saw a hole in the mountain.

"Hey, fellas," said Burke, "look at that."

"Wow," said Ray from the back seat.

"Has that always been there?" asked Jake.

"Hell if I know," said Burke. "We are going to have to find some of the locals to answer that one."

"No way," said Ray. "You're not heading back, are you? Our signal is coming from in there. Let's take a look."

"Can we fit in there, Burke?" asked Jake.

Burke measured in his head while mumbling. He smiled. "I'm game if you guys are?"

"Are you sure we will fit?" repeated Jake.

"It looks big enough," said Burke.

"Our signal is definitely coming from inside there, guys." Ray said.

"Hold on," said Burke. Burke turned the dial on his radio. "Nighthawk to Base 10, come in Base 10."

"Base 10," said a man's voice, over the radio.

"Base 10, this is Nighthawk. It looks like our suspects are hikers, operating from a base inside Mount Mitchell. Shall we pursue?"

"Turn on your cameras, Nighthawk."

Burke flipped a switch and a red light came on above an outside camera at the base of the chopper. At that same instance, a monitor turned on in the Situation Room of the White House. The President sat in front of the monitor. To his right sat the Vice President. Around them sat Miriam, his secretary, and Fanmer, the head of his Secret Service.

"Watch this," said a jovial President Connors. "I'm going to show those robocallers who the hell they are messing with."

"What is your order, Base 10?"

A maniacal laugh erupted from the President as he picked up the transmitter and pushed the button to speak. "Nighthawk, this is Base 10, you have a go. Get in there and give them hell. I want those bastards in custody and in front of me in the next hour."

"Roger, over and out, Base 10."

"All right," said Connors, sitting back in his chair, "watch my boys work."

The entire room watched the monitor. It became a split screen showing the hole in front of them on the left half of the screen and showing the helicopter crew on the right.

Ray shifted in the back seat, wanting to get the best view he could. Jake turned on the spotlight and moved closer to the glass for a glimpse of the unknown. Burke held the controls tightly as he maneuvered the chopper forward. To his surprise, the chopper's whirling blades would fit easily into the cavern. He maneuvered within seventy feet of the entrance and stopped. Burke turned on a second spotlight and all three men gazed at the opening with wide open mouths. They looked intently. A low hum came to them, reverberating through the helicopter.

Suddenly, the red phone in the Situation Room rang. All heads turned to the phone. This was most unusual since this was a private phone used between nations during critical negotiations. President Connors turned to Miriam, expecting her to get the phone. She gulped.

Miriam walked to the red phone. A shaky hand reached out and picked it up and put it to her ear. "Hello?" Miriam's eyes grew big. She looked at President Connors and held out the phone to him. "It's for you."

All eyes turned to the President. In the time it took him to get up and make his way to the phone, a thousand thoughts of destruction ran through his head. He was sure the others thought similar. "Hello?"

The voice he had heard in his office had made its way to this private line. "President Connors. Remove the flying object from our space. Immediately."

It struck him odd. The voice held no anger or passion. It was the same dull monotone voice. "Excuse me?"

"If your craft comes closer, it will be destroyed. Please remove it."

"Go to hell!"

President Connors slammed the phone down, and for good measure, he took it off the hook. The others watched him return to his seat. Questions ran through their minds but no one said a word. Connors sat, staring straight ahead at the monitor of the flying chopper. He put on a brave front, but the call unnerved him. As he watched, he thought of how a robocaller could succeed in getting to him in two different rooms. He hid his nervousness, pretending he was in full control.

Connors glanced from the monitor to the phone and back. He watched the chopper move toward the hole in the side of the mountain and a feeling of foreboding overtook him.

On the chopper, Burke hadn't heard the warning, but was a bundle of nerves nevertheless. He clenched the cyclic tightly and moved closer to the opening, making every effort to peer inside and uncover its mysteries.

Ahead of them, a light turned on. It grew in intensity, filling the chamber. The red light pulsed. The men looked sharply, filled with anticipation. The light stopped its pulsing and stayed a bright red. From the darkness of the cavern came a thin beam. The beam shot out quickly and struck the chopper. Instantly, light covered the chopper.

The left side of the screen cut out. For a fraction of a second, the right side showed the horror. They could only guess that it was a time delay. They watched each of the men fall into the shadow of the red beam of light. They all glowed red. A second later, the screen went blank. Miriam yelped and put her hand to her mouth. Connors stared blankly at the screen. He and the others watched the blank screen, imagining the pieces of the chopper falling from the sky.

Every soul in the room knew the chopper exploded and the three-man crew died.

No one moved or made a sound.

Miriam's cell phone rang. She came out of her trance and reached into her pocket. She looked at the screen to identify the caller. It read: unknown caller. She put the phone to her ear. "Yes?"

The others watched the remaining color drain from the middle-aged woman's cheeks. She walked to the red phone and placed the phone on the receiver and waited. A second later it rang. Miriam pressed a button below the phone. She looked at the President. "It's for you, sir."

President Connors gulped, his hands covered in sweat. He wiped them as he made his way to the phone. Before he could arrive, a whistle came over the loudspeaker. President Connors stopped in his tracks and stared at the phone, afraid to come closer. His heart beat faster. He rubbed his hands and cleared his throat. He would talk from a safe distance.

"Yes?"

The speaker crackled. "I trust you will not hang up on me again, President Connors."

"Um, no." Connors looked back at the others.

"My name is Norman. I am the leader of the people of Isdale. We are inside the mountain at the entrance you saw. We mean you no harm. You are the only sentient life-form we have encountered outside our solar system. We wish to communicate with you. Is that possible?"

"Um, yes, yes it is." Connors brushed the back of his graying hair. It felt like needles pricking his skin. He rubbed the back of his sweating neck, but the feeling would not leave him.

"We are preparing a place to allow us to meet and communicate. We ask that you come to this location in two days. We will complete the structure at that time. Only bring one other with you and tell no others. We await your arrival at noon, two days from now. Thank you."

Connors continued listening but only heard static.

"Sir?" asked Miriam, looking for direction.

"Um," he pointed at the phone, unable to get a word out. Miriam pressed the button. Silence fell in the room. All eyes fell on Connors. He rubbed his chin, thinking. "Um, everyone take a seat." He waited until Miriam joined the others. His legs were about to give out on him. "That was-that was, um, that was Norman. He says he and his people are from outside our solar system and they want to talk to us." Why he told them what they had heard, he didn't know. He needed to say something and that was all he could think to say.

"You got to be kidding," said Fanmer.

"I don't believe it," said the Vice President. "It's got to be some kind of trick."

"You saw the chopper," said Miriam.

"So what," said the Vice President, "that was some secret weapon by one of our enemies."

"No," said Connors, "this has been going on all day. We don't have enemies with this level of sophistication."

"Mr. President—"

"No, Jason," Connors said to his Vice President. "Walter, get a team up to that mountain and get me a report. Make it a two-man team, I don't want any leaks. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mr. President," said Walter Fanmer. He rose and left the room.

"Miriam," said Connors. "I want you to write up a report of everything that happened. For my eyes only, understood?"

"Yes, sir." Miriam left for her desk to complete her assignment.

President Connors turned to the only man left in the room, his Vice President. "Look, Jason, I am going to visit with whomever that was that called. We need answers and that's the only way to get them. I can bring one other person with me. In case it is a trap, I am not taking you. I want you in a protected bunker at an undisclosed location until further notice. Take the Secretary of Defense with you. Tell him you are running drills, nothing more. With any luck I will be back and we will go from there."

"You're the President."

"Yes, I am." He tried to not make his words harsh though he strongly suspected he had.

Vice President Reilly gathered his strength and stood. He was massive in size, shaped like an orange. He waddled from the room with a sneer plastered across his large face.

Connors sat in his chair staring straight ahead. He hoped it was a joke or that Reilly was correct—that he could take. If it truly were aliens in the mountain, that would open a slew of questions. All of which having answers he would not wish to face. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer for the men he sent into harm's way. He chastised himself for behaving like an idiot, now he had to be better. He had to be the president of the free world.

President Connors got up and walked down the hall to go to his Presidential residence. His wife and children were there. They could provide him with comfort. He couldn't reveal what he knew to them, but he could bask in their glow. Their ignorance would be a welcome sight. He climbed the steps two at a time. He needed this.

Chapter Nine: Fanmer

Fanmer went to the communications room of the USS Bohman. "Clear the room." He watched the crew take off their headphones, get up, and leave the room. He gave the room a cursory look before sitting at the main console. He put on a set of headphones, turned knobs and pushed buttons. Noise-filled static came through his headset in a long whine before clearing.

"Black Pawn Four to Red King Seven, comeback," said a cryptic Fanmer.

"Red King Seven to Black Pawn Four, comeback."

Fanmer smiled, he recognized the voice. "Red King this Black Pawn, over."

"Go Pawn."

Fanmer pulled a piece of paper out of his breast pocket. He unfolded the paper and smoothed it out in front of him. "Seven, Eight, Zero, Bravo Nine, Nine, Nine. Charley Walker Six, Six, Six, Alpha Four." He waited.

"You have a go, Black Pawn."

"Black Pawn out."

Fanmer turned to a random channel and took off his headphones. He exited the room, allowing the crew to return. He walked to a door, knocked, and went inside. A screen came on in front of him. He stood in front of the screen and placed a device in his ear.

"Mr. Vice President, we are ready."

Vice President Jason Reilly sat at a small, round table sipping his coffee. He was a portly man with a thick short neck and round to oval head. Black trimmed glasses set on a crooked nose in front of beady eyes and hooked around small pointed ears. His black hair was no longer than half an inch at most. His face resembled that of a magical elf, complete with thin lips.

The man had the nerve to hold out his pinky as he sipped from a Presidential teacup. It angered Fanmer. The President risked his life while his second-in-command sought the comfort of a bombproof shelter at an undisclosed location.

"Sir?"

"I heard you, Fanmer. You think I'm deaf?"

"No, sir," said Fanmer. The words nearly choked him. He hated calling the pig sir and worse, Vice President. No one in the administration got along with the power-seeking monster. If you must buy your way onto a ticket, you should know that you are hated. This pig didn't know it or didn't care.

"Where is the President?"

"On his way here, sir."

Fanmer watched the stubby pinky poke out again as the man took another sip.

"Good. I have half the cabinet here with me and need to get back to them so I will make this brief. Fleet Admiral Carmichael is in command of the Southeast group. You will stay aboard the Bohman and wait for President Connors. If he doesn't return after an hour, you are under orders to fire the first salvo into the mountain."

"Sir?"

Fanmer didn't like the plan. Why should he be a scapegoat? President Connors said for Reilly to only take one other with him, once again the Vice President ignored orders and did as he pleased. Save thy self and thy scoundrel friends first. What a jerk.

Fanmer wanted to be anywhere but among warships. If these were actual aliens, he would be the first to die while Reilly and his band of cowards stayed safe and sound in an impenetrable bunker.

Vice President Reilly stared through the screen with his beady eyes ablaze. "You will do as I say. You will provide cover for Carmichael." He leaned forward as if to come through the screen and stare down Fanmer. It worked.

"Yes, sir."

"I want that mountain laid to waste, nothing is to survive. I have a cover story in place. Play your part and serve me well or I shall be very cross with you, Fanmer."

He spoke the name with venom. Fanmer shuddered.

"Yes, sir."

Why did I fall into his clutches? One lousy mistake and I get mixed up with a radical who wants to snuff his boss and take over.

"Now, Fanmer, do you have your orders?"

"I have them."

"Good, good. Wait for Connors and when he leaves for the mountain, notify Carmichael and start the countdown."

"Yes, sir."

The screen went dark. Fanmer sunk into a chair and exhaled. The Vice President's plan amounted to murder. Can he go through with it? Was warning President Connors an option? He closed his eyes and took in a shaky breath.

Chapter Ten: Connors

The time drew near to the appointed hour. President Connors stared at his feet. His big chair seemed so small in light of what lay ahead of him. What if they weren't alone? What if the aliens were real? He spun his chair and gazed out the large bay window. Connors longed to be out with his wife in the White House gardens. His heart thumped thinking of her. Even now, after twenty years of marriage, Katherine made his heart soar with a look. If only he could go to her and reveal all.

Connors watched her and his two sons, Matthew and Luke, in the garden with one hundred students from the local school. They planted various seeds and seedlings. Everyone worked hard, yet their faces showed smiles. He wanted to go with them instead of to the place of dread, where he was bound. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

"Mr. President?"

Connors turned from his bay window.

"Yes, Miriam?"

"It's time, sir. The chopper is waiting to take you to the Bohman."

"It's waiting for us, Miriam."

"Sir?"

"You are going with me, Miriam."

Fright showed on her face. She looked at him and he saw a small shake.

"Sir?"

"I need you, Miriam. Only a handful of people know what is going on. The Vice President is secured and Fanmer is investigating. That leaves you and I. Besides, if this is a true first encounter, I am going to need it documented. You are my witness to potential history, Miriam. I need you beside me, recording. Everything we need is on the Bohman. Let's go."

"Yes, sir." The words came out softly.

He knew she didn't want to go, but neither did he. It was nice to have a companion. He met her at the door and they walked out together. She shivered as they walked to the helicopter. Connors couldn't blame her, he felt the same way.

Air Force One landed in North Carolina. They boarded a chopper that took them out to sea. The chopper set down on the helipad on board the aircraft carrier USS Bohman. Connors and Miriam braved the winds and left the helicopter. Music played, but they barely heard it. They stayed in place until the chopper left. The music played louder and when he looked, President Connors saw a military band playing.

They stepped down to salutes.

After greeting them, Walter Fanmer took them below to a private room. Fanmer held up his hand to stop Miriam from entering. "Wait here, Miriam. This is private."

"No," said President Connors. "Miriam's presence is mandatory. She will record every conversation and every event. Miriam?" He held the door open for her.

"Thank you, Mr. President."

"Walter?"

"Thank you, Mr. President."

President Connors entered the room last. He wasn't being gracious. He needed time to think. He closed the door and joined them at a small table. Connors felt uneasy. Whenever big decisions needed to be made he sat around a large, oval table and solicited opinions from all within. That luxury had been taken away. Until he had proof, he would keep silent. He sat and put on a big smile for them. He was President of the United States and he was in command.

"Mr. President," said Fanmer. "We have a chopper that will take the two of you to the coordinates we received. I wish you would let me go with you, sir."

"No, no, that's not wise. I'm going to assume this is no prank and limit our exposure to these aliens. Any word on the debris?"

"Yes, sir. The chopper was hit with some kind of energy weapon. There are residual traces of a nuclear isotope mixed with several chemicals we can't identify."

"Radiation?"

"Yes, sir, but at harmless levels. Sir, I really don't think it is a good idea for the leader of the Free World to expose the high office in this manner. The Vice President believes them to be terrorists looking to kidnap a high-ranking official. I would be happy to take your place."

President Connors thought about it for a moment. He knew he couldn't, but it was a nice thought. If he offered the proposition to Miriam, he is sure she would take it. Connors regretted getting her involved, but there was nothing he could do about that right now.

"I need you here to coordinate with the Vice President. Thanks for the offer. Believe me, I'm not one for bravery. If this is a first contact situation, I need to represent my country and planet. Anything goes wrong, you will have the job of blasting them to hell from here. Give us one hour"—he looked at Miriam—"if we are not out by then, consider us hostages and act accordingly."

Miriam winced.

Fanmer nodded. He opened a large aluminum briefcase and handed each a receiver. "Take these, they are satellite phones and should operate inside the mountain. Keep them a secret and use them only if necessary."

"Thanks," said Miriam.

Fanmer opened the phone for her. "Press 911* and we send in the Marines. Press 411* and we know you need more time to wrap things up. A word of warning, if you press 411 it activates an hour delay response time. If you're not out an hour later, we come in with guns blazing."

"Thank you, Fanmer," said Connors, getting the name right for the first time. Fanmer smiled as if the president read his fortune and knew what was to come. Connors tucked his phone in the breast pocket of his gray suit. "Well, let's get moving."

Fortune or not, Fanmer needed to act. "Sir, there's something else I need to talk to you about—"

"No more delays," said Connors. "Let's get this show on the road and get it finished. Let's go."

Connors rose from the table, cutting him off. He was a jumble of nerves and delays made it worse. He had to pretend he was strong, though he wasn't. He never counted on this being part of the job.

"Everything is in place," said Fanmer. "We are ready."

"Let's go."

Fanmer escorted them out and waved as the chopper lifted off the pad. Connors gazed out at the throng of people and wondered if he would ever see any of them again. His family flashed through his mind and he wondered when was the last time he had said 'I love you' to them. Would he get a chance to redeem himself? He saw that Miriam was shaking and touched her. Miriam smiled, but the edges of her lips twitched. Connors held her hand to steady them both. It was the least he could do for getting her into this mess.

As they arrived at the sight, below them they saw the debris field. Near it was a giant red square with a flashing red light in each corner. The center held a metallic pad, their destination. The chopper pilot touched down and as soon as they were off, it lifted into the air. President Connors guessed what his secretary was thinking. Their ticket to safety flew away before their very eyes.

Connors walked hand in hand to the platform. Miriam squeezed his hand tightly, digging and drawing blood. The pain was a comfort to him. It kept him focused on the job before him. Without looking down, he felt the blood dripping down his fingers and it helped. It honestly helped.

To the platform they went.

President Connors stopped. He took a measured breath and stepped forward. Miriam followed, determined not to let go of the President's hand no matter how undignified it might look. When both were safely aboard, the President ran a hand through his graying hair. Tonight would surely turn the rest of his fading brown hair a delicate gray. He looked for a button to press, but found none. Moments later he felt a humming in his feet.

Miriam stumbled into him as the lift rose into the air. It felt strangely exhilarating to the President. Being lifted high in the air, in an open elevator, was fantastic. President Connors felt the wind rushing through his hair. He ventured a look to his side, the view was magnificent. It was astonishing to see the mountainside in such clear view.

He thought to take mental snapshots, but before he could, the lift stopped. If not for being in the center, they may have fallen to their deaths. Connors took a moment to collect himself. Dignity was a must. He couldn't allow aliens to see him look nothing other than perfect. He took his hand from Miriam and ran his hands through his hair. Next, he pressed his hands to his suit to smooth out the wrinkles.

President Connors waited for Miriam and together they stepped off into the unknown.

From the ground the hole was dark and menacing, up close, clear and menacing. They moved forward toward the source of the light. After a few yards, they could see a wide-open area to their right. In the middle of the area sat a metallic cylinder, the spaceship.

Miriam gave a nervous smile. Connors took a moment to catch his breath, then motioned them to the ship. When they neared the ship, a second platform became visible. Perhaps it would take them inside the ship.

It was real, all real: the spaceship, aliens, the destruction of the chopper and crew, and most of all, Norman. Fear deepened in his bones. The reality of never seeing his family rang true. He can die here. All mankind can die here.

Lights came on around the base of the second platform and it hummed.

"Hurry, Miriam!"

Quickly he moved to it, believing it to be on a timer and might leave without them. They stood in the center and the platform rose. Instead of taking them into the ship, they detoured and were taken in the opposite direction.

"Oh god, sir, look!"

Connors couldn't believe what he saw. They moved toward a large metallic box with no door or opening. The hair on the back of his head stood up and tingled. They would crash into the side of the box and be killed. They sped forward on the platform. His mind reeled. There was no time to think. "Oh, god!" they braced. They didn't slam into the metal as they thought, they disappeared into liquid metal.

The platform stopped.

It was a strain to make out anything in the darkened box. Connors checked his body in a panic. He couldn't see and knew he was wet from passing through whatever they passed through. It can't be; he was dry. How? Connors reached out to fill his way forward. He wrapped an arm around Miriam and moved them both forward. His arm waved about as he slowly moved forward away from the platform. A light came on from high above.

Miriam and Connors found themselves standing in the center of what could be a cargo trailer. It appeared to be all metal, which contained grooves and ridges every few feet. The walls were black and held no pictures. The room held no furniture.

A bell sounded.

President Connors turned to see something coming through the far wall as they had moments before. Whatever it was, it was large, taking up the entire space of the wall. It pushed through and the wall became solid again.

"President Connors?" a voice called from the wall. This time the voice was female and at regular speed. Not as robotic as before, yet there was an inhuman quality to it. The voice was fully feminine, compelling. It would take either a strong will or fear to resist. He was well supplied with both.

"Yes?"

"Come forward, President Connors."

"Who-who is speaking?"

"Come forward."

"What do you want of me?"

"Forward, President Connors."

The structure in front of the wall shimmered. It glowed bright red and gave off heat. They covered their eyes. Images of Moses' burning bush flashed through his mind. The wall cooled. Standing before them was a tall chair and sitting in that chair, a woman. If this was a member of their race, they were compatible with earthlings.

Connors moved closer to get a better look at the woman. From an angle he saw tubes and wires at the rear of the chair. They plunged themselves deep within her flesh.

"My god!"

"Come forward, President Connors," said the woman with dark-red, long-flowing hair.

The President motioned for Miriam to join him. She would have to be shocked tomorrow, he needed her now and had been unaware he had taken a couple steps forward without her. This was it, first contact. He would be the one to make first contact. My god, the History books. What will they say about me? His heart beat faster but fear took a backseat to History. Connors took Miriam's hand and together they moved within six feet of the woman. He stared into her gray eyes. The eyes looked human. He wondered.

"You are President Connors."

Connors looked at the statue masquerading as a woman. Was it a question? He looked to Miriam, she gazed at the woman with a look of amazement. She no longer held his hand and her eyes displayed rapid movement. Miriam was on her job and would have a thorough report for his review. He could concentrate on the problem at hand.

Chapter Eleven: Miriam

Miriam took her new duties seriously. I must remember everything! Her mind became a video recorder and the instant she made it back home—and she prayed continuously that she would—she would write down everything she saw. The President liked thorough reports. Her first report, years ago, had been awful. Never had she seen a man of such high standards wail as he did that day. Since then, she gave stellar reports and this would be one for the ages.

The first account she would give would be of the platform, it was alien. The weirdest looking black-silver metal she had ever seen. When they stepped on board the platform, fear took her. It filtered into her chest and squeezed her heart. Her lungs felt heavy and she found it hard to breathe. Still, she had a job to do and as she held onto her boss, she began her duties. Her high heels came in handy. Without the President knowing it, she tapped her heel on the platform to hear the sound it made. The feel and sound would go into her report.

Next, she ignored the outer cave and focused on the interior. As they slowly walked forward, her mind recorded everything she saw. The first look at the spaceship stopped her heart. She remembered to breathe, but had few words to adequately describe the ship. The best she could come up with was that it was cylindrical, made out of the same weird looking alien metal, and hovered slightly above the cave floor while emitting a continuous hum. Near the ship, she saw a platform and moved in that direction. Where would it take her? Her heart sped again as they stepped on it and it moved. Again, she tapped her heel.

Miriam breathed a sigh of relief when her heart stopped pounding and they could see. Gazing at a real live spaceship nearly did her in. What she now looked at would finish her for sure. She stared at a seated woman that appeared from a wall. Somehow, someway, somewhere she found strength. Her heart rate slowed. This is for posterity, she told herself.

Miriam faced the woman without fear. As long as the woman remained seated, she was harmless. She took a deep breath and focused. I must remember everything! Miriam took a step away from her boss. She gazed at the seated woman, taking her in.

She could be human. She looked human. The woman had long, red hair that ran halfway down her back. It flowed behind her partially obscuring the tubes and wires connected along her back and neck. From an angle Miriam saw the woman didn't sit all the way in the back of the chair. A metal brace of some kind came from the chair and went to the center of her head. Another brace was in her lower back. The woman was immobile.

Miriam relaxed. The woman couldn't rise from the contraption if she wanted to. It was as though she were seated or strapped in something that resembled an electric chair. With that fact in hand, Miriam gave the woman another glance. It was a human face. Gray eyes, eyebrows, thin nose and lips, and prominent chin. Her neck was soft and a steady pulse came from the side. Miriam moved back to the face to search it once more. She saw small diamond earrings.

Miriam gulped.

Moving down passed her neck to her chest revealed alien fabric. Maybe she wasn't human after all. The fabric stretched from shoulders to knees and looked thin, translucent. It moved. No way was Miriam about to touch it. She would write that it was a thin material of foreign origin and leave it at that. Curiosity made her look at the woman's body. She told herself she needed the information for her report, she didn't. She was curious. The woman had well-developed breasts and the outline of female genitalia in the lower regions.

From millions of miles away, yet they developed as we have. Maybe we are related.

Next, her eyes wondered to the woman's legs and then her feet. For some reason, Miriam found herself wondering what kind of shoes the woman wore. She would not get the answer to that question; a container hid the woman's feet. The container looked metal, but she knew it wasn't. The foreign material would have to be studied by experts. For her report, she would write the woman's feet were in a metal container and leave it at that. As for the shoe question, that question would have to go unanswered.

To her surprise, Miriam had somehow moved so close to the woman she could touch her. Yet, she didn't recall how she got there and the woman never looked at her. Had her curiosity taken her that close? She slowly backed away from the woman to stand nearer to the President.

President Connors remembered his office and his duty. He approached the seated woman. The woman's unnerving eyes followed him. He took a step back. Miriam stayed at his side in an effort to offer him strength and gain strength from him. Miriam met the cold eyes and kept eye contact. She felt her boss was doing the same. Maybe they could stare the woman down together and gain an advantage. She steeled herself for the mission. Inside she winced under the heavy gaze, but outside she showed her metal.

"Are you Norman?" Connors asked.

"I am Norman," said the woman.

"You are not the voice on the phone?"

She repeated, "I am Norman."

"Perhaps, Mr. President," said Miriam in a quiet voice. "Perhaps we should accept that and move on."

"Well said, Miriam," said the President. "I am here. What do you want of me?"

The woman's voice had a slight metallic edge to it as she spoke. "I am from the system you refer to as Sombrero galaxy in the constellation Virgo. We call our home planet Isdale."

"Okay," said the President. He kept looking at the woman and then posed a question. "Is this your form? Are your people human, like us?"

"Our bodies are greater in shape and design."

Miriam's heart thumped. "How do you know what our body design is?" She hated she interrupted, but the question leaped out of her mouth before she could stop it.

Norman was silent. Could it be true? Miriam and her boss looked at each other and she was sure of the rage on his face. How barbaric were these aliens? Her rage grew with his.

"Have you been ex-experimenting on my people?" asked President Connors. His fingers closed into fists as he strained to get the words out through gritted teeth.

More silence.

"Have you been experimenting on the people of this planet?"

"You are the only sentient life-form we have encountered. We wish to meet you. Communication is necessary for that goal." The words flowed with no hint of deception or malice.

"That's a yes then," said the President, his face showing scorn. "You have violated the people of this planet. What race, what intelligent being would violate those they came to communicate with? How dare you perform experiments on my people! How dare you—"

A bright light came from the seated woman. A low hum followed, then a strong circling wind. It caught him off guard and cut his thoughts midsentence. The light spread out and forced a retreat to the far wall. President Connors and Miriam pressed themselves into the wall, determined to push themselves to the other side as the light came toward them.

"Please! Please!"

Miriam's plea stopped the light. It stopped moving while they cowered and clung to each other, afraid for their lives. The light faded and the wind died. To their right, the metal wall shimmered. It turned from solid to the liquid metal they had come accustomed to seeing. A light shone from the wall. They saw another room beyond the now transparent wall.

A figure stood at the wall, gazing at them. It was tall, nearly seven feet with two arms and two legs like a man. Three long slender digits were on each stump of a hand. The body was light gray or green and wrinkly, no, those weren't wrinkles, she thought, veins. Yes, they were veins. Just last week Miriam had spider veins removed from the back of her left leg and these resembled those veins. Miriam pressed in closer to the only man present, hoping for his protection. Her heartbeat was loud, intertwined with his. Connors held Miriam tighter. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled with electricity of fear. She thought of home and her family and wondered if these were her last moments.

"Mr. President, I-I-I—" Miriam wanted to say she was proud of him and if they died she was glad he stood up for human rights. The words wouldn't come out of her mouth. She stared dumbfounded at the alien.

The figure lifted an arm and pointed a long finger at their opposite wall. The slim finger ended in a knob. President Connors turned back to Norman's wall. Light shone down on the wall. Norman looked at them with a face nearly human. Miriam looked back at the wall with the alien, he was gone and the wall was solid once more.

"My apologies," said Connors to Norman. "I meant no offense."

Tension rose in Norman. Miriam watched the woman's mouth twitch then tremble as if trying to fight to move. Her lips became something of a smile with the ends quivering. The gray eyes changed with the face and were now blue.

"I-am Nor-man," said the woman, with a return to the accented robotic voice.

"Yes?"

"The real Nor-man." The eyes fluttered for a minute and then opened full blue. "I am Norman," this time her words were smooth and perfect English with a hint of an accent. "I am from this planet. Found by Isdale. Through me, you will communicate."

Shackles unbuckled with a strange sound. Norman lifted a hand they thought could not move and pointed to the solid wall the alien stood behind.

"We need a barrier between your people and mine until an appropriate remedy comes to pass. You will communicate through me until that time."

"Remedy? Explain this need for a remedy." President Connors was back to being strong again.

"Our people are incompatible. You contain diseases that may harm us."

"We? We can harm you?"

Norman raised an arm and directed them to their left. The wall became transparent and there they saw two bodies lying on the floor.

"Oh my God!" Miriam gasped.

She turned her head from the gruesome scene. She couldn't look on it. Yet, she had to record even this. Slowly her head swiveled back to the wall. It was like watching a train wreck, she couldn't help but to take it all in.

Little machines moved on wheels around two bodies. The machines prodded them with metallic attachments. The two bodies were corpses. The first was roughly seven feet with the arms and legs of the previous alien. It was one of them. The second corpse was small with human sized limbs, presumably a man. Both had puss-filled boils and charred skin. Both beheaded. Near them she saw bits of charred flesh and wondered which of them the pieces belonged to.

"Norman," said the seated female. She pointed at the human body. The body lay on its back.

Miriam winced. "My God!"

"What happened to that man?" asked Connors.

"Incompatibility. If we expose ourselves to you openly, this is the result for both our people. I have searched my mind and this has occurred in our history long ago."

"Your history?" asked Connors.

"Ours, Mr. President. She means ours." Miriam paid attention to the woman's chaotic speech and knew she was correct. She braved a question. "Is-Is that right?"

"Yes," said Norman.

Connors took a step closer to the seated woman. "The plague?"

"Yes."

"And the bodies? Why are they not destroyed for safety's sake?"

"They are isolated and used as research. A cure will come in time. Until then, I will interface with you in this form."

"What is it exactly that we need to interface about?"

"An exchange of information. We will study your people and send others back to tell of your existence. We will then continue to the next system and continue our search for sentient life-forms."

Miriam smiled after hearing that news. "You're on a quest or a trek, like Star Trek."

Norman's eyes moved rapidly from side to side. They stopped and fixed on Miriam. "Seek out new life and new civilizations. Boldly go where no man has gone before." More rapid eye movements followed. "Yes, a trek. A non-hostile trek to seek sentient life-forms."

"Well, you came to the wrong planet for that." Miriam gave a nervous chuckle.

Connors smiled at her. His smile said 'be quiet.' He smoothed his suit and took a step forward. "I am the highest authority of my people. Am I speaking with the leader of your people?"

Norman's blue eyes returned to Connors. The blue dulled as if overtaken by gray. "I am Norman. Consider me your leader."

"My leader?" Connors puffed up.

"Correction, the leader. To begin, we wish no communication with the outside world. We will gather information and leave your world without interfering. We will follow your Prime Directive."

Miriam lowered her head to hide her smile. Suddenly, they were not fearsome aliens. We may yet survive.

Chapter Twelve: Reilly

Vice President Reilly watched a monitor from an undisclosed location. He sipped his favorite tea with extended pinky while keeping his eyes trained on the screen. He watched with anticipation as he saw a helicopter descend to the mountain, drop off its two travelers, and ascend again.

He smiled.

Soon, he would have his greatest desire. The cover story was in place, complete with photographs of suspected terrorist cell members. The plan held no flaws. He went over the sequence of events once more. It would be a three-part plan: first, President Connors goes into the cave with his fake aliens. Second, his assault team levels the mountain. Third, with a sympathetic tear on his cheek, he goes on the air to announce the President has been a victim of a terrorist attack. Of course, his wife and two young sons would remain in the White House, for show. Later, he would kick them out and send them to the god-awful Number One Observatory Circle, three miles into oblivion.

From a hidden surveillance camera he saw President Connors and Miriam moving to the platform. He scowled as he thought of how many times Miriam had put him on hold— him— the Vice President of the United States of America. The scowl faded and a murderous smile filled his plump lips. Justice, he thought. High time she paid for her arrogance. If he could only see her treacherous face at the final moment. To listen to the screams and watch her writhe in pain. Would she burn or suffer a smothering under tons of rock? It didn't matter, he would beat another opponent as he had done so many times in the past.

Reilly's thoughts shifted back to the President and his nose flared. The crooked nose scrunched into massive cheeks and offset his beady eyes. He should have been President from the start. He had the record, the finances, and the power base. If only it wasn't a popularity contest, dictated by the whims of idiots. He would have won the primary and not resorted to blackmail and schemes to get on the ticket. But that meant nothing now. Reilly had searched daily for a way to oust Connors and take over and these creative terrorists gave him the perfect opportunity. He would not let it pass. Seize the moment, his father always said. He would.

On a round coffee table next to his big chair sat a radio. He picked it up and watched the screen with delight. President Connors and Miriam rose on the platform and disappeared. This is it! He leaned forward and checked his wristwatch. He checked the big wall clock for confirmation and salivated at the opportunity before him.

The Vice President waited and constantly checked the wall clock and his wristwatch. He couldn't wait another minute and activated his radio.

"Black Pawn, over."

"Black Pawn," echoed the radio.

"You have a go, Black Pawn. Go!"

"Sir?"

"Don't sir me. Strike, damn it, strike! Fire at the cave's entrance."

"Sir, they have only been inside for forty-five minutes. They have an hour to exit."

"Fa—!"

Reilly shook the radio in his hand, wanting it to be Fanmer's puny neck. He almost said the man's name. What a disaster that would be down the road. Reilly's pudgy feet found the floor and he wrestled himself from the grip of the chair to stand. His face was red and nervous excitement ran through him.

"Sir, that is murder. I told them they had an hour. You agreed to an hour, sir."

"You don't argue with me, I'm holding all the cards here. I've got you by the balls and damn well plan to squeeze."

"My source is not in his cabin. I told him and the others an hour like you said. It will take time to track them down."

Reilly had heard enough and his plans would be delayed no longer.

"Black Pawn," he said calmly. He gripped the radio tightly and spoke as clearly as he could. "You have orders to launch this second. If I don't see what I expect to see in the next minute, I am going to skin you alive. You hear me, Pawn? Alive!" He hissed the last word to bring a chill to Fanmer's soul.

"Yes, sir." The response came low, but audible.

"Good."

The screen held the same picture as before. Nothing was happening. All Reilly could see was the opening to the cave and the platform beside it. He moved in front of the screen, determined not to miss a second of his victory. Fanmer will not fail. He will not fail me.

Chapter Thirteen: Connors

President Connors faced Norman with a slew of questions. The President pondered the idea of peaceful aliens wanting nothing except for the exchange of information. It was a lovely thought, but never had he seen such a scenario in the thousands of alien-based movies he watched over his fifty years of life. What can they hope to gain with such a lie?

Norman was quite an attractive woman. The long, red hair and human features reminded him of an old flame from his high school days. I wonder?

"Norman?"

Miriam had moved to the side to study the connections to the chair without getting closer. Norman watched her with a slight shift of her head. She turned her dark gray eyes toward the speaker. "President Connors?"

"Norman, you are one hundred percent human, is that correct?"

"I am you."

"You are . . . how did you say it, 'Interfacing through this woman?'"

"I am Norman, I am you, we are Norman."

Connors ran a hand through his graying hair. It made sense to him now. The woman must be human. The aliens were tall and thin and gray. "Tell me about the beheaded man."

Norman fell silent.

Connors studied her nonresponse. He needed a new tactic. "To begin our communication, honesty and trust must be established. This body knows those things. Search it and confirm I have not lied."

Norman's eyes moved rapidly from side to side. They stopped and centered on Connors. They closed. Seconds later they opened to a softer blue-gray combination. "He is Norman." Her voice matched her eyes, softer and more feminine.

"He touched one of you and the result was death." He framed it as more of an accusation than a question. Go on the offense and keep them guessing, a strategy that paid off numerous times in the past.

"No." Her simple, straightforward response.

Connors pointed at the metal wall to his right. Indignation spread over his face. He felt ten feet taller in his righteousness. "More or less, that man died as a result of his encounter with your species. Yet, you say you are peaceful and mean us no harm."

It worked. The eyes softened and bluer shone through. Now, the hammer.

"I submit to you that your very presence harms us."

"That is true, Mr. President." Norman spoke with a pure feminine voice. The voice of the original fellow human being, he thought. She waved her hand and the wall to their right changed. It showed a picture of their alien laboratory. A human body lay on a metal table covered by a white sheet under floodlights. The small machines they saw earlier were present, performing delicate operations around the man's head, arms, and legs. Others hovered in the air above the body.

Connors moved closer to the wall. The man had tattoos on his upper right arm at the shoulder, a sickle and a hammer. Below that he saw a band of barbed wire. It was definitely the charred man he saw earlier. He had to know. He moved closer, nearly touching the wall.

"He's awake? My god, he is awake!" Anger rose in him.

"He sees, but does not feel."

"How can you know that? He is awake!"

"We did not know until it was too late," she continued, ignoring his remarks. "Norman was perfectly fine in quarantine. Our protocol places aliens in quarantine for two of your days. One of us entered the chamber after decontamination. All was well for the next three days."

The images from the wall changed. They showed the man, Norman, in white clothing sitting at a table with an alien. Norman laughed, his stubby red beard made his face look kind. Miriam joined Connors at the wall. Both smiled at the tranquility they saw. The alien and Norman were discussing a floating map. Norman laughed jovially.

The scene changed again. This time Norman had an instrument in his hand. He cut his finger by accident. Blood flowed. Suddenly, bells and alarms went off in the room. The alien moved toward a self-sealing door. He couldn't open it. Flashing red lights whirled in each corner of the room. Norman rushed to aid the tall alien, screaming and beating at the door.

Both stopped beating and pulling on the door. They began shaking violently and fell to the floor. Norman succumbed first. The alien held on a few more minutes and then he died.

"Our scientists believe our auras are incompatible. After Norman cut his finger, a new aura formed and mixed with each of theirs. The new mixture changed them both, reanimated them."

The scene behind the wall changed.

The new scene showed another tall alien entering the lab. While he examined the dead alien body, Norman rose.

Miriam winced. "Oh my God!"

"It can't be," said a stunned James Connors.

They watched Norman get to his feet. He made no sound that they heard. Without effort, he opened his mouth wide and clamped down on the kneeling alien's upper back, near his neck. The alien moved, caught off guard. It tried to get Norman off, but Norman's grip was tight and he chewed the alien flesh with relish.

The alien fell to the floor. Norman feasted.

The first dead alien rose. Connors could see his distorted face: long, crooked teeth, red eyes, and a wide open drooling mouth. Sounds came from that mouth though Connors could not hear them through the wall. The animated alien seemed akin to reptiles with its elongated mouth and sharpened teeth. It turned and it too feasted on the fallen alien.

"Oh god," screamed Miriam. "Make it stop! Make it stop!"

Connors held her as they leaned on the wall, trying not to look. "Stop it! Turn it off!"

"You asked for honesty, Mr. President. I give you honesty. Look."

A new scene shone from the wall. A group of three aliens entered the room. All wore a type of decontamination suit with tank on the back. Connors believed them to be air breathers like us. The animated corpses were in a pool of green blood, devouring the last bits of their alien feast. They looked up and let out what Connors suspected to be a howl before charging at the aliens. The aliens fired laser-beamed weapons into their bodies. Each fell.

Without warning, the center alien began shaking violently. Within seconds, he fell to the floor dead. They picked their dead comrade up off the floor and carefully carried him to an adjoining room. They sealed him in what looked like a glass vault in the center of the room. They returned to the first room.

The bodies were again showing signs of life. Each moved a finger. The aliens grabbed weapons with sharpened ends, presumably axes, from the wall and chopped their heads off. They then sprayed the bloody floor with a substance and the blood disappeared. Next, they used flamethrowers to burn the few chunks of flesh that remained from the first victim and the area that once held gobs of green blood. Last, they burned the bodies. The wall went dark.

"We are close to finding a cure to solve the problem. Until then, I will interface with you."

"And the other of your race? The one taken into the other room, is he infected with what they had?"

"It's airborne," said Miriam.

"Yes," said Norman. "You speak of—"

A siren sounded, preventing Norman from completing her statement. The bells were loud, forcing Connors and Miriam to double over and cover their ears to drown it out. Still, they heard the ringing. Connors took a painful step toward Norman. Norman's eyes repeatedly shifted from left to right. "What the hell is that?"

A force field went up in front of Norman. The ground shook.

"Oh god," screamed Miriam, "we are not going to fall, are we?" She fell to her knees trying to keep her ears covered.

Norman's face lit up. Her eyes turned deep gray. A look of concern flitted across her face. The bells stopped. "You are attacking us. Why?"

President Connors removed his hands from his ears and got to his feet. "What?"

"You have launched weapons at our entrance. Explain."

"I don't believe it," said Connors. "We would do no such thing."

He and Miriam felt a shaking as if moving. He felt that feeling of descending in the pit of his stomach. They were going down. Seconds later the wall in front of Norman disappeared.

"Go, before it is too late. They must stop or they will rupture the containment field. Tell them! Go!"

Connors and Miriam ran.

An explosion shook the ground beneath their feet and they fell. Connors looked up to see the roof collapsing at the entrance of the cave. He heard a whooshing sound followed by a bang. Debris fell. He lifted himself and grabbed Miriam by the arm and together they ran for the narrowing exit.

It was in reach. Connors swallowed air filled with dust. Tears filled his eyes and made it hard to see. Chunks of rock and dirt fell all around them. The opening was fading into nonexistence. Fear took him and he ran faster, pulling Miriam. Miriam screamed and fell. He stopped, but didn't see her.

"Miriam! Miriam!"

"I'm here, over here!"

James Connors couldn't see her, the falling debris was too heavy. He heard another swoosh and then a bang. It flung him backward, away from Miriam. An electric shock went through him as he hit the ground. He hoped he hadn't broken his neck in the fall. He was able to move his neck, thank god. He said his thanks too early. His vision cleared in time for him to see a huge slab of rock fall from the collapsing ceiling. It would finish him. He tried to roll out of its way, his right leg would not move, trapped under a boulder. He struggled to move to avoid his fate. Doom loomed in his future.

President Connors accepted his fate and closed his eyes. God be merciful and let it be quick.

A blue beam shot out from Norman's chair. It was a force field low to the ground. It came above the President in time to stop the slab from crushing him to death. In astonishment, the President looked up and saw rocks hitting the field and stopping midair. He was saved. Hysteria overtook him. He laughed. Connors looked at the falling rocks and laughed.

"You can't get me! You can't get me!"

"Mr. President?" Miriam shouted. "Mr. President, are you all right?"

He laughed again. "I'm fine, Miriam. How 'bout yourself?"

"Okay. I'm coming, sir."

Connors realized he was being an idiot. He stopped laughing, disappointed with himself for not being stronger. He took his eyes off the rocks and followed the blue light. The light stretched ahead of him to what he thought was the opening. In the other direction the light went back to the metal box and to Norman. The President sat and looked in Norman's direction.

The field was four feet off the ground. With the dust settling to the ground, everything became clear. Connors saw Miriam crawling toward him. No one could stand. The rocks pounded above them as she crawled. Her crawling brought a smile to his eyes. They had seen highs and lows together over the course of twenty years. Intertwined lives until the end. How fitting for it to end this way. Miriam stopped and coughed.

"Keep coming, Miriam."

"I'm coming, sir."

Miriam put her hands in front of her. She moved forward. She coughed but kept moving. When at his side, she stopped.

"About time," said Connors. He gave a warm smile.

"I take a lickin' but keep on tickin'." Miriam stopped to catch her breath. She laughed with him, neither knew what to do next. She looked at his trapped leg. She frowned. "You don't expect me to lift those do you?"

Connors chuckled.

Chapter Fourteen: Miriam

President Connors' leg was underneath three large rocks. The last rock was more of a slab. Miriam believed his leg crushed. How can she tell him? Miriam fixed a smile on her face. "What I wouldn't give for a genie and a magic lamp."

Connors chuckled. Blood came out of his mouth and she grew alarmed. They heard another whoosh and then a bang. She braced against his chest as more rocks fell from the ceiling. She looked into his eyes, searching. Connors held her and he searched as well. She put a smile on her face. "Is that a genie or are you just happy to see me, sir?"

Connors chuckled. His face grew stern, authoritative.

"You have to go, Miriam."

"We will leave together."

"Miriam."

"We leave together." Her words were strong. She had trouble believing them though they sounded truthful. She looked at the falling rocks above, listening to the sound they made as they hit the barrier. It was mesmerizing. She tore her gaze from the sight above her, then looked around the cave floor for a lever to free her friend.

"Miriam, stop." Connors reached upward and gripped her shoulders as she passed. "I'm not leaving here alive. We both know that. You have to go and warn them, Miriam. Warn them before it is too late. Go!" With his remaining strength, he shoved her forward. "Don't look back, go. Go! Save us!"

Miriam took in a shaky breath. No matter what the President said, she wasn't leaving. Somehow she would remove the rock. She moved forward in search of a lever. She heard him say something, she listened, it was a name—Katherine. Miriam closed her eyes to keep from crying. James Connors was more than a boss; he was a dear friend and would not die in this hell hole. She would find a way to help him. She would save him. She moved faster.

A noise behind her made her stop. She turned to see the area where Norman sat darkening. Was she dying? Was the tunnel going to collapse? Quickly Miriam moved to what she thought was light ahead of her. She paid no attention to her many cuts as she moved.

The light was her sole focus. Get to the light and get help!

Miriam crawled toward the light. A whooshing sound came. It came from behind her. Something enveloped her and lifted her off the ground. She went sailing through the tunnel away from the light toward Norman. She shouted, "No! Stop! No!" She hit the field above her head and tumbled end over end and then sailed toward the light at tremendous speed. Another whooshing sound. This time it came ahead of her. She screamed as the wall beside her gave way.

Miriam flew through darkness and then down the side of the mountain. She let out bloodcurdling screams. She fell toward the ground at a speed that surely would do more than break her neck. The earth would liquefy her. The rest would seep between the cracks and she would be gone forever. Miriam kept yelling until she hit the ground.

She stopped yelling and looked around her. She wasn't dead; no bones broke, no bones cracked, no turning into a puddle of jelly, nothing remotely of a horrifying nature occurred. Miriam sat. She stood and performed a quick inventory. Her pantsuit was dusty and dirty, torn at the bottom. Her high heels were missing. Her knees shone through tears in her pants, packed in mud from dirt mixed with blood. She was thankful not to have a mirror. Her $200 hairdo was no doubt a mess. Her hair flew around her head in stringy waves, filled with dirt. She shook some of it out. The question returned to her, why wasn't she dead? And why wasn't she where she should be? She expected to be in front of the mountain; instead, she was far off to its west. A sound startled her. Pulverizing artillery flew into the mountain from two Apache helicopters and a Harrier. Behind them she saw three F-35 fighter planes maneuvering into position to launch their artillery into the mountain. Great chunks of debris flew into the air.

Miriam looked toward the Atlantic Ocean, but couldn't see the ships they came from. That's what happened. The Navy was attacking, but why?

After they fired, their guns went silent. Miriam listened to the sounds of the falling rocks. Dust filled the air. She watched the rocks tumble to the ground. From where she was she saw the mountain remained, though a huge chunk had been taken out of it. It looked as if it were a giant Hershey's Kiss and some gigantic chocolate lover took a bite out of it.

She was too far inland to attempt a walk to the ships. From the valley she was in, she set out to find help and get word back to the White House. President Connors was dead and we had fired on friendly aliens. Hopefully, there would be time to warn them before the aliens retaliated. With a heavy heart, she made her way toward the stream a few yards from her. Her father once told her rivers lead to civilization, please let it be true.

Miriam thought of her phone, it was missing. She had to warn them, there was no time to loose. She took a breath and moved. She walked with a limp, beginning her journey in earnest, mourning as she went.

Chapter Fifteen: Zora

Zora rose from her bed, the familiar crib no longer at her side. After fifteen years, life was no better, except now her baby duties transferred to her hateful younger sister, Abigail. She dressed to begin a long day of housework. It wouldn't be housework per se, it would be outside work. Her jeans and an old T-shirt made the perfect work clothes.

Zora sat on a bucket with her hands beneath Mildred, their cow. Mildred was the perfect picture of a cow. Her black and white spots reminded Zora of the picture of cows in her schoolbooks. The only difference was the back left leg of her cow was a fading yellowish-brown. Zora sat and squeezed the last drops of milk from Mildred. Both women had a sour look on their faces. She squeezed harder and then shook the udder before stopping.

With a wipe of her brow, another distasteful job completed. She looked at the overhead sky. It was cloudy, but bright. No chance of rain. The weather lady was wrong, again.

"Good girl." She stood, reached over, and patted Mildred on her large backside. "Abby would be proud of you. You are a fine lady, despite what you have to go through." Zora rubbed Mildred to soothe her. Both felt better after the rub.

Mildred mooed.

Zora looked about. Abigail was coming toward her wearing a baby carrier. Stewart's little arms waved about as he giggled. Abigail took short careful strides to reach them. Zora gazed at the cow's off-color back leg. She leaned in to whisper in Mildred's ear. "I think so too. Don't worry, Milly, I won't let her hurt you."

Sometimes it felt strange talking to animals, as old as she was, but on a farm, life is strange and you make do. Not being allowed to date and with the absence of close friends, family and barn animals were all she had. Animals were easier. Though she was older, Zora was often treated as the wayward baby and responded as such. It was a bad habit she found hard to break. Perhaps if she could get away, she could blossom. Oh well, she waited for the inevitable.

Stewart was seven months old. He sat in a brown carrier strapped to thirteen-year-old Abigail Baker. Abigail was directly beneath Zora and inherited baby duties when she turned eight. She preferred the carrier to strollers because it kept her hands free. Zora hated having babies stare straight at her and her mother didn't approve of the baby turned with its back to her, although Abigail obviously broke that rule. Zora couldn't wait until Abigail was old enough to take over. Little did she know that once she gave up those duties, she would be saddled with those dropped by older siblings. Life was not fair.

She tensed as she saw her sister approaching. Abigail started with Simon. She was mean to him so Zora took her duties back. Many times she would enter the room to see Abigail smirk, seconds later, Simon would yell out in pain and the demon would be wearing an excited grin.

When their mother had her last child, she specifically made Abigail do her duty. Zora argued and volunteered to trade a much-older Simon for Stewart, but their mother objected. Their father stayed out of the fray and stood by as Rebecca was forced to slap Zora to end her protests.

Abigail was trouble and Zora knew it early. Only she had spent time in close quarters with the demon. The younger sister had a mean streak, much like the older sister, Beth Ann. Mildred moved backward. Zora rubbed her to soothe her more.

Years earlier, Abigail sought to prove chocolate milk came from chocolate cows. She found brown paint in the barn to paint Abby, Mildred's mother. Abigail was in the barn alone with her namesake and Mildred. As she put a layer of paint on Mildred's back left leg, her mother let out a long gasp and fell on her front legs.

The doctor said it was toxic shock that killed Abby. Zora eavesdropped and heard the word poisoning and knew her sister to be the devil's spawn. Zora and her father scrubbed Milly raw to get the paint off. Zora protected her since.

Abigail strolled up with a bright smile. "Turd face? Anybody home?"

Zora blinked. "What do you want, Abby?" she said the name hard to needle her.

"Don't call me that, turd face. Momma said to bring the milk; she is baking cakes for the wedding and needs the milk."

"I'll be there in a minute. I have to take Milly back to her stall."

"You better hurry, momma said now."

The little spitfire was every bit the redhead of legend. Waves of hostility shot from her to her older sister. Zora regretted that she once took a whipping for the little monster. Time had slowly twisted in on itself and somehow given Abigail the upper hand over her older sister. All the younger siblings lived in fear of Abigail's rage. Her fiery red hair made her the spitting image of their mother and she wielded that power. Abigail gave a stray look to Milly, she accented the look with her excited grin. A chill came over Zora. Abigail laughed at her shudder and turned to march back to the house. If only she would trip and fall in several cow patties on the way.

Zora dismissed the pleasurable thought. Abigail had radar and a habit of looking behind her. The grin faded from Zora's face. She quickly took Milly out of her sister's sight and hurried to catch the demon before she entered the house with a mouthful of lies. Just like her to get everyone in trouble and watch the fireworks.

Zora rubbed Milly and gave her a kiss. She ran back for her pail of milk and moved toward the big house with it, careful not to spill a drop. She entered the big kitchen with her milk intact. No one could be happier than she. She maneuvered through the mass of female neighbors and relatives all adorned in some dress of a drab color. All came to help prepare the wedding feast and take in the local gossip. Grandma Rebecca was there with Aunt Rebecca and third cousin Rebecca, no doubt chastising the other siblings on the importance of naming the first born daughter Rebecca, the family tradition. Zora dreaded having to hear that conversation and pushed past them as fast as her little legs would carry her. Ahead, her mother measured flour in a measuring cup.

"I got the milk." She smiled brightly. It never worked before, why should it work now. Her self-esteem took a beating; life hadn't gone anywhere near the way she planned. She felt as if she were ten instead of fifteen. Better yet, the ugly duckling Cinderella to evil stepsister Abigail.

"Set it down on the counter," her mother said.

"Momma? Wouldn't goat milk make a better cake?" the carbon copy gave her excited grin as Zora deflated.

Rebecca tilted her head in thought. "I think that's an excellent idea, Bee," her pet name for her mini me. For a time, Zora, like all the daughters before her, favored her mother. She was a lovely three and the center of attention. Then, her hair darkened to brown and she more resembled her father, like most of the others. Abigail, on the other hand, maintained her mother's bright-red hair color, and thus maintained favorite status.

Zora thought quickly. "I milked Sherry two days ago." She hoped that would save her. Not only was milking a pain, but it was highly gross and perverted.

"It doesn't matter," retaliated Abigail, crinkling her nose and puffing out her jaws at her sister, "she has more. I saw, she is big and fat and needs milking."

"Stop lying. You know that isn't true. I milked her already."

"It's true."

"No, it's not. It takes a week for her to make enough milk."

"That's true," Rebecca agreed, tossing her long ponytail out of her way.

Abigail fumed. Zora looked from her to her mother. Could she win this one? Could it be possible? The thought of touching Sherry's udders made her shiver. She hated the job and couldn't wait to pass it to Abigail next year. She kept a calendar and marked an 'X' to count down the days on each job she would be happy to give away.

Suddenly, her nemesis smiled. Oh, god! You gap-toothed little witch!

"Momma?"

"Hmm?"

Rebecca kept measuring and pouring flour into separate bowls. She paid little attention to the conflict. She directed the other women, smiling at the girls. Tomorrow was Beth Ann's wedding. Beth Ann was the second favorite.

"Momma, the wedding cake?"

"What?" Rebecca looked at her replica.

Abigail gave a crocodile smile. "How about if the wedding cake uses the goat's milk and goose eggs? It will be rich and yummy. Nicholas will like that. Shoving rich cake in Beth Ann's mouth will make him so happy." Abigail crooned.

"Yes, you're right!" Rebecca lit up. "Ooh, that would be heaven." She turned to Zora. "Take the other measuring cup and bring me back two cups of goat's milk."

"But—"

"No buts, do it this instant!"

There was nothing more that Zora could say. She made her way to the other side of the room. Abigail's face spread into the most delicious grin as she handed the tattered cup to her big sister.

Zora took the cup. Devil incarnate, she thought. She turned and walked past her pail of milk to defile poor Sherry on the orders of a vengeful sister. Images of her hands wrapped around and squeezing womanlike breasts floated across her mind. She shuddered as she approached the barn.

An hour later, Zora scrubbed the dining-room floor. She had floor cleaner and polish she used on the floor. She stopped scrubbing to grab a Popsicle from the freezer. She sat in a chair watching Anna, her ten-year-old sister, playing cards on the floor with Simon, now seven, and Stewart. She went to get each of them a Popsicle.

Anna loosely held a little puppy while moving cards with her free hand. Her duties included helping with Stewart, the last child, though her mother told her that she would spend time helping her other sisters with their newborns. A woman had to know how to take care of children, mother was fond of saying.

The puppy hopped out of Anna's lap and ran to the polish, sniffing the can. Something caught Zora's eye. She could barely see them, wavy lines, possibly fumes, going from one of the cans to the bottom of their gas water heater.

Something came from the water heater, something blue and small. It danced in the air, riding the wavy lines toward the cans. The puppy was moving toward the dancing oddity, it wanted to play. Zora stood, her eyes the size of saucers. Her mouth opened and the Popsicle fell out.

Abigail walked through the kitchen, looking for mischief. She saw her sister standing with her mouth open, not moving. She smiled, a perfect opportunity for torture.

"Zoraphena," she said in a sing-songy way, all smiles.

The girl did not move.

"Hey, turd face! Hey!"

Abigail moved next to her, still, she did not move. Abigail looked down and saw the Popsicles at her feet. She turned to see what her sister looked at. Her eyes grew big. She threw up her hands in horror, shock swam across her face, then she screamed and ran. What she saw took only a second to occur: Stewart moved on his hands and knees toward the flame. The puppy hit the thin line he intended to play with and flames shot from the heater to the cans. Heat hit her as flames grew high along the wall. Abigail ran and scooped up Stewart. The children ran past a frozen Zora, screaming. The puppy fell on its side, twitching and screaming, all aflame.

"Momma! Momma!" Abigail held her brother, screaming, not moving, watching the flaming puppy.

Rebecca was looking out the window at those gathered on the bench, taking a break. The kitchen was empty except for her and one of the triplets, both wore aprons. Each was a modern day wife to make a husband proud. She turned to see the screaming children running from the next room. She ran to have a look as fear flooded her face.

"Oh god," said Rebecca. She ran out back yelling for help.

Zora moved. For a moment her eyes fluttered and then she smelled something foul and strong. Her nose burned and eyes watered. She had seen Abigail run past her with Stewart. Before that, Simon and Anna flew past her. She lost time and it took seconds to remember what happened.

The room filled with her family. Bodies ran around in a blur, shouting and batting at the flames with towels. Their father grabbed a fire extinguisher. He made them move, then extinguished the flames.

Black smoke billowed to the ceiling from a charred wall. A can smoked, Zora assumed it was the floor polish. She saw a charred fur ball between the can and the heater, she began remembering. Before all the pieces fell in place, shouting began.

"She did it!" Abigail pointed an accusatory finger at Zora.

"What?" the stunned girl asked. Slowly she was coming back.

"She zoned out and almost got them killed! She killed Dolphie, she killed him, Killer! Killer! Killer!" Abigail's screeches shot through Zora. Her face flamed redder than her hair as she held tightly to Stewart. The poor boy cried, crushed by the panicking teenager.

"Stop it!" John Baker took charge.

Stewart got away from Abigail, running and stumbling as quickly as his little legs would carry him into his mother's arms.

"What happened?" asked John.

"She happened," screamed Abigail, again she pointed an accusing finger. "She stood there like a statue, spaced out, while Stewart crawled toward those flames. He could have died because of her."

All eyes turned to Zora. The scrutiny was too much for her to bear. She felt small and had trouble finding her voice. Children cried all around her. Smoke came toward her. If only she could disappear in that smoke and be gone forever.

"John," said Rebecca, comforting a crying Stewart clinging to her. "Do something, now!"

John turned to his daughter. "Zora, you and I need to talk. The rest of you, start cleaning this mess, we have a wedding to get ready for."

"Daddy, I think—"

He interrupted her. "Not now, Abigail. Help your sisters get this room in order. Come along, Zoraphena."

Zora left the room under the accusatory glare of her family. She felt lower than low and had no idea how to get out of this problem. Trailing behind her father, she felt her load lighten as she exited the kitchen. When he didn't stop outside the front door, worry set in. Her father was going to the barn. She was in for the whipping of her young life.

With nothing to do but think, she prepared, hoping her whipping would not last long. She thought of her chores and how hard it would be to do them in pain. She imagined trying to sit with a tanned hind-end. The pain would be excruciating.

As she neared the barn's door, she thought of explanations and excuses to avoid a full-out whipping. Dozens of scenarios ran through her head, none of them good. She walked through the door worried.

Without waiting for her father to tell her, she went to the empty gate of a horse's stall they nicknamed 'the whipping fence'. She shut her eyes tightly and fought to keep the tears back. I hate Abigail and I hate kids. I am never ever having kids. They only lead to trouble. Demons, everyone.

Zora placed her hands on her old friend. The minute she touched it, she had a change of heart. She thought of what happened and concluded she deserved punishment, but wouldn't cry. Abigail would see no tears. None of them would see tears. She braced for the pain, soon it would be over. Be strong, I will be strong.

Her chest heaved as she braced. The blows never came. She risked a look. Zora opened her eyes and turned to see where her father stood. He was behind her, but his head was down. The look on his face was neither anger nor hate. He was sad. Zora turned. For the first time, she thought she saw tears.

Gently, she took a step in his direction. He didn't move, his eyes stared at his feet. She saw him gulp. "Father?" she said softly.

He raised heavy eyes to her. He gave a thin smile. "It's not your fault." The words were barely a whisper.

She came closer.

"I understand what happened. It's not your fault. It's mine."

Zora couldn't tell whose heart broke more, hers or his. It pained her to see this giant of a man in tears. Her eyes filled with tears, tears enough to fill a lake. She felt them and did all she could to hold them back. "No, daddy, it's me. I'm not normal, everybody knows it. I'm bad."

He cried. Nothing slowed the flow of tears down his face. He shook his head violently, his mouth a quivering mess. "You did nothing wrong, baby. I should have gotten you help long ago. I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."

John reached down and swept his daughter off her feet. His bear hug nearly crushed her. They held each other and cried. Zora had no idea what he spoke of, she cried for him and his pain. She cried for being a bad seed and nearly killing her baby brother. She cried for little Dolphie, not being able to grow into the fine Labrador Retriever he was destined to become. She simply cried.

"Tomorrow, you go to the doctors and get help. You hear me, baby?"

"Yes, daddy."

"We have treated you like you are three and you're not. You are a beautiful young lady and from now on, I want you to act like it. Nothing is wrong with you. You hear me?"

"Yes, daddy."

Like so many times in the past, they held hands as they walked back to the big house.

* * *

Zora Baker sat on the hard cold table with her legs dangling. Today will be her day of strength and vindication. She would be strong like her father said and act her age. Nothing was wrong with her and today she would get proof.

She hated her mother came with her to the doctor's office. At the age of fifteen, she felt she could handle her life herself and should be the first to hear news concerning her. Her father told her she had a medical condition that was treatable with drugs. She hated he didn't come, she preferred him to her mother.

Rebecca Baker came into the room with Doctor Ingalls, a short portly man with gray hair and glasses.

"What is it?" asked Zora, not able to stand another second of not knowing.

"You have a problem, honey." Rebecca said. "You can't excite yourself. That causes your problem."

"I don't have a problem," she protested. "Daddy said it is a treatable condition."

"Doctor Ingalls ran tests on you. They say that you have a problem, not a condition."

"I'm—"

"What did I say?" Rebecca shouted.

She always does that. Zora looked at the doctor. The man hung his head low. He brought her and all but the first two Baker children into the world. For him to look down was not good.

"Doctor Ingalls?"

"Are you questioning me?" shouted Rebecca.

Zora was happy her mother made a recovery, but it took so long the young girl grew up without her and lost some reverence for her status. Only the doctor could tell the truth. She tried again.

"Doctor?"

"What—"

"It is not as bad as you believe," said the doctor, breaking in over her mother. "To put it simply, Zoraphena, you have a medical condition that causes you to momentarily freeze. It is not per se life threatening, but it does put you at a disadvantage."

"Like what," she asked, breathless.

"You can't drive a car. If you froze, you would kill yourself or some bystander. You can't operate heavy machinery either."

"Anything else," she gulped.

"A few more, but that's not your main problem."

Doctor Ingalls looked at her mother.

"What more is there?"

The doctor hesitated. His skin looked cold and clammy. He held his head down, not wanting to look at her. She knew that beaten look.

"What did you do, mother?"

"I didn't do anything, honey."

"Wh-wh-what your mother is saying is that, um, well she, um, well she refuses to let you take the medicine to keep you on track."

"God will take care of my daughter, not drugs you and your kind want to jack her up with!" Rebecca blasted.

"It's not voodoo, Rebecca. It's medicine she needs. God, Rebecca! We went through this with Paul. Do the right thing this time and give her a fighting chance."

"You're not pumping chemicals into my daughter. I won't allow it! Come on, honey, we're leaving."

"But, Reb—"

"But nothing! You give my baby drugs and she will become a drugged-out junkie. She won't be able to take care of herself or a family. She will become a thief, stealing from her family to get drugs. We will have to kick her out into the streets and what happens to her then? Are you going to take care of her? What about her immortal soul? What happens if she can't find a husband?"

Doctor Ingalls held his head low.

"Come along, Zoraphena."

Zora hopped down off the table. Her mother held out her hand and instantly reduced her to a three-year-old child. Zora couldn't refuse. With a last look at the doctor, she left the room. On the way out the door, the receptionist stopped them to ask Rebecca a question.

"What time would you like your next appointment, Mrs. Baker?"

"Never! We won't be back."

Zora walked out behind her mother. She understood most of the conversation. Her father warned her that she might not be able to drive a car. She didn't care, she stayed on a farm on the edge of town. Her world hadn't changed since she was five. She had no friends and went nowhere, not even to school. She helped her mother at the grocery store and made the rare visit to the doctor's office. Driving a car held no thrill for her. She couldn't miss what she never had.

Her mind wandered to the drugs her mother spoke of. Why couldn't she have them? She knew deep down. Paul, her fourth brother from the top, did more than freeze like her. He shook, violently. So violently they held him down and put a spoon between his teeth. Daddy said it was to keep him from eating his tongue, gross.

Now that she was older, it made sense. It was some type of epilepsy Paul had. That has to be what she has. They never came out and said it, but before leaving school, a visit to the school library, followed by a search online, gave her the truth. She thought about the side effects she read about and concluded that her mother meant she didn't want her daughter drugged up and unaware of her surroundings. Possibly becoming addicted and becoming a drug addict. Mother was right. Stay away from drugs and let God take care of it. Thank God for mom.

They arrived back home and Zora finished her housework. She thought about what to say to her father, but was spared, he and her brothers took Nicholas on a bachelor's retreat and wouldn't be back for several hours. Tonight will be Beth Ann's wedding. She could put it off until the happy couple leaves for their honeymoon. Maybe, just maybe, he won't be disappointed in her. She closed her eyes and said a prayer. For the most part, Paul grew out of it at seventeen, maybe she would too.

Chapter Sixteen: April

The years hadn't been kind to April. She found herself sitting at a bar like old times, scanning the crowd for potential clients. No longer did she own a portion of her old business, in fact, a court order prevented her from being on the grounds. Only Dee came around, and that was rarely. Feeling sorry for herself, she pushed everyone away, determined to succeed and show them up.

She wore a dark-red, low-cut dress that hugged her body, a dress worthy of the Red Carpet on Oscar night. Black high heels accentuated a curvaceous figure. A thin black choker set off an elegant neck, mirroring an identical pattern on her small purse. April put extra effort in her makeup and hair. She no longer had a job as a beautician, but her skill shone through kissable red lips and thick eyelashes. Both painted onto a magnificent landscape. The years may not have been kind financially, but once born with drop-dead looks, they may fade, but will never disappear.

April glanced around the nearly empty high-end bar. It showed sporting events, a hockey game on one screen and a basketball game on the other. She struck out earlier in the night and would have to settle for this crowd to supplement her small income.

"Whiskey sour, Pete," she said after walking up to the bar.

Pete nodded and brought her a drink. He pointed at a man in an expensive suit. The man sat with others. April smiled and passed a bill across the countertop to him. She hated giving up money, but you need a connection in places like this and Pete could spot a mark a mile away. She looked at his expression as he checked the bill she slid to him. He smiled and nodded. April winked, then turned her full attention to the victims before her.

After five minutes, she made a choice.

Her face soured as she looked at the game of Hockey, it meant rough-housing men, something to avoid. Not tonight, not on a dare.

A group of men yelled at a wall-sized screen from an overhead projector. She smiled, basketball it is. Pete had good instincts, but she needed to conduct her own tests from years gained in the trenches. April scanned her available choices. A group of four men sat guzzling beer and screaming. The first was bald and chubby, living through the players. No, not on a dare. The next, a redhead with a crew cut. His neatly trimmed beard suggested good hygiene, a rarity, even among the suits. The third had something of a distasteful Mohawk, the girl that did it should be fired immediately. The last, another suit. Her gaze went back to the redhead.

April took her drink and crossed in front of the screen with it. The men yelled and she made her apologies. When she neared the redhead, her drink mysteriously spilled. "Oh my," she sighed.

"Let me help you with that," said the redhead.

"I don't want to be any trouble." A big smile and rapidly moving eyelashes work wonders.

"No trouble, little lady."

He wiped the small spill and picked up her plastic cup. He gave it back to her with a smile.

"Does my hero have a name?" more smiles and eyelashes, this was a banner day.

"Matty."

"Hello, Matty. I'm April."

"Nice to meet you, April."

He nodded. April, not content with the nod, decided to extend her delicate hand. The man's strong grip proved her right, he was the one. She smiled and walked past him to sit to his right at an empty table. She would hold his attention, play coy, but remain within earshot, pretending she wasn't.

Matty rejoined his companions. Occasionally, his eyes wandered to the enchanting April, who fed them with bashful smiles. She watched the others to see if they would interfere, she knew two of them, very well.

The man nursing a combination Mohawk crew-cut leaned across the table to whisper to Matty. He spoke low with his head down. He meant to hide his words from April.

Matty shook his head furiously. April tried to see his face, but couldn't. The man shot a look at her then gave a broad grin. The grin sent small shivers down April's back. She tried once more to read Matty with no luck.

As if reading her mind, Matty turned back to her and she gave him another smile, wondering what he was thinking. Her face showed no indication, but car blocking was at work. She made plans to counter and claim victory.

"Whatever, man. Gary, what do you know?" asked Matty louder then he should have.

April heard the question. The men looked directly at each other for the briefest of moments. She had always treated him fairly and made no bones about their relationship. Gary, on the other hand, fell in love with her and proposed marriage. He told her she was meant for better things and he could take care of her. April thought he wanted the remains of a beauty queen, not as shiny, but still adequate eye candy. She turned him down and passed him on to a lovely Russian she works with.

April knew Gary would not give her a bad report. He hoped to one day win her heart. She relaxed and stopped concentrating on strategy. The basketball game began its final quarter. She would not leave the bar empty-handed tonight. Her eyes left Matty's tan suit to appraise his shoes. The Long Wing Tassel Slip-ons were burgundy calfskin and reaffirmed his status. They were expensive, the $500 variety. He was hers.

After the game, Matty walked over to April, surprising her. For the first time in god knows when, she was unsure of her next move. When in doubt, fall back on old plans and wait for an opening. She did just that by giving a seductive smile and a simple, "Hi."

"I wasn't too sure I should come over here," said Matty.

"Why is that?"

"Those two guys I sat with are baggage handlers for Lambert. One claims to know you and it wasn't flattering."

"I'm a big girl, tell me the bad news."

"Well, um, well," Matty stuttered.

"How about this, start with the crew cut guy, what did he say?"

"He said he didn't know you personally, but you were in here a lot."

She eyed him carefully: strong chin, white teeth, penetrating yet gentle gray eyes. She decided to play straight with him.

"Tell me what else he said, the truth."

"He said you were kind of a working girl. Sorry."

"Don't be. I am. Either invite me to join you or walk away."

Matty hesitated. He focused on her hair and then her lips. April felt his eyes and made herself more attractive. He was a hard one and would not look into her eyes and fall under her spell. She coughed. He made the mistake of meeting her eyes and she held him by sheer will, like a predator hypnotizing its prey. Slowly she rose from her chair and moved next to him. She put her arm in his and together they walked out of the bar.

* * *

April entered her house in a disheveled state. Matty had been full of surprises. Her quick in and out turned to several hours. Twice she tried leaving and succumbed to more money and stayed. Damn stockbrokers, they're loaded. Finally, as he snored, she dressed in the dark. If she hadn't drank so heavily, she would have been more than happy to wake with him to even more cash. She left her name and number on the hotel pad and drew a smile beneath them. After that, she tiptoed to the door and left.

Brittany sat at the table eating breakfast cereal. April stumbled into the room toward their small brown couch and plopped down. Brittany didn't bother asking questions, it happened so often it was no surprise. She made a quick check of her mother, looking for cuts and bruises. She found none and breathed a sigh of relief.

"See," said April, "all good."

"Are you hungry, momma?"

"No, baby." April's head barely rose. The last of her strength was used to make it safely home with her fortune intact.

Brittany gave her a careful look. After that, April raised her arms, their signal. Brittany stared at her.

"Come on, baby. Help your old momma."

Brittany leaned her forward and unzipped the back of April's dress. April struggled to lift her legs to ease her dress up and then over her head. The woman collapsed to her side. She moaned and sank into the couch cushions.

"Comfy."

At six, the first time viewing her mother's lower half was a shock, but now at sixteen, she neither flinched nor gawked at her mother's nakedness. Instead, she went right to work. Brittany took her washcloth and cleaned her mother from head to toe as best she could. Her face remained blank. The challenge was to finish as quickly as possible and redress her. She went to the hall closet for a nightgown. Trials from the past had told her to never attempt to put underwear on the woman. With great care, she put the nightgown on her mother, tapping ever so often to produce the correct shift from the woman. They were better than the synchronized swimming team Brittany wanted to join when she was five.

While her mother sat, the dutiful daughter poured hot coffee into a mug. She dropped two sugar cubes into the cup and added a heaping spoon of cream. She stirred and then blew on it, to cool it.

After a quick taste, it was ready. She took it in to her mother. Brittany pulled out a bottle of pills. "Here, momma."

"What?" asked April, her eyes remained closed and she tried sinking deeper into the cushions.

"Take your pill, momma." Brittany pulled her up and put the pill to her lips. April opened her mouth and accepted the medicine. Brittany held the cup to her lips. April took two sips and stopped, shaking her head from side to side, frowning.

"I don't want anymore," she whined.

"You need it, momma. Open your mouth."

In role reversal fashion, April pouted. She reluctantly opened her mouth and gave her best frown to show her defiance. April tried stopping. Brittany lifted the cup higher. Her mother struggled. She looked every bit the drowning swimmer gasping for air. No matter. Brittany had her. The cup tilted higher and though she waved her hands about, April gulped and gulped until the cup was empty.

"Let me get you into bed, I have to go to work," said Brittany.

April was groggy, feeling light-headed. She leaned on her daughter and walked into the bedroom. Brittany lifted the covers and her mother climbed into bed and fell fast asleep. Her last words, "you're a good baby; I knew you would be a good baby." Then she snored.

Chapter Seventeen: Brittany

Brittany was no longer a child and no longer on the pageant circuit. She and her mother supported their humble house—each worked a full and part-time job. Brittany's school friends let her know about the burned-out house on Norwood, not too far from downtown St. Louis. After a year of hard work, the house was livable and theirs to keep. Homeowners, the word sounded good to her. And she, like her mother, prepared to do whatever it took to keep their home. The countless evictions by landlords were at an end. Never again could anyone throw them out. That felt good.

Brittany put on her waitress outfit. Though she was underage, she had a fake ID swearing to the fact that she was eighteen. What harm could it do? In two years it would be true. Besides, she led the life of a thirty-year-old woman.

She wore a white tank top and bright-orange shorts. The shorts were tight and when she bent over, fishnet stockings held her in. The tank top was tight, but not restrictive. She thought she wouldn't be able to breathe the first time she wore it. Not because it was scandalously small, but because it might cut off her oxygen supply. She stood in front of the mirror and read 'Hooters' backward—the name printed on the top and the shorts. She smiled at the back 'delightfully tacky, yet unrefined'.

She didn't inherit smarts from her mother, but she did inherit her body. And what a killer body it was. She looked like all the women in the pictures of Hooters' girls: tall, long blond hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth, killer smile, body to die for. At sixteen, she was a 36C, she looked forward to eighteen—bigger size and bigger tips. She walked out of the locker room ready to work.

Brittany's first stop was at the bar. She read her schedule before going to work. Music played and the customers hooted and hollered as she and her cohorts went by with trays. "Hey, Frankie." She said as she stopped by her first table.

"Hey, Britt."

She set a drink next to each man. All four of them smelled of liquor, but only stammered through the doors moments ago. This is going to be a long night, she thought. She gave her best smile. These were her regulars and she knew their drinks. To save time, they told her as soon as they walked through the door to bring them their first round and she did.

"Hey, Beautiful."

"Hey, Carl. How's your wife?"

The others razed him.

"Hey, Sunshine," said another.

"Hey, Brett. How many months is Cathy?"

More razing.

The last man tried. "Hey, Britt, am I your favorite?"

"Well, Joe, if you tip real big, you can definitely be my favorite."

She winked and made him blush. Joe took his razz with high-fives. They all watched her walk away. She exaggerated her sway and listened for her response, cheers and howls.

"Girl, don't you get tired of them?" asked a female customer at the bar.

"Nope, they're harmless, big wallets and little bats." Brittany and the woman shared a giggle. "What can I get for you?"

"Whiskey sour, please."

"Coming right up."

Brittany turned to fix the order. She had a giant mirror in front of her that she used to keep an eye on her customers. She thought the woman looked at her so she did her patented bend to check. The woman's eyes fixed to Brittany's backside as if drawn to it by unseen forces.

Oh well, money is money. Brittany didn't care who gave it to her. She brought the woman her drink and smiled as big as she did for the men.

"Here you go."

"Thanks," the woman said. She paid twice the cost of her drink.

"I'll get your change."

"No, that's for you."

"Oh," said Brittany, "thanks."

"No problem. I'm Cassandra. I worked in one of these years ago. Snagged myself a rich guy and have lived the good life ever since."

"Oh wow, way to go, Cassandra." Brittany high-fived her.

"I'm thinking of buying the place. Is this the usual crowd?"

"For a Wednesday night, yeah. Stick around for the weekend, we pack them like sardines."

"I'll be here. Tell me, Miss . . .?"

"Brittany Dushell." She extended a hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You too. Tell me, Brittany, what did you think of me when you first met me?"

"Uhm."

"The truth."

"Okay. I thought you were a lesbian."

"You don't serve lesbians?"

"Oh, no. That's not it. I serve everyone. That was just my first impression."

"What gave me away?"

"You are a lesbian?"

"I'm bi. What gave me away?"

"Your eyes, you watched my ass when I bent over. I know the look and it wasn't casual."

Cassandra gave a beautiful laugh. It filled the air. Misjudging her was a relief. Having a woman own the place would help them a lot. If she could sell the place to her, she would.

"You are beautiful, but I wanted to know how you would react to lesbians. They are a rising demographic in the club scene."

"Really?"

"Yes. My husband will either buy this bar or open another that caters to the gay and lesbian community. I thought I would get a jump on things and check it out myself."

"How do you like us?"

"Not bad. Are the tips good?"

"I can clear $500 most nights."

Cassandra nodded. She finished her drink and asked for another. More customers came in and Brittany left to attend to more of her regulars. She spoke off and on to Cassandra while servicing her customers. She finally called it a night at 3 am and went home.

The first stop she made was to her mother's room. She eased the door open to peer inside the dark room. Light filtered in to reveal her mother, safe and sound, in bed and asleep. April looked beautiful in her sleep. Brittany smiled and eased the door closed. It had taken years to repair the rift between them. Both women eventually found peace.

Brittany went to the kitchen and made a sandwich. For obvious reasons, she never brought food home from work, eating it all night, made it toxic for her. She ate half a sandwich and took a can of soda to her bedroom. After a bath, she went to bed and fell fast asleep.

In the morning, she stole another peek at her mother before rushing out of the house. April sleeping meant she didn't have to waste time lying to her about where she was going. Brittany hopped into her ten-year-old Chevy Malibu and made her way to her appointment.

Brittany was led by a nurse to a backroom where she undressed and put on a flimsy gown. She laid on the cold table, feeling every bit a corpse. Her thin gown gave her no relief from the table's metal surface. Thoughts of horror ran through her head. She closed her eyes tight in an effort to shut them out. It didn't work. Voices and images flooded her. The quietness of the room woke dark demons within her. They filled the void and sounded off, bringing thoughts of horror and abandonment with them.

Her torture ended when the doctor came in with a nurse.

"Miss Dushell?" he said the name with a soft sound.

"Dushell, as in dew."

"Dewshell." He looked at her chart while talking to her. "You are here today for an examination? Let's see here . . . um, I see. Let's begin. Please slide down and put your feet in the stirrups. Let's have a look."

Brittany took a deep breath. She slid down and lifted her legs. Instead of focusing on the doctor, she stared at the nurse's face.

"Describe your pain, please."

"I get periodic pains, sometimes they are sharp. A friend of mine had to have a hysterectomy. The doctor told her she had scar tissue in her uterus that caused her pain. I thought mine might be the same."

"Maybe," said the doctor, nonchalantly. He pressed harder and she winced. "Have you had any children?"

"No."

Whatever he did made her wince again. To get her mind off the pressure she felt, she spent her time trying to figure out what the nurse was thinking. Before long, it was over. The doctor left the room with the nurse and she pushed herself back to a more comfortable position.

Moments later the doctor returned with his nurse. Both looked grim.

"Miss Dushell."

"Let me have it, Doc."

"Well, I found scarring in your uterus, deep scars, like you thought. I would guess the scars are years old, possibly from childhood. Is there anything you would like to tell me?"

"No."

"I can step out and you can talk to Nurse Patrice." His voice was much deeper and authoritative this time.

"There's nothing to say. I wanted to know for sure and you told me. May I dress now?"

He tried once more. "Is there anything you would like to say to either of us? Perhaps a counselor, someone you felt comfortable with?"

"No! Can I get dressed?" she raised her voice, getting annoyed.

"Get dressed, Miss Dushell."

They left the room to give her privacy. When she finished, she walked out. The doctor was down the hall looking at another chart, about to go into the next room. She walked to him. "I'm sorry I yelled back there." She spoke softly.

"I understand. You're of age so I have nothing to report. Your file is confidential if you are wondering."

"Thank you." She turned, then stopped. "Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"Does the scarring prevent me from having children? I mean, if I wanted them, can I have them?"

He gulped. He gave a warm smile, but the ends twitched. "I'm sorry, Miss Dushell. You will never be able to have children. I'm sorry."

The doctor escaped into the room before she could thank him for his honesty. She regretted yelling at him, it wasn't his fault. She left the office to go home and wait until dark so she could go back to work. She prayed her mother wasn't there. She couldn't take seeing her right now. God, let her not be home.

The car started. She made a turn onto a busy one-way street and was immediately cutoff by a crazy driver in a red sports car. Brittany swerved and drove into a sidewalk mailbox. The car came to a screeching halt and the airbag deployed, knocking her back.

"Uggg!" she fumed. She beat at the bag and then the steering wheel. She beat with fury. Images of youth flashed through her mind, she stopped and slumped over the wheel, crying.

"Goddamn, you! I won't be remembered! I won't be remembered!"

Brittany cried so hard she couldn't stop. She simply sat, hunched over the steering wheel, crying.

Chapter Eighteen: Mike

The bell rang. First hour was a breeze, everyone loved Mrs. Frazier. English was never a promising class, but to have a caring teacher made all the difference. The next hour would be the killer. Mike Jones had the unfortunate luck of drawing Franklin Howard as his homeroom teacher. He and the other unfortunates spent an hour and a half with this man. They formed a mutual hate society, all save Amy, his pet.

Mike entered the darkened dungeon with a heavy heart. He gave a stray look to Mr. Howard as he passed his desk. He sat with a group of three boys in the back of the class. None of them cared for the class or teacher and spent their time talking on other subjects. Today it was Raina, the long-haired brunette, an exchange student from India.

"She lives next door to me, bro," said Ben.

"Yeah, right," said Mike.

"It's true, bro," said Ben. He leaned in to whisper. "She lives with Bobby Dunkin, sharing a room with his sister, Rhonda. Rhonda says she sneaks out the bedroom window, at least once every two days. On the real, bro."

Mike looked skeptical. Ben looked sincere. Was it a trap? He decided to believe him. He gave a mischievous smile. They fist-bumped and together stared at the thin, chesty goddess. Mike thought of running his fingers through her massive black locks. With a nod from Ben, he made his move.

The teacher arranged his class in six rows of six students each. Mike sat in the last seat in the next to the last row, surrounded by his friends. Raina sat in the second seat in the first row. Getting a note to her would be tricky. Mike glanced at the teacher, he wrote on the blackboard. Now was the best opportunity he would get. He would not see her the rest of the day.

Taking a sheet of paper from his notebook, Mike wrote an age-old letter. It was quick and could get to her before Mr. Howard turned around. He folded the paper, addressed the outside to Raina, and tapped the guy next to him. He whispered, "Pass this to Raina."

The boy took the note, read the outside name, and tapped the girl in front of him. "Raina."

The note traveled toward its target and all looked well. Mike nervously glanced at Mr. Howard, anxious for the students to move faster. Why didn't I take it to her? The words rolled in his head. It was too late. All he could do was watch. The note made it to the next to the last hands it would travel through. The next in the chain, Sabrina, followed directions. Before she could deliver it to its target, a massive hairy hand wrenched the note from the teenager.

Mike's heart dropped. He had taken his attention off Mr. Howard. He prayed. Don't read it, don't read it, don't read it.

Too late. Mr. Howard had the note. He read the name, Raina. An evil smile crossed his lips. He looked at the students in the row. They quickly lowered their heads, pretending they were working.

Mike pretended as well. Though his book was open, his eyes found themselves searching yet not wanting to find their target. He stole a glance. The teacher looked dead at him. Busted. Mike looked back at his papers and nervously scribbled several lines of nonsense. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man moving toward the front, to his desk. Mike braved another look.

Mr. Howard scanned the rows and settled at Mike's desk. He read the outside name again. This time, he slowly unfolded the piece of paper, taking great joy in opening it. A sparkle shone in his twisted eyes. He turned around, pretending to read the note in privacy. One by one, the students turned to pay condolences to Mike. Each looked sympathetic as they met his gaze. Mr. Howard gave them a new reason to hate the man.

Mr. Howard turned, his expression, one of a child standing in front of a candy store. This would not go good. He cleared his throat.

"To Raina." He read the outside cover.

Bewilderment covered Raina's face. She looked behind her to the low groans, unable to understand the weight of the words. She turned back to Mr. Howard.

Patience was Howard's long suit. He waited until he had her full attention and the uproar died. The look of deliciousness let Mike know the man was not going to let it go. Mr. Howard's old fingers turned the note over. Again, he cleared his throat.

"Raina, would you go out with me? Check yes or no."

Mr. Howard chuckled.

He wasn't alone. The room burst into 'oohs and awws' followed by tremendous laughter. Raina turned to see where Mr. Howard was looking. Amy, the pet, sat behind Raina and pointed directly at the perpetrator. Raina's eyes met Mike's. She gave a look of revulsion and turned back around. The look seared itself into his brain. The room erupted with laughter.

Mike looked to his friends for support. They laughed with the others. Ben lied.

Mike stood with fury in his eye. He faced Mr. Howard. "You didn't have to do that, you asshole!"

"Ooh," said a student.

"Get him," said another, trying to incite a conflict.

"Know he didn't," a girl exclaimed at the top of her lungs.

Mike was so angry he didn't feel brave.

Mr. Howard fired back, "Jones, office, now!"

"Whatever, bitch!"

Mike grabbed his books and backpack. His friends held their heads low, murmuring their applause as quietly and undetectably as possible. None risked outright exposure, which was the advantage of being in the back. Mike glowered back at the smirking Ben, before making his way to the front. Noises grew louder as he boldly walked through the aisle toward their teacher. Mr. Howard glared at the class and they fell silent.

"Move, Jones."

Mike left the classroom and went down the hall to the Principal's office. He went inside and waved at Tila, the secretary. She gave him a hard look and shook her head. Tila pointed to a chair and he sat with a smile.

Minutes later, Mr. Howard came in. He checked for Mike before walking to the counter. "Is Bill free?"

"Yes, sir," said Tila, "go on back."

Mr. Howard motioned for Mike to join him. Together, they walked down the narrow hall and entered the open door on the right. "Bill?" Mr. Howard shut the door for privacy.

"Hey, Franklin, what's going on?"

"Mr. Jones, here, had the audacity to curse me in my class. I imagine he thought he was home on his reservation."

Mike flared. He didn't wear the clothes or look anything like those people.

"All right, son," said the principal. His hand shot out at Mike, a gesture to keep him in his place. By the look, the principal didn't care for Mr. Howard either. He smiled, trying to calm the teen. "We don't need that sort of language, Franklin."

Franklin Howard stared at him in disbelief.

"Apologize, Franklin," said a stern Principal Tally.

"What!" the man blustered.

"Apologize or face the consequences, Franklin. You know better than to say something like that. Apologize."

"Fine!" he huffed. "I apologize. Can we get down to business now?"

"Go ahead."

"I want this . . . this, this student, expelled. I will not tolerate bad behavior. It sets a bad example for the others. You should have heard them, the way they whooped it up for his insolence."

Principal Bill Tally gave Mike a thorough scan. His brown eyes seemed sympathetic, giving Mike hope. Maybe, just maybe, he was on his side. "Michael Jones, you will apologize to Mr. Howard."

Mike was grateful. He turned to the teacher before the Principal could change his mind. Mr. Howard put up his hand to stop him. "Not here," said Howard. A sadistic grin fell across his splotchy face. "In class, where the incident began."

Mike turned to the Principal for support.

"Go on, Mike. You were wrong and there is always a price to pay. Go on back to class and get it over with. I don't want to see you back here today. Go on."

Mr. Howard was a troll, despite being tall and bulky. If they had been alone, the man would have jumped for joy. He happily held the door open for Mike. The teenager walked past him holding his breath. He stormed down the hallway and back to the classroom. Mike stopped in front of the noisy class, staring at his former friend, Ben. He gave a glance to Raina and immediately regretted it. It was if time stood still, her face showed the same mixture of confusion and rage. Surely somebody must have explained what happened by now.

Mr. Howard strolled in, unable to control his grin. Knowing him, he wasn't trying. This was a victory and he enjoyed it. The room grew quiet.

Suddenly, a mischievous grin spread below Mike's nose. The glint in Howard's eye faded. Mike faced the stunned class and made his apology before the man could stop him. "I should not have called Mr. Howard an asshole. He is not an asshole."

Three girls sitting up front put their hand over their mouth. Their eyes grew big and they looked around at the others. Perfect, that was the effect he wanted.

"I was wrong to say that he was an asshole."

"Ooh," said a number of students, busting out in giggles. Mike stood taller. The hateful teacher moved toward him so he had to speed up his apology.

"Mr. Howard told Principal Tally that I called him an asshole. Principal Tally said I should apologize for using the word, asshole. I hereby apologize to Mr. Howard for calling him an asshole in front of the whole class. Thank you." Mike was so pleased with himself, he bowed. Not once, but to Mr. Howard and then to each and every individual row of students.

Many cheered. Mr. Howard moved close to him so Mike ran down his aisle and took his seat. Franklin Howard stopped and glared at his class. He extended a long thin finger. Silence fell in the room.

"Let's get back to work," he said coolly.

Class went on until the bell rung. At that time, the students rose to leave. Mike was one of the last, still enjoying his triumph. He passed by the big desk and a hand came out. "Not you, Jones."

The remaining students hooted as they left the room.

"What now?" asked Mike.

"Come here, Mr. Jones."

Mike showed no fear. He stood in front of the man. Mr. Howard got out of his chair. He towered over the arrogant teen. He was a menacing man of six feet. He looked down with ferocity. The intimidation would stop others. Mike looked up to meet his gaze with equal intensity.

"What?"

Mr. Howard lowered his face to the boy. "I'm going to make your life a living hell, boy. For every time you defiled my classroom, I will stick it to you at every opportunity. And take my word for it, BOY. You won't pass my class and when I talk to your other teachers, I can assure you that you won't pass their classes either."

"You can't do that." Mike stood tall, challenging him. He couldn't let the man see how scared he was. He would win this battle.

"Oh, yeah?" Howard asked, blowing his foul spit as he talked. "We teachers stick together against 'red trash' like you. Mark my words. I will see you back in this class next year. Oh, yes, Mr. Jones, I can take you another year. In fact, I look forward to it."

His snarl was something Mike had come accustomed to. He knew the man and knew he didn't bluff. Mike swallowed hard. His eyes faltered and lowered. Suddenly, he raised them again to meet the vicious stare of his nemesis. "Go to hell!"

Mike walked out in triumph. He felt victorious. He whistled as he walked down the hallway. Instead of going to his next class, he cleaned out his locker and carried all the books to the Principal's office.

"You back already?" asked Tila.

"For the last time," said Mike. With a happy heart, he laid his books on the counter in front of the secretary.

"What's this?"

"These are all my books. Please make sure I get credit for turning them in." He gave the confused woman a warm smile. "I quit and I hope Franklin Fuckhead Howard burns in hell." He went around the desk of the shocked woman and stole a kiss on her cheek, bowed, then left, whistling.

Mike didn't go home to explain. Instead, he went to a sports bar two blocks away. He gave the owner a deer he killed on a hunting trip with his grandfather Pipi. Since then, the man let him come into the bar, but only during the day. Mike and two others frequently skipped school to get drunk with local bums. For his fifteenth birthday, they took him to a strip joint and waited while a lovely lady made a man out of him. Since then, he has been to four of Florida's best strip clubs and fallen in love with more than six strippers, two of which made his sweet sixteen, sweet.

Quitting school was no big deal for him. In the back of his mind he knew he wouldn't make it to graduation anyway. He saddled up to the bar and took a seat on a stool. "Hey, Tex."

"What's up, Mike?"

"Not much, how has it been?"

"Slow as dirt, like always. Jimmy is in the back."

"I'll see him later. Let me have a whiskey, neat. Make it a double, I just quit school."

The woman looked at him, scolding with her southern eyes.

"Come on Tex, I missed thirty-one days in the first semester. You told me I wouldn't last."

"I told you to stop listening to those idiots. What are you going to tell your folks?"

Tex poured a drink and set it in front of him. She took her towel and wiped the bar.

"The truth." He downed his drink and tapped the counter.

"Never tell the truth, boy."

The voice came from behind him. Mike turned to see one of the bums, Stanley. To see him upright was a miracle. Stanley nearly drank himself to death after losing his job. He wanted to go out like that guy in the movie Leaving Las Vegas. Unfortunately, he lost consciousness in a fleabag motel one block from Miami General Hospital. They saved his life, but he lost a leg in the bargain. He tapped Mike with his cane.

"Don't listen to him," said Tex. "Get on out of here, Stanley. How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not serving you, ever again?" she set another drink in front of Mike, giving the bum the evil eye.

"Come on, Tex. What did I ever do to you?"

"Your booze came from here, you old fart. You are not making me part of your suicide. Get on 'way from 'round here."

"Tex?" Stanley pleaded.

"No!"

"Tex," said Mike, trying to help his friend.

"I said no. And if you give him one drop, you are out of here and on my shit list, too."

"Sorry Stan," said Mike.

"Oh, Mike, man. Come on, don't listen to that Texas wannabe, we're blood. Remember I took you to your first club. Bought you your first piece of—"

"Stanley!" Tex cut him off. She held a sawed-off shotgun aimed right at his head. "You git out of here and you git out now. Move!"

The man turned and walked out, cursing under his breath and loudly tapping his cane as he went. Mike thought about the sound it made and wondered why he hadn't heard it the first time. He turned back to Tex, her face flushed with anger. "You can put it down, he's gone."

"Sorry, that's a problem I gotta work on."

"Hell, you did better this time, girl. You didn't fire a warning shot."

They laughed. Her anger management classes were working, though they had to be forced on her in lieu of jail time. Tex stopped laughing and picked up the remote. A television hung from a corner with the sound off. The captioning read, "Breaking News." She turned up the sound and they listened.

A news reporter came on:

"This is Consuela Martinez coming to you from the USS Bohman. Today, a tragedy struck America. We lost our great leader, a great man, President James Connors. Vice President Reilly is here aboard this very ship, waiting for the arrival of Supreme Court Justice Tanner Oaks. Vice President Reilly says he will not leave the area until a full explanation of what happened has been determined. At this hour, we know that several explosions shook Mount Mitchell in the Appalachian Mountains, here in North Carolina. Vice President Reilly said that President Connors was on the mountain and attacked and killed by a terrorist group that lured him to the mountain on false hopes of peace. Fighting broke out and we have footage from locals of an air fight that we will bring you shortly. Repeating, President Connors is dead, killed by terrorists on Mount Mitchell. Vice President Reilly will be sworn in as President as soon as Chief Justice Oaks arrives here on board the USS Bohman. Stay tuned to this channel for all-day coverage and deep analysis. This is Consuela Martinez, Eyewitness News."

"Oh crap," said Tex.

The screen showed pictures of fighter jets firing on the mountain. A scene followed of soldiers fighting against machine gun toting terrorists. The terrorists fired rocket launchers at aircraft while chanting and celebrating at the sight of a plunging fighter jet. Mike pointed at the television.

"That's what I'm going to do."

"What?" asked Tex.

"I'm joining the Army and I'm going to kick me some terrorist ass."

Tex looked confused, then she laughed. "You're drunk as hell, kid."

"You'll laugh out the other side of your face the next time you see me." Mike finished his last drink, planted a kiss on her full lips, and left the bar. Tex stood dumbfounded, looking at the closed door.

Chapter Nineteen: Miriam

Miriam walked for what felt like hours through trees and high grass. Often she walked to the side, along the grassy areas of trails. She wore no shoes and when walking down the center of known paths, she hurt the bottom of her feet as she stepped on pebbles and jagged rocks. Ahead, she heard traffic and walked in that direction to flag down a car. Up ahead was a clearing and the outline of the road. A car zoomed by and gave her hope.

She walked to the road while performing a much-needed grooming service. She clawed through her hair to get more dirt out and stopped to take the time to wipe her face of grime. She performed a maneuver she witnessed her boss perform on several occasions, slapping wrinkles out of his suit.

At the road, she held up both hands and waved frantically. Two cars passed without slowing. She needed to change her strategy. Scaring drivers was a no-no. Miriam stood to the side and held a thumb out and smiled. Two cars went by without slowing. A third honked and sped up, shouting obscenities at her.

"Same to you, asshole!"

Stop it! You need these people.

Miriam took a deep breath. She waited for the next car and extended her arm into the hitchhiker pose. A small up-and-down motion followed. A small, red car flashed its headlights. It slowed and went past her and stopped at the edge of the road. Miriam ran toward the car. Her forty-eight years of life had taught her never to get into a stranger's car. That thinking fled her as she ran the last few feet.

Looking into the car from the passenger side, she saw a blond teenage girl. Thank you, Jesus.

"Hello," she said out of breath.

"Hey, need a lift?" asked the girl. "Hop in."

"Thanks." Miriam opened the passenger side door and sat. The girl drove down North Carolina State Highway 128. "Sorry about the dirt and all."

"That's okay. With all the strange shit going on around here, that's nothing. Did you see those planes?"

The young woman looked excited. In this part of the country it must be strange to see so many planes, unless it is an air show.

"Yeah, I saw them."

"The way they fired into those mountains, I bet they're after terrorists. They must be using our mountains like they do back in Pakistani and Asghanistan. Damn fuckers! Do you think they got them?"

Miriam smiled at her years and naiveté. She then pointed to her outfit.

"No shit!" Her eyes grew wide. "You were in that mess back there? How did you get over here?"

"A long sad story." Miriam gave another smile and thought it best to change the subject. "Where are you headed?"

"The campgrounds," the girl's look was one of confusion. Miriam needed to be clearer.

"Which of the campgrounds are you headed to?"

"Oh, sorry." She laughed. "Mount Mitchell State Park Campgrounds. It's just up ahead. I'm Jodi, by the way."

"Hello, Jodi. Thanks for the ride. I'm Miriam, Miriam Roster."

Judging by her wardrobe, Miriam deduced she was a local. Maybe a college freshmen, but no older. Jodi wore cutoff blue jeans with a white tank top. She hid her smile, thinking about Lil Abner and Daisy Mae. The only difference, this young lady had a tattoo. Miriam saw something like the tail of a snake going up her right shoulder and under her tank top. Maybe she had more.

"Hey, Miriam. What happened to you out there?"

Miriam swallowed hard. "Do you have a cell phone by chance?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't work out here. No repeaters." Jodi grinned.

"Oh, my. There are payphones at the campgrounds, aren't there?"

"I saw a couple outside. I assume they work."

Miriam nodded. Jodi drove the short distance to the campgrounds. When she moved to get out of the car, she revealed a trash stamp on her lower back. Miriam shook her head, the youth did strange things in her opinion. She set her mind to business and rushed to the phones, but none of them had a dial tone. She frantically looked around and saw cars at a building behind her. She ran over to the building, bursting through the doors. Heads turned around to look at her in her dirty and torn suit. She looked as if newly buried in dirt and raised from the grave.

"I need help. Can anyone help me?"

She faced a group of seated weekend warriors. A division of the North Carolina National Guard made of old men and eager young boys on their weekend training program. Miriam stared at them in desperation. None of them moved. Jodi walked in and all eyes shifted to the young, tanned female next to the horror before them.

"Is anyone going to help us?" asked Jodi.

Immediately the men rose and clamored to help Jodi.

"Not me, her."

"Take her to the back and get her cleaned up, Roscoe," said an older soldier.

"I need a," said Miriam. She struggled to get the words out. The last words came out harder, throatier, "phone. Excuse me, the dust is getting to me. Do you have a working phone I could use? It's very important." She coughed.

"Sure, sure, sure," said the oldest soldier. "You go and clean up. The phone can wait."

"I need to use the phone first," insisted Miriam, coughing. "I work for the President and I have to get a message back to Washington D.C. quickly."

"Roscoe, take her in the back to the washroom." He ignored any further pleas from Miriam and turned his attention to the lovely Jodi. "And you? How may I help you, young lady?" he smacked his old lips.

Jodi nodded to Miriam who reluctantly followed Roscoe to the back. Jodi then turned to the soldier, "I need a map of the area and a soda if it's not too much trouble."

"Excuse me," said a woman who walked through the door. "Where are your bathroom facilities?"

"That way, Ma'am," said Walter. "Roscoe, take these with you."

"Much obliged," said the woman. She shuffled off with two teens and a little girl. Roscoe waited and escorted them to the back with Miriam.

"Uh-hem," said Jodi, "a map."

"No trouble, little lady. I'm Walter, battalion leader of the fighting 44th. Welcome to our group meeting. Joshua, go get the little lady a soda, would you?"

"Yes, sir," said a young boy of seventeen.

"You wouldn't by chance be here to join up would you?" asked an eager Walter.

"No, I'm a student at North Carolina State."

Suddenly, an eerie sound came from the back. All eyes turned to see where the sound came from. Down the hall they looked. A shadowy figure came into view. Jodi and the others gulped, something felt wrong, malevolent. The odd sounds grew louder and truly came from the being.

"Jodi," it said slowly, harshly, metallically. "Come, Jodi."

The men turned to Jodi. She braved a step forward toward the figure. First one step, then another. She took each step with a tremble. When she neared the shadowed figure, her eyes looked to its right and she saw Roscoe. Her hand went to her mouth to stifle her scream. Roscoe lay dead on the floor near the figure, his chest open, a discarded arm lay nearby, and a portion of his neck was missing.

Jodi took a step back. As she did, the figure came out of the shadows and rushed at her. It was Miriam—or what remained of Miriam. She wore her tattered suit covered in dirt. Her hair was dirty and wild and her arms were straight out, grabbing for the young girl. Jodi screamed and moved at the last minute and Miriam went past her to Walter. The man hadn't moved and simply contorted his face in horror.

Miriam lunged at him, knocking him to the floor.

Miriam tore into Walter, tearing chunks of flesh from the man and devouring them. Walter lay beneath her, screaming and furiously batting at her at first, then he succumbed and slumped. Miriam ate with no resistance.

The others were shocked, looking in horror, not believing their eyes. They then screamed and ran, all save one teen that launched at Miriam as if he were a missile. The boy tried wrestling her off and was bitten for his trouble. He moaned in pain while Miriam went back to feasting on Walter. Her face was a bloody mess. Her hands, painted red with Walter's blood, told the tale, she was ravenous and he aimed to satisfy her need.

The boy gave up all efforts at helping, screaming and crying, shouting at her to stop through his tears. She paid him no mind and ate. The boy got to his feet and made a mad dash for the exit, gripping his side.

Jodi stayed glued to the wall, watching Miriam devour the old man. Miriam was strong, powerful, snapping joints as if they were twigs, devouring every morsel of flesh she saw.

While Miriam continued feeding, Jodi whimpered against the wall, afraid to move or scream out for help. No one stayed. Screams would be useless at this point. She turned from the gruesome sight to gaze upon Roscoe on the floor. The youth lay still, blood pooling around him. As she watched, his eyes flew open. A strangled gurgle escaped her lips. Roscoe turned. His eyes grew wide in recognition, his face a dull gray.

"Help me," the low strange sound came from him. "Help me."

Jodi looked. He was alive. She moved in to offer aid. "Roscoe? Roscoe?"

"Help me."

Closer she came. She leaned down to stretch out a shaky hand to feel his pulse. Roscoe lunged at her with his mouth.

She screamed and jerked back. Like a cat, Roscoe was upright on his feet. Jodi ran for the exit. Running for her life, she screamed and jumped over the feeding Miriam and ran for the exit. Roscoe never followed. She could only assume he stayed behind to make a meal of poor Walter.

Jodi ran through the doors screaming her head off. Ahead, she saw men running to the building across the street. She ran after them, no longer screaming. She made it to the door and burst through, locking the door behind her.

She breathed heavily, looking around at soldiers, breathing even harder. "Zombies, zombies, zombies! Oh shit! What the fuck, just happened?" even knowing, she couldn't believe it.

"Shit!" Sergeant Moore said. He breathed so rapidly, he was in danger of passing out from hyperventilating.

"What the hell was that?" she asked.

Jodi looked around at the panting soldiers. Some bent to catch their breath, while others gathered around a radio. A soldier frantically screamed into a microphone, trying to make contact with the outside world. No one had an idea of what happened or what to do about it. She saw guns behind two soldiers in a cabinet. She ran to them, pushing the men aside. She tugged at the handles, the cabinet wouldn't open. "Awwww! Open damn you!"

Sergeant Moore recovered. He pulled out the key. He walked past the men, shoving them aside like weaklings. "Pierce, Bester, look alive, damn you." He opened the cabinet. Jodi lunged and grabbed a rifle. She opened it to check for ammo and pulled the cartridge. She slapped it back in and looked at Moore with determination.

"All right," exclaimed Moore, "that's what I'm talking about. Pierce! Bester! Load up!" The two privates tried as hard as they could, they could not match the Sergeant's will. Jodi saw them shaking.

She read the name tag, Pierce, and looked at him, a boy of possibly twenty years. She took the rifle from him and checked it herself. Pulling the clip and replacing it. She turned off the safety and gave it back to him.

"You can shoot, can't you?" she asked.

"Y-y-yes. Marksman level two," said Pierce.

"You are going to need it."

"How can you be so calm?" he asked in a low voice to keep the Sergeant from hearing.

Jodi leaned into him, speaking softly. "I'm not. All I know is that I am not dying today. I will kill any fucker that tries to take me out, including you."

Her wink gave him strength. "Girls with guns, every man's fantasy."

"Listen up," shouted Sergeant Moore. "I don't know what the hell we saw—"

"Zombies," said Jodi.

"Maybe, maybe not, but I know a bullet in its head will stop it. We are soldiers, National Guardsmen of the proud state of North Carolina, we don't play, we execute. Hooah!"

"Hooah!" they replied.

"Saddle Up! Move Out!"

Sergeant Moore took the lead. He left the building as a squad of five armed soldiers and Jodi. They crept toward the building and at the door, stopped to gather courage. Moore counted them down. He grabbed the handle and jerked the door open. Pierce and Bester went through; guns pointed forward, itchy trigger fingers ready.

The others followed and all stared at what was left of Walter. Half of the man was gone, that which remained, slowly disappeared into the mouths of Miriam and Roscoe. They made strange gurgling noises as they sopped the man's life blood.

Half the soldiers turned from the sight. Training for battle was different from actual battle and this, far different and beyond the realm of possibilities. No one could blame a small amount of squeamishness.

Moore aimed at Roscoe and fired. Roscoe shook. He looked at Moore with bright-red eyes and howled. Miriam howled as well, then returned to her meal. Moore fired into Roscoe's chest. Roscoe howled and got to his feet. With a howl, he ran at Moore, mouth wide open. Sergeant Moore wasn't alone, everyone fired into Roscoe. A stray shot hit his head and he fell, inches from his target.

Miriam howled and ran to the back. Everyone fired as she fled. She dashed around a corner and was fast out of sight. They stood, looking at Roscoe and Walter.

"You don't suppose," said Pierce.

"Yeah, I do," said Moore. "A couple shots to the head for each, just to be sure."

Jodi remained still, unsure what he meant. The others aimed at the bodies and put slugs in each of their heads. "How do you know?" she looked at Sergeant Moore for an explanation.

"Zombie movies. They look like zombies to me."

"And a shot to the head takes them out?" she asked.

Moore sighed, "time will tell. Come on, let's get the woman and then we can try calling this in. I don't know how the hell I am going to explain this one."

"Are they actual zombies?" asked Bester.

"Pretend it's a video game and shoot to kill. Is that good enough for you?"

Bester and the others nodded.

The soldiers moved through the bodies to the back. Jodi saw that she was alone and quickly followed. The hallway where she saw Roscoe lying on the floor was empty. A pool of blood lay where his body had recently rested. She looked at the stain and moved on to keep up with the rest.

They went around a corner and saw bloody handprints on the wall. Around a second corner they saw more of the prints. Moore had his men back him up as he kicked in a bathroom door. They went forward with Jodi behind them. Each stall was kicked in. The last stall, after being kicked in, revealed its contents. A dead and bloody soldier lay crumpled around the toilet. As they watched, the body moved. Three of the soldiers fired into the body and stilled the corpse.

"Damn," said Sergeant Moore. "That was Johnson. Damn shame."

"The room's clean," said Jodi.

"What?"

"The room," she said, "other than the body, the room is clean. No prints on the walls, nothing on the floor. Clean."

They looked about and agreed with her words. One of their number looked to the ceiling and saw a vent. Before he could move, something burst through with a howl and was on him. The soldier screamed as he rolled on the floor, the zombie rolling and biting with him.

"Get it!" Moore ordered.

The soldiers and Jodi opened fire on the rolling pile. The pile came to a stop against the wall. Carefully they approached, both bodies were immobile. Moore aimed his weapon and shot each in the head.

Pierce winced. "Sergeant?"

"No choice, son, shoot them in the head. Anyone bitten gets the same. Clear!"

"Clear, sir!" they replied.

"Damn shame." Moore walked out.

Jodi gave a look to the vent before following.

The small force made their way down a hall near a conference room. Moore opened the door to a darkened room. He fumbled for the light switch, unable to find it. He cautiously entered and advanced along the wall in search of the elusive switch. He found it, but it didn't work.

"Shit."

He wiped his brow and preceded forward, feeling the butt of the gun of the soldier behind him in his back. The conference room was a large rectangular room with a long center table of oak with seating for twenty. From his position, he could see half the table. He stopped.

"Hello," a soft voice of only a few years said.

"Hello," said another with the strange metallic undertone.

Sergeant Moore peered into the darkness in search of faces for the voices. Toward the back of the room, he saw shadows. The shadows moved forward a step and stopped.

"Hello."

"Hello."

"Hello?" Sergeant Moore returned the word to the darkness. No response came from the shadows. Everyone gathered around Moore.

"What do you think?" asked Pierce.

"I can't tell, it's too dark," said Moore.

"Could they be kids?" asked Jodi.

Sergeant Moore rubbed the stubble on his face in deep thought. He tried again, "hello?"

"Hello," the first said.

"Hello," said the next in the same childlike metallic voice. Both remained positioned in the shadows.

"Forget this," said the soldier next to Pierce. He put his gun on the floor and held up his hands, moving closer. "Hello, I'm a soldier. I'm not going to hurt you. My name is Ross. Can you tell me your names?"

"Ross," hissed Moore.

Ross ignored him and moved closer with his hands above his head in a nonthreatening manner. He fell into the shadow with the others. Bester moved up to join him. He too fell into shadow while the rest of their party fixed itself to the wall near the door.

As both soldiers advanced another step, the shadows sprang at them with a tremendous leap. The men fell to the ground, screaming.

"Hold your fire!" the word came from Moore. He motioned them forward and they gathered around and hit at the fighting youths who clawed and bit at the helpless soldiers. When they separated them, they fired. The first zombie boy fell immediately. The second dodged the assault. He leaped to a wall, bounced off, and with super strength and speed, landed on Ross and tore him apart. The zombie flung a piece away, then another, and chewed on the rest.

The soldiers jumped back. "Fire," said Moore. Jodi stood with the others and fired point blank at both Ross and the zombie devouring him. Both thrashed about and then stopped. Moore came forward and put a bullet in the head of each.

All eyes turned to Bester.

"No! No! I'm fine. See, look, I'm fine!" Bester's pleas fell on deaf ears. They raised their guns and fired.

Moore moved to the youths, examining them. "These are the kids that went to the bathroom with the woman earlier. My god. We have to find her."

"There is a little girl too," said Jodi.

"What?"

"A girl: long brown hair, so high, about five or six. She came in with the others."

"Oh lord!" Moore put his hand to his head and fell to his knees. "Spread out and find them." His squad had now been reduced to him, Pierce, and a female civilian.

Sergeant Moore was on his knees coming to grip with the madness life had become. He heard screams and then gunfire. He got to his feet and bolted out of the room with his rifle. The sound of gunfire increased. Around a corner he went. He passed by dead zombie soldiers, not stopping to identify them. Their distorted face and the blood were enough for him. He continued around in an arc, making it back to the first room they came into.

Jodi and Pierce pointed weapons at a desk. Something was there, moving. He stood with them and aimed his weapon. "What you got?"

"The woman," Pierce said.

"Miriam," said Jodi, clearing up the confusion.

"All right, Miriam," said Moore. "Come on out, girl. Let's have a look at you."

To his amazement, the woman stood. Red eyes peered from behind a dirty face. A low guttural sound came from her as if she found it hard to breathe. She glared at them.

"Well," said Moore, at an obvious loss for words.

"Well," the zombie repeated in a deep voice no longer that of a woman.

"What?" Moore asked. He looked at the others, but kept his gun on the woman like the rest.

"What?" the words came slow and long.

"Enough of this, blast her," said Jodi.

"Fire," said Moore.

At the same time they fired, Miriam performed an unbelievable feat, leaping in the air and clinging to the ceiling. She hissed down at them. They fired at the ceiling. Miriam dropped down, mouth wide, aimed at Moore. They continued their fire and added a scream of their own. Miriam fell at his feet. Moore, filled with adrenaline, took his gun and emptied his clip in the body. Green goo spread on the floor, giving off a foul stench.

Chapter Twenty: Jodi

Jodi, Pierce, and Moore heard a noise further back in the building. They thought their job was finished, when they heard the noise, they knew they weren't. They raised their guns and retraced their previous steps. Around the corner they went. The disgusting task of having to walk over their dead was before them. Body parts once belonging to brave guardsmen lay strewn in pieces on a cold, once-white floor. Now the floor smelled of death and held a crimson tinge to it. Jodi looked at an arm and a leg, they didn't go together, one white the other black. They must have died side by side, fighting. Brave boys, she thought. She was last to move past the area and gave a last gesture of prayer before rejoining the others. Next, they went inside a conference room. In the back, they saw a closet with slits going halfway to the top on double doors. Two slits were damaged and blood was on one door.

"Come to momma, baby," said a female voice with a deep metallic tone to it.

They saw no one. Then, one of the closet doors opened and out walked a little girl. The girl clutched a teddy bear and slowly moved toward the voice.

"Come to momma."

Pierce moved toward the girl. Jodi held up her hand. "What?"

"She might be a zombie," said Jodi. Her expression concerned Pierce, he halted.

"Hey," shouted Sergeant Moore.

The girl stopped and looked, her face riddled with uneasiness as if mulling over a tough decision.

"Come," said the voice.

Jodi looked ahead of the girl, but saw no one. Carefully she moved around the room, not toward the girl, but at an angle to see who spoke. Her first glimpse revealed a woman in shadow. The woman held her arms out toward the little girl, but did not move out of the shadows.

"Zombie!"

Jodi shouted and ran for the girl. Moore and Pierce ran for the girl. To make matters worse, the shadowy figure ran for the girl. Jodi ran and saw everything occur in slow motion. She was farthest from the girl and would be the last to reach her. The girl turned to see Jodi running at her. Fear flooded her face. She turned to see Moore and Pierce advancing on her as well. A howl forced her to turn back to the figure in shadow. The figure stepped forward into the light, it was her mother.

"Mommy!"

The girl made a motion to run to her mother. The mother moved with incredible speed, her mouth open, eyes red, and teeth crooked and sharp. She raced for the girl. If not for Moore, she would have had her.

Zombie Mom smashed into Moore, who smashed into the little girl and both went flying into the wall. With great effort, Jodi stopped before smashing into the zombie. The creature had Sergeant Moore on the floor and with an easy pull, she removed an arm and munched on it. Moore lay writhing on the floor, trying to stop the flow of blood at his missing arm, screaming in pain. Jodi used her gun to hit Zombie Mom in her head. The zombie fell back to a wall, her prize gripped firmly in her mouth. She lay on the floor, content to take a bite from her prize. She snarled at Jodi before devouring the flesh.

Jodi reached down to attend to Moore. Pierce scrambled for his rifle.

Moore held his hand up, "I'm okay, I'm not bit." He winced and put his hand back over his wound, attempting to stem the crimson flow.

Zombie Mom finished her treat and stood to charge at Jodi's back. Pierce fired twice, wounding her. She howled at him, turned, with drool hanging from her mouth, then ran. Her burst of speed was too much for Pierce, he fired wildly, but missed her with his spray.

Pierce went to Moore. The man screamed in pain, clutching his shoulder. Jodi applied pressure best she could and hoped it helped.

"Are you okay, sir?" asked Pierce.

"Hell no, you fool, do I look all right?"

"Sorry, sir." Pierce knelt. "What can I do?"

"Where is she?" asked Moore, his breathing rapid. Pain gripped him and he yelled.

"She went past me so fast, I had to hold my fire to keep from hitting you two."

"Where's the girl?" asked Jodi.

"Hey," said Pierce, "come here."

The little girl was standing against the wall, tears streaming down her face. Unlike Moore, she made no sound. With hand waves of encouragement, she ventured in their direction at a cautious pace.

Jodi stood and held out anxious hands. The girl looked at the bloody hands and stopped in her tracks. She searched the woman's face, as if determining whether she would be safe.

"It's okay," said Jodi. "I won't hurt you. We need to go and we want you to come with us. I'm Jodi. What is your name?"

The girl searched her face. "Tammy. I want my momma."

Jodi gave a warm smile. "That wasn't your momma. She hurt your momma like she hurt my friend. Come with us so she won't hurt you."

Tammy searched again. "I want my momma."

"I know," said Jodi. "I want my momma, too."

Tammy looked at the struggling man holding his shoulder.

"You dropped your Teddy," said Jodi. "Go get it and we can leave. All right?"

Tammy turned and went to get her bear. She returned quickly and gave Jodi her free hand. Moore struggled to his feet, trying not to yell out and frightened the child. Pierce helped on one side and Jodi the other. Together, they walked to the front with Tammy in tow.

At the front of the building, they stopped and gaped at the broken door. Apparently, Zombie Mom crashed through the door and was somewhere outside the building, in the woods. Jodi and Pierce had their rifles slung over their shoulders. Each stopped and pulled their weapon before going further.

"Tammy, stay with me, baby," said Jodi. "Put your hand around my waist." She needed her free hand to aim and fire her rifle.

"Okay," said Tammy. She kept a tight grip on her bear with her right hand and held on to Jodi's shirt with the left, slightly behind Jodi. Her face showed worry and her eyes looked about in disbelief, searching for danger.

Jodi gave another smile for encouragement, Tammy returned her smile, but kept searching.

They exited the community building. Carefully, they looked for the zombie. Seeing no sign of her, they hurried with Moore across the road to an adjacent building, the North Carolina National Guard compound. They went inside.

"There," said Moore. "Set me there, I have to call this in and we have to find that woman."

"Zombie," said Jodi, correcting him. She looked at Tammy. No need to get her hopes up, her mother was long dead. The thing they saw was not human, not even its voice. She was a zombie and had to be stopped.

"Get my radio, Pierce, before I pass out and bleed to death."

"Sergeant!"

Jodi hinted with her eyes, reminding him of the underage girl in the room.

"Sorry. Pierce, radio, now."

"Yes, sir."

Pierce went to the cabinet to retrieve the radio. Jodi broke Tammy's grip and set her near the man. It was necessary to take a look outside. What if Zombie Mom returned? Jodi mirrored Pierce at the row of weapons. She wanted an uzi, but settled for what looked to be a machine gun. Squeeze the trigger and spray, what a great weapon this will make. She grabbed the gun.

Jodi walked outside with her new toy and stood between the community building and the guard compound. An expression formed beneath her nose. It spread over her face. Her eyes grew big. She raced back inside the compound. Pierce had retrieved the radio and set it up in front of Moore.

"Pierce?" she called him to the door. She patiently waited until they made eye contact, then he came to her. She spoke near whisper level to keep Tammy from hearing. "How many people are normally here at this time?"

"What?"

"How many?" she asked softy.

"Um, I don't know."

"Think."

"Um, our squad has twelve. I would say maybe another three for park staff and half a dozen campers at most. Why?"

"Where are they? Do you see any of them? Where the hell has everyone gone?"

Pierce moved past her to the outside, stopping in the road, looking in all directions. He widened his eyes in surprise. "Holy Hell!"

Before them stood five buildings, three similar sized buildings to their right, including the guard house in the center, and the largest building, the community center to their left with storage shed next door. Ahead of them, tall trees and a small trail leading into them, and behind that, more trees.

Pierce pointed his rifle at the storage shed. Jodi nodded her head in agreement. Weapons aimed at the shed as they crept toward it. Pierce kept his gaze forward. Jodi, swiveled her head from side to side, and then looked back, she hated for someone or something to sneak up on her. Her finger was on the trigger and her father taught her how to aim and shoot years ago. With her life at stake, she would mow down any assailant coming for her.

The door opened with a low groan. Pierce walked inside, Jodi followed. Light filtered in through curtain-less windows, one had two panes broken out. Enough light shone where they could see. Pierce swept right, Jodi left. Each turned for a sweep of the opposite side, not fully trusting their partner's appraisal. When done, they faced each other, a look of relief on their faces. Horror flooded Jodi's face, alarming Pierce. His face mirrored hers. Slowly, her eyes rolled upward without her head moving. Pierce followed.

A shrieking sound came.

Both aimed high and shot their weapons in rapid fire. Not one, but two zombies fell from beams in the ceiling. Gunfire hit the zombies. The first landed with a thud, bullet holes riddled its body. The second fell but did not charge them. Instead, it burst through a window and disappeared, gunfire trailing it as it went.

Yelling came from the room during the event, loud yelling. Jodi wanted it to stop, before realizing, the sound came from her. Not only her, but Pierce roared as he fired. She closed her mouth and the noise died. Pierce followed and all was quiet. They ran out the shed and saw the zombie fleeing through the shallow trees ahead of them.

The zombie ran to an opening as they stood watching. It stopped, standing in a clearing with two people. At first, Jodi feared for them and made a move to charge to their rescue. Pierce caught her arm. Shaking his head, words froze in his throat. Jodi watched. They weren't human, they were zombies. Together, they moved off, deeper into the woods. Jodi let out a small gasp. Pierce's gulp was loud enough for her to hear. Each looked at the other.

They returned to the shed. The dead zombie wore a uniform. Pierce rolled him over to read his name tag. Schuler.

"Damn."

"What?"

"His wife is in the hospital. She gave birth to triplets. Mike was going to enlist in the army next week to get more money for them. This training session was his last."

"Man."

"He only had two more days. Damn!" Pierce reached down and yanked on the bit of metal around his former friend's neck.

"Come on," said Jodi.

Pierce put something in his pocket she couldn't see. "We have to tell Sergeant Moore. He will know what to do."

"We have to check the other buildings first," said Jodi. "Then, we tell Moore."

"Why would we do that?" Pierce's voice contained a shaky element. It wasn't there earlier. Was he losing his nerve? Jodi gauged the pulse in his forehead. Going into more buildings was the last thing she wanted to do. Staying out in the open seemed more life affirming, but it had to be done.

"Secure our perimeter," she said.

"Yeah, right. Secure our perimeter." Pierce said the words with a frown, as if he should know. His voice was strong and steady. Confidence came back to him.

With a nod, Jodi followed the soldier to the other side with the three buildings. To the far left they went. Jodi made a point of stopping at the guard house. She kicked in the door and found the remains of a dead man inside. She shot him in the head to be sure then reached on the wall for a clipboard. Snatching a list off the board, she shoved it in her pocket and quickly closed the door to keep from feeling sick. Afterward, they made a quick check of the others, before returning to the center building, National Guard Headquarters.

Jodi walked through the door relieved. She was still alive and no more zombies had been found.

"Sergeant!"

"Calm down, Pierce," said Moore. Moore lay on a couch holding his shoulder, sweating. Tammy sat next to him, clutching her bear, eyes wide. A woman in uniform tended to Moore's shoulder, bandaging it.

"Hey, Tammy," said Jodi. She gave a warm smile, eliciting one from the child.

"Hey."

"Are you hungry?"

Tammy gave it thought. Her eyes moved rapidly, then she nodded. Jodi took her hand and led her to a vending machine down the hall. Tammy clutched her bear and followed, eyes searching. Jodi's eyes danced the same dance. They stopped in front of a soda machine and a snack machine. Jodi patted her pockets, looking for the telltale sign of coins. She remembered her back pocket and pulled out folded bills.

"My treat. What will it be, young lady?"

Tammy viewed her choices and pointed to a bag of Doritos. Her hand sidetracked to a Milky Way bar.

"Sounds good to me." Jodi unfolded her money. She only had two dollars. A thought occurred to her. "Stand back, Tammy." She wanted to kick, but glass would go everywhere, instead, she aimed and fired at the locking mechanism.

Tammy's covering was unique. Her right hand covered the right ear and the left held on to her bear, which covered the left ear. No scream came from her.

Racing to their aid was Pierce. Fear danced across the face of a soldier ready for battle. "Where are they?"

Pierce looked at Jodi. Her gun aimed at the machine. Embarrassment flooded her face, anger his. "Sorry. I just . . . ."

"You could have asked for the damn key." Anger overwhelmed him. He stood clutching his handgun, fingers turning cherry red because of the tight grip.

"Sorry." Jodi knew sorry wasn't good enough. She tried a new tactic. "Lunch is on me. Hungry? Sky's the limit!"

Her smile warmed him. He relented and returned the smile. "I thought they came back."

"No, sorry."

Jodi opened the case and motioned Tammy forward. "Be careful, baby."

Tammy held tight to her bear. She stood looking at her choices, mulling them over.

"Let me have the bear," said Jodi.

"No," said Tammy, clutching tighter. "Wilbur is mine!"

Pierce took a knee. His voice softened. "Ask Wilbur if I can hold him while you get something to eat. Tell him you will need both your hands and it will only take a minute." His smile was warm and accented with a slight touch of pearly white teeth.

Tammy studied Pierce's face. After satisfaction was met, she brought Wilbur to her face and looked intently at him, as if talking to Wilbur. She looked at Pierce and handed her security blanket to the man. Jodi thought she would gladly do the same. Pierce had one of those trusting faces.

While Tammy went for treats, Jodi grabbed Pierce and moved out of hearing range of the child. "What happened?"

Pierce stroked the bear as if not wanting to get into a deep conversation. Blue eyes looked at her, softening her for the bad news. "They didn't believe him, thought he was crazy. Moore is going over their heads."

"To who?"

"He has a couple buddies on the Bohman. They say the Vice President is on board. He is trying to get a message to him, but it will take time, something is going on that they won't discuss with him. He is trying, and will get through sooner or later. I know he will."

The last part brought comfort to Jodi. She took several breaths. "Come on. Let's get something to eat. No use hollering about it."

Tammy stuffed a candy bar in each of her front pockets and ate from her bag of potato chips. Her half-red, half-orange tongue flicked chocolate from around the edges of her mouth. A half-eaten bar of candy lay on the floor, her starting place. Jodi moved to the machine and grabbed a bag of potato chips and a Twinkie. She felt thirsty. While Pierce made choices for him and the Sergeant, Jodi looked at the soda machine. She eyed a bottle of water. "Pierce?"

"Yeah?"

"You got the key to the soda machine?"

"I'll go get it." He had two bags of chips in one hand and two candy bars in the other. Wilbur was tucked firmly under an elbow against his side.

"Give me, Wilbur."

Pierce turned sideways so Jodi could retrieve the bear. After that, he strolled off. Tammy was on the opposite wall. Sitting and eating. Jodi sat next to her. She put Wilbur between them and ate. Minutes later, Pierce returned with the key. He unlocked the machine and tossed them each a bottle of water to wash their meal down with. Pierce joined them on the floor and they ate in silence. What was there to say? They had fought zombies and sooner or later, would have to go into the woods to hunt the rest. Right now, eating and relaxing were enough.

"Well," said Pierce, after finishing his meal. "Let's check with Moore and then we have to get after them, before they get too far away."

"We'll leave Tammy with him and go. Ready?"

"Yeah."

Jodi went back to the cabinet to look over the weapons. She needed to be armed to the nines. Only then, would she feel safe going after zombies. Her eyes scanned the weapons. Her father taught her how to shoot at seven. Last year, over the summer, her best friend and roommate, Connie, was attacked. They had both bragged how they would shoot a man between his eyes and not blink. No man would harm them. Unfortunately, Connie was jogging in the park without her weapon. A kind stranger spoiled the attack, but not before she received two souvenirs in the form of shiners. Jodi determined to learn from the lesson. She enrolled in a self-defense class to be able to protect herself if no weapon was available. She felt good about hand-to-hand combat, but preferred a gun if push came to shove.

She stared at the weapons, evaluating what she knew about each. Jodi chose a confiscated AK47 rifle. She grinned: AK-47, the very best there is. When you absolutely, positively, got to kill every motherfucker in the room; accept no substitutes. She smiled, then stuffed a nine millimeter in her right pocket and two extra clips in her left. She grabbed an eight-inch hunting knife and put on an accessory belt to hold her extra clips. She didn't wear the uniform, but felt like a well-prepared soldier. She turned from side to side, evaluating her mobility. Satisfied, she nodded.

Pierce came alongside. He nodded his approval. He kept his government issued rifle, but gathered extra ammo. He clipped a hunting knife to his accessory belt to complete his look.

"You guys don't happen to have bulletproof jackets, do you?"

"I wish," said Pierce. "However, we do have pants." He grinned.

Jodi left the cabinet. She changed and went to the door to wait for Pierce.

Pierce came into the room and took a step in her direction, then stopped. She looked out the window toward the deep woods. A sensation crept over her. It rose through her feet, wrapping itself around her as if it were the coils of a giant python.

Going in to the woods did not set well with Jodi. Her hands shook. She found it hard to breathe. She caressed her gun for comfort. Like many times in the past, she fought the sensation, forcing it down and out her body. The key: she kept telling herself she had no choice and it had to be done. With a last shudder, the feelings of dread left her. She walked to her partner to urge him into action.

"We have to go, Pierce."

"I know." He hesitated about getting started.

Jodi stood in front of him. She looked into his face. He was reverting to a helpless child. "Pierce, come on. If we don't get in hot pursuit of the zombies, they will spread. You saw what they did here."

"I know."

"It didn't take long for us to get knee deep in these things. We have to move."

Her sternest effort didn't deter him from the obvious. "These Zombies are capable of tearing a man limb from limb, literally."

"I know," said Jodi.

"I think we should wait for help." He gulped. "Sergeant Moore will get through and we will get backup. We'll be able to mow them down in seconds."

His indecision didn't faze her. She watched him, staring at him with an intimidating stare. She would make him move. Jodi stood her ground, directly in front of Pierce, rifle next to her chest, clutched tightly. A familiar itch hit her, letting her know she was winning. Her eye contact strengthened, reducing Pierce to a puddle of agreement.

"All right, damn it! Stop staring at me, for god's sake!"

A smile crossed her lips. She held her rifle and wanted to jump for joy. "Ready?"

"Let's go."

Jodi took the lead and led her unwilling accomplice toward the door. She stopped, eyes wide.

Tammy sat on the couch in front of Moore. Her tiny legs dangled, not able to touch the floor. With Wilbur clutched in her arms, she was setting back as far as she could and maintaining eye contact with her rescuers. The little girl stared at Jodi and Pierce, following them with her head. A look on her face said she was afraid. Who wouldn't be? She watched them while Moore fumbled with the radio, generating nothing but static noise. Frustration crossed his face. He let out a low growl as if he were a zombie.

Jodi saw Tammy. Her heart went out to the small child. The little girl had no idea what was going on or became of her mother and brothers. If she could, Jodi would put her mind at ease. She didn't know how exactly, but would start with the basics, a smile. She went to Tammy. Her voice was soft, caring. "Hey, Tammy." She knelt to meet Tammy at eye level.

"Hey," the voice was more of a whisper, barely audible. She was afraid.

"Pierce and I are going out to find your mommy. You stay here with the Sergeant until we get back. Maybe you can go back and get him something to eat if he gets hungry." She smiled brightly.

Tammy searched her face. The girl's mouth was slightly open, ready to speak, yet, not wanting to utter a sound. She clutched Wilbur tighter. "Okay."

"We locked all the doors and windows in the back. Nothing can get to you in here. You are safer than we will be."

"You want to stay in here, with me?" Tammy's little eyes grew wider, waiting for a response, begging with huge brown eyes.

"No, baby, I have to go."

"We can stay together, in here, where it's safe."

If she wasn't in love with that little face before, Jodi was now. She gave a warm smile to the innocent child. She touched her face, then patted her on her head. Jodi had a sister her age and hated disappointing her. She felt as if she were disappointing her baby sister. Still, she had to, for the greater good. "I wish I could, Tammy. I can't. I have to help Pierce. When the others come, we will tell them everything we know. I have to be out there to do that. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Stay here. I will get back as soon as I can."

"Okay."

That tiny voice, it shook her. With great effort, she gave another smile for encouragement. Jodi rose. She winked at Sergeant Moore.

"Give 'em hell, private," said Moore. He strained to sit to look more professional. After wincing, he touched his shoulder and relaxed.

"Don't worry," said Jodi, "they're going to love me."

Moore chuckled. "They better." His face grew serious. All traces of laughter vanished. Moore met Jodi's eyes before glancing at Pierce. He went back to her. "Come back alive."

Jodi nodded, appreciating him more. With a warm smile to both, she turned and walked out the door. Pierce waved good-bye, then followed.

They followed the direction of travel of the zombies. Carefully, they went into the trees, staying on a dirt trail that took them into the heart of the forest. Overhead, branches moved. They heard small animals playing high in the trees. Jodi looked up to confirm they were only animals. She held her rifle in a tight grip, ready to fire on anything approaching. An image of her father came to her, 'a gun is your lifeline, more than that, your best friend through thick and thin.' She clutched her friend tightly for reassurance. Her heart pounded and she repeated to herself the promise she made Tammy. She determined to be safe and make it back to the youngster.

Pierce took the lead when they entered thicker underbrush. He knew the terrain, his backyard. His speed increased, creating a distance between him and Jodi. Every so often, he stopped, listening. Pierce heard something and took off running at a fast clip.

Jodi followed and stopped when he stopped. She crouched. She thought of the zombies in the shed and searched overhead for potential zombies. She watched Pierce move through the trees with a burst of speed. "Wait!" Jodi ran as fast as she could. Pierce raced past low limbs, throwing them out of his way. Each branch slapped Jodi hard across the face. She nearly fell twice, but kept pace. She began to sense their rhythm, catching each branch and knocking it out of her way as she advanced. Her face will look like a whipping post tomorrow, worse if she hadn't found her running rhythm.

A sound grew louder. A loud scream followed by lower sounds. They were running toward the sounds. Ahead, in a clearing, Pierce dropped to a knee and opened fire. He was screaming, though the rapid fire drowned his voice.

Jodi caught a glimpse of a zombie covering a man. Blood poured across his chest as he fought. Suddenly, both were doing an electric dance.

Jodi ran beside Pierce, dropped, and fired. The zombie and the man danced more on the open ground. Both shooters held on to their machines of death, straining out of control. Each let out a bloodcurdling battle cry, gripping their guns tightly. When all firing ceased, the bodies stopped their dance.

Chapter Twenty-One: Reilly

Reilly sat in the big comfortable chair, swiveling from side to side. He was happy it didn't squeak—that was craftsmanship. The chair wasn't his. It was good enough for a ship's captain, but nowhere good enough for the President of the United States.

A knock came from the door.

"You're late," shouted Reilly.

The door opened. A tall thin man came in. A woman followed. Riley hesitated about getting up to greet them. After wrestling with the decision, he rose. He smiled. Walking from behind the desk, he reached a hand to the woman. Keeping her at arm's length was the plan. Reilly hated when the weaker sex behaved true to form.

"Katherine," he said.

"Mr. Vice President."

He read her condescension, but gave a friendly smile. A smile as friendly as his face would allow. He broke the handshake and turned to the man who entered. "We are ready."

The man shook his hand and opened the door. Motioning to unseen people, he turned back, holding the door wider. A stream of people came into the small room, reducing it to matchbox size. Among the group was his associate, Fanmer. Fanmer walked without looking at him, taking residence among a group of flashing photographers. "Ingrate," Reilly said under his breath.

"Let's begin," said the first man that entered. He held up the Holy Bible. Reilly placed his left hand on the book and raised his right. "Repeat after me: I, state your name."

"I, Jason Neville Reilly."

"Do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office President of the United States."

"Do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States."

"And will to the best of my ability."

"And will to the best of my ability."

"Preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."

"Preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States of America."

"Congratulations, Mr. President."

Cheers came from the observers. Flashbulbs went off and people frantically talked on cell phones while scribbling on notepads.

President Reilly was glad for the distraction. He had no intentions of thanking Chief Justice Oaks, he hated the man for being the deciding vote to overturn a moral law Reilly and his group managed to pass. That was bad enough, but not getting the pledge right, unforgivable.

"Congratulations, Jason," said Katherine Connors. She extended her hand.

"Thank you, Katherine," said Reilly. He gave a pleasant smile, but thought the former First Lady had nerve, insulting him by not calling him Mr. President. "I hope my presidency will honor James." If she won't call me President, I won't call him President. His smile widened, only he knew why.

"Um, yes," said Katherine. She walked out of the room without further comment.

"Mr. President, Mr. President," a reporter shouted, waving his hand frantically.

"Yes, Bradley."

"Sir, will the former First Lady have a role in your administration?"

"No, however, Katherine, Matthew, and Luke will be honored guests at the Vice President's residence. What happened to President Connors was a tragedy and I intend to get to the bottom of it to give her peace of mind."

"Will you keep the cabinet intact, sir?"

"Mr. President." He corrected. "And yes, I will make no changes. The first order of business is to bring these terrorists to justice. They will rue the day they took this action. Their deaths will be a beacon to all those who would act against the United States of America. I will tolerate no dissension on my shores."

"Mr. President, Mr. President," several reporters vied for his attention. He responded to none, leaving the room.

The noise of the flashbulbs and questions faded as he made his way down a tight fitting corridor, turning sideways once to allow an indignant soldier to pass. He opened the door and stepped into a room, shutting it behind him.

Fanmer sat at a small table. Reilly didn't like the way the man looked at him. Soon, he would have to get rid of him and find another lapdog.

"Good afternoon, Fanmer."

"Mr. President."

The words sounded wrong. Reilly gave him a hard look as he sat across from the man. "Where are we on the aftermath?"

Fanmer swallowed hard. He passed a sheet of paper across to President Reilly.

"Good, good," said Reilly, scanning the sheet. "Round them up and bring them to me. I will make the proclamation from here."

"Here?"

"Yes," Reilly said the word harshly. The vein in his forehead pulsed like a second heartbeat. Fanmer cringed under his gaze, lowering his head. "I'm not going to the White House until this is finished. I want my pound of flesh."

"Yes, sir."

Reilly gazed at the paper again. His crooked grin was pierced by a flicking tongue. Reilly rose with paper in hand. Fanmer opened his mouth to say something. A sharp look from Reilly silenced him. He watched the new leader of America exit the room. Trouble was brewing.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Pierce

"What do you think," said Jodi, huffing after her exhaustive firing. She breathed deeply while waiting for his reply.

After a deep breath, Pierce nodded. "I think we got 'em."

They cautiously walked toward the bodies. They prodded with the tips of their weapons, neither moved. Pierce slung his rifle over his shoulder and knelt to turn a body. The human male was riddled with bullets, bleeding from all holes, dead to the world.

Pierce looked at the face, wondering who he was. "Poor dude. I bet he had no idea his day would end like this."

With great care, he turned the zombie. Comparing the two, the zombie had twice as many holes as the man. Secretly, Pierce grinned, he longed to shoot something and this day had provided him with a lifetime of memories. He hated having to shoot the man, but he was dead anyway. Shooting him was a mercy killing. Gazing at the zombie, he frowned. He hadn't seen it before. It wore no military uniform and therefore was not a soldier from his squad. The bullet-laden face was young, possibly twenty. Pierce was happy he didn't meet the zombie in a dark alley. He stood.

"Let's find the others," he said.

"Got your mojo back?" teased Jodi.

"I'm army," he boasted. "My job is protection. Come on, let's get them before they get away."

Pierce led. They walked past the carnage into deeper cover. Remembering his training, Pierce looked at the trees intently. He cocked his head skyward, scanning every branch in case a zombie fell. He will not be taken by surprise, his mojo was back. With a tightly gripped rifle, Pierce moved forward with a searching gaze.

Jodi stayed with him as they snaked along a hiker's trail. Her companion stopped and she had to screech to a halt to keep from running into him. Ahead, in the middle of the trail, the unimaginable.

Putting a hand to his chin, Pierce rubbed his sprouting stubble in deep thought. Jodi was a civilian and a woman. A pretty woman. No, a gun toting woman. He felt a protective instinct and wanted to shield her from what she peeked around to see. Giving up on the effort, he moved forward with her trailing. Each aimed their weapon in the direction of travel. On the trail, an arm, ripped off from some poor soul. He scanned the blood trail ahead, quickening his pace to match his heart rate.

They passed the discarded arm and ran into entrails. Though they were small pieces, he believed them from the one-armed soul. If not for what he had witnessed earlier, he would swear they were animal remains of a squirrel or rabbit. Pierce no longer had that illusion to fall on. These were human entrails with blood droppings leading to the inevitable.

Pierce led his companion in silence. He would have offered a joke, the last being of two zombies at a bar with a monkey. Under the circumstances, he didn't think it would go over well, so silence it was.

Suddenly, they stopped. The wind brought strange sounds to them. Pierce could feel himself shaking. He never imagined all those zombie movies would grow into reality. There it was, the reality of flesh-eating zombies. Ahead, he knew from the sound, they were munching on his one-armed soul. He prayed it was only one of the fiends. He marched on. The sound would be his guide and he would hone in on the creature and put it down, if possible. With a thundering heartbeat and a shaking hand, he moved forward knowing just around the bend he would meet the owner of the noise he sought.

They came to a clearing and saw the inevitable, the two missing zombies in uniforms. Kill these two and they stop the outbreak. Loud noises came from their heavy feeding. Pierce tried blocking them out as he and Jodi approached with stealth, guns high. Each Zombie Soldier had a victim they munched on in front of an RV camper. At first look, it appeared the campers were sitting around a fire in front of their vehicle. They were having an old-fashioned, get-back-to-nature campout.

The first zombie had pulled off a leg to devour. He sat making slobbering noises as he feasted on a man's leg with shoe and sock still in place. The rest of the body lay in a heap, claw marks and bites throughout. The other zombie knelt on all fours and braced against a skirted body as its mouth ripped flesh from the thin underbelly of its victim.

Pierce eyed the wedding ring on her finger, but was not able to see its replica on the man's body. He stopped and aimed. The act of aiming gave an audible click the zombies heard. They broke from their meal to find the source of the noise.

"Fire!" yelled Pierce.

He screamed at the top of his lungs as he lost control and opened on the zombies. Jodi was at his side mimicking his vocals and movements. Their combined spray pumped hot lead into everything it touched. When they finally stopped, each corpse lay littered with gaping holes. As for the camper, bullet holes found their target, flattening a back tire and creating a polka dot finish where previously none existed.

"Hold on," said Pierce.

They went to the bodies to have a look. Pierce knelt and wiped blood from Zombie Soldier's name tag.

"Do you know him?" asked Jodi.

"Yeah. It's Joshua Bastogne. We signed up together."

"Sorry," said Jodi.

Pierce pulled his dog tags and put them in his pocket. "Joshua lives with his parents and has a baby sister. How do I deliver his tags and give a believable story?"

"Stick close to the truth and it will sound authentic."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

"What about him?" asked Jodi. She rolled over the body and wiped the name tag for her friend.

The soldier was much older, twice as old and graying. "Jeremiah Lake. He joined about a year ago from South Carolina. He is one of two black soldiers in our squad. I never got a chance to know him." Pierce bowed his head.

Jodi pulled his tags and handed them over for safekeeping.

"That's the last of them," said Pierce, "we better head back. With any luck, the sergeant got through and help is on the way."

Jodi pulled the list from her pocket. She sat with her back against the camper, looking down the list. She looked at Pierce. "Do you have a pen or pencil? I need something to write with."

"Yeah, hold on."

He found an ink pen and gave it to her. He sat next to her as she marked off names on the list. Jodi mumbled as she wrote. Pierce tried listening, but could only catch every other word. In frustration he gave up on the idea and sat, waiting.

"Here," Jodi finally said. "I got the visitors and campers. Think of all your members and write them down. Then we will both go over the list and remember what happened to each of them."

"All right."

Pierce took the paper and began writing. He marveled as he began the same mumbling ritual he tried deciphering moments ago. When finished, they went through the list and came to the same conclusion: two people were unaccounted for, Zombie Mom and the armless soul.

Getting to his feet and brushing off his uniform, Pierce gave a confident yet surreal look to his partner. "Ready?"

"Let's do this," said Jodi.

"By the numbers," echoed Pierce.

Again, he led. A chill went down his back, he stopped and turned, gun high.

"What?" asked an alarmed Jodi.

"The camper," he said in a low voice. "We better check it out."

"Yeah," said Jodi. Pierce didn't like the way she said it and gave her a whimsical look. She was so gung ho a moment ago, what happened?

He crept to the door and as he readied to grip and turn the knob, the door flew open with a bang. The door caught the tip of his weapon and he and his tight grip went sailing with the rifle against the camper's wall.

A stunned Pierce heard gunfire. In his confused state, he could see Jodi firing at the camper's door. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. As he rose, an armless zombie fell from the doorway to the ground. Pierce grabbed his gun and ran to assist Jodi as she continued to blast away at the fallen zombie. After a while, Pierce stopped and gripped her shoulder. "Ease up, you got him."

"Sorry." Jodi took her finger from the trigger.

"Well, that leaves the mother. You better change that clip," he counseled.

"Yeah, I better," said Jodi.

Pierce waited for her to complete the change. It gave him time to check his own weapon. When ready, they walked forward to enter the camper. The armless zombie amused Pierce. He wondered how the thing could eat if it couldn't hold its prey in its grip while it fed. The only solution that came to mind was that it would have to sneak up on some poor soul while they slept. If it was fortunate, its first bite would be the kill shot. A snicker came to his face as he stepped over the useless corpse.

He opened the door. The foul stench that greeted them drove them back, almost to the point of not continuing. That wasn't possible, they had a mission and it had to be done. They held a hand to their mouths as they fully committed and entered the camper. First, they saw pieces of an arm chewed to the bone. Next, they saw a playpen. Pierce's heart dropped at seeing it and as he looked at Jodi, he saw the same expression on her face.

Together, they crept to the crib, expecting to find something horrific. The crib had wooden bars with a metal sheet of some kind that prevented the baby from escaping its enclosure. As they peeked over the top, the twitching hairs at the base of his neck stood straight up, indicating danger. One peek and his body had told him the truth.

Inside the crib they saw the remains of a child. The top half of the body was missing, eaten away. That which remained had a foul odor to it. Karma is a bitch, he thought. The whole while he was ridiculing the armless zombie and wondering about its survival, the zombie had found a meal, one who couldn't get away. Pierce regretted his earlier snicker. He hung his head low and tried not to break down and cry.

Jodi patted him on the back to comfort him. Before she could deliver words of encouragement, they heard a thud on the roof. Above them, at the far end of the camper, impressions appeared in the camper's ceiling. First, they saw one impression, then another, and another, all leading toward them. Pierce motioned and they crept toward the camper's door. With gun high, Pierce leaped out of the camper, rolled, then crouched with his gun trained on the roof. He searched thoroughly, but nothing was there. He motioned for Jodi to come and join him. She did.

Both stared at the camper's roof, debating what to do next.

The branches of an overhead tree behind the camper swayed. Pierce's rifle found the tree and the search continued. Out of nowhere, a figure leaped from a high branch to the camper. Pierce fired as soon as the figure was stable. Jodi joined him, firing. Together, they followed the figure with their gunfire as the figure leaped to another tree, then other, away from the area.

"It's her!" he screamed. "Come on!"

Now that he found his target, he was ready for the chase and ready for this to be over and done with. The fear he felt was mild compared to his excitement. Adrenaline pumped through him and gave him a strength and brashness he hadn't felt before. Pierce was fearless. He ran in the direction Zombie Mom took, unaware if his companion followed. The creature was his sole focus and he aimed to catch and kill it.

Pierce got a burst of speed and sprinted through the woods in hot pursuit. He stopped, aimed, fired, and then took off running again. On and on, he ran, stopping once more to take a shot at the overhead zombie that leaped through the trees.

Ahead, a clearing. Pierce saw it and got excited. Mommy zombie would have to fall to the ground, there were no more trees nearby. He stopped and dropped to a knee to better aim. Seconds later, he heard a huffing and puffing and turned to see Jodi on one knee. She aimed at the last tree and like he, waited.

"Fire!" yelled Pierce.

They opened up on the zombie in the high tree. The zombie sailed to the ground. Instead of running, it howled and rushed in their direction. Each fired continuously as the zombie darted to escape their gunfire. The zombie leaped over them and continued running. With a careful aim, Pierce breathed in and let it out slowly, easing all tension in his body. He became one with his weapon and with a single click, sent a solitary bullet into the back of Zombie Mom's head. She let out her last scream before falling to the earth, dead.

"Damn, that bitch was tough," said Jodi.

"I hear you."

"Why? Why would the last one be so hard to kill?"

"What?" he rose and extended her his hand.

"She was hard to bring down. If anything, wouldn't you expect Miriam to be the hardest to take out? She was the first."

Pierce gave it its due thought. He spread his arms wide. Jodi gave him a confused look. "The open space. If Miriam were here, we might never have dropped her. Thank God for closed-in spaces."

"Amen brother."

They started their long journey back to give Sergeant Moore a full report.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Fanmer

Walter Fanmer sat uncomfortably. He was tasked with watching a man he hated lie to the American people and it bothered him.

President Reilly took the stage with the mountain as the backdrop for his proclamation. Out trotted six men; dirty, grungy, bearded, and utterly filthy. Each was chained to the next and led onto the platform in single file. Ahead of them, a policeman tugged a chain wrapped around his fist.

Reilly gave an impassioned speech proclaiming the men to be members of a fringe, anti-American, homegrown terrorist sect called the Bridgewood Liberation Party. He gave vivid accounts of their past crimes and promised swift justice in which he assured the rebels would face the ultimate punishment.

The cheering from the press core turned Fanmer's stomach. He couldn't wait to get away from them and their hero. If only they knew the real man, the real story. Would they worship him then? A sly smile crossed his thin lips. For a second, he believed he could make his own proclamation. Knowing the lengths Reilly went to in order to become president, he knew better. That was a chance he dare not take. He folded his arms and prayed the torture would end soon.

As the men left to face their sentence, Fanmer moved toward President Reilly in the hopes of catching him before he entered his bulletproof limousine. He was close enough to touch him, when a Secret Serviceman blocked his path.

"Excuse me," said Fanmer.

"State your intentions, sir," said the man. He discretely opened his jacket to reveal the handgun he holstered.

"Do you know who I am?" Fanmer spoke the words sharply, the vein in his neck throbbing at the man's audacity.

"Walter Fanmer, sir," he said. "President Reilly is on his way back to the White House with First Lady Connors. He left orders for no one to disturb him or approach him until he has settled in to the White House. Sorry, sir."

"I'm sure he did not mean me."

Reilly was moving swiftly to the awaiting car so Fanmer tried stepping around the man.

"He means everyone, sir." The man blocked his path. Fanmer could only watch the car kick up a trail of dust as it sped away.

While lost in thought, the cell phone in his pocket vibrated, drawing him back to the present. "Yes?"

After listening to the chattering voice, he delivered the bad news. "Sorry, I could not reach the President. I will call you with an update. Until then, tag and log every body. Move them to the shed and secure it, posting guards in front and behind. I will be there with a team to assist.

He couldn't fathom why Reilly had taken him off his short list. He would regain his status by preventing a catastrophe. Reilly would owe him, then, he would hold the winning hand. Fanmer hurried to a waiting car.

Sometime later, he arrived at the camp in a caravan of military Jeeps and trucks. He glanced to what he presumed to be the shed, then turned to enter the main compound.

Sergeant Moore sat on a couch with a small child. The girl clutched a toy doll while craning her neck upward at the mounted television. Cartoons shone on the set, bringing a smile to her weary face. Moore reached and playfully messed up her hair, then winked. "Be back, love."

"Okay," her squeaky response.

Moore directed Fanmer and another out the door. He took great care in closing it softly behind him. "You must be Fanmer?"

"Yes, this is Agent Newmont of the Bureau. His team will log everything you have. You did swear your people to secrecy?" Fanmer gave a strong look.

Moore chuckled and indicated his bloody shoulder. "We have two survivors. The other is in the woods and loyal as they come." He motioned to the shed. "This way, sir."

Years of survival had taught him to scan ahead, searching for possible dangers. Fanmer allowed Moore to lead to perform his scan. At the door, he noticed the tension in Moore's shoulder. That was a signal for him to take great care and scan further.

Inside, foul air rushed at him. Fanmer would have retreated if not for years of acclamation to the stench of death. He gazed at the bodies. From a broken window high above, the sun shined a light of purity into the small room. The light left nothing to the imagination. Each body lay next to another, gashes out of each. Blood, bite marks, and bullet holes were visible from the door. The nearest body faced him, a man with a bullet hole between his eyes. The open eyes held a redness he had never seen. The color was near scarlet and eerie to behold. The teeth were yellow and crooked with bits of possible flesh between them. A foul colored liquid ran out of the mouth and hardened on the floor. The sight induced a heaving reflex he suppressed.

To make things worse, not only were bodies present, but Fanmer also saw scattered bits of flesh. An arm, a leg, easily identifiable, but the others would require guesswork. He steeled himself and moved forward.

"We don't have a count yet," said Moore.

"Why not?"

"Like I said, only two of us survived. Getting bodies here takes time and manpower. If you can direct your men to provide assistance, we can have them all here before nightfall."

Fanmer nodded to Agent Newmont who then left the room. Fanmer turned to Sergeant Moore. "I saw a girl back there."

Moore rubbed his chin in thought. "Yeah, well . . . she is a survivor. Her infected mother did a lot of the damage you see here. Private Pierce and a civilian put her down not long ago. I'm not sure what will happen to the little girl now. The rest of her family is in this room."

Fanmer looked about. Two of the bodies were women, relatively intact except riddled with bullet holes. Another lay on the end with a gash out of her stomach. In the middle he saw two teens. The sight was horrific. He closed his eyes and shook his head. With a deep sigh, he asked what he had asked the man on the phone. "Tell me again. You are sure they are zombies?"

"The day I start shooting mothers and children, sir, they had damn well be zombies."

Not appreciating the words or the look, Fanmer squared off. "Convince me."

Moore showed how badly hurt he was as he made his way to a body in the center of the room. He jabbed a finger at it. "This one is ground zero. She walked in to our camp as a woman and moments later, became what you now see. She ate that man there," he pointed with outrage and disgust. "And when I say ate, I damn well mean ate. She took chunks out of him. He died. Seconds later, he was just like her and together, they attacked and began devouring this old fool here."

Fanmer saw the pity in his eyes. Pity mixed with much more. He nodded for him to continue.

"Every person who gets bit, turns into one of those things and attacks others. You call them what you will. I call them zombies, the walking dead. The only way to kill them is a bullet to the head. Either that or taking their head off. A bullet is a hell of a lot quicker."

Fanmer nodded in agreement. "You got them all?"

"We mopped up a while back. Still, we are scouring the area to be sure. Now you tell me, what is our President going to do about this?"

"I told you I couldn't reach him," said Fanmer. Denied access inflamed him, turning his cheeks red. He would not be cut out and as he thought, with a discovery like this, he held all the cards. He smiled. "Don't worry, Sergeant. I plan to deliver the news in person. You have the rest of the day to catalog all the bodies. Tomorrow, I want them burned."

Fanmer swiftly turned and left. He took great pleasure at being the one holding the power and leaving the victim with his mouth hanging.

"Of course," said Moore, to an empty room.

On his way to the Jeep to retrieve a laptop, Fanmer had a thought. He pulled out his laptop and connected via satellite. A screen popped up, showing an elderly man behind a desk. "Yes?"

"It's me, sir, Fanmer."

"I'm not blind," he scolded.

"Forgive my ignorance, sir." Fanmer slightly bowed to show his sincerity. "I have something for you."

The man sat straighter. "You have my undivided attention."

"Sir, I'm at National Guard headquarters in the North Carolina Mountains. A plague of some kind has been released with devastating consequences."

A broad grin spans the man's face as he moves closer to his screen. "How devastating?"

"Similar to something released in one of the tribal villages back in '61. Only this has a changing quality. The infected are mindless and devour others to live."

"That's classified information. How did you . . . never mind, Fanmer. I doubt if a weasel like you would tell the truth either way. What is the incubation time?"

"Unknown at the present time. My guess, hours."

The man's face broadened more. He was so close to his screen, Fanmer saw every wrinkle, every pimple, and every pore on his face. What great delight. Finally, he would cash in. The years of biting his tongue and personal humiliations would come to an end. To keep from losing it now, he kept his face blank, staring at the man as if it didn't matter.

"What are you doing with the bodies?"

"Cataloging and tagging. They will be burned in the morning."

"No!" the scream was visceral.

"It's part of a cover-up by President Reilly, sir."

"Screw Reilly, he's an asshole and you know it. Besides, I need samples for my research. Take a body. No! Three! I have a facility in the caves of Missouri. We will hide them there. Adjust the paperwork accordingly. I'm sending the address to your phone."

"Sir?"

The man pushed a button and Fanmer's screen went blank. A second later, his phone vibrated. Fanmer saw an address and a number with enough zeros to choke a horse. He smiled with delight. When your ship comes in, be ready to sail. He sent a message back saying three bodies would leave tonight.

Later that night, two men carried a black, body bag between them to a black van. Behind them, came two more carrying a bag between them. Another two followed, their bag shifted. The lead soldier's hands shook.

"Come on, Bill, get with it," said the soldier who held the other end of the bag.

"Sorry, it's getting to me, man." He set his end down and wiped his brow.

"Pick up your end so we can get this last one on the van. I'll be nice; you can sit up front with Coleman. Come on."

The young man reached for the bag and stopped, believing he saw movement. He kicked the bag but saw no reaction. His partner chuckled. "Cut it out, man."

"Sorry, I couldn't resist. Come on, man, let's get this over with."

The young man reached again, quickly grabbing the bag, and rushing to the back of the van. All entered the back, except young Bill. He secured the rear doors, opened the passenger door, and sat with the driver. The van rolled slowly down the street without headlights.

The next morning, soldiers rushed to pile the remaining bodies and bits on top of a pile of gasoline-drenched firewood. All was set afire.

Pierce, Jodi, Moore, and the rest gathered to watch them burn. Once the flames died, the new soldiers helped them carry out desks, pictures, rugs and other items they believed contaminated. All burned on the pile. Again, they stood and watched, relieved their nightmare ended.

Tammy stood to the side, clutching Wilbur while watching Fanmer. The sight of the young girl watching him made him nervous. He wondered if she had been awake and saw her mother loaded with the other women into the van. Believing himself safe, he readied to retire to the community building with his laptop. Next on the agenda, update his associates and check his hidden bank accounts. But first, he addressed the crowd.

"May I have your attention? By Presidential Order, these grounds are under one-week quarantine. No one is to leave this immediate area. These guards will patrol the perimeter. Anyone trying to leave will be shot on sight. This is a contamination zone. You will wait here for the contamination unit which will arrive in two days. Once you have been cleared, you are free to go. Agent Newmont is in charge. He is under Presidential orders and duty bound to carry them out. Wait until you have the 'all clear' before leaving." He stopped and looked at each person. "Have a pleasant stay." With that, he left for the community center, longing to count his money.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Reilly

Reilly couldn't believe his misfortune. He couldn't make it to the Oval Office, his office, without running into whining stalkers in the hallway. He put up his plastic smile and braced for the problematic chatter that would chill his bones. "Good morning, First Lady, oh, forgive me, Ms. Connors." He gave a pleasant smile and slight bow before kissing her hand in high praise.

Her eyes were not the tear-filled sockets he imagined. She spread her lips in a thin smile and nodded. "I wanted to catch you before you began your day."

He chuckled lightly, wondering why she wasn't at Number One Observatory Circle, being humble.

"What on Earth may I have the honor of doing for you? Madam, I mean, Ms. Connors." Reilly took great pleasure letting her know she no longer held the title. It bothered him to see her taking it so well, he would have to hit harder, he thought.

"I need my husband's body. With all the resources at your disposal, such a minor thing can be done overnight, quite possibly."

Her smile was pristine as she stared with piercing gray eyes into Reilly.

Reilly shook, internally. He took her hand again and with the charm of a snake trainer, kissed her thinning hand while in a light bow. False humility was not unheard of, just not becoming of a man of his station. This would be the last of it she would see. She had better like it and go away.

"I shall give the order at once. Before the week is out, you shall have your slain husband's remains."

With another bow, he quickly extricated himself from her clutches in a dash for the sanctuary of his Oval Office.

Reilly made it past his secretary and to long, sought after peace. With a sigh of relief, he walked to and sat behind his large desk. Every time he ran his hand across the desk, he found it hard to believe he was President of the United States. Often, dreams remain dreams, but for once in his life, the outlandish dream had manifested itself into reality. His hand caressed the top of the oak desk. The texture was something he found sensual, a contrast to the ancient desk he had been given as Vice President. Even now, he cursed James Connors for the mockery.

A knock came from the door.

"Yes?" he said.

A head appeared from the doorway. "Mr. Keenly to see you, sir," said his secretary.

A chill came over him. "Show him in."

Reilly waddled from behind the big desk and walked across the rug with the President's seal on it. He thought he should change it, it belonging to the previous president. He was president and his office should reflect that fact with only his tastes. He extended a hand to the man, knowing, Janis, his secretary, would not close the door until then.

"Mr. President."

"What brings you by, Fred?"

They sat on the brown couch, pleasantly smiling at each other.

"Not everyone believes terrorist assassins, the BLP, are in the mountains or are to blame for President Connors' demise. Can I get a comment as to these rumors, Mr. President?" he gave a casual glance.

Reilly didn't like the man or his glance. He knew the man to be no better than all reporting scum he had to placate. This one was slightly more powerful and would require a delicate hand. Still, he could easily outwit the fool, seeing he had little to match him with. Reilly put on the public face he assumed with ease over the last thirty-odd years. It took great effort to control his face to seem passive. His bulky frame didn't allow for too passive of a position. He cleared his throat. "The Bridgewood Liberation Party has always been a plague in our sides. We finally have the means to put them away and I intend to do just that. America is now safer, stronger, and has vanquished another enemy."

Keenly opened a notepad he pulled from his pocket. "I'm told your office was contacted by a Mr. Roseland and Mr. Peeks regarding a mountain expedition to retrieve President Connors' remains. Has the White House commented on their expedition?"

"You know I can't go into details about ongoing missions."

"So. It is a mission?"

"Very clever," said Reilly, with disdain in his eye.

"Off the record, sir?"

"The White House doesn't comment on such things. I'm sorry to be brash, but I have a meeting to prepare for. I'm sure you are well aware of its focus."

"Indeed, Mr. President. I will let you prepare."

President Reilly escorted the man to the door, eyeing him up and down. What nerve he had, he will let me prepare. When they reached the door, Reilly had resumed his gracious smile and with a shaking of his hand, bid the man farewell in good fashion. He returned to his desk to ponder the day's revelations.

From his conversations with Keenly, Connors, and previously, with Fanmer, Reilly had to reopen the mountain. He smiled at the deliciousness of his emerging plan. He would recover the body of President Connors, but not for his doodling wife or the others. He would garner worship from the masses for his heroism. He would be elevated so high he would ride out the remainder of the term and sweep the next election in a landslide. At the same time, he would plant evidence gathered from the BLP raid to seal their fate. Yes, going to the mountain would be the answer.

Another brilliant thought tantalized him. He would personally lead the team into the mountain. The thought of cameras snapping as he carried the limp body of Connors to his widow. Yes, that would be the ticket! Reilly's face brimmed with excitement, eagerness. How could one man be as fortunate as he?

With the gods smiling down on him, he exited the room to make his grand plans. Though he had plans to rid himself of the man, Fanmer would be his next stop. He was a useful lacky and when he needed him, the scoundrel was more than willing to lick his boots in an effort to gain his approval. Reilly's smile widened as he reveled in his control of those beneath him. Many times they had lorded themselves over him and now, they were his subjects, his playthings to do with as he wished. The power he held was intoxicating.

Not too far from the Oval Office he found privacy. From the outside, he entered what looked to be a normal closet that held linens. Anyone opening the door would instantly close it out of embarrassment for entering the wrong room, a perfect cover. Reilly walked to the far right and pulled a hidden lever built into the side of the long wooden shelf. The portrait of President Connors, a fitting exile, slid down to reveal a hand scanner. Once he placed his palm to the machine, it glowed red and then a small door opened to its left. Reilly slid his large frame through the narrow fitting and emerged into a large communication room.

He marveled at his ingenuity. He regarded himself as the first competent president to outwit all surveillance and shaft local media. After fortuitous gloating, he waddled across the floor thinking it needed the Presidential seal. Everywhere he walked should don his Holy seal. He came to a mahogany desk emblazoned with his family crest on its top and centered on each drawer. Running his hand across the etched insignia produced a gruesome smile. Admiring his desk wasn't thrilling enough, he needed more. Reilly ran his fingers along the seal on the top drawer then closed his eyes in ecstasy. He was home. He was powerful. At last, the ruler of the Free World.

Reilly swiveled in his chair to his left to face a computer screen. Flicking a button, it sprang to life. The image of a weary Fanmer came into focus.

"Mr. President?"

"Fanmer. Where are we on this notion of yours?" his grim features made his point clear.

"It's more than a notion, Mr. President. We have burned dozens of bodies, most whole," he said to emphasize his point.

President Reilly rolled his eyes in an obvious manner. Fanmer was filth, another loose end to tie up in time. "Put it in your report."

"Sir?"

"Enough!" the redness in his face was clear. He would hear no more foolishness of zombies. Preposterous! Did the man take him for a fool? He was ruler of the Free World. The nonsense that spouted from the lips of a dead man meant nothing to him. It validated his earlier decision: Fanmer had outlived his usefulness.

Fanmer's face distorted over the screen. Reilly wondered if perhaps it was the monitor. No. It was the man he realized.

"As you wish, Mr. President."

"Good, we are finally in agreement." Reilly leaned his bulky frame closer to the screen to appear more intimidating. "Get your team together. We are reopening the mountain."

"For what purpose?"

Reilly's face reddened. He collected his thoughts, restraining himself. His voice came out soft and pleasant, to his delight. "We are going to recover my predecessor's body. We can't very well have a State funeral without a body, can we?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Expect me shortly. I want the opening blast saved for the accompanying press corps."

"We have citizens under house arrest here, sir."

"I know that, Fanmer. Keep them out of sight until the cameras leave. Then, dispose of them, quietly. Are we clear?"

"Sir?"

Reilly moved so close to the screen, he must appear a blur. "Are-we-clear?"

"Clear, sir," said Fanmer.

"Get to it and I don't want to hear any of your whining. When I arrive, I expect everything to go smoothly or heads will roll."

"Yes—"

President Reilly ended the communication to keep from hearing another of Fanmer's incessant whines. Moments later, he turned the device back on and made other clandestine calls before exiting the room for a scheduled press briefing.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Brittany

Brittany worked her downtown St. Louis bar for close to a year. A coworker made a drink nicknamed "scorcher" and kept the recipe a secret. A man down on his luck came in and found her drinks irresistible. He proposed marriage that night. Alice laughed at him and agreed to one drink. Over the course of months she fell in love and he popped the question again. Before asking, he iced the cake by revealing himself to be heir to a publishing dynasty. Tonight, Alice shared her news by announcing she quit.

After an impromptu party, Brittany said goodnight to her coworkers. She was over the moon. A friend, her best friend and coworker, found her Prince Charming. Most women that work in the sex industry, even on the fringes, like them, lowered their value as marriage material. Hooters was a decent place to work. The tips were great and often made the difference between making rent and being thrown out on your ear. To find a Prince Charming in this environment required divine assistance. That's what it had to be, thought Brittany.

Brittany let the memories of the night play again in her mind as she walked to her car. She had no 'knight in shining armor' to rescue her. Her comfort for this night would be the white purse with long spaghetti strap she hung around her neck. It was packed with healthy tips and tonight she was on her way to the store for a tub of ice cream. "Way to go, Alice. Sorry Prince Charming, Ben and Jerry's is rescuing this damsel tonight."

The St. Louis air was cool this night. She shuddered. Goose bumps dotted her skin as she made her way through the dozens of cars. Old Faithful was parked in the rear of the lot. Brittany had a key alarm installed on the old Chevy Malibu. When near her car, she aimed her keys and pressed the button. She heard the faithful sound and then the headlights came on to guide her home.

Without a care in the world, she reached for the door to open it. A swooshing sound, as if a strong wind, came from behind her. She fell forward against the car door and a wave of excruciating pain took hold of her. Something hard, maybe wood, hit the side of her head and she crumpled to the ground.

"Whoo! Yeah, baby!"

Dazed, Brittany shook her head furiously while her assailant gloated. Before he could get to her, she sprang away from him. She ran as fast as her legs would allow. She had to get away from the man, only she was running away from the club, toward darkness. A mistake the pounding of her heart would not allow her to register.

She heard his shouts, then his footsteps as he closed the distance. She changed direction and pumped her arms harder. The night had been long and had worn her out. With her last bit of strength, she ran away from people, away from the club, and away from the cars. She ran between two buildings down an alley. Halfway down, a loud sound rang out and she felt a whooshing go by her head. She dived behind a trash bin.

Two more bangs came. It was a gun. The man had stopped his chase to shoot at her. Was she wrong? She pegged him as a rapist; perhaps he was nothing more than a thief. If so, he would gladly kill her and then rob her of her belongings. She cradled her small purse while pressed against a wall. The area was filthy. She dare not look to see what she touched. The thought occurred to her to throw out her purse. Perhaps he had been in the club and seen her haul. If she threw out the money, he would take it and leave. It was worth a try. Still, she didn't want to give up her tips. If April didn't come through, they would be in a bind. Another shot rang out and the decision was made.

"If you want my money, here." Brittany flung the purse in his direction.

Another shot rang out, then another, and another. She screamed and made herself a smaller target. Another shot rang out.

"Take it! It's all there, six hundred dollars! That's all I have. Take it and go!"

She heard footsteps. No more bullets, only footsteps. Joy sprang in her. She would live. Thank God. While clutched in her ball, she gave praise to the most high, mumbling to herself. After a while, the booming sound of her heart tearing a hole in her rib cage stopped. Breathing became manageable. She ordered her thoughts, then gripped her keys. She had no money and would have to count on her mother to square things. Before, that would be a difficult proposition, unthinkable. Now, she didn't care. Brittany saw the big picture. She was safe and her job was to get home to her safe bed. She stood.

A shattering blow struck her. Her knees gave way and she crashed to the pavement. Without touching or having the strength to touch, she knew blood gushed from her head. Though her eyes refused to open, her nose verified the scent. If you have been to as many bars and witnessed as many bar fights as she has, you intimately knew the smell of blood. No question about it, she was bleeding.

Brittany's mind raced, trying to keep up with the events and make some sense of them. Attacked at her car, chased, shot at, and whacked with maybe a baseball bat, what next?

As her mind raced, the obvious came into focus. Sprawled on the ground, car keys dangling off one finger, too hurt to move, bleeding, too out-of-it to open her eyes and see, she felt a thump against her right leg, then her left. Both legs fell apart.

She felt heavy breathing and then felt his touch. Next, she felt a ripping of her orange shorts as they cleared her body. Her near nakedness evoked a guttural sound of joy in her attacker. After another tear, her panties hung by the slimmest of threads on one side. Oh why, oh why didn't she wear her stockings tonight? Did she really need the tips that bad?

"You're going to enjoy this, bitch," said a deep, gruff voice. "Yeah, baby."

With two or more thumps, or kicks as it were, more room was made available. Now, the fog lifted. Her head pounded from the pain of hitting the concrete and the gash in her scalp was painful enough to send her into orbit, but she remained still, suppressing them both. She had seen enough movies to know what comes next and what her practiced response would be. Brittany was a fighter and this was one more battle she would claim victory over.

Images of her past flooded her. She saw a man over her, taking pictures with a salacious grin surrounding crooked teeth. Another image of an old man pawing her and making her shiver came into focus. Another image of an old man inside her, tearing and shredding, creating damage that could never be repaired haunted her. These images should have forced surrender and caused her to curl into a ball and die. They didn't. To her surprise, a stranger sensation overtook her; she found strength in her horror images. An uplifting power she had not known before. She felt it spreading throughout her limbs, empowering her to action.

Through squinted eyes, she saw her attacker–a man, wearing a wrestler's black mask pulled over his face. He wore black gloves. If she needed further proof, she only need look to the rest of his black outfit. The gleam in his eye told her he was a hunter and he meant to claim his prize.

"Yeah, baby." He licked his lips as he unbuckled his pants, staring down at the lifeless body at his feet.

Controlled panic set in. Brittany was accustomed to the shenanigans of customers, but never faced it on the streets. That part took her by surprise, so she made her body even more lifeless, drawing him in for the kill. She had her keys. They could be used as a weapon. She thought about stabbing him through his neck. As he unbuckled more, she dismissed that idea in favor of a new one. Keys were great, her mouth, better. The arrogant prick would no doubt try oral first, at least she hoped. A hard clamp down and he would writhe in pain and she could make her escape. Yes, it could work. More panic set in as doubts surfaced. Why would that work? He had kicked her legs apart and was standing between them. She could not cover herself and suspected her mouth was the farthest thing from his thoughts. For him to rape her and try oral after was not something she could stand.

Brittany thought fast. After what felt like an eternity, it dawned on her. As subtly as she could, she opened her mouth, wide, and let the tip of her tongue lean out to peek at the rarely seen world. She gave a slight moan. Through squinted eyes, she could verify she captured his attention. She played dead. Dead and alluring.

Who could resist a beautiful blond goddess with her mouth wide open? Who could resist her delicate, inviting, red lips?

"Oh, shit!" he said, panting. He looked around nervously, clearly swelling with lust. Stepping over her lifeless leg, he came to those succulent lips.

Brittany smelled his alcoholic aura before he knelt. Then, came a whiff of the filthiest kind. The smell sent her reeling. Trying to focus on her attack, play dead, and ignore the stench was too much for one so young. She winced.

As she opened her eyes to view the curious smell, he shoved. Brittany tilted her head to the side. She bit into his left thigh and swung around with her left arm. She jabbed the keys home, once wildly, high into his abdomen, and then near his groin.

"Aww! You bitch!"

The man swung down with unmatched power. With one swing, her head rolled away from his thigh. Looking at blood from his thigh and holding himself, his face reddened as he swung at her again.

"Bitch!"

Brittany did her best to fight. She made an error that would cost her dearly, but she would not surrender. He would earn his prize. She flailed around. Feet, legs, hands, and arms flew with fury. She screamed and whaled on her attacker. He deflected easily and moved in for the kill.

"Bitch!"

Another blow stopped all struggle. The ringing in her head was unbearable.

Dazed and confused, she could only be vaguely aware of the pawing. She had found strength through horror images once, perhaps a second time would prove fruitful. Her mind retreated to the past. To her pageant days and the men who took her picture and pawed her. She pictured her doctor's face as he told her the sad news: she could have no children because of childhood scarring.

Power never surged in her, the images faded. What to do, now? Deeper she withdrew to put up a wall and shield her inner being from the coming pain.

Then it happened. As his weight pressed against her, she felt a surge of power. It was electricity that shot through her and gave her energy. "No!" she couldn't retreat, she had to fight. It's not too late. It will never be too late. Fight damn it, fight. Another surge. "No!" she hit with all her might and landed a blow that stilled him on top of her.

Brittany hit at her slumbering giant. Then she saw the horror—they were not alone. Though her attacker breathed down on her heavily, raspy, his breath was not the only breath present. She shoved hard and rolled him off of her.

Brittany saw the gun, it lay near her. She dived for it, grasping it in her grip. She stood, aiming at her first attacker, then the second.

"Whoa! Hold your horses, Missy." The black man put up his hands. "I'm your rescuer, not your attacker." He dangled a metal pipe in his right hand. She saw blood on the pipe.

"Who are you?" the words came out quick and strained.

"Samson." He smirked.

She mulled it over. The man held a bloody pipe. Her attacker was bleeding. Had she wounded him with her newfound strength or was it this man? Could he be her savior? Satisfied he may have contributed, but unsure of his intentions or why he was there, she relented. She aimed the gun at her attacker with one thought in her head. She pulled back the gun's hammer with delight.

"Wait! I'm not going to be a party to a murder."

"You won't." She aimed at him a second time.

"You can't be serious?"

"I'm going to blow both of you away." She returned his smirk. "No witnesses. Then, I am going home and taking a long bath."

He took a brave chance, his hands eased down as he kept eye contact with her. "My name is Samson. You wouldn't happen to be my Delilah would you?"

His smile put her at ease. Lucky for him, she loved humor.

The day was harrowing and if not, she would have noticed she clutched a gun with two hands wearing a thin Hooter's shirt and panties that clung to her by the tiniest of threads on only one side. She swallowed hard.

"I doubt that gun has many bullets left," he said. "In fact, if my hearing is as good as it was back in the day, my guess is you have one bullet left. You are not seriously going to waste the last bullet on your Prince Charming, are you?"

The words gave her pause. She mulled it over, looking at her attacker. She had prayed earlier. Were the words a sign from God? The barrel of the gun found its new target. Her finger squeezed around the trigger.

"Wait!"

"What?"

"Don't do it," Samson advised.

She hesitated.

He rushed to her side, extending his pipe. "In times like these, one bullet is never enough. I want you to leave him alive, in pain for the rest of his miserable existence. Every time he winces, he will think of the beating you gave him. Take this pipe and beat the shit out of him. Pay him back for what he did to you and to any other woman out there crying herself to sleep. Make him hurt."

He didn't give Brittany time to react. He snatched the gun from her grip and flung it over a building.

He looked her in her eyes and gave a devilish smile. "Play ball."

Brittany took the pipe and walked to her assailant.

"No! No! No!" the man screamed.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" the first blow was the hardest, a shot to the head.

Samson was at her side in a flash, gripping the pipe. "Don't kill him. Make him remember this day, this second, for the rest of his life."

Brittany nodded, realizing her mistake. The rest came easy. Brittany howled and swung, over and over again. She executed a strategy for crippling, not killing. She had electricity about her that kept her under control and she gave him hell.

After nearing exhaustion, she gave in to the man's everlasting pleas and stopped. Samson, who stood off to the side, began unbuttoning his pants. By the time she looked up, he had them in his hands. He walked to her with them on his arm.

She held her pipe high. "I wish you would." Her fierceness knew no bounds. Exhaustion faded with a wave of new energy.

Samson stopped. "Forgive me, I should have known better." He bowed and extended the pants. "You can't very well walk the streets naked. Have a safe trip home. May your bath waters remove this filth from you forever." He laid the pants at her feet and walked away, down the darkened alley.

Brittany collected her thoughts. Her attacker whimpered. He would not touch another woman, she was sure of it. She knelt to grasp the pants and quickly put them on. After which, she knelt beside her moaning attacker. Curiosity made her unmask him. He was young, twenty-five perhaps, with blond hair like her. The thought of one of her people as the attacker was demoralizing. He stared at her with gray eyes. She first believed them to be brown. They were attractive eyes. If not for the long scar on his left side, he would be gorgeous. Even in this state, he could get a woman. She knelt to his bloody ear and spoke softly and clearly with purpose.

"If you ever touch another woman, I will find you and kill you. You hear me?"

He could only nod through his severe pain.

"My name is Brittany Dushell. Remember me."

She gave another whack of her pipe and then began a search for her purse.

It took time for Brittany to find her purse. While she was at it, she recounted her money to make sure every penny of it was present and accounted for. She would have hated to search her attacker's pockets. In the end, what the hell? She took his twenty and his knife, then made her way to the end of the alley.

Ahead, she saw a black man walking in white boxers down the road. He stood out and brought a smile to her lips. "Hey!" she ran to catch him. He turned, then waited for her.

"Wait up," she said, breathless.

"Yeah?"

"You're not moving too fast," she teased.

"No choice. St. Louis cops and my kind don't mix too well. They see me like this and I'll get listed as a sex offender."

"Sorry."

"Don't be, that's life."

"It shouldn't be that way. You're a hero. I forgot to say thank you, so thank you."

"None needed. Thank God for somebody with commonsense hearing your cry."

He moved off, but Brittany followed. He gave her a whimsical look.

"What can I do for you, young lady?"

"Where are you headed?"

"There's a mission on Tanner Street."

"Seriously?"

"Yes." He moved off again.

"Wait. I've got a place not far from here. You can wash up and get your pants back." His stare was odd. She fumbled, thinking of something more she could add to her offer. "I'm not much of a cook, but there's an all-night pizza joint around the block from my place. You take a bath and I'll go get us some slices. I really want to thank you for saving me. If you hadn't . . ."

Dead silence filled the void. Samson studied her face, then her Hooter's shirt. Brittany noticed and wished she hadn't worn it.

"If you are not afraid to have a stranger in your home, I accept."

Both smiled. Brittany pointed in the direction of her car and they began walking.

"You know I would never hurt you," he said after a bit.

"I know, but just in case I'm too irresistible, I'll hold on to this." She lifted the metal pipe.

He laughed.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, what?"

"In other words, my young companion," he chuckled, "you'll be the only one laying pipe tonight."

He chuckled again. This time, she joined him. They shared a laugh all the way to her car.

Brittany's house was small and square. A single rose bush dotted the patchy landscape. She shook her head at it as they entered the house, one of many tasks she had to make time for. True to her word, she showed him the bathroom and told him she would be back momentarily. After changing, she left him in her house with her valuables and never once thought he would not be there when she returned. Brittany got the pizza and coffee and returned home half an hour later. She found Samson on the couch in the same clothes. After giving it thought, what choice did he have? He was in the home of a pair of thin women and would never be able to squeeze into their clothing. She shook her head, trying not to laugh. "Hey, I'm back."

"Yes, you are. Loved your shower. Excellent." He made a gesture by bringing his fingers to his lips and then smacking as if he had eaten good food.

"Thanks. I live with my mom. She decorated the kitchen and gave me the bathroom. I spend so much time in there that I thought I should give it a little flare."

"You succeeded. I've never seen a top-of-the-line showerhead like yours before. What is it?"

Brittany hurried to the kitchen for plates. She returned and sat paper plates on the long coffee table. Sitting next to him, she opened the box, offering him the first slice.

"Thank you. The shower head?"

"Oh, it's a Relexa. Great, isn't it?" she teased.

"Let's just say, I wish I were female."

She blushed, then chuckled with him as they ate their first slice of pizza. They watched a zombie movie on late-night television. After which, Brittany gave him blankets and said goodnight.

The next morning, April hadn't made it home. A text message indicated she would be home by noon with good news. Brittany relaxed. Feeling exuberant, she made a continental breakfast. She sat it before Samson on the coffee table and as if no time had passed, they continued talking. Finally, it was time for him to leave.

Brittany had a thought. She rose to retrieve a present, but first, she stopped in the kitchen for a towel. Wiping down her gift, she returned and sat next to him again. "Sorry I didn't give it back to you earlier." She handed him the pipe.

Samson grinned, holding up his hand. "That is a secret science project you are holding in your hands, young lady. It looks like ordinary metal, but it is a hundred times stronger yet lightweight. It's yours for life."

"What?"

"I saw how you wielded it. You can give it a better home than I. It's yours. Call it a self-defense gift. You make sure you smash every creep that comes your way. No mercy, baby girl, no mercy. Promise?"

Brittany gave a hearty laugh. "I promise."

"Good, it's settled. You have a new weapon of mass destruction at your disposal. May I offer a small suggestion?"

"Sure."

"Have you thought about the military?"

"What about it?"

"Joining. You have a lot of fight in you. That's what makes a great soldier. I'm a retired army captain, I would know. What you showed in that alley, that can't be taught. You've got it and you can help a lot of people who need a champion on their side. If you join up, you can specialize and become black ops."

"Yeah, right."

"Seriously, you have it. Just apply yourself. When you go in, tell them Samson sent you and that you will make a great Delilah."

"Are you serious?"

"With all my heart."

Samson rose to go to the door. Brittany followed.

"Why do I get the idea you have done this before?"

Samson chuckled. He put his arm in hers and led her back to her couch. He sat her down and held up a finger to quell her resistance. He walked back to the door. She craned her head to follow, her brow furrowed in a confused expression. Samson stopped at the door. "Pretend you are sitting on your couch and listening to me on a tape recorder. When I have finished talking, I deliver this message: This tape will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, with your mission, Brittany."

From the look on her face, it was evident his words went over her young head. He continued. "Then, smoke would rise from the tape, and the instructions would be destroyed. Come on, tender heart! You don't watch television? Well, look it up. Don't forget, Samson sent you and said you were Delilah. Adios, Brittany. Good luck and don't lose that pipe." With that, Samson opened the door and left.

"Army?" Brittany gave it thought. "Why not?" she chuckled and took another sip of coffee.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Awakening

After escorting Jodi, Pierce, and the others out of the area, Fanmer set up shop at the National Guard Headquarters' building in Mount Mitchell State Park. He waved good-bye as they rode away in military Jeeps. A pity they couldn't wave back, hands tied behind your back don't allow such movements. It would be hours before President Reilly made it to the area. That would give him enough time to rest before going to the base of the mountain to await his illustrious hero. He turned up his nose at the thought. Thinking about the man produced a nasty taste of bile in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard and thought of pleasant things: his money.

Fanmer stood with a well-earned grin and watched a series of small explosions take place on the mountain. He impatiently twirled his beverage to kill time as the final explosions were put in place and all was made ready for Reilly's arrival.

President Reilly sat on board his helicopter as it made its way to the area. He relished his plan. Soon, the evidence Fanmer and others placed would be made known and prove once and for all the BLP was responsible for Connors' assassination. That alone was enough to bring a twisted smile to his spacious face. As he thought of retrieving Connors' body, his thin lips curled more. The plan was brilliant, the classic killing two birds with one stone. His mother would be proud.

The helicopter bearing the Presidential Seal descended to the area. Reilly was anxious and moved before the customary waiting-until-the-blades-ceased-spinning period. He stepped out to a multitude of flashbulbs and a barrage of questions. His pudgy hands went high to calm the pathetic litany as he approached a small platform nearby.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, distinguished colleagues, and members of media. Today, we retrieve the body of our beloved fallen hero, President Connors. If I may direct your attention to the mountain above, we shall precipitate these proceedings. Without further ado, Fanmer, if you will?"

Fanmer nodded, then spoke into a radio. He and the others lifted their gaze toward the mountain. They waited with anticipation as alarms sounded. After mild radio chatter, the mountain exploded with a thunderous bang. Smoke and dust filled the air. More than that, a thin layer of a greenish dust or perhaps a smoke cloud, descended from the mountain. The shape of the charges sent the cloud descending to the ground in all directions. One part went deep into the earth. Another grew denser as it rolled. Yet, another, spread in a rushed manner.

As if lava flowing from a volcano, the cloud descended, covering all in its wake. Part of it passed through a group of sightseers, all clutched their throats. They fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Seconds later, they succumbed to Death's waiting arms. Another group, soldiers patrolling the side of the mountain, was engulfed by the green ominous cloud. Only shrieks could be heard emerging from the dense cloud. When it passed, all sound ended from within. Bodies curled in agony lay about in various poses. All wore a torturous look on their sunken faces.

Each body was covered in a thin film of green dust. In a matter of seconds, the face and fingers turned skeletal in look, clinging to what bone that remained. Most were hairless. Once-small teeth were now elongated and pointy. All displayed reddened eyes. They looked like the works of a great painter who captured the perfect scene of a scream caught for all eternity, etched into the remains of a once-vibrant, human being.

This fog, cloud, or Bringer of Death, was now thinning, moving faster. Like an ocean breeze rolling over the land and swaying through tree branches, it rolled. Everything it touched took on a greenish tinge.

Another group of soldiers, standing in shock, gaping at what happened to their counterparts, were marred with the same greenish tinge as a look of utter shock was etched into their thinning frames. Not a single man moved. All became those plastic, green, toy soldiers on a make-believe battlefield, clutching their weapons.

The cloud moved through them with little resistance and rolled down the hillside to the news crews and press affiliates waiting for a sweet embrace. The cloud failed none, not even those able to shake free of their horror and run. Too late. One cameraman ran for his life, screaming as he went. With a clear green field ahead of him, he ran for dear life. If only, he could make it to the waiting trees. Too late. As he ran, he felt a cold hand wrap around the back of his feet. He moved faster to break the grip. Another cold hand caressed his back. Harder he pushed. A cold hand curled around the tip of his tossing ponytail. He shook his head and pushed harder. In an instant, tired of his resistance, cold hands pushed up his leg, back, and went through the base of his neck. The man stumbled and fell as he went down an incline. He rolled to a stop. As he did, a hand stretched out toward the waiting trees and safety. In an instant, coldness swept over him and his vision dimmed to nothingness. The last picture his eyes would register would be his dear trees, attempting to run from the green horror. Not even they were spared.

The President's party was filled with shock. They had no way of knowing what had occurred on the far side of the mountain, but to see a thick green cloud approaching sent fear into their hearts. Most screamed and ran, some stayed to record the events. The President was ushered away by a team of Secret Service personnel to the Presidential chopper. Several members of his staff managed to get aboard before the blades began their noisy rotation.

Reilly looked at his Secretary of Labor, Jack Duncan, then to his wife, Kimberly. "Are you all right, Kim?"

"Yes, sir," said Kim. She was rubbing her bruised ankle and was graced with the distinction of being Katherine Connors older sister. "Next time I have to run, I'm going to make sure I take off my high heels first." She laughed, trying to lighten the mood.

The chopper lifted off and cleared the area. Reilly looked out the window to see people moving about below. One of which was a man he loathed. He sneered as he gazed on him.

Fanmer and those left behind began taking the matter seriously. They ran in all directions to escape the cloud. Many received a blessing of a lifetime as the cloud dispersed. The center of it could be seen descending into the earth. Another portion seemed to fade out of existence, while another increased its speed and density. This portion of the green cloud hit some and they instantly fell.

A news reporter held a mixture of shock, appreciation, and joy on his face. "Marty! Are we getting this, Marty?"

"Yeah, man, I'm rolling," said the cameraman. He panned his camera around. Both were clear of the cloud.

They saw their rivals thrashing in pain. A group of four was on the ground. Two of them died instantly, a third shook violently while the fourth seemed to have frozen in place. This fourth had a layer of green dust surrounding him. Seconds later, red eyes flashed open and he howled. He dropped to the ground and began devouring the third that shook in the grips of pain.

"Oh, Jesus!" the reporter exclaimed. "Go live, Marty! Now! Now! Now!"

"We're live," said Marty, his fingers shaking around the camera's handle.

The reporter held a microphone with the number four and call letters emblazoned on it. He stood with a quivering smile, waiting for the red light to come on. "This is Robert Shaw reporting to you live from the base of Mount Mitchell, North Carolina." He spoke quickly. "Moments ago, this mountain was rocked with explosions. A green cloud of dust descended and all that it touched have died. What this cloud is, poison gas, dust, Hell's breath, I don't know. But what I do know is that people have died and not only died, but instantly have come back to life and have begun devouring the living. You heard me right, devouring the living! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, fantasy has turned into reality and this reporter is the first to bring the news to all of America, in fact the world. Zombies! Ladies and gentlemen, ZOMBIES!" he finally stopped to take a breath, pointing feverishly at the corpses.

Marty followed his lead and panned his camera to show the horror.

"Back here! On me!" Shaw would not be denied his glory. "Folks, my cameraman and I are eyewitness to a zombie attack. Moments ago, we witnessed a man turning into a zombie and viciously tearing into the flesh of his comrade. My assistant will upload the video to give you our eyewitness account. Standby for our upload." He gave Marty the cut signal.

Marty was no slouch, he was in the midst of uploading the video as Shaw ran to him. "Almost."

"How much longer?" Shaw spoke in gasps, finding it hard to catch his breath. His mind raced with images of awards he would receive.

"Oh shit!"

"What?" asked Shaw.

"Run!" Marty dropped the camera and ran.

Shaw turned. He was met with searing pain. He had a brief moment to see red eyes moving toward him before his vision permanently dimmed. Robert Shaw became a meal for two freshly-turned creatures. None of him would remain. He would not join their ranks as a flesh-eating zombie.

A group of media circled on the other side of the mountain, preparing for glory. This was the story of the century: an exploding mountain, a President's retrieval, a terrorist cell, and a slew of dead bodies. They would get the scoop, arriving ahead of military grunts who would deny them their Pulitzer Prize. With great anticipation, they sat on board their chopper, feverishly glancing below at the carnage. A reporter tapped his colleague to make sure he zoomed in and captured every image for posterity. Later, he would run through the images and pick the award-winning cover, personally.

After their photography session, the chopper set down near a group of stricken soldiers. Collin, the lead reporter, contemplated taking pictures next to the gruesome bodies. As he exited the chopper, he had no way of knowing what horror awaited him. No one had been privy to the dense green cloud as it descended from the other side of the mountain. This cloud, denser than the other, descended into the earth with ease, its bulk, firmly beneath the soil. This cloud had come upon a shallow, freshly dug grave. In fact, a car had sped off seconds ago, its occupant, a homicidal killer.

As the cloud moved through the soil, it contacted a body, then moved on to search for more in a nearby cemetery. Where it had traveled moments ago became disturbed ground. The soil moved as a finger peeked through to the sunlight. First one skeletal-like finger, then another, and another. Then, a heap of dirt moved as a head appeared. It shook dirt from its head, then howled.

While alive, it had been known as Janey, a nineteen-year-old college student from the University of North Carolina. Janey had made the mistake of excessive celebration of her newfound freedom. Parents that restrict their child's freedom often must wait out a child's rebellion as they taste the world before them. Her parents would never get that opportunity. Janey had met a potential husband and father to her future children. Of course, it was late at night and she was viewing him through beer goggles, still, he was a dreamboat. She thought nothing of stumbling into his van for frantic sex on a soiled mattress. Those are the breaks. Janey never saw the blow that knocked her to the mattress, and was too intoxicated to know how well her body responded to a madman's touch. And worst of all, she never fully regained consciousness while being buried alive.

Zombie Janey shook her head again. Her eyes were red, skin tinged green and clinging to bone. After a second howl, she leaped from the ground to stand before her grave. She sniffed the air in three directions. Satisfied with the third, she howled and ran. A meal was waiting.

* * *

Collin and company knew nothing of this. Before them stood toy soldiers with scattered civilians nearby. He picked out a not-so-gruesome dead soldier and knelt between it and a civilian, to have his picture taken. He believed the civilian to be a terrorist, killed by a mighty military. It would make a great story, perhaps a movie. Collin never once stopped to wonder why the soldiers were green and immobile. He thought only of his reward.

"Hey! Get away from that soldier!"

Collin turned to the voice. A group of soldiers were rushing their way. He hadn't heard their chopper land. "What?"

Their leader stood before Collin. "This is a secured site under Homeland Security. Turn over all cameras, phones, and recording devices and electronics to these men." He motioned to his left.

Collin rose. "What authority do you have to take our instruments? This area is not under the Office of Homeland Security. This is a National Park."

The Captain tilted his head. At that, every soldier under his command aimed their weapons at Collin and his party. Collin raised his hands in surrender. He nodded to his team and they put their instruments down and raised their hands as well. Soldiers filtered among them, confiscating all electronics. When done, they began searching each man.

Suddenly, an eerie sound was heard. They turned a collective head to their right. Zombie Janey was on the move. She leaped from a great distance to stand before the men. They were immobile, unsure of what to do. Her face was that of the classic zombie of horror movies. Zombie Janey had yellow crooked teeth, drool from her mouth, and large red eyes with gashes around her face and neck. She howled.

The men turned to flee. As they did, the soldiers who had been statues moments before, sprang to life with the same eerie howl Zombie Janey gave. The first man, in his effort to get away from Zombie Janey, fell into the clutches of a waiting zombie soldier. The zombie bit into his neck and pulled. The man's arms fell to his sides and his feet went stiff, then dangled as the zombie soldier lifted him high in the air to take bite after bite of his delicious meal.

The remaining group tried going back the other way. Zombie Janey got the first, a soldier. Her strength was unbelievable. She lifted the man who was at least a foot taller than her in the air with little difficulty. As he flailed against her arms, she gave what may have been a laugh, then brought him in to her and clamped her mouth at his throat. Blood gushed as he kept up his resistance, but it was to no avail. Moments later, she gently laid him to the ground to make a meal of him.

Zombies leaped around the others. A few brave soldiers got off shots. The zombie squad moved in for the kill, leaping on a close group of men who faced an unimaginable horror. Only zombie groans could be heard as they feasted. When done, the zombie who moments earlier had been the captain of an elite fighting force, somehow remained in charge. He howled and pointed. "There," he said in a metallic, strained voice. He ran forward and they moved as a zombie unit, toward the distant buildings.

* * *

High above, the pilot of a helicopter had seen what had happened. He made a frantic call. "Whiskey Bravo, come in, Whiskey Bravo this is Tango Nine, come in goddamn it! Whiskey Bravo!" his hand shook so much he was in danger of dropping the microphone. He sat it down to steady himself. With no response, he turned the cyclic between his legs and maneuvered his chopper to follow the creatures. Command may deny his story, but he had proof. He had enough awareness to keep the camera recording. He double-checked to make sure he was still recording. He gave a half grin.

"Whiskey Bravo, this is Tango Niner declaring an emergency. Come in Whiskey Bravo."

"Tango Niner," said an authoritative voice, "this is Whiskey Bravo. Declare your emergency, come back."

"Goddamn zombies! That's my emergency, Whiskey Bravo. Zombies!"

He waited through the silence. The radio crackled again. A new voice with more authority came over the radio. "Break off, Tango Nine. Set course six, three, five and maintain radio silence until approach. ETA in three minutes, Tango Niner."

"Copy that. Course six, three, five, radio silence. Tango Niner out."

He worked his cyclic and turned away from his pursuit of the zombie soldiers. He gave a last glance to see them running and leaping great distances. He feared for all those in their path, but was grateful to be heading in the opposite direction.

The pilot hadn't recognized the voice, but it was strong and gave him encouragement. He knew he would be all right. Soon, he would be with his military family.

* * *

Zombie Janey was not the only creature to emerge from the earth. Two more in different locations immediately sprang from the soil with hunger in their eyes. Each howled and took off in different directions to find fresh game.

Those zombie spectators doused with their green sheen, fled the area. Some sprang upon forest animals; rabbits, squirrels, deer, and such that were offered up to them by their surroundings. Some flung themselves at fleeing travelers trying to escape to safety. Whomever or whatever they came across, stood little chance of escape, furthermore, stood little chance of retaining precious life, even in zombie form. All were devoured, save three, who joined their ranks as marauders. All moved as a unit to a new area to conquer.

* * *

Mankind stood upon a precipice. From the ocean, aboard the USS Bohman, President Reilly studied graphs, figures, and reports. It took some time to reach his conclusion and choose his response. For the most part, he wondered how history would treat his legacy and spent more than half his precious time on that one aspect. Then, he righted himself and gave the attack order.

A group of fighter jets took off from an aircraft carrier en route to Mount Mitchell and the surrounding forest. An onlooker might assume blasting them to hell was in order. That was not the order given. They laid down fire from rotary weapons, cutting a path in the dense forest. After the jets, came a group of helicopters loaded with elite soldiers. They parachuted into the area the jets cleared out for them.

Heavily armed soldiers touched down and removed their parachutes. They gathered together before marching as a unit into the heart of the zombie infestation. Their leader, Captain Ross, steered them to a place to use as cover—trees and a lone building. He peered from around the small red shack, a latrine. From there, he looked out and saw the zombies cradling their meals, feasting on bent knee. The most god-awful noises traveled to all ears. Fear gripped Ross as he saw his elite force recoil in horror. It was hard to believe—war veterans covered their ears as if first year cadets.

Captain Ross took it all in. He steeled himself. The men would look to him to lead. "It seems someone threw a party and didn't invite us. What do we do about their audacity?" he thundered.

The haze lifted, the group stood taller.

"What do we do when the inferior slaps us in the face?" asked Ross.

"Slap back, sir!" they bellowed.

"How hard?"

"Twice as hard, sir!"

"Three times!"

"Three times, sir!"

"Nobody throws a party without inviting me! And party in my backyard to boot! Remove this filth from my sight!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Go, go, go, go!"

The soldiers ran from the side of the shack and from the trees, screaming. They moved to an area just ahead of the horde and opened fire, each screaming and firing their weapon. The zombies were riddled with bullet holes and danced upon the cool ground as if at a block party.

"Hold! Hold!" barked Ross.

When the smoke cleared, all zombies were flat on the ground next to bits of mutilated flesh. The soldiers turned to one another, nodding their heads with grins all around. Captain Ross turned on the radio unit on his outer vest. "Strike Team One to Whiskey Bravo, come in Whiskey Bravo. Strike Team One to Whiskey Bravo, come in Whiskey Bravo."

Ross and his men listened to momentary static that gave way to a voice. "Whiskey Bravo. Report Strike Team One."

"Enemy down. All hostiles terminated, awaiting further orders, Bravo."

"Hold, Strike Team One."

"Men, I commend you on your bravery and service to this fine country," said an authoritative voice over the radio. Ross rolled his eyes. President Reilly would take every opportunity to inject himself into military matters with no training or knowledge of what they do. Arrogant, son of a bitch.

Without warning or preamble, a soldier to Ross' right screamed. When Ross looked, he saw the man's body moving quickly, flying backward toward trees. Before he could react, another performed the same maneuver. He reached for his weapon and heard another scream. Ross whirled and fired blindly. It was one of the dead zombies he thought he terminated. He fired into the beast's chest. The red eyes closed as it went down, then they opened again. The monster leaped in the air to the trees above. Captain Ross fired as it swung from tree to tree. Remembering his men, he barked, "Fire! Fire!"

Some knew what to do while others were dumbstruck. Zombies were in front of them and in the trees above. Tree zombies dropped down on the firing men, mouths open and ready. Soldiers fired and knocked them to the hard ground. They were dead for all of a second before rising again. A small group prepared to shoot them again. Others shot the ground zombies in the chest. They stumbled back, then stopped to assess.

Zombie Captain took charge by pointing at the food before him. "Charge," was his metallic command. As a unit, they advanced.

"Heads! Heads! Heads! Fire at their heads!" shouted Captain Ross.

Ross took out the zombie about to grasp him with a head shot. Green goo splattered him. He aimed at the next and fired, all the while being incensed by the stench of the filth on his face. He let out a loud battle cry and fired continuously to save himself and his men.

Finally, they had proved themselves worthy. By his count, Ross and his men had killed half the creatures. Ross looked about with disappointment. He took a moment to catch his breath, listening to the frantic voices coming from his radio. "Bravo, come in Whiskey Bravo."

"Whiskey Bravo, Capta—"

"Listen goddamn you!" he shouted to cut off Reilly's drivel. "We just got our elite asses handed to us on a platter. I have two men left. A ground campaign will not succeed. I repeat. A ground campaign will not succeed. Code 87, Zeta 5. Repeat, Code 87, Zeta 5. Come back, Whiskey Bravo!"

"Understood," came an unfamiliar voice, "Code 87, Zeta 5 confirmed in ten. Repeat. Confirmed in ten."

Captain Ross looked at his remaining soldiers. They made unwavering eye contact. He nodded. "Strike Team One, confirm ten," his voice loud but bland, "ground away." Ross turned off the receiver. He pointed to the path opposite the zombies took. He nodded to each and in silence, they ran in that direction.

A vast armada lies in the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of North Carolina. The aircraft carrier that previously launched fighter jets was lively with sailors scurrying around like ants. It was joined by another on the far end of the fleet. Together, they launched fighter jets on a mission to end what could not be ended by ground forces. Twice in their history, the order had been given, but never has it been executed.

Jets flew on their steady course toward the mountain to carry out their mission. Near the target, they spread apart and all dived toward the mountain's base. Once over their target, each dropped their payload and made their sweeping turn to return to base. When the bombs landed, their explosive power rocked the earth's surface and produced magnificent plumes thousands of feet in the air. Seconds later, the rest of the fleet came to life.

Massive warships with anchored cannon weapons sprang to life. Huge guns rocked back and forth with explosive force as they launched heavy shells into the air. Mount Mitchell was in flames and to keep anything from escaping the area required an overkill approach, such was the nature of General Order 5—known as Code 87, Zeta 5 (Scorched Earth).

The air held the sounds of war. Huge ships could be seen slightly rocking after each delivery. Sailors scurried around the monster cannons with earmuffs, though they would not be enough protection from the generated noise. If their mission was successful, permanent ear damage would be a blessing compared to the alternative.

Finally, all ships went silent. Soldiers stood on the decks of the ships gazing at the distant mountain. An entire forest had been set ablaze in the hopes of ridding the world of unimaginable horror. Aboard the USS Bohman, President Reilly stood, looking out at what he had done. He only wanted to discredit terrorists and make himself the hero; both were lost to him now.

As a team of reporters clamored around Reilly throwing out a salvo of questions, he ignored them all, looking toward the devastation. Many reporters delivered live editions of their broadcasts. Reilly began to hate he had invited them in the first place. Now, what could he do? What cover story would be plausible at this late stage? Fanmer, he needed Fanmer. Though he was a fool and a thorn, the scum always proved useful. Reilly stepped away from the railing to go onto the bridge of the ship.

"Sir," said the chopper pilot he diverted. "Did you get them all, sir?"

Reilly wanted nothing to do with the man. Even now, the man shook like the coward he was. What has come of the military, allowing cowards in its ranks? Another problem to add to his plate. "Don't worry son, we got them all."

"I saw them, sir. If you didn't get them all . . ."

"Relax son." He gripped the young man by his shoulders. If only he could choke the life out of him and be done with it. He smiled, reassuringly. "In the morning, this will be nothing but a bad dream."

Reilly patted the man on the head as if he were a good little dog. He gave a wave as he walked toward the Captain's quarters. His mind was ablaze with scenarios. He hadn't given up on finding the perfect patsy to pin this fiasco on. He mulled over his choices as he made it to the Captain's quarters and entered without as much as a knock. "Ferris?"

"In here, sir."

The voice came from a room at the far end. President Reilly walked with indignation. So many people had such a hard time with respect, another thing to add to his growing plate. He entered the room with a smile for all. "Gentlemen, ladies," he said.

Captain Ferris displayed a small amount of respect by motioning him to the head of the table. Reilly waddled around to the big chair and plopped his sturdy frame inside the restricted space. "What do we know?"

"We can send teams to the edges to check for survivors, but we won't make it to the center until tomorrow evening," said Ferris.

"Tomorrow evening?"

"If that," responded Ferris.

"Keep me informed." Reilly pulled himself from the chair. There was no need to stay with this lot and hear their chatter. "I have another pressing problem to attend to."

Reilly left the room and went down a flight of stairs at the end of the hallway. Winded from the walk, he barely had strength to tap on the door.

"Yeah?"

"It's me, Jack."

If Jack Duncan had been quicker, he would have seen Reilly's eyes roll to the back of his head. Instead, he opened the door to face an awkwardly smiling President Jason Reilly. "Sir?"

"I haven't been able to get a message to Katherine and was wondering if you are Kim had, by chance."

Reilly's thin lips held their unfamiliar positions with great effort. As Jack Duncan glanced downward, they gave up and the smile vanished.

"Come in." He stepped to the side to give the President room and then shut the door.

Reilly knew something was wrong. Duncan was not a friend and as far as enemies go, he wasn't that either. Something was off, troubling the man. Reilly watched the way he clumsily rubbed his hands raw, not looking him in the eye like a man. His thin lips turned upward. "Is there a problem I can help you with?" he gave his sincerest face.

"I'm not too sure." Duncan kept his eyes to the floor, not able to keep still.

"Where is Kim?" asked Reilly.

"In there," said Duncan, pointing to the small door to their left.

Reilly took the lead. Indecisive people make his blood boil. He wrenched open the door to show his displeasure. Inside, Kim lie in a small bed covered by a blanket. Reilly's heart nearly stopped. It is not often he was unprepared. "Is she . . . ?" he couldn't get the words out.

"No, god no! She's resting."

"Thank god for that." Relieved, Reilly walked to her. He bent and lifted the edge of the sheet. As he did, the sheet flew up and he heard a loud growl. President Reilly fell backward against a wall. What force had done that? It wasn't a fall, he was pushed, thrown. The back of his head hit the wall. Between the ringing in his ears and the growl, no other senses worked. Then, he smelled something foul. It was in his nostrils. There would be no time to interpret it. Half a second later, he felt searing pain, then the feel of an open wound. As his eyes began to work and focus, he saw it. Kim.

A stream of foulness came from her stained mouth as she brought her face in for the kill. Her mouth was wide as he looked down the gullet of where he would soon be. Zombie Kim's mouth clamped around his head with a crunching sound, then pulled back, taking a pound of flesh and an eyeball with it. President Reilly released a horrific scream then sunk to the floor.

Sudden fright hits us all, Duncan was no exception. He shook it off and ran for the door. Zombie Kim caught him and ripped out his throat from the back. They were not the loving couple they portrayed to the public and quietly contemplated divorce. There would be no need; she had found the best divorce remedy.

As for Reilly, he and his girth would be spared to become the nation's first Zombie President.

Zombie Kim loss interest in his plumpness and leisurely sat and finished every scrap of her husband. Soon, she and others would make a meal of half the crew. And then they would launch themselves at the entire fleet, then the world.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Army Life

Army life is not as bad as it seems. That's what he thought, anyway. Mike Jones joined the United States Army Cadet Corp at seventeen and on his eighteenth birthday, became a United States soldier. Having prior experience and marksmanship trophies, young Jones excelled.

The world had daily reports of confusion concerning zombies. Since the outbreak was small, most believed them to be lies, remembering the infamous War of the Worlds broadcast. No sir, people these days were not that gullible and backward. They dismissed the nonsense, opting to believe government authority and their explanations.

Florida was south of the North Carolina outbreak. The army thought they had contained the outbreak before Jones' basic training. They were wrong. Zombie infiltration could not be stopped and cascaded nationwide. Eventually, they would learn the caves of Missouri and the foothills of Mount Mitchell were ground zero for the outbreaks.

Mike Jones and his company sat quietly in the mess hall listening to Brigadier General Holt as he told them of their new mission. They thought they were at the end of their basic training, but new information had been discovered that required more training. They would be deployed from Fort Jackson, South Carolina to the foothills of Western North Carolina to undergo new training in a hidden base. The Land of the Sky would be their new home.

All went well, until they neared the end of this new training. Word came from the leaders of a zombie surge in Missouri and they would deploy tonight to assist fellow soldiers in crisis. Jones excelled and with heavy losses, used his command presence to quickly move up in rank to Corporal. He was a rising star with a bright future ahead.

After landing at Fort Leonard Wood, Jones and company continued training. They would not venture into the fray for a while. Others would fight in the caverns while they trained.

* * *

Brittany had finally made the break from her mother. Her pain was raw and she knew she would go back to her mother if she stayed in town, therefore, she racked her brain on where to go. She grinned. Brittany left St. Louis to try her luck in the sex-crazed environment of Miami, Florida. If she didn't make it there, she would take Samson's advice and join the military. She packed meager belongings into her car while her mother slept. She left a note on the kitchen table, debating whether to place it next to her mother. She so wanted to caress her cheek and kiss her good-bye, but that might wake her and that, she couldn't risk. She would have to leave without that precious last kiss.

Brittany gave one last look to her living room, placed the keys on a table by the door, then opened it. Thinking quickly, she went to her bedroom and grabbed a few precious relics, including her long metal pipe. She bowed to the room and walked out the front door, never to return.

Looking back was not an option. Brittany knew she would weaken and return, so she moved forward at a quick pace, sat behind the wheel of her car, and drove quickly away. Miami, here she comes.

After three months of failures and low profits, Miami proved not the haven she believed. She entered her car with her belongings for the long drive back to Missouri to enlist in the service. Why Missouri? Samson had contacts that would get her in, but those contacts were back home, the place she dreaded going.

Brittany prided herself on her resolve. She gave Miami a fair shot and now it was time to admit failure and move on. As she drove out of town, a billboard of a military scene caught her eye. That was the extra lift she needed. Brittany drove as fast as she could and with a few well-placed lies and Samson's backing, she became United States Property and left for Fort Leonard Wood to begin her basic training.

* * *

Every enlisted soldier in the company stood in a long line anxiously awaiting movement ahead of them. They looked anxiously around trying to see ahead. A few were impatient, yelling at those ahead to move faster.

A long line extended from the inside of a small building. The line meandered down the street and contained only low-level soldiers. Those of high rank had already received the information these new recruits were about to receive. What was so fascinating that all had to see? It was a list of names tacked to a bulletin board inside a small building.

Earlier, each soldier made a list of their nearest relatives and their location. The army hierarchy believed it to be the best approach to overall moral policing: put your men at ease and they will fight with focused energy. That is what they hoped would happen, it didn't.

Men and women, trained soldiers, exited the building with a look of utter dejection etched into their features.

The hot sun pounded down on Jones and Brittany as they waited with the rest. The line moved slowly. A guard walked up to them and squared his shoulders, staring directly at Brittany.

"Private Dushell?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Sergeant Welch needs to see you. Please come with me." He moved forward to the head of the line. Brittany gave a sour look to Jones and then followed, meekly. The guard shouted at those around the door. "Make a hole!" soldiers separated and stood rigid.

"Excuse me," said Brittany as she squeezed by them. The guard led her to a far door. "Wait here until called, Private."

"Yes, sir." Brittany swallowed hard and stood near the door, waiting for it to open.

Mike Jones worried for his friend, but couldn't follow. He kept his place in line and prayed for the line to move faster. It took two hours to get to the doorway. Inside, Jones saw a long line with all eyes facing forward. Armed guards stood at attention in every corner of the small room. Ahead, a young blond girl removed her cap and with deep apprehension, stepped forward to view the list. Her small ponytail moved back and forth with her head as a single finger scanned down one list, then back up as if double-checking. The girl stepped to her left to scan a new list. Halfway down, a shaky finger stopped, transfixed.

The soldier let out a shriek capable of piercing ears, then collapsed in a heap. One of the armed soldiers moved his weapon upward, but didn't point it at her. Brittany tensed as she viewed the scene. She caught a glimpse of Jones and shrugged. He returned her shrug. Both looked at the fallen soldier, fear building.

Staff Sergeant Nora Scott knelt and helped the sobbing Private to her feet. Instead of leaving, they went to the far-left corner of the room that Brittany stood before. The woman rapped on the door then escorted the soldier inside. Brittany gave a quick look and saw Sergeant Welch and others. She gave a panicked smile and waited. His expression never changed as he nodded to the Staff Sergeant who promptly shut the door. Brittany searched for Jones a second time.

The line moved forward.

Jones complained with the rest while outside. Inside the building, he didn't relish the idea of moving forward. A guard poked Jones in his side to prod him. He moved up to make way for a new soldier to glimpse his first view of the room.

An eternity passed before Jones could get to the front. He resisted looking at his friend; he also resisted looking at the long lists while the person in front of him scanned. When his turn arrived, he scanned with a heavy heart. Jones found what he was looking for on the second sheet: the names of his parents and grandparents. He closed his eyes and grimaced in silence.

Brittany saw pain on his face. Jones was private. It took weeks for him to open up about home. She knew in that moment he had lost a family. She wanted to leave the door and go to him and provide comfort. The door opened.

"Sergeant Welch is ready for you," said a guard.

Brittany walked through the door as the disheveled Private had done. She entered with a look of confusion on her face, her bottom lip quivered.

Behind the desk sat Captain Hawkes. "Dushell!"

She stood at attention and saluted, "Sir!"

Captain Hawkes gave a stern look. "News of your family reached us late. There was not enough time to include it on our master lists."

Hawkes nodded to Sergeant First Class Welch who stood and faced her. "At ease!"

Brittany relaxed with her hands behind her back. She gripped the back of her leg to stop the trembling, hoping neither would notice. She remained rigid as she anticipated the worst.

Welch pulled out a piece of paper. He cleared his throat. "April Dushell, mother of Private Brittany Dushell, was repeatedly struck by an unknown assailant in an alley. An anonymous tip led police to the area. She was pronounced dead by the coroner at the scene."

Private Dushell found it hard to swallow. Breathing came in heavy sighs. She felt a formation of sweat droplets on her forehead. "Zombies, sir?"

"No, Private," said Welch, "cause of death is listed as," he checked the paper, "Assault and Battery. I wanted to inform you of the news before we begin Operation Midnight."

Captain Hawkes stood and faced her. "Take time to mourn, Private. We move out tomorrow and I need you sharp. Is that clear, Private?"

Brittany returned to her military position. "Yes sir, Captain, sir."

"Dismissed."

Brittany saluted before whirling to leave. She became dizzy. She wasn't sure if it was from her quick turn or the news of her mother's death. She had cut the cord long ago, but the news floored her. Brittany exited the room as fast as her shaky legs would carry her. She descended the steps and ran to her barracks. She had to get there and to privacy before the dam burst. She already felt the tears pooling.

She ran inside, near her breaking point. Before she could open the floodgates and wail, a knock came from the door. "What?" she screamed.

The door creaked open and Jones walked through, a smile beneath his lips. "You need a Sandman?"

She held up her finger. "Don't!" Blood rushed to fill her face and turn it a rosy red.

Jones gave his too-familiar grin. After which, he held up his hands in surrender. Slowly approaching his caged tiger, he broadened his grin. He reached her and the grin faded, replaced with concern.

Brittany focused her gaze on the floor, not wanting to meet his eyes.

"What do you want to do?" Jones asked with sincerity.

"There's nothing I can do," she said.

Several chatty female soldiers walked in. All gawked at the man who had the nerve to enter the women's barracks. One moved forward but another caught her arm.

"I'll give you some space," said Jones. He gave the women a warm smile as he went past them.

Later that evening, Jones was on guard duty. He saw the women's barracks door open and a figure blended with the night. He thought it strange and focused his vision. Against the night he saw what appeared to be a shadow moving. Closer examination proved it to be a person of his acquaintance.

With gun in hand, Jones left his position to shadow the shadow.

Jones followed the stealth figure across three barracks and two buildings to the Jeep Pool. When the shadow entered a Jeep, he ran to the other side and hopped in. "Surprise!"

"Jesus, Jones!" said a shocked Brittany Dushell. "What the fuck?"

He reached over and pulled the key out of the ignition switch. "I think I should be asking that, don't you think?"

Blood left her face, leaving it a pale mask. She performed her earlier maneuver and avoided his brown eyes. Several unsuccessful attempts were made at swallowing while concentrating on the Jeep's instrument panel. In the end, she lifted blue eyes to face the inevitable. "Sorry."

"Don't give me that, Private." Jones spoke softly but through clenched teeth. "You talk now or I'm going to throw your ass so far in the back of the stockades, you won't see sunshine until you're fifty."

"I'm going home to take care of my mother."

"Your mother's dead."

"I know!"

"Explain yourself, Private!"

"They don't always tell us everything. I need to see for myself."

"So you go AWOL? On the eve of our greatest mission?"

She swallowed hard. "I owe her that much." The great effort it took to hold back the tears was almost at an end. Jones, however, ignored it and moved toward her with clenched fists and teeth.

"She's dead."

"I know she's fucking dead, okay!"

Jones sat and stared.

"I can't say it any plainer. I'm not deserting and will be back. If I ask for permission, they won't let me go, or will take so long deciding that it will be too late. I have to go now. Let me go, Jones."

"If they catch you, you will be hanged as a deserter, if you're lucky."

"I'll take that chance."

"Dushell? I know what you want to do and it is not necessary. She is good and dead. Don't throw away your career on a fool's errand. Sal, Tommy, and Barney all did the same thing and they are more than likely dead. Don't do it."

The dam broke. Brittany burst into tears, clutching her face to stem the tide and hide. After a while, she turned her tired face to him. "We don't know that, Jones. I can't trust that they are not lying to us. I have to, I owe her. I know from what I've said about her that that's plain stupid, but it's true. I have to go, Jones."

He put the key in the ignition and turned it. The Jeep roared to life. "Let's go."

She shook her head with great force. "No!"

"Let's go," he grunted.

"You have a career. If we get caught . . ."

"Did you not hear me, Private? Get your ass in gear and get this vehicle moving."

"Yes, sir."

As they drove off into the night, Brittany's watery eyes and pale face formed a grin to make Jones proud.

The short journey from Fort Leonard Wood to St. Louis took three hours. It took another hour to find the morgue. They broke into the morgue at three o'clock in the morning. Making their way to the back, Jones found the clipboard and the correct freezer. He opened it and pulled out the long metal tray. While Brittany watched, shifting on the balls of her feet, Jones lifted the white sheet and turned to his friend.

April Dushell lay on the cold hard slab, lifeless. Death could not steal her beauty and she seemed to only be in deep sleep. Maybe they were wrong and she was truly sleeping. A glow was in her cheek. Perhaps, perhaps, thought Brittany. No, that was pure fantasy.

Brittany brought her hands to her mouth in an attempt not to cry out. The muffled sound she made expressed her shock. April was dead. Jones pulled the sheet down more to reveal a torso peppered with black-and-blue bruises. Perhaps one of her vicious clients pummeled her to death. At least he showed mercy and left her face undamaged, that was something.

Jones pulled the sheet back to above her breasts. His eye caught something shiny on a table. He left Brittany to say her good-byes. He returned to find a daughter caressing the face of a loved mother. At his side, he concealed his shiny object—a machete.

Moving his friend to the side, he gripped the machete with both hands. One sharp blow would sever head from body. As he readied to make his swing, "Stop!" shouted Brittany.

"What? I thought this is what you wanted?"

"I have to do it," said Brittany.

"All right."

Jones handed her the weapon. Without thinking, she drove the blade home, slicing cleanly through April's neck. As the head rolled, so did Brittany. She fell to the floor in a steady stream of "I'm sorry, momma."

Jones left her there. At first, he made a move to comfort her, then backed away. He did the same dance two more times. Then, he decided to let her be and retrieve the head. Jones placed April's head back on its neck. On second thought, what if the army was lying? He found a plastic bag in the room and put the head inside. He placed the sealed bag next to the feet, pulled the white sheet over the body, and slid the tray back into the freezer. No way would April Dushell wake as a zombie.

Brittany's face was splotchy and wet as Jones helped her into the Jeep. He strapped her inside and drove them back in silence. He offered his hand and she held it. She never looked at him once, or spoke. Jones drove through the night to make it back to the base on the hopes that they hadn't been discovered missing.

Luck would not be on their side. The sun was shining and the camp was buzzing with activity as they pulled to the entrance gate. An armed guard directed them inside. Once inside of the massive gate, they were met by army military police. The MP's escorted them to a small building, the Commanding Officers' Quarters. He knocked on the door and then made his announcement, "Corporal Jones and Private Dushell." He moved so they could enter, then closed the door.

"Sir," responded Jones, his arm bent in salute.

Brittany assumed the same posture. Across from him stood a red-faced Sergeant First Class Welch, his immediate superior. Captain Hawkes towered over him, making him appear smaller.

"Give me one reason I don't lock your sorry ass up until hell freezes over." Spittle accompanied each word as Welch stood before Jones with clenched fists, scowling.

"No reason, sir."

"He was—"

"Can-it, Private!" Jones never dropped his salute or faced Brittany.

"Outstanding!"

Captain Hawkes throaty chuckle brought a greater redness to Welch's round face. Welch brought his face to Jones'. "You had potential boy, command presence. You throw it all away for a piece of ass, army ass at that! Now you have nothing! You worthless grunt!"

Jones' hand wavered. Maintaining his salute grew difficult. "Sir. I protect my men, sir, the army way, sir."

Sergeant Welch brought his face into Jones, scowling. "You perform a harebrained maneuver on the eve of battle and claim army pride?"

"No, sir, Sergeant First Class, sir!"

"Because we are in a state of war!" boomed Welch. "I don't have the luxury of knocking you on your ass and locking you the fuck up. Instead, you are reduced in rank two steps."

"Sir?" Jones found it difficult to swallow and his legs were becoming jelly at the news.

"You heard me. You are back to being a Private, where you will stay until zombies eat your ass or you grow old and die. Whichever comes first. You hear me, boy?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Outstanding!" Welch finally turned his gaze to a rigid Private Brittany Dushell. Her salute was on the verge of wavering. Her chest heaved. He brought his face in tight to sneer and test. "Dismissed, Private!"

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

Brittany and Jones turned to exit.

"Halt!"

They turned on the orders of Captain Hawkes. "Sir?" asked Jones. Each put a hand to their brow to salute.

Hawkes' grin was malevolent. "No one can doubt the chain of command. Every act you perform reflects on those higher in that chain. You don't disgrace yourselves, you disgrace those whose orders you must obey." With a sneer, he turned to their leader. "Sergeant First Class Welch!"

"Sir, yes, sir!" bellowed Welch, saluting.

"You are reduced two steps in rank. If you can't control your people, I will find someone who can. Dismissed."

"Sir, yes sir!"

All escaped the room as quickly as they could. Once away, Jones stopped and turned to Welch. "Sir, I'm sorry, sir."

"Save it." He looked at Brittany to deliver his final words. "I would have done the same, only I wouldn't have gotten caught. You left your pipe so I knew you would be back. It wasn't hard to figure out where you had gone." He winked at her and gave a grin before assuming his command posture. "Private Dushell! You are reduced from fighter to aid, make ready to provide support. You will not be going in with the others."

"Sir! I'm here to fight."

"You will get plenty of chances to fight, Dushell. Don't be in such a hurry. Private Jones! Since I have no other candidates, you're still squad leader with no rank. Get ready; we go into the caves in three hours. Gear up, People!"

"Yes, sir," said both.

Welch marched away giving them time to say their good-byes.

"You shouldn't have gone," said Brittany.

"You heard the man, I'm still in charge of you dickwads," the infamous grin returned.

"I'm sorry, Matt."

Jones braved the moment and gave her a loving embrace. "Call me that again and I will kill you." They kissed and ran in different directions to join the bevy of activity around them.

Jones hadn't had time to read the paper he was given. He stopped and felt his back pocket to make sure it was still there. To open it meant to acknowledge the deaths of his parents and all those in the southern tip of Florida and he hadn't. Jones took in a gulp of air. He opened the letter and read:

Dear Son: Not even I could have imagined the world going the way it has gone. My spirit animal, for which I place my full trust in, has showed me the future and told me this. I was to teach you and train you for your future. You will do great things my son and save many, but only if you embrace the ways of the spirit. I implore you son, whenever your spirit animal makes itself known, listen, take heed. Follow your guide and you will live to see all this come to pass. You will take part in a great undertaking to save us all. Listen, my son. You are the Hammer foretold in my visions. I pray you listen to your guide.

With all my love, Pipi.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Blake

The operating room was small and cramped. An overhead light teetered on the edge of going out, making it hard for the small group to do their job. Three men and a woman wore white lab coats with masks. Their gloves were bloody with a mixture of both dark-red and light-green blood. They toiled for three hours, sweating under the hot conditions because of poor ventilation.

"Nothing." The word was full of despair. They had hoped to learn something new.

"How much longer, Doctor?" asked the lone woman.

"We're done," he said, "close and then kill the battery. We have wasted too much power already."

"Yes, sir," she said.

The men left while she cleaned up the mess. The last man to leave, Doctor Blake, thought about the dead zombie on the table and gave it a glance. She was safe, no need to stay and keep an eye on her. He left and joined his comrades in the hall.

"Where are you heading, Sam?" asked Blake to the first doctor.

"I've got three more stops and then I'll be meeting you at Camp Vix," said Samuel Thompson. He sighed. "We have to learn more about them if we are ever to defeat them. We have to take more risks."

"No, old friend," said Blake, "we merely need patience. Croft is right. They will eventually die out once they run out of people to infect."

"You don't believe that," said their third, Doctor Lance Dixon.

"Look," said Blake, "if no more people are available for them to infect, they start eating each other. That helps us. We stay behind walls and wait until it is over."

"Then why not stay?" asked Dixon.

Blake shook his head violently. "Never!"

"It's the new order, you know that," said Dixon.

"Not for me," said Blake. "There is a second plan, a better plan. It's already in motion. They need doctors and scientists to help. Come with me, Lance. Abandon this foolishness. God would cry if he saw us behaving like this."

Dixon shook his head. "Good thing he's sleeping, isn't it?"

It was Blake's turn to shake his head. Thompson agreed.

"I'll meet you at Camp Vix and give you my answer there," said Thompson. He and Blake shook hands before he left.

When he had gone, Blake decided to try one last time. Dixon was a decent man. The times had changed them all, but he would be reasonable and see the folly in what they were doing. "Dix—"

The man held up his hand to stop him. He moved within Blake's personal space to make his point clear. "I'm staying. This is survival, man. Give up those ridiculous notions and stay. This is not you, this is Croft. He is the only man who could spin a lie well enough for you to swallow. Stay Blake, stay and live!"

Blake turned trembling lips to his friend. A tear filled his eye. Whether for him or his friend, he didn't know. One of them would be dead, somehow, someway, he knew it. "Lance," he pleaded.

It was too late. Both had made up their minds and neither would change. All that remained was for them to hug and start the journey. He had packed his meager belongings earlier and had them at the door. Doctor Dixon walked him to the outer door of the hospital. Blake picked up his bag and slung it across his shoulder. He embraced again and together, they walked out.

Across the hospital stood more buildings. They walked down the road two blocks to their destination. After a block, Blake looked up and saw the tall wall. At its top were patrolling guards with M16 weapons. At eye level he saw armed guards on both sides of the road leading to a massive entrance gate. As he approached, all guards stood rigid, saluting. It warmed his heart and brought ambivalence about leaving.

Glancing at the wall, Blake's thoughts went to prison, so many of his people inhabiting such walls. Did any of them make it out alive? He wondered. He scratched his bald head then moved forward.

Ahead, a man shouted from inside a small guard shack at the wall's base. Heavy doors creaked open to the outside world. Though they breathed the same air, as the doors widened to the outside, Blake inhaled the air with revulsion. The stench that rode upon it made him gag to near vomit. How could he voluntarily go into it? He hesitated a moment, then moved forward. He gave a small nod in reverence to each side as he passed through their line. When he neared the guard shack, he stopped.

Doors to an armored truck flew open and he saw the soldiers within. Blake gave a slight bow after they filed-out in formation. They saluted the good doctor, he returned their high praise. These were all handpicked men who swore allegiance to Blake, Croft, and the children.

"We are honored, sir." Their leader motioned for him to take a seat within.

Blake turned to his wayward friend. "Dix, come with me. You will lose your soul if you stay."

Dixon shook his head, not wanting to meet his friend's eyes. "I've already lost my soul, old friend. I don't believe your plan will work the way they intend." He held up his hands to ease Blake's fears. "I won't say anything. You have your chance and I hope it works. I just don't believe that it will. Good luck, old friend." They embraced and then Doctor Dixon turned and began his walk back to the hospital.

Blake stood and watched him for a moment then turned. Instead of getting in the truck with the soldiers, he motioned to the bus and walked to the side of the truck and went aboard the bus. His heart soared. On board were children of various ages, backgrounds, and sizes. The plan will work, he thought, it will.

"Good morning, children."

"Good morning, Doctor Blake."

Bright smiles can warm a damned soul. Blake hoped his will stay warm until the day he died.

"Give me a minute and then I have something for you."

The caravan took off and as he sat and watched, he saw the large doors swing shut with their eerie sound. He had done it. He had left the safety of the Wyoming Free Zone on a journey that would take him into the heart of America. There would be few people along the route, but flesh-eating monsters who would love to devour the helpless children, they will be plentiful. He sat back to think. First they would go to the edge of the state and no man's land, then they would need every soldier in the armored truck at their best. All had sworn to protect the precious cargo on board and soon they would be put to the test.

Blake pulled a book from his backpack. The journey would be long, a little reading could occupy a great deal of time. "Gather around children, I have a story you are going to love." After they sat and eagerly waited, he swore to himself he would give his life ten times over for their safety. He began reading.

* * *

Blake had one of the few satellite phones in operation. Its soft vibration woke him. He looked at the sleeping children before answering. Softly he spoke into the receiver. "Yes?"

"John Henry?"

"Cora?"

"John, I wish you were here."

"Me, too, love."

"Something is going on up front."

He sat straighter, the hairs at the back of his neck tingled. His wife was prone to exaggeration. This time, there was urgency in her tone. "What is happening?" Whimpering came from the phone. Was she crying? From the pit of his stomach came an unbearable pain. "Cora? Love? Talk to me. Talk to me!"

He listened on the verge of hysteria. The children were there and he couldn't get louder. They needed their rest. If only he could be alone for a few minutes. He listened intently, his leg shaking.

"Something is wrong up front," she whispered.

"The pilot?" his mind raced. Sweat flowed down his face. He gripped his leg to stop the tapping.

"This is the Captain speaking," said a voice that came over the phone. It must be the intercom. They should be on the plane somewhere over the center of the country. "Please stay in your seats and follow the directions of your flight attendants."

"Oh god!" they were in the air and something was wrong. Blake heard the shaking in the man's voice.

"Remain in your seats until further notice, Captain out."

"Cora?" his voice rose above a whisper. "Cora!"

"There's a man a few seats in front of us," Cora said. "I think he is turning."

"What?"

"Men are holding him down. I think he is turning. What can I do?"

"Oh god, no. Please god, no! Not my family, please. Not my family."

Blake held the phone so close to his ear that with a shove, it could go through to the other side. He heard strange noises. Could they be zombie howls? He thought of all the people he witnessed going through the change and he compared the god-awful sounds they made to these. Could it be true? My god! It might be true.

"Help!"

"Cora Mae!" he jumped to his feet, not caring how loud he was. "Cora!" he listened.

Dozens of screams came through the phone. The sounds chilled him to the bone. He had his proof. His family was on board an airplane, trapped thousands of feet off the ground with a zombie. Not just any zombie, a new strong zombie.

Blake felt helpless. He wanted to scream from the top of his lungs. He frantically looked about. He saw two guards at the front of the bus and dozens of sleeping children between them. A guard looked at him. The guards hand instinctively lowered to his side arm. Blake held up his hand, then sat, trying to remain calm. His family was in mortal danger and if he displayed odd behavior, he would be as well. He kept the phone pressed to his ear listening.

"Lord God, please help them."

Blake waited.

New sounds emerged. Sounds twice as gruesome as before. Were there more zombies now? Panic seized him as he heard his wife's scream. Seconds later, he heard the distinctive screams of his three daughters. Last, he heard the scream of his only son, John Henry. Blake shook. He broke out in a cold sweat and began licking his lips, waiting for more sounds to complete the picture. If only he had not gone to Wyoming so early, he would be with them now. He was a father and husband, a protector. All he could do was hang his head in shame and helplessly listened to the sounds that inflamed his ears. He listened more closely, unable to put the phone down. He didn't want to hear their screams, but couldn't turn away. His breathing grew shallow, intently listening. He gasped, reminding his body to breathe.

Scream after scream came through to him. He heard his wife screaming for them to stay back. He knew in his heart she was somewhere in a corner, clutching her four children to her breast, defending them with her last breath. He closed his eyes to keep back the tears. "God, please, please!" he softly moaned.

"We're going down!" said a voice from the intercom. Blake sat straighter, listening, eyes wide.

"We're going down! Brace yourselves! Brace yourselves!"

Blake kept listening, unable to distinguish human screams from zombie screams. It seems every soul living and dead was screaming as one collective voice. The screams grew louder and louder. Then, he heard a loud bang, then silence. Blake hung his head, clutching the phone to his chest. In the back of the bus, with no one able to see, he curled into a ball.

"They won't become zombies. They won't become zombies."

Blake repeated the phrase, trying to give himself peace. Silently, he remained in fetal position, mourning the loss of his family.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Rebirth

Fierce fighting broke out on the eighteenth floor of a Los Angeles high-rise complex. A tall black man rushed down the hall with machete in hand. A mixture of red and green blood flowed across his white long-sleeve shirt and blue jean pants.

Ahead, three zombies were banging at the door to apartment 1805. Frantic screams from the other side of the door were hard to separate from the zombie howls. Only the man could distinguish the two. His wife, daughter, and sons were on the other side. They were screaming.

Propelled by fear, he gave a yell and slashed into the back of the first zombie. It fell. He gave a second slash to take off its head before the others could react. He managed to slice the others and watch them fall at his feet. He knew he should stop and see about his family, but in frenzy, he continued slashing at the bodies at his feet. They had come after his family and no one comes after his family and lives.

It took time to gain control and restrain himself. He constantly heard the cries for help on the other side of the door. When he finally managed to stop his vicious hacking, he was out of breath and bent to breathe easier. He then knocked on the door. "Mirinda? Miri? It's me, open up."

"Franklin?" the voice held a note of worry and confusion.

"It's me, baby, everything is all right. Open up and let me in."

"No, no, no!" a young voice from the other side exclaimed.

Franklin assumed his wife went to open the door but was met with resistance. He was happy, that was the voice of his wise daughter, Hanya. She and her older brother, Jamar, were the stars of their small family. The brightest and most inquisitive.

"Hanya, baby. Can you hear me?"

"I hear you, Daddy."

"Baby, I'm going to slide my machete through the mail slot in the door. After you have it, hold it to the door, and then let me in. If I appear infected, you know what to do."

"No, Franklin!" Mirinda chastised.

Franklin ignored her and slid the heavy blade through. He listened for it hitting the floor. No sound came. Hanya must have grabbed it. He stood in front of the door, staring at the apartment numbers. When ready, he moved his hand to knock, then stopped. His eyes wandered down to his feet and the chopped up zombie bits. Kicking them to each side, away from the door opening, he was satisfied enough to tap on the door in their unique rhythmic fashion.

Two small clicks were heard. After a third, the door opened a fraction. A brown eye stared at him. He held up his hands to prove he held no weapon. He smiled, reassuringly. The door closed before opening wider to give him entrance.

"I'm okay, baby." Franklin held his hands high. His eldest son held a revolver, while his daughter held the steel blade high, a look of determination on both teenage faces.

"Put those down," said Mirinda to her children. "Frankie!"

Mirinda rushed past her skeptical daughter into the arms of her husband. She sobbed as she kissed him. The filthiness he and the others saw was lost on his dear wife. He looked a mess and he knew it. His wild bashing of the zombies wasn't necessary. It made him look like a zombie. The others stayed clear of him. Franklin broke his wife's embrace. He caressed her face and gave her a loving kiss. Then he turned to his children.

"I'm okay," he repeated to them. The older son, Jamar, fifteen, didn't move. The young son, Yileen, was eight. Yileen's eyes took in the full view of his father. After some apprehensive gestures, he moved with caution. His mother rubbed her hand across his head. Tears began streaming down his indecisive face. With her touch as encouragement, he leaped into his father's arms. The youngest boy would abandon all doubt, but the others would not. Jamar maintained his aim and Hanya held her blade high with tension. Franklin smiled at each, then turned to his wife while hugging his crying son. "Bring me a wet towel, please."

She instantly left to carry out the task. Freeing himself of his son, Franklin stood before his skeptical children. Smiles will not deter them, he had to show them he was fine.

They were a decent family, people who took in strangers without question. One incident, a month back had changed their policy. A loving couple with their newborn spent the night with them. The couple had crashed their car and was on the run from zombies. They managed to flee the horde after the brave father killed two with a baseball bat. He and his family showed up with blood covering their clothes and a new Louisville slugger. They told their story and seemed normal. By morning, chaos spread through the small apartment. The woman had eaten her child in the night and chased her husband into young Hanya's room, waking the teen. Her father came to the rescue and killed the woman, but the man had been bitten in the process and had to be put down as well. Since then, they never take in strangers and are weary of anyone with green blood on their clothes.

Franklin unbuttoned his shirt. He couldn't believe how it stuck to his skin as he removed it and let it drop to the floor. Though he wasn't afraid, he never broke eye contact with his daughter who remained as rigid as ever. Jamar had relented and come in closer, wanting his father to be okay, needing his father to be okay.

Mirinda returned with towels. The first was wet; she gave it to her husband and watched as he washed his chest. She then took a dry towel and cleaned him as best she could, while Jamar continued the wiping on his father's back with the first towel.

The man turned from side to side when they had finished.

"See, Han, Daddy is okay," said young Yileen.

Hanya lowered her blade. She walked into his outstretched arms and they shared a group hug.

"Is everyone packed?" asked Franklin.

"Yes," they said.

"We have to leave now. The caravan will pull out shortly and zombies are blocking our path. Get your packs and weapons. We have no choice but to go."

"We're not supposed to leave until nightfall," said Mirinda, looking uneasy over the change in plans.

Franklin fixed his gaze on her. His look was stern. Only she would understand his next words. "We lost the elevator, Miri."

The words knocked the wind out of her. "H-H-How is that possible?"

She sat to keep from falling. He found the words stinging himself and sat. They had chosen a high floor for safety. Zombies swept through the area days after their arrival, turning them into live-in hostages. With great coordination and effort, the tenants banded together to vacate lower floors and disable five of the six elevators. The single elevator was used by an armed team that kept the higher floors secure.

Riding with armed guards provided peace of mind. A grocery store across the street provided plenty of food. With a timed run from building to building, the tenants flourished in their captivity. Now, a caravan was being assembled to take survivors to Camp Vix, a military haven. All able-bodied men were given weapons and would provide cover to see the caravan off. Franklin had secured passage for his family and needed to get there by a certain time or they would be left among the marauding flesh-eaters.

The way would be difficult without the elevator.

"That's where I came from. Jamie and Stan, Paul and John, Felicia and Connie, all are dead."

"Amaroo?" she asked.

There was a tremble to her bottom lip. Amaroo was their fifth-floor comrade who traveled with them from Canada. Franklin knew she would find the news hard to accept. She would hold out hope until the end. He would be patient. "Dead."

"Grey Wolf?"

"Dead."

He knew she was searching her memory for those on their floor, surely some of them would have survived. "Balun," she said at near whisper level.

"Dead, all dead."

"Even, Babber?"

Franklin swallowed the hard lump at his throat. Hanya brought him a new shirt. "Thank you, baby." He turned back to his wife. "Babber was pulled from the elevator by so many zombies, I couldn't count them all. I came up the stairs from the tenth floor. Zombies have the elevator and are getting off at different floors. It is only by chance more of them haven't arrived." Perhaps the extra information would drive the point home. He had hesitated because of the children, but time was short.

The children stood by the door wearing backpacks and holding small handguns their father had given them. His wife was lost, reeling from the new information. "We have to go, Miri. Now!"

He gently coaxed her to her feet. Retrieving his machete, he took a deep breath, preparing to open the door. "Oh god! Wait!" fear enveloped him.

"What?" asked his wife.

"My papers, where are they?" he frantically looked around. Then, his wife handed him some papers she had in her pocket. "Thanks, baby. I can't lose these."

"I know," she said.

"Ready?" he asked after tucking the papers away for safe keeping. Again, he took a quick breath before opening the door. They stepped over the carnage outside their door and made it to the door leading to the stairs. Franklin opened it and listened. The howling was barely audible, it meant zombies were far from them. With luck, they could descend the stairs and only come across a few of the creatures. That would be preferable to wading through an army of the foul beasts. Franklin took out the key to the stairwell door. He opened the door and down the stairs they went.

The family made it safely to the ground floor. When Franklin opened the door, they were met with only a handful of zombies who were busy eating fallen tenants. He praised god for his luck and eased his family by the marauders while they fed on their current meal. Outside, they rounded a corner and their luck ran dry. Before them, there stood too many zombies to count. If not for the thumping of his heart in his ears, he might have heard them before rounding the corner. The shock before him dashed his hopes. Odds of them getting to safety dimmed. He thought to formulate a plan. Before he could complete his thoughts, zombies saw them. They screamed and ran at the family of five.

"Spearhead!" shouted Franklin.

They immediately went into battle mode, acting as a unit to face the red-eyed menace. They spread apart to give themselves fighting room. As the zombies approached, Franklin lunged at the fastest two, his wife ran to assist. Each let out a battle cry as they swung heavy blades into the horde.

Hanya and her brothers knew what to do. They had used the same tactic many times. She and her brother took aim and waited for the flesh eaters to come to them. Neither was a great shot, but if the beast is directly in front of you, you need only point and squeeze. Each was old enough to carry out that task. They stood tall, brave, with an unwavering aim. As the zombies opened their mouths and lunged at them, they took aim at their heads and fired. A scowl was upon each face. They jumped back to avoid the creatures' fall and took aim at the next three.

Franklin and Mirinda tore into the horde. They swung as if their life depended on it. Each blow was full force and decisive. The creatures fell at their feet as they twirled forward to engage the next.

"Come on!" yelled Franklin to his children.

As the parents sliced through the horde like a hot knife through butter, the children slowly moved forward, shooting zombies on each side as they advanced. The family formed the perfect spearhead: father in the lead, slashing to his left, wife to his right slashing to her right with each child advancing from the rear, Hanya behind and to the left of her dad and her younger brother in the center and older brother behind their mother.

No one knew how many zombies they killed. Franklin had told them their life depended on their ability to kill zombies. Each took the words to heart to ensure their survival.

Once free of the horde, Franklin led his family down and alley to a waiting vehicle. He and Mirinda placed their machetes on the concrete. They lifted the tarp covering the car, flinging it to the side. All stared at the vehicle that would take them to safety. Before they could enter, a zombie leaped from a high window onto the elder son. Another fell on the younger next to him, both boys yelped as they fell to the ground. Another zombie fell on the mother. Franklin grabbed his machete and killed both zombies on the sons. He hoped he had been in time.

He heard noise behind him. Lifting his machete, he turned. His wife was finishing the zombie that attacked her. She looked unsteady. He went to her. "Are you okay?" his frantic words to his wife.

She motioned him away, finding it hard to catch her breath. "Yileen! Check Yileen. I'm fine."

"Yileen?"

He went to his youngest son. The boy had a gash taken out of his shoulder, but looked relatively healthy. He knew he shouldn't consider it, but there was hope, if they could make it to the others. Franklin smiled at him. "You okay?"

"Yes, Daddy," he said. He managed a small smile through his grimace.

Trusting him was wrong, but Yileen was standing, talking. It would take hours to get to their rendezvous, but he could make it. He nodded at the boy and moved on to his daughter, she too was standing. Ignoring her, he turned his attention to the last, Jamar.

He went to him and knelt beside his crumbled body. He shook his unconscious son. His face was bloody. A torn shirt proved he hadn't been in time. Franklin saw deep scratches across his son's chest. Heavy amounts of blood flowed from a deeper gash to his belly. Franklin was heartbroken. Still, he had hope. He shook him again. "Jamar?" he shouted.

"Daddy?" Hanya said. Her little face near tears. "Daddy?"

Franklin put his ear to his son's chest to listen for a heartbeat. Sorrow showed on his face. He heard his daughter call his name again, but it was an echo, a sound on the wind he dismissed.

Wailing brought him back to reality. Not only was he clutching his son, so was his wife. His daughter held her hand over her mouth, crying silent tears. A feeling of foreboding came over him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

"To the car, quickly," he shouted.

"What?" asked Mirinda, in disbelief.

"We have to go now. Hanya, go get your brother's gun. I want you and Yileen in the back seat. Come on, Miri, we have to go." He pulled her away as she screamed and cried. Zombies were howling and running down the street toward them. Without a second to spare, he broke her grip from their son and got her into the car. Franklin ran around the other side and sat in the driver's seat. He turned the key and was grateful the car started with no trouble. He shoved it into gear and made the tires screech as he took off.

Franklin looked through the rearview mirror. There were only four zombies giving chase. He brought the car to a halt, throwing his passengers forward. He reversed the car and ran over the chasing zombies. The swishing sound felt like music to his ears. He continued driving backward a bit further. Then, he stopped the car. He grabbed his machete. Looking deeply into his wife's eyes wasn't easy. If she said no, he would stop. She hung her head low, giving him permission without uttering a word. Franklin exited the car with his machete. He wasted no time. It had to be done and zombies were on the move. He ran to his son's body. With one swing, he severed his sons head in the nick of time. As he brought the machete down, Zombie Jamar opened its eyes. Franklin couldn't have stopped his blade if he wanted to. He beheaded the zombie with a single strike. He picked the head up and threw it into one of the garbage bins in the alley. With no new zombies in the alley, he began his walk back to the car. He hoped his young daughter and son hadn't seen what he had done, odds are they had. Suddenly, a shot rang out. His heart pounded. He ran to the car.

"What is it? What happened?"

The back seat revealed all. His remaining son was dead, a bullet hole in his forehead. The boy had distorted features and his bright-red eyes were open.

"He tried to eat me," proclaimed Hanya. Tears welled in her eyes as she gave her explanation.

Franklin looked from her to his wife. His wife's hands covered her face as she softly cried into them. He closed his eyes. Something had to be said. Hanya's hands shook as she trained her gun at the dead zombie that once was her brother. Her father swallowed hard, then opened the rear door. "You did the right thing, Hanya. I'm proud of you." He dragged the corpse out of the car and gently laid it on the ground. He took the gun out of Hanya's hands and laid it in the floor next to her. Franklin kissed her cheek to comfort her, she showed no reaction. She was far away and he knew it. He thought it best to leave her alone so he shut the door and took his seat behind the steering wheel. Putting the car in gear, they moved away from the scene.

He was so worried about his children hearing or seeing what he had done, it never occurred to him that they may be facing their own challenges. Franklin decided it was best not to mention it, at least for the time being. They all needed time to process. Silence would be golden.

As he turned the car onto a main street, he took in a shaky breath at the scene he saw. Cars and trucks were overturned and lying on the road as well as the sidewalk. Some were on fire, most had their doors torn off and all were smeared with blood. Everywhere they looked they saw people. Some of them were fighting the flesh eaters with what weapon they found, others were being chased. Most lay in the road near their cars—those unfortunates were being devoured by a swarm of flesh eaters. None would join him and his family at the rendezvous.

Franklin maneuvered through the chaos at an accelerated speed. The gruesome shrieks he heard were painful. He couldn't take it for too much longer and knew his young daughter and wife were at their breaking point. He drove with reckless abandon, trying to clear the area quickly. They smashed into several cars, careening out of control. With a prayer and skill, Franklin was able to keep the car upright. He ran over his last zombie before approaching open road.

* * *

It took twelve hours to make it to Albuquerque, New Mexico. They would meet with one of his college friends, John Blake, who was on his way from Wyoming. They stopped outside a lone diner at the edge of town. Franklin was familiar with the area and chose it because of its isolation.

An armored truck pulled up next to his car, a bus followed. Soldiers exited from the rear. From the other side, a man in army fatigues came out carrying a black medical bag. He was a tall black man and was smiling. The smile alarmed Franklin. Something wasn't right, he knew it. Their news was bad enough; he didn't have strength to hear this man's bad news and prayed he was wrong. He returned the smile with vigor, it would be all right, he thought.

"Hello, old friend."

Franklin shook his hand. "Blake, how are you?"

The man's face saddened. "Not well."

Franklin regretted asking the question. He was right, the man's eyes held no light. Whatever it is, it's bad. "Sorry!"

"It's okay," said Blake. "Get aboard so we can go."

"We lost Jamar and Yileen," he said. Something about sharing a loss always brought people together. Blake closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I'm sorry."

The two men hugged, appreciating each other's patience.

The hug was interrupted when his wife and daughter came out of the car. The look on Blake's face was startling. Franklin wanted to ask, but didn't. Franklin looked at his family and assumed his friend had the same reaction every man had. For men, being covered in dried blood is normal and dismissed with the times. But to see it on women and children, it brought reality to the turn life had taken.

"We have to put you all to sleep for the journey," said Blake. His tone was flat, lifeless. Franklin considered asking, but knew his friend to be private. If he wanted him to know, he would have told him. He thought what to say, and in the end, only said two words.

"We know."

"Let's get you on the bus and get you something to eat, then, lights out." Blake tried smiling, but it made no impact on none of the three.

"Did you bring the serum?" he asked Blake quietly so others couldn't hear.

Blake gave a pained looked.

Franklin pulled a paper from his pocket. With shaky fingers, he extended it to his friend. "This is our lineage. Hanya is the strongest of us all, she must be saved. If it takes the serum . . . she has to have it for the future." Franklin grabbed a hold of the man in desperation. He pleaded with Blake.

"Don't worry, old friend, she will be okay, all of you will be okay. Go into quarantine and when you emerge, we will discuss the plan in greater detail."

"Promise me, Blake. Promise me you will look out for her. If we turn," his breathing became erratic, "the serum, she must have it for the future. Promise me you will give it to her and you will keep her safe. Promise me!" he didn't care that he looked undignified tugging on the man's shirt. He had to get his point across, just in case.

"I will keep you all safe. Now go, we will talk later."

Before the guards could take him away, Franklin shoved the folded paper into Blake's hand. "For the future."

"The future."

"Hanya knows everything, I made sure to prepare her, if for some reason . . . well, you know."

"I know old friend, everything is waiting for us at our new camp."

Blake smiled as the man was carried away.

Franklin could only sigh. He thought of his grandfather, Running Bear, and then smiled. Ancestors always protect you, the old man used to say. He prayed to his forefathers that it was true. As he neared the door, he saw the image of a proud stag, smiling at him. Franklin smiled, all would be fine.

They walked to the back of the bus and climbed aboard. After the soldiers returned from their raid on the restaurant, the caravan took off for Camp Vix. Hanya wanted to meet the other children, Blake would not allow the contact. He gave them a shot after they ate and the family went to sleep.

* * *

Hanya Mutton slowly woke to the quiet around her. Her hearing could decipher a slight hum but nothing more. She opened her brown eyes to have a look. As the room came into view, she saw Doctor Blake standing over her. She returned his warm smile.

"Are we safe?"

"As long as you stay here." He grinned.

"The zombies?"

"They are outside the walls and can't get in. This is your home now. All that stay within these walls is safe. How are you feeling?" he asked.

With his assistance, she was able to rise and view several who had gathered for her awakening. "I'm okay." Looking about, she saw no family around her. Was she the first to be awakened? Her father had described the procedure on their drive to the diner. So far, it went according to plan. "My parents?"

Blake motioned with his head. Those in attendance filtered out of the room. Though his eyes gave nothing away, Hanya felt tendrils of fear uncoiling in the pit of her stomach. Why were they leaving?

"Your father told you of the quarantine procedure?"

"Yes," she said. Then added, to make sure he knew that she knew. "We're the future."

"I'm sorry. I won't lie to you. Your father and your mother didn't make it."

Hanya was strong. She stared at him intensely. It would not last long. Eventually, under the weight of his stare, she cracked. The dam burst and tears fell. Doctor Blake hugged her tightly and let her cry. "It's all right, child, let it out." That made her cry all the more.

She was grateful for the privacy. After a time, she wiped her eyes. How could she, the future, behave so? She was stronger than that. She had proved it by killing countless zombies, including the boy from her school who used to tease her because she was mixed. No more tears for her, she was strong, the future. She wiped her eyes again and faced him. "How many of us will there be?"

"Don't worry about that right now."

"No! Daddy told me what to do and I am ready. I am not going to let them down. They died to get me here and I am going to save the world. I'm ready. Did he give you the papers?"

"Yes."

Her small face held a fierceness she hadn't known before. "My brother, Jamar, was to be the first. I will take his place. I'm ready to start. They laughed at me and called me Indian Princess. They said I was nothing. Daddy said I can save the world and not to listen to them. He said that I was special and the world needed me. I'm ready."

Blake smiled. "Then you are indeed an Indian Princess and I am glad to meet you. Welcome to Camp Vix, Princess."

"Thank you," she said with smugness. Right then, she knew she had a mission. For that new mission, she would start life anew with a new name. She looked at him sternly. "My name is Hannah, Hannah Mutton."

"Well, whatever you want to call yourself." He was a longtime friend and new her real name. "God save the Queen!"

They chuckled.

Chapter Thirty: Homefront

Zora Baker fared better than most. She and her small community living on the edge of Columbia, Missouri escaped the zombie plague. Farm life was tough but it came with its own rules. Children learned life lessons early. Zora was driving down empty country roads at the age of twelve. At fourteen she could work a modern tractor. At sixteen, she abandoned driving and could shoot vermin one hundred feet away with no difficulty. These were essential skills learned on the homestead. They were in addition to her learning baby care and cooking, starting at age seven—her real job in life.

Zora was nearly nineteen when she left home. Her sheltered background put her at a disadvantage. Leaving home was the only way she believed she could gain equilibrium. Life on the farm was difficult and as long as she stayed, she would be treated as inferior to others and never gain acceptance. In their eyes, she was Zoraphena, the worthless freeze queen, killer of small animals and the innocent. She could never break free from her past around them. The decision to leave came easy; it was convincing her mother that proved difficult. Her father gave the argument that her growth was stunted on the farm and she was becoming a petulant child and no man would marry her in her current state. In the end, her mother gave in and allowed her to leave, but only if she moved to the outskirts of the city, so she could be watched. Not only did her mother worry about people, she worried about how her daughter would fare against zombies.

Zombies had been in the world for a while, yet she had only seen one of the creatures, a withering old man. She and her family blasted it to hell as it came over the horizon. They gawked at the deformed creature and invited neighbors to a party so they could see a real live zombie for themselves. Everyone praised Simon, her young brother, for spotting the demon in the field. He received the honor of lighting the bonfire to dispose of the carcass.

After settling in her new apartment, life was improving. No longer was she the outcast or dysfunctional creature. People in her new world had little clue of where she came from or her background. With a steady stream of half truths, Zora kept it that way. The young butterfly was emerging from her cocoon. She stood tall, confident, a new creature.

A knock came from her door. She opened her apartment door to see Simon standing there, smiling. "Simon?"

"Yeah, Zee, it's me."

"What on Earth? How did you get here?"

"I hitched." A broad smile crossed his lips.

"Come in." She looked down the hallway, praying he was alone. Thank god he was alone. She shut the door to tackle her new problem.

"Wow! I like it, Zee."

"Well, it's not finished yet." She pointed to a wall. "They were supposed to paint these walls and shampoo the carpet, but didn't. I ought to ask for my money back and move somewhere else."

"Are you crazy? This is great!"

"No, it's not, I should know, I live here. I'm going to call the landlord in the morning and if he doesn't come over, I'm moving. I don't have to put up with them treating me like I'm inferior. Like I'm some old mangy dog they can kick around."

"Will you stop being dramatic, Zee. This is a good place. Let me move in with you."

"Yeah right," she smiled.

"You don't have to act like that, Zee. You know what's happening back home. Abigail is on the warpath. I swear to god, one of these days, I'm going to pretend she is a zombie and blow her head off."

Zora's eyes became saucers. "Simon! Don't you dare! Don't you ever say anything like that again. If she hears you . . ."

"I'm kidding, but you know how she is. Let me stay with you."

The look on Zora's face was telling. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, then went into the kitchen. A knock came from the door. Simon went to the door and answered. "Yes?"

The stranger was a young man of twenty. Redness filled his cheeks as he cautiously looked over the boy's head into the apartment. "Um, um, is Zora here?"

"Who are you?"

"Um, well, I'm Tom."

"Tom who?"

"Naper, Tom Naper. Is Zora here?" he looked over the boy's head again.

"What do you want with my sister?"

"Um, we were going to study." He was tall and thin, had short brown hair and wore glasses. His lips twitched in a half smile.

"You don't have any books to be studying. How old are you anyway?"

"Simon!" Zora's voice went high, "move!" she shoved him to the side and stood smiling at Tom. "Hey, Tom."

"Hey, Zora. I thought we could um . . . study."

"Come on in and have a seat."

"Who is he?"

"None of your business," she said.

"Does mom know about him?" asked Simon as he sat on the other end of the couch facing Tom.

"Remember what we talked about earlier?" hinted Zora. "I might say yes."

"I'll be in my room," grinned Simon. He happily walked to the bedroom and shut the door.

"I'll explain later," said Zora. "I'm finishing lunch, give me a minute. I'll be right back."

"Of course," said Tom.

Zora gave an awkward wave. She looked to the bedroom door before returning to the kitchen. Tom picked up a magazine off the table and began reading.

Hours later, Zora checked on Simon. Sometimes a heavy meal puts him to sleep. She stared at him from her bedroom door, listening to the soft sleeping sounds he made. It was at that point she remembered his hitchhiking tale. She thought to wake him and scold him if it were true. Instead, she shut the door to focus her attention on her guest.

"Is he asleep?" whispered Tom.

"Shh," she said, "he is out."

As the young couple began their make-out session, a frantic knocking came from the door. Zora ran to the door to keep it from waking her brother.

"Angela?"

"Hey, let me in."

"What is going on?"

Angela was her next door neighbor. She rushed into the room and ran to the window. Looking out, she scanned before turning.

"Angela?"

"You don't hear them?" the middle-aged woman looked at her with confusion. She turned and performed a second scan.

"Them? Who are them?"

Angela looked about. "Where is your television?"

"I don't have one. What is going on?"

Angela left the window. She didn't pay attention to the fact that her neighbor had company. She blushed as she approached. "Sorry." She extended a shaky hand. "Angela Anderson."

Tom shook her hand from his seated position. His grip was weak. He felt odd being in the apartment and thought he should leave.

"Tom Naper. I'm happy to meet you."

"Angela?" repeated Zora. Worry lines crept across her face to match her new arrival's.

Angela sat across from Tom and waited for Zora to sit next to her friend. Her thin hands fidgeted in her lap. Occasionally, she would run a finger through her brown hair. "I can't believe you don't know. The zombies are here. A whole shitload of them came in from the north. The streets are a mess. I can't believe you don't know."

"Zombies are here?" asked Zora. Her first instinct was to look to her bedroom door. Though she hated her childrearing duties, it had been ingrained in her to protect Simon. Only he and Stewart had an honored place of protection in her heart.

"Yes, they are spreading like wild fire. You don't hear the gunfire?"

Zora went to her window. She saw no signs of catastrophe. Turning to her neighbor, she gave a confused look.

"Open the window," said Angela.

After lifting, a faint howling sound came to her ears. Then she heard the sound of distant gunfire. "Oh my god! I hear them."

"The army is coming to evacuate us. I have to go pack. The news said to pack a bag with clothes, phone, identification, and bottled water if you have it. I have to go." Angela walked briskly to the door. She turned with a worried look. "Hurry, Zora, they are coming. I will meet you downstairs." With that, she opened the door. Her eyes darted down each side of the hallway before she ventured out.

Zora turned to Tom. "What do you think?"

Tom sat dumbfounded, unsure of how to answer. His head made a slow turn from side to side. He stared at the floor, useless. Zora went into deep thought. A closer bang from her window shook her into action. She rushed to her bedroom door and went inside.

"Simon, wake up." She shook him.

"What?"

"We have to go. Get up, hurry!"

Zora rushed from the room. The shotgun her father gave her was on her mind. She had to retrieve it and some ammunition. That was priority one. She never considered her neighbor could be lying. She would arm herself and then pack. She, Simon, and Tom would leave with Angela and the others. She ran to the kitchen for her weapon.

Simon was rubbing his eyes as he came from the bedroom. He yawned and then waved at Tom. As he looked around to locate his sister, a scratching came from the door. Tom rose and went to take a look.

Simon also heard the noise and moved to investigate from the bedroom door. He made it to the door ahead of Tom and out of curiosity reached for the doorknob.

"No! You don't know who that could be. Let me open the door," said Tom.

In an act of bravery, Tom opened the door wide. His eyes grew big as he saw it was not a small dog, but instead a zombie, more than one. Zombies rushed into the room at Tom. Tom turned to run as the first leaped toward him. He ducked and the zombie flew over his head. "Run Simon! Zora!" Tom was able to move toward the bedroom door before zombies flew at him. They all smashed through the thin door.

Zora ran from the kitchen. She had found her shotgun, but not the ammunition for it. When she heard the howling, she dropped the gun to protect her brother. She screamed when she saw Tom struggling against three zombies in her bedroom. Her brother held his hands to a stark white face, eyes wide and hollow, gawking at the man on the bedroom floor. A creeping cloud fell over Zora. Through the veil that fell over her, she heard Tom screaming for her to run. With all her might, she shook it off and ran toward Simon. Zora scooped him into her arms and ran out the door.

Down the hall they went. When she and Simon emerged to the outside, their ears met the horror of their predicament. Roaming zombies filled the streets. The zombies howled and screamed as they fed on those who fell. Some of the creatures danced with glee at their bounty. Others leaped on and knocked to the ground humans they came across. Only a handful of humans had hope, running toward a thundering sound to her right.

Her full senses came back to her. The picture became crystal clear. It was the army. The zombies weren't dancing; bullets from a large group of soldiers riddled them. The soldiers let out screams of vengeance as they fired large black guns from the tops of military vehicles. Zora pointed at them. "Run!"

They ran to safety with the others. They were helped into the back of a truck.

As Zora reached out a hand to thank her rescuers, a female soldier hit her in the head with the butt of her gun. Zora fell to the bed of the truck. Simon, Angela, and the rest of those who had climbed aboard were beside her.

* * *

Camp Vix was a smaller installation than the famed Fort Leonard Wood. With a country in chaos, military law ruled the day. Each Camp or Fort secured itself with the local talent on hand. Meaning, the price of salvation was that you became army property. The military provided you with weapons, shelter, food, and safety. You in return served if of legal age—sixteen. Children aided the cause by mending and cleaning uniforms. When different teams ventured forth on scavenger hunts, children accompanied them to collect uniforms and weapons from fallen soldiers.

They told Zora of the massive push of zombies into the area. Small towns with no sign of zombie activity were overrun within hours with no warning. Zombies were everywhere.

The leader of Camp Vix described her farm to prove her family hadn't survived the slaughter. With great reluctance, she dismissed all attempts at leaving for an eyewitness account. She had her brother and would keep her remaining family alive at all costs. That meant serving, so she served.

Two weeks later, Zora walked her area with her rifle on her shoulder. Simon came out of the mess hall with another boy his age. The two were doubled-over, laughing. Zora's spirits soared. She immediately left her post to be with her brother.

"I got a good one," said Simon. "Why did the zombie go to the orthodontist?"

"I don't know, why?" asked his friend, grinning.

"To improve his BITE!" Simon opened his mouth as if to bite the boy. Both laughed.

"I got one," said his friend. "What's eighteen inches long, red, yellow and makes women scream?"

"What?"

"A zombie baby chomping the head off the family parakeet." Again, they laughed.

Zora saddled up next to Simon. "Very funny. Hey Timmy, how are you?"

"I'm okay, Zora."

"Do you mind if I borrow my brother for a minute?"

"No, go ahead. I'll see you in a few, Simon." Timmy held up his hands and howled like a zombie. Both laughed and then he walked off.

"Zombie jokes?"

"They're funny."

"Zombies are serious business."

"Come on, Zee!"

"Never mind, just hug your big sis."

She gave him a tight hug as if she hadn't seen him in years.

"Baker!"

"Shit! Oops, sorry!"

"You better go, Zee."

"I'll see you tonight."

"See ya."

Zora took in a deep breath and turned. Just as she feared, Sergeant Welch stood next to Private Jones, both glaring.

"Front and Center, Baker!"

She ran and stood in front of Sergeant Welch, saluting and rigid. "Yes, sir."

Welch's fists were clenched. He flexed them, but they returned to their clenched position. His face was more of a scarlet than cherry-red. She chose not to look at Jones or any of the others gathering for another round of humiliation.

Ever since joining or drafted into the army, she got into trouble because every time she saw Simon, she would stop what she was doing and run to him. He was all she had and she needed him.

Zora stood, waiting for the hammer to fall. Welch looked her up and down with disgust. "What is your problem, soldier?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Marching in place didn't do the trick. Does anything penetrate that thick skull of yours?"

"Yes, sir!"

"No, Baker, I think not! You are a head case. You are a subpar soldier with no intelligence. Maybe being with your own kind might prove fruitful."

"Yes, sir."

Zora began to be hopeful. Welch was a decent sort and took time to train her. If he was relieving her of duty and discharging her from the army, she would be grateful. She would be with Simon day and night and not these crazy sadists. Her eyes drifted while she stood at attention. She saw the water-hosed sadists that sprayed her all night long while she marched in full gear. He is probably mad he won't get the chance to torture her again. But he wasn't sad, he was grinning. So were the others. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

"Donovan!" Welch eyed her while the man approached.

"Sir?"

"Escort Private Baker to the stockades."

"Yes, sir," said Donovan. He saluted then turned to Baker with a smile. "You know the way, Zee Zee."

"Don't call me that."

"Give 'em hell," screamed one of the soldiers at her back. Zora never turned or replied. She kept her eyes at her feet and walked to the stockades.

An MP opened the door and she marched into an empty cell. The cell slammed shut and she was left alone with her thoughts, something she detested.

Later that night, a woman was brought in and placed in the cell next to hers. It took some time to figure out the woman had been bitten and was in transition. All night long Zora watched her, afraid she would be strong enough to break the bars between them and make her a chew toy.

From above, a crackling noise came, then a hiss. Zora covered her ears, then heard a voice. "You want to hug, Simon?" shouted a voice from an overhead speaker.

"What?" she looked up for clarity, but received none. Thirty minutes later, the recording played again and continued to play at that interval nonstop.

She would not understand the meaning of it until later.

The next morning, she was on the floor and her bunk was gone. The woman turned during the earlier hours and had her back to Zora. She knew something was wrong by the way the woman shook and made strange noises. Zora's suspicions were confirmed when the woman turned around and ran at her, howling. The woman's killer arms swung wildly at her.

Zora screamed for help, no one came. After that, her wall shook with force. Before she knew it, her wall started moving. "No! No, no, no, no!" the wall was moving toward Zora and pushing her forward into the bars. She was moving directly into the grasp of the zombie.

The zombie howled even louder, reaching for her. "Stop it! Please, stop it!" at that, the wall stopped.

"You want to hug, Simon?" asked the voice.

Zora got it now. "No, no. I don't!" she shouted at the top of her lungs.

The wall moved an inch closer. "You want to hug, Simon?"

"No!" she pressed against the wall with all her strength, as if she could actually move it.

The wall moved an inch closer. "You want to hug, Simon?"

Almost crying, Zora shouted, "you bastards." She pushed at the wall and watched her feet being pushed along the floor as it moved closer. With each lunge of the zombie, she smelled its putrid breath. 'Death warmed over' doesn't do justice to the smell of the creature that kept lunging with glee for a trapped meal. They wouldn't do this to her would they? They couldn't, she thought, she was a United States soldier. "Please, stop!" her strength was gone. She could feel the wind behind each lunge now.

"You want to hug, Simon?"

"No." Zora collapsed to the floor with her back against the wall. She looked into Zombie Woman's eyes and saw no mercy, no reasoning. This was it. If the wall moved again, she would have her in her death grip.

Recognition came to Zora. The situation wasn't hopeless, she forgot about her feet until Zombie Woman went for them. Zora quickly moved them sideways. If nothing else, she would go out literally kicking and screaming for all she was worth. But maybe, maybe she wouldn't have to. She looked up at the light in the cell, pleading in silence.

With a hope and a prayer, she waited for the wall to move its last time. Zora hadn't completely given up, though she was close. She was considering lunging at the beast; maybe she could somehow take it out. If not, she hoped it would be quick. She stood and prepared by holding her hands in combat stance.

"I get it, you bastards! I get it!" With her limited training, she readied for her assault.

To her surprise, the wall retreated. Zora raced to catch the retreating wall and glued her back to it, watching Zombie Woman in case her wall moved forward. It didn't.

Two soldiers entered the stockade. They were covered like firefighters and held flamethrowers. They opened them up on the zombie and Zora felt their heat. She crunched against the base of the wall and covered up as tightly as she could, making sure to cover her nose. The smell would be terrible. She huddled at the wall while they burned the zombie, listening to a looped tape of "hug Simon, hug Simon, hug Simon, you want to hug, Simon?"

Zora learned a valuable lesson. Some of these people she could call friend, but in the end, they were army and played the part well. Never again would she desert her post. As the flames seared the creature, it seared that lesson into her core being.

* * *

Jones and Dushell stood in a small room above the cells. They watched a monitor displaying the events. Dushell took her finger off the recorder's button and the looped playback ended.

Sergeant Welch turned to both. "What do you think?"

"You're right," said Dushell, "she's a head case."

"Give the girl a break," said Jones.

"Nobody wants her," said Dushell, "the female soldiers don't even like her."

"We forced her to join." Jones couldn't believe it, but he was defending the straggler before Brittany. The shock of it made him turn to his leader, "she's not army material. We should kick her loose before she gets a lot of good people killed."

"No dice," said Welch. "Captain's orders, we use every able-bodied man and woman, no exceptions. She is a crackerjack shot, you are going to need someone with that skill set. The rest, I will teach her."

"What did he suggest?" asked Brittany, worried at the tone he took.

"We lost another rescue team, all turned zombie and were put down. Jones, you're team leader."

"Sir? I signed up to fight, not rescue detail. We need to leave that stuff to civilians," said Jones.

"Until further notice, every civilian is army," said Welch. He grinned. "You get Dushell and Baker, later Donovan and Mackey will join you. There is a group of survivors in a movie theater twenty clicks due west. Grab your gear and move out, code name—Screaming Eagles."

Welch stopped and looked at Dushell. "What's this Zee Zee crap I keep hearing?"

Brittany looked at Jones for help. Jones was rigid and would provide none. She turned back to her leader and swallowed hard, then steadied herself. "They call her Zombie Zora."

"Why is that?" asked Welch, hands on his hips and glaring at the Private.

"She freezes, sir."

Welch sneered.

Dushell gulped, then continued. "She was with Donovan and Mackey. They saw these folks that were waving, needing help. When they got closer they saw that they were zombies. The zombies charged them. It was kids in front running toward them with slower adult zombies in the back. The others fired, but she wouldn't. After they mowed them down, Donovan turned to yell at her and she was a brick."

"A brick?"

Nervousness set in and she looked away. "She was a statue, sir. They waved their hands in her face and everything, she didn't move. She didn't move until Jones came and yelled at her."

Welch thought it over. "Good, putting her with you is the right thing to do." Welch grinned. "Call it a class project, Jones."

"Yes, sir," said Jones.

"You have a problem, Private?" shouted Welch to Jones.

Jones became apprehensive. Commanding his team was what he had worked toward and recently loss. To undertake a coward's mission unsettled him. Sergeant Welch's look meant no arguing—ongoing punishment for his misdeeds. When you not only cause yourself, but your leader to lose rank, you shut the hell up. He exhaled sharply.

"No, sir."

"Move Out!"

"Sir. Yes, sir!" shouted Dushell.

"Sir. Yes, sir!" shouted Jones.

They returned their commander's salute and after he cleared the room, they went to deliver the good news to Baker. The young girl had only been at Camp Vix two weeks and already was on everyone's hit list. Welcome to the army, Zora Baker.

# # #

Kill Happy (Book #3 – Zora Baker)

If you thought Children of the Corn were bad, wait until you meet these children.

Something strange is happening. It's not the constant zombie threat, this is something new, something sinister. Camp Brandt's children are Kill Happy and long to slash a zombie with their machetes. But that's not it, not entirely. Zora Baker keeps hearing the phrase "We're the Future." From adults it is wrong, but from the children, eerie.

The evil Doctor Blake is doing something to the kids, Zora (Zee) knows it in her gut. These kids are already dealing with the loss of their parents – eaten by zombies. Now they have to be subjected to God knows what from a monster like Blake.

The children are aglow with their blind worship of the man. Is it a cult or other nefarious activity that has ensnared these innocents? Zee knows it's not right and she is determined to get to the bottom of the mystery and set these kids free. If that means putting Blake down, she will.

About The Author:

R.G. Richards is a lifelong Missourian who writes Fantasy/Paranormal/Romance novels. He was an enthusiastic reader of tales of foreign lands (China, Japan, Hong Kong), most of which were "borrowed" from his father's private collection—a big James Clavell fan (Noble House, Shogun). These faraway tales provided the fertile ground which produced a rich imagination capable of spinning strange and unique stories of distant lands and people. Outside of reading and writing, he is a beginning swimmer, a gym hater, an avid gardener of Sugar Baby melons, and a lover of jokes. If you know a good one, send it his way.

SPECIAL NOTE:

Feedback is essential to an author. I look forward to hearing from you. Tell me what you liked as well as what you hated. I can take criticism so don't worry, you won't get a rant in return. With your help, I can make the next book that much better. Again, Thank You for purchasing and reading.

Books by this author:

Vampire Series

Vampires aRe ReaL

Cavers #1

Zombie Series

Zombie Zora - Book 1 of Zora Baker series

Zombie Invasion - Book 2 of Zora Baker series

Kill Happy - Book 3 of Zora Baker series

Zombie Eden - Book 4 of Zora Baker series

Zombie Jokes – A collection of silly jokes told by the children.

You can find him online at:

Mail: rgrichards2012@gmail.com

Website: rg-richards.com

Twitter: http://twitter.com/robertgrichards/

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5823275.R_G_Richards

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/AuthorRGRichards

